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tayytayy12 · 3 days

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Secrets | MV1 x Reader

Summary - Reader and Max have been in a secret relationship since the beginning of readers rookie season with McLaren, but all the pairs efforts to keep their relationship private almost go out the window when readers involved in a bad crash

Warnings - Mentions of car crash, injuries, swearing

Type - Written / small Smau at the end

Requested - No - Yes

Not been proofread

You didn’t remember exactly how your relationship with Max came around, you just kind of remembered it beginning and loving every second of it. You was halfway through your rookie season with McLaren, finally scoring some points and even a couple of podiums when Max made the first move and asked you out on a date, you was nervous obviously, but you said yes of course, and it was one of the best decisions you’d ever made.

The decision to keep the relationship a secret was a mutual one between the two of you, you because it was hard enough being a woman in a sport like Formula one without people saying you was only getting where you was because of your relationship with the reigning champion, and Max’s reasons were because he wanted you to make you happy and the PR would be a nightmare, every media outlet would be claiming he was the reason for your improvement over the summer brake, they’d even give him credit for your win in the Qatar sprint, and you wouldn’t let that happen.

It was now the weekend of the Las Vegas Grand Prix, and you were incredibly excited, you’d been on a high the last few weekends, and nothing could bring you down, especially because of Max’s dominance on the track, you knew most if not all of the other drivers were sick and tired of it, but you enjoyed to see how happy he got when he won, after every win when you would sneak into his hotel room (his were always bigger) and he’d have a huge grin in his face, he was achieving his dream, and it made you happy too.

“You’re going to do amazing, Schat, I can feel it.” Max whispered into your shoulder as the two of you were hiding in a corner of the paddock where no prying cameras or eyes could see you, the pair of you getting in a moment alone together before the race, you laughed into his chest as you tighten the hug the pair of you were wrapped in, “A p19 qualifying result isn’t a position for me to do amazing in, love.”

Max shrugged as he smoothed your hair down, “I think you’re capable of anything out on the track. You’ve got more talent than practically all of these guys combined,” he paused for a moment before grinning and saying, “well apart from me, of course.”

“You’re a wanker.” You laughed as you leaned up and kissed him gently, him returning it instantly without a second of hesitation, “I love you Schat, I’ll see you after the race, do great for me.” He whispered.

You smiled, “I love you more, win for me, yeah?”

“I’ll do anything for you.” He whispered before placing one last kiss on the crown of your head and leaving to go and finish prepping for the race.

——————

It all happened in a blur, it didn’t even register in your mind that you had crashed until you started fading in and out of consciousness from how hard you had hit your head from the impact of the crash, all you remember was making you way up to p16 and a car coming too close behind you, and then you was here, your head feeling light and fuzzy as you heard your teams voices practically screaming at you from over the radio, urging you to respond so they could know you was okay. The crash looked horrible and brutal, they didn’t know if you was okay, but by the looks of the car, it didn’t seem like you would be.

You tried to reach for the radio button, but you couldn’t respond, you couldn’t move, you couldn’t talk, all you could do was sit there as black surrounded your vision and you slowly faded into a world of the unconscious.

——————

“Red flag Max, box box.” Max sighed when he hewed those words over his radio, he already had a clear lead on the race, working his way up from his qualifying position of third back up to first place where he belonged.

“What happened?” He asked as he slowed down the car and drove into the pit lane and into his garage, as he heard a voice sound form over his radio again, “A pretty bad crash, not sure who it is yet.”

“The team?” He asked, making sure it wasn’t some like Daniel or Charles, or most importantly, you.

“McLaren, unsure if it’s Norris or Y/l/n.” His blood ran cold when he heard that, it couldn’t be you, you did t crash, you was stop good to crash, he knew it was wrong but he was silently praying over and over in his head that it was Lando in that car and he exited his own, but that hope came crashing down when he glanced down and saw Lando pacing up and down his garage, hands running through his hair, tugging at the short curly stands as he waited for word if you was okay.

Throughout your time at McLaren, you and Lando had become friends, incredibly close friends, he was the only person you had trusted enough to tell about yours and Max’s relationship, and he hadn’t told a soul, and in this moment he looked petrified.

Max’s eyes quickly darted over to the large screen, trying to see if you were okay, but when he saw how mangled and contorted your car was, he grew ten times more panicked instantly, you needed to be okay, he needed you to be okay.

They called the race to an early end, no one knowing if you was okay or if your injury’s were as severe as they looked, and Max took that as his opportunity to go tell Christian how he needed to see you, and when the older man heard Maxs erratic tone and his glassy eyes he dismissed him without a moment of hesitation, promising to cover for him if he had to attend any interviews or anything.

That’s how he got here, in a white hospital room, your hand wrapped up in his and he pressed constant tiny kisses against the knuckles of you as you lay unconscious, Lando on your other side, a stray tear in his cheek as he remembered how the doctor said that you hit your head hard and you had some internal bleeding in your stomach, the man looked unbearably sorrowful as he said that if you didn’t wake up within the next day or two, you might not at all.

“Max,” Lando whispered, shattering the silence that the room was coated in, Max just hummed in acknowledgment his stare not wavering from your body as Lando continued, “she um, she got you this. For when you won,” he said handing Max a small box that looked like it had some kind of jewellery in it, “she’d want you to have it.

Max slowly disconnected your hand from his as his shaky hands opened the lid of the box, and his breath stopped in his throat when he saw a silver necklace with a ring on the end, but what really got him was the inscription inside the ring, in small words it read, ‘my champion’, his eyes instantly became glassy and Lando cleared his throat and stood, “I’ll give you a minute with her.” Before leaving the room as max fastened the chain around his neck as he re-connected your hands.

“Please wake up, Schat,” he said his voice cracking and he whispered against your knuckles, “I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to do anything without you by my side. I want you with me every step of the way, when I win, when you win, I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to show people how much you mean to me, I love you so so much. So please, for me, wake up, don’t leave me.” He said as tears now flew down his face without even attempting to stop or slow them as he prayed that you’d open your eyes.

——————

Everything was so bright and loud around you when you woke up, your eyes adjusting to the white light as you come around to notice the extreme pounding in your head and the fact that you was in a hospital room and everything hurt.

Your eyes drifted down to the weight you felt around your waist where you saw Max sleeping, tear tracks on his face and the chain you’d bought for him around his neck, yous smiled, Lando must’ve given it to him.

Your finger slowly traced over his cheek, his jumping awake instantly at the touch and his eyes growing ten times wider at the sight of you awake, he yelled for a doctor as he stood a pressed tens of gentle kissed to the top of your head, “My god, Schat, never do that to me again, you hear me? I don’t want to know what anything would be like without you in my life. Don’t ever try and leave me again.”

You gently reached and pulled his head down so his forehead rested against your own, “I wouldn’t dream of it, My Champion.”

“You’re okay.” He said, his voice unbelieving as he placed his hands on your cheeks, you placed yours over his as you’re whispered back, “I’m okay, pretty boy. I’m okay.”

——————

Yourusername

Liked by - Yourusername, LandoNorris and 2,972,197 others

Tagged | @/MaxVerstappen

Yourusername - IM ALIVE !!!! In a shit ton of pain but I’m going to be okay after a lonnngggg recovery, I’ll be out for Abu Dhabi but I’ll be right back in Bahrain 😙 oh yeah and here’s my bf Max, do you know him?

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User1 - EXCUSE ME?

User2 - WHAT WHEN AND HOW

User3 - HOW ARE YOU SO CASUAL ABOUT IT?!?!?

User4 - okay but the third picture? The bear hug? Y/n can I have him?

Yourusername - No sorry bby, I kinda like this one

LandoNorris - FINALLY. BEING THE ONLY ONE WHO KNEW WAS EXHAUSTING.

Yourusername - You’re a solider, Lan

User5 - Lando knowing is so them core.

MaxVerstappen - I love you so much, schat

Yourusername - I love you so so so so so much more my champion

User6 - BRB, raking a nap on the highway 💕💕

——————

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panelperday · 7 months

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There are Orcs, very many of them, ' he said. 'And some are large and evil: Black Uruks of Mordor... but there is something else... A great cave-troll, I think, or more than one. There is no hope for escape.' ... Through the braced and splintered door, a huge arm and shoulder with green scales was thrust. Boromir leaped forward and hewed with all his might, but his sword rang and glanced aside, and fell from his shaken hand

#illustration #fantasy #lord of the rings #tolkien #orc #goblin #cave troll

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popopretty · 9 months

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BSD Chapter 109

Well I'm late to the party becuz I overslept and missed the chapter drop etc. but just in case anyone still wants a summary, here it is.

Please note that I am not fluent in either English or Japanese so forgive me if I am making any mistake.

SPOILERS AHEAD

Sigma decided to touch Fyodor anyway knowing that might be the last choice of his life. Fyodor asks him what he wants to know and he says "all of your secret". They touch and Sigma feels a huge flow of information going through him. He finally knows what Fyodor reallys is and think that he has to tell the ADA, then collapses.

Aya and Bram are witnessing the activation of One Order. Aya tries to look for something that can help her remove the sword. She notices a hole on the glass that Akutaga must have left when carrying them out to the tower and is able to get inside through that. She finds a table, which she plans to tie to the sword and drop it to remove the sword. She tries to move the table but it is too heavy for me. While she is struggling, she sees flashback of hew own father lecturing her about how to properly use strength.

