#it exists somewhere... on another platform...

[exoticdox]

hiiii here's day 1 (and 2) for @alirex-art 's gem june!!!!

[beneathsilverstars]

been thinking about the differences between SASASAP and ISAT lately. because looking just at ISAT and the two hats ending, you'd think loop went through the exact same house as our siffrin, but looking at SASASAP, it's different. it's mixed up. it's obviously a condensed prototype.

but. that doesn't have to mean it's a different universe entirely.

maybe that's just what happens after a thousand loops.

the house warped in act 5. siffrin lost their shit and the house got changed and corrupted, far past its baseline king uncanniness. so it wouldn't be too out-of-the-question for it to be able to warp in more subtle ways as well, due to a more subtle breakdown.

like a jpeg uploaded and downloaded a thousand times, siffrin changed, and the loops changed. over a thousand loops of efficiency, the house got more efficient. rooms combining. items moving. data compressing. and of course, run in a changed house, the script changed as well. it did so slowly, one bit at a time, over a thousand loops of zoned-out half-listening – and by the time siffrin would have noticed each difference, they were already used to it. (and in the moments that they did look at a room that was less familiar than it should be and realize that they had no idea where to find the key, well. that's just classic siffrin, isn't it.)

through sheer repetition, siffrin was corrupted, and the loops and the house along with them. all purpose lost, all signals distorted, until finally they couldn't recognize the meaning in any of it. it was all noise and despair.

so they made a wish. and the loop restarted. not just a reboot, but something more complete.

the data was backed up onto a star – a guide, a warning, a reference – and the loops were factory reset. and for the first time in a thousand loops, siffrin woke up to a clear mind and the crisp sound of birdsong.

[lorre-verie]

"𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐉𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐈 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖."

outcast!metkayina reader x lo’ak sully

avatar masterlist here

The shore outside the council space glows faintly, soft blues and greens pulsing beneath the water’s skin. It’s beautiful in a way that feels almost cruel.

Eywa’s moon shines brightly above you, gracing your cooling skin with her light.

Am I doing the right thing, mother? you wonder, before shaking your head.

She will not answer you now.

You sit at the edge of a rock near the shore, letting your feet drag through the water, toes breaking the bioluminescent algae into trembling light.

With every small movement, the glow shatters and reforms, over and over again.

You think of Payakan.

You think of the woven nets and wood encircling the council space, shielding the elders of their ignorance.

You feel the surface of the wood against your fingertips again—harder this time.

“They would rather pretend he does not exist!” you’d said in the meeting.

“They would rather let him suffer alone than admit a change needs to be made.”

Someone had shifted uncomfortably. Another looked away.

Tonowari’s voice had been calm when he answered you.

“[Name], we have heard enough.”

And just like that, the air turned cold. Tails shuffled against netting like the sound of a decision made.

The stares of your people weighed on you like the hot glare of an Akula. You balled your fists and stomped away, tail flicking against the marui in annoyance.

You look to your left hand now, grasping at sand uselessly.

A presence settles beside you, familiar even before you look.

Lo’ak drops down onto the platform with less grace than you would’ve hoped from a forest-dweller. He pulled his knees up to his chest, ears flattened against his skull. He smells faintly of salt and adrenaline and anger that hasn’t found a direction yet.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

You sniffle, avoiding his gaze.

The water laps quietly around you both. Somewhere farther out, a ilu calls.

“They didn’t listen,” Lo’ak says finally.

You huff a humourless breath. “They never do.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I tried to say something. I swear. My dad—”

You look at him once and he stops, jaw tightening. You don’t need the rest.

Toruk Makto’s hand on his arm. A look that says not now.

You glance at him, really look — the way his shoulders are tense, the way his eyes track the water like it might explode if he stares hard enough.

“Your father stopped you,” you say flatly, turning your head towards the endless horizon of sea stretching before you.

Lo’ak nods once. “Yeah.”

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

You trail your fingers through the water again, slower this time, watching the glow bloom around your hand. “They act like defending him is a crime,” you mutter.

Lo’ak snorts. “That’s ‘cause they’re too stuck in their ways to see what’s happening right in front of them.”

“I just don’t understand,” you say quietly. “They talk about balance, about Eywa, about compassion…until it’s inconvenient.”

The water shifts as a small wave laps against the platform. Lo’ak inches closer without thinking, shoulders brushing yours.

For a moment, you’re not alone in this.

“They’ll never forgive me,” you say. “Not for speaking. Not for refusing to be quiet.”

Lo’ak turns to you fully now. “Good.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Why would you want any sort of approval from people who only like you when you’re quiet?”

You let out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound.

You swing your legs harder, splashing the water. Light erupts around your feet in a chaotic halo.

“...I am an outcast,” you whisper. Almost to yourself.

Lo’ak looks at you in the moonlight.

“Then I’m an outcast too,” he says. His hand trembles near yours, as if he wants to reach out.

You turn your head to the side, meeting his stare.

“You? Son of Toruk Makto? An outcast?” you ask incredulously as if you don’t believe it, your four fingers simultaneously weaving through his five.

He sputters, wanting to respond but clearly taken aback by your gesture.

You lift both your hands, palms facing him, eyes flicking to his five outstretched fingers with a grin.

In the moonlight, his dark blue skin stands out sharply against your own softer teal, the contrast like deep ocean against a shallow reef.

“My friend, you are a thousand times more outcast then I will ever be,” you say coyishly.

For a second, Lo’ak just stares at you.

Then he lets out this surprised huff of a laugh, somewhere between a snort and a choke, jerking his hand back like the words physically hit him.

“What— That’s messed up!” He breaks off, laughing properly now, loud and unguarded, tail flicking behind him.

You look at him with a wide smile, and try not to make it obvious you’re focused on the fact that your hands are still together.

The laughter fades slowly, like ripples smoothing back into still water.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of the tide breathing below you, the faint hum of the reef glowing in and out of life. Lo’ak’s hand stays threaded through yours.

Then you swallow.

“I do not know what I will do,” you say finally, the words slipping out softer than you expect, almost fragile in the open air.

Lo’ak stills beside you, listening.

“Perhaps I will appeal to the elder tulkun myself,” you continue, gaze fixed on the water as if it might answer you. “Or maybe I will search for Payakan. Wherever he may be.”

You don’t look at him when you say it, half-expecting this to be the moment he pulls away.

Instead, his fingers tighten around yours.

Lo’ak shifts closer, thumb brushing against the back of your hand in an absent, grounding motion. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

You turn toward him, surprised. “Okay?”

He nods once, jaw set in that familiar, stubborn way. “Wherever you go,” he says, like it’s already decided. “If you’re swimming out there, I’m not staying behind.”

“But your family—”

“I’ll deal with it.” His voice is sure.

The reef light glows brighter around your intertwined hands, reflecting off your skin in shared color, shared warmth.

Lo’ak meets your eyes then, expression earnest, unwavering.

“If you jump,” he says again, softer this time, closer, “I follow.”

The ocean shifts beneath you, and for the first time that night, the future doesn’t feel quite so lonely.

You’re an outcast.

But at least you can be outcasts together.

avatar masterlist here

AYYYYYY sorry for the super short post but i have big things planned so consider this a little taste test! welcome back avatar fandom I've been waiting for you 🫶

much love, lorre.

[kixred]

SYNOPSIS. “what would you do if i jumped and killed myself right now?” OR he starts to notice your lack of care for your own life.

PAIRINGS. itoshi rin x reader (established relationship)

WARNINGS. dark humor, blood, passive suicidal tendencies, lack of self-care, implied mental health issues & trauma, kisses, hurt/comfort, slightly ooc, rin cares

the train station always feels like a place that exists between choices. at least that’s what you think.

the air tastes faintly of iron and rain, even when the sky is clear. the tracks gleam underneath the dull hum of afternoon light. platform humming quietly beneath your feet, its vibration traveling up your shoes, settling unnoticed somewhere in your chest.

you stand closer to the yellow line than you need to.

the paint is chipped. the warning symbols are faded. the edge feels almost intimate, like it’s inviting you to peer over, to imagine the rush of wind, the scream of metal, the finality of something unstoppable.

beside you, itoshi rin stands with his usual stillness.

he’s older now— taller than he used to be, shoulders broadened by years of training, movements precise and deliberate. the sharpness that once lived in him has softened at the edges, but it’s still there. his dark hair falls into his eyes when the wind slips through the open station, and he pushes it back absently. his coat brushing against yours.

you lean forward slightly, toes now past the line, staring down at the tracks like they’re whispering something only you can hear.

the thought leaves your mouth before you weigh the words. “what if i jumped and killed myself right now?”

you say it lightly. carelessly. as if you’re asking what he wants for dinner.

you don’t even have time to process the silence that follows.

rin’s hand snaps around your wrist so fast you don’t even realise what’s happening. he pulls you backward with more than enough force, back colliding with his broader chest. his other arm wraps around your shoulders, resting on your chest. anchoring you behind him as if shielding you from something you’re not quite sure of.

“what the hell are you saying?” his voice is low, but it cuts.

not anger. fear.

raw, immediate fear.

and despite it, his grip on you is gentle but firm.

the train hasn’t arrived yet, but he’s already positioned himself between you and the tracks, body tense, jaw clenched hard enough that you can see the muscle twitch beneath his skin. his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist. you realize they’re shaking.

you blink up at him, surprised by the intensity of the reaction. “i was joking,” you mumble softly, now feeling guilty.

“you didn’t sound like you were.”

the rails begin to shake, the distant thunder of an approaching train growing louder. he doesn’t release you. if anything, his grip tightens as the wind builds, as if he thinks the sheer force of it might sweep you away.

when the bullet train finally roars by, loud and blinding and violent in its speed, he keeps you pressed against him without another thought. you feel small in his hold.

because he’s doing this to make sure you’re protected.

when it’s gone, when the platform returns to its hollow quiet, he doesn’t step away immediately. eyes glancing at your face for just a second before he turns. he doesn’t say anything. but the thought stays.

——

you don’t realize until later that something inside him shifted in that moment.

since the day you that joke left your mouth, rin has started to watch the way you react to your surroundings. seeing things he hadn’t fully noticed before.

he’s seen the way you step off curbs without looking. how you drift across crosswalks with your eyes somewhere else entirely.

the first time he yanks you back from a turning car, your body barely reacts, loose, pliant, uncaring. you just look at him with mild confusion, like he’s overreacting to something insignificant. “it’s fine,” you say.

his fingers are still tight around yours, glaring at how dismissive you are. “no, it’s not.” he begins to walk on the outer side of the sidewalk, closest to the road. his hand finds yours automatically now. not loosely. not lazily.

firm. because to him, you might actually slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

then at home, it’s smaller things.

you cook dinner together one evening, the kitchen filled with the soft hiss of oil and the scent of garlic. you reach towards the pan too quickly, distracted, and hot oil splatters against your skin.

the burn is sharp. bright.

you don’t blink. let alone flinch. you wipe your fingers on a towel and continue stirring.

rin’s reaction is immediate.

he’s up and by you in the next second, turning off the stove without a word and taking your hand towards the sink. cold water runs over your reddening skin. his thumb supports your wrist, and he doesn’t let go.

“does it hurt?” his voice stays low.

you frown, eyes drooped over in what he prays isn’t the boredom he thinks it is. “it’s nothing.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

you look at the water going down the drain instead of at him. “it doesn’t matter.”

rin goes still. and that’s when he understands.

it’s not that you don’t feel pain. not that you’re putting up a strong facade. it’s that you don’t think it’s important. to you, it genuinely doesn’t matter. to you, you don’t matter.

he tightens his hold on you.

——

rin is watching you with his full attention.

he pays attention to the way you go about existing in the world.

you walk through rain without adjusting your pace on slick pavement, and it ends with you scraping your knee against concrete one afternoon. you take a breath before simply brushing off the blood with detached curiosity.

he kneels in front of you on the sidewalk before you can protest.

cars pass. people glance. he doesn’t care.

there’s a crease between his brows, the same one he used to wear when calculating plays on the field. his fingers are impossibly careful as he cleans the gravel from your skin with tissues he keeps tucked in his pocket.

