#remnants of watching his planet and his people burn

[skeleton-squid-boy]

the doctor regenerates with scars

[thexxxthdoctor]

Highest Honour

**WARNING - Over 18s Only**

Summary: You and the Doctor have saved a planet from destruction, earning the highest honour their culture offers. You soon learn that this more than just tea at the palace…

Short story with the 10th Doctor and female reader. Features consensual sex, vaginal sex, public sex, masturbation, oral sex, anal play, cum play, fantasy, light spanking, voyeurism.

Against all odds, in the face of deadly threats and pure terror, he had done it again. Another planet, another people saved by this man, this Doctor. Your Doctor.

He reached his hand out to you, helping you to your feet as the remnants of the invading fleet burned in the atmosphere above you. The electricity of his touch sent your mind at once back to the first time his fingers had gripped yours, pulling you away from a Dalek’s blast, saving your life and countless more before rewarding you for your help with a trip in the impossible blue box he adoringly called his TARDIS. As you stood, now, your adrenaline fuelled eyes meeting the sad, ancient depths of his own, you wanted him even more than you had that first time; his pin striped suit torn and battered, his tie askew and the sweat of his exertions cradling his thin face in perfect imperfection.

“You were brilliant today,” he told you, his voice warm and sincere, “thank you.”

Until meeting him, confidence was not something you had felt flow through you, but he had helped you see the strength inside you, and draw on it, and alongside him you had saved worlds together, facing down galactic warmongers and timeless threats. You and your Doctor. And yet, despite all you had faced, what still reduced you to putty was a compliment from this man you yearned for and who, you knew, would never even think to look twice at you, at least, not in that way.

“It was nothing,” you stuttered, your nerves overflowing, infuriatingly, your eyes pulling away from his for fear of them betraying all you felt and wanted to say to him. Instead, you stayed silent, cursing yourself for your cowardice and hoping to just get back quickly to the TARDIS, where you could retreat to the safety of your room and put the fingers now clasping his to better use, giving yourself the pleasure you wanted to feel from him. You’d lost count of the times you had watched, out of his sight, concealed by coral pillars as he stood lovingly by his Time Ship’s console, rubbing yourself to muted frenzy, jealously wishing that the touch with which he deftly operated the controls was working its magic on you instead. You felt foolish and at yourself for being envious of a machine, but deep down you too knew that the ship was far more than just a tool, and that the Doctor’s bond with it was greater than any he would ever allow himself to feel with you, or any of those that had come before you. Your feelings could only ever be fantasy, but if fantasy was all you could have, you resolved to enjoy yours to the full, as you approached the battered blue box, standing outside the entrance to the congressional chamber of Planet Carnalia. Soon, goodbye’s would be bidden and your Doctor would whisk you away to new adventures, but your mind, and fingers would spend the journey to wherever, in ecstatic reverie.

“Doctor, wait!”

The voice belonged to Torlosia, the Planet’s leader, and you both turned to face her, as she hurried to catch up with you. Dressed in flowing robes of red and gold, her turquoise skin glowing in the silver light of the twin moons above, her beauty seemed to reach inside you, demanding your attention, and you felt the tingling of a blush on your cheeks as she stood before you, smiling in gratitude.

“Doctor, we cannot thank you enough, both of you,” her glance to you deepening the redness in your face, “thanks to you, our people will live and thrive again.”

“Oh, it was nothing, Prime Minister,” the Doctor grinned, enthusiastically, “all in a day’s work! Now, we really must be getting off.”

“Where to this time?” asked Torlosia.

“Anywhere,” you answer, trying both to impress him and make sure he didn’t suggest it was time to get you home to your own time. “How about Saturn?”

“Nah, it’s boring,” the Doctor answered, “and anyway, Saturn’s not it’s real name.”

“Oh?” you quizzed, “what’s it’s real name, then?”

“Trevor.”

“Trevor?”

“Yeah…”

“The Planet Trevor?”

“Well, why’s ‘Saturn’ any better?” he said defensively before grinning at you, “I suppose we could go and ask which they prefer, if you like?”

You smiled your acquiescence and turned to bid farewell to Torlosia, only for her to step forward in earnest.

“Before you do that,” she began, “we cannot allow you to just slip away after saving so many of our lives. Not without showing you the depths of our gratitude, first.”

“Oh, really, there’s no need for all that,” protested the Doctor, “and I’m not sure my friend here would really be into all that…”

“Into what?” you ask, innocently.

Torlosia’s hand reached out to stroke your face, butterflies setting loose in your stomach at her touch. “Our very highest honour,” she answered simply. Turning back to the Doctor, she reached up to stroke his cheek, too, a glint of what looked like seduction in her eye, scattering the butterflies in you and replacing them with a pang of jealousy. “One we have afforded the Doctor and several of his other friends in times past, when their help has warranted it…”

“Other friends?” you interrupted, the familiar pang of jealousy you always felt at mention of your Doctor’s past companions, stabbing at you. “So, these ‘other friends’ have been up for this ‘highest honour’ have they, Doctor?”

You spoke the words accusingly, your eyes burrowing into his, and he shrugged, as flustered as you could ever recall seeing him.

“Well…,” he began, but the usual cacophony of words that followed didn’t come, and, for a moment, you almost thought he looked embarrassed, before Torlosia came to his rescue.

“Of course,” she answered, with a strange eagerness, “our gratitude to the Doctor always extends to the friends he relies on so much, and we insist on honouring them too. It would be our pleasure to extend those honours to you… our deep, and lasting pleasure.”

Her eyes were magnetic, her voice as sweet as honey, and in that second, you couldn’t imagine turning down any honour this beautiful woman desired to bestow on you. The Doctor though, looked nervous, as if for once in his centuries long life, words would not come to his rescue.

“It’s incredibly kind of you, Prime Minister,” he began, softly, “it’s just…”

“The Cabinet is assembled, Doctor,” she gently interrupted, “the choice, of course, is yours.”

With that, she turned and walked past the TARDIS, down the passageway, into the chamber. You looked up at the Time Lord, whose face had turned pale.

“We should go,” he whispered.

The expression he wore was one you hadn’t seen on him before, even when facing down Cyber armies and Sontaran squadrons, and you raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Doctor, what’s wrong?” you asked, the desire to follow Torlosia through the tunnel almost overwhelming you. “What harm can their ‘highest honour’ do us? A cup of tea with the planet’s rulers, a handshake for the cameras and maybe a badge and a souvenir pen, if we’re lucky. We’ll be back in the TARDIS and off to Satur…, sorry, Trevor, before you can say ‘photo opportunity’.”

He looked down at you with his big, ancient eyes, the smile you loved so much beginning to break through his nervousness.

“You really want to go through there, don’t you?”

“What? Tea with the Prime Minister?” you replied, reciprocating his smile, “who wouldn’t?”

He reached out and closed his fingers around yours, and began to slowly lead you through the tunnel through which Torlosia had vanished.

“Tea,” he mused, as you strode. “In your culture, everyone wants to go out for tea all the time. If you saved the Earth, and we’ll probably end up doing that sooner or later, you’d likely get an invitation for tea with the King, or dinner at the White House because eating and drinking together is the ultimate expression of social nicety and civilisation and sharing that with the people in charge is a huge honour. But that’s not the case everywhere in the universe…”

“No?” You asked, intrigued. “So, what are some of the other universal niceties, then?”

“Well,” he began, his vocabularic fluidity returning, “on Decahedron Twenty-Three, they have an honour’s ceremony every year, where recipients all stand on a stage and blow their noses in unison.”

“What?”

“It’s a little odd at first but you soon get used to it,” the Doctor explained, “or at least you would do, if the people of Decahedron Twenty-Three didn’t have twenty-three noses each… but even that’s better than Frectagrangion Twelve…”

“Why, what happens on Frectagrangion Twelve?”

“Let’s just say that while people on Earth like to get around a table and eat together, their social interactions are planned more around the other end of proceedings.”

“Oh, God, you don’t mean...?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, without elaborating further. “But the point I’m trying to make is that this is going to be a bit different to tea and a handshake.”

“So, what’s it going to be?” you asked, your hand gripping tightly to his as you approached an ornate alcove at the end of the tunnel and stepped through, the butterflies in your stomach unleashed anew, as you took in the sight before you.

You and the Doctor emerged into the centre of a dark, cavernous auditorium, the polished metal floor you stood on, humming with a vibrant energy and slowly rotating clockwise. Before you could open your mouth to ask where you were, a voice came from the shadows around you.

“You have chosen to join us,” the voice was Torlosia’s. “We are most gratified.”

Far above you, lights at the top of the chamber began to bleed through the darkness, revealing to you and the Doctor the full truth of your surroundings. In a circle around you, draped across grand, bejewelled chairs, were a dozen of the most beautiful people who had ever lain eyes upon in your life, six men, six women, each of them resplendent in nakedness. Torlosia, her finery discarded, stood before the largest seat, the beauty of her perfect, disrobed body demanding your attention and causing you to squeeze tighter still on the Doctor’s hand, your confusion matched only by your arousal.

“Here,” the Doctor whispered into your ear, “the primary social interaction is sex and physical intimacy.”

You gulped hard, words failing you at what you had walked so blindly into.

“She…, she wants to sleep with us?” you asked, forcing your voice through your reluctant larynx.

“Not quite,” the Doctor softly intoned. “They want us to make love. You and me. They’re here to watch. It’s the highest honour on the planet for people being rewarded to make love to an audience of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, while they, er.. they pleasure themselves.”

A gasp, small, uncertain, escaped your mouth, the situation overwhelming you. Making love… fucking the Doctor, was all you had dreamed of for so long, but to an audience? Your mind raced to pluck a sentence, any sentence from the word salad running through it but none would come, until eventually it reached to mask your shock with humour.

“For God’s sake, don’t let Boris Johnson here about this…”

“It’s ok,” the Doctor whispered, your obvious discomfort troubling him, and he stepped forward to address the naked assembly.

“Prime Minister Torlosia,” he began, “I cannot begin to express the gratitude we feel for you offering this honour, but my friend here is of a different culture…”

Once more, your friend was standing up for you, protecting you, and you wanted him all the more for it. These people wanted to honour you and likewise, you yearned to honour him with your all, and to have him reciprocate. This was no alien threat to be protected from, this was your chance for all you had desired. You stepped forward, in front of the man you adored.

“Prime Minister!” you called out. “Though I am from another culture, I was raised to respect and cherish those of others, and travelling with this man has made me appreciate that even more.”

“Are you sure?” the Doctor quizzed, “you don’t have to do this.”

“But I want to,” you answered him, turning back to the disrobed dignitaries. “I accept this honour and will play my part.”

Torlosia smiled at you with warmth and sincerity, lowering herself onto her grand chair, her hand reaching at once between her open legs, and her fingers beginning to play with her perfectly trimmed pubes.

“Then, let the honours commence,” she said. “Please disrobe and begin.”

Around you, the dozen beautiful figures began settling into position, their eyes on you and the Doctor, and their hands beginning to stroke and caress themselves in eager anticipation of what was to come. You turned back to face the Doctor, who reflected your own nervousness in his face.

“Are you really sure?” he asked again. In response, you gripped the seam of the top you wore, and pulled it over your head, dropping it to the floor as his eyes fell to the bra, cradling your breasts.

“Does that answer your question?” you grinned.

Unleashed from his self-restraint with your words, he returned your grin and began at once to pull at his clothes; the long, brown overcoat crumpling to the polished floor, followed quickly by shoes, suit jacket, trousers, tie and shirt. Slower than him, you kept your eyes on the growing bulge in his shorts as you peeled off your leggings and unhooked your bra to the stifled moans of your audience. Finally, after seconds which felt like millennia, he shed himself of the last piece of material clinging to him and stood before you, naked and yours.

Nervousness and desire were waging war within you, and you stood, hiding your breasts with your arms, and your legs closed, ashamed to go further but desperate to do so, watching your man, your Doctor, standing before you, his nakedness all you had imagined it to be. You could already feel the dampness in your knickers as his eyes feasted on you, his dick hardening in anticipation.

“Don’t be shy,” he softly said. “Show yourself to me.”

“There was an authority in his voice that belied his delicate inflections, and you knew you would obey whatever he asked you to do. Shyness still raging inside, you stood straight and dropped your arms to your sides, allowing him to take in your breasts, the stiffness in your nipples mirroring that in his rapidly thickening cock, as you waited for the command you knew would come next.

And it did.

His hand reached down, his fingers closing around his erection, slowly, gently beginning to stroke it, just as you had fantasised that he might, those nights in the TARDIS, when you dreamed of him climaxing to the thought of you, just as you were doing to him. His eyes moved to your waist, and your blush grew deeper, nervous but yearning for his orders.

“Pull them down.”

His voice was a whisper, almost as delicate in tone as it was hypnotic, and at once, you felt your hands slide up to your hips, your thumbs slipping into the waistband of your underwear as you prepared to obey. Around you, the flurry of stroking, rubbing and fingering from your audience increased and you felt your shyness begin to crumble against a sudden, unexpected, spark of confidence. These people were watching you, enjoying you, and you knew from the look in his eyes that the man who you had ached for, for so long, wanted you. This man. This Doctor. Your Doctor.

You cherished the moment, bending over as you shed yourself of the last of your modesty, relishing the gasps of pleasure from the assembled spectators as you stood straight, naked and ready for the Time Lord. His hand began to move quicker as his eyes drank you in, and you felt your own begin to twitch in response to the throbbing you felt in your freshly exposed crotch.

“Play with it,” he ordered. “Like you do in the TARDIS, when you think I don’t notice. Play with it for me.”

You felt your embarrassment return and threaten to engulf you, the mortification at the knowledge he had seen you, perhaps every time, almost overwhelming. But, the spark of confidence not only remained, it grew, and without any resistance, you moved your fingers to your wet lips, teasing yourself, and him, until your clit compelled you to oblige its call. The movement at the edge of your vision spurred you on as your audience settled deeper into the show, responding to their breaths and squeals by moving your other hand to caress and gently squeeze your breasts. But your focus remained on him, and the joy he was finding in you.

He stepped forward towards you and you kept your fingers moving as he moved closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your neck. Raising his hands to your face, he began to trace your features with the tips of his fingers, the yearning in your pussy deepening with each stroke of his finger. Stepping into an embrace, you felt his hand slide under yours and you let out a grateful moan as his fingers, finally, replaced yours in teasing and massaging your clitoris. You reciprocated, replacing the hand stroking his hard dick with your own, as though the thought of anyone else, even himself, touching it was enough to drive you into a jealous rage. He moaned his appreciation into your ear as you stroked it, working the shaft with your fingers and rubbing your thumb and forefinger over the head, relishing the sensation of his pre-cum, as it leaked onto them.

Repaying the favour, he increased the speed of his own fingers, slipping first one, then another between your lips and deeper, deeper inside you, the sensation building until your spasmed in pleasure, drenching his expert fingers as your body contorted against his and your moaning crescendoed, loudly around the chamber. Your other arm clasping tightly around his shoulders, he leant down, sucking and nibbling on your breasts as his fingers teased out every vestige of joy from your orgasm.

“That’s only the beginning,” he said, as he raised his head back up, and pressed his lips against yours. “Lie down.”

The metal, rotating floor was cold, but you didn’t care. Rolling his overcoat into a makeshift pillow, you allowed him to lay you down, as his mouth went greedily to work on your body. Around you, the moans of the watchers, each one of them pleasuring themselves, feverishly to you, sounded, and you leaned your head back to take them in, gripping your breasts as the Doctor worked his magic on you. Those hands, fresh from exploring your intimate sex, had reached around to lift your hips while his tongue, with the experience of centuries, worked your swollen clit into still another climax. You lifted your head, seeing the aching strain in his dick and knowing he wanted it inside you as much as you did. But it was his turn, and you wanted him somewhere else first.

“Stay on your knees,” you told him, as you wriggled from under him, and though his eyebrow raised, as if he wasn’t used to following orders, he did as you bade, shifting himself to an upright position, his knees on the floor. On all fours, you crept towards him, your arse pressed high into the air, relishing the expectation on his face. His dick was inches from your lips, its sweet scent in your nostrils and you could tell how desperately he wanted you to touch it, so for a mischievous second you let him wait. Running your tongue up and down the shaft, you savoured his groan as you finally opened your mouth wide and took him in. More gasps and moans came from the watching nobility, and from the wide grin on his face as you looked up to him, your mouth full of his cock, you knew he enjoyed the audience as much as you.

He leaned forward, pushing himself deeper into your mouth, and as you relished his taste, you felt his hands spank down on the cheeks of your arse, gripping them in a tight squeeze before releasing them and spanking down again. Your squeal of surprised agreement was muffled in your full mouth, but you wiggled your approval, wordlessly begging for more, and he readily obliged, spreading your cheeks open to the audible appreciation of your admirers and spanking each cheek again.

“Bad girl,” he muttered, as you squealed your appreciation. “Masturbating in my TARDIS?”

You were guilty as charged and you gleefully moaned your admission.

“People who play with themselves in my TARDIS need to be taught a lesson, don’t they?” he said as your left cheek was spanked again. And again, you murmured your agreement, as another spank landed on your right cheek.

“Stay like that,” he ordered, as he pulled himself from your mouth. “Stick it up in the air, higher.”

