#cw wartime

[redd956]

Mini Whump Prompt 120

"It... hurts..."

The human crew stared at the military weapon in disbelief. Surely, this was an act. They wanted it to be one, especially as the seconds passed and the supossed weapon began to writhe.

[historyandarthijinks]

Something about the level of coverage of the russo-ukrainian war here, matched with the nothing about the horrific progression of the Armenian genocide makes me ill actually

That's how I know this is a primaryly USAmerican website

[dezertvideogames]

10 Games that take war seriously

Battlefield 1

Spec Ops: The Line

Six Days in Fallujah

Enlisted

Battlefield V

Metro 2033

Ready or Not

Hell Let Loose

Command Ops 2

War in the East

[biibopping]

its poetry in motion!

[tybenadryl]

currently unnamed touhou oc inspired by the jubokko youkai - also trying a new brush

[willsdreamgirl]

“morning mr. shelby.” — tommy shelby x reader ⋆｡˚

tommy shelby x fem!reader

you meet tommy as a nurse during the war, but happens when he realizes that he’s known you all along? (loosely based around some s1 plot points, but all set before the war)

18+ minors dni please! angst, fluff and smut

cw: mentions of war, shooting, stabbing, suturing, ptsd, friends to lovers, eventual smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!!), slight breeding kink

word count: 5.4k+ (sorry lmao)

a/n: ahh first fic alert!! i’m so excited for you guys to read this! don’t be a ghost reader and lmk if you want to be added to my tag list for future tommy/cillian stuff!! 💌

you met tommy shelby during the war. he was a soldier, you were a wartime nurse. before the war, you had obviously heard of him. tommy shelby, leader of the fucking peaky blinders. arrogant bastards.

you lived in small heath, and everyday you’d pass him on the street. and everyday, you’d smile and say, “morning, mr. shelby.” and everyday, he would barely look up at you. you were sure he wasn’t even aware of your existence. prick.

your parents had always told you to stay away from the shelby boys. your dad would say that “they’re dangerous and make whores out of innocent girls” and your mum would make some comment about “the shelby men and their stupid cocks and their stupid judgements”.

they were the most intimidating people in all of small heath, possibly in all of birmingham. truth be told, there was a certain charm to them that you couldn’t shake off. well, to one of them. tommy shelby. you couldn’t tell if it was because he was your age, or because he was powerful and strong, or simply because he was strictly off limits. or because of his piercing blue eyes.

everyone in small heath knew tommy. but you knew tommy. he didn’t know you, though. you could tell if was him by the way he exhaled or by the sound of his footsteps or by the way he held a cigarette in his hand, the peaked cap on his head, a hand in his coat pocket. you despised tommy shelby, but god, was he fucking irresistible.

when men were drafted for the war in france, it was common sense that they’d need someone to tend to their cuts and bruises. you’d decided to volunteer, and after a couple weeks of training, you were right there, in the field. practicing on dolls and bags of rice and flour was nothing compared to what you saw. what you heard.

your first day in france was… eventful, to say the least. some commander had led you to the medical tent, and you were welcomed by the screams of hurt soldiers, blood and panic. you were immediately assigned to a patient, who’d been shot in the chest. you tried your best, did everything you could have, but ultimately, he had just lost too much blood. you didn’t sleep that night, haunted by the bloodshed, by the pleas of the soldier to keep him alive, by the feeling of someone else’s blood on your hands. over time, however, you grew accustomed to having your pristine white uniform soiled with blood and mud.

a month or so after you’d started, you heard shouts outside the tent. “help! someone HELP, for FUCK’s SAKE!” this was a regular occurrence, but the voice the shouts came from didn’t sound wounded. you felt an instinctual need to go see what it was.

what you saw, though, was something you never expected to see. tommy shelby, with a comrade’s head in his lap, putting pressure on a wound in his shoulder. without hesitating, you helped tommy drag the soldier to a vacant bed in the tent. “what happened?” you asked, hurriedly. tommy was visibly panicked. “i- he- um, he got st-stabbed by… one of the germans… his name’s danny- daniel.” you looked in tommy’s eyes, trying to give him some semblance of comfort. “he’ll be okay.” you applied pressure on the wound, and luckily, the blood stopped flowing soon. you cleaned the wound up and looked to tommy. “i’m gonna have to disinfect the wound with alcohol, you might want to hold daniel down for this.” daniel was still delirious from the blood loss, but the pain would be excruciating. tommy braced himself. his hands firmly holding down daniel’s. you nodded before tipping the bottle over on the wound. danny thrashed around on the bed, screaming and cursing, struggling against tommy’s hold. you heard his voice over danny’s. “you’re alright, lad! y’er gonna be fine!”

tommy sat by his friend’s bedside as he came to. you tended to other patients in the meantime but eventually went over to talk to him. “i want to keep him here for the night, mr. shelby. make sure there’s no infection.” he looked at you, surprised you knew him. “you know who i am?” “of course i do, all of small heath knows you. what i didn’t expect was to have a run-in with you, here in france.” he scoffed at his own misery and spoke. “you don’t belong here. you should be home.” you rolled your eyes, even in his state, he managed to be cocky. “if i wasn’t here today, mr. shelby, who would save danny?” that seemed to shut him up. he was about to speak, before you heard your name from the other side of the tent. “y/n, we need you!” after having helped a soldier who looked like he had been mauled, you looked out to see it was nightfall, and tommy had left.

a couple days later, at about noon, john shelby, the youngest of the shelby brothers walked in, clutching his arm tightly. “do you need help, mr. shelby?” you called out. “yes, i-i’ve been shot.” he all but whispered. you rushed over with a tray of distilled alcohol, forceps and bandages. after an afternoon of agony and pain, you had finally managed to pull out the bullet form his arm, john’s face a clear representation of his relief. “oh my god love, if we were home, i’d marry you right now.” you laughed at the proposition. “mr. shelby, i think you’re still a bit delirious from the anaesthesia. besides, i’m your brother’s age.” he looked shocked. “what, you’re arthur’s age? really?? you look nothing like that old prick.” you couldn’t help but laugh yet again. “i’m not that old, jesus. i’m tommy’s age.” he sighed. “marry him then. lord knows he needs a girl.” you giggled as you gathered your things and walked away. “you amuse me far too much, mr. shelby.”

it felt like ages had passed before you saw tommy again. your back was towards the tent entrance but you knew who had walked in. his breath trembled and his footsteps felt a bit unsteady, but it was undoubtedly him. you waited to turn until he called out your name. “y/n, is it?” you turned around, to find his face and shirt covered in blood. “mr. shelby! what happened?” you rushed over to him, taking his hand and sitting his down on a bed. “i- i… killed a man today, y/n.” he looked down, he couldn’t bring himself to look at you. you didn’t respond, simply got up and grabbed a stitching kit and a bowl of warm water. “is all this blood yours?” was your first question. “no. most of it is his.” you sighed and searched his face to find a cut on his cheekbone, the source of his own bleeding. “i’m wiping away the blood now, okay?” tommy gulped and nodded, his eyes still trained on the ground. “mr. shelby, i want you to look at me.” it was as if he didn’t hear you. you spoke again, softer yet more authoritative this time. “tommy. look at me.” he finally brought himself to look into your eyes. in his eyes, you saw guilt, regret and fear. in yours, he saw compassion, love and a warmth that could engulf all his pain. “good.” you whispered. you wrung out a washcloth and began wiping the blood away from his face, using your other hand to hold his chin in place. his arms found themselves wrapped around your waist, in an attempt to ground himself. you didn’t say anything, but your eyes told him that you didn’t mind. in that moment, you saw a different version of tommy shelby. you didn’t see ‘tommy, the criminal’, ‘tommy, the gangster’ or ‘tommy, the womanizer’. you saw tommy, a good man, an honest man. you felt his arms tighten around your waist as you pulled your hands away from his face, as if he was afraid you would dissipate into thin air. “tommy.” you whispered. “i’m gonna have to stich that wound up. it might hurt.” but he didn’t mind pain, not if you were the one inflicting it. “okay.” he spoke, his voice deep. he rubbed circles into your skin with his thumbs, the pain making him hum. “sorry, almost done.” you finished the last stitch. “there. you’re all fixed.” tommy held you like that, his hands around your waist, icy blue eyes staring into yours. your arms rested on his shoulders and you leaned down to whisper to him. “tommy. people are staring.” “so? let them.” eventually, he reluctantly pulled away from you. “it’s time for dinner, and then lights out.” he smiled as he spoke, and slowly exited the tent, catching a glimpse of you as he left.

needless to say, you only grew closer over the next few weeks. you were inseparable. whenever tommy had free time, he’d make his way to the familiar tent, and talk to you. it was wartime. you were left hurt and traumatized and so was he, but you both found solace in each other’s company. you told him how you knew him, and how you’d wish him good morning every day, only to receive complete silence from him each time. he chuckled and apologized. he told you about the peaky blinders, what they did, how they ran their business. you bonded over your shared hunger for knowledge and stories. you told him everything you knew about art, history and literature; and he told you stories of fighting gangs in the streets and stealing contraband. his stories were always more thrilling than yours. you’d try to set each other up with people for fun. you’d introduce him to every nurse, telling them how he was fighting for his country, and of course, they fell prey to his charming eyes and dashing smile. they’d ask what he did back home, and as soon as you said the words ‘gangster’, they’d run in the opposite direction. he’d done the same for you. introduced you to other soldiers, and when you spoke to them, about art and literature, they’d call you ‘unladylike’ or ‘too ambitious for a man’. you both secretly liked it this way, it was like you were his and he was yours.

when he became sergeant major, you both celebrated together. he’d brought you a bottle of whiskey, and you spent the night, talking and giggling drunkenly. but soon, he was assigned to be a sapper and dig tunnels. you both knew that the germans were going to dig their own tunnels, and at some unfortunate point, the tunnels would converge. both of you realized the danger it held, but he had to do it. you tried to talk him out of it, though. “tommy, please!” “y/n, calm down.” “goddamn it tommy, think! you’re gonna get yourself killed! what the fuck are you doing?” “i’ll be alright.” “no, you won’t! what if you get hurt? what if they shoot at you, huh? i won’t be there underground to make sure you’re okay!” “y/n, i have to serve my country. i have to do this.” “tommy. i’m begging you, don’t do this.” he simply sighed and kissed your forehead and held your face in his hands. you held tightly onto his wrists as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. “shhh, i’ll be alright. in fact, i’ll write you.” you seemed to calm down at the idea of him writing you. at least you’d be updated on his condition.

the morning he went down to the tunnels, he came to see you. you were sorting gauze and bandages when you felt his presence near you. you turned around and ran to hug him. he buried his face in your neck and breathed you in. you could feel tears brimming your eyes. neither of you knew why you felt like this. you were just friends, right? “tommy michael shelby, i swear to god if you die, i’ll kill you myself.” you heard him chuckle. he took a step back and caressed your cheek. “you take care, darling.” you wished he wouldn’t leave, but in your heart, you knew he had to. a few hours after, you found a letter tucked under a book on your desk. you curiously pulled it out and opened it.

dearest y/n,

i know how much you hate that i’m going to be a sapper now. i want you to know, no matter what happens down there, i care for you, and i love you, unconditionally. i’ve loved you since the day i first met you. i can’t believe i was looking for love in whores and prostitutes when the love of my fucking life was saying the sweetest good morning to me every morning. i’ll protect myself, and i want you to protect yourself too since i can’t do that for the time being. if we survive this wretched war, i want to take you home, ask your father for your hand and marry you, sweetheart. you take care of yourself, alright?

all my love,

tommy shelby.

you couldn’t help but gasp at what you read. he loved you. tommy shelby loved you. the same tommy shelby that was too arrogant to say a word to you, the same tommy shelby that your parents told you to stay away from, the same tommy shelby was head over heels for you. you immediately looked for a piece of paper, a pen and some ink. you wrote a letter back and sent it with one of the workers heading down to the tunnels. you didn’t know what it was like down there, but you hoped your letters would keep him sane. meanwhile, tommy received your letter and opened it with the same enthusiasm you showed his letter. however, he was also filled with nervous energy. he had confessed his love for you, which was so incredibly out of character for him, but with shaky hands, he proceeded to open the letter.

dearest tommy,

to say that your letter was shocking would be an understatement. i never knew you felt this way for me. like i’ve told you on several occasions, my parents always told me to stay away from ‘your kind’ and as a good catholic girl, i obeyed them. but tommy, in these few months, i’ve seen a side of you i can’t ever forget. i love you too tommy, the real you. the honest, raw, genuine tommy that i get to see on late nights and in random moments on busy days. i’d love to marry you, just make it out alive of that damn tunnel, you prick.

only yours,

y/n.

tommy felt his eyes welling up as he read the words you had penned on the paper. it had been so long since he’d seen you, or heard your voice. he wanted you. he needed you. to keep him stable and sane. as the days passed, your and tommy’s letter exchange became more and more frequent, and you felt like even if you were in this goddamned lawless land of blood and chaos, you had tommy. and he was all you needed.

that was, until the letters slowed down. you kept writing him, but to no avail. he hadn’t sent you a letter in days, or weeks, you weren’t sure anymore. you’d almost lost hope, and spent entire nights grieving him. trying to remember the sound of his voice, the feeling of his hands on your waist, the smell of his cologne. you hadn’t heard his breath or felt his footsteps in a long time. the pain was almost unbearable, and some days felt like decades. but the only thought that kept you going was that you saw tommy in all the wounded soldiers you treated. they were someone’s tommy. and they needed to get home alive.

4 months. 4 whole months since you heard from tommy. you were convinced he was dead now. you spent your days bandaging and stitching wounds, yet you could never fix the wound tommy left in your heart. it was one of the hottest afternoons, the french sun blazing unmercifully. you were insanely busy with patients today, the war was almost ending, and the soldiers needed to be fixed up before they could go home. yet, no sign of tommy. you sighed, cursing yourself for holding out hope now for someone who would not return.