“you should at least react,” he mutters.

you shrug faintly. “it’s shallow.”

“you’re bleeding.”

“it’ll stop.”

he looks up at you then, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your chest tighten. “why don’t you care?”

the question isn’t accusatory. it’s wounded.

he’s wounded. eyes scrunched up, shoulders shaky, he hates how he can’t make you care. hated how all he does is deal with the aftermath.

you don’t know how to answer him. caring about yourself has always felt abstract, like a concept other people are better at holding.

you just shrug.

when night falls, the apartment is dim and silence is imminent. quiet that was both comforting and suffocating. rain taps against the windows in soft, uneven rhythms. you’re curled into the couch on top of him, and rin is laying down, back against the armrest, your body tucked against his chest.

his arm wraps around your waist. palm resting flat over your stomach, warm.

for a long time, neither of you speaks.

then, softly, and vulnerably, he mumbles. “you scare me.” the words are almost swallowed by the rain.

you tilt your head slightly. “how so?”

“when you say things like that at the station. when you walk into the street without looking. when you get hurt and act like it doesn’t matter.”

his hand tightens faintly over your sweater. “it feels like you’re not trying to stay.” with me, he wants to say. but the words feel bitter against his tongue. glassy that he believes will shatter if he allows it to leave.

the vulnerability in his voice is so unfamiliar it makes your throat ache.

rin shifts, guiding you to turn so you’re facing him. his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“do you want to?” he asks quietly. “stay?”

the question settles deep in your chest.

you’ve never thought about it in those terms. living has always felt passive. like floating. like being drifted away by something indifferent.

you hesitate. “i don’t… think about it,” you admit. “i don’t think about me.”

why? he wants to ask. but he knows it’s a topic he shouldn’t delve too deep into. it’s left stains, bitter and nasty smeared all throughout you. he just hopes it doesn’t scar.

he takes a breath in. “then i will,” he mumbles into your hair. “until you can.”

he leans his forehead against yours. the contact is warm, steady, real. “if something feels heavy, tell me,” he whispers. “or we find someone who can help. but don’t pretend you don’t matter. you do, to me.”

your eyes sting unexpectedly. lips trembling for the first time in what seems like forever.

——

rin becomes quietly vigilant.

he holds your hand at every crosswalk, thumb pressing into your knuckles, counting your pulse.

he walks slightly ahead of you near train platforms, his body a gentle barrier between you and the edge.

when you cook, he stands behind you, arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. if you reach too close to heat, he guides your wrist back with a soft kiss to your temple. “careful,” he murmurs.

when you scrape yourself, he cleans the wound meticulously, dabbing antiseptic with almost reverent focus. “does it hurt?” he asks every time.

and slowly, you begin answering honestly. “yes.”

he kisses the bandage. “yea?” he says softly. “that means you’re here.”

one evening, you find yourselves at another station. the sky is streaked with orange and violet. the platform glows under the fading sun.

you stand a safe distance from the edge.

without being told.

rin notices. he doesn’t comment. he simply take another step closer and slips his hand into yours, and you lace your fingers through his.

the train approaches, wind gathering, rails singing. it rushes past in a violent blur of sound and force.

you don’t feel pulled. you feel his warmth.

his solid presence beside you. “i’m not going anywhere,” you say quietly. firmly. he turns to you sharply, searching your face for something uncertain. “not like that,” you add, a small but genuine smile curving your lips.

the relief that washes over him is almost painful to witness. he pulls you to his chest without hesitation, one arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. he presses a long, steady kiss to your forehead. then your lips. it’s tender. deeper. a promise exchanged without words.

when he pulls back, his nose brushes yours. “stay,” he whispers again.

this time, you don’t drift when the doors open. you step forward with him, lips stretched into a small smile.

“i will.”

A/N. this definitely isn’t as deep as my other works but sometimes you don’t need a stab, a pinch will suffice in certain moments (wow look at me being a poet)

my ryusae fic flopped pretty bad i’m a bit sad. guess a lot of readers don’t like poly dynamics, but i do sorta get it. although to me, more lovers mean more affection, hehe.

[ms-demeanor]

Here's the deal, even with the potential changes coming to my job, I hate my job and I don't like working in this industry and I like it less since the company I work for has started becoming more corporate and the world is on fire and it feels really shitty to spend a bunch of time trying to improve service delivery in an [X]aaS role that is largely reliant on reselling products that I think are shit products and also are bad for the tech landscape (and maybe the world). It's totally possible that I could get more invested and driven in this industry and try to push for improvements in the company I'm working for that I think would make us better AND would be better than the subscription enrollment economy (FOSS! A shift back to local servers! Hardware longevity efforts! Client education! On-the-job training and recruiting from a broader pool! A FUCKING UNION!) but I suspect that would probably yield minimal results compared to the effort I'd put forth and that effort could probably be better spent elsewhere.

Basically, it was easy to justify staying in this job when my job was ordering stuff for a couple dozen small businesses and writing articles about online safety and I was done at 5 and had the energy to write stuff and make stuff and exist outside of work. Now work is most of my life in a much worse way and I'm less pleased with the idea of staying in this role at this business or in this industry for another twenty years and being too tired to do anything but bitch about work after hours.

If you've been following me for any amount of time, you probably know that I am deeply troubled by the current broad state of media literacy, conspiracism, and the way that mis/disinformation spreads online. You probably also know that I've got a fair amount of media experience and have done a fair amount of writing on this topic (and in fact that I have trouble shutting myself up about this topic).

So I'm thinking about trying to make yelling about media into my full time job but I don't know if there is enough interest in that to make it my full time job. So I'm going to lay out what I'm thinking about doing, and then I'm going to ask two questions:

Does this sound like something with any actual real-world utility that is worth doing?

Is this something that you personally would consider subscribing to for somewhere around $2-5 USD per month (subscriptions would get access to polls about topic selection, but literally nothing I'm planning on publishing would be paywalled).

Okay so here's what I'm thinking about putting together:

Blog about current media events that does media criticism and media literacy education

Researched reports about media bias/media history/scandals in media to again do media criticism and teach media literacy, but also to provide information about journalistic ethics

Neutral, plain-language explainers about hot-button topics meant to be shared with a broad audience from different political backgrounds and meant to demonstrate foundational research principles and teach critical thinking and media literacy in a roundabout way (stuff that is meant to be compelling to link your conservative cousin that would use evidence from sources that are difficult for all but the most ideologically poisoned readers to dismiss)

Regular streaming a couple times a week on some platform or another (Twitch and Youtube are what I'm currently looking at because they're easy to use even though I loathe that they're Amazon and Google owned respectively - if you have other platform suggestions I'm open) to go over current news stories selected from subscriber polls and big media events to break down reporting, sourcing, bias, etc and do general media literacy stuff and answer live questions from viewers.

Cutting videos from the streams and making video versions of the explainers and media deep dives, possibly other video essays.

Releasing a podcast from the streams/videos at least twice a month.

In addition to those I'd also like the time to create more of the resources like the ones I've already made - educational explainers on how to work on cars or clean a house with ADHD or learn to cook or keep an old computer running. I'm not planning on moving away from tumblr or from ms-demeanor.com but I do think I need a place to post this kind of stuff that doesn't literally have a type of crime in the name.

The overall goal would be to directly educate people about media literacy if they want direct education about media literacy and want to follow the blog or subscribe to the streams, and also to provide tools for people to educate others or to help convince people to basically take a step away from fascism/conspiracism/the call of the void.

Questions to follow on two reblogs.

[evancelinewrites]

family dinner

chapter three of pope's girl 🖤 | series masterlist | also on AO3

summary: Pope starts sleeping over more often, blurring the lines of your arrangement just as Cath helps you find work at The Flying Pig. But a Cody dinner, Smurf’s attention and a beach house with too many strings attached make it clear that getting closer to Pope means getting closer to everything trying to keep him.

notes: I’m on AO3 now! Thank you so much to everyone for your continued support on this series!!

warnings: SMUT, 18+, canon-divergent timeline, swearing, smoking, mentions of criminal activity, pope is a yearner, no use of y/n, pope gets possessive, jealousy, unhealthy family dynamics

word count: 10.4k

tags: @fox-saturn @sunbonesss @arigoldsblog @defijones @vicky066 @lovergirlellie @salinaiacono6 @loftilyviolentthunder @mxkhxx @sunmoon-01 @morgan-aaa @insidethegardenwall @dendulinka6 @delicatedragonflower @velvetumbranightmare @fanggq @aoi-warrior @mysatnin

this chapter’s song: Cherry - Lana Del Rey

Please do not translate, repost, redistribute, or adapt this story on any platform without my explicit permission. Reblogs are welcome and encouraged!

chapter 3 | family dinner

A few months pass after Pope’s birthday, and somewhere in that time, he starts sleeping over more often than he doesn’t.

It happens quietly with no conversation. No moment where either of you looks at the other and decides this is what you do now. One night he’s leaving before sunrise, and then one night he doesn’t. Then another. Then another after that, until his boots end up by your door and his shirt gets left over the back of your chair and you stop being surprised by the weight of him in your bed.

The money changes the same way.

It doesn’t disappear completely. Rent still exists. So do groceries, bills and the ugly practical parts of staying alive. But it stops appearing after sex, stops sitting on dressers like a receipt for your body.

Now it shows up differently.

A pack of your cigarettes left on the counter after you run out. Coffee placed beside your hand in the morning, still hot, no explanation attached. A paper bag set on your kitchen table after you mention you forgot to eat, Pope standing near the fridge like he didn’t file the detail away and act on it.

Neither of you says anything about it.

It isn’t that you don’t need money anymore. You do. Desperately. But somewhere along the way, you stop knowing how to take it from him without feeling the shape of his hands after.

The money had made things simple in the worst way, but at least simple things were easy to name. This is harder. Pope standing in your kitchen after midnight with bruised knuckles and tension sitting sharp in his shoulders while you eat fries from the bag he brought over. Pope drinking half the glass of water you give him, eyes moving around your apartment like he’s checking the exits even here. Pope leaving his keys on your counter, his socks near your bed, his hand low on your stomach in the dark like he knows where it belongs but still doesn’t know how to ask for it.

Other nights, you still meet him at the hotel and try to pretend some part of the old arrangement is still there. It never works for long. Not when he looks at you too much after. Not when his fingers brush your wrist before you reach for your clothes. Not when there’s no cash on the table anymore and both of you know exactly what its absence means.

On the nights he isn’t beside you, your body notices before your mind is ready to admit anything. You hear a car slow outside and glance toward the window. Your phone lights up and your stomach moves before you read the name. You wake in the dark reaching for warmth that isn’t there, annoyed at yourself for getting used to something you were never supposed to count on.

This is still an agreement, you remind yourself.

Then Pope shows up again, and it sounds less true.

One morning, sunlight slips through the blinds in thin lines across your sheets. Pope is asleep on his side facing you, one arm tucked beneath the pillow and the other resting loose across your waist. His hair is messy from sleep, and there’s a thin cut near his eyebrow from when he showed up at your door last night with blood already drying along his temple.

He looks different when he sleeps. For a few hours, at least, he looks like he’s finally stopped fighting whatever follows him into the dark.

He stirs beside you, blinking slowly against the light. His hand tightens at your waist for half a second before his fingers loosen again.

“Morning,” you say.

He watches you for another second before answering, his voice rough from sleep.

“Morning.”

Your eyes drift up to the cut near his eyebrow.

“Does it still hurt?”

Pope’s gaze stays on yours.

“No.”

You don’t make a big thing out of it because you know he’ll pull away if you do. Still, your eyes linger longer than you mean them to. You’re getting too used to seeing marks on him, too used to measuring what looks bad and what looks worse, too used to pretending relief doesn’t hit you first when he shows up at your door at all.

“When do you have to leave?”

Pope glances at the clock on your nightstand, then back at you. For a second, he doesn’t answer. His hand slides up your side instead, warm beneath the sheet.

The corner of his mouth lifts.

“Not yet.”