You pressed your face closer to the ground, pushing your backside up for him, and the audience to admire, as he moved to kneel behind you, easing his still rock hard dick into your soaking wet pussy. Gently at first, then faster and harder, the Time Lord thrust himself into you, his hands reaching up to your breasts as he fucked you. The crowd moaned their approval and you knew they were nearing the edge of an intensity from which nobody could pull back, but this fuck was yours and the Doctor’s to enjoy.

He was thrusting faster, each stroke sending reams of pleasure through your whole body as you felt his hands move again; your tight arsehole clamping around the thumb he pushed into it, while the fingers of his other hand went to work once more on your clit, until you reached the apex of your pleasure once more, screaming out your gratification for the universe to hear.

“Where do you want it?” he asked, desperately, as though he needed your permission to finish. On any other day you would have been happy to feel him cum inside you and relish the sensation of his pleasure within you. But right here, right now, you wanted to taste it, to see it.

“Stand up,” you ordered, and he obeyed, sliding out of you and struggling to his feet, his hand grasping his cock for fear of losing a second of sensation. You knelt in front of him, pushing your sweat glistened breasts together.

“Right here,” you urged him, opening your mouth and inviting his stream onto your tongue.

You watched, your pussy wet and aching, as he pulled himself furiously to his climax, his eyes never leaving yours. With a cry of agonised bliss, the Doctor’s hips buckled and streams of cum flew from his dick, landing hot on your face and tongue, and you grinned in eager appreciation.

Around you both, the assembled thirteen cried out as one, an orgasmic chorus sounding out around the chamber in simultaneous honour of the display before them.

The Doctor, his breathing heavy and his legs shaking reached down to you, pulling you up to your feet before leaning forward and kissing you, his cum passing between your lips as you embraced tightly in post-coital contentment.

You didn’t know how much time passed, but you held tightly to your Doctor, not wanting the embrace to end, for fear it may not happen again. Finally, a voice called from the assembled spectators.

“Thank you both,” Torlosia said.

You turned to see her standing, unsteadily, her hand still gently playing with that perfect pussy, eking out the last throws of her pleasure.

“It was an honour,” the Doctor breathed, heavily.

“The highest,” you confirmed, happily.

“Again, you have our thanks,” Torlosia answered, with a smile. “Farewell on your journeys and go with our love.”

The Doctor gently broke your embrace and stooped down to pick up his discarded clothes, and you followed his lead before walking back down the alleyway towards the TARDIS. The intensity of your experience began to slowly subside and you felt your excitement start to give way to a curious disappointment. The Doctor, you knew, was a private, haunted man, and away from this arena and this culture, you knew you would not experience this side of him again. Could you ever go back, you wondered, to just being friends who travelled together? Your desires relegated once more to feverish but unfulfilled masturbatory fantasy?

Together, you reached the TARDIS and the still naked Doctor fished in the pockets of his crumpled clothes for the key, opening the door for you as you held your own clothes against you in sudden modesty.

“I suppose we’re off to Planet Trevor, then?” you asked, barely hiding the disappointment in your voice.

“Sounds like a plan,” the Doctor nodded, “unless…, nah.”

“Unless what?”

“Well, you know we were talking about other planets and other cultures?” he said, a mischievous glint returning to his face.

“Yeah?”

“Well, three or four hundred years ago, the people of Centuri Seven abandoned the concept of clothes. We could pop over there first, if you like? Given we’re already, erm, undressed for the occasion…”

“You grinned and nodded, stepping into the magic blue box with this man. This Doctor. Your Doctor.

[sirowsky]

Chapter 1 - A Mandalorian Visitor

Description: You're living your life peacefully when you're suddenly staring at a Beskar-clad bounty hunter. Perhaps the one person that can turn everything good into a nightmare, not just for you, but for everyone. (Dual perspectives)

OBSERVE! Creator chooses NOT to include warnings on this series. Read at your own risk! Be aware that this story will include violence and is not suitable for minors! 18+ONLY.

Word Count: 2568 Masterlist (This Story) Author’s Masterlist

Link to Chapter 2

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   He’s alone when he travels to the remote desert-planet this time. Unlike Tatooine, Pagwu is almost all mountain and rock, a desert more by definition than common expression.    It’s all but lifeless naturally, but it wasn’t always. There was a time when it had been a flourishing paradise, so long ago now that no one remembers it anymore, the only remnants left being the stories and legends that the older generations grew up listening to at bedtime.    The cautioning tales of monsters in the night, burning the world until it perished.

   There’s only one city, the Kingdom Capitol of Ig’wu, sheltering some hundred thousand individuals that have chosen to live here despite the dead scenery, managing to grow only the hardiest of grains and fruits.    No one lives outside the city borders, though. There’s a very tall and sturdy wall surrounding the built-up area, and no one ever steps outside of it. They stay inside, or fly out, that’s it.

   There’s no real reason for that anymore, beyond the inhospitable landscape, but fear is a powerful motivator, and while the stories have long since become legends, people still believe that they’re based on truth. A dark and terrible truth.    The massacres of both the old peoples of the planet have left the remaining population sceptical and suspicious, despite having lived in peace for a millennium now. The scars simply run too deep; the memories somehow still too alive to allow peace of mind.

   Din lands in the port and heads into the city on foot, looking for the person that is his reason for coming here, the Sheriff of Ig’wu.    He’s known her for some time, ever since he helped her stop a spice-smuggler from turning the city, and its large spaceport, into a trade-stop for travelling merchants heading either in or out of the system.

   He finds her when he’s nearing the towering fortress that is the Royal homestead and sits at the very center of the city. She’s coming out of a shop after apparently having investigated a theft, so he stops a little further down the street to wait while she finishes up with the shop-owner.    And while he’s standing there, he lets his eyes wander across the busy street, finding a small boy not far from him, looking at a broken toy with a great deal of sadness.

   Before Grogu, he never would’ve noticed something like that. At least not to the point where it would’ve bothered him to see this child so sad. But things have changed so much since that bounty, and everything that has happened since, that he’s no longer able to not see the innocence of the young ones around him.    Or feel the need to comfort them, if he’s able.

   He approaches the boy slowly, waiting until he notices the towering figure beside him, before he kneels and holds his hand out towards the kid, silently asking to look at the broken starship-toy.    The child looks nervously at him, but after a moment’s hesitation, still hands him the precious item, which Din carefully takes and examines, finding the reason for its malfunction after just a quick inspection.

   “There, it should work now,” he tells the boy as he hands it back to him after fiddling with it for a few seconds, and then watches the kid’s eyes light up as he turns it on, and it does indeed work again.

   “Thank you, sir! Thank you so much…” the boy squeals before throwing himself at the imposing beskar chest-plate to give the man a hug.

   Not that long ago, he wouldn’t have known how to react to that, but now he simply hugs the kid in return, assuring him that it was no trouble and then tries to get up, but the kid grabs his arm and holds him back, suddenly fighting tears.

   “It… it was my father’s and… it’s all I have left of him,” the child explains with trembling words. “Thank you.”

   He puts a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder and whispers ‘no problem, kid’ before he gets up and leaves, feeling as though this trip would’ve been worth it just for that, even if nothing else comes of it.    He finds the Sheriff again, now on her way back to the station on foot, so he falls in beside her.

   “Afternoon, Ellom,” he greets, finding her unsurprised by his sudden appearance.

   “Mando. Welcome back to Pagwu. How was your journey?” she greets in return, sounding a bit reserved, but inviting.

   “Long and uneventful. So, I’m hoping it’ll be worth the trouble.”

   “And I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me, because this one’s beyond my skillset.”

   “How so?”

   “The guy I need you to find is a mercenary but not like you. This guy is without any kind of rules, beliefs, or oversight, he does anything for a payday, and I mean anything,” she explains, a grim set to her jaw and something fearful in her frame.

   “What are his crimes?” Din inquires, hoping to get a better sense of what he’s dealing with.

   “Too many to recite at the moment, but the three big ones are theft, murder and abduction.”

   “Abduction? Freelance mercs don’t usually take people alive.” Din says, keeping an eye on the people around them as they make their way along a busy street. He’s always observant, but even more so when he has reason to remember the faces he passes, just in case they prove useful.

   “Indeed, but like I said, this one isn’t your average worker. And the people he’s taken are young children, no older than eight, so most likely he’s been hired by a slave-trader to fill up the ranks and replenish their stock.”

   She looks horrified at the thought and with good reason. Ellom herself had once been kidnapped and sold to another world, but in her case, she hadn’t been used for labour. Instead, she’d been trained to be a soldier in a war that she wasn’t even connected to. A conflict between two peoples that she had no relation with, but one of which she’d been forced to fight for all the same.

   That’s why Din always answers her call. She’s a strong person, having fought herself free of not just that war, but of her captors as well, even as little more than a child. But she’d come home a hardened warrior, and a person that never asks for help unless she sees no other option.    She likes people easily, but she trusts almost no one, the silver clad Mandalorian being one of the few exceptions.

   “So, what makes you think he’s still here?” he asks the Sheriff, as they near the station.

   “I’m closely monitoring all the space-traffic and no ships or transports that would suit his needs have left planet since the latest abduction.” she clarifies, before they reach their destination, and she unlocks the door with an identification tattoo on her arm.

   Din looks around one last time before he steps in after her and is momentarily distracted when he catches a woman staring at him.    That isn’t unusual at all, but what is odd about this encounter is that the woman stares at him with the expression of someone who knows that their minutes are numbered. As though his mere presence somehow equals her death-sentence.

   She’s frozen to the spot, trembling as she observes him, and he wants to go to her and tell her that she has nothing to fear, but there isn’t time.    He steps inside, throwing one last glance over his shoulder before closing the door, to find her still standing there, locked in place by invisible chains, and it makes him wonder who she might be. Because why would any ordinary, innocent person be that fearful of a random Mandalorian?

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   You know that they occasionally come here. It’s rare, but they do. It’s a big city, which is why running into them whenever they’re around should be most unlikely, and you’ve been living your life largely free of any fears concerning them finding you.    But here he is. Suddenly right across the street from your modest little clay shop.    A Mandalorian bounty hunter, just like the ones that had eradicated the last of your kin.

   You only know the stories from the elders around the city. The tales of the brave warriors that set out to destroy the demons of the desert, the worst beings in all the known galaxies, the truest monsters to ever have lived.    You know that the stories aren’t just legends, you’ve seen the truth with your own eyes, and you fear it as much as the Pagwians do.

   But it’s different for you because those demons were your people. Your ancestors and your heritage. Which means that if the Mandalorian that’s currently across the street even suspects what you are, he’ll kill you without asking a single question.    Because he knows too. He knows, better than anyone else in this place, exactly how dangerous you are, if you should succumb to the Burn.

   No one ever suspects an adult being a demon, since the Burn usually takes them around puberty, or even sooner, if their flame is strong enough.    You’re unique in that sense, being over thirty standard years old and still in human form. That has never been seen or even heard of before, and you pray to the stars every night that you’ll never lose control of your flame, never become the monster that lurks within your blood.

   You spend your days working with the clay, keeping your head down and staying away from all commotion and potential provocation. You must be calm. Always. As even a small flare of strong emotion is enough to make your veins run red and give everyone around you a good look at what you really are.    You’ve seen what people can do when they’re scared, how quickly they become mobs, collective executioners, a terrifying example seared into your brain from childhood.

   People are not kind or just when they fear for their lives, or those of their families. Something you can’t hold against them.    By rights you should hate them, for destroying your species and most often while they were still children. But you don’t, because you know the truth: your kin were all monsters, lying in wait, and you are no different.

   You’ve thought about killing yourself many times, to spare yourself from the knowledge that you can become that thing, but also to make sure that no one ever suffers because of you.    The only thing that stops you is a question that you keep asking into the emptiness of the night, unable to find the answer either there or anywhere else.

   Do you deserve to live for as long as you remain human?

   While you’re still you, the monster poses no real threat to anyone, but the flame cannot be controlled and if it breaks free, there won’t be enough time to kill you before it consumes you.    But you’ve kept that from happening for twice as long as anyone else of your kin, so perhaps your flame is different. Perhaps you have somehow gained control over it.    A dangerous thought, but one you can’t quite let go of.

   You keep looking out the windows, not sure of what you’re hoping to see. The Mandalorian wouldn’t be there if he didn’t have a bounty to collect, or had committed to some other job, so you should be doing your damnedest to stay off his radar, not risk drawing his attention.    You were lucky before, when you first saw him, that your fear didn’t give you away right then.

   Despite this, when he does emerge again, your misplaced curiosity betrays you, making you flinch and drop the plate you’ve been working on all day, creating a loud noise against the stone floor which echoes between the stone walls.    Too afraid to look outside again, you quickly kneel and begin to pick up the scattered pieces, hoping he’ll have moved on by the time you get back up.

   “Everything alright here?”

   The voice makes you freeze where you’re sitting with your back to the entrance, the sound so easily recognizable as their kind because of the modulator.    He’s right behind you.

   “F-Fine…” is all you manage to push through your suddenly bone-dry mouth and throat, but he offers no reply, and he doesn’t leave, giving you no option but to force yourself back onto your feet and face him.

   “I just… lost my grip,” you try, doing your best not to look at the visor in his helmet, not to let him see your eyes too clearly.

   Not because there’s anything overtly identifiable about them, only that he’ll easily be able to see your very obvious fear of him. A fear that he hasn’t given any apparent reason for, which he clearly knows. It’s probably why he used the noise as an excuse to come closer and get a better look at you.    He saw how you reacted to him earlier, and he’s trying to work out why. You have to keep your cool.

   “Is there anything you need, sir? I have all manner of pots, plates and knickknacks,” you throw your sales-pitch at him in the hopes that it’ll put him off, and because you know it by heart and automatically deliver it with a perfect tone.

   But he gives you nothing. No response, not even a shift in his stance or a twitch of a finger. He just stands there for what has to be a full minute, observing, memorizing, thinking, making you more nervous than you knew it was possible to be, while you unknowingly mirror him, once again too afraid to move.    Then…

   “No, thank you.” he says with a nod before he walks back out, as casually as if he’d really just been looking at clay-goods.

   You stand there in the middle of your shop, too shocked to snap out of it for several minutes, while your mind is running a marathon with each passing second.    Eventually, you reach the conclusion that whatever this Mandalorian is doing here, you need to make certain that you never cross paths with him again.    You grab your bag and close the shop. You live upstairs, but you don’t dare to stay there tonight, so you head for the wall instead. Only the homeless hang around there, a crowd you can easily blend in to if you want to, as you’ve been one of them earlier in your life.

   Your mother hid you right after you were born, just like all demons did, trying to keep her fragile offspring safe until you reached maturity and passed through the Burn. But unusually for one of your kind, she’d taken the risk of hiding you among her enemies, inside the wall, and once you’d realized that you might not undergo that change, you’d assimilated yourself into the society of Ig’wu.

   You’d grown up as one of them, gone to their school, lived among them, honed your skills and built your business alongside them, but you’d never deluded yourself into actually believing that you were the same as them.    The fire in your veins would never allow you to forget, not even for one moment, that you have never been and will never be, anything but a demon.

–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–=¤=–

Link to Chapter 2

Thank you for reading and if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging, I'd greatly appreciate it <3

@idreamofboobear @tanzthompson @winter-fox-queen @tiffanyleen @shsoba05 @toomanystoriessolittletime @nolanell @myfavpedrothings @harriedandharassed @bruxasolta @tintinn16 @pedrostories @littlemisspascal @sj-draws00 @gallowsjoker @spishsstuff @little-mrs-morales @bilibiche

[youandtom2]

An Avenger's Revenge (dark!Peter Parker)

CHAPTER 1 // SERIES MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: Spider-Man was just one of the mighty, powerful Gods that rule the Earth. A night of death, betrayal, war and defeat turns him into a myth, a memory to be forgotten about by the other Greedy Gods that share this planet. Without his generosity, the world takes a turn for the worse and the people are desperate for a solution. With a rebellion on the horizon, it may be your only chance to rise up against the Greedy Gods and restore Spider-Man's legacy.

Themes: dystopian, futuristic, smut, angst, death!, dark concepts**, a tad bit fluff :) **T/W: will be specified per chapter - none in this one

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Everything did not go according to plan. Not one bit. 

The slums of Captain America’s faction has its stench wafting in through your nose, chilling you to the bone as you walk your way towards the water hole. It’s merely a poorly constructed circle of bricks that surrounds a puddle at best that refills itself every six hours. If you get there early enough, you’ll be lucky to get a bucketful that doesn’t have any dirt in it. 

A cautious eye keeps you protected, carefully watching the many sleeping bodies camped in the town square. Miners who are too injured to work, criminals who have been caught stealing, elderly too frail to move, all types of rejects out here in the outer slums left to rot. 

How the hell did you end up here? This time two years ago you were sitting by Tony’s side in a magnificent palace, eating breakfast with him on his final day, talking of a future that was meant to be, a time where optimism existed. 

What Tony feared the most came true; the Avengers were beyond furious with Tony’s decision to make Peter Parker his beneficiary, declaring that it was an act of the utmost betrayal. In their eyes, he wasn’t worthy of such responsibility, questioning ‘who was he to take over? Who was Peter Parker to be the first God amongst the elites to own two factions? Who even was Peter Parker?’

You didn’t get the chance to find out. You vividly remember the morning after Tony’s death, the morning Peter Parker was supposed to arrive, waking up in a pool of sweat that had soaked through your sheets. Initially, you thought it was a result of a bad dream but as soon as your eyes spotted the black smoke piling into your room you knew something wasn’t right. Panic fuelled your limbs, jumping into action and frantically trying to find an escape. The same 3 flights of stairs, quickly burning, were black with soot and you coughed and wheezed your way to the upper floor where things weren’t much better. Paralysed with fear, you barely had time to fret over the complete destruction of the palace, fire climbing up the golden walls and melting away the remnants of Tony’s memory. If it wasn’t for the sun’s beams peaking through the thick black smoke, you might’ve never crawled your way outside. 

