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screamingatanemptyroom · 3 years

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Please Fix the Story pt 24 - Sci Fi

The battle with the Hive, and the traveler! Moving onto the end game after this. (Still will take a few parts, but the end is in sight!)

Masterpost linked here.

Enjoy!

_____________________________

The atmosphere in the conference room was tense.

“The numbers don’t look good.” General Gladus stared at the display with a frustrated sigh. “We just have the few Mechs stationed in the Fifteenth Sector. The Hive have a full colony… thousands of drones, directed by a Queen. They have already landed on the nearest moon, destroying the defense base there, and will be within striking distance of the planet in..." He rechecked his numbers. "Eighteen hours.”

Pointing his finger at the hologram, the display zoomed in on the larger dot surrounded by countless other smaller red dots. “The Queen is the key. She controls all the drones. If we take her out, we can halt the invasion long enough for true reinforcements to arrive.”

I nodded, trying to follow along. “So if we don’t have the numbers to defend the planet, we go on the attack and try to strike the Queen?”

“It can take a whole squadron to take out a Queen. “ He quickly put a damper on my excitement, frowning. “A normal Hive drone is the size of a human. She’s larger than two Mechs put together, around six stories tall, with armor to match.”

I thought about the story, what I knew about what technology was available years ahead… Hadn’t Chris gotten a special Mech to fight Queens? “What about a bigger Mech? Big enough to take on the Queen?”

The general paused at that. “The military engineers at the academy have been working on some prototypes… but the bigger a Mech is, the harder it is to control. In a few years we might have one that a single Guardian could operate, but the ones we have now? No one would have the capability…”

“I do.” I interrupted, speaking with certainty. “Let Liam and I try it.”

“Honey, I know you’re a Grade S Guardian, but…”

“I’m more than that. You remember that I almost destabilized? It was because of a sudden increase of my power” Because I’m not really your daughter. “I’m much more powerful than a grade S… “ I reached out and grabbed Liam’s hand. “And that’s not even to mention our 100% resonance match.”

Liam grinned, squeezing my hand. “Trust us, General. Alaira and I can fly anything they can build!”

The General stared at us, obviously unnerved at the idea of sending his daughter into the worst of the fighting. I reached out and grabbed his hand. “Trust me, Dad. I’ll make you proud.”

“…” He let out a long sigh. “I’m already more proud than I could ever be…” He rubbed his forehead. “Fine. Let’s see if you can work the thing… but if you can’t move it perfectly, then the plan gets canceled. I’m not sending you out there to die.”

“Thank you!” Awkwardly hugging him, I felt a twinge of guilt as he patted my back gently.

I wish your daughter could be here to feel your love and pride in her.

“Don’t celebrate too soon… Even if you’re big enough to take on a Queen, we still have to get you to her.”

I stepped closer to the display, studying it. “She’s directly in the center of the army… hiding away on the moon in the ruins of the defense base. With their numbers versus ours… we just don’t have the firepower to get there.”

Warning! Mission Failure Imminent!

As the blue writing and loud warning appeared only to me, I felt no fear, no terror at my imminent doom. It was now more annoying than anything else.

If you're not going to suggest anything helpful, then shut up!

Warning!...

SHUT UP! I screamed in my head, feeling a thread of shadowy power emerge from around me, erasing the words from existence.

The warning fell silent.

What… what was that? Some sort of magic? How much about myself is still hidden in my lost memories?

Enjoying the new silence in my head, I looked over at Liam who was staring at me with a worried look.

“Are you okay? You weren’t responding.”

I reached out, smoothing out his forehead, which was wrinkled with concern. “Yes. It’s difficult to explain, though. What did you say?”

“If we don’t have the troops to blast our way to the Queen, then what about a diversion?” He pointed at the area of the diagram between us and the Hive. “We act like we’re staging a frontal assault, and when they’ve deployed enough forces to weaken the rear, you and I strike from behind!”

The General nodded slowly. “It would take quite an attack to make the Hive divert forces to the front… Even if we threw everything we had and left nothing to protect you two, it might not be enough.”

I grinned. “Don’t worry about protecting us.” Grabbing Liam’s hand I added. “You forget who I matched with. We can handle our own defense. All that’s left is to figure out how to make a big enough distraction to give us a way in.”

“DID SOMEONE CALL FOR A DISTRACTION?!”

Princess Ilene pushed past the guards at the door with the two other girls in her group at her sides. “Sounds like a job for the Harem!”

Liam raised his eyebrow. Harem? He mouthed silently at me. I shook my head, not wanting to get involved.

Alaira’s father did not look impressed. “Princess. I don’t recall you showing any interest in military matters previously.”

“That’s before the Hive kidnapped Chris!” Ilene cracked her knuckles. “Now I gotta go crush some space bugs.”

Who says Chris was kidnapped?

“YEAH!" "We're going to save him!” The other two girls struck dramatic poses on either side of Ilene.

“…” The room stared at them in silence.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, wishing away my headache. “Princess, maybe this would work better if you explained to my father what skills you three brought to the table? “

“… I suppose.” She sniffed, gesturing at Wen grandly. “She has designed a Mech with the ability to tow 50 mini cannons.”

Wen grinned, explaining further. “The guns are strapped to a small engine, and will fly at evenly spaced intervals behind the controlling Mech. It’s still a work in progress… You can’t target, and you can’t control them individually… at least not yet.”

“But that’s still 50 extra shots for one Mech.” General Gladus looked much more interested. “How many have you made?”

“Just one, but if I add a small hologram projector to the guns, it will look like we have 50 fully operational Mechs with us! THAT should get the Hive’s attention.”

Ilene and Allie chimed in. “ We’ve already practiced piloting the Mech and can operate it smoothly.”

“… That… might just work…” He shrugged. “Strong work, Ladies…”

“We call ourselves the Harem… Alaira came up with the name!”

“Don’t credit me, please..”

The General glanced at my cringing expression and chuckled. “…Glad to have you aboard… I think.”

“All right!” The young engineer high-fived her companions, grinning proudly. “I was originally saving this invention for Chris, but now I’m going to use this to SAVE Chris!”

“YEAH!”

“…” The General was now staring at me with a look of consternation, to which I raised my hands helplessly. “…Sure.”

“So that’s the plan then.” I took a deep breath, calming the fast beating of my heart at the thought of the fight to come. “The Harem will distract the Hive, and Liam and I will take out the Queen.”

We’ll save the world.

We’ll complete my mission.

It will work… it has to.

“We’ll strike first thing in the morning.” General Gladus watched me with a worried gaze, but obviously held back from speaking further. “… Good luck.”

_____________________________

Liam and I tested out the massive Mech prototype called the “Queen Killer,” able to move it with an ease that shocked Alaira’s father and the engineers. After confirming the plan a final time, I returned back to my dorm to get some rest before the battle.

I found myself too keyed up to sleep, staring blankly at the ceiling. If we complete the mission, will I get all my memories back? Will I stay in this world or be forced to leave? Will Liam stay with me? My frantic thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on my door.

Wary, I checked the security system, quickly opening the door once I realized who it was.

“Liam, what are you doing here? It’s still a few hours before we’re supposed to meet for the mission.”

Liam wrung his hands together, staring at the floor quietly. “I… was hoping…”

“What is it?”

“Can you come with me?”

At my nod he grabbed my hand and pulled me along. I started to ask where he was taking me, but seeing the determination on his face, fell silent. I didn’t feel any wariness, despite my lack of knowledge of our direction.

_____________________________

“Aren’t you scared?” A voice asked, coming from high above me.

“No.”

“Why not?” The despair in the voice was heartbreaking. “Everyone else is.”

“Because it’s you.” I grinned. “Can’t be scared of you, Liam.”

_____________________________

I blinked, my gaze once again resting on our clasped hands.

I’ll keep trusting you Liam.

He took me to the upper deck of the academy, a large platform surrounded by multiple gardens. In the dead of night, the multicolored flowers and trees were barely visible. Rather than a clear sight, it was a combination of the senses: of impressions of movement, of gentle sounds of the wind swaying the branches and leaves, of brief flashes of colors in the light of the multiple candles that lit up the platform.

In the center of the platform stood a minister, the elderly man looking tired but still smiling gently. Off to the side were the Harem girls, watching silently, and Alaira’s father who stood by with a combination of tears and joy.

The King and Queen were nowhere to be seen.

“This.is…” My voice trailed off, filled with awe at the sheer amount of work it must have taken to move everything up here from the ballroom we had planned it in.

Liam knelt down, holding my hand with a solemn look.

“Alaira... I don’t know if we’re going to survive this battle, but I know one thing: If I’m going to die tomorrow, I want it to be as your husband.”

His hands were shaking with nervousness as they held my own.

“Please marry me.” His words were simple, but they struck my heart with a force that made me sway on my feet.

_____________________________

“Please marry me.” A trembling man held me close.

_____________________________

I smiled at the thought that I had answered this question before. “Yes.”

Liam let out a sigh of relief, standing up and hugging me gently. “Thank you…” He hesitated. “Bel.” The name was spoken only for me to hear, sounding like a prayer.

“You realize we had already planned to get married today?” I chuckled. “You didn’t have to re-propose.”

“I needed to hear it again.”

With a wide grin, he led me over to the center of the platform. There, in front of friends and family, the minister led us through the vows. As I spoke the words, holding Liam’s hands tightly, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had done this multiple times before.

How many lifetimes have I already spent with him? How many times have we been married?

Liam leaned in to kiss me, the gentle movement the barest touch on my lips, and then hugged me tightly against him.

“I love you.” He whispered in my ear.

My father stepped forward and clapped us both on the shoulder. “Alright, kids, that’s enough excitement pre-battle. Go get some sleep. I’ll throw you a combination victory party and wedding reception once we survive the Hive.”

Laughing, Liam and I left the party behind. We were unable to sleep, and simply laid in each other’s arms. My head rested against his chest, hearing his heartbeat and breaths. Closing my eyes, I prayed that we would make it though this battle safely.

And just maybe, if we survive this, I’ll figure out how to get our memories back.

I thought of the shadowy power I had displayed to shut the system warning down, an ability I had tried to repeat without success several times since. I don’t know who or what I am… but I do know one thing:

I won’t accept my fate.

_____________________________

Soon it was time for the battle.

Liam and I boarded the Queen Killer Mech and flew it around the battle site, staying out of range of the Hive’s sensors. We floated in Space watching the holographic display from the Mech's communication system as the Harem and the few soldiers Alaira’s father had brought with him advanced from the front. It looked as if there were over a hundred Mechs, an intimidating site, but we knew it was just an illusion, holograms attached to remote guns. Their actual numbers were quite pitiful compared to the army in front of them.

We could only hope the Hive would fall for the trick.

“Advance!” The General’s voice came over the intercom. I felt myself tremble with nervousness at his serious tone. I wasn’t really his daughter. Most of the time I felt like the worst fraud when I was with him. But I genuinely cared for this gruff, strange man. He loved his daughter, and wasn’t afraid to take on the world to protect her.

I hope he makes it. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach at the thought that he might not.

But if we don’t fight, none of us will.

The army of Mechs, both real and fake, moved forward. As the Hive flew to meet them, I got a close look at them through my headset. I had seen their appearance in Alaira’s memories, but somehow, seeing them with my own eyes was all the more horrifying.

Large insects, each the size of a human, with a black and red exoskeleton that coated everything, even the wings. Enormous pincers grew outwards on their heads, sharp enough to tear a Mech open, to cut a human in half. Their dark, multifaceted eyes took in the space emotionlessly. They were unstoppable, insatiable. The Hive’s only goal was to devour, to destroy. They numbered in the thousands; enough to make even seeing the moon the Queen was hiding on difficult.

I felt a deep feeling of terror growing within me, fear and despair mixing, threatening to take away my reason.

It’s not my emotions.I tried to push down the feeling, but they continued to grow, trying to overwhelm me. It’s Alaira’s.

She had died there, next to that moon, surrounded by the Hive. Their pincers destroyed her Mech, pulled her out from the safety of the piloting sphere. She was overwhelmed, and even with the fracturing of her mind she knew she was doomed.

“Are you okay?” Liam’s voice in my ear calmed me down. “Your strong emotions are interfering with the Connection.” I took a deep breath, repeating silently.

You are not Alaira. You are not Alaira.

I knew exactly what it would feel like to die in battle with the Hive, though.

The Hive started swarming to the front, line. The Queen was directing them to defend her against the “larger” threat. There were only a few hundred left to guard the rear.

“It’s working!” General Gladus’ excited voice sounded out. “They’re falling for it.”

“Then we’ll get to work.”

“… Good luck, Alaira. I love you.”

I hesitated. “… I love you too… Father.”

It was time. I grabbed Liam’s hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Focus on your shield.”

He took a deep breath. “You know I can’t control it.”

“You can let me in, Liam. You are in control. Use it for its purpose: to protect yourself. To protect me.”

He closed his eyes, positioning himself behind me within the Connection chamber in the Mech. His hands were on my back, and through the physical touch I felt his nervousness. The air around the Mech seemed to shift, and I knew that I had to act quickly before the mental shield weakened.

I flew the Mech forward, quickly reaching the highest speed. At the noise of our passing one of the drones turned to face us. Soon they had swarmed around us, their pincers opened to attack.

FEAR.

Alaira’s emotions were running full force, but I pushed them down once more, going faster. I could feel Liam behind me, keeping the connection between me and the Mech easy despite its enormous size. We flew into the swarm, and the sturdy alien insects splattered against the mental shield, which held firm under the blows.

Liam and I sighed with relief.

“See? You CAN control it!”

“We still have the Queen to deal with.” Liam’s voice was worried, I could feel his concern though our connection. “She’s a little big to be squished by a shield.”

“Well that’s why we brought the big guns.” After a few more moments we broke through the Hive’s line of defense, and landed on the Moon, trying to locate the Queen.

“Where is she?” The scanners were starting to scramble, as if interrupted by an unknown signal. The Hive shouldn’t have that kind of technology, though.

“I don't see her on the Moon's surface. Has she left? First, let’s try the defense fort. It should be big enough to hide the Queen.” At Liam’s suggestion we flew forward, making our way to the building. The clear defense dome seemed intact, the computers opening an airlock, allowing us to pass forward after communicating with our Mech and confirming our identity.

“How would the Queen be here without destroying the dome?” I muttered, trying to scan the surroundings and noting that it was picking up several lifeforms, even if it was still too scrambled to give a clear location.

“ I don’t know, but I don’t think that hole was there before.” Liam tapped my back, and I looked towards the Hanger, the largest building in the complex. A six story hole had been torn out of the front wall. Wary, I moved the Mech closer, ducking down and entering the main area, which was fortunately tall enough to accommodate our oversized Mech.

The area was mostly lit up, a few of the florescent lights sparking and flickering from recent damage. The few Mechs that had remained had been torn to shreds and tossed in a pile. The space was wide-open, extending outwards into shadows.

“What the…?” My voice trailed off in shock as I stared at the unbelievable sight in front of me.

In the center of the hanger stood the Queen. She was bright white with red and black markings along the side of her rotund torso. She brandished hundreds of spiky claws like a millipede, with large bright red wings extended behind her. Towards the top she sported multiple large pincers, with a final one extending from her head. Her eyes glowed with a bright white light, staring at us with fury.

She was frozen into place, unable to make a single movement.

“What is going on?” I whispered to Liam.

“Bel, you actually made it this far!”

A cheerful voice rang out, causing both of us to groan with frustration. A Mech emerged from the shadows, we couldn’t see the pilot, but Liam and I knew who it was and spoke his name together.

“Chris.”

“I keep telling you, it’s not Chris.” The voice coming from the Mech seemed annoyed, the large robot swinging a sword back and forth. “As always, you two are wrong.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, clenching my fists at my side within the Connection Chamber of our Mech.

“Exactly what I told you, Bel: I’m ending this.” He lifted up his Mech’s free hand, and in it was a large bomb blinking with a bright red light. A single red button marked the trigger, and I tensed up as he caressed it lightly with a large metallic finger.

“That’s a uninite bomb.” Liam spoke up. “You’d destroy the moon with one that big! You'll kill us all with the Queen!”

“Exactly! I’m willing to sacrifice whatever it takes to save everyone. Not like you… monster.” He spit out the last word, his voice filled with hatred. “I’m the HERO. I’m the one who everyone cares about. I’m the one SHE SHOULD LOVE!”

“Oh, SHUT UP!” I activated the opening on our Mech, and slid down a cord to the ground, pulling off my helmet to reveal my face. The air inside the defense shield was slightly stale but breathable.

Liam was startled, jumping down to stand beside me. “Bel, wait!”

“It’s okay.” I grinned at him. “Trust me.” The Mech straightened up behind us, falling into a standby position. I looked up at the Mech controlled by the Pseudo-Chris.

“If you’re going to threaten me and insult my husband, then do it to my face.”

“Nice try. If I leave the Mech, I can’t control it. All you’ve managed to do is to give away your only advantage!” He laughed confidently. “I am in control, Bel. The Hive, the Queen… all of it! I’m the only one who can save your soul from destruction.”

“You brought the Hive here… you’re the one who advanced the story so quickly.” I paused, thinking it over. “How come you can go against the story? I always get warnings whenever we stray too far away from our characters.”

“You don’t understand. You never have. All that matters is that the roles are obeyed, that we follow our fate. I may have taken a… detour… but in the end I will fulfill my role as a hero, and save everyone, at the cost of my own life.”

“Why are you doing this?” Liam growled, standing close to me.

“He was hoping that I would give up.” I answered for him calmly, staring up at the Mech with a disgusted expression, “He made a seemingly impossible situation, hoping I would see accepting my fate as my only option.”

I thought of the system's warning that I had no chance of survival. They had tried to manipulate me. Tried to force me to do what they wanted.

But I hadn't.

“You see things so clearly sometimes, Bel.” Chris’ voice showed his approval. “And even though it didn’t work, I can still just end things here. I’ll destroy the Queen, which will complete your mission. The system can erase your memory again and we’ll start over.”

I felt a sense of fear at his words. How many times has this already happened?

“No matter how many times we have to do this, there will only be one outcome in the end: you will accept your fate.”

_____________________________

“You will accept your fate, Bel.” The young handsome man stared at me with disappointment. “You can’t keep hiding with this monster forever.”

“He's not a monster. Besides, you’re the one who sent me to Liam.” I grinned. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”

“It was temporary. You were supposed to be his prisoner.” He snapped. “Now, because of you, he’ll be the first to be destroyed. You can’t distort the higher realm. Everything depends on it.”

“It’s not right…”

“It’s the reality of our roles. Now enough stalling. What will you choose? Will you follow the rules, or will you let everything be destroyed to protect your precious independence?”

“No…”

“Even you can’t be that selfish.” He growled, reaching out to grab my arm painfully. “Accept your fate, Bel.

“NO!”

_____________________________

“NO!” I shook my head, clearing aside the memory. “No matter how many times you ask me. No matter how many worlds you drag me through. No matter how many times my memory is wiped. I WILL NOT ACCEPT IT!”

“Fine. Then it’s time to move to the next world…” His Mech raised its hand holding the bomb.

“You’re pathetic.” My words were quiet, but seemed to echo in the otherwise silent hanger. “Even when we were in the higher realm you were always trying to trick and scheme to get things to go the way you wanted. You thought by forcing me to Liam’s side as his ‘prisoner’ you could force me to accept my fate, but that backfired too, didn’t it?”

“… “ There was a long stunned silence.

“You… you remember?” The Mech’s head shook back and forth in a jerky movement. “No, your memories were wiped!”

I quickly thought through the few memories I had experienced over the last few weeks. “You wanted me to play my part… but I didn’t want to be in a romantic relationship with you. I would solve things my own way, which pissed you off.”

“YOU… NO! YOUR MEMORIES ARE GONE!” The whole Mech was shaking slightly.

“No matter the realm, no matter the roles we play, one thing remains constant: you’re a pathetic loser.” I smiled. “And I like Liam more than you.”

“HE’S A MONSTER! YOU CAN’T LOVE HIM! YOU HAVE TO LOVE ME!”

“Bel…” Liam whispered. “You realize you’re making the unstable man with the bomb angry, right?”

“Trust me, I have a plan… probably.”

“Oh, good.”

I looked up at the Mech, raising my voice. “I’ll never love you!”

“YOU HAVE TO!”

“Get used to disappointment, loser.”

The Mech was shaking more violently as he whispered hoarsely. “Y-you’re lying… you have to be. You don’t have your memories…”

I AM lying. “Too bad for you I’m telling the truth. I remember everything important.”

“…Then what’s my name?”

I spread my hands out helplessly. “Oh buddy, I just said I remembered everything IMPORTANT.” I leaned forward. “You were never important to me. You still aren’t.”

“SHUT UP! SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!” The Mech was rocking back and forth with his screams and then suddenly became very still.

“Got him!” I pumped my fist in the air victoriously.

“What’s… what’s happening?! I can’t control my Mech!”

I chuckled at his panicked tone.

“You see, there’s a difference between you and me. You might be the hero, but I’m the one with greater than Level S Guardian abilities. In fact, you used that very trait of mine to try to force me to partner with you. It was a burden before I formed a Connection with Liam, but now?” I reached over and grabbed Liam’s hand. “It makes things really easy. One of the skills I’ve practiced was controlling Mechs from a distance.”

“That’s…”

“Impossible? Only if you’re weak. The distance makes things challenging but it’s still fairly simple for me.” I paused. “By the way, I WAS lying earlier. I needed you to have strong emotions to disrupt your Connection with your Mech so I could take it over.”

