#MURDER AND HATRED ON PLANET DIRT

[saltedsolenoid]

I HATE STAIRS I HATE STAIRS I HATE STAIRS I HATE STAIRS I HATE STAIRS I HATE STAIRS I HATE STAIRS I HATE

[ot7stan4life]

Renegade Runaway

Sua (Dreamcatcher) x Female Reader

(1 part - completed ✅)

Word Count: 3700

Summary: In one last effort to save humanity, you travel back in time on a mission to stop the woman they call the “Renegade Runaway” from committing a cold blooded murder that sets the world on a course for destruction. Yet, you could’ve never expected to find an angel in that devil’s dress.

Warnings: mentions of violence, abuse, death, and war, positive ending

A/N: gotta give the title its credit-

"All this man has done is lie and cheat and kill,” the harsh words left the woman's lips like venom, poisoning the man beneath her black boot with guilt. Raising her pistol, she positioned the barrel of the gun between his eyes.

Standing there over him, triumphant-looking with her pink hair flowing in the rough wind, she could have easily been mistaken for an angel cast down from the Heavens. Only the red satin dress and burning hatred in her eyes revealed the hidden evil beneath those imaginary wings and glowing halo.

That’s how I’d envisioned my final encounter with the one they called the 'Renegade Runaway' before the world changed forever. Except, that moment didn’t quite go the way I’d planned…

My eventual journey there was long and tedious, starting all the way back to the day I was born. The world was war-torn, the planet exhausted and dying. The human race was on the brink of extinction. One final hope remained in the potential of time travel, one that I quickly decided to dedicate my life to. Though the final mission to prevent the end of times promised nothing for certain—not even a return trip home—I volunteered to see it through without hesitation knowing that my future was not guaranteed had I conceded to the Earth's fate.

The task was simple enough: prevent one murder that had been committed over three-hundred years ago. After centuries of research, it had been determined that this very moment was the one that catalyzed the butterfly effect that would eventually lead to the end of times. Researchers hoped that changing the outcome could potentially prolong the survival of mankind. It was our only promising solution, so we had to try. And my one single chance to test that theory started the first day I met the Renegade.

—

Waking from a deep, dark slumber, I found myself laid out across the grainy desert ground, head resting against the roots of an old tree with a dusty brown cowboy hat placed over my face to shield my pale skin from the ruthless sun rays cast down from above. The dirt and sand crunched under my boots when I finally stood upright and the hot wind whipped through my mid-length hair. Though I had studied this very town in this exact time period, suddenly being stripped from my own time and placed here, I was rather disoriented.

I was always told it never quite felt real. At least not at first.

A nearby whinnying brought my attention to a horse that stood at the ready beside me, anchored to a tree by the lead attached to its harness. It was a beast of an animal, standing a few feet taller than me, showing off its muscular body while shifting its weight from leg to leg. Though I had never seen one in person, I knew them well. The creatures often came up in categories such as farming, transportation, and warfare in my research of the Wild West.

Gathering the lead in my hands, the animal hesitantly let me take my place on its back and followed my commands when I spurred it on towards civilization. It took a moment to get used to riding, but once I felt more comfortable, I coaxed it into a gallop. Dust kicked up with every thud of the horse's hooves, blowing across the never-ending desert floor that blurred with waves of heat in the distance, obscuring the horizon line. The air stung my eyes and tasted like salt, leaving my throat dry and body parched. Even in the short journey to the local square, beads of sweat had accumulated on my forehead from the harsh climate—one that closely resembled the state of the entire planet back in my time.

As I neared the town, square-shaped buildings made of wood faded by the sun eventually came into view, accompanied by the bustle of western folk crossing the empty stretch between shops ahead of me. Just like the history book said, everyone here had a role to play. It was a community that, in a lot of ways, relied upon the efforts of every single individual to thrive. New faces were unusual and those that were born here almost always stayed here. Maybe it wasn't everyone's idea of paradise, but it was the only thing they knew, so they couldn't possibly picture something greater. There was this sense of acceptance, or rather, resignation. Most people gave into it, but a select few stood in resistance. In particular, women who desired more than being at a man's side with no power their whole lives rejected the traditional ways of the Wild West.

I could feel that sense of indignation the moment I stepped foot here. There was a storm brewing in this small western town. A storm started by one they called the Renegade Runaway. One that would catalyze a ripple effect of pain and suffering throughout the coming centuries. But that's why I was here now: to change that seemingly predetermined fate.

Riding up to the local saloon, I got off my horse and tied its lead to a nearby fence.

"Sheriff." My greeting was aimed towards a pale woman with short black hair flowing from underneath her cowboy hat as I stepped onto the wooden porch in front of the local saloon. The sand left boot prints behind me like chalk coating the brown walkway.

The woman I acknowledged was standing just a few feet away, leaning against the front of the building, one leg propped up on the wall behind her as her dusty brown eyes gazed over the desert horizon like a hawk. She wore dark cowboy boots over tan pants held up by a belt with a badge on her left hip and a holster housing a white and golden revolver on her right.

At my greeting, she cast her gaze towards me and used her leather gloved hand to tip the edge of her hat down in recognition. "Howdy." Her lips turned up in a closed smile making her high cheek bones prominent.

I noticed the tight lines framing her smile and the way her cheeks almost indented because of how well defined her face was. There was no doubt in my mind that she was in good shape and, if I weren't here strictly for business, I might've inquired just where she got such perfect genes from or how exactly she managed to acquire her position—being a woman and all.

I was looking for someone specific and as much as I would've loved to ask—I glanced down at her badge—Sheriff Kim for help, this wasn't exactly a matter that I needed local law enforcement to be involved in. In fact, having the Sheriff on my tracks was the very last thing I needed.

So, I ventured inside the saloon without another word to the woman and walked straight to the bar. The one person I figured I could count on to find information in a small old western town was the one who got to hear all the latest news and gossip thanks to her occupation: the bartender.

"What can I getcha?" She said in a low, cool, calm tone when I took a seat on one of the stools. Her voice matched her appearance and—as I would soon find out—her personality. She had on an oversized white shirt with a denim vest and denim jeans. I couldn't see below her waist, but I assumed she was wearing cowboy boots since that's all anyone wore around here. Her long grey hair was twisted up into a single bun on the back of her head with the black ends that looked burnt from a fire sticking out the top and two small strands of her bangs free to hang on either side of her face. She looked intelligent and friendly, but not too friendly. Although, I got the feeling she was trustworthy just from the aura she gave off.

"Just pop, but make it look like a drink." I wasn't one to drink often, but certainly not while on a job.

She didn't hesitate with my request and started pouring it just out of sight of the other guests, making me wonder if many people asked the same.

Folks often did illegal business in saloons, so if you were caught here without a drink someone might assume the same of you. Proud cowboys didn't tend to take a liking to bandits or crooks and, I'd imagine, neither did the Sheriff.

That in mind, I grabbed the glass as soon as the bartender was finished pouring and took a sip before looking around the place discreetly.

It was just before sundown and the bar was starting to fill up with people coming in after finishing their shifts. The usual working men occupied the place, though there seemed a lack of prostitutes lurking for a typical western saloon. It appeared as though the women here held more positions of power than most other cities during this time period–no doubt due to the woman I came to find.

Though, I didn't spot anything that seemed helpful to my case, so I looked back to the thin woman behind the bar. She was already looking back at me, like she knew I wanted to ask her something. I'm sure she was used to strangers coming in here and questioning her, but somehow I got the sense that she didn't seem to mind it.

"You wouldn't happen to know of a gal named Bora, would you?" I asked after taking another sip, assuming these people knew the Renegade by her real name.

Still, I found it hard to gauge the bartender's reaction; she didn't seem to give away her emotions all that easily, an almost disinterested expression permanently etched across her face. Maybe that came with the job, or maybe that really was just a part of her personality. Nonetheless it didn't help me get a sense of who Bora was to these people—or at least to her.

"Bora?" She seemed to ponder, her hands momentarily stopping their job of cleaning a glass while her brain was at work. "I know several Bora's,” she concluded, continuing on with her task as if she had never stopped.

I found it odd that she didn't say more. It made me wonder if she didn't want me to know the answer or if she simply didn't care enough to tell me.

"The Bora I'm looking for is... shall we say... in some trouble,” I added, hoping she would catch on.

Much to my surprise, the bartender cracked a half smile and let out a small chuckle.

"Trouble, huh?" Her head raised and her eyes shifted to the far side of the room. "You must be looking for the Renegade."

I followed her gaze and spotted a woman with light pink hair sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. Looking at her now, I wondered how I missed her before. She seemed to take up the entire room and appear invisible all at the same time. Finally being in her presence was something else entirely; her aura was captivating with a hint of underlying mystery and danger.

Without saying anything further to the bartender, I stood up and began walking over to where the woman was, completely forgetting my drink on the bar top. I thought I heard an amused 'good luck' from the bartender, but I was already so preoccupied with this mysterious woman that I very well could have imagined it.

From what I knew about Bora, she was the definition of trouble. Mumblings of the townsfolk would tell me that she was an outlaw, a rebel, a deserter, 'a devil in an angel's dress.' I knew better than to fully believe such rumors. However, she was dangerous, and because of that, I knew I couldn't count on getting the answers I needed out of her the old-fashioned way. If I wanted anything from her, I'd have to play the game her way.

"You don't by chance happen to be the one they call the Renegade, do you Miss?" I offered gently, hoping I didn't appear to pose a threat. Any wrong decision and I could lose my one chance at salvation for good.

Although, she didn't spare me a glance, grunting out a cold response,

"What do you want?"

I allowed my eyes to take in her appearance, or at least what I could see of it with her back turned to me. I suppose I didn't expect the over-dramatic townsfolk's descriptions of her to be so literal, but, to my surprise, she was wearing a red satin dress. Similar to the Sheriff, she had a holster around her waist that held a silver and wooden pistol. The weapon was all too familiar to me and now I was sure I had the right woman.

"It's less about what I want and more about what you want,” I replied, trying a different approach.

She still didn't look at me, but she turned her head slightly, giving me a view of her side profile.

Maybe the only thing that shocked me more than her attire was her appearance. The single sharp feature on her face was her pointed nose. Other than that, her appearance looked rather soft. All the drawings I had seen of her painted her as a fierce woman with hard features and a striking gaze. Seeing her now, had I not witnessed the outcome of her future actions, I might've questioned how such a small, innocent looking woman was worthy of titles such as 'demon' or 'devil.'

"I don't want anything from you,” she said in a low tone. She didn't necessarily sound rude, but more like she was trying to intimidate me so that I would stop my ploy and leave her alone.

"I could offer some help,” I suggested, taking the seat across from her without permission. No one else in this old bar even dared look at the pink-haired girl, let alone sit near her. But she was no threat to me.

"I don't need your help,” she was quick to respond, still hardly paying me any mind as she took a sip of her whiskey. The honey colored alcohol resembled the thick rays of sunlight shining in through the titled slats in the wooden blinds. The dust made up of sand and smoke seemed to be permanently suspended in the air, making the rays look like bars of pure sunlight that you could just reach out and grab.

"Alright, then I can offer you information," I reworded, fully aware she was a woman who did her own dirty work but still valued any opportunity she could get to have the upper hand against her enemies.

There was a long pause and, after weighing my words, she finally took the chance to look me over.

She cocked an eyebrow, apparently unimpressed. "You aren't from around here, are you?" She told more than asked.

It was obvious she already knew the answer to her own question simply based on how I carried myself, but I had a feeling she was also implying that not many people around here tried to talk to her. They knew better than to bother her.

"You aren't either... or so I've heard," I tried to show her that I wasn't one to scare easily.

"Well then surely you've also heard that I work alone." She sat up straight and raised her glass to her lips before meeting my eyes.

The words almost felt rehearsed, like she had a method to keeping people out.

One side of her lips tilted upwards as she glanced over my features. "And not even a pretty face'll change that." She tilted her head back to take the final swig of whiskey, then slammed the glass down on the table before giving me a wink and getting up to walk out.

Only the image of her receding shadow was visible as she pushed through the saloon doors.

—

In the coming months, the renegade kept her word... for the most part. She was stubborn—which I had quickly gathered after my first encounter with her—and too independent for her own good. She wasn't necessarily reckless, but her solo endeavors often proved far too ambitious. Whether that be pursuing criminals or cowboys or men that just seemed to have too much money and power, she was constantly jumping into situations too dangerous for one woman to handle alone. That's where I came in. She didn't give trust away easily—claiming hers had to be earned—so I gained it by proving my loyalty to her, always coming to her aid when she found herself in trouble.

It took a while for me to get close to her and even longer to finally get her to open up to me. Once she believed my intentions were pure, she slowly unveiled the secrets of the mysterious 'Renegade Runaway,' allowing me to peel back the layers of her heart and eventually get a glimpse at what was inside. Unlike the fables, she was no devil or any other divine being for that matter. It became clear through her vengeful motives that she was purely and entirely human. She was hurting and broken from a painful past—one she would rather forget, yet the same one that drove her actions. In her lifetime she had witnessed the women she loved—friends, sisters, and even her own mother—get cheated, tortured, and murdered by all the powerful men surrounding them.

In her eyes, those that ruled the world were not worthy of it, because all they did was ruin it. She felt it was her duty to strip them of their privileges and bring them suffering as they had done to so many others. As noble an effort it seemed, history tells us that nothing good ever comes from vengeance. Still, she was blinded by the inescapable shadow of loss following her, clung to her figure as a constant reminder, a constant trigger that sent her over the edge.

That's why we found ourselves here now: Bora standing over a man she and I both knew all too well, pistol to his temple with memories of her mother's mangled body underneath his own boot playing on repeat in her mind while I helplessly watched a few steps away. The air grew cold and thick in the abandoned town square we now occupied as the very climax of my mission approached. This was the one murder I had trained my whole life to prevent.

"He doesn't deserve to live,” she seethed in anger. "He murdered my mother and countless other innocents." Her grip on the gun tightened with every word that left her mouth, turning her knuckles white.

"Perhaps you're right,” my voice cut through the brewing storm looming overhead, loud enough to not get lost in the violent gusts of air whipping around our bodies and through the gaps between the buildings surrounding us.

The townsfolk had all run for shelter, frightened either by the imminent threat of catastrophic weather or the violent coup that was now in progress, led by the renegade standing a few feet in front of me.

"But killing him will only make things worse in the long run." I took a tentative step forward, hoping the relationship we had formed over the past month—though still rather unsteady—would be enough to convince her to trust my words.

A flash of lightning struck the horizon, painting the gray sky blue before a boom of thunder punctuated its disappearance.

"How could you possibly know that?" she shouted, now growing impatient.

The wooden and silver weapon shook in her hands, her finger tempting the trigger. Even she didn't understand why she hadn't pulled it yet. It was her master plan, after all. Finally putting an end to all the suffering this man had caused to countless women and their families, including her own. It felt like her only purpose in life. Her destiny. Like it was already written in the stars. So why couldn't she go through with it? And why would she listen to me: a stranger she had met only a month ago? One that seemed to be from another world completely. The kind of person she never thought she'd find herself so attached to. Yet, there she was.

And though she couldn't possibly understand what I meant when I told her I've seen what comes of her actions, she somehow believes. When I said that this one decision will determine the fate of the world, she somehow knows. Because, deep down, she can feel that it has happened before. This exact moment had already played out in some distant reality. One that she had already experienced and would never experience all in the same life. One that always ended in disaster.

But, not this time.

This time, she looks deep into my eyes and finds a sort of empathy and honesty that she has never experienced before. In me, she finds someone who understands the pain and loss she has felt. Beyond that, she finds someone who manages to live with it. To forgive and move on. Someone who stopped trying to end violence with more violence. Someone who has found a better way.

Someone who cares for her.

And it shows her that her life doesn't need to be a constant cycle of death and revenge. That there is hope for a peaceful resolve. And maybe even room for love, not hatred.

The sky cries down in relief as Bora's gun falls with the raindrops, softening the hard dirt ground beneath our feet as they soak into the dying earth. Like the fresh water nourishing the desert floor, the renegade's decision to spare the man gives room for new life to grow and, one day, eventually, to flourish.

Now that a new string has been woven into the fabric of reality, the future is uncertain. This new life might seem daunting to most, but not me. All it promises are new possibilities for a world without hatred, without violence, and without suffering. A world where love and peace are not merely fantasies, but the promised reality.

And it all starts with me and her.

—

A/N: This is an older imagine that I’ve had written, but I hope to start writing new stuff again soon. Also, sorry for not replying to some of the requests/comments you’ve sent me in my inbox. I promise I see them and I will respond to them soon. I just didn’t want to say “I’m working on this” and then take way too long to actually write an update for you.

**This imagine was transferred over from my Wattpad acc OT5Stan4Life**

[huriya]

A Reflection on My Decision Against Suicide. - from my journal

December fourth approaches, and with it comes the one year anniversary of my decision to live. For all of my struggles remembering daily events, I still remember exactly where I was when I decided.

I was on the last leg of my run and had just rounded a corner running uphill when I started thinking about how many people were being murdered in genocides with my every step. How they didn't get a chance to decide, and never would. I thought of people who had big dreams, small dreams, people who never got to say goodbye whose bodies wouldn't ever be recovered, who wouldn't be identified because everyone who knew them had already died, who just wanted to see their kid or parent one last time, who left a puzzle unfinished, didn't want to die, had already accepted death, people who realized death was not release, but another measure of control by their oppressors.

And suddenly, my years long debate with suicide seemed so, so ridiculous. Who am I to reject the gift of life. If I don't live for myself, I thought I should at least live for them, for the the ones who don't get a choice. I made my decision, then and there, that I would indeed live for them, if not for myself. And hopefully, I would find reasons of my own along the way, and I have.

I haven't thought about killing myself since that day, and I've discovered that life is so much more beautiful without the filter of a funeral shroud.

This is not to say that I don't have to work for it. I wasn't lying about possibly having undiagnosed depression, OCD, and ADHD. And you know what? I don't wish that I was. I am only who I am now because of who I was before. I still deal with paranoia, night terrors, insomnia, rejection sensitive disorder, and more. But I am here. I am living, breathing, and against all odds, I am happy.

