#Vaguely based on when they were hunting down Scar

[tubbytarchia]

The full piece I did for @hermitszine's Gem zine! Please go download and look at it for free because there's really beautiful art and writing in there, and it's surprisingly bulky! Thank you so much for hosting and allowing me to illustrate for it <3

[huggywuggysuppy]

I need your thoughts on gem and pearls shinyduo divorce/complicated relationship. Is it pride stopping them, is it past grudges? This really is the divorce season. Next wild card is just divorce papers

I am SO glad you asked. Short answer, based on what we see in session 5, Gem is letting go of her grudge while Pearl is starting to get one. Punished for her actions in SL that weren't really wrong, yet urged by her allies to let that unreasonable treatment go, Pearl is making an effort to move on anyway. However, Gem is doubling down, playing nice while still considering the G's her enemy. Passing off her aggression as a whim: simply wanting to hurt Pearl for the sake of it. Faced with that, of course Pearl doesn't want to be allies (or remarried, as it were.) They've been enemies for too long in WL to go back, at least until one dies by the other's hands.

LONG answer, well, this got away from me. Here we go!

Pearl has infinite patience when it comes to Gem. Even in SL, when Gem had killed her and her allies over and over again, Pearl remained on friendly terms. Throughout WL, Gem's been tormenting, plotting against, and generally antagonizing Pearl throughout, for a vague grudge that Pearl doesn't agree she's at fault for. But she's no stranger to working with her enemy, and if Gem's willing to forgive, so is she.

Ultimately, Gem's grievance with Pearl is that she thought they were closer in SL, but Pearl didn't feel the same. They worked together to cull the server, pretty enthusiastically on both ends, only for her to choose someone else at the end. As others have written, "WE could've 2v1'd Scar." From there, it's just Pearl not apologizing or validating that she hurt Gem, because Pearl doesn't believe she did anything wrong. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the rest of the server (and fandom) generally took Gem's side, so Pearl had to fight to get her side of the story out.

VERY brief summary of Pearl's perspective: Gem was her enemy for most if not all of SL. Murder Camel and the Mounders/G&TS in session 9 were fun, but tactical. She was never seriously allied with Gem. Meanwhile she had beef with Scar, because who didn't, but he generally sided with the Mounders throughout SL and chose their side in the faceoff. Honestly, her only crime was consorting so much with the enemy: making Gem think she forgave her when she hadn't. Killing Gem at the end was the natural catharsis for being enemies, satisfying Pearl, but it came as a surprise betrayal on Gem's end.

(Everyone playing nice with Gem mostly for her tactical value is it's own post, but I digress.)

Gem knows the SL thing isn't 100% Pearl's fault, and that she chose violence instead of giving Pearl a chance to defend herself without an audience. It took Pearl pulling her aside and spelling out everything one on one before Gem finally chilled out. Nobody in Life handles conflict appropriately, and we don't ask them too. But that's it. The end. They've cleared the air, right? I mean, Gem hasn't admitted out loud exactly why she's so hurt at the 2v1, and Pearl's allies still consider backing her up "enabling" instead of support, but they've mostly talked it out. Why couldn't we get another Murder Camel, or remarriage, or at least some mutual server terrorization?

There's 5 episodes of consequences to work out.

I said at the beginning that Pearl is patient with Gem. But I lied. Pearl is always willing to hear Gem out and be civil, if not friendly. That was the whole problem in SL: that Pearl was nice and worked with Gem even though they were still enemies in her mind. But Pearl doesn't easily forgive, and will never ally with someone who has wronged her. In DL, when they were being hunted she still split off from the divorce quartet, even though it was super dangerous, because they'd hurt her and still showed no remorse for it. She's intensely loyal, and extraordinarily honest. Once again, Gem's worked against and hurt Pearl, and she's not gonna let that go.

For the most part, Pearl hasn't retaliated against Gem's revenge. She's badgered her and been a nuisance, encouraged others to target Gem, and half-heartedly attempted a couple traps. But she hasn't chased her down, railed others against her, or even strongly denounce Gem beyond defending herself. At least, not yet. The way things are moving, the G's and the Family will outwardly clash soon enough, especially since Pearl is their red "guard dog." Pearl's coming up on her chance. And she's running out of reasons to hold back.

Catharsis in Life Series usually comes from a final kill. Grian killing Scar in the cactus circle resolved their complicated relationship for 3rd life. Scar winning SL cleared any real grievances others held for him that series, and vice versa -- he's not a villain anymore. This goes double for betrayals and enemies. Without a final kill, the grudge festers: extending into other seasons such as Cleo with BigB or Joel with Scott. They need to "get even."

Pearl is famously denied that finality. She was left hanging for a proper goodbye to Scott in Last, where her lives/death helped him win, then wronged even further in DL. And his suicide at the end robbed her of releasing all her resentment and pain. Even in WL, she tells Scott that what she really wants is a proper 1v1. But in SL, Pearl was able to kill Gem, who had been terrorizing her and her team all season. They've gotten even. But in doing so, she accidentally created a new grudge, and the balance is off again.

Unfortunately, Gem's grievance is a final kill. So, it carries over into the next season. Many players start a season with "I want this person to win," but it's rare to have "I want this person to die." That's part of why the divorce seems so off. Gem is responding to the pain from SL, and Pearl is reacting to that with fresh aggression. The cycle continues until one of them acts and the other decides they're even.

Gem knows all of this. She knows they can't walk back the divorce, that she's gone too far and they can't make up this time. And she's having fun with it. She's playing nice, which the server is all too willing to enable since it's seems safer, while having the same hostile intentions. Telling Pearl to take one of Scott's lives and assassinating Cleo is the most obvious, but so is buttering up Scott while planning to trap him with Jimmy. While Pearl slowly boils, trapped in this horrible pseudo-forgiveness, Gem keeps poking and prodding. And because of their talk, when Pearl retaliates she will look like the aggressor.

So to answer your ask, anon, the divorce can't be undone, at least not in this season. It's not pride so much as hurt: they haven't forgiven each other -- for SL or WL -- and won't until they're even. I don't know if they've consciously realized that yet, and very well might continue on in a weird limbo, or even ally at the very end Murder Camel style. But they certainly haven't resolved anything yet.

Something wicked this way comes...

(And I'd be remiss if I didn't talk about the Meta-narrative aspect. Both CC's are amused by and noticeably pushing for the divorce narrative. While I do think their C's have genuine beef over WL now at least, if not the 2v1, it's exaggerated and ultimately just fun for the CC's to rp out. Also, everyone in Life Series is a bit awkward/forced the first time they start drama with someone. I've mentioned elsewhere but Gem started divorce drama with Pearl "Expert Divorcee" Moon as her first, so part of the imbalance is figuring out how to tell that story. Pearl is putting in the legwork on her end and Cleo "Expert Friend Of Divorcees" called out that Gem needs a reason, so she just has to put the pieces together and make her case out loud.)

(Personally, I think she really could pursue "Still hung up about SL and wants an apology/catharsis, but won't admit it especially now that she's overreacted, so now playing nice while trying to sabotage her." Imagine the quiet confessions to Joel about how she's still angry, and the tearful "why are you doing this to me?" "because I lied! I'm still mad you hurt me!" And it would fit SUPER well into Pearl's ongoing story with Scott downplaying his own mistakes. Both grievances happened because Pearl misunderstood the other person's feelings (Gem thought they were closer in SL, Scott was hurt by Pearl's disregard for finding him in DL), which means Pearl is the villain in both, at least to them. But we'll see what happens next week :D)

Thanks for the ask, and for reading all this! I do believe shinyduo are at their best when they're enemies. And I think they know that too.

[hissinghydrangeas]

Coppertalon Night/Mud

My sister won this on reddit and gifted it too me

He/Him

Coppertalon was an odd dragonet born on the nightwing island. His fire was weaker then most and only got stronger when he was hot. He was missing the silver stars on his wings which his mother refered to as a birth defect. And he enjoyed rolling in the mud making him the victim of much bullying when his peers found out. He also felt different from the other nightwings but didn't know why in till his mother pulled him after she saw that he was being called disgusting for the mud incident aside and explained that he was infact half mudwing too his surprise and horror. From there he he everything to hide this fact from his peers and felt disgusted with himself as he was taught that mudwings were lazy, stupid fat dragons who did nothing useful.

But rumors started to spread and soon he was being pulled aside by Morrowseer himself. Morrowseer declared that the tribe didn't need an lazy impure dragonet and order another dragon to kill him as his birth was "an embarrassment to the tribe" He managed to defeat his attacker and realized he only managed to do so due to his mudwing strength. From there he was allowed to live but was exiled from the island not even being allowed to say goodbye to his mother or his few friends. He was told if he showed his face on the island or near any pure blooded nightwing again they would kill him.

From there at age 4 he was taken to the mainland by 2 guards and dumped onto skywing territory. He visited the mud kingdom to try to find his father but soon was shot down as mudwings don't do fathers. After the Mudwings realized that he was alone they allowed him to move into the village out of pity.

He lived in the small mudwing village for a few years before a troop of Mudwing nobles visited and attempted to hire him as a prophet. He didn't actually have any powers but he still agreed to the job where he created fake prophecies and was showered in gold for it. Eventually he was fired because all of his prophecies were either really vague or clearly things that were obviously going to happen. He angrily pretended to forsee the noble's death and flew off. He didn't return to the village that took him in instead he flew too a small Skywing village and declared that he forsaw great trouble that that could be prevented if they gave in an offering of gold for his service. After that worked surprisingly well he became a bit of a con-artist with his base being in that Mudwing village that took in him. Fake prophecies and visions made him rich.

When news of the Nightwings moving to rainforest came to him he returned deciding to face his fear of Morrowseer. He returned to find a resentful bunch a ex-friends. Who were told that he went to live with his Mudwing father on the mainland by Morrowseer. His mother has vanished from the night kingdom years ago. He realized he had nothing in the rainforest and left to track her down.

He found her a year later in Possibility. He had just vanished one night and no dragon knew what happened to him but after months assumed he was dead somewhere on the island. The two have a falling out as Copper guiltyly realizes that he did nothing to reunite with her untill last year. He was far too scared to return to the island and simply moved on with her life thinking that she was better off without a hybrid for a son.

Years later as real Nightwing prophets and mind-readers were born Copper was exposed as a fraud and many angry dragons attempt to hunt him down. As created a small following of dragons who practically worshipped him and gave tribute.

He is currently hiding out with his mother in Possibility and hasn't told of her his crimes yet.

He is insecure of his status a hybrid and hides it from most dragons. He has a scar on his throat from his attempted execution. He tended to lash out at others being quite an angry violent dragon before his exile and in the earlier days of his exile. However after being invited into the mudwing village he calmed down realizing that mudwings were nothing like what he was taught by the nightwings and that had nothing to be ashamed off. He is greedy and treasure hungry scamming hundreds of dragons with fake prophecies for a large amount of gold. He is often demanding and rude with a sense of superiority. Not to mention a really good actor. He also is secretive and untrusting.

[minecraftbookshelf]

Life Series Scarring Headcanons: Part 2

All the disclaimers and explanations are on Part 1, so if you haven't seen that one yet, I recommend hopping over there real quick.

Some of these do get a bit...graphic? Specific? Something along those lines. I kind of split the middle ground between Video Game and more realistic injuries. (Did I spend way to long thinking about specifics of murder and death for this? I plead the fifth.)

This one is Grian, ImpulseSV, InTheLittleWood, and LDShadowLady

Lessgo!

Grian

Third Life: In my mind's eye Grian has always turned to look at the sky after his leap from the cactus ring, so the death blow was to the back of his head.

Last Life: Scott killed him when the late-game reds banded together to hunt down Grian and Joel. The other members of the alliance dealt damage, but Scott got the final hit in. Grian was fleeing at the time, so the scar is on his back, above his wings.

Double Life: Because sonic booms don't leave external evidence so much as they remove your insides from anything vaguely approaching a solid state, there isn't a scar as such from this death. There is a mark though, mid-mass. (it is not concentric circles, that's just what I put on the diagram to mark the location)

Limited Life: Fall damage again, based off the "camera angle" the general vibe I got was that Grian could have tried to catch himself on his hands as he fell. From that height, it was futile and there are faint marks on his wrists where the bone poked through as well as the actual death blow to the side of his forehead. Bird Man needs to stop falling off things fr.

Impulse

Third Life: Bdubs shot him after Scar gave him a clock in the most infamous backstabbing in the series to date. Usually when Bdubs shot someone I place the mark a bit lower, but they were on a bit of a hill at the time.

Last Life: In what was something of the fashion on the Last Life server, Scott shot him. He was trying to flee when he was shot, so I placed the mark at the base of his skull. (If only they were able to wear helmets)

Double Life: Pearl killed Bdubs with a blow to the front, so Impulse has a fainter scar from that death.

Limited Life: In the new contender for most infamous backstabbing in the series (poor Impulse has some rotten luck here) Martyn pretended to go along with the "disarm and fight it out" plan only to turn on them and seize the victory. Impulse wasn't wearing his armor, so the final blow was a sword through his torso that severed his spine.

Martyn

Third Life: Martyn died in the Battle of Dogwarts, to an arrow from Scar. Due to how helter skelter the melee was, I opted to have it be an off-center shot that tore the side of his neck, so it is not a clean mark. (It mirrors Ren's on the opposite side)

Last Life: He was blown up by his own end crystal, (probably triggered by a potion Scott threw) which was placed level with the top half of his body and he was literally right next to it facing it. He didn't even have time to try and shield himself with his arms.

Double Life: He died when Cleo took fall damage while fleeing from Pearl and her dogs. This is one where I took some creative liberties and opted to have the fall damage interpret as a tree branch that Cleo landed on with the full force of their own body weight, impaling herself by accident.

Limited Life: Whether going with his time ran out or Grian smote him, either way it is a death by lightning and the scars are lichtenberg figures down his chest and arm and a little bit his back. The smitey-lightning always goes for the heart, so he and Scott match now. (it also leaves a mark on the sole of the foot when it exits the body and enters the ground, but that doesn't show on the diagram.)