“…” Enjoying his stunned silence, I gestured, controlling the “Queen Killer” Mech to step forward.

“Now I could let you blow yourself up and kill the Queen to complete the mission, but unlike you, I don’t feel any satisfaction out of sacrificing myself or others needlessly. I’m also not going to let you die, because I have a feeling that could have negative effects on this world.”

The Queen started moving, whatever restraints the pseudo-Chris had placed on it obviously released. I could feel her anger at being obstructed in her mission. Her overwhelming need to consume life and move on drove her constantly, and even the briefest of pauses enraged her. Her hungry eyes focused on me, sensing a threat.

I released all my abilities to the limit, feeling a light throbbing headache at controlling two Mechs at once, and one of them being the large Queen Killer.

“It’s time for this story to end.” I whispered, feeling satisfaction as the giant robot pulled out a sword and brandished it.

“My mission will be completed.” The sword tore a huge rent in the Queen’s side, spilling green blood. The insect queen screamed in rage and pain, her pincers tearing off some of the armor on the Mech’s arm.

“The world will be saved.” A second strike hit, cutting off several claws. The Queen clamped onto the Mechs’ chest with her mandibles, trying to burrow into the center. I was glad I wasn’t in the suspension gel, feeling the pain of the attack.

“And it will all be done without you.” My Mech swung the sword downward, and the Queen’s head separated from its body. It still clamped onto the chest of the robot, its eyes’ light slowly fading away.

“NOOOO!” Pseudo Chris screamed out, but it was too late. The Queen was dead. Her army would become useless.

The world was safe.

A beautiful chime rang out, and bright blue words formed into the air.

Congratulations!

Mission 100% complete.

**** You have finished the mission! ****

Stay in this world?

YES/NO

“It doesn’t matter if you completed the mission or I did. I still have the next world, and the next and the next!” The Mech was still frozen into place, but it didn’t stop his angry words. “Time is on my side!”

I sighed. “No. It’s not.” As I had completed the mission, I felt a strange surge of power. A similar sensation to when I had stopped the system voice from speaking earlier. I focused carefully, and a shadowy power poured out in the world around me, much stronger than before.

“Bel?” At Liam’s worried question, I turned and smiled at him.

“Don’t worry, Liam. It’s just time to change the game.” He grabbed my hands and nodded silently at my words, supporting me.

I turned my attention to the System’s message.

“We will not stay in this world any longer.” The shadowy power around me increased.

…

WORLD TRANSFER FAILED. UNKNOWN INTERFERENCE.

“Oh, that’s just me. You see… this world’s victory was all I needed to finish piecing together my soul.”

…

“I really do remember everything now.”

And I did. Who I was. Why I had made the deal I had made.

“I fixed every world you sent me to. Without memories. Without my protected status as the heroine. Just a hated side character or villain. Admit it… I won.”

… NOT YET.

“You’re right. There’s still one last story to be fixed.” I grinned at Liam, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. “The Higher Realm.”

Our world.

YOU MUST ACCEPT…

“I must do nothing.” The dark power that surrounded me erased the blue words in the air before they could form that hated sentence. “YOU must transfer us back. Back to the beginning.”

…

“Do it.” I gave no room for argument.

…

WORLD TRANSFER INITIATED. LOCATION: THE HIGHER REALM.

“I love you Liam.” I hugged him tightly. “Let’s get married one last time.”

“I love you too… But what do you…?”

TRANSFER COMPLETE.

#writing #please fix the story #writeblr #sci fi #violence #memory loss #the end is near

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nevertheless-moving · 3 years

Text

Suicidal Misunderstanding XIX

Part I - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Part XVI - - - - Part XVII - - - - XVIII

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

Author’s Note: This chapter may contain triggering material. Depicts canon-typical violence and deals heavily with themes concerning the aftermath of attempted suicide.

“Commander- Cody- CODY! Would you wait up.”

Someone was calling his name, but now that the briefing was over Cody was having trouble focusing past the faint ringing in his ears. He worked furiously to move past the white noise and marshal his sluggish thoughts towards overseeing the shuttling of the remaining on-planet 212th back to the Negotiator, and finishing crew complement reports for General Krell and-

He had barely gotten his train of thought back on track when it was derailed by someone grabbing his shoulder. He barely managed to restrain himself from punching the irritant in the visor.

“What is it, Waxer?” he asked impatiently.

“Can we talk? Alone?”

“Fine.” Cody grunted.

Waxer dragged him into the closest small armament room. At a sharp gesture from Waxer, the few milling clones inside quickly shuffled out.

Waxer pulled off his helmet, eyes wide and sad.

“Cody-” he said hesitantly. “I’m not going to pretend that I completely understand what’s going on, but I’m here for you, whatever you need, if you ever want to talk. I never even told Boil about the- the trip to the temple, or any of it, ok? But I’m really worried about you and I want you to know that you can trust me- even if you just need a shoulder to lean on.”

The ringing in Cody’s head got louder. A beat passed.

“Is that all?” Cody finally asked. “I have work to do.”

“...yeah, that was all.”

Cody made for the door but was stopped by a frantic cry.

“I’m Sorry!” Waxer half-shouted. “I’m sorry- you told us something was wrong and we just laughed and I’m so sorry Commander. And then when you started getting weird and the General wasn’t answering comms I just assumed things were good, but then we found he was sick and I was making jokes about bedrest while he was in sickbay- and then I was remembering the surveillance you put on the Cantina and I made jokes about that at the time but I was right next to him at the bar while you over at the table and now I can stop thinking that he got poisoned while I was right next to him at the bar. And then General Skywalker stepped down from Command this morning and I don’t even want to imagine what would make him do that. And I don’t know what the kark all that was with Krell but I’m so sorry Commander- I feel like everything I say is making things worse but I- I’m sorry.”

It took a while for Cody’s sluggish mind to process all that. He stared blankly at Waxer as he quivered at attention.

“Waxer...” The ringing had stopped, and was now replaced with a growing headache. “None of the General’s injuries or anything are your fault, ok? I- its classified and I don’t- I don’t know what happened this morning but...nothing actually happened in the Cantina. You have to keep this secret- but...” Cody hesitated over how much to say.

His voice dropped to a low whisper. “Practically the only thing I do know for sure is that he wasn’t poisoned. It was just regular alcohol and at most it made him slightly vulnerable... Anyway nothing was your fault so just- focus on the mission. Ok?”

Waxer stared at Cody. He cleared his throat. “You said Injuries.”

“What?” No I- what are you talking about?” Cody asked weakly.

“Commander. You said injuries. Not illness. Are you telling me that the General was attacked?” Waxer asked, voice growing quiet and angry. “Are you telling me that the General was attacked and High Command lied to us about it?”

Cody responded with similar hushed irritation, “No! Waxer- look. I can’t talk about this, it’s-”

“I swear to the force if you say classified I don’t care if you are my commanding officer I will slug you.” Waxer took in a shaky breath, clenching his fists. “Is this why you’ve been wearing your bucket? Because you can’t look your troopers in the face while you lie to us about a threat to the 212th?”

“That’s enough lieutenant- there are things you don’t know-”

“Yeah, because I’m being lied to- I’m supposed to be your lieutenant and even if you couldn’t tell me everything I at least trusted that you wouldn’t lie-”

“We didn’t lie- illness is the best description because even if we don’t understand what caused it, that’s what caused the injuries, and the troops needed to know this isn’t going to be fixed even once he’s technically out of the Bacta tank.”

“What the kriff kind of illness causes injuries you treat with a Bacta tank-”

“Fuck. Waxer, please. I can’t do this-”

Waxer stepped forward as Cody shifted back.

“Cody. Seriously. What kind of illness causes injuries you treat with a Bacta tank? That- that doesn’t even make sense.”

"It’s class-”

“What do you mean the alcohol made him ‘vulnerable’?”

“Lieutenant, I’ve got to back to work-”

Waxer grabbed his arm before he could pull away.

“Commander, was this an attack or not?”

“We- we don’t know. There’s Jedi bantha fodder involved...and, Waxer you can’t discuss this with anyone, I can’t-”

“What the kriff do you mean you don’t know- how could it not be clear if his injuries were caused by an attack or an illness?”

Cody yanked his arm away and shoved Waxer back with his shoulder. The lieutenant quickly regained his balance and charged forward, tackling the commander to the ground, helmet make a hard thud as it made contact with the duracrete floor. They rolled around, each trying to gain leverage over the other.

Cody managed to get on top, knee driving harshly into Waxer’s back, pinning him down. After that, it only took a few more seconds to twist one of Waxer’s arm behind his back.

“Fine!” Cody sneered, pressing hard on his Lieutenant’s neck with one hand while yanking the trapped arm painfully. “You really want to know?!”

“Obviously, asshole” Waxer grit out.

“The general tried to karking kill himself and we have no idea why.”

“no-”

“Or rather we have too many ideas why. Did you know Jedi can take psychic damage from being around too many violent thoughts? Or that the General got abandoned in a fucking planetary civil war when he was a cadet?”

“that-”

Of course, he could have just had a vision that melted his brain and actually he wanted to wake up by killing himself. And if that’s true than it means he vividly remembers the nightmare shit from the hovercar ride. Remember that stuff? Temple burning? Us firing at him while mind controlled? Yeah, could be he just thinks that’s more real than reality, and he’s never going to be able to move on from stuff we didn’t even do. And he might never believe anything we say or do is real ever again.”

“I-”

“Of course, it could be some sort of crazy dark forbidden Jedi attack from Dooku or Ventress because they’re still running around despite all the times we’ve almost captured them, and if it is that then there’s not a karking thing we can do to defend him!”

“Cody, please-”

Cody breathed heavily for a second, staring uncomprehendingly at the trooper pinned beneath him. After a moment, everything clicked into place and he scrambled back, stopping when his back hit a sealed munitions rack. Waxer gasped for breath.

“Fuck- Waxer, I am so sorry, that was, kriff, you shouldn’t have found out that way- I shouldn’t have told you like that, I’m so sorry. I- are you ok?

"Oh yes, I’m doing great,” Waxer wheezed. “How about you?”

“I’m fine.” Cody replied automatically, wincing immediately at the absurdity of the sentence.

“Wizard, so glad we had this conversation.” Waxer coughed, voice starting to get back to normal.

The door clicked open and a trooper Cody didn’t recognize stepped in, looked between Cody, who was braced defensively with his knees up, and Waxer who was panting face down, a small distance away. He immediately stepped back into the hall, not saying a word, door clicking swiftly closed again, lock audibly activating.

Waxer flopped over to lay on his back, head turned to the side to pin his Commander in place.

“...Thanks for telling me, Cody.” Waxer said quietly.

Cody thunked his head back. “You wish you never asked, fuck off.”

Waxer sat up with a groan, “No...Cody you shouldn’t have to go through this by yourself.”

“...Rex knows. Not- not everything I just said. But the basics.”

“Good.” Waxer crawled over to sit next to his Commander, sitting back heavily.

“...I’m sorry, Cody. If Boil ever- I’m just...really sorry.”

Cody dropped his head to his knees. “I can’t let myself feel like that, Waxer,” he rasped. “I was already hanging by a thread and then- I thought he was there at the meeting for a second, and I- the men need me, I can’t focus on stuff that’s going to make me go nuts.”

“Um... you mean you thought he was there, when the Jedi were ‘sensing’ him?” the lieutenant asked tentatively.

“...yeah,” Cody sighed.

“That sounds like force stuff.”

Cody hummed in response.

Waxer took a deep breath. “Did- did it seem like he died?”

“I don’t...know,” Cody answered softly. “He- was there. And then he wasn’t.”

There was a long pause before the Lieutenant spoke, deliberately cheerful.

“Well then, I bet he’s alive. He’s obviously not very good at dying.”

Cody choked on a harsh breath, coughing heavily enough that he finally yanked off his helmet to suck in air.

“For- for force sake, Waxer-”

“You said you couldn’t go nuts,” Waxer said, shoving him with his shoulder. “We’re soldiers, right? This is how we deal with horrific shit that no one should ever have to think about, let alone have to keep to himself for fear of demoralizing an entire army, eh?”

“Waxer...”

The trooper climbed to his feet with a groan, ignoring his commanding officer.

“Come on, let’s get those kriffing manifests completed for Master Krell. I’ll make sure you keep going. For our Vode.” He offered a hand down to Cody, who tentatively accepted it. Waxer yanked him to his feet, drawing his Commander in for a quick, crushing hug, before ducking down to pick up the discarded buckets.

They both pulled on their helmets, puffy eyes and swollen lips hidden neatly.

“For our Vode,” Cody repeated.

They unlocked the door, joining the throng, all company marching to the familiar rhythm of a quickly ticking deployment countdown.

Next (Part XX)

#star wars #my au #suicidal misunderstanding au #star wars au no 27 #potentially triggering #violence #suicide references #star wars fanfiction #star wars au

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chokemeanakin · 3 years

Note

could i pls request smth where the reader gets hurt on a mission or smth and hides it from anakin until it gets really bad? that trope is my favorite alskdfjk

Sister u have singlehandedly reawakened my whump side. Here you go, with a side of smut in part two ;)

A Helping Hand (part one) - Anakin Skywalker x gn Reader (whump + smut)

Masterlist

Read it on ao3

Wc: 3.4k

At first, you thought you had just slept on it weird.

The pain had come out of nowhere one day, when you went to go throw your knife at the dummy’s head like usual. A sudden burst of fire erupted from your wrist, and the knife clattered to the floor as you cradled your arm to your chest. You rolled your wrist a couple times, willing the ache to go away. You thought you might have thrown the knife at an odd angle, and maybe sprained your wrist a little from exertion. You picked up your knife and resumed, but a constant sparking pain remained.

An injured wrist wasn’t good-- especially since that was your good arm, your knife-throwing arm. That was your talent, after all; your skills were so precise, the Republic Army recruited you to help out in the war. You were thrust into the thick of things with the clones, serving alongside the Jedi Generals, which was how you met Anakin. Without your arm, you were useless.

You set aside time every night to ice it, and when that didn’t help, you switched to soaking it in warm water and stretching it. When there was no improvement after a week, you debated going to see someone for it. It certainly didn’t help that you were using it every day, training like normal and using it for daily activities. Twisting or bending your wrist in any way sent shooting sparks of pain up your arm, but you managed to hide it around everyone… including Anakin.

It’s not that you didn’t want help-- you just didn’t need it. You had seen clones blown to bits by blaster cannons in battle, members of the Republic Army drag themselves up a bank of debris with two broken legs to continue shooting at Separatist droids, friends that served alongside you shot down fighting until their last breath. You would hate yourself forever if you made a fuss out of a simple sprained wrist.

You were a little surprised when Anakin didn’t catch on, honestly. You began switching to your other hand to complete daily tasks, and you were clumsier and slower because of it. But Anakin was so bogged down by current war efforts you barely had time to see each other, and when you did, it was very quickly just in passing. He had other things to worry about than you, and you were okay with that. However, it didn’t stop the burst of excitement after receiving the order that deployed you to Ecadus-Z, a moon off the planet Leona, where a grand Separatist droid factory was in the making and had to be destroyed-- the same mission Anakin was being deployed on as well.

You were grateful for the time you would get to spend together, even if it was in the midst of a battle. But beggars can’t be choosers, so you met him at the transport ship in the starfighter bay bright and early the day of departure.

He was just as happy to see you, and you sat together in the cabin on the way to Ecadus-Z. It was hard holding yourself back, as it had been far too long since you had gotten to be together alone. As in, really be together. You looked forward to when you got back, as the Council was talking about giving Anakin a short break.

For now, you felt content just being by his side-- even if most of the 501st was there as well.

Once the pilot came over the coms saying you were about to touch down, everyone got out of their seats and began to ready themselves for battle. You would be dropped off in the thick of battle, so you had to come out running if you wanted to make it.

You slung the bag of explosives over your shoulder and clipped your belt around your waist, making sure you had all of your knives, as well as one already clasped in each of your fists. The ache of your bad wrist was dulled by the adrenaline coursing through your veins as the transport ship shuttered, scraping the ground, the clones bringing their blasters to their shoulders. Explosions and screams of dying clones could be heard outside, and Anakin activated his lightsaber, looking at you.

“See you on the other side.”

The doors opened, light spilling into the cabin. You didn’t think, just ran, and prayed with everything in your heart that you would see Anakin after this was all said and done. That you would both get out alive, and that his sidelong glance in the transport ship wasn’t the last you would see of him.

Thoughts like that were only a distraction. You pushed them to the furthest corners of your mind, zigzagging around blaster shots as you made your way to the factory. Your job was to plant the bombs all around the factory as Anakin and his troops cleared the way for you, and then you would meet at the bank of the surrounding river where you would watch the factory go up in flames from a distance. There, Republic ships would be waiting to take you back to Coruscant.

With that goal in your mind, you made it past the Dead Zone in a flat out sprint-- the space between Republic warships and the Separatist factory, where both sides met in a constant spray of fire. You jumped over fallen clones and coughed smoke out of your lungs, making it to the factory in one piece. You used one of your bombs to blow a hole in the east wall, bypassing the entrance where the blaster-fire was heaviest.

Of course, you climbed through the hole in the wall only to be met with a group of freshly manufactured droids. Your knife buried itself in the closest droid's head without hesitation, followed by another and another. The droids dropped to the ground around you like ants, a single blaster shot missing you by an inch. Your arm screamed with each snap of your wrist, but you pushed through the pain as you yanked your steel blades out of the metal of the droids, planting bombs as you hurried along the hallway.

This is the way it went for a while, steadying yourself against the walls as blaster-cannons shook the ground outside, sticking bombs to the structure every few feet, and running into the occasional group of droids that you took out in a similar way to the first batch.

By the time you finished the east wing and were heading to the south, your wrist was pounding with a vengeance. Every step travelled up your arm, intensifying the pain to the point where it was becoming overwhelming-- distracting. You secured another bomb to the wall, but your grasp on the other ones in your bad arm failed, and scattered all over the ground. You cursed and chased them around the hall, picking them up and shoving them back into your bag.

As you reached the last one, something caught hold of your arm, yanking you forward. You landed on the ground, right on top of that arm, and you were sure you could hear something pop. You cried out in agony as white hot pain blinded your senses, rolling on the ground as tears were forced out of your eyes. A blaster shot skimmed your shoulder, and you used your non-injured arm to send a knife flying in the droids direction from your place on the ground.

The throw was off. It hit the droid on the head with the butt of the knife, clinking off and clattering to the ground uselessly. You rolled to the side as another shot missed you by a hair, sweeping the droids legs out from underneath. You grasped its blaster in your uninjured hand, but it fought back, and you forced yourself to use your bad arm to join the other as you turned the blaster in on itself, shooting its head off.

Gasping in pain, you allowed yourself to stumble backward until you hit the wall, sliding to the ground. Your breathing thickened as you assessed the damage, realizing just how bad the damage had gotten. Your entire arm was on fire, from your shoulder to the tips of your fingers. Angry red and purple splotches bloomed from the place you fell on it, swelling to the size of a baseball. You tried to roll your wrist, stretch it out, but even the slightest movement sent searing bursts of lightning through you, unwelcome tears pricking at your eyes.

You blinked your sight clear, yanking the blaster from the droids grasp and hooking it into your belt before heading off again. You couldn’t believe the damn thing had grabbed you. Now, your arm was hurt to the point where you couldn’t ignore it. You clutched your wrist to your chest as you stuck more bombs to the walls, finishing off the south wing and heading toward the west wing. You could hear commotion from far away, and prepared yourself for a mess.

All hell had broken loose. There was barely a west wing to speak of anymore, as the walls had been blown out and droids and clones were fighting elbow to elbow within the carcass of the hall. You were sure that’s where all the explosions had come from, and now you weren’t sure where to even put the rest of the bombs.

A blaster shot landed between your feet, kicking debris up into your eyes. You wrenched yourself out of your standstill, unclasping the blaster from your belt and dropping droids as you hurried to the blue light at the end of the hall. Anakin was being swarmed with droids, dozens of them targeting him from every direction. He was deflecting the shots sent toward him at lightning speed, but you knew he couldn’t keep it up forever. He sent a force pulse out, knocking the droids back into each other, but more replaced them.

The clones were preoccupied with their own battles, and no one was coming to the General’s aid. You fought your way to him, heart pounding in your ears, the pain in your arm pulsing with each beat. If something happened to Anakin before you could reach him--

“Y/n, no!” Anakin caught your eye from behind the swarm. He waved you back. “Don’t worry about me, finish the mission!”

He ducked right before a blast shot could catch him in the head, slashing away at the droids. They crumpled before him in masses, but there were so many. Your blaster shots joined his saber, crippling the droids in heaps around you. In the commotion, the blaster got knocked out of your hands, so you had to go back to your knives. It hurt beyond anything comparable, but you grit your teeth and forced yourself to throw the knives from your injured arm. There was barely any thinking put into it-- you’d rather go through this pain now than deal with a future without Anakin.

You were slow and clumsy, and quite honestly you were doing awful. Only about half of your throws did any damage, and your vision was beginning to spot with pain. Not to mention, your eyes were clouded with tears and smoke, so even if you could throw right, you couldn’t see in order to do so. You lashed out at random, setting knives loose in every direction, hoping they would provide at least some help. As you reached the end of your supply of knives, you couldn’t help but feel like you were failing Anakin. He needed help, but you were too weak to do anything.

A droid’s arm caught on the bag around your shoulder, and you cried out, crumpling to the ground against your will. The pain was making you nauseous, and your vision swam as you forced yourself to breath. You could feel Anakin’s panic and fury as he sent another pulsing wave around him, droids flying back in every direction including the one that had gotten caught on you. Broken and splintered bits of droid whizzed past you as they collided with each other. The bombs from your bag had spilt out all around you again, when suddenly through your swimming head, you had an idea.

