#supply side intervention

[fictionally-driven]

Bruises and Blossoms

Pairing: Jiyan x f! Midnight Rangers reader Word count: 3165 words Trigger warnings: Injuries, mentions of blood, violence, mentions of death. Plot: Jiyan is gravely injured and saved by the resilient and resourceful field medic, (Y/N), whose unwavering dedication and quick thinking catch his eye amidst the chaos of war.

Author Note: I have been writing fics about WuWa characters developing feelings for someone. I could not help but indulge in this after playing WuWa from the past few days. If you liked it, then reblogs are appreciated, Thank you!

The battlefield was a symphony of chaos, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of smoke. Tacet Discords, their dark forms swirling like a malevolent storm, descended upon them. Jiyan led his troops into the fray against the looming threat to Jinzhou and Huanglong. His blade cut through the fog on the enemy with lethal precision.

But the Tacet Discords were relentless, their numbers seemingly endless as they swarmed over the battlefield. It felt like an other outbreak was on the verge of breaking through and Jiyan was resolved to quell it before it got to that point. Jiyan fought with all his strength, his heart pounding with adrenaline as he pushed himself beyond his limits to protect his troops from the brunt of the attacks.

Suddenly, amidst the chaos, a joint attack from the Crownless and the Tempest Memphis caught Jiyan off guard. Despite his best efforts, he found himself overwhelmed, his vision blurring as pain seared through his body. Blood filled Jiyan's mouth as he struggled to maintain his footing, his ears ringing with the clamor of battle. But even in the midst of his pain, he refused to yield, his determination unwavering as he faced his enemies head-on. Slaying the crownless, Jiyan collapsed to his knees, trying to catch his breath and recover. Black spots emerged in his vision and he shook his head, trying to remain focused. Amidst the chaos, a familiar voice cut through the din, pulling him back from the brink of darkness.

An on-field medic approached at Jiyan's side "General! focus on me," she urged, her voice firm yet comforting as she assessed his injuries. Her hands moving with practiced precision as she tended to his injuries with the supplies she was carrying. "Let me patch you up."

But Jiyan, his resolve as strong as ever, swatted her hand away. He insisted that he was fine, his voice strained with pain. "There are others who need your help more than I do," he protested, his gaze flickering with concern for his troops. “I’ll be alright.”

Yet the medic, undeterred by Jiyan's protests, remained steadfast in her resolve. "You need medical attention, General," she insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Let me do my job."

"I'm not leaving you like this," She retorted, her tone firm as she continued to patch up Jiyan's injuries. "No man left behind, remember?"

As she outlined Jiyan's injuries in her terminal, recording and transmitting the message to the infirmary, she detailed the extent of his wounds. "He's broken his arm, sustained a deep femoral artery laceration, and has multiple contusions and abrasions," she reported, her voice steady despite the urgency of the situation. "We'll need a transfusion and surgical intervention."

With practiced efficiency, she stabilized Jiyan's broken arm, carefully wrapping it in a makeshift splint to prevent further injury after removing his signature midnight green gardebras. Administering pain medication, she sought to alleviate his discomfort, her hands moving with gentle precision as she worked.

As she wrapped a tourniquet around his open wound to stem the bleeding, she barked commands to the surrounding troops, directing them to cover their path back to the infirmary. "We need a clear path, now!" She pointed to two soldiers. “You two. Cover for me and the general till we make it to the infirmary. Take defense positions at the back.” She then points to another soldier beside them. “You take the front. What? Do I look like I have sprouted two horns? Move. Now!”  With Jiyan's uninjured arm draped around her, she lifted the general up, staggering a bit due to his weight before stabilizing herself.

Despite his delirium from the pain and blood loss, Jiyan couldn't help but notice the warmth of her presence, her lively nature. "You're like a whirlwind, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice laced with admiration as she dragged him towards the relative safety of the infirmary.

Despite the chaos and confusion of the battlefield, Jiyan finds himself drawn to the medic at his side. Was she glowing? He couldn't help but wonder as he struggled to keep up with her brisk pace. How could someone be so beautiful, almost amidst the carnage of war? Though the scent of blood and smoke filled his senses, he could still smell was the antiseptic and medicines that she had used on him, comforting him. As she dragged him towards the infirmary, Jiyan weakly protested against her, insisting that he would be fine. She seemingly ignored his words, only to focus on the task at hand. And in that moment, as he clung to her for support, Jiyan knew that he was in good hands.

Inside the infirmary, the harsh lights made everything seem too bright and painful. Jiyan was gently lowered onto the bed, his muscles screaming in protest with each movement. Through bleary eyes, he watched as the medic busied herself. Jiyan’s eyes fixed on her, noting the blood, his blood, smeared on her skin and on her clavicle. He noticed the small injuries that marred her too. Her hair, disheveled from the chaos, fell out of place from its tie, framing her face. With his uninjured hand, he reached out and tucked a stray strand behind her ear, his touch lingering for a moment. “You are injured too. Make sure to get it patched.”

She glanced at him, a mix of frustration and tenderness in her eyes. "You need to rest, General," she admonished, her voice soft yet firm. "Let us handle the battlefield for now. Your troops need you to recover."

Jiyan managed a weak smile, his vision blurring again. "You... you're quite something," he murmured, his voice trailing off. “What is your name, soldier?”

She stood up, her expression softening as she looked down at him. "And you're quite stubborn," she replied, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Take care and recover soon. Your troops have got this, and you need to focus on resting." She wiped his blood off her using a few wet wipes as more medics gathered to tend to the general. “My name is (Y/N).” She said, as the medics began working on treating him.

Jiyan managed a weak smile, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. "Thank you, (Y/N)." he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"You're welcome," she replied, still smiling. “Let the medics tend to you. I’ll be off now.”

As she turned to leave, her figure was haloed by the harsh light, making her seem almost ethereal. Jiyan watched her go, the scent of antiseptic and the warmth of her presence lingering even as he drifted into unconsciousness.

Days had passed since the chaotic battle, and Jiyan, who transferred to the hospital in Jinzhou city was gradually recovering. His body, still wrapped in bandages and dressings, bore the marks of the intense skirmish. His broken arm was securely cast, the deep laceration on his hip stitched and bandaged, and the myriad of contusions and abrasions were cleaned and dressed. The medics had done their job well, but amidst their care, Jiyan's mind lingered on one thought: the medic who had saved him.

(Y/N), she had said her name was. She hadn't served directly under him before, always stationed at a distant outpost. The recent upheavals had brought many changes to their forces, including her reassignment to the Northern border of Huanglong. He'd learned through her records that she was exemplary, her combat skills and medical background making her a perfect fit for an on-field medic. Jiyan knew he needed to thank her, not just for her skillful treatment, but for her unwavering determination to save his life.

Her image was etched into his mind: her firm yet gentle hands tending to his wounds, her unwavering resolve, and that fleeting moment when he had tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. Despite the pain and blood loss, he remembered the warmth of her presence

The Tacet Discord outbreak from that fateful day had been contained, though at a grave cost. Several lives had been lost, each one a heavy burden on Jiyan's heart. As he regained his strength, he prepared himself for a somber duty he never neglected: honoring the fallen. With a pouch of Emortia seeds in his hand, Jiyan made his way to Knell Square, the hallowed ground where he planted these seeds to commemorate the soldiers who had perished in battle.

Stepping out into the streets of Jinzhou, Jiyan felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. The city was alive with activity, but he sought solace in the quieter parts. His path took him away from the bustling marketplace, past the familiar landmarks of the city, and towards Knell Square.

As Jiyan approached the square, the familiar sight of Emortia flowers greeted him, their delicate petals swaying gently in the breeze. He paused for a moment, taking in the serenity of the scene, his heart heavy with the names and faces of the comrades he had lost. But then, his gaze caught sight of a solitary figure standing by the flower bed, lost in thought.

(Y/N) stood there, her posture relaxed yet somehow somber. She seemed absorbed in the sight of the flowers; her eyes distant as if she were communing with the spirits of those who had passed. The soft light of the late afternoon cast a gentle glow on her, highlighting the subtle strength and grace that had left such an impression on him.

Jiyan's heart skipped a beat as he watched her. He hadn't expected to run into her here, and the sight of her brought back a flood of memories from the battlefield. He wondered what she was thinking about, what memories or emotions had drawn her to this quiet place. He took a moment to observe her, the way her eyes seemed to soften as she looked at the flowers, the way her hands gently brushed against the petals. He cleared his throat, stepping beside her. "I didn’t expect to run into you in Jinzhou."

(Y/N) turned to him, a gentle smile forming on her lips. "General Jiyan," she greeted, her voice soft. “I see that you are recovering quickly.” She turned back to the flowers. “I was here to collect some personal supplies and stopped by to admire these flowers. They are quite beautiful, aren’t they?”

Jiyan nodded, stepping closer to stand beside her. "They do. Each one represents a life, a sacrifice. It's a way for me to remember and honor them. I plant these seeds for the rangers who lost their lives." he said quietly.

She looked back at the flowers; her expression thoughtful. "These flowers... they carry so many memories…”

There was a moment of silence between them, the weight of their shared losses hanging in the air. Jiyan took a deep breath, summoning the words he had been wanting to say. "Thank you," he began, his voice earnest. "For saving me that day. I owe you, (Y/N)."

(Y/N) waved a hand dismissively, but there was a twinkle in her eye. "I was just doing my duty, General. But next time, let me do my job without fighting back.” There was a hint of frustration in her eyes. “You of all people should know that without a general, the army would have fallen into disarray."

Jiyan felt a pang of sheepishness at her words, but he nodded in acknowledgment. "You're right," he admitted. "I was stubborn. But so were you. Your quick thinking and actions saved me. Your efforts will be formally acknowledged."

A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she shook her head. "No need for formalities, General. Knowing that you're alive and well is enough for me. I don't want praise," (Y/N) said, her voice firm yet soft. "I didn't do it for the recognition. I did it because it's my duty, and I want to be more efficient in that duty. I could have saved more lives that day if I was better."

Jiyan nodded slowly. "I do. It's a heavy burden, knowing lives depend on your actions. But that's also what makes it so important."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened slightly, a spark of recognition flashing in them. "That's right. You were a medic before you became a general. I'd almost forgotten about that."

Jiyan smiled faintly. "It's not something I talk about often, but it's a part of who I am."

She gave him an incredulous look, almost looking offended. “You, of all people, should know better than to resist treatment on the battlefield! Next time, I'll tie you up if I have to."

A chuckle escaped Jiyan before he could stop it, and (Y/N)'s eyes widened in surprise. "Something the matter?" he asked, bemused.

She shook her head, a look of astonishment on her face. "I don't think I've ever heard you chuckle before," she said, her voice filled with wonder. "It suits you more than your usual frown and scowl."

Jiyan was momentarily stunned by her words. He wasn't used to such candid observations about his demeanor. "I suppose I should thank you for that," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

(Y/N) returned his smile, her gaze focused on the sky for a moment, "I'll leave you to your moment with the flowers, General," she said, stepping back to give him space.

As she began to walk away, Jiyan found himself not wanting her to leave just yet. "Wait," he called after her, his voice catching slightly. "Would you... would you help me plant these seeds?"

(Y/N) turned back, her smile widening as she walked back to him. "Of course, General. I'd be honored."

They knelt together by the flower bed, the pouch of Emortia seeds in Jiyan's hand. He handed a few seeds to (Y/N), their fingers brushing lightly. Together, they dug small holes in the soil, carefully placing the seeds within.

"Each seed represents a life," Jiyan said quietly, his voice filled with reverence. "A sacrifice that must never be forgotten."

(Y/N) nodded, her eyes reflecting the same solemn respect. "And each flower that blooms is a reminder of their bravery and our duty to honor them."

They worked in silence for a while, the act of planting the seeds almost meditative. The gentle rustling of the flowers and the distant sounds of the city created a peaceful backdrop to their task.

As they finished planting the last of the seeds, Jiyan looked at (Y/N), admiration evident in his eyes. "Thank you," he said, his voice sincere. "For everything."

(Y/N) smiled, her lively spirit shining through once more. "You're welcome, General. And thank you for your service. We all rely on your strength and leadership."

With the seeds planted, they stood together, taking a moment to appreciate the serene beauty of Knell Square. The Emortia flowers swayed gently in the breeze, their delicate petals a symbol of hope and remembrance.

"I should be going," (Y/N) said softly. "But if you ever need someone to tie you down for treatment again, you know where to find me, General."

Jiyan chuckled, a genuine smile breaking across his face. "I'll keep that in mind," he replied. “And please, call me Jiyan.”

“Jiyan…” She repeated, nodding at him. “Alright then, I’ll do just that.”

As (Y/N) repeated his name, a warm feeling spread through his chest. He didn't want her to leave just yet. There was something about her presence that he found comforting, something that made him want to know more about her.

He recalled Mortefi's words, a dear friend who often chided him for being too stoic and reserved. "You need to put yourself out there, Jiyan. Go on dates, meet new people, relax a little. Stop being a tragic brooding hero all the damn time and go live your life."

Jiyan had never thought he desired companionship. After all, the Jué had entrusted him with a duty, a responsibility that he had always taken seriously. But this woman, (Y/N), had come out of nowhere, stirring feelings within him that he had never felt before. It made him yearn for more and all he wanted was to be the subject of her attention at the moment.

Summoning his courage, Jiyan hesitated for a moment before calling out to her, his voice slightly awkward. "Um, (Y/N), wait!"

She turned back, a curious expression on her face as she regarded him. Jiyan stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. At this very moment, he felt as if he would rather fight a horde of the Crownless than speak his mind.  "I, uh, I was wondering if... if it would be alright for us to, um, go out for a nice dinner? And maybe catch a lion dance performance after?"

(Y/N) turned back, a slight smile playing on her lips as she observed Jiyan's flustered state. "Are you asking me out on a date, General?" she teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Jiyan hesitated, first blurting out. “N-no…that’s...” He immediately corrected himself. "I... uh... yes, I suppose I am," he admitted, his voice slightly uncertain. "If... if that's not out of line, I mean. I'm sorry, I should probably let you be..."

(Y/N) giggled, the sound light and musical, easing some of Jiyan's anxiety. "It's endearing to see the General so flustered," she said, her tone gentle and kind. “I’d like to see more of this side of yours, Jiyan.” She met his gaze, still amused. “So yes, I'd like to go on this date if you're still up for it."

Relief flooded through Jiyan, mingled with a newfound sense of excitement. He hadn't expected her to say yes, but now that she had, he couldn't help but feel a surge of happiness. “Yes. It... Its settled then.”

(Y/N) nodded, her smile warm and inviting. "Alright then, Jiyan. When and where?"

Jiyan thought for a moment, his mind racing. "There's a lovely restaurant near the theatre. How about we meet there at seven tonight or is that too soon...?"

"Seven sounds perfect," she agreed. "I'll see you then."

As they exchanged contact information on their terminals, Jiyan's heart thudded in his chest, a mixture of nerves and excitement coursing through him. He watched as (Y/N) took off, her graceful form moving with purpose, and he couldn't help but admire her even more. With a final wave and a cheerful reminder to take care, she disappeared into the bustling city streets, leaving Jiyan standing there with a smile playing on his lips.

