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#ship: glass sanctuary

the-kr8tor · 5 months

Text

Claimed by the Sea

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 2.6k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), reader has nicknames, TW injury, TW drowning, CW blood.

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Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

Chapter 2 >>> Chapter 3

Your head is lolling off to the side, eyes growing heavy with the soft swaying of the ship in the waves. The only thing that's keeping you awake is the smell of fish lingering in the netting. Sniffing, you feel yourself succumbing to sleep.

You jolt awake when the fishing net jostles then slowly raises up, there's a mechanical whirring from the deck. The sun is peeking from the horizon, bathing you in blue.

“No, no, no!” Holding onto the net, you hold on for dear life. You just hope the sailors are friendly enough to let you on board until they dock to the nearest land.

Your only sanctuary floats above the deck, overlooking every crew moving about. Looking below, you spot their rugged clothing *They don't look like sailors. Maybe they're not wearing their blue uniform? It's casual Friday perhaps?

“Drop the bloody thing!” Someone yells from below, you and the net fall from a height that you're sure broke something in you.

With your eyes shut, you hit the deck with a splattering sound. Thankfully you land on the pile of fish, squishing a sizable chunk on the wood; decorating their ship with fish guts. Your butt hurts from the impact, you're for sure going to be picking out fish bones embedded in your skin.

Someone gasps loudly next to you. Hearing frantic slashing sounds, you shield your face from the shiny knife. Before you know it, you're free from the tangles on the net, baring yourself to the entire crew.

“Fuckin' hell! It's a mermaid!” A man with long blonde hair tied into a bun excitedly yells out.

You look at him with wide eyes, the large black flag hangs above him, the skeleton of a spider painted on the flag dances in the wind.

They're not from the royal navy.

Running footsteps come towards you, then they stop. You watch as twenty or so people circle around your fallen form. You instinctively cover yourself with the net. Their faces morph from surprise to amusement. Some laugh, some roll their eyes in annoyance.

A man with glasses slaps the blonde upside his head. “You idiot! Does she look like a fuckin’ mermaid to you?” he points at your legs that are clearly not fins.

The blonde looks disappointed, “Man, I thought my dream came true”

“Looks like we've got a stowaway!” They sneer and jeer, looking down at you, leaning their scarred faces close to your face. Too close.

“Get off me!” You push one away. Taking a fish from the ground to defend yourself. Throwing it directly at his eyepatch. They laugh louder at your expense.

“She's a fighter too! Cap’n! Look at what the fish dragged in!” A man with a peg leg, calls.

With heaving breaths you watch as a large man comes down from the steps of the quarter deck. His heavy footfalls quieting the roaring laughter immediately, his arms are as big as your head, tattoos decorating every inch of his ivory skin. His big bushy beard moves as he spits on the deck. Your eyes flick to his tree trunk like waist, his gun and cutlass glinting in the barely rising sun.

He huffs, smoke comes out of his nostrils. His eyes stare you down and you visibly shrink.

“C’mon, big man, bloody move it” a slender hand grabs the man's large shoulder, moving him away to reveal a tall, slim figure. He smiles once he takes you in. “What do we have ‘ere?”

“A stowaway, Cap’n” the one with glasses informs him. “Got into the fishing net”

He saunters over to you, heavy boots thudding against the wood. The metals hanging from his clothes are swinging and clashing as he moves. The crowd parts for him. His hands are in his leather vest, he looks at you like he's found buried treasure. His grey eyes are twinkling in the blue light, a smirk playing on his pierced lips.

You grab your necklace for comfort, heart sinking to your stomach, the golden chain is nowhere to be found. You pat around your neck and blouse. Nothing. You're alone.

“Thought ol’ Jamesy ‘ere found us a mermaid” he bends at the waist, giving you a full view of his chiselled face. His eyes are shining with amusement.

You recognize his face from all the wanted posters you've seen around different towns while travelling. If the circumstances were different you'd say the painting didn't capture him right; how his eyes look at you with hidden apprehensiveness, yet there's something dangerous in them, something that could spell your doom.

Your fear increases tenfold when you roam your eyes around the different faces watching you. There's recognition in some of them, some more than others, their bounties you've seen on their respective posters appear above their heads; each in increasing numbers.

“Aye, thought so too” ‘Jamesy’ mumbles dejectedly.

His voice shakes you out of your fear laden stupor, but it's still there, still in your quaking heart and sweaty palms.

“Y’know, we don't take too kindly to stowaways.” Hobie’s threat makes you jump in your skin.

“I heard you're not kind to anybody” you grit your teeth.

You're facing him head on, despite your heart pumping loudly against your ribcage when you get a glimpse of his twin blunderbusses strapped to his waist.

A smile spreads on his face, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Hear that lads? We're proper famous!” he leans away,

They all guffaw, snickering among the crowd. A blonde with chopped hair and pink highlights push through the audience. She clicks her tongue, sleep clinging to her lashes.

“What's all this, Hobie?”

“A stowaway, Gwendy. You remember what we do to stowaways?”

‘Gwendy’ rolls her eyes. “I'm too tired for this,” she sighs. “Let's hear her side before we push her off, yeah?”

Push me off?! Your eyes are widely roaming around the strangers, pleading for an ounce of mercy.

“Be my guest” He slides to the side, gesturing towards you.

The blonde stares at you, waiting for some explanation. You can't help but think you remember her from somewhere but you're drawing a blank. Swallowing a lump in your throat, the fishy smell and the numerous eyes on you turns your stomach inside out.

“I was–” the large man you thought was the captain stares daggers at you. “It was an accident, really. You see, I was incredibly drunk” you try to stop the shaking in your voice to sound more convincing. “And I thought I was going home, truly.”

“You thought a fishing net was your home?” the entire crew laughs rambunctiously.

Hobie observes you from the side, leaning on the bannister so casually.

“Maybe we should just turn around and bring her home. That'll be okay, right?” A teenager with curly hair and golden bangles on his wrists pipes up from the side.

You think of the man waiting for you at the docks. You'd rather be fed to the sharks.

“Yeah, 'm sure she'd like that, won't you, scuttlebutt?” The captain smirks at you, there's a knowing look on his face. “Unless you don't want to go home? I don't see why we can't just drop you off.”

He moves closer to you, squatting down to face you. “Or she doesn't want to go home, judging from the go bag, this isn't some little drunk accident.” you can feel your pulse trying to escape. His eyes never leave yours. “Sure you smell like fish but I don't smell any liquor on those pretty lips of yours.” Hobie tilts his head, smiling mischievously. “You're running from someone, aren't you?”

You glare at him despite the fear crawling up your neck.

He nods, “Yeah, you are. We'd rather not be involved with whatever you've got goin' on.” his face turns serious, not even a ghost of a smile. “Finn”

With one call, the giant man takes you by the shoulders, standing you back to your shaky feet. You squirm, doing your best to push him off, but it's no use, he's too strong.

“Sorry to see you go so soon but I've got my entire crew to worry ‘bout.” he says softly.

You scoff, spitting venom. “The only thing you pirates care about is treasure and your next mark.”

With one last fight, you stomp on the man's boot clad foot, headbutting him in quick succession. They hoot and holler as your vision swirls.

Your act of defiance didn't even make the man flinch, he grunts, narrowing his eyes at you. Hobie's lackey turns you around to face the sea and the entrance to your death. Looking over your shoulder, you see him raise his thick eyebrow at you in mild annoyance.

“She's a feisty one, Hobie, you sure we can't let her stay? I'll take good care of her” A tall ravenette coos at you, staring directly at you with her dark eyes.

“I agree with Hobie, she might bring trouble” Another teenager comments, he crosses his arms, his eyes stare at you with remorse.

The man pushes you towards the open side of the ship where a singular wooden plank hangs precariously. The corner of the railing hits the small of your back. Your bag falls loudly on the deck, but you've got bigger problems right now than the sparse savings you've hidden inside.

“Wait!” You swallow your pride, it's better than drowning in the cold salty waters. “Please I'll do anything to stay or– or you can drop me off to the nearest land! Just–!” Finn pushes you again, your feet shuffle to fit the thin wood. The wind picks up, whipping at you wildly. The waves crash harshly on the side of the ship.

The vertigo makes you dizzy.

“Please! I can't–!”

Finn unsheathes his cutlass, pointing it at your heaving chest. You feel the sharp tip draw blood. He pushes and pushes until you're on the very edge of the plank. You struggle to find your balance while the wind blows rapidly, it stings your eyes, tears forming in them.

They all watch, some are grinning ear to ear like it's the best theatre show they've seen. The others are looking away or staring at their feet. Hobie looks on, posture straight, knuckles tight on his side.

“I can't swim–!” With one last push from the sharp sword, you fall.

Just above you, the pirates run towards the bannister to watch you fall in the water with a large splash.

Your back is stinging from the impact of the water, head pounding against your skull. The cold is unbearable like needles pricking your skin. You try to paddle up despite your thick clothes bringing you further down in the dark abyss. The dim light acts as your guide to the surface but it doesn't seem like your body is moving, you're quickly losing air. Bubbles escape from your lips, the salt blurs your vision.

Desperately with one kick, you feel the air from your lungs empty out, legs numb, hands reaching out towards the surface.

You choke on the salty water.

Her smiling face emerges from the darkness, now you know you've drowned. The only reason she would want you back is in death.

There's a muffled splash, a warm hand reaching for your cold ones. An unfamiliar arm snakes around your waist, bringing you up to the surface. They Frantically kick up, you feel a feather light touch on your freezing cheeks.

“Oi!” A muffled voice says. “Oi! Don't make me do mouth to mouth!” His voice gets clearer, he shakes your head, you feel calloused fingers on your skin then a breath fanning against your lips.

You splutter out, expelling water from your lungs with a choke. Holding to the nearest, steady thing, you grasp onto what feels like strong shoulders. Beneath your shaking fingers you feel raised scars.

“There you go, let it out, scuttlebutt” he pats your back as you continue to cough out. Your nails dig into his bare skin, he doesn't seem to mind. “Good on you for not makin’ me do mouth to mouth, huh?”

You wheeze out. “You fucker”

“What?”

“I said, you fucker!” Pushing him away, you sink back into the water, you panic once again.

Hobie grabs your wrist with one hand to pull you up like freshly caught fish. You glare at him through wet lashes.

“I saved your life and you're callin' me fucker?” You want to smack the smirk off his face.

“I almost drowned because of you!”

“Yeah, but that doesn't matter now because I saved your land loving arse! Who at this age can't swim anyway?!”

“Me, you bitch!” you try to kick him underwater.

“Hey, do you want to catch hyperthermia or what?” Gwendy asks from the lowered dinghy, her foot is resting on the edge casually, hand on her chin and a pierced eyebrow raised questioningly at you and Hobie who splashes water directly at your face.

With some help, you dog paddle to the boat. The smiling teenager helps you up, you feel like a ton of bricks with your thick clothes drenched.

“Here,” he takes his coat to place it around your shivering shoulders. “I'm Pavitr by the way, you okay?”

Pavitr tries to rub your shoulders for extra warmth but you flinch back, hugging the coat tighter around you.

“I'm fine, thank you, Pavitr”

The blonde pipes up, “I'm Gwen”

You nod, good thing you haven't called her ‘Gwendy’ yet.

“You needed the bath anyway, fish girl” Hobie scoffs from the other side of the boat.

You glare at him, huddled to yourself in the corner of the raising boat. The squeaking from the pulley makes you hold onto the side tighter, just in case it fails and drops you back down in the freezing water.

Hobie chuckles, water drips off his bare chest, glittering under the peaking sun. You look away with a roll of your eyes.

“Gwen, give her something warm to eat, yeah? And some clothes.”

“I was about to do that anyway”

The boat reaches back up, the crew secures the rope on the pulley with a grunt.

Hobie drops down on the deck first, he offers his hand that you huff at. Ignoring his help, you step on to the ship with shaky legs.

“Sea legs, you have to get used to it or the next two weeks for you would be hell.”

“What?”

“‘m letting you on board until we reach land. Unfortunately for you that won't be for the next two weeks. After that we're even.”

“Look who's guilty for almost killing me” you stand toe to toe with him. The rest of the crew has either gotten bored or are watching you two squabble with a smile.

“Don't push your luck, fish girl or I'll make you walk the plank again” he challenges you with a sly smile.

“I have a name!”

The captain tilts his head, amused. “Yeah? Tell me then so I have something to write on your gravestone”

You point angrily at his tattooed chest, right on the inky drawing of a long legged spider. “It's Y/N, asshole!”

Gwen sighs, waving you off.

“Well, Y/N Asshole, keep that fire in you but don't let it burn down my ship or–”

“Or what?”

He stares at your eyes, swirling grey whirlpools threatening to pull you under. Hobie sighs, turning around abruptly, leaving you standing alone on the deck.

“Hey!” You call back, “or what huh?!”

He waves you off, “‘s too early for this shit, ‘m goin' back to sleep. Goodnight, fish girl!”

Change of plans: survive the next two weeks with an entire ship full of pirates or die drowning in the middle of the sea. That should be easy enough, right?

A/N: Thank you for reading 😘

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wangxianficrecs · 6 months

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Rewind 2023 - Part II

WangxianFicRecs - Rewind 2023

Here is part two of our favourite stories published in 2023! Reminder that if you also want to give a shout-out to a story, submit an ask and we will share it in an upcoming post featuring Follower Recs and Proud Author Spotlights.

Part I

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the dream of the fisherman's husband

by luckymarrow (@luckymarrow)

E, 5k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: “Really? Are you fucking with me? Once for yes, twice for no.” Two taps. Wei Ying scrambles from his desk and over to the tank, presses his face right against the glass. “Was Wen Ning right?” he whispers. His breath fogs the glass. “Are you our new cephalopod overlords?” Once again, the little blue and white octopus taps twice against the glass. Wei Ying goggles. Then it taps a sequence against the glass. But Wei Ying has worked on enough expedition ships to know Morse code, or at least the most important code of all—SOS. This little octopus needs help.

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New Perspective

by mrcformoso (@mrcformoso)

T, Series, 34k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary Part One: “Lan Zhan, let me go.” The last memory Lan Zhan has of Wei Ying was the soft, serene smile on his face as he fell to his death. It was, perhaps, what haunted him the most. When it came to the matters regarding Wei Ying, Lan Zhan was always too late. A character study looking into Lan Zhan’s character development between Wei Ying’s death and resurrection, and his struggles of changing in the wake of his newfound fatherhood.

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The Art of Communication

by mrcformoso (@mrcformoso)

G, 4k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Lan Zhan can only say so much before the words get caught in his throat. He has long learned how to use his words sparingly, how to build enough of a reputation to minimize the use of words, has learned to hide behind little grunts and pointed looks. In contrast, Wei Ying never seemed to run out of words, speaking often and quickly, whatever was on his mind, mumbling equations and theories and his own thoughts as if he had a word quota to meet and exceed on a daily basis. So the Gusu University students found it rightfully strange that the two were dating. Chapter 1: Outsiders POV Chapter 2: Lan Zhan POV Chapter 3: Wei Ying POV

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❤️ Across the street to another life

by danegen (@danegen)

M, 99k, Wangxian | Kay's & Mojo's Rec

Summary: Wangji stays on the piano bench as they’re closing up. Wei Ying chews his lip, knowing what he’s going to do but horrified at himself. But what’s the alternative: kick the guy out and find him sleeping beside the dumpster in the morning? And that’s if the cops don’t take him in for vagrancy. “Wangji?” Wangji looks up. Please don’t be a serial killer. “So, we’re closing up for the night, but A-Yuan and I live upstairs. Do you want to join us for dinner?” Wangji blinks. His head bobs in what’s probably a yes. “Great!” Fuck. Or a ragged monosyllabic man wearing a collar shows up at Wei Ying's music store. Wei Ying and A-Yuan ask, is anyone going to adopt this guy? And then they don't wait for an answer.

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💙 Concord

by Deastar (@youhideastar)

T, 41k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Lan Wangji hopes, somewhat frivolously, that his betrothed might find him an acceptable companion. Neither he nor Wei Wuxian are able to bear children, so there will be no need to share a marital bed; that should make it easier for the two of them to reach a natural, comfortable equilibrium. Two strings played in harmony: this is Lan Wangji’s quiet hope, as he arranges the Jingshi to accommodate a second inhabitant. Perhaps, he thinks, they might even become friends.

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silk linked together

by theLoyalRoyalGuard

G, 6k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Lan Wangji runs a sanctuary for rescued bunnies. His life is quiet and routine. Until Mo Xuanyu needs a place to stay out of trouble. He doesn’t expect to end up rescuing him, too.

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Making Mouths at Dragons

by athena_crikey

E, 10, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Wei Ying takes a slow breath, then another. “Then you’d want… that? A baby? A kid?” Lan Zhan’s low rumble has a hint of dragon in it, a lick of thunder. For a moment Wei Ying can almost hear the rush of the tide in his ears, storms and seafoam. His mind is full of the glint of moonlight on scales, silver and rippling like silk. “With you? Yes.”

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Behind the Scenes

by QueenXIV

E, 5k, NMJ/LWJ | Kay's Rec

Summary: Nie Mingjue felt dirty. Horrible. He had paid to see his best friend's didi fuck himself with a dildo. He had jerked off to it. He had liked it. He was fucked.

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Playing Possum

by DizziDreams (@dizzi-dreams)

T, 1k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Lan Wangji is woken in the night by the sound of animals fighting, and there is more to the opossum he rescues than there seems.

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Once-body

by ByCandlelight

M, 10k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Years after he was disowned by the Jiangs, Wei Ying lives a quiet life working at a funeral home. Then he reencounters his former high school classmate Lan Zhan, who is planning his father’s cremation. Wei Ying won’t pass up the chance to get closer to his former crush, but first he has to hide all the brains in his freezer.

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Lessons in Belonging

by Nyatci (@nyatci)

M, 12, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Lan Zhan looks back at various moments during the years and thinks about the emotional wounds caused by Wei Ying’s adoptive family. Or alternatively: 5 times Lan Zhan worried about Wei Ying and 1 time he realized he didn’t have to worry anymore.

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Jin Ling and Demonic Cultivation

by ImNobody122 (@colorsunlikeanythingseen)

Not rated, 8k, Jin Ling | Kay's Rec

Summary: Mo Xuanyu was not the first demonic cultivator Jin Ling had to rescue from his uncle's hands.

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mother of mothers

by SpeedingCheetah

T, 11k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary:There was a girl in Gusu, who played the flute and sung songs to the fish in the rivers as townspeople let her sit on their boats; stirring away and humming. There was a girl who smiled, who had a blood red ribbon and blood red eyes. The girl was a boy who was not alive. A ghost who stayed in the city because his mother made him promise. He seemed happy enough anyway, coming to the docks, coming to the paths. He bought apples, he spoke Gusu’s dialect in a rustic tongue that was many, many years out of date—ancient, prosperous. Only a few elders understood the clicking accent the way Wuxian spoke it. He was Lan Wangji’s sole companion. He was also the being who had been cursed many years ago to never wake up, and never live. Lan Wangji wished to help fix that. (or: cangse sanren’s child is a ghost of nature, and cursed to sleep forever. a boy still makes friends with the ghost anyway.)

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exit, pursued by fierce corpse

by hauntedotamatone (@hauntotamatone)

Not rated, 4k, WWX & WN | Kay's Rec

Summary: “The Jin clan of Lanling is rich beyond rich,” The second boy whispers, or rather, attempts to whisper. “If we bring them the head of the Yiling Laozu, they’ll have no choice but to reward us!” It’s quite a stupid endeavor, especially for three, unarmed, young masters whose knowledge of combat and heroism likely comes from playhouses alone. - “Wei-gongzi,” Wen Ning whispers, barely louder than the sound of a person breathing and all the more striking when it comes from one who does not. His face is still, the undisturbed waters of a pond, but there is something in his eyes that reminds him of brightness, the shine of a dragonfly skimming the water. - alternatively; wen qionglin, the method actor.

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If I had to keep being separated from you like this (I'd rather die)

by katje

E, 30k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: “So, you’re here to become my blood thrall, are you?” Mr. Wei finally turned, and Lan Wangji had to fight to swallow the gasp that tried to escape his throat. He was beautiful. His long, pitch-black hair was pulled into a ponytail that flowed in smooth waves over his shoulder, and he was clad in a red dress shirt that was buttoned only halfway up his chest, exposing his sharp collar bones and a hint of the smooth skin of his torso. He was pale - too pale. And he had the most striking grey eyes Lan Wangji had ever seen. Eyes that immediately betrayed him as a nonhuman. As a cold, powerful, immortal vampire that Lan Wangji was about to sell himself to. OR Lan Wangji enters into a contract to become Wei Wuxian's blood thrall to save his uncle, and finds more than a heartless vampire at the end of the deal.

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fracture fix

by phosphorous

G, 5k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: What he did not say: I don’t want to be anywhere in this world where you aren’t. I want to know you inside out. I want to know you forever. I want you to know me inside out and I want you to know me forever too. I am a burden. But I am yours. I want to be yours, for as long as you will have me. “I love you, Lan Zhan,” he had said instead. It had ebbed and flowed in the space over their heads like tides in a river. Eventually, it had settled. Eventually, it had stayed.

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What Dreams May Come

by Admiranda (@ladypfenix)

G, 5k, Ouyang Zichen | Kay's Rec

Summary: Qiu Shiyu is a pragmatic young woman, she knows that the marriage her father wants to arrange will be more for his benefit than hers. But even so, she cannot help hoping that her prospective husband to be just might be someone who can match her romantic side too.

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Mask

by BurningTea (@humanformdragon)

M, 30k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: The cultivation world knows that Wei Wuxian is dead. It knows that the Yiling Patriarch has appeared, dangerous and powerful enough for Wen Ruohan to offer an alliance. And a prize. The Wen Sect is happy to agree when the Yiling Patriarch demands one of their hostages, Lan Wangji.

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Letters along a River

by Ilona22

M, 19k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: They met at the stairs leading to the Cloud Recesses and when days spent together lead to a tentative friendship, letters lead to more. Meanwhile, trouble grows, quietly creeping along in the realms of politics and the supernatural.

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(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for these hard-working authors if you like – or think others might like – these stories.)