“can i have a nurse here?” you could recognize that damn voice anywhere. the deep voice that filled your ears, smooth like honey, you’d recognize that voice at the end of the world. you turned around. tommy. “hi, love.” he smiled. but his smile quickly changed into a frown when he saw your sobs. you took him to a quieter corner of the tent. you stepped closer to him. he went to put his arms around you. you slapped him across the face. “where. the FUCK were you, thomas michael shelby?!” he was incredibly confused. “l- love, what?” “i thought YOU DIED, YOU BASTARD. where were you?” the time you spent apart had changed you, and from his response, you could tell it clearly changed him. “i was TRYING to fucking STAY ALIVE for YOU.” he raised his voice at you. he never raised his voice. neither of you spoke for a while and tension filled the air between the two of you. “i should leave.” he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. he left, and you let him.

after a few weeks, news broke that britain had won the war, and everyone went home. five years had passed since you last saw the familiar streets of small heath, and you were no longer a girl, but a woman. a woman who needed to get a job to survive in this city. you walked around and saw a flyer on the doors of the garrison. ‘BARMAID NEEDED.’ you walked in to find harry. he looked up pleasantly surprised. “y/n! haven’t seen you in a while, eh? what can i do you for?” “i’m here to get the barmaid job, harry.” he sighed.” y/n, this job isn’t suitable for a girl like you. these men, they’ve just come back from war, they haven’t seen a girl, let alone a pretty one like yourself, in ages. they’ll have you up against a wall within the first hour of your shift.” you looked at him desperately. “harry, please. i need this job, otherwise i’ll be out on the streets, which are surely worse than this pub. i was a nurse in france, i’ve dealt with these men. please?” he sighed again before nodding. “alright then, you start tomorrow.”

your first shift consisted of the usual alcoholics, men with ptsd, everything that was to be expected after a war. you hear the bells at the door ring as the familiar footsteps walk closer to the bar. without turning around, you ask, “what do you want?” he replies, “whiskey, scotc- y/n?” you finally turn around at the sound of your name falling from his lips. “yes, mr. shelby. so, scotch? on the house right?” he leans over so that just the two of you can hear. “don’t mr. shelby me. come on, love, talk to me.” “i have nothing to talk to you about.” as you poured him a glass of whiskey, he held your wrist assertively. “y/n. come.” you rolled your eyes and went to the shelby’s private booth. “what is it that you want, tommy?” “what the fuck do you mean ‘what do i want’? you, i want YOU. i need you. did ya lose your fucking mind in france like danny whiz-bang?” you felt your bottom lip trembling and your throat choking up. “i… i thought y- you were fucking dead. i mourned you. for MONTHS. i grieved over the death of the love of my life. of my future husband. of my future children that i’d have with him. and then, just as i’m making my peace with it, YOU have the fucking audacity to show up? you have some bloody nerve, tommy shelby.” the look in his eyes softened as he took a step closer to you. “no. don’t you dare come any closer to me, tommy, i’ll kill you.” you said, holding up the bottle of whiskey as a weapon. he embraced you, holding you tightly, his fingers stroking your hair. you resisted the hug and tried to push him away, only to find his grip on you getting tighter. “g- get away… from me, p- please… i- just” your voice came out muffled between sobs. tommy felt hot tears rolling down his own cheeks. “shhh, sweetheart. i’m okay, eh? i’m fine. i’m here, with you.” you dropped the bottle you were holding and it shattered into a million pieces on the ground. you stood there in his arms, crying for what felt like an eternity. you finally pulled away from him, and he wiped your tears with his thumbs. you laughed, but then lightly slapped his arm. “you scare me like that again, tommy, i swear i’ll kill ya.” “i’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.” he kissed your forehead, and you rested your forehead against his. he tentatively closed the gap between your lips and his, and you pulled him by the collar and kissed him with enough force to make him trip and fall. he managed to stay steady and kissed you back with equal fervour. he spoke between kisses. “i *kiss* spent *kiss* every *kiss* second *kiss* thinking *kiss* of you.” you giggled. “i missed you too, tommy.”

he told harry that you’d be leaving the bar early that day, and dragged you out the bar while holding your hand, a smile on his face for the first time in a long time. “the great thomas shelby isn’t embarrassed to have a barmaid as his girlfriend?” you giggled. “never. and those who think i should be embarrassed can suck me cock.” he spoke proudly. he opened the car door for you, and you sat inside and waited for him to turn the ignition on. “where are we going, tommy?” “i want you to meet my family, love.” during the countless hours you spent together chatting, he told you about his family’s idiosyncrasies and stories about them. how arthur needed to be protected the most during fights because he was just as likely to hurt himself as he was to hurt someone else, how aunty pol’s instincts about love were never wrong, how john once fell in love with a prostitute and everyone laughed at him, how ada was the most rebellious and married a communist (who happened to be in of his best mates), and how finn always pretended to act like tommy, doing whatever his big brother did. you were excited to meet them of course, but anxious. they would be your family one day too.

he held your hand as he brought you in, everyone sitting around a table waiting for him. “does everyone just sit together like this?” you asked. “uh, no i called a family meeting for 3 pm.” tommy replied simply. “how did you know you’d be able to have me here by 3?” he winked at you. “i have my ways. and i know how much you love me.” he spoke in a singsong voice. you rolled your eyes at his schoolboy behaviour and waited for him to speak. “shelby’s, this is my girlfriend and soon to be fiancé, y/n.” he held his arm around your waist proudly, and you leaned up to kiss his cheek. you recognized arthur and john immediately from your time in the war. you assumed that the older woman was aunt polly, and the younger with the baby in her arms would be ada, leaving the youngest member of the family, finn. john came up to talk to you first, while tommy spoke with polly. “you know i didn’t really mean the ‘marry tommy’ thing?” you laughed as you replied, “i didn’t either, but fate works in weird ways, eh?” he agreed with you before talking to tommy. arthur was the next one to see you. “you and tommy, eh? if it wasn’t for the war, you two would probably never have met. i s’pose war isn’t all bad then.” “perhaps you’re right. i did find your brother to be arrogant before the war.” “that he is, y/n. that he is.” both of you looked over at him, engaged in conversation with everyone else. you fussed over the baby in ada’s arms. “awww, he’s precious! what’s his name?” “karl, after karl marx.” you shot her a look. “it’s unconventional, i know. but freddie really wanted it.” “it’s lovely.” finn rushed over to you and kissed your hand. you gushed exaggeratedly. “what a gentleman you are, finn!” “if tommy wasn’t here, you’d be my girlfriend, miss y/n.” you laughed at his childishness and ruffled his hair. “sure i would, finn.” the only person you hadn’t spoken to yet was aunt polly, arguably the most intimidating person of the family. “i have one question for you, y/n. how you answer it will determine if you’re fit for being a shelby. how do you think i kept this business up and running during the war?” you felt put on the spot but tried your best to answer. “um, well, to be quite frank, i’ve believed that women are better at business anyway. we know how to settle deals with whiskey and not fists or guns. and you seem like twice the man than most men i know anyway.” her lips twitched up into a smile as she looked to tommy. “oh, i like her already.” he held your hand in hers, and addressed tommy. “she seems like a lovely girl, do not fuck this up tommy.” tommy shook his head and laughed. “i’ll try, pol. i’ll try.”

you ate dinner with the shelby’s before you headed up to his house. “you sure you don’t want me to walk you home?” he asked for the hundredth time that night. “no tommy, i’m perfectly content spending the night with you. unless you’d like me to leave?” you questioned. “no no, stay, please!” he said, almost pleadingly. you looked around his bedroom when you reached his home. it was obviously a house, but it didn’t feel like a home. you frowned at your observation. “what’s wrong, y/n?” “this house isn’t a home yet, tommy.” “that’s because i want my first home to be with you. with our children. and as far as i’m concerned, you are my home.”

“care to dance?” he asked, holding out his hand. you looked at the gramophone in the corner. “that doesn’t look like it works, love.” you placed your hand in his. “so what? we can dance without music.” he said, holding your waist close to him, your hand on his shoulder. you leaned your head on his shoulder, both of you dancing in the silence, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. “kiss me, tommy.” you whispered. he obeyed probably for the first time in his life and kissed your soft lips.

things escalated and you were now on tommy’s bed, tracing the sun tattoo on his chest, with him on top of you. “fuck me, tommy, please.” “your cunt wants this cock?” he growled. you moaned in his ear. “fuck, yes tommy, make me yours.” he stretched you out in the most blissful way. of course, you had used your fingers before, but nothing could replace the feeling of his cock. “god, please!” you moaned out, words slowly turning into incoherent sounds. tommy chuckled. “god can’t hear you now, sweetheart. not here.” he pistoned his hips into you just right and it wasn’t long before he found the spot inside you that made you scream. “t- tommy fuck! right there, please don’t stop!” “i wouldn’t dream of stopping, darling. my girl, so pretty all spread out for me. take it, love. take that cock.” the feeling of your impending orgasm coursed through your entire body, making you writhe in pleasure. “god, i’m so close tommy!” “good fucking girl.” his hand reached down to rub circles on your clit while he fucked you so good. “oh god, tommy, i’m not gonna be able to walk tomorrow…” “that’s the plan, sweetheart.” he spoke as he kissed hickeys on your neck, matching the ones you’d given him earlier. “come on love, make a mess on my cock.” as soon as he said that, you felt yourself falling apart, the tight band in your stomach snapping, uncontrollable moans of his name falling from your lips. “thank you tommy, thank you so much.” you moaned, drunk on the feeling of his cock inside you. “such an angel. who do you belong to, sweets?” he said, still pounding your cunt. “y- you, tommy. i belong to you!” “that’s right, sweetheart.” he whispered in your ear, “i love you, darling.” you moaned as you felt your second orgasm approaching. “tommy, fuck! i- i love you too!” “god i’m gonna cum inside you! you’d like that, eh? me getting you pregnant, all nice and round with my baby?” you felt your orgasm pulsing through you at his words. “yes, tommy! fill my womb up, please! i need it!” you heard tommy’s loud moans as he came inside you. “oh, such a good girl. took my cock so well, love.” tommy stayed on top of you for a while, his cock still inside you. “i’ve wanted to do that for five fucking years.” he spoke, voice muffled since his head was buried between your tits. you laughed, but the laughs quickly turned to moans as your sensitive cunt felt friction from tommy’s cock rubbing up against its walls. he pulled out of you slowly, watching his seed spill out of you. he eventually got up to get a warm washcloth and a glass of water for you. you drank the water as he cleaned you and himself up and pulled you into his chest. you pulled the covers over both of you, feeling your body flush against his. “that was amazing tommy, thank you.” “the pleasure is all mine, sweetheart.” he kissed your forehead.

ever since tommy came back from france, he had these recurring nightmares every night. of his time in the tunnels. the germans. his comrades. how he had to kill people with his bare hands. he could still hear the shovels digging the tunnels when he closed his eyes. when he was with you though, he could finally fall asleep. or so he thought.

you were awoken in the middle of the night by the sounds of a gasping tommy, suddenly sitting up. you felt groggy for a moment, having just woken up, but quickly sprung into action. you sat next to him, rubbing his back. “tommy, what’s wrong?” he didn’t speak. but he didn’t need to. you’d seen enough cases of ptsd from your time in the war to know what was happening to him. “you still see it, eh?” he only nodded. you laid back down and pulled him into your chest. he protested. “what are y-” “shut up.” you could tell, he was still a bit frantic, his breath still heavy. you spoke to him in a soft tone and you played with his fingers, his head on your chest. “listen to me. listen to the sound of my voice. feel my body against yours. you are home. you are safe. the war is over. the nightmares are just parts of your mind trying to scare you. but you’re stronger than that, eh? i’m here with you, and you don’t need to be scared. alright? i’m here with you, always.” he hummed, heavy eyelids slowly closing shut. being able to smell the scent of your perfume helped ground him. “good job, tommy. now sleep. i’ll be here with you when you wake up.” you managed to get him to go to sleep, but somehow convinced your mind to let you sleep light enough that if tommy were to have another nightmare, you’d be up immediately. fortunately, he didn’t wake up during the night.

he woke up to the sight of a sleeping you, the sun rays hitting you just right. he swore he could look at you forever. you felt his gaze on you and slowly opened your eyes. “how’d you sleep?” you asked. “like i hadn’t slept in years.” he replied.

“morning, mr. shelby.” you wished him, as you did, every day before the war. except this time, you were in his arms, in his bed. you kissed his lips softly. except this time, he finally wished you back.

“mornin’, sweetheart.”

[muletia]

𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 ✧˖°

[tfp] synth-en!obsessed!optimus prime x human!reader 18+ content/valveplug

cw: possessiveness, jealousy, top!optimus (he can top you once. as a treat <3), subish!optimus (kinda...), reader matches his freak, explicit valveplug, rough sex, overstimulation, breast play, no aftercare?, mention of ratchet's human partner (which is actually different reader lmao)

word count: 5100

sorry it took me so long to write this bitch; i had to rewrite everything three times before I was satisfied. also, don't expect an overly toxic optimus. i decided to stick as close to canon as possible while giving him just a pinch of freakiness, horniness and aggression

Optimus's servo smeared with energon shoots forward, locking around the helm of the nearest Vehicon. Behind him, Bumblebee and Bulkhead fire at the enemies guarding the energon cubes deeper within the cave, forcing the Decepticon soldiers to focus on them rather than on the exposed Optimus, whose servo grips the helm in a death embrace. Prime presses the enemy further against the cold, unyielding wall, just as unrelenting, securing against any escape before tightening his digits. They tremble for a moment, battling against metal, but it does not remain defiant for long. It yields to his strength, bends, gives way, until at last, completely crumples beneath his bare servo, spraying energon straight onto Optimus’s masked faceplate.

Violence is an inescapable shackle of war. Unyielding and inevitable. Optimus loathed violence, despised it, resisted using it, forcing himself only in the rarest of circumstances.

But there was not a trace of reluctance in the way he killed the Vehicon. This was not a wartime obligation or a fight for survival — it was murder. A deliberate act, cold and devoid of sympathy for mere cannon fodder, judging by how nonchalantly Optimus shakes the still-warm energon off his servo, all the while scanning for his next target.

“Bossbot?” Bulkhead asks, but the concern in his voice does not reach Optimus’s audials.

