#and it's got thunder and lightning imagery

[seithr]

Randomly remembered the half-reason i call my oc-verse by the name it has while laying in bed. One-half of the reason i still knew, but I had forgotten what had truly, really cemented it jointly until now

(it was a song from my favourite band I haven't listened to in a while.)

(the song fit so well at the time, still does, that i needed to hold onto it for the main protagonists forever, by partially naming their story in reference.)

Does this explanation make any sense? Does anyone know why I'm tearing up remembering this. Aahh

[ellephlox]

Lights Out

Summary: You’re touring a haunted house with Matt, and the entire building loses power when a thunderstorm arrives. On the bright side, you’ve got Matt to lead you out (when he’s not taking advantage of your inability to see). 

Pairing: Matt x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Creepy haunted house imagery, swears

The sign for local attractions on the highway was battered and scratched, bearing the words HAUNTED HOUSE — EXIT 64. Rain pounded on the windshield as you drove; it was a long seven hours from the weekend holiday you’d taken with Matt back to Hell’s Kitchen, and you were only halfway done the drive. There was obviously no way for Matt to switch off with you, so instead he kept pushing for rest stops so that you could stretch your legs from the driving, despite your assurance to him that it was okay. 

You pulled into a parking spot outside the attraction, mud and dirt grinding under the tires. Once the key was out of the ignition, the silence of the engine was eerily fitting for the view of the haunted mansion in front of you, especially with the pounding of the rain on the roof. 

“Wow,” you said, peering up at it. “This thing’s actually pretty big. It looks Gothic — there’s a rounded tower-like part on the left, with bay windows, I think. In the center where the roof is highest, it’s pointy and there’s a weathervane with a skull on top. The outside is painted a really ugly purple. Oh, and the decorations are awesome. They look genuine, too; gravestones, a body sticking out of the chimney, blood splattered all over the front porch. Ha. There’s even a hearse parked next to us.”

“Scary or corny, overall?”

“It looks pretty good. I’d say it’s scary but you’re here with me,” you said, grabbing his hand. “Ready?”

You paid at the ticket booth and then entered the mansion. Only once you were safely inside, far from any of the workers, did Matt drop his hand from your arm. “There’s no one else here,” he said. “Just you and me.”

You nodded at a skeleton sitting at a piano. “And Mr. Bones right there.”

Matt tilted his head. “There’s a motion sensor ahead. Probably there’s going to be a jump scare.”

“Well, it’s not a jump scare anymore,” you said, rolling your eyes. “How much of this can you sense, anyway?”

“It’s... kind of a confusing influx of sensory details. Different machines behind the walls for all the animatronics and music, weird smells coming from everything, and I can feel the shifts in air pressure when something’s moving. It’s all kind of a... bonfire of input.”

Sure enough, a vampire sprung out of a coffin moments later, and even with Matt’s warning you still flinched, heart skipping a beat when it shrieked at you. The layout of the mansion was narrow and winding; different hallways took you through a variety of different rooms and scares. Some of the sights were admittedly scary; an animatronic girl with stringy hair and an axe came flying out of the shadows, and even the floorboards and doors beside you would buckle unexpectedly as you passed by them. To your delight, one of the picture frames turned to life and even caught Matt off guard — you felt him stir slightly beside you. The path through the mansion took you up two flights of stairs, all the way to the top floor of the house. 

“It’s a kitchen!” you said, admiring the decorations. “With — ew. Blood coming out of the faucet. And fingers baking in the oven.”

But Matt had his head tilted slightly towards the window. “Lightning’s about to strike,” he said suddenly, and true to his word, a massive flash lit up the entire room only a second later. The clap of thunder that followed was nearly simultaneous with the lightning, and rattled the mansion so hard that the window shook. 

And that was when the mansion lost power. Everything, all at once, fell silent as though it had been muted, and you were plunged from shadowy, dim lighting into absolute pitch blackness. 

“Matt?” you said uncertainly, reaching out for him and only finding empty space. The thought of all the things around you — amusing only moments ago — suddenly made your heart spike. 

“Right here.” Matt grabbed your hand and squeezed it. “Any light coming in at all?”

You waved your hand in front of your eyes. “Nothing. It’s like a black hole in here. And of course we left our phones in the car,” you grumbled, shifting closer to Matt. “A flashlight would be nice.”

“No light is coming in through the window?”

“Only when there’s lightning. And I don’t think there are many windows in this labyrinth.” Gingerly you stepped forward. “This is... not fun.”

“I’m personally very offended by how opposed you are to being visually impaired.”

You frowned. “You make fun of my bad hearing all the time — which, by the way, is not bad hearing, it’s simply normal-person hearing.”

“I think it’s bad hearing.”

“We’re allowed to make fun of each other’s senses,” you continued. “That’s the most important tenet of dating someone.”

“Oh, really? Then I’m free to tell you that you’ve got absolutely terrible common sense?”

“Ha, ha. You’re so clever,” you deadpanned. “Are we out of the creepy kitchen yet?"

“Yeah.” Matt nudged you to the right. “This way.”

“Are we close to the exit?”

“No. It’s probably another ten minute walk, at the very least.”

“Lovely. Why doesn’t this place have a generator?”

“It should. This could be a huge liability. If someone got hurt and decided to sue, the owners could easily get in trouble.”

“Only someone who had to endure the trauma of a bar exam would think about liabilities when the power goes out,” you said appreciatively. “So... we’ve got two flights of stairs to go down?”

“Three. The exit’s in the basement,” Matt said. “Watch out. There’s fake cobwebs ahead of us.”

You were glad for the warning, because the revolting sensation of gossamer threads brushing against your face would have otherwise been disturbing. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the hallway, and for a moment you were face-to-face with a ghastly clown that was grinning beside you. You yelped, nearly falling backwards into Matt. Adrenaline soared through you, and you couldn’t help but squint through the darkness in an attempt to make sure the clown wasn’t moving. It was to no avail — when the lightning was gone, so was any visibility.

“Take a deep breath,” Matt said, nudging you with his shoulder. “Your heart’s going a hundred miles an hour.”

“There’s a clown, Matt.”

“And he’s made of rubber, wood, and plastic.”

Lightning flashed again, and you winced at the clown’s companion, a bloody jester gloating on your left. “Are the haunted house workers coming in to help?”

“No. There’s only one worker, and based on the way her heart jumped with the power going out, I highly doubt she’s going to walk alone into a haunted mansion with all the lights off. Careful, the hallway twists a bit right here.” Matt gently guided you to the left. You went forward reluctantly, feeling that you were about to walk into something at any second despite your trust in Matt. “And there are two steps down right here.”

“Right where?” you asked, slowing to a halt.

“Right here, in front of us.”

Anxiously you edged your toe forward, feeling for the drop of the step. “This is incredibly creepy.”

“I’ll tell you when to step. Just keep going, and step downward when I say.” Matt tugged you forward, and you resisted, moving as carefully as possible until you were down the steps. 

“I don’t like this,” you informed him. “Because I know for a fact that there are probably zombies or vampires or something in here.”

“Dolls, actually.”

“Oh, God. Are you serious?”

Matt laughed. “At least, I think they’re dolls. Ceramic faces, stringy hair, small size.” He took your hand and guided it in front of you. “Here. Want to feel one?”

“No!” 

“There are lots of dolls in here. And it feels... dark. Wait.” Matt’s hand suddenly held yours more tightly.

“Well, I could’ve told you it’s dark in here.”

“No. I mean... a different type of dark.” Matt was silent, and you imagined he was cocking his head. 

“What is it?” you asked, squinting around as though it would suddenly help you to see the surroundings. 

“Something’s moving,” he whispered. “One of the dolls.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I mean a doll is moving,” he repeated. “Wait here—”

And then he pulled his hand away from yours, lost in the blackness of the house.

“Shit!” you yelped, hugging yourself. “Matt! Don’t leave me here!”

There was a small crash to your left, and then footsteps, slow and creaking, from behind you. Holy shit holy shit fuck fuck fuck fuckkkkk—

“Matt!” you shrieked. “Come back!”

And then, you felt something behind you, and the warm exhale of someone breathing near your ear. “Boo,” Matt said, in a low voice, and you automatically swung around so quickly with your fist that you would have socked him in the face, had he not caught your wrist first. 

“Shit – sorry, I didn’t mean to almost punch you—” You stopped yourself, mid-apology. “What the hell, Matt? You’re awful! How could you do that to me?”

To your indignation, he actually chuckled, sounding so damn pleased with himself that you would’ve marched away and continued on your own if you could actually see. “You know, I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever heard your heart go.”

“Yeah, because you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry.” Matt wrapped an arm around you as he continued steering you forward. “But you must have known that this was coming, sweetheart.”

“Um, no, I didn’t think I had it ‘coming’ because I thought I could trust my boyfriend to lead me out of a freaking pitch-black haunted mansion without trying to prank me like a five-year-old—”

“I couldn’t resist.”

“You couldn’t resist. Oh, well, that justifies it,” you grumbled, pushing at him again. “How much longer until we’re out of here?”

“Stairs to the first floor are right in front of us. Then we’re almost to the basement.” Matt dropped one of his hands so that it was on your lower back. “Your eyes haven’t adjusted at all?”

“I think the clouds are too thick for any moonlight to come through. And, of course, the lightning now decides to not flash at all.” You wished you could simply sense your surroundings like Matt could. “You’re amazing.”

“Weren’t you just saying I was awful?”

“No, really. I mean, the fact that you’re able to do all that you do, considering you can’t see; and me, the second I can’t see, I’m completely useless. It just makes me admire so much more the way that—”

“Stairs,” Matt warned. “Thirteen steps.”

“Thanks. But it just makes me admire so much more the way you... honed your senses, I guess. I mean, how many girls can brag that their blind boyfriend easily led them out of a haunted house with the navigation skills of someone with night-vision goggles?”

“It’s easier than you’d think.” Matt stopped suddenly, his fingers lightly raising to brush your upper arm and spin you so that your back was pressed into his chest. “Listen.”

You obeyed, falling as quiet as possible. Even this close to Matt, though, you couldn’t hear his heartbeat. “Matt, I’m not going to magically have your ability to hear well—”

“You don’t need my level of hearing,” Matt said. “Sometimes you just need to listen more closely. Hear that whistling?”

You focused. It was faint, but audible. “Yeah.”

“What’s that coming from?”

“Sounds like the wind coming through a vent.” Realization dawned on you. “Which means that there’s a wall in front of us.”

“Exactly. And did you hear that scuffle above us?”

“Yeah, that thump?” You hadn’t even paid attention to it until now. “It was probably that worker, right? Which means... we’re in the back lefthand corner of the house.”

“See? Easier than it seems,” Matt said, leaning in and kissing your temple. “You’re a natural, sweetheart.”

You smiled, feeling heat rise up your neck. “That’s really nice of you, but I know what you’re up to. You feel guilty for scaring me earlier and now you’re trying to make up for it with flattery.”

“Floor gets squishy right here,” Matt said suddenly, and you were glad for the warning as the wooden floorboards beneath your feet unexpectedly transitioned to foam. “They really went all-out with this haunted house.”

“Too bad we’re missing most of it. And... Matt, I love you for guiding me, but can we please slow down?” you said, leaning backwards to reduce the speed Matt was leading you at. “I feel like I’m about to walk into a wall.”

“Sorry.” Matt slowed his pace. “We’re almost out. You know, I’ll miss this a bit.”

“What, me being temporarily blind?”

“Yeah. Because you can’t see things like this coming.”

“Things like what—?”

But then Matt’s lips were on yours, passionate and hard, as he pressed you backwards into what was presumably a normal wall and hopefully not an upright coffin or anything gory. You made a small sound of surprise and kissed him back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Matt’s left hand cupped the back of your head, and his right groped underneath your shirt on your lower back; goosebumps ran up and down your arms.

And then, without warning, the lights flooded on, machines and animatronics beside you whirring to life. You jumped, heart skipping at the massive demon leering on the ceiling above you. Painted flames danced on the walls and a horned mannequin, eyes blinking and head rotating back and forth, grinned at you deviously. “Oh, God. We’re in Hell, I think.”

“We are? I wasn’t really paying attention.” Matt leaned in and kissed you one more time. “Your body was just a bit distracting.”

“Okay. New idea, Matt,” you said, staring at the fiery devil as it continued to sneer at you. “I see a really, really, really amazing photo opportunity. If the attendant lets me, I’m going to run and get my phone from the car quickly, then I’ll be back.”

“You’re going to abandon a blind man in a haunted mansion? How will I ever know where to go if you’re not allowed back inside to guide me?”

You laughed. “I’ll convince her to let me back in.”

And that was how, a week later, you happily received a photo print in the mail: Matt standing beside an animatronic devil, pointing at it with his thumb and smiling widely.

A/N: This is based off of a really neat haunted mansion that I visited on Prince Edward Island awhile back. Happy almost Halloween, everyone!

[thatdeadaquarius]

Okay so-- i was reading some sagau posts and came across this one where the reader was an army vet and my brain just Did Its Thing--

So now I'm here to inflict this on to you--

Would guns be considered as catalysts. And would they only do Phys Damage.

Me reading this ask:

😶 😐 🤨 🧐 🧐 😰 🥲 😭😭😭 💀

STOP YOU'VE INFLICTED ME WITH PSYCHOLOGICAL DMG FROM THIS ASK 😭

(Also srry took so long to respond, when i didnt realize how short this was/was just sitting over here 😓)

^ For the sake of gun imagery being a lot/maybe staff might hate me for it,

we'll put this gay shit instead (i almost mispelled to "gay shot" lmao)

☆

Sun: Army Veteran Reader, Gender neutral Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: SHORT Headcanons

Stars: everybody bc i think itd be funny

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: gun stuff, mild violence, mild cursing & Trigger Warnings: Gun fun everywhere

THIS ASK HAS ME GIGGLING TO MYSELF LIKE A MANIAC

You're out here having a whole gun they let you take for off-base

And u ofc have a license so u can conceal carry

(idk how non-american gun laws work, but tbh ours are so fucked idk how they work here either, just that an army guy i knew once could have his gun when he got back home)

And ofc ur just paranoid enough (more like it just makes u feel safe)

That when u get yoinked into a portal to a silly little brightly colored gacha game fantasy world, the gun comes with 💀

Id like to add in my silly little "ur in a video game, so video game rules" AU version of genshin so:

The only other gun (ish) wielder (Mika) has unlimited bolts

Sooo I'd think your gun would be the same jfc lol

NO BC YOUD SCARE THE ACTUAL SHIT OUT OF EVERYONE IN UR VICINITY IN A BATTLE

BC GUNSHOTS ARE A DIFFERENT TYPE OF LOUD

When u first stumble into abyss monsters/hostile creatures of the realm, u nearly scare off a Lawlachurl bc every shot's like thunder to these bitches😭

So not only the monsters but the vision holders think u fucking summoned lightning

OMG THE BULLETS ARE SO FAST THEYD PROBABLY NOT SEE IT

ESP BC DISTRACTED BY GUNSHOT LOUDNESS

SO U AIM THIS LITTLE BLACK CROSSBOW (???) AND THINGS JUST DIE (OR GET RIDDLED WITH HOLES) WITH NO CLEAR ARROW STICKING OUT

STOPP- you're becoming a witchy god or smth to all of Teyvat bc it just looks like hella high level magic atp to them LMAOOO

Rumors of you get out of hand and say u just point or snap ur fingers and things get wounded/just die on the spot 💀

Oh another difference between Teyvatians seeing ur gun vs. crossbow (what they know)

Is that guns are wayyyy more destructive

Like an arrow would get shot but it'd bounce off of things like rock or wood or metal, maybe dent a little depending on how close

But a bullet goes thru that shit so easy, and leaves a whole little explosion behind, once again depending on range

(I once saw a Mythbusters episode? of them proving bullets would definitely go thru car doors, like movies lied to u, this is why drive-bys acc work like for gangs)

Lmao, the image of you in like full armor with a Teyvat made automatic gun after showing it to blacksmiths

Makes u just more convincing as a god, esp bc military training

(Ppl like Gorou and Kokomi begging for military tactics/training ur world has done)

...

