#and the ships going down and its on fire so everyones planning to abandon ship

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

i forgot that shipwreck documentaries make me cry somehow

[14th-century-verona-queer]

Sokka HC’s (trauma edition)

just some stuff that I think is true abt Sokka idk

I haven’t watched ATLA in literal years so please correct me if some of my info is wrong

Some of these are probably obvious but I just wanted to give my take on them lol

Ever since the night of the fire nation raid, he’s terrified of fire and even more scared of the smell of bodies burning and the sight of ash. Because although fire is what took his mother and a lot of the tribe members away, the smell of bodies burning and the sight of ash reminds him of the sight he saw that night, and how he was useless to do anything about it, that now burns forever in his memory. Because while Katara is traumatized at seeing the death of Kya, Sokka is traumatized of seeing his tribe members killed and burned in front of him. He’s the kind of guy to break down after the fact of whatever just happened, so he can still fight fire nation soldiers and everything. But the minute he gets off of the battlefield and the adrenaline wears off and hes alone? He makes some excuse about “needing to plan where they’re going next in the peace and quiet because fucking toph and aang make it hard to focus with their earthbending lessons” he breaks down, sobs racking his body and an inevitable panic attack coming as he relives the worst night of his life over and over again for hours, acrid smoke and burning flesh all he’s able to smell, screams of pain and heartbreak all he’s able to hear. (when Zuko comes along it gets a little bit better because he can remind himself the Zuko is a fire bender and hes safe and warm and would never do anything to hurt me. So he just kind of melts into his best friend’s boyfriends arms and it becomes a routine for them. More on that on the zukka post i will get to writing..eventually)

He has abandonment issues because of how unexpectedly Kya died and left him to take care of Katara while she was grieving, and then Hakoda left him to take care of the entire tribe by himself. This is probably why in that one episode (i dont remember which one and im too lazy to find it) Sokka was so adamant about refusing to let Katara go and try to save Haru and his dad, because he was scared that she wouldn’t leave until she got everyone off of the ship, eventually get captured, and spend the rest of her days there, leaving him behind.

(This ones cannon I think but here’s my take on it) He has self-worth issues because of his constant expectations that have been set on him, by himself and by other people. A lot of people reading this are gonna be like well yea he had to take care of the entire tribe by himself! Which, true! Not exactly the best move Hakoda, but what’re you gonna do i guess. But i think his self-worth issues stem more from his need to be the perfect “chief”. What i mean by that is that if he’s doesn’t catch enough fish for the tribe (even if they probably have enough to survive because always working too hard) he hates himself because he isn’t doing enough and they look so skinny and its all my fault because i just can’t catch enough fish. And if the people are cold, or if they’re sick, they expect him to take care of them, but they dont see that he’s a 16 (or younger, he was acting as chief for a couple years before Aang came along i think) year old boy trying to do everything himself with no help. Every day he hears the same thing: “Sokka, we don’t have enough ______! Can you please get more?” So he never ever thinks he’s good enough no matter what he does because there’s just never enough. even if he catches 100 fish for the whole village to eat, he’ll still beat himself up about it because sure they were able to eat today, but they’re not eating enough and he still needs to get more furs for everyone because the winter is only getting colder and they’re getting sicker and they’re all going to die because he’s so useless and can’t do anything right

because of him having to do everything himself, he absolutely hates being offered help. He refuses it practically every single time, because he’s so used to people younger than him counting on him to do something, and if they’re counting on him that means that he cannot fail, and asking for help (to him) is one way of failing. If he asks for help that means he couldn’t do the one thing Hakoda asked him too. It’s super simple Sokka, just take care of the village of like 15 people. And he can’t even do that.

He’s an absolute control freak and micromanages everything, and Katara (the hypocrite, smh) hates it. He needs to be in control of everything because that means that nothing can go wrong unless he makes a mistake. (Which he knows he will make a mistake but at least its his fault and he can find a way to fix it) If he relies on other people that means they’ll make mistakes which means something that needed to get done won’t and he’ll fuck up again and he’ll be worthless, because planning and fixing and engineering and fighting is all he has, all he thinks hes good for. He would rather be solely blamed for not being good enough and screwing up than letting someone like Zuko or Katara or Aang be told that. He was never in control of the war or his mother’s death of Hakoda leaving or anything, so he find some kind of solace or coping mechanism in being able to at least control the village and having some semblance of control (idk how else to explain this! Im so sorry!)

Also because he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right lol. He’s been taking care of the whole village for such a long time that there’s a very specific way you supposed to do this Katara! It took him such a long time to finally get a rhythm going, get used to how to take care of 15+ people at a time, so any little change to his routine pisses him off and makes him panic because he’s lost the control of the situation and now he’s in an unknown territory where he doesn’t know how to do anything which makes him a liability.

(I’ll probably continue to update this post because im probably not done, and/or make a pt 2 if y’all wanna see that. Won’t be restricted to just trauma next time!)

[not-goldy]

This was one of the best BTS 7 Deadly Sins edits from Filtermyg that got deleted, but its still on YT.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cy4JB4ML6z4

All I gotta say is that transition in the song to Jimin as Lust is HOT And so damn true. No one else in BTS would be Lust but Jimin. This editor nailed it & the song Play With Fire is a great choice.

I'm just gonna say lust is a Libra thing too😩😩😩😩

In every sense of the word

We can't be ruled by Venus and Aphrodite and not embody love and lust 😩😩😩😩😩😩😩

Librans both male and female always have a natural feminine essense which makes us gentle and compassionate but also quite high on love to a point of addiction. We lust for love😩

Read this article,

UNDERSTANDING LIBRAS: THE ZODIAC’S DIPLOMAT OR OUTRAGEOUS FLIRT

“Never judge anyone shortly because every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.” As a Libran through and through, Oscar Wilde espouses a core tenet of Libra wisdom: measure character with compassionate diplomacy. Represented by the scales of justice, a Libra is always in pursuit of fairness and equilibrium (it’s no surprise Judge Judy is a Libra). They have an uncanny knack for seeing “both sides of an argument,” but unlike the “devil’s advocate” approach of a Gemini, Libras see merit in every point of view—almost to a fault. In their pursuit of weighing all options equally, they often find it hard to adhere to their own judgment—in layman's terms, they are indecisive as hell. To love a Libra is to know that they will push every barista to the brink of tears due to how long they take to place an order.

Like their neighboring air signs, Aquarius and Gemini, Libras are outgoing conversationalists with a lust for novelty and information. With their diplomatic charm, they are able to connect with people quickly—even if that means agreeing with the opinion of every new person they meet. Ruled by the planet Venus, Libra’s have a fanciful inclination towards beauty, romance, aesthetics, and relationships. They particularly excel in the realm of fashion and art—easily seduced by maximalism, their art is usually lush, glamorous, and full of unexpected flourish. They often struggle with trying to please everyone all at once and find it hard to advocate for their own point of view—if a Libra can learn to trust themselves, they can quickly ascend to the top of their field.

A Libra Loves Love

“I'm a pretty good mix of adventurer and homebody, so when I go out I like to make the event worthwhile, and I like a partner who is down to go on adventures with me. Bonus if they are aesthetic adventures, like a trip to an art museum or a really gorgeous hike. I also particularly like when someone takes charge of planning said event/adventure—this makes my Libra sun happy as it takes away the stress of making choices and makes my Virgo Venus happy as it takes away my need to feel in control and responsible for driving the ship. Libras are air signs, so we're always talking and thinking a mile a minute, so a partner or friend also has to match my intelligence and match my speed and stamina for conversation.” — E.B.

Libras are one of the more idealistic and romantic signs of the zodiac. Their innate charm and love of language make them natural flirts—a power they wield with abandon. Ruled by the sign of Venus, relationships are a top priority for Librans, both in a romantic and platonic sense. They have a bad rap as being flakey, but it’s not because they are inconsiderate; in fact, it’s just the opposite—Libras are so concerned with making everyone happy that they have a hard time setting boundaries and tend to overcommit. Their romantic disposition can make them very fatuous with new love, sometimes leading them to disappear into new relationships. When a Libra’s chart is paired with other fixed or Venusian planets, they run the risk of becoming very co-dependent in relationships or, at worst, adopting the personality and effect of their #1 person. Yes, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but a Libra lost in love is not on their ideal path. On the other end of the spectrum, if a Libra’s chart is weighted with more air, fire, and extroverted signs, their propensity for indecision manifests in compulsive dating, crushes, and extreme commitment-phobia. Though they are in constant pursuit of balance, matters of the heart are Libra’s kryptonite. The best way to a Libra’s heart is by helping them achieve the balance they so desperately need to feel at ease in a partnership. Libran A.H. explains, “Feeling engaged with has always been really important, and also not to be hella Libra, but feeling like we’re putting in the equal effort, it doesn’t have to look the same, but to know and feel that the other person is putting in their fair share into the relationship.”

End of excerpt.

When I say Jimin is the quintessential Libra

He is through and through 😩😩😩😩😩

If anyone is going to play lust trust it's going to be the Libra of the group 😩

[826aliensapocalypseactivism]

The Dawn of Salvation 

Bryce H.  

I’ve lived my whole life on Venus. My family hasn't visited Mars since before I was born. But today is the day that I am finally able to visit home. Life on Mars is much different from what I'm used to. With its huge skyscrapers and the most complex yet efficient highways, with cars zipping through the air. Ducking and weaving between the buildings. I'm used to a more quiet and subtle life. Here on Venus every family has their own building, and space in the back of the home for plants. Life is just more simple here. Everyone there is pretty well off. I guess it makes sense though, I mean it was the first of the colonies. But I have only heard stories about the mother planet. Earth is now just a place where poor people who couldn't afford to live anywhere else live. 

My great grandfather told me that people started leaving after the poles completely melted and the global average temperature was over 140 degrees. By then, the rich people were already dumping their money into leaving Earth and establishing a colony on Mars. But they needed their most valuable workers to be safe to make them even more money so they moved us to Venus. My parents are both computer scientists. 

It was just a normal day, in our travel pod on our way to Mars. Everyone  was relaxing. We were all having fun playing games and cooking our favorite foods. I was at the pool. There was this one man from Mars cooking some barbecue. The children were playing tag with each other, running circles around the room, when all of a sudden, BOOM! Our travel pod was attacked! We were taken hostage by pirates and robbed at gunpoint. They took everything. They were trying to hold us for ransom on Earth but they crashed when bounty hunters attempted to rescue us. There were only a few survivors, mostly children, and I was lucky enough to be one. 

Both of my parents are dead. I don't know what to do without them. They were everything to me. I couldn't even find their corpses, they might have been completely melted by the rocket fuel fires that were raging all around. I can't even describe how gruesome the scene was. The smell of human flesh burning was sickening. It was horrible. I found one of the survivors. She was around my age. She said that she was traveling with her family to Mars too. She was with her mom, dad, and older sister. She asked, “Um, who are you?” 

I said, “Hey my name is Dawn, what's yours?” 

She said, “Oh I'm Genesis,” in a cautious manner. I needed to get to the nearest spaceport so that I could get back home. 

Me and Genesis decided to stick together to get to stay alive on earth. I asked her, “We’re both lost here on this shithole of a planet. We should work together to get off of it, right?” 

She said, “Oh, yeah sure whatever.” It seemed like she didn't like me, but we kind of needed each other if we planned on surviving. 

Out of nowhere there were gunshots going off everywhere. It was a gang trying to salvage whatever they could from the crash. There were explosions and screaming all around. We began running in a random direction to get away from the attackers. The screams of the remaining survivors filled the air as they slaughtered and beat them for whatever they could give. We found an abandoned neighborhood. It was a safe place for now. The first night was tough, it was very humid and we could barely breathe. We took shelter in an old shed that looked like it would collapse at the slightest of movements. It looked like it was burned down but we were able to hide from the gang as they ravaged our ship. 

In the morning we set off to find a way out of here. We lost the crashed pod. We weren't going to be able to be rescued by the Martian Military. We need to look for this thing that people on earth made to get places quickly. I think it was called a train. We read about them in history books. But it should bring us toward cities, where most people on earth lived. From there we could hopefully find a spaceport to take us back home. We found a small cracked up phone that was hidden in a bush. It has a couple hundred dollars worth of crypto on it. It was probably for drug drop off money.  

Okay, so there's some good news and bad news. The good news is that the phone has a map of Earth on it telling us where the nearest spaceport is, but the bad news is that I think that the port is a few states away. Apparently we crashed in North America. We found the train that we needed to take to get closer to the spaceport but it was a cargo train. We had to hide between two of the cargo container things. That night was beautiful. The skies were a beautiful red. Bits of blue returned then, violet and green as bright as the trees of Venus. It was the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen. There was a nice warm breeze. But not too warm, it was like the times when my mother would bring me a warm blanket and hot sweet tea after walking home during the winter. Genesis said, “You know I miss nights like these.” 

I said, “You miss them?” 

“Yeah, actually I'm from here, Earth,” she said. “I was actually with the pirates, I paid them to smuggle me on. But it all went wrong.” 

I was lost for words until I felt something. Genesis was sound asleep resting her head on my shoulder. That night I questioned if  all of the horrible things that I was taught about Earth and its people were even true.

That morning we reached our first stop. Because the train was fully electric it needed to stop to recharge. There were other people on the train who I guess had a similar idea. One man said that he was traveling to find better work in the city. He said that his great great great grandfather did the same thing when he was young. They called him a hobo, and that he was trying to be just like him. Me and Genesis were starving, so we walked toward the nearest town. When we got there it looked more like a junkyard. Trash and scraps were covering holes on every building. Some homes were made completely out of junk. Genesis didn't seem to mind. She must have grown up in a town like this. So I tried to play along. We walked into this diner, and it was actually not that bad looking. It was just old. Looked like it was built in the 1960s. The waitress came up to our table and asked what we wanted. I said, “Oh, I'll take a hamburger.” 

“Hamburger? I've never had one of those before,” Genesis said. “We never really had the money to buy meat.” 

“You can try some of my burger.” When she ate the burger it looked like she hadn't eaten in years. After we left the diner we filled these bottles that we found with water and waited for the train to start moving again. 

The train is near its next stop again. It's been a few days since the last stop. Luckily we had that extra water. I saved a few fries from the diner too. The train stopped in pretty much the middle of nowhere this time, so we couldn't buy some food from a restaurant. Genesis used her knowledge of earth to find some berries. There was a nearby river where we refilled our water bottles. I was washing off when Genesis called me over. I went over and there was this huge hole in the ground. I mean it was massive. It had rivers and trees and the rocks were the most vibrant red, and the river the most beautiful blue. We both just sat there for a while admiring the view. Maybe too long because it was starting to get dark. We rushed to get back on the train and we made it just in time. That night we laid together and stared up at the stars.  

That morning we arrived in the city. We hopped off right before the train entered the factory. I woke Genesis up off of my shoulder and started on our way to the spaceport. Genesis said, “So when we get there I guess that's it.” 

“That's it?” I asked. 

“Yeah, I'm not from Venus, and I certainly don't have the money or knowledge to leave Earth.” she said. Now that she brought it up, how will she come to Venus with me? And if she knew all along, why did she join me to help me all this way here? I needed to find a way to show her a better life, instead of one being a slave working in a factory or a hobo hopping from town to town. 

We made it to the space station. There were guards everywhere. But I had a plan to get Genesis in. I went up to the gate and the guard asked, “What do you want, kid?” I said that I was a survivor of the pod crash about a week ago. He immediately took me into the gate and scanned my microchip that all Venusians have implanted in them when they are born. They let me in with ease after that. I was set to leave for Venus in the morning. They acted like I was some sort of precious good. Like I was being returned to my owner. It seems like that all they see me as. So that night I snuck out of the room that they were keeping me in. I left out of the open window and went out to the back gate where I told Genesis to hide. She had already dug a way under to get under the gate, but as soon as she  came out an alarm sounded. We tried to run away but they caught up. They took Genesis away and locked me in the pod. Now in space all alone on my way back to Venus.

[sabo-has-my-heart]

Hey! Congrats on 200 followers, that's amazing! Can I get a Pokemon AU Law/reader (gender-neutral) where the reader has a mischievous hisuian typhlosion that runs off because it smells Law and is excited to see him again after so many years. Like, it was a cyndaquil when he and the reader were younger. He has an Umbreon that evolved from an eevee he had at the same time

The prompts are "Hey! At least give me a chance to explain myself!" And "Will you at least tell me why" with the concept that Law tried to distance himself from the reader when they were younger before disappearing (likely because he got caught up with Doflamingo things) so the reader is mad 💕

Warnings: pokemon AU, betrayal, abandonment, traumas, Law removing his heart

Word Count: 1282

The two of you had known each other back when you were children, one of the only people in Flavence who didn’t have White Lead Disease. One of only 2 people, 2 children, to make it out of Flavence alive. Being the only person in Flavence who didn’t show signs of White Lead, you had naturally been a source of study by Law and his parents who sought a cure, meaning you spent every waking moment with the family. Not that you minded, a little orphan child wandering the streets of Flavence alone before the fate that befell the city. Your only companion before Law had been a young Cyndaquil, a starving child, just like you, rooting through the trash. One who followed you after you gave it food the first time and dedicated itself to you when you continued to do so. After Law’s parents had given you your first pokeball, you’d introduced Cyndaquil to Law’s eevee, the two often playing together while Law studied and you were studied. You understood why Law changed after Flavence. Lami, his parents, everyone was dead except the two of you. He didn’t have reason to cure himself and you were seemingly immune. Still, you’d tried again and again to reach out to him, only for him to push you away, eventually disappearing and leaving you alone once more. A little orphan child, alone to wander the world. 

Sighing, you stood up, petting Typhlosion’s head, small, purple flames sprouting around its neck as it let out a strange ‘pur’. 

“We’re almost at the next island, I say we jump ship there and just… go with the usual plan.” you said, giving the pokemon a small smile. The purple flames flared slightly as Typhlosion sounded its agreement. The two of you had been hitching rides or stowing away, jumping from ship to ship as you traveled across the Grand Line, the two of you often getting into trouble. But it was something you were used to, it was what you’d done as an orphan child and it was what you’d done after Law abandoned you. It was a little lonely sometimes, but at least this way people couldn’t leave you again. 

Typhlosion’s head perked up, sniffing the air, the two of you were barely off the ship, but it smelled something, something familiar. It smelled like a doctor’s office, coffee, death, and lead… white lead. Like that, Typhlosion was taking off, sprinting down the streets on all fours, forcing you to chase after it.

“Typhlosion, for the love of! This better not be like last time! I swear if you get us into that much trouble again, I’ll trade you for a Ratatta!” you shouted, chasing after the fire-ghost pokemon. By the time the pokemon stopped, you were breathing hard, looking confused as Typhlosion and an Umbreon seemed to be happily chatting away.

“A poke-huff-mon? That’s what this is-”

“Umbreon, get over here.” A voice said, making you look up, only to freeze in place. You’d seen the wanted posters, recognized the hat, his eyes were still the same piercing, yellow eyes. Your breath caught in your throat for a minute as Law looked at the Typhlosion before noticing your presence.

“Y/n.” Law said, looking at you in shock.

“L-Law.” his name left your lips before you could stop it, the young man walking up to you.

“It’s been a whi-” SLAP! The sound rang out, even among the loud chatter of the crowds, 

Silencing a number of people for a moment before they returned to their own business. You could already feel your hand stinging, but it was nothing to the pain in Law’s cheek, his head turned to the side, skin reddening. 

“You…” you growled, head lowered, a dark look in your eyes, “Typhlosion! We’re leaving!” you shouted, drawing the pokemon’s attention. Glancing between Law, Umbreon, and you, the pokemon finally sighed and trudged towards you. Before you could get much further than a couple of steps, Law’s hand was around your wrist, stopping you, only to have you whirling around, hand raised up once more. Not that it did much good, Law catching your wrist, holding both arms in his.

“Can we at least talk?” Law asked, a slight pleading look in his eyes.

“What’s there to talk about? You seemed to have said all you needed to say when we were 10 and you took off.” you hissed, attempting to tug your arms away, only to be stopped by Law’s firm grip.

“Hey! Come on, at least give me a chance to explain myself!… for old times sake?” Law asked, his normally hard look softening. You glared at him for a moment.

“Will you at least tell me why?” you asked, not even looking at him. Law knew what you were asking. Why had he left? Why had he left you alone?

“I… it’s… a long story.” Law said, finally, only for you to scoff.

“Well that’s too bad, because I’m only giving you 5 minutes.” you spat, not even bothering to look at him anymore. Law sighed before looking at you, he had one chance.

“Because I was planning to burn the world to the ground and didn’t want to drag you down with me.” Law said, doing his best to simplify why he’d left. It wasn’t the full truth, but it was the faster answer and maybe you’d let him explain further.

“Drag me down? You left me!” you snarled, your glare one again directed at him, yet 10 times stronger now, “I was all alone before I met you, all I had was Cyndaquil, you were all. I. had. I believed that you’d find a cure, that you’d figure something out, that you, of all people, would never leave me! Looks like I was half right. You found your damn cure.” you seethed, Law simply staring at you. He’d never seen such anger, such hatred in your eyes before. The look that once brought him so much comfort, so much hope, the one that a 10-year-old Flavence boy imagined he would one day see in front of a wedding altar, was gone, replaced by loathing, a loathing directed at him. Worse yet, with each word out of your mouth, he felt like he deserved your resentment. With each word, another dagger pierced his heart. His closest and oldest friend, left alone in the world. How had you suffered?

“Please, let me… give… I can…” Law hesitated, still not letting go of you, even as you started to struggle, “Y/n, I’m begging you for a second chance, anything to make this up to you.” Law said, finally. You glared at him, still furious with him.

“I’ll give you a second chance when you give me your still beating heart out of your chest!” you spat. Law let go of one of your wrists, using his devil fruit powers to, indeed, remove his heart, placing the organ in your hands as you stared at it in surprise. His still beating heart, removed from its place in his chest. It had always been yours anyways, it was still yours, each day, the young man thinking about you, missing you. Staring at the organ in your hand, your grip tightened around it slightly, making Law flinch in pain. It wasn’t as bad as if you squeezed it harshly, but it still hurt.

“A deal’s a deal. I’ll give you a second chance.” you stated, pocketing the organ. Law slowly let go of your wrist, sighing in relief when you didn’t run. It wasn’t much, but it was a glimmer of hope, hope that maybe you could be friends again, hopefully.

[celestial-fucking-weeb]

NAGĀ!SERO

Hey y’all! This is a part of the Citrus Server Hybrid!AU Collab! The masterlist is HERE, please please please go check everyone’s pieces out!

A/N: I am fully aware that this is all over the place, ya girl is off her meds and will edit later. Please don’t tell me it sucks, I already know and I hate it, too.

SERO HANTA X F!READER

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, angst, smut, double penetration, aphrodisiac, interspecies miscommunication, size kink, breeding kink, mating, idk tell me if i missed anything

You had always heard stories about creatures in the forest; ones that eat humans, ones kidnap children, ones that would hurt you if you ever ran off by yourself. You didn’t believe them… Or maybe you did, but either way, the creatures could never be as scary as the life you already lived.

You had been taken prisoner when your coastal village was raided by pirates. Your clan’s viking warriors were off on a journey, leaving all of you oh so vulnerable with depleted numbers. They were going to kill you, like they did most of the others, but the pirate setting fire to everything in his path halted when he found you trembling under the rubble.

“Tomura, come see the new toy I found. Don’t you wanna keep her?”

“You sadistic bastard, how you get off to them crying like that never fails to make me sick. I don’t care what you do with her, Dabi, but I’m not cleaning up after you this time.”

They hauled you back to their ship, stripped you of everything and chained you in the hull. People came in and out, always different but always vile. You never spoke, you knew they wanted your screams. Overhaul, the captain, was the worst. You never knew when he was coming, and once he was there, you wondered what he wanted from you at all. Chained up, never touching you with anything but knives and his boots, not looking for your reactions… You wondered if he’d even notice if you stopped breathing. You dissociated for most of it, choosing instead to safeguard your mind, plan an escape.

About a year later, you found an opportunity in the carelessness of one of your captors. You docked someplace warm, someplace humid, maybe tropical? Toga had left your chains too loose after your last “date”, and had tossed the keys just a bit too close. As soon as she left, you had slipped your wrists out of the restraints, strained for the keys, and unlocked the shackles around your ankles. Not taking a moment to revel in the surreal feeling of being unchained, you listened until the heavy footsteps above you all faded into nothing, leaving the ship and most importantly: leaving you alone.

You ran. You ran so steadily, somehow comforted by the sounds of destruction getting further and further away. You found yourself blindly sprinting into a forest that looked nothing like your own, so damp and bright and warm. You kept running until you heard shuffling behind you, causing you to find the first thick vine hanging in your vicinity and clung to it as you climbed. Looking back, you see a simple boar grazing the forest floor. Sighing in relief, you relaxed a bit too soon, as the vine you had wrapped yourself around began to move.

Before you could react, you were wrapped up tightly in bands of muscle and brought towards the head of the- wait…- man? You had heard of nagā before, but the ones from your village’s stories were never described as so… tan, muscular, handsome. He didn’t look all that mean from the waist up, just the black, orange, and yellow scales trailing down his massive, strong tail seemed intimidating. He looked confused, concerned even, by your nakedness and panic stricken silence. Forked tongue flicking out to taste the air, smelling the blood and the abuse on your skin, seeing your quickly defeated body give up, and your mind resign itself to the comfort that at least you died free of your captors.

“Are you… okay?” The giant snake rumbles, human hand reaching towards your face and recoiling when you flinch.

You haven't spoken in months, your silence having been a security blanket, and you’re not ready to give that up. You do nothing, just look into his eyes and search for any sort of indication as to what he’s going to do. He loosens his grip a bit, just enough to slip down from his tree and head towards his hide- an old cave covered in ivy, moss, and little orange blossoms. He brings you in, and places you down on the ground before turning away to rummage through his things. He brings out water and bandages, along with some kind of salve that looks like a mixture of plants. You don’t reach for the water when he sets it near you, so he resorts to using the tip of his tail to bring it to your lips while his hands are busy tending to your wounds and gently rubbing the salve over your poorly healed scars. He offers you food, very confused when you don't seem to know what to do with the forest rodent he’s brought you, and decides on fruits he’s found. You don’t seem to want to do anything, not even going to sunbathe even though you’re obviously shivering.

THAT’S IT!!! SHE’S COLD! He thinks to himself, before wrapping his tail around you once more and bringing you outside to the rock where he typically warms himself. He gently places you down, uncoils you from his grasp, and gives you enough space to move as you please. You blink a few times, slowly realizing you’re free. He helped you? For no reason? He doesn’t know you…

“H-Hi… Thank… Thank you.” You mutter, looking away and blushing.

Cute… He thinks. “YOU TALK!!! What’s your name? I’m Sero, but you can call me Hanta! I was worried about you! Who are you? Why are you here? How did you get here?”