Then he leans over you, mouth finding yours with slow, familiar pressure. You let him kiss you for a moment, breathing him in as his weight settles closer, the warmth of his skin and the faint trace of soap still clinging to him from last night.

Then you press your palm against his chest and guide him back.

Pope pulls away enough to look at you, brows drawing together as you move lower.

“What?”

You smile faintly and keep going, watching the question leave his face the second he understands.

You take your time with him, lips moving from his neck to his collarbone, then lower, tracing the warm skin of his chest while your eyes stay on his face.

“You’re gonna make me late,” he breathes.

“You started this,” you tease.

His mouth parts like he wants to answer, but nothing comes out. Not at first.

But every reaction gives him away. The faint pull of his brows when your mouth lingers near his throat. The uneven breath when you kiss his chest. The way his stomach tightens beneath your hand when you move lower.

You follow those little tells, letting them guide you. Where his breath breaks, where his fingers flex, where his body goes quiet for half a second too long, you press your mouth there next.

By the time your lips reach his stomach, his hand has found your hair. His fingers tighten slightly, then loosen again, like even that much reaction feels too close to giving himself away.

You like him like this. Barely awake. Still warm from sleep. Trying so hard not to look as affected as he is.

Your hand reaches him before your mouth does, feeling the hard length of him through his boxers. Pope’s breath stops as you touch him slowly over the fabric. You keep your mouth just beneath his stomach, pressing small, deliberate kisses there while your fingers hook beneath the waistband.

You drag it down slowly, just enough to make his body pull tight beneath you.

“Fu—”

The word breaks off in his throat.

You look up at him as your hand wraps around him. His jaw is tight, eyes heavy and fixed on yours, restraint gathering across his face like he still thinks he can hide how badly he wants this.

You press a soft kiss to the tip first. Then another.

His hand tightens in your hair.

“Don’t tease.”

The words come out rough and uneven.

“Thought you liked when I took my time.”

His breath leaves him hard.

“Not right now.”

You smile against him, then give him what he wants.

Your mouth closes around him, and his head drops back against the pillow with a low sound he doesn’t manage to stop. His eyes shut for half a second, but when they open again, they find you.

You hold his gaze as his control starts slipping in pieces. His fingers stay tangled in your hair, not forcing, just holding on. His hips lift once before he catches himself.

You pull back only enough to speak, your mouth still close.

“That feel good?”

Pope’s breath breaks on the answer.

“Yeah.”

His fingers flex again.

“Don’t—” He stops, jaw tight. “Don’t stop.”

He barely gets the words out before your mouth is on him again. You find a steadier rhythm, one hand wrapped around him while your lips and tongue learn what makes his breathing turn rough, what makes his stomach tighten, what makes his hand go still in your hair like he’s trying not to lose himself too quickly.

“Stay there,” he breathes.

His body reacts to every movement, each pass leaving him slick and wet, making it easier to take him deeper. When your tongue reaches the tip, you linger there, circling slowly until you taste the bead of moisture already gathered there.

“Fu—”

His eyes find yours again, and whatever control he has left goes thin all at once. His fingers tighten in your hair, still careful enough not to force you, but no longer able to hide how close he is.

“I’m gonna—”

He stops, chest rising sharply.

You don’t look away.

His mouth falls open as another rough sound leaves him.

You hold his gaze when he comes, watching the last of his restraint leave his face. You take what he gives you, swallowing slowly before lifting your head.

Your thumb wipes the corner of your mouth, and the satisfaction on your face is impossible to hide.

Pope stares down at you, wrecked and quiet.

“Look at you,” he says, barely above a whisper.

His fingers tighten once in your hair, not pulling, just holding on like he needs another second before he lets you up.

Afterward, Pope lies back against the pillows for a moment, his hand resting warm against your hip. He looks less guarded like this, stripped of the usual tension he carries around his shoulders. You settle beside him and let your head rest against the pillow, watching his face while he stares toward the ceiling.

“Need to leave soon?”

“Have to be at Smurf’s.”

You study him, the answer settling into the space between you.

“Job?”

He nods once, but his hand goes still on your hip. His jaw works once before he says anything else.

“Baz is runnin’ point.”

His voice stays flat, but the irritation beneath it is hard to miss.

“That bother you?”

Pope lets out a short, humourless laugh.

“Baz likes bein’ in charge.”

You watch his face as he looks toward the window.

“He’s good at it,” Pope says.

The admission surprises you more than the bitterness underneath it.

“He sees things.” A pause. “Talks people into shit. Makes it look easy.”

You stay quiet, because anything you say would probably make it sound smaller than it is. Baz gets the room, the charm and people leaning toward him before they even realize they’ve moved. Pope gets the parts no one talks about after. The parts that come back bruised, bleeding or awake all night.

After a moment, Pope adds, quieter, “Somebody still has to do the hard part.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

Maybe there isn’t anything.

Pope doesn’t give the silence time to settle. He sits up, the sheet falling low around his waist as he reaches for his jeans on the floor.

“He’s bringin’ J.”

You look toward him.

“The kid?”

Pope pulls his jeans on and turns away from the bed, like he needs somewhere else to look before he answers.

“He’s not a kid.”

“Barely.”

He doesn’t answer. He buckles his belt, movements sharp and familiar now, every layer putting him back together again. Jeans. Belt. Shirt. Boots. Every piece making him look more like the man who walked into that backyard the first time you saw him and less like the one who just came apart beneath your hands.

“You don’t trust him?”

“No.”

The answer comes too fast.

You watch his shoulders beneath the shirt as he reaches for the buttons. The irritation is obvious in the sharpness of his movements, but there’s something else underneath it too. Something harder to pin down. Something that reminds you of the silence that settled over him at his birthday when J brought up Julia.

“He wasn’t raised in this,” Pope says.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

His mouth tightens.

“Means I don’t know what he’ll do.”

Pope doesn’t turn around, but you can see enough of his profile to know this isn’t only about a job. It isn’t only about J being new, or young, or untested. Julia’s name isn’t in the room, but it might as well be.

“He’s Julia’s son,” you say softly. “He’s your nephew.”

Pope’s eyes cut toward you.

“I know who he is.”

The conversation stops there.

His tone stays even, but the message is clear enough.

You know better than to push.

You look down at the sheet gathered against your chest while he finishes dressing. Pope moves like a man trying to put himself back into the right order before leaving your apartment. Shirt buttoned. Boots tied. Hands empty. Face unreadable. By the time he reaches for his keys, the morning has already started losing him.

For a second, he looks toward the bed again. Toward you.

The look is quick enough that you might miss it if you didn’t know him better now.

“I’ll see you later,” he says.

“You gonna text me, or should I just stare at my phone like an idiot?”

Pope gives you a flat look.

“Don’t stare at your phone.”

“So you’re texting me?”

“Yeah.”

You laugh, and his eyes soften for half a second before he turns toward the door. A minute later, he’s gone, and your room feels quieter than it should.

You sit there for a moment longer, listening to the silence he leaves behind. You tell yourself not to look at your phone because he literally just told you not to, which makes you look at it almost instantly.

Nothing.

You roll your eyes at yourself and reach for your shirt, tugging it over your head as you get out of bed. You make it halfway to the dresser before your phone buzzes against the nightstand.

Your stomach reacts before you do.

Then you see the number.

Unknown.

its cath. got your number from baz’s phone

how fast can you get to the pig? owner wants to meet you

You stare at the message for a second before typing back quickly.

gimme 30 mins

The Flying Pig looks different than you expected.

You’ve heard about it enough. Little mentions from Baz here and there when he got too comfortable and started talking like the two of you were closer than you were. Cath’s shifts. Regulars who tipped well. Fights in the parking lot. The owner who didn’t put up with shit from anyone.

But you’ve never actually stepped inside before today.

You didn’t want to.

Not when Baz came here. Not when Cath worked here. Not when the whole place felt too close to a life you were already trying not to touch more than you had to.

During the day, though, it’s quieter than you imagined. Less crowded. Less sticky. It still smells faintly like beer, fried food and old wood, but without the night crowd packed inside, the place almost looks ordinary.

Cath stands behind the bar when you walk in, wiping down glasses while a woman with short dark hair flips through papers near the register.

Cath looks up first.

“You made it.”

“Barely.”

She nods toward the woman.

“This is Tracy. She owns the place.”

Tracy looks you over quickly. Not unkindly, but directly enough that you stand a little straighter.

“Cath says you served before.”

“Diner. Couple years.”

“You know how to handle drunk idiots?”

You smile faintly.

“Unfortunately.”

Tracy snorts.

“Good. We have plenty.”

The interview doesn’t feel like an interview for long. Tracy asks about your availability, whether you can work late, whether you can handle your own section and whether you know how to keep your mouth shut around regulars who talk too much.

“I’m good at minding my own business.”

Cath glances at you from behind the bar like she doesn’t entirely believe that.

Tracy studies you for another second, then taps the papers against the register.

“You can start Friday.”

You blink.

“That’s it?”

“You want me to make it harder?”

“No.”

“Then Friday.”

Cath hides a smile behind the glass she’s drying, and for the first time since she texted, you let yourself feel it properly.

A job.

A real one.

Not enough to fix everything overnight, but enough to make the floor feel steadier under your feet. Enough to picture rent without immediately doing the math in your head and hating the answer.

Enough that when Pope gives you money now, maybe you won’t have to take it.

Or maybe that’s the part you aren’t ready to think about yet.

You step outside afterward with your phone already in your hand.

got a job

Pope responds faster than you expect.

where

flying pig

There’s a short pause, long enough for you to wonder if he knows exactly why that place feels strange to you.

Then your phone buzzes again.

ill come get you

You stare at the message longer than necessary.

not done yet

i can wait

You look at the message until the screen dims in your hand.

Then you slip the phone into your pocket and go back inside.

Inside, Cath is restocking bottles beneath the bar when you walk back in, sliding them into place with quick, practised movements.

“Thanks,” you say.

She looks up briefly.

“For this.”

Cath shrugs and reaches for another bottle. “You needed work. They needed someone.”

“You didn’t have to help me.”

“No,” she says, setting the bottle into the row. “I didn’t.”

The honesty sits between you. It isn’t exactly warm, but it’s something solid. It doesn’t ask either of you to pretend the past didn’t happen.

You lean against the bar and watch her work for a moment.

“Pope said Baz is running point today.”

Cath’s hands slow around the bottle.

“He tell you anything else?”

“Not really.”

Her eyes move toward the front windows, then back to the label she’s lining up with the others.

“Good.”

You study her.

“Good?”

“Less you know, less you have to lie about.”

The words come out too calm to be casual.

Before you can answer, the front door opens and a man steps inside wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt. Cath looks over, and her face changes just enough for you to notice before she looks busy again.

“Hey,” Cath says.

The man approaches the bar, his gaze flicking briefly to you before settling back on her.

“Hey.”

Cath gestures toward you. “Meet our newest server. She starts Friday.”

He turns to you and offers his hand.

“Patrick Fischer.”

His grip is warm. Normal. Nothing loaded underneath it.

“Nice to meet you,” you say.

“You too.”

Patrick looks back at Cath, still smiling.

“You working tonight?”

Cath raises an eyebrow.

“Why?”

He lifts one shoulder. “Just asking.”

“Sure you are.”

You glance between them and bite back a smile. Cath sees it anyway, but she doesn’t say anything until Patrick heads toward the bathroom.

Then you lean closer to the bar.

“He’s cute.”

Cath shakes her head immediately, though a small smile tugs at her mouth.

“Don’t start.”

“I said he’s cute. That’s an observation.”

“That’s how you start.”

You grin.

For a second, it almost feels easy.

You’re outside waiting for Pope with a cigarette already between your fingers when Patrick steps out a few minutes later.

“Got a light?”

You hold out your lighter.

When he reaches for it, your eyes catch on the badge clipped near his belt.

“You’re a cop?”

Patrick follows your gaze, then looks back at you.

“Off duty.”

“That’s not a no.”

His mouth lifts faintly.

“No. It’s not.”

You study him for another second before letting him take the lighter.

“Does off duty mean you stop being annoying?”

“Depends who you ask.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it.