....Ok.

I'll address it.

But only so u dont think im stupid later.

Yes, the Fatui have guns.

No, this not the same as having a glock LMAO

End of story.

(Also, urs runs on bullets, whereas the Fatui rely on magic/delusions to power theirs, plus they dont seem as fast or destructive as urs, more "explosions aimed at you" than real bullets)

Which,,, u leave the managing of ppl copying ur gun to ppl like the Qixing or smth, but make sure to give them advice on good gun laws if teyvat accidentally revolutionizes bc of ur advanced gun that anybody can wield (non-vision users)

Thats the best ive got abt that

Oh, also enjoy being praised as a War god now.

:)

☆

... dammit i had smth i was gonna tell u guys-

Uh what tf was it, it was important

OH

Next post is the Eldritch God Oneshot! Look out for it :) !!

☆

Safe Travels Kid,

💀♒️

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

[galedekarios]

i love your metas and gifs of gale!! do you have any particular headcanon for when his birthday is? i always imagine it being in winter for some reason.

thank you so much for your message and your kind words!

i hadn't thought about it before, but ever since i got your message and took some time to mull it over, i've settled on something that i think makes sense for gale.

i wrote a meta about waterdhavian festivals and celebrations, and before i delved deeper into the topic, i briefly touched on the calendar that is most widely used in faerûn:

i like to imagine he was born somewhere in the month of tarsakh, the claw of storms. i think it's a good fit largely because of gale's connection to storms, thunder and lightning and similar imagery.

from his key art (click for a larger version):

to his art for the mtg card set (click for a larger version):

to a not insignificant amount of lines of dialogue from gale referencing storms, tempests, winds, etc., which prompted me in early access to make a gifset of a handful of them:

gale: as for myself: i'm a pragmatic. i see the silence before the storm.

gale: there's a gust of the weave about you, but it's a mere breeze. i need a tempest.

gale: rather soon i will feel it [the orb] stir again - like a distant thunder sending tremors through the soul. i will need to consume another artefact before the lightning strikes.

gale: i can feel the storm abating. yes, this will keep my condition in check - for a precious while.

gale: life is a tempest of events that sometimes we brace against and sometimes embrace.

(there are also some of his selection lines like "a rough tempest i will raise." and "let's light them up.")

to his very name carrying the same connection:

Joy; Wind Meaning: Joy; Wind; Tranquility; My father is joy; Gives joy; Foreigner, outlander. Gale is a gender-neutral name of English origin with a range of diverse meanings, including “joy,” “wind,” or “tranquility.” It was derived from the Old English word gal, which was used to describe someone who was pleasant or merry.

and of course the word gale itself:

A gale is a strong wind; the word is typically used as a descriptor in nautical contexts.

(all of this originally, way back when, made me think that gale might have been first meant to be / conceived as a storm sorcerer.

we knew in early access that he had such a deep connection to the weave from very early on in his life, and in full release that was only confirmed even more with gale having been able to cast spells as a baby, summoning rabbits in his mother's pantry, as well as being able to cast third-level spells like fireball at age 8 or perhaps younger.)

so yes, tarsakh, the claw of storms makes a really good fit for gale in my eyes.

if i had to pick a day as well, i might pick a number commonly associated with magic like 3 (perfect balance of harmony, wisdom understanding / the number of time past, present, future), 7 or 13, but i realise it's an arbitrary pick on my side.

edited to say that i also like the idea of it being in a spring month because spring symbolises new beginnings, letting go of the old and bringing in the new, which i find very fitting given gale's character arc.

anyhow, thank you so much for your question! i had a lot of fun thinking about this! 🖤

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

August 8th

Starting today off with a newspaper clipping, pasted by Mina in her journal:

One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been experienced here, with results both strange and unique.

🎶 STOOOoooOOOOOoooOOOOORRRM 🎶

The approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds, that there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour—flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here and there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes.

Don’t you love some subtle imagery about the end of a world and the beginning of another.

The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in face of her danger.

People continue to try and help each other 🥺

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury, each overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. […] To add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland—white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the footsteps of the storm.

I love depictions of the sea as a monster… 🌊🔱

On the summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried. The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in the pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush.

PEOPLE!!!!! CAN BE GOOD!!!!!

The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant of the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, mirabile dictu, between the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each motion of the ship.

Wonderful.

But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat tombstones—"thruff-steans" or "through-stones," as they call them in the Whitby vernacular—actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.

Wonderfuler.

The man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone.

Wonderfulest.

It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward till death—a steadfastness as noble as that of the young Casabianca—and placed in the mortuary to await inquest.

NO NO NO BURN HIM CUT HIS HEAD SLAM A STAKE IN HIS HEART

Now back to the girls:

Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could not sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her life.

Everything is A-OK! 👍

Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

WHERE ARE YOU JONATHAN

And did the old man, in fact, die?

< Prev 🦇 Next >

[breadfish16-awesome-blog]

"Crying Lightning" Arctic Monkeys Lyric Analysis

I was listening to Crying Lightning by Arctic Monkeys and I was trying to figure out what the lyrics were trying to say. I find that the Arctic Monkeys have some really interesting lyrics from the songs I've heard (I've only heard their first and second album and a few select songs from here are there). After coming to a rough conclusion on what the lyrics could mean, I looked the song up on Genius and turns out I literally could not be more off point. Despite that, I wanted to share my thoughts on the lyrics.

So as I was listening, I was thinking the lyrics could be about some kind of weather avatar or mother nature. In the first bunch of lyrics, there's imagery of a figure doing magic and eating sweets. In my reading, Nature can sometimes pull off some crazy, opposing, and violent things, which is where the magic tricks come in. For the sweets: (at least in my city) I see people throw away wrappers of candy and sweets all the time, so it could be like a retribution of nature.

For the chorus, the "pastimes consisted of the strange / And twisted and deranged / And I hate that little game you had called Crying Lightning / And how you'd like to aggravate the ice cream man on rainy afternoons". The pastimes part can be related to the previous thing I mentioned about how nature and weather can be violent, twisted and deranged, and the crying lightning part would literally just be thunder and lightning. The change from love to hate, I'm not quite sure but it could be how we as people love lightning storms but the minute it inconveniences us, like with the power going out, we then hate it. The last line about the ice cream man, later changed to icky man, would just be nature raining and upsetting the ice cream man because he can't sell his ice cream. The icky man part, I genuinely have no clue - I don't even know what icky man is supposed to mean, and apparently Genius can't tell me either.

The next verse, I imagine, is as the actual wrath of nature. There's so much hatred and anger in this section and the imagery also gives off a nasty, violent, picture. I imagine that this section is like nature speaking to someone who has treated it poorly. The anger is directed at this person and nature has a vendetta against this person, likely not just one person, but just as nature is all encompassing, the hatred is directed at all of those who treat it poorly.

That's about as far as I got with my own interpretation of the song. I know I was extremely off the mark, but I think my interpretation brings a very different, possibly interesting (depends on how you read it) look on the lyrics. You could read this all and think "wow, this person's crazy", you could also say, "wow, this is just word vomit", and that would be a valid reaction too. Either way I'm all here for it. Thank you for reading if you got to the end!!!!!! This is my first major blog post to hopefully the next ones are just as wacky. Thank you!

[kpodcast]

Thunderous Vibes ⛈️

Hi everyone, welcome to Yeaji's immaculate vibes for Friday! Since we've been talking about Stray Kids, it feels only right to usher in the weekend talking about my favorite title track of all time, "Thunderous".

To start, what a bold comeback right off the coattails of their win on Kingdom! After such immense success with "Back Door" and "God's Menu", "Thunderous" is just another notch in the long list of Stray Kids success.

But this isn't about the numbers (I leave that up to Suji) this is about the ~vibes~

So let's get into it!

First thing first, this is, in my opinion, the Stray Kids song where the choreo and the music and the MV just all fit so perfectly. (a hot take I know) There's this restrained power in the choreography, like the flash of lightning before the thunder hits. When the lightning is bright and you sit, just waiting, for the thunder to come crashing down.

That's what the choreography feels like! And the music video just adds to that imagery, with the flashing lightning and the sense that SKZ are the thunderous ones! They walk in with power and people move out of the way. They don't need to make any excuses or give any explanation, they simply are who they are.

At its core, "Thunderous" is a hype song. It never fails to hype me up and I can't help but dance along with the 'ptui ptui ptui' no matter where I am! I've been driving and it doesn't stop me.

I love the thunder noises in the lyrics and I always find myself shouting it at the top of my lungs. (BANG BANG BANG BOOM!!!)

It is a typical Stray Kids "noise music" but it's also understated in a way. Again, I go back to calling it restrained. The music is loud, there's car horns and loud drum hits, like don't get me wrong, but there are these moments of quiet, of subdued, and it almost feels threatening? Ominous? Predatory? That deep breath waiting for the thunder to hit?

It feels unapologetic. It feels raw and real and confident.

When I was a kid, and even now, I loved running out in thunderstorms. It was so much fun to be out in the pouring rain and to hear the thunder and see the lightshow in the sky. But once, my family got stuck in a thunderstorm that preceded a tornado warning. That thunder shook buildings and rattled windows. The rain was like a sheet of water thrashing against the windows.

Don't get me wrong, I still loved being in that thunderstorm. It was scary, but to be standing the presence of something that powerful. something that dangerous, was thrilling.

"Thunderous" is that feeling condensed into a song where YOU are the thunder. The impending storm.

And isn't that just a powerful feeling?

[deceptive-daydreams]

Ok, I'm finished with work, I'm here! 🤣 I did read this before my shift but was waiting to do a proper response till now. It was super early and it was thundering and lightning and raining real hard outside and it was the perfect setting for reading this chapter ⛈️

The flashbacks! The way you wrote her pain was so real. Particularly her feeling paralyzed by it, both of them shells of who she thought they were. Her describing him as home, that was gut wrenching. I was hurting reading it. And then the sugar analogy, he really is gritty but sweet. this whole paragraph was my favourite part I think. You've created such good imagery, it's fantastic.

And then they get mean. I liked that she clapped back though. I've seen mean Eddie fics before and sometimes reader is kinda meek and just takes it (no shade at all, I would 200% be like this in real life) but roadkill does not. The line 'you had no intention of entertaining a conversation with someone who never had your best interest in mind' hit hard. People need to bear this in mind more often (definitely not me 👀) it's inspiring. but he really does try and that part where they're admitting they like eachother but it's all wrong because it's too late. This was 'stick a fork in my heart and just pluck it out beat it to death' angst. Just amazing writing. It's like they're breaking up and they weren't even together.

The self fulfilling prophecy situation Eddie's created for himself was hard. He's convinced he doesn't deserve love and fucks up every good thing in his life, and he makes it so. Isn't mature enough at the time so see it doesn't have to be that way, that he could make better choices. And so the kitchen scene at the end proves it. Poor roadkill. Proves that then was not the right time for them. He needed to get to the present day point to realise that he can make better choices, and he does 🖤

And now they're trapped together! And a totally different kind of trapped than just working together. Forced proximity within forced proximity. Very clever, see what you did there! I love that he's such a rock for her in her distress. And his thoughts on if she were his, how she never would be, how he's somehow fallen even harder. Stop iiiit you're killing me 😭 although this undoubtedly confirms he's got zero going on emotionally with Steve, and he even tells her that! Fist bumping the air at that! Their whole conversion after this was amazing. He's being so honest and she's clinging onto this shitty version of him she's gotten comfortable with because she's stubborn. and seems very good at holding a grudge and I relate to this so much. You have no idea. 'Don't mess me up with your niceness when I'm not used to it, I don't like change' kinda deal. The dialogue was so good here, the direction it goes. She's laying it out how awful it was and telling him how it's affected her dating in particular all this time and his reaction is perfect, it's a great take on misogyny and how that situation would have been terrifying and he understands that now. They were barking. Gross. But they end the conversation on good terms! Not forgiveness, but a ceasefire maybe? I can just see them attempting a friendship and it getting harder for him to hide how gone he is on her 🖤

p.s. them picturing touching eachothers noses the exact same way! I'm scrrreaming 😍 they're gonna be so in love and I can't wait.

Why you were ever scared to post this absolute masterpiece of a character study I'll never know. I loved it. But I guess you can tell that by now 🫣

🖤🖤

ILY IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY TO GET YOUR ASKS AFTER EVERY CHAPTER 😭

ugh yes that is such a fitting setting like just really setting the mood right there

IM SO HAPPY YOU LOVED THE SUGAR ANALOGY THAT WAS LIKE MY FAVORITE ugh I think that may be my favorite paragraph too 🥹

Yeah I found it really important for her not to hold back or excuse any of his behavior (even tho I’m totally the opposite idk like I’m so shy I would be like ok) UGH YES it feels like a huge breakup but there was never a relationship to begin with so in a way it’s more achey :(

I LOVE forced proximity, ik it’s been done so often but that’s because it’s so good like it just makes you yearn for them so to then double it is like YES NOW YOU HAVE TO GET YOUR DEMONS OUT WITH EACH OTHER HAHA

I’m so glad the take on misogyny landed well

you have no idea how excited I am for them to stop being idiots and just kiss BUT WE ARENT THERE YET

I WAS SO PROUD OF THE NOSE TOUCHING PARALLEL like it’s so simple but it makes you feel their yearning even if they don’t quite realize it yet SO IM GLAD YOU LIKED THAT PART 🥹

thank you thank you thank you I cannot thank you enough for your support on this fic I adore all of your feedback 😭🥹💜💜💜💜

[recurring-polynya]

Current Big RenRuki Mood track

Hey wake it up! Hey shake it out! Does anything still move you since you're educated now? And all grown up and travelled so well Do you still hear the sound of the thunder while you lie up by yourself?

[emilystheories]

Nesta Archeron is Thurr - God of Lightning.

ACOTAR and Crescent City 2 spoilers!

[Disclaimer: This theory aligns with the thinking that the ACOTAR, CC and TOG worlds are not existing on the same timeline. I understand that Aelin flew past Prythian, and that SJM has recently spoken about this matter, but I have addressed that (and all other evidence) here! There's so many ways a non-linear timeline could work (and I've already posted a few theories with different variations), but the most basic is that Throne of Glass is occurring in the past, ACOTAR is the present, and Crescent City is the future. So, at the end of HOSAB, Bryce has gone back in time.]

Now, let's get into it!

---

Nesta's powers.

As of ACOSF, we are made to believe that Nesta has given up her powers (or most of them, anyway). But, what if she doesn't need them...?

Instead, Nesta has the Harp, the Mask, and the Crown. She has the Dread Trove.

Even though Mor tries to hide the Dread Trove at the end of ACOSF, the book concludes with this important passage:

"I got a crown of my own, don't worry" Nesta said, even as she knew that Mor was now winnowing all three objects of the Trove back to the place Nesta had taken them from. She'd summoned them, working around Helion's spells. No spell could ever keep them from her - Briallyn had spoken true about that."

To me, SJM is making clear that Nesta's connection - and use - of the Dread Trove is far from over.

The Horn.

In ACOSF, it is also suggested that there is a 4th Dread Trove item (made of "age-worn born"). It seems to be popular consensus among CC and ACOTAR readers that this missing item is the Horn; the object tattooed into Bryce's back.

With this in mind, it is then worth noting that the Horn, when wielded at full power, can do anything. It can even allow someone to establish themselves as an Asteri.

Thus, if the Horn is part of the Dread Trove, then logic suggests that the other Dread Trove items - of which Nesta can control and summon - would have that exact same power.