You will never forget seeing the armada of soldiers congregating outside Tony’s palace as it burned behind you. Who’s soldiers - you didn’t know. You barely had time to think. The heat was unbearable, the smoke still scorched the inside of your lungs and screams flooded your ears. Only when you thought you were safe were you truly able to process the depravity of what was now your reality and you couldn’t describe the despair, the anguish that wounded your heart as it pounded in your chest, endless tears trickling down your red cheeks.

The image of Tony’s palace engulfed in a ploom of flames and smoke became tattooed into your mind. It’s there when you close your eyes and with every blink, you ask yourself…why did it have to end that way?

You are lucky to have survived but it seems that your luck ended there; trapped and captive in Captain America’s faction, you fight to meet dusk at the end of every day.  

“Is that you, dear?” Alma shouts from her corner. 

“Yes, it’s me. Are you alright?” 

“Yes, yes, just a little cold is all.” You immediately empty the water into your dispenser before tending to the old women gently rocking away in one of the four corners of your shared shack. You know Alma from Tony’s faction, a retired cook also kidnapped from her home and dragged to Captain America’s faction, and you were happy to see a familiar face. Injured on her way here (completely not her fault), she was thrown into the slums. It was a fate that most of Tony’s population sadly faced; workers, mothers, children, the elderly ripped from their homes by soldiers of different coloured uniforms. Golden, navy, black, green, purple, yellow, each representing a different Avenger. It was a free for all, like a pack of wolves tearing away at the one slab of meat, desperate to snatch themselves more workers to bring into their operation and feed their greed. 

“The water should last you until I get back. I need to go into the factory a little earlier today. There’s still a surplus of infinity stones left over from yesterday and someone’s got to polish them.” 

“I don’t envy you, I’ll tell you that much. Be careful!” 

“See you later, Alma.” 

The day is dull. The faction sits under a dark looming cloud that looks like it will release a downpour any minute. You just hope that you catch the train cart before it does; being cold and wet for the rest of the day won’t do you any good. Ahead of you is a long line of workers; miners, factory workers, machine operators, all ready to catch the train into the inner city for a long, laborious day. Working for Captain America isn’t nearly as pleasant as working for Tony was. Lost in his unethical ways, Captain America keeps production going as often as he can because watching his income turn from dirt to treasure from on high was his drug. Like Tony, Captain America chose the podium for his palace with precision and purpose. The grand white building proudly sits atop a hill, overshadowing the faction. Facing east, his palace is the first thing sunrise’s glow hits and the last thing it sees before it dips below the horizon, creating a magnificent backdrop for all of the faction workers to worship. Little does he know, most spit at the sight.

A forty-five minute journey later, you enter the factory. You are greeted by some of your colleagues, some of which you get on really well with; it’s the only thing about your job that you can appreciate. Albeit, nobody can quite fill the missing piece of you that was left behind in Tony’s faction. After the fire, you lost all contact with other staff, your mother too. To this day, you still don’t know if they made it out alive, and if they did, what became of them? What of Ginny? There’s no way of knowing, but for now you find solace in the women in the factory.

Although Tony lost everything he had worked for in one day, he can thank his lucky stars that the invasion was posthumous, because if his illness didn’t kill him, the sight of his faction being destroyed certainly would’ve done the job. Despite all of his losses, there was only one person that suffered more than anyone else that day. One who had lost not only the inheritance of Tony’s legacy, but his own too. Wealth, status, power, control, gone within a matter of hours. No one else but Peter Parker. His short-lived rule came to a bitter, devastating end, one that even the Godly power yielded from his infinity stones couldn’t prevent.

After all, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. 

“It was terrible!” A voice exclaims just a couple of yards down the conveyor belt. “The whole faction was up in flames in seconds, explosions everywhere, destruction around every corner - utter chaos. There’s nothing left of it now, just dust and rubble. Before I could even make an escape I was grabbed by Captain America’s men and thrown in the back of a truck. Next thing I know I’m thrown an apron and shoved in here.” 

The conversation reaches your ears and you can’t help but eavesdrop. She must be from Tony’s faction, just like you are. Finally someone else that could share your pain. 

“Sorry…you're from To--I mean Iron Man’s faction too?” 

The girl stops polishing the stone she’s working on and looks at you blankly. She swallows thickly before answering. “Um, no. Spider-Man’s.” 

“What? Spider-Man’s faction is destroyed too?” 

She nods her head. “The day after Iron Man’s death we were…we were invaded by e-everyone, Captain America, Black Widow, The Hulk, Doctor Strange, Hawkeye and Thor, everyone. We…we didn’t know why, we just tried to escape, but they were everywhere just grabbing who they could. Like it was planned.” 

“Because it was,” you mutter dejectedly. The girl from Spider-Man’s faction and a few others around her gasp, murmuring unintelligibly. “Spider-Man was to inherit everything of Iron Man’s, including his faction and I guess the other Avengers weren’t too happy, jealous even. They would’ve done anything to stop that from happening.” 

“Holy shit, holy…shit! Spider-Man was going to have two factions?! How much richer can these bastards get? Wait, how do you know this?”

“I was one of Iron Man’s maids. Told us we were going to be taken care of--”

“Yeah, Spider-Man told us all the same thing. And we believed him.” Her voice is downcast, eyes sinking low. She mindlessly fiddles with the stone in her hand, thoughts of betrayal running through her mind. “Guess we just shouldn’t trust anything the Gods say, huh?” 

“Yeah.” You sigh. The conversation fades into silence and suddenly no one knows what to do, too downtrodden to carry on their work. You would hate to leave the conversation on such a bitter note, so you swiftly introduce yourself with what smile you can manage, one that tells her that you share her pain.

She smiles back. It’s forced but at least it’s something. “I’m Mina.” 

That conversation you had with Mina two years ago is what brought you two closer, and for the first few weeks at the factory, you felt like hot shit. You were Iron Man’s maid. Everyone wanted to know what that was like, what inside an Avenger’s palace looked like, what he was like, and although you enjoyed feeling special enough to be at the centre of everyone’s attention, you were just as desperate to find out what Spider-Man was like. Two years ago, you hotly anticipated meeting him and that feeling has yet to be fulfilled. All you're left with is a craving that you suspect will never be satisfied. 

Mina doesn’t exactly have much on him, but she gives what she can. 

“He wasn’t much, honestly, and we didn’t have much either but we got by. It’s sure as shit better than being here. Our people loved him though, like…properly adored the guy and I could see why--” 

Helena steps in, a Captain America original. Her boisterous voice takes over the conversation with a devilish smile lacing her words. “Oh, I think we all know why.” 

“What? Why?” You ask.

“Are you kidding? Have you seen the guy? If his sculpture at the temple is anything to go by, he’s fucking gorgeous--”

“Was.” Mina rumbles.

“Yeah, alright, alright. Was gorgeous. But he was a god I’d happily sell my soul for. I’d climb him like a tree--” 

“Jesus, Helena. The guy’s dead. Give it a rest. Anyway, yeah he was stunning and I think -- I think he cared about us…it’s just that sometimes you couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or whether he was just up Iron Man’s ass and following his footsteps.” 

“Could you blame him if he was? I mean, he was just about to become one of the most powerful Avenger so maybe sucking up to him did the trick. That was Cap’s mistake. That rival they had decades ago fucked him and us over completely.” 

Mina whips around to face Helena with a hand glued to her sashayed hip, an eyebrow cocked high on her forehead. You suddenly feel like you’ve become a spectator in the conversation despite having initiated it. “We’re two Avengers down, two factions have been burnt to a crisp and no longer exist leaving millions unemployed and homeless, we’re stuck with Captain Ass, and the world is at the mercy of six of the most insane Avengers - so I wouldn’t exactly say what Spider-Man did ‘did the trick’. If anything, we’re more fucked.” 

“Yo, shut the fuck up! If you get caught saying that kind of stuff, you’ll be put against the post!” 

Mina rolls her eyes as a subtle ‘bite me’ leaves her lips and you do what it takes to suppress the giggle. The soft rustling of the polishing brushes fills the silence once again, scraping away the dirt and stone that clings to the infinity stones before preparing them for shipment straight to Captain America’s palace. The stone’s sheen hits your eyes, reflecting the overhead lamp as it spotlights its iridescent ruby red colour to reveal a potential within. What you would do if you had the strength to yield its power, what you would change about the world and how you would change it for the better, and in that moment of thought you look to your hands. They are red raw, blistered and torn apart with the roughness of it all. Further below you, your feet ache, pleading with you to give them a rest but the conveyor belt never stops moving, never stops bringing in more stones and there’s no time for a break. This has been your ‘everyday’ for the last two years, a lifetime for some and you’re not sure how much more of it you can take.

A laugh suddenly erupts from your throat, almost hysterical because realistically you know you don’t even have the strength to fight the exhaustion. It’s absolutely ridiculous that you have the audacity to think about changing the world. 

Well, if not you, then who?

Out of nowhere, your body convulses with a shiver as a tickling sensation feathers across your arm. Eyes snap to the miniscule spider tiptoeing across your skin. It was completely red, all but the small black dot on its hind. 

“Mina?” You blurt. “Did…did Spider-Man really die?” 

“Pretty sure. There’s no way he could’ve survived the attack. Like you said, the other Avengers would’ve done anything to stop him rising to complete supremacy, right?” 

A wistful sight seeps from your lips. “Um…yeah. Of course. You’re right.” The small, harmless spider continues to stumble across your skin and with the gentlest of touches, you scoop up the little creature, placing it gently on the floor under the machinery where it scuttles into the shadows. 

That’s probably the closest you’ll ever get to meeting Spider-Man, huh?

Chapter 2 coming 8th of July

[theamazingloki]

@dr-foster​

In the worldview of his people, time and lives was and were not a straight line but rather spherical. Endings bled into beginnings and old patterns repeated themselves. Five years before, as the battle had come to an end, Loki had snatched a ring from the finger of a sorcerer and sent himself hurtling back to the fields of Vanaheim. He’d emerged into a cacophony of screams, pleas for loved ones to return or mindless hysterics at their loss. He passed a young mother, clinging tight to hollow swaddling clothes and weeping. His voice had joined the throng, Jane’s name cutting through the air as he parted the confused crowds with shoves and darting movements. How long had he searched, amongst the half-deserted tents of an already decimated people, before the horrible certainty set in. 

Five years before, he’d confirmed what he had dreaded since standing on that battlefield and seeing half of those fighting by his side shatter to nothing. She was gone.

The remnants of Asgard had split into two halves once again. Half continued their journey to Midgard, that half which was fortunate enough to still have someone to live for, a child, an elder, a lover. The other half set out on the first ship they could commandeer, their fallen king at the helm, to seek out a vengeance worth dying for. The followers of Thanos fell at their feet, a blót to the culled, the stars painted red and the worlds in between whispering tales of the Viking berserkers who alighted down on their planet, chased out those who would take advantage of an emptied universe, and were gone before the sun rose over the carnage. 

But history repeated itself...

Five years later, Strange was the one who opened the portal, Loki barely breaking stride as he passed from the battlefield to the spring fields of that gentle world - still drenched in battle-blood; new scars crossing ancient skin; and the one lock of Jane’s hair that had clung to a brush, the last essence of her, braided into his hair. Just as before, he emerged into screams, as the formerly lost reappeared into a camp long since abandoned and reclaimed by the spring grass. A child sat on the grass, screaming for her mother. Someone found her, gathering her into her arms with gentle words, and they both watched as their bloodied king ran past. 

“Jane?“ he screamed, with the defeated misery of a soul too tattered by loss, tears burning at his face and hope withering. They’d all returned, had they not? Why would she not be included in that? So where - Then he saw her, not pausing for word, or thought, just holding tight to her so long as he’d run close enough.

[kyuqtq]

Take My Breath Away

A treat for @codesandstuffs as part of the @extremetimedchallengeexchange

Relationship: Tango & Bdubs

Characters: Tango, Bdubs

CW for suffocation, death loops

Summary: It can sometimes feel very difficult to breathe even when not surrounded by the vacuum of space.

Tango ended Season 8 in a very similar way to everyone else. Alone, and scared, and unsure of the future. However, most people either died in the initial blast or hid away in another world. Tango failed , trying so hard to sacrifice himself in order to save his friends. He wasn’t able to blow up the moon or change the trajectory or anything, instead messing up the redstone early and blasting himself far away from both the moon and Hermitcraft. 

Tango tried his hardest to fight against the blast, lucky that it didn’t manage to puncture his spacesuit and that he wasn’t frozen solid by the vacuum of space. At least, he initially thought he was being lucky. He quickly changed his mind as he was forced to watch as the moon slammed into the planet, wiping out everything in a single painful moment. He could feel the tears streaming down his face as the planet burns, as everything that they worked for is torn away. He knows that it’s not permanent, that after however long everyone will be moved to the new world and it will be fine again.

He just has to wait until then.

How long could it be? He should have enough air to last a while, and since he isn’t moving or doing anything it’s not like his hunger is decreasing. He can last plenty of time.

He’s floating away from the remnants of the planet, leaving behind everything - not that there’s anything left - and finds himself floating without direction through the cosmos. He’s barely aware of his surroundings– it’s almost like he’s AFK, noting the stars and space dust that he passes with almost glazed over eyes.

He can’t keep track of time, only coming back into awareness when an alarm starts blaring in his ears.  He’s running out of air, Season 9 should have started by now. What is Xisuma doing? He feels the way the air is getting thinner in his helmet, his ears are ringing. 

He hasn’t actually thought about what will happen when he respawns.

The panic strikes in an instant. What is going to happen when he respawns? Spawn is gone. His home is gone. Will he respawn in his suit? Will his suit have air? He’s suddenly so aware of how far he’s gone; he’s had to have traveled thousands of blocks at this point. His coords aren’t working, haven’t been working even when there was a planet for point-of-reference. 

He’s gasping, trying his hardest to keep his breathing even but his brain is refusing to cooperate. His breaths are growing more and more shallow, the alarms are becoming more distant in his ears. His eyes drift closed and he just has to hope that when he respawns it will be in Season 9.

His eyes open and the alarm is already going again. He lets out a soft whine and closes his eyes. He's been trapped in a death loop before, but this somehow feels far worse. Maybe it's something to do with the fact that there's no way out of the loop, maybe it's that the time between deaths is getting shorter. He stares at the remains of the planet and the moon before allowing his eyes to close again.

He loses track after the tenth death, going from panicking to accepting to ignoring. Tango's stopped thinking about it entirely, going on to try and make plans for next season. He wants to make the second Decked Out, not to mention his grand plans for the base itself. He has no idea how much time has passed, space is always the same light level, simultaneously pitch black and perfectly lit at the same time. His lungs ache terribly, and he has to wonder if they somehow aren't managing to fully recover before he completes the respawn cycle. That thought is worrying; the idea of being caught in a loop that will affect him next season as well.

He checks chat, knowing it's nonfunctional, and isn't surprised that he only sees his own death messages. Either he's the only one in this death cycle or chat isn't working well enough to show the others. He hopes that everyone else is fine. He doesn't want anyone else to be experiencing this. Next respawn he tries to suck in a breath, almost curious to see if next time he’ll have a bit more oxygen. He doesn’t, but it was an experiment to perform and something to distract from how hopeless his situation is. 

He tries to let himself go AFK again, but the respawn is forcing him into awareness. Tango can’t think of how long it’s been, but it feels too long. There’s never been this much time between seasons before, and he can’t help his panic when he considers the possibility of missing the transfer because he was stuck in space while everyone moved to Season 9. But they would realize, right? They would see that Tango was missing and try to find him, right?

He’s stopped bothering to open his eyes after each respawn. Now it’s just his shallow breaths and his flickering consciousness. Which is why it takes him a second to realize when he no longer feels weightless. He opens his eyes, finding himself collapsed on soft, green grass. He scrambles into an upright position, sitting on the ground , and his eyes burn as he looks around. 

It’s daytime, there’s the sun in the sky and it’s so bright that it hurts but he’s so excited that he can’t look away. In the distance, he can hear classic Day 1 shenanigans, and he’s laughing hard enough that tears are welling in his eyes. He’s here, he’s alive.

He still can’t breathe. 

Why can’t he breathe? 

He’s not in space, he’s on the planet, everything should be fine. So why can’t he breathe? Why is he crying? A hand rests on his back and he practically leaps out of his skin. He can barely make out the green blob through watery eyes. 

“You have to try and breathe for me, alright, Tango? Nice and deep breaths.” He honestly accepted that he was never going to hear Bdubs’ voice again, so hearing such an earnest attempt at comfort just propels him further into tears. 

Tango clings to Bdubs like his life depends on it, almost knocking the smaller man over from the force of it. Bdubs manages to hold it together for a bit, but Tango can make out the way that his shoulders shake. His breathing is still shallow, but he can shove that aside enough to try and express how overjoyed he is to be here. He was starting to think they forgot about him. He thought that he was going to be stuck there forever.

“We… We all agreed to take a longer break between seasons. I didn’t realize… I wish we hadn’t. What happened to you, for you to be cryin’ like this?”

