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animatedjen · 24 days ago

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The Mantis door had been left open. Even from the engine room, Cal could taste the salty, Force-stained air of Tanalorr drifting through the ship. It mingled with leftover pyre ash clinging to his vest and boots – he couldn’t bring himself to wash just yet. Any form of penance felt justified, no matter how small.

Cal hunched over the workbench, cleaning dried mud from his saber’s emitter (again) trying and failing to distract himself (again) when the click-whirr of BD’s scanner broke the silence.

“You found another bogling ‘gift?’�� Cal muttered. BD chirped negative! from somewhere under the table and emerged with a small, foil-wrapped square.

Bracca. Despite years of dust, Cal immediately recognized the meal bar sold to double-shift employees. This one was dented, shoved deep into a pant pocket to be saved for a day without any other options. BD announced that the square’s interior might be edible, but it didn’t match any food descriptions in his current databank.

“It was barely food,” Cal said. “I’m pretty sure the droids ate better than we did.” Removing the caked-on dust revealed an Echo of rusted iron and rain, the shuffling of hands and goods under a dingy Guild banner, and the desperation of a young Scrapper hiding his last bit of food.

This was from his first night on the Mantis. Cal saw himself there on the cot, a trembling scrap rat of a kid with wild eyes and a broken lightsaber. Sensing echoes from his own memory was rare; psychometry draws upon the experiences of other people. But Cal had a strained relationship with the Force these days – and a strained relationship with himself. Another penance. He found himself drifting towards the bed.

The echo of Cal stripped off his drenched poncho and examined the blaster hole on its sleeve. His gaze darted around the room, then towards the hallway, where Cere’s voice murmured faintly over the hum of the engine. “I shouldn’t trust her,” he exhaled, wringing his Master’s saber in his hands. “She could still turn me in.”

Cal settled next to his younger self. The wind outside was stronger now, dragging purple leaves and glittering flecks across the floor. He sighed and leaned back against the bulkhead.

“She– Cere– she will give everything for you,” Cal whispered. His jaw trembled, and he fought through the grief swelling in his chest. “She’s going to save you over and over. And sometimes you’ll be mad about it, because you think she’s being too cautious. Sometimes her teaching will seem too simple, and you’ll act like you know everything, but you don’t. And when she walks away–” the words caught in his throat. “She walks away and you won’t understand why. And you’ll keep fighting, and you won’t know how to stop, and eventually you ruin everything.”

He tasted salt on his lips. The lights on the ceiling blinked on and off, and on and off.

“So I should leave?”

Cal turned to his own echo, now staring directly at him.

“I’ll leave,” the younger Cal repeated. “Right now. Make them drop me off on Nar Shaddaa, find work, and go back into hiding. Then none of this will ever happen, and no one will get hurt.”

Five years of sorrow washed over Cal. It was an empty promise from a boy who had not yet experienced the full power of the Empire. But maybe, a quiet voice offered, maybe everyone else would have a better chance without you.

The echo (or whatever the Force it was) glanced past Cal. Somewhere outside, Greez was calling to Merrin. Her reply made Kata laugh, and their distant voices melted into the breeze. “Who is that?” the younger Cal asked.

Cal dragged his boot across the floor. “Family,” he finally replied. “Your family. If you stay.”

“Are they worth it?”

“Yes.” The sharpness in his own voice surprised Cal. Despite everything that went wrong, all the pain he caused, and all the lives lost. You two are the best thing that ever happened in my life, Greez had once said, sitting on this very cot. For all of Cal’s failures, he had somehow been given the best people in the entire galaxy.

And if they chose him, no matter what happened, then maybe Cal could too.

The younger Cal walked to the doorway, hovering at its threshold. “Do we actually do it?” he asked timidly, clipping the broken saber to his belt. “Do we rebuild the Jedi Order?”

Cal met his gaze. “You make a difference. You save people. Not all of them.”

“Is it still worth trying?”

“Yeah. I hope so.”

His echo nodded and disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, Cal heard himself tentatively playing Cere’s hallikset. Then came footsteps and a familiar voice–

–and the memory was gone. Cal stood next to the Mantis couch and stared at the empty space where Cere should be sitting. He pried his fingers from the foil wrapper clenched in his hand and dropped the misshapen lump of Bracca on the table.

“What’s that?” Kata asked as stepped inside. Merrin followed behind, her eyes darting from the meal bar to Cal's pinched eyebrows. A purple leaf had lodged itself inside the fold of her jacket hood.

“Something BD-1 found under the workbench,” Cal shrugged. “It smells weird.”

Kata crouched at the table, poking the foil with one finger. BD hopped up next to her and reiterated his initial findings, but clarified the food item was long expired and no attempt at eating it should be made.

Cal pulled the leaf from Merrin’s jacket, and she in turn brushed a piece of ash from his shoulder. Kata gingerly opened a corner of the foil and immediately made a face. “This is really bad,” she confirmed. “Like nekko barf. Can we show Greez?”

“Lateros smell things differently than we do,” Merrin explained, her expression deadpan. “He will find it pleasant.”

“No way,” Kata teased, but she and BD were already out the door and halfway down the ramp. A moment later, Greez’ yell of disgust echoed across all of Tanalorr.

#jen writes jedi stuff #the Force is strong on Tanalorr so I'm gonna break some rules #and yes i'm still processing the end of Survivor 1.5 years later #star wars jedi survivor #jedi survivor #cal kestis #bd 1 #greez dritus #merrin #nightsister merrin #kata akuna #star wars

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stellarbit · 2 months ago

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Grief

Word Count: 2.1k Pairing: None, platonic comfort Warnings: grieving the death of a pet, panic attacks, grief in general Summary: After the loss of your pet, you come to the Batch for distraction. a/n: Recently, I lost the center of my world and I'm devastated. This is a self indulgent attempt at comfort.

Grief threatened to crush your chest. Every breath was unnatural and hours of crying left your face raw. Hours that came from days of pain and fear - fear that the world was forever wrong.

Losing them tore you in half. Their death carved a hole in your life that consumed every thought of your future. A future you now constantly had to remember would never be the same.

In the immediate days following their passing, the world seemed an alien landscape without them. Hunger eventually drove you from the isolation of your quarters, but it was desperation for distraction that kept you from returning. That same desperation now found you at the skyport of Ord Mantel, standing silently at Tech’s feet while he worked under the ship.

No one had seen you in three days, but with your companion’s decline in health - it wasn’t a hard connection to make. Your extended absence made it so that the sight of you caught Echo off guard when he rounded the Marauder. Your sudden appearance nearly sent the spanner in his hand into orbit.

You remained silent as you stared down at Tech’s feet with a ghostlike appearance, not truly seeing. There was no life in your sunken stance - a stark contrast to your usual vibrant self. In lieu of calling out to you, Echo quietly approached.

Your lack of response was jarring. Normally, you wouldn’t have missed Echo’s presence, but your typical alertness was replaced by a hollow vacancy.

Then again, all other times you had a living shadow acting as an extension of you. It seemed that nearly a decade with this creature had made you dependent on their presence. They were woven into the very fabric of your day-to-day existence.

When he was only a few paces from you and you still hadn’t noticed him, Echo hesitated but broke the silence.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” His voice was low and cautious.

Against his expectations, Echo’s greeting didn’t jolt you. Instead, you gradually drifted your dead-eyed gaze to him with a flinch of a smile.

Echo’s greeting caught Tech’s attention. Finally noticing you, Tech ducked out from under his ship to find you looking back down at him. As he crouched his way out he said with pleasant surprise, “Oh, I did not notice you.”

Despite anticipating your next visit to be a solitary one, your unaccompanied presence unsettled Tech. The absence of your side kick felt was very off kilter and he'd not seen you quite this withdrawn before.

You gestured to the Marauder, asking, “Need a hand?” Contrary to your haggard appearance, your voice was smooth as any other day.

From the bay door, Omega watched you hunch under the Marauder, settling into place as Tech and Echo left your side. As they stepped away, Tech shared a quiet look with Echo - it was worse than they had imagined.

Hunter appeared beside Omega, tracking your movements as Echo and Tech joined them. “How’s she doing?” Hunter asked as he assessed you from a distance.

“She seems to be holding up.” Echo sighed, turning to check on you again.

Tech’s hands squirmed at his sides. He wanted to scour his datapad and distract him from the discomfort of your company, but he remained present, albeit uncharacteristically quiet. “There is something off about her though.” Tech added in an unsure tone.

Omega shook her head in disagreement. “Of course she’s off.” Her eyes dropped momentarily, finding it painful to look at you for too long. “Seeing her alone is weird…” Glancing between her brothers, she shrugged a shoulder in your direction. “Imagine what it’s like for her, for years it was just the two of them. Now, she’s all alone.”

Determination worked its way through Omega the more she watched on. Watching you struggle stirred a deep desire to help. “We have to do something for her,” she announced, her voice firm with resolve.

Echo saw the cogs working in her head, saw the worried expression so similar to the ones sent his way. Having endured the void left by his core squadron, he understood the depths of loss and the scar it could leave. It was a scar he saw in your future.

“Omega,” Echo said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “There are some things we can’t help with.” Omega’s expression drooped, it hurt Echo to tell her and hurt her to hear. He struggled to find the right words to explain the rest. “This… what she’s going through… it-it’s something we can’t fully understand.”

Her expression hardened, determined once more. “But she shouldn’t have to go through it alone.”

Omega’s pure intentions warmed Echo. “You’re half right, Omega,” he responded softly. “While it’s true she shouldn’t be alone, this is something she ultimately has to face by herself.”

It was an experience solely singular to you. A pain only you could feel the full breadth of, but one your friends desperately wanted to share the burden of.

“She should get off-world,” Omega suggested with a hopeful tone. “Be somewhere without memories.”

Hunter considered the idea for a moment. Seeing you work at half your normal pace discouraged further consideration. Gently, Hunter redirected the young girl, “That might be a tall order right now.”

Gently, Echo patted his sister’s shoulder. “Keeping her busy might be all we can do.”

Tech listened intently, his eyes never straying from you. His mind raced through a catalog of possible interventions, calculations and logic running their course. Ultimately, he concluded that there was nothing in his, or his squad’s, arsenal that could truly mend what had been broken.

You’d lost an irreplaceable part of your life and were now alone in a way you hadn’t been in a long time - almost as long as Tech had been alive. The magnitude of your loss was difficult for him to fully comprehend, as his attachments, though deep, were largely confined to his squad.