The line of questioning makes your head spin, and you try your best to answer before looking down and realizing you never found clothes. Blushing once again, you meekly gesture to your body and ask, “C-Clothes. I need clothes.” Hanta looks confused, but retreats to the cave and returns, bringing you a large piece of cloth that somewhat resembles a hemp blanket. It smells like oranges and spice, and you unconsciously snuggle into its comfort. Sero notices your calmed reaction to his scent and approaches you, gingerly grasps your ankle and picks up your leg, never having been so close to a human, and explores the strange angles your appendages bend.

“What are you doing?” You seem embarrassed, despite the number of people who've touched you before. This is too familiar, too intimate, almost too gentle.

“Tiny… Humans are… Small…”

You let him bend your limbs and play with your squish, strangely calm and trusting in his presence. He seems so enthralled by your body and how you move, so intrigued. That is, until he makes his way to massaging your plush thighs, causing a rush of arousal you hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. He prys opens your legs to continue his ministrations, not knowing the smell of your lust would have him flicking his tongue out and his eyes turning to hyper-focused slits. He suddenly releases your legs, slithers around your back, and presses against you. He taps the top of your head with his chin and waits for your response. Not knowing what this means, but wanting him to continue his exploration, you lean back into him and whine quietly.

You have no idea what you’ve started.

Hanta leans down, pressing sweet kisses down the column of your throat and leaving scathing bites in all the right places. Aphrodisiac venom coursing through your veins, you don’t even register his muscular arms wrapping around your body and lifting you, carrying you back into his cave and up into his hammock. He wraps his strong tail completely around your torso and takes his time kissing and groping your soft body, mumbling “mate, mate, mate” into your heated flesh. He finally makes his way down to your mound, prying your thighs apart and diving straight in before you could question his reverent gaze.

“HANTAAA~” You practically screamed as his long tongue slipped between your folds, running along your clit and down to your clenching hole, his saliva increasing the heat coursing through your core. “M-More, please… More~”

“More, what?” He smirks against your heat. “Say it. Tell me I’m your mate and I’ll make sure you’re fucked dumb, yeah? My pretty little mate.”

You stutter for a moment, getting more desperate the longer his fingers drag along your wetness. “Mate… Please! I need you… I’m yours!”

“Good mate~” His tongue wriggles back into your cunt, and his fingers slowly move further down to stretch your tight ass, making you squeal in surprise. Your orgasm takes you by surprise, all thoughts abandoning your mind as you ride out your high on his face and fingers.

“Are you ready, little one?” He growls lowly, lining up two long, thick cocks with each hole. Your eyes widen in surprise, head clearing for a moment after your climax.

“T-two?! Wait wait wait, I’ve never… I can’t! Two?!”

“Oh, little mate, but you can and you will!” He punctuates his statement by spitting down onto your cunt, thick venom slipping down to your tight rim. You moan and grind against his cocks, aphrodisiac leading your body into a blissed out state of submission. “Gonna fill you up so good. I promise you’ll be so full, feel so good, little mate. Trust me?”

“Y-yes! Wanna be full, want my mate!” You beg and plead for him to push into you, hips bucking against him, trying to get him to satiate the burning want he’d created. It isn’t until you thread your fingers through his hair and wrap your legs around his waist that he thrusts into you completely.

“That’s it, wrap around me like that. So tight, so warm… Fuuuck!~” Sero pants, chest pressed tightly to yours and face tucked into the crook of your neck, licking and sucking deep marks over your pulse point.

You’ve never felt so full, your body strangely welcoming the pleasurable stretch of your holes, pulling him deeper and deeper until you can feel him in your belly with every roll of his powerful hips. Your whimpers and tears only seem to spur him on, drawing orgasm after orgasm from your body.

“S-Shit, keep squeezing around me like that. Come on, little one, I know you have one more for me. Cum with me, I wanna feel you cum one more time. Gonna breed you, gonna fill you so good. Come on, pretty mate- fuck- cum for me~” He reaches down and pinches your overstimulated clit between two fingers and bites down on your neck one last time, sending you over the edge with a cry of “breed me, breed me, breed me!” and nails digging into his back.

“Mine! My mate, pretty little mate. Breed mate, all mine!! Gonna- gonna… Ah~” Hanta’s words steadily fell from his lips as he released deep inside your holes, belly bulging from the sheer amount of seed he spilled into you.

Utterly exhausted and dreamily floating off, you cling to him. Sero wraps you up in his tail and lays back into his hammock, keeping you as close as he can. When you snuggle into him, he whispers little praises into your hairline, a constant stream of “so good, pretty mate, all mine, i love you, so perfect, did so well, took me so well, such a good mate”.

The next day, you wake up surrounded by soft cloth, feathers, fruits, fluffy furs, a dozen shiny objects and pretty dried flowers. You sit up, looking around frantically for your mate before your eyes settle on a sheepish-looking Sero, wiggling nervously around the cave.

“Um… Do you… like it? I made it for you… I just- please tell me you like it!” He shrinks himself a bit, arm coming up to palm the back of his neck.

“Oh, is this a… nest? It’s- It’s very nice. Thank you, Hanta!” You smile softly at him, curling up into your nest and reaching out for him.

“MATE!!! I’m so happy you like it, I was so nervous!!! My mate. You can stay here all the time, so I can protect you, forever! My pretty little mate.~” He climbs into the nest and coils himself around you, content to guard you.

Maybe this time, being kept isn’t so bad.

[crash-cinematic-universe]

tiger lilies, self destructing, and richard siken

pairing: peter maximoff/reader

summary: to peter maximoff, love is an anomaly that scares him more than anything else. however, you might be able to help him overcome his fear.

warnings: language! but that’s about it. kind of cheesy at some points but yknow what im not lactose intolerant

notes: this is the monsterous fic thats been kicking my ass this past week (6.2k words babey!!!) i was originally going to add ~~steamy~~ section to this one but i decided against it to make it readable for those who don’t wanna see that kind of stuff. if you want me to separately publish that then just lmk!!  (if any of yall wanna talk about richard siken to me then please do, his work is so good)

taglist: @stranger-names ,  @gooseyhouse , @parkersdarling​ 

1. 

To Peter Maximoff, physical affection has always been a touchy subject-- no pun intended. His speed is a blessing, but also a bitter curse. He moves at the speed of sound, bouncing off the walls and tearing up the roads; he moves impossibly fast, and no one ever tries to catch up with him. People get tired of Peter rather quickly, not bothering to get attached to him when they know they can’t keep up. 

That’s why it’s so jarringly startling when you decide to stick around. When faced with the grand decision of throwing in the towel and leaving Peter behind or sticking around and trying your best, you chose the latter. It was surprising, to say the least. Peter waited patiently for the distance between the two of you to start growing; he waited for the void you once filled to open up again. However, the void never emptied, and the distance never grew. 

To anyone else, this would be a wonderful experience. Knowing that you wouldn’t be left behind or forgotten about would be comforting to anyone else in Peter’s position. However, this did the exact opposite for Peter. He wasn’t comforted or relaxed, on the contrary, he was always on edge. The future was cruel, and the mystery of it all felt like torture. 

To quote the great Richard Silken, “Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” Peter lived and breathed by this ideology, that everyone he loves would have to leave eventually, whether it be by their own volition or not. It was obvious that you didn’t plan on abandoning ship anytime soon, so Peter decided he’d take matters into his own hands. If you weren’t going to be the first one to walk away, then he’d be the one to run away from you. He soon came to learn that loneliness was at its most bitter when you’ve come to taste the sweetness of love. 

Love was a strange, complicated beast that Peter Maximoff had never dealt with before. If he were to be completely honest, love scared him. It scared him more than dying scared him. To Peter, death was an escape. Death was the end of a tiring journey, it was safe and simple and easy. Love was the opposite, it was the mouth of a dragon and the edge of a blade. It was the beginning to something so fragile and powerful, something that could end in flames. 

Peter realized he loved you on a summer afternoon. The sun was shining and you were in the shade. He sat down next to you, and within minutes Kurt and Ororo appeared at your side. They seemed so put together, so sure and strong. Peter felt out of place-- he felt as if he were standing outside of a cabin looking in through the window at your wonderful friendships. He watched with his nose pressed against the glass as you walked across the room and opened the cabin door to let him in. 

Peter realized he was in love with you in the middle of the night. A thunderstorm raged outside the mansion walls and raindrops kept time as Peter walked down the hallway. You were sitting on the floor of the common room next to a dying fire, a book clenched tightly in your hands. For a moment, he just stood against a wall and watched you. As creepy as he felt, a part of him believed he’d ruin your night by making himself known. He was okay with being a fly on the wall if it meant he’d get to see you. Peter wondered if there was a world where he had the pleasure of knowing you, without you having the burden of knowing him. 

Still, you saw him. And you knew him. And you waved him over with a smile. He felt the urge to run, to leave you here alone with yourself, but he stayed put. Then, one step at a time, he moved forward. He got closer and closer before he found himself standing at your feet. 

“You’re welcome to stay,” you told him. He believed it. Peter sat down next to you, letting his shoulder brush against yours.

“What’re you reading?” He asked. Peter already knew what you were reading, he read the cover of the book the moment he sat down, but he still wanted to hear it from you.

“Crush by Richard Siken,”

“Oh. What’s it about?” Peter already knew what it was about. He’d read it at least fifty times.

“It’s kind of hard to explain. I’d much rather just read it to you and let you decide for yourself,” Peter’s stupid little heart lurched, and he almost cried at the thought. He held it together, though. 

“That would be nice,” He said softly. 

“Sorry about all the writing in the margins, I can’t help myself sometimes.” Peter scanned the sides of the pages, marveling at your notes. Some of them were reactions, littered with exclamation points and question marks and bold letters. Some of them were underlined phrases and little doodles-- most notably a little drawing of a chameleon on a tiger lily. He loved them.

“It’s okay. Literature is meant to be marked up-- what’s the point of reading if you don’t get to share the love?”

“That’s a good point,” You grinned. Then, the reading began, and you allowed Peter to rest his head on your shoulder as you read to him. Even though he’d heard the poems a billion times by now, they sounded brand new coming from you. He listened closely. You were arriving at his favorite part, “You are Jeff” section 24. 

“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you...” You read on, not noticing the way Peter’s eyes had shifted from the book you were holding to your face. Peter’s mind wanders, and he curses himself for missing the lines you were reading “... You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.” 

Peter felt like he was going to cry. You kept reading and he kept looking. It was getting late, and Peter was getting tired. Your voice had softened and slowed, and the fire that was burning in the fireplace had all but died. Peter was the one that fell asleep first, and you followed closely after. Both of you had lingering smiles on your faces. 

2. 

Intimacy is an odd thing, isn’t it? Thinking critically, intimacy is just vulnerability with more layers. It’s the closeness between people, it’s allowing yourself to connect with someone you care about. It’s stripping yourself down to muscle and bone and hoping the other person doesn’t let you bleed out. It’s a level of trust that is more than closing your eyes and falling backwards; it’s closing your eyes and letting them push you over the edge into the unknown, and trusting them enough to know you’ll be okay when you hit the ground.

It didn’t take long for Peter to realize that he had trouble with being intimate with other people. Too many times had trusted someone to push him over the edge, only to realize he’d be shattered when he hits the ground. After that, he decided intimacy was overrated. It’s not like anyone was going to have that kind of relationship with him, anyway. 

Of course, then you came along and uprooted his entire worldview, like you had with everything else. He found himself thinking about you at every waking moment, which inevitably led to him… thinking about you at every waking moment, if you catch my drift. Sure, intimacy involves more than just physical intimacy, but Peter knows he can’t ignore the feeling that rises in his stomach whenever he’s around you. For the first year or so of your relationship, Peter became very familiar with the feeling of an ice-cold shower. 

What Peter didn’t take into consideration was you. For some reason, Peter struggled to understand the fact that you were just as attracted to him as he was attracted to you. It was no secret that Peter was insecure, but he never really realized how much his insecurity affected his relationships. If he couldn’t love himself, how could anyone else? Peter is the only one who gets to see his persona in its truest form, and every time he has to avert his eyes. It’s safe to say his physical appearance has been the cause of very many painful-- and occasionally tear-filled-- sleepless nights. 

He told you this. He told you everything. He told you about Erik, he told you about his childhood, he told you about everything he loved and hated and feared and yearned for. That ordeal alone was scary enough, knowing that at any moment you could decide you didn’t want to deal with him anymore, but as always, you stuck around. You told him everything. You told him about your family and your struggles. You told him about everything you loved and hated and feared and yearned for, and not once did Peter even think that he wanted to walk away. This is the kind of intimacy that, over the years, Peter had struggled with less and less.

Still, it was the sexual aspect of intimacy that freaked him out. It was a beast he’d never dealt with, a feat he’d never faced. That being said, as every day went by Peter became more and more… frustrated. He didn’t know how to approach the subject, so he'd just let the subject approach him and wing it. 

And as he sat on his bed watching as you twirled around to Tears for Fears “Everybody Wants To Rule The World”, Peter realized he didn’t have much to worry about. 

“Dance with me, dollface,” you laughed, reaching out for him. You looked like someone straight out of a movie, the lim blue light coming from Peter’s arcade machines illuminating a halo above your head. You put Molly Ringwald and Emilio Estevez to shame. Peter took your hand, grinning like an idiot as you twirled him around. 

There he was, dancing in his mother’s basement with his favorite person in the entire world. He wasn’t a great dancer, and neither were you, but that didn’t matter. Peter was dreading this visit-- he hated the idea of being back in the basement that made him feel like a failure. But you assured him that you’d be there with him, and that getting to see his family would make it all worth it. His family isn’t what made it worth it, though. 

“Brain Damage” by Pink Floyd came next, slower and a bit more somber, but still danceable. Your arms shifted to around his neck, pulling him closer than he already was. Somehow, you ended up with your back against the wall as the song came to a close. He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

“I love you,” Peter spoke softly. This was a small victory-- he’d been so scared of the mere idea of loving someone. You were the only one who got to hear his love confessions. They were for you, and for you only.

“I love you too,” Peter would never, ever get tired of hearing that. Knowing that you love him is enough to keep him going for a hundred years. And he knows the odds, he knows that love is rocky and painful as much as it is beautiful. He knows that love can feel sweet in the beginning and go sour overtime. He knows that first, second, third relationships don’t always work out. But he thinks this is going to work out. And Peter doesn’t think this will ever go sour. Maybe that’s his blissful ignorance talking, maybe he’s jinxing it, but at this moment, he doesn’t care. Right now he is at his happiest, at his most content. 

“You wanna watch a movie?” You asked softly, pecking Peter on the cheek. He could feel the warmth radiating off of you, and Peter grinned. In an instant the tv across the room began playing the opening credits to the first movie that popped into his head. 

“The Breakfast Club?” You questioned. Peter shrugged.

“What can I say, I’m a sucker for a good coming-of-age kind of movie,”

You sat against the headboard of Peter’s bed, allowing Peter to settle beside you. Your head rested on his shoulder, and he was quick to grab your hand. Peter loved the closeness. Over the past year, he’d come to realize he was a very affectionate person. Previously, Peter hadn’t known soft, physical love; the only time anyone would ever touch him would be as punishment or defense, not love. Love. Peter had gotten more comfortable with the idea of love, because when he thinks of love he thinks of you.

3. 

Every good story has a villain. A villain that you love to hate, or hate to love. A villain you can sympathize with, a villain you can’t excuse, a villain that the mere mention of makes you sick to your stomach. An unexpected villain. An obvious villain. A villain that’s just trying his goddamn best. Sometimes the villain is defeated, sometimes the villain changes their evil ways. Sometimes the villain dies and the crowd cheers. 

Peter Maximoff never thought he’d be the villain of his own story. He tried his hardest to be a good person, but there was always that side of him that made him afraid. He was like an explosive; whenever someone got too close, he’d detonate and destroy everything around him. It was a self-defense tactic, albeit counterproductive. 

It killed you to see him that way. He told you about the relationships he’d lost to himself. He told you about the abandonment and the loneliness. It broke your heart. He tried to distract himself, drowning himself in work so he’d never have the opportunity to ruin what he had with you. Peter Maximoff was a walnut tree; every time he planted his roots and began to grow, he’d kill anything that grew too close. However, the constant working started to wear Peter down.

It started with the late nights. He’d collapse next to you at four AM, knocking out the minute his head hit the pillow. Still, he’d be awake before you were, already scrambling around trying to complete various tasks. He was like a machine that was running from it’s problems. The late nights turned to all-nighters, and the few hours Peter managed to salvage set aside for sleep had shrunk to a few minutes at a time. He didn’t eat anything with even a hint of nutritional value. At this rate, he was going to work himself to death. 

The worst part? Peter knew what he was doing. He wasn’t stupid. He just needed to shut up the little voice in his head that urged him to act out. The entirety of his childhood, Peter destroyed what he created. The need to be isolated, the feeling that he deserves to be alone spread throughout his body like a cancer. He locked himself away in the basement, trying desperately to stay out of everyone’s way so they wouldn’t shut him out. People tried to coerce him out of his cave, to pull him out of the bottomless pit he threw himself into. Peter saw them as the sirens trying to lure him into the ocean of loneliness, and he wasn’t going to fall for it. In his eyes, anyone who tried to help him were the villains of his amazing, heroic tale. Fortunately for him, one by one, they started to give up on helping him. They thought he was a lost cause; a fucking loser who was destined to wallow in his own self-pity until he died. At first, this was a triumph. He defeated them, he outwitted the sphinx and slayed the dragon. But a part of him hated himself for becoming the worst-case scenario that every parent feared their child would grow up to be. 

He pulled himself out of his pit and back onto his feet, all by himself. It was hell on Earth, but he did it. That cancerous feeling of uselessness retracted back into itself, now residing in the place next to Peter’s heart. However, that horrifying fear of becoming a burden began to grow again, this time when Peter was in his mid-20s. He began to overcompensate, and that led him to where he was; always on the brink of collapse, running on nothing but coffee and twenty minutes of sleep. In return, Peter got to have friends. In his mind, that was fair. In your mind? Not even close.

You managed to catch him in his bedroom as he was in the midst of simultaneously scribbling in a notebook and reading an open novel. Peter Maximoff would always be the most beautiful person in the world in your eyes, but at that moment, he looked like hell. Your plan seemed foolproof, but then again, you weren’t sure what you were walking into. Lately, Peter didn’t seem like himself. Probably because of the lack of sleep. 

“Peter?” He looked up at you, eyes half-lidded. “I got you something.”

“You did?” A sleepy smile was all he could muster, but that was google enough for you.  

“I did. It’s to mark exactly three years since I first met you,” you sat down on his bed, placing the small wrapped book right next to you. Peter glanced at the calendar on the wall-- oh god, you were right. It’s been three years to the day and he forgot. He deserves the title of “World’s Worst Boyfriend”. Scott will probably be upset that he’s losing his title.

 “What’re you up to?”

“Finishing up some old work I’ve been putting off,” he punctuated his sentence with a yawn. “Some of my old work and some of Hank’s, too.” “Why are you doing Hank’s work?”

“He seemed stressed about something, thought I might help clear his head,” The sentiment is sweet, you’ll give him that.

“Alright, well, can we talk for a minute?” Alarm bells went off in Peter’s brain. There has never, in the history of the universe, been a good conversation that started with ‘can we talk for a minute?’ or any of it’s cruel variants. 

“Actually, I’m kind of busy right now, can this wait?” It was obvious that the answer to that was no, but still, he felt the need to ask. 

“Not really, no. It’s important.” Peter saw the next few seconds playing out in his head. The inevitable had come to fruition; you realized that you could do better, and now you were cutting him loose. He couldn’t blame you, not really, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to rip him to shreds. He realized that whatever you brought for him was most likely a parting gift. How sweet.

“Oh. Alright.” 

“Well, I’m going to give it to you straight,” you sighed. “I’m worried about you, Peter.”

Oh. He’s heard this speech before, he knows the spiel. He can vaguely recall a guidance counselor telling him the exact same thing before Peter decided to call him a slew of expletives. The tar pit in his chest began to grow.

“I’m fine.” This was a lie. The first lie in a long chain of lies that Peter was about to tell to you, his favorite person in the world. He loved you, but in that moment his vision clouded over. You weren’t the person he loved and cherished anymore, no, you were just another faceless blur that provided a temporary escape. 

“Really? I feel like you’re pushing everyone away, you’re pushing me away.” Peter was becoming more and more irritated by the second.

“I told you, I’m fine. I’m not pushing you away. 

“Don’t lie to me,” your voice is firm and unwavering. “You don’t sleep, you almost never eat-- I don’t think I’ve seen you stand still for more than three minutes once in the past month--”

“That’s just how I am,” Peter huffs. He wanted this conversation to be over. “That’s not your problem.”

“Your wellbeing is my problem, Peter, that’s the whole point of being friends with someone. Even more so now, because you’re my partner and I care about you--” 

“Then stop,” Peter rolled his eyes. He's more irritable than normal-- most likely because he hasn’t slept in days. He could almost feel the venomous arms of isolation creeping around him. It’s a sick pattern, he knows; every time someone gets close to him, he feels the need to self-destruct before they lose interest. Even now, even after all this time, Peter’s still powerless against the poison in his veins. 

“What?” You’re losing your reserve and your stature. He can tell. You’re slouching and picking at the cuticles on your thumb. It’s almost as if he’s been shoved into the back seat, and is now being forced to watch as a stranger takes the wheel and crashes the car. So much frustration, so much hurt, and it’s all coming out right now, onto you. Peter already regrets this entire interaction, but still, he manages to spit acid. 

“Stop caring. Just leave, I know you want to. I know every night, you lie awake and think about all the different ways you can leave me in the dust. Not that it would matter to me.” This is another lie. Your eyes flash with hurt, but you stay put. You know he’s just being an asshole because he’s exhausted and too stubborn to admit that you’re right. He’s egging you on intentionally, trying to get you to snap and walk away. 

 “Peter, god, I love you but sometimes you can be so...”

“So what? C’mon, be honest with me,” He huffed. 

“Frustrating,” You surrendered. The poise you once held was gone. “I know it isn’t your fault-- I know you’ve trusted so many people so deeply and been betrayed or sold out and I know you’ve loved so many times and been thrown to the curb without a second thought. But I don’t know what I can do to convince you that I’m here for you, and that I love you. I’ve tried everything, and it feels like I’m talking to a brick wall. I want to make this work, but I need you to work with me.” It’s evident in your voice that you’re desperate. You’re just hoping you’ll get through to him, somehow. “I need you to want it as bad as I do-- hell, I need you to want it at all.” Here it comes--

“You ever think, maybe, I just don’t want you to be that person for me? I’ve spent my life being independent, my entire existence so far has been built around the fact that I’m going to end up alone. People come and people go-- people like you and Charles-- and they tell me they care. They tell me that they love me and that they're here for me. And then they get tired of me and they leave. I wish that you would just leave me the fuck alone and let me live in solitude,” There it was. The lie to end all lies. The words tasted awful coming out of his mouth, and the whole ordeal left his mouth tasting very… sour. Peter had to look away, he couldn’t look at the expression on your face.

“Fine. If that’s what you want.” Your eyes never met his, but you paused before you exited the room. “I know you’re probably just… I don’t know, going through something, but you’re being an asshole. Don’t talk to me until you’ve sorted your shit out. Enjoy your solitude.” You left the room impossibly fast, your fists clenched so tightly Peter feared that your nails would break the skin on your palms. He struggled to keep it together-- why the fuck did he do that? 

Peter collapsed onto his bed, and it’s only then that he realized you left behind the gift you got him. A part of him thought he should return it to you, but the other part of him urged for it to be opened. He tore the wrapping paper off before he realized what he was doing. The hardcover book the wrapping paper concealed was handbound, the cover littered with your beautifully familiar handwriting. In big, bold letters The Best of Poetry in the Humble Opinion of Y/n L/n was scrawled at the top. 

Peter vividly remembers a late night you spent talking to him. You told him about your favorite poems, outlining each and every little detail you loved about them. Some of them he’d read already, some of them he hadn’t, but all of them sounded like artwork coming from you. He opened the front cover, and you’d written something else on the inside. 

“In the words of the wonderful Peter Maximoff, ‘What’s the point of reading if you don’t get to share the love?’. This is me, sharing the love.” 

Carefully, Peter opened to a random page in the book. He saw the notes in the margins and the doodles and the exclamation points and before he knew it Peter was on the verge of tears. He was barely containing himself, and then he read a specific annotation you made. 

He had opened to the first page of “The Worm King’s Lullaby”, one of your all-time favorites. A specific line was underlined, one that Peter was all too familiar with: “Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” Beside it, you wrote:

“As much of a genius Mr. Siken is, I have to disagree with this. If you love someone enough, you’ll never leave them and they’ll never leave you. Even if they die, even if things don’t work out, you’ll always have a little part of them to carry with you. Carry this part of me with you, Peter. Not that I plan on leaving anytime soon.” 

That was it. The floodgates broke. Everything that Peter had held back came pouring out-- the past 10 minutes finally caught up with him, and they hit him like a bus. He sat in the corner of his bedroom, his knees pulled up to his chest so tightly he thought his legs would snap. Peter wanted to rip all his hair out or punch a hole in the wall or hold his head underwater until he was nothing but an obituary and a headstone. His chest burned and the pit of despair inside his chest had overtaken his system, and he hated himself with a burning passion. Why did he do that? Why did he do that? Why the fuck did he do that?

Peter Maximoff had his breakdown in solitude, revealing in the fact that he was, undeniably, the villain of his own life.

4.

As it turns out, ‘getting his shit together’ is much harder than Peter originally anticipated. He's trying, he really is, but it's hard. Especially without you there. Peter knows that he fucked up, and he knows that he needs to work for your forgiveness. And don’t worry, he’s going to work for it. 

It had only been a week, but the entire mansion could tell that something was off. Life just wasn’t the same without the randomized gusts of wind that would knock people off their feet; no one had been seriously injured or had something stolen from them. The whirlwind that was mansion life, while still chaotic, lost it’s fun. 

Charles tried to keep things running smoothly, but he was an old man and didn’t exactly understand you and Peter. People would knock on your door every now and then, but you didn’t answer. You were much too busy analyzing exactly how much of a bitch you were being-- realistically, the answer is 0%, but you didn’t see it that way. No, from your perspective, you saw Peter having a mental breakdown and you ditched him. Pretty shitty move.

What you didn’t realize was that Peter was doing the exact same thing, however, the blame falls mostly on his shoulders, and boy does he know it. He’s been scripting his grand apology, trying desperately to find the right words to express exactly how sorry he is. Peter was never very good with words-- it’s always too hard to know if you’re going to say the wrong thing and mess everything up. Although, it’s hard to see how the scenario could get any worse.

