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flawseer · 7 months

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On Mudwing Culture

My last deliberation on Seawings and their eccentric insult vocabulary seemed to be well-received, so here is another one of my headcanons:

Mudwings are seriously into food.

I know, pretty revolutionary take when there is only a handful of named Mudwing characters, and two of them love eating so much that it either almost or entirely eclipses their personality.

But Clay and Ochre are not what I am talking about. This isn’t about a love of eating (though many Mudwings admittedly do have that). I’m suggesting that, out of all the tribes from Pyrrhia, Mudwings are at the forefront of food preparation and culinary innovation, to the point where a large part of their culture revolves around it.

The State of Food Preparation on the Continent

Pyrrhia as a conglomerate of different cultures largely sustains its populations through hunting and gathering. The average dragon, when the hunger pangs set in, will make a hasty trip into the nearest forest, cave, or scavenger den and round up some prey animals. In most cases, this prey will go straight from the talons to the mouth, or, if the hunter is a bit more forward-thinking, into the pantry, and then from talons to the mouth.

There are a few variations of this practice; Skywings may give the carcass a quick roast on an open flame before eating it, Sandwings may dry the meat out so the excess moisture does not upset their internal water balance, Rainwings will prefer fruit over meat. Icewings will nearly always consume their prey raw and unseasoned, as their extremely delicate palate is easily overwhelmed by intense flavors that may be released through cooking.

More complex forms of food preparation seem to exist mostly outside the scope of the general populace. The practice of “cooking” appears to be limited to the ranks of aristocracy, with dedicated cooks only found within the court of a queen or in private households of other high-born individuals. It creates a sharp divide between commoners and social elites, between the wealthy and (as Sea Queen Coral once put it so succinctly) the “eel-eating masses”. All exemplified through the differing standards of food.

And yet somehow, standing in stark contrast to everywhere else on the continent, nearly every Mudwing-- from the most low-born runts of the Diamond Spray Delta to the most decorated head advisors in the Queen’s palace --knows how to cook, and will do so regularly.

Why is that, and how did it happen?

Historical Benefits of Cooking

Most things that form the backbone of a culture usually start with some ancient practice that was useful at some point in time and then, as people kept doing it, eventually got absorbed into public awareness and became “the way things are done”.

Mudwings face a unique challenge compared to anyone else, as they are the only tribe whose combat prowess is significantly affected by their environment, specifically climate, weather, and temperature. Sure, you can take any dragon, drop them into an unfavorable climate, and they will generally perform worse than under normal circumstances. But the unique weakness of Mudwings is that they lose their breath weapon when they get too cold. Place an Icewing into a burning room and they will still be able to use their frost breath. Pluck a Sandwing from their dry environment and drop them into the humid, sweltering hell of the jungle, their natural weapons will still function. But make a Mudwing cower between two piles of snow for a while, and their internal fire will go out quickly.

As you might imagine, this is a bit of a liability when you have to defend your territory from Skywings hiding and scheming among the frozen peaks bordering your country.

So the ancient Mudwings had to figure out a solution to their conundrum, and what they came up with was this: They got a large pot and filled it with water, threw in all manner of meats, plants, and herbs, whatever they could find where they were holed up, then boiled it until it was good and filling. The hot food in their bellies helped them stay warm even at high altitudes and allowed them to stand their ground against the northwestern invaders.

Soon it became tradition for troops to share a hotpot the night before battle, and a rich variety of hearty broths and stews developed from there, as these were simple to make from scraps and could be reheated easily. The practice became so popular, the Mudwings kept doing it even during peacetime. Soon, in addition to the hunting of prey animals that was commonplace, Mudwings began to cultivate vegetable gardens to have access to a more stable supply of ingredients. Eventually, their growing understanding of agriculture allowed them to grow rice, which was especially well-suited to the abundance of wetlands found in their territory. Everyone was cooking now.

The Role of Food in Mudwing Society

If you ask several Mudwings which core values represent their tribe best, many would likely put forward some variation of “camaraderie”, “family”, or “loyalty to your sibs”. They are a very social people who form deep bonds with those whom they grew up with, and one of the most direct ways to grow close to someone is to share your meals with them every day. As such, the preparation and consumption of food is a vital part in maintaining cohesion between members of a Mudwing sibling group.

Every one of these groups will have a “Bigwings”, which is understood to be a combination of a leader and caretaker role. The Bigwings is aware of all of their sibs’ culinary preferences and needs and has all of the troop’s recipes memorized. When mealtime approaches, he or she makes the call on what kind of dish will be prepared and delegates roles and tasks to the troop. This is a daily exercise that builds the Bigwings’ authority and communication skills, and reinforces trust and familiarity between all siblings.

Next to the Bigwings is the Gatherer, which historically was a role assigned to one or more troop members who foraged for wild vegetables or hunted more prey if the previous communal hunt did not yield enough. While this is still true today, many Gatherers also maintain a garden or wet patch to source fresh vegetables or grain for meals.

And lastly there is the Communicator, which is a role usually assigned to the most social and charismatic sibling. The Communicator is vital for coordinating battle strategies with other troops, which, while very important, is not really all that relevant for this deliberation. What is relevant however, is the role they fulfill during peacetime, which is to set up joint meals between two or more sibling groups. This practice is critical for maintaining morale, as doing this regularly helps expand the troop’s palette and keep their Bigwings inspired. That way the troop’s collection of recipes stays fresh and innovative instead of turning stale and rigid.

Of course how much each troop values culinary exploits varies between individuals. Some Mudwing groups are outspokenly passionate about cooking and advancing their craft. They might view their work as an expression of art and get very upset or offended if you indicate that thinking about food is unimportant or a waste of time. Some extreme cases may even get angry at you if you waste ingredients or refuse to elevate a dish to its fullest potential by not seasoning it well or doing something else to ruin it. Other groups may be more relaxed and casual about food preparation, and a few might even not think about it much at all.

If a Mudwing invites you to dinner, it is paramount to figure out which of these groups they belong to beforehand, so you may get an understanding of how much of a threat this outing may pose to your health, especially if you are an Icewing or Seawing with a limited palate.

Is there any evidence for this in the books?

To my knowledge, there isn't much. Mostly because there isn't much about Mudwings and their culture in general. Across all the books, only one of them has a Mudwing protagonist, and the vast majority of it is spent in the Sky Kingdom, so his roots don't get a lot of exposure. Then whenever another Mudwing comes into the story, they tend to exit it very quickly after, without being able to share more.

I made this theory for myself largely in response to Mudwing culture being such a big question mark. I initially came up with it when I saw a Mudwing gardener in Escaping Peril and thought "That could be a cool direction for the tribe." The guidebook that released recently gave me some additional pointers with regards to a few of the looser points of this theory.

I'm hoping it is interesting, or at the very least entertaining in some way.

#wings of fire #wof #dragon #flawseer talk #digital art #wof art #mudwing #wof headcanon

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lollytea · 1 year

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fuck yes worldbuilding for the Huntlow Neverland AU. FUCK yes. love everybody's deals they're so interesting. question: what's the deal with Hunter and Belos? and do you have any backstory ideas for Willow beyond her history with Amity (which i love)? it's interesting that her main friends seem to all NOT be fairies

I dont really know about Belos I don't care about him all that much. What I imagine is that he and Caleb visited Neverland as children. They were orphans and didn't have any other sanctuary besides each other but Neverland seemed like their safe haven. Caleb eventually met a wild and rowdy Lost Boy named Evelyn and he decided that he wanted to return to the mainland with her and grow up. Philip was hurt that his brother wanted to leave the life they had made for themselves here but he reluctantly returned home with them. Real life adult problems commenced, years and years of tension and built up resentment on Philip's end, maybe he got really into religion (???) Caleb and Evelyn got pregnant out of wedlock (???) I dunno, blah blah blah blah stab.

Philip returns to Neverland to hide from his guilt (and the police) and relive his glory days but all it does is fuck up his sanity and now he hates this stupid fucking place with all his heart and soul. Its no longer his escapist fantasy from his boyhood. Its a vile abomination. Its Hell and he needs to destroy it somehow.

He and the Collector have a very weird relationship. It's not really as personally antagonistic as Peter Pan and Hook but rather, Belos is the "bad guy" in the Collector's games, which he obediently plays along with (keeps him alive). However, the Collector is very insistent that games be fair and so, he grants Belos' requests that he always have a Special Player on his team so his chances of winning are better. It makes the games more fun that way anyway.

And so, every few decades, the Collector returns to the mainland to bring Belos his Special Player. Upon his request, its always a baby or young boy that he steals from the nursery of the Wittebane family.

(A family which now believes themselves to be cursed because they so frequently have their children stolen in the night.)

The boys never last long. Belos isn't careful with his playthings and they often die before they even make it to manhood. Sad.

(Also. For reference. The subject of "growing up" on Neverland is kinda slippery. In some variations, Peter was actually the only one capable of remaining young forever, while Lost Boys aged and died all around him. In some variations, everybody who lives on Neverland remains in an ageless state. What we are gonna do in this case is make aging a state of mind. You grow old if you feel old. And honestly, most Neverland dwellers do as time passes. Except King and the Collector. Although, time is very weird here. Sometimes a few years in Neverland is just a few weeks back in the human world.)

As for Willow, I imagine her backstory BEGAN with the fight with Amity. But after that she became a lot more meek and less confident because she felt discarded and unloved. This made it very easy for other fairies (Boscha) to make her a bullying target. Willow is clumsy, Willow can't always control her magic, Willow isn't as fast at flying as Boscha, Willow is this and that and whatever.

Things are tense when Amity appears in Neverland and Willow does not want her there. And then she actually becomes kinda friendly with Boscha which hurts even more cuz Oh. So you don't hate fairies? It's just Willow you hate?? Huh. Good to know.

Her confidence begins to gradually build again after some time spent with Luz, Gus and eventually patching things up with Amity. And then Hunter comes along and he makes her feel like the most wonderful fairy in Neverland.

#neverland au

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pype-r-morgan · 3 years

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Stoner Witchcraft Blog Post #1

Amarok, Trickster Wolf Spirit:

and why FN Stories are often similiar but rarely the same

Warning: This post contains information about Chaotic and therefore; unpredictable Deities and Spirits. Do not approach these spirits without reason or they approach you as they did me.

Everything comes at a price - Anne Bishop

Dark Witchcraft is the path rarely followed

I found this on Pinterest randomly. I'm a Plains Cree living in Northern Canada, so some of these I'm familiar with different names and/or origin. Many stories do cross from tribe to tribe, so variations make it hard to find where they came from.

Most of these legends come from above the Arctic Circle. There are some that have travelled south and southwest - Orca and Wolf spirit have often been said to be both at once. What's interesting though, no one taught me that beforehand. I just figured it out based on the spirits being so similiar. Intelligent, loyal, family taught and orientated, pack hunters, harmless until they aren't. I actually (stoner me) missed that first time I looked at until now.

No... The spirit that grabbed my full attention was Amarok.

A lone giant Dire Wolf that'll either kill you or make you stronger. Chances are not in your favour if you cross one by accident. They're chaotic neutral, as most tricksters. They're gender neutral like most spirits, unless you're brave enough to check. They can speak, but rarely.

Amaroks fit right at home with my mixture of chaotic or neutral (usually both) Patrons.

Anubis

Lucifer

Loki

Amarok

Orca

Anubis is really the only voice of reason, Loki and Lucifer try to help... The Orca has been with me since a child in its wolf state, but living in a river town, I often dream of Orcas in fresh water.

Now, before anyone goes "name your source" first is wiki, second is my own experience, third is I'm one of the last generation raised as a traditional FN. My first language is Cree, and I grew up with many stories about different spirits, including several similiar but different creation stories.

I do talk to these Deities and spirits often. No, they are not beginner material and I don't encourage anyone to approach any of these Patrons. They will kick your ass if you fuck up badly enough, but they repay handsomely for loyalty, for a price.

These Deities came to me for my unusual compassion and empathy for those most forget about. I'll take extra suffering to prevent another. I'll sacrifice what means most to if it helps me regain myself and offers hope. This meant that despite wanting to hold on, I had to let go of the fact that, right now, I can't have a dog.

This year I had to give up two. My SDiT for snapping at a child, and a rescue that wasn't suited for my small place with no yard. My break up with my long term partner and Sir broke more than my heart. My big girl passed last year at 15.5 years. That when Anubis first came to me. Lucifer shortly after, and Loki the beginning of the year.

Amaroks ... Wolves in general don't scare me. I was the toddler who sat with the feral Rez dogs and got bit in the face, only to go back and leave that one alone.

It's not lack of fear; it's blending into whatever energy is needed. It's chaotic energy in raw form.

I just wanted to share this because I have a lot of stored witchcraft knowledge packed in my minds sacred space.

From tarot, mythology, cryptids, channeling, pop culture and witchcraft, music channeling, TV channeling, meditations, pet and animal magik, dark (not shadow) witchcraft, what is and isn't a familiar (yes, they can be physical form but their spirit will never leave you. Not all pets or even spirits make such an impression on the soul. I've been blessed with three in my life, my Hybrid directly connected me to Anubis and still holds place at his side.)

#witchcraft #grimoire #witchblr #amarok #inuit mythology #native american mythology #plains cree #chaotic gods #choatic neutral #chaotic witch #stoner witch #witch blog

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lokiondisneyplus · 3 years

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A review of “Journey Into Mystery,” the penultimate Loki Season One episode on Disney+, coming up just as soon as I paper cut a giant cloud to death…

Journey Into Mystery was the title of the first Marvel comic to feature either Thor or Loki. It began as an anthology series featuring monsters and aliens, but Jack Kirby, Stan Lee, and Larry Lieber were so smitten with their adaptation of the characters of Norse myth that the Asgardians gradually took over the whole book, which was renamed after its hammer-wielding hero(*).

(*) The early Journey Into Mystery stories treated Thor’s alter ego, disabled Dr. Donald Blake, as the “real” character, while Thor was just someone Blake could magically transform into, while retaining his memories and personality. It wasn’t even clear whether Asgard itself was meant to exist at first, until Loki turned up on Earth in an early issue, caused trouble, and Blake/Thor somehow knew exactly how to get to Asgard to drop him off. Soon, the lines between Thor and Blake began to blur, and eventually Thor became the real guy, and Blake a fiction invented by Odin to humble his arrogant son. It’s a mark of just how instantly charismatic Loki was that the entire title quickly steered towards him and the other gods.

But once upon a time, anything was possible in Journey Into Mystery, which makes it an apt moniker for an absolutely wonderful episode of Loki where the same holds true. Our title characters are trapped in the Void, a place at the end of time where the TVA’s victims are banished to be devoured by a cloud monster named Alioth. And mostly they are surrounded by the wreckage of many dead timelines. Classic Loki insists that his group’s only goal is survival, and any kind of planning and scheming is doomed to kill the Loki who tries. But this ruined, hopeless world instead feels bursting with imagination and possibility.

There are the many Loki variants we see, with President Loki, among others, joining Classic, Kid, Boastful, and Alligator Loki. There are the metric ton of Easter Eggs just waiting to be screencapped by Marvel obsessives (I discuss a few of them down below), but which still suggest a much larger and weirder MCU even if you don’t immediately scream out “Is that… THROG?!?!?” at the appropriate moment. And all of that stuff is tons of fun, to be sure. But what makes this episode — and, increasingly, this series — feel so special is the way that it explores the untapped potential of Loki himself, in his many, many variations.

This is an episode that owes more than a small stylistic and thematic debt to Lost. It’s not just that Alioth looks and sounds so much like the Smoke Monster(*), that it makes a shared Wizard of Oz reference to “the man behind the curtain” (also the title of one of the very best Lost episodes), or even that the core group of Lokis are hiding in a bunker accessible via a hatch and a ladder that’s filled with recreational equipment (in this case, bowling alley lanes). It’s also that Loki, Sylvie, their counterparts, and Mobius have all been transported to a strange place that has disturbing echoes from their own lives, that operates according to strange new rules they have to learn while fleeing danger, and their presence there allows them to reflect on the many mistakes of their past and consider whether they want to, or can, transcend them.

