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amiedala · 3 years

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Something More (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 3: TO TRUST

Rated: Explicit (not this chapter, but future chapters will be)

Warnings: descriptions of violence

Summary: “What…” he starts.

“You got hit—” you interrupt.

“…Are you wearing?” Mando finishes, and your cheeks flush, looking down at his giant shirt you never changed out of.

“I was—when you called, I was in the fresher,” you say, scooting slightly closer to him, resting on both knees. “I didn’t have time to put anything else on before you told me to hide.”

“Oh,” he sighs, and then he’s pushing himself off the floor despite literally every single warning you spurt at him, and finally, he’s up against the same wall you’re leaning against. The space is small, small enough that two people would be pushing it, and the fact that one of those people is much larger than the other and in giant beskar armor means that your forehead is almost flush against the visor when he turns his head into you. Your breath catches in your chest. It’s not lost on you that in the heat of the moment, you didn’t run. You ignored where you were, and you forged on to save him. That didn’t happen the last time you were on this planet and the fact that belonging to something—to someone—was enough to push past the fear and do it anyway sung inside you.

The baby is in your face. You startle awake to a sea of green. He babbles as you jolt up, clapping his tiny hands together in celebration. He’s all swaddled up in his own robes, but he’s so much warmer than you are, and you groan as he hops up against you, fingers beating around your arm as you bring him in closer to your chest, hoping to leech off his warmth. Slowly, painfully, you push yourself off the ground and push on your neck to make it crack, the pain shooting up behind your eyes like starfire. You don’t want to see what shape your belly’s in.

“Good morning,” you slur through sleep, as the baby giggles and pushes into you. You just stay there, half awake, slouched against the wall of the ship, when suddenly the baby is being plucked from your arms and you’re staring into beskar.

It’s not lost on you that you’re at eye level with the Mandalorian’s crotch, and while you try your hardest to not let your gaze linger there in an obvious way, your eyes stutter once or twice looking up to where the helmet is.

“You’re awake.”

“Barely.”

He kneels so that you’re almost at eye level, and he’s dangerously close to you again. You feel your cheeks flush, the rush low in your belly, deeper than your injury, deep down somewhere warm.

“I need to see you.”

“Huh?” You manage, and hope it’s not as croaky as it seems.

“Your stomach. I need to make sure you don’t need a shot or to get checked out by a professional.”

You nod as his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, going slow, giving you a chance to stop him if you want. You want to sit on your hands and just let him take it all the way off, but you try to focus your brain elsewhere. Literally anywhere else. You fail. His hands are just as large as last night.

“You’re telling me you’re not a professional?”

“I know how to take care of injuries. I mean… a nurse droid, or something.”

“Last time I checked, this was an injury,” you pressed, a smile breaking out of your face faster than you can control it. “And you hate droids.”

“The injuries I usually take care of are my own. I can gauge how bad the pain is, how deep the cut goes. I’m not inside you,” he says, and it’s so fast that you think you imagined it, “so I can’t tell how bad it is.”

You blink at him, stunned into silence. Your heart is so loud and fast you’re terrified he can hear it. In the background, the baby is staring at you with his giant, magic eyes, and you know he can hear it, the little womp rat, the way he’s smiling at you. “Not bad.”

The Mandalorian taps your stomach, not enough to really hurt you, but enough to startle the bruise. You wince. “Bad,” he says, simply, point proven.

You let him check you out and argue about how it wasn’t that bruised, and it ached but you could move, and finally, very begrudgingly, he let you stand. You tried to gesture him up the ladder to the cockpit, but he shook his head, arms crossed.

“You first.”

You squint at him, shocked by his brazenness, shocked that he’s insinuating watching below you as you ascend the ladder, and your tummy does full back flips before you realize that he’s probably waiting to make sure you have enough working muscles in your abdomen to keep yourself upwards as you climb. You’re thankful you’re going up first, now, with the way you’re blushing again.

The ladder is a beast, but you’re up, and you’re not hurting that bad, so you make your way over to the chair where you usually hold the baby and fall into it. The ship is hurtling through hyperspace, smoother than the X-Wing did, but still shakily, and you have to avert your eyes from the rush of it because it’s starting to make you dizzy. Something brushes your leg, and you realize it’s the Mandalorian’s cape, worn and tattered, but fluttering past you even in the cockpit, and you bring a knee to your aching chest to hide your smile as he breezes past you to the pilot’s seat.

“Are you hungry?”

You can’t tell who he’s talking to until the baby looks at you, bug-eyed and questioning. “Not really.”

“You need to eat something.”

“I will. I can’t eat too soon after I wake up or I get sick. I don’t think vomiting would do my stomach any favors.”

He cocks his helmet back at you and you smile again, jutting your chin into your hand. He’s silent, but it isn’t an unsettling one. After sleeping a foot from him last night, you don’t think his silence will ever make you feel unsettled or uneasy again. It’s just there, permeating, surrounding both of you. You want to ask him a million things, and you don’t know which one to pick, but you also don’t want to force anything through the quiet.

It feels like hours have passed by the next time you open your mouth. You want to ask him where you’re headed again, but what falls out instead is, “Do you even know my name?”

He looks back at you, swings his helmet back to center, and then spins the entire chair around instead. “What?”

“I’ve been living here for almost a month,” you realize, counting the days on your fingers. “I babysit your kid. You trust me with your ship,” you say, looking up at the stars flying past the Crest. “Do you know my name?”

He stares at you. The helmet is obscuring his vision, but you know he’s staring at you. You can feel his eyes on your face, looking how your lips are parted, your hair still piled in a mess on your head.

“Of—” he starts, and then both of you are thrown sideways. Something on the dashboard is blaring, and before you can haul yourself off the floor, the Mandalorian is extending a hand to you as he navigates the ship out of hyperspace. You scramble back to the chair and buckle in, grabbing onto the baby’s floating cradle so that he won’t get knocked around either. You want to ask if the Mandalorian needs your help, but as quickly as the ship fell into disarray, the beeping stops. Your heart is hammering.

“What was that—?”

“I forgot about the shields,” he muttered under his breath, and then you look outside the window, and you realize where you are. You swallow, looking out at the planet in front of you, wide and purple and all-encompassing. You fold your legs up under yourself, not focused on anything except where you’re headed. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, hungry and roaring.

“Hey,” his voice filters back in, and it’s sharp, and you look over at him, trying to look neutral. You can tell it’s not working. “Did you hurt yourself when you fell again?”

“No,” you whisper, and then repeat it louder, “No, I’m okay. I just wasn’t expecting to…be back here anytime soon.”

The Crest pulls through the planet’s atmosphere, and you breathe a sigh of relief that you aren’t anywhere close to the heart of Galactic City, that wherever the bounty’s new coordinates were, it was on the opposite side of where you had been the last time you were here. Besides, you were staying on the ship, and you didn’t have to breathe any of the air of the planet if you didn’t want to. You swallowed, and as he pulled into a landing bay, you realize the Mandalorian’s helmet is still trained on you.

“You’re not a fan,” he says. It’s not a question. “Of Coruscant.”

“No,” you say, and you don’t elaborate because you’re not sure if you can without your voice shaking.

He keeps his visor trained on you, and you try to smile, but you’re afraid it’ll come out looking more like fear. “I’ll be quick,” he says, and his voice is low, honest. It reminds you of the way he talks to the kid, not to you, but you’re too shaken by being thrown out of hyperspace and landing on the planet you almost died on to understand the significance of his cadence. “Come downstairs with me.”

You follow him, aware of his gaze on your body as you descend the ladder. In any other circumstance, you could feel it burning straight through you, but you were too focused on trying not to fall. Silently, you match his footsteps as he walks over to the armory. His body is so large, so present, that you focus on the beskar and try to keep moving. The Mandalorian pushes a lever and the armory opens, and you blink at all the metal as your eyes adjust.

“Pick one.”

Hazily, you remember he told you to pick a weapon last night, and you let your eyes survey all the glinting metal before you settle on a small blaster, one that looks like a cousin of the one you lost in your crash landing. Similar enough to be strapped to your thigh in the same belt you still have around your waist, and you fit it in there triumphantly. You give the Mandalorian a half smile, and he nods, shutting the case.

It’s dark in the Razor Crest, even in Coruscant’s glitz and glamour. You rest your head against the wall, suddenly exhausted.

“I’ll be quick,” the Mandalorian repeats after prolonged silence, after you’ve made it clear you aren’t going to say anything else. “You stay here, with the doors locked. Sleep more, if you need it.” He tosses you something, and you don’t catch it in time. You bend down to grab it, but his hand is already around it, glancing off your hand for a second too long as he presses it into your palm. “This is to be used for emergencies,” he says. You stare at it. It’s a commlink, a new, fancy one. You nod. “If… if something happens, or if…” he trails off, cocking his head at you, “if I need you to come get me, you just press this button, and you can talk to me.”

He lingers for a second longer and then descends the gangplank, and it isn’t until he’s gone that his words fully register.

If you have to come get him? That’s new.

“Hey!” you call, and you know he can’t hear you anymore, but you can’t help yourself, “what constitutes as an emergency?”

Hours pass. One, slowly, and then two, and then three. You finally eat, you make sure the baby has too. You think about showering, but you haven’t been able to lift your arms above your head since you got your stomach bruised yesterday, so you lay spread eagled on the floor babbling halves of songs and whatever random thought runs through your head. You do everything you can to not look outside at the planet around you, to ruminate on the sleek buildings. You haven’t been on Coruscant for years, not since you were first out on your own when you were still a teenager, and you’ve tried everything in you to forget what happened the last time you were on the planet’s surface.

The baby coos at your feet, and you prop yourself up on your forearms, still sore. It doesn’t ache as much as it did this morning, and your bruises have turned this ugly yellow color around the edges, but you can flex without agony, which definitely means you’re just banged up.

“Hi bug,” you say, and he giggles, climbing up onto your sore belly, and you groan. “Hi. What’s up?”

He makes a series of noises, and you can’t understand him like his father clearly can, but you can gather the gist of what he’s saying. He’s babbling away, now pointing his tiny finger up to the ceiling, and you pretend you know exactly what he means.

“You’re absolutely right. Mhm, yep, I know. Is that true?”

He claps his hands together.

“You’re right, again, you little womp rat. Excellent point.”

He giggles.

“You’re much cuter than a womp rat, you know.” You pause. “I gotta tell you though, buddy, I don’t know what a womp rat looks like.”

He gasps, all awe. You look at him. There’s something about the kid, something magical, something that feels…elevated. You look into his big eyes, and you see yourself. You know that it’s because the things are huge, but it’s that same gnawing intuition in your belly that you had when you first met the Mandalorian, the same one that told you to crash land on Nevarro instead of trying to make it somewhere else, the same one that got you out of Coruscant the last time—you shake your head, trying to clear it from your head. You softly touch the baby’s nose, just once, and he giggles and climbs into your arms.

It doesn’t take long until you start itching for something else to do, so you peel yourself off the cockpit’s floor and start cleaning, using part of your torn shirt to dust off the dashboard and the pilot’s seat, humming ancient lullabies under your breath. You stop short when you realize you’re singing, and you double check the air locks, making sure you’re safe in here. You don’t dare to put on the radio, and you don’t sing louder than under your breath, because even though you have the new blaster strapped to your hip, the memory of yesterday is still too recent in your head. It isn’t long until you find yourself in the tiny room where the fresher is, looking at yourself in the mirror for the first time in days.