I think what got me through is my sense of justice. My completely and entirely overwhelming care for the world. I know a lot of people tell each other not to watch the news to "protect their peace." But, like my favorite Eugene V. Debs quote emulates, I say that you cannot live anywhere in this world in peace. Poverty is a war. Famine is a war. Prejudice is a war. War is all around you, and, no matter how far down you've shoved it, you know it to be true. War does not need fire and bombs to kill people. For you, perhaps it wields exhaustion, overconsumption, self hatred, beauty standard, the threat of not obeying normalcy. War wears you down whether your head is in front of the gun or shoved deep in the dirt.

But whether you let it weaken your bones or not is your decision. That day, December fourth, I chose to fight. I refused to give in, and I will fight until death if I must. And I'll fight that too. I am only here because thousands of people before me, for thousands of years, had the urge to go on, the urge to stay alive despite it all. and though you may be thinking I have confidence in my ability to end war, I'll tell you right now that I don't.

In the same way I raise my hand even when I am unsure of my answer, I put my effort into researching, speaking out, educating myself, and, most of all, preparing myself to help the best I possibly can. They need doctors willing to go into fights and help civilians. I'm good at biology and enjoy it, so I've decided that I'll try to become a doctor. And all the way, I will not silence myself. I will make use of my privilege for those who do not have any.

My dream is to go to space, see Mars and the moon with my own eyes. But I know that, more than not achieving my dream, leaving behind a world in this state would eat me up inside. I could be on a different planet and still feel every death like it was a bullet to my own heart. In the same way I have decided not to abandon life, I refuse to abandon Earth.

P.S. - the Eugene V. Debs quote I mentioned is "Your Honor, years ago I recognized my kinship with all living beings, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on earth. I said then, and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free."

[abs-2020]

=Monster=

(Avatar)Colonel Miles Quaritch x Na’vi Reader

This is probably gonna have multiple parts guys

Warnings: SMUT/18+/violence/choking/pinning/overstimulation/heavy topics/Dirty talk/Virginity Loss/knife play maybe/size kink/FUTURE SMUT/Stockholm Syndrome/

P.S. uuuh stuff spoken in Na’vi is Italic and stuff readers thinking is blue

Summary: This takes place in ATWOW

Aaand you’re neytiris older sister, and you get captured in order to save jakes children and spider. <3

Authors note: This was a dream I had so y’all lucky I’m sharin 😮‍💨🤚🏻

———————————————————————————

It all went by so fast..

Lo’ak’s call for help saying that there was dreamwalkers in a place he shouldn’t be, Netyiris panic and concern, jake and his orders for you to stay put, And the gushes of wind left by the ikran’s and their mighty wings.

But all you could think in that moment was ‘Fuck No’ and your body moved before your mind could process what you had just done as you jumped onto your Ikran ‘Pepe’ and rushed to save your nieces and nephews.

Everything in those moments were one big blur as you jumped down from the tree dagger in hand ready to kill as you landed on top of the Dreamwalker in charge of the group that was holding your family member hostage. This caused him to let go of Lo’ak letting you pin the alien onto his stomach pushing his face into the dirt. Loudly you yelled in Na’vi for Neytiri and Jake to get their children out of here as you pinned the Alien to the floor a grunt escaping his throat.

Quickly you’d grab his hair pulling his head back only to lay your dagger to his throat, proceeding to hiss at the Dreamwalkers pointing their guns to you. Harshly you’d pull the Aliens head back farther than before showing no care or mercy for the pain or damage you caused him or his queue. Pushing your dagger deeper to his throat hissing again.

“(Y/N) I told you to stay back!!” Jake yelled panick lacing his voice.

“Lo’ak! Neteyam! Tuk! Kiri!” Netyiri would yell from above. Her voice was full of relief. Quickly you’d look around to find that your sisters kids had escaped. You’d sign in relief thanking yourself and the great Ewya for saving them and your sisters heart. “Thank you sister!”

“NOW GO! GO!” You’d yell teeth chattering. As your tail wagged frantically hitting the floor occasionally your ears lowering. “GET OUT OF HERE SISTER! I’LL BE OKAY!”

You lied and netyiri and Jake both knew you did. But they didn’t have any other option. Why would they Risk their kids getting captured again Or killed? And with that they left, you felt them leave your gut sinking was enough of a signal for you to know they were gone. Then everything sank in. Where you were, what you had just done, the aliens that surrounded you and their weapons. And then you thought to yourself ‘one is better than none. I might as well kill one before they all kill me’ pressing your dagger harsher against aliens throat your dagger piercing his skin causing him to hiss. with a hiss of your own you’d lower your face to the aliens ear that you had pushed into the dirt so roughly only moments ago venom and hatred radiating from your body.

“What’s the word boss?” A female alien would yell as she pointed her gun to you.

A sound of annoyance would leave your body as you looked at the dreamwalkers around you. They all looked so scared and that didn’t make sense to you. Why were they scared? They didn’t have the knife to their throats. This alien beneath you did, and he didn’t seem to budge not one bit. Your tail stilled but your ears remained back. You had a murderous look in your eyes as you stared the female alien down.

“SHOOT HER!” Another alien would yell this one wearing something black that covered his eyes.

“do NOT shoot ‘em!” The alien underneath you would yell.

Your head would shoot down to the alien and quickly you’d take your blade from his throat raising your arm ready to rid your planet of its nuisance only to have your hand grabbed and with a loud manly grunt have yourself get thrown onto your back and a knee brought to your gut. Before you could process anything your wrists would get pinned to the floor as a weight you have never felt before held you down.

“Well we’ll, what do we have here? A pretty little princess just for me.” The Alien from above would coo a smirk crossing his face while it’s fingers tickled your cheek.

With a click of your tung you’d turn your head to his fingers in an attempt to bite them off, only he was too quick. A chuckle would leave the aliens throat as he took his hand away from your face. With that you’d look away from the monster only to have a slap land across your cheek and a echo heard through the forest.

“Look at me bitch”

rough and forceful fingers would grab at your chin and force your face and eyes to meet those of the alien above you and in that moment everything slowed. ‘beautiful’ was the only word that would process through your mind as your eyes met the aliens. A zing would flow through your body as you stared into his yellow eyes and your body would stiffen. He was so beautiful, his eyes, his lips, his hair, but his eyes…No man had ever made you feel so strange and safe. But you weren’t safe and your body reminded you of that. You’d aggressively furrow your brows at the thought and spit in the aliens face and hiss.

The alien above would chuckle and lick his Canine digging his knee to your gut and foot into your wrist. His hand would go to your throat wrapping around the entirety of it. Your eyes falling to his forearms the sight of them making you feel uneasy and strange. an unwanted feeling pooled at your gut and heart as you stared at the veins traveling up his strong arms. Your thoughts were interrupted by his blood, the blood from the cut you left on his neck dripping onto your cheek causing a feeling of accomplishment to sit in your gut. The alien would watch his blood drip onto your cheeks its trail beginning to thump the floor and your legs trapped underneath its frame. The alien would smile again and bare his teeth as he leaned down to your face its hand squeezing your neck.

“Now princess that’s not very ladylike of you. But what you did back there was very noble I’ll give you that.” The monsters grip on your neck would tighten. your poker face never faltering. “But very stupid” the monsters words were filled with hatred.

You’d stay silent. You weren’t gonna talk. Why would you? This alien would have to kill you to get a word out of you. you’d gladly die than speak to such a disgusting creature. They killed your father and many family members. They killed Tsu’tey your bound to be mate. You didnt love Tsu’tey in a mate or romantic way, but you did love him and they killed him. His death left you alone and angry for the longest time. Your eyes would lock with the aliens once again and your eyes were filled with a fire ‘if only looks could kill’

“So you’re just not gonna talk? I know you understand me, I heard Jake speak English to ya. I ain’t stupid sweetheart” the monster would say as he flicked your spit from his face and slammed his hand onto the ground.

‘It’s intimidation tactics are pathetic’ you’d think to yourself. ‘It should’ve just killed me already’ and as if Ewya had answered your prayers the alien would grab your dagger the dagger your father gave you, the dagger your tried to kill him with moments ago. With a huff you’d close your eyes accepting your fate.

The alien above you would laugh, this had your eyes shooting wide open only to be met with the laughter of all the other dreamwalkers.

“You think I’d just kill you? No princess that would be way to easy. You’re my new tool” the monster above you would laugh as he strapped your wrists together.

‘Tool’ you’d think to yourself ‘the sky people are gonna try and use me? That’s just pathetic.’ “Naaaah!” You’d yell in annoyance at his words your ears going back as you shook your head like an annoyed child.

The alien would step off of you and stand picking you up by your wrists and throwing you over his shoulder in a swift motion. The alien would say something about moving out but your mind was to foggy to really catch what it was saying. As he carried your through the forest like a rag doll you’d take in all the scenery you could memories of you and netyiri flashing through your mind. Grace and her school. The war. Jake becoming the clan leader despite you being the oldest. Netayum being born. All the talks you had with Kiri and spider. Then your thoughts were stopped when a gush of wind and a loud mechanical noise filed your ears causing you to hiss and whine.

“Don’t like that now do ya kitty?” The alien would tease. Your glare at the alien below you. ‘I’m screwed’

——————————————Time Skip————

Your eyes would squeeze shut and your teeth would clap down onto your bottom lip causing blood to pour from the puncture. Your nails would dig into your palms and turn white as your tail whipped around.

“WHERE IS JAKE SULLY!!” A short human would yell at you. “JUST GIVE US ONE GOOD IMAGE AND THIS WILL END!” She’d yell again

Your eyes would water whilst being shut blood running from your nose and lip. The foreign machine you were strapped to making a terrible noise while it shocked your brain. This had been going on for 10 minutes. You hadn’t said a word and the pain had only increased as time went on.

~~~~(Miles POV)~~~~~

Miles had sat in the other room while they did their thing to you. He could care less about what they did to you, a nasty savage is all she he thought. Jake silly’s sister in law. Ms. Silly’s older sister. He wondered if killing you infront or her would bring her unbearable pain. But he was curious, you hadn’t said a single word to him. He wanted to see if you’d said anything to the humans. I’d they broke you. With that thought in mind he’d made his way to you. And what he saw caused his toes to curl and stomach to turn. You were sitting there strapped to that machine. Blue skin pale, fists white, sweat dripping from every pore in your body and blood. ‘BLOOD’ his mind would shout at him and as if his Body moved on its own rushing to stop the machine and it’s torture only to stop himself before his body did so. Shocked and embarrassed he’d swallow a dry lump in his throat and look around.

“Has she said anything?” He asked the colonel only for her to shake her head.

“She won’t spill” she said in annoyance as she looked at you not caring for the pain you were in. “ONE THOUGHT OF WHERE JAKE SULLY IS AND YOU’LL BE FREE! JUST ONE THOUGHT!”

“That’s surpris-“ miles ears would shoot back as his head turned to look at you sharply

~~~~~~(End of Miles POV)~~~~~

It had become too much. Way too much. The pain. the yelling from the random human. The noise of the machine. The straps holding you down. The pain from your lip. All of it. All of it too much. The only words of the human yelling at you that you caught was “one thought”. And like a rope snapping A blood curtailing scream would escape your lips and fill the room as your mind went to one thought.. the aliens eyes and his hands around your throat. But the pain would continue until it didn’t your head would fall to the side as your chest rised and fell your breaths ragged and short. Your eyes would open only to see the alien from before walking towards you before you passed out.

———————————————————————

Your tail would flick nervously as you sat in the corner of a white room a small silver table sitting in the middle, ‘way to small’ your head rested between your knees as you tried to calm yourself. These machines, the strange rock, the wall, the grey white and plainness of the sky peoples homes, it all frustrated you. In the midst of your panic you began to sing a song to yourself in Na’vi, one that your mother had sang to you multiple times when you were a child before netyiri was born.

“That’s a beautiful song princess” your eyes would widen and head would shoot up as you tried to jump back only to be stopped by the wall. Your hands would shove the alien in front of you away as you darted to the other side of the room only to be grabbed and thrown onto the small table the alien placing himself between your legs. the sight caused your stomach to turn in an unfamiliar way just like earlier. his hands resting on your shoulders causing goosebumps to rise “Whoa whoa, calm down there sweetheart. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Just here to talk.” Your eyes would lock with his and you’d try to tell yourself he was disgusting, but you couldn’t help but think he was beautif. ‘It! IT! It does not deserve to be anything other than an Alien and an It!’you’d tell yourself trying to change your thinking.

The alien would chuckle nervously. “Now are ya gonna talk or what? Cause if not I’m gonna have to let them strap you back down onto that machine” the aliens fingers would rub your arms causing your body to stiffen and your teeth to bare. “And we wouldn’t want that now would we princess?” The alien would smirk and take his hand off of you.

You’d take this opportunity to heart taking your legs to his chest and kicking as hard as you could causing you, the table and the alien to fly across opposite sides of the room. With a thud you’d hit the wall table slamming into your stomach trapping you against the wall. You’d shake your head pushing the table from your body a loud ‘FUCK’ filling your ears as you laid your eyes onto the monster before you. The alien would face you fists clenched and nostrils flaring.

“You wanna play?”The alien would tilt his head as his tails wagged ears going back as he bared his teeth and hissed. Raising his fists.

You’d Hiss back getting in a stance ready to fight. Your eyes would lock with his and you’d yell in annoyance as you leapt at him landing a blow to his face quickly he’d grab your wrist and turn it in n painful manner causing you to bite the hand that held your wrist and have him let go and yell

“You fucking savage! You keep this up I’ll put a bullet in your brain and make sure every inch of this planet is burned to the ground!” The monster would grab your hair and drag you back to the table flipping it upside right “now you’re gonna talk it I’m gonna cut this ducking thing!” The Alien would bark baring his teeth to you grabbing your Queue and holding a knife dagger to it.

“NO! You do not cut tsaheylu! YOU MONSTER!” You’d yell grabbing the aliens wrist in an attempt to keep his knife away. But you knew if he wanted to his arm could overpower your whole body. Has your hand gripped his wrist like a vice your eyes would lock onto his forearm. The memory of his hand around your neck causing your tail to whip. ‘I should not feel like this, this alien should not make me feel like this’

“Oh, you like my forearms princess?” He’d snicker “we all saw that little thought of yours earlier” slowly he’d place the knife back into its strap. Only to put his hand back around your throat. “Or is it maybe your a dirty little savage that likes to be chocked?” Your ears would go back as he slammed his hand onto the table between your legs. Someone’s hands being so close to your sacred place causing you to squirm and close your legs. The alien would take note of this a Laugh to himself. ‘Calm, calm, calm’

“Do not- I am not a savage! YOU PEOPLE ARE SAVAGES! Destroying the forest! Killing women and children! Taking so many lives, for what?? something you think is your to take in the ground?!” You’d yell as best you could his hand still around your throat.

“Well I’ll be damned princess, you speak a whole lot better than I thought you would. I wonder what else that mouth is good for.” The alien would say to himself for than to you. Your face would contort into confusion and disgust at his words. “So, you’re Sullys Sister-in law, aren’t you?” He’d ask

With a glare you’d respond nodding your head.

“Words princess.” The alien would say in a demanding tone.

“yes, you idiot” you’d bark only to have the aliens hand leave your throat and go to your cheeks squishing them together causing your lips to pucker.

“You WILL speak in English or Ill rip that tung of yours right out!” The alien would say in a threatening tone.

“Yes..” you’d say to the best of your ability your cheeks still being squeezed together.

“Good girl” the alien would bring his face closer to yours and patt your cheek finally letting go of your cheeks. “What’s your name sweet thing?” He’d say that stomach turning grin creeping onto his face again.

“(Y/N) (L/N)” you’d say looking to the floor again. Ears back and tail still.

The alien would wait a couple minutes and click his tung. “Tsk tsk, Aren’t you gonna ask me what my name is?” He’d say in a mocking tone pouting his lip. “Ask me my name” he’d demand his words like venom his spit landing onto your cheek.

A look of protest would cross your face, your mother would be ashamed of you right now. You’d bite your lip back not wanting to speak. The alien would stomp his foot and tilt his head in annoyance licking his lips.

“W-what is your name?” You’d ask barley above a whisper your eyes going to the floor shamefully. You’ve been made a fool. So compliant. Death would’ve been easier on you than anything else.

“Miles, Miles Quaritch.”

———————————/////—

Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

Authors note: Welp there’s the end of chapter one?? If y’all like it. If not this is just gonna sit here forever. Uuuh feedback would be nice and cool lol. And I dunno. Yeah. Hole hell liked it. I love Miles.

[javier-pena]

alone

Chapter 1 of The Hunt

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Word Count: 4.4k

Rating: Mature (for now but that will - spoilers! - change eventually)

Summary: When your best friend and companion is abducted by a group of outlaws, you hire a Mandalorian to help track down the men and get your revenge. What seems like a simple enough task stretches into a month-long trek through inhospitable terrain while both you and the Mandalorian are trying to come to terms with events in your past you cannot change. Set after Season 2.

Warnings: mentions (and short descriptions) of death, murder, and torture | a lot of hurt and no comfort | mentions of loss | mild to moderate language | a lot - and I mean A LOT - of talk about Din’s hands lmao

Notes: This is my first attempt at a Mandalorian fic and the first time in months I’ve written anything. It’s vaguely inspired by my favorite western movies, True Grit (1969/2010), The Quick and the Dead (1995), and The World to Come (2020). So yes, this is going to be very much like a western. I also want to - again - thank Dani @javierpcna​ who was like “are you writing Mandalorian stuff?” about a month ago and has, since then, read through this chapter more often than me and encouraged me to continue to write it and offered so much valuable insight whenever I came to her with an idea ... seriously, Dani, this fic wouldn’t exist without you and I hope I can find a way to repay you! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this first chapter (I’m already working on the second one) ...

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The day the Mandalorian arrives on Alvorine is the day you lose your best friend. You’re still busy putting out the fire, running your soot-blackened hand across your face, where the dirt mingles with the tears you’re too tired to stop from streaming down your face, when you hear the thrusters of a spacecraft roaring above you. You barely glance up; you can’t be bothered to. It could be the remnants of the Empire looking for recruits, it could be the New Republic looking for the remnants of the Empire, or it could be the bandits coming back for more. But what do you care? They already took away the one person you care most about in the galaxy. You just grip the shovel tighter and drive it into the soil so you can choke the fire underneath moist stones and dirt.

