#rusty terran

[linlin-artpage]

'Cause he got 'em.

I've been working so much in this one and it was meant to just be a quick thing.

My hardest challenge here (except for the hand, duuuh) was his skin,while I managed to somewhat get it similar to the shows art and coloringstyle (not fully, still struggles with the correct flatnes-2D-ratio), it was the fact that he is supposed to have freckles, alot of them, all over. And painting them just like dots everywhere, doesn't look good, so I stayed with just the textured brush but honestly, the freckles should be more prominent (Think like commander Gren from The DragonPrince, but even more lol.)

[femvaylin]

I wanna replay ME but why is MELE 60 bucks... Should I just arrr it...

[djhashtageditz]

Here are Earthspark season 2 episode descriptions if anyone’s still interested.

Also some pictures

6: Chaos Terran 2.0? Does that mean Aftermath is Chaos Terran 1.0?- also would Spitfire now be a copy of Twitch or trying to copy her.

9: Oh so it was a class project that’s why Mo was taking pictures.

10: wait what the fu- Starscream is gonna pull a tfp Megatron. Al’s is Terratronus some omega lock thing? Why it got “Terra” in its name if it’s cyberforming something? Is this a terran? A terran combiner maybe?

(Aftermath) so I guess they managed to get that shard back also are they standing on one of these GHOST trucks?

(In Ruins) pretty sure that this is the way they took to find the Quintesson executioner. Wondering why they went to search for him though? Curiosity? Like some unexplored area or do the sharkticons have something to do with it?

(Control Alt Delete) Hashtag looks all rusty like we’ve seen before maybe because she got hurt, also Dot is helping her with maintenance or something? Maybe since most GHOST vehicles aren’t operational no one knows how to help her. She’s also got the box of hard drives, wondering if it’s just of these or just a specific one that Shockwave needs.

[my-writings-and-musings]

I had intended to post some more self indulgent Earthspark stuff for my birthday on the 28th but better late than never, yeah?

I adore that Alex and Dot wholeheartedly adopted two towering robotic children without hesitation and were just like "yup these are our babies now we love them" and felt like writing something soft from that. Please enjoy a little fic of Dot comforting Thrash when the latter gets sick for the first time, because hurt/comfort is my absolute jam and he's baby.

Dorothy Malto didn't make a sound as she entered the barn, something that was easier for her than most thanks to her training as a soldier and experience as a mother. There wasn't even a creak from the old rusty hinges as she squeezed through the doors, though she still held her breath as she shut them behind herself, listening for any sign of movement from within. Hearing nothing, she allowed herself to move with a bit more swiftness.

She couldn't quiet the worry gnawing at her gut as she approached the ladder to the second level, but she pushed it down as she pulled herself up the rungs, reminding herself what she was here for. Someone else needed comfort far more than she did.

For all of her strength, there was no stopping the hurt that cut right through her heart as she beheld the familiar white, brass and blue curled miserably atop a makeshift Cybertronian bed. Thrash hadn't moved much since her last visit that morning, and while the sizable blanket she'd placed on him was fluttering with each ventilation, they were slow and haggard enough for her to tell his condition hadn't improved. Though she'd expected it, the sight still made her ache with sympathy. At least his siblings were being kept from their own worry thanks to the "special training" Bumblebee had cooked up to keep them busy, meaning she could focus all of her attention on the child that needed her most. 

As soon as her foot met the floor, the young Terran cracked his optics open, and their dimness deepened her concern. In record time she repeated to herself what Optimus had told her; this would pass, illness was a normal but unpleasant part of Cybertronian development, his immune system was just calibrating itself to the environment he'd been born in…

Smiling softly, she got to her knees beside his bed of straw overlaid with blankets, speaking with as much comfort as could be conveyed through tone. A tender hand on his shoulder allowed her to feel his still unbroken fever, but she didn't let a trace of her worry creep into her voice. "Hey Thrash, how do you feel?"

He looked at her a moment longer before he winced and pushed his helm deeper into the stack of pillows she'd personally arranged for him, looking ready to be sick but soldiering on with a strained murmur. "I'm okay."

Having expected such mock bravado, she moved her hand from his shoulder to the side of his helm, encouraging him to look at her with a tender stroke of his cheek plating. Dim optics flicked in her direction, looking up at her as she tried to encourage him to be honest in the most gentle way possible. "You don't look okay." she said softly, adjusting her hand and sliding her thumb back and forth along his temple. Memories of doing the same for Mo and Robby brought her back to their first times being sick. They'd been a great deal smaller than Thrash, but somehow he still stirred the same protective instinct within her, and she halfway wished for the ability to cradle him as she had them. 