He doesn’t have the words to explain what happened, much less the breath. His lungs still hurt, what had once become a more familiar ache is now burning again at full force. He doesn’t want to let go of Bdubs, but he can feel the familiar darkness at the edge of his consciousness. Faintly, he can make out Bdubs crying out something, but the words aren’t there. He feels his grip start to lessen, and with the last of his strength he grabs Bdubs' arm in a death grip.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s in a makeshift bed out under the stars. He stares up at them, wondering if they’re the same constellations as the last world. He’s taking a slow, deep breath, and he’s grown so used to barely being able to breathe that it almost seems to hurt more. His lungs are able to fill entirely and he’s determined to ignore the way that his breath shakes as he exhales.

He’s here, though. Season 9 has started and whatever caused the moon to fall should be an impossibility in this world. So he’s fine. He has his plans all figured out, down to a mental blueprint; he can throw himself into his projects and never think about it again. It’s fine .

He turns his head to the side, forcing himself to ignore the stars overhead, and he sees Bdubs sleeping besides him. He’s still clutching his arm. He sighs, it’s been a while since he had enough oxygen to be able to do things like sigh. He forces himself to breathe deeply, because he can do that, and because that’s what he would be doing normally. He wants to be able to put this behind him. Never wants to think about the moon or space again.

And he will be alright, eventually. He’s moved on from every other thing that has happened to him. From the Life Games and Demise and everything else. So he knows that he’ll be okay, he just has to convince his brain and body the same thing. The other hermits are here, they’re okay, so he doesn’t have to worry about them and their safety. 

For now, he can just rest. Bdubs seems more than content to be sleeping beside him; he doesn’t have to worry about being left alone. He can allow his eyes to drift closed out of exhaustion instead of asphyxiation for once. He gives Bdub’s hand a squeeze and falls asleep. He doesn’t dream of anything but building.

He wakes feeling well-rested for the first time in ages. Consciousness comes back to him slowly, his eyes open slowly and his breathing is deep. He looks around, startled to find a building has sprung up around him. The interior is sparse, but the texturing in the walls remind him of Bdubs’ style, but that doesn’t make sense. Why would Bdubs bother to make him a building when he isn’t staying here? Speaking of, where is Bdubs?

He didn’t realize that he was actually alone; Bdubs must have gone somewhere while he was asleep. That’s… okay. He’s fine with being alone, he doesn't have to worry. He can feel his breathing getting shallower, but just being aware of it doesn’t do anything to help him. He’s trying his best to control his breathing, but none of his usual tricks are working. With a shaking hand, he pulls out his chat and looks over the player list. 

Bdubs isn’t online. Neither is Keralis. He grimaces, trying to resolve himself to spending the rest of his panic attack alone when a message pops up in the chat.

Bdouble0100 has joined the game.

Bdubs is in the room before he can even type out a message. Practically leaping from the doorway into Tango’s bed. They hold each other like the world is ending again, like if they let go then they won't ever have a chance again. Bdubs is crying, Tango can barely process the fact over his own tears.

"We're alright, Tango. We're okay." Bdubs sniffles as he talks. "X said he fixed everything; it won't happen again."

Tango wishes he could find the words to respond but he's stuck trying his best to just keep his breathing even enough to stay conscious. Bdubs has never felt so small in his grasp before, so vulnerable. But they're both here, and safe. He knows that Xisuma wouldn't allow something like this to happen again; he knows that the moon crashing was an anomaly that will not repeat itself. He takes a deep, shaky breath and tries to ignore the way that Bdubs' eyes are wet when he looks up at him.

"I'm glad you're okay. I'm glad we're here." It's not enough to truly capture how he's feeling, the sheer gratefulness that he's in Season 9 and out of the ruined vacuum of Season 8. His breath still feels shallow, but he's here, he's breathing.

[jimothy-g-brooks]

It has been X00 years since the true and final death of Sheev Palpatine. The galaxy has long schismed into many rival factions, the most powerful of which are the United Galactic Republic and the Federation Of Free Worlds. All other polities are allied with one or the other or are consigned to neutrality, likely used as proxies for their cold war. 

In this divided age, the many Orders Of Jedi Knights strive to protect their people and maintain the peace. Finn's Order is the largest of these, followed by all those that had been taught by Rey Skywalker. Many more are those that rose independently and rediscovered the Jedi Arts on their own. They all watch each other for any signs of them turning to the Dark Side and skirmish over differences in dogma. 

While in the shadows, remnants of the Eternal cults seek to reincarnate the line of the Sith, raising up prospective masters and letting them loose upon the galaxy. Rather than painstakingly seeking one perfect candidate, they corrupt dozens of souls scattered across space. Worlds will burn as would-be Dark Lords duel their rivals across the stars until only two remain, a master and an apprentice. 

In the darkness between stars, the Order Of The Voidborn aim to bring about an end to planetary life by igniting the galactic cold war. They hope to goad the major powers to use their vast caches of Planet Destroying Weapons. They believe then that their Void Emperor will lead a superior people, bred to live aboard starships, to inherent what is left and rule empty space forevermore. ~ The loose plot I thought up of: Two pairs of Jedi from rival Orders, one allied with the Republic, the other with the Federation, discover a plot by the Voidborn to hijack a Death Star and blow up a planet under a false flag mission, triggering the planet busting war they desire. Both teams of Jedi, after some rather violent disagreements, have to engage in teeth-clenched team work in order to save the galaxy. (Actually, just the planet. As they come to figure out, the false flag part of their plot is doomed to fail and no one will fall for it- but they're still going to blow up a planet full of billions of innocent lives.)

One of the would-be Sith Lords has joined the Voidborn, working for them and has convinced the Void Emperor to target this planet, because surely that planet being destroyed will kick off the planet busting war they desire. The Sith's true goal is a rival that lives on this planet- wiping them out in the most assured way possible. The hopeful goal is to manipulate the Voidborn from within to continue doing the dirty work of wiping out all other rival Sith, one planet at a time. The Void Emperor is well aware of this and is playing his own game.

The Jedi quartet pick-up one or more tagalong characters with their own plots and viewpoints on the conflict in the galaxy. One of them is secretly a would-be Sith Lord, riding along to find that rival working with the Voidborn and eliminate them.

[blood-injections]

So I just came up with this, right? Well, I wrote an experimental little thing for it.

“D’ya think there’s other worlds out there, with life, aliens or something? D’ya think the whole universe is like this?” Party asked, looking away from the disintegrating horizon back to Fun Ghoul. He shrugged, still staring out the diner window.

“Must be, odds there ain’t is impossible, tha’s what Jet always said.” He murmured, “This seems like all of existence is fading, but I like to think it’s just us. Maybe we’re being sucked into a black hole, maybe this is what happens to planets when they get stretched out all weird like that.”

Poison hummed in acknowledgment, tracing their fingers over Ghoul’s knuckles and the tattoos that scattered his hands. “Maybe.” They replied, it seemed more plausible than any of the other theories they had come up with.

“Think this is the end?” Ghoul asked, “Like, nothin after us? The dinosaurs were taken out, but there was still a world left to restart after they burned. Think the world will be left over after this?”

“I think we might just be the last two people in existence.” Poison answers, “Think there might just be nothing left outside this diner.”

Ghoul shrugs, “We could test that.” He says, sighing. “But it sure looks that way, don’t it?”

Poison looks back out the window. The desert still appears to be there, but the distance is foggy and the sky is full of static and they have a feeling that if they step outside, they might just fall through the ground itself and fall forever.

“I can’t feel her.” They say after a while. “The Witch. You can feel it too, can’t you? That silence?”

Fun Ghoul looks down to their connected hands. “Nothing can take the Witch, even the end of all things.” He says, convinced, “Think it’s like we’re in a bubble now. But she’s still out there, on the other side of it. I think she’ll welcome us an’ I think we’ll live again, one day. Whether it’s here, an’ the Earth is a blank slate, or maybe on some other world.”

“I think that would be nice.” Poison echoes, still looking into the distance, “Another world sounds nice. No apocalypse, no Better Living. Jus’ you an’ me an’ Jet an’ Kobes.”

“Maybe we could be worms.” Ghoul says, Poison can hear the smile in his voice.

“Worms?” Poison says, snorting.

“Yeah! A little family of worms. On another world, somewhere it rains a ton and there’s trees an’ green shit everywhere.”

Poison laughs, looking back at Ghoul, meeting his bright eyes, crinkled from his smile but brimming with tears.

“I think I’d prefer to have eyes to see all that.” Poison says, watching Ghoul nod.

“Yeah, maybe.” He replies, “Maybe the life of a worm wouldn’t be so conventional. I’d want hands still.” he says, making a point to squeeze Poison’s.

“I’d still want a body.” Poison agrees, glancing down at their hands then back up to keep eye contact, “So that I can keep loving things.”

“Yeah.” Ghoul sighs, a tear finally escaping from the corner of his right eye. Poison watches it roll down his cheek, over that Cheshire scar and down to his jawline, watches it collect at his chin and fall to the tabletop.

“We’ll see eachother again. All of us.” He says, a statement. A fact, not a hope. His head turns to the window again.

Poison follows his gaze, watching the horizon swirl unnaturally. They fall into silence, the only sound some incessant distant hum that seems to influence the way the dust particles swirl through the air and the patterns they settle in. It’s like the world itself is singing itself to sleep.

When they eventually look back, Ghoul is gone. There’s no sign that he ever existed at all except for that single spot of moisture where his tear fell and the lingering warmth in Poison's hands.

At this final loss, Poison lets themself finally break down, their own tears joining the remnants of Fun Ghoul. They mourn his loss. They mourn the loss of their friends, of Show Pony and Doctor Death Defying, who broadcasted the end of the world live from their little station until the radios went out. They mourn the loss of Jet Star, who had visited them and they mourn the loss of their brother, of Kobra Kid, who had taken his bike out to check on them when Jet took too long to come home. Neither of them had ever returned and Poison knew their brother had ridden his motorbike as fast as he could, but he couldn’t outrun the static.

They mourned the loss of their own life, the fact that this was it, that they’d never see anyone again, they’d never fight again, never make art again.

They mourned the loss of the whole world and so now they stood. They looked around the place they had called home, now quiet and empty and cold.

They hoped they’d live again, like Ghoul had seemed convinced of. And they speculated what this was, why they were the last one to go. Maybe Poison was the center of this all, maybe none of this was real, some crazy dream. Maybe they’d wake up and everything would be back to normal, their family would be right there, unaware of the horrors they had seen as the sky fell apart. Maybe they’d wake up before everything- the wars and fires and Better Living and all of it, when they were just an innocent kid with their brother and their comic books. They’d make sure to find Ghoul and Jet again in that life, whoever they were.

Party Poison wiped their eyes, pulled on their mask and with that, they stepped outside.

The sun beat down on them but it wasn’t right. The sound of the sand crunching under their boots, however, was familiar. A singular comfort among the end of everything. An assurance that the desert would remain and just maybe, it would remember them.

And they walked into the distorted horizon until the static devoured them.

Ao3

[crimson-elegy]

Pyrrhic

Post-Dirge Vincent Valentine - self-indulgent stream-of-consciousness and establishment of an 'untethered' timeline.

Pyrrhic victory, second chances, unlocked memories, broken promises, a failed (successful) suicide mission.

Culmination.

Cataclysm.

A shattered sky. Inverted and bowing with gravity, pulling the atmosphere down into an apocalyptic maelstrom once again, and once more with a planetary force rising. Underground twisted above ground in an endless web of green. Cavernous, gaping, yawning, burning, impossible geometry at an impossible scale towering to the heavens from the depths of Hell, ascending with the final hopes and machinations of the mad.

It had all come crashing down - the enemy without, the cancer within, the deceit and lies and horror and sins festering even in the light of holy providence.

Lives stolen and sundered.

Broken land. Broken dreams. Broken people. Their song, a dirge, coursed through wretched veins, relentless, irresistible. A call to Chaos, to the End, its herald, its harbinger, intertwining tortured flesh made immortal with terrible deeds.

That was what they wanted. To purge every living thing, leave Gaia a broken husk.

A machine of the Planet's making bloated with death, budding from her skin like a mosquito from stagnant water, soaring to some other world.

This was their ambition, a glimpse of horrifying clarity. A vessel for their chosen few, robbing everyone who was ever born, who had ever died, of their chances of rebirth into the light. The elemental, chthonic thing twined around his soul was to be their key.

“Are sins ever forgiven?” his mako-eyed compatriot asked once, awash in the numinous light of the forest outside the Forgotten City, glowing trees bent toward the glassy surface of the placid lake. Quiet and still but restless with bloodshed and grief.

Aerith was committed to the Lifestream here. Interred.

Tseng and Elena had been tortured nearly to death. Vincent could not let that stand--he brought them here. Nor could he allow Strife to perish at the Remnants’ hands. Action rather than artifice. It felt right. An allowance for the Turks. Nod to camaraderie from before their time, an unbroken thread.

“I’ve never tried,” he responded, aware of the breath of ghosts, the weight of failure dogging the young man’s every step. Cloud blamed himself for her death. Let it consume him. Vincent understood intimately.

Sin for the sin-eater who let the uncomfortable silence stretch with the weight of a burning gaze, even as little Marlene huddled in his cloak, sheltering in the wings of the monster.

Guardian demon.

“...Well, I’m gonna try,” Cloud decided.

A little push. A little beat. Still human. Always human. Cloud more than many.

Vincent watched him go. Watched him return to their little found family, the slender red (pink) tether binding them together. Even him. Obsession, love, and loss.

A counterbalance. The urge to leave. The compelling call.

Back to Midgar to see it through.

He had to make it right. Had to make it matter. An exercise of will adamantine despite a crucible of torture decades in the making.

Penance for the wasted years. Absolution in a final blow. Peace for the ones who, despite everything, called him mentor, friend, even as he kept them at arm’s length for their own safety, that he would not infect them with his own misery as surely as Geostigma gnawed at their souls.

And oh, how uncovered truths, recovered memories, resonated.

A s c e n d.

Let go. Embrace the Becoming, the demon, eldritch creature, force of destruction. Seize control of the Weapon, a reaper’s scythe turned against its purpose.

Shatter the shield.

Break the barrier.

Infernal shadow burned a crimson streak from the stratosphere, plunging like a blade into the whirling churning gyre, into the maw of madness, into certain sacrifice, severing the strings that set this in motion.

The report of gunfire - staccato thunder, elemental and pure.

The flap of wings - a surge of strength, supped upon the anguish and the rage and all of the beautiful broken glimpses between.

The sting of shrapnel and debris as the construct split and wavered and crumbled and roared. It had to be enough.

Had to be -

Felled.

Fallen.

White. A titan’s shattered skeleton hanging in the atmosphere. An explosion of Lifestream raining back to earth.

F  A    L       L          I            N              G

Free.

------------------

Flash.

Weightless in a cloud-strewn sky, a cool night colder still at speed. Vast and open and empty in the whip of air past senseless ears, the flap of tattered fabric trailing like a pennant, of leathery skin pulled tight around arms composed for a funeral.

If this is purgatory, he could know such peace as a blessing. He could sleep amid the white noise and the static, more a comfort than the uneasy silence of a cursed mansion muffled through cushioned coffin walls.

Seconds, minutes, hours, he has no concept of time.

[Wake up.]

"...No."

This is good. Better than he deserves, really, but he'll just have to accept it.

For once.

Something earned.

A mission seen through to the end.

But then -

[It isn’t over.]

SLAM

Metal punctures ruined metal, the briefest resistance to terminal velocity loud as artillery.

[We cannot rest.]

Crimson eyes slant open, burning gold seething around pupils, his voice, its voice, one and indivisible. Cool and windy becomes hot and close as he splits through the still-belching smoke of a raging fire.

[You cannot rest.]

Meteoric his body plunges down, down, down into the sprawling abyss, the green-lit network of pipes and valves and technology pumping like a great eight (seven) valved heart in the middle of a wasteland of its own making.

SLAM

Pierced steel crumples, shatters.

Inclinations to slow, to stop, come far too late.

Gravity takes its due.

By the time diabolical limbs open to seize air, there is not enough to catch. The slums are there. Right there, wreckage in spires of rust.

CRASH

A blink, a heartbeat. Debris tumbles, clatters, crunches into a crater, and something pulls.

Wrenches.

A sudden and momentous stop, crushing, bone-deep.

...and despite every instinct to remain silent clenching too-sharp teeth together, an inhuman howl escapes, spiraling off into the smoggy dark, rattling, echoing through shuttered homes and abandoned places.

Brass-capped claws curl around the point of white-hot pain emerging from his abdomen, finding blackened rebar slick with blood.

Heels scuff into the dust, walking forward, pulling free of his impalement with a fleshy shlock. Contorted grey-banded muscle recedes into corpse-pale skin, disgorging debris and leaving the shape of a disoriented man behind to gather his bearings.

Alive.

Awake.

Elsewhere.

Elsewhen.