Chuuya arrives in front of Dazai. Dazai tells him to come and give him a punch but Fyodor stops Chuuya, telling him to use a gun instead, because if Chuuya touches Dazai, he will nullify the vampirism. Chuuya takes out a gun and shoot Dazai in the shoulder, for which Dazai yells at him for his terrible aim. Fyodor then has Chuuya put the gun to Dazai's forehead. Dazai then starts talk about how bad his situation is, that it hurts, and he is losing to Fyodor, and he is going to be killed by Chuuya. Fyodor assumes Dazai has run out of plan. Dazai then says that he wonders if he started blabbering cheesy stuff right now, maybe miracle will happen and Chuuya will return to normal. Then he tells Chuuya to "open his eyes", and that "our destiny cannot end in such a place, because we are destined to..." Chuuya pulls the trigger before he could finishes his sentence. Dazai is seen shot in the head, presumably dead. Chuuya is seen standing there, staring at his corpse while Fyodor says good-bye to him through the monitor screen.

Fukuchi opens One Order and gives a command for all armies to open fire. Missiles are going to be lauched, and armies are heading to battles. At the same time, Aya finally manages to get the table to the edge of the tower, ties it to Bram's sword and push it off the edge, hoping it will be enough to remove the sword.

The chapter ends here. Next one wil be released on September 4, 2023. Thank you for reading.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #summary #bsd spoilers #spoilers #dazai osamu #fyodor dostoevsky #bram stoker #aya koda #nakahara chuuya #sigma #fukuchi ouchi

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welcomingdisaster · 17 days

Text

revenant

maedhros & nerdanel | t | ao3

The first sound he remembers is a woman’s voice. It is soft—there is sadness in it, at first, before it is overshadowed by an artist’s precision, sentiment giving way to craft.

“Yes,” she says, “quite right, for the shade of his hair; only it has been finer, and curled less. He was not quite so tall—his memory betrays you there. I would have him brought down perhaps half an inch. His eyes—”

The first touch he remembers is a calloused hand on the side of his face, a caress along his cheek. Fingers gently pulling back his eyelid. A glimpse of a marbled ceiling, columns decorated with sculpted stone flowers, all white. He can feel her lean over him. Can see her hair. Fine and brown, very slightly curled. Almost red.

“The shape is right,” she says, “and the eyelashes. But I do not remember them so pale.”

The first scent he remembers is hyacinths, and then rock dust. Wind tickles his skin. He turns his head and sees her, bending over him. Her face is unwrinkled, her lips pale, cheeks a little pudgy, eyebrows and eyelashes a chestnut brown.

“Are you awake, Maitimo?” she asks.

He nods.

Some cloud flits over her features at that, some grief, some doubt. Old hurts hang in the air between them. Then she quashes it. Speaks, now, to him. “Say something.”

“Something,” he echoes.

She smiles. Her voice carries the same dispassionate notes of a craftsman. “He would answer me so,” she says, “yes, quite right on the sense of humor. But his voice had not been so raspy.”

He swallows. Reaches to feel at his own throat. “I smoke,” he says, “it’s a bad habit.”

The woman turns away from him. He cannot see whom she speaks to. “I do not remember him smoking,” she says.

They change his height, and the texture and curl of his hair, and the glint of his eye. But itch for tobacco never leaves him.

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The woman is his mother. It is not usual, he is told, that she had been there at his rebirth. But he had not been able himself to speak for any adjustments that need be made to his body, for he does not remember what it had been like before

He walks with her through the white city, made of marble clean as bone. Low domed cathedrals, tall gleaming towers—statues, all white, of elves and not-elves. Here is one of an elvish woman hewing stone; here is another, of a star-crowned king. The inhabitants of the city are a stark contrast to the buildings, dressed in silks so bright in color they seem to be distilled light. To his eyes there is something a little comical to them.

A child’s drawing, he thinks. The background left untended to, but the principal characters colored in.

(It swims before his vision then, briefly; dark inch lines drawn onto parchment, sketches of lairs and fortresses, filled in by a child’s hand with cheerful watercolor. He leans towards the memory, but cannot touch it.)

“You made me too tall,” he tells his mother, half-laughing, “look, no one is as tall as I am. Everyone is staring.”

“None of that,” she tells him, “you are just how you were meant to be, Maitimo.”

He does not feel made-right, made-well. He feels huge, ungainly, his limbs too long and his shoulders too wide.

They walk along the dirt road. Grass begins to cover it, here and there. Plainly horses and carts rarely come this way; only single sets of footprints, so light they barely leave behind a path.

His mother’s house is carved out of the side side of a hill some ways away from the city. One big room in the center, tall domed ceiling, skylight carved into the very top of it, where the peak of the hill must be. Under that light there is a block of white marble, chipped in four places but indistinct. A chisel lays atop it.

Little coal-stove, in the corner. Scattered dishes, clean but disorderly. Half loaf of bread and a little jam, black currant. Hard cheese.

One wall unfinished. Three walls of wood, and one of dirt.

Seven chests in the corner by the dirt wall, stacked atop each other. Seals on the latches of the chests, like eight-pointed stars with one point broken off.

Two rooms branching off, dug-out and reinforced with oak-wood. They are dark, and he cannot tell what they are without stepping inside.

“This is yours,” his mother tells him, of the right. He hesitates a moment, then goes. Sees the bed in the corner, wide and soft, hanging tapestries. There are four robes for him, in same bright silks everyone else had worn. Green as the first leaves of spring. Lilac, shimmering slightly even in the darkness. Bright, pretty coral-pink, decorated with embroidered leaves in yellow and purple, slightly raised and pleasant to the touch. Sky-blue, with patchwork clouds.

“They were yours once,” his mother tells him. “Long ago.”

His own robes, he notices, are a mottled grey. The color of a spider-web, he thinks, of dust. “How long?” he asks.

His mother shuts her eyes, as though counting. “Seven thousand years.”

He has some vague notion that in the damp clothes spoil, especially in so long a time. That moths eat holes in sleeves. That seams come apart. But when he asks she looks at him oddly.

“Nothing spoils, here,” she says, “do not be silly.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They eat. There is one chair at the wooden table in the corner, so his mother brings a stool from the workshop to sit on. The jam is sweet and sour, just how he likes it. The bread is perfectly soft.

“Why do I not remember this?” he asks, pulling at the sleeve of his new, blue robe. “Why do I not remember you?”

His mother hesitates.

“You burned,” she says, “you burned and there was not enough left of you to put such memories together. You’re right handed, dear.”

He switches his knife to his right hand.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

She leaves him to rest and to gather himself. He wishes for smoke. Walks around the perimeter of the bedroom she’s given him and looks over every item.

A writing desk, prettily carved from dark oak, scratched with use. Pleasant, beneath his fingers. Familiar. Atop it—

A crystal ball, cold and heavy in his hand. A little light trapped within it, iridescent purple-red. He brings it up to his face and blows hot breath onto its surface. Sees age-old fingerprints on the smooth surface, there and then gone again.

Parchment, most of it blank. A few notes, scattered here or there on the papers, in beautiful, looping script, though he can make no sense of them. A snatch of a poem, rhyming turning eyes with burning skies, a note to procure radish-seed. Starred, and underlined—write to Elemmíre, Káno cannot play at the lilac-bloom festival—exile. A half-written apology, unaddressed, for a slight he cannot even begin to guess at.

He picks up the quill, and dips it into the inkwell. Feels scratch of the parchment under his touch as he writes:

Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play.

Three lines, neatly underneath the first. His hand is nothing like the hand of the first writer, his letters sharp and distinct and lonely where they ought to touch, ought to loop, ought to overlap. Maybe this is his mother’s writing, he thinks.

Though she had not seemed one for poetry, nor for ambling, awkward apologies.

Shelves. Books on history, on poetry. He runs his fingers along the spines and knows he has read them—can summon even the memories of the opening stanzas and chapter-headings. How odd, to remember these but not his mother. A flute, silver and black. Candles.

The bed is certainly his, for it is over-long. There is one blanket on it, a light thing of shimmering purple silk, and—he laughs to see it, then thinks he might weep—a little stuffed lamb, with cotton sewn onto its back to make fluff. He lifts it to his face, and breathes deeply.

It smells of sleep, of rose-soap, of tears. Its name dances somewhere just out of reach. It is not mine, he thinks, I gave it to…

But he cannot finish the thought. He sits, holding the little sheep in his lap. His fingers twitch.

Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He does not mean to sleep. He is not sure he does, truly. Only that he is waking. With his left hand he is holding the little sheep to his chest. His right hand is bound, above his head. His shoulders are stiff and ache.

He sinks his fingers spasmodically into the lamb’s fur. Shakes.

Yanks his hand down, expecting to feel the chain bite at his wrist. There is nothing, because his hand is gone, because—

Because.

Sits. Stares at two hands, clenched around the stuffed lamb. Too tight. Strangling it, poor thing. Poor thing.

He breathes in deeply, smelling again the rose-soap, the tears. Outgrew it, he thinks. Gave it away, gave it to—

There is a longing in his chest, like half of him missing. The burned half, he thinks. He shuts his eyes and tries to picture it, but nothing comes. Somewhere in the other room he can hear a faint clinking, a shuffling, steps. An image swims in his mind, an elf; dark-eyed, dark-braided, pouring liquor, mixing herbs and honey.

For some while he lies and holds the lamb, listening to the movements outside. Then the soft light of the crystal ball becomes oppressive, and he rolls out of bed. Feels the cool wooden floor under his feet. Slips outside.

If he is disappointed to see his mother in the main room, standing by the little oak table and mixing tea, he knows better than to show it.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They breakfast outside. Pomegranate, a day past ripe and a little soft with it. Honey. Crumbling cottage cheese.