You scrambled to set each bomb to manual detonation, and then sent them flying into the crowds gathered around Anakin. They exploded, knocking dozens out at a time. You sent them forward, one after another, until you ran out and the pulsing in your arm had you clutching at your wrist in vain, praying for something to relieve the pain.

As the dust settled, you saw the blue light disappear. Anakin appeared from out of the smoke, covered in ash and dust. A few new cuts on his face bled freely, but he ignored them as he knelt beside you.

“What was that all about?” he scanned your body, deciding whether or not to move you. You couldn’t tell if he was angry or concerned, and the thought of him being unhappy with you was paralyzing. You had tried so hard, and you knew it wasn’t enough. Your arm had messed everything up, but at this point the pain outweighed any fears you had, and you really just needed help.

“I’m sorry Anakin, I hurt my arm and I think it’s really bad. I didn’t mean to mess up, I’m sorry--,” you choked. Anakin didn’t wait for you to finish before he was pulling you to your feet, a new wave of blaster shots speeding past your heads, and you realized he was trying to get you out of the line of fire.

He supported most of your weight with his flesh arm, reactivating and deflecting blaster shots with his lightsaber in the other. You stumbled alongside him, legs ready to give out again at any moment. You’re sure that without his help, you wouldn’t have made it out.

As soon as you breached the Dead Zone, Anakin reached for his com and ordered the 501st back to the ships. He ushered you into the first one you saw, a simple model of a Republic cruiser, and helped you into the passenger’s chair before standing before the window, surveying the damage outside.

Hands clasped behind his back, he stood in silence before the window for a long while. Your arm screamed at you, but you watched from your place in the seat as a swarm of clones broke out of the smoke from the droid factory, trickling into transport ships and taking off into the air. Anakin waited until he got word from Rex that everyone was out, and then reached for the detonator in his belt. With the press of a button, the entire factory as well as all of the droids inside erupted in flame, the explosion mushrooming up and out. You shielded your eyes from the brightness of the fire, shaking in your seat as the force of the explosion rattled the cruiser.

Anakin didn’t stick around to watch. He got in the pilot’s seat, lifting the cruiser into the air and out into space. Once he was sure you were safe, surrounded by stars and darkness, he turned to you.

His face was grim, tired, and covered in blood and ash. He paid it no mind as he extended his arm out to you, wordlessy requesting your injured wrist.

You hoped he wouldn’t notice its trembling as you forced yourself to release it from your death-grasp, the one that had sort of stuck to your chest as you ran through the Dead Zone with him. Fireworks erupted behind your eyes as your wrist made contact with his gloved hand. You’re sure he was trying his hardest to be gentle, especially while holding it in his metal hand, but any point of contact was going to hurt like a bitch.

You gnawed at your bottom lip as he carefully turned it this way and that, assessing the damage. His face was drawn down in concentration, that same angry-concerned pout on his face sparking a fear in the pit of your stomach. Was he mad at you?

He brought his other hand up, meaning to skim his fingers over the swelling of your wrist to gage your response.

“Don’t touch it--” you snatched your wrist back to your chest, shrinking away from his touch.

“That bad?” Anakin sighed quietly, meeting your eyes for the first time. Your lip wobbled as you lowered your head in shame.

“I’m sorry.”

You felt his hand come up to cradle your cheek, rubbing some dirt away with his thumb. His voice was soft. “You have nothing to be sorry for; it’s not your fault. Just let me see what’s wrong with it.”

He reached for you again, but you flinched away.

“I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Your trembling was noticeable this time as you lowered your wrist into his waiting hand again. He gently took each finger and wiggled them, asking if it hurt each time. You bit back your whimpers, hitching your breath sharply as sparks of pain travelled up your arm with each movement. He let go and asked if you could make a fist, but even that was too excruciating.

You desperately blinked the new tears out of your eyes. It was beginning to annoy you, but you couldn’t help it. The ugly look of your wrist sat deranged and pathetic in Anakin’s gentle palm, and you could see the bad news in his eyes.

Yup. Definitely broken.

“How did all this happen?” he reached behind you to grab an emergency blanket from the shelf. He wrapped your arm in it and then carefully set it back on your lap. Then, he got to work peeling back the shirt from your shoulder where the blaster had skimmed you.

“My shoulder, I got shot,” you admitted, wincing as he pulled a bit of cloth back that was stuck to dried blood. “My wrist… well it’s been hurting for a while. But then a droid pulled on my arm and I fell on top of it.”

Anakin pulled back to look at you. “It’s been hurting for a while? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I had it under control.”

He sighed again, fingertips ghosting over the skin of your shoulder.

“You got burned pretty bad, but it’s nothing some bacta can’t fix,” he said. His voice was reserved again, eyes not meeting yours. “The wrist, well, that’ll be a different story.”

“You’re mad at me.”

He was quiet, looking at the bundled wrist in your lap. You could see the conflict in his eyes-- he wanted to be mad, but he didn’t want to direct it toward you. He was searching for a way to figure out in his own head before saying something to you that he didn’t mean, something he’d regret.

“I’m not mad,” he chose his words carefully, then shook his head. “I just… I told you to leave me.”

“How could I have? You wouldn’t have left me if the roles were switched.”

“It’s different.”

“How is it different?” Anakin’s responding gaze was weary. You both knew what he wanted to say, but he knew it would hurt you. “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can,” he tucked some flyaway hairs behind your ear, letting his hand linger. “Let’s just drop this. I don’t want to argue.”

“As long as you’re not mad,” you made him promise.

“I’m not mad at you.”

You didn’t miss the last part he added. ‘At you.’ Of course, he’d be directing this at himself. You could see the guilt in his eyes, but it didn’t make any sense. You had chosen to stay behind and help him fight the droids off, and it was you who had broken your own damn wrist. In fact, he had saved your life today when he dragged you out of the crossfire. He had nothing to be guilty for, but you knew he was beating himself up for not doing more, for not getting to you faster, for not noticing your pain.

“I’m not mad at you, either.” If your wrist wasn’t a huge site of concern, you would have hugged him. For now, you settled with gripping his flesh hand in yours and squeezing. He gave you the tiniest smile, and then returned his focus to piloting.

#anakin skywalker #anakin #anakin fic #anakin skywalker fic #anakin fluff #anakin skywalker fluff #anakin whump #anakin skywalker whump #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x reader fic #anakin skywalker x reader fic #reader whump #soft ani #caring ani

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mandoinevarro · 4 years

Text

An Overdue Debt

Words: 4.3K

Rating: E

Warnings: Smut, fingering, mentions of violence, spoilers for The Mandalorian

a/n: rip IG-11 but im different

The Mandalorian had gotten used to finding you on his cot. On the nights he’d manage to make it back to the ship, after capturing quarry or escaping bounty hunters chasing the child; after making it out of every peril that crossed his path within an inch of his life day after exhausting day, he’d climb the ramp and find you on his cot.

Usually, by the time the hunter had shut the hull and carbon frozen his bounties, the baby would already be asleep, the ship orderly, and all controls double-checked and ready for takeoff. You were thorough. It seemed to him like you had a sixth sense. From the day he’d hired you, he’d seen you tinkle with every item in the sad collection of the Razor Crest’s old and overused equipment that would’ve fallen apart otherwise. You would oil his gear, check controls, and do any number of things to facilitate the smooth sailing of his ship.

He hadn’t heard the kid cry in weeks. Before the tiny infant could get a chance to work some tears out of his sooty eyes, you were already feeding him, burping him, or providing him with whatever it was that would sooth the surging tantrum immediately. It amazed him how you seemed to be able to fix just about everything you’d touch with those soft little hands of yours. The same hands that he would imagine fondly tracing every dip and scar on his chest and raising goosebumps on his skin, on the days when he’d feel particularly lonely.

Little by little, you’d repaired, oiled, and mended your way into the Mandalorian’s existence, making yourself a crucial part of his everyday life. It only took a couple of weeks for the bounty hunter to realize how essentially fucked he’d be if you ever decided to leave for a more promising and peaceful future than he could ever offer you. Sometimes, he’d study the patched up cables that stuck out of bullet holes on walls and the monitors that had stopped glitching so often ever since you’d focused your attention on them. He would envy the lifeless machinery then, for having the privilege of benefitting from your careful ministrations. The Mandalorian had wondered whether you’d also be willing to offer your healing touch to him, who—as far as you knew from the beskar that covered every inch of his human self and the modulated voice that filtered out all emotional depth—was half a machine himself.

Eventually, he had obtained his answer.

You’d responded to his mute question after he’d gone back for the kid in Nevarro. The bounty hunter had told you to wait for him on the ship, but hadn’t mentioned his intentions in the gray city. He’d only left you with the ominous instruction to take the Crest and never come back to the planet if he wasn’t back in an hour.

After three and a half hours of shooting his way out of the contained battle he’d unleashed near the gates of the city, he hadn’t expected to see the Razor Crest unmoving in the darkening horizon, right where he’d left it. He definitely hadn’t expected the rush of relief that made his spine dissolve when he found you still waiting for him once he’d climbed back through the hull—your eyes sunken in their sockets with concern and your lips chaffed from anxious biting—nor the way your gaze softened at the swampy child he knew you’d both learned to love.

You hadn’t asked any questions when you took the baby and carried him to the cockpit to cradle him in your arms. You hadn’t talked to him as, once in hyperspace, you and the Mandalorian had crafted a makeshift crib together for the sleeping kid from a rectangular metal container and some old rags. Adrenaline and urgency still beating like drums in his ears after such a close encounter with death, he hadn’t dared say a word either, out of fear of what he might reveal to you in his delirium.

But you’d known.

Somehow, among the aftershocks of fighting and below the cluster of stars and supernovas that shifted like snakes in hyperspace, you’d managed to see through the helmet and figure out exactly what he needed, like you’d done so many times with busted motors and faulty sensors. After finishing the crib, you’d taken its unconscious owner down to the hull. The Mandalorian had sentenced himself to his chair to try and still the punchy beating of his heart, that he knew had more to do at this point with the knowledge that you’d put your own life on the line to wait for him than with his altercations in Nevarro.

But you’d come back.

You’d silently slithered your way back into the cockpit and stood right in front of him with trembling legs, looking for his eyes behind the visor. Wordlessly, you’d unbuckled your belt, slipped your pants down, and climbed onto his lap. His fingers had dug into the leather arms of the chair as you’d started moving on top of him in gentle circles. He remembered blushing at how fast you’d been able to get him hard and how all the blood had dropped from his face to his genitals when you’d lowered his zipper and freed his swollen cock. He remembered the persistent smell that had crawled underneath the helmet when you had shoved your underwear to the side and guided him inside your dripping folds.

Mando had fucked you then, with quick, hard thrusts and a vice grip on your ass that had most likely left bruises. He’d fucked you every single night that followed, as well. After freezing whatever bounty he would manage to catch and setting coordinates for the Crest’s next destination, he’d descend the ladder to find you. He never needed to tell you a thing, since you would just shove what little clothing was necessary as soon as you’d catch a glimpse of him and present your body to him, to do as he pleased. Night after night, you’d welcome him wet and willing, perched on whatever surface you two would see fit for your fucking. So, after trying the pilot’s chair, the floor, and several storage boxes, he’d gotten used to finding you on his cot.

Mando knew he was always rough with you. Whether he was coming back from a hunt or from a stakeout, it was always stress, anguish, and burning lust at the mere sight of you that guided his every movement, and they translated to a fistful of your hair or a sudden bump against your cervix. From the first time, he’d lost himself in the dizzying sensation of your slippery walls around him, clenching tighter with every thrust and squeezing every drop of sanity out of him. He’d become addicted to the clammy sound of your cum around his length as he took out all of his frustrations on the stretch of your pussy.

He would only ever take you from behind while you knelt in front of his bunk or against a wall, spilling his seed outside, every time. He’d never actually seen you naked. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it—the curiosity of how gorgeous you probably looked like with no clothes on haunted his every waking thought—, but he knew it wasn’t part of the unspoken deal you two had struck. Out of pity, he assumed, you’d offered yourself to him as a stress reliever, and nothing more.

At first, though, Mando had been surprised at how often and loud you’d moan for him; later he’d figured it was just another way you’d though of to please him. The whimpers would float around the recycled air of his empty ship and bounce on his helmet, unable to pierce through the tough beskar. So he would take what he could get and tried his best to shut the desire for a more profound intimacy that he ached for. Until, one day, it could no longer be held back.

After his clash with Moff Guideon and the army of Imps, it took Mando a few hours to grasp that he had survived. Somehow, hugely outnumbered and wounded, the bounty hunter’s own small army had managed to defeat the enemy troops and get away with the child, not without two losses that still hung too somber on his guts for him to process properly. He sat on his chair with his son resting next to him for hours, watching space break down to pieces from the cockpit. He thought about IG-11, how he’d lifted his helmet and seen his most secret self through red sensors. Mando remembered how much he’d wished for you at that moment, wanting nothing more but to replace the droid’s neutral features with your own lovely ones. He’d known his son was safe and had made peace with his impending death, but he hadn’t been able to shake a feeling of unfulfillment for knowing that he’d never gotten to truly see you or feel you.

But he had survived.

So Mando sat in the cockpit until he lost track of time, almost hoping that—as always—you’d simply guess what he yearned for and provide it for him. But, eventually, when you didn’t magically appear in front of him like the first time, he knew it was his turn. Nervousness stifling his movements, he climbed clumsily down, stopping every once in a while to reconsider. What if he offended you? He’d never forgive himself if his stupid requests drew you away once and for all. But temptation was gripping his heart hard, and he knew that he’d never know peace again if he didn’t at least try to get this one favor from you.

When he jumped down the last steps of the ladder, he didn’t find you in his cot. You stood in front of him, as if you’d been waiting. You didn’t push your pants down or move to kneel at the entrance of his bunk like you always did. You simply looked into his visor with a hesitant expression, waiting for him to make a move, for a change.

His voice was tight and unsteady when he finally said, “I want… Can—can I touch you?” He cleared his throat and couldn’t help the telling dip of his helmet as he absorbed your figure in front of him. “I mean really touch you. And…and see you. Please.”

Your shoulders slacked and you moved your head to the side in confusion, like you had been expecting literally anything else. And then, once you saw the way his helmet hung defeated and his hands were clasped in front of him, almost as if he were apologizing for asking, your face went back to its natural comprehensive expression. Except something else was growing in your eyes that made your pupils expand and darken.

“Yes,” you breathed out, with a begging tone that mimicked Mando’s own.

Mando’s lungs collapsed at your permission; he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding his breath. He looked around, trying to figure out a way to quickly engineer a surface comfortable enough for you, but you simply sat cross-legged on the floor looking up at him with inviting eyes that got his heart pounding a little faster. So he knelt down in front of you and unclasped his cloak to lay it in next to your legs. It wasn’t ideal nor how he’d imagined it—nothing about this situation was—but he was determined to make you feel as comfortable as he possibly could.

You clutched his pauldrons as leverage and shuffled on your knees to rest them on the worn fabric. You reached down with one hand to remove your shoes and socks, before trailing it upwards to your belly and grabbing the hem of your tunic. Mando quickly caught your wrist.

“Wait,” he asked, “let me.”

You simply bit your lower lip and nodded, and Mando liked the way your cheeks turned pink when his gloves grabbed the bottom of your shirt and pulled it up. Every new inch of your skin made it harder for him to keep his hands on the cloth instead of the soft flesh that he was seeing for the first time. When he got your tunic far up enough that it went past your breasts, he had to force himself to keep going, instead of immediately rolling the tips in his fingers. His already half-hard cock twitched at the thought.

By the time your head poked out of the tunic’s hole and he discarded it, his body was burning inside the armor. He trailed his gaze across every crevice of your upper body, stopping at some softer-looking spots he quickly decided were his favorite. You apparently noticed, because the blush on your face was darker than before and it spread to your chest. Mando found your pigmented skin endearing. Maker, after weeks of burying himself inside your most private places, how was it possible that this was the most intimate moment you two had ever shared? And why was he so much more fucking nervous right there than any of the other nights?

He reached his hands out slowly to unbuckle your belt, but looked up at you for permission first. Still biting your lip, you managed a small smile, but your teeth were digging deeper with anticipation that made the gentle expression falter. So he removed your belt and pushed down your pants, taking your underwear with them. You shuffled awkwardly on your knees to slide your them off your legs and would’ve toppled over if he hadn’t grabbed your arms and held you steady. You laughed nervously at your clumsiness and grabbed his arm for balance, as your other hand stretched behind you to pull the trousers off completely and throw them to the side.

The hand on his arm let go and your back straightened again. And there you were, bare in front of him as he’d asked, your skin covered in goosebumps from the cold air of the ship. Like staring into a mirage, he instinctively grabbed your wrist to make sure you wouldn’t evaporate in front of him. Stars, for all the hours he’d spent mentally sketching a picture of your nude body, he could never have expected this. Mando’s eyes traced the lines of your neck and dropped to a pair of smooth shoulders that he would’ve paid good money to lick. Your heaving chest caught his eye, and he went dizzy with the way your nipples hardened under the attention. He skimmed lower to your belly, and would’ve gladly stayed there if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of something glistening between your thighs. His breath audibly hitched at the modulator when he recognized the clear slick of your arousal.

Once you understood what the visor was directed at, your shoulders hunched and you shuffled uncomfortably in your place. The movement snapped him out of his trance.

It was Din Djarin who stared straight into your eyes when he finally said with a disbelieving, low voice, “I’m sorry, it’s just…You’re so beautiful.”

You smiled fully for him then, your lips plump with arousal and your body arching towards him more confidently to try to coax him to reach out.

“Please,” you pleaded in a raspy tone he’d never heard before, “touch me like you wanted.”

That was all Din needed. His hands approached your body, before he reconsidered and took the gloves off first. Fuck, where to begin? He wanted to feel everything at once, brush his fingertips down your neck and grab your thighs hard and press a hand into your belly. He wanted to grasp your round tits and trace a finger down your spine to make you shiver. Most of all, he wanted to sink his digits into your wet heat and feel you squirm over them.

He settled his hands on your shoulders instead, like you’d done moments ago. The bare-skinned contact made you both tense, until he started caressing up and down your arms to try to relax you. You let out a shaky breath as his calloused hands tickled your skin with a feather light touch.

“It’s smooth,” he mumbled, “your skin. I—I didn’t know.” The helmet was trained on your chest, though, and his hands followed, two large palms settling just above your breasts. Din felt your heart beating faster and faster against his palm to the beat of his own unstable huffs that he knew you could hear. He glided his hands lower, grasping your tits with a strength that painted a stark contrast to his previous, careful fondles. The sensation worked a gasp out of you that pierced beskar and cloth and went straight to his cock. Encouraged, he kneaded the fat and pinched your pebbly peaks, earning him another, louder whimper.

Fuck, why did it feel that good? Din could already feel his array of problems slipping further and further away at the sensation of your hot skin against his, not to mention the sight of your mouth gaping and your half-hooded eyes. A scent he already knew well crept into his nostrils and settled on his lower half, reminding him of the growing lubrication between your legs.

He traded your breasts for the curve of your ass and, when he squeezed, he pulled you closer to him, your chest hitting the cool surface of his armor. You yelped at the cold contact, but the surprise turned into pleasure when he started grabbing handfuls of you to press your body tighter against his. His fingers slipped down to the backs of your thighs and sunk on the pillowy flesh between them, making you buckle forward as a reflex and wrap your arms around his neck. The flesh underneath his palm was soaked and boiling, but it wasn’t until he parted your thighs and shoved his metal cuisse between them that he thought you were working up a fever.

Before he could give you any instruction, you buried your head in the crook of his neck and started rubbing your core on his cuisse. It was an awkward angle that only offered so much friction, but the way you moaned for him sounded like it the sensation was melting you. Every desperate little noise was absorbed by his pores and climbed to his head, making him drunk with the knowledge that he could do this to you.

He needed more.

“Lay back.” He placed his hands on your hips to stop your grinding. You threw your head back to look into the dark visor, flushed and confused.

“But—” you started, before Din placed a hand on the small of your back and pushed you with his other one onto the worn cloak. You relented and laid on the floor panting, watching him through long lashes and pressing your legs tightly. Towering over you on his knees, Din grabbed the tops of each thigh and massaged them carefully, both to coax them open and to continue reveling on how your body pulsed alive under his touch. You were writhing and moaning under him, too busy rubbing your legs together to ease some of the throbbing between them to understand what he wanted from you. As much as he enjoyed watching you completely exposed, desperately trying to pleasure yourself, he needed to see. He needed you open to finally take a look at the heat where he’d been losing himself for weeks.

Din pinned down your ankles to the floor and looked straight to your face.

“Please, just—just let me see.” He slowly slid your feet towards you, making your knees flex and your legs bend. Back to reality, you swallowed hard and nodded, propping yourself on your elbows to see exactly what he’d do.

Din pushed your ankles to the sides, revealing little by little a blushed, pulsating cunt. He only stopped once your legs couldn’t open any wider. Your outer lips were plump and swollen, while your inner folds glistened wet and pink under the artificial light of the ship. Your clit was sticking out completely, imploring to be touched. Din felt something stab his chest. He held his breath and felt his member grow fully erect at the erotic sight.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, “f-fuck, is this what I’ve been missing?” He placed his palms on your inner thighs, where he could feel the warmth radiating from your cunt. “Huh?”

