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valmare · 3 months

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For your birthday celebration dear friend! Alter this however you need to make it work for you (you had to guess I would pick Maverick though):

TGM Maverick with “is it too late for a birthday kiss?” in this scenario (if possible!!): taking a bit of icing off the cake and putting it on their cheek.

Happiest of birthdays Mare, I’m so excited to read anything you come up with!!

Rad, my friend. Look at you hopping into my inbox to remind me of all the reasons I love Maverick. And I am SO SORRY but I totally missed the fact you asked for TGM Mitchell, when I in fact wrote him as 1986 Maverick. Oops. I am so sorry I spaced that, I hope it's okay!

Certifiable

“Yo! Hey, hey–I’m late, I know I’m late! Don’t close the–”

Late is the probably the most understated adverb that Pete Mitchell could pull out of his ass, even taking the porch steps in two long strides. Those offensive western boots that he so adores catch the planks of the porch something terrible; you can feel him practically lunge for the front door you’re more than happy to slap closed in his face. Your heart bounces against your ribs when his thick arm braces the door open, the sharp smack of his palm on the sun-fading wood enough to make you blink. So much for locking him out.

“–door,” bright smile, you bite the inside of your cheek. Put some daylight between the two of you as your hand tightens around the knob of the door. “Hi.”

Crooked smile twisting up his lips, his chin lifts a little in an effort to peer down at you—an effort that is fruitless, ultimately. You’ve got a solid inch on Mitchell, even though those boots work hard to give him some height. But that really doesn’t mean anything, and hasn’t, since you’d first smacked eyes on him on the golden California sand, all suntan and hard lines and confidence.

And while the Navy’s infamous Maverick made a show of being truly irked by the difference in your heights; buddies ribbed him the wrong way and teased him mercilessly, deep down you knew he was truly nonplussed. Didn’t make a stitch of difference, actually—he still managed to get whatever you needed from the cupboards in the kitchen. Top shelf of the garage. That one time he practically climbed the shelves at K-Mart to get that last box of Kix for that mama and her sweet toddler. So what if he used a stepladder? Creative problem solving.

Aviators low on his slightly-sunburned nose, Maverick’s tongue fills the pocket of his cheek. Skates along his bottom teeth. He’s out of breath, chest rising and falling in little, shallow puffs. And the pearled perspiration over his top lip speaks to the absolutely hellish humidity that hangs in the air like a wet blanket. You blink, he removes the aviators and slips them up into his hair. Upsets sweat you didn’t notice clinging to his ebony locks for dear life. They hit the wood of the porch beneath your bare feet, leaving fat stains. And he shifts his weight a little, boots catching on the porch again. Doesn’t move his arm, like it might shatter the moment that balances on the precipice like tettering crystal.

“Maverick.” Tone cold, venom sits there on the back of your tongue. You wait.

Pete may have a really good excuse for being two hours late to your birthday dinner. There’s a choice few things a now-cold, twelve dollar New Your Strip can forgive—an assassination. Invasion. Aliens touchdowned in Mission Beach. Christ splitting open the sky for His second coming. And you’ve always been pretty understanding—Pete was a Naval Aviator. He belonged to the Navy. Or, rather—his talents belonged to the Navy.

Long ago he’d confessed that he belonged to you. With thick, deep kisses that made your head spin and your heart nearly flatline between his hands he’d told you that he loved you. That you were it, the only one. The original thing called love. His. You threatened his world, all his best laid plans–if he could do it over, he’d find you first. All such sweet casanova little things that made your blood flare with toe-curling, delicious heat only the greats ever knew. Pete took your breath away, every and any time he even looked at you.

You’d known things could never revert. From the first kiss, from the first time he’d laced his fingers through yours you’d seen smoke in the air. Letting him go was never an option. As if he’d planned it all along, from the jump of that first toothy smile. Knowing twinkle in his eye. It was like a calculated game of chess. And like cats and mice, you played. Loved playing. Wouldn’t ever play with anyone else.

Muscle in his jaw flexing, he chuckles a little. Nervously—like he does when he’s nervous. Taking an easy stance against the door jamb, his foot kicks over the other. Balancing on the toe of his western snips. Adjusting his arm on the door to rest his head in his hand, his eyes search yours. Looking for forgiveness, for any of that familiar love you so easily give. And, you hope he can see the disappointment that’s been flooding between your ribs like a sinking ship all night—you hope he can see the robbed moments. The memories you can’t get back. The missed opportunity, because you’ve been planning this for two weeks.

“Baby, I know I’m late—and I’m so sorry for that, but Goose—” And there it is. The excuse. Prefaced with nothing more than a blush of embarrassment on his face, you know. The world didn’t come to a screaming halt to keep him away from dinner. Nobody burned in. It’s just an excuse, another man-child lame-o reason he didn’t come home.

You’re rolling your eyes and turning away from him before that gut-punch of a smile can shake you all the way down and make you forget the now-cold dinner sitting on the table. Turning on the ball of your foot, you lift a hand as if to stay the explanation. Excuses—he always has them. Maverick is the king of talking himself out of the repercussions for what he talks himself into, you’ve seen it a dozen times. Little changes with Pete Mitchell in the year you’ve been going steady, and it’s becoming a trend.

“Save it, Mav,” your tone barks cold as you stalk into the kitchen, “I really don’t wanna hear it.” The hem of your dress floats around your ankles in such a way that almost burns. Anger skirts through your blood like a jetstream. Waiting to take-off, you slap the dish towel you’d thrown over your shoulder to the counter with a sharp crack! and you hear Mav flinch as he comes soaring into the kitchen.

Pete’s eyes quickly take in the kitchen. “Oh fuck.”

That little muscle in his jaw twitches again. You can see the oh, shit moment on his face as he takes in the scope of dinner—and just what all went into cooking. It’s all his favorites—asparagus. Sweet potatoes, wild rice. New York strip steak grilled to an absolutely perfect medium enough to make even Gordon Ramsey himself smile. Cake and ice cream for dinner, a rare treat considering that Pete never indulged in dessert. You’d intended to coerce him on the couch, straddling those deliciously tight Levis. Asking so sweetly what he thinks about a locked-in recipe that’s been reducing men to gelatinous piles of goo for half a century.

“Yeah, Pete. ‘Oh fuck’.” Your arms cross. “Two weeks—for two weeks I’ve been reminding you of tonight. Begging you not to make plans, asking you to be here. With me. I have spent all day in the kitchen, Mitchell! All fucking day.” Hands finding the counter, you lean slightly over it, brows furrowed into a hard knot. “I turn thirty, one time in my life, Mav. Once. I wanted it to be special—you should’ve been here!” Shouting is the only thing keeping you halfway held together. Emotional tears well like hot acid in your eyes, Maverick’s befuddled features slightly askew. Turning, you heave a sigh and roll your eyes, swiping at the wet.

And it may sound like a selfish argument. It could be. But you don’t care, not really. He should’ve been here, damnit. Home. With you. Not with Goose, not with Viper, sure as shit not with Kazansky or Slider. He should’ve been home, kissing your temple as you swing together on the front porch, watching the sun paint devastatingly stunning colors through the sky over the ocean.

“Baby, I–”

“–no, Pete. No. I don’t want any excuses,” you pout, face exploding with hot color. Working yourself up, you backpedal away from his careful approach, “there aren’t any that’ll make me less pissed at you.” Around the counter, you trip over your own feet. Stumbling, you catch yourself at the counter, trembling hand swiping at the tears now dropping down your cheeks.

And Pete bites the inside of his cheek to try and keep from snorting. You can see his body recoil with the effort of trying not to laugh at your clumsiness. “It’s not funny!” Your voice lifts into a crackled squeak as you slap the counter, “You didn’t even call, Pete Mitchell. You could’ve picked up the damn phone and called!” And he dares to stop, kick to a lean against the island. Slips out of his bomber jacket, and lays it across the counter as easily as anything you’ve ever seen. You don’t miss the ripple of corded muscle as arms fold over that brawny chest of his. “You’re….you’re—”

Immediately, your mouth is emptied of any and all moisture. Finger tapping against his arm, you see him watch you begin to unravel. The hinge of your mouth releases as you try to stumble for the continuation of your rant. And your mouth shifts with unintelligible attempts which only make his smile grow.

“I’m sorry,” twinkle growing in his eye, he steps forward. Which prompts you a step back. “I tried to get away as fast as possible, baby, I hope you can understand that sometime. And you have every right to be pissed off at me,” hands slipping sheepishly into the pockets practically painted on his body, he bites the corner of his bottom lip. Wolfishly, temptingly. “Would it help if I told you I haven’t stopped thinking about you today?”

And all at once the anger in your blood flatlines, running ice cold in your veins. Fading under the way he looks at you, the way his eyes fall over the cut of your hip in this dress. How he studies the details only ever talked about in the pages of fiction. How he fills up every molecule of air in this house in such a way that strangles the sense right out of you. Like the crack of a whip you can’t breathe evenly, the shaking breath that steadies out of your nose hitching just enough to paint flushed color on your face. Mitchell shoots you that smile, the very specific one that shakes you all the way down. You gasp a little.

Panicking, your fingers reach for the first thing they find on the counter that’ll help you win back control of the situation. Heart racehorsing in your chest, you fling asparagus at him like it’s the only thing keeping daylight between the two of you. Bouncing off his face harmlessly, his features twists up at the exact moment you lose your cool with a chest-rattling guffaw.

Hand slapping over your mouth, Pete looks at you. Slack-jaw for all of a few seconds, his flash of mad disappears beneath a quicksilver grin that’s so wild it may as well be fire. Silence bleeds between the two of you, and you try to wrangle your anger back up into your blood—but you don’t get the chance. Pete is already dashing around the corner of the island, hand reaching to pluck your wrist before you can twist away with a girlish squeal.

“I don’t think so, honey,” his tone is playfully rough as he wrestles you into compliance against the counter, feet braced on the floor as he pins your hands behind you, lightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to render your giggling frame all but defenseless as he hovers in your personal space. “You think that’s funny? Launching projectiles at me? I’ll have you know that’s the kind of thing that starts wars in my line of work, sweetheart,” he’s trying not to laugh again. It’s written in the bounce of joy in his eyes, the mock seriousness in his tone.

Leaning in close, his chest brushes against yours as his hands tighten up around yours still pressed behind you. “How about it, sweetheart? You still wanna fight?” The way his eyes flutter to a lusty half mast makes your spine nearly burst into flame, the swirl in the low of your stomach enough to remind you of just how lonely you’ve been today.

“I’m still mad at you,” you hiss between attempts to stop giggling incessantly, “dinner’s cold.”

His brow furrows a little as his gaze skips beyond you. It’s a second before his jaw clamps closed. Then, “Can always warm it,” he concedes, his eyes cutting back to you. “I’m not above reheating a steak made with all the love and attention of a good girl,”

“Kiss ass,” you mutter.

The pout on your face is dramatic. He offers a small, apologetic smile. “You say it like it's a bad thing.”

And it’s out of character for Maverick, who would sooner take a bullet than take a moment of humility, but it’s enough to soften the blade of disappointment still wedged between your ribs. Huffing, your fingers flex a little behind you as you quietly tell him it’s beginning to hurt. Immediately releasing your hands, his float to either of your hips. Jutting his forward a little he gently pins you into place, a thumb rubbing slow, steady circles into the bone of your hip.

Lifting a hand to brush the air from your shoulder, Maverick angles his head a little to brush his lips along the line of your jaw. His nose tickles the soft of your neck as he inhales a sharp, full breath of the vanilla perfume clinging to your skin. And his pleasurable little hum of approval sends goosebumps across your entire body, which bristles as he pulls you forward a little. Snug against all his hard planes, against the cut of him that seems God-inspired for only you. Biting the inside of your cheek, it takes monumental willpower not to allow your head to rest against his.

And before you can get lost in the way he’s open-mouth kissing your neck, he pulls back, takes your chin between his fingers, and pins you with an unreadable look that knocks your heart against your esophagus for a minute. For a second you can’t breathe, and when he lifts his chin a little, you sink a little against the counter.

Reaching beyond you, you hear a pan skitch along the counter. And before you can even think about looking to see what Maverick’s managed into, there’s a dollop of homemade frosting on the tip of your nose. Drawn into a cross-eyed attempt to see it, his smile grows as he licks what’s left on his finger, brows bouncing. Pleased with himself, the low chuckle rumbling around his chest sends a bolt of lightning down the length of your spine.

“—there.” Pleased, he gives a little nod. “For the asparagus. We’re even.” Clucking his tongue, his brow piques to a cavalier you suddenly resent. “Looks good enough to eat.” Oh, no. No way does Maverick get the high ground in this situation. Dinner is ruined because of him—and if he thinks some flirty little looks and some salacious innuendos is enough to undo all your upset, he is dead wrong.

He hasn’t released your chin. But your eyes find the cake, now with a more-than-apparent Maverick line marring it’s beautiful frosting. “So now that we understand each other,” his fingers tighten a little at your chin, and you manage to bite the corner of your lips a bit. “Is it too late for a kiss from the birthday girl?”

Your lids drop to half mast, unphased. “That’s two things that’re too late tonight, Maverick,” stressing the irony of his name never fails to rile him up. Your hand fumbles for a lightning second across the counter, until fingers curl into your birthday cake. You can feel the thick, creamy frosting between your fingers, cake burying under your nails. Perfect.

Plucking a handful of the baked good, you waste no time in smearing it across his face—hard enough to send him backpedaling, but good-naturedly enough to produce an entertained squeal from you. “I guess it’s a happy birthday after all,” your uncontrollable laughter matches the gobsmacked look on Maverick’s face.

“I see how it is,” he nods, popping a fingerful of cake and frosting into his mouth. “Shit, this is good.” Licking his upper lip, his brows bounce as he takes your face between his hands, eyes focused on your mouth for a second before finding yours again. “I love you, babygirl. And I’m sorry. You know that, right?”

“I know that, Pete,” you say quietly, hands slipping down the muscle of his arms, encouraging him to hold you close. “I just wish you’d remember me once in a while while you’re out playing GI Joe with the boys.” Corner of your mouth lifting, he nods his understanding and snorts a little. “Besides, I can’t help but love you when you do stupid shit like this.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Certifiable one, yeah.”

taglist @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @mayhemmanaged @desert-fern @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @chicomonks @dakotakazansky @books-are-escapes @sarahsmi13s @cassiemitchell @lovinglyeternal @bobby-r2d2-floyd @that-one-random-writer @horseshoegirl @lavenderbradshaw @bradleybeachbabe @roosters-girl @footprintsinthesxnd @chaoticassidy @roosterisdaddy36 @callsignharper @hisredheadedgoddess28 @ohgodnotagainn @moonchild-cupcake @aviatorobsessed @kmc1989 @imp-number-3 @spicydisaster14 @thescreamingpeach @your-local-crzy-lady @radical-sky @bisexual-watermelons @mongoosesthings @gothidecorem @philcoulson-redtapeninja @itsgoghtime

#pete maverick mitchell #pete maverick mitchell x reader #top gun #top gun 1986 #top gun imagines #top gun fanfic #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction #tom cruise #maverick mitchell #pete mitchell #answered asks #ask mare #fic writing #maverick x reader

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nimata-beroya · 3 months

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20 Questions For Writers

This was sitting on my notifs for a few days and i finally took the time to do it. Thank my darling @takadasaiko for the tag!! 💕💕

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I have 88 works in total, 31 of which are for Star Wars.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

574,873 words.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently, I'm only writing for Star Wars. But I used to write for Arrow and Supergirl, and ASoIAF, Dark-Hunters and Chronicles of Nick are in standby. I'm waiting for right motivation to come back to any of the last 3.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

I'm only talking about Star Wars fics here...

Kadala (The Mandalorian) [and 4th place in most kudos of all my works]

Rough Awakening (The Bad Batch) [and 5th place in most kudos of all my works]

Welcome to Yavin IV (Rebels)

An Explosive Situation (Rebels)

Rescue on Ryloth (The Bad Batch)

And the the rest of my all-time fics with most kudos are

Take Your Breath Away (Arrow)

Undisclosed Desires (Arrow)

Made For You (ASoIaF/Game of Thrones)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try my best, but sometimes I forget, and then it's been weeks and months since I got the comments that I'm embarrassed to reply them after so long. Even though, I think it's important that a writer let the reader/commenter that they appreciate it, even if it's with a simple "thank you" or an emoji. I know I'm being a hypocrite here since I fail to do what I preach, but it doesn't make it less true.

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I think that would be Drifting, because it's kind of open ending, left to be interpreted, so it could end however the reader wants. Although, I left an author's note at the end saying what's my preferred ending, which always will be inclined to the happy side.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

High Above the Ground because is the happy ending i want for Commander Fox and Riyo Chuchi. They deserve only the best!

8. Do you get hate on your fic?

No, not really. I've gotten only 1 stupid message of someone criticizing a fic, but that was years ago when I still posted on FF dot net. The joke was on the reader because I moderated all the comments there so I just deleted it and nobody saw it but me. Honestly, I just laughed about it cuz their argument was just stupid.

9. Do you write smut?

I do, all kinds -from the most tame thing to the most perverted. But I used to wrote way more in my old fandoms, especially for Arrow. I think for Star Wars I've written just 1 or 2 smutty fics, and tamed at that.

10. Do you write crossovers?

I've tried a couple of occasions but never finished them. I'm not opposed to them obviously, but I do think the combination of fandoms has to be just right to work. Or at least, when it's me doing the writing.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yes! Many, many years ago in the first fandom I ever wrote for. It was awful and hated it! You see, this was in the stone age of the internet when fandom specific sites abounded and not everyone had an account on FFnet yet (and Ao3 was not even a dream). The site I published on was split in 2 sections because the ships war in the fandom was bloody and ruthless, so to avoid the slaughter, I kept myself in my preferred side. But one day, a friend who read fic on both sides told me that someone stole my fics. Avoiding to get caught, the person who did it published them under a pen name that was almost exact to mine, she only added a period at the end, which could easily go unnoticed. Oh, and she interchanged characters names so it'd fit the other ship.