Your eyes are wild, that’s the first thing you notice. Frazzled, on edge, the kind of gleam that you used to get flying in the Alliance, but without the pride and the adrenaline. Your hair is a hot mess. You touch the lock of hair the Mandalorian pushed behind your ear last night, reverently, softly. Your shirt is ripped and stained to hell, and your necklace is hanging at a strange angle, the chain link touching the insignia, totally off kilter. You see the small blaster on your hip catch the light, and you pull it out of its hold. It’s shiny, sturdy, and much newer than the one you lost in the fire. You’ve never been a perfect shot, but the gun fits in your hand as well as the old one did, and when you hold it, you feel confident enough to know how to cock it back and pull the trigger, and you think you probably hit the target.

You look forlornly at the shower, and before you can think about how sore you are, you strip the rest of your clothes off, leaving the gun and the commlink on the small counter beside the mirror. You’re planning to be quick, just a rinse and scrubbing soap off of the leftover blood and grime from the night before, but when the water hits, it’s warm and inviting and it envelops you. You let it unfurl your messy hair from your head, let it permeate into your sore shoulders and all the way down your spine, temporarily washing away the years of nights spent sleeping in uncomfortable positions on makeshift beds. You touch your fingers over your belly, following the scar straight down to where it drifts off on the left side of your stomach. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but the bruises resist your fingers. You reach for the soap, and it’s blindly, and you don’t realize until you’ve been scrubbing for a minute that it’s very much not the subtle lavender scent you picked up a few bounties back, but the Mandalorian’s. It smells like clean wood and leather and strangely, cinnamon, that amalgamation of freshness that fades off skin slowly. You push the full bar up to your nose, and when you breathe in you can almost see it lathering into his skin, can almost feel your tongue licking clean up against it if he was in here with you—you catch yourself. Again. It’s there again, the arousal and want that had been long dormant before you ever met the Mandalorian. He’s infiltrated everything. You shake water out of your hair and think of anything else while your hands slip down the rest of your body, trying and failing to forget the way his voice got low when he found you hurt, how he touched you, how he held your throat with a singular hand—

Something is making noise, and you force yourself out of your fantasy to the sound. “Hey,” comes a disembodied voice, and your wet hand fumbles for the blaster before you realize it’s coming from the commlink. You sigh, turning off the water, tripping out of the fresher, scrambling to pick it up.

“Are you okay?”

“I need you to come get me.”

You stare at the commlink, then at your reflection in the mirror. You don’t have clothes on. Come to think of it, you don’t know if you have clothes to change into, and you’ve suddenly been promoted to getaway driver.

“Can you hear me?”

Even through the modulator, his voice is deep. You startle yourself out of your reverie.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I need a minute—”

“I’m going to give you coordinates,” the Mandalorian says, and then there’s a huge blast, and silence.

“Hey. Hey! Mando—”

“I’m here,” he says, but it’s gruff. “Dank ferrik. I’m hit. Here are the coordinates.”

You scramble out of the fresher, looking for clothes. You can’t find anything, and your bag must still be upstairs in the cockpit, so you shove open the alcove where the Mandalorian sleeps in a desperate attempt. There’s a shirt, just a shirt, but it falls to your knees and you make your compromise with the underwear you stepped out of before the shower. “I’m coming. Please hold on. Pleaaaaase hold on,” you whisper, low enough that you hope he can’t hear your wheedling, and then you’re up the ladder, your hair wet and wild, dripping on the cockpit floor.

“Do you have your blaster?”

“Um,” you say as you navigate the Crest out of the landing bay—hell, this ship doesn’t know how to move. “Yes?” You scramble down the ladder and back up again with your blaster in hand. You punch in the coordinates and let the ship go into autopilot as you scramble back down the ladder and grab the gun, wrapping your wet hair up in a towel.

“Grab the kid and put him in his cradle,” the Mandalorian says, and you do, and the wild look in the baby’s eyes makes you give him a quick kiss before you shut the crib and push him into the darkest corner.

“I’m almost here,” you say, and you can see what he was talking about. You’re still not near the hustle and bustle of Galactic City, but Coruscant has layers, each of them grittier than the last. The Mandalorian is attached to what you hope to the Maker is his quarry, lugging the conspicuous body up a hill, blasting at what looks like twenty other men. “I’m here. I’m gonna land—”

“You need to get out of sight,” he manages, and the commlink goes quiet. You do your best to land the ship—it’s not handling well at all—and then scamper down the ladder for the third time in wet feet. You grab the baby’s floating egg and your blaster, strapping the commlink to your wrist, and scrambling into the little alcove that holds the Mandalorian’s bed.

There’s a minute before he enters the ship, and everything is quiet. You huddle at the back of the chamber, the baby next to you with the blaster in your hand. Your towel has come loose and there are wet chunks of hair in your face, and you wait in the silence before he comes in. The cot is tiny, and not that comfortable, but this small space smells like his soap and the dirt he carries around, and despite it feeling lumpy in all the wrong place, you could absolutely fall asleep here, surrounded by him. It distracts you, and you hum lowly in your throat before you hear the hiss of the gangplank and you swallow all the air.

You’ve been seen by bounties before, they’ve made comments about you, and then they’ve been frozen in carbonite. A few looked dangerous, a few were just creepy, but the Mandalorian always let you handle yourself around them. This is the first time he’s ever told you to get out of sight, and you don’t know if it’s because the events of last night are still fresh in his mind, or because whoever he captured was dangerous. You wait with bated breath as you hear blows land, and when it’s been quiet for what you gauge is long enough before you peek out of the alcove. The Mandalorian is on the ground, and you can’t tell if he’s just resting after a fight until someone peeks back at you and you pull the trigger the second the alcove doors fly open. You rocket up on your knees, punching one arm out at a swaying body before he hits the ground, and the Mandalorian comes to. The man on the ground is livid, swinging at your bare feet, and you kick him backwards, not gracefully, but powerfully enough, and he collides with the carbonite gas, and before the Mandalorian can get to his feet, you press the button. The blue faced bounty is frozen, instantly, and you gasp in air as you sag back on the Mandalorian’s bed.

“What did I say about getting out of sight?”

“I did,” you manage, between gasps, “and then you got knocked out.”

He trains his visor on you, and you smile victoriously for a full second before you realize his hand is bloody. You follow it down to the slip in the beskar and see that there’s a nasty gash under where his hand is pressed.

“You’re hurt.” You scramble forward, grabbing the towel off your head. Your hair falls in your face, and it definitely smells like his soap, but you’re not sure if he’s conscious enough to notice. “Hey. Hey you. Mando. Stay awake.”

“’M fine,” he slurs, and you want to pull the helmet clean off his head and look into his eyes when you tell him to shut up.

“Definitely not fine,” you say, pulling him down to the ground with you. It’s messy, you know that much, and you know he has some bacta patches hidden around you, but you need the bleeding to stop. “Hey. Listen to me. I have to take this off,” you say, gesturing at the plate at his midriff. “You’re hit, I think it was a blast, but I need to make sure.”

“No,” he says, and you grab his visor and drop to your knees on his left side, pushing your palm flat against it.

“I’m not going to look at anything except the cut. You weren’t hit in the head, were you?”

“No,” he repeats, and you nod.

“Okay, then I’m not gonna see your face. I won’t look at anything else except the cut. But you’re losing blood, fast, and there’s definitely people shooting at the ship, and I need to make sure you’re okay before I get us the hell out of here.”

He nods. It’s small, but you catch it.

You inhale sharply when you lift the small piece of armor. He’s bleeding, but the wound is small, and you’re able to shove the towel on it to suffocate the blood while your hand flutters around in the small hold behind you until you can find ointment and the bacta patches. “Hey. Mando.” His hand finds your free wrist, and you stop investigating the ointment to look at him. “What?” you ask, your voice softer.

“Cauterize,” he manages, and you look back and forth between him and the wound, and you shake your head.

“It’s not that bad,” you promise, checking to see if the blood has started to clot around the wound. “Look, it’s gonna hurt for a few days, but the bleeding is slowing down, and I can give you this ointment and then put the bacta patch over it, and you’re going to be okay.”

He flails at your arm again, and before you can realize what you’re doing, you straddle him, one hand on his abdomen against the stifled wound, and one reaching up to touch his helmet, as lightly as you can, in some desperate attempt to soothe him, “I promise, I know when a wound needs cauterizing.” You point at your own stomach, hoping he’ll remember the scar. He nods again, and you exhale. “I swear, I’m going to fix it right now, okay?”

You pull the towel away and press the ointment into his skin. You can tell it stings, he hisses and groans through the modulator, and if you weren’t so preoccupied with trying to save his life, your brain would have fixated on the noises he was making as you straddled him. Once the bacta patch was secure and you were sure that it held, your fingers grazed over his bare skin. It was golden, soft to the touch, such a stark contrast to the shiny silver beskar exoskeleton that you stopped just for a moment to stare at it. You touched as lightly as you could, and once you were positive that he had stopped bleeding, you pulled his undershirt down and reattached the armor, sliding sideways off of him, resting against the same wall for the second time in two days.

It took a few minutes and lots of nervous babbling from the baby, but the Mandalorian finally eased himself back into consciousness, and when you heard him stir, you whipped around.

“What…” he starts.

“You got hit—” you interrupt.

“…Are you wearing?” Mando finishes, and your cheeks flush, looking down at his giant shirt you never changed out of.

“I was—when you called, I was in the fresher,” you say, scooting slightly closer to him, resting on both knees. “I didn’t have time to put anything else on before you told me to hide.”

“I know,” the Mandalorian says, and you inhale, hoping you didn’t just unintentionally say all of that out loud.

“What?”

He sighs, and it comes out through the modulator, but he’s not annoyed. You can tell that much through his filtered air—you know when he’s exasperated, and more and more lately, it hasn’t been directed towards you.

“Your name.”

You swallow. “Say it.”

He does. Perfectly. “It suits you. Names…Mine has only been shared once since I became a Mandalorian. I was on my deathbed, and that’s the only reason. I haven’t named the kid. He might already have one, but I don’t know it, so I don’t use it.”

You nod against the visor, your head touching his helmet. The beskar is surprisingly warm, and you pause there for a second, not wanting to move it away.

“Names don’t hold significance to me,” he whispers, and it cuts through the darkness of the hull of the ship. “I don’t need them to trust someone.”

You want to say you understand, even if you don’t entirely get it, but he sighs again and then you think he’s asleep, his helmet sliding down to the crook between your head and your shoulder. If you reached with your pinky, it could interlink with his gloved one, and you wait a few minutes to be sure he’s okay. When you hook his pinky with yours, he breathes, cinches it at the knuckle, and fades off into sleep.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din dijarin fanfiction #star wars #fanfiction #i hope y'all enjoy!!!!!#see you all next saturday for the next chapter update!!!