The weight of his helm pressed into her palm as he closed his optics with a weak shudder, expression tightening in pain and discomfort before he spoke up just loudly enough for her to hear. "Head hurts…" he confessed, walls slowly coming down as he allowed himself to admit some of his struggle. That was something they'd been told to expect, but hearing it didn't make her feel any better.

"I can call Optimus and see if their medic has anything for that." she offered, speaking somewhat quickly as her concern briefly got the better of her. It didn't matter that he was nearly twice her height; as far as she was concerned Thrash was her baby, and seeing him like this made her feel an indescribable need to provide some kind of relief. With her first two she'd at least had human doctors and a competitive wealth of resources… The ailing bot made a soft sound of discomfort and leaned even more heavily into her touch, his trembling compelling her to speak again, albeit with much more control of her tone. "Can I get you anything for now?"

Thrash was silent, his brows briefly furrowing as he once again fought to be strong and hide all the discomforts she knew was making him miserable. For a moment it seemed like he would succeed, and that he would mutter something about just wanting rest as he had that morning, but Dot felt something falter within him. A wave of exhaustion passed through the young mech, and he let his helm go limp in her grasp.

"Mom…" he said in the weakest whisper she'd ever heard, voice breaking as his dim optics turned back to her before going foggy. She couldn't keep the heartbreak off her face as she heard him speak, especially as his shoulders trembled with a weak sob and her usually upbeat and happy boy confessed his true feelings in a single, pained sentence.

"I don't feel good…"

"Shhh…" she soothed without delay, adjusting herself to gently guide his helm into her lap. Forcing her voice to stay steady and her heart to remain strong, she held him close, hoping he could feel her love and support while he needed it most. She'd seen the same reaction from her older two many times, and remembered the feeling well from her own youth; the helpless misery of being sick and young and just wanting the pain to stop. "I know baby, I know…"

Thrash whimpered again, and though her leg began to go numb she didn't even think of moving him from her lap as she cradled him as well as her smaller form allowed. It brought a small measure of relief to her son, who quieted and closed his optics after a few minutes of her soothing touch, his ventilations slowing as he finally relaxed enough to drift off in her grasp. After a solid twenty minutes he was powered down and her leg was buzzing with pins and needles. Despite all of that, the sight of him recharging peacefully brought a soft smile to her face. 

"Mom's here." she whispered with a tender kiss on his helm, intending to stay as long as necessary if it brought him the smallest amount of comfort. 

[autisticlancemcclain]

Lance often felt like he was suffocating; asphyxiating in his own blood and bones.

“You’re much too small for such big words,” his mother would often say. And she would be right — he was eight, a child still, far too young to feel like the world was a tight ball of lead sitting on his heart. Far too young to feel the weight that he felt on his shoulders.

“I feel like my lungs are too wide for my chest,” he’d tell her, and she would smile tightly at him, because although she loved him and Lance knew she did, she did not understand him.

“Maybe you should play with some of the other children your age,” she’d say, and Lance would shake his head before she finished her sentence. He tried, and tried and tried, and could not force the relationships. She knew this. She did not expect him to do as she asked, but asked anyway. Lance knew the routine.

Sometimes, though, the pressure would grow too great. His lungs would expand though his skin and his heart would pound so loudly it would burst his eardrums and his arms would stretch across the solar system and his fingers would shrink to atoms and he had get out get out get out as fast as he could on legs that has turned to stone and breath that had turned to ice and a body that no longer felt human, no longer felt Terran, felt too big and too powerful for the vessel he knew he was and was in.

On these days, Lance would escape. He would open the broken latch on the window in the room he shared with his brothers and climb carefully and quietly down the drainage pipe, like he’d seen the orphans do in Annie. He’d forgo shoes, as his mother would not be there to force them on his feet, and run down the dark and silent streets, forgetting to watch for broken glass or rusty nails and relying entirely on guardian angels he wasn’t sure existed. He’d sprint as far as he could down the broken down and pothole-ridden street that led away from the worn, paint-peeling, window-shuttered home he shared with his family, away from the sensitive ears of his mother and the ghost of his father and scolding voices of his siblings until the pressure on his chest would lessen, and then he would laugh and yell as he flew by the rest of the houses haunted by people who never came home. The guardian angels that did not exist guided him into the shadows, shielding him from the curious eyes and tattling mouths of annoyed and grouchy neighbours who would report him to his mother. Every night he fled, as far as his little feet would take him, and every night he would take grand gulps of pickup truck-diesel polluted air to store in his lungs before he returned to the house that felt like as much of a trap as it did a home.