Tech recognized the stark contrast between how he and you approached the world. While he offered his expertise to strangers with a calculated detachment, you freely extended love and support, the kind that had been so generously bestowed upon you by your companion.

He’d always wondered where that kindness was rooted. Now, the true source of your strength was painfully clear to him.

Without a word, Tech left his siblings to discuss their idea for helping you. He knew there was nothing he could say or do to remedy your loss, but he could at least make sure you weren’t physically alone.

Echo left to find Wrecker while Hunter and Omega headed back to Cid’s. They were all planning on sharing dinner with you. Even Cid, typically detached, showed her concern by agreeing to host the dinner, her gruff exterior softened by the situation.

So Tech watched you work, instructing you through the repairs and making a conscious effort to be more gentle than usual. You remained stoic, following his instructions with such precision that you might have been mistaken for a droid. Occasionally, Tech glanced at his datapad, instinctively seeking brief escapes from the heavy air that hung between you. While his intention was to support you, the task proved more challenging than he had expected.

Initially, the mechanical work seemed to distract you effectively. However, the relief was fleeting. As you delved deeper into the mechanics, your thoughts inevitably drifted back to your lost companion. The pain momentarily subsided was swiftly replaced by a resurgence of grief, disrupting your focus.

Your attention wavered enough that your wrench slipped and stripped the bolting you were adjusting. Panic took hold and you attempted to crank the bolt again, further stripping it.

Tech, noticing the commotion from a distance, set his datapad aside and approached to assess the situation. As he drew closer, he saw the growing panic in your actions; your hands shook so violently that the wrench couldn't find its mark.

Gently, he came up beside you, his movements deliberate and calm. Without a word, he took the tool from your quivering hands.

You hung your head low, collapsing onto your ass. Folding yourself into your hands, you murmured, “Sorry, Tech.” Your previously steady tone was now watery and broken.

“There is no need to apologize.” Tech said, lowering himself beside. He adjusted his goggles for a better look at the spot above you. “It is a minor fix.”

You didn’t - couldn’t - respond, only nodding. The mistake had thrown you right back into despair. The quaking in your hands took hold of your entire body.

Watching you, knowing there was so little he could do, made him feel helpless. Tech diverted his eyes to the tool in hand. Feeling a profound helplessness, he gripped the tool tighter, his voice gentle as he ventured, “Is there anything I can do?”

Your response was a shake of the head, morphing into sobs that you barely managed to voice through. “Can you bring them back?” The bite in your voice was discounted by a subsequent sob.

The idea had occurred to Tech. As a genetic replica of a man he didn’t even know, Tech could speak to the efficacy of cloning. Unfortunately, the idea was dimmed when it came to recreating the soul of your companion.

After all, it wasn’t the physical being you so loved, but their soul and their love.

He’d seen the unique bond you shared. It was in the way they looked at you like you were their moon and stars, moved in perfect sync with you, and seemed to want nothing more than to see you smile.

They were, in every sense, irreplaceable

Defeated, Tech could only confess, “I cannot.”

You already knew that, yet hearing it confirmed broke you again. You curled inward, your body shaking as sobs wracked through you. Suddenly, your head snapped up, a gasp slicing through the heavy air. “Oh, stars,” you choked out, the realization hitting you over and over.

Squeezing your eyes shut, tears fell down your face. In broken, sobbing words you said, “They were sick and I didn’t even realize. I waited too long”

Tech’s eyes widened slightly. “Do you blame yourself?”

A feral intensity flashed through you, and you whipped around to face Tech. “Of course I do!” you yelled;

Tech, unflinching, met your gaze steadily. “They were receiving treatment, you were—”

“They were getting worse and I didn’t catch it!” Your anger at yourself flared high. Shaking your head, a far off, horrified expression came over you as you slowly crumpled again. “I thought they were… oh stars.”

Discarding the tool, Tech slid closer to place a hand on your back. He lowered his voice, trying to anchor you back from the brink of despair. “You did what you thought was best based on what you knew.”

The hyperventilation calmed, but it left behind a vacant stare. “Then they deserved better than me,” you murmured, the guilt in your voice like a physical weight.

Tech’s response was immediate and resolute, “You cannot say that,” he countered. His voice carried a hint of urgency, not just to contradict but to correct a harmful thought. “They were cared for and you cherished them - that is what they deserved and exactly what you gave. Grief might cloud your view, but it doesn’t change the care you devoted to them.”

His grip firmed on your back and he insisted, “You cannot let your regret taint your love for them or their memory.”

You blinked at Tech, tears continuing to fall as you whispered. “Tech, there is a happiness I will never taste again.”

Tech resisted the urge to confirm that sad truth aloud, choosing instead to offer comfort through actions - a gesture he had learned from Omega. Rubbing circles on your back, he coaxed out another pained whine from you.

“I miss them so much,” you confessed, your voice breaking with each word.

“I know.” Tech hesitated for a moment, considering the breadth of your anguish. Slowly, he closed the gap between you, tucking his arm around you in a rare display of overt affection. “I believe they miss you too.”

There was no fixing this for you. There was nothing to stop your pain. He didn’t understand all of the complexities in your loss, there was no one who could, but he could remind you of a few things.

Of the flawed perspectives born in your grief. Of it not being your fault. Of the bond he’d witnessed.

In hopes of calming your nervous system, he squeezed you a little tighter. “We may not understand every detail of what you’re feeling, but we’re here. We’ll stay with you, for as long as you need.”

****

taglist: @baddest-batchers @jetii @bruh-myguy-what

a/n: I love you, Seneca.

#the bad batch #tbb #star wars #tbb tech #bad batch #tech #the bad batch tech #hunter #omega #wrecker #tbb hunter #tbb wrecker #tbb omega #tbb echo #echo #tech x reader #tbb tech x reader #the bad batch x reader #tbb x reader

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nostromosdead · 2 months ago

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Let It Rip! (For Better or Worse.) - Parts 1 & 2

Ellen Ripley x Y/N (gender-neutral). Y/N is a paleoanthropologist recently hired by Weyland-Yutani for initially unknown reasons. (Will probably post this on AO3 too!)

The Nostromo was a labyrinth of steel and shadows, its corridors vibrating with the steady hum of the ship’s engines. Though everything was objectively fine at this moment, there was an unspoken tension in the air. Something thick and almost suffocating seemed to cling to every surface. Yet, for now, that fragile peace held, allowing you to explore this strange new environment at your own pace.

You walked slowly, the weight of your satchel pressing into your side—a familiar comfort in a place that felt anything but. The worn leather strap, softened by years of fieldwork, reminded you of the sun-baked, humidity-ridden dig sites where you’d spent most of your career. The decision to leave that world behind, even temporarily, hadn’t been easy. But the company’s offer had been impossible to ignore. They’d been almost desperate to hire a paleoanthropologist, yet frustratingly vague about why they needed one on a deep-space commercial towing vehicle. (And, to be fair, there weren’t many specialists remaining in the field, given Earth’s rapidly declining state.)

You still weren’t sure what they expected you to find out here, but you’d answered the advertisement anyway, drawn by the promise of a hefty paycheck. Hell, if anything, you assumed you’d end up being shown a bunch of archaic plant fossils and have to sheepishly inform them that they meant to hire an archaeobotanist. But, until then, you could spend a few months in space, collect your money, and eventually get back to your real work. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be more complicated than deciphering the mysteries of a bunch of rocks, right? Right. If The Company had found something of interest, it probably wouldn’t even end up being evolutionarily significant. After all, non-specialists mistake plain ole pebbles for artifacts all the time. Surely this case would be just like any other.

The mess hall was quiet, the soft hum of machinery your only company as you poured yourself a cup of something hot and vaguely coffee-like. You cradled the mug between your hands, letting the warmth seep into your fingers as you surveyed the utilitarian design of the room. Everything on the Nostromo was built for function, much like the old fossils and lithics you studied—stripped down, ‘bare bones,’ essential.

And that’s when you noticed her.

Across the room was Ellen Ripley, her tall frame partially obscured by the dim lighting. She stood at one of the ship’s consoles, her fingers moving deftly over the keys. The attention she devoted to a seemingly minute task was focused and intense. There was just something about her—a calm, commanding presence that made you feel both curious and cautious. Kinda like if the jump and subsequent drop you feel in your gut from a rollercoaster never truly got to dropping bit. That is to say, it was an air of perpetual anticipation.

You hesitated, unsure whether you should approach her or not. Did you even have the credentials to approach her? Wait–did The Company even operate like that? Note to self: look into the social dynamics that exist between varying Weyland-Yutani positions of power. You’d heard about Ripley even before you set foot on the Nostromo—everyone had. If anything, in the form of a warning or two. She was known for her temper in conflict, as for her level-headedness and quick thinking under pressure. It was a reputation that both impressed and intimidated you. But here, in the quiet of the mess hall, she seemed almost halfway approachable. Almost.

“Y/N, right?” Ripley’s voice broke the silence, smooth and unflinching as she turned to face you.

You nearly dropped your mug in surprise, having been locked in a bout of overthinking. “Uh, yeah. Hey! That’s me.”

Ripley’s gaze was steady as she took you in. Looking you up and down, just once, as if that was all she needed to make up her mind. “How are you finding the Nostromo?”

“It’s… different,” you replied, struggling to find the right words. “Not what I’m used to.”

Ripley offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. “I imagine not. What made you sign up for this?”

You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “The company was pretty insistent they needed someone with my background. They didn’t say much about why, though.”

Ripley raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “And that didn’t bother you?” Her voice was deep, and her question was stern.

“Oh it did,” you admitted, “buuuut… they’re paying me well, and I figured, why not? A few months in space, then I can get back to my real work.”

She studied you for a moment, as if weighing the validity of your words.

Ripley nodded, her expression eventually softening a smidge. “Fair enough. Well… If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

You felt a rush of gratitude manifest in the form of a flushed face; the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. “Oh-thanks, Ripley. Though, I hope you don’t regret that offer—I’m someone who tends to ask a lot of questions.”

She gave you a final nod before turning back to the console. “I figured as much. See you around.”

Part 2:

The days aboard the Nostromo had begun to blur together. It was a monotonous routine, occasionally punctuated by moments of fleeting curiosity. You found solace in the ship’s quiet corners, as your mind was occupied with the strange fossils you were hired to study. Not only did they appear to be actual fossils of some kind, they came with an added bonus of not entirely making sense. They were like nothing you’d seen before, and the vague instructions from The Company did little to help you understand why they’d been so adamant about having a paleoanthropologist on board–after all, what did these have to do with humans or their hominid ancestors?