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ceaselessblade · 4 years

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Headcanon (Armory and Clothing)

I was trying to write Ike’s bio and there’s... honestly too much to be said about some of the quirks about how he treats his weapons and armor that I might as well just put them here.

ARMOR AND CLOTHING: Ike’s armor is asymmetrical. He usually holds everything together with belts and straps because he literally scavenges it out of bits and pieces to fit his unusual sword style. This is mostly because he needs his right arm open for his sword style, usually entirely uncovered at the shoulder joint or at least having free mobility in that area. That’s right-- he has the ‘Chrom’ problem. It didn’t use to be this way, but as he grew, he found that lesser and lesser sleeves fit him. His right arm needs to be bare-- at least up to the bicep. If he doesn’t leave it bare, he goes through the clothing like wet paper. Mist has terrified him out of wearing sleeves entirely as a result: her eminent wrath after he gives to her the next ripped sleeve is simply not worth it. This has resulted in many jokes about how he’d bulked up over the past three years when he’d finally started showing his bare shoulder. Mist would be able to tell you that Ike never actually did become muscular all of a sudden, it’s just that he’d covered up too well for you to see it! Speaking of giving up, however-- even Mist has to retreat when it comes to Ike’s armor of choice on his left arm. That’s because of several reasons, but most recently because he’s developed a style where he usually guards with his left, utilizing his shoulder armor, elbow guard, or gauntlet itself as a buckler.

As a result, his left sleeve gets singed, burned, tattered, frozen, and all manner of things on a regular basis if he’s wearing cloth on that arm. As a Vanguard, he’s completely eschewed said cloth for a leather covering and armor for this exact reason.

Now, here’s a bit of a surprise, mentioned briefly earlier-- despite his common appearance, Ike actually really likes being covered entirely from neck onwards. This is the reason he likes multiple pop-up collars. The only exceptions that he has are because they directly affect his combat performance: (around joints) other than that, he prefers to bury everything else behind wraps, layers of leather and cloth, and steel.

He has a very tight undercoat, and will wrap a sash or layer belts around his waist to secure it if he’s not already wearing a gorget to compress his waist.

Moving to the limbs, he has an extreme favor for heavy boots and gauntlets: steel knuckles and steel-tipped boots. This is because likes having the option to smash weak points in with melee combat, a habit he picked up from the laguz. In the absence of claws and teeth, he’s picked up something similar with the sharp points of his armor and body where he lacks natural weapons. Because of this, without those accouterments, he feels at least somewhat de-fanged and doesn’t know what to make of it. This particularly irks him when he’s given extra soft-weights or filigree, which register as things he can charge people with, but most emphatically aren’t.

It’s like expecting to hit someone with the pommel of a sword and having it transform into a pillow mid-swing instead: it drives him nuts.

The constant reshuffling between ingrained instinct for his balance and how he should shift it with the not-weapons on his body is a constant drain on his attention, and he’ll straight up call the clothing stuffy and shuck it off if possible.

The effect can be mitigated if he’s wearing clothing that mimics his original weight distribution (heavy capes, shoulder weights, tightness in roughly around same areas), or clothing that flows in the wind. He’s used to having strips of cloth flutter about, so he doesn’t register those as failed weaponry.

He finds heavy capes and flowing bands comforting: His vanguard cape with the metal bars actually put him at ease, because it feels like the burden that he’d assigned to his original cape when he was a ranger-- which had then fallen off as he’d grown used to heavier weights. The feeling of heavy cloth around his shoulders calms him down, and feeling the tug of wind on his headband or other clothing items helps him find his bearings at times when he’s stuck waiting. It makes him feel like he has a tail or has wings, and it’s nice to pretend that way in the moments between.

WEAPONRY (TRAINING QUIRKS): As a ranger, he had an extremely counterproductive sword style where he used to draw his sword over his left gauntlet, creating sparks as he unsheathed it. This is a weakness borne from not having enough strength to use his father’s sword style at the time: as a result, he often took to forcing himself to hold his sword one-handed in an overhand grip just to train himself into getting used to doing so. As he’s gained enough strength to eventually draw his sword properly and also use it such, he’s since stopped that habit. If he ever picks up Urvan, however, it’s quite likely you’ll see something similar return-- he’ll attempt to use Urvan in a one-handed reverse grip, axe-head facing downwards, simply to train up familiarity and strength with the greataxe.

WEAPONRY (PREFERENCE): He prefers larger weapons for their comforting weight and larger range. You may make jokes about how he’s compensating--to this, he’ll just admit shamelessly that it’s what his father gave him, so he’ll make the best use out of it he can. If you have a problem with that, then if you would kindly shove one of his entire weapons up where the sun don’t shine, then perhaps you may be qualified to seek his opinion. No? That’s what he thought.

For example-- If he picks up a bow, he’ll find himself actually snap some of the smaller ones by accident. He’ll need a bow that can withstand a stronger draw, and then he needs to adjust being able to grip the bow with his off-hand long enough for his draw to work due to a disparity between arm strength.

This is likely to repeat with other weapons. He may not shatter weapons like Dimitri, but he has a habit of turning usable weapons into little more than dented stubs by the time he’s done if they’re not suitable for his use. He will put the weapon and himself through the paces, and to that effect, the results will get pretty brutal.

He’s most commonly seen with his two large blades: These are one of the most noticeable items on his person, even above his clothing, due to their sheer utter size-- Ettard is roughly about 3/4th of his height, and Ragnell isn’t far behind, trading for hilt length over blade. That said, Ragnell is far more potent in general, both in make, weight, and in innate properties.

Ettard is a personal keepsake from his father, and he enjoys using it-- it makes him feel like his father’s at his side, guiding him with every strike. The blade itself is a little too gaudy for Ike’s taste, being embossed with Daein engravings bright gold filigree, but he won’t ever remodel it, simply because it’s his father’s old weapon and he wishes to keep it that way. He likes to think the markings evoke strength, and they’ve kind of grown on him over time. He likes to compare it with Urvan-- which is much plainer, but roughly about in the same style. Ettard was originally made to be used both atop cavalry or on foot, like Durandal, which is why the blade length and make is such. Because of its dual nature, it’s ever so slightly wrongly balanced on foot and is made more for cutting down large swathes of enemies over one-to-one duels. Ike will favor this sword if he’s facing a large amount of enemies with inferior combat skill, and will use the range and sweep of the blade to shatter the poise of enemy fronts. Once that occurs, his allies usually step in to finish the job. Ragnell is Ike’s signature blade-- despite his protests. He’ll never admit it because the value of the blade is simply that precious (and also a holy weapon of Begnion), but he’s never had a blade fit his hands so well. It’s like Ragnell is an extension of his limbs, and he swears to the Goddess that sometimes it’s like he can actually feel through the damn thing.

That fact scares him a little inside. He doesn’t want to think about it.

It also actually didn’t use to be this way. This is as because the goddess of its power specifically tuned its ownership to Ike to ensure her most fatal strike, so its energies have become in sync with him-- Ragnell breathes as he does, and the flames ebb and flow with his internal rhythm. This means that Ragnell’s influence rubs off extremely easily on Ike-- it’s quite likely those more sensitive may be able pick up traces of it if he’s held it in the past few days. This has certain consequences-- mostly unfortunate. Thankfully, he left it back in Begnion, huh? Good thing it’s not here in Fodlan! How nice!

(haha)

In other aspects, however-- Ragnell is a blade made specifically for duelling. It and its twin Alondite were specialized for slaying the divine and the mortal respectively. It’s balanced well, better than Ettard is, and its focus is more precise than Ettard’s, despite appearing otherwise.

The blade itself is ridiculously heavy, being made of an unknown metal with a golden sheen. It’s brimming with divine Blessing, and will never break or shatter as a result. Its myriad scratches have been caused with its contact with equally-blessed armor, or with clashes with its twin, Alondite.

It has to be emphasized: Ragnell is heavy. Very heavy. Almost full-suit-of-armor heavy. To put things in perspective: a two-handed longsword, say, like a claymore, is 5 pounds. Ragnell is at least 11. The blade is built for chopping and slashing rather than thrusting. It has a heavy, flared tip for smashing divine armor, and is particularly effective in weapon-to-weapon clashes, due to its weight distribution. Due to its longer hilt, Ike has more options with it than with Ettard. In a pinch, he’s able to grab the blade itself and utilize the hilt for a mordhau.

Ragnell itself has no sheath. Ike actually has a particularly nasty habit with regards to this: At the time, he’d wanted to annoy Sanaki and everyone else into having him give up the blade at the end of Ashnard’s reign, so he proceeded to treat it in the most irreverent way he could to convince them-- by sheathing it in the ground. That’s right. If he’s not carrying it on his back, it’s in Firma Terra itself, stuck up like a guidepost. Unfortunately for Ike, everyone had unequivocally agreed that the habit somehow suited him and left him with it, so his ploy failed rather miserably on that front. That habit has never really left him-- although he’s most likely to carry the sword over his shoulders, if he has to drop it, he’ll rear back and put Ragnell a foot into the ground, and leave to do his errand, whatever it may be. Not many are really able to really pluck it from the floor when it’s been embedded in it, so it actually does function pretty well as a temporary weapon rack.

If you manage to distract him enough, you’ll probably be able to figure out a trail of where Ike’s actually been from the distinctive holes in the ground every so often.

#headcanon: armory and clothing #most of these hcs are from various resources #the tellius recollection books and senri kitas notes #feh and so on #the terrible drawing blade style is truly horrendous and actually exists in her notes and ike really likes his waist tightened up #funfact theres a small tremor when ike puts ragnell in the ground too but everyone found it too hilarious to call him out on it

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fuckyeahdarcylewis · 4 years

Text

The five times Darcy knitted for an Avenger and the one time an Avenger knitted for her

Darcy had a secret love affair with knitting that she didn't really tell anyone about because when she did everyone told her it was something that old ladies did. So she did it in secret when she had the time to do knitting projects. The first time inspiration struck to knit was when she saw Thor coming in from the latest Avengers' mission with his cape all tattered and torn. She started his cape but didn't tell anyone about it. Knitting took a while to do so between taking care of Jane and the other scientists she would knit Thor's cape. She made an excuse in the lab one day to get his measurements. He was utterly confused asking why she needed his measurements while he was holding a table above his head, she tried not to giggle before saying it was for science stuff. The table thing was just to ogle his arms but the measurements were for his cape, she wanted it to fit him perfectly. It was red like his old cape and it took her forever to finish it but it was amazing! When it was ready she placed it in a simple white gift box, wrapped it with a bow then placed it in front of Jane and Thor's apartment door without a note because she wanted to stay anonymous. He came in that day wearing it and showing it off to everyone. It made Darcy beam on the inside. She definitely had a spring in her step around the office that day.

The second time inspiration hit was when Bucky started coming around. She noticed he was self conscious about his metal prosthetic arm. He would always try to hide it when someone would point it out. She decided she would make him a pair of gloves since he tended to wear them a lot anyways. She gathered some information on him and heard his favorite colors are black and red so she decided to make him some patterned gloves. Getting his measurements was actually pretty easy, she went to one of the scientists who worked on his arm and they gave her his measurements in return for her having to analyze and archive their notes. The gloves didn't take nearly as long as the cape but she still waited until they were perfect before she delivered them. She actually had to ask Maria Hill for his address because she was the boss of like everything and everyone. She did but Darcy could tell she was curious of her intentions. She placed it at his doorstep hoping he wouldn't think it was a bomb or something. Luckily though when she next saw him he was wearing the gloves.