One night, though, he heard a sound. Not the static sound of tires crunching over gravel, or the whistling of voices over the crackling of a campfire, or the crashing and bellowing of a party after dark. A different sound, as familiar as it was foreign, a deep rumbling that felt almost like an upcoming crack of thunder but did not carry the same sharp smell in the air. A sound that rumbled the black of the street under Lance’s bare toes, a sound that rattled his brain and quieted the thundering of his heart.

Lance followed the noise.

He turned on streets he often ran past, doubling back and ducking out of the wide swaths of streetlamp lights as a cop car cruised by. He followed the rumbling of the air, farther than he’d ever wandered before, until he saw it: a lineup of cars that looked like Marco’s old Hotwheels, barely illuminated by the silver glow of the moon and the yellow shine of the half-working street lamps, revving their engines and flashing their headlights.

Lance gasped. A street race. A real, live, right-in-front-of-him street race. He scrambled to the side of the road, crawling in the ditch and back out the other side to sit under the shadow of a big rock. He watched as someone came out holding a white bandana, stopping in the middle of the street between the two cars at the front of the line. Lance strained his ears to hear them over the roaring engines.

“From here to the end of the road! First there wins the pot! Ready, and…. go!” They whipped down their arm, the white bandana flapping down with it, and the cars were off before Lance could blink. He leaned as far as he could without falling over, desperately trying to soak in every detail as the cars raced towards him.

There were eight of them, all different shapes and sizes and colours, all cars made for speed. Most Lance didn’t recognise — fancy cars got ransacked fast in his neighbourhood, these people must be from out of town or else hide their prized racers real well — but there was one that caught his eye. It was blacker than night, a moving shadow, sleek and sharp. It had started last in the lineup, but was already overtaking the car in the lead. Lance watched with a gaping mouth as it came up just behind the leading car — a bright red monstrosity that looked like what you’d imagine a sports car would look like of you’d never seen one — then absolutely gunned it, shooting ahead by what felt like miles and zipping past Lance at the speed of light. The huge gust of wind that followed it almost sent Lance tumbling onto the road; luckily he held fast to the rock and stayed crouched low.

The rest of the cars followed in quick succession, so close to each other that they were almost one mass, but there was no questioning who won. Lance craned his neck, carefully watching as the black car slowed to a roll, looping around the corner on a victory lap. Some of the drivers of the losing cars stepped out of their vehicles, visibly seething as the black car cruised by. Lance could almost feel the smugness dripping from its tailpipe. The black car finally slowed to a stop back where it started, the person who’d started the race approaching the driver’s door with a fat bundle of cash. A gloved hand reached out the window and grabbed it, before ramming up the window, swerving around the person, and racing away.

Lance scrambled after it.

———

inspired by this art by @dalglieshx . to be continued!!

[flowers-of-io]

Softer Still

Read on Ao3

“And this one?” Mariko is straining to reach the rune plate, balancing on her toes in a way that makes Fynch rapidly develop a second neurosis on top of his existing one. Decades of lonely searching and now his time in the throne world have made him rusty on the intricacies of the human condition. How breakable are children? Would it cripple her if she lost her balance and fell to the floor? Oh, the Guardian would kill him if anything happened to her on his watch.

Fortunately, the girl lowers her soles to stand flat on the ground, making him release a metaphorical breath, and looks at him questioningly.

“Uhhh… This one means ‘break’,” Fynch says. What an irony.

“Like… a school break?”

“Like bone-break,” comes the rumbling voice from behind them. Up to this point Ken has been fulfilling his duty as the other half of the babysitting duo mostly by standing around silent and still like a security guard, and Fynch did not expect him to change that. There is a glint of a chuckle in his middle eye, if but a faint one.

Mariko gasps in surprised delight.

“I didn’t know you could speak Terran!”

Ken shrugs, “Little.”

“Okay then,” she points at another rune, “what about this one?”

“It’s ‘books’,” Fynch says. “Or rather, the Hive equivalent of books? They don’t really use paper or anything like that. Sometimes they write on tablets, but the important stuff that goes to the archives is all stored in crystals.”

“Crystals?” Mariko furrows her brow. It looks comical on her childish face, like a pantomime of a deeply troubled sage.

Fynch twitches his shell, thinking. “It’s… like a data bank? They encrypt information inside, but use magic to do that. Some of that stuff is super old, it almost never corrupts.”

“Data… bank?” Ken casts Fynch a puzzled look.

Mariko jumps at the opportunity.

“It’s a thing… it looks like a datapad, sometimes. Has he ever seen a datapad?” She glances at Fynch as well, then tumbles into the next sentence before he can even respond, “Umm, it’s a piece of tech you can put stuff like pictures and other things into, and then carry it around. And if you want, you can pull them out again and put somewhere else.”

Ken listens raptly, blinking slowly one eye at a time.

Fynch has mercy on him eventually, and says in Hive, “Human crystal-storage”.