Though, after your initial orientation, there was definitely one thing that Weyland-Yutani did make very, very clear.

Under no circumstances were you allowed to report your research, or its potential findings, to the rest of the crew aboard the Nostromo. They knew you were a hired researcher, aiding The Company in its various goals and ambitions, and that was where the line was to be drawn.

The rule hung over you like a shadow. It was a constant reminder that there was more to this mission than you’d been told… what had you gotten yourself into this time? A few weeks in and you’d mostly kept your head down, focusing on the work, but the unease gnawed at the edges of your mind. And then, there was Ripley.

You couldn’t help but notice her—how could you not? She carried herself with a quiet confidence that commanded attention without ever having to demand it. There was a natural strength to her, evident in the way her muscles flexed beneath her uniform as she moved with precision and purpose. The cut of her jawline, the sharp focus in her eyes, the way her lips pressed together when she was deep in thought—it was honestly hard not to be captivated.

Unfortunately for you, you’d find yourself stealing glances whenever she was near, and not to mention your heart skipping a beat when her gaze met yours. It was ridiculous, you told yourself. There were far more important things to worry about. Like, what the fuck even are the strange fossils you were suspiciously being paid to study, under the unsettling restrictions imposed by the company, to boot. But the warmth that spread through your chest whenever she was around was undeniable. You could think of it as a small comfort amidst the growing unease, or, more realistically, a sporadic social opportunity for unnecessary, internal panic that loomed on the other side of every bay door. Thank God nothing would ever actually come of it, you reassured yourself.

It was during one of these quiet moments, seated at a small workstation in the ship’s research lab, that you heard the soft hiss of the dreaded sci-med bay door sliding open. You looked up to see Ellen Ripley stepping inside, her presence instantly filling the room, akin to the drop in barometric pressure before a storm.

“Y/N,” Ripley greeted. Her voice was smooth and steady, but carried a note of curiosity. “How’s the research going?”

You leaned back in your chair, trying to steady your nerves. You knew damn well that that question was an act of defiance–and a cool one, at that. But, you couldn’t give in without putting your job on the line. “All’s well on my end, thankfully.”

It was a bold-faced lie. What you really wanted to say was ‘confusing, mostly, Ripley! These samples… they’re like nothing I’ve ever seen! It’s almost as if they don’t belong in any known classification! This is a brand new species that might even defy taxonomic classification! Unless, I just don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, which is always an ever-present possibility. The Company wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information.’

But, you couldn’t. So, you just sat there, awaiting a response from her that at least somewhat mirrored the back-and-forth of a typical human conversation.

Ripley frowned, undoubtedly unimpressed. Her brow furrowed as she moved closer to your workstation. The subtle way her muscles shifted and flexed as she crossed the room was revealed by her rolled-up sleeves. The taut lines of strength tracing down her arms didn’t escape your notice, and you found yourself momentarily distracted by the effortless power she exuded.

“I see The Company’s ideals have gotten to ya,” Ripley half-teased. “They’re real keen on never telling you the whole story.” she said, her tone laced with frustration.

Despite her apparent aggravation, her presence was comforting. You hadn’t physically spoken to another human being all day. In fact, you weren’t even sure what the time was right now, having been so wrapped up in your own research, and the anxieties that accompanied it.

You hadn’t realized how much you’d come to appreciate her company until now. There was something warm about her that made you feel less alone in this strange, cold place.

“Any idea why they wanted you, specifically?” Ripley asked, her tone curious, but tinged with something else—concern, maybe.

You shook your head, glancing down at the samples you had just spent the past 9 hours or so investigating. Your eyes were begging for them to be put away.

“No clue,” you gave in a little. “…It’s like they were desperate to have someone with my educational background, but they’re keeping me in the dark about who’s, what’s, where’s, and why’s. To be truthful, I’m starting to wonder if I’m missing something obvious...” you lamented. Carefully, you returned the evidently-ancient objects to their respective lockbox.

Ripley was silent for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she studied where the fossils had been on the table.

“Well…” she eventually began.

“…maybe it’s not about what you’re supposed to find. Maybe it’s about confirming what they already know.”

A chill ran down your spine at her words. You clearly hadn’t thought of it that way before. But now that she’d said it, it made a disturbing amount of sense. Why else would everything be so secretive?

Ripley was quick to notice the genuine look of concern growing upon your face.

Before you could voice your growing unease or be offered any solace, the lights flickered.

Just once, but it was more than enough to catch your attention. The ship’s hum seemed to deepen, a more subtle change that you probably wouldn’t have noticed, if not for the sudden, rigid shift in the warrant officer’s demeanor.

Ripley’s eyes snapped to the lights, her expression tightening, voice deepening. “That’s not normal.”

You jumped up. The tension within you thickened like a storm cloud about to burst. It took a lot to make you cry, and this was bordering the ‘a lot’ category.

“Ah, well, what do you think it is?” You stammered to ask your far-more-experienced companion.

“Could be nothing,” she said almost casually, but the look on her face told you she didn’t really believe that. “But, we should check it out… just to confirm. Come on.”

With great haste, you followed her out of your assigned lab. Your heart began to pound loudly in your chest. Don’t get me wrong—you’ve had more than your fair share of dangerous experiences in your line of work. Artifact looters and site raiders, mostly. The key difference here was that those guys are always humans. And humans were something you were intimately familiar with, having devoted your life to studying their origins, on top of being one yourself. (And yet; you still found yourself fumbling to understand a certain Ellen Ripley, but now was not the time for that.)

The corridors of the Nostromo felt different now—they were darker, and much more oppressive. As you walked side by side with Ripley, your brain forced you to take note of the way her shoulder occasionally brushed against yours. Each order of guidance and direction sent a jolt of electricity down your spine. Despite these bright moments of contact, the cold metal walls of the height-deprived hallways seemed to be closing in around the two of you. The shadows were longer and deeper than before. The childish unease you’d been desperately trying to ignore now felt almost impossible to shake.

Ripley led the way to the ship’s control room, her movements quick and efficient, but you noticed the subtle tension in her shoulders. She was worried, too, though she hid it well. This fact was the opposite of reassuring. The door slid open with a hiss, and the two of you stepped inside.

Dallas, the ship’s captain, was already there, along with crewmates Lambert and Parker. They looked up as you entered, their faces reflecting the same unease you felt.

“What’s going on?” Ripley asked, her voice immediately slaying whatever elephant previously resided in the room.

“Power surge,” Dallas replied, his tone grim. “Not sure what caused it. Could be a malfunction, but…” He trailed off, his eyes meeting Ripley’s with an unspoken understanding.

“Could be something else.” Ripley finished for him.

A heavy silence fell over the room. You felt Ripley’s hand brush against yours—whether by accident or intention, you weren’t sure—but the brief contact sent a yet another shock of warmth through you. If anything, it served as a reminder that you weren’t alone in this. You wanted to focus on the situation at hand, but it was hard when you could feel the heat of her body so close to yours—especially when the room in which you stood was fucking freezing.

Dallas turned back to the controls, his jaw tight. “We’ll keep an eye on it. Everyone stay sharp.”

As the meeting brief broke up, you found yourself lingering, hesitant to return to the isolation of your workstation. Sensing your apprehension, Ripley’s eyes caught your own. Her gaze softened as she stepped a bit closer.

“Hey, Y/N.” she said quietly, her voice a low, gentle murmur. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”

You nodded, your throat tight with a mix of fear and something else—something warmer, more uncertain. “Yeah… thanks, Ripley.”

She gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Get some rest if you can. We might need it.”

As she turned to leave on that somewhat ominous note, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something much darker. But, whatever it was, you had a feeling that your job was about to become a hell of a lot more complicated.

#alien #alien 1979 #ellen ripley #Ellen Ripley x reader #ripley x reader #alien fanfiction #alien franchise #gender neutral reader #I barely proofread this so sorry in advance whoopsies!#sarahs ficz

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spiderprincess-suffet · 6 months ago

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I frickin love my Aus Sally, i purposely made her the opposite of how the fandom majority sees her and I love her now lol.

I feel like the Creepypasta fandom has this overly Pure and innocent view of Sally, with the frilly dresses bows and sweet innocent attitude even not allowing any shipping with her as odd as that is.

I've seen many people headcannon her as Aroace Wich Is fine if you just like it or are even self projecting a bit cuz I've seen people do but, butttt ive also seen a pretty big amount of people headcannon her as Aroace specifically because of the SA in her story, and that's never really sat right with me just cuz it kinda sends the message of

If you've been SA'd in the past you'll never feel love or want to even think of anything romantic or sexual again. Which admittedly can happen as a trauma response but it's not all the time people have many different trauma responses and for my Sally I wanted to lean away from that.

My Sally isn't some innocent girl who can't defend herself and wears all these frilly dresses and needs to be covered at all times, she's not afraid to wear things like Tanktops crop tops shorts heels and just generally more revealing stuff like most of the fandom tends to portray her as, tho obviously it's not to the overly sexualized and inappropriate type of revealing stuff I'm just saying Sally isn't held back by the SA she's grown up and she's not ashamed of her body and not afraid to wear more revealing stuff like Tanktops as it's not what you wear NO ONE deserves SA or is asking for it just by wearing shorts or a crop top and you shouldn't be expected to be innocent and completely covered at all times it's okay to wear whatever it's up to the adults to not be creepy about it.

She's still girly overall loves pink and ribbons and glitter but she's not some innocent child she knows what happened to her was wrong and she's trying to move on from it and live a normal life, she's also not stupid and can defend herself another thing that buggs me is how many people make characters like Masky or Toby or slender always come to her rescue making sure no man can hurt her again but to me that just takes away her agency, saying she needs all the men in her life to protect her when she can protect herself they should be guiding her and teaching her how to fight properly not just doing it for her.

She also likes romance talk my Sally is Bisexual as just because you were SA'd doesn't mean you can never love or want to be loved again shes a normal bisexual girl who gets crushes and sure she still feels awkward and is very cautious especially around men but still she likes to fantasize about going on dates and getting valentine's gifts and that's okay XD

Uh I hope I explained this well im not trying to offend anyone and I'm pretty bad at explaining my thoughts but I tried sorry it might not come off as I intended so feel free to ask questions I'll be glad to attempt some clarifying.🫠

#art #digital art #creepypasta #creepypasta art #creepypasta au #sally williams #creepypasta sally #creepypasta fanart #crp fandom #crp

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wildemaven · 1 year ago

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Sweet Creature: Chapter Four

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

WC: 5214

Summary: A washed up movie star with a failing career, fresh out of rehab and looking to turn his life around. He moves back to his small hometown to take a break from stardom and help his sister out with his niece- He's traded the high-life for school runs and crafting. What he doesn't except is to meet you, his niece's school teacher who couldn't care less about his extensive filmography or his dwindling fame.