#wangxian fic rec #wangxianficrecs #rewind 2023 #mdzs #the untamed #wangxian #fandom event #long post #Kay's Rec #Mojo's Rec #Kay's Favorite #Mojo's Favorite #The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation #MDZS #Mo Dao Zu Shi

194 notes · View notes

lanitalay · 4 months

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One day : Chapter 1

Azriel x Reader

a/n: I saw the netflix series, bawled my eyes out then thought it would make a great Az x reader story.

warnings: anxiety, drinking

word count: 1555k

Masterlist

Summer Solstice was your favorite holiday. Each year you look forward to celebrating the longest day of the year in the most beautiful city in the world. This year would be slightly different, as you were no longer a student, having recently graduated to proper healer. So, for the first time in years, you were able to stay up until the sun set and came back out because there were no readings to do, no papers to write and no seminars to attend the next day. You had informed Madja that you would not be coming in tomorrow and she had understood. “I was young and capricious as well, long, long ago.”

The day was spent at the Sidra, lounging and playing in the sand and the water. It was packed, thousands of fae clamoring to the shore to watch the High Lord’s ship pass by. Cheering for it. When the sun set your friends dragged you back to their apartment to get ready for the night ahead. The Rainbow would be filled with street vendors, music and art.

“I can’t possibly drink more” you gagged as more sparkling wine was shoved in your hand. “Suck it up!” Nomi laughed and poured a glass for herself. Bec did your hair, curling it in loose waves. Fran did your makeup, smoking out dark shadows in your eye lid. Nomi gave you a short, short dress. The four of you admired the collective beauty in the mirror, even if not one of you could see straight.

“Onwards!” Fran called and opened the door to let everyone stumble out.

A few hours after drinking, eating and dancing in the street, Bec insisted she needed to sit down. You were looking around to see where you could take her when you spotted a familiar sign. “Let’s go to Rita’s, she’ll let us sober up in there” you guided your friends through the crowd, weaving in between all kinds of fae until arriving at the sanctuary.

Rita recognized you and waved you in, sitting you down in one of the booths. The place was not quiet by any means, but the seats were cushioned and Bec sighed in relief as she took off her heels under the table. “These shoes rubbed my feet raw,” she hissed. You waved your hand over her feet and channeled some of your healing powers to her blisters. “Oh my gods, thank you, y/n.” You laughed and announced to the table “I’m going to get more drinks.”

It had been ten minutes of standing by the bar, trying to get someone’s attention. “Hey! I need liquor!” You heard a low laugh behind you and turned around to see a looming figure, wings tight against his back, biting back a smile. “What’s so funny?” Always confrontational when drunk. He shook his head “nothing, can I order something for you?”

You considered his offer. He was much, much taller than you. If he wanted, he could reach through the bar and grab a bottle of wine. There was a cloudiness to him, or maybe you were far too drunk. You nodded and told him what the table wanted. He waved the barkeep down and placed the order. “Are you the spymaster?” He nodded once. “I’m y/n,” you stretched a hand, as much as you could within the multitude of party goers. He shook it gently with a calloused hand “nice to meet you, y/n.”

In a few minutes the four drinks were on the bar, Azriel helped you carry them back to the table. When your friends saw who was behind you their jaws practically unhinged. “Thank you, Spymaster.” “Azriel is fine” he said with a smile, and gods… that smile. “Thank you, Azriel.”

You wanted to drown yourself in the Sidra when Nomi, ever fearless, shouted over the music “does the Spymaster dance?”

“I could, with the right partner” he turned his head to look at you. “Are you inviting me to dance?"

“Yes,” now it was him who had a hand stretched your way. You did not have to convince yourself to dance with him. Putting the glasses on the table, you turned and took his hand, letting him lead you right to the dance floor.

It must have been hours that you spent dancing that night. At one point your friends came over to let you know they were going to call it. Azriel asked if you wanted to leave as well but his hips were grinding against your behind and his arms were firmly holding your waist. So you shook your head “no.” When the song changed he spun you, slotting your legs together, keeping you impossibly close. So close his nose nudged yours. By then, last calls were being made and you asked Azriel if he could walk you back to your apartment.

He led you out of Rita’s and you pointed in the direction of your place. Azriel did not let go of your hand until you stopped in front of a building and said “this is me.” He looked at the stone building, decorated with flower boxes on the windows “it's nice.”

“Can I get you some water? Something to eat?” The night could not end like this. You didn’t want this night to end at all. So when he nodded you beamed and opened the door, walking up the three flights of stairs to get to your apartment. “I have bread and…” you looked through the cabinets and were embarrassed that you had not stocked up on any groceries in weeks “chocolate chip cookies, but they are probably stale.”

“I’ll try a cookie” he bit into it and grimaced “it’s very stale, throw that away.” You giggled and threw the cookies in the trash. When you turned back to face him he was right in front of you. A hair's breadth away. “You know you’re quite beautiful,” you gulp, “you’re very handsome too.”

His hands come up to graze your cheek, “I really want to kiss you.”

“So kiss me” it doesn’t take him more than a second to bring your lips together. You hold onto his shoulders and he pushes you pack until he helps you jump on the counter. Your legs spread, wanting him to get closer, closer. He pulls back to ask “where’s your room?” You point to the door behind him and he grabs your thighs, carrying you towards a proper place to bed you.

Ever so gently, he lays you down on your bed but you stand, turning so your back faces him. “I can’t reach the zipper,” with a feather-light touch he grabs the tiny piece of metal and slides it all the way down. You pull off the straps and let the fabric pool at your feet. Turn again to face this, this time completely bare.

“Your turn,” you start to undo his buttons but he quickly takes over, throwing his clothes on the floor next to yours. Now you lay on the mattress and he settles on top of you, latching his mouth to yours once again. “Are you alright?” You notice his heart is beating erratically and place a palm on his chest to assess. “Yes, I’m-” “You’re having heart palpitations, lie down, let me do something” you push him on his back, hand still on his chest as you try to soothe the distressed organ.

“I’m a healer, I’m going to send some magic to your heart to calm it down. It won't hurt but it might feel tingly.” You bring all your concentration to his heart. “It’s really fine-” “Shh, be quiet.”

A few minutes go by and you are satisfied with his pulse. “Does that happen often? How much did you drink tonight?”

“Sometimes and a lot.”

“Well try to limit your drinking to water for the next few weeks, I’ll tell Madja to check up on you soon.”

“Perfect, now can we get back to-”

“Absolutely not, you are going to sleep right now, stay here.” You hop off the bed again and throw on a night gown, and throw him pajama pants an ex had left behind. Azriel looks defeated on the bed. “Sorry to kill the mood, but I vowed to put my patients' health first. It's not something I can turn off.”

“Now I’m your patient?”

“Everyone is a potential patient,” you say and fluff a pillow for him to lay on. “You don’t need to do that,” he grumbles.

“Just relax.” You fluff your own pillow and lay down next to him. “It happens to me too. Madja calls them panic attacks, they can happen for no reason or a million reasons. It sucks.”

“We didn’t need to stop, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah. We can try again some other time.”

“So you want to see me again?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

“The Spymaster of the Night Court doesn’t scare you?”

“Ha, good one. I can’t be scared of a patient and don't flatter yourself. You're too pretty to be scary” you teased.

“Come here,” he said and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you towards his chest. His heart steady.

“Tomorrow I’ll regret not drinking any water,” you mumble, words spilling into each other as the weight of the day crashes into you, sleep taking over.

#acotar #acowar #acofas #acotar fanfiction #acosf #azriel shadowsinger #acomaf #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel acotar #azriel x you #azriel x oc #a court of fey and flowers #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of silver flames #a court of wings and ruin

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delopsia · 8 months

Text

What it feels like to date Lewis Pullman's characters, but it's described using specific experiences.

Ingredients: ✰ Robert "Bob" Floyd, Rhett Abbott, Miles Miller, Major Major, and Harrison Knott. Warning: Contains mentions of food and vague PTSD references.

Robert "Bob" Floyd: Stuttered hello's and gazes trained on the floor. Sneaking out of social events in favor of quiet walks on the beach that end in being chased by an upset crustacean. The strum of a guitar as he plays you your favorite song. Shy smiles and binging movies. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch and gradually scooting closer until someone works up the nerve to rest their head on the others shoulder. Afternoon naps together and dramatic yawns until the other gets the idea.

Foggy glasses, niche fandom references, and inside jokes only you understand. Matching necklaces and otter plushes. Date nights to aquariums and zoos and sanctuaries. Borderline swearing and giggling at his poorly swapped words because he's afraid to say 'fuck'. Sharing embarrassing stories to cheer each other up. Always walking hand in hand. Kisses on cheeks and bear hugs that nearly swallow you whole.

Rhett Abbott: Wayward glances from across the bar and taking his hat off when he introduces himself to you. Spurs jingling as he walks you to his truck and him running ahead to hold the door for you. Watching him search for you in the crowd. Adrenaline-filled kisses that knock you off your feet. Greedily squeezing his biceps and hoping he doesn't catch onto you. Splitting gas station snacks and stopping by to see you while he's running errands. Kissing his bruised knuckles after a bar fight.

Putting his hat on your head and watching the way his eyes darken. Late-night drives and horseback rides across the ranch. Late-night conversations in the bed of his truck. A scruffy cheek squishing against yours to make you laugh. Dancing in the light of his headlights. Staying up late to listen to the thunderstorm rage on. Sleeping on each other's chests and stories about old scars. Matching necklaces and cowboy hats.

Miles Miller: Batting his eyelashes at you and forgetting to say hello. Glances out of corners of eyes and panicking when your eyes meet. Covering his ears during holiday fireworks and shaky hugs after an unexpected loud noise. Matching rings when you start dating. Carnival dates, stealing bites of each other's snacks, and buying a plushie from the store because neither of you could win the games. Sharing books and cozy sweaters. Rubbing your noses together when even kisses feel like too much for him to handle.

Pressing cold feet against each other in bed and giggling when the other yelps. Dissolving into tears over kisses against scars and bearing painful insecurities, all for the other to see. Sucking on butterscotch and seeing who can blow the biggest bubblegum bubble. Open-mouthed kisses across skin and whispering the things you love about each other. Snuggling him because he drank a milkshake, knowing his tummy would get upset later.

Major Major: Lingering glances at each other's lips, heads gravitating closer and closer, too shy to make the first move. Brushes of his hand against yours while you walk together. Knick knacks left on the dash of your car and in the crevices of your home, made just for you. Blurted Iloveyou's and frantic text messages that ask you on a date and the immediate panic that ensues. Him always seeking permission before touching you. Unprovoked compliments and nearly fleeing the room after.

Wide-eyed kisses. Shaky apologies for the hands that have landed on your waist. Matching sock collections and joining him on the floor when he's too nervous to get in bed with you. A handmade ship in a bottle with two little stick-men that resemble you and him. Fingers walking across naked skin. Fighting each other with action figures and fake swords. Toying with your fingers and his jaw dropping every time he lays eyes on you.

Harrison Knott: Being late to your destination and running right smack into each other. Frantic apologies after telling a really bad joke. Sand in your clothes and owning too many sandals to count. Custom Spotify playlists, homemade cassette mix tapes, and collecting CDs at yard sales. Taking polaroids of each other on dates and swearing at the seagulls who snatch your food from your hands. Shameless matching outfits.

Sitting in his lap at a bonfire and feeling his eyes rake over your frame the entire time. Sticking bows from gifts on each other. Deep sea fishing and getting seasick midway through. Him rolling on top of you to keep you from getting up in the morning. Late night skinny dipping and falling into the backseat. Big hands drawing you in for kisses when the whole world is watching.

#dont ask how i got here #rhett abbott #miles miller #harrison knott #major major #robert floyd #robert bob floyd #robert floyd x reader #robert bob floyd x reader #rhett abbott x reader #miles miller x reader #harrison knott x reader #major major x reader #delgato's warmups #tw food mention #tw ptsd #<- if you squint but <3

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yujo-nishimura · 5 months

Text

The Escape - Part 42 - FIN

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 - Part 18 - Part 19 - Part 20 - Part 21 - Part 22 - Part 23 - Part 24 - Part 25 - Part 26 - Part 27 - Part 28 - Part 29 - Part 30 - Part 31 - Part 32 - Part 33 - Part 34 - Part 35 - Part 36 - Part 37 - Part 38 - Part 39 - Part 40 - Part 41

Warning: Buggy x fem reader, not proof-read - I am not so happy with the last chapters of this story, but I will still share it with you guys, since you all have kept on reading until now. Thanks. <3

That is the final part, thank you all for reading and sticking around - you are all amazing!

As you stand by the ship's railing, gazing out at the vast expanse of the open sea, a familiar presence interrupts your solitude. Cabaji, holding a glass of wine, joins you, extending a toast with a forgiving smile.

"So, he took on the Straw Hats all by himself?" Cabaji inquires, a hint of amusement and disbelief tinting his voice.

"Absolutely!" you respond, affirming the tale with a smile. You recognize Cabaji as Buggy's trusted right-hand man, probably aware of all the happenings on the ship and beyond.

"I'm glad you're back, Y/n. After Crocodile took you, our Captain was a shadow of his former self. He tried to act nonchalant, as if he had struck a perfect deal, but we all knew the truth. He was suffering from your absence," Cabaji confides, his words laced with genuine concern.

You fall silent, taking a sip of your wine, contemplating Cabaji's admission. The weight of trust and the challenges it poses hang heavy in the air.

"It's difficult to regain trust once it's been broken," you finally respond, your gaze meeting Cabaji's eyes, acknowledging the shared understanding.

"It is indeed," Cabaji agrees, his expression mirroring your sentiment. "And Captain Buggy will likely dedicate the rest of his pirate life to earning back your trust. And probably even try to find the One Piece just for you..”

A mixture of emotions swirl within you—apprehension, hope, and the lingering pain of past betrayals. Yet, as you stand there, the sea breeze caressing your face, you feel just relief. You had part of your life under control again. You would not let go of this now.

The two of you stand there, united in your understanding, silently sharing the weight of the journey that lies ahead. The open sea stretches out before you as you silently nip on your wine.

Back at the festivities, music fills the air, carried by the skilled hands and nimble fingers of crew members who have mastered a variety of instruments. The rhythmic melodies entice even the most reserved to sway and dance, their steps guided by the infectious energy of the moment.

As the night progresses, the ship becomes a haven of joy and camaraderie, a sanctuary where burdens are momentarily set aside. Laughter and song intertwine, creating a symphony of celebration that resonates deep within the hearts of those in attendance.

As the night sky blankets the ship in a comforting darkness, Buggy approaches you, taking your hand and sets aside his own and your glass of wine. “Follow me..!”, he whispers and then leads you to a secluded corner, away from prying eyes and the lively festivities that continue to resonate throughout the vessel. Here, in the hushed embrace of solitude, he gently pushes you against the wall of the ship.

The air is heavy with anticipation as Buggy's hand delicately grazes yours, his touch sending a shiver of warmth down your spine. His gaze, filled with a mix of adoration and vulnerability, seeks solace in the depths of your eyes.

With a tender yet nervous smile, Buggy takes a step closer, closing the distance between you. His voice, barely above a whisper, carries a weight of sincerity as he speaks:

"Y/n, I can't deny the depth of my feelings for you," he murmurs, his voice laced with a mixture of longing and vulnerability. "Every moment we spent apart made me realize just how much you mean to me. You are the anchor that keeps me grounded amidst the chaos of the pirate's life."

You smile: “I hope I am not the kind of anchor that drags you down…”

He laughs gently and shakes his head. “No, never..”

A gentle breeze rustles through the sails above, intertwining with the beating of your hearts. The world around you seems to fade into insignificance as Buggy's words resonate in the stillness of the night.

"I've made mistakes in the past, hurt you in ways I can never undo," Buggy continues, his voice tinged with remorse. "But I want you to know that I am committed to changing, to becoming the partner you deserve. Loving you is not a burden or a game to me. It is a privilege, an honor that I cherish with every fiber of my being."

His words hang in the air, suspended between you like a fragile bridge. Yet, there is an undeniable sincerity, a raw vulnerability that emanates from Buggy's every word and gesture. This is the first time he has spoken to you like this. You don't even blame the alcohol tonight. You realize it is simply because he had lost you once and was afraid of never being able to meet you again.

And then, with a trembling yet determined resolve, Buggy leans in, closing the remaining space between you. The world around you fades into obscurity as his lips meet yours, a tender and passionate kiss that speaks volumes of his love and devotion.

In that stolen moment, time stands still, encapsulating the depth of your connection. The weight of his words and the tenderness of his touch affirm the sincerity of his confession. He hasn't been this gentle with you before. You enjoy every second of this new, kind Captain Buggy.

“So, shall we go to my cabin now and continue with what we had to interrupt earlier? I think no one will notice now when we are gone…”

As the whispered invitation lingers in the air, Buggy's eyes meet yours, a hint of desire flickering within them. The playful banter between you continues, charged with a mix of anticipation and mutual consent.

A mischievous smile dances upon your lips as you respond, teasingly pushing yourself against his chest. "Take me, but this time it's on my terms. No more decisions against my will," you whisper, the words filled with playful defiance.

Buggy's expression softens, a glimmer of understanding shining in his eyes. "Whatever you wish for," he replies, his voice carrying a hint of reverence.

In a sudden flourish of movement, Buggy detaches his arms, placing them strategically under your knees and behind your back. With a gentle push, he guides you to fall into his waiting embrace, capturing you securely against his chest. Laughter bubbles forth from your lips, knowing full well that he would never allow you to stumble or falter.

As Buggy reattaches his arms, he holds you close, swiftly carrying you towards his cabin. The ship's corridors become a blur as you surrender to the exhilaration of the moment, the rhythm of his steps in perfect synchrony with the pounding of your hearts.

At the threshold of his cabin, Buggy pauses, his hand resting on the doorknob. He turns to face you, a mixture of vulnerability and strength in his gaze. "Last chance to turn back, to live a different life," he murmurs, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

You meet his gaze, your eyes filled with a newfound sense of liberation and determination.

"No, Buggy. Today is the first time I truly feel free.”

#one piece #buggytheclown #buggy the clown x reader #one piece buggy #buggy x reader #buggy x you #long fanfic #long reads #nanowrimo 2023

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synnthamonsugar · 1 month

Note

one-word writing prompts, intractable, mara/eris?

Clad in thermal underlayers and the loose head scarf she wears at rest, Eris regards the Reef-purple skin-pressure suit laid out on the bunk before her in preparation for the day's mission outside the ship. Her eyes linger on its glistening glass dome helmet, boots and gloves that look almost too fashionable to be protective equipment. Next to it, a tangle of harness webbing meant to hold armor plates, supply pouches, and life support units waiting for them near the airlock of the vessel.

The elegant tech stands in contrast to the rest of the objects scattered on Eris' bunk. She didn't have much time to pack for the journey, but still managed to snag some essentials from Sanctuary. A worn field blanket, hive tablets, a leather-bound journal, dried asphodelia bound together with a string of beads, a rucksack filled with carving tools, ritual objects and mundane necessities. Visible only by its green glow, the ahamkara bone shard is nestled among the folds, and her armor lay in a crumpled heap. In the brief time they've been traveling together, Eris has managed to stake out at least this part of the ship as her own. It's comforting in its familiarity, even if it's a reminder of a place that is anything but.

"Manufactured precisely to your specifications," Mara comments, strolling into the quarters in an identical garment. It's not too different from her usual attire, Eris notes, though she lacks the usual capelette or cloak from her Dreaming City uniform, no fur ruff or badge or sash either. Combined with the tight-fitting hood that flattens out her voluminous hair, she looks distressingly bare, fragile almost, like a bird plucked clean of her plumage.

She idly picks up the suit. In its inert state, it's stretchy, the densely woven network of wires inside bumpy under her fingertips. It feels pleasantly sturdy despite being so light, but she still puts it down after a moment.

"I appreciate the effort, Mara, but I have ways to protect myself."

"And they are clever. However, I think it's prudent that your magic be spared for what lies in wait on the approach to the Pyramid."

"You underestimate the reserves of my power. It takes little more effort than breathing."

"We are entering the vacuum of space. Eris. . ." There's a pointedness to Mara's voice that pricks at her ears. She's heard this tone more on this trip than in all their years of work together, though this is the first time on the journey she's felt certain <i>Mara herself</i> is behind it. "In our joint ventures, I've always given you the freedom to operate as you see fit, as you've given me. The mission ahead is dangerous, even by our standards, and harm coming to one of us could spell doom for both. For this reason, I must insist you use the best tools available."

"How are you sure mine aren't?"

"Because mine is made with thousands of years of Awoken astronautical research."

"I am not one of your people." She makes a sweeping gesture toward her armor and hive accoutrements, "This is what works for me."

Their gazes lock in a tense moment of silence. Eris tries not to feel impressed at how well Mara manages to maintain eye contact despite their mismatched numbers. Her emotions are inflamed enough that conceding even this would feel like a defeat.

"This isn't about the suit, is it?"

Eris attempts to gather her words and fails because they aren't usually hers to say. To think about saying them at all makes her feel unlike herself, flush with an uneasy, jittery warmth. She may hide from the petty and cruel strangers of the Tower, but among her confidants she's never felt particular embarrassment about her physical condition. Had Asher not dirtied his hands with ichor helping change her bandages in the infirmary? Had Ikora not felt her horns and scales when she washed her hair early in her recovery?

So why was she hesitant to slip out of her veil and bare her face in front of Mara? Why was she self-conscious around the woman with whom she'd shared almost everything else: hope, fears, plans, secrets, even the power of life and death? At the Battle of Saturn, she thought they'd crossed the boundary between their carefully curated personae into something more vulnerable, more intimate, but perhaps she underestimated the elegant wall they'd built, mistaking secrets slid through the cracks for its fall.

Prompted by Eris' silence, Mara tries continuing. "If you feel shy—"

" — I know I shouldn't be —"

"There is nothing wrong with that, but I assure you nothing you can show me will come as a shock—"

"I don't want you to look at me and see the face of your killer."

Nary a ripple of surprise across her porcelain face. Instead, she takes a step closer, places her hands loose across Eris' shoulders, her touch cool but comforting.

"Beloved, I could see only you."

Eris feels no need to ask for Mara's word, her promise sealed with a feather-soft touch of lips.