Darcy had spent enough time with Steve to notice that he loved sweaters. Tony of course would mock him calling him a sweater wearing dumb dork but Darcy loved his sweaters. She decided that she would make him a sweater to add to his sweater collection. Being Darcy she of course made it a Captain America pattern. It took a while to do and getting his measurements was next to impossible. He was barely injured so there was no need for his measurements to be taken by medical. He never discarded clothing he opted instead to literally wear holes into them or give them to charity. She was giving up hope until she remembered that the museum had his before and after measurements. She took a trip to the museum and wagered he bulked up some after being taken off ice. When she was completely satisfied with the outcome she took his sweater to his place and sat it in front of his door. She heard movement outside his door and quickly scurried away cursing his super soldier serum the whole way. Relieved she hadn't been caught she spent the rest of the day acting as natural as possible. When she went in the next day she saw him talking to Bruce she was glad he chose to wear the sweater it looked good on him. She continued staring at him until he looked at her officially catching her and he winked at her. Captain fucking America winked at her. She just hoped it was a 'I just caught you ogling me' wink and not a 'Hey thanks for the gift' kind of wink. Not that she would know the difference.

Darcy had a traditional girls night that included Natasha, Pepper, Maria, Wanda, Sharon and Jane. They would watch movies, have girl talk, the whole shabang. Everytime Wanda came over she would have to borrow some of Darcy's socks because her feet would get cold, apparently she had poor circulation. The only problem was that she would forget to return Darcy's socks. So she decided to knit her a few pairs of socks. She made a pair of white, red, blue, and black. She used her socks as measurement since she knew Wanda fit them. She left them on her stoop but actually left a note this time that said "Give me back my socks" and laughed her whole way home. At the next girls night not only was Wanda wearing a pair of the socks she made her but she brought all her socks back to her. "мой дорогой друг your secret is safe with me" Wanda patted her back and thanked her for the gift. Darcy smiled at her before they watched the movie they picked out for that night. They chose a horror they all liked called 'the hills have eyes 2' it was Darcy's favorite of all the movies.

Clint was practicing with his bow when Darcy noticed that his arrow quiver was in rough condition. She assumed it was from wear and tear. She knew it would be more difficult to make an arrow quiver especially since she would need to get ahold of one of Clint's precious arrows. Unfortunately for her it was easier than she thought it was going to be. One day when she was at the office some dimwits thought it would be a good idea to attack the place. She grabbed her bag that held her trusty taser and ran for one of the panic rooms. She was half way there when one of them cut her off. He backhanded her to the floor, her bag went flying and she was sprawled out on to the floor in seconds. She attempted to crawl for her bag only to be grabbed by her hair and picked up. The guy dragged her down the hall throwing her down onto the floor in one of the science labs with the rest of the hostages. Another came over to her and zip tied her hands together. The main baddie she dubbed "Lamebrain" was going on and on about how he was this and that and deserved everything and he was going to get what was rightfully his. Darcy didn't really know exactly what he was saying she was bored out of her mind hoping that the Avengers got there before she flung herself out of the nearest window. Finally after what seemed like an eternity the Avengers arrived and Lamebrain ended up with an arrow through his chest. Luckily for her not so much for Lamebrain Clint's arrow broke when he pulled it from the guy's chest. He tossed it back to the floor before leaving and Darcy seized the opportunity and took his discarded arrow. She finally completed the quiver and delivered it to his farm. When she sat in on him practicing she noticed it and smiled. He asked her if she wanted to learn how to use a bow, she declined saying she had marshmallows for arms. She knew bows had a helluva draw weight and she didn't plan on working up the arm strength anytime soon.

Darcy was peeved, her favorite hat was lost when there was an attack on the city. It fell from her head and afterwards she couldn't find it. She complained about it constantly. Jane told her she was being ridiculous. Darcy didn't think it was very ridiculous but whatever. Then Jane said she was acting almost as bad as when S.H.I.E.L.D. took her iPod. Darcy disagreed she KNEW when her iPod was taken she had gone insane. Finally Phil relented and returned her iPod after just a little bit of threatening. So really she wasn't all that bad. She decided to move on but she still felt like a part of her was missing. She had been on so many adventures with that hat she couldn't just replace it. She went into the lab a few days later and there was a box on the table with her name on it. Puzzled Darcy slowly opened the box revealing a knitted beanie hat. Darcy smiled to herself before trying the hat on, it fit her to a tee and she loved it. She wondered who could have done this for her. She didn't have to wonder long though Bruce came waltzing in with a mug of tea in one hand and knitting needles in the other. "Oh hi Darcy do you like the hat?" He asked her and she gave him a dopey grin "Of course!" She told him. They talked about knitting for a while before they both had to get to work. Later they decided to form a knitting group and were both stunned when Tony joined.

#submission #darcy lewis #fanfictions

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mooksie01 · 4 years

Text

With Teammates Like These, Who Needs Friends? (2/5)

Chapter Summary: Clover is screwed.

There are three points of evidence that definitively back this conclusion:

1. The other Ace Ops are never going to leave him alone about his so-called "crush" on Huntsman Branwen 2. He has somehow already upset said huntsman in their first real interaction with each other 3. He has been partnered up with the twice-aforementioned upset huntsman for a mission into the abandoned SDC dust mines

Warnings: Swearing (you can pry Clover-The-Undercover-Pottymouth from my cold, dead hands), Slight Spiciness, Light Angst

Link to Chapter One: [X]

AO3 Link: [X]

Notes: Hello everyone! I cannot believe how positive of a reception this story has received from you all. I could not be more grateful to all of you who have read the first chapter, liked, and reblogged--you're all absolutely amazing. As a heads-up, chapters 2-4 of this story will focus a lot more on Fair Game, then chapter 5 will transition back to some Ace Ops interaction that will set up for future installments of this series. I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Please, please like, reblog, and comment <3

---

Clover is thinking about Huntsman Branwen and he is fucked.

“Clover.” General Ironwood gives him an odd look.

The near-hysterical vestiges of his functional mind wonder at the tinge of concern in the address.

“Clover? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” Clover replies, on autopilot.

He’s screwed, he’s fucked, he will never hear the end of this from the rest of the Ace Ops and he is fucked six ways to Sunday.

General Ironwood watches him for a long moment before turning back to the papers he holds in his hands. Normally, Clover would plan out these smaller missions, but seeing as how this was the first one that would combine the Ace Ops with Huntsman Branwen and his team, and as this mission was so vital to the plans for the Amity communications tower, General Ironwood had personally seen to the arrangement of the troops. After their meeting is through, it Clover’s job will just be to pass on this information to everyone and insure that the operation runs smoothly. Which is why he really needs to stop being so distracted by his impending doom and focus.

“Yes, well… as I said, Clover, you’ll be working with Qrow today.” General Ironwood glances up at him again, making brief eye contact before shifting his focus back down. “I can see that you’re worried about him, but I can assure you that he’s a perfectly able huntsman.”

“I have no doubts about that, sir. I’ve seen his record,” Clover hurries to put in, concerned that the general will believe him to be unable to work competently just because of a minor team reassignment.

(Is he going to be able to work competently?)

“Then what--” General Ironwood stops and narrows his eyes. For a heart-stopping moment, Clover worries that he has been somehow caught-out in his (non-)attraction to Huntsman Branwen. Instead, though, the general simply sighs, “Has Winter been bad-mouthing him to people again? I’ve told her time and again that that sort of behavior is extremely unprofessional….”

Clover shakes his head hurriedly. He may want to save face, but he isn’t willing to get Winter in trouble to do so. She’s a good soldier. “No, sir. I apologize, I have no issues with the mission assignments. I just didn’t sleep well last night.”

Which. Isn’t technically untrue. It’s just that the reason he hadn’t slept well last night had been because his dreams had been plagued with gorgeous, dancing red eyes and high cheekbones and alabaster skin that he was sure would bruise so easily if met with the proper treatment....

Holy shit, he’s about to have a problem in the middle of his briefing with his commanding officer; Marrow was right, he’s acting like a teenager. He’s in his mid-thirties, this should not be a problem for him anymore!

General Ironwood still doesn’t seem entirely pleased with his response, but after a few seconds, he gives Clover a final, firm nod. “Alright. Dismissed.”

Clover nods back then stands and hightails it out of the general’s office before anything else can go wrong.

Isn’t he supposed to have good luck?

Apparently not, as, within moments of leaving (not fleeing!) the room, he quite literally runs straight into Huntsman Branwen as he’s turning a corner.

They collide hard, and Huntsman Branwen likely would’ve been sent to the ground if not for Clover quickly reaching out to grab him around the waist and haul him up. Of course, this causes them to be… very close for just a moment, and the faint heat radiating off the other man’s body is just a little bit intoxicating, and Clover just hopes that Huntsman Branwen can’t see the flush on his face.

Huntsman Brawen pulls away and takes a step back, reaching up with one hand to rub at the back of his neck in a move that Clover would call sheepish if not for the fact that he can’t imagine the man before him as ever being shy or embarrassed; Huntsman Branwen is practically a legend in their circles. The most skilled scythe-wielder in Remnant, some say. A member of the once-renowned Team STRQ, which was still only the second team in history to win the Vytal Festival Tournament twice consecutively (and considering that the first team to do so had been mysteriously stripped of its titles later on, he isn’t sure that it counts anymore).

Still, the faint redness spreading across Huntsman Branwen’s cheeks seemed to suggest otherwise.

“Shit, sorry,” Huntsman Branwen mutters, pulling Clover out of his musings. And Brothers, his voice. “Wasn’t really looking where I was going…. Didn’t mean to run into you.” He has a thick Mistrali accent, and his quality of voice is unexpectedly rough. Clover is pretty sure that he can feel his higher brain functions melting into goo.

Clover isn’t blind and he isn’t deaf. He knows an exceptionally attractive man when he sees one, and if it weren’t for the fact that his team would tear him to shreds (and that he isn’t sure what the general would think if he got involved with Huntsman Branwen), he absolutely would have already started to pursue some sort of connection with the other man. As it is, though, he doesn’t think he could deal with the mockery that would come from encouraging his “crush,” as Elm would say, on Huntsman Branwen, so it’s probably for the best that he avoid doing so.

Resolved, Clover straightens to his full height, causing Huntsman Branwen to have to look up a little to meet his eyes. His chest squeezes. “It’s perfectly alright, Huntsman Branwen. The blame is at least partly mine; I should have been paying more attention.”

The other man cocks an eyebrow at him and folds his arms across his chest. Clover makes a very valiant effort at not looking at the way his biceps flex and stretch the material of his new clothes (which are… extremely flattering, to say the least). “‘Huntsman Branwen’? Atlas and its titles…. Just call me Qrow. The other thing just sounds weird.” He moves one hand down to rest against his hip and lets the other hang loose at his side. “And you’re Clover, right? One of Jimmy’s Special Operatives?” He tilts his head, birdlike.