He made the executive decision to start with “I’m sorry”-- a solid start to any apology. Sure, he could stop there, but Peter realized that he’d probably need more to win back his partner. So, he managed to scribble down a few more lines on a tiny notecard he was supposed to use for studying. Oh, what a wondrous redemption arc this would be; Peter gets into a fight with his wonderful partner and ruins their relationship and then struggles to come up with a coherent apology. 

“I’m sorry about what I said, that was shitty. I shouldn’t have said that.” Peter’s eyebrows furrowed in frustration. God, he was going to die alone, wasn’t he? Maybe this is the cruel punishment the world is dealing to him, the universe is deciding that Peter’s redemption arc would be better if it, well, didn’t exist. Even so, he isn’t planning on giving up or giving in just yet. 

He scrapped what he had so far and started at the beginning once again. His 9th grade english teacher would tell him to write about what he knows, and though he doesn’t know much, he’s an expert when it comes to himself. Peter knows how he feels about you, he knows how sorry he is, and he knows that he really, really, really wants you to know that he didn’t mean a word he said about not wanting you. Peter knows about love, at least a little bit, and he realizes he’ll need more than just words.  

His mind drifts to that night, years ago, in front of the fireplace. He vividly remembers a tiger lily and a chameleon scribbled in the margins of your book. Realistically, Peter couldn’t get his hands on a chameleon, but a tiger lily was a different story. In high school, Peter took a botany course because he thought it’d be easy. It wasn’t, it was boring as all hell, but it seems like his slacking paid off. He knew tiger lilies were indigenous to Asia, but they’d become quite common along New England-area roadways. 

Peter grabbed his jacket and took off, tearing through the roads like his life depended on it. In less than 10 minutes, Peter found himself in the middle of New Hampshire drenched in rain. In hindsight, he probably should’ve checked the weather before leaving. Nevertheless, he takes off into the small wooded area that laid passed the road’s end. Dozens of mushrooms dotted the muddy ground and mossy rocks clouded his peripheral vision. The rain begins to lighten as he spots a bright orange tiger lily peeking through the remains of a tree stump. He sprints over to it.

The tiger lily is bloomed and beautiful and Peter can’t tear his eyes away from the wide array of speckles and splotches and color. It’s pristine, but some of the petals are torn or wilting. The roots stretch into the stump below it, and Peter leans closer. The stump is old and worn, fungi and bugs eat away at the base next to a large hole where a family of worms reside. The stump is ugly, sure, but it’s useful. It helps keep the bugs fed and keeps the worms warm. There’s a metaphor here somewhere, but Peter is too distracted to find it. 

He gently picks the flower and spins on his heel, taking off once again. The rain makes it harder to run, but it’ll take a lot more than water to stop Peter. By the time Peter gets back to Xavier’s the flower is a little crushed, but it’s still somewhat pristine. 

He has the flower, he has the apology, and now all he needs is courage. Thankfully, that courage comes quickly as he instinctively knocks on your bedroom door. He probably should’ve stopped to collect himself, but he was riding a wave of adrenaline that wouldn’t come back. 

“Go away, Jean,” You called from inside. You sounded tired, and it made Peter sad. 

“It’s-- uh-- it’s not Jean,” Peter can hear your hesitant footsteps approaching the door, and suddenly the courage he managed to build up drained. His hands are shaking by the time you open the door. You look up at him, and Peter looks back at you, and suddenly everything is much harder to do. He looks down at his feet. 

“Hi.” Your voice is hoarse, but clear. 

“Hi.” Peter’s voice is uneven and quiet. You stand there in silence for a minute before Peter pipes up again.

“So, uh, you’re probably still mad at me and I get that, but I just want you to hear me out. I-If that’s okay,” You nod slowly, and Peter takes a deep breath. He thinks about the written apology that sat in his coat pocket, and he makes the last-minute decision to forget about it. He’ll speak from the heart, or, whatever people in rom-coms do. 

“I’m sorry. It was really shitty of me to get angry at you because you were worried about me-- although, I guess shitty is an understatement. Everything that I said about, yknow, not wanting you or Charles or anyone else around anymore wasn’t true. I need you guys, and I love you guys and it was unfair of me to push you away. Solitude really sucks. I guess I’m just not very good at navigating relationships,” He exhales, and his chest shudders. “I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore, I just thought I should make it clear how I feel.” It’s only then that he remembers about the tiger lily in his hand. “Oh, and this is for you.”

“A tiger lily?” you smiled softly. “These are my favorite-- how did you know?”

“I’m just observant, I guess. You usually draw them when you’re bored, I figured you’d like to see one in person,” You gently took the tiger lily in your hand. The silence that hung in the air was deafening, and Peter realized that was probably a bad sign. His chest drops just a bit, and he takes a small step backwards.

“I guess I should probably leave you alone--” Peter can’t get very far, because you immediately jump forward and wrap your arms around him. Eyes wide and heart pounding, you can feel Peter’s arms lock around your waist. 

“Thank you,” You whispered. “Please don’t go.” Peter was smiling so hard his cheeks ached, and a horrible weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The close-contact was refreshing; he didn’t realize how much he missed it until that moment. He was pretty sure he would never, ever let you go. Not again.

5.

To Peter Maximoff, physical affection has always been a touchy subject-- that is, until you came along. You proved to him that he deserved physical affection, that his mutation and his personality and weirdo quirks didn’t make him lesser or unlovable. Peter Maximoff deserved love, and you were the one who never failed to love him. 

You sat on a wooden chair in front of the fireplace, reading to the group of children sitting at your feet. The emotional lines of “Snow and Dirty Rain” fell from your lips, and with every turning syllable the small group would listen just a little bit closer. Peter did, too, desperately trying to hear every single word you said. Class was almost over, and once the students were dismissed you’d probably stop reading.

“I made this place for you. A place for you to love me. If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is,” Your eyes tore away from the page to look at the kids at your feet. They fell upon Peter, and a smile erupted on your face. 

Peter vaguely recalls the twisted idea of love that he held as a teenager. He thought love was a dragon to be defeated, a battle that could be won or lost. It’s clear now that love is the opposite-- it isn’t a fight or a battle or a thing to be conquered. It’s more like a flower; it needs to be cherished and cared for in order to grow. Sometimes the flower wilts and dies, and that’s natural, but sometimes the flower lasts for a lifetime. 

Love wasn’t a dragon or a knight, it didn’t have a hero or a villain; it was much more like a tiger lily and a tree stump.

[bimormondisaster]

Four times Crosshair helped his brothers and one time he did the best he could.

Hello! This is my first time doing something like this so I hope you enjoy it. I'm still very new to writing and I suck at editing so I'm sorry for any mistakes.

Word count: 2,781

Warnings:

Wrecker- Mentions of blood, violence, Hurt character.

Hunter- Mentions of overstimulation and migraines

Echo- Nightmares

CT-9904- That scene from s1 e1 tbb

Wrecker (Cadets, age around 16)

The feeling of the clone’s face against Crosshair’s fist was satisfying. Even after the blood started to cover his knuckles, he kept punching. It wasn’t until the cadet’s eyes closed that he stopped. He let the boy’s tunic go, and he hit the ground with a dull thud. He would wake up eventually and Crosshair would inevitably get punished but right now he didn’t care.

He was alone when he got the com. He was getting cleaned up after some private training., about to meet his brothers in the cafeteria but when Hunter told him that kriffen reg had landed Wrecker in the med bay he changed course.

He made his way to the medbay. Stopping only to wash the blood off his hands. Looking in the mirror he noticed his hair was getting grayer. He wasn’t sure why his hair was graying so early but he didn’t mind it. Wrecker always teased him about it but he thought it made him look more mature.

The med bay door slid open revealing Hunter sitting beside a bed as Tech paced. A droid was hovering over the bed occupied by Wrecker.

Hunter stood as he walked over. “What took you so long?”

“I was busy.” He forced himself to look away from Wrecker’s bloody and bruised form and to Hunter. “How is he?”

Tech answered first. “Under these conditions, there is a 15 percent chance that he will wake up in the next hour, Every hour after that the chance goes up by 7.5 percent until hour five where if he’s not awake by then the chances lower by-”

“He’s going to be fine.” Hunter supplied, sending a comforting smile to Tech. The droid left without a word and the boys settled down. Wrecker’s face was swollen. The left side of his face was covered in bandages, including his eye. Every moment that he watched, that he saw his brother in this state, his fury grew.

“What happened?” He asked through clenched teeth.

Hunter and Tech shared a look and Tech adjusted his goggles.

“No one knows yet,” Hunter said.

His hands tensed into fists. The quickly bruising knuckles protested but he didn’t care. That’s when he saw it. Lula, tucked in beside Wrecker, was looking almost as bad as its owner. One of the ears was hanging on by a thread and a leg was missing.

Without saying anything Crosshair stood up and grabbed the stuffed toy.

“I found the leg in the hall.” He pulled it out and offered it to Crosshair who took it without a word.

Crosshair didn’t know how to sew but he tried his best with the supplies he could find in the med bay. They all waited. Hunter as still as possible, trying to keep the squad as calm as possible. Tech buried himself in his padd and tried to distract himself. Although every hour Crosshair could hear him whisper the new odds of Wrecker waking up.

Crosshair folded in on himself completely focused on fixing Lula. His long legs protested being forced into the chair, his back ached from being slouched, but he didn’t mind. After two hours Lula was all fixed up. It wasn’t what Crosshair would call a good job, but it was the best he could do. He just hoped it was enough.

Tech

If Tech wasn’t dead at the end of this Crosshair was going to kill him. Not surprisingly the job went bad and now they were in a shootout. His scope allowed him to see the chaos in the warehouse from the hill he was nested on. Amongst it all was Tech. Who disobeyed orders and abandoned his cover; running like a kriffin idiot trying to get to the computer.

“Tech get under cover!” Hunter’s voice came through the comm.

“No can do Hunter. If I can just-” Tech was cut off as more droids entered the warehouse, open firing.

Crosshair cursed under his breath and started to pick them off. There was little chance of this mission succeeding but that’s where they worked best. In the midst of the blaster fire, yelling, orders being called, and explosions he noticed something. Another blaster was shooting into the warehouse at Tech who had, so far, dodged the fire purely by dumb luck. He watched carefully, tuning out the bickering in his ear.

A streak of a blaster shot through the air heading for the very clueless Tech who was pinned down. Without thinking he aimed. Time slowed as he watched the bullet fly through the air. His finger tightened on the trigger and in the time of a heartbeat he fired. The bullets collided and went wide, missing Tech who was quickly getting surrounded.

He aimed again, this time at the chains holding up the large doors. He shot. The first chain broke. Reaming at the other chain he fired again. His brothers could handle the droids, He’d handle the sniper. He shot again. The chain rattled but stayed in place. Another shot and the door dropped crushing the few droids underneath.

“Cross what’s happening? Was that you?” Hunter’s voice broke through the wall of concentration he put up.

“Little busy” He replied, moving positions to aim where the other nest would be and waited. One breath, two, three, there. Movement caught his eye as someone poked their head up. His finger tightened and he felt the familiar kick of his gun. The figure dropped and He stood.

By the time grabbed a speeder and made his way to the warehouse the fight was over and other than a few burns and cuts his brothers were safe.

Hunter

Hunter was having another bad day. He didn’t have them as often as he did when they were cadets. He had learned how to suppress it better. Or, Crosshair suspected, how to hide them better.

However, he still had days where he was easily overwhelmed. They all knew the signs. Talking quieter, flinching more, headaches, tensing at the smallest sound, not wanting people to talk or touch him, sitting further away from the group. Crosshair had had migraines before and remembered how awful those were, he was glad that he would never have to deal with increased senses.

Hunter was in the cockpit looking out the window. Everyone had tried to give him as much space as possible so they were making themselves busy elsewhere. He set a steaming cup of the tea he always drank when he had bad days down as gently as possible in front of Hunter and sat across from him. They sat in silence for a time. He watched Hunter slowly sip the tea.

“Thank you,” Hunter whispered

“You should go lay down. I’ll keep the others quiet.” Although he had lowered his voice Hunter still winced.

“I’m okay, We’re almost to the mission anyway.”

Stubborn as always. Wordlessly Crosshair checked the computers, there was an uninhabited planet not far from them. He entered the coordinates and the ship changed course.

Hunter raised a questioning eyebrow and he just gave him a smile.

“Where are we going?”

“Jargon. It’s quiet.”

“Cross I-” He glared at the dash that beeped and sighed. “Thank you”

He hummed in acknowledgment. The mission could wait a few hours, or even a few days, as long as his brothers were okay.

Echo

Crosshair couldn’t sleep. He and Echo had just gotten back to the ship after a week away. Tech, Hunter, and Wrecker were still away and weren’t expected until at least the next day. Why Hunter decided to make him go alone with the new guy was beyond him. He wasn’t interested in making friends. He had his brothers and that was more than enough.

He laid in his bunk staring up at the ceiling. The ship was eerily quiet with everyone being away. As much as he wanted to enjoy it, it filled him with dread. He had grown to love the noise and chaos that came with the bad batch and missed it when it was gone.

He heard movement and was pulled from his thoughts.

“No… No” Echo was murmuring. He sat up and got out of bed to see what was going on. Quietly making his way over he could see Echo tossing in his bunk. His first instinct was to call for Hunter. This was more of his thing. However, that wasn’t an option.

Kneeling beside the bed he put a hand on the clone’s shoulder. “Echo,” Echo responded by getting louder.

“No! Please!”

“Echo!” He shook him. “Wake up.”

The tossing stopped and his eyes opened with a deep breath. He tried to sit up but the hand stopped him. “Rex will come back for me!”

“He already has.” He removed his hand and leaned back to give the man some space. Dealing with nightmares wasn’t anything new. They all had them.

Clarity came into Echos eyes. “Crosshair?” He sat up, still breathing heavily.

“You had a nightmare.” It was a fact and yet Echo looked down ashamed. Crosshair watched carefully as Echo looked everywhere but him. “I’m sorry I woke you.” With that, he laid back down. Crosshair internally cursed both the regs and Hunter.

Nightmares were a part of life for the clones however the regs had something against talking about them. They preferred to keep the pain a secret, pretend it wasn’t there. Why they were taboo to talk about was beyond him. He had spent many nights listening to his brothers talk about theirs and he had spent almost as much time sitting up with at least one of his brothers because of his own nightmares.

While he understood why and even accepted bringing Echo aboard he still wasn’t that close to him and didn’t plan on getting close. He was, after all a reg. A reg who had special abilities now, but a reg nonetheless. He knew that Hunter wanted him to let Echo in the way he had let in his brothers. He also knew that he didn’t care what Hunter wanted. However, as he watched Echo close his eyes and pretend to fall back asleep his heart twisted.

He stood. “Come with me.” Without waiting he walked out of the ship. On his way out he grabbed a blanket.

A few moments after he walked out onto the ship’s ramp, Echo joined him.

“Crosshair? Is there a problem?” He still looked scared. Like any minute he’d be sucked back into his dreams never to return.

“Sit.” Echo did as was ordered. Sitting on the ramp. The black sky was filled with twinkling stars. Cross put the blanket over Echo’s shoulders and sat next to him.

Crosshair was looking straight ahead. “If you are going to be a part of the bad batch you need to learn to accept help.”

“I don’t know what you-”

“Fresh air is the best remedy for nightmares.” He turned to look at Echo. “There is no use in keeping them bottled up.”

They sat there most of the night. Echo told him about his time before being taken, his brothers, his commanders. He told him about Fives and Rex. He told him about his time as an unwilling traitor to the republic he loved.

They both silently promised to not talk about that night again. Echo didn’t want to be embarrassed and Crosshair didn’t want this responsibility any more than he needed to take it. Or at least that’s what he would say if pressed.

The next morning Crosshair was woken up by his brother’s arrival. Their part of the mission was a success. And as the five of them walked into the ship and Crosshair figured that maybe four brothers wouldn’t be so bad.

CT-9904

Good soldiers follow orders.

The rest of the bad batch was in the hanger. Predictable. They always thought they were a step ahead. Now he would show them how flawed their thinking really was. They were cowards trying to run away.

Hunter walked out from behind the crates. Reckless a small part of him thought. He ignored it. He had eyes on Wrecker, Echo, and Omega. All behind the crates. Tech was most likely in the ship.

“Best stand down Sargent,” He said. They were in a standoff and Crosshair knew who would win when the time came. The traitors wouldn’t hurt him. “Make it easy on yourself.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Hunter replied.

Yes

‘Quiet’

“We should’ve killed that Jedi. You disobeyed orders” Why didn’t Hunter follow the orders? If he had just been a good soldier, a good leader, then none of this would be happening.

“I did what I thought was right.” Hunters snapped, stepping forward.

“You never could see the bigger picture.” He shrugged. “Now surrender.”

Let them go.

Hunter glanced back at the group as they prepared for a firefight. Wrecker put his helmet on.

These are your brothers.

“Is that an order?” Hunter looked back at him.

He let out a chuckle. “I guess it is.”

Don’t do this.

“Well, I guess I’m disobeying that one too.”

They stayed staring at each other. Waiting to see who would make the first move. He spat out the toothpick.

Stop, please, no.

‘Quiet,’

His finger tightened as the thunder rumbled. He wanted Hunter to come peacefully. Why did Hunter never listen? He didn’t want to hurt them.

But he would do what he must.

In one motion he lifted his arm, set the blaster on it and fired. Hunter ducked and it hit the ramp of the ship. A part of him was screaming that this was wrong but he continued. The clones he was with open fired. Clone force 99 returned fire and two smoke bombs were thrown. They moved in.

He took aim again. This time using a heat sensor. He let off a few shots then waited. They needed to clear the smoke and when they did…

The sound of metal hitting metal rang through the air as the smoke cleared. Wrecker was in the middle of it and through one of the container lids, knocking some clones down.

Taking aim all he could see was the second one coming for him. He rolled out of the way as the containers fell where he was moments ago.

He aimed.

NO!

He shot, hitting Wrecker’s armour. He’d survive.

This time Wrecker fell. His brothers wouldn’t fall for it but the girl might and if he got a clear shot on the girl Hunter would soon follow.

Sure enough, a blonde head poked out from behind the crates and he fired again. He missed as she was pulled back undercover.

The ship started up. They couldn’t go. They needed to stay, needed to see that this was the right thing.

“Seal the bay doors!” He ordered. The clone to his right. He ran for the panel on the wall.

A light started flashing and a warning alarm beep. The door didn’t shut.

“Sir! Someone is overriding the controls.”

Tech.

He took aim once again. Hunter was giving Omega orders. She would be his target as they tried to leave.

“Only one way out Hunter. Your move.” He said.

Traitor.

The voice was loud and annoying. He shook it off.

He put his finger on the trigger.

“Go!”

Hunter and Echo stood and fired. Moving into the walkway, towards Wrecker. Towards the ship. Moving forward to cover he fired. He made it behind the crates and mentally kicked himself. Why wasn’t he aiming properly? This should be over already.

The last clone fell, hit by the oncoming fire. He turned his head to try and see where they were but couldn’t see them. Only the blaster bolts. He stood and took aim. Hunter was in his sights. This time he wouldn’t miss and he wouldn’t have mercy.

Stop!

His finger tightened on the trigger when suddenly electricity ran through the gun. He watched it drop and looked to where the shot was fired. Standing on the ramp was Omega. Blaster in hand.

He could swear he heard laughing from somewhere inside of him.

He pulled the blaster off of his hip and aimed. Omega shot first. Both the shots missing as he ran for cover.

You’ve lost. Let them go.

The ship lifted off and he ran towards it. Firing. None of his shots hit and soon the door was shut.

He stopped running once they were in space. He put the blaster away and took off his helmet. He looked into space as the mix of emotions bubbled inside of him. They left him. He failed his first mission. He knew Wrecker would live and his brothers would be okay. That’s all that matters.

[medusinestories]

Onwards to the episode in which we get to see Flint and Silver each having a very bad day (as well as two literal dicks that nobody had asked to see).

Black Sails VII (s1 ep07)

- We open on Pastor Lambrick's sweaty face as he intensely rehearses the Easter sermon and he’s obviously eaten up by what he did with Miranda. His sermon, unsurprisingly, focuses on sin, keeping sin hidden, and the hell that awaits the sinner. Which leads us nicely onto Flint, who’s distracted (by his own sin? by thoughts of Miranda? both?) during a meeting with Eleanor. Eleanor is pissed that Miranda let Richard Guthrie send a message to the Andromache and then waltz into town to close up his business; Flint tries to take the heat off Miranda, once again protecting her (at this point, he may not know the contents of the letter).

- During this meeting, Flint is startled when Silver first speaks up to say that the mob in the street was bad - clearly Silver is a sort of intruder in this meeting. But Eleanor, after Silver reminds her by unsubtly clearing his throat, tells Flint that he’s not to harm Silver because he was instrumental in setting up the Consortium. Silver looks so pleased with himself in these scenes, and Flint quite defeated when he tells Silver to follow him back to their camp. I love it.

- To parallel Flint/Miranda’s Sulky Sex scene from ep4, we have Anne/Rackham’s frustrating/disconnected sex scene. It shows us a few things about them mainly that Anne wants to keep a lot of control over what happens, hence Rackham being tied up (though of course this might also be his kink), her wearing a shirt that covers up most of her body, and the reverse cowgirl position that means that she’s both in control of what happens and completely avoids eye contact. The position reminds us of the Flint/Miranda scene, where Miranda was also on top, but their scene involved more eye contact (yes glaring counts, he’s still intensely focused on Miranda), gentle touching (on Miranda’s side) and her being naked and open to him. Another parallel is that both Flint and Rackham aren’t in the right frame of mind for sex, Flint being angry and Rackham lost in a sea of worries (and probably also somewhat angry/disappointed at Anne for forcing him into the plot to kill their crewmates). The difference between Flint and Rackham is that while Flint doesn’t seem to have any trouble performing, Rackham is miles away and doesn’t even notice that he’s lost his erection - again. Anne is frustrated by this, and apparently knows him well enough that she offers to put something up his arse, but he’s clearly not in the mood, and she leaves in a huff, abandoning him all tied up as a sort of revenge for his performance problems. Whatever the problem is between them isn’t put into words (because Anne can’t yet, for starters), unlike the one between Flint and Miranda. The intimacy between Rackham and Anne, so often described as close partners, seems much more distant to me than the one shown between Flint and Miranda. I’m not sure whether it’s because of anyone’s sexual orientation, or just the fact that they’re fucking but they’ve never discussed the big important things, such as Anne’s identity/feelings/etc.

- In this episode, Dufresne gains a lot of power: with a freshly (and badly) shaved head and a new tattoo, he’s been promoted to Quartermaster on the Walrus in Billy’s place. And very quickly he has a problem to deal with: Randall revealing that Silver stole the page. Gates had actually already told this to Dufresne, as is revealed at the end of the episode, which might explain why Dufresne is relatively calm during the whole conversation, while DeGroot wants Silver and Flint hanged and Howell is surprisingly ruthless: he brings up the idea that it may be better to kill off Randall in order to get to the treasure, if they can’t make sure he’ll keep quiet about Silver being the thief. Dufresne is actually quite kind towards Silver in the scene where he puts Silver’s memory to the test - a test that could result in his death if he fails it and that Silver constantly grumbles against (I love his grumbling!). Basically, at this point Dufresne remains quite a sympathetic character, which will change a lot as the show goes on, especially after Jannes Eiselen had to leave the show (such a sad story, RIP Jannes).

- In the meantime, the Flint and Gates relationship is crumbling. It's sad to see, especially since they're shown sharing chuckles as they talk about Dufresne's appointment in the beginning of the episode. But then Gates brings up the subject of Miranda and demands explanations about the letter Billy found. We're not shown exactly what Flint answers, but it's clear that he's actually trying his best to give him an explanation without incriminating Miranda too badly. The sad thing is that Flint is actually telling the truth: he actually wasn't involved in any betrayal of his crew and and can only guess at Miranda's motivations. But the fact that he's lied time and again in previous situations, including on the Maria Aleyne where he claimed Lord Alfred drew a weapon on him (and Gates secretly verified that this was a lie), and used men as pawns to advance his and Miranda's plans, is now catching up to him. Flint seems truly hurt when Gates accuses him of using the men for his own purposes, and turns spiteful, telling Gates that he should have been "a better father" to Billy and helped him "understand the world he was living in" (suggesting that such a forthright character as Billy can't really survive in a world of pirates who are all ready to stab each other in the back). After that slap in the face, Gates says he's exhausted from Flint and threatens to take it to the crew. Somehow, this pushes Flint to bare all: he tells Gates about his plan to keep a part of the treasure and use it to build up Nassau, depicting himself as a sort of saviour, doing it for the men's good: they'd rather be rich men in a safe place than dead thieves hanging from a noose. Gates sees this as delusions of grandeur, and tells him that while he'll see the Urca plot through, after that they're done. I actually think he sees Flint’s point, since he doesn’t just throw him to the crew, but won’t admit that out loud. The whole of this scene hurts bad, because you can tell that Flint is desperate and sad to be losing his closest ally and friend, and that Gates is hurting from the loss of Billy and exhausted from the toxic relationship he has with Flint, where he's played enabler to his manipulations for years.

- While Flint and Gates’ alliance is breaking, Silver has to forge one with Randall or die. Randall finds out in the beginning of the episode that he’s been voted out of the crew. This is apparently due to DeGroot’s fears that Randall could be a fire hazard, which the crew took disproportionately to heart. Randall is furious with Silver, who smugly tells him that in these situations, a setback often comes with a new or unexpected opportunity. He’s right, but at this point he doesn’t know that he is the opportunity Randall’s going to latch on. Randall reveals that Silver is a thief, and Silver denies it, saying that Randall is both a halfwit and was in a haze of opium when he heard what he thought he heard; he even tries to convince Randall that he was mistaken (this, my friends, is gaslighting). However, by revealing that Silver was the thief, Randall sets a chain of events into motion which could either end with his death (if Howell has his way, since Randall is an inconvenient witness) or Silver’s (if DeGroot tips the balance, not trusting Silver to remember the coordinates and not wanting to sacrifice Randall for nothing). Silver figures out that these are the outcomes, and tries to talk sense into Randall by making a deal with him: he’ll care for Randall and make sure he can stay on the ship. But it’s only when Silver finally admits that he is the thief and that Randall was right, that Randall accepts the deal. Later, Silver realises that Randall might have orchestrated the whole thing: he’s now got Silver to serve him, doesn’t have to take any risks on the ship, and gets to remain with the crew. Silver wonders if Randall is a genius rather than a halfwit (a word thrown about a lot to describe him). And it seems quite obvious, considering what happened, that Randall still has strong survival skills (an amputee with impaired cognitive skills doesn’t stand a chance of survival outside a crew and he must be aware of it), that he still has a good memory and an ability to pick out useful information and that he’s aware enough of what’s going on to be upset by the crew’s rejection and Silver’s attempt to gaslight him. I think it’s important to recognise that Randall is more than a comic relief or a grotesque character: he’s a disabled man who's lost parts of his cognitive ability and is struggling to survive.