His gaze lingered on the spot where she had vanished, the memory of her infectious laughter and warm smile etched into his mind. For a moment, he placed his uninjured hand on top of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his palm. Yes, even he, General Jiyan, renowned for his stoicism and unwavering dedication to duty, found himself looking forward to tonight and the possibility of many more nights spent in (Y/N)'s company.

WuWa Masterlist

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

33 in hand holding with leto?

Sorry this took so long nonnie!

33. bandaging the other’s hand and not quite letting go

Warnings: Angst; pining; brief wound description

"Leave us."

The sound of his voice makes your stomach churn with nerves. Your eyes flit to Gurney's just in time to see the thin press of his lips, and his warning frown—don't shoot your mouth off, not now. He pats your knee before he rises from the chair across from yours. You don't have to turn to see whatever looks pass between him and the Duke. You can only hope that he offers another warning, but you can't be sure. Gurney has an allegiance to the Duke that he doesn't have to you.

You're a fellow soldier, and you have his respect, but the Duke rose him from the hellish Harkonnen pit and gave him a new life.

You force yourself to focus on your breathing as you hear the door shut behind Gurney, leaving you alone with—

You don't dare look at Leto as he lowers himself to sit in front of you.

He's silent as he takes stock of the supplies that Gurney had laid out to tend to your wound, the gaping cut that runs the length of your palm where you'd stopped a knife from connecting with Leto's neck. Gurney has already cleaned it, laying the wound plain for his Grace.

Leto takes a jar of salve up, removing the lid and allowing the sharp, sterile scent to fill the air between the two of you. Your heart leaps as he cradles your hand in his, and scoops a hearty amount out. It's going to sting, but you resolve to sit still and stone-faced through it all.

You wait for the rebuke, the scolding that you acted recklessly. You wait for him to tell you that your blood is spilled across his desk, his documents. You wait for him to tell you that he would have handled it without need for your intervention.

Your answers sit ready on your tongue. Your act was not reckless, it was necessary. You've spilled blood for the House of Atreides, and this is no different. Copies of documents can be made; desks can be cleaned or removed. There is only one of him, and he cannot be replaced or replicated. You're certain that he could have handled it. You know that it is a quick man, strong, and capable.

But you had seen the knife, and you had leapt without thinking. You hadn't given a second thought between putting yourself between him and harm's way.

Leto caps the salve again, reaching for a thick roll of bandages next. You fight to keep your palm open despite the prickle of the medicine itching your aching skin.

You finally allow yourself to glance at him as his hones in on wrapping the bandage. You can feel him moving slowly, wrapping your hand with care. His lashes sweep across the apples of his cheeks; his lips are set in a grim purse; his jaw is tight. With each pass of the wrapping, he draws in a soft breath and sighs it out again. You can feel him tuck the edge in securely, and nearly flinch when his gaze lifts to hold yours.

Neither of you speak as you sit there, your hand still cradled in his, his thumb sweeping across the side of your palm, away from the wound.

"...Do not do it again."

It's a warning, and a plea. It hits you in the heart, and in that moment, you know that you cannot follow his order.

You will do it again. You will do it again and again and again until every threat is neutralized, or until you draw your last breath.

But if voicing the lie will help him sleep; if it'll lessen those dark, growing circles beneath his eyes; if it'll keep you on his detail, where you can ensure his safety—

"I won't."

[schoute]

Nobody look at me I'm posting self-indulgent oc x canon art and fic (under the cut) 🙈

Warnings: NSFW THERE'S COCK TALK and canon typical violence so unless you're an adult don't click.

A swirl of fragrant smoke whirled around Crocodile's head as he exhaled with a hard sigh.

What had started out like any other day had quickly devolved into irritating chaos.

It wasn't the first time the Revolutionary Army had sought him out, keen on trying to get their hands on his imported weapons. In fact, it was the second time, most recently, that they'd tried.

The second time she had tried.

Peachy hair danced across his mind, with her frilly shorts and lilting chuckle, and Crocodile bit down hard on his cigar. It was the second time Kerry Corduroy had tried to steal from him.

He wasn't a forgiving man, and the first time she'd tried to raid his weapons supplies with a plucky little crew of Revolutionaries he'd sent her hobbling back to her ship with a gouge from his hook in her thigh.

A blast in the distance rattled the crystal ashtray on his desk, and Crocodile's hooked arm twitched reflexively, Kerry's toned, bloody thigh floating through his memory.

He'd have to ensure that the punishment he gave her this time made his intentions abundantly clear; no one stole from Crocodile.

Another, closer blast sent his matching crystal decanter careening to the ground with a crash sending crystal and his favorite scotch in every direction of his office floor. Crocodile clenched his fist; he'd make Kerry lick every drop of that expensive scotch off the floor, glass shards be damned. He'd twist a hand into the peachy waves at the nape of her neck, kick her feet from under her until she was on her knees in front of him--

His cock suddenly gave an interested throb and Crocodile grunted, annoyed that the pretty little revolutionary thorn in his side was making him hard while she ran rampant around his warehouse destroying his things and attempting, once again, to rob him.

What annoyed him the most, however, was that he'd allowed himself to indulge in these fantasies of her even before this moment. After he'd left her marred and hobbling out of his office he'd thought about Kerry; the way she'd swaggered all hips into his office, confidently placing a boot on his chest while he'd been lounging on the chaise.

She was stupid for even trying to use intimidation tactics on him, and he'd laughed in her face for it; but Kerry had simply smiled in return--an annoyingly charming smile--all while digging the heel of her boot harder into his chest, daring to say, ‘I’m taking your shit, handsome’.

He'd wanted to wipe that grin off her face right then, it would have been easy to kill her, and for a moment Crocodile considered it. But he wasn't interested in picking a fight with the Revolutionary Army, nor was he interested in them having his weapons; so he arrived at a compromise.

That's when he'd sunk his hook into her thigh, pulling her closer with whispered promises that if she came here again, it'd be the last thing she did. A conveniently timed intervention from some other Revolutionary Army members had prevented their conversation from continuing, but hadn't stopped Kerry's pale eyes from meeting his. Even with his hook buried into her thigh she hadn't lifted her boot from his chest or screamed for him to stop, and it was the intensity of her gaze that had first gotten his mind into this mess over the next few weeks.

He replayed that moment in his mind, absently rubbing the spot on his chest where her heel had been; except when he replayed that moment in his mind alone in bed at night he imagined what could have happened if they hadn't been interrupted. He imagined the shit-eating grin on Kerry's face pressed into the fine silk pillow of his chaise as he bent her over, smoothing a hand over her ridiculous frilled shorts before slapping her ass. He imagined how she'd sound, gasping and whimpering under his touch, how she'd beg for more and how he'd willingly give it to her; if she could behave.

It was those thoughts of Ms. Kerry Corduroy that frustrated him to no end, and that were making him hard even now as she stupidly returned to try and steal from him again.

BANG

The door to his office flew open, and Crocodile turned with a glare to see who was interrupting him when there were Revolutionaries to deal with outside.

Those pale eyes he'd been imaging moments ago locked into his.

Standing in the doorway to his office was his brazen little Revolutionary; peachy waves wild under her brimmed hat, and that same irritatingly attractive smirk he'd been fantasizing about. His eyes fell to her thigh, just below the teasing ruffles of her shorts, and he couldn't help but grin.

“That’s healing nicely,” he nodded nonchalantly to the starburst shaped scar decorating her inner thigh. “I should give you one on the other side to match.”

Kerry huffed and popped her hip. “I'd like to see you try, handsome.”

He wouldn't even have to try. Within the blink of an eye Crocodile could have his hook latched into any damn part of her he pleased, wrenching her closer while using his devil fruit powers to suck the very life out of her then and there…

As fate would have it, death wouldn't be in the cards for Ms. Corduroy today, he decided. It would be so much more satisfying watching her atone in any way he saw fit for all the trouble and destruction she'd caused him.

Sand drifted from his body and twisted around Kerry's legs, manipulating her into facing away from him. With an easy glide of the same sand he was on her, using his hand to pin and twist her wrist to her back, the combination of his height and strength along with his devil fruit powers easily pressed her into the wall of his office. An enticing gasp left her lips as the pressure of his body collided with hers, and Crocodile's cock gave another untimely throb.

“Whatcha got there,” Kerry drawled, with a wriggle of her hips. “Is that a black market gun in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”

Crocodile grunted; Kerry’s wiggling hips were effectively grinding her perfect ass into his hard length and the sensation was enough to send exciting thrills through his body.

It pissed him off.

“Quiet,” he growled in her ear, and gave her twisted arm a cruel tug, enjoying the way she gasped and arched back against him. “Where’s your little rescue committee?”

Kerry struggled against his hold, but her expression remained the same; that smirk that haunted his fantasies and caused a frustrating mixture of anger and desire in his gut.

“Oh they'll be here,” she said, her words tight from the weight of his body crushing into her. “I just thought we could have some alone time first.”

Her tone was teasing and silky even when slightly strained, and that frustrated him too. He wanted to show her right now a better use for that smart mouth; once again imagining how she'd look on her knees in front of him, eagerly taking his cock in that impudent mouth…

“Stupid of you.” He said, and drew his hooked hand slowly along the length of her unscarred thigh, leaving a thin line of red in its wake. He paused at the crux of her thigh, directly across from where he'd marked the other side and pressed the tip harder into her flesh.

He could feel her shiver against him at his touch, and Crocodile bit down hard on his cigar to ground himself. Trying to force the scenes he'd been imagining between them out of his mind.

“I should kill you for showing up here again,” he snarled, and applied more pressure with his hook point against her thigh. “But that wouldn't teach you how to behave, would it?”

Kerry sucked in a sharp breath below him, and even with the shadow of her hat he could see the flush painted across her freckled cheeks.

“I'd like to see you try and make me, handsome.”

She repeated her teasing words from only moments ago and Crocodile grinned.

He would gladly take that challenge.

Another boom suddenly shook the walls of his office, blasting out a nearby window and causing himself and Kerry to stumble, trying to keep their balance.

The distraction was enough that Kerry had somehow managed to twist out of his hold, and Crocodile watched as she sprinted from his office.

He could easily stop her, he should stop her.

Then she paused, and Crocodile watched as she spun on a booted heel to face him.

With that infuriating smirk gracing her pretty pink lips she blew him a kiss before whirling around, sprinting again towards the exit.

Crocodile huffed, and smoke twisted around his head, dancing across his vision just like his little Revolutionary soldier had and he promised himself next time he saw her, he'd make good on his own promise to teach her exactly how to behave.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: The Siege of Frostmanse

A hero takes up arms against a powerful frost giant mage, threatening to destabilize the realm and forcing the party, their allies, and the powers that be to start choosing sides.

For generations Ylnriig the Argent has provided council and arcane insight to kings, jarls, and champions alike, seeking to maintain some measure of calm across the rugged land and icy seas that neighbour her home. Songs are sung about the great wonders she has performed, but also the great prices she has exacted in the name of keeping the peace: Plagues halted by burying villages in ice, destined dooms averted by the noble sacrifice of innocents.

Songs are also sung about Rothger Redsail, and his Redsail raiders. Brave beyond recounting, this living legend and his viking crew are said to have toppled foreign thrones, drunk mead with stormgods, and even sailed over the edge of the world. Now Rothger is back in his homeland and he has no qualms about what his next voyage is to be: He aims to sail against the giant and topple Ylnriig's head from her shoulders, so that the people might never pay her terrible price ever again.

Setup: This scenario works best if the party has a good impression of both Ylnriig and Rothger early on. Trophies from the Redsail's travels hanging in the tavern, local monuments to where Ylnriig averted some disaster through magical might or cleverness. Have the markets flooded with wonders offloaded from Rothger's latest viking expedition, while the town fountain runs with healing waters after being blessed by the giant's own hand. Neither side of this conflict is strictly in the wrong, and both give much to the world simply by their existence.

Everything changes when Rothger sails back into harbour and starts laying the groundwork for his attack on Ylnriig's home, securing supplies and new recruits for the Redsail Raiders, hobnobbing with the local power players to ensure they support his actions. Initially he'll keep the goal of his next expedition secret, boasting to the masses only that his next mission will deliver them into a time of prosperity and opportunity that neither they or their direct forebears could imagine.

Adventure Hooks

Facing some great challenge, the party might be sent to petition Ylnriig for aid, being forced to make the trip to Frostmanse, her isolated sanctum nestled among the far fjords. The ice giant may seem to give them the cold shoulder, sending them off on some wizardly errand as payment for her involvement, but after some time enjoying her hospitality the party may come to know Ylnriig as the deeply caring scholar that hides beneath her shrewd and utilitarian exterior.

Early on, the party might be tempted to join the Redsail Raiders. Doing so would greatly boost their credibility, and give them backing and direction that they'd normally miss out on as independent sellswords. Doing so will likely require that they prove themselves to the hardened sailors of Rothger's warband , but that's what apprentice level adventurers do isn't it?

Eventually a secret long buried will come to light: More than a score of years ago Rothger and Ylnriig used to be lovers, their relationship as passionate and tempestuous as where volcanic flow meets glacial ice. Rothger was off on one of his grand adventures when plague broke out in his home village, a plague that could only be staunched through drastic magical intervention. Ylnriig ran the numbers, and make an awful but nessisary choice that saved tens of thousands while dooming Rothger's family and clan to a cold and awful death.

Though Rothger's animosity towards Ylnriig is genuine, his actions are being backed by a coalition of powerplayers throughout the region who consider the Wizard's continued meddling an impediment to their ambitions. If he succeeds, they'll be able to enact schemes and settle scores that've stayed idle for generations. If he fails, they'll have a martyr to rally support around, as they make a second attempt to oust the giant.

Artsouce

[awkward-tension-art]

Darkness on Umbara Chp.5 (Rex x Reader)

Chapter 4. Chapter 6.

Beginning of the List

cw: Rex x Reader, Reader is a medic, incorrect military procedure, graphic descriptions of injuries, blood, swearing, death and battle, Spoilers for the Umbara Arc, Pong Krell is an asshole, reader insert, Reader gets shot, details of a wound on reader, stress vomiting, reader is gender neutral, no use of (Y/N), if i miss a tag LMK

Minors DNI,

After the Umbarans had attacked again, everyone was exhausted. It was either luck or divine intervention that the 501st managed to fight off the second attack. This time, Krell actually fought alongside the soldiers, since he had been caught between blaster fire. You’d give the Jedi credit, he was lethal with his lightsabers, making quick work of the adversaries in his path.

You still hated him. Many good soldiers had died in the fight because of his half-assed strategy. To make matters worse you and Kix were at your limit trying to keep everyone alive. 

The supplies in your packs were low, and thankfully the speeder had more. But they wouldn’t last forever if Krell kept up his plans the way he was. 

You had just finished patching up your sixth, ARF trooper Steele, when Jesse put a hand to your shoulder, “Doc. you're hurt. Since the retreat on the road.”

The haphazard bandages you put on your arm had fallen off.  After a quick glance to make sure the soldiers that needed medical care weren’t in a dire situation, you finally assessed yourself. 

Lifting your arm in your uninjured hand, your eyes roamed over the damage. 

Direct hit. 