While you exhaust your body with physical labor, you occupy your mind with thoughts of revenge. Revenge as dark and quenching as the soil beneath you. With every load of dirt you heave onto the searing flames, your plan gains another sharp edge until all you can think of is driving the cutting edge down onto the throat of the man who gripped Brea’s arm and pulled her onto the speeder bike. Maybe his head would come off right away, maybe your tool would just obstruct his windpipe as you watch the life drain slowly out of his eyes. And even that would be too good an end for that monster.

It’s not just in your mind – those thoughts aren’t simply there to ground you while you continue your work in the ruins of what was once your home. It’s not pure fantasy, something to give you back a feeling of control. You are determined to follow through on it; you are going to hunt down these men who burned down your farm and stole Brea from you. You will not rest until they are all dead by your hand. And if you should die in the process … then you won’t go out without a fight, without taking as many of those bastards with you as you can. They have sealed their own fate by coming here today.

You know Brea isn’t dead; they won’t kill her unless she tries to kill one of them first. And she wouldn’t do that, she is too gentle for that, too docile. She would rather turn the other cheek. They should have taken you instead; she doesn’t deserve the fate that awaits her. You would’ve at least put up a fight, make them pay for what they did. And Brea? She would just die.

For now, she’s alive. But whatever you set out to do once you’re done here won’t be a rescue mission. You aren’t under the illusion you can save her. You know that even if you were to leave right now, even if you had your own speeder bike, you would never find her in time. No, this possibility hasn’t even crossed your mind. All you want to do is cause these men more pain than they caused you. You know it is impossible because you cannot imagine anything worse, but you sure as hell will do your best.

You straighten your back, drive the shovel into the ground, and use it as support while you try to catch your breath. The air burns in your lungs, and not just from the cold. There is also the steadily rising black smoke that makes breathing hard; your throat stings, so do your sides, and there is a bitter taste in your mouth. But you’re almost finished here, you’re almost done putting out the fire, so it won’t endanger the surrounding forest. And with every flame you bury, you also bury a piece of your soul until you feel like there is nothing left that makes you human, until all the pain and despair you’re feeling since listening to Brea’s screams grow quieter and quieter until they were swallowed up by silence has turned into a cold, brazen cry for revenge. But you’re glad this has made you less forgiving, less kind, less … human. Those things would only get in the way of the task ahead of you.

As the last flames go out with a wet hiss, one of Alvorine’s three blue white suns vanishes behind the treetops. You know the other two will be quick to follow. And you don’t have anywhere to spend the night. You wouldn’t mind sleeping with your back propped against a tree. You’ve done it often enough. But it’s winter, and the air is already cold and will be even colder once the other two suns set too. And you just lost every blanket, every single piece of fabric that could keep you warm in a small inferno. You know this is just an excuse, a comforting lie you tell yourself. The truth is you cannot spend a minute longer on this clearing, even if that means you have to walk the four miles to the next settlement. You’re so exhausted you cannot feel your legs, but you don’t care. Anything is better than spending the night here, even collapsing in the middle of the dark forest.

You leave the shovel where you stand and walk to the edge of the clearing, swallowing around the lump in your throat, trying to hold down more tears that are threatening to spill over and down your cheeks. Once you reach the edge of the forest, where the air is a bit clearer, you take a deep breath and turn around to look at the ruins of your home, now nothing more than a black pile of rubble. You have nothing, nothing but the clothes you’re wearing, not even a small trinket to remind you of Brea and the many happy hours you spent here tending to your fields, sweeping the front porch or sitting around the fireplace sharing supper. Even remembering how you worked on menial chores now feels like the most precious memory, one you will hold onto until your last breath. Because even though they have taken everything from you, they can’t take away the memory of Brea’s laugh.

***

They stare at you as you enter the inn. They stare and then look away. They can’t bear your presence because it reminds them of their own guilt. Not one of them came to your aid this morning, not one of them came afterwards to offer help. And you ignore them too because there is nothing left to say. All you want is some food and a dry place to sleep before you turn your back on them forever.

You sit down at a small table in a dark corner. The patrons around you either turn their backs to you or stand up to move their meals and conversations someplace else. It’s as if you’ve been marked. If you had any strength left in you, you would call them out on their behavior. Shit, you would wreak havoc, and only stop when the last one of them is on their knees begging for forgiveness. But you’re glad you’re too exhausted because your sudden hatred for everyone and everything scares you. The villagers don’t deserve to fall victim to your rage. There is nothing they could’ve done. They are just as defenseless and helpless as you. Would you have come to their aid if your positions were reversed? You would like to think so, but just because it gives you a false sense of moral superiority. Deep down you know the truth. Deep down you know you would hide too, praying that you would be spared.

As you dig into your bowl of soup, you realize how hungry you are. Even though everything tastes like ash in your mouth, your stomach is glad to have something to clench around when your thoughts stray to this morning’s events again. And you know there’s no need to punish yourself by refusing your body the nourishment it needs. The opposite, in fact – you know you’ll need all the strength you can get if you’re really going after them.

As you swallow one ashy bite after the other, you let your eyes wander around the room, looking for something that will distract you from your thoughts and your feelings of guilt. Everyone avoids your gaze; everyone acts as if your corner is empty. Everyone … except one stranger.

He sits in a booth close to the bar, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze on you. Or at least you think he’s looking at you – he’s wearing a helmet that covers his entire head, the kind you’ve seen twice before in this corner of the galaxy. He’s a Mandalorian, a bounty hunter, and his presence here doesn’t really surprise you. Even though actually seeing one is a rare occurrence, stories about them are countless.

Alvorine is a planet without laws, a planet that lives by its own rules, so many criminals decide to hide out here while they wait for their crimes to be forgotten. There is no military presence on the planet, no judicial system, no one to catch and punish the wrongdoers. The planet follows the rules of whoever is in charge, which changes frequently, but none of the powerful people have enough resources to enforce those rules anyway. Disputes are often just settled by the parties involved in whatever way they see fit. Only the Mandalorians, who are hired by people on other worlds, by people who have never experienced what it is like to live on Alovrine, are brave enough to get involved in those disputes. You have to admit you do feel a tiny bit curious as to why that particular Mandalorian is here ... who hired him? And who is he hunting?

You tentatively let your gaze wander over his stoic body, over the beskar covering his arms and chest, over the bandolier wrapped around his upper body, over the visor hiding his eyes. If you had one like him on your side, you wouldn’t need to worry about getting your revenge. He would catch those men in the blink of an eye. And if you paid him enough, he would do to them whatever you wanted.

He would cut off their limbs but keep them alive long enough to feel it.

He would make them run for it, give them the illusion of hope, only to crush it like their bones.

He would let you watch, let you choose whatever punishment you saw fit.

You shift in your seat because you can almost smell the blood, you can hear a faint echo of their screams, and it makes you feel light-headed and nauseous, but also elevates you, lifts a weight off your shoulders, even if just for a brief moment.

But he’s not here to do your bidding. And when you lift your head again, he’s gone.

You finish your bowl of soup and then decide to rent a room upstairs for the night. You don’t have a place to stay anymore and it’s too dangerous to start your pursuit while it’s dark. The forest belongs to dangerous creatures during the night, more dangerous than any man out there. And you’re planning on staying alive for just a little while longer.

You stretch and yawn and move to get up when your path is suddenly blocked. It happens so fast you don’t register anything at first apart from the cold, hard beskar chest plate that is level with your face. Its unexpected appearance makes you lose your balance and you fall back down onto the bench you’ve been sitting on. The Mandalorian extends his hand, his fingers closing around thin air. It’s a half-hearted attempt to stop your fall, and it comes too late – your backside has already painfully collided with the hard wood.

“May I join you?” His voice sounds distorted through the modulator in his helmet. He sounds like a machine, not like a being with a heartbeat.

You want to tell him no, want to tell him to fuck off, but for tonight you have no fight left in you. So you nod.

He sits down and you expect to hear the clink of his armor, expect to feel a tremor when his heavy body comes to rest on a stool opposite you. But there is no sound, no movement, and the lack makes you sit up straighter. This isn’t just another cowardly villager you can get rid of by glaring at him … this is an apex predator.

You swallow with some difficulty. “Can I help you?” you ask, your voice level, your eyes resting on his glove-clad hands lying on the table. You figure you’re safe as long as you can see them.

At first, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. Or at least you think he’s looking at you. You cannot see his eyes behind the tinted visor. No matter how uncomfortable the situation makes you feel, you try not to move … you try not to show any sign of weakness, to give him any excuse to lunge across the table and strangle you.

Finally, he answers. “I’m looking for work.”

Now you cannot help but move. You exhale sharply, and with that release of breath comes a release of tension as you slump backwards, your back hitting the wall behind you. You cross your arms over your chest. “I can’t help you,” you say. You don’t have any work to offer him, no work worthy of the skills of a Mandalorian who usually hunts down important people, kings, merchants, people who influence the course of the galaxy’s history. Following a few lowly bandits is not the work he’s used to. You don’t even want to tell him about it because you know he’d take it as an insult. And even if - by some miracle - your quest for revenge would be deemed a worthy cause in the eyes of the Mandalorian, you couldn’t afford his services.

The slightest movement of his helmet is the only reaction your answer gets out of him. Whether he shifts because he’s surprised or because he’s angry, or whether his scalp itches under the metal you cannot tell.

Still, you feel the need to explain yourself. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any money.”

Shit, that’s the wrong thing to say. It implies you have work for him, but that you’re too poor to pay him. For all you know, this could be a grave insult in Mandalorian society.

His fingers on the table clench around thin air again. “What can you offer?” he asks.

He doesn’t want to know about the job, the quarry as you know they call it. No, he just wants to know how much he can earn.

“240 credits,” you answer. It’s all you have. You won’t need it anymore.

He tilts his head and you expect him to refuse, but then he says, “That’s enough.”

You’re taken aback, surprised. He’s caught you off-guard. You were fully prepared to see him walk away at hearing the ridiculously low amount of money you just offered. “You don’t even know what the job is,” you protest. The last thing you need is a Mandalorian hunting you down because you’re not paying him enough.

“They told me,” he says with a nod behind him.

You follow the movement with your eyes and see heads whip to the side, gazes wandering downwards, you notice conversations being picked up again. White hot fury fills you, more powerful than the flames that destroyed your house.

“They had no right,” you press out through clenched teeth.

The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything. He sits still like a statue, unwavering, as you fight a small battle with yourself. You should leave without looking back. Messing with a Mandalorian is even more dangerous than the task ahead of you. But he’s offering you something invaluable, something no amount of credits can get you: a chance. If you go alone, you’ll be dead in about a week. There’s no use pretending you’ll get out of it alive. But if you accept the Mandalorian’s help – his services, you have to remind yourself – you might make it through two. You might get to see your dreams of revenge become reality.

You sigh deeply as a heavy weariness settles over you. You’re exhausted, and now that all the adrenaline has left your body, you can feel all the small cuts and bruises today’s labors have left behind. And you feel empty … cold and empty, and utterly alone.

The Mandalorian still doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t defend the villagers, he doesn’t tell you what he knows about you or the job, he doesn’t try to persuade you to take him up on his offer, nor does he walk away from it. He just sits there and waits for you to make up your mind, as if it’s all the same to him. And it probably is. Either he goes with you and earns some money, or he doesn’t and looks for work elsewhere. He is completely detached from the whole affair. There is no emotional investment, just a job that needs to be done.

He doesn’t care if you live or die, he just cares if you pay him or not.

This realization is what finally helps you make up your mind. “I want to hire you,” you say, your tongue heavy in your mouth. All you really want is to sleep.

There is no reaction for the longest time but then the Mandalorian nods. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to say something, give him details or explain the specifics of the job to him. But before you can decide what to say next, he stands abruptly.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he says before turning around.

Your brain needs a moment to catch up but when it does, you’re already on your feet. “Wait,” you say, and to your surprise the broad, steel-clad man listens to you.

He doesn’t face you, but he stops.

You briefly consider asking him if you can accompany him, but you don’t. You don’t have to ask, you get to decide.

“I’m coming with you,” you tell him.

You tell a stranger, a dangerous one at that, one who makes his money by making other people’s lives a living hell, that you will travel with him through dark, deserted forests where no one will stop him from taking what he wants from you instead of earning it, where no one will come to your aid should he not honor the deal you apparently just made with him. And you don’t care. Because no matter what he will do to you, it can’t be worse than what has already been done.

But all your worries and fears focus in on just one tiny aspect of this whole, fucked-up situation when he says, “I work alone.”

You don’t want to negotiate. This shouldn’t even be up for debate. You’re his employer now, you get to decide how things are done. But if you insist on this, he could just walk away from you. And you cannot let that happen now that you’ve had an idea of what it would be like to have a Mandalorian on your side.

“We’re not a team,” you say. “Think of me as an interested party. As someone who is fascinated by your work.”

You’re not sure if that is the right thing to say. His shoulders move, but he still doesn’t turn around. When he speaks again, you know it was the wrong thing to say.

“I work alone or not at all.”

You don’t want to accept that. You want to be there when those men are punished for what they did. You don’t want to wait around for the Mandalorian to come back, not when you don’t have anywhere to wait around in. You’ve lost everything. Had he talked to the villagers as he claims, he would know this. Or maybe he does. Maybe he knows you lost your home today but doesn’t care. He doesn’t even know the definition of the word home. It means nothing to him.

You take a deep breath. “Then I won’t be needing your services.”

This finally makes him turn around. Everything in you screams for you to take a few steps back, to put yourself out of his reach. You can feel the atmosphere between you shift – he draws back his shoulders, makes himself even taller than he already is. And you know, you just know, that refusing his offer, that backtracking on your agreement is the worst mistake you made tonight.

You’re pretty sure that not honoring a deal is the worst insult to a Mandalorian.

“Going alone will be your death,” he says when you cannot bear the tension a second longer.

“What’s it to you?”

The words are out. They are a challenge, one you didn’t mean to make, one you shouldn’t have made, but it’s done now. Your hand begins to tremble, and your feet grow cold with fear as you prepare yourself for his reaction. You don’t know if he will hit you, tie you up, torture you, or just kill you on the spot. He could do all of these things without having to fear any repercussions. You curse yourself for not having been more careful, for making this fatal mistake, because now Brea will go unavenged. Just because you couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut, just because you’re stubborn and hot-headed and oh so stupid.

But to your surprise, the Mandalorian shrugs. He lifts his broad shoulders, then lowers them again as your eyes follow the movement. But he’s not giving you anything more: He doesn’t insist on going alone, he doesn’t turn around and leave, he just keeps standing opposite you, motionless, emotionless, until you’re convinced you imagined the shrug.

So you decide to make the next move by removing yourself from this situation before he changes his mind and drags you back to his ship to do whatever he wants to you. You take a deep breath and start to step around him, a movement that is almost impossible to complete in this small space you’re both in. But you attempt it, nevertheless. When you’re level with him, doing your best not to brush up against him so you won’t enrage him, you hear his voice. It’s just one sentence, four words, but for some reason it sounds so much more human than it did when he was opposite you. Maybe it has something to do with the distance between his helmet and your ear, maybe it’s the angle from which the sounds hit your eardrums or maybe it’s because you feel light-headed, dizzy with the realization he hasn’t killed you yet and probably won’t.

He says, “Have it your way.”

You stop right next to him, staring ahead at a group of three men who do their best not to look at you. But you don’t see them anyway. In fact, you don’t see anything at all because the rushing sound in your ears drowns out everything else, even other senses.

“You can come with me,” he says, and it’s the first time he has spoken two sentences in a row. “But you do as I say.” Three. “If I tell you to run, you run.” Four. “If I tell you to get out of the way, you do so.” Five. “And if I tell you to kill, you kill.” Six.

Then nothing, just the faint sound of his deep breaths through the modulator.

Your thoughts are racing, tripping over their own feet like children running down a hill, and they’re unbearably loud. Everything is loud suddenly, from the sound of the barkeep filling a glass to the way that woman over there is chewing her food. The only thing that’s quiet is the last one you would have suspected to be so: the Mandalorian. Now he is waiting for you to say something and as he does, he balls his hand into a fist and then releases the tension again, over and over like a nervous tic, like he needs an outlet for the tension in his body, the tension you have no idea he is feeling until you see his arm flex beneath the fabric covering it.

But, once more, you’re at war with yourself. You don’t know what to tell him. There is still that shimmer of hope on the horizon, the light that makes you believe you stand a chance if you bring him along. But his terms … you’re not sure if you can accept them. He doesn’t know Alvorine or the men you would be hunting half as well as you do. And you’ve never been one for following orders. So if you feel that his assessment of a situation is wrong, you’re not sure you’ll be able to run just because he tells you to.

You have a feeling that defying his orders would be the most dangerous thing you could ever do, even more dangerous than hunting down a group of ruthless bandits who like to torture and kill for fun.

“All right,” you say finally.

His fist unclenches one last time and he exhales slowly.

“But when we find them,” you swallow hard, once, but your mouth is completely dry, “I get to decide what happens to them.”

The Mandalorian turns toward you so abruptly that you almost lose your balance. You lean back and hit your elbow on the wall behind you. The pain makes you curse under your breath.

“Agreed,” he whispers. He sounds like a machine again, as if everything that makes him human is shut away beneath that cold, hard, invaluable beskar steel. You too feel cold suddenly, cold and afraid. “But until then you do as I say. Understood?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. He is too close to you, and drowns out everything else, even the sounds that you considered to be too loud mere seconds ago. If he wouldn’t be wearing a helmet, you would be able to feel his breath on your cheek. He takes up your field of vision almost entirely. You’ve never felt more on display, and yet more hidden. And you know that if you say the wrong thing now, it will have terrible consequences.

So you just nod again.

“We leave in the morning,” he tells you, then turns around suddenly and leaves, his cape trailing behind him.

All sounds come rushing back at once, as if you’ve just emerged out of a pool of water. You release your breath quickly, only now realizing you’ve been holding it. Then you slump back against the wall, a shaking, quivering mess.

***

tag list: @bella-ciao​, @filthybookworm​, @frannyzooey​, @khalysa​, @leannawithacapitala​, @mothandpidgeon​, @mrsparknuts​, @mxsamwilson​, @piscespussybabe​, @something-tofightfor​

[imaginethatneathuh]

Old Friend: Mad Sweeney - American Gods

Mad Sweeney x friend!reader, platonic

TW/CW: Anger, mentions of violence, mentions of pollution, arguments, insults, yelling, etc.

Word count: Almost 1.8 K

I tried.

Summary: An old nature god wants to fight but has lost their will until an old friend gives them a stern talking to.

