#See Something Strange ;; Thread Comm

[spkyscry-a]

.....................................She blames Zoe for this.

#My Girlfriend Is A Witch ;; Joy #See Something Strange ;; Thread Comm #THIS ALL STARTED BECAUSE ZOE WANTED TWENTY. FUCKIN'. DOLLARS. THAT'S HOW THIS ALL STARTED. INCREDIBLE.

[chenziee]

Red

My piece for @lovinglawzine! It's completely free and available to download right now! There's two zines, >SFW< and >NSFW< and both are full of Law love 🤍🐯 (did I mention it's free?)

[ READ ON AO3 | KO-FI | COMM INFO ]

—————

The first time Law noticed the red cord tangled around his little finger, he dismissed it. He was still deathly sick from amber lead, the brutal loss of Cora-san painfully fresh on his mind, and some strange thread couldn’t be anything but a hallucination. After all, he couldn’t even touch it and it didn’t lead anywhere his hazy eyesight could see. What else would it be except something his exhausted mind had made up?

The second time he noticed it, Law accounted it to still not being used to his devil fruit. It was barely the third time he had managed to successfully conjure up a Room—as he had decided to call it—and it was still wonky, still clumsy, still unstable. He couldn’t see any strings on his hand or anywhere else when he wasn’t using his powers so there was no way it was really there.

The third time he noticed it, he inadvertently remembered a story his mom used to tell him and Lammy. A story about a Red String that connected two fated lovers, two people who were of one soul, never to be complete without the other. Soulmates, so to speak. He disregarded the thought immediately for being too unscientific and ridiculous.

The sixth time he noticed it, he decided he had to be losing his mind because now he could see a red string on everyone who entered his Room.

The twentieth time… 

The twentieth time he barely even noticed the strings tangling in the snow underneath his feet anymore.

—————

After eleven years with the power of the Op-Op Fruit, Trafalgar Law could confidently say he understood how it worked and what it allowed him to do. He could remove people’s organs without hurting them, he could perform near-impossible surgeries without so much as thinking about it, and he could do whatever he wanted within his Room.

And, despite his best efforts, Law couldn’t ignore that anymore either.

It took a lot of back and forth between Bepo and Penguin’s romantic mindset, and his and Shachi’s more realistic—or jaded, as Ikkaku liked to say—worldview. It took him years but in the end, Law had no choice but begrudgingly admit that his power also allowed him to see the so-called ‘Red String of Fate’, whatever that was.

Strings that weren’t so much red sometimes as they were on a scale between black and gold. Black—dark, charred, and dead—presumably for deceased partners. Red for disconnected strings. Gold for a string that found its other end—the second (or third or last) person sharing this bond. To this day, Law wasn’t sure how much weight he should be giving to it though. He had seen people with strings blood red, yet with wedding rings on their fingers, crying for their beloved wives and husbands while Law cut them in half with morbid fascination, uncaring.

On the other hand, he had encountered people with beautiful gold around their left little fingers… who seemed nothing but happy to meet their demise by Law’s unforgiving hands.

All in all…

Law didn’t care.

Least of all, about the red string that was still securely tied to his own hand.

Honestly, if he could, he would have burned it long ago. And boy, did he try. After all, what use did he have for a ‘fated partner’? What did that even mean? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to him was Cora-san… and Doflamingo.

But, eleven years in, he had long since resigned himself to the thing being there to stay.

Not that it made any difference to him or anyone else.

At least, that was how it was for a long time. How it was supposed to be.

“You guys stay back. I’ll handle this,” Straw Hat Luffy announced as he, Eustass Kid, and Law took their stand in front of the Sabaody human auction house.

“No, you two stay back!” Eustass snapped back—raising to the bait like a child.

Law, on the other hand, stayed perfectly calm. “You tell me what to do one more time and I’m killing you first, Eustass-ya.”

“Just me, Trafalgar?” Eustass asked, shooting Law a look.

Law didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.

Not that there was that much time for chit-chat once the marines surrounding them from all sides broke out of their pathetic stupor and cannons started going off, shooting straight at them.

“Room,” Law said lazily, taking Kikoku out of its long scabbard. Nonchalantly cutting off the head of the nearest marine, Law quickly switched it with the cannonball hurtling at him, then caught the screaming head easily. 

As he tossed it in his hand a few times, a smirk playing at his lips, Law wondered… how should he play with these rats? They didn’t have much time before an admiral would be on their asses so he couldn’t get too creative…

“Wow, your power’s weird.”

Law huffed, tilting his head to the side to glance at Straw Hat; there was a look in his eyes that was slightly curious… but mostly completely honest, almost innocent, but with a strange weight behind it that made Law freeze completely just for a second. It was the same weight, same intensity as when he had punched that Celestial Dragon, but at the same time, it felt completely different.

But, before he could decipher it or really think about it, the moment was over.

“Look who’s talking, Straw Hat-ya.” Law huffed in amusement, turning his attention back to the scrambling marines.

He called forth another Room just as Straw Hat dashed past him. Law wanted to roll his eyes at his impatience but then something else caught his eyes—a smudge of red trailing after him, flowing happily in the air as if to mark the path he took.

Inadvertently, Law’s eyes followed the string. He wasn’t sure why; maybe because it basically hit him in the face when he flew past, or maybe because Law hardly ever saw a string that wasn’t dragging on the ground, hardly saw someone with the other end of the sting being close by.

Or maybe, that too was fate.

As he followed the path of the string, Law’s eyes widened once his gaze reached his own hand. His own left little finger, where the other end of the string was tied snuggly… while a gold glitter started to spread around it.

No.

No, that couldn’t be right.

There was no way Law was tied to Straw Hat Luffy.

“You chickening out, Trafalgar?” Eustass called mockingly as he stole the swords out of the hands of the three marines that had attacked Law, the three marines that Law had completely failed to notice in his shock.

At least it’s not this fucking guy, Law thought to himself.

“Shut the fuck up, Eustass-ya,” he snapped back, then sighed deeply.

What was he doing? It didn’t fucking matter if Straw Hat was his ‘soulmate’ or whatever other unscientific, superstitious, childish word he wanted to call this stupid thing.

After all, what did he care? He never cared. Not once.

He had neither the time nor the capacity to waste on pointless ideals like love. He knew what love was. He had received love. And then he lost it, every single time. 

His country, his city, his parents, his sister, Cora-san…

He’d lost all of it and now, nothing mattered—nothing but fulfilling Cora-san’s ambition.

Least of all, some reckless idiot in a straw hat with a smile that could blind a person, and passion that could burn down the entire world.

—————

When Law heard about the execution of Portgas D. Ace, he thought nothing of it. He was curious to know how it was going to end: who would win, how the world was going to change, where the delicate balance of power would tilt. He was looking forward to seeing it… but he had no personal interest in it—not in the war, the government, the Whitebeard Pirates, in Fire Fist, or anyone else involved in the fighting.

When Bepo asked him why they were going to Marineford, Law didn’t have an answer for him.

—————

Law was used to operating on people. He was a surgeon, after all. It was what he did.

It was supposed to be routine for him by now.

So why were his hands shaking when he stood above Straw Hat Luffy lying on the operating table, unconscious and bleeding heavily, his life escaping him with every weak breath he took?

Law knew why, but he refused to acknowledge it.

He refused to acknowledge the string hanging between them, the very same string that had changed colour from red to gold just days ago—now slowly turning black. He refused to think about it when he first saw the state Straw Hat was in, he forced himself to ignore it when he first created a Room around them inside the Tang, and he actively turned his eyes away whenever he checked on him while he recovered.

And now, as he sat on the shore of Amazon Lily, clutching the old, tattered straw hat in his hands, he fought with himself trying to not pay attention to the way his left little finger tingled, almost as if the invisible string was strangling its blood flow. Which was ridiculous; the string wasn’t really there, it wasn’t real. Law knew it was only in his head but even so, with every distant scream and every creak and crash of a tree falling, he felt another tug on his hand.

How long had this been going on?

It felt like hours since Straw Hat had woken up—since he started this self-destructive rampage.

At the back of his mind, Law wondered whether this was it. After all the work he had done, after spending two weeks saving his life… Straw Hat was going to kill himself. The thought bothered him more than it should have; his heart was beating at a nervous rhythm, his hands sweating and shaking just the smallest bit, his stomach heavy as if he had swallowed the rocks Straw Hat had shattered with his bare hands earlier.

He hated it. He hated feeling like this just because of a patient.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Law forced himself to focus on his surroundings. He let his eyes wander around the bay, taking in Ikkaku and Hakugan checking the outside of the Tang to make sure Straw Hat hadn’t damaged her anywhere, Bepo scribbling out a clumsy map to the side, Jean Bart chatting with Uni and Clione, telling them about his days as a captain of his own crew. They all seemed to be having fun…

It left Law feeling that much more stupid for being so nervous—so scared. 

How pathetic.

“Whoa!!”

Law startled at Shachi’s sudden call; inadvertently, he looked his and Penguin’s way—the both of them were looking at the sea just off the shore, pointing and shouting about sea kings fighting. As if that was so strange in the Calm Belt.

Still, Law watched with them as the creature struggled, sending violent waves across the water surface in its pointless fight for dear life. It didn’t stand a chance and for a moment, Law wondered just what kind of monster was out there, and if maybe it was going to turn its eyes on the Heart Pirates next. Not that he was worried—rather, a fight might distract him from his thoughts, and from the pirate who was fighting for his life and sanity behind him; so close, yet so far out of Law’s reach.

It didn’t take long for the fight to end and oppressing silence to settle over them. It was like no one even dared breathe as they waited for something to happen. Something, anything…

Except for what did actually happen.

“What a nuisance…”

Both Law and his crew could only watch in stunned silence as a regular human emerged from the water, climbing up the rocks that made up the Amazon Lily’s shore line as if he had just gone to take a quick dip on a vacation instead of fighting a Neptunian in the middle of the goddamned Calm Belt.

Maybe it wasn’t too much of a stretch to call him a monster anyway.

“D-Dark King Reyleigh?!” Penguin cried, the first one to break out of his stupor.

“Oh, it’s you guys. We met at the Auction House, right?” Dark King noted as he casually wringed water out of his clothes.

“Why—how—?” Clione stuttered.

The Dark King huffed. “My ship sank in a storm so I had to swim the rest of the way. It was more taxing than it should have been, I’m really getting old.”

“Storm?” Penguin repeated. “This is the Calm Belt, just how far did you swim?!”

“Anyway,” Rayleigh said, completely ignoring the question in favour of turning to look directly at Law with an unreadable smile on his face. “I’m assuming Luffy is on this island somewhere, isn’t he?”

The question was so simple… but it was as if lightning ran through Law’s body. His breath hitched in his throat, his heart beating a pace faster, his grip on the straw hat tightening. How did he know? Did the navy know too? Were they safe here? What did he want with Straw Hat?

Law wasn’t stupid. He knew that if the Dark King wanted to kill Luffy—or any of them—there was nothing any one of them could do to stop him. No one on this island was a match for this man.

A beat of silence passed while the two of them eyed each other, before Law took a deep breath and spoke up, voice carefully measured. “And if he is?”

At that, Rayleigh laughed. It wasn’t mocking—a genuine, light laughter, one that finally helped Law relax, knowing that there was no immediate danger from him. 

“You’re quite protective of him, I’m glad!” Rayleigh noted after a moment. “I was wondering what the feared Surgeon of Death wanted with Luffy but I see I didn’t have to worry.”

The smile he gave Law this time was so amused, so knowing, that Law suddenly felt incredibly exposed. It was like this man could understand everything about him and Straw Hat, and about Law’s motives; things that even Law himself didn’t know.

He hated the look.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Law finally looked away. “He’s here. Unless he manages to reopen his wounds and dies.”

“Wonderful! Thank you for taking care of him. I’ll take over from now on.”

"Why?" Law asked before he could stop himself, or at least try to keep his unfounded hostility out of his voice.

And once again, laughter was his response. "Oh, did you intend to keep Luffy all to yourself?"

Law startled at those words. Suddenly, as if doused in ice-cold water, Law was brought back to reality—the reality where Straw Hat was just some pirate he had barely met once, where Law had his own life, his own mission which allowed for no attachments to anyone or anything.

The reality where he had no reason to stay.

Ignoring the painful pang next to his heart, as well as the sharp tug on his little finger—imaginary, it wasn't real, there was nothing there—, Law gave the hat in his hands one last look before he closed his eyes momentarily and sighed.

“No,” he said simply as he finally stood up to his feet. “Two weeks of absolute rest, minimum.”

The Dark King didn’t say anything for a moment, merely studying Law’s expression as if he was trying to cut into his brain and pick him apart, but before Law could snap at him to stop, the man nodded. “Alright, thank you.”

With no reason to linger anymore, Law tossed the straw hat at Rayleigh, not sparing either him or the hat another glance. “Let’s go.”

“What?!”

“But captain—”

Law cut off his crew’s protests with a single glare, one that made them all deflate and shuffle to the sub without another word of complaint. He could hear Shachi and Penguin whining quietly to each other about having to leave the Maiden Island without even getting to properly talk to a single girl but he ignored them, choosing to focus on their departure.

Briefly, he wondered whether he should have waited to at least say goodbye to Straw Hat… but he knew that if he waited for him, if he had to look into those huge, expressive, beautiful eyes that were so full of energy and passion and life… he wouldn’t be able to say it.

Wouldn’t be able to leave.

And Law knew, he knew he needed to go now.

He had no right to stay by his side, after all—not when Straw Hat was injured, broken, and suffering, not when Law could do nothing about it except stop the physical bleeding. Not when Law himself was already broken, his path set for him since eleven years ago—a path that led to nothing but destruction, and which would have Law leave eventually regardless.

It was better for the both of them like this; to part ways before it was too late. 

Before either of them could do something as stupid as falling in love was.

—————

That was two years ago. During that time, Law had managed to forget about Straw Hat Luffy—forced himself to pretend he didn’t see the golden string on his left hand, to act like he didn’t know who it led to. Focusing on his mission, on Joker, Law lived his life without looking back at those eyes and bright smile.

But now, Straw Hat Luffy was standing in front of him in the snow of Punk Hazard, bright and beautiful and oh-so-warm and Law…

Law knew.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.

#one piece #lawlu #trafalgar law #trafalgar d water law #luffy #monkey d luffy #opfanfic #lawlu fanfic #katie pretends to fic #loving law zine #law ship zine #zine stuff #zines #soulmate au #canonverse #red string of fate #pre slash #idk what to say here i'm so tired #if you enjoyed reading consider checking out my comms 🤍

[doom-dreaming]

Do you think cortana posted chief for national girlfriends day on the unsc's version of Twitter (he didnt even know about it until weeks later)

It had been nearly two weeks by this point and it only seemed to be gaining momentum. Groups of S-IVs would try to hide their snickering as they passed him in the halls. Whispering Marines would quickly shush each other when he walked into the room. He noticed the sidelong glances, the elbows jabbed into ribs, all the little movements that weren't as subtle as they thought. He'd even caught Roland and Captain Lasky in the middle of a hushed but heated conversation that he, apparently, didn't have the clearance for.

This had been normal when he was still a new fixture on Infinity, but several years had smoothed the edges off his reputation - at least enough that people could relax around him. Or so he thought. A backslide like this was...unexpected. And it wasn't even necessarily the principle of being left out of something that had started to bother him, it was more the fact that everyone seemed to be in on something he wasn't. And that it seemed to be about him.

"Mm, kind of rude," was all Cortana had muttered when he'd brought it up a few days prior. She'd been distracted, deep in the middle of analyzing something for Halsey, and he didn't think much of the dismissal at the time.

But by now, the strange conspiratorial energy aboard the ship had all the trademarks of a bomb about to go off and it was making him antsy in a way he didn't appreciate. "Cortana."

It takes a fraction of a second longer than usual for her projection to appear on the holodeck - a detail imperceptible and inconsequential to anyone but him - but she's bright-eyed and smiling as she materializes. "You rang?"

"You have to know something." He cuts right to the chase.

She sighs. "Chief, you know they put me on restricted access. I don't like it either, but I have to play nice. It's Roland's ship, if you want to know what he sees, ask him."

John narrows his eyes. He didn't believe her for a second. And she knew it.

She holds eye contact as her lips twitch into a barely-contained smirk. "Maybe there's something going around on the socials," she continues with a shrug. "Could be worth a look if it's really bothering you."

**********

The suggestion was still sitting in the back of his mind days later, unheeded. He had more important things to be doing than trawling through message boards trying to find a joke that no one had bothered to let him in on. It always felt like tuning into an unsecured comm. channel - lots of chatter with very little substance.

But he knew Cortana. And she was up to something. Besides, he had a few hours to kill before Commander Palmer needed him in the simulation room. He taps his way into his account, remembering his password with a combination of muscle memory and sheer luck. His inbox is overflowing with messages, but he opts to ignore them in favor of hunting down the threads with the heaviest, most recent traffic.

A thread simply titled 'Girlfriend Day' rises to the top of the list. His finger hesitates over it for a second, unsure if this was the lead he should be following. It seemed unlikely, but none of the other contenders had anywhere near the same engagement numbers... Resigning himself to a potential dead end and waste of time, he opens it.

The initial post is a picture of a young couple, both smiling. The man has his arm around the woman's shoulders. They're somewhere sunny, in civilian clothes. John doesn't recognize either of them and doesn't spend much time skimming the accompanying text before moving on.

He doesn't have to go far. Less than a dozen posts into the thread, he finds a photo of himself. It's not a bad photo, all things considered - it's a nice candid shot, he's cleaning a gun, his helmet sits on the bench beside him - but the rose-tinged filter and tiny pink hearts aren't doing it any favors. It'd been posted anonymously without a caption and he only has to read a few of the comments underneath it for things to start falling into place.

"Cortana..."

The holodeck glows a dim blue for three full seconds before she appears, hands on hips, eyebrows raised.

John silently tilts the screen toward her.

"Do you like it? I thought the hearts were a nice touch."

"Pink's not my color."

"Agree to disagree." She settles into a more relaxed stance. "Who knew one picture could get the ship buzzing like this? Infinity's starving for gossip, apparently."

"Everyone wants to know whose girlfriend I am," John sighs, finally setting the datapad down. "Where'd you get the picture?"

"Took it myself. Last month. It was hard picking a favorite, you know. I went through a lot of them."

"...how many do you have?"

"Oh, thousands. I don't show them to anyone. Well, aside from this one exception." She nods toward the datapad, then crosses her arms in response to the face he can feel himself making. "What, a girl can't have a hobby?"

#halo #my writing #master chief #john 117 #cortana #johntana #god this felt good #i love prompt writing #this ended up being more like reddit than twitter #but in my defense i've never had a twitter account #my heart tells me unsc social media would be forum-based #also this got waaay away from me #it just kept getting longer #it's gonna take a while for me to get back into their voices #it's been so long #i can't guarantee every ask will inspire me to write #but this was a cute one :) #this is set somewhere at the beginning of my H4 canon-divergence AU btw #halo fanfic

[flicker-bot]

Thread for Flicker & Timeout by @ninjakarkki​ (originally posted on Discord, copied here for easier access to past messages)

Flicker — 07/29/2021 8:29 AM

Flicker slowed his steps and glanced up for a moment. Although the trees around him hid most of the night sky, he was able to see a few twinkling stars peeking from between the branches. He reminded himself he shouldn’t linger for too long and picked up his pace again.

The young bot had been out with the rest of the team when they’d seen a particularly big and bright shooting star. It wouldn’t have been so strange if it hadn’t seemed to land somewhere into the forests of Griffin Rock and knowing that it was their responsibility to keep the island safe, they had to check it out. They’d reached the edge of the forest and after some consideration, everyone had gone in different direction for better coverage.

Flicker realized it was getting harder to see the forest floor and he turned his head light on. He was expecting to hear a message through the comm system at any minute now – they probably wouldn’t continue their search for long when it was getting darker so quickly, and he was expecting Heatwave to call it quits. His focus wavered and he failed to spot a root of tree peeking through the ground. His foot caught on the root, and he let out a cry as he stumbled forward. There was a downhill right before him and he tried to grab onto the ground in attempt to stop himself, but he only tore off some moss before he rolled down the slope.

Fortunately, the hill wasn’t very steep, and Flicker stopped rather quickly, but it was enough to throw him off. He got on his feet, his movements slightly wobbly, and began to wipe his plating to get rid of dirt and make sure he hadn’t gotten injured. He looked around and froze, his servos mid-air. He heard vaguely someone asking him through the comm system why he’d screamed and if he was okay, but he didn’t respond. There was a few broken trees and a fresh gaping ditch on the ground. At the end of the ditch, behind a few trees that had remained intact, there was something laying on the ground… something big and metallic. Flicker took a few steps towards it and reached for his comm system with a shaky servo.

“E-everyone? I… I-I think I found it.”

Timeout — 07/29/2021 10:05 AM

"Affirmative, please approach it carefully. and let us know where you are" Came Chase's respond first, as per usual.

"And are you alright Flicker? You sound shaken up? Was it not an asteroid?" Another bot spoke up, this time being Boulder who sounded somewhat worried.

Blades was up in the sky for better view, mostly per Heatwave's order. As the comm came through that Flicker had seemingly found the fallen asteroid, Blades happened to spot it as well and flied over, shining his light over it. "Guys, it's not an asteroid, it's a small ship.."

Flicker — 07/29/2021 12:30 PM

It took Flicker a while to be able to answer. Hearing others' voices and Blades' rotors above reminded him that he wasn't alone and it helped him to calm down a little.