Patrick lights his cigarette and hands the lighter back before leaning against the wall a few feet away. You appreciate that more than you expect. Most men only understand space after someone makes them.

“So you’re friends with Cath?” you ask.

“She’s good people.”

You look over at him.

“You like her.”

Patrick lets out a small laugh, eyes dropping toward the pavement.

“That obvious?”

“Little bit.”

He shakes his head, smiling toward the street.

“She’s got enough going on.”

That makes you like him a little more.

Before you can answer, Patrick’s posture changes. Not dramatically, but just enough.

You follow his gaze and see Pope crossing the parking lot toward you.

Even from a distance, his presence changes things. He moves at the same steady pace, unconcerned with anyone else in the parking lot. He walks like the space in front of him has already cleared, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on you first, then Patrick.

Patrick notices.

“You know this guy?”

“Yeah.”

Pope stops close enough that Patrick glances once between you both.

“You good?” Patrick asks.

It’s careful. More checking in than anything else.

Pope hears it anyway, his eyes moving to Patrick.

“I’m fine,” you say before Pope can answer for you. “He’s with me.”

Patrick nods, though he doesn’t look fully convinced.

“Alright.” His gaze stays on you for another second. “See you Friday.”

You wait until Patrick disappears back inside before turning toward Pope.

“That was normal, by the way.”

Pope looks at you.

“What?”

“You don’t have to stare at every man who talks to me like he’s planning something.”

His eyes flick toward the door.

“Who’s he?”

“Patrick. Just met him today.”

For a second, you think about mentioning the badge. Then his attention cuts back to the door Patrick disappeared through, and the cigarette waiting between your fingers feels like enough to deal with.

“He works here?”

“No. He knows Cath.”

Pope’s expression shifts at Cath’s name.

Instead of pushing, you lift the cigarette. Pope takes the lighter from your hand before you can use it.

He lights it for you, gaze fixed on the flame for a second before it lifts to your mouth. There’s something strangely intimate about it, the way he stands close enough to block the breeze, one hand cupped around the lighter, eyes following the first drag you take.

You offer him the cigarette.

He takes it from your fingers and brings it to his mouth.

“You got the job?” he asks after exhaling.

“Yeah. Friday.”

“Good.”

The word is blunt, but the tension sitting behind his face softens for a second.

Then his fingers brush yours.

Just for a second, barely there.

The back of his knuckles graze yours before he pulls away, gone before anyone could make too much of it.

“Dinner tomorrow,” he says.

“At Smurf’s?”

He nods.

“She wants everyone there.”

Of course she does.

Pope watches you for another second, waiting.

You hold his gaze.

“Okay.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. The parking lot is quiet except for a few cars passing out on the street.

“I gotta meet Chrissy at the beach after this.”

His eyes move to you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Unless you were planning on kidnapping me.”

Pope looks at you.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

“Would’ve brought rope.”

Something in his face eases, small and quick, like he got exactly the reaction he wanted.

“That’s disturbing.”

“You asked.”

You shake your head, still smiling.

“I’ll take you.”

“To the beach?”

He nods once.

“On the way.”

You look at him for a second.

“Okay.”

Chrissy’s already sprawled on a towel by the time you reach the beach, sunglasses on, one arm thrown over her face and a magazine open on her stomach. You drop onto the towel beside her, and she lifts one hand without moving the rest of her body.

“You got here fast.”

“Pope dropped me off.”

“Course he did.”

“He was already coming this way.”

Chrissy hums, unconvinced.

“No, he wasn’t.”

You roll your eyes and pull your knees up, working at the sand caught between your toes.

“I got the job.”

That finally gets her to move. The magazine slides down her stomach as she turns her head toward you.

“At The Pig?”

“I start Friday.”

Her eyebrows lift behind her sunglasses.

“That’s kind of huge.”

You shrug, trying not to let anything show.

“They needed someone.”

“Yeah, and Cath just happened to think of you?”

“She’s being nice.”

Chrissy makes a small sound, not quite agreement.

You look out toward the water, letting the waves fill the space for a few seconds. The ocean rolls in bright and restless beneath the late afternoon sun, and you let the heat settle over your legs while the salt air dries the sweat at the back of your neck.

Chrissy shifts beside you.

“Was Pope at the apartment this morning?”

You glance over.

“Why?”

“Because the spice rack is alphabetized.”

You press your lips together.

Chrissy pushes her sunglasses higher on her nose.

“I opened the cupboard half-asleep and thought I was being threatened.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it.

“Maybe he likes order.”

“Yeah, no shit. He put cumin behind coriander because C-O comes before C-U.”

You drag a hand over your mouth, still smiling.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Didn’t say he was.”

“You were going to.”

“I didn’t need to. The oregano said it for me.”

You laugh again, softer this time, and Chrissy’s expression shifts in that way hers does when she’s deciding whether to make fun of you or worry first.

“He spent the night again?”

“Yeah.”

“And then he picked you up from your new job and drove you here.”

“You’re making it sound like something.”

“It is something.”

You dig your heel into the sand, watching the grains slide over your foot.

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Chrissy doesn’t answer right away. For once, she doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She only sets the magazine aside and leans back on her hands, looking toward the water like it might give her a better way to say whatever is coming next.

“I know what you look like when something’s just sex,” she says eventually.

You glance at her.

“This isn’t that.”

The waves rush up over the sand, then pull back again.

“It’s supposed to be,” you say.

She hears the difference. You know she does because she doesn’t tease you for it.

After a moment, she bumps her foot against yours.

“Yeah,” she says. “Feelings are annoying like that.”

It isn’t advice. Not really.

Maybe that’s why it helps.

A few minutes later Chrissy’s phone buzzes.

She checks it, and the smile comes too fast.

“Is it Simon?”

“Maybe.”

Simon was the bachelor’s brother Chrissy met the night of Pope’s birthday, the one who’d spent most of the night ignoring the bachelor and finding excuses to talk to Chrissy instead. Since then, he’d developed a suspicious habit of showing up whenever she worked.

Chrissy looks toward the water, like that might hide the grin pulling at her mouth.

“He asked me to go to the movies tonight. Something with wizards or superheroes. I don’t know.”

“Oh my god, you like him!”

She sighs like you’ve dragged the truth out of her through torture.

“He’s nice.” She pauses, then glances back at you. “Like actually nice. Not the kind of nice until he realizes I’m not going home with him.”

For once, the easy comeback doesn’t come right away, and Chrissy notices immediately.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

You lean back on your hands, smiling a little.

She looks down at her phone again, thumb moving over the edge of the case without typing anything. For all her noise, Chrissy gets quiet when something matters. It only lasts a second before she locks the screen and tosses the phone onto the towel between you.

“You should go,” you say.

Chrissy glances over.

“To the movie?”

“Yeah. Seriously.”

The corner of her mouth lifts, but the softness stays there for a second longer than usual before she looks back toward the water.

After a while, you sit up and brush sand off your thighs.

“I have to pee.”

“There’s a surf shop over there,” Chrissy says, gesturing toward the shops behind you. “Or just go in the water.”

You stare at her.

“That’s gross.”

“It’s the ocean.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s nature.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Chrissy squints at you from behind her sunglasses.

“You’re worse than Pope.”

You stand and flick sand at her towel, laughing as you make your way over to the surf shop.

The surf shop is small and half-empty, smelling like sunscreen, board wax and rubber, with a rack of cheap sunglasses spinning beneath the ceiling fan. The guy behind the counter barely looks up from his phone when you ask for the bathroom.

“Back hallway,” he says. “Door on the left.”

You thank him and head toward the back, the floor creaking faintly beneath your sandals as you pass a dusty display of tourist keychains. The whole place is quiet except for the low hum of an old refrigerator somewhere behind the counter.

Then you hear movement from a room near the hallway.

A soft laugh.

You glance over before you think better of it.

Deran’s there.

So is a guy you don’t recognize.

They’re kissing in the half-open doorway of what looks like a staff room, Deran’s hand curled in the front of the guy’s shirt while the other guy smiles against his mouth. It only lasts a second, maybe less, but it’s enough to feel like you’ve walked into something private without meaning to.

For half a breath, your brain doesn’t catch up.

Then your foot catches the corner of a cardboard box stacked too close to the wall. The whole pile shifts, and something inside crashes loud enough to make your heart jump.

Deran jerks back immediately. Whatever was on his face a second ago is gone before he even turns toward you.

The other guy steps away fast, startled, one hand lifting toward the back of his neck while his eyes flick between you and Deran like he’s already trying to figure out how bad this is.

Deran doesn’t look at him.

He looks at you.

The colour drains from his face.

You lift both hands slightly.

“Sorry.”

It comes out quiet and useless.

Deran doesn’t say anything and you don’t wait for him to.

You turn back toward the front of the shop and leave, the bell above the door ringing too loudly behind you.

By the time you and Pope get to Smurf’s the following night, dinner’s already on the table.

Craig’s in his chair with a beer in one hand, talking too loudly about something Deran did while Deran sits across from him, expression flat and arms crossed over his chest. J’s near the end of the table, quiet as usual, picking at the fabric on the placemat while his eyes move around the room. Baz leans back beside him, making some comment under his breath that makes Craig laugh and Deran roll his eyes.

Cath and Lena aren’t there.

You notice it, but you don’t ask. The house feels different without Lena’s colouring book spread across the counter or Cath moving through the kitchen with that careful quiet you still haven’t figured out how to name.

Pope pulls out the chair beside him for you, then sits close enough that his knee brushes yours under the table. His shoulder’s warm beside you, the faint smell of soap still clinging to his shirt. You reach for your water, trying to settle into the room like you belong there, or at least like you aren’t waiting for Smurf to notice every breath you take.

Pope leans closer, voice low enough that only you hear it.

“You look good.”

Your mouth curves before you can stop it.

“You already said that in the car.”

His eyes move over your face, serious in that way of his that always makes simple things feel heavier than they should.

“Still true.”

You look down at your plate, pretending to care about whatever Smurf put in front of you. It’s easier than looking at him when he says things like that, easier than letting the room see how quickly he can get under your skin without even touching you.

Then his hand finds your thigh beneath the table.

Your fingers tighten around your glass for half a second before you force them to relax. Pope’s palm is warm against your skin, steady at first, resting just above your knee like it belongs there. You take a careful sip of water, mostly to give your mouth something to do besides react, and Pope notices. His thumb moves once, slow enough to be deliberate, and his hand slides higher.

You keep your eyes on the table.

Pope keeps his hand where it is.

Across from you, Craig reaches for the bowl of salad and knocks his beer with his elbow. It spills across the table before anyone can catch it, beer running toward the breadbasket while Deran mutters, “Fuckin’ hell, Craig.”

Pope’s hand stills against your thigh, his attention snapping to the mess.

Craig grabs a napkin and it only spreads wider.

“What?” he says. “It’s fine.”

“It’s on the table,” Pope says flatly.

“Yeah, that’s usually where dinner happens.”

“You spilled beer on the bread.”

Craig looks down at the basket, then back at Pope like he can’t believe this is a part anyone cares about.

“Jesus Christ, you’re even more annoying now that you brought your girl to dinner.”

Deran grabs the breadbasket before the beer reaches it and sets it near you instead. “Can you two not do this shit at dinner?”

Craig points at Pope with the wet napkin. “He started it!”

“You spilled a beer.”

You reach under the table and brush your fingers lightly against Pope’s wrist.

His hand stays on your thigh.

Smurf watches from the head of the table, her smile faint enough to pass for nothing.

“J,” she says, setting her glass down. “Where’s Nikki tonight, baby?”

J looks up, caught off guard by the attention.

“She’s, uh…” His eyes drop to his plate. “She’s not coming.”

Smurf’s brows lift slightly.

“No?”

J shakes his head once.

“We broke up.”

Craig pauses mid-drink. “Already?”

Deran gives him a look. “Don’t be a dick.”

Baz lets out a quiet laugh and looks toward J.

“Women, man.”

J doesn’t answer. He just keeps looking at his plate.

Smurf gives him a soft, sympathetic smile.