The Knight nods his enormous head. Mariko has lost interest in the rune plates and is now attempting to climb the ridges sticking out of the unevenly-polished chitin wall—Fynch freezes in horror once he notices it, but there Ken surprises him again. Without a sound, the Knight walks up to the girl and peels her off the wall, effortlessly lifting her with one hand. Her entire body isn’t taller than the length of his arm. She squeals and then giggles, finally settling in the crook of his elbow, avoiding the worst of the spikes.

Fynch sighs, defeated. “Maybe… let’s just go to our place, okay? We’ve got some leftover Dawning cookies, if you’d like.”

“You still haven’t eaten your Dawning cookies?!” Mariko exclaims in something that is almost offence.

Ken shrugs again.

“Is dead,” he says, then frowns, repeats it under his breath in Hive, and corrects, “Was dead.”

Mariko shakes her head in an over-exaggerated expression of admonishment.

They leave, then, towards the Quagmire, Ken moving with as much effort as if he were carrying a box of tissues and not an eight-year-old child. The girl is so small in his arms, soft and delicate amidst all that chitin; she wiggles in his grasp, head swiveling to take in every detail of the views around her, but he holds her firmly, his other hand preventively wielding his shield.

Fynch follows them, silently watching, and when Mariko points quizzically at something before them and Ken answers her in a mixture of Hive and broken Terran, he feels something very tender curl around his core.

[justicegundam82]

Hello! I'm back with one of my conversion ideas for Pathfinder 1E, and this time, I'm converting one of my favorite 2E monsters - the Rust Hag from the AP "Blood Lords". To be more exact, the Rust Hag was statted in "Graveclaw", the second issue of that particular adventure path.

I've tried to be as faithful as posssible to the original while at the same time make it as balanced as possible, but I will admit I'm kinda new at this. So, if anyone wants to make suggwstions or corrections, they are welcome to.

With that said, I hope you like this retro-conversion! ^^

RUST HAG

Image © Paizo Publishing. Accessed at Archives of Nethys here

This vile crone’s skin is the color of rusty metal, with wild white hair and filthy, torn rags for clothing. Her face is deformed into a sadistic smile, and she wields a pair of deadly-looking handguns.

RUST HAG CR 8

XP 4’800

CE Medium Monstrous Humanoid

Init +6; Senses darkvision 60 ft.; Perception +16

DEFENSE

AC 22 (+6 Dex, +6 natural), touch 16, flat-footed 16; +4 dodge vs. firearms

hp 95 (10d10+40)

Fort +9, Ref +13, Will +10

ATTACK

Speed 30 ft.

Melee 2 claws +13 (1d6+3 plus rusting touch)

Ranged mwk pistol +15 / +10 (1d8 / x4) and mwk pistol +15 (1d8 / x4)

Special Attacks rusting touch

Spell-Like Abilities (CL 10th, concentration +12)

At will – Alter self, fabricate bullets, jury-rig, longshot

3/day – Acid arrow, named bullet

STATISTICS

Str 16, Dex 22, Con 18, Int 15, Wis 17, Cha 14

Base Atk +10; CMB +13; CMD 29

Feats Deadly Aim, Exotic Weapon Proficiency (firearms) (B), Great Fortitude, Gunsmithing (B), Point-Blank Shot, Quick Draw, Two-Weapon Fighting

Skills Climb +11, Craft (firearms) +15, Intimidate +15, Knowledge (arcana) +12, Perception +16, Survival +16, Swim +11

Languages Aklo, Common, Giant, Terran

Special Qualities dodge bullets, greater wielding, hagshot

ECOLOGY

Environment any urban

Organization solitary or coven (3 hags of any type)

Treasure standard plus two masterwork handguns with 20 bullets

SPECIAL ABILITIES

Dodge Bullets (Ex): A rust hag gains a +4 dodge bonus to her Armor Class against any attack with firearms.

Greater Wielding (Ex): Firearms wielded by a rust hag are considered light weapons for the purposes of the Two-Weapon Fighting feat and to determine penalties for two-weapon fighting.

Hagshot (Ex): Any firearm wielded by a rust hag never misfires. It is also considered as having the ghost touch weapon ability for the purpose of hitting and damaging incorporeal creatures.

Rusting Touch (Sup): A rust hag’s touch quickly corrodes metal. If a rust hag hits with a claw attack, a single metallic object that the target is wearing or wielding takes 2d6 points of damage, ignoring its hardness. This damage is not halved as usual for attacking objects.A successful Reflex saving throw (DC 17) avoids damage, but an unattended object is not allowed a saving throw against this ability. Against a ferrous creature, this ability instead deals 2d6 points of extra damage per successful attack, with no saving throw allowed. Objects made of starmetals like adamantine or orichalcum are immune to this ability. The saving throw DC is Charisma-based.

