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clockworklozenges · 3 years

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So, a good five or so years back, I played in one of the best worst DnD games I have ever been in. The DM had bought the Libris Mortis book, which, if you were unaware, was a 3.5 splatbook adding in a lot of undead stuff, including some monsters and undead player races and stuff. Wanting to try it out, me and my gaming group decided to play things from it, our then DM deciding to run a completely homebrewed session. This proved to be a...

Terrible Idea™

(for the uninitiated, never homebrew something you do not fully understand unless it's just cosmetic. If you want to make all elves worship the god of garlic bread, Ultimo-Metatron-Omega, go ahead, but unless you know how the game works, don't make mechanical changes). So we all picked stuff from the books-one player played a skeleton Sorcerer who in life was a tribal shaman, but an attempt at healing went wrong, turning him undead as his life energy was replaced with negative energy, explaining why most of his spells were necromancy and suchlike.

Another player played Krug, an antipaladin in very spiky full plate. He was a zombie made by a necromancer of a paladin who was fighting him, but his allies killed his would-be master before he could assert control, and not wanting to just off him, his allies just...yeeted his body into a portal and hoped it'd re-kill him. It did not kill him hard enough. It did, however, explain his stats which...oof. He had already got debuffs to some stats due to being a zombie, and rolled abysmally. Fortunately for the player, he played mostly to socialise, so didn't much care.

I played... Count Nox Feratu, the Campire. As in, a vampire with a very camp German accent, which I did not break for the whole time I was playing him. To the point where "ach, nein, I haf bin heet! Heal me, meine freunde!" was par for the course. My overly camp vamp was a wizard, but due to level adjustment was a bit of a shoddy one. For backstory, he'd been ousted from his clan for ineptitude, and had sworn revenge. I was going for a swordmage build but never got there. All his spells were utility or just necromancy spells.

Our last player played...sigh...Damien Bloodmoon, cleric of Nerull, God of murder and undeath. He was one of the clerics from the book's murder Domain, meaning that he got buffs to damage. He was a vicious arse both in character and out of it, and was so dripping with edge compared to the paladin with the same IQ as a horse after its trip to the glue factory, the shaman who thought killing fixed people and the Campire that if you gave him a pat on the back you'd have finely diced your hand into a red mist. Not going too outlandish with his backstory of wanting to dominate the world as his undead thralls, Damien F***ing Bloodmoon had only taken spells which either charmed live people, dealt negative energy damage or messed with ability drain and suchlike, which he used with aplomb on townsfolk on our way to our objective. He was also, importantly, playing an elf of some sort, I forget which kind. Meaning that of the party, only one was alive.

So, just as an aside, for those of you that haven't played 3.5e DnD or have only played 5e, in Libris Mortis, undeath was gone over in detail, and had a litany of pros and cons. For one thing, undead had only the HP they had-folks like Damien F***ing Bloodmoon could be 'dying', and had some time to be stabilised before meeting the reckoning of Papa John and dying proper. Undead did not, it was just how much you had and if you ran out, poof, you're dust, bones and fertiliser again. You were also harmed by positive energy, so healing spells hurt you, as did potions of healing. However, undead were kind of hardy - poison immunity, some had resistance to non-magical melee damage, stuff that drained your ability scores and levels didn't work on them, some crits wouldn't do extra damage, and the best part- negative energy healed undead. Meaning all the spells our party had which damaged others like the living Damien Bloodmoon were curative ones for us. Keep this in mind.

So, we began our quest, learning of a necromancer a nearby town was plagued by. After using our skills (to whit: Damien Bloodmoon charming and drawing the life force out of random villagers and the only potion seller in the town whilst we went shopping. Krug got a snazzy hat, which we put on top of his helmet, and we chatted to townsfolk as I looked alive enough to pass as human and the shaman had a fake beard and toupee that people were too awkward to point out was fake so went along with it) we learn that the necromancer has a base of operations in the cemetery. "Oh ja, zo original, dahlink. Ve vill need to educate zis guy on vhat is chic and vhat is just shabby!"

So we head there and the nightmare begins. Damien Leads the charge, using all of his knowledge to deduce that the shambling horde moving towards us were stronger-than-your-average-bear undead, and he was right. These were powerful armoured zombie mages of some sort, casting ability draining spells, negative energy ray spells and even having auras of negative energy that dealt damage on a failed Fortitude save. Even their punch and quarterstaves did negative energy damage as well as the usual bludgeoning or unarmed. However...only one of us was really in danger and the DM's face fell when the squishy casters walked up and began shanking their super-special homebrew zombie wizards, being healed by the damage of their attacks as we cut them down.

Like I said, one of the benefits of undeath is that negative energy actually heals you. So the strikes of the magic staves and punches that hit us did some basic damage. Which was then immediately healed by the negative energy their weapon strikes and spells were doing.

However, you'll recall that Damien Bloodmoon was an elf. And not dead. Being a Cleric of a death god doesn't mean that you have the abilities of an undead. That meant that even with the DM being merciful, by the end of the first fight he was covered in blood, mud and withered away to just above half his original strength and constitution. More were patrolling, so we had to run. But that posed a problem.

Remember Krug had heavy armour? And recall his awful stats? He in fact, hadn't got enough strength to wear the armour he'd been given for backstory. He didn't, according to the DM, have enough to remove his own armour. And we attempted to, but also failed our checks according to the DM. And Damien Bloodmoon refused to help, simply blaming Krug and his player. Krug's player thought it was hilarious, and Krug only had enough Intelligence and Wisdom to say his own name, so saw no problem. And Krug, Nox Feratu and Shaman realised that there really...wasn't a problem.

For us, at least.

We slogged through three combats dragging Krug and wading through the mud with him. His speed was so slow that for every step he took, we took about ten. The DM was confused and infuriated that his encounters weren't working, but refused to change them. So we had fun role-playing. Or at least three of us did.

Damien Bloodmoon refused to roleplay, and none of his ranged spells could affect the zombie mages. When he went into melee, he came out wounded as all hell. He went down twice, and it was only the healing supplies of the shaman that saved him.

All the while, he was... Let's say not best pleased. Damien Bloodmoon was getting increasingly wounded, exasperated and longing for the sweet embrace of death as reprieve from the humiliation. His player was getting increasingly redder and rage-filled as time passed. Each fight ended with our characters stronger than ever and his a bloody pulp on the floor, with poor in-character knowledge (and terrible rolls) preventing him from realising why.

Eventually, we reached the final boss, pausing only to paint Krug's armour in contact poison just in case, and to find a stick to help the now-partially-crippled Damien Bloodmoon, cleric of death and murder, walk after being beaten up by angry zombie wizards for hours. And it had, indeed, been hours. Among us, only Damien had a bonus to strength, and we had two swords, a mace and a staff between the four of us. Meaning it was re-death by a thousand cuts for the enemy and a slog and a half for us.

We reach the necromancer and, having taken so long due to dragging the oblivious Krug with us, his big ritual is complete- he raises a fist-sized black onyx egg aloft, crackles with arcane power and causes the bones around him to coalesce into one massive creature - an undead, giant-sized rust monster, radiating an Aura of pure negative energy. Krug opened his arms wide, eager for the metal-eating monster cockroach to free him from his poison-painted metal prison. It ignores him as he's still very far away. Me and the others have our weapons and armour devoured.

Our DM was very much a stickler for note-taking. So because Damien Bloodmoon hadn't written 'clothes' on his sheet, his armour being eaten by the monster left him naked and afraid.

It became clear that the DM had done another f***y-wucky. See, the Aura of negative energy healed me and the Sorcerer by more than its other attacks did. So whilst Damien Bloodmoon was naked, soaked in mud and bleeding to death almost crushed to a pulp in the fetal position, rocking backwards and forwards as his player seethed with hatred, the Shaman and the Campire set about beating the thing to death with our bear hands and a stick.

The session ended once we killed the necromancer, or rather when Krug walked up to him, closed his arms and just crushed the noodle-armed bad guy to death with the weight of his ridiculous armour and poisoned him with its paintwork.

We never revisited the game afterwards. We were told later on that the DM wanted us to use the non-undead races. But at no point had he said as much, even when we asked him about our characters and the restrictions on them. We also learned a valuable lesson. DM for the players who are there, not the ones who you have an idealised mental image of. Tailor your game, otherwise you'll get a sitcom featuring a camp nosferatu, a shaman with no healing, a paladin who could barely move and a Cleric of murder who was ironically the only one at risk of actually dying.

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yoditorian · 3 years

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lacuna- part 1

din/reader

she’s here!!!!! she’s here!!!!! i decided to split it up into parts to give me more time to write and put u all (ellie) out of your misery. thank you for being patient, and thank you to everyone who was so kind about the teaser!!

set waaaaaay before the series, this is Target Practice Din

MASTERLIST

word count: just shy of 2.5k

warnings: some swears bc it’s me, overuse of italics, probably some spelling mistakes, non graphic smut but it is Highly Implied, so for that reason 18+ only pls no babies.

“Have you ever removed your helmet?”

“No.” He grits out.

“Has it ever been removed by others?”

“Never.”

He’s lying.

___________________

You practically fly down from the cockpit the second you touch down, shoving Ran between the shoulder blades. He stumbles down the last few feet of the ramp, and skids across the ground on his ass. In any other situation, you might have laughed. But in any other situation, you probably wouldn’t have pushed him.

“What the fuck was that?”

He only sputters out a half baked excuse about the mission, it’s enough to have you drawing your blaster. Only it's not in the holster you keep strapped to your thigh.

Your gaze is cold as ice as you turn to see your gun dangling from Mando’s index finger. He stands above you on the ramp, apparently unaffected by your outrage even though Ran’s actions could have ended very differently for all four of you. Xi’an laughs haughtily from a crate inside the ship, she’s lucky you’re unarmed.

“He almost got us killed.” You reason, not even sparing a glance at the man still cowering from you on the floor. Mando shrugs. Like it's nothing.

“And yet, we made it.” He says, dropping the blaster back into your holster as he descends the ramp.

You’re all only alive because you were quick enough on your feet to take over, because you were on the guns, because you made the lightspeed calculations mid-dogfight to get the fuck out of there. Something everyone else seems to have conveniently not noticed. Ran’s on his feet, dusting himself off, Mando has already stalked off into the hangar, and Xi’an’s hot on his heels. You heave an annoyed sigh, adrenaline leaching the energy from your bones, and scuff your boots the rest of the way down the ramp. Ran catches your arm when you pass him, grip just a little too tight to be friendly.

“Empire’s always looking for pilots, I could just put you back where I found you.” He says lowly as you rip your arm from him. It��s not an empty threat. He knows there’s nothing left for you on Corellia besides an arrest warrant and a swift execution. There’ll be bruises in the shape of his fingertips by morning, you can feel them already. It’s not the first time and, if you’re being honest, you know it won’t be the last. The pouch of credits Qin hands you for a job well done makes that particular pill a little easier to choke down, at least.

Your room at Ran’s space station isn’t much, but you’ve done what you can. There’s only a bed and a desk, the matching chair missing long before you moved in, a shelving unit and a viewport. An old blanket, loosely crocheted and full of holes, lies crumpled atop the sheets. It was white once, used to swaddle you as a baby, but that was before the sweat and the ash and the bloodstains. It’s the only thing you’d brought with you when you had to run, wrapped around your shoulders to shield you from the night’s chill at the last minute. You hadn’t even had time to put shoes on. The viewport window is another comfort, barely bigger than the datapad that lies forgotten on your pillow, but you pay the boss dearly for your view. Lights blinking on the ceiling reflect in the scratched glass, and the mismatched floor panels creak under your weight as they always do. It’s home, even if the space station itself feels like the loneliest place in the universe sometimes. With one last glance at the swirling stars as the station slowly turns, you’re practically asleep before your head hits the pillow.

You have to pee.

One look out into the corridor presents you with closed doors and lowered lights. Sleep hours, then. It’s hard to keep track of time when it’s always night outside, although living off-planet isn’t so bad once you get used to it. Rest here comes when you can get it, as opposed to the fancy artificial sunrise/sunset lighting cycles you’ve heard about on inner rim stations. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s awake to judge you for shuffling to the bathroom in your socks anyway.

The light is too bright in comparison to the dim hall, and you almost jump back from your reflection in the small mirror. Bloodshot eyes, rumpled shirt, you really should have done something with your hair before you passed out. You’re sure you’ve never looked more exhausted. Sleep hasn’t come easy in the few years you’ve spent on the station, dreams plagued by flashes of the reason you came here in the first place. Running, choking on the smoke in your lungs, an old friend’s blood splattering across your cheek. The only rest you really get is when you work yourself down to the bone, until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore, but you know you’re not the only one.

The door across from yours is open when you go back to your room, Mando standing in the frame, backlit by a lamp like he’s the hero from one of those propaganda movies you snuck into as a kid. You pause in your own doorway, it’s probably a bad idea to call him out on it. It’d probably only start an argument and then you’d have to deal with the only person you could count on to watch your six being mad at you.

“You should have backed me up earlier.” Your mouth takes the decision away from you. He waits for a moment, silently, like he’s expecting you to say more. But you leave it there.

“I did.”

You’re turning to shut the door when he finally answers, and it takes everything in you not to shout at him in the middle of the hall.

“If that’s what backing someone up looks like to Mandalorians, then I think I’d rather you didn’t at all.” You hiss, exhaustion feeding into your anger. It’s not the way you should be speaking to him, or anyone, but you’re just too tired to care.

Mando’s spine goes rigid and you almost regret the dig, not that you have time to think about it before he’s walking right towards you and backing you into the darkness of your room. You can just about see the ceiling panel lights blink in the reflection of his visor. It’s only as he moves that you spot the bag slung over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” You ask, barely a whisper. You’ve never been this close to him before, chest to chest, alone. The warmth you can feel even from under the armour threatens to make your head spin.

“Home.” He leaves it at that. Never one to use more words than he needs to. You didn’t even know he had a home to go back to. There’s a lot you don’t know about the man in front of you, but he’s loyal to the bone. That much is plain to see.

“Don’t you ever think about going home?”

“My home is here.” Your answer is final, although you can feel the raised eyebrow through his helmet. You’re no more attached to the space station than you are any of the planets you’ve yet to visit. It’s not home, nowhere is. But you’ve been here since you were sixteen, years before the rest of your team, it’s as close as you’ll get to belonging somewhere. Mando doesn’t respond, doesn’t ask any questions, only stands with you for a long moment. Breathing. He’s good like that. You’ve never felt the pressure to fill any silence with him, he seems to exist so comfortably in it. It’s easier that way, probably for you both. You don’t know much about Mandalorians, the only stories you’ve heard are the ones Qin told you drunk in a seedy cantina when Mando first joined. Horror stories. If his past is anything similar to yours, he’s grateful for the absence of questions too.

“So it’s goodbye, then?” You’re yet to break his stare.

“Yes.”

Is he closer, somehow?

“Would you have said goodbye if I wasn’t already awake?”

He’s definitely closer.

Mando reaches behind him to tap the control panel on the wall, sliding the door shut and leaving you in the darkness. He lets his bag slip off his shoulder, lowering it to the floor suspiciously silently for one you know is crammed with weaponry, and walks you further into the room. You can’t really see much at all, only the steady blinking of the little red lights in the ceiling.

