#Branch Connection Calculations

[little-p-eng-engineering]

Unleashing the Potential of Little P.Eng. for ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services

In the ever-evolving landscape of the process piping industry, ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services stands as a paramount standard for design, inspection, and construction of process plants. As we delve into the complex world of piping engineering, we encounter Little P.Eng., an innovative engineering consulting firm pioneering the application of these industry standards.

With years of profound expertise and a cutting-edge approach, Little P.Eng. shines as the gold standard in providing ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services. This article aims to shed light on the instrumental role that Little P.Eng. plays in revolutionizing the field of process piping.

Understanding ASME B31.3 Process Piping Standards:

ASME B31.3, a prominent subsection of the American Society of Mechanical Engineers (ASME) B31 Code for Pressure Piping, is a comprehensive set of guidelines for process piping. It includes various aspects such as materials, fabrication, examination, testing, and much more. Given its criticality, these standards must be implemented with utmost precision and accuracy, an arena where Little P.Eng. truly excels.

Little P.Eng.: Your Reliable Partner for Piping Calculation Services:

As a recognized leader in the engineering consulting sector, Little P.Eng. is fully equipped to handle all facets of ASME B31.3 process piping calculation services. Leveraging the expertise of highly-skilled professionals, the latest technologies, and deep-rooted understanding of ASME standards, Little P.Eng. delivers innovative, accurate, and cost-effective solutions.

Little P.Eng. and Comprehensive Calculation Services:

Little P.Eng.'s range of calculation services spans from pressure design of piping components, flexibility and stress analysis, to support design and selection. Their commitment to precision, comprehensive reports, and prompt delivery, all tied to their deep-rooted understanding of ASME B31.3 standards, ensure that they stay ahead of the competition.

Embracing the Latest Technology:

Little P.Eng. makes optimal use of the latest technologies to provide unmatched ASME B31.3 process piping calculation services. Using state-of-the-art software tools, they simulate, analyze, and validate designs, leading to safe, reliable, and efficient process piping systems.

Customer Satisfaction: Little P.Eng.'s Hallmark:

With a steadfast commitment to customer satisfaction, Little P.Eng. prioritizes its clients' needs at every stage of the project. This results in services that not only adhere to ASME B31.3 standards but also align with the specific requirements of the clients.

Let's delve deeper into the pressure design calculations performed by Little P.Eng. under the ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services. Here are the key types of pressure design calculations:

Wall Thickness Calculations: One of the most crucial aspects of pressure design calculations involves determining the minimum wall thickness required for pipes to safely contain the pressure. Little P.Eng. uses sophisticated software tools to compute this accurately, factoring in variables like operating pressure, material strength, temperature, and pipe diameter.

Flange Rating Calculations: Little P.Eng. expertly handles the complexity of flange rating calculations, which involve determining the maximum pressure that flanges can handle without leaking. The process considers factors such as temperature, bolting material, gasket type, and flange material.

Branch Connection Calculations: When designing a process piping system, engineers often need to calculate the reinforcements required for branch connections. Little P.Eng. performs these calculations with precision, ensuring the integrity and safety of the piping system.

Expansion Joint Pressure Thrust Calculations: Expansion joints are vital components of process piping systems that accommodate thermal expansion or contraction. Little P.Eng. uses advanced tools to calculate the pressure thrust exerted on these joints, thus ensuring their optimal design.

Safety Valve Reaction Force Calculations: Little P.Eng. also determines the reaction force exerted on safety valves when they open in response to excessive pressure. These calculations are essential for the safe and efficient operation of the process piping system.

Pipe Support Span Calculations: Pipe support span calculations are critical for ensuring that the pipe doesn't sag excessively under its weight and operating conditions. Little P.Eng. performs these calculations meticulously, keeping in mind various factors such as pipe size, material, and temperature.

High-Pressure Piping Design Calculations: For high-pressure piping systems, Little P.Eng. offers specialized calculation services that consider unique challenges such as material selection, joint design, and testing procedures, ensuring the integrity of the system even under extreme pressure conditions.

Conclusion:

The ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services can be quite challenging to navigate without the assistance of an experienced partner like Little P.Eng. Their meticulous attention to detail, robust understanding of industry standards, and unflinching commitment to quality make them an invaluable asset in the realm of process piping.

Little P.Eng.'s team of expert engineers works tirelessly to stay at the forefront of evolving industry standards, technologies, and market demands, ensuring their clients get the best of what the industry has to offer. With their forward-thinking approach, they not only provide services but also contribute to shaping the future of the process piping industry.

Keywords:

Little P.Eng., ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services, engineering consulting, process piping industry, process piping standards, pressure design, flexibility and stress analysis, support design and selection, customer satisfaction, Wall Thickness Calculations, Flange Rating Calculations, Branch Connection Calculations, Expansion Joint Pressure Thrust Calculations, Safety Valve Reaction Force Calculations, Pipe Support Span Calculations, High-Pressure Piping Design Calculations.

Tags:

Little P.Eng.

engineering consulting

Expansion Joint Pressure Thrust Calculations

Safety Valve Reaction Force Calculations

High-Pressure Piping Design Calculations

ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services

process piping industry

process piping standards

pressure design

flexibility and stress analysis

support design and selection

customer satisfaction

Wall Thickness Calculations

Flange Rating Calculations

Branch Connection Calculations

Pipe Support Span Calculations

Engineering Services

Pipe Stress Analysis Services

Piping Design

Located in Calgary, Alberta; Vancouver, BC; Toronto, Ontario; Edmonton, Alberta; Houston Texas; Torrance, California; El Segundo, CA; Manhattan Beach, CA; Concord, CA; We offer our engineering consultancy services across Canada and United States. Meena Rezkallah.

[halemerry]

So there's a lot to unpack here but I want to start by talking about the ending and specifically about the Metatron and the calculating moves made at the end of episode 6.

Every single piece of what happened there was a manipulation technique being employed against Aziraphale to an almost brilliant degree and I'm honestly a little obsessed with what this says about the Metatron in particular.

Let's go in order.

First of all. We see him order coffee. In a human body. Something sweet and sugary. He talks to Nina and asks her about her shop name. Does anyone ever ask for death? And when she tells him no they don't his response is to say "so predictable". Our introduction to him here even when everything about him reads like a sweet old man is presented to show us someone who reads the world in terms of being predictable to him.

He then shows up in the middle of Aziraphale's existence being threatened. He immediately cuts down the threat's authority (using outdated language like Az himself would favor) and reemphasizes his own connection to Heaven. When Michael doesn't recognize him and he puts her down and then directly engages Crowley. Crowley who, to Aziraphale, has for centuries at a minimum been someone he thinks is smarter, better, more Good than these other archangels. The Metatron validates these beliefs. Crowley is more Heavenly than these archangels who couldn't even recognize the voice of God when he was standing right in front of them.

The Metatron draws attention to the fact he's in a human body. The kind of body Aziraphale has been in and loved for nearly 6000 years. He then banishes the archangels, implying their morality is in a gray space, and validates Muriel someone we have seen Aziraphale react positively to and someone outside the current power structure. Look at me, he's saying. I see and validate the little guy.

He then tries to talk to Aziraphale. Aziraphale says "I've made my position quite clear." And then the Metatron offers Aziraphale the coffee. This bartering chip, consuming sustenance, is a thing that Aziraphale and Crowley have used as their connective tissue for centuries. It's an olive branch for them. It's giving Aziraphale bodily pleasure and the Metatron implies that he himself has partaken also - a thing we know that Aziraphale has struggled historically with moralizing. He is seen by the closest thing he has left to his parent and he is having old fears validated as safe and old habits being played upon to make him feel secure

He then REMOVES Aziraphale from his home turf. Not only does he remove Crowley from the equation but he takes Aziraphale from the place that has stood as a place of sanctuary throughout the entirety of the season. The shop is Safe and Aziraphale is leaving it and he is leaving the one person who might be able to smell the bullshit coming from the Metatron. The music notably turns absolutely dire here.

The next time we see them the Metatron tells Aziraphale that he doesn't need to answer instantly. He can take his time, if he likes. All the time he needs. And then tells him to go tell Crowley. Once again bringing Crowley in as a valid part of this while manufacturing a scenario where he can't possibly be.

Az ends up in a place where he's overwhelmed and confused and he wants so badly to believe what he's being told. It's an appealing thing from his perspective! He feels off kilter like he's made a mistake in judging the Metatron. He can't even fully articulate what happened to Crowley at first and he's had absolutely no real time to actually think it through. He's running on sheer reactive energy.

The Metatron starts their conversation by asking Aziraphale's opinion. Who should rule Heaven? This is once again playing into making Az feel validated and like he's a part of this decision making process. The Metatron corrects him, complimenting Aziraphale and making him feel capable and in control. He reassures Aziraphale's bafflement. And draws attention to some traits that, while true of Aziraphale around Crowley, are not his defining traits in the eyes of Heaven. You don't just tell people what they want to hear I find particularly notable in this regard given Aziraphale spent most of his time on earth actively lying to Heaven and doing just that. But it fits into the narrative Aziraphale has built around himself, especially post Apocalypse. The Metatron then says I need you (a phrase Az will use much more painfully here in a minute).

And even after all this Aziraphale says no. He says flat out he doesn't want to go back to Heaven. He says this!!! And then the Metatron sweetens the pot. He swaps tactics. Not once has this come up until Aziraphale pushes back against the idea. If the Metatron could've gotten him without using it I have no doubt he wouldn't have bothered with it. Come to Heaven and we can save Crowley. Aziraphale loves Crowley. Aziraphale thinks Crowley is better than any of the angels he's interacted with. Crowley is Good and Nice and Kind and always saving him and now he's being presented with a way to return that. He can Forgive Crowley - a thing Crowley has always presented to Aziraphale as something he struggles with. All of these things Aziraphale has watched Crowley react to in a way that belittles himself or distances them from one another. Of course he wouldn't consider that maybe what he was actually saying is "I'm unforgivable and I don't want that forgiveness."

The Metatron offers Aziraphale a Dream Offer for the pre Armageddon Aziraphale. You can keep your Crowley. You can heal him like you have always thought he deserved. You can have power and control the people who for your whole existence has beaten you down. It can go back to how it was but BETTER.

When Aziraphale leaves he still hasn't answered. He goes and has the conversation they have. It's intense and emotional and the Metatron comes in after the Moment all casual and asks how it goes, knowing fully well the shitstorm he had just set up to get created. And then he turns around and says "always did want to go his own way" which is not only true of Crowley but framed as a bad thing despite the fact that he has just spent twenty minutes or so telling Aziraphale that he's done his own thing and that is Good. He is playing both sides of this perspective as it suits him. And then he cuts down Crowley asking questions, pressuring Aziraphale to avoid doing the same. He then proceeds to ask Aziraphale not if he's made up his mind but if he's ready to get started. He is one by one closing off exit routes to this thing as Aziraphale starts to look more and more panicked and indecisive. He makes sure the bookshop is in good hands and asks Aziraphale if there's anything he needs to take with him. Letting Aziraphale have the illusion of choice while cutting down "I don't want to" as an option altogether.

And Az, as soon as the Metatron is out of shot, tries to express this. And then he falls back right on old coping methods. The Metatron pats him on the head. Reassures that he's the right one for this. That he is Good. That his particular skillset is needed here.

It is a masterstroke of manipulation. A very dark twist on what we see Crowley do time and time again with Aziraphale throughout the millennia. Familiar in a way that makes Aziraphale feel safe. Except this time this is being used to put him back in line. It's brilliant and painful and it fucking hurt and I need a season 3 to see the Metatron get what's coming to him stat.

[k1nky-r0b0t-g1rl-wr1t1ng]

The M3duS4 Protocol 

Part 1.0

Rubble shifts and slides under slender pointed feet. The dark haze of night shrouding her swift movements through the crumbling streets, the abandoned machine world silent around her as she darts from shadow to shadow. Her almost impossibly dark chassis perfectly suited for infiltration and stealth, reduced now to slinking around like an old world rat. Void pauses as she reaches a jagged opening in the floor in front of her, the edges of the pit’s yawning maw partially melted and gnarled. Void’s sensors begin to scan and calculate, she has no idea what weapon could have caused this damage but she does notice its trajectory, all the damage bent outwards, towards the sky. Whatever it was came from bellow and fired out, and hopefully, if she’s lucky, continued that way itself. She knows she has to decide quickly, spending as long as she has inside such an active zone without an encounter is a miracle, and she’ll need a few more if she’s gonna make it out intact.

A silent sigh escapes her body, she cant afford to stay out in the open any longer. Gingerly she starts her descent, every step carefully placed as to not create any noise, the pile of metal left over from whatever rampaged through here making a convenient staircase down into the dark under-city. Her sensors carefully scanning the room as the sky above her is replaced by thick metal. Her nimble body quickly swallowed by the total darkness of the streets below.

Without the natural moonlight lighting her path, and the thick machined walls insulating her from the world above, Void now relies solely on her other sensors to navigate. Her infrared scanners detecting nothing but the cold, lifeless metal all around her. She could easily get lost down here, with thousands of identical rooms and rundown corridors all it would take is one slip up. Void forces the thought from her CPU.

We need to focus

Continuing along her path she continues to scan each branching pathway for a potential exit, unsure what such an exit would look like, but remaining confident she would know it when she sees it. The dark corridors feel almost alien to her, the old world used to be so fascinating and incredible. She would spend hours studying everything about it. In the hopes that it would make her more capable, better at keeping everyone safe...

Just stay calm, we can alwa-

A loud clanging rings out from beneath her as her foot collides with something she hadn't noticed laying in her path. The sound reverberates off the walls, no doubt alerting anything nearby of her presence.

Fuck

Void freezes in the growing silence as the sounds bouncing around her fizzle out, every sensor in her body working overtime in a desperate attempt to detect any reactions to her fumble. Bitter memories rise up in her memory banks, flashes of a similar situation, decades ago, forever burnt into her core, pain and fear elevating throughout her system in equal measure. Distorted screams impossible to forget.

A heavy force slams into Void’s left side, distracted in the depths of her own memories she didn't sense it approaching until she was already halfway to the ground. Her light, metal frame slams hard into the cold, unforgiving floor as the force in her side crashes down with her. Scrambling under the weight above her, panicking as she gets her hands beneath her chassis, the lithe body of her assailant slowly coming into focus as her sensors turn towards it. A lightweight, civilian frame containing a mess of wires and rusted metal, two poorly connected arms on either side of its torso grasping and scratching desperately towards her.

“Get off me!” Void screamed, hoping in vain that it would understand.

The bot opened its mouth in what looked like an attempt at communication but all that escaped its throat was the sound of ancient parts grinding together, its voice module long since decayed. Not that communication would have helped her. The frenzied movements and ancient design indicated clearly what she feared, the bots core had already completely destabilised, its body acting on nothing more than instinct and impossibly faded memories.

Flailing desperately Void gives the bot a shove with all the strength she can muster. Despite the civilian design it doesn't budge, the four arms and angle of approach giving it a significant advantage.

Knife

Void scrambles to keep the clawing hands at bay as she reaches her free hand down to her thigh, a small click and the outer casing slides apart revealing a small compartment containing a dark metal rod. Clumsily she grasps at the bar, forcing it into her grip. Almost instantly, as if knowing the danger present, a slim blade slides out from within the dark steel. Quickly she takes the blade and thrusts it as hard as she can into the closest shoulder. Something bursts inside the bots body as the blade tears through it, a dark liquid spurting out of the wound and any gaps within the already damaged chassis. The bot, seemingly unbothered by this explosion, continues to grasp and claw into her armour. Void braces her other arm against the bots chest, remembering her training, and slams the knife back down. This time into the exposed wiring coiling up its neck. Almost instantly the bot buckles above her, both its right arms collapsing to the floor, its torso falling flat against Void’s chest.

Sensing her moment, Void pushes with all her might against the partially disabled bot, her body sliding out from underneath it. Clambering to her feet she breaks into a sprint down the corridor, her mind spinning as she desperately tries to escape the now dangerously noisy area.

Synthetic adrenaline surges through her system as she dismisses several warning alerts flashing across her visor. Her panicked movements desperately working to get her as far away as possible. Struggling in the dark she finally spots a branching corridor to duck down, her feet sliding and sparking against the floor as she drifts around the corner, almost slamming into the opposite wall.

Peaking back behind her as she runs, another warning burns through her system, this time a proximity warning. Confusion fills her core, quickly replaced by fear when she turns back to face a burning bolt of plasma rushing towards her, almost the width of the corridor. She dives to the ground, the impossibly scorching heat partially colliding with her left arm as she falls. Another flurry of warnings rocket through her as she once again slams into the hard metal flooring.