"Y-yeah", he responded slowly to the comm system, not taking his optics off from the metallic surface peeking from behind the trees. "I'm okay, I... I just stumbled a bit. You'll find your way here if you follow Blades." A pause. "Be careful on the slope."

Flicker turned his headlight off as he saw no need to keep it on anymore, now that Blades was illuminating the site. He began to approach the ship slowly and carefully, watching for any signs of life. "I don't see anyone", he informed to others. Yet, he added to himself silently. Surely a ship like this couldn't have crashed without someone controlling it? Flicker was sure someone was inside - he wasn't so sure if they were friendly or not. But they might need help, Flicker thought. We can't leave without knowing what happened.

Flicker stopped a few meters away from the ship, next to its side. "Hello?" He tried to ignore the hint of fear in his own voice. "Is anyone there?"

Timeout — 07/29/2021 2:23 PM

"The ship might be unstable! Be careful Flicker!" Blades said with worry as he was slowly circling in the air to get a better look around the ship. There wasn't any answer from the inside of the ship to Flicker's question.

It didn't take long before rest of the team got over as well. "That's cybertronian ship!" Boulder immediately took a note as he started to scan it, first and foremost to make sure it was safe to approach and to get its data. "It's safe to approach, no possibly of fuel tank or engines exploding"

"Cybertronian? I wonder if there's someone inside" Chase pondered as he had gotten over to Flicker to look at the ship as well, and to see where the entering place was. "Of course there's someone inside, what kind of a ship lands like this without a pilot" Heatwave said as a matter of fact.

Flicker — 07/29/2021 3:16 PM

Blades' warning made Flicker flinch as if he'd touched something hot and he took a few quick steps back. He was getting more and more worried when there was no response from within the ship.

Others arrived quickly and Flicker glanced at them - his optics lingered on Chase, as if looking for reassurance - before turning his attention to the ship again. Although Boulder assured it would be safe to approach, Flicker didn't return to the ship, but instead waited for the older and more experienced bots to decide what to do next. He listened to others' exchange and chimed in after Heatwave: "I thought so too."

He gave others a worried look. "I called out, but no-one has answered. If someone's there, they might be badly hurt... We have to help them!"

Timeout — 07/29/2021 3:38 PM

"Great thinking Flicker" Chase said and looked at the young autobot, giving him a small pat before spotting the entrance to the ship "The entrance is here, however it would seem it is stuck close, I will need help getting in"

"On it!" Boulder chimed and got over with Heatwave. With first some trouble, they managed to force the door open, smoke getting to escape from the inside. Chase shined a light inside and scanned the ship before the light hit a white and blue figure laying on the floor. "Ah, there!"

"They're not moving, either unconscious, or worse.." Heatwave muttered under his breath and quickly got in to get over to the mech. "Boulder, stay outside with Flicker, we will bring the mech out" Chase said and quickly followed Heatwave inside. Boulder nodded and took couple steps away from the door and over to Flicker.

Flicker — 07/29/2021 4:19 PM

Although brief, Flicker appreciated the little pat Chase gave him. He followed the bigger bot's gaze to what appeared to be entrance, and he took a step back to leave room for Boulder and Heatwave. He would've admire their strength to pull the stuck doors open if he hadn't been so worried about whoever was onboard.

Flicker barely managed to remain where he was when others went in, and he tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside from where he stood. Apparently there was at least one bot, a mech, and Flicker could feel his worry deepen when Chase said they'd bring him outside. That means he can't walk by himself. Flicker hoped the situation wasn't as bad as he feared, although the ship's condition was speaking for itself.

Timeout — 07/29/2021 4:53 PM

"Blades get down here!" Soon enough Heatwave ordered as he and Chase were coming out of the ship, carrying out what seemed to be an unconscious mech. The mech had Autobot insignia on the bottom of his chest while his arms had heartbeats, easy guessing the mech was an autobot medic most likely. From the order, Blades was quickly down, especially when he saw the autobot.

"There's no visible wounds but he doesn't seem to be responsive"  Heatwave informed and got the mech to lay down on the ground so Blades could take a better checkup to determine how acute the situation could be. "By the looks of it, it seemed like he had gotten out of stasis not too long ago, however we're not certain of it" Chase added on the information he had gathered when inside the ship.

"He seems to be ok! no major wounds, internal nor external, just unconscious but there's quite a dent on his helm which makes me believe he has hit his head in the landing" Blades soon let everyone know, the news making the others relax that it wasn't life or death situation. "We better get him to the bunker, he's fine but needs medical attention" the team's medic added as he finally got up from the ground.

"Got it. Chase, Flicker, you get to the firehouse and be ready to help Blades get this bot get inside, me and Boulder will help Blades to get him over there by the sky." Heatwave ordered.

Flicker — 07/29/2021 5:26 PM

While the mech was being carried outside and examined, Flicker paced anxiously back and forth with his servos clung together, trying to stay out of others' way but also trying to see constantly what was going on. He didn't like how helpless and useless he felt, but it was definitely not his biggest concern that moment.

Flicker finally stopped when Blades gave the good news, barely realizing he relaxed his shoulder joints after tensing them the whole time. He gave a brisk nod as Heatwave gave his commands and while others were preparing to carry the mech by air, Flicker and Chase began their walk back through the forest to the road. There they would be able to transform and travel faster.

As Flicker followed Chase up the hill, he turned his headlight back on. He hadn't realized before how dark it'd gotten. He remained quiet for a while, and only their footsteps on the forest floor sounded in the night.

Finally Flicker spoke in a quiet, nervous voice.

"Is he going to be okay?"

Timeout — 07/29/2021 5:46 PM

"Affirmative" Chase nodded to the order they received and headed out with Flicker, also getting his own light on as they walked to see where they were going. As Flicker eventually spoke, Chase turned to look at him with a reassuring look "Most certainly, it might have looked more dramatic than the situation was, but I can say with high confidence that he should regain consciousness within next 24 hours" he said with a gentle tone, wanting to ease up Flicker's clear worry for the autobot stranger.

"If my assumption is correct from his frame, he appears to be a medic and those bots are resilient, as you might already have seen from our Blades. So do not worry I am most certain that bot is going to be alright" he added as well with a small smile.

Flicker — 07/29/2021 7:10 PM

Although it wasn't enough to make his worries vanish completely, Flicker was visibly more relieved upon hearing Chase's answer. He met the police bot's small smile with his own, even if uncertainty remained in his optics.

"I can keep an eye on him until he wakes up", he promised. There was rarely a day when no-one had to leave for a rescue, left alone the whole team, and it made sense for Flicker to look after the mech while others might be busy. Besides - Flicker felt a pang of regret that made his expression waver - he wanted to make up for not being really any use back at the crash site.

Timeout — 07/29/2021 9:51 PM

  "That would be much appreciated" Chase smiled at Flicker's suggestion and soon enough they got back to the road where they transformed and rolled out to the firehouse.

>>> Firehouse

#timeout

[citra-60-fps-cheats-ar]

Installing 60 fps patches - Citra Support - Citra Community

💾 ►►► DOWNLOAD FILE 🔥🔥🔥 Back to ppsspp. Search Member List Calendar Help. Login — Register. Pages 59 : « Previous Threaded Mode Linear Mode. Post: Ohh and i've updated the list again. I've been having to disable 60 fps before in-engine cutscenes. Btw, the first Code Crimson mission "Behind Enemy Lines" at the end of Chapter 2 was not completable on previous version. After collecting all the documents in the mission you're supposed to get a COMM message then get teleported to a new area. Worked fine in 30 fps, but in 60 fps the teleportation didn't happen. I'll see if new patch somehow fixes that. Edit: Mission is still broken. Picking up the final document does not trigger COMM message. Thanks for testing. Update 5 should have it fixed. Let me know, if there are any other missions which never trigger some kind of events. It's hard to keep the track of everything because of the patch size, so hope there will be no new bugs like last time;c. About stability, while testing the patch was stable for me, althrough I didn't really had time to test earlier versions much. Thanks, fix in Update 5 worked. I'll keep saves at the start of every chapter so I can rush through and test the other missions eventually. Something strange happened, though. A Golem in the mission was double speed at first. Disabling the patch returned speed to normal. Re-enabling doubled his speed for a second, but he slowed down after that. I couldn't replicate it after that, so it's not too major. Stability is fine for me, as well. I always have CPU clock maxed, though. It never seems to cause any problems. Another update , since I broke movement speed in world map and many cutscenes by one of the earlier fixes. And by speedup it's animation or movement speed as it uses different code. If it's animation speed it's probably caused by the hackish workaround for Ifrit fireballs althrough I don't think my golem summon was triggering it with any attack. I really need to find a better way to deal with the fireball I guess, but for now fail miserably at figuring out where it actually get's broken. I was finally able to replicate it and found the actual problem. Turns out going from Update 4's disable code to Update 5's 60fps code doubled the speed of a few things. Sorry about the false report Jeez, another update? You're pumping these out super fast. I'm about to start on Chapter 3 combat exercises. I'll update this post afterwards to let you know if I find anything. Persists until patch is toggled or certain animations cancel it. I checked against forced double speed, and it isn't quite that fast. Reloaded and tested with previous patch, and problem occurred with it, as well. Edit3: Ace's attack animation speed is fine, but his cards fly faster looks like double speed. Edit4: The level 99 enemies on the world map have faster animations. Patrolling movement speeds seem faster, but chase movement speeds are unaffected. May have been from one of my characters dying, as it happened at about the same time. Edit6: Patch seems to heavily affect calculation of spell costs. This will complicate further testing, as I'm almost always out of MP now. Edit7: Not sure if the countdown during chapter 3's first mission, "Iscah Infiltration," was supposed to go faster than 1 per second, but it was. It wasn't much of a time constraint for me, though. Done for today. I'll tackle second half of Chapter 3 and the Code Crimson tomorrow. BUT I found a different address to modify and then the games are playable, now with only some minor time issues. I can post these codes if someone can test them. I can't play rhythm games too well on emulators. Input lag, I suppose. I adore Patapon, though, so I'll test either way. Alright, I'll try that, post the USA version for completion sake, and begin testing immediately. Edit: Removed pointless Patapon code. It's my pleasure. I was just playing my third favourite FF and pointing out problems while you're the one that's doing all the tedious work. Rechecking potential problems is the only thing I have to go out of my way for. I guess I should start testing seriously since I want to help as much as I can on making this play normally. On to testing. I'll update this post throughout the day to report all findings. Edit: Trying a new report format. I'll bold the item and explain all problems after. Should prevent messy reports like yesterday's, and I'll continually edit each item's explanation until I say I'm done for the day. Projectiles : Most projectiles confirmed to be sped up. Same is probably true for all charge ups. Other Abilities : 1. The fiery red circle of Nine's Jump appears and hits enemies before he stabs the ground. It seems like the fiery circle is it's own animation tagged onto the end of the Jump animation. Queen's Cross Judge rotates at double speed. Anytime King is still his shots take double ammo and hit twice standing attack, post-dodge "crouching" attack, and Endless Waltz. Doesn't happen when locked on nor when moving, but he shoots twice as fast instead. Basically, anytime he's shooting his DPS is doubled. It's harder to confirmed triggers since I have to watch Machina while playing other characters. It seems to happen during Imperial Army Commander's grenades, Nine's High Jump, occasionally during King's new still-standing "double shot," King's Powered Bullet, and maybe when switching between the two characters that aren't Machina. Edit : Queen started going faster at some point. Nothing that triggered the other characters would trigger her, so it seems like the triggers are extremely selective now. Scenes : The panning and text of the Moogle Class scenes go at double speed, but audio is normal. Minor Details : Listing these in case you plan to finely polish the patch. There's a frame or two in the Relic spinning animation that glitches out. Seems to be when the animation loops. The fountain water in the Fountain Plaza is going double speed. Unnecessary reapplication of scaling fixed in newer builds. The double speed of the Alto Crystarium causes a sizable performance hit. It's one of the most resource heavy parts of the game. Side notes: 1. Decided to test all projectiles since you mentioned projectile animation I had thought it was only Ace's cards before. Personally, I like the enemy bullets being faster for realism and difficulty purposes. It also makes Cater more potent which she kinda needs later on. I wouldn't mind this staying if it weren't for the fact that it buffs the already powerful Ace, and it makes speed stat for spells a little less useful. Seeing enemies die while Nine is still in the air is hilarious. It's a decent buff to Nine, but it just looks silly and broken. Seems like King is the most powerful character at the moment. He ain't playing games with those fast bullets and double shots. Trying to find and fix everything affected by the Ifrit fix must be a pain on your end. Alright, I'm done for today. I got sidetracked, so I couldn't fit the Code Crimson into today's sessions. Most characters and all four of chapter 3's combat exercises done. Next Code Crimson and a rehash of character testing when there's an update. Thought I should bring attention to that. Gehrich thanks for the detailed list. I guess the code which I forgot what was doing and was multiplying cost of spells was used for their speed previously;p, since I remember doing something with spell speed earlier;x. Oh well, have to do some things differently. Didn't really knew I patched relic animation already, heh probably accidently by something completely different, or it's just a rounding issue. Anyway I'll probably not have much time until the weekend, so will mess with it all then. You're right. Idk what I was thinking. The only way it would affect performance is if it reloads textures when they loop. The textures in this game are pretty heavy, though, so it may help. I decided to work on other things today. I'm gonna need to eventually bite the bullet and attempt to find speed modifiers. Corrected the Patapon USA code. I tested for a very short period since I was able to reduce input lag. Patapon test log Scenes : The very start of the tutorial cannot be played in 60 fps. It fades from black fine, but it fades back and forth after reaching a certain point. It seems to require pressing O twice as fast to trigger the following scene, but that would be off rhythm. Timing : Perfect timings seem to require more precision. Enemies : Dragon in tutorial has double movement speed. His animation speeds are normal. I don't think this game is benefiting much from 60 fps since the vast majority of the game is 2D animations. As far as I can tell, the only uses for this are smoother camera pan and adding a "hard mode" by making perfect timings tighter. I'll continue testing if someone really wants to fix the problems for such a small payout. English American. GamerzHell Senior Member. Posts: Joined: Feb Reputation: 5. Gehrich Junior Member. Posts: 14 Joined: Apr Reputation: 1. LunaMoo Posting Freak. Posts: 1, Joined: Sep Reputation: Posts: 66 Joined: Nov Reputation: 8. I also have 60fps cheats for Patapon 1 and 2 I am sure that it's possible with Patapon 3 too , with these games we can NOP any of the sceDisplayWaitVblankStartCB and they will run at 60fps, but are like at double speed. BUT I found a different address to modify and then the games are playable, now with some timing issues. I can post these codes if someone can test them EDIT: Patapon games are 2D, after some real testing by Gehrich, it's obvious that this patch is not worth the issues it brings, so I deleted the cheats. If you still want to test the codes, with cheat engine enable the HEX checkbox and search for the value "", you will get less than 20 results and the one we want is usually the first one, replace it with "" and that's the cheat. The fact that I could not find the codes for these does not mean they should be ignored for future attempts, maybe I missed something and someone else can find them. And a lot more games that I forgot - - - stranno MGS Portable Ops speed modifier must be changed before the game start otherwise it will not work, it should be the same for Ops Plus. You can follow my tutorial but instead of searching for 1 or 2 according to the game FPS, search for 15 20fps and 10 30fps and freeze the value with cheat engine enabling the checkbox of the address before you start a mission to test it. LunaMoo Thank you for your advice about the speed modifiers, no luck with any game yet but at least now I have more options to try. Posts: 2 Joined: Oct Reputation: 0. If you play in time trial, zone or free play modes it runs at 30 fps If the game is running normally with the breakpoint enabled, then disable that breakpoint and continue the search for another "vblank". At some point you will find a vblank that pauses the game with a breakpoint on it, look around for an opcode with a "b" like "b 0x08ABC" , right click it, click on assemble opcode and enter "nop", now go play the game. If it runs at 60fps, right click the address you found with the "b" and click on copy address. If we decrease this copied address by , we have the CW cheat for the ini file. You can use the same values I posted above with the address you found for the CW cheat. After playing for a while with the cheat enabled I thought the same about it, it's just not worth it. Let me know some games with this behavior and I'll give them a shot. Posts: 13 Joined: Feb Reputation: 0.

[hrtiu]

Boba/Fennec prompt: Boba really likes Fennec's hair (or her fingers, or some other, very specific part of her body, whatever you like) and can't stop touching/admiring/playing with it, and she goes from confused that he cares so much about that part to irritated that he Won't Leave Her Alone to embarrassed that he's paying so much frakking attention to her ((to realizing she likes it)) to secretly being endeared by his cuteness. Bonus points if she blushes a lot because of all this and he likes that too ;)

Thanks for the prompt! I think I ended up with something probably a bit angstier than you were thinking, but hopefully you'll still enjoy it! AO3 link.

Every morning Fennec Shand sat down in front of her burnished chromium mirror and did her hair. She started with the main braid down the center of her head, then wove together three smaller braids to either side. Once she’d tied off each individual braid, she plaited all seven together into a dark, twisting tail that reached almost to her waist. Then she took a long string of orange-red fiber and threaded it between the braids at the top of her head, tying them down and securing her bangs as flat against her scalp as possible.

“Why do you always have your hair like that?” Boba asked one morning when she came down for breakfast in Old Jabba’s palace.

“I don’t know. Why is your hair always like that?” Fennec said, helping herself to a generous slice of bantha bacon.

Boba let out a gruff laugh and shook his head. “It must take forever.”

Fennec stabbed her bacon with unnecessary force. “I don’t do it when I’m on an assignment, and beyond that I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

Boba didn’t say anything for a long moment, and Fennec wondered if maybe he was going to apologize. If he did she’d probably die of shock.

“Hmm,” he grunted, then returned his attention to his breakfast.

It was the reaction Fennec expected, but she found herself both relieved and annoyed. Shaking the contradictory emotions away, she finished her breakfast.

---

Living on Tatooine wasn’t all enforcing Boba’s will and collecting tribute. Boba was a benevolent warlord, and Fennec especially enjoyed being a part of his more generous impulses.

Most recently he’d bequeathed a chunk of his land to a tribe of Tuskens who’d cooperated well with him in the past. The Tuskens saw it as Boba returning the land to them, but regardless, they were going to be its permanent, uncontested tenants. Most of the Tusken Raiders Fennec had met seemed to enjoy their nomadic lifestyle, but this tribe was interested in putting down roots—so long as they could do it on their terms. As a show of good faith, Boba was donating three large moisture vaporators and a system for water storage to the village, and Fennec had been looking forward to the day of their installation for months.

Tribespeople clustered around the massive spires dug into the packed earth beneath the dunes, talking amongst themselves and asking questions to the mechanic who’d come up from Mos Eisley to install the thing. The poor translator Boba had dragged along was working doubletime to sort through the confusion.

Fennec stood next to Boba above the dug-out space, just a little outside of the cluster of activity. She wasn’t here to do much besides reinforce Boba’s involvement in the donation of the generators, but she was enjoying herself nonetheless. A small child whose face wrapping kept coming untucked approached the vaporator and turned the spigot, screeching in delight when clean water poured onto her outstretched hands. Fennec couldn’t help but smile.

A group of young Tusken women approached them, their hoods draped over their faces and ornamental collars jangling against their cloaks as they walked. They thanked Boba in sign language, and he signed back his appreciation with short, stilted hand motions. They giggled at his discomfort with their language, and Boba’s scarred face reddened.

“Great,” he grumbled to Fennec. “I knew that protocol droid wasn’t teaching me right.”

“Calm down,” Fennec said, resting a hand on Boba’s arm. “You’re doing fine. Just let them enjoy themselves.”

Boba frowned, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned into her touch, and Fennec felt light and warm.

The girls turned their attention to Fennec, and her contentment turned to unease. One of them pointed to Fennec’s braid and made a twisting motion with her hands, bringing her fingers together as her wrist turned. The other nodded in agreement, adding in a few giggles for good measure.

“Oh, um…” Fennec stuttered, unsure how to respond.

“They’re saying it’s pretty,” the translator from Mos Eisley said, hurrying up the steep hill towards them. “She says your hair is pretty.”

“Ah,” Fennec said. Heat rose in her cheeks, and her tongue felt thick in her mouth. Boba snorted and smirked at her, and she shot him a quick glare before smiling back at the girls. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

The translator signed Fennec’s response back to them, and they nodded and made gestures of thanks to Boba and Fennec before retreating back to where their tribe clustered around the vaporators.

“So they’re allowed to talk about your hair, but I’m not?” Boba asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” Fennec said, already heading for the steep slope that would take her down to the rest of the tribespeople. They’d be eating dinner soon, and it wouldn’t do for her and Boba to be late to the table.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t need to make sense,” Fennec said. “It’s just what I want.”

Boba rolled his eyes but followed Fennec down the slope, his steps awkward and careful on the slippery sand.

“Always what you want,” she thought she heard him mutter under his breath, but that could have been the whisper of the winds against the sand.

---

“Shand! We’re going to be late!” Boba yelled at Fennec through the thick door of her room.

His booming voice startled her, and one of her fingers slipped before she was able to tie off the last of her individual braids. “Dammit,” she muttered. “I’m coming!”

“I’m not going to look weak in front of Kanjiklub because you couldn’t stop fiddling with your hair,” he said.

The corners of Fennec’s mouth turned downwards and she saw her own eyes flash in the mirror. “We’re not going to be late. Calm down.”

His boots thudded heavily against the floor as he paced back and forth in front of her door. Fennec’s frown morphed into a full-blown scowl and she made sure to take extra care to get her braid right, taking her time with each knot. Boba needed to learn patience, and he needed to learn that she wasn’t some massiff he could train to do his bidding.