#destiny #eris/mara #eris morn #mara sov #synnth fic

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roguerambles · 2 years

Text

Sides

Blood of Zeus Fic

I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I finally got another part of the Hera’s Daughter!ReaderxHeron fic out. I need to get the angst out of the way to get to the cute stuff haha.

But for now, Reader gets caught in the crossfire of the battleground that is Zeus and Hera’s marriage.

Image from Google.

You had to speak with Zeus.

It was not often that you sought out the King of Olympus’s company – generally speaking, the two of you rarely interacted without Mother present. But if Mother knew about you sneaking off Olympus to see Heron, then you had to assume Zeus had become aware as well.

All of Olympus – indeed probably all of Greece – had seen Zeus’s display last night – sending lightning to destroy the demons ships, to save his latest bastard from certain death. The marble halls were filled with grumbles and whispers, everyone speculating what would come next and whether the boy – Heron – would be brought to Olympus, like all the others had been.

Your sandaled feet clapped against the marble floors as you reached the door to Zeus’s perch. Courtesy dictated that you knock before entering the King of the Gods personal sanctuary, but days of fretting had frayed your nerves and instead you placed both hands on the large, ornate doors and shoved hard. The massive frames groaned noisily across the floor as the cool evening air brushed against your face and you pushed outside, your gaze immediately landing on Zeus.

He was leaning over the wall that looked down on the cloud cover, a glass of ambrosia in his hand, his pensive expression morphing into one of genuine surprise as he turned to see you enter.

…You had not particularly planned on what you would say once you had actually arrived, and for a brief few seconds you stood there in silence. Zeus did the same, his lightning blue eyes studying you with mild caution.

“…good evening.” The King said finally, briefly raising his glass in your direction.

Words tumbled around your mind like leaves in a hurricane, and when you opened your mouth they made their rather frantic escape. “I have been sneaking off Olympus.”

Zeus stared at you blankly.

“…I have met Heron.” You gripped the sides of your dress, knuckles turning white. “…several times. I met Electra too. Ares knows. Mother knows. I…You…”

Zeus shifted in place, his expression somewhere between deeply uncomfortable and faintly amused.

“…you…you know this already, don’t you?”

He nodded slightly, and for a while you simply stood there, staring at his face until something clicked in your mind and you felt like a fool. “You…you are the old man….”

Zeus took a moment to sip from his chalice, before softly clearing his throat. “…yes.” He lowered it to the nearby table, before rubbing his hands over his bearded face, looking more tired than you had ever seen him. “I will confess, I had not expected to see you approaching Electra’s home with Heron. The Fates have an….interesting sense of humour.”

The day you had met Heron, you had wandered back to his home with him after leaving the market, and had seen the Old Man – Zeus – watching you from the window. “You knew it was me?”

Zeus barked out a short laugh. “Well, yes. You did not look at all different than usual. Just…mortal sized.”

You needed to sit. You stumbled into the nearest kline, what felt likes weeks’ worth of exhaustion falling on your head. You buried your face in your hands, and faintly felt Zeus’s presence cautiously come beside you.

“…I did not tell your mother, for what it is worth.”

“Of course you didn’t.” You muttered, squeezing your eyes shut behind your palms. “Then you would have had to explain what you were doing there.”

Zeus gave a self-deprecating laugh, before taking another large gulp from his chalice. “That…that is also true.”

You both sat in silence for a while after that.

“…I suppose you must be eager to see him.” Zeus said finally, and you groaned into your hands.

“Am I that obvious?”

Zeus actually laughed at that, his large hand coming to gently pat your shoulder. “I have been young and in love before, believe it or not. I do recognise the look of it.”

“With Mother?” The question tumbled from your lips before you realised it. Zeus looked surprised, his eyes sliding away from you to peer over the balcony, into the clouds below.

“…yes.” He said finally after a few seconds of silence, a note of wistfulness in his voice. “We…were all a little younger then, I suppose.”

You had heard stories of the Great War with the Titans, of course, but Mother had made you long after that. You had never seen her and Zeus as anything other than what they were now. It was a difficult thing to imagine them as something else, something happier.

“Did you….” The question rolled impatiently on your tongue, and Zeus’s gaze flickered back to you. “Did you love her? Electra?”

Zeus’s entire face seemed to dim, a flash of guilt in his eyes. “…yes. I did.”

“…and Mother?”

Zeus stared down at you, his hand frozen to your shoulder. His somewhat startled expression melted into one of deep thought, and he was quiet for a moment. “…would you believe me if I said yes?”

Your fingers picked at the edges of your dress, but you kept your eyes firmly on the King’s. “That depends.” You straightened your back slightly. “Would you be telling the truth?”

Zeus’s lips quirked upwards. His large hand gave your shoulder a soft squeeze. “You sound like-“

“What are you doing?”

Your head snapped around towards the door. Zeus’s hand retreated from your shoulder as though it had been scolded. Hera stood at the doorway, her gaze fixed on Zeus, face twisted in anger.

Your stomach dropped. “Mother-“

“We’re going. Now.” Hera marched over to you, grabbing you wrist and tugging you sharply to your feet.

“Going?” You nearly tripped as Hera pulled you along, bewildered. “Going where-?”

Zeus frowned and rose from the bench, his chalice forgotten. “She can remain if she wishes-“

Hera barked out a hard, incredulous laugh, completely devoid of humour. “You would love that, wouldn’t you?” She spun to face Zeus, almost causing you to tumble into her. “Do not think I don’t know what you are thinking-“

“I am not-“

“Mother, please, where-“

“You think I will leave her with you?” Hera snarled, voice growing vicious and so very, very angry. “So you and your bastard can take turns? Or perhaps you are planning to share? What a delightful welcome for him. Father and son, defiling her body together as well as her mind-“

Zeus’s eyes narrowed, his frown turning sharp. “Now you are just being vulgar-“

Hera’s eyes grew wide, her jaw slackened as though Zeus had slapped her. “Vulgar?” Her voice grew higher. “Vulgar-?!”

Your head was spinning, your wrist was beginning to hurt in Hera’s vice-like grip, but your mother’s words struck you like a clap of thunder. “Welcome?” The King and Queen turned to you suddenly, as though they had forgotten you were there. Mother’s eyes grew wide as you tried to tug your hand free. “Heron is here?” You looked up at Zeus, who rubbed the back his neck almost sheepishly. “You did not think to tell me that?!”

“I thought you must have been told!” Zeus protested, his eyes darting towards Hera. “I thought that was why you had come here. Your mother has been scheming against me. She manipulated events to kill Electra, has rallied half of Olympus against me-“

“You bastard-“

“-and her price for peace was Heron’s head.”

You felt as though ice cold water had been thrown over you.

Hera released her hold on you, the air around her suddenly charged, winds tearing across the space around you as she moved to shove Zeus’s chest. He stumbled briefly, but quickly regained his footing, and you swore you felt the palace itself shake the two rulers of the Heavens seethed at each other.

“Have you not taken enough from me?!” Hera nearly screamed, the ground cracking as she stormed towards Zeus, marble and stone rendered feeble in the face of her rage. “My dignity, my throne, now you want to steal my daughter-“

“That’s not true.” You grabbed your mother’s arm, shaking it to get her attention. She whipped around to face you, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t…Mother, that….”

Even as you struggled to form the words, they rang hollow. Heron was hardly Zeus’s first bastard. Electra hardly the only lover he’d taken. It always ended the same, with blood spilled, Zeus falling into another bed, Hera’s heartbreak and rage falling on someone else.

Heron’s face flashed in your mind, Electra’s blood seeping into the ground, the Demon General standing over her-

“You can’t.” You gripped Hera’s wrist tighter. “Mother, you can’t. Heron hasn’t done anything wrong. He-“

Hera’s looked shocked, wresting out of your grip. “You’re taking his side?” She cried, pointing angrily at Zeus.

“I am not-“ You shook your head, refusing to back down. “This isn’t about sides. Heron doesn’t deserve to die! Neither did Electra! It wasn’t-“

“This is your fault.” Hera twisted away from you, her teeth bared in Zeus’s direction. “You and your bastards, all of them, you’ve poisoned her against me-“

“Mother, listen to me! This is wrong!”

Hera shook her head furiously. “You don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly. We’re leaving for the Underworld. Now.”

“I won’t.” You pulled your arm back as Hera reached for it. “I won’t go.”

Hera looked shocked for a moment, before a dark cloud came over her expression, one that made your hair stand on end. “Yes, you will.” She hissed.

“I don’t want to!”

“I don’t care!” Hera shouted, the air cracking around her. “I am your mother! You will do as I say!”

“I won’t!” You heard your voice rising, adrenaline pulsing through your veins. “And I won’t forgive you if you do anything to Heron!”

“Forgive me…?” Hera looked as though you had struck her. “Forgive me?” Emotions danced across her face, bewilderment, hurt, then cold, icy rage. “You defend Zeus’s bastard over your own mother, and you think I need your forgiveness?”

“I’m not…” Tears stung your vision, your head and chest ached horribly, a cold, dark feeling deep in your belly. “You can’t-“

“Do you think your pet bastard would forgive you if he knew?” Hera demanded, her voice low and hard as stone. “That you had lied to him? That your mother helped kill his own?”

“Hera.” Zeus finally spoke, his broad back suddenly blocking your vision. “Enough.”

Hera hissed something at him. Then you saw her long dark hair flicking in the wind, her sandaled feet clapping against the ground. “Why don’t we ask him?”

You felt as though icy cold water had been thrown on you, watching Hera’s back retreat through the doors, numbness soaking into your bones. “Wait…” Panic squeezed your chest like a vice. “Wait, wait, stop, Mother, stop-!”

You pushed past Zeus and ran after her, but by the time you caught up, Hera was already in the gardens, her presence as fearsome as a hurricane. You ran towards her, Zeus at your back, just as her gaze landed on where Apollo, Hermes and Artemis sat, a familiar head of dark hair amongst them. Heron’s face briefly filled your vision, his expression painted with confused alarm as he realised Hera was looking directly at him.

“You there.” Hera ignored both you and Zeus, her focus entirely on her target, her voice sharper than a knife. “Bastard.”

Apollo slowly rose to his feet. Slightly behind him, you noticed Hermes quietly move in front of Heron, while Artemis stood as still as a statue, her shoulders tense and rigid. Apollo cleared his throat lightly. “I am afraid you may need to be a little more specific-“

Hera flicked her wrist vaguely in Apollo’s direction, as though swatting a fly. There was a sharp crack and Apollo’s head snapped to the side with such force he was knocked to the ground, a surprised cry of pain spilling past his lips as blood burst across the marble floor.

“Mother, please, stop-“

“Hera, do not-“

Artemis rushed over to her twin’s side, while Hermes positioned himself directly between Hera and Heron. The Queen of the Heavens looked right past him, her eyes locked onto the demi-god behind him. “Heron, isn’t it?” She spoke his name the same way someone might talk about a particularly unpleasant insect. “So it is you I have to thank for my daughter’s sudden rebellious attitude.”

You wanted to run, somewhere, anywhere but here, but your feet were rooted to the marble floor. Hera stepped aside slightly, sweeping her arm wide to gesture at you.

Heron’s eyes met yours. Confusion flooded his handsome face, his eyes widening slightly as realisation struck, his mouth opening wordlessly before snapping shut.

“Heron…” You choked his name out weakly. Hera turned abruptly and strode past you, pausing to hiss sharply in your ear.

“He will disappoint you. Do not say I did not warn you.”

With those final words, she was gone. Zeus brushed past you to kneel by Apollo’s side, his wound already healing. Hermes’s shoulders sagged, a heavy sigh spilling past his lips. Artemis looked grim, her knuckles white on Apollo’s shoulder.

Heron continued to stare at you mutely. Feeling returned to your body like a bolt of lightning, and you turned around, quickly retreating into the safety of the palace.

#blood of zeus #blood of zeus reader #blood of zeus x reader #blood of zeus heron #blood of zeus heron x reader #blood of zeus hera #blood of zeus zeus #boz heron #boz hera #boz zeus #blood of zeus fic #boz x reader #boz

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ghoulelegy · 10 months

Text

A Ghoul's Sick Day

Summary :You wake up one morning feeling rather ill.

Pairing: Copia x Sick Reader

Words: 2222

Contains:

Comfort Gender-Neutral Reader Fluff Cuddling

Read A Ghoul's Sick Day on AO3 - If you prefer that.

Edit: so I am dumb and I couldn't figure out for the life of me how Tumblr works but credit goes out to @ghostussy for a major source of inspiration when it came to writing this fic. Please show them your love too <3

Meant to publish this earlier because I wrote this a while ago but editing my work took a whileeeeee - thank you for your patience <3

The blaring alarm pierced the sanctuary of sleep, yanking you from dreams that seemed to slip away like smoke. Clutching your head, you squinted at the digital numbers on your phone, plugged in to the outlet next to your bed, which is laying on your bedside table, struggling to make sense of their meaning through the haze of fatigue. Your bedroom remained dimly lit, the remnants of night clinging to the edges of the curtains. You'd called it an early night, seeking refuge in your dorm after an exhausting day of work.

Yet, as you pushed yourself to sit up, a realization dawned like a cold shower. A wave of nausea and fatigue had descended upon you the previous evening, rendering the simplest tasks a struggle. Your bones ached as though they'd been beaten, and your head throbbed with each heartbeat.

Fumbling for your glasses on the nightstand, you slid them onto your face, expecting the world to come into focus. Instead, you were met with a blur, the edges of your vision smudged and unfocused. Even the soft light filtering through the curtains felt like a searing stab, forcing you to squint and shield your eyes.

You sighed, propping yourself against the pillows, your thoughts tangled in a web of concerns. The day ahead promised a demanding schedule—classes, music practice, dinner duty, and library work. Your mind raced, thoughts colliding like stormy waves in the vast sea of responsibilities. A pang of dread nestled itself in your chest, coiling like a serpent. The urge to retreat back under the covers was strong, but the echoes of expectations and commitments held you captive.

As you stood, the room swayed slightly, the ground beneath your feet feeling more like a ship's deck in a storm. Each step required a conscious effort, as if gravity itself had conspired against you. With painstaking determination, you moved towards the bathroom mirror. A face stared back at you, the reflection drawn and weary. Dark circles marred the skin beneath your eyes, despite the early bedtime you put yourself through the day before.

A mental checklist formed, a reminder of all the tasks that lay ahead. But first, you needed to combat this relentless headache. You reached for the painkillers, hoping they'd provide a brief respite from the throbbing torment. The duo of pills slipped down your throat, followed by a quick gulp of water from your bottle - a bitter reminder of your body's protest against its own demands.

In your university attire - an oversized hoodie, worn black jeans, sneakers—you slung your backpack over your shoulder. The weight felt heavier today, each strap a reminder of the commitments you had to fulfill. You pushed open the door of your dorm, stepping into the common area of the ghouls, your fellow dorm mates. Laughter echoed, a stark contrast to the turmoil within you.

The hallway beckoned, a corridor of decisions and responsibilities. Yet, fate had its own plans, for as you turned the corner, you collided with none other than Copia, the enigmatic lead singer of the Ghost Project – and its frontman.

"Morning, Papa, I'm off for the day," you greeted him, though the words wavered slightly.

His dark eyes, framed by his unique presence, scanned you with concern. "Mio Dolce," he responded, his voice holding a touch of warmth and inquiry. "Sathanas, you don't look too good."

You smiled, the expression an attempt to reassure both him and you "I'm fine, papa," you claimed, though even behind the glasses, he could likely sense the discomfort that painted your features.

His eyebrow arched, skepticism lacing his gaze. "You sure about that?"

"Of course," you replied, your conviction wavering as his gaze held steady.

In the midst of your exchange, a notification chimed on your phone. The class you dreaded facing had been cancelled, granting you a temporary reprieve. Copia's lips curved into a faint smile. "Good. You can go rest. You seem like you need it."

You hesitated, your fingers toying with the strap of your backpack. Guilt whispered in your ear, reminding you of all that remained to be done. Yet, Copia's concern was genuine, his insight piercing through the facade you'd built.

“No, no, it’s okay, I’ll get some work done since I’m up I suppose”

His voice held a note of finality. "Try again. You don't look good."

This time, you nodded, surrendering to the truth you'd been reluctant to admit even to yourself. The unspoken weight of expectations, both your own and those of others, settled heavily on your shoulders.

"Fine" you replied.

"Good. Feel better soon, mio dolce"

"Thanks, Papa"

You head back to your room, and collapse on your bed. You haven’t bothered making it this morning. A wave of nausea enthralls your entire body once again, forcing you to bury your head into your soft pillow in an attempt to quench the sickness.

Your thoughts whirl, you feel guilty for resting. You just can't get your head to shut up. You were still rather new to the ministry, and rather terrified of disappointing any of the staff members, especially since they took you in. You see them as family.

"Ah fuck this shit. I'm fine" you talk to yourself, a habit you’ve picked up as a child and carried into your older years. You forcibly prop yourself up again and head off to the library to get some work done, and to return a book you had borrowed the week before – a book on mushroom spotting and fungi. Your head still throbs, but the painkillers eased the pain slightly.

As you approach the library, you’re struck with the sudden remembrance of a commitment - you need to do some sorting and book counting, an assignment given to you by the head librarian the day before. As a university student, you often found yourself curled up in the library researching on whatever topic intrigues you, or strange information that is needed for your coursework. The library at the ministry was quite smaller than the one on the University Campus, but it had some works that were a rarity, it was also much quieter, allowing you to focus more. The head librarian was none other than Sister Claire – one of the older Siblings. She’d allowed you to sometimes work as an assistant librarian when you weren’t too busy. It was nice work, flexible and allowed you to get some extra pocket money. She assigned you to finish stacking some books while she wasn’t there, she was gone for a couple of days. Trip or something.

A couple of hours of you stacking and organising books goes by. You notice more nausea every time you get up from a kneeling position and vice versa. You don't care.

As the early afternoon sun filtered through the windows, your fingers finally set the last book in place on the shelf. Despite the sense of accomplishment, weariness weighed heavily on your bones. Your head throbbed in an unrelenting rhythm, each pulse a reminder of your body's protests. The lyrics of 'Square Hammer' seemed to echo in your mind, a fitting soundtrack to your pounding headache. With a resigned sigh, you recognized that the painkillers had lost their battle against the relentless ache. You pressed a hand to your temple, a feeble attempt to quell the growing nausea that threatened to engulf you."

You open the door out of the library when you come face to face with Copia once more.

"What are you doing here, Mio Caro? Weren't you supposed to be resting?"

"Oh..uh I had to return a book" *it was technically the truth*

"Were you working here all morning?"

"No"

"I came in the ghouls' common room to check in on you just now. You weren't in your room. Swiss told me you were out for most of the morning" he sighs, as he places his thumb and index finger on his forehead.

"Please...rest" Copia continues "you look like you're going to collapse."

"What--no I'm not. You don't need to worry" *a wave of dizziness and nausea hit you right as you say that*

"You're taking the rest of the day off. That is an order" Copia says, a hint of sternness in his voice.

"...fine.."

"I'll call Sister to tell her that you're unwell, and you can spend the rest of the day with me. Resting.

"Y-you don't have to do that" you shuffle out those words, feeling guilty for taking up space.

"Nonsense, Tesoro."

He took you to your room, waiting for you outside your bathroom while you change into your fluffy pyjamas. You walk outside into your dorm, surprised to see him holding a one-metre-long stuffed shark in his arms.

"This is your favourite plushie right?" He asks, his eyes gently gliding over yours.

"Yeah. How did you know?" You let out a chuckle, before losing focus due to yet another wave of vertigo hitting you.

"You told me, Caro."

"Did I?" You choke out, surprised he remembers these little details about you.

"You remembered"

"Of course, I did, Caro. I care about you, you're one of our ghouls."

He leads you to his chambers, holding your arm in case you collapse, while you're holding your Blåhaj in your other arm.

"You don't think I'm weird or childish?" You ask.

"Nonsense. If it brings you comfort and you're not hurting anyone or yourself, why should I think you're weird?" he chuckles as he leads you in his chambers.

Immediately you were struck by the cocooning feeling of comfort, a gentle light dancing from the window onto the bed. There was a television facing the bed, next to the door you had just entered from. You notice yourself holding in a bit of a giggle as you notice Copia’s beloved tricycle.

"Bed or couch? What do you prefer?" He inquired.

"Umm.."

"Bed it is, it's more comfortable. Trust me on this, Caro"

He gently leads you on the king-sized bed, propping your head up with soft pillows and ploughing a blanket on top of you. You snuggle into a fetal position, holding your stuffed shark. He brings you a glass of water and some more painkillers.

Upon you taking the water and medicine you drop your Blåhaj.

"Nooo! Sharky!" you whine, grabby hands towards the shark.

"You named it Sharky? That's cute" he speaks, as he picks up the shark and gives it back to you.

"Do you want to watch a movie? Maybe something that brings you comfort?"

"Sure?"

He lets you pick a DVD of your choosing, before propping it into the DVD player. You pick your childhood favourite.

"Our technology is a bit ancient here" he chuckles "sorry about that”.

"It's fine, papa" you smile. In all honesty it brings you comfort and nostalgia for your childhood days, when your mother used to leave you at your grandparents when you were ill.

Papa takes a seat next to you, laptop on him, typing next to you, while you watch the movie. Every once in a while he'd ask if you're feeling okay still.

Halfway through the movie you feel your eyelids getting heavy. Copia takes away his laptop and removes your glasses.

"Shhh it's okay, rest."

"Mmmm" you find yourself snuggling into Copia for warmth, before waking up. "Oh shit sorry Papa" you say, a wave of embarrassment further reddening your already flushed face.

"It's alright, Caro, you can snuggle with me all you want" he says as you rest your head on his shoulder “bring it in”.

Copia's touch was a symphony of reassurance, his fingers gliding with feather-light grace over your skin. As his arm curved around your shoulders, his palm settled gently against your upper arm, creating a cocoon of security. You could feel the warmth of his touch seeping into your bones, a soothing balm that eased the ache that had settled there.

His thumb brushed against the fabric of your pyjamas, a delicate, almost absentminded gesture that sent ripples of comfort through your senses. With a tender grace, his fingers traced gentle patterns, a silent lullaby against the canvas of your arm. The pad of his thumb brushed over your skin in languid strokes, creating a hypnotic rhythm that synced with the steady beat of your heart.