Warnings: 18+ blog; language, absent parents, abandonment as a child, anxious feelings, mentions of food and drinks, tiredness affecting life, mention of drug use but no actual usage, Dieter working with Sponsor and secular 12 step program, mentions of divorce, Dieter being a cool uncle, I think that everything and like always please let me know if I got anything.

A/N: We survived Chapter 3! It was a doozy of a chapter, but I was loving reading through everyone’s comments!! Starting this chapter, I was super nervous because it was already plotted out, but I was worried if it was going to flow well enough after our big blowup. We get lots of things this chapter though, so I didn’t want to scrap it. Big thank you’s to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for being a champ beta reader for me, and to @purple-elm for lending her knowledge in recovering/addiction- so appreciate you both. I’m excited for you all to read and can’t wait to hear your thoughts!! PS: reader finally gets her nickname next chapter!! xx

Series Masterlist / Playlist / Main Masterlist

Previous / Next

They say Rome wasn’t built in a day.

The same could be said about your relationship with Dieter.

Relationship?

Friendship?

Acquaintance-ship?

Two people forced into proximity, each attempting to mend their broken, dejected lives— owning their wrong doings through humility and self reflection.

It had been weeks since the disastrous evening at Diem’s. You wouldn’t say the tension between you and Dieter had gotten better, but you could say it hadn’t gotten any worse.

You had hoped the fog would have lifted with each passing day, but the more time went on, the guilt of your actions seemed to establish a spot within your mind, replaying each moment in a series of vivid flashes— a torturous occurrence.

It didn’t help that you and Dieter now crossed paths on a regular basis. Him in your classroom for brief periods to drop off Wren. You at Diem’s place for your girl chats and the random movie nights.

Each run in was cordial with minimal communication, mainly because you were terrified of saying something wrong, but then it became not knowing what to say at all—so you kept dialogue brief and to the point, never veering too far from your comfortability.

Routines are an integral element to your everyday life. From the minute you wake, your body’s natural response is to begin working through each daily duty without a single thought.

School mornings unfold in the same manner each day, from the moment you click off your alarm to stopping at the bakery for your breakfast sandwich, your routine has you feeling confident and motivated to tackle any challenges that may arise during the rest of your day.

Routines work well, until they don’t.

That first trickle of wakefulness, your hormones performing their cyclic functions, seeping into your listless body. The sound of the birds chirping and morning commuters rushing to their respective destinations has you rolling on your side. You groan at the vague memory of your sleepless night, playback of your fight with Dieter still haunting you in your dreams.

A few cautious blinks, your eyelids working against the light filtering in from your bedroom window, vision slowly shifting into a clearer image as you focus on the red numbers on display—

7:30

“Shit!” Your body shoots up into a sitting position, frantically rubbing your eyes in hopes that you had read the time wrong.

7:31 clicks over.

You overslept! But your alarm?? You check the little device that’s been your morning comrade for years, mentally berating it for not alerting you, only to discover it’s your own fault— setting the time for 6:30 pm instead of am.

The first bell rings at 8:00, leaving you 30 minutes to race through getting yourself ready and to school on time to prep for class.

There’s no wiggle for a shower or taking your time to properly wake up. It’s a mad dash to get dressed, only to find your usually clean and organized closet in a state of distress— clothes half hanging on hangers, mingled piles of clean and dirty clothes and no real distinction of which is what. Your only option is to pull from your weekend wear of very casual and not something you would ever wear to school, except for in times like this— desperate times call for your favorite vintage band tee and distressed jeans.

A quick wash of your face and a few swipes of mascara before you’re slipping into a pair of your favorite sneakers and dashing to grab a cup of coffee.

Upon your arrival into the kitchen, you notice that you had also forgotten to set your coffee maker before bed. You try to not let it frustrate you, but the thought of having to endure the day on not only a lack of sleep, but no caffeine as well has you on the verge of tears.

Your shoulders sag, your head tilting back and eyes closed as a mumbled annoyance bubbles up from your throat. Accepting that you can’t change the outcome for your lousy morning, you lean into your optimistic thinking and wish the rest of the day goes well. You grab your school tote as you head to your car, thankful the drive there from your house is a short one.

You don’t make a stop at the teachers lounge to say your ‘good mornings’ to the office staff or grab any important papers that might have been slipped into your teacher inbox since yesterday.

It's a brisk walk through the school halls, avoiding any eye contact with your neighboring teachers, mentally crossing your fingers there’s no mention of your less than appropriate school attire.

Door unlocked and propped open, a few switches flicked upward triggering the fluorescent overhead lights to flash on, you made it with merely minutes to spare.

You take a moment to collect yourself, clearing your mind from the morning blunder before you put on your cheerful facade for 20 little humans.

The classroom is filled with bits of your personality and things that bring you delight. Classic educational posters of shapes, colors, numbers and the alphabet mixed about with various paintings you had done to add more vibrant color to the otherwise boring beige walls.

There was a small area of wall space next to your desk reserved for artwork that was gifted to you from your students. You allot time every day to share your love for art with them, letting them explore their creativity through drawing and painting. By the end of the week, you would have a nice little collection you would gather to take home to store for safekeeping.

A few picture frames, a photo of your mom sat beside one of you and Diem from when you were celebrating her signing the purchase of the hotel, teaching tools and organization trays along with a computer all sat neatly on your desk.

Your most favorite item that lived on your desktop was the little vase you filled every week with fresh flowers from the farmers market. Always a small bundle of poppies assorted colors, depending on the flower vendor. They brought you memories of your childhood, sitting on the front porch as your mom knelt in the soil-beds, planting and sharing her knowledge of plants and flowers alike. You glance at them throughout your school day, a quiet reminder of home.

You begin to prep for your class, mindful of the fact you still need to unload your paperwork from your bag. A thorough cleaning of the whiteboard, writing out of the day’s assignments and activities, then pulling the read-aloud book of the day.

As you’re sifting through your notes and paperwork at your desk in the back of your class, arranging in the order of your day’s lesson plan, your students start to wander through the door with vigorous hugs and enthusiastic goodbyes from their parents.

“Good morning students! Go ahead and grab yourself a book and sit quietly on the floor up front.”

“Good morning!!” Their little voices ring through the room, the sound alone has redeemed the mood of the day.

A glance at the clock and you have 5 minutes before the bell announces the start of school and the majority of your students are reading quietly.

“I’m gonna miss Uncle Dude!! Can we still get ice cream after school?”

“Yeah, we can!”

“Yay!”

The conversation between Dieter and Wren grabs your attention as you continue your morning prep.

Dieter and Wren were usually the last to arrive to class every morning. From your desk you would quietly watch their interaction, him kneeling to her level and her little hands resting on his shoulders— as if she’s the one coaching them through their departure.

You don’t always catch much of their conversations, even knowing both of them on a personal level outside of your classroom, this brief moment together is reserved for them.

Giving your agenda one last look and comparing with your lessons, you notice a single paper for the first assignment of the day— there should be a stack of 20 plus one.

In your frenzy of a morning, it must have slipped your mind to check if any of your lessons needed to be copied and now with literal minutes before the bell you didn’t have enough time to run to the office and back, nor did you have anyone to watch your students while doing so.

“Ugh! This can’t be happening?!” Thinking out loud your frustration, trying to decide if you can push the lesson off until later in the day or just scrape it all together.

“You okay?” Dieter’s gruff voice draws you in, it’s honeyed and sincere as it floats through the air.

“Umm, yeah—“ His expression was undemanding as you took him in. His chestnut hair slightly disheveled, but with purpose. The amber of his eyes held your gaze, unequivocal as he surveyed your distress. “Actually, no I’m not. I way over slept, which means I didn’t get a chance to grab any coffee or make copies for this morning’s lesson—“

Ding

The ringing of the bell interrupts the conversation, your students scattering to put books away and await your instruction.

“Please have a seat on the floor and sit quietly for a moment while I talk with Mr. Bravo.” You announce in your teacher-like voice.

“Go, I’ll watch them.”

“What?” Your head snapping back over Dieter.

“Go make your copies. I’ll watch them until you get back.”

“I can’t just leave them alone without a teacher.”

“They won’t be alone, they’ll be with me. Plus, I played a teacher on a tv show once— can’t be that hard doing the actual thing.”

“I’m going to ignore that last part.”

You’re not sure why Dieter is even offering to help you, you don’t feel like you deserve it— but you really need it and he’s convincing in his own way.

“Okay— but no mention of this to anyone! Don’t let any of them leave or talk you into anything— they can be very persuasive.”

“We’ll be fine! Go!” He gives your arm a little pat as he smiles, an authentic lopsided toothy grin— it’s been a while since you had seen him genuinely smile.

Without a second thought, you grab the worksheet and make your way to the printer located across campus in the main building of the school.

You ignore the questioning looks from the sweet office ladies, they know your presence in the office at this time is out of your usual routine. Thankfully, none of them decide to investigate the matter or mention anything about your attire.

The giant printer takes its time as it spits out the warm, freshly inked paper into the tray, taking its sweet time. The whirring of the machine drowning out your thoughts of Dieter back in your classroom, hoping the kids aren’t wearing him down.

As you near the classroom door, you’re imagining your students overthrowing authority and running circles around Dieter with him tied to a chair— the imaginary makes you chuckle.

What you’re met with is anything but a cataclysmic event, it’s far from it actually. You quietly lean against the doorframe, not ready to announce your arrival back, taking in the sight of your students still sitting in their designated spots on the floor as Dieter stands before them animatedly answering questions.

“Okay, I’ll answer one more.”

“Uncle Dude!!” “Pick me!!” “Uncle Dude, me next” Each student’s hand shooting up at once, they’re little voices vying for his attention.

“Kid with the funny haircut in the front, hit me with your question.” He says as he points to the kid who had a scissor mishap last week, resulting in a wonky style that he decided was cool enough to wear.

“Uncle Dude, how much money do you have?”

“Uh, that’s a weird question, kid. Your haircut makes a lot of sense now.”

“Alright students! Time to say goodbye to Uncle Dude.” Pushing yourself forward as you make your way to the front and stand next to Dieter, saving him from any further innocent but invasive questions.

“Noooooo!” They respond in unison to you cutting off their Q & A time.