And it makes you think; if one Dread Trove item, such as the Horn, can allow someone to establish themselves as an Asteri... what can three Dread Trove items do...?

Three items that Nesta can wield to their full power...

This gives Nesta... almost God-like power.

The Crown.

One particular Dread Trove item is of notable interest for this theory - and that is the Crown. Towards the end of ACOSF, readers are informed that the Crown can harness and manipulate the power of weather - bending it to the users will:

I now want to point out some interesting parallels between Nesta - and storms.

For starters, there are multiple occasions where SJM describes Nesta using "storm" imagery:

Stating that Nesta dances like a "night storm"

Nesta's rage is often likened to a "storm"

And Nesta even describes herself as a "storm cloud"

But perhaps the most salient example, is when Nesta comes face-to-face with Tamlin.

As Nesta starts to feel her rage - to threaten Tamlin with her wrath - thunder starts to grumble in the sky.

Then, in that final battle on Ramiel, where Nesta faces off with Bellius - lightning is mentioned multiple times (more times than what the below screenshot conveys!)

In fact, Sarah's use of thunder and lightning in this scene was so overt, that many readers started thinking about Thurr - the storm deity mentioned in Crescent City 2 (who presumably could wield thunder and lightning). As a result, many theories started popping up about Thurr's connection to Ramiel and the Illyrians (that maybe Thurr was even an Illyrian himself!)

However, what if the thunder and lightning had nothing to do with the Illyrians... but Nesta instead.

And dare I say it... what if Nesta IS Thurr?

And, in future books, through the use of the Dread Trove - most notably the Crown... what if Nesta will harness the power and lightning and thunder?

Thurr.

We are first introduced to Thurr in the very first chapter of Crescent City 2 - Bryce notices a statue of a fae male using a hammer - lightning is cracking, and he is forging a sword.

"On it, a powerful Fae male stood poised above an anvil, hammer raised skyward in one fist, lightning cracking down from the skies, filling the hammer, and flowing down toward the object of the hammer's intended blow: a sword."

Now, who is the only other character in the SJM universe who also raises a hammer, and forges a sword - in the exact same manner?

Nesta.

"Nesta's arm arched above her, the hammer gripped in her clenched fingers. It was a dance, each of her movements timed to the ringing echo of the hammer on the blade. She pounded the sword to a music no one but she could hear."

And, is it then any coincidence that the swords Nesta created emitted "iridescent sparks" and "crackling magic"....?

Which, is also the exact same description of the Starsword when Hunt filled it with his lightning...?

However, you're probably thinking: "But Thurr was a man!"

You've also probably picked up on Thurr sounding just like Thor - the Norse God of thunder and lightning - and also a man.

But, what if history got it wrong...?

What if Thurr was instead a woman?

Because, when you look at SJM's Pinterest board for Twilight of the Gods (her rumoured next series...)

A little closer...

That's LADY THOR!

And, you can't tell me that Nesta as Lady Thor - or rather, Thurr - isn't so damn fitting (especially if we get a scene where she's leading the Valkyries into war...)

Ancestry.

Going back to that statue of Thurr, it was rather interesting that Bryce's father (Randall) likened it to Hunt - to which Bryce then joked that the statue was a "long lost relative" of Hunt's.

We know Hunt has similar lightning and thunder powers. They must have originated from somewhere, but strangely... no other character in the SJM universe possesses such power.

Unless, they haven't possessed it... yet. Given that this theory operates on the different timeline hypothesis; what if we are yet to see Nesta wield these powers, achieve her status as Thurr - and her (and Cassian's) descendant is Hunt?

Although, it is rather interesting that Hunt is said to look exactly like the statues of Thurr. If Nesta was Thurr - but this detail was twisted throughout history, replacing her with a man - what if the figure people currently know as Thurr, is Nesta and Cassian's son instead?

Is that who Hunt descends from...? (Or, could he be his father...?)

I mean... many readers have commented on the likeness between Hunt and Cassian.

And, let's not forget that Nesta and Cassian's bargain tattoo was an eight-pointed star - the symbol of the Starborn fae.

We also know that "Project Thurr," the Dusk Court, and the Starborn are seemingly all connected...

So, although it's crazy to think about, perhaps it's not out of the realm of possibility.

I'll guess we'll have to wait and see! ⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

[pararennial-archived]

*‵ ･ on divinity ･ ′

She feels it course through her veins on occasion; ichor barreling through like a barrage, bracing itself to and gilding every cell in her body until they all sing in unison. It thrums loudly, like rolling thunder, sending lightning through, bouncing along nerves to remind her ( and others ) who she is. 

Roxanne doesn’t forget those who shy away from her, acting as though she were an unyielding flame. She throws a cursory glance at her companion, Sadyrra, bearing the skin of a woman hiding a wolf beneath. While the other woman worked away on her laptop, Roxanne can see the tense sinew of her hands roving beneath brown skin. All ligaments, tendons, bones, and muscles working in tandem to emulate movement not too dissimilar to a wolf pawing in the soil, flexing its clawed toes and leaving troughs in the ground. 

❝Hey, ‘Dyrra?❞ Roxanne pipes up, her voice soft yet clear through the quiet, through the soft slant of light coming in through the window, through the dust motes swirling gold. ❝What do you see when you look at me?❞

The shifter pauses for a moment, acrylic maroon nails no longer furiously typing away. Sadyrra swivels in her chair to face Roxanne, eyes that are a pale shade of green meeting her deep cobalt blues. The she-wolf only holds her gaze for a moment before suddenly shying away, her demeanour uncharacteristically that of a shorn sheep. Strange. The shift in behaviour coaxes Roxanne’s head to a tilt.

❝I see… a lot, and it’s sorta scary.❞ Sadyrra admits, her eyes flickering towards Roxanne for a moment and then away from her again.

❝How so?❞

Sadyrra takes a moment to recollect herself, leaning back in her chair and propping her arm against the backrest. Then her maroon-varnished nails now tap against the arm of the chair in a rhythmic and steady drone. The godling’s eyes flicker to Sadyrra’s hand once again, now recalling their first encounter. It was a simple greeting, an affirmation of camaraderie that established some sort of connection ⏤ a bond forged by a legacy tied to a cause. Roxanne recalls how Sadyrra’s hand suddenly recoiled from hers within a few seconds of their palms meeting for a handshake. The memory of the she-wolf immediately shrinking away with eyes wider than plates, brought a resurgence of the guilty and confusing pang in her chest from their introduction. Then it starts to make sense. At least, by a small margin.

❝You’re a lot.❞ Sadyrra is finally able to turn and face her fully, ❝When we first met, it’s like I was actually struck by lightning… there was a bright flash that blinded me for a couple of seconds. It’s as if somebody smashed a flash grenade into my face and left me to deal with the consequences. And then… your eyes have this intense glow and your veins light up, and that’s something you already know from… well… anyway...❞

The imagery summons up memories of liquid inferno running through her body, threatening to break out at the seams. Her skin cracking to reveal molten gold underneath, her eyes taken on an unearthly shade of blue. Moments where she almost surrendered herself to ascension, a supernova contained in such a fragile form. Already, she feels something needle at her from within, threatening to remind her once again. 

❝Yeah, okay… so that’s not n-❞ She abruptly cuts in, wanting to dismiss the feeling.

However, Sadyrra interjects, ❝But there’s something else, the space around you… no… the room… or wherever we are… when you come out… it’s like everything's pitch black. We only see you and we only feel you. It’s just you. In the dark. And it feels like if we stare too long, we’ll explode.❞

❝What?!❞

❝Well… yeah? You’ve seen how we reacted before we got used to… you.❞ The she-wolf shrugs after clearing her throat. She then returns to her laptop, her focus suddenly reignited. ❝That’s how everybody knows what you are…❞

[huxianposts]

I COMPLETELY forgot who posted this but there was this one tumblr that posted Pegoryu with ‘Koi no Yokan’ and I was like OMG YES, but then after a while I think an anon sent in ask about that and was like ‘Okay hear me out—Koi no Yokan and Coup de Foudre cause Ryuji’s Zio and lightning and thunder and he was the flash of lightning that made Akira fall in love’ AND I WAS EVEN MORE LIKE YES YES YES YES

BUT NOW I CAN’T FIND THE POST OR BLOG SO I FEEL I SHOULD JUST LET YOU KNOW OF THE EXISTENCE OF THIS AND HOPE YOU CAN SEE IT FOR YOURSELF ONE DAY

I ain't gonna lie, for hot a minute I thought Koi no Yokan was a band, and that Coup de Foudre was a song, and I was like, I don't think I've heard of them before but I will do it for pegoryu-- AND THEN MY PEA BRAIN REBOOTED AND WENT, YOU DINGUS, THEY ARE WORDS WITH DEFINITIONS. And THEN I remembered where I heard Koi no Yokan before and I went on a fever manhunt through my tags for it and I believe it is this post by @kareofbears!

here's the link to reblog ahaha! Though, I did not see/cannot find the Coup de Foudre follow up, sorry (￣y▽,￣)╭

but YES, YES YES YES!!!! We have the definition phrase for koi no yokan, but for coup de foudre, I've found, it's "an astonishing occurrence; especially : overwhelming love at first sight", and for your bit you mentioned "The moment when "lightning strikes" or something unforgettable occurs that you want to capture forever".

And I am literally shaking. It's so perfect for them. Not only am I shook at the slow burn aspect, but the lightning metaphor and imagery is so immaculate. Like holy shit!!!!!!

Anyway, long ass talk (me just rambling bc i haven't slept for a while LMAO) under the cut, sorry! But know that my Pegoryu heart just got reignited, so thank you, anon 😎

In my headcanons, I honestly see Akira being the one that falls first. He looks and acts reserved restrained, but he gets attached to people fast (the power of friendship, babyyyy-- my boy is a shonen jump protag), and Ryuji being that first re-connection back to the rest of the world, literal zio, lightning storm, thunder-- To Akira, there is a time before Ryuji, and then there is a time after Ryuji. Ryuji is... someone, something, an event that happened to him. Lightning strike that shifted the world a few degrees different.

Like, of COURSE, if it were anybody else-- I do believe Akira would've saved them, would've stood up, would've become someone more than what was given to him. But there is something so narratively delicious that he meets Ryuji first, and this is the person that woke up something in him, that he took one look after that first dungeon and sees recognition-- that core trait of protection being reflected back. I've said it in some posts before, but like, there was a writing choice for Akira to fully start his journey with the Chariot arcana, rather than Magician; The Chariot tarot card is all about overcoming challenges and gaining victory through maintaining control of your surroundings.

Akira at the beginning of the game is someone defined by loss: of his old life, reputation, and of control. I know the awakening theme for P5 is about rebellion, revenge, anger-- and he does embody all of that! But his core is to protect. That's what got him into his situation; the world punished him for standing up for someone else, tried to tell him it was a mistake, and it was wrong. Even after having dreams about Igor hinting at his future, meeting Sojiro, seeing how weird Shujin is-- it's meeting Ryuji, accidentally going into the dungeon, and having this stranger try to protect him-- that's what wakes Akira up. His lightning flash moment. Ryuji happened to him, and validated his core drive to protect; Ryuji looked at Akira, a stranger, and didn't debate on the merits of saving some guy who could be good or bad-- he just did it.

Akira woke his persona to save others. And as defined by the Chariot-- he overcame his challenge (fear of action due to what had happened before) and gained victory through control of his surroundings (reconnecting with the world and people, gaining a persona granted him control of his circumstances, etc.).

Ryuji is the overwhelming, unforgettable lightning strike.

Maybe Akira doesn't fall in love right at that moment. But I do believe he falls a lot faster, and that he recognizes the impact in meeting Ryuji. But again, his restraint does not let him voice any of this (because Akira is still very defined by fear); he knows what he feels, he just lost his voice in admitting anything truly vulnerable.

Now, on the other side, I headcanon Ryuji embodying koi no yokan perfectly. A lot of it is also Atlus having everyone adore Akira (which, deserved. Akira deserves good things), but it's my headcanon and I'm explaining the process.

I honestly believe it takes Ryuji longer to truly connect in a way that HE finds matter. It's easy to help strangers, but it's hard to let down your guard to allow someone at your soft belly; this is exemplified with Ryuji's prickly countenance, and his quick reaction to anything that could cause harm to others/the group. A lot of that is from the stuff that happened to him prior the game: Kamoshida breaking his leg, ostracization by his team and school, his own guilt, and hell, the lightly mentioned family history in his SL.

Like, chains are a big symbolism in P5: restraint, being literally chained down by society, yourself, etc. And in comparison to the main cast, his story happened outside of P5 plot (no connection to Shido, and his story was not jumpstarted by the Metaverse); Ryuji... just happened in the plot. Things happened to him. And he's been living his life defined by those things, chained down by external forces but also by his mistakes.

That's why, on a narrative level, it really makes sense that Ryuji's whole SL is about recovery, progress, and freedom. Everyone else is finally stepping into their story, so to speak, but he's the one moving on, because his story was done before the game even began (and that Atlus just did not give attention to, lbr), and change is an inevitable part of life.

But there is also the delicious juxtaposition of Ryuji's themes of freedom mixing with inevitability, though. Just the possibilities of internal struggle, you know? Like, if my life can change because I will it, because I seek freedom and that is an active process- how does inevitability play a role? Fate isn't real, it can't be (because does that mean half the bullshit in my life was doom to occur?), because that is a painful thought-- but. Akira.

Akira is someone that became inevitable to Ryuji's story; just as Ryuji was the lightning strike to Akira's life to wake up and recognize himself again, Akira is the inevitability of change for Ryuji's stagnancy. Because Ryuji is an active person in many ways-- staying in one spot, staying stagnant is what hurt him most, and just meeting Akira was.

It felt like the tide pulling from the shore, the sun setting, moon rising, world turning on its axis every day. Normal, devastating inevitable forces.

Their meeting was by chance, but did Ryuji really think he could stay the same? Did he think he could stay the same in his loneliness, after having met Akira?

He didn't fall first, but on some level, Ryuji knew that all the roads he ran on would lead back to Akira.

And while Ryuji may struggle with his own themes of freedom and inevitability-- I think he ultimately accepts what he feels for Akira, and makes new meaning of the two concepts for himself: "I guess bein' free...it's like how I feel when I'm talking to you, man."

Finding freedom in that inevitable love, because at the end of the day, Ryuji has the choice to choose that written piece, or reject it. And he chooses take it and make it mean something, changing in the way that matters to him.

Anyway. Thanks for reading this far LMAO. But anon, whoever you are, thank you for your ask, because I am literally this image rn

[obirains-archive]

The Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me (Rex x Reader)

Pairing: Captain Rex x Artist!Reader. No Y/N. Word Count: 7.1k lmfaooo Genre: spicy fluff to angst to fluff (+ mutual hurt/comfort if you squint)

Summary: You’ve dedicated your life to beauty, to color, to the fantasy of life. And then there’s Rex: gentle, steadfast, battle-hardened Rex. You respect it, you think you’ve accepted it. But sometimes it’s just too much to bear—and the differences in the lives you lead come to a head.

Warnings/Tags: TW: depiction of a mild panic attack and some depressive behavior. Implied sex, implied/referenced nudity but absolutely nothing graphic. A dream sequence involving some unsettling imagery (though not overtly nightmarish). Mention of death, mention of blood. Swearing. Arguing and making up again. Gender neutral reader. (If I’ve missed anything, please let me know)

Rating: T

Masterlist + Taglist :)

It's stormy over Coruscant and almost quiet. On days like these air traffic's limited: much less honking, shouting, occasional crashing. But in its place is the thunder, of course, and the wind and the rain and the bristles on canvas, and the snoring from the man behind you.