Looking up with a long, distorted moan, Void attempts to discern the source of the projectile. She suddenly makes out a large, hulking form limping its way towards her. Six crab like legs straining to hold up a heavy weapons platform, an incredibly ancient warbot. Its design so old it could only have been built during some human war, long ago lost to time.

Multiple targeting lasers circle the dark space, most of them slowly coming to focus on her centre mass, a few others pointing off in seemingly random directions. Void drags her limbs closer underneath her in a desperate attempt to stand and fight. Her servos screaming at her as they fail to give her what she wants. Void sighs, accepting her fate, letting herself think back to those deep, desperate memories. Her body failing her now as it did back then.

I’m sorry

Before Void is able to fall too far into her shame, the entire floor lurches beneath her, a deep rumbling pulses through her body. A deafening explosion roars from somewhere behind her and the entire space around her is shifted and distorted. Void is thrown from her prone position forcefully into the ceiling, before dropping back down onto the now rapidly collapsing floor, the structure disintegrating and warping around her faster than she can process. Watching as the ancient warbot across from her is sucked through the floor, its towering form swallowed by the darkness below.

Attempting to avoid a similar fate, Void thrusts her knife deep into the wall in front of her. Almost as quickly as the knife enters the wall does the floor crack and sunder beneath her, being torn away by whatever force propelled the explosion. Her entire body briefly suspended in the stale air. Gravity quickly takes hold, her form plummeting downwards before jolting to a stop, anchored to the wall by her blade. Her relief is short lived as her her arm is torn from its housing, shorn wires sparking, lighting up the darkness as she falls fast. Warnings and alerts fill her vision, her entire system screaming at her one final time as the impact ruptures something within her, sensors and servos lose power almost instantly, her consciousness only seconds behind. Her limp body pathetically falling through the dark before thudding into a metallic surface one last time.

~~~~~

I'm currently saving up for a tattoo (as well as just trying to survive) so if you wanna support me know it would go to a hot as fuck tattoo hehe - Ko-Fi

[nekomiras]

Alhaitham in an Art Nouveau inspired style Here's a thread I wrote about this concept on Twitter, below the cut will be a copy of the text, sorry if it takes a weird format on tumblr since it was initially written as a twt thread

This might not make a lot of sense to some of you but before i talk about Alhaitham and Art Nouveau i'd like to talk about Kaveh and Romanticism The connection between Kaveh and Romanticism can be more easily done, specially with characters such as Faruzan calling him a romantic

The Romantic movement, as the name suggest, is very emotionally driven. Its a movement that values individualism ane subjectvism, it's objective is on evoking an emotional response, most comonly being feelings of sympathy, awe, fear, dread and wonder in relation to the world

Basically the artistic view of the Romantic is to represent the world while trying to say "we are hopeless in the grand scheme of things, little can we do to change the world yet the world is always changing us"

In Romantic pieces the man is always small compared to the setting they find themselves in, see the painting Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich as an example, the human figure is central but relativelly insignificant to the world

Another thing about Romanticism is the importance of beauty, it's through it that the Romantic seeks to get in touch with their emotions and ituition and its through these lenses that they see the world. The Kaveh comparison should be easy to make with these descriptions

Kaveh's idle chat "The ability to ability to appreciat beauty is an important virtue" just cements to me the idea that his romanticism is closely connected to the artistic movement. He does have an argument agaisnt this connection but I'll bring it up later on the thread

Now that I used the opportunity to talk about my favorite character in a thread that wasn't supposed to be about him let's go back to Alhaitham and how to connect him to the Art Nouveau movement

But seriously, I brought up Kaveh's more obvious connection to Romanticism because the Nouveau movement was created as a direct mirrored response to the Romantic movement, and we all know how we feel about mirrored themes between these two characters

Art Nouveau is about rationality and logic, the movement was used more comonly on mass produced interior design pieces or architectural buildings, it's a movement much more focused on functionality than on art appreciation

They also had a big focus on the natural world but in a very different way, while Romantics saw nature as a power they couldnt contend with, artists from the Nouveau used the natural as an universal symbolical theme for broad mass appeal

Flowers, leaves, branches, complexes and organic shapes are the basis of this style, the logical side of it coming from the mathematics needed to create these shapes and themes in ways that were appealing and also structurally sound

To appreciate the Art Nouveau style is to understand it is a calculated artistic movement (another reason to be salty about an AI generated image trying to emulate it) In short, this style is less about the art and more about the rationality in the mathematics to make it

Another note I'd like to point out is that I love how both Alhaitham and Kaveh have dendro visions while both movements are so nature centric in different ways, Romanticism seeing it as a subjective power and Art Nouveau seeing it as recognizeable symbols

I mentioned an argument against the Kaveh comparison before: the one thing that bothers me about Romanticism is how negative it is in relation to humanity's position in the world and how that related back to Kaveh

In the Parade of Providence it was explicitely showed how much Kaveh dislikes the idea of people seeing themselves as helpless in relation to the problems of the world

People may suffer but there is something he can do to help them and he will do it

It doesn't feel right for me to say that Kaveh fits the Romantic themes because of his suffering, in a similar sense it also doesn't feel right to me to say Alhaitham fits Art Nouveau because of his rational behaviour while he as a character is a lot more complex than that

This thread was done all in fun and love for an artistic discussion, it's not a perfect argument to connect these characters and movements

+ I haven't studied art history in a year, if anyone knows more about these movements please tell me I love learning new things

++ Really sorry if my english is bad or I sound repetitive, it's not my first language and im trying my best here

Thanks for reading

I love you, have a nice day/evening/night

[saltydumplings]

Prompt #62

"Did you figure it out yet?" they asked.

Before them, the detective startled, shooting up from where they'd been sat on their desk only to calm again once they saw their visitor's face.

"Don't you ever knock?" they asked, sighing when they got nothing but a smirk in response. "Whatever, just, come look at this."

They motioned to the wall in front of them, what had once been blank space now covered in clippings and photos and names, all bound together in a spiderweb of red string. The detective began at the centre of the mess.

"The first victim: everything else revolves around this first incident - I know it does. At a glance, the murders seemed only connected by the way they were carried out. Same weapon, same wound, but these people themselves are connected. This isn't just some serial killer going on a rampage, this is someone burying information."

The visitor raised a brow, expression intrigued. "Go on," they encouraged.

And the detective did. They went over each and every case, explaining the little details they'd missed before and the significance they held. Their hand danced across the paths of their investigation, working its way up from the centre to the outer ring and then further out still, following a single branch that led away from the rest - the one tiny lead that gave them so little and so much all at once. It was them: the killer. They didn't have their face or their name, just the knowledge of a single meeting that had derailed everything they'd originally assumed.

Their fingers froze as they reached the pinpoint. They narrowed their eyes, confused when they noticed that their string continued on from it instead of dangling uselessly as it had before. Slowly, they followed it. The red branched off from the wall, swooping down and out, and when they turned they found the end of it held against the chest of their trusted visitor.

"Civilian?" they asked. "Wh-What are you doing?"

The villain smiled down at them, curling the string around their pinkie as they took one calculated step forwards.

"Helping you," they said. Their free hand rose up to cup the detective's face, thumb tracing softly across the dark shadows beneath their eyes. "You're tired, Detective. You've worked so hard...and I simply can't bare to let you work one second longer."

[memecucker]

The family tree of humanity is much more interconnected than we tend to think. “We’re culturally bound and psychologically conditioned to not think about ancestry in very broad terms,” Rutherford says. Genealogists can only focus on one branch of a family tree at a time, making it easy to forget how many forebears each of us has.

Imagine counting all your ancestors as you trace your family tree back in time. In the nth generation before the present, your family tree has 2n slots: two for parents, four for grandparents, eight for great-grandparents, and so on. The number of slots grows exponentially. By the 33rd generation—about 800 to 1,000 years ago—you have more than eight billion of them. That is more than the number of people alive today, and it is certainly a much larger figure than the world population a millennium ago.

This seeming paradox has a simple resolution: “Branches of your family tree don’t consistently diverge,” Rutherford says. Instead “they begin to loop back into each other.” As a result, many of your ancestors occupy multiple slots in your family tree. For example, “your great-great-great-great-great-grandmother might have also been your great-great-great-great-aunt,” he explains.

The consequence of humanity being “incredibly inbred” is that we are all related much more closely than our intuition suggests, Rutherford says. Take, for instance, the last person from whom everyone on the planet today is descended. In 2004 mathematical modeling and computer simulations by a group of statisticians led by Douglas Rohde, then at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, indicated that our most recent common ancestor probably lived no earlier than 1400 B.C. and possibly as recently as A.D. 55. In the time of Egypt’s Queen Nefertiti, someone from whom we are all descended was likely alive somewhere in the world.

Go back a bit further, and you reach a date when our family trees share not just one ancestor in common but every ancestor in common. At this date, called the genetic isopoint, the family trees of any two people on the earth now, no matter how distantly related they seem, trace back to the same set of individuals. “If you were alive at the genetic isopoint, then you are the ancestor of either everyone alive today or no one alive today,” Rutherford says. Humans left Africa and began dispersing throughout the world at least 120,000 years ago, but the genetic isopoint occurred much more recently—somewhere between 5300 and 2200 B.C., according to Rohde’s calculations.

At first glance, these dates may seem much too recent to account for long-isolated Indigenous communities in South America and elsewhere. But “genetic information spreads rapidly through generational time,” Rutherford explains. Beginning in 1492, “you begin to see the European genes flowing in every direction until our estimates are that there are no people in South America today who don’t have European ancestry.”

In fact, even more recent than the global genetic isopoint is the one for people with recent European ancestry. Researchers using genomic data place the latter date around A.D. 1000. So Christopher Lee’s royal lineage is unexceptional: because Charlemagne lived before the isopoint and has living descendants, everyone with European ancestry is directly descended from him. In a similar vein, nearly everyone with Jewish ancestry, whether Ashkenazic or Sephardic, has ancestors who were expelled from Spain beginning in 1492. “It’s a very nice example of a small world but looking to the past,” says Susanna Manrubia, a theoretical evolutionary biologist at the Spanish National Center for Biotechnology.

Not everyone of European ancestry carries genes passed down by Charlemagne, however. Nor does every Jew carry genes from their Sephardic ancestors expelled from Spain. People are more closely related genealogically than genetically for a simple mathematical reason: a given gene is passed down to a child by only one parent, not both. In a simple statistical model, Manrubia and her colleagues showed that the average number of generations separating two random present-day individuals from a common genealogical ancestor depends on the logarithm of the relevant population’s size. For large populations, this number is much smaller than the population size itself because the number of possible genealogical connections between individuals doubles with each preceding generation. By contrast, the average number of generations separating two random present-day individuals from a common genetic ancestor is linearly proportional to the population size because each gene can be traced through only one line of a person’s family tree. Although Manrubia’s model unrealistically assumed the population size did not change with time, the results still apply in the real world, she says.

Because of the random reshuffling of genes in each successive generation, some of your ancestors contribute disproportionately to your genome, while others contribute nothing at all. According to calculations by geneticist Graham Coop of the University of California, Davis, you carry genes from fewer than half of your forebears from 11 generations back. Still, all the genes present in today’s human population can be traced to the people alive at the genetic isopoint. “If you are interested in what your ancestors have contributed to the present time, you have to look at the population of all the people that coexist with you,” Manrubia says. “All of them carry the genes of your ancestors because we share the [same] ancestors.”

And because the genetic isopoint occurred so recently, Rutherford says, “in relation to race, it absolutely, categorically demolishes the idea of lineage purity.” No person has forebears from just one ethnic background or region of the world. And your genealogical connections to the entire globe mean that not too long ago your ancestors were involved in every event in world history.

[hatsukeii]

"WE ARE THE BLOOD IN OUR...WAS IT VEINS OR ARTERIES AGAIN?" / T. KUROO

PROLOGUE | M.LIST | NEXT. |

warning(s): a very offhanded, not serious mention of suicide, also ochem and bio!

wc: ~1.0k

When Kuroo Tetsuro sees another glaring "2" that bleeds into the white paper of his chemistry exam, he has to consciously restrain his fingers from curling up around the cover and crumpling it until it is unrecognisable to the naked eye.

"Great work, Kuroo, as expected. 84%, keep it up!"

He smiles at his teacher, only customarily, with a grin that presses tight against his lips to hide the grinding of his teeth.

"Yeah...thanks."

For the second time in his life, somebody; some monster, or formidable foe, has pushed his head into the ground and risen from the dirt in this subject. From the front of the room, Kuroo slams his paper into the desk face down, a thud sounding from the slapping of paper on wood. His head snaps around his shoulder, eyes scanning his classmates behind him for a gleam in someone's eyes, or a face that tries to stay still, but trembles at the apples of its cheeks. Chatter about specific questions drones on, heads bury themselves into clammy hands, pens tick as impatient thumbs tap anxiously at the clicker shafts. An air of dread and nihilism paints the room grey, white lab lights buzzing and flickering more like that of a morgue as hopes and dreams are slowly, but surely, dissected with the flick of a pen that etches numbers into a test paper.

He should be glad, after all, he's in second place! Just barely grazing the top spot of the cohort! The education system is largely flawed anyways! Life is not a grade! He is still worthy of merit!

Kuroo's mind races for consolation, only to find sarcastic, half-hearted sentiments plucked from inspirational TED talks watched in his showers, and mandatory wellbeing assemblies enforced by the school to prevent students from finding the urge to launch themselves off bridges. He rips through the pages of his exam, picking at every calculation error, and missed argument, and misused theory that emerges from his work. He can almost hear their laughter, screechy and squeaky as they wiggle and twist on the paper, before shooting out of the page to laugh a little louder in his face.

"Guys, just take a look over here, since almost everyone messed up drawing this diagram. LDPE is supposed to be branched, but I still need to be able to read how many carbons and hydrogens are on each chain."

The projector ahead flicks on to reveal a perfect diagram, branches and webs of polyethylene connected neatly to one another, carbons and hydrogens labelled between each spot. Kuroo stares at his own diagram, a mess of lines and scribbled letters, all rendered futile beneath the ink red cross of judgement. He bets that whoever beat him wouldn't have gotten the words "illegible" stamped beside their polyethylene diagram. Wait, is that an S, or a 5?

From four rows behind, a pair of eyes train onto a sticky note stuck on a page of the exam. Just beneath the outline that houses the same polyethylene diagram on the projector screen, a labelled neuron is sprawled across the fluorescent yellow of the note. You rip the note off, clicking your tongue at the loss of a mark on the next question, before sticking the neuron diagram into a lined notebook. Peeling a new sticky note from your notepad, a pen spins between the joints of your fingers, rolling in steady backs and forths along your hand. You bite down on the hard plastic of the clicker shaft, flipping through the rest of the pages as you wiggle the pen up and down with your teeth to ease your bubbling annoyance. Seriously, who even cares about the difference between "suppose that" and "assume that" anyways?

A flick of the page with your hand flips the test back on its cover, and you slap the fresh sticky note onto the circled "1" that graces the top of the page, before scribbling the frontal lobe of a brain on the fluorescent green square in preparation for your lunchtime duty.

author's note:

to say that i haven't been either reader or kuroo would be a lie because you bet your ASS i am arguing for anything and everything i can get in an exam paper.... ANYWHO welcome to the new series!!! I've decided to make this into a series because of both the poll and personal planning preference LOL don't hate me pls but i hope u enjoy!!!

tags: @staraxiaa @iiwaijime @hiraethwa @akaakeis @wyrcan @chuuya-brainrot @catsoupki @bailey-reeds @fiannee @cupidsblonde @she-lovesmyheartshapedsunglasses @kuroppiii

ok love u guys see u soon bye bye

[anxiousnerdwritings]

Percy is lowkey the only one that really understands Weasley!Reader’s complicated relationship with their parents and money so the two of them are closer then any of the other siblings

Percy doesn’t approve of the things that his little brother is doing but climbs the political ladder at the Ministry just to use his connections to keep the smoke off of his brother and his criminal activities

I love this so much🥰💕. I was honestly so conflicted how I thought Percy would be about the whole situation but I love how you put it. I already headcanoned in my own mind that Percy would be the first (and probably only one) in the family to find out about what the Reader was doing and that’s merely because he happened across the Reader during a dealing they were doing in one of the back allies of Hogsmead during school or at Diagon Alley before the school year started.