“Well, maybe we can have him come back another time if he’s not busy. Everyone get settled at your desks so we can get started and I’m going to say goodbye to Uncle Dude.”

Once you’ve made it to the back of the class, you wait for Dieter who’s giving Wren one last hug goodbye.

In this moment you could feel that fog that had still been looming over the both of you, finally starting to burn off. And for the first time, you could picture yourself getting to know Dieter better, instead of wanting to run in the opposite direction of him.

He catches you staring as he makes way back to where you’re waiting for him by the door. That lopsided smile etched across his face again, this time accompanied with a wink— your stomach spontaneously doing somersaults at his little quirk.

“So, Uncle Dude?”

“Mister is way too formal.”

“Yeah, I guess it kind of is. Um— thanks for doing this for me, I know things between us are not—“

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” He shakes his head as he cuts you off before you can really mention how strained things still are between you two. You don’t sense any malice in his response, so you try not to read too much into it.

“I guess I’ll see you around, or something.”

“Yeah— yeah. I’ll see you around. Thanks again, Dieter.”

Exchanging goodbyes, you both go your separate ways.

You are so focused on passing out the freshly printed worksheets to your students, that you don’t catch Dieter standing in the doorway, unmoving as he observes you moving about the room so carefree in your element.

Once the bell announces the first break for the day, you take the opportunity to head to the teacher’s lounge in search of a snack, realizing you hadn’t eaten breakfast or had any time to pack a lunch before leaving this morning.

Arriving back to your class, with an orange and water bottle you grabbed, you’re grateful there’s still 10 minutes left of the break, plenty of time to sit and enjoy the quiet.

You plop yourself down into your chair, eyes closed, taking a moment to breathe and daydream about what you’ll have for dinner.

Deciding you wasted enough of your break, you set out to eat your orange, when you catch sight of a cup sitting on your desk that wasn’t there earlier. It’s obvious to you that it’s filled with coffee, but how it found its way into your life is beyond you.

As you pick it up, its contents shift and its rich velvety aroma permeates the air around you. That first cautious sip is heavenly, an instant surge of dopamine the second the bittersweet liquid hits your throat.

“Mmm.” Not even caring no one can hear your audible enjoyment.

As you go to place the paper down, you notice black pen marks on the side. Twisting the cup to get a better look, you see a message written knowing immediately who left the coffee.

You beam at the words and can’t help but think of this as an olive branch extended to you as a gesture of mending open wounds.

“Let it Gogh. Hope your day gets better! - Uncle Dude”

“How did you feel after the fight, for lack of a better word?”

“I was pissed, angry, frustrated— sad.”

“Those are all reasonable reactions. Let’s focus on the sadness you felt. What were you feeling in that moment?”

“I think at first, I was sad that my sister thought so lowly of me— it hurt to hear her agree with this woman who I only just met.”

“Did that sadness change into something else?”

“Yeah— then I was sad at the realization that I had caused my sister so much pain over the years. That I was a selfish asshole— sorry.”

“You’re fine.”

“That I was a selfish jerk who was so consumed by the chase of the next high and the high itself, that I couldn’t see how it was affecting anyone else around me.”

“Okay. Now, the anger part— do you think that feeling correlates with sadness? Maybe the anger you were feeling wasn’t directed at the right person, that deep down the person you are truly angry with is yourself?”

“Yeah, that makes more sense. I mean yeah I was pissed hearing the crap being said about me— but I guess, if I had been sober like I said I was, these things wouldn’t have been said to begin with.”

“How does that realization feel?”

“It sucks, but it’s the truth.”

“At any point following this argument, did you have the urge to use?”

“No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because, I want to stay clean— prove to myself, and my sister, that I’m stronger than my addiction.”

“Good, good. I’m glad to hear that. Now, the goal here is to use your coping strategies to continue to help you when situations like this arise. How do you think you’ll handle things in the future?”

“Continue calling you regularly to stay in check, revisit my 12-Steps, use that 54321 Method, it has been helping me focus, and leaning on friends and family the most.”

“I can email you over a few book suggestions too that helped me get through some dark times if you’d like?”

“Yeah, that would be great. Thank you for listening.”

“Of course, Dieter. I'm here to support you however you need it.”

The day following the blow up with you and then Diem giving him some hard truths, Dieter had reached out to the Sponsor he had been working with while in treatment.

After their conversation, Dieter came to the realization he had no right to be upset with anyone but himself— a hard truth to swallow.

Every week since then, he calls his Sponsor for a cheek in to review his Steps and see which areas he wants to improve on more until their next session. Afterwards he usually goes for a drive to clear his head before he heads back to Diem’s house.

Tonight is no different, except when he pulls his car into the driveway, he remembers it’s movie night and he had forgotten to mention to Diem he’d be late to it. He takes a minute to himself, also realizing you would be inside too.

The moon gives off an understated brilliancy as the silence coated the world around him, unguided thoughts streaming from his subconscious.

While you both had been around each other and shared minimal words, there was still a tension among the two of you and Dieter wasn’t sure how willing and open you would be to talk to him about it.

He recalls that one morning at school drop off, you had seemed a little stressed and tired, offering to help you seemed like a great way to initiate a good starting point in mending the situation between you.

You were receptive, showing no signs of harboring any hatred towards him, a step in the right direction.

The way you looked at him, sincerity washing over your features, he felt a palpable sense of relief— you must feel the same way.

He didn’t push for more or beg for a chance to prove to you that he had changed, so he led by action and hoped you would see him, a man who was willing and capable to do the work he needed to make a change in himself.

Shadowed movements float across the house window, a sign to make his way inside.

There’s an even placidness when he walks through the door, the muffled sound of the tv hardly detectable as its display radiates a glow throughout the living room space.

“You missed movie night.” Diem’s voice, barely above a whisper, alerts him to her presence in the kitchen.

“Sorry. I had a call with my Sponsor then went for a drive— totally slipped my mind that it was tonight.”

“Don’t apologize— But maybe a text next time, so I’m not worrying you’re dead on the side of the road or something.” She joins in the entryway and engulfs him with a hug.

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

“How’d your call go?”

“Good— It was good. Some days I think I’m strong enough and don’t need to call, that I’m fully prepared to navigate through my shit on my own. And then I realize how dumb that sounds.” He huffs out a single sigh, a hand resting in his jean��s pocket as his other rubs the back of his neck. “But they help, so I keep calling.”

“That’s great.”

“How was the movie?? Wren asleep already?”

“Frozen 2 again, so I guess you really didn’t miss much.”

He already knows Wren spent most of the movie reciting her favorite lines and singing along to every song, she usually convinces them all to join in.

“They’re still passed out though, I was just getting ready to attempt to put Wren in her bed.”

He looks to where Diem is pointing, the couch where he hadn’t seen a heap of pillows and what he can only assume is you and Wren sleeping.

“I’m going to wake them, hopefully Wren will go back down easily. I’ll see you in the morning.” She gives a kiss to his cheek before making her way to where Wren is fast asleep in your arms.

He watches as Diem slowly wakes you while untangling Wren’s little body from your arms, cradling her as if she was still a tiny baby and whispering to her sweet little praises, then disappearing down the hallway.

A yawn escapes as you stretch from where you’re still sitting on the couch, twisting and pulling, loosening your joints and muscles for your walk home.

Grabbing your phone and keys from the coffee table, you set out on your journey back to your house, but you’re startled when you nearly bump into Dieter in the middle of the entryway.

“Easy there.” He steadies you, placing his hands on your upper arms as you find your balance.

“Sorry, I didn’t even see you there. I must be more tired than I thought. You missed movie night, Wren had to carry most of the songs herself.” You voice is still laced with a small trace of sleep.

“Yeah, I had an appointment and totally blanked on what day it was. I’ll be here for the next one though.” He notes the way your head tilts a bit when you’re really listening, the way your lips turn up just a tad, not a full smile but enough to convey the sentiment. “It looks good on you.”

“Hmm?” Your brain still muddled and drowsy, confused by his comment.

“This—“ His hand reached out to you, his fingers flicking at the lapel of his brown fuzzy overcoat. “Looks good on you.”

You look down, realizing what you were wearing, a twinge of embarrassment filters through you.

“Oh gosh! I’m sorry, I forgot I had it on. I had forgotten a sweater and got cold, Wren brought it to me to wear. It was so warm, we fell asleep I guess.” Over explaining the situation as you begin to remove it from your body— he finds it funny that Wren immediately went for his coat before an actual blanket.

“Keep it— It’s cold out, it will keep you warm on your way home. I’ll get it at some point.”

The fog has lifted, gone— replaced with an airy breeze that swirls in and around the both of you.

“Okay, thank you.”

“Besides, I’m sure Diem will love not seeing it around for a bit.”

“That explains her eye roll when Wren came running out with it.”

“Well, I guess this is good night then.”

“Good night Dieter.”

He opens the door and you make your way out to the front porch, a gust of wind sweeping through has you immediately grateful for his coat.

When you reach the sidewalk at the end of the driveway, something tells you to turn around.

There, as if waiting for you to safely make it across the street in the direction of your house, Dieter stands watching.

You give him a little wave, a final goodbye.

When he waves back, you sense this might be the start of something new.

Some weekends were extra work days for you, catching up on grading and planning out any projects that you had added to lesson plans last minute.

There were times when you were caught up on everything, leaving you two full days of no plans or expectations.

It was a beautiful balmy Saturday, the sun had begun situating itself at its highest point, the perfect day to explore downtown.

After tending to your little garden, watering and pulling weeds, you had decided to walk down to Bart’s Bookstore to browse their intake of used books.

Any free time you had, you always wound up at Bart’s, whether it was to pick up your next read or leaf through potential reads on their patio, enjoying an ice cold tea and sandwich.

The outdoor bookstore was open concept, literally no walls, just a tin roof and shelves displaying their contents in an outdoor setting. While they did have operating hours, they also ran by the honor system if you came and found something after they closed— leave your money, take your book.

You took your time perusing each shelf, hoping to come across something to replace the novel you had just finished.

Making your way down another aisle, you spotted a familiar face sitting at a table, Dieter.

From what you could tell, he was alone, reading but able to make out the title from where you were.

This was the first time you had run into him outside of your normal setting of school and Diem’s house, not really sure if you just pretend like you didn’t see him or use this as an opportunity to sit and talk with him.

Your feet decide the latter for you.

“Dieter?”

He looks up, squinting as his hand attempts to block the sun shining directly in his eyes, that lopsided grin slowly widens at recognizing it’s you standing before him.