She finished up the braid then moved on to weaving the orange thread around each cord, laser-focused on her task but unhurried in execution.

Boba’s fist pounded on the door once more. “If you don’t hurry it up I’m going to cut off that damned braid myself!”

Fennec froze. She pressed her lips together and stood from her chair, leaving her hair weaving half-finished. She stalked to her bed, pulling her boots and coat off as she did so, then fell into her thick, fluffy blankets.

“...Fen?” Boba asked through the door, though this time his voice was softer—almost chastened.

Fennec held her wrist comm up to her mouth and messaged Dilick Wa, the other bounty hunter Boba kept on retainer at the palace.

“Wa? You there?” she said.

“Yep. What’s up?”

“Meet Boba on the landing pad. You’ll be going with him to meet Kanjiklub tonight.”

“...But weren’t you going-?”

“Just do it.”

She shut off the coms.

---

Lights flickered by for every floor they sank underground, each beam illuminating the red-tan-and-white of Boba’s scarred features. Normally Fennec didn’t like being underground, but on Florrum she might be willing to make an exception. Relief from the unrelenting heat and sulfur-infused dust was worth the loss of adequate sniper perches, in her opinion.

“So,” Boba said. “Arawat Ragistar. Anything else you can you tell me about him?”

Fennec forced a shrug. “Like I said: he’s an assassin. He has plenty of other skills, too. He’s tricky and dangerous, but in general he’ll stick to his word if you pin him to specific commitments.”

Boba nodded slowly. “How is he as a business partner?”

“Wouldn’t know. I only knew him as an assassin.” A heavy pause filled the space between them, and several more floors passed in silence.

“He’s a real bastard,” Fennec said, and she wondered if it was some strange trick of the senses that made her voice sound several decades younger to her ears.

“I know you don’t like him, but we need good connections on Florrum.”

“I know.”

The lift slowly came to a stop, and Fennec tensed as the doors opened. A shiny protocol droid welcomed them into the bare, utilitarian bunker that served as Arawat’s headquarters, and they followed it through a series of round vault-style doors. The final door was bigger than the rest, and it opened on a broad audience chamber, at the end of which sat a sleight, waspish Sullustan. Her old mentor.

“The great Boba Fett!” Arawat said, throwing his arm wide, “Welcome! And Little Fennec, you’ve come back home!”

Fennec nodded her head in response, biting back a bitter response. That was what he was fishing for, after all.

“Arawat Ragistar, thank you for having me,” Boba said, moving to sit in the plush chairs across from Arwat’s restrained setup. “You’re not an easy man to find.”

“Of course not,” Arawat said. “What good assassin would be easy to find? Isn’t that right, Little Fennec?”

Fennec pursed her lips. “Right.”

“We’re interested in bringing some of our import routes through Florrum,” Boba said. “It could be profitable for the both of us.”

“Now Fennec Shand, on the other hand. That’s a name I’ve heard of,” Arawat said, as if he hadn’t heard Boba at all. “‘Best assassin in the galaxy,’ I’ve heard. Of course, if anything I’d taught her had sunken in, she’d know that the best assassin is the one you’ve never heard of.”

Boba’s jaw clicked—a tiny motion Fennec doubted most anyone else would notice. “I’m not sure how that’s relevant to our arrangement.”

Arawat leaned forward over his knees and threaded his fingers together, and Fennec’s own stone face stared back at her in the mirror reflection of his shiny black eyes.

“It’s vanity, you know? Pure vanity,” he said, his voice silky smooth. “Like that hair. Do you know how many times I told her to cut it? There is no tactical advantage to long hair—not a single one. The only reason to keep it is vanity, pure and simple. ”

Fennec stared back at him, refusing to look away. Boba had fallen silent at her side, but she hardly noticed him any more in her peripheral vision. She was back 35 years in the past, her reflexes sharp and her body lean, but her spirit broken.

“Couldn’t quite get all the Chandrila out of her after all-”

“We’re through here,” Boba cut Arawat off, standing to his feet.

Arawat finally turned his attention to Boba, his jowls flapping excitedly around his cheeks. “What? But we were-”

“We’ll bring our goods through some other way. Thank you.”

Boba turned to leave and Fennec followed after him, her jumbled thoughts struggling to right themselves as she kept up with his assertive pace. The protocol droid started leading them back, but Boba brushed past him, retracing their steps to the lift with ease. Arawat didn’t follow.

The lift opened for them and Fennec followed Boba in, holding her tongue until the doors sealed shut.

“Are you crazy? We need his cooperation,” Fennec hissed as the lift zoomed upwards. Her eyes darted to the corners of the lift, searching for the holo cameras she knew must be somewhere.

Boba bristled. “I’m Boba Fett. I don’t need anybody except-” He shut his mouth. “We don’t need anybody.”

The lights from the lift illuminated his face at regular intervals, but the open emotion he’d shown down below was gone. Back was his stoic warrior’s face, the one she’d grown to respect but couldn’t fully trust.

“Fine,” Fennec said after a weighty pause. “Mustafar should work, anyway.”

“Mustafar?” Boba asked incredulously.

“Just get a few heat-resistant vehicles and you’re golden. That hostile environment is its own security.”

Boba grunted in agreement, and the lift continued upward. They fell into a companionable silence, and though the tension in Fennec’s shoulders gradually fell, she still ran her fingers nervously up and down the end of her braid.

---

The last time Fennec had been to Naboo it had been for a hit. The beauty of the planet hadn’t been lost on her at the time, but the elegant promenades and magnificent waterfalls didn’t look quite the same through a scope. This time she and Boba were here for a business deal and she had a chance to truly appreciate Theed’s splendor.

She leaned against the stone balustrade bordering the balcony and closed her eyes, letting the faint mist from a nearby waterfall gather on her face. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her, but they were the comforting, familiar gait of her partner, and she paid them no heed.

“Hiram agreed to our terms,” Boba said from her side. “Production can start next month.”

“Hmmmm,” Fennec hummed. “Sounds good.” They’d thought negotiations would last longer. That gave them three whole days to relax before their shuttle was scheduled to depart.

The breathtaking vista before them occupied all of Fennec’s thoughts. In the distance threads of water laced their way down verdant green cliff sides, and elegant copper-colored buildings stood above the cliffs like sentinels on watch. The waterfall closest to their villa roared as thousands of gallons toppled over the edge every second, and Fennec could feel the power of it through her feet and into her bones. She closed her eyes in appreciation. Beauty and power—the ultimate combination.

Boba leaned on the balustrade next to her, bringing him into her orbit. “I ordered dinner,” he said.

Fennec hummed again. Dinner in their private villa overlooking the waterfalls sounded perfect.

Boba stepped to the side then his warm breadth was at Fennec’s back, enveloping her like a thick cloak. She tensed, her instincts screaming at her to bolt. But maybe this time, she didn’t want to run away.

With a sigh Boba rested his chin on Fennec’s shoulder and his hot breath tickled at the loose strands of hair that had escaped their bindings by her ear. She shivered.

Boba leaned further into her and rested his cheek against the side of her head. He took a long, slow breath in and turned his face more towards her, his nose catching slightly against her braids as he moved his head up and down in what could only be described as a nuzzle.

Fennec’s breath caught in her throat. “Boba…”

“Easy,” he murmured. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

Fennec couldn’t help a soft snort at that. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Maybe,” he said, his breath heavy and thick in her ear. “But I don’t usually have a chance to relax and enjoy it.”

His hands slid up to her arms and he pulled her gently backwards, stepping behind them until he reached a plush daybed set near the back of the balcony. He sat down and she went with him, allowing herself to be tugged into his lap.

She didn’t think. She just let her senses bask in his warmth, in his sturdy, fierce presence. She reclined against his front, her ear pressed up to his unarmored chest. His heartbeat thudded clear and strong against her cheek—a steady, constant presence she was only just realizing how much she cherished. He rested his chin on top of her head and held her loosely around the waist.

Water tumbled over the cliffs of Theed and time passed, but Fennec didn’t notice either. All she felt was an unfamiliar sense of peace and security. Maybe, after all these years, she wasn’t broken after all.

“...We could always extend our stay,” Boba said, his voice a gravelly rumble through his chest.

“Hmmm.” Fennec closed her eyes and let her fingers cling to the fabric of his tunic.

“Or visit other planets. Maybe even go to Chandrila.”

The distant blare of alarm bells sounded in Fennec’s mind, but she did her best to ignore them. It was nothing. She was fine. She was at peace, and she trusted Boba.

“I’ve never been there before,” Boba continued. “You could show me around.”

The alarm bells shrieked, and the peace shattered.

Fennec hauled herself out of Boba’s lap. She stepped back to the edge of the balcony and ordered herself not to look back. It was colder now, but the chill was familiar. “We should leave as we planned. I need to check in with our supplier in Mos Eisley.”

“Fen, come on-”

“I think I’ll call it a night.” There was a courtyard of space between her room and Fett’s, but maybe she’d stay someplace else for the night.

Boba got to his feet and followed her across the balcony, but he made no move to touch her. “You wear Chandrilan braids every day. You can’t tell me you hate the place-”

Fennec rounded on him. “I may be in your service, but that does not mean I have to tell you anything about my personal life.”

Boba grabbed her by the wrist, the snarl he usually reserved for his enemies rising to his lips. “Shand, can we leave the carbonite bitch act behind for once?”

Fennec wrenched her arm from his grasp and shoved him back. “Touch me again and I’ll kill you.”

She whirled around and fled the balcony, making first for her room before turning instead towards the villa’s entrance. How far away could she get for the night? It might be an interesting challenge to see.

---

She came back the next morning. She was a professional, and she trusted Boba to understand the line he’d crossed. And just as she’d expected, he didn’t mention anything about the previous night’s blowup. Two days later they returned to Tatooine, and life continued the same as ever.

Boba’s business ventures on Tatooine were actually fairly legitimate. He built up the local economy, gave loans to entrepreneurial spirits, increased imports and exports exponentially, cracked down vigorously on (unsanctioned) crime, and generally made the miserable ball of dirt and sand that was Tatooine a more tolerable place to exist. That being said, nobody could be successful in the Outer Rim while working completely above board.

Which was why it came as no surprise when the Hutts sent assassins after him for co-opting a chunk of their spice territory.

Fennec squeezed off another round from her perch on one of the palace’s domes and allowed herself a smirk of satisfaction as the target dropped.

“Last intruder down,” she said into her comm.

“Good job,” Boba said from his safe room below. “Let’s give it a half hour to see if anyone else crops up. Then regroup in my study.”

“Copy that.”

Fennec waited patiently in her perch, her sharp eyes staring through the scope for any sign of additional assailants. She was reasonably confident she’d dispatched them all, though, given the size of their transport and typical Pyke Syndicate strategies. Fennec snorted to herself. The Hutts must be really strapped for cash if they were resorting to hiring Pykes.

After the allotted time had passed with no sign of other hostiles, Fennec climbed down from her perch and made her way to Boba’s rooms. Boba was neither sentimental nor high-maintenance, but the comforts of the past few years had led to him accumulating a certain amount of personal belongings to display in his quarters. Mandalorian relics, his father’s old helmet, a Clone Wars-era DC-17—that sort of thing. Fennec walked past his mementos and met him at his armchair near the back of the study.

“All clear?” he asked, looking up from a datapad streaming updates from his security system.

“As far as I can tell. Hutt enforcement really isn’t what it used to be,” she said.

“Not the only thing around here that’s getting rusty, it seems,” a soft voice hissed behind her ear.

Fennec’s eyes widened and she twisted around, but before she could move a cold, slimy hand had her by the hair and a vibroblade pressed up against her gut.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” Arawat’s hateful voice whispered near her ear. “Little Fen still has so much to learn. What did I tell you about our work? The best assassins are unseen.”

Fennec’s heart seized in her chest and with each breath her stomach pressed against the vibroblade. For now it was cutting through her coat, but soon enough it would be her skin.

“You might want to rethink your position,” Boba said, slowly rising to his feet. “There are two of us and only one of you. One way or another, you’re not getting out of here alive.”

“Ah haha, the mighty Boba Fett. You know, if you were your father I would be afraid right now. Old Jango wouldn’t hesitate to let a subordinate die to get ahead in a fight. But you’re not like that, are you?” Arawat said. With each word his fleshy jowls slid along Fennec’s neck, making her skin crawl.

Boba bared his teeth and the divots and crevasses of his scars almost turned his expression inhuman. “Care to test that theory?”

“Yes, I think I do,” Arawat said. “Put your weapons down, or I’ll gut her like a fish.” The blade pressed further into her stomach, drawing the tiniest sliver of blood.

Boba met Fennec’s gaze, and an understanding passed between them. Something Fennec had always known somewhere in the back of her mind came to the forefront, and she set her jaw. She trusted Boba. She trusted him more than she’d ever trusted another living person. She trusted him more than she trusted herself.

She didn’t know what he was going to do, but something in his eyes told her to prepare. She slowed her breathing, diminishing the blade’s contact with her flesh, and moved her hand just the slightest distance closer to the vibroblade she always kept tucked into her belt.

Boba moved to disarm himself, one hand going slowly for his blaster while the other stayed up and opened for Arawat to see. Then the thrusters of his jetpack activated, and he barreled right into Arawat and Fennec.

For several chaotic, terrifying moments, Fennec’s world was a tangle of clattering metal, unidentified limbs, and confused violence. Somehow, Arawat managed to maintain his vice like grip on her braid, and while momentum threatened to pull them apart, Arawat held onto her hair with a vicious tenacity. When they landed in a heap on the other side of the room, he yanked her to him again. Boba made a lunge for Arawat’s blade, but he wasn’t going to be fast enough. Fennec needed to get away. As she was, she was a liability.

She pulled the vibroblade from her belt and cut behind her, severing the thick braid right at the base of her skull. She flung herself away from her old teacher, and by the time she looked back Boba had already shot the Sullustant in the chest.

Arawat Ragistar was dead, and she and Boba Fett were both alive. It was a win.

She lay panting on the floor, her heart racing and blood still oozing from her side. As the adrenaline faded, her awareness tunnelled on the length of coiled black hair still hanging from Arawat’s limp hand where he slumped against the wall.

Strong arms pulled her to her feet and inspected the cut to her side, but Fennec hardly noticed.

“Hey,” Boba’s gruff voice cut through the haze. “Go see Pershing and get this stitched up. Then get some rest.”

She nodded numbly, then went to do as ordered.

---

Pershing gave her a few stitches, then added a thick bacta patch for good measure. Fennec didn’t feel anything, and Pershing’s complaints about not being a medical doctor and his demotion to glorified nurse slid easily in and out of her ears. Eventually he was done and her feet found their way back up to her rooms. She shut herself inside and sat down at her desk, her head feeling strange and floaty without the familiar weight of her braid.

Fennec stared at her reflection in the mirror, her face unchanged but somehow unrecognizable in its new frame. A soft knock sounded at the door, and she didn’t bother to shout the intruder off.

Careful footsteps sounded around her room, and Boba’s mangled face appeared above her in the mirror, the softness of his expression completely incongruous with his scarred visage.

Slowly, gently, without a word, he reached for her hair. He ran his fingers through their short, chopped length, sifting the strands carefully from side to side.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Fennec stared into his eyes through the reflection of the mirror, her body frozen in ice. Leaving her plenty of time to protest, Boba’s calloused fingers gathered up several hanks of hair from the crown of her head and started braiding. She’d never let anyone see her process before, but that didn’t stop him.

She barely had enough hair to reach the nape of her neck, but still he braided a short rope down the center of her head, then three smaller ones on each side. Then he picked the orange thread up from her desk and wove it between each braid, the extra support of the thread maintaining the seven braids’ integrity despite their length.

The last person to braid her hair for her had been her mother. Fennec could still remember the feeling of her thin, deft fingers in her hair, could still hear the sound of her soft, gentle voice cooing at her while she worked. She couldn’t remember her mother’s face, couldn’t remember her name, could hardly recall even the vaguest impression of what Chandrila was like. This memory was all she had left.

Fennec’s shoulders shook, and with a start she lifted a hand to her cheek and realized she was crying. The braids now completed, Boba let his hands fall to her shoulders, where their generous warmth helped hold her together.

Boba turned her chair around to face him and knelt down in front of her, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. “It will grow back. But even before then, you’ll still be beautiful.”

She turned around in her chair and slid her arms around him, burying her face into his stomach. He sank down to the floor and pulled her down with him, holding her and murmuring unintelligible sweet nothings as he stroked her hair.

“I don’t want anyone to see me like this,” she said, her voice raspy with tears.

“I’ll never let anyone see,” Boba said. “I’ll close my own eyes if it will help.”

Fennec chuckled, her body shaking against Boba’s solid torso. “No, I think it’s alright for you. But only you.”

“Hmmm,” Boba hummed. “It’s a deal, then.”

Fennec rolled over onto her back, then tugged Boba on top of her. “It’s a deal.” She threaded her fingers together behind his neck and pulled him down to her.

#bobannec #bobannec plague #boba fett x fennec shand #the mandalorian #writing #star wars #fennec shand #boba fett #ask #prompt

[bitchfitch]

when i get done with this round of comms i think im going to start another "floral befuckened adonis [statue with too many flowers]" style painting where its just very very detailed, but idk which one id want to do so like, of these three which sounds like it would be the most fun to watch me scream about for the next month or so?

A. [the lemur parrot thing but zes done up like a noble having their portrait done in either the romantic or rococo style. pretty gold, pink and green color pallet with a beaded and gilded outfit. Zer feathers are soft looking and lighty tussled as ze reclines in a lacey hammock with a creeture snoozing on zer lap/ an illustrated book that ze is reading. ze looks calm and happy] light airy, surreal high fantasy

B. [a Renaissance/ Baroque style portrait of a man in velvet millitary/marching garb. Blue, gold, and brown, are the main colors, he holds a curved sword in either hand as he cocks his head and smiles something between knowing and cocky, his dreads are decorated with thread, beads, and gold caps. His make up matches his outfit and invokes the designs frequently seen on harlequins. He is confident in his stance but cool and cocky looking] cool, dark, mysterious, and lavish

C. [A baroque style portrait of a ringmaster, his face is completely obscured by white smoke as he tips his tall hat. maroon, black and silver are the main pallete. his tail coat is bedazzled and glitters as he seems to be welcoming the viewer to a show. His gloves are embroiderd with strange symbols, and every where it looks like you should be able to see his skin there is only smoke. Long silver threads run up from his seams to some point off screen,] spooky glitz and glam.

#im probably going to be done with the two comms tonight #both have their rough shading done but im taking a break for an hour or two before i do the soft shading on them #just to make sure im not like #missing something or whatever #planning #entries

[no-droids]

A Show of Good Faith

Part Six of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7.1k what i fuckin tell yall

Warnings: SMUT, rough sex, dirty talk, creampie, canon-typical violence, slight description of blood/injury

***

Isn’t it weird that nobody really ever talks about what happens immediately after you have a dead body in front of you?

It’s the part leading up to it that’s usually the most crucial, obviously.  The adrenaline of the actual moment is overwhelming—you react without thinking, danger pumping through your veins alongside your blood and sharpening your survival instincts until they’re deadly.  You do what you have to do to stay alive, nothing more.  So it’s not really until you have a still moment with the evidence of your actions right there in front of you, glassy-eyed and staring lifelessly up at the ceiling, that you suddenly don’t know what to do.

Shocking is a word.

Debilitating is another.

Things… things come in flashes.  You have blood on your hands; it’s thick and cold and electric blue in color, not dark or warm or crimson.  One of them is vibrating violently, clutched around something heavy and clunky and unfamiliar, something with a handle made to fit a six-fingered grip.  The kid is passed out in your other arm after expelling all his energy helping you take down the brutal assailant, choking him with… with some unknown baby shaman toad powers and holding him in place so you could grab this knife and you could… and you could…

The body of the man you just stabbed lays in a bloody pile on the floor in front of you.  It was self-defense, but the reasoning behind it doesn’t take anything away from the gore, the blank state of shock rendering you motionless for Maker knows how long.

Corellia is a fucking shithole, you knew that coming in.  If it was a sewer even with the Empire’s shipbuilding industry boosting the economy, it’s even worse after its collapse.  To circumvent any unnecessary danger or attention, you chose to land the ship in one of the dense forest areas on the outskirts of the tracking fob’s radius.  But unluckily for you, rats like forests just as much as they like sewers, and one of them apparently crawled his way onto the vessel a few minutes ago.

You drop the vibroblade to the floor with a clatter and slide down the hull wall, clutching the baby to your chest and trying to calm your breathing.  There could be more of his friends close by.  What you should do is climb into the cockpit and find somewhere else to lay low, send Mando a coded message with word of your new location.

But there’s a dead body in front of you.

And it’s… it’s dead.

Strangely, you default to something you’ve never actually done before.  Something you probably shouldn’t ever do, in case your companion is in stealth mode or trying to hide from something, because it’ll immediately give away his position.  You could theoretically get him killed, but you’re not thinking straight.

Your wrist trembles as you hold it in front of your lips.  “Uh… M-Man-Mando?”

The sound of blaster fire and grunting crackles through your emergency comm link, before you hear a quick, breathless, “What’s wrong?” come through the speaker.

“It, uh—” you stare down at the oddly-colored blood on your fingers, wondering how you voice is able to come out so calmly, “it s-sounds like you’re busy, I’ll—I’ll just—”

More grunting.  A thud.  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

You’re at a loss for words.  You take a second to look down at the dead body, before lifting your wrist back up to your mouth.  “I’m o-okay now, but I… but someone followed me into the Crest and he tried to… I-I mean he’s—he’s dead now, but—”

“Are you hurt?”  He suddenly sounds urgent.  It’s ridiculous that he didn’t actually sound urgent until now.  “Is the kid hurt?”