I imagine Percy being pretty upset and disappointed with the Reader at first but when they give their reasoning he calms down and is understanding of it. He even hunts his younger sibling felling terrible that they feel the need to resort to illegal means as to provide for their family. I think this would even cause Percy to resent their parents a little more than normal. If they only made better decisions or tried to strive a little harder in life then his younger sibling wouldn’t feel such a need to go down the path they’re going, and at such a young age too, all just to help out the family cause they’re parents can’t.

Percy would definitely involve himself in the Reader’s ‘business’, more so to ensure his sibling is safe and protected throughout it. But he doesn’t start out too thoroughly involved, just some behind the scenes stuff and covering for the Reader whether at home or school, until eventually he finds himself calculating the business’ overall earnings or looking into new ways to branch out the business as a whole in its’ dealings and who all it deals with.

When it comes to Lestrange!Daughter!Oc, Percy is skeptical. He doesn’t trust her at all, whatsoever, especially regarding his sibling. Hell, he probably believes early on that she’s the one who got the Reader into doing this type of stuff to begin with. Even after quite awhile of having her around and being involved in everything Percy would still be very skeptical of Lestrange!Daughter. He just can’t bring himself to trust her with his sibling. He’s seen first hand what she’s capable of when it comes to the Reader and that only worries him so much more.

Also, Percy coming across the Reader really hurt after a dealing gone wrong. Probably an incident that occurred earlier on when the Reader’s business was still in the early stages. I imagine things like this still happen every so often but the Reader is much better at handling the situation and putting whoever in their place by whatever means necessary, not to mention Lestrange!Daughter is there to take out whoever she sees fit (especially if they dare to cause any harm to her beloved darling). But no matter how many times it happens, Percy never gets use to it. No matter how far he’s involved it still hurts him to see his younger sibling getting so badly hurt because of everything. Especially when the Reader is at home after a particularly rough interaction; cuts, bruises, and broken bones, but they’re just so happy to be back with everyone, acting like nothing ever happened.

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 39

Content warning: Drug usage and a bit of gore. Please proceed at your own risk.

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

To follow this fic, follow tag "Keep Moving Forwards Fic" or comment to be tagged in future parts.

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, detailed descriptions of direct physical abuse, and scenes of men hunting women with implied sexual assault. Please read at your own risk.

Word Count: 3.8K

Author's Note: This is a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading, being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

The world felt cold and empty, even as Azriel cradled you in his arms and winnowed you through the shadows back to where the rest of the Night Court sat. They were still gathered around the fire, laughing and joking with each other, completely unaware of how your entire world had crumbled in just three words. You didn't even have the strength to look at them as Azriel explained what had happened, your body feeling hollow and numb in his embrace. Instead, you stared straight ahead into the darkness, where the trees stood like silent sentinels on the edge of the lawn, their dark branches reaching up towards the moonlight that bathed them in a cold, silver glow.

Your eyes burned from tears that had long dried up, but you couldn't bring yourself to cry anymore. The screams and wails that had erupted from you earlier were now replaced by a heavy, pounding throb in the back of your head. Every piece of you felt heavy and broken, slipping through your fingers like sand.

You could hear Rhysand's voice, stern and calculating as he asked questions that you didn't want to answer. But you had no answers left to give. Nesta had risen from her spot, her hands reaching out to touch your face and call your name. But you flinched away from her gentle touch, feeling disgusting and untouchable.

Even the sounds of laughter and merriment from the other fae around you felt like they were happening in another world, one where you could only watch from a distance. Everything inside you was shattered and fragmented, with no pieces connecting or burning with life. All that remained was a deep desire to curl up and disappear.

The pieces of your shattered reality swirled around you, cutting deeper with each passing moment. The claims made by him, the male who was your supposed my kin, filled in gaps you never knew existed, while simultaneously ripping apart your sense of self. Was it anger towards your mother for subjecting me to this wretched life, to forcing you into a world filled with greed and self righteousness? Or perhaps it was the realization that she had abandoned you for his wealth. Was anything about your world truly as it seemed? Did anyone know the truth, or were they all hiding behind a facade, perhaps like Titania? Titania, the one female who truly felt like a mother to you, did she know? And if she did, was she lying to you all this time. And now you are faced with the question of what comes next. How will this revelation change everything? How could you be related to someone so cruel and vile, someone who embodied the very traits you despised in your mate? But deep down, you knew the answer to a question that had haunted you for centuries. And now that it was finally answered, you cursed yourself for ever wondering at all. Had you truly escaped one hell only to stumble into another? Was this your fate, to always be connected to males who sought to dominate and control you? Perhaps you too were poison, destined to bring destruction wherever you went.

The world spun around you again, feeling like a dizzying and disorienting merry-go-round. Azriel's arms pulled you closer, tighter, as if he was trying to reach into your mind and rescue you from yourself. As the world came back into focus, you found yourself in the House of Wind, still held by Azriel as his fingers dug into your skin in an attempt to soothe you. But his words were muffled and distant, and you refused to listen. He gently placed you onto a chaise lounger, and your body, feeling empty and lifeless, collapsed into its soft folds.

The rest of the Night Court gathered around you, Nesta perched at the edge of the lounger with a look of intense sadness in her eyes. Rhysand stood next to Azriel, towering over you with a cold and harsh expression as his hands gestured wildly while Azriel tried to explain something to him. Feyre disappeared down the hallway, but you couldn't bring yourself to turn and watch her go. Lucien and Elain sat on a nearby couch, but you didn't look at them either. You knew that Lucien's gaze was fixed on you, but it felt distant and hollow.

Soon enough, Feyre returned with a healer - a short woman draped in a grey cloak who approached you cautiously, as if you were a dangerous wild animal. And perhaps right now, you were exactly that - something to be feared. But you didn't shy away from her touch or flinch at her presence. You simply let her scrutinize you for any physical injuries - bruises or cuts that she wouldn't find because the only wounds you carried were deep within your mind, wounds that had bled out and left you gasping for air.

As she finished her examination and said something to the group that you couldn't hear, your eyes remained fixed on the window overlooking Velaris. It was the same city you had always known, yet everything felt different now. The tension in the room seemed to dissipate as the others relaxed, perhaps relieved that nothing had happened to you at Philip's hands. But even as he had touched your chin and pressed a hardened kiss to your cheek, you couldn't help but wonder - would it have been easier if he had hit you? If he had assaulted you physically instead of tearing apart your mind and soul?

Because those wounds may have been easier to heal, but for something that pulled you deeper and deeper into yourself, was true healing even possible?

—

Your feet pound relentlessly against the slick grass as you dart through the endless maze, your breaths coming in short, frantic gasps. The taste of iron fills your mouth. Your heart races like a wild animal, threatening to burst from your chest as you push yourself harder and faster, unable to stop even for a moment. The foliage presses in on all sides, illuminated by the silver beams of moonlight that seem to taunt and mock you. You round corner after corner, slipping and sliding on the treacherous ground, your hands clawing desperately at the earth to steady yourself. There are no dead ends in this maze, only endless paths lined with thorns that tear at your skin as you crash through them. But still, you must run. You must find a way out before it catches up to you. That thing, whatever it is, crashes behind you in pursuit, sending birds scattering and filling the air with their panicked cries. Its footfalls thunder in your ears, growing closer and closer with each passing second. And then, you come to an intersection, with four pathways snaking away from each other like the fingers of a monstrous hand. Your head whips around frantically as you try to determine which path to take, but each one seems to change before your eyes, shifting and twisting until you can no longer remember which way you came from. And suddenly, there is silence. A deafening silence that chills you to the core and sets every nerve in your body on edge.

You pause, panting heavily as you try and listen for anything down the paths, anything that might tell you where you are or where to go. But there’s nothing, only the sound of your both breath as it chokes out of you. You feel tears well into your eyes, your hands desperately gripping into your hair as you try and hold back sobs or a scream. Perhaps you had lost it, and you wouldn’t very well give up your location by allowing yourself the luxury of screaming.

The eerie silence of the deserted path is suddenly broken by a familiar, teasing voice that sends chills down your spine. You whirl around, heart racing, but the path remains empty, stretching on endlessly before you. It's just in your head, you tell yourself, trying to calm your racing thoughts. But then another voice, deep and menacing, whispers right next to your ear: "Whore."

You spin around again, searching for the source of the voice, but both paths are devoid of any living beings. Panic sets in as you shake your head violently, trying to dispel whatever darkness is creeping into your mind. Suddenly, the sound of a child's voice echoes through the maze, calling out for "Mama!" But the innocent tone quickly morphs into a distorted, grotesque parody of a man's voice. Your skin prickles with fear as you take a step back from where the voice came from, only to hear a footstep behind you.

Your heart hammering in your chest, you turn to see Anthea standing there, her head hanging limply from its broken spine. Her eyes are pale and lifeless, and her body looks emaciated and ghostly. She speaks in a hollow, underwater voice: "You left me...you let me die." You recoil in horror as she accuses you, her head lolling to one side as if held together by a single thread. Your hand flies to cover your mouth as she continues to stare at you with accusatory eyes. "You let him hurt me," she hisses. Unable to bear it any longer, you shut your eyes tightly and press yourself against the foliage in an attempt to escape from her accusing gaze.

With a gasp, you open your eyes and find yourself face to face with Anthea, her unforgiving stare piercing into your soul. Your heart races as her blood-soaked mouth contorts into a garbled screech, accusing you of letting her die. Before you can react, her bony hands wrap around your throat, squeezing with otherworldly strength as your body crumples to the ground. Desperately, you try to push her off but she's like a vise, crushing your windpipe and cutting off your air supply. Panic sets in as you plead for mercy, but all that meets your eyes is pure malice radiating from hers. In a last-ditch effort for survival, you manage to push her head away and it snaps off, rolling to the ground before disappearing into a shadowy giggle, along with her body.

Gasping for air and trembling with fear, you scramble against the hedge, frantically trying to erase the horrifying image from your mind, your hands running over your face to try and wipe the cold clammy feeling of her dead hands from your skin. It can't be real, you tell yourself over and over again. But then, a tall figure approaches from the opposite pathway - a male figure with impossibly long legs that tower over you as he looms closer. You try to get up but he bends over you, his elongated spine arching towards you like a nightmarish creature. And those eyes - those familiar russet eyes that bore into your very being.

"My darling girl," a voice that sounds like Philip's rasps out from the creature's twisted form.

"Get away from me!" you scream, but the creature only smiles wider with razor-sharp teeth that glint in the dim light. He crawls closer on all fours like a spider, sniffing at you with an unnaturally long nose and licking his lips hungrily with a reptilian tongue.

"Divine," he gurgles before lunging at you with his gaping maw of teeth. Acting on pure instinct, you kick out at his face with all your might and he recoils with a bloodcurdling shriek. Taking advantage of the moment, you scramble to your feet and run.

Panic courses through your veins as you race down the unfamiliar pathways. Your body strains for air, but your windpipe deels like it’s on the verge of collapse from Anthea’s grip. You stumble around corners, desperate to lose whatever is chasing you, until you collide with a solid figure. In terror, you scream and struggle against the muscled arms that wrap around you until you catch a familiar scent of cedar that can only belong to one familiar male: Azriel. Relief floods through you as he whispers, “Shh, you’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You struggle lightly against his hold, not taking a moment to relax as you pull away, “Az, we have to get out of here,” you plead.

But he remains unmoving.

Desperation sets in as you take his hand and tug on it urgently. “Please, Azriel,” you beg, tears streaming down your face. “We have to leave. We have to leave before it gets me.”

Azriel’s grip only tightens in response.

“Stop, Azriel that hurts!” But his grip doesn’t lighten as you pull against him. “You’re hurting me!” You scream, the terrible sound of cracking bones within his grip as your hand ignites in pain. You cry out in agony, but his grip doesn’t falter.

Azriel’s only response is another smile, unsettling serenity “No one can hurt you here. Stay with me.” He beckons. But as you

look into those eyes, something flickers within them that makes your heart stop. Something primal and deadly that is not Azriel stares back at you through those Hazel eyes. A dark realization dawns on you - this is not Azriel.

“I have to go.” You manage to say through clenched teeth, trying to control the tremble in your voice.

“You’re safe.” The thing within him repeats, the voice that normally calms you now distorted and garbled, like some twisted imitation of Azriel’s true voice.

“I know.” You respond, trying to steady your breath. “But you have to let me go.” You say, your breath catching in your throat.

As he pulls you closer, the shadows behind him grow and swirl like vicious creatures. You can feel their malevolent intentions dripping from the as they rise behind him. Nothing about this is safe.Azriel pulls you even closer, close enough that your shoulder touches his chest, and in a moment that you worry you will regret, you take his hand up, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

The creature within Azriel lets out a guttural purr, a gurgling murmur that almost sounds like pleasure. But as you take one of its fingers into your mouth and clamp down with all your might, the sound turns into a piercing shriek. With a sickening snap, tendons and bones break under the pressure of your jaw, severing the finger from its hand. You are met with a searing sensation in your mouth, like acid burning through your gums. And what drips from the severed finger is not blood, but a powdery substance that sizzles on contact with your skin.

Gasping for air and spitting out the vile taste, you break free from the creature's grasp and flee deeper into the maze. The figure behind you roars in anger and curses at you, before taking off with heavy flapping of its wings into the sky. You dare not waste a moment to look back as you push through the twisting paths and foliage. Every sound and sensation in this place is deceitful and treacherous.

As you push further, the acidic taste still burning in your mouth, Kai’s voice echoes in your head, a shrill and agonizing sound that cuts through your skull. The sickening squelches of flesh being torn from flesh resound in the darkness, accompanied by Kai's desperate pleas for help. "Y/N, please!" he cries out in desperation. But his screams are drowned out by the malevolent laughter of your mate, their sinister joy at causing pain and suffering to those around them. You clamp your hands over your ears, trying to block out the haunting echoes, but they only grow louder inside your head.

In a desperate attempt to escape the cacophony of voices, you scream and pull at your hair until a section comes free in your grip, sending waves of searing pain through your body. You continue to run blindly, overwhelmed by overlapping sounds - Kai's screams mixing with your mate's laughter, Philip's poisonous words, Azriel's sensual moans, a small child's sobs and screams for her mother, Anthea's accusations, Kai's father's wild sobs, and even your own mother's voice calling out your name.

But amidst all the chaos, you hear one voice that stands out - your mother's. With every ounce of strength left in you, you focus on that one familiar sound and follow it like a lifeline. Swatting away the other voices like pesky flies, you push forward until finally reaching a distinct place where her voice seems to be coming from.

You burst through hedges and turn corners, frantically calling out for her as she responds with equal urgency. And then, at last, you see her standing in front of you at a dead end. Your heart swells with relief as you launch yourself towards her in a desperate embrace. She is warm and comforting, smelling of home as she wraps her arms around you.

She pulls back to inspect you, her hands gentle as they travel over your face and hair. "Are you hurt? What's happening, baby?" she asks with concern.

Tears stream down your cheeks as you try to explain the horror that has consumed your mind. "I don't know, Mama. I don't know," is all you can manage to say.

Your mother holds you tightly, her own voice trembling with fear that matches your own. "We have to go," she whispers urgently, taking your hand in hers as she steps back. You nod in agreement, her eyes wide with fear as you both acknowledge the danger surrounding you.

As you and your mother step forward, her hand tightly gripping yours, the creature that looks like Philip suddenly scurries out from under a nearby hedge. A primal scream escapes your lips as well as your mother's, who quickly takes a few steps back, shielding you from the creature's reach.

The beast stands tall on its unnaturally long legs, its twisted smile sending chills down your spine. "Sile," it growls in a guttural voice. "My dear, sweet, lovely Sile."

"Don't look at it!" Your mother's voice rings out, urgent and panicked, and you immediately obey, averting your gaze from the monstrous being. She presses her body against yours, her frame thin and bony but undeniably protective.

"Sile, you would keep my child from me?" The creature hisses at your mother.

"You will not hurt her," she retorts, her tone firm and resolute despite the fear that hangs heavy in the air.

"What are you going to do?" It taunts back, taking a few steps closer.

"Stay back!" Your mother yells.

"We made her together," it continues in a low purr. "We are one of the same. She is two halves of us."

"She is nothing like you," your mother snaps back with disdain.

"She is exactly like me," it counters. "Look at her. Look at her soul, Sile."

Your mother remains still as you cling to her dress, feeling the softness of the white linen between your fingers as she pulls you closer. "She is cunning and smart. Calculating and filled with fire. Her soul is blackened like mine," the creature speaks again. "And she is delicious like you."

