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tinkertoysdamn · 9 months

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Stereo Hearts - We Built This City' Verse

Loki shuddered in irritation. Things were progressing on the overall plan but the rogue Time Agents still needed help, specifically they needed raw muscle. Mobius had made a suggestion, a good one in fact, but Loki was unhappy with it. “I can’t believe we are considering this.”

“She was damn useful on the last mission.” Mobius pointed out. Thora Odinson had been not merely useful, but the powerhouse behind that particular success. The fact that her presence had also annoyed Loki to no end was a bonus as far as Mobius was concerned.

“Yes but she was also–” Loki’s face screwed up in distaste. “Pining.” He spat out the word with great vitriol. “Obviously. Obnoxiously.”

It had gotten a little out of hand. “Maybe if we pull her from another part of the timeline,” Mobius suggested.

Loki lit up. “Excellent idea.” He clapped his hands together, pleased. “Perhaps after some distance from those blasted Guardians, she’d be more tolerable.”

Considering how Loki had whined to Mobius about his own long-lost Sylvie, Mobius thought the trickster god was being a bit hypocritical. Still— “Here’s a good spot,” Mobius said, looking over his Tempad. “It’s a few years later.”

Now fully on board with the idea, Loki’s eyes glittered. “Do it.”

Once again, they teleported onto a spaceship, but this one was considerably larger and of a different make then the one they’d been on before. “Good,” Loki muttered, “perhaps she’s taken up with new companions.”

Then they heard the music. It wasn’t nearly as old as that dreaded Pina Colada song, but it still made them pause. It was entirely possible that Thora was traveling with others who liked Earth’s music, but it was doubtful.

“Where’s it coming from?” Mobius whispered.

Cautiously, they made their way down the hallway, ready for anything. Except for perhaps that.

Up on a repair catwalk where two figures, one was partially buried in a vent, her fluffy tail peeking out and the other was Captain Brandy Quill. Considering her state of dress, she had not been expecting company. She was in a tank top and shorts, work gloves in place as they worked in tandem on a repair. Every once and while she’d exaggerate a hip swing or a movement to dance along.

Over the music Loki and Mobius could hear Rocket and Quill singing. Judging from how they split up the duet, it was clear they had some practice.

“Appreciate every mixtape your friends make. You never know, we come and go like on the interstate.” Rocket’s voice was less than musically inclined, but it was earnest, carrying through the ship.

Loki and Mobius lurked, not certain if they should draw attention to themselves or should sneak away without interrupting. If they were careful enough, maybe they could avoid the wrath of the Captain entirely.

It was then that the song shifted to the bridge. Quill elected to stop her repair to tug on the mechanic’s creeper to get Rocket out of the vent, only to belt more of the song at her.

“I only pray you never leave me behind—”

Rocket snickered under her breath. “You always get so dramatic at this part.”

Quill was using her spanner as a microphone now. “Because good music can be so hard to find.”

Rocket grinned. “I should be filming. Thunder Head would love this.”

“I take your hand, hold it closer to mine.” Quill was eating this up, chewing up the song and spitting it back out again with sheer unadulterated joy. She tilted her head back, letting the spirit and lyrics pour out of her.

“Thought love was dead, but now you're changing my mind!”

“Okay,” Loki admitted to Mobius. “She’s actually pretty good.” Then he ducked as the spanner nearly collided with his head.

Mobius jumped at the sound. “Oh my god.”

The music cut off. Quill stared down at them with righteous anger. “Don’t you dicks ever call?”

“Captain,” Loki tried to put on his most obsequious charm. “Pardon the intrusion but this is only the second—”

“Fourth.” Quill held up four fingers. “Four times you flarking jerks have done this.”

“We’ve only been here twice,” Mobius said. “I think I’d remember the other two.”

Rocket and Quill shared a disgusted look. “Time travelers,” Rocket complained. “At least it’s not in the middle of dinner this time.”

“Or when Tetrina’s trying to take a nap.” Once again, the best friends shared a look, but this time one of a remembered agony.

Things were getting off track. Loki attempted to regain control. “We’re here for—”

“We know.” Quill pressed a button on her com-unit. “Thora, your not-brother’s here again. Collect him before we throw him out of the airlock for real this time.”