•

That field had once been filled with trees and animals. Now, it was almost completely barren save for the insects and grass. Thousands of trees, thousands of them, cut to the stump and even the stumps were ripped out. Thousands of homes lost and torn away by humanity. Thousands upon thousands of animals scattered from their homes and pushed out by greed, and a lack of empathy and understanding. Thousands of innocents gone, dead, or pushed out.

That was a constant thought as you sat in the empty field.

There was once a time when humans respected the earth and its bounty. When humans gave back and treated their home with kindness and respect. Those days have long since passed. Now, they flood the oceans, rivers, lakes, and ponds with filth, and they take too much. Always acting like what they take is never enough. They tear apart the land to build or to farm, forgetting the ways of old and what would happen if they went too far. Forgetting the wildfires and the earthquakes, the tsunamis and tornados. Forgetting that the earth was very much alive and willing to destroy those who destroy them.

Maybe it was time to make them remember. To strike fear back into their hearts and make them pray again.

You stood and screamed into what was once a beautiful forest.

The humans had gone so far and done so much damage. You needed to stop them before they destroyed everything, even themselves. You needed to protect what they took advantage of. You needed to fight against them.

But, how could you? Your power was shrinking. Sure, some people fought for the earth, but none believed in you. You were only kept alive by leaching from the worship of other gods like yourself and the belief of the common human held for the planet. None was your own. None knew of you. None truly believed in you, not even by faint memory. You were worse than a forgotten god, in your book. A parasite simply living because you were too stubborn to let go. Maybe it was time to.

“You seem more pissed than usual,” a familiar Irish voice said.

You looked over your shoulder to see Mad Sweeney standing there, smoking one of his disgusting cigarettes.

“Leprechaun,” you growled before turning back. “Go away.”

You could hear him approach, the dirt and what was left of the trees crunching beneath his feet. He stopped beside you.

“It’ll grow back,” he said. “With time.”

Scoffing, you said, “But how much of that is left?”

‘For us and for them?’ you thought.

He nodded in understanding. “Not much. Not enough.”

Though you fought hard, tears pricked at your eyes.

The world had once been beautiful, peaceful, but since the humans forgot, they had destroyed so much. Hell, even before they forgot, their kind seemed determined to destroy each other and what was around them.

Though you weren’t around during prehistoric times, you had met other gods a long time ago who had. They had faded away many years ago, but they had passed on their stories. Stories of hunter-gatherers and small tribes. Stories of wanderers rarely passing by each other. Stories of a world so new and a people so young that they had yet to look to the stars in search of more.

You wished you had lived during those times. And that you had passed long before this one.

There were those who hadn’t forgotten, who tried to live by the old ways, but they were dwindling every day. They tried but rarely for long. It simply wasn’t sustainable in this day and age. You blamed that New God, World for that. Then, there were those who spoke of change, but rarely changed in the slight. Those were the type of people you hated most of all.

You knew it wasn’t entirely humanity’s fault.

No, it was, but you didn’t want to believe it. You didn’t want to believe that such a promising species could be so cruel and hateful.

Humans had created a world where innocents were murdered with no rhyme or reason, where wars slaughtered millions for the greed of man. At least the Aztecs did it with purpose outside of riches with their human sacrifices. These modern humans had made a world filled with bigotry, hatred, and pain. These once brilliant creatures devolved, fighting and killing each other for no reason. They had done that for many, many years, but now, they were destroying the world around them, too.

It was the corporations that filled the world with their waste, thinking nothing of it, and exploiting the natural resources around them. You knew that. But the empty, heartless, cruel monster behind those corporations were human. The CEOs who didn’t care. The menial worker who was trying to survive in a soulless world. The executives who allowed this to go on and even encouraged it. As long as money lined their pockets, they didn’t care what happened to the forests and the oceans. The only ones who did were the tree companies who replanted their unnatural forests. After all, if all the trees are gone, how are they supposed to make more paper, pencils, planks, etc, to sell?

It was the governments who didn’t care because it didn’t involve them until they had to say something. They only ever seemed to do anything when they were called out on it. Sometimes, even then, they didn’t.

It was the media who only ever paid attention when nature struck back or when there was a good headline. They rarely even batted an eye at the beauty it had to offer.

It was the technology that caused ignorance and made people so addicted that they rarely enjoyed it unless it was to take pictures for their social media accounts or something of the like.

The leprechaun placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Are you going to do something about it? Or are you going to stand here, moping about like some fuckin’ coward?” He asked. “You a fuckin’ coward now? Is that how it is?”

You glared. “Let me mourn for my loss, Leprechaun.”

He snorted. “In the words of a wise god, ‘Angry is good. Angry get’s shit done.’ Don’t mourn, Y/N, get angry.” He took a drag from his cigarette. “You think I mourned when my people were attacked? No. I got angry and I fuckin’ took care of it.” Flicking the cigarette to the ground, he spoke again, turning toward you, “The forests are growing smaller, nature is being taken over. The people? They’re losing respect. Show ‘em why they should fear you. Make ‘em remember before there is nothing left to remember.”

He spoke of all the things you wanted to do. But the fire inside did not burn as bright as it once had.

You glared at the leprechaun before he succumbed and picked his cigarette up, stuffing it in his pocket. “Sorry,” he said.

You turned to the barren land.

“I will think about your words but I make no agreement of what is to be done.”

Mad Sweeney scoffed, letting his eyes wander over the torn ground.

“You know who’s responsible for this,” he said. “Do something about it.”

Tears fell down your face.

“They have a solution for everything. Every disaster, every famine, everything. There is nothing I can do. I want to. I want to fight back, but I am not as strong as I once was.” You sighed, pained, and looked to the ground. “Age has whittled me down. And they have grown too powerful.”

Mad Sweeney rolled his eyes. “Oh, fuck that,” he said before gesturing widely. “Without their technology, they’re nothin’. You fuckin’ hear me. Nothin’. Without the ability to work as one and without the ability to spread the information, they are as weak as a forgotten god.” Standing in front of you, he looked you in the eye. “Make the sky rain with blood. Poison ‘em. Burn ‘em. Shake ‘em to their very fuckin’ cores. Make ‘em beg and pray to the Earth, to you, again. Destroy what gives ‘em the power to forget and they will pray as they always should.”

You nodded to yourself.

The leprechaun was right, of course. They were nothing without their New Gods. Still, his words seemed too unlike him. And too much like a certain other god. Like a call to war.

“He put you up to this, didn’t he?” You asked.

The leprechaun straightened.

“I don’t need his fuckin’ permission to get yer mind in the right fuckin’ space,” he said. “We’ve known each other a long, long while, Y/N. Longer than I care to remember. Yer very fuckin’ essence is that of the Earth. To protect it is yer only reason to live. Are you really going to stand by and let it be destroyed?”

You looked at him, taking in his words. Separating anger from logic, you nodded and stared out, the wind and bright sun making you glare.

“You are right, old friend.” Your voice sounded distant as you considered your options. “But, as I said before, I am old, Leprechaun. Too old. This is a younger god’s fight.”

It pained you to say. You wanted to fight against them. To bring back the Earth’s power. The anger you had felt before dwindled. You were too weak and too old.

Mad Sweeney scoffed. “A younger god’s fight? Really? Yer pullin’ that bullshit on me? Mr Wood, or whatever the fuck they call him, left his forest behind. Most nature spirits and gods, like Pan and his satyrs, old Asintmah, Aranyani, and Grand Bois, have lost their will to fight. Are you going to do the same? You going to give up?” He hissed. “Nature is more powerful than anything humans could ever believe in or create. Don’t tell me you believe the bullshit the fuckin’ humans pour out about how they can fight nature. Look at fuckin’ Chernobyl. Look how nature has retaken it. There is no species more destructive than humans and nothing as powerful as nature. An immovable object against an unstoppable force.” The leprechaun sighed. “Take it back before nothing is left.”

After getting no response, Mad Sweeney shook his head, muttering “Fuckin’ coward” under his breath and began to walk away.

“Where?” you called after him.

He turned back, mouth slightly agape.

“Where would we meet?” You asked. “For this war he is calling.”

Mad Sweeney smiled. “House on the Rock, Wisconsin.”

You nodded.

“I’ll see you there, old friend.”

“And I, you--” Mad Sweeney paused. “--Old friend.”

[themildestofwriters]

Anti-Jedi Masterpost

Okay, so I’ve been told that I’m making shit up about Jedi Crimes so here’s the Receipts. And no, this isn’t about making The Good Guys Always Bad. We’re not saying Obi-Wan Kenobi is a horrible person you should feel bad for liking. We’re saying that the Jedi Order is massively flawed and the constant downplaying of its horrible traits doesn’t help anyone. You don’t have to hate the Jedi. We just want you to acknowledge their crimes without downplaying it.

The Jedi created the Sith

https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Hundred-Year_Darkness/Legends

https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Exiles

At the end of the Hundred Year Darkness, a terrible war between Light Jedi and Dark Jedi of the Second Great Schism, the Jedi Council chose to exile the Dark Jedi into Unknown Regions so the war criminals may find redemption in their own time. Though noble hearted their goal, the exiles didn’t want redemption. They wanted revenge, naturally.

So when they found a species of powerful Dark Side savants, they promptly enslaved the species, named Sith, and became Lords of the Sith. These Sith were the forebears of the Sith Order which repeatedly went to war against the Jedi out of revenge or simple hatred.

The Jedi didn’t intend to create the Sith but through their ill thought out actions, they created their own enemy that would plague the galaxy for years to come. In fact, this can be stretched further as, aside from Vitiate’s Sith Empire, every other Sith Empire had its origins within the Jedi to some degree.

Freedon Nadd? Jedi. Exar Kun? Jedi. Revan and Malak? Jedi. Traya? Jedi. Sion? Jedi(?). The New Sith? Jedi. The Brotherhood of Darkness? A mixed bag but they came directly from the New Sith. Bane? Not originally a Jedi founded order but it was founded upon the beliefs of the Jedi-turned-Sith, Revan. The One Sith? Jedi.

The Jedi kicked people off of their homeworld for religiously charged reasons.

https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Vahla

https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Ember_of_Vahl

https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Post%E2%80%93Great_Hyperspace_War_counterinvasion

The Sith are an obvious one but they’re done to death. In short, after the Hyperspace War, the Republic (and Jedi) decided to bomb the Sith back to the Stone Age, kicking the Sith off their holy world, off their ancestral homeworld, and off many other Sith worlds.

However, was most don’t know is that the Jedi did this again to the Vahla, a species similar to the Sith in that they’re naturally dark side aligned and entirely force sensitive. Their religion was hedonistic (it’s not a cult if most an entire fuckin’ planet practices it, and just because the Jedi believe Vahl to be a Dark Side Adept doesn’t mean they are!). They were decimated by the Jedi for their  “destructive tendancies” (whatever the fuck that means) and kicked off their home planet long enough that it became lost.

Basically “Jedi didn’t like what the Vahla were doing on their home planet so they confiscated the planet as if they had any right to.”

The Jedi murdered ex-Jedi who wanted to peacefully form their own academy.

https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Legions_of_Lettow

A Jedi wants to learn about the Dark Side. He doesn’t do it behind anyone’s back, he makes his intent clear. He asks the Jedi if he can learn and they turn him down. He asks if he can make a Jedi Academy far away from the original Jedi Academy so he can learn safely. They say no. He decides “Fuck it,” and quits being a Jedi and makes his own Academy where the Dark Side can be learned. The Jedi are miffed.

Soon, the Dark Jedi’s academy gets big. Like, really big. The Jedi don’t like that. They really don’t like that. They want to fix the Schism and the way they do that? By declaring war and murdering them. Oh, but it gets worse. The Jedi Council decide that a war far away from civilization was no fun and decided to push the war closer and closer to the galactic core so that way the Republic would get involved.

The Dark Jedi tried to warn the Republic, but they wouldn’t listen. Instead, they declared war against him. And his side lost.

Taking this into consideration, it’s no wonder the Dark Jedi of the Second Schism preemptively took up arms against the Jedi, if it was truly them who fired the first shot, so to speak. They saw what happened last time and didn’t want a repeat.

The Jedi disarm and revoke the rights of Jedi who officially deny the Council’s commands.

https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Right_of_Denial

A story as old as time. Your peacekeeping order gets cast as the generals of a war and you and your academy decide you don’t want to be conscripted into the war. What follows is these Jedi formally denying the Jedi Council’s command in protest, but to do so they have to give up their rights as Jedi, including their right to wield a lightsaber--can’t having political opponents having weapons, now, can we?

The Jedi aided and abetted slavers.

https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Huk_War/Legends

When the oppressed fight back against their oppressors, the Jedi are there to kick the oppressed back down into the dirt--all because their oppressors got to the Jedi first and the Jedi didn’t bother getting the context. Important context, like the fact that the guys who started the war only started the war because of the whole “We’re being enslaved and we don’t want to anymore,” thing.

Also, Clone Wars. The whole deal with Jabba, known slaver. Make it worse by making known slave Anakin Skywalker do negotiations with them. I ain’t giving you a source, it’s the story of the animated Clone Wars film with Ahsoka in it.

The Jedi built a 20,000 year old secret prison.

https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/The_Prism

Exact date might be off, but where’s the lie? They had a secret prison that not even the Republic knew about since the Second Great Schism. Who knows how it operated and changed over the years. All we do know is that whatever the Jedi did to their secret illegal prisoners in their secret illegal prison, it probably wasn’t good, from a certain point of view.

The Jedi have an elite force of assassins who murder anyone they see as wrong-bad-evil.

https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Jedi_Shadow

Uh... Jedi Shadows. ‘nough said.

[kyberphilosopher]

Eᴘɪᴄᴀʀɪᴄᴀᴄʏ

”Whatever is done for the sake of love is past the bounds of good or evil.“

Word Count: 5297

Requested: nope. there’s some allusions to sex though. written slightly different to fit the mood. 

Noun. epicaricacy (uncountable) (rare) Rejoicing at or deriving pleasure from the misfortunes of others.

 .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You reminded Maul, very much of a... oh, how would he describe it? A fly. An annoying, buzzy little fly that was also hellbent on ruining his day, everyday. You were no common fly. You were an evil fly, capable of intelligent thinking and something along the lines of murder- which only added to the inconvenience. 

You had been Master Sidious’s apprentice before him. Maul never learned the whole story, but at some point Sidious decided that you were no longer of use. You, of course, were not too happy about this. But oh well. It sucks to suck. Maul was in power now- screw you. 

He could remember the way you had looked at him when you were sent out of the chambers. Your sleek and powerful appearance was initially a turn on for the young Zabrak, but the intense look of hatred made it even better. 

You had hated your replacement from the beginning. You truly hadn’t done anything wrong, and the only explanation you could think of for this, was the your Master had begun to see you as a rival. It made enough sense, you supposed, as you had started the process of thinking of overthrowing him. But that was how the rule of two worked! Did Sidious honestly believe that Maul wouldn’t start to think the same things? Only a fool would do that. 

You knew better than to make a fuss, however. This would only result in your immediate death. If you wanted to truly have revenge, it would have to wait. So, you took your punishment of being discarded like common space junk, and accepted the grace of leaving without a fight or a saber in your back. 

But you just couldn’t help the wave of absolute loathing that came over you upon seeing the Zabrak replacement. What was his stupid name going to be? Darth Maul? Whatever. You had been Darth Carisus. Now you were just Y/N. 

Maul, to put it poetically, seriously didn’t give a shit. As stated above- it sucks to suck. You weren’t his problem. You were just a girl now, and he was going to be a Sith lord. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Then, of course, the same thing happened to Maul, and his tone changed. 

What had once been ‘sucks to suck’, quickly became ‘oh shit’ as Maul spiraled down without any legs. Without said legs, he had a lot more free time to think, which caused him to suddenly feel much more sympathy for you. 

Even though he had only said a grand total of zero words to you in your single interaction, he thought finding you would probably be the best place to start. The only immediate problem was that he could practically feel your smirk of revenge trained on him from wherever you were in the galaxy. That was probably what he thought about the most. 

It became one of his two hobbies: hating Kenobi, and being embarrassed by you without your presence. 

When he had made it to exile on Lotho Minor, he lay back in exhaustion on some piece of uncomfortable junk. His head was killing, his back twisted into knots, and his chest was heaving. While he had a plan to piece himself back together, he also needed a plan for revenge. 

With his last bits of energy, he reached out to you. He had absolutely no idea where you were, or if you were truly even still alive. You were a few years younger than him... perhaps your cunning skills had not been enough for your survival. Still, he did not who else would help him. 

Although it was a long shot, he got it out to you. Then he took a much needed nap. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

When you arrived on the little junk planet, you weren’t actually expecting it to be a little junk planet. You had hoped, at least, that maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked from a distance. Maybe the ball of dust had a nice cantina or something. It didn’t. It was literally all trash. 

“Hm,” you said to yourself as you glanced around. “Well this is a shit hole.” Still, you continued on, your dark boots digging into the dirt. The climate was hot in an uncomfortable way, and it felt like everything on the planet was constantly watching you. 

Finally, you came to a hut. It was made of metal and straw alike, barely holding together in the wind of the place. It would’ve been an awful place to live for anyone, but it was nice enough on this planet in particular. You recognized it clear as day from the vision that guided you here, and the voice that called out to you. The owner of the voice must’ve been inside, just past the makeshift curtain door. 

You pushed your way in. The floor felt solid under you for approximately three whole seconds. Then it opened up and swallowed you whole. 

You twisted down the tunnel for another few seconds. The dirt and sand was scuffing up your clothes and dinging your lightsabers. Some specs got in your eyes and burned, while others glued themselves to your hair. Once you were at the bottom, you just laid there for another second. How the fuck, had it come to this?

The answer was right in front of you. 

You pushed yourself to your feet, rolling your shoulders and getting a bearing of your surroundings. You were under the ground now, in some kind of cave of dirt. Very charming. 

“This better be worth it,” you grumbled to yourself. Then you set forward again, ignoring the dull pain in your left wrist and the scratch on your thigh. 

Was it worth it? Well, you didn’t think so in the moment. When you recognized him, you thought nothing could be worth this shit. That question you had asked yourself earlier? About how it could’ve come to this? Maul was literally the answer. 

He was turned away from you, but you could recognize the scarlet skin and black tattoos from a mile away. The horns on his head had grown slightly longer, but not incredibly so. He was hunched over at the end of the cave, with mechanical clicking noises echoing all around. 