“Oh, baby,” she says. “Young love. Never meant to last too long.”

The words are for J, but her eyes drift briefly toward you before returning to him.

Pope’s fingers press once against your thigh.

“You’ll be alright,” Smurf says, reaching for her glass again. “Girls come and go.”

Baz lifts his brows, mouth curving before he takes a drink.

“Some more than others.”

Pope looks at him.

“Watch it.”

Baz lowers his glass slowly, grin still there.

“Relax. Wasn’t talking about her.”

“Bullshit.”

The table tightens around the word. Craig looks between Pope and Baz, suddenly interested, while Deran mutters something under his breath and reaches for his beer.

Baz holds Pope’s stare for another second before lifting one hand.

“Andrew,” Smurf says calmly, not needing to raise her voice.

Pope doesn’t look at her right away. His hand is still on your thigh, warm and unmoving, but the fight leaves him before he says another word.

Smurf’s smile returns, easy and sweet.

“Heard you got a job at The Pig,” she says, and just like that, her attention is on you.

“Yeah. I start Friday.”

“Good for you, sweetie.” Smurf reaches for the serving spoon, calm as anything. “Cath knew you needed the money?”

“She knew they needed someone,” you say.

Smurf hums softly, placing food onto her plate.

“Lucky timing.”

The table keeps moving around the exchange. But everyone hears it.

Pope hears it too.

Baz takes a drink, then glances toward you. “The Pig’s not bad. Tips are decent if you don’t mind drunk assholes.”

Craig snorts. “So, basically us.”

Baz smiles at that, but his eyes stay sharp for a second longer than the joke needs.

You pick up your fork, though your appetite has gone thin.

“Guess I’ll find out Friday.”

Pope’s hand stays on your thigh beneath the table. Lower this time. Safer, almost careful.

But that’s not where you need him.

Dinner keeps going around you. Forks against plates. Craig talking too loud. Baz speaking like nothing happened. Deran pushing food around his plate while J stays quiet near the end of the table.

Then Smurf reaches beside her plate and lifts a small ring of keys.

“Andrew.”

Pope looks up but doesn’t take them right away.

“I had the beach house cleaned up.”

“What for?”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time away from the hotel, baby.” Her voice is sweet “Thought you might like somewhere more comfortable.”

Craig leans forward. “Which beach house?”

“The one on Cassidy.”

Deran looks over. “The place with the shitty water pressure?”

Smurf ignores him, eyes staying on Pope.

Pope looks at the keys, then at her.

“Close by?”

“Of course,” Smurf says. “Family should stay close.”

Close.

She makes it sound harmless.

Pope takes the keys eventually, the metal disappearing into his hand.

Smurf’s eyes drift toward you.

“Especially when he’s got company so often.”

Pope’s fingers close around the keys.

“Thanks,” he says.

Smurf’s smile warms.

“You’re welcome, baby.”

A gift, technically.

A furnished beach house near the water. A place with walls, a bed and enough privacy to pretend it might belong to him. Maybe even to both of you, if you were stupid enough to believe anything from Smurf came without a string tied around it.

The hotel had been temporary. Anonymous. Easy to leave.

This is different.

This has an address.

This has Smurf’s fingerprints all over it.

You offer to wash the dishes later because you need something to do with your hands.

The house has settled into smaller pockets of noise. Craig and Baz are outside, their voices carrying through the patio door every few seconds. Smurf is in the living room with Pope close by, drink in her hand, pretending not to watch everyone while somehow missing nothing.

J appears beside you with a plate in his hand.

“Thanks,” you say, taking it from him.

He nods once, already turning like he expects that to be the end of it.

“You okay?”

J pauses.

Not long, but long enough.

“Yeah.”

The answer comes too quickly, just like it did at dinner.

You rinse the plate beneath the faucet and glance toward him.

“Sorry about Nikki.”

J shrugs, eyes shifting briefly toward the backyard when Baz’s laugh cuts through the glass.

“Wasn’t serious.”

“Right.”

He looks back at you then, catching the disbelief before his eyes drop again.

His mouth tightens. The feeling is there and gone before you can name it.

“People don’t usually get less complicated around here,” you say.

J’s mouth almost pulls into a smile.

“Noticed that.”

Then he leaves before you can say anything else.

A few seconds later, Deran appears beside you so quietly you almost drop the plate.

“Jesus.”

“Sorry.”

You glance at him.

He looks uncomfortable, which on Deran somehow makes him look younger and more annoyed at the same time.

You turn off the faucet.

“His name’s Adrian,” he says.

You lean back against the counter.

“Okay.”

Deran watches your face like he’s waiting for it to change.

“You gonna say anything?”

“No.”

His jaw moves slightly, like he wants to believe that and hates that he has to ask.

“It’s not my place,” you say.

Deran looks down at the counter, fingers tapping once against the edge.

“Yeah, well. People around here don’t really give a shit about what’s their place.”

You follow his gaze without looking toward the living room.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

Deran doesn’t answer right away.

Then he nods once, small and sharp, swallowing whatever tried to surface before it could make the room worse.

You pick up another plate and hand it to him.

Deran looks at it.

“What am I, helping now?”

“You walked over here.”

“Yeah, to threaten you.”

“Then threaten me while drying.”

He stares at you for a second before taking the dish towel from your hand.

“Just because you know doesn’t mean I’m your gay best friend now.”

You grin.

“Too bad. I was gonna invite you to brunch.”

Deran shakes his head, but the tension breaks. He dries the plate quickly and sets it down beside the sink, standing close enough that the silence between you feels easier than the one before.

After a while, he glances toward the living room where Pope sits with Smurf.

“He’s been different.”

You follow his gaze.

“Pope?”

Deran nods.

“Since he got out.” A pause. “Maybe because of you.”

You don’t know what to say to that, and Deran seems to notice because he looks back at the plate in his hand like he regrets saying anything sincere.

“Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t.”

“He’ll get weird.”

“He’s already weird.”

Deran snorts.

“Yeah. Fair.”

You find the bathroom near the hall off the kitchen, tucked past a wall of framed family photos and a narrow table covered in mail, loose keys and an ashtray already crowded with cigarette butts. By the time you finish washing your hands, the house has shifted again, voices moving from room to room.

You open the door and start back toward the kitchen.

Then you hear Smurf.

“…people talk in bars, Andrew.”

You stop before you mean to.

Her voice carries from the living room, soft enough that you almost miss the words beneath Craig laughing outside and the low thud of music coming from somewhere near the patio. You can’t see them from where you stand in the hallway, only the edge of the doorway and the warm spill of lamplight across the floor.

Pope says something too low for you to catch.

Smurf answers with a little hum, gentle and knowing.

“Catherine always knew how to look helpless.”

There’s a pause. You hear the faint click of Smurf’s lighter, then her inhale.

“That place has eyes,” she says. “Always has.”

Pope doesn’t answer this time. Or if he does, his voice stays buried beneath the house.

You stand there a second too long, trying to decide whether you heard enough or too much. The words themselves aren’t clear enough to hold onto, but the shape of them is. Smurf’s voice. Pope’s silence.

Then someone speaks behind you.

“You lost?”

You turn to see Baz leaning against the wall, one shoulder pressed to the faded wallpaper, a beer dangling from his fingers. He looks amused, but not surprised.

“I was looking for the bathroom.”

His mouth curves.

“Sure you were.”

You look past him toward the living room, but the voices have dropped lower now. Whatever Smurf’s saying to Pope has folded itself back into the house.

Baz pushes off the wall, enough for the hallway to feel smaller. His gaze moves over your face, and it makes something inside you go cold before he even opens his mouth.

“You think he’s different with you?”

You hold his stare.

“He is.”

Baz almost laughs, but nothing about his face is amused.

“Yeah. Bet he is.”

“Don’t.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the living room, then back to you.

“That what you told yourself with me too?”

Your stomach turns. He says it like there was ever anything between you worth comparing, like old access is the same thing as intimacy.

“You and I were never that.”

“No,” he says. “But at least we knew what it was.”

Something crosses his face before he turns it into a smirk.

“Yeah,” you say. “‘Til I found out about Lena.”

Baz’s smile thins.

“Don’t make yourself sound noble.”

“I’m not.” Your voice stays low. “I’m reminding you why it stopped.”

His jaw tightens. For a second, the hallway feels too narrow for both of you.

“At least we didn’t pretend,” he says.

You laugh once, quiet and humourless.

“Don’ stand here acting like you’re warning me because now you wanna care.”

His eyes narrow.

“You think I give a shit?”

“No,” you say. “That’s the point.”

Baz looks toward the living room again, jaw working once before his attention comes back to you.

“You really don’t fucking get it,” he says, voice lower now. “You think because he wants you, that means he picks you.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t look away.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to.”

He tips the beer toward the living room.

“Smurf found out Julia was pregnant. Made sure everybody knew where they were supposed to stand.”

His mouth twists before he continues.

“Pope loved Julia. We all did.” He looks down at the bottle in his hand, thumb dragging once through the condensation. “Didn’t matter.”

You think of Pope looking at the cupcake, the way grief had pulled his voice low. You think of Smurf saying my Andrew like a hand closing around his throat. You think of the way Pope went quiet at the table when she said your name like she was only being polite.

Baz looks at you then, and the charm slips enough for you to see the anger under it.

“He can want you all he wants,” he says. His voice goes flatter. “He can show up at your place, sleep in your bed, look at you however the hell he looks at you.”

He pauses, eyes cutting once toward the living room.

“But when she calls, he goes.”

You force yourself to hold his gaze.

“Maybe.”

Baz blinks, thrown by the answer.

“Maybe?”

“Maybe he does.” You glance toward the living room, then back at him. “But you don’t get to use Julia just to prove a point.”

His face goes still.

The reaction is small, but it's there.

“You didn’t save her either,” you say.

For a second, Baz has nothing ready. Then his mouth hardens.

“Neither did Pope.”

Smurf’s laugh floats out from the living room, soft and pleased, followed by Pope’s voice still too low to make out. The sound pulls Baz’s attention for half a second, and when he looks back at you, the old lazy smile is back, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ll learn.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But not from you.”

His smile dulls.

“For now.”

Then he turns and walks toward the patio, leaving you in the hallway with Smurf’s voice still slipping through the house.

You wait until Baz is gone before moving again.

By the time you step back into the kitchen, Pope is standing near the counter with Smurf beside him, his face unreadable.

His eyes find yours.

For half a second, you think he might say something.

He doesn’t.

Neither do you.

A few days after Smurf’s dinner, Pope drives you to the beach house.

It sits a few blocks from the Cody place, close enough to still feel like part of Smurf’s reach, but far enough away that you can almost pretend otherwise. It's a small beach house with wide windows and a deck facing the ocean. It’s the kind of place that should feel like a gift if you didn’t already know better.

It’s beautiful.

You hate that it’s beautiful.

Pope unlocks the door and lets you step inside first. The house smells like clean wood, salt air and something faintly lemon from whatever Smurf had someone use on the floors. The inside is already fully furnished. Couch. Bed. Towels folded in the bathroom. Dishes in the cabinets. Fresh sheets. Soap by the sink. Food in the fridge, lined up like somebody expected him to open it and be grateful.

Smurf thought of everything.

Pope stands near the living room window, staring out at the dark water beyond the deck while you wander slowly through the space. Every room is clean. Too clean. Too ready. It feels less like a house and more like an answer to a question Pope never got to ask.

“You like it?” he asks.

You look around the living room again, at the couch angled toward the window, at the lamp beside it, at the key still held loosely in his hand.

“It’s nice.”

Pope glances toward you.

“But?”

You walk into the kitchen and open one of the cabinets. Plates stacked perfectly. Glasses lined up. Nothing out of place. Nothing touched by him yet.

“Doesn’t feel like yours.”

Pope looks back toward the water for a second before setting the key down on the table. He watches you from across the room, the light from outside catching along his face.

“What would make it mine?”

The way he asks it sends warmth low through your stomach despite everything sitting heavy in your chest. He doesn’t say it like he’s asking about the house, but like he’s asking you to tell him where to put his hands.

You walk back toward him slowly.