“You trust me?” It’s so quiet, you wonder if you imagined the words.

He’s never given you a reason not to.

“Keep your eyes closed?”

“I promise.”

It takes a moment before he lifts the lip of the helmet high enough, and another long few seconds of just being without barriers for him to kiss you. And kiss you he does.

The breath you get in before your lips touch is all him, turning your insides to liquid gold. Everywhere he touches you sets a fire. For a man so rough, he is so careful, he handles you as though you’ll break at the slightest breeze. As though he is wholly undeserving of such sweetness. Part of you thinks he’s convinced he is. It’s a first and a last kiss, a hello and a goodbye kiss, the way he tries to suffocate himself in you is evidence enough that you won’t be here again. You won’t get to have him like this again. He stays close when you finally break apart, taking his helmet off completely and placing it down on your desk with a decisive thunk.

“Mando-”

“Din. My name is Din.” He shouldn’t tell you. He shouldn’t have taken his helmet off, he shouldn’t have even thought about it. Although his fear of losing everything he has is almost overwhelming, it’s nothing compared to this. The fear that you would never know him as he is, as he has always been. The relief that brings tears to his eyes when you don’t shy away, when you lean into him. Like you want him too. You shouldn’t hold his creed in your hands but he gives it willingly. Of course he does. He’s never really been able to deny you anything.

“Din.”

The smile is so clear in your voice as you whisper it back to him. The way you say his name sounds like a song. A prayer. Hushed and reverent like it’s something sacred, something holy. He knows it’s safe on your tongue. Din lays you back on the bed, gently, wool of the ratty blanket soft against your skin.

Din. He’s nothing but gentle with you. Hands barely there as they pull layers of clothing from the both of you, stripping himself of his armour, of The Mandalorian. Until there’s just him. Just a man, no more and no less than anybody else. A man who wishes he hadn’t been so stubborn and dismissive of his own desires; wishes he’d given in to this, to you, sooner. His mouth doesn’t leave your skin for a second, like he could digest you one kiss at a time if he tried hard enough. Part of him doesn’t want to leave, he wants to stay in this bed with you in the dark and just exist. Your body in his hands and your moans in his mouth and absolutely nothing else. He needs you in between his teeth, on his tongue. He’s never needed anything else quite so badly.

The emotion isn’t lost on you, it’s the first and last time you’ll ever be with him. He’ll go after this, you don’t pretend otherwise. You won’t get to have him, in any way you want to, after this. So you lose yourself in him, in everything he gives and takes on those threadbare blankets in your room. The taste of him gets committed to memory and you swear you’ll never eat again if it means his sweat stays on your tongue. You dig your nails hard into his shoulders, you hope he’ll look at them before they fade. Hope he’ll see the marks you gave him and know that he is wanted. He is so desperately wanted and he has no idea. You kiss him with reckless abandon, cards on the table in all but words. So he can know, so he can come back. If that’s what he wants.

You stay tangled with him for a long time. Spit cooled and sweat dried. You’ve never stayed this long with anybody, but you’re not speeding to the ‘fresher. You want to drench yourself in everything he is until you never feel without him again.

“Take the Razor Crest. She’s old but virtually untraceable, and faster than anything else in that hangar. I think you can handle her.” You laugh lightly, tracing a finger over the ridge of his wrist where his arm is curled tight around your chest. Din wishes he could drown in the sound.

He takes your advice, once you’re asleep. Once he’s convinced himself to pull away from your warmth and go back to the life he knows. The one without you. The Razor Crest looms over him in the empty hangar, but something about its presence is comforting when he knows you were the one to put her together.

“He took the fucking Crest!”

The shout from the corridor jolts you awake, significantly warmer than you should be, and you find your old shirt and sweatpants pulled back on your body. Din. The thought of him so carefully redressing you, touch gentle enough not to wake you, makes your heart swell. It shouldn’t, but you can’t help it. With a heavy sigh, you flick the lights on from the panel by your bed and pull yourself to your feet. The door slides open with a wave of your hand by the door panel and you’re met with a very angry, very red-faced, Ran.

“You wouldn’t know anything about this would you, sweetheart?” He grounds out, eyes zeroing in on the mark you know Din sucked into your shoulder only hours ago. You pull the neckline of your top back up to where it should be and shake your head tiredly. Even if you hadn’t been thoroughly rammed into your mattress the night before, it’s far too early for anyone to be shouting up a storm. The rest of the crew come filtering out, rubbing eyes and calling out accusations at each other. It’s enough to give you a headache.

Maybe a space station in the middle of nowhere isn’t a forever home after all. Maybe there’s somewhere else out there for you. Maybe it just took somebody else taking the leap to make up your mind.

You don’t know where you’ll end up, but you have a pretty good idea of where to start.

_________________

TAGLIST (people who showed interest pls lmk if u want to be removed)

@remmysbounty @aq-vetina @brothersdrxke

#everybody pray my tags work or i think i will actually cry #lacuna #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #star wars #fic #liz does words #smut

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sonoftatooine · 3 years

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Whumpay 2021

DAY 31: ALT DAY - SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Shaak Ti

Summary: When Anakin makes the decision to go and save Palpatine from Mace Windu, his lack of sleep over the past week chooses the worst possible moment to catch up with him. Shaak Ti attempts to intervene.

***

It was said that the Force, in the hands of a competent Jedi, could do many things. It was also said—with greater and greater frequency over the course of the war—that in the hands of Anakin Skywalker, it could do the impossible. Right now, however, Anakin himself was of the opinion that this was a bold-faced lie, for the one thing he could not make it do, as he staggered unsteadily yet imperturbably toward the main doors of the Jedi Temple, was have it chase away the fog that was threatening to take over his over-tired mind and send him spiralling into the deep, impenetrable darkness of forced rest. He had been fighting it for days, drawing on the Force to fend off sleep as he searched desperately for a solution to save his wife from the awful fate that plagued his dreams whenever he tried to rest. And now, only now, when he was so close to finding the solution that the Jedi had denied him, when a moment's delay meant that he could lose that knowledge for ever, did his reserves finally run out, and the ability to stay awake and moving start to slip through his durasteel grip like sand.

Sand. Sand. His head felt like it was full of sand. Scratchy and grainy, lodged in unlikely places, disrupting all the whirring mechanisms that governed his thoughts. He'd had the same problem with Threepio when he was building him, without his coverings to protect him from the ravages of Tatooine, and he'd spent hours cleaning the stuff out of his servos just as he had with Watto's junk at the shop. He wanted to shake his head to dislodge it, but nothing he did made it—

He had been so focused on putting one foot in front of the other that he barely realised when he collided full on with a tall, slim figure standing directly in front of the door. The world swam before as one of the frequent waves of dizziness overcame him, and he felt strong, slim fingers circling about the flesh of his biceps to keep him upright. Dazed, he blinked, trying to chase away the strange blur that had overtaken his vision, and the smudge of red and white and purple before him coalesced into the face of Jedi Master Shaak Ti. Her hairless brows were drawn into a frown, and she looked very concerned.

“Anakin,” she said. “Are you alright? Where are you going?”

Anakin wished he could dislodge the sand from his brain, but his thoughts wouldn't come coherently, and all he could force out from his lips was a garbled, “the Chancellor— I need—”

Shaak Ti's frown deepened.

“The Chancellor?,” she asked. “But the Masters have already gone to confront him. You need not worry—the situation is already in hand.”

Anakin could only shake his head wordlessly, immediately wishing that he hadn't as his vision swam once again at the sudden movement. She didn't understand. The situation wasn't in hand because Windu might kill Palpatine who was the only one who knew how to save Padmé and he couldn't let Padmé die, he couldn't live without her -

“Shaak Ti,” he gasped out. “Get out of my way.”

He had to get to the door, had to— If he could just get to the door— He tried to pull out of her grasp, but Shaak Ti held on, the press of her fingers on his arms gentle yet firm.

“The Temple is sealed,” she reminded him. “The door is code-locked.”

Oh. Yes. They were expecting retaliation from Palpatine should the Masters fail. Windu had put Shaak Ti in charge of the Temple's defence as a precautionary measure when he had ordered Anakin to wait like a good little Jedi in the Council Chambers while he marched off to kill the man who had always been kind to him, had lied to him, had been the only one to offer to help him save Padmé— But what did it matter? He was a Jedi himself. He had the codes, and Shaak Ti couldn't keep him here when he needed to go—

“And you're in the way of the pad” he snapped.

He jerked back, and this time, he managed break free, but the force of the movement had unbalanced him, bringing on another alarming wave of faintness. His vision blurred, the world spun, his head throbbing painfully with exhaustion and hunger and fear. Hands shot out to catch him once again, and he pitched forward, forced to lean against Shaak Ti to keep his knees from buckling.

“You're not well, Anakin,” the Jedi Master's soft voice spoke somewhere in the vicinity of his ear, but despite how close she was, she sounded distant, muffled, as if she were talking over a bad comm connection. “You should be in the Halls of Healing.”

“I— No. I can't—,” Anakin stammered desperately. He couldn't afford distractions, not with Padmé's life on the line. He had to get to Palpatine now, before Windu— “I'm fine,” he added, trying to push himself back upright again. “I need to go—”

Shaak Ti shook her head.

“What can you possibly do?,” she asked. “Master Windu and the others will handle it. You have done your duty. Let yourself rest.”

Yes, Windu will handle it, Anakin wanted to shout. That's precisely the problem. Padmé was going to die because he couldn't get away, because he couldn't get there on time. His head swam again, and to his horror, he felt tears of fear and frustration pricking at his eyes.

“You don't understand!,” he babbled. How could she understand? How could he explain it to her after he had broken the Code so badly? “There's no time. I have go! I have to do something! I can't just—”

“Anakin, please,” Shaak Ti cut across him. She looked deeply worried. “Let me take you to the healers. You are in no state to be fighting battles against a Sith Lord. You will get yourself killed.”

Anakin shook his head.

“He...he won't kill me,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “He wants—”

Realising exactly what it is he was about to say, Anakin cut himself off abruptly. He wants me as his apprentice, he thought. That's the price of Padmé's life. My life in service so she and the baby can live. He knew this deeply, instinctively, with all the knowledge of the little boy on Tatooine who had spent his life at the mercy of his masters, even though the part of him that wanted to think not of the Chancellor's lies but of their long friendship tried to tell him that there wouldn't be a price for his help. He couldn't tell Shaak Ti that. Couldn't tell her that, as much as the prospect alarmed him, there was a tiny spark in him beneath the furious insistence that all he wanted was to make sure that Palpatine wasn't killed that was actually considering it. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, however, for a look of severe alarm found its way into Shaak Ti's violet eyes.

“He wants what?,” she said, and there was a note of urgency in her tone that he had never heard from her before—usually, she was the very epitome of Jedi calm. “Anakin, what does he want. What has he told you—?”

But before she could demand anything further of him, and before he could even begin to think about evading her questions, four lights blinked out of existence, and the Force screamed. Both Anakin and Shaak Ti staggered under the weight of it.

“What—?” Anakin gasps. He knew those lights. Windu. Fisto. Kolar. Tiin. Where were they? They couldn't just be gone. They couldn't be— There had been four of them and only one of Palpatine. He couldn't have—

“It cannot be,” Shaak Ti breathed, her eyes wide with horror. “Four Jedi Masters... How could he have—?”

She shook herself, as if she could rid herself of fear the way an akk dog did water after a swim.

“We must see to the Temple's defences. I fear he will come for us next, and without—”

But she never got to finish, as Anakin took advantage of her distraction to dart around her towards the keypad. Another wave of dizziness overcame him, and he nearly crumpled in a heap on the floor, but he flung out an arm to break his fall. Bracing his right arm against the wall, he raised his trembling flesh hand to the pad, intent on typing in his code. If only he could stop it from shaking so violently, let alone shift the sand in his head to remember what the damned code was—

A hand circled around his wrist, and he froze.

“Anakin, no,” Shaak Ti said sternly, even as her voice shook at the feeling in the Force of four Jedi Masters dead. “I cannot let you go to him. Whatever he wants with you, it will bring you nothing but harm.”

Harm. Harm. Palpatine had harmed Windu and the others. Had killed them. He should want to kill him, as he had for one short moment in the man's office when he revealed to him that he was the Sith Lord behind the war. Did he want to kill him now? No, he needed him to save Padmé. He needed that knowledge, that power. Who cared if it harmed him as long as it helped her? A small voice in his head whispered to him that if Sidious had the power to defeat four Jedi alone, then surely being able to save Padmé would be nothing by comparison. Oh Force, he felt sick.

“Please,” he begged, appalled to hear his voice tremble and break as he spoke. He wanted to cry, wanted to rest, to fall asleep in Padmé's arms knowing that she was safe, that he would no longer be plagued by dreams of her death and that he wouldn't have to turn to the Sith Lord that had just killed four Jedi Masters for help. But he couldn't have any of that. All he had was one possible way to save her life that Shaak Ti wouldn't let him take. “Please, it's not me, it's— She's going to die! Padmé's going to die and I have to...”

Shaak Ti's eyes widened in sudden realisation, but he could barely see her through the blackness that was encroaching on his vision. She tilted sideways or—no, he tilted sideways, tumbling to the floor and what was that? Was the door opening? Had she opened the door? No, it was someone coming in—many someones with heavy booted feet and blue and white armour and weapons pointed—

There was a click of many weapons being primed, a shout, the snap-hiss of a lightsaber being ignited, and then the darkness consumed him amid a hurricane of blaster fire.

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colehasapen · 3 years

Text

(ONE SHOT) heturam STAR WARS

(belated)Whumptober no.22 - Do These Tacos Taste Funny To You?

Rex scowls furiously at the luridly bright drink General - “Call me Anakin, Rex! The War’s over!” - Skywalker had shoved into his hands with the claim of it being one of Senator Amidala’s favourites.

“Relax, Rex!” Skywalker had said, “Drink, mingle, have some fun!”

Well , Rex didn’t feel like having fun. It may be petty of him, but he hates the situation he’s found himself in. His skiing prickles nervously, and he lifts his eyes, searching for whoever was watching him - but unfortunately there’s a lot of eyes on him. It’s too open, there’s too many people - too many possible assassins, too many places where an attacker could be hiding. He hates it; he wishes he could have opted out of the whole thing like Cody or Bly had - off to enjoy their honeymoons with their stupidly attractive Jedi - and not needing to be fawned over and stared at by Senators who had been sending them to their deaths without hesitation for the last three years. The War was over, Fives had revealed the identity of the Sith Lord, and the Jedi were safe, but his brothers weren’t yet secure. It’s why he’s here, wearing an uncomfortable suit of what Senator Amidala assured him was the height of Alderaani fashion instead of his armour, and performing like an animal in a zoo for beings who had never seen combat to gawk at. All to ensure that the clones could get the most basic of sentient rights.

All the Commanders are present, and unfortunately that includes Rex now, because apparently General Skywalker promoted him two years ago but forgot to mention it. So he has to stay, to stand around and look pretty while Senator Amidala and her small group of sympathetic coworkers try to convince the Senators of the Republic that he and the other Vode are thinking, feeling beings who can do more with their lives then just die for them.