"You are filth," your mother spits at it. "And you will never have her."

The creature's taunts echoed through the night. Its voice dripped with malice as it prowled after your mother and you, its clawed hands reaching out to touch and menace. "At what price will you sell her to me?" It sneers, relishing in the power it holds. "You always have your price, Sile. A good girl like you won't turn down anything if I can pay enough. What will it take? Coin? Perhaps a bit of that beautiful powder that makes you so obedient."

Your mother's spine stiffens at the mention of the Luster, her body trembling with fear and hesitation. She stands tall, a protective shield between you and the beast as it continues its cruel taunting. "Nothing. Philip. She is not yours," she declares firmly, her voice wavering slightly.

"What good can you do for her?" The creature hisses back, its hot breath wreaking of death and decay wafting over your face. "You have nothing. You are nothing."

"I am her mother," she retorts, determination shining through her fear.

"You are a whore," the beast snarls, its sharp teeth glinting in the dim light.

Your mother's fingers dig into your skin as you cower behind her, tears streaming down your cheeks.

"Your life means nothing to me, except for what your cunt can offer," it continues in a sinister tone. "But her? She is my blood. She is me."

Your mother takes a step back, pushing you closer to her. "Get out of here Philip," she commands, her voice quavering.

"Hold your tongue," the creature responds in a chilling voice. Suddenly, there is a rustling of cloth and your mother gasps.

Without a moment of hesitation, your mother steps away from you, her body heat leaving a cold chill in her wake, leaving you exposed to the creature's looming presence. "Mama," you cry out, reaching for her.

The creature purrs in delight, "Yes, yes my good girl. Come here." You feel a sob rising in your throat as you try to keep your eyes downcast.

"Take it," the creature hisses, and you hear your mother moan lightly. You can’t stop yourself from looking up, to see your mothers face, blurred in a memory you can’t quite place, as she leans her delicate face forwards, breathing in a glistening fine powder.

The creature's face contorts into a cruel smile as it turns towards you, its eyes filled with malicious glee. "You see, Y/N? Your mother is so quick to leave you for an enticing bit of powder."

Tears blur your vision as you whisper to yourself, "This isn't real. This isn't happening."

But the creature only chuckles in response, "What about it isn't? Did she not abandon you all those years ago? Did Anthea not die because of your inaction? Did Kai not suffer due to your weakness? And your mate - didn't you choose to let him in?” The creature took a few more long strides towards you, it’s pearl white teeth reflecting in the pale moonlight. “Why do you persist in denying your role in this tragedy? Do you truly believe that there was no other path you could have taken? And what of poor Azriel?” Your heart skipped a beat. “Would you condemn him to ruin from the depths of your corrupted, blackened heart?”

The creature's words sliced through you like a sharpened blade, tearing open old wounds and unleashing a torrent of guilt and pain.

You whimpered, recoiling from its menacing gaze. But it gripped your face tightly with its sharp claws, forcing you to meet its twisted features. “Look at me.” It snarled as you watched - a grotesque fusion of all those who you suffered, and suffered at your hand morphing on it’s face: Anthea, Philip, Caelum, Kai, Azriel, your own mother, the Illyrian soldiers, Titania, Azriel, before settling into its final form. You. A sickening grin spread across your face as all the voices merged together, taunting you relentlessly. "You can't escape from yourself forever," they sneered in unison.

The creature’s lips peeled back to reveal those rows of teeth again as it leaned in closer to devour its own reflection - your blackened soul included.

Readers: I dread the path we're set to tread, far from warmth we're swiftly left. From arms that beckon, smiles that light, we venture into endless night. Away we drift to realms unknown, farther still from the place called home. Yet there are souls whose presence calls, in shadowed realms where courage falls. Those who fear the hidden strife, face shadows whispering back to life. Bindings tight and fractures deep, wounds that wake and never sleep. A loss unnamed, a pain unseen, in silent sobs and darkened dreams. Strength that falters, trust that wanes, echoes more than bleeding pains. We cry and wail, we beg and scream, yearning for a different dream. Paths diverge, yet seek we stay, but shadows cannot light our way. Trusts voices, threatened hearts, in murmurs soft the turmoil starts. Away we must, to voids obscure, farther still from what was sure. For forces vast and whispers sly, in time shall test both you and I. Shall love endure through joy and strife, or must we falter, pay the price. In sacrifice, I guard your soul, in shadows deep I play my role. For paths we tread and hearts we save, might lead us both to unknown graves.

@thatacotargirl @mcuamerica @lilah-asteria @florabelll @fightmedraco @marvelbros-oneshots @mariahoedt @quinzzelx @romantasyreader28 @minnieoo @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @annabethgranger28 @krowiathemythologynerd @scatteredstardust @caroline-books @slytherintaco @sevikas-whore @sidthedollface2 @sleepylunarwolf @acourtofbatboydreams @quiettuba @julesofvolterra @skylarkalchemist @darling006 @loglady00 @caninnes @weepingwerewolf @that-one-bibliophole

[mrs-barnes-rogers-writes]

Pretty As A Picture - Chapter 7

Marvel

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes

Theme: Soulmates - Feeling the connection as soon as you see each other.

Summary: When Bucky fell from the train, their soulmate was told he was gone. When Steve Rogers disappeared into the ice, their soulmate was again told one of her soulmates were gone. But she didn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. Committed to a mental health institute, she dies of a broken heart. That's at least what the hidden S.H.I.E.LD files say, but if that's the case than why is there a photo of her. A photo that shows her side by side two redhaired Avengers.

Warnings will be per chapter.

For this fic reader will be British, but let your imagination replace if needed.

Chapter Summary: Bucky's sick of the back and forth and is determined to find you, but can Nat track you? Who's at the door?

Chapter warning: Brief mention of blood.

“Buck, where are you going?”

“I’m going to get our girl.”

“We need a plan, she could be anywhere.”

“Well, you make your plan Stevie, I’m going to get our girl.”

“Your girl?” Maria asked.

“She’s their soulmate” Sam said in a hushed tone.

Bucky made his way to the door and the stride in his step didn’t go unnoticed, he was determined and had flipped into mission mode.

“Barnes wait.” Called Nat.

“I’m way passed waiting Romanoff.”

“Just hang on. If you give me two minutes I can cut your search time.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Are you questioning my skillset?”

“No but I know my soul sister, you’ll start at the base and work from there following any tracks. I know how she’ll handle this, we’ll find her quicker if we work together. From those field pictures none of those hostiles are bleeding out enough to account for all that blood, we’ve got to find her quick.”

Bucky was torn, he nodded his head but still turned to leave the room.

“Buck?”

“I’ll get my gear on, you’ve got three minutes.”

Nat didn’t even acknowledge him as she went to work. They knew you then but she knew you now.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, bring up full mapping of the base up to a two hundred mile radius, highlight all unmonitored routes, sewers, cargo trains, any roads without traffic cameras.”

The AI responded quickly showing various routes away from the mission.

“Now delete any routes with S.H.I.E.L.D safe houses.”

“Agent Romanoff may I ask the logic behind that decision?” Vision enquired.

Clint answered, not wanting Natasha’s concentration to be pulled away from the task at hand.

“It’s a covert mission, where she’s been screwed over by the organisation she’s doing a mission for with bad intel, we’ve taught her well enough to not then use that organisations safe houses.”

“Understandable.” Vision replied.

Steve moved to stand at the side of Natasha.

“Who would she trust in this scenario?”

“Me, Clint, British intelligence but only certain branches and teams, a couple of others. F.R.I.D.A.Y highlight all British safe houses, ours, Wakandan, any used by Delta Task Force. Take off any routes that don’t have at least one of them. Remove any that don’t have accessible and walkable sewer lines.”

Nat’s eyes scanned the map as Bucky re entered the room.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Six possibles.” Steve replied.

“So we split into six teams and we go and find the old men’s soulmate.” Tony started.

“Hang on. I’m not done.” Spoke Nat.

“I said three minutes.”

“And you have been two” Nat replied, not taking her eyes from the screen. “Exclude any that don’t have pay phones on the route.”

The map quickly went from six possible routes to three.

“Now pin any that are off the hook.”

And with Nat’s last command the route went down to one, the off the hook phones showing the path you were taking. Tony was next to speak.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, calculate the travel distance on foot, by car, train and anything else she could travel by, against the time each phone was used, and check if any calls were made.”

“No calls boss, the route taken and the time between each indicates she’s on foot and slow moving.”

“She’ll be heading to somewhere safe, somewhere she feels safe or towards someone she trusts.” added Clint.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, how long since the last phone was taken off the receiver?” Asked Steve.

“Seventeen hours Captain Rogers.”

Steve couldn’t help himself and glared at Maria, who avoided his gaze. Seventeen hours unaccounted for, you could be anywhere or unconscious in a ditch.

“Three teams, we start at the last dropped phone, on foot, unless you can fly then low air cover. Sam and Nat you take south, Wanda, Vision west, Rhodey, Tony east. Eyes out for any movement of British intelligence. SBS were running training in Florida last week, if she’s got an alert to them they maybe headed there too. Buck and I well we’ll take whatever path he wants to.” Steve instructed turning to Bucky.

Bucky went to speak but was cut off by an alarm sounding.

“Boss there’s a caller at gate 3a”

“Well now’s not the time for visitors F.R.I.D.A.Y” Steve snapped as he turned to leave the room.

“Wait!” Shouted Nat as she started to move the screens “3a.”

Realisation washed over the room as they realised the gate and the reason its importance gave it an alarm. Gate 3a was hidden and only the Avengers and a select few knew about it.

“Who is it? Come on, I taught you better than that.” He quipped at his AI.

“I can’t detect them boss, they’re blocking the scanner somehow.”

The security cameras around the compound came to the front of the projectors and with it came a gasp from Natasha.

Leaning against the gate in the late evening darkness, covered in blood and dirt, exhausted and barely upright was her sestra. Her soul sister. You.

And you weren’t alone. Your left arm was looped around the waist of someone, their head flopped on your shoulder and you were wincing in pain as you tried to keep them upright. As you pulled them upwards again the team and soul family caught sight of who it was.

There in your arms was Pietro Maximoff.

Enjoy this fic? Fancy a cuppa? My Ko-Fi.

[oscarseyebrow]

Hurricane: Chapter One

Pairings: din djarin x force sensitive female reader  Rating: explicit. 18+ (later chapters will contain explicit smut) Word count: 9k Warnings: canon typical violence, mention of death of enemies, description of injury, reader being captured, slow burn, enemies to lovers. later chapters will include pregnancy and a brief mention of the death of a parent. A/N: while being on a hiatus, i decided to rewrite this fic as it had completely changed direction from where i began and i wasn't happy with it. i hope you all enjoy the new version as much as i've enjoyed writing it again and this time, i will tell the end of their story! i also want to give the biggest shoutout to @the-scandalorian for your time, your patience and your constant support. thank you for being the best beta and a wonderful friend 💖 Series masterlist | Masterlist | Taglist

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Heavy boots pound relentlessly, their rhythmic thuds echoing through the twisted, uneven terrain of the forest. They never falter or break their stride, propelling you forward. Each step interrupts the eerie calls of creatures in the night, a cacophony of sounds that sends shivers down your spine. Like sinister fingers, the branches snap, scrape, and snag, viciously clawing at your clothing and skin as you desperately try to outrun your pursuer. 

He’s close. Closer than ever before.

This is what it has come down to, a deadly game of cat and mouse, an unrelenting chase where every move determines your fate. Time had become a blur, lost to the dark abyss that had inked over your surroundings long before you ventured into it. The very darkness you hoped would grant you cover now seems to conspire against you, mocking your latest attempt to slip away unnoticed. 

Over the months, you had encountered many hunters on your trail. At first, it had seemed almost effortless to elude them. Your abilities granted you an undeniable advantage—speed, agility, and an unwelcome connection to the Force. None of them had stood a chance against you; their end had come before they even knew what was happening. 

But this hunter was different, tenacious and unyielding in his pursuit. He closes the gap with every twist and turn, narrowing the distance between you. Your name, once a mere whisper in the wind, now reverberates with an ominous promise as he tracks you to your last known location. 

His strength is palpable, his determination unbreakable. And now, here you are—heart pounding in your chest, consumed by a single instinct: to run. You push against your limits, desperately seeking an escape from the predator hot on your heels. 

A red, searing spark slices through the darkness, a fleeting flash from a blaster. The acrid scent of burnt air mingles with the sound of splintering bark, a tree beside you left scarred in its wake. Instinctively, you tuck into a tight roll, narrowly evading the next shot.

A bead of sweat trickles down your forehead, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. The fine line between life and death stretches taut before you, and you refuse to grant him the satisfaction of being the one to sever it. 

You’re back up on your feet as another surge of raw energy courses through your veins. Each stride is a calculated leap, nimble and agile, clearing any obstacles that threaten to halt you in your tracks. The thicket becomes denser, the branches clawing at your flesh with renewed vengeance, as if conspiring to slow your progress and grant him the upper hand. Yet, you continue in silence, the wave of adrenaline numbing your senses, shielding you from the pain of their grip.

Finally, when your feet clear an uprooted tree, you deliberately drop to the ground. Fingers gripping your blaster tightly, the safety disengaged, you force your racing breaths to slow. 

In the stillness that envelops the darkened forest, you listen intently, attuning your senses to the silence around you. You push beyond the pounding of your heart, further still, and that’s where you notice it. An absence of sound. The weighty silence settles like a suffocating blanket, shrouding both predator and prey. The thunderous thud of his heavy boots has ceased, mirroring the stillness of your own. 

Pressing your back against the rough bark of a fallen tree, you draw a deep breath, steeling yourself. This is who you are, a fighter, a survivor. You’re equipped with the skills to get out of this situation—you had been taught well under the Empire.

For a fleeting moment, you close your eyes. The world around you teems with vibrant life; pulsates with an energy you can’t resist. You tap into it, harnessing the power that had gotten you into this whole mess. 

Given the situation, it’s difficult to focus, but still, you try. You reach out in an attempt to grasp any help the Force has to offer. Despite the struggle, you find what you’re looking for—a flickering presence that doesn’t belong here—The Mandalorian. 

Suddenly, a sound breaks the silence—a rustle, a snapping twig—your gaze darts toward the opposite direction from where you had sensed him. It seems too distant to be him. Could the Force have misguided you? Was it possible for the Force to be wrong? It had been so long since you were able to use it properly, to truly call upon your connection to it…maybe you weren’t interpreting it correctly. 

You ignore the guidance offered to you through the Force and place your trust solely in your surroundings. Deep down, you know he’s close. Yet, you dismiss the pull of your gut instinct and opt to slip away. 

It’s now or never. 

Your body presses low to the ground while you move silently. Damp leaves and thick mud cling to your front. Every sense in your body sharpens—the scent of the mossy ground beneath you, the sting of sweat mingling with the scrapes on your skin. Your entire being fixates on survival, pausing for a second to reach out to the Force again to check your surroundings. 

Nothing. There are no sounds that don’t belong to the eerie symphony of the darkened forest—no thundering beskar, no trace of movement or breath. Absolute stillness. Slowly, you rise, surveying the moonlit area for a moment before you propel yourself toward a narrow gap between two gnarled trees. 

Freedom beckons, so tantalizingly close. Just a few more strides, and it would be right there, within your grasp. 

Then, it happens. 

It hits you with the force of a cataclysmic collision, expelling all of the air from your lungs. The Mandalorian emerges from behind the tree, anticipating the impact, his solid frame poised to absorb the force of your body hurtling toward him. For just a split second, there’s a feeling of complete weightlessness before you collide with the ground. You’re down, but not defeated. Swiftly shifting your weight to the left, you avoid his grasp and deliver a quick kick to his knee, causing him to crash down beside you. 

Synchronized movement unfolds, an intricate dance of opponents keenly aware of each other’s every move. You fire first, only for him to dart out of the way with a lightning-quick dodge, your shot barely grazing the corner of his chest plate. The ricochet momentarily shatters your focus, panic creeping into your core as you begin to grapple with the consequences of your misjudged shot, while the Mandalorian seems to register surprise at your near hit. 

Undeterred, he launches once more, but you’re too quick. You take evasive action, executing a roll, your fist connecting flawlessly with the side of his ribs as you raise again. He’s winded. His modulated groan reverberates in the air and allows you a second to recover. But he’s not far behind. Now back on your feet, you parry his relentless attacks, the rhythm of the battle pulsating between you. 

Neither relenting nor yielding, every fibre of your being fights for your survival while he fights for credits that will no doubt buy his next meal. This can’t be how it ends for you. You’ve endured too much to be taken down by a mere bounty hunter. 

Grunts and groans puncture the air as blows land on both sides. His attacks are measured and deliberate, his reach surpassing yours. But you’re much quicker. Amidst the chaos, you sidestep his lunging assault, seizing his arm and leveraging the momentum to hurl his heavy frame to the ground. You’re almost proud of yourself until he retaliates and sweeps your legs from beneath you. Gravity pulls you down once more, your head colliding with his armour and causing an explosive burst of light to engulf your vision. 

Your focus wanes, slipping from your grasp. You blink, once, twice, and then he has you. 

“Stop fighting,” he demands, breathless yet commanding, as he pins you to the ground and traps your arms with his knees. 

At that moment, you note the stark contrast between his voice and your expectations. He sounds different. His voice is devoid of emotion, yet soft. Distorted, yet strangely velvety. Gasping for air to desperately refill your lungs, you both engage in a silent struggle, your eyes fixating on the impenetrable visor of his helmet. It reveals nothing and yet you can sense it, the energy radiating from within. He holds no satisfaction in completing this job. After the relentless chase, you expected a triumphant gloat to be concealed within that mental shell. But it’s not. 