“I don’t know.”

Pope’s gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts again. He sits on the couch and reaches for you without saying anything, hand finding your thigh once you’re close enough. His touch is warm and steady. Familiar now in a way that still manages to undo you.

“We could christen it,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Did you just make a joke?”

“No.”

“That was almost a joke.”

His mouth shifts, barely there.

“Don’t ruin it.”

You laugh softly, and the sound pulls his hand higher on your thigh. His fingers press once before he tugs you closer. You settle over him, knees on either side of his hips, and for a moment the house feels smaller. His hands move to your waist, holding you there like your weight over him is the first thing in the room that makes sense.

You brush your fingers over the side of his neck, feeling the pulse there.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I know.”

“That usually bother you?”

His hands tighten at your waist.

“Not when it’s you.”

The words settle low in your chest. You lean down and kiss him before he can look away from them. He responds immediately, mouth opening beneath yours, hands sliding around to your back and pulling you closer until there’s hardly any space left between you. The kiss starts slow, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. It never really does with him. Not when his body knows yours now. Not when every quiet thing he refuses to say finds another way out.

You tug his shirt up, and he lifts his arms just long enough for you to pull it over his head. Your hands settle against his shoulders, then his chest, feeling the strength beneath your palms, the heat of him, the faint scars and bruises you’re always trying not to look at too long.

His breathing changes when your nails drag lightly down his stomach.

“Bed,” he says, hands sliding under your thighs.

“Now.”

He lifts you off him before you can answer, one arm locked around your waist. You barely make it down the hallway before his patience breaks. He turns and presses you back against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make your breath leave you all at once.

Your head tips back against the wall as he kisses down your throat, slow at first, then less so when your fingers move into his hair. His hands go to the button of your shorts, working it open with a focus that makes your stomach twist. The denim slides down your legs with your panties, pooling somewhere near your ankles while you pull your shirt over your head and let it fall.

His hand rests against your stomach, thumb moving once beneath your ribs, like he needs to feel you breathe before he lowers himself in front of you.

One hand slides along the back of your thigh, lifting your leg over his shoulder. The wall is cool against your back, the contrast sharp enough to make you shiver when his mouth presses to the inside of your knee, then higher. He takes his time, even though his breathing has already gone uneven.

His mouth brushes higher, and your fingers tighten in his hair.

“Pope.”

His eyes lift to yours from between your thighs.

“Yeah?”

The sight of him there nearly breaks you.

“You’re taking too long.”

His mouth twitches.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

His hand tightens against your thigh, holding you open for him.

“Ask nicely.”

The words should sound smug. They don’t. Not from him. From Pope, they sound like restraint stretched thin, like he needs the last thread of control before he gives you what you both want.

You swallow.

“Please.”

His gaze darkens.

“There’s my girl.”

Then his mouth finds you.

Your head falls back against the wall, a broken sound leaving you before you can stop it. He groans low against you, one hand firm on your thigh while the other presses lightly against your stomach, keeping you there with him. Every time your hips move, his fingers flex. Every time his name slips out of your mouth, his breathing turns rougher.

“Fu—” you whimper, fingers dragging through his hair. “Pope.”

He answers with his mouth, with his hands, with the low sound that vibrates through you when you pull a little harder. Your leg trembles against his shoulder, and he notices, palm smoothing once along your thigh before he looks up again.

“Good?”

You nod too quickly.

His eyes narrow.

“Words.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “So… so good.”

The praise does something to him too, even when it’s yours. Maybe especially then.

He stands suddenly, mouth wet, eyes dark and heavy. Before you can catch your breath, his hands are under your thighs again, lifting you against him. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and he carries you the rest of the way to the bedroom, kissing you hard enough that you taste yourself on his mouth.

The bed is made too neatly.

You notice it right before he lays you down on top of the fresh sheets.

Then you stop caring.

He settles over you, one hand braced beside your head while the other slides down your body, slow and sure, like he’s trying to leave proof of himself in a room that still feels too much like someone else’s plan. You reach for his belt, but he catches your wrist and presses your hand into the mattress beside your head.

“Wait.”

You look up at him, chest rising beneath him.

“For what?”

His eyes move over your face, your mouth, your body spread beneath him on a bed he didn’t choose but clearly wants to ruin with you.

“Just wanna look.”

That stops you.

His gaze drops lower, and his hand follows, sliding along your hip, over your thigh, then back up again. Slow enough to make you ache. Careful enough to make it worse.

“You like looking at me?” you ask.

His eyes lift to yours.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Too much.”

You reach up and touch his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw. He goes still beneath it, just for a second, the same way he always does when tenderness finds him before he can brace for it. Then he turns his head and kisses the inside of your wrist.

“Come here,” you whisper.

This time he listens.

His pants come off quickly, dropped somewhere beside the bed with his boxers. He looks good like this. Too good. Bare and focused, hair messy from your hands, mouth still wet from you. You hate how badly you want him. You love how little it stops you.

He climbs back over you, nudging your legs apart with his knee. His forehead lowers to yours as he lines himself up, and the first slow push inside you steals the air from both of you.

Your eyes close as his hand catches your jaw, gentle but firm.

“Look at me.”

You open your eyes and see him right there, mouth parted, restraint written all over his face. He pushes in inch by inch, watching you take him, watching every shift in your expression like it matters more than his own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, voice rough. “Good girl.”

Your body tightens around him.

He feels it immediately. His eyes shut for half a second.

“Fu—”

The word breaks out of him, low and uneven. Then he starts moving, slow at first, his hands careful at your waist as if he’s still trying to remember nobody is going to take the moment away if he doesn’t rush. Every thrust pulls a sound from you, and he listens to each one, adjusting when your fingers press into his shoulder, slowing when your breath catches too sharply, giving you more when you whisper his name.

The room stops looking untouched after that.

The sheets twist beneath you. The headboard taps once against the wall. His mouth drags along your jaw, then down your throat, and the house fills with the quiet praise he gives you like he can’t keep it inside.

“Fuck,” he starts, mouth dragging against your skin. “Feels… so good.”

Your hands move over his back, nails dragging against his skin. He kisses you hard, then pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I got you.”

Your chest aches at the words, because he means them so much it almost hurts to hear.

After a while, he shifts, moving onto his back and taking you with him without pulling out. You end up straddling him, hands braced against his chest, both of you breathing hard as the new angle makes you shudder.

His hands settle at your waist and, for a second, he only looks at you.

“What?” you ask, voice unsteady.

His thumbs move against your skin.

“Like you like this.”

His grip firms at your waist, thumbs pressing into your skin, but he still doesn’t move you.

“Watching you take what you want.”

Heat rushes through you so fast it almost makes you dizzy.

You start moving over him, slow at first, letting your body find the rhythm while he lies beneath you, watching with that dark, unwavering focus. His hands guide but don’t force, fingers pressing into your waist when he needs more, loosening when you give it to him. Every time you sink down on him, his jaw tightens. Every time you lift, his breathing breaks a little more.

You move faster, chasing the feeling building low inside you, and he sits up suddenly, one arm wrapping around your back to keep you close. His mouth finds your collarbone, then the space between your shoulder and neck where he knows you feel it most.

The angle changes again. Deeper now. Closer.

“Fu—” The sound breaks off as your arms slide around his shoulders.

His mouth presses beneath your ear.

“Yeah?”

You pull him closer, forehead dropping against his.

“Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

His hips start meeting yours, thrusting up into you with the control he has left, which isn’t much. Not anymore. His hands move over your back, your waist, your hips, like he can’t decide where he needs to touch you most. You feel him losing the thread piece by piece, his breathing turning ragged, his mouth dragging over your shoulder between broken sounds.

“You close?”

“Yeah.”

His hand slides between you, fingers finding you again with the same focused pressure from earlier. Your whole body goes tight around him.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you.”

You come hard, nails digging into his shoulders as release moves through you. He follows seconds later, pulling you down against him with a rough sound buried at your neck. His arms lock around you, holding you through it, holding you after, both of you shaking while the house settles around the sound of your breathing.

For a while, neither of you moves.

His face stays pressed against your neck, breath hot against your skin while his hands slow over your back.

After a long moment, you lift your head.

“Think it’s yours now?”

His eyes open slowly.

He looks around the room, at the twisted sheets, your shirt on the hallway floor, his jeans by the door, the house no longer arranged exactly how Smurf left it.

Then he looks back at you.

“Getting there.”

Your mouth pulls into a smile as his hands settle at your hips again.

“Stay tonight.”

You brush the damp hair away from his forehead, watching his eyes follow your face like he’s waiting for the answer even though he already knows it.

“Okay.”

His arms tighten around you, just once.

The house stays quiet around you.

For the first time since you walked in, it doesn’t feel untouched.

Later, you lie in Pope’s bed with his arm heavy around your waist, his breathing slow against the back of your neck.

Everything should feel peaceful.

For the first time since you met him, he has somewhere that isn’t a hotel room. Somewhere with sheets that don’t smell like bleach and strangers, with dishes in the cabinets and towels folded in the bathroom. Somewhere that could become softer if the world ever gave him the chance.

But the room is too clean in the dark. Too unfamiliar. The furniture sits where someone else decided it should go. The walls hold no marks from him yet, no proof that he chose any of this except the fact that he’s sleeping in it now, one hand spread over your stomach like even unconscious he still needs to know you’re there.

His house, you think.

Then, almost immediately, the thought corrects itself.

Smurf’s house.

You think about her voice in the hallway, soft and sure as it reached for him.

People talk in bars, Andrew.

Catherine always knew how to look helpless.

That place has eyes.

You think about Baz catching you there, about the way he used Julia’s name like a warning and still somehow made it sound like grief. You think about Cath behind the bar, the way her hands slowed around the bottle when you mentioned Pope and Baz.

With Smurf, it’s always enough.

You think about Pope at dinner, his hand warm on your thigh while his voice stayed caught somewhere inside him every time Smurf said his name.

Behind you, Pope shifts in his sleep, his grip tightening slightly around your waist. The movement pulls you back into the room, into the bed, into the warmth of him.

You place your hand over his.

For a long time, you lie there with your fingers resting over his knuckles. Pope sleeps behind you, finally still. For once, the quiet seems to hold him.

And you stare into the dark, wide awake.

[homeybadger]

The Other Mandalorian

Summary: You, a Mandalorian, want to meet the other notorious Mandalorian you've heard about

Pairing: Din x Mandalorian!Reader

Words: 1,151

Warning(s): None!

The ship shudders as it settles into the docking cradle, the hull giving one long, tired groan before the engines begin to wind down in uneven, dying pulses. The vibration rolls up through the deck plating and into the soles of your boots, a final aftertaste of motion before stillness takes hold.

You remain in the cockpit a moment longer, gloved fingers resting against the controls as the cooling systems hiss and click around you, metal ticking softly as it sheds the heat of the journey. Through the viewport, the station sprawls in layers of corroded durasteel and exposed piping, a jagged maze of patched-together corridors and shadowed overhead bridges. Amber maintenance lights flicker weakly along its spine, too sparse and too tired to push back the haze that clings to every surface. 

It is the kind of port that exists because law does not. The sort of place where smugglers came to vanish, where bounty hunters came to trade names they did not ask for, where pirates drank hard and slept lighter than they should have. A forgotten knot of metal at the edge of civilization, half-lit and half-broken.

The sort of place a Mandalorian could disappear inside.

Which is exactly why you came.

The station beyond the cockpit churns with constant motion and noise. Cargo lifters drift overhead on whining repulsors, dragging massive freight containers through the haze while chains rattle somewhere above the docking lanes. Dock workers bark at one another in clipped bursts of Basic and half a dozen other languages you recognize only in fragments- harsh Rodian chatter, the low growl of Trandoshan, the rapid mechanical stutter of binary from overworked service droids weaving between moving shipments.

Somewhere off to your left, a voice rises loud enough to cut through the industrial noise. Angry. Drunk, maybe. Another voice answers just as sharp. Metal scrapes against metal.

The kind of argument that usually ended with somebody reaching for a blaster.

Normal.