At first, my friend thought I had posted them but she knew I'd never write for that ship, like ever. In the end, it turned out that I wasn't the only one who had being plagiarized. Several people ON BOTH SIDES were. Thankfully, the person was caught and banned, but we almost burned the site down because of the whole shitshow.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

By me, yes, several. All into Spanish (my mother tongue). By others, not that I know of.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

Yes! A couple of times for different fandoms, and I loved it. I hope I'll do it again. The thing is that you need to find the right partner for it, or it can be a nightmare.

14. What‘s your all-time favourite ship?

I don't appreciate this question, let me tell you. It's hard to choose. But I think I have to go with Olicity. I love them still (even if the show ending ruined it for me). Close second would be Braime (and I'm glad that there's still hope for them on the books, because as usual the show fucked them so but sooooo bad)

And as Star Wars specific, I don't think anyone will be surprised if I say it's Kalluzeb, right 🤣 They're my babies and I adore them!

15. What’s the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Anything for Arrow or Supergirl. I sworn off those fandoms after their respectively awful endings.

No promises, but there's still hope for all if my unfinished works for Star Wars 😅

16. What’s your writing strengths?

Coming up with ideas. So, so many ideas. All the time and I want to write them all.

17. What’s your writing weaknesses?

Finishing writing the above-mentioned ideas. I tend to splay myself too much when I'm writing, and it takes me forever to get to the portion I really want to write (usually the idea that sparked the whole writing process) and I lose steam. That's why I have so many unfinished WIPs. I wish they'd write themselves.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

It's ok if used sparingly. A word here, a phrase over there is fine, but if a wall of dialogue that the reader needs to scroll down to the notes or click on a tooltip to find out the meaning it's the worst!!! A better solution for a writer that really needs/wants to have a whole conversation in another language for plot reasons or whatever, then all they need to do is to say once that the characters are talking in the other language and put the dialogue in the same language they've been writing the rest of the narrative and in italic.

The characters who don't speak the language won't understand what's being said, but the reader will and their reading will be more pleasant and fluid.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

An Argentinian show called Floricienta. A modern retelling of Cinderella.

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

I don't like this question either! All my fics are my babies! How do you want me to choose?!! There are so many I'm proud of. I guess I'll point the most recent one: Feed Me Poison, Fill me till I Drown I really like how this story is coming along. It's not done yet (what else is new? 😅) but what's coming is so so good!

Tagging (no pressure): @renee561 @thecoffeelorian @genericficerblog @airlockfailure @mistr3ssquickly @insertmeaningfulusername @fanfictasia

#20 asks for writers #ask game #the mandalorian #the bad batch #sw rebels #kalluzeb #braime #foxiyo #mare writes star wars #and other things #olicity #long post

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doll3tt33 · 3 months

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Idk if anyone here has watched black mirror before, but there’s this one episode ‘hang the DJ’, which is basically about some AI dating program that pairs you up but puts an expiration date on each relationship.

I’m not gonna spoil anything but I HIGHLY recommend it cuz it’s SO DAMN ROMANTIC(( THE ENDING ITS THE ENDING 😭😭 I wanna make a bot based on it, but the practically nonexistent memory capacity of the bot will ruin the story, and now I’m thinking of writing a fic instead but idk how ughhhjsjsm

#I have this idea in mind with Colin #I’m sure you guys can tell I’ve been craving to write about him anyways spoilers ahead in the tags #Like how am I supposed to get this out of my head??#The concept of being tied to this person in each and every alternate universe?!?#AND ALWAYS BEATING THE SYSTEM IN THE NAME OF LOVE THOUSANDS OF TIMES OVER 😭#colin zabel x reader #colin zabel x you #Colin Zabel #colin zabel smut #mare of easttown #ahs #american horror story #ahs fandom #evan peters

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jadore-andor · 14 days

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more allaegon prompts, because i'm insatiable

❛ i would let you rip me apart if it meant loving you. ❜ & ❛ worship me. until i tell you to stop. ❜

laskjdhflkjasdf thank you for loving them with such ferocity 🥺

and thank you for turning this into something worthy of sharing (and the banner)

RATING: M (fade to black sexual themes)

Allana's fingers trembled, struggling to undo the tightly knotted laces that held the bust of her dress in place. Though she tried to slow it, her breath came in sharp pants, her ribs expanding and contracting painfully beneath the whalebone that bit at her sides. Her exhale was shaky, exasperated, and she fisted her hands in frustration.

Aegon stepped forward, as if the shadows themselves melted around him, parting for him, his voice low with desire as he watched her struggle. "Here, let me take care of that."

His fingertips were rough against the silk as he effortlessly untangled the knot, letting the strings dangle as he met her gaze. She was overwhelmed by his closeness, by the way the candlelight danced over his soft features, the faintest hint of honeyed wine on his breath enticing her, her knees threatening to give out. His touch was surprisingly delicate as he traced his knuckles along her cheek, placing a lingering kiss to the corner of her lips. As he trailed from her mouth to her neck, a soft sigh escaped her, and her eyes drifted shut. She tangled a shaky hand in his hair, anchoring herself in the moment.

"I suppose I'm a bit nervous," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, and for once she did not resent the nerves that bubbled to the surface. His breath was hot as it danced across her shoulder, his lips leaving tingles in their wake.

“We don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready for.” He kissed her again, long and deep, catching her bottom lip between his teeth and pulling softly, his teeth gently worrying at her flesh. “I’m happy just to kiss you until your ladies send a search party.”

With a laugh, Allana melted into his touch, her body responding with a sense of ease, the nerves dissipating like smoke through a sieve. She couldn't resist playfully tugging at his silver locks, pulling him to meet her gaze.

He was a sight to behold. To Allana, he was the most beautiful man in the realm. Though the dark circles gave him years beyond his own, his lilac eyes still held a mischievous glint, a reminder of the boy he once was.

"Am I mistaken, or is Aegon Targaryen attempting to portray himself as a chaste gentleman?" She pretended to swoon, placing her hand over her heart in mock disbelief. His own hands gripped her hip and pulled her against him, so close that she could feel the unmistakable hardness of his length against her thigh.

“You said yourself, the maids talk.” He twisted a scarlet curl between his fingers, his nose playfully bumping against hers. Then, his tone serious, he whispered, “I don’t want to ruin you.”

“I would let you rip me apart if it meant loving you,” Allana said, catching his gaze in earnest, brushing the tip of her nose against his. “In truth, you ruined me for anyone else a long time ago.”

Aegon kissed her then, their mouths colliding with little finesse in a passionate tangle of tongues and teeth, and he effortlessly guided her backward toward the bed. He pressed her against the soft sheets, his arms creating a protective cage around her head, and he kissed her again. She felt like she was floating, lightning dancing across her skin as if to chase after his touch before settling in her core. She whimpered, her lips pressed to his, and arched her hips to meet him.

Without breaking their kiss, Aegon gently pulled at her skirts, exposing her soft, creamy thighs, and laid his body against hers. With a determined pull, he unraveled the laces of her bodice, freeing her from her corset and revealing the delicate fabric of her chemise hiding the supple skin beneath. Hooking a leg over his hip, he pressed himself against her, his hands gliding over her body, squeezing gently as he went. His mouth was hot and wet, sucking bruises into the skin of her collarbone, trailing down, down, and stopping at the swell of her breast.

He looked up at her, pupils blown black with lust. “Tell me what you would have me do, Allana.” Closing the distance between them without waiting for an answer, he pressed his lips to hers once more, his hand reaching up to brush her hair from her forehead as he gazed down at her.

“Worship me,” she whispered, barely able to speak around the emotion and the magnitude of the moment, her heart fluttering, a bird trapped beneath her ribs. “Until I tell you to stop.”

The grin that pulled at his face was feral. “Gladly.”

taglist: @acrossthesestars, @dragonsbone, @emilykaldwen, @arrthurpendragon, @lightblindingme

other: @ocappreciation, @fyeahhotdocs

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dystopicjumpsuit · 6 months

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Martyrs and Kings AND ZOMBIES!!!

A/N: I'm so excited to share this spooky, sexy one-shot sequel to Martyrs and Kings! I've been planning this fic for months, and I hope y'all love it. Quick note: obviously, this fic contains spoilers for M&K; however, it was beta-read by my partner who has not (yet) read the original fic, and they said it worked as a stand-alone story, so if you haven't read M&K yet and don't mind spoilers, read on!

This fic is dedicated to the amazing @clonemedickix in gratitude for all the love and support that you've shown me and so many others in the fandom. Thank you so much for everything you do, and particularly thank you for your feedback on the field medicine. You are a rock star!

One final caveat: I am a horror wimp, but I did my best. Please don't expect Stephen King 💜

Pairing: Post-stasis Kix x OFC Dr. Maree Finnall

Rating: M (minors DNI)

Wordcount: 5k (this just made M&K 10% longer lol)

Warnings and tags: peril; suspense; violence; blood and injury; gore; medical procedures; adult language; SMUT; oral sex; face-sitting; Kix activating my competence kink like no other. IMPORTANT: an additional content warning is listed at the end of the fic due to spoilers. If you have triggers, please check the end of the fic for the BOLD PINK TEXT before reading.

Summary: The crew of the Meson Martinet goes after the score of a lifetime and discover that they may have bitten off more than they can chew.

Suggested listening:

Martyrs and Kings chapter 1 | Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

“B1.5-series battle droids are a myth,” Kix said firmly. “You’re wasting your time.”

“The good doctor doesn’t share your opinion,” Quiggold argued.

Sidon Ithano, as usual, said nothing, his crimson helmet swiveling slowly toward Maree. Kix turned to her as well, his jaw set, his eyes full of confidence that she would back him up. Kriff it. She absolutely hated being caught in the middle of this argument.

She cleared her throat. “There’s… some debate in the academic community about their existence, actually. If they ever were created, they were never deployed at any recorded battle—and it’s a good thing, too.”

“Why is that, exactly?” Reeg Brosna asked.

He was sprawled on the bench of the dinette, his arm draped around Orys Brenko as the research assistant perked up immediately.

“Is it true that they used nanodroids to retrofit original B1-series droids?” Brenko asked, his face flushing dark green with excitement.

“That is one theory,” Maree said circumspectly, keenly aware of Kix’s scrutiny. “According to contemporary sources—and noting that those sources are unreliable at best—the B1.5s had significantly upgraded blaster resistance. There was another rumor as well, even less credible.”

“What rumor?” Reveth interrupted, leaning forward over the table, drawing Ithano’s attention subtly.

“They said the B1.5s could keep going even if you blasted their processors,” Kix cut in before Maree could reply. “It was a stupid story the commandos made up to scare the shinies.”

“But what if it wasn’t?” Brosna asked. “Indestructible battle droids? They’d be worth a fortune.”

“Even if they don’t exist, the haul from a Techno Union stronghold could set us up for life,” Reveth pointed out. “I say we go after it.”

Squeaky grunted his agreement, predictably. The Gamorrean was always guaranteed to follow the pretty Twi’lek’s lead. Reveth could have suggested a nude spacewalk, and Squeaky would have thought it was a grand idea. Brosna and Brenko voted in favor as well. Kix voted against, and Maree did as well, purely out of solidarity. Privately, she was consumed with curiosity about the B1.5s, and she couldn’t deny that the possibility of such a groundbreaking discovery was alluring in the extreme.

Quiggold voted in favor, and Ithano abstained, and so it was decided: the crew would send a team to scout the Techno Union stronghold, and if they found anything worthwhile, the rest of Ithano’s small fleet would join them.

“We’re gonna need your expertise, Doc,” Reveth said to Maree.

“Absolutely not,” Kix snapped.

Maree glanced at him in surprise. It was unlike him to try to overrule her choice, and she didn’t care for it. “Reveth is right, Kix. I’ll be able to identify the highest-value items, and I have a good idea of what’s in demand.”

Kix looked away, clearly unhappy, but recognizing that he’d overstepped. “Fine. But if you’re going, I’m going, too.”

“We’ll need you to stay and command the fleet from the Scorpion while the captain is away,” Quiggold interjected.

“Fuck that,” Kix growled. “Brosna is my first mate—he can take command from the Scorpion. When it comes to Maree’s safety, I outrank everyone on this ship.”

“Brosna doesn’t have the experience—” Quiggold began.

“Agreed,” Ithano said, his deep voice cutting through the buzz of conversation and debate in the Martinet’s galley. “Quiggold, command the fleet from the Martinet. Brosna, take the Scorpion. Reveth, Squeaky, you’re with us.”

The captain’s decision was final, and within a few hours, Kix, Maree, Reveth, Squeaky, and Ithano had boarded the Scorpion’s shuttle Stinger and departed for the desolate moon where the Techno Union base had sat untouched for over fifty years.

“Fifty credits says we find nothing,” Kix said.

“I’ll take that bet,” Reveth replied.

Squeaky grunted his agreement. Ithano said nothing.

“Maree, you want in on this action?” Reveth asked.

“Kix and I have a private bet on the side,” Maree said with a mischievous twinkle as Kix shot her an inscrutable look.

Reveth smirked. “Sounds like fun.”

“Oh, it will be,” Maree replied. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of crimson as Ithano moved through the shuttle. On impulse, she leaned in and whispered in Reveth’s ear cone.

Reveth’s eyes widened as her mechanical hand instinctively settled on Maree’s waist. “Damn. You and Kix want a third for that?”

Ithano’s helmet whipped to the side as he suddenly became very interested in the conversation. Maree suppressed a laugh.

“What do you think, Kix?” Maree asked with faux innocence. “Can Reveth play with us?”

Kix eyed her with a perfectly neutral expression that warned Maree he knew exactly what she was up to. “You gotta win that bet if you want to call the shots.”

“You’re on,” Maree replied immediately.

Ithano’s helmet swiveled from Maree, to Reveth, to Kix, and back to Reveth, but he said nothing. Kix merely turned back to the navigation controls and continued to pilot the shuttle toward their destination.

The old Techno Union stronghold was on a remote, swampy moon, and the dense vegetation had grown thickly over the past five decades. Kix was forced to set the shuttle down several klicks from the decrepit base. He didn’t like it. He didn’t kriffing like any of this. It was too far; they’d be too exposed; their progress would be too slow in the mud. He glanced at Maree and felt his anxiety spike.

How the kark am I supposed to protect her out there?

He double-checked her gear as she suited up, adjusting the fit of her holster for a quicker draw. He quickly inspected her blaster before handing it to her.

“What’s going on?” she asked quietly. “You’re on edge.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have a good feeling about this mission.”

“It’s not the first time we’ve gone into one of these old strongholds,” she pointed out. “We’ll be okay.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. You’re right. Just… Keep your eyes open.”

“I will,” she promised. “And I know you’ll watch my back. Just like I’ll watch yours.”

He traced his fingertips along her jaw as he pulled her closer to himself. He couldn’t feel her soft warmth through his armor, but her nearness felt comforting regardless. He kissed her gently, threading his fingers through the hair that she wore in loose braids.

She looked so different now than she had the first time he’d met her two years earlier; her elegant wardrobe replaced with sturdy, practical clothing meant to withstand rough field work and the occasional blaster fight. But underneath, she still smelled like tea and honey and home. She was still the same—still his Maree.

“If you’re finished sucking the lips off her face, can we get going?” Reveth teased. “Droids aren’t gonna find themselves.”

Despite Kix’s misgivings, the trek to the derelict base was uneventful. Squeaky stayed with the shuttle in case they needed a quick extraction, while Ithano, Reveth, and Maree hacked their way through the underbrush along with Kix. It was slow going, and the swamp was creepy as hell, but eventually they made it to the plastcrete and durasteel structure.

There was no power to the base, so they cut their way through the sealed exterior blast doors. Once inside, the group fell silent as they made their way through the dusty, cobwebbed hallways. The base was pitch black inside, illuminated only by their own torches, and once again, Kix felt the simmering anxiety in his gut begin to roil.

“Something’s been living in here,” Reveth muttered, training the beam of her flashlight on a tangle of debris that was unmistakably a nest for something… large.

Kix didn’t respond, but he reached out and pulled Maree closer to himself, then drew one of his DC-17s. Ithano brought up the rear, his blaster rifle ready.

“Control center should be just ahead,” Maree whispered. “Reveth might be able to restore power from there.”

“We’ll be karked if she can’t,” Kix replied quietly.

“Happy thoughts, Kix,” Maree murmured.

Right. Happy thoughts. Spiced biscuits. Unlimited bacta. Maree’s tits. More credits than I’ve ever seen in my life. The Scorpion. Weapons caches. Maree’s thighs. Maree’s thighs on my shoulders. Maree’s thighs framing my face while she rides—uh, weapons caches.

“Control center,” Reveth called under her breath as she reached a sealed doorway.

They pried it open enough to squeeze through. Kix went first, sweeping his light across the room as he scanned for threats. Reveth followed, then Maree and Ithano. Reveth headed straight for the control console and plugged in her small power unit and began to fiddle with the controls.

“Happy thoughts,” Kix mumbled, returning to the doorway to keep watch over the pitch-dark corridor.

Within a few moments, Reveth let out a quiet, triumphant huff as the control console flickered to life, dimly illuminating the room. She went to work immediately, interfacing her datapad with the ancient console.

“Damn. Main power cells are depleted,” she said. “I’ll try to at least get emergency lighting turned on.”

“Why would the power be depleted if the base has been abandoned for decades?” Maree asked. “The Techno Union had extraordinarily advanced power cells that were capable of storing energy far longer.”