[harmcityherald]

Office of Public Affairs | Federal Court Orders Florida Pain Clinic to Close, Physician and Clinic Owners to Pay Civil Penalties for Alleged Role in Unlawful Opioid Distribution | United States Department of Justice

so exactly what is a pain clinic supposed to do? Im asking because I am being steered toward one. of course its at jhh so I am pretty confident in their professionalism. I still wholeheartedly believe its just a way of passing the buck. So I will get sent here and they will say sorry bub you gotta live with the pain. medicine? yeah we got it but we won't give it to you because we might get sued. So its limboland for people with chronic pain like me. sending me to the pain clinic is them handing me my hat and showing me to the door. its hard to blame them. so many seek this medicine that I have to go out of my area to actually fill it. theres that much demand and the pharmacist says "you gotta be here the day the truck comes." really? fucking really? either 80% of baltimore is in pain or just addicts on the take. I don't have that problem outside my area. so what else am I supposed to think? the last time they sent me to a pain clinic in northern balt. co. and I literally walked out of there. it was like a 3 ring circus and I mean c'mon guys I live 150 ft from an open air drug market if I want to hang out like that I would be over there. don't think pain hasn't brought me to the threshold of thinking about it. and that's awful really. so I can't wait to hear the bs they are going to spin at me. count backwards from 10? drink more coconut juice? wear a rubber band on my wrist and snap when it feels like betty davis is walking in heels on my disemboweled colon? I can't wait. The only reason I agreed to go was for my oncologist. I treated her badly at times I can be a difficult patient. She has been there for me and thanks to her direction I was connected to other doctors and the benefit of the mirtazapine. So far I am a success story for her. but the experts and her agree that I should not be having the pain at the levels I am. shouldn't but I darn well am. thankfully they will be watching the liver. and today I saw my primary and the blood pressure appears to be back under control (yet another pill) but today I was 170 lbs. last time at oncology I was 173 which was a rise from the last but after my radiation I was 178 and they did backflips they couldn't believe it. I told them "edibles baby" they help my appetite and calm my stomach remnant (I like to call it that they cut out 85%) but yeah I told them they should study it, you being johns hopkins and all. place is like a medical starship and many nights I lay here thinking of it just that way. I just don't know man. you can cry foul and quote opiate crisis this and that but what every conversation and even this very release from the motherfucking DOJ leaves out are the real people with debilitating pain and yeah bitches I hope you hear me. I used to fix your desk and chairs. doing me alot of good ain't you. well yall got your hands full with the nazi trump circus of death. you know what? I will live with the pain if you promise to hang his carcass from the washington monument. he would like that. a bigly way to go. I have no idea what to expect from this...clinic. why do I hear amy singing no no no.

no one cares about people in chronic pain. and I go to one of the premiere hospitals on the planet.

the truth is there is no answer to chronic pain. To them it is still a mystery. they don't admit that but its like the electric pulses that give us thought. electrical impulses give us pain. we need them so we don't burn our hands off, but understanding how it works? nope. do opiates stop pain? the actual impulses. I mean I feel it work in my battle zone of inner organs so I can say yes after a fashion. in other ways it doesn't stop the pain but just makes it more bearable. and I have tried all of them. which is why I laugh at these fentanyl stories. that was the weakest they tried on me it was weak. I said fuck that go back to the other because that stuff is weak in comparison. I personally don't want to be on any medicine whatsoever. part of that mentality led me to where I am because me thinking im invincible and heart meds? every day? forever? yeah right. well I didn't listen and my aorta exploded. now with only a tiny stomach and all the surgeries they say I no longer have normal anatomy and many times the doctors have to go back even to dr lum and say wtf lol. but im still here. I ain't goin nowhere. use duct tape if you gotta and if you gotta take my pain meds because you are afraid of the freedom caucus then do it. just look me in the eye and tell me the truth. I don't think these docs at this new clinic are ready for me. maybe she will warn them. I would.

anyway the government doesn't care if you are in pain. they only care about the "opioid crisis" because it effects their bottom dollar. and as much as I am devoted to jhh they are still a for profit organization. I won't have a problem. I haven't had any problems when I didnt have them or ran out, no junkie behavior here. I take them before I eat and sometimes after depending on that nights pain. I also know that all of this is no ones business but my own. your telling me, I can hear you through the text, telling me to stop no one needs to know that. maybe someone else you haven't imagined is reading and they too suffer chronic pain and I don't have any answers in this post but neither do the suits who make these decisions that effect our lives and we must remain quiet because omg you don't wanna tell people you are on drugs. on drugs?! really! I take a total of 9 prescription medications. I am on drugs pooh bear, get over it. consider yourself lucky. oh and hey, give me a call when they decide to send you to a pain clinic I can give you some tips. if your lucky enough to survive like me. got a nephew who just got his diagnosis. young. too damn young. my advice to him? fight like hell and never give up. and when the time comes and you are in a hospital bed....get up. get out of that bed. however you have to do it. that's what Dr yoshi told me. and showed me. cancer is a scary word. some people never get past that. my advice? they give you a death sentence and you say go to hell come and catch me. you fight to the last breath. say what? sign for you not to resuscitate me? bitch, resuscitate me and like I said use duct tape if you gotta. you bring me back even if its just my head left so I can still cuss everyone out.

yeah. pain clinics. shams. that's my opinion until it ain't I will let you know.

[mi4012minadigajaweera]

Jurassic Park Assignment- Concept Art and Story

We were tasked to pick a location from the movie Jurassic Park 1 and develop a new narrative/storyline for it in a creative manner. We had complete creative freedom for creating the story on this assignment and we also had to draw a new concept art based on the set/location we picked.

Storyline

In the year 2080, the world had succumbed to the modernized rise of technology, leaving mother nature gasping for breath. Once vibrant and lush, the earth had transformed into a barren landscape, devoid of greenery and wildlife. With the ozone layer being so damaged with the technological singularity, it resulted the scorching unlayered sunlight in most areas to even halfway burn and shrivel most plants and greenery outdoors, disrupting the growth of any natural plants or trees. Sunlight protectors were a necessity for humans to even step outside and with the oxygen levels plummeting, people were confined to the safety of their artificial environments, where plants churned out oxygen through advanced technology.

Only a handful of forests remained around the earth, carefully preserved and monitored by a group of dedicated scientists. This organization, driven by the urgency to salvage what was left of nature, tirelessly guarded the last vestiges of the natural world. With the aid of cutting edge technology, they resorted to lab experiments to even save and cultivate rare plants.

Amidst their tireless efforts on a daily basis, the scientists stumbled upon something remarkable—an untouched island named Isla Nublar teeming with wilderness and untouched by humans. This island, once renowned as Jurassic Park, which was an unsuccessful attempt of an adventure park with dinosaurs, had been abandoned many decades ago due to the inherent danger it posed to humans with living dinosaurs. However, driven by their commitment to saving the dying planet, the scientists carefully observed and researched the island, confirming the extinction of the dinosaurs in that eco system and the presence of a few remaining wild animals.

Determined to transform the island into a sanctuary for nature, the scientists embarked on a treacherous journey. They established a headquarters and set out to rebuild the dilapidated science lab that once housed the creation of artificial dinosaur eggs. With the help of advanced technology, their mission was to resurrect the island and its biodiversity.

However, strict regulations forbade any trespassing beyond the island's forest borders. The scientists relied on digital drones and surveillance technology to monitor every inch of the island, ensuring the delicate balance of nature remained undisturbed.

Among the scientists was Liam, a junior researcher, scientist and environmentalist who was in charge of preserving some rare plants in the lab environment of the island Isla Nublar.

Liam had a secret belief—an unwavering hunch that a remnant of the past still lurked in the depths of the island. While others dismissed his ideas as mere flights of fancy, Liam's curiosity and intuition drove him to action. He yearned to prove his theories right, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that dinosaurs had vanished alongside most other species.

Against all reason, Liam resolved to venture into the forbidden territory. Deep within his heart, he sensed that there might be one or two living dinosaurs, concealed from humanity's watchful eye. Ignoring the potential risks, he set his sights on the farthest edges of the island, an area that he noticed that had been overlooked by surveillance.

He knew the risks he was taking—his actions could jeopardize the carefully constructed harmony of the nature the scientists had worked hard to establish and preserve. Yet, he couldn't suppress the nagging feeling that he was about to uncover a secret that would rewrite the course of history.

[kovacs-on-ice]

Why Halo: Reach (campaign) is a trainwreck.

A lovable trainwreck, don't get me wrong, but a trainwreck nonetheless.

So Halo Reach is one of those games that leaves a community divisive, it was the first halo game to not have a universally loved reception among the community at large. I think it's a fun game, a really fun game, I adore it's multiplayer and the hours my friends I spent dicking around in forge world. It also has the best armor system Halo's ever had to date, infinite can suck my ass--I'm not paying 15 dollars for a shader. You ain't D2, you can't pump and dump my wallet.

ANYWAY

Reach is such an interesting case, out of universe, as it feels like such an out of character move by bungie. Let's consider for a moment, that the same company that tried to stop the release of fall of reach WEEKS before it's release, was notoriously uncooperative with ensemble studios(people who made Halo Wars), who had a game director undercut the books of the series he was making(And it was Staten, if you could believe it. It's on an old 2000s podcast.) decided--"YES, LETS GO DEEP INTO THE LORE, OUR FAVORITE PART OF THIS FRANCHISE. WHILE WE'RE AT IT, LETS USE THE SPARTAN-IIIs" ?????? Does this not feel weird to anyone else?

If you look at vidocs for reach, and other behind the scenes content, it's said that they wanted to do their own thing, and ignore the books. which if that's what they want to do, sure, fuck it.

Then why did they include First Strike references (radio logs you can hear on certain levels/maps) or HAVE NOBLE TEAM BE ALL IIIS

This is the thing that gets me the most. Halo Reach, legit, feels like Bungie's last middle finger to microsoft at certain points. Reach is the home of the Spartans, well the IIs really. It's what gives the planet, and it's destruction, such significance to characters like Chief, or Fred, or any II. That was their home, that's the closest they have to a childhood burning at the stake.

So why, do tell, DID YOU MAKE NOBLE TEAM IIIs

THEY HAVE ZERO CONNECTION TO REACH

THEY GREW UP ON ONYX

What also confuses me here, is that it's not like they gave a shit about how many IIs were in Red Flag. THEY MADE THE GAMES, THATS THEIR LORE. THEY COULDVE JUST MADE UP IIs. The reason that First Strike can be such a gut punch at certain points, is because the IIs are watching their homes burning all around them, and they can do n o t h i n g about it. It's tragic, and it makes their survival in the remnants of the glassed planet even more perilous.

I love First Strike, if you couldn't tell. If Ghosts of Onyx didn't exist, it'd be the best halo book. I'm not gonna defend this opinion because it's right.

And Bungie wrote entire CVs and A FUCKING MESSAGE BETWEEN KURT AND MENDEZ in the leadup to Reach. They did all this legwork for the pay off of having characters unrelated to the conflict they were fighting.

also, I know Jorge is a II, I WILL GET TO JORGE.

Reach was planned, in development, as this giant military campaign first . Check the vidocs/behind the scenes videos, I think Marty O'Donnell is the one who says it. (also marty was the dude who had miranda and johnson die in 3, he edited that in, check the making of Halo 3. Who kept letting the audio director fuck with the script?)

There is a big, big problem with making the battle of Reach a military campaign, however.

In FOR, the kicker about the battle of reach is that it wasn't even a battle. The Covenant overwhelmed the UNSC's fleet and flooded the planet groundside, the battle was incredibly shortlived. I think only a day. Chief went from having near 30 of his siblings living and in the field, to being the only spartan in active combat.

First Strike keeps this narrative too. The Spartans never get to fight their valiant last stand. The loss of the fleet makes the different splinters of Red Team retreat to their various fallback points. Fred, Kelly and Joshua kill an invading army of covenant, sure, but the rest of the Spartans prevent were handling a variety of what-the-fucks

I do think that a theme that carries from book to game is fighting in the face of hopeless odds, which I like.

In the game, Reach is invaded by a smaller covenant fleet and ONI just....never tells the rest of the planet? It's the long night of solace, a big cloaked super carrier, and a few destroyers. (Unironically, the lore for this is that the Shipmaster of Solace came to reach on the search for forerunner artifacts, realized he was in way over his head, and just tried to get his fleet to 1-man all of reach before the prophets got too mad.

which is funny, in retrospect, because right after he eats shit--Thel shows up in the big boy fleet. I wonder how that conversation went down with the surviving officers.)

In FoR, they bring the IIs back to Reach to prep for Red-Flag and to get them the Mark V upgrade. Same thing with the pillar of autumn.

This happens by August 27th. Chief was already on the planet beforehand for a few days to debrief highcom about Sigma Octanus IV, that's beside the point. It's to be assumed that there were a sizable amount of IIs on Reach in the weeks before, since they were being pulled from a variety of fronts, and slipspace travel means everyone would've gotten there at different times. Chief was also leading a force of 12 Spartans at Sigma Octanus IV, the battle right before reach, so I assume they came with him.

August 30th---OOPS, ALL COVENANT

The battle starts as FoR-First Strike say it does on the 30th, AND THAT SAME FUCKING DAY THE PLANET IS LOST.

---------

In Reach, the game, the covenant were found on reach JULY 24TH. THAT IS WHEN THEY PRESS THE "OH FUCK, WINTER CONTIGENCY" BUTTON. If you go by the game, it seems like there's just all out warfare across the planet after that point. The mission after is Noble Team defending Castle Base from a Covenant Corvette (also, like, it's goofy as fuck to think that no one outside the select military participating in these engagements did not, or hear about, the giant space marine animal firing death from above. I doubt the covenant gave a shit about which humans they turned to ash knew about them, after their presence was found out.)

So most of Reach's Campaign happens, including the huge fucking battle at Szurdok Ridge. You know the battle that had scarabs and scorpion tanks casually duking it out in the background, same battle that they used a MAC round in atmosphere in?

By August 13th, 60 percent of the UNSC fleet is recalled to defend reach. Not too long after that, Noble Team kills the super carrier. Then what I assume is Thel's fleet shows up as in the cutscene it shows a massive fleet entering the system immediately after the solace's destruction. After that is the battle of new alexandria, which ends august 23rd.

The game and the book link up on August 30th, as Noble team delivers the other half of cortana. (Halsey split her into two so she could continue her forerunner research, also, halsey never talks about meeting Noble Team in First Strike. Jun literally escorted her to Castle Base. In her journals that came with Reach's deluxe edition, I think there is a few pages of her freaking the fuck out about them. Not-so-concidentally Eric Nylund also wrote that Journal.)

343 tried to link the game and book stories together, and the result was--

Oni predicted there was a 67% of reach being found, just let it happen, no I am not joking.

The battle of reach up until where FoR picks up is just on one side of the planet, somehow they contain it so the planet doesn't freak out. I do not know how, the covenant were fucking EVERYWHERE.

ONI also let the long night of solace pally about, they were mad when Noble Team blew it to high hell because they wanted to use it for Red Flag.

THEY BROUGHT ALL THE IIs BACK TO REACH, MID INVASION, AND JUST DIDN'T TELL THEM UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE???? ALSO, IF THE PLANET WAS BEING INVADED BY THE COVENANT, WHY DID YOU NOT USE ONE OF THE MANY ORBITAL MAC CANNONS.

This is a GOOFY retcon, I swear to god.

It takes them like, an entire fucking month, to get the fleet to Reach. I'd also like to mention, KEYES LEAVES THE BATTLE AND LANDS ON REACH SO HE CAN PICK UP CORTANA FOR THE LAST MISSION. CHIEF WAS LITERALLY NAPPING DURING THIS. I'M SURE HE WOULD'VE LOVED TO HELP NOBLE SIX AND EMILE OUT IF THEY WOKE HIM THE FUCK UP.

@zitasaurusrex

I apologize if this was hard to read, and tbh I probably also missed stuff li-WAIT I FORGOT

IN HALO REACH THEY HAVE A SEVEN PART RADIO MESSAGE STORY ABOUT BETA RED, SPLIT ACROSS FIREFIGHT AND MULTIPLAYER MAPS. THE SPARTANS WHO WERE LEFT TO DEFEND THE GENERATORS. THEY'RE CHATTING ABOUT THEM AS THEY'RE PUNCHING UP TO THESE TANK SQUADRONS BAREHANDED. BUNGIE, BUNGIE, THIS IS ALREADY A MESS, WHY ARE YOU INCLUDING THIS. Edit: I realize I never got to Jorge. I think it's stupid to have Jorge be in noble team because it SHOWS they thought about the concept of what reach being invaded would mean to a II. They just didn't care enough to expand on it in any substantial way.

[heliads]

Time Can Heal (But This Won’t) Chapter Three: Bloodstains

You’ve been a lone demigoddess, daughter of Hecate, ever since your home of Hellas sank beneath the waves centuries ago. You loved the Darkling until he crossed you and you fled the Little Palace. Now you’re disguised as a mere cartographer. Can you face him again, knowing what he’s done?

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There was no way around it, no way to avoid it. Like it or not, you would be returning to the only place you’ve ever truly called home since you left behind the sinking shores of Hellas, past a people who would never rise again. You had seen Os Alta built, walked the newly constructed halls of the Grand and Little Palaces with the Darkling before you knew enough to run from him. This is where you’ll be going- not to a new future, but a chance to drown in all the memories you’ve tried so hard to forget.

However, you’ll have to survive the journey to Os Alta first. You’re not here as an esteemed guest or prisoner, you’re here as a double, a lure. Someone who can be killed so that Alina Starkov walks out alive. You know this as well as your ice-eyed Darkling who rides next to you, who thinks nothing of you but that you share a name with a woman he thought he could manipulate. That is all.