(*) Yes, Alioth technically predates Smokey by a decade (see the notes below for more), but his look has been tweaked a bit here to seem more like smoke than a cloud, and the sounds he makes when he roars sound a lot like Smokey’s telltale taxi cab meter clicks. Given the other Lost hat tips in the episode, I have to believe Alioth was chosen specifically to evoke Smokey.

Classic Loki is aptly named. He wears the Sixties Jack Kirby costume, and he is a far more powerful magician than either Sylvie or our Loki have allowed themselves to be. He calls our Loki’s knives worthless compared to his sorcery, which feels like the show acknowledging that the movies depowered Loki a fair amount to make him seem cooler. But if Classic Loki can conjure up illusions bigger and more potent than his younger peers, he is a fundamentally weak and defeated man, convinced, like the others, that the only way to win the game into which he was born is not to play. “We cannot change,” he insists. “We’re broken. Every version of ourselves. Forever.” It is not only his sentiment — Kid Loki adds that any Loki who tries to improve inevitably winds up in the Void for their troubles — but it seems to have weighed on him longer and harder than most.

But Classic Loki takes inspiration from Loki and Sylvie to stand and fight rather than turn and run, magicking up a vision of their homeland to distract Alioth at a crucial moment in Sylvie’s plan, and getting eaten for his trouble. He was wrong: Lokis can change. (Though Kid Loki might once again argue that Classic Loki’s death is more evidence that the universe has no interest in any of them doing so.) And both Loki and Sylvie have been changing throughout their time together. Like most Lokis, they seem cursed to a life of loneliness. Sylvie learned as a child that a higher power believed she should not exist, and has spent a lifetime hiding out in places where any friends she might make will soon die in an apocalypse. Our Loki’s past isn’t quite so stark, but the knowledge that his birth father abandoned him, while his adoptive father never much liked him, have left permanent scars that govern a lot of his behavior. The defining element of Classic Loki’s backstory is that he spent a long time alone on a planet, and only got busted by the TVA when he attempted to reconnect with his brother and anyone else he once knew. This is a hard existence, for all of them. And while it does not forgive them their many sins(*), it helps contextualize them, and give them the knowledge to try to be better versions of themselves.

(*) Loki at one point even acknowledges that, for him, it’s probably only been a few days since he led an alien invasion of New York that left many dead, though due to TVA shenanigans, far more time may have passed.

For that matter, Mobius is not the stainless hero he once thought of himself as. While he and Sylvie are tooling around the Void in a pizza delivery car (because of course they are), he admits that he committed a lot of sins by believing that the ends justified the means, and was wrong. He doesn’t know who he is before the TVA stole and factory rebooted him, but he knows that he wants something better for himself and the universe, and takes the stolen TemPad to open up a portal to his own workplace in hopes of tearing down the TVA once and for all. Before he goes, though, he and Loki share a hug that feels a lot more poignant than it should, given that these characters have only spent parts of four episodes of TV together. It’s a testament to Hiddleston, Wilson, Waldron, and company (Tom Kauffman wrote this week’s script) that their friendship felt so alive and important in such a short amount of time.

The same can be said for Loki and Sylvie’s relationship, however we’re choosing to define it. Though they briefly cuddle together under a blanket that Loki conjures, they move no closer to romance than they were already. If anything, Mobius’ accusations of narcissism in last week’s episode seem to have made both of them pull back a bit from where they seemed to be heading back on Lamentis. But the connection between them is real, whatever exactly it is. And their ability to take down Alioth — to tap into the magic that Classic Loki always had, and to fulfill Loki’s belief that “I think we’re stronger than we realize” — by working together is inspiring and joyful. Without all this nuanced and engaging character work, Loki would still be an entertaining ride, but it’s the marriage of wild ideas with the human element that’s made it so great.

Of course, now comes the hard part. Endings have rarely been an MCU strength, give or take something like the climax of Endgame, and the finales of the two previous Disney+ shows were easily their weakest episodes. The strange, glorious, beautiful machine that Waldron and Herron have built doesn’t seem like it’s heading for another generic hero/villain slugfest, but then, neither did WandaVision before we got exactly that. This one feels different so far, though. The command of the story, the characters, and the tone are incredibly strong right now. There is a mystery to be solved about who is in the big castle beyond the Void (another Loki makes the most narrative and thematic sense to me, but we’ll see), and a lot to be resolved about what happens to the TVA and our heroes. And maybe there’s some heavy lifting that has to be done in service to the upcoming Dr. Strange or Ant-Man films.

It’s complicated, but on a show that has handled complexity well. Though even if the finale winds up keeping things simpler, that might work. As Loki notes while discussing his initial plan to take down Alioth, “Just because it’s not complicated doesn’t mean it’s bad.” Though as Kid Loki retorts, “It also doesn’t mean it’s good.”

Please be good, Loki finale. Everything up to this point deserves that.

Some other thoughts:

* Most of this week’s most interesting material happens in the Void. But the scenes back at the TVA clarify a few things. First, Ravonna is not the mastermind of all this, and she was very much suckered in by the Time-Keeper robots. But unlike Mobius or Hunter B-15, she’s so conditioned to the mission that even knowing it’s a lie hasn’t really swayed her from her mission. She has Miss Minutes (who herself is much craftier this week) looking into files about the creation of the TVA, but for the most part comes across as someone very happy with a status quo where she gets to be special and pass judgment on the rest of the multiverse.

* Alioth first appeared in 1993’s Avengers: The Terminatrix Objective, a miniseries (written by Mobius inspiration Mark Gruenwald, and with some extremely kewl Nineties art full of shoulder pads, studded collars, and the like) involving Ravonna, Kang, and the off-brand versions of Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor (aka U.S. Agent, War Machine, and Thunderstrike, the latter of whom has yet to appear in the MCU). It’s a sequel to a Nineties crossover event called Citizen Kang. And no, I still don’t buy that Kang will be the one pulling the strings here, if only because it’s really bad storytelling for the big bad of the season to have never appeared or even been mentioned prior to the finale.

* Rather than try to identify every Easter egg visible in the Void’s terrain, I’ll instead highlight three of the most interesting. Right before the Lokis arrive at the hatch, we see a helicopter with Thanos’ name on it. This is a hat tip to an infamous — and often memed — out-of-continuity story where Thanos flies this chopper while trying to steal the Cosmic Cube (aka the Tesseract) from Hellcat. (A little kid gets his hands on it instead and, of course, uses the Cube to conjure up free ice cream.) James Gunn has been agitating for years for the Thanos Copter to be in the MCU. He finally got his wish.

* The other funny one: When the camera pans down the tunnel into Kid Loki’s headquarters, we see Mjolnir buried in the ground, and right below it is a jar containing a very annoyed frog in a Thor costume. This is either Thor himself — whom Loki cursed into amphibianhood in a memorable Walt Simonson storyline — or another character named Simon Walterston (note the backwards tribute to Walt) who later assumed the tiny mantle.

* Also, in one scene you can spot Yellowjacket’s helmet littering the landscape. This might support the theory that the TVA, the Void, etc., all exist in the Quantum Realm, since that’s where the MCU version of Yellowjacket probably went when his suit shorted out and he was crushed to subatomic size. Or it might be more trolling of the fanbase from the company that had WandaVision fans convinced that Mephisto, the X-Men, and/or Reed Richards would be appearing by the season finale.

* Honestly, I would have watched an entire episode that was just Loki, Mobius, and the others arguing about whether Alligator Loki was actually a Loki, or just a gator who ended up with the crown, presumably after eating a real Loki. The suggestion that the gator might be lying — and that this actually supports, rather than undermines, the case for him being a Loki — was just delightful. And hey, if Throg exists in the MCU now, why not Alligator Loki?

* Finally, the MCU films in general are not exactly known for their visual flair, though a few directors like Taika Waititi and Ryan Coogler have been able to craft distinctive images within the franchise’s usual template. Loki, though, is so often wonderful to look at, and particularly when our heroes are stuck in strange environments like Lamentis or the Void. Director Kate Herron and the VFX team work very well together to create dynamic and weird imagery like Sylvie running from Alioth, or the chaotic Loki battle in the bowling alley. Between this show and WandaVision, it appears the Disney+ corner of the MCU has a bit more room to expand its palette. (Falcon and the Winter Soldier, much less so.)

#Loki #spoilers #episode 5 #review #Rolling Stone #Alan Sepinwall

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thatbanjobusiness · 2 years

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I love making compilations to compare/contrast aspects of music. I know I’ve made better compilations on old-time or early country versus bluegrass, but I wanted to share last night’s quick fun anyway. I placed a clip of an early country song first. Then I followed it with the same song as performed by a first generation bluegrass group.

1. Going to Georgia - Carolina Tar Heels (2/19/1927) - Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys (6/30/1971)

2. Saro Jane - Uncle Dave Macon and his Fruit-Jar Drinkers (recorded 5/7/1927) - Flatt & Scruggs and the Foggy Mountain Boys (recorded 11/27/1963)

P.S. both these versions make me feral in different ways.

3. I know this friggin’ song by so many names augh (Shady Grove) - West Virginia Coon Hunters (8/5/19727) - Flatt & Scruggs and the Foggy Mountain Boys (12/8/1962)

For those who might not be familiar with how different early recorded string band music is from first generation bluegrass, compilations like these might be a quick way to hear it.

This isn’t the best compilation so I’ll share a better one sometime. There are limitations: 1. I didn’t capture the variety of early string band music. This sample feels homogenous compared to what you can find. 2. I had two of the same band for bluegrass samples. 3. The bluegrass samples are from first generation bands, yes, but after they’d been professionals a good 20 years. Going to 1940s and 1950s bluegrass would be useful so that there’s less time gap (time gaps make differences in sound, too).

However, this was for my recreation, so whatever! There’s still fun things that can be heard that separate the two styles (and commonalities: early string band music led to bluegrass, so of course you’ll hear ancestry).

Notice how different instrument roles are. In early string band music, certain instruments like fiddle or harmonica might take the lead every break while guitar and banjo sit in the background, but you also might hear everyone play together at once. Often, there’s not much variation from instrumental break to break. I wouldn’t call it “unorganized” since I did just describe instrument roles, but it may sound looser to your ears than first gen bluegrass does. There’s a delightfully informal nature about how the music is organized and played.

In bluegrass, instruments take turns playing solos, with much more focus on virtuosity and improvisation (even if first generation bluegrass still had good emphasis on melody). When one guy plays his break, everyone else falls into the background. Not just that, each instrument has a role for how they play their background. The bass plays solidifying downbeats, the mandolin chops offbeats, the rhythm guitar keeps everyone together. Because everyone has a separate role that keeps one instrument from doubling or crowding the other, it’ll probably sound “cleaner” to you.

This leads to my next point: rhythm. You often hear a pleasant, plodding, thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk where every beat is hit, hard and square, in early string band material. Bluegrass is lighter on its feet: the bass may hit the 1 and the 3, but it won’t hit 1, 2, 3, 4. And the mandolin will chop the offbeats, giving a boom-chick boom-chick sound.

You’ll probably notice bluegrass throws tons more fuel on songs. Bluegrass doesn’t play every song at the speed of light (some of my favorite numbers are slow), but if the instruments are picking faster than you can blink, that probably ain’t your early country string band.

Last, there’s instrumentation. Early string band stuff was flexible for instrumentation. Guitars were everywhere. The music often centered around the fiddle. A strummed or simple finger-style banjo could make an appearance, as might mandolin, harmonica, jaw harp, autoharp, whatever else you had lying around. But: string basses weren’t really a thing! By contrast, bluegrass keeps a fairly rigid instrumentation: guitar, three-finger style banjo, fiddle, mandolin, (string) bass, and sometimes dobro.

#long post #neither Flatt & Scruggs nor the West Virginia Coon Hunters called the song Shady Grove haha #'Your Blue Eyes Run Me Crazy' and 'Going Back to Harlan'#the beautiful messy blessing of traditional music having different names and verses and lyrics and melodies and chord choices and.....#yeah this is definitely a limited compilation but it was more about my enjoyment than a PROPER comparison #thatbanjobusiness #that banjo business #Early Country #Haddock Deep Dives #audio #I'm specifying 'early string band' as versus other labels because of how narrow my song sample set is here #'old-time' is a weird term #and 'early country' has everything to the brother duets that I didn't even touch yada yada yada

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wanderinginksplot · 3 years

Text

Nobody Listens to Kix

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Case 01132: Crosshair

Kix shifted impatiently as he watched the small fleet of ships - smaller than it had been when it left the Republic base - drift gently into the hangar bay. He had gotten a notification from General Kenobi to be on-call. The situation on Anaxes had been resolved with only minor casualties, but it never hurt to be prepared.

When the ships settled to rest on the ground, several men around Kix grumbled that it was a good thing the Bad Batch hadn't been flying. Apparently, they had already earned a reputation for landing with more speed than skill. Their last landing had nearly caused what would have been the single largest loss of Republic troops since Geonosis.

The men began exiting the LAAT/i closest to Kix and he found himself looking at Echo. Kix had thoroughly examined his presumed-dead brother when he returned from Skako Minor. The trooper had been in bad shape, but Kix had to admit that the cybernetic work the Separatists had done was top-notch. Other than malnourishment and some overloaded circuitry - most likely damaged during the rescue - Echo had been in surprisingly good health.

Still, Echo's face was pale and angular, cheekbones jutting out in a way that seemed almost painful. He walked slowly, carefully… It always seemed as though he were waiting for something to take his legs out from under him.

Even as Kix watched, Echo stumbled and was supported by Rex, who had thrown out an arm immediately to catch him.

Kix rushed forward, ignoring the dust thrown into the air by the other LAAT/i ships landing nearby. "What happened?" he asked immediately.

Echo glanced up at him, his light brown eyes looking even lighter in his sallow face, and simply shook his head. Kix's heart sank and he looked sharply to the captain.

"Echo plugged into the Seppie's system and sent them the wrong battle plans before putting a surge through to disable their clankers," Rex explained heavily. "It worked perfectly, but they isolated the signal and sent a surge back. It gave him a pretty good shock."

Kix grimaced. "Let's get you to the hangar medbay, Echo. I'll need to do a full diagnostic check."

"Aw, leave him alone," Wrecker grumbled from behind them. "He's awake now, isn't he?"

"It knocked you unconscious?" Kix asked immediately.

"Yeah," Echo admitted lowly.

After making sure that Rex had a good hold on his injured brother, Kix turned to look at the Bad Batch. "Unconsciousness is always something to worry about. I'll need to do a full scan to make sure everything is okay. The three of you should come in for checks as well."

"Er… don't you mean four?" Hunter asked slowly, staring around at the other men of Clone Force 99.

"No, I don't. Three of you have a choice, but I see Crosshair's injury no matter how well he thinks he's hiding it. Follow us to the medbay, trooper."

"I'll be fine," Crosshair snarked.

"That's the spirit," Kix encouraged, even as he turned his attention back to helping Echo. "I'm an excellent medic and I can treat whatever injury you sustained. You certainly will be fine."

"I get the sense that you didn't make any friends there, Kix," Rex warned lowly, following Kix into the building.

"I'm a medic, sir," Kix reminded. "My business is caring for the men's health, not being their favorite person."

As they walked toward the hangar, Kix could hear a soft argument break out between Hunter and Crosshair, but Rex, Echo, and Kix had only just stepped into the medbay when the sniper slouched in behind them.

Scanning them was a moment's work. Rex was in perfect health other than a touch of fatigue and was immediately discharged from the medbay. Echo's nervous system showed signs of stress and there were minor burns on the segment of his arm that was connected to the data probe that had received the shock. Kix bandaged the burns and administered a mild set of pain meds before settling him into a bed. Finally, he moved his attention to Crosshair.

The serious trooper hadn't removed a single piece of his armor, but Kix didn't bother asking. Instead, he turned the power up on the scanner and scanned Crosshair's body from head to feet and back up. He ran the scanner carefully over the sniper's right elbow, where he had first seen the signs of an injury.

"You have a blaster wound piercing your anconeus muscle," Kix revealed.

"And here I thought I was just outgrowing my armor," Crosshair said dryly.