“Unless something used it,” Reveth said.

Kix swiveled his head to stare at the Twi’lek.

“Like what?” he bit out.

She shrugged. “Dunno. But we might find out as soon as I get the data decrypted.”

A distant, deep hum sounded, and red light flickered on throughout the base.

“Nicely done,” Maree told Reveth.

“Let’s get the data and get the kriff out of here,” Kix growled, hating every minute of their time in the farking spooky base.

“Working on it,” Reveth snapped. “Think you can do it faster?”

Ithano glanced between Kix and Reveth, then moved to join Kix at the doorway, blaster rifle raised. “What is it?”

“Not sure,” Kix replied quietly. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

Ever reticent, Ithano merely nodded and took up position across from him. Kix nodded in silent gratitude that the pirate captain didn’t question his instincts. Then again, the Crimson Corsair hadn’t survived this long by ignoring his gut.

Kix’s eyes darted to Maree again. She leaned over the console, scrolling rapidly through the data files, searching for any hint of the information they sought. He turned back toward the hallway, his eyes scanning it watchfully.

“No kriffin’ way,” Maree gasped.

“What?” Kix and Reveth demanded in unison.

“You just lost a bet, my love,” Maree told Kix.

“Wait, really?” Reveth asked. “It’s real?”

“‘Project Ophio,’” Maree read, her voice low and hurried. “Principal investigator Vamb Tebrem. Project number T327H1138X99. Primary focus of study is to develop experimental NM-K reconstitutors with the purpose of enhancing the durability and combat acumen of extant B-1 series assets…” Her voice trailed off as she leaned closer to the console, flicking through the data hurriedly. “Project director reported a 62% success rate in the initial efficacy trial; however the experimental reconstitutors were prohibitively expensive to manufacture, and the unpredictability observed in field tests was not adequately resolved—what field tests?”

“You catch any of that?” Reveth asked Kix.

He shrugged. Maree’s voice had dropped to an inaudible murmur as she scrolled through the data, then opened another data file. A quiet chime sounded from the console, drawing Reveth’s attention.

A glowing hologram appeared over the console: wave after wave of battle droids locked in combat a group of clone commandos who should have been able to easily defeat the B-1s. But the droids just kept going. Nothing could stop their advance as they overwhelmed the commandos’ positions and tore them to pieces. Kix swallowed hard, hearing the screams of the dying commandos, unable to take his eyes off the hologram. Maree slapped a button on the console and the sound paused abruptly as the holo froze.

“Holy kark,” she breathed.

“What?” Reveth asked. “Is that not normal?”

“No,” Kix said grimly. “We need to get out of here.”

“Uh, about that…” Reveth said.

Ithano swiveled his head toward the Twi’lek. “What?”

“Opening that holofile triggered an alert in the system,” Reveth said. “Hopefully it’s nothing?”

“Time to go,” Kix growled.

“Yeah,” Maree said, her voice shaky. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“At least let me download the records,” Reveth argued, jamming a data spike into the console.

They all froze as a distant but unmistakable crash echoed through the base, followed by a rhythmic thumping.

“What is that?” Maree whispered.

“Clankers,” Kix said grimly, drawing his second blaster. “Seal the blast doors.”

“We’ll be trapped in here!” Reveth objected.

Maree stared at Kix. “Can’t we make it out before—”

A light flashed, and her body jerked as a blaster bolt smashed into her. She went down hard, and Kix barely had time to register what was happening before a firestorm of blaster bolts exploded into the room. He whirled back to the entrance and returned fire at the wave of battle droids that was advancing at high speed toward his position. Ithano was firing as fast as he could, but the droids weren’t dropping.

“Get those kriffing doors sealed!” Ithano bellowed.

Reveth had ducked down behind the console for cover as Maree scrambled to join her out of the line of fire. Reveth frantically worked the controls from her position on the floor, but she wasn’t fast enough. A single droid made it through before the doors slammed shut. The clanking and pounding of the army of droids battering against the blast doors was deafening. The lone battle droid charged across the command center.

“Kill it!” Kix shouted. “Fuckin’ kill it!”

Reveth, Ithano, and Kix unleashed a torrent of blaster bolts, but the karking thing wouldn’t go down, even as its components began to fail and fly off its body. It was headed for the console. It was headed toward Maree. Desperately, Kix launched himself at its mangled, skeletal form, tackling it as he locked his arms around and tore its head off with a sickening screech of twisting metal.

But the fucking thing kept moving, shambling toward the console. Kix growled and yanked out his vibroblade, slashing through the droid’s joints until nothing remained but a pile of scrap, and then he sprinted toward Maree, launching himself over the control console.

“Maree!” Kix yelled hoarsely.

Her face was sweaty and contorted with pain as she clutched her hand around her upper arm, but she gave him a tight smile. “I’m all right.”

The blaster hole in her jacket sleeve was still smoking, and Kix felt sick as he saw blood covering her hand, oozing from a wound that should have been cauterized by the plasma bolt.

“Let me see,” he ordered.

She moved her hand, and he cut the sleeve away quickly, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Oh, fuck, it’s bad. It’s bad, and I don’t have my kit.

“We have to get out of here,” Reveth rasped.

Kix dug frantically through his pouches, finding only a few small bacta patches and a vial of spray bandage. He didn’t have a choice. It would have to do, at least until they could make it back to the Stinger.

He shoved the jacket sleeve and vibroblade toward Reveth. “Cut that into strips. Wide ones.”

He drenched the blaster wound with spray bandage, then grabbed the first strip Reveth cut from the jacket sleeve and quickly tied it around Maree’s arm near her shoulder. “Do you have a stylus on you?”

“Always,” Maree said, her voice tense with pain. She pulled the stylus out of her pocket and handed it to him, carefully avoiding looking at the charred, bloody wound. “Why is it bleeding so much?”

Kix tied the ends of the cloth strip around the stylus and twisted to tighten the makeshift tourniquet, securing it as he replied in an artificially calm tone. “Sometimes it happens. Move just wrong—the cauterized scab opens—blood.”

He ripped open the bacta patches and arranged them carefully over the injury, covering it as well as he could before wrapping the rest of the fabric strips around them to secure them in place. Finally, he looked up into her eyes, inadvertently smearing her own blood on her cheek as he cupped her face.

“I’m not losing you today.” His words were firm, but tremor in his hands was undeniable, and his pulse thundered in his ears.

She smiled at him through dry, ashen lips, and he kissed her forehead, then helped her carefully to her feet. Reveth had pulled up a schematic of the base, and Ithano joined them at the console, pausing to squeeze Kix’s shoulder briefly.

“We don’t die so easily,” the captain said in his deep, rasping voice.

“Not today, anyway,” Reveth cut in. “I found an escape route.”

“Please tell me it’s not the ventilation shaft,” Maree said unsteadily.

“It’s always the ventilation shaft,” Reveth replied.

Maree’s shoulder screamed with agony as she crawled through the ventilation shaft. She gritted her teeth to hold back the whimper of pain that hovered at the base of her throat. The ventilation shaft was filthy and cramped, and their progress was torturously slow as they navigated as silently as possible to their destination. The conduit wouldn’t take them all the way out of the base, so they would have to make a run for the main entrance when they got close. The only way they stood a chance of escaping was to not draw the attention of the battle droids.

She followed Kix through the labyrinthine ductwork, crawling laboriously on her knees and one hand. Her injured arm had burned like fire when Kix first applied the tourniquet, but now her arm was completely numb—and equally useless. At last, they found the access hatch to the main corridor. Kix dropped down first, and then Maree realized exactly how difficult this was going to be with only one functional arm.

“Just drop,” he whispered. “I’ll catch you.”

She took a deep breath and slid out of the maintenance hatch, feet first. Panic flashed in her mind briefly as she plummeted through the air, but Kix was true to his word, catching her before she could hit the ground. He set her down quickly and checked to make sure her bandage was still in place as first Reveth and then Ithano dropped down into the corridor.

They sprinted for the exit. Maree’s lungs burned and her vision blurred around the edges as she gasped for breath. Kix looked back at her sharply and reached for her hand, dragging her along behind him. By some miracle, the droids hadn’t detected them yet, and she could see the main entrance of the base. She forced herself to keep running, even as she stumbled and nearly went down, kept upright only by Kix’s strong grasp.

He tugged her arm over his shoulder and wrapped his arm around her waist to support her, but he didn’t slow his pace. “We have to keep going, love. We can’t stop now.”

“I know,” she wheezed. “So close…”

She could hear the clanking of droids behind them, and she pushed herself as hard as she ever had in her life to keep running. They cleared the entrance, and Reveth tossed a few magnetized thermal detonators onto the ceiling of the base.

Keep running, don’t stop, keep going.

The explosion knocked them off their feet, but the rubble of the collapsed ceiling blocked the main entrance. It wouldn’t hold back the droids for long, but it bought them time—so long as they kept moving. Kix was up first, pulling Maree with him as Reveth and Ithano scrambled to their feet.

They ran for the trees as Reveth commed Squeaky. “We need a pickup, now!”

“He can’t get to us in the jungle!” Kix said. “We have to find a clearing where the shuttle can land.”

They dodged through the trees, trying to avoid the worst of the swampy ground, but the dense underbrush slowed their progress and steered them on a circuitous route. Out of the corner of her eye, Maree saw movement in the earth. The ground shifted and began to swell.

“What the kriff is that?” she demanded.

“Keep running, don’t look back,” Kix urged.

“No, what is that?” she repeated.

She saw a flash of pale, bonelike metal alloy, and then a battle droid erupted from the earth.

“Fuck!” she screamed.

All around them, the skeletal forms of B1.5 droids began to emerge from the swampy ground, punching their way to the surface and dragging themselves up from the mud. Kix released Maree and drew both of his blasters, opening fire without hesitation. Maree, Reveth, and Ithano followed suit, for all the good it did them. The droids simply wouldn’t go down; even if they took so many hits that they started to fall apart, they still somehow shambled on in a grotesque parody of their normal precise movement.

They had no choice but to keep running and hope that they could at least slow some of the droids down. She could hear the roar of the shuttle overhead, but the vegetation was too dense for Squeaky to pick them up. The Gamorrean’s indistinct, frantic squealing sounded from Reveth’s comlink.

“He said there’s a clearing about a klick southwest!” Reveth yelled.

It might as well be on the other side of the planet, Maree thought hopelessly. There were simply too many droids; they were advancing relentlessly, and the terrain was too hostile to cross it with any speed. Holy shit, we’re all going to die here.

Her mind darted to the holorecord of the field test—a kriffing gruesome euphemism for such carnage. It had been a complete massacre. The terrified screams of the commandos as the droids tore them to pieces; the spray of blood and viscera: the images were branded irrevocably in her memory. It was a horrific way to die, and they were about to find out firsthand.

Panic clawed at her, closing her throat and making her shots go wild. Her legs felt sluggish, and her feet became unsteady, but Kix never let her fall, even as he fired ceaselessly at the pursuing droids.

“We’re almost there,” he grunted. “Keep running, sweetheart, you can do it.”

“Kix, go,” Ithano ordered. “Get her to the Stinger.”

“No!” Maree exclaimed. “We’re not leaving you!”

Kix ignored her protests, bending over and tossing her over his shoulder as he ran. His plastoid armor cut into her thighs and belly, and she squirmed to try to get away.

“Put me down! Go back!”

Kix ignored her and raced for the clearing where the shuttle hovered just above the ground, ready to take off as soon as the crew were safely aboard. He dropped Maree in the copilot seat and turned to Squeaky.

“Don’t let her follow me.”

He sprinted to the back of the shuttle and jumped out, making for the treeline.

“Kix!” she screamed, lurching out of her seat.

Squeaky didn’t hesitate. He thrust her back into the chair with a stern grunt, then secured the safety harness to make sure she didn’t try to run again. She could hear blaster fire and shouting outside the ship, and she tugged desperately at the harness. Squeaky grunted again to order her to take control of the ship, and he lumbered toward the rear hatch, blaster ready.

Her heart hammered as she took the controls. Please, please, please. The distraught prayer echoed in her mind, silently beseeching the Force. I can’t lose him. Not like this. She felt utterly helpless as the deafening roar of Squeaky’s blaster fire pounded through the ship. Mercifully, she soon heard the pounding of boots on durasteel, and then Ithano launched into the pilot’s seat and punched the controls, hurtling the shuttle away from the planet.

“Kix?” she asked frantically.

“I’m here,” he said, dropping to his knees next to Maree’s chair and wrapping his arms around her. “I’m here.”

“I’m here, too, thanks for askin’,” Reveth said as she flopped into her seat.

Kix stood and quickly released the safety harness, tugging Maree out of the chair and burying his face against her neck.

“Holy kark, I can’t believe we all made it out,” Reveth said. “I was sure Maree was toast.”

Maree laughed, and Kix glared at the Twi’lek. “Not kriffin’ funny.”

“It’s kinda funny,” Reveth insisted.

Kix shook his head and drew Maree out of the cockpit and back to the tiny med bay at the rear of the shuttle. “Med bay” was putting it generously; it was really just a bunk and a large emergency medkit, but it had everything he needed to treat her shoulder. He administered a stim shot, cleaned and redressed her wound, and removed the tourniquet. He worked efficiently, and she didn’t see any of the distress that had clouded his eyes back at the base—of course, they weren’t fending off a horde of unkillable zombie droids this time, either.

“What’s the verdict, doctor?” she asked with a tiny smile.

He stroked his fingers over her forearm gently. “You’ll live. Gonna have a kickass scar, too.”

“Will you kiss it better?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

He smiled wryly as he leaned in and pressed his lips softly against hers. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I’ll do my best. At least I’m finally going to have an exciting story to tell Baba and Eema.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, kriff, your mothers are going to kill me!”

The Stinger docked with the Meson Martinet first, and Squeaky, Reveth, and Ithano disembarked, then Kix piloted the shuttle to his own ship, the Scorpion. Brenko and Brosna were waiting next to the airlock when Kix and Maree emerged from the shuttle.

“Well, did you find the B1.5s?” Brosna asked.

“Yeah,” Kix replied grimly.

“Ha!” Brosna laughed triumphantly. “Pay up, Captain!”

“You’re still acting captain,” Kix retorted. “Now get your ass back up to the bridge until I relieve you.”

“Wait, you’re not taking command right now?” Brosna asked.

“Nope,” Kix replied, dragging Maree to their quarters.

The door hissed shut behind them, and Kix slapped the control panel to lock it. He was on Maree instantly, devouring her in a searing kiss as he unzipped and pulled off her jacket, carefully avoiding the large bandage on her shoulder. Once he had her top removed, he dropped his mouth to her throat and kissed a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her body as he knelt in front of her.

His hands roved over her urgently, clutching her body close to him. She tangled her fingers in his hair as he tugged down her trousers, and then he plunged his tongue into her ravenously. Her body jerked, and she cried out, losing her balance. He caught her with ease, then pulled her toward the bed.

“Kix,” she panted. “Don’t you at least want to get naked?”

“I can’t wait,” he groaned. “Sit on my face.”

“Oh, fuck,” she gasped.

“I’m planning to,” he said, lying on his back. “On my face. Now.”

She knelt, hovering over his mouth, staring down into his eyes. He gazed back up at her, sliding his hands up her waist to cup her breasts, before dropping them to her thighs and yanking her body downward.

“Kriff!” she exclaimed as his tongue slid deeply into her cunt, then his lips closed around her clit.

He held her in place as he feasted on her, his groans vibrating against her sensitive flesh. The sensation was overwhelming. She writhed, nearly toppling over, then leaned back to brace her hands on his ribcage. He ate her like he was starving, like she was the last thing he would ever taste, and he fully intended to savor every drop.

“Kix—fuck—gods—” she moaned, her hips finding a subtle rhythm even as his strong hands gripped her, preventing her from moving more than a few centimeters.

He murmured quietly against her in between the kisses and licks and nibbles—soft, nearly inaudible whispers of fear and adoration and lust. “... taste so fucking good… love you so much… thought I was going to lose you… never letting go… so kriffin’ scared… want you so bad…”

He released her thigh and reached his hand around to massage her clit. All the muscles in her core began to tense as pleasure spooled tightly in her body, but her orgasm remained tantalizingly just out of reach. She leaned back, groping blindly for his cock. She fumbled with his belt and eventually just slid her hand beneath the waistband until she wrapped her fingers around his rigid shaft.

He grunted at the contact, his hips thrusting up off the mattress. His hand strayed away from her clit to press his palm flat against her lower belly, and pressure was exactly what she needed. She convulsed with a sob, and he redoubled his efforts, tongue-fucking her through her orgasm. Distantly, she felt the thrusting of his cock against her hand, and then a rush of hot, sticky cum on her fingers.

She crumpled to the bed, and he pulled her tightly against him, kissing the backs of her thighs as she slowly came back to herself. After a few moments, he shifted, curling up behind her, tucking his thighs behind her legs as he drew her body close to his and buried his face in her hair.

“I love you,” she murmured.

He kissed the side of her neck, just behind her ear, dragging his tongue slowly across her skin as he slid his hand up to play with her breast. “Love you. Never scare me like that again.”

She laughed quietly. “Aye, aye, Cap’n. What’s gotten into you, anyway? You were acting protective before we even left the Martinet.”

He lay silently for a moment, breathing in the scent of her hair, before he replied. “You’re late.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re… your cycle, it’s like clockwork. And—you’re late,” he said hoarsely.

She swallowed. “Oh.”

The original comic panel that inspired this story! This was from Star Wars Adventures Ashcan. Alas, this comic was never published, so I am once again filling in the gaps in canon.

ADDITIONAL CONTENT WARNING: mention of possible pregnancy.