He notices for the first time how far they are from the city through which they had passed. There is a dirt road, half-covered in grass and little-tread. No one passes by them.

In the light of day he can see how their blood runs together. The sun freckles them the same. Bleaches his mother’s hair into a shade resembling his. He sees the square angles of his body in her big, calloused hands, in the set of her shoulders. But that is to be expected, he supposes. She made him. Shaped him, out of whatever he had been before this.

He expects she might speak of who he had been, but she does not. She sits and eats, sits and watches him. He cannot think of something to say, and follows her example.

“You want something to do,” she says, as they stack their plates.

“Yes,” he says. In that she knows him. Already he feels too idle, too stagnant, caught without a purpose.

She takes his plates. She gives him a shovel. A hammer. A chisel. She brings him back inside, and bids him dig.

“Here?” he asks, running his fingers over the dirt wall.

“Yes,” she says, “there is a lot of work to do, Maitimo. We will have a hall, and five more rooms. The hill ought fit them.”

He drives his spade into the dirt. Mostly clay, he thinks. It’ll hold well.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They work in shifts; first he digs and his mother takes the pile of dirt and carries it out. Then she digs, and he lugs dirt.

After some time his shoulders begin to ache, new muscles responding to unfamiliar work. It is a pleasant ache, the shape of it familiar. It is almost odder, he thinks, for his back not to hurt.

The work is mediative. They do not talk during it, beyond the exchanges necessary to the work—“give me that” and “rock, I think,” and “steer leftwards.”

When the sun falls pink-orange through the skylight they cease their work. She hands him a broom to sweep the last of the dirt off the wooden floor. Gathers up the spade and the chisel, and washes them.

They walk together out of the hill, and bathe in the river. The water is warm. When it sprays out onto his face he opens his lips and tastes it, almost sweet with its clarity. When he dives it whips his braid around his face.

They return.

She goes to ship at the square of marble. He goes to his room. Shoves down the ever-present craving for tobacco. Sits at the desk. Reads by the light of the crystal ball, old books of poetry.

He is not surprised he knows every line.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Neither of them sleeps. In the morning they resume they work again, digging the tunnel. He starts to leave the door open, when he goes to empty the pile of dirt, knowing he shall return to it soon. She closes it, each time. He does not ask why.

The rhythmic movement of the shovel becomes second nature. Around it all thoughts cease. All that is left is the motion, the sound, the heft. He does not notice at first he is putting words to it.

Thumpthump. Thump-thump. Thumpthump.

Káno can-not play. Káno can-not play. Káno can-not play.

It is odd. He has read better poetry.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

On the fourth night he sleeps again, and dreams of the scent of burning tree-sap and screams, of dark soot staining his hands, of a woman that falls and screams, and screams, and screams. Wakes clutching the lamb to him and calls out for a name he cannot recall again.

For breakfast she poaches eggs. Cracks them each onto upturned plates with suns painted on. Swirls the water around the pot to as twisters turned inside out. Clink of the teaspoon against the black edge of the pot. Then the eggs go on, one by one, and turn around.

“Your father used to do this,” she says, “I never cooked. Only the bread.”

He holds out a hand. “Let me,” he says, and she steps aside. He picks up the spoon. Swirls eggs.

“Good eggs,” she says later, when they sit and breakfast on the grass.

He tears off a chunk of his bread-crust with his teeth. Chews. “Good bread,” he says.

The patterns of leaves dance over her arm. Shadows, in the sun.

“Right hand, Maitimo,” she reminds him.

He moves his fork. Takes a bite of egg, and feels the yolk on his tongue. “Are you angry with me?”

“I do not mean to be,” she says, which is answer enough. She must see it on his face, because she puts down her fork and looks at him. “It was all very long ago.”

He nods.

She reaches over to lay a hand on the side of his face. She has not touched him, since the first day, and now she strokes his cheekbone. “I wanted you,” she says, “I begged for you.”

He shuts his eyes. There is soot on his hands. The ocean is angry, horribly angry with him. “Did I burn,” he says, “aboard a ship?”

She stares at him.

“I cannot say,” she says. Then, more forcefully: “my Maitimo might have, I think.”

He leans into her touch. It does not last long.

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He expects the summer to pass, but it never does. The sun rises at the same time each day, and does not go down for a long time time. They eat sliced peaches and flaky pastries and spinach-wraps and perfect fall apples, goat milk and sour bread, carrot stew, eggs made in a startling variety of ways, candied flowers. He learns where the food comes from; once every twelve days a young elven girl comes, carrying covered baskets on her head, and his mother takes them from her and tucks them into the dug-out place beneath the hill, where the earth and the ground-water keep them cool.

(He wonders why it matters. Nothings seems to spoil here. She could leave them in the heat, he thinks, and they would be fine.)

Sometimes the girl brings them letters. Some seem formal, rolled into official-looking tubes and sealed with wax. Others are clearly hastily written, scrawled on one scrap of parchment or another, sometimes with sketches on the back.

Usually she will open them at the table, and name the relation who had written to her but not the contents. “My sister in law,” she will say, or sometimes, “my father,” or, once or twice, “your cousins.” Sometimes it is a patron in Tirion that writes.

One morning a letter arrives sealed with dark blue wax, an address scrawled along the edge she reads but does not voice aloud. She tucks it into her inside pocket and does not speak its sender, ignoring his curious eyes.

They dig.

As they go further they must pull up more and more rocks, must navigate around sandy areas that fall when touched. His shoulders no longer ache with the work. Indeed he grows so used to it that it is odd not to do it, that it begins to pull at him to spend time idle.

During the nights she chisels away at the marble slab, working by moonlight, and he reads, or else goes to swim in the river. At first she is wary to let him go alone, but after the third time he returns unwavering at dawn she stops tracking him.

The marble begins to take shape. An animal, he thinks. A four-legged thing, bent low to the ground.

“Did you make the statues in the white city?” he asks her. It is night, then, or perhaps the first note of morning. The moonlight is gone. He has stopped reading, but she has not finished her carving.

“Only the good ones,” she says, half-laughing. It is not a joke.

He picks up the pan. Stokes the fire, to make breakfast. Picks up the knife, unthinking, with his right hand. In the faint light his own hand is pale as marble. Carefully carved.

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After some time he begins to call the little lamb Káno. The odd nights when he comes to sleep he holds it to his chest. Through his nightmares the scent of rose soap never fades from its cotton sewn fur, and he begins to tell reality apart by it.

There are the snatches of his dreams, the screams, the song, the slow grinding of war-axes and the rattling of fortress doors. There is the icy forest, the kind that doesn’t truly exist in real life because winter does not exist, and snow does not exist, and one does not dash madly between ice-covered pines chasing the prints of bare-footed children. Then there is the smell of rose soap, and the softness of the cotton under his cheek.

(Sometimes he thinks Káno is in the next room, clinking around, humming under his breath. But that is an odd thought, because Káno is a stuffed lamb.)

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“We are done digging, for now,” she says. The state of done digging should naturally follow the state of digging, but he has somehow failed to realize it is possible. But there it is, the tunnel. Five rooms branching off. “We must now go for wood.”

She gives him an axe. He looks down at it, and sees the dusting of red clay on the head first as blood, then as rust.

(Nothing rusts, he reminds himself. Rust is an idea in his mind with no real-world equivalent, like rot and ice and decapitation.)

They walk together along the overgrown dirt road, pulling an ass-drawn cart behind them. Not towards the city, this time, but away from it. The path fades, and fades, and fades, until there is nothing left but her intuition.

The wood is ancient, and untouched, pines tall and dark, their trunks many times the width of their shoulders. He reaches out and lays his hands on the bark, feeling its dark, deep ridges.

“The tree will bleed,” he says, “when we cut it down.”

“Yes,” she says, “so it will.”

She takes his hand, and draws it up to touch the deep green needles on a lower branch. When she begins to pray he knows the words, and echoes her. Together they ask for leave from Yavanna; together they promise to take no more than their due, and to pry the seeds from the pinecones of the fallen tree and plant them.

Then she makes the mark, and he begins to chop.

Some part of him expects soft yielding flesh under the axe-swing, expects gore, expects blood spray over his upturned face. Instead his axe hits hard wood, and only yellowish pine sap springs up around the cut.

It is long work, to reduce a living thing into material. First the tree must fall. Then it is cut again, to be rid of the thin branches for which they have no use; then again, to fit on the cart. Then they collect pinecones and twist them open, shake the seeds out and bury them in the dark soil, beneath the layers of dry pine-needles. Carry water from the river to drown them.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

It is dark when they make their return. His body aches in new ways with new work. Pine-sap clings sticky to his hands, his green robes. He wants to chase the dew gathering in his lungs away with smoke.

“The river,” his mother says, and he nods. But the water cannot wash the sap from him, and he goes to bed with his hands still stained.

He will not touch the stuffed lamb, except with the back of his wrist, to knock it from the bed. It stares at him plaintively from the floor, and he pities it.

“I am sorry, Káno,” he says, “but if I touch you you will be ruined. You are made of soft things, and shall not be washed clean.”

In his dreams there is a little boy, bright eyed and loud. He plays the flute, the same silver flute on the shelves, and laughs, high and bird-like, twirls in pretty mother-of-pearl court robes. When he reaches out to touch this child he sees his hands are covered in blood, that he has stained everything; the boy and the flute and the mother-of-pearl, and nothing is merry.