The minimal armor you had on your upper arm was completely scorched. The fabric underneath had offered no protection either, revealing the internal parts of your limb. 

Your bicep and tricep had been destroyed by the shot revealing the humerus. Bone was stained black with the ashes of your muscle. The only reason your arm was still attached was by the melted, burnt remains of the tendons of your shoulder. The lack of movement in your hand was the result of the fact that, along with a majority of blood supply, the nerves had been entirely disintegrated. 

It was almost comical how the true agony of the wound set in as soon as you looked at it. Well, truthfully, you didn’t feel it. The nerves were gone, so the burn itself and all feeling in your wrist and hand was nonexistent. 

However, you felt everything next to the wound. After all, you still had the nerves that functioned in the area of your body right next to the blaster shot. 

White. Hot. Blistering heat. Your entire shoulder throbbed, each pulse sending a wave of agony through you. Your ears were ringing and your head was spinning. You bit your tongue and tasted blood. 

Your jaw locked up, and you couldn’t scream. 

Everything was shaking. Your breathing was heavy. But you didn’t make a sound. Wordlessly, you stepped out of view behind a thick, dark tree and wretched. Bile exited your stomach as you gagged and heaved. Black dotted your vision, muting the bright red limbs of the plants around you.

Jesse, bless him, kept a stabilizing hand on your back, “do you want me to get Rex?” he asked, waiting for you to get yourself together.

You shook your head and dropped your injured arm, using your trembling free hand to inject yourself with painkillers. After a second, you leaned closer to Jesse to speak, voice strained, “Do not draw attention. Do not make a big deal of this. But please get Kix.” 

All attention was on Rex and the surrounding area right now. No one was paying any mind to your situation. You’d prefer to keep it that way.

Jesse nodded and quickly stepped away to get the medic. He wasn’t going to argue with you. 

Your body felt hot and feverish. You leaned against the tree as sweat dotted your skin. It was mere minutes when Jesse returned with Kix. but it felt like hours.

“Hey,” you croaked, sliding down to sit on the ground. 

The medic was kneeling by your side in an instant. He pulled off his helmet and silently used everything at his disposal to try and save your arm. It was clear you’d need more than several tubes of bacta and bandages to recover, but…well, you knew Kix, he’d think of something.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, fingers becoming stained with the ashes of your upper arm. 

“I didn’t know.” You admitted, “I knew I got shot, I just didn’t know the damage until after the battle.” 

He nodded in understanding. He’s had tunnel vision before. Every soldier has.

You took a sharp breath as your medic friend cut away charred flesh, “I know I won’t die. So I’m gonna close my eyes for a bit, ok?” You nodded to him before addressing Jesse, “Thank you for getting Kix. You can go back to the others.” 

The trooper didn’t seem so certain, “I’ll be close by.”

Once he stepped away, you closed your eyes and rested your head back. The bacta felt cool on the remains of your arm. One eye cracked open, peering at what the medic was doing. He had soaked bandages and patches in bacta, and began to tightly wrap the pieces around your limb. 

Smart. You would have done the same.

“Tell me straight, doc, will I live?” you tried to joke, only to be met with the sound of a helmet hitting the ground. 

Your eyes shot open and you froze, staring directly at Fives. You tried to move, but were quickly stopped by Kix, “I’m not done.” He warned. 

“Listen, Fives. Before you say anything…” you tried to reassure him before the ARC trooper said anything, “Do not tell Rex.” which…sounded very suspicious. As if you had gotten in trouble or caught in a lie. 

It was futile. The two of them were close as hell, it would take a lot of convincing to get him to remain silent. 

“What?!” He nearly shouted, and you desperately tried to shush him, “Why?” 

“He’s going through enough.” You snapped, “I know it looks bad, but I’ve dealt with worse. The men have survived worse themselves.”

“This is different. You’re a field doctor! You warned Krell that you weren’t trained for the front lines with us.” He responded, kneeling next to you, “and he didn’t care. Now look at you!” 

“Both of you, shut up.” Kix snapped, tightening the bacta soaked bandages on the remains of your upper arm. 

You hissed, nerve endings getting irritated by the movement. Luckily the painkillers were strong, and you weren’t put down by the agony you should be in. 

It hurt like a bitch anyway, but you’d manage. 

“Don’t tell Rex.” You looked up at Fives, pleading with him. Fuck pride, your love didn’t need to know you’ve been hurt.

He picked up his helmet, mumbling, “You can’t hide that.” 

Oh, thank all the gods in existence he wasn’t going to tell Rex.

“I won’t. I’ll just…soften the blow.” You attempted to ease your ARC trooper friend. 

“I fucking hate Krell.” He spat before getting his helmet on, “Careless. Reckless. Heartless…”  There was a commotion on the other side of the tree cutting off his insults. “We’re getting ready to move out. Heading the capital.”

“Almost done.” The medic at your side said, helping you get a snug brace on. It was lightly padded, giving protection to the bandages that made up your skin for now. It also had a mechanism that allowed you to move your wrist and hand if need be.

You gave it a few experimental moves. You could close your hand but your fingers weren’t as precise. It would have to be good enough until your arm healed. Fives offered an open palm and you took it before standing, “Thank you, both of you.”

Back to work.

The three of you walked back to the main force. Luckily, Krell didn’t argue when you returned to the speeder. It had gotten much lighter since you and Kix already used nearly half the supplies. As soon as the men started to march you started up the vehicle and stayed at the same pace as everyone else. Despite your exhaustion, after about an hour, you stepped off and gave control to a limping trooper, Dawn, keeping one hand on the side just for stability's sake. 

Looking over the men, there were more injured than healthy now. Tup held his wrist as he walked. Appo had a bandaged thigh. There was a crack on Hardcase’s chestplate that was crusted with dried blood. Two soldiers, Ken and Rin, were laying damn near on top of eachother on the stretcher attached to the speeder. Both had taken severe burns all over their bodies, melting the plastoid to their skin in some areas.

But there were more dead than injured. You’ve been keeping count. Taking notes of the names that died in your arms. 

Fyre. Vim. Oz. Ringo. North. Gabe. Tro. Tess. Zeb. Sante. Reign. Pheon. Nim. Jamie.

You recited their names in your head. You had to keep track of everyone lost under your care. There were more. Those Kix couldn’t save. Those that died instantly without a chance to survive. Sadly, you knew the list would grow as long as Krell was in charge. Under Anakin, the list of dead wouldn’t even get to be half as long. 

Hopefully the city would fall soon, everyone in the battalion needed a bacta tank and therapy. 

A lot of therapy.

“What happened?” 

Rex.

Your lover had taken you from your thoughts and you snapped back into focus, “Just a graze,” you lied. At this point, you weren’t going to stress him out anymore than he already was. He’s been shouldering the weight of the Jedi's bad decision, and you refused to add to it. 

You gave him a soft smile, hoping to ease his worry, but Rex saw right through your lie. The amount of bandages on your arm and a brace wouldn’t be needed for ‘just a graze’. His shoulders shook with his breath, “Doctor, I need the truth. Your status is important to me,” He caught himself and added on, “and the men of this battalion.” 

Dawn, who was controlling the speeder easily, looked at you, then to Rex then back to you before looking away. He wasn’t going to be a part of whatever was happening next between field doctor and captain. Something you appreciated because you weren’t leaving the side of the vehicle.

With a heavy sigh you shook your head, “Sir, it's a blaster shot. Nothing more, I promise.” 

The two of you had to keep your emotions under professionalism. But…well the moment you and Rex were alone there was definitely going to be a conversation.

“...very well, doctor.” he responded, staring ahead, “just…be careful next time.” His tone indicated that this wasn’t done. When the both of you had privacy, he needed to talk.

You nodded and continued onward. 

That was, until you heard a ‘whoosh’ followed by several explosions to the left of you. 

Another ambush!

Everyone scattered, finding whatever cover they could. You didn’t take the chance to stay, instead, grabbing the trooper on the speeder and stepping on the vehicle. “That way, now!” you snapped, pointing at an opening. The balance was off since you were hanging off the side of the thing, but the soldier did a good enough job driving you and the injured out of the line of fire. 

You grabbed the steering, forcing a sharp turn and stopping behind a large root dotted with glowing red. Poor Dawn nearly fell off after your sudden control, but neither you nor the injured on the stretcher cared. 

This is what you had to do. Lay low, protect the medical supplies, and treat the injured. You were close enough to see the fight, but still far enough away that the Umbarans could easily miss you in the foliage of the dark jungle. The problem was that since everyone scattered, the battlefield moved slowly closer.

The trooper stepped off the modified transport and crouched behind the cover. He readied his rifle, aiming it over the root, “I’ll protect you and the supplies.” Dawn sounded resolute but you noticed the tip of his blaster shook ever so slightly. 

“Thank you.” you weren’t going to point out his clear terror, so instead, you focused on the leg he didn’t put much weight on. At the angle he rested his ankle, you figured that was the cause of his initial limping, “Don’t move.” you said, tending to it. 

Torn muscle. Fracture. Bone still in place.

Simple. Blessedly simple. Better than the usual gruesome burns, broken bones or fatal wounds.

There was another woosh overhead, and two more explosions that followed. You looked up, the Umbaran starship twirled once before lifting higher in the sky. Through the smoke, you saw the shadow of a soldier reaching up for help, so you ran to him. 

The battle was moving closer to your position as the 501st was pushed back. It didn’t take long for you to grab the trooper by the shoulders and drag him back to your cover. An Umbaran raised their blaster, intending to take you both out, but Krell deflected the shot.

Oh, the bastard found your position. Lovely…

“I got you.” you spoke to the writhing soldier as you removed his cracked helmet. Immediately you got painkillers into his neck and began to assess. 

Bleeding left ear. Missing left eye. Massive laceration on left cheek and temple. Awake. Conscious. 

“Talk to me.” your words seemed to do something for him, as he snapped into focus and kept his rifle up and pointed at behind your position. He handled the wound well, acting like nothing phased him.

“Vaughn, my name is Vaughn.” he responded, managing to aim steady and fire at an approaching enemy, “Is it bad, doc?”

“Your eye is gone.” you told him the truth as you kept your focus on him, “But you’ll be alright.” You tried to speak again, but your voice was cut off by more explosions. Those flying ships were causing too much damage. 

The fight had moved to your position, putting the injured and medical supplies at serious risk. 

Dawn jerked back with a sudden cry. He collapsed, smoking hole in the middle of his helmet. 

Dead. another name to add to the list.

Krell carelessly stepped over his body getting around you and Vaughn. He looked uninterested as he pulled out a holocomm. You stopped paying attention to the General as Kix brought you another injured soldier. And then a few more managed to bring themselves to your side.

At some point, Rex joined Krell. You didn’t even know when he had gotten to your cover, but it was a relief every time you saw him alive. Jesse and Dogma had joined him, the latter taking a step in front of you to defend you and whoever you treated. 

You and Kix managed to get about nine soldiers stabilized when the order came out.

“We’re moving out!” The clone captain shouted, “We need to move! Now!”

There wasn’t much time to help anyone else at the moment. You ordered a soldier to drive the speeder. Once you stood, you draped a soldier's arm over your shoulder and held his side as you walked. Kix literally threw someone over his shoulder, and took hurried steps to follow the battalion.

Your eyes were on Krell as you marched. He didn’t even bother to look back at those that were hurt or dying. He didn’t know their names. He didn’t care.

But you did. And you’d add every name to the list you repeated in your head.

[mariacallous]

On a sunny April afternoon in 2006, thousands of people flocked to the National Mall in Washington, D.C., for a rally with celebrities, Olympic athletes, and rising political stars. Their cause: garner international support to halt a genocide in Sudan’s Darfur region.

“If we care, the world will care. If we act, then the world will follow,” Barack Obama, then the junior Illinois senator, told the crowd, speaking alongside future House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. That same week, then-Sen. Joe Biden introduced a bill in Congress calling on NATO to intervene to halt the genocide in Sudan. “We need to take action on both a military and diplomatic front to end the conflict,” he said.

Flash-forward 18 years, and the prospect of genocide again looms in Sudan amid an explosive new civil war. But this time, there are no rallies, no A-list celebrities, no calls for outside military intervention. Few world leaders pay anything more than lip service to condemning the atrocities.

Fighting between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and the rival Rapid Support Forces (RSF) paramilitary group has killed tens of thousands of people and displaced some 9 million since the conflict began in April 2023. The United States accused both sides of committing war crimes and atrocities and concluded that the RSF and its allied militias have committed ethnic cleansing.

Western officials and aid workers working on Sudan say they are vexed, and horrified, by the lack of international attention and resources the conflict is receiving—particularly compared to the global response to the conflict in 2006, which was the progenitor of the current conflagration.

If this trend continues and there is no forceful international crisis response, they warn, Sudan will likely collapse into a failed state and could face full-fledged genocide once again.

“You can’t help but watch the level of focus on crises like Gaza and Ukraine and wonder what just 5 percent of that energy could have done in a context like Sudan and how many thousands, tens of thousands of lives it could’ve saved,” said Alan Boswell, an expert on the region at the International Crisis Group.

The top general of the SAF, Gen. Abdel Fattah al-Burhan, and the head of the RSF, Mohamed Hamdan “Hemeti” Dagalo, jointly seized power from a transitional government in a coup in 2021. Tensions between the rival sides escalated and finally erupted into war in April 2023.

In the 13 months since, the RSF has entrenched its positions around the national capital of Khartoum, forcing the SAF to relocate its headquarters to the coastal city of Port Sudan. The RSF has made steady gains in seizing control of Darfur and advancing southward and eastward against SAF forces. The SAF still controls territories around Khartoum and up the Nile River, a vital strategic route to Egypt; along the Red Sea coast; and the eastern borders with Ethiopia and Eritrea.

The conflict has also expanded into a full-fledged regional proxy war. Egypt and Saudi Arabia, as well as Riyadh’s arch regional rival Iran, back the SAF, while the United Arab Emirates is reportedly funneling arms and military supplies to the RSF. The RSF also reportedly receives support from Chad and from Russia through its affiliated mercenary groups.

The focal point of the conflict now is on El Fasher, the capital of North Darfur and the center of fighting. The RSF has taken control of vast swaths of western and southern Sudan in its war against the SAF. El Fasher is the last SAF stronghold in Darfur, occupying a strategically important position for trade routes from neighboring Libya and Chad.

The RSF recently began its advance on El Fasher where an estimated 2 million to 2.8 million civilians have sought to take refuge from the fighting. (Precise figures are hard to come by.)

“The risk of genocide exists in Sudan. It is real, and it is growing every single day,” Alice Nderitu, the U.N. special advisor on the prevention of genocide, warned in a U.N. Security Council meeting last week.

A lengthy report from Human Rights Watch documented how the RSF and allied militias committed widespread atrocities, including mass rape, child murder, and massacres of civilians when it captured the Sudanese city of El Geneina last year. U.S. and U.N. officials and human rights experts warn that the same will likely happen if the RSF takes control of El Fasher, but on a much wider scale. The United States and aid groups have accused the SAF of blocking vital food aid from entering the country and RSF forces of looting humanitarian stocks, exacerbating the crisis and pushing regions of the country closer to famine.