#clone medic kix #post stasis kix #pirate kix #meson martinet #sidon ithano #reveth #oc: maree finnall #star wars #clone wars #star wars fanfiction #clone wars fanfic #martyrs and kings #dystopicjumpsuit writes #Spotify

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poarkchop · 3 months

Text

No Mare's Land

MLP AU Part Two - Pinkie Pie (Laughter)

Pre-Conflict. (Happy. Bubbly personality. Pet Alligator.) STATUS: Alive and Well.

(MENTIONS OF WAR/DEATH/SCARS UNDER CUT)

During War; Optimistic. (Trying her best to keep her chin up. Where's Gummy? And who's bag is that? Broke her leg somehow.) STATUS: Alive.

During War; Pessimistic. (Aggressive. Cautious and Defensive. Significantly less pink.) STATUS: Alive.

Pinkie found herself in the middle of a forest. She realized her left hind leg was in some way twisted and broken. She couldn't put any weight on it. She learned to walk without it and explored her surroundings. The forest wasn't anything she was familar with, but she was hoping to find any sort of civilization. She called out to her friends, Gummy, anypony who came across her mind.. but no one ever came. She always could hear screams from afar, but she could never get to their origins in time to find anypony who was still alive.

At first, she tried keeping high spirits. Any moment now she'd stumble across some group of safe, unscathed, peaceful ponies and she'd be able to stay with them until her leg healed and was healthy enough to find her way back home.. at least, that what she would tell herself.

That day never came for Pinkie Pie. She slowly came to the realization that she was in the middle of nowhere, no one alive nor willing to help her. She was scared. So, so scared. She would walk for hours on end and would only scrounge up so much food. She survived off the sparse berries and fruit in the area. She had to learn the hard way what was edible and what was not.

Pinkie Pie had lost the volume in her mane as she trudged along. Her coat became dull and dirty. The only thing on her mind was surviving, no matter how difficult things got. Her friends needed her after all, otherwise who'd throw their parties? That is, if they were still alive.

The uncertainty of the situation made her heart shatter. Some days, she wished she was back home with her friends, and on other days, she bet they'd turn their backs on her anyway. She'd fall into bouts of paranoia or hysteria frequently in her travels. She missed her friends. She missed her family. She missed Gummy.

Along the way, she managed to collect a few items she thought were worth keeping; a bag, a weapon, and a few bits. From every deceased group of ponies she found, she'd get some sort of food and a warning not to follow their path.

Every now and then she'd come across another pony. Unfortunately for Pinkie, these ponies were always a foe, not a friend. Pinkie quickly learned that the best way to survive was not to give a pony the benefit of the doubt.

Pinkie Pie does what she has to in order to stay alive.

#my little pony au #no mare's land #mlp au #mlp infection au #mlp #pinkie pie #pinkamina diane pie #equestria #au #art #drawing #artists on tumblr #sketch #poarkchopsfunfunartgallery #digital art #commissions are open #blehh the writing on this one kinda sucks but i didnt wanna make it too long >_<

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moumouton4 · 1 year

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could u write a blurb ab Thomas (TMR) x reader? something along the lines of them falling in love at first sight at the bonfire? - emmy

tyty, i <3 ur writing

Like Struck By A Lightning || Thomas x reader

A/n : I'm so happy of this request 🥞 Also my requests are open as always so let me know if you have any ideas 💎

Masterlist ⚜

Warning : None just fluff 😌🌺

Summary : You're falling love at first sight with our favorite brunette

I don’t give permission to repost my work, if you want to share it just reblogue it

Word count : 802

A month has passed since he arrived in the glade. And like every month, a new greenie was going to arrive. But he didn't know that, because he was on patrol with Minho and the others, because in spite of his arrival, which could not be described as flamboyant, he knew how to make a place for himself in the exploration group. To everyone's surprise he was an excellent runner

Anyway, back to you. You are cowering in the corner of the metal cage that brought you up there. As it finally opens, letting the sunlight dazzle you. A blond headed boy jumps into the cage and extends a friendly hand to you. You can take it and get out of the shadows

You didn't miss the shock in his eyes as he introduced himself to you "Hello I'm Newt- you're a girl ?!?" you shyly took his hand and walked out of the cage with him to the cheers of the boys which turned into exclamations of surprise. Some were better at hiding their surprise than others "A GIRL ! IN THE GLADE !" "Gally your alcohol is way too strong I think I'm seeing things..."

After the surprise, everyone introduced themselves - which took a long time, but it was so uncommon they had too - and finally they went back to their duties

You spent the day with Newt who turned out to be a good guide and an even better friend for you who had just arrived. He explained to you that a welcome party would be held near the bonfire and that you would meet the people who were not there when you arrived because they were in the labyrinth

The night came soon enough, the fire was lit, logs were put around to serve as seats, Frypan was busy making the best food - with the means at hand and of course Gally brought his famous mead

You were getting to know some of the other boys when someone grabbed you by the shoulders to turn you around and you recognized Newt's voice "I finally found her... let me introduce you..." he stopped and looked at you waiting for your help... in fact he didn't know your first name and neither did you...

When you looked up at the person you were being introduced to - because yes he was tall - you met two brown orbs staring at you. And suddenly it was as if you had been struck by lightning, in your head the rotors had stopped as if they had found the right combination... "Y/n. My name is Y/n" you said with your E/C eyes still in his, as a soft warmth spread over your cheeks

The same phenomenon occurred on the cheeks of the boy in front of you as he froze in place for a while, before reaching out to you and introducing himself "Well Y/n nice to meet you I'm Thomas" you grabbed his hand and squeezed it lightly before saying your name again

His hand sent an electric shock to yours which made you look into each other's eyes again and Thomas swears he didn't notice that spark in your eyes a few seconds ago. He found something bewitching about it and that it was drawing him to you

All the sounds around you died away to the background and for a moment you both felt as if time had stopped... well until Newt cleared his throat and brought you both back to reality

You almost struggled to let go of each other's hands, as if the golden thread of soulmates had just tied your two beings together. The warmth of his hand remaining in yours for a moment more brought you a sense of comfort. You grabbed your hand with the other as if to keep the warmth

Newt waved goodbye before dragging Thomas with him to drink some mead. You couldn't stop your gaze from following the silhouette of the boy you had just met "Thomas" you murmured to yourself

You turned around and went to sit down again with your other friends, this meeting having marked your memory with red iron, your heart tightened and you couldn't help saying goodbye to them few minutes later. Wanting to join Newt hoping to spend more time with Thomas. You couldn't help but feel that there was something more to explore with him

And little did you know that he was thinking the exact same, his head cocked on the side trying to pick you out of the crowd of boys while taking slow sips of mead. A smile forming on his lips as he saw you coming towards him and the others. Yes he was sure being friends with you was going to be harder than he expected

A/n : I hope you guys liked it ! 🍂🌈 Again my requests are open 💫💙

Taglist : @malfoyscamander, @cl0vr, @ilovemanypeople, @glossy1pearl, @jane57sstuff

#I'm so happy that you requested this !#the mare runner #the maze runner imagine #tmr #tmr fluff #thomas #the maze runner thomas #tmr thomas #tmr thomas x reader #the maze runner thomas x reader #tmr thomas fluff #thomas imagine #fluff #miri-writes #request

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cuubism · 1 year

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Dreaming attacked?

literally just a shameless excuse to write cool battle scenes ™, or, 'how many ways can dream use the dreaming itself as a weapon to fight off invaders without ever drawing an actual weapon'

He makes his way towards Dream, determined to stay by him so he has someone at his back, even if that someone is Hob, whose powers here are meager in comparison to Dream’s.

He finds creatures in the snow and slaughters them, all of his sword work from decades past coming back to him. They come at him with fangs and claws and tails bristling with spines, but Hob isn’t afraid. His desperation to keep Dream safe is far more powerful than that.

Irrational, to want to keep Dream safe in the Dreaming. But he feels it all the same.

“This is my realm,” he hears Dream growl from somewhere in the storm, voice reverberating despite the howling wind. “It bends to my wishes. But you? Let us see how you like the dark.”

And he turns off the sun.

The Dreaming is plunged into absolute, pure darkness the likes of which Hob has never seen. There’s no moon, no stars. Hob blinks and throws his hands out, trying to balance.

And then realizes…

He can see.

Somehow. Not with his eyes, quite. But with some kind of direction at the back of his head, like the Dreaming itself is guiding him. Neat, that. Also quite likely to drive him mad if it lasts for any amount of time.

He follows the direction of Dream’s voice and finally gets close enough to see him again. There are still so many damn creatures, where are they even coming from? They are blundering now, in the dark, but must have other senses for they’re still managing to, eventually, turn for Dream. Hob watches him turn the ground beneath a group of them into quicksand. They scream and flail as they sink.

“Do you not tire?” Dream asks, idly. “Do you not relent? That is disappointing, for I tire. Of gravity, in particular.”

The realm turns upside down.

#ambiguous Creatures ™ aka mare too lazy to define a magic system #ask #anonymous #my writing #ask games #this fic has been fun but honestly it could get more fun like. could definitely drill down way more into how the dreaming's magic works #to unpack it for fight scenes. instead of just this surface level thign

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lordgrimwing · 25 days

Text

Brewing Darkness #05

[For C+C week hosted by @candcweek. Prompt: Contrast]

It would have been easier to just say that Celegorm came back different, Curufin admitted to himself, tossing another pitchfork-full of hay from the barn loft to the mangers below, but he couldn’t say for sure Celegorm was different or if, in his absence, Curufin had forgotten how he was really like—how his laugh cracked sharp and loud like a whip, how he watched people with the same intensity as four-legged game, how he knew just what to say to pick a fight, how rough he could be during sex if Curufin didn’t restrain him. Had he missed his brother so much over the months since he ran off that he’d imagined a softer version of him to soothe the aching wound inside him?

He didn’t think so.

(Caranthir rather smugly told him that, no, Celegorm hadn’t changed, he was just finally done playing nice and picking favorites. Their brother, Caranthir said, was exactly like he remembered)

But even if Celegorm was different, did it matter?

The whole family changed in his absence. The things he did around the homestead still needed to be done. In the beginning, everyone said they were only filling in until he came back, but months passed and they got used to the new routine until it felt normal, until there wasn’t a visible hole left behind. When he returned, leading his gray mare, field dressed elk flung over her back like he’d only been away on one of his hunts with Aredhel, the spot he’d left wasn’t there any more.

Did it matter if his presence felt jarring and wrong sometimes? Did it matter if the shiver that went up Curufin’s back when he grinned at him sometimes felt like a knife scraping over his skin?

The sharp edges would wear down with time. Things would feel right again.

He’d been telling himself that for weeks now.

Mangers filled, he leaned the pitchfork against the wall and climbed down from the loft, stomach grumbling for dinner. Before, Celegorm saw to the animals in the evening, fed them, hauled water from the well, but Curufin and Maglor took over that chore. They hadn’t considered giving it back yet.

Maybe that was part of the problem. Celegorm couldn’t fit back into the family if they didn’t make room for him. No wonder he spent more time in town and alone in the woods now when there wasn’t anything for him to do here.

Distracted by his thoughts, Curufin didn’t realize he was walking past the gray mare’s stall. There was no greater proof that Celegorm’s old spot was gone than how everyone else seemed to have lost hard learned lessons about his horse.

The horse raised her head from the hay as the elf walked past. With an angry snort, she lunged for the stall door. Her teeth collided with the side of Curufin’s head as she tried to grab his hair.

He swore and dove to the farside of the aisle where Maedhros’ giant gelding stuck his shaggy head out to see what the ruckus was about. The vile mare snorted, pinned her ears back and extended her neck to try to nip the gelding. He tossed his head to the side (he was too tall to toss it up) and went back to his food.

“You haven’t changed,” Curufin grumbled at his brother’s beloved, temperamental horse as he rubbed the sore spot on his head (it matched the sore spots elsewhere gifted to him by Celegorm).

She snorted and kicked the door.

“Same to you,” He grumbled and left before she got any more worked up.

The walk across the yard to the house was quiet.

Nights became steadily quieter after Celegorm left and his dogs slowly disappeared. They were always disappearing, whether because they were killed by a predator, found a place with better food, or just got lost in the shifting trees and mountains. More often than not, those that wandered back were shot to put them out of their misery. Normally he was always bringing more home or paying extra attention to new litter of puppies so that the population stayed fairly stable. Once he ran off, though, no one replaced the ones that vanished, until only a handful remained. The nights were quieter without the dogs. No one cared (at least not enough to go looking for replacements in town).

Only, the night bird calls seemed to be disappearing too over the last few weeks. They were all growing discomforted by the building silence. Fëanor had taken to shutting himself in a shed with some project late into the night as he worried over the changes.

Something moved in the corner of Curufin’s eye. He took two quick steps toward the house before chastising himself for being so jumpy. The homestead was safe. There was no reason to act like a scared child alone in the dark just because things were a little unsettled. He turned to look for whatever had startled him.

“Hey, Curu,” Celegorm said, slinking out from the shadowed trees. He had a bow and quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder but his hands were empty.

Curufin’s chest relaxed. He hadn’t realized Celegorm went hunting and it was rather late to be walking alone, but everyone was adjusting to a new normal. “No luck today?”

Celegorm smiled. “I was just practicing.”

“Pa doesn’t want anyone in the woods after sundown.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. It wasn’t exactly a new rule, the dense forest grew harder to navigate with every passing year, but their father became more serious about everyone being in the glen by nightfall since last summer (since Aredhel crawled home and Celegorm went chasing after her abductor).

“I lost track of time.” He said it in that way that always meant he knew he did something he shouldn’t and would do it again. He got them into the best kind of trouble when they were kids.

The smile was mostly nostalgia. “At least you haven’t missed supper.”

“You’d feed me, anyway, even if I did,” Celegorm said, throwing an arm around his shorter brother’s shoulder and giving him an affectionate squeeze as they walked to the kitchen door. His hand and shirt sleeve were wet and cold against Curufin. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Only if you brought something for me to cook.” They spent many fond nights over stewed rabbit or fowl.

Celegorm barked out a laugh, sudden and loud in the silent yard. “I’ll be sure to bring you something fresh.” His hand squeezed Curufin’s arm, fingernails nipping at his skin.

#uh oh #me and *the entity* are rubbing our proverbial hands together so hard right now #one more c+c snap shot to go to finish off their relationship --- i mean the week #celegorm's mare is a monster #she has killed and she'll do it again #she's the meanest crankiest horse #celegorm #curufin #c+c week 2024 #old gods au #the silmarillion #grimwing writes

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pynkhues · 2 months

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Hello ! I absolutely love your thoughts about shows and characters! this is such a random question. Do you think Rio would be super into movies? Not like a film bro necessarily but I do think he would be really critical, particular of the type of movies he enjoys 😭. Maybe a little judgey n amused by Beth’s fav movies. Though maybe they would enjoy the same films .What are your head cannons?

Hi! Oh, anon, I have long had the personal headcanon that Rio's an enormous snob, haha.

I tend to see him as more of a book and music guy than a film or TV guy tbh, in no small part because he had a record player but no TV in his apartment in 2.11, but I think it checks out with what we know of his character too. I do like the idea though that when he does watch movies, he does so in two capacities - firstly as a sort of bougie trait (he only watches films at the cinema, and probably arthouse ones at that), and secondly that he might enjoy watching b-gangster movies to talk shit about all the things they're doing wrong, haha.

I can see him and Beth doing both together when they're in an established relationship? And I think they'd both posture a little with going to the cinema but actually have more fun with laughing together at b-gangster movies. I also kind of love the idea of Beth secret-squirreling away tidbits of information when Rio was talking shit too, because he'd reveal more about his experiences and the crime world than he meant to for the sake of tearing a movie to shreds, haha.

I also love the idea of his snobbery kind of extending to the kids sometimes. Like him trying to stop the kids from watching Frozen for the 1200th time and trying to get them into like, communist Hungarian folklore animation like Son of the White Mare instead which most of the kids would hate, except like, Jane, who liked all the new ways it taught her how to be a little evil (also, y'know, maybe she'd like the bonding time and the fact that pretending to like the weird movies Rio played them got her extra dessert).

As for Beth's taste - - I think she'd decide early that she'd keep watching the things she actually wanted to watch with Ruby and Annie, haha.

#ngl i watched son of the white mare for the first time the other day #and it is WILD #but i did legit have the thought of writing a little c&c fic with rio trying to get the kids to watch it haha #then i realised it would be probably the most specific and self-indulgent fic i'd ever written haha #beth x rio #nbc good girls #gg headcanons #welcome to my ama

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valmare · 4 months

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Happiest of birthdays to you! Would love to request my man Slider and the prompt “you remembered?!”¹ “what kind of question is that? of course i did!”

Hope you have fun plans for your bday (or at least good VK dreams!)

Alright, nonny. Here it is. The kickoff to my birthday celly. And woof, she was rough. Slider is so hard in all the right ways, of course and I really hope it doesn't take me this long to get through all of these. Enjoy our favorite RIO (sorry, Goose!) and thanks so much for celebrating with me!

Favors

“Sli? Sli baby, you here?”

Ankles all but throbbing as you wobble through the front door in heels, quick eyes skirt the kitchen for any signs of life potentially lurking in the after-5 shadows crisscrossing the tiles of the floor.

Nothing but the quiet hum from the open window and the overhead light on the stove fills the space. Huffing a little breath, the groceries drop to the granite countertop of your island with a hard thunk, overflowing arms aching with the sudden relief.

Tossing keys on the counter and kicking your heels off against the island, cool tile feels miraculous on your feet. Does wonders for the dull flame in your arches as you curl your toes, adjusting to the change. Eyes catching the time on the stove, your hand slips along the granite countertop as you cross the kitchen. Do the mental math.