The Autobot leader’s entire focus is on the three remaining Vehicons, bravely defending two carts loaded with energon. On future victims, sacks to unload his uncharacteristic aggression upon. He wants to feel metal yielding beneath his servo again. To plunge his arm into a chassis and tear out a still-beating spark; to experience warm energon coating his entire frame. To break his own moral backbone, free himself, to finally taste victory in an era of failures.

He wants to live, to be free, rid himself of the restrictions he imposed upon himself eons ago. Optimus wants to kill Megatron and bring you his helm impaled upon his blade, for he is finally ready for absolute victory. But he also wants you. To devour, drown in, possess. Now, while the energon on his frame is still warm, while he can allow himself to indulge, while he feels like a god.

The fact that he cannot have you only stokes the unrestrained aggression further.

A storm of emotions swirls within him, spinning through his processor, through spark, and behind the interface panel, tormenting the spike swollen with thoughts of you, until Optimus finally lets rage and hatred win. Allows them to consume him completely and take control over every fiber of his being, including the most hidden, most private parts.

“Cover me!” he throws out a scrap of rationality before charging forward with a speed unsettlingly unnatural for a being of such immense power and height.

With only a few strides, he closes the distance between himself and the promise of liberation, dodging blaster shots raining down from ahead and behind, until he reaches the soldiers still fighting valiantly. He grabs the nearest one in his servo while seamlessly switching the other one to the blade, effortlessly slicing through the helm of a second Vehicon. Digits clench, repeating the sensation of his strength from before, still relishing in the pleasure of breaking free from the chains of nobility. More hot energon splatters onto his tainted frame.

The last surviving Vehicon fights bravely to the bitter end, trying to aim his blaster straight at Optimus’s exposed helm, but he is not granted the chance to strike. Prime releases the headless body of the other soldier and immediately turns his attention to him, predator locking onto his next prey. Before the shot can fire, his blade plunges directly into the Vehicon’s spark, snuffing out his meager, meaningless existence.

Optimus watches the body slide off his energon-coated blade and crumple onto the ground. Only then does it cease to interest him, to hold any value.

Yet, he does not feel satisfied. He still has the strength to fight, craves more enemies to extinguish. He is ready to face Unicron himself, the synthetic energon coursing through his lines whispering that he would win such a battle. He would triumph over anyone. Unstoppable. A god.

“Is that all of them?” he asks, a flicker of hope for more lingering in his voice. He needs to release this energy, to focus his pulsing, muddled processor on something simple. Something that will grant him relief from his hunger, no matter its origin.

“Yes,” Bumblebee replies. Despite his unease over their leader’s state, he adds, “All the energon is ours.”

“Bossbot,” Bulkhead tries again, “are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Exquisite, Bulkhead,” Prime responds, his tone bored, completely uninterested in continuing the conversation.

His thoughts have already shifted to someone else. Someone softer, sweeter.

His spike throbs irritatingly, demanding attention it will have to wait a little longer for.

Optimus presses his digits to his audials, unbothered by the energon staining them, and adds, “I am sending coordinates for the ground bridge. Be quick.”

He retracts his battle mask and turns toward his teammates.

“Gather as much energon as you can carry,” he instructs them, but the words are not truly for them. He is absent, lost in unreachable contemplation.

His optics, now a furious green, stare ahead, fixed on the point where the ground bridge will appear, each nanoklik of delay eroding his fragile patience. He clenches his servos into fists, trying to focus on that sensation, to concentrate on anything that will quell the irritation of waiting. Waiting until he can return to you and see you again.

Yet, he would not refuse one more Decepticon. The energon on his frame is beginning to cool, becoming nothing more than an echo of the euphoria of unchained rage. He had felt its effects for too short a time. Was not granted the full release of all the filth accumulated over eons of functioning on traditional, insufficient energon — and he wants more. Needs more. Wants to hear the clang of metal against metal again, to see the sparks and feel them ignite another fight; to witness how easily his enemies break beneath his might.

He tilts his helm slightly toward Bulkhead. A strong soldier — he would surely pose a challenge. Perhaps he could toy with him for a moment before hurling him across the cave with a single strike, indulging in his restless need to move, to act.

Their gazes meet for a brief moment, and Optimus sees hesitation in Bulkhead’s step. Uncertainty. A shadow of fear that reassures him of his own invincibility. He smirks triumphantly, even though their battle was only a fantasy.

But it could be real. Would you be proud of him if he took Bulkhead down with one hand? Finally proved his strength, impressed you with his power? He imagines you praising him. A simple “my good mech” rings loud in his processor, but its electrifying effect quickly travels downward, teasing his spike, reminding him just how much he needs you. How desperately he wants to be with you.

His pedes shift impatiently.

He prays to Primus that you are in the base right now. He does not trust himself at this moment to believe he could endure even a few more kliks apart without killing someone with his bare servos.

At last, the darkness of the cave is swept away by the flash of the Ground Bridge. Without waiting for the others, Optimus strides through first, each impatient step bringing him closer to you — until he is met with the familiar sight of the silo. And in the middle of it, standing on a lower platform, is you, seemingly engaged in a pleasant conversation with Arcee, judging by your warm smile.

You say something to the femme, a few words before your attention shifts to him, and you freeze upon seeing the energon staining his frame. As if you were afraid of him, though it is not your shock that truly irks him.

No, it is the fact that you were talking to Arcee, smiling at her, giving her attention that she does not deserve. Because it is he who is your partner, your lover, your soulmate, your future conjunx, and it is he who deserves your affection. He should be the only bot in your life, and this determination, this jealousy pricking at his spark, leads him straight to you, ignoring Arcee’s greeting and attempt to ask a question.

With measured gentleness, a fleeting echo of his former self, he scoops you into his servo and lifts you to his faceplate.

“Optimus, wait!” you plead, but your words do not reach him.

He presses you against the warm, energon-free metal along his intake, securing your back with two digits to prevent any attempts at escape. Like a cat seeking affection, he nuzzles against you a few times, rubbing your entire body and ruining your clothes and hair in the process.

The softness that envelops him soothes his jealousy. Not completely, for he would prefer a far less innocent form of touch, eagerly anticipating that moment, but it is enough to satiate, if only slightly, his hunger for you.

But only for a moment, because he quickly grows bored of simple cuddling. With his thumb, he tugs your shirt upward, revealing a stretch of beautiful, velvet skin, immediately pressesing his intake against it, leaving small but eager kisses.

“Optimus! Optimus, wait!” Your sweet voice quells the hatred and fury within him, but it awakens a different craving, one that has nothing to do with ripping Decepticons apart with his bare servos.

The way you call his name is beautiful. Desperate. But in the mania of his desire, he cannot tell whether it is pleasure or fear that laces your voice. What he does know, is that he needs to hear it again, but in a more private setting. In the seclusion of your quarters within the base, where the only interactions you would be allowed to have would be with him. Where only he would be granted the privilege of experiencing your melodious voice, your laughter, and your pleasure.

With his goal clearly defined, his pedes carry him towards your quarters of their own accord. He forgets about the energon still splattered across his frame — the deadly harvest of synthetic energon — and about his teammates, who continue to watch him in silent horror. His world narrows to you, to the sound of your voice still calling his name, to your occasional laughter whenever his intake tickles a particularly sensitive spot on your stomach. That is all that matters to him in this moment. That is the only thing of importance.

The only problem he is willing to concern himself with right now is the spike pressing painfully against the walls of its cage.

"Optimus!" You try once more. More forcefully, with enough anger and accusation to tear him from his trance of desire. His optics break away from your stomach, and he looks at you with a distant gaze. Yet he has no intention of stopping the way he’s caressing your body. Primus, he wants to devour you so badly. "Can you finally stop?!"

He obeys your demand, watching with invisible amusement as you sigh in relief. His intake remains on you, lips brushing against skin with feathery delicacy, dangerously close to your crotch. He knows he's overstepping, going too far, but he can't pull himself away from you, lost in visions of the future, in mass displacement, in the full-fledged idea of drowning in you.

His glossa, as if it had a mind of its own, slips out from his intake. The tip of his Cybertronian tongue grazes your navel, timidly trailing downward—but before Optimus makes a mistake he will regret for the rest of his life, he feels a kick against his cheek.

Your kick.

Weak, faint, one easily mistaken for an angry kiss, but firm enough to make him retract his glossa. And most importantly, it finally gives you a chance to say something longer than just sweetly crying out his name.

"Christ, why are you so pent-up today?"

"I have dreamed of you for an entire solar cycle. I withered with longing, waiting until I could finally hold you in my servo." He opens up to you, finally gathering the strength and courage to do so. Even if his boldness is artificial.

"I'm glad to hear that, but you've gotten a bit ahead of yourself, my love."

Love. His optics widen slightly, as if that pet name were entirely new to him. And in a way, it was. Because its use reignites the urge to rush to your cozy four walls and beg you to feed him "dearest," "beloved," and "sweetspark" until he goes mad.

"Optimus." A foreign voice pierces through the veil of sweetness, pulling him away from you. Something he cannot accept. His faceplate, unusually expressive today, freezes with irritation because he does not want to be Optimus for anyone but you right now.

Debates ignoring the bitter call, returning his thoughts and attention to you, but a quick assessment of your irritated and rather dissatisfied expression convinces him that, this time, he should at least pretend to care about his teammates. He sincerely hopes you will reward him later for the magnanimity he is about to show them.

Still holding you close to his faceplate but covering more of you with digits to shield his treasure from prying optics, Optimus turns to Arcee, the one who had called him earlier.

"What matter requires my immediate attention, Arcee?" he asks in a sharp tone, so unlike the familiar and beloved gentle giant that it chills your blood.

Arcee must have felt something similar, as she narrows her eyes warily but does not yield under the pressure of her leader's anger.

"Ratchet left the hangar a few Earth hours ago. I can’t locate him, he’s not appearing on the radar or responding to comms."

"So he's with his partner," Optimus replies as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, clearly bored with the conversation.

"What makes you so sure? He mentioned going after Megatron himself. He could just as easily be dead or held prisoner on Megatron’s ship!"

"Arcee is right," you interject. "This isn't something to dismiss so easily."

Optimus sighs, exasperated. This is not how he envisioned spending his time with you. Did not expect to find so many obstacles standing between him and the sweet reward for reclaiming the mine.

"Check his human’s home first," Prime insists. "If he isn’t there, which is as close to impossible as can be, only then do you contact me. Is that clear?"

Arcee studies Optimus with a watchful gaze for a moment but, finding only cold, impenetrable stone, gives up on further argument. For a brief second, her optics shift to you in gratitude for speaking up for her, something that Optimus does not entirely approve of. He shields you further with his servo, a possessive movement, blocking you from any foreign gazes or interaction. At the same time, he straightens his back to appear even larger than he already is.

Today, you belong only to him.

"Fine," Arcee hisses. "Who should I take on recon?"

"Anyone," Optimus says. He ends the conversation by turning on his heel and continuing down the corridor.

His intake returns to nipping at your stomach, but this time, he does so more aggressively. Faster, as if trying to rid himself of the frustration gnawing at him while ensuring that all of your attention remains solely on him. The tip of his thumb starts to toy with the waistband of your pants, attempting to make up for the seconds lost discussing his best friend. In response, you deliver another kick to him.

This time, he finds it utterly adorable.

"Do you really not care what’s happening with Ratchet? You know, your best friend?"

"I feel no need to concern myself with Ratchet’s condition when he himself informed me of his whereabouts."

"What makes you so sure he got held up there?"

"Because I now understand how he felt, rushing home to his beloved when they accidentally called him. Because I feel exactly the same way at this very moment."

His keen optics do not miss the faint blush that blooms across your cheeks.

Primus. Grant him the strength not to devour you right here and now.

"Wait." You speak. You breathe a sigh of relief when he obeys your command, stopping right in front of the newly installed Cybertronian showers. He lifts an optical ridge, prompting you to continue.

"Could you at least wash the energon off yourself?"

"I am heading to the washracks," he states calmly. "I assume you wish to join me."

You nearly choke on your own saliva.

"Later. I have a feeling I’ll need them more later," you reply, and Optimus has to resist the sudden urge to abandon the washracks entirely and rip your clothes to shreds right here and now.

Divine intervention (your words) is the only thing preventing him from completely destroying both his and your reputation.

One last time before your brief separation, he presses a kiss to your stomach.

"I assure you, I will not take long. Wait for me in your quarters."

"As you wish, Opti."

Primus once again tested his self-control.

You shut the door and immediately press your back against it, needing even a second of respite from everything that just happened.

"I have dreamed of you for an entire solar cycle…"

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

Overwhelmed by his unusual assertiveness, you cover your burning cheeks with your hands. But you don’t stay in that position for long, realizing that your blush is nearly as hot as his intake, his glossa. You can still feel the remnants of his kisses on your stomach and the desperation he poured into them. The hot breath that, over and over again, enveloped your bare skin.

You can’t escape from those thoughts, drifting on the edge of madness, wondering what happened to your dignity that his hunger made you feel like a lovestruck teenager.

Who swapped your Optimus for this pent-up, horny beast?

And most importantly, why didn't you mind at all?

In an attempt to regain control over your body and thoughts that were drifting into the near future, you decide to occupy yourself with something. Anything, as long as it is quick and allows you to gather yourself while you wait for his return.

Once again, your mind returns to the searing heat of the glossa working on your stomach. Taking a deep, reassuring breath, you head towards the cabinet and pull out a glass.

Yes, water will do you good, cooling the fire and restoring clarity to your thoughts. Especially since it is only now that you realize the dryness in your throat. Then, you will unpack your clothes from the suitcase. Mhm, that’s a good plan, you think, taking a sip of water. You will certainly have enough time to change out of your old hoodie and sweatpants into something more befitting of Optimus Prime — even if the concept of fashion was still an enigma to him, not entirely comprehensible.

Reaching for the bottle again, planning to pour yourself another drink, you freeze with the glass at your lips as the door suddenly swings open. And through it steps none other than a mass-displaced Optimus Prime, leaving you dumbfounded.

"It hasn't even been five minutes!"

Now free of energon but still dripping water in a few places, he closes the door behind him. "Forgive me, my dearest, but I was compelled to hasten my return," he says.