“We’re—we’re both fine, but…”  You look down at the child in your arms.  “But the baby did something I—I c-can’t explain—and now he’s… I-I think he's asleep…”

“Good,” he replies shortly.  You can hear him running now, pounding footsteps and heavy, quick breaths.  Another blaster shot.  “We need to get out of here.  Rendezvous Sector-15, soon as you can.  You’ll see me.”

“Do I…”  Maker, you sound like an absolute idiot.  “Do I just… just leave the body here, or…?”

“I’ll take care of it when you get here.”  He doesn’t sound frustrated with you, but for some reason you feel incredibly frustrated with yourself.  You should be able to pull yourself together, but your hands are all tingly and you can’t actually feel your fingers unless you really work for it.  Stars, when’s the last time you actually blinked?  “Can you fly?”  

You don’t respond.  You don’t even feel like you can stand up right now.  The blaster shots scream through the crackling comm link for a second, and then you jump when he barks your name even louder than the gunfire.

“—Listen to me,” he urges, and you blink rapidly, the seriousness of his low growl hitting you right in the chest.  “You can fly.  Understand?  Get the kid, get in the cockpit, put your seatbelt on.  Fly out to me, right now.  We’re leaving.”

His voice doesn’t call for argument.  It’s abrasive and rough and unquestionable enough to get through to you.  Of course you can fly, you can fly with your fucking eyes closed.  Coming that firmly and doubtlessly from him, it’s a universal truth.

“Copy.  Sec-Sector-15.”  You say, adrenaline beginning to pump blood through your veins again.  Just.  Just don’t look at the body, okay?  Don’t look at the body, you can do this if you don’t look at the body.  “I’ll see you?”

“You’ll see me,” he repeats.  And then the noise cuts off with a click.

You struggle up to your feet, heart pounding.  You can do this.  You can totally do this.  You can walk, because you can fly.  Duh.  Mando said so.

You admittedly almost fall a couple steps down the latter while trying to climb up it one-handed, the baby held tightly to your chest, but you’re eventually able to get the both of you into the cockpit.  The kid is carefully buckled into his little booster seat before you’re collapsing shakily into the pilot’s chair and swiveling forward.

Okay.  Flight check.  Now.  To your left, flip down these few switches here—one two three four five—okay, good.  To your right, press those two buttons sitting just above the nav console.  Yep, got it.  Up top now, those two red ones overhead.  Good.  Good, you can do this.  Type coordinates into the nav comp.  Sector-15, locked.  Easy.  This is easy.  That big, knobless lever to your right—yes, the one with the exposed threading at the end, push that long metal stick forward and set thrusters to full.  Okay.  Left thruster, looks good.  Right looks good, too.  Okay.  Seatbelt… seatbelt is… Seatbelt: on.  Hatch: sealed.  Shields: engaged.  Flight check complete.  Now all you have to do is take off.

Now all you have to do is take off.

All you have to do… is…

You stare down at the joystick in front of you blankly.

And then you shake your head back and forth frantically, hoping the rapid movement will jar some sense into you.  Maker, get it the fuck together.  What did Mando hire you for?  You told him you were useful, didn’t you?  This is what you do.  You fly.  So fucking fly, yeah?

You lift the ship off the ground and immediately take her around southeast, taking deep breaths and feeling the powerful rumble beneath your chair.  Yeah, you can do this.  Don’t think about the blood on your hands, the dark streaks of sickly purple now smudged all over the controls.  Don’t think about the dead body in the hull.  Don’t think about how you’re the reason it’s dead.  Just fly the ship.  This is something you can do.

You coast over the thick treetops and into the industrial sector, carefully scanning the gritty streets below.  You don’t know what he meant when he said you’ll see him—until you suddenly see him.  Smack in the middle of the airspace, rising phoenix strapped to his back and hovering a few hundred feet above absolute chaos wreaking havoc in the slums below.  Blaster flares light up the night sky, though the sparks and flash grenades illuminating the dirty Corellian streets have nothing on the beauty of seeing those small twin jets in the darkness, the ones beginning to fly towards the ship.

“Got eyes,” his voice says through the comm link.  Relief pounds through you.  Stars, relief shouldn’t feel like this much of a struggle for your cardiovascular system, should it?

“Beginning deceleration,” you confirm breathlessly, slowing down and pressing a few buttons to open the hatch with your free hand.  You bring both of them back down to swing her around until he’s got a clear path, feeling the ship dip just slightly with the sudden weight of him dropping in.

“Landed,” he grunts.  “Set course for Nevarro.”

You floor it and elevate the Crest up through Corellia’s smoggy atmosphere, punching in coordinates in the meantime.  The ship dips just a touch once more while the computer takes a few seconds to calculate a hyperspace path, and your eyebrows narrow before it quickly pulls back up again.  It’s not until you see the manual hatch override indicator light blink next to the nav console that you realize he must’ve dumped the body before closing the door himself.

Well, that’s one way to handle that, you suppose.

The computer beeps quietly when it’s finished.  “Standby for jump,” you tell your wrist.

“Copy.”

You triple-check the positive seal integrity readings before your hand is reaching for the double-reinforced hyperjump control, still trembling slightly.  You lean all your weight forward into it, trying to keep your arm from buckling as the stars slowly shift across the observation shield for a split second, before you’re being hurled into the interdimensional wormhole.

Quiet.  Hyperspace is fucking quiet.  You forget, sometimes.  Not how quiet it is—but how loud everything else is, not until you’re hurtling through the closest thing to purgatory you’ll ever experience in life.  It looks… indescribable, even after the thousandth time.  Empty space collapsing in front of you and expanding behind you simultaneously.  Starlight streaking across the windows, space-time curving around the ship faster than the ship itself is moving through it.  You take a moment to consider it as you unbuckle yourself shakily, before standing up and checking the seat behind you.

The kid is still knocked out cold, but you press the button to close the shield to his crib just in case, setting an alarm protocol to Mando’s remote arm brace should it open.  

And then you slowly make your way around bulky cockpit chairs and down into the hull, shakily climbing down the ladder one step at a time.  As soon as you turn around, there’s a caped wall of beskar rummaging through something with his back to you.

“Did you…”  You announce yourself while looking around, trying not to sound as small as you feel.  This is a such stupid question, you already know what he did with the body.  But you… you should make sure, right?  “You already took care of… of the…”

“Yeah.”  Mando spins around and pulls out the cot from the wall at the same time, and you jump when the bed rattles loudly on its track and ricochets a few inches backwards after reaching its full extension.  He quickly makes his way around it and over to you.  “It’s gone.  Come here, you’re hurt.”

“I’m f-fine,” you insist, feeling your hands shake when he abruptly grabs the left one and turns it over, pulling your wrist out towards him and up to the light so you both can see.  “What about the qua—oh.”

There’s a long, ragged slice decorating the inside of your forearm, dried blood staining the ripped fabric along your sleeve.  You blink down at it, not able to recognize its pain even with the evidence of the injury in front of you.  It doesn’t look deep, but its edges are a little nasty and it’s still bleeding.  Why can’t you feel it?  Shouldn’t you be able to feel that?

He makes a noise through his helmet—something you can’t quite figure it out.  Something between a short growl and a low huff of breath, before he’s grabbing your hips and steering you over towards the bed, lifting you up and setting you on its suspended platform when you’re close enough.

“Didn’t find the quarry,” the Mandalorian says quietly, turning around and looking through the first aid kit once more.

“You didn’t find the…”  You blink down at your injury.  He didn’t even find the quarry?  But then what was all that ruckus about?  And why are you going back to Nevarro to collect payment?  Shouldn’t you be turning around and… and…?

He’s suddenly in front of you again, and this time he’s got a… a syringe in his hands?  An E-bacta shot, you realize with an uncomfortable jolt.  He pulls the cap off and sets it down on the bed next to you before holding out his gloved hand for you, waiting patiently but expectantly.

“No,” you immediately tell him, heart beginning to pump faster as you bring your arm up and hug it to your chest.  You didn’t even know those things were street legal—they heal incredibly quickly but people have been known to abuse them because… well, because they’re supposed to give you a wicked fucking high.  Bacta isn’t addictive and there’s no possibility of overdose, but this shit is concentrated.  You can’t imagine how expensive it was.  “Don’t b-be ridiculous, Mando—you—you almost bled out from a knife wound and we didn’t use one of those.”

“What do you think that is?”  He looks down at your arm.

“It’s a scratch!”  You exclaim, starting to feel a bit hysterical now from the adrenaline comedown.  Maker, that needle is big.  You knew bacta injections were thick but holy fucking stars.  “It doesn’t even h-hurt!  I could’ve… I could’ve done this to myself on accident for all I—”

“This has boosted antibiotics, too,” he cuts you off, quickly losing his patience and grabbing your wrist when you still don’t hand it over to him.  He levers your forearm down, holding it parallel to the floor on your lap.  “We don’t have any bacta kits left, I looked.  This’ll work fast and it won’t scar.  Hold still.”

“No—” you try to pull your hand away, hating the way your voice jumps when you’re aiming for calm and reasonable.  “—I’ll be fine, w-we shouldn’t waste th—”

He tightens his grip.  “Listen.  This isn’t a scratch.  It’s a torn laceration from a dirty Corellian vibroblade.  Now I’m giving you at least a quarter dose, so hold,” he tugs your wrist forward, “still.”

You see the large needle heading towards your arm with determination and you’re instantly going rigid with panic, whipping your head away from him and squeezing your eyes shut as you suck in a terrified breath.

You wait like a statue for the pain, frozen in anticipation and fright, but it never comes.  Slowly peeking one eye open, you look back to find a chrome visor staring intently at you, unmoving.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you eventually gasp when he doesn’t say anything, and Maker, are your eyes actually starting to water?  “I-I’m sorry, I’m just—that’s a b-big needle and—and I actually just k-k-killed someone and it’s just—” oh stars, here come the sniffles, “—I’m s-so sorry, I’m trying t-to keep it—keep it togeth—”

He carefully places the syringe down on the bed next to you as you turn your head away from him and try to stifle your short, panicked breaths with the back of your hand.  But then you’re being caught and pulled forward, hauled into an iron chest without a single word.

It should be uncomfortable, you think.  You should want to take the armor off and feel the muscles of his arms wrap themselves tight around you instead of cold metal, but for some reason, you don’t.  He feels… right like this.  Like the beskar is a natural extension of his body, like it holds just as much comfort as his bare chest does.

The Mandalorian stands there between your knees and silently embraces you, holding stoic and steady for you, tilting his head so you can calm your breathing into the crook of his neck.  It’s covered in fabric but it smells like him, warm and soft and damp with sweat.  You breathe him in, clutching him tight with your uninjured arm and feeling your heartbeat gradually begin to slow as it’s pressed against cool metal.

“E-bacta has calming properties,” he says quietly after a moment.  “It’ll help more than this.”

“Shut up.”  You mutter against his throat, doing everything you can to drown yourself in him.  Maker, he smells good.  He just got finished bringing down an entire Corellian sector, why the fuck does he smell so good?  “I'm not—not letting you stick that thing in me.”

“Yeah?”  He returns softly, dragging a hand up your back.  “Bet I can make you want it.”

“Not happening,” you grunt, tightening your hold on him.  “You’ll put regular bandages on my arm until we can resupply on Nevarro and save that torture device for another poor soul who needs it.”

“This isn’t over,” he eventually warns you, gently pulling away.  He turns around and starts picking out gauze and tape from the first aid kit regardless.  “I was just blindsided.  Tears don’t work on me, but.  Don’t ever do that to me again.”

You relax, smiley and dopey-eyed and happily sticking your arm out for him for whenever he comes back, so fucking glad he gave in.  You’ll get bacta on Nevarro, that sounds perfect.  “So… so all that fuss and you didn’t actually find the quarry?”

“Someone tried to take off my helmet,” Mando replies shortly, starting to rip open a few packets of sterile gauze strips without looking at you.  And then he doesn’t say anything more, like that should be explanation enough.

“Ah.”  You remark after a second, thinking about how many blaster fires you saw.  Maker.  “I see.”

What a pair you two make.  Someone who went into shock from hurting another person in defense of your life, and someone who brought an entire block down because another person tried to take his helmet off.  

Something he’s done with you twice now.  Without ever being prompted.

Stars, you’re both so different, aren’t you?  Such massively different problems, different ways of life.  You’re suddenly struck with how much you could learn from him, if he was ever willing to share.  How much the both of you could probably learn from each other.  His assertiveness; your humanity.  His decisiveness; your consideration.  His secrets; your honesty.  None of them are true opposites, not in the way people normally think.  They’re not polarizing, they’re… complimentary.  Filling in the gaps neither one of you can fill in yourself.

“Does that scare you?”  He finally asks, when you’ve been quiet for too long.

“No,” you tell him blankly, watching his hands work.  “Just… no.  Not really.  I mean.  It makes sense.  Was just thinking about how different life must be for you.”  You tilt your head thoughtfully.  “Showing my face, telling people my name.  Things I take for granted, I think.”

Maker, maybe you’re getting a little too honest here.

“Is that why you never ask about those things?”  He’s quiet.  You both stare purposefully down at your arm as he begins laying down the strips of white cotton over your cut.  “Because you recognize what it means to give them up?”

“What—like your name?”

“Anything,” he says, and though he keeps working, his hands start to slow down.  “You never ask me about anything.  My name, my past… why I don’t take the helmet off.  Everyone always asks, but.  You never have.”

You shrug a shoulder.  “Figured you get tired of telling people no, don’t you?”

His fingers still, hovering over your injury.  He doesn’t move, so you elaborate.

“I mean… yeah, I’ve thought about those things, but…” you speak slowly, choosing your words very carefully.  Your eyes narrow with the effort, trying to pinpoint and voice your exact opinion without making assumptions.  “But I respect you.  And your creed.  I call you Mando because that’s what you told me to call you.  And if you don’t take the helmet off, then you don’t take it off.”  You shrug once more.  “Some things don’t need explanations.  They just are, and I’m okay with that.”

It’s a while before he goes back to dressing your wound, and even longer before he speaks again.  When he does, he’s almost completely finished securing the bandages and it’s barely above a murmur.  “Nobody usually thinks that simply about it.”

“Well.  Fuck ‘em.”  You blurt.  “I think it’s the simplest thing in the galaxy.  You should be the one who gets to decide who you are and what’s important to you, right?  No one else.”

He stops again, this time tilting his visor up to look you in your eyes.  You blink up at your own warped reflection.

“I think that shit is yours.  Fundamentally.  Doesn’t matter if you want to share it, change it, hide it, or burn it away forever.  It’s your decision, and you’ll tell people what you want them to know.  So fuck ‘em if they don’t respect that,” you tell him bluntly.  “They obviously don’t know anything about you at all.  Else they wouldn’t be asking.”

He doesn’t move.  He just stares silently at you for a few seconds, and Maker, for some reason you wish now more than ever you could see his face.  Even though it contradicts everything you just said, you wish you could see his face.  What color are his eyes?  You bet they’re brown.  You bet they’re a warm, deep brown—expressive and soft and lovely behind such hard, unforgiving steel.  His features are probably just as warm as the rest of him.  Dark hair, wavy hair.  Plush, gentle lips.

His hand comes up slowly.  Gives you ample time to pull away before he’s softly cupping your cheek, tilting his helmet to the side as he studies you.

“Would you.”  He’s quiet for a moment.  And then he clears his throat through the modulator, before he tries again.  “Would you like to know my name?”

You go shock-still, blinking at him and barely breathing.  Why?  Why is he asking this?  He wants to give you his name?  Immediately after you just told him why you don’t need it?

Your throat is a desert.  “Only… only if you want to give it to me.”

He tilts his head the other way and takes a moment to consider you, gently trailing the leather of his thumb along your bottom lip.  Your eyes dip down the length of his body, heat suddenly filling you when you realize how close and well he’s positioned right now, how his hips are at the perfect height standing right between your legs like this.

Mando slowly lowers his helmet to look down at your parted thighs, too.  And then he’s shifting the visor to the side just a bit, eyes catching on something on the bed next to you.  “Want to give you a few things,” he says lowly.

You probably would’ve melted into a puddle if he didn’t immediately hold up the E-bacta shot in front of you in both hands.

Your heart starts pounding though, all the same.  “No—”

“Listen to me,” he tells you calmly, as if you could do much of anything else right now with how much space he’s taking up in front of you.  His size and proximity gave you a thrill just a second ago, but now he’s nothing more than a giant fucking metal wall armed with a needle and blocking your escape.  “I want to give you a few things, but only if you say yes to all of them.  Are you going to listen?”

Maker, your heart is racing, rapid calculations going off in your head as your eyes flick between the syringe and his visor.  Where the fuck is he going with this?  “Y-yes.  I’ll—I’ll listen.”

He holds the shot up between the two of you, as if you didn’t see it the first fifty fucking times.  “First.  I’ll give you a quarter dose of this.  I’ll be gentle and I’ll give it to you somewhere where it won’t hurt, where you won’t even be able to see it, and it’ll make you feel better.  Even good.  Okay?”

You narrow your eyebrows at him.  “You’re not doing a great job at selling me h—”

“Second.  I’ll give you my name.”

Your breath catches.  He continues on casually with the terms of the deal, as if he didn’t just set your whole world on fire with five words.

“You can’t ever use it around other people,” he tells you.  “Only here.  With me, on this ship.  In front of the kid is fine.  But if anyone else ever asks, you don’t know it.  Okay?”

“Okay…” you whisper after a second, your chest filling with flames.

“Third.”  He slowly catches your uninjured wrist in a gentle grip and begins to guide it forward.  “If you… if you want, I’ll… I’ll give you this,” he murmurs, bringing it down to cup his cock.  “I… won’t be gentle.  But I will make you feel good.”

Maker, he’s already rock hard under your palm, throbbing and swollen for you.  Almost as quickly as the urge first came on, you suddenly don’t want to escape anymore.  Instead, maybe you can just… appeal.

“What if we…”  You carefully reach down into his pants, holding his hips still between your knees and beginning to caress his cock.  His skin is like silk under your hand, as hard as the beskar he straps to his body but so warm, and pulsing with life.  “What if we reverse the order, maybe?”

“No,” he grunts immediately.  “You’ll take the shot first, it’ll be a—” his breath catches when you give him a good, rough squeeze.  “—a-a show of—of good faith.”

“That’s literally the only thing I don’t want from this all-or-nothing deal,” you reason, wrapping your legs around him to bring him closer.  He acquiesces cautiously, slowly moving forward.  “I’d be an idiot to give it up first.  Ideally it should go second if there are three terms.”

“I know what you’re d-doing,” he tells you flat out, though he makes no attempt to stop it at all.  He just growls low in his throat when he’s close enough for you to lean up and bite down onto his neck, one of his hands landing on your thigh and locking down onto it tight.  “It won’t… won’t work.  You’re—you’re t-taking the shot first, that’s the deal.”

“I could try crying again,” you proposition breathlessly, squeezing his cock once more and feeling him shudder.

“Ngh—meant it when I—” he gasps when you brush your thumb over his head, dampening the fabric covering his neck with your hot breaths.  “When I-I said that you—you need to w-work on your… your negoti—tiating—”

“What if I just ask you really, really nicely?”  You whisper, slowly starting to jerk him off.  Your grip is tight and strong, and he practically sags and grabs the metal bedframe on either side of you.  “Will it work if I ask you to please fuck me?  Please?  And then I’ll take your shot?”  But then you’re struck by a sudden thought, and maneuver your head away just enough to look up at where his eyes should be.  “But we don’t… we don’t actually have to… y’know, do the other thing, though, if you don’t want to.  It’s okay.”

Mando abruptly pulls back, pinning you with a blank chrome stare.  “W-what?”

“If you…”  You want to find some way to word this to get the correct sentiment across, but it’s difficult with him looking at you so hard.  The last thing you want to do is sound ungrateful.  Your hands stop moving, carefully letting him go and resting on his hips instead, so he knows this isn’t you just trying to find some way out of this.  “You don’t have to tell me your name, y’know.  It’s okay, I’ll—I’ll take the shot, it’s fine.  We don’t need to… to turn something like that into a.  A deal, or anything.  You can still tell me if you want, of course, I just… I don’t want it to be part of like, some sort of… agreement between us, or something.”  You tap a thumb over his hipbone, tilting your head.  “So I’m taking it off the table.  Even if you were the one who put it on there.  No pressure.  I’ll take the shot.  And then you can tell me whatever it is you want to tell me after that.  Apart from that.  A… a show of good faith.”

Mando holds still as a fucking statue in front of you.  If you couldn’t feel the warmth of his skin under your hands, you’d say he looks like a droid in sleep mode almost.  He stays like that for so long, you actually start to worry a little bit.  Was that a thankless, bitchy thing to say to him after he offered to reveal such a big secret about himself?  Should you have just kept your mouth shut?

You suppose he was right, your negotiation skills could use a bit more work.  You did technically just… willingly give up something incredibly valuable in exchange for absolutely nothing in return, didn’t you?  Actually not absolutely nothing, you just agreed to have an actual fucking needle shoved into your body just so he wouldn’t feel any sort of obligation to reveal himself to you whatsoever.  That’s like… rule number one of what not to do when negotiating, isn’t it?  Fuck, what have you done?  Is it too late to take half of that shit back?  Can you start this whole thing over real quick?  How much pressure do you think that glass syringe can handle?  You know you can’t outrun or overpower him, but do you think you’d be able to smash it with your foot before he can stop you?  No.  No fucking way, you would.  Don’t be stupid, don’t be fucking stupid.