He got back late. He always does, dead on his feet and covered in bruises. I'm fine, he insisted. Kix patched me up. No matter. Don't worry. But you worried anyway. You always do. He showered and settled into your creaky pull-out couch; you traced the blooms of purple and black and the nicks too small for bandages, and he was gone within seconds. But you lay awake: watching the creases in his forehead fade and the rain clouds roll in over the city. Clouds like this are a rarity here. They bewitch your mind, filling it up with strange images... Lit from below by the ecumenopolis, they gathered themselves into coils and shapes that lent themselves phantasmagoric to your tired eyes. Broad, inhuman faces; wings like claws and wings like teeth; wings of beauty slipping away...

So here you are next morning before your easel, before the window. Beyond you, a masterpiece in its own right: plumes of black and purple and indigo-gray towering over the skyscrapers, lightning flashing gold and silver and violet. You forget, sometimes, what Light can do when the air is right. You forget how it fills the clouds like lanterns, or sprawls like the fingers of ancient, instant, skeletal gods. It floodlights your studio apartment and shakes the whole city with a wall-shattering CRRAAAAACK.

You flinch. Not from fear. It's the gasp. Almost louder than the thunder and infinitely worse to your ears. It's the sound of shifting sheets and newly labored breaths. Your heart aches; your throat constricts. You set your brush on your easel and your pallet on your stool.

"Just the thunder, Rex."

He sits bolt upright on the low mattress, panting harder than if he'd just run a mile. Lightning flashes against his face and highlights the beads of sweat already at his brow. You catch them on your thumb and he leans into your touch, closing his eyes.

"'M sorry," he mumbles.

"Shh. Go back to sleep." You kiss his forehead and pull away.

"What time is it?"

"Late."

"Not too late, I hope. Wouldn't want to sleep through all my leave."

You shake together and mix another shade of blue. He doesn't leave again until Wednesday. You don't mention it.

"You could use the extra rest," you hum. "No, not too late. It's midmorning, I think. Hard to say."

"Mhm."

The bed groans—those springs have been broken for a year and a half—and is silent; you hear heavy footfalls behind you. Warm, strong, bare arms wrap around your waist. Rex buries his face in your neck, kissing along your shoulder, searing your skin, tugging at your oversized black shirt.

"Is this mine?"

"You left it here months ago."

"And you turned it into a painting shirt?"

"You never asked for it back."

His head drops to your shoulder, breathing deep. His arms tighten around your waist; his fingers trace up and down the textured flecks of paint and feel like butterfly wings against your skin.

"'S better on you, anyway. Come back to bed."

"In a minute, Rex."

He grumbles something incoherent; you don't bother asking what he meant. You only laugh and kiss him lightly at the corner of his mouth. "Just a little bit more."

The warmth pulls away. The mattress groans again under his weight.

"What's that?"

"It's a thunderstorm, Rex."

"I know. I meant that yellow. In your background."

It takes you a moment—too long—to notice the burst of white and yellow through the whirlpool of blues. Not lightning in the clouds but long, bold, bright rays breaking through the horizon. You shrug.

"Sunrise, sunset. Doesn't matter."

"No sunrise out there."

"Then feel free to make your own."

"And your window faces North—"

"Oh, go to bed," you grumble as you add still more yellow to the center. A little more light. Just a little—

"Where were you this time?"

"Felucia. Again. I'm getting sick of it."

"That's the one with the flowers, isn't it?"

"Giant, glow-in-the-dark ones, yes." You can hear the smirk in his voice, but you don't engage.

"It sounds beautiful."

"Sure it is, when it's not crawling with Seppies. They've all but destroyed the place."

And Republic gunnery can't be helping things, either, but you don't say that. Your hand stills. "There's nowhere on the whole planet you could go to see the flowers as they are? Somewhere that's not a warzone?"

"Well, I... I guess there is, but that's not where we end up."

"I don't like that for you," you say firmly, resuming your brushwork.

"It's the job, sweetheart."

You don't like that job for him, either. You look at the canvas and sigh; it's time to put away your paints.

"You done? The whole bottom half's missing."

You gather your brushes into a cup of turpentine in the kitchen, trying to ignore the jaig eyes on the table. They're turned right towards you as you clean, beautiful and strange and powerful. "Not yet. The paint needs to dry. Can't... I can't do anything about it."

If there's a wistful note in your voice, Rex doesn't notice it. "I don't know how you have the patience for it."

"Neither do I," you mumble. More to yourself than anything. But when you turn around, you can't deny yourself a small smile. Rex is leaned back in bed, an arm beneath his head, gazing at you with a sleepy but contented smile. He's broad, bare-chested, uncovered by the thin bed sheets, and his dark eyes twinkle with mischief. Your face heats up. You know he's caught you staring.

"Don't look at me like that," you tell him sternly, smile still breaking through.

"How should I, then?"

You sit on your side of the bed, the one closest to the window, and ignore the creaky springs as much as you can as your hand trails lightly down his chest. His skin runs hot beneath you.

"Not at all, really. I'd rather you go to sleep."

He pulls you by the waist, tugging at your shirt until you're half on top of him, until your lips meet. You brace himself on his shoulders. The muscles flex beneath your fingers, solid and steady from years of bearing his armor, while he kisses you with everything he has. His hands dig into your waist hard enough to leave bruises; you squirm in his grasp. The vibrations from his chest to yours are enough to make you shiver as he groans into your mouth.

"Sounds like an awful waste of a weekend off," he pants when you pull away. You rest your head in the crook of his neck. The warmth almost overwhelms you. It takes you to an other-place far away; it grounds you as you nip the column of his throat.

"I want you at your best for when you have to leave... well-rested... just in case."

Rex sighs and lifts you off of him, lying you both on your sides. He could manhandle you easily and you're floored—again and again—at the gentleness with which he cradles you. Directly across from you now he can hold your gaze more steadily, lightning flickering against his cheekbones around the shadow you cast. The thunder rolls still.

"I know you don't like it. But orders are orders. This is what we're made for.”

You bite your tongue. No, no, no! No one's made for this. No one's made for a thousand days of war and clouds of smoke, cannons, gunfire, the decimation of whatever is good. No one's made to bear the wounds and scars of a Republic divided on innocent, unblemished skin. And damned if you know for sure what you are! but—Maker—he's wrong. He's wrong—

"Okay," you whisper. Your fingers dance across his side. "But... damn it, Rex, look up at the sky once in a while. Look at the sun. At the flowers. Once in a while."

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

"I mean it, Captain."  You run your nails through his close-cropped hair. "I want you to have at least one good memory to look back on."

"Mhm."

Without warning he pushes you down on your back and kisses you again until you're both breathless. When he pulls away, it's only an inch—enough to let his eyes, darkened and dilated, rake down your face and neck below. A hand works its way beneath his old shirt. 

"Oh, believe me, sweetheart. I intend to."

*          *          *

Sometime in the very early morning the clouds broke; they're still breaking now. Rex is still asleep and almost all on top of you: half settled between your legs, his head nested in the crook of your neck, a heavy arm looped around your waist. You've managed to shift away just enough to breathe, but you're not going any further. So you continue to lie quietly. One hand draws figure eights in his hair and the other stretches out towards the closed window where the clouds whisper their silent hellos.

Strange. Strange that among such large swathes of purple-gray sky, the little wisps that seem to float just feet away still burn like tongues of fire in all manner of summer and autumn. They are far, so far from you, but you imagine even so. Stretching, stretching—as if in a dream—until your fingertips graze the mist... It would be cool to the touch, freezing perhaps, and your fingers stained red and gold. Not water droplets but evaporated paint collecting on your skin, on bristles, too—if you could just open the window and stand on the sill, balanced on your toes, raising your longest brush into the sky.

How vivid would your paintings be, dyed with the clouds themselves? It's worth it though you struggle and strain, though you may fall. So much more tangible. So much more real than water and fire and canvas and flesh—

With the softest sigh, Rex breaks the spell. Hot air fans across your bare chest; his arm curls around you more tightly; his fingers begin to dig into your waist. You feel his lips against your neck and his tongue against the marks he left there yesterday. 

"Morning." His voice is coarse and heavy with sleep.

"Mm."

"Time is it?"

"I don't know."

He's content at that, for the moment. Content to lie further, content to trace the blooms across your neck and chest. And you're content to lie still, content to run your fingers through his hair and watch the candle-flames outside give way to a golden morning in the East. The rays shine through to your quiet room and break through the lonely, sleepy shades of purple. 

"Kriffin' hells," Rex mutters into your skin.

"What?"

He lies on his elbow a little above you. His other hand strokes up and down your side. "You... are... a vision."

You pull his head down to yours. Or maybe he lowers to kiss you himself; you truly can't tell. His hand encircles your neck like he's cradling a rose in full bloom, pulling it to his nose; it's warm and large and perfectly shaped to hold your head against his.

"Rex," you murmur against his lips.

"Mm?"

"Did you feel it, when the rain stopped?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean—"

A high-pitched beeping cuts you off. Rex gives you a look—one you can't exactly read—, hauls himself off of you, and wraps one of the top blankets around his waist. The beeping comes from his pile of belongings on the kitchen table.

(You shouldn't call it a pile. It's immaculately organized, much more than the painting shirts and whatever other clothes—you don't even know—you have hanging over the wooden chair. No matter how tired he is when he shows up at your doorstep, Rex always takes the time to arrange his things properly even if you find neither rhyme nor reason in it. It's the military training, you suppose.)

From somewhere near the top of the pile—stack—assembly, he pulls out his comlink. His back straightens.

"Yes, sir."

"Rex, where are you?"

Rex looks at you from the corner of his eye. You probably shouldn't be hearing this, whatever it is, but there aren't exactly a lot of places he can go.

"Off-base, sir."

"Off-base? What the hell are you doing off-base?"

"My apologies, sir. It's our leave."

"I'm sorry about that, Rex, but I need you back here as soon as possible. We're an emergency call to Naboo; the Queen's worried about another invasion attempt."

"Sir, yes sir." Rex's face hardens. You sit up, pulling the sheet around you, and stare at him. The comlink's light dies; immediately he begins to pull on his blacks like a machine.

"Who was that?"

"That was General Skywalker," he replies, his back to you. "501st's being sent to Naboo."

"I heard that," you say quietly. You wait for him to face you again, but he doesn't—he doesn't speak again, either.

"So that's it, then?"

"Hm?"

"You're leaving. Just like that."

"Yep."

You look back out the window, hands flexing in the sheets. "You're supposed to have two more days. This is official leave time, isn't it?"

"Orders are orders." He's putting his armor on now and he still won't look at you. You bite your tongue, almost hard enough to draw blood but not quite, watching the still-shifting clouds. 

"It's not right."

"It is what it is. Me and my brothers, it's what we're here to do."

"It's not though, is it?"

You're surprised to hear you've spoken it aloud. Even more surprised that you've raised your voice—just a fraction of a degree, but enough. Rex finally turns around. You still can't read his face. But it's towards you now and you've spoken your mind. There's nothing else for it. 

"I'm afraid I don't catch your meaning."

"I mean—" You swing your legs off the bedside and pull yesterday's shirt over your head. "—that it's something you do, not something you're here to do. There's a difference."

"Is there, now?"

"People aren't just made for war and they're not just made for the government's fickle interests. No one's born a lamb to the slaughter."

He chuckles. You'd be hard-pressed to find any humor in it. "Very nat-born of you to say."

"I'm sorry?"

"My apologies. I mean that only nat-borns think that way. Things are different for clones."

"But they shouldn't—"

"Shouldn't what? Can you even hear yourself?" You flinch at the harshness in his voice. "Clones aren't born. We're created. And even if we had been, what are we supposed to do? Rebel? Send the Chancellor a polite letter? There's over a million of us. We've got the group to think about."

You clench your fists until you feel your nails cut into your skin. Your face burns; your blood boils. "That doesn't mean you don't deserve better."

"Well," he laughs again, "when you figure out a way to end the war, and all wars forever, until you feel more comfortable, let us know. We'll take you right to the Senate; I'm sure they'd love to hear."

"It's not just me—"

But your voice betrays you. It's much too thick and your throat tightens with welling tears until you can hardly breathe. 

"I just... hate this for you, Rex."

"I know."

In full armor now—though helmetless—his footsteps are heavier than ever on the thin floor. His gloved hand is gentle but cold when he takes you by the chin. There's something in his expression, something soft, that reminds you of the Rex who woke up on top of you this morning. But it's not quite him. This is the Captain. A CO of the GAR who looks at you now with hardened eyes. 

"I know, but you've got to try and understand. You're—" He shakes his head with a deflated sigh. "You're soft, sweetheart. Good soft. But maybe too soft."

You pull yourself from his grasp. He's close enough, still, to see the beads that cling to your lashes. You hate crying in front of him. And you flat out refuse to cry before the Captain.

"They don't care," you choke. Your head throbs. "They don't care if you die."

"Some of them would. But they're not meant to. Try to understand."

You look away in silence, back to the clouds. They're almost gone now. Rex clears his throat. 

"I'll be back in a few weeks..." He squeezes your arm. "Don't go anywhere while I'm gone."

You don't know how to respond, and you don't. You don't even look back at him, though you feel him let go—hear his heavy footsteps back across the room, the door opening, the door shutting. Footsteps down the hall. And silence.

It's a long time you stand there. Long enough for the morning to yield to full and freshened day. And when you force yourself to sit you gasp, and your heart races. It's the mattress. You need to replace it. You should have replaced it by now. But all you can do at this all but inextant moment is sit still. You don't want the springs to shriek again. 

And something inside you spreads like slow poison, changing your blood to lead and your cells and your muscles to mercurial moonlight. You should eat, a distant voice calls to you through the mist. Drink some water. Move, at least. But you'll have to get up and you want to get up but you're afraid, afraid of the bed groaning. So you sit still, so still you fall asleep without intending to. And when you wake up golden light pours through the window into your kitchen and the far corner. This time, though, it's towards the right and now the left. It's sunset, the voice returns. You sit up. The springs creak and there's a crick in your neck; it's autumn outside but inside you're dreadfully hot and almost sticky. This is why you don't take naps in the middle of the day. 

But at least your limbs will move again. You pull yourself out of bed, drift aimlessly to the window, unlock it with numbed fingers. The air is cooler but only just—that heavy, humid cool in the days before and after a storm. But with the air the daily pandemonium: engines and horns and shouts in every pitch and timbre that crush your ears and fumigate every nook and corner, the pockets of air in the sheets on your bed, the air between your shirt and your skin. 

"Come on, move!"

"Out of the way!"

"Never taking this lane again; like it never ends—"

Out of the way. Out of the way. The words echo in your brain. You can't get them out. Your heart races but your lungs have quit you; a millstone hangs around your neck and resin in your diaphragm. The air, the air—it's not coming. If not for the easel you might have collapsed: you clutch it like a vice, and the wood feels grainy under your hands... Splinters. You'll get splinters. You'll get splinters if you grip too hard, too long, and you can't get them out. So coarse—

And then that canvas! Fuzzy corners, blended colors, dim and muted, swirled and muddy, melting snow on early, strengthless daffodils. Chuck it. Chuck it—somehow, somewhere out the window to the endless, noisome pit below, the brushes, the paint, the easel—the very stolen shirt you wore—stolen! yes, you'd stolen it—out the window. Out the window. 

Out.

Out. 

Out. 

But the easel stays put. The painting, too. Your hands still on the splintering wood, the millstone on your chest, sludge the paint, sludge in your veins, sludge your paralytic. 

And when the millstone lifts your lungs balloon with air; your hands release and slip away with just enough time, not a moment to spare, to make to to the bed before tears come in droves.

He shouldn't have gone. 

He shouldn't have gone.

He shouldn't have gone. 

You should have said goodbye.

And didn't you? Surely you said something. You must have. You had to. And what can you do with yourself? It's not like he'll be back tomorrow. Back next week. Back next year. Not for certain. At war for months, for years with no reprieve. Or maybe not. Maybe awaiting hasty burial, dead in a sunless field, where the remains of grass and flowers smoulder. Or maybe not. Maybe left a hundred years, dead in a sunless field, to feed the next generation of reeds.