Then he stirs, half-wakes. Slips back down into his dreams. Now there is a figure above him, amber-eyed, more fair than any elf he can remember laying his eyes on. He has an axe in his hand, stained with red clay, and he raises it and hews off his right hand.

Oh, he says, unbothered, well, don't worry about it. I've still got my left.

But tree-sap keeps pouring out of the cut on his wrist, spewing in messy, sticky arcs, staining the other elf’s gold-beaded hair and his cheeks and his lips and his eyelashes, and he will drown, he will drown.

When he wakes there is no smell of rose-soap to cling to. He curls up on himself and thinks he must have come from a different world, a worse world; that he is a stained and broken thing forced into a clean body. He does not belong here, he knows.

He wonders what it would be, to go back. Wonders if he’s scared of it.

Then he slips outside, and bids his mother good morning, and sits trying to clean his hands. Chops spinach into fine little slivers; beats it with cheese and with eggs, pours it into the pan to cook. Watches the edges crisp up, fine bubbles forming on the surface.

His mother stirs sugar into tea. He misses someone so fiercely he feels his chest a hollow, empty thing. They slip outside to breakfast. The sun greets them, cheerful and warm.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

They chop the wood into boards, long to accommodate the hallway, wide. His mother has a better hand for it, at first, but he is quick to learn. The first days they speak of nothing but craft.

When they sit polishing the wood the sap has nearly come off his hands. Perhaps he has grown new skin, and the sap has flaked off with the old.

“Who will live there,” he says, “in the new rooms?”

She looks up at him. Her sleeves are hiked up, the board in front of her gleaming bright in the sun. “Your brothers.”

He has thought so, though he could not have voiced it.

“There are five,” he says, and knows it to be a question. He thinks she nods. “Who is next, after me?”

For a moment she hesitates. “Tyelkormo,” she says, “if he is granted to me.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He touches the edges of the eight-pointed star on the sealed chest. The broken point. She sits behind him and reads one of her letters. He can see another still-sealed underneath, the one she had not announced to him.

I have five brothers, he thinks. I am one of six.

It does not fit. Shoes too small in the toe, pinching uncomfortably.

For the first time he can remember he feels angry, truly and properly. Kicks at the lowest of the chests, then yelps in pain at his foot. Tyelkormo, he thinks, Tyelkormo, Tyelkormo. Who can need you? Who can want you?

The woman who is not his mother looks up from her carving, but says nothing. He will tell her, he thinks, when their work is done.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

But he breaks. The secret is too heavy on him; he cannot take it. They sit, and polish boards. It is an endless task.

“Maitimo,” the woman who is not his mother says, “hand me the sponge.”

He hands her the sponge. “I am not he,” he says, quite casually, “they brought the wrong soul back, and put it in your son’s body. I am another creature, and I think an evil one.”

“Oh,” she says, “and why is that?”

“There are evil things,” he says, “in my mind. I know not this land, but another. I dream of ice and bloodied hands and scared children.”

For some time she turns from him. He is sure she weeps. He would touch her, but it is not his right. He looks down at the board, working his brush in random patterns.

“Against the grain, Maitimo,” she says.

He turns his brush against the grain. They do not speak of it again.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He likes to run his hands along the polished wood. Likes to press wood-braces into the soil. Likes the neat sharpness that they give the tunnel, the way it begins to take the shape of the house.

“Did you do the same for me?” he asks, as they hang up curtain-doors.

“Yes,” she says.

“There was a different home,” he says, “where the chest is from. The bed is from. K—the lamb.”

“Yes,” she says.

For some time they work in silence. He braces the doorframe, and she hammers in the nails. Then they switch.

“What are you carving?” he asks. “I thought it a sheep.”

“No,” she says, “only an elf hiding under the wool.”

He nods. She nudges him, to step aside. There is a little window on the other side of the room, the sloping end of the hollow hill. She measures it, for a frame. Writes numbers on the inside of her arm in charcoal.

She taps him on the elbow as she passes him, beckoning him to follow. Outside they trim the wood into shapes to fit. He holds, she saws. Then she has them switch, so he may get the practice.

“I have gown too used to solitude,” she says, as they brace the corners of the window-frame with metal. “I have no words left. I thought it would be easier, to speak to you.”

He looks up. For the first he sees the weight of her own neurosis on her, the weight of her pain, her fear, her loneliness. For the first time he thinks she might touch him, if she remembered how.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“Six thousand years,” she says. “You spend dead nearly twice the time you spent living. But I lost you sooner, of course.”

They carry the window frame inside. They fit it.

It will have a good sill, he thinks. Perhaps Tyelkormo will like to sit on it, and watch the birds.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

It looks like a proper house, with the last of the boards fitted to the floor, to the walls. The woman who could be his mother tells him that there is not so much left to do; only to make make the bed frames and the shelves, fitted to each of them. Only to open the chests and lay out what she had saved, of them.

“Saved from what?” he asks.

She looks up at him, as though surprised he does not know. “The building was torn down,” she says, “the king’s body was inside.”

She makes a gesture with her hands, first twisted together then falling. Tower. Splat.

Do people die here, he wonders, or had the king been simply waiting to be born?

“Tyelkormo will want hounds,” she says, “on his bed frame. Likely in the house, too.”

So he sits, and whittles hounds. They turn out crooked, their noses too long. She has him try again, and that is better.

Káno cannot play, he thinks, the repetition of a song stuck in his head, Káno cannot play. Káno cannot play.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“I cannot tell,” he says, setting a book of insect sketches next to a fox-skull on his brother’s shelves, “if I know him.”

His maybe-mother turns to look at him. Her face is drawn.

He touches the bone. It is familiar, at least. Smooth. Oddly delicate, for what it is. In places the smooth surface has peeled off, and it is porous. He could hold it in his hands and squeeze the barest bit and watch it crumble.

“Sometimes I think I am your son,” he says, “but that something wrong has clung to me, as the tree sap has. Some other world I saw, in death, that lingers upon waking.”

She takes his hands. Holds, around the fox skull. Her fingers do not touch the bone.

“Do not leave me,” she says, “do not go there. Promise me, Maitimo.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He tosses dumplings into broth, one after the other. She sits across the table from him. Her eyes follow their fall.

“I have not told you everything,” she says.

You haven’t told me anything, he thinks. But that is unjust. She has told him how to chisel stone and chop wood, how to polish floorboards, how to whittle hunting-hounds, how poach eggs.

She reaches past him, across the table. Picks up the parchment sealed with blue wax.

“I didn’t want to give you this,” she says. For a moment she holds it close to her chest, so that he cannot help but suppose the ending of the sentence will be so I won’t. Then she holds it out to him. “It is for you. You were betrothed.”

“Oh.” He reaches for the paper. He cannot tell if that seems right. If it is true of him. “Perhaps I was.”

“I am not sure,” she says, “how serious you were about it.”

An old instinct almost calls him to argue. To cry, I will, I will, after—

But after what?

He breaks the blue seal. Twirls open the paper.

The handwriting hits him with a note of such intense familiarity he cannot see the meaning of the words. His head swims.

The first time he remembers weeping is in the kitchen, holding a piece of parchment to his chest, and it is over the slopes of his lover’s letters. Behind him the fire crackles. He feels his chest cave in.

Maedhros, his lover writes, I grow tired of waiting for you to call to me. If you have gotten it into your head that it is your righteous duty to crawl into a ditch and die, speaking to none, we shall have words...

Maedhros does not make it past that opening line. He shakes with the clarity of the voice in his mind, its low, musical quality, its sardonic lilt. How well he can sense the desperation behind it. I know you, he thinks, I love you.

The woman in the room with him steps closer. She looks at the letter, but her eyes do not move to read the words.

“I never learned it,” she says, “some last defiance of your father. As though if I did not speak it it could not touch me.” There her voice breaks, her pale face flushing. "What do you think of that, Maitimo? Me lobbing one last insult at a long-dead man, and hurting myself by it?"

Of course, Maedhros thinks. It is Sindarin. He knows it, though he cannot say how. He’s thought in it, now and then, without noticing. Perhaps if he had spoken more he would have used it.

He lowers the letter, and looks at the woman who had once been his mother. In the shadows here she seems as white as marble. How odd, to think of her, all alone, beating the shape of sheep’s wool out of stone with a chisel. To think of her hollowing out the hill to make room for him. To think of her clawing him back from the dead. To think of her carving herself out of loneliness and defiance and love and anger.

Well-made, she called him.

#my fic #maedhros #nerdanel

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greenmeanqueen · 2 years

Note

Alicent, Lyonel, literally everyone in Westeros: Rhaenyra having bastards is a huge problem that puts us all in danger.

Rhaenyra: I have finally realized that this is indeed a huge problem. Alicent, you will hand over your only daughter to make my fuck ups your problem too.

Alicent: No.