As the Blåhaj plushie nestled between you, Copia's touch remained a constant, grounding force. His fingertips brushed against the curve of your shoulder, a gesture that held both tenderness and protection. It was a touch that defied words, offering solace and support in its simplicity.

With every inhalation, his chest rose and fell against your head, the sensation a soothing cadence that lulled you into a sense of calm. His arm around you created a haven—a space where vulnerability was not met with judgment.

"You'll feel better in no time" Copia whispered to you gently, his tone taking an almost fatherly whisper.

As the room bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, the tactile connection between you and Copia transcended the physical. It was an exchange of comfort, of trust, of emotions that words could scarcely capture. And within the cradle of his embrace, you found a haven of acceptance, where the language of touch spoke louder than any explanation ever could. You found yourself drifting into sleep once more.

“Good night, ti amo.”

~ Fin ~

#ghost the band #ghost fanfiction #ghost band #band ghost #papa emeritus iv x reader #papa emeritus iv #copia emeritus #papa emeritus 4 #papa iv #ghost band one shot #ghoulelegy writes

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the-martyrfication-of-the-matron · 3 months

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DIVINE WARRIORS TIME! THIS TIME SYMBOLS

Irene - The forest - She is the goddess of nature and thus always has her temple or church on the out skirts of villages where they can be closer to nature. In modern day her temples are almost always accompanied with a park.

Shade - Death / Hell - Disregarding the entire Nether in this, Shad is a god of death and unnatural rebirth, so all of his temples are accompanied by a cemetery. In areas where the zombie plague is more common, a crematorium is the second option.

Menphia - The Sun - She is a fiery goddess and the sun is a furious object. All of here temples have grand windows that face the east and west to watch the sun rise and fall. In a lot of her temples there is a hole in the ceiling in the middle of the temple so the sun can shine through during midday. The middle of her temple is normally a sparring ground making this light particularly useful at moments.

Enki- The Moon - An every mysterious man his time is the night. All of his temples have small encryptions and wards on the glass that when the moonlight hits, it conserves it for magical energy. This also creates a calming glow so that the many scholars can read late at night in peace.

Esmund - The Underground - There is nothing safer than a cave when you are looking for protection. The underground is also where you find all of the ore for swords and the stone for walls. Every guard training facility is made from stone deep in the earth as to provide the most protection and everyone of his temples has a small cave system as to provide protection and sanctuary to those in need.

Kul'Zak - The Sea - While no longer having temples as his worship has practically faded away, he is still worshipped by sailors and bards alike. Every ship has his divine symbol carved on its largest mast, and every instrument has it carved or etched into it. Many sailors will employ bards for their trips as well, a rather symbiotic relationship between the two, as Kul'Zak was as much of a sailor as a bard.

Next up - What mythological creature I associate with each divine warriors. When this will happen, whenever I finally decide on Esmunds.

Oo sorry I didn’t see this sooner I like this very much <3

#aphmau #aphverse #aphblr

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theetherealbloom · 10 months

Text

THE SILVER LINING - CH. 4

Chapter Four: What It Means To Be Saved

Summary: After aiding the Republic and the fall of the Empire, you left the Jedi Training Clan on Bogden 3 to help families needing medical care with the call of the Force. You are a kind, warm-hearted healer on Nevarro, treating the citizens and the bounty hunters. Imperial remnants still linger in the shadows, waiting to strike at the perfect moment. Leading you to assist the Mandalorian with rescuing the Child has led you to your biggest adventure yet.

Paring: Din Djarin x Empath!FemReader

Warnings: Violence, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, People pleasing, Flattery, Blood, Blasters, War, Religion References, Aliens, Sith, Character Deaths, One Bed Trope, Awkward

Word Count: 16.7k

A/N: This chapter is hella chonky and you'll probably need to sit down and have a glass of water beside you! All the likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated <3

Song: Glory And Gore by Lorde

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist

A FEW DAYS LATER…

INSIDE THE RAZOR CREST

OUTER RIM TERRITORIES, 9ABY – SPACE

You and Din share an unspoken understanding about the quiet moments you've spent waking up nestled in each other's warmth. His solid form, a reassuring presence, cradles you as his chest rises and falls beneath your head. In these stolen fragments of time, the world outside the Razor Crest seems distant, the chaos silenced by the serenity you've found in each other's company.

By some miracle of the Force – or perhaps Din's own vigilance – you always manage to stir awake before him, despite your suspicion that he might be granting you that courtesy to spare your blushes. The realization dawns on you that it has been quite a while since you've experienced such close human contact, let alone the comforting embrace of a shared cuddle. It's a sensation you hadn't realized you'd missed until it became a cherished part of your routine.

But reality, as it often does, inches its way back into your consciousness. The little haven you've carved out within the Razor Crest's confines can't shield you from the practicalities of life. Supplies are dwindling, and the pressing need for credits looms over your small makeshift family.

The days begin to pass with a sense of urgency, the atmosphere tinged with an unspoken agreement that the days of sanctuary within the ship's walls are numbered. Conversations drift towards the necessities – plotting courses for potential bounties, discussing potential jobs that would replenish your dwindling resources. Once forged in quiet companionship, your bond with Din evolves to encompass a shared goal.

In the dim light of the Razor Crest, the two of you exchange looks that speak volumes. Beyond ordinary friendship, your connection is proof of your shared will and fortitude. As the spacecraft hurtles towards space, the ship's limitations seem a little tighter, but the sense of togetherness grows.

THE ROOST, SPACE STATION, 9ABY – SPACE

The Razor Crest settles with a gentle hum as it lands within the confines of a space station's hangar bay. The resounding silence is broken by Din's voice, a mixture of vulnerability and the weight of his past. His words carry a gravity that hangs in the air, tinged with regret and the specter of mistakes long gone but never forgotten.

"I… My past isn't something to be proud of," he confesses, his tone heavy with the burden of memories he's carried. His gaze, obscured by the visor of his helmet, nonetheless holds an intensity that demands your attention. The confession hangs between you, a shared secret that bridges the gap between your lives.

Leaving the pilot's chair, Din moves purposefully to stand before you. You tilt your head slightly upward, your eyes meeting his visor, searching for the unspoken emotions that swirl within. At this moment, he bares a part of himself that he's kept hidden beneath the armor, his honesty a raw testament to the trust that's grown between you.

His voice steadies as he continues, determination blending with vulnerability, "We just need to do this job, get the credits, and then we'll leave." The gravity of his words carries a twofold promise – one of opportunity and a chance for redemption.

The backdrop of the space station hangar seems to amplify the intensity of the moment. The interplay of light and shadow casts intricate patterns across the Mandalorian's beskar-clad figure, lending an air of mystery to his confession.

Before your own apprehensions can hold you back, you act on an instinct, a desire to bridge the gap between your worlds. With a gentle determination, you reach out and take his gloved hand into yours. The sensation of his gauntleted fingers against your skin is a paradox of softness and strength, a representation of the layers that encompass him.

Words escape your lips, each syllable carrying a weight that matches his own confession. "I… I've done some things in my past that I wasn't proud of too," you admit, your voice a mixture of vulnerability and quiet strength. Your grip on his hand tightens, a silent promise that you're willing to share your own truths.

A pause lingers, a space where understanding blossoms between you. The dim light within the ship's interior paints your forms in subtle shadows and highlights, lending intimacy to the moment. As his visor-clad gaze meets yours, you see a flicker of surprise and gratitude, emotions that can only be glimpsed in the subtle tilt of his helmet.

"But…" The word slips from your lips, gentle yet resolute as if carrying the weight of your understanding. Your voice, steady and filled with empathy, paints a portrait of shared experiences and a bond forged by the paths you've both walked. "I believe you did what you had to do to survive and for the rest of the remaining Mandalorians to survive."

In that brief moment, the space between you becomes a bridge, built upon the foundation of mutual comprehension. Din's nod is a silent acknowledgment, a testament to the connection that has grown between you, despite the vastness of your differences.

A small, rueful smile tugs at the corner of your lips. His quiet nature has never diminished the strength of his words. "So… any final warnings about Ran and his crew?" you inquire, breaking the tension with a touch of humor.

Din's answer arrives with a cadence of sincerity. "They can be… nosy." A soft snort escapes you, an amused reaction to his mild description. You can't help but remark, "That's extremely polite coming from you."

His response is punctuated by a characteristic nod, a gesture that's become familiar between you two. "Ran thinks he’s untouchable, so he’s an asshole," he elaborates, and you find yourself nodding in agreement. "Go figures," you quip, giving the words a deeper layer of meaning.

The hum of the Razor Crest's engine provides a constant backdrop as you and Din navigate the weight of the situation that lies ahead. The air seems heavier, fraught with unspoken thoughts and concerns. It's in this charged atmosphere that your voice cuts through the tension.

"What are we gonna do with the kid?" you inquire, your words soft but bearing the weight of the uncertainties that loom. Your hands grip the rungs of the ladder as you descend, your gaze never leaving Din's form.

He carries the child in his arms, cradling the little being with a tenderness that belies his formidable armor. There's a certain grace in his movements, a silent understanding of the fragility of the life he now holds. He approaches the small hammock bunk, a designated safe haven within the Razor Crest. Carefully, he places the child inside and gently shuts the door, his actions a silent promise of protection.

"For now, he can stay in there," Din's voice is measured, and thoughtful, as he addresses your query. "But I don't think they'd hurt him if they see him."

The weight of his words settles in the air, a bittersweet reassurance in the face of the unknown. You lick your lips, a nervous tic, your eyes fixed on the little hammock bunk that now cradles the child. The responsibility feels heavy, a burden shared between you and Din.

"Okay," you say, your tone a mix of resignation and resolve. It's a term that encapsulates your awareness of the problems that lie ahead, as well as the sacrifices you're both ready to make to protect the safety of the innocent life that has been entwined with your path.

As you stand in the silent nooks of the Razor Crest, the link you have with Din is strengthened by the unseen pledges you've made to protect, lead, and persist in the face of hardship.

Stepping off the Razor Crest, you find yourself walking in tandem with Din, your steps synchronized as you take in the bustling surroundings of the space hub. The air hums with activity and curious gazes follow the two of you as you navigate through the crowd, a sense of purpose guiding your path.

The voice of an old man cuts through the ambient noise, drawing your attention. His grey beard gives him a distinguished air as he addresses Din, his nickname "Mando" echoing in the air. You remain silent, remembering the need for discretion in front of outsiders. Din acknowledges the man's greeting with a nod, "Ran."

There is a lingering sense of familiarity between them, the type that comes from having experienced the same things in a world full of unknowns. Unspoken bonds that go beyond words are formed when they shake hands. However, Ran notices your presence and turns to face you, a look of interest on his face. You catch his eyes and, in an act of politeness, you coolly and detachedly say your initial name. His handshake is stiff and courteous, masking his acute eye for detail.

With a knowing twinkle in his eyes, Din starts to lead the way through the busy space station, and Ran's focus returns to him. Your path is accompanied by the steady clatter of footfall, which blends with the distant hum of equipment.

His comments are infused with a curious familiarity that reflects the web of relationships that ties people together in this uncertain world.

"You know, to be honest, I was a little surprised when you reached out to me. You know, 'cause I... I hear things. Like, maybe things between you and the Guild aren't workin' out," Ran remarks, his voice a mixture of inquiry and understanding. Din's response is succinct, a testament to his resilience, "I'll be fine."

Ran's nonchalant shrug and raised hands speak of a tacit acceptance of the enigmatic Mandalorian way. The undercurrent of trust that exists between them is palpable, encapsulated in a simple phrase: "Okay. Well, you know the policy. No questions." As the trio continues to navigate the space hub, Ran extends his hospitality, a gesture that holds a promise beyond words. "And you, you're welcome back here anytime," he adds, the sentiment echoing in the air like a secret promise of mutual respect.

In the midst of the space hub's bustling activity, Ran's voice cuts through the ambient noise, his words directed at both you and Din. The undertone of urgency and intrigue colors his speech, a blend of desperation and determination. "Yeah, one of our associates ran afoul of some competitors and got himself caught. So, I'm puttin' together a crew to spring him," Ran's words hold a weight that hangs in the air, thick with unspoken implications. His gaze shifts between you and Din, assessing your potential contribution. "It's a six-person job. I got four."

As his smug gaze rests upon you and Din, the corners of his mouth curl with self-satisfied confidence. The challenge is clear in his expression, "All I need is the ride, and you brought it."

Din's response filters through his helmet's modulator, his words tinged with a hardness that echoes his internal conflict, "The ship wasn't part of the deal."

Ran's sneer is unwavering, and he fixes a cold determination in Din's vizor. He responds, "Well, the Crest is the only reason I let you back in here," and the tension between them is evident. Din's head tilts slightly, his silence revealing a boiling intensity beneath the cool exterior. A tempest brews within him, the turmoil and frustration reflected in the vibrant aura swirling around him. Deep maroon intermingles with silver, a dance of emotions that transcends words.

Your gaze shifts between Din and Ran, capturing the clash of energies that defines this moment. Ran's aura shimmers in shades of yellow and black, a discordant mixture that carries the essence of deceit, betrayal, and a lingering hint of cowardice. The tension escalates, your own emotions echoing Din's as you grit your teeth in the face of Ran's audacity.

The conversation continues, with Ran's laughter tinged with mockery as he reads Din's expression: "What's the look? Is that gratitude? Uh-huh. I think it is." As he walks away down the metal bridge, you and Din are left with no choice but to continue along the path of necessity, which is paved with the ethical complexities of a universe that necessitates compromise.

Resigned to the circumstances, Ran orchestrates the introduction, pulling you both deeper into the enigmatic weave of this operation. His words take on a certain gravity, introducing you to a bald human male associated with a sharp, unyielding gaze. "Hey, Mayfeld."

The man, Mayfeld, turns his gaze toward Ran's voice, his features displaying a sense of readiness. "Yeah?" he responds, a note of curiosity tinging his tone. His attention shifts to you and Din as Ran's hand gestures towards you both, drawing you into the center of this web of intrigue. "This is Mando," Ran introduces with a significant pause, a pause heavy with the weight of their shared history. "The guy I was tellin' you about, and his girl. We used to do jobs way back when."

The heat creeps into your cheeks as Ran's words hit the mark, your instincts urging you to clarify the situation. But before you can interject, Din's touch on your wrist reassures you, his grip light yet firm. It's a subtle reminder to keep your emotions in check, to let the past remain shrouded in enigmatic ambiguity. His unspoken guidance encourages silence, a lesson you've learned to read between the lines. You nod and Din releases your wrist gently.

As the three of you stand in the midst of this orchestrated reunion, Mayfeld's entrance into the scene carries an aura of skepticism. His deliberate and measured steps lead him towards you and Din, his gaze sharp and analytical. The hint of doubt lingers in his tone as he questions, "This is the guy?"

Ran, the orchestrator of this nostalgic rendezvous, affirms Mayfeld's query with a nod, a nostalgic grin touching his lips. "Yeah, we were all young, tryin' to make a name for ourselves." A chuckle dances in his voice, the echo of bygone days resonating in the present. The story he spins is one of camaraderie and shared ventures, anchored in a memory-rich past. "Yeah, but runnin' with a Mandalorian, that was… That brought us some reputation."

Mayfeld's curiosity takes a turn, his gaze settling on Din as if assessing the truth behind the legend. A subtle inclination of his chin signals his unvoiced inquiry about Din's stake in this shared history. Ran, ever the raconteur, takes the cue and indulges Mayfeld's curiosity, his laughter weaving through the words. "Oh, yeah? What did he get out of it?"

Ran's gaze shifts towards Din, a glint of amusement lighting his eyes as he recalls a past conversation. The air remains still, Din holding his ground, refusing to be drawn into the narrative. Yet, Ran plays his part with gleeful abandon, delivering Din's retort as if it were a punchline to a cosmic joke. "Target practice. Target practice! We did some crazy stuff, didn't we?" The laughter that follows carries a tinge of nostalgia, a reflection of a past that shaped the present.

In the midst of this conversation, your gaze shifts to Din's helmeted face in a quiet effort to uncover any unsaid feelings hiding under the stern demeanor. The dialogue is punctuated by Din's voice, which is unperturbed and devoid of humor, lending the remembrance a somber tone. His words carry weight, a witness to the passage of time and the change it brings, "That was a long time ago."

In the air heavy with the weight of shared history and unspoken truths, Ran's words hang like a pivotal decision. His gaze shifts between you, Din, and Mayfeld, each word laced with implications of past and present. "Well… Well, I don't go out anymore. You understand?" His tone carries the weight of a life chosen, of paths diverging. The mantle of leadership, however temporary, shifts to Mayfeld as Ran continues, "So, uh, Mayfeld, he's gonna run point on this job. If he says it, it's like it's comin' from me. You good with that?"

Din's response is a hushed symphony of assertiveness. His gaze, unwavering and unyielding, locks onto Mayfeld. The unspoken challenge is palpable as he states, "You tell me." The encounter holds an undertone of energy, a battle of wits that crosses words.

Ran's laughter cuts through the tension, a wistful echo of times long gone. "You haven't changed one bit." The shared history he refers to is as much a testament to continuity as it is to change. Mayfeld's reaction, however, is one of stark contrast. "Yeah, well, things have changed around here."

The spotlight shifts to Mayfeld, his role in this unfolding narrative becoming clearer. Ran's affirmation of his prowess echoes through the space. "Yeah, well, Mayfeld, he's… He's one of the best triggermen I've ever seen." But the sentiment is punctuated with an air of irony, as Din interjects, "That's not saying much." Their talk has a hint of rapport to it, a familiarity formed from past experiences.

However, Mayfeld's response is swift, his tone sharp and defensive. "I wasn't a stormtrooper, wiseass." Din's silence in the face of this retort speaks volumes, while you, raising an eyebrow in response, silently acknowledge the rebuff. Mayfeld's footsteps carry him away, his demeanor a blend of defiance and self-assuredness.

“Don't take long, does it?” Ran says while chuckling, walking towards Mayfeld with you and Din having no choice but to follow. As Mayfeld and the rest of you walk towards the Crest, Mayfeld comments, “Razor Crest? I can't believe that thing can fly. Looks like a Canto Bight slot machine.”

The air becomes thick with unspoken tensions, like an electric charge pulsating just beneath the surface. Your breaths come quicker, shallower, and your throat feels like it's constricting with every beat of your heart. The anger that simmers within you threatens to erupt, a caustic mix of frustration and indignation. Your fingers clench around the fabric of your clothes as if holding onto that tangible thread of restraint is the only thing preventing the floodgates from opening. The darkness gathers at the edges of your consciousness, the urge to react in kind to their dismissive attitude and pointed jabs a fierce battle against your self-control. It's a storm brewing, fierce and furious.

In the midst of this internal tempest, Mayfeld's words resonate like distant echoes, his casual explanations drifting in as if from another world. “The good-lookin' fellow there with the horns, that's Burg.” His gesture towards the red-skinned Devaronian, whose presence seems almost trivial amidst the maelstrom of emotions raging within you, barely registers.

Burg, seemingly unaffected by the tension, sets down a crate and then approaches Din. The casualness of his movements juxtaposes the turmoil that churns within you. Meanwhile, Mayfeld's words carry on, delivered with a nonchalant tone that feels like salt on a wound, “This may surprise you, but he's our muscle.” The nonchalant disclosure of Burg's role feels like a direct challenge, a deliberate attempt to provoke a reaction.

As they carry on, your grip on your clothes remains steadfast, the tension building as if holding a dam against the surge of your emotions. Every fiber of your being yearns to vent, to express the frustration building inside you, but you hold firm, teeth gritted, unwilling to let their provocation break through your defenses. The darkness and the anger roil within, yet you maintain a fragile equilibrium, aware that giving in now would only feed into their perception of you.

Burg's gruff voice rings through the air, a snarl underlining his words as he positions himself squarely in front of Din, his demeanor dripping with mockery, “So, this is a Mandalorian.” His eyes gleam with a taunting challenge as he moves around Din, his voice dripping with condescension, “I thought they'd be bigger.”

The Devaronian's disdainful circling doesn't go unnoticed, and the tension in the air grows palpable, the invisible threads of animosity weaving tighter around the group.

As Mayfeld's gesture draws your attention, your gaze shifts to the approaching Q9-0 droid, its awkward waddle reminiscent of an overgrown insect. “Droid's name is Zero,” Mayfeld announces matter-of-factly, his words carrying a casual tone that contrasts sharply with the mixed emotions swirling within you.

Turning your attention to Din, you catch the subtle shift in his posture, a minute tensing of his shoulders that belies his true feelings. You've come to know him well enough to discern his unease, and the presence of the droid clearly isn't sitting well with him. You silently make a mental note to broach the subject later, knowing that whatever history he has with droids is undoubtedly a complex one.

The atmosphere thickens with an undercurrent of resentment, an indignant fire kindling within you as Burg's mockery and Mayfeld's offhanded comments chip away at your patience. Beneath the calm facade, you're fighting to uphold, a storm brews, a visceral reaction against the selfishness and disrespect you witness. Your internal switch is flipped, your very core recoiling from the sight of someone deliberately attempting to provoke a good and faithful person like Din.

Din's voice cuts through the air with a sharp edge, his skepticism, "I thought you said you had four." His words hang for a moment, and right on cue, a female voice, smooth as silk and laced with a teasing edge, emerges from behind you two, "He does."

Both you and Din pivot around to face the source of the voice, your eyes landing on a charismatic purple-skinned Twi'lek. Her lithe movements exude confidence as she gracefully closes the distance between her and Din, her hips swaying in a rhythm that mirrors the sway of her lekku.

"Hello, Mando," she purrs, her tone oozing with familiarity.

Din’s response is curt, his words void of any semblance of warmth, "Xi’an."

The Twi'lek's demeanor shifts in a flash as she lunges, the knife she had been casually twirling in her fingers finding its place against Din's throat. Despite the sudden threat, Din remains unfazed, his visage a portrait of unyielding calm in the face of danger.

Beside him, you react instinctively, your fingers curling around the hilt of your saber, its reassuring weight grounding you. Dark thoughts whisper in the corners of your mind, urging you to react more aggressively, but you quell them with an effort. Your focus sharpens, your senses heightening as you prepare for any outcome.