Lizzie

She has only perma-died in one season, even though she has technically been in two. In Last Life she ultimately died to fall damage while trying to fight back and escape from BDubs when he betrayed the other reds. Her scar is hidden by her hair.

-

Part 1

Part 3

[hows-my-handwriting]

Hobie Brown Headcanons

long post ahead. will put as much as i can under the cut but i will have a.... loose table of contents.

and im not feeding you everything. i need more content to drip feed you later.

the inspo is driving me crazy but the hands are refusing to write.

the table: backstory food british animals

lmk if ppl want this to be split up into individual posts per category. cuz its l o n g

BACKSTORY:

Not based on the comics. purely my own attempt at writing his backstory and his particular villains.

Hobie's Doc Oc was a university professor pressured by Osborn's regime to produce weapons. Hobie had met the guy while crashing a university class, but nothing more than that. Octavius snapped and took the revolution to the extreme. he built a WMD and planned to use it on the city. Hobie talked octavius down and disarmed the weapon.

Hobie's lizard was his close friend and bandmate who got jealous over their lead singer's affections towards hobie. they were close friends until hobie started drifting away. curtis was bitter and never really forgave him. the final straw was when hobie returned in full, having just abandoned his spider suit. the band is back together but curtis still has hard feelings. he knew vaguely about hobie's connection with spiderman but thought that it was some kind of special deal or friendship which was just another nail in the coffin. he turns himself into the lizard and attacks hobie, demanding answers and refusing to listen.

the above is just an excuse to hurt hobie really bad >:3 i love my angst and my beating my muses up. i wanted to break his ribs.

electro was a civilian who just happened to get struck by lightning. he is the sole reason hobie has insulated all of his gear and one of the reasons all of his spikes can shoot excess electricity like one of those funky little electrode balls. hobie took one look at this guy and immediately got to work.

Kraven was a bounty hunter hired and possibly engineered by osborn and fisk to hunt down hobie. classic kraven activities. he tried to drown hobie in the thames. hobie managed to escape but couldn't breathe or eat properly for a week after the attack

hobie's ship was hauled from the local junkyard. It was originally just used as a figure head to lead the charge from the government locked dam blocking off water. it somehow survived so he uses it as his hq.

hobie is immune to his scorpion's venom after being stung so many times and stealing samples of it to build up an immunity. yes it hurt. yes it sucked. but it worked. (loosely inspired by a fanfic)

the above are not in chronological order. mostly.

FOOD:

Hobie's world doesn't have a lot of spices. it's a closed state unless importing 'important' materials like lumber, steel and other sciency stuff, food is a lower priority or just a restricted luxury. the spice trade has regressed to something like the 1600s where foreign spices are held by those in power purely as a status symbol. the common man might have access to salt, sugar and cream, but anything else- especially anything spicy- is a luxury item.

hobie would love spicy food. i just dont think he's gotten much exposure to it. day one out of e-138 he opened a bag of spicy chips in the cafeteria, touched one and exploded.

exotic/foreign fruits fall under this same category but for more legit reasons of travel and lack of safe storage. so for example: mangoes, oranges/citrus, kiwi, pomegranates.

boba would freak him the fuck out. he has no idea what those little jiggly things are and its only made worse when one of the kids inevitably shows him the hamster 'is it worth it' meme. he becomes scarred for life.

if you take too long to take a bite out of whatever you're holding and hobie is hungry, he will just lean over and take a bite out of it. sandwich? bitten. spaghetti? stolen off the fork. chocolate bar? wrapper and bar, gone.

his favorite flavor of cake is chocolate or caramel. sue me im projecting onto him

BRITISH

he holds out his pinky when holding cups. it's just an unconscious thing that turns conscious once someone calls it out. in which case he sticks it out even further

flips the police and the royal family off regularly with the one fingered or the two fingered version. will only respect the french for inventing the creative two fingered fuck you, but nothing else.

has a winter fit that is just like a pile of whatever sweaters he has and two scarves. and long socks that make the space in his tight boots even more tight. sometimes cuts off circulation to his feet.

loves going to pubs and just chatting with people. also loves picking fights with the drunk people. Particularly the irish. he thinks their accents are funny and has long arguments with them while they're both speaking absolute gibberish.

knows french but only the insults. has an arsenal of french insults he will just whip out of his back pocket and drop on someone's head.

not really a british thing but i bet he doesn't know how to ride a bike. he was a) too tall and b) not willing to get his entire skeleton rattled by riding over the cobbled streets of london.

wimpy's fan. (its like the british version of mcdonalds but less popular and less famous. according to my research).

ANIMALS

Hobie keeps pigeons. he built a little house when he was bored and was surprised to find three pigeons hiding from the rain underneath it the next day. he didn't really intend to keep them but they nested and he kept bringing them food and water. he did name the brown one hobie jr.

hobie has a cat. again, not really 'has' but rather 'it broke into his boat and wont leave'. he didn't name her because he can't think of a good one. for the longest time he had no idea she was living in his floorboards but later discovered a hole in the side of his boat and found a crawlspace just large enough for a kitten.

he is freaked out by snakes. not as in a fear of snakes. but rather in utter disbelief that they can be the size of a human person. he's read about and probably seen the average snake, about the size of an arm. but anything larger than that will make his jaw drop right off of his face

he did have a symbiote dog for a short time. the dog was badly hurt and the passive symbiote had merged with its body to try and help it. he offered it a place to stay and rest and it happily agreed. it followed him around for the short while they had together and one day went off on its own.

he still sees that dog around (affectionately named 'spider-mutt') and offers it head scratches or belly rubs but they always part ways sooner than later.

loves opossums. thinks they look funny.

part two? maybe....

might add more to this as my brain keeps turning.

[clairebearsparkles]

What is my tma ttrpg

So I made a post yesterday about if people were interested in hearing about my heavily based on Monster of the Week tma ttrpg that has charts. I am very excited about the charts, I just love them.

So here's my little breakdown of what I am making, and just what I have in my file right now. Also WARNING for tma SPOILERS, I won't be vague about any references to the podcast itself and the lore if it comes up in my explanation, or in the comments on this post and anything adjacent to that.

So the general idea is the players are all different character archetypes that all work together to stop fear anomalies that pop up. Btw if you have any ideas of things you would like to see added on or changed let me know, I am always open for ideas and feedback.

Now onto what's in it.

The different playbooks I have made up so far are The Chosen One, The Skeptic, The Expert, The Researcher, The (Former) Cultist, The Unfortunate Fool, The Professional, and The Jack of All Trades (this one is your Mikale Salesa type). Each type is based on character(s) archetypes I noticed in the show, but if you guys have types I should add I'll happily take suggestions.

The Avatar playbooks are a separate thing, since these function differently to normal playbooks. There are 3 types of Avatar Playbooks (multiple players can play the same Avatar playbook, just not the same Fear). There's Primal Fear (Buried, Corruption, Flesh, Hunt, Slaughter), Internal Fear (Desolation, Eye, Lonely, Spiral, Web), and External Fear (Dark, End, Extinction, Stranger, Vast). Being an Avatar comes with benefits but also issues, you'll have to deal with fighting the impulsive need to feed your fear when it comes up, but only if you want to fight it (Very similar to the Curses in the Monstrous Playbook in motw). When you pick your playbook you pick your Fear as well, and for your abilities/moves you pull from The Fear Table.

Fear Table is a list of 75 different moves (5 for each fear) that you can pick from. The reason it's an entire separate table and not just connected to the Avatar playbooks is because there's a way for normal players to access the moves as well.

The biggest addition to this game's system is The Fear Scale. The Fear Scale is how you measure your relationship to each fear. Usually you start in the middle and can then either move forward or backwards. Forward gives you benefits and abilities, but along the way you take flaws. Backwards on the scale gives you disadvantages when dealing with each fear and markings/scars. There are ways to move up and down the scale, you can either strive to always remain balanced, or try to become an Avatar by moving up the scale.

When you move up you gain moves but also mutations, I included a fun table with a way to randomize what kind of effects you get called the Inhumanity Table, but you are also welcome to pick your own mutations if you have a vision. For the markings/scars it's all dependent on the situation the Player is in, if they are in a fire and are in a position to get a scar from the Desolation then it'll be a burn mark.

Something I also added that's in other Powered by the Apocalypse games is Conditions, because what fun is a game about Fears if you can't be afraid. They pretty much function identically to the other games that use them, they just spice up role play and add a way to cause conflict.

The basic moves are the usual ones you expect (Fight, Protect Someone, Investigate, Stay Cool, Manipulate, and Help Out), but there are two unique moves for this game, those are Console and Instill Fear. Console is a move you can use to remove Conditions from players and npcs, and Instill Fear is sorta the "magic" move, it allows supernatural actions that when done successfully move you up the scale, but when done badly can move you down.

I think that's the most of what I have, it's the big stuff at least. I'd love to hear what you guys think of it.

[quizzicalwriter]

Time

Pairing(s): Ellie Williams x Fem!Reader, Dina x Platonic!Reader

Summary: Grief with a little help.

Warnings: Mentions of death, depression, grief. Learning to cope with the finality of death.

Word Count: 1.8k

Life after loss; a living curse. Whatever books you scrounged during patrols were weathered and old, mirroring the grief that settled heavily in your stomach, hanging with a fever. It burned in the depths of the night, when the bedsheets grew no warmer than a breath.

They spoke of recovery, mingling the happiness with the sorrow, letting them coexist. You had no idea how to begin that process when even the happy came with a gasp torn from your throat, each movement and memory ending in sobs so harrowing your neighbors became familiar with your grief. The sense of community was kind, torn pieces of parchments with scribbled words of hope tucked into the frame of your doorway, raining down on you each morning you forced yourself from your marital bed.

Some spoke of the familiarity of your screams, how they echoed their own grief. No matter how far it was buried, it was tangible and your beckoning calls would return with no sender, just as their own had all those months or years ago. Grief came from someplace primal, no matter the age, each soul would churn at the sound of loss.

Your home grew scattered, fragments of memories once ringing loud now silent, hushed behind begging your mind refused to cease. Maybe if you begged God enough he’d be kind and return her to you, but even God couldn’t quell the yearning for her. The moments you lay cocooning her pillow, breathing her scent so deep it twirled within your lungs. Her scent warmed you, musk and pine.

Each day that passed lessened her scent, her presence. Time did nothing for your sorrow. Another lie from the many books lent your way, something you recognized in the eyes of those who had gone through something familiar. Promises of the passage of time aiding your grief rung hollow, but soon you found yourself nodding in return, not bothering whoever wished you well with the harsh truth.

In truth, you weren’t sure you could conceptualize what it meant to be without her. Days turned to months, and you still found yourself watching your front door with the same reckless abandon you had at the start of your relationship. She’d return, battered and torn, but she’d be alive. Those hopes would die with each setting sun, the bedsheets limp and frozen.

You visited her grave enough to wedge grass in the shape of your sitting form, a mirror of yourself forever perched in front of her tombstone. You familiarized yourself with the granite, the etchings in the stone. Her birthdate, something approximate she’d made up in her youth. You had found it cute then, but now it soured your stomach. You wanted a date to celebrate her, to feel her presence even if only a passing memory for a moment longer. You had no date, only a vague month.

Dahlias, gardenias. She had garnered enough friends and true companionship to keep her grave ordained with beauty. Even in the rot, the petals curled around her headstone in a pattern so filled with love that even you, in the depths of your grief-grown apathy, found yourself wanting to join them. To shrink down and make a bed out of flowers picked from sadness-fueled love.

Six months, half a year. What did she look like beneath the earth? You pictured her as she was, skin radiant and full. Scars dug into the freckles that lined her shoulders, her smile lines etched into her face, eyebrows lifted in surprise, even feigned. It was the expression she wore whenever she returned home from patrol, from a hunt, finding you bounding into her open arms as though she hadn’t had you on her mind the entirety of her journey.

Your hair had grown, matted near the base of your skull where you rested against your pillow, muscles twisted and frozen in time. In a morose way, you found it humorous. You mirrored a corpse, something tangled and forgotten by time, left only with memories. You stared at yourself in your mirror, how haggard you had grown.

People had done you the courtesy of leaving you be. For the first few weeks, months even, you were left to grieve how you wished. As the weeks turned to months, concern grew within your friends and family. They wished to speak with you, but the front door remained locked, opened only whenever you were required to leave for patrol.

Companionship was something intrinsically human, something many worried would be lost with the outbreak. It hadn’t for you, for Jackson. It rang in the air during celebrations, birthdays, funerals - all of it. There were hugs, cheek brushes, and shared glances with heavy hearts. You wanted to cherish it, you did.

A heavy knock reared you from the continued prodding of your sunken features, the noise continuing to chime through your house as you made your way to your front door. A figure loomed outside, one you recognized without having to part the blind that separated your door from the prying eyes of those outside. You twisted the doorknob before your mind could convince you otherwise.

Dina.

She had loved Ellie, not too long before you had met Ellie yourself. You saw yourself mirrored in her eyes, a shared grief that connected you two with enough tangibility to leave you sick. Her lips didn’t feign a smile, she knew her pain well enough to move forward and envelop you in a hug that mirrored pictures you’d seen etched in children’s books. How a mother would cradle their child after an illness, how siblings would embrace one another after a shared lecture.

You sunk into her hold with a gasp, a lungful of air that seemed to have hung steady in your lungs ever since you learned of Ellie’s death. Unconsciously, your arms circled her, hands clinging to the fabric of her coat as though she were the only thing keeping you steady. You let yourself cry, and she listened. No words were shared in that moment, only tears and whatever strangled air you could manage to scrounge back into your lungs.

An hour seemed to have passed before you pulled away, eyes puffy and nose red. Dina brushed your hair from your face, her hands settling on your cheeks as she gazed back at you. Dina had loved Ellie for years, just as you had. There was no animosity between you, there never had been. You found yourself eternally thankful for it as she led you over to your couch.

“Let’s clean you up.” She murmured, and for once you didn’t fight it. You nodded as you sat down against the cool leather, the fabric creaking beneath your form. She moved beside you, placing her bag in her lap before rooting through it. Her free hand turned you away from her, helping you to rest against the backrest of the couch.