“The potential fatality generation here is off the charts,” said Nathaniel Raymond, executive director of the Humanitarian Research Lab at Yale’s School of Public Health who runs a research project that monitors the conflict in Sudan. “What will happen when the RSF takes El Fasher? Exactly what is happening in every other place they control.”

“There is Hiroshima- and Nagasaki-level casualty potential,” he added, referring to the U.S. atomic bombs dropped on Japan in World War II that killed up to 225,000 people.

Aid organizations and officials who work on Sudan have long decried the relative inattention the conflict in Sudan gets compared to Ukraine or the war in Gaza. Some 20 million people—or 10 times the population of Gaza—are at risk of famine in various regions of Sudan. “Very few people who don’t work on Sudan know that Darfur is on the brink of famine,” Boswell said. “Obviously, everyone knows about the risk of famine in Gaza.”

U.S. President Joe Biden’s own social media posts about Gaza versus Sudan provide another, albeit imperfect, window into the attention each conflict receives. Biden tweeted about Israel or Gaza at least 107 times in the six months since the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas attacks that started the Israel-Hamas war. Since the war in Sudan began over a year ago, he has tweeted about Sudan four times—three of which were about the evacuation of the U.S. Embassy in Khartoum right after fighting broke out.

Aid groups are strained for resources to tackle the humanitarian crisis caused by the war. In February, Doctors Without Borders warned that in one refugee camp alone in North Darfur, one child was dying every two hours of malnutrition. In April, on the conflict’s first anniversary, aid groups said the international humanitarian response plan to aid the Sudanese was only 6 percent funded. At a donor conference that month in Paris, countries pledged $2 billion more—though that is still only about half of what aid groups estimate the country needs.

Biden appointed a special envoy for Sudan in February—Tom Perriello, a former U.S. representative from Virginia and State Department veteran. Most experts have cheered Perriello’s new push to hold cease-fire talks in the months since and engage U.S. lawmakers on Capitol Hill to bring more levers of U.S. power and financing to bear on Sudan, but they also fear his efforts may be too little, too late for the civilians trapped in El Fasher.

“It will be very hard to deescalate the situation, though everyone should try. But there is an aura of inevitability that this is all going to blow up,” Boswell said. “The degree of mobilization from all sides is hard to walk down.”

Diplomatic and aid officials working on Sudan have some theories on why the atrocities in Darfur and across the country are receiving such little attention now compared to the 2000s, but none gives a full answer.

In 2006, the United States was still reaching the heights of its post-9/11 “war on terror” campaign. Sudan, under former dictator Omar al-Bashir, had given safe haven to Osama bin Laden as he built up al Qaeda’s global terror network, and “bashing Bashir and his genocide in Darfur couched nicely with [counterterrorism] priorities” of the U.S. government at the time, said Nicole Widdersheim, a former senior National Security Council official now with Human Rights Watch.

The memories of failed and successful international interventions to halt genocide—Rwanda in 1994 and the Balkans later that decade, respectively—were still relatively fresh in the minds of policymakers. The costly Western campaigns in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya that later exposed the shortcomings and blowback of military interventions were still underway.

It also preceded the current era of great-power competition, where Washington is intensely focused on countering Russia and China. Sudan also competes with the ongoing wars in Gaza and Ukraine for international attention and humanitarian resources. Others suggested racism built into Western foreign policy played a part. “It’s seen as yet ‘another war in Africa like all the others,’” said one official dryly. Not one single factor can explain it all, experts concluded.

“Gaza is taking up the always limited American public interest and activism on a foreign crisis, but to be fair, there was nearly no public activism or engagement on the Sudan war before” the Israel-Hamas war, Widdersheim said.

Experts say the relative inattention Sudan has gotten from the top echelons of the White House and other Western powers that could have influence in pressuring the warring sides in Sudan to sit for peace talks has led to the current protracted state of the war.

Biden hosted Kenyan President William Ruto for a state visit this week, where the two called on “the warring parties in Sudan to facilitate unhindered humanitarian access and immediately commit to a ceasefire” toward the end of a lengthy joint statement but did not elaborate further. U.S. Agency for International Development Administrator Samantha Power and U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations Linda Thomas Greenfield have also been outspoken about urging an end to the conflict in Sudan.

Successive cease-fire talks in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, over the past year, brokered by the United States and Saudi Arabia, failed to clinch any lasting deal. Those talks were led on the U.S. side not by a top White House official or Secretary of State Antony Blinken, but by the assistant secretary of state for African affairs, Molly Phee.

Behind-the-scenes efforts by some members of Congress in December 2023 to appoint a special presidential envoy on Sudan—one who would report directly to the White House, rather than an envoy reporting to the assistant secretary of state—were unsuccessful, multiple officials and congressional aides said, speaking on condition of anonymity to discuss internal administration dynamics. Perriello was appointed two months later.

Perriello in mid-April said that cease-fire talks would resume in Jeddah “within the next three weeks,” but so far those talks have yet to materialize. Several current and former officials familiar with the matter, who spoke on condition of anonymity to speak candidly, said the talks in Jeddah could resume in June, by which point the RSF could have already captured El Fasher from the mostly cutoff SAF forces.

“The need to start formal peace talks in Jeddah is absolutely urgent, and the United States is working exhaustively with partners to make that happen,” said a State Department spokesperson. “But we are not waiting for formal talks to begin—rather, we have accelerated our diplomatic engagements to align international efforts to end this war, mitigate the humanitarian crisis, and prevent future atrocities.”

Cease-fire talks have worked in limited ways in the past, such as when the United States got both sides to briefly stop fighting in Khartoum so it could evacuate its embassy in April 2023. “When the right leverage is put on the table at the right time to get the RSF and SAF to stop fighting, it can be done,” said Kholood Khair, a Sudanese policy analyst and founding director of Confluence Advisory, a Sudan-focused think tank. “The international community has just chosen not to deploy that same leverage this time around.”

Khair added that the Jeddah talks format has failed before, and it will likely fail again. “The concern is that because of the laziness and complicity of the international community at this point, you don’t have any diplomats who are looking for a new way of doing things. Jeddah in many ways is blocking the start of any new diplomatic efforts or other good ideas that could be effective.”

“Diplomats are fixated on Jeddah now, simply because it’s already there,” Khair said.

As Perriello engaged in frenetic diplomacy, he has also publicly marveled at how little attention the scale of the conflict and death in Sudan is receiving on the international stage.

“One of the things that to me captures just how invisible and horrific this war is, is that we don’t have a credible death count,” Perriello said during a congressional hearing in front of the 21-member Senate Foreign Relations Committee this month. “We literally don’t know how many people have died—possibly to a factor of 10 or 15. The number was earlier 15,000 to 30,000. Some think it’s at 150,000,” he said. During the course of Perriello’s hearing, senators cycled out of the room due to scheduling conflicts, often leaving only one senator in the room and 20 empty seats.

[lesbicosmos]

day 1 of @painlandweek !!

day 1 prompt: language of love / sickfic

summary: charles gets hit by a witch's spell that was originally intended for edwin. edwin takes care of him in the aftermath.

notes: title from unknown/nth by hozier <33

also on ao3!!

i could break beneath the weight of the goodness, love, i still carry for you

Ghosts couldn’t get ill – at least, not in the traditional sense. They had no immune system to be affected, so they never had anything to worry about in terms of typical human diseases. It was possible, however, for a ghost’s physical form to be altered by supernatural intervention: curses, enchantments, hexes, and the like; and the side effects of these could resemble what a ghost would recognise as sickness or injury.

Running a detective agency for troubled ghosts meant Charles and Edwin had dealt with their fair share of paranormal maladies. Luckily for them, Edwin’s extensive collection of medical tomes and the many spells he had learned over the years were usually just the thing they required to help the soul in need. It was usually a client; it was very rare that the soul in need was either of the two of them – and it never happened on any of their ‘typical’ cases.

Their current case was not a typical one.

They had thought they were done with witches after the pandemonium with Esther Finch back in Port Townsend, but they could not have been more wrong. They were currently fighting another one, who was ironically also trying to trap ghosts – not to hook them up to her spectral energy super-battery, but to use them as test subjects for the potions and spells she invented. They were ‘free guinea pigs’, she had claimed. ‘An abundant supply.’ Of course, the Dead Boy Detectives Agency couldn’t have that. When they had a young woman who had died sometime in the 1960s come by the office to tell them about her 18th century girlfriend who had been kidnapped, they immediately took the case.

So, several days of researching and keeping watch on the witch later, the four detectives had arrived at her house, prepared for anything. They had distracted her for long enough for Charles to sneak down into her cellar and rescue the ghosts trapped down there in iron cages, including their client’s partner. Now all they had to do was get rid of this witch once and for all, or at least come to an agreement. They didn’t enjoy having to take drastic measures against those who wronged their clients, but sometimes they were necessary.

The four of them were outside in the garden facing the witch, who didn’t look alarmed in the slightest. She wasn’t amused, though. She hadn’t got that manic grin on her face that Esther had when she was torturing souls. No, this witch clearly just wanted the four of them out of her way. And evidently she was more than willing to use force. As Crystal gripped her arm, slipping into her mind, Edwin prepared a spell. He was focusing intently, desperately trying to ensure it was ready for when Crystal let the witch go. Unfortunately for him, the witch also had psychic abilities, and was much more efficient at fighting back against Crystal than they had anticipated. She broke free of her grasp, Crystal falling backwards into Niko, and the witch turned to Edwin.

He was still crouched on the floor, swirling a blue liquid in a vial and muttering something in Latin, and hadn’t had the chance to move or attack before the witch made her move, muttering something in an ancient tongue and throwing her hand forwards in front of her.

Edwin shut his eyes tightly out of instinct, preparing for whatever this witch had cooked up for him in her mind.

“Edwin!” he heard Charles scream.

He heard footsteps quickly approaching, presumably the witch drawing closer to increase the strength of her attack. A green light shot forwards, so bright Edwin could almost see it through his eyelids. A strangled gasp echoed around the walls of the garden as ghostly body collided with concrete patio.

Edwin’s eyes burst open at the gasp that was most pointedly not his own.

Directly in front of him, Charles lay on the ground unmoving, his cricket bat thrown aside. A green glow gently faded from his chest, where the spell had clearly hit him square-on.

“Charles!” Crystal shouted, moving to run to him, then retreating when the witch turned instead to her, her hand still pulsing with the magical light.

The witch simply laughed. Edwin fell to his knees beside Charles, who still hadn’t moved a muscle since he collapsed.

“Charles!” Edwin gasped, out of breath and panicked. “Charles, can you hear me?”

Edwin gently shook Charles’s shoulders, and his eyes slowly opened, looking up. Then, his eyes moved downward, and Edwin followed his line of sight until he reached his hand, where Charles was weakly giving a thumbs up.

Fundamentally, Charles was fine. He couldn’t feel any pain, aside from the dull ache of where the spell had hit him directly. It wasn’t that he couldn’t move, only that it suddenly felt as though he weighed several dozen times more than he did before. Even lifting his hand to signal to Edwin had made him feel as though he was trying to deadlift an elephant. It was strange, feeling this sensation of exhaustion, something he had not physically felt in so long. He’d felt it mentally, emotionally; there had been many times he’d gone to sleep – or, at least, the closest a ghost could get to a state of rest – but he’d never felt the tiredness so viscerally, never ached all over just to move.

“Can you talk?”

He tried. It didn’t work. Not only was it too much to open his mouth, but he came to realise he couldn’t even breathe. When he tried, it was even worse than lifting his hand, this time as though he had the weight of a building sitting on top of his chest. It wasn’t that he needed to breathe. He hadn’t actually absorbed oxygen into his lungs since that cold night in the attic, but it was their strange ghostly equivalent to breathing that allowed him to speak, and right now he couldn’t.

Charles’s head moved ever so slightly from side to side. That was just manageable.

“Not full paralysis, okay…” Edwin muttered under his breath, looking Charles up and down. “You’re going to be okay,” he said, this time looking him in the eyes.

Edwin didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave Charles in this state, but there was still a ghost-napping witch to deal with. But if he didn’t know the specifics of the spell Charles was hit with, he couldn’t know what the full effects would be. He could be off trying to deal with the witch while Charles ‘s spectral form faded away for all he knew, unnoticed in the silence. He began to panic. He needed books, but all the volumes he could think of that would help were back at the office. He looked up to Crystal and Niko, who were still facing the witch.

All of a sudden she dashed off, through a gap in the hedges at the edge of the garden.

“Get him back to the office,” Crystal told Edwin. “We’ll deal with her.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’ve got this, you go and help him!"

Edwin hurled the vial he had finished concocting to Niko, who caught it in one hand.

“Throw that at her. Make sure it smashes, and make sure you do it on the property. It should trap her here for now, we’ll figure out what to do with her another time.”

The girls nodded, turning and following the path the witch took out of the garden and out of sight. Edwin turned back to Charles.

“I’m going to lift you up now,” he said.

Charles didn’t do anything to argue – not that he physically could – so Edwin got his footing before sliding one arm under Charles’s shoulders and the other under his knees, lifting him up.

Something in Charles’s mind had expected that Edwin wouldn’t be able to lift him. He was far too heavy, too weighed down; Edwin was strong, but he wasn’t that strong. He had been wrong, of course. The spell hadn’t actually turned Charles to lead; it only felt like it had. His limbs fell straight downwards as Edwin carried him through the witch’s house to the huge mirror on the wall in the entranceway.

He stepped through it, and they were in their office within a second. Edwin hurriedly but gently lowered Charles down onto the small sofa.

Charles really didn’t like that he couldn’t breathe. He knew he didn’t need to, knew he hadn’t really breathed in years, but that didn’t stop the habit. He was panicking, and that only made him feel the need more. Soon, he was gasping, desperately trying to inhale but being unable to as his chest wouldn’t rise an inch.

Edwin had been carefully arranging his limbs on the sofa, desperate to make him as comfortable as possible. That helped calm him down, but it didn’t stop the attempts. He had to breathe. He needed to breathe. Not being able to reminded him of being under that lake, hiding beneath the surface for as long as he physically could to shield himself from the oncoming attacks from the boys he had once considered his closest friends. He so desperately wanted to reach out, to grab onto Edwin’s arm, but the most he could do was wriggle his fingers around.

Clearly noticing his distress, Edwin grabbed his hand and squeezed.

“Charles, you don’t need to breathe my dear. You’re okay. Just try and relax, I know it’s uncomfortable.”

Edwin’s voice grounded Charles, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the sound and the feeling of Edwin’s hand in his. He wished he could squeeze back, thank him for being there as always.

“Are you alright?” he asked once Charles was no longer trying to gasp for air.

Charles barely managed a nod. Edwin placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head before standing up, letting go of Charles’s hand and pacing over to his shelves. He thought for a moment before reaching out and grabbing a book, an old one with yellowing pages and a dark purple cover. He flicked through, his eyes darting back and forth across the pages until he found what he was looking for.

“I think it was a paralysis hex gone somewhat wrong,” he explained, moving back over to Charles and sitting on the sofa beside him, the book open on his lap. “It’s a specific type of witchcraft, a spell which the caster has to specifically cater it to the intended victim. Since she forged the spell for me, it’s having a milder effect on you.”

This is mild? Charles thought. He would have groaned in annoyance if he physically could.