Rex grumbles a line of vicious curses he had heard General Kenobi use once - enough to make a pirate blush, Rex knows, because Kenobi had used it all on Hondo Ohnaka once and the pirate had instantly proposed - and ducks into a small alcove for a moment of peace, to avoid more stares and try to catch his breath. He knocks back a mouthful of the vivid purple and blue drink in his hands with a grimace.

“Why the long face, brother-mine?”

Rex jerks slightly at the voice, not having expected anyone to talk to him, to find that while he had been distracted, Keeli had wheeled himself over to join him. He hadn’t known that his batchmate would be attending - Keeli technically didn’t have a rank in the GAR anymore. He had survived the destruction of his battalion, but only barely, and had spent almost an entire year in bacta to heal; he still had limited mobility in the lower half of his body and looked almost wasted away, with too-sharp bones under too-thin limbs.

“I’m surprised General Che let you out of the Halls of Healing.” Rex drawls, but he gives his brother a quick once-over to check on him. He had put on weight over the months since the War ended, and his skin had started to take on a healthy tan once more, but he still looks like a hard gust of wind would knock him over. He’d had someone cut his hair back to the buzz he’d had after leaving Kamino, and whoever had picked out his suit had gotten it fitted perfectly to his measurements so that he wasn’t swimming in the fabric. The dark bags under his eyes are still there, his eyes are still dark with grief, but he’s smiling, a rare sight nowadays, and there’s a plate of various small foods balanced on his lap.

“I’m here to try and get the pity vote.” Keeli tells him cheerfully, but it sounds fake to Rex’s ears. “Proof that us clones will need long term care and help now that the War is over - that we were damaged by the battles, and we bleed too.” He pops some sort of pastry into his mouth, rolling his eyes. “Though I think I started a diplomatic incident.”

Rex raises a slow eyebrow, taking another mouthful of his drink, enjoying the burn it left on his tongue on the way down. It’s definitely fast acting, because he’s already starting to feel floaty - no wonder Senator Amidala liked it. “Oh?”

“Senator Syndulla just about challenged Burtoni to a duel for my honour.” Keeli says in dark amusement, and Rex scowls at his drink at the mention of the Kaminoan Senator, glad that the bright alcohol is strong enough to give him a buzz. “I’m pretty sure her days in the Senate are numbered.”

“I hope her days in general are numbered.”

Keeli snorts, lifting one of the foods in a mock-toast, “Here’s to that.” He chirps, and shoves the little cake into his mouth. He chews for a moment, then pauses thoughtfully, “Well, Skywalker actually has taste.” Keeli says after a moment, then grins cheekily at Rex, “Though I probably have his better half to thank for that.”

“Skywalker got you too?” Rex asks blandly, quickly downing the last of his drink to blink around the room. It’s a lot quieter than he remembers, the sound muffled - but the lights are bright, and they send stabs of pain into his aching head.

Keeli snickers, “He’s been making his rounds - I saw him trying to convince Commander Fox to try some sort of candied fruit.”

“He’d hate that.” The blond clone snickers, but he has to cough when the sound catches in his throat. He grimaces faintly at the pain in his chest - coughing was never fun, especially not with lungs scarred by a super plague.

“I do hate it.”

Rex jerks, swaying slightly as he turns too quickly to see that two more brothers have joined them. Fox is scowling in the general direction of the crowd, but Wolffe is watching Rex with a faint furrow in his brows.

“How much have you drank, blondie?” The one-eyed Vode asks gruffly, eyes narrowing.

“Jus’ the one.” Rex says - or, rather, he slurs - and he frowns slightly in confusion, trying to wet his suddenly dry mouth. He coughs again as his body cramps painfully, and he finds himself swaying again, suddenly feeling chilled.

Fox’s hand catches him by the elbow, drawing Rex’s attention to him. His brother looks openly worried, and it’s not an expression Fox wears well, “Rex, where did you get that drink?”

The younger Vode blinks groggily, and he can feel sweat beading on his face and neck, his mind foggy. It takes him a moment to completely understand what Fox is saying, and longer still to make his tongue and mouth form his response. “From th’ Gen’ral.” He rasps, and there’s a weird light in Fox’s expression.

“From Skywalker?” Fox asks, and he’s pulling a comm from the sleeve of his suit, cursing under his breath. Rex nods mutely, swaying where he stands. “Keeli - don’t eat any more from that plate.”

“Right.” Keeli’s voice sounds shaken when he talks, and Rex frowns, trying to turn to check on his batchmate, but he finds himself staggering clumsily into a broad chest dressed in grey fabric.

Wolffe. His words are muffled, even as close to Rex’s ear as he must be as Rex uses him as a pillar to lean against. “-going on?” The Commander growls, wrapping his arms around Rex’s hips, and it’s really the only thing holding him up at the moment as the world starts greying around the edges.

“Poison.” Fox is saying. “-get him out of here - medic coming - Guard - probably meant for Senator Amidala.”

Rex blacks out, surrendering to blissful unconsciousness. His last thought before everything fades is that Cody would be pissed that he went and got himself poisoned without him.

#cole writes #fanfiction #star wars #whumptober 2020 #no.22 #captain keeli #captain rex #commander wolffe #commander fox #sw fanfiction

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lazyangeltreemoney · 4 years

Text

The Sweetest Baker in Brooklyn 2/???

Description: Bucky Barnes is one of the most feared mobsters in all of NYC, however he finds himself falling for the sweetest Baker in Brooklyn who has her own secrets and troubled past.

Word Count: 2226

Pairing(s): Mob! Bucky x Parent!Reader

Warnings: violence, organised crime, alcoholism, abuse, angst and fluff

A/N: so this is the second instalment and warning there’s some tooth rotting fluff hope y’all enjoy

The next day Bucky couldn’t help himself go to the Y/N’s cafe. He’d been debating with himself all morning if it was a good idea but he just couldn’t help himself. He wanted to see her smile again, he wanted to hear her humm along to the songs on the radio. So he found himself on his own walking into the cafe surprised to see Benny sitting on one of the tables colouring while Y/N wiped some tables, humming and dancing along to the song of the radio.

“Mommy the nice man is back.” Benny exclaimed

Y/N turned around and smiled at Bucky, she wanted to scold herself for how happy seeing him made her.

“I take it you’re here to take up my offer.” Y/N smiled at him.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Doll.” Bucky smiled back and took a seat down next to Benny.

He noticed how Benny colouring reminded him even more of Steve. Sure it was mostly random squiggles but it was oddly pleasing to look at.

“So, what are you doing here ya little tike?” Bucky asked

“I’ve been suspended.” Benny answered sadly.

Y/N appeared with Bucky’s coffee and a juice box for Benny. Y/N instantly seemed disheartened at the look on Benny’s face.

“Benny sweetheart, why don’t you go and grab a blueberry muffin for Bucky here to say thankyou for yesterday.” Y/N spoke softly to him.

Benny eagerly jumped up and ran over to the counter.

“I take it something pretty bad happened yesterday?” Bucky asked.

“Some kid was picking on Benny’s friend and he tried to stand up for them, he doesn’t realise how small he actually is most of the time,” Y/N sighed sitting down next to Bucky, “It’s not the first time this has happened. It’s not his fault that the school doesn’t want to get involved until it feels like it.” She grimace hanging her head.

Bucky sympathised with her and was wondering about asking Steve to take a DNA test. Steve, similar to Benny, was never able to run away from a fight. He could sympathise with Y/N, being a mother was never an easy task. Bucky pulled out a business card from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table to Y/N. Y/N took it cautiously and read the inscription.

“James Buchanan Barnes.” She noticed how there was no job description, only a telephone no.

“Bucky comes from my middle name, only my friends get to call me it.” Bucky explained trimputhanlty.

Y/N looked like she was about to argue with him on it.

“I have some connections, next time something like this happens, give me a call.” He insisted.

Y/N simply nodded and put the card in her apron pocket. Just as she did Benny arrived with Bucky’s muffin. The three of them sat together happily, Benny drawing and Bucky tucking into his muffin. Y/N went about the cafe either cleaning or going into the kitchen in the back to check on her muffins. It was a slow day at the cafe which Y/N was mostly grateful for. She knew it was wrong but she enjoyed having Bucky and Benny all to herself. Whenever she went into the kitchen she would pop her head out to check on Benny to see him chatting Bucky’s ear off and Bucky simply smiling back at him. For a second Y/N could imagine her life like this, her life if she had met Bucky earlier in life, before her father and before Brock… but timing was a bitch. On top of that Y/N wasn’t stupid, she had grown up around men like Brock all her life, it didn’t take much to match up the dots and figure that Bucky and Brock were probably in the same line of work. Most people these days seem to have some attachment to the mob around here. With that life came danger, danger she swore she would keep Benny away from.

The day went on and before she knew it it was time to close up the shop. Bucky had stayed in the cafe all day talking to Benny and admiring Y/N. The sun was setting and it’s warm colours perfectly filled the room. The orange hues and comfy pillow made the small cafe feel more like home to Bucky than any of the grand houses he’d ever had.

Y/N was finishing sweeping the floors when ‘Oh La La’ came onto the radio, she turned it up a little louder as she sung along to the lyrics. Benny began to dance around and quickly jumped up onto the seat. Y/N turned around and picked up her son and started dancing around the room with him. Swinging him around in her arms as he giggled along. When she finally put him down he tried to copy Y/N’s feet as she held his hands. Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at the pair. Benny looked up at him and before he knew it he had dragged him to join them. Y/N held Benny on one of her hips and held Bucky’s hand with her free hand. The trio were all so lost in the moment, Bucky hadn’t felt this kind of happiness and love in so long. Y/N hadn’t felt this calm and loved in so long. They all danced along until the song ended and they were all panting and applauding each other jokily. Benny jumped down from Y/N’s side and went back to his colouring. Leaving just Y/N and Bucky staring at each other, smiling from ear to ear like a pair of love sick fools.

The next song came on, it was a much slower one, it was ‘long, long, long’ by the Beatles. Bucky couldn’t help himself but held out his hand and Y/N couldn’t help but take it. Bucky pulled her in close and swayed her around slowly along the room. A soft smile on both of their faces, to both of them it felt like home. Y/N swore in all of her life she had never felt so safe in someone's arms. Sadly the song seemed to finish too soon and though neither wanted to, they parted.

Benny applauded the pairs dance and Bucky pretended to bow while Y/N curtsied. Y/N went to go and tidy away Benny’s crayons. As she did Bucky noticed her wrist as her sleeve pulled up a little. It was redder than usual, Bucky looked closer and saw how it looked like it marked out a hand. Bucky’s boil instantly began to boil, if someone had laid a finger on Y/N they were going to have hell to pay but he couldn’t jump to conclusions.

When Y/N finally cleaned up and they all left the cafe Bucky instantly grabbed out his phone to call Steve.

“Ah finally, I thought the next time I’d hear from you would be in your will.” Steve joked down the phone.

“Look I know I’ve been kinda off the grid but I need a favor, I need you to look into this lady, she works at Y/N’s Cafe, well I need to look into her husband.” Bucky sighed pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Got a last name?” Steve asked.

Like a ton of bricks it dawned on him he had never asked Y/N her last name.

“Never caught it.” Bucky admitted hanging his head in shame.

“I’ll see what Nat can bring up.” Steve answered and hung up.

Bucky silently prayed that he was wrong. That his eyes were playing tricks on him and he was looking for a reason to step in and be your knight in shining armour. Even if he had the chance to, he would never want to put Y/N through that. So instead he just sighed and drove away from the cafe, swearing to himself that if Nat found nothing he would never visit the cafe again. As he drove away he was blissfully unaware of a figure watching him and taking pictures.

Y/N pulled into her drive with Benny in the back seat. She pulled in to see the lights in the house were on and she braced herself. Putting on her best smile she went to get Benny out of the back seat.

“So sweetie remember that if Daddy asks you were at school all day, okay?” Y/N asked holding his hand.

Benny just nodded, but neither of them could have prepared on what they would walk into.

Bucky was in his apartment and he hated it. Something about the tall ceilings, endless ornaments and cold colours made his skin crawl. It was nothing like how Y/N’s cafe had been to him only a few hours ago. Instead he was alone with only the contents of his glass to keep him company. He was pacing around his living room with his records playing loudly to drown out his thoughts of worry and dread about what could be happening to Benny and Y/N. It wasn’t until the phone rang that Bucky was torn from his thoughts. Bucky got up from his seat and answered the call.

“Hello, who is this?” Bucky asked.

“It’s me punk and if I were you I'd get down here within the next 5 minutes.” Steve ordered down the line.

He sounded pissed, he didn’t even give Bucky a chance to reply before he hung up. Steve had been Bucky’s best friend since childhood but the tone in his voice made it sound as if he was ready to put a bullet between his eyes. Bucky gulped and grabbed his jacket before leaving for Steve’s mansion just outside of the city.

Steve was NYC’s kingpin, he owned it. Steve made the law and god help the poor soul who broke it. Bucky had always been his right hand man, together they had taken over NYC like a plague in less than a year. There wasn’t a single policeman, lawyer or counsel man who wasn’t on their payroll. Hell not even the mayor had as much power as Steve did.

Bucky walked up to Steve’s office and Sam was outside along with Clint and neither of them looked happy. Bucky was about to walk in when Clint stopped him. Bucky paused looking at the pair confused until Clint held out a briefcase. Bucky couldn’t believe it, it was the case Steve would use to get people to hand over his weapons in meetings. Did his best friend not trust him now? What the hell was going on?

“Sorry man, bosses orders.” Sam explained.

Reluctantly Bucky handed over his gun and walked into Steve’s office. He was greeted with the sight of Steve and Nat both giving him dark looks. The worst of it was Nat’s stare, the way she was psychoanalysing his every step. Bucky sat down in the seat opposite the pair and waited for someone to tell him what the hell was going on.

After letting him sweat for a few seconds Natalia pulled out a large brown envelope. She pulled out some photographs and then what looked like a copy of the certificate. Bucky studied the images, they looked a little old, some of them had been taken from newspapers with the head line, ‘Infamous Bachelor Brock Rumlow finally Hitched’. Bucky held up the photo closer, it couldn’t be. But it was, clear as day it was Y/N in a white gown next to Brock. Bucky inspected the rest of the pictures, they were of Y/N but with an older gentleman. Bucky looked closer and finally placed the man… Alexander PIerce. Finally he was the certificate, the union of Y/N Pierce and Brock Rumlow. Bucky felt sick as he read the names over and over. Pierce, the name of the man who tried to take everything from him. Bucky was young and naive, Pierce promised Bucky the world and instead took his arm and tortured him for months to try and send a message to Steve. His prosthetic arm felt a lot heavier as he slumped back into his seat.

“Wanna tell me why you’re seeing Rumlow’s wife, Pierce's Daughter… if it’s revenge you’re looking for here Buck you could've just told me.” Steve began.

“It’s not like that-“ Bucky began trying to explain himself

“Sam tells me you’ve been seeing her everyday for the past month or so, the kid to,” Natalia pulled out another photo showing the three of them outside the school, “honestly not your usual strategy Barnes.”