And that makes you a little more anxious than you were before, hurrying towards the stairs.

Calling for Slider again, you’re not sure where he is. That piece of shit he drives is parked at the curb, just as it had been last night. When Ron had passed out on your couch. He obviously hadn’t bothered leaving, the hood on his pickup was still cold.

You head upstairs, two at a time, surveying the living room from the open banister. TV still, Ron’s once-rumpled blanket from where you’d covered him up folded with clinical care on one of the cushions. His Navy duffle parked by the recliner he’s been calling his since the day you’d moved it in.

Nothingness. It’s there, like a taut wire. Waiting to be plucked, for the butterknife to come and cut the tension like it’s Sunday dinner. Odd that Slider isn’t rumbling around your duplex in your absence—usually he’s doing something. Working out, changing a lightbulb, that one time he’d taken it upon himself to wash baseboards. The man isn’t prone to stagnancy. Even if you insist he relax.

At the top of the stairs, a hit of familiar peach tickles your nose and gives you pause. Wriggling toes into the plush carpet, you hear the running water at the end of the hall. This house is nothing if not held together with paper-thin walls and discount nails. A true product of the 1970s, you’d replaced the carpet last year. Slider had wrangled up some of the boys, beer and home cooked food had brought them around to help lay carpet and new tile.

The neighbors hadn’t been so nosy, or visible, since.

Curiosing your way down the hall in the direction of running water, you slip into the master to find light cutting into the shadows of your bedroom from the on-suite. Fusty shampoo and steam roll from the cracked door, and your lips quirk up into a goofy smile at the little off-key humming.

Some tune you don’t know, but coming from Ron? It’s like front row seats at Billy Joel. Or it might as well be.

Stopping at the door, you gently grab the knob and use your other hand to knock a knuckle against the door. Immediately mute, nothing but the rush of the shower slapping water against the backsplash takes up the space.

Peeking past the door to the mirror hanging over the sink, you can see Ron in the shower. He’s paused, mid-shampoo. Eyes squeezed shut, adorable crow’s feet and all.

“I’m back from the store, Sli,” you check his watch, which has been hanging out on your wrist since you’d snatched it off the nightstand this morning. Resting your head against the door, you twist the ball of your foot against the carpet and gnaw teasingly on your lower lip.

“Yeah?” The titter of a laugh is there. More of a chuckle, really. “Get what you need, baby?”

Baby. It punches low, white-hot. Sends tingles of pleasurable heat; promises all the things he does right buzzing through your fingertips.

Sticking your head through the crack of the door, you smile crookedly at the reflection of him trying to clear the soap from his face. Mirror half fogged over from the heavy steam, something similar rolls through the low of your gut. Pleasant but clawing, devastating but delicious.

And he really is a beautiful creature of a thing—all hard muscle and suntan, there isn’t a part of him that isn’t near to carved bronze. Little more than Icarus flying into a too-near sun, he cuts you at the knees every time he smiles your direction. When his hand takes yours, the atmosphere thins into hardly-there air that’s all too good and impossible to breathe at once.

And that little thing he does, the slow drag of his lips against the line of your jaw, down the soft flesh of your neck to the collarbone? It shakes you all the way down.

Ron Kerner is the glistening sun, you all too thrilled to orbit. A clear northern sky. Endless canvas of midnight sprinkled with the glow of far-off worlds only ever promised in poems and movies and stories, what he does to you is nearly sinful. Little does he know that he grips you in strong, calloused hands that balance so much more than the way he holds your hips, the way he cups your face—you little more than putty in his hands. They hold your world, your heart, your ability to love.

Two years together—two revolutions around the sun—has throttled you into never letting go. Into thinking you can’t exist without the hard planes of him fitting so perfectly against you. He’s a disease you can’t shake, radiation poisoning that corrupts the body and soul; toxic divinity that’s contaminating every realm of your fathomable existence.

Even here, separated by doors and steaming clouds and frosted glass of a shower door that hides all the things that matter, you’re one calculation from drowning in the way he’s smiling crookedly. How his hair curls so beautifully when it’s wet—how rivulets of water carve what feel like unexplored chasms down his breastbone, his pecs, obliques.

Hands dropping from working shampoo through his hair, his little smirk twists when he goes to bite the corner of his bottom lip. He can feel you staring, obviously. And the frosted strip of glass on the door is doing a magnificent job of hiding everything that crosshairs your line of sight. Welded there and unable to move for any amount of collateral known to man, you hardly notice the door moving. Or the fact that you’re squirming.

Until Ron steps forward, head poking through the opening to grin at you, goofily.

“My eyes are up here, gorgeous.” And his wagging brows make you blush. Eyes dragging away to far off places, all conveniently across the bathroom, your bottom lip rolls inward.

Drumming your nails against the back of the door, he snorts at the color lighting up your face. “Well don’t be shy about it, for Christ sake,” teasing is only half of Ron’s game.

Cool eyes find the inferno of yours, the corner of his mouth ticking up a quirk. “Get over here.”

And before you can even breathe, he’s waving his hand for you to come.

For a few beats he doesn’t say anything. You weigh the decision from behind the door as if it's stock and your flat-footed stance behind the door is Wall Street. But you’re burning in all the right places—for a moment, thinking you might be combusting from beneath the collar of your button down shirt.

Because you can’t feel the limp noodles that have conveniently replaced your arms at either of your sides. Legs feel like they’ve disconnected from your body. All you can feel is the pulled-taut hot little feeling between your legs, the way your core is absolutely throbbing in need of the way he’s looking at you.

Fingers curling and uncurling at your sides, you slip through the door. Gently toe it closed. Pressing your ass against the twin sink countertop, your toes flex against the cool tile of the floor. It’s slick in that way that cool tile gets when steam is in the air, and one wrong move will have you skating like a newborn foal.

And suddenly everything about this room is hyperaware, flogging you in deeper living color. The atrocious color of the walls you haven’t repainted; that ugly spot that one painting from your mother was supposed to cover, but sits perpetually at the back of your closet because it’s not your style.

It’s all so here, so alive, as Slider does nothing but hold your attention. Waving you come like a damn siren of a thing and not the Naval aviator you've been pining over since that day you'd seen him at the O-Club.

Fortifying your position, your fingers curl into the granite countertop before a desperate, coy little smile twists your lips. Shaking your head, the throaty chuckle rolling around the back of your throat is a little deeper than you thought possible. And your tongue is thick, clumsy in your mouth over him.

Your eyes dart immediately when he slips further out of the shower, one of his tree-like legs stepping home on the bathmat. Water pours from him like the gates of Sesame have opened, taking with it all moisture from the back of your throat.

Chuckling in disbelief at your stubbornness, he leans out of the shower to reach for you. “What? Don’t trust me?” How his brow lifts conspiratorially confirms that he knows, and you lift to your toes to lean back from his grabbing hand, farther over the sink. “Oh come on, gorgeous—”

“—you get over here, Kerner. Away from the shower.” Your eyes drop to the center of his abdomen, more telling than you'd like to be.

You heave yourself onto the counter with a heavy plop, planting heels against the cupboards beneath, the heavy oak a little rougher on your feet than you remember. Then, crooking a finger at him, your chin lifts as your eyes drop to a lusty half mast.

His face might as well be a landing strip the way his brows take off, and you chuckle when his tongue so visibly fills the pocket of his lower lip.

“What? You don't trust me?”

Return smile slow, “Not even for a second,” has your brows bouncing suggestively. That tight little snake that’s been slipping low down your spine curls into a tight coil at the base of your stomach, poised. Waiting. Like springs; catapults that clamp metric tonnes of aircraft home to the cold blue surface of carriers. Waiting for the greenlight. Of flight. Of going.

And like the crack of a whip, Slider slaps open the shower door with a wet palm. Stepping out, his hand drags through the rivers of water cascading down the glass to the floor, like life itself depends on finding paydirt.

In a breath he’s suddenly standing between your legs, water from every crevice of his finely-hewn body pouring to the floor. Fingers curled into the granite at either side of your thighs, the running shower that’s wasting water by the gallons disappears from thought.

The only thing tangible is Slider’s hot breath between the two of you. His cock, heavy between the yummy, God-ordained V of his hips. The way his breathing is just a little ragged when he steps between your legs makes you forget your name; one of his thick wet hands sliding home to your hip.

Fingers twisting in the Rayon of your shirt, his other comes to brush your bangs from your forehead, playing. Exploring. Investigating how they whisp away, how it sends shivers down your spine.

Even two years under Ronnie’s spell, you still can’t breathe when his eyes move from yours to your mouth. Catching your bottom lip between your teeth, you attempt to steady the heart that’s practically pulsating between your ribs. Any second you expect it to jump into his awaiting hand—little’s changed since the first time he’d kissed you in the front seat of your Pontiac, tasting like beer and chapstick and cologne that didn’t match his personality. Your heart had beat just as quickly then.

Jury’s out on when it would ever not.

Slider leans forward a little to brush his lips against yours. And you try to kiss him, breathless and head spinning, but he pulls back a little, smiling. Angling to skim his mouth along your jaw, his nose brushes the apple of your cheek. Wet, and his like-steel grip on your thigh has left a wet handprint in the denim of your Levi’s. But you don’t care, not really.

Because it’s so hot, so perfect the way his fingers skim to the sensitive juncture of your legs. To that whiny, needy little spot that aches just so in way’s only God Himself could smile at.

Goosebumps chase up your arms as his fingers curl into the meat of your thigh. Fingertips brush up the curve of your side to the collar of your shirt as he works thick, inferno kisses to that spot he knows you love. It’ll be all kinds of red and blue by tomorrow, and it will all but stand up and demand your best full-coverage base, but that’s a tomorrow problem.

Right now all you can feel is the magnetism in the base of your gut, the twitch of fighting the urge to close your thighs around his waist and pull him close.

His lips drag back to your mouth, hovering. Tasting, teasing. And he smells like shampoo, like peach and rain and that musk that only men seem to ever have on their skin. Nose brushing the end of yours lightly, his lips curl into quicksilver as he takes your hand, laces his fingers through yours, and guides it to the middle of his chest.

All but shaking, you gnaw at the inside pocket of your cheek. “Smile for me, sweetheart,” and the throatiness of it rips a breathless little whimper from the back of your throat, his fingertips brushing down the column of your neck. Head tipping back as your eyes flutter closed, toes burning against the rough oak cabinets like you can feel every splinter of rough wood.

“Smile for Slider on your birthday, hm?”

And that punches your gut like nothing ever has. Head snapping forward, you can’t resist—your mouth crashes against his like steel punching steel, teeth knocking together in a way that makes neither of you pause but pulls a surprised grunt from him. Legs lift to wrap around his waist. Pull him forward, suck him in.

Your fingers memorize every swell and curve of hard muscle as they trace up his arms, across his collarbones. Until all at once your arms slip around his neck, pulling him down, flush against your chest. His fingers skip along the hem of your shirt, dangerous. Possessive. It’s nearly treason.

“You remembered,” between lazy kisses that pull and push in all the right ways, your smile grows. And his fingers slip up your back lightly, fisting the material of your shirt as he holds you. Dips you forward with gentle pressure until you’re chest-to-chest. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Until you’re looking up into lusty eyes beneath your lashes, hardly able to breathe.

“‘Course I remembered,” his brow furrows a little, like he’s a bit confused by the question, “what kind of guy would I be if I forgot my babygirl’s birthday?” Ownership is definitely a thing between the two of you–-a bedroom kink that snaps you just short of a rubber band. Curls heat down your spine like its smoke in the air.

Biting your lower lip, you smile at him before your nose wrinkles a little. “You’re bad for me, Ronnie,” his lips curl up into a grin as he chuckles against your mouth, a singular finger tracing the line of your shoulder blade beneath your shirt.

“And you’re too gorgeous to be twenty-nine,” it's almost whining. Taking your bottom lip between his teeth, his brows wag a little when you blush up at him. Pulling away, piglet cheeks warm under his attention as you arch back into his hands, the front of your shirt stains wet from his chest.

And arching back only snags his attention. Ducking to press an open-mouth kiss to the pulse in your neck, his teeth lightly drag against your skin when he sucks. Hard. Twisting a delicious little hiss that tastes like heat on your tongue, he chuckles. Your finger playing through the curls on his chest sends goosebumps across his skin, you feel them pebble beneath your fingertips. Droplets on his skin have fanned cold, but the room is still swirling with team from the nearly overwhelming thunder of the shower.

“Feel any older?” His murmur is thick against soft skin. Very suddenly nothing about him is chilled–he may as well be cut from volcanic rock.

Throaty hum chasing any reasonable response from your head, his hand lifts to the back of your hair, fingers searching for a handful of hair before the light tug drops your head back.

Pain is momentary before it bleeds into warm heat that lights up your nerves, sends blood ripping through your ears like a stoked locomotive on fire and threatening the rails. Chest rising and falling in tandem with his, your fingers curl into the damp curve of his bicep, pulling him a little closer.

“'Only as old as you feel, Ron,” your tongue skates your bottom lip, eyes darting over his shoulder to consider the shower, “And I don’t feel very old. Not yet, anyway,” head canting to the side, his other hand cards through your hair. Looking hungry, looking very engaged with what you’re saying, your smile grows. Sweetly, innocently.

“I think I’ve got some miles left in me. Don’t you?”

It’s taking visible effort for him to stay composed, you can tell. It’s in the twitch of his fingers, the little tick of muscle in his jaw. Ron has never, in two years, been very good at keeping a poker face—the man is too animated. Too much of a card to keep any secrets, and today he’s as much Ron Kerner as you’ve always known him to be.

But the push and pull of your body against his working off your shirt is uncoordinated and hot, too many steps to even fathom as that familiar twisting serpent hums in the base of your belly. In the perfect, God-designed V of your legs, the damn thing.

And Slider is nothing if not easily entertained—it takes little to no effort for his attention to drop to the growing cut of your shirt as one by one, your fingers work at buttons like they are hardly there.

Watching to the point of huffing, Slider resolves to just rip the garment the rest of the way off, tossing it away into the abyss this on-suite has become. His disregard–the nerve. It was your favorite shirt. A white and gray little striped thing that you got at Bloomingdales, on sale. Normally couldn’t afford.

But Ron hasn’t ever really cared about clothes, not in the heat of the moment—he’s replaced every garment he’s destroyed. Bless him and his generous soul, you’re willing to bet a week’s salary he’s prepared to buy you three more. Had planned to rip that one off of you as soon as you’d kissed him goodbye to leave for the damn store.

Chest to chest, your skin nearly ripples with feel-good bumps that make you shiver—it’s the only thing keeping you boots on the ground. And he wastes exactly zero seconds—his fingers are nearly lithe with the button of your jeans, laying them open with a mere pop of his thumb.

And all too quickly, his hands are in yours, fingers interlaced as he steps back from the sink, tugging you with him.

“You think so, huh?” You’re nearly a full foot shorter than Slider, a fact he’s never failed to bring to your attention. Lowering to lazily play with your bottom lip, his smile grows as he steps back a few more paces, and now you can all but feel the spray of the shower dance across your skin. “How about putting money where your mouth is, baby?”

And like a crack of lightning, both of you are suddenly beneath near-scalding water, chest to chest with your back pressed hard against the backsplash.

“You hate shower sex, Sli,” never mind saturated jeans weighing heavy on your legs, and how truly awful that feels—you couldn’t wriggle out of them if you’d even tried, “Why would you—” Boxed in between either of his arms, there’s little more between you than him.

And there’s nowhere to run, pulse of hot water lighting up your skin like fire. Another fistful of your hair has your head tipped back against the tile, his fingers slipping through the droplets clinging to your skin.

“But you don’t,” he shakes his head once, saturated curls all but bouncing with the effort before he rakes them back with a smooth hand, “and today is about you, gorgeous,” hands falling to either of your hips, he guides you forward until his dick presses softly to your thigh.

"And besides," In a sweet, hardly-ordinary-for-Slider nose-to-nose kiss, his smile becomes loose for all of a few seconds. Leaves you breathless, dizzy. Stupid—more stupid than you want to feel on your birthday. Almost conspiratorial.

“—my birthday is in a couple weeks."

#ron slider kerner #ron kerner x reader #top gun #top gun 1986 #top gun imagines #slider x reader #ron slider kerner x reader #mare's top gun 29 birthday celebration #writing prompts #prompts #asks #ask box #anonymous #anon ask #ask mare #answered asks

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nimata-beroya · 11 months

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WIP Titles game

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Thanks for the tag @annwayne !! ☺️

Let's see (in random order of priority):

Goodbye (Merrical)

Unbroken (Andor/Rebels)

toothpick thursday tbbaw2023 (TBB)

The Betrothal (Kalluzeb)

Rough Awakening (TBB)

Sandawuni va umtidagir (The Mandalorian)

How to save a life (Foxiyo)

Deconstructed reality (Kalluzeb)

A reason to fight (Kalluzeb)

The One to survive (OC squad, TCW)

The enemy within (Kalluzeb)

Uninvited (Foxiyo)

Praising Crosshair (TBB)

Everything I do, I do it for you (Foxiyo)

Warrior's fortune (Kalluzeb)

6 more for TBB Appreciation week (TBB)

The list has grown longer since the last time I did this (and these don't include the ones I have in hard standby) Oops 😅 That's my curse, always having an idea floating around my head. My problem is to finish them 🫣 Anyway... You can ask me whatever you want about any of these!! Please 🥺👉👈 Pretty please!!

Ugh I need to tag 16 people? Ok! Feel free to ignore the tagging if you want. No pressure: @takadasaiko @photogirl894 @renee561 @seleneisrising @genericficerblog @airlockfailure @yukipri @ahsoka-its-all-of-us @rachaelkelleher @probablynot-john @mistr3ssquickly @sunshinesdaydream @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @apocalyp-tech-a @kanerallels @fanfictasia anyone else who wants to do it!