The hem of your sundress billows as the breeze picks up, a small stack of tattered books tucked under your arms, he decides that you look ethereal as the sun drapes its glowing rays around you.

“Hey! What are you up to?”

“I came to find a new book, just finished my last one.” Glancing down to the books you’re holding, in case he hadn’t seen them.

“Find anything good?”

“Not sure yet, but they seem promising. You alone?”

“Yeah, decided to get out for a bit, while Diem and Wren are out shopping. Seemed like the best place to be with this nice weather we’re having.”

You nod in agreement.

“Would it be okay if I talk to you— if we talk… I mean— if you’re not busy, would it be okay if we talked for a bit?”

“Sure, take a seat.” Gesturing to the open chair across from him.

Placing the books on the metal table, you sit in the chair, scooting it forward to the table as you find a comfortable position.

“Thanks. I’ve been wanting to talk with you— I-I’ve just been so nervous and wasn’t really sure you’d even want to talk to me.”

“What do you want to talk about?” He leans back, a leg crossed over the other with one arm draped over the back of his chair as his forearm of the other rests against the table— his fingers rubbing against each other as he waits for you to share.

“I’ve been wanting to apologize for what I said— screaming at Wren’s party and telling Diem to not have you stay with her. I should have never—“

“It’s fine. Water under the bridge.” His chestnut locks begin to move about as another breeze moves around, he tucks the loose strands behind his ear.

“No, I need to apologize— you didn’t deserve how I treated you and I’m ashamed that’s how things went down.”

“Thank you. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure— yes.”

“Why did you hate me so much? Diem mentioned something about your past— she wouldn’t tell me though.”

Your fingers toy with the edges of one of the books, you take a deep breath and decide to share with him your feelings behind being so harsh towards him.

“This is going to sound so dumb, but my Dad was an actor— still is? I don’t know, I haven’t talked to him in years.”

“Really? I did not expect that.”

“Yeah. He left when I was little, maybe 3 or so. He had this wild idea that he was destined to be some big time actor, and was going to be famous— the works.”

“What happened?”

“He never came back. He called every few months, and sent my mom some money. But then the calls just kind of dropped off. After about a year of silence, my mom received divorce papers out of the blue. It was just her and I after that.” You take a minute, glance at him to see if you can get a sense of what he’s thinking— his expression empathetic towards the words you’re saying.

“So, I grew up with an aversion for anything pertaining to actors and Hollywood. I decided they were all just out to better themselves, leaving their families for a better life.”

Your throat feels dry after baring yourself to him, grateful he gave you the opportunity to share this piece of your life with him in such a raw manner.

“I’m sorry, about your dad. My parents are in the industry, and while they didn’t outright abandon Diem and I, they weren’t all that active in our lives growing up. I thought I could do it differently though— make it as an actor, but do it better. Upside to having famous parents is it’s a shoe in with getting booked, everyone already wants to work with you because of your name— no one cared if I was any good or not. So I had to work ten times harder just to get some sort of recognition for my acting skills. I think the attention and the fame eventually did get to my head— I lost who I was and why I wanted to become an actor in the first place. The drugs kind of numbed it all, made me think less about how I was hating everything around me and kept me going. And, well we all know how that ended.”

“I’m so sorry Dieter.” Your eyes fixed onto his and you grabbed for his hand, giving a gentle squeeze, a quiet ‘thank you’ to him for sharing his story with you.

He turns his hand and reciprocates the gesture, his thumb drawing little circles on the back of your hand.

“You’ve already seen me at my worst, why not give me a chance at my best.”

#sweet creature series #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x fem!reader #dieter bravo #Pedro pascal #wildemaven writes

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beanghostprincess · 9 months ago

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I just saw a post about Buggy and Galdino being a rare pair despite the chemistry and had the wildest concept ever to formulate in my teeny lil peanut brain.

Buggy and Shanks? Yeah, it's complicated, but the answer to if they're together is neither yes nor no, just dreamy sighs (Shanks) and frantically cursing, blushing and rage (Buggy)

Buggy and Gaimon? Long distance situationship built on mutual respect, growing adoration, relatively chaste, all things considered.

Buggy and Galdino became an incidental ship during the Impel Down fiasco. They both would have eagerly and happily sold one another out for a corn chip, but eventually they build a really solid foundation and Buggy falls first buy Gal falls harder. Alvida is sipping her margarita, watching them sass-flirt each other and making disgusting goo-goo eyes. She's debating locking them in a room for them to either get right with their hearts or at the very least, give her a break.

Cross Guild happens, and Buggy is hurt by Galdino flocking back to Crocodile, yeah, but somehow he isn't surprised (self fulfilling destruction his beloved).

Hawkeye is the first to really look at Buggy - he's had to listen to Shanks wax poetic so often that he is still struggling to reconcile the Buggy-As-Described-By-Shanks with this Buggy before him. The math isn't mathing and he's wondering WHY. In doing so, he eventually starts clocking all these little things - Buggy dropping random, highly insightful and sharp comments that would solve a problem at hand succinctly and easily. Buggy is cautious, perhaps in some ways too much so, but he is also alarmingly good at resolving conflicts without... well, conflict. He's capable of manipulation tactics that most would find impossible without conquerors. Conquerors Haki which the clown most definitely does not have. He may... be understanding of where Shanks is coming from.

Crocodile and Daz, meanwhile, are slower to come around. Daz is stoic, uninterested, he does not care. Crocodile becomes... tolerant of Buggy, finding the idiot to be less of a nuisance than originally accounted for. Okay. Sure. Whatever. Then the boss man Notices some things. Galdino specifically. Mr 3 has always been rather mouthy, though much less to him than to his peers. But something about the ways Gal is interacting with the others speaks of more than idle proximity and general surliness. There's familiarity, a spark there, a thoughtlessness to the ways Galdino turns his back to them, trusting of all things. Then he catches a glimpse of Galdino and Buggy after dark, both tired and closer than most would be in that situation, curled together on a couch while Gal tries to convince Buggy to eat, and "no, baby blue, coffee does not count as food - no, I don't care about how many calories it has, you need something not-liquid, okay, damn-"

Buggy is... quiet when he's tired, Crocodile realizes. He takes away many thoughts and realization from viewing that interaction, but that is something that sticks out to him. The clown is so emotive and bombastic, pun unintended, but he... can be quiet.

He's... pretty, when he's quiet.

He swears he will take that thought to his grave.

Upon realizing though, suddenly it's like either the subtle PDA has skyrocketed or he's just hyperaware of it for what it is now. He sees the way Galdino's hand lingers on Buggy's shoulder; the way Buggy fiddles with his fingers before a wax-formed fidget toy is shuffled into his hands. He sees the smiles Gal shoot to Buggy, the quick flashes the clown shoots back in turn; he sees so much, and it's... not bad? But certainly not good.

Then he sees Mihawk slowly falling into the orbit as well. What? No, seriously, what the fuck?? Of all things, that is what sets his nerves on EDGE.

Daz, attuned to his boss as he always is, always will be, notices. He then turns to the source. Romance is not his thing, he is unapologetic about that. It serves no purpose and he himself is certain he is incapable of such feelings. He can identify it in others, obviously, a skill which he has honed in order to identify threats, allegiances, etc. He can see the veritable solar system this clown has amassed. He too can see how his employer is ferociously resisting the pull of it himself.

Daz doesn't get it, not really.

Daz does however get that the clown can, in fact, be rather cute and funny and witty. He also smells like vanilla, lavender, and the afterimage of the circus he so seems to adore. It shouldn't work. It works.

A blade man and an uncuttable man - truly the things they could get up to would be entertaining at the very least.

Crocodile and Mihawk, upon realizing DAZ HIT THAT BEFORE EITHER OF THEM (Croc's in denial still and Mihawk was going for the wine and dine gentlemanly thing with a strict schedule of expectation to allude to on his end for Optimal Performance), are absolutely FLABBERGASTED. Poor Galdino just has to awkwardly debate between patting their shoulders and trembling at the idea of initiating contact with two upset powerhouses. He settles for awkwardly going, "he... does this, sometimes? But he's insatiable, so really you'd be doing all of us a favor if you wanted to do anything too.... maybe.... pleasedon'tkillme-"

Just. Silly awkward hypersexual clown with his polycule having to trade off and also the sillies of Buggy attracting the most emotionally constipated men in the fucking Seas, nobody is straight or neurotypical, it should NOT work out and yet by the power of carnivals, balloon animals and the audacity of a koala on every drug imaginable, they make it work.

The government is having twelve attacks of a variety of natures with every tip about the clown having a new beau. "is he collecting them??? Making a harem armada????? How does that even work, there's so many - wait I don't wanna know-"

I think this might be the best thing I've ever read because ohmygod- Buggy just pulls literally every possible man. Can you even imagine the gossip nights he has with Alvida? That girl is so done with him and yet they still do these things together because he's the most fun around. Alvida doesn't even know how the hell he does these things. He doesn't even know either. You forgot to mention that he might pull literally everyone but he's the biggest failguy ever and if you ask him about his flirting tactics he won't know what to say.

And I agree completely tbh Buggy and Gal should be more of a popular ship. Despite all the scenes they have together I'm still amazed that they don't have many shippers (me included, I mean, you literally just opened my eyes right now).

This clown has the biggest and some-fucking-how most stable polycule in all seas. Everyone just keeps falling for him when they hated his guts at first and he doesn't even realize until they directly tell him because he just assumes everybody wants to kill him or use him or whatever- But suddenly he has a whole harem and he can't even believe it. You know who can't believe it? Alvida. Biggest Buggy supporter but also the biggest Buggy hater. MLM/WLW solidarity but she won't hesitate to also talk shit about him. How beautiful.

I think the marines have a bet going on tbh. Like a Bingo for Buggy's polycule. They just keep asking themselves who's gonna be next. That's what they do on their breaks.

#this is extremely hilarious but also #i absolutely love giving buggy partners everywhere #it's SO good #i just think he deserves it as a little treat for going through so much #buggy the clown #galdino one piece #cross guild #not tagging everybody here i'm too sleepy for this #one piece

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mvmnbnv · 15 days ago

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Ever since one of the writers said that the caitvi fans "might like" something but will most definitely "hate" something else, i've been very cautious about them. cause both of these answers suck so much??? To hate something about a couple is honestly not encourging at all, but the other one being "might like" is not reassuring either?? cause it means there's a 50% chance i might not like it and??? that's such a red flag to me.

If the goal was to make me lower my expectations, it was very effective, the bar is now in hell.

