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lovelessdagger · 2 years

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Starlight - Chapter Twenty-Five: The Death of Dawn

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC, Din Djarin x OFC

Rating: Mature

Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut

Warnings: Explicit Language, Graphic Blood and Violence, Traumatic Events

Words: 8.6K

Summary: “You’ve got a big heart, kid, I don’t know how you’ve kept it. I’ve seen war before, it changes people. He wants to change you too, and you can’t let him. No matter what he does to you, you keep your heart. Can you promise me that?”

“I promise,” she whispers.

Starlight Masterlist Here

Read Chapter Twenty-Four Here

Read on AO3 Here

Its been a while since the Mandalorian could confidently say he’s been to a planet as helpless as Corvus. With the recent excursions of Naboo, and even Navarro to an extent, he's almost ashamed to forget how miserable the rest of the galaxy is.

Rolling hills and barren trees are all that can be depicted on first glance. A copy and paste of muddied browns and grays with a thick overall of fog. According to the NavComputer, only two seasons occurred here—spring and summer.

It begs the question as to why all the plants—from as big as the trees half fallen and stripped of limbs, to the spots of dirt which once grew grass—are dead and burned away.

Selfishly perhaps, he finds the silver lining of Lumina’s continued unconscious state. There isn’t a surviving flower in sight. The only sunlight is that which inconsistently peaks through the clouds. He’d hate for her to wither away or burn out like the rest of them.

The child is hidden in a sack over his shoulder, cape partially dropped over him. It was impossible to pull him away from her body, for the past day of travel all he did was sit and watch her breathe.

The AZ unit says she’s fine. At this point he has no choice but to believe it.

A stone fortress surrounds the village of Calodan, spanning the height of the Razor Crest. A bell sits center on the top behind three guards. Two aliens and a human in the middle.

“State your business,” the human calls down. Nasally, his words almost slur together.

“Been tracking for a few days,” the Mandalorian says. “Looking for a layover.” There’s silence for longer than he’d like, and he rummages his mind for another useless excuse.

“Nice armor,” the man says. “You a hunter, then?”

“That's right.”

“Guild?”

“Last I checked.”

Silence passes again, dragging annoyance back into him. He wouldn’t need this if she were awake. She’d be able to feel out the Jedi as soon as they landed.

It strikes the Mandalorian that he may have become dependent.

An interesting development on it’s own to indulge in.

“Open the gate,” the man says.

The inside is just as bad, if not worse than the out. The main street is empty, save for the sporadic droid here an there. The true citizens tuck themselves to the side behind stalls and into alleyways. Rooftops are lined with snipers, ten according to his schematics. All facing him.

An elderly woman stands at a small table, wares of used metal pots and pans sat out for sale. The handles are worn and bottoms black. They must be her own.

“Pardon me, vendor,” he says on approach. “Have you heard of anyone…” She walks away, hunched and silent. “Hmm.”

Lumina was always the better negotiator.

A man sits crouched with two children in a smaller alley tucked behind the table. “You there,” Mando says. “I need some information. I'm looking for someone.”

The children are sent away, heads ducks and hands to the side.

“Please, do not speak to them,” the man says, standing. He speaks like his own presence is a secret. “Or to any of us.”

“Look, I just need to know—”

Two guards, he suspects the same from the entrance, place themselves behind the Mandalorian. “The Magistrate wants to see you.”

---

“You requested to see me?”

For four standard months this fortress has been her residence. Though it may only be the twentieth time she’s seen the machine in person. He doesn’t talk to her when he’s back at base—or, whatever this new place can be called. Maybe home.

But sometimes he does. It isn’t nice but it isn’t horrible. As the situation currently stands, she exists more as a living occupation of space than anything else to him. It’s demeaning, but so has been her life until this point.

She doesn’t mind the silence, not yet.

It’s better here on Mustafar than it was in Arkanis. She has a bed, a real one. It’s big and feels like clouds. She actually has a whole floor all to herself. Only three people are allowed inside. The machine, Vaneè—its servant—and her. There’s a lock on the door from the outside. It shocks her hand if she attempts to open it.

In the west wing a protocol droid waits in a windowless room. A single desk sits in the center, a projector board at the front. Every morning she sits in that room for eight hours, proceeded by a steady meal of supplements and water.

In the afternoon, she’ll move to the east wing for training, instructed by another droid, followed by an actual meal of whatever Vaneè has scrapped from the kitchen.

Then, she’ll come back to her room to find an object placed on her desk. Sometimes it’s a stripped piece of armor from a Storm Trooper, or the hat of an Imperial officer. Each night she meditates with the object and writes a report on her findings.

Tonight’s object is the lightsaber of an Inquisitor who operated under the alias of Seventh Sister. She was decapitated on Malachor.

The girl doesn’t faint anymore.

While preparing for bed, Vaneè entered her room. He knocks three times as announcement, two seconds between each.

“Dress yourself,” he said. “He is waiting for you.”

Now she sits on her knees, head bowed before the machine. He stands with his back turned for six and a half minutes before looking at her, staring for another four before telling her to rise.

Notably, he wears a different helmet.

He says nothing else, but the air of the Force shifts.

He’s killed a Jedi.

An understanding passes between them. He nods once, and turns back to the window. She moves beside him.

Silence is expected and preferred. But she’s always been deviant in nature. She looks at him until he looks back, and waits for the passing of three breaths.

“What was her name?”

---

“Ahsoka Tano!” the Mandalorian shouts, blaster pulled.

He’s never seen anyone like her—the Jedi. Not necessarily of her being Togruta, he’s come across his fair share of their kind in his days. But her movement, her posture. Her fighting without need for thought, easy and quick on her feet. She leaped out of his flames and vertically over a tree like it were a game. As if he were only practice for a real challenge yet to appear.

He’s completely out of breath, close to kneeling over. Her… swords, white and illuminated stay posed for attack.

“Bo-Katan sent me,” he pants, hand out stretched for the sanctity of defense. “We need to talk.”

Only then do the laser of her swords disappear.

“I hope it’s about him,” she says.

The Child sits on the stone where he was left, cooing curiously to the stranger.

When she takes him in her arms, it takes everything in the Mandalorian not to stop her.

---

The Slave I is only landed for three minutes in Mustafar before she comes running inside. She used to run then, full of hidden excitement and undiscovered joy.

“Good morning!” she calls. Taking her usual place at the side of Boba Fett, she stretches, feet on the dash.

“You’re disturbingly chipper.” He’s never been a morning person, and knocks her boots down. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Today’s my birthday. Can I fly?”

“No. Strap in.” There’s never a point in arguing, and the ship leaves the atmosphere in minutes. “What do you mean it’s your birthday?”

“I realized last night I don’t know how old I am. So, in honor of having an age, this day will be my birthday from now on.”

“Ah huh. And, how did you decide this?”

“The Force. Ever since I woke up I’ve just had this feeling that today is a very important day.”

“Right. So, how old have you decided to be?”

“Seventeen.”

“Why seventeen?”

“Because, seventeen is a completely insignificant year to be alive. Sixteen is old enough that I won’t be questioned for traveling alone, but still too young to be taken seriously. I’m not quite ready to be an adult yet, but next cycle I will be. I’m seventeen now, so that I may be prepared to be eighteen later.”

“You’ve really thought about this.”

“Thank you, I know. But, that’s not all. Something wonderful happened yesterday.”

“Don’t tell me you’re talking about Alderran.”

“No, though I can’t say I’m going to miss that planet. I’ve heard those Organas have always been a pain in the Senate.” She leans in close, looking out to the emptiness of space for prying ears. “He killed a Jedi,” she whispers. “An old one too, back from the Clone Wars.”

“Who?”

She shrugs. “His name was Kenobi. I’ve never heard of him before but, Vader found his death to be very important.”

“And… this pleases you?”

“It does,” she says. Though her tone is more that of obligation than truth. Not that she knows the difference. “One less Jedi in the galaxy is always pleasant news, but that’s not the wonderful part. Vader gave me his lightsaber. Just to study, of course, but I stayed up all night going through it.”

“Any great discoveries?”

“No, not really,” she says, faltering.

Lying will come much easier with age, but he doesn’t question her.

She doesn’t speak again until they’re exiting hyperspace, back in her seat and strapped in. “Boba? Were all the Jedi as evil as everyone says?”

“Do you want my honest opinion or what you want to hear?”

“Your opinion.”

“Then no, not all. I knew one decently, a long time ago now.”

“Was he awful?”

“No,” he chuckles. “No, she was very nice. One of the kindest people I’ve met. Always cared for others before herself.” Against his better judgment, he looks over. “You remind me of her quite a bit.”

“She must have been hiding something bad. The Jedi all committed treason, and anyone who commits treason against the Emperor is a disgrace to the galaxy. ”

“Your existence is treason against the Emperor.” He laughs at her silence. “You’re going to learn people don’t fit your expectations as perfectly as you’d like,” he says. “It’s a big galaxy, Ad’ika. Not everyone is as clear cut as you.”

“They should be. I don’t get what these Rebels are complaining about. The galaxy is perfect under Imperial rule, it’s never been better.”

“Is that what you think, or what you’ve been told to think?”

“Is there a difference?”

“So the destruction of Alderran, is that justified under Imperial rule?”

“Master says—“

“Darth Vader is not here. Your thoughts are your own when you’re with me, you know this.”

She sighs. “The princess is a part of the Alliance, therefore she’s committed treason. According to Imperial rule, the sentencing is death. I suppose… being a figurehead of both the Alliance and her planet, a public execution would have been the logical course to take. But then, it would have turned her into a martyr. We can assume this was Tarkin’s line of thought as well. The destruction of Alderran gave her a punishment and prevented her glorification. So… yes. It was justified to protect the Empire.”

“You know, when you’re older you might think differently about this.”

“When I’m older, I’m going to be the official heir to the throne. I’ll do better. I’ll make sure another silly rebellion never shows up again. Then, another incident like Alderran will never have to happen.”

“If that’s what you wish.”

“It is, and I’ll have a Sith army. People won’t even know the word Jedi when I’m Empress. It’s all planned out. Master says when our time to take over comes, no one will ever oppose us.”

“You have much to learn still,” Boba says. “You’ll see someday. You’ll look back on all of this and think you’re as silly as those Rebels you mock.”

“No I won’t.”

“Accepting other views is part of becoming an adult. I used to hate Jedi just as you do, now I’m indifferent. Many people exist of all walks and thoughts of life. You can’t lump them all as good or bad.”

She sighs. Spinning her blaster around her finger, her nose scrunches and lips purse. “So what was so special about this Jedi?”

He removes his helmet, handing it over. She always loved to hold it then. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

---

The Mandalorian fears he’s aged a whole lifetime on Corvus waiting.

The sun, or what little left of it when he arrived has exchanged its place for the moon, large and high in the sky. He can’t tell if the stars are out, but Lumina still hasn’t woken up, so he tells himself its better if they’re missing as well.

Ahsoka sits alone with the Child as Mando paces the outskirts of their company. They don’t talk, or, he doesn’t think they are anyways. She stares at him with the smallest smile, nodding along on occasion.

Lumina always did that, more so on recently.

He tries not to dwell on the thought.

“Unfortunately the patient has not woken,” the AZI unit says through the commlink. “According to my preliminary scans, her vitals remain in perfect standing. Although, heart rate has begun to rise again.”

“What do you mean again?”

“On randomized cycles of unconsciousness, the patients heart and breathing rate have exceeded higher than what is standard for humans in rest. Right now, it is comparable to say, running. If my predictions are correct, it will go down in time. There is no cause for alarm.”

“Does that… hurt her?”

“It should, however the contrary appears to be true. These spikes exhibited occur when the rate falls below standard. As if the body is keeping itself from malfunction.”

The words come heavy, followed by sitting vomit in his gut. “She’s dying?”

“Quite the opposite. By all protocol it is in this exact moment that I recommend the patient be moved to a formal facility. But this is a curious case. The body seems to have entered a self sufficient regulatory stasis. This is abnormal.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “That’s normal for her. Okay… let me know if anything changes.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Care to join us?” Ahsoka calls to him. She sits closer now, with the child. A small lamp wards off insects and is all lighting provided. “You sound worried. Is everything alright?”

“It’s fine.”

She doesn’t press further, against her own better judgement. The child sits to her right, babbling.

“Is he speaking?” Din asks, cautious in his own way. “Do you… understand him?”

“In a way. Grogu and I can feel each other’s thoughts.”

“Grogu?”

The Child coos, a sharp turn in his attention.

“Yes. That’s his name,” she says. “Were you not told?”

His head shakes. “There’s no way I could have known that.”

“I see.” She stares at the Child—Grogu, without words. Another conversation of thought he’ll never be aware of.

“He was raised at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant,” she says eventually, and Din sits during her speech. “Many Masters trained him over the years. At the end of the Clone Wars when the Empire rose to power, he was hidden. Someone took him from the Temple. Then his memory becomes... dark. He seemed lost. Alone. I've only known one other being like this. A wise Jedi Master named Yoda.” Grogu looks at her. The Mandalorian thinks for a moment, this is of his own recognition. “Can he still wield the Force?”

“You mean his powers?”

Her nod is slow, the weight of thoughts heavy on her head. “The Force is what gives him his powers. It is an energy field created by all living things. To wield it takes a great deal of training and discipline.”

Grogu’s head falls forward, eyes shut. It’s well past his bedtime now. On general occasion he would be curled under Lumina’s arm, shut happily in their bed.

“I’ve seen him do things I can't explain. My task was to bring him to a Jedi.”

She’d never forgive him if he let the Child go without saying goodbye.

“The Jedi Order fell a long time ago,” Ahsoka says.

“So did the Empire, yet it still hunts him. He needs your help.”

“Let him sleep,” she says. “I’ll test him in the morning.”

It’s only when he stands, the child tucked to his side and snoring, does she speak again.

“If you don’t mind, I’d still like to talk to you.”

He pauses in step. “Me?”

“You’ve brought someone with you, on your ship. Who are they?”

---

“She’s ill… No, nothing critical but—Yes Sir,” Boba says. “Right away Sir.”

He steps out of the cockpit where she lays on the floor, curled on herself, shaking with dry coughs.

“The Alliance blew up the Death Star.”

The shock calms her immediately, sitting up with full alert.

“What?”

“A war will come from this.” Boba helps her to a seat, and crouches to her level. “You’ll have to learn how to fight.”

“I already know how fight.”

“You have to become stronger. Quit your crying. He won’t accept them.”

“It hurts,” she coughs.

“You can’t let it. Listen to me.” He grabs at her knees. Not in any way to cause bruising, though she has enough it’d be hard to distinguish. “You can’t let him know it gets to you, not anymore. You’re a solider now. All the Jedi are gone, all the Inquisitors are gone. He’ll put you out there to fight normal people. Good people who don’t stand a chance. You have to adapt.”

Wiping her eyes, her bottom lip trembles. “Like the people from Alderran?”

“Yes. Exactly like them.”

“…Even if they’ve done nothing wrong?”

Jedi were easy to kill. They were monsters. Terrorists to the galaxy. Destructors of the Empire. Her work and their slaughter were said to be noble.

“Yes. And you’ll have to do it. He says it once and you do it, no questions and no arguing.”