Fandom: That power hungry bitch.

thank you for your asks, anons and @cheriealicent !

honestly, the scene where alicent vented to criston as they went down the hall was so valid, and i think it perfectly surmises alicent’s mindset at this point. i’m gonna quote it here just for reference before i go on:

“Have I lost my sanity, Ser Criston? Do my senses lead me astray, or is everyone else asleep dreaming the same woolly dream? … She flaunts the privilege of her inheritance without shame, she expects everyone in the Red Keep to deny the truth our eyes can all plainly see. And the king her father— … Of course he knows! Or did once, but has convinced himself otherwise. He'll do naught but make excuses for her! … I have to believe, that in the end, honor and decency will prevail. We need to hew to that and to each other.”

it’s as if rhaenyra is pushing her privilege to see how far it can go, and alicent, the one who has had to completely adhere to the societal womanly role, is sick of it. “why isn’t everyone being held to the same standards that i am?” how frustrating is that?!

the fact of the matter is that rheanyra’s choices are effecting everyone around her, but both she and her father refuse to fully acknowledge it. she unfortunately does not have the freedom she thinks she does, and it’s bound to come crashing down on her head (and her children’s heads!). she and viserys can play ignorant all they’d like, but word gets around, and the misogynistic and patriarchal westeros is not going to take too kindly to this “breaking of the rules”. they can skirt the line all they’d like, but that will only take them so far; they can’t execute the whole realm for having eyes.

it puts the strongs in danger (and ended up burning them, likely), it screws over alicent’s children, and it complicates the succession of driftmark. i truly do not understand how we get to villainizing the people with the justified concerns? and lest we forget the double-standard that alicent having illegitimate children would be “inexcusable”, in-universe and out.

#anti rhaenyra targaryen #look i still enjoy her character but i’m still gonna criticize her im allowed #nothing is fair about her situation but it is how it is.#alicent hightower #alicent hightower defense squad #anti viserys i targaryen #house of the dragon spoilers #ask a gal

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bratzforchris · 8 months

Note

hi! can you do autistic little!luke with a special interest with stuffed animals, with either cake or lashton? ((:

New Toys

❃

Summary: Above

Pairing: Caregiver!Calum x little!Luke

Warnings: None

Word Count: 962

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! I adore agere and neurodivergent fics :')

❃

Luke woke up with a huge smile on his face, immediately bouncing softly on Calum to wake him up. “Daddy! It stuffie day! Wakes pease, Daddy!” he lisped out around his paci.

Calum opened his eyes slowly, seeing his little one grinning down at him, blond curls falling in his face. “Good morning, little one. Come cuddle with Daddy.” he mumbled sleepily, in a futile attempt to get Luke to go back to sleep for a while longer.

“Bu Daddy! It stuffie day!” Luke giggled happily. “No mowe seeps.”

The caregiver sat up, rubbing his eyes. He knew getting Luke to go back to sleep was impossible now. He was wide awake and ready for his favorite day of the month. You see, Calum and Luke had a system set up for when the blond was regressed. Calum had a big calendar dry erase board in the kitchen, with notes on the side for Luke’s chores. If Luke completed the month with less than three meltdowns and the rest of the time with gold stars, on the last Saturday of the month, Calum would take him to Build-a-Bear to get a new stuffie.

Hence why it was currently seven am on a Saturday and Luke was pulling at his shirt and bouncing on him. Calum smiled, rubbing Luke’s back as the little jumped out of bed and ran to his regression nursery, stooping to the dresser to pull out an outfit for the day.

“We have to have breakfast first, buddy.” Calum chuckled, watching Luke excitedly pull his shirt over his head.

Luke pouted, but followed Calum to the kitchen in nothing but his pull-up and his shirt with a stuffed giraffe on it. The little one hoisted himself up to the breakfast table, grinning happily when he saw that Calum was pouring his cereal into a bowl with stuffed animals on it. Being autistic, Luke had intense interest in the things he loved. One of, and perhaps his biggest,

special interests was stuffed animals. The blond collected them with such a passion it made Calum grin from ear-to-ear.

Luke munched on his cereal while Calum sipped on some black coffee, talking away. “I get Hawwoween kitty?” he asked Calum, cocking his head.

“Maybe!” the older male said.

That encouraged Luke to quickly finish his breakfast and do the chores his daddy had assigned him while Calum got ready. Thirty minutes and lots of giggles later, the duo was on their way. Luke sat in his “car seat”, happily stimming along to the song on the morning pop radio. The mall wasn’t normally open at this time, but Calum had made an arrangement for him and Luke to come in early to keep the sensitive regressor from prying eyes. It wasn’t hard considering he was

the Calum Hood, and all the employees absolutely adored little Luke. Most of them knew him by name and always made sure the new shipments were stocked fully before Luke came in.

The blond practically drug Calum through the empty mall, until they finally came to a familiar sign that Luke knew all too well. It was the yellow and blue sign of Build-a-Bear and the little eagerly pressed his face to the glass, waiting for an employee to open the door.

“We get stuffie, Daddy!” he said excitedly, flapping his hands and bouncing up and down on his tippy toes to stim.

Calum smiled and kissed Luke’s forehead, just as an employee came to unlock the door. It was Luke’s favorite employee, Miss Sarah. The woman absolutely adored Luke and always let him customize his toy as much as he wanted. Luke ran inside and over to the display shelf of stuffed animals.

“Hewe, Daddy!” he practically yelled. “Hawwoween kitty hewe!”

Luke definitely had a hard time controlling his voice when he was happy, and right now was no exception. But Sarah grabbed the fur skin for the stuffed animal with a smile, leading Luke over to the customization area.

“Daddy?” Luke asked, looking up at Calum.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“You put you voice in der?” Luke asked.

Luke had many Build-a-Bear stuffed animals that talked, but they were only the character voices. He had seen quite a few littles online with bears that had their caregiver’s voices recorded in the little box and the blond so desperately wanted one.

“Sure, buddy.” Calum smiled.

Calum spoke into the small box, telling Luke how much Daddy loved him and how handsome he was. The whole time, Luke had an enormous smile on his face. Sarah handed Lule the small heart that was to be inserted into the cat and Luke kissed it with his eyes closed, making a wish.

“I did good jobs, Daddy!” Luke grinned.

“That’s right, bubba! You did!” Calum told him.

Luke grinned and clung to Calum’s side as Sarah began to stuff the bear. As much as Luke loved Build-a-Bear, he was rather afraid of the stuffing part. The little one was so attached to his toys, he was afraid the animal would pop.

“Look, buddy!” Sarah said happily, handing the now-stuffed Halloween cat to Luke. “She’s all ready for you!”

Luke absolutely squealed, hugging the animal tightly to his chest. “Fanks you! I dwess hew?” he asked, hugging the toy to his chest.

“Of course, buddy.” Calum told him, ruffling his blond curls.

The blond picked out a sweet Halloween witch outfit for his new toy and Calum quickly paid.

“Say bye bye to Sarah, Luke.” the caregiver said.

“Bye bye!” Luke giggled sweetly.

As Calum and Luke left the mall, the older male couldn’t but think about how lucky he was to have Luke in his life as he watched his little one happily stim, hugging his new stuffie to his chest.

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king--of--ducks · 3 months

Note

Someone has to ask, and this is a safe space, swearsies 🤞

How tall *are* you? As in, the measurement specifically. I mean, most of hell is VERY tall sooo

🍎I am VERY tall, I am THE TALLEST, I am HUGE, I…I🍎

🍎……🍎

🍎……five feet tall…🍎

OOC:I couldn’t find any source of how tall he was, so my friends and I had a group discussion on hew tall Luci’ is, this was our final decision.

#hazbin #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer #lucifer hazbin #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer magne #lucifer morningstar

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asha-mage · 8 months

Text

WoT S2 Premier - The Good, the Interesting, and the Messy

Now that I've had a chance to sleep on it and become half way coherent again, I want to say that I really really liked what their doing so far in season 2. You can see the seems of course, the places where COVID era production and changes had to shift things around, but the show is continuing it's central ethos of adapting the heart of the series and characters, even while having to shift the details to suit their limitations and medium, and that to me is far far more important then one-to-one accurate book scenes.

I don't have anything bad to say about the show, so instead I am going to split up my more general thoughts into three broad categories: The Good (stuff I adored), The Interesting (Things I'm very very curious to see where they are headed), and the Messy (the places where some of their working within limitations has created complex problems for further down the road, or might inform certain things more directly).

The Good

Every actor so far has knocked it out of the fucking park. I have to give special shout outs to Rosamund Pike, Joshua Stradowski, Zoe Robins, Natasha O'Keeffe, and Ceara Coveney for really clearly managing to convey the nuances and complexities of their characters in ways that just blow me away. The show's writing continues to get these characters on a fundamental level and every actor is turning in a performance that conveys their heart so well.

The visual look of the show still rules, but channeling especially has taken a huge step forward in how it's depicted. I didn't mind the way it looked in season 1 the way some did, but I appreciate that they've decided to hew to something closer to what the Darkhorse Comics did, especially as we have so many characters now trying to figure out how to actually channel the One Power.

I also like that we're seeing sharp differences already in the different groups channel, just visually. The Aes Sedai use sweeping graceful gestures, the damne sharp, short gestures, with little wasted energy, all clearly rehearsed as if drilled into the military style.

In other ways the visuals of the show, especially in it's art direction, also rule. The way Cairhien has a mix of Versailles era France and Han Era China in architecture and fashion. The way the Seanchan feel alien, strange, and other, and yet how key parts of their Empire's culture come through even as their conquering and destroying.

The use of the Texan/American accents hits the PERFECT balance I was hoping for to add to that level of strangeness. It's not heavy enough to be a joke, but it's so stark in comparison to everyone crisp vaguely European accents. On that note- the sheer brutality of the village's subjugation, this tiny nowhere village probably somewhere on Almoth Plane, just one ant being smushed by the huge fingers of the Empire. Talk about effective introductions.

The Interesting

I was admittedly a little skeptical of the choice ot have Rand working a asylum but having seen the show I'm glad I reserved judgement because it fits in perfectly with hie Messiah vibe. Here is the savior of the world, and is he staying in palaces and toppling cities? No (well not yet). He's spending his time caring for the sick and the mad, doing menial back breaking work for those society rejects and wants to forget. And of course, it's more complicated then simple altruism: Rand is being driven by his own fear of going mad, his own desire to know what he's facing, and yet that compassion still shines through.