You furrowed your eyebrows and opened your legs a little wider. “You never touched me,” you whispered, “I thought you didn’t want to.”

“Maker.” Din’s gaze was trained on your pussy, unblinking. “It’s the only thing I’ve wanted.” When glossy arousal oozed out of you at his admission and pooled on his cloak, Din felt his mouth salivate. He ran his tongue over his lips.

“Then do it.” You sounded desperate now.

Din watched you intently—searching for a reaction—when the index and middle finger of his right hand made a V shape over your outer lips, before pressing hard against them. It was difficult for him to decide whether to focus on how your head dropped on the ground and your breath hitched, or how your inner lips spilled outside around his digits and your lower muscles hardened under his touch. The pressure made more of your arousal seep and coat his fingers, as he worked them back and forth over the outside of your core. He knew he was leaking precum but couldn’t bring himself to remove his right hand from your cunt nor his left from your thigh, so he simply pressed his legs together, hoping the sight of you wouldn’t be enough to make him cum.

You were pushing against his fingers, silently asking for more, and Din was happy to comply. He removed his middle finger as his index brushed your soaked slit from the bottom to the top, stopping right below your clit. Exasperated, you slapped your palms over your eyes.

“Mando, please,” you whined, “do something. You can’t just—” Your own moan cut you off when he brought down his left hand to pull your inner lips open and gather some more moisture. Fuck, he had a clear view inside you. He could see your innermost walls drowning in their own juices turn a dark pink, almost purple. He used both hands to open you further. Deep inside you, your tight hole clenched around nothing, spitting out more and more fluids.

Stars, Din didn’t know anyone could get this wet, not even when he used to mindlessly fuck you. His hands were drenched already, but, greedily, he still gathered more slickness and rubbed it on his finger, across his knuckles. He wanted it everywhere. He scooped more and smeared it all over your folds and inner thighs, still avoiding your bundle of nerves. Fascinated by your body and trying to ignore how his cock strained against his pants, he lifted his hands to coat your tits with your own cum.

You were almost crying beneath him, but you seized your opportunity when you felt his wet hands against your chest. Suddenly, you grabbed his wrist and yanked it down, pressing the heel of his hand against your neglected clit. Your eyes closed as a broken sob of relief escaped your throat. You moved your hips against it, using his body for your pleasure as he’d done so many times with yours. Din was delighted.

“Been so good to me for so long,” he muttered, as his other hand creeped stealthily back towards your slit. “I want to pay you back.” The primal sound that left you when he sunk two fingers inside your snug hole made his cock jump and get itself a little wetter than before. He willed himself to ignore it and focus his attention on the long fingers inside you. He pushed them as far as they’d go and them some more, while you were still grinding against his palm.

Din was sure he was going to black out from lust when you started moving faster and his fingers curled into something that made your eyes roll to the back of your skull. You were breathing quickly, high little mewls leaving your lips as you clenched tighter and tighter around him. His torso leaned down to see how he was stretching you open.

“B-but I liked it,” you blurted all of a sudden, catching your companion by surprise, “I like it when you f-fuck me—” you groaned when he couldn’t help himself and added another finger, “—when you fuck me angry. When you—when you take it out on me.”

Din didn’t answer. He couldn’t when your words sank deep into his stomach and braided his insides. He only moved his fingers faster and deeper, letting your walls distract him—once again—from the difficulties of his turbulent life, as you pulled tighter around him.

Tighter—tighter—tighter—and—

Din was sure it was your own orgasm transferring over to him when you came undone with a loud cry. He didn’t stop moving his hands into you as spasms took over your body, but he felt his own organs contract and release waves of pleasure into every corner of his ragged body. It was only after you stopped shaking and he took his creamy hands away from you that he noticed a dark, moist patch on the crotch of his pants. You noticed it too, and managed a brief, breathy laugh before falling back on the floor, pulling the cloak to cover you and closing your eyes.

Din slapped your leg gently to stop you from falling asleep before standing up.

“We’re not done yet,” he told you plainly, as you stared at him with confused, tired eyes. “I haven’t tasted you.”

He clicked a few buttons on his arm, and the hull became pitch black.

–––––

Edit: Part II here

@artaxerxesthegreat

#the mandolarian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian smut #the mandolorian x reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin smut #star wars #star wars smut #the mandalorian x ofc #din djarin x oc

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

Perception is Key

Part Two to Hell on Earth

avengers x reader

series masterlist

masterlist

Summary; dread is all you feel as you take up temporary residence in New Asgard. Something big is coming, and you are not the only one that can feel it, but despite that, Thor tries to make you feel safe in his rebuilt kingdom, though all you see is it falling before your knees

Warnings; mentions of death, angst, secrecy

divider by @firefly-graphics

Death, it was a certain doom for all living mechanisms, even Asgard had been demolished by its inevitable demise. Yet here you were, nursing an off handed bottle of ale that came from the gods, whilst you breathed in the salt scent that regarded from the ocean that crashed by. New Asgard, the home of Thor and his brothers in arms, whilst his real sibling was killed by Thanos. It was a shame to see the brave deity in mourning, however, there was nothing that you could do about it. Nothing.

The concept of the end came to all, it was a daunting curse that teased its victims, and pried them into sculpting their own fears of it. But for all the people in the galaxy knew, death could be peaceful; you liked to think that you were the same. A wound cog that did not work for their purpose, a villain that could do some good. And whilst you had never threatened the end of the world, your hereditary abilities sure as hell did. It was another danger to humans and more, thus making you one in regard.

Killing was a route that you didn’t want to take, it was dark, and there was no way back for redemption. Murderers and the bad guys, if they wanted penance, would spend their whole lives trying to make amends for what they did, in exchange for a forgiveness that they would never be granted. And if you did such a thing, as regretting causing exhibitions of death, your father would send for you from the underworld, and have you dragged back down to his bleak halls.

Those heroes would rise, as the ones that you came to know and befriend were brought to bottomless pits of service for Hades, suffering for all eternity as they knelt before the god whom ruled hell. Mother could only prey that he would give up his display of the deceased, he used them like puppets, and it was not a friendly scenic for the next batch of Demi gods that they were planning. You were brilliantly strong, but they would be stronger, as not only would they have the army of warriors behind them, they would be invincible.

Their carriageway into ironic new life, was affecting to you, you could feel it as their existence seared through your veins. There was a war coming, and it was going to be a blood bath, there would be bodies littered on all the planets as they respected their appetites, and they would come for you. It wasn’t silly for you to fear them, they had been around before, it was a rebirth for the ages, a damning revolution that would drain all the breathing from the lungs of species, flushing their external beings into whisperings of blistered remains.

Zagreus and Macaria were coming, pursuing the punishment that was deemed worthy for your scoundrel self, you were nothing more than another revamped version of yourself, raised from the ashes, and taking your overdue time to age. You were supposed to be the cause for the world’s destruction, but they, they would tear every atom down piece by piece, because you were unable to complete your mission of birthright.

Humans, nor other vessels of aspiring and mundane inventions, had the impact of defence to protect themselves from more dominant species. They were simply specks with heart beats in the universe, thumping in their chests as they strived to usher their own planet under the hypocrisy of a dying climate.

“Heimdall once said that Hades had a vision, and he, a seer of all people, couldn’t see how far his faction of thought went. There was no end with his quarrel with the nattering of life, instead, it was competently endless, going on for light years upon light years, straggling the gods into the grand demise. To put it into other words, you are his vision.”

“Well I’m not sure that our Vision back at the compound would be too pleased if I coined his name.” But all joking aside, the air shifted every time that you brought lightness to your words. Continuing, you spoke to Thor, whom had brought you to his evolved demeanour of his homeland, and stole you from the consequences of the violent struggle that you had instinctively conquests upon James Buchanan Barnes. “However, on a more serious note, you are aware of my origin, and the truths that Hades is my father. You know of why he crafted me, but there will be a greater shadow than my foresworn self, and the others need to know of this oncoming riot.”

“We shall tell them, but first; eat.” The god of thunder intended for you to follow through with his kind hearted order, though a heated rumble shook the core of the earth, the energy trembling up your legs. They had been born, sooner than anticipated, and much closer to your break from the ruckus than you had wanted.

“I am not sure we have the time, you felt that cause of apocalyptic foreshadowing, I can tell by the fearful promise on your face. My father will not rest until he has me, a weapon in his hold returned, and to do so, he will tear apart this family, in literal terms, so that I can return to my biological home.”

“Eat.” Thor spoke once more, gulping down the terror that graced his long spanned veins. “If there is to be a fight on earth for the ages, destruction raining down on midguard, then you will need your strength. There is no need to deprive yourself of basic necessities, young warrior.”

Accepting the small loaf from his hand, you watched as the crumbs fled a trail through your palm. Even you appetite was frolicking trauma upon bacteria that swayed in the depths of the bread; the gathered yeast feared you, much like you feared yourself. “I’m going to have to return to the compound, as much as I hate to do so after what I had done, they have to know. And throughout our excursion of informative speech, then they shall have to know of my dreaded secret.”

But what if they already knew?

“A weapon like that...” Steve shook his head as he threw the classified papers onto the desk space he had reserved for his affiliated research. “We have to protect the earth, and if we have to do so from her, then we will have to stretch to any means necessary.” The captain gulped, not pleased as he divulged deeper into this situation with his friend.

Bucky remained shocked from the fleeting threats that had deranged from your form; it was like a curse adorned you, but it turned out, it was just you. Nothing had made you this way, instead, you were born a vigil monster, a daughter of a fraternising god.

“The daughter of Hades... I miss the old days where we believed in one god, and went to church every Sunday morning.” He wasn’t have supposed to have heard Barnes talking, but the figure did as he pressed himself against the wall, his hearing inclined to listen to more.

Peter’s eyes bulged as he was silently affirmed with the truth. He had a web stringing each digression together as he thought of your independence that you had been determined to keep. They were going to tell everyone, swaying their opinions from what they knew, rather than what they did not.

But that made you a legend, a mortal infliction of ancient religion; there must have been more to know. He had to be silent to ensure he didn’t trigger an alert to the super soldier’s enhanced hearing, as the boy that was pursed with a spider bite slipped away, portraying his fawning portrayal of being a vigilante.

His assumed destination that his quiet feet were carrying him too was the library. There’d surely be something useful in the walls of filled shelves, and if there wasn’t, then the internet was a useful friend. As he entered the subjective room for required reading, he saw the Falcon himself, Sam Wilson, seated at a small and solitary table.

Perhaps... no, it’d be wrong to turn him against his close friends... but possibly what was necessary. Peter allowed his doe eyes to scan the various sections. Mythology. Though, all avengers knew that there was some truth to every realistic evolution of belief, though it was usually only a little. But maybe, in your case, there would be more.

Tony had told him there had been an incident, and Peter had believed that Mr Stark was concealing a devise of perception from the rest of the aligned team. It was certainly wrong for him to delve against the ruin of the circumstances, but he was eager to do anyways. Whatever happened must’ve been lined coursing seriousness, and he was afflicted with firm interest to find out what.

Ah, he found something. Adjoined with the abilities he knew that you were capable of, he knew it must have been in regards to you, it just made sense. The spine spoke with integrity, daring anyone to read the biblical novel of fumed remark that raised hell on Earth.

The goddess of invoked, bringer of nightmares and madness, Melinoë.

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himbodjarin · 3 years

Text

LUNAR; CH11

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

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

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER ELEVEN: STORM BOY

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

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

Not to forget the Girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They don’t need to see that.

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

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

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

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

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

Surely they’re not that foolish.

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

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

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

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

“What’re-”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

He snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s never been good with words.

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

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

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

“We won’t both fit on it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You better return to me.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mando. Mando?”

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

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

“Can’t move,” he whines.

“Use me then.”

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

“Mando!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not - not a droid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re getting out of this.”

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

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

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

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

“Need to.”

“I won’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s what he wants; to move forward.

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

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

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

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

“I forgive you,” Mando repeats to himself.

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

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

“All right,” he permits.

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

“Helmet,” he groans.

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

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

He nods, fingers itching in his gloves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, wait here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We don’t know that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I never agreed--”

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

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

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

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

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

Always taking care of him; always so concerned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mando,” she gasps. “You’re sure?”

He simply nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He greedily whines, “Need more.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, f-fuck, shit. St-sto-op.”

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

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

“I want more, pretty girl, need you.”

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

Fuck. “Yes.”

“Need me to ride you -- to fuck you?”

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

“Fucking so needy,” she sings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He won’t look away.

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

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

“You’re taunting, pretty girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” she winces. “You should’ve.”

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

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

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

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

“Mando, I got-ta move.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ hell, Mando.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I - I can’t…shit...Din,” she croons.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He disagrees; he could stay here for eternity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweet,” she exhales. “Salty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So about that break…”

_____________

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

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

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the-ferocious-kittyrose · 3 years

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What I would’ve done w/ Lotor’s character

It’s not exactly a secret to anyone who’s been following me for a while that I’m not the biggest fan of canon Lotor. I had high hopes for the character from his 80s counterpart and intro in season 3 but I was really let down by the direction the writers went with him in canon.

When he was introduced, I was so hoping for him to be this cocky manipulative asshole that’s only out for himself. I love that character archetype so goddamn much.

But in canon he was just kinda boring to me. His personality was bland and his motivations never really made sense. He’s introduced using empty promises of peace and comradery to manipulate people, then its revealed that he actually does want peace and comradery and wants to lead a peaceful empire, then that turns into draining Alteans and wanting to kill all Galra...

I also didn’t like how the writers decide to tack on this whole child abuse plot to explain why he was the way he was. As if that’s the only way to make a villain sympathetic. Yeah other versions of Voltron have touched on Lotor’s childhood before and it was never pleasant, but VLD really leaned into that shit, to the point where it felt like the writers were just shoving angst down our throats thinking that equals good writing.

It takes more than a tragic backstory to make a character compelling. It takes an interesting personally and motivations that make sense. And you can make a character tragic/sympathetic in more subtle ways.

For me personally, I wanted Lotor to be a sorta fusion of Loki and Littlefinger in space.

Loki is a sly trickster who grew up feeling like an outcast, unaware of his true heritage. He grew up believing he could be king but when his shity father handed it to his perfect brother he felt he had been robbed and decided to take the throne by force.

Littlefinger is a small man from a small house with no power, and after getting the shit beat out of him trying to win the hand of the girl he loved, he decided he would use his intelligence and skills in manipulation to screw over all these noble lords and weasel his way into the throne. And when he did he would finally get vengeance on all those who had looked down on him.

I feel like this fits Lotor well. Lotor is a prince, so he isn’t small in that regard, but he is not respected in the way a prince should be.

He is a lot smaller than the average Galra. And even though Lotor is still quite strong, developing a fighting style that suits his small form and uses his opponents size against them, in a society so heavily based on physical strength that’s still a big blow to your rep.

He employs half breeds, which we know are looked down on in the empire. And there are definitely rumors about Lotor himself being a half breed. I think after 10,000 years Zarkon would’ve done a pretty good job at hiding Lotor’s heritage from the public but just looking at him compared to the average Galra there’s going to be some suspicion there. On that note Lotor is probably considered butt ugly by the Galra.

And Lotor works in the shadows and achieves his goals through lies and trickery, which Lotor himself says are things the empire looks down on.

So yeah, the people in the empire hate Lotor. Even Sendak who’s all ‘Gung ho empire’ has no respect for Lotor. And because of this it would probably be up in the air whether or not Lotor would even be allowed to take the throne if his father were to pass, even though it’s his birthright.

And in the face of all this rampant disrespect, Lotor decides that he is going to overthrow his father and take the throne. And when he does he will take vengeance on everyone who had ever undermined him and expand the empire beyond anything his father could’ve dreamed of.

And don’t try telling me, “oh that’s so out of character! Lotor would never take pleasure in the pain of others!” Because he does.

Remember Throk? Remember how Lotor sent him away to the worst station in the empire and joked about letting him, “rot with the ice worms?” Remember how Lotor later invaded his station then watched with a grin as he was tortured by Haggar?

Lotor 100% takes pleasure in hurting those who would hurt him, because it makes him feel powerful.

Now let’s talk about Lotor’s planet. The one given to him and destroyed by Zarkon. I always felt weird about this plot. Obviously it’s a very sad thing to have happen, but I always liked the idea of Lotor’s promises of peace to be empty, a means of manipulating people. So this whole situation being genuine feels weird to me.

In my version, Lotor didn’t get banished for being too kind. He got banished because Zarkon caught him in a plot to betray him.

When Lotor was put in charge of the planet, he seduced and married the princess Ventar. He filled her head with promises that her people would be free and they would rule the universe together and convinced her to secretly round up her armies and send word to her ally planets to do the same, so they could start planning a way to overthrow Zarkon.

It’s left ambiguous whether or not he was being genuine and whether he really loved Ventar and intended to keep his promises to her or if she was just a tool to get the throne. But either way, it ends the same. Zarkon finds out, destroys the planet, kills Ventar, and exiles Lotor.

Still sad/humiliating thing for Lotor, and definitely a story that could gain sympathy from Allura.

Speaking of Allura and Ventar, let’s talk about Lotor’s relationship with the women in his life.

(Trigger Warning: Brief mention of of a rape scene in GoLion)

In the 80s Lotor was incredibly misogynistic. He walked around with a harem of half naked women, tried repeatedly to kidnap and marry Allura against her will, and in GoLion it’s heavily implied that he raped Romelle because she looked like Allura.

It’s a common joke in the fandom that he went from this to drinking respect women juice in VLD but I don’t know if I’d go that far.

He’s definitely better in VLD than he was in the 80s, but even in VLD he manipulates, uses, and hurts most of the women in his life.

Allura is the obvious example, but you also have his generals. Acxa talks to the paladins, Allura in particular, about how persuasive Lotor could be. Implying that she and the other general were manipulated the same way Allura was.

Well not EXACTLY the same way Allura was, romantically I mean. Though there are people who believe that Acxa was also in love with Lotor and he used that to his advantage, which I can see.

But I feel like it was more about giving them a place in an empire that didn’t care about or accept them.

I hate The Last Jedi but I really feel like the line, “you’re nothing, but not to me,” fits really well. They were outsiders with no place to go until Lotor swooped in and gave them a purpose.

Do I think that there was a part of Lotor that genuinely wanted to help them because he saw a kindred spirit in them? Yeah. But I also think that at the end of the day, they were more tools than real friends. And he had no qualms about killing them if they betrayed him.

The situation with Narti proves that. As well as the fact that Ezor and Zethrid seemed very scared of the prospect of Lotor being alive and coming for them.

And then you have Allura. Lotor’s lust for Allura has always been a very important part of his character. In the 80s the reason behind his obsession with her was that he had a lot of baggage about his mother and had a thing for women that looked like her. Also the fact that he just didn’t like not getting something he wanted.

There was never any love. He didn’t want to be with her, he wanted to own her.

In VLD, his want for Allura seems to stem more from the fact that she’s Altean than an Oedipus complex. As well as the fact that she’s powerful and skilled in Altean alchemy, which makes her rather useful.

I don’t personally believe that Lotor ever really Loved Allura. I think he liked the idea of her and what she could do for him, but the end of the day she was more a means to an end than anything else.

Allura’s been trough a lot. Zarkon betrayed her family and destroyed her entire planet only about a year ago from her point of view, and she appears to have a pretty bad case of survivors guilt and PTSD. And to make matters worse, while Lotor was on the ship she was fighting with Shiro, someone she clearly cared about. The idea of loosing him after already losing so much must’ve been really painful.

She was hurting, conflicted, and lonely. Which made her all the more vulnerable to Lotor’s manipulation.

He took advantage of her loneliness and insecurities, making her believe she had found someone who understood her and could help her avenge her family and planet. She trusted him, let herself be vulnerable around him, which made it hurt even more when it was revealed to all be a ruse.

And then you have his relationship with his mother Honerva/Haggar.

I talked a lot about this in my whole rewrite/rant about Honerva, but I’m not a fan of how they made their relationship 100% negative. I feel like it robs the show of a lot of interesting character interaction.

It’s sad. The whole relationship is really tragic. Shit like this is literally my worst nightmare. The thought of looking my mom in the face and have her not recognize me as her daughter keeps me up at night.

But the thing is, in canon the relationship kinda falls flat because Lotor and Haggar/Honerva have no connection. Haggar was awful to Lotor and Lotor hates Haggar. What reason do I have to be invested in their relationship?

So If you haven’t read my Honerva rant, here’s how I would’ve done the Honerva Lotor relationship.

10,000 years ago, when Alfor came to Dibazzal to convince Zarkon to close the rift, Honerva went into labor. Alfor and many Galran doctors tried there best to save her and the baby, but the quintessence had damaged her body so much that she couldn’t be saved and died in childbirth.

Zarkon went ballistic and Alfor had the doctors take baby Lotor somewhere safe, fearing Zarkon would take his grief and anger out on the child.

After Honerva was resurrected as Haggar and throughout Lotor’s childhood, they had a strange sort of relationship. Lotor was an inquisitive child and was always curious about Haggar and her work, making a habit of following her around like a little shadow and watching as she worked. And there was also the fact that, while his father was never friendly, he was calmer when she was around.

Haggar had no idea what to make of this weird child following her around all the time. All these big strong Galra were terrified of her but this tiny child showed no fear as he tugged on her robes and excitedly asked questions about her work. And she never minded. She didn’t know why or how to explain it, but she cared for the child. As much as a soulless undead witch could care for something anyway.

But as time went on there relationship became more and more strained. Lotor was a smart kid he was gonna find out about his mother and deduce what happened to her.