Kix surveyed the sniper without commenting, but he knew the message came through clearly enough: Crosshair had a slight build for a trooper. The idea of him outgrowing his armor in any capacity was laughable.

As Crosshair watched Kix's unspoken insult, his jaw tightened until Kix worried he would have to pull the splinters of the brother's toothpick from his mouth. To stop the unnecessary theatrics, Kix said, "As a sniper, you know that your anconeus is pretty important to the shooting process. Are you going to let me treat it?"

Crosshair blinked in surprise, but tried to hide the reaction. "Are you saying you're gonna give me a choice?"

"I don't like forcing my brothers into treatment," Kix said evasively.

Seeming to realize that it wasn't an answer, Crosshair narrowed his eyes, but gave a single nod.

"Good," Kix said. "Remove your shoulder armor and both sets of arm plates, then sit down. I'll be back with the necessary supplies."

It took a little bit longer to find what he needed in the unfamiliar medbay, but Kix managed, passing by a now-sleeping Echo to get to where Crosshair waited in uncomfortable silence.

In the time it took Kix to cleanse the wound, use an internal variation of bacta gel, and start applying bacta patches to the entry and exit points of the injury, Crosshair still hadn't spoken. Working as closely as he was, Kix could feel the tension radiating from the trooper.

"I'm almost done here, then I'll issue you some pain meds and we'll get you settled in for the night," he said, more to break the silence than anything else.

Crosshair snorted. "I'm not staying here tonight."

"You certainly are," Kix replied blandly. "I'll need to observe your wound to make sure it's healing properly. Don't think I didn't notice the elevated pulse and blood pressure, either. I have to be certain that's normal."

"We don't like medical centers... or medics," Crosshair said gruffly.

"I'm sorry, but the regulations are cle-" he cut himself off as Crosshair made a rude noise. He didn't know much about the Bad Batch, but most of the troopers hadn't enjoyed their time in medbays on Kamino, and Kix was no fool. There was probably a very good reason for Crosshair's venom.

With that in mind, Kix dropped his professionalism down a notch in order to level with the trooper: "Listen, I can't let you leave knowing that something could go wrong and you could lose the arm or die because I wasn't there to notice when things started going south. You'll stay here tonight with Echo. Spend the time cursing my name if it makes you feel better, as long as you're doing it here."

Crosshair snarled and opened his mouth to say something Kix was sure would be rude, but he was interrupted by the medbay doors opening. Hunter stepped through, followed by Tech and the hulking Wrecker.

"Gentlemen," Kix greeted politely, gathering the medical flotsam that tended to collect when an injury was being treated.

"Kix," Hunter returned. "We thought about your offer and we're here for scans."

"Good. Give me just a moment and I'll get the three of you scanned," Kix said, shooting Crosshair a firm look. "Pick a bed, trooper."

After disposing of the mess, Kix scanned the three remaining members of Clone Force 99, finding nothing worse than light fatigue, mild dehydration, and a single pulled muscle in Hunter's leg. True to Crosshair's word, all of them showed signs of stress and tension, likely from being in the medbay. Kix ignored that and focused on the treatable things.

He administered a pain patch for the pulled muscle and advised all of them to drink some water and get a good night of sleep.

"There is no need to pull watch duty while you're on-planet," Kix told them. "The regular troopers stationed here have a rotational system, so there's always a guard monitoring the perimeter. All of you should sleep as long as possible."

"Do you need us to stay here tonight?" Wrecker asked, glancing around uncertainly.

"It could be a medical necessity," Tech volunteered, watching Crosshair even as the tattooed trooper avoided his eyes.

Kix had a refusal ready to go, but paused at the last moment. "We don't like medical centers… or medics," Crosshair had said. If the others were volunteering to stay, it could be that they didn't want to leave their teammate here alone.

"Hmm… I think it would be for the best," Kix lied. "I need to monitor your fluid intake and I can make sure no one disturbs you while you rest. Best settle in for the night, vode."

Tech and Wrecker moved toward the beds, settling into ones on either side of the wounded troopers. Tech was rattling off factoids about bacterial growth all the while and Wrecker was crowing about winning some kind of bet against Crosshair.

Before he left the area, Kix caught sight of Hunter. The sergeant gave a deep nod of thanks - a gesture Kix returned before moving to the small desk at the front of the medbay, ready to keep watch as long as his brothers needed if it meant they felt safe enough to rest and heal.

---

A/N - sorry this is coming so late! Thank you for reading!

#Nobody Listens to Kix #star wars the clone wars #star wars #star wars fanfiction #clone trooper kix #clone trooper echo #captain rex #bad batch crosshair #bad batch tech #bad batch wrecker #bad batch hunter #the bad batch #star wars the bad batch #clone troopers deserve better #more to come #please reblog

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wutroows · 3 years

Text

soft & stubble (the mandalorian x reader)

pairing: the mandalorian (din djarin) x fem!reader requested by: lillie’s huge brain warnings: canon typical violence, poor knowledge of the human body and medical terms a/n: soft din to make up for the lack of content from me within the past few months, theres more to come!! hope you guys enjoy, i love din so much, i genuinely want to marry that man

a few things you learned quickly about the mandalorian.

he takes his privacy very seriously. he practically only asked you to join him because the little green child he had with him seemed to like you. you were practically just a babysitter until he started bringing him everywhere he went. you hardly ever saw either of them anymore, and when you did the mandalorian would say one or two words to you and leave to eat in the cockpit. you knew not to open that door without knocking. you didn’t want to disrespect him or his culture in any way, as you understood the reasons why he kept the helmet on all the time. it was, in a way, a bit endearing to you that he cared so much. he didn’t tell you much about himself, but it was easy to guess that the mandalorian beliefs were very important to him.

he had a lot of stressed piled onto his shoulders. you couldn’t read his face, covered by beskar, so you could only see the nervous movements of his hands or shaking of his legs as he stood. he was scared, and you immediately understood why. he only ever knew being a bounty hunter and now he ran away from the guild with the kid, he was the one being hunted. now he had two people to protect, but you knew fully well you were capable enough to not need him to help you. a part of you wished you could give him a hug and tell him to go rest, but you knew he’d never listen to you anyways.

and he loved that kid. he wouldn’t admit it, but you could nearly feel his eyes kept on him at all times. the mandalorian would feed him whatever the kid wanted that day, as he usually let him pick. he would take him out of the crib and sit him on the floor, waiting for him to use those little wobbly legs of his to walk over to his beskar covered shins. he would always catch him before he fell. it put a smile on your face, but you knew better. the mandalorian would not ever admit he had feelings towards any living being, no matter what it was.

that was why you didn’t know why you’d started falling for him in the first place.

you never knew his name. he never told you. you resorted to calling him ‘mando’ or some sort of variation of ‘the mandalorian’. it made you feel a bit bad, but you assumed he didn’t want you to know his name yet. he hadn’t mentioned anything about it and you didn’t want to bring it up out of fear of making him uncomfortable. that was the last thing you wanted.

falling in love with a man in a helmet was a lot easier than you expected it to. you joined him because he had the kid with him and at the time, he needed help. you only signed up to take care of his wounds if he needed it and to take care of the kid, not fall in love with someone who was practically a stranger.

he was quiet, reserved, but a bit hot-headed at times. the mandalorian felt like two different people and in a way, it made sense. one personality as the beskar on the outside, the outer shell that deflects all negativity and hurtful words. that protects him from pain and shields him from rejection, and the other side of him, the armorless side. the sensitive and emotional side, the one who could admit when he felt love for something.

he was layered, it wasn’t hard to admit it.

though, he did show immense kindness to you.

the crest clearly wasn’t meant for living. the mandalorian hardly ever slept and when he did it was in the cockpit with his helmet on. but with you, he gave you a small space that was almost small enough to be a storage closet with a small cot in it to sleep on. you were grateful as it had certainly been an upgrade from your previous living conditions, and his tone was a bit softer.

“you’re welcome.” that was all he said, but it felt like it meant something more to you. he didn’t need to give you anything. if you were being honest, he probably didn’t even need you around. he did most of the work for the kid anyways. you wondered why he kept you around.

he was incredibly interesting and somehow, he pulled you in with it. you observed him and did all he asked of you. you wanted to prove your worth to him though you knew you didn’t need to. he felt like he was special. different than other men, you guessed.

the mandalorian came back to the crest with injuries frequently, but there had never been a time where he needed you to do anything more than hand him a bandage. until now.

he hadn’t said what he was doing, but it was clear whatever weapon the person he was fighting with had gotten under his beskar and scraped his chest. you didn’t know if his mandalorian culture also said you couldn’t see any part of his skin at all, as soon as you asked him he insisted he could take care of it himself. his voice was strained and his hand was pressed harshly against the metal of the crest. he clearly wouldn’t be able to take care of it.

“mando, listen to me. i’m here to help you, i know it’ll be a little weird at first, but i just wanna make sure the kid has his dad around for as long as possible.” you saw the mandalorian’s helmet move as he turned to look at the kid, his eyes gazing up at him, clearly concerned. you heard him sigh, but he pushed himself onto the wall and you gripped onto his shoulder, walking him over to the makeshift hospital bed you made in case of emergency. it was barely big enough for him to lay down on.

“i need this,” you poked the beskar on his chest with a nonchalant finger, “to come off of you.” you nearly saw his muscles tense, “it’s a little weird, i know. i just need it off to take care of you. is that okay?” he took a moment to think and you could hear labored breathing coming through the voice modulator on his helmet. “turn around.” he told you, voice emotionless as it usually was.

you listened to his words, and then you heard the clang of metal hit the floor of the ship. following that, you heard unbuckling of armor and the scraping of beskar against the ships walls. did he take off his helmet? it didn’t matter, but you were curious as to what he looked like underneath it. was his hair the same shade of brown you found yourself picturing so much or was it different? you shook the thought out of your head as you heard his modulated voice telling you to turn back around.

he was shirtless now, armor on the floor. his helmet was still on his head, which you knew would happen anyways. you didn’t mind, but you did pull up a stool and sit down next to him. his skin was tanned, and he did have abs. you knew he would, he worked himself to the bone more often than not. he was always up on his feet and it began hurting you just looking at him.

the scrape wasn’t as bad as it looked. it wasn’t deep, but it was decently long and it went from up to his chest from the lower parts of his stomach. you reached your hand out, and skin finally touched skin. you felt a shock move through you but you didn’t think much of it. you felt your face get warmer as you felt his eyes on you. “doesn’t look like it needs stitches.. not super deep. i’ll get some bacta. stay here.”

“it’s not like i’m going anywhere.” he shot back and you rolled your eyes, “whatever.” you got up and sifted through a few medical bags you kept with you, finding a bacta patch suitable for the size of his injury. you quickly cleaned the cut and gently pressed the patch down. “good?”

he nodded, “turn back around.”

you did the same as before, and the process repeated, the sound of his armor scraping on the floor before a small grunt escaped from his lips as he hoisted it up onto the bed. the sound of his helmet sitting on the ground, and then after a few moments, he told you to turn around.

he was covered in armor again. seeing his without the beskar for even a few minutes made him seem more human than before. you could tell it made him feel a bit vulnerable. he tensed up when your hand met his bare skin, but you didn’t cross any boundaries as you did what you knew you had to do and no more.

“thank you.” he told you, and you nodded. “anytime, mando.” you offered him a smile and gently patted his shoulder. “let me know if you need anything else, okay? i mean it.” you told him firmly and it was his turn to nod. “you know.. that really showed me that you’re really a human under there.” you didn’t know what came through the modulator, but it sounded like a bit of a scoff. “right. i’m sure it did.”

“no, really!” you laughed, “you’re always so serious.. just seeing that there’s a real human under there is a little heartwarming.” he turned to look at you and the t shaped visor stared into your eyes. he didn’t know what you did to him.

the truth was, he thought you were near perfect. your eyes were always so filled with kindness, especially when you looked at him. he felt his heart speed up as you stared up at him, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. it wasn’t like he’d never been interested in anyone before, but with them, he knew they never returned his feelings, but with you it was a bit different with your lingering touches and soft glances. truthfully, he hardly ever saw you because he tended to be a bit nervous around you.

the mandalorian turned on his heel and gently picked up the child, placing him in his crib. he pressed a few buttons on his forearm and it closed, taking him out of the room. you raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question him. “sit down.” he told you, and you furrowed your eyebrows. “what’s happening? did i see something i wasn’t supposed to see?” you asked, your voice laced with a joking tone but you had no idea if you’d done something wrong when you took care of him. he shook his head, but he did look back at you.

“you want to see i’m human?” he asked you. “i.. i mean, i already knew you were-” the lights were off and you could see nothing. it was pitch black, but you knew he was walking towards you when you heard the sound of his boots hitting the metal floor. he led you to your small room, before sitting his hands on your shoulders and gently pushing you to sit on the bed. “mando? what’s happening?”

“i’m proving this to you, y/n.” his voice was filled with a little too much emotion for the usually stoic mandalorian you knew, but you still felt oddly safe around him. you heard the sound of his helmet sitting on the floor, and your eyes widened. “but-”

“you can’t see me.”

“i know that but-”

“then why are you complaining?” he retorted and you shut your mouth as soon as you opened it to respond. “that’s what i thought.” you could hear him sit down next to you, and the familiar feeling of his beskar was touching your shoulder. you heard his gloves come off, and then felt his hands on yours.

his hands were calloused and rough, but you couldn’t help but want to take him all in. his thumbs ran over the palm of your hand and you took in a sharp breath. you heard him laugh and it sounded like music to your ears. “you’re..” you could barely form words as his hands ran across your forearms. “wow..”

“shh.” he told you and you felt butterflies explode in your chest as you felt his eyes on you. you held onto his hand and your fingers entwined with his. you desperately searched the space in front of you, wanting nothing more than to take him into your arms and to kiss him for hours on end. “can i.. can i.. please.” you mumbled, and he said back to you a quiet “yes” and before you could think, your hands were on his cheeks and his hands were rubbing circles on your waist.

“soft.. so soft. you’re so pretty.” you told him, breathlessly. his face had a soft stubble, but his skin was one of the softest things you’d ever felt, you ran your thumbs across his cheekbones and then.

lips.

there were his lips. there were soft and a bit cracked but you knew they would be. you pictured this scenario in your head many times, but now that it was happening in front of you you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

“mando i..”

“din.”

“what?”

“my name is din. din djarin.”

“fuck.. okay. din.” you tested his name and you felt him melt into your touch as you said it. your hands tangled into his hair and you could tell you had a hopeless smile on your face. din let out a soft sigh as you massaged his scalp, but before he could say anything, you were laying down on the bed. he was a bit too big for it, but his head laid on your chest and you couldn’t be happier.

“din.. can i.. can i kiss you?”

“yeah.” he told you, but you could hear him sitting up a bit. you leaned forwards and after a moment, you felt his lips against yours. it felt as if you were falling, but it was invigorating. his hands held onto your hips, and your hands softly ran through his hair. you had no idea what he looked like, but his hair was thick and it was soft just like his skin. you didn’t know what color his eyes were but it didn’t matter, as long as you knew they were on you, you felt safe.

“din.”

he hummed. “i like you.”

“yeah, i know..” you smacked the back of his head and you could hear him laugh, finally without the modulator. his voice seemed more real now, and it anchored you to reality. it was silent for a few moments, the only sounds you could hear being your breathing and his. “me too.” he replied back to you, lips touching your ear.

it was strange, in a way, to hear his voice without the helmet on. it was smooth, but sweet. his voice was inviting and comforting and you’d do anything to hear it for the rest of your life, and now, hopefully you would.

your nose rubbed against his.

warmth blossomed in his chest.

he deserved this.