Rust hags are an unusual breed of hag with a knack for technology and firearms. They dwell in slums, abandoned factories and other places of urban decay, where they hide out amongst the dregs of society, corrupting or preying on them as their whims dictate. A rust hag mocks the convinction that towns and cities are symbols of civilization and offer greater safety to their people, and seeks to undo these delusions by inciting violence, plunging a seemingly peaceful quarter in bloody riots, or by forcing city dwellers out of the buildings that they wrongfully see as a defense against chaos and savagery. Many rust hags set themselves up as leaders of violent street gangs, using their skills with firearms to command awe and obedience from their underlings. Other rust hags are solitary, concocting plans to drive city dwellers away and turn a once-flourishing town into a dismal ruin.

A rust hag is particularly tall and brawny for hag standards, easily standing more than 6 feet tall and weighing just a little below 200 pounds.

When a rust hag joins a coven, the coven adds discharge, foster hatred and protection against technology to its spell-like abilities.

[shadowphoenixrider]

Shadow strem? Shadow strem

Yeah I know Tumblr’s not the best for it but hey who cares.

10:00 BST I’m gonna be streaming some Starcraft 2 with my lovely buddy  @hello-i-am-ber , and we’re gonna be doing some Co-op Missions. Never done ‘em before, and we’re extremely rusty at Starcraft anyway, so no high level play - just two friends trying to fumble their way to victory.

Ber will be playing Terran - the lads with the Big Guns, and I will be the bitey Zerg and try not to spread creep into his base.

If you wanna watch us do chaos and have no idea what we’re doing and probably meme a lot, we’d love to have your company! My Twitch link is in the source of this post.

[thecurioustale]

Bardic Halloween

It never even occurred to me to pick October 31!

You know, I had been wondering lately when I should set Afiach Bard's birthday. This is a very "Mate of Song" time of year, and the Bard has been in my thoughts of late. I have (very!) slowly been setting birthdays for characters in The Curious Tale. It's one of those things that I should really just sit down one day and do en masse, but in lieu of that I've only been coming to it wild slow.

Birthdays, of course, should be fairly evenly scattered in a realistic composition. But the good thing about a large cast is that you can make a few exceptions. So far, all the birthdays I have chosen are meaningful to me personally, accounting for the translation between the Terran year and the Relancii year. Galavar's birthday was originally my birthday, though I changed this in The Great Galavar and made my birthday a major holiday; I moved his birthday later into the summer and never actually repegged it to our calendar, though it is somewhere in August. Silence's birthday is on my Five-Twelfths Birthday, December 27. DeLatia's birthday is on February 17.

The anniversary of Mate of Song itself is shrouded in mystery. For my 10-year Anniversary research on it last year, I came up with the date of October 30 (the date I started writing the manuscript), which would be a good date for Afiach's birthday in terms of how the events of Mate of Song play out. But Afiach herself was actually first named months earlier, and the character is a carryover from the RPG.

Then I saw the 10-year-anniversary post for Mate of Song in my Facebook Memories this morning and I instantly realized what date her birthday is: It's Halloween. October 31. Tomorrow!

Mate of Song is a very "Autumn" story, even though it takes place over the course of most of a year. To me, Autumn is the season of mystery and magic, crisp nights and hazy glimpses of other worlds. It is the season of inner light, when the Sun retreats and our own luminous works become more prominent. It is quite literally, in my culture, a time of year for lighting candles and hanging faerie lights—traditions which I am happy to engage with. Autumn is the season of leafy jewels everywhere you look, foggy mornings and afternoons, and spiced hot beverages like cider and chocolate and pumpkin. It is a very rich and rusty-red season, and Mate of Song is a very rich and rusty-red story. And no character in The Curious Tale, other than Silence herself I suppose, is more entwined in the mystery and magic of the world than Afiach, nor is any overall story more entwined in it than hers.

Halloween—and this is the reason why I like it so much—is the day when the boundary between worlds is at its thinnest. It is a day for fluid identities, encounters with the unknown, and eeriness and impishness. A day for feasts and sweets and jaunty spooky music. It is a day when life and the world are just a little bit...bigger.

And what better day for the birthday of Afiach Bard? October 31, or its Relancii equivalent rather, is hereby declared to be Bardic Halloween !!

It'll be a little bit sloppy to have Mate of Song's anniversary and Afiach's birthday one day apart, but OH WELL THEM'S THE RULES!! 😁😁😁

In the meantime, Happy 11th Anniversary to Mate of Song!

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[linn-zy]

Tonight I did some random tiny character portraits with watercolors.