“But—“

“No arguing. People are disposable to the Empire. You’re not. Your main objective is always to survive. No matter what you have to do.”

These words will stay with her.

“You’ve got a big heart, kid, I don’t know how you’ve kept it. I’ve seen war before, it changes people. He wants to change you too, and you can’t let him. No matter what he does to you, you keep your heart. Can you promise me that?”

“I promise,” she whispers.

“You’ll be a good soldier,” he says, patting her knee as he stands. “It’s in your blood.”

They’re outside of Mustafar’s atmosphere three hours later, she hasn’t spoken once. A bubble grows inside her now, full of tar. Boba sighs, looking over. When he wears his helmet she can never tell what he’s thinking.

“The stars are pretty luminous tonight,” he says.

She frowns, knees tight to her chest. “What does that mean?”

“It means they look like you.”

---

Mornings aren’t different than the rest of the day. The sky lightens, but stays an overcast of gray. The Mandalorian yawns under his helmet, wishing to rub the sleep out of his eyes. The conversation with Ahsoka went longer than he’d prefer. Her questions ran too personal for liking and too vague for assumptions.

If she’s aware of his slight distaste for her, she says nothing of it.

Attention is on the Child—Grogu, sat with fallen ears and tired eyes on a rock. He’s shy of his abilities here, a new and unwelcomed development.

“I sense much fear in you,” she whispers, holding his hand. “He’s hidden his abilities to survive over the years.” She walks away, standing across. “Let’s try something else. Come over here.”

“He’s stubborn.” Mando debates whether to tell the Jedi of his hidden confidence. Though she may already know this, being the reason of her instructing him and not the kid.

“Not him. You. I want to see if he’ll listen to you.”

He follows. “That would be a first.”

“I like firsts,” she says. “Good or bad, they're always memorable. Now, hold the stone out in the palm of your hand. Tell him to lift it up.”

The Mandalorian sighs, hand outstretched. “All right, kid. Lift the stone.”

The Child blinks.

“Grogu,” Ahsoka corrects.

“Grogu…” It gets his attention at least. “Come on, take the stone.”

Nothing.

“You see? I told you, he's stubborn.” He tosses the stone to the side. “He only listens to…”

“To your partner?”

“Yes. He never has an issue using his powers around her.”

Ahsoka hums, leaning against a boulder covered in moss. “Try to connect with him. What does she do?”

A lot. Nothing. Both in ways he can’t bother understanding. He can’t tell Ahsoka that Lumina just exists. That she talks to Grogu like he was reflective of his fifty year old age. That she’s tickled Grogu until he spazzed and knocked over a crate of tools. That she tells him fairytales involving that stupid little ball—

Worth a shot.

He pulls it out of his belts pocket, rolling it between thumb and index. “Grogu… Do you want this?” He asks crouching. “Well, go ahead. That's right, take it. Come on. You can have it. Come on.”

It shoots into his hand.

Shit.

The reaction is involuntary, but without regret. “Good job! Good job, kid. You see that?” He asks, moving closer. “That's right. I knew you could do it. Very good.”

“He's formed a strong attachment to you,” Ahsoka says. “I cannot train him.”

“What? Why not? You've seen what he can do.”

“His attachment to you makes him vulnerable to his fears. His anger.”

“All the more reason to train him.”

“No. I've seen what such feelings can do to a fully trained Jedi Knight. To the best of us,” she breaks in a whisper. “I will not start this child down that path. Better to let his abilities fade.”

In her walk away, Grogu’s cries go ignored. “I’ve delayed too long. I must get back to the village.”

It isn’t his finest moment—Din’s—what he’s about to do. But desperate hours call for desperate threats.

“The Magistrate sent me to kill you.”

---

On the rarest of occasion, this being only the second happening over the past two years, she’s sent on assignment with a proper fleet. Not necessarily in command of said fleet. Not guiding Storm Troopers into battle or pilots into a dogfight, but as a stowaway in disguise.

Here, she sits among twenty other men, crowded together in white shiny plastoid. Here, they all look like her, and she like them. Here, her name has become TK-9835, she’s a shiny fresh out of the Imperial Academy on Myomar.

She’s only nineteen, and the other men are well into their thirties. They mutter and laugh about who approved a child, a boy, to join this mission. They nudge her for a response, and she cannot answer. Her voice will not be modulated enough to disguise her gender. But her hand closes around the tacky rifle in her grip, and notes TK numbers to attack should she have the time.

Her temporary commander briefs the situation: The Rebel Alliance bombed an Imperial Starship manufacturing facility. The people are rioting—believing themselves to be free of the Empire at last—it is the primary objective of their squadron to bring order. They are to kill whoever does not comply.

She does not listen to direction. Not on strategy or designation of attack groups. These instructions are not for her, not really.

The moment they land, she would run off and strip herself of the armor. She’d go directly to the site of the explosion and enter an underground bunker. Inside this bunker, computer systems lined the walls. She would go the one in the center and retrieve the data it held—production schematics for the Imperial Starfeet. Every ship possible to build. Then, she’ll destroy the computer, and send the data to the Machine, who would send the data back to its creator.

Whoever they may be.

She does exactly this. She’s a good soldier, she’s always been a good soldier. She follows orders as soon as they’re told, without question and without argument.

In truth, it goes against all her inner beliefs and moralities. Though, she isn’t exactly sure what those are just yet. She isn’t afforded time or safety to sit and contemplate introspection. What she does know, or at least suspect, is that the Empire is wrong.

Exiting the bunker, she moves rubble of the building on top of the door. The fire she started would extinguish itself without fresh oxygen. No one else will have to be harmed.

The upper city is chaos. Flametroopers incinerate entire homes, citizens who try and flee are shot down, riot control troopers shove those who aren’t into a lineup, tasing whoever they have with electric batons.

They’ll be executed by sundown.

She has to find her discarded armor, it’s only a block down, tucked behind a dumpster. The sounds of war are getting easier to block out, the pull inside her in the Force, easier to ignore. The pain never goes away, though the intensity since Yavin has never been reached again.

It’s chronic, nonetheless. It claws at her heart until she bleeds. The little tar bubble grows day by day.

“Papa!”

The scream gives her pause, half way to the uniform. A child. A little girl judging by the pitch.

“Papa!”

It doesn’t matter, she decides, continuing her walk. Her parents are more than likely dead, or they soon will be. The fleet will find her, no doubt sooner than later thanks to the screaming. She’ll be sent to an Imperial Academy and trained to be a pilot or a data manager.

Arriving to the pile of armor, she lifts the helmet first, staring into its black eyes. Helping civilians isn’t in her directives. She needs to get back before she’s left, or worse caught.

You’re a good soldier. You’re a good soldier. The best soldiers do what they’re told. You’re—

Fuck.

The little girl is found in shambles of tears two streets down. She’s tucked behind fallen sheet rock, it’s white dust covers her umber brown skin. She can’t be more than three years old. If she does not forget this, it will be her first memory.

“Hey,” she whispers, crouched to eye line. “Hey, shh, shh. It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.” The girl stops screaming then, bottom lip trembling. “What’s your name?”

“Tarei,” she whimpers. “I want my papa.”

“I know, but you have to stop screaming. Do you know where you live? Or, where you saw him last?”

Tarei shakes her head. “He’s with my daddy.”

She wipes dust off of the girl’s face, lip bitten in a frown. “Okay… it’s okay we’ll find them together.” If they aren’t already dead. “Do you have anything that they gave you? A… a toy or…”

Tarei extends her wrist. On it, a silver bracelet, a small green gemstone in the center.

“Can I have it?” she asks. “It can help me find them. I’ll give it back, I promise.”

Somehow, Tarei trusts her enough to agree.

They find her parents within ten minutes of tracking. It would have been five if not for the on ground war. Though, if not for the on ground war, none of this would have happened.

Tarei is carried on her back and jumps off as soon as her parents are in sight. The men introduce themselves hushed and bleeding as Khohan and Maxir. They crowd under a bridge above a stream. There are two other families with them. Another mother with two children. A father with five.

Fear is strong in them. All of them.

She drops Tarei’s bracelet in Maxir’s hand. “The troops will be gone within the hour. Stay hidden until then.”

He looks at her without words. They all do. Confusion, also detected in the Force, may be more present than fear. She is, after all, just a girl. Barely an adult. Only her eyes are shown but her youth is present.

“What’s your name?” He asks at last.

She pauses, stood motionless and frowning. “I recommend you all get a shuttle off world in the morning. There are sanctuary moons in the neighboring system. You’ll be safe.”

Khohan stands, moving tentatively to the front. “Here,” he says, holding out credits. “For saving our daughter.”

She stares at the credits like he’s offered his own heart. “You’ll need them to buy passage. Prices inflate after these… incidents.”

“Please,” he begs as a whisper. “It’s all I can give you.”

---

“No,” the Mandalorian says.

In front of him, Ahsoka holds a spear of pure Beskar. A day ago, this exact spear was presented to him by the Magistrate of Calodan— now a woman whose fate he cannot discern. The fight had lasted until sunrise. In the process Morgan Elsbeth’s gunman, devotees, and assassin droids were eliminated.

They stand outside the city gates, now far less foreboding. Inside, the people celebrate their newfound freedom. Imperial rule is finally at an end here, and will never return. They will live their days in serenity. Their children will grow without fascism, and so will their children.

Or so he hopes.

“I can't accept,” he continues to say. “I didn't finish the job.”

“No,” Ahsoka agrees. “But this, belongs with a Mandalorian.”

He wishes he could have seen her in action. A third person perspective on her battle strategy and combat skill. The awe of her ability during their own fight cemented his desire to know more, lighting the match on his curiosity of Jedi.

She hands him the spear. “Where is your little friend?”

He’s almost forgotten their agreement. Or he’s forced himself too.

The latter is more likely.

“Back at the ship,” he says. “Wait here… I’ll go get him.”

---

“Where is he? Where’s Skywalker?”

The Rebel held by his collar flounders, mouth agape like a fish. He’s a pilot, dressed in that horrendous orange uniform that’s become infamous in the galaxy. His helmet lays on the pavement of the warehouse they find themselves, visor cracked and plastoid shattered to bits.

“I—I don’t know,” he cries. “Please don’t hurt me.”

It’s a menacing sight, a girl—well, now a woman—of twenty years of age, holding a grown man double her size a foot of the ground.

“Please, I have a family. I have a child.”

Her eyes flutter to the medallion around his neck, a badge of honor, and they roll. “You don’t actually think I give a fuck about that do you? Where’s your little Jedi wannabe?”

His brows furrow, confusion overtaking fear. “What’s a Jedi?”

Those fucking Inquisitors.

She rips the pendant off his neck, clenched around her gloved fist. Perfect.

“You’re part of Captain Syndulla’s squadron.” The gold gleams in her hand, blinding him at certain angles. “How’s that little boy of hers? Jacen, right?”

What little color is on his pale face drains.

“Do you know who his father was? He’s a dead blind man, ring any bells?” The pilot’s jaw tightens. “So you have heard of Jedi. It’s not nice to lie Uript.”

Fear shudders around him from the discovered name. “How do you…”

She removes the blaster from his waist, throwing it behind. His body is the second toss, to the back wall leaving an indent. “If you tell me where Skywalker is, the Empire may still spare your life, Uript.”

He’s bleeding now, from behind where his head met the wall. “What the hell are you? Some Inquisitor? They’re all meant to be dead.”

Her laugh is clear, though passes through closed lips. “I’m just a girl trying to find her way. Skywalker’s my compass. I know you know where he is. Either you tell me, or I force it out of you.”

“I’d rather die than tell you anything.”

She paces the cement, dragging rubber soles to mark. “If that’s what you wish.”

A quick snap of her hand pulls a blade from her waist belt. Thrown, it lodges into the side of his neck, centered in the carotid artery. Blood pools rapid down his throat, mouth fallen open. In ten seconds he’s lifeless.

“Now you’ve lost your lead,” she swears to herself. Pulling out the knife, she wipes his blood against his shoulder before pocketing it again. It’s never not disgusting. “Stupid. You’re stupid.”

In frustration, his head becomes victim to her blaster six times over. He’ll be unrecognizable if the Rebels ever find him… at least his tag is still on.

Leaving, she almost trips over the broken helmet. Bits of its skull crushes under her boot, giving her pause.

That’ll work.

She lifts a piece of the visor, closing her fist.

Cold. X-Wings. Snow.

Nothing useful, winter is in season in over a million known planetary systems.

She lifts another piece, and the process repeats.

Snow. Computers. Droids.

Again.

Mechanics. Snow. Skywalker.

Perfect. Her intents move to location.

Snow. Snow. Snow… a Wampa.

She looks at the mutilated pilot, presenting herself in a deep melodramatic curtsey.

“The Empire thanks you for your service.”

Inside the cockpit of her starfighter, locked in hyperspace, a hologram projects.

“Report.”

“The Rebel base is located on Hoth,” she says. “Skywalker’s with them.”

---

It isn’t supposed to happen this way. In truth, Din never thought it would happen at all. He’s been with Grogu for so long now, and he’s delayed twice that. He’s let himself believe this is permanent, all of this. This dysfunctional little family they’ve created inside the Razor Crest.

They’re not supposed to say goodbye.

Not like this.

He looks to Lumina, still asleep in the alcove. The AZ unit has powered down on the other end of the ship for a recharge. What will she think when she wakes up? If she wakes up? As far as Din’s concerned, she’s as much of a mother to Grogu as he is a father.

They’re a team. Partners. Parents.

They never expected any of this, not in their lifetimes and not with each other. He should still be working out of Nevarro and bitter at the universe. She should still be in Coruscant, being whoever she was before.

Din can’t just… give him up. They’re supposed to fight about this. She needs to yell at him and make excellent points, and he needs to yell at her and do the same. She deserves to hold Grogu, one last time. To kiss his head and give him all the affirmations she can think of without knowing Din can hear.

She needs to tell him not to let him go.

That’s all he needs. He needs her to sit up and look at him like he’s the most idiotic man she’s ever met—he probably is—and he needs her to tell him to let the kid stay.

Lumina, wake up. Please.

Of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t twitch or sigh or groan for him to shut up.

“C’mon buddy,” he mutters, fixing Grogu’s coat.

She’ll never forgive him for this.

That’s fine.

He’ll never forgive himself either.

“It’s time to go.”

---

The first notable thing, is how small and ugly the cantina is. Placed in the middle of no where, it’s a miracle anyone would bother to come at all. Busted seating of rotting wood line the walls. The floor creaks with every step.

No one gives notice when she enters. They’re all hunched over glasses of liquor and screaming at a projection on the wall showing some sport game from Coruscant. It’s a week old and they argue about the possibilities of a championship match that has already passed. On the opposite wall is a news alert, again from Coruscant. A Rebel fleet has been destroyed over the Felucia system.

Her seat is at the seventh table, clockwise from the entrance. She sits without grace, stealing the bowl of broth from the man who sat across. The green armor is familiar, though he might as well be a stranger.

“How longs it been since you ate?” he asks, shoving his drink over next.

She shrugs, tossing her mask to the middle of the table. “Been busy.”

He nods to the news projection. “Your work?”

“You could say that.”