Clover’s breath catches for a second at the way that his name sounds coming from Huntsman--Qrow’s--lips. He thinks that he’d be wheezing if he weren’t trying so hard to be as in-control as ever.

Please, Brothers, let this man be into men.

He crushes the errant thought as though it were a Sentinel, with the same cut-throat efficiency.

“That’s right,” he crosses his own arms and thrills a little at the way Qrow’s gaze bounces down and lingers for a second too long before returning to his face. “You’re in luck,” he says, going for humorous, but apparently failing, if the way Qrow’s slight smirk dips is anything to go by, “General Ironwood wants us to pair up together for today’s mission. Maybe it’s a good thing we bumped into each other beforehand.”

Qrow looks away, a full-on frown tugging at his (gorgeous) lips, now. Clover internally panics. What did he say? “Luck, huh?” Qrow scans Clover up and down, his face falling a little more. “Is that what… all of this is about?” He gestures expansively at Clover as a whole, and there’s a note of hurt in his voice that Clover can’t quite puzzle out, but before he’s able to voice his concern, Elm appears at the end of the hall.

Normally, Clover would be happy to see her. Right now, he is tempted to wring her neck. Not that he could, probably--she is both taller and objectively stronger than he is--but it’s a therapeutic thought, even if he is ashamed by it.

She looks back and forth between them for a moment, a wide grin quickly spreading across her features. Clover barely resists the urge to groan. “Clover,” she practically sings, “you and Huntsman Branwen are needed in the mission briefing room! Two of those kids are already waiting there for you!” She walks away, snickering. Her heavy footfalls echo long after she’s out of sight.

Qrow gives him one last glance before turning and hurrying away, his tattered red cape fluttering behind him.

And Clover stands alone in an empty hallway, wondering what the hell just happened, listening to the quickly-receding sound of Qrow’s footsteps.

---

More Notes: So, there we go! Clover is a mess, and honestly? Relatable.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I'll see you again tomorrow for the next one! <3

(Also, side-note, I may or may not have written a small story that centers around the rare-pair to end all rare-pairs: Clover/Qrow/Elm. Would anyone be interested in reading that if I posted it?)

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bosspigeon · 5 years

Note

How about one of those "I thought I lost you" moments (with hugs? kisses?) for Hawthorn and Ortega? Either one can be the hurt one but thorny boy letting himself reveal his worry for Ortega would be Very Nice.

Hellebore disappears with the sound of sirens.

He gives Ortega a long, long look where he lies half-conscious on the grey shore. His tattered cape drips on the algae-covered rocks, his eerie white eyes flickering over the Ranger’s battered body with… well, it’s impossible to tell even when you’re not waterlogged and rattled (not to mention broken in a few places) from falling a couple dozen stories into freezing water, but it almost feels like pity.

But he looks. And he looks. And he keeps looking until the sirens are too close to ignore, and he silently melts into the creeping shadows thrown by the lights of the bridge far above them, the blue and red of police responding to the chaos, and the city beyond. But the weight of that eerie gaze lingers until the medics find him and shuffle him off to the hospital for treatment.

And when Hellebore disappears, Hawthorn appears. There’s a significant amount of time between the two events, of course. He’s got to be treated for shock first, probably hypothermia as well, they’ve got to set two or three bones at least, and that’s not to mention the collection of lacerations and bruises that may not be just skin-deep. It’s almost two in the morning when he’s finally left to his own devices, as much as he can be while plugged into half a dozen monitoring machines and IV drips.

It takes him a while to even realize he’s not alone, but Hawthorn’s always been quiet. Subtle. Not like grandiose, theatrical Hellebore, with his monstrous mask and rumbling voice and wicked laugh.

He jerks out of his light doze suddenly, a few hours later. He’s not sure why. Hawthorn doesn’t make a sound when he enters the room, doesn’t so much as creak the door, and doesn’t say a word once he’s in. There’s just a moment of not being aware of him, and then he is, just like that. Ortega suspects there’s a part of him that’s just attuned to Hawthorn when he’s near.

But there he is, hiding his eerie black eyes behind dark sunglasses, looking at Ortega lying half-conscious in bed, beaten and exhausted. There’s a blotchy purple bruise along his jawbone. His lip is split but it’s scabbed over already. Ortega’s mind flashes back to the solid punch he landed when he’d managed to surprise Hellebore earlier, snapping his head around. There’s a matching bruise on his ribs where Hellebore got even, snarling in his face and ramming a fist into him with the force of a fucking truck.

Ortega sits up as much as he can (a few machines around him beeping in protest of his accelerated heart rate, the tug on his IVs) and Hawthorn still doesn’t say anything.

He just looks. And he looks. And he keeps looking until Ortega clears his throat and says, low and rough and just a little bit wry, “Saw the news, huh?” (Plausible deniability, for both of them, his traitorous brain whispers.)

Hawthorn looks away. He looks so small, like a shadow smeared against the stark white wall in his oversized sweater and dark jeans. For once, his hair looks carefully groomed, shiny slightly-damp curls clinging to his forehead. “Yeah,” he rasps. He swallows audibly and frowns. His hands are wedged into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. He’s always been fidgety, but he tries to hide it, like every other “sign of weakness” he’s ever forced down or choked back. “I thought… You were…” He makes a noise deep in his throat, and bites down on it before it can slip past his clenched teeth.“Didn’t expect Shadowfell to show up,” Ortega grunts. “Must have some serious beef with Hellebore.”

Hawthorn’s fingers curl tight, his scraped knuckles turning pale. “He’s a fucking animal that needs to be put down,” he snarls, and his voice goes low and rough with anger. No– anger is too gentle a word. That’s barely-restrained fury boiling under his skin. That’s a not-so-subtle promise that Ortega forces himself not to think about too hard, which is thankfully pretty easy with his head swimming from medication.

He tries to lighten the mood, because of course he does. Can’t help being who he is, even when he should keep his mouth shut. “I mean, to be fair, Hellebore’s pretty damned feral himself.”

He can’t see Hawthorn’s eyes, but the corners of his mouth tighten, plush lips pressing together. His clenched fists tremble. He doesn’t say anything, only looks towards the big window that faces out over the city. He can see the bridge from here, spirals of dark smoke still curling up from the smoldering cables and towards the sky. It’s got to be six or seven in the morning by this point, sunlight just barely breaking through the dense cloud cover.

“I thought he’d killed you,” Hawthorn rasps. He doesn’t look away from the window, staring out over the sprawl with an expression Ortega can’t even hope to read. “I saw you… I saw you go down. I saw you hit the water. And I was so sure you were…” He chokes and cuts off with a frustrated snarl that can barely be considered human, and for a moment (completely unprompted, he forces himself to think, really out of nowhere) he wonders how much of Hellebore’s beastly snarls and eerie howls are synthetic and how much come from the rage of the person inside the armor.

Hawthorn shoves his glasses up into his hair and rubs angrily at his eyes with his knuckles, clenching his teeth so hard his temple visibly throbs. “Fuck,” he hisses.

“Hey,” Ortega calls gently. “Come here.”

Hawthorn freezes like a startled animal, and slowly turns to look at Ortega again. His endless black eyes are shining, red-rimmed. He looks like he’s been crying for hours. Ortega wisely keeps that thought to himself.

Ortega shifts over, patting the bed at his side. “Come on. I don’t bite.” He grins, and he knows he probably looks like roadkill right now, but he still tries to look as charming as possible.

Slowly, Hawthorn crosses the room like a sullen ghost. His boots make almost no sound on the linoleum floor. He sits down gingerly, like his body aches under his thick, dark clothes. Ortega feels a throb of guilt in his gut, so he’s very, very gentle (for his sake as much as his friend’s) when he slips an arm around Hawthorn’s waist, settling his hand over the slightly concave curve of his belly. Hawthorn’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t shift away. He feels more corporeal now, like a person and not a specter, and Ortega can’t help but be relieved to touch him, like he needs reassurance even after so many months of (admittedly stilted) conversation and sporadic contact and frantic, clandestine kisses neither of them talk about that Hawthorn is really alive, and not just some cruel figment of his imagination.

The throb in his gut returns, but this time he thinks it’s just the ugly bruise there, rather than guilt. Other than the usual low-grade background guilt that he’s dealt with ever since the funeral, of course.

God, he’s tired. He rests his head against Hawthorn’s, smelling anise and black coffee. Hawthorn goes stiff for a split second before his body relaxes, and his hand slips over Ortega’s knee and clutches it through the blankets like a lifeline, audibly forcing himself to calm his breathing.

Ortega can practically hear him cursing himself, like he did back when he was Sidestep, furiously working over a heavy bag in the gym and muttering “weak, weak, weak” fiercely under his breath before he realized Ortega was watching him.

“Stop,” Hawthorn chokes out, snapping him out of the memory. His voice is strained, almost pleading. “Just stop. I’m not… He’s dead, and he’s going to stay dead.”

Ortega winces. Hawthorn always told him he thought entirely too loud, as he did literally everything else. Too loud. He supposes he always loved Hawthorn too loud too.

“Stop,” Hawthorn begs, his voice cracking. His glasses are still pushed up into his hair, and Ortega watches the tear slide down his cheek and drip off his chin in profile. “Please.”

“I can’t,” Ortega tells him, tightening his jaw and tilting up his chin. Challengingly honest, even broken down in a hospital bed and helpless as a newborn. “I don’t know how.”

Hawthorn make a noise, somewhere between a sob and a growl, and furiously rubs at his face with his sleeve. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck.”

“Not until I heal up a bit,” Ortega quips weakly. He can’t help himself, desperate to bring some levity back into a situation that is far too close to… something.

Hawthorn chokes, almost doubling over. The look he gives Ortega from the corner of his eye is scalding, but… he was always strangely addicted to that sort of burn. He only smiles crookedly in response, and eventually the glare fades into something softer, almost… considering?

He almost chokes on his tongue when Hawthorn straightens up, leans in, and kisses him. It’s only once, quick but firm, and before Ortega can do anything– grab him and kiss him back, or maybe just plead pathetically for more than a little peck– he’s pushing himself up off the bed and putting his glasses back over his eyes. The only hint of emotion left visible is the faint redness to his nose and cheeks, and the surprisingly soft quirk of his mouth.

“I have to go,” he says brusquely. He turns and heads to the door, but pauses with his hand on the knob, while Ortega is still stunned speechless. He glances over his shoulder, taking a deep, fortifying breath. “Try not to do anything stupid until you heal up a bit.”

And then he’s gone, silent as always, and for a dazed moment Ortega wonders if he was ever actually there at all. But his lips still tingle a bit, where Hawthorn’s pressed to them, and when his hand brushes the sheet where he was sitting, it’s still warm.

He’s still in the hospital, two days later, when he turns on the news just in time to see Hellebore holding Shadowfell by his neck and dangling him over the edge of a building. There’s no audio under the news achor’s voiceover, but Shadowfell is visibly struggling. His mask is cracked open, and the camera angle changes, showing one wide, frightened eye as he scrabbles at the clawed gauntlet wrapped around his throat.

And then Hellebore drops him.

Ortega’s breath hitches, and holds until the next segment assures the viewers that Shadowfell is alive, if badly injured, and will be transported to a maximum security hospital where he will be treated until he is recovered enough to be transferred to prison. The hunt for Hellebore and the investigation into what caused the altercation is still underway.