He resented Haggar. Resented her for not remembering him. Resented her for the fact that he had to go through life without a mother while she was right there. And he resented her for being loyal to Zarkon, who had been making his life hell for thousands of years.

Every time she showed him something resembling kindness he’s conflicted. He knows he should feel happy that she cares, but at the same time, why does she care? It’s not like she sees him as her son.

He turned to denial, insisting that Haggar couldn’t possibly be his mother, even though he new the truth deep down, and a part of him always secretly longed for her to remember who she was, who he was, and embrace him as her son. He hates that part of himself.

And when he does meet Honerva for the first time, it’s... tense... to say the least. Having his mother reach out to him and acknowledge him as her son is something he thought would bring him joy, but in that moment all the pain he went through rises back to the surface and he lashes out. He draws his sword and is about to cut her down but he hesitates. He’s trembling with tears in his eyes. He can’t forgive her, but he also can’t bring himself to kill her.

Then you have his relationship with his father.

It’s no secret that Zarkon is an awful man and a shity father, always has been.

The explanation as to why is kinda shaky. All we get is Zarkon saying Lotor is his greatest shame because he’s Altean but I don’t know about that. Zarkon may hate Alteans but he loved Honerva and I don’t think he would be ashamed of his relationship with her.

He definitely did his best Lotor’s heritage from the public. But I don’t think that’s the reason he hates him.

In my version of the story, Zarkon hates Lotor because Honerva died giving birth to him and Zarkon blames him for her death. He lost his beloved wife and was forced to watch the son that killed her waltz around wearing her face.

It didn’t help that Lotor was a snarky rebellious kid that liked to show off. He did things his own way, didn’t care much for rules, and had a real knack for finding loopholes. All things that made his strict father very angry. He was an embarrassment. Small and rebellious. That’s why Zarkon began training Sendak.

I personally believe the reason Zarkon was so trusting of Sendak and had so much faith in him was because Zarkon had been grooming him to be his “true heir.” Sendak is the epitome of what a Galra should be. Strong, loyal, and brave. He would be the son Zarkon wished he had. The favorite child.

Lotor obviously hates Zarkon, and rightfully so. Zarkon hates him for something he had no control over and constantly disrespects him.

Lotor may not follow the rules, but he passes every trial. He excels at everything he does but Zarkon refuses to see that all because he blames him for Honerva’s death.

Lotor sees Zarkon as an old fool. He knows that he could do a far better job at running the empire.

Lotor dedicated thousands of years of his life to overthrowing Zarkon. His hatred for his father was his motivation, what got him out of bed every morning, so when the deed is done and Zarkon was finally defeated, in the moments after he felt empty.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on that feeling for long. He still had to deal with his father’s men and take the throne that was rightfully his.

Then you have his plan.

Lotor’s plan in VLD is really weird and over complicated. There was no real reason for the whole draining Alteans thing. Just a lazy way of making him 100% evil.

The plot could’ve been a lot simpler. He gains the paladins trust, gets them to help him build his ships and overthrow Zarkon, and then once he has the throne he pulls an Uno reverse card and is like, “yeah, nothing personal but this was all a trick and imma lock you and your lions up now.”

Obviously more complicated than that but that’s the basic idea.

One of my main problems with VLD is that they had a bad habit of over complicating the plot. People don’t care about VLD because of the plot, they care about the characters and their relationships, the actual plot doesn’t have to be anything spectacular.

It’s strange to say but I feel like the writes tried too hard with Lotor. He had the potential to be an amazing villain but the writers were too focused on tricking the audience and making him angsty that they forgot to make him compelling.

#Voltron #vld #voltron legendary defender #prince lotor #Lotor #emperor zarkon #zarkon #haggar #honerva #princess allura #Allura #acxa #ezor #Zethrid #narti #galra #vld critical #discourse #sincline

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plainlo-inthemorning · 3 years

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A Loki TVA / Lokane fic that snatched a tempad. Rating T.

Previously: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 (of 6)

Shine a Light, part 4

This time around, he feels but the faintest glimmer of surprise as he steps out of the doorway and onto a busy sidewalk in Midtown Manhattan.

A few people stop dead in their tracks when the door materializes out of thin air, but the throng of commuters headed to and from Central Station is so dense, Loki’s appearance goes mainly unnoticed.

Dull resignation washes over him.

The tempad is officially broken. Its coordinates locked onto this little planet where, in his own timeline, he has known nothing but defeat.

Without bothering to look for a newsstand, he reasons there’s a strong probability it’s the year 2014. It would seem the damn gadget is slowly counting backwards, while refusing to take him anywhere else in the universe.

Above his head, a billboard flashing on the side of a high-rise building confirms his suspicions.

Incredibly though, the tempad still not out of “juice”. The battery life seems to be making a mockery of his failed attempts to direct the itinerary.

Taking a step out of the moving sea of people, Loki sees little in way of construction sites along the street.

On his timeline, this would have been two years after his attack on the city with Thanos’ army, but if that ‘highlight’ of Loki’s less than acclaimed villainous career took place in this reality as well, the mortals have effectively tidied up after him.

He tries not think of the countless faces frozen in terror that had looked up at him.

Of the lives lost because of his crazed ambition to prove himself - and to destroy something of Thor’s.

Almost if Loki had been transformed back into the chronically jealous five-year-old child who once stole his golden, annoyingly joyful, perfect brother’s favorite model toy - a grey wolf made of clay - and deliberately let it roll down the steps of the throne when their father (his NON-father) had been away.

The toy had broken into pieces and Thor had been inconsolable. Gripped by immediate remorse despite his initial intent, Loki had tried to fix it with his budging magic powers. Only for the wolf to melt to a sticky puddle on the stone floor.

Thor had wailed so loudly, a passing servant had thought him seriously injured and called for their mother, and Loki had been made to apologize, his usually pale cheeks burning scarlet. Then he had been grounded for the remains of the day.

The humiliation had stung, and so had the regret that his magic had failed him.

Not for the first time, the anger had turned, unwarranted (Loki knew then too), towards his brother.

From then on, it had just gotten slowly worse and worse and more malicious right up until that horrible moment of rage no more than a few days ago (a week?), when Loki had driven one of his daggers into Thor’s side on top of the Stark tower.

And twisted it.

The mix of bottomless sadness and shock in his brother’s blue eyes had cut through Loki’s heart with such force he might as well have sunk the blade of his other weapon into his own chest.

But instead of abandoning his pathetic scramble for power and hold Thor, instead of attempting to heal the wound with his magic that has become so formidable in adulthood, Loki had let the poison drown the remains of his sanity.

Of course, shortly afterward, the green monstrosity had effortlessly and repeatedly smashed him into the concrete floor of Stark’s living-quarters until Loki had thought he heard every bone in his supposedly immortal (right!) body break and his skull crack open.

To the outside, it had surely been a suitably entertaining show of retribution, but as he had lain there in the crater of rubble, unable to utter a moan, it was as if all the anger had been knocked out of him.

The link to Thanos’ ungodly servant had been severed and Loki had felt more like himself than he had in a long, long time.

When Thor, looking grimmer than ever, had dragged him to his feet in front of the ragtag band of ‘heroes’ and cuffed him, Loki had found himself strangely elated, on the verge of giddy.

His legs had been so shaky from the beating that Thor had had to hold him by the arm so he wouldn’t fall, and Loki had felt the heat of his brother’s huge hand penetrate the many layers of his own armour.

For a few delirious seconds, Loki had wanted nothing more than to lean against his brother’s strong frame and just close his eyes.

Instead, he had started cracking jokes until Thor had slapped the muzzle on him, as if he were some dog (that gesture had embarrassed him more than anything that had gone before). Unable to keep up his sarcastic commentary as they rode the elevator down, Loki had fleetingly wondered if he was suffering from a psychosis or actual brain damage.

Now, standing on the street so close to where it happened, the memory oozes fresh guilt.

But he redeemed himself.

In his mind, Loki goes through the TVA reel once more to remind himself of the images of his brother later in life, smiling at him.

Right before the end came.

If he is to spend the rest of eternity on Midgard - or at least until the multiverse crumbles - he will try to find solace in the good his future self managed to accomplish.

For Thor and, in another, brighter reality, for her.

The riddle of her part in his life now remains unsolved, but as hard as Loki tries to release the ghost wrapped in his arms, it merely squeezes itself closer to his chest.

He could try to find her here, on this timeline.

She will be with Thor, that much is certain, but since the reel of Loki’s fate had shown him only his own path, he knows not whether Thor and Jane shared a life on Midgard, or somewhere else, up until the brothers reunited (for lack of a better word) on Asgard.

What would Loki even say to her?

That, while at the bureau that controls all space and time, he saw her face on a roll of film of his supposed life, and now he aches for her more than anything? That on an alternate timeline a few hours ago, she kissed him?

Thor would not approve of that exchange.

Also, with Loki’s luck, Thor might be a frog in this reality.

He could still try to use the tempad to transport him to Svartalfheim and his own life’s story, seeing as he is now only year from where he feels so strongly he must go.

But finding the proper timeline is like shooting an arrow into the endless vastness of space and hoping it’ll hit the right comet.

He realizes that now.

An arrow.

Somehow, somewhere, on two timelines no less, variants of him had …

Loki’s head jerks up.

The tower.

It’s a desperate idea at best, but from the (very) little Loki knows of his character, Stark’s superior technical skills go hand in hand with an endlessly hungry, inquisitive mind. And pride.

Much like Loki, Stark is a man who needs to be the smartest man in the room. And like Loki, he probably is, most of time (in fact… no. Don’t go there).

Maybe Stark will listen.

Perhaps he can even help make sense of the tempad if Loki can somehow win his trust and appeal to his curiosity and (he winces a little) heroism.

Was it not Loki’s actions who had helped Stark “realize his best potential”, as his TVA file put it?

He spots the imposing structure further up the street, noticing the huge “A” at the top (is that new?), and sets off towards it at a brisk pace, darting in and out of the crowds on the packed sidewalk.

Here goes nothing.

As he reaches the large glass doors he briefly experiences a dizzying deja-vu, when suddenly a man’s voice calls out to him.

A frighteningly familiar, agitated voice.

… With a particular brand of anger bubbling underneath, that Loki had hoped he’d never have to witness up close ever again.

“What the hell are you doing here??”

His dark, curly hair has a few more streaks of silver. The checkered shirt is slightly crumbled, the glasses a bit askew. He clutches an armful of papers to his chest.

And he’s wearing a furious expression although, thank the Norns, a mortal complexion.

For now.

“Didn’t Tony explicitly tell you not to come here?! Are you that intent on causing everyone to lose their shit again?!”

Worry is all over Doctor Banner’s screwed up face.

“Seriously, Loki, is this funny to you? Clint is actually in the building right now and, in case Tony didn’t already inform you, he’s made it very clear that he’s quitting the team if you were to stroll through the front door!”

The Avenger has started shaking, his eyes wild (too wild).

This is heading in the wrong direction fast.

Mustering all the calm in the world despite his racing pulse and the nauseating sounds of bones breaking echoing in his head, Loki puts on his most courteous and, he dearly hopes, un-cocky charming smile.

“Bruce, please relax. I assure you, I’m not here to cause trouble. Not for you or anyone else.”

“Right, you just happened to be in town and wanted to stop by for coffee? Loki, this …”

Loki gently interrupts him.

“I merely came here to have a conversation with S- … Tony. Perhaps you could let him know I’m here? I promise you, I will not set foot inside. In fact - “

Loki adopts the form of one of the security guards he can see pacing inside the foyer.

“… I’m not even here.”

Bruce jumps a little and clutches his papers even tighter.

“Oh god, I hate when you do that, man. If you think showing off that trick makes anyone any less nervous around you…”

“Doctor Banner - Bruce. I have something …”

Loki searches for the words, quickly trying to decide on how much to reveal to the man-beast who’s now looking at him with urgent expectancy.

He sighs and bets it all.

“Okay. Bruce, what I’m going to say will sound mad.”

The man scoffs.

“Coming from you, I’d expect nothing less.”

Bruce shakes his head and looks to the sky in exasperation.

“Please - please - don’t tell me you’ve gone and changed your mind about the whole not conquering Earth business. Really, Loki, none of us understand how transforming you into ‘an asset’ became Tony’s pet project over this past year, or why Fury went along with it. But I’m sure both are going to be pretty damn disappointed if their new alien BFF decides to embrace his inner psycho again.”

Loki almost chuckles. It’s all too ridiculous.

“I won’t … embrace my inner ‘psycho’, I swear.”

“Then what?”

The God of Mischief draws in a deep breath, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Or rather, the security guard’s nose.

Then he surrenders to the absurdity of the situation.

“Bruce, I kindly beg of you, is Tony here? Or … (is there hope?) Thor?”

Bruce still looks at him with deep disdain, but his immediate anger seems to have subsided.

“No, Tony’s out of town. Took Pepper somewhere on holiday. They’re not to be disturbed for at least a week. Her words. And Thor … I should think you of all people know perfectly well why he’s not likely to hang around at the time being. Jeez, you guys and your endless family soap opera … I can’t even.”

Naturally, the universe again blankly refuses to extend any hands to Loki and his doomed quest. Sadly, once again, he is not surprised.

Wait - what?

“What do you mean, ‘soap opera’?”

Bruce looks like he’s about to throw his hands over his head and all the papers with them.

“Oh, come on! What is this?! You want approval? Confirmation of your little victory? Doesn’t the very lovely embodiment of that currently walk around in your apartment or wherever it is you live now? Loki, I’m done here. You have to leave. Bye.”

To hell with Stark – Loki wants to grab Bruce by his shirt collar and shake the little man till he explains what in all of Yggdrasil he’s talking about.

But he cannot afford to tempt the beast. Quite literally.

“Then … can you and I go somewhere to talk? Bruce, you’re a man of science. This is science … related.”

Loki feigns a smile.

Bruce sizes him up. No doubt considering whether to let the other guy continue the conversation.

Then his shoulders drop.

“Okay. Okay. For a creepy megalomaniac, you somehow tend to end up with some very cool people defending your case. Just know that those people are absolutely the only reason, you and I are still talking. Ugh, I’m too nice … “

Bruce casts a glance over his shoulder into the foyer, appearing to consider their options, when a man exits the glass doors – and shuffles up to them.

“Bruce! How nice to see you. You look well.”

The old man (those eyes …) grins warmly and pats Bruce on the back, then looks from him to Loki and back again.

“Everything alright out here? Is there a security issue?”

Bruce composes himself and smiles back.

“Hi, Lee, good to see you too. All fine. Earl here was just updating me on, eh, the new security procedures.”

He shoots Loki a stern look.

“Ah, yes”, Loki nods seriously. “Doctor Banner had some trouble operating the intricate open and close mechanism of the doors. The elevator doors, especially.”

He can’t help himself. It’s somehow both immensely tragic and life-affirming.

“Oh?” The old man raises an eyebrow (he looks … but he’s not quite …something is off).

“Will I have to get a new security card? I rarely come in these days, but in case …”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary, Lee. Because, because … like you say, you’re hardly ever here, so …”

Still smiling awkwardly, Bruce waves a dismissive hand, almost dropping the stack of papers (the man’s a terrible liar, Loki thinks).

“Speaking of”, Banner continues, “you must be enjoying retirement up there, huh, Lee? Must be nice to live by the sea. Good … air quality?”

Loki sighs inwardly.

The dog sniffing at his ankles looks up at him.

He stares down at the round, fluffy thing as if seeing it for the first time.

Which he is and he isn’t.

The old man is saying something to Bruce about the countryside, when he notices the dog wagging its tail at Loki’s feet.

“Oh, he likes you. You’re lucky, he normally doesn’t care for strangers. No, you don’t, do you Fenris”, the man coos.

Under coats of thick white fur, the animal looks eagerly from owner to Loki.

“Okay, well, I’ll be off,” the old man says, finally. “Come see me sometime, Bruce. My neighbor actually just put his house on the market, in case you’re looking for a weekend retreat…”

He nods at Bruce, then at Loki who barely notices. The dog whines unhappily at being dragged away.

It’s the same timeline.

Of course, it is. The tempad has locked itself on a sequence.

But why the different locations …?

“Yes, thank you, Lee. Take care now. Earl, shall we?” Bruce signals to Loki to follow him round the side of the building.

“We can continue our discussion about the security issue in the garage”.

“So, let’s hear it. Tell me what you came to say, so I can tell you why it’s a catastrophically bad idea.”

Bruce sits himself across the small table from Loki and dumps the stack of papers in front of him. The top sheet is covered in coffee mug rings.

They are in an anonymous, windowless office somewhere below the vast tower parking lot and numerous in-house repair shops.

The place is a gigantic maze and Loki has just shut himself in a tiny room with the very monster that turned him into ragdoll. The deep slash on his forehead has only just healed.

He does not fear many beings in the universe, but the mild-mannered doctor’s alter ego makes the hit list with the worst of them.

Ignoring the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand up (why did this seem like a good idea?), Loki drops his disguise and takes a seat on the cheap plastic chair. Not much of that flashy Stark glamour down here.

“Okay.” Loki takes out the tempad and puts it in the middle of the table.

He is not quite sure where to start, so he decides to begin with the purely technical aspect.

Bruce might appreciate being given a few ‘scientific’ details before any mentions of giant smoke monsters and alligators.

In fact, the fewer magical creatures and castles in the sky, the better.

“This is called a tempad. It’s a device that makes it possible to travel anywhere in time. You type in your destination, and a doorway opens. I did not make it myself. It was, er, given to me by a large and very powerful organization … in space.”

Bruce is leaning forward to get a better look at the tempad but makes no attempt to reach for it.

As he’s says nothing, Loki continues.

“This is where it gets, uh, weird, but try to believe me when I tell you, I’m not the Loki you know. I’m from another, similar timeline and -“

“Stop.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just stop, Loki.”

Bruce is leaning back on his chair again. He looks tired.

“I don’t know if you’re supremely bored of domestic bliss already, or just being your supremely annoying self, but I won’t engage. You’re not Loki but a time-traveler from space? Yeah, it’s -“

“No, Bruce, I am Loki. Trust me, I know this seems -“

“Trust? You wanna talk about trust again?” Bruce takes out his phone.

“Okay, we can do that.”

He taps a few buttons, then holds the phone to his ear.

“What are you doing?” Loki’s voice has a sharper edge to it than he intended.

The Avenger stares him down.

“Oh, I’m just calling someone. This guy I have in my contacts under God of Lies”.

Please, no …

Briefly, Loki considers whether another variant of him – the one he encountered at the house by the ocean, most likely – would actually be of more help.

Or if he, the variant, would try to kill him.

It was one thing reasoning with and trying not to get killed by Loki variants who at least understood the concept of variants, but how would he have reacted upon being confronted with a twin before the TVA?

No, not a twin … Because this variant has her.

None of the variants in the Void – the grown-up, human ones – had mentioned versions of her.

Either this variant has successfully taken out every Minute Man ever sent by the TVA to arrest him (in which case, Loki concedes, he may be the superior Loki), or this whole timeline has only just blossomed at the opening of the multiverse.

Why else would he, who apparently also gave his phone number to Bruce Banner, get to live a life so vastly different from the typical arc of a misguided Jotun prince?

Loki feels light-headed.

On one hand, he wants to know everything there is to know about his double, on the other, he fears what and who he might find.

You don’t belong here. Find your own timeline. No more Lokis.

Focus. Explain.

He raises his one hand in a placating gesture.

“Give me a little time to try and explain this, Bruce, and then, then … You can call whoever. Call everyone! But please just -“

“Oh, what do you know,” Bruce puts his phone down, “there’s no answer. What a surprise.”

He crosses his arms.

Loki inhales and tries again, speaking as evenly and as calmly as he can while his frustration mounts:

“There is no way of telling you all or any of this without it sounding utterly ludicrous, so you’ll have to hear me out. Five minutes uninterrupted from now, okay? Yes, we’re talking time travel, but compared to what’s really at stake, even time travel is a pretty basic technicality. Also, I promise you, in a few years’ time from now, the concept of time travel won’t seem all that laughable to you and Stark in particular. Provided this reality exists in a few years’ time seeing as -“

Bruce sighs dramatically.

“Yes, okay, so”, Loki continues, “Two years ago, I attacked New York, right?”

“If you’re about to roll out some outlandish excuse – another one! – I don’t care to hear it.”

The other man is narrowing his eyes as a fresh look of undistilled loathing creeps into his features.

So it did happen on this timeline as well.

“No, it’s not that. Or, I mean, let’s save that. When you captured me, in my timeline, I escaped from the lobby with the Infinity stone. I know it seems impossible from your end of events but - “

“Impossible?”

Bruce gives him a strange look Loki can’t quite interpret.

“Yes, S… Tony dropped the briefcase with the Infinity stone, and I picked it up and -“

Bruce pushes his chair back. The plastic scrapes loudly against the stone tiles of the floor.

“Loki, I can’t. I thought I had the patience to at least indulge you but turns out I don’t. I can’t tell if you’re losing your mind, but either way, you’ll have to take it – this, whatever it is – up with Tony instead when he gets back. Maybe bring that sweet lab partner of yours along if you’re going to talk time travel. With her field of expertise, I’m sure - “

“WILL YOU SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME!”

Without thinking, Loki slams both his hands into the table. Papers go flying and Bruce staggers backwards.

Horror dawns as Loki realizes his error, but it’s already too late.

Bruce doubles over in spasms and a deep, much too deep, growling sound escapes his lips. He grips his head with his shaking hands as if trying to contain the explosion within, and Loki feels his own brain go numb with panic as one of those hands triples in size and a sickly green hue rapidly spreads.

There is no way out.