And Maker, he’s… he’s still not moving.  You actually start to squirm a little bit under his unreadable gaze, before he eventually brings both hands up to your face and gently cradles your jaw in his gloved palms, bringing you to a still.

“Unbelievable,” the Mandalorian says softly, tilting his helmet at you and carefully brushing his thumbs along your cheekbones.  He doesn’t sound upset.  He sounds truly mystified by you.  Stumped.  Reverent.

You blink at him.  “What?”

“Nobody w-would… but you’re…”  He seems like he’s trying to find the words to describe what he’s thinking, but he can’t.  “You can’t—you… t—?  Not just.  But be—because of.  On—on… pr-prin…”

“I… I do still want you to fuck me, though,” you eventually whisper when he never finishes his sentence.  He’s not the best with words, but that’s okay.  You’re perfectly willing to entertain other mediums.  “First.  Even if it is part of a deal, I don’t give a shit.”

You bring your hand back to wrap tight around him, beginning to pull up and down in strong, steady strokes once more.  The tips of his fingers tighten just slightly on your jaw.

“Please,” you whisper, turning your head to kiss one of his palms.  “Just show me, it’s okay.”

He stays like that for just a split second more.

And then he’s suddenly whipping one of his hands down to grab your wrist.  The other wraps itself more fully around your jaw in its absence and firmly holds your head in place in front of him.

“I won’t be gentle,” he tells you once more, voice coming out hoarse and shaky.  “I—I c-can’t—”

You nod in affirmation as much as you can with his iron grip wrapped tight over your chin like this.  “Th—”

You can’t even get a single word out before Mando shoots both hands down to grab your hips, abruptly yanking your ass off the bed.  Your legs have just enough time to buckle once they hit the ground, but then he’s spinning you around and practically shoving you right back on top of the metal platform, facedown with half your upper-body and both arms hanging over the edge.

Your pants are being snatched over your ass and down your legs as you still work to adjust yourself to the chaotic shift in position.  Holy fuck, he wasn’t ki—

Something blunt presses up against the apex of your thighs, pushes forward, and oh, holy fu—

—oh—holy fuck—

You’re surprised you have enough breath to shout as loud as you do when he slams full-force into you, rattling the bed as he sheathes himself in your slick warmth to the hilt, fully armored behind you and pressing cold beskar tight up against your ass and thighs.  You claw your fingers over the smooth metal surface under the cot and try to brace yourself on something, but there’s nothing to hold onto.  Fuck, he’s so fucking thick.  Forcing you to yield to his hardness, tightening his grip on your hips and keeping you locked in position.

And then he pulls out and then slams back in—starts pounding into you, using your body as a counterweight to thrust himself into and Maker, you would probably be screaming if you could even breathe right.  The inability to inhale just means you can hear him groan through the modulator, shuffle up closer to you and start to drill into you harder.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” he murmurs, and fuck, you would think he was suffocating you if it weren’t for both of his hands being anchored to your hips.  It blazes through you like wildfire, burning your lungs and setting your body alight with flames.  He leans over you and clamps a hand down over your shoulder, and your eyes roll back when he moves up and adjusts his angle just the slightest bit, pounding down into you instead of just into you, and—

“Maker, h-how did I deserve this?”  He whispers quietly to himself, delirious and tight as stars explode behind your vision.  His helmet rests on your shoulder blade, the beskar as heavy and unyielding as his thrusts are as he pummels into that one blinding, heavenly spot, over and over and over again.  “What did I d—where were you when I was—when I was—?”

You finally gasp a ragged, desperate breath in like you’ve been underwater for the last minute instead of under him, taking his cock the way he needs to give it to you.  And then you’re writhing, grinding your body back against his as much as you can, choking on the burning air and trying to put your needs together into a coherent sentence.

“T-take your helmet off,” you finally manage to lift your head up and beg, “please—please, I-I won’t—I won’t look, I sw-swea—” and then your cunt clamps down hard when he shoots up from you and practically rips the thing off his shoulders without another word, the sound of steel clanging loudly on the floor by your feet.

His hand comes around your throat and yanks you to the side before his teeth are sinking into your neck, not a single break in his hard, pounding rhythm.

He probably gets about ten good thrusts in like that before you’re going rigid under him and cumming—hard.

Everything below your waist locks down tighter around him than a fucking vice, and then you explode wet and hot around his cock with a hoarse shout, squeezing him and spasming through each rough, steady thrust as it launches you higher, and higher—

“Fuck—” he snarls into your neck, and then he suddenly kicks up from the rapid slapslapslapslap that got you over the edge to a surging, brutal bam—bam—bam that wrings a sharp, ragged cries from your throat.  Your face screws up and you try not to scream at the sensation, wondering how it was possible that he could make the bliss even more debilitating.  “Fuck, th—your cunt gets… s-so fucking tight when you cum—”

You just whimper for him helplessly, listening to the vulgar sounds of him fucking into you, the loud squelching as he keeps rocking mercilessly deep.

“You hear that?”  He murmurs next to your ear, and the slick sound of it echoes obscenely through the silent hull.  His voice is soft, contrasting blindingly with the way he’s holding you down and fucking you so strong and steady through the aftershocks.  “Fuck—you get fucking wet after you cum, too, don’t you?”

You try to move, try to adjust yourself just slightly, but he locks down around you and holds fast to his rhythm.  Fuck, it feels like he’s fucking the air out of you faster than you can breathe it in, grip like iron and tightening the more you struggle.

“‘M never leaving this,” he slurs, dropping his head to rest between your shoulder blades.  “Never.  Fuck, I’m—you’re—you’re never getting rid of me, sweet girl, I’m—I’m never—never f-fucking leaving—”

“Fuck, I’m—” you gasp, closing your eyes and trying to focus on the spark of a feeling deep inside you.  “Stars, I think I-I might—”

And then Mando licks a slow, warm line up the curve of your spine and a second orgasm is suddenly burning a fucking hole through you, tearing another broken wail from your throat.  You spasm and arch under him, bearing down on his thick cock and trying not to sob.

“Fuck, there we g-go—” he grits against your skin, picking up his speed and fucking hammering into you, completely deaf to your hoarse squeal at the change in tempo.  “Good.  Ngh, fuck—you—y-you want me to cum now?”

“Please,” you beg.  “Please cum, p-please—”

“Where?”  His voice is tight, breathless and shaky.  “Tell me where—quick—”

“Fuck—inside,” you moan, eyes rolling back at the thought of taking his load deep inside you.

Mando’s hips stutter.  For the first time in what feels like an eternity, they jerk back in before they could fully extend all the way out, and your abused lower muscles start to squeeze him in anticipation.

“I can’t—” he rasps, “—I’ve—I-I’ve never—and y-you’ll—”

“Safe,” you wheeze, because you don’t have enough air in your lungs or composure in your thoughts to tell him you have an implant contraceptive.  All you can manage is a shameless, breathless, “Cum deep,” half-tossed over your shoulder.

Your hair is gathered and locked in a tight fist behind your head and if you thought he was fucking you full force, you soon realize he was only at about an eight.  He flattens you against the bed and yanks your head up, arm coming around to brace across your chest and starting to just fucking wreck you from behind.

The change in angle forces his cock to spear up against something that blinds you, something so raw and impairing that you can’t speak anymore, even if you could find the air to.

“Fuck—m’gonna cum,” the Mandalorian grits, the bed rattling on its tracks as his head drops to your shoulder, “f-fuck, s’too fucking good, sweet girl—m’gonna f-fucking cum, I—”

He plows his hips into you just like that once, twice, three—

You lock down and everything goes blurs and goes out of focus, white hot pleasure ripping you apart from the inside as you do scream this time, clamping down and straightening your spine and convulsing in ecstasy.

He snarls and bites down on your neck, grrriiinndding his cock as deep inside you as it’ll go and shuddering above you.  You can feel him pulsing, throbbing as he growls his way through it, breathing heavy and giving you his load just how you asked.

Mando pulls out of you much quicker than you want him to and stumbles backwards, suddenly dropping to his knees on the floor behind you with a metallic clang.  He doesn’t do anything more than that, though; he just stares at your fluttering hole as you slowly start to leak his cum, one of his hands coming up to brace itself on the back of your thigh as he catches his breath and watches.

Fuck, you’re spent.  Panting and exhausted in the same position he left you.  You try to move, but you can’t.  You just sprawl there on your tummy and slowly wait for the feeling to return to your body.

But then he says something.  It’s too quiet—a soft, one syllable word you can’t quite make out.

“Wh—?”  Your muscles feel like lead.  “I couldn’t hear y—”

Gloved hands trail gently over your ass.  And then you feel a small, sharp little prick on the swell of one of your cheeks, but it’s gone after a split second.

And then… fucking bliss.

You sag into the metal bed, feeling the room begin to spin.  Fuck.  He gave you the shot.  The fucker just gave you the shot.  How dare he?  Before you could even work yourself up to the point of tears again?  While you’re still… still fucking dripping with cum right in front of his face?

Until—

“Din,” he says softly.  “It’s Din.”

Din.

How perfectly appropriate, you think.

Short, simple, and to the point.  No flourishes.  A quick, one-syllable punch of air.  One singular, closed I vowel sitting quietly between two consonants, guarded on all sides.  Hard at first, but then tapering off to a soft sound if you let it.  Din.

“Din,” you whisper, fighting the overwhelming high with every last fiber of your gradually depleting consciousness, wanting so desperately to hear the word out loud with your own voice before you’re pulled under, trying to make sure it’s real.  It comes out sounding that way, too; weak and quiet and straining for these last few precious moments with him.

Both of his hands wrap around the back of your knees and you feel his plush lips press gently against your upper-thigh, just below the curve of your ass.  He opens his mouth and licks hot and warm along your damp skin, pulls both your knees apart just slightly and then starts to drag his tongue to the side a bit, and then—

And then everything goes dark.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #pedro pascal #fanfic #no-droids #smut

[spkyscry-a]

Let her live.

#My Girlfriend Is A Witch ;; Joy #Don't Think We Should ;; Crack #See Something Strange ;; Thread Comm #she cant escape the fur/monstersona allegations (because they are correct)

[spacetimewraithwrites-archive]

Find the Word Tag Game

tagged by: @drabbleitout!! my words: pat, perhaps, privacy, plan, play tagging: @drippingmoon, @ashen-crest, @zmlorenz, anyone who wants to, and the person who made my first PC Twitch stream a couple nights ago a little less intimidating :’) your words: swing, scan, supply, smile, scare

pat (Aurora)—

"Fuck." Guetry glanced over Warren's shoulder when Mercury walked in. "I don't know what they're gonna try to do with this new form but I really would rather not find out."

Warren pointed to the comm console. "We need to find Sig. Commander Libra. I need to know they and their crew are okay. Last I saw of them they were escaping the Lithuania."

Guetry patted a few buttons and swiped across the screen. "Commander Libra, this is the Ganymede. Come in if you read."

There was a pause. A bit of static. Then:

"Yes, this is Commander Libra. I read you, Ganymede."

Sighing this time in relief, Guetry nodded. "Hey, what's your status?"

"My crew and I have taken escape shuttles and are currently awaiting rescue."

"Got it. We're on the way."

perhaps (Rebirth)—

"He can function without Scotty, right? That wasn't something he told us was true so we didn't worry, was it?"

"It's not about whether or not he can function," Thrive said, leaning against the console.

"Then I guess I don't really get it…"

"The idea of suddenly not being able to read doesn't scare you?" Thrive folded his arms. "Or write? Or remember your parents' names? I'm not familiar with the extent of his physiological damage, but perhaps he won't be able to see fully, or hold a thought for more than a few seconds at a time. He could have constant seizures, or incontinence, or any number of neurological misfires. He could even be in consistent, agonizing pain that only Scotty can hold at bay."

Warren winced. "I get it now. Fuck, the Consortium's gonna subject him to that when all of this is over."

"Which is why this is a big ask."

"Forcing him to live in pain all the time...would be inhumane."

Thrive gave him a strange look. "These are the same type of people that took no issue with sticking you in an orbital correctional facility for the rest of your life."

Warren didn't say anything to that at first. "Yet you felt they deserved to be saved."

"The eliyi deserved that as well."

privacy (Aurora)—

Warren watched Guetry as he greeted everyone he came across on the way to the capital house—he'd bleached his beautiful sable hair into an ash blond bordering gray, and it had been styled into a spiky mullet with shaved sides, the back reaching the top of his shoulders. His makeup was monochromatic, which proved to be another interesting departure from the norm. Smokey black eyeshadow cut with shimmery silver on the lids, washing out the bright blue of his eyes. A single thread earring dangled from his left ear, a black chain with a small circle on the end.

"Should we be concerned?" Thrive asked once they returned to the privacy of his office. He motioned to Guetry's hair. "As delightful as it is to see you again, this seems a little out of your comfort zone."

Guetry released a sigh through puckered lips. "Yeah. Uh...it's not. Not really. I just haven't...well, I kinda have to start from the beginning before I can get into this whole thing." He waved a hand in front of his own face, then fell suspiciously silent. He bit his lip and looked sideways at Warren.

"Want me to go?" Warren asked.

"Nah...actually, I kinda need both of your help."

plan (Eternal)—

"No," Thrive said instantly. "You would absolutely not go with me."

"It's cute that you think you could stop me."

"If I had to, I would weld this entire apartment shut with you inside of it."

Warren lifted his brows. "I've been fighting my way through the Milky Way for the past, like, five months. You think I would let some metal stop me from going with you?"

"Do you think I could live with myself if you got hurt or worse in my galaxy?"

Warren took note of the softness in Thrive's expression as their eyes finally met. He saw the hurt in his face, the memories that had flooded back to him, the pain of knowing his home world was now merely a stone's throw away and yet there was nothing to show for it.

"You don't even know what their plan is, babe."

Thrive squared his shoulders. "As of right now their plan should be damage control and to make sure the eliyi don't get wind of this. They would need to contact Tytiva, possibly R'lis, somehow get them to believe we come from the galaxy next door—"

"If they were to send you back to Ashva, that's probably what they would do anyway." Warren approached Thrive and gently massaged the back of his neck. "Send you as a liaison to start a working relationship with...our neighbors. You know, I'm really not a fan of that metaphor."

play (Meridian)—

Thoeala's room, while smaller than Warren's and Thrive's, had at least been constructed with a child in mind, as much as could be said for a white room with one wall sporting a colorful planet mural. Various toys from all cultures lined the walls, and the bed had a gauzy aqua canopy spilling down over it.

"It's...nice," Thoeala said, turning in her hands a toy Warren had seen on Rotanga. "I think I could learn to like it."

"You know the drill," Warren said, eyeing the guards posted outside her room. "You come to us if you get scared in the night. Alright?"

She nodded. "I think I'm gonna play here for a while, if that's okay."

Warren noticed Thrive looking at him from the shadow of the hall. "Great. We're gonna let Atoa take us around the rest of the palace and I'll show you around later. These guys'll be here if you need someone."

#tag game #this was almost a Guetry-centric edition lmao

[heliads]

Radio Silence Chapter Six: Over and Out

Poe Dameron has been assigned to work as an intel receiver to Acer, a Resistance recon agent. They’ve only ever talked through the comms, so when she’s captured by First Order troops he assumes she’s lost forever. When Poe accidentally rescues the absolutely infuriating Resistance spy Y/N L/N from a First Order Star Destroyer, he knows she’s got nothing do with with Acer. Right?

previous / series masterlist

Poe wakes up early. He stares at the ceiling for a second, mulling over the rush in his head. Something is telling him to get up, to go check the command center for any updates, but he lets his eyes flicker shut once more. Y/N arrived back at the base three days ago, he doesn’t have to worry anymore. She’s safe, he’s safe, they’re as good as they’re going to get in the fight against the First Order.

After he had kissed Y/N, he had made time for his apologies and explanations. Y/N had smiled, saying that she was just glad to be back. Maybe that was true, but Poe still felt like he’s missing something, like he had to do something else to make it up to her. If they aren’t back to normal again, he’ll feel the guilt lacing his movements every time he passes her in the corridors of the base and sees hurt flaring up in her eyes at the sight of him. So, they make amends, and Poe promises himself that they’ll stay like this. Good, even in the middle of a battle.

Even though he knows Y/N is safe, Poe still feels like he can’t go back to sleep. He’s used to the constant gnawing of nerves at his temples, and besides, it’s too late now for him to fall asleep before duties around the base start up again. The pale light of dawn is just beginning to thread across the base when Poe steps outside, wincing slightly at the crisp air. He’s tugged a jacket around his shoulders, but it’s still not warm enough to go without at least one layer.

Poe walks around the outskirts of the base until he reaches the outer boundaries of the encampment. The base itself is situated around rolling, grassy hills with buildings constructed around them. Poe wanders towards a taller one, climbing up the side and sitting down on the very top. He takes in the stalks of grass waving around him, the distant figures of Resistance workers ferrying supplies out to the hanger. It’s quiet, peaceful. A new morning.

Poe’s only been there for fifteen minutes or so when he hears someone walking up behind him. He turns his head in time to see Y/N crouching down to sit next to him. She swings her legs around, stretching out across the grassy hillock. 

“Figured I’d find you here.” She says, and Poe frowns. 

“How’d you know?” 

She shrugs absentmindedly. “You mentioned one time that you liked to walk around in the mornings. It was a month or so in, you were trying to assuage my worries that doing recon work in the mornings around town looked strange.”

Poe chuckles. “I’m impressed you still remembered.” 

A light smile crosses Y/N’s lips as she pictures the moment. “I remembered a lot. Those calls were more important than you know, actually. I was terrified that I’d mess up and I’d bring the entire First Order down on my head, but I always managed to come out of the reporting sessions with a smile. I don’t know how you did it.” 

Poe glances over at her. “I never knew you were that worried. You always seemed so confident, like it was just a vacation instead of an assignment. Honestly, I figured you didn’t need me at all. Any droid with a datapad could have been a receiver.”

Y/N grins. “Any droid with a datapad wouldn’t have been able to make me laugh so hard I thought I’d alert the stormtroopers. No, I needed you, Poe. I needed some hotshot flyboy who would tell me how to fix power couplings and break me out of a First Order detention block even though he hated me.” 

Poe holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, I didn’t know that was you. Besides, I think your first words to me were insults, so it’s not like I was entirely to blame.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but her smile doesn’t drop for a second. “I was locked away in a prison cell, getting tortured by the hour, and you waltzed in like you were the Resistance’s golden boy. I didn’t think you could be the Bravo who looked out for me on the comms for a second.” 

Poe looks down. “I was a wreck when I found out you were captured. You have no idea. That’s the reason I even found you in the first place, actually. Finn was sick of me moping around and he talked me into leaving the base on a mission.”

Y/N leans forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. When Poe looks up, the wind is gently blowing her hair away from her face. “At any rate, I’m glad you came. I’m glad you worried over me, and I’m glad you were there when I was on my latest mission.” 

She sighs suddenly, looking out over the grassy hills. “I was terrified on that ship. We barely made it off the planet, and then when the TIE fighters showed up I thought we were done for. We were missing an engine, and nothing was working. I thought I was going to die.”

Y/N fiddles with the edge of her jacket. “I was actually preparing myself to die, and then you came on the comms. I knew from the second I heard your voice that I was going to be alright. It was like the radio days of old, and I could feel myself starting to relax. I just kept thinking over and over that I wasn’t going to die without talking to you again and making things right, and then you showed up.”

Poe feels the familiar knife of guilt starting to prick at his insides. “I never should have yelled at you, Y/N. I know that. Especially not before a mission like that.” 

Y/N holds up a hand. “You had no way of knowing that I was going on a mission in the first place, and I should have told you that I was Acer after all. I guess I was just worried that you would be disappointed to find out that I was her all along.” 

Poe shakes his head. “I could never be disappointed in you. We’ve got each other, right? We’ll see each other in the fall.” 

Y/N smiles at that. “In the fall. I guess we didn’t need that after all. The war isn’t over, but we still got to meet.” 

Poe places a hand under Y/N’s chin, gently guiding her lips to his. “That’s the best part of all of this.”

They stay out on the grassy hills for a while longer, finally retreating indoors when they’re able to escape the call of their Resistance duties no longer. Poe knows that the fight still isn’t over, and it likely won’t be over for a while. He will be called away to pilot dangerous straits in First Order territory, Y/N will be sent on recon missions even more dangerous than before. There is no rest, no retreat. But Poe doesn’t need a lull in the fighting, not right now. He has Acer back beside him, he has Y/N for the first time. She is just within reach, a step away and a smile across the room. He can finally rest now, knowing that they will be together for the years to come. No matter what the war brings, they’d still be by each other’s side. Until the fall, until the war ends. That’s how it will always be.

a/n: thank you for all of your support for the series!

radio silence tag list: @kesskirata​, @ubri812​, @itsnottilly​, @20th-centu-fairy-girl​, @imabeautifulbutterfly​, @cp11​, @chocolitelady​, @aprilfire18​

#poe dameron #poe dameron imagines #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron series #star wars #star wars imagines #star wars x reader #star wars series #star wars poe #star wars poe imagines #star wars poe x reader #star wars poe series

[bellygunnr]

In The Big Green Man

Make that three...no, four, kills.

The solutions necessary to take down one, let alone four, Covenant capital ships is still occupying some of her processing power, which is unfortunate, given her current situation. The Mjolnir powered assault armor wasn’t quite as spacious as the cruiser her carrier was traipsing through. She couldn’t afford to be dwelling on extraneous things, even if they were directly tied to how much longer she might be living.