They discharge him that evening, with appointments for physical therapy and a warning not to do anything too strenuous for a few weeks, as well as paperwork to be signed by Steel. He’s more restless than he is sore, two days bedridden leaving him rattling with nervous energy that feels like sparks under his skin.

And almost the second his foot hits the curb, his phone chirps at him. He checks it distractedly, keeping one eye out for a cab to hail, and doesn’t recognize the number.

But he does recognize the name of the diner in the message preview window. His heart judders in his ribcage, and he almost trips into traffic.

He hails his cab, and instead of heading back to the Rangers headquarters, he gives the driver the name of the diner in the message, which has no signature, no indication of who it could possibly have come from. But Ortega knows. He knows, in spite of Steel’s sharp voice in his head telling him he could be walking into a trap, and immediately upon being discharged from the hospital to boot. He ignores the logical part of his brain, and instead, he heads straight for a rinky-dink nowhere diner with his heart pounding.

And Hawthorn is there, of course. A smudge of black he spots from the corner of his eye, tucked into the furthest booth from the door, staring at him silently, as if waiting to be noticed.

With a smile and a wave, Ortega heads right for him, sits down, and then all he can think to say is a breathless, inane little, “Hey.”

“You came straight here? After just getting out of the hospital?” Hawthorn asks incredulously.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Steel’s not going to be happy.”

“I know.” Ortega can’t stop smiling, and Hawthorn is looking more and more as if he thinks he’s completely lost his mind. “I missed you,” he adds helpfully, earnestly, as if Hawthorn can’t read his intentions easily enough.

Hawthorn’s cheeks redden just a bit, barely noticeable with his complexion, and his mouth does that little pinchy thing it does when he’s trying not to smile. Ortega hasn’t seen the pinchy thing in years.

“Shut up,” Hawthorn grumbles, ducking his head and sipping from his mug to hide his face.

“I didn’t say anything,” Ortega offers, still grinning like a loon. “Nothing at all.”

“You don’t have to,” Hawthorn sighs, tapping the mug with his fingers. Softer, looking up so that Ortega can just see the fan of his lashes above the black lenses of his glasses, he adds, “You never have to.”

This is a bad idea. A terrible idea, and he knows it. And he knows Hawthorn knows it, but neither of them seem able to care at this point. He doesn’t need to be a telepath to know that. But when Ortega reaches slowly across the table to peel one hand from the mug and lace their fingers together, he doesn’t pull away.

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spideyxchelle · 7 years

Note

ok idk if its a little too early for a Halloween themed headcanon but maybe,,,,? MJ dresses up as Spiderman for Halloween (to mock him) Peter not ok™

HALLOWEEN SPIDEYCHELLE. high school group costumes are fun, right?? cool. that’s what we get here.

peter isn’t sure how he’s suddenly a senior. like, it seems like yesterday he was a gangly freshman getting pushed and pulled through the halls like a ragdoll to his next class.

but its official. he’s finishing high school. and senior year peter is way different than freshman year peter.

for starters, he has friends that are more than Ned. he’s got Abe and Cindy and Sally and, sometimes, even Flash. and his best friend circle has expanded, too. instead of Peter and Ned its now Peter, Ned AND MJ.

plus he’s a superhero. which, like, as a freshman wasn’t even conceivable. but he is. he’s THE spider-man. no matter what Falcon and Bucky say. spider-MAN. not spider-BOY. man.

and life is good.

so good that he knows he’s got that entitled, cool senior air about him. and cool seniors do halloween hard. meaning group themes.

they all put it to a vote and Ned is in for Star Wars. MJ vetoes it when Flash leers at her and suggests she be the slave Leia of the group. which peter feels REALLY ashamed of himself for being disappointed about. because, well, just the THOUGHT of MJ in that costume is doing something to his teen boy brain.

Sally wants to do Harry Potter. its generic. they could just be their houses. and its still a theme. but Cindy doesn’t want to be mistaken as Cho Chang because she’s asian. and Ned is having an existential crisis about his house and so he can’t commit to Potter.

then, MJ smirks at Peter across the lunch table and says, “how about the Avengers?” Peter’s face pales and Ned, beside him, chokes on his lunch. no one notices their reactions but he KNOWS MJ doesn’t care. that reaction was all for her. and peter wants to veto it. but the whole group seems hella excited.

Cindy is dying to be Black Widow, Sally wants to be Scarlet Witch, Abe is all for Black Panther, Flash wants to be Thor. even Ned is about this group costume. he shyly admits he wants to be the Hulk. and peter knows its because Doctor Banner is the only guy upstate that ever takes the time to talk to Ned. there is a bit of hero worship there.

but Peter is so anti-Avengers for Halloween he can’t stand it. because if anyone upstate gets a hold of these pictures that’s instant humiliation for the next seven years. literally. which is why he assumes MJ suggests it. because only Ned and MJ know about Spider-man things.

everyone turns to Peter and he shrugs lamely, “I could be Iron-Man?” and MJ snorts, “no way, boy scout. you’re all Cap.” and PETER IS OFFENDED BECAUSE EXCUSE YOU MISS JONES, “I-I am not.” Abe laughs into his hand, “yea, you are, Peter.” Peter blushes, “fine. what are YOU gonna be MJ?” she shrugs, “I dunno..probably Iron-Man.”

and god damn it, he hates her sometimes.

only sometimes. most days her smile gets his insides all fucked up. which should probably be evaluated at some point. but he’s knee deep in denial about his feelings for her. so he’s gonna NOT look too closely at that.

and just before the end of the lunch he remembers, “HEY. why didn’t anyone pick spider-man??” Sally tosses her trash, “because he’s not a real Avenger.”

and y i k e s, that stings. because he is a real Avenger. he fought in the Infinity Stone Wars. HE IS. hmph.

after lunch, MJ seems to sense how upset he is, because she kisses his cheek and tells him to, “get over it grump gus.” and wow that kiss works. which is something he doesn’t wanna deal with atm. MJ. and feelings. nuh uh.

the homecoming game comes and goes and peter and his friends decide to go as a group and senior year feels like its in full swing. so he basically forgets about halloween. because he’s got a shit ton of avenging to do (because he’s a real avengrer. hmph.) and homework is also a thing. so is applying to college. why are college apps, so long?

tony likes to hype peter up, tell him that he’s gonna get in MIT, he’s a straight up genius. but prototype dads are supposed to say nice stuff like that.

and then, somehow, its october 29th and peter is SHOOK. because how the hell did it become halloween so fast? he doesn’t have a costume, he doesn’t have anything together. and halloween is on friday and all of his friends are going dressed up to school and he’s gonna be the one guy that lets them all down.

so, he knows its cheating, but he makes a phone call. Steve answers after three rings. his voice is bright, “Peter, hey kid, how can I help ya?” peter swallows, “hey, uh, steve…..i’m gonna…..look, this is….embarrassing….but can I, uh, borrow one of your uniforms?” he tosses all pride out of the window at that question. steve chuckles, “sure. can I ask why?” peter mumbles, “Halloween.” there is a beat of silence before Steve says, “you’re being me?” Peter nods before he realizes Steve can’t see him, “yea…is that…is that okay?” Steve’s voice is raked with emotion, “yep. i’ll have Sam drop it off. he’s gonna be in Manhattan tomorrow.” “NO!” Peter yelps. the LAST thing he needs is the Falcon reading him to filth over whatever he’s gonna make fun of peter about this time. Sam loves to just give it to peter whenever he can. and its embarrassing. he’s easily embarrassed. he takes a deep breath, trying not to be rude and amends his outburst, “no, that’s, uh, that’s fine.”

real talk? its not fine. when Peter opens his door on the 30th and Sam is standing there with a box and a shit eating grin…Peter almost closes the door. but Sam stops it with a foot in the door. “got your dress up order here, parker.” “okay,” peter rolls his eyes, “get it all out now.” Sam smirks and shakes his head, “nah…..i’m gonna wait. you get all twitchy when you don’t know what’s coming.” “i do not,” peter’s voice breaks. “sure you do,” he smiles and shoves the box in peter’s hands. “see ya.”

and peter is thankful it was short. but then it hits him. it is almost worse. now that he doesn’t know when Sam is gonna tease him about it. so much worse.

but he sucks it up and tries on Steve’s suit.

it’s a little baggy in certain areas. and he has to roll the pants up because he’s short, but it’ll work. he just needs a shield. which he fashions out of some scrap medal he had after a mission. its uneven, barely a circle, but he paints it and it’ll work. again, he’s doing the best he can. and there is a sort of thrill knowing this is one of steve’s ACTUAL suits. which, uh, who else on his friend group can say that?

the next morning, he gets dressed, sweeps his hair off to one side, and goes to school. when he arrives all of his friends look about as put together as he does. it’s a SOLID effort. they’re not the real avengers (well, sort of….peter excluded) but for halloween they look rad.

Ned painted his face green and is wearing some tattered old shorts and a ripped shirt and green sneakers. Flash is wearing a velvet red cape and peter doesn’t want to address the amount of bling on his person, nope. cindy is a kickass black widow even if her costume looks like a recycled catwoman suit. Sally’s scarlet witch is borderline cosplay level impressive. he makes a note to show it to wanda. and Abe’s costume is a piecemeal costume like Ned’s. the whole group will make for some fun pictures.

“holy shit…MJ!” Cindy says looking just behind peter. and he realizes he didn’t see MJ. he turns around and his heart freakin’ stops.

she’s spider-man.

no. not only is she spider-man….she’s wearing his old suit. before he upgraded to the iron-spider, his first high-tech suit. the one he keeps in a locked box in his closet. and….it forms to her body like he knows his suit always does. tight and snug for optimal flexibility.

his first thought is…how the hell did she get his suit out of the case? his second is…..holy hell. what a look.

his jaw must be hanging open. actually open. because Flash snorts and comments, “like something you see, parker?” he blindly throws an arm behind him to nudge Flash. he misses and hits Abe. “sorry, man.”

MJ puts her hands on her hips, which, oh man, he’s going to have a heart attack. teenage boys should not be able to see girls they find attractive in spandex suits. nope.

then she smirks at him because she’s not wearing his mask. he supposes if she wore a high tech mask people would ask some questions. the actual suit part of his suit looks innocuous enough. could be store bought. high quality, but store bought. and so her curly hair tumbles out over her shoulders.

and he has a crazy thought. if he reached forward and touched the spider in the center of his suit, it would fall away from her and pool at her knees.