So you force your gaze away from the Darkling and back towards your hands, which grip the reins of your offered steed. You mentally catalogue the scant few weapons you had on you before you were dragged along after Alina- two knives, a medium length dagger, and the small pistol all First Army soldiers were forced to have on them. You’ve never particularly cared for guns, though- they’re dirty, loud things, nothing compared to the damage you could wreak with a syllable from your tongue. Then again, if it came down to it, you’d rather have a pistol in your palm then risk using your magic in front of the Darkling. In the end, you’re here to stay hidden, not reveal yourself in the most dramatic way possible.

That being said, you can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. You’ve learned long ago to listen to the voices that whisper past your ear, speaking of dangers lurking in the woods and ill-intentioned beings who wait for women who walk alone. Some are remnants of past protection spells, and others are shades from the Underworld who’d managed to conjure up some corporeal strength and warn you of an attack. You are the last living Hellenid to walk the earth, and so they feel duty-bound to protect you. Through you, your people live on, and so even the dead watch your back.

So when the voices come, you listen. Your eyes flicker shut for just a second as you listen, past the thump of your heart and the pattern of horse hooves on the dusty ground. The carriage rolls noisily some distance in front of you, and then you hear it stop. Around the bend, you hear the disgruntled mutterings of the guards even though they’re too far for a human ear to pick up. A tree has fallen down, blocking the path. You know it’s a trap even before the shots ring out.

You hear the choked screams of men falling with arrows through their throats and eyes and begin to panic. They’ve come for Alina Starkov, the Sun Summoner who could damn the Fjerdans to a lifetime under Ravka’s watchful eye. They’ve come to kill her. You sense the Darkling rearing his horse beside you, and his stallion picks up into a canter. You don’t have to say a word, just listen to his commands to his men. There are more men attempting to circle behind you and pick you off, you can distract them and the remaining attackers trying to get into the carriage.

A Heartrender turns to you, gesturing for his fellow Grisha to follow you. “Come, Alina! We have to get you to safety!” This command is far too loud for any self-respecting Second Army soldier to ever utter, but to the Fjerdans, it is nothing out of the ordinary. Ravka already swears by its legions of witches, why shouldn’t the ice-haired drüskelle believe themselves above the pathetically obvious Grisha? They follow you without a second thought.

You wait a minute, listening to the sound of boots crashing through the forest floor after you, then jump down from your horse in one swift motion. Your knives appear in your hands and you sprint towards your attackers, knocking them down again and again. You slam the hilt of one knife into a Fjerdan’s nose, and you can hear the bone shatter as if it was your own. Light flashes off of the Grisha steel blades as you slash and stab, drawing blood without taking a break. 

A small part of your mind gleefully notices the way the Fjerdans are running towards you now, drawn towards the sunlight reflected by your knives. They think you the Sun Summoner now, all because of metal polished to a shine. And why shouldn’t they? You have enough power to tear this continent in half, to let the sun pierce the planet’s very core. Why shouldn’t you be feared? Why shouldn’t you be the Sun Summoner yourself?

The man in front of you cries out, and you come back to your senses. Your eyes follow your knife, twisting in his windpipe, and you withdraw it hastily. You wipe the scarlet blood on the grass before turning to fight another Fjerdan attacker, but none come forward. You realize that they’re all dead, either by your hand or by the Heartrenders. Although, you notice with a sickening twist, most are killed by you. You’re supposed to be a shy First Army soldier, and you’re not exactly playing your part quite right.

Across a clearing, you see the Darkling helping Alina to her feet. She looks stunned, most likely due to the body of a Fjerdan lying at her toes. It’s been sliced perfectly in half- so he’s used the Cut. No wonder she looks as if the world has just been exposed for being woven from nightmares. She glances over at you and blanches even further. Shame twists in your gut as you realize your hands are covered in blood, none of it yours. You were borne of a race of warriors, fighting has been in your history for as long as Hellas has stood. To Alina Starkov, however, this is a massacre like she’s never seen before. You carefully sheath your knives again once you’re sure there’s no blood left on them.

You stare at the bodies, forcing your eyes to remember every last detail. May your gods or their Saints watch over them, wherever they may go. You don’t have enough coins to place under their tongues as per the Hellan tradition, although even if you did you couldn’t risk drawing the Darkling’s attention with such a specific ritual. Instead, you burn their faces into your mind. Memories and legacies were how your people retained their power, and being forgotten was a large part of how they crumbled away. At last you can remember these men.

A voice sounds from in front of you, and you look up hastily. “Do not pity them. They attacked the Sun Summoner, your friend.” The Darkling stands before you, something strange in his eyes. You’ve seen this look before, a few centuries ago. You had been careful to hide the true extent of your magic from him, perhaps knowing even then that he would want nothing more from you then the power you could give him.

In that long ago instant, you had let go, allowing your spells to run wild as stallions through the air. You were attacked, yes, but you had used it as an excuse for true bloodshed. It had been so long since you had truly tested your limits, always making sure to hide what you truly were, even from the other Grisha. You wanted to see what you could do, just this once. Even then, you were just scratching the surface, but the wash of inky emerald over the scene threatened to drown out the world. Bodies dropped, trees were stripped of bark, entire buildings crumbled despite the strongest of foundations. 

The few other Grisha present looked at you with true horror, but not the Darkling. No, he looked at you as he does now, with a sort of hunger that could consume entire countries and never be filled. He saw no girl or lover, he saw a weapon. He saw you standing before him, pulling a blade from your chest and offering him the hilt. He’d take it, not caring (or even relishing) your blood still dripping from the blade. The things he could do with you were unimaginable even in your worst nightmares, and it would never be enough. The worst part is that you thought you might go along with it, that you’d be willing to watch the end of the world with him.

This is how the Darkling looks at you now, a weapon ready for the taking. You remember hastily that he’s likely expecting something of you, so you duck your chin and do your best to summon up the modesty expected by the likes of Y/N Stassov, mapmaker and nothing more. “It’s just, well, a lot of death.” The Darkling inclines his head. “Maybe. Where did you learn to fight like that?” You don’t like this line of questioning, where it could lead. “The First Army. Sir.”

The Darkling’s lips quirk at the last minute honorific. “I’ve seen no First Army mapmaker who could take out a dozen Fjerdans with a pair of knives. Maybe I should send some of my soldiers to learn from your generals.” You panic, sure he’s testing you, then realize that he’s joking. Ridiculous. You force a smile. “I think they’re probably fine with their heartrending and all that.” The two of you have begun walking back to the horses now. The Darkling mounts his steed, then looks back at you. “Maybe so.” When he takes off, you’re not sure which scares you most- him figuring out who you are, or the idea that he would not look for you at all.

The Darkling calls for the party to take a respite that night, waiting until the moon shines low in the sky for everyone to tie up their horses and rest in a long-abandoned barn. Alina runs over to you as soon as she gets off of her mount, flinging her arms around you in gratitude. You can tell from the hammering of her heart whenever she looks at the Darkling that she hasn’t forgotten his use of the Cut, and probably won’t for a while.

“Saints, Y/N, I’m so glad you’re here. I couldn’t do this alone.” You can sense the eyes of the Darkling and the other Grisha on your back, and you know what’s expected of you. To them, you are no more than an otkazat’sya mapmaker, someone utterly unworthy of their Sun Summoner’s company. They’ll leave you to make your way back to Kribirsk when Alina is safe at the Little Palace, and they no doubt expect you to make her path easier.

So, you smile, smoothing back an errant piece of her hair into place. “That’s a lie, and we both know that. If you can punch an irritating officer or survive the Fold, you can ride a horse to Os Alta. Promise.” Alina rolls her eyes. “It’s not like that.” You raise an eyebrow. “It totally is. Believe me. Now come on, chasing after you all day is exhausting. I intend to go to sleep right now.” Alina grins. “That sounds good to me.”

Despite your weary eyes, you can’t seem to fall asleep at all. Alina sleeps next to you, the few Grisha lookouts stand unmoving at their posts. Eventually, you get sick of tossing and turning and staring up through the rotting beams through the barn roof. You stand, making your way quietly out of the barn. If the sentries see you, they do not stop you. Evidently, they trust you enough to let you walk around, or they view you as useless enough to not stop you from trying to run. Either works for you.

You don’t go far, just outside of the doors lying at odd angles on their hinges. You take a seat on a rusting metal bench, leaning back against the faded paint of the barn walls. You stare up at the sky, eyes tracing the constellations. Somewhere up in the night, there were once heroes and monsters, prideful queens and stubborn kings whose stories were famous enough to warrant them a place amongst the stars. You’ve been looking for them for a while, though, and know that the skies are empty of all souls who were once cast up there. It’s just another reminder that you are well and truly alone. The last remainder of a long dead culture.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” You startle, turning to see the Darkling walking out of the barn beside you. You manage to cover up your surprise with an apology. “Sorry, I didn’t think I’d woken anybody.” The Darkling shrugs. “You didn’t. I was already awake.” This feels somewhat surreal- here you sit, a false face and a fake history as a farmer turned soldier. Here stands the Darkling, looking just the same as always. It makes no sense, though- why would he keep seeking you out? Why would the general of the Second Army keep looking for an otkazat’sya soldier? He must know you, somehow. There’s no other explanation for it.

The Darkling clears his throat. “Thank you for speaking to Alina. I appreciate your words.” You dismiss the gratitude with a lift of your shoulder. “She’s my friend. I couldn’t exactly make her feel worse, could I?” The Darkling turns to look at you now, familiar quartz eyes seeming to tear you in two. “You could. You could have refused to play along with the role of double, you could have refused to fight by her side, you could have done your best to turn her away from us. You did none of that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I could have resisted a team of the most skilled Grisha in all of Ravka? I intend to keep my life.” Something almost like a smile appears on the Darkling’s lips. You’ve seen this look before, in sunset afternoons and deepest nights. It’s so familiar that it seems to cut at you like a knife. You almost want to call out to him now- know me, please. Remember me. If you look close enough, you will see the woman you pretended to love. We could pretend again, if we wanted to.

You silent the murmurings, and he speaks again. “All the same, it was appreciated.” You turn back towards the sky, partly to take in the sight of the night sky again and partially to hide the smile giddily appearing on your own face. How is that after all this time, all these hurts, he still has this effect on you? “Well, I want her to have some good memories after this. I’ll be shipped back to Kribirsk, I don’t really want to leave on bad terms.”

The Darkling remains silent for so long that you’re worried you’ve said something wrong, opened up too much. A simple mapmaker would never confide in a centuries-old Shadow Summoner, he must suspect something. Surely, hopefully, he does. But instead, he turns to you, a softness present in his eyes that wasn’t there before. It rounds the edges of his quartz gaze, making it easier to fall hard and fast. “You aren’t going to leave for Kribirsk. You’re staying in Os Alta.”

You stare at him, night sky forgotten. “What? But I’m no Sun Summoner.” The Darkling laughs quietly in the night. “No, but few of us are. I have a personal guard, the oprichniki. I would like you to begin training with them once we arrive.” The sentence is phrased so casually that it almost floats by you completely undetected. The monumental weight of the words, however, is enough to shake you whole. The oprichniki are not Grisha, so you would fit in, but they are the Darkling’s special guards. Only the toughest and bravest of fighters are selected, certainly not a mapmaker who’s best skill is pretending to be a Sun Summoner.

You tell him as much, so stunned by this that you forget to hold your tongue. When you remember who you are and who you’re doing your best to pretend you’re not, you wish you had remained silent. For some reason, however, the Darkling doesn’t seem taken aback by this momentary lapse. Instead, it just makes his lips twitch even more. He is most certainly hiding a smile. “I saw you fight, Miss Stassov. If you can do that without any of our training at all, I’d say you’re a good candidate.”

You lean back against the barn wall. “Oprichnik. Me.” You whistle quietly, letting the sound echo in the night air like the call of a dove. The Darkling inclines his head. “You are free to turn the offer down at any point-” his smile grows at your raised eyebrow- “Although it is not an offer I take lightly. You have potential. Besides, keeping you in Os Alta will be a support for Miss Starkov.”

You furrow your brow. “I thought you would want to separate her from her old life, not keep having ties to it.” It’s what the Darkling would do when you knew him. He would have cut out another mapmaker without a second thought. The Darkling considers this. “Perhaps. But if she feels too alone, she may draw in on herself and feel unwilling to use her power at all. You have your merits, Miss Stassov. Perhaps more than you see yourself.”

You barely hear him when he goes back inside the barn. He has always had this ability to disguise his footsteps, letting the shadows cloak him in sound as well as in sight. For once, it doesn’t trouble you. Instead, you’re troubled by the future ahead of you. If you were an oprichnik, a guard loyal only to him, there would be even more chance of the Darkling finding out that you were Hecari, the woman he’d loved and who had run from him, feigning death rather than stay by his side and fear his knife.

Being near him, though, it makes you think back to every moment you’d shared. Could it be possible that you had misheard? Would the man you know, the man drenched by moonlight who makes offers of joining the ranks of the oprichniki to mapmakers he’s barely met, truly want you dead? The answer is yes, you know that. But your heart whispers differently, telling you that you could be wrong on this. You’ve always trusted your whispers, the ghosts of the past. The only problem is that these aren’t Hellenid spirits now, they’re your own. Longings for what might have been, what you left behind. 

In the end, you retreat back inside the barn. When you sleep, you dream of a quartz-eyed boy, dark-haired and smiling before he thought to use you.

series tag list: fave @underc0vercryptid​, @hotleaf-juice​, @aleksanderwh0r3​, @kaqua​, @nemesis729​, @imma-too-many-fandoms​

[javier-pena]

alone

Chapter 1 of The Hunt

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Word Count: 4.4k

Rating: Mature (for now but that will - spoilers! - change eventually)

Summary: When your best friend and companion is abducted by a group of outlaws, you hire a Mandalorian to help track down the men and get your revenge. What seems like a simple enough task stretches into a month-long trek through inhospitable terrain while both you and the Mandalorian are trying to come to terms with events in your past you cannot change. Set after Season 2.

Warnings: mentions (and short descriptions) of death, murder, and torture | a lot of hurt and no comfort | mentions of loss | mild to moderate language | a lot - and I mean A LOT - of talk about Din’s hands lmao

Notes: This is my first attempt at a Mandalorian fic and the first time in months I’ve written anything. It’s vaguely inspired by my favorite western movies, True Grit (1969/2010), The Quick and the Dead (1995), and The World to Come (2020). So yes, this is going to be very much like a western. I also want to - again - thank Dani @javierpcna​ who was like “are you writing Mandalorian stuff?” about a month ago and has, since then, read through this chapter more often than me and encouraged me to continue to write it and offered so much valuable insight whenever I came to her with an idea ... seriously, Dani, this fic wouldn’t exist without you and I hope I can find a way to repay you! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this first chapter (I’m already working on the second one) ...

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The day the Mandalorian arrives on Alvorine is the day you lose your best friend. You’re still busy putting out the fire, running your soot-blackened hand across your face, where the dirt mingles with the tears you’re too tired to stop from streaming down your face, when you hear the thrusters of a spacecraft roaring above you. You barely glance up; you can’t be bothered to. It could be the remnants of the Empire looking for recruits, it could be the New Republic looking for the remnants of the Empire, or it could be the bandits coming back for more. But what do you care? They already took away the one person you care most about in the galaxy. You just grip the shovel tighter and drive it into the soil so you can choke the fire underneath moist stones and dirt.

While you exhaust your body with physical labor, you occupy your mind with thoughts of revenge. Revenge as dark and quenching as the soil beneath you. With every load of dirt you heave onto the searing flames, your plan gains another sharp edge until all you can think of is driving the cutting edge down onto the throat of the man who gripped Brea’s arm and pulled her onto the speeder bike. Maybe his head would come off right away, maybe your tool would just obstruct his windpipe as you watch the life drain slowly out of his eyes. And even that would be too good an end for that monster.

It’s not just in your mind – those thoughts aren’t simply there to ground you while you continue your work in the ruins of what was once your home. It’s not pure fantasy, something to give you back a feeling of control. You are determined to follow through on it; you are going to hunt down these men who burned down your farm and stole Brea from you. You will not rest until they are all dead by your hand. And if you should die in the process … then you won’t go out without a fight, without taking as many of those bastards with you as you can. They have sealed their own fate by coming here today.

You know Brea isn’t dead; they won’t kill her unless she tries to kill one of them first. And she wouldn’t do that, she is too gentle for that, too docile. She would rather turn the other cheek. They should have taken you instead; she doesn’t deserve the fate that awaits her. You would’ve at least put up a fight, make them pay for what they did. And Brea? She would just die.

For now, she’s alive. But whatever you set out to do once you’re done here won’t be a rescue mission. You aren’t under the illusion you can save her. You know that even if you were to leave right now, even if you had your own speeder bike, you would never find her in time. No, this possibility hasn’t even crossed your mind. All you want to do is cause these men more pain than they caused you. You know it is impossible because you cannot imagine anything worse, but you sure as hell will do your best.

You straighten your back, drive the shovel into the ground, and use it as support while you try to catch your breath. The air burns in your lungs, and not just from the cold. There is also the steadily rising black smoke that makes breathing hard; your throat stings, so do your sides, and there is a bitter taste in your mouth. But you’re almost finished here, you’re almost done putting out the fire, so it won’t endanger the surrounding forest. And with every flame you bury, you also bury a piece of your soul until you feel like there is nothing left that makes you human, until all the pain and despair you’re feeling since listening to Brea’s screams grow quieter and quieter until they were swallowed up by silence has turned into a cold, brazen cry for revenge. But you’re glad this has made you less forgiving, less kind, less … human. Those things would only get in the way of the task ahead of you.