Tilting your head away from his gaze, your fingers strain where they’re pinned to your sides. You have a vibroblade, nestled securely in the strap around your thigh. The tips of your trembling fingers brush the handle, its coldness a stark contrast against your clammy palm. 

“Fuck you,” your words escape in a breathy whisper as you launch your next desperate attack, but it’s anticipated and effortlessly countered. The last thing you see is his helmet descending upon you, followed by a resounding thud. Darkness falls, consuming all your senses. 

The cat has caught the mouse.

***

A gentle swaying motion and a caressing breeze coax you back to consciousness. In that fleeting moment, you could be anywhere–weightless atop the tranquil surface of a serene lake, bathed in the warmth of the sun. It kisses your skin, filling you with a sense of serenity you rarely experience these days. It has been an eternity since you felt such freedom, devoid of burdens. In this relaxed, suspended state, you are liberated, free. If you were to extend your fingertips, you could almost feel the cool water cascading over them, your body gently rocking in its embrace. 

And so, you reach out, anticipating the familiar sensation. But instead, an icy chill seizes your hand, a sudden heaviness grips your being, and your limbs refuse to respond. Panic surges, robbing you of the tranquil calm that had momentarily embraced you. A searing pain lances through your side, jolting you awake. 

Gasping, your eyes snap open as you struggle to make sense of your disorientated surroundings. Gone is the water, the lake, the radiant sunlight. Instead, you find yourself suspended upside down, a tattered cape fluttering behind the imposing figure of heavy boots. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

Fuck. 

You’re alive, but your freedom is gone. Your hands are bound, your body hoisted unceremoniously over a rigid shoulder. You have a choice to make: do you submit and face your fate or continue the fight? You’re exhausted, your body bruised and aching…do you have anything left in you to fight? 

This can’t be the end. 

With gritted teeth, you clasp your hands together, summoning every ounce of strength you have left. They fall upon the man’s back with a resounding force, a desperate attempt to break free from his grip. Yet, his armoured form barely registers the impact, beskar shielding him from the brunt of your attack. 

“Put me down!” Your voice is cracked and dry but overflowing with defiance as you writhe and strain against his strong grip. 

He tightens against your struggles. It’s the only response you get and you find it ignites a new flame of determination from your darkest depths. You shift your weight, aiming to unbalance him. For a moment, you think it works. He staggers, offset by your attempt but whether through your own effort or his loss of patience, he eventually drops you to the ground in a graceless heap. 

It’s then that the full extent of your exhaustion becomes clear: muscles ache, bones protest, and the pulsating throb in your head spreads outwards to the point you find yourself closing your eyes and applying pressure to the area where the Mandalorian had headbutted you. 

The asshole. If you were to survive this night, you knew there would be a shining bruise there come the morning. 

You attempt to push yourself up to your knees, hoping to make it to your feet. It’s not to be. A mud-coated boot gives you the smallest shove and you end up rolling onto your back, defeated once again. 

You close your eyes, attempting to steady your breathing amidst the waves of pain. When you open them once more, you find him standing above you, his head slightly tilted against the backdrop of twinkling stars. This isn’t the time for distractions, but you can’t help noticing the way his beskar illuminates beneath the reflective glow of the moonlight. 

“I can bring you in warm…” his voice breaks the silence, presenting the first option to you before taking a deliberate pause. “Or I can bring you in cold.” 

His hand gestures toward the ominous presence of his blaster, and right beside it, tucked into his belt, is your own. Moments tick by, and he remains motionless above you, an enigmatic statue frozen in time. 

Without a single word, your decision is made evident as you sit up. The Mandalorian reaches down, his gloved hand gripping your wrist restraints, and effortlessly hoists you to your feet. He leads the way, his strides pulling you along until you fall into step beside him, surveying your surroundings. The forest is now all but gone from sight in the darkness, and you see that you’re closer to the outskirts of town. 

You trudge across the uneven terrain, contemplating the different outcomes that await you. None of them are hopeful. One thing is clear in every scenario: you can’t outrun or outfight this bounty hunter. So where does that leave you? A surge of frustration courses through you, angered by the situation you have allowed yourself to fall into. Anger bubbles beneath the surface, and so, you unleash your next attack with words instead of actions. 

“Did they send you to do the job the others couldn’t?” you ask. “How many did it take before they brought you out? Five? Six? I lose count of how many I’ve had to kill.” 

Still, he remains silent as your steady voice taunts, probing for a reaction. He refuses to give you the satisfaction of acknowledgement. His message is clear: you’re wasting your breath. 

Undeterred, you press on, uncaring whether he answers or not, “Did they have families? Were they your friends?” 

Nothing. Resolute silence. 

It only angers you more. You twist your arms, attempting to free your restraints from his grasp as you pull away from him in a bid for freedom. The man follows, his muscles tensing beneath the armour to keep his grip on you as you fight against him and finally show the first cracks of panic. 

“I swear to the Maker and all the Gods above, as soon as I get out of these restraints, I’ll make you regret every second of this. Do you hear me?” 

If he does, he doesn’t answer you, so you raise your voice, “I said do you fucking hear me?” 

“Yes, I fucking hear you,” he grits and pulls your body closer to prevent you from flailing around. 

He’s frustrated, you can feel it. It oozes from him like a thick, suffocating smog. There’s a moment of silence between you and he chooses to wait, allowing you a few seconds to calm down before he speaks again. 

“I’m not the only one looking for you, but I am the only one willing to take you in alive. So are you going to let me get us out of here, or are you betting on your survival against the other hunters with your hands bound and no weapons?” 

You despise the way his voice calms you. You want to fight, want to pull free and run in any direction possible. But there’s something that keeps you there, your eyes trained on his visor as you look for any hint of the man beneath the opaque glass. This is about survival, and being captured alive gives you a lot more options than being brought in dead. 

You hate to admit it, but he’s your best option right now.

No more words are exchanged for the remainder of the journey. The crunch of gravel beneath your boots announces your arrival at the town’s entrance. A palpable silence blankets the air, unsettling in its weight. The energy shifts inexplicably, and both you and the Mandalorian tense in response. His grip on your restraints tightens, his hidden gaze scouring the surroundings, mirroring your own vigilance as you search every corner, every shadow. 

With each step you take through the small town, windows shutter and people retreat from the streets. You swallow, feeling a sense of warning through the Force. And then you see it—the swift leap from one rooftop to another. This time, you’re the fortunate one, reacting swiftly. Your hands twist, seizing the bounty hunter’s wrist and yanking him out of harm's way as blaster bolts rain down upon you. 

Why are you saving his life when he is so willing to hand you over for someone to sacrifice yours? It’s a clear calculation—he needs you alive, fighting with him instead of against him. This is how you both get out of here, alive. It’s a mutual understanding as you drag him to safety between two buildings. 

Everything seems to happen in a blur, time accelerating rather than decelerating as it had in the forest. He releases his hold on you, shielding your defenceless form with his own body as a blaster bolt ricochets off his armour. Before you have a chance to react, his blaster is in his hand and he shoots down the attacker from the roof. 

You turn, catching sight of another hunter charging toward you. With your hands bound, your only option is to rely on your perfect timing as you deliver a swift kick to the front of his knee and destabilize him with a sickening crunch of bone. It’s followed by a loud scream of agony as he doubles over, right into an uppercut from your restraints which sends him crashing to the ground, unconscious. 

With a quick glance over your shoulder, you see the Mandalorian occupied with three other hunters. Now is the moment, and without any hesitation, you flee in the opposite direction. 

Your footsteps echo loudly between the tall buildings, alerting those close by of your location. It’s not a smart move, goes against all of your training, but desperation propels you forward. Your path weaves through the labyrinth of twisting streets and finally, you pause, finding a temporary hiding place to catch your breath. 

The pain continues to pound inside of your head, everything becoming so loud; blaster shots across the street; the yells of the pursuers being taken down by the Mandalorian. If they’ve found you this easily, you know those who work at Moff Gideon’s command won’t be far behind. Up until now, you’ve been able to play it smart, always staying one step ahead of them all. But your first mistake is proving likely to be your last.

You need to calm down. Breathe. Focus. 

Every nerve ending in your body seems to come alive–you have to go, you have to run. The Force all but screams it at you, encouraging you to slip out into the street once more and take off in a slightly different direction. Swiftly taking a right turn, you hear the resounding crack of a blaster shot pierce the air. You veer left, evading two more shots. A body plummets from a nearby building, their weapon sliding along the ground. You react on instinct as you thrust out your bound hands and use your pull through the Force to snatch it into your grasp in one fluid motion. Though you’re not at the best advantage to aim, you find a way to make it work. 

Gunfire and thudding sound through the streets as you engage in a fierce battle, skillfully manoeuvring through the chaos, instinctively ducking and sprinting at precisely the right moments. This isn’t a mere stroke of luck or chance–it’s a testament to your abilities, the Force, a result of countless encounters you’ve faced throughout your life. 

Once again, silence descends, and you become acutely aware of your ragged breaths as you struggle against your burning lungs. You don’t have long. Seconds, maybe. You sense the Mandalorian’s energy drawing nearer. You sense him to your right, searching the street parallel to your own. Pushing a little further through the Force, you should be able to pinpoint the precise source of his energy, but you don’t have time. He seems close enough for this to work.

You step out, blaster aimed, expecting to come face-to-face with him at the exact moment you both step out into the open. 

Except, he’s not there. 

“What…” you breathe. 

Confusion clouds your focus as your eyes dart around, desperately trying to calculate how you got it wrong. You were so sure you had the advantage, so certain of his location and the speed at which he was moving. Not once had it occurred to you that he may have also known your exact location, waiting for you to make the first move. 

“No…” one simple whisper slips from you, laced heavily with dread as the beskar-clad figure emerges from the shadows. 

He quickly disarms you, throwing your new-found blaster aside as his chest rises and falls in sync with your own accelerated breaths. 

“Nice try,” his voice holds a hint of smugness at your apparent disbelief. 

He readjusts his grip on your restraints, tugging forcefully and causing you to stumble as you dig your heels in, desperately attempting to resist his pull. Undeterred, he continues striding forward. 

“I saved your life,” you try. “You owe me.” 

Silence. 

The rhythmic thudding of his boots is your only reply. 

“I’ll take you to other bounties. I know where to find them,” you try bargaining. “You’ll get payment for food and fuel, and you’ll have more credits than you’ll ever be able to spend.”

He doesn’t appear to be interested. Your attempts are a complete waste of time. 

“Please…” Your tone softens in your attempt to appeal to him without the bullshit. “Please don’t take me in. You have no idea what they do to people like me.” 

He says nothing. 

***

Underneath the scorching sun, a day of silence stretches out before you. Mando, as you have taken to calling him, pauses only briefly at a roadside vendor to buy a drink for you, his caution preventing him from staying any longer than necessary. Now that other hunters have caught wind of your whereabouts, he insists on keeping a low profile…as low as a shiny tin-can-of-a-man is able to. 

As the day wears on, the sun gradually descends towards the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the landscape. With each agonizing step, the fatigue in your feet intensifies, while the searing pain in your wrists serves as a constant reminder that you need to find a way out of your restraints. If Mando harbours any concerns for your well-being, he conceals it well. But then again, why would he care? To him, you’re nothing more than a contract that promises credits. 

Throughout the day, you find your thoughts wandering to who exactly he will be delivering you to. Will it be the New Republic? The notorious Bounty Hunters’ Guild? Or perhaps he would hand deliver you to Moff Gideon himself. 

Somehow, you doubt the latter. 

You walk together until the land becomes vast and barren with very few discernable landmarks in sight. It’s here that Mando comes to an abrupt halt, catching you off guard. Towering boulders provide convenient cover, but more importantly, smaller rocks offer a place to sit and rest after hours of relentless walking. He turns his head slowly, surveying the area and once satisfied there are no immediate threats, he finally turns to look at you. Despite not being able to see his eyes, you feel his gaze from behind the inky-black visor. His eyes fix you in place while he decides his next move carefully.

“We’ll wait it out here until dark.” 

It’s a logical decision and one that resonates with familiarity. You understand it far too well, slipping away under the cover of darkness, hoping to evade detection. With a slight nod of your head, you silently show your understanding. 

Exhaustion weighs heavily on you as you finally ease yourself down to rest on one of the weathered rocks. Every muscle protests, throbbing with aches in places you never knew existed. The events of the past day have taken an undeniable toll on you, leaving you feeling as though decades have been added to your battered and bruised body. 

“Do you think you could remove these for a little while?” you ask, a touch of vulnerability lacing your words. 

Mando subtly shifts his weight. It offers a glimmer of hope, a sign of the smallest crack in his resolve. You maintain the helpless facade, testing the waters a little more.

“Where would I go? We’re in the middle of nowhere and I’m too exhausted to fight you. Even if I tried to run, you’d catch me before I took a single step away from this rock.” 

You feel his conflict, and while your lips desperately long to curl into a smirk, you force yourself to frown deeply and wince while flexing your fingers slowly. There’s no faking the hiss of discomfort that follows when the metal bites a little deeper into the raw skin beneath the bindings. 

“Fine,” he sighs. “But try anything and you’ll be back in these until I hand you over…got it?” 

You nod. Mando doesn’t move. He’s waiting for you to say it. You find yourself gritting your teeth as you bite back any snide remark that begs to claw its way out: he won’t be able to get you back in these things once you are out of them. But you play along, letting him feel as though he has the upper hand here while you bide your time. 

“I understand.” 

Mando steps close enough to you to work on releasing the binders from your wrists. His presence becomes palpable. You smell the scent of the forest intertwined within the threads of fabric beneath his armour; the subtle fragrance of the well-worn leather of his gloves, a testament to the countless battles he must have fought. Beneath his flack vest, a faint musk clings to his skin, a lingering trace of his relentless pursuit. In a different situation, this combination of smells would be alluring, drawing you closer with a desire for familiarity and comfort. But in your current predicament, they serve only as a reminder of your capture. 

A prickling sensation tingles across the broken skin that had been hidden beneath the unforgiving grip of the binders. The gentle touch of the evening breeze carries a coolness that both soothes and aggravates the tender area. As Mando stands before you, there’s an unexpected pause, almost as though he contemplates the discomfort that has been his doing. His gaze lingers for a fleeting moment, revealing a flicker of empathy. You watch him with interest, seeing a glimpse into the depths of his guarded nature. And then he remembers himself: he retreats into his stoic demeanour and turns away from you to settle onto a rock across from yours.

Only slivers of daylight remain as the final light of the day starts to give way to night. You know you’re on very limited time: once the sun completely descends and darkness falls, you’ll be on the move again. You have to do what you can to make yourself valuable enough to save. This isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself captured; you know how this works. 

“So, you’re a Mandalorian?” you begin.

Your question carries across to Mando and you watch the way his helmet tilts ever so slightly, showing that you have his attention. 

“It’s not often you see Mandalorians these days…I’ve only ever met one before. Very different to you, though. Whew, she was a talker.” 

“You’ve met others like me?” Mando asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

Hook, line and sinker. 

“Only once…” you trail off, observing the way he hangs on your every word. “At one time, she was very powerful. She had a whole following of Mandalorians. But…things happened and her followers found a new leader–don’t worry, she was still alive when I left…a great fighter, though. You Mandalorians sure are equipped with some fancy accessories.” 

“Who is she?” 

At this, you simply smile at him and shrug a little before turning your head away, pretending to lose interest in the conversation that he has fully immersed himself into. 

“I’m afraid that information stays with me,” you confirm and then glance back over at him with your follow-up. “Whether I take it with me to my grave is up to you.” 

***

They had found you. 

Following a brief respite and hours of relentless travel shrouded in darkness, the hunters had, at last, closed in on your location as the first faint glimmers of daybreak began to paint the horizon. 

Your boots pound through the dew-covered grass as Mando’s footfalls echo in sync with yours, an urgent rhythm as you both try to put as much distance as possible between yourselves and the chaos that unfurls behind you. The ship is so close. A beacon of hope in the early morning sunlight, its gleaming exterior promising escape.   

A rapid beeping pierces the air, growing in intensity with each passing second. You know exactly what that is, and so does Mando. There’s a split second of shared recognition of the impending danger, and in a swift, instinctive motion, he propels his body towards yours. The impact takes you down to the ground, his sturdy frame protecting you just in time as the explosion reverberates through the air and unleashes a powerful shockwave. Mando’s armour absorbs the brunt of the debris, shielding you from it. As soon as it passes, his body is gone, allowing you to regain your bearings. 

It’s hard to focus. Your ears ring, your head swims. Somewhere amidst the muffled chaos, you hear Mando’s voice, urgent and commanding. Time seems to stretch on, distorting reality as you blink and shake your head in a desperate attempt to clear your brain and focus.