“Fuck, I didn’t know OKAY.” Bucky exclaimed.

He could hardly breathe, this all too much. He sure as hell wasn’t going after Y/N in that way but was Y/N going after him? No surely not, if that was the case Benny wouldn’t be involved. On top of that, why would Y/N’s bakery be in Steve’s territory? His mind was going 100 miles an hour when suddenly his phone rang. All three of them looked puzzled, who the hell would be calling him this time of night?Cautiously he pulled the phone out of his pocket

“Hello?”

“Hewwo Mister Bucky Sir, I think my Mom needs your help.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #mob!bucky x reader #mob!au #mob!bucky #parent!reader #marvel fanfiction

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worddonor · 6 years

Text

Purpose, part 1.

My search for purpose began with my search for truth.

I've always been asking why for as long as I can remember. Being pre-occupied with those around me has been a chink in my armour, one of many indeed, but one that has caused me to dig deep into finding a reason for my existence as I've always felt ill-at-ease on this planet (as if there's another planet I'd be better suited to be on, lol) that and years of inner turmoil, has led me back to the only place that could provide me with what I believe are the answers that align with the principles of the universe.

The owners manual for my life produced by the manufacturer of me.

The new revelations began slowly revealing themselves in earnest after having miraculously made it through varsity and attaining my diploma (taking an extra year to finish). I knew I had given as much as I could, but deep down wasn't completely sure I would make it even on the second go around - I had ticked all the boxes and showed up despite wanting to throw in the towel many times on projects (which is more than I could say for the previous year in which I had failed the core module). I was offered a room in a spacious apartment really close to campus with two other roommates attending classes at other campuses close by which I nervously took (I had been driving through to campus from home about 60-odd km's one way [around 39 miles] for the first 3 years).

In that time I had my Bible with me, received as a gift two years prior, which I read occasionally. What I did that I still remember now was giving thanks everyday in the morning when I woke up. It was the first time living on my own away from my family - I missed them terribly. When you're at the point of not knowing where to turn you tend to cry out to whatever's out there, if anything and for me that was God (the previous year I had been wondering if what I was raised to believe was complete b-s, reading alternative material and questioning life).

Always questioning.

What I believe made all the difference were the prayers I said every morning waking up there, the prayers of gratitude. I would wake up with knots in my belly, but after eventually wrestling my body out of bed, making myself some oats and coffee and while watching the morning breakfast show on the blurry box TV, I'd give thanks to the Lord for all I was grateful for. I truly believe it made the biggest difference, I made it through by the skin of my teeth in the core module that year (literally a pass on the dot) and did well with the other subjects.

After that my faith was bolstered, even if ever so slightly. The following year I took off having made the decision at the end of the previous year to donate a kidney to my older sister (she fell ill when I was in second year and spent the next three years on various forms of dialysis [there was a time we weren't sure she'd make it as a result of bleeding on the brain with the strokes she suffered that possibly caused the kidney failure]). A battery of tests were done to ensure I was healthy and met the criteria. When the operation was carried out I had just turned 25 the previous month, the minimum age recommended at that time.

The operation was a success, the organ was accepted which was another incredible faith booster though even after that immense blessing I found myself questioning who I was aside from an auxiliary being. I fantasized on the darker days about what it would've been like had I given up the ghost on the operating table and what a grand exit that would've been had I left then. I know, pretty gloomy.

To counter that: on an incredibly upbeat side note, my sister is doing so well six years on and the little organ is too - she is back to her bubbly self and her recovery: a true miracle from where she was and a testament to excellent doctors (of course), but even more so: the wonders of 'ridiculous' faith by her and all those praying for her. How could it not be the creator's hand?

Towards the end of that year after my recovery period the job hunt began that lead me to my first job the following year. The doubting surfaced again and I wondered if anyone would ever hire me after a couple of months of searching (self-doubt bru, avoid like the plague), I initially tried for an internship outside of my field of study (in something I researched briefly in high school that I wanted to try then), but wasn't accepted after the second interview round. I always seemed to get through when my writing was doing the convincing, but as soon as I was face-to-face: that's usually when the wheels fell off. I made it through the initial screening, got given a test project which they were satisfied with (which I believe was the main selling point), I made it to the interview proper (I left a tad early on the day [distance to site coincidentally 60-odd km's one way from home], followed the directions given to me, but stopped on the side of the road not far from my destination thinking I was lost [doubting again] when all I had to do was continue on the path I was on which I did and arrived on time) despite feeling like I had fluffed that too (and secretly wondering if I was the only one that pitched for an interview if they were offering ME the job), was offered the job so I took it. I was even offered more than I asked for.

Before the initial screening I prayed like a mad man and got to that venue on time, no issues and the lady was really friendly. While doing the project, I battled inner demons, but sent the project through with a few more prayers for good measure and got to the interview stage. Before the interview I said a few more prayers and even though my voice might've let me down - my work spoke for me and the Lord I'm sure worked His magic too.

My faith bolstered again as I, honest to Jesus, was literally doubting if anyone would hire me for any job after interviewing me.

Can you see a pattern forming? Lol.

Over the years I've been searching my soul pretty deeply (as the earlier posts and poetry in this blog can attest) while on this job and have discovered the things about it I enjoy and the things I don't. The lightbulb moments relating to my search for purpose started going off when I accidentally stumbled upon the teachings of a certain preacher and teacher by the name of Dr Myles Munroe. My father showed me a video clip of an interview conducted with him after it appeared on the news that he had passed away along with his wife in a freak plane crash, this was in November 2014. I researched him further and he revealed scripture in a new light to me in a way I had never heard before through his teachings, suddenly here I knew deep down were the answers to truth and purpose I had been yearning for and praying about for ages before I had listened to them. Revealing the analogies of an acorn and an oak tree relating to the Lord having created you with everything you'd ever need in your life to flourish already contained within you. And about the most valuable place on earth being the graveyard: the place where all the unfulfilled dreams and incompleted projects lie. To think all this wisdom came from a man I had never known about before hearing first of his death.

So strange, but in that the clues to what legacy is truly about - what will you leave behind when you die?

I digress.

The Lord's gentle coaxing and the events that followed thereafter over time led to me getting baptised on the 20th of March 2016.

2015 was a tumultuous year, with two people leaving in my department in the first half of the year, though saved by the arrival of what I believe to have been an undercover angel in the second half.

I must admit after coming back from an epic holiday at the top end of 2016, my interest in drawing closer to Jesus was further spurred on by my sister asking if I wanted to join her in becoming an official member of our church by taking weekly classes which we then completed.

This led me to make that official commitment that would kill all the doubt in my heart and mind I held for years prior about whether I was or wasn't truly a saved follower of Christ. I had always been so afraid before to do it, of making that public declaration, I wanted to, but kept delaying and used to beat myself up when I didn't act. The night before I decided and the following morning I felt a peace in my heart so I stuck to my decision through the service and asked my mother if she'd be willing to join me: it was only her and a few others also getting baptised present that day. She was in tears after. It's also a date I remember easily as it is an old varsity friend's birthday (she's a believer too, though I've lost contact with her and we haven't spoken since maybe 2012 - we were close for the time we were studying together - hope she's good wherever she is...).

That was a good year and got me bold enough to begin planning an overseas trip to see my cousin in 2017 in Vegas which I did (woohoo!). I even explored my writing more in 2016 and attended a creative writing course over a number of weeks offered at our church which got the writing bug going in earnest in me thereafter.

2017 wasn't without its hills and valleys with more deep conversations on lift club trips and more goodbyes as seasons ended and new ones began, some new faces descended on the scene. The year ended off on a high and my faith was built up even more as my prayers for each step of my planning for my trip took shape and I was blessed with smooth sailing there and back after numerous prayers thrown up, naturally.

The lingering questions and doubts were always there and still are. I never let my faith go despite its smallness and my church attendance became something I found hard to let slide and I became a regular after taking that big step two years back.

This year began with a few heavy knocks in quick succession though and these changes hit the hardest as the preceding months were some of the best I had ever enjoyed on the job since the boys club months of early 2014 (lol) after the first few lonely months of being the first person in the new department years ago. The best and most productive times were when there was a team. This seemingly long winter period since the mass exodus (it's a story, it could do with a touch of drama man) has brought with it some intense introspection and greater prayer and even fasting which I had never attempted before over the period of one month (initiated about 5 months back). When the awesome people left, I wondered what was left for me where I was - I agonised and still do question where to next for me. This time has brought me even closer to Jesus than ever before - I have found myself yearning so much I have even begun listening to only worship music and just a certain radio station and only listening to YouTube sermons (OK and some car vids - forgive me, those are still my secret passion). I've started to lean so heavily on the Lord I believe it's stretched my faith to the greatest degree it's ever been stretched as we haven't been able to attract new talent to the office until I got some news about a new person and some new ways of approaching our situation this last Friday.

All this leads me to some books I purchased a week ago today: first - Dr Caroline Leaf's "Think, Learn, Succeed" and another book I've had on my online store wishlist for a long time that my sister wanted to buy for me so I ended up getting it as well: Rick Warren's "The Purpose Driven Life" which is the new expanded edition.

These books bring me to part 2 of this story...

#purpose #god #jesus #rick warren #dr caroline leaf #life #learning #searching #lbhj

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supersoldierfreak · 7 years

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Friends and Foes

AN: This is just an idea I wanted to try out about a Red Room/ Hydra reader with Bucky but with a twist 💕 “Отчет о миссии.” (Mission report.) “Целвой нейтрализованный.” (Target neutralised.) “Свидетели.” (Witnesses.) “Нет.” (No.) “You’re pet is impressive, Karpov.” “The plan will work perfectly.” “Ah yes. Your little plan. If you’ve wasted resources I’m sure you know the consequences, Viktor.” “Consequences only happen if something goes wrong. Nothing will go wrong.” “Keep to your word, Karpov; you understand what happens if you don’t.” Footsteps followed the man out as he walked away. Karpov turned to the young assassin in the room. “You do know after tonight you will never be protected again.” The female nodded once. “An asset is not protected; an asset protects the mission.” “You have gone beyond all expectations, Phoenix, even that which were of your sister.” Karpov gave a false smile to the girl. “You will shape the new world. With the soldier.” The Asset nodded once. “You are the best trained we have. Any mistakes and you’re gone. You do not get protected.” “Asset protects the mission.” The assassin repeated robotically. “Correct, Phoenix, it does. You will build a new world from the ashes.” … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

“Run, my little star, and take your sister. Go far into the woods and don’t stop.” A man shouted at a girl who was no older than eight as he shoved a younger girl to her. Thunder clapped loudly outside as rain hit the cabin. “But Papa!” The oldest daughter shouted before she was cut off. The door was shaking more now and the shouting got louder. “Go! I can’t protect the both of you and your mother. It’s you girls they’re here for. Run!” The girl’s tears were flying down her cheeks as she grabbed her sister and ran. She took her dagger and tore through the backdoor into the night. Rain drenched the pair in moments but neither took notice of it. A loud gunshot hit the forest. The younger sister tripped on a twig, her fiery red hair flaying out as she fell; the girl ran back to get her, her own brunette hair blowing as she did. Helping the girl back up she urged her to run on and she checked behind them. In their back yard, their father and another two men were shouting. One of the other men pulled a gun and shot the father of two. It was if it was in slow motion for her. Through the sheets of rain all she could she were silhouettes illuminated by the flash of the gun and her father crumpling to the ground. Sobs tore their way through the eldest daughter’s throat as she barely comprehended her father’s murder. The girls ran through the forest, faster than most ever get through forests and making almost no noise. “Where are we going, sestra?” (Sister) The youngest asked as her grip on the other’s hand tightened. “Away from here, Tusya. Come on!” The main road was coming closer and Sasha fell and hit the ground hard. “I can’t do this.” Tusya sobbed as her hands stung sharply. The older girl crouched down to the ground to stay out of sight. She ran her hands across the plaid soaked shirt the younger girl was wearing. “Natalia Alianovna Romanova, you are one of the bravest people I know and definitely one of the most persistent.” She brought a smile to Natalia’s face. “Do not ever say you can’t do something again. Practice is the most important thing.” Lights washed over the area and angry shouts were soon to follow. Natalia clung tightly to her sister and the girl reciprocated the motion. The girls were terrified as they lay there, in the dirt and forest, torch beams destroying the darkness around them. “Come out, come out wherever you are. I have a surprise for you.” An authoritative voice rang out through the tundra landscape. They were soaked through, water dripping into their eyes as they shook like leaves out of fear. Slowly, the world seemed to close in around them as voice got louder and torch beams became brighter. Footsteps became audible. “Well isn’t this cute. The two Romanovas clinging to each other in the face of death. Don’t worry I won’t kill you. It’s worse.” A tall man stood in front of the girls a gun at point blank range to shoot the pair. “Up.” … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

“PHOENIX!” Phoenix shot up from the floor of the cell and stood to attention. Powerful footsteps strode down the corridor before they reached the bars of the assassin’s confinement. “The Winter Soldier has gone rogue after its last mission. It has not been seen in a year. Find it.” One year. The same amount of time that Phoenix had been trapped in the compound. HYDRA had gone to ashes. Small groups kept going but none big enough to start the organisation over. After HYDRA had lost The Winter Soldier, they were terrified of losing Phoenix. Phoenix was just as powerful as the Soldier, if not more so; they couldn’t risk her defecting as well. Phoenix knew all this as it stalked through the halls of the compound, almost sprinting in the opportunity to get out of there. Phoenix strapped on its uniform: the black skin tight trouser; the deep purple bodice like body armour; the deep brown full calf boots, fitted with knives; the brown leather vambraces; the holsters with its guns; the sheathes with its knives; the mechanical quiver and bow; and finally, its black leather gloves. It pulled its long brunette hair into a high plaited ponytail and applied the makeup she was forced to wear. Sharp black eyeliner and deep red lips. Phoenix stood up and walked out of the preparation room, grabbing her pack and jacket as it went. It strode out of the building and grabbed its motorbike. Yes, it would find The Winter Soldier. No, it would not ever return. Not if it could help it. The asset looked far and wide for The Winter Soldier, targeting Europe in particular. The assassin had been lying low; she hadn’t been in touch with her handlers in weeks and she knew they would start looking soon. Now it was a year later and she often had to dispose of retrieval units sent by HYRDA. She had tracked the Soldier to Romania, but where in the country she was still working on. Memories and nightmares plagued the assassin’s mind, memories of a younger red headed girl who seemed to be her sister. Memories of a man who cared for her like fathers in films would. Of a beautiful woman who appeared to be her mother. Phoenix’s bike was starting to run out of fuel and she knew that a gas station and diner were coming up although she wasn’t eager to be spending her money until she hit the city. Either way, she pulled up at the diner and filled up her bike before going in to pay for the fuel. She was turning her life around meaning she was determined to stay on the right side of the law as much as possible. Although, if she did commit the law, she wouldn’t be caught. Phoenix was taught to be a shadow, always there but never seen. She walked into the diner, her strategic gaze taking in the place. Three exits, one through the kitchen. Two security cameras, blindspot on the right. Central area is more open in case of confrontation. Knives on the tables make for emergency weapons. She blinked a couple of times. Making her way to a booth, she quickly ordered before pulling a small notebook out of her pack. Phoenix opened the notebook and neatly inscribed on the first page were three words. Y/N Romanova. Below that it slightly smudged ink was a sentence that was once in neat cursive. Tusya called me Sasha. The following pages were full of memories, small drawings and what Sasha could remember from anytime time before her last wiping. She tucked into her meal before the small television in the corner caught her attention. “James Buchanan Barnes and Steve Rogers also known as The Winter Soldier and Captain America, fugitives of the UN after the matter of the Accords, have recently been spotted in New York City as well as other personnel on that side of the lawful battle. Rumours are rapidly spreading that they may be in with a chance of redemption through Tony Stark. What do you think? Do they deserve mercy?” Sasha was calm before furious. The one thing that Winter had always said to her was to stay out of the limelight and to remain in the shadows. But then he went and did the complete opposite. As James, he had always told her the safest place was away from the attention. Yet now he was bathing in it. Bastard. So, New York, huh? I’ll see you there.