You finish your water and place the glass at the far end of the counter, cursing internally that your plan has just crumbled due to his untamed excitement. "It’s fine. But seriously, you could’ve at least given me two more minu…tes."

The words die in your throat as you feel hundreds of kilograms of living metal pressing against your rear, pinning you to the kitchen counter. Apparently uncertain of the effectiveness of his trap, Optimus places a servo on the cold marble as well, blocking your escape from the side.

Not that you were planning to escape, really.

"I could not wait any longer for us to be alone," he whispers directly into your ear, warm breath subtly stirring your hair. "I need you, sweetspark."

The unfamiliar passion in his deep, thick voice plays with your skin, sending a wave of goosebumps down your spine.

You should feel alarmed — you know this well. Instinct urges you to try and flee, to break free from the predator, but you cannot. Because the truth is, you do not want to move. You want to take advantage of this small shift in your dynamic. To channel his fervor toward your own needs, burning, pulsing, demanding his spike.

"I need you too," you say, adopting a low, raspy tone that does not contrast with your quickened breath. You turn to face him, only to be immediately consumed by the green glow of his optics, which seem to burn even brighter than usual. Optimus presses his hips against you more firmly, and even through the layer of sweatpants, you can feel that he is on fire.

He leans over you, a servo curling around the back of your head, and finally, he devours you, his heated intake sealing over your lips. He kisses you ravenously, greedily, as if he had been starving for centuries, setting a pace you struggle to keep up with. You try, chasing after his intake as it leaves kisses on your lips over and over again, but it proves futile when Optimus decides to trace a path downward. He attacks the corner of your mouth, your chin, and the edge of your jaw before moving to your neck, leaving several quick kisses before pausing for a moment.

"I can endure no longer," he whispers, and to confirm his words, he gently bites the skin on the side of your neck, only to immediately soothe the mark with the tip of his glossa. "[Name], I beg you, if I do not ram my spike into you this instant, I am convinced I will explode," he confesses.

With processor turned to mush and need surging through his circuits, Optimus opens his interface panel. His engorged spike, already dripping pink transfluid from its tip, presses against your stomach, rubbing against the fabric and leaving, thankfully washable, rosy streaks. You cannot tear your gaze away from this pathetically shameless display, basking in the heat of his desire.

"Are you particularly attached to your current coverings?" he asks, snapping you out of your trance.

"No, um, not really. Why?"

"I am pleased to hear that," he replies.

He grips the loose fabric of your sweatpants and, with a single motion, tears them in half, leaving you clad only in your ruined, slick underwear. But not for long. Your panties meet the same fate as your sweatpants, joining the shredded fabric on the floor beneath your feet.

The sight of your heat shatters the deadly seriousness of his faceplate as Optimus smiles, satisfied. At last, he has reached the climax of his journey, having pushed through the jungle of team complications and the forced visit to the washracks. But for a sight as breathtaking as this, for the intoxicating scent of your desire seeping into his intake and clouding his processor, and, above all, for you, it had all been worth it.

"Exquisite," he murmurs, unable to tear his optics away from your valve, even as you struggle to remove your hoodie and bra. "I am the most fortunate mech in the history of Cybertron."

Without warning, he grips your thighs and lifts you into the air, ignoring your startled yelp, which quickly transforms into a delighted giggle. And Primus, if that was not the most beautiful sound in the universe… Optimus would have crushed every Decepticon into dust if it meant you enjoyed this mere glimpse of his strength.

He aligns the tip of his spike with your burning entrance, teasing your wet lips with a single subtle touch that nearly drives him to overload. But he wants to last. He must, though he knows his stamina will not grant him mercy tonight.

"Optimus," you try, "maybe we could move to the bed, huh?"

"Forgive my impatience, my dearest," he responds, "but I fear I can endure no longer."

"Mhm, alrighhh… ah!"

With a fluid motion, he slides his thick spike into you, fitting two puzzle pieces into perfect unity.

"Primus, [Name]!" he gasps.

His sharpened senses push him down the path of madness.

Your walls tighten around his spike, welcoming your lover with affectionate reverence, and Optimus is overtaken by a profound sense of belonging and rightness, as if, after a long day’s work, he has finally come home. Buried deep within you, lost in the nearly claustrophobic sensation of your tight heat enveloping his spike, he dares to believe that this place is more comforting than Cybertron itself. And if this were to be your daily reality, he would have no objections to remaining on Earth for eternity.

"Opti, ah, fuck…" you try, slightly dazed by the sheer enormity of him stretching you out. Secured by the servos gripping your thighs, you allow yourself to wrap your arms around his neck, bringing yourself closer to the ocean of green. Being this near, you have the impression that the alien color of his optics is about to swallow you whole. Which is not far from the truth when Optimus begins kissing your collarbones, lightly nipping at your skin, trying not to lose his mind while waiting for your magic words.

"You can move, sweetheart."

The roar of his engine makes it clear — he is beyond delighted to hear that.

"As you wish," he growls against your skin.

The liberation he feels at finally being able to pump his spike into your heat is exquisite, yet treacherous, for Optimus cannot restrain himself from setting a fast pace. His hips ram into yours over and over, savoring the sight of the slight bulge moving across your stomach and the wet sounds of transfluid mixing with your juices — the most intimate union of two species. He is burning up, overheating, but even that pales in comparison to the molten lava that sears him inside your valve. If he cared enough, he might worry that you would melt him, truly fusing you both into one.

"Holy Primus," he pants, digging his digits deeper into the flesh of your rear. In response to the slight sting, you tighten your arms around his neck. "I am not pulling out of you tonight. Not even for a single nanoklik."

"Hah, w-what the hell did that synthetic energon…" you start, but a single powerful thrust momentarily robs you of speech. Seeking balance and clarity, you press your forehead against the cool glass of his chassis, but the tremors Optimus sends through your entire body do not allow you to stay there for long. "…do to you? Where did my mech, the one who begged for the strap, disappear to?"

"He is… s-still here," he assures you, purring with delight as he feels your slick, gummy walls clench around his spike, practically milking him with every drag. With such encouragement from your body, he cannot afford to slow down, determined to grant you a climax that will make you see stars. Or rather, one of your first orgasms. "If you so desire, hrrn, you may see him later."

"I don't think I'll, fuck, have the strength for anything later," you reply, words constantly broken by moans or gasps for breath.

"A-a pity, hah! I had hoped that you, too, might manage to wear me out."

You feel the shape of a smirk against the skin of your neck, where his faceplate is currently nestled. Bastard — you think, but cannot stay angry at him for long when every thrust sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body. From the crown of your head to your curled-up toes. Optimus is lucky that his spike is so impossibly large. Otherwise, he would be treading on very thin ice tonight — something he proves moments later that he is more than willing to risk.

"My dearest," he murmurs into your neck. The involuntary clench of the softest valve he has ever known in his long life tells him that you enjoy his possessiveness. And what kind of servant would he be if he did not fulfill his master's every desire? "My most beloved. Mine to converse with, mine to kiss. Mine to interface with. Mine. Mine."

His greedy litany is abruptly cut short when your valve clamps down tightly around his spike.

"Ah, Opti!" you cry out. "I'm about to—"

"I as well, ah, I…"

He buries his spike deep inside you, pressing his hips against yours and pulling you even closer. Sticky transfluid spurts from his spike, and you reward him with your own release, now fully sealing your union. And though Optimus fills you perfectly, a few stray drops of your mingled love manage to escape your stretched cunt, soiling the insides of your thighs.

Chasing the divine bliss of overload, Optimus does not grant you much time to rest. He starts moving his hips once more, pushing his transfluid deeper into your body in preparation for a refill.

And at that exact moment, amidst the wet, filthy sounds of his spike plunging into your valve, a faint knocking echoes through the room. Barely audible to you over your own panting, moans, and his loudly revving engines, but Optimus has no trouble detecting the intruder. Their presence disrupts his complete surrender to pleasure, irritating him, bursting the fragile illusion that the world ends with you.

"Frag off," he growls loudly, never ceasing to frag your heat.

Your gazes meet for a brief moment, but Optimus does not hold eye contact for long, too agitated to acknowledge your questioning expression. Instead, he directs his intake toward your chest, stuffing your soft flesh into his mouth. His glossa immediately gets to work, gliding over your swollen nipple, licking and sucking to suppress the stream of curses and sins threatening to spill forth. To ensure you do not collapse backward, one arm wraps around your back, delighting in the discovery that he can afford to gather your other breast into his servo as well. Which he does, kneading the soft flesh like a stress ball.

"My dearest," he repeats his mantra between the worship of your nipple and breast. "My [Name]."

"My Opti," you return the sentiment, stroking the back of his helm. "My good mech."

An involuntary honk of his horn and an exceptionally deep thrust convince you that you have chosen your words well. Even at the cost of losing the ability to walk tomorrow.

[historyandarthijinks]

Art of War (10)

A Martial Song by Nikita Bogoslovsky, Vladimir Agatov, and Mark Bernes

Тёмная ночь (Dark Is the Night)

Lyrics

Russian

Тёмная ночь, только пули свистят по степи Только ветер гудит в проводах, тускло звёзды мерцают В тёмную ночь ты, любимая, знаю, не спишь И у детской кроватки тайком ты слезу утираешь

Как я люблю глубину твоих ласковых глаз Как я хочу к ним прижаться теперь губами Тёмная ночь разделяет, любимая, нас И тревожная чёрная степь пролегла между нами

Верю в тебя, в дорогую подругу мою Эта вера от пули меня тёмной ночью хранила Радостно мне, я спокоен в смертельном бою Знаю, встретишь с любовью меня, что б со мной ни случилось

Смерть не страшна, с ней встречались не раз мы в степи Вот и теперь надо мною она кружится Ты меня ждёшь и у детской кроватки не спишь И поэтому, знаю, со мной ничего не случится

И поэтому, знаю, со мной ничего не случится

English

Dark night, only bullets are whistling in the steppe,

Only the wind is wailing through the telephone wires, stars are faintly flickering ...

In the dark night, my love, I know you are not sleeping,

And, near a child's crib, you secretly wipe away a tear.

How I love the depths of your gentle eyes,

How I long to press my lips to them!

This dark night separates us, my love,

And the dark, troubled steppe has come to lie between us.

I have faith in you, in you, my sweetheart.

That faith has shielded me from bullets in this dark night ...

I am glad, I am calm in deadly battle:

I know you will meet me with love, no matter what happens.

Death is not terrible, we've met with it more than once in the steppe ...

And here it looms over me once again,

You await my return, sitting sleepless near a cradle,

And so I know that nothing will happen to me!

Context

Тёмная ночь (Performed 1943) - Mark Bernes (1911-1969), Nikita Bogoslovsky (1913-2004), and Vladimir Agatov (1919-1949) [Russia]

Originally the solemn song was written by Nikita Bogoslovsky, a composer, and Vladimir Agatov , a poet. Although Mark Bernes was not the first to record and perform the song, he is widely credited with popularizing it and giving the martial song a voice. He performed the song in the movie Two Soldiers, where he played a soldier missing his wife and child.

The song became heavily associated with Eastern front of WWII between the Soviet people and Nazis. Authorities attempted to shun and ostracize the song for it's negative themes, claiming it was Philistine and would dishearten the Soviet people. Philistine was the idea of a person or thing hostile to art and culture from a philosophical stand point, however people who went around claiming others were philistine were more hostile than any money hungry artist.

[jester-lover]

Hi!

Can I please request Malleus and Lilia finding out that their girlfriend, the Ramshackle Prefect, is secretly a vampire (that's a centuries old immortal like them)?

Vampire Girlfriend!

Hello to you too! Thank you for requesting!

Feat/Malleus, Lilia

Cw/ blood, fluff, mentions of war, death mentioned, mostly fluff tho!

Malleus

He is elated!

the one fear Malleus had about his relationship with you was the idea that you were a mortal woman

He would give you his blood if you asked, happily and joyfully

the two of you discuss the centuries you two have lived through, and bond over a shared disconnect with technology

He would love it if you wanted to court him the old fashioned way, and he'd happily give you a lock of his hair

If you turn into any other animal, he'll put you on his shoulder and carry you around all day

Malleus is so content at the thought of living his immortal existence beside you, happily fulfilling your blood cravings (don't ask where he gets it from)

"Beastie, do you remember that old fad from the 1700s where we wore powdered wigs? Perhaps some change is for the best.."

Lilia

Wholeheartedly, the first thing he'd ask is if you could turn into a bat (research purposes)

now the two of you hang upside down from walls and terrify passerby!

Lilia, besides being happy he won't have to see your demise anytime soon, is rather non questioning with your vampire identity

He knows some parts of a longer life can be touchy subjects, which is why you'll only hear of his wartime activities at a far deeper point in your relationship

But if you yourself, an endless vampire, have fought in battle...

he'd share the more savory stories with you, trading them like playing cards over a glass of wine (and your glass of blood)

Overall, Lilia's stoked to have a vampire girlfriend, and the mischief the two of you create will last for centuries

"Perhaps... when Sebek crosses to his history class, we could ambush him and give him a real scare!"

[blistering-typhoons]

drug abuse/addiction cw for below the cut (and to a lesser extent the video)

In the context of the scene, I can imagine the intention of this line is a) some sneaky anti-drug propaganda, very in line with this era of film making or b) Holmes maybe panicking at how he's going to fake his way into not being hypnotized (long story), but-

I cannot help but wonder about Rathbone's particular delivery here. There's an almost deeper fear to his face than just a momentary concern.

A kind of thoughtfulness in the way he says 'drugs', like he's remembering what the word truly means to him. And then the line after that, almost pushed out, like a reminder to himself.

No, I'd rather not.

Obviously, we were never going to see Rathbone Holmes struggle with substance abuse, that particular image of the character wiped near clean to bolster the appearance of the wartime hero- stalwart, masculine and unaffected by common vice.

Until now, I had just sort of headcannoned him as one of the Holmes unlikely to struggle with addiction, until this scene came across now.

It makes me wonder about the brief glimpses of emotion under Holmes' dry exterior, of his clear discomfort existing in his feelings. It makes me wonder if any of the highest government officials look into his face and see that old vulnerability- if he lives in a fear of being found out, of being cast out and back into his crutch.