They might be living.

It was certainly a downgrade, residing here. Her view was limited to the (at the very least) numerous sensors and cameras built into the complex armor. She spun up threads to watch the her carrier’s vitals and alert him for dwindling munitions supply. Another thread went up to analyze the mapping of the ship, while the bulk of herself was dedicated to cracking Covenant communications. One or two processes were spooled to keep track of marines, as well, but she was not going to hazard her carrier about their welfare too much.

“Keep your head down. There’s two of us in here, you know,” she quips, using the speaker closest to his ear.

Her carrier says nothing at all, but he does press himself behind a mobile titanium divider to let his shields recharge. His vitals are holding steady despite the intense firefight and the three (four?) hostile blips on his motion tracker.

She was decidedly less calm, but she could sink herself into the threads of foreign data, cracking their encryption with laughable ease. The Covenant were a curious lot-- certainly technologically advanced, but lacking in certain areas.

“They’re using our escape pods to board the Pillar of Autumn,” she says crossly. “We go out, they come in. Clever bastards. Say, Chief, you know what you’re doing with that thing?”

“You’ll keep it level,” he replies flatly.

“Suppose I will.”

The shield reading on his HUD flashes green. Don’t get cocky, she wants to say, but doesn’t.

It comes as no surprise to her when she converts the Covenant language to her own and discovers that they intend to destroy the Pillar of Autumn. That is what they did best-- totally annihilate humanity and her fleets-- after all. But the unexpected resilience of the aging hull is frustrating them. Good. 

There’s also plenty of chatter about the Demon. Word travels fast across their combat comms, it seems. When the Chief brings his great green hide to bear, plasma rifles are already up to meet him, draining his shields with a combined barrage.

It’s interesting to watch him think and move. His eyes flicker constantly, hardly ever dwelling on any one detail. His jaw tightens when a marine takes a plasma slug to the gut, then one to the head, where his corpse creates a roadblock amidst the barricades and toppled steel containers. She tries to tune out the exuberant cheering of the enemy and is glad the Chief cannot hear it.

“There are Elite Majors ahead,” she says.

She does not say, they’re using a separate communications channel, nor does she say, they’re hunting you specifically, because they are approaching the deep freezer in which the Chief was residing and they are shattering the dividing glass to get to him, dismissive of the flaming breaches in this section of the ship already. 

All he needs is a split second warning and all she needs is to quell her frustrations at how useless she is, confined to the sizzling cage of this powered exoskeleton. She’s drinking in tons of data, always so much, but her companion has no use for it, his faculties better dedicated to the task at hand. 

But she does say, “Chief, you’re hurt,” because his shields had faded fast and there were plasma burns melting the tech-suit, singing the skin. She says it because his brainwaves are wiggling in such a way that she knows he’s going to ignore it, intent on breaking out of the ship. 

“I’m fine,” he says, predictably.

“Take the emergency aid kit on your way out,” she replies sternly.

(He does, snatching it off the wall without pausing. He growls in the back of his throat as he begrudgingly obeys her wordless nudge to stop, take shelter, and patch up the damage before moving on).

“The nearest escape pod is this way,” she says. “We can use the maintenance tunnels, considering this part of the ship is... a little smashed.”

“A little,” the Chief echoes.

“A little! There are Covenant in here, as well.”

The Covenant are yelling about the loss of two of their leaders, presumably the Majors from before. Another Elite-type goes down and the Grunts squall something awful. For every connection Chief quiets, three more take its place, the alien populace forever replenished by the hijacked airlocks of the Pillar of Autumn.

And the Pillar of Autumn was flying mostly on the wings of her parting gift, set for a hopeful belly landing on the strange object below. Brief, limited scans had shown her promising terrain, which she dreamed of wandering in a hotly throttled aspect of herself. There was no time to speculate. If all went well, she’d be experiencing the real thing shortly. 

Provided Chief lived, of course. But he would, because he was the Master Chief, capable of anything out of sheer disregard for life alone. 

His vitals were spiking. Only a few of his sensors were unblocked by smoke. His field of view was occupied by the cowering visage of a marine-- whose interlace reported mild injuries-- and the looming bulks of more Elites. Rifles and a primed grenade bared down on them.

“Chief! This is our only chance to get off this tub. Get in!”

Was she panicking? Perhaps a little, but who could blame her? The Chief had already been injured once on this foray and there really wasn’t another escape pod available. All others had been ejected or hijacked or destroyed, but he was struggling with desire, she could see it in the overactive synapses of his neural implants.

She tries to tune out the pained cry of the marine as he scoops him up and shoves them into the pod. He follows suit, letting the heavy hydraulic door seal shut behind them all. His eyes are still flickering. 

The Covenant want their ‘demon.’

“Chief,” she urges.

“Punch it,” he says, but he’s intoning to the pilot, shoving his way to the front of the pod. “Let’s get out of here.”

She feels herself relax in great spools of code. 

(She doesn’t miss how his vitals also shift, equalizing back into acceptable, slightly human parameters. Was there a correlation? Did she have time to find out? Another thread, dedicated.)

The pod shudders as it flies through space. 

It’s luck that keeps them undetected. Probably.

#halo #master chief #cortana #character study time

[peninkwrites]

Rocks That Bleed - ch 9 of ?

The Warden calculates his every move. He doesn't know how to cope when those calculations fail.

(CW: character death! It's Ghostbur. y'know how it is)

Crossposted to ao3

Ch 1

Ch 8

Ch 10

~

A question remains– does he tell Quackity?

Sam had no intention of keeping secrets from his business partner, but the fact of the matter is, the ultimate goings on of his prison had nothing to do with his arrangements with Quackity.

Sam convinces himself this is not hubris, that Dream’s snide comments about Quackity being his boss weren’t getting to him.

He feels like he’s getting worse somehow.  Sam is not a liar.

He’ll tell him after, whether it succeeds or not.

<WilburSoot> im here sam!

<WilburSoot> hello sam!

It’s still surreal to see a dead man’s tag on his comm.  He knows it’s just because that’s what Ghostbur has to use, but eerie either way.

<awesamdude> Go on through the portal

Sam waits at his desk, the portal opened now.  No one comes through.  Sam is anxious enough as is.

<awesamdude> Ghostbur?

Finally, he appears, grey and hollow and smiling brightly.

“Hello, Sam!”

“Hey there, Ghostbur, how are you?”

“Hi Sam, how’s it going– I left my sheep in the Nether!” Ghostbur gestures back to the portal behind him.

Sam frowns quizzically.  “You left your sheep in the Nether?”

Ghostbur turns from the portal back to him.  “Well, I was bringing Friend, if that’s okay– he’s my, he’s my little– he’s my comfort sheep!” Ghostbur fumbles for the right words, pushing on without embarrassment or doubt.  He’s so unlike the Wilbur Sam had vaguely known while alive.  That certainty comes with worry, Ghostbur weaving a loose thread on his yellow sweater through his hands anxiously, looking to Sam with such trust.  “And he got stuck, he can’t come through again.”

“Well, that’s alright, we’ll just leave him there,” Sam says gently.  Sam realizes he sounds… different.  It’s something about Ghostbur– no, he doesn’t sound different, Sam sounds younger.  Like his younger self, when being kind felt easy.

Ghostbur gives the portal another glance.  “Well, is he okay?  Is he safe there?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

Ghostbur is relieved in an instant.  “Okay, okay good, good.”

Sam proceeds as normal.  He hasn’t brought in a visitor in so long.  Quackity hardly counts now.  Ghostbur reads aloud the contract and signs without fuss.  It’s easy, procedural, Ghostbur needing some reassurance at times, and there’s something about Ghostbur’s gentle uncertainty that makes Sam feel guilty for reasons he can’t name.

Still, he persists.  When it comes time for the search, he panics.  Sam reassures him.  It really is like guiding a child.  Sam wonders if it’s disrespectful to infantilize the ghost of a grown man, but still, Ghostbur just needs a little more gentleness.  It’s hard not to be endeared.  It still feels strange and unfamiliar, like putting on an old set of armor that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

“Is it a fun job, mister Sam?”

The Warden is suddenly back, he is no longer helping someone along on a journey and once more taking a piece of bait to the cell.  That’s what this is, isn’t it?  Ghostbur is bait, or maybe a bargaining chip.  Neither option feels less amoral.

Sam stares as the floor rises over the lava, the loud sound of redstone working filling his ears, familiar as a melody.  “I don’t know if fun is the word I would use.”

“Is it rewarding–?”

“Follow me.”  Sam needs Ghostbur to stop asking questions if his kindness is going to continue.

Sam cannot remain cold for long.  He almost feels like he’s being especially gentle with a dog before it goes to the vet.  Dream can’t physically hurt a ghost, but he can be cruel.  Sam knows Dream wants something out of this.  Sam also knows he can control whatever that outcome is, but Ghostbur is still being offered up.  Ghostbur will be safe, he is here of his own volition, and then Dream will give something to them finally.

Sam is not paranoid.  This is all within his control.  That prickling feeling on the back of his neck, Sam refuses to let that stop him.  He is in control.  He can make plans and follow through without Quackity.  He will not panic, he will not fail nor assume that something is wrong just because sometimes there’s an echo that makes Sam feel like he’s being followed.  Sam will cling to rationality.

He is in control.

He is in control of everything up until he sees an axe on the bridge.

Dream cannot get a weapon.

Sam tries to follow the axe with his crossbow.  The axe returns to his side, the ghost stays there.

It’s Tommy, because of course it would be Tommy.

“I should kill you right now!”

True.

“Tommy, be careful, I am so close to murdering you right now.”

Not true.

Sam hears a ringing in his ears, three voices shouting at once and him shouting back and no progress made, Tommy won’t get out of the fucking way and Dream is screaming empty threats and now Ghostbur is crying.  Sam cannot get Ghostbur back until Tommy backs away.

Tommy seems torn between throwing a punch and flinching away.  “You let me die in that prison, Sam, you shit fuckin’ Warden– You go over there and kill him yourself!”  Like a knife in his chest, a true accusation but not one he plans on letting go of.

“Tommy, this is the reason I let you die in the prison, what am I supposed to do now?!”

“Fuckin- just-”

“Now Ghostbur’s stuck over there!”

Dream is screaming at him.  Tommy is frantic.  Ghostbur petrified.

And all of it is out of Sam’s control.

“Dream killed me in there, Sam!”

“Tommy, I couldn’t do anything!” Sam is as desperate as he is furious.  He feels like he’s on trial.  He did what he could, but he will not make the same mistakes again.  Tommy stops here.

Tommy’s screaming is familiar, terror masked by rage masking helplessness.

“What have you done, Tommy?!” Sam doesn’t know what to do.  He hates not knowing what to do.  It terrifies him.

“Send me over there!  We can just kill Dream now!”  Tommy has lost his mind.  He cannot think Sam would ever let Tommy back into that cell again.

“I am not sending you over there–”

Dream is still raving.

He has a book.

“–He’s just gonna keep you both!  He’s just gonna keep you both– back up Tommy!”  Sam isn’t losing anyone else.  He’s not losing Tommy again.   Not on his watch.  He cannot be scared of losing him, because he won’t let it happen.  It’s not an option.

He’s not out of control, he just needs Tommy to stop moving and Dream to stop making threats and everyone to just–

“Everyone shut up!  Everyone shut up!” Sam pushes Tommy away from the lava, the boy looking like he was ready to jump over the edge.

“Let me out!” Dream’s illusion of fear or restraint or docile subservience vanishes as he has Ghostbur in his cell.

And Tommy is no longer shouting, instead he’s trying to soothe Ghostbur and some dark voice in the back of Sam’s head wonders if that’s what Tommy had needed from him all those months ago.

“Ghostbur, count to ten, count to ten, Ghostbur– with me!  One, two, three– we’re not gonna die– four five– it’s fine, it’s all okay– six– think of the blue–”

Ghostbur’s trembling voice replies, “seven, eight, nine, ten.”

And Tommy gives him what Sam could never offer.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“Shut up!” Sam can’t think, all he can think of is Tommy dying alone, begging Dream to stop, while Sam couldn’t get there in time, but he could’ve turned on the comm.  He could’ve told him it would be okay– “Shut up! Stop counting!”  He tries to push Tommy back.  Dream has Ghostbur, an arm around his throat and a book in his other hand.  Sam hasn’t seen Dream like this in a long time, victorious and vicious in an obsidian box.  “Ghostbur is a ghost!”  Ghosts cannot die.  So Dream cannot win.

Sam tells himself this until Ghostbur vanishes, the lava finally lowers, and in that last glimpse, Sam sees the dead fall again.

At least Ghostbur isn’t stuck anymore.  Sam doesn’t understand.  Sam made every calculation, every plan and step taken with the utmost care, he was going to leave them there, Ghostbur safe behind a barrier, and he was going to get Tommy out.  Then he would return for the ghost.  Ghosts can’t die.

Sam doesn’t know what to do when his plans fall apart.

Sam stares at the lava, a hole growing wider in the pit of his stomach.  He wishes it would consume him entirely until nothing remained.  He’s so tired.

“What have you done, Tommy?  What have you done?” Sam doesn’t know how it got this dire, how Tommy crawled his way back within these walls.

“What have I done?!” Tommy is incredulous one moment and frightened the next.  Sam is at a loss.  He should kill him.  At the very least he should put Tommy in a cell, but he’s not going to do that.  That scares him.  When it comes to Tommy, the Warden’s own protocols mean nothing.  After last time, maybe it makes some twisted sort of sense, but Sam needs there to be rules to follow, rules he himself cannot break.  He’s broken enough of himself already, what’s a little more, for Tommy’s sake?

“I cannot believe you, Tommy.”  He’s angry with Tommy.  Right now he is only angry with Tommy.  Not himself.  He refuses.  He did his best, and he cannot resent himself for showing mercy, he cannot hate himself for letting Tommy walk out of here alive.  He’s not that far gone.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you…”  Tommy mutters behind him.

Sam snaps, turning back to face him, fury and maybe something horribly like hope has him stepping forward.  “You will?!”

Tommy backs away, but he doesn’t keep quiet.  “Yeah, right fuckin’ now–”

“Do it then, big man!”  Sam knows he’s cornering him, he knows Tommy is more scared than angry, but he can’t bring himself to stop, even as Tommy walks ahead, refusing to look him in the eye.  “Turn around and kill me!”

Tommy keeps one hand on the axe of peace still at his side.  Sam should’ve taken that from him.  He hadn’t.  Tommy is still trying to be loud, like a cat puffing up its fur to make it seem bigger.  “Don’t you ‘big man’ me!” He gestures furiously.  He’s without armor, a lanky furious child, but Sam doesn’t stop pushing.

“Turn around and kill me, right now,” Sam stares after him, cold rage turning to smoke inside of him.

“I-I fuckin’ will!” Tommy snaps, finally turning to face him, axe held close in front of him.  He doesn’t back down.  The Warden towering over him, and Tommy doesn’t flinch.  Maybe in another life Sam would’ve found that commendable.

The Warden takes one step closer, they’re nearly nose to nose.  He doesn’t draw a weapon, he just stands over Tommy and waits.  “Do it, then,” he growls.

A weighted silence.

Tommy flinches back first.  He doesn’t let go of the axe.

“You know what, Sam, you’re corrupt,” Tommy turns away, walking further down the corridor, blocked by a locked door and forced to stop.  Tommy stepped back and his anger wilts into cold dread in an instant.

“I am not corrupt, Tommy,” Sam has done everything for this kid, and it’s like Tommy is fucking committed to making them enemies.

Tommy paces frantically, trapped and horrified.  “Where’s Ghostbur…”

“Everything I’ve done I did to try and help this server,” Sam snaps as he unlocks the door.  Tommy stumbles ahead, but he’s not out of fire yet.

“You’re corrupt!” Tommy snarls, torn between fear and hatred.  His eyes are watering.  “You let me die!  You–”

“You’re so lucky I don’t kill you right now.”  Sam can’t.  That’s a flaw he’s not yet removed from himself.  He cannot kill Tommy.  “You should be dead, Tommy.”  Maybe true.  He can’t figure out if letting Tommy live is him salvaging what he can or just another failure.

Tommy’s lip trembles, a hand going to his mouth, he leans against the wall to bury sobs.  Sam will not pity him right now.  He’s just a stupid teenager, a nuisance, not something for Sam to take care of.  He hasn’t taken care of anyone in a long time.  “Where’s Ghostbur..?”  He whispers it, words not really meant for Sam’s ears.

“Shut up, Tommy, I don’t want to hear it.  I should’ve killed you right away when I saw you on that bridge.  You should be dead,” Sam ignores Tommy’s tearful muttering behind him.  “The only reason you’re not dead is because–” Sam stops, words caught in his throat as the vault door pulls back.  Sam had never planned for this.  He can still hear Tommy screaming his name from that cell.  “Just– Don’t– Shut up, Tommy.  I don’t want to hear anything else.  Go.”

Sam can’t even tell if Tommy is hearing him anymore, the kid seems to be stepping closer and closer to a full blown panic attack.  “Where’s Wilbur… Oh no, oh no–”

Sam will not comfort him.  He will not be any more merciful than he already is being.  He should kill Tommy.  He’ll be cold instead.  “Go, Tommy,” Sam’s voice breaks.  He cannot break down now, he needs to be strong, just until Tommy is out of here.  He cannot come back here ever again, he hadn’t thought he’d need to make Tommy stay away.  He doesn’t understand him.

Tommy hesitates for another moment.  “Do you know where–” Tommy stops himself and for once does as he’s told.

A ghost cannot die.  This isn’t possible, Sam had planned for this to be safe.  Silence presses in.  Sam waits for the keycard.  Tommy should never have come back here.  “This is not good… This is not good… Tommy, this is– what have you done?”

“Did you see–” Tommy sounds imploring.  He sounds like he wants Sam to help him.

He can’t.

“Shut up, Tommy.”

“Fuck you.”  Tommy is still choked up.  He’s just a stupid teenager with an axe who thought he could change something.  Sam is supposed to be the responsible one, but this stupid kid ruined everything.

“You did this.  You can blame me all you want, but this is not my fault, Tommy!  You did this,” Sam does not acknowledge the fact that Tommy has not thrown blame at him beyond a frantic why didn’t you let me go over?

“Sam, go to hell– what the fuck–”

Sam is waiting for blame.  He refuses it.  He did his best and factors which weren’t even meant to be at play ruined everything.  A hostage… Dream ruined everything with a hostage.  One he should never have been able to threaten in the first place, let alone kill.  A hostage that would target Tommy who wasn’t even supposed to fucking be there–

“Say what you want, Tommy, I don’t care. I don’t care. I told you, you weren’t gonna come here again– I said that no one else was gonna come in here! Every single problem at this prison was caused by you. ”  Tommy, always the one thing out of control.  Just one more thing Sam doesn’t want in common with Dream but has anyway.  “Everything is perfect when it’s just me and him! Nothing bad has ever happened.”

Tommy looks visibly disgusted, stepping back with a shudder.  “What’d you mean just you and him–”

“Until you started coming here– you are the greatest security risk on the server for this prison and keeping him locked up!”

“Sam, he needs to die–”

“What were you thinking?!  What did you think was going to happen?!” Sam doesn’t know how Tommy thought this would go any other way.

“Stop talking to me!  Stop!” Tommy shouts over him, before stopping, breathing hard.  “Let me out.  Let me out of the prison.”  Tommy is still bottling panic.  He really thinks Sam might keep him here.

Sam holds back a shudder at those familiar words, let me out of the prison.   “This is… I cannot believe you, Tommy… You should be dead. I should have– I should have killed you. I should have just shot you when you were over there.”  Sam nods him along to the next room.  “Go.”

Tommy and Dream need to be kept as far away from each other as possible.  Tommy is sick in the head, he must be, and considering his last prison venture, it only makes sense, because Tommy breaks things.  He comes here, and people try to break Dream out.  Maybe Tommy came here to kill Dream, maybe he was right to, but that doesn’t matter.  This is his prison and his prisoner.  Dream doesn’t get to escape.  Not even through death.  Not even by Tommy’s own hand.  After everything Sam has heard from that monster, especially not by Tommy’s own hand.  Dream would find it poetic.

“Tommyinnit.”  Sam will not kill him.

“Yeah..?”

“Let me make something clear to you,” Sam’s voice shakes.  He tries to make himself sound steady.  It feels like a weak mask, but it’s the only one the Warden has.  “You are never to come near this Prison again. And if I ever see you even near the grounds of this Prison one more time, I will murder you. I will take your last canon life and then I will hunt the ghost that remains. Do you understand me? I will not let Dream escape this Prison. And you seem to be the only one that wants him to be free, for some reason. Even though we’re–” Sam stops himself.  There can be no we with him and Tommy, Sam cannot disillusion himself to think he and Tommy have some understanding when it comes to Dream, not when it’s abundantly clear that’s not true.  He can’t pretend he doesn’t care about that boy, but he will keep those feelings contained.  “Come on, Tommy.”

He’ll keep those feelings contained, and still when that boy needs help, when he gets frantic over that stupid sheep, asking Sam for a lead with the utmost care because while he shouts at him and raves and tells Sam he hates him, he’s still just a kid who needs help.

For all his efforts to remain cold, to do his duty as Warden and only his duty, Sam can’t help but give Tommy one more bit of kindness.  He still hopes he never sees this kid near here again, he still hopes there won’t come a day where he has to kill that boy– as if he ever could, is he really trying to lie to himself and think that there is ever a situation where he could bring a sword down on Tommy?

To keep Dream here, you’d kill anyone in your path.