“It should wear off on its own, but I’m afraid it’s going to be several hours.”

Charles closed his eyes once more, rolling them as he did so. Edwin turned to place the book on the arm of the sofa, giving him another free hand to comfort Charles with. He placed it gently on his chest.

“Can I do anything to help?” he asked.

Charles’s hand twitched next to Edwin’s thigh, moving ever so slowly towards him. Edwin looked at Charles’s eyes, and could tell by the soft pleading look he found there what he was reaching for. Edwin took his gloves off, reaching out to take Charles’s hand back into his own. He knew he would need the direct contact, the softness of skin-on-skin, the only true feeling he could have in his afterlife. Edwin gently stroked circles on the back of his hand in the repeating pattern he knew always calmed him down.

Edwin hated seeing Charles like this. He was always so energetic, constantly moving around wherever he was, barely ever stopping to relax. It felt wrong seeing him stuck so still, unable to move and unable to talk. It should have been me on the other end of that spell, Edwin thought. Charles’s endearing yet frustrating need to protect him had ended in suffering for him once again.

He was shaken out of his thoughts when he felt Charles squeeze his hand, just weakly. He turned to look at him at once, worried.

“What’s wrong?”

Charles managed to shake his head. Nothing was wrong, he was just trying to tell Edwin something. Holding his hand was perfect, just what he needed to ground him and ensure him he was still there, this ailment was temporary. But there was one other thing that would help even more; one thing that had helped Charles calm down and relax so many times since they had met, even if it had taken quite a few years for him to ask for it. He moved his eyes back and forth, hoping Edwin would notice, looking at him and then at the desk behind him, over and over until Edwin got the message.

Edwin turned his head to the desk. The only things on it were a stack of books, the ones Edwin was currently part-way through reading.

“The books?”

Charles nodded. Moving his head and face was becoming more bearable by now, so he managed to open his mouth just slightly - even though he still couldn’t talk, he managed to mouth something, and Edwing could easily make out what he was saying.

“Read to me,” he said soundlessly.

“Of course,” Edwin smiled.

It was strange, how much Edwin reading to him comforted Charles. It wasn’t even the book itself, not usually. What really meant so much to him was simply hearing Edwin’s voice, so gentle and only for him. He’d always thought he shouldn’t like it. It should remind him of the night he died, the night his life slipped away from him as this strange ghost boy read his favourite detective comic aloud. And it did remind him of that night, but that night wasn’t a bad memory for Charles, not really. The hours before the attic, the months of abuse from his father that led up to it…they were the bad memories, the ones Charles wishes he could forget. But the trauma of his death itself had been diminished by the presence of that kind boy, the boy who had become Charles’s everything. So yes, Edwin reading to him did remind him of his death, but it reminded him of the kindness of a stranger, of just why he had chosen this boy over heaven itself in the first place, of why he loved him. Edwin’s voice made him feel at home, more than the house he grew up in ever did.

Edwin stood up to pick up the book from the desk, but as he turned around he found Charles seemingly trying to shuffle around on the sofa.

“Charles, what are you doing?” he asked worriedly. “You’ll exhaust yourself.”

Charles’s eyes flicked to the space on the sofa beside him, his deep brown eyes looking into Edwin’s, asking a question.

“Ah,” Edwin realised. “Let me help.”

He placed the book on the floor in front of the sofa, kneeling down.

“Are you alright with me moving you?”

Charles nodded. Edwin repeated the movements he’d done at the witch’s house before: one arm under Charles’s knees; the other under his shoulders, and he lifted him just enough to move him further towards the back of the sofa, leaving space for Edwin to climb next to him.

That was just what Edwin did, sitting beside him and manoeuvring them so that Charles’s head rested on his chest, the way he would have been if he could have moved himself. His movement did seem to be improving gradually, and he shifted his own legs to tangle with Edwin’s. Edwin supposed it was because his legs were furthest from his chest, so didn’t suffer the effects of the hex as drastically.

Edwin intertwined his fingers with Charles’s, picking up the book with the other hand. He pressed another gentle kiss to the top of his head before beginning to read.

In addition to not suffering from normal illnesses, another thing ghosts didn’t do was sleep. Similar to the supernatural intervention however, they had their own complicated equivalent to restore their energy when required.

Neither of the two of them required it, though. And ghosts didn’t get sore throats from reading aloud for too long either, so Edwin read Charles the entire book. By the time they finished, the sun had already half-risen, a pinkish orange glow illuminating the office.

“How are you doing?” Edwin asked, after the first few minutes of silence in several hours.

“Brills,” Charles replied, his voice back, and as confident as always.

He snuggled impossibly closer to Edwin, burying his face in his chest.

“Wait,” Edwin said, pausing the gentle strokes of his hand up and down Charles’s arm. “When did the hex wear off?”

“About an hour ago,” Charles admitted, his voice slightly muffled against Edwin.

“Why did you not say something?” Edwin chuckled. “Or start breathing again?”

“Didn’t wanna interrupt you. I like your voice.”

Charles lifted his head slightly, rolling further onto his front to look up at Edwin, smiling.

Edwin laughed softly, smiling back.

“Thank you,” Charles said. “For doing that.”

“Of course, Charles,” Edwin held him somehow even closer. “You know I am always here for whatever you need.”

“I’m always here for you too,” Charles assured.

“Yes, well…it was very reckless of you to jump in front of that hex for me.”

“What was I supposed to do? You said it yourself, it had a weakened effect on me. It would’ve been worse on you.”

“Well, yes I suppose, but my point still stands.”

“Sorry love but there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’ll always jump in front of witches’ curses for you,” Charles kissed the tip of Edwin’s nose softly.

Edwin sighed. He knew there was no arguing with Charles, ever-protective as he was.

“Well, did you enjoy the book?” he asked, changing the subject before he thought too much about the extent of Charles’s devotion to him and started to feel like crying over how much he loved the charming impulsive boy he got to call his boyfriend.

“Oh. Uhh…” Charles trailed off.

“Did you pay attention to the plot at all?” Edwin laughed.

“Your voice is very relaxing.”

Charles didn’t know how else to answer. It was the truth – what was being read wasn’t important, only that it was Edwin reading it. Edwin shook his head slightly, the smile never leaving his face.

“I suppose I’ll just have to read it to you again, then,” Edwin faked disappointment.

“Oh no,” said Charles, dramatically leaning backwards to put his hand over his heart in faux shock before leaning in to kiss Edwin.

Just as their lips brushed, the front door to the office burst open. Both of them sat up on the sofa to see Crystal and Niko running in.

“Oh, thank god you’re okay,” Crystal sighed, rushing forward to hug him.

Charles hugged back with his free arm, the other still wrapped around Edwin’s waist, and Crystal squeezed next to them on the sofa. Niko knelt on the floor in front of them.

“’Course I am,” he said proudly. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, and I had Edwin to look after me.”

Charles turned to face Edwin, his signature smile plastered across his face. Edwin could only grin back.

“The hex faded on its own, Charles,” he said. “I did nothing.”

“You read to me! That helped.”

“Aww,” Niko smiled.

“How did you two get on last night then?” Charles asked the girls.

“We were done in like an hour,” Niko explained.

“Yeah, that potion you made worked its magic and she couldn’t leave.”

“I’m glad.”

“We went back to Crystal’s after. We figured Charles would want some time to get better before we came barging in here.”

“Thanks Niko,” said Charles.

“We’re just glad you’re alright,” Crystal squeezed his arm.

“I’m aces, don’t worry.”

Charles leaned his head on Edwin’s shoulder, holding both him and Crystal close. The case wasn’t fully closed yet – they still had a witch trapped in her own house with all her equipment she could easily use to figure out a way to escape to deal with – but for now…yeah, for now they were aces.

[the-obnoxious-sibling]

birthday countdown 2024, day 5: rescue snippet

the birthday countdown continues to tick down! today, i have for you a beckman pov scene in need of a fic; the scrivener document title is “this belongs in a plottier story,” and i stand by that description:

Giving Shanks a look somewhere between misery and murder, Buggy mutters, “You have no idea what it's like.” “Mm, I don't know… people having a lot of undeserved expectations sounds pretty familiar to me.”  Shanks moves to fidget with the brim of a hat that he no longer owns. “Oh come on,” Buggy scoffs. “I mean it!  I was—Buggy, I was a child when the captain gave me that hat.  I wasn’t an exceptional pirate, or a prodigious fighter, or anything like that.  He didn’t give it to me to declare me his heir, he gave it to me because I was a kid on his ship, who thought his hat looked cool, and asked if I could wear it.”  A wry smile on his face, Shanks says, “The difference between me and you is I learned how to work around expectations, instead of being dragged in their wake.” “There are way more differences between us than just that,” Buggy mutters.  “Like number of functioning arms.  Or braincells.” “Oh, yeah,” Shanks says, faux-thoughtfully.  Beckman quietly braces himself.  Buggy bristles; he clearly recognizes that tone too.  “Underwater, I guess I do have more of those than you.”

(1.3k below the cut)

Beckman is in an early morning meeting with his captain, another in a long line of meetings with not a smile to be seen—not with so many big names anchored close by, their men cohabitating, waiting for a decision to be made—when a faint cry from on deck has Shanks shooting upright in his chair.  He turns an eye in that direction, his unerring observation haki telling him something that alarms him.

Beckman casts his own senses that way.  It feels like conflict between a couple low-level crewmen, with one gone overboard.  Concerning, but nothing serious enough to warrant Shanks’ personal intervention… but Beckman hasn’t been first mate of the Red-Haired Pirates this long for no reason.  When Shanks runs out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “Get Yasopp and a life preserver—actually, make it two—port side, as fast as you can,” Beckman’s already on his feet, doubting that they’ll make it in time.

Luckily Yasopp is quick to find—he prefers to be at the highest point of the ship when they have strangers on board, keeping an eagle eye on enemies and friends alike, and by his frown he has more of an idea of what's happened than Beckman.  Luckily Beckman just finished orienting new crew on the places where they store safety supplies, so the life preservers aren't blocked off and hidden by the barrels of supplies they brought on the day before last.  Luckily Shanks left a trail of his discarded cape and sandals that's easy to follow, easier still when it ends in a pair of foam-mouthed crewmen collapsed against a wall.

Beckman hears the quiet plup of a diver with excellent form entering the waters below without a hint of a splash, and leans over the railing to see a faint pale sliver of a figure swimming down, down, and away…

Yasopp measures the wind, hefts each life preserver consideringly, and nods.  “When he surfaces, I'll be ready,” he says.  “You go ahead, get those two out of sight.”

Beckman nods.  Whatever these men did, it riled Shanks up enough to use conqueror’s haki on his own crew.  It's worth a private interrogation, if nothing else.  Without saying a word, he hefts one over either shoulder and strolls back across the deck.  And if any of their guests notice, and pass word along to their home ships… that’s one less thing for Beckman to deal with.

“Well?” Shanks asks when Beckman returns to the main deck, not quite half an hour later.  He's ruffling a towel through his hair, which is going to dry in awful salt spikes later, but he appears, essentially, fine.  You'd never guess by looking at him that he'd gone in the water for anything more than a passing fancy.

His rescuee, on the other hand, is a miserable, bruised, half-drowned rat of a man.  His disembodied hands wring seawater out of his clothes and back into the ocean as he shivers under three oversized towels, but the glare on Buggy the Star Clown’s face would almost make you think Shanks had been the one to push him overboard.

“Spies for Blackbeard,” Beckman says.  Shanks frowns.  Disappointed, but unsurprised.  “Apparently Buggy caught them at it and attempted to blackmail them rather than turn them in.”  Buggy scoffs under his breath.  “They knocked him out and tossed him over the side of the ship, intending to claim he'd made an escape by—”

“I know what they intended,” Shanks says.  His chipper demeanor is long gone.  “Buggy, how did you spot them?”

Buggy scoffs again—or maybe coughs, his voice is so hoarse with saltwater that it's hard to tell.  “I didn't!  Those idiots assumed I was one of them, and came around to brag about how much progress they'd made in getting close to you.”  He coughed again, turning to hack a wad of phlegm overboard.  “The disrespect!  As if the Genius Jester Buggy would ever deign to work for that overgrown weasel.”

Shanks stays quiet; on a hunch, Beckman follows his lead.

“And of course the spies decided that I had intentionally tricked them into revealing themselves,” Buggy continues to rant, “and that I must have done so to blackmail them into handing over Blackbeard’s secrets, which outraged and offended them so much that before I could split myself they were beating on me until I blacked out.”  He rubs at a bruise-dark temple gingerly, then says, “I woke up just as they were hefting me overboard.”

A faint hint of a smile curls the corner of Shanks’ mouth.  “Things like this really do just happen to you, don't they?”

Gesturing expansively, Buggy says, “They really do!  People assume all sorts of shit about me, and whether I want to go along with it or not they don't let me get a word in edgewise, and then before you know it I'm a Warlord! or an Emperor! with no actual power to back up my position!”  Giving Shanks a look somewhere between misery and murder, he mutters, “You have no idea what it's like.”

“Mm, I don't know… people having a lot of undeserved expectations sounds pretty familiar to me.”  Shanks moves to fidget with the brim of a hat that he no longer owns.

“Oh come on,” Buggy scoffs.

“I mean it!  I was—Buggy, I was a child when the captain gave me that hat.  I wasn’t an exceptional pirate, or a prodigious fighter, or anything like that.  He didn’t give it to me to declare me his heir, he gave it to me because I was a kid on his ship, who thought his hat looked cool, and asked if I could wear it.”  A wry smile on his face, Shanks says, “The difference between me and you is I learned how to work around expectations, instead of being dragged in their wake.”

“There are way more differences between us than just that,” Buggy mutters.  “Like number of functioning arms.  Or braincells.”

“Oh, yeah,” Shanks says, faux-thoughtfully.  Beckman quietly braces himself.  Buggy bristles; he clearly recognizes that tone too.  “Underwater, I guess I do have more of those than you.”

“Barely!”  Buggy snaps.  Beckman takes the opportunity to grab the clothing Buggy had started to neglect during this conversation and pass it along to a crewman already headed for to the laundry.  He has a feeling Buggy’s charming personality won’t become more bearable if he drops his only outfit overboard while he’s distracted.  “And who the hell asked you to anyway?!  You’ve got a ship full of people who obey your orders, supposedly, why didn’t one of them, with the proper number of arms for rescue swimming, pull me out?!”

Shanks blinks.  “What do you mean, ‘who the hell asked me to?’  You asked me to.”

Buggy blinks.  Then blushes.

Yes, Beckman realizes, thinking back, that cry that first drew Shanks’ attention had sounded a bit like his name.

“I—that was—“ Buggy visibly fails to think of another word he could have possibly said in that moment.  He snatches away Shanks’ towel to bury his head under it and sigh, “An old reflex.”

Shanks crouches down, taking the towel back and running it over Buggy’s hair with more care than he’d given his own.  “After all this time, you still trust me to keep you from drowning.”  He waits for Buggy to look at him before saying, “How could I do anything less than honor that trust?”

Beckman feels, far from the first time, like he's interrupting something here.  The last time he’d asked, Shanks had just laughed.  Which was, he’d thought at the time, a very roundabout but unambiguous answer to the question.  Looking at Buggy’s face now, Beckman thinks he understands why.  Whatever it is he’s interrupting here, Buggy is aware of it too, and he’s terrified of it.