100% freehand. No sketching before, also no references at hand so everything comes from my mind.

The top two are my Tangled OC's Kiran and Rusty. Rusty's a Royal guard and Kiran is his little brother.

[linlin-artpage]

I'm trying to do some portrait of my OC's and my partners OC's too. The plan was to once again try to emulate the style of Tangled the Series, in which our OCs live in, but I keep adding too much details I think. I fail to do the really flat style the show has, so it becomes more like a mix between that and my own style.

[femvaylin]

Oh my GOD I was looking for an old cover letter on some old HD's but I hit the mother load with all my OG screenshots of est. 2013 Rusty, Terran, and Leia Shepard. Is my computer lying to me? There's no way I created these babies 10 years ago.

Terran

Rusty

Leia

I'm... Pretty emotional. They were created in a wildly different time before modding was as easy as it is today. But they'll forever remain the lens through which I view Mass Effect. Could I make a new Shep and experience the Liara or Garrus romance? I mean, yeah... But I want to keep seeing Mass Effect with the same eyes I saw it through in 2013. Their eyes.

Plus bonus Joaquin Shepard who never got off the drawing board, but sometimes I still think about him

[luukeskywalker]

I'm a bit late, but can I talk you into Claypollo 49 for the kiss prompt?

AAHHH YES CLAYPOLLO!!!! i have a little AU of sorts where clay just barely survived the stabbing, because canon hurts too much x) so take this fun angst about clay in the hospital!! at least he’s alive!!! 

Apollo had never before understood how difficult it was to have your heart in two places at once. He had to solve the case, more than anything he understood that. His top priority was seeing justice through to the end, to ensure that he held up a system in which the innocent people were protected. He had to go to court tomorrow, to defend Solomon Starbuck from accounts of a bombing and attempted murder. 

But he wanted - no, needed - to be by Clay’s side. 

Of course Starbuck hadn’t done it. He and Clay were thick as thieves, and even though he’d been terrified to get back out there, he was willing to face his fear alongside one of his closest friends.

And now that friend was in the hospital, fighting for his life. 

Apollo sat there in the brightly-lit room, attempting to ignore the way the fluorescence hurt his eyes. He could not bring himself to look away from the bed, where the love of his life was swathed in too-clean white sheets that made him look even more pale. The heart monitor beeped slowly, but regularly - he was unconscious. 

Clay survived, just barely. He hadn’t woken up - they didn’t know if he would ever wake up - but he still breathed, and his heart still beat. 

For now, that was enough.

“I should have been there,” Apollo said quietly. “I don’t know what I could have done, but - I should have been there.” 

Of course, he wouldn’t get a response. But that had never stopped him before. 

“Don’t worry about Starbuck. I’ll make sure he’s free to go. He’ll come visit before you know it.” He couldn’t help himself - it was like he’d been possessed, the way he got up from the uncomfortable chair and stood by Clay’s side. He felt like he was seeing everything in third-person, like he was playing some sort of horrible video game about losing the most important person in the world. He reached out to gently wrap his fingers around Clay’s hand. 

He was so cold.

“You’ll be fine, Clay Terran.” The words choked him. Tears brimmed at the edges of his vision, but he didn’t let them fall. He couldn’t. 

He had to go. 

“Apollo?” A voice from the doorway - the next person to watch over Clay. Considering the attempted murder, the Wright Anything agency had set up a round-the-clock watch at the hospital… just to make sure. 

“Hi, Klavier.” Apollo didn’t turn away from Clay’s bedside. “Just give us a moment.” 

He didn’t wait for a response. He placed his other hand on Clay’s cheek - cold, just like his hand - and Apollo felt his heart crack. 

To say he was terrified would be the world’s biggest understatement. The thought of leaving him here hurt worse than any physical pain, even with the knowledge that he wasn’t leaving Clay alone. There was something so horribly wrong about him tucked into that hospital bed, all still and silent. 

He leaned in and pressed his lips carefully to Clay’s forehead. The nurses had removed his hat, and his fluffy hair tickled Apollo’s nose. 

Apollo closed his eyes. This was like any number of kisses he’d given Clay - if only for the fact that there was no laughter, no smile, no shocked, exhilarated joy when Clay would then sweep him off his feet and kiss him back. 

He pulled away. “I’ll be fine, too.” He whispered this - for once, those words of comfort were only meant for Clay, and Clay alone. Even if he couldn’t hear them.

He stood back up and headed for the door. Klavier waved at him. “Good luck.” He peeked into Clay’s room. “I’ll make sure he’s okay.” 

Apollo gave his friend a half-hearted smile. “Thanks. I’m sure if you practiced your music in there, you could wake him right up.” 

“Don’t give me any ideas!” Klavier chuckled. 