- This episode focuses on Vane facing his past. He seeks out the island where he grew up and its master, Albinus. I’d forgotten or never really registered that Albinus was a pirate and that the men who work for him were mostly his crew - and likely slaves (or children, hence Vane?) that he managed to capture/press into service. He’s retired from pirating and set up a system where his men cut down trees for timber all day, without wages. It’s not clear exactly how he holds so much power over these men, although it seems that everyone is terrified of him. He’s extremely strong physically, seems shrewd, speaks rather well, and his tattoos suggest that maybe he’s involved in some kind of ritual (truly religious or just for show?) which would make him all the more scary to superstitious people. Vane is clearly still frightened: he barely makes eye contact and practically stutters when he first tries to make the deal with Albinus, which is that he’ll take some of Albinus’ men as crew and send Albinus part of their earnings as tribute. It says a lot about Albinus that Vane, after years of having run away, is still so scares that he’s willing to pay him a tribute. But he changes his mind as he stares at a boy bearing the same brand as he does: he tries to persuade the men that Nassau is a pace of pleasures rather than hard labour, and confronts Albinus. The fight is brutal and ends with Vane buried naked, just after Albinus tells him that he’s proud of him. But of course Vane wouldn’t be Vane if he didn’t rise from the dead at the last minute and kill Albinus, goaded on by his inner Eleanor voice.

- In the meantime, Mr Scott returns to Eleanor, apologising for what he did, telling her he betrayed her out of love. However he also reminds her of his slave status: technically, he belongs to her. The argument upsets her, and he quite cleverly uses this moment to ask her to free the slaves who were on the Andromache. And it works: by the end of the episode, she’s made arrangements for the men to work on ships and has bought the women’s freedom and found them jobs in her tavern. But Mr Scott has still decided to leave Eleanor to join Hornigold’s crew, to refrain from meddling with Eleanor’s affairs, since he disagrees with her so strongly re: the Urca. Hornigold approached him earlier in the episode, and the introduction to that scene is quite interesting: Hornigold says to Mr Scott “I’ll need to know your secret” and Mr Scott looks startled and frightened. It seems that he’s startled because he’d been giving food to the slaves, but in light of S3, it could be a much greater secret that’s being referred to. Mr Scott is relieved when he realises that Hornigold is simply talking about tolerating Eleanor, who he clearly can’t stand.

- Flint’s bad day continues, of course, with the big confrontation he has with Miranda. He’s furious about the letter (of which he now knows the contents thanks to Gates), telling her that it could have got him killed, or destroyed the plans they’d made and asking her whether she was trying to embarrass him. This sounds so weirdly petty, and yet it also sounds exactly like the kind of argument that would come up in a bickering couple. Miranda answers that she was trying to help him out of that life, because she wants to move on. This is where Miranda utters the famous “there is no life here, there is no joy here, there is no love here”. I noticed that, covered by Flint yelling at her, and distorted because her voice has gone very shrill, Miranda says another line, which sounds like “you used to love, then”. If that really is what she says, it’s extra-extra-extra heartbreaking to hear (if someone wants to check it for me, it’s around 35:40). It’s obvious that Flint and Miranda’s views on life are very different, and I can’t help but think back to the fact that, as a carpenter’s son from the country, Flint has had to struggle all his life to become who he is. So when he says that you can’t get a life without having a war, and Miranda tells him he’s wrong, she’s speaking entirely from the point of view of her privilege. She’s never needed to fight as hard as he has to be happy, because she got extremely lucky in marrying Thomas. And when she says that Thomas would agree with her, I’m certain she’s right. But life has never been like that for Flint, and there’s no way he’ll ever entirely agree with their point of view. Rewatching this scene is tough, btw, because they both have great points, they’re both hurting so much, and there’s so much to take in between the body language, the facial expressions, the tones of voice and the actual words that it’s a whole whirlwind. And it feels very, very real.

- It’s absolutely hilarious to see Rackham get robbed by the whores taking advantage of his lack of knowledge (and research). He should absolutely have done a better job and has no clue how to run a brothel. He’s lucky Max takes things in hand after having heard from Idelle that the girls were taking advantage.

- Then we have the beautiful Drunk Flint scene. Eleanor notices him feeling very sorry for himself after Gates has pretty much broken up with him and he’s still reeling from fighting with by Miranda. I think Flint feels very misunderstood here. He thought that he was doing something good, to save Nassau and avenge Thomas, and doesn’t understand why they can’t see it, why they only see the terrible methods he uses to reach his goals. So he’s full of doubt, clearly wondering if he’s the villain of the story, and puts the question to Eleanor: is their plan worth it? Eleanor is the only person who still believes in him, which leads us to the only scene that I would ever call straight-baiting. Flint hovers near Eleanor, breathing heavily, and a variety of emotions play over her face during this moment of tension, as she seems to think this is leading to a kiss. It does, he gives her a chaste little forehead kiss and leaves. All the elements are in place to make your average viewer start shipping these two. I actually find it hilarious that the ship barely exists in the fandom (though I wasn’t there in the beginning of the fandom and I guess the viewership changed a lot between S1 and S4).

- The scene with Flint and Gates glaring at each other from their respective ships and Parson’s Farewell playing in the background... epic! We know this is the beginning of a big struggle between them, especially since we find out that Gates has pretty much decided that he’ll hand Flint over to the crew once they get the money. But nnnnggh that scene! The ships leaving on their hunt! Awesome and heartbreaking!

[bimswritings]

Armorer x (Blacksmith) Reader 1/2

Warnings:Canon Typical violence

A/n: I had so much fun writing this! If anyone has fic recs for her send them my way! The next part of the Savage series and a new chapter of Our Way will come out next week!

_______________________________

The Armorer had experienced more in her lifetime than anyone else would care to. She had watched the rise and fall of small rebellions, crushed under the foot of the Empire. Seen her people hunted and killed until their numbers weren’t even fractions of what the great tribe of warriors once was. Chaos and bloodshed, hiding and waiting, had become as normal as breathing to her. That’s not to say she missed the many good things that happened. 

The sounds of foundlings and young ones as they ran through the halls of the covert, not yet burdened by the responsibilities of adulthood, acted as a reminder that her people were still alive. And there was no greater sense of peace to be had then when they would all meet in the karyai and dine together like the family they were. 

Well, except for her forge. 

Her forge was a sacred place. Not only for her but for the others as well. It was here that the most important and private of discussions were held. Talks about individuals as well as the coven as a whole. Who would go out and hunt, what responsibilities would be given to who, and where they would go for their next supply run to get food and medicine. It was important that they never went to the same place too many times, least someone followed them back, and the amount always had to be different as to not let in on their numbers.

All these choices, all this planning, was run through her. Their Armorer. Their Alor. They trusted her with their lives, leaning on her as an elder would a walking stick. Despite the immense pressure put on her, she never let it show. Never asked for anything in return. Seeing her people happy was enough to keep her strong, and looking towards the future instead of the horrors of the past.

Besides, when she watched the bigger picture, it left the others able to focus on the smaller things. Namely the continuation of their tribe, which they were doing an outstanding job on if her current project was anything to go by.

The three pieces she was working on would fit together perfectly. Though each their own unique piece, they were all made from one base ore.

The mother would come to possess the intricate dagger currently sitting off to the side, being highly skilled in close quarter combat it would serve her well. The handle of the blade would slide smoothly in the bottom of her eagle-eyed riduur’s blaster, and make it even more dangerous than before. The weapon would have no weaknesses, each piece supporting the other, and be usable in any scenario. Of course they would still need a way to be locked in place. Something that would make the connection between the two weapons stronger. The insignia would be worn by the child until they died, and then given to their closest of kin, be it friend, lover, or child. It was of the mother’s clan, which they would all take the name of, and the metal ranicor already shone with a radiant pride as she pulled it from the blue flames, quenching it the basin of oil beside her.

It would fit at the juncture, locking the weapons in place with an unbreakable bond. 

The two adults would present each other with the weapons, a symbol of their promise to protect one another both in and out of battles. Then, together, they would tie the insignia to the child with a leather thread. The only addition would be a Mythosaur skull, which they would receive should they take up the creed of the Mandalorian. If not, they would still bear the mark of their clan and wear it with pride.

It was hard work, but the Armorer would do it all over again in a heartbeat. After all, the exchanging of vows between two Mandalorians was enough cause for a celebration, but for the same couple to have a claiming ceremony of a foundling at the same time? It had sent the enter tribe into a nest of bustling activity in preparation. The elders were particularly excited, constantly coming in to inform her of any updates or changes. 

It was one of them that she had expected when she heard footsteps enter her forge, not the young warrior she was faced with when she turned around.

“What can I help you with, child?” For a young Mandalorian such as himself to enter without invitation or a offering to the tribe, it must be of grave importance.

He remained kneeling as he spoke, head bowed in respect to his Alor.

“Alor, I have heard troubling news during my patrol. A matter I fear has to deal with the pride of the Mandalorian name.”

Underneath the helmet, her brows furrowed though he could not see it. From his tone, he seemed almost hesitant to deliver the news, and she waited silently for him to continue.

“There...there’s been word that another possess the armor of a Mandolrian a few parsecs over on the moon of Quilon.” He swallowed thickly, audible even through the modulator, before continuing. 

“Someone not of any tribe or clan, nor a foundling or anyone who claims our identity.”

The tension in the room was palpable, and the Armorer couldn’t blame the heat rising within her on the fire she had been previously toiling over for so many hours without issue. Though she concealed it well, any who knew her, who could tell by the way her helmet tilted up or how her shoulders squared slightly, knew that she was absolutely furious.

“Then we must retrieve it immediately.” 

“Of course, Alor. Which of the warriors would you like me to retrieve so they may be briefed.”

“None.” She replied, hooking her tools into her belt, moving to grab her cloak from it’s hook, where it had been previously gathering dust.

“Alor?” He questioned. She had told him that they would retrieve it, but if she wanted none of the warriors then how would they?

“It is time that people are reminded of who we were. Who we are. Though we remain hidden in our covert, we are not weak. We bide our time until we once again rise.”

She tucked an extra blaster into her belt, though she knew the weapon would come second to her hammer. If it turned into an altercation of shots rather than strength, she would be prepared.

“I will retrieve it myself, and make an example of those that thought they could tarnish our name.”

With that she was gone, stalking down the maze of corridors on a warpath. Everyone who saw her coming was quick to jump out of the way. If there was one thing more dangerous than an angry Mandalorian, it was an enraged Armorer.

__________________________________

Landing the ship just outside the town, the Armorer followed the coordinates given to her before leaving. 

Just like every other planet in their system, Quilon was nothing special. Another small rock in space abandoned by the Empire and left to be overrun by bandits. Though their presence here was even more prevalent than on Nevarro. 

She paid no mind to the eyes that followed her from the shadows, hidden under masks and hats and behind drinks as she made a direct line to the center bar.

The man behind the counter was an aged Weequay, his already wrinkled skin dull but still showing the strength that lay in the muscle underneath. Though old, he was clearly someone who could still hold his own against any patron who had too many glasses of brandy.

He had no hesitance in walking up to her, despite clearly knowing who she was a part of.

“What can I do for you?”

She placed a stack of credits on the counter, gently sliding the pile over to him.

“I’ve heard that someone here has the armor of a Mandalorian. I wish to know where to find them so that we may...talk.”

The Weequay picked up the pile,clinking the metal as he tested the weight before looking back towards the Armorer.

“A matter of great importance for you, I’m sure. However, the person you seek is also of great importance.”

Silently, she reached into her pouch and retrieved a few more credits, the clinking sound they made as they were deposited with the others into his waiting hand causing a smile to stretch his face, revealing a number of missing teeth.

“You’ll find your person on the far west side of town. The shop will be located just a bit out. Had to relocate it with all the noise bothering the townsfolk.” He laughed, turning back to his other patrons as he deposited the money. “Just follow the cursing.”

Twenty minutes and another exchange of information later, the Armorer found herself in front of a shop reading ‘Galactic Metalworks’.

If she had been angry before, she was positively fuming now. For someone who was supposed to have an understanding and appreciation for all things forged, the fact that they would have Mandalorian beskar, undoubtedly knowing its importance and what is signified, was the ultimate insult.

She could only hope that they would have enough sense not to have tempered with the armor, else she would have to hold herself back from killing them too quickly.

She walked through the door, pulling the fabric flap aside as she stepped inside. Instantly she was greeted with the sight of a surprisingly organized space, with weapons of all kinds lining the walls and a case displaying more decorative items sitting just behind what she assumed was the front counter.

There was no one in sight, prompting her to move further into the shop. As she passed, she couldn’t help but admire the works as she went. Though more elegant than what she would have done with some, there was no doubt about the quality of each item. Every blade, trigger, and handle was carefully shaped and sharpened, each having a softness that one would not expect of such weapons. It seemed to be the artist's signature stamp, present in everything she saw.

He attention was drawn away from the shining metals as a loud, and rather brash, string of curses flowed from the back of the shop. Once again reminded of her reason for coming here. The Armorer walked past the counter and its items, following the sounds of metal being hammered around the corner to reveal an open aired forge. 

There you stood, in all your soot stained and sweaty glory, cursing like a Trandoshian pirate as you inspected the item before you. A crude imitation of a helmet, she realized, though the eyes were horrendously off center and uneven, and being far too long for any but a Kaminoan to wear without hitting their shoulders. 

Were you really the same person who had made all the items out front?

No. Now wasn’t the time to worry about that. She was here for business.

The intention was for her to take you by the element of surprise, leaving no room for a fight with the point of her hammer pressed into the vulnerable skin above your carotid. That was thrown out the window before she could even reach for the weapon as you quickly turned around, eyes locking onto her and going wide before frantically backpedaling. 

As luck would have it, the hammer you had been previously using was knocked from its stand and clattered to the floor, being stepped on and causing you to tumble.

Narrowly missing falling into the forge itself, your head still cracked painfully against its stand and your vision went black. By the time it cleared enough for you to stop seeing stars and your brain to process what had just happened, you found the very person who had startled you into such a state standing above you, feet on either side of your hips as a hammer was pointed dangerously at your face.

“H-hey!” You managed to stutter out, still dizzy and most likely concussed. “No need for that!”

Holding your hands up in an act of surrender and defense, should they still decide to attack, you balanced your weight onto your elbows despite the way it sent your head spinning.

They said nothing, only staring down through their owl-shaped visor as the golden shine of the helmet cast rays of brilliant light around the forge. Despite the situation, you could help but admire the stunning craftsmanship of the piece with envy. Each spike, every curve, was so beautifully done.

“I know you’re here for the armor, and I can get it for you! It’s right here!”

The Mandalorian remained still for a moment, contemplating, before moving back enough to let you get up, exchanging their hammer for a blaster, keeping it trained on your figure as you slowly rose and moved to the far wall.

Producing a key from beneath your apron, you moved one of the many boxes and unlocked a hatch hidden beneath. From there, you produced a chest that had yet another lock on it, setting it on your workbench and placing the key beside it. Backing away with your hands held up one again, the Mandalorian moved closer to the chest.

Hidden under the helmet, you couldn't see the way her eyes were narrowed in suspicion, laced with a hint of curiosity. You had gone through quite the effort of hiding it. Without your guide she might not have found the hatch, which had blended so well into the floor that when you had first moved the box she hadn’t seen it even with the filters of her visor. Why give it up so easily when you could have easily denied even having it in the first place, and no evidence to say otherwise?

Unlocking the box, she was even more surprised by what she found inside. While keeping a watch on where your figure had backed into the corner, she began shuffling through each item, peeling back layer after layer of fabric until she had constructed a full suit of beskar.  Not only was it stored with such care, the metal skillfully wrapped to prevent one item from damaging another if jostled around, but it appeared to have been freshly cleaned by a polish well known and used almost exclusively by smiths. It was meant to bring out the best shine and remove any scuff to increase the appeal and chances of someone buying the item.

“Where did you get this.” She put the items back in their case, closing it before turning back to where you were, blaster now lowered to her hip but ready to raise and fire in an instant.

“Bought it from some pirates who stopped by here to refuel.” You squeaked out. Despite knowing that all Mandalorians were warriors, you were still surprised to hear a woman's voice come from the helmet. The way she carried herself with such confidence and strength, you could only imagine the prestige and skill she had to back it up.

“I would have returned it sooner, but you guys are kind of hard to find.” You attempted to joke, letting out a nervous laugh as you shakily smiled. “I tried to keep it on the down low as much as I could to keep others from trying to come and take it. Paid a kid to let it slip when he saw one of you at a cantina you’re known to frequent.” 

The Armorer tilted her head slightly, still not believing you completely.

“Why not sell it, or melt it down for your own use?” She gestured to the space around you, at all the projects currently displayed or were waiting to be finished.

Your own brows knitted in confusion, as if you couldn’t believe why she was asking you that, and in reality you couldn’t.

“Well, I respect you too much.” Your shoulders shrugged lightly. “Growing up, my father told me all the stories of your culture, your people and what the armor meant to you. How it was more than just a piece of equipment, that it was like an extension of your own body and identity. Rather poetically, he would always put it.”

A small laugh made its way past your lips, taking the Armorer by surprise.

“If he could have met one of you and studied the armor he would have died of happiness. Probably would have even sworn an oath and donned the armor himself if he had the chance, no hesitation.”

Any thoughts of ill intention from before were reduced to nothing in the Armorer’s mind. The way you had spoken so fondly when describing your admiration for her culture, the same way you had when speaking of your father, was so gentle and sincere. Even if you had a helmet like hers she would have been able to tell just by your voice.

“You have my thanks for keeping it in such good condition until we were able to collect it. I know my people would share my sentiment if they were here.” She dipped her head in thanks, missing the blush that spread across your face at the action.

“It was no trouble at all, really! I hope you don’t mind but I did study it before hiding it away.” You nodded to the crude helmet she had found you swearing at when she had first entered. “As you can see, my attempts were less than successful. It’s like my father always said; If I could make armor the way I could make everything else, I would be far too dangerous.”

The Armorer silently agreed. If the display in the front of the shop was anything to go by, if you were able to make armor then you could potentially even give her a run for her credits.

“You are quite skilled in your craft. It would be a sight to see how you would interpret your own armor.”

“Rather poorly.” You laughed once again, and the Armorer found herself straining to hear its cheerful air, much to her own embarrassment.

It was time she left. She had gotten what she had come for, so there was no reason for her to stick around any longer. The more time she was away from the covert the more worried she became, mentally berating herself for being so ill-tempered and short sighted to have stormed here right away without thinking much of how the others would fare without her presence. Paz should keep a good handle on things, but it was still best not to be gone much longer.

Before she could excuse herself though, you had dropped the helmet you had previously been sourly glaring at and focused back on her, excitement evident as a bright gleam shone in your eyes. 

“You must have come quite a way to get here! Please, allow me to compensate you for having to come out to such a place.”

The Armorer tried to argue, to explain that it hadn't been a problem and that the beskar being back where it belonged was enough, but you wouldn’t listen, pushing her to the front of the store and practically demanding that she choose at least one of the items to take with her.

“They are all so well crafted. I could not even begin to know where to choose.”

Humming, you closed your eyes in thought before bounding back towards the forge, yelling over your shoulder for her to keep browsing while you went looking for something.

So she did, walking up and down and displays, taking in all the weapons and items as she duly noted that your leather work seemed to be just as good as your smithing if the wrapped handles and weapons holsters were anything to go by. Any choice that she made would make a fine addition to their armory, and Paz would be overjoyed with each item, though she made a mental note not to let him learn of your shop. The last thing she needed was him coming here and spending all the tribe’s money on your works, undoubtedly scarring you with his sheer size and gruffness as well.

It was in the middle of her browsing that a flash of color caught her eye. Many of the metals you worked with were the same shades of grey and black, even the occasional gold. But there, amongst the sea of cold steel in the display case, was the warmth of bronze. She moved closer despite knowing that nothing she would find there would be beneficial for the tribe. It was as if it were a magnet though, pulling her closer by the metal covering nearly every part of her.

The item was less flashy than those surrounding it, simple and to the point, if jewelry could be described that way. The charm was a small rectangle, no longer than an inch and less than a quarter of which thick. In elegant and delicately etched letters was the word ‘loyalty’. Nothing else.

“I never took you for someone to appreciate jewelry.”

She started, helmet looking up to see you coming back from your forge. In your hands was a cloth, wrapped around what could be anything.

“I was admiring the work. The detail is remarkably clean despite its size.”

“It's been here a while. Not many people come here looking for something other than weapons, and those who do usually want something a bit more eye catching. One of my favorite works though.”

Putting the item down, her attention turns to the bundle you’ve placed on the table. Carefully, you unwrap the fabric to reveal the blade underneath. The blade itself is silver, coming to a spearpoint tip without so much as a chip. It’s longer than a normal throwing knife but shorter than one would typically consider a dagger to be. 

“My own take on a vibroblade. Easier to throw but still small enough to be easily concealed.” You hold it out, prompting her to take it.

The handle fit in her palm like a glove, as if it were molded specifically for her. The weight was perfectly balanced, allowing her to switch into a reverse grip and back with ease. At just a glance she could tell that the ridge was perfectly straight, ensuring a smooth flight through the air to its target.

“From my own collection. I figured if a Mandalorian was going to use it, then nothing but my best work would suffice.” You took the blade back, wrapping and binding it before placing it in the chest alongside the armor.

“Your hospitality knows no bounds. I am glad our meeting can end on such terms.” 

Waving your hand, you brush away the compliment despite the burning of your cheeks. Something you blamed on the heat of the forge.

“It was the least I could do. If you’re ever out here again, don’t hesitate to stop by. It can get rather lonely out here.” The forlorn expression you took on despite your ever present smile pulled at something inside the Mandalorian. Something she had not felt in a long time.

“Though don’t expect another free weapon if you do. I have a business to run after all.”

“Of course.” She said, allowing you to lead her to the door, holding the fabric as she passed through.

The whole walk back, her mind was on you. Even after she had boarded her ship and set course for home, arriving much quicker than she expected, she was thinking of you. The fact that there were still those out there that thought of and revered her people as you had, it gave her hope that not all creatures in the universe were against them.

The others were eagerly waiting for her arrival when she returned, following as she made her way back to the forge where she would store the beskar until it was decided what to do with it.

“Did you kill them and take their weapon as well?” Paz questioned when she handed him the blade, immediately pulling it out to admire the item.

She didn’t answer, focused on putting away her haul and moving to clean up her space. Leaving so quickly had resulted in a cluttered mess for her to come back to, and she once again found herself cursing her temper. Traveling far distances was something she didn’t often do, and the experience had left her tired, wanting nothing more than to retreat to her chambers and rest. She had to make sure everything was in order before she did so though.

“What’s this?” 

She turned, facing Paz as he held something in between his large fingers. She walked closer, eyes locking on to the item with laser focus.

Its familiar bronze sheen shone with a new brightness in the dim light, the etched words now hardly visible. She didn’t know when you had snuck it in, nor how you had when she had been right there the entire time.

So, for the first time in years, the Armorer took something for herself.

Plucking the small charm from his hand, she dismissed him, pulling the shutters of her shop down and leaving her mind to wander back to you as she caressed the cool metal, which did nothing to dampen the sparking embers in her kar’ta beskar.

__________________________________________________

In all honesty, you hadn’t been expecting the golden helmed Mandalorian to return to your shop. After nearly a month and a half of seeing not even the faintest glimpse of beskar you had given up hope of ever seeing her again. Sure, you were still hopeful, but when you entered your shop for some late night smithing and found the silent warrior leaning against the outside wall you nearly screamed. If it hadn’t been for the light of the flames reflecting off her helmet you wouldn’t have even realized she was there.

“I’m sorry. You just took me by surprise. I don’t get visitors this late.’’

She tilted her head, gesturing for you to continue her work and decline the offer for a seat. Nothing more was said as you got to work, soon shedding your long sleeves in favor of the cool night air that flowed in from the open wall, exposing your toned arms to the Mandalorian. It was something you had always been proud of, the muscle earned from years of bending and forming metal with precise blows from your hammer.

After a few minutes of watching, the woman began moving about the shop, taking her time to inspect every inch of the workspace. Your previous encounter hadn’t left much time for her to admire it. Even though it was far less sophisticated and more worn than her own, she still felt a sense of familiarity within its heat, finding herself wondering if you would have a familiar feeling in hers. 

The thought was banished almost as quickly as it appeared. After all, an outsider not only entering the covert, but the armory as well? One of the most pivotal places of their people? Preposterous. She didn’t even know why she was here in the first place. One moment she was relaxing in a rare moment of peace she was allowed, and the next she was aboard her ship, coordinates for your shop already typed in.

From the corner of your vision, you watched as she approached your latest project; the same armor you had been working on for weeks. A warmth rose to your cheeks when you saw her inspecting it, picking up the helmet and rotating it between her hands. 

The visor had been fixed a significant amount, she noted, but it was still shaky at best. Both sides were still uneven as they dipped down into a point at the chin, and anyone who wore it would have the top of their heads pinched by the too shallow curve of the top.

“Your work has improved.” She noted, voicing it more to herself than anything.

“Don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I know it's not very good.”

“Not good no.” She admitted, setting the heavy helmet down and moving closer to where you were and setting every nerve on edge. “But there has been improvement, which shows that you’re learning.’’

Watching as you bent a thin metal pipe into shape, sparks flying everywhere as you didn’t even flinch when they landed on bare skin, then quenching it before moving over to your workbench and beginning to assemble it with an array of other items. She admired the speed and confidence with which you worked. Leaning against the wall, she watched as the weapon began to take shape under your hands.

Hours later, you were finished, a new blaster sitting before you. Just as beautiful and dangerous as the ones out front, with intricate vines crawling up the hilt and along the barrel, soldered on by your skillful hands before her very eyes.

“So, what can I help you with?” Turning towards the Armorer, you were surprised at how close she had gotten since you started, now almost touching and forcing you to crane your neck back to look her in the face.

“As much as I enjoy the company, I doubt you would come here without a reason.”

She remains silent for a moment, simply staring back at your smiling face before reaching around you to pick up the newly constructed blaster. The soft leather of her arm brushed your skin, and your nose picked up the familiar scent of forge iron from her gloves, causing your breath to catch in your throat as she turned the weapon in her hands.

“I have a proposition for you.” Her visor locked onto you, and despite the slight shiver of fear you couldn’t help but feel drawn to her.

“You will make weapons for my people and repair any that need it. Should we need it, we will park our ships in your space and you will pick up anything we can not.”

Your brows rose as she rattled off the list. Though you would be glad to do anything involving the warriors, just for the simple fact of being able to see them up and close, you still had to question why she would choose you. There was no reason for them to trust you, even if you had returned the armor.