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moiraineswife · 7 years

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Frozen Devotion - A Nessian Fic

Still on the nessian fic run, there will probably be more in a few days once i can edit what needs edited. Bless @pterodactylichexameter for betaing this for me!!

ACOWAR SPOILERS

Title: Frozen Devotion

Summary: ACOWAR Chapter 56 - Nesta’s POV. Cassian returns from battle, exhausted and injured, Nesta tends to him. (Dialogue from ACOWAR)

Teaser: ‘A flicker of pain pulses through her wrist and she jumps from her place by the fire, startling Feyre, but she barely looks at her sister. Her focus is still consumed on him, striding towards them and looking like he’s walked out of the mouth of hell itself. That scaled black armour still covers him, his helmet tucked under one arm. For all the world he appears fine but the red stones that contain his power, usually pulsing, like hearts worn upon his skin, and now they’re dull, lifeless, his power drained, unable to help him or heal him.

“You’re hurt.” The words had blurted out of her before she’d quite joined the dots between what she was seeing before her and what she had felt. But she knows that she’s right.’

Link: AO3

Her hands had been shaking when she had first offered to help Feyre cut up linen for bandages in the aftermath of the battle. She had needed to do something, had needed to focus her mind and stop it racing and spinning and panicking about him.

He was a general. He was over five hundred years old. He had likely fought in more battles than she’d drawn breaths in her entire life. He was widely heralded as the greatest warrior in Prythian’s history and yet...Ever since he had left for that field worry had been tying her stomach into tight knots.

Anger had flared at that, at the feelings that had risen in her, ones that had plagued her in that cabin, of being useless. He was out there fighting in a war. He was battling, changing things, doing something. While she sat in camp and wrung her hands. Amren had insisted there was more to life than war and bloodshed, more to strength than the ability to lift and wave a sword around. Nesta knew that, accepted it, thrived with that knowledge even...But it did not stop the worry or the feelings that had been threatening to tear her apart. So she had found something that she could do, something that she could help with.

It was oddly hypnotic, watching the fabric slice cleanly between the jaws of her shears. It helped distract her, sitting there beside Feyre, finally feeling as though she was doing something. The task was repetitive and mind numbing and she soon lost herself in the rhythm of it, letting it sweep her up and carry her away. It reminded her of dancing, a hundred years ago, when she’d been a child, and would follow the same pattern of moves over and over and over until she had it perfect, until her body moved without needing her instruction, until-

A log in the fire split with a loud crack, casting sparks into the darkening sky around them like a hand tossing a handful of glittering red stars into the night. Looking up, distracted for the first time in hours, she sees him, walking beside his High Lord, both seeming exhausted and weary but. Safe. Whole. Home.

A flicker of pain pulses through her wrist and she jumps from her place by the fire, startling Feyre, but she barely looks at her sister. Her focus is still consumed on him, striding towards them and looking like he’s walked out of the mouth of hell itself. That scaled black armour still covers him, his helmet tucked under one arm. For all the world he appears fine but the red stones that contain his power, usually pulsing, like hearts worn upon his skin, and now they’re dull, lifeless, his power drained, unable to help him or heal him.

“You’re hurt.” The words had blurted out of her before she’d quite joined the dots between what she was seeing before her and what she had felt. But she knows that she’s right.

Rhys starts beside his general but she ignores him, still staring at Cassian, daring him to deny it. She strides around the fire to him, skirts swirling around her ankles, the feeling familiar and oddly comforting in this strange, brutal world that both calls to her and screams that she does not belong here.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs thickly, each word weighed down by his exhaustion.

She ignores him, reaching for his arm, refusing to break eye contact with him. She wonders, briefly, how Feyre and her High Lord might read into her knowing Cassian is hurt when neither of them had detected it but- But she doesn’t give a damn. They’re welcome to think what they like, talk about what they like too.

He hesitates a moment before yielding to her will. Ever since she’s been small she’s been able to compel men to do what she wants. It had been unconscious to begin with, she hadn’t realised what she was doing differently to anyone else or why it got such results. Then she had studied the other ladies around her, how they had interacted with people and she had understood.

They softened themselves. They lowered their eyes, they let their mouths gentle into soft smiles and allowed pretty words to flutter from them. Nesta did none of that, none of the things that propriety demanded of her, none of the social niceties her mother had tried so hard to instil in her when she’d been younger.

Nesta stood at her full height, her neck straight, her chin high. She looked them in the eyes when she spoke to them and would not drop her gaze for some man, no matter how important he may think himself. She had not smiled prettily and she had not bound up her order in so many frills and laces that it suddenly felt more request than order. Nesta demanded what she wanted and stood and watched until it was done.

Cassian may have commanded thousands in battles, slaughtered countless foes, might be one of the most powerful people in this court, in the whole of Prythian, but he’s still a man, and he still bows before that implacable will that was never meant to be hers. There are different kinds of strength in this world...And this is hers.

Cassian gently taps the Siphon on top of his hand and she watches in fascination as the armour flows back on itself, a ripple of black, like an ocean drawing away from the shore, revealing his bruised, swollen wrist. Right. She’d been right. She’d known she was, known he was injured and yet..Seeing it there so starkly, exactly where her own arm had hurt. It takes every bit of self control she has not to run her fingers over the place on her own body, tied to his by something, something...

“You know better than to walk around with an injury,” Rhys snaps out at Cassian’s side, jerking her out of her reverie. She gets the sense that this is an argument they’ve had plenty of times over the centuries; one that Cassian never has, and likely never will, properly listen to.

“I was busy,” Cassian says, a little irritably, not looking at his High Lord.

No, those hazel eyes remain on her the entire time. She can feel the weight of them as she examines his arm. She tries not to think too much about what it means, that for him, too, this whole tent and everyone in it seems to have been reduced to little more than an irritating buzzing in his ears. A fly buzzing against a window pane trying to get attention while a hurricane tears at the very foundations.

“And it’ll have healed by morning,” Cassian adds, at last turning away from her, throwing Rhys a look that plainly warns him not to disagree with that assessment.

Rhys seems happy enough to let the matter lie, in spite of the slight frown creasing his brows, she isn’t. Her fingers gently inspect the wound, pressing and probing, not entirely sure what she’s looking for. Cassian hisses softly, though he doesn’t pull away, and there’s no reproach in his eyes when she meets them again, only something like...Curiosity, or perhaps surprise that she’s taken such an interest in such a minor wound.

That feeling of uselessness swells in her again as something clenches in her guts, whispering that he’s hurt, he’s hurt. Some instinctive part of her urges her to help him, to take away his pain, to do whatever she has to do to make this better for him. Frustration crashes against her an instant later because she doesn’t know how. She never knows how.

She might have rebelled against that instinct, that instinct to help him; and the source she suspects it comes from, not wholly her own but...But as she slowly raises her eyes and meets his again...She doesn’t want to. She wants to help him. She doesn’t want to see him in pain, even if this is a stupid injury he probably barely even notices.

She pushes down on her insecurities instead. For him.

“How do I fix it?” She asks, forcing her voice to remain steady. She doesn’t want them to know, any of them, the inner turmoil this has stirred in her. Though she thinks...She thinks he might know.

She doesn’t bother asking if she can heal him. She’s known now, for too long, what it is that burns in her veins, what is the Cauldron made her. Elain took away a part of the future, a mirror to that hope for something better ahead of them she had clung to in the cabin, she had clung to it as well in the Cauldron’s depths. Nesta...Nesta had felt and then taken and then become the death that had claimed her mortal life.

As she looks up into his face, the blood spattered dark skin, the empty, hollowed blackness in his hazel eyes she knows that he understands her, in a way that no-one else can. The Cauldron Made her into death and he...He was born as one of her servants. Hewn from wind and flame and stone and filled with the power his people most prided to kill. To protect.

Nesta looks down at his hand, the gentle wrappings she’s wound around it and wonders if, perhaps, she might do that too. If perhaps this power, this icy death that pulses through her, might be wielded like his roaring flame.

He watches her for another long moment then, after a gentle nudge from her, he lowers himself down onto the log she’s spent most of the evening huddled on top of, sorting out healing supplies. He groans, his body trembling, and she wonders if the exhaustion that seems to have sunk to the bottom of her very bones is her own, or if it’s his.

This isn’t the first time she’s felt something from him, something that isn’t hers. Her feelings have always been confusing, a shifting, ever-changing torrent, restless as an ocean’s current. She had appeared so calm upon the surface but beneath....She had dismissed it as that to begin with, not sure what she was feeling, certain it was simply the disorientation of being Made.

Then she had started to see patterns in what was happening. How her feelings would not quite shift or change but- become interrupted by something else. How this had seemed to happen more and more frequently around Cassian. How she had started to...Know things about him, things she could rarely ever sense in anyone. She knew what he was feeling, what he was thinking, knew when he was hurt even though no-one else could see.

She knows what it is, knows what it means. She isn’t an idiot, after all....Yet she has no idea what to do about it. She doesn’t know if he feels it too, if he gets things from her, if she somehow sends them to him. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t need to. She doesn’t need to do anything about it at all if she doesn’t acknowledge it.

He probably thinks she can’t feel anything, if he knows. Feyre and Elain had been ignorant of theirs, and from what Rhys has said, the lengthy explanations, for Elain’s benefit, that she’s listened to every word of...It’s easy to pretend. Easy to keep the mask up. Easy to act as though everything is fine despite the fact it’s not. She’s done that most of her life.

“Icing it usually helps,” he says after a long moment in which he’d settled himself. “But wrapping it will just lock it in place long enough for the sprain to repair itself and-”

She doesn’t let him finish. Before he can try and brush it off again and insist that he doesn’t need her, or anyone else’s, help, she reaches for the basket of bandages she’s spent the battle preparing. She’s shocked at how many are there, how many she had produced lost in that haze of focus and clarity that had drawn her away from reality.

Bending over him she takes up a pitcher of water and cleans the mud and gore from his wrist and hand. His rough calluses sometimes catch on her delicate skin but she doesn’t react, acts as though this is typical, something she would have done for anyone but...But he has no way of knowing how unusual this is for her.

Feyre might, perhaps. They’ve never been physically affectionate, certainly not in the way that sisters should be. It had always made her uncomfortable, this kind of proximity, this kind of contact, and she had spent most of her life avoiding it. Even when she’d been a child she had never been free and open with herself, her affection.

With him, though...There’s a rightness so profound in touching him, in the feeling of her fingers brushing over his skin, touching him, comforting him this way, that it’s near holy. It terrifies her. Panic bursts through her body at it. It’s never felt like this with anyone else, never. She’s tolerated contact with others, she’s never wanted it, craved it, needed it the way she needs this. She’s always counted down the seconds until it would end but now she’s counting her pounding heartbeats and every one that passes where she’s allowed to touch him like this feels like a gift.

A part of her wants to say that it’s just the bond, manipulating her, making her feel these things for some male that fate or whatever other ridiculous superstition the fae believe lies behind this piece of twisted magic but...She knows that it’s not. She knows that it’s just him.

Placing down the pitcher of water she dries his wrist and peers at it critically again for a few moments, studying the pattern of the bruising, where the swelling is, categorising, memorising, storing it away for later. Then she takes up her bandages and starts gently winding them around his arm, trying to ignore the feeling that pulses through her whenever they connect skin to skin.

She finds that she has to prompt him through the process, asking if what she’s doing is too tight or too loose...If it’s actually helps. He responds with a series of variously pitched grunts and feeble head nods that she interprets without too much difficulty.

Her concentration narrows on the task, on him. She goes deaf even to the crackling fire, a typically ever present stain on the silence. All she seems able to hear now is the sound of his rough, ragged breathing. It’s a comforting rasp against her ears, a constant reassurance. She’s been training herself not to listen, to drown out the repetitive, infuriating sounds but...As she closes her eyes, letting herself waver for just a moment, a moment none of them notice save him, she lets the soft, rhythmic sounds of his heartbeat.

His eyes are still on her, watching her face, her movements, wondering at them. She knows how she appears, how cold, how withdrawn and disconnected, it certainly is a marvel, Nesta Archeron willingly helping another but. Something tugs in her chest at that, like a cord tied to her rib that he gently plucks. Unable to help herself, unsure if he was aware of what he was doing, she looks up at him, sees the reproach in his eyes, as though he knows exactly what she’s just thought and felt and as though...As though he can’t bear her pain any more than she can bear his.

At last, she ties the bandage off and watches him flex his fingers, testing it. She stuffs the rest of the bandages into her basket without looking at him. The intimacy of what they’ve just done is shuddering through her like a storm, even as a part of her aches as she withdraws from him.

When she made to pull back though, he reached out with his other hand, wrapping it around her fingers, gently but firmly, stopping her from withdrawing. Compelled by something deeper and stronger than even her own stubborn will, she slowly raises her eyes to meet his again.

Only once she’s looking at him does he murmur the words, “Thank you.” They’re hoarse, stripped and raw from the battle he’s endured but she feels them, feels the weight of his gratitude slam into her through the bond.

He is the one who cares for others, the one who places himself between them and anything that may hurt them. He is the shield to guard them against the horrors of this world, the pillar that they lean upon when the weight of their ghosts becomes too much to bear alone. He is the one who binds their injuries, without ever letting them see his own.

She understands where that thank you comes from, how deeply into his soul he dug to drag it from himself and she can’t pull away from him. Her hand softens in his, fitting with him as though her hands were made for this, to help him, to hold him, to bind them to each other.

The barbed words that have so often come so easily to her to distance them, to push him away, to maintain the every crumbling semblance of the boundaries between them won’t come. They get stuck in her throat and instead she finds herself simply looking at him. The armour that encases him, scaled like those beasts on the thrones in the Court of Nightmares. The size of him, how strange it feels to look down on this male she’s so used to towering over her, even if she’s only taller by a bare inch standing while he sits. Her eyes skim over the strong lines of his neck, the only skin visible with the armour. Then to his wings, tucked in tight to his body but still magnificent.

Her eyes at last find his, the intense hazel, the depth of emotion in them that, even with the bond, she struggles to fully read. The intensity of it nearly sends her to her knees but she stands firm before it, a blade slicing through a storm, hypnotised by him.