Poor Shanks.

[juuuulez]

📰 | part one: capulet.

info: Carl Grimes x Saviour!Reader, female reader I’m so sorry!!!!, mostly scene setting..next chapter will get juicy.

summary: You meet Carl whilst the Satellite station is being raided, where they take you as prisoner.

previous | next

This is gonna be an ongoing fic!!! I’ve already got like,, 8 parts mapped out, but will likely add more stuff here and there. It also currently has no name……but I’ll think of something. It will follow canon loosely, mostly at the start, and then I’ll just diverge into whatever I want to write about LOL. Let me know what you think, if you like it, want more soon etc etc.

It’s Saviour!Reader, with very heavy father-figure Negan because I am sorry but I LOVE HIM! Slow burn, enemies to lovers with Carl, teenage squabbling, you get the gist.

I’m also open for requests!!

It feels like you can’t breathe.

It’s dark, so dark. Almost pitch black, if not for the moonlight shining through the windows, spaced out near the rooftops to allow some visibility. You try to keep your footsteps light, one hand clutched around a metal baseball bat, the other feeling the wall to make sure you don’t trip. Everybody else is asleep.

Everybody else is dead.

You have no idea who’s done this. But it’s multiple people, from what you’ve gathered. A group uninvolved with the Saviours. Until now, you suppose.

It was no secret that your father was a tyrant, and had his fair share of enemies, but this? Talk about retaliation. If you’d been sleeping, too, you’d be dead. Maybe it was some sort of fate that you weren’t. Divine intervention. Whatever, it didn’t matter.

Then an alarm blares, disturbing the calculating silence, awakening anybody who remained unconscious. Panic spreads throughout the satellite station, followed by the relentless noise of machine guns. Your grip on the bat tightens as you sprint down the hallway, searching for salvage, somewhere to hide. They’d overpower you, no doubt. Though you were strong, a dedicated fighter, there was only so much a 17 year old girl could do. Facing them was too risky.

And to come home in a body bag? Not an option; Negan would kill every last person alive.

You round the corner, facing a door that you knew led to a supply room. The perfect hiding spot. So, you check your surroundings, weapon at the ready before entering the small space.

The door slams behind you.

“Hands up.”

You panic, momentarily, yet don’t obey. Spinning on your heels, you meet the source of this threat, a pistol pointed in your direction.

But behind it stands a boy, likely no older than yourself. Messy brown hair, stupid looking hat. Eyepatch. Definitely not a soldier.

He takes your silence as offence, “I said, hands up!” The boy barks at you, pulling back the safety with a distinct click.

It feels like there’s a lump in your throat, yet you speak anyway, arms still caged defensively at your sides. “You wanna kill me?”

The question clearly takes this boy off guard, judging by the way his jaw clenches, displeased by the ambiguous attitude you’re holding.

“Haven’t decided yet.” He answers, tone cold and steely.

But the gun isn’t pointed at your head. It’s a little to the right, just past your ear. If he shot it now, the bullet would hit the concrete wall. Lack of depth perception, you decide. One eye.

And so, you take that chance. With one motion, you’re swinging your bat towards him, using all the strength in your body. For some reason, he doesn’t shoot, but does duck down, the swift motion causing that stupid sheriff’s hat to fall to the ground.

The minuscule moment of shock, uncertainty, is your window of opportunity: it doesn’t take much to barrel towards him, your shoulders colliding with a thud as you disarm the boy, letting the pistol fall to the ground.

You don’t bother to pick it up, kicking the weapon away from the two of you, letting it skid across the concrete and hit the opposing wall. But in the time it takes him to retrieve the gun, you’re already out the door.

It doesn’t take long to navigate your way out of the station. Sprinting through hallways, narrowly avoiding tripping over limp bodies of people you once knew. Then the doors are right there, so close. You could even see cracks of sunrise seeping through the gaps.

Fresh air assaults your face, filling your parched lungs, and it takes everything in you not to fall to the ground in relief.

But it doesn’t matter.

There’s shouting, the figures of people coming into view. It floods your system with panic, suddenly alert at the newfound danger. Your sprinting comes to the stop, skidding on wet grass, blanketed with morning dew.

You fall flat on your ass.

The moment of clumsiness is all it takes for these people to approach you, shouting, demanding a name. A gun in your face. You grit your teeth, spotting the metal bat a few feet away, too far to reach.

And that boy, with the stupid hat. He picks it up. It makes you want to scream.

They demand you take them to Negan. To the next outpost. Locate their friends. There’s talking, bargaining on a radio. You stood in silence, childishly frustrated about being used like a pawn on a board. Exchange of you, for their two friends. That, or they’d kill you.

This immature silence lasts the whole trip.

The handcuffs around your wrists are irritating. There’s an itch on your cheek you can’t scratch. Your shoulders begin to hurt from being twisted into such a position.

But the worst of it? That boy, with his stupid hat, holding your baseball bat.

You swallow your anger.

You swallow your anger as they leave you in the RV to raid the Saviour outpost.

You swallow your anger when they come out with their two friends, but none of yours.

You swallow your anger when they tell you that Negan is dead, he’s been killed. That you’ll be put in a cell until they know what to do with you.

“Let me see the body.” You demand, brows furrowed, attempting to shield your inner confliction. Concern.

The man with the curly hair and beard answers, already distracted, moving onto the next task. Like the life of your father was meaningless. “Ain’t no time, we gotta move. Get back to Alexandria before nightfall.”

You swallow your anger.

Until you can’t anymore.

It hasn’t even been that long. The end to a long, gruelling day. At least, it appears to be, judging by the dimming light seeping through tiny windows. You’ve never been in a prison cell before. Though, granted, it was probably time you got some semblance of consequence for your morally-grey actions.

There’s footsteps. Once person approaching, then another walking away. Keeping guard on your cell, you presume. The same process had happened twice already.

Except this time, the footsteps continue a little further. The jingle of keys, a metal door creaking open.

Then he’s standing in front of you, on the other side of the bars. You want to burn that stupid hat.

“Your hat looks stupid.”

His face twists, brows furrowed, but otherwise ignores the harsh statement. The hat remains on his head.

“What’s your name?” He asks, standing a few meters away, warily. As if he’s afraid you’ll squirm through the bars and attack him. Maybe that’s a good thing.

You don’t answer.

But the boy continues talking anyway, “Mine’s Carl.”

It’s like an olive branch, a truce. An ounce of humility amongst this whole, terrible experience.

You roll your eyes, but tell him your name anyway. Carl seems to take this as permission to continue, as he now sits down on the cold concrete floor, though still maintains the distance between the two of you.

“Were your parents back there?” He asks you, though doesn’t sound particularly curious, nor judgemental. It’s that same, weird, stony tone. Like he only wants to know simply for the benefit of information.

So, you humour him.

With a shrug, you mumble, “No.”

“Is Negan your dad?” Carl asks almost immediately, already having a path of conversation in mind. This boy knows what he wants, and intends on figuring it out. That, or he’s just really blunt.

Once again, you shrug, giving a pointed look that conveys how you don’t intent to cooperate.

In response, Carl narrows his eyes, taking your lack of cooperation as hostility.

A few moments pass, and he’s getting up again, storming towards the door. The keys jingle. Metal creaks.

And he’s gone.

Another few days pass.

Nobody had interacted with you; it felt like you were going insane. Four walls and a dinky bed.

At least Carl tried to talk to you, nobody else seemed interested.

Until the curly-haired man is back, who you presume is named Rick, and is getting you out of the cell, once again adorning handcuffs.

“You’re going to Hilltop,” He tells you, snapping your wrists together once more, but this time offers the reprieve of cuffing your hands in front of you, “Somebody will watch you, give you a new home. You misbehave? It’s back in the cell.”

Though displeased, you have no choice but to follow. Suspicion stews in your gut, as these people appear to be in a rush, ever so slightly frantic. An energy in the air.

You remain impartial, annoyance radiating from your being as they drive, all these people packed into an RV. Everybody is having their seperate conversations, though you remain alone, handcuffed at the back of the vehicle.

A few hours in… and the road is blocked.

Blocked by people. A few cars parked nearby.

Disruption stirs in the RV, weapons suddenly gripped, prepared for a threat. Just before Rick can go to investigate: you hear it.

Whistling.

Your face must clearly light up, a hint of hope, and you’re rushing to stand. Though you can only make it two steps forward, deeper into the RV, when suddenly hands are gripping your shoulders, a firm hold keeping you in place.

Keeping you from escaping.

You twist and turn, aggressive curses leaving your mouth, but are unable to fully face your captor.

But from the corner of your eye, you see the rim of that that stupid, stupid hat.

[artful-aries]

Prosaic Introductions: Innocent Perspectives (Dottore x Reader)

A part two of my Prosaic Introductions drabble, this time in the point of view of the reader! It can be read as a stand alone though, but you’re missing out on some juicy context without part one. This has been highly requested for some time, so I hope everyone enjoys :3

Word Count: 1.6k

Content Warnings: none

Dottore was by far the strangest man you ever had the pleasure of meeting. His presence brought a chill to any room he stepped into, maintaining a hard distance from anyone and everyone, and he never took off that weird mask. You wondered if he wore it for some medical reason or if perhaps he was self conscious of the top half of his face. Nonetheless, you still could somehow tell whenever his eyes would bore into you with an intensity that could probably put Archons to shame.

On the outside, the Harbinger seemed entirely unapproachable, even dangerous, and yet you found yourself being drawn in by him. Perhaps you were merely a moth drawn to the flame, or more accurately, the fly caught in his web, but you found yourself always throwing caution to the wind when it came to him.

It had been a few weeks since Dottore had given you a cryptic response about making time to see you after he helped chase away a belligerent idiot, something that you found more attractive than was probably morally acceptable. You would go days at a time without seeing the man and wonder if he had gotten busy or simply grown bored of you when he would pop back into your life, like he somehow read your mind and knew you wanted to see him. Given the nature of his role as a Harbinger, part of you wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow could read your mind, but given that he still interacted with you it was reasonable to conclude that he couldn’t read your thoughts. At least, not the embarrassing ones, which in your opinion were the only ones that mattered in this case.

Now you found yourself aimlessly wandering the streets of the market you always preferred to shop at with the tall, cold man in tow. He crept like a shadow as he idly followed you, seemingly wholly content with walking by your side in complete silence.

“So…what was it that brought you to the market today? Did you need more supplies for your research?” You asked politely, taking the opportunity to cast a quick glance at the Harbinger.

The corner of his mouth tapered up ever so slightly, so subtle that you almost wondered if you imagined it as he spoke, “I was not in need of supplies today, (Y/N). I came for other reasons.”

Getting a straight answer out of Dottore was almost like pulling teeth; he seemed to relish in your confusion, a fact which would have been extremely irritating if it was anyone else, but with him it was almost like trying to solve a complicated puzzle, one that you felt like you would feel very rewarded in solving.

You positioned yourself in front of him, walking backwards so that you could continue to face him as you grinned, “What’s the reason you came today then, hm?”

The attempt at being a little flirty was brought to a swift end by your own clumsiness as your back hit a shop’s shelf, making you give a small grunt at the feeling. A piece of pottery on the top shelf rattled at the force, rolling its way to the edge before it dropped off the side, falling swiftly towards your head. You barely had time to react before Dottore swiftly moved closer to you, catching the vase with one hand as he looked at you with what you could only assume to be an amused expression.

“It’s certainly quite fascinating how you’ve managed to survive this long,” Dottore spoke with a hint of mirth in his voice as he gently put the vase back, “You seem to be insistent on getting into all kinds of trouble that requires my intervention.”

The shop keeper, having heard the commotion, stormed up to chastise you both, but upon realizing who you were with, they turned pale and immediately spun on their heels and headed in the opposite direction. Dottore smirked in a way that you were convinced was his way of saying ‘See? I told you so’.

“Well, it’s not my fault you make yourself so dependable,” You teased, but you could feel your face flushing a little bit in embarrassment at your blunder, “At any rate, you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Doesn’t a Harbinger have more pressing matters to attend to than following me around?”

“Perhaps,” He smiled, showing his sharp teeth for a moment as both of you began to aimlessly walk together once more, “But I am here despite my obligations to the Tsaritsa.”

You didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned that the Doctor seemed to be playing hooky with his duties to Snezhnaya, and it didn’t escape your notice that he continued to dance around your question.

Before you could press again, Dottore gave another cryptic answer, “You could say that I’m actively participating in collecting data for research as we speak.”

You gave him an incredulous look, not believing that he was doing anything even remotely close to research. He didn’t even have a notebook or anything, so what could he possibly be researching?

“And what is it that the Doctor is researching this time? Surely it’s something so spectacular that you don’t have to run any tests or take notes,” You replied with a small laugh, believing him to just be testing you to see how gullible you were.

“You,” Dottore said simply, not even casting a glance in your direction, as though it was the most normal response in the world.

…Huh?

You found your next words leaving your mouth before you could stop yourself, “Is that your way of asking me on a date?”

Dottore stopped in his tracks, making you nearly stumble as you stopped mid-gait as you looked at him. He stared at you intently, or at least you assumed so behind his mask. The damn thing kept you from being able to figure out what was going through his head at the moment. Was he shocked? Angry? Embarrassed? You had no clue. All you knew was that he was staring at you like his life depended on it, not moving a muscle.

“A date,” Dottore slowly repeated, more as a statement than a question.

You swallowed hard, clamming up as you worried that you somehow offended the man in front of you. Perhaps it was presumptuous to assume he was even attracted to your gender, let alone you as an individual.

“U-Um, nevermind, it was…I was just-“ You struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation for what you had said that wasn’t just writing it off as a bad joke, but you were drawing a blank.

Then Dottore gave a small chuckle, his arms crossing over his chest as he replied in an amused tone, “You mean a date as in a romantic outing, do you not?”

Archons, you would give anything to die on the spot right now.

“If you’re into that,” You answered, cringing internally at your own wishy-washy response. Why did you have to dig yourself into an even deeper hole?

The silence was dreadful, and you could only stand there and shift awkwardly as Dottore stared you down through his mask. You wish he would say something, anything, if only to break the tense silence. At this point, you wouldn’t even care if he laughed at you if it meant getting past this awkward moment.

“How amusing,” The Harbinger smirked as he stepped closer to you, making you snap out of your internal lamenting of your awkwardness, “Fine then, we shall go on a date, (Y/N). I believe this could produce quite interesting results.”

You gaped at him for a moment before blinking a few times, “Y-You’re serious? You’ll take me on a date?”

You couldn’t believe you had gotten this far with a man who terrified entire nations. At one point you had convinced yourself he was entirely aromantic and asexual with how little he seemed interested in your average interpersonal relationships. Yet here he was, this stoic, indifferent man was agreeing to go on a date with you. If it were anyone else, you would have assumed they agreed as a joke, but Dottore didn’t seem like the type of man to agree to such a thing on mere humor alone.

“I believe you’ll see just how serious I am very soon,” Dottore spoke with a smug look, “Don’t tell me that you’re trying to back out now, hm? It would be a great disappointment to miss this opportunity.”