No, no—they don't leave brothers behind. Not if they can help it. They bury them with honor. They'd bury him with honor. They'd say goodbye. But you didn't know how.

How can you do it? you asked him long ago. He'd just told you about the search-and-rescue missions that sometimes—too often—turned into body recoveries. And you'd shuddered at the portrait: searching and and recovering and burying a hundred men and a hundred of your own face. I don't know how you do it.

"It's difficult work," he agreed gravely. "But we manage, all of us. Me and my brothers. No matter."

"I can't imagine. Or don't want to, maybe." You lay down on the grass, what felt like grass; it was green and almost blue beneath your head and soft as fleece. Rex sat beside you fully-armored, though helmetless. One of his hands stretches out towards yours, not quite touching. "Not just difficult work, but... soul-destroying, it would seem. Or you don't think so?"

"Well... I wouldn't know about that. We don't have the luxury of thinking like that."

"I wish you would," you hummed. The sky darkened. A star or two was showing. "It's only human."

"And only of a different sort," he countered. There was a smile in his voice, but a serious note, too. You didn't quite understand. So you continued, pointing:

"What are those?"

He looked up. Huge creatures with wings shaped like pterodactyls', vivid red and white and black like butterflies', wheeled above your heads like carrion birds, above the flowers tall as lamp posts. They swayed without a breeze; their broad leaves and broader petals glowed teal and magenta in the twilight and reflected off the bellies of the beasts. Or maybe the beasts glowed themselves. You couldn't... You couldn't tell—

"Those are the ——," Rex answered coolly.

"The what?"

"The ——."

You stared at him. What was he saying? It was like he spoke to you through a pool of deep water, or through very thick glass. Far, far away. 

"Rex?"

His mouth was moving, forming words, but it came to you a garbled mess.

"Rex? Rex, where are you?"

He spoke still, pointing to the circling creatures. They seemed so much closer now than they had just a moment ago, like the transports that sometimes brushed by your apartment... Every so often you glimpsed the rest of them through the thick foliage, so thick it fully canopied your grassy little clearing. But suddenly a creature poked its head through a skyscraper of a cerulean lily and much to your horror it was a human face. But still so birdlike!—shiny black, convex eyes twice the size of dinner plates stared back at you over a beak-like nose, thinly stretched over with bloodless skin. Its mouth is large enough to devour you whole.

"Rex—?"

"Not to worry, sweetheart." 

You worry anyway. You hated not to understand him but this is somehow worse, and when you turn around you find he's not even there. He's walked straight up to the creature without fear, mumbling something where its ears should be.

"That's a good girl, aren't ya?" He pats its neck. "Don't worry; she's with us. And she'll fly us back home if you'll hop on her back."

And now that you think of it, of course these creatures are part of the GAR. You've all but grown up with them outside your window.

But going home... Home's just around the corner, isn't it? Yes, it is; just behind that wall of daffodils. You walked from home to meet here with Rex; you remember somehow. But Rex is leaving on his carrion bird...

But you can run home! If you run, you can meet him there when he arrives. So you run, run home but the lane never ends. There are no corners to turn off into. Just a little more, just a little further ahead—that's the avenue you need. The enormous stems tower above you like skyscrapers and in the narrow gaps between them you catch snippets of home. Nothing so much as a door or a shingle but the painted blue and white that decorated its walls. And house-side of the foliage, a hawk flies low to the ground. It's paced with you, never ahead and never behind; perfectly silent, dark and indistinct, with a long tail. 

You're running still. The lane never ends. You get flashes of home, and a hawk flies beside you. It's quiet and shadowy. You're running and running. 

The lane never ends. A hawk flies beside you. It's getting dark out. The sun is setting. You're running. And then everything is still. Still so soon, still so fully that you lurch and your heart skips a beat.

And then everything's so bright. Too bright... you left the curtains wide open, you realize. And the window, too. The morning air blows into your apartment. But it's not cold air. It must be late, very late morning. 

Shit—you're probably late for work. And late by a good hour or two.

You roll onto your back; the sheets are cool against your neck. What's the point of rushing? It must be noon, or almost noon. How long were you asleep? It couldn't be as long as that... But you think and you think and you can't remember even waking up in the night, not even to close the window. But you do remember—what a strange and awful dream. You close your eyes, not to sleep but to think.

Had you... really said that to Rex? "Soul-destroying," you'd said. "Soul destroying work"—what on earth had you meant by that? You can't just say that to people. You couldn't have. It was a dream.

But—you had.

You had said that. Just in passing. It must have been months ago now, maybe a year, back when you'd first met him or a little after. But you'd been in a daylit diner with walls and booths and people—people of an ordinary size, people with ordinary features. And you'd said it so off-handedly! That's right, a casual conversation... And what did he say? ... You couldn't remember. Or had he said anything at all? Maybe not. Maybe he'd just continued to wolf down his food like he'd never see it again. Whatever he did, he couldn't have seemed particularly bothered. You would have remembered, surely, as you lie on the old pull-out couch in the late morning.

And when you open your eyes the light remains; off and to the left your painting stands unfinished. And of course it does, unless any creature flew to your window and carried it away in the night. Noonday sunshine forms a pleasant halo while a shadow hangs over its surface. It makes the colors look so dull and faded. Not nearly so abhorrent as they had seemed last night; you're too tired, really, to hate it too much. Abhorrence is born of the fire within, and the fire's long rained out. The ashes smoulder and smoke and your lungs are heavy. There's just enough spark to heave a great sigh, turn back on your side, and fall asleep again. Maybe Rex will have beaten you home after all. 

But Rex doesn't come home that day.

You wake up next morning at dawn; your boss chides you for missing a Monday; the days move on and you along with them. You rise tired, you sleep tired. You do it all again. And in the day-to-day it's easier to eat, to move, to drink, and you find yourself firmly tethered again. The fire is gone and with it your fear; the night is over and the morning not begun. Now is the twilight and the working-hours: the colorless and the nameless and the painless. The memory of the carrion birds darkens. And Rex doesn't come home that week, nor the next.

Nor the next.

And the fragile autumn blue gives way to early winter. In the heart of Coruscant winter is mild, with the metal and concrete and exhaust from the pit. It's good, you think, that it's not so bitterly cold, else that might be too much to bear, good that you can still open the window without shivering. You like for the fresh air to blow in. And what's winter on Naboo like? Or is it winter? Might it not be spring, or high summer? ...

And you think of the 501st in the spring and the lengthening days. Everything is waking up. Everything is new. 

But here the nights stretch on and on, like a snake from its coil; you leave and return to your studio without the sun. On these days you stand again at the window. Hundreds of thousands of man-made lights in every tint and shade imaginable—but they do little to cheer up the late afternoons. No lamp you light will suffice. And it's on such a day as this (a near-night, rather, and a Saturday) that you watch the sun set at four in the afternoon. 

It's the winter solstice, you believe; a coworker mentioned going out for drinks several days ago. No... no, that was only Friday. One day, then. Two thirds of a day. It doesn't matter. You've long lost track of time in the endless, twilit work day, and now the night is upon you again. 

In the corner are your paints and brushes. Your easel, your brushes, your abandoned canvas. The paint's been dried for weeks, and now a new layer of fine dust—the sun reaches it only rarely here and it's easier to forget. But the empty bottom half, two thirds, really, seems so expansive—so much more so than when you'd first set it aside. You'd resevered the emptiness for the city before you and its discarnate, artificial light. But you've stared at them so long; all you want now is the kiss of the sun, a warmer summer wind, and the padding of grass and clover you've never felt beneath your feet. 

You move the easel back to its spot before the window; in the last real dying rays you mix together your paints. And you pull on the old, oversized blacks. The sleeves are cold against your skin. 

In your mind's eye, a field. Not a field, a meadow firmly beneath your grounded feet. Hills beyond or mountains, maybe—indigo beneath the storm above, veiny tracts of gold-lined lilac where the sunlight's broken through. Flowers in the foreground. Poppies red as pomegranites, daisies white, forget-me-nots scattered across the slopes. Would they really grow side by side? Do they bloom at the same time? ... You don't know, nor do you care. You paint them all the same. The storm sends a great wind to prepare its way, or to herald its departure. It blows their petals up and all around: an airborne current of blue and white and red. 

It's beautiful. Much more beautiful than here. But the canvas still isn't used up—not even the mountains behind suffice to fill the negative. And the meadow seems so terribly lonely. Stroke by stroke you create a frame, solid and steadfast.

You've heard Naboo is a beautiful place. And you've seen pictures, too, of the lake country and its mountains all around and the palace at Theed with its high turquoise domes. And you imagine them now: they'd look like eyes, wouldn't they? Great blue eyes watching you and the sun and the stars, could you fly as a bird overhead...

And you never looked back at him.

Your hand stills. That's right. You hadn't. And you resume.

Fabric from fabric his hand slipped away. You felt it. You heard the footsteps. You heard the door. And you did not turn.

A shuddering breath. You grip your brush in your fist like a child holds a pen. You squeeze your eyes shut.

When did Rex last look at you? You only remember from across the room, across the sky, across the valleys, the Captain with the hardened eyes.

You wash your new-sketched frame with titanium white and check the time on your datapad. Ten o'clock. You're not going to stop; you're not going to allow it another minute in that sunless corner. And you're not going to stop because it is what it is and you'll manage, all of you, no matter.

And you sleep and eat and work and sleep again, and winter surrenders to spring. Longer days from longer nights; the sun shines and the air warms. Your apartment is made light again and clean. The painting is finished, varnished, and hung by your bedside. Morning is at hand.

*          *          *

It's early, very early Morning (and a very wet one, too) when you hear footsteps in the hall. The door opens, the door shuts; there are footsteps in the room—heavy yet soft, in a controlled sort of way—and then the silence. You've been washing your face in the bathroom before bed; you press your face against the door as your heart races. From the other side, you catch a broken sigh.

"Hello?"

You throw the door open a little too suddenly. "Rex?" 

Rex stands still and at attention. His helmet tucked in the crook of his arm, he's straight and stiff as if he were speaking to his CO. But even in the dim orange light you can see the weary lines around his eyes. He won't quite meet your gaze.

"I'm sorry to wake you."

The five feet between you might as well be a chasm, bridgeless and bottomless and prone to slides. "You didn't. I just... I hadn't been expecting you."

"I know. I'm sorry."

He rubs the back of his head. You feel strongly that he's not angry with you. Just... you don't know.

"Why don't you take all this off," you nod at his armor, speaking slowly, "and take a shower. Have you eaten?"

"Yes, sir."

You stare at him. His face crumbles, and he sighs. Your heart breaks.

"You're dead on your feet, Rex," you murmur. You take a step towards him to take his free hand; to your relief he doesn't back away. And now that you think of it, you don't know why you expected him to. "Let's get you some rest."

Rex nods and begins to take off his armor, mechanically and methodically. You go to pull out the bed and arange the sheets but sneak glances of him as he works. His cuirass first and then his cuisses, the greaves, the vambraces, the spaulders, and a dozen other plates you don't know what to call—stacked neatly atop each other like shells or reams of paper. His comlink fits gently in the curve of his gauntlet. Surrounding them all is his belt and finally his helmet. When he leaves for a five-minute shower, the jaig eyes remain and watch you carefully. They're a comfort to you.

When Rex comes out you're in the kitchen, setting the caf machine for just a few hours. You faintly hear him sit on the bed.

"When did you get back?"

"A few hours ago. What time is it now?"

"1:33."

"Hm. Sounds about right." He pauses. "You fixed the springs?"

"New bed, actually," you hum. "But the sheets are still the same."

He doesn't answer. And you're content to finish your chores, but the silence goes on, much longer than you had expected or hoped for, while you set out two clean mugs for later. The ceramic on laminate grates on your ears. You'd ask how long he's here for, but not this late—this early, rather. He could leave in an hour for all you care: he's here. And that'll be enough for the moment.

But then the silence breaks for real and when you turn around, it's worse than you could have imagined:

"What is this?"

Rex sits, bent over, on the bed with a full canvas in his hands. It's dim but you can't mistake the moody purples, the burst of yellow, the crop of blonde hair. Shit. Shit. You should have put it away. And he's taken it down from the wall! You could have put it away—he was in the shower just a few minutes ago—and you hadn't even thought of it.

No matter. No matter. It's here and so is he. But your voice is quiet.

"It's a painting, Rex."

"I know; I—I..." He shakes his head and seems to deflate. You flip of the kitchen lights and drift towards him slowly, your eyes readjusting to the softer orange of your bedside lamp. Slowly, slowly.

There in his hands is the painting.

That whirl of stormclouds, that sunshine breaking through, kissing the flowers and the hills and the valleys. But in the foreground, tall and broad and grounded, is the Captain himself. In full armor—though helmetless—he faces the mountains beyond. But he looks up: up towards the sun, up towards the rivulet of flower petals blowing softly overhead; one brushes against his gold-lit cheek. A butterfly—huge and bold and red and black—rests on his shoulder while his hand rests at his side, clutching a short bouquet of poppies and forget-me-knots. The colors are vivid, the composition sure: yes, it turned out well. Even if you're mortified that it's now in his hands. 

"Is this me?"

"That's you."

"It's... I..." Rex releases a shuddering breath. His hands grip the edges of the canvas as hard as they can without tearing it.

"It's lovely."

"Rex?"

He won't look at you. Decidedly. You reach a slow hand to his shoulder; he's shaking.

"Hey. Hey—"

You tug the painting from his grasp, propping it against the arm of the couch, and go to cover his hand with yours. But at that moment he looks at you and to your horror there are tears in his eyes.

"Is this... Is this how you see me?"

You're quiet for a moment as you hold his gaze steadily. You'll feel tears pricking at your own eyes soon, no doubt. But you'll manage.

"Yes," you say finally. "And this is... how you are, I think. But I can't really say that."

He nods, and nods, until it's not nodding at all but shaking with deep, shaky breaths. You pull him into your arms, tightly against your chest. And Rex weeps.

It's a long time before either of you speak. Doubled-over as you are, stretching your arms as far as they'll go over his bare and bruised and bandaged back, his skin still damp from the shower—the water seeps into your nightshirt and you almost shiver. But he is an anchor to you and you to him—even as he weeps and you with him against the sound of the pouring rain. And when your tears dry and the outpour ebbs, you still hold him. His arms clutch at your waist; his face is buried in your chest. He mutters something you don't catch into the fabric.

"It's what?"

"It's you," he mumbles.

"Hm?"

"Soft. You're... so soft..."

The words trail off. Fresh tears well in your eyes. "Rex—"

Your voice trembles and your head throbs. "Rex, I'm sorry—"

"No." He gathers your shirt in his fists, pulling himself impossibly closer. "Don't."

"But I didn't—didn't even—" Your throat constricts as the beginnings of a sob surge in your chest. 

"I didn't even look at you."

He doesn't say anything, though his arms grip you tighter.

"You shouldn't—" You swallow, forcing the words out one by one. "You deserve better, Rex. Better from me."

He's shaking again. 

"Sweetheart—" Rex lifts his head and you're startled to see how red and swollen his eyes are, though yours probably look much the same. "You can't."

"But—"

"And you deserve better from me," he says firmly, hoarsely. "And I... I can't give it to you. That's just... how it is. But—" He takes your face in his hands, wiping your tears away even as his own still dry on his face. "—I can keep coming back to you. If you'll still wait for me—"

He doesn't get to finish. You've thrown your arms around his neck, pressed your lips to his. Chapped and warm and salty with tears and he kisses you back like a man starved: all but devouring you, fixed beneath his hands. So much power there and raw strength—it's what he was made for, after all. But he holds you so gently. He could break you in half in the blink of an eye and he won't, not ever. It's not his way.