It makes me wonder about endless holidays in Scotland, of getting him to a river for as long as possible, to get him to breathe clean, wet air.

I wonder if this Watson knows.

[serpentface]

the gender trinary of northeastern Dain as shown thru hairstyles- women, men, and wallach of the Urswali-Dain people.

The connected cultures of the coastal northeastern Dainlands all have closely related variants of this trinary and place importance on distinction between the genders and taboos related to gender roles.

(cw brief mentions of wartime sexual violence) 

The Dain speakers of the northeastern Kelp Sea coasts and islands are related groups of semi-settled to settled agricultural peoples. These groups share very similar gender roles. They conceptualize being 'female' as the basic state of humankind, with 'manhood' being a special state of being that must be ritually attained via rites of passage and circumcision.

This creates a distinct third gender role of those designated boychildren who cannot be initiated into manhood for variable reasons (failing coming of age rites, being incapable of growing a beard, having 'feminizing' intersex conditions, etc). This is called the 'wallach', 'wollach', 'wolla', depending on the language group.

The wallach is understood as a liminal state of being, between man and woman, child and adult, placing them in a metaphysical role closer to the afterlife. Most witches and priests are thus wallach. Wallach can fill both male and female gender roles in dain society without defying social taboos, and their primary function is to bridge the gaps in an otherwise highly gender-segregated society.

Northeastern Dain cultures have an overall negative opinion on sex between men, and conceptualize being penetrated as severely emasculating and heavily taboo. The only form of m/m intercourse deemed acceptable is assault during war. This does not apply to wallach, who can have sexual relations with men without breaking taboo. Men and wallach are permitted to wed, though (as marriage is political and reproductive first and foremost) typically in conjunction with a woman wife, or in the aftermath of a divorce.

Women in Kelp Sea Dain cultures have significant autonomy, but are barred from many forms of political power. Their role is understood as managing and defending the home, land, and livestock. There is a prominent warrior culture among women, and all 'girlchildren' are taught to use weapons. Given their husbands and fathers are often away on raids, they must protect their lands and livestock against neighboring peoples husbands and fathers.

Common cattle-raiding and pillaging between neighbors is highly ritualized and prohibits the abuse of girls and women protecting their villages. A raider who defeats one in battle is expected to either spare them untouched or give them an honorable death. To do otherwise risks the wrath of the goddess Mökke (who may turn the offender into a deer and send her hounds after him, or at least curse him). This social protection is not extended to women deemed foreigners or enemies.

Highly uncommon compared to wallach, some 'girlchildren' attain manhood via special circumstances in which they complete male initiation rites.  They they take men's names and roles, often sharing wives with a brother or cousin in order to have blood-related progeny.

-----

Pictured here are Urswali Dains, the only contemporary extant sea-dain culture based wholly in piracy and raiding. 

Gender is expressed through hair primarily- men shave their heads and grow their beards long, women braid or mat their hair in ropes, and wallach wear women's hairstyles (with a small, trimmed beard when capable).

Urswali pirates proudly wear full body tattoos, with geometric patterns on the limbs, clan identification on their chests, and depictions of their battles and triumphs along their backs. Many tally their (claimed) successful raids with tattoos on their shaved scalps. These tattoos are only permitted to be worn by raiders as a sign of their elite status, though foreign names for the Urswali Dain vary on the theme of 'Painted Ones' (due to the pirates being more often encountered). Full body tattooing traditions are found elsewhere in the dainlands, though more commonly on women and for non war/raiding based purposes. 

The Urswali Dain have superstitions against bringing women on raiding boats. Some wallach are brought instead as sea-wives, who perform women's roles aboard the galleys (sewing, weaving, knitting, slaughtering of livestock, cooking) and may have sexual relations with sailing men.

Example of Dain pirate tattoos, one of Nhodda the Songbird's sons. Image cropped to spare tumblr the terror of a flaccid peanus

[booksandabeer]

Hi,

First of all thank you for all the recs you do, it couldn’t be easy doing all that. I just wanted to ask you about your favourite fics where Steve and Bucky were already together during first avenger and get back together in the future? Once again, thank you so much. Even if you don’t answer this I would still be grateful because I got so many of my favorite fics from your blog. You’re amazing and take care.

Hi!

Thank you very much for your kind words. It's lovely to hear that I could help you find some of your favorite fics. 🥰

I've sat on this ask for a few days now because it's actually a really difficult one for me to answer/find recs for without getting into things that can be quite, uh, awkward to discuss "on main." But I will try. As always, I'm going to ramble, so I'll put this under a cut.

(There will be fic recs in here, I promise. Just scroll down if you want to skip the waffling.)

So. When it comes to fics set in canonverse, I mostly stick to either stories that end before the war or stories where Steve and Bucky only get together once they meet again in the future. I hardly read fics with the premise you've described in your ask because—and this is where it gets dicey—they are rarely ever done in a way that I personally find satisfying.

Here’s the thing: If you read a story set in canonverse, inevitably, at some point the war will arrive and with it: Peggy. Now there’s a much larger, much more complex discussion to be had here about Steve’s perceived sexuality, societal expectations of what constitutes "successful masculinity" in the 1930s/40s, and self-repeating and -reinforcing cycles of fanonization that I don’t want to get into right now, so I’ll just say this: Unless the author goes the polyamory route (which I personally don’t care for and therefore don’t read; at least not in that particular combination), usually none of the characters involved come out of such a scenario looking their best or like they haven’t received a personality transplant from one chapter to the next. I know that some people love that kind of conflict and are really into the angsty drama that comes with it—and they may find my stance on this boring and square—but to be honest with you, there’s already plenty of angsty drama in any story involving Steve and Bucky to begin with; I don’t need this on top of it.

And also—look, to be very blunt about it: If I click on a Steve/Bucky story I want to read a Steve/Bucky story, and decidedly not a story about Steve falling in love with Peggy halfway through—especially not when he’s already been practically married to Bucky for years. I'm okay with scenarios where Steve falls in love with her (or the idea of her, really) because he cannot or thinks he cannot be with Bucky for reasons ranging from very reasonable to entirely idiotic, but in a world where they are already together? Honestly, no thanks. I don't want it.

(Also, let's not even pretend that I don't have a huge Bucky-bias.)

But! you asked for recs and not 500 words of waffling, so I went through my lists and bookmarks to find stories that either try to grapple with this *problem* in a sensitive and thoughtful manner, find elegant ways around it, or simply skip over it entirely.

Here we go:

(Note: The exact meaning of 'Being Together' can vary greatly from story to story)

A Tree Grows In Brooklyn by newsbypostcard | 6 parts, 146K, T-E

Author's summary: "You keep asking me what I want," Bucky manages, eventually. "But on any given day, my number one priority is to get through the day alive and myself, and to do it without killing anyone. Everything else is extra." Each work is a standalone.

-> A Post-CW AU that also tells Steve and Bucky's history with each other through flashbacks. Apart from this series, you can really read any story by this author because they do this neat thing where they use roughly the same pre-war/wartime backstory and then depending on when they wrote it and where MCU canon was at the time, the fics branch off from there. Plus, all of their stories are simply wonderful and I will alway recommend them any chance I get.

The Good Morrow by Hark_bananas | 75K, E

Author's summary: Every night, Steve falls asleep and finds himself dreaming about a diner, and every night he finds Bucky waiting for him there. But in the waking world, Bucky has disappeared, gone on the run after the fall of the Triskelion and Project Insight, and the strange dream that they share may be the only way that Steve has to bring him home.

après nous le déluge by tomorrowsrain | 9K, T

Author's summary: After us, the deluge. Steve and Bucky break, mend, and try to find their place in the world without the mantles of Captain America or the Winter Soldier. AU, post Civil War.

-> Part 1 of gale song series, the second part of which which I recced in my Road Trip Rec List. In fact, there are quite a few fics on that list that fit the premise of 'together before/during the war and getting back together in the 21st Century,' so if you haven't already, you might want to take a look at it!

Roll On by jaxington | 3 parts, 306K, T-M

Author's summary: In 1938, there's a bar in Brooklyn called Sully’s where people are safe to be themselves. Behind the bar, a girl pours drinks. She's always got a big smile for Steve and she says queer like it's a good thing. On a regular basis, she takes his shoulders in her hands and tries to shake sense into him, saying, "When will you do something about that best friend of yours?" In 2012, Bucky’s gone, but Steve’s not, and the girl’s hands are too old to shake him. She does her best to make him see sense anyway. Steve had people who loved him before the war, and it turns out a few of them are still around when he finally comes home.

Practice Makes Perfect by nekare | 10K, M

Author's summary: And it’s just. It’s too much. Weeks of pain and months of missing Steve and his mouth and the stupid shit that comes out of it; years of molding himself to his back at night and pretending there’s nothing else to it apart from sharing warmth; a decade of his stomach twisting with the foolish desire to make Steve laugh.   It's August and sweltering when Steve asks, out of nowhere, if Bucky wants to try kissing. Just to see what it's like. Bucky then spends far, far too many years pretending it didn't mean anything at all.

a hat, a horse (a Hyundai), and the will to ride by synonym4life | 67K, E

Author's summary: After Steve and Bucky rescue their pals from the Raft prison, they decide to dig deeper into Zemo’s involvement in the UN headquarters’ bombing which sends them on a backpacking trip across select European countries. Steve and Bucky believe this is a story about their mission. Scott Lang and Sam Wilson, who join them halfway through, believe it’s a story about their Eurotrip (and they’re probably right). This writer, however, has been waiting to tell you that the fic’s true mission is Steve and Bucky missioning towards missionary. Follow them on their journey across Europe in tiny cars, packed subway trains and even on skis as they tumble down the Swiss Alps (in a fun way this time!), all the while reigniting untold feelings of the past through inappropriate sexual encounters and terrible communication skills.

Five times Steve kissed Bucky by paragon | 16K, T

Author's Summary: (+ once, finally, it was the other way around)

-> I'm very amused by how short this summary is, but the fic really is exactly what it says on the tin: Steve and Bucky kissing, pre-war to post-CA:TWS.

I Wanna Live in the Hidden Parts of Your Skin by Voylitscope_speed | 10K, E

Author's Summary: Sometimes, Steve looks at Bucky across the floor of their apartment or in the middle of the sidewalk, and it's not goddamn fair how good Bucky looks. It's not fair how Steve, who's spent his whole life fighting with his lungs for air and his heart for a steady beat, sometimes looks at Bucky and his breath and pulse are wrong for reasons that aren't his lousy health at all. And ever since the day with the purple ink, Steve can't stop thinking about people being canvases, like the models at that exhibit. Steve keeps thinking that Bucky'd be the most stunning canvas a guy could ever ask for. (Or: Steve and Bucky discover a kink in 1940. They find a reason to come back to it 80 years later. )

All The Angels and The Saints by Speranza | 48K, E

Author's summary: In which Steve Rogers loses God and finds God and loses God, and also: Bucky.

-> Look, this fic does some of the exact things I said above I usually try to avoid, but (1) it doesn't really do it (kind of, it's hard to explain), and (2) it would be *absolutely ridiculous* to not include it when putting together a list of fics with a pre-war to post-WS arc. This fic is legendary for a reason. It rewired my brain. It was one of the first Stucky fics I read that made me realize and appreciate the full potential and beauty of this ship, and to this day, it remains one of my absolute favorites.

▶ I'm really sorry that I didn't write something for every individual fic like I usually do, but I'm moving back to my home country in less than three weeks, so time is very limited right now. I hope this is still ok, and that you'll find something on this list that you like!

▶ There is a series that would've been perfect for this list but unfortunately it was deleted without warning a few months ago. If anybody has a saved copy of apricotcake's long is the road that leads me home that they'd be willing to share with me, I would be forever grateful! I'm still so sad that it's gone and angry with myself that I didn't download it when I had the chance. :(

[evesaintyves]

i don't know if this is a microfic actually but i tried

the secret business

for today's @hinnymicrofic prompt "secret"

cw for implied sexual content

They don't have to meet like this.

She's awake before the tapping. It's some faint rustling of his cloak, or the wind in his broomstick-bristles—or it's some ineffable sense of he's here. She doesn't know. Her eyes are open in the dark, and streaks of moonlight are running down her bedroom wall, and her heart starts kicking in that joyous rhythm: like a tune on the Wireless that she can't quite name before the singing starts.

And then—taptaptap.

He won't take off the invisibility cloak until she opens the window. It's me, he always says, which she thinks is funny but she won't laugh. She's thought about making a joke, like, sorry mate, you'll have to be more specific, but it never feels right in the moment. They always do this with a certain gravity, like it'd matter if they got caught, like if her dad came in her bedroom door at this moment he'd do anything but grin and say ah! Harry! Nice to see you, lad, trouble sleeping? Fancy a mug of warm milk?

When he pulls off the cloak his face is in shadow. She leans out the window, her weight on her hands on the windowsill, and parts her lips just slightly for a kiss. She knows he likes the way the light plays on the fine pale skin of her inner arms. He glances around—maybe it's just leftover wartime vigilance—and leans in, presses his lips against her, and reaches round to grip the back of her head. She can feel the slight vibration of his broomstick through his lips. She can feel the Quidditch calluses on his fingers in her hair.

Coming in or going out? she whispers.

He pauses. It's up to you.

Sometimes he climbs through her open window and into her bed. That's how this started, one night in June after one of the funerals, when even in the dark she could see the lostness, the pain that looked almost like fury, in his face. Under the covers it was hot and humid with their shivering kisses, and with his lips on her cheekbone, he murmured I never wanted this.

She held his face in her hands, and said I know. Anyone who matters knows. She couldn't see his eyes in the dark, but she could feel the breath that left him. His palm crept up her thigh. Desire feels ugly when you've just left someone who loved you in a hole in the ground. But ugly desire kept their minds quiet until morning, when he left in the raw pink of sunrise on his broom.

Take me out, she says. It's stuffy in here.

He turns so she can steady herself on his shoulders and climb on the back of his broom. The breeze is sweet with wilting appleblossom and it flutters her hair across the side of his face.

Sometimes they go over the sleeping hills to the sea and fly low to skim the surface with the tips of their toes. The water at night is black and white. When he tells her hold on, all right? and does a roll, spinning round and round, wetting the ends of her hair, it's hard to tell the sea from the sky.