His sigh can be defined by nothing but disappointment.

Her eyes roll, slurping obnoxiously. “Relax, I wasn’t in the fight. Just gave a location tip off.”

“I thought we agreed—“

“You’re not responsible for me anymore. Besides, I was already in Felucia on his order. What do you expect from me? I had to say something, if he found out I knew they were there, I’m dead.”

“Where does he think you are right now?”

“Back home. He’s on his way to the Death Star, they’re behind schedule.”

“So it’s true. They’re creating a second one?”

“You heard?”

He shrugs. “I have my sources.”

“He’s meeting with the Emperor in a couple days, then I’m supposed to join him aboard.”

“You’ll be in the same place as the Emperor?”

“I know. I was surprised too. But he says it’s far bigger than the first one and I’ve mastered hiding myself. He can’t even tell when I’m home anymore.”

“You’re not worried?”

“Of course I am. But there’s nothing I can do about it. If I’m caught, I’m caught.”

His words are soft, helmet lifted off his shoulders and placed on the table. “You used to have so much fight in you.”

“My days have been numbered since Yavin, you know this. I’m sure Vader will kill me any day now.”

“He won’t. He cares for you.”

Her look is of pure mockery. “He’s a Sith Lord. He’s physically incapable of caring.”

“He’s always wanted you alive. That counts for something.”

Her answer is another slurp. Boba never did understand the Force. “He wanted to see my face yesterday.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. Just stared at me for a while, didn’t say anything. I don’t think he’s looked me in my eyes since Bespin. Then he said he’s done well with me and left.”

“Well with you?”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask, couldn’t tell you. He says the war will end soon, sensed it.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he grumbles. “Whatever he’s planning, you won’t come out of it.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m worried for you—”

“I’m not a little girl anymore,” she snaps. As heads turn, her voice lowers. “I can take care of myself now. I don’t need your protection.”

“I’ve raised you since you were a child. I know. That’s what scares me. You’re not safe anymore.”

She scoffs. “I don’t think I’ve ever been safe.”

“You were always safe with me.”

“Right,” she laughs. “That’s why you fucked off back to being Jabba’s full-time errand boy again, right? To keep me safe?”

“The agreement I made with him was to train you until he felt you were ready. Our last day together was meant to be—”

“The day the Death Star exploded. I know.”

“I understand you’re upset—“

“You understand? You left me. You dropped me off after Bespin and never came back. You said so yourself, you raised me since I was a child, and you didn’t even say goodbye. Do you know how many days I waited for you?”

“I’m sorry—“

“I don’t fucking care. My entire life you were the only person to treat me with some humanity. First he sidelines me for a fucking Jedi, and then you fuck off to blow Jabba the Hutt. Do you know how humiliated I felt when he said you weren’t coming back? That I was always just a job to you?”

Boba’s head shakes. “He lied. That’s not true. Not one bit.”

Her eyes roll, chugging down water. “You only care about your money Boba. Don’t pretend otherwise, it’s worse on you than it is me.”

“I care about you.” She’d never seen him so serious before. It’d be chilling if she found an ounce to bother with emotional reactions anymore. “My priority has always been you.”

Her stare is cold and empty. “If I wanted to listen to useless excuses, I would have found a Storm Trooper. Not come to Tatooine.”

Boba stills. “You’re finally the soldier he always wanted you to be.”

“No thanks to you. Are you finished wasting my time? Or is there really something so important that I had to come all the way out here for?”

“The Alliance is planning an attack on the Death Star.”

“What?”

“They’ve gotten word of it’s location and how to destroy it. My guess is it’s only a matter of days.”

“How do you know this?”

“I told you, I have my sources.”

“You’re a Rebel now?”

“Aren’t you?”

Her eyes narrow, grip tightening on the glass. “I serve the Empire with pride. So did you not long ago.”

“You know well I give my allegiance to no one.”

“So why are you telling me this?”

“You’ve hated the Empire since we met and you were but a child. You said so yourself, the war is ending. If you’re not careful, you’ll go down with it.”

“If that’s my fate,” she shrugs, “So be it. I don’t think I was meant to last this long anyways.”

“Adi’ka—“

“Don’t call me that anymore. I have my numbers, use them.”

“I want you to come with me.”

She stills, a small frown present. “What?”

“I know how to hide you. Where you can go that you’ll be safe until it all ends. You’ve said he doesn’t speak to you anymore, there’s no reason for you to stay. I can take you someplace where there’s no chance he’ll find you.”

“Where?”

“You’ll be with family,” he says. “That’s all you need to know.”

She’s quiet. “Clones?”

“Something like that.”

“If he finds out we’re both dead.”

“Do you trust me?”

Her hesitation is slight, but present.

“Do you trust me?” He asks again.

For better or for worse, she answers “Yes.”

“Good.” He slides a communicator watch across the table, and an in-ear piece after that. “When you get to the Death Star, keep this comm turned on. I’ll contact you as soon as I can.”

“Why can’t we go now?”

“I still have to make arrangements and meet with Jabba. Wait for me, I’ll come for you in two days.”

“Promise?”

“On my life. Will you wait?”

She nods, pocketing the gifts. “I will.”

---

“You’re like a father to him.”Ahsoka waits outside the ship, cloaked in gray, her orange skin is the only color in sight. Besides Grogu, of course. “I cannot train him.”

“You made me a promise,” Din argues out of stubbornness. “And I held up my end.”

She steps forward, taking Grogu’s hand. ”I cannot train him because he is already being trained.”

“What?”

“Removing him now will actualize his fears. There are no Jedi to help you. It’s best to pray this ends well.” Ahsoka walks the dead pasture, hands behind her back. “Has she woken?”

Whatever she means by this, he gets the sense she won’t say.

“No. Not yet.”

Her nod is slow, solemn in a way for reasons he can’t place. “I’d like to see her, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, head shaking. “She wouldn’t be happy with me if I allowed that.”

Ahsoka peers into the ships hull, then back to the Mandalorian. “Stay until sundown,” she says. “I may be able to assist and see what’s happened to her.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes.” Pensive, she turns to the wind. “I’ll require rest and meditation if I’m to be successful. I recommend you sleep. The night has been long, and I sense the next will as well.”

“But you’ll help her?”

Ahsoka nods. “If she allows it, yes.”

---

She never sees Boba Fett or the Machine again.

She never sees any of them again.

She stands in the middle of Coruscant’s Underworld streets with dried blood on her clothes. A white scar is now permanently on her shoulder, and a second on her hip.

Her eyes are brown here, and she can’t recognize herself in the mirror.

She rotates her time between Level 1313 and Level 2685. This is her home now—or, base. She doesn’t care what this new place will be called. She exists as nothing more than a living occupation of space.

She hasn’t seen a star in one hundred and forty rotations. She can’t imagine what dawn looks like anymore.

A war rages Topside. It’s been going on for four standard months. The first one isn’t over yet either. Most planets are still recovering from Operation: Cinder. Entire cities, near worlds in some cases, slaughtered.

He’s slaughtered. The man in front of her, propped against a brick wall. He hasn’t stopped bleeding, there’s more of it outside than in at this point.

She thinks his name was Coul. One of the Trandoshan bodyguards said it when he walked in.

Pipes on the level’s ceiling rumble as warning. Club Kasakar is under the toxic waste facility Topside. Their rain is Topside’s raw acid.

At least she won’t have to worry about disposing the body.

She crouches to his level, head tilted. It’s her best work yet. He’d be proud.

Coul’s head falls forward and she pushes it back with one finger. His eyes are still open, pupils permanently wide.

He bleeds from here too, his face. Or whatever is left of it without a jaw.

“Cunt,” she whispers.

“Hey, Tracker,” comes from behind.

She’s still working on recognizing the new footsteps she’s surrounded by. She doesn’t care about names, descriptors do the job just fine.

It’s one of the girls, the bartender. In appearances, she’s to only be a few years older. Taller, built like a fighter. She has short auburn hair that falls over her eyes, and tattoos across her arms.

Auburn promised to show her how to make drinks someday so she didn’t have to play waitress for tips all night. Auburn says part of bartending is trying the drinks to learn them all.

She can’t tell her she’ll only need to hold the bottles for a moment to know all the recipes. So she excuses that she doesn’t drink. Which is true, she’s never had liquor before, and doesn’t plan to anytime soon.

If she starts now, she worries she won’t be able to stop.

“Boss wants you back inside,” Auburn says, tapping the doorframe. “Your break’s been done for ten minutes already. Any longer and he’ll start taking it out of your tips.”

So she nods as she stands, shaky on the stiletto’d heels of her uniform. “Thanks.“

“It’s Lena, by the way, figured you forgot again.”

It’s noted, but Auburn works fine for now.

“Holy shit,” Auburn says. They both stand in front of Jawless. Auburn looks close to vomiting while the other stares expressionless. “Did you do that?”

She shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“You gonna tell on me?” She asks, completely monotone.

She’s supposed to be keeping a low profile. A current condition of her employment.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“You know, he’s gonna find out about this.”

“I know.”

“He won’t be happy. Coul was a regular. Big spender.”

“I know.”

“He’s threatened to sell you out to the floor. You shouldn’t press your luck.”

She shrugs.

“You don’t care?”

Another shrug.

Auburn sighs, mimicking her head tilt. “What’d he do?”

She’s quiet.

She’s quiet for a long time.

“I can’t remember. But it was fun.”

---

When Lumina wakes, it isn’t with heavy gasps of breath, it’s not with nausea in her stomach, or built bile in her throat. She doesn’t spring out of bed or cry in painful agony. Despite of the debilitating weight over her chest, she feels nothing.

In fact, she’s as calm as she’s ever been. There’s nothing inside her. Not fear or annoyance or joy or exhaustion. Her consciousness is in limbo.

What she does feel, are energy shifts in the Force. They’re going completely haywire, frantic and bouncing in and out of the darkness she’s made her home.

It’s fear. And for once, not her own.

Lumina lays conscious shut eyed for an indistinguishable amount of time. Enough for her to realize she’s back in the Razor Crest and it’s powered off, landed somewhere.

A fan is turned on, above her to the left. It’s a cooler to some kind of repulsor, hovering mechanics fluttering around.

“Heart rate continues to a regulatory standard of function.”

A droid.

Huh.

A scanner passes over her face, blue light blinding through eyelids.

“Brain waves have moved to a significantly lower function than prior results,” it says.

“What does that mean?”

Din.

His voice comes through a speaker on the droid, slightly garbled.

“The ‘nightmare’ is over.”

Nightmare? She hasn’t had a nightmare since Naboo, if her little startle can be considered as that. Technically, she hasn’t had a real terror since Ryndellia.

“Her body is stabilizing,” the droid says.

“Are you saying she’ll wake up soon?”

“Theoretically, yes. Or her body has finally exhausted itself and she will die.”

“What?”

“This likelihood is more improbable than possible. Worry not. I suggest further testing be conducted upon return to Nevarro. I would do so now, but unfortunately I do not possess those capabilities.”

Din sighs, its funny, even through a communicator he manages to be annoyed. “You can talk to her about it when she wakes up, but I don’t—Hey, don’t touch that—I have to go. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“Affirmative.”

The droid hovers away into the greater hull, and silence enters once more. Calming, beautiful silence.

It’s funny to think she ever hated it. The silence. The cold. It’s so comforting now. How did she deny it for so long?

How could a little girl exist in a fortress of evil and manage to keep her spirit? How could that little girl walk side by side to a machine, idolize him as a father, and still take a lifetime to love the darkness?

She wants to sleep.

But the Force calls to her. It isn’t a scream or cry in the wind, and nothing freezes her over. Now, the Force is tense and calculated.

Her attunement to the Light Side of the Force is strong, although unused and unrecognized for years, there’s no denying of its presence.

A Jedi is here.

As though through a preformance of exorcism, Lumina sits up, eyes opening. There’s no telling how long she’s been out, days she can assume. The same was true when she grabbed his lightsaber.

Her head tilts at the droid, busy inside a crate of medical supplies. It notices her shuffling, turning startled.

“Oh my! Hello.” It floats back in with a metal canister. “My name is AZI-29473067302958824. I have been your medical assistant for… three rotations on a standard cycle to this planetary system. However, when adjusted for galactic zone changes, you have been in comatose for eighty-two hours. Congratulations on survival.“

Lumina spares it no response. She stands on the bed, pulling off a loose panel of durasteel. Her lightsabers are beautiful, black metal tucked perfectly away. They fit on her belt like pieces to a puzzle.

“I must request you intake this hyper-hydrator. Your internal organs will be in desperate need of refreshment.”

This she does. It’s sour and rotten, thick like slime down her throat.

“Excellent,” AZI says, hovering away again.

She climbs out of bed, slow to pull on her discarded boots.

“Now, I must inform the Mandalorian on your activity. He will be pleased.”

Wrapping her scarf around her hair, she scoffs.

“The Mandalorian has given me specific instruction to alert him to any change in your condition.” It turns to Lumina. “Ah, what are you doing?”

Lumina approaches the AZI unit. Placing a hand on its circuit board, the droid crashes on the ground. She smiles, pulling on her mask. “I’m gonna have some fun.”

Chapter Twenty-Six: Fragments of the Force

----

Taglist: @lexloon @jay-bel @xsadderdazeforeverx @spideysimpossiblegirl @sarahjkl82-blog @annoyinglythoughtfuldestiny

#Mandalorian #mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #mando x ofc #mando x original character #Mando x oc #din djarin x original character #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x female oc #Din Djarin x original female character #Din Djarin x oc #Din Djarin x ofc #Din Djarin #Starlight

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summer-time · 3 years

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Stress relief - or how to ask forgiveness at your Copad (part 1)

Summary: after a rought mission, you only want to return home, grab a few snacks, and sleep for a month, but Crosshair decide to be his annoying self. The ending is not what you ever thought of.

Pairing: Crosshair/female!Reader (kinda pre relationship)

Tags: canon typical violence; Crosshair being his charming self; language; allusion at sex; reader is without physical description; reader use her/she pronouns; copad = desire in Mando'a.

N/A: I'm sleep deprived - it's like 3.44a.m. here - but I needed to write something with our favourite sniper. And because I saw so many great fics for the Kinktober here on Tumblr, my mind spiraled deep into my dirty toughts: the smutty part will be up today (after I had a chance to sleep) or tomorrow. This is a prequel to the main course - just to warm yourself up ;)

"What the hell was that?!" - you nearly screamed, anger twisting into your mind and blood boiling with rage and incredulously.

The idiot trooper in front of you didn't even seem to listen to your hissed voice, busy as he was at rolling his stupid toothpick into his mouth and grinning victoriously with the rest of the squad.

His disregard made your anger skyrocketing to the stars and above, eyes narrowing at the lazy and unabashed gaze he threw at you.

"Hello again, Dollface, miss me?" - he dared to ask you like he didn't break formation without comming you. After all, you weren't part of his squad, so if you nearly escaped your death for his little change of plans, he couldn't even care less about it.

"Don't fucking call me that! Are you out of your goddammed mind?! What the hell is wrong with you?!" - you hissed angrily while the stings of your wounds reminded you that you needed to stop the bleeding soon and putting on some bacta to heal them.