#this is so bad #im so sorry #im soft for din tho #star wars #star wars x reader #x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x you #star wars x you #star wars x y/n #din djarin x y/n #the mandalorian x y/n

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sunlightdances · 4 years

Text

Two Hearts on Fire

Title: Two Hearts on Fire Author: Katie @sunlightdances Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader Prompt: “If you need my shoulder, or my hand, or a hug-” Rating/genre/warnings: PG-13. Mentions of alcohol, canon-typical violence, and swearing. Summary: 3 times Dean was there for you when you needed it + 1 time you were able to repay the favor. Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural or Dean Winchester. Please don’t repost my work on any other sites without my written permission! Reblogs are encouraged! Please, please, please reblog creators’ work if you like it. Likes are amazing and beautiful, but sharing your favorite work has such a big impact and really makes my day. Author’s Note: I reference the Reader’s military history only because I just rewatched Generation Kill and have First Recon on the brain. I’m aware that the Marines don’t allow women into that Battalion, but let’s just pretend they do.

Links to my full masterlist can be found on my blog!

One.

You’re in a bar, the kind your mother always told you to stay away from, but you’re a little drunk, a little reckless, and a lot sad.

You concentrate on the amber liquid swirling in the glass in front of you, the sounds of the jukebox in the corner as some old, sad country song plays, and the way the world is just a little fuzzy at the edges.

Someone sits down next to you.

Not too close, but close enough that you can smell the musky scent of his cologne, and something sharp and metallic underneath. He’s tall. Broad. He glances at you, double takes. You mentally roll your eyes, preparing yourself for the inevitable pick-up line, but it never comes.

He drinks slowly, like you are. He doesn’t say anything, just a few murmured words to the bartender when he wants another glass.

He doesn’t even look at you, really, until someone sits down on your other side. Too close. Wandering eyes. Your shoulders tense. You prepare yourself for the inevitable line - what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this, or some similar variation, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, a hand, low on your hip, a threatening voice in your ear.

“One wrong move and I’ll kill you and the girl my friend over there just met in front of this entire bar,” he says, and you struggle to keep your face neutral as you look across the bar, a girl who can’t be older than nineteen giggling as a man twice her age whispers to her, his eyes locked on you.

“What are you?” You ask conversationally, taking another sip of whiskey.

“Like you don’t know.”

“I’m not hunting you.” You tell him, and his grip on you falters. It’s the truth - you’re a hunter, but you’re not hunting. Not tonight, anyway. You would laugh if you weren’t in a potentially life threatening situation - it figures the one night you want to take a break and relax, you end up mixed up in someone else’s hunt.

“What the fuck are you talking about? We scented you outside--”

“She might not be hunting, but we are.” The man on the other side of you speaks up, and you glance at him sharply, wondering how much of this entire exchange he heard. He tilts his head in the direction of the door. Another man dressed similarly in plaid and jeans stands there, twirling a knife in his hands, eyes hard.

“What the hell is this,” the man at your back growls.

“You’ve been terrorizing this town long enough. Time for your friend and you to eat one.” The man says, gulping the last bit of his drink, before standing and facing the two of you.

Despite yourself, your pulse starts to race. This isn’t ideal - a threat at your back where you’re vulnerable, a girl who has no idea what she’s walked into across the bar, probably close to being dinner for the men you’ve figured out are werewolves.

“Seems like a lose-lose,” you say casually, making eye contact with the hunter in front of you, trying like hell to figure out his next move.

The air is tense, and almost as if you’ve practiced it before, a wink from the hunter is your cue to elbow your assailant in the ribs hard, stomping on his feet at the same time.

You duck, just in time for the hunter to sucker punch the wolf with a hard left hook, his grip loosening enough for you to get out of the way. The man across the bar growls loud enough for you to hear, and you only hesitate for a half second before you’re moving, him meeting you halfway.

The other patrons are scrambling, the bartender yelling, but you ignore it all, concentrating with all your might on subduing him enough to get yourself and this innocent girl out of the bar.

You dodge a few swipes, alarmed when you see his claws out, and you curse under your breath, your reflexes slowed by alcohol just a bit, enough to make you nervous. The fight closer to the bar continues, and just as you think you’re about to bite it, another hand grips your shoulder, shoving you aside in time for you to regain your footing.

The two werewolves fully engaged, you grab the young girl’s arm, her eyes wide and filled with tears. You drag her outside, ignoring the fight behind you as people spill out of the bar, the bartender yelling that he’s called the police.

“Listen to me. You need to get on a bus, and get the hell out of town. Don’t come back for a week or two, maybe longer.” You find your wallet, shoving a few bills in her hand. She just stares at you. “Do you understand? Go!”

She nods frantically, taking the money and turning before running down the street.

Sighing, you turn back towards the bar, cracking your knuckles. Before you can do anything else, the noise stops, and the door opens. The hunter who had been with you at the bar looks around quickly before his eyes land on you.

“You okay?” He asks, gruff.

“Fine.”

“They’re dead,” he says bluntly. “Knocked the bartender out long enough to get them outside. The police are on their way, though.”

You nod. “Need help with the bodies?”

He considers it, but shakes his head slowly. “We got this one.” He tilts his head, “You really weren’t after them?”

You grit your teeth. “It’s my night off.”

He stiffens. “We don’t get nights off.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, whatever. Thanks for your help, but I--” really, really don’t need this tonight, you think, but decide just to stop talking. “I have to go.”

When the other hunter comes out of the bar and stands there, tall and imposing, you realize who they are. And you definitely don’t need to get involved in whatever shit the Winchesters are dealing with these days.

“Good luck,” you say, waving a hand nonchalantly before heading out to your car, passing the infamous black Impala on your way. You’d laugh if you weren’t so depressed.

They’re still there watching you when you glance in your rearview as you drive away.

Two.

“Any day now, Claire,” you say through grit teeth as you shove all your body weight against the closed door at your back, trying like hell to keep this angry spirit out, though a voice in the back of your head tells you it could just give up and go right through the wall.

“Going as fast as I can!” The younger girl tells you, and finally, finally the lighter in her hand whooshes to life, the canvas in her other hand lighting quickly.

The lights flicker like mad as the spirit screams, and then it’s all quiet, and you slump against the door, nodding at Claire across from you. “Good job, kiddo.”

Footsteps on the stairs startle you, as does the doorknob rattling.

“Shit, not again,” Claire swears, and then the unmistakable voice of Dean Winchester is on the other side of the door.

“Claire, open up!”

“Oh, come on…” You groan, pulling away from the door so you can open it. Yanking the door open, you’re greeted with Dean’s surprised expression.

“Oh.”

“What are you doing here?!” Claire nearly wails, clearly upset. “I told Jody I had a partner for this one, I had it under control!”

Dean, to his credit, looks a little chagrined. “She just said--”

“That I need a babysitter?”

You look back and forth between them, really not wanting to get in between whatever pseudo-family drama is brewing here.

“I think that’s my cue,” you say quietly. “So I’m just gonna--”

“How come she doesn’t get yelled at?” Claire asks, and you’re suddenly reminded about how young she is.

Dean snorts. “Because she’s a grown ass woman, and Jody didn’t send us here to yell at her.” He looks over at you, a smirk barely repressed.

You roll your eyes. “I don’t really do family drama, so if you’ll excuse me--”

“Wait!” Claire calls, and when you turn around, she’s already there throwing her arms around your shoulders, hugging you close. You stiffen. You’re not used to this affection - the way the young hunter is still so full of life and enthusiasm… it’s the way you remember being a long, long time ago. “Thank you,” she whispers before letting you go.

Head down, you smile gently. “No problem, kiddo. Stay out of trouble.”

You shrug past Dean Winchester in the doorway, his impossibly imposing figure making it hard to get by without brushing against him a little, and you scowl when he grins at you. Antagonizing little shit, you think, but you’re smiling a little too.

He finds you later at the 24-hour diner down the street, like you suspected he would.

A cup of steaming coffee is set down in front of you, and then he’s there, like he’s been conjured out of thin air.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

You hum in agreement.

“You don’t say much, do you?” He asks, but it’s not tinged with annoyance or mocking like you’d expect.

“I don’t know you. What do you want, my life story?”

He shrugs. “Your name would be a start.” He winces at himself, “that sounded like a line. Not how I meant it.” He takes a sip of his own coffee. “Claire talks about you like you’re old friends.”

You meet his eyes. “She’s a good kid.”

He nods. “I know she is. Just gets in over her head sometimes.”

You’re both quiet for a second. You have purposefully isolated yourself from anyone else in the hunting community because you’ve had enough camaraderie to last a lifetime. It never left you with anything but a broken spirit. Why Dean Winchester thinks he’s going to change that, you have no idea, but you suppose you can’t fault him.

You’ve heard all about him - the most surprising thing (heard from Claire and from Jody) being the way he seems to adopt every single person he meets. Everyone becomes part of the family whether he wants them to or not.

You tell him your name.

He frowns. “Why do I know that name?”

You tense up again, and he looks at you dead in the eyes, really looks at you.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“You’ll figure it out eventually,” you sigh. “I was in the Marines. First Recon. I was a medic, and it was a total shit show. When I came back, I wasn’t the same person. I couldn’t fathom working at an office or some other shitty job. I met a friend of a friend who had a connection to hunting. Really hush hush. I had the skills. They needed help. The end.”

He looks surprised, but he regains his composure quickly. “And the friends?”

Your hard stare meets his. “Gone.”

He doesn’t press you. Doesn’t ask you who they were or what happened, he just takes the information for what it is - a story a thousand hunters have about a hunt gone wrong and an accident. No one’s fault, except you had your share of not-your-fault incidents in Iraq that still led to your friends dying. You were tired of it.

“Well. If you ever need any help or get in a pinch, we’re happy to help.” He says.

You know you won’t take him up on it. By the cautious look in his eyes, you think he knows that too. Still, it’s the thought that counts.

After he leaves, a waitress slides a slice of pie in front of you.

Confused, you look up, “I didn’t order this.”

“Your friend did.” She says, winking.

Dean Winchester, you think, the exact sort of friend I don’t need.

Three.

You’re pretty sure this is it.

There’s a blade at your throat, and the only reason you aren’t already dead is because the fucking vampires can’t stop arguing with each other.

You wonder if you’ll see your guys again in heaven, if that’s where you end up. Judging by the amount of civilian death you saw in Iraq, you’re not so sure. You picture the men you couldn’t save, the blood that you swear still stains your hands, and think that it’ll be nice to see them again. If only so you can properly repent.

You wonder if your hunter friends will be there too.

You’re distracted from your admittedly morbid thoughts by a knock on the door. It’s loud.

The vampires stop.

“Who is knocking?”

The other one literally shrugs. You roll your eyes. Is this a buddy comedy or a hunt?

One vamp tiptoes close to the door, and before they can do anything, the door flies open, splinters raining down, and the vamp is nailed in the face with the door, falling to the floor unconscious.

“Sorry to barge in,” Dean says. “You’ve got something I want.”

You snort, and have to laugh when you can see Sam Winchester over Dean’s shoulder rolling his eyes.

“What is this, SVU?”

“A little gratitude would be nice.” Dean says, frowning.

The vamp still holding a blade to your throat makes a choked noise. “Excuse me?!”

Dean’s eyes flick to his. The green in his eyes goes from warm to icy in a second. “Sorry, am I keeping you from something?”

“One more step and the girl dies.”

Sam steps into the room and smiles sunnily at you. “I feel like we’ve done this before.”

“Seems familiar, yeah.” You reply.

“Enough!” The blade digs into your throat.

The bickering and bantering has given you more than enough time to saw through the bindings on your wrist, but you’re in no hurry to give away the game. You feel a trickle of blood run down your neck and see Dean’s eyes narrow in on the spot. You just hope he keeps his cool long enough for you to work your way out of this.

“Let her go.” Sam says coolly.

“I don’t think so. Just to get my head chopped off?”

“Seems like a you problem.” Dean says.

“Boys, it’s been fun. But I have to go.” You say, seconds before you rear back, headbutting the vamp behind you. He drops the knife, sending it clattering to the ground, and you’re out of your seat to throw a hard right hook before he can react.

Sam and Dean react quickly, brandishing machetes and taking care of business while you check the other rooms in the house to make sure you’re alone.

Meeting back in the kitchen, you’re already recovering your bag that was taken from you and digging through it for your aid kit.

“How’d you do that?” Sam asks quietly. His eyes stray down to your neck as you wince, pressing a pad of gauze to your wound. “Get out of the ropes, I mean.”

You take out a long bandage, winding it around your neck. Without prompting, Sam steps closer and takes the loose end, helping you tuck it in where you can’t see.

“Thanks,” you say, distracted. “I keep a knife taped to my forearm,” you say. “Took forever to get it loose, but they didn’t check before they tied me up.”

Sam nods. Dean walks in a second later, eyes narrowing at the point where you and Sam are touching. You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t trying to make sure you don’t bleed to death.

“Need stitches?” His voice is gruff.

You shake your head. “No. Should be fine. Just a graze.”

He nods.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Jody called. Said you were supposed to meet up and you never showed. Tracked you down from there.”

Digging through your bag one more time, you find your phone. “Feels like this is beginning to be a habit. You might as well put your numbers in.”

Dean looks like he wants to make a smart remark, but he doesn’t. You’re grateful. “Are you good?” He asks, eyes on your neck again.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t get all emotional or anything.” He teases, and you roll your eyes yet again.

“Asshole.” You murmur, but there’s no heat behind it. “I have to go.”

They give you a ride back to the rest stop where the vamps ambushed you. You’re so tired you wonder if you shouldn’t take them up on the offer to keep you company, but then the faces of all the friends you’ve lost swim in front of you, and you remember why you can’t get close to them.

The Winchesters are too much trouble, even for you.

You keep dreaming that your phone is ringing.

You wake up to someone pounding on your door, your heart racing, and you grip your gun tight as you make your way to the door.

“Open up!” A gruff voice demands, and your shoulders slump.

“Christ,” you mutter. Opening the door, you’re greeted with a pale and shaken Dean, Sam’s arm slung over his shoulder. “What the fuck happened?”

“Stabbed,” he says in a rush. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Get him inside and on the bed.” You say quickly, darting to the bathroom to dig out the med kit you keep fully stocked but luckily haven’t had to use since Iraq.

Back in your bedroom, Sam is groaning, and Dean is muttering platitudes.

“Sam? Sam, hey.” You say, hovering over him. “Look at me, Sam.” He meets your eyes. Luckily his pupils are both the same size, and you smile at him. “There you are. Hi, Sam. You’re going to be okay.”

Dean hovers, and you try to ignore the feeling of his eyes on you as you work.

“I’ve got to get the shirt off,” you tell Sam. “Don’t read anything into it.”

He smiles despite the pain he’s clearly in.

“Sam, can you breathe okay?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s writhing a little, and you force yourself to concentrate.

“Sam,” you repeat, more forcefully, trying to get his focus. “Can you breathe?”

“Yeah, I can breathe. Jesus Christ.”

“Good, that’s good. You’re going to be okay, Sam.”

The wound isn’t too deep. Missed anything important. You relay the information to Dean, who settles a little, perched on the side of the bed as you begin cleaning Sam up.

“Stop squirming,” you chide softly. “Dean, grab his hand or something. He needs to stop moving so I can stitch him.”

The process of cleaning him up and getting him stitched is almost robotic. You can’t count how many times you’ve had to do this in the Marines. You just pray that this time ends better than some of the others.

“Sam, can you squeeze my hand?” You ask, stopping what you’re doing and reaching for the hand that’s not currently being held by Dean. He squeezes tightly. “There you go,” You soothe. “Gonna have a scar, Sammy. I’ve been told women like that sort of thing.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but he’s smiling when you look up. “Fuck, that hurts.”

“Sorry,” you say, pulling the last stitch and tying it off as quickly as you can. “You have to stay put for a while, okay?”

“I was going to run a marathon.” He deadpans.

You chuckle and meet Dean’s eyes. He’s not smiling, not even a hint of his lips twitching, and you start to panic that he might be hurt too before he lets go of Sam’s hand and heads towards your kitchen.

Finishing up with Sam, you tell him to rest and that you’ll check on him in a few minutes. He squeezes your hand again, and then you head to check on his brother.

A glass clinking draws your attention to the kitchen table. Dean’s found your whiskey stash.

“Dean?”

He looks up. “Sorry for barging in here like this.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be.” Sitting across from him, you watch him carefully. “He’s going to be okay.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “I panicked. I’ve stitched him a million times, but he was bleeding so much-- I didn’t know what else to do.”