Her hand pressed against the midline of your hair, leaving it flat against you as she brushed away the knotted ends. Winces flashed across your features, yet your eyes stayed locked on an unknown destination in the foreground of your once lively living room. You became familiar with the recurrent pattern of Dina’s breathing, the steady inflation of her lungs paired with a subtle hum that lingered in the back of her throat, as though the silence shared between you two unnerved her.

You couldn’t fault her, neither of you had ever been particularly close with one another, how were you meant to be? Grief had woven you two together, yet the unease lingered. Ellie would’ve joked, made some horrible pun on the quiet. She never liked it, something about it always set her on edge - perhaps she and Dina shared that. You didn’t.

Silence became deafening during the night, whenever you found yourself pining for the familiar call of Ellie’s voice from across the hall. But, now it kept you grounded - here, in a reality where there was no siren to beckon you further. In time you’d fill the air, hum a song Ellie had taught you. For now, it was silence.

“It smells like her. Here, I mean.” Dina spoke, voice cracking halfway through her sentence. “That, uh- pine smell.”

“Her soap.” You replied without missing a beat, a hint of a smile toying with the corners of your cracked lips. Dina hummed, her right hand giving your shoulder a short squeeze before resuming her detangling.

“They had all these different types of soap.” You whispered, finding your chest aching, yet filling with an unfamiliar sensation the longer you spoke of Ellie. “She chose pine every time. Something about how manly it smelled, she loved it.”

Blurry images of Ellie flashed before your mind, her hair tied back, smile upon her face. Her laugh reverberated in the back of your skull, shuddering the memory. You tried to focus on her, her face. All you saw was the pine soap held firmly in her grasp, pale fingers twisted around the paper wrapping. You were laughing then, too.

“I chose roses.”

Ellie had paid for both, holding both bars to her nose the entire walk home. She had never been a fan of roses, the strong scent too ‘loud’ for her liking. She loved it on you, how the day would wear away the stabbing tones and give way to something soft, she’d bury her face into the crook of your neck and breathe deep. You always pushed her away, playfully, of course.

“I see her,” Dina admitted through a sigh of her own. “Sometimes on patrol, I swear I hear her.”

You turned, a shoddy smile twitching your lips as you met Dina’s gaze. “I do too.” You replied, words quiet. “Around the house. In bed. At night, I feel her breath.”

If it had been anyone else, anyone at all, you would’ve refrained from sharing what flooded your mind in fear of sounding psychotic. But, it was Dina, and she understood you better than anyone could. She looked back to you with a smile of her own, her expression echoing her appreciation of being understood.

“She loved you.” She spoke as she lifted her hand, palm cradling the edge of your jaw. “Every time we were on patrol, she couldn’t help but talk about you. It was sweet.”

You laughed then, the noise barely audible, but it was there. The thought of Ellie parading your name, unable to refrain from boasting. It was her, truly. You had done the same, you still did, albeit in the constraints of your grief-stricken stupor.

“She loved me.” You mirrored. “I love her, too.”

“I know,” Dina whispered. “I know.”

Some unforeseen merciful force let you linger in that moment longer than you’d been able to since Ellie’s death, the fleeting hopeful feeling that she was still with you, waiting outside your front door with arms open, pine scent covering her skin. She would wait, wait until you ran into her embrace. Then she’d hold you, plant a kiss to your temple.

She would wait.

As would you.

“I love her, too.”

A/N: Some angst for your evening. I return from my slumber, although it wasn't much a slumber as it was stress. Anywho, I hope this piece isn't too dark. Can you tell I vent through my art? Thank you all for your continued love and support of me and my work, I value you all more than words could ever hope to express. Thank you.

[frodo-cinnamonroll]

Forgive Me

Plot/Summary: In an AU, Borormir survives the Uruk-hai and lives to see the Ring destroyed. He travels with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, and reunites with his brother. When Gandalf and the eagles bring Frodo and Sam back from Mount Doom, Boromir waits anxiously, seeking forgiveness for trying to take the Ring from Frodo, an act that had burned his heart and torn it in two ever since.

Paring: Boromir x the Fellowship

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: mentions of many wounds and some blood, vague mentions of battle, angst

A/N: I apologize this is so very late :( Requested by @fan-of-pretty-much-2-much, @animallover81, @mistyeyesofthemountainpeaks

This fic is based off of this work of art by @bamboocarbon-ver-2-0

—------------------------------------------------------------------

Boom!

The volcano roared and spewed lava.

Crack!

The tower split and fell into oblivion.

Rumble!

A rush of wind gusted from the dark land, signaling the end of its power.

A mix of triumphant shouts and terrified roars arose from the battlefield.

“We won!” some were shouting. “They did it!”

“Fight ‘em while you can!” said others.

“After them! Don’t let them escape!” others commanded.

And others, “Run if you want to save your filthy skins!”

Boromir stood in awe, watching the great tower of Barad-dûr fall with an ear-splitting crash. Orc-blood was splattered over his breastplate and his hair was a tangled mess, but he cared not.

“The eagles!” someone cried. “The eagles are coming!”

Boromir turned to see the majestic eagles with bronze feathers swooping low overhead. One came especially low, and Gandalf leapt up and rode high on its back. Boromir barely heard him say, “Make haste! Make haste!” as it flew swiftly in the dark land ahead.

The shouts of the army brought Boromir back to the present. The throng, led by Aragorn, chased after the fleeing swarm of orcs who were squealing and roaring wildly. Other soldiers who had been wounded stayed back and made their way to the temporary medical tent off the battlefield. Boromir went with the last traces of the army and succeeded in hunting down any remaining orcs. He stayed near the camp, awaiting Gandalf’s return. It wasn’t very long before Boromir heard the cries of eagles again. He looked up and saw the three of them descending. In the claws of one was the shape of a person, as well as the other (which Gandalf was riding on).

“Boromir!” Aragorn cried to him as he ran forward to meet the eagle nearest to him. 

The eagle carrying Sam landed first, and Aragorn began carrying him back to the tents. Then the one carrying Frodo descended right above Boromir. He held out his arms and the eagle dropped the unconscious hobbit gently into them. Boromir looked at Frodo’s grimy face covered in ash, sweat, and a little blood. The halfling smelled of smoke and something else Boromir couldn’t name. His arms trembled as he followed Aragorn to the tents. He now noticed one of Frodo’s hands was covered in blood, and one of his fingers was missing. He held it close to his chest, not caring if it stained his own hand or armor. There were two empty cots available, and they lay down the hobbits in them.

Aragorn proceeded to tend to their wounds, starting with Frodo’s hand. Boromir stepped back and watched, a sickening feeling rising up in him as he saw their wounds. Sam had a faint scar of a bite mark on his shoulder and a gash on the back of his head. Other than his finger, Frodo had four other nasty scars. Aragorn told Boromir one was from a Morgul blade and one faint one was from a cave troll (but would have been much worse without the protection of mithril). The third looked almost like a burn along Frodo’s neck and Boromir guessed it had something to do with the chain that carried the Ring. The last looked odd, like a giant sting.

“It may be,” Aragorn said gravely. There was worry in his voice.

Boromir shook his head as he knelt next to the cot. “Look what they’ve gone through,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of the heartache he felt burning within him. “I should have been there.”

Aragorn remained silent for a brief moment. “You couldn’t have. You know that. I couldn’t have.”

Boromir let a few tears fall and he places his hand on Frodo’s head. The halfling moaned quietly as Aragorn dressed his remaining wounds.

“How could I have done this?” Boromir said barely above a whisper. He closed his eyes and he could see Frodo’s face of distrust and fear at the Great River. He looked at him now. This wasn’t the same hobbit. This one looked wiser and sadder.

What things he must have seen and felt. Boromir thought.

Aragorn finished cleansing Frodo’s wounds and dressing them. With Boromir’s help, he put a clean shirt on him (that was quite oversized for the halfling). He went to fetch water, leaving Boromir alone. He sat down heavily on a wooden stool near the feet of the two cots, putting his head in his hands.

***

He now stood outside in Ilthien, listening to the breeze that sighed with relief. Boromir’s heart did not agree. Yes, he was relieved that they had succeeded, but he felt weighed down. Every step on the way back from the Black Gates had made Boromir’s heart feel heavier and heavier. Over and over Boromir had tried to figure out what he was going to say to the halfling once he awoke, but his efforts were to no avail, as the scenes he had caused those months ago were flashing in his mind.

“Boromir!” It was Pippin’s voice. Hope sailed on it. “He’s awake!”

Boromir felt a stab of dread and simply nodded. “Good.”

Pippin almost ran off, but stopped when Boromir didn’t follow. “You are coming, aren’t you?”

Boromir wanted to walk away, but he followed Pippin. “Yes. Of course.”

When they arrived at Frodo’s room, there were joyous shouts from the hobbits as they ran in. Aragorn stood near the doorway, about to enter. He paused when he saw Boromir’s countenance.

“What am I going to say?” Boromir whispered in distress. “He probably hates me. The last time he saw me I tried to take it.”

“Peace,” Aragorn whispered back. “You will find he is different now. He will forgive you, if you accept it. He has forgiven others who have done much worse to him.”

Boromir was confused as to what that entailed. He followed Aragorn inside.

Boromir couldn’t read the expression on Frodo’s face when he saw him, but he was ready for whatever rebuke he would face. The hobbit said nothing. Boromir knelt, unable to hide his tears.

“My dear hobbit,” Boromir began. “I have not the words, nor the right, to ask for your forgiveness for what I did. I know not how to express the regret I have felt ever since that day. If there is anything you would have me do to show my remorse, please tell me.”

Boromir looked up. To his surprise, he saw great mercy in Frodo’s eyes. “No man, or hobbit, could have destroyed the thing alone. You have been valiant, Son of Gondor. But where you have failed, I forgive you freely, for not even I could resist. As for action, your words and heart say all that needs to be said. I need nothing else, but for you to forgive yourself. Let it be forgotten.”

Boromir cried aloud and grabbed the hobbit’s hand and kissed it once. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“We are a Fellowship,” Frodo said, looking at each of the Fellowship’s members whom he had come to love. “We are eternally bound by friendship and love.”

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Don't Blame Me | John 'Soap' Mactavish x F!OC

Chapter 14: Delicate

Ao3 | Masterpost

Nina thinks about her future with John

General Tags: Fake Marriage, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Slow Build, Canon-Typical Violence

CW: Violence

Words: 2.2k

She was glad he carried her. Unsteady legs made her feel like a newborn fawn. There was a vague soreness, the leftover pain from a stretch. An emotional comedown like a waterfall. She might have cried if she couldn’t have buried her face into his neck. She wanted more. More of him. 

 He sat her on the counter and kissed her, pulling away reluctantly. 

“How hot do you like it?” He asked, crouching to turn on the water and put the plug in the tub. 

“Very.” She leaned back against the mirror. He had a nice ass and thick leg muscles. She’d never really paid attention to that before. She was always focused on his face. The chin scar and the stubble that covered it, his sea-glass blue eyes, and how he smiled at her. 

She nudged him with her foot. He grabbed hold of her ankle and kissed the top of her foot. 

“Yes?” 

“Did you mean it?” She asked gently. 

“Mean what?” He said, lips hovering over her ankle. 

“That you’re going to stay.”

He paused. He stood up and pressed his forehead to hers and held her shoulders

“Yes. My mission is to keep you safe. Until those men are dead and you’re back in England, you’re stuck with me.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I’m lucky Price has a soft spot for ya.”

‘Back in England’ seemed more fairytale than it had ever before. It was a cruel joke for her to believe that she could go back and live a normal life there. One where she could live in a flat and go to uni and have a boyfriend. All the things she thought about when she was little. 

Would she adjust correctly? She was feral. Under socialized and flighty. Ever since she left she dreamed about waking up in her little cabin under old wool blankets. She could hunt and sleep and eat as she pleased.

Now all these people were trying to tame her. Reintegrate into a society that she never was really a part of in the first place. She grew up on a military base in the countryside. 

Her mother had isolated herself in order to be the perfect wife and mother. She rarely left the base even to visit her own family. It got worse in the last 2 years after her brother was born. Her father had grown paranoid, forbidding them from leaving without him and he was rarely available. 

It was Nina that had convinced her mother to leave that day. Sebastian’s birthday was coming up. She wanted to get him a gift. She asked Price about what she should get. She didn’t remember his answer. 

The road was still icy from a late spring frost. They were going downhill and the car wouldn’t slow. Movies never showed how loud things actually are. Metal crushing against asphalt and earth. How when you’re upside down the world slows and even in your memories you can’t speed it back up. 

She never found out how long she was there dangling. She just knew she heard Price yelling at her to cover her face as he smashed what was left of the window. The crunch of glass as he climbed in to unbuckle her. The sound of boots on hard ground as he ran back to base. 

How would her life have turned out had her mother married someone like him? The walls of the living room would be yellow or a light green instead of a grey-blue color. Sebastian wouldn’t have gone to Eton but he might be alive to follow in their father’s footsteps. 

She didn’t blame her father for their deaths. She could blame him for everything else though. 

‘Back in England’ where her mother and brother were buried in a grave she’d never seen. She’d ask Price to take her if he knew. 

John was talking to her, rubbing a circle on her hip. She was suddenly aware of how wet her thighs were, how the slick had gone cold against the counter. 

“Huh?”

“You okay, Neen? You zoned out a little.” He had a hand on her neck, thumb rubbing against her cheek. 

“Sorry. I’m good. What did you say?” She made eye contact so he knew she was listening. 

“Do you mind if I join you?” 

“No.” He helped her take off her sweater and bralette. He ran his thumb over the several small hickeys forming along her collarbone and neck. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He lifted her up again. 

The water was hot like she liked it. Steam pillowing off from the surface of the water and her skin. He got in behind her, his sweatshirt discarded in the same pile. She had to sit on his thighs for them to both fit and water sloshed over the sides. 