Sometimes they go to town and float the empty streets under his cloak, the hem of it whispering along the cobblestones. They look for insomniac lights in the windows and witness the criminal cats carry out their chicken-bone heists. The steam from the roof of the bakery. The rumble of delivery vans. The night's secret business.

Tonight he's hungry, and she's up for a long fly. From this altitude, the motorways are rivers of red-and-white light. The grids of the cities are are remote as the stars.  The land on the roof of the all-night curry place he likes in Streatham. It's hot inside and they're swapping out the big steel pot of chai. He gets tandoori chicken, always, and an extra naan, and she picks at a korma she didn't really want and they don't talk much, but it's nice. It's always nice, sitting and not talking with him. The man behind the counter is stacking hot rounds of bread out of the oven with his bare hands. Ginny's hand goes rogue and lays itself on Harry's upturned palm on the table and her fingers touch those calluses, rough and delicate as shells.

He looks up from his chicken. His glasses make his eyes look huge. You're not eating your curry.

Mum made lamb stew. I'm not as hungry as I thought.

A little smile, quick and strange, transits across his face and then he throws his napkin on his plate.

I should get you home, he says. Sun's coming up.

So? she wants to say, but her mouth twitches in its own strange smile and instead she pushes back her plate and says, we'd better hurry, then.

He smuggles her home under his cloak. From this altitude, she can see the curvature of the earth, and the first bluebell flames of daylight smouldering over it. At her window, he kisses her and they grin like they've just done mischief. She'll see him again in the afternoon—they'll sit there at tea with her mum and dad and brothers, hands in their laps, chewing on the urge to yawn–and they won't speak of this at all. Not even when they're alone.

And at three in the morning, her eyes will open—her heart will jump—and then—

[officialfoxsquadron]

shiny happy people

7.2k words | my ao3

rating: mature

cw: discussions of starvation and eating disorders, vomiting and emetophobia, general bad coping mechanisms for trauma

summary: Cassian Andor does not know Pazima Reynard, except to know that they are one and the same; cold, cruel and calculating spies. When the asocial woman-and Cassian's sometime barber-returns to Rebel Base with a fourteen-year-old girl, he finds himself wrestling with the realities of being young during wartime.

“Would you like to hear the news?”

K-2SO’s clipped voice, typically so flat and emotionless, sparkled with a bit of excitement. Cassian Andor, Rebel spy, was sick to death of news. The Rebel droids were worse gossips than the organic beings. Besides, his whole damn job was news and gossip.

“I am going to hear it anyway,” Cassian grumbled, flipping the switches for the landing cycle. Crait, the home of the new Rebel base (and, Cassian supposed, his home), was a desolate, salty planet. The surface ran red as soon as you stepped on it. It made him uneasy.

K prattled on, some nonsense about the Senate and who was sleeping with who and who died. No one Cassian knew or cared about. But he let the droid talk as he watched the Rebel base grow larger, a bloody wound on Crait’s salt-white flesh. 

“Oh, and Pazima Reynard is back at base. She is married to Wedge Antilles and has a sister now.”

That caught his attention. Not necessarily Pazima Reynard’s personal life-frankly, he didn’t give a fuck-but it did remind Cassian he needed a haircut.

“What did we bring back to trade?” He looked over his shoulder, making a quick mental intake. Booze, cigarras, nudie holos, food from off-world–some combination of those would be enough to trade for a trim. He had not looked in the mirror since stitching up a blast wound back on Daiyu, but he knew that his hair had grown far too long. It fell sometimes, greasy and dark, in front of his eyes. 

A shame I cannot see the back of my own head, Cassian mused. Then I could just take care of it myself, and be done with it.

“Perhaps something for the girl,” K suggested, his voice surprisingly light. “She is fourteen.”

Fourteen . He sniffed. What madness had possessed Pazima to bring a teenager into an army base?

He shot K a dark look. “I don’t care,” he declared.

“As you say.” The droid paused. “Do not worry, Cassian. They will send you away again soon enough.”

He grunted, but said nothing. The voice of some traffic controllers crackled onto his comms, and Cassian responded in kind. He landed the ship without incident, and braced himself for the next few weeks in the cesspool of doomed young people he called home.

“I brought you something to trade.” He held up a holotape, something he had found stashed away.

Pazima Reynard, tall, stern and statuesque, stood blocking the doorway to her bunkroom. He had not seen her for more than a year. He had almost forgotten how beautiful she was. Almost. Pazima, who wore her black hair in tight knots, complementing her angular face and tattooed copper skin, was not the type of woman to let you forget.

She eyed him skeptically, lifting an eyebrow. “You said whisky.”

“This is better. Music from before the Empire,” he said, stepping forward. He knew music was her great weakness. She snatched the tape from him, examining it.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Don’t remember.”

She sniffed, looking over the tape, and then down at him. “Fine,” she said haughtily, waving her hand and turning her back, “but only because you look pathetic, like a wet runyip.”

Cassian allowed himself to laugh and followed her into the bunkroom.

The bunkrooms on Crait are small, claustrophobic, dreary things, more like the prison cells on Narkina 5 than comfortable homes. At the very least, they had windows into the cavernous hallway, the artificial light providing a facsimile of normal family life. There was barely enough space for a chair and table, smushed into the back of the room. One of their four bunks was overflowing with junk. Above it sat Pazima’s new sister, curled into a ball and staring at him.

The girl was fourteen, according to K, but hunger had stunted her growth. She looked healthy enough now, if a bit pale, but Cassian saw the signs of past malnourishment. Limbs too short, skin covered in scars and stretched too taut, bones jutting like knives beneath her skin, threatening to pop at any moment. He was probably close to her age when he saw them in his own reflection, older still when he truly understood what it meant.

Still, he had grown into his looks. He wondered if she ever would. She bore a scar on one eye, red and angry and unsettling, making the pupil cloudy and gray. A shock of curly orange hair erupted from her head, messy and unkempt, falling to her shoulders.

A one-eyed ginger. What a catastrophe.

“Lottie,” Pazima said, gentler than he ever imagined her speaking, her deep voice the comforting rumble of thunder. “This is a colleague of ours, Cassian Andor.”

“Hello.” It came out shorter than he expected. It’s not that he disliked children, he just didn’t know what to do around them.

She blinked at him, then tilted her head, sizing him up like a fighter in the ring. Then, quick and quiet as a ghost, she scurried down the ladder and out of the room.

Pazima sighed wearily, watching her sister flash by in a red blur, shutting the door. “She hasn’t been talking much,” she said absently. “We thought she made some progress, but-” She turned to him abruptly. “You don’t care. Sit.”

She was right, of course. He respected Pazima, which was kind of like caring for someone, when respect is all you are allowed to feel.

“Colleague?” he teased lightly.

“What would you call it?”

He pondered that. “Hunters who sometimes chase the same prey.”

She grinned with approval. “Sit,” she insisted, gesturing again to her chair.

He breathed in and out, steadying himself. As much as he needed to be on base, to check in and regroup with his allies, he hated it. It was too banal, too domestic, too structured.

Relax, Cassian. It’s just hair.

Maarva cut his hair once. She was very bad at it, chopping roughly and chiding him to sit still through gritted teeth. Eventually, she gave up and outsourced it to an old man down the road. His name was Jossam, and he always had a sweet for him.

He sat in the chair and allowed Pazima to wrap an old blanket around his shoulders.

“Where did you learn to do this?” he asked, something he is sure he has asked her before.

“I went to an all-girls school,” she replied, as if that explained everything.

“Is that true?”

She snorted. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

The scissors snipped at his hair lightly. It was uncomfortable, yet somehow relaxing to have someone touch him so matter-of-factly. Not insistent or passionate, like a lover, nor rough and feral like an enemy. The kind of touch that just is , and it’s enough to lull Cassian into a kind of madness.

His eyes fixed on the empty bunk where Pazima’s sister once was. Was he ever so young?

How old were you when you first killed someone? Do you even remember?

“I didn’t take you for the type,” he said quietly.

Pazima groaned like a teenager. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Judge.” Her eyes narrowed in warning when he turned to meet them.

“I’m not judging, I just thought-“ Thought you were too cold-hearted for that. That’s what we are, after all. Automatons made of stone and ice, sent to kill without thought, without question. He focused forward again, looking at the door. “Does she know what you are?”

“Of course she does, Cassian. Better than you .”

“And so what, so she will be-“

“Why do you care?”

It’s a sharp question, and a good one.

“I was a soldier too young.”

“So was I. I gave her a choice. I didn’t just take her.”

He woke up on Maarva and Clem’s ship with a deathly ringing in his head. Their voices, speaking frantically in hushed tones, grated on his ear. Worse, he couldn’t understand a thing they were saying-Galactic Basic was still harsh, discordant gibberish to him then.

I didn’t have a choice. 

Then again, Maarva would always say she didn’t have a choice either.

Pazima, ever the observant spy, snipped the scissors decisively. She twisted her mouth into the idea of a smile. 

“Perhaps we’re just getting old, Cassian. Bail Organa has brought his daughter to base.”

Yes, he knew that too. It was hard to miss the stalwart column of a girl standing next to her father, going from meeting to meeting in a pristine white dress, large brown eyes observant and calculating. 

“She isn’t much older than Lottie,” she suggested. 

She is looking for absolution, Cassian realized. Absolution from me.

He was sure he had woken up in the underworld that day. It was like they always told the younger children on Kenari, when the sun fell and the flickers of the campfire elongated their fingers into long shadows. Wander too far from the group, and you’ll end up in the world below ours. The one the off-worlders found when they dug too deep.

“Will they be my new allies? This…flock of teenage girls?”

“Believe it or not, Cassian, I wasn’t thinking of you when I found her.”

“Then what were you thinking?” There it is, the kill shot, the question Cassian really wanted to ask. He wanted to grab her and scream it in her face. What is it, that compels you to rip a child away from their home, teach them a new language, force them to fight for the galaxy?l

Pazima stopped, taken aback by his fervor, before stepping in front of him. The sound of her boots echoed on the cave floor. She gripped the arms of his chair, one, then another, her pair of scissors balled into a fist. Cassian felt himself leaning back, and watched as that facsimile of a smile twisted into something uglier, meaner, as she leaned forward, filling the empty space with herself.

“You’re in my home, Cassian.” Her voice was soft, but sharp, a velvet glove concealing a steel fist. The muscles in her long tattooed arms twitched in anticipation, as if her body itself hungered for a fight. She lifted an eyebrow, brown eyes delighting in his physical disadvantage. She was stronger, taller, and had him practically trapped beneath her. 

In other words, he was prey, and she the predator, deciding if she would devour him. If it was anyone else, any time else, Cassian would have reached for his blaster.

But regret slowed his hand. What was he doing? He hardly knew this woman, only that she was dangerous, and he had questioned her, threatened her, pushed his own past into her present.

“Mind your tone.”

It was an order. He nodded.

Quickly, and as if nothing had happened, her hands left the chair and she walked back behind him, trimming his hair again.

They passed a few moments of silence, enough for Cassian to continue wallowing in remorse. She takes another strand of hair, and before cutting, decides to speak.

“Do you remember the Jedi?” she asked.

What a strange question. He had been alive when the Jedi were active-or so he thought. Kenari was far away from such things, and the idea that there was any sort of power in the galaxy besides the Empire was a distant fantasy. 

“No.”

“They took children away from their parents. There was a Jedi general in the Clone Wars who was twelve .”

“I didn’t know you were religious.” 

“I’m not. I just remember.” Pazima ran two of her fingers through Cassian’s hair, snipping away again. “This galaxy has always forced children to grow up too fast. With me, at least she will have steady meals and a bed.”

“She will be in a war.”

“She always was.”

The conversation lulls, and the monotonous sound betrays the electric charge in the air. Both of them knew what was happening; they were digging and digging, getting dangerously close to something honest.

Neither of them liked honesty. Honesty is what kills you. Lies kept you alive.

Yet honesty was irresistible, a gravitational pull. How many times had Cassian seen it–one truth spilled out, then another, then another, until you were weeping, telling your life story to someone you barely knew? How many times had he exploited it?

Pazima knew that too. They were liars, both of them.

When she spoke again, he wasn’t surprised to find the truth pouring out of her. Her voice was distant, quiet, as if it came from someplace far away.

“You and I won’t be alive to see the galaxy we hope to build. Surely you understand that.”

“Yes.” Wars were fought by teenagers, twenty-somethings. Pazima was in her thirties, Cassian not far behind. Young by peacetime standards, practically elderly in wartime. The clock had never ticked louder.

“What are we doing it all for, if not for them?”

That’s just love. Nothing you can do about that.

“I suppose you’re right,” Cassian admitted, his eyes on the empty bunk. “But I don’t remember ever being so young.”

Pazima sighed, long and weary, following Cassian’s gaze.

“Neither do I.”

A week goes by, maybe more, and the next time he passes the Reynards’ bunkroom, it’s a muffled roar of sound.

Cassian can’t help himself. Ever the spy, he slips into the shadows and looks through their window, curious at what he will find.

Wedge Antilles, Pazima Reynard’s husband, was the very model of a Rebellion pilot. Young, cocky, brash, and handsome. The type of man other men with too much adrenaline love to idolize. Not exactly who he thought Pazima would go for, but then again, he barely knew her.

He observed Wedge with an attempt at cool disinterest, though in truth, he found himself jealous at the easy way he flitted in and out of the window’s view, the winning smiles he gave the men gathered around him.

Laughter rose and fell, and then rose again, the sharp noise growing louder as Wedge opened and closed the door.

“Lottie! Where the hell have you-” Cassian made to scurry off, but it was too late. Wedge’s eyes locked onto his. “Oh, hello. Cassian Andor, right?” He stuck his hand out. “Wedge Antilles. Pazima said she cut your hair.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” he said, shaking his hand, searching quickly for an escape.

“This what you like to do?” Wedge said, flashing that smile and stepping forward, a bit of a sway in his walk. “You like to watch?”

Cassian snorted, the side of his mouth twitching despite himself. “I am an intelligence officer. It’s my job to be curious.”