The interaction felt half-real, like Apollo had forgotten how to speak to other human beings entirely. But Klavier was kind, and must have understood, because he took it with grace. 

Apollo left the hospital with only half of his heart. The other half was nestled away with Clay, trapped in that cold, too-bright hospital room. He’d stop at nothing to protect Clay - and that meant, first and foremost, catching his would-be killer.

He was Apollo Justice, damn it, and he was going to be fine.

[switch-writer]

Could you do tickle starmora headcannons?

A/N: I haven’t wrote for marvel in ages, so I’d normally deny something like this, BUT. Gotg happens to be like, top 5 favorite movies marvel wise so I gotta. Plus, I need to get out of my like, 3 month writer block LOL. I’m rusty. So fair warning. I also typically don’t do like, shipping/dynamic HCs? It’s usually for a single character. So I’m hyped! (Also, had to rewrite due to tumblr not wishing to save it. RIP.)

StarMora/Star-Lord and Gamora Tickle HCs:

• Alright! Let’s start this off simple, how did one another find out about the other being ticklish.

• Quill happened to be getting close to her, literally. He was scooting close to her because they had decided to stay back at the ship while the others went to explore. He was being confident as usual, asked her to dance. No biggie.

• Until her touch was extremely gentle when her her hands went back to his side/ribs.

• From confidence and a smooth dance, lovely moment, then he just kinda squeaked/yelped.

• As if that suddenly happening wasn’t enough, Gamora then asked what it was and it went from tracing to some scribbles. AND HE DIDNT WANNA SHOVE HER AWAY SO. He just. Kinda. Let her tickle him and get him all giggly.

• And with her being very direct and deciding to be a little bit soft for him since the others weren’t there, she happened to ask if she could continue since she wasn’t very familiar with it.

• PLACE YOUR BETS ON WHAT HAPPENED.

• However, Peter tended to love affection, whether it’s tickles, hugs, secret handshake, you name it. He probably loves it. So he ended up letting her. Though, in front of others he acted tough for the sake of being taken seriously- but shhh-

• She did stop sooner or later after making him a smiley, laughing, slightly flustered mess.

• And Quill. Oh Quill. He decided after he recovered and was slightly tingly, that he wanted to test something. He slipped his hands over and started scribbling around her tummy and sides.

• And impressively, she didn’t sock him! Well done Star-Lord! Actually she even decided to be fair for a moment and let him while slightly pushing him away. Though she started to poke him once he found a better spot.

• But needless to say this was a bit forgotten since the rest of the guardians showed up soon after.

• BUT THEN. The guardians found out Quill was, well, embarrassingly ticklish thanks to him being human/Terran, it sparked a tickle fight. And it served as a reminder of sensitivity.

• Gamora and Quill ended up in a tickle fight the next time they were alone.

• Gamora honestly finds him being ticklish both adorable and kinda amusing. Mainly since he tries to act all confident and then just squeals upon being tazed.

• However, he seems to like being on mostly even ground and being the main one to introduce her to the concept, along with her actually laughing. It just makes him quite happy.

• She’ll gladly wreck him to knock him down a peg or two. But it’s all in good fun for them.

• I can see Quill being the one to start tickle fights either as a attempt to make her laugh at a sucky joke or something along those lines. Gamora starting tickle fights is very rare and if she does? Everyone is in for it, whoever it is started with, she will finish and win it.

• And a final one for the time being! Hmm. Just for that extra bit of fluff, whenever they give kisses, one of them (it switches a lot) will just start quickly/rapidly give neck kisses to make the other giggle because it’s tickly.

There you go! Hope you’ve enjoyed. After not writing for a long time and recently revisiting marvel as a fandom, this was a nice little change. Thank you for the request! :)

[captainkirkmccoy]

It seems that wherever Leonard McCoy turns, Jim Kirk is there. 

He’s doing a short temp shift at the library--he needs the extra credits stat--when Jim shows up at the reference desk, a pile of actual books nearly blocking his face. 

He ignores the books--that’s the rare item librarian’s job and goes back to checking in the holo texts. “Don’t you have class or admirals to annoy?”

“I already stopped by Archer’s. Did you know his beagle had puppies?”

“You need to talk to L’tan if you want to check those out.” Leonard tells him. 

“These are mine.” Jim’s almost constant open expression morphs into one of mock offense. 

“Huh.” McCoy submits a few late charges for holos not turned in on time and sits back, happy to have finished before the end of his shift. “Let me guess? The karma sutra and Vulcan mating ritual guide?”

“No, smartass.” 

Jim slides a book across the desk. It’s in good condition, with a protective wrapping around the hardcover, another surprise, and not a book on sex or eroticism. 

“The House In The Cerulean Sea?” 