“That’s okay, Dean.” A beat, and then you add, ““If you need my shoulder, or my hand, or a hug-”

He lets out a watery laugh. “Shut up.”

You grin, plucking the glass from his hand and taking a sip.

“You don’t do hugs.” He adds.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I might, for you.”

His eyes are dark when they meet yours. “I’m really glad I met you,” he says softly.

It sounds crazy, but you think you can literally feel some of the darkness that’s hovered over you for years starting to clear. “I’m glad I met you too.” You reply, just as quiet, the two of you sharing the same glass of whiskey until it’s gone.

Maybe this is how you find your peace. Maybe you let these two guys in, let them be there for you in a way you’ve rarely let other people.

Maybe there’s something more here than just you watching your own back at every turn.

Later, when the two of you are squeezed onto your bed on either side of Sam, trying to catch a few hours of sleep while keeping an eye on him, you meet Dean’s eyes again. Wordlessly, his hand reaches for yours and gives it a squeeze.

You don’t let go, and neither does he.

You finally fall asleep, your heart already feeling lighter.

For the first time in almost a decade, you have no nightmares.

#dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #spn reader insert fic #3+1 fic

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popquizhot-shot · 3 years

Text

You’re not him-Chapter 2

( How do I put links?)

Italics are reader's thoughts

"ABORT MISSION ABORT MISSION ABORT THE DAMN FRICKING MISSION-"

"Um, Miss, who are you?" Loki's voice dragged you out of your thoughts.

"Uh-I'm I'm an agent! here! in the TVA!" you say a little too enthusiastically.

Eyeing you worriedly, Loki replies, " Oooook, now Mobius." he says, looking at the man, " where will I be staying?"

" Y/n will show you your quarters Loki, and you'll have your own cubicle, where you'll be taught by Miss Minutes about the TVA" Mobius replies walking Loki out of his office, shooting you a sympathetic glance.

Following closely behind, the reality if the situation suddenly hit you like a train. A variant of your your soon-to-be husband, who died, was here

Alive.

Should you tell him? Should you not tell him? All the sadness and depression which you tried so hard to push away and bottle up was surfacing, leaking out drop by drop.

"Y/n? Y/n! Earth to Y/n!" you heard Mobius say your name, his hand waving in front of your face, he was looking at you sadly, knowing what you were going through.

" Sorry yeah?" you say, a little out of breath.

" Take Loki to his room ok? The staff quarters." He said.

" Yeah! Sure! Please follow me Mr. Laufeyson." you say heading towards the staff quarters.

Loki looks at Mobius before following you.

After a while of walking in complete silence, Loki tries to make conversation,

"I don't believe I've gotten your name madam" he says.

" Huh, well I thought, you already heard it multiple times, given how many times Mobius had shake me out of my thoughts, I'm Y/n. Nice to meet you." Again.

" Heh yes, well I'm Loki-"

" of Asgard, Yes, I'm aware of that Mr Laufeyson, I bet everyone knows who you are." you say.

It suddenly dawned that you might have not made a good first impression.

" I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, It's just everyone's on edge today." Yeah! particularly me! Well what am I supposed to do when I see a variant of my dead fiancé? Kiss him? Tell him the truth? No you idiot!

" Well, I doubt they have a runaway variant everyday." he says chuckling lightly.

" You'll be surprised, Mr Laufeyson." you say smirking at him.

Heading to a door, you unlock it with a keycard and show him inside. It's a fairly large room, with a bed, a Tv, a mini-fridge, with an attatched bathroom.

" This is your room, and so is this keycard, your uniform is in the cupboard and your work begins tomorrow. Good Luck Mr.Laufeyson" you say smiling lightly while simultaneously crying and sobbing on the inside.

" Thank you, Ma'am, and please call me Loki." he says smirking at you.

"Only if you call me Y/n."

"Alright then, Thank you Y/n"

" You're very welcome Loki, I'll see you tomorrow." you say walking out.

As soon as you leave and the door closes, you immediately sprint to Mobius's office.

" OK, NOW WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO MOBIUS?! HUH? WHAT SHOULD I SAY, HI I'M ACTUALLY OR I WAS YOUR FIANCE WHEN YOU WERE ALIVE AND I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU AND YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO I AM!" you shout at him.

"Y/n Liste-" Mobius begins,

"No no, this is where you zip it!" your eyes glowing a shade of orange . That's all that would happen, the only indication that you had magic, you're eyes would glow when you were you were really emotional.

" Picture yourself in my place, you're getting married, you're fiance is killed before you're eyes, then after a few years you see them again, but they don't know you, how would you feel? Think about that Mobius!" you say, tears threatening to spill out your eyes.

"Y/n, I understand that, but we need him, he's the key to ending this, lots of minutemen, Jamie, Cassandra, Damon, Stefan! All dead! We need him, and we need him to be focused, after the mission is over, then you can tell him whatever you want, but please for the love of the time-keepers above, please don't tell him, you'll be accompanying us on missions from now on. You know Loki almost better than he knows himself an we need both of you. Please." Mobius pleads.

Sighing, you nod and try to glare at him, but ended up sadly smiling, you couldn't help it, you couldn't stay mad at Mobius, he was like an elder brother, or your best friend.

Smiling Mobius gets up and hugs you tightly, making you feel a bit better.

___

That night, you weren't able to sleep, thinking about every good memory you had when Loki-well OG Loki was still alive.

You and Loki baking, him dabbing frosting on your lips, before kissing it off, the boops, the damn boops that made you feel so warm and fuzzy on the inside.

When you first met- 2013

It was a normal day at Avengers Tower, you had just gotten back from a long undercover mission, you had heard about the new resident staying, God of Mischief.

Throwing your duffle bag on the carpet in the room and immediately showered, trying to scrubbing the blood and grime off, before you went downstairs to surprise the team.

Being a dramatic bitch, you decided to make an awesome entrance.

*Steve in the kitchen*

" Hey, Tony?" Steve said

"Yeah capsicle?"

"Why do I hear boss music?" Steve says looking worried.

Suddenly the door's are kicked open, startling everyone.

" I'm BACK bitches!!!" you say while holding your arms out.( like how Loki does it)

Shriek and laughs and smiles later, you gather your courage and go up to Loki,

"Hi, I'm Y/n. Nice to meet you." you say smiling,

" Loki, of Asgard, nice to meet you too." he says, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles.

And that was the day you fell for Loki Laufeyson.

"- and what happens when a nexus event branches past red line?" Miss Minutes asks Loki.

Loki ignores her, reading Mobius's jet ski magazine.

"Come on Loki!" she says frowning

Sighing Loki looks at her before saying, " It's when the Tva, can no longer reset the nexus event." smiling smugly.

" and the collapse of reality as when we know it." she finishes.

"Can you here me? Are you a recording, or are you alive?" he asks.

"Uh--sorta both!" she answers.

Mischievously, he rolls up the magazine and starts swatting at the mascot, causing her to go back inside the computer.

Looking at him, from you're cubicle, you can't help but smile softly, it had been years since you had last seen that beautiful smile and you're heart was melting.

From his cubicle, he spotted you and waved, eyes slightly softening, he liked your company, you put up with his bullshit and you were fun at the same time.

Waving back, you can't help but blush when you realize he caught you staring, your blush made him smile more.

Suddenly Mobius appeared behind him, talking to him and giving him a jacket, before he called you over, to talk about the mission.

" Y/n there's been an attack, we need you to come with us." he said hurriedly.

"We've grabbed enough temporal-aura to know it's our Loki variant, but we don't know which kind." Hunt says.

"The lesser kind, just to be sure." Loki butts in, making you snort.

He seemed pleased that he almost made you laugh.

" Ok, here's the deal, when we get out on the branch, we're not looking for a time criminal; we're looking Loki, a variation of this guy." Mobius says pointing to Loki, while projecting imaged of other Loki variants, each one getting weirder by the second.

"Apparently you won the Tour de France." you say nodding towards the hologram.

"Apparently." Loki says smiling.

"Not so slight, different powers, though powers include-Shape shifting, Illusion projection and Mind contr-" Mobius began.

"Duplication casting." You and Loki say in sync, turning to look at each other in surprise before looking back at the confused team.

"Illusion projection."

" No, they're two completely different powers." you began

"How Y/n?" Mobius asked.

" Professor Loki, would you like to answer that or would you like to answer?" you say, smirking at him

" You answer first." he says smirking back at you

"Illusion projection involved one depicting a detailed image from outside oneself which is perceptible in the external world." you began, Loki seemed impressed.

" While Duplication casting entails recreating an exact facsimile of one's own body in it's present circumstance which acts as a true holographic mirror of it's own molecular structure. But you already knew that." Loki finished.

" Not bad, Laufeyson." you said.

"Not bad yourself." He smiled.

" O-ok take a breath. Noted. Ok let's go. Everyone gear up" ( sometimes, I'm not going to follow the lines well, cuz i don't remember them.

Stepping out of the dressing room, you felt amazing, it had been a while since you wore gear and you didn't realize how much you missed it.

You also drew the attention of a certain blue-eyed, raven-haired god.

He couldn't take his eyes off you and you didn't know whether to feel happy or awkward.

Both.

Both.Yes.

Both is good.

Happy and Awkward.

---------

After everyone was geared up, you headed to your destination.

Oshkosh, Wisconsin, Year 1985.

After reaching there, Loki went up to Mobius, and they started discussing things about the Tva, stuff you honestly did not give a crap about.

Headed towards a tent, Loki and Mobius were having a conversation. Loki seemed to trust Mobius and that's weird, he never trusted anyone except you.

"Ok stop, this is not your Loki ok, this is someone different, don't screw the relationship you have with this guy"

After all you went inside, you instantly spotted a TVA helmet.

Someone was taken hostage. Hunter C-20

"He's taking hostages." Hunter began

" He's never taken hostage before." Mobius mused.

" Maybe's he upping his game" Hunter said

"or he pruned her." you interuppted.

" A Loki couldn't have taken the jump on C 20." Hunt said.

" I think you underestimate-" Loki began

" Fan out, search for her and hurry up because we're at three units until red-line." Hunter ordered.

"Come on Loki." Mobius began. You follow him. Looking back, you see Loki staring at the helmet.

" Wait." Loki calls out, everyone stopping dead in their tracks and looking at him.

" If you leave this tent, you'll end up just like them" he continues.

As Loki explains, you zone out again, focusing on his eyes, ocean blue, with specks of green and gold, making them look like the most beautiful ocean ever.

"Did you know, you have beautiful eyes?" you say, stroking Loki's cheek while staring into his eyes.

" Oh, I have beautiful eyes?" he smirks

" The most beautiful." you whisper before kissing him softly.

Pulling away, Loki looks into your eyes.

"Darling, you complement my eyes, when yours are clearly superior!" He said

1, " But Loki, they're brown, they're so plain, what do you mean they're pretty.?"

"Darling, you're eyes are so beautiful, they remind me of a glass of ale, the mud that makes the earth, your eyes represent earthquakes, that bring the biggest of the biggest mountains to kneel for them. I love your eyes, they make me feel home."

( sorry about that, that's for people with brown eyes, cuz I have brown eyes, and I don't see them appreciated enough, pls ignore if you don't have brown eyes)

"Y/n, Y/n snap out of it! Come on, we're going back." Mobius said, walking out, you follow him, slightly smiling at the fond memory.

After you come back, you immediately head to your room, shower and take a nap.

#loki #lokixreader #lokilove #lokiseries #lokispoilers

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itsbenedict · 3 years

Text

Two-Faced Jewel: Session 10

Connections

A half-elf conwoman (and the moth tasked with keeping her out of trouble) travel the Jewel in search of, uh, whatever a fashionable accessory is pointing them at. [Campaign log]

Last time, the party arrived in Cauterdale, the heavily-fortified port city at war with nature. They arrived in search of members of the Deathseekers' Guild- the organization of professional adventurers and monster-hunters that likes to be very up-front about its mortality rate- to handle a dragon problem that they're personally a little underleveled for.

While Looseleaf had a fateful encounter with the Plot at the Temple of Andra, Saelhen and Oyobi were headed to the barracks of the city guard, to speak to "Mags", the guard on duty when the local Deathseekers were last seen leaving town. And there...

You remember Medd Cutter, right? Highly-memorable Medd Cutter, the NPC who got oneshot by a T-rex and whose life the party saved? Well, to spite Rex... whatever his last name was, the pro-patria-mori asshole guard captain guy, Saelhen has decided that she's going to start spreading the word of Medd's heroism.

Oyobi, unfortunately, is bent on spreading the word of her own extremely ill-advised heroism, and so the two are having some sort of hype-off as they make their way into the barracks and effortlessly charm their way past the guards to where their quarry is posted.

These two are manning some sort of huge brass contraption, bristling with lenses and dials. One of them is a yuan-ti pureblood- which there are an unusual number of in the city guard, compared to the general population. Weird. Saelhen politely introduces herself, and Verity Truescale refers them to Magnaranth aka Mags, the loxodon who last saw the Deathseekers leave town.

Mags doesn't have a huge amount to tell them- the Deathseekers, evidently, were going hunting, out east somewhere. They brought a lot of torches, so apparently they were headed somewhere dark? Underground, maybe? They were pretty cagey about what exactly they were going out to do. Still, Mags can provide the names and addresses of the Deathseekers in question.

...And Verity, checking the instruments, notices that something is wrong with the tides- apparently something large is disturbing the waters, but they can't quite pinpoint what- it's not any of the usual suspects, which include things by the name of "Darkie" or "Unnessie". Ominous!

After that, the party meets up at the local Temple of Iska, their designated rendezvous point. They catch each other up on their gains, and decide... well, the Deathseekers are going to be back within a couple days, so they'll just wait for them in town and get going with them, to make sure things in Barley and Wheat go smoothly.

Of course, the question then is "where do we stay?"

Options aren't great- Cauterdale is crowded, and the B&B market is incredibly shitty. The best lodging is on Eman's Knee, the island just off the coast of Cauterdale, but getting the ferry over there is expensive, and resort lodging on a tropical island is also expensive.

That- you can't just- I mean, just because- I'm- I'm allowed to be predictable, okay???

(And anyway, it's Corolos where I ended up doing a murder mystery.)

So, Looseleaf gets a 24 investigating the town's B&B market, and finds a pretty good place! It's a weapons shop Saelhen noticed earlier, which is renting out rooms. The place has a huge fence topped with spikes, so they probably won't even get robbed!

Aria of War, as it happens, is run by an elderly yet ripped-as-hell tabaxi man, who Saelhen... vaguely recognizes.

Benedict I. (GM): So, this shopkeeper's coat is familiar to you. It's definitely not the same person, but you once knew a girl in Timber Towers named Toothbrush, with almost the exact same coat. Could be a relative! Saelhen du Fishercrown: Yeah, tabaxi have a lot of coat variation; it's not a safe bet that they're related, but Saelhen is willing to go out on a limb with him. "Good evening, sir, and I'm sorry to bother you, but I felt I had to ask..." Fish Especially: "No discounts." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Do you have any relation to a..." Was Toothbrush her real name? Benedict I. (GM): As far as you know! Tabaxi have weird names. Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Toothbrush?" Fish Especially: He looks surprised. "Hold on, you know Toothbrush?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...I knew I knew that speckle pattern." Saelhen smiles widely and without guile. "I met her in Timber Towers a while back. She played the violin." "More specifically, she couldn't play the violin, but she always failed very effectively." Fish Especially: "I'll be! Her theatre troupe doing all right for itself, then?" "Even with the noise of that awful thing?" "I never know what to think when she writes those letters..." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Last I saw of them, they were doing pretty well for themselves! To be honest, I did a stint with them for a bit, they wanted advice on a traditional elven piece..." Saelhen leans in on her elbows. "Oh, she mangled it, but she compensated with charm and that one face. Her confident face, you know the one, where you think she's so confident that maybe it's supposed to sound like that?" Fish Especially: He laughs. "You do know my girl!" "She hasn't written in- I think a year, now. How's she been?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Oh, it's been so long, I'm barely an authority by now -- but I remember she was talking about taking classes in -- what was it..." "...oh, where are my manners -- I'm Saelhen du Fishercrown, it's a pleasure." Saelhen reaches out for a very unelven handshake.