“I’m going to give you the tourist treatment. Big Ben, London Eye, Piccadilly…”

He went on listing places to go and things to do. It made her want to kiss him again.  He wet a cloth and wiped it between her thighs delicately. 

“…I’ll take you to Glasgow as soon as I can. Take you to all my favorite places. Edinburgh too. Wherever you want. Loch Ness even if it is a tourist trap…”

She felt domesticated on a surface level. A wild animal that was pranced around as proof that something wild could change. She still felt dangerous. One day she would snap and not just bite the hand that feeds her but rip it clean off. The way that man touched her face flicked a switch inside her. The threat of being separated from John was the only thing that kept her from biting down on his face. 

“You’ll love Kyle. He’s almost as funny as me.”

The wild inside her was clawing its way out. It was angry and insatiable. Even in her softest moments like this with John stroking her hair and building a fantastical future for them. He was dripping honey in her ears but the wild thing wanted to spit back blood. 

She would wear the collar but her leash was fraying. 

What would he do? Would he defend her? ‘It’s just her nature. You can’t agitate an animal and not expect teeth.’ Or would he let her be taken away? Would he put her down? 

Her nails had dug into her thighs. She caught herself before she drew blood but 10 half moons sat on her thighs. 

She grabbed the wild thing inside her and pushed it back down the cliff of her psyche. It tumbled down, hitting rocks and branches. She hoped it stayed down there. That it died down there. 

She kissed John’s neck. 

“I want to see the cows with the big horns.”

“Highland cows? I can take ya to see highland cows.”

“I’d like that.”

She’d submit to the domestic. She liked John a lot. She could nurture this. Grow this into something that could make them both happy. 

He started to wash her back and arms. Sweet vanilla filled the steamy bathroom. 

“Soap.” She made a popping noise at the ‘p’. She looked back teasingly and looped a finger around the ball chain holding his ID discs. “Why is that your nickname?”

“It’s classified.” He said with her mimicking him. He pinched her side. “Don’t be cheeky.”

“I let you inside of me but you can’t tell me the reason for your nickname?” She huffed. 

“Okay,” he sighed. “I clear houses well.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“When engaging hostiles, I can clear out buildings very quickly.”

“You’re good at killing people very quickly?”

“Uh…yeah.” 

“Soap…I think you’re lying but okay.”

She wanted to wake up next to him every morning. Make him disgusting coffee and make dinner. She would bake biscuits and cakes and be everything he wanted. She would be delicate and wear soft things. She would give him a child. 

She would strangle the wild thing in its sleep. She’d rip it apart with her bare hands if she had to.

She turned over to straddle him. More water sloshed out of the tub onto the tile. His hands gripped her ass as she slid her tongue into his mouth. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to be ready for round two so soon.” He sucked a mark onto her neck. “I’m going to say we wait till tomorrow.”

She frowned. She wanted to feel him again. She wanted the heat in her belly and the shuddering pleasure. She wanted to feel how desperate his hands felt against her. 

“Let’s turn in, okay?” He pushed her hair behind her ear and kissed her cheek before leaning in to whisper in her ear. “As soon as you wake up, I’ll have my mouth on you. Promise.” 

He dried her off, having her sit on the edge of the draining tub. He gave her his sweatshirt and got her a new pair of panties to wear. He carried her to the bedroom. 

“Stay here. Be right back.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving. He had an advent calendar when he came back. “You’ve had one of these before, right?”

He pulled her onto his chest once he got in bed. Her legs laid between his, the hair tickling her thighs. 

He popped the cardboard doors and they split the candy. Little chocolate hearts.

“I’ll try not to scare you tonight.” He said, tossing the empty calendar on the floor. “Happy Christmas, Nina.”

She pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his heart. Did he have something wild in him too? Did it fight to get out like hers did? Part of her hoped he did. That it craved her in the same ways hers did. She peppered kisses against his bare skin, following the lines of any scar she found. 

“Happy Christmas, John.”

They moved positions throughout the night. He seemed to favor throwing a heavy arm over her while he slept. She’d wiggle free and soon find herself being pulled back in. He murmured things while he slept. Loose vowels and constants, not full words. He would smile though. 

His hand was over her mouth as he pressed his full body weight against her.

“Don’t make a sound. I think I heard something.” He held his breath. It was faint but they both heard it. Outside was the crunch of snow under boots. Multiple pairs. An arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her out of bed with him. “Whatever happens you need to be quiet, Nina.”

She bit down on her bottom lip and shook her head. 

“It might be nothing but we’re not taking any chances.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and pushed her shoulders down. “Get under the bed. I’ll come get you when I know it’s safe.”

She slid on the cold wood, trying her best to make as little noise as possible. The footsteps were louder now. There was a small window in the bedroom. It was too dark to see but there were people out there.

She could only see John’s feet. She could hear him ready the handgun. He started to close the bedroom door with his foot. 

Glass shattered in the main room. Something metal hit the floor. Lightning was inside. A bright flash of white light and one of the loudest sounds she’d ever heard. 

Her ears started ringing. 

Everything felt like it was happening miles away. The door was kicked open. 

Gunshot, gunshot, gunshot, gunshot. A body slumped to the floor. She kept her eyes on John’s feet. As long as he was still standing. He just had to stay standing. 

More gunshots.

“Hold your fucking fire. If you hit the girl I’ll kill you myself!” It was the voice from the dead, echoing once again from the chest of a dead man in the corner. The voice that had followed her all the way from Kyrat. 

There was grunting, someone was grappling with him. His handgun hit the floor. 

He was thrown to his back, gasping. A gloved hand grabbed his arm. She bit down on her hand as he was dragged away. She could see the handgun. If she was quick she could grab it. She could be quick. She never got the chance. A heavy set of boots marched in. 

A hand wrapped around her ankle and she was dragged out from under the bed. She could see a body slumped in the corner, they were dressed in all black tactical gear and matching ski mask. 

She screamed and kicked. She could hear John calling her name. In the main room there was the sound of more fighting. 

She dug her nails into the floor, scrambling to get away. She was taken down the short hall. She turned to look behind just in time to see the butt of a rifle hit John’s temple. He crumpled to the floor. He was still conscious but blood was dribbling down his face onto his chest.

He was pulled into a chair, his hands and feet tied. She was sat opposite him and tied the same. Plastic zip ties dug into her wrists and ankles. 

“Look at the lovely couple.” A voice floated from the kitchen behind her. A hand came around and stroked her face. She remembered the voice, English, London Accent. She remembered the hand, and the green coat it emerged from. It held her face firm, not letting her turn back. She could see the rage in John’s face. She could angle her eyes downward and saw a pair of black oxfords. “How’s the honeymoon so far?”

Tag List: @yeyinde @queen-ilmaree @yearningforsappho @mykneeshurt @gogh-with-the-flow

LMK if you want to be added for this or any other fic 💗

[fettsvette]

Comfort Care

Your monthly visitor has you feeling miserable, and Jango wants to take care of you.

Pairing: Jango Fett x Reader Words: 2.2k Rating: Teen Warnings: Mentions of menstruation and sex

Can be found on Archive of Our Own here.

  Mando’a terminology

  cyare - beloved

 mesh’la - beautiful

keldabe - affectionate headbutt/forehead press

manda - Mandalorian spiritual concept/version of the afterlife, and/or collective soul of the Mandalorian people

    -

  “I’m back, cyare. ”

  The bedroom door cracked open and whitish light from the hallway flooded in, causing you to wince and hunker down further into the nest of blankets you had built for yourself, the only reprieve from the blast of brightness being the form of your lover standing in the doorway, solid and sure. Jango Fett padded further into your shared bedroom, still in his armor, his head cocked quizzically. This wasn’t your normal reaction to his greeting after being away on so long of a hunt. He’d been anticipating a cry of surprise, followed by you leaping into his arms at a full run to pepper him with kisses. Instead, he’d been hailed with a vague stirring of blankets, and a quiet grunt, although he wasn’t sure if you’d made that noise, or if it had been the door creaking.

  “Are you alright, love? I expected a better welcome than that, I’ve been gone for almost a month.” Jango questioned, trying to hide the concern in his voice. He was surprised to find you already in bed at this hour, especially when he’d sent a messenger droid ahead of the Slave I to alert you that he was on his way back to you. His question was met with another grunt - yes, it had definitely been you, not the door - and he stifled a chuckle at the sound as he moved towards you, his helmet tucked under his arm. He suddenly had a feeling of what may be ailing you, based on how long it had been since he’d left, and he had to admit that your theatrics concerning this particular subject always amused him.

  “Everything hurts and I’m dying .” You retorted grumpily, gingerly rising to a sitting position in the bed and grimacing as you were hit with another wave of cramps in your lower belly and groin. Your cycle had just started earlier in the evening, and while you had been anticipating Jango’s arrival home from Ord Mantell for some time now, and knew he was due to return thanks to the messenger he had sent, you were exhausted and had wanted nothing more than to curl up in your bed and sleep off the worst of the cramping. Jango would be there when you awoke in the morning, and hopefully you would be feeling better at that point in time. But now here he was, in the middle of the night, bursting into your bedroom and jarring you from your rest. There was no way you could be upset with him, though; you’d missed him dearly while he way away, worried over him constantly while he tracked down his bounty - a Bith musician who’d tried to exit his lifetime performing contract with a Falleen nobleman a bit early - and now, as you gazed pathetically at him from your spot in the bed, the slight quirk of his lips and arch of his eyebrows made your heart ache for him.

  Jango’s brows lifted at your whining, and he nodded curtly, almost to himself. You didn’t know how, but sometimes you thought he knew you better than you knew yourself.

  “Ah, I see… I had a feeling that an unwelcome visitor had just dropped by. I can assure you that you’re not dying, though. What do you need of me, mesh’la ?” Jango asked, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile even further, and you felt yourself flush at the soft rasp of his voice. You knew he was implying either of two things, perhaps both - a bit of tender care and company in your afflicted state, or something of a more carnal nature. Jango didn’t mind having sex when you had your period - if anything he seemed to enjoy how much more sensitive and hot and slick you were, and he took pride in the fact that he could make you feel so much better just by fucking you - but he’d been gone for so long, and you were grouchy and tired, and all you wanted was to feel safe in his embrace, more than anything else.

  “Take care of me?” You asked softly, pulling the blankets up around your chin and giving your lover what you hoped was your best pleading expression. You heard just how pathetic and needy your voice sounded, but you didn’t care - you knew that Jango loved taking care of you, and you adored just how gently he could treat you, especially after having just returned from a hunt. Jango’s expression softened further as soon as the words left your mouth, and your heart skipped a beat. Your begging had the desired effect after all. 

“ As you wish . I’ll be right back, darling. Let me get this armor off and jump in the sonic, I don’t think you want me sharing your bed when I’m this sweaty.” He gave you a mock bow that made you giggle, and stepped back out into the hall, looking back over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner to the refresher and giving you a coy wink. You heard the familiar clunking sounds of his Mandalorian armor being deposited on the closet floor shortly afterwards, followed by the soothing vibrations of the sonic shower in the adjacent room. You reclined against the pillows once more, trying to ignore the contracting muscles in your abdomen, and waited for your love to rejoin you, anticipating feeling his arms around you.

  This man you had built a life with was one of the most feared bounty hunters in the galaxy, and you couldn’t believe just how threatening and terrifying and downright mean he could appear when he needed to, but the quiet strength he exuded when the two of you were alone was such a comfort. You couldn’t believe how lucky you were to have this secret side of Jango Fett all to yourself, and you never planned to take it for granted.

  -

  “Room service…” You hadn’t even realized you’d dozed off until the call and soft knock came from the doorway, and you sat back up, grinning at your lover’s snide comment. Jango stepped back into your bedroom, nudging the door open with his foot and carrying two clay mugs and a piping hot carafe of something that smelled absolutely delicious. You couldn’t help but perk up when you realized it was your favorite warm drink, Deychin tea. There hadn’t been any in the flat when you’d last checked, and your heart flipped in your chest when you realized he must have picked some up for you while he was away. Jango seemed to be the only one who knew how to prepare it exactly the way you liked it, anyway. You thankfully took the mug after he’d poured some tea for you, blowing on the liquid and taking a small sip, humming delightedly to yourself as you felt the warmth spread down into your belly, and throughout your body. Jango sat on the bed next to you and poured himself a cup, taking several sips himself before placing the carafe and mug on the nightstand. You took a moment to drink him in - his close-cropped curls, those dark eyes, the hard set of his jaw, the scars that freckled his skin. All these years later, and he was still the most ruggedly handsome man you’d ever seen in your life. He was dressed comfortably in a simple woven tunic that dipped to expose his broad chest, and a pair of worn grey sweatpants slung low around his hips, and you shivered from desire despite yourself. You really didn’t know how you’d managed to bag such a gorgeous specimen of a man, yet here he was. 

  “My poor girl…” Jango cooed softly, the teasing tone in his voice not unnoticed, and you leaned your head down to bump against his shoulder like a felinx desiring a scratch behind the ears from its owner. He laughed at your antics, a low rumble that always sent a delicious chill up your spine, and turned to face you, plucking the mug from your hands and setting it on the table next to his own. Without another word, he pulled back the blankets and settled himself underneath them next to you, and slung one muscular arm around your shoulders, guiding you to lay your head against his chest, which you did gladly. You sighed contentedly at the heat Jango always seemed to radiate, and reached up to intertwine your fingers with his over your shoulder, smiling to yourself at just how small he made you feel, his hand in yours. His fingers were scarred and rough after years of working with weaponry and fixing machinery, but you loved how reassuring they felt against your skin. Jango cupped his other hand against your cheek briefly as you made yourself comfortable against him, then trailed it down to rest against your lower belly, directly over your uterus, and gently kneaded the soft flesh there. 

  You couldn’t help but let out a satisfied groan at the warmth radiating from his hand through to the cramping muscles, as well as the pressure his deft fingers applied to the aching area, and you relaxed further into him, feeling like putty in his arms. You lifted your chin to look into his eyes, and were met by that same searching, brooding expression, his lips slightly pursed in a quiet smirk, and Jango leaned forward to capture your mouth in his, never once ceasing his ministrations as he kissed you, only breaking away to leave a trail of them against your cheek, the tip of your nose, and your forehead, followed by a proper keldabe that ended too soon for your liking.