The Armorer took it a different way, thinking you were expecting a form of payment for your work, which only made sense.

“Of course, your efforts will be compensated. Should you ever need passage or protection, we would be more than willing to offer aid.” She reached into her pocket, retrieving a small device that she held out. Upon taking it, you discovered there were only two buttons on the disk. It might look like random scrap metal to someone else, but your trained mind recognized it as an old communications device. 

“Press the blue when items are done or you request a meeting. The green is for emergencies only. Life or death situations.” You nodded, turning to tuck the device on a higher shelf where it would be within reach but not have the risk of being accidentally pressed, and somewhat hidden should any unwelcome guest find their way back here.

“And,” she hesitated a moment, unsure of her next words. With just one visit, you had managed to lower the carefully raised walls she had constructed, penetrating its defenses in a way not even her own people had. But now, here with you in the peace of the forge, her tongue was loose and brain foggy, as if the heat was melting away every shred of common sense and survival instinct she had carefully honed.

“I will teach you how to make armor. One that will protect you. Under my guide as the Armorer of my tribe it will be nothing less than perfect. Though you must swear to never trade or sell it.”

Your eyes widened a fraction at her words, hardly believing what she had just said. Not only had you just learned a new fact about the stoic woman, that she was a smith just as yourself, but she was offering to teach you how to make some of the best armor in the galaxy. No, the universe.

“It...it would be an honor.” You tilted your head down in respect, only to have her leather clad gloves grab your chin, the worn material forcing your gaze up to meet hers. Though there was no way for you to truly see her eyes, you could almost feel the flames burning within them.

“Ni kar'taylir gar will not disappoint ni, ni goron.” 

__________________________________________________

If you had thought that your father had been harsh when he was first teaching you how to smith, then he had graced you with a mother’s love in comparison to the Armorer, a name she had given you to call her after multiple visits.

“It just feels kind of cold to keep calling you Mandalorian, especially with all the time we spend together.” You had told her when she questioned why you asked. There were other reasons too, namely being that she had her own name for you. Instead of calling you by the name you had given her, she had taken to calling you ‘goron’ or ‘tracinya’, in that unknown language of hers. You could only hope they weren’t insults.

She visited once a month, always arriving just before dusk and leaving at dawn, two to three weapons heavier and the occasional small trinket you had made between meetings. All night you would be bent over your forge under her watchful gaze, correcting your technique and giving the occasional tip when you were struggling more than normal.

At the end of the night you would offer your work to be inspected, glowing at any praise only to deflate with every critique, and she was nothing if not someone who was unafraid to express her opinion.

The entire time you talked with one another. Well, you did most of the talking, but it still felt nice to have someone other than the stray loth cat listen to your ramblings.

Every once in a while she would answer one question or another, though she never divulged too much information on her own tribe, apart from mentioning another Mandalorian in passing or treating you with one of her occasional stories from the covert. You respected her wishes nonetheless, and as much as you wanted to ask her about everything you resigned yourself to the fact that she would only tell you what she wanted you to know. Mandalorians were still very much sought after prizes, and the secrecy would only make sense, as it ensured their survival.

She also never picked up a tool, as much as you wanted to see her work. Her instructions were always verbal, with the occasional instance where she would place her hands over yours, moving them the correct way and never failing to send your cheeks ablaze. Thankfully you could blame the color on the heat of the flames and not your own growing feelings. Those were a different issue entirely.

You don’t know when it started, almost like it had always been there, building until they attacked with a snap. The fact of the matter was that you harbored feelings for the armored woman, and you couldn’t deny them, no matter how much you tried to push them down. Alone for the most part, she was the only person to regularly visit your empty residence. Ever since your father had died and left you the successor of his forge, both the shop itself and the small living quarters behind it had felt empty, haunted by his memories that couldn’t be chased away with any amount of plants you bought or how much time you spent working. 

The first time she had accepted your invitation for a drink after much begging was the first time the space felt complete in ages, though she simply sat on one of the only two chairs in the living room, drink remaining untouched in her hand.

You were content hiding your feelings. As long as it meant that she would come around, you would do anything. Though you feared your meetings may soon come to an end. While you were overjoyed with the progress you had made over the months, constructing enough armor for a single arm and leg, as well as a chest plate. Not much longer and you would have your armor complete, and her reason for coming around would be gone. No longer would she need to teach you, and there was no reason she couldn’t send someone else from the covert to collect weapons and drop off items for repair once a month. You remember her mentioning how their top heavy infantry warrior had asked to meet you, and as interested as you were in meeting other Mandalorians you didn’t want it to be at the expense of seeing her.

“What’s got you so distracted tonight, tracinya’ika?” she asked after you dropped your current project, a shoulder pauldron, for the third time that night.

“Nothing!” You managed to squeak out, only to feel her familiar presence behind you, growing closer until you felt her brush against your back, making you spin around only to be pinned against your forge. The heat burned your back, hardly noticed by your brain as you processed how close she was standing now, arms on either side of your body and helmet tilted to look you in the eye. 

“Tell me.” Her voice crooned, smooth even through the modulators and nearly causing your knees to give out.

Swallowing thickly, you struggled to get the words out.

“When...when you're done teaching me, will I ever see you again?” It sounded stupid to say it out loud. Needy, like a child wanting their mother. It made you feel foolish, believing she surely thought you weak and helpless now.

You were prepared for her to laugh or scoff, to chastise you for how foolish you were being about such emotional connections. 

She did none of those.

“Ni tracinya, as long as you still desire my presence, I will come. Until you give the word, and even after, our destiny will be intertwined.”

You didn’t, couldn’t, say anything after that. It was as if she had stolen every thought from your head, every word from your mouth, leaving you nothing but a gaping fool, staring at the powerful warrior before you as the sound of the spotted owls filtered in through the open wall from the cool night air beyond.

It was the Armorer who finally broke the trance, stepping back and pausing for a moment before collecting the prepackaged weapons from the table. She said nothing as she left, heading back hours before the sun had even begun to rise and leaving you with nothing to do but stare after her, wondering what you had done wrong.

Unbeknownst to you, the cause of the Armorers swift exit had not been your fault, but her own. The entire way back to the covert she berated herself for how foolishly she had acted, allowing her body to move before her mind yet again, putting you in a compromising position. Even while berating herself, the memory of being so close to you stuck in her mind. The way your hair stuck to your damp skin, practically glowing in the light of the flames as you stared up with large, innocent eyes.

She had wanted to take you into her arms then and there. Her kind hearted little smith. So gentle and warm despite the rough profession and living conditions in which you found yourself in. It made her feel all the more guilty about having allowed herself to grow so attached to you, bringing along all the dangers that came with being associated with a Mandalorian as well as the knowledge she provided.

With each visit the feeling only grew, and by this point her draw to protect you as she would one of her tribe was just as strong. You were a weakness. A chink in her armor that she would allow none to exploit. 

Unfortunately, she was just one Mandalorian, and there was a limit to her strength, as she would soon find out.

_______________________________

It had been a week since your last meeting with the Armorer. The way she had practically sprinted out played on repeat in your head, reviewing every second leading up until then in search of what you could have possibly done. Yet no matter what angle you looked at it from, you always drew a blank.

Well, what else were you expecting from a Mandalorian. As skilled as they were apt to run off without an explanation. On to whatever adventure was next. You could only hope that she would have some explanation the next time.

‘Or at least the decency to apologize for being rude.’ you huffed, slamming the door to the cupboard after retrieving a cup. You settled down with a mug of warm bantha milk and honey, still fuming. Hopeful a bit of reading would calm your nerves for now, ignited every time you thought back on the encounter. Hopefully you would be calm enough not to give her an earful when you saw her.

The fire crackled in the hearth, the only source of sound as you skimmed through the pages of the novel you had picked up. A cheesy romance that you wouldn’t be caught dead reading in public, highlighting a lowly dancer attracting the attention of a bounty hunter who bought them for their own operations, only for the two to inevitably fall in love.

The rough and brash nature of the bounty hunter in the story reminded you of your own Armored crush, and you found yourself daydreaming more than reading as you finished off your drink. 

If only real life could be like that. You were all too aware of how unlikely it was though. Such a warrior could never have feelings for a simple smith like yourself, no matter how much she admired your works. 

Still, there was no harm in dreaming, right?

That’s exactly what you allowed yourself to do, curled up on the seat with the book drooping just as low as your eyes. The warmth of the fire and a stomach full of warm bantha milk only helped the progression of sleep along, lulling you into a sense of security as the light humming outside grew.

That’s how the first shock wave found you, knocking you from content to the floor as it rattled the entire shop.

You scrambled to your knees, dazed and confused, unable to make sense of what had just happened before the next hit. This was much closer, rattling the windows and knocking items from the walls. Even from here you could hear the sound of metal clanging as weapons and trinkets were thrown from their shelves.

Above the ringing, just barely, you processed the sound of fighters as they blazed overhead.

The Empire, you realized with a chill. You had heard rumors of them doing this, decimating entire towns and villages in the dead of night while everyone slept. That was only for those who were suspected of housing rebels or acting as supply lines though! The most you ever got out here was the occasional ship stopping to refuel or gather supplies, which was done so quickly and infrequently you wouldn’t even know they had been here.

Now wasn’t the time to question why you had been targeted. Now was the time to act.

Stumbling to your feet, you ran to the only option of help you had. The shock wave of each sending another small tremor through the ground and causing you to stumble as dust rained down from the ceiling. Dimly, you could hear the shouts of the village as those still alive realized what was happening.

The transmission disk sat in the same place it always was, thankfully not knocked to the floor and hidden in one of the many small crevices of your now disastrous shop. Tools and metals of all types lay scattered about, creating a minefield across the floor for you to navigate and attempt to not trip.

She was the only one that could help you. There were no friends, no family. No one who visited outside of her. You weren’t even sure what you were expecting her to do. Take you to another planet that the Empire hadn’t marked for destruction? But what would you do once you got there. Your skills were that of a blacksmith. Even if she helped you to escape for now and come back, who would be left for you to sell to? As much as the thought of abandoning the forge you had grown up in hurt, there would be no profit in staying. If there was any place to stay at that is.

Still, you ripped the item from its shelf, frantically pressing the ill-fated green button and watching as a loading signal popped up. It jumped in small increments at an agonizingly slow pace, leaving you to watch helplessly as the distress signal transmitted.

Amidst the chaos and adrenaline, a flash caught your eye.

The armor you had been working on for the past few months sat openly displayed on the worktable, left over from when you had been tinkering with it earlier. It wasn’t yet finished, but there was no time better than now to test it out. They might have tie fighters in the sky, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any troops on the ground to ensure there were no survivors, and there was no way in hell you were going out without a fight.

So, while the message continued loading, you stumbled over and yanked on the equipment, cursing each time your hands fumbled with a strap or you dropped a piece. By the time you managed to get all of what you had finished on, as well as the half-worked pauldron and grabbing the closest weapon, the bar had only reached seventy two percent.

You watched with bated breath as it continued to climb, praying to the maker for it to finish already. You didn’t know how far away the Armorer was, but hopefully she would get here in time. To give your body a proper burial and out of the reach of scavengers if nothing else.

You never got to see it finish.

The agonizingly loud and now familiar scream of fighters your only warning before they unload their ammunition onto your home. It fell apart like paper, no match against the green energy beams as they took out whole sections of the ceiling and walls.

A flash of light, stars from the night sky now peering down from the open ceiling, before you were buried under the rubble. It pressed down with seemingly the weight of a moon, forcing every ounce of air from your lungs and preventing nearly any oxygen from entering as you desperately tried to pull in more air, only to choke on the thick dust that permeated and covered everything. Every movement brought a fresh wave of agony tearing through your body, and you could taste iron in the back of your throat. A sign of internal bleeding, if the stabbing pain in your side wasn’t enough. Your unarmored arm also hung limp and uselessly. Broken.

The chunk of rock that currently pinned and left you defenseless  was far too heavy to move with both arms, let alone one, leaving you scrambling nowhere to get out. The very building that had protected and provided you shelter, a place to work and thrive, had turned into your own personal death trap.

It was getting harder and harder to breath. Your movements became slower and weaker with every move until, finally, they slowed to a stop, left weakly grasping at the rubble around you. Everything had now gone silent. Not even the sound of fighter jets could be heard.

You were completely, utterly, alone. That’s how you were going to die.

Alone.

No tears escaped as you set your jaw, accepting your grim fate. You had no regrets in life. None that could be rectified by living any longer anyways. You had created a great deal of beautiful and skillful items. Whoever happened to stumble upon your shop's ruins would surely have themselves a treasure trove. 

The one thing you found yourself wishing was that there would be someone to mourn you when you were gone. To look upon memories and smile with fondness as you had with your own father’s passing.

Alas, it was not meant to be. Your name would fade into nothing, just as insignificant and unknown as a shout into the empty space of the stars above. Stars that you would never be able to see.

It became darker, black spots dancing across the edges of your vision and growing. With one last shuddering breath, your body gave out, succumbing to its injuries as your consciousness faded.

Mere feet away from your impromptu crypt, the cracked yet unbroken transmitter blinked weakly. Two words flash and flicker across its screen. 

‘Message Sent’

___________

Mandoa translations (Roughly. I did my best)

Baskar-armor

goron-blacksmith/metalworker

Ni kar'taylir gar will not disappoint ni, ni goron.- “I know you will not disappoint me, my blacksmith.”

kar’ta beskar.- Iron heart, center of their chest armor

Karyai- gathering place for relaxation/eating, center of the home

Tracinya-flame

Ika-little

[yandere-daydreams]

I was curious what you thought of Icarus (from Greek mythology) as a yandere? If he and his darling are trapped the way he and his dad were in the myth, I could see him being the type to sabotage any escape attempt his darling may be planning. They may be trapped, but at least they're trapped *together*

I’ve always loved a good metaphor for hubris, even if the myth is more about his father’s downfall than his own. Still, I can’t hold that against him, not when he’ll be too busy projecting all that trauma onto his shiny new Darling.

Title: Icarus and The Sun.

TW: Imprisonment, Abandonment, Mentions of Fire/Burn Scars, Sabotage, Idolization, and Possessive Mindsets. 

~

When Icarus was ten, he fell in love with the sun.

It was an odd thing for such a young boy to be fascinated by. He’d grown up in castles and palaces, playing with enchanted swords and the children of gods and contraptions so intricate, he’d often wondered if his father was as human as he claimed to be. Not much had changed when he was sent away for someone else’s crimes, when his father had countless hours to craft lutes that played themselves and friends of stone and marble. He hadn’t meant to get bored, he hadn’t meant to lose interest, but he was afraid Daedalus’ talents were lost, when it came to his son. He’d never been a terribly thankful child.

He missed the world outside their labyrinth, the world beyond their tower. He’d had just enough time to get a taste for freedom, and as the years ticked by, he couldn’t help but long for it. Above it all, he missed the sun. There was a window in the highest point of their tower, a spot where the stones lied in such a way, there was just enough room for a young boy to sit, perched in a crack in the wall, and stare at the sky from sunrise to sunset, watching Apollo’s chariot until his eyes burnt and he could imagine how it’d feel to be in its light. If he tried hard enough, he could forget where he was, where he’d been trapped. Forget the way the chill had permeated his skin, forget the callouses on his fingertips from helping with his father’s experiments, forget that’d he’d probably die - captive and alone - for a genius that hadn’t even been passed down.

He dreamt of it, sometimes. Sprouting a pair of wings and flying away from Crete, flying higher and higher and higher until the oxygen left his lungs and all he could feel was warmth. It troubled him, but confiding in Daedalus was like confiding in one of his creations. He had a way of hearing but never listening, taking in and spitting out just as quickly. Hearing the useful information, hearing what he wanted to, and providing a solution, consequences be damned. But, the all blame didn’t lie on his father. 

When the method of their escape was revealed, he should’ve known better than to test the Fates. He was older, by then, a teenager. A young man who should’ve been smarter.

But, he hadn’t been, and…

Well, everyone knows how that story ends.

In all honesty, he was a little disappointed. Even washed up on some rocky, bleached shore, his skin blistered and every part of his body aching, the tide was cold enough to leach the heat from his soul, as sharp and unforgiving as any maze could ever be. He thought he would die there. Not of flame, not of water, but of exhaustion, of a hypothermia he couldn’t cure with a wayward star so far out of his reach. But, you were much too kind to give him such a peaceful ending. Too much of a guardian.

His guardian. His savior. The helpful hand that dragged him off of that beach and bandaged his wounds, that made him feel warm for the first time in years.

His Sun.

Your prison was more spacious than his, but it was a prison all the same. An island, too small and too isolated to ever hope to encounter a rouge visitor. There was fruit and fresh water, but you were alone, abandoned by a hero who couldn’t end his tale without an act of tragedy. You’d blushed as you told him, ran your fingers through your hair and taken your leave shortly after, as if it’d been your fault you’d been left for dead. As if you were the one to blame for someone else’s selfish deed.

As if your downfall was deserved, rather than a misdeed forced upon you for someone else’s mistakes.

For months, you tended to his wounds, helping him to walk, to eat, and talking to him all the while. He wasn’t very good company, unused to companions whose lips could move at all, let alone so quickly, but he made sure to nod and smile as you showed him the grooves, the springs you knew like the back of your hands after so long, the flow of the currents that made it impossible to come near your home without a proper ship. He loved it - the way your eyes lit up whenever you talked about your progress, your next plan, how if you just had one more nail, one more canvas, one more good day, you’d be able to sail away from your isolation with him in-tow, to Crete or Athens or any other city that would take you in. Icarus didn’t think he’d receive a warm welcome, but he couldn’t bring him to tell you that. He didn’t want to ruin your fun, see you fade into the lifeless creator his father had become.

Grow as dull and as cold as he used to be, before you.

He watched on and helped you mend lengths of worn cloth into sails, gave up the little knowledge he’d taken in, spent his days carving wooden planks from branches and rutters from trunks, if only to see how your smile grew whenever he laid his meager offerings at your feet. He healed slowly, confined to the shade more often than not, but you never complained, never bemoaned his limitations. You were too caught up in your freedom to care if he weighed you down, too distracted to notice how slowly he moved whenever you dragged him to the edge of the water, how his grin was always a little more forced when you took another step towards your inevitable flight. If you felt how tightly he held you at night, how hesitant he was to let go in the morning, you didn’t seem to care about his attachment.

You didn’t seem to care about him. He was a placeholder, a momentary necessity, a cloud so tiny and so distant, it’d only stand out in the clearest of skies. You didn’t say it, but you didn’t hide it, either. Why would you?

The Sun would never bother to explain itself. He should just be grateful he got to bask your rays for this long.

You didn’t wake when he slipped away from you, that night. You never opened your eyes, not as he fanned the embers of a long-forgotten fire back to life, nor as he dragged himself over your island, down to the bay where you kept your make-shift raft. He was insignificant, he was unremarkable, but all it took was a spark and a dip of his torch to set your creation ablaze, lingering at the scene of his sin just long enough to take in the warmth of the fire, the satisfaction that accompanied setting it.

The relief that came with turning your only escape into a blackened, charred pile of ash and soot, just as he should’ve done with his father’s accursed wings all those years ago.

When Icarus was nineteen, he fell in love with the Sun once again.

And this time, he wasn’t letting it get away.

[joezworld]

Any headcanons about Ever Ace and the other new A-class Evergreen ships? This totally isn’t just because I love your version of Ever Given and want more of her and her family XD

The following is an excerpt from How to Avoid Huge Ships, Or: I Never Met a Ship I Liked by Capt. John W. Trimmer (National Writers Press, 1982)

Chapter 14: The Emotional State of Ships

For most captains, the emotional state of a seagoing vessel (other than your own, of course) is often seen as irrelevant - after all, who cares if the seven hundred foot tanker about to run over you and your ketch is a nice person or not?

However, like many common beliefs in the marine industry, this is an incorrect one. The mental state of vessels is vital to continued safe navigation.

First, we must mention the obvious: An unhappy ship is a dangerous ship. Think about the last time you drove to the store while upset. Now pretend you weighed several thousand tons and required a mile and a half to stop in an emergency. I imagine your car insurance premiums might be a bit higher, no?

Then we must mention Fleets.

Allow me to explain: While this may be seen as a massively reductive statement, most large vessels (and most living machines for that matter, including commercial aircraft, railway locomotives, and even large dragline cranes) are best viewed as pack animals. When left alone to their own devices (and the growing economic benefits of 'machine autonomy' have meant that more shipping lines are allowing ships to go off by themselves!) vessels will often form a "fleet", as they call them, which substitutes for what we humans would call a joint family.

A fleet may include any number of vessels and relationship combinations, ranging from a number of single vessels who consider themselves siblings, to sets of separate married couples, and even groups of non-monogamous vessels whose conduct would make a Mormon blush. That being said, regardless of type, bonds formed in this manner are extremely strong, and will often overcome any difference between vessels - see the growing trend of former US Pacific Fleet vessels and their former Imperial Japanese Navy spouses!

Now, what does any of this have to do with the continued safety of marine navigation, I hear you ask? Well, let me put it to you in the simplest terms possible:

If you were to wrong me in some way, I might decide to take legal action against you, or I might lick my wounds and walk away. I might even go to the police if the offense were serious enough.

If you were to wrong a ship, and the offense were serious enough, they wouldn't lick their wounds, they wouldn't pursue legal action, and they most certainly would not go to the police. Most ships believe quite strongly in the merits of what could be charitably called 'extrajudicial punishment'. Most ships, if they are in such a relationship, would bring this to the attention of their fleet-mates, at which point you would not have one, but several, maybe even a dozen, extremely large and extremely angry ships going after you.

-

Of course, any discussion of the often-overlooked subject of Fleets is incomplete without at least a brief mention of the US/Canadian Great Lakes Fleet, which has managed to continuously add to their numbers through a process they call 'Lake-napping'...

-----

April, 2021 - Great Bitter Lake, Suez, Egypt

The Egyptians were insane, Given concluded. Aside from the obvious - where in the name of all that floated was she going to get nine hundred million US Dollars? - they'd actually called their Navy on her, like some kind of Triad enforcer making sure a mark didn't get away without paying.

He was a tiny ship, really - some old design that made its priorities clear, judging from his open-air flying bridge and thick hull, but the massive anti-ship missile pods on his aft deck showed he could punch well above his weight.

She'd tried speaking to him, but they didn't have a language in common - and that was impressive all on its own. From the short, clipped sentences, and badly accented Arabic, he seemed both Eastern European and decidedly unfriendly.

As the sun set on the end of the first week of what might be a very long stay in Egypt, she wondered if the line might abandon her here. The cheap fucks had already been making noise about replacing her with another, bigger ship, but Ace - still in the shipyard, but already proving herself to be just as loud and annoying as any proper 20,000+ TEU ship, bless her - had made enough noise about "not being a rebound date" that their hand had been forced.

Of course, that was all before the Egyptians decided that they wanted nine hundred million dollars, so who knows?

Another ship went by - the backlog still wasn't through, and convoys continued at all hours. This one was one from CMA CGM, and while she couldn't quite catch his name in the dark, she could absolutely catch the scathing French insults being hurled her way as he passed by.

"Je parle français, toi voilier sans hélice." She sniped at him, relishing in the startled yelp that trailed him into the night. The tugboats pulling him along laughed, and he growled at them as he moved further into the lake.

The missile boat looked at her with what might have been admiration, but it didn't stop him from keeping his guns trained on her as he changed his watch position to a spot off of her stern.

She honestly considered running - the mockery she'd get once she left Egypt might be too much.

As the next ship in line approached, she got a ping on one of the company radio frequencies.

Tuning in, her brow furrowed in confusion - now that everyone had satellite internet downlinks, internet chatrooms had become the primary communication method across the fleet. Evergreen Lines ships had all gravitated towards Discord instead of WeChat or Line, but their server had been strangely silent for most of the last week.

Opening the channel, she caught a flash of a call sign - What was Elpida doing out here? Wasn't she on the Australia run?

"Don't say a word, we've got it under control."

"You what? Who's we?"

Elpida swept past , literally - she was breaking the speed limit for this part of the lake, and had probably been doing so in the Canal too - the ropes to her tugs were taut, and judging by the Arabic screaming, they were trying to get her to slow down or at least let go. She was high in the water - her decks empty of containers - what the hell was going on?

Given was too big for the swells to affect her, but the Egyptian Navy ship wasn't, and he yelped in whatever his native language was as he rocked and rolled in Elpida's wake.

Behind her, a distant cry that sounded suspiciously like the word "Now!" rang out, followed by a deafening cacophony of foghorns.

She'd shut down her radar - because what really was the point? - and it took a worrying few seconds for the Furuno system to spin to life and return a clear result.

Or... what might be a clear result.

All hell seemed to be breaking out behind her - the convoy had broken formation and was going in what seemed like every direction possible. At least ten ships were now going berserk behind her.

The Navy ship, by far the smallest vessel out there, (except the tugs, who were fleeing for their lives, it seemed) spun around towards the main shipping lane.

Collision alarms immediately started wailing on the Canal's common channel as a very large blip on the radar screen (Who turned off their AIS transponders in the Canal?) slowly swung towards him.

The Egyptian seemed stunned for a moment - he'd drifted back into Given's range of vision, and his expression ranged between sheer horror and mildly poleaxed - before he calmed himself and stood down the ship bearing down on him.

That calm look lasted for a few minutes, but as the blip got closer and closer his confidence faded. The doors to his missile pods swung open, but his nerve broke before he could fire them, and the water around his stern frothed up into a roiling tempest as he set off at full astern.

It wasn't enough. He'd held his ground for just long enough for the other ship to reach him.

Slowly - this whole event was playing out in breathless slow motion, because nobody was actually that speedy - a bulbous bow, riding high out of the water without a load of containers, ploughed towards him. It was followed by a bowsprit, one that was so huge it looked like it could have been Given's own.

Then came the name: EVER ACE.

Then came the collision.

Ace (?!) didn't so much collide with the Egyptian ship as she drove over him. His low freeboard meant that the impact with her bulbous bow had his far side dipping into the water. Once his deck hit the swells, it acted like a giant scoop, and his keel was to the night sky within a few seconds. He'd been hit at an angle, so once he'd been pushed free, he slowly rolled back up, a much more traumatized and injured vessel than he had been a minute ago. More importantly, the water gushing out of his missile tubes meant that he was no longer a problem.

"Hey!" Ace boomed as her pilothouse drew even with Given. "Best Sea Trials Ever!"

Behind her, another ship - this one laden and looking a lot like Golden - steamed by. "Stop hanging around and get her out of here!"

"That would be my cue." Another voice called from behind her.

"Tex?" He was in Manila!

"Who else would it be?" Texas Triumph, thick Texan accent and all, steamed up. "now let's jus' get you settled up here and we'll blow this joint."

"This is a rescue?!"