“Well, you’re welcome to join us.” He gestured to the door with a beer bottle in his hand. “It’s a tight squeeze, but you’ll fit.”

“That’s alright,” he said. “Crowds make me uncomfortable.”

“Suit yourself,” Wedge said, shrugging. His manner was easy, but Cassian saw something in the young man’s eyes, a fierce intelligence. He knitted his thick black brows together, darting his eyes up and down the hallway. “Have you seen Pazima’s sister, by the way? Short, redheaded, one-eyed. Very hard to miss.”

“No.”

“Worth a shot.” He clapped Cassian on the shoulder, before pointing a finger at him. “Don’t be a stranger. I’m serious.”

Cassian wanted to curl up in a hole. This was exactly the type of social interaction he hated. What an embarrassing thing it was, to need people.

Still, he nodded. Wedge seemed to be a worthy ally. 

“Good night, Captain Antilles.”

“Night.”

The door closed, and Cassian walked away, determined to get back to his ship and sleep alone. He hated it here-all of them crammed into bunks carved into a cave, He longed to get a mission, any mission, fly with K2 somewhere shady and seedy and terrible, away from this prison of domesticity.

A sound from the shadows pricked at his ears, pulling him out of his reverie.

He knew the sound of drunken retching far too well, and someone was heaving, little gasps coming in between deep eruptions of sound.

He wanted to turn away, but something told him to stay. He should at least try to be a part of a community again.

“Hello?” he called, stepping towards the sound. “Do you need a medic?”

Two eyes peeked out from the shadows, the cold artificial light causing them to sparkle like stars.

Then Lottie Reynard stumbled forward, and promptly vomited onto Cassian’s shoes.

“What the fuck,” he groaned, shaking his foot and recoiling in disgust.

The girl blinked, scanning Cassian’s face as she wiped spittle from her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked truly pathetic, gripping the neck of a liquor bottle with white knuckles, chunks of vomit intertwined in her ragged red curls.

He almost pitied her, until he found himself slammed against the wall, a shriek ringing in his ears and a blade digging into his skin.

This is what you get for being kind, Cassian. Puke on your shoes and a knife at your throat.

He looked down at her, this tiny, savage animal.

“I could reach for my blaster and kill you,” he whispered. 

Her eyes flitted towards the weapon, then back to him, jutting her chin. “You would hesitate,” she reckoned, eyes narrowing as she scanned his face. Pazima said she didn’t talk, and perhaps it was better that way. Her voice was squeaky, so high-pitched it was almost grating, with a nearly indecipherable accent. “You are the type of man who hesitates to kill a child.”

“Am I?” He looked down at the weapon at his throat. Its wavy edges were sharp and fine, the blade decorated with etchings he could not quite see. “Your knife is very beautiful,” he said calmly. The tip pricked the skin of his neck, drawing blood. He groaned and held his hands in the air, a gesture of peace, but his irritation was clear. “I am only trying to get back to my ship.”

“You startled me,” she said in a much smaller voice, before withdrawing and sheathing the knife against her thigh.

“You shouldn’t draw a weapon on strangers here. Not everyone is as kind as me.”

“You kill children,” she hissed, closing the gap between them once again. He could smell her sickly-sweet breath, see how her mismatched eyes shook with nervous energy.

He leaned closer, keeping his voice even.

“So do you.”

That was enough to get her to back away, working her jaw, wiping her mouth again before taking a swig from her bottle. 

It was jarring to watch a teenager drink from a bottle like one born to it. His heart, stupid thing, spoke before his brain. “I was like you once.”

The girl scoffed, face twisting in disgust as she rolled her eyes, tossing her messy hair. “So what does that make you? My daddy?” She said the last two words with such mocking disdain, and he found himself laughing in spite of himself. 

“I am too young for that.” I hope. “I meant I was very hungry once. Did you eat something today?”

“I-” She blinked, shaking her head, turning into herself. “No. I forgot.”

“You should,” he said. He pulled a ration bar from his pocket. “Especially if you plan on drinking half a bottle of gin.”

She looked at the bottle in her hand, before taking the bar and devouring the way only starving children could, crumbs falling onto her shirt. “I shouldn’t, I know, I just…I don’t sleep so good anymore.”

“So well.”

“What?”

“So well. Basic wasn’t my first language either.”

“Oh, great. A Basic lesson as well as a fucking lecture.” Her words slurred together, and she slumped against the wall.

Cassian shook his head, getting up. “Good night. I’ll tell Wedge where you are.”

“No-wait, Cassian.” She reached out, trying to tug at his jacket, his leg, before falling and stumbling again. He turned around.

“I’m sorry,” she said, something startlingly honest and pleading in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that. I think I’ve forgotten how to trust people,” she added quietly, folding further into herself.

“That’s alright,” he said, as gently as he possibly could. “I have too.”

Quicker than lightning, she stood up and swiped at the blood on his neck, collecting it onto the tip of her finger. He watched her, stunned, as she observed it dripping on her fingers, illuminated by moonlight.

Then, she closed her eyes, swaying just a bit, before nodding.

“You will die on a beach, in the arms of the woman you love,” she said, quiet and assured. She opened her eyes and smiled, a sincere attempt at comfort. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

She shook the blood off of her hands and disappeared. They never spoke again.

The years have changed them all.

Cassian is still sullen, but then there is Jyn Erso, all fiery hope and determination, and she pierces him straight to the core. She makes the world come alive again, and with her, Cassian feels that there might be a future. Not for him, maybe, but for someone.

Scarif is a beach planet, and there is very little time for goodbyes.

Pazima Reynard is not a part of the Scarif mission. Whoever she is off of base, on base she is a mechanic. Even with a welding mask over her face, she was easy to spot. Her hair was now dyed a bright greenish-blue, locs piled onto her head, adding even more height to her tall frame. Sparks flew around her as she worked, illuminating her tattooed skin.

He was not a loud man, but he called her name. She lifted the mask, running her sweat and oil-slick hands into a towel.

“Your hair is very bright,” he observed.

“Cassian.” Her face remained passive, but her voice was rich with warmth. “Got bored on a stakeout.”

“A stakeout? Funny place for a mechanic to be.”

“Yes, well,” She abandoned her thought, crossing her arms. “I hear you’ll be leaving soon.”

“Keep it quiet.” he said, voice dropping to a semi-serious, conspiratorial whisper. “If we need it, can we rely on you to rally the pilots?”

“Of course. I’ve roped Bail in as well. You’ve got people here rooting for you.”

He took a look around Rebel Base, maybe for the last time. This one, built out of an abandoned temple on Yavin IV, is much better than Crait. There’s something freeing about Yavin, like the Rebels have carved out a slice of the jungle, hidden away just for them. For a year or so, it felt like nothing could touch them.

Then Jyn Erso, and the Death Star. 

Time waits for no one. He won’t inherit the galaxy they’re building.

I’ll miss this, he thought, surprising himself. I’ll miss being on the outside of this, the great concentric circles of people, orbiting around each other. He had not had a home for a very long time, but Rebel Base was as close as he could get. 

A chorus of shrieking giggles interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see Lottie Reynard laughing with a Mirilan medic, the two child-women passing cards between them and the droid mechanic K loved, some teenage boy with thick glasses. 

Their eyes met, very briefly, before Lottie ducked her head down, hiding the bright pink blush creeping up her skin.

Her words have rattled around in his head. They were easy enough to pass off as the drunken, nonsense ramblings of a half-mad fourteen year old.

Then he met Jyn, and saw the Death Star’s destruction.

“Sorry,” Pazima said absently, putting a hand on her hip. “I have tried to tell her she laughs like a Kowakian monkey-lizard. You can imagine how that went.”

Cassian shook his head. Truthfully, he took some kind of comfort in the fact that despite everything, teenage girls will always giggle too loud.

Then it hits him. Lies require time. The truth is something immediate, something to do when there’s no time left.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You’ve done a good job with her.”

It was like watching a mask come off, seeing the confusion on Pazima’s features. Her brows knitted together, and then a smile. She had dimples when she smiled. He had never noticed before.

“I thought you didn’t care,” she said, after a moment.

“I don’t,” he said. “So you can trust me. A neutral observer. A former skeptic, even.”

She crossed her arms, shaking her head, looking at Lottie, then her boots, tapping her foot absently. “Well, glad you’re convinced,” she mumbled. “I’m still not.”

“I don’t think parents ever think they do a good job,” he said. “My mother thought I had too many women, too many secrets. She still loved me, though. And that was enough.”

Pazima hummed, and he watched as she looked over at her sister again, before turning to him, sighing deeply.

“I’m not good at this kind of talk,” she admitted.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss her worries. “Then I’ll let you get back to work. But…” He looked at her, really looked, noting the deep-set inner corners of her eyes, her flat, straight nose, her full lips, her high cheekbones, her square jaw, the freckles dotting her cheeks. He let himself take in the sight of a supernaturally beautiful woman, for no other reason than he could.

“Can I ask you for a favor? You’re the only one I can trust with it.” He reached for her hand, not caring about the oil and grease staining them, only caring for a desperate moment of connection.

If Pazima was confused before, she was even more so now, shocked at his sudden display of emotion.

“Cassian-“

“There is a woman, her name is Kerri. She’s from Kenari. She’d be twenty-nine, maybe thirty by now. If…if you hear about her doing whatever it is you do, look into it for me, okay? She’s probably dead, but someone has to.”

Pazima squeezed his hand, nodding like one taking a solemn vow. “I will.”

Lottie has always been an awful sailor, which is one of her more irritating qualities.

Pazima had thought, when she first found her, that she would take to it. She had hoped the ocean could be a mother to Lottie, the way it is to her. But she didn’t-her fingers so deft with a blade were clumsy with a knot, and she couldn’t remember half of the things she needed to.

Just follow the wind, Pazima. Chart your course, but follow the wind.

It was a rare opportunity for them, this trip to Ethamaia. One day, Wedge and Jax had announced proudly that they had swindled Wedge’s own parents out of the place. One of their ridiculous schemes, but it had paid off. Like so many times before, the Rebellion splintered after the battle of Yavin, scattering and hiding until a new, safer base could be found.

But for the first time in many years, this didn’t feel like hiding. It felt like resting. It felt like exhaling.

They needed this, fuck , did they need it. The battle of Scarif was a bloodbath, a litany of dead allies, dead friends. Alderaan was worse. And then the battle of Yavin, a desperate last stand against total annihilation…

Bail Organa used to tell her this was a war of a thousand cuts. Well, Bail, she wanted to ask him, do you still think that will work? Because we’ve all been cut a thousand times, and yet here we are, bleeding out.

Of course, Bail was dead now, blown up by a superweapon, and she could hardly rage against his nineteen-year-old daughter, showing up to command armies in her soiled white dress.

She exhaled and looked out at the sea, bundling rope in her hands. This was the last part of her past she allowed in her life. She was someone else once, someone with parents and brothers, and the sea was a part of her very blood. No matter how much she tried to forget–and she did–the sea still remembered. It still called to her, the vast expanses of blue, broken up only by white, sparkling sands. She looked over at her sister. She perched on the rail of the ship, swinging her legs absently as she smoked. Did she pick up that habit on Coruscant, or from Pazima? She couldn’t remember, and had never cared to stop it. You had to deal with the war somehow, and it was either that or the bottle or bad, weird sex. Pazima had tried all three, and found a cigarra the least destructive.

There was something striking about Lottie-not always the best quality in an assassin, Pazima would admit, but it drew her in. Her face was that of a brutalized doll. It was heart shaped and sweet, with something bullish about it too—a missing eye, a crooked, broken nose, round cheeks that went from cute to jowly depending on her mood. The sun was setting, which made her orange-red hair more brilliant. A bit of fire amongst the endless waves. It was her one truly beautiful feature, and Pazima watched as it twisted, blown by the salty sea air.

She is a woman now, Pazima lamented. Lottie has been for a while, but sentiment-stupid thing-stopped her from seeing clearly.

Cassian Andor once asked her why she had taken Lottie in. The answer still eluded her. There were some ready made ones, of course. Lottie was a sad young girl who Pazima helped to safety; the sob story she gave the Rebellion. Lottie was prodigiously talented at killing with a finely tuned survival instinct, able to move between man and woman, innocent and cunning in an instant; the reasons she gave Wedge, and the reasons why Lottie made such a good assassin.

But none of them sufficed. None of them were right.

There was an idea the Creidye had, the lower-level Coruscanti cult that had spawned Charlotte Reynard into the galaxy. They thought families could be forged, built by durasteel knives and blood bonds. Pazima despised most of their ideology, their fanaticism, their slavish devotion. But the Creidye had helped her when she needed it. She owed them a debt, like it or not.

So when she found herself in the lower levels, after a decade away from the planet that raised her, and found it filled with feral children, what choice did she have?

“Stop looking at me.” Lottie had eyes in the back of her head sometimes–something Pazima had trained her to have, an acute awareness of her surroundings. She felt a blush of pride at her sister’s perception.  “Or at least tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“Just thinking we’re the same, you and I.”

“Oh?” She turned to her, exhaling smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Well, I would think so, we’re sisters.”

Pazima snorted out a laugh. A secret smile passed between them.

Lottie spoke again, hopping onto the deck with a dancer’s flair. “Cassian Andor said the same thing once.”

She crossed her arms. “That you’re sisters?”

“That he and I were the same.”

“Huh.” She was fairly sure Cassian held a personal grudge against Lottie for existing. The things you learn after people die. She took the cigarra from her sister’s delicate fingers and inhaled, before croaking out a response. “I didn’t know you talked to him.”

“I didn’t. I put a knife to his throat once.”

“ Charlotte! ”

“I was drunk, it wasn’t a good decision,” Lottie shrugged, as if that was an excuse.

Pazima pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling the cigarra again, feeling the smoke choke at her lungs. “Please tell me this was an isolated incident.”

“If it wasn’t, one of us would’ve died a lot earlier,” Lottie pointed out.

“That-” Pazima exhaled, in and out, attempting to find patience. It was a hard thing to find around Lottie, even harder when she was right about something. “You are aggravating.”

“Yes.” She paused, blinking. “But you have to admit it’s kind of funny.”