  Your face felt hot where his stubble had brushed against your skin, and you relished in the knowledge that you’d be able to feel the ghost of his kisses for hours afterwards. Jango released his other hand from your grasp and circled it around your waist, hugging you closer to him and turning you so that you laid on your side, pressed against his abdomen. You winced slightly as the change of position and the absence of his hand against your tummy ignited another volley of cramps, but once you were pressed firmly against his body, the heat coming off him in waves was more than enough to sate your aches and pains. 

  “That’s my good girl, letting me take care of you like this…” Jango rumbled affectionately, and you whined softly in response at his praise, burying your face against his tunic and wrapping your arm around his waist, hastily throwing one leg over his own for good measure. Jango let out a small ‘ oof ’ at your unexpected cuddle, tensing for a moment as he adjusted to your grip on him, but quickly chuckled and hugged you tighter. He adored just how needy you could be for him sometimes, especially after he’d been away for a lengthy period of time, or when you weren’t feeling well. 

  “Are you feeling a bit better now that I’m here, my love?” Jango whispered against your hair, and you swore you could feel him smiling against you. His smiles were so rare, so beautiful, and it made your heart ache to know that you were the cause of the sheepish grin you knew crossed his normally stern features. You wanted to sit up, hold that face between your hands and kiss his lips so deeply, so earnestly, but you were much too tired to make the effort, and knew your man would be there in the morning when you woke up. You always stirred after dawn broke to the feeling of Jango’s arms around you, if you were fortunate enough to have him home with you.

  “You have no idea, Jango. Thank you…” You murmured sleepily, nuzzling your nose against his collarbone and sighing blissfully as Jango’s long fingers carded through your hair, his free hand smoothing up and down the curve of your back, tracing patterns over the thin material of your sleep shirt. It wasn’t long before the steady, strong rhythm of Jango’s heartbeat, as well as the rise and fall of his chest against your cheek, helped you drift off into a deep sleep, your fist still clutching at the soft material of his shirt, your face hidden in the crook of his neck.

  As Jango watched you sleep, he felt a surge of affection for you make its way through his body. He didn’t think he would ever truly understand why you loved him so deeply after all he’d done in his career, why you were so comforted by his touch or mere presence alone, but the way you looked now, asleep and completely at peace in his arms after such a fitful start to your evening, offered the realization that maybe he didn’t have to understand. He loved you something fierce, and you loved him desperately in return, despite everything, and perhaps that would always be enough. 

  Jango Fett leaned his cheek against the crown of your hair and sent a whispered prayer of thanks to the manda for allowing him to come home safely to you, time and time again.

  Thank the stars for small favors.

[sizeshiftingdeath]

Ends and Starts (MCYT G/T Exchange!)

Hello there sizeshiftingdeath! I received your prompts for the gift exchange, and while I tried to start pretty close to your prompt, my ideas kind of spiraled out of control, I hope you don't mind ^^' I can make something else with another prompt if it doesn't fit what you were hoping for, though! There's also a little bit of extra information down the bottom with some stuff I thought of about the au I accidentally made.

Prompt given: ‘A human caught in the rain finds a giant in the forest’

<please put a read-more here!>

The world is pockmarked with evidence of the tragedies of the past. Of warped land that paints the horrors that befell things that came before. The living reminders of them continue to live on in perpetuity, as immortal creatures that were wreathed in the horrors that life on Earth had endured in the past. 

Bask in their horrible might.

There is the Death from Burning and Fire and Falling from the Sky and Cold Choking Death, the End of the Cretaceous. A massive beast, the bloody end of an era of enormous fauna. A destruction made all the more powerful by how quickly it was achieved. It stalks the land and sea and, where it steps, the plants die of lack of sunlight and the ground turns to tar.

There is the Death from Ever Hunting and Chasing and Too Warm Too Bright - Tech, the man-shaped leviathan, death in the shape of something familiar to mankind, the Killer of the Pleistocene. The death of great megafauna in an icy world from the encroaching warmth of a new era, the sharp point of a spear. It hunts the world with spears and arrows of fire and, in the depths of its nest, all water has turned to vapor and the earth itself has become a wasteland. 

There is the Death of Falling Frozen Seas, of a primordial sea strangled to death under a glacier lock, Her Lady of the primaeval oceans, the Death of the Ordovician. The tail-end of an explosion of life, stretched too far by their own hubris. And yet, despite being a beast with a hundred trilobite and eurypterid faces, one that has a herald in the form of a human by Her side, for reasons that have yet to become known. Maybe, just like every other esoteric thing that such beasts may do, it shall remain a mystery forever.

Look and see. A new immortal is emerging from its eggshell of tragedy. The unstoppable bomb and burning oilfield. The death through hubris and a slow choking unraveling of your very being. The death of man from crackling radiation and tainted iridescent-film water and ash filled smoke. The destruction of the Anthropocene.

Except. This is a creature who was born prematurely. Because man is not dead nor feeling its own final throes. It was not born wreathed in the screams of the damned, only the fears held in the hearts of the still-living. It is naïve and curious and did not yet have the star of a hundred million species’ souls to power it yet. It was stunted.

And that is why the first human the newest apocalypse met was so important.

  …

  The forests are deep and dark. Quiet yet shivering with life. Constantly moving and yet trapped in some space between time. Most of all, they expected nothing more from you than for your own two legs to be able to travel. Ranboo liked that. 

It certainly was nicer than what he had to deal with outside of the forest at least. Here he could continue walking and listening and breathing for as long as he still could move forward. This forest in particular was a favorite, with a constant twilight quality to it that played into its timelessness. 

He stumbled over a log, slipping slightly on the slick moss, and focused as strongly as he could on his surroundings. It was hard when he could so quickly slip into his thoughts. He needed to enjoy his surroundings. He needed to stay in the present and not phase out like fog.

Ironically, it was his attempts to ground himself that prevented him from noticing what was slowly growing more wrong in the forest around him. The scent of ash in the air. The lack of birdsong or rustle of leaves. The trees, growing darker and more burnt-looking, and the dead logs that were bristling with fungi.

But when he stepped out into a clearing with an enormous rock embedded into the middle of it, Ranboo really couldn’t help but realize all of the discrepancies. The illusion of an eternal twilight had been broken with the red light that streamed down. The ground was distressingly clear of ground cover, instead dusted with ash. 

Forest fire? He hadn’t heard of any in the area but… What else would it be?

Ranboo looked up at the sun, which had meandered towards the west since he had entered the forest. There were dark clouds gathering above him in worrying amounts, and the air was a little hard to see through with the particles suspended in it. He frowned at it. 

Something was wrong here, he could sense it in a deeply animalistic kind of way. As if there was something screaming in his hindbrain to run.

He didn’t run. This was the forest that he has walked a hundred times before, when did this happen? Why had this happened? He needed to find out.

Overhead, thunder rumbled. A droplet of curiously dark water fell on his face.

Ranboo stepped towards the other side of the forest clearing that should not have been there.

And that's when a living embodiment of a mass extinction came shambling out of the ashen trees.

  Ranboo didn’t know which detail he noticed first about this rogue apocalypse beast. Was it the limp brown hair that was almost black with iridescent oil slick? Was it the enormous horns that curled jutting from its face and looked more like scrap metal than keratin? Was it the uranium-glass green stripes that criss-crossed like cracks in ceramic along it’s skin? 

Or was it the fact that this one was shaped like a man? 

The apocalypse beasts always most resembled the myriad that had died in their creation. The death of the Ice Age looks vaguely like a man,  if squinted at, mostly because so many cousins to humanity had died in its formation. It was more like an enormous boar-beast on two legs that had the arms of a man, if anything. This one did not look remotely like the death of the Ice Age. 

Ranboo took a flying leap from horror and realization to hysteria. This is the death of humans. The death by nuclear bombs and smoke and oil. The fabled next apocalypse beast, the bringer of the end of the world, was already here.

For a moment of absolute blinding terror he wondered if this meant that all other humans on Earth were dead now. That today was the day the entirety of humanity died, leaving just him wandering the forest endlessly. That nuclear armageddon occurred and he was out there worried about keeping himself grounded enough to admire the birds.

The beast - and he was never in doubt that this was an apocalypse beast, even if he had never seen any of the others in person before something shook like a leaf in his soul simply from being near it - loomed over him. It watched him like a bug under a glass with nuclear hazard yellow-and-black eyes, and the spell of frozen muscles snapped in Ranboo. He bolted towards the boulder in the middle of the clearing and pushed his way into a space between it and a smaller boulder at its base, scrambling to find a smaller crack to squeeze himself into to just get himself out of reach of the beast, of the black water, of everything.

He could hear a rasping, clicking-crackling sound. (A Geiger Counter.) He could see glowing green-striped fingers reach under the edges of the rock he had wedged himself under. Could see, in the sickly chartreuse light they cast, fingernails larger than his head catch the rock. Felt the weight of the boulder lift from his back. 

Ranboo was left crouching and shaking, so scared he couldn't breathe (or maybe it was the ash or the slimy water that couldn’t be rain), as the apocalypse beast crouched down further. It crackled and clicked with a mouth that seemed all too human to be able to make those noises, and then it. Crooned? With a voice that was more like a siren shriek turned down, weirdly echoey as if speaking from far away, it clicked and whined and Ranboo was so confused he didn’t even see the hand reach down and pick him up by the back of his shirt.

He screamed and flailed, imagination jumping into overdrive about what horrifying things the beast could do, and just as quickly, he was dropped with a whoomph to the ground and the death of Mankind jerked back. Ranboo gasped and sputtered as half of face got thoroughly soaked with ash-water mud, and hoisted himself up again to get away from the apocalypse beast.

Who was crouching over him, luminous trefoil eyes barely a foot away from his own, still crooning that awful siren tone. From this close Ranboo could faintly see radiation burns pockmarking its skin, and a horrible scar of curled and ridged skin along its face, as if it was victim to a close-range bomb explosion. 

It tilted its head, leaning a tiny bit closer, and Ranboo threw his arms up to cover his face. God, it itched where the ash water had splashed on him. Why was it itching so much?

The death of Mankind stopped again, looking up into the sky and then down at Ranboo again. It seemed to come to a conclusion, because it then slowly - oh so slowly, why was it being careful? - cupped its hands out in front of it and held them out to him.

It… Wanted him to climb on. Into the grasp of a literal specter of death specifically designed with the destruction of his own species in mind.

Ranboo, in a moment of blind panic and stupidity, climbed on. It looked polite, he reasoned. He was already going to die just from being close to this thing. 

It continued to… yes, it definitely was cooing now, in that horrifying voice, and for a moment Ranboo wondered if maybe he misinterpreted. Maybe this thing wasn’t meant to represent the nuclear apocalypse.

His eye had started to itch where the water touched it. He rocked himself in the grasp of this giant, feeling footholds in the craggy radiation-worn skin, and felt the side of his face. 

The moment e touched it, a white-hot flash of horrible burning pain hit him like a truck, knocking him into a stupor of yelling. It was as if his face was burning, was twisting and gnarling just as much as the apocalypse beast’s horns did. Under his hand, stiff with pain and unable to move away, he could feel skin slough off, could feel the cells themselves die off in droves, in response to whatever radiation or toxin was in the ash-water. 

He couldn’t even register the sensation of fingers larger than his torso curling around him and holding him steady, of him being pressed up against a vast chest that beat unsteadily like a stuck clock, of the vast thumps of footfalls against a diseased forest floor.

All he could feel is pain, burning coiling tunneling pain that tried to tear out his face, his hands, his neck, burning him bright and radiant like a star. 

  …

  The creature was screaming in its hands. It hadn’t stopped screaming for a long time. 

It was small and writhing and melting. Creatures usually didn’t like melting. 

The death of Humanity wasn’t sure how to make it stop. It had dashed out of the black-rain (that seemed to make the melting worse, maybe it’ll stop once it’s out of the rain?) to its home cave, hoping that perhaps it could figure something out in the comfort of its own home. 

The creature’s screams had died down, though whether it was from its pain being alleviated or their voice giving out, the death of Humanity couldn’t tell. All it could tell was that it wasn’t getting up, wasn’t looking at it with those wide curious scared-but-interested eyes. 

Most animals ran from the death of Humanity. Land-creatures would yell in fear and flee, birds would rise up into the sky in huge swarms only to be struck down by the black-rain. Even insects would twitch and die when they got near, which led so many to flee this part of the forest entirely. It was a lonely existence. But this human hadn’t run like the other animals had. It had hid, yes, but it had viewed the death of Humanity in all of its glory and it almost, almost, was ok with it being picked up. 

And then something had happened and now the human was dying just like all of the other animals and the Nuclear Apocalypse didn’t know what to do.

Be well. Be alright. Be just like you were before, it thought, delicately laying the twitching human on the ground out of reach of the dripping black-water puddles, in a nest of dried grasses and leaves that had swept into the cave over the years. It prodded the human with a finger, whining softly when all it did was spasm like a dying insect. It wasn’t dying, right? It was just hurt? It couldn’t be hurt, the death of Humanity wouldn’t allow it. Not when it was so curious and didn’t flee like the others. Not when the death of Humanity had a chance to learn from it. Even now, writhing in its palm, it could feel the frantic beating of life and warmth, things it had so rarely seen before.

You will be well. You must be well. I will make you well.

  ...

  When he came to, it was to complete darkness.

Well, no. Not totally. There was a faint glimmer of far away light somewhere to his left. A shuffling shadow, a faint sickly green glow.

His right was totally dark though, and he couldn’t quite open his eye. He almost brought his hand up to touch it before violently flinching as he remembered what had landed him here in the first place. Would it start burning and melting horribly like it did before? That he was even awake to wonder that is a miracle in of itself... Or the start of the second round of his torture.

Horrible curiosity pushed him to touch, as lightly as possible, the skin on his right cheek. It… He couldn’t feel it. Or rather, he could feel the sandpaper surface of extremely rough skin, but he couldn't feel the pressure, the burning bright pain. The entire area was dead to the touch.