“Always with the airlock,” Mobius muttered.

Quill wasn’t having it. “Stop showing up unannounced and it won’t be a problem.”

Less than a minute later, Thora barged into the room, already outfitted in her armor, her ax at the ready. “Where are we going today?” Thora asked, beaming.

“You seem awfully eager,” Mobius said.

“This is our fourth quest together,” Thora said. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Loki could spot Quill making a “I told you” gesture.

It seemed that his partnership with this variant of his brother would continue into the future. Someway, somehow, Loki wouldn’t drive her away. Loki found the thought more comforting than he would care to admit.

“This shouldn’t be nearly so perilous as before,” Loki told her. “But we need your strength regardless.”

“Excellent.” Thora was more than up for the challenge.

“Don’t bring her back full of holes this time,” Quill shouted down at them.

“No promises,” Mobius said, dialing up the Tempad. The Time Agents and Thor stepped through the portal, dodging any verbal barbs that Quill had left to throw at them.

As the portal closed, Thora said with a wide grin, "She's my girlfriend now."

Loki pinched the bridge of his nose. It had begun.

My heart's a stereo It beats for you, so listen close Hear my thoughts in every no-ote Make me your radio And turn me up when you feel low This melody was meant for you Just sing along to my stereo

#thorquill #peter quill #thor odinson #we built this city verse #rule 63 #too dumb for ao3

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crazy-fangirl2524 · 10 months

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All of us want to read “books that are different from the books we like but also exactly like it” and that’s why we have fanfictions. That’s why we love fanfictions. It is literally the book we love but in a different font.

#idk ig i knew this but now I’m like oh oh oh #we all want a media that’s exactly like the media we love #but slightly different #so boom fanfics #that’s why it’s so popular and essential to our wellbeing #anyways #dumb thoughts #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #fanfictions #fanfics #fics #ao3 #archive of our own #idk what’s this too

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ghost-bxrd · 3 months

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have you read The Vigilante's Rules For Surviving Undeath series yet?

Oh! The one written by SummerKnight?

Full disclosure, I found out about it yesterday(?) (along with Other) while casually taking a look at my AO3 desktop and realizing my gift counter had gone up? And when I checked: there it was! I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier 😭

I haven’t read it yet but it’s on my to-do list for tomorrow when I have time to sit down and enjoy it to the fullest! Absolutely can’t wait to read 💚

#ghost talks #it’s for the zombie au!!!#zombie Jason #look it was a case of me being bored and checking ao3 and then doing a double take because of the gift counter #I was like— wait was it always that number?#and then realizing no it wasn’t #and I literally missed two great fics because I was too dumb to properly check my account lmao #shame on me for this honestly #jason todd #batfamily #batfam

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lunchtimebedamned1997 · 1 month

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RadioStatic WIP stuff >:3

Currently working on a big RadioSilence fic, and I was already planning to make some art for it, but what I saw that people are doing a RadioStatic week starting May 13th - well, lets just say that day 1 works perfectly for one of my favorite scenes in the fic :3

(pls note this is the rough initial sketch, proportions will improve lol)

And hey, why not give you all a little sneaky peak at the story too...

Did I mention it's a 'origin' fic of why Alastor and Vox hate each other so very much in S1? *evil giggles*

Idk if any of this will be postable by May 13th bc I'm disabled and in a lot of pain rn, but we'll see! I'm too excited not to share sneak peaks, even if I don't end up being able to post for the actual event week! If I post any art, it will be here on Tumblr though! (the event is technically a Twitter event, but I really only use that app to look at shinys from X-only artists , so I won't be posting over there lol)

Do any other artists have the roughest first sketches? XD I'm almost embarrassed to share the CSP screenshot haha

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aphel1on · 3 months

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#REMEMBERED THE DUMB EDIT I WAS GONNA MAKE.#writing #fanfic #aphelion.txt #text post meme #i guess?#ao3 #i mean this can be about original writing too but #every damn time seriously #i do it without even noticing #i'll be like oh finally i wrote a piece that isnt somehow secretly about my mother #then ill reread it 6 months later and its about my mother again.#LOL that's only one example but also like #i'll go 'im gonna write about this fucked up lil dude<3'#and only realize 10k into his pov that i have cribbed several mental health quirks directly from my own brain #sorry the text on this is fuzzy i use ms paint like some kind of cave person and its text editor is garbage

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maegalkarven · 6 months

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Another piece of unpolished writing is set free.