#wip title game #mare writes star wars #the bad batch #tbb #the mandalorian #sw rebels #the clone wars #tcw #kalluzeb #foxiyo #merrical #andor

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skyloftian-nutcase · 4 months

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Blood of the Hero Ch 12 (Link's parents play botw)

Summary: The Soul of the Hero will always be there to save Hyrule. But when Calamity Ganon is nearly victorious in killing him, it's those that bear the Blood of the Hero who will prevail. Ten years after the Great Calamity, the Shrine of Resurrection is damaged and Link's parents fight to save their son and Hyrule along with him.

AO3 link

To Kakariko - Familiar Faces

"Get her out of here. You can't win this fight. Not here, not like this. Go to Fort Hateno, Link. We'll rally the troops there and figure something out."

The air was so filled with ash and smoke it practically choked him as Castle Town burned. The sound of distant guardian fire and people’s screams rang in his ears. His exhaustion was so prevalent he could sleep and never wake up right then and there. His heart was so broken he almost wished for death. But his determination was even stronger, his concern for Link and the princess paramount. Link’s worried expression cut into him far more than a guardian’s beam ever could. The boy’s eyes, filled with sorrow, glittered with something else at his words, though.

Abel was doing more than just giving an order, he was giving the boy hope. Link latched on to the words, his face growing stony with conviction. Abel pat his cheek lightly and gave what little bit of a smile that he could muster. "I'll meet you there, okay?"

His son watched him, his façade cracking a hair, his breath hitching for just a moment. Abel slid his hand behind his boy's head, pulling him close so their foreheads rested against each other, and they both closed their eyes for a moment. "Keep her safe. Do your duty, Link. Now, go."

T he moment was lost, and Link pulled away. He took a slow, deep, steadying breath, and then nodded. With renewed resolve, he turned quickly, rushing to Princess Zelda and grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her away from Abel, away from the castle, away from the city and the ruins and the disaster all around them. The princess followed helplessly, tears staining her cheeks as she turned back to look one last time at her home, her kingdom, before they vanished around a corner.

Abel awoke stiff and sore and disoriented. Images of Castle Town faded into the dust that was lazily floating in the sunlight. Everything was too soft and warm; it instantly made his insides squirm. It felt foreign and unsafe. Reaching forward, he found himself clawing at air where Link and Tilieth had been, and cold adrenaline shot through him like ice, making him nearly fall out of the bed in his haste to get up. His chest screamed in protest, and he doubled over, leaning on a small table for a second to catch his breath.

Kakariko. They made it to Kakariko. He’d nearly forgotten. But where was his family?

Abel quickly slid some boots on. Heading outside, he saw that the sun was fairly high in the sky, and his anxiety grew tenfold. How long had he been asleep? What had happened in that time?

“Captain Abel.”

Turning, Abel saw one of the Sheikah warriors from yesterday. Before he could get a word in, the warrior continued, “Your wife and the Champion are with Lady Impa in her residence. Would you like me to escort you?”

He didn’t need an escort. It was ten steps away from the inn. Abel shook his head, continuing on, all other courtesy forgotten. It was a somewhat chilly morning with the wind blowing, and it stung against his face. He hastily ran up the stairs and entered the abode.

Link was settled on a bunch of pillows on the floor, slumbering still. Tilieth sat at his head, hands tracing through his hair, gently brushing it while Lady Impa and someone unfamiliar knelt at his side facing toward the door.

Lady Impa glanced up, somber face pulling in surprise at hearing Abel’s entrance, and then she gave a tired smile. “Good morning, Captain. I hope you slept well.”

“What are you doing?” Abel asked.

“This is Kollin, our healer,” Lady Impa said, motioning to the man beside her. “I was speaking with your wife about the situation.”

Abel approached the group slowly, his heart finally slowing to a normal rate. Tilieth smiled up at him.

Staring down at Link, stripped nearly bare, let Abel look his wounds over as well. They didn’t seem much different than they had when they’d left the plateau, but somehow Link at least looked less pale. Also, the pressure wounds from his harness seemed a little better. Something had to be happening.

“His wounds are grievous indeed,” the healer commented as his eyes looked over the boy.

Princess Mipha could’ve healed him, his mind thought, and his heart tore a little at the words. The demure Zora princess had always been a kind, gentle soul. Abel had rarely seen her in battle, but it seemed particularly unfair that she had been dragged into the war and murdered in such a horrifying way. He didn’t know what specifically had happened in the Divine Beasts, but given how the guardians had been taken over and no support had arrived, he could guess well enough.

“Can you do anything?” Tilieth questioned hopefully.

“There are elixirs I could make,” the healer proposed. “He’d have to be awake to ingest them, though. Beyond that, it’s up to him. His wounds are wrapped and cleaned – I cannot change the natural healing process.”

“Your ancestors could,” Abel cut in, crossing his arms. “I’m more concerned about your technology than your healers, Lady Impa. The shrines are healing him. We need to know where they all are.”

Impa sighed. “The best solution would be to repair the Shrine of Resurrection. If it’s damaged… the best ones to fix it would be my sister or Robbie. But as I said yesterday, I haven’t been in contact with them since the Calamity. We were fighting our own war down here, too. The guardians came to Kakariko from the west. They completely destroyed Lakna Rokee Settlement and burned the hillside. We held them off, but… my mother was killed in the fight, and I became chief. I had to help rebuild the village. Purah stayed longer than Robbie, but even she left after a year.”

Abel chewed his tongue a little to hold back the bite in his tone before saying, “The Shrine is destroyed. Link will die before we can hunt anyone down, let alone before it can be repaired. I need to know where the smaller shrines are.”

The Sheikah chief furrowed her brow thoughtfully, her head tipping down to look at Link. The metal adornments of her hat jingled, filling the silence as Abel felt dread bubble in his chest.

“I… don’t know the location of all the shrines,” Lady Impa said slowly. “Not many were apparent before the Calamity. It seems more have appeared since then. I assume that was your doing, based on what Tilieth’s told me.”

Whatever help Abel had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t this. Why had the king even directed them here? The dread fizzled out, replaced by an ever-growing frustration.

“I can show you the one here,” the chief continued. “And I can try to map out the few I know of that Princess Zelda visited.”

“In the meantime, I’ll make some elixirs for Sir Link,” the healer said, rising. “And perhaps a few for you two as well, for your journey.”

Their journey. Their journey. Abel… had known, yes, that they would be on a journey to find the shrines for Link, but going to Kakariko had seemed a bit more of a main goal, an endpoint that would give them all the information they needed so they could start anew with everything in hand. It had at least promised some sort of guidance and assistance.

Tilieth smiled. “Thank you for your help.”

The former knight almost let out a bitter laugh. Help? What help? Pointing out one or two places we can try to reach in a land scorched by malice and crawling with enemies? Do we even know how many shrines there are?!

He was tempted to ask for at least a warrior escort to assist them, but at this point he didn’t trust them enough to even consider it. Besides, it might attract too much attention, assuming there were people with ill intentions wandering the countryside.

Such as…

“What of the Yiga?” Abel asked suddenly.

Lady Impa stared at him, a little baffled. “The Yiga? What of those traitors?”

“Have you heard anything about their movements?”

The chief shook her head. “No. The whole world was almost destroyed. For once, I think even they are just trying to survive. I hope they were wiped out, honestly.”

As do I. Abel sighed, nodding. “Let’s go to this shrine, then.”

With that, he helped Tilieth dress Link once more and carried him outside. Lady Impa led the group up the cliffs, which allowed for a beautiful view of a good portion of Hyrule. It didn’t boast the same vastness and scope as Tilieth’s favorite perch just outside the Shrine of Resurrection, but it did give Abel a moment of pause.

A moment to remember what it looked like before all this.

Abel had only been to Kakariko Village once before in his life, and it was when he’d been assigned as part of the royal guard that would accompany Princess Zelda to the village. This was before Link had been appointed her knight. She had been fairly young, fourteen or so. The village had seemed so much livelier then. It had also been more populated.

Bitterness swelled inside of him, the same old friend that seemed to accompany him on bad days. He swallowed hard, looking away. When Tilieth slid Link’s hand and the slate across the access pad, Abel walked first into the darkness of the shrine.

Having Lady Impa accompany them down into this new trial was at least different, though he wasn’t sure how helpful it would be. Not that he hadn’t seen the woman fight – Lady Impa was an impressive warrior. He just…

He didn’t trust anyone anymore, he supposed. And at this point, with as little as she could offer, he’d given up on relying on anyone else for assistance.

The voice that reverberated in the chamber spoke a different message this time, leaving the former knight on edge. “To you who sets foot in this shrine… I am Ta’loh Naeg. I share with you my knowledge, that it may please Hylia.”

“That’s… different,” Tilieth noted. “We don’t have to do anything?”

“You usually have to do something?” Lady Impa asked.

“Yes,” Abel answered slowly, lowering Link to the floor. Two chests flanked the entrance, and he hesitantly went to one. He was happily surprised to find a Sheikah blade in it.

Finally, some useful treasure.

“The trial, of course!” Lady Impa clapped her hands together. “Stories say that this shrine held an ancient trial for Sheikah warriors!”

“Maybe you should do it, then?” Tilieth suggested hesitantly, glancing at Abel.

Abel felt his hackles raise, but before he could protest, the chief nodded. Abel stepped forward, but Til put a hand to his chest, somehow managing to put pressure right where his ribs were bruised. He coughed and grimaced immediately, catching her attention.

“Are you hurt?” she asked quietly as Lady Impa walked by, unaware. “We need to talk to the healer.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “But I’ll let her do it. Since apparently I’m too feeble to handle a Sheikah trial now.”

“It’s their tradition,” Tilieth argued hesitantly, expression worried. “And it gives us a break. She’s on our side too, Abel, remember?”

Abel sighed heavily.

As Lady Impa approached the center of the room, the gap in the floor was filled with a rising arena and miniature guardian awaiting her. Abel and Tilieth, despite their aversion to the mechanical beasts, were growing accustomed to the sight in these trials.

He supposed they should have warned the chief about it.

Lady Impa gasped, going rigid, before she charged ahead, slashing viciously at the guardian. Abel squinted, noticing that this one was designed differently from the others, and it did nothing to defend itself. The monk’s voice spoke again, giving fighting instructions.

It’s not a duel, it’s a lesson. Of course. He did say he was trying to impart knowledge.

It was a very basic lesson, though. Lady Impa picked up on it quickly, realizing her attacks were futile but the enemy wasn’t retaliating. She followed the instructions, one by one, until she destroyed the small foe. This time, when it shattered, its blade remained intact, piquing Abel’s curiosity.

After all, such a blade could be useful.

Abel collected the blade while Tilieth collected something from the other chest, plopping it into her pouch.

“We won’t have room to carry all your trinkets, you know,” Abel remarked dully.

Tilieth only smiled and winked.

Abel was the last to reach the final room as he had to pick Link back up, but Lady Impa’s surprised squeal was enough indication that the other two had made it to the monk.

“H-he’s… this is… different,” Impa said, clearly disturbed at the sight of the decomposed Sheikah monk.

“This is normal,” Tilieth explained. “So far, all the shrines have a monk in them at the end. They give Link a Spirit Orb. Watch.”

The monk spoke of a hero rising from the ashes of Hyrule before granting the orb. Link twitched a little, as if when the orb shattered was akin to being splashed with a big raindrop. Abel rested his forehead against the boy’s cheek in reassurance, though he doubted Link could feel it. With that, the group was transported outside, Lady Impa shaking from head to foot.

“What just—?” she tried to question, looking around wildly.

“The shrine kicks you out when you’re done,” Abel quipped, stepping into the grass. “Let’s go. The healer should be ready by now, I imagine.”

“Kollin’s elixirs take some time to m-make,” Lady Impa explained shakily, still getting used to the sensation of being teleported. “B-but—but I imagine he’ll be done by evening.”

Evening?! They were going to lose an entire day? This was absurd. Abel could see another shrine down in the valley from here. He wasn’t going to wait.

“That’s all right,” Tilieth said cheerfully. “I can cook some meals with the ingredients I gathered. Best to have supplies ready for… well, for everything.”

Abel garnered some satisfaction in the way his wife’s voice faltered, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe it was because she was entirely too chipper about this whole mess. Why wasn’t she as upset as he was, why did she think this was fine? She’d said herself that the Sheikah would be able to—

To what? To fix this issue? What sort of naivete had led Abel to think anyone could fix anything at this point?

Get yourself together, he snapped at himself. They still had an objective; the situation wasn’t entirely hopeless.

He supposed he… had expected more help than this. If the king had mentioned Lady Impa would guide them, then he’d, well…

He’d expected the king to be true to his word. But he wasn’t. And it wasn’t the first time.

The bitterness swelled, roaring like a foul beast, and Abel swallowed hard again, biting his tongue.

Lady Impa and Tilieth were babbling now, speaking of shrines and monks, and Abel found himself too weary to care. He walked down the path back to the village with Link resting comfortably on his back before turning right and heading towards the view of the valley once more. At least here he could enjoy some silence.

The trail led to a large collection of stones, Sheikah names inscribed on them, with one towering above the rest.

A memorial for the Sheikah lost in the Calamity.

Crickets chirped and birds sang, their voices carried in the wind, echoing in the silence of Abel’s mind as words were hard to find at the moment. He remembered the bodies of the Sheikah warriors he’d buried on the Great Plateau, the two who remained to help him defend the Shrine of Resurrection from the guardians who had invaded the sacred place. He remembered Castle Town burning along with the rest of Central Hyrule.

He recalled Link, broken and bloodied nearly beyond recognition.

The smell of ash and smoke filled his nostrils, and his throat tightened. He looked to his right and saw Hyrule once more, its landscape a patchy mixture of green and scorched brown and black. The orange glow of two shrines stood out amidst the scars of the land, and energy filled the former captain of the royal guard.

Marching back into the village, Abel saw Tilieth alone now, standing in the center of town. She smiled brightly when she saw him. “Abel, there you are! Come here, let me hold Link, I want to pray.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Abel said dismissively.

“You need to be more patient,” his wife giggled, seemingly unbothered by this entire day. “It’ll be fast. Besides, you need to eat! I made some breakfast for you, if you want some.”

He couldn’t argue the latter issue as his stomach growled, and so he slowly let Tilieth take their son in exchange for a small meal. He finished it within a couple bites, returning his attention to his family to see Til sitting on the ground in front of the goddess statue, Link’s head in her lap.

The image struck him for some reason. It wasn’t as if Til hadn’t prayed to Hylia many times over the years. Abel himself used to pray to her fairly often. Every once in a while his heart stirred enough to try again when they were on the plateau. But now…

Now it seemed like a giant divine joke.

Princess Zelda was supposedly a descendant of Hylia, an inheritor of the divine power to seal away the darkness. Yet she couldn’t activate it in time.

Link was Hylia’s precious chosen hero, destined to fight the darkness and prevail. Yet she didn’t support him when the time came.

Abel had prayed time and again for his family’s safety. Yet his daughter was dead, his son close to it, and the one thing that could have saved him had been destroyed.

And now… now when he’d finally thought Hylia had shown them a path when things seemed the bleakest… Lady Impa had little to nothing to give.

“We need to leave,” he said curtly, eyes darkening.

“Oh, Abel,” Tilieth huffed, a little exasperated.

And that was what did it.

The bitterness and pain swirling in his gut returned with a searing passion, and fire spilled form his mouth. “Don’t talk to me in such a patronizing tone like I’m the child between the two of us. I’m the one who has been trying to keep everyone alive. I’m not the fool who runs about giggling like this is a game. I don’t place hope in false goddesses who only seem to take pleasure in torturing us, and I'm not as idiotic as you’re choosing to be! How can you just sit there and be fine with all of this? Do you even care about Link?! Why do I have to be the one to push to move forward, to—to—”

Words became increasingly difficult, choked out in a rage that was steadily growing along with his tone of voice. The area grew unnaturally quiet as Tilieth seemed to shrivel under his shadow.

His wife watched him, eyes wide, face stricken, tears steadily spilling, cheeks flushed. “You think—what makes you think I don’t—Abel—”

“Don’t even argue with me about it, it’s true!” Abel continued, even though his mind and heart had taken a distinct change in tone. It was as if he couldn’t stop himself anymore, like he knew what he was doing was wrong, but it was already happening and it was akin to a boulder making its way down a mountain. “You pray and you pray, and you speak to the winds, and you place hope in people who have no right to it, and you act as if everything is fine when it’s not!!”

He couldn’t bear to be in this village any longer, couldn’t bear to continue this conversation any longer, couldn’t bear to see Tilieth look so hurt, couldn’t bear to feel so hurt. He turned sharply on his heel, finding Ama grazing lazily and mounting her before tearing out of the area entirely.

The rain began anew, pelting against his face, making him shiver and ache, but he pushed Ama to run all the harder. His surroundings blurred as he steadily grew soaked, his steed couldn’t run fast enough, his heart couldn’t beat hard enough, the rain wasn’t loud enough, he wasn’t angry enough, nothing was enough—

The rain stopped, bringing forth sunlight, startling him into focus just in time to realize where his horse had taken him.

Blatchery Plain.

Abel’s breathing sped up until it started to hitch, one hiccup after another. He shakily slid off Ama and walked amidst the carnage, his body trembling from head to toe.

The guardians stood all around, frozen in that final moment in time, a testament to the princess’ divine power.

All Abel could see was how much it must have hurt. How terrifying it must have been. How much Link must have been hoping Abel would arrive as promised and save him.

Hyperventilating gave way to sobs, and Abel collapsed onto his hands and knees.