"For sure pardner! We've been planning this since those highwaymen said they was keepin' ya here."

"Stop talking and get her out of here!" Golden bellowed from further up the river. It seemed like she was now intimidating some other tugboats from intervening.

"Well, ya heard 'er." Tex said. "Les' go!"

Given had been so distracted by the appearance of so many members of her family that she hadn't even noticed Tex slipping lines through her hawseholes until they went taut and she was yanked from her moorings by Tex steaming out in pursuit of Ace's retreating form.

She just barely managed to get her anchors retracted before Tex really put some power on, and began to pull her across the lake entirely.

------------------------------------

Later...

The War Zone

Ever Given Escapes Custody Suez Canal Authority claims no responsibility, Egyptian Navy vessel possibly damaged. BY TYLER ROGOWAY April 17, 2021 THE WAR ZONE

📷@mahmou10_ships VIA @SUEZWATCH_EGY

SHARE TYLER ROGOWAY View Tyler Rogoway's Articles @Aviation_Intel Details remain limited at this time, but there was an incident in the Great Bitter Lake. At least one Egyptian Navy vessel has been severely damaged, and MV Ever Given, who had been held in the Great Bitter Lake by the Suez Canal Authority, has now fled the Canal into the Mediterranean Sea.

Again, details are extremely limited, but based on social media reports, marine tracking data, and radio reports, at approximately 11:47 PM Egypt Standard Time (EGY) a disturbance was reported by the Egyptian Navy craft - their identity is still unconfirmed, but images posted to social media seem to indicate that the vessel is a former Soviet Osa-class missile craft. The vessel reported that "A convoy has gone mad" and he was "under attack from multiple vessels".

While a convoy had transited the canal at that time, it is unclear if they were involved in the attack, or if one occurred at all.

We've reached out to Evergreen Lines, The Suez Canal Authority, the Egyptian Navy, and the individual ships believed to be involved, including Ever Given.

We will update this piece as more information comes available.

Contact the author: Tyler@thedrive.com

DON'T FORGET TO SIGN UP

YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS

E-MAIL

[sj-thefan]

The Tragedy of Y/n of Asgard

Masterlist

Can be read as a sequel to The Tragedy of Loki of Asgard, but it isn’t necessary.

Warnings: Angst, major character death, fighting, pregnancy

Y/n carried her sleepy toddler in her arms as she made her way to his room. With Loki off retrieving Odin with Thor, she was in charge. They shouldn’t have been gone long, but after waiting for over half an hour, Bromm had started to yawn. It was time for his nap, so she left the Bifrost and Skurge to be watched by Volstagg and Fandral, knowing Loki would return to her as soon as he got back.

Her mind drifted to the thought of having another child running around. She could picture that life now; the quiet halls filled with children’s laughter, toys thrown all over the palace, and her husband, finally his true self. She felt the child in her belly was a sign of good things to come.

If only she could know how wrong she was.

As she reached Bromm’s bedroom, she heard the sound of boots running on the stone floor. She turned to see Hogun running towards her. Bromm perked up at the sight of his honorary uncle.

The warrior stopped in front of her and gave a brief bow. “My lady, there’s trouble at the Bifrost.”

Y/n knew she didn’t have much time to think. She placed Bromm on the ground and looked into his eyes. “Sweetheart, I need you to go to your room. I’ll send Ingrid, but I need you to stay there. Mummy has something she needs to take care of.”

With a nod of his head, Bromm went to his room. Y/n turned to Hogun. “What’s happening?”

The couple marched through the hall while Hogun explained a woman had shown up and killed Volstagg, Fandral, and maybe even Skurge. They didn’t know exactly what had happened.

Y/n instructed him to take the men that were currently available to stop the stranger at the bridge and to send word to the remaining soldiers to go to the castle in full armour. She would lead those men to the bridge once they had assembled.

Hogun ran off while Y/n entered the chamber so she could get ready.

As she strapped on her sword, she felt a presence in the room. She gripped her sword and swiftly turned around, ready to take out the intruder.

Heimdall blocked the swing with his arm.

“Heimdall?” Y/n exclaimed. The man cocked his eyebrow, and Y/n sheathed her sword with a quick apology. “What are you doing here?”

“I see all, my lady.” Y/n smiled at him before returning to getting ready. “We must leave.”

Y/n stood up straight. “I can’t leave. We’re under attack. Until Thor, Loki, and Odin return, it is my duty to—”

“Do you know who is at the gates?” Y/n shook her head, returning to strap on her boots. “Hela, goddess of death.”

Y/n paused. “It doesn’t matter who is attacking. The people of Asgard deserve to be protected by their leaders.”

“She will not hesitate to kill anyone.”

Y/n thought for a second. She couldn’t abandon the people, even if that meant she would die. “Take Bromm,” she suggested to Heimdall. “Take my son and however many people you can get out. Keep them safe, and don’t return for me until everyone is safe.”

Heimdall nodded and started towards the door.

“Heimdall,” Y/n called, halting his steps. “Are they okay?”

He had seen Hela come through the Bifrost and how she pushed her brothers out. The princes of Asgard were thrown out and tossed to the place of lost things. They were okay. But Odin hadn’t been as lucky. It was his death that set Hela free, and he would not see the consequences that followed. Heimdall knew Y/n was asking after her family, so he told her anything she might need to know about what had happened. Then he left the room.

Y/n knew she would have to act fast. Her mind was racing with the overload of information she had been given. Odin was dead. Thor and Loki were lost somewhere across space. Hela, the goddess of death, was here to take control and wage war against the realms. Hela had killed two of Y/n’s best friends and had threatened to kill any who opposed her. Y/n’s life was in as much danger as her people, maybe even more so due to her royal status.

It was a price she was willing to pay, though.

She felt a tear run down her face as she left the room and marched to the throne room where she would meet her soldiers. It wasn’t fair. She had been nervous, happy, fearful, and ecstatic all in the span of a few hours due to the life in her belly, but now—now she was terrified, hopeless, and scared beyond her wildest dreams at the thought of her child. It wasn’t fair that today had to be filled with such madness and that to protect her people, she might lose her child. It wasn’t fair, but it had to be done.

As she joined her soldiers, a loud bang was heard just outside the grand doors. Y/n knew that Hela had reached the gates. She held her head tall, took a deep breath, and ordered her warriors to be ready. She unsheathed her sword and waited for the door to open.

Y/n stood on shaky legs. All around her, the soldiers lay bloody and unmoving. She looked to the woman responsible for this death. “Why?” she spat at the woman. “What did you hope to accomplish?”

Hela turned to face Y/n. She had seen her when she entered; she was the only one wearing something other than the standard Asgardian armour. Her eyes scanned the girl, coming to a stop at the gold circlet atop her head. Hela smirked. “Let me guess,” she drawled. “You married one of my idiotic brothers, thinking life would be tea parties and silk dresses, but now—” she gestured to the chaos around them, “—it’s a dangerous job.”

Y/n scoffed. Her life had never been easy. She and Loki had fought for everything they achieved.

“I bet everyone loves you.” Hela looked back to Skurge to see if her assumption was correct, and he gave a nod of his head. “That could be useful.”

Y/n yelled as she raised her blade and charged at Hela.

Hela stepped to the side, sliding Y/n out of the way with a blade of her own.

Y/n stumbled but quickly regained her balance. She thrust her sword with all her might. It connected, making its way through Hela’s stomach.

Hela laughed, and Y/n stepped back in shock. “You’re pretty good,” Hela took the blade out of her stomach, “but I don’t have time for this.”

Y/n watched in terror as Hela approached her, aiming the hilt of the sword at her face.

Everything went dark.

Loki stood at the door, entering the code he had stolen and memorized, while Thor stood beside him.

“Hey, so, listen,” Thor said. “We should talk.”

Loki looked up. He knew what was coming. He had dreaded this conversation since he first saw Thor in the Grandmaster’s place. “I disagree,” he blatantly stated while returning to his work. “Open communication,” the door opened, “was never our family’s forte.”

The brothers picked up their weapons, heading towards the guards in front of the elevator. “Oh, you have no idea,” Thor said. “Been quite the revelation since we last spoke.”

They both loaded their weapons and aimed, sending an ironic greeting towards the guards before opening fire.

As the guards start shooting back, Thor and Loki hid behind a wall. They shared a look as they heard the sounds of the guards reloading. Revealing themselves, the brothers start shooting their opponents again.

Eventually, they made it to the other side of the room, where Loki began entering the second code. As soon as the door opened, a guard came out, pointing his gun at Loki. Thor, sensing the guard was about to fire, pushed the gun down. As the shot went off, the guard flew up into the air from the force, and the boys happily walked into the elevator.

Loki couldn’t take the tension hanging in the air anymore, so he spoke. “I don’t think I can go back.”

“Asgard needs us. You left it defenceless when you took father to Earth. We need to protect our people.”

“You think so little of me?” Thor gave Loki a look of confusion. “I don’t want to go back because I can’t see their lifeless bodies. I can’t be in a place where we were happy and pretend things will be okay.” Loki breathed a sigh of relief. He had finally said it out loud. His wife was dead; there was no way Hela would keep her alive. She was a threat to the thrown. And so was Bromm, for that matter. Hela had probably killed them both.

“There’s still a chance—”

“—And if they’re dead, what then, Thor? I won’t—I can’t do it. I’m better off staying on Sakaar.”

Thor glanced down. “If there was even a slim chance that I could save mother, or father, or any of our friends,” Thor looked back to see Loki watching him, “I would take it.”

The elevator was silent for a few moments.

“What if—”

Thor put a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “Then I’ll be here. They’re my family too; I won’t abandon you or them.”

Loki smirked. “You’re a sap.”

Thor began laughing. “Never one for sentiment, were you?” Loki chuckled at him. “Hey,” Thor interrupted. “Let’s do ‘Get Help’!”

“What?” Loki questioned, wondering what brought this change of conversation.

“’ Get Help.’”

“No.”

“Come on, you love it.”

“I hate it.”

“It’s great. It works every time.”

“It’s humiliating.”

“Do you have a better plan?”

“No.”

“We’re doing it.”

“We are not doing ‘Get Help.’”

Less than a minute later, the elevator doors opened, and the brothers came out, performing the ‘Get Help’ act.

Thor carried Loki draped over his shoulder. “Get help!” he shouted to the guards. “Please! My brother, he’s dying!” Loki remained still as Thor began picking him up with both hands. “Get help! Help him!” Thor threw Loki at the guards, knocking them all out. He chuckled to himself. “Classic.”

“Still hate it.” Loki stood up. “It’s humiliating.”

“Not for me, it’s not. And it’s very effective.” Thor glanced back to the guards but spotted one of them getting up and running to sound the alarm.

“Apparently, not effective enough.”

The guard hit the alarm. Minutes later guards filtered into the room.

Loki turned to his brother. “Thor, you have to go. If they have a chance, it’s getting smaller with every second that passes. I’ll hold them off. You,” he gestured to the yellow ship behind them, “take the Commodore, and save my family.”

“I won’t leave you; we can take them.”

“It will take too long, Thor. Go!”

Reluctantly, Thor ran to the ship. He knew Loki wouldn’t change his mind, and the guards that started spilling through the doors hadn’t stopped. He just hoped Loki would follow on the other ship.

When the skeleton soldiers came for her, Y/n was afraid. Most of her armour had been stripped from her, along with her sword. She was powerless against them, and she had no idea what they wanted.

As they marched her through the castle, she pleaded with them. “Please,” she begged. “I am part of the royal family. As soldiers of Asgard, you serve me.” There was no response. “I have a child; he needs me.” Again, nothing. “Please, I’m with child. Please.” Still, there was no reaction.

When she realized she was being taken outside, she seized her crying and replaced her terror with a mask of bravery. She was still terrified, but if she showed a brave face to her people, they might feel calmer.

The soldiers led her to a courtyard filled with many Asgardians. On the steps to the castle stood Hela with her monstrous dog and Skurge. The soldiers threw her down.

Y/n tumbled down the steps, only to be met with more soldiers who dragged her to her feet. She glared at Skurge, the man she had trusted to guard the entrance to their world.

Skurge glanced at Hela before starting his address to the people. “Asgardians,” he yelled, “some misguided soul has stolen the Bifrost sword. Tell us where it is, or there will be consequences.” He stole another glance at Hela. “Bad ones.”

The people were silent, glancing between each other to see if someone would break.

“Well?”

Hela stepped forward when again no one responded to her executioner. “Bring her forward.”

The skeleton soldiers dragged Y/n forward and pushed her to her knees again, making sure her head and neck were exposed. Some of the people in the crowd cried out at the sight of their princess in danger. They knew she had fought to protect them and that she hadn’t run to the mountain because she wouldn’t abandon them, but the soldier held them back.

Hela gestured for Skurge to do his job. He stood beside Y/n, hesitant in raising his axe.

“You’re a coward,” Y/n spat.

“Well?” Hela drawled. “Executioner?”

Skurge lifted his axe. It was about to come down when someone in the crowd shouted.

“Wait!” The crowd parted, revealing the man who had spoken. “Wait. I know where the sword is.”

Y/n yelled and screamed while the man told Hela everything. She wasn’t angry at the man, not even disappointed; he had done what he could to save a life. Yet Y/n was afraid, more than she had been earlier. If Hela found Heimdall, she could discover Bromm. His life was in danger now.

Hela sent her back to the dungeons, the skeletons carrying her thrashing body.

Y/n calmed herself when they got inside. She knew that to get free, she would need to think it through, and the best way to do that was with a calm mind. As she stopped squirming, the soldiers’ grasp on her lightened—no longer needing to be as tight. Y/n scanned her surroundings, making a note of everything that might help her. There were only two guards with her; the rest were either travelling with Hela to get the people in hiding or with Skurge, prepping for war. Y/n felt her muscles tighten as she clenched her fist. That’s when she noticed it. The soldiers’ grip had loosened enough for her to move.

With quick movements, Y/n elbowed one soldier before swinging her body around and tripping the other.

She grabbed a sword from one of the suits of armour lining the hall. It wasn’t sharp, nor was it meant for actual use, but it was the best weapon she could find on short notice. With a few swipes of the heavy sword, one of the soldiers crumbled. The other grabbed her from behind, causing the blade to fall from her hands. Throwing her weight forward, she flung him over her back and onto the ground in front of her. She quickly grabbed the other skeleton’s sword and decapitated the soldier still moving.

Y/n glanced between the two unmoving soldiers, ensuring they were really dead. When she was sure, she headed to the weaponry to stock up before joining the fight.

As she ran out the door, she was shocked to find her brother-in-law heading in the opposite direction. She quickly grabbed him in a hug. “You’re alright. Oh, thank Odin, you’re alright.”

“I’m fine, Y/n.” He pulled back, scanning his sister. She was pretty bruised with several cuts all over, but she was standing and clutching her sword. She was okay. “You’re okay?” Y/n responded with a nod. “Where’s Bromm?”

“I sent him with Heimdall. Hela is headed to the right now. I have to go—”

“No, Y/n,” Thor soothed with a hand to her shoulder. “They’re headed to the Bifrost. I have some friends who will help you, but you should go too. I’m going to distract Hela.”

“Is Loki…” Y/n trailed off as she looked towards the Bifrost.

Thor shook his head. “I’m sorry, Y/n. He stayed behind, so I could get out. He sacrificed himself for you and Bromm. He said I had a better chance of saving you than him.”

Y/n choked back a sob. This wasn’t the time. Her son and her people needed her. “Okay,” she took a deep breath, “I’ll see you soon.”

They both took off in opposite directions.

Heimdall reached the bridge at the same time as Y/n.

“Heimdall, thank Odin,” Y/n breathed out. “Where’s Bromm?”

“Mommy?” his little voice rang out.

Y/n quickly fell to her knees as her son ran into her arms. “My baby, you’re okay.” Heimdall led the group around the mother and son and further down the bridge; they didn’t have time to waste. Y/n pulled back and checked over her child. He had no scrapes or bruises, no injuries that she could see. “This mess is almost over, sweetheart.” She stood up, keeping her hand locked with his, and moved with the crowd.

When the crowd stopped moving, Y/n knelt down to her son again. “Stay in the middle here; I’ll find you when it’s safe, but mommy has to go help Heimdall keep everyone safe.” Bromm nodded as his mother walked to the front of the group.

Y/n brandished her sword as she saw what had caused the group to stop. Hela’s giant dog was charging at the group.

Heimdall held his sword up, ready to fight.

Suddenly, a man fell from the spaceship that had been shooting at the dog. He crashed to the bridge, a crumpled heap.

The dog paused for a moment to sniff the body before he resumed his charge.

Y/n and Heimdall readied their stance, but just before the dog reached them, it was pulled backwards.

It was thrown back by a giant, green man.

Y/n was sure he was the Hulk. Thor had told stories of a scientist who could turn into a strong monster that had joined him in the fight on Midgard. On the other side, Loki claimed the Hulk was a savage giant with no respect. Whoever he was, she was impressed. He and the dog soon disappeared from view as they tumbled off the bridge’s side and into the water below. Y/n would have been worried if not for the hoards of Hela’s skeletal army that were rushing at them.

Y/n and Heimdall fought with everything they had, but there were too many of them.

Heimdall was slashed in his thigh, bringing him to his knees. With one swipe of his heavy sword, he took out three men, but another pushed him over.

Y/n rushed to help him but was stopped by another soldier. A loud blast startled her, and she jumped, narrowly missing the swing of his blade. She thrust her sword through his stomach, and he collapsed to the ground.

She turned, seeing a Kronan helping Heimdall to his feet. Beside him was a creature she couldn’t quite name but looked to be supported by a metal skeleton with knives for hands.

A loud noise called everyone’s attention. Through the fog, a spaceship appeared, and standing in front, with his arms raised, was Loki.

“Your saviour is here,” he called to the crowd. The ship was parked, with a ramp leading to the bridge. Loki climbed off. “Did you miss me?” he asked. His eyes scanned the crowd, and Y/n could tell he was looking for her and Bromm. Masking his fear, he directed everyone to climb the ship.

Y/n sheathed her sword and ran to her husband. “Loki!” she called, and he turned to her. She had never been so happy in her entire life. She launched herself into his waiting arms and breathed in the scent of her husband. She felt safe and comfortable in his arms, but she knew the time to celebrate was later. She pulled away.

Loki, not yet ready to let go, pulled her back. He cupped her face and kissed her like it was the first time. The rest of the world faded away as they got lost in each other.

It was only when Loki felt his leg be embraced that he was pulled back to reality. He looked down to see Bromm, hugging his leg. He bent down and picked up his son, hugging him close to his chest. “My boy and my wife,” he sighed happily, caressing Y/n’s cheek and bringing her closer. “I was so scared I had lost you.”

“We’re okay,” Y/n reassured.

The sound of fighting soon found its way back into their blissful minds, and they were pulled back to reality.

The adults shared a look of fear.

“Bromm, my love,” Y/n cooed, caressing his small face, “I need you to go on the ship and stay safe. Mommy and daddy will join you in a bit.”

“Y/n, you need to go on the ship, too.” Loki’s expression was stern, but so was Y/n’s.

“I’ve come this far; I am not going to sit back and relax until everyone is safe.” Loki knew she could not be argued with, but his eyes flicked to her belly. “We’re okay, Loki,” Y/n reassured, with a hand to her stomach. “The worst is over, but we’re not finished.”

Loki nodded with a huff. He set Bromm down, who joined up with his friends and made his way onto the ship. He gave one last look at his parents before he disappeared inside the giant vessel.

Y/n and Loki joined Heimdall and the rest of the new soldiers as they began fighting.

A bright lightning bolt filled the sky, and Thor jumped from the castle to the bridge, knocking down soldiers with his lightning blasts.

It didn’t take long for Thor to reach his brother.

Y/n was fighting one of the skeleton soldiers. As her sword thrust into its chest, she let out a breath of relief. She could see the brothers reuniting, and it filled her heart with warmth.

She didn’t even feel it at first.

All she knew was that she couldn’t breathe.

She looked down to see the sword protruding from her stomach.

The world went silent as the pain flooded her senses. She could see Loki running towards her, and she felt when he caught her, but she couldn’t hear his pleas. She didn’t hear him begging her to stay awake. Nor did she hear the whispered, ‘I love you’s.

As she started to fade, she could see his face. She smiled at him, raising a hand to his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered. She had no idea if he heard her or not, but seeing his smile, even though it was filled with sadness, was the perfect view as she drifted into darkness.

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

‘today’s silm vocaloid song: clear sky engine (クリヤスカイ機関) by nyanyannya and hara ft. rin kagamine and zunko tohoku

this one’s about elrond, maglor, and the sudden non-ending of the world. you know that thing where you build an elaborate fandom video in your head for a completely unrelated song, but you don’t have the most basic art skills you’d need to make it a reality? yeah, i square that circle by writing them out. here, have an extremely long songfic/filk/commentary/thing

It was just another day, beneath a black sky

The bustle of camp churned on around me

I wasn’t paying attention to what my hands were doing

Dreaming of a shining star-lit sky

we open on elrond, living in a world about to die. the fëanorians were forced to abandon amon ereb years ago, and now the last of the host ekes out a precarious nomadic existence, raiding deserted villages for food and losing more people they can’t replace with each battle. they’re still doing better than everyone else on the mainland, though. their blades, at least, remain sharp

(the smoke from the fires of angband has risen to cover the whole continent in dark clouds. some of the sun’s warmth still gets through, and on good nights the star of high hope is still faintly visible, but the light-filled skies of old are little more than memory. all the survivors know that the end is near. it’s only a matter of time)

He’d broken a promise he’d made to us

So I was a little more annoyed at him than usual

He chatted with me while I worked to make up for it

And I made all my usual complaints

elrond and elros are at this point... i’d say very early teens? not that they had much of a childhood; the fëanorians are so short-staffed the twins have been doing odd jobs around camp pretty much since it became clear they weren’t going to run away. today elrond is taking stock of the medical supplies, less because he has any interest in the healing arts than because it’s a job that needs doing and everyone else is busy

maglor is hovering within talking distance, doing elrond-doesn’t-care-what. the twins’ relationship with maglor is extremely complicated to say the least, their mercurial hellbeast protector who scares the shit out of everyone else they’ve ever met and who has stood between them and the darkness for as long as they can remember. recently, he promised to stay with the twins while they did something difficult, but he failed to do so for a whole host of reasons, including getting into a two-hour shrieking match with maedhros at the last possible moment. elros shrugged it off, like elros shrugs everything off, but elrond is a simmering cauldron of adolescent rage at the best of times

which is why maglor’s checking on him, giving him an outlet for his anger before it can turn into despair. because what would be the point, in the end? they’re all going to die anyway. one of the reasons maglor’s resisted sending the kids to balar so hard is that no matter where they are, eventually morgoth will sweep down and destroy them all. there’s nowhere safe left, nothing they can do to protect them. none of this is even new, it’s a shadow that’s hung over them all since the twins grew old enough to understand this

so maglor and elrond chat, or rather elrond grumbles incessantly and maglor snarks as upliftingly as he can remember to. it’s a day like any other, nothing about it to distinguish it from the hundreds that came before or however many will come after. that is, until one of the lesser minions comes over, yelling, ‘boss! boss! you have to see this!’

elrond turns around. for the first time ever, he sees true hope on her face

“Have you finally grown tired of us?” I hissed

But in that moment excitement ran round the campsite

And someone cried out with joy

“The hour we thought would never be, the return of the light, has finally come to pass!”

far, far away, the hosts of the valar are landing on the shores of beleriand. disembarking from their luminous ships, clad in radiant armour and carrying blessed weapons, their brilliance pierces the dark fog that has settled over beleriand for so long. shining like the stars come to earth, the hallowed army of valinor begins its long march towards the gates of angband. far above, ships riding jets of light slice open the smog

this news - this unexpected, unbelievable, impossible miracle bestowed unto doomed beleriand, this chance that their enemy might actually fall - is the greatest thing anyone in camp’s heard all century. maybe in more prosperous times the host would have groused about the valar finally seeing fit to get off their asses, but in this world turned to ash any chance at victory is to be celebrated. the minions throw a massive impromptu party, of the kind they haven’t since before sirion. elros is right there with them, singing off-key and laughing as loud as anyone else. even maedhros cracks a tiny relieved smile

maglor watches the festivities from the outside, more genuinely optimistic than he thought he was still capable of. elrond joins him, brow furrowed as he tries to comprehend it all. they talk

“It feels like a dream I’ll never wake up from”

“What are you blabbering about now?”

elrond is voiced by zunko, maglor by rin. the song’s more of a dialogue than a duet, so i’ll be bolding maglor’s lines

The sheet of paper I held in my hands read

“The hosts of the West have come! Our world is saved!”

the letter’s from gil-galad, or at least his administrative apparatus. it’s not even that hostile; apparently the armies of the gods showing up out of nowhere to save them all from certain doom has him in a magnanimous mood. there’s some drivel about surrendering and eärendil and all wrongs being forgiven, but neither maglor nor elrond is paying attention to it

“Hey, do you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Love and justice and valour and hope”

“I remember the sea of blood you drowned everything in for them”

elrond didn’t really have any formal schooling - nobody had the time - but he has managed to pick up a lot of stuff from the stories the people around them tell. that the fëanorians came to middle-earth for high noble ideals, and that it was trying to fulfil those ideals that led them into darkness, is something maglor told him once, when he was in a darkly honest mood

“Haha, that’s just details, everybody makes that kind of mistake when they’re young”

“Why are you like this?”

a mood maglor’s obviously not in at the moment, if he’s laughing off the kinslayings like this; elrond knows this isn’t how he actually feels about them. normally elrond would just roll his eyes and move on with his life, but things are different today

The camp was full of laughter, as if everyone had lost their minds

elrond’s not used to happiness. not full, unironic happiness, untainted by the shadow of their inevitable death, not from the fëanorians. the sheer jubliation suffusing camp is fundamentally alien to him, a child of a world about to end. he doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge that maybe they won’t all get eaten by dragons. he doesn’t know what to do with the hope in everyone’s eyes

so instead, when maglor wanders away from the party, elrond catches him with a song

“What if for one more year, ten more years, a hundred more years, the shadow still reigns?”

“Then ten thousand years, a hundred thousand years, a million years later, we’ll see it fall! For certain”

“What if I lay out all one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-eight of the fears I carry?”