There was a certain tone in his voice that felt…slightly detached, but you couldn’t put your finger on why. Considering the man was inherently detached from those around him, you simply wrote it off as just his usual cold mannerisms seeping through.

“No, I’m definitely not backing out,” You insisted, your cheeks heating up a little as you looked at him, “So…when will you take me on a date then?”

Dottore hummed at your response, clearly entertained at your embarrassed state, “I believe I’ll leave that as a surprise. Wouldn’t want to ruin all the fun, now would we?”

Before you could protest at how ridiculous that was, Dottore already started walking off, waving to you over his shoulder as he spoke, “Until next time, (Y/N). I look forward to our date.”

“I- Wait, you can’t just- Are you even listening to me?” You called out to him, but it was clear that he had no intention of returning to the conversation as he disappeared into the crowd. If that man didn’t interest you so much, you would have cursed him out by now with how often he left you puzzled and confused at his actions, you were sure of it. With an exasperated sigh, you began walking back home, but there was a bit of a spring in your step that wasn’t there previously. Dottore was a strange man indeed, but perhaps that meant you were even stranger for seeking his affections.

[ex0rin]

first of all: 😂

BUT ALSO i may have.... previously.... considered this option:

There’s a handful of people at the back of the briefing room - Walker catches them as they move in midway through the rundown, near silent; he counts four, but there may be more just outside of his peripheral vision. 

They’re wearing all black, tactical uniforms with only one small identifying patch on the right cap of their sleeves - he can’t see it clear enough from here to make a guess at what government faction they might be in from -

They’re also decked out in weaponry - two, maybe three guns each and an assortment of knives, stun batons and other equipment, too much for something as simple as this is supposed to be.  

Lemar elbows him, bringing his attention back to the briefing itself. 

It’ll be their first mission out of West Point and if anyone in the room is nervous that they’ll be running it alongside what seems to be a highly efficient and over equipped strike team, they don’t show it. 

The commander goes over the basic plan from start to finish again in quickly listed bullet points that leave a lot to the imagination - drop in over the target, secure the package, eliminate the hostiles, rendezvous back at base.

Do not miss your ride out unless you’re looking to set up camp there permanently. 

Walker almost makes it out of the room before he’s called back in. 

Almost. 

One of the men in all black is chatting with the commander when he turns around, the other four are still hovering near the back of the room, “Sir?” he asks, coming to parade rest close enough to see the patch - black and silver, a bird with it’s arms outstretched; it’s familiar enough that something clicks the pieces together in his brain and supplies him with counter-terrorism but not the actual faction. 

“Walker,” his commanding officer starts, glancing over to the stranger beside them; the other man looks to be in his mid-40s, dark hair buzzed in close at the sides and longer on top, he’s got dark eyes too - maybe a deep green, more likely a hazel or amber but the light in the briefing room makes it hard to tell for sure, the left corner of his mouth is pulled up into a smirk -

It’s easy but just smug enough that Walker is pretty sure he’s being sized up even if the new guy is only watching his face,

“This is Agent Rumlow, he’s with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division -”

“SHIELD is fine, bit easier to say.” Rumlow says, cutting off the man who Walker is pretty sure continues to be the highest ranking officer in the room, “Heard a lot about you Walker, we’re here to see if you’d make a good Agent.” 

Walker looks between his commanding officer and the other man for long enough that Agent Rumlow huffs a low laugh and nudges his shoulder to get him moving,

“C’mon kid, you’re with us.” 

[silvercap]

if you’re taking prompt requests 👀 leon and either shaky from starvation or staggering from exhaustion? dealer’s choice hehe

Sure ☺️ (Prompts)

He's almost to the Evac point when his knees give out, spilling Leon limply across the dirt as a strangled, pathetic noise squeaks out from his throat and his gun falls somewhere at his side. His legs tremble and cramp from days of running and crouching, muscles spent and pushed even further past their limits by the limping, staggering steps he's been forced to rely on for the past several hours. His injured ankle screams at him in the absence of stimulation, a ragged seed of pain blossoming into something excruciating now that Leon isn't pushing through it to make himself move. He groans, a pitiful sound. So this is what's become of the great Leon S. Kennedy---sprawled in the dirt half a mile from the rendezvous point, and too weak to even pull himself upright again.

There's blood still soaking his chest and thigh where BOW claws and shrapnel, respectively, had dug into the soft, unprotected flesh with violent force. Leon coughs, feeling the pang of smaller wounds across his body that only seem amplified by the hollowness in his gut, days without food or supplies only making the sluggish exhaustion more insistent to drag him down to the dirt and never let him go. He'd lost his pack on the very first day. Typical. He'd make a joke if laughing didn't feel impossible.

Something buzzes in his ear, short and sharp, and Leon stifles a whine.

"Come in, Kennedy," an unfamiliar voice says, the man he knows is meant to pick him up. They've never met before today, but Hunnigan had sent him once Leon finally got his comms working again, so Leon's pretty sure he'd be able to trust the man. He makes a sound halfway between an angry cry and a sob. He'll never make it to the evacuation point to see if it's true. "Kennedy, we are landing now, do you copy? We don't see you anywhere; over."

Trembling fingers trip clumsily up to his ear, the little button clicking as Leon lets his eyes fall closed. The cool dirt is nice on his cheek. " 's 'cause I'm not there," he slurs with an empty laugh, dampness forming under his eyelids. "Promise I tried. I really did."

There's a brief silence.

"Kennedy, what's your status? I don't understand; over."

Leon laughs, the sound closer to whimpering. Maybe he did have the energy after all. "I'm not gonna make it. Jus' go home, see your family," he rasps, hating the dullness of his own voice. He always knew he'd go out this way. It shouldn't be as much of a shock as it is, but he can't help but admit how frustratingly close he'd been to surviving another impossible mission. At least he made a good run of it.

"Kennedy, what's your status?" the voice repeats. "Are you in need of medical assistance?"

"Yes. No." Leon sighs. "I don't know. Why do you care?"

The DSO never supports him on missions, he knows that. It's cruel of them to pretend that they would, dangling medical intervention in front of him like a carrot on a stick.

"Where are you?"

"Half a mile out." Leon swallows. "I won't make it."

There's more buzzing, a voice in his ear, but Leon doesn't pay it any mind. He lets his hand slump to the ground, fingers curling weakly in the dirt. Maybe if he...

He pulls himself forward by his nails, then again, and again. It hurts. Everything hurts, but he can't... he won't just die here alone. The thought puts a lump in his throat and he sobs explosively, dragging himself forward inch by inch. He knows he won't make it; it's stupid to try.

He keeps moving.

Time blurs, blood mixing with dirt where his broken fingernails claw at rocky ground, until a sudden shadow falls over him. Leon whimpers on a particularly rough patch, and two sets of hands slide under his body, lifting him upright. The world swims, and Leon blinks. The face of a young woman hovers over him, her strong body hauling him upright despite the fact that his legs are too weak to support his weight.

"We've got you, Agent Kennedy," she says softly. "We're going to get you out of here, okay?"

Another person pushes into his right side, careful of the wounds over his chest as they take the rest of his weight in strong arms. Leon doesn't understand. "I don't understand."

"Hunnigan sent us. We're getting you out of here, okay? Damn standard procedure---we know how much you've done for all of us."

"Let's get you some help," the other person says, voice husky. Leon doesn't recognize it either, tired brain still confused by their support. He didn't know he'd done anything for anyone at all. "Just a little bit farther, man."

Leon laughs deliriously, unable to do anything else.

[pinkhairedlily]

On a random weekend morning, Sasuke catches his daughter lingering for quite a while in front of the mirror. 

Sarada fixes her hair, trying to change the parting from side to middle. Upon realizing that she looks like a dusty old broom inside the university library, she lets her hair be and shifts her attention to the hitai-ate. She usually wears it across her forehead, but committed to trying things out, she fashions it today like a headband. 

A longer stare at her reflection. A twist and turn. A sigh of exasperation. The hitai-ate is sprawled across the counter.

Sasuke guesses it's time for some sort of intervention. In the earlier days, it felt like he was always grappling at the most mundane accidents, teetering towards breakdowns, but now—now, he's learning. He's coping. He clears his throat as he pretends to just notice her. “Sarada, is something wrong?”

His daughter gives him a lopsided smile and shakes her head tentatively. “It's…nothing.” Sarada glances again at the mirror and sees him looking too.

Sasuke wraps his arm around her shoulder. “You resemble me a lot.”

Her fingers start playing with the tips of her hair. “I'm thinking of dyeing it to pink.”

He wonders what tone he should use for a bubbling sign of rebellious reinvention. “Like Mama?”

Sarada nods. “I'd love her green eyes as well.”

“Me too. They're my favorite color.”

“Do you think,” Sarada stares up at him with a disarming sincerity, “I'd look like her if I did?”

He leads her to the veranda overlooking the garden they have been toiling for the past summer. What Sakura enjoyed the most was the fresh supply of flowers, clumped wild blooms that spruced up their space, as if it had always been their home.

“It's not that I hate your genes, Papa. You have a very nice genetic makeup, the best actually, but—” Sarada blurts out in innocent defiance. “—sometimes I wished I looked like Mama too so people could tell immediately I am that great doctor's daughter. I don't even have her medical skills, which sucks so so bad. You know how my friends always seem like they had a 50-50 share in their parents’ features? Look at Himawari. Or Inojin. Or Chouchou.”

“But you do look like her, peanut.” Sasuke smoothes down the tension that lined Sarada’s face.

“Mama. I want to know what she looks like when she grows old. How the wrinkles and age would shape her face. How she would smile without dentures. Her smile when the laugh lines end up staying. The crow’s feet that would only get more prominent by the years.”  The child clasps the knuckles of her father. “So maybe if I look like an exact replica of her, we would see her alive again.”

Sasuke opens up his palm and entangles their hands together. Tiny fingers too small for the spaces that her mother once fit perfectly. 

“As I said, you do look like her.” He smiles, internally fighting the waves that have surfaced on his recently calmed shores with Sarada’s confession.

“You laugh exactly like her. You yell shanaroo at the smallest inconvenience. You have her brute strength and her wit and that makes you the strongest kunoichi alive. You're Sakura's daughter.”

In the distance, Sasuke makes out the first blooms of daffodils. “To me, to us, you're perfect the way you are.”

Sarada slyly whisks away the pooling tears in her eyes. “I still want to dye my hair pink though.”

“I think Mama will kill me if your hair gets fried with the bleaching.”

“Fine Papa, let's try first with a wig.”

[mariacallous]

A victory for former U.S. President Donald Trump would have a similar impact on the Republican Party as Ronald Reagan’s landslide reelection victory over Walter Mondale in 1984.

Whereas the 1980 election had been about promise, vision, and ambition, by 1984, voters knew exactly who they were electing. The win legitimated Reagan’s vision of right-wing conservatism—a mix of supply-side economics, deregulation, social conservatism, and a muscular approach to foreign policy—as the future of the GOP.

In 2024, Republican voters are making a similar choice. Trump’s first term was revealing, and any remaining illusions that he will change are, by now, shattered. His conservatism entails the unchecked use of executive power deployed alongside blistering, toxic rhetoric and a hefty dose of election denialism. Policy-wise, he champions tariffs, tax cuts for corporations and the wealthy, stringent anti-immigration policies, and limited intervention overseas.

Trump has hidden nothing; most of his strategy and agenda is available for everyone to see in broad daylight. Those who vote for him this year are voting to entrench this vision for the Republican Party for the foreseeable future, and the GOP will certainly read a Trump victory as a clear verdict on the party’s path forward—and likely a mandate to do even more.

Without electoral incentive, the only force that can really move parties in an age of hyperpolarization, the MAGA Republican coalition will be here to stay.

[happilylovingchaos]

Fic Recs Thursday (or Friday):

Okay, let me just say this: finding old/ underrated fanfics that focused on Mateo and Nancy as individual characters was hard. Harder than finding ones on disasters. But, here I go back down the AO3 rabbit hole @lonestar-s5countdown.

Canon Codas:

Keep running by ourfreewill: Mateo’s view on the events of 2x02– god this is sad. This makes so much sense as another headcanon to how Tim got so close to being part of the 126 family.

Such strange uncharted territory by @marjansmarwani: The 2x10 intervention that features soft Tarlos, and the 126 learning about Mateo’s living sitch.

I can’t carry this anymore… by @alidravana: There’s a small typo in the fic’s tag— it should be 2x14, but otherwise this was a nice look into Carlos’ THOUGHTS about hearing what happened with Mateo and his 129 captain. CW: discussed hazing/ homophobia.

A question of capability by rakketyrivertam: Owen’s conspiracy theorist side strikes an ethnicity-related nerve with Mateo after the mistaken alien call in 3x06.

Don’t lose sight of what I want by @alidravana: Mateo and Paul help TK through physiotherapy after the events of 1x08 and 1x09. It’s a painful day still, but one with a little hope sprinkled in.

Nights like these by Azphobic (orphan_account): After the traffic pileup turned shooting in 3x14, Mateo is one of the firefighters who nearly loses sleep over what happened.

Even dust was made to settle by tiniestmite: Takes place during 2x10, just before TK and the 126 stage their intervention for Owen. Mateo might be a bad secret-keeper, but he’s hell of a lifesaver.

Edamame and empathy by @blueink3: A 3x14 coda where Nancy seeks comfort from Tarlos and receives.

Some risks are worth it by RamblingDisaster73: This speculation fic should have panned out in 3x17. Heightism might be a thing, Julian and Brianna did solid jobs with what they were given, but their conflict just felt off to me.

Burnt CDs and moving forward by maplehobi: Another 3x14 coda covering the Nanteo “coffee date”, where Mateo and Nancy befriend each other after the shooting. Because I think this is a headcanon starting point— start as friends (bonus points if there’s a shared traumatic incident), see if there’s something more. -v-

Laughing gas by shes_an_oddbird: A light-hearted extension of the post-ANFO scene in 4x06, right after Owen and the firefighters avert the terror attack. Because if anything was done well in that arc imo, it was that scene.

Deep dive for Disasters (ooh, alliteration again! Includes an AU or two):

A storm to weather by @marjansmarwani: A 3x01 spec-turned-AU where TK is still on the wrong end of a rescue gone awry and still suffers hypothermia but it’s not as life-threatening. Slightly.

Not only to believe in ourselves, but in each other by MyCupOfTea and singerofsimplesongs: What if 9-1-1: Lone Star took place in the world of Pacific Rim? Tarlos-centric, with Paul and Mateo and Marjan making up the Crimson Typhoon equivalent.

I’d burn here if that’s what it takes by @blaineandsamevanderson and Skaboom: Another serial arsonist story, with much more direct consequences to Tarlos.

Fun and games (and friendly discussions) by @fallout-mars: An exception to the “disasters” rule, where the Catan crew have thoughts on the near-disastrous sinking of the new ship that is Nanteo in 3x17.

Heat wave by AliceSchuyler: During a particularly scorching day, Mateo gets bad heat stroke. It’s not a fun time, but good thing his firefighter family’s looking out for him just as much as he did them.

Family’s comfort by Gucci_Chainsaw: When the 126 report to an apartment fire, Mateo gets injured and trapped in its basement.