Goddess above, what he wouldn’t give to get Link and Lyra back, what he wouldn’t give to prevent the Calamity from ever happening, what he wouldn’t give to never feel like this again.

Why? Why?!

Abel cried until he had no tears left, until it hurt to breathe let alone weep, until he felt so utterly drained he might as well have been awake for a month. Something soft and warm nuzzled him, neighing and grunting softly, and he blindly reached up to stroke Ama’s face. The horse pushed against him again and Abel leaned into it, wrapping both arms around her neck as he tried to get some control over himself. The horse, despite being tamed only recently, was surprisingly patient in the hold, and it gave Abel the grounding he needed to finally regulate his breathing.

When he stood, he huffed out a wet, tired chuckle, petting the horse’s neck. “Thank you, girl.”

The horse huffed, bobbing and headbutting him gently in the chest, and Abel suddenly realized that this was not, in fact, Ama.

Ama was a black mare, with hair that was dark like the night sky. While this steed had charcoal hair, it was longer, with a dark chestnut coat save for white around its hooves.

There was a small scar on its front left shoulder, distinctly patterned, a downward circular slice as if a curved blade had tried to cut it.

Curved like a Yiga sickle. The only curved blade Abel was really familiar with.

Abel blinked. Stared at the scar, the familiar scar on the familiar horse.

“Epona…?” he breathed, looking up into the horse’s brown eyes.

The mare’s ears perked forward and she whinnied softly, tail flicking in acknowledgement. Ama roamed behind her, grazing.

Hylia above, it… it was Epona. This was Link’s horse.

How had…? Abel shook his head. He wasn’t going to question it.

And with that thought, shame immediately filled him. Because he… had questioned everything. Again and again and again. More than that, though, he knew without a doubt that he’d hurt Tilieth.

Abel glanced at the sky. He… couldn’t say thank you, but he would at least temper the bitter thoughts in his mind. Maybe this was actually a good sign, after all.

He didn’t dare hope, but…

“It’s good to see you again, girl,” he finally settled for saying. Epona bumped her head against him once more. “Let’s get you to your rider.”

XXX

Tilieth sat on the ground alone.

When soft footsteps approached her, she didn’t bother to look up and acknowledge them.

“Tilieth…?”

The voice belonged to Impa.

Tilieth just stared at Link, hands tangled in his hair, breaths shaky but regular.

“I, uh…” Impa continued somewhat awkwardly. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry? What was she sorry for? This wasn’t her fault. None of it was any of their faults.

Til wished Abel would just understand that.

Her heart ached and burned. She felt so unbelievably alone in that moment, despite the comfort the Sheikah chief was trying to offer. Tilieth had always been surrounded by love and support her entire life until the Calamity, and then all she’d had was her husband.

And now even he was leaving her.

That’s not true and you know it, she reminded herself, despite tears beginning to spill out of her eyes, despite the way her breath started to hitch.

Why couldn’t Abel understand? Tilieth had been terrified to leave the Plateau, and yet he was upset at her for trying to find joy and hope wherever they went? Why couldn’t he just—why did he have to be—

Tilieth cried, leaning over her son.

“Look, I—I don’t know you, but,” Impa stumbled over her words clumsily, hand resting comfortingly on Til’s back. “But I can see how much you love Link, how much you want to help him. I… I know he’ll be in good hands since he’s with you.”

Tilieth wished she could thank her for her kindness, but words never came to her in these moments. She often hated that, hated that she had passed it on to Link.

Link’s silence leading up to the Calamity had been twofold and Tilieth had known it. Sure, he’d been stoic and calm just like his father, but underneath she could see the anxiety. Abel was quiet in his worries, too, but he’d take them out through anger and work. Link did that too, but also, like Til, he just shut down.

It didn’t make a difference now, she supposed, but she wished dearly she knew how to stop it. Impa at least deserved acknowledgement.

But Tilieth was so tired. She was so tired of having to hunt for hope and light, of having to be the one to bring it to everyone else. Why couldn’t others find joy in the world too and share it with her? Why did Abel have to be the way he was?

Why did any of this have to be the way it was? Why couldn’t Link just wake up, why couldn’t Lyra just be alive, why couldn’t her father be here to help her still?

“Why… why don’t we just go back to my home?” Impa offered. “Or—or the inn?”

Tilieth really just wanted a hug from her loved ones, honestly, but the kindness Impa was offering still warmed her heart. She nodded, sniffling, and let Impa pick up her son.

“Huh. I never expected Link to be so light,” Impa muttered, staring at him. “I mean, he’s so muscular and all. Or, well…”

He had been, yes. Before he’d started fading away into death’s embrace after the Shrine had been damaged. His muscles were still there, but much smaller, and he’d definitely started to lose weight.

Tilieth burst into tears anew.

“O-oh—uh, it’s okay!” Impa hastily said. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Impa sighed as Tilieth tried to control herself.

“I… I really am sorry,” Impa repeated, her voice much less frantic now. “Link’s my friend. I hate seeing him like this too. But… but I do mean what I said. I know you care about him and that he’s in good hands. It makes me feel better to know you’re taking care of him.”

“Y-you…” Tilieth tried to push the words out of her tight throat, rubbing her face to wipe the tears away. “You two were friends?”

“Yeah!” Impa eagerly answered, nodding. “We traveled a little bit together. One time I dared Link to eat a whole roast pig at one of the feasts people provided for the princess and he did it! Another time while we were traveling, he let me put flowers in his hair to cheer up the princess.”

The image of Link with flowers in his hair made Tilieth giggle. She tried to latch on to the idea, to the sweetness of the memory, the gentle love in the gesture, rather than the thought that she would never see such a scene. Her gaze returned to the statue of Hylia.

Oh, Hylia. I… I’m sorry to ask, but please… just… help us. I know you’ve been looking out for us, and I apologize to ask for more, but…

The breeze changed directions, blowing the scent of flowers towards her, and Tilieth sighed, her tears steadily drying.

Link coughed in Impa’s hold, startling both women.

“Guess some pollen got in his nose,” Impa offered feebly with a small laugh. “Let’s get to the inn.”

Tilieth sighed, following the chief. When they entered she watched Impa gently lay Link on one of the beds.

“Kollin will be able to help with the elixirs,” Impa said reassuringly with a smile. “He’s an excellent healer, I promise. He patched me up after the Calamity.”

Tilieth nodded, sitting on the bed. Impa watched her a while longer and then wrung her hands a little nervously.

“Is there… is there anything else I can do?” Impa offered. “I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

“It’s okay,” Tilieth said, finding her voice once more. “I don’t… please don’t take Abel’s anger to heart. He…”

He what? She didn’t really know. Abel had a horrible habit of not expressing himself well, far worse than Tilieth when her emotions got the best of her. Her issue was that she couldn’t control her emotions when they overwhelmed her, while he refused to even acknowledge them.

She supposed some of this was her fault, then. She hadn’t checked in with him. But she’d…

Frustration bubbled within her. She naturally tried to take care of others, her intuition helped her break through to Abel at the start of their acquaintance and extended their relationship beyond friendship. But didn’t she deserve something in return?

Of course you do, and you’ve gotten that, she reminded herself, her chest tightening, her eyes watering once more. She couldn’t even begin to count the nights she’d spent sobbing in Abel’s arms when they’d first settled on the Great Plateau. She couldn’t recall how many times he’d told her it would be all right, that Link was safe now, that he would protect her and their son.

She hated this. She hated needing the comfort and not giving it back when she usually did. She hated that Abel was so upset and wouldn’t reach out, that she had to be the one to initiate it when she too was hurting. She hated that she’d let Abel be her stability when she hadn’t done the same for him. She hated that she had done the same and it wasn’t enough. She hated this entire situation.

She just wished things could go back to the way they were. She’d take the status quo on the Great Plateau over this.

But she couldn’t go back, and she knew that. So she had to find hope where she could. Because she couldn’t live without hope; she refused to.

Abel seemed to view her hope as some kind of weakness, as a childish thing, but her desire for it and her seeking and clinging it took more energy and strength than anything in her life.

Impa had apparently excused herself at some point, as Tilieth suddenly found the room mostly empty. The innkeeper was pointedly keeping herself busy with cleaning the other side of the building.

Tilieth sat on the bed alone.

The door to the inn opened, but she didn’t pay it much mind. Instead, she turned her attention to Link. When was the last time he’d awakened? Ah, that’s right, he’d had a few sips of water yesterday in the morning. He really hadn’t eaten much of anything at all the entire time he’d been out of the Shrine—the first time he’d woken up they’d had some broth ready, but he’d only had a sip or two—and it was beginning to worry her. She could see how his hair was dry and damaged, his lips cracked, how his skin pulled more easily than it should have. He was dehydrated and undernourished, and she couldn’t do anything about it. Link’s waking moments were so rare and unpredictable, it left her anxious just thinking about it. How would they even get elixirs in him?

“Why are you here?”

Tilieth jumped, startled, and looked up to see the warrior they’d met at the Dueling Peaks Stable. The young woman watched her with piercing eyes that held an intensity to them, reminding her strikingly of Link and Abel, though the girl’s were brown instead of the boys’ cerulean blue.

“I—Lady Impa suggested it,” Tilieth answered uncertainly.

“Why are you in Kakariko?” the warrior clarified, her tone unchanging from its monotone, interrogative manner.

“W-we…” Til glanced at Link, and fear ate at her heart all of a sudden. Kakariko Village was a refuge, but this warrior felt nearly belligerent all of a sudden. She tried to think if she’d done something offensive, or if the warrior had given some kind of sign of mal intent back at the stable, but all she’d done was show some kind of possible surprise at seeing them before abruptly leaving.

Wait. She probably recognized Link. All the Sheikah knew of the Hero, after all. They probably all knew he was supposed to be in the Shrine of Resurrection, too. Perhaps Impa hadn’t told everyone.

Did that mean she wasn’t supposed to tell everyone? They were walking around with Link in broad daylight. That seemed unlikely. She supposed this warrior hadn’t figured it out yet, then.

“The Shrine was broken,” Tilieth explained. “We came here for help.”

The warrior crossed her arms. “You won’t get much help here. Sheikah keep to themselves.”

Tilieth watched her hesitantly, curiosity bubbling in her. This young woman wore Sheikah clothes but clearly was a Hylian. It was a little confusing. Instead of letting her curiosity get the best of her, though, she asked, “Where should we go, then?”

The Sheikah warrior paused as if to consider, gaze drifting over to Link, and her eyes softened. “Nearly all of Hyrule is destroyed. But I heard that one tribe was least affected due to their location. You should go to the Gerudo Desert.”

“The Gerudo Desert?” That was so far from here!

“They have strong warriors,” the woman continued, staring at Til once more. “There are no major Hylian towns anymore. They’re all gone. Zora’s Domain is hostile, Death Mountain inaccessible, and no one has heard anything from the Rito. But I know for a fact the Gerudo were mostly unscathed. If I were looking for sanctuary for my son to heal, I’d go there.”

“You think the Sheikah wouldn’t let us stay here to rest?” Tilieth questioned carefully, not really believing such a statement but wondering why this woman seemed to think so.

“They’ll let you stay all you like,” the warrior replied. “But they won’t lift a finger for you outside of this village. If rest is all he needs, then by all means, let him stay.”

“You know the Sheikah went to the Great Plateau with him,” Tilieth informed her, a little bemused. “They helped seal him away so he could heal, they fought guardians to protect him.”

“And they died,” the warrior said coldly. “Alongside many other Sheikah.”

“Alongside everyone,” Tilieth corrected quietly, looking at the ground.

“Not everyone,” the warrior suddenly snapped, making Tilieth shoot a startled look at her. The warrior glared for a moment longer before looking away. “Not everyone. But they don’t care about that anymore. They did their search and rescue, they picked up what pieces they could, and then they just hunkered down and stopped caring about the rest of the world.”

“You… sound like you don’t like them,” Tilieth noted hesitantly.

“They’re my family,” the warrior replied with a strange dull heaviness to her tone. “That doesn’t mean I don’t disagree with their thinking. What is it you need for your son?”

“He… needs Spirit Orbs. We can collect them from the shrines. Do you… do you know where more shrines are? Like the one up on the hill? They’re the only thing that can heal him.”

“I’ve seen those shrines everywhere lately,” the warrior answered. “But they weren’t there before. Hopefully they don’t move before he can get to them.”

Well, at least Tilieth knew that wasn’t going to happen. They didn’t move, they were just unearthed by Abel and the slate.

The warrior shifted, growing less stern and asking in a softer tone, “Does… does he ever wake up?”

Tilieth smiled sadly. “Once every day or so. If we’re lucky we can make sure he drinks something. But it’s… not…”

Not enough.

The warrior slowly made her way to the other side of the bed, staring at Link. Tilieth watched her keenly, wondering where this sudden gentleness came from. The woman seemed to be a swinging pendulum, one moment harsh and the next kind. She looked so young – Tilieth wondered if this behavior was simply the product of growing up in such a world. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Tilieth remembered her own life at that age and it was… vastly different.

“What’s your name?” Tilieth asked quietly.

The warrior didn’t acknowledge her for a moment, still watching Link, before she closed her eyes with a shuddering breath. “Sheik.”

It was certainly a curious name. Tilieth wondered if the girl herself had chosen it, as a Hylian being raised by the Sheikah tribe.

Sheik reached down slowly, hesitantly, her hand setting on Link’s shoulder. Tilieth grew a little tense but didn’t stop her.

Link’s eyes opened.

Sheik and Tilieth both jumped, caught off guard, and Sheik retracted her hand as if she’d been burned. Tilieth didn’t bother acknowledging it, instead scrambling for her bag to get some food in him. She requested hastily, “Can you get the healer, please? This might be the only chance we get to give him elixirs!”

Sheik nodded after a moment’s hesitation, rushing outside. Tilieth managed to sit Link up a little and got him to have some stew, and she was surprised at how long he stayed awake and how he actually even managed to try and chew some of the food, though it had all been pureed for him to drink.

He… he hadn’t done that before.

“Link…?” Tilieth tried hesitantly, hopefully.

Her son stared off at nothing, and she sighed.

The door burst open, making Til nearly jump out of her skin and spilling the rest of the food on the blanket. Impa and the healer, Kollin, were there in an instant.

“He’s awake?!” Impa said breathlessly.

“It won’t last long,” Tilieth explained quickly. “Please, the elixir—”

“Right here,” Kollin cut in, offering a half-filled bottle. “I didn’t have time to make everything, but it’s something.”

Tilieth nearly yanked the bottle out of his hands, turning back just to see that Link had fallen back asleep.

She could practically feel the chill in the room as everyone’s hope and urgency shattered. She blinked rapidly against the tears that sprang up, lowering Link to the pillow and fiddling anxiously with the bottle.

Sheik approached silently, staring at Link, and then kicked the bed frame, jostling him.

“What are you—” Til almost snapped when Link startled awake once more.

He—he was awake again?

Wait, what? He never woke more than once in a day!

“The elixir, hurry!” Impa insisted, waving a hand. Sheik sat Link up, directing his head towards Tilieth. He clearly didn’t really notice the jostling, but he was still awake.

Tilieth hastily uncorked the bottle before slowing her movements so she wouldn’t make him choke on it. Link drank tiredly, clearly running out of stamina, but he got half the contents in before starting to cough and forcing her to pull away.

“You need more Spirit Orbs,” Sheik muttered.

“So that’s… that’s how he’s been?” Impa asked.

Tilieth nodded, lowering the elixir bottle to her lap.

Everyone watched Link a moment before Kollin piped up. “Why don’t you take a break? Sir Link drank some elixir, let him rest.”

Sheik glanced back at the healer before lowering Link to the pillow once more.

“Well…” Impa started uncertainly before catching Til’s attention and smiling. “I was going to work on a plum garden I wanted to plant. Maybe you can help me?”

Tilieth stared at her, dumbfounded. The thought of letting Link out of her sight when Abel wasn’t around was incomprehensible, if not ridiculous. But they were in Kakariko Village. They were safe.

Link’s safe.

“I… yes,” she said slowly, as if such a thing were novel, as if gardening hadn’t been a necessity she’d handled on the Plateau.

But it was different. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t alone. She was helping someone else garden, she was helping create something in a village full of people. There was an entire community here. A safe community, where Link could rest without worry of danger, where Tilieth could just be with others and enjoy herself and work on a project for the sake of working on a project and not because her family would starve to death without her efforts.

A smile slowly spread across her face, and she spoke with more conviction. “Yes. I can help.”

Despite the overcast nature of the day, Tilieth couldn’t feel warmer and more comforted as she went outside and dug her hands through the soil. They were nearly finished with the garden when a Sheikah rushed over to say someone was in labor, and Kollin and Impa had gone to assist. Tilieth completed the project, wiping the dirt from her hands, and decided to wander the village a bit, basking in its simple beauty, relishing the fact that, for the first time in a decade, she felt like she was a part of a community once more.

Some exploring yielded excitement that not only brought her joy but also grounded her back in her current situation. A korok was hiding amidst a few little statues, gifting her a seed and an armful of apples. A woman was seeking to rebuild her clothing boutique – though there were no visitors to Kakariko, she still wished to make clothes for others, and she assisted Tilieth in working with a half-finished garment to make a tunic for Link. It was colorful and beautiful, resembling a traveler’s attire from Hateno. Tilieth’s heart ached at the sight of it, but she was also satisfied with it. At least now Link had clothes that would fit him properly, and perhaps even keep him a little warmer. The leather belts and pauldron would also lend some protection.

The village was getting together to celebrate the birth of a baby girl by the evening, and Tilieth went to check on Link, when she heard the sound of a horse galloping and neighing.