You watched as his sharp eyes zoomed onto your face - with a shade of anger under his cold irises - but you were caught too much into your own emotions to care about that. You nearly died because he changed position without warning you; you thought he had your back, but he left you in the middle of the battle to run to Tech.

If you were less angry and more logical, you could understand his motivations: Tech was his brother, his teammate from birth, and he was a little vulnerable while he downloaded pieces of information. You could sympathize with the instinct of protecting the people you cared about, and care a little less about a stranger who would be with the squad only for a couple of missions.

But you were also on this mission. You tried to be gentle and respectful to all members. You didn't try to be a burden to them, but rather you willingly shared your knowledge and helped around the ship. You were the one to discover the word codes used to enter the Separatist base.

And your reward had been a near-death sentence, thanks to the sniper.

"It's a side effect I didn't know about? Are your brain cells all dead?"

"Careful now, Princess, you better watch your tone with me." - he slyly said, piercing stare right into your eyes. Fuck this guy, and fuck his attitude.

"You changed position without telling me!" - you hissed, trying to make him understand the tight spot he threw you in. Your anger strongly returned at his raised eyebrow, his toothpick lazying rolling through his lips. Again.

"You didn't need to know. Besides, you said you could take care of yourself on the battlefield, did you not? I don't see the problem here." - what a complete bastard! Yes, you were training in combat, but you believed he was covering you - especially if you were overwhelmed with enemies. And he didn't!

And he didn't care. Your anger suddenly left you at the mercy of the battle aftermath - at the pain of your wounds, the soreness of your muscles, and the tiredness of your eyes. Your emotions faded from your face, and with a tired sigh, you left the Bad Batch to return to their ship to treat your wounds.

The return trip was quick, even if filled with a low tension between you and Crosshair: Hunter had tried to pry as to why you were been so silent, preferring to be left alone, but you deviated his attention into helping him make his mission report. You choose to leave out your very, very bad experience: you quite liked the squad, and a bad review would surely catch the Kaminoes' attention. And you didn't want that, even if the Bastard could use some manners drilled into his thick head.

"Well, guys, see you at another mission, I suppose." - waving your hand, you quickly disappeared in the crowd, not giving the clones time to replay at your goodbye. You needed some time off to acknowledge what happened: going to your apartment was the best idea so far.

You wanted to relax, to spend the rest of the evening drinking hot tea and watching bad holomovies, maybe getting a warm shower before going to bed. Unfortunately, your good luck decided to leave you at the mercy of the Bastard: as you were taking your keys out of your pack, you caught the unique black armor patter on the corner of your eyes. You quietly swore, hoping it was Hunter and not the sniper: but you were wrong. Fuck your damned luck and all the stars above.

"We need to talk, Princess." - his monotone voice was already grating on your nerves. It wasn't enough that you spent your entire time listening to his sarcastic comments on your qualification or ignoring you altogether, now he wanted to talk? Well. Fuck. Him.

"No, we don't. " - you hoped it was the end of the story. But the Bastard didn't seem to listen at all, roughly grabbing your keys from your hands and walking into your home - without an invitation.

Yes, a few bangs on the wall for his head could solve the problems. Maybe.

"Oh, Crosshair, come in, please, make yourself at home." - you snarled at his back, closing the door. You saw a smirk on his face, wiped out when he curiously gazed into the small kitchen and the living room.

"What is your problem with me?" - he suddenly asked, voice still monotone. First, you angrily tried to set him on fire with only your eyes, before spilling then out what had happened. And his face kept his stupid expression on, rolling toothpick in his mouth, and intense gaze on you.

"We knew you could handle it." - that was his fucking response. You wanted to hurt him so bad, to let him feel at least one percent of your swirling emotions. And you tried to throw a punch at his stupid smirk, willing to wipe it out - an impulsive reaction of your idiotic brain - but the Bastard caught your wrist, pulling you closer to his body.

You snarled, trying to pull roughly your arm free and out of his grasp, not that you really could: despite your hard training, Crosshair was still a clone, bred to be a better soldier that you could ever be, and he was one of the most skilled. You couldn't escape his grasp without him letting you out. And at the moment, he didn't want to.

"Ah-ah, Dollface, you don't need to be this physical. But if that it's something you want, I'm more than happy to help." - stupid, arrogant smirk; a harsh character that hid one deep desire: after all, why not help his poor team member? She seemed in need of steaming off some stress, and Crosshair knew a very pleasurable way to do it.

He spitted his anti-stress on the floor and sneaked his free hand to her neck's base, gently cupping it while catching how his maybe-Copad's eyes followed his rapid movements: her pupils were wide open from anger, cheeks nearly red after all her shouting, silence interruped only by her hushed breaths. She made a delicious imagine, one that Crosshair hoped would be followed by something more if the evening would go on.

He kept under control his instinct to grab her chin and kiss her senselessly, not giving her time to think or speak. But no, he wanted to make sure she would be willing, that she could still refuse him and his offer if she wanted to: so, he slowed down, taking great pain in restraining the part of his mind that felt exposed, and great pleasure on seeing her pupils dilatating impossibly wide, black consuming all her lovely eyes.

He adsorbed all her little inches of breath, of her warm cheeks now flushed bright red, of how her body had slightly stiffened at their shared closeness and then relaxed. She could still say no, and he would back off without bringing this interaction up ever again.

He gave his Copad more time, to refuse, to say yes, to remain there, to do as she pleased, before he decided to initiate something: if not a kiss, maybe a gentle headbutt, a Keldabe kiss only for her. Not that she would understand the real deep meaning of it, she didn't even know Mando'a or their culture. It could be his little secret, or he could use it to annoy her in the future; maybe she would lose all her patience after hearing him call her by any pet name in Mando'a and not knowing it. Maybe his brothers would laugh at him for being a romantic under his cold demeanor.

"Let me say how sorry I am for your little misadventure." - Crosshair smirked, licking his lips: she didn't say no, she didn't refuse him and didn't seem scared too much - she stopped struggling to free her hand from his grasp some time ago. He could kiss her at least, and then if she allowed it, he would made up to her: he wanted her forgiveness, and the sniper had some very convincing arguments to prove it.

#star wars #writing #fanfiction #the bad batch #tbb crosshair #crosshair x you #crosshair x reader #summer sing #tbb #clone force 99 #crosshair #star wars tbb #bad batch

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crab-instruments · 3 years

Text

Dust in the Wind Part 8 (tbb)

Master <Part 7 Part 9>

Pairing: Hunter x Secret Jedi! Reader (GN)

Rating and warning: General audience, panic/stress (minimal)

Words: 1.5k

a/n: haha well we don't have time to unpack all that finale, so here's an update of this instead. Fresh off the press and yeeted to tumblr. I'm thinking the next update will have some cool stuff. I hope.

Image credit in the notes

When your eyes opened, you laid there for a bit, taking in the events of yesterday and what some sleep had done to clear the mind. You must have slept well, not even remembering the dreams you had or stirring when others got up, as only Hunter and you were left in the bunks. This was based on assumption by reaching out using the Force, at least, as you hadn’t moved an inch yet.

Being with the Batch had made it easy to settle back into your ‘old life’ or maybe just who you really were, a force user. You were becoming more comfortable, but if you were being honest with yourself, that was a scary thought. It would make leaving so much harder.

You slowly started to move, careful to keep quiet, putting your feet on the cold metal floor. The ship buzzed and hummed through your feet, accentuating the dull pain in your muscles, but the pain had an odd nostalgic feel, something you would be used to after a mission.

Echo, Crosshair, and Wrecker were all out in the main cabin as you approached, all still sleepy, though the sniper was better at hiding it.

Echo handed you a cup and you presumed he said something along the lines of ‘mornin’ but your brain was still fuzzy, not used to the amount of sleep you got. You looked at the contents of the cup; caf that had a stale smell to it and enough water to have your reflection look back at you. Still, you drank it all in one go and then turned to back to the Clone who gave it to you. “Thank you, that was the worst caf I’ve ever had, and I’ve never been more grateful for it.”

Echo chuckled; a small smirk spread across his face. “I see you slept well. Surprised to see Sarg still in bed.” You cocked your head, not sure what he was getting at.

“He is usually up first, not able to sleep when people start waking up,” Wrecker filled in.

“It might have something to do with having more people sleeping comfortably,” Tech had walked from the cockpit. “He has said that when there’s more resting heartbeats around him, he is calmer. He was worried about Maxis so possibly having them closer helped him relax.” Tech had kept his voice even when speaking, but it still felt like there was a hint of something.

“What are you—”

“I came back here to let you know we will be landing soon, and someone should wake Hunter.” He turned around before you could address what you wanted.

Echo had grabbed another cup of caf and handed it out for you to take. “Maxis, would you mind? I have a few other things to do and you’re closer.” You squinted your eyes in skepticism at the Clone for a moment, before taking the cup and walking back to the bunks, making a mental note to corner those two and figure out what they were scheming.

Once you crossed the threshold of the room, you slowed down in front of where Hunter was laying. He had fallen asleep on his stomach, his arms under his pillow, and his face turned away from the wall. No bandana in his hair, you could see how thick his locks are, almost a little envious. Really, it suited him, and he knew it. You lowered yourself to the floor, taking a moment to just study his sleeping face. So calm and handsome, in this state you couldn’t see how much the war had taken its toll on him. It was something you could get used to—

“Mesh’la, staring is impolite.” You would never… ever… admit what his sleepy morning voice did to you in that moment. His voice startled you, sloshing some caf onto the floor. He hadn’t yet opened his eyes when he addressed you, but they stared straight through you now.

Say something! “Um… sorry, I didn’t mean… We just… We’re going to be landing soon.” Smooth, about as smooth as this caf.

Hunter chuckled, amused at the effect he had on you in that moment. Slowly he sat up, swinging his legs carefully over the side of the bunk. You had stood up and took a step back to give him space but were still more or less frozen.

“Is… one of those cups for me? Or do you just really enjoy the dirt caf…”

“Oh, right.” You held out the cup, certainly not loving every second he touched your hand. Holy kriff, you needed to get a grip on your life, or you were going to lose your mind. “Uhm, I’ll just…” you looked back to the doorway but then back at him. “Wait, mesh’la?”

A look of surprise took over Hunter’s face for a hot second before a smile took its place. He shook his head, and responded, “It’s Mando’a, I’ll have to teach you some day.” He stood up and walked past you to the main cabin, obviously still avoiding giving a real answer.

“But that doesn’t… what does it mean?” Hunter had already weaved his way through the ship, leaving you wondering. Maybe I’ll ask Tech about the best way to learn a new language.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Under the ship, you checked and cleaned the landing gear. It had seen better days and probably hadn’t even been washed since the Republic. You worked meticulously, finally able to show more of what you could do now that you didn’t have the possibility of needing a quick escape. The soreness that swam through your muscles sang loudly while you focused, it was clear you needed a break.

Two shadows, one much larger than the other, closed in on the area. Omega didn’t need to crouch all that much as she approached, Wrecker waiting by the side of the ship. “Hey Maxis, you should take a break. Wrecker and I were about to go get our Mantell Mix. It’s a tradition, we get some after every mission.”

You stopped working for a moment. “I didn’t really… I wasn’t a part of the mission. But—”

“You protected the ship from four troopers, I’d say that’s enough to get some Mix.” Wrecker said, with a bit of pride.

“Ah yeah, I guess. Let me put this piece back on and we can go.”

Crawling out from the ship, you wiped the dirt of your pants. Something about Ord Mantell always stuck to you though, but that was a part of its charm. Or that’s what you say to convince yourself. You had explored the market a bit, to pick up supplies and replacements for maintenance, but never really experienced it.

As Omega led the way, you asked, “what exactly is Mantell Mix?”

“Only the best treat in the entire galaxy,” Omega looked back at you, very excited.

“Well, when you mostly have rations, anything would be a treat. Very low bar. I think I’m more concerned about the name, Mantell Mix. A mix of what? Grime and overpriced goods?”

“I think adventure and a hint of sweetness is more like it.”

You chuckled. “Always good at the positive spin, Omega. That’s a good quality.” She beamed.

Once the food was acquired, you could only eat so much of it before deciding that Omega had lied about the ‘hint of sweetness’. But you did your best to show gratitude in being included.

The three of you decided to wander around the open-air shops. You ended up looking at some unrefined gems on display. Not something you would usually stop to look at, but something about the display caught your attention. A crystal, somewhat clear but had a red hue, stuck out.

“See something you like?”

“What… is this?” You pointed to the crystal. “And where did you get it?”

“Ahh, I’m not sure. I travel and trade quite a bit, unfortunately, and don’t remember much about every piece. But if it is to your liking, you should have a closer look.” The owner had a creepy facial expression, you were unsure if they were trying to just sell the item or if they had other motives. But what other motives could they have?

You reached for the crystal but could only hold it for a second due to the extreme pain and pressure you felt from it. Another force echo. Luckily, you pushed yourself out of it quick, only getting a brief glimpse of the horrible feeling, but it stuck to you, sitting heavy on your shoulders. A reminder of the past.

It was a kyber crystal, a synthetic one specifically. This one had been used by a Sith or an apprentice of one, having such a dark and evil aura around the force echo. It made you sick and scared. Suddenly, it felt like all eyes were on you, walls closing in. Fear crept into your mind.

“I’m s-sorry, I have to-… to go.” You swiftly made your way back to the Marauder, leaving Omega and Wrecker behind. The corner you hid in after your fight with the troopers felt like the perfect fit for you at that moment. You curled up in a ball as tightly as you could and hummed to yourself.

It took a while, but everyone made their way back and Hunter was discussing about their next mission that would take place in a few rotations.

Part 9

________________________________________________________________

Notes:

Mando'a: I assume if you're reading this, you know, but here's a link anyway.

Synthetic Lightsaber/Kyber crystal: One of my favorite things I learned about lightsabers is that the Sith used synthetic crystals and synthetic crystals are normally red, leading to the Sith having mostly red lightsabers. I don't know if that's still considered canon anymore, but for me it is. Image credit

Tag List: @rintheemolion @xxspqcebunsxx @salamidraws @lokigirlszendaya

If you want to be added to the tag list, just ask in the most convenient way for you or by faxing me a picture of a crab

#tbb x reader #tbb x you #the bad batch x reader #bad batch x reader #hunter x reader #hunter x you #dust in the wind #crab fics

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finiteuniverse13 · 3 years

Text

home is people, not a place 2/?

Part 1

Summary: Clay gets attacked on base. DEVGRU finds an issue in that.

TW: Blood mention, physical assault, canon typical violence

Tag: @rebelwrites @chibsytelford @bravo-four-seal-team @velvetcardiganbucky @supervalcsi @abby-splace @itsonautopilot @thegirlwhoisalwayswriting @pinkrockstar19 @softi92 @mrsmarvelous1995 @jayhalsteadfan-2417

Lisa is pissed. She has every right to be. Clay had been attacked in the Bravo cages.

She’d watched the kid go from a strap who couldn’t stay in his own lane to an operator who could lead Bravo – and Tier One, for that matter – into the future. And then he’d been attacked in his team’s cages, in his own cage. Blackburn was still at the hospital – he’d found the kid in a pool of his own blood; Lisa wouldn’t blame him if it took an apocalypse to separate him from the kid – making sure that the kid got appropriate care.