“Seriously, one of the best books to come out of 21st century Terran literature. Followed closely--and by the same publisher!--” Jim slides another book. 

“Gideon the Ninth?”

“Really fucking incredible. I’m writing a whole paper on it for a class right now on 21st Century Terran literature with a focus set in space.” At Leonard’s eyebrow lift, Jim shrugs. “It’s an elective.”

“And you’re showing them to me why?”

Jim makes a face at him, like a puppy denied a treat. 

“Thought you might be interested. Never mind!”

Before he can say anything, he swipes the books, nearly dropping a few in the process and walks off. He leaves Gideon the Ninth. McCoy curses. 

***

Two days later and he’s accosted by Gaila as he’s drinking shitty replicator coffee and the saddest cinnamon roll he’s ever tried to digest. 

“Hello Leonard.” She says, stealing a chair across for him like they have a standing lunch.

“Hello, Gaila.”

He picks at the cinnamon roll before giving up entirely. 

“You hurt his feelings.”

Leonard isn’t dumb, so of course he knows who she’s talking about. “Jim Kirk has more feelings than a Vulcan on opposite day.”

“He likes you.”

Leonard sputters on his tepid coffee. “We’re not in second grade, Gaila!”

“James is an awkward bean, Leonard. He is used to waggling his eyebrows for sex and if you’re well--you, that doesn’t seem to work.”

He considers this. “I thought he was having a fit.”

“And, he doesn’t just want sex from you. He wants friendship. More than that. You’re the first person--besides me and Captain Pike, of course, who doesn’t look at him and see his father, for better or worse.”

“The kid’s never around for me to really get to know. And when he does show up--I’m kind of busy.” Leonard admits. He shows up at all of Leonard’s shifts--the clinic with a broken nose, Admiral Archer’s office with random questions, the cafeteria when he doesn’t eat anything, his library shift--

“The books?”

“Do you know we met when he gave me a book--an Orion book of poetry, one of his favorites. It was the first physical thing I had of home since leaving.”

She looks over his shoulder for a moment, eyes tracking a memory but then she blinks, focusing back on Leonard. 

“His Orion is a little rusty but we spent hours talking about it. It was lovely.” She smiles, content at this new memory, rewriting the one from before.\

He drums his hands on the table, thinking. “Okay.”

“You know what you need to do, yes?” Gaila says. 

He does.

****

It takes him five hours, six bookstores and antique shops and one shady, alley dealing to find what he’s looking for. 

And then another two hours, one embarrassing conversation with Archer’s assistant and getting lost in the Academy’s underground tunnels before he finds Jim. 

“Sit! Sit. No, thank you for the kisses but no. Sit!”

The small basement space that was once a bunker for admirals in early Starfleet days now looks like a puppy daycare. 

A long blue plastic tunnel bisects the space, with small hoops and a slide. In a pen sits Jim and around Jim are squirmy, tiny beagle puppies. 

“Is this your repayment to Archer for making his last assistant quit?” Leonard asks. 

Jim leans his head back to look at him upside down. A puppy takes this opportunity to bounce and Jim finds himself attacked by the cutest beagle army Starfleet has ever seen. Leonard is not as coldhearted as he thinks and reaches down to take one adorable puppy who yawns in Leonard’s face and then licks his chin.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” McCoy gestures to a bag he abandoned on the floor. “You forgot Gideon the Ninth.”

“Nah, you can keep it.” Jim tosses a training toy to the corner of the pen and the puppies fall over themselves to get to it. 

“I can keep a 300 year old Terran book in pristine condition?”

“Just thought you might like it.”

Leonard rolls his eyes but can’t help but grinning. “Sorry bud.” He tells the puppy and puts him down among his litter-mates before reaching into the bag to pull out his offering. 

He hands it to Jim. 

“Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in Vulcan. Bones, are you shitting me right now?”

“I am not.” Leonard doesn’t even try to hide his grin. He needs to send Gaila a thank you as soon as possible. 

“And, holllllly shit, it’s signed by the translator.” 

Jim is up and out of the pen, crashing him with a hug. 

“My dad used to read me this book when I was a kid. Figured you could use a challenge.”

“Thank you.” Jim says, clutching the book to his chest like it was a missing piece of himself he didn’t know he had forgotten. 

It doesn’t take them long after to become inseparable. They spend time down in the agility room with the puppies, reading to each other from their favorite books, spending free weekends tracking down obscure copies in bookstores along the coast. And it becomes a tradition on their anniversary. Bones--he becomes Bones pretty quickly--even proposes to Jim with a book, their love language becoming the physical print of words, the musky pages preserved over generations, a reminder of their beginning.

                                                         ***

For @brevityis, who asked for fluff.