And not yours, either, to tear him apart.

"I promise you. Forever, forever..." you whisper, "... and I'll be better. Better to you, my love."

Rex mumbles your name against your lips. It's sugar-sweet, flower-fragrant on your tongue. Another kiss, an oath, a brand, and tongues of fire shared between your lungs; a love whispered and a current petal-soft behind your eyes. I love you. I love you. I love you more. I promise.

When you turn off the lamp darkness settles in, though not the silence. You settle in, him on his side, you on yours; the curtains blow like streamers in the gentle, humid air of early spring, wafting through the open window beyond which shapes of blue and silver, red and gold shrink and stretch and die and light again. It's lessened now, you think. 

One hand rests again in Rex's hair; the other lies towards the window where you've fixed your gaze. But Rex, using your stomach for a pillow, takes your outstretched hand in his and pulls it to his lips. And he keeps it there, squeezing tightly, while you trace figure eights against his scalp.

"Rough day, hm?"

"Something like that," he chuckles. The sound alone is fresher air to your soul than any that's ever blown in from the window. "Maybe a rough year. But I'll tell you tomorrow. Let's get some sleep."

You hum in response and close your eyes as your breathing harmonizes with his. All is still, yet gently moving. Perfect for a moment.

Your eyes flash open and your heart skips a beat.

"You'll be here tomorrow?"

He yawns and squeezes your hand. 

"Mm. Like hell I will. Go back to sleep."

And so you do. 

Tagging: @notreallybeccab, @softly-sad, @unlockyourmind-wp, @saltybreaddream, @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky, @simping-for-fives, @arianalilyblack, @liadamerondjarin, @captainrexstan, @princessxkenobi, @obi-bae-kenobi, @nobie, @meshlamando, @kyjoraven​, @anakin-danvers​, @beskar-tano​, @morganas-pendragons​, @catsnkooks​, @lloveyouinsecret​, @goldenkenobi​, @acciokenobi​, @cherrykenobi​, @wille-zarr​, @thespareoom​, @mcu-padawan​, @agent-catfish-kenobi​

[solinarimoon]

Little Sea - Part I

AN: This is my first time writing outside of The Last Kingdom fandom, but I originally joined tumblr to find Hvitserk content.  So I hope my writing for him does it justice.  This is for @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie Congratulations on your milestone love!   This story is a Vikings/TLK crossover but Sihtric is basically placed into the Vikings universe.  I know in our heads these two belong in the same universe, so enjoy.  My prompt was a reimagining of The Little Mermaid fairytale. The story got too long so I am breaking it into two parts.  Sjór means sea in Old Norse, at least according to one website I found. I have more notes at the end of part two.

Warnings: Angst, unrequited love, suicidal imagery/implications, Vikings canon Ivar cruelty

My Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She swam, racing the currents in the sea.  The water’s hazy depths constantly shifted and mottled in a swirling dance.  Hues of blue and green mixed with inky darkness but faded to the rays of the sun’s light filtering through from the surface.  

The cold temperatures below the fathoms began to warm as Alba swam towards the surface.  Swishing her fins, she felt the drag of the water as she climbed higher until slowing and ultimately stopping herself just before breaching the surface.

His face stared down at her above the water.  His lips spoke words that she could not hear.  His face was calm and serene. Happy.

The only sound was the rushing tumult of waves breaking, crashing upon rocks at the base of a cliff.  

Alba flicked her tail trying in vain to break through the surface.  She wanted nothing more than to rise above the water and envelop Hvitserk in her arms.

The fear and the panic began to rise instead.  And without warning, Alba felt her terror intensify as her tail had been replaced with two legs.  Hvitserk’s face grew farther and farther away while she sank back below the dark depths.

~~~~~~~~

Alba woke with a start, sitting up in her bed and breathing heavily.  Her hands clung to the furs draped across her, pulling them aside to reveal two legs and feet.  The sight still seemed surreal to her. 

This was not the first night she had awoken from this dream.  It was occurring more and more often as she felt the pull to return to the sea.  Return home.  And as she watched Hvitserk continue to move further and further away from her.

Slowly, the young woman stood from her bed steadying herself as her legs wavered like someone returning to shore after living on a ship for weeks.  She draped a cowl of furs around herself and pushed aside the door leading from her small hut on to the beach.

Only a few paces brought Alba up to the water’s edge.  The waves lapped over her toes and Alba breathed easier.  Salty spray drifted across the cove where the waves were always harsh and ragged against the cliffs to the north.

Alba trained her eyes on the grey horizon, watching as the mist began to fade and the shadows melted away.  She breathed in the taste of the ocean’s air and for a moment felt content.

But that moment was broken when she noticed a set of forlorn footsteps approaching her.

“I knew you would be up and on the beach already.”

His voice was low and groggy as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders with a gentle squeeze.  Alba wondered if he had seen his own bed that night.  

“I wish I could help you find whatever you are looking for on the water, little Sjór.”

Alba turned her face ever so slightly to question him with a silent gaze.  And to see his braids looking disheveled. And a small bruise just under his jaw. 

“When we met, it was not unlike this,” Hvitserk paused when Alba turned her face towards him fully, furrowing her brow in confusion.  “I mean it was very different because I still have no idea how a half drowned young woman came to be lying between the rocks on the north edge of the cove, covered by nothing but a ragged boat sail,” his lips had pursed slightly trying to ward of the smirk Alba knew he was fighting.  Shuffling his feet in the sand and clearing his throat, he continued, “so it was different but you also still had that look I see so often. The one you had moments ago. Like you’ve lost something. And you’re waiting for it to return to you.”

Alba turned her eyes back to gaze across the water before dropping her face to the sand with a huff.  “Looking for your voice, perhaps?”

Alba looked up with her mouth dropped open in shock to see the young man grinning fully while she pushed him lightly away. Hvitserk let out a true laugh before wrapping his arm once more around Alba’s shoulder. Comfortable and brotherly. 

Scuffing a bare foot in the sand, Alba moved away from his side and began ambling down the beach knowing Hvitserk would follow. 

It was no use trying to hold that one sided conversation again. Part of the enchantment prevented her from revealing the truth about where she came from, about what she was…is…would be once more.  So even if they played a crude pantomime game, she still could not reveal if his guess were to be correct. 

Her time on land was almost spent. Her time with him would come to an end. Alba knew in her heart that Hvitserk was not in love with her.  And the binding nature of the enchantment would not bend. No matter how much love she felt for him. Or how much she had become endeared to him. That was not the problem. He did love her. But it was not true love. Not for him.  So she would return to the sea, but not today.

Alba sighed, straightened her shoulders and raised her head, breaking herself from her thoughts. 

She turned to look at Hvitserk walking alongside her, scuffing his boots beside her bare feet. Gently, Alba reached out her hand and tapped his neck where she’d noticed the small bruise. 

Hvitserk met her eyes with a mischievous smile. 

“Oh that, there? That is nothing, little Sjór.  Only a slight bite I received from one of the forest trolls while I was searching for mushrooms.” 

The pair laughed at his jest, her silently and him with gentle chuckles before he continued, sincerity beginning to lace its way into his words. 

“I was with Thora last night.”

Alba arched an eyebrow at him. 

“Yes, again.” Hvitserk chuckled lightheartedly. He missed Alba’s eyebrows relax and the smile on her face fall as she listened to him talk about the new woman.  

~~~~~~~~~~

Alba woke to the sound of rain pelting the thatch roof of her small cottage. Sleepily, she opened her eyes just as a streak of lightning illuminated the sky. She had seen the flash through the leaking cracks of her shutters. 

Several moments later the booming echo of Thor’s hammer against the clouds brought a slight curve to her mouth.  A rain storm was dangerous on the water. Perilous. But under the water, Alba and her sisters had been fond of watching the crash and roll of the tumultuous waves. The lightning scattering crystalline lights across the surface of the water. A beautiful orchestra of light and movement. 

A rain storm did not startle her. A rain storm felt like home.  Alba nestled further down into her furs, feeling their weight and warmth bringing her back to sleep. 

Except this thunderous booming continued on far longer than any true thunderclap. And it was now accompanied by a muffled voice. 

Hvitserk. 

No one else ever came to her door. Barely another soul knew she even existed or much less where she dwelled.

Alba opened the door to a torrent of rain blocked only by Hvitserk’s tall frame. 

For a moment, they stood staring at one another, the rain continuing to sleet down on them.

In the dark, Alba could barely make out the features of his face.  She searched his face, her eyes questioning.  But only for a moment before Alba grabbed his arm, ushering him inside and closing the door.  

In two strides, Alba moved across the room to gather up the furs from her bed and drape them across Hvitserk’s shoulders then settling him down on the short bench next to her cookfire.  Alba stoked up the flames from the low burning embers before turning on her knees to look at him. 

Beads of rainwater still tracked down the strands of his hair that had come free from his braids and he had made no move to wipe the dampness from his face.

He met her eyes as he spoke, “It’s Ivar,” he stated simply.

Alba shuffled closer to him and placed her hand on his arm, atop the furs.

“He is sending me as his messenger to King Olaf. In Norway,” Hvitserk paused to turn his head.  He clasped his hands together while bringing them up to rest against his mouth.  He was staring off towards the other side of the room.  His next words were muffled against his fist.

“I don’t know what my brother thinks he is going to do,” he chuckled then continued, “my brother the god king.”

Alba starred while Hvitserk worked through whatever thoughts were raging in his mind.  Increasingly in the past weeks, Hvitserk’s worry over his brother’s rule in Kattegat had grown.  Though he did not often openly criticize Ivar, it was clear to Alba that he carried many burdens for his younger brother. Burdens that left him questioning his path and his fate. And questioning the path his brother was forging.  

The young woman scooted herself closer to him and placed her palm against his cheek, lightly pulling his face back to meet hers. 

She saw the torment and frustration in his brow. It was mirrored on her own face.  She opened her mouth but could only huff and furrow her brow more. Sighing, Alba looked around the room, searching for everything and nothing before finally settling her eyes back onto him. 

“Even if you had words, little Sjór, there are none you could speak that would save me.”

At this, Alba felt her face shift from frustration to concern, her eyes frantically searching his face for more answers. 

“I must do as Ivar bids. And I leave you behind to deal with Ivar’s tyranny. His madness.” Hvitserk dropped his head into his hands, continuing to talk. His words came more easily now as his emotions boiled over. “And my love, Thora. I leave her behind but she does not have the anonymity you do to protect her. I fear for her. I fear what Ivar may do to her while I am away.”

Hvitserk hung his head and sighed heavily.  Alba felt her chest stutter as she realized she was holding back tears.  He truly did love Thora.  And Alba could not help herself from liking the young woman as well.  

Hvitserk had brought Thora to the beach to meet her one day.  And though it made her heart ache, Alba could not deny that she saw the love that was blooming there.  From the casual way that she saw their bodys lean into one another to the way Hvitserk watched Thora when she did not know he was watching.  While Alba was watching him.  That night, she had cried silent tears alone on the beach, while the ocean’s mist cried with her.  And the ache in her chest now was the same.

Trying her best to quell the sobs threatening to escape her lungs, Alba shifted herself once more to sit beside him on the bench.  Gently, she cradled him in her arms and stroked back the strands of his hair, now drying by the heat from the fire.  Hvitserk hugged her knees and closed his eyes for a moment, taking comfort from the care and love in Alba’s touch.  

“I will miss you while I am away.  I know you enjoy your solitude. But if you can, keep an eye out for my Thora. Ivar has made comments. Said things that make me fear she may be a target for his frustration.  She sees how dangerous Ivar has become. It threatens him.”

The more Hvitserk continued on, the more Alba’s heart continued to tear. Her prince's concern and worry was for another.  He was in love with another.  She let out a silent sob, but laying in her lap, Hvitserk felt the jolt of her body. The pain she could no longer hold back. 

Sitting up, he questioned, “What is it, Sjór?”

Alba closed her eyes and felt the tears cascade down her face as she shook her head.  

Hvitserk took her face in his hands, turning his body so that he straddled the bench. The furs around his shoulders dropped to the ground, forgotten.  

“Hey, hey look at me?”

Alba opened her eyes to see concern etched across his features.  Silently cursing her tears, she pushed his hands away and stood, wrapping her arms around herself and stepping away towards the door.  He was tormented enough and did not need to add her pain to his. A pain that she could not explain to him. 

“Sjór, I….” He started, standing to face her and grabbing her arms, firm but gentle.  His words fell silent as he watched the tears continue to track down her cheeks. 

Huffing in frustration, Alba wiped the tears away. The two stood silent except for Alba’s shaky breaths for several moments. 

Finally, Alba brought her fist up to thump against her chest. Over her heart. Gathering her courage, she took her fist, relaxing her fingers and placed her hand over Hvitserk’s own heart. And then brought her head to rest against her hand, feeling his breath and the questions in his stance. 

Taking a step back and removing her hand to wipe another stray tear, Alba met his eye. With more force she took her fist to thump against his chest. In the same spot, over his heart. 

Looking down to her hand, Alba tapped her fist against him once more then brought her hand up and pointed a single finger towards her window.  Towards Thora, towards his love. 

She watched as Hivitserk’s brow, a deep line of confusion, slowly relaxed.  A look of realization spread across his face. 

To then be replaced by something more unbearable. 

Pity. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Bare feet found their way along the soft mosses and lichen carpeting the ground up the paths surrounding the northern side of the cove.  Alba stepped slow and deliberate, feeling the air growing cooler.  The spray of the mist off the sea left salty pin pricks of water glistening across her bare arms.  

Low in the distance, the rumble of thunder rolled.  As she crested the height of the cliffs, Alba found the crash of the waves joining in the thrum of the oncoming storm.  The energy in the air was mounting.  Mirroring Alba’s rising anguish. 

Thora was dead.  A cruel and horrifying death.

Ivar was rampaging.  His madness was building and unstable.  

And Hvitserk.  Her sweet Hvitserk was gone.  If Ivar was to be believed...If what he said was true, he was lost.  Dead at the orders of King Olaf.

Alba fell to her knees at the cliff's edge.  Her hands gripped tight onto the sharp rock’s edge.  The rough surface painful and grating at the pads of her fingers.  She clung to the edge.  Her eyes staring down at the waves below.  The maelstrom of the waves calling to her.  To end her suffering.  End the anguish and pain.  

Alba stood, the wind whipping her dress as the rain began, drops gently splattering across the terrain.  The young woman looked up towards the clouds and closed her eyes, feeling tears spill over across her cheeks.  

Silently, Alba let the anguish wash over her.  Knowing he was lost.  And the sea was calling her to return.

Alba’s time on legs would soon be done.  She had not found her love returned.  And she could not stay.  The pull of the sea was calling to her stronger and stronger.  Her sisters called to her to return to them. 

Slowly, she dropped her face back down to the tumult below and took a step forward.

“Don’t!”

The voice stopped her movements.  The roll of thunder boomed again. Several tense moments passed before Alba heard the voice again.

“Please don’t.”

The voice was deep and soothing.  But Alba could sense something else behind the words.  Panic.  Desperation.

Weakly, she turned to face the nameless voice, her head turning back to look across her shoulder.  The rain was cascading in steady rivulets now.  Mingling with the tears staining Alba’s face.  Her dress had quickly become sodden and clung to her skin.

When her eyes came to the tree line, she saw him.

He was tall.  Dark.  His hair plastered to the sides of his face from the rain.  Hands raised to indicate he was no threat to her.

Slowly, tentatively the man stepped forward to stand beside her before he spoke again.

Alba’s eyes tracked his movements.  

When he was close enough to touch her, he spoke once more.

“Please.  Do not succumb to it.”

When Alba did nothing but stare, the man continued, “To your grief.  Please.”

It was the please that caught her.  The gentleness and the kindness in his eyes as he pleaded with her.