“I once was under Imperial torture nonstop for a week. Guess what I admitted?” She bent over, curling her lip in triumph. “Nothing, little sister.”

Lottie blinked, taking the cigarra from her. “Only you could find a way brag about surviving Imperial torture.”

Do you know why I chose you, Pazima? His voice, the Fox assassin that had taught and trained her, the one she had held in her arms as he died, rose from the whirlpool of memory. Because you, dear one, can endure.

“Just trying to impart some wisdom. A lesson for you.”

“I’m bored with lessons.” Lottie slouched onto the side of the railing, tossing her hair. She could be quite glamorous when she wanted, curls of red hair and curls of smoke intertwining, a budding femme fatale.

She could also be supremely annoying.

How many times had Pazima heard that particular complaint? Trying to teach her to read was the worst. It’s so booooo-ring, Pazzy. All the letters switch up and dance in my mind.

“You will be the only Fox left after I die,” Pazima said. The Fox, an ancient line of assassins, reduced now to two women on a boat. The history of whatever they were was gone. “Someday, you’ll miss my boring lessons.”

“No, that’s not right,” Lottie said, scrunching her nose and shaking her head. “We’re both meant to bear witness.”

There she was, the priestess, spouting inane prophecies. Lottie saw time differently. They all did, the Creidye, giving up individual Force sensitivity for something different, something communal. Something borne of a world with no moon and no sun and no seasons. Something kept hidden and locked away. Something even the Jedi feared. Something that it took an entire city-planet to bury.

How does one stop the tide , Pazima wondered. How does one stop the rain?

“You have to stop saying odd shit, Lottie. Especially when you’re not around me.”

“Luke says odd shit,” Lottie pouted, tossing the stubbed cigarra with deadly accuracy to a trash can.

Pazima groaned, throwing her head back. Luke this and Luke that. He was Lottie’s most recent obsession, the Jedi descended from the very heavens to save them all. 

“Luke blew up the Death Star.” And he’s a man and a fucking Skywalker, she wanted to add. Two advantages we both lack.

“Everyone remembers the Jedi more than the Coruscanti,” Lottie said.

“He’s as green as they come,” she countered. Greener . “He’s from the Outer Rim, things are different there. And you’re not just Coruscanti.” Pazima smirked. “I’m sure you tell him quite a story about your homeworld.”

“And what of it?” Lottie hissed. “Am I forbidden from even speaking of them now?”

Pazima scoffed, but shook her head. This was the hardest thing to articulate to her, the kind of  wisdom that only came with age. Pazima was old by Rebel standards-thirty-five-but so damn young compared to real people. 

The things Lottie had survived created only two things. Cynic, and zealot. Lottie had latched onto religion, despite Pazima’s objections. Now this kid, this son of Skywalker…

This is a war for the zealots now, fought by idealistic, traumatized teenagers. She looked up at the stars, just beginning to wink at her as the sun dipped below the horizon line. She found the light of Alderaan, still blazing bright, a beacon from a better time.

Endure, Pazima, endure.

“You are still dreaming of a world that does not exist.” Or maybe it did once. Perhaps the brilliant under-levels of Coruscant, with its boundless love and fiery magic and theatrical trickery, the one Pazima knew filled Lottie’s head, perhaps it still existed, burning alongside Alderaan.

“You don’t like Luke,” she observed, tilting her head.

“My personal feelings have nothing to do with it,” Pazima said, grateful for the change in topic. “He’s dangerous, we’d all do well to remember that.”

“Yeah, but he’s kind,” Lottie insisted. “Like Cassian.”

“Yes,” Pazima admitted. Which made him all the more unpredictable. What happens when the kindness burns away, and only the ashes and his raw power remain? He’s already killed millions, they just happened to be on the wrong side. 

Perhaps someday I will be done with grief , she thought. She could have all the time in the galaxy, and it still wouldn’t be enough to list those she had lost. It’s hardest to mourn someone like Cassian, someone who she barely knew yet knew better than anyone. They were too similar, the two of them, too intense and brooding.

Cassian was giddy when he smiled, like a little boy. It was so rare and it always made Pazima’s heart stop for a very brief moment. She did not love him, she hardly knew him. Yet it was enough to remind her of all she had lost.

“Why did Cassian say you were the same?”

“I dunno,” Lottie shrugged, voice quiet. “Something about being hungry.”

“Hm.” Lottie had been hungry, that was true enough. The Creidye were rich in revolutionary ideas and dusty legends, but very poor in any real resources. She hadn’t known Cassian was hungry. But then again, she never asked. Pazima had long ago learned to live with regrets, to let them wash over her like waves.

“Everyone always sees what they want in me,” Lottie muttered. “No one ever sees me for me.”

Her brow furrowed. Her sister was as prone to fits of melancholy as she was to vague prophecies. As far as Pazima was concerned, one had as little value as the other. She couldn’t have Lottie fall into despair, any less than she could have her go mad.

“I see you.” She petted a hand over her sister’s hair. Pazima knew she was bad at this. She was too direct, too cold, all of the warmth burnt out of her long ago. 

It’s a wonder Lottie’s only a chain-smoker.

“No,” Lottie said, tracing a finger over a scar on her arm. “No, you don’t.” 

A small crack formed in Pazima’s heart. I’m sorry, I’m sorry , she wanted to say. I hope I gave you enough time to be young.

Then Lottie shrugged, easy and languid, so much like Wedge–the warm brother and father Pazima never quite could be, the one Lottie so desperately needed. “That’s okay. I don’t think I see you clearly either.”

Pazima huffed out a laugh, relieved that the gloomy spell seemed to have passed. 

“By design,” she said. “A blank, beautiful slate, for idiots to see what they want.”

“Are you saying I’m an idiot?”

She wrapped an arm around her sister, pulled her to her, and kissed the top of her head.

“Yes.”

She stood up, walking over to where she had set up a little holotape player. Pazima was done talking. How foolish she had been, so many years ago, thinking spycraft would be all blasters and fast ships and fabulous dresses. It was mostly just talking, navigating the asteroid fields of wit and words and agendas. 

At the very least , she thought, looking over at Lottie, she’s better at that than I am.

She thumbed through her box of tapes, finding the one she was searching for.

Cassian had swindled her out of a haircut for it. She had high rates–after all, along with being the best mechanic and the best shot in the Rebellion, she was the best, and for a while the only, hairdresser. Still, she had let him pay with just this one little holotape, big brown eyes, and a sob story. 

Your enemies must think you are strong. Only you, Pazima, can know you are weak.

“Cassian gave me this,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Lottie, holding the tape between two fingers. “On Crait, after we got back to the Rebellion from Laakteen.”

Lottie scrambled to her feet, snatching the tape from Pazima’s hands, wrinkling her nose as she read the title. “Chaos Theory by Senators of Rhythm. What is this, jizz? Gonkrock?”

“Nah, more…electro-twang, I’d call it, but a little funkier than that. I never thought this would’ve been Cassian’s thing.”

“The kind of music you used to sing?”

Pazima smiled, allowing herself a bit of wistfulness. “No, little sister. But a good kind of music nonetheless.”

“Won’t the neighbors hear?” Lottie asked. They had docked on a little inlet, far enough from any real trouble, but still close enough to see the tops of the shell-white mansions peeking over the horizon line

She smirked. On Ethamaia, their neighbors were arms dealers and Imperial swine.

“Fuck ‘em.” she declared, and Lottie giggled giddily. 

Pazima could’ve admonished Lottie for the laugh-it was loud and wild, much like her, and certainly too attention-drawing for any assassin-but how could she? If there was anything that drew the sisters together, that drew all Coruscanti together, it was music. 

Pazima wasn’t a Coruscanti in the way her sister was. She wasn’t born under the city, nor even in one of the skyscrapers of the wealthy. Her home planet, Xuhiri, was vast and blue and sparse in a way someone like Lottie could only imagine. But like all of the female scions of great noble houses, Pazima was shipped off to Coruscant to learn how to smile and please, to host dinner parties and flatter the egos of wealthy men. It was in that great orchestra of a city, a symphony of speeder horns and conversation, that she first knew what love was.

Love was the sound of a Bith soprano at the Galaxies Opera House. A street busker strumming their double viol on the streets of Uscru Entertainment district, nodding and smiling as Pazima tossed a credit their way. And love, well, of course it was the Creidye performance troupes, emerging from the lower levels, soaking up the meager sun as they beat their heavy drums, their long hair swaying in time with the music and their dancers twirling their swords, the blades running over scarred skin and somehow never drawing blood.

She pressed play on the holotape and closed her eyes. She heard the familiar beat of a song long forgotten, a drum kit cuing in the singer and the backing band.

Her sister was already fidgeting in time with the music when Pazima reached out her hand, as if the music coursed through her very blood.

She took her hand gladly, and Pazima spun her sister around, watching her beautiful red hair twirl around her.

Dancing with her, on the deck of this ship that was somehow theirs, feet remembering steps she had learned long ago on Coruscant, to the music given to them by a dead man, Pazima couldn’t help but feel like this was all a dream. It was too nice, too sweet. The laughter came to her unbidden, flowing like a stream from her belly to her breath.

She watched Lottie, seventeen and hopelessly alive. Their two bodies moved in time as they danced, one scarred, one tattooed, both wearing their histories on their skin.

She felt again that prick of guilt, the one that threatened to consume her, the one Cassian had found so long ago, when Lottie was still half-mute. She was dancing now, and Cassian was dead.

There was no room for guilt, not anymore. The cause was still a hopeless one when Pazima brought Lottie to base. That had all changed now, thanks to the sandy-haired Jedi’s son from Tatooine.

He could win them the war. And Lottie, well…

Pazima sent a silent prayer to the waves.

If she dies, let her die young. Let her become a martyr and stay young and wild and beautiful forever.

And please, please, please, let me die before her.

[weariedwight]

Faegalad, Wight of Eregion

((bio under the cut!))

Name(s): Amdiriel (daughter of hope; father-name); Faegalad (spirit of radiance; mother-name)

Epessë/Nickname(s): Narupîneth (little red); Fae; Maethorwen (warrior maiden); Maethorwen, Commander of a Broken Army; Wight of Eregion

Title(s): Lady; Ring-bearer; Commander

Gender: cis female (she/her)

Date of Birth: Second Age 1582, March 20th

Age: 4,880 years old (as of TA 3021)

Race: Elven (half Noldorin, half Silvan)

Height: 6'0"

Face Claim: Florence Welch

Voice Claim: Florence Welch

Hair: deep red with a lock of gray; classic length

Eyes: gray-blue; blind right eye

Language(s): Sindarin (primary proficiency); Westron (primary proficiency); Exilic Quenya (professional working proficiency); Khuzdul (professional working proficiency)

Anything spoken in Sindarin will be displayed "{like so}", in Exilic Quenya "[like so]", and Khuzdul "< like so >".

Realm(s): Ost-in-Edhil, Eregion (formally); Ost-in-Rínas, Eregion

Orientation: demiromantic; demisexual

Horse: Sador (during and after the events of lotr)

Skill(s): sword fighting; archery; horseback riding; hunting; fishing; foraging; tracking; diplomacy; singing; dancing; basic healing (through use of magic and herbs); natural navigation; combat; falconry

Family:

immediate: Brenior (father); Ellother (mother)

maternal: Barhador (grandfather); Eweneth (grandmother)

paternal: Mahtan (grandfather); Nerdanel (aunt); Fëanor (uncle); Maedhros (cousin); Maglor (cousin); Celegorm (cousin); Caranthir (cousin); Curufin (cousin); Amras (cousin); Amrod (cousin); Celebrimbor (first cousin once removed)

Identifiable Marking(s): heavy freckling across her face, back, chest, and shoulders; long scar across her right eye; heavy scarring across her back and shoulders; scattered scars across her body (scar chart)

Associated Item(s): Hathellas (leaf blade; the Star of Fëanor is represented on the pommel; longsword); Echmith (thorn of gray; dirk); long silver chain necklace wrapped thrice around her neck; hooded black cloak with a white dogwood flower brooch; golden circlet adorned with leaves and a small emerald

Notable Habit(s): intense staring when focused; often scanning her surroundings; head tilting

Affliction(s): C-PTSD; depression; survivor’s guilt

Personality Traits:

positive: lionhearted; clever; resilient; kind-hearted

neutral: proud; stubborn; guarded; dignified; observant

negative: blunt; self-sacrificial; relentless; distrustful

Bonus: pinterest; spotify

Background:

cw/tw for: war, death, murder, wartime imprisonment, torture

details can be found here

please note that events listed are only relevant to Faegalad in some way

[redd956]

Military Whump: Unfamiliar Environments

Whumpee was sent out into an extreme weather environment, as the seasons come around to worsen it, whumpee realizes that they were given no proper equipment to take it on

Deploy a whumpee whose never seen the snow to a cold region. Deploy an arctic dweller into a dessert. Get a landlocked living whumpee in the middle of the ocean

Whumpee falls through a disguised enemy foxhole in the snow

Whumpee got separated from his platoon. The first friendly faces they encounter lost is an ally group. They no choice but to tag along

Caretaker needs to retrieve a lost high profile whumpee in an extreme environment. They don't even know where to start looking

Whumpee is disguised as an enemy civilian, during the worst moment possible it either works or fails

Whumpee had to gave their face completely Bandaged, and have their vision obscured. After terrible events, they have no choice but to wander blind in need of help

The enemy has been actively freezing to death in whumpee's cold environment. They've acted like the violent nature of the situation doesn't bother them as much as engaging in combat. After seeing a delirious frostbitten enemy wandering around, that thought changes

Ally and Enemy find their environment hit with a natural disaster on top of things

Whumpee is forced to navigate a foggy environment, knowing the enemy is used to the fog

Whumpee stares at Ally, who is always unbothered the extreme environment they find themselves in

Whumpee gets attacked by a dangerous native animal

Enemy hears screams in the distance, knowing that their environment is doing its work

Whumpee comes in contact with a plant they're allergic to, allowing enemy to quickly come across them

Paranoid whumpee is terrified of entering enemy urban areas, knowing its even more unpredictable then the forests and landscapes they've already been fighting in

Caretaker prying a half-drowned whumpee out of dangerous waters