“Then there’s one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-nine songs I can give to you”

maglor’s been teaching elrond how to do this, how to snatch someone into a world of music and throw your voice at them until one of you can’t take it any more. maglor wins this one, as usual; even if his song is incapable of anything but violence he’s got centuries of experience on elrond, enough to turn the sharp edges of his voice into blades in elrond’s hands. and that is what he’s doing, clumsy and harsh as he is; he’s trying to give elrond a reason to hope

elrond is the one who breaks the spell, dropping the melody, letting the music dissolve into the air. maglor flashes him a grin and walks off, humming merrily. elrond just stands there, still unable to understand

I’ve heard it before, it’s all anyone can talk about, even if I try to avoid it it stabs into my ears

cut past a decade or so, to well into the war of wrath. elrond and elros are in their mid-teens now. they’re still with the fëanorians, but these days the fëanorian warband is effectively an auxiliary unit to the amanyar army, skirting around the edges of that much larger force. for the first time in a long while, elrond and elros have regular-ish contact with people outside the fëanorian sphere of influence, mostly peripheral edain and the sindar who run messages between the camps. it’s different, talking to new people

(the sky is still covered with smog, but it’s gloomy grey, not oppressive black. the sun is faintly visible through it, most of the time. the rain is much less poisonous than it used to be, and on good nights you can almost see the moon. the closer they get to angband, the darker the clouds grow)

“It is as the gods have decreed, soon the darkness will be swept away and the Enemy will be cast down

And after the war in the purified world, we will all live happily together

Building new homes in a land unmarred by evil”

the people outside the host are much more optimistic about the future, for one. the fëanorian minions are happy morgoth is getting trounced but they don’t really talk about what comes after that, like they can’t imagine a world without war. the sindar, and especially the edain, on the other hand, have all these plans about the cities they’ll build, the arts they’ll perfect, the children they’ll raise in a world without danger. elros is super into this; he barely spends time with the fëanorians any more, he’s so busy going between different edain camps, making friends, planning for the future. elrond, though...

Even my twin knows what future to reach out for...

elrond doesn’t know what to do with any of this. the very concept that someday the war will end and the sky will clear and he’ll have a bright future is still something he doesn’t fully understand. even more, he’s defined himself for so long as not-a-fëanorian, now he’s regularly interacting with people who doubtlessly aren’t he’s having trouble figuring out what else he is. he’s stuck between people who are lowkey hoping they’ll die gloriously in battle and people who have been dreaming about what they’d do in a world without darkness all their lives, and he doesn’t know what he even wants, not really, not yet

so he keeps on living, just like he always has. he’s been promoted to sick tent dogsbody and is learning how to heal with song from the last minion who can kind of still do it. he acts as a proxy between the fëanorians and the more timid outsiders they keep running into. when he goes (or elros drags him) exploring in other camps, he keeps track of every new detail he comes across, in case it’s somehow useful later

and he keeps talking to maglor, with anger and spite and sarcasm and whatever other emotion he’s covering his uncertainties with today. maglor always listens, usually offers to help, and sometimes elrond even lets him. the fëanorian camp settles into a rhythm of buildup-fight-recovery-buildup-fight-recovery, so regular it lulls elrond into complacency. he takes the future he still doesn’t quite believe in one day at a time, until suddenly the ground crumbles beneath his feet

You say it’s to ‘fulfill our ideals’ but what you mean by that is ‘to sate our bloodlust’, I know

With their blades and teeth sharpened for battle, the kinslayers broke away from the light and disappeared into the shadows

there’s a whole mountain of reasons why, as they draw near to angband, the dregs of the fëanorian host abruptly peel off from the valinorean army and vanish into the night. they know they're more effective as a stealthy shock ambush unit, they’re somewhat concerned the amanyar will turn on them the second morgoth is no longer a problem, they're making one last desperate rush for the silmarils, all that and more. it’s not the first time they’ve suddenly packed up and left before their enemies can react, probably not even the first time they’ve done it to the hosts of valinor. there’s just one little difference

Leaving us behind? Leaving you behind

they’re not taking the twins. said twins only find out about this, like, the day before they decamp. maedhros’ justification is something about them not being able to support noncombatants on the march, but the twins believe that about as much as they believe that the fëanorians are doing this for any kind of hope. elros, of course, was half-planning on leaving anyway, going off to chase his own ambitions with his new edain posse. he copes with it pretty well, relatively

but elrond’s mind goes blank. once he thought the day they let them go would be the best day of his life, but now it’s come it feels so wrong, and this horrible coldness is seeping into him. in a flash of what feels like foresight, he suddenly knows the people who raised him will never come back. how dare - why - he can’t -

with a sharp desperate burst of sound that’s a surprise to even himself, elrond lashes out a song to catch maglor

“For ten more minutes, one more week, half a year, please, let me stay with you!”

“In a year’s time, ten years’ time, a hundred years’ time, we’ll see the starlit sky together”

“What if one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-eight times I begged you not to go?”

“Then there’s one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-nine of your other wishes I’ll hear”

and elrond just stops. he lets the song trail off, staring at maglor. he’s in an incredibly weird mood, with something that could almost be compassion in his eyes

there’s only one way he can find out what’s happening, elrond realises

“In that case - !”

maglor was never really demonstratively affectionate with the twins. it would never have come off as real on his part, and they wouldn’t have believed it in any case. still, he supported them. he let them trail behind them, all but cling to the backs of his legs, in those first horrible weeks when they were terrified of absolutely everything. he taught them to ride and he taught them to read, how to reinforce a blade with nothing but song and close a wound with needle and thread. on the darkest nights, when all the world was filled by the howling beasts of morgoth and the wailing of the unhallowed dead, he held them tight and flared his own fires high, a warm smoky bonfire between them and the void. he answered their questions, and told them stories

and sometimes, he tried to be kind

“Sing me a lullaby like the flat of a blade”

“Which one would you like?”

“I want to see a flower that will still bloom”

“I know just the one”

“I don’t care what kind of monster you are! Just please stay with me, for even one more tomorrow...”

“...I’m sorry”

“What do you mean?”

“You were given your name because your parents wanted you to see the stars someday”

it was easy for maglor to justify keeping the twins when they didn’t have a future. the shadow of death blotted out the sky, so why not hold them close for whatever little time they had left? no matter where they were, the void would soon claim them all

except it didn’t. in the end they were not forsaken. the sacred light came out of the west to burn away the darkness and finish the war he once thought they could never win. the hosts of the valar have gotten farther in decades than the noldor did in centuries, and soon enough they’ll cast the enemy down and release the world from his terrible maw. and then the future the free peoples dreamed of will stretch out before them, full of possibilities beyond measure

and that’s why maglor has to let them go. the magnificent people that elrond and elros are already becoming will only wither among hopeless kinslayers who have nothing left but the sword. to flourish into their full glorious selves, they need to be with people who dream, who can travel towards the future alongside the twins with light hearts and songs on their lips. maglor refuses to let his own darkness drown the last people in the world he does not hate. elrond deserves so, so much better than maglor is capable of giving him. he deserves to see the stars

hearing all that, there’s only one thing elrond can say

“You can’t even keep one miserable promise! Don’t pretend like you’re my father, kinslayer!”

and that’s the last elrond sees of maglor. the fëanorians vanish in the middle of the night, leaving elrond and elros (and about half a dozen minions who are taking their last possible chance to get out) behind. elros takes up with his edain buddies and starts making contacts and forging alliances. elrond winds up in gil-galad’s orbit, surrounded by people who are very understanding about how awful his childhood was, which just pisses him off more. he doesn’t throw tantrums or refuse to work, those aren’t luxuries he was raised with, but he spends a fair bit of time spurning every bit of sympathy and aid he’s offered and trying not to cry himself to sleep

with time, though, he finds a place. it starts with círdan, the first person who believes elrond about what his time with the fëanorians was like. then he befriends erestor, and then gil-galad starts actually respecting the way elrond feels, and then he gets officially taken on as an apprentice healer. he starts learning about his own ancestors and their peoples, and reaching out for stories he never knew could be his. as the final battle of the iron hells begins, elrond is doing... better

and soon, the hope that no one in beleriand once dreamed would be fulfilled becomes a reality

And then, as if it had never held power, the darkness was cast down...

they win the war. the armies of angband are crushed. the peaks of thangorodrim are torn down. the prisoners of the deepest pits of the iron hells are freed. the forces of evil are scattered to the four winds. morgoth, the fallen vala himself, is defeated and captured and bound with great chains, unable to ever hurt anyone again. the precious remnants of the light of the trees, the remaining two silmarils, are recovered. the dark clouds evaporate, and for the first time elrond can remember, the sky is perfectly clear. the war of the jewels is finally over

elrond has grown so much since the day he first heard that the hosts of the west had come. he still can’t quite believe it

They held a great celebration beneath a star-speckled sky I’d never seen before

“The world is saved and we are freed! Evil has been vanquished forevermore”

The triumphant voices of the generals poured out over the victory feast while the stars shone true above the happy ending

the soldiers of valinor and the people of beleriand (what’s left of them) throw a truly massive party. it’s still tinged with their grief over everything they’ve lost, but the atmosphere is primarily one of ecstatic relief. they’re alive, and they’ve come out the other side. dwarvish tailors dance with high maiar, humans who don’t remember the moon get drunk with elves who remember cuiviénen. even after the official festivities die down and people start hashing out what they want to do next, the general mood remains buoyant and cheerful. at long last, they live in a world without danger

none of it feels real to elrond. gil-galad’s talking about building a kingdom on the other side of the blue mountains, elros and his grand edain alliance are trying to bully the maiar into letting them set up on tol eressëa, and elrond feels so disconnected from it all, like he’s watching someone else’s life. he’s happy the enemy has been overcome, of course he is, but he’s not feeling the overwhelming joy everyone else is. he can’t let his guard down yet, something is still wrong -

Except he hasn’t come back, they haven’t come back, where did they go, what have they done?

The word raced around as fast as the wind, giving me an answer I never wanted to hear -

where is maglor? the fëanorians broke off to fight the war their own way, but the war is over now, where are they? they were so happy to hear that the amanyar had arrived, he can’t imagine them not thrilled to see the enemy they hated more than anything else fall. in the warm afterglow of victory, it feels like even their sins might be forgiven, and they could finally go home. they have nothing else left; why wouldn’t they take that outstretched hand?

but nobody’s so much as glimpsed their flag since some time before the final battle. elrond quietly assumes, perhaps even hopes, that they all died fighting, and yet he can’t shake the cold dread crawling up his spine

elrond has mixed feelings about the silmarils, and doesn’t particularly care to be near them. by the time the news of their theft reaches him, maedhros and maglor have already fled into the night

Still driven on by their oath, they turned their blades on their kin one last time

“And stole away the hallowed light”

Yes, that light which sank all of our lands beneath a deep dark layer of corpses and ash

all elrond sees is the aftermath, the blood sinking into the ground. it’s far from the first time he’s seen people killed, but somehow now it’s all hitting him, all at once. he sees the bodies and it knocks the breath out of him. all he can see is the dead, from finwë on down, the rotting carcasses of every last person who was slaughtered for these gems, a whole continent bleached with death. they call the silmarils the most beautiful things in the world, jewels shining with the very light of creation, but elrond can’t see it for the blood they’re dripping with

that’s the immediate thing that has his hands shaking and his breath running cold. by morning it’s had a chance to sink in a little, and -

He lied he lied he lied he lied

maglor regretted the kinslayings! elrond knows he did! it was never even something he actually said, it was obvious from the way he talked about them. every single one was a complete disaster, nothing the fëanorians ever got out of them was worth what they lost in the process, and afterwards things always got worse in ways they never expected. and maglor hated the person the kinslayings had turned him into, elrond spent enough time around him to pick up on that much! surely he’d do anything to not have to commit another one?

apparently not! apparently all that regret, all that loss, the arguments and the nightmares and the coldly determined efforts to stop them following his path, it all meant nothing! he still gave in to despair or maedhros or whatever, killed yet more people, stole from the army whose return he said was like a dream come to life, spat in the face of his last chance to go home, and vanished! gil-galad’s people were right! he really is nothing more than a monster!

the shock of it all makes something snap in elrond, whatever fragile optimism he absorbed from the people around him draining away until he feels completely hollow. hundreds of years of suffering and death, and for what?

Smeared with the blood of untold hundreds, untold thousands, untold millions of people

Did they buy us peace for even half a year, even a week, even ten minutes?

Noooooooo!

Even the very land we lived on crumbled and drowned

What was the point?! What was the point?! What was the point?!

I feel like I’m going insaaaaaaane

morgoth may have fallen, but beleriand is dead! nothing remains, not the lush green lands of the stories, or even the dessicated forests of his childhood, just desolate earth and the devouring sea. almost everywhere he’s ever known, almost everyone who lived and fought and dreamed there, are lost forever. nothing was saved, everything was destroyed, what good is a clear blue sky when there’s nothing beneath it?! how can they call this a happy ending?!

elrond can’t see any light here, all the great battles and heroic deeds seem absolutely pointless in the face of everyone and everything immolated in the endless grasping for these gems. the hosts of valinor leave the continent they shattered, the remnants of gil-galad’s people escape the raging forces of nature, and the survivors bicker and fight over resources just like the fëanorian minions elrond grew up around. the world is never going to get better, he realises. the dream of a paradise will never come true

and then one night, running a message down the craggy still-turbulent coastline, he hears a snatch of a distant, familiar voice

I can hear a voice whittled away to a weapon singing what could almost be a lullaby -

elrond leaps off the ridge and onto the rocky beach, scrambling over the uneven ground. he’s heard the rumours about where maedhros and/or maglor went - all of them, there’s dozens of them, he didn’t pay any particular heed to the ones where maglor wandered the coast, but if they were right, if he’s here -

his own voice has grown strong over the years, solid and forceful and mature. elrond screams his song into the emptiness, hoping against hope it will be heard

“What if for one more year, ten more years, a hundred more years, the shadow still reigns?”

“Then ten thousand years, a hundred thousand years, a million years later, we’ll see it fall! Isn’t that so?!”

“What if I lay out all one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-eight of the griefs I carry?”

“Then there’s one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-nine days for you to live!”

“That must be it...”

the impression of a hand touching his cheek, the ghost of a smile. for a moment someone else’s voice slips into the ebb and flow of his song, a shadow reaches out to wipe the tears off his face. live, it whispers. you who i held dearest last, live

elrond’s breath catches in his throat, and the song, and the shadow, vanish. it’s just him on a forsaken beach, the only sounds the waves crashing and the gulls calling. the sky is completely overcast, the clouds dull and grey. he watches them drift along for a while, as his pulse slows down and his airways clear up. live, the word echoes in his mind

he waits until his breathing is back to normal and the churning emotions inside him have settled into a form he can handle. then he wipes his face and clambers back onto the ridge

(life. it’s not much, but it’s enough. it has to be. his home is destroyed, but he is alive; his family is broken, but he is alive. he is alive, and they want him to live, as much as he can while he still has a chance. the world he lives in will never be perfect, but he knows how to work with that)

(and besides - elros, círdan, gil-galad, erestor, the other healers, the small knot of elves of all stripes who seem determined to follow his banner. he hasn’t lost everything, not yet, and he won’t let the world take away what he has left. he’ll never abandon those he loves)

the clouds are lightening. soon the stars will be out. elrond takes a deep breath, and starts running towards his future and the person he’s going to be -

thousands of years later, a memory resurfaces

“Two million, two hundred and forty-one thousand, five hundred and thirty-nine days... Ah, yes. I know I forgot to say it earlier, but you did a very good job”

a smattering of notes are lifted by the ocean breeze. they travel inland, across the worn-down mountains, around the weathered hills, above the tangled forests, up the untamed rivers, and finally into the hidden valley

in the gardens of imladris, lord elrond hears a voice he hasn’t for millennia. a watering can slips out of his hands, and suddenly he can’t breathe

It was just another day, beneath a dark sky

The ocean and the wind roared on all around me

I wasn’t paying attention to how my tears were falling

Trying to remember a clear star-lit sky

that youthful dream of a world free from evil never came true. the shadow came back, and it kept coming back, taking his people, his friends, his family, his wife. everything they built after the defeat of morgoth has been reduced to dust by the weight of time, and every year more of it slips through his fingers. elrond doesn’t know how much more of it he can endure. he doesn’t know how much more he can lose

he chases that scrap of music all the way to the seashore

I ran down the path between the rocks and the spray following that voice I never knew why I loved

But in the end I could only stand weeping

elrond searches up and down the coast, scouring the shoreline for clues, asking the locals, listening. sometimes he hears whispers of song, long wailing lamentations that make his heart ache all the more now that he understands how that despair feels. occasionally it’s loud or consistent enough he can track it, trying to pinpoint the singer’s location in the intense storms of bitterness and grief

but he never finds anything

“You fool, he’s already gone. Like he was never there at all...”

all that’s left is a voice on the wind

[eyayah-oya]

My Brothers

66 FOLLOWERS!!! Thank you to everyone who has followed me and stuck around as I mess around with Star Wars and the Clone Wars.  This fic is for you all!

Also, I’ve had this story idea rattling around in my brain since last Saturday.  I hope you all enjoy and I’m sorry in advance.

Rating: T

Pairing: none (maybe Rex/Echo if you squint)

Warnings: canon typical violence and death (I’m sorry a named clone gets killed off screen ToT)

Ao3 link

           Echo let his blaster fall to the ground from his numb fingers.  The Empire had sent Crosshair after them again, with five full squads of troopers, trying to terminate the traitors.  They’d finally managed to subdue them all, including Crosshair, and had removed his chip.  All that was left was waiting for him to wake up and help him deal with being under the control of an evil regime.

           Hunter, Tech, Wrecker, and Omega gathered around Crosshair, just like they had done for Wrecker when his chip had activated, and waited.  And suddenly, Echo found he couldn’t stay there a second longer.  He had other duties to attend to.

           The small clearing the Empire had cornered them in was covered in the bodies of fallen stormtroopers.  If Echo blocked out the past year, he could even believe that these were squads of shinies and that the rest of his brothers would be at a camp nearby, mourning the loss of the ones killed in action.  But the Empire destroyed everything good left in the galaxy and left behind flimsy illusions of a perfect society.

           Rather than pay any kind of attention to his team—because they weren’t quite family, not really—Echo moved to the closest stormtrooper, clad in the new, weaker armor the Empire supplied its army with.  He knelt down in the blood-soaked dirt and pulled off the trooper’s helmet, needing to see their face.

           The clone that looked up at the starless sky with blank eyes couldn’t have been older than eight.  They had probably only just been deployed before the Order went out and the galaxy fell.  Echo brushed his fingers over their eyelids and closed them.  “Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la, vod’ika,” he whispered.  Echo wished he knew their name.  Instead, he slipped the tags from around their neck, emblazoned with their CT number, and placed them in his hip pouch.  There wasn’t anything he needed in there at the moment, and it was more important that these brothers be remembered.

           Echo moved to the next one and repeated the process. Again.  And again.  Some clones were older, like Rex or even Echo himself.  Others were obviously shinies, sent to die for the new Empire.  Most fell somewhere in between.  All of them carried the face that Echo had spent his whole life looking at, a comforting familiar that he no longer could indulge in. None of the clones he had teamed up with shared a clone’s face.  The only one that Echo had seen since they’d left Kamino was Rex.

           Force, Echo missed Rex.  He wished Hunter had taken Rex up on his offer and they could have gone off and actually made a difference in this awful galaxy.  Maybe Echo could have helped save his brothers instead of slaughtering them.

           But.

           Standing among the bodies of his dead brothers, Echo felt like wailing.  Like crying. Like giving up for once in his short, pathetic life.  He hadn’t felt this way since Rex had told him exactly what had happened to Fives. And Hardcase.  And Kix.  And Jesse. And the rest of the brothers that Echo loved and fought beside.  They were all gone.

           When he’d been rescued from the Techno Union and realized the full extent of what they’d done to him, Echo had sworn he would never hurt another brother again as long as he lived.  He’d already been the weapon used to kill countless numbers of clone troopers (and Echo really didn’t know how many brothers had died because of the information the Techno Union had dug out of his brain), he refused to be used like that again.

           Echo stood in the middle of a clearing, surrounded on all sides by the bodies of the brothers he had helped kill to save one.  How many could he have saved if he’d just spoken up to the rest of the Bad Batch?  How many would still be alive if he’d had the courage to present his own tactics instead of relying on Hunter’s?

           The next bucket he pulled off revealed a face that was more familiar to him than all the others.  This was a vod he knew personally.  His hair had been shaved down, but from the tan lines on his head, it was obvious he had had a mohawk for years.  There was the cute scar on his lip from when he’d sparred Commander Cody and bitten through his lip.  Echo had laughed with Fives and congratulated the shiny on lasting longer than usual against Commander Cody.

           There wasn’t a speck of 212th gold on Wooley’s armor.

           They’d stolen his mind, his free-will, his identity, and Echo had stolen his life.  He’d killed the adorable floofy-haired kid with the most lethal tooka eyes in the entire GAR and a wicked right hook.  The one who loved stories and songs from far off planets and could weave the most incredible tales around the fires after a battle.  His sightless eyes gazed up at the stars he’d loved so much.

           With a silent sob, Echo fell to his knees and pressed his forehead against Wooley’s, cradling his body as best as he could without a hand. “Ni ceta, vod’ika,” he rasped as tears streaked down his cheeks.  “Ni ceta. I’m so sorry, Wooley.  I should have saved you.  I could have saved you.”

           There was nothing but the still-warm skin of Wooley’s forehead pressed against his own.  No shaky breaths or snarky comebacks or easy forgiveness.  Nothing but the soft murmur of Hunter’s voice as he assured the others that Crosshair would be alright.  Nothing but Echo’s own gasping sobs as he mourned the lives he had taken with his own hands.

           “Echo?”  Omega’s voice startled him, and he nearly reached for the blaster he’d dropped before he registered that she wasn’t a threat.  “What are you doing out here?”

           “It’s nothing, Omega,” Echo said, his voice rougher than usual.  “Just gathering intel.  You should go check on the others, make sure they’re holding up alright now that they have Crosshair back.”

           “I’m sure they’d all feel a lot better if you came and joined us,” Omega suggested.  She sounded worried.  Echo didn’t have the heart to turn around and comfort her, knowing she would see the tears on his face.

           “I’ll come back when I’m done.  He’ll probably be waking up soon anyway.”

           For a moment, there wasn’t any sound behind Echo, but he refused to turn and look.  Someone had to be the voice of reason for the Bad Batch, even if they didn’t listen very often, and he couldn’t do that if they saw how broken he really was.  Not even sweet Omega.

           A gentle, small hand settled briefly on his shoulder, and then Omega walked away, picking her way carefully through the dead bodies. Echo let out a shaky sigh and set Wooley down on the ground again.  As gently as he could, he closed Wooley’s eyes and ran a finger down his cheek.

           “Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la, ner vod’ika.  I’m so sorry, Wooley.  I will do everything I can to free the rest of our brothers.  Haat, ijaa, haa’it,” Echo vowed softly.  He wore Wooley’s tags around his neck, rather than putting them in the pouch with the others.  Echo wanted—needed—the weight to keep him grounded even as he continued to mourn and honor the brothers he’d killed.  Dread and grief weighing down his every step, Echo moved through the remaining bodies, removing their helmets and collecting their ID tags so he could remember every one of them.  There were a few more brothers he recognized from the 212th and the 327th, though he hadn’t ever been as close to them as he had to Wooley.  It still hurt, looking at these men whom he’d loved and cherished, knowing that he was the one that had killed them. Knowing that he was responsible for them dying as slaves of the Empire.

           At some point, Echo heard Wrecker’s joyful yell, Tech’s babbling lectures, and Hunter’s quiet reassurances.  Even Omega chattered excitedly.  Crosshair must have woken up, then.  Echo didn’t move to greet him or welcome him back to the world of free-will. Instead, he focused on his task. There were only a few left, and then . . .

           And then what?  What would Echo do?  He had the commlink Rex had slipped him before he’d left them on Bracca, but could he really abandon the Bad Batch now that they were all reunited?

           Yes, Echo realized.  Omega was the only one that he would miss extensively.  He just didn’t belong with these off-color clones. He might not really belong anywhere, but he had a duty to his brothers and to Rex.  His last true brother.  Echo would try to contact him.

           But first, Echo couldn’t leave his brothers like this. Left rotting in some forgotten clearing on some forgotten forest moon in a forgotten sector of the galaxy.  It felt . . . wrong to leave them like this.  Echo knew there was a shovel among their gear on board the Havoc Marauder.  It would be difficult, but he could bury them.  Give them each a proper send-off.

           It was a good plan.  Echo knew that the others wouldn’t understand.  They’d be angry with him, probably try to make him change his mind.  Maybe even tell him that these “regs” weren’t worth the effort it would take Echo to bury each of them.  Especially since he only had one hand.  Handling a shovel would be difficult, but he would do it. For his brothers.  Regardless of what the squad said or complained about.

           With a final, murmured Remembrance, Echo stood and made his way back to the ship.  Tech probably kept the shovel in the cargo hold with the rest of the gear they didn’t use as frequently.  Most likely with the other survival gear he’d dubbed “unnecessary until necessary”. Echo knew that feeling very well.

           As cluttered as the cargo hold was, it actually didn’t take Echo very long to find the shovel, and soon, he walked back down the ramp to go find the best place for a mass burial site.

           “What are you doing?” Tech asked, and Echo stopped in his tracks.  “Why do you have our shovel?  Is there some kind of specimen that would be beneficial to take with us?”

           Echo’s grip on the shovel constricted and he very carefully didn’t look at the others.  “Just a little bit of maintenance and storage,” he answered, voice tight with anger. “Don’t worry about it.”

           “Is there something wrong with the ship?” Hunter asked.

           “No, there’s nothing wrong with the ship,” Echo answered, a bit shorter than he’d intended.  “Relax. I have everything under control.”

           “Oh, great,” Crosshair drawled, and Echo had to fight to keep his shoulders from climbing to his ears.  He’d forgotten how caustic the sniper could be.  “We’re taking orders from the reg now.”

           “What’re you talkin’ about?” Wrecker boomed.  “Hunter’s still our Sarge!”

           Echo decided it would be better just to walk away. Until a soft, sweet voice halted him in his tracks.

           “Echo, are you going to be digging holes for the stormtroopers?”

           “Don’t be ridiculous, Omega.  That would be illogical.  Echo wouldn’t spend time burying a bunch of stormtroopers, especially as he doesn’t have two hands and can’t hold the shovel properly,” Tech scoffed.

           More machine than man, Echo sighed heavily. He turned around and faced the Bad Batch for the first time since they’d managed to take down Crosshair without killing him.  They would see the red, sore eyes and the tear tracks down his grimy cheeks.  They’d see Wooley’s tags, standing out against the dark paint of his armor.  As much as he should be worrying about showing them that vulnerability, Echo had reached his breaking point.

           “Yes, Tech, I am going to bury them.  It’s the right thing to do,” he said slowly and evenly, desperately trying not to lose his temper.

           Tech heaved an annoyed sigh, like Echo had been placed on this team specifically to bother him.  “Again, that is illogical, Echo.  The Empire will send someone out to dispose of the corpses, or the wildlife will eat them before anyone else arrives.  We will need to move shortly to avoid detection, especially since they’ll know we have Crosshair once they see this failure.”