With a venomous hiss, Xi'an's words slice through the air, her intent clear and unapologetic, "Tell me why I shouldn't cut you down where you stand?" The air becomes charged with tension, her blade a mere breath away from making contact.

Din's retort drips with dryness, his voice cutting through the laughter that ensues, the sarcasm a protective shield he wears, “Nice to see you, too.” Amidst the collective mirth, you and Din remain the exceptions, your guard firmly in place.

Xi’an's purring words snake through the air, a mix of familiarity and provocation, as her knife traces a path along the beskar armor adorning Din's frame. Her gaze narrows, evaluating him with a mixture of appraisal and something more. “This is shiny,” she remarks, her tone almost admiring. A soft, almost mischievous click of her tongue follows, "You wear it well."

While the others seem to find amusement in the reunion, your eyes roll almost involuntarily. The jealousy that simmers within you is undeniable, but you push it aside, focusing on the situation at hand. A flash of protective instinct courses through your veins as Xi’an's advances intensify.

Unwilling to stand by, you interpose yourself between Din and Xi’an, employing a shove to dislodge her presence. Your voice is firm, cutting through the tension, "Alright, back off."

Xi'an's eyes narrow further, her gaze now entirely fixated on you, as if sizing you up. Her lips curl into a wicked smile, and she utters words designed to sting, each syllable laced with a calculated venom, "Well, well, look at this... Mando's new pet. Guess he got tired of real warriors and settled for a stray." The derisive sneer in her voice is palpable, a cutting reminder of her history with Din, meant to hit you where it hurts the most.

You feel the urge to lunge forward, ready to let loose your own tirade, Din's arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer to his solid frame. You could almost feel his warm breath ghost over your ear as he speaks softly, his voice a soothing balm, "Calm down, cyar'ika. She’s not worth it."

Mayfeld's bemused gaze oscillates between the three of you, his voice laced with humor as he suggests, “Do we need to leave the room or something?”

In response, Ran chimes in with a hint of sardonic nostalgia, revealing more about Xi’an's feelings, “Well, Xi'an's been a little heartbroken since Mando left our group.” Mayfeld takes the opportunity to mockingly address her, “Aw. You gonna be okay, sweetheart?”

Xi'an's smile takes on a flirtatious edge, her eyes locking onto Din's with an almost predatory allure. "Oh, I'm all business now," she purrs, her voice dripping with suggestion. "Learned from the best." Her deliberate fluttering of lashes at Din feels like a challenge to your patience.

A low growl rumbles in your throat, a guttural response to the surge of possessive anger and jealousy welling up within you. Your body tenses, ready to spring forward, but Din's arms wrap around your waist with a reassuring yet firm hold, anchoring you to his front. His presence is a calming force, a reminder that your emotions must be tempered, even in the face of such provocation.

Ran's authoritative voice cuts through the charged atmosphere, acting as a mediator between the tension that hung thick in the air. "All right, lovebirds. Break it up till you get on the ship," he commands, herding the rest of the group to move along. As Xi'an saunters away, her lingering wink at Din feels like a final provocation, a reminder of the emotions that had flared so intensely.

Your chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, the storm of emotions still swirling within you. Din's voice, calm and even, pierces through the turmoil. "You're usually not this violent," he remarks, his words acting as an anchor that grounds you in the present.

His statement triggers a moment of clarity, snapping you back to yourself. Blinking, you shake off the remnants of your reaction. Din's firm hold on your waist and his touch is a constant reassurance, grounding you further. Your voice wavers as you begin to speak, "Oh, I…"

Din guides you to face him, his hands on your hips inviting you to meet his gaze. Your gaze falls momentarily to his beskar chest plate, your cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. His gloved hands gently lift your chin, compelling you to look up at him through the vizor. Stammering, you try to explain, "I… I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. I…"

His response is measured, his words carrying a depth of sincerity. "Don't apologize. I appreciated it," he admits, his admission causing a soft flutter within you. A pause follows Din, searching for the right words amidst the unspoken emotions. "No one has ever… defended me before. It… it felt nice."

The sincerity in your voice strikes a chord within him, and your words resonate in the charged air. Your eyes widen as you fully grasp the impact of your defense. "I didn't like what they were saying to you," you confess, your tone a blend of protectiveness and empathy that echoes through the space between you. "They were being mean, and you didn't—don't deserve that. Ever." Your honesty hangs in the air, tangible and raw, forging an unspoken bond between you that seems to deepen with every uttered word.

Din's helmeted gaze remains steady on you, his silent gratitude is evident. "This is the Way," he responds, a testament to the Mandalorian code governing his actions. You offer him a small smile, your affection and support unwavering. Gently, you cup the side of his helmet, your touch tender and laden with unspoken emotions. Din's gloved hand meets yours on his helmet, his fingers gently brushing against your wrist.

The weight of the upcoming mission and the necessity to keep up with Ran and the rest of the team tug at your consciousness as you slowly start to separate. Even though the moment may have ended, the words said to remain in the air as a tacit pledge of sympathy and support that will get you through the difficulties ahead.

The atmosphere grows tense as Mayfeld's holographic display illuminates the room, depicting the fortified transport ship. His voice is matter-of-fact as he lays out the plan, "So, the package is being moved on a fortified transport ship. We got a limited window to board, find our friend, get him out of there before they make their jump."

Your brows furrow in contemplation, a cascade of thoughts racing through your mind. Beside you, Din vocalizes the concern that had crossed your thoughts, addressing the rest of the group, "That's a New Republic prison ship. Your man wasn't taken by a rival syndicate. He was arrested."

With a smug grin, Mayfeld leans in over the table, his confidence undaunted, "So what?"

Burg's gruff grunt resonates with the sense of practicality that seems to underpin the group's operations. Ran's casual shrug further emphasizes the notion that business often transcends the nature of the task, as he remarks, "A job is a job."

Din's voice, laced with a tangible caution, interjects, "That's a max security transport, and we're not looking for that kind of heat." Yet Ran dismisses his apprehension with a casual wave, as if the potential risks were of no concern, countering, "Well, neither are we. So just don't mess up."

Xi'an's presence nears Din, her calculated steps revealing a self-assuredness that matches her words. Her sharp teeth gleam in the dim light as she inquires, her voice both playful and provoking, "The good news for you is the ship is manned by droids. Still hate the machines, Mando?"

The familiar hum of the Razor Crest's engines fills the hangar bay as the droid Zero returns from his systems check, his mechanical voice projecting a sense of detachment, "Despite recent modifications, the ship is still quite a mess. The power lines are leaking, the navigation is intermittent, and the hyperdrive is only operating at 67.3% efficiency. We have much better ships. Why are we using this one?"

Ran, seemingly unfazed by the droid's assessment, offers a response with a trace of confidence, "'Cause the Razor Crest is off the old Imperial and the New Republic grid. It's a ghost." Mayfeld chimes in, elaborating on the strategic choice, "Yeah, and we need a ship that can get close enough to jam New Republic code."

The hologram shifts under Mayfeld's command, revealing their plan for entry. He gestures towards the projection, explaining, "So, when we drop out of hyperspace here, if we immediately bank into this kind of attitude, we should be right in their blind spot, which will give us just enough time for your ship to scramble our signal."

Din, ever the pragmatist, voices his doubts, "It's not possible. Even for the Crest." Ran nods towards the droid, their solution to the challenge, "That's why he's flyin'."

Mayfeld's laughter resonates through the hangar as he heads inside the ship, leaving the group to prepare. Ran's attention shifts to Din, a knowing look in his eyes as he remarks, "Mando, I know you're a pretty good pilot, but we need you on the trigger. Not on the wheel."

Zero's articulated fingers snap, a gesture that coincides with its proclamation, "Don't worry, Mandalorian. My response time is quicker than organics. And I'm smarter, too."

Ran dismisses the droid with a shooing motion, a wry smile playing on his lips, "All right. I... Yeah. That's good." As Zero boards the Crest, Ran turns his gaze to both you and Din, his tone shifting slightly, "Forgive the programming. He's a little rough around the edges. But he is the best."

Din, ever cautious, questions the droid's reliability, "How can you trust it?"

Ran's response carries a touch of irony, "You know me, Mando. I don't trust anybody." As you and Din embark onto the ship, positioned by the ramp, ready to seal it, Ran's tone lightens, his words tinged with nostalgia, "Just like the good old days, Mando. Huh?"

With a decisive press of a button, Din activates the mechanism, causing the ship's ramp to ascend smoothly. The low hum of the ship's engines blends with a soft hiss as the Razor Crest gracefully disengages from the space station.

THE RAZOR CREST, 9ABY – SPACE

Both you and Din observe Zero, the droid, diligently operating the flight computer, his metallic fingers deftly navigating the hyperspace calculations. "Calculations complete. Jumping to hyperspace now. Feel free to join the others. I will handle it from here," Zero announces, his mechanical voice devoid of any emotion.

With limited options, you leave the flight deck, descending the ladder into the cargo hold, Din following suit. As you hop down, your eyes catch Burg prying open Din's gun cabinet. A glance at Din prompts him to react swiftly, a press of a button on his bracer causing the cabinet doors to snap shut, securing his weaponry.

Burg's displeasure is evident, and he attempts to engage the mechanism leading to the child's safe room. Din's hand clamps around Burg's wrist, a clear message that snooping around his possessions is not tolerated. Burg emits a low growl, his discomfort evident. Mayfeld intervenes, playing the role of a referee, his voice a soothing note amidst the tension. "Hey, hey, hey. Okay. Okay. Okay, I get it. I'm a little particular about my personal space, too. So, let's just do this job. We get in, we get out, and you don't have to see our faces anymore."

Burg's inquiry breaks the silence, “Someone tell me why we even need a Mandalorian,” his skepticism directed at Din's presence. You instinctively move closer to Din's side as Burg's gaze pierces. Mayfeld responds with a mixture of fact and myth, "Well, apparently they're the greatest warriors in the galaxy. So they say."

The snide remark follows, "Then why are they all dead?" Din remains unfazed by the jibe, his silence serving as a retort that speaks volumes. Laughter ensues amongst the group, but beneath your calm exterior, the tempest of your suppressed anger churns like waves against a shore.

Intrigued, Mayfeld presses on, his curiosity directed at Din's abilities, "Well, you flew with him, Xi'an. Is he as good as they say?"

Xi'an's smile is cunning as she balances a knife on her fingertip, her gaze locked onto Din. "Ask him about the job on Alzoc III."

Your attention swivels towards Din, his response anticipated. He keeps it succinct, "I did what I had to."

Xi'an's laughter carries a knowing edge as she playfully points her knife at Din, her eyes narrowing with a calculated intensity. "Oh, but you liked it. See, I know who you really are."

Your brows furrow, doubts creeping in as you ponder whether you truly knew the depths of Din's character. Fault lines tremble underneath your glass house, but you will yourself to push it down, trying your best not to let it show across your face.

"He never takes off the helmet?" Mayfeld questions, his curiosity apparent in his tone. Xi'an, in response, mockingly places a hand over her chest, her fist clenched in a mock salute as she echoes, "This is the Way."

The urge to grind your teeth is nearly overpowering, your jaw clenching as your eyes narrow at Xi'an's display.

"I wonder what you look like under there. Maybe he's a Gungan. Is that why yousa don't wanna show your face?" Mayfeld's taunt cuts through the air, a palpable jeer aimed at Din.

They all guffaw at that and by this point, the crew seems intent on testing your limits. Din remains adept at maintaining a façade of detachment, but for you, their provocations are as clear as day. Their mocking tones, their envy, and the swirl of colors in their auras – the varying shades of yellow, black, and red – are almost perceptible.

Mayfeld's inquiry hangs in the air like a challenge, laced with a touch of mockery. "You ever seen his face?" he questions Xi'an, his tone a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Xi'an's response is teasing and coy, as if she's savoring a well-kept secret. Her lips curl into a knowing smile as she softly gasps before her words come forth, "A lady never tells."

Mayfeld's smugness only grows, his eyes locking onto Din, determined to push his buttons. "Aw. Come on, Mando. We all gotta trust each other here," he goads, leaning into the provocation. "You gotta show us somethin'."

You and Din maintain your stoic stance, your collective resolve unyielding. Yet, Mayfeld remains relentless, his voice dripping with taunting insistence. "Come on. Just lift the helmet up. Come on. Let's all see your eyes."

A simmering fuse inside you, long-held but now ignited, transforms into a tempest of emotions. It's as if crashing waves of pitch black and pale blue swirl within your core, a tumultuous sea that surges and roars. The spark of this intense turmoil travels down the wire of your patience, each second counting down to the impending explosion of pent-up anger. The echo of this emotional turbulence reverberates through your being, akin to a widening equator, traversing a landscape of suppressed frustrations. The crescendo of dissonance builds, orchestrating your emotions into a fevered symphony, each note tuning itself with rapid intensity. In that charged moment, the threads of your self-control fray, and the brewing storm inside inches ever closer to release.

Burg goes up and positions himself in front of Din, saying, "I'll do it," clearly intending to remove Din's helmet.

As though a switch has been flipped, the storm within you roars to life. A torrent of dark thoughts, rage, and frustration surges to the surface. You're caught in a whirlwind of emotion, your surroundings narrowing into a tunnel vision. In this maelstrom, your actions become almost instinctual, driven by an overwhelming tide of intense feeling.

In the blink of an eye, you position yourself protectively in front of Din. Your arm extends in a swift and assertive motion, fingers flexed like the claws of a predator. Burg's imposing figure is abruptly brought down to his knees, a desperate struggle for breath filling the air. Your own breathing is labored, heavy with the rush of power coursing through you. The storm of emotions within has transformed into a tempest of action.

Mayfeld and Xi'an react swiftly, moving to intervene, but your focus remains unyielding. Your other arm extends, palm outstretched, fingers acting as a conduit for the Force. A powerful surge of energy emanates from you, forcefully pushing both Mayfeld and Xi'an back, slamming them against the opposite end of the cargo hold. Your control over the Force is unwavering, fueled by the potent mixture of emotions swirling within you.

However, amid this whirlwind of power and action, a crucial detail slips your notice. In his flailing struggle, Burg accidentally triggers a compartment to open, its contents exposed. Within that compartment lies the Child, vulnerable and exposed, an unintended consequence of the chaotic scene unfolding around you.

A shock of realization courses through you, widening your eyes as the gravity of the situation hits you like a physical blow. In that split second, your grip on Burg relinquishes its hold, and he staggers forward, struggling to regain his breath. Your rapid step back inadvertently leads you to collide with Din's solid beskar-clad chest. The sudden impact jars you, but it's the overwhelming surge of fear from within that renders you momentarily speechless.

The atmosphere in the cargo hold becomes almost suffocatingly dense, each heartbeat seemingly echoing in the quiet aftermath of your impulsive action. Swallowing hard, you wrestle with the knot of anxiety that's taken residence in your throat. From where you stand, you can see Mayfeld and Xi’an pulling themselves up from the floor, their attention now fixed on the exposed compartment.

With a mix of curiosity and disbelief, Mayfeld's voice breaks the silence, "Whoa! What is that? You get lonely up here, buddy? Huh?" His gaze shifts to you and Din, his words taking on a taunting edge, "Wait a minute. Did you two make that? Huh?"

A pointed raise of your eyebrows is your retort, your fury simmering just beneath the surface. Mayfeld's gaze meets yours, and his words drip with a mixture of sarcasm and insinuation, "A Mandalorian and a Jedi, who knew…"

Your nostrils flare as your teeth grind together, a flare of defiance emanating from you. You respond in a tone that holds both irritation and rejection, "I am no Jedi."

Mayfeld doesn't miss a beat, his taunting tone persisting, "What is it, like a pet or somethin'?"

Din's voice, soft but firm, emerges from behind you, "Yeah. Something like that."

Xi’an interjects, her words loaded with provocation, her gaze alternating between you and Din, "Didn't take you for the type. Maybe that code of yours has made you soft."

A mirthless chuckle escapes Mayfeld as he comments, his tone carrying a hint of indifference, "Me, I was never really into pets. Yeah, I didn't have the temperament. Patience, you know? I mean, I tried, but never worked out."

Your jaw remains clenched, your patience wearing thin as Mayfeld's words scrape at your nerves. And then, his words take an unsettling turn, his tone turning almost casual as he lifts the Child in his arms, "But I'm thinkin' maybe I'll try again with this little fella. Huh?"

The sight of him holding the Child triggers an instinctual protectiveness within you. Your voice is a low, warning growl, "Put a single scratch on him and I will make sure you beg for mercy." The intensity in your tone leaves no room for doubt – this is not an idle threat.

"Dropping out of hyperspace now."

The transition from hyperspace to real space is abrupt, the jolt reverberating through the Razor Crest as it emerges above the New Republic prison ship. The ship executes a sharp, evasive maneuver, causing its occupants to stagger; the Child, unfortunately, loses balance and falls, his tiny voice emitting a startled cry.

“Commencing final approach, now. Cloaking signal, now.”

Reacting swiftly, you and Din reach for the Child, his cries driving you into immediate action. With careful hands, Din gathers the child, comforting him as he places him back into his cot.

Through the intercom, Zero's voice resounds, "Engaging coupling now. Coupling confirmed. We are down. And relax. Commence extraction now."

As the ship gently rests on the prison ship's hull, Din's presence seems to work like magic on the Child. His soothing coos become a balm for the little one's nerves, casting a brief moment of serenity amidst the intensity of the operation.

“Useless droid didn't even give us a proper countdown,” Xi’an hisses in annoyance, her frustration palpable in the tense air. Meanwhile, Burg unceremoniously discards the boxes containing their equipment, his actions reflecting his impatience.

“Z, are you sure they can't see us?” Mayfeld queries, holding a comlink in his hand, his tone edged with caution. Zero's mechanical voice responds, “The Razor Crest is scrambling our signature, and I am navigating within the prison system. It's remarkable that this gunship managed to evade Empire capture.”

With a sense of purpose, Mayfeld asserts, “All right, we've got a job to do. Mando, you're up.” In response, Din promptly moves to open a hatch beneath the Razor Crest, creating an entry point into the New Republic prison ship.

A moment of hesitation lingers as the crew stands on the precipice of action. Mayfeld's uncertainty is vocalized as he scans the group, questioning, “It's me?” His inquiry is met with Burg's laconic response, “Always you.”

Mayfeld takes the lead, descending into the shadows of the New Republic prison ship, deftly avoiding the watchful gaze of several R1 Security Droids. With cautious steps, Xi’an and Burg follow suit, as they navigate through the unfamiliar terrain. In the quiet that ensues, you and Din remain on the Razor Crest's threshold, the weight of your shared decision hanging in the air. A subtle shake of your head signals your reluctance, yet you can sense Din's gaze on you, a silent encouragement. His eyes shift from you to the door concealing the Child, and you exhale slowly, striving to regain your composure. Steeling yourself, you follow Din's lead, your footfalls echoing as you make your descent from the ship's ladder, the echoes of your internal turmoil blending with the gravity of the mission at hand.

NEW REPUBLIC CORRECTIONAL TRANSPORT, 9ABY – SPACE

The urgency in the air is palpable as Mayfeld briefs the group, a sense of impending danger hanging over the mission. "All right, we're on the clock. When we engage those droids, they're gonna be all over us," Mayfeld's words hold a weight of caution. Din's response is curt and straightforward, his voice a monotone that resonates with experience, "I know the drill."

Amid the tension, the intercom crackles to life, and Zero's mechanical voice chimes in through Mayfeld's comlink, his words reverberating with calculated precision, "Bio trackers activated. I've got eyes."

Mayfeld's nod is an unspoken acknowledgment of the information as he addresses the team, with a sense of determination in his demeanor. "All right, let's go."

Navigating the ship's brightly lit corridors, blasters are held at the ready by the crew, and your fingers find the familiar grip of your lightsaber hilt. The tense atmosphere is punctuated by the presence of various humanoid and alien prisoners, their watchful eyes trailing the group as they pass. Among them, a few Imperial officers cast lingering glances, their scrutiny prompting a quiet mutter from Din, "I don't like this." The collective unease amplifies the gravity of the mission, each step forward a reminder of the risks involved.

Xi’an's laughter is a brief, sharp sound that cuts through the tense ambiance, her voice dripping with familiarity as she teases, "You always were paranoid."

Mayfeld seizes the opportunity to playfully prod further, his voice laced with a smug undertone as he seeks confirmation, "Is that true, Mando? Were you always paranoid?"

You let out an audible sigh that sounds both frustrated and impatient. You respond to the banter with a noticeable expression of irritation as your eyes roll. The gravity of the circumstance appears to heighten your annoyance as you respond, "Were you born stupid or did you take lessons?”

A sudden growl from an alien prisoner sends a jolt through the group, causing Mayfeld to practically leap in surprise. Xi’an responds with a hiss that sounds almost maniacal, her readiness for confrontation evident. Amidst the tension, Zero's voice breaks through the commotion, guiding the crew: “Approaching control room. Make a left at the next juncture.”

Following the instructions, you round the corner and continue to move with the group. Just as you do, an MSE-6 series repair droid scurries into view. Burg's reaction is almost comically misaligned with the situation as he grunts and coos, “What? It's just a little mousey. Come here, little mousey.”

Mayfeld, seemingly trying to prevent further chaos, calls after Burg, but it's too late – Burg takes a shot, hitting the droid. The clashing reactions within the group only add to the chaotic atmosphere, and you can't help but rub your temple in frustration.

And as if on cue, the unexpected appearance of four N5 sentry droids turns the situation from bad to worse. The droids immediately detect the intrusion, their metallic voices chiming, “Intruder alert. Open fire.” Seeking cover, you all scatter, taking refuge behind the edges of the corridor as blaster fire erupts around you.

“We're too exposed here,” Xi’an warns urgently, her words strained amidst the chaotic onslaught of blaster fire. Mayfeld's response is grimly practical, highlighting the stakes: “If they get a signal out, it's not gonna matter.”

“Mando, let's go! You're supposed to be somethin' special,” Mayfeld shouts, the desperation in his voice evident. With all eyes turning to where Din had been, it's undeniable – he's disappeared. Xi’an's frustration grows into a low, threatening growl while Mayfeld's accusation echoes, “I knew it. I knew it!”