Bruce is blocking the door and soon his bulk will be taking up the entire room. He falls to his knees, arms thrashing wildly and his shirt ripping across his back. The table sails over Loki’s head, one of the chairs lodges itself in the soundproofed ceiling, causing the panels of fluorescent light to flicker madly.

Are there no security cameras?!

There are screams, but they no longer sound human.

Loki has nowhere to hide.

He has to gather his magic around him, but terror is completely scattering his focus, cold sweat breaking out all over his body.

It is a matter of seconds before the transformation will be complete and the monster attempts to tear him limb from limb. With no heroes to stop it.

Cold.

He has only consciously reached for it once before, but now the thought barely registers before ice rushes through him as if by instinct. Bruce is not the only one with an abomination lurking under the surface.

He doesn’t have the casket of his birth father, but he has strength.

There is no time to consider if it’s enough or nothing at all. No time for crippling self-loathing or shame.

In front of him, the Hulk lifts its crazed, bloodshot eyes to meet his.

The green creature cannot stand upright in the office, and the first fist goes through the ceiling with the force of a wrecking ball. The next lashes out at Loki, who dodges it just as his own skin turns a deep, brilliant blue.

Little black ridges and markings rise on his arms and face and though his sight doesn’t falter, he feels the instant his eyes go from green to bright red. The fabric of his clothes chafes his new skin and waves of adrenaline surge through his body. Multiple foreign senses come alive and drown his fear.

But he has not a breath to spare to get used to his true form before the Hulk shoves him against the wall so hard, the bricks shift against his side as if they were made of a child’s building blocks.

The impact makes him gasp for air, yet the pain … the pain he can manage.

He just has to last long enough get out of here. And the cold is crystalizing his focus to let the magic flow easily, powerfully through his hands.

His blue hands.

If he had used this when …

Loki pushes himself off the wall (out of it) and almost collides with the Hulk (there’s no space left to maneuver in) who, instead of smashing its way out, seems hell-bent on squashing the only living thing in its line of sight first.

Loki swiftly crouches down on one knee, puts his palms together and, faster than the blink of a brilliant crimson eye, conjures a rotating orb of ice and chaos energy that explodes in a blinding flash of white light as he hurls it square into the monster’s chest.

The Hulk falls back, breaking through the wall to the parking lot on the other side and crashing into a row of cars, while a sheath of ice spreads from its chest and up its neck. The being that is not Bruce howls and claws at its skin, but the smooth ice thickens and as it reaches the head of the beast, it slides right into its eye sockets – and momentarily blinds it.

It will probably only last seconds but it’s all Loki needs while the Hulk shakes its head furiously.

He makes to flee when he spots the tempad on the cracked floor.

He can’t leave it.

As Loki dives for the gadget, the Hulk simultaneously knocks itself in the face with both fists, splintering the ice into a rain of tiny spikes. With a roar to match the sound of a spaceship engine taking off, the creature lunges.

Loki’s fingers close around the tempad.

He feels a buzz.

The door appears in front of him.

He doesn’t stop to think before throwing himself through it.

The Hulk punches into empty air.

Part 5

#loki #loki series #tva loki #lokane fanfic #lokane ff #lokane #loki x jane #marvel #loki ff #loki fanfic #shine a light #plainlo inthemorning #loki laufeyson

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quazartranslates · 3 years

Text

Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH32

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

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Chapter 32: Star Death Reality Show (XV)

"Genocide Day", just hearing this name made one feel panic, as if they were being driven to the slaughterhouse, shaking in the face of death.

"What is... Genocide Day?" Qi Leren was infected by He Yi's current solemn expression, and right now he was as nervous as he was, but he was obviously in a much better state than He Yi. He remembered to turn on the camera.

"Judging by the amphioctopus’s nature, this is about to happen, and I happen to know something. At first, I didn't think... The glowing stone was... It was a dormant octopus egg... It shouldn't be, it's impossible, how could it be... I mean, they’ve been extinct for hundreds of years. Most of the data of amphioctopuses focuses on their parasitic nature and the way the amphioctopuses spread between hosts, there’s seldom mention of what form they take in the dormant period. Their vitality is very tenacious, and if they sense that none of their common prey is active, they can go into a dormant state that can last for hundreds of years! What kind of monster have we released!" He Yi put his hand over his forehead, and his voice was hoarse.

"Would you like some water?" Qi Leren could see that his current state wasn’t good. It could be guessed that he hadn't eaten since entering this underground laboratory, and there were no clean water sources here.

At the beginning, he had felt that He Yi was like Su He, but now it seemed that they were very different. At least, He Yi doesn't have the calm and faint superiority in his stature. He was just an ordinary person, who would be scared and afraid like an ordinary person.

Stripped of the coat of a peaceful environment, he was just a panicked human being under his skin.

It seemed that He Yi had not been parasitized. Otherwise, he would have had the chance to kill him, or at least control him.

"Do you have any?" He Yi asked happily.

Dr. Lu had found two bags when collecting materials, one of which had been given to Qi Leren. Qi Leren had put in it some compressed food and a small bottle of water in a special thermos to prevent freezing. After all, there were cameras everywhere. He couldn't take them out of thin air from the item bar, so he had simply prepared a little, which came in handy now.

After receiving the food and water, He Yi took a few mouthfuls, took a few bites of compressed food, and handed it back with pain and patience: "Put it away, otherwise I can't help but eat it."

Qi Leren generously said: "You eat, I’m not hungry."

He Yi gave him a complicated look: "Save it, we have to prepare for the worst. The spaceship won’t return to this planet until… I don't know which day. We should count on this until then. Believe me, this is the safest way."

"No, we have to find a way out and tell the people outside!" Qi Leren flatly rejected He Yi's proposal.

"You can't get out. Even since I found that the standby power here was turned on, the automatic defense system here also started. There are laser traps at the exits... How did you get in?" He Yi suddenly remembered this question and looked at him with an expression of surprise.

Qi Leren hadn't understood why the electronic lock on the iron door in Jing Siyu’s basement was electrified—in fact, it hadn't been electrified the whole time, the power had only been turned on after He Yi had mistakenly revealed the corridor into the underground research institute.

"I have better reflexes than most people," Qi Leren lied without changing his face.

He Yi made a face of "Are you kidding?"

"My companion and I found the ID card, unlocked the electronic lock, and encountered some danger after entering the laser corridor. Fortunately, my reaction time was quick enough," Qi Leren said.

He Yi was silent for a while, and looked at Qi Leren with suspicious and inquiring eyes. After careful observation, he seemed to have a trace of fear in his expression: "Who on earth are you?"

Qi Leren couldn't explain.

"Are you from the military? What do you know?" He Yi's voice had an uncontrollable panic.

Qi Leren looked at him inexplicably.

"Did you know the octopus would be here?" He Yi asked nervously.

"You’re mistaken, I really am just the lead singer of a band." Qi Leren patted He Yi on the shoulder calmly and He Yi trembled with fear. "Well, don't be too nervous. It's not impossible for us to beat the amphioctopus. We won't die like the people on this planet."

He Yi looked at him with an expression that was like he had cursed him severely just now.

"Er... What are your plans now?" Qi Leren tried to forget that he had just raised a flag.

"If we stay here, we can avoid Genocide Day. Our situation here is separate from the outside world because of the long distance, so we need to wait a few more days, and when the army arrives, we will be rescued. If we go out and fight rashly and without thinking, the final result may be that we’re parasitized or killed... Do you really want to do that?" He Yi asked.

"My friends are still outside, they know nothing about the situation," Qi Leren said.

He Yi closed his eyes and whispered, "You are not the saviour."

"I know."

"You can't save everyone."

"I know."

"And you’re likely to die."

"I know all this."

He Yi looked at him: "Then why do you want to do this?"

Qi Leren was silent for a long time. For the task requirements, he had to go out to kill the octopus to earn more survival time. What's more, Dr. Lu and Du Yue were outside, so he had to bring back the information about the octopus. Even if he didn't consider these, he had to consider those innocent NPCs. Although he wouldn't sacrifice his life in order to save them, he had chosen to help them as much as possible, even if he didn't know what these NPCs were.

He had died many times and knew how terrible death was, so he was even more reluctant to see someone else die, even if it was just an NPC.

He Yi was still looking at him. Qi Leren realized that he had been thinking for too long, but he couldn't give a convincing answer. He felt that saying the truth would be a bit nauseating, so he responded to him with a saint-like smile: "Because I want to get the Best of the Day, one million dollars."

He Yi: "..............."

He Yi didn't seem to want to dwell on this problem anymore. After his mood stabilized, he told Qi Leren what had happened between him and Mark when he’d returned to the basement of Jing Siyu’s house with the axe.

"Mark's eyes began to bleed. I thought he had hit his head and caused intracranial hemorrhaging. He was scared to death. After all, we don't have any medical equipment. If the situation was serious, he would die. But soon, I found that something was wrong. Mark's eyes turned white, and he was convulsing like crazy. After about half a minute, he returned to normal and woke up. I asked him what was wrong. He didn't answer me. He looked at me with a strange look... " As He Yi recalled that look, his body shivered unconsciously." It was a kind of... waking up from hibernation. A monster's eyes."

Qi Leren’s back suddenly felt cold.

"The reason why the octopus can multiply on such a large scale anywhere in the universe is that once they parasitize intelligent creatures, they will first paralyze the brain of the host and acquire all the knowledge of the individual, including common sense, at an alarming rate. The consciousness of the host itself cannot compete with it. The terrible thing about it is that once it begins to parasitize, it learns to disguise itself. It will follow this individual's way of thinking, tone of speech, walking posture, and even micro-expressions... Only it knows that this is imitation, and everyone will think that this is the host itself."

"What about Mark?"

"There’s a process in the octopus’s parasitism. As I said just now, after entering the human body, it will paralyze the host's brain first, and over the next eight to ten hours, it will madly capture the host's body. At that time, there will be a short period of strangeness, and Mark's eyes bled during this period. Next, the amphioctopus completely occupies his brain, entrenched in it. After more than 20 hours after entering the body, the amphioctopus will develop from larva to a mature body and will begin to replicate itself. Mark was the first infected person, and the infection time was roughly before midnight on the first day..."

He Yi's words reminded Qi Leren of another thing. He asked, "What did you want to say to me when we were waiting for Mark outside Annie's house?"

He Yi gave a wry smile: "I want to say that on the first night, I saw Mark and Annie go to the church. And Janet and Alex, they’re dating... It’s too late to say this now."

Qi Leren nodded: "Go on."

"I had seen his eyes bleeding. At that time, he had already been captured by the octopus... He held me hostage and tied me up in the attic. I never thought of the reason, and wondered how he dared to do such a thing in front of the camera. After that, Mark left the attic and talked to Annie. I vaguely heard some words. They seemed to want me to be the next object of sacrifice... At that time... I... didn't understand what the sacrifice was... I thought it was a cult sacrifice... I broke the rope, found the entrance to the basement, and entered the basement through the pipe. Mark found that I had run away and chased me down. I also found explosives and wanted to kill him to escape. As a result, I accidentally revealed the passage behind the wall and entered here."

"But Annie shouldn’t be infected. I knocked her out when I searched the basement just now. If she was parasitized, she wouldn't be knocked out so easily by me, would she?" Qi Leren asked.

He Yi asked: "How did you knock her out?"

"Hitting the nape of her neck."

"Let me think about it... If she was parasitized for no more than one day, it would still be in her brain and wouldn’t have swallowed her internal organs. I remember that at this stage, it may cause the host to be unconscious for a short time." He answered, and continued, "after entering this institute, I found some information. I couldn't read the text, but the picture above linked to Annie and Mark, and I finally put everything together. But it's too late... By now, it's the fourth day. According to the way the octopuses breed, they grow and multiply each day. There is only one on the first day, then two on the second day, and four on the third day. On the fourth day, that is, this evening, their number will surge to eight!"

Eight... This was too much!

Qi Leren thought about it. It was Mark who was infected on the first night, Mark infected Xue Jiahui on the second night, and Mark and Xue Jiahui infected one person respectively on the third night, one of whom was probably Annie.

In this way, Annie was infected for only one day at most.

Fortunately, otherwise, when they had been in the basement, Qi Leren would have faced a hard battle.

Was this the use for bringing two people with EX luck? Qi Leren couldn't help but come up with such a thought.

But tonight, these four octopuses would infect four people again... The time left for him was running out.

He Yi looked at Qi Leren, and the look of horror became more and more dignified: "The octopus has another characteristic... Once the number of octopuses in a closed environment is greater than the number of hosts, the mature octopuses will give up the slow one-on-one infection and start ‘competition'."

"...Competition?" Qi Leren suddenly felt a chill.

He Yi shivered, lowered his voice, and said, "Because the number of parasitic hosts is less than the number of parasites, they will... break out of the body... and, to store energy for hibernation, they begin hunting the humans."

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princesssarcastia · 3 years

Text

first hp and now MCU *sigh*

sighs. anyway the reason the jane foster au thing is taking literally seven years is that I’m physically incapable of writing for the MCU without fixing everything I thought was dumb about it. can’t just do a canon re-write because I Refuse To Condone XYZ. The things I thought were dumb are many and myriad, but here’s one of them:

In Infinity War, they won’t destroy the mind stone while it’s still attached to Vision because they “don’t trade lives,” even though Steve made the same damn sacrifice, whatever. But the thing is the avengers then immediately travel to Wakanda and start trading Wakandan lives for Vision’s. They trade so many lives for Vision’s, and in the end it doesn’t even matter because they have to kill him themselves anyway. SO all those Wakandans died for nothing. They died for the aesthetic of the avengers having an army. They died because no one thought through “yeah, T’Challa is totally down to sacrifice his people’s lives for one android he isn’t close with.” They died because, let’s be honest, the lives of those random Wakandan soldiers meant less to not only the white main characters, but also the white movie creators. hmm. what could possibly be the impetus there. mostly stupidity, but probably also some racism, lbr.

anyway. all this to say what follows is a snippet where a) the battle to save vision isn’t taking place in Wakanda proper because the avengers don’t trade lives...other than their own. In fact, it’s taking place in the arctic circle, where Wakanda has a shielded research station with no civilians that Shuri can appropriate to fix Vision without having her citizens die needlessly. b) it’s just the avengers there, because they’re willing to put their own lives on the line for their friend and their principles. c) they’re using the mind stone as a lure to keep Thanos’ giant monster army focused on them, in this unpopulated place, rather than a city or a country.

you didn’t really need to know that, actually, because this fic snippet is about bruce banner. explicit tw in the tags you may want to check for if you don’t mind a spoiler. anyway, oh well, long walk for a short drink of water:

The walls shake with something other than the wind, and Bruce grits his teeth against whatever extrasensory response the other guy is having. If he doesn’t want to come out to play, then he doesn’t get to raise the hairs on the back of Bruce’s neck.

The other guy. After two years being trapped while he gets to play, maybe Bruce is the other guy now. Maybe the Hulk—

“Doctor Banner,” Shuri says without looking away from her interface. “If you’re going to help, then help. Otherwise stop distracting me and get out.”

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four...”You’re right. Sorry.” He turns back to his equations and keeps calculating what kind of energy source they can create here to replace the mind stone. Vision may be able to survive without it, but it’s ridiculous to ignore that it serves a purpose in keeping him not just alive, but functional. There’s a difference between surviving and living and the Avengers aren’t risking their lives just so he can—

Boom.

Dammit.

Shuri’s guard, the one T’Challa left with them—Ayo? Was that her name?—steps further away from them and speaks into her bracelet—kimoyo beads. Bruce strains to ignore it because he doesn’t need to know what he’s missing outside, doesn’t need to know how poorly the battle is going for his friends, his—his shield brothers, Brun would call it, without him. There’s no doubt in his mind Shuri could save Vision without him and there’s no doubt in her mind, either; he’s here as a courtesy and because it’ll go faster, at least. Because he’d be useless otherwise, sitting there with his thumb up his ass while his friends fight and die without him, without them, dammit Hulk—

“Princess,” Ayo calls.

“Not yet.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know how long, I’ve never done a neural reprogramming for an android before.” Shuri purses her lips. “Longer than this, certainly, to revolutionize a field that doesn’t even exist yet.” She reprograms another synapse. It looks like maybe thirty percent of them are done. Thirty percent, after four hours.

Bruce glances at Ayo from the corner of his eye because he’s a masochist and he can’t help himself. Her face is troubled, and so is Okoye’s on the projection hovering over her wrist.

“Ayo, tell her she needs to hurry up!” The projection twists like the general has taken her hand from her face. There’s a flash of silver, a war cry, and a brief, incomprehensible glimpse of something black and twisted and horrible. It cuts out in the middle of the creature’s answers screech.

Ayo slowly lowers her hand back to her side, and Bruce tries to focus back in on his work. Tries to focus on the math, on the energy readings, on Vision’s life in here instead of all the death out there, because if he doesn’t—

“I really am going as fast as I can,” Shuri says in a small voice. Twenty. She’s just twenty years old, what was Bruce doing at twenty?

Don’t go there. Don’t go there, Bruce. Shouldn’t have come back to the Arctic, that was just asking for trouble.

Focus.

What would happen if he lost it, and the Hulk refused to come out?

Focus. Focus on Vision, on saving his life. Save lives. Save his life.

“So you're saying that the Hulk... the other guy... saved my life?”

Another explosion rocks the room, rocks the station, rocks the damn arctic ice pack they’re standing on. It’s the biggest one yet. “Evacuate the southeast quadrant. All personnel in the southeast quadrant, evacuate to the next defense point.” The intercom doesn’t even crackle as it activates over their heads and Bruce is struck by how odd that is; it’s almost more unnerving that the idea of the situation escalating to the point of evacuation. Ayo pulls up a map of the station on her kimoyo beads and manipulates it, pulling up what he assumes is the southeast quadrant.

“That's nice. It's a nice sentiment. Saved it for what?”

“How bad is it?” Bruce asks.

Ayo’s eyes dart to Shuri, who is nothing but relentless; he hasn’t seen her stop once this whole time. “Bad. They have breached the facility’s outer defenses. Princess, perhaps we should—”

“No!” Shuri all but shouts. “I will not evacuate, I will not abandon this mission, we’re not finished yet. Tell someone to come fill the gap.”

“Princess, if they have not already done so, then they may not have the manpower to do it.”

“Then call reinforcements!”

There are no reinforcements because this is a hail-Mary, vigilante mission and all the Avengers on-world are already here. T’Challa isn’t bringing any more of his people into this, and Steve and Natasha and Tony would never ask him to. When they fail, that’s it, it’s done. And so is Vision, and this will all have been for nothing.

“I guess we'll find out.”

Bruce pushes his glasses off his nose and pinches his brow. He can’t even think about this; he’s thinking about it without thinking it, a glaring absence that lets you see the shape of it regardless.

“This wasn’t just a Wakandan station, right? I mean, you guys opened it up to other countries for the science and information exchange?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Any military?”

A longer pause. “...Yes. Dr. Banner, what are you...”

She trails off as Bruce looks up. There must be something in his face.

“Did they leave anything behind when they airlifted out earlier? Weapons?” He adds, because there’s no use beating around the bush. No time.

“Probably, but you will find nothing there of any use. Wakandan technology—”

“Is much more advanced, I know. But you don’t really have any projectile weapons.

Ayo’s nose crinkles up in disgust, but is already turning back to her charge. “Of course not. So primitive. Princess, we will need time to evacuate to the ship, please.”

Shuri cuts a glance at him, seemingly ignoring Ayo. “What do you need a projectile weapon for, Dr. Banner?”

“Something desperate.” He pulls his glasses off and sets them on the table. “Stay here, Shuri, finish your work. Save him.”

Bruce has never asked anyone else to risk their life when his own would do. He’s not fucking starting now, when the whole universe is at stake.

Between him and Shuri, Ayo reluctantly lets the issue go, but he can tell if Thanos’ army gets a single step closer to her Princess, Ayo will throw her over her shoulder and sprint for the quinjet, mission be damned. He marches out of the room and follows Ayo’s directions to the nearest storage area; the American one, as luck would have it. Because of course the American team brought guns to the Arctic Circle on a science and information exchange program. Of course. A few M11s just lying around, lost in the hasty shuffle to abandon this place. Bruce picks it up and just holds it. Feels the weight in his hand. Ayo was right, they are primitive; primitive and ugly and violent and only good for one thing. Another impact. The station shakes again, and the lights flicker above his head. Now. It has to be now. He doesn’t have a radio, but he knows where the southeast corner of the building is, so he keeps the gun in a tight grip and heads that way. Three corridors away and he starts to hear noises. Yelling. Screaming. Gunfire. Energy bursts. The ring of Steve’s shield, the whine of Tony’s repulsors. And above it all that same horrible screeching noise from those creatures invading their planet at the behest of a genocidal maniac trying to kill Bruce’s friends. Kill the Hulk’s friends. Louder, and louder, and louder, until he can’t even hear himself think which is good because he doesn’t want to think about this he never wanted to think about this again even though he did, a lot, like after Lagos and Sokovia and Sakaar. The team has driven them back from the breach in the facility, that’s good. Wind and snow come howling in through the massive hole and Bruce shivers and tells himself its from the cold. Outside is...pandemonium. His friends are like brief sparks of light in a sea of writhing, angry, violent darkness trying to tear them apart. There are so many of them he can barely see the horizon and they show no sign of stopping. In the distance, he makes out Steve, locked in fierce battle with something that looks less like a bargain bin eldritch horror and more like one of those Black Order people. He’s losing. Even Bruce can tell that. “Now would be a really good time for you to get angry” He’s always angry. But the anger isn’t enough anymore. “Bruce, what are you doing out here?” Tony screams at him, flying towards him with his hands still targeting energy blasts at the enemy. “I thought you said the Hulk can’t come out, you can’t be here! Go help Shuri!” Ten, nine, eight, seven—oh, fuck it. “Won’t, not can’t, Tony.” One breath. Two breaths. He squeezes the grip so hard it starts denting his palm. “Those are functionally the same, big guy, so get the hell out of here. We got this!” “No you don’t, we’re losing!” Bruce takes a short inhale through his nose. “They’re not functionally the same when I can force his—our hand.” That finally makes Tony look at him, and Bruce doesn’t know if he catches it on his own or FRIDAY points it out to him, but he finally sees the gun. He dissolves his faceplate and looks at Bruce with wide, exhausted eyes. “No, no, Bruce, don’t you dare, Bruce!” He lunges, but he doesn’t make it before the gun goes off, the bullet tears through Bruce’s mouth and then—and then nothing. The Hulk roars. Anger isn’t enough anymore. Self-preservation will have to do.