Tilieth stiffened, knowing who it had to be. She had managed to get to the inn before Abel’s return, so it might buy some time as he looked for her. She wasn’t entirely sure she really needed it. She’d calmed significantly since his outburst. But…

She still didn’t want to deal with this. Not now. She was having a good day. Link was having a good day. And…

The door slid open. Feet shuffled inside.

The room was uncomfortably quiet. The innkeeper shifted awkwardly before exiting the building entirely, joining the festivities elsewhere.

“I’m sorry,” Abel started softly, simply. “I… what I said was… I know you care about Link. I know you love him more than anything. I’m sorry.”

The wound in Tilieth’s heart wanted her to push back, to argue, but it was a small wound, steadily shrinking in size.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened, though it had been a good while. Abel would be fine, fine, fine until he suddenly wasn’t. There were ques, but Til had missed them, as she herself had been dealing with everything too. She remembered, years ago, before the Calamity, when Abel had apologized for an outburst, and she’d actually been able to ask him why he acted in such a manner.

I… it’s my responsibility to take care of you, of our children, of the royal family. I suppose sometimes… I’m not as strong as I need to be. And it bothers me.

There was more to it than that, she was sure, and despite how much she had tried to reassure him… well. The Calamity had happened.

Tilieth sighed.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly.

“No. It isn’t.” Abel argued.

Tilieth felt her chest tighten. Why did her husband always have to be so aggressive anyway? She was trying to let the subject go.

Abel walked towards her, and she sighed tiredly, wondering if he would turn this into another fight. He hesitated a moment before sitting on the bed with her, hand moving to her face and directing her chin to look at him.

“You’re doing everything you can to help Link. You’ve gone through more than anyone should have to and you’re… you’re still trying to find the good in the situation, still trying to be optimistic. It certainly does more good than… you’re strong and wonderful, Til. I’m sorry.”

Til’s throat tightened up once more, and she couldn’t push words out, so instead she leaned in to her husband, who held her gently. She promised to tell him how wonderful he was later, when she was able. But for now, she let herself relax in the safe embrace, crying and holding him in return.

The moment was interrupted when Abel stiffened abruptly. “Til—Til get the food, Link’s awake—”

Tilieth’s eyes opened quickly, and she stared at their son. Link was indeed awake again, though not focusing on anything in particular. She swallowed hard, heart racing, and choked out, “Honey, he—he ate earlier, and drank some elixir, he’s—he’s waking up more—”

“He what?” Abel gasped, releasing her and reaching towards Link. “Link? Link, can you hear me?”

“I… I don’t know if he can,” Til explained uncertainly. “But he is more arousable. Sheik woke him up too.”

“Sheik?” Abel repeated, glancing at her. “The warrior from before?”

Til stared at him. “Wait, you—you spoke with her too?”

“Back at the stable,” Abel answered dismissively. “She… well, she saved me from an archer.”

Til stood, adrenaline spiking. “So you did get into a fight! I knew you were hurt! Abel, why didn’t you tell me?”

Abel turned to her sharply but caught himself and sighed instead. “I didn’t want to slow us down.”

Til grabbed the remainder of the elixir she’d tried to give to Link and held it out to her husband. He wordlessly took it and drank. The relief on his face was instantly apparent, and he relaxed his posture, seeming to sink more into the bed. Then he shifted his focus back to Link, but the boy was asleep once more.

“He’s been doing that,” Tilieth noted. “That’s the third time he’s woken up today.”

“The third time?” Abel repeated, surprised.

Tilieth smiled, running a hand over her husband’s head, gently untangling knots in his hair. “Yes. He’s getting better, Abel. It… it will be all right.”

Abel leaned in to the touch, resting his hands on her hips and pulling her back to him. Til sat beside him, letting him bury his head in her shoulder as she held him. Then excitement bubbled within her, triggered by Link’s awakening and the end of the tension between the couple.

Til pulled away gently but steadily, catching Abel’s attention, and she smiled at him cheerfully. “I made Link clothes. I haven’t had time to cook much, but I can make some dinner for us for the journey, and—the village is celebrating the birth of a baby, so we should enjoy that too!”

Abel watched her a moment, blinking and registering what she’d said, and he chuckled breathily. “Well, I mapped out more on the slate, and marked a few shrines. And… I found another horse. Or, well, she found me.”

“Another—you—the map—you went to a tower?”

“Yes, but—but come look, Til,” Abel insisted, rising and taking her by the hand.

The pair went outside, though they stopped at the entrance to the inn as Abel didn’t want to leave Link unattended for long. He whistled briefly, and Til saw Ama trot over, alongside—

“Epona!” she gasped. “That’s Epona!”

Epona nickered, ears perked forward, and she covered the extra distance to the couple while Ama huffed a small distance from the inn. Link’s horse paused at the stairs to the inn and cautiously put a hoof on a wooden step, eager to reach the pair. Tilieth laughed, clear and light and echoing in the air, and she ran down to meet the steed, hugging her neck. Epona swished her tail, turning her head a little so it nuzzled the back of Til’s, and she felt her heart soar.

“How did you find her?” she asked, not letting go.

“I didn’t,” Abel answered from the inn’s doorway. “I told you, she found me.”

“Oh, honey,” Til cooed into the mare’s mane. “You survived.” Then she burst away, even more energized, and looked at Abel in delight. “Hon, this is—we should celebrate! I can’t believe—this is so wonderful!”

Abel’s smile was warm and, dare she say it, hopeful, and he nodded. There was no way she wasn’t dragging him to the village’s festivities now. The discussion with Sheik, plans for their trip, talk of Gerudo Town, even cooking provisions could wait until later. She just wanted to bask in this joy now, her first feeling of freedom and joy, her hope strengthened and revitalized and rewarded.

They were going to be alright.

13 notes · View notes

jadore-andor · 1 year

Text

As Natural as Breathing

PAIRING: Peter Parker x fem!Reader

RATING: E

WORDS: 2600

WARNINGS: unprotected p in v, fingering, minimal plot, one bed trope

A/N: how delighted was I to get to write for @mortwig for the Flowers for Peter server fic exchange?! every bit of your favs list spoke to me in a very real way and I'm so excited to share this gift! HAPPY DICKED DOWN DECEMBER, Y'ALL!

(thanks to @acrossthesestars for her beta skills, as always!)

The door to the motel room swung open, banging against a small set of drawers in the corner. As your eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room, your heart leapt into your throat. The duffel bag you carried on your shoulder fell to the floor with a dull thud.

“Umm…” You turned to face Peter, who was rubbing a hand along the back of his neck in a sheepish gesture, pink tinting his cheeks.

“I think the clerk must have misheard me,” he grimaced, picking up your bag and heading toward the door. “I’ll go get it straightened out.”

You swallowed, steadying your breathing before you spoke. You had to admit the idea of sharing a bed with Peter was enticing.

“Peter, wait.” You turned to him. “Didn’t you hear him? He said this was the last room available tonight.”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “And I’m pretty sure there was a sign on the counter that specifically stated ‘No Refunds.’”

“Right.” You grabbed your bag from him, tossing it on the bed, the single bed, in the center of the room. “And besides, it’s not like we’ve never shared a bed before.”

“We haven’t had a sleepover since we were like twelve.” His voice pitched up an octave as he swallowed the lump that formed in his throat.

“Okay, but I’m just saying.” You crossed your arms over your chest, avoiding eye contact. “It’s not like we have any other choice anyway. This is the only room available and we’ve been driving for hours. We need to rest.”

Peter looked at you for a moment and you could almost see the wheels spinning behind his eyes as he processed the thoughts swimming in his head. “Yeah… yeah okay. You’re right.”

Peter had been your best friend for as long as you could remember. He had come to live with his aunt and uncle the year you turned six, his bedroom, a mirror image of yours, directly across the street. You had marched right over, pet rock in hand, and introduced yourself. The following day, he sat next to you on the bus to school and you had been inseparable ever since.

Through vacations, rooftop sleepovers, and late night creature-features, you couldn’t count how many times you’d fallen asleep with your head on his shoulder. Being his best friend was easy, as natural as breathing. Falling in love with him had been inevitable.

So much so that you hadn’t even realized when it happened. One day he’d been Peter Parker, the lanky neighbor boy with bony knees and elbows, the boy you cried to when Tony Piazza had broken your heart, and the next he was Peter, the boy you didn’t dare look in the eyes for too long lest a swarm of butterflies erupt in your gut.

Suddenly, you were keenly aware of the way his scent lingered in your car when you’d give him a ride to campus, the way he ran a nervous hand through his hair when he’d catch you staring, and how something ugly twisted in your gut when he’d waved a friendly hello to his pretty chem lab partner. Mostly, you were shocked to discover how meeting Peter in your designated spot at the end of every day felt a little too much like coming home.

Somewhere outside of Oklahoma City, you still had another eight hours before you made it to your next stop in Albuquerque, and another twelve after that before you reached Oceanside, your final destination. You weren’t sure what had prompted you to agree to a cross-country road trip to celebrate Peter’s graduation, but you couldn’t say no to a whole week relaxing on the coast with your best friend.

He had let you shower first, giving you a phony excuse about not having to wait for the water to heat up, but you knew he was just being polite. Washing the sweat and grime from your body felt like heaven, the warm water relaxing your muscles, weary from the drive. You begrudgingly stepped out, deciding to pay Peter back in kind by not taking too long and saving some hot water for him.

The room was small, leaving you to maneuver carefully around the bed where Peter lounged, his eyes sealed shut at your request as you held tight to your towel to keep it from falling loose. You were kicking yourself for not remembering to bring your clean clothes into the bathroom with you as you struggled to dig one-handed through your bag to grab a clean pair of socks. You threw a glance over your shoulder, smiling fondly at the sight of Peter with a hand covering his eyes and a dopey grin on his face.

Pulling on the socks, underwear, and tee shirt you grabbed from your bag, you realized you had worn your last pair of clean sweatpants on the drive from Indianapolis and didn’t have anything else to sleep in. You rummaged for a moment more before letting out a huff and turning to face Peter.

“You can open your eyes now, Pete,” you said. “I’m mostly covered.”

He sat up, eyes blinking rapidly as they adjusted to the light and he took you in. As his gaze landed on the hem of your oversized shirt, just covering the tops of your bare legs, he gulped hard. When you crossed your arms over your chest instinctively, he looked away quickly.

“Did you happen to pack another pair of sweatpants? I wore my last pair today and they’re all grimy.”

Peter got up to rummage through his bag, pulling out a gray pair and holding them in your direction.

“This is my last pair, I think. I can re-wear the pair from yesterday tomorrow,” he said. You felt bad leaving him with nothing to wear, and you weren’t about to give up an opportunity to see him parade around in a pair of gray sweats, so you declined.

“Oh no, I couldn’t let you do that! Besides, those are so grimy that they could practically walk by themselves. You should wear the clean ones.” You wrinkled up your nose, hoping it would be enough to convince him not to push it further. “I have one last pair of biker shorts to last us until we reach a laundromat, but I’d rather not sleep in something that tight. I don’t mind sleeping in just a tee shirt if it doesn’t bother you.”

“I will be the perfect gentleman, I swear,” he said, grinning and holding up three fingers in an honor salute.

“Go take a shower, nerd,” you said, rolling your eyes and pushing him toward the bathroom.

As the tap turned on, you wiggled under the stiff sheets, reveling in the stretch of your muscles. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, though you weren’t sure if it was only in contrast to the hard foam of the car seat. As you burrowed deeper, your senses were assaulted by the foreign yet familiar scent of hotel sheets - a bit musty, like stale carpet with a hint of bleach. Your eyelids began to droop as the day’s exhaustion began to weigh on you and pull you into deep sleep.

When you woke, it was pitch black. As you slowly became aware of your surroundings, you felt the weight of an arm draped over your waist and the warm press of a body at your back. Rolling over, your legs intertwined and you nuzzled softly into the hollow of his neck, breathing deeply when you remembered… Peter. You were in a motel bed with Peter. Momentary panic threatened to take over until Peter’s arm, still draped over your hips, pulled you closer, pressing you against him in a way that let you know he was very much awake.

He sighed softly, and you melted into him, placing a tentative, delicate kiss to the dip in his collarbone. He shivered, his hold on you tightening, and you felt emboldened as you kissed him again, tracing a path over the warm skin of his neck, to his jawline, and across his cheek, stopping just short of the corner of his mouth. You threaded your fingers into his hair, deciding to throw caution to the wind and captured his lips with yours. Gripping his hair, you pulled him impossibly closer, canting your hips forward with yet unspoken desire.

His hand found your hip, fingers gently tracing the curve and pulling the fabric of your tee shirt with them as he grabbed at the bare skin of your waist. His lips parted for you, an invitation, and you obliged, lazily licking into his mouth, nipping gently at his bottom lip. Rolling onto his back, he pulled you to straddle him, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass as he moved you against him. You could feel him growing hard through the fabric of his sweats, urging you to grind down harder, desperate for any sort of friction to satisfy the growing ache at your center.

His mouth left yours as he sat upright, finding your neck and sucking a mark into the skin that you knew would take ages to fade. The thought spurred you on, your hips moving of their own accord, the quiet room now filled with the rustling of overly starched sheets and Peter’s whispered name on your lips. His hands were pushing your tee shirt up your waist, higher, higher, until your bare breasts were exposed to him.

Looking down, he was illuminated by the hazy, orange glow of the parking lot, the light trickling in around the edges of the flimsy curtains. He was even more beautiful like this, you thought - his eyes glued to your body in wonder and palpable desire, something you had fantasized about for what felt like a lifetime.

His hands ghosted over the skin of your breasts, giving one firm squeeze before capturing a nipple in his mouth, his tongue laving over the sensitive bud as his other hand pressed tenderly against the dip of your lower back, holding you firmly in place. You dropped your head back with pleasure, tangling your fingers into his hair once again to ground yourself, to make sure you wouldn’t float away. A small moan escaped from his lips as he pulled away with a pop, his eyes meeting you for the first time, nearly black with desire. You smiled at him, brushing the hair back from his forehead in an intimate gesture. You cupped the side of his face, your thumb rubbing tenderly against the soft skin of his cheek.

Peter closed his eyes and pressed his face into the space between your breasts, holding you there for a minute, his hands tracing invisible shapes over the skin of your back. When he looked back up at you, he spoke softly.

“You sure?” A hint of insecurity marked the wrinkle between his brows and you reached up, smoothing it away with your thumb.

You didn’t say anything, only nodded, before pulling your tee shirt over your head and throwing it across the room to land on top of your luggage. There was nothing else you could say as you pulled at the hem of his shirt, prompting him to follow suit, wrapping his arms around your waist so that your chest was flush with his. He kissed you again, slow and sweet and pillowy soft as he guided you back against the pillows, kneeling between your legs.

He tugged your panties over your hips, down your legs, to your ankles, and grinned as you kicked out of them impatiently. His breath hitched as he took in the sight of you, open and wanting, luring him in. Peter pressed a kiss to the inside of your bent knee, his lips trailing torturously slow along the length of your inner thigh. He ran a finger through your slick folds, bringing it to his lips and savoring the taste with a groan. He pressed one finger to your entrance, swirling it around, teasing it in and out, before adding another and pushing inside.

Your hips bucked at the sensation as he pumped his fingers lazily inside of you, curling every so often to brush against something that sent shockwaves dancing up your spine. Your fingers were aching from gripping the sheets when his lips found your clit, suckling lightly, the soft swirl of his tongue catapulting you over the edge as you fell apart. His free hand came up to rest on your lower belly, warm and grounding, pulling you back into reality.

As he moved up the length of your body, you found yourself aching at the emptiness, desperate to feel him inside of you once more. He kissed you, clumsy and coated with the taste of your pleasure, sloppy and divine. You pushed helplessly at the hem of his sweats, eager to get them off of him. He chuckled against your mouth, the sound going straight to your core as he pushed them down, taking himself in hand and sliding through your folds, slick with the mess he made of you.

He lined up at your entrance, barely pushing the blunt tip inside, leaning forward to rest his forehead on yours, noses bumping as he searched your eyes.

“Positive?” He teased you with a roll of his hips, his eyes squeezing shut as you pulled him infinitesimally deeper.

“Peter, ple-” He cut you off, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss, burying himself to the hilt with a groan.

For a moment, neither of you moved, too caught up in the feeling of being completely lost in each other. He began to move slowly, memorizing the feeling as he nearly pulled out completely, rolling his hips as he pushed back into you. You brought a hand over your head, bracing against the wall behind the bed, meeting him thrust for thrust, pleasure building higher and higher until it threatened to consume you once more.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your free hand clutching his bicep, nails leaving half-moon shadows in their wake. Peter was all consuming - his mouth hot on the skin of your neck, fingers tightly gripping your hip, one hand snaked between you, rubbing tight circles on your clit. It felt as if you didn’t know where you ended and he began, your bodies moving as one, as natural as breathing.

His moans grew louder, more desperate, as his pace began to falter. His fingers began to work faster against you, the circles growing sloppy, nearly begging you to come with him. Heat bloomed in your belly, melting into something delicious and you toppled over once more, relishing in the sensation of him filling you as he too met his end, your name slipping tenderly from his tongue.

Slowly, he pulled out, groaning at the loss as he came to rest beside you. The two of you lay there for a moment, his head on your chest, unsure of what was supposed to happen next, or who was supposed to speak first. You began to run your fingers through his hair, your nails scratching gently against his scalp and he hummed in delight.

“We really should have done that sooner.” His voice was honey, smooth and sweet, as it rumbled against your chest.

“Mmm,” you hummed in agreement, tilting him up to face you, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “But we have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

(dividers by @silkholland)

#tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter parker fic #tasm!peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker smut #the amazing spiderman #dicked down december #we chose fucknasty #one bed trope #friends to lovers #magnificent mortwig #mare writes #my writing #my fic

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