Just as doubt attempts to creep in, a sight catches your eye – a flash of beskar armor and the glint of a helmet in the fray. Relief courses through you as Din re-emerges, his appearance timed perfectly with an ambush. The Mandalorian strikes from behind, moving with calculated efficiency.

The first droid falls as Din deftly slices its foot with a vibro-knife, sending it crashing to the ground. A precise shot takes down another droid, demonstrating his unmatched marksmanship. Amidst the chaos, one of the droids manages to grab Din, hurling him against a cell door. The ensuing brawl is visceral, a testament to Din's unyielding determination. Blow after blow, he fights to break free from the droid's grasp.

In a daring move, the Mandalorian employs his whipcord, toppling yet another droid with its swift precision. Unwavering, he rips off the droid's head, further thinning their opposition. Din's resourcefulness shines as he employs his flamethrower, searing the circuits of one droid before executing a pinpoint shot to the head of the fourth.

However, the conflict is far from ending. You approach the conflict beside Din, a force to be reckoned with, as you intuitively ignite your purple lightsaber, a vibrant arc of energy. Together, you navigate the frantic dance of droid advances and blaster fire. You attack the mechanical foes one by one with careful, calculated blows that dance between light and darkness.

Din steps in at just the right time, his blaster rounds precisely timed to shut off the security droid's targeting sensors as it rushes for you. The threat posed by the robot is removed when it falls. The two of you continue your onslaught as the momentum of the fight shifts in your favor. Your perfect synchronization of fighting skill plows through the remaining foes.

Amidst the chaos of battle, Mayfeld and his companions become mere spectators as the prisoners roar in exultation, their jubilant cries blending into a cacophony of alien languages. The fallen droids bear testament to your combined might, the remnants of the skirmish a testament to your prowess.

As the adrenaline-laden air gradually subsides, your attention shifts, your gaze drawn like a magnet to Din. The aftermath casts a warm, reddish hue over the scene, and his form is etched in the ambience, beskar-clad and formidable. His chest rises and falls with each deliberate breath, the gentle rhythm of his respiration a contrast to the chaos that surrounded you moments ago. Your heart flutters at the sight, your breath quickening in response.

His figure exudes a primal magnetism, a silent declaration of power and control. The beskar plates that encase him rise and fall with his breathing, sculpting his form in an almost mesmerizing cadence. Through the visor of his helmet, your gaze meets his, an unseen connection forged in that charged moment. The emotions roiling beneath your surface rise to the fore, amplified by the intensity of the battle and the closeness of your partnership.

Within the confines of your heart, a tempestuous fire rages, drawn to his enigmatic energy like a moth to a flame. His presence is a captivating constellation, a map of stars that navigates your thoughts. In his being, you've unearthed a revelation – a revelation that he's as boundless and beguiling as the universe itself, a force that holds you captive in its gravitational pull.

As the echoes of combat fade and the prisoners' cheers meld with the gentle hum of the ship, you remain rooted in the moment. Your feelings swell, words unspoken but deeply felt, an electric current that courses between you and Din. The universe has painted this canvas of fate, intertwining your paths in ways that defy explanation.

Mayfeld's voice breaks the momentary spell, “Make sure you clean up your mess,” pulling you from the intense gaze you had shared with Din. As the group begins to move away, you find yourself still standing amidst the resonances of the fight, the rush of adrenaline leaving your chest heaving with each breath. The aftermath is a lingering unseen tapestry made of energetic and emotional strands.

Din's steps bring him closer, his presence a steadying anchor in the whirlwind of sensations. He draws near, his concern evident in the subtle tension that marks his movements. His gaze meets yours, and you're acutely aware of the dilation of your pupils, a visual echo of the internal tempest that rages within you.

With your pupils dark and dilated, your eyes seem to mirror the vast expanse of space, the depths of your emotions laid bare for him to see. Your mouth is slightly ajar, the remnants of the heightened moment leaving you momentarily suspended, needing to tilt your head slightly upward to fully meet his gaze. In this charged instant, the universe narrows down to the connection between your eyes, a silent exchange that communicates volumes without the need for words.

In that suspended moment, the silence speaks volumes, a symphony of unspoken sentiments. Your heartbeats seem to synchronize, a rhythm that matches the ebb and flow of the tide in your chest. Time dances on the precipice of this interaction, and you find yourself caught within its gravity, unable and unwilling to break free.

The universe has momentarily stilled, a canvas painted with the interplay of gazes and emotions. It's a connection that transcends the physical, forging a link that words could scarcely encompass. As you stand there, the universe around you continues its dance, but within this bubble of time, you and Din share an unspoken language that's uniquely yours.

His touch is electric, a spark that ignites a cascade of sensations within you. As his gloved hand brushes against yours, a shiver courses through your frame, a response as instinctual as the pull of celestial bodies. It's as if the very universe has conspired to send a myriad of shooting stars dancing across your skin, leaving a trail of tingling warmth in their wake.

His touch lingers, a slow and deliberate movement that traces the contours of your arm, following an invisible path etched by fate itself. The weight of his touch is both grounding and intoxicating, a tangible connection that bridges the gap between you. His hand ascends with a tantalizing slowness, ascending from your hand to your forearm, and then to your elbow.

A soft hum resonates from within him, a sound that vibrates through the air and settles within the depths of your being. Its resonance is both soothing and electrifying, a sensation that seems to harmonize with the very pulse of your existence. The world around you blurs, your senses zeroing in on the symphony of his touch and the melody of his voice.

You close your eyes, surrendering to the moment, letting the cascade of emotions and sensations wash over you. The darkness behind your closed eyelids becomes a canvas upon which you paint the memory of his touch, each stroke a testament to the intensity of this connection. It's a stolen moment amidst the chaos, a fragment of time where the universe seems to pause and let you bask in the radiance of his presence.

In this suspended state, you're adrift in a sea of feelings, carried along by the tide of emotions that his touch evokes. It's an experience that transcends the physical, a communion of souls that defies words.

Din hums again, his voice husky as he speaks lowly to you, a timbre that sends vibrations down your spine, “Hm… is there something you wanna tell me, cyar'ika?”

Your eyes flutter open as you peer at him through the veil of your eyelashes, caught in a gaze that holds more unspoken promises than words ever could. “You’re not playing fair, Din,” you murmur, your voice a mixture of exasperation and desire.

He doesn’t offer words in reply, his actions speaking louder. His gloved hand travels down your arm once more, a touch that both ignites and soothes. Then, in a move that sends your heart racing, he intertwines his fingers with yours, the contact a firm yet gentle connection that bridges the gap between you two. His words are a magnetic pull, drawing you from the depths of your thoughts, “Let’s get this over with, and then we can talk more about this later, cyar’ika.”

With a wordless nod, he begins to lead you, his grasp on your hand guiding you through the corridors. Each step feels ethereal, as if you're treading on clouds, suspended between the moment you've shared and the mission that still awaits. As you walk together, hand-in-hand, the world around you seems to blur, your senses attuned solely to the warmth of his hand in yours, the echo of his voice in your mind, and the unspoken promise of what's to come.

The rest of the crew comes into view, their chatter and presence fading into the background as your focus remains firmly on the Mandalorian at your side. The job ahead beckons, a task that demands your attention, but for now, the connection between you and Din is a current that flows with an irresistible intensity, a silent understanding that no words could ever encompass.

“It seems your presence has been detected. Redirecting security alert away from your position,” Zero's voice chimes in once more, its mechanical tone cutting through the tension in the air. Mayfeld's impatience is palpable as he snaps at the droid, “Z, open the door!”

A brief pause follows, the artificial intelligence seemingly hesitant. “But I'm detecting an organic signature,” Zero interjects, its tone conveying its concern over the potential danger.

Mayfeld, driven by the urgency of the situation, dismisses the warning without a second thought, frustration lacing his response, “Yeah, okay. All right. Just open the door!”

A New Republic officer, his uniform a stark blue against the metallic surroundings, appears before your group, blaster raised and hands slightly trembling. His voice wavers as he commands, “Stop! Just stop right there.”

His breaths come quick and uneven, a clear sign of his nervousness and uncertainty. With a palpable tension in the air, he addresses your group, his voice a mix of caution and apprehension, “You put down the blasters right now.” You take a discreet step, instinctively concealing the hilt of your lightsaber, not wanting to inadvertently escalate the situation or draw undue attention to your own abilities as a Force-sensitive individual.

Mayfeld's mocking words pierce the tense air, his demeanor almost nonchalant as he circles the New Republic officer. His dry comment about the officer's shoes and belt creates an odd moment of levity, juxtaposed against the serious circumstances.

Din's voice cuts through, an edge of sternness lacing his words, “There were only supposed to be droids on this ship.” But Mayfeld seems to disregard the Mandalorian's concern, his focus firmly on the controls he's inspecting.

Amidst this backdrop of escalating tension, Mayfeld's voice takes on a hint of urgency as he narrows his attention to a specific cell, “Hang on, hang on. Let's see here. Uh… Cell two-two-one.”

However, his attention quickly shifts, and he assesses the officer with a touch of sarcasm, “All right, now for our well-dressed friend.” The officer's swift reaction, pulling out a tracking beacon, is met with a surge of panic from Mayfeld, his words a rapid stream of protest, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey, hey. Easy. Easy, egghead. Put that down. Put that down. Come on.”

In an effort to regain control and stop the situation from getting out of hand, Din speaks in an authoritative, calm voice, interjecting, "Easy," to both the officer and Mayfeld.

Mayfeld, however, is unrelenting, his anxiety palpable, “Put it down now!” Din steps in again, his voice a steadying presence, “Easy. Nobody has to get hurt here. Just calm down.” The gravity of the moment hangs heavy, the outcome teetering on a knife's edge.

Burg's puzzled voice slices through the charged atmosphere, his uncertainty hanging in the air like a question mark, "What is that thing?"

You, the embodiment of composure, provide a straightforward answer, "It’s a tracking beacon."

Mayfeld's voice leaps in, urgency punctuating his words, “He presses that thing, we're all done. A New Republic attack team will hone in on that signal and blow us all to hell. Put it down!”

Xi’an’s frustration finds voice, her tone laced with incredulity, "Are you serious?" Mayfeld’s response is swift and resolute, "Yes, I'm serious."

Annoyance ripples through Xi’an’s voice, her accusation landing with weight, "You didn't think we needed to know that tiny little detail?"

Mayfeld's voice carries a mixture of frustration and agitation, "I didn't think we'd get to this point." A tinge of disdain colors Xi’an's response, her retort dripping with irony, "Yet here we are."

The tension between them is palpable, the air heavy with unsaid words. Mayfeld's frustration escalates, his voice a crescendo, "Are you questioning my managerial style, Xi'an?" Her response is nothing short of mocking, a low chuckle escaping her lips, "No, sir."

Din’s voice emerges as a soothing beacon, an anchor in the storm, "Hey. Listen to me. Hey, hey, hey. Listen to me, okay? Look." His blaster disappears into its holster, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. Following his lead, you lift your hands too, a visual assurance to the officer that harm isn't your intention.

With a determined glance, you address Mayfeld, your tone firm and unyielding, “Hey. Put it down.”

His frown deepens, his voice more intense, “Are you crazy?”

Undeterred, you echo your words, your gaze shifting to the trembling officer clutching the beacon, “Put it down. What's your name?” The question hovers in the air, a sliver of humanity in the middle of the mayhem.

He stutters before replying, “It's Davan.”

You nod, your expression gentle as you offer your own name and introduce yourself. Turning back to him, your tone remains steady and reassuring, “Davan. We're not here for you. We're here for a prisoner. If you let us go about our job, you can walk away with your life.”

“No, he won't,” Mayfeld says, his blaster aimed unwaveringly at Davan. The tense standoff escalates as Din swiftly raises his own blaster, its cold muzzle locked onto Mayfeld, his tone firm, “Hey. You realize what you're gonna bring down on us?”

“You think I care about that?” Mayfeld's voice drips with defiance, his finger tense against the blaster's trigger. But Din remains unyielding, his grip unwavering, “We're not killing anybody. You understand?”

“Get that blaster out of my face, Mando,” Mayfeld's command is laced with an edge of desperation, his eyes narrowing at Din's unwavering stance.

Din’s helmeted head shakes almost imperceptibly, his voice like stone, “I can't do that.”

“Get that blaster out of my face, Mando!” Mayfeld's demand escalates into a furious yell, and Burg, feeling the tension surge, raises his own blaster at Din, the atmosphere crackling with impending violence. But Din anticipates the move, the flamethrower bracer extending with a threatening hiss, a wordless warning to back down.

As tensions teetered on the brink of eruption, Xi'an's blade swiftly put an end to the escalating confrontation, ending Davan's role in a fatal strike. The aftermath of her swift and ruthless action hung in the air like a heavy shroud, a stark reminder of the unforgiving tightrope they tread. Your gaze shifts to Din, his stance unchanged but the tension in the room evidently affecting him, his demeanor slightly unsettled by the abrupt turn of events.

In the middle of the mounting tension, Xi'an's command pierces the charged air and ends the argument she was having with Mayfeld. She takes the knife back from Davan's lifeless body with a nonchalant attitude while Mayfeld tries to defend his actions with the words, "Crazy Twi. I had it under control."

Xi'an's laughter is a subtle ripple of amusement that contrasts with the gravity of the situation, her dry humor punctuating the room, "Yeah. Looked like it."

The rhythmic beeping of the tracking device punctuates the room, its red glow pulsating in time with its urgent signals. Mayfeld's voice strains with panic, his words coming out in a rush, "Was that thing blinking before? Was it?"

A droid's voice resonates from the comlink, breaking through the tension, "Zero to Mayfeld. Zero to Mayfeld."

Mayfeld responds urgently, "What?"

Zero's metallic tone delivers the unsettling news, "I've detected a New Republic distress signal homing in on your location. You have approximately 20 minutes."

“We only need five.” Xi’an says happily before running down the corridor while Mayfeld commands all of you, “Let's go, let's go. Move, move, move!”

On the way, you run into a black hover security droid, but Burg hurls the droid to the floor with brute force, knocking it out. A second hover security droid appears, but Burg hurls the fallen first droid at it, knocking it out. The two droids explode into flames.

As the countdown to the impending threat ticks away, your group arrives at the prison cell. Mayfeld's command to Zero is sharp and impatient, "Z, open it up."

The droid responds crisply, "You have 15 minutes remaining."

Mayfeld's urgency heightens, a hint of desperation edging into his voice, "Come on, come on. Open it up!"

With a mechanical whir, the doors of the cell part, revealing the prisoner held within – a Twi'lek male mercenary named Qin. Din's gaze locks onto Qin's form, recognition flashing across his features. The air is heavy with unspoken history as their eyes meet.

Qin's tone is edged with wry humor, a barb aimed at Din, "Funny, the man who left me behind is now my savior. Mando."

The tension in the room tightens like a coiled spring, and just as you're trying to process the weight of the situation, Burg's aggression erupts. With a savage growl, he lunges at Din, striking him with brutal force and sending him crashing into the cell.

As the tense situation spirals into chaos, a sharp, searing sensation jolts through your body. You gasp, a high-pitched sound escaping your lips as the effects of a drug take hold. Panic surges within you, turning your limbs into leaden weights, and your surroundings seem to blur.

Your cries pierce the air as your body convulses, and in the midst of your agony, you become aware of strong arms wrapping around you. Qin's figure comes into focus, his grip firm as he lifts you effortlessly over his shoulder. The world spins as your pleas for help ring out, your voice a raw symphony of fear, "Mando! Help me!"

In the shadows cast by the unfolding turmoil, Din's form stands frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief and shock. Anguish courses through his veins, a torrent of emotions he struggles to contain. The scene before him is a nightmarish tableau, your distress etched into every fiber of his being. The tendrils of rage snake through his consciousness, coiling tighter and tighter, a tempest of anger like none he has ever felt.

As you're carried away, your voice echoing in his ears, Din's gloved fists clench, his entire body vibrating with an unquenchable fury. It's a wrath that burns brighter than the hottest star, an all-consuming fire that threatens to consume him. Every ounce of his being demands retribution, and at that moment, the Mandalorian's resolve becomes ironclad. He will unleash a storm that no one could have foreseen.

Din's gaze narrows as he peers through the small windows of his cell, his thoughts aligning swiftly with his actions. With a deft and calculated move, he deploys his grappling cable, ensnaring a humanoid New Republic security droid that strides past his confinement. The droid fights against the cable's hold, discharging blaster bolts that splinter the air and illuminate the cell's interior. The sound of metal meeting energy punctuates the struggle, an echo of determination resonating in every ricocheting blast.

Skill and unwavering purpose guide Din's hands as he manages to subdue the droid's counteroffensive, creating a brief respite from the storm of blaster fire. Amidst the lingering wisps of dissipating energy, he retrieves a severed arm from the droid, repurposing it into a tool of liberation. The cell's lock yields under his meticulous manipulation, granting him freedom.

Returning to the control room, Din surveys the array of screens and the intricate console before him. His strategic mind takes hold, weaving plans with precision born from countless battles and encounters. The rhythmic hum of technology intermingles with the rhythmic beat of his heart as he molds his thoughts into a cohesive strategy.

A symphony of calculated keystrokes and deft button presses follows as Din's fingers dance across the control panel. With deliberate intention, he commands the locking mechanism, sealing blast doors that partition the room. This division becomes a strategic maneuver, creating a barrier that cleaves Mayfeld and Qin from Burg and Xi'an, a tactical separation that enhances their chances for success.

Through the surveillance cameras, the Mandalorian's gaze remains fixed on Xi'an and Burg, their actions playing out like a holographic performance. His mind churns with calculated purpose, the cogs of ingenuity whirring as an idea takes shape. His hand descends to the floor, fingers curling around the tracking beacon. A glint of determination glimmers within his visor, setting his plan into motion.

Time passes in measured increments, each second marked by the thud of his heart. The silence of the control room envelops him, a stark contrast to the tumult that brews outside its confines. Then, like a predator sensing its prey, he perceives the Devaronian's approach. As Burg's form materializes in the entrance, the Mandalorian springs into action, his movements as fluid as the currents of a hidden river.

With a seamless fluidity, the Mandalorian ensnares Burg with his grappling cable, a vice-like grip that tightens around the Devaronian's throat. Gravity becomes his ally as he employs the cable to pull Burg upwards, an ambush executed with unyielding precision. Their confrontation transitions into an intimate dance of hand-to-hand combat, each moves a reflection of their honed skills.

Fire meets resilience as the Mandalorian deploys his flamethrower, its fierce tongues licking at Burg's form. Yet, the Devaronian presses on, seemingly unfazed by the inferno. The control room becomes an arena, an arena where every punch and parry is a symphony of strength and strategy. A console becomes a weapon, hurled by Burg with the ferocity of a beast asserting dominance.

In the distance, Xi'an's sharp ears catch the rumblings of the altercation, a discordant melody that sparks concern. Her steps hasten, her movements propelled by a mixture of curiosity and anxiety.

The steadfast commitment of the Mandalorian is evident in every deed. He extends his purpose by aiming a knife toward the blast door controls. His throw triggers a series of mechanisms, setting up a battle of might vs metal. Blast doors that are dropping vertically seem to be trying to stop him, but he fights back, his muscles aching from the effort.

But as fate's tides change, so does his plan of attack. Burg is basically rendered unconscious and imprisoned within a metal cage when a second set of blast doors that close horizontally swings into operation. The physical conflict ends, but the clash's echoes remain. The fact that the control room is still a battleground is evidence of the Mandalorian's fortitude and unwavering persistence that propels him ahead.

Amidst the ebb and flow of dreams, a sinister undercurrent tugs at the edges of your consciousness. The passage of time eludes you, a disorienting blend of moments that slip through your grasp like elusive shadows. The landscape morphs, nightcrawlers emerging and vanishing, a surreal dance of existence.

Shadows undulate like ethereal specters, their contours contorting with each blink of your mind's eye. A somber darkness descends, ensnaring your senses in its enigmatic grip. The allure of the unknown beckons, a velvety whisper that stirs long-dormant desires within the labyrinth of your thoughts.

In this realm of shifting illusions, the boundaries between reality and fantasy dissolve, and the threads of your fears weave a tapestry of surreal proportions. You tread through landscapes of ambiguity, each step fraught with trepidation. Whispers reverberate in your consciousness, playful and taunting, coaxing you deeper into the uncharted depths.

As you find yourself in this dreamscape, confusion reigns, a haze of uncertainty clouding your mind. The chronology of events eludes you, lost in a landscape of quiet desolation. The world around you is still, a void that seems to stretch to infinity. At its heart lies a serpentine river, its waters flowing inexorably toward a gaping abyss.

Your voice trembles as you call out, a plea for connection in the silent expanse, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Approaching the river's edge, you seek your reflection, only for it to warp into a visage that reflects your deepest fears. Red eyes glint beneath a dark hood, a malevolent red lightsaber casting an ominous glow. Fear grips your heart, and with a splash, you desperately scatter the reflection, ripples distorting the ominous image.

Abruptly, the river's current shifts, and the unseen ground beneath you gives way. The world dissolves into a vast expanse of water, a towering wave looming over you like an executioner's blade. The sensation of drowning overwhelms you, your struggles to break free becoming a desperate symphony of survival. The threads of time slip and warp, as if reality itself is fraying at the edges.

Beneath the shimmering moonlight filtering through the water's surface, you fight to ascend, each stroke a battle against the suffocating weight of the wave. Yet, in the depths of your subconscious, the allure of surrender tempts you, the pull of the abyss becoming strangely tempting, a surrender to the consuming waters that promise oblivion.

You shut your eyes tightly, swimming and kicking, one hand outstretched just to feel the break of the surface and then you do, opening your eyes you are gasping and gulping for air. Before you know it you see an island nearby and you swim towards it. You crawl onto shore, coughing and wheezing before laying on the sand and on your back. Smoke puffs are white and piling. Silently detonating emotions as you feel your chest rise and fall rapidly, huffing.

You feel like you’re dying in the dark, and it's written there in the stars. You're understood by so little and loved only from afar. Always going when the going gets too tough. You briefly close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat, letting yourself embrace the silence.