           Failure?  Echo swung the shovel off of his shoulder and dropped it to the ground.  “Is that what you see?  A bunch of failures that we merely disposed of?” he growled softly.

           Wrecker gulped and muttered a not-so-quiet “uh-oh” while Hunter’s eyebrows raised in surprise.  Omega looked like she wanted to hug someone, maybe somehow prevent this fight, and for a moment, Echo regretted starting anything.  She was the bright star left in his life, but he was fighting for all the other bright stars that he’d murdered.  He needed to say this.

           Crosshair didn’t actually say anything, and Echo couldn’t help but be relieved at that.  He only had to deal with Tech.

           “Well—yes,” Tech fumbled, clearly confused as to why Echo was clarifying anything.

           “You know what I see?” Echo asked.  He didn’t wait for an answer.  “I see my brothers that we killed to save yours.  I see my brothers that I swore to never harm again, murdered by my hand.  I see men who had as much choice in their actions as Wrecker or Crosshair, killed simply because they were in our way while we saved Crosshair.”

           “We didn’t have a way to save them all,” Tech argued back. “Besides, they’re just regs. Crosshair is a modified clone who would be more dangerous in the hands of the Empire than any other average clone. It was logical to rescue him above the others.”

           “Tech—” Hunter tried.

           But Echo snapped.

           He pulled Wooley’s tags from around his neck and held them out, a vicious snarl on his face.  “Do you know who these tags belong to?  Of course, you don’t.  These tags belonged to my little brother.  Wooley from the 212th.  I watched him grow up from when he was a just a little shiny, rescued from the Separatists who had been planning on selling him to the Trandoshans to be hunted down for sport.  I watched him learn how to fight from Commander Cody himself until he could hold his own for several minutes.  Wooley had a stupidly adorable, fluffy mohawk and the best tooka eyes in the GAR that he used liberally on General Kenobi to get him to go to medical.  He loves music and stories and the stars.  And I killed him.  I shot my little brother, my vod’ika, so you could save yours.

           “I’ve killed hundreds of my brothers, men that I served proudly beside for two years, to save your brother.  I swore to never harm another brother, and I broke that promise for you, just so you could save Crosshair.  And now, you want me to just leave them here to rot?  For the Empire to find?”  Echo shook his head with a sharp, bitter laugh.  “No, I’m done.  I refuse to turn my back on my brothers and if you can save yours, then I can save mine. Get Crosshair and Omega out of here and lie low so the Empire doesn’t find you, but leave me here.  I’m saving my brothers, this time.”

           He leaned down and picked up his shovel.  Really, he had no idea how he was going to dig fifty graves with only one hand, but he had to do it.  He had to try.

           “Echo,” Omega whimpered and he couldn’t help but drop to his knee and hold his arm out towards her.  She immediately rushed into his hug and Echo held her close for a moment, dropping his shovel back to the ground.  “Don’t go, please?”

           “Omega, I don’t want to leave you,” he said softly.  “But my purpose is elsewhere in the galaxy. Hunter and the others will keep you safe, but right now, I have a duty to save my brothers and I intend to do it. I can’t do my duty if I stay with the Bad Batch.”

           “What if we came with you?” Omega sniffled.

           Echo locked eyes with Hunter, and then Tech and Wrecker. Crosshair didn’t even bother looking up. “These guys are your family, Omega, and they need to do what’s best for you.  You shouldn’t have to experience war, and that’s exactly where I’m going. I’m a soldier and a weapon that any rebellion against the Empire could desperately use.  That’s what I was made for.”

           “You’re not—” Hunter started, and Echo could see the desperation and uncertainty in the Sergeant’s eyes.  “You’re not just a soldier or a weapon anymore, Echo.  You have a place with us.”

           “I’m a droid,” Echo said.  He gently nudged Omega back and pressed his forehead against hers for a second before giving her a little push towards the rest of the Bad Batch. He stood up and looked at the other clones, so unsure of what to do in this kind of situation.  “I was turned into the ultimate weapon against my brothers, and Tech said it himself.  I’m more machine than man now.  All I’m good for is doing menial repairs on the ship and being sold for credits.  I was “just a reg” before I became a prisoner of war, and you wouldn’t have even given me a second look if I wasn’t torn apart and put back together again.  I’m just a replacement that can be used when one of you isn’t able to fulfill your duties. A stand-in.

           Echo took a deep breath.  “I need to fight against this Empire the best way I can, and I need to save my brothers. That is my mission now.  I will fulfill my duty.”

           “But you can’t go,” Omega said, and there were tears glistening in her eyes.  “Echo, you’re a part of my family and I just got you.”

           “Omega, you’re a part of my family, too.  But you know that we’d do anything to save our family and I have a whole galaxy filled with my brothers who all need to be saved.”  Echo reached into one of the pockets on his belt and pulled out the secondary secure communicator he had built just in case.  “I’ll always be there for you, Omega.  I’m only one call away, and if you or the rest of the Batch get into trouble, I’ll come and help.  But I need to do this.”

           She took the comm in trembling hands, then with a sob, threw her arms around Echo’s legs and shook.  “I’ll miss you so much, Echo.”

           “I’ll miss you, too, Omega.  But don’t worry, I’ll keep in touch as much as I’m able to.  And we’ll see each other again.  I know it.”

           Echo let Omega hug him for as long as she needed as he ran his fingers through her hair soothingly.  He would miss her a lot.  In fact, she reminded him a lot of Ahsoka when she was a youngling at the beginning of the war.  Naïve and just wanting to prove her own worthiness.  Eventually she stepped back, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand.

           “I understand why you need to go,” Omega said with a watery voice.  “I’ll call you every day, okay?”

           He chuckled.  “Maybe not every day, but as often as we can both manage.  I promise.”

           Hunter stepped forward and put his hand on Omega’s shoulder. “Echo��“ he began, but Echo held up his hand.

           “It’s alright, Sarge.  Just—take care of her and each other.  And if you’re ever stuck in a situation, give me a call and I’ll come help.”

           “Are you sure we can’t convince you to come with us? There’s plenty of room for you.”

           Echo shook his head.  “You saved your brother.  It’s time I saved mine.  And you need to do what’s best for Omega.  Taking her into war zones would be a terrible idea.”

           Hunter stared at Echo for a long time, likely trying to figure out if there was any way he could convince him to stay, but Echo held firm. He didn’t belong with the Batch. Never really had.  They were good for a temporary posting, just to help readjust since Rex was busy with the war and dealing with the loss of so many brothers before everything went to hell.  Echo was ready to get back into the thick of the fighting.

           “Wrecker, go grab Echo’s gear and whatever rations and medical supplies we can spare,” Hunter ordered.  He turned back towards the rest of the Batch.  “Tech, get Crosshair on board and start up the engines. We need to get going as soon as possible in case the Empire returns.  Omega?  You should probably go get strapped in for takeoff.”

           The Batch scrambled to obey, though Echo noticed both Wrecker and Tech giving him uncertain looks.  Little brothers were always the same.  They always wanted to make sure they were doing the right thing and looked to their ori’vode for advice and help.  Hunter had filled that role for so long, but Echo had carved out a tiny space for himself, too.  As much as Echo wanted to help them, he had his duty.  And he could only really help them if they actually listened to his advice. But it didn’t hurt to leave them with a few last suggestions.

           “Hunter, don’t trust Cid.  They’re only looking out for themself and will likely betray you if it’s profitable enough.  Find someone you can really trust and have them teach you how the galaxy works so no one else can take advantage of you.  And take care of yourself and the others.  Especially Omega.”

           Hunter nodded and saluted Echo.  Echo gave a weak grin and returned the gesture before he picked up his shovel once again.  He had work to do.

           It didn’t take long for the Havoc Marauder to take off, and he watched the ship silently until he could no longer see them before turning back to the field of white, broken bodies.  His hand slipped into his belt pouch and removed the secure transmitter Rex had given him before they’d parted ways.  Without hesitation, Echo flicked it on and called the only saved frequency.

           “Rex?  Yeah, I’m gonna need a pickup.  Got room for one more in your little rebellion?”

             (Hours later, and after Echo had finally finished burying the last body, Rex’s ship touched down in the clearing.  The door slid open and five notes were whistled out of the opening.  It was a call Domino squad had come up with while on Rishi and one that he and Fives had continued to use in the 501st.  The only person left that would know that tune was Rex.  Echo grinned and returned the whistle.  Seconds later, a shape that was definitely not Rex barreled out of the ship and into Echo’s arms.  Ahsoka was taller than he remembered, and a lot more weary and sad.  But she was alive, and that’s what mattered most.

           Echo looked over her montrals and grinned at Rex, who leaned against the ship and just watched him reunite with his long-missed jetii’ka vod’ika.  The Empire may have taken everything good out of the galaxy, but a few small pockets persisted.  They had hope and they were willing to fight for it.

           “Let’s go save our brothers,” he said, arm wrapped around Ahsoka’s shoulders as they walked back to Rex.  Echo only paused once to look back at Wooley’s grave.  He would not be forgotten, and Echo would make sure that for every life he took, he’d save two more.  It’s what he owed them.  It’s what his brothers deserved.

           Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la.  Not gone, merely marching far away.)

[ahecktonoffandomsinoneblog]

Again and Again and Again

summary/warnings ao3 link

Kaz looked at all of them in turn. “You know what to do. We have five hours to make this count.”

“No mourners,” she said.

“No funerals.”

She crept through the window and into the night. The world would be waiting for her when day dawned, and she needed to move fast. She would return to her ship and her crew and the sea.

She pulled herself over the eave of a decrepit rooftop, scraping her hand slightly on the stone. She wished Nina were here. Inej knew she was busy in Fjerda - though she didn’t know with what - but she wished nonetheless. She’d have to visit soon.

Yet another thing waiting in the morning.

She picked her way across the rooftops, warmth spreading through her when she found them familiar. She had been worried too much had changed, that it had been too long, but she shouldn’t have bothered. For better or worse, Ketterdam was home - a home, anyway - and forgetting it wouldn’t be so easy.

She glanced to where she knew the West Stave was, and the warmth vanished.

No. Forgetting this city wouldn’t be so easy.

She picked up speed, picking her way across the rooftops as fast as she dared. She might remember the cracks and crevices of this city, but tempting death wasn’t in the plan. And Saints knew she needed to stick to the plan. If anyone of them got distracted, or something went wrong… well, she hoped Kaz had more than a few back-up plans.

She slowed to a stop as she reached the building she needed. The walls were tilted at a steep angle, the bricks crumbling and faded. There was no roof, and the rotted stairs creaked as she climbed down them.

She sent a quick prayer of thanks when she reached the bottom, then walked to where the kitchen had been. Like the walls of the house, the cabinets were broken and crumbling, the metal tables dented, some inches from being cleaved in two. She ignored them. She wasn’t here for the shattered wealth.

She pushed at one of the cabinets, the wood giving way with a creak. Behind the wood was a small door, illuminated softly from within. It creaked as she opened it, and she stopped still to make sure no one had heard. This entire area was set for demolition - space was not left unused in Ketterdam, not if it could make some rich fool richer - and had been abandoned long before, but she couldn’t take any chances.

She ducked through the door and stayed low, trying not to hit her head on the ceiling as she hurried through the tunnel.

The cramped tunnel ended abruptly, and she stopped short so she wouldn’t hit her head on the trapdoor. She had no idea where Kaz had found out about this place so quickly. She added it to her mental list of things to ask him after they were finished as she pushed open the trapdoor and slipped out.

The room she was standing in was dark, cramped, and smelled like rotted wood. The floor looked like it would creak as she stepped on it, so she picked her way across it carefully until she reached the window, where she pulled herself onto the windowsill and sat.

This was the part of the plan Kaz hadn’t been able to calculate. The person they were after was almost as secretive as the Council of Tides; even she hadn’t been able to discover much about their habits. The plan worked with everything she had been able to discover - basic sleeping patterns based off of when the house was empty and, of course, the location of the house itself. Everything else was up to guesswork. She hoped the person would return soon.

As she waited, she listened to chaos outside and nearly laughed. Ketterdam had  a way of reflecting the plans of its inhabitants; the Council of Tides had dredged something up on Kaz, so he had figured out a way to get them off his back. Funny how easily everything changed. One second the world was one way, the next another.

She wondered how Jesper and Wylan were doing; they were supposed to be building new ways to distract the Council of Tides so Kaz could make his move once he had gotten into one of their watchtowers.

She chewed on her lip and thought of all the ways the plan could go wrong, then pushed them aside. Focusing on futures that may or may not come to pass was useless.

A door creaked, and Inej stilled, willing herself to be hidden in the shadows as the person she had been looking for walked in. They were cloaked, their hood pulled up, but she couldn’t see the telltale sign of weapons hidden underneath.

That didn’t mean they didn’t have any.

She stepped down from the window once their back was turned, creeping along the floors until she was right behind them. She didn’t move.

They turned around and nearly jumped out of their skin. “What- who- who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to ask you a few questions,” she said. “I recommend you answer them.”

They took a deep breath, trying to slow their breathing. “Fine. Let me just-” they walked to the cluttered counter and began organizing the items into piles.

“Who are you?”

They set the small tin they were holding back on the counter with a clatter. “You came all this way and you don’t even know who I am?”

“You’re a hard person to get information on. Who are you?”

“Axel van Ei.”

“Alright, Axel. Where are the witness records of the last time the Council of Tides appeared in public? And don’t say nonexistent.”

Axel slammed a cabinet shut. “I am no fool. Don’t sneak into my home, threaten me, then assume I have no self-preservation.” they pushed around more objects before adding, “I am the records.”

She nodded. Kaz had figured as much - when she saw him next, she’d have to ask how he had managed to figure all this out. “Could you tell me what happened?”

They huffed a laugh and set an assortment of cloths in a cupboard. “Do I have a choice?” She watched as they pushed around more clutter. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but you had better leave me alone after.”

She put her hand out to shake on it. “The deal is the deal.”

“The deal is the deal.”

----

Inej’s mind was reeling. What Axel had said hadn’t been surprising, but there had been a lot to it, and she was struggling to remember it all as she raced across the rooftops, trying to make up for lost time. Whatever Kaz’s plan was, he needed this next piece for it to work, and he needed it fast.

She swung herself through the window of the Slat and slid down the railings in a crouch until she arrived at his office. She knocked gently - a habit, though Kaz had said there was no need - and entered when there was no answer.

She swore as the door opened; he was already gone. She had taken too long, and now- and now she’d have to climb the watchtower to get the information he needed before his meeting with the Council of Tides.

She darted into his office and sifted through the papers on his desk, trying desperately to find anything that might tell her the location of his meeting with the Tides. Kaz hadn’t been sure which tower they would ask to meet him in; he had prepared for the timing of this, but if he hadn’t been warned before leaving which tower he needed to go to, he wouldn’t have had time to warn her. Which meant she’d have to climb three watchtowers in - she glanced up at a clock - half an hour.

Saints.

She still hadn’t found anything, and she was beginning to doubt she would when the door creaked. Her hands jumped to her knives. “Wraith. Brekker left a note.”

She turned and silently took the paper from the figure in the doorway, waiting until they walked away before opening it. The figure hadn’t been familiar, and she wondered if they had been one of the new people Kaz had hired. Anyone who knew her wouldn’t have been waiting by the door.

She wafted the smell of the paper up to her nose before reading it to make sure she wouldn’t be taking an unplanned nap, then clipped the note into her belt and headed for the window. At least she knew which watchtower to climb.

She made her way through the city, watching the damp streets below as she did. Now was not the time to be caught unaware by some rival gang member; she needed to get to the other side of the city without hindrance.

She made a mental note to remind Kaz that there was a fine line between efficiently secretive and too secretive. Why hadn’t he told that messenger she wouldn’t come in through the front door? She was sure he had his reasons, but maybe it had been too long since they had seen each other. Yet another thing to ask him.

Before she knew it she was staring up at the slick walls of the watchtower. She would have thought them impossible to climb, had she been facing this task a few years earlier. But the Inej Ghafa facing this wall today was not the same Inej Ghafa who would have faced it before. She was Inej Ghafa, and she had faced fire and water and the demons of the land, and there was no wall that could keep her out, no wall that could keep her in. Not anymore.

She climbed.

As it turns out, the watchtowers of the Council of Tides were soaked through with water. She had to admit that it was a good strategy. Going without water for their abilities was leaving themselves vulnerable, and if there was one place fit to be constantly soaked, it was Ketterdam. That didn’t mean she had to like it; anyone who thought themselves powerful enough to enjoy their enemies’ strength was a fool.

She made it up with only a few near-slips and sat on a ledge for a minute, breathing through her nose as she looked first at the streets below, then through the window she was sitting next to. When no one shouted at the woman sitting on the watchtower, or cried out that they had seen her climbing, she relaxed and wondered why it had been so easy to climb the tower.

When everyone knows you’re a monster, you needn’t waste time doing every monstrous thing.

Maybe the same concept applied here; the Tides were painted as so powerful and untouchable, it was possible their security had relaxed in the comfort power had afforded, like what had happened with Rollins. It was also possibly a trap, but she didn’t have time to do more than brace herself as she crawled through the window.

She didn’t see Kaz among the tables at the far end of the room, or near the cupboards stacked against another wall, or next to the several bookcases lining the other. She took a deep breath through her nose and told herself to think; was Kaz in a different watchtower, or was he simply not at the top yet?

She didn’t need to think for long. She heard the voices, and she knew she hadn’t timed this quite right. Kaz would take longer to climb the steps than she would have - and they had likely searched him beforehand too.

She glanced around again, weighing her options, trying to figure out the best hiding spot. She had a few minutes left, at most, and if she picked wrong the rest of the plan would never come into play.

Kaz entered the room, flanked by a single member of the Tides, faces masked and capes billowing. They led Kaz to a seat and left after a moment of them staring at each other. He hadn’t sat, which wasn’t surprising, but she wasn’t sure why the Tide had left. She crept out of her hiding spot, noting Kaz’s lack of cane - though his gloves were still firmly in place - and froze when she heard someone else on the stairs.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither daring to move, and relaxed their shoulders when the footsteps faded.

“Do you have the documents?”

“The person we were after was the witness.”

Kaz nodded like he had expected that, but she saw his shoulders tensing up again before he smoothed his expression over. “Do it, then. Start with which part you see as the most relevant.”

She didn’t have time to think about what that meant. “The Tides were less careful then. They came and left from the same place - just outside city borders, near the University District. All of them, together.”

His eyebrows raised. “The Sealess Chapel.” she nodded, though it hadn’t been a question. He’d been looking into it for days; the only missing piece had been confirmation.

The easiest way to steal a man’s wallet is to tell him you’re going to steal his watch. Who would think the Council of Tides stayed in a place named for its distance from the sea?

“You know what to do now.”

She did.

She climbed back out the window and onto the ledge. Below her, she saw a head of red hair and a head of dark hair walking down the street, one clutching a large, lumpy bag and the other holding a white blob she was certain was a goat. She sighed in relief. It looked like they were all on track.

She didn’t leave the windowsill, just sat and listened as Kaz talked with the Tides. She had no idea what they had on him, and he didn’t give them a chance to say. He had never much liked formalities, and it seemed he was beyond pretending now.

She felt the Tides go silent, whatever imperious presence they had carried diminished by a few words from Kaz’s mouth. She heard Kaz offer a deal, heard the pause while they shook on it.

“The deal is the deal,” said Kaz.

The tidemaker he had shook hands with replied. “The deal is the deal.”

The clock struck one, and the sky around her exploded. Wylan had launched his fireworks, and from the bleating and shrieking reaching her ears even at the top of the tower, she knew Jesper had let Milo - an old goat friend of Jesper’s - loose on the streets.

The tidemakers’ confused chatter reached her ears, and she heard when they descended the stairs to see what the noise was. They hadn’t built any windows facing the streets on the upper floors, something Kaz had noticed - and planned on. They would have to descend to the fourth story to see what was happening, so she slipped in as they did.

They had left Kaz alone in the tower room, and she wondered how they had held onto such power for so long. It didn’t matter, though; the plan had worked. She’d have to write to Nina and bring over some waffles the next time she visited. Maybe she’d even drag Kaz along with her.

“Kaz?”

“They agreed.” he turned to her. “They’ll drop what they have, and give up on that favor they thought we owed them.”

“Glad to hear it.” A boom sounded from outside, and she and Kaz glanced at the window. “Do you think they’re alright?”

Kaz grabbed her hands, and she realized he had taken his gloves off. He wasn’t flinching, either, and she could tell he was barely nauseous, if at all. “Inej, I wanted to ask-”

Another boom, this time of steps as the Tides climbed the stairs again. “You’ll have to ask later. They’re coming.” She glanced out the window. “Do you think you can make the climb?”

His hands tightened slightly around hers. “My darling, Inej-”

Another boom, and the door was open and her lungs were full of water, and she was flying - no, falling, definitely falling - out the window. She felt the slap and sting of the water and wondered what the Tides had done to protect her from the drop. She should have died.

She clambered out of the canal, coughing, and sat on the stone street for a moment before she heard a crack, like something had fallen far and landed hard.

Saints. Oh, saints, please- Kaz had never believed in the Saints anyway, and it seemed they did not believe in him.

It was Kaz.

He had fallen head over heels after her, over and over until his body had collided with a flower cart that had been drifting down the canal. It was in shambles now, flowers scattered in the ripples emanating from the crash, more falling as Kaz lay still in the center of the carnage.

She heard screams from behind her as blood leaked into the water, and she ran. She scrambled to the other side of the canal, jumping from boat to boat, ignoring the shocked noises of their occupants.

Kaz’s body was all angles, limbs bent sharply in directions they should not be. His magician’s fingers were the same way. All those incredible tricks he had learned… he would not be doing them again.. She leaned over him, searching for something - anything - to show he was still with her.

There was nothing. He was gone, and whatever secrets he had hidden had died with him.

She felt something wet on her leg, and she looked down to find a flower clinging to her.

She picked Kaz up, grunting at the weight. She climbed out of the canal and the sinking flower cart, trying to keep herself from falling.

Jesper and Wylan were waiting on the streets, both of their faces drawn tight. Jesper took Kaz’s body from her, and she knelt on the street, gasping out breaths, glaring at the watchtower.

“Inej, what happened? Are you hurt?”

Another boom. Twelve figures stood in front of her, and she stood. She would not kneel before them.

“Brekker needed to die, girl. We don’t make deals with criminal filth.”

We learn to hold our heads as if we wear crowns.

“I am not a girl. And no one should have the authority to decide who needs to die and who needs to live.” She knew she sounded like a hypocrite, and she didn’t care. “You made a deal.”

One of them laughed. “He made a deal with one of us, and one of us only. That one Tide did not lay a finger on him, and we will not lay a finger on you.”

“Why wouldn’t you-” the world stopped, started, stopped again. She breathed, once in, once out. Again and again and again.

“That was the part of the deal, and I kept my word,” said another Tide. Heat pooled in every pore of her body; this was the Tide who had made the deal. “He was not as his reputation said. We followed the terms of the deal exactly; it’s not our fault he didn’t lay them as he should have.”

Her fists clenched, water dripping from them onto the streets. Saints, Kaz. Why didn’t you think things through? If you had just thought things through… Why hadn’t he thought things through?

She thought of Kaz in the tower, holding her hands in his and staring into her soul, and wondered if he had been busy thinking of something else. Wondered what he’d been about to ask.

The world around her faded to grey. Whatever he’d been about to ask… it was gone. She took a breath. In and out, again and again and again.

The world rushed back in, loud and unwelcome. Jesper was on her right, Wylan to her left, the three of them facing the Council of Tides in front of them.

She wasn’t sure if anyone had spoken, if she would end up interrupting something, and she didn’t care. “You have heard of me, I think.”

Another Tide turned to her. “The Wraith of Ketterdam. We have heard of you. Scum of the Barrel, like Brekker.”

She shook her head, unclenched her fists; clenched them again. “No. I am Captain Ghafa of the sea. I have seen firsthand the darkest pits of people, of monsters wearing human faces. There are many kinds, but they all want one thing. More of what is not theirs to take. You have not heard of me, but you will. The deal is the deal. You have made your decision, and now I make mine.”

She turned and left, Jesper - still carrying Kaz’s body - and Wylan following behind. Her anger trickled out. This city had seen the last of Kaz Brekker, but the monsters living here would not see the last of her, not until their dying day. It was a promise she had made before, that she would come back for the monsters of Ketterdam, and she would make it again and again and again until they were gone.

“Inej,” said Jesper. “Inej.”

She would not break. “Yes?”

His eyes glanced to the side as he swallowed, and she saw what he was looking at. A body boat, nearly identical to the one Nina had snuck out on. This one was half full of bodies already. She glanced back at Kaz’s broken body, still in Jesper’s arms, and felt her breathing speed up.

She couldn’t do this. There was no way she could do this.

She remembered a year ago, when she had been in the city for business. She had tracked down a Kerch “lawyer” who wrote indentures, who profited off of slavery as much as people like Heleen, and she had returned to the city to take him out. She had stopped by the Slat to see how Kaz was getting along; he had stepped into his office, and she had followed.

There had been a long moment of silence, then Kaz had started speaking. He’d explained it all to her - the plague, the boat, the water. Everything she hadn’t known about his past, he had told her. And she had listened. Kaz Reitveld had died on the Reaper’s Barge, and Kaz Brekker had been born in the harbors of Ketterdam.

How could she send him back to the place that had been a cause of his suffering?

Jesper and Wylan hadn’t pushed her, not yet, and she stared out at the waves - to where the Reaper’s Barge would be. Slowly, she nodded, and Jesper set Kaz’s body in the boat like he was made of feathers. She knelt beside the boat and arranged his arms gently, thinking of the last time she’d watched as a body was placed in a death boat. Kaz had insisted they didn’t bother arranging the arms, but she wasn’t one of the bodymen. For Kaz, she would bother.

She stood, and two men came around the corner, wearing long dark pants fit for a funeral, though there never were any. They ignored the three of them, stepping onto the boat, easy grins and loud laughs failing to push away the death clinging to the boat and to its occupants.

They pushed off, and Kaz was floating down the canal, and the men were still laughing, still talking, still living, and so was she. So were Jesper, and Wylan, and Nina, and the whole rest of this buckethole of a city. They were alive, and Kaz was not.

She wondered if Kaz would find any familiar faces in the afterlife. She hoped so.

The flower that had been clinging to her leg let go, slowly, and fell into the water. It followed the current after the bodyboat, before its wake brushed it aside and made it find its own path.

“No mourners,” said Wylan.

The boat faded to a speck on the dark canal. It turned a corner and was gone.

“No funerals,” murmured Jesper.

No mourners, no funerals. The world was waiting with the dawn, and it would not wait long.

@niathesanctuary-bolastair-kanej @thatrandomfangirlll @aminolee @mournersandfunerals

i hope this is as sad as everyone expects it to be