“It’s you,” you drawled, your arms crossing. “Oh, goodie.”

Maul perked up at the sound of your voice. He had only heard it when it was muffled, and that only one been two words (‘yes, master’). He was sane enough to decide that he liked it. It was sultry and sarcastic and reminded him of the word ‘poison’. 

He turned around on his many legs, revealing them to you. Your eyes widened at the second half of a spider emerging from the darkness, sinking and wheezing mechanically. You could see wires and screws and pieces of junk all mixed together for him to carry himself on. “Woah,” you said. One hand raised near your mouth in a fist, for you were suddenly feeling a little ill. “What happened to you?” 

“Same thing... that happened... to you!” he said through insane gasps. “Kenobi...” he whispered lowly. 

You squinted your eyes, pursed your lips slightly. “Who the fuck is Kenobi?”

Maul’s eyes widened. Then his right hand raised and settled on his forehead as he blinked several times. His cloudy head was sometimes cloudier than other days, and today it had been very bad. “A... Jedi,” he managed to get out, though his voice sounded strained. 

“Oh,” you said simply. In truth, a faint image of a young Jedi came to mind, though you couldn’t place it that well. He was Qoo-Gongs Jedi. Quu-Gong? Wee-Gong? Something. 

“Well you look great.” Your eyes ran up and down Maul’s entire form, from his tattooed abs to his many metal legs. 

“Don’t patronize me,” he warned. “I called you for a purpose.”

“You’re the one who called me?” you challenged in mock disbelief. “Shit, what’s the galaxy coming to?”

Maul inhaled sharply. Your biting tongue was going to have to be a workaround. Maybe after he got his revenge, he would cut it off and make you eat it. 

“I have a task for you.”

Your hands shoot up defensively, like you were surrendering with a shrug. “Sorry,” you quipped. “You’re not really my type. No offense.”

Oh, Maul hated you. That was fine with you though. You hated him right back. 

“It’s nothing of the sort,” he gritted. You could’ve sworn he was offended to even be accused of wanting you. His loss. “How would you like a chance at revenge?”

Revenge? Oh, you liked that word. Spending time as a Sith made the word into a bit of a turn on in truth. Maul knows this, and watches one of your eyebrows twitch upwards in curiosity. “I’m listening.”

A tight, muted smirk creeps over Maul’s lips. He’s tantalized the fish. Now time to catch it, and finally bring it in. “What if we were to take on the Sith? We could rule together. Kill Kenobi... kill the Emperor.”

It was a rather interesting proposition. You had not grown fond of the Emperor since your time away, and you were often dreamed about impaling him with your own blade. 

“Why would I help you?” you ask instead, your arms returning to their guarded, crossed position. 

Maul scoffed. “Why wouldn’t you help me? W- I could offer you the galaxy! You can finally get your revenge on those who stole from you!”

“I could do that myself right now,” you countered. “You’re the one who replaced me. You’re the one who took my life from me. Isn’t that right, Darth Maul?”

Maul hadn’t been expecting this reaction. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

In short, you cut off one of Maul’s legs after an epic duel. (Well, it was epic on your end. He was a bit sloppy.)

“You’re a bitter little fuck, aren’t you?” you asked as you stood over him. The loss of his legs had destroyed the mans remaining pieces of balance, causing his legs to trip over each other unevenly. 

Maul growled at you like an animal. It almost turned you on. “I offer you power- and this is how you repay me?”

“Don’t pout,” you told him. “I promise, you’re still the most handsome man in the galaxy.”

“I... hate... you.”

“Hurtful,” you said with a fake frown. “Very, very hurtful.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After that, you and Maul actually liked each other better. 

The hatred was still there. It probably always would be. But now you had a grasp of the others personality, and you knew what drove him. 

Clearly, the zabrak was on the verge of insanity from the loss of his bottom half. He was motivated by revenge and anger and passion, resulting in growls and erratic spasms. As annoying as it was that seeing him was a reminder of everything you had lost, you admired his... what’s the word? Spirit? Sure. You admired his spirit. You liked the anger, and you liked his little scoffs. 

On the opposite end, Maul now understood that you were both a powerful ally, and powerful enemy. You were skilled in dueling and a quick thinker. Your mouth was annoying, but he had already addressed that issue in his mind. You hadn’t killed him, so you didn’t really want him dead. This was a spark of hope. 

You had one or two quick conversations before you left the planet. You were sure to flip him off with a smirk before disappearing. Maul was too out of it to notice. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Eventually, you would help Maul get revenge on Kenobi. 

He and his brother ran into you while you were floating in space. Your ship had lost power a while ago, and you were quick to run out of stale food. You were exhausted. You were done. You slumped in the corner by the cockpit, waiting for death to take you. 

Ah, who cares? You had done your best. You had a good run. Dying was completely fine with you by now. What had you left to live for? You were no longer a Sith. You had no means of taking your revenge. You had no loved ones. There was truly no point in sticking around, so the only thing left to do was wait. 

But Savage insisted on searching your ship. The large, brooding man lumbered in, looking around several times before beginning to roughly grab at things. You saw yellow skin out of the corner of your eye, but you were too focused on dying to actually care. The flash of red skin, however, brought you great concern. 

Maul trailed behind his brother. Beside him, he looked so lanky and lithe. The new metal legs and talons made him clanking sounds against the floor. His horns were back to their original state now, as a symbol of his mental state. Still not good, but clear at least. 

The zabrak sensed you through the force, and then sniffed the air a few times. 

“What is it, Brother?” Savage asked. 

“I smell a disgusting presence. One that I’d almost forgotten about.” His yellow eyes dropped to where you were on the floor, and he smiled slyly. 

Savage drew his red saber. “Do you want me to kill her, Brother?” asked the giant. 

Maul raised a hand to stop his relative. “No,” he said, eyes still trained on you. “I have... much better plans for her.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

So, you aided Maul in confronting Kenobi. Savage had sustained an injury at the Jedi’s hand, and fallen unconscious. This forced you to do the work of two people, but it was no matter. You knew how to handle a double bladed saber, and you knew how to handle Assaj Ventress.

“Ah, Carisus,” the woman hissed with a smirk. “We were all beginning to think you had died.”

“Flattered you’d think I’d be so lucky,” you said back. Then the two of you fought, but it wasn’t to truly kill. You had more in common than you acknowledged, and there was no reason to kill each other. It was pretty fun, actually. 

Maul and Kenobi, however, were a different story. 

You understood, of course, why Maul had such a hatred. He felt that the Jedi had robbed him of his destiny and his future with one simple swipe, and it was both embarrassing and angering to think about. It filled him with an indescribable rage. You had felt the same towards Maul at some point. You were angry he had taken so many opportunities from you. You felt cheated on. You stopped feeling that way when you stopped caring about everything. 

So, Maul was doing his best to kill the man. In, conclusion, he did not succeed. 

“Well, that went well,” you said after. Maul snapped his eyes to you angrily, and thought about all the ways to get rid of you right then and there. He also did not succeed on that front. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You disappeared for a while after this meeting, showed up before Mandalore, and then disappeared again. 

Every time Maul and you fought, or teamed up to fight against something, his respect grew for you. You were talented. Powerful. Sometimes, your little sarcastic quips were pretty good, despite the annoyance. You weren’t so bad. 

You became willing to admit that Maul was somewhat bearable. He was awfully attractive, but that didn’t make up for his inconvenient personality. But sometimes, he would make a joke back that got you pretty good. He showed a real care for his brother, which struck you as odd. The Sith always turned on each other, and neither of them seemed to consider this. 

When you came back to Mandalore for the first time, Maul had told you he had big plans to take over. 

You did believe Maul could do it. He was intimidating enough to manipulate people into doing his will, and he was smart enough to know how to do it. Still, you very sarcastically told him, “Good luck with that”. Then you fucked off on the other side of the planet for a while. 

You returned out of hiding unwillingly, knowing you would need then yourself to confront a problem of yours. 

Recently, a few Jedi had been on your tail. They were asking about you, tracking you to Mandalore. It had been about five years since you were presumed dead, but whispers traveled fast. If Sidious learned of this, you were done for. You were not powerful enough to take him alone, but that’s for later. You were currently not powerful enough to fend off four Jedi on your own. They would’ve overwhelmed you with exhaustion after a while. 

But if you had a partner helping to fend them off... the chances of survival were much better. It probably would’ve helped if that partner was skilled, possibly trained in using a double bladed lightsaber. If they knew how to go up against a Jedi... it would all be rather peachy. 

So of course, you reluctantly approached Maul. 

“This gonna be your throne room?” you asked as you glanced around the hall. Maul looked over at you, and shooed the man he was talking to away. You found it a little funny, although most people would’ve described it as ‘rude’. 

“Ah,” Maul said, tutting his tongue. “I was expecting you.”

You narrowed your eyes from your lack of patience. “Remind me when I asked.”

Maul looked you up and down, orbs sticking to your chest a little too long. “Yes. This will be my throne room.”

“It’s nice,” you said honestly. You liked the big, tall windows and how the light looked when it shined through. You liked how the blockish throne looked at the end of it all. Funny, you thought, how the ruler can make the whole room feel different. It would’ve felt so bright and calm under Satine’s rule, but under Maul’s, it would be menacing. 

Maul’s eye twitched. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Oh, my beloved,” you teased. “I can think of hundreds of things you could do for me.”

“Let’s keep it at about five.”

You smiled. Maul sort of wanted to smile too, in his own way. But then your lips snapped back to neutral and you rolled your eyes. “I need your help.”

To say the zabrak was filled with joy would be an understatement. He was overwhelmed with happiness. Filled to the absolute brim with euphoria and satisfaction alike. His stomach swelled with butterflies and he would’ve been blushing if he was able to. All this was out of gratefulness that you were suffering enough to come to him. 

“Say that again,” Maul demanded. 

“Over my dead body.”

Maul’s smirk grew and his eyes darkened. “That can certainly be arranged, my love.” 

Something pricked in your stomach- something you chose to ignore. “You always were the gentleman. Please don’t make me say it again.”

Maul really, really, really wanted to. The thought of the high and mighty, independent you needing help from someone you so obviously hated... it gave him a bitter semi hard on. It was splendid. 

But, he decided against it. He’d have plenty of more opportunities to ruin your life. “What troubles you?” he asked in a condescending tone. 

Your signature snark returns to you. “How do you feel about killing Jedi?”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Maul found it entertaining to kill Jedi with you. While it wasn’t Kenobi he was fighting, it still felt like a good blow against the Jedi and their precious, corrupted Republic. It felt like a sort of tamed revenge. 

You were proving yourself to be more and more desirable for him to have in his life. While you weren’t a constant by any means, and nothing would stop him from being aggravated at your rivalry, it was enjoyable to watch you get your vengeance. You were a good fighter, and you looked good doing it. 

You, as much as you hated to admit it, thought Maul looked good fighting too. He was not only impressive in combat, but satisfying to watch become acrobatic and sweaty. It aroused something inside of you, something the pesky Jedi would never understand. 

“My,” Maul tutted as the last Jedi crumpled in on himself. “Forgive me for saying so, but I believe we make quite the team.”

You looked over at him, observing the zabrak. Scarlet skin, onyx markings, horns that were practically begging to be held onto. Perhaps Maul wasn’t so bad. Of course, he had ruined your future as a Sith, but it was possible he hadn’t ruined every future. Maybe there was a future where the two of you got along. Maybe there was a future where his plan to take Mandalore worked out, and he would become King. Maybe there was a future where if he asked you to be his Queen, you would not decline...

Your red saber flickers to a close. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, dearest.”

“Oh, but how could I not?”

You gave him a genuine crooked smile for a few seconds, before it evaporated into the air. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After that, there was a string of assassination attempts on Maul’s life that he knew was you. It wasn’t serious, though. Again, if you had truly wanted him dead, he probably would’ve been. Instead, he saw it as a twisted little game of cat and mouse- though neither of you could say who was playing the role of the cat and who was playing the role of the mouse. Maul knew you saw it as a game too. 

That was what your relationship was like. You were never a constant in Maul’s life, but he could guarantee you were to show up at some point. And while you aggravated each other to no end, there was a thin, but noticeable layer of respect and admiration. If you squinted, you could even see a coat of- dare you say it?- attraction. 

Like poetry, it was. 

Because through all the enjoyment you received from watching each other struggle and stumble, there was also enjoyment in being together. Working together, fighting together, just maybe ruling together. It was your own way of showing affection, as poisonous and evil as it was. 

This was shown before the siege, after Maul got his much beloved revenge. By now, he was thriving as King, and you had heard stories of how things happened in that throne room. You had only heard about how the man would relax on his throne has he dealt out death and judgement. He always had been a romantic man. 

Maul didn’t actually know where you were, these days. He knew you had resided on the other end of Mandalore for a while, but there had been rumors of a shadow woman leaving the realm. Wherever you were, your attempts on his life had slowed, and you were not so much of a pestering fly. He had been too busy and full of pride to entirely miss you, but he had wondered. Maul knew, at least, that you were alive. 

That’s why you were here now, giving him one of those famous erections. 

In turn, you were gifted with an annoying amount of slick at your core that you would not be addressing. 

“Well, well,” he purred from his throne. Maul sat all too comfortably upon it, irking something within you. It seemed that his plan to take the planet had worked out afterall, though his brother was nowhere to be seen. “What do we have here?”

You stopped a few feet from the kings spot, taking the sight of him in. It made you proud, in a way, to see Maul in a position of power. It turned you on to think about all the vile ways he could have earned it. “I come in peace.”

One of his eyebrows perked upwards in interest. “Ah, yes. I was beginning to wonder why you had stopped attempting to poison my drink.”

“Me?” you retorted, feigning innocence. “I would never. Especially not to a wasted Sith such as yourself.”

The twitch of his eye said it all. A satisfying snap ran through you. The slick between your legs increased. “Do not forget that this Sith was the one that took your place.”

Maul paused, squinting his eyes as he relaxed back in his seat. “Still something tells me you did not come here to speak in casualties.”

You inhaled, readying yourself. This was going to hurt. 

“I need your help.”

The erection increased. 

Maul scoffed. “I’m sorry, I think I must’ve misheard you. What did you just say?”

“I’m not saying it again,” you snapped. Then your voice softened and your shoulders tensed further. “I’ve been having... visions. Something is going to happen, Maul. We’re all in danger.”

Maul knew of what you spoke of. He had seen it himself. “And how would I help you with that?”

“I fear my life is in more danger than most. I’ve grown ill.”

Maul examined you up and down, though this time not out of appreciation. His orbs were searching for any signs of an ailment, instead of any signs of torture. 

It would not have been noticeable to anyone else, but Maul could see the yellow tinge to your skin, the heavy bags under your eyes, the a hint of the weight you had lost. Yes, something was wrong with you.

His eyes widened slightly, then returned to normal. “How did this happen?” he questioned.         

You shrugged slightly, as if this was a normal part of life. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I don’t think I’m going to last very long. I just don’t want to go out like... this.” 

Maul watched you gesture up and down to your weak form. His first thought was that Sidious had somehow gotten to you, but that didn’t make any sense. You would’ve been dead and steaming from a lightsaber wound if that were the case. It occurred to him that it was not impossible for your mind to have been so heavy from the vision of the future that your body had begun to fail you, but he couldn’t think of a way to currently confirm it. 

“I will have to think about the offer,” he instead said stiffly. As attractive as you were, he would still relish in teasing you. 

“Ah, anything for your Queen,” you retorted.

That was essentially the last thing you had said to him before the purge. However, underneath it all, Maul knew that you really were his Queen. He would never tell you that, however, nor would he grant you the title. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Maul saw that you were captured, too. 

It was in the distance, on the battlefield. Those Clones had surrounded you, gotten a lucky shot in your leg. Then they bound you in ropes and tossed you into a ship just as they did to him. 

The fallen ruler found it difficult not to concern himself with your well being after that. He knew you would be fine, of course, you could handle yourself. But he didn’t know what was going to happen to him now, and if the worst happened to him, then the worst for you was likely to follow. 

Whether the Republic was going to deliver the worst to either of you would forever be a mystery. 

Your eyes opened with a jolt. Voices swam around your head painfully, ricocheting off the walls of your skull. It was all just how it happened in your visions- down to the word. 

At first, you didn’t mind that much. The force shifting in favor of the Dark side? Fine with you. But then the millions of voices cried out in terror and were silenced, and two soldiers walked into your cell. You knew that you were about to become one of those voices, and your eyes widened in realization. 

Maul did not care about the life of the Clones like that Togruta did. Anyone in his way would be cut down. He practically sauntered through the ship without a care in the galaxy, feeling relaxed as soldier after soldier fell to him. He did not know if Ahsoka had freed you as well, or even if you were still alive, until the side of a wall caved in on itself. 

Two men in stark white armor tumbled to the ground, dead. On the floor, covered in dust and rubble, you coughed weakly. At least you knew you were still powerful in the ways of the force- right? Wrong. You were weak physically, and every jolt of the ship and blare of the red lights was agony. You were not going to survive this, and Maul knew it. 

Without thinking, Maul bolted towards you. Down the wall, Clones had spotted you and raised their weapons. With a swipe of his hand, a metal shard cut off three helmeted heads. 

“What are you doing?” you asked through coughs. The explosion you had caused had caused several bouts of dust to enter your lungs and cloud your vision, making you feel somewhat deformed. 

Maul didn’t know how to say what he was doing. He flicked his wrist again, and a bigger metal shard zoomed in front of the both of you just in time to block oncoming blaster shots. 

“Maul!” you roared, angry. “Get out of here!”

Instead, the zabrak put a hand on your back, then lifted an arm of yours around his neck. He pulled the both of you off the ground slowly, wincing from a stray bullet knocking into a panel beside you. 

“Not without my Queen,” he growled back, warning you to shut up.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It took a lot of work and many more scars to escape that place. You knew that you had slowed Maul down with your injuries and your illness, but he had kept you with him anyway. Would you have done the same for him? What had washed over him?

As you sat next to him on the ship, watching his golden eyes stay glued to the stars in front of you, you leaned forward with pursed lips. The wetness of the kiss against his jaw caught him off guard at first, but the zabrak did not stop it. 

The story didn’t end here, but it instead faded out with the two Dark Jedi running away together. Running to find a future together. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

taglist: @omg-we-really-doo​ @chokemeanakin​ @anakinswhore​ why do I feel like I’m missing someone?