A gentle tap on your forehead rouses you from the depths of your dreams, a sensation akin to the soft prod of a wooden stick. Slowly, your eyes flutter open, and to your astonishment, Master Yoda stands before you. Disbelief mingles with surprise in your expression as you gaze up at the wise old Jedi.

Yoda's ancient features bear a quizzical expression as he regards you. His head tilts slightly to the right, a gesture that has always held a mixture of curiosity and assessment. With his characteristic syntax, he speaks, his voice a blend of wisdom and whimsy, “Hrm… curious are you.”

Startled, you jerk up from the sandy ground, your senses slowly reconciling with the unexpected presence of the legendary Jedi Master. As you rise, your eyes meet Yoda's gaze, an amused glint in his eyes that speaks of an understanding beyond mere words. Words spill out of your mouth in a rush, a mixture of astonishment and uncertainty, “Am I… Am I dead?”

A chuckle, soft and reminiscent of ages past, escapes Yoda's lips. He shakes his head, his ears twitching as he replies, “No, not you are. Yes, hrrrm.”

The confusion lingers, and you're compelled to seek clarity amidst the surreal encounter. Your voice trembles with uncertainty, seeking answers from the source of wisdom before you, “Then… what…?”

Yoda's gaze remains steady, his eyes penetrating to your core as he speaks with the weight of his insight, “Become powerful you have, the dark side in you I sense.”

The realization dawns upon you like the breaking of a new day, the truth you've long wrestled with now laid bare before the venerable Master. Your response is a simple and contemplative, “Oh.”

With a beckoning gesture of his hand, Yoda invites you to accompany him. “Come, a walk with me take,” he says in his enigmatic manner, and without hesitation, you comply. Following in the footsteps of the Jedi sage, you walk along the shoreline of the mysterious island, the whispers of the sea and the wisdom of a centuries-old being intertwining in a dance of insight and revelation.

In a swift and fluid motion, Xi'an pivots, her lithe form a dance of danger as she flicks a knife towards Din. The blade streaks through the air, a glint of deadly intent, and strikes true. With an unexpected clang, Din's blaster clatters to the ground, disarmed by the precision of her throw. The Twi'lek's hiss echoes in the charged air, a prelude to the battle that ensues.

Xi'an becomes a whirlwind of motion, her movements a symphony of lethal grace. Knives fly from her grasp in rapid succession, a storm of shimmering steel. Yet, Din is no stranger to combat, and his beskar bracers become his shield against the oncoming storm. The blades deflect with metallic resonance, each clang a testament to his prowess and preparedness.

Their clash is a dance of contrasts, Xi'an's agility matched by Din's stoic determination. Knives seek their mark, the air humming with tension as they narrowly miss their target. Din counters, each parry a testament to his unyielding focus. The choreography is a testament to their honed skills, the blades a dangerous dialogue in the silence of their struggle.

Din's commitment is unwavering despite the ferocious attack from Xi'an. He seizes the opportunity when it arises as it is a small window of opportunity. He closes the distance between them with measured movements that are accompanied by a controlled energy burst. He quickly and precisely grabs her wrists in a vice-like hold that renders her motionless.

As the clash of blades subsides, Xi'an's knife finds itself seized by Din's unyielding grip, its cold edge pressing against her throat. Her defiance is met with the unrelenting strength of the Mandalorian, his beskar-clad form an immovable force. The dance of conflict transforms into a tableau frozen in time, their positions a silent testament to the power struggle that has transpired.

In the dimly lit corridor, Mayfeld's wary footsteps echo, his senses heightened by the uncertainty that surrounds them. The lights flicker, casting an eerie dance of shadows on the walls, the alternating hues of red and white adding to the disorienting atmosphere. As he approaches a blast door, his gaze narrows, catching a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision.

A small mouse droid skitters past, its mechanical chatter echoing in the silence. It's an unexpected presence in this tense environment, and it's enough to startle even the steadiest of hearts. Mayfeld's muscles tense, his fingers gripping his blaster as he warily scans his surroundings.

Amidst the dissonance of flickering lights and the droid's scuttling, a presence emerges behind him. The Mandalorian, a silent predator, moves with the grace of a shadow. His beskar-clad form blends seamlessly with the darkened backdrop, his steps nearly soundless against the metallic floor.

Before Mayfeld can react, a hand clamps over his mouth, stifling any potential outcry. His blaster is deftly plucked from his grasp, leaving him unarmed and vulnerable. In this heartbeat, the Mandalorian's strategy unfolds with precision. The surprise ambush leaves Mayfeld incapacitated, his options dwindling in the face of an opponent who has mastered the art of stealth.

The corridor's interplay of light and shadow mirrors the tension between the two figures — one caught off-guard, the other poised to strike. As the Mandalorian's grip tightens, the echo of Mayfeld's startled gasp remains unheard, a secret shared only by those immersed in this clandestine struggle.

The enigmatic island shoreline stretches ahead, the waves rhythmically kissing the sand as you walk alongside the wise presence of Master Yoda. The air is heavy with the scent of salt and the mysteries that hang in the atmosphere. It's a tranquil scene, the serenity of the surroundings belying the inner turmoil that has led you to this point.

Amidst this picturesque backdrop, Yoda's words cut through the silence like a whisper carried by the wind. His voice, both ancient and gentle, resonates with a depth of perception that goes beyond the visible world. His ears twitch slightly, attuned to the emotions that ripple through the Force.

"Great fear in you I sense," Yoda utters, his ancient voice carrying the weight of his centuries of wisdom. His eyes, though small, seem to pierce through the façade you've put up, delving deep into the recesses of your soul.

With the wise sage's words, your steps seem to falter, the very ground beneath you shifting slightly. It's as if Yoda's insight has illuminated the corners of your mind that you've been keeping in shadows. Vulnerability washes over you, like a curtain being drawn back to reveal the raw emotions you've been grappling with.

Time slows as you halt, the world around you a blur while Yoda's presence remains vivid and unwavering. His gaze feels like a spotlight, exposing the layers of your being that you've been reluctant to confront. You collect your thoughts, your voice trembling slightly as you attempt to put words to the tumultuous thoughts swirling within.

“I don’t want to end up alone again,” you admit, the confession hanging in the air like a fragile thread. The weight of your uncertainties and self-doubt colors your words, making them more potent and raw.

“The destiny on the road you take to avoid it, one often meets,” Yoda's reply comes like a gentle breeze, laden with the wisdom of countless experiences and lifetimes. His speech, though cryptic in its ways, carries a profound message that resonates with the core of your being.

"Rejection and failure is one of the greatest lessons," he imparts, his tone measured and deliberate. “In the end, you become whoever would have saved you at that moment when no one did,”

His words hang in the air, each syllable carrying a depth of meaning that you find yourself unraveling, piece by piece. In the presence of this venerable Jedi, amidst the backdrop of the serene shoreline, you begin to grasp that your fears and struggles are not unique to you alone. Yoda's guidance offers a glimmer of understanding and the promise of growth, even in the face of your deepest fears.

“Qin,” Din's voice is a low growl, his tone laced with a blend of caution and tension. Recognition stirs in his gaze as he fixes his eyes on the male Twi’lek who carries you over his shoulders. His arms remain at his sides, beskar armor gleaming in the ambient light, but the muscles beneath it are tense, poised for action.

The ladder that leads back to the Razor Crest looms before them, a path that could take Qin away with you. The sight of your limp form draped over his shoulders tugs at Din's heartstrings like a merciless tug of war. His gloved hands clench, the anger he feels simmering beneath his calm exterior.

Din's emotions are a tornado in the midst of this stressful scene, a swirling combination of worry and rage. He is caught between his responsibility to get you back to safety and his burning desire to hold Qin accountable for daring to touch you. He is torn between the competing flames of his Mandalorian creed and his own deeply entrenched feeling of duty to ensure your safety.

“You killed the others,” Qin's accusation hangs in the air like a sinister melody, a reminder of the violence that has unfolded. Din's response comes in a calm yet unyielding tone, his voice etched with the weight of his convictions, “They got what they deserved.”

The tension crackles between them, a palpable energy that threatens to erupt into another confrontation. Qin's lips curl back in a snarl, the corners of his mouth twitching as his fingers curl around the grip of his blaster. In an instant, Din's blaster is in his hand, the weapon raised with the precision and swiftness that only a skilled gunslinger possesses.

The stand-off continues, each participant locked in a dangerous dance of determination. Qin's calculating gaze meets Din's unyielding stare, their intentions clashing in the narrow space between them. But as the seconds tick by, Qin's resolve seems to waver, a flicker of uncertainty dancing in his eyes.

With a resigned sigh, Qin lowers his blaster, a defeated acceptance settling over him. The tension in his muscles ebbs away as he carefully lays you down along with his weapon, his gaze flicking between you and the Mandalorian. The change in his approach is almost a plea, a final attempt to appeal to Din's sense of reason.

“Come on, Mando,” Qin's voice carries a touch of exasperation, tinged with desperation, “Be reasonable, huh? You were hired to do a job, right? So do it. Isn't that your code? Aren't you a man of honor?”

Din's internal struggle is a hurricane of emotions that rages within him as his glance travels from Qin to you. His gaze lingers on your sleeping figure, contrasting your fragility with an underlying resolve. His feeling of obligation, his developing attachment to you, and the hope for a safer future all came together at that very time.

Din gives a firm nod as his determination grows. The choice is obvious. He muses about the way ahead as his blaster gently lowers. It is immediately apparent that he is not simply a lone gunman. He is a guardian and a protector who will stop at nothing to defend the people who are important to him.

Yoda's ancient eyes hold a profound understanding, their luminous gaze fixed on you. "Abandoned, you feel, hmm? Much pain, this carries."

Your voice wavers, carrying the weight of years of unspoken sorrow, "Yes, Master Yoda. The memory is still vivid, the moment my master chose another, left me behind like I was nothing."

Yoda's ears twitch slightly as he listens, his voice soft yet firm, "Chose another, your master did, but abandon you, he did not. Understand his choice, you must."

Tears threaten to well up, your pain rekindled by the memory. "Understand? How can I? It felt like my worth was measured by his rejection, that I was cast aside like a broken tool."

Yoda's craggy face remains impassive, his wisdom a steady anchor amidst the tempest of your emotions. "Broken tool, you are not. The Force's will, sometimes difficult to perceive, hmm."

The weight of his words resonates within you, an echo of a truth you've struggled to accept. "And what of the darkness I feel within? The whispers that entice me toward paths I dare not tread?"

Yoda's eyes hold an unspoken recognition, a knowing that transcends the bounds of time and space. "Darkness, a part of all beings it is. Temptation, it brings, but choice, yours always is."

"But what if I can't resist it? What if it consumes me?" Your voice trembles, the abyss of your fears yawning before you.

Yoda's response is steady, his voice a gentle guide through the storm, "In you, the power to overcome resides. Learn from darkness, as Jedi have for centuries. Fear, it is that often leads to the dark path."

The weight of his words settles upon you, mingling with the tendrils of hope that have begun to weave their way through your thoughts. "But how? How can I navigate this treacherous path?"

Yoda's gaze is unwavering, his words a beacon in the shadows, "Learn, you must. Seek guidance, from within and from those who have walked before. A Jedi's strength, in perseverance, it lies."

A mixture of resolve and uncertainty churns within you, the turmoil of your thoughts mirrored in the currents of the Force. "And if I stumble, if I fall?"

Yoda's voice carries a sense of reassurance, "Fall, you may, but rise again, you must. The journey of a Jedi, marked by trials, but also by redemption."

Your breath steadies, a fragile calm settling over your turbulent thoughts. "Redemption... Do you truly believe I can find it?"

Yoda's gaze softens, his ageless eyes a wellspring of compassion, "Believe, I do. The Force's currents, they guide us, hmm. Trust in yourself, in the Force, you must."

As the conversation unfolds, Yoda's wisdom offers a lifeline in the darkness of your doubts. The exchange becomes a journey of self-discovery, a fragile yet profound step toward embracing the strength that resides within.

The Razor Crest glides smoothly through the darkness of space, its engines humming with a sense of purpose. Qin's presence on board, though subdued, casts a lingering shadow within the ship's confined quarters. Din's gaze is focused yet inscrutable, his thoughts a whirlwind of calculations and decisions.

Upon landing at Ran's space station, the hangar's metallic echoes resound with a blend of anticipation and tension. The ramp of the Razor Crest descends, and Din emerges, Qin following suit. The atmosphere is heavy with an unspoken acknowledgment of the unknown fate that awaits.

Ran's figure looms in the hangar, an enigmatic presence whose calculating eyes sweep over the scene. Qin's embrace is tinged with a mixture of familiarity and uncertainty, a testament to the complexities of their shared history.

"Where are the others?" Ran's question lingers in the air, a reminder of the unpredictable nature of their line of work. Din's response is curt, accompanied by a nonchalant shrug that underscores the ethos of their profession. "No questions asked. That's the policy, right?"

A begrudging agreement escapes Ran's lips, the unspoken agreement of a clandestine world. "Yeah. That is the policy."

The exchange is a prelude to the transaction that follows, a seamless handover of payment that echoes with a sense of finality. "I did the job," Din states, his words weighted with the weight of his actions.

"Yeah, you did," Ran acknowledges, the pouch of credits symbolizing a chapter closed and a debt paid.

"Just like the good old days," Din's voice holds a hint of nostalgia, a reflection on the countless jobs that have brought him to this point.

"Yeah, just like the good old days," Ran echoes, watching as Din embarks on the Razor Crest, the ship's departure marked by the ascending roar of engines.

As the ship rockets into the expanse of space, the tense air of the space station is replaced by the ship's familiar comfort. The child's presence is a quiet reminder of the bond they share, a bond that transcends the chaos of their surroundings.

Ran activates a lift that brings up a gunship and tasks Qin with killing him. However, Qin finds that the Mandalorian has left the tracking beacon on him, allowing the New Republic to track them down. Three New Republic X-wing starfighters exit hyperspace, narrowly avoiding the Razor Crest.

In the co-pilot seat, the child's innocent curiosity contrasts with the gravity of their recent endeavors. A ball from one of the levers becomes a focal point of fascination, small hands exploring its texture. Din's gaze softens, a fleeting smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I told you that was a bad idea," he murmurs, the words a lighthearted testament to the newfound balance he's found in his unexpected role as guardian.

THE RAZOR CREST, 9ABY – HYPERSPACE

Your eyelids fluttered open like a hesitant butterfly emerging from its cocoon. The room's darkness held an unfamiliar weight, its silence a shroud that clung to your senses. Your heart raced as your consciousness gradually waded through the fog of sleep, memories of the past hours only a blurry mosaic.

Slowly, the contours of the room took shape, and the sensation of a blanket draped over your form brought a semblance of comfort. As the door hissed, your gaze snapped towards the sound's source, revealing the figure standing there – Din, the Mandalorian.

His voice, a gentle murmur in the darkness, cut through the silence. "You're awake."

You were dragged back from the edge of bewilderment by the words, which served as a lifeline. You were unable to speak due to a dry and scratchy throat and could only nod in agreement.

Din moved closer and reached out to offer you a drink of water. As you sipped, relief flooded your body from the soothing effect of the cool beverage on your dry throat. As you put the glass aside and locked eyes with him, a quiet bond grew between you two in the darkness of the space.

"I thought you... left," your words trembled, vulnerability threading through them.

His head dipped in a small nod, the glow of his visor casting a soft luminescence over his features. "I won't leave you."

Emotion swelled within you, finding its outlet in the shimmer of your eyes. A trembling smile graced your lips, gratitude and relief mingling in a silent chorus.

"Thank you," your voice was a fragile whisper, weighted with the depth of what you couldn't fully express.

His gloved hand felt warm against your skin as you reached out, an anchor in the sea of emotions that threatened to engulf you. Your gaze met his, seeking understanding and reassurance. "This isn't your fault," you said firmly, your voice a whisper that carried the weight of conviction.

He settled onto the edge of the cot, his presence a steady comfort in the midst of your turmoil. "I should have listened to you," regret colored his words.

Your hand found his, a gentle touch that conveyed more than words ever could. Looking up at him through the reflection of his visor, you spoke from the heart. "I'm just glad we all got out of this mess okay and in one piece."

Curiosity mingled with concern, the need to understand what had happened in the gaps of your memory pushing through. "What happened after they... drugged me?"

Din's pause was palpable, his gaze distant as he navigated the memories of those tense moments. He exhaled softly, the weight of his words measured. "They took you away from me. So, I went after them."

Your brows furrowed, the puzzle pieces slowly slotting together. "Did you..."

"No," his response was swift, carrying a conviction that resonated with the core of his being. "I wanted to, but... no, I didn't. They're locked in a prison cell aboard the New Republic prison ship."

A sense of relief washed over you, a tangible exhalation of tension. "Is the child okay?" you asked, concerned for the innocent life that had been unwittingly thrust into this chaos.

"He's fine. He's asleep," Din's words held a measure of reassurance, a testament to his commitment to safeguarding the child's well-being.

The air seemed to hold its breath as your voice broke the stillness, the weight of your confession hanging between you and Din like a delicate thread. Your cheeks, warmed by the rosy hue of embarrassment, seemed to mirror the intensity of your emotions.

Din's gaze remained steady, his visor concealing the thoughts that swirled beneath. In the suspended quiet, uncertainty wrestled with hope, and you found yourself compelled to fill the space with your unfiltered feelings.

"About earlier on the prison ship..." you began, your voice quivering slightly, "I... I really like you, Din."

Silence stretched between you, a moment of suspended time that seemed to hold the universe in a breathless pause. The seconds seemed to hang on a precipice, each heartbeat reverberating in the chamber of your chest. As the seconds passed, the weight of your confession bore down on you, and the vulnerability of your words laid bare.

Just as your nerves threatened to overrun your thoughts, Din's voice cut through the tension, a calm amidst the storm of emotions. "I know," he said, the simplicity of those two words holding a world of understanding.

Your eyes locked with his visor, an unspoken connection forming between you. His silence had spoken volumes, and now it was your turn to fill the quiet with the unadulterated truth of your heart.

"I've been trying to find the right words, the right time," you confessed, your voice steadier now, "But I can't hold it in anymore. Din, I care about you... more than I've ever cared about anyone."

The air seemed to crackle with anticipation, the universe itself attuned to this moment of shared vulnerability. In the luminous haze of his visor, you could sense the intensity of his emotions, his unspoken response to your heartfelt words.

"And," you continued, your voice a soft tremor that resonated with sincerity, "I don't want to pretend anymore that I don't feel this way. The way you make me feel... it's something I've never felt before."

As the confession hung in the air, a suspended promise of what could be, a subtle shift in the atmosphere indicated Din's movement. His gloved hand reached towards you, his fingers finding your cheek with a tenderness that bespoke volumes.

"I don’t want to pretend either," his voice, a low rumble beneath the surface, conveyed an emotion that mirrored your own. "Being with you, it's different. It's real."

Tears threatened at the corners of your eyes, your heart overflowing with emotion at his words. His visor hid his gaze, but you felt his fingers brush against your skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"Din," your voice was a mere whisper, the space between you a sacred bridge that had been crossed.

He says your name as his response, a breathless echo, a name that held within it the promise of a new beginning. With a gesture both gentle and meaningful, you tilted your forehead, allowing it to make contact with the cool, solid surface of his beskar helmet. The touch felt almost electric, a connection that transcended the physical plane. It was a gesture that spoke volumes, a silent affirmation of the bond that had been formed through shared experiences and the unspoken language of the heart.

Amidst the quiet, a hushed stillness settled in the room, the outside world seemingly fading into insignificance. In this private sanctuary, the air seemed to hold its breath, as if the universe itself was pausing to witness the depth of the connection between two souls.

The tender exchange between you, as gazes held and fingers intertwined, seemed to bridge the gap between past and present, drawing you closer together in the present moment. It was a moment of vulnerability, forged in the crucible of challenges and uncertainty, and now solidified by the authenticity of your feelings.

In the heart of the chaos that defined the galaxy, your connection shone like a beacon of light, illuminating the path ahead. The fires of adversity had not consumed you; instead, they had forged a bond that was unbreakable, a bond that now found its expression in the unspoken language of shared gazes and the gentle touch of fingertips.

END NOTES:

LOWKEY, this chapter got out of hand… initially I had a whole fight scene planned out but I figured that it wasn’t the time… yet…

CONFESSIONS! YAY! I think after 40k words… a confession seems appropriate. I wanna write fluff and smut with these two already >u< (as well as some GOOD OLE ANGST HEHEH)

It took me a while to write this chapter… cuz obviously… 16k words… uh… yeah… ANYWAYS! We’re nearing the end of season 1! Omg… o-o

See you in the next chapter!

TAGLIST:

@wastingspaces @avengersheart @lunatic1012 @keepingupwiththeskywalkers @mxltifxnd0m @syviiss @luckyzipperscissorsbat @avengersheart @dins-riduur-anthe @lizlil @n7cje @scoliobean @ofmusesandsecrets

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x jedi!reader #ethereal writes #etherealupdates #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian fics #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #pedro pascal x reader

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sekaithemystic · 6 months

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Valerie chuckled, the sound hollow and deafening in the empty room. Hanako only watched as her expression shifted into a grimace, eyes still gluing to the view outside. "But I guess that is the point: I can never have good things in my life, can I?"

#gonna go insane w/ them #ship: glass sanctuary #i mean i'm all for val acting like lil shit to hanako hi hi hi #cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #valerie phan #cyberpunk 2077 v #hanako arasaka

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goodwhump-temp · 7 months

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Tom Mason Whump | Falling Skies

¡Viva la revolución!