Ranboo threw himself as upright as he could make himself, which ended up only being a half kneel before falling back over into a sit. His breath hitched and he felt his face more firmly, the rough scratchy surface of skin that splattered like paint over the right side of his face, over his eye, down his neck and onto his arm. The muted tingling where it met smoother skin along his shoulder and the bridge of his nose. In an act of desperation he even poked at his eyelid, trying to pry it open to see if he could ever see from that eye again. 

His hand passed in front of his working eye in that moment, and at this point his focus had sharpened enough to make out vague colors in the dim light. His hand… It was a black far darker than any human could naturally produce, with a grey-green cast that made him look sickly. 

I feel sickly, he reasoned to himself. What is going on? He waved his hand a little frantically, as if the new midnight shade was something that was just stuck to his skin. Desperately he held up his other (totally numb to the touch) hand, hoping it hadn’t changed too.

Well, good news - it wasn’t midnight black.

Bad news - it was a shade so pale that it looked totally devoid of blood. And the raspy surface he could feel didn’t look any prettier to the eye. It didn’t have that same grey-green tint to it though, which was nice, because it would’ve shown up really well on this pure white canvas.

Why was he even thinking about looks right now? He was in the den of an Apocalypse Beast Ranboo get your head together! This was absolutely not the right time to space out - he needed to stay in the moment!

His hands were shaking uncontrollably as he tried to get himself upright. He had only just gotten himself steady when he felt the rattle of large footsteps shake through the ground. Before Ranboo could even think to run though, the shadows out of the corner of his eyes resolved into the beast, which made its way all too quickly towards him. 

He couldn’t run if he wanted to. And besides, the damage done to him would probably kill him. He was on borrowed time as is. What did he have left to do but to see what the beast did?

It slowed as it came closer, reaching out a vast clawed hand towards him. Despite his resignation towards his fate, Ranboo flinched back as it came way too close way too fast. A movement that the beast obviously didn't notice or interpret or care about, because he was scooped up into its palm without a moment's hesitation. 

“No!” He yelled, wriggling and pushing away from the cage of fingers around him. The beast paused in bringing him up to its face, and if Ranboo was being generous he could call the look on its face a frown. 

In less than a blink the face of the beast was so close way too close and he almost punched it (for all the help that would do) out of reflex. It blinked at him with those lucent yellow-black eyes, laser sharp in their focus upon him. He felt for all the world like an ant being peered at through a magnifying glass. Maybe he’ll be fried like one too. 

“What do you want with me?” He asked, voice cracking in fear. “What is it you want?” 

It didn’t answer in that siren tone again, but instead shifted its weight to the side and turned its palms so that Ranboo was standing squarely in one of them. The other was drawn up and one sharp-clawed finger was pointed at Ranboo. Or, well. The side of Ranboo’s face that he couldn’t see from just yet. 

He trembled with the anticipation of the jagged nail at the end of the beast’s outstretched finger spearing forward. But all it did was touch, very gently, under the damaged eye. The beast frowned even more. 

Then it jabbed at him, hard enough to bruise but not much else, directly into Ranboo’s damaged eye. He yelped and jumped away, tumbling off his feet in the cup of the beast’s fingers and slapped a numb hand over numb face. Even if he couldn’t feel the area, it still surprised him enough to believe for a moment he could sense it again. Except… was that still his imagination? The eye under his pale skin was starting to itch and water, the first sensation he felt from it since he had woken up, and with a gasp he was able to open his eye. 

Fuzz. That’s all he could see from that eye. The beast leaned forward and poked at his face again, softer this time, and when he opened his eye again the world had snapped into focus, tinged with red around the edges. He blinked a few times, and felt a trail of something wet leak from that eye onto his cheek.

What had happened? “You… You healed me?” He asked up at it. It was still frowning even as he had two working eyes again, and muttered softly in a voice that sounded like something crumbling into splinters. Then it poked him for a third time, this time on the shoulder, and Ranboo held back a yell of pain as the area lit up in a blaze of sensation that felt like liquid fire. As he watched, the black skin around the edges of the wound cracked and veins of bright green glowed beneath.

Just… Like… The beast…

Oh no.

The pain of his nerves coming back to life was nothing when compared to the cold horror that had bubbled into his stomach. There was a single case of a human managing to gain immortality as a result of an apocalypse beast. One of the first beasts, Her Lady of the Primordial Sea, the beast of the Ordivician extinction, had taken pity upon an ancient human who was trapped in the glacial ices that herald her path across the Earth, and had gifted it with immortality and a pair of wings that made him as beastly as the Lady he served.

Nobody knew exactly why the Angel of the Deaths had been spared, and why not a single human had ever had that happen before or since. All that was really known about him was his violence, and that he had an uncanny ability to be where an apocalypse beast would be travelling to next. He was just as inhuman and alien as the beasts themselves, if in a smaller form.

It had only ever happened once. Until now, obviously.

Ranboo stared at his white hand, prickling with waking nerves under the surface and twisting with green strands that trailed under his skin like angry snakes, and knew that he was a monster now. Somehow, it was freeing. Like he finally got an answer to a question he had asked over and over. Why him, why now, why is he still alive, why is he not afraid enough…

He stared back up at the apocalypse beast and it blinked down at him. It was no longer frowning, only looking thoughtfully now. “You’re not going to hurt me.” It wasn’t a question.

It reached a hand back up, maybe to poke him again, but this time rubbed his hair very lightly. He did not flinch this time, steeling up his willpower to allow this touch (It won’t hurt him. He needs to keep repeating it until it is true. It won’t hurt him. He was its now it wouldn’t hurt him).

It made that soft crooning noise again, like it had before lifting the rock he had been hiding under, and despite it being underlaid with sounds specifically designed to inspire fear in humans, he could find himself getting used to it. (Would have to. He’s an abomination now after all. The second angel.)

“You’re not so bad, are you…” He slowly pushed himself to his feet, flexing his newly sensated hand carefully. “I still don’t know what you are or why you are here now but…”

The beast tipped its head curiously and warbled exactly the same words back at Ranboo. He froze, because it was so much like his own voice except under deep layers of static, before shaking his head. Best get introductions out of the way - this creature was obviously smart. It was the death of Humanity after all.

He pointed to his chest. “Ranboo.” He gave it a few pokes for emphasis, and the beast poked him too before mimicking his name. He wasn’t entirely sure it actually got what that meant but, well. Baby steps. 

Then he pointed at it. It blinked a few times (and Ranboo really couldn’t help but anthropomorphize its reactions - this thing was just too uncannily human to not) and chirped out another ‘Ranboo.’ He gestured more firmly, pointing at the beast. 

It continued to look with (probably) bafflement for a few moments, before letting loose a cacophony of sounds that sent Ranboo’s hands slapping over his ears. It was all of the sounds of falling trees, of squawking birds, of the blazing sun and frigid cold and most of all the explosive fire and cold falling ash-water and death from sickness. It was everything and more that wrapped up the death of Humanity in a nutshell. 

Ranboo blinked. That might take a while to learn how to pronounce.

  He decided to call it Tubbo for short. 

<End> There we have it! I hope that you enjoyed this - I hope it didn't betray too much how much stuff like this interests me and that this was potentially also 3000 words of me nerding out about mass extinctions.

Anyways, here's some details I had added but had no way of explaining naturally within the story that i was a little proud of ^^'

The Anthropocene apocalypse beast is also called the unstoppable bomb and burning oilfield. Shortened to TUBBO. Ha.

There’s 7, now 8 apocalypse beasts (Great Oxidation Event, Ordovician, Devonian, Permian, Triassic, Cretaceous, Pleistocene, and now Anthropocene). I originally intended there to just be 5 (for the big five mass extinctions) and then a 6th Anthropocene apocalypse beast, but then I thought I really should add in the great oxidation event that almost caused extinction of all non-oxygen breathing creatures on a very early earth, and the death of most megafauna in the Pleistocene era. 

Society is way different with these living eldritch abominations just shambling across the globe, causing a trail of destruction behind them. A lot less large cities, for one.

The Ordovician apocalypse beast is Kristin, yes. She’s uplifted Phil into something similar to what Ranboo is now. I kinda want to think more about her and her story with Phil.

The Pleistocene apocalypse beast is Techno. Idk why I chose to do that but it seemed to fit. Especially since the leading theory on Pleistocene megafauna death is humans hunting them, which I think fits Techno pretty well

The rain is black rain - rain full of radioactive fallout. Bad Stuff, definitely not what you should seek out if you want to keep your body in working order.

I kept referring to sirens in Tubbo’s speech. Just imagine every emergency warning broadcast sound except even more terrifying 

So Ranboo’s skin is majorly fucked up. For one, he’s suffered major radiation damage to the side that is now white (healed over brand new skin). The black half is much more interesting though. Did you know there are types of fungi that can feed off of nuclear radiation? They protect themselves from the effects by secreting a LOAD of melanin, making them extremely dark. Anything that wasn’t newly healed on Ranboo had now become akin to those fungi now. Feeding rather than harmed by the nuclear radiation Tubbo naturally puts off. Perfect for a newborn Angel of the deaths.

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Thank you so much for this story submission!! I really love this idea and how well you wrote it! this is so amazing! ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

[fangorl-trash]

In the Dark

The Mandalorian x fem!Reader

Summary: you and din have an intimate bonding moment...in the dark.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: SOFT. SHY. MANDO. uhh... slight mentions of a dark past, but it’s vague af, like not even warning worthy BUT JUST IN CASE LOL. curse words. there’s no smut, but if yall want a part 2, lemme know ;) if i forget anything, lemme know lol

A/N: first of all, this gif makes me FEEL things jfc wow i adore din. secondly, hi there lol! this is definitely a self-indulge piece lmao, but i hope you guys enjoy nonetheless! i can promise there are no season 2 spoilers, cause i’d like to think it takes place between the two seasons. aaaand this was all based off a brainrot hour i had (you can read it here, if you really want!) so...yeah lmao. Enjoy y’all! :)

The night before was just like any other night. Chuckles and giggles and stories whispered and shared back and forth. Hands itching to get closer, to connect wholeheartedly, but never having the courage to do so. The calm before tomorrow’s storm of bounty hunting.

A small, yellow-tinted light above the shared cot illuminated the two. She thought he looked like a guardian angel, the way it shone off of his armor dully. He thought she looked like a goddess, the soft light giving her a halo.

They were hopelessly in love.

Y/N and the Mandalorian. A dynamic duo, of sorts. Two different puzzle pieces from two different puzzle sets, yet they somehow fit together perfectly. She loved him for his tenacity, his fierceness in battle, and his big heart he only showed to her. He loved her for her kindness, her empathy, and the way her eyes sparkled when he came back to the ship after a long day.

They were hopelessly in love with one another, yet neither has said it. Maybe to both of them, saying it was not enough; the actions and moments shared between the two was what truly defined it all. The way he purchased antique books for her to read, because she mentioned it once. The way she grabbed extra blankets from the closet because he got cold at night easily.

The night before was just like any other night. It was calm and quiet and pleasant; almost too pleasant for Din’s liking. In the line of work of a Mandalorian, pleasant never lasted long. But Maker, he swore that time stopped when he saw you that next morning.

When he looked over to see your sleeping form, his breath hitched in his throat. The yellow light above you was dim, but showcased your features brightly and beautifully. You laid on your side, arm tucked under your ear and other hand laid at your side. Your hair fell over your forehead and cheeks.

You looked like a dream.

His gloved hand reached out and tucked a strand or two behind your ear, so he could see his beautiful girl. After all you’ve been through...you were still Y/N and Din. Din and Y/N.

A feeling of gratitude overcame him suddenly as he gazed upon your angelic form. You deserved everything good in this world. The prettiest of jewels, that sparkled in the starlight. The largest of feasts with your favorite intergalactic meals and beverages. Whatever novel that you craved to read next.

He would go to the ends of the galaxy for you. Anything to see that smile.

He prayed everything he did for you was enough, even if it was all so small and minute. You deserved so much better than what he was giving you.

His gratitude took a negative, insecure turn. He knew what you really wanted, what you really deserved that he couldn’t give you: physical love. He can’t kiss you. He can’t hold you. He can’t look in your eyes and tell you how much you meant to him.

He thought of himself as selfish. He wanted all of those things and more. He wanted to feel your lips against his. He wanted to look in your eyes, and your eyes only. He wanted to hold you close without beskar separating you. He wanted to feel your skin against his fingertips, because holy fuck, you just look so soft and so fucking warm.

With a soft sigh, his leather-clad fingertips brush down your cheek and over the curve of your arm. Dank farrik...what he would do to hold you. Hold you properly.