DAMN IT PARKER KEEP IT TOGETHER.

he shakes his head and, thankfully, the bell rings. so their friend group starts to part. peter catches up to MJ and whispers under his breath, “where’d you get that?” “the password shouldn’t be your birthday, loser.” he groans, “what about iron-man?” “why would I spend money on halloween? I had access to an avenger’s suit.” “my suit.” “details.”

he steps in front of her so she’ll stop walking. and he STARES into her eyes. because he won’t look down. no sir. “i want that back, MJ.” she blows a curl out of her eyes and whispers, “you’re gonna have to take it off, then.”

and his eyes BLOW WIDE. he’s broken. his systems are down. he needs IT. the peter parker is absolutely broken. she laughs and walks away while he reboots.

he tries not to stare at her legs all day. and fails. and, uh, holy crap. her legs are so long. and her ass is also great. does that make him not feminist if he thinks so?? he’s not sure. but it is a great ass.

after school, they gather outside of midtown and get some poor freshman to take their group picture. MJ slides in next to peter and throws an arm around him. while everyone gets situated, she whispers in his ear, “does cap know you have that suit, Parker?” he turns his head and she’s so close their noses accidentally brush. he sputters. “uh, yea.” she rolls her eyes and turns her head back to the camera.

they take, like, a hundred pictures. because Flash wants them to take glamour shots, action shots, he also needs his best side represented. it’s a whole mess.

and in the last shot, MJ turns Peter’s face toward hers and kisses him full on the mouth. when the camera snaps….his eyes are HUGE.

but he doesn’t stop kissing her. like, the picture may be done but he sure as hell isn’t. he turns more squarely into her mouth and sweeps her up off of her feet to kiss her better. in front of all of their friends. outside of the high school. in broad daylight.

she laughs against his lips and wraps her legs around his waist.

when all of their friends realize what’s happening. they immediately start groaning. like WTF GUYS?!?

Ned squees. but he’s excited. he’s been waiting for this.

when MJ is contented to be done kissing, she climbs down and wipes the back of her mouth. “really?” she laughs, “the suit is what did it?”

he blushes beat red. “I like it.” and he knows she can tell that he means he likes her in his clothes. but that’s just between them.

the next year at halloween, with her at Harvard and him at MIT, they go out partying in Cambridge as Han Solo and Leia. not slave leia tho. well, ahem, not slave leia in public. what happens later in her dorm room isn’t anybody’s business, frankly.

#headcanon ask

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disrepairhouse · 4 years

Text

::Return - Chapter 14

“Zero’s gonna kill us both because of you,” Itara warned, crossing her arms and glaring up at the lying reploid. “Also, he wasn’t babysitting me because I’m not a baby! I’m older than I look!” Just because all these robots were built taller than her didn’t mean they got to call her a kid! She was a perfectly average height for a mobian! Sort of. Okay, she was a little small for a mobian, but that didn’t matter.

“I’m not afraid of Zero,” Dynamo repeated, checking over the bars holding the tiny hedgehog girl hostage.

“You honestly should be. Even I’m a little afraid of him. But more importantly, I thought you said you were a hunter?! You lied to me!”

“I did, and quite frankly it was a little too easy,” he stated, kneeling down in front of her to talk with her at eye-level, “I’m not a hunter and I never have been. I work for someone else who has a very personal grudge against Zero. Call me an opportunist, but you literally walked right into my hands.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I’m not telling you.”

With a heavy sigh, she dropped her head forward against the notebook in her lap. This was stupid. Was it safer to wait? Or should she use her powers and escape? Dynamo had no idea who or what she was, obviously, so maybe it was better not to reveal anything. But as she flipped to the next page of her notebook to see if there were any notes, she realized it was the next section of blacked out pages. Her last notes were at the bottom of the current page, there was little space left for future notes.

So whatever was going to happen was coming soon? Was it today? Did it happen during this upcoming fight? A frustrated growl escaped at all the unending, unanswered questions, grabbing Dynamo’s attention again. She didn’t notice, however, as she reached up to grab her ears, growing ever angrier about her blocked and off-kilter powers. What use were they? She just wanted to go home and return to a normal life! She wanted RK and Metal and Kipper, she wanted to go back to school, she wanted Solaris to vanish from her life completely! She didn’t want to be in this world, she didn’t want to be in the past or the future, she didn’t want the timelines to reset again. She just wanted a normal life!

“H-Hey.” She barely even registered Dynamo’s suddenly strained voice. “What are you doing?”

When she finally looked up again through tear-filled eyes, she realized the metal bars around her were red-hot and her ears were stinging from being stabbed with her crystals again. She panicked, realizing she’d let her power show again… but then it fizzled out. She was too tired to panic. Her body temperature heated up further and her crystals covered the remainder of her spines, her ears flicking wildly once her nails retracted from them. Metal was going to be mad at her for that when she got back, but if this world wanted to test her, fine.

“What the hell was that?” Dynamo demanded, backing up but keeping his eyes trained on her.

Itara only stared up at him and slipped her notebook back into her bag. Well, if the secret was out anyway. “X warned you that you didn’t know what you were dealing with, didn’t he?” she questioned, pulling the strange gem out of her bag. She touched the power in it again and summoned two full-sized crystal Biters while she stood up and let the metal cage melt around her, the molten liquid running down the back of her crystallized spines. Dynamo backed up further, panicked and called for backup on his comm unit before pointing his buster arm at her.

“Now, you just stay right where you are,” he threatened, though seemed unsure about firing. His delay would be his downfall.

“This is your fault for lying to me,” Itara growled, “I just wanted to go back to Headquarters. I just wanted to focus on studying this stupid gem so I could go home. But you lied to me! Just like him! This is your fault!”

The Biters rushed the reploid that was now backed into a corner, though he had no hesitation about shooting the strange purple, crystalline dogs and shattered them easily. But he saw no relief in the shattered remains as they quickly and easily melted into an ethereal black goo before reforming into a much larger Biter and jumped at the reploid again. The massive purple dog-creature swiped at the cornered reploid, though only managed to clip his side as he dove away, firing again immediately upon landing. Itara watched from the center of the room with a wide-eyed madness, her eyes switching to the molten red, glowing furiously. As soon as one Biter fell, another took its place, forming from the shadows and shattered remains of the last, tossing the lying reploid around the room.

No matter how many times he shot or escaped, no matter how many attempts he made to reach the center of the room or even shoot the creator of the beasts, Dynamo only faced bigger and more violent creatures as the room around them heated up. The steel beams around what looked to be an unfinished construction zone slacked under the raging inferno while piles of wooden boards burst into flame. But as three giant, snapping Biters cornered him again and pinned him down, two of the three were struck down, leaving only the one crushing him into the dirt and the maddened child at the center to be whisked up by a frantic X.

“Hey, hey! Calm down, we’re here!” X called as Zero did away with the final Biter and took its place keeping Dynamo down, scowling down at him, his saber remaining pointed. It took several minutes of hushing and reassurance, but X eventually brought Itara back to her senses and drew her attention to him. Her eyes returned to normal first, the temperature dropping along with them. “There, there we go, it’s alright. We’ll handle it from here, alright?” Before even he realized what was happening, the tiny hedgehog girl burst into tears and clung onto him, causing him to shoot a deadly glare back at Dynamo, who only stared on in a combination of baffled confusion and silent relief. If only for the fact that they likely just saved him from his own hostage.

“What the hell is that thing?” he stammered, though didn’t dare move under risk of being impaled by the expectedly furious Zero.

“That thing is none of your concern and you’re lucky you aren’t melted scraps right now,” Zero hissed.

“I warned you, Dynamo,” X sighed once he had Itara calmed down enough that her bawls turned into quiet sniffles. He turned his attention back to the quieting hedgehog to ensure she wasn’t harmed but once he was sure she would be okay, he set her back down to turn his focus back to Dynamo. With the cause of her current frustration under the sharp eyes of X and Zero, Itara grabbed her backpack and moved to a far corner of the half-finished room to calm herself down more. Or rather, she wanted to try and put the fires she started out before they spread. The steel beams would cool on their own eventually, but the fires on the wood planks that were lying around would only spread with all the sawdust covering everything.

However, as she summoned Biters to help stamp the fires out, a colossal shadow suddenly shifted over her and a rush of wind and fabric whipped over her, not only spreading the fires again, but ripped the gem from her hand and knocked her clean off her feet. The summoned Biter shrank in size and Itara immediately pushed herself back to her feet to frantically search for the lost gem. When she saw no sign of it on the ground, she looked up to see the source of the massive shadow slowly come into sight.

Floating well above her, with a long, tattered, billowing red cape whipping angrily around its towering, bulky body, were the glowing furious eyes from her vision – and her missing gem in its clenched grip. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared, wide-eyed up at the ghastly figure, though it all but ignored her despite having stolen her gem. Instead, its sights were set far behind her. At the otherwise still unaware X and Zero.

Was this… Sigma?

Fear spread through every inch of her body, but as the figure continued to stare above her, its vicious grin set solely on X and Zero, the fear dissipated. He stole her only way home and had the audacity to ignore her? The crippling fear turned to burning rage as the widened eyes turned to a dark scowl, the whites of her eyes shifting as her arms burst into flames again.

“Give me that back.” Her demand was barely a whisper over the noise from the battle behind her. The towering figure moved forward, likely to face X and Zero, but only got so far before two small crystalline biters moved in front of him, melted together, and burst into flame to dive directly into him. Finally, he looked down at the tiny hedgehog scowling furiously up at him. “Give me that back.” However, her demand only got her shot at instead of a response, but the resulting explosion finally drew X and Zero’s attention.

“Sigma!”

“Tch. You just won’t stay dead, will you?”

Sigma’s corrupted laughter echoed through the construction site, but Dynamo’s attempt to use the distraction to his benefit got him a kick to the back form Zero, who pinned him again.

“F-IGH-T ME, X!”

X scowled and readied his buster while Zero kept Dynamo down. Itara, however, pulled herself back to her feet and dusted herself off, checking that she didn’t lose anything else before looking to the battle. She wasn’t going to be ignored that easily. However, before any of them could make any further moves, the entire area glitched and Itara and Zero both recognized the sudden wave of unease that came afterwards. Physics seemed to all but break down, the ground softened, the buildings wavered and shifted, and the night sky turned jet black, blotting the moonlight out entirely. The world grew dark and all sources of light vanished. The soft glow of X and Zero’s armor lit up first, followed soon after by the burning light of Itara’s fires and eyes. Finally, far above them, the sharp bluish-white of Sigma’s eyes and the crackling red of the gem cast a violent glare around the otherwise jet-black surroundings.

Sigma’s laugh filled the stale air but as he shifted and revealed more of his ragged, massive body, they realized he was hardly more than an internal skeletal structure, though massive in size. The gem was embedded within his forehead.

“Shit.”

Enormous lasers shook the ground they ran across.

Lumbering balls of sludge lobbed strange, electrified balls off the invisible walls.

Strange, glitching, glowing red boxes covered the sky that absorbed everything they touched.

X and Zero were run ragged, both trying to avoid the almost otherworldly attacks and fight Sigma at the same time. Though they landed as many hits as they took, the onslaught was never-ending. Zero focused on keeping the balls of sludge at bay while X focused his attacks on Sigma, himself, but every time they gained an edge, Sigma would fire another of his world-shattering lasers and force them further away to avoid total destruction. It was quickly becoming a battle of attrition.

And Itara realized it all too easily.

She’d kept as much distance between herself and the battle as possible, realizing she would only get in the way without the gem’s power, but her outside view gave her the perspective necessary to realize what was going on. She needed to find a way to give X and Zero the edge. Without getting in the way. But what could she do?