Put others oxygen masks on first by lorarawr: A 2x12 AU-coda where Mateo visits Tarlos at their hotel after they lose their home, and drops off more than just supplies from Owen’s house.

Mateo (not as underrated as I thought):

The company we keep by cosmiceverafter: Marjan, Paul and Mateo attend the Austin State Fair on their shift off, and bond over Moana.

On your side by @marjansmarwani: Mateo gains two protective brothers as the new 126 members meet and bond with each other.

These three works by fan_gworl should also be a series! Some Mateo whump included.

Cake, slang, and misunderstandings by Joanna_Kay: Hilarity, some heartbreak, and heartwarmth ensues after Mateo tries out some lingo in conversation with the 126.

Making the man by Joanna_Kay: A two-part series that, even if lot of it is retconned (like how his parents or at least his father still live in Mexico while he stayed with extended fam), explores how difficult Mateo’s childhood would have been as a disabled Hispanic kid.

In the meantime by @morganaspendragonss: In this 2x10 AU, Marjan offers Mateo her place to live in before Owen does. It’s another sweet big sister move. ^^

mateo begins by @lire-casander: How Mateo is just as much a mama’s boy as the father-figure magnet he later becomes. CW: discussion of disability struggles and bullying.

Jurassic Park & coffee cups by InkpotGod97: Mateo gets Marjan a thoughtful gift!

Allergies/asthma by @stardustviolet: TK owes Mateo an apology for blowing off his allergy to cat dander.

I know you can’t see it by myemergence: After Mateo gets his heart broken, Marjan assures him that he will always be enough. This was such a sweet sister-brother moment!

Cutting it close by tiniestmite: Carlos and Mateo have another friendship moment, but not without a little kitchen accident b/c it wouldn’t be 9-1-1 without a little lighthearted severity.

Officer Mateo at your service by mionejaina1011: Mateo meets Carlos earlier than in canon as a police officer.

Come deliver me back home by @morganaspendragonss: Mateo, TK and Carlos reckon with the arson attack one late night after Mateo has a long day.

(Des)esperanza, Leaving pieces of me behind by TearsThisSideOfHeaven: Two instances where Mateo and Carlos struggle in living not just as first responders, but as two Latino men in a red state that hasn’t completely accepted them.

Scent is the strongest sense by barelyprolific: How Mateo possibly develops a crush on Nancy after the dust storm. How come we didn’t get to see this in the show?

Speak my language by LynnOver: Where Mateo steps in as translator for TK when he encounters a Spanish family who doesn’t speak English.

Deja vu by HeartAngel1796: Mateo’s sitcom dream from 4x11 starts to blend into his reality, WandaVision style. Even imagining it feels trippy o_O.

Nancy (okay I was wrong— she gets way less personal stories than Paul):

Nancy Gillian brainrot by douglasdavenportslut: An abandoned series of ideas about Nancy’s character.

My armor falls apart by @marjansmarwani: Nancy, much like Carlos, grapples with the fear of losing TK in this 3x02 coda.

Finally standing on the inside by RamblingDisaster73: The events of 3x07 to 3x08 from Nancy’s POV (minus the inventory scene).

We’ll be just fine, On the outside always looking in by @morganaspendragonss: Two great character studies of Nancy as she meets TK and is accepted into the 126 family.

You’ll never walk alone, rejoice your truth @doublel27: The first story covers a convo between Nancy and Mateo about the events of 3x12, the second story a queer bonding moment when Nancy and TK man a medical tent at the Austin Pride Festival.

I always knew you’d find your way by @fallout-mars: Nancy has her own POV about TK and Carlos’ breakup, and the time after.

Soulmates aren’t just lovers by @nancys-braids: A series of “Nancy Begins” stories that start from her college years and continues into the present canon. Supporting characters include Carlos, Mateo and Marjan!

It’s not so weird after all by shes_an_oddbird: An ongoing series of codas about how Nancy and Mateo became Nanteo, because I’m pretty sure the show writers speed-built this ship by the seat of their pants and gave it a false start. Thank you for making this!

Tagging next, and this should still be open: @lutavero @reyesstrand @toomanycupsoftea @fitzherbertssmolder @marjansmarwani

[drabblesandimagines]

Honey

Rei x (afab) reader Buddy Daddies

Your line of work was non-conventional, of course, but it paid the bills nicely and there were worse things to be doing. You’d got into it completely by chance through a connection made at your old job. You worked at one of the seediest bars that side of town – which was saying something – but an ex-boyfriend had helped you get it and other work was hard to come by. It was a slow night, so slow you’d already cleaned the bar three times by the time there was a patron. He looked out of place to the usual clientele that would fill the bar over the weekend - tall, brunette, wearing glasses and dressed entirely in black. He asked for a whisky on the rocks and sat at the bar stool, it squeaking slightly under his weight. You nodded, poured the drink and then went to start your usual patter in the hopes of picking up a tip when he held up a hand, silencing you.

“No need.” He slid a few notes across the bar, far more than what that pour of liquor was worth. “For my drink, and for listening to what I’m about to say.”

Well, that certainly piqued your interest, though you knew you would’ve felt uneasy about it if Riku wasn’t in your eyeline – the tall, steroid-powered bouncer by the door would’ve been over like a shot if you gave him a wave.

“Go on, then.”

His name was Kyu. He was looking for some information about a certain regular you had on Saturday nights. He said it was a business issue, but you could read between the lines. He wanted to know if he had a regular drink, seat, who his company was… And, if you were able to supply that information, there’d be more money in it for you.

You didn’t have to think too hard – the pay here was awful, your boss saying your wage was subsidised enough by the generous tips the weekend crowd threw in. You were at least 95% sure it wasn’t a real functioning bar, just a money laundering scheme. The job market had been difficult and you couldn’t bear the thought of moving back to the countryside with your parents. You were scraping by, making ends meet and the idea of extra money to cover the bills that month would be nice.

He'd asked you to load all the information on a USB stick he provided – your crappy laptop barely hanging on to life, but it made it through creating the document at least – and he gave you the address off where to drop it off. Yadorigi Café. He greeted you like any other customer and you slid the stick over to him, before he retrieved an envelope of money and bid you good day. Easiest money you ever made.

Which is why the next month, when the bar had been busted by the cops and your place of employment made a crime scene, you found yourself back at that counter, pleading.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

“Nope,” he shrugs, cleaning a glass methodically. “Sorry.”

You groan, dumping the last copies of your CV on the counter - fed up of handing them out in every bar, café and shop you’d come across on the way here.

 “I can’t get work anywhere. Surprisingly, people don’t trust you if your employment history is blank, or if you put down your last place of employment as one that made national news.”

“It was a one-time thing…” He begins but, thankfully, as if by divine intervention, the café phone rings. You sulked into the coffee that Kyu had given you – another one-time thing he’d stressed –and tried not to eavesdrop on the conversation. “Now?” A pause. “It’s a pretty inconvenient time for me.” A sigh. “Fine. I’ll be with you in half an hour.” He hangs up and rubs the bridge of his nose.

“You gotta go – I need to close for a while.” The bell rings over a door as a group of women come in, sheltering from the rain.

“My apologies, ladies…” Kyu starts but you interrupt.

“Come on in out of the rain, please.” You smile, gesturing to one of the empty booths. Kyu gives you an incredulous look.

“I can watch the place while you’re gone. I’m barista trained,” you whispered, stabbing your finger at the part on your CV.

“I’m not going to hire you,” he scoffed.

“I’m not asking you to. Please. Just give me a cut of the profits in the time you’re gone, huh? Like, tiny, just of whatever they buy.” He stares at you in disbelief. “Please, I’m desperate.”

Kyu looks at the ladies now getting settled in the booth – it would be hard to get them out now and, as much as this is a cover gig for him, he does have a reputation to uphold.

“Fine. Gimme your ID.”

“My ID?” You raise an eyebrow.

“You think I’m going to leave my establishment to a total stranger? I need collateral.”

You dug your purse out of your backpack and retrieved the card, handing it over. He didn’t even scrutinise it for long, slipping it in his apron pocket and turning to the occupied booth.

“Ladies, I’m afraid I have to go out to deal with a personal errand. But don’t worry”, he yanked you forward by your arm, “Honey’s here to take care of you.”

Honey?

--

That had been a couple of months ago. Kyu had sent you away after he’d returned, delighted to see the place was not ransacked or razed to the ground, before sending you away with some cash that should get you through another week if you were careful. Those ladies you’d served and apparently charmed with your service, however, turned out to be part of a lunch club and recommended the establishment to all of their friends. It became hard for Kyu to keep up with dealing with the informants and assassins that popped in through the day, and serve the groups of people now filling up his booths on the regular. It was then that he’d called you – you’d stuck a CV in one the drawers, just as a reminder, as you were heating up the last cup of flavourless noodles from the back of the cupboard, asking if you were interested in working there… Under a false name, of course.

You were good at identifying those who had genuine café interests and those who were there for other purposes. Kyu didn’t let you deal with the initial conversation, but, as time went on, he did begin to trust you enough to allow you to take the information off informants and hand over payment when he wasn’t around.

For the past month or so, there’s been a dark-haired man taking up space at the counter. He’d come in one late morning near the start of your employment, alongside a blonde man when you were cleaning the booth tables. They’d seemed a little suspicious of your presence, but Kyu had offered them reassurance. Kazuki and Rei - you’d learned a little later on. Kazuki was there on his own sometimes, but Rei had started coming in on his own – sometimes with a book, sometimes with a game on his phone as he slipped on some orange concoction Kyu had shown you how to make, before he’d entertain you in any sort of conversation. It turned out you shared a love of video games. You’d used your most recent batch of tips (old ladies are generous to a sweet young lady, it seems) to invest in a second-hand console and were excited for recommendations. He’d even brought in some games for you to borrow…

It's on another rainy afternoon when Rei enters to find the stool at the counter already occupied by Hiro, one of Kyu’s newest recruits and he scowls. This isn’t the first time he’s been unable to sit at the counter when he’s visited. Kyu didn’t seem impressed by Hiro’s work and didn’t seem to have offered him anything since, but he’d started coming in for drinks and you could hardly kick him out in front of legitimate customers.

Rei gives you a small smile as he heads, slowly, to a booth near the front. You smile back and start preparing his usual drink without a word.

“Honey,” Hiro drawls, using the name Kyu had bestowed on you months ago, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh,” you reply, a little annoyed at his persistence. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Well, that’s a shame.” He smirks, spreading his arms across the counter. “A pretty thing like you? Who keeps your bed warm at night?”

“I have an excellent electric blanket, actually.”

“Oh, you’ll break my heart with all this talk.”

“Ah, well, you’ll get over it.” You reply, dryly, stepping out from behind the counter to deliver Rei’s drink to the booth. You can’t help but notice his phone is lying face down on the table, and his fists are clenched as you approach.

“You okay?” You raise an eyebrow as you place the drink down – he looks unusually tense.

“Is he bothering you?” He asks, in a low voice.

“Hiro? Er…” He is, a little, if you were being honest, but he’s harmless enough. “No, he’s fine.” From the scowl that remains on Rei’s face you know he doesn’t believe you.

“Hey, did you see they’re releasing a second edition of Morio Kart over the winter? Looks fun!”

“Mm.” He nods, “it does.” But his eyes are still trained on Hiro at the counter. Despite there being three stools up there, Hiro has placed himself right in the middle, spreading his legs wide enough so no-one would dare sit besides him. Rei’s not an idiot, he knows he’s done it deliberately.

“Well, let me know if you need anything else, okay?” You smile warmly, squeezing his arm briefly before turning back to the counter – wary of leaving it unattended too long.

“Good, you’re back! I was getting lonely.” Hiro quips.

“You, lonely? Impossible.”

“See, that’s what I like so much about you, Honey. You’re so witty.” You can see why Kyu hasn’t given him any work since – he’s incredibly dense.

“Can I get you something else to drink?” You hint. His glass has been empty for a little while now and he’s shown no sign of moving on. You know he’s not waiting for Kyu, either. He’d been here when he first arrived behind he headed out on a “stock run”.

“Hm”, he pulls out his wallet. “One more, then.”

--

You watch, a little reluctantly, as the last group of ladies of the lunch rush bid you farewell – leaving a generous tip – and head out the door. They’d at least given you an excuse to get a break from Hiro’s terrible pick-up lines every so often. He’d made sure to sip his drink incredibly slowly – there’s still half a glass left in front of him.

Suddenly, Hiro gets to his feet and you let out a breath you’d been holding - he’s finally leaving. He strides to the door and instead of opening it as you’d expected, he flips over the open side to closed, and twists the lock on the door.

“Er, what are you doing?” You asked, perplexed.

“Giving us some much-needed private time, Honey,” he smirks, returning to his place the counter. “Come sit beside me, hm?” His hand pats the stool besides him.

“Look, I’ve told you already – I’m not interested in you like that...” Your stomach sinks. You’d have to volley yourself over the counter to get to the front door and your athletic prowess is non-existent. “And you can’t just lock the door either and shut the place down – you’ll get me in trouble with Kyu if he comes back and finds it like that.” You know Hiro wants to be on Kyu’s good side, so maybe that’ll be incentive enough? Kick some sense into his dumb head?

“Oh, you’re not interested?” He lets out a dry laugh. “Well, I can be pretty convincing when I need to be…”

It all happens so fast. Rei is suddenly behind Hiro and wraps his hand around the back of his neck, before smashing his face against the counter. There’s a loud crunch as his nose breaks against the hard surface. He’d been so quiet this entire time you’d forgotten that Rei had still been in the first booth, sitting slightly behind the divider. Silent, unassuming Rei, who apparently had more strength in that slender body than one would expect.

“What the…?” Hiro mumbles, obviously dazed, blood trickling down his nose. “Who the hell are you?”

“Her boyfriend.” Rei grunts, picking him up by the scruff of the neck and hauling him over to the door with minimal effort. He twists the lock with one hand before opening up and shoving Hiro out into the street. The man groans but doesn’t attempt to get up. Rei shuts the door, not locking it – Hiro would be an idiot to come back in and take a swing - and walks over to the counter opposite you, a concerned look on his face.

“Are you okay?” Your heart is thudding in your chest at what transpired over the last few moments. You know you should definitely be more concerned of what Hiro thought was going to happen, but there’s only one thing on your mind in that second.

“My boyfriend?”

Rei’s face flushes red. “It… It came out before I knew what I was saying. I couldn’t stand the way he was all over you.”

“Boyfriend?” Your brain is stuck in a loop.

“I mean, I know I’m not, that we’re not…” His face is growing redder by the second. “I should go.”

He turns to leave but you lunge forward, grabbing hold of his sleeve and pulling him with a strength you didn’t know you possessed back to the counter.  

“Please don’t.” He looks confused at that for a moment, before settling his arms down on the surface. “What I mean is… I like you too.”

An adorable smile creeps across his face. It’s most likely the adrenaline, you decide, but to hell with it. You lean forward, grab hold of his shirt and yank him into a kiss. It’s messy, heated, and tinged with a citrus taste when the bell over the door rings and you pull apart like deers caught in the headlights. Kyu’s in the doorway, a knowing look on his face.

“Well, I was gonna ask why Hiro’s sat in the bins with a bleeding nose and crying, but this might explain it.”

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