His thumb scrapes gently over the back of her hand and the feeling, the roughness of his calluses against the softness of her skin, grounds her. At last she opens her mouth, intending to murmur a soft ‘You’re welcome’ if she can get the words out past the tightness in her throat.

She never finds out if she can. Instead they’re interrupted by Mor’s concerned voice, “You’re hurt?”

Cassian rises quickly, pulling his hand from hers and turning to look at Mor, seizing on her distraction to shatter the tension that had been cresting between them, that neither of them had known how to handle. “Nothing for you to cry over, don’t worry,” he tosses out at Mor.

She can picture the easy smile on his face as she looks away from her. She glances down instead, examining her empty hand, letting her fingers curl gently around the ghost of his, wishing it was still there within hers.

Setting her jaw she snatches the empty pitcher she had used to clean Cassian’s hands. Remembering suddenly that Feyre and Rhys were there she mutters a hasty excuse to them about fetching more water from the tent she strides off.

As she does she finds herself grateful for Mor’s timely interruption, the perfect excuse it had given her not to reply to him, to draw away and leave. She spends a long time in the tent, far longer than she needs to to collect water, braced over the bench, trembling.

She has no idea what happened tonight, with Cassian, why she would let herself become so vulnerable with him. She has no idea what to do with these feelings, why she can still feel that pull to him. She has no idea how to stop her hands from shaking when even clenching them into tight fists. She has no idea how to come to terms with the fact that she’s falling in love with Cassian, with her mate. And that the more he softens her, the more he exposes her...The more he seems to fall in love with her, too.

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the-noodle-king · 7 years

Photo

All of Panacea’s non-legendary skins (to date) as well as his ability icons.

And under the cut, a very detailed character bio, featuring backstory, ability summaries and some stat numbers I worked out because I really wanted this character to feel balanced and fleshed out.

Real Name: Cole Moniker

Alias: Panacea

Age: 33 as of Overwatch’s Recall (D.O.B. 29th of April 2042)

Occupation: Field Medic

Base of Operations: Thompson, Manitoba, Canada

Affiliation: Talon

Backstory: The most adept field-medic currently working with the terrorist group Talon, Panacea maintains the organisations mercenaries in exchange for watching a world which wronged him burn.

As a young man, Cole Moniker enrolled in the Canadian military much to his decorated mother’s elation, and after 9 years of exemplary service he saw himself frequently serving both as a front line soldier and front line medic.

Set to marry his childhood crush and boyfriend of 10 years, Cole was ecstatic to near the end of his final front line excursion before the wedding, until he heard news of the omnic uprising in his home city, sparked by the similar incident in London only a week earlier. He returned not home, but to a new war zone, covered in blood and fire.

After he found his parents burnt remains in the ruins of his childhood home, he clawed his way through the rubble of his own apartment building desperate for some sign of his fiancé, and when he found no such sign, he vanished, never to report back to a military commander again. Some believe Cole died in the city, fighting omnic rebels or crushed by debris, and Panacea would likely agree that he did.

Driven by grief and anger, Cole spent some time gunning down omnic settlements until he was eventually found by Talon, who had taken a keen interest in his military record and particular medical skills. The group found him especially easy to win over, taking little to convince him of joining beyond a promise of ammunition and targets to shoot at.

Personality: Though still infrequently plagued by the horrors of his recent past, 7 years has seen his old self reemerge somewhat; beneath a well preserved layer of cold detachment and professional efficiency, he enjoys humour once more, often making light of serious situations with jokes and hearty laughter.

His humour is often flirty, though anyone flirting back will quickly shut him down and he will devolve into stuttering and apologies; when dealing with omnics his mood can still sour, even though he claims to have moved past his hatred, this is mostly seen through the dark-natured “jokes” he sends their ways.

Role: Support

Playstyle: Aggressive / Offensive

Hit Points: 200 total, 175 Health / 25 Armour

Primary Weapon: Custom Medic’s Rifle: A heavily modified version of a standard issue rifle from Cole’s service in the Canadian military.

Primary Attack: Fires a steady stream of bullets with a reasonably small, but consistent spread, which while not an issue against large or slow moving targets, can make hitting smaller or particularly quick ones more challenging.

Ammo: 50

Shots Per-Second: 12

Damage Per-Bullet: 9 at 0-20 meters, decreasing to 4 at 40 meters

Reload Time: 1.2 seconds

Able to Headshot: Yes

Ability 1: Burst Heal: Rapidly heal yourself and allies in the immediate vicinity for a small amount.

Healing (Self): 75 Hit Points

Healing (Allies): 50 Hit Points

Area of Effect: 3 meters (Area around Panacea)

Casting Time / Duration: 0.5 second animation which interrupts shooting and slows movement by 50%, healing occurs over 0.5 seconds and continues even if interrupted by a stun

Cooldown: 6 seconds from moment of use

Animation: Panacea strikes his chest harness with his left fist, then pale yellow gas is quickly vented from Panacea’s right arm and boots (Appearing red to enemies)

Voice Line (Self): “It’s good to *Laughs* vent sometimes”, “Needed to get that off my chest *Laughs*” Or “*Laughs* that tickled”

Voice Line (Healed Allies): “Something to tide you over”, “A quick top-up”, “Deep breaths”, “Breath deep now”, “Keep on keeping” Or “Take care, eh?”

Voice Line (Talon Allies): “I’ll patch you up”, “One more mission eh?”, “Keep on Reaping” (Reaper specific), “prends soin de toi, araignée (Take care, Spider)” (Widowmaker specific) Or “Los Muertos recuerdan (Los Muertos remembers / the dead remember)” (Sombra specific, only while wearing Neon Infiltrator)

Voice Line (Omnic Allies): “A quick fix”, “Deep breaths... or whatever”, “No loose wires”, “I’ve got your back... for now”

Ability 2: Enhanced Focus: Panacea draws on his military training to steady his hand and aim for his enemies’ weak points, increasing damage output and reducing bullet spread.

Damage Increase: 50% (Not applied to headshot damage)

Casting Time / Duration: 0.8 seconds animation, after which the damage buff lasts 5 seconds

Cooldown: 15 seconds from the end of the casting animation; the cooldown doesn’t begin if the ability is interrupted before it is cast

Animation: Rifle being adjusted and steadied before settling in a straighter line in front of Panacea’s view, after which the standard firing animation is less shaky until the ability wears off

Voice Line (If he gets a kill with Enhanced Focus): “It’s not personal” Or “A soldier is as a soldier does”

Voice Line (If killing an Enemy Omnic with Enhanced Focus): “Oeil pour oeil, eh?”, “*Soft laughter* Still love it...” Or “*Quietly* For Riley...”

Ability 3 / Secondary fire: Healing Charge: Fire a Healing Charge at an ally to quickly heal them for a significant amount, consuming an equal amount of Stored Healing Charge in the process.

Healing: 100 per use

Ammo Usage: 100 Stored Healing Charge per use

Aiming: Targeted Hitscan

Casting Time / Projectile Travel Time / Duration: 0.8 seconds to fire and then reach the target, healing occurs rapidly over 0.4 seconds

Can be Deflected: No

Stopped by Hack: No

Headshot: No

Cooldown: N/A

Animation: Similar to normal firing animation, but with a stronger upwards kick and a 0.3 second delay after use before normal firing resumes, each successive healing charge used adds 0.1 second to the delay

Additional Visual Effects: For every 100 points of Healing Charge Stored a light on the inner side of the rifle will light up (The parallel light on the outer side will also light up, indicating to allies that a charge is available)

Voice Line (Self and Allies upon firing): “Healing Incoming” Or if the recipient recently requested healing “Help is on the way”; after using more than 3 Charges on one hero, “Stop getting shot!” Or “I can’t keep up with this!”

Voice Line (Talon Allies): “Don’t die, eh?”, “Trying to make me look bad?”, “Try dodging the bullets next time”, “I’ve got your back”, “How’s my french now?” (Widowmaker specific), “Bienvenu!” (Widowmaker specific), “Any time, boss man” (Either Reaper or Doomfist)

Voice Line (If insufficient Charge): “Need more Charge”, “No Charges stored” Or “Almost ready!” (At 85-99% Charge)

Ultimate Ability: Military Efficiency: By overclocking his rifles capabilities Panacea can temporarily store an additional 6 healing charge uses, as well as accumulate Healing charge at a far greater rate.

Charge Gain Rate (Per Second): 15

Charge Gain Rate (Per Point of Damage Dealt): 5

Total Healing Charge Storage Capacity: 1000 Max Charge / 10 Uses of Healing Charge

Casting Time / Duration: 0.8 second starting animation, followed by 16 seconds of active ultimate time, ending with a 0.4 second animation before Ultimate charge resumes

Required Ultimate Charge: 1425

Animation: Starting animation is Panacea cocking the rifle back causing a pair of panels to open at either side of the rifles shoulder stock which each have 3 lights on them, filling respectively for Healing Charges 5 through 10, the ending animation is the rifle again being cocked back and the panels closing, though this is quicker

Voice Line (Self and Enemies): “Here comes the War-Medic!”

Voice Line (Allies): “Healing overclocked!”

Voice Line (Ultimate Charging / Almost Ready / Ultimate Ready): “Military Efficiency charging!”, “The War Medic is almost ready!”, “Prepared to Overclock” or “Military Efficiency is ready!”

Passive Ability: War-Medic: Cole’s rifle turns the power of shooting into healing charge, building more up as he does more damage.

Charge Gain Rate (Per Second): 3

Charge Gain Rate (Per Point of Damage Dealt): 1

Total Healing Charge Storage Capacity: 400 Max Charge / 4 Uses of Healing Charge

#overwatch oc #Panacea #Cole Moniker #character bio #overwatch abilities #Talon oc

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almostafantasia · 7 years

Text

sail with me to someplace new

clexa pirate au | chapter 5/13

Summary: When Clarke learns that her father’s trading ship has been attacked by pirates, she sets out on a daring rescue mission. The only problems – Jake could be being held prisoner anywhere in the Caribbean and Clarke has never sailed a ship before. To help save her father’s life, Clarke attempts to enlist the help of the notorious Captain Lexa Woods, a fearsome pirate who is just as broody and mysterious as she is unwilling to offer her assistance.

Read on AO3.

Lexa first spots the ship a few hours out of Nassau, an inconsequential black dot on the horizon that requires no more of her attention that any of the other neutral ships that she passes on a day to day basis. She ignores it and carries on with her duties as a captain.

The ship catches her attention a few hours later, now close enough for Lexa to be able to look at it through a telescope and discern some of its features. It’s a fairly big ship, a frigate with a wide hull and three towering masts, but from what Lexa can see through her looking glass, the crew is extremely small for a ship of its size, just a few tiny specks milling around on its deck.

Curiosity overwhelms Lexa – it’s not like she has any other plans at the moment other than to patrol the waters between Nassau and the northern coast of Cuba - and as the ship isn’t sailing under any flag, suggesting pirates, she decides to tail it to find out more.

Which is how she finds herself, a day and a half later and on the other side of a small storm, though still in much the same kind of waters, still following the ship but without much more of an idea who it belongs to or where they are going.

“They’re sailing like complete imbeciles,” Lexa shakes her head as the mainsail of the ship in the distance gets lowered, then raised, and then lowered again in the space of less than a minute. “They’ve been sailing around in a giant circle for a day and a half.”

Indra, Lexa’s first mate and most loyal of crew members, shakes her head and lets out a disgruntled huff of breath.

“Is Aden still keeping watch like I asked him to?” Lexa asks Indra.

“Yes, captain.”

Lexa uses a tiny flick of her head to gesture for Indra to take over the wheel. Stepping slightly to the side and cupping her hands around her mouth to amplify the sound, she bellows out a single word from deep within her lungs, the sound cutting through the air.

“Aden!”

A tiny blonde head emerges over the side of the crow’s nest, looking down at his captain, and Lexa raises a hand to beckon for him to come down.

Aden’s descent is a quick one. He’s been on this ship since he was a very young boy, trained by Lexa’s side since he was old enough to hold a sword, and his years of experience working on ship shows as he clambers down the rigging, almost monkey-like in his movements.

“Yes, captain?” he calls up to Lexa at the helm after he lands on the lower deck with the smallest of thuds.

“Tell me what you have seen.”

Aden runs up the stairs to the upper deck with as much energy as he would have if he hadn’t just made the strenuous climb down from the crow’s nest and salutes his captain obediently before giving his report.

“They’re not pirates,” he tells her, “but that’s all I can tell. Most likely not fishermen because they haven’t stopped for a catch yet. A trading boat perhaps.”

Lexa shakes her head slowly, dissatisfied with Aden’s suggestion.

“I don’t think so. They’re inexperienced sailors - that much I can tell from here. What have you seen of the crew?”

“There aren’t many of them,” recalls Aden. “There’s currently a woman at the helm. Dark hair, tanned skin, wooden leg.”

Not recognising the woman from Aden’s description, Lexa holds out her hand and says, “Give me that telescope.”

Accepting the telescope from Aden, Lexa raises it to her eyes and focuses it on the ship in the distance. They are close enough now that she can make out the individual crew members, just a few of them moving around on the deck. Just as Aden stated, the person stationed at the wheel is a woman, dark hair pushed back into a loose ponytail, leaning quite obviously on one good leg while the other shows a carved wooden peg emerging from the knee of her dark breeches. Though a small leather hat sits on top of her head to keep the sun out of her eyes, she is dressed just as the rest of her crew and Lexa is almost certain that this girl is not the captain.

Lexa turns her head slightly, scanning the other visible members of the crew for either a captain or for some indication of the purpose of this ship, and to her complete surprise, she spots a familiar figure climbing the stairs to the helm. An unpleasant chill slowly trickles down Lexa’s spine from her hairline on the back of her neck to the base of her back.

“It’s that damn girl again!” Lexa fumes, keeping the telescope firmly against the socket of her eye as she watches the blonde eavesdropper from the tavern in Nassau take up position beside the dark-haired girl at the wheel. “She’s going to lead them all straight to their deaths!”

Lowering the telescope, Lexa steps forward to the railing that overlooks the ship’s main deck and barks out an order to the crew that work dutifully below.

“Make full sail towards that ship!”

From the wheel behind her, Indra’s voice pipes up in concern.

“Captain, what are you doing?”

Lexa turns around swiftly, her coat sweeping around her ankles as she strides back over to where Indra and Aden stand.

“Saving their lives,” she answers simply, her forehead creased in a concentrated frown.

“But you said it yourself,” Indra reminds her, a pleading edge to her voice. “They’re just idiots.”

“Idiots that are going to make my life a hell of a lot harder if Nia catches up to them.” When Indra’s expression remains blank, Lexa elaborates, “They’re looking for her. If they find her, she’ll kill them, but if she finds them first…”

Lexa trails off, shaking her head gently and not even wanting to imagine the kind of fate that the blonde girl and her incompetent crew could meet if Nia learns about them, the very thought of her archenemy bringing back painful memories that are just as raw now as they were two years ago.

“Enough!” Lexa raises her voice, and though she says it more to stop the dreadful thoughts that threaten to plague her mind, it does the job of startling Indra into silence too. “We sail after them.”