Your helmet display scrolls silently across the edge of your vision, filtering local transmissions and heat signatures automatically. Exit routes illuminate in faint overlays across the station interior. Movement patterns. Weapons pings. Structural weak points. Your visor processes the station faster than any ordinary pair of eyes could hope to.

Nothing immediate.

No active threats.

Still, your hand brushes the blaster holstered against your thigh before you rise from the pilot’s seat, thumb grazing the worn grip for half a second.

The boarding ramp lowers with a deep hydraulic growl, chains clunking somewhere beneath the hull as locking mechanisms disengage. Warm air floods into the ship immediately, thick with the scents of fuel exhaust, machine oil, overheated wiring, and the sour trace of stale alcohol drifting from somewhere deeper within the station.

Your cape shifts lightly behind you as you descend the ramp. Boots strike the docking platform with a heavy metallic clang that echoes through the bay.

Several nearby workers glance at your direction immediately. Then glance away just as fast.

Even now, after the Empire’s collapse, after the glassing fires of the Purge, after Mandalorians were reduced to rumors traded in bounty dens and scattered across sealed Imperial reports, the armor still means something. Beskar carries a reputation heavier than its weight. Entire worlds remember what Mandalorians once were: warriors descending from the sky in burning drop packs, clans marching through blaster fire without slowing, helmets staring emotionlessly through smoke and flame while armies broke around them. 

The Empire tried to erase that history.

Instead, it turned it into myth.

And myths survive longer than empires do.

You move through the dockyard at an unhurried pace, cape trailing softly behind you while the station swallows the sound beneath machinery and distant engines. Your helmet remains angled just enough to catch reflections in darkened transparisteel windows and polished cargo containers as you pass. Distorted shapes slide across the edges of your vision: workers, drifters, armed guards, scavengers.

A pair of dockhands fall silent as you pass. A gambler near an open doorway subtly shifts his blaster farther beneath his coat. Two Nikto standing near a freight lift glance toward you once, then immediately decide they have somewhere else to look.

One mutters quietly to the other.

“Another one.”

Another one. As if Mandalorians are suddenly multiplying from the cracks in the galaxy.

Then notorious Mandalorian is supposedly here.

That is all you know.

You descend deeper into the station until the cleaner docking levels give way to older corridors where the walls sweat condensation and exposed wires hang from ceilings like vines. Neon signs buzz overhead in mismatched colors. Music rattles faintly through thin walls.

The cantina waits at the far end of the corridor beneath a sputtering blue neon sign missing half its letters, the remaining symbols flickering erratically enough to paint the walls in uneven pulses of electric light. The doorway breathes noise into the station- bursts of laughter, shouted arguments, the sharp clink of glasses against metal tables.

You slow as you approach, stopping just outside the doorway. The corridor suddenly feels quieter here, as though the station itself is waiting to see whether you walk inside.

To your right, dark transparisteel lines the wall beside the entrance, scratched and clouded by age. Your reflection stares back at you through the haze.

Scarred beskar dulled by years of hard travel and harder fights.

A weather-worn cape hanging heavy from your shoulders.

A helmet marked by old blaster scoring near the brow line, the metal warped slightly where a shot once came close enough to kill.

Not ceremonial armor. Not polished clan-forged pride displayed for glory or honor. For a brief moment, your hand tightens slightly at your side.

You almost turn back.

Because this is foolish.

Not the meeting itself. Mandalorians sought one another out sometimes, especially now, scattered like fragments after the Purge. But coming alone? Walking willingly into a place full of strangers because of rumors and half-spoken stories?

That feels less like strategy and more like the beginning of a cautionary tale told over drinks by bounty hunters who survived when someone else did not.

And then the cantina door slides open.

Conversation inside drops immediately. Not fully silent. But enough.

Your helmet turns slowly as you scan your new environment.

At the far end of the room, seated alone beside the wall with clear sightlines to every exit, sits another Mandalorian in unpainted beskar armor. And beside him, small green ears peek over the edge of the booth.

The foundling looks directly at you, then makes a curious little noise.

The other Mandalorian turns his head afterward, visor settling on you with unreadable stillness. For several long seconds, neither of you moves.

The armor is real. Not imitation plating hammered together by scavengers pretending to be something they are not. Beskar.

Then the man finally speaks, voice low beneath the helmet.

“You planning to stand there all night?”

[rikudaa]

₊ ⊹ ᶻz !! The Ones Who Weren’t There !! ␥ Part 1

[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>

✮ Epitome: One sibling gone, a family unraveling. A watch still blinking. A city still bleeding. And somewhere unknown, eyes open again.

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt

You were always “the Wayne heir.”

That’s what they called you.

In interviews.

In society columns.

From gala podiums beneath chandeliers brighter than the streetlights in half of Gotham.

“Wayne’s golden child.”

“Gotham’s legacy-in-waiting.”

“Just like dear Brucie.”

And maybe, from a distance, you were.

You gave them posture sharp enough to cut glass. Smiles timed to the flash of a camera.

A vocabulary that made tutors obsolete.

You wore medals. Memorized speeches. Dressed in designer you didn’t choose.

Stood at your father’s side like a perfectly-cast accessory.

You played the part.

Because someone had to.

But every crown leaves a bruise.

What they never saw—what they refused to see—was the weight.

The pressure.

The quiet grief of being measured against a myth no one truly knew.

Bruce Wayne: billionaire, recluse, symbol.

And you? His child.

That’s what the headlines said.

But the whispers always followed.

Sticky little things, clinging to the hem of your reputation.

“Who’s the mother?”

“Some random fling, probably.”

“She was a dancer.”

“Or a thief.”

“Or worse.”

“He only claimed the kid to save face. Bet the DNA didn’t even match.”

They said it in locker rooms. Behind manicured hands at garden parties.

In bathroom stalls when they thought you weren’t in the next one over.

Some said she never existed.

Others swore she was the scandal Gotham forgot.

None of them knew her.

None of them wanted to.

That’s what stung the most.

You learned to hold it all in.

Tucked every rumor behind straight shoulders and ironed collars.

Didn’t twitch when they dragged her name through the dirt.

Didn’t blink when they reduced you to charity.

Because if you did—if you flinched even once—they’d know.

They’d see you weren’t perfect.

And then the whole façade would crack.

You were proud of what you built.

Every accolade. Every sleepless night. Every mission feed you stayed up monitoring long after your homework was done.

You weren’t handed your victories—you carved them out of silence and steel.

But it still didn’t matter. Not really.

Because no matter how high you climbed, someone always reached up to pull you down.

“Just a name.”

“Just a shadow.”

“Just another Wayne with a safety net.”

And on the quiet nights—when the manor felt too big, when the mirrors looked too much like him—you’d wonder:

Would he have claimed me if no one was watching?

Would I still be his if my birth didn’t make the papers?

You never got an answer.

Not one that lasted.

All you had were trophies.

And silence.

And a face that looked more like hers than his—the cheekbones, the sharp eyes, the way your jaw locked when the world felt too loud.

They could doubt you.

They could doubt her.

But you wouldn’t let them erase you.

You earned your place.

And if you had to smile through their ignorance to keep it, so be it.

──── ୨୧ ────

The clock read 3:47 a.m.

You shouldn’t have been awake.

But you were.

You always were—whenever someone was out.

Especially Tim.

You stood by the window with your arms crossed tight against your chest. The glass fogged faintly with your breath as you stared through it, not really seeing anything. Behind you, the manor creaked—old wood shifting with the night. Below, the cave hummed with mechanical life, but too quiet.

No ping.

No signal.

No return alert from the field.

Your gut twisted.

Something was wrong. Off.

And when the cave platform finally hissed to life, you didn’t wait.

The chair scraped back behind you, forgotten. Your bare feet whispered over the cold floors, fast down the corridor, toward the grandfather clock passage that Alfred always told you to leave to Bruce.

But screw that.

Not tonight.

You hit the cave level just as the Batmobile came to a stop, steam hissing from beneath the chassis like an angry sigh.

Bruce stepped out first. His cape was shredded along one side, cowl partially retracted, and his expression—blank. Hardened. The unreadable mask he wore better than any kevlar.

He barely looked at you.

But your eyes weren’t on him.

Because a second later, Tim emerged.

He half-fell out of the backseat, catching himself on the doorframe, one leg dragging like dead weight. His side was soaked in red. The left lens of his domino mask was spiderwebbed with cracks, and his mouth was pulled tight—trying not to show pain, trying not to make this harder than it already was.

He didn’t even flinch when you gasped.

Because he knew this wasn’t new.

Just the first time you saw it this up close.

Your stomach flipped.

“What the hell happened?” you breathed, rushing forward.

Tim tried to wave you off, already lifting a hand like he could still be the professional. Like this wasn’t as bad as it looked.

But it was.

And Bruce answered like he was reading off a grocery list.

“We were ambushed. There were more than I anticipated. It’s handled.”

Handled?

Your eyes snapped to him.

“He’s bleeding. He can barely walk. You call that handled?”

He didn’t even blink. Just kept walking toward the med station like this was routine. Like your brother wasn’t half-collapsing behind him.

That’s when something inside you cracked.

“He’s fourteen, Dad!”

Your voice echoed in the cave, bouncing off stalactites and stone.

“Fourteen! You can’t just drop kids into warzones and expect them to fight like they’re built for this—like they don’t break!”

Tim inhaled sharply behind you. You could feel it more than hear it—the way he straightened, tried to make himself invisible. His way of trying to protect you from his own injuries.

You weren’t finished.

“You did this with Jason too. You threw him into the deep end because he was angry and fast and made you feel like the mission wasn’t crumbling. And look what happened! You broke him—and now you’re doing it again.”

Your throat burned. Your voice was rising, cracking under the weight of everything you’d shoved down over the years. The words weren’t rehearsed. They were erupting.

“They’re not Dick. They shouldn’t have to be Dick.”

Bruce paused at that—only slightly. But you saw it. That tight flex in his jaw.

Still, no answer.

“You raised Dick like a prodigy. Like he was some perfect prototype. And now you expect the rest of them to fill his goddamn shadow just to feel like you’re not failing.”

Tim winced beside you, trying to stand straighter, trying to make this less about him. He never liked being the center of attention like this.

“Hey,” he said gently, “It’s fine. Really. Don’t—don’t do this.”

But you couldn’t stop. Not now.

“They’re not weapons, Bruce.” You turned, almost spitting the words. “They. Are. Your. Sons.”

That hit something. You didn’t know what. You didn’t care.

Your hand reached out—gently, instinctively—and curled around Tim’s arm, pulling him close, shielding him without even thinking.

And he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

He leaned into you. Just slightly. But enough.

Bruce’s voice came after a long, cold silence.

“Go upstairs.”

His tone was colder than the cave floor.

“You don’t understand. This isn’t your responsibility. Stop interfering like you’re part of something you’re not.”

Time stopped.

Your breath caught in your lungs.

Not part of something.

Not your responsibility.

The words carved through you like glass.

“Not my responsibility?” you whispered.

Your hands were shaking. Your entire body felt wired and weightless, like it was all about to collapse.

“He’s my brother. He’s not some field report or mission file or name on a damn roster. He matters. They all matter. You want me to stop treating it like it’s my duty?”

You stepped back. Every syllable hit like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Then maybe someone should’ve started acting like it was theirs.”

You didn’t wait for a response. There was nothing left to hear.

You wrapped your arm firmly around Tim, and together, slowly, you made your way up the stairs.

His fingers clutched your sleeve. Tight.

•

The kitchen was dim.

Only the faint overhead stove light illuminated the space.

Alfred was already waiting. Of course he was.

The tea kettle was set. A towel folded. A chair waiting, turned just slightly—quiet hospitality in motion.

He looked at Tim. Then at you. And said nothing.

Just:

“Sit, Master Timothy. Let’s have a look.”

You helped ease Tim down gently. He hissed as he moved—shoulder jolting. Blood still seeping under the fresh gauze Bruce must’ve slapped on mid-ride.

You hovered beside him, arms crossed too tightly across your chest. As if that alone could keep you from shaking apart.

Alfred worked in silence.