I have to laugh, honestly. And i wince so bad whenever i see people getting excited about a potential sex scene cause i'm over there thinking "but at what cost???". It's jarring to me and i fear the fans will self-combuste if their storyline turns out to be a shit show. Also, they're not even official in the game either??? it's a big leap of faith for a story that we will "hate" and "might like". Please, it's baffling to me 😭😭

Don't get me wrong, i really liked them in season 1, still do like them and i hope i will keep liking them. I'm interested in what they'll do with them this season, but i've heard the warnings and i don't simply "ship" just because there's a chance they'll be "endgame". I want so much better for them, especially Vi. As it is, i actually could not give less of a shit if they are together by the end if their journey is a shit, unsatisfying, angst galore one. Especially if it's at the cost of either/both Vi and Cait's individual journeys and as characters.

Free my butch from the punching-bag character treatment the writers want her to have so bad, rito, i beg.

you pretty much summed up all my fears, even tho i completely forgot how the might like and definitely hate thing was phrased...like oh fuck...yeah it might be a wild thing to say but the relationship wouldnt even be worth it to me if it was just unsatisfying. i mean even in the game a relationship between them is just speculation of the people around them so eh...the game devs give them a lot together but again...if the story sucks i cant root for it anymore. and with everything thats been seen and said by the writers i feel like vi is gonna get the punching bag treatment, which makes me just not even want it to happen. i have a feeling im just gonna be writing fanfiction atp of vi with another character or an oc. hell even others have been talking about vi with other champs like Miss Fortune and one or a few of the girls from KDA. like damn we havent even seen anything but trailers and the writiers talking and we're this hopeless?? yea im just...

like you already have talk of fucking unrequited love and im like...no??? no no no thats not something thats cute or should be glorified wtf...but considering how the fandom is mostly just about cait n vi fucking and kissing and thinking this is unrequite love shit is oh so cute i wouldnt be shocked if they thought they could just skate by with shit that we "might like" and will "most definitely hate"...caitvi fandom is mostly shallow atp

#vi arcane #arcane vi #arcane #free my butch from the punching bag treatment is so real

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rotworld · 17 days ago

Text

21: Fellow Traveler

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

a visit to a remote haven for scoundrels on the fringes of the imperium leads to a fateful meeting with a kindred spirit.

->warhammer 40k. original aeldari outcast character/reader. contains graphic descriptions of violence, gun violence/combat situation, murder.

The scrap metal sign hanging in the entrance corridor doesn’t say anything helpful like which way to the marketplace, nor does it even give a perfunctory greeting like “WELCOME TO SINISTRA STATION.” The collage of old pipes, ship wreckage and station detritus all stuck together shape the words “LOST AND FOUND” in Low Gothic. That’s how a lot of people come to know this place. Sinistra is a galactic dumping ground, the shore where vanished things wash up again. Deserter Capital of the Sector, some call it. If you can’t find it, it might be here. Some things came here by being stolen, traded, lost in a bet, sold to some unscrupulous sort. Some came because they had to.

If the bar has a name, only the locals know it. It’s an unmarked blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hole in the wall. There’s a fire hazard of a bootleg augmetics shop with more whirring, overheating machinery and sparking cables than a crashed voidship, and a self-service booth advertising forged ID chips, and a rickety flight of steps up to the next eye-burning level of humming neon and contraband. The bar is right there, tucked under the stairs. Awash in shadows and flickering light in burnt orange, it’s dimmer and moodier than what’s right outside. People come here for discretion. To find what they’re looking for and be left alone.

It’s a dangerous crowd tonight. You see a lot of weapons, holstered but clearly displayed in a wordless threat, a lot of tense shoulders and suspicious glances. You make guesses for every pinched, scowling face; a smuggler? An Inquisitor in disguise? Ex-Administratum with sunken, despairing eyes? Another deserter from another hopeless frontline meat grinder? You order something at the bar just to blend in. While you’re leaning against the counter watching cloudy swill pour into a glass, you see him.

There, standing in the shadows at the far end of the bar—someone different. Someone you can’t quite place. He’s wearing a long cloak with the hood up, like just about everyone else here, but he’s unusually, eye-catchingly tall. Positioned in the corner with his back to the wall, it’s clear he’s being cautious but he doesn’t look worried, either. Expecting trouble? About to start some? Both of his hands are concealed beneath his cloak.

His head turns slightly and you feel like you’ve been spotted by some slinking, prowling thing in the underbrush of a forest, moments from feeling bestial fangs in your throat. Your breath hitches. You wait for something to happen, but it never does. His head lowers like he’s lost interest but you can still feel him watching. He turns again, feigning a glance to the side and a cough. His index finger lifts, making a subtle but pointed motion at you, and then at the seat closest to him at the bar.

You’re not sure why you don’t leave. You don’t know him, but you feel like you could. Something about his self-imposed isolation, noticeably distrustful and distant in a room full of people feeling the same way, calm rather than bristling with fearful energy. Hiding in plain sight. Maybe you relate, or maybe you admire him.

You’ve barely sat down when he asks, “Where are you from?”

“Ursalis-III,” you say.

“No, you’re not.”

You watch him come slightly closer, leaning against the bar and looming over you. You can just barely make out a few details beneath the shadow of his hood—smudges of black greasepaint around dark green eyes, the hard edges of a mask covering his mouth. “I’m not?” you echo.

“Ursalis-III is gone. Consigned to oblivion for treachery most foul against the Emperor’s holy design—that is to say, centuries of skipped tithes culminating in an attempted uprising. The entire populace was conscripted or shipped off to labor camps. A fresh batch of loyal colonists was lost in transit.” He has an accent you can’t place, something subtle and only noticeable on a few words.

“I’m well aware,” you say wryly, plucking a pair of jangling dog tags out of your shirt.

“Those aren’t yours,” he says. “You traded for them when you got here. Some rations for an easy ID.”

“Have you been following me? For how long?”

“Off and on since you landed at the starport.” The admission comes easily and without shame. He doesn’t feel like a threat.

“And what did you think when you saw me?”

“I was curious, mostly. Your ship is very distinctive. I’ve never seen one like it.” He studies your expression for a moment, head tilting in interest. “You look disappointed,” he notes. “Were those codewords? I’m sorry I’m not whoever you’re looking for.”

“I’m not looking for anyone,” you say. You don’t like how intently he’s looking at you. If he can tell you’re lying again, he doesn’t mention it. “So where are you from?”

“Nowhere you’ve heard of.”

The bar shakes slightly, a gentle quake rattling the bottles in the back and tipping some glasses over. There’s a moment of tense, breathless silence before the lights stabilize and everything settles back in place. The stranger is watching you when your gaze returns to his. “Frequent visitor?” he asks. “You don’t look alarmed.” Neither does he.

“I know about the star,” you say. Sinistra orbits dangerously close to an unusually active stellar body infamous for its frequent and violent stellar flares. Most of them fizzle out harmlessly against a state-of-the-art atmospheric shield, a precious and poorly-understood relic that tech-priests travel from across the galaxy to observe, but a big one sneaks through every now and then. “Have you lost someone recently?” you ask him.

You’ve caught him completely off guard. He straightens out of his casual lean and narrows his eyes. “What a strange question,” he says.

You shrug, taking a testing sip of your drink and deciding immediately that you’ve had enough. “I won’t push. I was just trying to figure out why you looked so familiar when I know we’ve never met.” He’s grieving. That must be it. It’s the numb kind, past the stage of open-wound rawness, the empty feeling that comes when you finish weeping. Maybe it was a recent death. Maybe a distant one that casts a long shadow, or something even more difficult to explain. He looks at you like he’s only just started to see you for the first time.

“Would you walk with me?” he asks.

You push your glass around absently, looking down at the bar counter. “Your turn to ask strange questions, huh?”

He nudges your glass out of reach, laying his hand on top of yours. He’s wearing gloves; some kind of soft, flexible leather, his fingers long and spindly. You can just faintly feel warmth through the material. “I’d like to speak with you more. Elsewhere.” He closes his hand around yours, threading your fingers together. It really seems like he’s propositioning you—or planning to kill you—but he sounds so solemn and urgent that you aren’t sure what to think. Nobody pays you more than a passing glance when you stand up and follow him out of the bar.

Back on the bright, busy streets of Sinistra’s labyrinthine markets, he draws far less attention than you expect. Everyone is suspicious here, you suppose, rushing around and concealing their faces, but your stranger towers above both you and the crowd. He walks in a practiced graceful manner that reminds you of trained dancers or extremely skilled soldiers—no movement wasted, everything precise.

“This station doesn’t have much time left,” he murmurs, so quiet you barely hear him over the rattle of machinery and exuberant voices. “Imperial authorities have swarmed the system in increasing numbers, preparing to seize Sinistra from the current administration. Many of them are here now, biding their time for a signal. They mean to take the station by force and care little about how many fall along the wall.”

“How do you know?” you ask him.

“It’s my gift. I see what will come. I advise you leave as soon as you’re able.”

“Thank you for the warning. Are you going to be alright? Do you have a way off the station?”

He’s quiet for a while. You look up and find him staring at you again, his gaze softened. “You’re from out here, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Out here?”

He hunches slightly, lowering his voice even further. “Far from the Emperor’s light. So far, perhaps, it has never touched you.”

“There isn’t a world in the galaxy untouched by the Emperor’s light,” you say carefully. The station shudders again, buffeted by harsh solar winds. Steel creaks and rumbles. You stumble but the stranger catches you by the forearm.

“If I could have one honest answer from you, it would be how you came into possession of your ship,” he says. “But I think I already know.”

“Why?” you ask warily. “It’s nothing special. A few mods, sure, but—”

The next tremor is stronger and far louder. There’s a flash in your peripheral vision and then the acrid smell of smoke floods your nose. Not a flare, you think. An explosion. The stranger moves while your mind is still reeling, dragging you down behind the protective bulk of a forgery kiosk and crouching beside you, a hand on your shoulder tugging and urging you to keep your head down. Bolterfire scours the street where you were standing mere moments ago, blowing holes through rusted walkways. Someone is shooting; someone else is shooting back. You hear alarms and shrill, mindless panic.

“You need to breathe,” he says.

You didn’t realize you’d stopped until you inhale shakily, one of your hands tangled in his cloak. You’re frozen, remembering all the stories that had been passed down, generation after generation, to you: of the steady, constant advance of inhuman soldiers who feared and felt nothing, and the deafening roar of weaponry in cramped corridors, and the end of everything come with swift, bloody cruelness. You were taught to run. Always run. If you can run, you can survive. If you can get to the safety of your ship, you can slip away into the vast dark.