His arms caught her as she collapsed atop the cliff, allowing the despair to wash over her.

The man held her while she cried, silent sobs that shook her to her core.  Her fingers twisting and clinging to the folds of his shirt.  His arms steady and firm around her shoulders as he cradled her. He held her until she stilled while the rains continued their lament.  And when she was half asleep, ruined with exhaustion he carried her back down the path.  

He settled her down underneath his own roof, beside a comfortable fire to dry her clothes and hair.

The man handed her a small bowl full of warm broth.  

“Go ahead,” he coaxed, “you must get dry and eat.  You do not want to catch cold. And then you should sleep.”

When Alba stared at him questioningly, he added, “You have nothing to fear from me. I am called Sihtric.”

~~~~~~~~~~~ To be continued in part II

Tagging my usuals.  Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my taglist.

Tags: @maggiescarborough @pokeasleepingsmaug @nxrdist @mystic-shadows42 @emilyhufflepufftlk @magravenwrites @lauwrite1225 @morosemagick @thebohemianpenguin @mrsalwayswrite @notyourwildestdream @obipoelover-deactivated20210806 @ecarroll1978 @93xdiagonxalley @nobodys-business-world @evelynshelby @trenko-heart @0hsappho

[strawberrycinema]

So the other day i worked a 9hr shift for the first time in a long while and apparently this time it meant i got an hour lunch break jammed in between. i didn't know this until break time. cue me spending the first five minutes wandering around not knowing what to do with myself and this newfound freedom of time--i bought a salad. i was hungry. the break room was full of the loud coworkers so i decided to partake, for the first time, in the sacred tradition of eating in my car. inconvenience, minor: it was pouring down rain. inconvenience, moderate: i had parked aaaaalll the way in the very back of the parking lot. inconvenience, ehhh still moderate: all i had was a sweatshirt and cloth bag to get me from point a to point b. suffice to say, it was gonna be a damp hour in my car. i got there fine. a little thunder and lightning kinda moved things along, i had certainly worked up an appetite by then--i didn't have a fork. i had forgotten to grab a fork. opposite side of the parking lot hunkered wet and cold in my car during a storm, 12 minutes into my newfangled hour-long break, with a salad. and no fork. sometimes you reach a point in your life where, like, you KNOW there is a hard way forward. and then there's a Hard Way forward. and i think that day i finally embraced the wisdom that sometimes life presents you with an opportunity to eat a salad like the wild horse from a horsegirl movie, and, really, you ought to take it. thanks, hope you're well <3

I’m publishing this ask because the imagery is so evocative, the picture you painted so compelling, the tension so palpable. I’m enchanted. Thank you for this.

[seehowsupplethespineis]

When the Wind Roars

(I can’t believe I finally finished this!!! This story was originally intended to be much shorter, but...obviously I got a bit carried away. Expect lots of angst. There’s some fluff, too, but mostly ANGST.)

(Plot Summary: In the past, Starscream and Skyfire made quite the team, but even then, that partnership was put to the test. In the present, Starscream and Skyfire do battle, as Starscream tries to rid himself of their shared memories once and for all.)

(Warnings: violence, guns, injury, a bit of disturbing imagery, death mention, lots of vengeful thoughts)

Present

The wind roared deafeningly at the peak of the mountain. It had only picked up in intensity in the few cycles they’d been stationed here, bringing with it a relentless rain that blanketed the world in hues of grey. Starscream scowled as he hastened to catch a stray bit of metal before it went tumbling off the mountainside, his feet nearly slipping out from under him in the sea of mud. He hated this weather. It was cold and wet and impossible to work in.

Of course, Starscream had faced far worse weather than this, but that was of little comfort.

Rumble was also fed up. After face planting in the mud for the fourth time, the minicon threw down his supply of metal beams with a cry of outrage.

“This is stupid!” he exclaimed, “How does Megatron expect us to build anything up here?!”

Starscream scowled at him, “I did not say you could stop working!”

Rumble’s small fists balled up at his sides, “What are you gonna do about it?”

Starscream didn’t like to be challenged. Without hesitation, he chucked the piece of metal he’d been holding at Rumble, who toppled over once more.

“I said work!” The other Decepticons hastened to comply as Rumble crawled out from under the metal, studiously avoiding Starscream’s withering glare.

In all honesty, Starscream was just as furious as Rumble, though his frustration was more because he was forced to work up here on this Primusforsaken mountain; he should be leading an attack on the Autobots, not laboring in the mud. This was far beneath him.

Despite his demand that everyone keep working, Starscream paused to look up at the sky. It was grey and murky but a ray of light shone through, reaching only so far as to give a hint of warmth.

He was reminded of another planet he’d visited millions of years ago. It was just as wet and windy as this one; just as meddlesome. He hadn’t been alone then, either, nor was he alone when he’d first visited this accursed planet.

A few rain drops splattered on his optics and Starscream violently wiped them away, an irritated snarl escaping him.

“Starscream!” It was Thundercracker.

“What now?!”

“Autobots!”

At first, Starscream didn’t believe him. There was no road up to this mountain. The wheel-bound Autobots would be unable to make it up here; even by foot, the journey was too perilous. The only way up was through flight.

Starscream’s optics widened. He lowered his servos from his face to find the mountainside cast in shadow. His gaze flicked upward.

Above him, in a halo of light, hovered a large, white jet.

Starscream felt sudden heat swell within him despite the cold.

“Shoot him out of the sky!!!”

A distant planet, millions of years ago...

“This is very likely a bad idea.”

“You say that about everything.”

“No, I only say that when a situation seems hazardous...this situation seems hazardous.”

“Honestly, Skyfire, you can be so cowardly sometimes,” Starscream transformed back to root mode as he touched down on a muddy precipice. He scowled as his feet sank into the muck but kept a chipper tone as he addressed his partner, “I can barely feel the wind!”

Skyfire set down beside him. The sudden weight of the two jets shook the cliffside, sending a few boulders tumbling over the edge. Skyfire watched their descent and frowned.

“You’ve seen the weather report, Starscream,” he said quietly, “The storm could pick up any moment now.

Starscream waved a flippant servo. Raindrops spiraled off his digits, “If it does, we can handle it! We’ve suffered through far worse, you and I.”

“Perhaps,” said Skyfire, “But nothing which hampered our ability to fly away.”

Starscream shook his head; he loved Skyfire, but sometimes he was a real pain in the afterburner. They’d been on countless exploration missions before and faced plenty of unsavory weather conditions; floods, earthquakes, they’d survived them all. What was a little storm to them?

“If you want to go, fine!” Starscream started walking, “I’ll complete this mission myself.”

He’d barely taken two steps before Skyfire was at his side, as Starscream knew he’d be. The smaller jet grinned up at him and Skyfire sighed.

“Let’s just get a lay of the land and go. We can come back for those crystal samples we’re supposed to investigate when the storm lets up.”

Starscream heaved a dramatic sigh, “That could take ages, Skyfire, and we’re on a tight schedule! We’re meant to be returning to Cybertron soon.”

Skyfire glanced away at that. Starscream narrowed his optics.

“What is it?”

Fiddling with his portable scanner, Skyfire shook his head, “It’s just...Cybertron has been so...contentious of late. Part of the reason I volunteered for this expedition was because I wanted to get away for a while.”

“I thought you volunteered because I volunteered,” Starscream said with a slight smirk.

Skyfire glanced at him and smiled, “I do have a mind of my own, you know.”

“Yes,” Starscream agreed, “And it’s smart enough to follow me.”

A laugh escaped the larger jet, “Or dumb enough.”

“Nonsense! We’re highly intelligent bots, Skyfire,” Starscream ruined the sentiment by tripping over a boulder, but Skyfire righted him before his face hit the mud. Coughing slightly to hide his embarrassment, Starscream continued,  “That’s why we work so perfectly together.”

Skyfire still kept a hold of Starscream’s arm as he considered his partner’s words. At last, he let his servo drift down to clutch Starscream’s hand.

“Interesting hypothesis.”

Starscream’s processor seemed to momentarily short out, but it came back online as Skyfire regarded him fondly with those brilliant blue eyes of his. Flustered, Starscream only stared, until eventually he managed to connect his processor back to his voice.

“Interesting fact,” he corrected, squeezing Skyfire’s hand, “That we shall prove now!”

He pointed up the mountain with his free servo. High above, the faintest gleam, as of polished metal, twinkled in the faint light.

“Those are the crystals.”

Skyfire squinted up at them and raised his scanner, “Hmm...they definitely have a high energy output. Akin to energon.”

“We need a sample,” Starscream broke away from Skyfire so he could take flight. Skyfire laid a hand on his shoulder before he could.

“Starscream, look at those clouds,” Skyfire gestured up at the - admittedly - ominous sky above them, “I would not advise flying.”

“So what, we climb?” Starscream had to shout to be heard over a sudden gust of wind.

“No, we wait until the weather becomes more favorable.”

A burst of lightning and a rumble of thunder punctuated Skyfire’s words. Starscream couldn’t deny the sudden thrill of apprehension that shot through his system, but he wasn’t about to be bested by a mere storm.

“I’m going for it!”

“Don’t!” Skyfire’s grip on his shoulder was more insistent, “The wind is picking up. You could get blown into the mountain side or crash to the ground. And those crystals are brimming with unstable energy! We shouldn’t get too-!”

“I am a scientist, Skyfire!” Starscream shook free of the other jet, “I know how to handle dangerous substances. And I know how to handle myself, thank you very much!”

Skyfire opened his mouth but whatever he said was lost to the wind.

“What?!” Starscream shouted.

“I said, we must seek shelter!”

“We’re on a cliff! Where-” Starscream’s response was cut short as a large rock tumbled down from above, forcing the smaller jet to leap out of the way. Scowling, he glanced up to where the rock had come from, and his optics widened as he saw still more crashing down.

“Move!” Skyfire yelled. As one, he and Starscream dove off the cliff and transformed back to jet mode. Instantly, Starscream felt the wind buffet his wings, threatening to splatter him against the cliff side. Okay, he conceded to himself, Maybe the weather is too much.

The rain poured down in earnest, now, blanketing Starscream’s windshield to the point where the world became a hazy, grey blur. A bolt of lightning arced down. It was far, far too close for his liking, and Starscream instinctively swerved away.

Extending his long range sensors, he sought a safe place to land below. Skyfire would be doing the same, he knew. His sensors probed the sky around him, trying to pinpoint the white jet so they could touch down together.

Something within him froze. He extended his sensors further, as far as he could. His engines faltered. The wind pressed in around him, rattling him to his very core, but he paid no heed.

In a moment’s frantic decision, Starscream transformed back to root mode and scanned the landscape with his optics.

Even as he plummeted to the ground, he called out desperately.

“SKYFIRE!”

Present

Energy bolts lit up the gloomy mountain as the Decepticons opened fire. As if sensing the sudden hostility, lightning split open the sky and a deep, resounding rumble followed soon after. Starscream’s optics were momentarily dazzled by the stunning displays surrounding him, and when they adjusted, three Autobots had leaped down from the sky to stand before him.

He recognized their leader, of course. Optimus Prime leveled a weapon at Starscream, though the jet paid little mind. Even as the Prime spoke, his voice deep and commanding, Starscream didn’t heed. Instead, he watched as the large, white jet above transformed and fell to the mountain top just behind Prime.

Something within Starscream burned as he locked gazes with Skyfire. Blazing red optics met piercing blue. They sliced through Starscream, as cold as the ice Skyfire had rested in for millions of years. Starscream didn’t recognize those eyes. He couldn’t even recall what they’d used to look like, though he remembered how they’d made him burn with a fire entirely different from the one raging within him now.

Prime shouted something. The Autobots charged. Two of them - Ironhide and Prowl - rushed to meet Thundercracker and Rumble. Prime defended himself against an emboldened Skywarp. And Skyfire, stance steady despite the shifting mud, raised his gun at Starscream.

The seething rage within him ignited and Starscream opened fire. Despite his immense size, Skyfire dodged, nearly trampling a terrified Rumble. Starscream didn’t let up, even as Skyfire took aim and forced him to launch off the ground to avoid the blast. Transforming into jet mode, he streaked through the air, null rays zeroed in on Skyfire’s bulky frame.

Skyfire fired off a few more shots, forcing Starscream to alter his course. His flight took him close to the other battling Autobots and Decepticons. Ironhide fired a few bolts at him and Starscream hurried to avoid the crossfire of his and Skyfire’s weapons. The distraction infuriated him and Starscream took a moment to fire on the red Autobot. Suitably cowed, Ironhide returned to his tussle with Rumble, leaving Starscream to focus every bit of his ire on the white mech firing on him from afar.

Their battle grew removed from that of the others. With each attack, they drew further away, further toward the edge. Starscream didn’t care. He refused to be beaten by this mountain or the wind and rain that assaulted him. He wanted Skyfire dead. That was all that mattered.

He streaked through the air. He was close now. Skyfire stood no chance. Sudden giddiness grabbed hold of Starscream as he imagined Skyfire offline at his feet. The traitor would die a traitor’s death; there would be no mercy.

But Starscream’s perceived victory was short-lived. Before he could even slow down, Skyfire dove forward, managing to come up under him. A servo closed around his wing and Starscream shrieked as Skyfire swung him into the ground. He landed painfully and it took a moment for him to recover enough to shift back to root mode. When he did, Skyfire stood over him, gun leveled at his face.

All was quiet, as if the increasing downpour had muted the world. The wind that howled so relentlessly before had petered out. The battle raging behind them was a distant nuisance, almost inconsequential. For all Starscream cared, the world consisted of only him, Skyfire, and the gun between them. The shaking gun.

Starscream’s gaze flicked to meet Skyfire’s. Those blue eyes stared back with a wavering resolve. For a moment that seemed to stretch across millions of years, neither made a move.

The wind sprang back to life, the distant battle drew nearer, and Skyfire still hadn’t fired. What are you waiting for? Starscream wanted to shout, Finish it!

But Skyfire didn’t, and this, more than anything, sent a surge of loathing through Starscream’s system. It fueled his null ray as he raised it in one deft movement.

Skyfire had no time to react. The force of the blast sent him careening back, his feet slipping in the mud, gun falling from his slack hand. There was no time for him to regain his balance.

Starscream watched him fall over the edge. He didn’t react for a few long moments after. All he could do was stare at the space Skyfire had occupied.

He’s gone, Something within Starscream’s spark shrank in on itself, I can’t see him.

His processor fixated on that one thought. I can’t see him. I can’t see him!

He stumbled forward, a desperate cry escaping him.

“SKYFIRE!!!”

Past

Not even the relentless gale could slow Starscream’s descent. He tore through the air, the wind shrieking as if in protest, his limbs flailing uselessly. He knew he needed to transform; if he didn’t, he’d be nothing but a mound of smashed metal and circuitry. As the image flashed in his mind, he couldn’t help but envision a similar corpse, this one much larger and a stark white against the dark landscape.

Starscream quashed the thought as soon as it arose. Skyfire wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. Those were two differing thoughts, Starscream knew, but his processor couldn’t help but bounce between them. He’s not dead, because if he is then...There was no conclusion that Starscream dared consider, so he focused his processor, attempting to ignore the threat of his imminent demise.

He felt his transformation cog whir to life, though the transformation was made clumsy by the unconventional circumstances. The mess of green below drew nearer, serving as an unnecessary reminder that he needed to pull up fast.

Acting purely on instinct, his engines rocketed him forward. He felt leaves skim his wings as he struggled to pull upward, making for the murky grey of the clouds above. The wind was a constant assailant that threatened to dash him into the trees or the mountainside. Lightning split open the sky over and over, closer and closer.

Was that what happened? Had Skyfire been hit by a stray lightning bolt? The concept forced Starscream to tax his engines harder than he ever had. With a burst of speed, he shot upward, letting the trees be swallowed by the mist once more. Again, he extended his sensors and cursed his lack of visibility.

“SKYFIRE!!!”