Post Noah reveal, Lord Enver Gortash and his favorite (traitorous) assassin attempt to have a long-awaited talk.

Durgetash, trans!Durge. Nsfw (this is the part where they tear into each other like starved animals.)

There's a loud, ringing noise in Gortash's ears, and the full weight of Bane's disapproval over his shoulders. That's the problem with masters; the moment you act out of their allowed narrative is the moment you're getting punished.

Enver knows he will meet torture upon death, the consequences of servitude just keep piling up. First Raphael and House of Hope, always ready to take is soul back, now the Black Lord. Enver wonders who'll get the first claim over his soul in case of his death, and if adding just another force after it will complicate the whole process, buying him time, or will it doom him even more.

He would swore to every god imaginable, if only to watch them all fight over his soul afterwards, the vultures gods truly are. Not that different from the devils, after all.

"You're quiet," a familiar voice mentions. "Calm. This is concerning."

He thinks about laughing right into Bhaalspawn's face, then decides against it.

"Would you prefer me to have a tantrum?" He replies instead.

He doesn't look to see Levi take a step forward, careful as if worried he'd spook him. Like they are strangers, like the entire plot Levi unmade piece by piece wasn't of their creation.

Traitor.

"I would prefer if you gave me reaction," another step. "Any reaction."

"And why," he finally looks up and his gaze immeditely gets stuck to the mess in the place where Levi's right eye used to be. Bloody Orin. Maybe he can put together a smart implant for the eye.

Foolish, thinking about all the ways he can improve Bhaalspawn even now. "Do you care?"

Levi takes another drastic step forward, ending chest to chest with Gortash, his breath ghosting over Enver's face.

"You said it," he tries to smile and fails, expression coming out in a grimace. "I am your nearest and dearest. We have a child, for fucks sake, it ought to mean something."

This is a low blow. Any mention of Noah is, especially as it's still stuck in his mind: the image of Noah throwing himself into his father's embrace, of Levi catching him into his arms and clutching into for dear life.

Like he cares. Like he didn’t abandon Noah there to begin with.

"You just met him," he pushes through the gritted teeth, trying to relax his jaw. "Don't act like you care."

Levi blinks at him, confused and genuine.

This is not his Levi, and yet it is.

Parts are missing, parts are misplaced, but important things are all the same.

Enver watches, transfixed, as his hand raises, as if on it's own accord, to lay on the bhaalspawn's neck, first gently, then it closes over the man's throat and squeezes.

Levi's eyes bulge, but he has the audacity to not fight, to simply take the abuse in. He lays his own hand over Enver and caresses it. Enver squeezes tighter.

"I asked you one thing," he lets out, low and angry. "One damn thing: leave the Iron Throne alone. But you just had to snoop around, did you? You just had to ruin every single of my carefully constructed plans-"

The bhaalspawn finally decides he dislikes being chocked to death, and thus forcibly tears Enver's hand off his throat. He coughs, squeezing Gortash's hand in his still, thrumb caressing the calloused skin underneath the gauntlet.

The gauntlet absent of netherstone, because it was taken from Enver the same way everything was taken from him.

He thinks if he lets himself be angry, he will never stop.

"Charming," Levi finally weezes out between the coughs. "I can see why I like you so much."

"Why you liked me so much," Gortash corrects. "Past tense."

The bhaalspawn gives him a weird look.

"No, Enver," he argues, and the sound of Enver's name on his tongue has no right to sound so sweet.

Enver hates this man with the burning passion.

"Like. Present tense," he moves to be even closer, despite it quitle literally being impossible. Enver stands his ground, which rewards him with Bhaalspawn being all but wrapped around him.

The earthy scent ambushes his senses; the smell of grass and blood and dying leaves and something distictly animal-

Then a mouth closes over his, intent in it's unrelenting force; swift tongue opens Enver's lips and slides in.

He thinks of bitting this tongue off, even as he feels his own muscles relax, betraying him in their urgent need to re-capture the familiar scene.