That she says this is notable for one big reason: this is the first time she's used her real name, and not "Lady Noeru de la Surplus". Nobody else in the party has heard this before!

It's also notable because according to Fish Especially, Toothbrush thought Saelhen was dead- and he's going to let her know otherwise.

Anyway, the deal for rooms goes through without incident, and the night also goes without incident! As is entirely normal, they hear Vayen in the halls making some sort of attempt to sneak into Saelhen's room in the night... and this time, sighing and going "never mind" without even attempting to pick the lock for some reason.

In the morning... Looseleaf grills Saelhen on the name thing, and she confesses the truth of the matter to the whole party- who take it fairly well.

After team bonding, the party heads to the Temple of Andra to check in and see if the Deathseekers have showed up. And by the stablehand's account, they have- or at least, a bunch of weird old people showed up to meet with Gabbro.

Gabbro seems surprised to see them- he was under the impression that they'd leave the matter to them. The further involvement of the party should be unnecessary, right...?

Looseleaf: "Oh, yeah, I was going to let you know we were staying in town and ask for you to let us know when the deathseekers showed up, but, uh, judging by that meeting we interrupted, they're already back and right here." Gabbro: "That is correct," he says, as the stablehand leaves. "I was just briefing them on the mission, you see." "The situation is well in hand, so you needn't concern yourselves with it any longer." "That pesky dragon shouldn't be an issue." Looseleaf: "W-well, uh. I was, uh, we were, kiiiinda hoping to travel with you back to the dragon's tower." "I mean, it's our quest, so, it'd be nice to, for us to see it happening so we can be sure of it, y'know?" Gabbro: He looks somewhat taken aback. "That... seems... risky, don't you think?" "To bring along... certain... people?" Looseleaf: "We're going to stay very very far away from the action! We're not that dumb!" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...I assure you that we have no intention of fighting the dragon ourselves, sir." Gabbro: "Ah, yes, of course not..." "However..." He gives Looseleaf a pleading look. Saelhen du Fishercrown: "And there are... certain persons in the nearby town, whose safety I would like to check up on. Personally." Looseleaf: He doesn't seem to want people witnessing the fight? It could be explicable through just, him being worried we'll get hurt. But it could also be, 'their deathseekers fight with methods that Orluthe in particular should not be allowed to witness.' Gabbro: "Ah, well, if that's the case... if you don't mean to get involved with the Deathseekers and their work..." Looseleaf: "We're not going to- we don't want any claim to the loot in the tower either, if that's a problem! Everything in the tower is you and your group's prerogative to deal with however we like."

Gabbro seems... put slightly more at ease, and decides to introduce the group to the ones who'll be their traveling companions shortly- the Cauterdale Deathseekers.

In order:

Doon Softbreeze, half-halfling rogue and all-around Grunkle Stan-type, friendliest with the party.

Kevin Softbreeze, Doon's soft-spoken herbalist husband and that's it, probably, just a gardener.

John Human, an extremely decrepit extremely human man who seems to make weird buzzing sounds when he speaks, as if with mouthparts instead of human lips.

Ryuusatsu Takuma, totally silent elf (not present at this meeting with Gabbro) who probably just doesn't like talking, is all.

Lady Fidelia Greatholder, heavily-armored and heavily-everything human noblewoman (also not present at this meeting), who- well, she shows up next session.

Gabbro makes a point of making clear to those present that Orluthe, who they'll be traveling with, is a cleric of Diamode- apparently they need to know this for some reason!

Doon's pretty friendly with the party, and offers to take on their job pro-bono- on the basis that, c'mon, if they could actually afford them, they wouldn't be knocking on their door for help. So it looks like they've enlisted some highly-capable dragonslayers with no ulterior motives! Fantastic.

Next time: The road back to Barley, and the tying up of a few loose ends in town. Saelhen needs to get her kimono back!

#tfj log #twofaced jewel

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mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years

Text

Fight Them || Morgan & Mina

TIMING: Current, shortly after Morgan’s run-in with Dani on campus

PARTIES: @drowningisinevitable @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan comes home, still reeling from Dani’s attack, where she is found by Mina.

“It’s never going to stop, is it?”

CONTAINS: panic attack

It was a little after ten by the time Morgan made it to her house and stepped out of the car and stood frozen in the middle of the walkway. She was fine. She had all her body parts and after three pointless detours around town, she convinced herself that there was no way the hunter girl had followed her home. She was fine. The windows glowed with warm light and the purple-white glare from the TV in the great room. She could imagine Deirdre carelessly tipping the delivery driver fifty dollars and Bex sorting out the food and Mina’s face when she got her sushi and the cringes and the small talk and the whole wonderful nothing of dinner at home in the kitchen. She was fine. Any minute now, she would shuffle forward and open the door and call out to them and Deirdre would know just how tight to hold her and she would be fine.

But Morgan’s feet would not bring her any closer to her front door. If she moved anywhere except down to her knees, it would be around the side, where she would pass the kitchen windows and the paper cartons strewn on the counters on her way to her garden, her studio, her shed. It was as if that girl’s hand was still around her throat, pinning her down, ready to cut her existence away. The night wind billowed, making the grass sing in whispers and reminding her how alone, how vulnerable she was, standing alone in the dark with her back turned to the street.

Morgan turned and marched around the side of the house until she was through the fence and staggering toward the back porch. Her chest burned, collapsing inward. There was no lung function to disrupt and so no hyperventilating to make her dizzy, her breath simply stuck in place and the fear boxed away in her spilled out of her in taut muscles and trembling hands. Morgan bent over, too tired to do anything but let her hurt take her, and opened her mouth to cry out. Only the faintest croak rattled out of her breathless lips. She clawed her throat, hearing the echoes of her own pleas in her ear, and sank to her knees at last, wheezing and whimpering all the way to the ground. She was fine. She was home. All she’d wanted was to be able to come home and now she was home, so everything was fine...

Mina had left the house early, claiming a late night swim before bed and managing to stave off any curiosity that Bex might have to stick around. All she really ended up doing is soaking, something that she probably could have done in the tub but wanted just a bit more space to do. She wasn’t even shifted much, just the patchy amount of scales broken out. She’d been about to get out anyway when she heard whimpering, crying. Pulling herself up, Mina proceeded towards the porch until she saw Morgan curling in on herself. “Morgan?” She’d never heard Morgan make that sound, and Mina didn’t know what to do. For a second, she just stood there, eyes wide, unsure of what she was supposed to do. But then Morgan started clawing at her throat, and Mina leapt forward. “Morgan!” She reached out, trying to pull Morgan’s hands away. “Hey, hey, Morgan. Can you hear me? Morgan? What happened? What’s wrong?” She looked for marks before she realized that she probably wouldn’t find any. Zombie healing took away most forms of outward harm. “Morgan, please, breathe. Please breathe. Please breathe.”

Morgan heard her name as if from inside the house, but her hands were being moved, she was being pulled again, and what if she wasn’t fast enough this time? She sat up and tried to pull away, her frightened cry coming out in broken squeaks. But it was only Mina. Morgan slumped, still shaking but no longer fighting, and at the girl’s bidding, her lungs opened and the sobs that had been trapped inside her spilled out. What had happened? The same thing that always happened. The same thing that would keep happening, until one day it stuck. Morgan tried to breathe. When she was alive, breathing had always been a dependable comfort, but the more she tried, the harder she shook and sobbed. Morgan couldn’t even lift her head to look at Mina. It felt wrong to throw this at her feet, to make her carry this with her, but she couldn’t even sit up on her own, how was she supposed to keep it together long enough to get inside? Morgan shook her head and prayed to the earth that Mina knew how ashamed she was, how much she didn’t want this for either of them.

At last, in a voice warped with tears, she said, “There was a hunter. On campus. S-she knew...I didn’t tell her anything, I’d never seen her, she just knew. What I am. I was j-just leaving the building. I just wanted to come home...” She shivered and shrank inward, hating the plaintive sound of her voice, how she couldn’t seem to stop begging.

There was that moment when Mina almost panicked because of course she shouldn’t have just reached out and touched Morgan like that without asking, but then Morgan slumped forward, and Mina grabbed her under the arms and hugged her, held her, as she cried. This was terrifying. She’d never seen Morgan this upset. Morgan was so strong, always, in Mina’s eyes. She’d never watched Morgan break like this and shatter in so many places. Swallowing tightly, Mina attempted to soothe the older woman, remembering how Morgan had comforted her before. She could do this. This was something that she could do.

“There’s a slayer on campus?” she asked. She wondered if it was the same slayer, Bex’s slayer, the one that saved her from the vampire. This wasn’t fair. There couldn’t be a slayer out there that saved one of Mina’s favorite people while hurting another one. That wasn’t fair. “It’s okay. It’s okay. She won’t come here. She’s not going to come here.” She moved them a bit, tried to keep Morgan from caving in. “She won’t come here, but, if she does, Deirdre and I won’t let anything happen to you. Okay? We won’t. It’s not happening.”

Morgan didn’t have the strength to tell Mina she was sorry for crying on her, that this wasn’t her job, that she wanted to protect her too, and if she could just get inside and see the warm lights from the great room, she might finally feel safe. The only thing she could manage between repeating some variation of what she’d already said was more cries, until her voice buckled. Then she quieted and forced her eyes open to look at the world around her while her body continued to release its panic. Thousands of blades of grass, one freshwater pool fostering plant life, one nix who had done so much for her that she would never be able to repay, two steps to the front porch. Three clouds in the sky, one moon, ten constellations she’d made up with Deirdre. She went around like that, counting the chimes that tinkled in the wind, the rustles from night bugs, the points of pressure from Mina’s grasp that she could actually feel, until the rest of her quieted and she only felt dull and hollow.

“I almost made it out on my own. I bought myself time, and then I didn’t,” she mumbled. “If it wasn’t for the fucking face-stealer, I wouldn’t...I wouldn’t…” Be here. With Mina. With anything. “I don’t want it to be your job to protect me. I don’t want the last thing I hear to be someone telling me I stopped existing the moment I died. That I deserve to be executed.” She breathed, chest shaking. “Did your dad’s friends ever tell you stories about people like me?”

“There’s really no way to prepare for something like this,” Mina said. “I’m just glad you made it out.” Her eyes widened. “There was a face-stealer, too?” Okay, alright. One problem at a time. She took a deep breath. “You’re here. You’re here. You’re here.” Mina didn’t know what she’d do if Morgan wasn’t here, if the slayer had succeeded. Would she have gone after a slayer, a human, to avenge a zombie? Would she really do that? Would she so firmly disregard her training in that way? Yes. The voice in the back of her head was tiny, but it was hers, and it was honest. She would. She would. She didn’t want to think on that too hard, didn’t want to think on the fact that she couldn’t avenge her father’s murder but would Morgan’s in a heartbeat. She didn’t want to know what that meant. Maybe it meant that she was as much of a monster as she’d always believed. Maybe it meant something else.

“It’s not my job to protect you. I want to. There’s a difference.” Mina knew this. This was about more than duty. She pulled away a bit, trying to look Morgan in the eye. “My dad’s friends were wrong. My dad was wrong. If they’d met you, they’d know that. He would know that.” The words didn’t sit well. Then, quieter, “I’ve seen zombies before.” She knew how to take down zombies, too. She’d never had to, didn’t want to, but she had the knowledge. That’s what happened when your dad wanted to be able to take one whatever, whenever, for however much was offered.

Morgan could only meet Mina’s eyes for a few moments before becoming too embarrassed of how broken she looked. “I tried to tell her…” she swallowed thickly. “To explain that I wasn’t what she thought I was. That I was a person. It was the first thing I tried…” And if it had accomplished anything at all, it had just made the slayer even more determined to kill her. It was too important to the rationalization bedtime stories some hunters told themselves. Of course they needed to stamp out any challenge they heard to that. Of course they’d try to double down. Morgan shivered, and decided to let Mina keep her own illusions; at least those were full of hope. “Were they starving, like the ones you see on TV, the zombies you saw? Or were they...like me?”

“Sometimes, they can’t hear,” Mina said, quietly. “Or they-- they-- they don’t want to hear. They don’t want-- They can’t-- To think of you as a person,” To think of myself as a person, “Is for them to completely rewrite everything that they know, that they were taught, and it’s not possible for some people because if they slowed down and they listened and they heard, they would know that you’re good and a person and that you’re not going to hurt them.” And some zombies were bad because not everyone could be a Morgan and try to live alternatively and eat animal brains cooked like a person. Not everyone did that. It was hard to explain that, especially to someone who always wanted to see the worst. How readily Mina had just… accepted Morgan as Morgan. How readily she’d accepted that Morgan could be a person, that Ari could be a person. Deirdre. They were people, and she knew that now, and maybe there was a part of her that had always wanted to see supernaturals as people but just didn’t know how. Still didn’t know how, sometimes.

Mina looked at Morgan, looked away. “They looked like you.” There’d been one man, and Mina would have never known what he was if it wasn’t for the slayer with them letting them know he was a draugr. He was old and young at the same time. He looked so tired. When they’d cornered him, Mina had looked away. She almost always looked away. “They just looked like people, but we were told they were dangerous people, and they needed to be-- So they were.”

Morgan knew what Mina was going to say before she even began. How many dinners in Texas had gone quiet when she brought up the hate crimes in Montrose or the attempts to give places the right to turn away queer couples from their apartment complexes and churches and schools and bakeries. If there was ever a real person in those discussions, and not just some hateful, fear-stricken idea, it wouldn’t be so easy. They might have to feel like a bad person. They might have to regret half their whole life in one go. And in a world that nurtured so little forgiveness, they couldn’t handle that, could they?

And with how Mina was brought up, with how her father had made her promise to be like him on pain of death, she wasn’t surprised that Mina had helped kill zombies like her, who died frightened, alone, and in so much despair. She nodded, accepting this, and sank a little further. “...It’s never going to stop, is it? It doesn’t even matter to them that I hate what human brains do to me, that I didn’t choose this, that I don’t even want to hurt anyone, much less…” She breathed deep, her breath still trembling with sobs waiting to burst. Then again. Then again. When she spoke again, her voice was firm. “Will you teach me? How to fight like them? Because I don’t want this either. I don’t want to spend the rest of my existence waiting for someone to find me and break me like I’m an abomination from hell, like I’m a thing made to be crushed. I need to be able to do better the next time this happens. I need to know I can make it home. You offered to show me once: no holding back, for either of us. Do you still mean that?”

Was it ever going to stop? Mina didn’t know. She didn’t think so, and she hated that. “They don’t-- They don’t know. They just don’t know. They don’t want to know.” She breathed in with Morgan, swallowing down bile. None of the people that she grew up with would see Morgan as a person. None of them. She wouldn’t have, over a year ago. She didn’t know what she would have done, if she’d known Morgan as a zombie before she knew her as a human. She might have found a slayer to deal with the situation. She might have never listened to Morgan about anything that she’d tried to tell Mina about supernaturals and life and just being a person. She probably still wouldn’t believe that she was a person. She took a deep breath. “I’ll teach you. I’m not losing you to people who don’t understand and refuse to listen.” She squeezed Morgan’s hand tightly. “There’s no learning to fight like them. You can’t. They were made to fight you.”

Mina’d had to learn that from wardens. She could mimic them all she wanted, but that wasn’t teaching her to fight them, just like them. “You have to learn to fight them.” She didn’t know how to fight back, only to hold her ground until she could escape. It looked like they’d both be teaching each other something. “But I did mean it. No holding back. You’re going to learn how to make sure you can always make it home.” Maybe she was damning herself, teaching a supernatural how to fight back against hunters. Maybe this was the ultimate step in the wrong direction. Maybe she didn’t care.

Morgan squeezed Mina’s hand in turn. Fight them. It didn’t sound so just-in-caseies like that. There was nowhere to hide what she wanted, how many Good Little Zombie rules she’d be breaking, how much she would be disappointing Remmy, or how much of the world she wanted to believe in might crumble away.