As the last flames go out with a wet hiss, one of Alvorine’s three blue white suns vanishes behind the treetops. You know the other two will be quick to follow. And you don’t have anywhere to spend the night. You wouldn’t mind sleeping with your back propped against a tree. You’ve done it often enough. But it’s winter, and the air is already cold and will be even colder once the other two suns set too. And you just lost every blanket, every single piece of fabric that could keep you warm in a small inferno. You know this is just an excuse, a comforting lie you tell yourself. The truth is you cannot spend a minute longer on this clearing, even if that means you have to walk the four miles to the next settlement. You’re so exhausted you cannot feel your legs, but you don’t care. Anything is better than spending the night here, even collapsing in the middle of the dark forest.

You leave the shovel where you stand and walk to the edge of the clearing, swallowing around the lump in your throat, trying to hold down more tears that are threatening to spill over and down your cheeks. Once you reach the edge of the forest, where the air is a bit clearer, you take a deep breath and turn around to look at the ruins of your home, now nothing more than a black pile of rubble. You have nothing, nothing but the clothes you’re wearing, not even a small trinket to remind you of Brea and the many happy hours you spent here tending to your fields, sweeping the front porch or sitting around the fireplace sharing supper. Even remembering how you worked on menial chores now feels like the most precious memory, one you will hold onto until your last breath. Because even though they have taken everything from you, they can’t take away the memory of Brea’s laugh.

***

They stare at you as you enter the inn. They stare and then look away. They can’t bear your presence because it reminds them of their own guilt. Not one of them came to your aid this morning, not one of them came afterwards to offer help. And you ignore them too because there is nothing left to say. All you want is some food and a dry place to sleep before you turn your back on them forever.

You sit down at a small table in a dark corner. The patrons around you either turn their backs to you or stand up to move their meals and conversations someplace else. It’s as if you’ve been marked. If you had any strength left in you, you would call them out on their behavior. Shit, you would wreak havoc, and only stop when the last one of them is on their knees begging for forgiveness. But you’re glad you’re too exhausted because your sudden hatred for everyone and everything scares you. The villagers don’t deserve to fall victim to your rage. There is nothing they could’ve done. They are just as defenseless and helpless as you. Would you have come to their aid if your positions were reversed? You would like to think so, but just because it gives you a false sense of moral superiority. Deep down you know the truth. Deep down you know you would hide too, praying that you would be spared.

As you dig into your bowl of soup, you realize how hungry you are. Even though everything tastes like ash in your mouth, your stomach is glad to have something to clench around when your thoughts stray to this morning’s events again. And you know there’s no need to punish yourself by refusing your body the nourishment it needs. The opposite, in fact – you know you’ll need all the strength you can get if you’re really going after them.

As you swallow one ashy bite after the other, you let your eyes wander around the room, looking for something that will distract you from your thoughts and your feelings of guilt. Everyone avoids your gaze; everyone acts as if your corner is empty. Everyone … except one stranger.

He sits in a booth close to the bar, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze on you. Or at least you think he’s looking at you – he’s wearing a helmet that covers his entire head, the kind you’ve seen twice before in this corner of the galaxy. He’s a Mandalorian, a bounty hunter, and his presence here doesn’t really surprise you. Even though actually seeing one is a rare occurrence, stories about them are countless.

Alvorine is a planet without laws, a planet that lives by its own rules, so many criminals decide to hide out here while they wait for their crimes to be forgotten. There is no military presence on the planet, no judicial system, no one to catch and punish the wrongdoers. The planet follows the rules of whoever is in charge, which changes frequently, but none of the powerful people have enough resources to enforce those rules anyway. Disputes are often just settled by the parties involved in whatever way they see fit. Only the Mandalorians, who are hired by people on other worlds, by people who have never experienced what it is like to live on Alovrine, are brave enough to get involved in those disputes. You have to admit you do feel a tiny bit curious as to why that particular Mandalorian is here ... who hired him? And who is he hunting?

You tentatively let your gaze wander over his stoic body, over the beskar covering his arms and chest, over the bandolier wrapped around his upper body, over the visor hiding his eyes. If you had one like him on your side, you wouldn’t need to worry about getting your revenge. He would catch those men in the blink of an eye. And if you paid him enough, he would do to them whatever you wanted.

He would cut off their limbs but keep them alive long enough to feel it.

He would make them run for it, give them the illusion of hope, only to crush it like their bones.

He would let you watch, let you choose whatever punishment you saw fit.

You shift in your seat because you can almost smell the blood, you can hear a faint echo of their screams, and it makes you feel light-headed and nauseous, but also elevates you, lifts a weight off your shoulders, even if just for a brief moment.

But he’s not here to do your bidding. And when you lift your head again, he’s gone.

You finish your bowl of soup and then decide to rent a room upstairs for the night. You don’t have a place to stay anymore and it’s too dangerous to start your pursuit while it’s dark. The forest belongs to dangerous creatures during the night, more dangerous than any man out there. And you’re planning on staying alive for just a little while longer.

You stretch and yawn and move to get up when your path is suddenly blocked. It happens so fast you don’t register anything at first apart from the cold, hard beskar chest plate that is level with your face. Its unexpected appearance makes you lose your balance and you fall back down onto the bench you’ve been sitting on. The Mandalorian extends his hand, his fingers closing around thin air. It’s a half-hearted attempt to stop your fall, and it comes too late – your backside has already painfully collided with the hard wood.

“May I join you?” His voice sounds distorted through the modulator in his helmet. He sounds like a machine, not like a being with a heartbeat.

You want to tell him no, want to tell him to fuck off, but for tonight you have no fight left in you. So you nod.

He sits down and you expect to hear the clink of his armor, expect to feel a tremor when his heavy body comes to rest on a stool opposite you. But there is no sound, no movement, and the lack makes you sit up straighter. This isn’t just another cowardly villager you can get rid of by glaring at him … this is an apex predator.

You swallow with some difficulty. “Can I help you?” you ask, your voice level, your eyes resting on his glove-clad hands lying on the table. You figure you’re safe as long as you can see them.

At first, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. Or at least you think he’s looking at you. You cannot see his eyes behind the tinted visor. No matter how uncomfortable the situation makes you feel, you try not to move … you try not to show any sign of weakness, to give him any excuse to lunge across the table and strangle you.

Finally, he answers. “I’m looking for work.”

Now you cannot help but move. You exhale sharply, and with that release of breath comes a release of tension as you slump backwards, your back hitting the wall behind you. You cross your arms over your chest. “I can’t help you,” you say. You don’t have any work to offer him, no work worthy of the skills of a Mandalorian who usually hunts down important people, kings, merchants, people who influence the course of the galaxy’s history. Following a few lowly bandits is not the work he’s used to. You don’t even want to tell him about it because you know he’d take it as an insult. And even if - by some miracle - your quest for revenge would be deemed a worthy cause in the eyes of the Mandalorian, you couldn’t afford his services.

The slightest movement of his helmet is the only reaction your answer gets out of him. Whether he shifts because he’s surprised or because he’s angry, or whether his scalp itches under the metal you cannot tell.

Still, you feel the need to explain yourself. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any money.”

Shit, that’s the wrong thing to say. It implies you have work for him, but that you’re too poor to pay him. For all you know, this could be a grave insult in Mandalorian society.

His fingers on the table clench around thin air again. “What can you offer?” he asks.

He doesn’t want to know about the job, the quarry as you know they call it. No, he just wants to know how much he can earn.

“240 credits,” you answer. It’s all you have. You won’t need it anymore.

He tilts his head and you expect him to refuse, but then he says, “That’s enough.”

You’re taken aback, surprised. He’s caught you off-guard. You were fully prepared to see him walk away at hearing the ridiculously low amount of money you just offered. “You don’t even know what the job is,” you protest. The last thing you need is a Mandalorian hunting you down because you’re not paying him enough.

“They told me,” he says with a nod behind him.

You follow the movement with your eyes and see heads whip to the side, gazes wandering downwards, you notice conversations being picked up again. White hot fury fills you, more powerful than the flames that destroyed your house.

“They had no right,” you press out through clenched teeth.

The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything. He sits still like a statue, unwavering, as you fight a small battle with yourself. You should leave without looking back. Messing with a Mandalorian is even more dangerous than the task ahead of you. But he’s offering you something invaluable, something no amount of credits can get you: a chance. If you go alone, you’ll be dead in about a week. There’s no use pretending you’ll get out of it alive. But if you accept the Mandalorian’s help – his services, you have to remind yourself – you might make it through two. You might get to see your dreams of revenge become reality.

You sigh deeply as a heavy weariness settles over you. You’re exhausted, and now that all the adrenaline has left your body, you can feel all the small cuts and bruises today’s labors have left behind. And you feel empty … cold and empty, and utterly alone.

The Mandalorian still doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t defend the villagers, he doesn’t tell you what he knows about you or the job, he doesn’t try to persuade you to take him up on his offer, nor does he walk away from it. He just sits there and waits for you to make up your mind, as if it’s all the same to him. And it probably is. Either he goes with you and earns some money, or he doesn’t and looks for work elsewhere. He is completely detached from the whole affair. There is no emotional investment, just a job that needs to be done.

He doesn’t care if you live or die, he just cares if you pay him or not.

This realization is what finally helps you make up your mind. “I want to hire you,” you say, your tongue heavy in your mouth. All you really want is to sleep.

There is no reaction for the longest time but then the Mandalorian nods. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to say something, give him details or explain the specifics of the job to him. But before you can decide what to say next, he stands abruptly.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he says before turning around.

Your brain needs a moment to catch up but when it does, you’re already on your feet. “Wait,” you say, and to your surprise the broad, steel-clad man listens to you.

He doesn’t face you, but he stops.

You briefly consider asking him if you can accompany him, but you don’t. You don’t have to ask, you get to decide.

“I’m coming with you,” you tell him.

You tell a stranger, a dangerous one at that, one who makes his money by making other people’s lives a living hell, that you will travel with him through dark, deserted forests where no one will stop him from taking what he wants from you instead of earning it, where no one will come to your aid should he not honor the deal you apparently just made with him. And you don’t care. Because no matter what he will do to you, it can’t be worse than what has already been done.

But all your worries and fears focus in on just one tiny aspect of this whole, fucked-up situation when he says, “I work alone.”

You don’t want to negotiate. This shouldn’t even be up for debate. You’re his employer now, you get to decide how things are done. But if you insist on this, he could just walk away from you. And you cannot let that happen now that you’ve had an idea of what it would be like to have a Mandalorian on your side.

“We’re not a team,” you say. “Think of me as an interested party. As someone who is fascinated by your work.”

You’re not sure if that is the right thing to say. His shoulders move, but he still doesn’t turn around. When he speaks again, you know it was the wrong thing to say.

“I work alone or not at all.”

You don’t want to accept that. You want to be there when those men are punished for what they did. You don’t want to wait around for the Mandalorian to come back, not when you don’t have anywhere to wait around in. You’ve lost everything. Had he talked to the villagers as he claims, he would know this. Or maybe he does. Maybe he knows you lost your home today but doesn’t care. He doesn’t even know the definition of the word home. It means nothing to him.

You take a deep breath. “Then I won’t be needing your services.”

This finally makes him turn around. Everything in you screams for you to take a few steps back, to put yourself out of his reach. You can feel the atmosphere between you shift – he draws back his shoulders, makes himself even taller than he already is. And you know, you just know, that refusing his offer, that backtracking on your agreement is the worst mistake you made tonight.

You’re pretty sure that not honoring a deal is the worst insult to a Mandalorian.

“Going alone will be your death,” he says when you cannot bear the tension a second longer.

“What’s it to you?”

The words are out. They are a challenge, one you didn’t mean to make, one you shouldn’t have made, but it’s done now. Your hand begins to tremble, and your feet grow cold with fear as you prepare yourself for his reaction. You don’t know if he will hit you, tie you up, torture you, or just kill you on the spot. He could do all of these things without having to fear any repercussions. You curse yourself for not having been more careful, for making this fatal mistake, because now Brea will go unavenged. Just because you couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut, just because you’re stubborn and hot-headed and oh so stupid.

But to your surprise, the Mandalorian shrugs. He lifts his broad shoulders, then lowers them again as your eyes follow the movement. But he’s not giving you anything more: He doesn’t insist on going alone, he doesn’t turn around and leave, he just keeps standing opposite you, motionless, emotionless, until you’re convinced you imagined the shrug.

So you decide to make the next move by removing yourself from this situation before he changes his mind and drags you back to his ship to do whatever he wants to you. You take a deep breath and start to step around him, a movement that is almost impossible to complete in this small space you’re both in. But you attempt it, nevertheless. When you’re level with him, doing your best not to brush up against him so you won’t enrage him, you hear his voice. It’s just one sentence, four words, but for some reason it sounds so much more human than it did when he was opposite you. Maybe it has something to do with the distance between his helmet and your ear, maybe it’s the angle from which the sounds hit your eardrums or maybe it’s because you feel light-headed, dizzy with the realization he hasn’t killed you yet and probably won’t.

He says, “Have it your way.”

You stop right next to him, staring ahead at a group of three men who do their best not to look at you. But you don’t see them anyway. In fact, you don’t see anything at all because the rushing sound in your ears drowns out everything else, even other senses.

“You can come with me,” he says, and it’s the first time he has spoken two sentences in a row. “But you do as I say.” Three. “If I tell you to run, you run.” Four. “If I tell you to get out of the way, you do so.” Five. “And if I tell you to kill, you kill.” Six.

Then nothing, just the faint sound of his deep breaths through the modulator.

Your thoughts are racing, tripping over their own feet like children running down a hill, and they’re unbearably loud. Everything is loud suddenly, from the sound of the barkeep filling a glass to the way that woman over there is chewing her food. The only thing that’s quiet is the last one you would have suspected to be so: the Mandalorian. Now he is waiting for you to say something and as he does, he balls his hand into a fist and then releases the tension again, over and over like a nervous tic, like he needs an outlet for the tension in his body, the tension you have no idea he is feeling until you see his arm flex beneath the fabric covering it.

But, once more, you’re at war with yourself. You don’t know what to tell him. There is still that shimmer of hope on the horizon, the light that makes you believe you stand a chance if you bring him along. But his terms … you’re not sure if you can accept them. He doesn’t know Alvorine or the men you would be hunting half as well as you do. And you’ve never been one for following orders. So if you feel that his assessment of a situation is wrong, you’re not sure you’ll be able to run just because he tells you to.

You have a feeling that defying his orders would be the most dangerous thing you could ever do, even more dangerous than hunting down a group of ruthless bandits who like to torture and kill for fun.

“All right,” you say finally.

His fist unclenches one last time and he exhales slowly.

“But when we find them,” you swallow hard, once, but your mouth is completely dry, “I get to decide what happens to them.”

The Mandalorian turns toward you so abruptly that you almost lose your balance. You lean back and hit your elbow on the wall behind you. The pain makes you curse under your breath.

“Agreed,” he whispers. He sounds like a machine again, as if everything that makes him human is shut away beneath that cold, hard, invaluable beskar steel. You too feel cold suddenly, cold and afraid. “But until then you do as I say. Understood?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. He is too close to you, and drowns out everything else, even the sounds that you considered to be too loud mere seconds ago. If he wouldn’t be wearing a helmet, you would be able to feel his breath on your cheek. He takes up your field of vision almost entirely. You’ve never felt more on display, and yet more hidden. And you know that if you say the wrong thing now, it will have terrible consequences.

So you just nod again.

“We leave in the morning,” he tells you, then turns around suddenly and leaves, his cape trailing behind him.

All sounds come rushing back at once, as if you’ve just emerged out of a pool of water. You release your breath quickly, only now realizing you’ve been holding it. Then you slump back against the wall, a shaking, quivering mess.

***

tag list: @bella-ciao​, @filthybookworm​, @frannyzooey​, @khalysa​, @leannawithacapitala​, @mothandpidgeon​, @mrsparknuts​, @mxsamwilson​, @piscespussybabe​, @something-tofightfor​

[starshipsofstarlord]

God is With You, Even as You’re Sinning

Pairing | Sam Winchester x reader

Summary | it was your first time not killing a monster, and in its place, taking the life of one of your own. Guilt entraps you, and it is up to Sam to break you out of your pitiful hypnosis.

Warnings | mentions of death, blood, angst, guilt, some smut, oral sex (fem receiving), penetrative unprotected sex, fingering, swearing, mentions of murder

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Fuck God. This was all his fault, everything was to be fair. He had left the world to continue on its own accord, the apocalypse threatening to spill over the planet and destroy it and all beauty that was lingering through the existence of humans.

They killed each other, and the creator of all could care less. It was his smallest problem, he didn’t mind that the murderer was succumbed to guilt, or how many restless nights that he or she endured. God was cruel, even if he held up a facade of being your ally, and trying his hardest as he supposed, to be your friend.

Your hands shook as you remembered the entailment of your mistake. It was a slip up, a vast and surreal experience that people usually learned from. But what were you supposed to do, not kill a human again? Yeah you had gotten that, after all, the initial deed had not at all been intentional.

There was the victim’s blood dried upon the outer layer of your skin, casting you in the perfect image of murderous intent. However, you had no thirst to kill, instead, your hunting of monsters, alike to many others partaking in a similar lifestyle, executed the mythical beasts to protect the human population.

It pained you truly, to know that you had killed a person. You hadn’t even spared the familiar body a second glance, and out of panic, you fled the scene, leaving the body of the city cleaner in the gutter, laying in the remnants of his friends’ and family’s waste, burying him in their crude excrement.