When she climbs the stairs to the helm, Clarke doesn’t expect Raven to greet her with an immediate burden of bad news.

“We’re being followed,” Raven tells Clarke.

Having taken an exhausting overnight shift at the helm to steer them through the outskirts of a storm, Lincoln, possibly the only one who can have any idea what to do in this situation to evade the ship that gains distance on them from behind, is fast asleep in a hammock two floors below them.

“Pirates?” Clarke asks fearfully, certain that she already knows that answer to that particular question.

“Pirates,” Raven nods in confirmation. “I’ve got Jasper up in the crow’s nest to keep an eye on them but I can see from here that they’re catching up with us. It won’t be long before they draw alongside us.”

Clarke glances over her shoulder at the ominous presence of the ship not too far behind them, both an impressive and a fear-inducing sight with its white sails all arched from the mast as the ships sails at its maximum speed.

“How do you know they’re tailing us?” Clarke questions Raven, not yet willing to quell the last morsels of hope from deep within. “They could just be sailing in this direction, same as us.”

“I’m pretty certain that I saw the same ship not too far behind us a couple of days ago.”

“Which means that they followed us through the storm,” Clarke concludes depressingly. She lets out a long groan and then turns to look at Raven again. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

Raven shakes her head entirely unconvincingly.

“The best case scenario is that they jump on board and steal the rest of our food supply, forcing us to stop at the nearest port to restock,” she tells Clarke.

“And the worst case scenario?” Clarke dares to ask, fairly certain that she doesn’t want to know that answer but deciding to ask anyway.

“They jump on board and kill us one at a time, long and slow and painful.”

Clarke grimaces at Raven’s words, concluding rather suddenly that dying as a result of cannon fire destroying the ship sounds more pleasant that Raven’s option. Her eyes widen as the thought crosses her mind – never did she think that she would be working out which cause of death at the hand of pirates would be the most preferable.

“Give me your telescope,” Clarke says to Raven, extending a hand with an open palm. “Let me at least take a look at their crew. We can plan our course of action.”

The fingers of one hand remaining firmly clasped around a spoke of the ship’s wheel, Raven reaches for her belt with the other and extracts the brass telescope from its leather pouch. She offers it out to Clarke, who extends it out to its maximum magnification and raises it to her eye.

“There’s a lot of them,” Clarke admits, her heart sinking as she scans the deck of the boat and sees it swarming with men. “At least twice as many as we’ve got, maybe more, and that’s just on the deck.”

She changes the positioning of the telescope, scanning around blindly for a couple of seconds until she finally manages to focus on the helm, where a young blonde boy and a heavily armoured woman with a steely frown stand on either side of…

“Wait! It’s her!” Clarke hisses angrily, glaring even through the telescope at the familiar face of the pirate with whom Clarke had an encounter in the dark alleys of Nassau, “The Commander!”

Raven’s head jerks up at Clarke’s words, a quizzical frown on her face.

“Seriously?” she asks, as if she doesn’t quite believe what Clarke is saying.

“Yes!” Clarke insists. Lowering the telescope from her eye and turning back to Raven, Clarke continues demandingly, “Drop anchor, now!”

Raven does her best to protest, keeping both hands on the wheel to keep the ship under control, even as she raises her voice at Clarke.

“Clarke, she held a knife to your throat!” Raven reminds her, shaking her head in a refusal to follow Clarke’s orders. “How do you know she isn��t going to kill all of us?”

“I just do, okay,” Clarke replies stubbornly, folding her arms across her chest with a glare on her face that she knows from experience rarely works on Raven, though she decides to try anyway.

“Clarke…” Raven whines, her eyes looking at Clarke with a look that says something along the lines of are you seriously doing this right now?

Clarke hasn’t yet decided what she’s going to do when Lexa does catch up to their ship. Having turned down a request for help once already, there’s no guarantee that she wouldn’t do exactly the same if Clarke were to ask her again – besides, two days out of Nassau, Clarke isn’t entirely sure that she either wants or needs Lexa’s help any more. Yet there is definitely something about the Commander that leaves Clarke feeling both unsettled and intrigued, and if Raven is right that Lexa has been tailing their ship for a while now, Clarke can’t help but be a little bit curious about what it is that she wants from Clarke.

“Raven,” Clarke pleads desperately. “She’s been following us for two days and she hasn’t killed us yet. Trust me, please.”

Clarke can see the doubt cross Raven’s face, but she also knows that Raven will give in eventually, just the same as Clarke would if it were Raven asking her a huge favour. It’s what best friends do.

Letting out a long sigh, Raven rolls her eyes and turns to look out over the deck of the ship before her, shouting out, “All hands on deck! We’re dropping anchor!”

Clarke walks over to Raven, reaching out with her hand to give Raven’s fingers a little squeeze of thanks where they curl around the spoke of the wheel, before she leaves to prepare for the incoming encounter with Captain Lexa Woods.

With the sails no longer carrying them across the ocean and the anchor tethered to the sea bed keeping them floating in the same place, the other ship catches up with them in a matter of minutes. It’s not really enough time for Clarke to collect her thoughts well enough to know exactly what she’s going to say to Lexa, but it doesn’t matter because Lexa is off on another rage-fuelled rant almost before her second foot has touched the deck of Clarke’s ship.

“You, again!” she roars at Clarke, striding over with two of her burliest men standing at each shoulder in a protective guard. “Did I not make myself clear when we met before?”

“You did,” Clarke answers, defiantly facing up to her with much more bravery than their encounter in the alleyway in Nassau, now that she knows that Lexa most likely isn’t looking to harm her. “You said that you wouldn’t help me rescue my father. So I found some people who would.”

The vein in Lexa’s temple throbs and her eyes widen for just the briefest moment,

“You’re going to get yourself killed. Who is your captain?”

Clarke considers the question thoughtfully because they’ve never actually formally appointed a captain. Lincoln, with the greatest knowledge and experience of sailing has unofficially taken charge of the practical side of this adventure, plotting out their course and doing much of the difficult work at the helm, with Raven and a couple of his own associates helping out when he needs a break. But Lincoln is currently asleep in the depths of the ship, and this is a mission to rescue Clarke’s father – her ideas, her friends making up most of the crew, her rescue mission – so perhaps she’s technically in more control than Lincoln is.

“I am,” Clarke replies, with a hint of a challenge in her voice. She straightens her spine, pushing her shoulders back a little to puff out her chest, and lifts her chin to minimise the height difference between the two of them.

“Lies!” Lexa snarls at Clarke. “You’ve never sailed a ship before in your life!”

“We’ve got this far!” Clarke argues back, gesturing around them with her arms.

Lexa’s eye roll is so dramatic that Clarke wonders for a moment if it might actually capsize the ship.

“This far is barely out of Nassau,” she tells Clarke with a scalding tone. “You’ve been sailing in circles for days. You’re incompetent and a danger to the rest of us who sail these waters. I order you to return to Nassau at once.”

“No.”

Lexa’s eyes widen in surprise, almost as if she hadn’t doubted the fact that Clarke would submit and follow her orders. But Clarke isn’t one of Lexa’s crew, nor is she one of the many other crews that follow Lexa’s command, and she isn’t going to give up just because one pirate captain tells her to.

“I beg your pardon?” Lexa asks, her voice barely a growl.

“You’re not my captain,” Clarke reminds her, the very corners of her mouth pushing up into an impudent little smirk, “and you certainly aren’t my commander.”

Lexa takes a step closer to Clarke, squaring off against her with only a few inches between their faces. Clarke holds her gaze as determinedly as she can, her eyes flicking from left to right and back again between both of Lexa’s green orbs.

“Your insolence is going to get you into lots of trouble one day,” Lexa says, her voice barely audible but full of threatening undertones. “I just hope for both our sakes that you don’t find Nia.”

An idea pops into Clarke’s mind, an idea that is beyond stupid, but with nothing to lose and knowing that Lexa isn’t going to cause her any harm, she decides to voice it aloud anyway.

“If the way that my crew is sailing this ship offends you so much, why don’t you help us?” Clarke suggests, raising her eyebrows at Lexa. “We find Nia and rescue my father, and I promise I’ll return to Nassau and never set foot on a boat ever again.”

“Absolutely not,” Lexa shakes her head. “I told you last time, I’m not going anywhere near Nia.”

“Why not? Are you scared of her?” Clarke knows that she’s deliberately riling Lexa up, and she can tell that it’s working when Lexa’s shoulders stiffen and her jaw clenches in an attempt to ensure that she doesn’t lash out at Clarke. But Clarke decides to take it one step further, adding, “Maybe she should be the one everybody calls the Commander, not you.”

In the blink of an eye, Lexa steps forward and grabs Clarke by the collar of her shirt. Pulling so hard that Clarke actually worries that the fabric of the shirt might rip in the Commander’s fist, their faces are just inches apart as Lexa spits her next words at Clarke.

“Listen here, you stay far away from Nia. She will kill you and it won’t be pretty.” As an afterthought, Lexa adds, “And stay away from me too.”

Clarke stumbles as Lexa releases her grip on Clarke’s shirt. Steadying her footing, Clarke straightens her ruffled clothing and then raises a single eyebrow at Lexa, Clarke says, “I’m not scared of Nia and I’m definitely not scared of you.”

“You should be,” Lexa snarls, before she turns on her heels and strides back to her own ship.

“Wow,” Octavia exhales, staring out at Lexa’s retreating back with a mildly impressed expression on her face. “She’s quite something.”

Clarke shakes her head. There’s just something about the Commander and her brief visit that unsettles Clarke deep within the pit of her stomach.

“I don’t know,” Clarke says, scowling after Lexa as the pirate captain returns to the helm of her ship and takes the wheel, bellowing instructions out to her crew as the ship slowly starts to drift away from their borrowed frigate. “I don’t understand her at all. She has to have known that we wouldn’t just turn around and go back home again, not after all the effort we’ve put in to get here.”

Raven’s approach is signalled by the mismatched footsteps that get gradually closer behind them, the heavy thud of her boot alternating with the sound of her peg hitting the wooden boards of the deck.

“So I just had an interesting conversation with one of her crew,” Raven starts, a meaningful expression on her face as her eyes flit between Clarke and Octavia.

Her curiosity piqued, Clarke presses Raven for more.

“About what?”

“All it needed was a bit of my feminine charm and he told me exactly where Nia hides out,” Raven says, before continuing, her voice laced with meaning, “Isla de los Tormentos.”

“Really?” Clarke’s eyes widen at this new piece of information. Though they are physically no closer to finding her father – Clarke’s knowledge of the geography of the Caribbean is basic at best and she’s never heard of this island before – having the name of a place where they might be able to find him fills Clarke with an invigorated sense of hope for their journey ahead. “Go and wake Lincoln. I need him to chart a route there at once.”

“Clarke,” Raven implores, resting a hand on Clarke’s arm as she looks at Clarke with a pleading expression on her face. “The island of torment. Are you sure?”

Clarke nods, not a shred of doubt in her mind. The name of Nia’s hideout does nothing to deter Clarke, nor does Lexa’s warning fresh in her mind about what Nia will do to them if she finds them before they find her. Clarke knows that this is what she must do – for her father’s sake.

“It’s where we’ll find Nia and it’s where we’ll find my dad and Octavia’s brother.”

Clarke’s words have the desired effect – Octavia nods determinedly beside her, then says, “I’ll wake Lincoln.”

#clexa #clexa fanfic #clarke griffin #commander lexa #pirate au #swmtsn #almostafantasia

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celticnoise · 6 years

Link

Thankfully, the countdown to the football season re-starting is well under way and Celtic should come out with all guns blazing.

This has been a long one. It’s felt like a close-season at times.

The team have sunned themselves in Dubai and not played any games, which should have the players champing at the bit to get back onto the pitch.

Much has been said about other team’s acquisitions and how they can get close to Celtic in the league but having had the much needed break, Celtic should have enough in the current squad to maintain or, in fact, increase their lead in their quest for a seventh title on the trot.

Yes we need new recruits to liven it up and everyone is hanging on to Brendan’s every word regarding the revolving door. This will no doubt play out over the next two weeks. But Celtic has and will continue to do their business behind closed doors.

We do not engage with PR companies or the rags in order to fill their pages with puff pieces; which is frustrating for them and can be for us as fans.

In this day and age, information is king.

I get that.

I want Celtic to be announcing the next signing as of yesterday but this stuff requires patience. To my eyes, Compper was brought in to steady the ship domestically for now, with most fans concerned at lack of spending in defence. Morgan is self-explanatory really – before the t’s were crossed and the I’s dotted everyone and their granny knew he was headed back to St. Mirren.

But I’d prefer to be getting the right information at the right time.

The mainstream media once had Erik Sviatchencko valued by English sides at £7m and £8m and lo and behold he’s gone back to his previous club on loan. Laughable really, but that was the point of the exercise for the hacks.

Fans of other clubs seem to think that Celtic feed this information to the press, which is utter bullshit. I know there are people at Celtic Park who wouldn’t weep if every hack in the land was starving to death. Does anyone seriously buy this guff?

You know, and I knew that at best the big man would fetch £2m.

In terms of matches – we’ve got ten SPFL League matches to shove the theories of “getting close” right up their arses, six of which are at home. I want to see Celtic return to the form they showed last season and start winning games at home and handsomely – and with aplomb. Stop drawing at home and the lead will stretch.

Questions are being asked of our Europa League ambitions. If I’m honest I think we’re lacking here. I’ve mixed emotions about it. Yes, I’d love us to go far but can we cope with the amount of games and still win a treble?

Hopefully Dembele returns to form should he not be off to Brighton or whoever for £20m – not my figure but the media’s. His impact last year was of course brilliant but injuries have plagued the France U21 player and he’s struggled to hit the form we’re accustomed to.

There’ve been times where I’ve questioned Rodgers’ decision to drop Griffiths too. The strike force needs to be settled which it hasn’t been and in the main, Griffiths has suffered for it. Edouard despite his blistering hat-trick versus Motherwell early December is still raw and should be used sparingly. For me the battle should be two-way instead of three.

My biggest concern, however, is the form of Scotty Sinclair. Despite his goal haul (for which I’m thankful) he’s definitely went off the boil. Yes teams are doubling up on him at times but tactically we should know how to cope. There appears to be a lack of confidence in going one-on-one despite Sinclair having pace to burn.

I don’t think for a minute that it is a lack of trying.

I genuinely think that we can crack on to do a double treble if we fix the chinks in the armour. I don’t subscribe to the theory that teams are wise to the high pressing game we play. I said before the break that we were lacklustre and tired. To do this for 90 minutes requires extreme strength and stamina. Liverpool was rightly lauded for it against Man City the other night. It takes huge effort.

Against Sevco, the normally dynamic Armstrong looked as if he was towing a caravan at times. Brown looked as if he was a one-man midfield that day. We’ve plenty to choose from in the midfield department and I’m going to put my neck on the line by saying that Ntcham will scoop the Young Player of the Year award should he keep his place. James Forrest, should he continue his excellent form, will be the leading contender for the Player of the Year.

I’m anticipating that we field a full first team against Brechin on Saturday to get the momentum going again and put a barrel-load by them before travelling to Firhill on Tuesday.