No response. Starscream knew he wasn’t thinking straight as he veered closer to the mountain, seeking any hint that Skyfire may have crashed. His wing clipped a jutting boulder and he nearly smashed into the cliff face himself as he went careening off course. He was forced to climb higher in a desperate attempt not to meet with the rocks below.

Where is he? He couldn’t think. Couldn’t see, Where is he?!

Something glittered nearby, almost like…

Metal. Starscream threw himself forward, heedless of the risk, “Skyfire!!!”

The wind pulled at his wings, trying to drag him down. The noise was cacophonous, forcing his engines to roar all the louder. He would not be bested. He was so close…

The glittering material suddenly sharpened into focus. The hope glittering just as brightly within him dimmed.

In the faint light shimmered the very reason for this accursed mission. The energy crystals. No sign of Skyfire.

Starscream’s spark sank. He was sure it would drop right out of his fuselage and shatter on the jagged rocks far below. Maybe another spark was already waiting for it.

Thunder continued to growl overhead. Lightning tore through the darkness and illuminated the entire cliff side in brilliant white. An instinctive part of Starscream knew what was coming, but there was no time to react. He could only stare as the lightning zigzagged down and struck the shimmering rocks.

The crystals exploded. Shards smashed open Starscream’s cockpit and embedded themselves in his battered frame. He may have screamed, but he couldn’t hear it. Stabbing pain coursed through his entire being. It overwhelmed him, so much so that he didn’t realize he was falling until he smashed into a jutting, sloped cliff. The impact jarred loose a faint recollection.

Those crystals are brimming with unstable energy! We shouldn’t get too-

Skyfire had warned him. He’d warned him about everything, and what had Starscream said? Honestly, Skyfire, you can be so cowardly sometimes.

He felt himself sliding slowly toward the edge. Desperately, he forced himself to transform. His cockpit grated over the rocky terrain and another dizzying bout of agony washed over him. He could hear his scream this time.

Legs dangling into nothingness, Starscream sought for something to grab onto. His servos dug into the mud, clutching at nothing but loose pebbles. The cliff was too unstable and his body too heavy. The inevitable outcome to his struggles became alarmingly clear.

I’m going to fall, he stilled and felt himself slip further, I’m going to die.

There would be no saving himself this time; he’d smash to pieces on the rocks below before his taxed transformation cog could even come online. His vision flickered as his cockpit continued to grind over the rocks, bringing him ever closer to his doom. All Starscream could manage now was a faint whimper, his screams spent.

He knew he deserved this; it was his fault that he and Skyfire had been caught up in this Primusforsaken storm on this Primusforsaken planet. His fault that Skyfire was likely a shattered corpse on the mountain side. Still, as he began his final descent, a voice - a shameful voice that refused to be quieted no matter how much he tried - shrieked in his head, clamoring to be heard above all else.

I don’t want to die!

Terror seized his spark, shocking his limbs into one last, frantic attempt at salvation. It was futile.

I DON’T WANT TO DIE!

He fell. Opening his mouth, he let out a final, broken scream.

“Skyfire!!!”

“I’ve got you!”

As suddenly as the fall had begun, it stopped. His arm pulled taught and lances of pain pierced through it and his cockpit. The world disappeared, sapped of everything but a cold blackness. After countless moments, warmth and color seeped back in, as a familiar voice, the one that had called to him, spoke again. It was insistent, desperate, as were the arms clasping his limp form. Starscream’s optics fritzed a bit before coming back online. He was in some kind of cave. He could see the deep grey of the sky just beyond and feel the wind and rain graze his wing. It was all remote though. He was more aware of the arms wrapped protectively about him, the feel of someone large and sturdy holding him close. Above all else, he saw brilliant blue optics staring down at him. He watched them soften as a quiet sigh reached his auditory sensors. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

“Thank Primus,” Skyfire breathed, “Starscream, can you hear me?”

Starscream wanted to respond but he couldn’t. All he could do was stare, drinking in the sight of the bot before him. Skyfire was alive. Somehow his mind couldn’t yet process it. He was here. They were together again.

Skyfire’s anxious voice broke in on his thoughts, “It’s okay, Starscream, it’s okay,” It was only then that the smaller jet realized he’d started babbling.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he gasped, “I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Skyfire repeated, “We’re okay.”

Starscream couldn’t stop, “We almost died! I-I almost killed us!”

“But we’re okay now,” Skyfire replied gently, “I’ve got you.”

He rested a servo on the back of Starscream’s head. The touch snapped Starscream back to his senses and he shoved him away. The movement sent shards of pain through him and he clutched a servo to the mangled cockpit situated over his chest.

“Don’t,” he hissed as Skyfire reached for him. He was still shielded by the cave, but he could feel the wind lap hungrily at his wings as he moved backward.

He stopped -  afraid to move any further - and met Skyfire’s worried gaze.

“How...” he began, pausing for a moment to gather his strength, “How can you...This is all my fault! I should have listened to you! Skyfire, I...You could have died because of me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Stop saying that!”

Skyfire regarded him helplessly. Starscream hated it.

“Why aren’t you mad?” he prompted angrily, “You should be furious! You should be...Stop looking at me like that!!!”

He didn’t. “Do you want me to be mad?” Skyfire asked quietly.

Yes...No. “I don’t know!!! Just-” he had to pause before the pain overwhelmed him.

Skyfire moved closer. Starscream told himself not to, but his whole frame ached and trembled and he yearned to be back in Skyfire’s arms, so when Skyfire reached again, the smaller jet could do nothing but melt into him. He cursed his weakness.

“Starscream,” Skyfire’s voice pierced through the turmoil within him. Defeated, Starscream could only listen.

“I’m not angry with you. I don’t think I could ever be angry with you. Don’t ask me why; I don’t know either. What I do know is that I lost you in the storm and assumed the worst, so even though you’re upset, I’d like to just hold you for a while, if that’s okay.”

It was far too easy to comply. Already relaxed against Skyfire, Starscream let himself be pulled closer. The larger jet took special care not to aggravate his injury. It would need to be dealt with, but not now. Right this moment, all Starscream needed was the surety of Skyfire’s arms around him. All his guilt and shame still burned within him, but he couldn’t focus on it if he tried.

They were safe. They were together. That was all that mattered.

“I’ve got you,” Skyfire murmured again, “I’ve always got you.”

Present

The edge of the mountain was shrouded in rain and mist. Even as Starscream dove toward it, he couldn’t be certain he hadn’t flung himself off. His arm extended into nothing. His feet dug into the mud as he felt himself fall forward, just barely managing to snag a jutting rock.

As his entire frame came to a jarring halt, Starscream’s processor seemed to rattle with it. What was he doing? He couldn’t think. The image of Skyfire’s frightened face as he tumbled over the edge was seared into his mind. It was all he could focus on.

I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.

“Skyfire!!!” The call reverberated through Starscream’s spark, splitting it open as forgotten feelings and buried dreams clawed their way out. He couldn’t halt the flood; it washed over him, drowning him in memories.

“Starscream!”

That voice - as it always had - snapped him from the mire of his mind. He peered downward. Just below him, hanging by a crumbling ledge, was Skyfire.

For a moment, it was Starscream hanging for dear life, crying out for rescue. He blinked and the roles reversed again. 

As his precarious handhold collapsed beneath his digits, Skyfire desperately tried to bring another servo up to help. He was forced to stop as the movement only made him slip faster. Rain hissed over the place where Starscream had shot him and he grimaced as smoke blended with the mist. He looked up, blue optics shining in the gloom. Starscream nearly lost his grip when they focused on him.

He recognized those optics. They were the very same that used to look at him as if he were the most lovely thing in the universe. Even when they’d explored new, vibrant planets, he’d felt those optics gazing at him with a fondness that made him want to both laugh and scream. He wasn’t sure which he did now, but from the way the blue of Skyfire’s eyes widened with recognition of his own, he figured it was laughter.

“Skyfire…” he reached for him.

Eyes shining, Skyfire’s servo lifted to meet his, “...Starscream?”

His handhold crumbled even more but neither paid any heed. The storm and the clash of Autobots and Decepticons became remote. This time, though, the world didn’t seem to shrink until it was just the two of them. It seemed to grow. Starscream felt a heavy weight in his spark start to lift. His servo reached past millions of years to seek out that familiar yet forgotten touch. He wanted it more than anything, just a hint at what they once were and could be again.

In the faltering light, the insignia affixed to Skyfire’s chest gleamed.

The world shrank. The weight in Starscream’s spark settled back down until he almost felt it would drag him over the edge.

He snatched his hand away just as Skyfire’s digits grazed his own. The touch was like electricity arcing through him. It was tantalizingly, achingly familiar. It promised love and security and everything that had been denied him for millions of years.

It was a convincing lie, but Starscream couldn’t be fooled that easily. 

As he stood up slowly, Skyfire’s round, wide, and impossibly blue optics followed him. Starscream wanted to plunge his digits into them until the Autobot started screaming. The flicker of horror he felt at the thought died instantly as Skyfire spoke again.

“Starscream?” he repeated, his voice wavering.

It was his voice, and for the first time in his long, painful life, Starscream was not consoled by it.

“You…” His voice should have been lost to the wind but somehow Skyfire heard and grew deathly silent.

Memories collided within Starscream’s mind. Skyfire holding him, speaking softly to him, laughing with him, exploring with him, rescuing him...

They were all lies. Skyfire betrayed him. Starscream had circled half the globe searching for him, carried the weight of guilt for so long that it had become as familiar as flight, suffered in silence for cycles upon cycles, all for what?

“Starscream,” the Autobot begged, “Please.”

The plea was music to Starscream’s auditory sensors. He let it play, let Skyfire try to sway him again, enjoying every moment of the Autobot’s agony.

Skyfire’s voice grew quiet, “Don’t you remember?”

Starscream hesitated. He did remember. All of it. His fists clenched as his foot stomped downward.

“TRAITOR!!!”

Helpless, Skyfire could only give a strangled cry as Starscream’s foot crunched into his upturned face. The Decepticon watched his enemy fall, his own face lighting up with a terrible grin.

Skyfire barely managed to slow his descent by digging his servos into the muddy cliffside just enough to crash into a protruding ledge. He lay there motionless for countless moments, his recent fall marked by dents in his fuselage and muddy stains dimming his crisp white. He looked broken. Starscream couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy.

When Skyfire at last came to, his gaze was unfocused. The clear blue of his eyes were crusted with dirt and likely cracked by the impact of Starscream’s foot. The steady rain did a poor job of washing all the muck from his frame, only succeeding in making it bleed into the remaining white. His optics turned upward and somehow found Starscream in the hazy mist. He almost seemed to know where the other jet was without needing to see.

It was there, atop that war torn peak, that Skyfire first looked upon Starscream with fury. No, not fury. Hate.

“Skyfire!” Optimus Prime’s booming voice echoed across the mountain, “Where are you?”

Starscream turned. The Autobots stood on a field of victory, the remains of the Decepticons’ machine scattered amongst its fallen creators. He scowled and turned to confront his foes, when he felt a sudden whoosh of air blast past him. Looking up, he watched as Skyfire sailed over his head to land heavily on the mountaintop.

Without hesitation, Starscream opened fire, only to hit the dirt when the other Autobots returned it. By the time he tentatively lifted his head, all three Autobots had retreated into Skyfire’s fuselage. NO! Starscream rushed forward, his guns vainly attempting to bring the cargo plane down even though he knew he was out of range.

“NO!” he shrieked into the mist, “COME BACK, YOU COWARD!”

But Skyfire had already been lost to the grey sky, leaving Starscream alone. Again.

He continued to stare at the space where he’d last seen Skyfire, unable to look away. He felt as if he’d been awoken from a cruel dream. It took every bit of his willpower not to scream his agony into the sky above. All he wanted in that moment was to hunt Skyfire down and make him suffer. He wanted to hear his screams of terror as he at last cornered him and slammed him into the dirt, gun pointed right between those too blue optics.

How could you do this? He’d scream, Did any of it matter? Did I matter?

Starscream knew the answer already. He turned to face his forces, who all looked to him for guidance.

“Decepticons, take flight!” Without waiting to see if they followed, Starscream transformed and took to the air. To his dismay, there was no trace of the Autobots. They’d be back, though; they never stayed down.

One of them will, Starscream vowed, That traitor will die by my hand.

The rain continued to pour as three jets - and one passenger cassette - returned to their base, leaving the mountain top to be shrouded in mist once more. All they left of their battle were the remnants of an evil machine and a singular gun that had slipped from a foolish Autobot’s hand.

Epilogue- Past

The flight back to Cybertron felt like it lasted millions of cycles. Crouched in Skyfire’s fuselage, Starscream lamented as much to his partner. Skyfire’s only response was an exasperated yet fond sigh; Starscream could tell he was just glad to hear him speak without wheezing.

The damage to his cockpit was extensive but not life-threatening. After a thorough inspection, Skyfire had determined as much. He’d carefully removed some of the smaller bits of crystal from Starscream’s frame and left the larger ones to be handled by a medic. Starscream had wanted to appear brave, but he hadn’t been able to stifle the quiet whimper that escaped him. Luckily, Skyfire responded by wrapping him up in another hug, which had instantly soothed the smaller jet.

When they at last returned to Cybertron, Skyfire was quick to usher him to a medic. In fact, Starscream’s feet barely touched the ground before Skyfire scooped him up and rushed into the medical facility. The hospital was just one branch of the science center that had been built there. For the most part, the civil unrest that had broken out over Cybertron had not affected the science community. It was only a matter of time, though.

Starscream and Skyfire were meant to report to their superiors in the Scientific Exploration department. After much convincing from Starscream, Skyfire had at last agreed to leave his side and speak with the higher-ups, taking a few samples of crystal with him, also at Starscream’s urging. It was what they’d been sent for, after all; it shouldn’t matter that they’d ended up having to gather it from Starscream’s mangled cockpit.

The procedure to repair his cockpit was fairly long but luckily Starscream was in stasis for most of it. When he awakened and examined himself, he was pleased by the results. He didn’t think he’d ever seen his windows shine quite so brightly. He couldn’t help but hope Skyfire would notice, too.

Skyfire was pacing in the waiting room when he emerged. The moment Skyfire spotted him, he almost seemed to teleport to his side.

“Are you okay? I was worried something had gone wrong.”

“Don’t worry, Skyfire,” Starscream said with a slight smile, “I am the picture of health.”

Skyfire looked him up and down, “You’re certainly...shinier,” he said with a bit of awe.

Starscream beamed internally, “Thank you for noticing.”

The two walked out side by side, arms brushing. Starscream wanted to savor the moment, but his curiosity got the better of him.

“So, what did our bosses have to say?” he asked, barely hiding his disdain. He didn’t like having to report to superiors; he’d rather make his own decisions than comply with someone else’s. Maybe one day…

“The crystals seem promising, though they’ll have to perform further tests,” Skyfire replied, “In the meantime, there’s another planet they want us to investigate right away. It’s uncharted, as of yet. There might not even be intelligent life on the surface, though long distance scans hint to a great energy source.”

Ordinarily, Starscream would have leaped for joy at an assignment such as this, but as he watched Skyfire speak, he couldn’t help but recall how close he’d been to losing him. They were lucky to stand here together at all.

Sensing his hesitation, Skyfire favored Starscream with a concerned frown, “What’s the matter?”

“You know what’s the matter,” Starscream huffed. He didn’t mean to take his anger out on his partner - especially since he was really mad at himself - but it was difficult. Skyfire didn’t respond in kind, though. He never did.

“It’ll be okay, Starscream,” Skyfire reached down to grasp his servo firmly, “So long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.”

And because Skyfire’s voice never failed to console him, Starscream believed what he said. He squeezed his servo back and smiled up into Skyfire’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Together, then.”