“Come on!” Mando yells. 

With a determined effort, you push yourself up onto your knees, only to feel a firm grip on your hand. One of Mando’s gloved hands clasps yours, pulling you upright again. The strength of his grip steadies you, allowing you to find your balance. 

“Take this,” Mando pushes something cold and heavy into your hand. You drop your eyes to see your blaster and even in your disorientated state, it’s a surprise. “Now run for the ship. Run!” 

One last burst of energy, that’s all you have to give. With a nod, you wrap your hand securely around your blaster and start your sprint for safety. Blaster bolts pierce the air around you, crackling and pinging on impact with the ship as they ricochet in every direction. 

The Mandalorian follows your trail of disturbed grass. His pace is slower–hindered by the shots he turns to fire at the hunters–but he’s not too far behind. He’s close enough to deploy the ramp, within distance to shout for you to take cover and as he thunders up behind you, he fires a few more shots to slow them down. 

“Take down as many as you can,” he gets out between his ragged breaths. “Then hit this button when I say—it will close the ramp as we take off.” 

With that, he’s gone, leaving you alone, staring at the button for the ramp. 

Time seems to slow as you stand there, torn between the decisions you have to make: do you stay and trust this man to help you, or do you jump out as you close the ramp? He wouldn’t be able to stop you during take-off. 

A heavy frown clouds your features, intertwined deeply with conflicting emotions. The Mandalorian has gotten you this far. He has kept his word of protecting you. Were you going to betray him after he had quite literally put his life on the line to save yours? 

Your trembling fingers rest against the button, ready for your cue to press it. 

Who were you kidding? You’re not going to press it. 

You’re not conflicted. You owe this man nothing. 

A third plan forms in your head and you draw in a slow breath as a flicker of determination sparks a new fire deep inside of you. This is self-preservation. It isn’t personal. 

His command travels through the hatch from the cockpit, his instruction clear as the engines rumble their signal of take-off. 

“Press it now!” 

You don’t. 

You stand and watch the hunters approaching, almost close enough for you to execute this plan. 

“It’s not working!” you lie, edging your words with a beautiful act of panic. “I’m pressing it, and nothing is happening!” 

Within seconds, boots thud overhead and then a blur of beskar jumps down through the hatch. Mando makes no use of the ladder in his hurry. 

“What do you mean, it’s not working?” 

The stakes are high. You have one shot at this and you can’t fuck it up. 

“I’m pressing it and nothing is happening!” 

Mando steps closer to the panel as you take a small step to the side, creating the perfect line-up of his body with the ramp. Your decision has been made, fueled by desperation and the hope that, in the end, this would all be worth it. 

You draw in another steady breath and let it out slowly, focusing on the hunters as they approach, waiting for just the right moment as Mando’s thumb hovers over the button. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur quietly. 

His helmet snaps around to face you. You don’t need to see beneath his visor to understand the exact moment the disbelief hits him. 

He has no time to react. With the hardest kick you can manage, you send him tumbling down the ramp and into the clutches of the hunters below. 

***

It doesn’t take long before you bring the ship down into a controlled landing. The hisses and whirs are accompanied by your muttered curse as you sigh and rest your head back against the pilot’s chair. There’s a sense of regret forcing its way in. You know deep down that returning to the room you have spent weeks hiding out in is a gamble. You’re risking everything to come back here. But you can’t leave without what little belongings you have left. Their worth outweighs the danger. They hold more than material value; they hold the key to your survival, the last traces of your past. They’re all you have left of your life before and the risk to retrieve them will always seem worthwhile. 

With closed eyes, you reach out for the Force, seeking solace and insight. You search for a glimpse of the path that lies ahead, for a warning of any danger that awaits you if you leave the safety of the ship. But as the Force welcomes you, it withholds the answers you need. Instead, it offers something different, something unexpected. A current pulses through your connection, a bright energy that has been absent for so long. It seems as though the Force has chosen to reveal a different path to you and you push further in an attempt to see more. 

Another Force user, closer in proximity than you’ve felt since you were a child. Their light is pure, untarnished by the pull of the darkside. Hesitantly, you push yourself up from the chair and look around the cockpit. For now, you’re alone, but there’s a persistent pull that beckons you to search further through the ship. 

You don’t have time for this, you remind yourself as you climb down into the hull. There is a very angry Mandalorian looking for you. He would find you and when he did, he would no doubt kill you for what you had done: you crossed him, stole his ship. 

No, you were becoming distracted, your connection to the Force seeming to drop like radio static on an out-of-tune channel. You breathe slowly, regaining your focus and allowing the pull to guide you as you come to a set of small doors. Whatever it is you’re able to feel is on the other side, alert and waiting, aware of your presence. 

You’re not entirely sure what you’re expecting when you hit the button, but you’re taken aback by the large, glossy orb-like eyes that stare up at you. It’s something small, green, and rather peculiar-looking. Large ears perk up and it tilts a small head, curious at the sight of you. You’re not the Mandalorian that owns this ship. You’re not supposed to be here. 

The realisation happens like the toppling of dominos and your stomach plummets: a Mandalorian, a Force-sensitive child. 

These were the two Moff Gideon had been looking for. They had to be. 

What were the chances of finding another Mandalorian bounty hunter with a Force-sensitive child in his care? 

You step back, head reeling and heart pounding. This discovery, this child, could be your ticket to redemption, a chance to be welcomed home by Gideon. You can’t deny yourself a moment of envisioning what that would look like, offering the innocent life you’ve stumbled upon as a testament to your unwavering loyalty. You can almost hear his praise, see the way his lips curl into a knowing smile as he opens his arms to you…no. 

 You would never go back there. You couldn’t.

Panic sets in as the last fragments of your control slip through your fingers. All that’s left is vulnerability, exposed like a raw nerve. You sever your connection to the Force and this child, knowing that nothing good would come of it. You’re losing—the odds are stacked against you and in your panic, you slam your hand repeatedly against the control panel to seal the doors to the cot once more. 

You have to go. You have to get as far away from this child as possible, you have to leave behind the last flickering chance of reconciliation with Gideon. The safety of this child outweighs any opportunity for absolution, you know that deep down. It doesn’t make the choice any easier though. It bares down upon you as you flee from the ship, having already wasted too much time.

In the cover of your room, dried mud cracks from your boots, crumbling and joining the tapestry of unidentifiable stains on the floor. You had paid over double the credits for this dismal sanctuary, the owner’s vow of silence now a hollow promise in hindsight. The bounty hunter had tracked you down regardless. 

As you pace, the floorboards groan underfoot, protesting the burden of their existence, while the peeling paint on the walls reveals grime and more stains below. You could have chosen a more upscale haven, a place where unsavoury memories weren’t woven into the current lodgings, but anonymity was your greatest ally. 

You need to calm down. You have to think about this carefully. 

Amidst the storm of panic threatening to engulf you, you have to remind yourself of the important facts. A single close call had shaken your resolve, but you were still clinging to your advantage, a precarious lead in this deadly chase. 

Drawing in a deep, measured breath, you quiet the clamour of thoughts echoing through your mind. You sift through the chaos, grasping only those that will serve your survival right now. Everything else, you would deal with later, once safely away from the bounty hunter. 

Your pacing ceases. Your hands find solace braced against the small table before you. As you lower your head, your gaze studies the small collection of possessions resting there–a few additional blasters, a clean outfit, and a meticulously crafted helmet. It was a gift, given to you by someone you had cherished deeply; someone you had respected and looked up to. 

What would he say if he could see you now? 

He had given everything for you. He had taught you, trained you, tried to guide you, and for what? Since his passing, you had chosen every wrong path that strayed so far from his teachings that you could barely recall them these days. 

A soft, ragged breath escapes your lips, carrying with it the weight of the situation as you move one of your bruised and blooded hands to rest against your helmet. Oh, how you long for his counsel. You would give anything to hear his wisdom and witness his ability to navigate even the biggest problems with unerring precision. Deep down, you know what he would say. Keep fighting. 

A swift shake of your head brings your focus back into sight and you begin to gather up your belongings. Methodically, they find their place within your bag, which you wear with a wince as it settles into a tender area of your shoulder. Everything you hold dear now fits within a single bag, not counting the arsenal of weaponry you securely fasten into their rightful place. Some had been lost during the chase, but you still had more than enough for another encounter, if one should arise. 

With everything you own in tow, you stride toward the door, prepared and determined to escape from the planet and continue your life of being on the run. However, your journey is abruptly halted within a second of the door sliding open. Cold beskar collides with you, knocking the breath from your lungs as you’re unceremoniously pinned against the opposite wall, belongings now strewn across the stained floor. Your hands desperately grapple his arm in an attempt to ease some of the pressure restricting your airways. But he doesn’t budge. Mando has learned the hard way, and he refuses to allow you even an inch of movement. 

One of his strong arms presses across your collarbones, keeping you in place while the end of his blaster jabs underneath your jaw, causing a cold stillness to settle across your writhing body. 

“If you’ve laid even one finger on him…” 

The limited space between you is fraught with tension, disturbed only by the sound of the safety catch being disengaged. It’s a noise you’ve heard countless times, but this time, you find yourself beginning to panic as you hear the tone of his voice. It’s devoid of the stoicism you had become familiar with, and instead, it carries an undertone of desperation, an element of urgency that cuts through you and warns you of Mando’s intentions if he doesn’t get the answers he wants. 

Your lips part as you try to struggle again, gasping for air so that you can answer him. 

“I…I…I can’t…” your voice is strained in your attempt to draw in a breath. 

Mando’s arm is suddenly gone, and so is the support of the wall as you’re hurled away from it. Aching bones are met with the abrupt, unwelcoming force of the table as you stumble against the edge of it. Pain explodes from your hip, sending a shockwave through your body and you finally crumple to the floor. 

Every muscle tenses, every instinct screams at you to react, but your limbs feel strangely unresponsive as you drink in the precious air, your lungs greedily accepting the offering. 

What you first perceived as aggression now takes on an entirely new face as he advances toward you. Fear, palpable and potent. It’s a fear of losing something precious, something that he holds most dear: the child. 

“I didn’t touch him!” Your words erupt from you, your own panic saturating your words. 

You scramble backward, your hand instinctively extending as a feeble barricade against his approach. 

“I didn’t touch him,” you repeat. “He’s safe, I swear. He’s on the ship.” 

A heavy silence descends upon the room, tense and thick with contemplation. From behind the visor, you feel Mando’s gaze fixed on you, unwavering and inscrutable. You sense his hesitation and observe the way the tight ball of his first slowly unfurls. This isn’t a man easily deceived, but you think he believes you. He accepts your truth. 

He bends and retrieves your helmet from the floor, silently studying it as he turns it in his hands. You wonder if he understands it, if he can sense the triumphs and losses it has seen. His gloved fingers run along the helmet’s contours, feeling the subtle grooves and indentations that give the dark metal its distinctive character. 

“Who are you?” Mando finally asks. 

His helmet tilts fractionally and you know his eyes are now on you again. 

“I’m someone who can take you to Moff Gideon.” 

Every muscle in his body freezes at that name. You have him right where you need him, and when all you’re met with is silence, you continue. 

“I’ll come with you. I won’t fight you. Then you can decide if you’re going to turn me over…or let me help you. We have a common enemy, Mando, and—”

“Stop talking,” he cuts you off. 

“Instead of fighting each other, we can help each other. You want to find him, and we can–”

“There is no we,” his voice is firm. 

He leaves no room for misinterpretation as he closes in on you again. 

“Give me your hands.” 

With a heavy sigh, you hold them out and close your eyes as the binders pinch at the raw skin around your wrists. What did you think he was going to do? You had crossed him, fed him to the wolves and stolen his ship. 

He picks your bag up from the floor and hoists it over his shoulder then takes hold of your helmet in one hand, your restraints in the other, and walks you out of the room. 

You needed a new plan.

***

The tranquil azure light of hyperspace dances through the hatch from the cockpit, bathing you in the smooth glow. Since your return to the ship, the bounty hunter had spent most of his time up in the cockpit and you welcomed the silence that had settled in his absence. It gave you the space you needed to reflect on the chaotic sequence of events that had led to this moment; you, sitting on the cold, metal floor of the hold with your back against the sealed cargo crates. 

There was a lot to think about. 

Occasionally, a terse command from the cockpit breaks the silence of the ship. You pick up on words such as “no” and “stop that”, which only seem to be met with coos and soft babbling. The child’s voice, innocent and almost oblivious to the tension that lingers in the air. 

During the hours that follow, you drift in and out of uneasy sleep. Each time, fragmented dreams are interrupted by the vessel’s subtle tremors and the soft cadence of Mando’s footsteps as he periodically checks on you. The rhythmic thuds of his boots become almost imperceptible until, at last, he descends from the cockpit once more. With the child asleep above, you can only assume he has time to focus his attention on you again. 

You blink, focusing your gaze through the dimly lit hold as you watch him take a seat on the crate across from you. 

“Here,” he murmurs and extends a flask toward you. 

Bound hands make it challenging, but you manage to take it and consume nearly its entirety in desperate gulps. The cold liquid caresses down your parched throat and helps to soothe the dry, scratchy sensation. You contemplate wiping your mouth on the back of your dirty hands, but upon closer inspection, you pause with the realisation that they are still stained with dirt and blood. Much like your torn and tattered clothes, they bore witness to the battles you’ve endured with the man sitting opposite you. 

“Thank you,” you finally speak, voice croaking with the lingering dryness the water hadn’t been able to soothe.

He offers a brief nod and maintains a steady gaze through his visor. You have piqued his interest, despite the way he fights against it. 

“Do you have a name?” you ask after a prolonged silence. 

“Mando is fine,” comes his reply. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” 

For the first time since he joined you, you avert your eyes and focus on the wall behind him. By now, you have mastered the art of silence and elusive answers as a way to reveal very little of yourself under interrogation.

“I’ve worked for many people,” you reply flatly. 

Mando sighs at the lack of depth to your answer, as if he had expected something a little more from you. 

“How did you find other Mandalorians?” 

Your gaze returns to him as he asks his next question. He tries to hide his desire for knowledge, and his yearning to discover others of his kind. It resonates with you on a deep level. You understand his desperation, having experienced it yourself. The longing to connect with those who share your story, your origins, your essence. Yet, you’re aware of the harsh reality; the Jedi had mostly been killed and any who survived had vanished. Mandalorians were but a scattered few, their presence so sparse in the galaxy that they barely existed at all. 

“As I said,” you shrug and immediately regret it when a sharp pain jolts through your shoulder and upper arm. You desperately try to hide the wince, but it flashes across your face quicker than you’re able to fight it. “I’ve worked for many people.” 

He sighs heavily. You know this man is smart enough to know when he is fighting a losing battle. You’re tired, you’re hungry and there’s not an area of your body that doesn’t ache. You’re in no mood for his questions. 

Mando moves to stand, his own groan of discomfort audible through the static of his modulator. You’ve both taken quite the beating and you can’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction that you’re not the only one struggling. 

“Do you…” He begins and then trails off as though still processing his next question. “Do you want to get cleaned up?”  

That was quite unexpected. 

You raise your eyebrows slowly, suspicious of his endgame. It’s almost as if he picks up on your hesitation because he quickly clarifies. 

“I’ll go back up into the cockpit. You can use this area…and the fresher is right there,” he nods in the direction of a small opening in the corner. 

“I…uh,” your eyes dart back over to him, still somewhat suspicious. “That would be great…thank you?” 

You’re not entirely sure why it comes out as a question. With an edge of hesitation, you twist yourself just enough to hook your arm over the top of the crate so you can use it to pull yourself back up to your feet. 

“Could you take these off?” 

You hold up your hands, bringing your binders into view. This time, it’s Mando who hesitates. His helmet has a subtle tilt while he considers your question and your previous actions. 

“No,” he states firmly. 

“No? How do you expect me to clean up when I can’t use my hands?” 

He shrugs. He stares straight at you and shrugs. 

“I warned you not to make me regret taking them off last time.”

Your stare hardens into a glare so fierce, you’re almost sure it could melt his precious beskar armour. The tension in your jaw sets your teeth into a tight clench as your fingers unintentionally begin to curl into fists. He sees your festering frustration and chooses to defuse it. 

“You see that?” Mando asks and points to something over your shoulder. You turn your head slowly, spotting the carbonite chamber over the far side of the hold. “That’s where you’ll end up if you so much as think about pulling another stunt like you did earlier. Consider yourself lucky you’re standing here with your wrists bound. Get cleaned up or don’t, the choice is yours.” 

You say nothing. It takes every fraction of your control not to laugh at that. Lucky? You’re far from lucky right now. 

You want to get cleaned up, you really do. But your stubbornness keeps you rooted to the spot, your eyes continuing to burn a hole through the front of his visor to keep him on edge. You’re unpredictable, he knows that. It’s how you have managed to slip through so many attempted captures. So while you understand his need to protect himself and the child while you’re on his ship, it doesn’t stop you from being pissed off about it. 