Sterilizing the wound. Cutting away fabric. Wrapping his ankle. Dabbing blood like it was just another Tuesday.

Tim clenched his jaw but didn’t complain. Not once.

You couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t look away.

You were supposed to keep him safe. You should have kept him safe.

And now he was stitched and shaking and fourteen.

Finally, Tim broke the silence.

“You didn’t have to yell like that.”

You looked up slowly. Blinking like you’d come up for air.

“You were bleeding, Tim. Limping. And he acted like it was just—routine. Like you were another broken gadget he could toss in the tray.”

He didn’t look at you. Just murmured:

“I am part of the mission. You know that.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It was tired. Like this wasn’t new. Like he’d already accepted it.

And that made it worse.

“You shouldn’t be,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Alfred finished with the ankle, then placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. He turned to you, eyes worn but kind.

“I’ll prepare tea. For both of you.”

You nodded numbly.

As he turned, he paused. Reached out and touched your arm—just lightly.

“You did the right thing.”

But it didn’t feel right.

It felt like the kind of right that hurts.

You sat across from Tim, both of you silent for a long time.

Finally, he spoke again.

“You were always the one who held it together.”

You glanced at him. His head was tilted slightly toward the window.

“Everyone else cracked. Eventually. Dick left. Jason… exploded. Damian fights everything. Even Bruce—he hides behind it. But you–”

He looked at you now.

“You never lost it. Not once. Not until tonight.”

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not when he was the one hurt.

“How long have you been holding it in?” he asked quietly.

The question hit harder than it should have.

Your lips parted. No words came.

Just a slow, sharp inhale.

Because you didn’t know.

Because it was too much.

Because if you said one word, you might cry.

So instead, you shook your head.

And whispered the only thing that still felt true:

“I just didn’t want to watch it happen again.”

Tim looked down.

And this time, he didn’t argue.

──── ୨୧ ────

The chandelier above the ballroom glittered like the Gotham skyline you used to believe meant safety.

Now, it just looked like glass waiting to fall.

You stood beneath it—spine straight, jaw set, wearing a suit that felt more like armor than clothing. Custom-tailored. Impeccable. Probably cost more than your old dorm’s entire tuition bill. It fit like a second skin.

You hated it.

The press called the gala a success.

A smooth handoff.

Wayne blood stepping into legacy.

“Wayne heir dazzles in father’s absence.”

“Poised, polished, professional—the perfect next face of the Wayne empire.”

And you? You smiled on cue. Laughed where appropriate. Recalled every donor’s name, every senator’s spouse, every board member’s favorite wine. You hadn’t let a single drop of champagne pass your lips.

Because this wasn’t your night.

This was Gotham’s.

And you were the mask it wanted.

Bruce hadn’t come. Not that it surprised you.

A single message through Lucius that morning:

“Can’t make it. They’ll handle it.”

“They.”

Means you.

But you showed up anyway. Like always.

Minor hiccups. A late performer. A too-drunk investor. A passive-aggressive spat between two philanthropists who hadn’t forgiven each other since the Arkham Restoration vote.

You handled it all.

Flawless. Smooth.

Your cheekbones ached from the smile you wore too long.

•

By hour two, though… you felt it.

That pressure. That itch.

Between your shoulders, under your skin, in the way your heartbeat slowed just enough to feel like a warning.

You scanned the crowd. The laughter. The flashbulbs.

Nothing obvious.

But someone was watching. You knew it.

You slipped back toward one of the columns—damn near invisible in the way you moved, like Bruce taught you even when he swore he didn’t.

There stood Damian, planted like a statue in a too-crisp tuxedo. His arms were crossed, chin tilted, gaze cutting across the crowd like a falcon.

“I feel like someone’s watching me,” you murmured.

He didn’t blink.

“Of course. You are the face of the empire tonight,” he said flatly.

You frowned. “Not like that.”

Something in his expression shifted. A flicker of awareness, or maybe concern. He didn’t mock you for it. Not this time.

“…Paranoia?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Maybe. Or something worse.”

He nodded once, subtle and sharp. Then stepped closer.

Not a gesture of comfort. But one of protection.

It was enough.

Moments later, a softer step approached.

Tim, slightly pale under dim lighting, appeared at your side in his tailored suit. The cane in his right hand matched his gait—still healing, still moving slower than usual, but still here.

“Someone say paranoia?” he asked, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “If so, Im your guy here.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His presence made it easier to stand upright.

“You okay?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

He shrugged one shoulder, then bumped his arm against yours gently.

“Better than last night. Bruised ego, not internal bleeding. Progress.”

You gave him a look that was part apology, part exhaustion.

“Sorry for dragging you out here.”

“Are you kidding?” he smirked. “I live for trauma in formalwear.”

But the teasing dropped from his face when he saw yours hadn’t changed.

“You’re not just shaken. You’re… spiraling.”

You looked away.

“Still stuck in last night,” you admitted.

He nodded. No judgment.

Damian, sharp as ever, added:

“You haven’t forgiven yourself.”

You met his gaze.

He was right.

“It shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have been in that condition, and I—”

I should have stopped it sooner.

I should’ve fought harder.

I should’ve been more like Bruce.

Tim’s voice pulled you back:

“You did what no one else did. You stood up to him.”

You exhaled slowly. “And look where that got us.”

•

The party wore on.

And so did the mask.

But when the last guests slipped out, and the lights dimmed amber, and the staff began packing up the night’s illusions…

You told the boys:

“You two go ahead. Get rest. I’m heading back to the dorms soon anyway.”

Lie.

Tim frowned, but didn’t push.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

Lie.

Damian squinted at you like he was reading an autopsy.

“Don’t linger.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Scout’s honor.”

He arched a brow. “You were never a scout.”

“Exactly,” you whispered. “I lie well.”

He looked like he wanted to argue—but didn’t.

The two of them left, silent shadows on marble.

And you?

You returned to the ballroom.

Shoes off. Feet aching. Shoulder slumped.

Backstage.

Behind the curtain.

Where the lights couldn’t find you.

You stared at the empty stage, the echo of music long gone, the faint scent of perfume and champagne still clinging to velvet drapes.

You whispered to yourself—because there was no one else to hear it:

“Maybe I was too harsh.”

The memory slammed back into you. Bruce’s face. That cold, immovable silence.

“This isn’t your responsibility.”

“Stop acting like it’s your duty.”

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you didn’t belong in the cave.

You didn’t wear a mask.

You weren’t trained like them.

You weren’t forged in fire like Jason, or honed like Dick, or born into it like Damian.

You were just… the glue. The peacemaker. The face.

A golden child made of glass, cracking in silence.

Your voice shook.

“I tried. I really—tried.”

But no one claps for the one who prevents collapse.

No spotlight waits for the quiet sibling who stitches wounds, who memorizes schedules, who fills in gaps and covers scars with a perfect smile.

Your knees hit the tile floor before you realized you were sitting. Curling in on yourself like the truth was finally too loud.

You buried your face in your hands.

I wasn’t enough.

I never will be.

──── ୨୧ ────

The ballroom had gone quiet nearly an hour ago.

The glitter was gone. The music was gone. Even the air felt… thin now, like it had forgotten how to hold warmth.

You were alone.

The staff had vanished into elevators and service corridors. The janitorial bots whirred once and died in standby. Even the chandeliers, once a galaxy above your head, now dimmed to tired crystal, their shimmer gone.

No footsteps.

No echo.

Just silence.

You stood behind the curtain, alone in the place that had celebrated your name an hour earlier—alone in a body that didn’t know if it belonged to a legacy or a ghost.

And then your fingers found the edge of your clutch.

Muscle memory.

You pulled out the sensor. That slim, quiet rectangle Barbara had handed you months ago.

“Just in case,” she’d said, clasping it into your palm like a lifeline.

“For nights when no one answers the comms. When your gut starts screaming but you don’t know why. Keep it on you. Always.”

You hadn’t used it.

Not once.

You’d smiled, thanked her, tucked it away.

Because you were the safe one. The responsible one. The one who didn’t go on rooftop missions or dropkick muggers or get shot at in alleys.

But tonight…

Tonight the air felt wrong.

You held the device in your palm. Cold. Lightweight. Nearly forgettable.

Until it blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Red.

Your breath locked inside your throat.

You turned your head—slowly, deliberately. Your muscles tightened. Your shoulder blades felt exposed, like the bones themselves could sense it.

Something was watching you.

But the ballroom behind you was still empty.

The curtains didn’t move.

The marble floor gave no sound.

You stared at the blinking light.

Tapped the screen.

Just to be sure.

LOCATION: This building.

DISTANCE: 28 meters.

MOVEMENT: Advancing.

You inhaled—sharp and shallow.

Your hands started to tremble.

“This is just nerves,” you whispered, trying to stitch reason into your panic.

“Leftover adrenaline. From the gala. From last night. From… everything.”

But the blinking didn’t stop.

Your mother’s voice came back to you, uninvited, rising like smoke in the back of your mind.

“You trust your gut, kitten. Always.”

Selina had said it the night you watched her slip a lockpick from behind her earring.

“Your instincts are worth more than any gadget Bruce ever builds. Gut’s faster than fear. Smarter than pride.”

Back then, you didn’t understand.

Tonight, you did.

You felt it in your skin.

In your bones.

This wasn’t panic.

This was warning.

You stepped into the open hall—slowly, quietly. The soft clicks of your shoes echoed too loud against the tile, even though you were barely moving.

The lights flickered.

Just once.

Then again.

A third time—

Then out.

Gone.

Every bulb along the hallway burst in a single ripple, plunging the space into darkness. The emergency lights stayed dead. Even the backup generators—silent.

Someone had cut power.

Someone had planned this.

No cameras. No signal. No eyes.

You stood frozen for a full five seconds.

Then—

You bolted.

Not because you were brave.

Because you were trained.

Selina’s voice again:

“Never wait to be cornered.”

Bruce’s, colder:

“Escape is a strategy, not weakness. Always have a path out.”

You ran—barefoot now, shoes abandoned behind you. Disheveled clothes, hands trembling as you shoved through a service door and into the staff corridor.

The halls blurred past you. The smell of cheap soap and floor polish burned your nose.

You could feel it.

Someone was following.

Too quiet to hear.

But close.

So close.

You turned corners like a bullet. Hit a stairwell. Took the steps three at a time. Your lungs burned. Your ribs ached.

You crashed through the exit door, out into the night—

Into Crime Alley.

You stopped.

The breath in your lungs died.

Brick. Trash bins. The skeletal remains of an old security light flickering overhead. An alleyway Gotham had refused to clean up, even when the rest of the district got repaved.

You knew this alley.

You shouldn’t have ended up here.

You couldn’t have.

You retraced routes in your head—you didn’t take this path.

The building’s exit shouldn’t lead here.

Unless someone rerouted the doors.

Locked the others.

Funneled you.

Your hands clutched the sensor.

It was still blinking.

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking, barely audible over your own heartbeat.

“Please, someone…”

Your thumb hovered.

Trembled.

You activated the emergency beacon.

Pulse sent.

Silent. Invisible. Immediate.

But in your heart, the truth had already landed like an axe:

No one’s coming.

If they were, they’d be here by now.

If they cared—really cared—they would’ve answered.

Someone would’ve stayed.

Would’ve seen the way you smiled too hard.

Would’ve felt the silence closing in.

But they didn’t.

And now you were here.

Alone.

In the alley that made Gotham what it was.

Where the myth of the Bat was born.

You swallowed. Turned your back to the wall. Blinked into the dark.

“Just shadows,” you whispered. “Just shadows. Just—”

A sound behind you.

You turned.

And the last thing you felt…

…was the shape of your mother’s voice, echoing one last time through your mind:

“Your instincts are worth more than anything, kitten. The trick is knowing when they’re already too late.”

<<< You are here!! >>>

•Note: dawg this shit is too long and tumblr only limited around 1000 words a post 💀🤚 so I have to divide into two parts. The second part will coming out shortly after I edit the rest of this chapter so enjoy this one first!

Tagging: @lizzyzzn @whaaaaaaaaat111 @hai-there-how-are-you

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