This is another thing I wrote on my phone at like 4am. Sorry for the spelling errors and dirty language. 

[tanadrin]

Legal Systems Very Different From Ours (Because They Do Not Exist)

(I forgot Scott had already done this, lol)

AZAREN

There is the land of Azaren, far to the north; a rugged, windswept country, it was settled by hardy explorers in an ancient age of migration, who have always been disdainful of central authority, and permit themselves to be governed only to the most minimal extent. As a consequence of this skepticism of government, there is also a general skepticism of public law. All law in Azaren--except the few scraps of administrative and procedural law necessary to operate the government--is private, and there is no criminal law. All disputes between parties are resolved by what we would consider in other countries civil suits, governed by strict rules involving standing. Theft, arson, even murder may all go unpunished, unless there is an interested party willing to file suit to obtain redress. The Azarenes by and large consider this system exemplary of freedom and justice, and we cannot help but admit an attraction to the cleanness of its philosophy.

A key component of Azaren justice is the principle that no entity is above the law; no entity, however powerful, is so majestic that it is immune from suit. This meant that gods, natural forces, even celestial bodies have been sued (though principally in more superstitious days long past), and where by the weight of evidence, or the simple failure to appear, have been duly issued fines, which remain on the public register of debts waiting to be paid. And naturally, Azaren countenances no doctrine of state or sovereign immunity. This principle, especially due to the absence of public law, extends also to relations between Azaren and other states. Naturally this principle extends to sublunary bodies like Azaren's own government: Azaren recognizes to doctrine of state or sovereign immunity, and not a few political revolutions have been wrought through cunning arguments in the courtroom. And note also that Azaren conducts no foreign policy as a unified whole--for that would require an intolerable tyranny imposed on her people, that is to say some form of tax to pay the salaries of a diplomatic corps--but what individuals and groups of individuals see fit to conduct. So from time to time, an individual or group of individuals together will decide some foreign state has wronged them, and, as is Azarene custom, will petition their courts for redress; and despite the diplomatic protestations of the representatives of that government, that any such proceeding is a clear violation of precedent in the community of nations, that by dint of its sovereignty no state may be sued in the courts of another, the Azarene court will hear the suit. And should the plaintiffs prevail, an order will be issued for the recovery of damages.

And it is for this reason and this reason alone that Azaren has any armed force: in case of a judgement entered against a foreign government, the militia of Azaren is authorized to confiscate property--in Azaren or abroad--belonging to that government (and if need be, its citizens) until enough has been seized to cover the amount owed. Whereupon, whatever the state of the field of battle, however close the foe is to total capitulation, they return to their ships instantly and retire to their home country.

GKNAI

The land of Gknai is ancient, possibly one of the longest-inhabited regions in the world; and as it is nestled deep in often-overlooked mountain valleys, it has enjoyed a history of uncommon peace and tranquility, well-fortified against the ambitions of neighboring princes; it has indeed earned its epithet of Many-Fortressed-Gknai; and in later millennia, this reputation for indomitability has served by itself to safeguard its borders.

As a consequence of its long, long history, it is said, Gknai is uncommonly bound by the pageantry of Tradition. Just as other countries have monarchies that have withered away into irrelevance, performing a few desultory functions of government under the strict control of their ministers, Gknai has its own titular kings and princes. Indeed, it has them by the wagonload. The difficulty of warfare in the region and the bombasticity of ancient aristocrats means that every valley is thick with Kings and Over-Kings, and Lords President, and Grand Dukes, and even Emperors. Most Sublime Hierophants tend their vegetable patches across the road from Thrice-Exalted Tyrants, and the multiplication of titles is not helped by the fact that under Gknaian traditions, every child inherits some share of the honors of their parents.

The Gknaians have never had a single political revolution to sweep the old order away, only centuries of incremential change. Therefore, each of these titles, in the abstract legal sense, still has some privilege attached to it, however slight it may be. Nor, if they wished to abolish their cumbersome system, is it clear how they might legally do so: there is no legislative authority in Gknai but custom, and for every amendment to the law some precedent, even if very weak, must be found that may be expanded and elaborated upon and carefully argued for until it is generally agreed upon in the whole land. Gnkaian legal codes incorporate much of this commentary, and a Gknaian law library is thus a fearsome thing indeed.

The most curious relic of Gknaian tradition is a form of trial, still in general use, called gopi-gai ogmo, or Trial By Endurance. It was argued by an ancient Gknaian scholar that wealth, strength, and even legal persuasiveness were poor proxies for the righteousness of a cause, and so poor criteria for deciding a lawsuit. For with wealth often comes prestige, and undue influence over the public; with strength, assured victory in the trials by combat; and a well-spoken orator might convince even the best of judges to decide a case in contravention of the law, if his eloquence and flattery are sufficient. Better, said this scholar, to align public interest with individual preference, and a hint of utilitarianism: clearly, the side that *wishes* to win more, should prevail. And how to decide that more efficiently, than with a test of endurance?

This is the form of the test: a hillside of a valley is chosen, one warm in the morning and cool in the evening, but not too hot or too cold; and the plaintiff and the defendant are seated upon it, gazing down at the valley below; and the judge and officers of the court withdraw to observe. That is all. Whomever remains seated and motionless the longest is judged to desire victory more. To stand, speak, cry out, laugh, smirk, or fall down is to forfeit the case. Neither of the parties may be spoken to; neither may be disturbed in any way. The only modification ever made is this: in matters deemed especially urgent, sometimes the parties are made to stand instead.

Judgement, naturally, usually takes days. One especially notable figure, Hrakal the Vexatious Litigant, widely feared for his tolerance of boredom and inclement weather, successfully lodged no less than three dozen lawsuits against his neighbors, until he met his match in Tatavru the Stubborn. That particular proceeding lasted more than two weeks, until an out-of-season snowfall gave Hrakal frostbite, and caused him to relent. I have also heard of a legendary conflict over a spite-fence in the valley of Upper Dabbar, where, it is said, the parties sat immobile for *three years*, sustained by surreptitious nighttime meals and the kind of intense mutual hatred known only by neighbors who share a property line. Another interlocutor I spoke with, an older woman, said that this was a corrupted version of an older tale, altered for believability's sake. In fact, she said, the dispute was *never* resolved. The parties sat immobile until the vegetation grew thick on their laps and shoulders; and if you visit a certain hilltop in Upper Dabbar, you can still see them, two seated figures covered in grass that have now become part of the hill.

BOSSUL

In the city of Bossul, all important questions must be settled by a consensus agreeable to all parties. Although apparently cumbersome, this system has many virtues. The government of Bossul enjoys approval ratings usually seen only in the most tyrannical of dictatorships, and though the city's martial fury has been inflamed many times, it has never actually gone to war, for there have always been one or two heads cool enough to refuse to support it. Alas, every occasion of government is nearly interminable as a result: even the most trivial meeting of the least prestigious committee can drag well into the night; and nothing about the culture or institutions of Bossul does anything to restrain the impulses of busybodies or know-it-alls who have, in every other culture on the planet, driven such consensus-driven systems into the dirt. Yet Bossul's persists, for uncertain reasons.

One, perhaps, might be the custom of Utabani-mo-Kalutabani, which might very roughly be translated into English as "Agreeing To Disagree." When a consensus *cannot* be reached--for instance, in an intractible legal case--a temporary truce may be enacted in the form of Utabani-mo-Kalutabani. In short, each side continues to live their life, pretending that they have won. Thus, from time to time, you may explore the city of Bossul and find such oddities as two different families, each on the opposite side of an inheritance dispute, living in the same apartment and pretending the other does not exist. You may find an employee, who has sued for wrongful termination, coming to work every day at a company that insists she does not work there. You may even, on occasion, find someone walking the street as a free man, whom the police insist that they currently have in their custody.

It is a strange custom, and one cannot help but wonder if it is of any practical use at all.

MOZICK

Mozick is a small island in the Hraspedain Sea, rainy in winter but temperate in summer, which like Gnkai has a deep respect for the usages of its past. In Mozick, this is something of a religious conviction, for their society is organized around the pronouncements of the Great Oracle of the Smoky Mirror, who lived and died more than a thousand years ago.

Such was the inerrancy of the Oracle's predictions (it was said), that the Oracle was trusted utterly in settling disputes and prosecuting criminals. Usually, the Oracle heard arguments before pronouncing judgements, but this was considered a formality; many times, a judgement could be given as soon as the parties entered the courtroom. And such was the faith the people had in their Oracle, that they feared what would become of their society when she died; so she set down in an enormous volume a list of judgements--thousands of them--in cases yet to come. They named no parties, nor any details of the case: only Guilty, Not Guilty, Liable for a sum of 400 Mozickian drachmas, etc.

The procedure in Mozick is thus: when cases are brought before the court, the time and order of each filing is carefully noted. Once a year, amid solemn ritual, the Book of Judgements is opened, and a judgement for each case is read off, in order. It is an article of faith in Mozickian law that the judgement is never wrong, though at times the wisdom of the Oracle has, the Mozickians admit, seemed... startling. There was, for instance, the legendary case of Uckmar the Arsonist, caught in the act of burning the Temple of Ytrabel-Sheh; the sentence read aloud before the prosecutors was "Defendant to go free, be compensated 10 drachmas." But, the legal scholars carefully explain, Ytrabel-Sheh was the god of rain, and an unusually wet summer that year had caused the slugs to flourish in Uckmar's garden, devouring his tomatoes. The arson was, perhaps, justified, or considered just compensation; the 10 drachmas were for emotional damages. So the careers of legal scholars in Mozick are made, harmonizing the decisions of the great Oracle with the principles of justice.

A careful accounting of judgements is important to the system--once it was discovered that one judgement had accidentally been used twice, necessitating a redistribution of three years' worth of punishments and fines; fortunately, no death penalties had been handed out. But the Book of Judgements is finite. And one day--a day that soon will be in the expected lifetime of Mozickian lawyers now practicing--those judgements will run out. What does this portend? Will Mozick be conquered? Sink beneath the sea? Will--as some quietly hope--the Oracle return? No one knows. But each year sees more of the judgements used up than the last, and soon the book will be empty.

[learning2dieintheanthropoce-blog]

Path 19 (Yet Frailest)

With each passing day it becomes increasingly difficult to justify the existence of Man. Each flash of the news or turn of the page reveals new ugliness, hatred in the face of good, innocence being pounded into the dirt and spat upon with vitriol.

I often think of these words, scrawled on the wall of a concentration camp: “If there is a God, He will have to beg for my forgiveness.” 

If you think too long about the history of Mankind it is awash with blood and fear and anger and, perhaps most depressingly, absolutely unrealized potential. People today praise the advancements of science, yet we still succumb to illness, wither, and die; praise democracy and compromise, yet wars engulf our planet and democracy does not work in its true form anywhere let alone here in America; praise the good works of religious institutions yet theirs are the hands most stained with the thick maroon of thousands of years of torture and repression and murder and conversion; praise the good deeds of some in a futile attempt to outweigh the exhausting tragedies with ten times the impact happening the world over. 

A professor of mine once wrote on a paper I’d submitted to “find pleasure in the struggle”, and I do carry those words with me even now, over a decade later. Yet sometimes even the strongest fall to their knees and question whether in the end they will be able to rest their head in peace, or will their endeavors simply be swallowed up by the flames of that which has followed every generation since the dawn of time?

[saltedsolenoid]

What is your LEAST favorite kind of tree.

I actually can't bring myself to choose one. I'm so sorry but all trees are valid and beautiful in my eyes <3

Just kidding it's American elm trees I fucking hate them they're invasive all across the western US and bring DISGUSTING smelling elm bugs with them. I can't go one step in my western US ass rural ass POORLY CONSTRUCTED town without seeing another elm tree and an elm bug infestation with them. I hate these bitches they did not deserve to migrate over here I have to pull 20 of them out of my yard each summer because they're SO GODDAMN HARDY theyll just keep fucking growijg if i don't. Hatred and murder on planet dirt I hate those elm bugs

[shawtygonemad]

What Is This Feeling: Chapter 8

Fem!9th Doctor x Male!Rose Tyler

WITF Masterlist

The Doctor was in and out of consciousness. That laser almost hurt as bad as regenerating. She stayed silent. She didn't want to say anything that would make Van Statten blast her again. Suddenly a voice came over the intercom.

"Condition Red! Condition Red! I repeat, this is not a drill."

The Doctor lifted her head and made eye contact with Van Statten. Her voice was hoarse, but dead serious.

"Release me if you want to live."

He quickly followed her command and released the Time Lord. She had never gotten dressed that quickly in her life. Then again the entire world depended on it. Within minutes they were in Van Statten's office observing the cage from a flat screen on the wall. Ross was on said screen talking with them. The Doctor honestly couldn't be surprised.

"You've got to keep it in that cell," she told them.

"Doctor, it's all my fault," Ross spoke apologetically.

"I've sealed the compartment. It can't get out, that lock's got a billion combinations," the guard said.

"A Dalek's a genius. It can calculate a thousand billion combinations in one second flat."

The Doctor looked on as she was just proven right. The metal door slowly opened, and released the Dalek. The guard's started to do an open fire. Don't they know it won't work?!

"Ross, get out of there!" She commanded her companion.

Ross, the other girl, and the female guard managed to escape. The Dalek, however, was rolling itself towards the camera. Thus getting closer to the screen. It extended its plunger and broke the connection.

"We're losing power," Goddard gathered around the computer screen with Van Statten and the Doctor. "It's draining the base. Oh, my god. It's draining entire power supplies for the whole of Utah."

The trio was analyzing a holographic map of the United States. Utah blackened.

"It's downloading," the Doctor informed them.

"Downloading what?" Van Statten asked.

The whole West Coast blackened on the map.

"Sir, the entire West Coast has gone down," Goddard updated.

"It's not just energy. That Dalek just absorbed the entire internet. It knows everything," the Doctor stated.

Goddard started to pound away on the computer. "The cameras in the vault are down."

"We've only got emergency power. It's eaten everything else. You've got to kill it now!" The Doctor yelled.

Goddard spoke over the intercom. "All guards to converge in the Metaltron cage, immediately."

The three no longer had visual, but they still had audio. This was just as bad. They grimly heard the guards die one by one. They were soon all dead, and Van Statten couldn't care less. All he cared about was the stupid Dalek.

"This museum of yours, have you got any alien weapons," the Doctor asked.

"Lots of them, but the trouble is the Dalek's between us and them," Goddard explained.

"We've got to keep that thing alive. We could just seal the entire vault, trap it down there," Van Statten suggested.

"Leaving everyone trapped with it. Ross is down there. I won't let that happen. Have you got that?" She stared at the man with fire in her eyes. She then turned back to Goddard. "It's got to go through this area. What's that?" She pointed to an area on the screen.

"Weapon's testing."

"Give a gun to the technicians, the lawyers, anyone. Everyone. Only have one chance of killing it," she informed the assistant.

The Doctor sat down at the computer and began to attempt to get one of the screens to show visuals. After a few minutes the screen showed the loading bay. She practically whooped at her accomplishment.

"I thought you were a great expert, Doctor. If you're so impressive, then why not just reason with the Dalek? It must be willing to negotiate. There must be something it needs. Everything needs something," Van Statten question.

"What's the nearest town," the Doctor asked.

"Salt Lake City."

"Population?"

"One million."

"All dead. If the Dalek gets out, it'll murder every living creature. That's all it needs," the Doctor tried to explain to the stupid ape for what seemed like the thousandth time. He's turned out to be quite dense.

"But why would it do that?"

"Because it honestly believes they should die. Human beings are different, and anything different is wrong. It's the ultimate in racial cleansing, and you, Van Statten, you've let it loose! The Dalek's surrounded by a force field. The bullets are melting before they even hit home, but it's not indestructible," she tried to explain.

She turned from Van Statten and spoke to the screen. "If you concentrate your fire, you might get through. Aim for the dome, the head, the eyepiece. That's the weak spot," she told him.

Moments of anticipation passed. Soon Ross and the girl came running in, making most of them jump. They soon fled the battle area once again. It wasn't long after that the Dalek appeared.

The guards held open fire against the Dalek. None of the bullets affected it. The Dalek rose in the air and zapped the fire alarm. Water started to rain down from the sprinklers. Once the ground and metal beams were nice and wet, the Dalek zapped them. This caused the guards to all get electrocuted, and die.

The trio all stared at the screen in fallen silence. It didn't take long for Van Statten to start making an escape plan for himself. However, this needed to end. Now.

"You said we could seal the vault?" The Time Lord asked.

"It was designed to be a bunker in an event of a nuclear war. Steel bulkheads," the American confirmed.

"There's not enough power. Those bulkheads are massive," Goddard added.

"We've got emergency power. We can re-route that to the bulkhead doors," the Doctor told her.

"We'd have to bypass the security codes. That would take a computer genius."

"Good thing you've got me, then," Van Statten spoke as he sat down in front of the computer.

"You want to help," the Doctor was truly surprised at this.

"I don't want to die, Doctor. Simple as that. And nobody knows this software better than me."

Just then the large screen lit up with an image of the Dalek still in the rain.

"I shall speak on-ly to the doc-tor," it demanded.

"You're going to get rusty," the Doctor commented.

"I fed off the D-N-A of Ross Ty-ler. Ex-tra-po-la-ting the bi-o-mass of a time tra-ve-ler re-gen-er-at-ed me," it told the Doctor.

Her face was deadpan as she spoke, "What's your next trick?"

"I have been sear-ching for the Da-leks."

"Yeah, I saw. Downloading the internet. What did you find?"

"I scanned your sa-tell-ites and ra-di-o tel-e-scopes," it told the Doctor.

"And?"

"No-thing. Where should I get my or-ders now," it asked, almost sounding lost.

"All right, then. If you want orders, follow this one. Kill yourself," she told it honestly.

"Daleks must survive!" It shot back.

The Doctor could no longer take it. This foul creature was the reason she was forced to blow up her home planet, causing genocide for both races.

"The Daleks have failed! Why don't you just finish the job and make the Dalek's extinct. Rid the universe of your filth. Why don't you just die?!" She practically screamed at the creature.

There was a short pause before the machine spoke again. "You would make a good Da-lek."

Then the screen went to black. The Doctor's stomach dropped at the words. Her eyes were slightly widened as she stared at the black screen.

"Seal the vaults," she ordered quickly.

"Doctor, he's still down there," Goddard reminded the Doctor.

She quickly put a headset on, and called the number she knew by heart.