He doesn't fight back, but doesn't respond either; being as still as statue as every inch of his body screams at him to do someting, take control, wrap his hand around Levi's hair and pull, push the man on the table and-

Levi's moan vibrates through the kiss, the hot, eager tongue licking at his teeth, being everywhere at once, overbearing, overstimulating-

It's just a kiss.

It feels like Levi is trying to devour him. Enver's hands move on his own accord, entangling in a long, messy hair and finally doing what they itched to do.

Levi let's out a surprised laugh as his head is violently yanked back. Then he pushes forward as Enver keeps pulling back.

"Aw, but I liked what I was doing," the bhaalspawn cooes, lips red and wet with saliva, single eye unfocused. "I love how you taste, I want to taste all of you."

"Of course you do," Enver grunts as his leg, again without any command given, moves to press firmly between the bhaalspawn's legs.

Levi giggles.

"Oh, good," he smiles. "You're responding. And here I was worried Karlach's beating made you impotent."

Enver growls. He'll show this arrogant asshole who thinks he can waltz in and out Enver's life how potent he truly is.

The bhaalspawn won't be able to move for days after that.

Some of his intents had to reflect on his face, for Levi looks positively elated.

"Yes," he murmurs, voice low and full of lust. "Do that. Tear into me, break me into pieces, destroy me and pull me back anew-"

"I will. Don't say you didn't ask for this," Enver threatens and knows very well Levi will not say that. Levi will take all Enver has to offer and will take it with grace.

Bhaalspawn smiles, beautiful and tantalizing.

"Promises, promises..."

***

It's like coming home. The thought is annoying, it's embarassing, and yet it refuses to leave.

The moment Enver slides into Bhaalspawn, the man sprawled underneath him - yes, on the table - hands held firmly in Enver's own - it feels like all the last months of sleep-deprivation, stress and the perfect plan falling apart didn’t happen.

It feels like the first time, with Levi cowered from head to toe in blood and viscera, with Enver letting him press into himself even so, knowing very well his clothes will be ruined by the impact.

It's the powerful rush of something primal, something bigger than he can ever become, a wave of affection so deep he feels like he is drowning.

Three years ago he was trying his best to tear out these feelings. Two years ago be prayed to Bane to free him from the prison of useless emotions.

A year ago he decided it would be better if Levi simply disappeared; out of the sight, out of his mind, out of his life.

Several months ago his dreams came to life, while his heart, stimulatiously, stopped.

Now he can breathe, even as the ocean of feelings rushes in, drowns him in it, pulls him under-

Not even death can free him from Leviathan Anchev, not Leviathan's and not his own. He walked himself into his own trap, and the doors are locked shut.

"Enver," his destroyer murmurs underneath, a picture perfect image of demise. Beautiful, bloody, mad with hunger what has nothing to do with his urges. Enver's back itches with the new scratches what were torn into it just now, the force of Levi's affection presenting itself in deep bloody slices of skin bleeding all over Gortash's back.

He leans in to kiss his name off Leviathan's lips, to make him light-headed, to steal the life out of these lungs.

His, his, his-

"Mine," he says aloud and feels Levi's tongue on his palm.

"Yours," the monster he tamed agrees. "Only yours. Please, Enver, I will die if you stop, I will tear at your flesh and chew on your bones if you don't-"

He snorts, and Levi stops his rant long enough to look offended.

"Don't be so dramatic," he caresses the tensed thigh with his clawed fingers, leaving light red marks on its wake. Levi moans. "I will take you and I will not stop taking you till there's nothing left. I will drink you up to the bottom and swallow it down. You fell back to me willingly - you're never getting out."

Levi suddenly rises on his elbows to pull him closer, forehead to forehead. He looks unexpectedly gentle, too gentle for someone who's being fucked out of his mind.

"Good," he murmurs and then pulls Enver's lower lip into his mouth and bites hard. He licks and sucks at the blood as Enver hisses through gritted teeth, his movements losing rhythm and becoming uneven. "I don't want out. This is where I want to end, you're the one I want to end me," and with that he squeezes his lower muscles, making Enver push in harder and hissing under the new pressure. "Have you ever heard of praying mantis?"

Enver actually laughs at that, the vibration going through both of their bodies.