Something clicked in his brain all of a sudden. Why is he being such a pussy? He’s THE Mandalorian, for Maker’s sake. He knows just the solution.

~~~

That night, you dreamed of your past life. Before you met Din. Before you both met the Child. Though your dream wasn’t a nightmare, it was still dark and dull. You honestly couldn’t wait until it was all over.

And then you felt lips on the inside of your wrist. Slightly chapped and slightly wet, with small hairs tickling you as well. A gentle hold on your fingers. The kisses slowly trailed up the inside of your forearm, curving against your elbow before continuing their trek up the rest of your arm to your shoulder. It tickles, you thought, shifting under the stranger’s hold.

Your eyes fluttered open with a soft groan. A blanket of pitch black overwhelmed your vision. Panic struck your heart. What in the world is going on right now?

“Good morning,” a voice spoke, breath fanned across your exposed shoulder. Shy, but certain. A low grovel, but not due to a helmet’s voice amplifier.

“D...Din,” you mumbled, fingers grasping his tightly. Your heart skipped a beat at the feeling of...of him. “Wh-What...what’s going on? I-I can’t see.”

He took a pause. “I turned off the lights.” Another pause. “I just...wanted to...”

Even though his voice trailed off, you knew exactly what he wanted to say.

This was new territory for the both of you. Neither of you were scared, per say, but...nervous, cautious. Your voice and your actions matched how you felt. After you sat up and crossed your legs, you reached out with your vacant hand on bated breath. “M-May I?” You requested quietly, hesitatingly. Your eyes scanned about, but you couldn’t find him within the dark ahead of you, even though you were barely a foot apart.

You learned that in certain situations Din’s silence meant yes.

Your fingers made purchase with his bicep, but you backed away just as quickly as you touched him.

Okay, so maybe you were scared. Just a little.

You both sat there silently, slowly counting the moments before one of you made a move. The ship thrummed around you two, but the blacked out bunker was quiet overall. After the bounty hunter released a shallow breath, he lifted the hand that held yours, bringing it to his cheek with a Din-like grace and sureness. A smile stretched both of your lips at the feeling; the feeling of you actually touching. Wholeheartedly Connecting.

His stubble was a pleasant surprise. It felt scratchy under your soft fingertips, but it felt...it all felt like home. Your fingers cupped the back of his neck tenderly, your thumb brushing against his cheekbone. His own fingers brushed against your left upper arm and shoulder delicately, feeling your goosebumps rise slowly as he brushes against the strap of your tank top.

You shuffled a bit closer to Din, now in between his open and bent legs. You didn’t know you were holding your breath in until you let it out, shaky and soft. His own breath reached your forehead, delicate and quiet. Your other hand lifted up, hand finding its place on his chest. Once again, you were pleasantly surprised to touch his bare skin; soft and warm to the touch. Your fingertips yearned to travel, and before you could stop your curious thoughts, your middle and ring fingers brushed against a rough scar. It was a jagged, diagonal line, only about three inches in length. Dry, scabbed-over skin, a story untold. You suspected he had battle scars galore, but actually feeling one was...shocking.

The reality of this man’s career suddenly hit you like a shot from a blaster. This man...this man that you loved.

How many of these untold stories were near deaths? How many stories would have ended without Din back in your arms?

You swallowed the lump that formed in your throat before your fingers continued their journey, a confident spark behind their actions. They ventured across his beautiful canvas, blindingly mapping out the divets, marks, and bruises of his skin. Your hands gripped and caressed at his shoulders and arms, your fingers brushed against his cheeks and jaw. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, and the banging of his heartbeat. You couldn’t help but smile at that. Other than the fingers on your arm, Din remained unmoving under your touch; if he was being honest, he had no clue what to do.

You finally smiled as you felt his hair, fisting tufts of it gently. It was coarse and curly, but you didn’t mind. “What color is it?” Your voice was hoarse, crackling softly in the dark room.

“Brown,” he said after a moment, a small smile of his own. His own fingers made their way up your arm, past your shoulder, and cupped the back of your neck like you did to him. His pointer finger rubbed back and forth in a small motion, a small habit the bounty hunter grew over the months. It was...very different, to feel you under his touch like this. He’s held your hand and stroked your hair and cupped the back of your neck tenderly, but..touching you this way was new territory for the Mandalorian. It was scary, in a way, especially for him.

He ventured on with a brave face.

His other hand found it’s way to your calf, slowly and carefully kneading the skin. You wondered if this was the first time he’s...he’s felt skin since he was a child. You wondered what he was thinking in the moment, if he thought you were beautiful or not. You dismissed those thoughts to the best of your ability. This was your moment, and you’ll be damned if your own brain ruined it. His hand cupped the back of your knee, his whole chest craning down to press a sweet peck to your knee cap. His eyes closed for a brief moment, embracing the feeling of your skin on his lips in the brief moment they were in contact. A shiver ran up your spine; now you remained unmoving, frozen solid by Din’s hot, pillowy lips against your skin. His hand then trailed up the outside of your thigh to your hip. He skirted over your cotton shorts to your waist, gently caressing...you.

He thought you felt enchanting under his touch. You were absolutely perfect. And he loved you so much.

Nerves pierced his heart. His small smile fell. He lifted his hand to cup your other cheek, both of his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. Your hands stopped in their tracks, the nape of his neck under one palm and his right shoulder under the other. “Can I...may I...”

You didn’t let him finish. The way you leaned in was carefully calculated, nerves an underlying color of it all. Din sat straight-backed, unmoving once again. He was so scared to mess this up for you. I mean...your first kiss shared. He imagined how much that meant to you. It meant a lot to him, too.

You proceeded to lean forward until your lips were pressed against his as your eyes fluttered close. Just as quickly as you two connected, you were apart once again. A small and short kiss, a test for you both. Din leaned forward this time, without anymore hesitation, capturing your lips as he pulled your body into his.

You weren’t surprised Din’s first real kiss was going to be...well...Din-like. Methodical. Purposeful. Caring underneath all of the layers. You were surprised at the fact that Din’s first kiss felt...like destiny. Like this moment was written in prophecies years ago, and it’ll be written in history texts for years to come.

You were surprised because his lips moved against yours like he knew what he was doing.

Your arms found their way wound around his neck, and his wound around your waist. His kiss was patient and sweet and really fuckin’ good. His mustache tickled your top lip, but you didn’t mind one bit.

Right before he pulled away, his cheeks quirked into a smile against your lips before falling to their neutral state.

“I, um...” you began, eyes sparkling in the darkness. You wondered if his baby browns shone the same way, tracing your figure in the darkness. Even though you had so much to say, your voice became stuck, lodged deep in your throat. Tears sprung to your eyes.

He did this for you, didn’t he? He turned off the lights in your guys’ bunker. He took off his helmet. He...he kissed you. Dank farrik, he just kissed you. And he let you touch his hair and his face and...him.

Even though the pair of you weren’t doing anything particularly sexual, every bit of this moment that you shared in the dark felt more intimate and vulnerable than you could ever hope for, dream for, ask for.

The cotton in your mouth expanded slowly, ridding you silent and helpless in the arms of the man you loved. Of the man you would sacrifice everything for. Does he feel the same? Would he do the same for you? A tear tugged down the apple of your cheek as you buried your face into the crook of his neck, wrapping your arms around him tighter. You sniffled softly as his hands caressed your back and hips.

“What’s wrong, darling?” He questions, holding you close to his chest. His right hand rubbed small circles in your back and he sat patiently awaiting your response, but the cotton continued to expand into your mouth.

“I...I, uh...” You begged the cotton to be rid, you prayed for your tongue to move and say the words. The three words that have been dancing around the two of you day and night, for months now, being said over and over again in your mind.

Somehow, Din knew what you were going to say. He was positive you could hear his rapid heartbeat, but if you did, you didn’t show it. He craned his neck down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then, he leaned down to your ear and kissed your lobe, his breath hot against your skin. The lumps in your throat melted away.

“I love you,” you finally said.

The buzzing energy in the bunker seemed to still and quicken all at once. The humming you heard before silenced. Din pulled you closer to his chest, his arms tightening their grip around you. He didn’t say anything for awhile; you were sure he fell back asleep, leaving your confession unheard.

“I love you too,” he said.

You couldn’t see his eyes or his mouth forming the words. But you could feel his love, feel his dedication for you. Under his fingertips, in his arms. It was all love for you. Tears returned to your eyes. You hugged him even tighter, burying your face into his shoulder even more. Anything to bring him closer to you. Anything to feel him more.

The two of you stayed like that for what seemed like hours. You actually fell back asleep, filled with more content and love than ever before. Din put you back to bed quietly and carefully, tucking you under the wool blanket you pulled from the closet the night before. He lifted one hand to cup your cheek, craning his neck to plant a lingering kiss on your other.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to get back in his armor. He wanted to lay here, beside you, mask off and lights on. He wanted to see your smile as his eyes reached yours. Responsibility tugged at his heart and his brain. He knew what he had to do, what he was born to do, even if he hated it in this very moment. This is the way.

When you woke up again, you were alone in a dimly lit bunker. A hefty sigh fell past your lips. Maybe it was all a dream. You touched your lips with the pad of your fingers as your eyes fluttered close. You thought to yourself, if it was a dream, then why did his lips feel so real?

You changed into your normal garb and climbed out of the bunker. After lacing up your boots, you climbed the ladder into the cockpit. Like every morning, the Mandalorian was at the helm and the Child was in his designated seat. Din pressed buttons and steered the Razor Crest stoically, and the youngling played with his small metal ball. You approached the child with a smile and a pat to his head, in which he gurgled and grinned at your touch.

You then walked over to the Mandalorian’s right side, boots slowly and softly padding against the metal floor. His head remains forward, even when you place your left hand on his shoulder. Cotton fills your mouth again. What are you even supposed to say?

It takes you a moment before words form on your tongue. “Thank you,” you say softly. “I...I care for you...a lot. I...I love you. And I appreciate you. Thank you.”

His head turns now, looking right at you. You wondered if his baby browns were looking into your eyes right now, calculating what to say and what to do. Din lifts his left, gloved hand to your cheek. Underneath the leather, you can feel his warm, delicate touch that you were able to feel this morning.

“Anything for you, my love.”

[thetriggeredhappy]

hi!! i've read most of your fics at this point and you've gotten me obsessed with sniperscout, especially the way you write them! i just wanted to ask, do you know of (or would you ever consider writing) a fic where sniper is kinda self-conscious about his looks and scout reassures him?

sometimes ya boy’s gotta be the one doing the comforting

(no warnings)

-

He dragged a hand down across his jaw, grimacing lightly to himself, then more firmly at the lines that it drew across his face.

Some days, he wished he didn’t have a mirror. That instead he just... could go back to the way he operated back when he did hunting and tracking. With months at a time on his own, he didn’t particularly need to keep up appearances, and would only go to the trouble of tracking down a pocket mirror when he needed to give himself a haircut or something of the like. Nowadays, though, he was committed to at least looking presentable, which meant pinning a mirror in place above the sink, mostly used for when he shaved.

And... well, now he was checking more often, admittedly. Usually he didn’t bother with worrying about the details of his face and clothes, since nobody tended to look too closely at him anyways. The hat and the shooting glasses and the high collar on his vest tended to do pretty well for him, and it wasn’t like anyone would care.

Except now, someone did.

He dragged a hand up through his hair, frowning at the way it seemed to just do whatever the hell it wanted, here before he had it gelled back. He was due for a haircut, honestly, but every time he cut his hair, by the end of it he felt like the clean cut just drew more attention to how scruffy the rest of him looked.

He drew a thumb against the lines around his eyes as if he could smooth them out somehow. Bared his teeth enough for glare at the slight crookedness and oddness to them, his strangely sharp canines in particular. Tilted his head to either side to ogle the numerous little scars dotting his skin.

And god, that’s just what he could see in the little mirror.

He hated going into the workout room on the base more than anything in the world, because right there by the door, impossible to miss, were the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and he was forced to confront his... his gangly limbs, his shoulders wideset but not thick with muscle, arms long but weak, bony all along his legs and thin in the chest but soft in the middle and scraggly all over.

He winced at himself.

It wasn’t like standing next to the person he was meant to get ready to go see would help at all. Scout didn’t have to deal with having weird elbows. 
God, Scout was gorgeous. Not in some boring sort of standard way, no, he just looked downright lovely. Built like the embodiment of speed, moved like he knew where he was going, like efficiency. Soft angles in the face that made him seem so friendly, so personable, and his hair always looked right no matter how many times he pulled his hat off to drag a hand through it, and he smiled with his eyes, with his whole body, and he seemed to stretch and bend just right to always make it so obvious what was going on in his head. He was built like artwork.

And then Sniper was just...

He considered cancelling and saying he was sick—hell, he considered shooting himself in the foot with his rifle to get a trip to the infirmary—but he knew Scout was looking forward to this, and he shouldn’t let his ridiculousness ruin Scout’s night.

It was cold enough as it got later at night to justify the scarf pulled up snug to nearly cover the bottom part of his face, and he didn’t ever go anywhere without his hat and glasses even if he didn’t usually pull the hat down so far, and that combined with a baggy coat were enough to hide him sufficiently. He could at least go out like this, he was sure. And he felt guilty, momentarily, that once again all the nicer civilian-type clothes that Scout had gone to the trouble of going out and helping him pick would go unworn, but maybe on one of his less... nervous days, he would have the courage.

And he was hoping and praying the entire walk over to base that it would be left at that, absolutely sure that any attention would be bad attention. But as he tended to do—hell, as he always did—Scout found a way to surprise him.

“Jesus, you alive under there?” Scout laughed, looking up from where he was leaned against the wall by the garage. “Were we supposed to be goin’ undercover or somethin’? Because if we are, I better change.”

Loud, would be one word to describe Scout’s shirt. The patterns were bright and eccentric, eye-catching and vibrant, especially against the otherwise normal jeans and worn-to-hell sneakers he had on. And his hair had clearly been smoothed back a bit, but that cowlick at the front still hung down over his forehead and bounced with the way his shoulders shook under continued laughter. 
Comfort and nervousness all in one. Ease and uncertainty. He settled for a vague shrug. “Might get chilly,” he mumbled.

“Jesus, again with the saying it’s cold,” Scout laughed, rolling his eyes. “You wouldn’t last a week in Boston, babe, seriously.”