#tw self-harm #not quite suicide but he shoots himself in the head #this was another thing that bugged me #the whole 'the hulk won't come out' c-plot/running joke #if they had actually done something meaningful with it #like on screen character growth for bruce + the hulk #or resolution of his issues #that would have been great!#but instead it was just a way to nerf the hulk so he couldn help beat thanos' army #this is like a kinda dark answer to that but *shrugs*#bruce banner #shuri #infinity war #mcu #mcu fic #god what am i doing with my life that it's come to this #ugh #the plot bunnies #they're trying to kill me.

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mylifeisactuallyamess · 3 years

Text

General Hux x Female Reader

A/N: Not much happens, well it does but it’s a bit of a filler as we bleed into the TLJ. Hopefully you’re enjoying the different take. After this we delve a bit more into Kylo and RC and their dynamic.

Warnings: Ilum dies, we hate the Resistance, Hux is pissed, Kylo is nearly dead, it’s not been beta read and I probably could have fleshed it out a bit more but I’ve been staring at it for weeks and not changed a word so…..enjoy.

Word count: 3843

Read Chapter 7 here on AO3.

He needed to concentrate but he could still feel the touch of your thigh in his hand, the smoothness of your heated skin, the way your muscles had tensed against him, the feel of your body as you flexed against his and your back arched forcing the cries out from your throat….. “General?” His body sighed slightly, the sound of his title pulling him back to look at the screen before him. The X-Wing was being tracked by the sensor droids on the base and Hux watched its flight path for a moment.

“Should we send out our fighters?” Asked Colonel Datoo.

“No. Track the ship back to where it came from,” Hux looked up smugly. “They will lead us right back to their hidden base and we will snuff them out at their very core. Keep me updated.”

“Yes, General.” Hux strode away, so cocksure with the strength of the shields around the base. The Resistance could send all their….now depleted….fleet out here but nothing could get through the shields. He adjusted his cuffs as he walked, looking ahead from under the visor of his cap as staff and personnel scurried out of his way. He was heading to your quarters, he didn’t know what he was expecting, all he knew was he’d had a taste of something from you and he instantly wanted more. He knocked on your door trying to ignore the nervous flutters in his stomach, tugging at his gloves in an effort to stop them betraying how anxious he really was. A frown marred his features and he opened the door, finding your room empty. His eyes were drawn to your bed where the dress you’d been wearing today was laid out on the covers, a noise from the refresher made his head snap to the side and he suddenly realised you were possibly naked, showering in the ‘fresher. I should not be in here….the thought crowded his mind and he began to back out of the room when the door opened to reveal you, wrapped in a towel. Your hair wet and glistening, droplets ran down the bare skin of your shoulders and he swallowed feeling incredibly unsettled that he had just let himself in like this but seeing you at such a moment set his body alight and he could feel the telltale embarrassing blush creep up his neck. He dragged his gaze away from you to stare unseeingly out of the window, his hands gripping each other so tightly it began to hurt.

“I—I came to tell you the ship was of no consequence.” He took another step back towards the door.

“Is that all?” Your sultry tone halted him and he dared to sneak another look at you, the towel was held together just above your breasts with one hand, it sagged down around your shoulders and when you walked towards him your legs appeared through the gap in the fabric. He watched you approach, his heart beat erratically and all the air left his body. For such an intelligent, quick thinking, steadfast man he was constantly surprised with the way you effortlessly stole all his faculties. He stepped forward towards the window, his disquietude suddenly getting the better of him and he had to move.

“The Resistance can throw whatever they like at us, the shields will hold.” He was pleased to observe his voice was strong even though his insides had turned to liquid at the sound of your towel falling to the floor. The rustle of your dress made his heart thump, it sounded loud to his ears like the sounds of troopers quick marching through their drills and he mentally counted each beat, trying to gain control over his body once again.

“Armitage?” He turned sharply, to see the bare skin of your exposed back, your hands clutching the dress against you in an effort to hold it up. You looked at him over your shoulder, the subtle lines of your back flexing with the movement of your neck. “Can you fasten it for me?” He stepped forward, seemingly under your spell once again pulling his gloves off knowing the supple leather would hinder his movements. He held his breath, gently pulling the fabric together, highly aware of the way his fingertips skated over your soft skin. His eyes travelled up the line of your spine, drinking in every tiny detail he could, the way your neck corded, the slight pull of your shoulders as the dress got tighter with each thread of the cord. He heard you inhale just before he pulled the cord tight, your body jolting slightly at the motion and you almost fell back into him but his hands splayed against the curve of your waist to steady you.

“Is…is this acceptable?” He asked softly.

“Yes,” you breathed. He lifted a hand not being able to stop himself, leaning forward he breathed you in deeply trailing a fingertip down the captivating curve of your neck. He dipped his face closer to you, feeling you press into him, letting his lips ghost over the delicate skin just under your ear, his fingers beginning to encircle your neck as you tipped your head back. His other arm snaked round to embrace your waist, the soft folds of his coat enveloping you. His hand tensed against the underside of your jaw and he felt the ripple from your throat as you swallowed, Hux’s body responded almost immediately, the heat that had been simmering inside him roared to life taking all of his self control not to rip the dress free of your body and take you in anyway you’d let him. His eyes closed in a mixture of relief and disappointment as his comm sounded, shattering the moment. He let you pull away, hating the way your warm body left the feel of his hands, his back straightened up and he cleared his throat.

“I should go.”

“Yes General, I can imagine you’re quite popular right now,” there was no hint of annoyance in your tone, more admiration and acceptance for his position and what he’d just achieved. He stepped up next to you, looking down at your slightly bowed head, an echo of the confidence he had earlier crept over his body and before he knew what he was doing he gripped your face firmly with one hand, pulling your lips to his in a hungry kiss. A soft moan spilled from you and he released you, refusing to look back or he’d never leave your room.

You gently sucked your lips into your mouth, relishing the lingering taste of him, wishing you’d had more time together. But you understood he was needed. He had just done something catastrophic, an action that had torn the very fabric of the Galaxy in proportions the Empire could only dream of. He couldn’t abandon it now. Your dress dragged along the floor, the coolness seeping through the soles of your bare feet as you paused by the window. You knew enough about the rankings within the army and the next for Hux would be Grand Marshal, a position that gave him ultimate rein over the navy as well as the army. In your eyes he should be there already, the man was a technological and strategic genius, from what you’d been told anyway. You father had done his research in Hux before he handed you over on a silver platter, you weren’t angry anymore though. It was probably the best thing your father had ever done for you.

“Where is the droid?” Hux asked haughtily as he kept up with Kylo’s long strides. “This elusive BB unit that I am beginning to think doesn't exist!” He had returned from Takodana in Hux’s mind, empty handed.

“The girl has seen the map, we don’t need the droid.” Hux wanted to roll his eyes but he had first hand seen Ren pull buried information from people’s minds, they didn’t always recover. But what was one Resistance girl? Kylo paused at a closed door and Hux knew the prisoner was behind there. “She’s all I need, all we need.”

“She better be.” Kylo stared at Hux through the mask for a few more beats before disappearing into the interrogation room. He glared at the door before turning smartly and heading back to the control room to check on the Resistance ship. He refused to have everything fall apart this time and was determined to keep on top of it.

“Report!” The Colonel stepped up next to Hux.

“We tracked their reconnaissance ship back to the Ileenium system.”

“Good,” Hux smiled smugly, Starkiller didn’t need the cool down period that the Death Star had and he puffed out his chest slightly, hands clasped firmly behind his back as he turned to the Colonel. “Charge the weapon, we can rid the Galaxy of their filth once and for all.”

“Yes Sir! Begin charging the weapon!” Hux looked out at the snowy world laid out before him, the energy from the sun was drawn into the planet and he mentally took himself through the stages of what would happen. It was working better than he could have ever dreamed.

“I must report to Leader Snoke.” He turned abruptly and began to head to the Assembly chamber. As he neared he could hear voices and his skin bristled at the fact Kylo Ren was already in there having an audience with Snoke. Hux pushed the door open quietly.

“She’s strong with the force, untrained, but stronger than she knows!” Hux sighed at the whining tone to Ren’s voice but he noted the fact this new prisoner was force sensitive, extra measures were going to need to be put in place so she didn’t escape.

“And the droid?” Asked Snoke angrily. Kylo paused and Hux chose this moment to step forward, full of self satisfaction that he had the opportunity to drop Ren right in it.

“Ren believed it was no longer valuable to us.” Kylo turned his furious gaze onto the General, Hux held his gaze as he stepped up to the stage, getting across he wasn’t intimidated by the force user at all. “That the girl was all we needed. As a result the droid has most likely been returned to the hands of the enemy. They may have the map already.” Kylo dipped his head and Hux smirked, his chest filling with elation that he had finally pointed out Kylo’s mistake.

“Then the Resistance will need to be destroyed before they can get to Skywalker.” Hux looked up almost bursting with pleasure that he had already started solving that.

“We have their location. We tracked their reconnaissance ship to the Ileenium system.” He stated gleefully.

“Good. Then we will crush them once and for all. Prepare the weapon.” Hux turned to face Kylo, his lip curling seeing the hatred burning from the taller man’s gaze. He didn’t care, he was about to obliterate the Resistance, blow them out of existence, rid the Galaxy of all the scum it was riddled with. He daydreamed as he marched down the corridors, finally receiving the promotion he had wanted all this time, no, the promotion he deserved. If it wasn’t for Hux the First Order wouldn’t be the incredible machine it is today, he was the one who had streamlined his fathers training techniques with Phasma’s help. He frowned slightly wondering where Phasma was, but he had told her to watch over you…he shrugged to himself. No doubt she was keeping you company.

He reentered the control room, noting with satisfaction the weapon was charging very nicely, the light outside had begun to dwindle, throwing long shadows across the snow and rocks as the very essence of the star was sucked into the core of the planet. No one else in the Galaxy had the power that Hux had at his fingertips, not Ren, not even Snoke, not anyone.

“General!” He turned to see a trooper had entered. “The prisoner has escaped.” Hux clenched his fists as pure unadulterated fury swept through him. Yet again, Ren had brought some lowlife into the clutch of the First Order and yet again he had let them escape!

“Double the patrols, alert all battalions I want her found!” He yelled his finger jabbing violently at the floor. “How long until the weapon is ready?” He half shouted into the room not caring who answered him.

“About 20 minutes Sir.” Hux rolled his shoulders slightly. Not a lot could happen in 20 minutes. Everything was going to be fine. He twisted his gloved hands together as he watched the sun diminish more and more but he couldn’t shake the almost overwhelming anxiety that was there waiting, at the edges of his mind. He was on the verge of something catastrophic for a second time today, a life changing moment for the Galaxy but more for the First Order, for him. Ridding them of all opposition was a dream no one else had achieved, until now. And he was going to do it. The echo of his fathers voice rang in ears, all the things he’d ever said to him, all the behaviours he’d beaten into him, all the words he’d berated him with all came to this moment.

“The hangars have been locked down.” Hux nodded in acknowledgement once again looking round at the screens and seeing there was only minutes left. Nothing could go wrong. The Jedi girl will be killed, the Resistance are going to be wiped out….

An alarm went off, one Hux hadn’t heard before but he knew exactly what it meant. He looked at the screen, frowning heavily that this was even happening, it wasn’t a test or a system error.

“Er, General, did you authorise the lowering of the shields?”

“No I certainly did not!” He snapped.

“Main planetary shields have been dropped, not localised but right across the board.” Hux spun round in disbelief making the technician wish he’d never opened his mouth.

“Cause? Possibly external?”

“It doesn’t show here sir.”

“Get the technicians down there at once!”

“Resistance craft incoming!” This wasn’t happening….

“Dispatch all squadrons! Take out every attacking craft no matter the cost.” If the Resistance had no disregard, then neither did Hux. “When this is over I do not want to see a single X-Wing aloft.”

“Yes, General.” Activity in the control room increased but all Hux could see were the X-Wings flying in and bombing the thermal oscillator, they were trying to destroy it. Hux turned to the officer with one final order. “Engage seekers.” He saw the hesitation cross the young man’s face and annoyance flared in Hux.

“But sir, in an atmospheric skirmish the seekers will have a hard time distinguishing between our fighters and those of the enemy.” Hux glared at him with a steely gaze before turning back to watch the appalling spectacle before him.

“There is no time to worry about collateral damage. Give the order.” Alarms rang out around him as he watched the futile attempts of the star fighters, did they realise what they were risking? Of course they did. Yet another show from the Resistance and their disregard for the lives of everyone here. Officers and technicians alike stared out in abject horror at the reckless acts of the Resistance fighters as they came over for another pass. Hux looked up, seeing the first wave of fighters intercept the X-Wings finally. Hopefully this infuriating inconvenience would be over soon.

It was mild at first, the tremors that ran through the ground and tickled the underside of your feet. You stood, your eyes drawn to the explosions happening over the ridge. A furious battle was happening in the sky, TIE’s and X-Wings battling for dominance, twisting and turning in the battle to survive. Fury swept through you, the audacity of the Resistance really knew no bounds, but what did they think a few X-Wings would do?

You stumbled, your hands flying out to support yourself against the transparisteel, a bright orange glow erupted and you couldn’t draw your eyes away from the large plume of smoke that rose from the site. A wound ripped the surface of the planet and the ground heaved again. Your mind flew to Armitage, you had no idea where he was, you didn’t know your way round but you knew everyone on this base had to leave. You remembered what he’d told you about the inner workings of the base, if the containment field failed everyone within the gravity pull of this planet was dead. You left your room, desperately trying to think of where Phasma could be, the comlink she’d given you was back in your room. You debated turning round, but your balance was tipped, slamming you into the wall and you knew you couldn’t, it was too late. The rough rock sliced your arm drawing tears from your eyes as you carried on stumbling towards the hangar your ship had landed in, but as you stepped through the door the cold wind blasting in made you lift your hands to protect your face. The engines roared to life as the ship lifted off the ground.

“No! Stop!” Your voice was drowned into insignificance and all you could do was watch your last hope fly into the dark sky. The hangar shuddered around you, rocks shifted loudly and you knew you couldn’t stay inside. The air was biting and aggressive on your skin, you weren’t in the right clothing to be out here at all, your blood red dress was like a stain on the snow. Maybe someone would see you but every ship you saw either exploded or screeched away, no one was looking for you. The ground shook, trees bowed and screamed in protest as a deep orange glow appeared between the trees. You peered through the snow, sure you saw movement and you headed towards it hoping they could help you. The nearer you got to more obvious it was this person was injured, you rushed forward as they fell onto all fours, his dark head of hair bowed in distress.

“Kylo!” Your shivering hands were on him, coming away slicked with blood. The cut to his face was deep, blood was smeared all around the wound before freezing on his skin.

“You’re cold,” he huffed, his eyes closing as he fought the agony he was clearly in.

“I-I kn-know!” He reached for you, enveloping you in his arms but leaning heavily, using you for support. “I d-don't know w-where to go!”

“You need to keep moving.”

The ground rocked violently under your feet, you tried to support Kylo but his massive frame sagged heavily against you, his blood bleeding into the material of your dress. The snow and freezing temperatures were making your feet feel numb and you stumbled. You both fell, Kylo grunting in pain as you knelt next to him trying to stop the tears from falling.

“I’m s-sorry,” you whispered. His gloved hand cupped your face, his expression tight as he fought the pain that rippled through his body.

“They will find us,” he managed to say through gritted teeth. “He is coming.”

“They w-will never f-find us!” You sobbed, looking up and seeing the red lava erupting from the centre of the planet, the pressure becoming unstable as cracks appeared all around you. Heat blasted you in your face, whipping your hair back and you hunched over the injured man in a last wild effort to protect him. Your heart was pounding, there was no way out, no escape from the inevitable doom that bore down on you. Your heart fluttered wildly as you thought of Hux and how you weren’t going to see him again, not feel his hair under your hands, his body against yours. You couldn’t stop the tears from falling, didn’t want to stop them as you wept for your life that was ending all too soon.

Kylo murmured your name, his thumb wiping away the tears already freezing on your cheek and brushing some stray hair from your face. Your gaze was pulled from the dying planet down to his wide hazel eyes, the world falling away around you creating a bubble where it was just you and him. Your panic trickled into nothingness the longer you stared at him, tracing the line of the gash marking his fair, freckled skin with your eyes.

“The world is falling down,” you whispered, not sure how you were managing to hear yourself so clearly as your end came racing towards you.

“I know.”

“We can’t get out.” His hand tightened against the side of your face, his eyes searching yours.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to die like this,” you sobbed. He pulled you into his chest and you buried your face, fisting your hands tightly in his tunic as you held onto him. You tried to ignore the increased vibrations from the ground below, the deep roar as the lava spewed high into the sky, the ripping and tearing of the trees as they bowed under the pressure. The sound of the earth cleaving crashed around you and a scream left your mouth as Kylo gripped you.

Suddenly pressure wrapped around your middle, pulling you off Kylo and you automatically fought, reaching for him until you saw who was pulling you up. Hux carried you to the ship, watching over his shoulder as the troopers helped Kylo up and followed you onto the ship. Hux’s eyes were wide as he bellowed orders, fear laced his tone but his hands never left you. His fingers were digging in painfully to your freezing skin, it wasn’t until you started shaking, your teeth rattling that he finally looked down at you. Were you dreaming? Is this what death felt like? It couldn’t, because it hurt. He didn’t say a word, his eyes magnetising to yours and for the first time you saw they were red rimmed and shining with tears. You barely noticed the blanket he pulled over your shoulders wrapping you up tightly before he pulled you to him, holding you against his chest where you could hear his heart galloping erratically. From where you were sitting you could see the surface of Ilum through the cockpit viewport. The earth heaved until finally it exploded, the blinding orange glow lighting up the entire ship, just as the white sliding lights of hyperspace sucked the Command Shuttle into light speed. The silence was deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing and Hux’s heart pounding into the side of your face. You’d survived.

You turned your head to see Kylo slumped in a seat with Phasma, her helmet off as she tended to his wounds as best she could. Pain crippled him, you could see it in the way he held himself, in the rise and fall of his chest, it shone out of his gaze as he looked at you. But only you saw it.

#star wars #general hux x reader #general hux x female reader #general hux x you #armitage hux x reader #armitage hux x female reader #armitage hux x you #general hux fanfic #armitage hux fanfic #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren #armitage hux #general hux #mylifeisactuallyamess #my writing #Echoes of the Heart #general hux angst #kylo angst

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jgvfhl · 3 years

Text

Number Lads!!

GUYS I hit 700 followers today?? Amazing. So, I worked extra hard to get this part up and finished for ya!

Part 2/??? Read Part 1 here :) Words: about 4k, no warnings

So I remembered the Battle of Kamino is a thing. And I had just put Sevenset in Rancor battalion. Whoops! But, if you know anything about me, you know nothing really bad happens.

CT-2222 = Do-si-do = Double Trouble

CT-3333 = Trees = Green Bean

CC-6666 = Sixes = DEATH

ARC-7777 = Sevenset = ARCBoiiiii

CT-8888 = Loops = Loopy

Reading the inventory lists from the datapad in his hands was increasingly difficult. Loops rubbed his eyes and shook his head roughly, trying to refocus, to put the overwhelming feeling of helplessness behind him. The whole Wolfpack felt similarly. Every announcement over the PA system made them jump. General Koon was using his limited free time to gather with groups of troopers to help ease their minds, and it was helping, but the general had chosen an uphill battle.

Kamino was under attack. The closest thing any clone had to a home, and the Separatists were trying to destroy it. The Wolfpack hadn’t been called to the front, as was their normal position. When the battle cleared, and the dust settled, they would be there to help pick up the pieces, until another assignment called them away.

So they waited.

Worse for Loops, he knew Sevenset was in the thick of things, following the ARC commanders at the helm of the defensive actions. He knew the ARCs were the best soldiers on Kamino, and he knew the 501st and 212th had boots on the ground as well, and Generals Ti, Skywalker, and Kenobi would be there with them. He knew this. But it barely helped ease his worries.

Technically, the next Numbers meeting wouldn’t be for another three weeks, but Do-si-do had commed everyone to ask if they wanted to move up the date because of the battle. Obviously, they hadn’t heard much from Sevenset. Or from Commander Sixes, but that wasn’t as much of a worry. He was a commander, he had a whole Star Fighter wing to lead into battle. Still, the radio silence only made Loops more uneasy. But Trees and Loops had agreed to meet with Do-si-do, at least, and that would start in about ten minutes.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Loops tried to put aside the gnawing worry in his mind to finish this inventory before the meeting. It wouldn’t be fair to hand over a half-finished inventory to the next guy on shift. So he slogged through it, walking around the denoted section of the Lightbolt’s cargo hold, reading the crates, scrolling through his datapad, until he was finally done. As he left the hold, he handed off the device to Tanner, one of the officers overseeing inventory at the moment.