The thought alone, and the sight that was engrained in the peripheral of your mind had you feeling sick. Slowly, you plodded down the steps of the bunker’s entrance, surely leaving footprints trademarked in all kinds of grotesque evidence.

Without much care for what lay heavily inside, you dropped your duffel from your shoulder, allowing it to fall on the ground with a disgruntled clatter. Nothing meant anything anymore, not if you were indeed a real killer. Whilst some monsters had weaselled their way into society, ending their pathetic attempts at normality was different than taking away the life of an innocent and mortal bystander.

Often, with the darker and crueler species, there were reasons as to why they pretended to be of human birth. Mostly, it was so that they could feed from the naive flock, or kill for their own amusement. Either way, none of their reasons were good.

But now, you thought of yourself as no different than them. A creature that needed to be put down for their crimes. Filing, you breathed in, only inhaling the various moulds of putridity that was weaved into your hair, and stuck to your skin like a face mask.

“Should I call you Cassie now?” At the joke, a laugh from the speaker was triggered. He was quite amused with the sight of you, and thus, you sneered at the tall man, hating him a little bit more than usual.

“Your pop culture references aren’t appreciated Winchester, it’s more Dean’s street.” Shoving past him, his high shoulder floundered back at the harsh and ignorant impact, an expression of offence covering his stupid face. Like a fawn, he tumbled after you, watching as you walked sullenly into the kitchen, yanking the door to the fridge open, and extracting one of his brother’s store bought beers.

“I’m going to guess the hunt went bad.” Sam speculated, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, and staring expectedly down at where you popped the cap off the bottle recklessly with your teeth. He almost winced at the sight, but he wished to keep this arrogant demeanour up with you, it was a natural desire to piss you off, and he’d be pissed at himself if he let it slip out of simple pity.

“Guess correct. Well done, you’ve won a trip to Hawaii.” You waved your free hand mockingly in the air, as the other raised the liquor to your mouth, allowing you to wilfully gulp the bitter liquid down. At his presence that remained nursing over you, you cocked a brow, leaning forwards as you expectedly looked back at the moose. “Just leave me alone Sam, I’m not in the mood for putting up with your bullshit.”

He, however, seemed not to be phased by you wanting to be left alone, and instead, quickly snatched the poison out of your hand, leaving you throughly prepared to keep him right in the balls. “What the fuck?” You all but screamed at the not so jolly giant. In turn, he crossed his arms across his chest, placing the bottle down on the island.

“I could ask you the same y/n.” His tone was dominantly serious, causing you to cower back into your shroud of guilty conscience. “Tell me what happened on that hunt, of which i told you that you shouldn’t have went on alone, since you wouldn’t have been able to handle it solo.”

You felt demeaned by his words, they sparked an anger out from the firm pit of your stomach. But you knew deep down, he was getting through to you, which was something that you had not managed to even do by yourself. Air heavily passed through and out of your nostrils, as acidic tears pooled in your eyes; a crack was falling down your walls, and out of all people, it was Sam Winchester whom had caused it.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have gone alone, but you know what, I thought of what a Winchester would do. And then I remembered, I am sure as hell not a Winchester and I don’t have a brother anymore! Not now, he didn’t even know who I was earlier, didn’t even recognise a single genetically identical hair on my head as he watched me parade through the town, the very one that I ran away from when he was a baby and I was seven, wanting to hunt a monster. Yet, i didn’t kill a damn monster Sam, I murdered my brother because you’ve been right all along, I’m not fit for this job. I am a mess, so congratulations, you finally have got me to admit the one thing that you keep reminding me of.”

“Y/n...” Sam wasn’t sure how to respond, he felt the waves of shock ripple through his body. Never so freely had you been vulnerable around him, and here you were now, with very visible tears cascading down your utterly torn face. He understood it was an accident, and the times that he and Dean had tried to kill each other under supernatural circumstances had him wondering what if.

Shaking your grime tethered head at the sound of his cracked voice, you stormed past him, and immediately raced towards the shower room, finding to your luck, which had been non existent during the rest of the day, the halls were barren of life. Walking through the door, you tore your ruined clothes off, chucking them upon the floor without much acknowledgement, before you went under the warm spray of the shower head, trying to calm yourself.

To rid your skin of its evidential accessories, you had to scrub your skin until it was immediately raw. Everything within you ached, as you flicked back to the memory of the clueless expression that had been worn by your blood brother. It was probably a good thing that he didn’t know who you were, or else, he’d have known that his own sister murdered him due to her incompetence to listen to others.

Now, you were not even sure what were your tears, and what droplets of water belonged to the shower itself. For over an hour, you basked int eh warmth that seemed unable to cure your cold blooded system, turning the spritz off, and covering your body in a fluffy towel, that you were sure belonged to someone else, but right now, you could care less about who owned what.

As you reached the door to your bedroom, you found it to be preached slightly open, and as you pushed it the rest of the way, you saw Sam sat on the corner of your bed. You held your arms around yourself, insecure on the fact that beneath the stolen towel, you were nothing more than you. A wolf in sheep’s skin.

“Can I help you?” You bitterly asked, your eyes still burning from your own faulted loss. Sam breathed in, his eyes trailing up to your face, that was naked from any gruesome cosmetics or make up. The bareness to your completion illustrated an aura of innocence, and evidence that you were the same as him - human.

“That’s my towel.” The male hunter laughed, in hopes of changing the previous and well wounded subjected to ensure that you felt better. But what was he kidding, nothing could fill the void that you had dug in your own heart, nothing was closer than the bond between siblings, even if you were considered as strangers.

“Take it back then.” Too exhausted from your gruelling day, you dropped the material, your confident action making his eyes go wide, as he tried to look away from your exposed skin to respect your boundaries. It was impossible though not to allow his hazel hues to slip up the trunks of your thighs, up to- no, that was wrong, very wrong.

You had just lost your brother, not to mention, by your own hand, and he was prone to checking out your freelancing body, taking in every curve and twisted scar that was prominent to his speculating eyes. His eyes dropped to the discarded towel, which he had purposely left on the heating rail for later use, and then, they switched back towards you.

He stood, walking behind you as you looked through comfort clothes within your dresser. A light touch of his hand brushed your hair away from your neck, as he breathed a sweet hoax of hot air upon your scare. Sam was relieved that you didn’t reject the contact, and instead, pressed his lips upon the flesh, finding succession whence you hummed deliriously to yourself.

This interaction had been inevitable for a long time, but now no longer were the suspected intentions for such an exchange to be to release well endorsed frustrations. No, he was going to clear your mind for some sensual moments, and make your pretty little head forget for a moment that you had pained yourself in the worst of ways.

Turning, you laced your hands through his chocolate locks, massaging his scalp as you pulled him closer so that your lips could endure a rougher clasp against his. There was no passion, behind each contribution there was a spur of hunger, he grasped your ass cheeks, pulling you up to be sat upon the top of your heavy dresser.

Obliging his command, you spread your legs so that he could stand between their partition, his hands now running up the windows of your thighs. For a while, the pair of you did nothing more than make out, and cup a feel here and there, but soon after, Sam dropped to his lanky knees, leaving kisses in the wake of his descent.

His thumb and forefinger spread your fluttering folds, watching as your slit squirmed for attention. Sam licked his lips at the sight, running his middle finger up the expanse, until he came to your yearning entrance. Slowly, after making sure you were wet enough, Sam slipped his digit inside, you wiggling your hips to adjust to the thrust of his one finger.

To add to the sensations that were overriding your body, he moved his mouth to closer proximity, smelling the divine aroma that pulsed out of you. It was far too addictive to not get a taste, and thus,he pulled his finger out, sucking off your juices contently.

But that small sample just wasn’t enough, which encouraged him to dive face first into your pussy - literally. His long tongue teased your folds, slurping at the lips, and then switching to your clit to heighten the stimulation. He kept up a rhythm, using it as a pattern to push you closer to that edge, and he was surely certain that you were enjoying his oral work as you ground your face against him, moaning at his succulent administrations.

“Sam.” Oh god, was it pleasant to hear his own name fall out your mouth in such an erotic manner. It was far different from the way that you usually used it to snide at him, though, the thought of your regular treatment of him aided only to spur his lustful actions on. He wanted you to cum, for your juices to run down his face in waterfalls, looking as though someone had tried to drown him.

His work would not be complete until you found it difficult to even pronounce his short name. Digging his tongue in the hood of your clit, tracing around the protective area, his fingers returned to their earlier placement, and he quickened their pace until he could hear a satisfying squelch in the air.

Rapid sounds of parted moans raked from your mouth, your chest sticking out as you breasts heaved with your heavy breathing. It was noticeable that you were close, not just from that, but you were squeezing the circulation out of his fingers. “Fuck.” Left you in the form of a squeal, as you pussy wept its juices.

Sam was quick to lap everything that left you up, once more, tasting those that clung to his fingers. He went back in for another taste, but you tightly grouped his hair, pulling him away from your sopping cunt. “Need you to fuck me Sam, now.”

In an instant, the hunter stood, working precariously on undoing the buckle of his belt, and pushing all material that covered his lower half to the bottom of his thighs. He read already hard, and oozing precum. You swept your finger across the tip of his dick, bringing it to your lips to taste his foreshadowing seed.

Sam huffed at the sight,picking his prick up in one hand, and jerking himself a couple of times. And then, he aligned himself with you, rubbing his cock around your wet crevice a couple of times, slapping his tip teasingly against your puffy clit.

“Want my cock baby?” He asked, smirking as he watched you nod your head repeatedly. With that being all the confirmation that he needed, he pushed into you,feeling even more turned on as he heard you mewl, and watched the ecstatic expression cross your face as his dick fit inside of you all the way.

He grasped your hips, pulling out once before pushing in again. He repeated the action, his own eyes rolling to the back of his head at how tight you were. This would make you forget the cruel method of god, his story was not as epic as he though, for his characters were screwing against his will, basking in a distraction rather than the regretful pain that seethed in your trodden heart.

Another thrust had your nails clasping onto Sam’s covered back, biting onto his shoulder through the plaid, as you held back the tears that were trying to creep out of your blissful eyes. A few grunts left Sam, as his pace increased, and with every thrust, which only served to fuel him further, the dresser smashed into the wall behind it, most likely leaving a decent dent within the historical architecture.

“Gonna cum.” You told him, dragging him in for another tongue filled kiss as your cunt pooled around him, coating his cock in the honey from your delicious pot. He soon followed after, and for a moment, he remained against you, allowing you to bask in the comfort of his strange presence.

And then he pulled out, watching as his distraction dripped from your entrance, trailing down your thigh in a white streak. An orgasm smile was pulled onto your face, but it was certain to not last long for when you returned to the reality that laid waiting for you to return.

Sam stepped closer again, moving his fingers towards your cunt, and pushed his seed back inside of you, watching as your puffy pussy lips swallows any part of him that it could get. He would distract you for as long as he could, and then, deal with the inevitable.

[impalalord]

You know, it's the littlest things that can change the course of life. The smallest action could topple a building, or start the construction of one instead. For us, and for the galaxy at large, humans were that change.

After they made first contact with another species, humans did what they do best and immediately got themselves wrapped up in a war with a species that had far more firepower than they did. Of course, being a fledgling species who could barely grasp warfare in the void of deep space, much less the use of common technology that would have taken them centuries to develop themselves, it ended poorly for them.

The Humans turned out to be Idealists, with individuals and small ships volunteering themselves to help in a war effort to defend their outermost colonies because their own governments would not. That was another oddity about these Humans, they did not enter the galactic fray as a single unified group. Instead, they were a loosely collected group of governments and nation states held together with treaties and deals.

At first they lost volunteer soldiers and emissaries, then they began to lose ships and outposts. Instead of demoralizing them, this seemed to fill them with rage and cause them to lash out in anger. This too ended poorly, as they fought an overwhelming force with nothing but kinetic weapons and solid-fuel engines, the galactic equivalent of sticks and pebbles.

Their losses were staggering, as the Dryzal swept into Human territory and pillaged whatever they deemed fit. Worlds were lost and razed, endless voices were silenced as the horde marched forward. But this destruction did not satisfy the Dryzal, so they took more from the young species.

The eventual destruction of their homeworld, the razing of the very cradle from which their species was raised, caused Humanity to become a drifting species among the stars. They became intergalactic wanderers with no start or end of their journey to speak of. Their birthplace was nothing more than radioactive dust, and the fire of rage seemed to have died from their eyes. Anyone who went through a spaceport most likely saw a few solo humans wandering throughout the interior, with their gaunt, sunken faces and disillusioned cold eyes. Any sane being gave them a wide berth, afraid that they would be sucked into their cold, soulless depression, unable to escape.

Humans travelled from world to world, working on any ship that was willing to take them without too many questions. They weren't strong, and they weren't fast, but they could learn quickly and had no problem doing any job as long as they got paid. They spread across the galaxy and learned the inner workings of every species

In truth, humanity had not lost their rage, or their hope. The destruction of their homeworld cooled that fiery, liquid rage in their eyes and hearts into a icey hard steel that was sharpened further with every passing day. They bided their time, licking their wounds and learning their lesson. Lashing out would get them nowhere without a solid plan.

So they spread themselves across the dominion, unseen by the populace due to their reputations as wraiths. Barely living beings that lived in the shadows and dregs of society. Learning everything they could about each species, quietly recruiting others who had earned similar fates. Humanity no longer had an army of soldiers and starships, instead, they had an army of workers. Castaways, the dregs and refuse of intergalactic society, banded together, working behind the scenes as janitors, mechanics, cooks and repairmen. Quietly building and growing until the time finally came.

Their uprising came on a seemingly normal day; transportation stopped, communications jammed, power lines cut and food stores emptied. Militaries scrambled to try and find the source of the unrest, but everywhere they went the answer seemed to be ‘everyone.’ A random janitor was just as likely to be part of the chaos as a militant roaming the streets.

After several hours of the chaos, a single signal passed through all of the VidNet. A single live video of a young male human sitting at a desk. His dark hair disheveled, his clothes dirty and tattered, his average face covered in bruises and cuts. His voice was calm and collected, but also cold and firm as he began to speak to the universe.

“My name,” he began, “is Tim. I was nine years old when the war with the Dryzal began. My parents were not soldiers. They were farmers and pacifists. They believed in the good of the universe and taught me to look for the good in all people, of all species. It is your fault I have broken that pacifism. My parents were killed in front of me on my tenth birthday. Our colony was razed and I was dragged, screaming and crying, onto a ship by a neighbor who was lucky enough to survive the purge. We set out for Earth, the homeworld of our species, hoping that someone would respond to our distress calls.”

The human paused for a moment, and sighed. “We didn’t just send distress calls to our own kind. We sent them out across the entirety of the Dominion, using every language we could find in our database. Only a single species came to help us in our time of need, the Ruvol. Much like us, the Ruvol had lost everything without any assistance from the Dominion. All they had left were a ragtag fleet of merchant ships, barely able to fly, much less fight. Yet they were the ones who came to us when we needed it the most.”

“The Ruvol did not care that they might die, or that the last remnants of their culture would be lost forever. They saw us struggling, and they gave us their hand. In the end they saved about two dozen colonies from destruction before they were all killed above Trelnax V. By then I was eleven, and I had volunteered to help the Ruvol in their evacuation plans. Once again, I watched everything I put my life towards destroyed in front of me, before being dragged back to Earth. The Dominion refused to respond to our communications.”

“I was twelve when the Dryzal finally reached Earth, their slow warpath finally reaching its destination. I was on an outbound shuttle to help with relief efforts on another destroyed colony when they came into the system. They didn’t even bother to try and conquer the planet. They just unloaded a barrage of nuclear warheads and turned everything we held dear to radioactive dust. Yet the Dominion stood by and did nothing but watch.”

“Now, exactly eight years after you stood by and watched, you beg us to help you. Our friends and allies fill your streets with fire and chaos, your communications cut and transportation is gone. Why should we, the same beings that you threw to the street, help you? There are many among our cause who have similar stories, species we pulled from the fire ourselves because you would not.”

“The Kenek at Oaphus, twelve thousand nine hundred and sixty three humans died protecting their world, zero Dominion forces present. The Grocon at Laphus, eight thousand six hundred and seventy one humans dead, zero Dominion forces present. The Swaans at Bleu, seventeen thousand, four hundred and thirteen humans dead, zero Dominion soldiers present. A pattern began to emerge in our favor, each time we gave our lives to save these species, they vowed to fight with us in our cause. Each time their worlds were attacked, they cried out for help. You never answered, so we did.”

“Entire species filled with rage and hate for your inability to lift a finger are finally coming out, their feelings boiling over the edge of the pot. You have committed the grave sin of sloth, and now you are paying the price. This universe is no longer yours to control. You all had your chance to rule over everyone, and you ruined it. You were happy to sit peacefully in your ivory towers as worlds burned below your feet.”

“Now your Ivory Towers become your prisons instead, as control slips out of your grasp and falls firmly into ours. We vow to never make the same mistakes you have. Goodbye and good luck.”

After that transmission everything changed. The Humans lifted us out of an era of stagnation and into an era of expansion and growth. Though it was not a peaceful era, it was a better one, and for that we can never truly repay them. That is why on this day every year, we remember. We remember the worlds and species wiped away by the Dominions inability to give others aid, in hopes that we may never repeat their failures.

-Transcription of Dr. Cassien Agnaits’ Remembrance day lecture at the University of Tylon IV, Standard Galactic Date 110864