She pushed open the door to Bravo’s briefing room, not that it actually had any members of Bravo in it. Alpha, Charlie and Delta were all there, waiting on her brief on the situation. Echo would have been there, if not for them being halfway through their first deployment as a team. There had been hesitation about deploying Echo – the loss of the last Echo line-up still sat heavily in the Tier’s mind.

The three team’s Master Chiefs and 2ICs had sat in Bravo’s usual chairs. Full Metal and Derek sat in Jason and Ray’s chairs, respectively. Beau and his second in command had taken Sonny and Trent’s, while TJ was sat in Brock’s. Delta Two had distinctively chosen not to sit in Clay’s seat, instead sitting in a chair usually used for either Cerberus or a support staff member, depending on the op.

(It was very funny to watch Brock and Clay push a wheely chair with Cerberus on it between the two of them, and they’d pretty much mastered the art of doing it in the last few months. Cerb had found that if he allowed it to happen, he’d get belly rubs and treats, so he was unbothered about it)

The other seats had a random assignment, seemingly first-come-first-serve. The ones unlucky enough to have not found seats stood tensely, arms crossed and grumbling under their breath to each other.

Nobody sat in Clay’s seat.

All 18 operators looked up when she walked in, attention snapping to the person with the most information. As she walked in, her gaze caught on the table space in front of Clay’s chair. Clay had left his book on the table. It’s about as thick as a brick, and Sonny would probably take a glance at it and tell Clay it was as dry as one. The embossed cover didn’t read English, and Lisa had a feeling that there would be very few, if any, people in the room able to read any part of the book.

She stood at the front and pushed her emotions down. These operators were here for information, not emotion.

“At 0145 this morning, 4 Green Team members entered Bravo’s Cage room. At 0157, they left, and returned to the Green Team barracks. 0204, Lieutenant Commander Blackburn entered the Bravo cages. He dialled 911 and was assisted by Alpha Four-”

She cuts herself off for a few seconds, as various operators slapped Jordan on the back, mumbled thanks spreading through the room as they reassured themselves that one of their own had helped their kid.

“Assisted by Alpha Four at 0207. Ambulance arrived at 0215. The Green Team members were apprehended by Alpha and Delta at 0248.”

She pauses again as a ripple of thanks goes through to room, Alpha and Delta thanking their Master Chiefs and each other and Charlie thanking both teams.

“Petty Officer Spenser was admitted to hospital at 0224, and was assessed as having a concussion, a broken nose and 5 bruised ribs.”

Alpha, Charlie and Delta’s medics all take note of this. They’re probably going to be on Clay’s ass for the next few months about this, right behind Trent.

“Bravo arrived at the Hospital at 0243. They are all with him. Hayes has asked that he is included in any appropriate punishments.”

Full Metal snorts. “Bet he didn’t word it like that”

A series of chuckles and grins echoes around the room. He did not word it like that. There was much more swearing, and much, much less formal language. He’d implied murder no less than 5 times.

Lisa allowed a smile to pass through the stony calm façade she had up.

“Command has delegated these appropriate punishments to be carried out within DEVGRU and have stressed the importance of leaving an impression on future graduates. This cannot be a recuring event.”

TJ pipes up first, almost before she’d finished talking. “I say we let Metal work his magic, make sure nobody finds them.”

This gets mixed responses, but Lisa isn’t surprised when none are wholly negative. They all had a younger brother in the form of Clay, and they had all trained for years in the art of killing their enemies as swiftly and efficiently as possible, and these candidates fell wholly and completely under the title of ‘Enemy’.

Metal gives a faux hopeful look to Lisa, and Lisa can tell that he’s not entirely dismissed the possibility, even as he does a terrible job at pretending to still consider it an option that Lisa could authorize. Lisa plays into the joke – god knows that Tier One needs some light in this disastrous day – and gives him the look mostly used for when Bravo (usually Sonny) suggests a stupid idea that shouldn’t had even crossed their minds. Blackburn jokingly referred to it as her “bad dog” look, and it worked for its purpose, making the operators put their tails between their legs. A few faces form smiles, and a few look to be wavering on the edge of smiling.

“No murder, and no death.”

This gets her grumbles, and not all of them are joking. Clay had gotten all of them out of sticky situations. Every operator in Tier One had a handful story where Clay had needed to be briefed on their op, and all of them had at least one where he’d taking calls at 2am to translate over a connection that he could barely hear English through. He’d never berated them for waking him up, and had often taken time to teach various operators key phrases, if he knew they were deploying somewhere where he knew the language.

Beau goes next, possibly the most level-headed of the Master Chiefs – both in the room and not. “Advanced SERE?”

Now this, Lisa can work with. Something about her posture must change, a twitch in her face, because the room suddenly erupts in sound. Charlie Two, Delta Five and Alpha Three all are in close enough range to clap Beau on the back, and they do so in quick succession.

“Gentlemen.” She raises her voice to be heard by the room. There’s nothing gentle about the looks on their faces.

“I’ll leave you to figure something out. Report to me with a plan of action.” And with that, she gives them a single nod and begins to leave. Her turned back does not block out the whispers of violence, but it does hide the vicious smile that’s stretched itself out along her face.

Nobody would even think about hurting their kid. Ever again.

As Clay blearily opened his eyes, he realised that he’d succumbed to pain-med-induced sleep. A few hours had probably passed since then, based on the fact that sunlight was now filling the room. Sonny was sat on his right side, gaze focused on the room’s TV screen, which was showing a play-by-play of a football game. The volume was cranked down, and even as Clay becomes more aware; he can only hear every other word.

“Son?” The word passes his lips without him meaning it to. Sonny’s head snaps over to Clay, so fast that Clay fears he may have given himself whiplash.

“Hey Bam Bam, how ya doin?” The toothpick moves hypnotically. Stop looking at the toothpick. Stop it. Stop it. Sonny’s casual expression is betrayed by the slight waver in his voice, a sliver of raw emotion that Sonny couldn’t fully supress. Clay gives him a strained smile in lieu of answering and reaches his hand out. Sonny catches the hand before it moves very far, holding it in a tight grip.

Sonny’s thumb absently runs across Clay’s unblemished because he hadn’t even been able to fight back knuckles, and his spare hand turns off the TV, leaving them in silence.

“Kid.” Clay’s eyes widen slightly, and he almost pulls his hand out of Sonny’s grip at the softly spoken word. He tries to get in the apology, the explanation, before Sonny can tell him that Jason is punishing him for being unaware.

“I should have being paying attention. I know I should have been paying attention, I was just so tired.” I’m sorry I’m so sorry don’t kick me out please

Sonny freezes. What?

“Clay. Stop. Stop-” he has to cut himself off before he says something that includes those really touchy-feely-emotions he’s feeling. Thankfully, Clay doesn’t take the pause as an opportunity to continue. “Stop trying to defend yourself. None of us blame you, Blondie. You were on base. You should have been protected. We won’t fail you again.” Sonny gives him facts, because he knows that if he tries to do anything else he’ll make it worse.

“Son?” Clay recalls a voice calling through the dark, through the black water he was floating in, a voice he’d recognised; “Did Blackburn find me? He- he had blood on his hands”

For a moment, Sonny curses Clay’s blessings as a sniper. He’d always been able to notice the little things, the things none of them would notice. “Yeah, he was checking that none of us were sleeping in the cages.”

Clay nods, and then his brows furrow. He breaks eye contact with Sonny and frowns in the genal direction of his feet. His face makes what Sonny calls his ‘Brainiac’ Face, and Sonny can only assume that he’s thinking about what happened with Blackburn, not rationalizing with himself that the beating was somehow his fault.

“Son, can I talk to him?” Sonny doesn’t want to think about whatever that conversation is going to be, so he nods and begins to gather his stuff. His cap is hanging precariously from one on the bed’s corners, his phone on the bedside table. He stands and ruffles Clay’s head, laughing despite the stink-eye he gets for it. Clay doesn’t mind it, and he has the feeling the next few weeks, if not months, are going to be filled with various forms of physical contact to reassure his teammates that he was still with them.

And now he’d asked Sonny to get Blackburn. God what do you even say to the guy who had found you beaten? ‘Hey Boss, I’m sure that what you saw was horrifying, but I’m alright now?’ God help him. Sonny hadn’t given him a weird look, so he’d probably been expecting Clay to ask at some point.

Clay’s train of thought is interrupted when a soft knock sounds on the door. There’s a second of pause before the door opens. Clay can’t think of a time when Blackburn’s looked worse. There are dark circles under his eyes, and a vaguely haunted look in his eyes. His eyes have a red tinge, and Clay can’t tell if that’s from sleep deprivation, or something else. His hands are rubbed red and raw, and Clay can tell that Blackburn had taken extra care to get every fleck of blood off his hands. He’s in a jacket that looks too big for him, and Clay suspects that Trent had a hand in that. Since the injured person – Clay – wasn’t someone he could immediately care for, Trent had gone for the next best thing, a shaken Blackburn. Under the jacket, he’s still in his fatigues, and by the time he’s finished the assessment of Blackburn’s top half, he’d moved close and sat down, hiding everything below his waist from Clay’s view.

Blackburn reaches out, putting a palm on Clay’s forearm, Clay’s hand mirrors it on Blackburn’s arm, and tension bleeds from Blackburn’s figure. His shoulders slump slightly, and he leans forward.

“How are you feeling?”

Clay considers lying, considers saying that he’s not in any pain, considers easing Blackburn’s mind. He decides against it. Blackburn had found him in a pool of blood, it’s the least he can do to tell him the truth. “My ribs hurt. But I’m, I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you were there.”

Clay is the sometimes literally bleeding heart of Bravo, levelling out Sonny’s emotional constipation, and the admission is the balm of some of the burns on Eric’s soul. Eric leaned forwards, shuffling closer to the bed, trying to hide the blood on his knees. He hadn’t been home to change, a call to his wife at 8am had told her that he wasn’t going to be home for a while. She, like the amazing wife she was, had been understanding, and then grumbled at him to let her sleep. They’d both laughed and exchanged ‘I love you’s before his wife ended the call. Clay didn’t need the stress of knowing that Eric had knelt in his blood. Nobody needs that.

“Gave me quite a scare, gave all of us quite a scare.” Eric doesn’t tell him that he’d spent the last half hour scrubbing his hands raw, that Jason had needed to strong-arm him into the waiting room, that Trent had given him one look and offered up his jacket, that he’d had his head in his hands until Sonny had come into the room and told him that Clay wanted to talk to him. Doesn’t tell him that he’d stood outside for nearly a minute before he’d knocked, that he’d needed to barrel in before he lost the nerve to speak to his operator. He usually prides himself on staying calm, on being collected, but Clay had been attacked in one of the few places on earth that he could honestly and without reservation call home. That scared Eric. If he couldn’t keep his operators safe on base, where would they be safe?

“Davis is talking to command about adding locks to the cage room doors, make sure this doesn’t happen again.” If she wasn’t already talking to command about it, she would be soon.

Clay nods. He shifts and grimaces in pain.

“Do you want me to get a nurse?” It’s a safe question, one that doesn’t involve the emotions in the room.

Clay ignores the lifeline. “I’m alright as I am. Did you get the guys?”

Eric nods. Breaking the news to Bravo had been the highlight of his morning. “Command is letting DEVGRU work out how to punish them.”

Clay grins. “I bet Metal is having fun with that.”

It’s Eric’s turn to smile, and a soft chuckle makes its way out. “Davis is under strict orders to not accept a plan that involves murder. I’m sure Alpha’s disagreeing with that.”

Alpha was most likely to deploy with Bravo, and all were in line with their Master Chief’s ‘Bury-first-questions-second’ policy when it came to Clay. Eric had a feeling it wouldn’t take much convincing to get Delta and Echo behind the plan, and that Charlie would only argue on principle.

Tier One was a brotherhood that didn’t take kindly to injury, as the world would learn.

Echo One – Zack Greer – a newly promoted Delta Two, wasn’t a very outgoing man. One and Twos were meant to both complement and contrast each other, a precarious balancing act honed over years of living out of each other’s pockets. TJ had needed a level head, so his Two was calm in the face of crisis.

Echo Two, on the other hand. A Floridian man, Elliot Howe, promoted from Charlie Three, who was under strict orders to never drink unsupervised with Sonny Quinn, lest they empty a bar and then burn said bar to the ground. He’d chaffed under Beau’s tight ship, so when the opportunity to move to form Echo had arisen, he was hard pushed to say no.

Together with Echo Three (Alpha Three), Echo Four (Delta Six) and two Green Team graduates as their Five and Six, they’d created a tight brotherhood.

Echo Five, Dan Wilder, a multilingual K9 handler, had initially been lost at DEVGRU, not quite fitting in. He’d reached out to the youngest operator – Bravo Six – in order to get some advice. What he didn’t know at the time is that their languages had overlap. Together with Clay and Ares – his K9 – he’d been able to find someone to practice with.

Echo had long since lost count of how many times Clay had come into their cage room, with a well-loved book, offering it to Dan with a brief explanation of how it would interest him. The book was never in English, and neither was the explanation. For all they knew, Clay could have spent the last few months giving Dan anything from Harry Potter to The Anarchist’s Cookbook (he’d actually only given Dan one of those, and Dan was under strict instructions not to tell them which, and Dan had been recommending others back).

Sonny, on the days when they were hanging out after work, sometimes tagged along to these exchanges. He’d joked about a book club, and Echo Two had picked up on the joke immediately, and since then the pair had resigned themselves to the nickname.

Between Clay’s frequent interactions with Dan and the fact that all of DEVGRU was deadly protective of Clay, it was no surprise that when Echo had heard the news, they hadn’t been happy. Command had fought a battle with Echo to keep them deployed, and Echo had nearly won. Dan had been on many rants, talking to empty space in Pashto – Four only caught a few words, and those were all along the lines of murder and death. Ares was giving out a low, constant growl. Both of the DEVGRU K9s were as protective as their owners, it seemed.

The door to their dorms slammed open and Zack marched in. Echo looks up in sync, and if it weren’t so serious, Zack would be amused by how much his men look like Meerkats. “Got word from Virginia.” This sets his men on edge, Howe half-steps forward, and his shoulders visibly tense up. “They found the green team rookies. We’ve been asked to approve the plan of their punishment before it gets sent to be approved by command.” Malicious smiles break out among the barracks.

They may be 7000 miles away, but they wouldn’t let anybody off the hook because of it.

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mandalorianbrainweasel · 3 years

Note

Choice of two! 🤩

Fordo17:

or Sev/Fi Skirata since you mentioned repcomm

(or if neither of these speak to you i can request something else! ❤️)

Okay, both spoke to me, but that beach photo 👌

you better show them why you talk so loud

T. Sev/Fi. 695 words. Established relationship, early morning, fog (literal and metaphorical), mental illness: PTSD, survivor's guilt, implied executive dysfunction.

Look someone described Fi to me and I went "ADHD" like a person who projects. I think part of it was canon and part of it was how much I love snipers.