I also really like that, since Rand can't be Lan trained in the show, they decided to do something very Jordan: take a classic trope (cooky wise old master) give it a shine of realism (he's got dementia and PTSD from being a vetran soldier) and dig at the humanity underneath (Rand is letting the old man train him as much to help the man as to learn the sword).

Liandrin is a character I'm shocked by how much I am enjoying her in the show. The decision to explore her depths more, to dig into her anger, her arrogance, her desire for control and power, is fascinating, and her relationship with Nynaeve and Egwene even more so. Her scene with Nynaeve where she gets Nynaeve to channel (an adaption of Siuan scene from the books) especially kicks ass. It's got the same fundamental point as the book: Nynaeve is limiting herself, holding herself back, but the show lets it be starker, crueler, because it IS Laindrin, not Siuan.

The choice to have Perrin be solo with the Shienarans, even if was basically forced on the writers by Barney Harris's departure. They don't waste any of that time, using it to explore Perrin's growing sense of isolation, his grief at Lalia, his relationship to Loial, and his growing fear of the wolves. I've always felt that Perrin, who is very introspective and quite, was the hardest of the main heroes to adapt, and the ways their bringing his conflict out and literalsing continue to be very smart.

The Messy

Some of the merges have caught me off guard, even though I knew they where coming. Elays and Hurin makes a great deal of sense. I have a strong fondness for Hurin, but I can admit he's an easy cut. It does raise the question though of how they are going to incorporate the element of noblesse oblige, which is an important part of how the series explores it's themes of government, nobility, responsibility, and duty. Of course, even if they had kept Hurin the party splitting means he'd probably be no where near Rand right now, so this was almost certainly the right choice.

Nynaeve's Acceptatron Test. Having sat with it, I still like it a lot, and I understand the choices they've made. I wish it had been a little bit more clear that her decision to go back in the final arch was her decision, having a scene of her forcing the arch to appear with the Power, but overall I think they had a good job otherwise. The first test was always going to have to be different since they've cut Aginor and Balthamel from the show, and the important part was Nynaeve choosing to go back over her own anger and desire for revenge, which they kept. The second arch probably would have required half the run time of the episode if they wanted to do it in full, so I don't mind them condensing it down, and again the important thing is that Nynaeve choose to leave the role of Wisdom behind for good, to seek the power to truly make a difference in the lives of those she cares about. The third arch is the big one, and the point of that sequence was always Nynaeve rejecting paradise in order to go back and protect those she loves. She is offered everything she could possibly want, but it isn't enough because her friends, those in her charge, are still at risk, and nothing has changed. She has to go back to save them, because that is the essence of who she is. The show takes the plank of showing that paradise would be hollow anyways, doomed to fall apart because the world needs Nynaeve, she is called to duty, and she can not reject it. It's....actually moment very reminiscent of Rand's Portal Stone journey/his arc in TGH which makes sense since they've always been parallel characters, and the closest thing to a male and female lead the series has.

Verin being merged with Vandene. This is one that it will take far more for me to decide on. On a very practical level it makes a lot of sense, but it has long term implications for Verin's arc in the series that wont be apparent for a very very long time. How will Adeleas factor into Verin's scheme? Does she know? Is she in on the plan to bring down the Black Ajah? Is she ignorant and Verin has been carrying this off in secret while her own sister had no idea? A lot of how this merger goes hinges on how those questions swing. Also, there is Adeleas's murder to consider. It's likely to be kept, but the circumstances being different, and Verin being Verin, the vengeance she seeks will likely be a great deal more dramatic and direct then what Vandene could do.

Past that though I mostly just have gushing and nitpicks, and far more gushing then nitpicking all things considered. Overall....another banger start. I probably liked the opening to season 1 a little bit better, but I suspect season 2 is going to go to some Interesting Places that I am Ready For.

#Wheel of Time #WoT #WoT On PRime #Wheel of Time on Prime #WoT Book Spoilers #AMOL Spoilers #just to be safe #WoT s2 e3 #WoT Musing

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junemermaid · 4 months

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oooh oooh, I want to hear about servant of the spiral!!

This fic! The SH/Final Fantasy X fusion absolutely no one asked for.

It's my current Shadowhunters brainworm and I really hope it will continue to gel for me. I don't know why I keep sticking malec into video game fusions but also, one cannot interrogate the writing brain. It loves what it loves, and what it loves right now is Magnus commanding huge ethereal monsters and Alec trying to keep his reckless ass alive as they go on the world's worst road trip.

I want it to be a story about them coming together (and yes, also coming together) in dangerous circumstances and really having to overcome their own biases and differences to become a team. It's also a story about religious trauma and falling in love with someone you know will die, and falling in love while knowing you will die, and... it will probably take me five years to write but also I love the whole idea so much I just might.

A Snippet:

As Magnus learned the litanies, so he learned the Code of the Guardian. It stands as one of the sacred texts of Yevon. And it begins, Protect the summoner, even at the cost of your life. For the summoner stands as the last defence of the world, and you stand as the last defence of the summoner. He supposes even the warrior monks cannot escape the scripture. It flows like the air they breathe through every level of the temple hierarchy. To have Alec hew to the Code for his sake, though—Magnus has no idea what to do with that. He was so ready to take the pilgrimage alone, with only the aeons for company. Bahamut whispers through his dreams like the sound of great wings. Magnus could, at any time, tug on the shining thread that is laced through his soul, and call upon him. Still, the aeon is the last persisting vestige of a long-dead soul. Bahamut may remember he was human once, but his mind soars in winds no human can chart. Having someone else—a living, breathing someone, with secrets and prejudices and a very nice jawline, someone who talks about his sister in wistful tones and argues with Magnus about justice in life-threatening situations—by his side is a different trial. His daring plan to steal the aeon did not account for that.

#june answers #meme me #final fantasy x #shadowhunters #the writing life #fic by j #lynne-monstr

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hadeantaiga · 6 months

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WordPress themes that are Tumblr-like

Ok, so you've decided to make a WordPress blog. Now you've got to decide how to theme it, and there are a LOT of choices. Unfortunately, a lot of them will shorten your posts and force them to be read-mores. Others will just use photo thumbnails, or just the titles of the posts. If that's your thing, great! There are a ton of choices out there.

But for those of us who want our WordPress blog to look like... a blog... I've gone through ALL of the blog-themed Free Themes, and I've compiled them into a master post right here. None of these blogs will cut off your posts or hide images or do weird things like that. The colors are customizable, the reblog buttons show up, tags show up, it's just so nice. You can do sticky posts! You can add widgets and really customize your blog super easily, all for free.

(If you see little blue circle icons in some of these images, ignore those - those only show up when you are previewing a theme)

In order of best to worst, in my opinion:

#1: Independent Publisher 2

I'm using their example screenshot for this to really showcase how nice this looks; you can change the colors and add side panels like in Wilson and it has extra controls for how the blog posts appear. It's very nice. The only reason I'm using Wilson instead is that I like how the sidebar in Wilson stands out a little bit.

#2: Wilson

I love this theme. Simple, clean. I like that it has a side bar to add the widgets to built in. I added a search bar, as you can see. The only thing is, it DOESN'T show the tags on your posts, or reblog buttons. Other than that, it's perfect. But for those flaws, it gets second place.

#3: Libre 2

This layout does different things if you include a header image. Colors are customizable etc.

#4: Hexa

The Hexa theme is fun. It can do everything Wilson can do.

#5: Twenty Sixteen

This is a nice clean blog with great sidebar content, if you like your sidebar on the right instead of the left.

#6: Scrawl

This one has a nifty sidebar menu that pops out when you click on it.

#7: Franklin

I like this one, it's simple and does what it needs to do without wasted space. This one comes with a huge banner you can turn off to make it usable.

#8: Sobe

This one is really cute. Same customization as the others, with some cute icons. A bit of wasted space in the header, imo.

#9: Tonal

Another highly customizable theme. Comes with all the same stuff, I just don't like it as much aesthetically.

#10: Hew

This one is low on the list because it has a lot of wasted space, in my opinion. Still usable though.

And that's it - the top 10 best Tumblr-like WordPress themes!

#tumblr #wordpress

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uniquevoidflowers · 8 months

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Raised by a blade

The full thing is on AO3: Raised by a Blade

Just thought I’d send a bit of my fic here.

Legend/Link’s POV

I was six when my childhood was pulled away from me. Six years, one month, three days. I had no idea what I was doing, but when I wanted to go see if my Uncle was okay, he wasn’t. He very much wasn’t. I remember the sight vividly, blood gushing out of a huge hole in the middle of Uncle’s chest as I sobbed and begged for him to stay alive. He was crying as well, telling me I have to try and go rescue the princess, also telling me that he didn’t want me to. Once the light faded from Uncle’s eyes, I hugged him one last time before running away with his sword and shield. The sword and shield didn’t fit me, but my determination got me through. My six year old mind said to be a hero for Uncle. Previously, I had learned of heroes such as the Fallen Hero, the Heroes of the Four Sword and so on, so I took my courage from them. Eventually I found Fi, after many hardships, tears and near death experiences no child should face. I leaned towards the dim blade in curiosity.

“What are you doing young one?”

I startled at the voice that seemed to be coming from the hum of the blade. “I’m saving the pwincess.” I responded.

“This is terrible…There’s a 90% chance of him being my new master…Young one tell me your name.”

At the time I didn’t know what she meant by ‘my new master’ but I told her my name anyways. “Link.”