Gold lamplight splashed into the yard. Morgan flinched, whimpering, then she lifted her gaze to the windows. There was Bex in her pajamas, her hand still on the master switch, gaping with fear. She said a word and out of the shadows stepped Deirdre. Morgan let go of Mina’s hand to reach for her and toppled against the nix instead, too overwhelmed to remember how to balance. Deirdre was in her black robe, the one Morgan had gotten for her because it had bats and tombstones on the inside, and her hair looked damp from her shower. She was so beautiful in the most ordinary way, Morgan started to cry all over again, thinking of her swallowed by eternal nothing alongside the girls she loved so much.

Bex and Deirdre ran for the nearest door and as they knocked past each other and dashed into the garden, Morgan realized how much they looked like they’d known each other for so much longer, like they belonged in the house together.

“The hunters think I was made to fight them. Maybe I can prove them right,” she rasped, her eyes still on Bex and Deirdre, coming closer and calling her name. She swallowed thickly and hid her last words in Mina’s shoulder, audible only to the two of them. “Meet me at seven, just after sunrise. No holding back.”

Then she was surrounded, hands all over her face, bodies pressed against her back, familiar voices mixing into worried noise, and the only thing Morgan wanted more than the power to cut down anything that would take her away from this (all she loved, all she had, all that could be) was the power to hold everyone close to her at once and carry them safe inside.

#fight them #wr mina #wr chatzy #wr mina chatzy

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carewyncromwell · 4 years

Photo

*wiggles in delight* Okay, okay, you know it’s the POTC AU again. X3

Last part is here -- whole tag is here -- Lavender’s Blue is a folk song that dates back to the 17th century, but I used a more modern version in the link because it’s honestly the prettiest one I could find -- Leave Her Johnny is a traditional sea shanty, pinpointing it as being from the 18th/19th century, even though I haven’t been able to find a concrete date of when the original version was actually written anywhere, but whatever, who cares -- the myth of Orion and Artemis has several variations, but I just used one of the most popular ones because it fits the narrative -- I love my dear @cursebreakerfarrier and her girl Jules’s relationship with my precious boi Bill so much --

And that’s it! Let’s get right to it!! Eeeee~!!! *goes off and fangirls some more*

x~x~x~x

When it comes to dividing loot, one of the central tenants of the Pirate Code set down by the pirates Morgan and Bartholomew -- as well as every other specialized code set by individual pirate captains -- was the idea of everyone getting their fair share of whatever treasure they managed to plunder, with the Captain being awarded ownership of any ships. Thus everyone in the Tower Raven’s fleet as well as the Artemis’s crew was entitled to an equal share of the treasure the Revenge’s crew had stored away on Isle de Muerta the last fifteen years. It took a while to divvy up everyone’s shares, but even with how many people there were, everyone ended up with a respectable share, all the same. Both Jacob and Orion also quickly abdicated their possible claims to the Revenge to Carewyn -- a rather generous offer to some minds, considering it was the fastest galleon on the seven seas, but Carewyn could thoroughly understood why Jacob would want no part of it. If nothing else, he already had a rather impressive fleet, and the Revenge had the same bad memories for her as it did him.

It wasn’t long after the treasure was parsed into equal shares and the Tower Raven’s fleet departed that Bill pulled Jules aside.

“It looks like our little adventure is over,” he said with a faintly wry smile.

“...So it is,” said Jules.

She wasn’t smiling. She tried, but she just couldn’t shake the feeling that Bill was worried about something. Her wary expression made Bill turn a bit more serious too.

“You know Charlie and I won’t be able to return to Port Royal,” he said softly. “Your father could likely pull some strings to keep you from being punished, especially if you claimed we forced you, but...”

“I would never claim that and you know it,” Jules cut him off, her tone very reproachful.

Bill’s brown eyes crinkled up with fondness.

“...I know. That’s why I feel a little better telling you this.”

Taking her hand, he then slowly lowered himself onto one knee. Somewhere behind him, Bill could hear a quickly suppressed gasp of delight from Carewyn, and it made him grin around his scarlet cheeks up at Jules, whose face was also alight with surprise and a darkening flush.

“Juliette Farrier -- you are, without question, the most amazing and wonderful woman I have ever met in my life. You’re braver than a lioness and you never let anything stand in your way, no matter what the squalls. In the words of Psalm 143:8, ‘show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my life’ -- ”

His entire face was a brilliant ruby red by this point. He bit his lip briefly, only for his mouth to spread into an even broader smile as he tried to hold in a laugh.

“ -- so...if you could accept a pirate as your husband, over a merchant or even a man of the Church...I swear to stand by your side and love you all my days.”

Jules was visibly overwhelmed. Her face flushed and her eyes flooding with tears, she found herself starting to laugh. Then she flung herself down onto Bill, grabbing hold of him around the neck and cradling his head and shoulders.

“Yes -- yes, of course I will!”

The wedding between Juliette Farrier and William Weasley was a very informal, rushed sort of affair. Since there was no church that would’ve married them and Bill couldn’t do it himself, they held it aboard the Artemis with Orion -- being Captain -- officiating the ceremony. Charlie and Carewyn scrounged through the loot remaining in the cave at Isle de Muerta to find a handsome coat made out of brown leather, a navy blue tricorn hat, a well-shined pair of boots, a rather pretty-looking off-white dress, a gold tiara, and a translucent muslin apron. Carewyn was able to cut the apron into a make-shift veil that she then helped Jules secure in her hair with the tiara.

Orion’s version of a wedding ceremony was distinctly not traditional. Rather than quoting scripture, he made a rather bizarre analogy to beavers. To his credit, it did eventually come around to the idea that they mate for life and they build their own home out of nothing together out of whatever’s available to them, which Carewyn thought was actually rather sweet.

Once the vows were read and the bride and groom shared their first kiss as husband and wife, the crew threw a makeshift wedding party on board the Artemis, with Carewyn singing a song for Bill and Jules’s first dance.

“Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly, lavender's green When I am king, dilly, dilly, you shall be queen: Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so? 'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so.”

Once the dance was over, Carewyn couldn’t stop herself from throwing her arms around both of them, hugging them both with all of her strength. Soon Charlie had thrown himself into the huddle too, and the four were all clinging to each other, crying and smiling all the while.

“Jules,” Carewyn said seriously, “I want you, Bill, and Charlie to take the Revenge.”

The three all looked taken aback.

“What?” said Charlie.

“It’s the fastest galleon in the entire ocean, and easily the most feared pirate ship as well,” she explained, her eyes trailing from Charlie to Bill to Jules. “It may need some fixing -- I daresay it’d be a good idea to actually patch up those leaks with more than just magic, and I figure you’ll want to christen it with a new name...but...”

Her blue eyes drifted down to Jules’s shoulder.

“...If you must be considered criminals, with no chance of reprieve...then I don’t want the Navy to ever, ever catch you. I want you on a vessel so strong and so fast...that I can never catch up to you again.”

Bill, Charlie and Jules all stared at Carewyn, their eyes filling up with emotion seeing how strong of a face Carewyn was trying to put on, despite the pain she no doubt felt. Then Jules secured her arm more tightly around Carewyn’s shoulders, resting her forehead beside her friend’s affectionately.

“And if you must stay behind...then I want you to know that we’ll always...always come for you, Carey.”

Charlie nodded, resting his own head on Carewyn’s shoulder as he squeezed her shoulder. “Always.”

Bill’s eyes were streaming with tears. He seemed too overcome by his emotions to speak, so instead he brought up a hand and smoothed some hair out of his best friend’s face, placing a soft kiss to the crown of her head. Carewyn trailed a hand through his hair to comfort him.

“Look...after Percy for us?” Bill murmured in her ear, his voice choked with tears.

Carewyn blinked back her tears as best she could. “Of course.”

Not long later, Captain Jules Weasley boarded the newly christened Revolution with her First Mate and husband Bill and her Quartermaster and brother-in-law Charlie, and the three set off for Tortuga. Orion and the crew of the Artemis had arranged to meet them there and help them with ship repairs, since it would likely only take a scooner like the Artemis an extra day to reach Tortuga after dropping Carewyn off on an island frequented by rum runners, rescued, and returned to the Navy.

The next few days aboard the Artemis was rather more relaxed than on the voyage to Isle de Muerta. Everyone was in pretty good spirits thanks to the significant pay-out, so the nights were spent on deck drinking lots of rum and singing old pirate favorites like Spanish Ladies and Yo Ho A Pirate’s Life for Me. (That last one Carewyn was even able to coax Orion onto his feet and dance with her for, and the rather drunk crew was absolutely beside themselves with laughter, seeing the broad smile and dark flush on their tipsy captain’s face.)

On the last night of their voyage, however, as the sun went down, Orion did not join the festivities. The crew wasn’t too perturbed by it, as he apparently often stayed off to the side rather than get as active as he had that previous night. Despite this, though, McNully still lifted himself up into the rigging and paid Orion a visit at the helm while the rest of the crew drank and sang down below.

“Penny for your thoughts, Orion?” he asked amusedly.

Orion glanced up at McNully serenely. “Oh, merely...meditating on what would’ve happened, had the Scorpion not appeared.”

“The Scorpion?” repeated McNully, as he cocked an eyebrow.

Orion nodded up at the sky, to a certain cluster of stars.

“The Scorpion -- Scorpio. I wonder what would have happened if Apollo had not sent him to sting the heel of the hunter Orion -- what might have been his fate, then.”

McNully glanced from the constellation to down at Orion, frowning slightly.

“Well...he would’ve kept hunting with Artemis, I suppose,” he said slowly, “like he did before.”

“Yes...but would he have been able to do that ad infinitum? Would they have been able to hunt together, side by side, for the rest of Orion’s life, until he’d lived to a ripe old age? Or, like it’s said happened to the goddess Calypso...would it be too difficult for a goddess and a mere man to walk the same path for more than a short while...when the paths set before them are destined to diverge?”

Orion’s voice was very detached, but McNully knew him well enough that he could hear the quiet intensity in his voice. This thought exercise of his had been more than simple meditation, this McNully was sure of.

The First Mate considered Orion for a moment, contemplating his answer.

“...Well...I suppose that’s something Artemis and Orion would’ve probably had to plot out themselves, if it’d come to that. Reckon those sorts of things are always a 50-50 thing, no matter who the players are.”

Orion glanced at McNully out the side of his eye. “‘Those sorts of things?’”

“Yeah -- heart-related things. In the story you’re talking about, Orion was the only man Artemis ever loved, right?”

Orion’s dark eyes flickered down to the crew below. “...Aye.”

“Well, love kind of involves communication, so I’ve heard,” said McNully amusedly, “and while I’m no expert in love, I do pride myself on my communication skills. And from where I stand, I’d say that it’s up to those people to decide whether what they’ve got is more important than what ‘path’ they’re meant for or not. And unless there’s action on one or both people’s parts, there’s a 99.5% chance that both them and everyone around them will be left wondering forever what could’ve been.”

Orion didn’t answer. McNully followed his gaze down to the newly redressed Commodore Carewyn on the deck, who was leading the rest of the crew in a sea shanty.

“Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high... Leave her, Johnny, leave her! She shipped it green and none went by, And it's time for us to leave her.

Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow, And it's time for us to leave her.”

Orion’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, darkening with an emotion that McNully couldn’t place -- then, rather swiftly, he turned and headed for the stairs that led down to the main deck.

“I’ll take the first watch in the crow’s nest, McNully,” he said levelly. “Please see that the crew finishes up soon, so that we can start our nightly rounds.”

“...Aye, aye, Captain.”

The crew didn’t pay mind to the Captain walking past them on his way to the crow’s nest, but Carewyn couldn’t help but notice that he avoided any of their eyes.

Not long after, the crew all started getting ready to go to sleep down below in their makeshift cots and hammocks. Carewyn, however, was too disconcerted by Orion’s behavior and couldn’t help but approach McNully. When she did, he merely shrugged and told her not to worry -- Orion liked to go up to the crow’s nest alone to meditate, and it didn’t always mean he was in a bad mood. All the same, Carewyn decided to stay on deck and take the watch with Orion.

McNully considered her for a moment, before he finally added an aside to her.

“While he’s meditating, there’s only about a 45% chance he’ll talk to you. But...keep in mind that there’s only about a 25% chance that he’d talk to me. ...I reckon those are odds worth chancing.”

And so Carewyn made her way up into the crow’s nest. She found Orion there, resting his arms on the railing of the crow’s nest with his eyes closed and head bowed.

She settled herself next to him, resting her arms on the railing beside his. At first she was reluctant to speak, considering how clearly focused he was despite his eyes being closed. Then, at last, the Commodore finally brushed her newly retied ponytail over her shoulder and settled on asking him.

“...Would you prefer me to not say anything, while we watch together?”

Orion was quiet for a moment. Then, without opening his eyes, he murmured, “...You could sing something.”

Carewyn smiled slightly. “All right. Any requests?”

“‘A Maid in Bedlam.’”

It hadn’t taken him long to come up with it. Carewyn’s smile spread a bit, before she looked out at the sea and sang it for him.

“Just as she sat there weeping, her love, he came on land. Then, hearing she was in Bedlam, he ran straight out of hand -- He flew into her snow-white arms, and thus replied he: ‘I love my love because I know my love loves me.’

She said, ‘My love, don't frighten me, are you my love or no?’ ‘Oh yes, my dearest Nancy, I am your love, also. I have returned to make amends for all your injury... I love my love because I know my love loves me.’

So now these two are married, and happy may they be, Like turtle doves together, in love and unity.

All pretty maids, with patience wait, that have got loves at sea -- I love my love because I know...my love...loves...me."

A ghost of a smile had settled into the corners of Orion’s lips as he listened. When Carewyn finally finished, he opened his eyes and looked out at the horizon.

“Did you sing that song, while you were on the Revenge?” he murmured.

Carewyn looked at him in surprise.

“...How did you know?”

“A mermaid was singing the song around our ship one night while we were bound for Isle de Muerta. She said she’d learned the song from a maid locked in the brig of a pirate ship.”

Carewyn’s eyes softened in understanding. She looked back out at the sea too, her expression becoming a little more serious.

“...While I was on the Revenge,” she said softly, “I...well, I wasn’t myself, at points. I was scared, and angry...and that night...”

Her eyes darkened.

“...That night...was the worst of all of them. I don’t even know how I fell asleep. But I did, and...sure enough...there you were.”

Orion looked up, startled. Carewyn’s lips were spread in something of a bittersweet smile even though her gaze was still on the sea.

“I said you appeared in my dreams at random, but I don’t think that’s wholly true,” she admitted. “You wouldn’t appear whenever I felt cheerful or excited. Instead you always seemed to appear...whenever I was drowning. Whenever I was in a dark place...hopeless and useless. Whenever I most felt...like I deserved to be alone.”

It was strange saying any of this aloud. It made Carewyn feel oddly fragile and vulnerable. With a swallow, she put on the bravest smile she could as she forced herself to meet Orion’s eyes.

“...I guess...whenever I end up in that place...remembering when I was able to help you...it helps, somehow. It...orients me, like a compass. It helps me remember how much better I feel about myself, knowing that I can take care of others.”

Orion stared at Carewyn, his mouth slightly open as his eyes searched her expression. They rippled with an intense emotion, but Carewyn couldn’t quite place it -- was it empathy? Pain? Longing? Relief?

His kohl-lined eyes drifted down to his belt. Then, carefully, he detached his little black-lidded compass from his belt and held it up in both hands so she could see it.

“Would you like to hear the tale of how I first acquired this compass?” he asked.

Carewyn looked down at it curiously and nodded.

“It was a gift,” said Orion. “A gift from a king, who was captured by an enemy kingdom and then sold into slavery. He ended up on a ship owned by the East India Trading Company, bound for the Caribbean...a ship I’d joined as a cabin boy. I was fourteen, going under the name ‘Smith,’ as it was the only name I’d been given at the time, besides ‘boy.’

“Not long after the ship set sail, I overheard the king planning a slave revolt against the sailors on board -- and I had to make a choice. 1, I could report what I heard to the captain...or 2, I could say nothing. Instead I picked a third option -- I helped him. I left his manacles a little too loose that night and told him where he could safely maroon the sailors who didn’t want to stay. So when the revolt happened...the king dropped off the entire crew except me. I agreed to stay long enough to help him sail home, since he and his people didn’t have any experience sailing a British ship. The king named me his First Mate and asked me to call him by his given name...Amari.”