But he will still help give Tommy a lead.  He won’t threaten to hurt him, to demand he leave, kill the sheep just to get it out of the fucking way– Sam pretends it’s practical.  It’s the fastest way to get Tommy the fuck out of here, but the part of Sam that let Tommy get the lead, that let Tommy get Friend through the portal, might be the last remnants of the man who offered Tommy a place to stay in exile, that brought people pumpkin pie, that wanted to take care of people.

Finally, Tommy is gone.

The Warden is alone.

Not entirely alone.

Everything is perfect when it’s just me and him.

He belongs to me.  No one else.  Worse– we belong to each other.

Revulsion is too simple a word for how Sam feels returning to his prisoner.

“Sam?!  Sam– you should’ve let me out!  You should’ve let me go!” Dream is pleading and mocking him.  He’s calling him Sam again.

Sam should leave him to his ravings.  He shouldn’t indulge this.

He’s furious and he can’t be angry with Tommy anymore.

“We had a deal, Dream!” Sam snaps.  When he turns on the comm, he notices his hands are still shaking.

“Yeah– Yeah, we did, Sam!  And I held up my end!” Dream paces.  “Wilbur– He’s– He didn’t show up here,” Dream mutters.

“What, things didn’t go according to your little plan?” Sam pushes on.  “Like hell you did– Did you know Tommy was going to be there?!”  It doesn’t make sense.  He knows it doesn’t make sense, but he has to ask anyway.

“What– Tommy– No, how the hell would I know?” Dream waves him off.  “It was helpful though, Sam!” He laughs, high and hoarse.  “Thanks for pulling him back, if Tommy killed me, none of us win, right?”

“Shut up, Dream!  We had a deal– You’re– I’m gonna have to punish you now, you do realize that, right?!” The Warden does not make empty threats, even if he has no idea what to do here.  Quackity acts without mercy on the daily.  There are no threats left to be made.

“What do you mean, Sam, I held up my end of the deal!” Dream’s irritable frustration turns to smug jeering in an instant.  He knows as well as Sam does there’s not much left that the Warden can do to him.  Dream snapped a long time ago, and all Sam can do anymore is witness it.

“You tried to escape–”

“I showed you!  The ghost– You saw!  I showed you something you need for resurrection, Sam, aren’t you happy?”  Dream’s escape attempt failed, and he can only laugh.  He collapses to the floor, hysterical and broken.  That diseased version of worship, Dream eager to get any reaction from him, it’s pathetic but no less unnerving.  “I told you I’d show you, Sam!  I held up my end of the deal!”

Sam doesn’t reply, he can’t bring himself to bother anymore.  He leaves Dream to his mania and tries to stop his hands from shaking.  Tommy should be dead.  Sam let him go.  Sam’s system of rules failed him.

He’s tired of failing.

Now comes the hard part.

He said he would tell Quackity, failure or not.  Maybe this will be easier, if anything.  Quackity has no high ground to stand on, not when he’s been in that godforsaken cell every day with no progress made.

Sam finds him in Las Nevadas.  Maybe he’s looking for a fight.  He is not reporting to an authority, nor to someone who scares him, Sam is updating his business partner as a matter of curtesy.  The Warden is the only one who holds the prison, mistakes and all.

“Quackity.  I need to talk to you.”

“Hey, Sam!  Come on in!” Quackity grins, stepping back from the doorway into the half built casino.  “You look a little miserable, Sam.  Too many late nights at the prison?” He says it like they share an inside joke.

Sam glances around the hall.  “Are we alone?”

Quackity’s bravado falters into something more somber.  “Yeah, yeah we’re alone– What happened?”  What happened.  Two words so much kinder than what did you do?  Sam knows he’ll change his tune real soon.

“I… I got some information out of Dream, but there was– there was a cost.”

Quackity’s confusion turns to a wary dread in an instant.  “Get to the point a little faster, Sam, will you?”

Sam pauses, eyeing Quackity carefully.  He knows this man.  Or at least there was a time he had.   Quackity will get angry, but Quackity’s anger was manageable once.  Sam has seen other sides of him.  Then again, Quackity has never been good at violence when the other person isn’t chained to a wall.

Sam doesn’t know where to begin.  He decides with the worst of it.

“Tommy got back into the prison.”

Quackity steps closer, a wide, unnerving smile that Sam doesn’t believe for a second.  “Got into the prison, Sam.  What do you mean?  No one gets into the prison, no no– you let him in.”

Sam’s jaw is tense as he bottles every defensive remark trying to rise up.  He made a mistake.  He will own it.  Even if it wasn’t his fault.  He calculated everything.  It was the variables which didn’t obey.

“He had an invis potion.  And I didn’t notice him, because I was escorting another visitor.”  Sam does not mention that he felt something was off, that he had dismissed it as paranoia– or rather had refused to let it be paranoia.  Sam had been resisting that part of himself, the one which took everything with grave seriousness, which believed utterly that everything would try and tear his prison down.  He won’t make that mistake again.

“Another visitor?” Quackity hisses.  “If you let anyone in there, Sam, anyone besides me, you realize who that falls back on, don’t you?  That falls back on me.” Quackity steps closer, so much smaller than him but acting like he doesn’t even see that Sam could break him like a twig.

“Calm down, Quackity,” Sam turns cold.  This is his prison, not Quackity’s.  “It was Ghostbur.  He wouldn’t have remembered anyway–”

“What– Ghostbur, what do you mean Ghostbur–?”

“Let me finish, Quackity,” Sam snaps.  Quackity falls silent, arms folded over his chest and that vicious smile returns, like he can’t wait for Sam to dig himself into a hole.  “It doesn’t matter, because Dream–” Sam stops himself with a sigh.  “Dream killed Ghostbur.  He said he was going to revive Wilbur, now, I don’t know about that, all I know is Ghostbur disappeared.”

Quackity grows serious once more.  “Wait– Wait you saw it?  You saw him revive someone– revive Wilbur?”

“I don’t know about that, all I know is Ghostbur is gone.  I got Tommy out of the prison too, but the deal was Dream had to show me something he needed for resurrection, and, well, I guess it’s a ghost.  Or maybe a vessel, like a body or something, not everyone has a ghost–”

“Hold on, back up, Sam,” Quackity raises a hand to silence him.  “You did all that– behind my back, might I add– to learn that you need a fucking ghost?  That’s– That’s nothing, Sam,” Quackity laughs, sharp and patronizing.

Sam steps forward now, towering over him, Quackity doesn’t step back, but he leans away, eyes narrowed.

No– This is the last fucking straw, everything Sam has lost today, every failure, every struggle, every offense from the universe, and he won’t have fucking Quackity tell him it isn’t good enough.

“At least I’m actually trying to make progress– at least I got something done instead of wasting hours performing for my own sadism, Quackity!” Sam jabs an accusing finger into Quackity’s chest.  “Tell me I’m wrong!  Do it!”

Quackity steps back, that defensiveness remains behind his eyes and for a moment he’s at a loss for words.

Sam is breathing hard.  His chest feels very warm now, but he waits.  He waits for an excuse, for Quackity to tell him that’s not what it really is, that he’s trying, anything.

It’s worse that Quackity doesn’t.  He just shakes his head like a disappointed parent.  Sam hates it.  That had once been his role to play, and for Quackity to now masquerade some warped version of that authority, it’s worse than an insult.

“If that’s what you think,” Quackity laughs, cold and sharp.  He hasn’t yet told Sam that he’s wrong.  “You should’ve talked to me, Sam,” Quackity sighs.  “You made plans behind my back–”

“It’s my prison, Quackity.  He is my prisoner and I can do what I want with him,” Sam snaps.  That statement doesn’t feel wrong to him, not in any way.  Sam has ripped himself apart, sold pieces of himself to that devil in a cell, it’s only fair Sam gets to own him back.

Quackity lets off another unnatural laugh.  “Oh, your prisoner, Sam!  I didn’t realize how personal it had gotten– I thought you were the immovable Warden, huh?  Clearly you can’t be trusted to make rational decisions regarding him, am I right?”

“I told you this out of courtesy, Quackity, nothing more.  And if you want to keep having your little power trip sessions, you’re going to respect my authority as Warden, got it?”

“Yeah, where else am I gonna work out my sadism, huh, Sam?” Quackity scoffs.  He still hasn’t told Sam he’s wrong.

Everything is perfect when it’s just me and him!

That thought scares Sam just as much as he still holds it to be true.

“I’ll still allow you to visit the prisoner, Quackity.  But don’t disrespect me like that again,” Sam turns to leave.

“Is that a threat, Sam?” Quackity laughs, jeering and sharp as he walks away from him.

“A threat, Quackity?” Sam looks back over his shoulder with muted disgust.  “No, I don’t need to threaten people.  You know the rules, you know what contract you signed, so I suggest you follow them.”

He doesn’t need threats when there are rules.

Sam refuses to think on how many of his own rules he broke today by letting Tommy walk away.

#dsmp fanfic #villain dream #/roleplay #my writing #hey uh. long time no see. I have had terrible writer's block for this fic lately but y'alls feedback got me writing again so #thanks for being patient #is this anything #is this still relevant #who knows but c!Sam my beloathed beloved #c!dream #c!tommy #tommyinnit #c!quackity #quackity #c!sam

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Metallo!Lena AU Pt 18

Wresting back control of LuthorCorp is easier than Lena expects. She's forgotten that she was voted in once, that the shareholders had actively wanted her in the lead, wanted her to pull them back from the brink. It doesn't hurt her case that the company floundered even further after her presumed death. Who better to bring it back to life, the board surmised, than the ressurrected Luthor herself?

Towards that end, Lena hires an army of people to bring her back to life. She recruits a publicity firm to handle the media, she hires a stylist team to shop an entire wardrobe for, and an accounting agency to figure exactly how much money she has to her name.

Lena allows her army free reign to put her life back in order, and in the meantime she devotes her time to resuming her battle for the good opinion of National City. As a vigilante, being Supergirl's friend helps a great deal, but for Lena herself, she has work to do.

Through a series of follow up articles, Lena shares herself with Kara, and by extension CatCo's readership. At LuthorCorp, she ingrains herself in the daily workings of the company. She's already laid much of the groundwork before the crash, but she's still full of nerves as she re-introduces herself to each and every department.

She's keenly aware that a handshake from her could now snap bones, so one corner of her mind is always conscious of her strength, always careful. Part of her now recognizes why Kara spent so much time at the DEO, where everyone knows her strength and how deadly she could be-- they know to keep their distance.

At L-Corp, everyone presses close, eager for smiles and soft words of welcome backs. Lena remains on the razor's edge of awareness, leaving her drained by the time she walks back into the apartment she shares with Kara.

"Oh, wow," Kara mutters when Lena returns after her first day. It takes Lena a moment to realize her friend is staring, and a moment longer to remember that Kara had been called away for an early DEO emergency that morning, and that this is the first time they've seen each other all day. Kara's already comfy in pajamas and an NCU sweatshirt, but Lena is still dressed for the office, in an outfit her stylist selected for her.

Kara blinks, her eyes traveling all the way down to Lena's feet, arched in killer heels. Only then does she shake herself out of it.

"Oh, wow," she repeats, this time less stunned and more concerned. "You must be exhausted."

Lena huffs, rolling her eyes. "You have no idea."

She's been sleeping on the sofa's daybed at night, but at the moment its folded up into the couch. Lena clicks her way over and slumps into the increasingly familiar cushions, chucking off her shoes haphazardly.

Kara scurries over and hands her a bowl of pasta. Lena accepts it with a grateful smile and waits for Kara to join her on the couch with her own bowl before she tucks in. Its simple, just a snack of buttered noodles to pick them up, but Lena devours it in record time.

"How's CatCo?"

Kara grimaces. "Awful. Snapper hates me. Which is actually normal for him, but... some of the others have joined in this time. A little less thuggishly, but still."

Lena frowns. "Wait 'til christmas. They'll be thanking you for their holiday bonus."

"I don't want them to like me because I helped get them money," Kara counters. "I want them to like me because I'm nice. Or good at my job."

Lena smiles. "I give them another week before they're eating out of your hand." When Kara looks at her, she shrugs knowingly. "Isn't that about how long it took you to break through to me?"

Kara scoffs, thumping her with a pillow. "You're different."

"Am I?"

"Well, yeah. You're.... you."

"That explains everything, thank you."

---

Lena doesn't patrol with Supergirl anymore-- the district attorney's office serves a cease and desist the morning after her first interview with Kara airs, xiting that having such a high profile figure running amok on the streets would only incite chaos, not prevent it. But the DA's reach doesn't extend to the DEO, and so when Supergirl reaches out for help investigating the strange rash of young adults deliberately in harm's way in the hopes of being saved by the hero, Lena readily agrees.

With Kara in her guise as a reporter, they track the group to a meeting space, and discover that it's actually a religious group-- devoted to Supergirl.

"Miss Luthor!"

Lena's recognized immediately. Kara bristles at the exclamation, but Lena squeezes her wrist in reassurance. She can handle a room full of disillusioned young adults, but if anyone recognized Kara, they were done.

A slender man with a wet-eyed look approaches them. "It is an honor to have you here, Miss Luthor. Any friend of Supergirl's is a friend of ours. How did you learn of our group?"

Lena flashes one of the flyers they'd used to find the dingy little room. "We received one of these. What exactly is this?"

"You've arrived just in time to find out," the man says with a simpering sort of smile. "Please, find a seat, and make yourselves comfortable."

Sharing a look, Lena and Kara make their way to the rows of chairs, settling in towards the back. The meeting opens with a girl who shares her story of rescue-- one entirely genuine, not fabricated like the recent arsons and trespasses.

When a young man follows, then an older woman, Kara realizes she's saved all of these people. She doesn't feel honored-- she feels sick. But Lena has her eye on the leader, who introduces himself as Thomas Coville. There's something about him that rubs her the wrong way, and the moment they leave she says as much to Kara.

"I get that being saved from certain death could turn someone's life around," she hisses in a low voice. "But starting a religion? No one does that unless they want power, and when someone wants power, that makes them dangerous."

She resolves to get close to him, and to everyone's surprise, it's shockingly easy to do so. All it takes is modifying her cover story so that it's Supergirl who pulled her from the fiery helicopter crash and whisked her away to anonymity-- and she's in. It takes almost a month before Coville hints that he's got something big planned.

When he leads Lena and the rest of his congregation to the basement of the National City sports stadium, Lena puts a finger to her ear.

"Now."

Supergirl and the DEO swarm the basement. They begin arresting people, and shuffling them all out. The last to go is Coville, but the man is anything but perturbed.

"By Rao's will," he says, a sentiment echoed by his followers. None of them resist. Only then does Lena catch sight of the betahedron in one corner of the basement.

"Is that...?"

It powers up, its light pulsing more quickly. Supergirl cries out, dropping to her knees. Lena rushes to her side, only to jerk back when she sees her friend's skin threaded green kryptonite. Pressing the button on her watch, her vigilante suit forms around her-- she'd lined it with lead in case her kryptonite ever failed. But Kara continues to groan, and Lena realizes she isn't the culprit this time.

"The betahedron!" she calls. It's starting to pulse faster now, which can only mean one thing. "It's gonna blow-- get everyone out, now!"

"There's a packed house upstairs," Alex says over comms. "There's no way to evacuate in time. You'll have to find a way to disarm it."

"It's a fucking alien probe, Alex!" There might not BE a way to disarm it. Behind her, Lena can hear Kara struggling for breath. She can't do anything to disarm it, but she can't do nothing, either. A dozen ideas fire through her brain, but all of them are discarded as usless.

All but one.

With only a moment's hesitation, Lena approaches the betahedron and punches a hole through its plating, peeling the outer layer back until she can see the pulsing green crystal within.

Removing her gauntlet, Lena pages her comms. "Director Danvers!"

"You got something, Luthor?"

Lena takes a deep breath. "Maybe. If it works, I'm going to be radioactive as hell." She looks over her shoulder, meeting Kara's pained gaze.

"No matter what happens, don't let Supergirl touch my fucking body."

Kara's eyes grow wide with realization. "Lena, NO!"

Lena thrusts her arm into the betahedron and grips the kryptonite with all her strength. She screams as the radioactive energy crackles up her arm towards her chest, seeking it's grounding point in the crystal embedded there. The manufactured kryptonite absorbs the energy, buffering and containing it for long, perilous moments before the first cracks begin to form.

Lena hopes it'll last long enough to diffuse the kryptonite energy of the bomb and neutralize its explosive power.

As her senses go dark, all she can do is hold on with all her might, and not let go.

previous / next

#metallo lena au #supercorp #freaking coville #i know it doesnt exactly match up to the episode bomb wiae #but it works for me okay? #okay #things are picking up again

[knox-knocks]

a hunger inside

an among us au >:) tw: death and violence (no foxes die, only ocs)

read it on ao3

Andrew finds him in the hallway, attempting an escape through the vent in the floor. Andrew’s eyes flick to the corner of the room where the camera is, but it is dark and lifeless, no blinking red light to indicate that someone is watching. Of course, that is why Andrew chose to linger in this part of the ship, after all. No one is ever watching these cameras, so he is free to smoke his cigarettes in peace.

“The vents, huh?” he says and leans against the cool metal wall of the ship and lights the cigarette. He’s almost out. As soon as his job here is done, he’ll have to stop by the closest pit stop for another pack.

Orange jumps at the sound of Andrew’s voice, twisting around in the tiny space the vents allow. It’s not much bigger than him, and he has to wiggle through in order to get out. Andrew watches him, cigarette forgotten between his fingertips, and takes note of the dark red staining his orange space suit, seeping into the fabric.

Andrew tips his head and behind Orange he can see two feet sticking out from the darkness, dripping the same red liquid that’s currently splashed all over him. Andrew is no idiot, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that the liquid is blood and the legs belong to a dead man.

“Faster way to get around,” Orange – Josten, he remembers – says after a tense pause. Andrew can’t see his expression past the dark screen of his visor, instead his own unimpressed face is reflected back at him, distorted in the curve of the helmet.

Andrew has never seen the man underneath the orange suit. He’s been aboard the Space Enterprise for a couple months now and hasn’t so much as taken off his helmet. Which wasn’t a cause for alarm – not at first – because technically it was a rule that you had to be wearing your space suit at all times in case of emergencies, though no one actually did. Except for Josten.

What struck Andrew as strange was that Josten didn’t take it off even to eat. In fact, Andrew has never seen him eat with the others in the cafeteria, not once, in the months since he’s joined the crew.

“I suppose you’re the one the others are worrying about, then,” Andrew says and takes a drag off his cig before it dies. “The imposter.”

“You’re not supposed to smoke in here,” Josten says, neatly dodging the question. His voice is staticky over the mic, more artificial than human.

Andrew looks past at the victim half-eaten by the darkness. Josten subtly shifts his weight, an unsubtle attempt to hide the body, but the damage is done and Andrew has already seen it.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Andrew says. He stares at where he thinks Josten’s eyes should be, and meets his own even expression instead.

Josten doesn’t move so Andrew sighs and pushes up from where he’s leaning against the wall. Josten’s back straightens, and he makes an abortive move, as if reaching for a weapon. Said weapon must still be stuck in whatever poor sap whose blood saturated the floor, because Josten’s hands remain empty, and Andrew unstabbed.

“Go get cleaned up,” Andrew says and stubs out his cigarette against his fatigues. The ashes smear against the black fabric, near invisible. “I’ll cover for you.”

“Why?” Josten says in that robotic voice of his.

“Because now you owe me one,” says Andrew.

“I thought we were even.” Josten mimes a movement reminiscent of raising a cigarette to his mouth, a clumsy mimicry in his bulky suit. “‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’”

“Yes,” Andrew says. “But now I’m covering for you as well. So you owe me.”

It is eerie, the way Andrew can’t see his face to read his reactions, and wonders if this is how his crewmates feel about him. Andrew, always so tightlipped and apathetic, even when the crew started getting picked off one by one. He didn’t join up too much longer after the others, but he’d picked up on their unease almost immediately. Andrew doesn’t care though; he isn’t here to make friends. He is here to do his job.

Josten is the first to break. He turns, stiff, and walks down the hall to the sleeping chambers. Andrew watches him go and waits a few more minutes to give him a bit more time. He’s not really sure why. He could have left when he saw Josten climbing into the vent and pretend he never saw the body, or he could have simply reported exactly what he witnessed.

But it often gets boring on the Enterprise, and perhaps Andrew is intrigued, maybe he wants to see where this goes. Plus, it might come in handy to have the resident murderer indebted to him.

Andrew reports the body over the comm link and makes his way to the cafeteria.

_ _

It was Green who was killed, though Andrew never bothered to learn the man’s real name. The remaining crewmates are dragged from their tasks to deliberate over the murder, while Andrew watches over the chaos and waits for Josten to join them. In the end he points his finger at Red, who has no alibi except for her claim to be down in Navigation at the time of the murder. But the others do not listen and in their panic, they are quick to vote her out.

Her screams of terror and pleading are cut short by the hiss of the chamber door sealing shut. It is Yellow who slams the ejection button, and Andrew watches as Red is spat into the black vacuum of space. Yellow flinches when the air is forced out of her lungs and her blood boils in her veins, but Andrew does not.

Ten crewmates turn to eight in a day, and the others are soothed enough to go back to their assignments. At least until Andrew finds Josten stuffing Yellow’s crumpled form into one of the cupboards in Storage a few days later.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Andrew says smoothly, and Josten flips around, quite literally caught in the act. He’s still holding the knife, but he lowers it when he sees Andrew.

“I owe you two?” he says.

“One,” Andrew replies. Josten tips his head, a strangely animal action with the giant space helmet on. “I want your name.”