Fi likes Gene’tve. He does. It’s nice, and Sev’s here, and everyone he’s met here is nice and understanding and welcoming. It’s one of the most beautiful places he’s been, especially this morning with the fog still thick over the lake and the cliffs. Everything is greys and blues, mostly, cool and washed out and it feels good.

But the silence is so loud.

He keeps waiting for a shell to hit. He keeps waiting for the screaming to start. He finds himself holding his breath, like he’s getting ready to take a shot, half the time.

His mind is drifting like the fog, wrapped up in a thick sweater and sitting in the grey mud that’s splattered and drying all over his legs. It’s starting to itch, but he just fists his fingers into the knit of the sweater and stares out at the shapes the fog makes.

Is everyone okay, that they left?

He wanted to leave, he wanted a chance to have a home and a life like a civilian. Omega Squad would have been seen as suspected the moment that Buir and the ori’vode didn’t come back.

But they still left friends, among the other clones and among the Jedi and the civilians who worked with them, behind when they finished their mission and vanished to Mandalore Space.

It’s better this way, it’s what he wanted, but everything is still happening. The war is still exploding through the galaxy and his friends are still out there and he’s here, in a sweater he stole from Sev and a pair of boxers and itchy dried mud on his legs and bare feet.

His heart is beating like he’s scared.

Is he scared?

Why is he scared?

He jerks at the first sound of mud squishing under boots that makes it through the fog of his mind. When he looks up, Sev is coming to a stop next to him. Boots, denims, another sweater, and a blanket tied around his shoulders, two mugs of caf in his hands.

He makes a grumbling little Sev noise and hands Fi the mugs, then unwraps the blanket and sits in the mud next to Fi, wrapping one side around him and one around himself, then takes back one of the mugs.

Fi leans against him, heart calming back down. He sips the caf in the mug he’s been left holding. It’s warm and bitter and it feels familiar and good.

“The Mand’alor is accepting anyone who wants to join up with the Corps. No call to action, and we may not even see action—have to get cleared by a mindhealer if we were in the war before. But...” Sev trails off. “It might help.”

“I like it here.”

“Good,” he says, nodding. “That doesn’t mean you can’t want to go back out, though.”

Fi hums. “I’m not sure I want to. Is that okay, do you think? That I don’t want to go back out? I mean, I’d like to see more of the galaxy, but. I don’t want to see it through my scope. I don’t want to see it through dust kicked up or a HUD.”

Sev gives him a surprised look. “Yeah, it’s okay. I guess I just didn’t quite expect that from you, not just after you’ve been in the middle of it. Or, any of us really. Not that we’re itching to go back out right away. It’s nice to have a break that doesn’t have a hard expiration date. And I want to go out there with you, you know. One day we’ll get to see the whole galaxy, but...for now we could just see Mandalore space.”

“Yeah,” Fi breathes, and for the first time this morning he smiles. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Sev grunts and leans his cheek against Fi’s shoulder. “Finish your caf, we’ll go in and shower before breakfast. Need to toss everything in the sonic, too. Just had to flop down onto the mud, didn’t you?”

The last part he recognizes as a tease and he lets it wash over him as the fog begins to clear and the lake tide begins to inch closer.

#my fanfiction #prompt fill #delta squad sev #omega squad fi #Fi Skirata #Sev Vau #star satin #cloneshipping #can be read as platonic #but it's not #repcomm

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bus-noises · 3 years

Text

I’ve fallen in love with TF2, not for the gameplay but for the characters. I love reading the comics, seeing fanart, all that jazz. Finally, I decided to create my own fanart with my own spin on it. I drew this in IbisPaintX with my finger.

Speed paint: https://youtu.be/QG2khzbKazw

Each of the mercs has their symbol on their face, except it has been turned into patterning. They also each have at least one accessory so that they’re easier to distinguish. I wanted all the mercs to be bipedal carnivores, since those would be easiest to position to hold weaponry and be the most likely to be “bloodthirsty mercenaries”. I fully intend to draw the side characters (Saxton Hale, Ms. Pauling, the Administrator, etc.) and make more art of the dino-mercs. You may draw these designs, but credit MUST be given to me, preferably in the form of a link to my account. Do note this is an older piece of art and that in the future Heavy and Engineer will be different colors “canonically” (although I will design swapped colors for all of them in case I ever need to use them) to allow Heavy and Medic/Engineer and Pyro friendships and Scout/Spy rivalry. I will probably use these as blank slates for my own headcanons.

Heavy

Heavy is an allosaurus. I chose an allosaurus since it was big and tough, but it’s arms were long enough that if I twisted them right he could hold Sasha in drawings. Originally, I had planned to do full body references of the dino mercs. I sketched out Heavy, before deciding I hated the body, but loved the face. So, instead of full body references, I went with what you see here. Since his symbol is a fist, I gave him rounded stripes along his crest to look somewhat like the fingers in the fist.

Medic

Medic is a troodon. I went with a troodon due to the fact that they are believed to be one of, if not the smartest dinosaur (from the Mesozoic at least, we all know there’s plenty of intelligent birds today). While not pictured, Archimedes is a dodo, because dodos are actually relatives to pigeons, and doves are also relatives to pigeons. Also I like the trope of “haha dumb thing is smart”. Medics symbol is a medical cross, so I gave him a rectangular cross-like shape on his snout.

Demo

Demoman is a ceratosaurus. There’s actually no real reason for this, I had just asked my friends for help choosing species for certain characters and one suggested ceratosaurus. It played into my favor though, as it allowed me to make it where his eyepatch went around the horns. Demo’s symbol is a bomb, so I gave him a large circular shape on his snout, followed by smaller circles around the horn, looking slightly like a fuse. (Yes, I know, “wrong type of bomb!!” I tried my best ok)

Engie

Engineer is a Utahraptor. This is because of the trope of dromaeosaurids being intelligent (which they are, just not as smart as Jurassic Park makes them). Another thing that made me choose it is because it is believed Utahraptors lived in desert-like conditions, and Texas is basically a giant desert as far as I know. Engineers symbol is a wrench. I found it difficult to do, but eventually I decided to go with reversed semi-circles, like the claw part of a wrench. (I don’t know the word for it)

Sniper

Sniper is an australovenator. There’s really no reason for this other than the fact they come from Australia. Yes, I know sniper is actually from New Zealand. Snipers symbol is a gun’s crosshair, so I gave him stripes going outwards from the tip of his muzzle. I went a bit crazy on the patterning though if I’m honest.

Pyro

While it’s hard to tell under his mask (which was a pain in the ass and still looks stupid) he is a baryonyx. This is because baryonyx lived near water, and I thought it would be funny to make the pyromaniac a water dwelling dinosaur. Only after I finished was I reminded pyroraptor exists. I decided to change him to be a pyroraptor in the future. Since the symbols are on their heads, I decided to make it seem as if pyro painted flames on his mask in his free time.

Soldier

Soldier is the only exception to the carnivore rule. Instead, he is a pachycephalosaurus. I’m sure it’s obvious why I chose that, but in case it isn’t it’s because of their hard, thick skulls. Not only does it look like a helmet, thick headed is an insult that usually means a person is stupid. (In my opinion it’s funny that he still wears a helmet despite the fact his head is basically already one) Soldiers symbol is a rocket. I wasn’t sure how to do this, so I went with a long, scar-like stripe to symbolize the length of the rocket.

Spy

Spy is a coelophysis. This is another one I needed my friends help on. In my opinion it fits since coelophysis were believed to be sneaky in order to catch their prey of lizards, bugs, and other small things they could get their claws on. Since spy’s symbol is a knife, I gave him sharp, jagged stripes on his snout.

Scout

Scout is a velociraptor, due to the trope of them being fast little gremlins. Originally I had planned to make him a gallimimus or some other ornithomimid, but those are often portrayed as cowardly, and I didn’t want to do that. Besides, they also had no teeth, so I couldn’t give him a cocky grin. I struggled with scouts symbol for a while, trying my best to draw a wing/feather-like pattern. I eventually settled on the pattern seen in the drawing, as it looked enough like a wing-tip to me.

Yeah that’s kinda it uh thanks for reading all this

#scout #tf2 solly #tf2 demo #tf2 sniper #tf2 pyro #tf2 #tf2 scout #team fortress 2 #tf2 heavy #tf2 demoman #dinosaurs

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whoacanada · 4 years

Text

Camp Sweetgum

Pre-Canon Zimbits — Camp Sweetgum shares lakefront with a private resort and Eric is used to wealthy, entitled people wandering into his camp. He isn’t used to them awkwardly hitting on him.

“Hello?”

Eric looks up from the mess he’s cleaning out of the bottom of a canoe to find a man waving awkwardly a few yards away. The glare from the lake is enough to mask any discerning features, but Eric can make out a thick accent.

“Hi. One of your campers left this oar near the water polo court?”

“Oh, bless,” Eric sighs, rinsing his hands in the lake to clear any lingering stench. “The little kids are still learning and our new counselors are just as green. Thank you for bringing it back, I hope they didn’t interrupt your morning?”

The man comes into focus and Eric realizes he’s younger than he sounds, the hair on his head floppy and overgrown, softening his sharp features and oddly bright eyes. Eric can’t recall the last time he’d met someone with such light blue eyes, if he ever has; and the realization comes with a flutter low in his stomach. A flutter Eric always tries very hard to ignore when he’s working.

“Oh, no worries,” the man says, smile half-timid. “I saw the kids playing and should have said something before they left it behind.”

He’s older. He’s foreign. He’s cute. Not that Eric needs to think too hard about any of those details.

“So, bleach, eh?”

Eric looks down at the bucket and rag, realizes he hasn’t spoken aloud recently enough for this to be a real conversation and takes steps to amend the problem.

“How else are we supposed to determine what campers get motion sickness?” Eric offers with some measure of levity. “What’s life without a little mess?”

“Are you a counselor?”

“Caught me,” Eric balances the plastic bucket as he steps out of the canoe onto the pier, trying not to stain his shirt when the bleach solution splashes over the edge. “You’re looking at Sweetgum’s Senior Counselor. Why? Looking for a summer job? We need a cook if you’re halfway decent in the kitchen.”

He’s only half joking. Eric doesn’t have the authority to hire anyone, but they do need a new chef, and there’s very little Eric enjoys more than knocking rich guys down a peg.

“No thanks, I’m just on vacation,” the guy points over his shoulder at the resort on the opposite side of the lake, completely missing Eric’s sass. “But I’ll keep that in mind. I’m good with kids, I used to coach bantam hockey.”

“Used to?”

“I’m going back to college this fall,” he shrugs, bending low to rest the oar on the sand. At this angle, Eric can see the man shares the familiar, slightly bowlegged stance of some of his lifer teammates; the good ones who’ve played ice hockey as long as Eric’s known how to walk. “It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

It takes a moment for Eric to realize what the guy is talking about, but then he notices the way he’s looking at the bunk buildings behind Eric.

“Oh, you mean how there’s a middle-income summer camp next door to a super secret private resort? Believe me, I know. Half my job is making sure tech billionaires on speedboats don’t mow down my campers in water wings.”

The words are out before Eric has time to think, and the man’s pale cheeks flush pink, which Eric only notices because he’s already so pale. Who spends their summer at a lake resort and doesn’t tan?

“I don’t like speedboats,” the man offers. “I mostly golf with my dad.”

“Well I appreciate you not murdering my kids.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, Eric waiting for his visitor to do something, anything other than awkwardly hover while Eric’s campers scream and play a short ways away.

“Well, thank you for the oar,” Eric says, opening the door on the end of their conversation so this hottie can escape. “You feel like coming by the snack shack, I’d be happy to reward you with a fun-size candy bar of your choosing.”

“Thanks. I’m conditioning so I can’t.”

Eric’s used to rich kids sneaking across the lake to play pranks and be generally unworthy of any measure of kindness, but this is new. This boy, this hockey player, has accomplished his mission of returning a missing camp item, he’s made small talk, and rejected Eric’s thank you offer outright; and yet, he isn’t leaving.

“Is there anything else you needed?” Eric asks. “You’re welcome to help me clean.”

Pale, blue-eyed hottie actually scuffs his heel into the sand.

“Yes?” Eric prompts gently.

“I just saw a sniper scrubbing puke out of a boat and thought I’d say hello,” he says, looking appropriately horrified the moment the words leave his mouth.

Eric suddenly gets it.

This is not the first time someone’s mistaken him for a girl at a distance, especially when he’s wearing his swim shorts. Figure skating did wonders for his coordination, it also gave him the ass and thighs of a co-ed. One day, a boy will hit on Eric from behind and actually be interested in what’s happening on the front end as well, but that’s a day he’s saving for his college up north, the one with a much healthier gay-straight ratio.

“No stress,” Eric forces. “It’s an easy mistake. You aren’t the first guy to clock me at a thousand yards. Happens all the time.”

Blue-eyes blushes harder and looks away.

“I-I didn’t,” he stammers. “I’m sorry, I should go. Thanks for . . . um, don’t ruin your clothes. The cleaner.”

Eric waves halfheartedly as the man departs, walking quickly to the wooded path before breaking into a sprint the second he thinks Eric can’t see him any longer. When he disappears from sight, Eric adds another tally to a mental checklist labeled ‘sexuality crisis’.

“Stupid boys,” Eric sighs, giving up on appearances as he dumps the remaining contents of the bleach bucket into the canoe.

#pre-zimbits #zimbits #omgcp #eric bittle #jack zimmermann #my stuff #ficlet #pre-canon #camp sweetgum #which may be a thing #let's see how quarantine goes #awkward flirting #Jack is bad at things #takes place like three months before the start of Year One

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kayywinchester · 4 years

Text

A Quick Break

Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1,149

Warnings: canon-typical mention of violence, smut (mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, sex in a semi-public place). That’s it really.

Also on AO3

“Who the hell put you in charge of the fucking rifle?” Dean snarled from behind you. His hand gripped the binoculars that were strung around his neck. “I’m always the sniper.” He almost pouted as he peered through the binoculars, hoping your target would show up already.

You rolled your eyes at him as a grin crossed your lips. “Admit it, I’m the better shot, Dean,” you teased as you peered through your scope.

Where was this fucker? You were waiting for arrival of the werewolf leader whose pack had been wreaking havoc on the local towns in the area. He was supposed to meet with someone outside the abandoned warehouse across the alley from where you currently were. And it was your plan to take him out for good.

Dean sighed and dropped the binoculars against his chest. “Babe, we’ve been up here for two hours. I don’t think this jackass is going to show.” Dean plopped down onto his rear and crossed his legs. “Maybe we should just hunt down the nest tonight.”

You shook your head. “No, he’s going to show. I’m certain.” You peered up at the building beside you, where Sam and Castiel lay in waiting, no doubt as frustrated and anxious as you were. But, you weren’t leaving. You knew this bastard was going to show up, and you were going to be the one to take him out.

With a sigh, you lifted your rifle off the edge of the building and rested it beside you. You peered down at your watch. It was just after four o’clock, which meant it was going to get dark soon. But, you deserved a break. Your eyes were strained and you could feel a headache starting up. You just needed to focus on something else.

You peered over at Dean, who was leaning up against one of the electrical boxes with his eyes closed. Your grin returned as an idea popped into your head. You certainly had time to kill.

You crawled over to Dean on your hands and knees. You straddled him, forcing his eyes open and his lips to curl like yours.