Still holding your silence, you cross to the fresher and turn to close the door. There is no door. All that sits on the wall is a broken control panel, the functional buttons long gone. 

You sense his heavy gaze lingering on you as you turn on the water and watch the way it cascades over your fingers, a brief respite to wash away the layers of dirt and dried blood caking your skin. Glancing up, you meet your reflection in the small mirror, and a heavy sigh escapes your lips. The evidence of the gruelling confrontation is marked across your skin in the form of vivid, darkening bruises. Scratches, trophies of your frantic battle amongst the branches, streak across your cheeks. 

You try to cup the water, attempting to bring some relief to your battered face, but each attempt fails. The water slips through the gaps in your bound hands, unable to keep hold of it in their limited position. Your frustration snaps as you slam your hands down against the small sink. Simultaneously, an agonising surge of pain courses through your arm, causing a small cry to escape you before you’re able to muffle it. Everything about this is humiliating. He stands watching you, a silent witness to your struggle. 

You should have fought harder. To the death, if you had to. You had given in too easily and allowed yourself to be captured. What would Gideon say if he could see you now? Something tells you that you won’t need to wait long to find out. Once Mando hands you over, he will find you. 

“Here, let me help,” Mando’s voice–albeit softer now–startles you from the small doorway. 

“Why?” you snap. “So you can feel better about yourself? So I can thank you for taking care of me after you fucking captured me?” 

You don’t give him time to answer. His silences are too long and you’re done with them. 

“You did this,” you shove him with your other arm, causing him to stumble back a couple of steps from the doorway. “You did this. You asshole. You fucking asshole. You should have put me in carbonite and been done with it! You…You…” 

You reach to shove his chest again but this time, he grabs hold of your hands and keeps them pressed against his chestplate. 

“You asshole,” your voice cracks. 

The wind has been taken out of your sails and your head lowers, defeated.

“Are you done?” he asks, his voice still calm and quiet. 

Your silence is the only answer he gets and when you don’t pull away from him, he lowers your hands and releases your binders. Not for the first time that day, your senses are filled with him. You think you would be able to identify his smell anywhere now; well-worn leather, polished armour, a musk on his skin. It takes you back to hours earlier, when he had first removed your binders and stood so close to you. 

“Can I see your shoulder?”

You nod and help him with removing your shoulder pauldrons. He takes each one in his gloved hands and places them down carefully, treating them with the respect he would show the pieces of his own armour. Each time, he waits for you. He keeps his hands at a respectful distance while you unclasp your shirt. He turns his helmet to allow you some modesty as you slowly slip your arm free so he’s able to feel around the area when you tell him he can. 

No further words are exchanged. He simply follows your lead, as though he is beginning to learn your movements. He has studied you, memorised your fighting pattern, and watched your decision-making processes. In the hours you have spent together, both in and out of combat, he has started piecing together the parts of you he has seen.

He removes his dirty gloves and sets them down beside your pauldrons. With your eyes still lowered, you note the inky tones of his bruised knuckles and the way his fingers flex almost nervously at being exposed under your gaze. It’s the first part of him that you have seen, the first glimpse of the person beneath all of his armour. 

“Turn around,” he instructs. 

Very slowly, he moves his hands toward your shoulder and it catches you off guard. It’s not his actions that surprise you but rather the warmth of his touch as his fingers gently seek out the tender area he had seen you struggling with earlier. Everything about him had been cold and frigid; his voice, his posture, his overall demeanour…yet his warmth, unexpectedly coursing through his touch, reminds you of his humanity. 

A hiss escapes your lips as your breath catches when his thumb applies pressure to the most sensitive point, coaxing an involuntary flinch from you. 

“Sorry,” he’s quick to apologise. “Try and keep still. I need to feel around this area.” 

The cold that radiates from his beskar is a stark contrast to the warmth of his hands and despite the discomfort they cause when he moves your arm slowly to assess the movement you have, his touch is not unwelcome on your skin. 

No. You have to stop that thought right there. 

“I can’t say for sure, but it doesn’t seem like anything is broken. Could be a torn muscle. It’s probably going to be tender for a few days.” 

You nod, signalling your understanding as he helps you to slip your arm back into your shirt. Your mind bounces between the way his hands felt, the warmth they brought to your skin, and the way he had mentioned a ‘few days’ so casually in his assessment of your shoulder. 

Did that mean there was still a chance for you to make yourself valuable enough to not hand over?

“I’ll leave you to get cleaned up. Do you…do you want some soup?” 

You can’t help yourself. You lift your gaze, unable to hide the half-amused, half-confused expression from your face. This is a funny little dynamic you have going on, one of threatening violence and offering soup. At this, you begin to smile. 

“Soup would be great.” 

[jaylleoo14]

An Octopus's First Impression

I have so much brainrots but im not a good enough writer to put them into actual stories and stuff😭 AHHHH TEH PAIN (If it isnt obvious enough I have low confidence in myself with my writing ability TT) But yes, Hello! This is going to be my debut as a twst writer and perhaps for other fandoms too<3 for now I am most comfortable writing for twst though, but please do enjoy your visit on my page!

Azul has yet to make a proper introduction to you

Part II

>GN!ReaderxAzul

[disclaimer] A rather desperate and calculative Tako

[characters] Azul and the other sillies that get in his way X3

When you first arrived at NRC Azul was surely not one of the individuals you'd paid mind to. The first dorm leaders that made their appearances known to your acknowledgment first was Vil because of his striking awe-stunning and jaw dropping beauty, Kalim because of his outward friendliness and radiating-welcoming personality, and lastly Riddle because of his fierce strictness to follow the school rules accordingly (And along with other respective proper and prim mannerisms and clothing rules to abide by whenever your paths were crossed)

Idia of course did not make his presence known and you literally did not know of him only until later after meeting Orthro, and even then you've only heard of him and never actually seen him. I mean cmon, who has honestly?

Leona is always hiding away, lazing around somewhere as he naps away into his own comfort so you dont even encounter him until some magical fateful day, but thats a story for another time :)

Although perhaps meeting him already when everyone is asleep, you arent really formally introduced to Malleus. So until then, you technically havent met Malleus for multiple reasons that are rather lengthy to list.

And then there's Azul. oooooh boy. Despite how interested he is in you regarding your sudden magical predicament and trying to approach you, you somehow always seem to be going astray from your interactions with him

He's tried to approach you, ensuring he'd give a lasting impression on you as he's heading on over to greet you properly

though things dont go as planned when Lilia is suddenly snatching you away to go entertain a certain activity of his out of nowhere

Or when you're being chased by a random Savanaclaw student with a bread bun in your mouth and Grim buried in your side as your arm wraps around him securely, holding about 4x amount of food in his paws (Cater in the background taking pictures of this and posting it on his magicam #delinquent #hungry for some breadbunz #Getting chased #My junior is so cute and trouble some #Uh oh trouble!)

Perhaps if it weren't for those troublesome classmates of yours, ah yes - Ace and Deuce - then you wouldn't be stuck in a tree branch right now with that troubling huntsman below you trying to help you down and he would by now be shaking hands with you

Why are you just all over the place?! You've already met with that Lazy Lion when all he did was sleep on the floor and you miraculously tripped over him, resulting in him catching you in his arms before you fell face first into the hard cobblestoned floor! He didnt even do anything to try and approach you so why is it that despite all his meticulous planning on trying to approach you and make an appearance, it just never happens?! Not only that but you're now indebted to that second prince just for you to do him a solid and fetch him a meat sandwich. Seriously, what a waste of a perfect opportunity

Do you perhaps already know who he is? Is that it? Are you actively trying to avoid him?! You're stressing him out already here Prefect, hello?! Its very important for a business man to expand his connections, you know. You two have never even properly met! Now that wont do at all, he must make his appearance now. Especially when you can offer that lovely little dwelling of yours for a branch of his add on of the Mostro Lounge with some talking and persuasion of course :)

He's been carefully looking over your schedule, trying to figure out what classes you go to at what time and when; will we be able to cross paths here? What about when you head on over to your chem class? You have lunch with who and where? Noted, now he can definitely prepare to approach you now. Is he desperate? Of course not, he's just ought to give you a proper greeting is all! Its not weird that he's trying to remember your schedule and trying to talk to you and-

You're in the library, studying up on some topics you don't quite get in your history class. The library was rather quaint and tranquil, a nice aesthetically pleasing place to help you go over your lessons and to study. You had a test coming up in Professor Trein's class and that was something you did NOT want to fail in again. Failing once or perhaps twice or maybe even a possible third time but who knows was already enough to bring your grade down to get a harsh scolding from Riddle and a sympathetic look from Trey

Your face all in the book, your notes plastered and sprawled out on the side where they rest on the table, and your other needed stationary next to you, you were in a environment where no one was around for you to focus up and study hard

Well, no one around except for Azul

Perfect! This is a great opportunity to approach you now! No one is around and he can even talk up into having you indebted to him by helping you study! This situation is rather perfect if he says so himself

A confident look spreads across his face as he walks on over to you, a perfect and professional air surrounding him

"Good evening Prefect, It's a pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance. I do apologize on interrupting your study session here but I would like the humbling experience to introduce myself."

A nice and firm smile is sprawled on his face as his hand is outstretched towards yours to make a formal shake. You look up from your book and stare at his hand, soon taking it as you sit and ponder only for a second

"Oh, aren't you that guy who couldn't get above 10 inches off the floor while riding his broomstick?"

Crack. After finally being able to introduce himself for GOD KNOWS HOW LONG, you know him for THAT?! For sevens sake! Not as Octavinelle's Dorm leader, BUT "that guy who couldn't get above 10 inches off the floor"

God he wants to go curl away and hide now. His hand flinching as you mention so but you keep a firm hold on his to give him a proper shake, a little oblivious to his faltering demeanor

"I think Floyd mentioned you before too. You're that boss running Mostro Lounge he said right? I think he said your name was-"

"Azul Ashengrotto." Clearing his throat a little before he continues "It's a pleasure to meet you (y/n)" Azul is quick to regain his composure and returns the firm hold. How strong you grip and how long you shake is incredibly important in dealing with business, especially when wanting to make lasting impressions to expand your social networks

In his mind though he wants to quickly eradicate that impression you have about him, and thus he asks to join you - to which you complied - in hopes of overwriting and hopefully making you forget that horrific thing you witness regarding his flight skills

And of course Floyd just had to meet you before he did. Its not really surprising considering his boisterous personality and extroverted behavior when in the mood, but perhaps Jade has also met you then too. Considering that those two tend to be near one another

No, of course he's not feeling bitter that even those two slimy eels met you first. Of course he's not feeling a little irritated that they didnt try to strike you up into making a deal with him. Or maybe the fact that whatever those two were doing they'd at least try to make you two meet! Afterall, he did tell them to send you over once due to his interest in you. But he then adverts his attention back onto you when mention how you are currently studying for an upcoming test

You dont know him at all yet, so you let yourself be completely vulnerable. Looking like the smart and reliable gentleman that he is, you ask him to help you study. Oh how you make it so easy for him, he didnt even need to offer!

With a pleasant smile on his face, his slick and gloved fingers pushing up the frame of his glasses, he happily accepts with a sweet tone in his voice as you both sit together and go over the lessons together

[olrastrology]

Astrology: A Detailed Exploration of Its Principles and Mechanisms

Astrology is a belief system that posits a connection between the positions and movements of celestial bodies—such as planets, stars, and the Moon—and events and characteristics on Earth. Its practitioners, known as astrologers, use celestial observations to provide insights into individual personalities, predict future events, and offer guidance on various aspects of life. Despite its long history and widespread popularity, astrology remains controversial and is often criticized by the scientific community for lacking empirical support.

Core Principles of Astrology

Celestial Influence: At the heart of astrology is the idea that the positions and movements of celestial bodies affect human affairs and natural phenomena. This influence is thought to be exerted through gravitational, magnetic, or symbolic means.

Zodiac Signs: The zodiac is a belt of the sky divided into twelve segments, each named after a constellation that lies within its bounds. These signs are Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, and Pisces. Each sign is associated with specific personality traits and tendencies.

Houses: The astrological chart is divided into twelve houses, each representing different areas of life, such as career, relationships, and health. The positions of planets within these houses are believed to influence various aspects of an individual’s life.

Aspects: Aspects are angles formed between planets in the astrological chart. These angles are classified as harmonious (e.g., trines and sextiles) or challenging (e.g., squares and oppositions) and are thought to describe how different planetary energies interact and influence each other.

Horoscopes: A horoscope is a detailed chart created for a specific time and place, showing the positions of celestial bodies. It is used to interpret astrological influences and provide personalized insights. There are several types of horoscopes, including natal (birth), transits (current planetary movements), and progressions (symbolic advancement of the natal chart).

How Astrology Works

Creating an Astrological Chart: The process begins by generating an astrological chart or horoscope, which requires precise information about the individual's birth—date, time, and location. This data is used to calculate the positions of the Sun, Moon, and planets relative to the twelve zodiac signs and houses.

Interpreting the Chart: Astrologers analyze the chart by looking at the following elements:

Sun Sign: The zodiac sign where the Sun was positioned at the time of birth. It is often considered the core of one's personality.

Moon Sign: The zodiac sign where the Moon was positioned, reflecting emotional nature and inner self.

Ascendant (Rising Sign): The sign rising on the eastern horizon at the time of birth. It influences outward behavior and first impressions.

Planetary Positions: The positions of planets like Mercury, Venus, Mars, etc., in relation to the zodiac signs and houses.

Aspects: The geometric angles between planets that indicate how their energies interact.

3. Personal Characteristics and Predictions: Astrologers interpret the positions and aspects to describe an individual's traits, potential strengths, challenges, and life path. They also use the chart to forecast future events, by analyzing current planetary transits and progressions in relation to the natal chart.

Astrology and Its Variations

Western Astrology: This form, rooted in Hellenistic traditions and developed in Europe, is the most commonly practiced in the Western world. It includes several branches such as psychological astrology, which focuses on personality and personal growth, and mundane astrology, which concerns world events and politics.

Vedic (Indian) Astrology: Also known as Jyotish, this system has roots in ancient Indian texts and differs from Western astrology in its use of the sidereal zodiac, which is based on the actual positions of constellations. Vedic astrology emphasizes karma and dharma and uses different techniques, such as the divisional charts, to offer insights.

Chinese Astrology: Based on a lunar calendar and the Chinese zodiac, this system divides the year into twelve animal signs (Rat, Ox, Tiger, etc.) and incorporates elements (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) to provide a comprehensive view of personality and fate.

Evolutionary Astrology: This modern approach combines traditional techniques with a focus on spiritual growth and evolution. It interprets planetary positions in terms of past-life experiences and soul development.

Criticism and Contemporary Relevance

Astrology has faced significant criticism, primarily due to its lack of empirical evidence and scientific validation. Critics argue that the principles of astrology are based on outdated astronomical concepts and rely on vague interpretations that lack rigorous testing.

Despite this, astrology maintains a broad following and is valued by many for its symbolic and introspective qualities. It offers a framework for self-reflection and understanding, helping individuals explore their inner lives and navigate personal challenges.

In summary, astrology is a rich and diverse system with deep historical roots and complex methodologies. While it is not scientifically validated, its enduring appeal reflects its capacity to provide meaning and insight in the context of human experience.

[nvthedasmode]

The Dread Wolf's Grave

Notes:

Very short one-shot fic inspired by the quote; 'They asked "do you love her to death?" I said, "speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life.'

Lavellan's name is Harellan, 'Raven' is Varric's nickname for her.

One of Harellan's nervous habits is rolling coins over her knuckles.

Set sometime during early Veilguard, Solas presumed to be at the Lighthouse rather than in a separate prison.

First ever fic! I am not a writer! I am just a lil guy with a lot of feelings!

And I am so sorry I have no idea how to write Solas and Varric lol.

-----

To say that Varric was uncomfortable was an understatement. It was one thing to ask a dwarf to live on the surface, another thing entirely to ask him to make himself at home in the Fade. Unfortunately, he had little say in the matter. The Veilguard had settled themselves within a deep pocket of the Fade; a safe haven from the blighted elven gods now roaming Thedas, and thus far it had proven to be a wise choice.