Josten hesitates.

“Your full name.”

“Neil,” he says slowly, as if trying it out. “Neil Josten.”

“Neil,” Andrew repeats, and he quite likes the taste of it on his tongue. It tastes a little of danger, like the iron-tang of blood. “Now show me your face, and we will be even.”

Neil is slow in taking off his helmet, and Andrew watches in rapt attention as the vents blow out a stream of oxygen and steam as the seals release and Neil twists the helmet off.

Andrew wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but Neil looks normal. At least, he has a nose and a mouth, and reddish-brown hair falling into his eyes. It’s as his gaze is tracking the movement of his auburn curls that Andrew spots the reason Neil was so hesitant to take off his helmet.

His eyes are a bright, crimson red, glittering and dark under the fringe of his hair. Undeniably alien.

Andrew takes a step forward and grabs Neil by the chin. He brings his face down closer to his own and moves it side to side, studying him. Aside from the eyes, his face is also marked by deep gouges and circular scars on either side of his face. He is very attractive, and Andrew feels a slow, tight pull in his navel. He would quite like to take this man apart, bit by bit. Neil is silent as he lets Andrew look his fill.

“There’s a vent in the corner of the room, to the left,” Andrew says, releasing Neil’s face. “I’d be quick if I were you.”

Neil narrows those red eyes of his before reattaching his helmet and following Andrew’s directions. He has the vent open and one leg in when he turns back and says, “Why do you never talk to any of the others?”

Andrew gives him a thin, close-mouthed smile and says nothing.

He doesn’t report the body. He lets Purple find it, and he and Neil meet the others in the cafeteria together. His suit his clean, no traces of the blood that had been previously splattered down his front. His helmet is on, but he’s not the only one hiding their face so no one mentions it.

“Minyard,” the man in the white suit says. Andrew is pretty sure his name is Folkson or Falkner or something. His face his pale, eyes stretched wide, and his lips tremble as he talks. He’s the oldest out of all of them, and has taken the helm. “Where were you?”

“With Josten,” Andrew says. “We were clearing out the oxygen tanks in O2.”

“That’s not usually a two-person job,” Lime says suspiciously.

Andrew levels a look at her. “It is if you do it properly.”

“We need to figure this out,” Cyan snaps, and Andrew wracks his brain for their name. He comes up blank. “We’ve been getting picked off for weeks and we still have no fucking clue as to why.”

“They might not be human,” Pink says in his quiet voice, thin as a thread. He clutches his gloves in his hands, turning them over and over. “What if this is a game to them?”

Andrew hedges a look toward Neil but he is still, silent.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cyan says, and rolls their eyes. “We need to stay focused before we lose the mission.”

“You give a lot of orders and not a lot of answers,” Folkson or Falkner gripes.

“I could say the same for you,” Cyan replies coolly.

Andrew lets them bicker. He said his piece, and both he and Neil are cleared. After all, Pink saw them on the cameras, and they were no one near the body when Purple found it. In fact, no one was around, and soon the suspicion turns to Purple. Their pleas fall on deaf ears as they are locked in the ejection chamber and Cyan presses the button.

The others whisper around them, desperate prayers to a God that has no place in the depths of space. Let us be right, they murmur. Please, this time, let us be right.

_ _

The first time Andrew kisses Neil, they are in the showers and he has just scrubbed the last of Falkner’s blood off of him. Red turns to pink as it runs off of him, over the white tiles, and down the drain. Andrew knows someone will stumble across the body and report it soon, but he doesn’t care.

Neil’s voice is different when he’s not wearing the helmet, and so is his gasp when Andrew pushes him against the still-dripping wall and presses their mouths together in a bruising kiss. He has a grip on his t-shirt, one in his hair, and he angles their mouths together in a way that has Neil scrabbling against the wall for support.

“Andrew,” he says, and the sound is long, drawn out. Neil tips his head back against the wall and Andrew mouths at his neck, his skin warm from the blood pumping life through his body.

Neil is a killer, the imposter among them, but his skin still bruises and his body still reacts to Andrew’s touch. He kisses him, again and again and again, each one harsher than the last.

Andrew only pulls away when Neil’s tongue darts out to touch his bottom lip. He takes a step back. He needs to be more careful. He shouldn’t be letting Neil get close like this, it’s too dangerous. Too easy to slip up.

Neil’s eyes are blown, his cheeks flushed. “I think we should blame Lime,” he says, breathless.

Andrew presses another kiss to his mouth and resists the urge to sink his teeth into Neil’s lip. Dangerous.

Once under control, Andrew says, “There will be four of us left, after this.”

Neil nods, suddenly solemn. He almost looks regretful. He opens his mouth, closes it.

“Let’s go,” he says without meeting Andrew’s eyes, and Andrew has the feeling that he was going to say something else. Before he can ask, though, Neil is already pulling on his gear.

In the end, they can’t decide who to eject, and Lime is safe. For now.

_ _

“I didn’t do that one,” Neil says quietly, peering down at Lime’s twisted body at the bottom of the stairs. Her neck is broken, blonde hair falling over a face slackened by death, though still etched with fear. Andrew imagines her eyes widening, mouth opening in a scream as hands wrap around her throat, shoving her down the stairs. The image is not difficult to conjure.

“Must have tripped,” Andrew replies. He looks at Neil in the corner of his eyes, and a thrill goes through him when he sees the now-familiar bloodred of his gaze.

“I suppose we report this to the others,” Neil says the same moment Cyan enters the room with Pink in tow.

“Get away from him,” Cyan snarls, and it takes a moment for Andrew to realize that they’re talking to him. “He is the imposter. You – Orange.”

Desperation makes people clumsy, sloppy, and Andrew sees that they are very afraid. Neil looks alarmed – and extremely guilty standing over the body. Never mind Andrew was also caught red-handed, Cyan and Pink surround Neil and Neil only.

So they don’t suspect Andrew at all.

“You killed Gen,” Cyan says, voice shrill. They leap at Neil, and with Pink’s help they corner him against the wall as Andrew watches on. “And I’m willing to bet you were plotting to kill Black too. Lure him down and execute him here.”

“What of it?” Neil says through clenched teeth. Cyan has his arms pinned to his sides, and there is nowhere for him to go. They force him back, crowding him into the ejection chamber. Neil jerks in their grip, but Cyan holds tight. Pink grapples with the panel on the wall to open the door, but his shaking hands slide helplessly over the smooth panel. He finally finds a grip and gets the door open.

“Look at his eyes,” Pink cries. “I told you. I told you he wasn’t human.”

“Shut up,” Cyan grits and shoves Neil into the chamber. Neil struggles, bucking in a last-ditch effort to get out of Cyan’s grip, but it’s useless. They found their imposter, and now they’re going to kill him. His wide red eyes meet Andrew’s calm ones, and he rams his body into Cyan’s, desperate.

Cyan grunts at the impact and looks over their shoulder at Andrew. “Black,” They hiss. “Minyard, help – ”

Andrew smiles, revealing the rows of razor-sharp teeth he has so carefully hid from everyone until now. Pink sees it first and screams, but it’s cut off when Andrew lunges and sinks his fangs in his slender neck. Blood gushes into his mouth, and it tastes so sweet. Pinks chokes, hands fluttering ineffectually at his sides as Andrew tears out his throat.

Cyan watches with horror, but before they can do anything, Neil is already there, his arms wrapped around their neck. He forces their head back at such a steep angle that Cyan cries out in pain, and shakes them like a ragdoll. It is easy now that they have the element of surprise, and Neil snaps Cyan’s neck with ease. They slump to the ground and Neil stares at their body, chest heaving from the fight.

“You,” he says, still out of breath, eyes traveling up to Andrew’s. “You’re the other one.”

Andrew licks his lips, blood dripping from his face, his sharpened teeth, and Neil tracks the movement. “Yes,” he says simply.

Neil grins. “Good. I would have hated killing you.”

“You never would have gotten close.” Andrew steps over Pink’s still-twitching body and hooks his fingers in the thick collar of Neil’s space suit. “Yes or no?”

Neil’s eyes are dilated, black enveloping red. “You already know my answer,” he says, voice heavy.

Andrew’s grip on him tightens. “Say it anyway.”

“Yes,” Neil says and Andrew yanks him in for a fierce kiss. Neil makes a sound low in his throat, guttural, and Andrew swallows it. He’s sure he nicks Neil with his teeth now that he’s not so concerned about keeping them hidden, but Neil doesn’t seem to mind. He is happy licking the blood from Andrew’s lips.

Neil’s eyes flash red and Andrew’s teeth bare in a sharp smile. Game over.

#aftg #tfc #andreil #andrew minyard #neil josten #mine #my writing

[kentuckywrites]

His Body, The Canvas

Pongo has gone missing, and @shunkuroichii ‘s Shun, @pish-posh-mish-mosh ‘s Mira, and @shymindmeta ‘s Sy’Chell grow concerned about his whereabouts. As fate would have it, Pongo went to face a dragon, and the results were unexpected...

A rewrite of Like A Canvas, a fic I wrote a little over three years ago.

Cauldros was an unforgiving terrain, the skies and the land full of ash and flame. Today it was raining fire, brimstone crashing down onto the molten floor. It’d be foolish to come on a day like this, but Pongo flew his Skell into the continent with no second thoughts. It was perfect weather to face the creature that had hurt his friend.

Sy’Chell had almost brushed over the topic. Pongo had been curious as to whether or not Sy could see once, what had caused him to end up in this state. Sy opened up, told him that this was not by choice, that a creature born of the ashes of Cauldros had taken his sight. Pongo knew exactly which indigen he’d been referring to. He knew where to find it, what prior conditions it needed to appear. He knew its name, how it would not be so easily killed.

Vortice, the Deific Blast. A Class 94 Tyrant, one of the most powerful indigens on Mira, and certainly one of the deadliest in Cauldros. Pongo hid his intent to kill it in conversation, though beneath the skin his blood boiled with rage. The planet was aware of his anger, and any attempts it made to calm him ended in silence. He’d packed his things, refueled Eros, stacked as many Piscinoid augments as he could fit into it, and took off without informing anyone. Pongo could use excuses, if anyone questioned him. He’d grown better at lying after all this time. 

Pongo’s target became visible on the horizon as Eros flew ever closer to Mount M’Gando. Pongo clutched the controls of his beloved Skell tightly, his knuckles turning white. Taking down a tyrant solo was nearly unheard of in BLADE, with only the most experienced able to claim that distinction for themselves. Had those BLADEs fought with a similar vengeance? Had it burned in their cores to the point of overflowing? Pongo tried to steady his breaths as his thoughts began to eat away at him from the inside. He wasn’t going to turn back now, not when avenging Sy was on the line.

Vortice roared, circling the top of Mount M’Gando and soaking in its heat. Pongo pushed Eros forward, forward. He waited until he was in range to fire, and when the first diskbombs deployed from his weapon, he finally let his rage consume him. 

~

Pongo was supposed to babysit Apollo and Asteria. He should’ve arrived an hour ago. But he never came. No texts, no calls, he’d simply disappeared. 

Mira could feel from the first minute that something was wrong. He wouldn’t blow something like this off, and it was even more unlike him to not respond to her texts. She curled into herself more as Shun paced in front of her, hands in his pockets. The silence in their barracks was deafening, his footsteps on the cold metal floor hardly registering as sound. She was thankful the kids were both asleep now, but hearing them up and about would’ve been a blessing in that hour of waiting.

“Still nothing?”

Mira shook her head. “No. You?”

“Nothing at all.” Shun removed his hands from his pockets to run his fingers through his hair, still maintaining his rhythmic pacing. “I’m worried. Really worried.”

“I am too. This isn’t like him,” She replied, taking a shaky breath, “I think we should go out there and look for him.”

“Where would we look? We don’t have any clues. And we can’t just leave Apollo and Asteria alone to -”

A growl interrupted Shun’s rambling. Mira’s head turned to Sy, who was sitting on the opposite end of the couch with his arms folded across his chest. It was hard to tell what face he was making underneath his helmet, but when he raised his hands and motioned downwards, it became clear that he was telling Shun to calm down. Shun sighed, stopping in front of the coffee table. Somehow his expression remained blank, but hidden in his eyes was the concern of a protective older brother. Mira stood herself up, leaving her comm device on the couch as she circled the table to approach him. She reached for his hands, taking them within her own and squeezing gently.

“Wherever he is, I bet he’s fine,” She said, partially to convince Shun and partially to convince herself, “He’s strong, remember?”

“But what if something happened?” Shun responded frantically, “What if he got launched into Mount M’Gando? What if he was captured by the Ganglion and is being held hostage? What if he lost his legs to an Ictus? What if -”

“Shun.”

Mira cut him short by squeezing his hands again, and his fingers instinctively curled into hers. Shun’s words hadn’t failed to embed themselves into her brain, raise worries that she hadn’t thought possible. Pongo was strong, that she knew for certain, but he had a tendency to exceed his own limitations. 

When Shun didn’t answer immediately, Mira decided to take the reigns, asking some calm yet possibly informative questions. “When was the last time we saw him? What was the last mission he took? Maybe he’s running late on a big expedition.”

“Yesterday,” Shun shook his head, “He was leaving out of the east gate. Didn’t get to talk to him since I was wrapping up a mission with Eleanora.”

“Pongo babysat the kids on Tuesday,” Mira said, “and that was the last time I saw him. Sy?”

Sy stood up, his Casca reflecting the barracks light. Slowly approaching the two, he pulled out his comm device and began to type furiously. Mira waited patiently until he flipped the screen around, showing what he’d written out. 

I saw him on Tuesday as well. We were talking over dinner after we ran into each other in the commercial district. In conversation I told Pongo how I was blinded, and afterwards he wasn’t acting the same.

Shun squinted, reading alongside Mira. His hands became tense after he finished and he quickly looked away. Mira frowned, confused. “Sy, if you don’t mind me asking...do you know why Pongo would’ve reacted the way he did?”

Sy nodded and returned his focus to his comm device, typing out something new. When he directed the screen towards them again, Mira’s blood went cold. 

I could be wrong, but...perhaps he meant to avenge my loss of sight by defeating the very creature that took it: Vortice, the Deific Blast.

“No. No.”

Shun practically ripped his hands out of Mira’s, heading for the weapons rack they kept close to the door. He picked up his dual guns, checking the cartridges as he spoke. It would be hardly noticeable to the average ear, but Mira could pick out how his voice quivered. “I bet he didn’t bring backup. He never brings backup. Did he even tell anyone where he was going? Damn it, what if we get there and it’s too late, what if -”

“Shun!” Mira called his name again, and he went silent, staring at her, waiting. To her left, Sy reached for her upper arm, holding up his comm device with a new message displayed on its screen.

Go with him to Cauldros. I’ll stay here and watch the kids. 

Mira knew better than to argue. Shun would want her to come - the more the merrier, after all - and the kids would both understand why they left. She could see it now, the future memory of her sitting with Asteria as she painted upon a new canvas with her little fingers, asking about what dangerous missions she’d gone on and how many people she’d saved. Mira would tell the story about how she and Shun saved Pongo from a dragon, a prince in distress, and Asteria would begin to absentmindedly paint the scene as best she could, eyes wide with wonder. She’d nail the volcano, the three little figures of her family, the Deific Blast floating overhead casting its fire upon them. Would she be the knight this time, or would Shun? Who would hold the shield that protected Pongo, and who would wield the sword to slay the mighty beast? 

Mira took two steps forward, about to trail Shun and grab her weapons, when the front door clicked.

It swung towards them silently, revealing a figure standing in the doorway, shoulders slumped and knees shaking. One arm was using the doorframe as support, though its lack of purchase did almost nothing to stabilize him. His hair was frizzy, unkempt, sticking up in strange directions in a chaos similar to Shun’s. His clothes were torn, some parts of his vest hanging on by mere threads. Mira grew increasingly concerned as the figure entered, and she realized he wasn’t wearing shoes, though a pair of worn down socks still covered his feet. That and his fingers were what grabbed her attention the most. It was hard to see, almost unnoticeable since he was wearing fingerless gloves, but under the shredded fabric were lines of blues and purples and reds and yellows, cascading frequently and without remorse. When he picked his head up, the lines became more apparent, strokes of paint that were eerily beautiful, the roots of a tree that had seen hell and survived. Somehow he was able to smile, though it was clear the action was painful to hold.

Shun reacted first.

“You fucking idiot.”

He put his dual guns down quickly before running up and taking Pongo in for a tight hug. Mira winced as she heard Pongo audibly cry out in pain, and Shun stepped back quickly, his hands hovering near Pongo’s shoulders as he scanned him over. Mira soon joined him, noticing that the brush strokes extended down his neck and into his torso. It would make sense if the markings on his fingers pushed further beyond as well.

“We’re happy you’re back in one piece,” She started, “But you look really hurt. Do you mind taking your vest off so I can bandage you up?”

“No, wait, we should get him to the MMC,” Shun protested, “It looks worse than meets the eye. I’m not even sure why you came here first -”

Pongo didn’t appear to be listening to him, though he turned to Mira and began to shrug off what little of his combat vest remained. With the longer sleeves disposed of, Mira could see his arms were coated in the markings, and they visibly went into his chest. Pongo, however, made no move to take off the tank top that he wore underneath his vest.

“Please, Pongo,” Mira reached out and put as gentle a hand as she could on his shoulder. But even the tiniest amount of contact made him shudder. As Shun reached down and collected what Pongo had removed, Mira began to usher Pongo further into the room, further into the light. He let her guide him, putting up little resistance. Even without showcasing his body, the canvas decorated in failed duty, it would have been obvious to Mira that he was wounded. There was something beneath the surface, more roots penetrating below the skin, that was sapping his strength.

In the common area, Sy made a small noise, likely one of worry. But Mira focused on keeping Pongo steady, and she moved to his backside and began to unzip the back of his tank top. Her hands were slow and steady, but her breaths shook as every new stroke of paint was revealed. She had been right; these scars extended onto his torso, but they seemed to pass down below his belt, too. There was no part of his skin untouched by the paint.

It was horrifying. It was painful to look at, painful to imagine the circumstances. 

“Holy shit…” Shun placed Pongo’s tattered vest and gloves on the couch, able to see Pongo’s front half, the damage he’d been hiding. Mira helped Pongo slip out of the tank top and tossed it into the pile Shun had made. His chest was just as bad as his back, if not worse. A tear formed in the corner of Mira’s eye, and though she tried to hide the reason she was wiping her eye, Pongo caught on. 

“I am alright, I promise...just a few bruises. I have faced worse.”

“A few bruises? A few?!” Shun was holding back as much as he could, but every ounce of anger and concern and frustration was leaking through his veyes. “You’re really hurt, Pongo. How can’t you see that?!”

Sy growled loudly, throwing his shoulders back as he added on to what Shun had said. Pongo’s eyes went wide, his smile fading. “Did you really expect me to sit back and not do anything about it?! You did not deserve what happened to you - I can and will take more hits than this to see your revenge carried out.”

Another set of growls, and Pongo began to cry, tears staining his purple and red cheeks. “You do not understand!! I fought to avenge you because I care about you!!” His chest heaved and he took a deep breath, hands shaking at his sides. “But in the end, I...it got away, neither of us died, and I failed you Sy’Chell I am so sorry I failed you -”

“Be quiet.” Shun told Pongo sternly, “None of that matters right now. You need rest.”

Mira opened her mouth, ready to agree, but Pongo cried out, “I will not rest until that fucking monster pays for what it did!!”

The force of his own voice, a vigor that did not match his physical state, caused Pongo to yelp in pain. Mira knew that all previous attempts at contact led to pain, and yet she knew Pongo thrived off of physical touch. She took one of his hands in both her own, caressing the skin beneath as softly as possible. She could swear she felt his blood tingling, occasional pulses pushing through, the faintest remnants of static electricity radiating off of his fingertips.

“Honey, do you think you can get the guest bedroom set up?” Mira looked over her shoulder as she began to lead Pongo away, “I’m taking him to the bathroom to get him patched up as best I can.”

Shun nodded, effortlessly walking past Pongo and Mira to get the bedroom organized. Pongo said nothing to retaliate, resigned to his pain, resigned to his weakness. Approaching the hallway towards the bathroom and bedrooms, Mira gave Sy one last sympathetic glance before turning back to Pongo. 

That glance was all it took for Pongo to speak to the kids first.

“Good morning, you two!” Pongo chirped, his voice cracking by the end. 

Apollo and Asteria hadn’t fully left their bedroom yet, their tiny heads peeking out of the doorframe. Wide eyes and innocent curiosity were given the image of a broken prince, one who had faced a dragon with a sword and shield and came home defeated. They were too young to know the truth - she promised herself that should they ask, Pongo defeated the dragon, he saved the day. It was his determination and resilience alone, a lone fighter in an impossible battle.

“You should get back to sleep, you two,” Mira told them, and they almost listened. But the door stayed propped open as Pongo called out, still attempting to carry the painful burden of a smile.

“Right. I can tell you about these when you get your rest, okay? Sleep is important, especially for you.”

“But Uncle Pon, you don’t sleep at all,” Apollo commented, and Pongo giggled at that.

“The villains never sleep and the heroes never rest, as the saying goes.”

Turning to Asteria, the young and kind and creative little girl Mira loved with all her heart, Pongo offered one last smile.

“I am sorry I was late; maybe we can paint tomorrow?”

#xenoblade x #His Body The Canvas: Short Story #Shun #Mira #sy'chell #THIS WAS SO SATISFYING..... #I amped up the Big Bro Shun a little bit because let's face it #if my little bro walked in covered in lightning scars I'd be a Bit Upset