He was in the middle of deciding whether he more wanted to address the fact that he could handle cold just fine, thank you very much, or the fact that Scout had just called him babe, when Scout had suddenly moved forward into his space, performing three gestures one after another—first flicking up the front of his hat, then snagging off his glasses, then tugging down the scarf that was over the bottom part of his face—and before he could do much of anything about it, Scout had tipped up onto his toes to kiss him once, soundly, at the corner of his mouth.

When he pulled back, his grin was lopsided and pleased. “There he is,” he said, “there’s my handsome guy.”

His sputter of laughter was as incredulous as it was involuntary. “Handsome?” he repeated, doubtful.

“Damn right,” Scout agreed, and kissed him on the other side of the mouth for symmetry, and he had to smooth out the way it pulled his face into a smile, cringing internally at how it surely made all the lines on his face that much more obvious. “Wicked handsome.”

“Right, mate,” he scoffed, glancing off to one side, face feeling hot.

“C’mon, seriously,” Scout said, as if Sniper was the one who was being ridiculous. “Have you seen you? You’re, like, rugged Rock Hudson. Like, uh—fuck, who’s that one guy? From Casablanca?”

“Er... that bloke, Henreid, is it?”

“Nah, nah, uh...” He snapped his fingers a few times. “Uh, somethin’ with a ‘B’... Bogart, Humphrey Bogart! Plays the main guy, ‘Here’s lookin’ at you, kid’, that guy. You’re taller, though. And I like your hair way better.”

“You can’t be serious,” Sniper muttered, tugging on his hat, but Scout just ticked it right back up again, looped an arm up over his shoulders to pull him down into a short kiss, then a long one. He felt half-dizzy by the time Scout pulled back away, flashing that lopsided grin again.

“Dead serious,” he said, smiling with his eyes, and he scoffed again at it, at himself, at all of this.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said firmly.

“You’re handsome,” Scout said again, just as firmly.

“Well, one of us is wrong,” Sniper said.

“And it’s not me,” Scout said, and kissed him once more before he could reply, and pulled back again, pushed his glasses back up onto his face crookedly. “Alright, c’mon. Tacos.”

Stood in line later, Sniper dragged a hand down over his face, thinking.

Rugged Rock Hudson, huh?

[minecraftbookshelf]

Traffic Life Scars: Grian

All updates will be made to this post specifically as we get new seasons and new final deaths.

Welcome to my series of MS Paint diagrams following the headcanon/concept that every minecraft death leaves a scar, and while most of those do not continue past the end of the server, the final deaths leave permanent marks on the cubito. (And also some other deaths that have significant impact on the story, the cubito, or both, these are extremely rare.) I did take some creative license with the deaths, mostly in the sense of figuring out how to handle Fall Damage in a slightly more realistic context, as well as figuring out approximately where final blows would land based on the respective positioning of the cubitos in question. This project has also shown some interesting patterns in how some of them tend to die. On with the show!

Third Life: In my mind's eye Grian has always turned to look at the sky after his leap from the cactus ring, so the death blow was to the back of his head.

Last Life: Scott killed him when the late-game reds banded together to hunt down Grian and Joel. The other members of the alliance dealt damage, but Scott got the final hit in. Grian was fleeing at the time, so the scar is on his back, above his wings.

Double Life: Because sonic booms don't leave external evidence so much as they remove your insides from anything vaguely approaching a solid state, the scar is less of exact representation and instead takes the form of a skulky starburst on the torso.

Limited Life: Fall damage again, based off the "camera angle" the general vibe I got was that Grian could have tried to catch himself on his hands as he fell. From that height, it was futile and there are faint marks on his wrists where the bone poked through as well as the actual death blow to the side of his forehead. Bird Man needs to stop falling off things fr.

Secret Life: Grian took on the entirety of Gem & The Scotts and dealt a terrifying amount of damage before Gem cornered him on a hillside as he was trying to flee. He was significantly higher up on the hill than she was so the final blow was a stab upwards that slipped under the edge of his netherite chestplate.

Real Life: Grian died first, struck down by Skizzleman who came from the side while he was fighting Ren. It was a bit of a messy blow, because they were all kind of flailing around.

-

[Bdoubleo100] [Bigbst4tz2] [Ethoslab] [Geminitay] [GoodTimesWithScar] [ImpulseSV] [InTheLittleWood] [LDShadowlady] [Mumbo Jumbo] [PearlescentMoon] [Rendog] [Skizzleman] [Smajor1995] [Smallishbeans] [SolidarityGaming] [TangoTek] [ZombieCleo]

SERIES TAG

[goosedawn]

i've never listened to Friends At The Table (though it's on my list now, dnd campaigns podcast wooo!) what would the storyline of the crossover entail? with the HermitCraft characters i'm guessing it's chaotic and interesting 😊

:0!!!! :DDD!!!!!!! if u end up giving it a shot i hope u enjoy it! they dont actually play dnd, they play a bunch of other tabletop games which are all really neat also! (also if u need a suggestion for where to start if/when u get to it, feel free to drop me an ask)

the story follows the typical structure of "group is sent off to do tasks for money, and eventually realise something bigger is going on" so i am largely following the plot in that way, where groups of adventurers are sent out to investigate a series of towers that appear to have some connection to the gods of the world. ajhsjjejhfhjef most of my thoughts about the au are more character based,, so instead of a proper plot summary i can give details and thoughts on where some of the hermits fit into everything so far (while. trying to avoid the big twists revealed in the podcast ig,,?) i also ended up including some sleepybees (sbi + beeduo) in the au but im still not 100% sure on where they fit in (as in i have too many ideas djhdkndnj)

ANYWAY uhhhh some spoilers for the universe im basing this off of, under the cut cos it got long :'D

context/setting:

the specific arc/universe that this au is set in is the one from Seasons in Hieron (SiH) which is their fantasy season! (its. its long,, this arc spans i think. 3 seasons? plus a short interlude season)

the setting was previously a traditional fantasy world that had some sort of great catastrophe (the Erasure) happen, and the current world is after people have rebuilt a new society! its described as "post-fantasy, post-post-apocalyptic" its very fun and subversive and afhdjfbj the worldbuilding is just. real good :>

-----

characters:

im still figuring out where different hermits fit into the au but i am basically taking aspects of various characters from the podcast and splitting roles and traits to hermits, so its all mixed up! also,, there are just. so many hermits,, i have not found places for all of them (not even most of them i dont think) but here is what i have so far:

impulse and zedaph work in the New Archives (a series of huge warehouse-like archives run by the orcs of this world!) impulse is an orc, zed is not! impulse works to retrieve artifacts for the archive, and zed,, hes just kinda there. learning and experimenting with pattern magic (a type of magic done by arranging and rearranging things in specific configurations, often they are obscure and weird things like "27 brown birds in a tree, 5 table legs, 500 buttons, 16 steps to the east" etc.) when the story finds them they are studying a fallen tower in the center of the Mark of the Erasure (a location still showing the effect of the great cataclysm that befell the world)

tango vaguely takes the role of Ephraim, prince of something or rather,,, idk man hes cool and has fire powers, very anime. his powers were a gift from the gods, and he goes on to hv close relations w them! he meets up with impulse and zed later on and become fast friends obviously

joe is an expert in pattern magic, and is on the run from the archives after having stolen a pretty nondescript notebook. its a nice notebook! hes just a human guy. he writes and recites poetry in order to do pattern magic using the notebook!

cleo hails from the city of *Nacre*, where people get multiple chances at life. people from there can get killed but will exist on as zombies, then if they are killed again, they exist as ghosts, and then they pass away fully. she is an undead pirate captain that joe somehow manages to sway over to their side ahjbhfbjf,, she is hunting down the lost prince/king of Nacre.

wels is a pala-din (pal-ah-deen, rather than paladin), a sort of living marble statue that serves one of the gods in the pantheon.

scar is ofc, a wizard! it. it should be noted that wizards dont really exist in this world, people who perform and study magic are mages, not wizards,, "wizard" is kind of a weird term to use sjbdbjhfjjhb scar takes place of The Great Fantasmo in the podcast, and similarly has an invisible assistant! he doesnt seem to remember much of his past...

cubfan works in Velas, a fishing town where the story "begins" he does not enjoy talking to scar, and seems to be sad whenever hes around. perhaps scar reminds him of someone, or perhaps of better times...

tfc hes a priest aagsuijdjhkdgjdkihwhjvd i swear theres a reason for this later,, the role of the npc alyosha is somewhat split between tfc and cub!

-----

others i have thoughts on but im not settled on yet:

im debating having xisuma as part of the pantheon, but if not, he would be a druid so he can shapeshift into animals sjbakjnsnfjb he would take the general role of Fero in the story, but would also be kind of split with evil x, who captures... a certain stubbornness and deepset frustration Fero has in later times.

etho could take the place of Samol, the first god to exist. he is the embodiment of this world, and is kind of isolated and strange wbhshjhbdbhjdjbdkjn,, strange /pos. hes also. kind of dissapearing though... i wonder why :)

while theoratically i could have xisuma as samol cos. yknow. admin. i think the vibes and role just fit etho better

and... if i had etho as samol i think it could be fun to have doc and bdubs as other members of the pantheon, if u go with their dynamic from the start of s7 they even fit the divorced couple vibe two of the gods have /lh /hj (nho pantheon pog..? maybe. theres a total of 5 deities in the pantheon tho...)

im leaning toward either false + stress or maybe gem + pearl pairs for two of the goddesses in the pantheon, but thatd probably depend on if i can find a better place for them ;P

techno and phil take the role of red jack, and techno is a Huge Oni Dude >:] in canon red jack has a cool horse!!! it fits!! hes also. heavily implied to be kinda immortal?? anyway. im torn on this because techno and phil ALSO fit the roles of some of the player characters, with relation to the missing prince/king of Nacre but im still working things out,,

no matter whats up with them, ranboo takes the role of bluejay, redjacks son, meeting up with tubbo and tommy who take the place of benjamin, the son of one of the player characters. tubbo and tommy kind of. get sent to another dimension to keep them safe,,? and live in a lie for many years before they are brought back.

when i first thought about this au, i also thought about the whole. sending child off into fake dimension to live life, and of course. i thought about. grumbot ofc and originally planned to have mumbo or grian take the place of that player character abhdfvnbrvbn but it also implies one or both of them would be paladins (not pala-din! just the normal religious knight) AND have connections to tubbo and tommy which is. funny but ehhhh idk.

-----

and that. maybe probably somewhat incoherent train of thought is what i have for the au so far! its. still very much a work in progress so thank you if you stuck through all that!! ive still got a lot to think abt in the au,,,, lots to figure out ;P hopefully i can iron it out a bit more in the future, but its fun to think about for the time being

[calibratemehard]

Do you like agonizingly slow build up to a romantic relationship between Garrus and Shepard???

He tried raising his hand to touch the wound, but someone tutted at him and said, “Doctor Chakwas said that’s still healing. Don’t touch it.”

Garrus turned his head to see who spoke. Shepard sat a desk with a desk lamp and a book opened up before her, though her eyes were now on him.

“Shepard,” Garrus said. He immediately winced from the pain of talking, but it was bearable. His eyes searched the room they were in. He was in one of several beds in what appeared to be the medical bay of the Normandy. But the Normandy had been destroyed, so that couldn’t be possible.

Then again, a woman who was supposed to be dead had stood up, turned on the rest of the lights, and approached him. She still sported the strange scars on her face that had not been there two years ago, but she was not wearing Alliance clothing. In fact, she looked like a civilian in her sweatshirt and joggers.

“Listen,” Shepard said as she reached his bedside. She spoke urgently, as though they were about to head out on a mission. “You were gravely injured on Omega and I brought you back to the Normandy to get you patched up. You’ve been sleeping on and off for a day. This is not the same Normandy you and I served on while hunting Saren, this is a new ship built by Cerberus, the same group that brought me back to life. Any questions so far?”

It was coming back to him, and a fresh wave of shame washed over him as he relived losing his team again. But Shepard was patiently waiting for him so he managed, “You’re working for Cerberus, Shepard?”

“No,” she answered immediately, her brows furrowed. “I don’t work for terrorists. This is my ship and my crew, they answer to me.” She frowned and then waved her hand about vaguely. “They are, technically, bank-rolling this operation, but I’m not drinking the kool-aid.”

Garrus nodded as though he understood the reference, winced in pain, and paused to consider. Finally he said, “You mentioned something about Collectors back on Omega.”

She gave him the short story - human colonies were disappearing and they had confirmed it was the Collectors and they needed a way to track them down and stop them. Cerberus suspected it had something to do with the Reapers. It was a dangerous mission and the odds were stacked against them.

Garrus took it in stride. It was just a little more unbelievable than a respected Spectre going rogue and working with the geth and a sentient race of ancient AI that periodically committed genocide against the species of the Milky Way.

“So what did you want with Archangel?” Garrus asked after her explanation.

“I’m putting together a crew and you were put forth as a suggestion,” Shepard responded. “I had no idea it was you, otherwise I could have reached you before that attack.”

“Then I might not have gone with you,” Garrus said. “I had a crew, a team. I would have been reluctant to leave.”

“What happened, Garrus? I saw all those bodies in the base. It looked like there had been a massacre before we even got there.”

It was still too painful to bring everything that had happened. He muttered, “Long story short, I was betrayed. I’ll tell you the rest later when I have everything figured out myself.” Shepard nodded in response, acknowledging his request. Garrus then asked, “So I assume I got hurt pretty badly?”

“Yes,” Shepard said. “You took a rocket to the face and lost quite a bit of blood. Dr. Chakwas and Mordin were working on you nonstop until you stabilized. They’re both taking breaks since I offered to keep an eye on you. How do you feel?”

“Like I took a rocket to the face,” Garrus replied. Shepard smirked in response and Garrus gestured at his face and ventured, “So how bad is it?”

Shepard narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips in response to this line of questioning. “Well,” she began, clearing her expression but still looking nervous. “I’m sure if you put some face paint on, no one will be the wiser.”

“That bad, huh?” Garrus chuckled. He sat up straighter in the bed as Shepard fetched a mirror from the desk for him. She handed it over and he studied his new face in the mirror. The left side was completely intact, but the right looked like an open wound that had only just healed. A graft covered a large part of his head beneath his crest. The wounds reminded him of some of the older turians he’d met in the army, the veterans of the Relay 314 Incident with the humans. When they healed, he'd likely have these scars for the rest of his life.

Good, he thought, he deserved it.

“I do recall Wrex saying that krogan women find men with scars very attractive,” Shepard mused as Garrus handed the mirror back to her and she placed it back on the desk. “At the very least, it’ll be a great pick-up line. ‘My name is Garrus Vakarian, Codename Archangel, do you want to know how I got these scars?’”

“You might want to workshop that some more,” Garrus replied.

“We can workshop it together if you decide to stay,” she said. She looked intently at him, holding his gaze. “And if you don’t want to stay, I can drop you off wherever you want.”

Garrus shook his head, breaking the eye contact. “I took a big loss, Shepard. I’m not sure you want someone like me on your team.”

“Garrus,” she said, her tone firm but kind. He looked back at her and into her steady eyes. “I want you here.”

The rest of the fic is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31650551