“Interesting. Do you wish to pull me in the 95% chance that you will succeed?”

I tilted my head. My six year old brain didn’t know what Fi was talking about. “Er…Do you want to pull the sword in front of you?”

I nodded eagerly and leapt up to the pedestal. I grasped the hilt of Fi and yanked her out ignoring the distressed buzzes of the sword. I looked at the blade in awe. “Young Master, have some patience. Anyway I am Fi, wield me in the following battles you will face. I will protect you.” Fi promised.

“M’kay! Awe you my momma?” I assumed, my Uncle didn’t have the heart to tell me my parents were dead at the time.

Looking back on that question, it was kinda embarrassing. “…I am not a Hylian mother. But if you like, I shall act in her stead.” Fi told me.

“Yay! Let’s go save the pwincess!” I cheered as Fi hummed with something I couldn’t read.

It was almost bitter. “Yes.”

So, Fi was my overall companion and she taught me the ways of the world, while learning things herself. The blade would burn me, gently, if I was about to do something I wasn’t supposed to. She spoke statistics over plants and seasons and monsters, supplying me with the information I needed. One time Fi asked me if I liked being a hero, and even then I had the same answer. “No.”

Fi hummed against my back sadly. Eventually I ended up spilling to her about my Uncle and his death as the blade remained silent. Tears had leaked out of my eyes and I was wishing so badly, my Uncle could be there to reassure me that everything was going to be okay. “You have my condolences Young Master. Everything will end up successful.” Fi’s warmth radiated on my cold back.

I sniffled and nodded. A day later I turned seven years old but I was stuck fighting and solving puzzles the entire day. When sunset came I started sobbing, knowing Uncle wouldn’t be there to celebrate with me. “What’s wrong Young Master?” Fi asked me.

Her voice was robotic, but somehow also motherly. “It’s my biwthday today.” I answered her, hiccuping.

“If my data is correct, Hylian birthdays are cheerful events in which Hylians celebrate someone’s day of birth. What is so upsetting about that?” Fi wondered.

“Nobody’s hewe to celebwate with me. Not even Uncle.” I informed her.

“…I am here Young Master. What do you do on a birthday?” Fi hesitated but asked anyway.

I brightened and blabbed about what happens on birthdays and Fi listened intently. Then she told me we would have to celebrate it after Ganon was defeated. I deflated a little, considering I didn’t know how long that would be, but Fi promised it would come sooner than later. Another evening, I had told Fi I felt really guilty about killing all these monsters so she assured me I was doing the right thing. When the final battle approached, Fi and I fought relentlessly, eventually succeeding. Fi was exhausted and the blade was dimmer than usual, I was injured and eventually just layed on the ground next to Fi who was making weak buzzes. Zelda had rushed to me and even though she didn’t know me that well, she was begging for medics. I didn’t mention this before but, before I had met Fi, I was being blamed for kidnapping Zelda. The knights refused to get help, but Fi and Zelda as a team managed to force the medics to heal me. “Young Master, stay awake for me and the princess. I beg of you.” Fi urged.

My eyes slipped close against my will and Fi buzzed with distress and alarm.

When I opened my eyes next, I saw Zelda standing over me. “Are you with me Link?” Zelda asked softly.

I nodded slightly and Zelda made a sound of relief. “Whewe’s Fi?” I slurred.

For some reason my now seven year old mind was set on the promise Fi made, that we would celebrate my birthday once I defeated Ganon. “Shhhhh she’s resting at the pedestal. She was battered down.” Zelda informed me, smiling sadly.

“B-But she pwomised.” I whimpered.

Zelda furrowed her eyebrows and I had just noticed the dark circles under her eyes. “What did she promise?”

“That we’d celebwate my biwthday once I saved you.” I replied.

Zelda gasped and looked at me, downcast. “But wasn’t your birthday days ago?” I nodded. “Link…look…I found out we are siblings after all the chaos…So I’m your older sister.” Zelda revealed.

My eyes widened and I looked at the princess to see if she was being serious. She was. At the time, Zelda was sixteen, she was much older than me. “And…I just want you to know that I’m here and I will protect you.” She squeezed my hand firmly.

“M’kay.” I yawned and then closed my eyes once more.

Then more adventures were thrown my way. My second and third adventures I travelled to Labrynna and Holodrum. Fi was now dormant, only the blade and it’s strength remained. In Holodrum, Impa always made sure I had enough to eat and drink. Din dancing and playing with the seasons to make me entertained. In Labrynna, Ralph was harsh but always made sure I wasn’t crying, what a softie. When I met my ancestor Raven, he looked heartbroken when I told him I was a hero in the future.

I turned eight when I went to Koholint. When I met Marin, she was my age and we became really good friends. Marin would take me to the beach and we would make sand castles and look at the vast ocean. When I found out the island was just a dream, I couldn’t bring myself to gather the instruments. I stayed with Marin, but the Nightmares polluted the paradise and killed Tarin, and then I knew I couldn’t stay. So I woke the Wind Fish and woke up cradling a board and sobbing.

When I came back to Hyrule, Zelda was in tears and nursing me back to health because apparently I was struck by lightning. I was inconsolable the entire time, and Zelda was able to get the story out of me. She held me in her arms and apologized profusely for not being there. I missed Fi and Uncle and Marin so so bad. Two more adventures and I was ten. When I had met Ravio he took me in willingly and gave me some of his items for free. It was nice and I felt appreciated. He called me Mr. Hero which was obviously a tease but I didn’t mind at the time. Hilda…once she had realized she was fighting a literal nine year old for the Triforce, she had a mental breakdown. But Yuga and Ganon did not care that they were battling a child. Hytopia was…weird but a sort of vacation. Now at the time I was ten and talking to Ravio. “My Uncle raised me til’ I was six and then Fi raised me.” I told the merchant.

“Fi? Is she a friend?” Ravio asked.

“Yeah.”

I didn’t want Ravio to think I was insane or more weird for being raised by a blade. I looked at the time and realized I was due for a visit with Zelda. Zelda got fussy if I was late, so I said farewell to the purple merchant and left. Both Ravio and Zelda had put in a lot of effort into helping me feel better with the loss of a few people. Whenever I saw a hibiscus, I thought of Marin and couldn’t stop the tears. Whenever I saw an apple or someone that looked like Uncle I had to stop and sob. Whenever I heard distant chimes that sounded similar to Fi’s my mind raced and my heart pounded until I realized Fi was still dormant. On my travels to the castle I came upon a growing hibiscus and floods of memories with Marin came back to me.

“I want to be a seagull, so I can fly the world and sing to all the other kids out there.”

I’m sorry Marin. I’m so sorry, so so very sorry.

#linked universe #lu legend #fi #angst #legend is a kid #unique writes

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mostthingskenobi · 5 months

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CASSIAN'S RECKONING - Chapter 13: The Redemption

CHAPTER SUMMARY: A little more hurt/comfort. Or maybe it's more accurate if I say comfort/hurt…

Please consider supporting me on Patreon.

READ THE FIC ON AO3

THIS IS A WHUMPY FIC W/GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE. PLEASE HEED THE TAGS ON AO3.

——————–

CHAPTER 13: THE REDEMPTION

Jyn had forgotten how disorienting living on a freighter could be; without the military’s strict time keeping, she would have lost track of ‘day’ and ‘night.’ Even so, she forgot to eat, refusing to leave the medical wing as she followed Cassian through his treatments, experiencing her own emotional turbulence along the way. From the moment the Ghost docked with the Redemption, Jyn disappeared into a nebulous state where she muddled time and relived old fears.

Cassian’s injuries were so widespread and varied the medical staff concurred bacta submersion was his only chance for survival. The doctor’s report was a grim reminder of how much a body could endure without dying. Though most of the cuts on his skin were superficial, each showed signs of salt-based caustic abrasion; his blood samples revealed evidence of multiple toxins that induced massive inflammation, including in nerves and organs; he had a separated shoulder, seven broken fingers, a blaster wound, and first degree burns around his forearms, biceps, and neck. None of this torture accounted for his emotional trauma, nor the physical toll caused by deprivation from food, water, and comfort.

Jyn hovered in the freighter’s medical wing for days. At the beginning she spent hours waiting outside the triage, fearing the worst. After Cassian went into shock aboard the Ghost, she and Melshi administer first aid; she hoped their best was enough to save him. When the Redemption’s medic came to speak with her, Jyn resisted the urge to shrink away; he assured her that, thanks to Rogue One’s actions, Cassian had a fighting chance. The medic offered to stich up her injuries. She’d nearly forgotten about the cuts and bruises that marred her own brow; she lay on a sterile table as he cleaned, sutured, and dressed her gashes, numbly wondering if Cassian had laid there only moments ago. Jyn wanted to cry and sleep and disintegrate. She was tired of facing challenges, of rising to the occasion; she craved slowness, silence, calm.

Did she even know what such things felt like?

After the medic finished, he volunteered to bring her to Cassian. She followed him down a narrow corridor and turned into a dark room where numerous bacta tubes stood upright with ethereal blue lights illuminating each tank’s base. The man led her three rows back, nearly to the column’s end, and there she found Cassian, already floating in the healing elixir. She stared defeatedly, her face aglow in the dark, lit by the tank’s blue hew. Jyn reached out and placed her palm against the glass, willing Cassian to know she was there. His features were soft, relaxed, his hair delicately undulating around his face.

“Did he ever regain consciousness?” she asked the medic who waited nearby.

He clasped his hands together nervously. “No.”

“Do you think he’ll live?” Part of her hated that she needed to ask the question, but her nature had always demanded blunt truth.