“Breathe,” the stranger urges. He cups your face in his hands and you realize you’re trembling. “Listen to me. You are alive. Your heart still beats. And you must keep living. You must, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”

You nod weakly. It suddenly occurs to you that you’re seeing him clearly, no hood or shadows in the way. His brows are furrowed. He has dark hair and he wears it in a low ponytail. His ears are elongated, pointed at the ends. The dawning confusion on your face makes his eyes arch in amusement.

“Do you have a weapon?” he asks.

Breathe, you remind yourself. You feel for the small pistol holstered at your waist. A last resort; you can’t recall the last time you’ve had to use it. “Yes,” you say.

“Do you remember the way to the starport?”

“Yes, but—”

He shrugs, his cloak parting to reveal strange, carapace-like armor underneath. The smooth, flexible plates clinging to his body are a startlingly bright, sunny yellow. He was concealing a rifle, a slender, long-barreled weapon, strangely elegant and studded with small, circular crystals. “You’re going to run. Take advantage of the chaos and stay out of sight,” he says. He speaks quietly and calmly, even as he turns and raises the rifle, lifting the scope to his eye. “I’ll provide cover.”

“But I—”

“Don’t say you can’t. You can. You’ve survived this long. You will keep surviving.”

You hear pounding footsteps and the shriek of lasfire. “What’s your name?” you ask him.

Someone comes around the corner—soldier, Imperial, heavily armored, finger on the trigger. He dies in an instant, head and helmet blooming apart like the unraveling of a scarlet flower. The stranger’s weapon makes no more noise than the soft hiss of wind when it fires. He looks at you only briefly before he returns his full attention to the rifle, waiting for something else to stray into his line of sight.

“Murai’ethlienne,” he says with quiet surprise, as though the sound of his own name has become unfamiliar.

Sinistra is falling apart. Every district you run through flickers red with dying neon and raging fire, combustible ammunition igniting chemical pools and faulty electronics. Shredded metal grates and missing floor panels open into bottomless chasms and an alarm somewhere is warning that the gravitational stabilizer is losing power. The dead and dying are everywhere. The Imperials have superior numbers but Sinistra’s resistance knows the station better. You see the grisly aftermath of firefights and explosive traps. Bodies lie bleeding from hundreds of shrapnel wounds and unidentifiable lumps of flesh litter the narrow lanes between market stalls.

Sometimes, you’ll hear a soft sound—the rush of waves up a beach, or the long breath of a sigh—and something in your path will collapse in a burst of red mist and splattered flesh. You can’t see him but he keeps reminding you he’s there.

There were stories like this, too. Not just of the end but of the wonderful beginning; a world that was not a world. A galaxy that was not so lonely.

The “LOST AND FOUND” still hangs where it always has, clattering ominously as another blast rocks the station. The starport is carnage. Hundreds have already fled this way and the floor is slick with blood. The air is thin and your movements are sluggish as the shielding and stabilizer arrays separating you from the void of space falter. A blockade of Imperial warships lurks in orbit, surrounded by a glittering ring of splintered metal—all that remains of those who tried to escape. Sinistra’s star is a blinding behemoth in the sky, surface churning with arcs and ripples of stellar plasma.

Your ship is still here. The shields are rippling like a heat haze, a telltale sign that they’re about to fail, but that means it’s still undamaged. The electric thrum of fight-of-flight adrenaline surges through your veins, overshadowing your fear.

“I’m a fool.” You didn’t hear anyone approach but Murai’ethlienne is mere steps behind you, rifle clutched in one hand. His shoulders are heaving with labored breaths but he looks uninjured. He looks up at the dark, imposing shapes in orbit with jutting prows and enough artillery to obliterate a planet. “Of course they’d blockade the station,” he mutters. “And after everything I said to you before…”

“I can get through,” you tell him. The certainty in your voice visibly startles him. “Do you have a ship? You can come with me.” He hesitates, glancing up again. “Murai’ethlienne,” you say. It’s a slightly clumsy attempt at the sounds he made before, consonants bumbling into each other. He looks at you with a bittersweet expression, something like misty-eyed acceptance. “Come with me,” you insist. “You saved me. Now I save you. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“What have I done?” he says hoarsely. “This galaxy will tear you apart someday.”

You take his hand. He looks down and watches as you lace your fingers with his. “Look at me,” you urge him. “My heart is still beating, isn’t it? I’m alive right now, and so are you.” You squeeze his hand. “And we have to live.”

You see calm wash over him. Not slowly but all at once, like a flipped switch. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he’s just as composed as he was when he pulled you to safety in the marketplace. He nods curtly and squeezes your hand back.

Once, there were many ships like yours. Sleek and beautiful with gentle, organic-looking curves and a flexible surface of interlocking, membranous protective plates. There were large ones drifting through the cosmos with the slow, majestic grace of ocean giants, whole fleets of city-ships were children were born and hybrid plants from a thousand worlds blossomed. There were small ones, narrow and minnow-like beside the slow-moving giants, stinger-sharp guardians and mandible-prowed scanner-gatherers and—just like yours—winged explorers.

You know this ship better than you know any planet you’ve ever landed on. You slide your fingers over the pilot interface with precise, muscle-memory movements, activating emergency takeoff protocols. Murai’ethlienne is visibly startled by the sight of a chair beside yours, sharing space and even a swath of controls. You direct him to sit down and hold onto something. The engine hums to life. The navigation program comes online with a warble and proposes several different launch trajectories. You study them briefly before making a decision.

You can feel Murai’ethlienne watching in silent fascination. “This is a family ship,” you explain. “All the ones that are left are like this.”

He does not ask the obvious question—why is it empty, then, if it is meant for a family? “Is it old?” he asks.

“Very. It was my mother and father’s. They inherited it from their parents, and so on.”

You think he’s smiling under his mask.

Takeoff is smooth. You ease into a rapid acceleration that makes Murai’ethlienne inhale sharply and rocket straight for the Imperial blockade. Their tight formation is jostled by the stirring of Sinistra’s star. It’s slight, nothing like the quakes that affected the station, but the subtle drift will affect their aim on a small, fast-moving target. The ship’s wings—solar sails, veined membranes that pulse and shimmer as they soak up electromagnetic bursts—unfurl. Murai’ethlienne clutches the armrests of his seat as you veer straight for the largest ship in the formation. He mutters something that might be a prayer or a curse, but not in a language you recognize. Defensive systems warn you that the ship is being targeted. You see enormous turrets and void cannons swiveling towards you.

You’re sure the naval captains staring you down have had a fair amount of training and practical experience in the Imperium’s constant wars, but their ships are a means to an end. Yours is everything. They don’t know the arrhythmic pulse of stars. Their gargantuan beasts could never hopscotch between gravitational wells like yours can. The opening volleys, spears of sizzling light, miss you entirely. By the time the next shots are fired, you’ve spun into the narrow, thorn-lined gap between warships, voidshields crackling so close you can feel them like turbulence. Smaller Interceptor vessels briefly give chase but they turn to small silver dots in the void behind you.

Murai’ethlienne hunches over in his seat. You dispense a sick bag from the ceiling for him and set the ship to autopilot, setting course for another active star. You don’t need any more fuel, but the shields need to be recharged. “I’m from here,” you tell him, nodding to the serene, glittering darkness beyond the window. “That’s what my parents told me. I asked them once if we were from nowhere, and they said it wasn’t true. We’re from everywhere. To the Diasporex, all of this is home.” You relax in your seat, suddenly fatigued now that the danger has passed. You look over and find him staring again.

He’s taken his mask off and set it in his lap. You see his lips for the first time, pursed into a thoughtful frown. “We’re very much alike,” he tells you. “My home is…well, it feels reductive to call it a ship. An ark, maybe. An ancient, scarred place where the dead outnumber the living.”

“Is that where you want to go?” you ask.

“No,” he says. He doesn’t even think about it. “I’m going wherever you’re going.”

“You are?”

“Is that not the way of your people? Unity, or something like that?”

His smile is pretty, you think. “It was,” you say. “But that’s how we were found in the first place. The fleets were too big. Now we have to stay away from each other.”

He nods. “I understand. If you’d rather be left alone—”

“I didn’t say that.” You extend your arm into the space between your seats, palm up and waiting. Murai’ethlienne looks at it with surprise and amusement. His hand is so much larger than yours, easily engulfing it. It feels nice. Warm, you think, and safe. After everything, you finally give him your name. The sound of it on his tongue, the way he stops to savor it, makes your eyes fill with tears.

Alarmed, Murai’ethlienne asks if you were injured on the station. He’s even more confused when you smile and laugh through the tears and when you insist that, for the first time in a long time, everything is fine.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #warhammer 40k #in disbelief at how wholesome this one became by the end

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aftgficrec · 5 months ago

Note

Can't believe I caught this open. I love your page. Was just wondering about fics centered around medicated Andrew. Like the foxes realizing that the drugs were more harmful than helpful. Thanks!

Medicated Andrew is an AFTG hot button theme with a good amount of fandom meta, discussion, and umbrage to be found. Some fic writers go the fix-it route with time travel aus or canon divergent stories with different or zero meds (here's the ao3 unmedicated Andrew tag). When Andrew is on the problematic medication it’s usually Neil who wants it gone, but sometimes other foxes see it too. We also found aus with unexpected people wanting Andrew off the meds…can you say Tetsuji Moriyama or Fox!Harry Potter? We have a good amount of Andrew’s pov, and fanart that’s like whoa. What I’m saying is, buckle up for a wild ride, rabbits. -A

previous recs:

Andrew’s meds here

‘They All Burn the Same’ here (updated)

‘take two’ here

‘Deals With Devils’ and ‘The Sun Still Rises’ here (both updated)

‘The Sphynx and the Hare’ here (completed)

‘Hope Was A Dangerous, Disquieting Thing’ here (updated)

‘i'd die for you (that's easy to say)’ here

‘California Drifting’ here (updated)

‘Of Ocean Tides’ series here

‘This Is What Hollows’ here (completed)

andrew pov:

‘The Court-Hole Fox’ (completed), ‘Fuck the Game’ series, and ‘oh be cautious, do not stand too near’ series, plus ‘Monster’ and ‘Monster 2.0’ (both updated) here

‘Fold me in your palms’ here

‘Therapy session’ here

‘Odd Eye’ here

‘Stranger To Stay’ here (updated)

‘The Real Thing’ here

‘And we’ll be running’ here

‘One More Time (With Feeling)’ here (updated)

‘we destroy everything we need’ here