“Hey, I thought you were on watch?” he whispered as you skimmed your lips over his scruffy jawline.

You tapped the heavy object around his neck. “You’re the one with the binoculars,” you murmured just before you captured his lip between your teeth. Your hands smoothed up his arms, then came to rest of his shoulders. “But, Cas and Sam are right over there. They can handle it if we take a short break, right?” Dean nodded just before he latched his lips back onto yours.

Dean’s hands quickly made their way under your long-sleeved shirt and under your sports bra. His lightly calloused thumb rolled over your nipple, earning him a gasp.

You reached down to unzip his pants, making quick work of them and revealing his half-hard length. Your fingers quickly encased his cock, slowly pumping up and down. A breathy moan crossed his lips before he slid his hands from your shirt and down to your waistline. His fingers fumbled blindly with your button.

Once Dean gained entrance to your pants, he slipped halfway down your thighs and reached for the hem of your panties. His thick fingers made their way down, quickly finding your slick folds.

“Dean,” you hissed into his ear. Your hands landed on his shoulders for support. “Oh my—” your words cut short as Dean’s finger found your bundle of nerves. He swirled circles around your clit, urging your quickly building climax closer to release.

“Dean, please just fuck me already,” you pleaded as you rolled your hips against his hand. He pulled his hand back and smirked. You slid your pants down, peering around you to make sure no one could see you, then aligned yourself over his cock.

Dean guided you down, your walls stretching around him as he filled you. The moment he bottomed out, he gripped your hips. He guided you, rolling your hips in sync with his thrusts.

“Sweetheart, you feel so good,” Dean purred in your ear as you slowly bounced on his lap. The pressure in your core continued to build. You were so fucking close already, and you could tell Dean was too. His thrusts were a little erratic, like he had been thinking about this since the moment the two of you stepped foot onto that roof. If you were being completely honest, the thought had been in the back of your mind too.

Dean’s hand lowered back to your clit, smoothing circles over the sensitive flesh. God, you were close. Your fingers gripped his shoulders as you neared your release.

“Dean, please don’t stop, oh—” Your head rolled back as your climax erupted through you. “Dean!” you growled through your teeth in an attempted not to draw attention. A part of you didn’t fucking care who heard you, but the other part of you knew that your target could be anywhere.

Dean’s thrusts faltered a little, signaling that he was close. As your euphoric high consumed you, you leaned over Dean’s shoulder, capturing his earlobe between your teeth.

“That’s it, baby. Fuck me just like that,” you whispered. “Come for me, Dean. Fill me up—” Dean grunted, digging his fingertips into your hips as he emptied into you. Your name left his lips as he thrusted a few more times. Then, he stilled, catching his breath.

“Fuck, babe,” was all he could get out before he leaned back and closed his eyes. But, you knew exactly what he meant. It had been too fucking long since the two of you had any alone time. This was the third week of this case and sharing a room with two other people made it pretty difficult to be intimate at any point.

You pressed one more quick kiss to Dean’s lips, then pulled off of him. You slipped your pants back on, ignoring the dampness that now plagued your panties, and peered back over the edge.

“We didn’t miss any of the action, did we?” Dean played, his eyes on you. You studied the scene below, still nothing.

You shook your head. “Looks like we are the action,” you joked, earning yourself an eye roll from your boyfriend. He gathered himself and kneeled beside you, pretending to be focused.

Static echoed from your walkie talkie, startling you. “Y/N? Dean? I see a car pulling up at the end of the alley. It’s gotta be them,” Sam confirmed. You smiled at Dean, then reached for your gun and assumed your position.

“Just in time,” Dean whispered into your ear. You simply grinned as you peered through your scope, waiting for the target to come into view. Your hand was steadier than before, your body focused.

You needed to remember to take breaks more often.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester and reader #dean x reader #dean winchester reader insert #dean winchester smut #dean x reader smut #dean winchester x reader smut #sam winchester #castiel #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction

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zoyaalinas · 4 years

Text

rosa suburbia

written for @jonsadrabbles

day 1: prompt ~ linger

summary: sansa's world is glossy pink. jon wishes she'd let him nurse his heartbreak in peace. he also wishes she'd let him stay.

“Can I work here for a bit? Robb’s so bloody loud I can’t hear myself.”

A listless shrug. “Sure.”

“Thanks. I’ll be quiet.”

She nods, and says it again, sure, her rs clipped off like dead lobelias to make space for drags. Sometimes he wonders what Sansa dreams about when she’s perched this way- looking out a window with the secrecy of a sniper at a periscope, cigarette dangling from the left corner of her mouth. It’s how Jon finds her every morning on his way downstairs, seeking six o’clock supplies (hard-to-ration things: dental floss, Xeroxes, coffee, mental peace). A ritual viewing to keep balance: Sansa Stark in her too-pink bedroom wearing too-pink lingerie staring at too-pink sunsets, although on retrospection, sunsets here are never quite as brilliant as his idea of them.

Most things aren’t.

Outside, it’s summer. In the canon of atmospheric literature, there is something artificial about the way summer is described. Sunshine and great bursts of leaves. Air that smells of crushed fern. Summer in the foothills isn’t half as proprietary; it arrives in silence and gets into crevices like beach glass and thoughtless exchanges made in the heat of a single moment. The air, in fact, hadn’t smelt like crushed fern when Val had slammed the door upon his face in a hot blaze of tears and told him he had developed a pathological affinity for self-centeredness. It had smelt like the wine they’d drunk before.

That was two months back. Jon Snow lost two months to an error of judgement, though some of it was probably the wine too.

Anyway. Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien.

Thump, thump, thump. Insane acoustics. When Jon is sad, he drinks a lot and rhapsodizes on the lines of Richard Siken. When Robb is sad, he plays Post Malone. From the looks of it, Jon’s roommate must be fucking devastated today, but one can only endure Rockstar so many times before one feels a burgeoning need to pop in half a Percocet and seek refuge in the room of a greater, more tranquil being for the first time in forty days.

Thump.

Or, maybe he’s beating shit up? The Stark kids are a weird lot, Jon has come to realise from his time playing hanger-on: they keep to themselves and operate strictly on an eat-or-be-eaten policy, running on cool crisp cocktails of narcotics and self-hatred. Combinations vary: Arya punches jocks; Bran plays Ted Bundy podcasts during morning yoga sessions. Etcetera.

“What are you writing?”

Nothing to be exact, not since he got distracted from self-pity an odd minute back. More of guilt than anything else, Jon shuts his laptop. “Nada.”

“You working on that novel?”

“Trying.”

“Feel you.” She taps on a fissure in the cool granite of the sill. “When Harry dumped me, I locked myself into a room and watched Elizabeth Taylor movies for 72 hours. Naked.”

“Sounds terrific.”

“The binging or the nudity?”

“Both. Invite me next time.”

“Alrighty!” this in a sing-song lilt, like playing Harley Quinn. “Bring your best Arbor Red and we’ll watch Gone with the Wind.”

“Don’t forget the other half of the pact.”

Sansa pulls a silly face, and he thinks, Percocet-hazed, funny girl. Conversations should’ve been initiated before, but she wasn’t, well, Val. Embarrassing.

“Here, have a whole drag. Cleanses your mind.” She proffers the cig at him, rolling-paper stained by a very bright, very bubblegum-pink lipgloss. Jon manages to complicatedly maneuver accepting the cigarette without making contact with Sansa’s fingers, a feat he’d thought impossible for any human in hypothetical pick-me-ups.

Not that he minds. Not that he’s-

“Close the laptop darling, if the angst doesn’t come in fifteen minutes it sure wouldn’t materialize in twenty.”

Not used to being told off by anyone in a camisole, Jon does, indeed, close his laptop. It’s a very becoming camisole, objectively. In fact all of Sansa’s room has the strange congruity of an organized film set, there’s clutter, but it’s organic, prettily messy, an 80’s pinup-girl-dorm with the mandatory young Leo poster behind the door. The one in the floral shirt.

Jon looks at her again. Funny girl, yes, but also quite lovely, objectively, with that shock of red hair falling all over her face and big blue eyes with liquid flourishes at the creases that probably have a cosmetological name Jon doesn’t know. He watches her reapply her lipgloss in the dresser mirror. That particular pink would look atrocious anywhere else but somehow it looks just correct on her mouth. Glossology- proclaims the tube in bright gaudy silver letters. Shade 245: Rosa Suburbia. Christ above.

His phone buzzes. Val, says the ID, with the two blue hearts she’d added the day they’d swapped contacts. Jon hesitates, delaying the imminent. Lingering. Just another five seconds.

Mirror Sansa looks at him and flashes a dazzling smile. He smiles back only to realise she’s checking her makeup. Bit of an idiot move, classic Jon.

Another buzz.

“You better get that, Johnny,” Sansa chimes in her Harley Quinn voice.

Summer is untyped sentences waiting to be born, a room plastered by Vogue cutouts, a bed strewn with nail polish bottles, lacy underthings and empty boxes of dessert crumbs. Summer is ugly pink lipgloss and ridiculously lovely blue eyes and the epiphany that Gone with the Wind is that movie you’ve been planning to watch your whole life but simply never got around to.

“It’s probably dad, checking in. I’ll call him later. Listen, you want to go out on the terrace or something? It’s too smoky in here.”

“Shit, you just asked me on a date to my own rooftop?”

“Wait, what?”

She laughs.

The glow on Jon’s phone screen informs he has three missed calls. They can wait.

Being with Sansa is good. Being with Sansa works a bit like holding a red hot iron tong to an open flesh-wound. It’s overwhelming, and sometimes the bite in her words is hostile, but it heals. It cleans. If it were upto him, he would be cauterized by Sansa Stark every time the Percocet didn’t dissolve.

Outside, the summer too, lingers.

Inside, the room is thick with nicotine and Rosa Suburbia.

(follow the notes to read this on ao3)

#jonsadrabbles #jonsacentric #jonsa fic #jonsadrabblefest #jonsa #jon snow x sansa stark #jon snow #sansa stark #modern au #ship: jonsa #fandom: asoiaf #rosa suburbia #tw smoking #mimiwrites #userzelle #ladystarks

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blake-belladonna-defence-force · 4 years

Note

Hey hi I've loved every single one of your writings so far and finally worked up the nerve to send a prompt: Blake calls her parents to let them know she's safe in Atlas.

I don’t think that this went the way you asked but... inspiration struck and this was the result. I hope you don’t mind how it turned out 😅

Featuring;

Meddling, embarrassing mama Kali

Yang “I don’t know how to respond so I’m just going to leave the room” Xiao Long

Anxious Blake

And dorky bees

Oh and I have a silly little headcanon that has absolutely no basis in canon that when Blake’s agitated with her mother, she calls her ma 😅

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

“Oh there’s my beautiful baby girl!”

Blake laughed at her mother’s greeting. As embarrassing as it was when Yang was literally sitting right next to her, Blake had missed her mother’s enthusiasm terribly.

“Hi mum.” Blake smiled happily at her.

“Your father’s out dealing with some diplomatic issues right now so you’ll have to make do with me. And the first thing I want to know is about your hair!” Kali said excitedly as Blake flushed. “Oh look at you! You look so grown up! I’m sure that you’re just sweeping that partner of yours right off of her feet, hmm?” Kali smirked at her through her scroll. Blake felt herself freeze, a brief moment of panic before glaring at her mother, purposefully ignoring the way Yang turned away with a furious blush.

“Mother. Please.” Blake said dryly. She should have expected this.

“What? I’m just saying that, if she’s as incredible as you told me, then she’s worth pursuing.” Kali smiles at her sweetly. Too sweetly.” What was it you said? Strong, beautiful, charismatic, brave? And something about her having the most adorable, dorky laugh that never fails to lift your spirits?” Blake.exe has stopped working. Please reboot. “Oh! Then there’s how intelligent you said she was. Compassionate and kind. With the most beautiful lilac eyes that-“ “Okay, that’s enough!” Blake finally managed to interrupt her mother.

“That feel like home.” Kali finished with a cheeky grin.

“Thanks ma.” Blake said sarcastically as Kali giggled. Her ears were pinned and she absolutely refused to look at Yang.

“I-um.” Yang stuttered, causing Kali to blink up at Blake in confusion. Blake sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose and turned the camera to Yang.

“Say hello to Yang, mum. I was just about to introduce you before you went on your tangent.” Blake said while pointedly glaring at her mother, ears flat. To her credit, Kali appeared sheepish.

“Oh. Hello, dear. This is certainly a bit… awkward, I suppose.” Kali giggled. Blake was starting to pray that the floor would open up and swallow her whole. “Blake has told me so much about you!”

“Uh… Hi Mrs. Belladonna. Pleasure to see you.” Yang grinned awkwardly. “I should go check on the others. I’ll see you later!” And with that, she ran off.

“I see what you mean by charismatic, dear.” Kali teased but stopped when she saw the almost hurt look on Blake’s face. “Blake, honey, what’s wrong?”

“W-we’re in weird place, r-right now. Things have been awkward since I came back and-“ Blake stammered as the story, minus everything to do with Ozpin and Salem, came out. How scared she was that they’d never be okay. How they had to protect their own. How they exist in this weird relationship purgatory of theirs. “And I’m terrified of losing her! W-what if this sets back at square one?” Blake sniffed, heart aching at the thought. “You saw how she reacted! She was uncomfortable!”

“Blake, baby girl. I don’t think that’s it. I am so sorry that I embarrassed you both, but I think she’s less embarrassed and closer to flustered. She just may not know what to do with what she heard and needed a moment to think it through.” Kali cooed gently as Blake inhaled deeply. “I’m so, so sorry you had to go through all of that. I’m sorry we weren’t there for you. That we didn’t fight harder for you. I’m sorry that things ended the way they did.” Kali let out a sniff of her own, tears streaming down her own face. “But I am so grateful that Yang was there for you. What you two have is so special and rare, baby girl. I don’t think either of you will let it go. Especially not over some old woman’s ramblings.” Blake let out a testy huff of laughter as she wiped her eyes.

“Don’t apologise, mum. I-I’m okay. I’m safe.” Blake smiled reassuringly at her before letting out a heavy sigh. “I know that neither of are willing to let… whatever this is go. But there’s still this voice in the back of my head telling me that I don’t deserve her. That I’ll mess up and-“ “Blake Belladonna!” Blake jumped as her mother scolded her.

“I will not have any daughter of mine talking like that. You deserve to happy. You deserve to feel safe. You deserve love, sweetheart. And I think that could be with her.” Kali said with a soft smile as Blake flushed. “And just so you know…. I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about you. You can’t fake that amount of adoration that I saw in her eyes.” Blake let out another sniffle.

“I’m still scared, mum.” Blake said quietly.

“Most things that are worthwhile are, dear. But she’s worth it. Isn’t she?”

The two talked for awhile before Blake asked her mother to send her love and best wishes to her father and Ilia, considering that her old friend was working alongside the older Belladonna. Ghira and Kali had become mentors of sorts to her.

Once she hung up, she took a deep breath and sought out Yang, who she found sitting on a bench in the courtyard. Quietly, she sat down next to her, keeping a respectful distance.