Her face scrunched up in agitation at the red blocks floating around the area. She recognized those blocks. At least, as far as having seen them before. She still couldn’t answer what they actually were. A stray electrified ball bounced her way, knocking her off her feet again, but didn’t seem to zap her the same as when they touched X or Zero. Why? It couldn’t just be a robot thing, she could see the sparking energy bouncing off it, like Metal’s short. Robot or not, that should shock her.

Filled with curiosity and desperation, she edged closer to the battle, though had to move back immediately again as another laser tore through the area. Once the coast was clear again, she inched forward and waited for another of the sludge balls to appear before shuffling behind it and pressing a flaming hand to it. The sludge burst into flame and screeched out of existence, but Itara’s brow furrowed in confusion. She hadn’t actually felt anything there. She could see it. She could feel the laser shaking the ground. See the blacked-out sky. X and Zero were clearly taking damage from landed hits. The ball knocked her over before. So, what was going on?

The mental debate distracted her from her surroundings long enough for another laser to fire off unnoticed and it wasn’t until Zero knocked her out of the way with a swift kick to the back, sending her face-first into the dirt, that she zoned back in again. “Ow! Hey! That hurt!”

“Then pay attention and stay out of the way, idiot!”

“There’s something off!”

“No kidding!”

Itara’s cheeks puffed at the response. She didn’t need his sass right now. But they didn’t have time to argue, either. Once she pushed herself back to her feet, wincing at her scuffed and now bleeding knees, she turned back towards Sigma and the gem. What was the gem’s power, exactly? Could she take control of it back from Sigma? It activated on touch, if she could get within reach of it, who could control it better? She had an idea.

“Zero, I need your help,” she called back over to him as he rolled out of the way of another attack.

“You need some kind of help,” he growled.

“Less sass, more action!”

“Now is not the time, you two,” X snapped, firing another shot.

Zero growled under his breath, slicing through another sludge ball before running over to Itara, “Fine, what do you want? Make it quick.”

“Can you throw me?”

His face went blank for a split second before it scrunched back up in confusion, “What?”

“Throw me. At Sigma. At the gem, specifically. Its touch activated.” She didn’t think she needed to explain further and, as it turned out, she was right as Zero picked up on her meaning quickly enough. He gave a brief look of disbelief, but after a silent debate of her determination, he finally sighed and reached down to pick her up. “Just please don’t throw me into a laser, that’s all I ask. I can’t redirect my rolls like Sonic.”

“I won’t but you’d better be right about this,” Zero grumbled.

“Won’t know for sure ‘til we try.”

There was only a brief moment of hesitation before Zero nodded and took a couple steps back to get his aim right, though had to jump out of the way of another electrical snap in the process. He couldn’t waste time worrying about how idiotic this plan was, without him keeping the sludge at bay, X was quickly getting overrun. With a final calculation and a quick balling up from Itara, he flung the tiny ball of a hedgehog towards the gem embedded in Sigma’s forehead and swung around to slice through another sludge ball. The tiny ball of fur flew over the incoming attacks and had a near-miss with an electrified ball, but with a light thud, the spin smacked dead-center on the gem. Itara immediately uncurled to dig her crystallized claws around it to remain in place, as it hadn’t knocked it out completely like she’d been hoping. The effect of both her and Sigma being in direct contact caused an immediate reaction as the gem sparked and flashed violently, struggling between the two energies.

Sigma’s attacks stopped short, the sludge vanished as the covering darkness flashed back and forth. The giant robotic body wailed and screeched and bucked about wildly in its attempt to throw the intrusion off, but the more he swung around, the deeper Itara sunk her claws in to stay on. The back and forth loosened the gem further and before either realized, it came loose and sent Itara crashing back to the ground, though she quickly balled back up and landed again with a sliding stop – that just as quickly turned into her stumbling back and falling. But as Sigma’s screech echoed around the flashing, wavering field, and X and Zero rushed to her side, Itara pushed herself back to her feet with a grin, her eyes glowing red and green again.

“I win,” she hissed, holding the gem in her claws out as the crystals ran further up her arms and spines, “This power is mine.” Her flames erupted once more as her body fully crystallized. The red blocks around the sky turned to swirling purple masses and a burst of energy exploded around them, nearly knocking X and Zero back. The swirling purple masses grew and merged above the raging remains of Sigma until they consumed him, snapping and crackling until he was no more before vanishing with them.

However, the air around where Sigma and the masses met continued to crackle until a different kind of swirling mass formed. It was small at first, but grew until it filled the size of the now missing Sigma. Itara stared at it for several minutes as her crystals retreated to her hands and the tips of her spines again. She stepped forward towards the portal but was stopped by X before she could get far.

“What was that?” he demanded. Itara couldn’t tell if he was angry or concerned.

“A portion of my father’s power,” she answered as matter-of-factly as possible.

Before he could ask for further clarification, the comm unit sparked to life with Alia’s frantic calls, “X! Zero! Are you there?! What’s going on?! Where are you?!”

X didn’t take his eyes off Itara but reached down and responded, “We’re here, Alia. We found Dynamo. …and Sigma.” He finally looked around at the destroyed construction site, Dynamo nowhere to be seen, “They’ve… vanished.” He looked down at Itara again, “I want an explanation once we get back to base.”

Itara’s eyes had moved back to the swirling portal behind her but returned when he spoke up again. She only shook her head and pointed, saying nothing. He looked back with uncertainty, studying the portal, and realized her meaning easily enough. Zero walked over before long, also picking up her meaning, and sighed, “Finally.” Itara only stared, she was still in shock, but X frowned heavily.

“Where did you send Sigma? And Dynamo?”

“I did nothing to Dynamo. I imagine he took off when Sigma had control of the gem. As for Sigma, though, I don’t know for sure. I may have sent him to the past but I may also have sent him to the future. I don’t know.”

“How do you not know?” X questioned, growing frustrated. When Itara gave him a dejected look, however, his tone softened again, “Look, I just need to know if he’s going to be a danger again soon.”

Itara looked down in thought, wondering about it, “Probably not. If he’s in the future, he can’t do anything until he reappears at that point. If he’s in the past, well… you’ve already defeated him several times in the past. He… doesn’t look like he’s in great shape. I imagine that won’t change much.” She looked towards the portal again, “I don’t know how long that’ll stay open….”

There was silence for a moment before X finally sighed and relinquished. “Alright, alright.” He seemed to debate something before nodding and turning back to Zero, “I want you to go with her.”

“What?”

“I want you to go with her, Zero.”

“What?”

“Wait, what?!” Itara jumped, staring up at him in shock and horror, “I- he- but-?!” That was a terrible idea! “X, I think your circuits got fried in that fight. You’re not making any sense.”

“We should head back to base,” Zero added and moved to lead X back to headquarters, but the blue bot stood firm and shook his head.

“I have not fried any circuits. I’ve thought about this. I want to help save her world as much I do ours but I can’t do it, myself. There’s no one I’d trust more to handle this than you, Zero.”

“You realize she has her own heroes back in her world,” Zero ventured, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

“Yeah and there’s no guarantee I can get Zero back a second time! If I solve this energy problem, it’ll probably sever the link between our worlds!” Itara panicked. That was one concern, of course, the main one, even, but she also didn’t know how much she wanted to deal with Zero any more. He was back where he belonged, she kept her promise. She didn’t want to chance anything further. “I can handle this on my own!”

X shook his head again, “No, I don’t think so. I think your theory that our worlds have been connected before was right and if that’s the case, there’s a good chance it can happen again. I believe Zero will come back again once he’s helped save both our worlds.” Itara sputtered for a response while Zero did similar in silence, both searching for a way to talk X out of such an idea. However, before either came to any conclusion, X leaned forward and whispered to Zero, “besides, having seen the kid fight now, someone more skilled needs to be with her. Just in case that portal doesn’t lead her back home. I don’t want her stranded in yet another unfamiliar place on her own. I doubt she’d make it far.”

“Hey. I heard that,” Itara growled, her ears flattening against her head as she turned red in the face.

X gave a sheepish laugh and stood up straight again, looking to the portal, “You should head out sooner rather than later. Like you said, there’s no telling how long that’ll stay open and we’re counting on you to save both our worlds now.”

Itara flushed up but Zero went into silent consideration, his brows furrowing in frustration after a minute. Finally, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “If that’s what you think is best, X.” Itara turned a baffled expression up to him now, but X only smiled softly and nodded.

“This concerns our world as much as it does hers and there’s no one I trust more than you to get a job done, Zero. And I’ll be waiting for your return, like always.” The two locked eyes for a long moment before Zero grunted in annoyance and turned away, which got a small laugh from X before he turned to Itara and explained, “I’m expecting great things from you, too, Itara.” Her face only burned brighter as she stammered some vague semblance of a response. “And promise me you’ll find a way to send Zero back after it’s all taken care of.”

The tiny hedgehog’s spines stood on end as she sputtered for a response, eventually letting the steam out of her ears and calming herself down enough to talk again, “I… but…” She looked towards the portal and Zero, then back at X, giving him a determined nod of confirmation, “I’ll make sure he gets home again.”

“Good. Then off with you both. Do you have everything you need?”

Itara gave a quick look around for her backpack. She stuffed the strange gem back into it, checked for her notebook, made sure Kipper and her spare clothes were still there, then zipped it up and walked to the portal to inspect it. “If this leads home, first we find RK and Metal and get an update. We’ll need to figure out how long we’ve been gone first, then depending on the state of the world, find Shadow and explain the gem to him. Then we can discuss a plan with everyone moving forward,” she instructed Zero as they studied the portal while X watched and waited behind them.

“Fine.”

She glanced up at him and studied the look on his face before looking at the portal again. She was silently actually grateful for his presence to a degree, considering she really didn’t know anything for sure about the portal, but she wouldn’t say as much. Instead, she reached up to grab his hand, catching him off-guard as he immediately ripped it away and threw a confused scowl down at her. “I don’t want us to be separated, that’s all,” she huffed, “would you rather I be on your back? Or do you want to get lost in time and space? I can’t get you home if you’re in another dimension or timeline, after all.”

With a great amount of displeasure at the mere idea, Zero slowly put his hand back down within her reach again, scowling when she took hold of it. “Just don’t get used to it.”

“Trust me, I won’t,” Itara sighed and moved towards the portal, throwing a quick wave back to X before being thrown through the whips and streams of time and dimensions again. She almost immediately nearly lost her grip on Zero’s hand, but he tightened his own before she did, though she had little time to process it as she had to try and make sense of the flow around them again. Moving through time was one thing, she had hundreds of years of practice to learn to control time travel. Moving through alternate timelines was more difficult, but manageable. Moving between dimensions was something else entirely. There were infinitely more energies to contend with, alternate timelines of both worlds, different points, fluxes, static events, her own energies, the Gods’ energies. She had little control over their travel through the dimensions and more or less let the streams carry them where they would. But the gem had a much stronger reaction to the portal than she did and seemed to be guiding them back entirely on its own. However it got in Zero’s world, it wanted to go home.

Itara thought she did, too.

#Disrepair House #Itara #Dynamo #Zero #X #Sigma #Arc Three #::Return #Chapter 14 #Mega Man #Mega Man X #Mega Man X6 #sonic #fanfic #sonic fanfic #robots #rogue robots #apocalypse #worlds collide

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