“All set, sir.”

“Thanks, Loops. Get some rest.”

“Will do.��

He didn’t rest, not really. When he got to his bunk, he propped himself up against his pillow at the head of his bunk, waiting the last few minutes until Do-si-do sent the transmission to start the meeting.

“Hey, Loops.”

He looked up at the face looking upside down at him from the top bunk. “Hey, Racket.” Loops was always grateful his bunkmate never complained about some of the late-night Numbers Meetings.

“How you holding up?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“I know you’ve got a buddy in Rancor, just wanted to check in.”

The knot of worry in his gut tightened. “Yeah.” His voice felt hollow. “Thanks, Racket.”

“Haven’t heard anything yet, huh?”

Loops shook his head. “Two and Three and I are having a call soon to talk it out.”

“Ah,” Racket said, “I’ll give you some space.”

“Thanks,” Loops said, although his brother’s head had already retreated to his own bunk. Right on cue, his comm blinked its light. He hadn’t had the chance to get a holoprojector today. But he would be able to hear the others.

“Hey, Trees,” Do-di-do’s voice had a smile in it. “Loops?”

“Couldn’t get a projector today, sorry,” Loops said. “I can still hear you.”

“Oh, good.”

“Hi, Loops,” Trees said.

“Hey, Trees.”

“How’s the Pack?” Do-si-do asked.

Loops shrugged, before remembering they couldn’t see him. “It’s… well, you know. Everyone’s on edge. The general’s been helping though.”

Trees agreed. “Yeah, General Unduli and Commander Offee have been holding group mediations for the ones who want it.”

“I’ve heard General Windu’s working on that too, but…. He’s busy as all hell.”

“Yeah, High Generals usually are,” Loops said.

“Anyone else… find it kinda weird, though?” Do-si-do furthered.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… I dunno. I didn’t expect the Jedi to care this much.”

“Oh,” Trees said flatly.

“I mean--obviously, they care if Kamino is attacked,” he went on. “Because it’s producing the whole damn army, but I never thought they’d… do all this.”

It was a fair reaction. Most clones, upon encountering their generals, were a little unsettled at how… human they were. Loops had certainly had a learning curve when he’d joined the 104th. General Koon was… amazing. So, honestly, Loops hadn’t been surprised when he had offered to help his troopers through the stress of the Kamino attack. But, Do-si-do had always been a bit skeptical of the Jedi, even though, from what Loops had heard of General Windu, he would regularly go out of his way to defend his men.

“I’m not complaining,” Loops said.

There was a longer than normal pause afterwards. He eyed the blinking light on his wrist comm, wondering. It wasn’t uncommon for the signal to get interrupted by space travel.

“What are you boys gossiping about now?” Ah. Not space travel. Just Commander Sixes. His brain did a mental double take as that thought formed. Just Commander Sixes.

“Oh, uh…” Do-si-do searched for words. Trees was probably frozen again. “Just… thought some of us could use the conversation. With Kamino under attack. And all.”

There was a gruff, nonverbal reply from the commander.

“Don’t suppose you got any updates we laymen didn’t, sir?” Do-si-do asked cautiously. Loops couldn’t help leaning towards his comm. Even a little news would help…

“None any of you have clearance for.”

Loops rolled his eyes, falling back against his pillow. He should have expected it. But that didn’t make it any less disappointing.

“Sir, you know the point of this call was to ease stress, not make it worse?” Do-si-do replied.

“Armor up, shiny, we’re at war.”

_____

ARCBoiiiii: Guess who’s not dead!!!!

Loopy: kriff is it over???

ARCBoiiiii: Yep! Sent the clankers running and the Hairless Harpy and Evil Spider Legs too

Green Bean: did you just nickname… Grievous and Ventress?

ARCBoiiiii: what’s it to ya?

Loopy: are you okay sevens?

ARCBoiiii: aw loopy were you worried?

Loopy: get karked

Loopy: ...but yeah

ARCBoiiiii: where’s do-si-do?

Green Bean: dunno. might be on the wing.

Loopy: sevenset. are. you. okay.

ARCBoiiiii: ah okay. and yes! i am okay, loops. little sore, but i’m not hurt. Rancor’s casualties weren’t bad.

Double Trouble: SEVENSET YOU SONAUVA HUTT HOW ARE YOU

ARCBoiiiii: Do-si-do!!!!!! im okay :D

ARCBoiiiii: Cmdrs havoc + colt in medical tho… colt had a run-in with ventress i guess

Loopy: oh kriff--

DEATH: he’s alive after that?

DEATH: … really, boys? the name?

Double Trouble: Sevenset’s idea sir

ARCBoiiiii: Do-si-dos idea

ARCBoiiiii: kark dammit

Double Trouble: beat u haha

Loopy: lol

Green Bean: How ironic. He survives Kamino only to be reaped by Death later

DEATH: ha

Double Trouble: 0.0

ARCBoiiiii: i feel unsafe

Loopy: trees where has that biting wit been hiding my friend

ARCBoiiiii: WAIT I ALMOST FORGOT SOMETHING IMPORTANT!!!!!!!!!

Double Trouble: ??????

ARCBoiiiii: I FOUND NUMBER FIVE

Loopy: Yay!! He was the one in 501st right?

ARCBoiiiii: yeah! pretty damn good sniper too from what i heard. AND GUESS WHAT ELSE

Green Bean: There’s more?

ARCBoiiiii: He and his batcher got promoted to ARCs so THEY’RE STUCK WITH MEEEEE

DEATH: I almost pity them.

Green Bean: ha

Loopy: wait what’s his name??

ARCBoiiiii: fives

Double Trouble: oof unoriginal

DEATH: Oh really, Do-si-do?

Double Trouble: wait no

Loopy: do-si-do it’s been nice knowing you

Double Trouble: nO WAIT it’s hardly fair, you’ve got Death as a name too

DEATH: Sure thing. Anyway, Fives and his batcher are Rex’s freaks, and he always takes his ARCs with him. They’ll be gone after graduation.

ARCBoiiiii: aw shucks :(

Double Trouble: that’s still like… almost three months tho

ARCBoiiiii: yessssss i’ll drag em into the next couple holos

Green Bean: But… it’s just Fives that has the repeating number, right?

ARCBoiiiii: well yeah but they’re practically inseparable, i’d feel bad

DEATH: that’s pathetic

ARCBoiiiii: one of these days we’ll find a recruit you actually like

DEATH: No

Double Trouble: speaking of, did you find number nine? Isn’t he in the 212th?

ARCBoiiiii: no… I’ll ask around, the orangios are still planetside for a bit. and i’m still on the lookout for a cadet 1111!

Loopy: glad you’re alive

ARCBoiiiii: *mwah*

Loopy: aaaaand now I’m not

-----

For the second time in about two minutes, Fives once again lagged a step so he could reach back and tug Echo along by the sleeve. “Keep up, will you?”

“Fives--”

“I don’t want to hear it, Echo, I told you already.”

His batchmate wasn’t going quiet without debate. “But we’re supposed--”

“--to be doing something very boring, now quit complaining.”

“It’s ARC training, Fives,” Echo hissed, yanking his sleeve away, but keeping pace with him behind Sevenset. “It’s all important, even if it’s boring.”

Their leader turned around, walking backwards as he said, “Well… I mean, I’ll be honest, I’ve never used the desert field training once, so…” He shrugged.

“Yeah, because you live on an ocean planet,” Echo pointed out.

“Pays off,” the ARC trooper grinned.

“Doesn’t it get kinda boring, though?” Fives asked. “The same planet over and over?”

“Boring?” Sevenset turned briefly to avoid a squad of junior cadets being led by medic. “Nah, not boring. Maybe the scenery leaves something to be desired, but hey--so did Coruscant. But helping to train brothers like you two? Never boring.”

“I think Fives would have to try to be boring.”

“I’m boring when I sleep.”

Echo turned a skeptical look on him.

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘what?’ you snore like a rancor--”

Remembering who was walking with them, they both looked at Sevenset to add, “No offense.”

And then Fives cut right back in with a rebuttal. “Well maybe I wouldn’t snore if I didn’t have your entire weight on top of me?”

Echo waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, no no no, don’t you pull that argument--”

Fives scoffed. “I am absolutely pulling that argument--”

“You snored on Rishi, and we all used our own bunks.”

That was true. They hadn’t had a reason to share until after…. “Okay, but how do you know that wasn’t Cutup?”

“Cutup--!” Echo’s incredulous tone was somewhat marred by the smile creeping onto his face. Their arguments could never keep a serious face for too long. “You don’t snore in a kriffing accent, Fives!”

Fives could no longer keep the smile off his face either, and he gave Echo a gentle shove with his shoulder. “Okay, you got me.” The gesture was returned a little more violently. Then they noticed Sevenset had come to a stop by a door, and they pulled themselves together to face him.

“You guys were on Rishi Moon?” Sevenset asked, passing his vambrace in front of the control panel to open the door. He gestured them in.

It was a small meeting room--very small, from the others Fives had seen. The holotable jutting out from the far wall probably left room for about seven people. He and Echo stood to one side of the door, hands behind their backs. Fives decided against asking why Sevenset had access to to this place.

“Yessir, we were the last men stationed there.” Echo’s answer was curt, almost blunt, but kept carefully under the veneer of professionalism he managed so much better than Fives did. It had become their standard answer for Rishi questions.

Sevenset glanced over at them from where he was typing at the holotable. “Echo, buddy, I just commandeered you from under your CO’s nose. You can drop the ‘sir.’” He looked back to the blue holograms in front of him. “So were you the ones who blew up the all-clear signal? Saved us a hell of a lot of trouble around here, I’ll tell you that. Should be thanking you.”

“There’s… no need for that.” Echo’s voice shrank slightly, his eyes dropping towards the floor. Fives sighed as quietly as he could, silently bracing for the unpleasant exchange that was sure to follow that deflection.

“Really? I hope you got medals or something, though,” Sevenset replied. He finished typing and stepped back from the table, facing them. “How’d you do it, anyway? Not easy to blow a base like that.”

“No…” Fives agreed hollowly, hoping the ARC would eventually get the karking hint and change the subject. There were already a half dozen scenes of memory playing through the back of his mind as he did his best to pointedly ignore them.

“Liquid tibana.”

He turned to look at Echo, who caught the unasked question in his eyes.

“He asked,” his batchmate shrugged helplessly, now looking anywhere except at their faces.

Sevenset’s eyebrows rose, crinkling the tattoos on his scalp, and he nodded. “Yeah, I guess LT would do the trick, wouldn’t it?”

Nope. Not getting the hint. And Echo--Maker bless him--would keep answering his questions even if it gave him a panic attack. Maybe ARC training could help him kick that habit.

“Did they really send commando droids--”

Fives didn’t let him finish. “Look, Sevenset, we don’t really like talking about Rishi.” Next to him, he noticed some of the tension leave Echo’s shoulders. “Our whole batch was stationed there, and, aside from Commander Cody and Captain Rex, we’re the only ones who survived that attack.”

Sevenset blinked, realization hitting like a splash of cold water. “Oh. Yeah, of course,” he looked down, scuffing one of his boots on the floor without much enthusiasm. “Sorry about that. Should’ve realized.”

Fives dipped his head, acknowledging the apology. He knew Sevenset hadn’t meant any harm by asking, but at least he’d apologized. The holotable made a noise, and Sevenset practically flew to answer the incoming transmission. Fives couldn’t blame him for wanting to dissipate the uncomfortable silence that had followed his apology. He nudged Echo with his elbow, and they moved closer, still shoulder-to-shoulder, as the first two holograms appeared.

The first clone they saw sat in what looked like a cockpit, although “sitting” was a generous term. More like lounging. His head was shaved on the right side, and the long curls left were bleached and dyed a cold white. His face lit up upon recognizing Sevenset.

“You are alive!”

“Of course I’m alive, Do-si-do,” the ARC replied, once again all smiles. “I am almost offended you thought my first fight with Rancor would finish me.”

The second clone--in recognizably 104th gear--gave a tiny smile. “Here I am surprised Do-si-do hasn’t gotten a surprise visit from Death after his remarks about originality in the chat.”

The pilot, Do-si-do, made a show of looking under and behind his seat. “Nope, all clear. Sorry to disappoint, Loopy.”

“My name’s not Loopy.” He turned to look at Fives and Echo. “My name’s not Loopy, it’s just Loops.” Kind of a fun name, really. Fives wondered what his number was. Eight, probably?

“And for once you beat Trees here,” Sevenset remarked. Another hologram appeared. “Ooh, but not by much.”

Trees, by the looks of his armor, was in the 41st. But, unlike the others, he looked downright regulation, like Echo. “Sorry, I got stuck behind a gonk droid in the hall.” Catching sight of Fives and Echo, he added, “Oh, are these the new guys?”

“Yep!” Sevenset looked to them.

Without warning, Echo’s hand appeared, grabbing Fives by the jaw and turning his head to the left. “And you’ll never guess which one of us is named Fives.”

Fives swatted his hand away, Echo ducking the half-hearted attempt to put him in a headlock. “I am going to kill you,” he growled at his batchmate’s stupidly smug expression. So he liked the number; he had a good reason to like the number!

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with it, come on,” Sevenset smiled. “You and Loops can match.”

Loops turned his face so the tattoo on his right cheek was visible. An infinity symbol? Stylized number eight? “First thing I did when I got the chance.”

“How’s ARC training treating you two, then?” Do-si-do asked with a smile.

Fives glanced at Echo. “Not too bad,” he answered with a shrug.

“Yet,” Echo added.

Sevenset smirked and nodded knowingly. “Emphasis on ‘yet,’” he agreed. “Right about the three- or four-week mark, you’ll really start regretting some life choices.”

“You survived, though,” Trees pointed out. “Can’t be that bad if they managed to drag you over the finish line.”

“I do have more than one personality trait, you know.”

“Whaaat?” Do-si-do shook his head. “Can’t believe you’re more than your carefree facade. Actually upset now.”

Sevenset raised an eyebrow at him, but Do-si-do ignored the silent challenge and just blew him a kiss through the screen. Sevenset had mentioned he and “number two” had started this group, and now Fives could indeed understand they knew each other pretty well.

“Wait,” Loops spoke up. “What’s your name?” He gestured a little vaguely towards the two batchmates.

“Oh.” Echo straightened up a bit. “I’m Echo.”

Loops waved at him.

“Is this everyone?” Fives asked, looking to Sevenset. He had mentioned the group wasn’t “complete” yet, but he hadn’t expected it to be this small.

The other four shook their heads. Sevenset answered. “No, there’s still the commander, but we don’t pretend to know when or if he’s gonna show. The others--number one, number nine, number four, and zero--we haven’t found yet.”

“And Commander Fox wants nothing to do with us, thanks to Sevenset,” Do-si-do added.

“Also true.”

Echo’s confused expression matched the questions Fives had in mind. He didn’t know Commander Fox’s number off the top of his head. Echo probably did. He’d known the captain’s and Commander Cody’s like that. But… there was another commander? They turned to look at Sevenset together, although two different questions came out of their mouths.

“What commander?” Fives asked.

“You asked Commander Fox?” Echo said at the same time.

They didn’t get answers. Well. Not explicitly. A fourth hologram appeared beside Loops, Trees, and Do-si-do. The single pauldron denoted rank. The full kit of black armor, helmet included, didn’t give many other details. So. That commander. Whoever that commander was…

Next to him, Echo tensed, just barely, but Fives could read him too well to miss it. He looked over. Fives recalled his batchmate’s reaction to meeting the captain and Commander Cody for the first time. They had reputations, they had stories, and Fives had been right with him in that sense of awe--aside from the whole… being invaded by commando droids… thing that had been happening at the same time. And right now Echo kind of looked like that. But his expression had none of the subtle reverence Fives remembered. More… fear? Not quite. He’d seen Echo scared. Who was this guy? And why couldn’t Fives place him?

“Hey, Commander,” Do-si-do greeted, like there was nothing strange about a commander in all-black armor appearing on their holotable. None of them had even gone to attention. That was a little odd.

The commander folded his arms across his chest and grunting a nonverbal reply. His visor landed on Fives and Echo. Again, Fives saw Echo’s whole body stiffen in his periphery. “New guys?” the commander eventually asked, his voice sounding an awful lot like Alpha-17’s gruff speech.

“Yep,” Sevenset nodded, not even addressing him as sir. “This is Fives, that’s his batcher Echo, and you have magically chosen to appear right when they started asking questions about you.”

“These the inseparable ones?” This man had absolutely no variation in tone, and it was going to get creepy.

“Looks like it,” Loops replied.

The commander stared at them for a few more seconds, before giving another wordless huff and looking away. “No one’s inseparable.”

Fives did not like the chill that sent down his spine, despite the words having, as before, no discernible emotional tone. Behind his back, his hand tightened around the opposite wrist, the dull pain momentarily distracting his mind from the commander’s implication. Glancing to Echo, he saw his brother’s jaw clench, his mouth pressed into a line as he stared down the holograms. Fives shuffled closer until their shoulders and arms touched, feeling his brother lean into him.

Sevenset looked between them and the holotable before taking half a step sideways towards them. “Okay, Commander Dark and Angsty, maybe don’t scare away the new guys? Thanks.”

The commander’s helmet tilted up ever so slightly--probably rolling his eyes--but he stayed quiet.

“And that,” Sevenset went on, turning to Fives and Echo, “is Commander Sixes, AKA Commander Death, and yes, he is always like that.”

Finally, it clicked in Fives’ mind. He knew about Commander Death, he just hadn’t seen any images of him. Sithspit, no wonder Echo had reacted like that. The Death Wings were downright terrifying by word-of-mouth, and that--that was their commander.

And these guys were just… chatting with him. They chatted with him… regularly. Sevenset didn’t even call him sir. What in the nine hells…?

The commander’s visor went to Sevenset. “How are Colt and Havoc? Haven’t had a chance to comm them.”

“Mm? Oh. Commander Colt’s just got out of medical. Commander Havoc got out a couple rotations ago.” Sevenset shrugged. “That’s all I’ve got.”

Fives had seen Commander Havoc during training yesterday. He’d walked a little stiffly, but from what he’d heard about his injuries, walking at all was pretty damn good.

“Did you ever find number nine?” Loops asked. “In the two-twelfth?”

“Eh…” Sevenset held up a hand palm-down and tilted it back and forth. “Sort of. I got confirmation he is in with Commander Cody’s boys, and that his name is Nines, but that’s all. Never got eyes on him or a frequency, or I would’ve patched him in.”

Echo opened his mouth, then closed it. Fives nudged him to speak. He’d already drawn attention from Loops, Trees, and Do-si-do anyway. “Well, just--Torrent works with Commander Cody’s men more often than most. We could keep an eye out for him.”

“Once we’re back with the company,” Fives added.

“Oh yeah,” Sevenset nodded. “Totally. Thanks.”

“Any word on the others we’re looking for?” Trees asked.

Sevenset shook his head. “No luck with number one over here. Still haven’t found any cadet with that number.”

Do-si-do added, “The ninety-first has leave in three weeks. My company will be on Coruscant for about a ten-day. Anyone else?”

“I’ll check,” the commander said, reaching out of frame for something.

While he was silent, Loops put in, “Well, the Wolfpack won’t be off for another month and a bit.”

Trees nodded. “The forty-first is still on for another two months.”

“And obviously the three of us aren’t going anywhere,” Sevenset said, tilting his head towards Fives and Echo. “Gotta say, that is one thing I miss about being in the Guard. Can’t see everyone when they’re on leave.”

“The one-eighteenth has leave in about a month,” the commander finally reported. “Should overlap with the ninety-first for a few days. Maybe you can find zero in there. My fighters have a mission with the Nova Corps coming up, too. I’ll see if I can find number four.”

A smug smile appeared on Sevenset’s face. “I thought you once said you weren’t our recruiter, Commander.”

The commander stared at him for half a moment, then answered, “The Marines won’t have leave for another six months. You want to find number four? This is how you do it.”

The ARC nodded, his smile never changing. “Okay, alright, I get it. We won’t tell anyone you like us.”

The commander huffed quietly, then muttered, “I’m still surprised Alpha-17 didn’t beat that attitude out of you over there.”

Echo smirked. “Well, at least that means there’s hope for Fives.”

Fives shouldered him. “Hey, I haven’t done anything.”

“Yet.”

Sevenset grinned at Fives, who found himself returning a small smile. Trees pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maker help us, there’s two of them.”

“Something wrong with that, Trees?” the ARC replied with mock severity. Fives would admit, he did like Sevenset. He liked seeing a higher ranking soldier maintain a lighter sense of humor. Most of the Teth survivors in Torrent had a dark streak--Coric might have it the worst, actually, and it was rubbing off on Kix.

“Nothing wrong, just means I’ll have to explain to my medics why my blood pressure’s so high.”

Do-si-do and Sevenset laughed, and Loops smiled. The commander just shook his head. Yeah, Fives could get used to this.

-----

Edit: I FORGOT TAGS @nl13 @darth-void @glubtheflyingfish (sorry i missed you in part 1) @blsmjoon @23-bears @theultimatesandwich @peacefulwizardfox @alamogirl80

#YAY #number lads #numbers gang #my writing #my fanfic #i write things sometimes #arc trooper fives #arc trooper echo #clone trooper ocs #clone ocs

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