“I’m so sorry, Yang.” Blake murmured, voice thick with emotion. Her chest felt tight and she instinctively crossed her arms across her torso.

“It-it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Yang said quietly, refusing to look at her. Blake felt her heart crack, fear taking root.

“Are you… mad at me?” Blake asked, anxiously biting her lip. Her ears were pinned and she felt mildly unwell.

“What? No! No, of course I’m not mad!” Yang gasped turning to face her, concern washing over her face. But concern turned to horror as she saw Blake’s face. “Oh God. Have you- have you been crying?” Yang whispered heartbreakingly soft as she reached out to cup Blake’s jaw, thumb brushing over her tear stained cheeks. Blake, Gods help her, leaned into her partner’s touch.

“I’m fine. Just… talked about everything’s that happened and it got… overwhelming.”

“Blake… did I upset you by leaving the way I did?” Yang questioned gently as she pulled away. Blake ducked her head.

“I’m sorry. I just…” Blake scrunched up her nose in frustration before taking her mother’s advice. “I just was worried that this would make things weird. I don’t want to lose you just because I couldn’t keep my feeling in check.” Blake felt a hand gently lift her chin, bringing her gaze up to Yang’s rather hangdog expression.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Or hurt you.” Yang murmured regretfully. “That’s the last thing I want to do. I just…” Yang paused, licking her lips nervously and giving out an anxious laugh. “It’s kind of… overwhelming to realise that the girl you’re crazy for has been ranting about you to her mother, ya know?”

Blake stared at he partner in shock before grabbing her jaw and pulling Yang in to a passionate kiss. She heard the surprised squeak that escaped Yang before she wrapped her arms around Blake and pulled her closer. Blake tilted their heads and deepened the kiss for a moment, earning a soft whimper from her partner. When Blake pulled back, both of them breathing heavily, she saw a slightly dazed Yang, who had a goofy, disbelieving smile on her face.

“So… does that mean you’ll let me take you out?” Yang whispered, looking slightly awestruck.

“You mean on a date or with a sniper rifle?” Blake asked with a quirked brow, a slight smirk tugging at her lip.

“Really?” Yang deadpanned. “You’re going to be a little shit right now?”

“You like it.” Blake murmured as she leaned over and brushed her lips against Yang’s.

“No, I love it.” Yang whispered, leaning forward to capture Blake’s lips with her own. Blake hummed happily against her before pulling back and quirking an eyebrow at Yang.

“I just hope you’re ready for the third degree. With mum knowing, it’s only a matter of time before dad decides to have a little chat with you.” Blake teased playfully. Yang merely smirked at her, causing Blake’s breath to hitch.

“You kidding? Nothing could scare me away from you.” Yang said confidently. “You’re stuck with me now, Belladonna.” Yang said, playfully nuzzling Blake’s nose.

“Hm. I hope so.” Blake murmured softly. “Because you’re exactly what I want. What I need.” She added softly. She heard a sharp intake of breath and looked up to see sentimental tears filling her partner’s eyes before she felt her jaw being framed and rapid fire kisses being placed on every square inch of her face, quickly pulling giggles from her lips.

“That’s it.” Yang mumbled in between kisses. “You’re too cute!”

“So what? Is this my punishment?” Blake snickered as Yang kissed along her jaw.

“Yes. For crimes of excessive cuteness.”

Blake let out a laugh. Calling her parents did not go the way she planned. But she sure as hell wasn’t mad about it.

#rwby #blake belladonna #bumbleby #yang xiao long #fanfic

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sinfulredemptions · 4 years

Note

{try blitzo?}

(btw thank you for this ask, it actually is going to double as the introduction of Stolas’s canon relationship for the Blog. APOLOGIES THIS GOT WAY OUTTA HAND:3c)

Aching Sorrow.

That was the only thing that the imp held in his chest as he sat at his desk, the rest of the crew having gone home for the evening. Blitzo stared at the large tome in his hands, his tail slowly stirring the air as he ran over the events of the past few months in his mind, his heart twisting and jerking slightly as they played back.

Oh sure, he had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want to be anywhere NEAR the Prince, and he honestly hadn’t. Blitzo had gotten what he needed, the book, the key to success for this little family he’d built for himself and it had been worth the one bawdy night. It wasn’t his fault that someone like Stolas had been gullible enough to fall for it. There was one thing he HADN’T counted on though:

The consequences.

Much to his surprise and downright fear, Stolas had actually shown up at the Headquarters and was oddly…cold…to him. It was unnerving, and made him incredibly anxious to be in the same room as him, which meant he did whatever he could to LEAVE said room as quickly as possible. Though…how could he have known what that would have caused?By vacating so quickly, he wasn’t able to find out until much too late that the Prince had actually managed to endear himself to the rest of the staff. -HIS- staff…his makeshift little family, started to actually…enjoy the company of the Prince.

It had started with Loona, Stolas, being a father of a moody teen himself, had a bit of an upper hand when dealing with her. Especially when he handed a potion to her that would cure the disease she had contracted and even given her another preventive one for the next time, telling her so gently that if she required more, she had but to ask.

He did it as a kindness he had said…from one father to another, according to Loona. She had been suspicious at first, but then when the cure had actually worked…and Stolas did give her more to keep her safe…she had deemed him okay in her book.

Then Millie and Moxxie of all people was where he set his sights next.

How odd it had been, how GRATING on his nerves, the insult when Stolas had come in one day to ‘check up on them’ and listen to the report given at the end of the day. When Moxxie had finished, the Prince had chuckled softly and said in that irritatingly calm voice of his,

“Well well, it’s good to see you have some actual competency on this little team of yours Blitzy~ I was beginning to worry my kindness was being squandered.”

Kindness.

Yes, it had been a kindness hadn’t it? That Stolas hadn’t murdered him, hadn’t killed him in retribution for the book.

From there, it had snowballed….Stolas showed up for every end of the day report from only Lucifer knew where, and would always praise Moxxie and Millie for a job well done. He would even bring small envelopes with bonuses…and one time, Moxxie even received a new sniper rifle for his efforts.

Of course he’d protest, but Stolas just smiled. It was a COLD smile, not quite reaching his eyes, but no one else seemed to notice. “Why Blitzy, they’re doing such a good job, how could I not reward such efforts? Why…that would make me a terrible boss~” He would click his beak as he twisted the dagger with his words.

There was nothing he could say against it that wouldn’t put him in a bad light, so he held his tongue and watched helplessly as over the months, Stolas got closer….and closer…and closer to his little family.

Then it took a different turn.

When Millie and Moxxie would get off work, they would bid him a good night and then hand in hand, climb into a car that was achingly familiar and off they would go. The same vehicle dropped them off in the morning and he couldn’t help but notice things…

Hickies on both of them, Moxxie actually being less TENSE than usual and less ruffled by his playful jabs, the two of them wearing nicer clothes than usual to work, them both texting Stolas more and more often…

It was confusing at first, and then the realization hit him…

Stolas was STEALING them from him!!

It had caused a panic to well, bile sharp in the back of his throat as he realized that Stolas was systematically picking his life apart, all because he hadn’t had the balls to meet the Prince face to face and have an actual TALK.

He recalled the messages the other left. Angry at first because of the initial theft…then calmly asking for a chance to chat. Those had scared him more than anything, so he had hoped it would go away, that the Prince would lose interest in the affairs of a mere imp.

What a fool he was.

His hands gripped the book as he glanced to the phone where it lay on his desk, a message sent to Stolas about five minutes ago:

Hey, can we talk?

It was all he could muster to send, and the phone showed that it had been read, but there was no response.

“Fuck.” He sighed, putting the book down and covering his face, tail curling tight in his anxiety, when a voice spoke and nearly scared the SPOTS off him.

“Hm, do be careful Blitzy, that’s what got you into this mess in the first place after all~”

His head jerked up and his mouth went dry as Stolas stepped out of a nearby shadow, his eyes flicking downward to an open book left at the Prince’s feet. So that’s how he kept getting in here unnoticed.

“Ah! S-stolas! Heyyyy!” Blitzo tried to play off the shock, but cursed himself as the other’s name stumbled off his lips, a forced smile on his face. “Just the man I wanted to see!” He grabbed the book and moved from around the desk, trying not to let the panic well up inside him as the Prince’s intense stare followed him, the owl moving to tuck his hands behind his back and cock his head at him.

It wasn’t like before…it wasn’t playful or flirtatious…

It was downright predatory and to be honest…it terrified him.

It took everything in him to keep his knees from shaking under the heavy pressure of the owl’s gaze as he hefted the book and cleared his throat. “Ahem…I wanted to say that I’m returning your book!” He said with forced exuberance, holding it out to him, his tail flicking anxiously behind him as he forced himself to look up at the Prince.

Stolas hummed, but the sound lacked warmth as he reached out and took the tome in an elegant talon, leaning up to turn it over and inspect it to see if it was in passable condition, opening it to study its contents.

Blitzo watched his face nervously, trying to pick up on any sort of expression, angry or otherwise there, but it was like trying to read a blank wall.

The silence lingered heavily, uncomfortably, before he spoke up, wringing his hands nervously. “So, ah, now that you have THAT back, I guess this means that you really have no reason to stick around anymore right?” He asked, kicking himself for letting hope leak out into his voice.

The sound of Stolas closing the tome made him jump and he looked up at him nervously, the Prince’s smile widening just…ever so slightly, his eyes looking a bit softer which, surprisingly, didn’t make him feel any better.

“Oh Blitzy…You wish me to leave so badly don’t you~" The prince cooed, leaning forward and reaching out.

Blitzo found himself tense, on the edge of shivering as a talon caressed down the side of his face, the claw moving under his chin and tilting his face up so he had no choice but to look the royal in the eye.

He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, his mouth opening and closing a few times before Stolas did him a favor and continued the conversation without him.

“Don’t worry…I shall….”

Blitzo sighed then, a wash of relief coming over him, his shoulders and tail dropping as the shivering knot of fear slowly unwound a bit. Though it was very short lived as things suddenly felt wrong, a heavy pressure settling on the room around them.

His eyes darted about, seeing the room starting to bleed to black, and he looked up in fear at the Prince that loomed above him now.

“After…I take back my knowledge..” Stolas murmured, all four of his eyes glowing brightly in the oppressive darkness that swallowed up the room. The smell of ink was thick in the air, and he startled when wetness touched his hoof, looking down to see a thick puddle of black ink there.

“I..I already gave you the book!” Blitzo heard himself desperately cry, not even caring as the fear leaked out into his voice, and his heart dropped when the Prince merely shook his head slightly.

“No no Blitzy dear…I’m taking back A̷̘͇̙L͙̳̠L͔͙̪̩̠ O̗̜̜̞̰͠F͏̥̹̦͎̹̮ ̖̠̙̻I̢̘͔̮T̶͔̺̻̹ͅ “

The last three words were spoken in a voice he’d never heard from the Prince and it made his blood run cold, his eyes widening as he tried to scramble back, only to be held in place by the ink at his hooves which was quickly creeping upwards.

“N-no..Stolas?! What are you doing?! STOP! NO!” He screamed, trying to fight back, but the ink caught his arms, wrenching them behind his back painfully. His eyes widened with fear as Stolas reached forward, trying his best to jerk his head away, but to no avail. Slender talons humming with bright red energy before they grabbed onto his face, claw tips resting on either side of his head and digging into his temples.

The next thing he knew was searing…agonizing pain.

It was terrifying..violating…

It was like Stolas was digging into his mind, ruthlessly looting the memories and thoughts, tears welling up in his eyes and slipping down his face as the Prince did his work.

A flex of the claws and Stolas pulled back, strings of red magic laced to his claws and Blitzo couldn’t helped the pained choke that came from him, his eyes blowing wide as the thoughts and memories of the book were ripped away from him. He had thought he was so clever, give the book back while keeping the spell for himself, easy right?

He had no idea that Stolas would do this…COULD…do this…and now he knew why the other was as feared and respected as he was.

His whole body was shaking, his stomach trying to heave and twist as Stolas pulled back and yanked the last of the memories…the knowledge from his mind and the imp could take no more.

His head fell forward, his body heaving as his stomach forced his dinner up, his body shuddering at the trauma, panting heavily and squirming. “S-stolas…please…”The Prince seemed unmoved by his sickness or his plea, focusing on gently coiling the precious knowledge he’d gathered into a lovely little ball, studying it closely before he flexed his fingers and it vanished.

“There we are..” The Prince hummed, releasing his hold and withdrawing his oppressive presence and ink, allowing the weakened imp to fall to his knees in his own sick, Blitzo shuddering and panting heavily as panic started to set in.

He chanced a look up at the Prince who tilted his head a moment, reaching into the ink at their feet, pulling out a familiar looking notebook. He barely remembered it as one where he had copied some spells for a rainy day and Stolas tutted, turning it over and riffling the pages, the ink dripping out and leaving them blank.

“Honestly Blitzy~ This could have all been solved…if you had just…listened to me.” He sighed gently, looking down at him with a soft almost sympathetic gaze, a hand reaching out and all Blitzo could do was flinch away.

“There there now….all is forgiven..” The Prince cooed, petting the side of his face with his knuckles. “Do come by and let me know if you want to keep this little business of yours going….you’ll have to pay for it honestly this time I’m afraid.”

Blitzo’s eyes widened then and he swallowed as the realization struck him.

Oh…oh no…

Without the spell..I.M.P. would go under…he had no means to remember it, Mollie and Moxxie didn’t know it, neither did Loona. He was right where Stolas wanted him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Y…yeah…I’ll do that..” Blitzo said in a small voice, his body feeling like it was on a different plane of existence. He was shaky, weak…like he could barely think straight, his mind panicking at the new found gap in memory and trying desperately to fill it with knowledge that no longer existed.

The Prince hummed and turned then, tucking his tome under his arm, and walking a few steps away before he sighed and looked back at him.

“I had wanted to tell you that I -was- sorry Blitzy…for what I had said when I was angry…but….you just couldn’t let me. You had to run…you had to hide from what you did…but now…I’m sure you understand just what a foolish mistake that was. I cared for you….and you took advantage of me. You stole from me…violated the tender trust I gave you. You fooled me once….relish in it…because it will be the last time it ever happens.” Stolas said with a cold note to his voice that made Blitzo twitch back.

Stolas was right…he had brought this on himself…

With his own cowardice and arrogance…he had doomed his company and lost the companionship of one who had actually seen him as something more than just an imp. Once again Stolas’s voice cut through the static of his mind, teary eyes staring up at the prince as he looked down at him as though he were just a mere stain on the carpet.

“Now you get to deal with the consequences of your actions…you stole from me…and now I from you. I hope it was worth it. Now excuse me…Millie and Moxxie are waiting for me.”

With a flutter of a regal cape and a step onto the discarded book and the Prince was gone, leaving him kneeling on the floor, shivering and trying to piece his mind back together enough to clean up and go home.

What had he done?

#fullofmoxxie #;; The Prince of Knowledge | Stolas ;;#;; Casino Register | Lore ;;#;; The O is Silent | Blitzo ;;#tw: violence #tw: emetophobia #tw: mind control #;; Ask to Tag ;;#;; Feathers Pearls and A Snipe Rifle | Stolas x Millie x Moxxie ;;

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