Let’s send the message out that we’re back and with a bang.

Gavin McCann cannot wait for the resumption of hostilities ….

If you’re on Facebook, and you’re not already a member, please come along and join The CelticBlog page, the best Celtic fan group out there at this link.

http://ift.tt/2rfihAt

#CelticNoise #Celtic #CelticFC #TheCelticBlog #News

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bforbookslut · 7 years

Text

Review: 99 Days by Katie Cotugno

I have given this book ☆☆. 372 pages. It belongs to the Young Adult Contemporary genre. Balzer + Bray published it. The synopsis reads: “Day 1: Julia Donnelly eggs my house my first night back in Star Lake, and that’s how I know everyone still remembers everything—how I destroyed my relationship with Patrick the night everything happened with his brother, Gabe. How I wrecked their whole family. Now I’m serving out my summer like a jail sentence: Just ninety-nine days till I can leave for college, and be done.

Day 4: A nasty note on my windshield makes it clear Julia isn’t finished. I’m expecting a fight when someone taps me on the shoulder, but it’s just Gabe, home from college and actually happy to see me. “For what it’s worth, Molly Barlow,” he says, “I’m really glad you’re back.”

Day 12: Gabe got me to come to this party, and I’m actually having fun. I think he’s about to kiss me—and that’s when I see Patrick. My Patrick, who’s supposed to be clear across the country. My Patrick, who’s never going to forgive me.”

[contains spoilers]

This is possibly the longest review I’ve written yet.

“He was my best friend. He was my first love. I had sex with his big brother. I broke his fucking heart.”

You might consider the statement a spoiler but I don’t.

Let’s get it out of the way. I wanted to love 99 Days and I wanted to write a review raving about how it’s such a great book and it really made me excited and feel all sorts of things (Anna and the French Kiss wrecked me, ya’ll). But, as I sat down to write the review: I felt empty.

Let me give you a quick rundown of what 99 Days is about. Molly Barlow ran away from the very, very small town of Salt Lake a year ago because her mom told the entire world Molly’s great big secret (having sex with Gabe was the big secret, ya’ll) and the whole town was against her. But, now she’s back for the summer before she goes off to Boston for college.

I was very, very drawn in by the synopsis. There was so much potential in it, so much angst and self-discovery and patched-up relationships and happy people.

But, it soon descended into a strange mess.

Let’s all address the very-obvious-not-doing-a-good-job-of-hiding elephant in the room. Molly Barlow is a cheater. And given some family history, I don’t take lightly to cheaters. First, she cheats on Patrick by sleeping with Gabe. DURING THE FIVE SECONDS THAT THEY’RE BROKEN UP. Fine. I’ll accept it. It’s in the technicalities, after all. But, Molly swoops back into the town like the fucking plague and does it all over again. She cheats on Gabe and Patrick, also a cheater and although he got his heart broken by cheating, finds it absolutely fine to cheat on his girlfriend, Tess. Because he’s so desperately in love with Molly.

She could have said no. She could have put on her big girl pants.

The worst part is that Molly feels no remorse for cheating.

She ran because she was the town pariah. And she’s constantly running because she’s afraid of what other people would think of her not because she can’t face her feelings. She doesn’t even acknowledge hurting everyone around her, for breaking their trust and basically just turning their lives upside down. She hurt her best friend by running away and going radio silent but turns up in town and expects Imogen to talk to her again like nothing happened? Fuck that. I’d be pissed too.

And it’s strange enough that BOTH Donnelly brothers are into her. How I wish I had brothers fighting over me. Yet, there was absolutely no chemistry between Molly and either of the brothers. Their supposedly steamy and stolen moments felt clinical, as if someone was describing the sex act in the worst way possible. I felt absolutely nothing.

And neither Gabe nor Patrick is truly likeable. Gabe’s supposed to be some smooth-talking hottie and Patrick is the angsty, emo brother but neither of them are developed enough to show it. All I can think about is Gabe swooping in like some fucking knight in shining armour and “rescuing” Molly from her social exile and basically badgering her into a relationship. And, Patrick seemed to be a very flat and boring picture from what Molly has told us of his past. He just broods. There’s only so much brooding that can happen before he goes from sexy to a pain in the ass. And apparently, both brothers were in love with her since forever but there’s not enough history shown to prove it. It’s all Molly’s word and right now, I don’t trust her very much.

And not to mention, while Molly was at boarding school, she never tried to change her life around, make things better for herself. She just moped. And complained. And sulked.

On that, we all have family members who make us want to rage against the world. But what mother takes their daughter’s secret, turns it into a novel and then tells the fucking world about it? Fine, writers draw inspiration from everywhere but did she not think about what it would do to Molly’s life?

And, after all these ugly messes and drama, the ending is the worst. After 99 days of ugliness, it was completely unresolved. Once again, Molly runs from her problems, leaving shit everywhere in her wake. She’s ruined a friendship with Tess, she’s ruined Patrick forever, she’s fucked up her relationship with Julia Donnelly, her OG best friend and I don’t even think she’s fully resolved things with her mother. She just runs off to Boston when her roommate tells her that:

“It’s easy to forget that your hometown isn’t the entire universe”.

Apparently Gabe seems to be okay with her cheating on him. And apparently the brothers were competing for her. Seriously what does this girl have? A magical vagina? I hardly doubt that. Patrick hasn’t even had sex with her.

Molly Barlow is a toxic person.

There are three reasons why I gave this two stars despite how empty it made me feel.

1. I actually can relate to Molly’s position. It’s easy enough to say, Molly, don’t do it, be a big girl. But, I was in the same situation as Molly where I was given the choice not to repeat my mistake, but I did. I was the other woman. I was the one he cheated on her with. And I was fine with it. I hoped he would dump her for me. Clearly, not my best big girl decision. And I think definitely that this is what Katie was trying to get at. That we do make the same mistakes twice and it gets uglier each time. And sometimes, there’s just no fixing what already went wrong; we just have to keep moving forward and leave the past where it belongs.

2. There is some semblance of trying to address the whole issue surrounding girls getting all the blame for cheating and getting called a slut. As both Gabe and Tess puts it, it takes two to cheat and at any time, one of them could have said no. In Malay, there is a saying that goes something like “bagai bertepuk sebelah tangan” which roughly translates to, like clapping with one hand which means that both are responsible. And I reward that good effort.

3. Katie Cotugno writes like a charm. It felt incredibly real and raw, all the ugliness and drama right up in your face. I was glued to the book and couldn’t put it down. I finished it in a day. KC has this way of writing with lines like [show examples] that just makes it very real, like Molly is your friend and she’s telling you all these details. It’s like talking to a friend; you get sucked right in. It’s also very, very vivid. Plus, she brings some sage advice like

“Why are you going to let people who are hell-bent on not forgiving you keep you from something that could actually be great?”

But I think that’s the only one.

There are other plusses that aren’t even worth mentioning.

I requested an ARC for KC’s new book, “Top Ten”. I hope it goes way better than this.

Enough people on Goodreads share my opinions. But I’d like to hear yours too! Did 99 Days bother you as much as it did me? Did you feel like the town of Salt Lake was an absolute trainwreck? Did you find that any of the characters were remotely redeemable? Come into my inbox~!

#book review #booklr #99 days #katie cotugno #bookish #young adult #young adult contemporary #twostars

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sterlinghamilton · 7 years

Text

The Four

This is a small concept script for a video game regarding the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse I did one day for fun. It was the first script I ever did but I enjoyed writing it. It is about a man in a dying world taking on a self gratifying quest to collect strange items for a major company in order to collect the prize of food.

THE FOUR

FADE UP:

EXT. CITY – MORNING.

Scans over a decrepit city landscape. Clouds cover the sky, there is a sense of doom in the picture. Buildings are held together well but the streets are littered with broken down cars, crumbles of walls, broken windows. Nature is beginning to creep into the city; vines are growing along cracks in walls, flowers have sprung up from the broken pavement and roads. A distant cry of a crow echoes over a street as the camera pans over the area, it flies up and disappears out of the corner of the screen. The title silently materializes over the picture.

INT. A SINGLE BEDROOM APARTMENT - DAY

An old brown couch rests against the far wall where a television plays in front, the voice of a news reporter in a low hum. The window is open a crack and the crow from before lands on the windowsill and the rustle of his feathers wakes the man sleeping on the flat mattress on the floor. TANNER (20s) lets out a low grunt as he opens his turquoise eyes for the first time, pupils contracting from the window light. He is unkempt and unshaven, a mess of light brown hair obscuring much of his face. Shifting, he leans onto the T.V. remote at his side hitting the "up" arrow on the volume though he doesn’t seem to mind the noise. Sitting up, he gives his head a scratch.

T.V. REPORTER And in other news, mass food shortages on the East Coast have caused major concern amongst residents as random terror attacks on supply caravans continue. The Company is now reaching out to the public...

Tanner stands as the camera pans behind him. He walks to his pantry and opens it, sifting through the shelves and empty cans hoping to find one that isn’t, but only manages to knock the empty ones to the ground. Tanner sighs and bends to pick them up.

TANNER Right. Guess I’m eating out.

Tanner makes his way out of his apartment and into the hall, a run down row of suites. The ones with doors are splintered and painted over lazily or marked with obscene graffiti and the ones without expose their tenants as sleeping on bare mattresses or tattered sheets.

EXT. CITY STREET - DAY

He walks down the steps of the building and views the street. There are a few barricades set up outside of alleys, posters flutter in the breeze and one flies off and tumbles down the street. Tanner begins to walk, the more he walks the more the city is laid out for him. There are walls to climb, stores with broken windows. He goes towards one but there is no food. He sighs and continues on, picking up random things to put away for later.

RANDOM STRANGER I can’t believe there isn’t any food! My daughter is going to starve!

Walks by, not paying attention to Tanner.

TANNER Gotta find food soon...

Continues walking, trying to find anything around. RANDOM KID Runs down the street towards Tanner and the civilians of the city that wander the street. All are dressed in regular clothes but the signs of starvation, lack of personal care have begun to show signs. Their clothes are tattered in some places, their hair messy, marks of dirt on their bodies. Hallowed cheeks are a more common indication of who has been more successful with finding food.

The kid (10) is wearing a faded red shirt and dirty brown shorts, his knees are bandaged up and there is a small knife hanging from his belt. A truck got through! A truck is coming! Everyone looks up, shocked, and hurry towards the drop off zone. TANNER Follows the crowd to the drop off point where a single large beat up truck is slowly backing up, each BEEP rings loudly and the people that have gathered are pressing against the city limit gates. The men in uniform that act as the guards that watch the gate are telling people to back up, that there is enough food for everyone. The loud BEEPING stops and Tanners heart beat can be heard, each one drawing out another second that passes.

TANNER God, it’s been days since I’ve eaten.

The door to the truck opens and crates of food are shown. Everyone shouts as they push to get to the front. Tanner hangs back. The crowd isn’t large enough to go through everything that is there.

EXT. CITY STREET – CONTINUOUS

Footsteps are seen and the camera pans out to a sizeable group of MEN in tattered clothing with self made armour run at full speed towards the crowd of hungry people. The crowd regards them, but don’t do anything until the men pull out weapons. Screams fall from the crowd as the guards rush through, people either run at the truck to grab food before the gang can get to it or begin to run away from the whole thing.

TANNER You’ve got to be kidding me.

One gang member raises his weapon and swings, but Tanner dodges it and grabs his arm, a quick twist causes the man to dislocate his shoulder as Tanner grabs up the iron bar for his own protection.

TANNER – CONT’D. Like hell I’m going another day hungry.

He turns towards the gang, they are attacking guards and random civilians. Choosing not to stick his nose in a dangerous situation, he turns towards the truck and the mission to get his share of food is now on. Running forward he ducks under a blow from a baseball bat and trips over a fallen figure. Stumbling into another guy, Tanner finds himself in a middle of a fight that he just wants to get out of. Using the iron bar, he swings at a gang member, clocking him in the jaw. The sound of the man’s pain blurts out as the man falls to the ground and Tanner hurries away from the other.

TANNER – CONT’D. Jesus does the fighting ever stop?

Gets to the gate and falls against it, viewing the situation at hand. The gang wins as more civilians run instead of fighting. The handful of guards on duty are overwhelmed. Tanner sneaks around the entrance of the gate. The door to the truck is still open, crates had been ripped apart by the civilians who ran to the truck before going to safety. Fingers reach towards the loaf of bread sticking out from a crate, Tanner’s fingertips brush against the rough texture. Suddenly the wind picks up and a bright spotlight shines down on the area. Tanner looks up, mouth agape. SOLDIER Within the helicopter that had descended over the fight, one of the SOLDIERS shouts through a mega phone at the group.

SOLDIER Drop your weapons!

SOLDIERS in full combat gear jump out of the open doors of the helicopter and another flies overhead, blocking the exit down the street. Soldiers fly down from ropes attached to the helicopter and guns are pointed at everyone. The Company will be confiscating all items of conflict! TANNER Stops reaching towards the bread when the truck shakes. Wires shoot out of the helicopter and hook the top of the truck with grapple like hooks. The truck is dragged from from the area as the soldiers close in.

TANNER No no no no!

Tanner looks around, not wanting to be taken in by the authority figures. He sees an opening between soldiers and gang members and makes a run for it.

SOLDIER Hey!

TANNER Makes an escape through an alley and keeps running until he’s around the corner. Bends over, catching his breath.

TANNER Shit! Son of a bitch!

Turns and kicks over a trash can.

TANNER - CON’T Shit! Shit! Shit!

Stomps on it repeatedly. Stops, panting, falls against the brick wall a hand runs down his face.

TANNER - CON’T What am I supposed to do? At this rate I won’t eat for the next week... I’m going to starve.

Stands up straight and pushes himself to walk forward, Continues down the alley towards another street.

TANNER - CONT’D. There isn’t much to do, might as well wander.

INT. STRANGER’S HOME - NIGHT

A TV is on, playing the only station that continues to work. The feed fades in and out, but the message is clear.

NEWS REPORTER Gang attacks continue to plague our cities, there is no distinct gangs out there to blame. But because of this, The Company has decided to contact the citizens of the US directly. Here is the message...

Static follows and suddenly a figure in a black business jacket appears. He looks well put together, clean.

BUSINESS MAN Dear citizens of our country. The waves of attacks will not stop us from building a new empire out of the old. But our concern is the food crisis. What we want you to understand is that we are looking out for you and we will continue to devote our efforts to make this country safe. However...

He leans forward towards the screen.

BUSINESS MAN - CON’T We are posting a job with excellent rewards for anyone who is able to fulfill it. Within unknown cities across the country a misplaced item of is in need of locating. The item in question is very important to us and while you may be tempted to keep the item for yourself and pawn it off, we can assure you that any able body man or woman who delivers the item or items to us will be rewarded with a life time supply of food and water. Again, these items are important to us, they must be found. Thank you.

The message is cut off and the reporter is shown sitting in her seat, stunned into silence.

T.V. REPORTER Y-Yes, that was a message from the vice president of The Company. For any further information, please contact your local protection agents. Next...

#script #video game #the four #early work

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