Carewyn's eyes widened in amazement. Orion smiled gently at the look on her face and nodded, before his expression grew much more serious again.

“It wasn’t long after, however, that Cutler Beckett -- the man who owned the slave ship -- sent pirate hunters out to retrieve his ‘stolen cargo.’ On our way back to the Ivory Coast, we were locked in a sea battle, and Amari was mortally injured. As he lay on the deck, he made me promise to take his family home...and once I did...he gave me his compass. I used it to safely sail us away from the pirate hunters and drop the crew off close to home, before I took the next ship out of Africa, which plopped me down in the Caribbean.

“When I landed in Port Royal, however, news had already reached the Navy positioned there of my ‘theft of Company property.’ I was immediately locked in irons, branded, and set to be hanged the following morning. I barely remember now how I managed to shake off the soldiers escorting me to the jail, but sure enough, I did...”

Orion’s dark eyes softened slightly -- he reached out to take both of Carewyn’s hand and place the compass gently in her hands, his own hands cupping around hers so that she’d hold it.

“...And, as fate would have it...ran straight into you.”

Carewyn’s wide blue eyes ran over his face in disbelief.

She’d heard so many bizarre tales of the infamous Orion Amari and his exploits, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember having heard anything about how he became a pirate in the first place. And to hear now that it was all because he’d helped a ship full of slaves return home...to keep a promise he’d made to someone he’d clearly respected...

She’d known Orion was a good man -- but she realized that before that moment, she’d had no concept just how good.

Her eyes softened upon the compass in their joined hands.

“...It’s no wonder you’ve kept it even after it broke, then,” she said gently. “It’s truly very special.”

Orion’s dark eyes rippled over her face. “Aye...but it’s never been broken, however much it hasn’t worked for me, recently.”

Carewyn blinked in confusion.

“My compass does not point North -- nor has it ever done so,” he explained. “Instead...it points to whatever you want most in this world. If you wished to find treasure, it would point you to it. If you wished to escape, it would point you to safety. If you wished to sail homeward ...it would point the way.”

Carewyn glanced down at the compass and then back up at Orion’s face, feeling a bit skeptical despite herself. The pirate captain’s mouth spread in an amused smile.

“You don’t believe me?” he asked.

“I didn’t say that,” said Carewyn primly. “It’s just...hard to believe...”

She once again looked down at the compass and then back up at him.

“...Is that really true?”

Orion’s eyes twinkled. “Every word.”

Carewyn considered him for a moment carefully, her eyes scanning his face as she thought this over.

“...So I suppose the reason it’s not working for you...is you don’t know what you want?”

Orion’s face grew a lot more solemn.

“On the contrary,” he said softly. “It’s more...that my heart is so focused on one thing...it’s made it so the compass, in my hands, will point nowhere else. Ever since you escaped the Artemis...it’s been locked in place.”

His hands adjusted on top of hers holding his compass, his thumbs resting on the sides of her wrists.

Carewyn’s gaze fell down to their joined hands -- then, her eyes slowly widening, she looked back up at Orion.

“...When you came to Port Royal...”

Orion inclined his head. “The compass was pointing me there.”

“And...Isle de Muerta...”

“I only found because the compass was pointing me there, too.”

Orion’s voice was still as level as ever, but he suddenly looked quite a bit paler. Something in the back of his calm, serene eyes seemed oddly tentative -- insecure.

Carewyn stared at him, hardly daring to believe it. If she was understanding Orion correctly, then...the thing his compass had been pointing toward...

...was her.

Her heart had swelled to a seemingly impossibly large size in her chest, almost painfully so. It made Carewyn unsure of what even to say or do -- she couldn’t contain her emotions, and was forced to cover her face in both hands, cutting herself off as she struggled to regain her composure.

At long last, she took a breath.

“‘She said...‘my love, don’t frighten me...are you...my love, or no?’”

Orion straightened up visibly as she slid her hands from her face, beaming up at him with perhaps the most emotional, most beautiful smile he’d ever seen on her face.

“‘...Oh yes, my dear Orion...I am your love, also.’”

#potc au #au #pirates of the caribbean #carewyn cromwell #orion amari #bill weasley #jules farrier #charlie weasley #murphy mcnully #my art #my fanficiton #my writing #GAAAAAHHHHH SO MUCH FLUFF MY HEART #and yeah of course since we'll be doing more plot we won't be stopping on this fluff like I'd planned before I decided to integrate it #and yeah of course that means that we will actually have to address how the hell these two can be a couple #when they know their paths are diametrically opposed #but hey developing relationships can be fun!#just because you reach that coveted 'i love you' stage doesn't mean the ship has to devolve into bickering and suspicion #there's a lot more plot you can do <3 #but yes I had so much fun drawing jules and bill my heart!!#jules's dress is based on elizabeth's wedding dress from the second movie #bill's look is largely based on will's outfit from the second movie but with a tricorn hat and a different color scheme #sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger of sorts but this thing is getting long and next part we'll have to get back to the plot #sorry :<

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lesserfandomappreciation · 3 years

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You’re good to go! This actually got a little more away from me than I thought - I got hyped when I read it and have drafted it so many times. I posted Hunter and Tech here, but stay tuned for part two with Crosshairs and Wrecker!

Mexican s/o singing and playing Spanish guitar (Bad Batch)

Home. A place thousands of light years away was haunting (Name) in their sleep. They could hear the voices of loved ones nearby. Galaxies between them reminded them of the impossibility of that. The memories had struck a few days ago after the mission. With the city saved, survivors had rushed into each other’s arms, treasuring their families as closely as possibly. The state of (Name)’s own family had been on their mind ever since.

Home was calling. They could not go.

Today a song was on their mind. A few actually - an entire playlist of old songs from family gatherings and radio songs that they’d turn up when they wanted to belt a solo in the living room alone were on repeat.

(Name) hummed an oldie, clicking the guitar case open. It had been difficult to get it past command but officers never bothered with inspections about the Batch’s ship. It was harder to find time to play; the boys kept them on their toes. They hefted the strap over them and sat, balancing the guitar on them. Quick fingers experimentally strummed miscellaneous chords to find which to twist tighter, which looser.

Vague humming and playing became proud singing, the notes putting color back into faded (but not forgotten) thoughts. The thought of one of them barging wandered in. A strummed sent that away. It was a rare free day. Why not enjoy it?

Hunter

Music isn’t as uncommon on warships as command led on. Usually it came from holonet songs blaring through whatever tiny speakers the Regs had snuck into the barracks. Humming, rhythmic tapping, absentminded or purposeful drumming to take the edge off is standard in anyone trying to take their mind off the war raging outside. Hunter had heard it all (heightened senses, remember?). The light sounds vibrating off the ship’s walls were different, the voice singing along them familiar.

“Thought that was you.” Hunter strolled in. Makes sense it was (Name). Tech may like sound-mixing but he only ever hummed the rare holonet song. What he could not figure out was why they were doing that. Or what they were playing. “What are you doing?”

He leans against the door waving away their embarrassment with an unimpressed hand. Grunts at them too when they attempt to sheepishly shy away. He knows they know he has higher hearing and in any other circumstance he’d probably appreciate it, but Hunter’s curiosity isn’t having it today.

Whatever they’re doing, it’s clear it’s important to them when they ramble for a little bit. Hunter is content to listen - they actually do explain what the instrument, this ki-tar is- and holds a hand up. “At ease. Keep playing if you want, just keep an eye out for Tech. He’s going to talk your ear off if he catches on.”

Hunter isn’t dumb. (Name) may be newer to the Batch but their disposition quickly became familiar to him. That ki-tar of theirs brought a smile on their face he hadn’t seen since the last civvie mission. Everyone needs an outlet.

The fact he genuinely enjoys the sound and can relaxingly listen to it from aways without letting anyone know what’s got him so smile-y is between him and the music.

He can always ask them for a private show later. He’s a fast learner too - maybe they wouldn’t mind teaching him a few new tricks?

Tech

Sound is a universal uniting factor in a universe full of irregularities and groups. No planet is silent - the depths of space aren’t silent when you turn on the frequencies. To an outcast from birth sound can feel like a connection to the rest of everything. No one is exempt from it. Tech liked that. Reg or otherwise, every clone heard the rain on Kamino (the first sound he ever recorded). Collecting new sounds to replay and create his own is something that brings him joy and always peaks his interest. Wrecker and Hunter (Crosshairs too when he felt like admitting it) had saved him several times from colliding with objects to collect sounds in the field before. Hearing a new sound coming the inside of his own home ship set off his instinct to go find it right now.

The singing makes him stop right outside the door. Clones have songs too. They’re not like the people on the holonet sang - some of the lyrics added into clone songs sometimes sure, but not the same. Songs that he knows are sung for deeper purpose, to remember, to forget, to focus, to distract. (Name)’s singing is in a different language (and he also has questions about that - mainly can they teach him please) but the purpose is still there. Should he interrupt? Tech’s hesitation is cut short by the strumming of some sort of sound. He has to know.

“Is that-? It’s a string instrument. I’ve never seen anything like it before; what is it?” The idea of (Name) clamming up and getting shy when he comes in for a closer look at this ‘guitar’ registers after he’s gotten close enough to almost touch. Tech is nearly drooling over the design of it - it’s so different and pretty and some parts are well-worn from loving use.

Culture is something that’s fascinated Tech from a very young age. Clones have culture but it’s built from everything they’ve experienced within the past 5-6 years. It’s not the same as an entire tradition and history a country has, especially a country that is as multi-cultural as Mexico. He’s still very interested in the guitar, it’s just the conversation of the guitar shifted to why they play it to what music it’s used in to the different variations of genre that span from region to region. Tech is hanging on by every word.

He’s not forgotten about the guitar. Or the singing. every chat about singing/musical traditions circles back to a polite but undeniably excited Tech asking if he can hear some more.

With their permission, he records whenever they play. On missions or when shuttling to the next drop point Hunter can tell Tech is being followed by that music.

#star wars #sw #sw imagine #clone wars #cw #clone wars imagine #imagine #bad batch #bad batch imagine #hunter #tech #more to come #stay tuned!

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independence1776 · 3 years

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Snowflake Challenge Days 6 & 7

(Catching up crossposting from Dreamwidth. I’m listing Day 7 first because it’s shorter.)

Challenge #7: In your own space, create your own challenge. I usually say some variation of "be kind" but a significant number of people are saying that this year (for pretty obvious reasons!), so I want to say something else. So: Remember why you love what you love and focus on it. You don't have to share it or anything. Simply let yourself love it.

Challenge #6: In your own space, rec at least three fanworks that you didn’t create.

(I did this ahead of time so I could copy/paste from my document because I knew it would pop up sooner or later. So glad I did because classes started today [Monday] and my free time is pretty much gone now.) This was really hard for me to do because it sometimes seems like I don’t remember most of what I read last year. Part of that I can blame on grad school, when my fic reading time went down to “whatever I can read during lunch and dinner” (it could take me two weeks to read what I’d normally read in an evening). Part of it is, well, I’ll blame 2020 in general. So this is a hodgepodge of some of the Star Wars fic I enjoyed rather than anything comprehensive.

Writer

1. Icarus_is_flying. Because I can’t rec just one fic of theirs. They have a TPM-era canon divergent AU WIP starring Obi-Wan, Depa, and some others. They have a “Vader finds Obi-Wan and infant!Luke on Tatooine” series that in the second story (a WIP), focuses on kid!Leia and Luke on Alderaan. And other great shorter Star Wars fics, too.

Finished Fics

2. Necessity by Ermingarde. Padawan Depa takes a life for the first time. Mace helps her through the aftermath. Rated General with no warnings. 500 words. Mace and Padawan Depa. What’s not to love? 3. Curiosity killed the padawan (but satisfaction brought him back) by skatzaa. Depa and Caleb meditate together. Set between the time Depa takes Caleb as her padawan and when they're deployed. Rated General, no warnings. 900 words. Depa & Caleb = love. 4. A Present for Master Billaba by eschscholzia. Caleb Dume needs all his creativity and network of friends to successfully barter for the perfect solstice present for Depa Billaba. Rated General with no warnings. 8100 words. Locked to AO3 members. An Order 66 never happens AU that’s joyously almost-crack fluff. 5. The Nameless by Draculard. After Order 66, all Jedi survivors are rounded up and forced into medical experimentation to destroy their Force sensitivity. Caleb Dume is no exception. Rated Mature for Graphic Depictions of Violence. 3700 words. This is absolutely brutal, managed to work in pretty much all of my requested tags for Darkest Night, and I love it. [For those who don’t know, Darkest Night is a darkfic exchange.] 6. Conviction by SassySnowperson. Obi-Wan Kenobi is accused of killing Chancellor Palpatine. The galaxy is hunting him. So why did Bail decide to hide him in Breha's private medical suite? "Breha," Bail pleaded. "If nothing else, we owe him.”. Bail/Breha/Obi-Wan. Rated Teens with no warnings. 10,300 words. I can’t get enough of this triad. 7. Eclipse by SpellCleaver. Luke and Leia, the twin children of Darth Vader and heirs to the Emperor himself, defect. When they do, it's naturally a dream come true for the Rebellion and the mother they never knew, one that's been a long time in the making. But they have to get to that point first. Or: Darth Vader unwittingly sends his children down the merry path of treason... and the ugly, painful fallout. Rated Mature for Graphic Depictions of Violence. 260,000 words. Luke and Leia, raised by Vader to be Imperials, and still completely in character, down to their defection. Also, Padmé lives. 8. it snows on jakku at midnight by nightdotlight. Heat from the engines of their ship melts the snow around them when they land planet side, not far from the Temple. Even so, Rey immediately clutches at her arms upon leaving its confines, despite the heavy coat she wears, and Mace knows that by the time they return, their transport will be snowed half under. Ilum’s wind bites at his face. He braces. He wonders. Rated General with no warnings. 2500 words. Time-travelling Rey apprenticed to Mace Windu. What’s not to love?

WIPs

9. Broken Pieces, Lonely Places by PaperCraneCastles. Cal Kestis finds himself alone and running for his life, having caught the attention of the terrifying Sith Lord Darth Vader. As he runs, he remembers his life before Eno Cordova, before BD-1 and the Mantis and the holocron, and wonders how a failed Padawan turned scrap rat scurrying across Bracca became the Empire's Most Wanted. Rated Teens with no archive warnings. 27,000 words so far. Post-game frame story with the non-frame sections set between Order 66 and the start of the game. 10. Shine So Bright by Okadiah. When Kasmir is captured as a slave by the Pyke Syndicate, he is less than enthused. But, no worries. Nothing’s going to keep him from busting out of the mine he’s been sentenced to, contacting Kleeve, and getting the kriff out of there.But damn his bleeding heart because he wasn’t expecting to find the baby Jedi there either, clearly in need of some help of his own. And he definitely wasn’t expecting to run into the kid’s master either, just as in need but not at all as he remembered. Unfortunately, between them, the ambitious, sadistic warden running the mines, and a Jedi Hunter on the way, getting out might be tougher than he’d hoped. Way tougher. Rated Teens with no archive warnings. One chapter so far. Depa Billaba lives AU! 11. The Weeds in the Wilderness by Ealcynn. A man wakes on a cold and desolate moor. He knows he is hurt. He knows he is alone. What he doesn't know is what he is, or where he came from. He doesn't know even his own name. But there is something else that this man knows, and that is that if he doesn't get help soon, he is going to die. And on this strange new world, there are so many dangers. Rated Teens and Choose Not to Warn. 186,000 words so far; metadata says 25/30 chapters.Amnesiac Obi-Wan; plenty of original characters and worldbuilding. This is exactly the type of OC-heavy fic I love.

#snowflake challenge #fic rec #star wars #depa billaba #mace windu #kanan jarrus #rey #obi-wan kenobi #leia #luke's been my favorite character ever since I saw the OT in the early 1990s #cal kestis

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