"This isn't the best time," Ross answered.

"Where are you," she asked.

"Level forty nine," he responded.

"You've got to keep moving. The vault's being sealed off at level forty six," she informed him.

"Can't you stop them closing?"

"I'm the one closing them. I can't wait, and I can't help you. Now for God's sake, Run!"

"Done it. We've got power to the bulkheads," Van Statten reported. Good news!

"The Dalek's right behind them," Goddard also reported in. Bad news!

"We're nearly there! Give us two seconds," Ross told the Doctor.

"Doctor, I can't sustain the power. The whole system is failing. Doctor, you've got to close the bulkheads," Van Statten said.

The Doctor was then left with an incredibly hard decision. Save her human, or let the entire human race get destroyed. No matter how much she wanted to wait for Ross. One race was already wiped out because of her. She was not going to let it happen a second time.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly as she hit the enter key, lowering the bulkheads.

Moments later, Van Statten spoke up.

"The vault is sealed."

The Doctor leapt up from her chair anxiously.

"Ross, where are you? Ross, did you make it?"

"Sorry, I was a bit slow," he sadly responded.

Her hearts stopped. Ross didn't make it. He was trapped out there because of her. Now the Dalek's going to catch up with him and she can't do anything.

"See you, then, Doctor."

'Oh God, he's saying his goodbyes!'

"It wasn't your fault. Remember that, okay? It wasn't your fault. And you know what? I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

In the background she could hear the Dalek's 'Exterminate', and the zap of its laser.

"I killed him," she said softly.

"I'm sorry," Van Statten apologized.

"I said I'd protect him. He was only here because of me, and you're sorry? I could've killed that Dalek in its cell, but you stopped me," she turned her self-hatred onto Van Statten.

"It was the prize of my collection!"

"YOUR COLLECTION!? But was it worth it? Worth all of those men's deaths? Worth Ross? Let me tell you something, Van Statten. Mankind goes into space to explore, to be part of something greater."

"Exactly! I wanted to touch the stars," he exclaimed.

"You just want to drag the stars down and stick them underground, underneath tons of sand and dirt, and label them. You're about as far from the stars as you can get," she paused in realization.

"And you took him down with you. He was nineteen years old."

Adele suddenly entered the office. The Doctor was quickly in her face, ready to release some more anger.

"You were quick on your feet, leaving Ross behind," she spat out.

"I'm not the one who sealed the vault," she yelled back.

The screen lit up with an image of the Dalek and a very much alive Ross.

"Op-en the bulk-heads or Ross Ty-ler dies," it demanded.

"You're alive!" The Doctor exclaimed excitedly. Oh was she so relieved.

"Can't get rid of me," he gave a small smile.

"I thought you were dead," the Doctor, almost tearfully, said.

"Op-en the bulk-head," the Dalek demanded once more.

"Don't do it," Ross yelled, attempting to be brave.

"What use are e-mo-tions if you will not save the man you love?" It asked.

It felt like time had slowed down.

'Love. Is that was this is? This confusing feeling I have for this pink and yellow human?'

No. It can't be love. How could a Gallifreyan possibly be in love with a human? They were two separate races! No. It just wouldn't work.

'Oh, my god. I'm falling in love with Ross Tyler,' she thought, horrified.

After her sudden epiphany, she looked at Van Statten.

"I killed him once. I can't do it again," she told him as she pressed the enter key once more.

The bulkhead opened. Ross and the Dalek made their way through.

"What do we do now, you bleeding heart! What the hell do we do," Van Statten yelled.

"Kill it when it gets here," Adele suggested.

"All the guns are useless, and the alien weapons are in the vault," Goddard stated, stressing out.

"Only the catalogued ones," Adele blurted.

Van Statten didn't look pleased. The Doctor shoved her towards the exit door.

"Lead me," she demanded.

Adele quickly took the Doctor down to her workshop. Once inside she showed the Time Lord the weapons. The Doctor went through the bin, tossing the useless items.

"Broken. Broken. Hairdryer."

"Mister Van Statten tends to dispose of his staff, and when he does he wipes their memory. I kept this stuff in case I needed to fight my way out one day," Adele explained.

"What, you in a fight," the Doctor scoffed. "I'd like to see that."

"I could do," she protested.

"What're you going to do? Throw your A-levels at 'em?" The Doctor grinned as she picked up a useful, and deadly, giant weapon. "Oh, yes. Lock and load."

Without second thought, the Doctor bolted out of Adele's workshop, and up the stairs. She was going to finally kill this thing and save the Earth. No, forget the Earth. She was going to save Ross.

Once the Doctor made it to level one she sprinted down the corridor. She stopped once she saw Ross with the Dalek. She didn't allow herself time to take in the situation. All she could feel was the adrenaline pumping in her veins, and the fury of her dead people. It was going to end, now! She held up the large gun, and aimed it at the Dalek

"Get out of the way." Ross just turned and stared at her. "Ross, get out of the way!"

"No. I won't let you do this," he protested.

"That thing killed hundreds of people," she said.

"It's not the one pointing the gun at me."

"I've got to do this. I've got to end it. The Daleks destroyed my home, my people. I've got nothing left."

"Look at it," he gestured to the squid-like creature inside the metal armor.

"What's it doing," she asked.

"It's the sunlight, that's all it wants."

"But it can't-"

"It couldn't kill Van Statten, it couldn't kill me. It's changing. What about you, Doctor? What the hell are you changing into," Ross asked.

Finally realizing what was going on, the Doctor lowered her gun.

"I couldn't- I wasn't- Oh, Ross. They're all dead," she said sadly.

"Why do we sur-vive," Dalek asked.

"I don't know," the Doctor frowned.

"I am the last of the Da-leks," it stated.

"You're not even that. Ross did more than regenerate you. You've absorbed his DNA. You're mutating."

"In-to what," it asked.

"Something new. I'm sorry," and she was.

"Isn't new better?" Ross asked.

` "Not for a Dalek," she replied.

"I can feel so ma-ny i-de-as," it spoke. "So much dark-ness. Ross, give me or-ders. Or-der me to die."

"I can't do that," Ross said quietly.

"This is not life. This is sick-ness. I shall not be like you. Or-der my des-tru-ction! O-bey! O-bey! O-bey!"

After a moment, Ross finally spoke up.

"Do it."

"Are you fright-ened, Ross Ty-ler?"

"Yeah," he answered.

"So am I… Ex-ter-min-ate."

Ross began to retreat to the Doctor's side, and out of harm's way. The Dalek closed up its armor, and began to hover. The balls on the Dalek detached themselves and surrounded it. The balls also formed a force field around it. The Dalek then imploded on itself. The Doctor nor Ross was harmed.

Once it was all over the Doctor dropped her gun. The pair instantly embraced one another and wouldn't let go. After a few moments the Doctor found her voice.

"I'm so sorry, Ross. For everything," she apologized.

"It's alright. You were upset," Ross soothed the alien. They pulled apart and Ross looked at the Doctor. "Tell me about it. The Time War."

So on their way back to the TARDIS, she told the tale of the Time War. Ross took all of the details surprisingly well. He seemed to understand.

Once back in the museum, the Doctor ran a hand over the TARDIS door.

"A little piece of home. Better than nothing," she said.

"Is that the end of it, the Time War?"

"I'm the only one left. I win. How about that," she gave a sad smile.

"The Dalek survived. Maybe some of your people did too," Ross suggested.

"I'd know. In here," she pointed to her head. "Feels like there's no one."

"Well then, good thing I'm not going anywhere," he grinned at her.

"Yeah," she smiled back.

The moment was short lived as Adele appeared with her bag in hand.

"We'd better get out. Van Statten's disappeared. They're closing down the base. Goddard says they're going to fill it full of cement, like it never existed."

"About time," Ross commented.

"I'll have to go back home," Adele said sadly.

"Better hurry up. Next flight to Heathrow leaves at fifteen hundred hours," the Doctor informed her.

"Adele was saying that all her life she wanted to see the stars," Ross said while giving the puppy dog eyes to the Doctor.

'Oh no! Not gonna happen.'

"Tell her to go and stand outside, then."

"She's all on her own, Doctor, and she did help."

"She left you down there," the Doctor accused.

"So did you." This shut her up.

"What are you talking about? We've got to leave," Adele asked confused.

"Plus, she's a bit pretty," the Doctor added.

"I hadn't noticed," he replied.

"On your head," she said regretfully as she unlocked the TARDIS and stepped in.

She walked over to the console and prepared for takeoff.

"What are you doing? She said cement. She wasn't joking. We're going to get sealed in. Doctor? What're you doing standing inside a box? Ross?"

"Oh, get in," the Doctor snapped.

This was going to be a long trip.

[pinkvhs]

I want to type out the whole story but i have Phonus on my mind so

I’m going to share his backstory in full 

@lilakennedy, @queugame, @plutoinahoodie

Antiphonus ( Phonus ) was once human. 

He grew up long ago pretty poor and down on his luck. He lived during a time where religion was starting to be more prominent. However at a young age he saw through all its lies. His family was struggling to get by and no amount of books or some force could ever help them. He would drift away from it, especially when his mother gotten sick and people would only turn to prayer to help her and nothing made her better. 

As he got older he tried to work to earn some money just to get by. He also falls in love with a girl who would become his wife. He would eventually go off to battle as well, hoping if he survives his status would be more known. He makes it out alive and once he returns him and his wife start a family. However whenever his wife dies during childbirth, leaving him to raise their daughter alone. 

Phonus takes care of Celestine the best he can, she is his world. He hunts for them, farms, and does all that he can to make sure Celestine lives a happy life. He makes wooden toys for her, sews outfits, and the chance he gets money he uses it to give something to her like a nice warm fur blanket or a new snack for her. He braids her hair, plays with her, does all that he can to make sure Celestine doesn’t know the living position they are in. 

He ends up running into a group of men who try to get him to join their beliefs but Phonus refuses. However, turning away those men was a grave mistake. 

Where Phonus lives, its a rather small village. People have connections, know each other. Phonus himself might live outwards from the town and in the forest but word can travel. 

One summer late afternoon Phonus is preparing dinner from the animal he hunted. Its a typical day for the two of them, he is carefully butchering the animal and making food for the two of them while young Celestine of age 5 is playing out in the yard close to the home. He would stop sometimes to play with Celestine, getting flowers she would pick and run into the house to show her father only to run back out and play close by. Its close to sunset, door open, as he is about done with the meal. He calls out to his daughter that dinner is almost ready but hears nothing. Celestine is very good at listening and with the sun coming down, he worries. 

He steps outside to see she isn’t around. His heart races. 

He calls for her again and again, no sound. He runs into the woods thats close by, calling out her name. He desperately tries to find his daughter, and he does.

Hanging from a tree and torn into she hangs. A note dangling from her neck. Phonus staring at his daughter’s lifeless body in the trees, he wants to look away but can’t. He reaches for his daughter and gets her down. Holding onto her body, hugging it close, he cries an ungodly scream into the woods. 

He hesitantly reads the note around her neck, saying that “We told you that you’d regret your choice”. He hugs her more, sobbing. He buries his daughter, leaving the flowers she picked for him on top of the dirt. But all that sorrow soon shifts, he grips onto the paper left by those men. He decides to go hunting. 

He kills the group of men involved. Not in one night but one by one as time goes on. In his rage he can’t control himself. These people took his family from him, his daughter, a child. He can’t understand why on earth anyone could ever do something like that. He becomes blinded by his fury and kills anyone who was close to those men. He wanted to make them feel the pain he feels. 

But it doesn’t last long for one night Phonus gets knocked out, dragged away from his home, and gets tied up. He awakes to a group of people with torches in their hands. The burn him alive for the act of murder. He screams, cursing out the people doing this to him. 

Once he is consumed by the flames his soul can’t rest. He is still consumed by hatred and anger. He wants everyone who was involved with his daughter’s death to perish. His spirit, fueled with this rage, develops. He gets consumed by it. In the afterlife he has a goal- bring his daughter back. Out of desperation he tears into the fabric of the universe and opens up a chance to go into a different dimension. Thinking he can see his daughter again. However, people who die in any dimension remain the same. No matter how many times he tried to travel to dimensions or time itself, his daughter is given the fate of death. She will always die but it will be in different ways. Phonus keeps trying over and over till the point he forgets what he is doing. 

He forgets himself. He forgets his human life he had. He forgets his daughter.

What remains is pure hatred for humanity. The burning fury remains inside him over how humanity is nothing but cruel and unforgiving. Its scum on this planet and he wants rid of it. 

[tintinwrites]

you are not alone | Poe Dameron x Reader

Request: I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable and if it does you don’t have to write it but could I have a Poe Dameron x Reader where she grew up with an abusive father (more mental but a little physical). Maybe him comforting her after something happens? I’m just feeling down and need him right now... (Anon)

A/N: I hope this is what you wanted, anon. I’m here for you and so is Poe.

Rating: T, close to M for subject matter.

Warning: This fic deals with mental abuse and very slight physical abuse by a parental figure. Please, PLEASE do not read this if that’s going to hurt you. I don’t want anyone to be in pain for this. I’m hoping it offers peace.

Word count: 1,385, apparently

Summary: You meet your estranged father for the first time in years. Poe is there to pick you back up.

You had been raised by the dark side and made it out unscathed.

That was what you would say when anyone asked you about your past, and that was all everyone knew so far.

The only one who knew a little more was Poe Dameron, who made you feel so safe that you found yourself in his quarters some nights, whispering confessions in the dark while he listened intently and sympathetically.

But even he didn't know the extent of your pain. He didn't know the shattered self-esteem you still tried to rebuild, the way you occasionally forced yourself not to flinch at a raised hand too close, the nightmares that made you wake up sobbing, the manipulative and cruel words that rang through your head more often than you liked to acknowledge.

You didn't think it was right to put that burden on anyone else.

And you would be on the verge of tears just thinking about admitting to the details.

You didn't want the looks of pity, either.

Sometimes you just wanted to forget everything and start over.

When you thought of that desire, you hadn't expected it to be granted in a way; in the way that you woke up on the hard ground, in pain and confused, having only forgotten everything that got you there. You remembered everything else, though it didn't really matter at the moment.

Your arms shook as you pushed yourself up, settling on your knees because the room was spinning too much to stand. Your right temple throbbed and felt wet, and a quick touch had your fingers coated in a slightly alarming red.

Even more alarming were the pristine boots that stepped into your field of vision. You lifted your gaze to see dark trousers, then a dark jacket with a familiar emblem embroidered into the sleeve. But a random First Order officer did not scare you nearly as much as which particular officer it was.

"—Father?" You immediately stood up, growing dizzy and stumbling, grabbing onto the wall to keep from falling.

"I heard rumors that you had joined the Resistance." He seemed amused by your struggling, but kept a familiar hatred in his eyes. "Imagine me, hearing whispers among every rank that my pitiful daughter had allied herself with the light side."

He had never loved you. He never even pretended to. You were little more than a nuisance to him, something he had to do the bare minimum to care for when he could be doing better things. The last time you saw him was when he decided to do said better things just before you were an adult, fully giving himself over to the dark side.

It was a relief to be out from under his control, but heartbreaking at the same time. He was your father and you always hoped he would love you, only for him to say very plainly as you asked him not to go,

Why should I want to stay with such a pathetic excuse for a child? You have been nothing but a burden since your mother left you at my door.

You were alone after that, until you joined the Resistance.

Truthfully, you were alone your entire life until you met the Resistance.

Poe was the only one who made you really feel like you didn't have to keep all your walls up, for just a moment.

Poe.

Everything suddenly came rushing back to you: a mission to a planet infiltrated by the First Order, hiding from a group of stormtroopers that was too large for two people, Poe's wide-eyed look as he aimed his blaster at something behind you, everything suddenly going black.

"Poe." It took all your effort to move away from the wall, and a tight grip on your wrist kept you from going any further.

"Ah, yes, your pilot. I always knew you were pathetic, but being fucked by a rebel pilot?" His cold words made you feel like a child again and you tried to avoid his gaze as tears filled your eyes, but he took hold of your jaw. "Do you think he'll love you? Even if love existed, you wouldn't be worthy of it."

You were starting to sob despite your best efforts not to, attempting to pry his hand off your wrist as you had no weapons at your disposal.

He smirked. "He'll toss you aside once he's had his fill. It is only by a father's mercy that I will happily put you out of your misery." He released his grip and shoved you away, letting you slam back against the wall.

"I don't fucking think so, pal." The voice was followed by a loud thump, though you were too busy sliding to the ground to pay any mind. You had your knees pulled to your chest, weeping and preparing to have your life ended with a blaster shot by the very man who helped to create it.

"Shh, you're okay now," said the same voice, accompanied by hands on your arms that had you flinching back. "It's me! It's me."

Before you was Poe, his eyes full of fear, and worry, and a hundred other emotions that were terrible to feel yet so incredibly kind, too.

You threw yourself into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and sobbing into his jacket.

The force of it caused him to fall back into the cool dirt, but the only movement he made was to situate you into his lap. He held you gently and ran his fingers through your hair tentatively, in case the gesture scared you instead of comforted you.

You merely gripped onto him tighter, which he took as a sign that he wasn't hurting you.

"—I'm so sorry he didn't love you like you deserve, baby." His voice cracked just slightly with emotion. He hadn't realized just how much you had gone through until seeing a glimpse of your father right in front of him. "It wasn't because you were a pathetic daughter or whatever the hell he was saying, alright? This isn't on you. No dad should treat their kid like that, do you hear me? Huh?"

"Yeah." You nodded feebly, and part of you believed him while the rest of you was still too entangled in all the things your father had told you your whole life.

"You are worthy of so much love that you can't even bear it."

"Hm."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "You think we haven't grown at least a little closer since we started our talks? Do you think I would share half the shit I do if I didn't care about you so much that it—" He cut himself off because this wasn't about that; it was about you. "You're such a fucking miracle, you know that? You were raised by the dark side and you made it out unscathed."

You gave a bitter laugh at your own cover up. "Does this seem unscathed to you?"

"The only bad thing about your pain is that you have to feel it. You're so good and you deserve so damn much. More than he gave you. More than I could give you.”

"Thank you," you said after a moment.

The two of you sat there in silence aside from the occasional sob or hiccup you gave.

Once you had calmed down to where you were letting out shaky breaths, shivering against Poe from the way your breakdown drained you, he lowered his head to speak softly into your ear, "Tell me to kill him and I will."