1x01 Live and Learn - Near explosions x2, tinnitus pain (brief), emotional, angry/protective (Hal) 1x02 The Armory - Hostage, held at gunpoint x4, threatened, angry, (Weaver denies helping) 1x03 Prisoners of War - Knocked unconscious (explosion), bloody forehead, worried (Hal), [soloing a skitter; punched x3, knocked down, pinned, exhausted/hyperventalating] 1x07 Sanctuary Pt.2 - Betrayed, held at gunpoint, hostage 1x08 What Hides Beneath - Worried about Weaver 1x09 Mutiny - Worried (Ben), not trusted by Weaver/betrayed x2, held at gunpoint x2, arrested, angry, pinned, thrown, manhandled, choked 1x10 Eight Hours - Sacrifice/abducted

2x01 Worlds Apart - Shot, collapse, weak, unconscious, bleeding out, surgery, [flashback; trapped, thrown x3, electrocuted x2, knocked unconscious, punched x2] fever, emergency surgery, emotional 2x02 Shall We Gather at the River? - Skitter nightmare x2, paranoid, angry outburst, eye bleeding, collapse, seizure, extreme pain, extremely painful parasite removal, freaking out/held down, bleeding, paranoid, voluntarily restrained, sacrifice, thought dead 2x03 Compass - Betrayed/kidnapped, alien discrimination/not trusted, [Pope fist-fight ; uppercut, headlocked, headslamed innto wall, thrown, decked off balcony/onto car, slammed, kicked x3], limping 2x06 Homecoming - Calls Glass Rebecca (yikes), anxiety being leader 2x07 Molon Labe - Nearly exploded x2, emotional goodbye 2x08 Death March - Depressed, blister (05:00), devastated 2x09 The Price of Greatness - Angry, forced dictatorship, arrested 2x10 A More Perfect Union - Re-arrested, captured, tortured/electrocuted, scared, tinnitus pain

3x04 At All Costs - Gutpunched, pinned, plane crash 3x05 Search and Recover - Plane crash cont., unconscious, coughing, hunted, tripped, pope arguments x10 (secretly bonding), talks about abusive drunk father, pope fight, punched x3, kicked, decked over a log, headbutted, jumps down waterfall, punched, broken ankle, great pain, given up, being meanie x2, cold and alone, collapse, shleeping for 2 days 3x06 Be Silent and Come Out - Broken ankle cont./cane, desperate, [taken hostage; held at gunpoint, car crashed, cane-less/dragged, pain x2, punched, ankle stepped on, shot at, 3x07 The Pickett Line - Ambushed/held at gunpoint x3 3x08 Strange Brew - [[???; confused x1000, ominous Weaver appearances x5, affair confrontation, hallucination (mirror), frustrated, dissociating, learns the truth] intense pain/eye attatchment x2, saved, knocked unconscious], choked, jumps from 'balcony', heartbroken, sobbing, hallucinating 3x09 Journey to Xilbalba - Angry, grieving, knocked down (explosion), trapped underground. betrayed 3x10 Brazil - 'Betrayed', punched/thrown, detained, skitter punch, great pain, scared

4x01 Ghost in the Machine - Trapped, seperated, caught in explosion, tinnitus, pain, passes out, imprisoned, abandoned/betrayed 4x02 The Eye - Knocked down, thrown, wanted man, gives himself up 4x03 Exodus - Cornered, jumps from explosion, Pope bro-hug :) 4x04 Evolve or Die - Targetted/tackled 4x05 Mind Wars - Knocked unconscious, kidnapped, held at gunpoint, punched x2 4x06 Door Number Three - Worried, dissociating, feels betrayed 4x07 Saturday Night Massacre - Betrayed, emotionally hurt, guilt, reckless, trapped under rubble, bleeding 4x08 A Thing With Feathers - Missing, trapped under rubble cont., arm caught in mouth, zapped, panic, living virus, passes out, tourniquet, extreme pain, sling 4x09 Till Death Do Us Part - Sling, Glass argument, shot at, trapped, surrounded by fire 4x10 Drawing Straws - Emotional 4x11 Space Oddity - Pain from fast acceleration, low life support, freezing, cocooned, vomiting, angry, (chat, is this real?), confused, gaslit, (it was in fact, not real), falls, punched 4x12 Shoot the Moon - Knocked down, head bleeding, ship caught in shockwave, thrown, lost in space, confused

5x01 Find Your Warrior - Emotional, lost, surrounded, rage-fueled/acting strange, hallucinating, alien bug bite 5x02 Hunger Pains - Bug bite non-stop bleeding, hallucinating, acting strange 5x03 Hatchlings - Dissociating (38:30), guilt 5x04 Pope Breaks Bad - Chased by bugs, trapped, very angry confrontation, suicidal, hallucinating 5x05 Non-Essential Personnel - Hallucinating, leg shot, limp 5x06 Respite - Bandaged/stitched, unconscious, hallucinating, panic, cane 5x07 Everybody Has Their Reasons - Surrounded at gunpoint, HORROR EPISODE BTW, angry, arrested, sentenced to death 5x08 Stalag 14th Virginia - Imprisoned 5x09 Reunion - Hallucinating, tricked TWICE, thrown, choked, used as human-shield 5x10 Reborn - Trapped/divided by rubble, pinned, impaled, blood being withdrawn, sobbing

#noah wyle whump #noah wyle #whump #emotional whump #whump list #whumplist #falling skies #falling skies whump #2nd mass #2nd Massachusetts #tom mason #tom mason whump

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midnightanxietytm · 9 days

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Panem nostrum quotidianum

a/n: It's so criminal that there aren't many Fox X Lamb fics, apparently they don't even have a ship name? I still propose LambTeeth anyway.

Summary: The Fox's grin never wavers, but neither does the Lamb’s as they deny his last request with a simple; “Ratau is off-limits, ask something else or we're done with deals.”

He hums thoughtfully, although with the size of his grin, it could be a mock, but they don’t particularly care. “Very well then, Little Lamb… How about a bite of you? Surely godly flesh will keep me well fed for a long time.”

Warnings: Cannibalism, mentions of sacrifice, violence.

Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie

The hooded figure that stands in the still waters of Smugglers Sanctuary fascinates the Lamb.

Twice already, they had fed him with the flesh of a kin, what a happy coincidence it was they raised their followers to eat and be eaten.

The Fox's grin never wavers, but neither does the Lamb’s as they deny his last request with a simple; “Ratau is off-limits, ask something else or we're done with deals.”

The Infant God's expression remains calm as they mull things over; foxes are tricky things… “I can give you one of my legs, or one of my arms, only one.” They say finally.

The fox seems delighted, eyes glinting against the night sky. He floats toward the pier and finally stands on it. He feels real for the first time the Lamb met him, and they wonder if they should start to regret their choices.

The Fox's teeth are pearly white against his dark robes and shadowy figure; “A leg then, your right one.” He looks ready to pounce on them and claim the deal, but Lamb raises a hand to stop him.

“Sacred meals are reserved for sacred places, and sacred days.” They say, and the fox tilts their head in amusement. “On the next full moon, come to my temple, I’ll give you a meal fit for a god.”

The Lamb leaves, and the Fox can barely contain his hunger.

The full moon couldn’t come soon enough.

Before emerging from the shadows, The Fox takes in the temple; a table was set with candles in the middle of the polished stone floor, illuminated by a few candles and the moonlight that poured in from the stained glass window above the altar. A throne was positioned at the head of the table, and as he watched, the Lamb finally entered through the main doors, closed it behind them, and calmly sat on it.

The moonlight cast a halo above their head, illuminating their horns and the red crown in a fascinating way…

“Have you done enough watching?” Asked the Lamb with a smile.

The Fox grinned as they finally emerged. “I don’t think I ever will… You’re quite fascinating to watch, Little Lamb.” They hummed in response, leaning back against their throne with a smile and hooded eyes, as if the entire situation was delightful to them. “How is your flock? Do they worry for you? Do they know you’re about to feed teeth in the darkness?”

When the Lamb laughs, the bell around their neck jingles softly; “You always make such strange questions, why would I let my flock know of our deals, when they are such private things?” They stand up with a smile and gesture at him to come closer. “Come, claim your side of our bargain.”

The fox does approach, the daring little Lamb even takes his hand, and leads him to sit at the throne, before sitting on the table themselves, right in front of him, legs spread for his easy access. “You do think of everything, don’t you, little Lamb?” He muses, running a clawed hand up their right thigh, the soft flesh makes his mouth water, their wool practically doesn’t reach their upper thigh, giving him a clean and delicious area to sink his teeth into. “I hope you don’t mind, as I've told you before, I’m a messy eater.” He says, before holding them by their calf, and pulling their leg towards him.

The sudden act makes the Lamb fall back, now laid on the table, but they only laugh in amusement, the sound mixing with the sound of their little bell. “Don’t swallow it all at once!” They say in a sing-song voice.

As The Fox finally sinks his teeth into their upper thigh he thinks he struck gold; the godly flesh gives in under his teeth, blood already flowing into his mouth and inebriating his senses. He had eaten the flesh of gods before, centuries ago, but it being givens so willingly somehow makes it taste a thousand times better.

He tears his first piece, dark red staining his fur, dripping onto the table and floor. He can already see a bit of bone on the lamb’s leg. He chews the flesh, savoring it as he watches the Lamb’s body twitch softly.

The Lamb knows the blood loss alone will eventually kill them, but they fight to stay conscious for as long they can. The pain is excruciating, but somehow they also barely feel it, like their mind knows there should be pain, a lot of it, but none comes, so all it does is twitch and tingle, like the constant prick of needles. It’s different from the cuts and bruises they got when getting hurt on crusades, those they didn’t feel at all. This is deliberate, as if their body wants to feel the pain, but can’t

The Lamb’s conscience comes and goes, and they gasp and shiver as The Fox takes a second tear; his teeth sink, then he pulls his head back, their skin ripped apart so easily.

Time passes, although neither of them can tell exactly how much. By the time The Fox leans back on the throne, having left nothing but bones and tendons of the Lamb’s leg, the sun is close to rising, and he must return to his shadows.

The Lamb Is unconscious, and the Fox watches in veiled fascination as their leg starts to magically regenerate, muscles and tendons growing and connecting, skin stretching to cover them slowly. If he wasn’t so full, his mouth would have watered all over from the prospect of an infinite meal. The Fox thinks they might have found a new addiction.

Once their leg was almost fully regenerated, The Fox noticed their eyes fluttering, he leaned back and watched as the infant god rose and sat up on the table. “Satisfied?” They ask with a grin.

Now with a full stomach, His lust replaced the hunger. “Very, Little lamb…” He took the promised talisman from his sleeve and placed it on the Lamb’s hand. “I have no more deals for you, but perhaps, the next time you peer into the darkness, we can satisfy another kind of hunger…”

The Lamb bleated out a laugh. “Hm, we’ll see, Fox.”

a/n: mfw I was satisfied with eating a rat but ended up eating a god instead and it ended up being really homoerotic.

Hope you guys like this one, took a break from narilamb to explore some other ships and there's nothing better to start then some good old cannibalism. Expect more lambteeth in the future.

#midnight writes #cult of the lamb #cotl lamb #cotl fox #teeth in the darkness #lamb x fox #fox x lamb #lambteeth #homoerotic cannibalism #cw cannibalism #cw suggestive #taking requests #foxlamb

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sunevial · 6 months

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The Districts

Silver Bones (residential)

Sanctuary

The air is kind. The air is kind, and the streets are clean, and there are places to sit and rest and watch the world go by. Streetcars are regular, and the buildings are eclectic, and there are children waiting under colorful lamps. It’s never exactly quiet, but it’s never crowded either. There’s someone offering food, a blanket, a hand, a young child offering up a glass of lemonade. It’s calm. It wants you to relax. It wants you to let your guard down and find somewhere to call home.

While the entirety of the Torn Veil has residential housing, the Silver Bones district is a bit quieter than the hustle and bustle of the trading districts. Shops and services are more tailored for residents, offering home goods, furniture, and cheap groceries for its residents. Lamps and lanterns light up the many corridors and bridges, bathing the whole district in soft lights of every color. Many who work in the city live in Silver Bones, whether they stock stalls in the stores or work at the Necropolis.

Shadow Puppets (entertainment)

Reflective

The song ever plays on, but what does it say about you? Why do you end up in front of a 1920s speakeasy instead of a tavern? Why go to a crass theater production instead of an orchestral ensemble? Why do you pick out one of the overlapping buildings instead of another, watch one street performer over another? The buildings all blend together through space, but go inside one and it’s like stepping back in time. Reality is fuzzy at the seams, so you have to pick what you see. Why did you pick it?

A brightly colored district where reality seems especially fuzzy at the seams. Buildings seem to fade into each other, overlapping to show architecture styles that have only one unifying theme: they’re all from places long, long in the past of their respective worlds. Strange music echoes down the streets, drawing people deeper into the maze of colors and sights and sounds. Theaters are packed day in and day out, ghostly bards and their living apprentices keeping shows running regardless of the hour of the day, while skeletal stuntmen and acrobats perform feats impossible for the living at strange circuses.

Dutchman's Docks (port)

Transitory

The ironic nature of a port is that no one ever stays for long. Sure, there’s places to stop in, grab a drink, warehouses store goods, places for people to sit down and chat and catch up, certainly. But it’s a working place, and it feels like a working place, and it’s not a place most folks stay for long. There’s work to be done, places to be, things to sell, and the roads are wide and they seem to get a little wider when crates are being sent elsewhere. Everyone is going elsewhere. The city calls the land folk further in, and the sea calls the sailors back, and the water itself calls the dead to find what they lost. It’s not a place to stay. Maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Ghostly ships sit docked next to modern sailboats and larger vessels on the easternmost side of the city, all laden with goods. Occasionally, ships and aquatic folk appear out in the foggy distance that always seems to swallow the distant sea. Once ships are docked, porters and dock-hands quickly unload goods, bringing them into the city and loading them up with cargo as captains barter over strange alcohols and games thrown with bone dice. It's connected to the Idle River, the main thoroughfare of the Torn Veil.

Kelsara's Tears (administrative)

Stark

There’s something about busy silence. Perhaps in a true afterlife, this would be the place where the dead would be processed and registered, where you might find someone tending the gates or long lists to consult. It has that feel, certainly, but those lists and those meetings are a little mundane and a little boring and a little unremarkable. The buildings are grand, but the tasks are familiar. Repetitive. A little thankless. Grounded. Unusually grounded. Perhaps it’s the fact that its workers know that progress is often a little boring. Perhaps it’s because it was named after a necromancer who became a god and died for what amounted to civic duty.

Named after a long-since dead lich god of a dead world, the most important people in the Torn Veil live and work within sprawling white and gray marble civic buildings that are built so tall that they seem to defy gravity. The Torn Veil’s premier university, the Necropolis, is also within this district, as well as its oldest libraries and grandest museums. Additionally, the district is also home to training facilities for various guards and soldiers that help protect the city from invading forces, all managed by an undead dragon general possessing a dragon-sized suit of armor.

Shrieker Road (artisan)

Divine

If there is a place that is holy, it is in the burning furnaces and pots of paint and piles of metal and under a scoring blade. The air is hot and dusty and sooty and filled with strange smells, and a thousand small workshops weave and beat and shape and mold their creations with loving, awe inspiring care. Art and love and frustration and triumphant joy overflow into the streets, mixtures of prayers for something to finally work and the hard earned sweat of a beautiful blade or a glazed vase or a tapestry embroidered with silk. It never sleeps. It never wants to sleep. Creation never wants to rest, and a thousand, million small gods of their own making would have it in no other way.

Though called ‘a road’, Shrieker Road is a full district that has built up around the bank of the Idle River. Buildings have large windows and plenty of ventilation, and the architecture is as bizarre as it is beautiful. This is where artisans both make and sell their wares, with workshops and kilns going at all hours of the day and paintings drying in a steady fluttering wind. The Torn Veil is especially known for its incredible pottery, crafted using clay dredged up from the bottom of the Idle River.

The Aurora Agora (market)

Nostalgic

It’s a place that you swear you’ve been before. It looks like the main street of a small town you visited once when you were seven and was burned into the back of your mind. It looks like walking down a street you cannot name in the middle of the night. It looks like a city center as you remember it, but it’s never quite real but never not real either. It looks like a movie, a memory, a time you were younger or a time you wish had come to pass. It’s a place that looks like it belongs somewhere else (maybe that’s why it has so many hotels, because it’s made up of those liminal memories).

A section of the city that is caught much more in the darker part of the sky. It is near the West Gate, where the bulk of travelers come into the Torn Veil on foot. Reality is slightly more stable here, a little more grounded, streets and buildings interspersed with fountains, small shrines, and hotels to stay in for a night or two. The district is still busy, certainly, but it is busy in a way that feels more like a city somewhere else. It is nostalgic, and it is strange.

Faded Dreams (market)

Imaginary

The district lives up to its name: it feels like it should only belong in a dream. There’s anything you could ever want if you just look hard enough, just wander down another aisle, talk to another person, find something that you lost or that you never knew you lost. You can’t actually buy an experience, a dream, a lost past, a second chance here, but it feels like you could. You can’t actually learn to fly either, but it feels like you could be like those semi-suspended buildings too. It doesn’t feel real, and somehow it feels less real because you can actually buy things here, as if you could take a daydream and make it solid.

A district centered around a large plaza, or at least, what at one point was a plaza. Now it’s a maze of stalls, booths, blankets, and grills, surrounded on all sides by towering buildings with a million balconies and small terraces. Those who can defy gravity most commonly frequent this market, and it is full of ghosts, avariel, fairies, and all folk who can float and fly. For those that are earthbound, levitation-powered elevators, sky carriages, and sky-trams can ferry shoppers up to the higher shops.

The Undercity (market)

Hidden

The city hides things down below. Doors are hard to find. So are shops. So are people. It’s not that the pathways change but that they shift just enough to make it hard to find things if they don’t want to be found. Sure, there’s folk who take advantage of that (more than a few, not every living dead is a good person, nor admits to be), but others want their privacy, their anonymity. If you want to disappear, the city grants that wish. Just make sure you have a way back if you want to be found again.

Tightly packed buildings crowd this section of town, with doors to taller buildings often leading to the roofs of shorter ones. Getting anywhere requires navigating a maze of back doors, tight alleys, and flickering lights. Shops are packed within, selling small goods, silver trinkets, evil eye pendants, often smaller, nich-er things that only the skilled know how to find. While often considered a seedier part of town, it’s no more dangerous than the rest of the Torn Veil… most of the time, anyways.

The Idle River

Exchange

What are you willing to learn? What are you willing to lose? The river takes and the river gives, just depends on if you want to remember or desperately want to forget. There’s souls in there too, deep, towards the bottom, where the dead rest in blissful stasis and sleep. It’s a place to start anew, and it’s a place to let yourself be washed elsewhere, and the boats on the surface are always full with wares. What have you come to gain? What are you willing to give up?

A slow-moving, meandering river that cuts through the Torn Veil, glittering with small specks of glowing light. Undead who have felt the years begin to deteriorate their mind are often found by the riverbanks, as drinking the water helps to restore their memories and overall clarity. The living can step into the river, but prolonged exposure tends to whisk memories away instead of restoring them. Many long, flat boats are also set up along the riverbanks, crewed by landfolk, while ghostly aquatic merchants barter for strange goods from within the river.

The Farmland

Growth

It’s the only part of the city that’s quiet, because it’s not within the city proper. The plants here are stubborn. So are the people, in fact. You have to be, to put down roots and force cellular production in a place with no light, to coax strange soil and stranger water to make something live in a place of death. It’s not calm out there, it’s feral, it’s almost spiteful, a metaphorical defiant ‘I will do it anyways’ to anyone who listens. Yet, despite it all, things grow. And they are tended to largely by the dead. Yet, despite it all. Things grow.

#the torn veil #my writing #long post

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sailorstarr-chan4 · 3 months

Text

Okay, y'all. Let's talk about shipping, and I'll even expose myself, fuck it, let's go:

I don't ship or like Reylo or Dramione, and yet I am a slut for Anidala and Buffy/Angel, who are easily just as Problematique when you unpack all of canon

I don't ship or like SessRin, and yet one of my favorite "love stories" of all time is low-key the most Grooming one of all: The Phantom of the Opera

I don't ship or like InuCest, Kaname/Yuki, Elsanna, let alone incest pairings as a whole, and yet one of my favorite manga of all time is Angel Sanctuary. AND I also ship Cesare/Lucrezia!! (both in the TV show The Borgias, and the manga, Cantarella)

I generally don't do cross-species/monsterfucking ships, and yet. Ancient Magus Bride exists. Beauty and the Beast exists. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I generally dislike Adult x Minor pairings, and yet CLAMP's Chobits has one of the cutest side pairings that is incredibly fucked up in the real-world setting (Ueda x Yumi; ikyk). But then again, CLAMP created another Large-Age-Gap pairing in Cardcaptor Sakura that I absolutely DESPISE (Rika x Terada ugh), and yet, in the SAME SERIES ALSO wrote one of the most Wholesome Ships Imaginable (Sakura x Syaoran) AND one of the earliest examples of an Iconic Gay Pairing (Touya x Yukito)

Hell, despite my issues with Large-Age-Gaps, I have a soft spot for Amu/Ikuto from Shugo Chara!, and Nephrite/Naru from Sailor Moon. And yet, I'm squicked the FUCK out of Snape/Harry, Snape/Hermione, etc. Nope. Not my thing

I'm also generally not a fan of the "Male Love Interest consciously/openly threatening to harm/kidnap/assault Female MC" trope and yet!! My biggest guilty pleasure is Alice in the Country of Hearts!! Not to mention several other manga/anime titles I could name!! It's a common trope that I like in some stories, and hate in others!!!!!! Shocking!!!

My point is, you can dislike certain "problematic" ships/media all you like, but don't cast stones in glass houses. We all have our Problematic Faves, peeps, whether you want to admit it or not. Just because You Like It doesn't make it morally exempt from the ones You Don't Like. Ship and let ship, don't like don't read, learn to curate your fandom experience.

And honestly? As a former Puritanical Anti, embracing my trash without needing to justify it (however tame it is by comparison to some, or weird it is to others) has been the most liberating thing in my fandom experience. Give it a try; I highly recommend.

#Starling ramblings #fandom stuff #shipping #pro shipping #purity culture #Harry Potter #Star Wars #Inuyasha #Disney #I have a Lot of Thoughts #and seeing people clutch their pearls over Bad Ships just makes me wince #because ya Homegirl was JUST AS BAD barely a few years ago!!#so as someone who used to Clutch Her Pearls I wanna say (in the gentlest way possible) to those who do: chill out. please.#it's really not that deep. fiction is just an outlet. stories are a way to experience darkness/weirdness/danger/etc in a safe space #no one condones any of the shit they like; if they say they do they've got something BIGGER going on that has NOTHING to do with their ship #don't fall for the dog whistles and pearl necklaces; just like what you like and don't what you don't #that's it. that's all it takes. thanks for coming to my Ted talk

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