“He’s very weak,” the medic replied cautiously. “All we can do is hope for the best. Let the bacta do its work.”

Jyn haunted the halls for days, walking up and down, never able to settle anywhere for long. After what felt like an eternity, she was informed Cassian was being moved to the main medical ward—a huge room full of beds.

She sat by his side until yesterday when he unexpectedly woke with tears in his eyes.

The doctors had finally declared Cassian stable, and with that knowledge she allowed herself to sleep. Her chair was positioned directly next to his bed, her body bent forward, head on her arms, resting on the mattress next to him.

She woke when she felt fingers push into her hair. Jyn sighed gently before turning into the touch. Then her eyes shot open, remembering where she was, and she twisted upright. Cassian cupped her face, affectionately running his thumb over her cheekbone. “Hello,” he smiled weakly.

She wanted to throw her arms around him; instead, she clasped his hand in hers and pressed it tighter against her cheek, squeezing her eyes against the tears that threatened to come.

“You’re still here.” Speaking required a great deal of effort. His voice was tired and dry.

Once Jyn managed to get her emotions under control she said, “I didn’t want to leave you.”

His eyes were very dark and sunken but they had their twinkle back. “Every time I woke up, I saw you. Even in the bacta tank.”

“You were conscious in the bacta tank?”

He barely managed to shake his head. “No, not really. I just remember little flashes here and there. But you were in all of them.”

They held onto each other, their grip tightening. “After everything you’d been through, I didn’t want you to wake up and be alone.”

He carefully traced her stitches. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s a little tender but it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Who did this to you?” His tone was calm, inquisitive, not demanding.

“Melshi.” She couldn’t keep from smiling because she knew the information would surprise him.

Cassian was clearly shocked. “He and I are going to have words.”

“I made him do it. It’s possibly the meanest thing I’ve ever done to Melshi.”

Andor snorted. “I don’t know. Breaking his nose with a shovel was pretty mean.”

“He told you about that?”

“Of course. When he first brought you to Yavin he told me you were a bloodthirsty bitch and that I should watch my back.” He almost laughed but it hurt too much.

Jyn grinned. “I didn’t make a very good first impression.”

“He warmed up to you eventually.”

“If you’d been slaving away on Wobani, you’d have hit Melshi in the face with a shovel too if it meant going free.”

“We’ve already been down that path, haven’t we, Cass?” a new voice spoke as it approached.

Jyn and Cassian turned to see Melshi and all of Rogue One walking through the medical ward toward them. Cassian withdrew his hand and Jyn stood up to welcome their friends. Everyone circled around, warmly greeting each other.

Bodhi offered Jyn a steaming cup of coffee and a boxed lunch. “We came up here to bring you food. I don’t think you’ve eaten for a few days.”

Her heart swelled. “Thank you.” The smile she gave her friends said more than any words. She sat down and started eating while the others gathered near Cassian’s bed.

“You’re looking much better than the last time I saw you,” Melshi said.

“Yeah,” Bodhi agreed. “How are you feeling?”

Cassian shrugged. “I’m tired and really cold, but I’m OK.” He flexed his hands. “Though my fingers still hurt.”

“Tarkin is an old bastard.” Melshi grimaced.

“Was,” Baze corrected.

“Right,” the sergeant agreed. “A dead old bastard.”

“What?” Cassian looked around at his comrades, completely at a loss.

“He couldn’t know,” Chirrut reminded the group.

Everyone looked to Jyn. She swallowed a bite of food before leaning closer to Cassian. “Tarkin is dead. Princess Leia brought the Death Star plans back to base, but she was tracked. There was a battle over Yavin. Some rookie rebel pilot blew the Death Star to hell and Tarkin along with it.”

Cassian’s eyes became huge. “It’s been destroyed?”

Jyn nodded.

“Scarif…the plans…someone got them?”

The entire group nodded, each one of them smiling.

Cassian felt his pulse increase in a wave of gratitude. Everything they had suffered as a team and as individuals was suddenly cast in a different light. All the sacrifices, all the dark decisions, even getting captured and tortured was suddenly worth it because their plan had worked. Rogue One had succeeded. The Death Star was destroyed and all at once the Empire didn’t seem so invincible.

“According to Princess Leia,” Jyn continued, “Tarkin was on the Death Star when she escaped, so we’re assuming he was on board when it was destroyed.”

Cassian remembered the last time he saw the Grand Moff. “He was headed there to interrogate her.” He looked up at his friends. “Tarkin was transferring me to the Death Star with him. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I’d be dead right now.”

The narrowly avoided perdition made Jyn’s stomach turn over.

“I know you all took a terrible risk for me,” Cassian said, humbly. “I’ll never forget it.”

Baze clapped him on the shoulder, eliciting a wince from the rebel commander. “You’re worth it.”

“The bad part is Yavin was compromised,” Melshi said crossing his arms over his chest. “They’ve had to abandon it, which is why we’re floating around in this thing,” he gestured to the ship that stretched above them.

“So, we don’t have a base?”

“Nope. We’re basically an armada until further notice.”

A silver 2-1B medical droid rolled up and interrupted the conversation. “I’m sorry, but this many guests are not allowed in the wards. You’ll have to leave.” The group protested but the droid would not be overruled. Herding them toward the exit it turned to Jyn. “You too, Lieutenant.”

Her surprise changed to concern and she looked to Cassian for guidance.

“Go on,” he assured her. “Get some sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

Chirrut appeared at her elbow and took her hand. “Take comfort, Jyn. He’s burning bright in the Force again.” The guardian smiled warmly.

With one last glance over her shoulder, she allowed herself to be ushered away. Cassian could sense it unsettled her. They were both all too aware each parting could be their last.

The 2-1B droid returned to Cassian’s bedside and pulled a privacy drape around the area.

The rebel instinctively became tense. “What are you doing?” He was painfully cognizant of his vulnerability; not only was he bogged down by IVs and monitors, but he certainly didn’t have the strength to protect himself if needed.

“Doctors have ordered a small treatment for the gash on your eye,” the medical droid replied as it pushed a narrow trolly near Cassian and began arranging a protective cloth under his head. “It’s nothing to worry about, Commander. The procedure is painless and of short duration.”

The droid lowered the bed so Cassian was lying flat before positioning itself near the crown of his head.

He became so tense that his fingers went cold and his muscles began to shake.

The 2-1B reached for something on the trolly.

“Wait! Wait,” Cassian demanded. “Tell me what you’re doing first.”

The droid tilted its head and looked down at him. “It is a gentle bacta eye wash. I will spray a mist locally on your eyelid and brow.”

“My eye is fine,” Cassian replied too forcefully. He knew it was a lie but he didn’t care; after the IT-O interrogator tried to cut his eye out, he didn’t want anyone coming near him, especially not a droid.

“Commander,” the docile machine said evenly, “if you wish to avoid long-term complications, this treatment is advisable.” 2-1Bs were programmed to care about their patients, and this unit was particularly gentle. “If you feel uncomfortable during the procedure, I will stop.”

Andor clenched his teeth, realizing the droid was waiting for his permission. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, so he simply nodded.

“Very well,” it said as it retrieved a small spraying nozzle from the trolly. “Please close your eyes.”

Cassian did as he was told.

The instant the mist touched his skin his heartrate skyrocketed. He breathed heavily through flared nostrils, overwhelmed by memories of ice-cold salt water ripping through every cut on his body.

“Please remain still, Commander.”

He tried to comply, grinding his teeth and squeezing his hands so tightly they ached. Only minutes ago, he had felt like the Empire was less invincible, but now he realized he was still firmly in their grasp. “B!” he shouted. “I can’t!”

The mist instantly turned off and a soft towel dried his face. “My name is 2-1-B, Commander.”

Cassian shook violently as his bed rose back to its standard height. “Right. Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s quite all right.” The droid replaced his pillow with a clean, dry one. “I was unable to complete the procedure. Perhaps we can try again later?”

Cassian gave a reluctant nod.

“Get some rest,” the droid said gently before opening the drape and motoring the trolly back to the supply closet.

Once he was alone, Cassian closed his hands over his eyes and tried to come to terms with the bleak realization that, thanks to Tarkin, he now had a new set of obstacles to overcome.

END NOTES

NEXT CHAPTER IS CALLED “THE SPOILS" - Jyn gets a chance to do some real good for Cassian.

Thank you for reading!

Likes, comments, and reblogs are very welcome!

Much love!

——————–

READ IT ON AO3- Kudos and Comments Welcome :-)

READ CHAPTER 1 “The Razor”

READ CHAPTER 2 “The Scythe”

READ CHAPTER 3 “The Cold”

READ CHAPTER 4 “The Expendable”

READ CHAPTER 5 “The Truth”

READ CHAPTER 6 “The Detritus”

READ CHAPTER 7 “The Salt”

READ CHAPTER 8 “The Power”

READ CHAPTER 9 “The Betrayal”

REACH CHAPTER 10 “The Ruse”

READ CHAPTER 11 “The Reprieve”

READ CHAPTER 12 “The Ghosts”

READ CHAPTER 13 "The Redemption"

READ CHAPTER 14 “The Spoils”

READ CHAPTER 15 “The Interrogation”

READ CHAPTER 16 "The Rogues"

READ CHAPTER 17 “The Absolution”

READ CHAPTER 18 “The Reach”

READ CHAPTER 19 “The Hologram”

READ CHAPTER 20 “The Divide”

READ CHAPTER 21 “The Cost”

READ CHAPTER 22 “The Fallout”

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