His offer was tempting. Would killing him make everything disappear, though?

Poe was not a murderer, and you wouldn't dare let a good man turn into one. "I— thank you, but just let him go."

"Whatever you want, sweetheart." He leaned back to look at you. "I think it's time to contact Leia and tell her this mission was a bust."

"I guess." You made yourself stand and Poe was right there to support you, physically and especially otherwise.

Poe's words would not magically erase all that you had gone through. Maybe nothing ever would, but his presence lightened you just slightly and gave you hope that you wouldn't be weighed down forever.

Perhaps that was all you needed.

[spaceiplier]

SPACEIPLIER: One by One

She was crying.

Madapriel frowned, arms folded as the door slammed open. The woman stood there, chest heaving and tears carving paths through the dirt covering her face. Two curved daggers were clenched in white knuckled hands. She stared at her with hate. Her small frame shook. The door closed behind her.

She was unbalanced.

She was tired.

This would be easy.

“Did you hurt him?” she spat. She staggered forwards, her footing uncertain. She wasn’t watching Madapriel's hands. She wasn’t watching the knife sitting on the desk next to her. She was watching her eyes, and in doing so, watched what she should have ignored. Emotions. “Did you… did you kill him?”

Madapriel sighed.

“Answer me!” she said, throwing one of her knives. It lodged itself with a thunk into the wall behind her, grazing her cheek. Madapriel reached up to touch it. Fingers came away with a thin layer of blood. Even unstable and exhausted, she was dangerous.

She would be a good addition to Madapriel’s finality.

Carefully reaching into her pocket, Madapriel pulled out the vial of blood. The faintest blue glow surrounding it.

The woman’s eyes locked onto it.

Recognition flashed across her features. A slight parting of her lips, and a widening of her eyes. Then, it was gone in a burst of fury.

There were no words. Not even a scream of rage. One moment she stood there, and the next she was running forwards. Her hand was coming down, knife posed to stab her. In any other situation, Madapriel would have been dead. This form of hers would have been slain by such a formidable opponent. But today was different.

Today, emotions had come into play.

Oh, sweet little girl. Didn’t they teach you? Your love will only kill you.

Madapriel reached up, grabbing her wrist. With a sharp twist, her hand was redirected. The knife no longer aimed at Madapriel’s chest, but at hers. Her eyes widened, but there was no time to stop what had been put into motion. With a shove, the knife sunk into her heart.

She screamed, but it was choked.

Madapriel drew the knife out and, with certainty, stabbed the organ in her gut that would finish her off.

The woman clutched at her, a mixture of hatred and fear in her eyes.

“You look tired,” Madapriel said, smiling as she lowered the woman to the floor. It was almost kind. This woman was worn to her end. She had been used, and had used. She could rest now. She could stop this pointless fight. “Why don’t you go to sleep?”

A pulse of red light.

She stopped breathing.

Blood covered Madapriel’s hands. A perfect sample. Standing, she walked to the door and pushed it open. It creaked. Hand slipping inside her pocket, she selected the empty vial next to the blue one. Then, she let the blood pool in her palm and slip inside.

Where she had left him, the one who she had first taken from lay there in the arms of yet another one of those militia beings. Pink, this time. He was clutching at him, staring at her with fear and shock. As if he couldn’t understand what was happening to him.

She could see the cracks forming.

A mercenary who cared? How interesting… and so easily used.

Madapriel walked forwards, slipping the vial into her pocket. “Huh,” she said, voice soft and curious. “I assumed your kind were murderers. Yet you try to save him? Strange. You have a heart.”

“Fuck off,” the pink one spat, his compatriot wheezing his final breaths in his arms.

She smiled, and kept walking.

One.

.

.

Dark.

Drifting.

Cold.

No sound, and no smells. Nothing to sense. Only a floating feeling as Madapriel waited.

Sleeping.

Awake.

Waiting.

There was something muted. Warm, and full. It sunk into him. He started changing. Absorbing. Taking in the DNA and making it his own. He knew this DNA. They’d forced it on him many times. Human. The living code for the species doomed to destroyed themselves on this dying planet. There was something off about it.

The human part he knew.

But also knew this. This code of a species all too familiar. What was it?

Half-breed did not bother Madapriel. Those other species that found love in others was what it was. A motivation for species to spread across the galaxy, forming homes and lives wherever they might. Madapriel did not concern himself with the workings of others personal existence. He didn’t not care to insert himself into the lives of those species he only touched upon momentarily. But this… this brought a sour feeling. This DNA.

Xanhull DNA.

A Xanhull who had mated outside of their own kind.

Hatred curled in Madapriel. Hatred at the GAAP for destroying his home, and his people’s traditions. Their way of living had been eradicated. All out of fear and personal gain. How disgusting. His home was gone, and so were the values held so close to him. And now beings like this walked the galaxy.

As Madapriel reformed, he felt a tug at the back of his mind.

Kill the gret. Give it mercy. Find some sort of control. Restore some kind of sense of right into his world.

Then – and only then – could he continue.

Two.

.

.

The heart had gone bad.

The DNA Madapriel had been planning on using was useless. He would have to replace it, and soon. Not a problem, but the species would be an issue. Such a warrior race, and so powerful in their abilities, it would be a harrowing battle to regain the DNA he had lost.

Outside, he could hear Mark and his crew. Talking and laughing about a mission they had just completed. He couldn’t let them come along. They would only get in his way. They didn’t need to know what his true intentions were.

Mark…

The longer Madapriel stayed around him, the angrier he got. It was obvious his Xanhull parent had taught him nothing of their traditions. Of their way of life. He surrounded himself with a ‘family’ that he showed obvious strong emotional attachment too. He kept animals with him that he loved. Animals! Creatures only there for him to care for, and not for food or any other usage than love.

Mark was wrong.

It would bring Madapriel great joy to snuff the life out of him.

Madapriel closed the upper part of the cabinet. Inclosing the DNA that he would use to assume his finality. The DNA of those two mercenaries, kept safe. The rotten heart, he tossed into the incinerator. Opening his comm, he located the home planet of this species. About a weeks travel.

Perfect.

.

.

“You… you want what?”

Madapriel sighed. The sun was beating down, and making his dark suit uncomfortably warm. The scent of hot earth and the sickly sweet horvu fruit, native to the planet, saturated the air. “Your DNA. Blood, hair, spit… doesn’t really matter. Though I would prefer the blood.”

The young Niokonge shook his head. “Sir, I…”

How the galaxy had changed since the eradication of Unohsket. Madapriel nearly felt a sting of nostalgia for the old days where a Xanhull asking for your DNA was an honor. You, out of everyone, were chosen to share your form with another. A being who had sworn to uphold values and codes of honor, and share diplomacy across the galaxy.

Now it was lost to the razed history of his forefathers.

“Do you want credits?” Madapriel interrupted, tired of the young whelp’s indecision. “I can compensate you for your cooperation.”

“I don’t need credits,” the Niokonge said, continuing to shake his head. Madapriel feared it would shake itself off. “I… I just got hired on as a district attorney, and I… wait, why do you want my blood? That’s really weird.”

“Your bloodline’s record is impressive,” Madapriel said. “You shall prove to be a strong addition to my finality. As well, your abilities are something I have always admired. The ability to transform kinetic energy to electricity. A valuable asset.”

“T-thanks,” he said. “Uh…”

Madapriel wanted off this damned planet. It was growing near midday, and the heat and stench was unbearable. The human senses were always an adjustment. So naturally attuned to their surroundings. The perfect blend of predator and prey.

The young Niokonge shuffled their feet. Only just cresting adulthood, he was smaller than the average Niokonge. But what he lacked in physical form, he made up for in intelligence and adaptability. A strength coming from his kinetic abilities. Madapriel had caught him leaving work, and they stood in a corner of the street. Their voices hidden under the noise of crowds leaving for home. Hidden under the rumble of kinetic powered vehicles humming down the street.

His eyes darted about. Gold and intelligent.

It would be a shame to tear them out if he refused to cooperate.

“Look, will you leave me alone if I just give you some hair?”

Madapriel nodded.

The young Niokonge reached up and tugged a few strands of blond hair out. He handed them over, warily watching him. Madapriel took them and tucked them into a small vial.

“Thank you,” Madapriel said.

And with that he turned and walked into the crowd.

Three.

.

.

The black skies of Nihill. Oh, how they never changed. Nothing changed on Nihill. Not since the first credit hungry pirate had stepped foot on this forgotten moon. The same endless cycle of greed, crime, and debauchery. Madapriel had never visited Nihill before Unohsket was destroyed, but afterwards… oh, it was heaven to those of his kind who had nowhere else to run.

New identities. New faces. Endless choices of DNA.

This is where the Xanhull race had survived.

He frowned slightly as he stopped, staring at a young woman carrying a small child. They were keeping their heads down. Avoiding drawing attention towards themselves. How sad. So, lost and forgotten that this was the place she raised her child.

The sadness grew into anger as Madapriel realized this is also how his people lived.

Lost, forgotten, and ducking their heads to stay out of sight of those that would harm them.

“Soon,” Madapriel said quietly, sending his resolutions out to his scattered people. “Soon.”

Madapriel turned, and walked into the shop.

“Welcome!” A booming voice filled the small shop. Madapriel looked up to see a larger man wearing surgeon scrubs. “My name is Dr. Percale, how may I help you?”

“I hear you sell organs.”

A grin spread across Percale’s face. “Ah, a patron of my other business. Right this way, sir!”

Percale lead him through a doorway covered by a ratty tarp into a room. A table sat in the middle of the room, scrubbed immaculately clean. A tray of surgical tools sat on the bench nearby. Everything was neatly organized and presentable, if not ultimately appearing second rate. Percale busied himself about the room, placing any spare bits away.

“Excuse the mess,” Percale said, gesturing to the clean room. “I have had a relatively busy day. Three new placements for cybernetic replacements! News of my skills must be spreading about this wonderfully delightful planet.”

“Where are your wares?” Madapriel asked.

“Ah! Yes,” Percale turned to the back wall. With a flip of a switch, the wall opened up. Lining the shelves, hidden behind the thin false wall, were jars and bottles of organs and bodily fluids. Many Madapriel could recognize, but several he could not. He stepped forwards, examining them all.

“A truly impressive collection,” Madapriel said, complimenting the doctor. Percale brightened.

“Why, thank you, sir. Might I ask which particular organ you are looking for? I am currently running low on galldyrus and livers, but have a surplus of kirpeaus and eyes!”

Madapriel’s eyes wandered about the shelves. So many choices. He had a few species in mind, but one particular jar caught his attention. It wasn’t even from a species he had been considering. Memories flooded back of his first steps. The first time he opened his eyes. The first time he had touched something.

A jar holding a Velm eye was tucked on a lower shelf.

His first form had been a Velm. A fitting note that he should take Velm as his last.

“That one,” Madapriel pointed at the jar.

Percale lifted it up, dusting off the lid a bit. “Ah yes, I remember this customer. Replaced his eye with a cybernetic one. Threw in a free drone as well. Oh, what was his name? It was a few years ago, but I can assure you that I keep all organs in perfect condition.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Madapriel said. “How much?”

“Let me think…” Percale tapped his chin with his free hand. “3500 credits?”

“3000.”

“3300.”

“3100.”

“3200?”

“Deal,” Madapriel said, taking the jar from Percale. Tapping on his comm, he sent the credits to the doctor. Percale checked his own comm, grinning when the numbers appeared.

“A true pleasure doing business with you,” Percale said.

“Likewise,” Madapriel said. He took the jar, turning his back on Percale and the room as he walked towards the door. Just one more. One more, and he would be ready. He could truly start his search for the crystal, and he could take on his finality.

Four.

And just one more.

Madapriel wondered if that bothersome Celestial was still bouncing about this galaxy. The one with the clown. His DNA would be wonderful.

He stepped out onto the rainy streets and smiled.

[arrowsbane]

and death was his gift (one he can’t give back)

so, @richard-harmon-gifs​ you remember those two au’s we were talking about: the demon one, and the superpowers... i figured out a way to combine them. it’s going to take time, but here, have an early not-birthday present from me. or a late one? idek.

“Pain, hate, envy. Those are the ABCs of me. You get rid of them and there's nothing left…” He’s not insane; he’s just got the dead and long buried whispering in his ears from the moment he touches down on earth, that’s all. Once upon a time, a boy went into the woods… and he never came back. Superpowers!AU with a twist.

There’s a whisper, a rumour, a story, a legend.

“There’s a boy,” they say, “a boy that the woods swallowed whole; and a demon that haunts the trees, fashioned from his broken soul and tempered by nature.”

“A boy who is a demon, who runs with wolves and drops from trees without a sound. A demon that never misses, that can outrun horses and men, a demon that appears from nothing and disappears into the same. A demon that never speaks a word, except to the dead who carry his secrets.”

“Sometimes,” they say, “if you listen carefully, when the wind is in the trees and the moon high in the sky, in the distance a voice will join the pack in their wolfsong.”

There’s as many stories as there are clans, and then some. They differ wildly, but they all have one thing in common:

“Once upon a time, a boy went into the woods… and he never came back.”

*

There’s an itch in the back of his mind. It’s been there since the moment the doors opened and the fresh summer breeze rushed over his skin, sparking and prickling at his skin, causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end.

It was easier, he thinks, to ignore the voices when he lived his life surrounded by steel corridors and a void of silence, that empty space between stars, sun and moon. It was easier then. Here, on earth, they bubble like a fast-flowing brook, a constant jumble of voices.

The ghosts cross the forest in bursts, here is a mother and her child, there is a soldier still chasing imaginary enemies. They seem to fade in different degrees of intensity, time takes most of them, but some are particularly stubborn.

John sets his gaze forward, focusing on the living, on the trees, on sharpening the metal fragment he pried loose into a serviceable weapon. He learnt his first lesson a long time ago: Don’t interact with the dead – so long as they don’t know he can see them; he will have peace. He paid for that lesson with blood and pain, paid for it with a false diagnosis and his father’s life.

Not again. Never again.

John Murphy’s gift is death, and it’s a gift he’s never been able to return.

*

Bellamy Blake is wild, is unpredictable… if John stays too close, it won’t end well. A distant memory stirs, of his father warning him not to play with fire; “Fire doesn’t apologise John, it takes and takes and takes. If you’re not careful, it’ll burn you up too;”

The thing is, it’s cold down here on cloudless nights, and fire is one of the few ways to stay warm.

Bellamy doesn’t seem to feel the cold like John does - like anyone does, in all honesty - he frequently wanders around without a shirt, barefoot in the frosty dirt, unbothered by the chilly wind. He isn’t particularly choosy of his bed partners either, enjoys giving and taking pleasure in equal measure so John spends many nights curled up in his tent, pressed against skin that burns impossibly hot, and tries to ignore the whispering voices outside.

But fire burns. It burns and gives nothing back, but ash and ruin; and so does Bellamy Blake.

*

When Clarke comes screaming out of a tent, his missing knife in hand and hatred in her eyes, John is taken aback. He’s never been particularly friendly with anybody here, but he’s never gone out of his way to hurt her personally. It’s true, he lost control for a short while, lost his grasp on reality when Jasper’s screams began to blend with the wailing of the dead – he doesn’t deny he wanted Jasper dead, thinks anybody in his situation would have done the same thing.

The accusation of murder though… that’s a new one.

Wells Jaha was many things, but he was never John’s victim. Not once. The boy had been too proud, and John hadn’t been foolish enough to challenge him again, not after the knife fight cut short.

Behind Clarke’s right shoulder, a washed-out spectre lurks. John focuses his gaze on Clarke’s face, but it’s hard to stop his eyes from flickering over the image of a dead boy, missing fingers and a slit in his neck that still leaks blood turned black, the colours of his mortal form leeched away in death.

The next thing he knows, his eyes are full of dirt, his mouth spitting out blood as a mob converges and strings him up with a rope. There’s a rage here in this crowd of abandoned children; a dangerous, almost manic need for bloodshed that’s far too like a forest fire ready to ignite… and Bellamy, who is fire made flesh, kicks out the bucket from beneath his feet and lets him burn.

You see, in the stories, hanging to death by a rope around your neck sounds quick.

They don’t tell you about what it feels like to gasp for air, your fingers scrabbling uselessly at the rope. They don’t tell you about the pain burning in your chest, in your eyes, in your ears. Don’t tell you about the jerking bounce of the rope rattling your spine or what it’s like to have your vision blurred with yellow and black spots.

They don’t tell you that in the last few minutes of your life, you’ll be wishing that your neck had just snapped like it was supposed to, and that you’d died before knowing there wasn’t a bucket under your feet anymore.

That’s the thing about real life. It’s nothing like the stories.

*

Later, in the dark, when a broken child has fallen to her death, John wants to rage.

‘Look at what you’ve done,’ he wants to scream, ‘what we have done,’ but before he can open his bruised and bleeding lips, Bellamy has a weapon raised over his head and Clarke’s razor tongue is condemning him and him alone. 

Never mind that Bellamy put the weapon in Charlotte’s hand, never mind that Clarke inadvertently taught her how to kill with one blow, never mind that the Chancellor himself broke that little girls’ spirit… no, the blame is on John, and he can never go home again.

Stumbling about in the dark, John remembers meeting the echo of a slender woman aboard the Ark once, her hair gone silver with age, and the years lined into her face. She used to putter about the viewing decks, mumbling poetry and half remembered paragraphs of stories lost in the fallout.

‘Home is where our feet may leave,’ she had mumbled once, staring down at the empty planet, ‘but not our hearts.’

The words of a long-dead man in a world that no longer exists…

Home…

John Murphy doesn’t have a home, not anymore.

*

Even in death, Charlotte causes trouble for him.

The tiny shade of a girl follows him through the darkened forest, her constant tears and apologies go unanswered – John keeps to the first rule, always – but they don’t aid in his concentration.

Roots stick up from the ground, tripping him up, snaring his clothing, the laces of his boots. Bushes with razor thorns sink into his skin, and rip holes into his already worn trousers, allowing the cold cold air to burn at him… there’s no Bellamy here to warm him, never again.

John curses as he looses his balance, scrabbling at a bank for grip before sliding down into a bitterly cold ditch full of water. He’s too busy focusing on hauling himself back out, that he doesn’t see the shadow passing nearer under the moonlight, doesn’t see the blow coming until it’s too late.

There’s a short burst of pain in the back of his head, and then darkness takes him.