Their new home was where he emerged from now, and the morning silence (save for Bellara’s excessive snoring) was a welcome indication that everyone was still fast asleep. Or, at least, everyone but the one elusive elf he was looking for. Once he was confident he had not woken anyone up with his heavy dwarven tread, Varric’s footsteps established a leisurely pace as he descended the stygian steps weaving from the gilded door of the Lighthouse to the shifting island below.

The Dread Wolf’s corner of the Fade expanded before him, shimmering masses of Fade-touched rock floating across the enchanted vista as unhindered wisps of magic soared above him like stars against Kirkwall’s night sky. It was brighter, warmer, but still as commanding as the area of the Fade the fear demon had ruled. Some of the silhouetted islands in the distance would have been large enough to cast a city the size of Starkhaven into complete shadow, and some dipped deeper than even the oldest of thaigs. Smaller rocks housed old and ruined walls, frescos of the fabled wolf glowing faintly from the veilfire sconces and causing him to appear equal parts treacherous and feeble.

The littlest cluster of rocks presented an assortment of ancient elven … trees, Varric assumed. Their metal base gave way to a spherical head that sprouted sharp, golden branches. They wove intricate shapes that moved to shelter a gleaming emerald centre, glinting like fire. This group veered closer to the island he now trudged along, glittering vines with blossoms as large as ponds wrapping themselves around the jagged surfaces and reaching out to grasp their neighbour - a complex walkway of mystic bridges that connected the islands, forming an imposing jungle that served as a shrine to what once was.

Far above him, when he thought to look, Varric could have sworn he could make out the slightest shape of an azure city, light refracting across the landscape as if it was pouring through a window in a Chantry cathedral. The sight was often cloaked in a calculated mist, as though his eyes were intruding on an intimate scene between two lovers - but every time he rubbed his eyes to see it clearer, it had vanished.

Varric had learned that the island he had called home for the past few weeks could shift its appearance depending on his old friend’s mood. While the Lighthouse remained the same, often the Veilguard would wake up to see their interim home had a different garden to explore, each one shaped from Solas’ lonely library of memories. Sometimes there would be luscious fields of green, emerald blades swaying to a song none but they could hear as perfectly round drops of dew dissolved into dazzling specs of light. Other times there were seemingly never-ending pathways; rivers of crystal gems creating a map upon the island, waterfalls replacing cities and curious wisps building toy castles from motes of magic. Once, when Varric awoke in the dead of night (or as close as one could get to that, in the Fade), he peered out his window to see Solas strolling Skyhold’s grounds, his tired eyes never leaving the figures of Cole and the Inquisitor as they helped to soothe a dying woman lying by the campfire, clutching a fatal wound. Had Solas reached out to them, Varric did not know, for he had quickly retreated back to his bed to allow his old friend his privacy.

Today, as Varric disembarked the steps, the soles of his worn boots met an impossibly soft sand that shifted gently beneath his weight. Something resembling seashells dotted the ground, their surface gleaming and moving in a way that made them look more like creatures than collectible souvenirs. Out of baseless paranoia more than respect, Varric carefully picked his way across the fabricated beach to the towering figure in the distance.

Solas stood at the end of the beach, the ripples of the ocean creeping along the sand to stop just shy of the tips of his feet, as though magic itself dare not disturb him. He stood tall, gazing across his domain with an expression befitting his name as the manufactured breeze lifted the ends of his coat. Hands clasped habitually behind his back, a single gold coin rolled lazily across his knuckles, causing tiny spurts of reflected light to shower across his long fingers. Any reasonable dwarf back under the surface might have mistook it for magic.

“Good morning, Varric,” came his familiar voice. He spoke in barely more than a murmur despite Varric still being numerous paces away, yet he heard it as though they were standing next to each other.

“And here I thought it was only Rook who had to listen to your voice inside their head, Chuckles,” Varric shouted back, scowling half-heartedly when he saw Solas’ shoulders betray a small laugh.

Solas patiently waited until Varric had made it to his side before speaking again, finally turning his gaze to his friend with a playful smirk on his lips. “Ir abelas, I did not want to deny you the pleasure.”

Varric let out an indignant snort. “I’m starting to understand why so many dwarves stay below the surface.”

“To avoid speaking with me?”

“Now, now, I didn’t say that.”

“You did not need to,” Solas responded curtly. Varric was glad to see the smile still lingering.

At least he hasn’t lost his sense of humour.

The two fell into a comfortable silence, the sound of the waves crashing a few hundred yards ahead of them filling the space. Had he let his mind tune out for a moment, it would not have been unlike the mornings they had spent waking up to the sounds of the Storm Coast - Solas casting a protective barrier over the campfire before the Inquisitor burst into tears at the idea of going a single moment without her tea; Cassandra cursing from the edge of camp as she tried and failed to prove she could in fact approach a nug without scaring it away; Lace and Varric placing bets on how many more days it could rain before they all lost their minds. He wasn’t sure which put his back up more; being surrounded by suffocating grey and rain, slipping on lethal cliffs that never seemed to dry - or being in the Fade.

It was Solas who broke the silence first, as if sensing Varric’s unease. “How are you adjusting?”

Varric shrugged, stalling as he measured his response. It wasn’t in the nature of their relationship to lie to one another (or so I thought, he corrected himself), but he wasn’t about to start tearing apart his friend’s home either.

“I can’t exactly say I’m keen to settle down and start a family here, but I’ll give it to you - it’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” Solas sighed heavily, his eyes focused on something in the distance. “Imagine what it would be like without the Veil.”

“Chuckles, not now.”

“So, when would you propose-”

“I came here to talk to Solas,” Varric said morosely, feeling a pang of regret as Solas’ shoulders stiffened. “Not the Dread Wolf. How about you humour me, just this once? Then I promise we’ll go back to the uncomfortable ‘Child of the Stone’ and ‘Ancient Elven God’ dynamic.”

Solas silently met his eyes then, and the coin in his hands stilled as white knuckles wrapped around it tightly. Just like the painted walls on the islands floating around them, Varric could see his were tall but crumbling. Exhaustion and pain had sunk their bloodied talons into his sharp features, but under the wolf there was still the man. A friend that desperately wanted to get out.

“I’ve never been good at this sort of stuff,” Varric muttered, turning his gaze back toward the ocean, “but you left a lot of people behind. Good people, that missed you.”

“I am not unaware of that, Varric,” Solas replied. Varric could hear the sharpness to the tone, a warning that he should drop the subject immediately.

They both knew he wouldn’t.

“I mean, even Buttercup seemed upset - although she tried her best not to show it. With you gone, Cassandra became her next target for pranks, and we both know pissing off the Seeker is a dangerous choice at best - lethal at worst. I mean, I’m speaking from experience here.”

A quick glance to his right told him Solas was also very pointedly staring out at the ocean again, doing his best to look the picture of disinterest, but the ironclad set of his jaw gave him away. It always had.

“And Ruffles! I thought she would never stop accidentally adding your frilly cakes to the Val Royeaux order list each month. Eventually, me and the Kid-”

“Did you come out here with the intent to torture me, Varric?” Solas snapped, his proud mask melting away to pained anger as he pressed his eyes closed. His nose scrunched as he breathed through it, the waves that stretched before them stuttering and turning a sickly green. “Do you see me as so many of my People do? Do you also think me a heartless monster with no feelings?”

Against his will, Varric’s mind recalled his friend’s broken sobs as she read Sutherland’s reports about the monstrous demon that had plagued Skyhold. Her heart’s deepest regrets ravaging the place they had once called home, the scars of his past forever embedded in the old Inquisition fortress.

“No,” he sighed. “I don’t think that at all, Chuckles.”

Another deep breath from Solas. The water slowly began to settle once more, melting back to a cool, pure cerulean that would have made the painters at Halamshiral turn crimson with embarrassment.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“Remember,” Varric said shortly.

Solas opened his eyes to peer at Varric with confusion, and he could see the purple storm deep within them threatening to pour out and engulf the island they now stood upon.

Silently, Varric nodded to Solas’ hands, still held tightly shut as though he were frightened of dropping whatever was in them. Solas slowly unfurled his fingers, the gold coin nestled innocently in his palm, small dents pressed into his pale skin from clasping it so desperately. The purple storm observed it silently, eyes barely blinking as they stared.

“I saw you playing with it,” Varric said gently, feeling his friend was more a terrified Halla than the dreaded wolf in that moment. “Raven used to do the same thing, when she was nervous. Ruffles had to pry it from her hand when we went to the Winter Palace.”

Solas continued staring at the coin, his expression unreadable. “She gave this to me on the way to the Temple of Mythal,” he said tentatively, as though testing out the words in his mouth. Varric supposed this was the first time he had allowed himself to speak of her in years. “She said she had no need for it any longer, since she had …”

“Since she had your hand to hold,” Varric finished for him. “She said it loud enough for the entire camp to hear.” The memory almost made him smile himself.

A ghost of a smile tried to lift the corners of Solas’ mouth, but it faltered before it even began.

“I remember.”

Varric did smile then. I knew you were still in there, Chuckles.

“Do you still love her?”

There was barely a heartbeat before Solas tore his eyes away from the coin, wrapping his fingers safely around it once more before straightening to his full height and turning to look along the endless sands.

Varric felt the Fade change before he saw it. The sands before them rippled and swirled, floating smoothly into the air to reveal the harsh black rock of the island below. A deep shadow lurked over the area, a stark contrast to the vivid, colourful sky behind it. The sands shifted and formed a familiar image; tall swaths of darkness encircling a small enclave while a suffocating green mist rolled along the floor, catching Varric’s ankles and sending small tendrils up his legs that dissipated as quickly as they appeared. Paltry red spirits skittered around nervously, as if they were constantly running toward - or away from - something.

This was the graveyard from the Fear demon’s lair. Or - more accurately, Varric supposed - Solas’ memory of it.

There was a slight adjustment, however. Only one, solitary gravestone sat in the enclave. The stone it was made from looked sick, brimming with fear and unspoken terrors, its aura almost oppressive.

Varric approached it wordlessly. The words upon it were the same and yet not as he remembered - the elegant, smug carvings of the fear demon were gone, replaced by hurried, almost infantile writing that looked as if it had been carved with a very sharp claw.

‘Solas,’ it read. ‘Dying alone.’

It was only then that Varric saw them. A spectral version of Solas - his friend, Solas - appeared slowly from the darkness, smiling as he offered a gloved hand to the second figure that manifested. Harellan met his smile with her own, eagerly gripping his hand and laughing as he twirled her into his arms. The scarlet spirits, appearing to be calmed by the two newcomers, turned to watch, sweeping closer to the radiant scene that seemed to consume the darkness around it. Varric could hear the faint sound of a band playing from - somewhere? Nowhere? The memory of his friends didn’t seem to care, nor did they notice him or the cruel grave at their feet. They danced and looked at no one but each other, and Varric was irrevocably certain that they would dance forever if the world would let them.

The lonely voice came from behind him then. It was so thick with immeasurable pain that Varric could not bring himself to turn around.

“Speak of her over my grave, Varric,” Solas murmured, “and watch how she brings me back to life."

[hairupintheair]

Trolls Band Together Commentary Notes Part 4/4

- The scene after Branch storms out of Rhonda and Poppy goes after him was the most expensive scene for the computers to handle in the whole movie, even including Mount Rageous, because the clouds in the background are all made of individual fibers that the computers had to calculate while animating. - Commentary quote: "There's so many fibers in this movie. Don't ever commit a crime. All the fibers. They'll trace it right back to you." - They decided on a cloud backdrop because it seemed a good transition between the roads they were traveling in Rhonda and Mount Rageous, which is supposed to be a city up in the sky. The monotone colors and calm landscape of the clouds also fit the scene well, with Branch and Poppy having this serious and emotional heart-to-heart, and it allowed the audience to completely focus on Branch and Poppy without a busy background to be distracting. - Originally the finale was going to take place inside the mentioned Rage Dome. They had a plan for a huge flashy concert performance with the trolls breaking in, but it was coming off as too similar to the ending of the previous movie, so instead they came up with the idea of the vehicle chase through the streets of Mount Rageous. - There was a brief idea early on of Gristle accidentally getting sprayed with trolls' talent from one of V&V's shoulder pad things and momentarily turning into what they called "hot Gristle." Thankfully that was scrapped very quickly. - The Broppy kiss moment was big and they worked on it for a long time, knowing how important it was for the story and the fans. They were going to have effects with big flashy lights (like the pinky promise and the high five of the previous movie), but in the end they decided they wanted to keep it simple and honest. The had the crowd show such a positive reaction to let the audience know what an important moment this was. - The ending after the climax was purposely designed to be a mirror of the opening scene: behind the curtains right before a concert is about to start, but now they've all grown and are supporting each other. - The NSYNC surprise cameo had to be done completely in secret and it was very difficult to keep it under wraps, including changing the names of computer files and keeping audio and visuals separate, etc. It was stressful for the teams working on it, but it paid off spectacularly. - When they were coming up with the idea of the NSYNC reunion, everyone was so excited. Justin pitched it and got the go ahead, then they got the rest of the band members on a ZOOM call to discuss it with them. They were all chatting together and catching up and it was taking way too long, someone realized they were approaching the 45 minute mark (ZOOM calls have a 45 min limit before the program will drop the call) with ten seconds left. So they lost the call mid-sentence and then had to connect everyone again to actually finish pitching the idea to the guys.

[mookymilksims]

I was struggling with how to respond to blackswan, and you said it all so perfectly! Thank you so much.

I want say this in general because the drama is done and we aren't ever going to get a response here.

Firstly, thank you for saying that, while I never look to represent anyone, it is a relief to know that I wasn't the only one thinking it.

I've wonder why simsecret is such an environment recently, and then I realized that the simblr community space is a PR warzone.

People, in general, are afraid to speak up, afraid to speak their minds, for fear of losing notes, being canceled, receiving anon hate.

There's a bizarre and unspoken rule here that you need to do everything publicly in a very calculated manner and it incentivizes people to not be themselves and think about how other's will perceive them more. Then you consider that a good chunk of people in this community are not very good people, so who's rules are we even playing by?

I've been hearing from a lot of new and old simmers who state that this space is very depressing for them because they felt lonely and anxiety when attempting to interact with each other. Anxiety when posting their gameplay. Anxiety when asking questions to other simblrs. Anxiety when reacting to other people's post.

Tumblr was made to connect with people. So why is simblr causing so much anxiety and pushing people who want to connect and interact and speak up; into silence?

Then spaces like Simsecret start to make a little more sense. It seems to be a rebellion to the atmosphere here in simblr. Same can be said for the anon feature here on tumblr.

When people are having an easier time connecting on FB, Reddit, and Discord than tumblr, despite being mutuals here it's safe to say there is a root problem in this space.

I think this whole situation reveals a bigger problem with simblr in general, that just hasn't really been addressed.

I want to offer some solutions here that are pretty simple so I hope no one takes this as being condescending:

If you really like someone's blog, don't even look at their notes. Heart it. Send them a direct ask off of anon and talk about what you love about their content.

Reblog their content, again, don't look at the notes, if you like it and it makes you happy, and you want it on your page, reblog it.

DM simblrs, I mean is this a stretch? Just reach out and say hello. If you want to befriend them, be the first to extend that olive branch. The worst they can say is no or not respond, that's not that bad.

Real life topics such as queer-phobia, racism, sexism, etc will always rear it's head into any space with humans in it. You bring your biases with you. If you see someone express very harmful views, speak up. This doesn't mean or have to mean you or that person is getting canceled. These could easily be teachable moments, and even healthy dialogue. Unless you literally studied and work in sociopolitical fields and are an active activist, the vibe should be to not expect anyone to know everything. These ideals are so deeply engrained into us from a young age, it wouldn't be fair to expect each and every person to know exactly how these complex super structural systems work.

Tell jokes sometimes, I'd love to know what sense of humor you guys have, we get memes like once in a blue moon. Let's try to not make this space so serious, it has everyone on edge.

There is so much beautiful art work and content in general right here on tumblr but I've heard simblrs express anxiety with reblogging that because they don't want to lose followers by posting non sims content. I literally love the rest of tumblr for the very reason that I can translate that work back into my game. And I just thought someone's photography or drawing or story was so good I wanted to see it on my blog.

I mean bouncing off the previous one, why don't we interact with the rest of tumblr? That would be dope.

And this shouldn't even be regulated to the rest of tumblr, I'd love to engage with more ts1, ts2, and ts4 simmers as well.

I mean I think I've made my point, because I can keep going with this. I don't think this is going to fix sim secret or the need for simmers like blackswan to dirty delete. I'm actually very disappointed in that whole situation because she could've received a lot of support but she dug herself into a deeper hole after her actions. I'm sad for her and sad that this situation was flipped into drama and not that black simmers in general are tired of the micro aggressions. Which is a way more serious message. But people are afraid to speak up. So I guess everyone active in this community will keep going around and around in this cycle. I certainly intend to KEEP applying the solutions I've outlined above, anyone feel free to join me.