"You have used them as an example of what you want to do to me, yes," he huffs, kissing the side of his lover's head where the broken horn meets the skin. Levi chuckles, then moans, then adjusts position slightly, changing the angle and letting Gortash reach even further.

"Then you know how much I love you," he hums.

No, he doesn't, or he didn't, or maybe he refused to know.

He kisses the corner of stubborn mouth as he feels release build up inside; Levi lets out a small, breathless huff.

"Enver," he whispers as Gortash captures his lips in a kiss, a single word caressing him like a promise.

"Me too," Enver agrees. "Hold on for me, will you?"

Levi does, and so they finish together in this so overused by bad erotica novels way, practically merging into one being at the top of the extasy. Levi reaches out and bites into his shoulder; blood, red and hot, dripping down his chin. Enver lets go of his hands in favor of sinking his claws into there the thigh connects to the bottom, piercing skin in the process.

Enver doesn't remember what sex without violence is and he wouldn't want it any other way.

He lets go of the thighs to press shaking Levi into himself as they ride out the waves of pleasure. Levi's teeth are still in his shoulder, his hands are losing themselves in his hair, his tail is wrapped around Enver's leg so tightly the man starts to feel it getting numb.

Even as all of his plans have crushed and burned around him, Gortash still has one victory left.

This, the child of Bhaal lost in his clutches.

He will not allow him go.

#dark urge: levi #durgetash #dark urge x gortash #the dark urge x enver gortash #family matters #I'm too tired to polish things and post them properly #on ao3 with tags and names and shit #so here we go #take it or leave it #dumb future husbands who can't live without annoying each other to the point of madness

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captainkingsley · 2 years

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Thwap.

Caleb is fairly certain he's going to have a bruise on his leg at this rate. Since falling asleep, Molly's tail has been wagging and smacking him on the leg, over and over and over.

Thwapthwapthwap—

"Molly." Caleb says.

Thwap.

"Molly!" Louder this time, a harsh whisper. He hears Mollymauk make a surprised noise, then turn and crack an eye open at him, looking over his shoulder. Molly's tail stops in its wagging, laying over Caleb's leg.

"What?" Molly groggily says, his voice thick and slurred with sleep.

"Your tail," Caleb says, "You keep slapping me with it."

Mollymauk yawns. Caleb can't help but think about the way Frumpkin looks when he does the same, all sharp teeth on display. Molly's fangs stand out in the dark of the room. As does the jewelry still on his horns, though the chains have been taken off. Squinting, Molly brings his tail back, off of Caleb's leg.

"Sorry." Molly says, rolling over fully, wrapping his arms around Caleb's waist. Curling into the embrace, Caleb shuts his eyes once more and listens as Molly's breathing slows once again, his side rising and falling in a relaxed pace as he falls asleep.

In another ten minutes Molly's tail begins the thwapthwapthwap noise again, hitting Caleb in the leg. He tries to ignore it, tries to simply fall asleep but—

He grumbles quietly, unable to remove himself from Molly's arms, else he'd scoot further from him. There has to be a way to stop this.

Molly's tail slaps him on the leg once more. This time, it's a bit more like a snap of a whip, and Caleb winces and wonders what the hells he could be dreaming of that makes him react in such a way. Is it good? Bad?

He gets a look at Molly's face, seeing him with a soft grin across his lips, brow relaxed.

Must be good.

Thwap.

Caleb reaches, thinks it through, and then—

Thwap.

That's it, he thinks.

— grabs the end of Molly's tail, holding it in place. It wriggles in his grasp, the spaded end twisting.

At least it's not slapping him on the leg, now.

Molly's still asleep, seemingly unaware of the fact that his tail is currently in the grasp of one irritated, sleepy wizard. The tail tenses again, wriggling, and Caleb grips it a little tighter.

Calm down, he wants to tell Molly, just calm down and let me get my sleep.

Lowering his hand, still gripping Molly's tail, he holds it against his side and shuts his eyes again, taking a long, deep breath. If he can just manage to hold him still long enough to fall asleep, maybe he'll fall deep enough that the slaps won't wake him again.

He drifts off, dreams beginning to seep into the corners of his vision.

An hour later,

thwap.

"Molly."

And so his night repeats.

#it's less than 500 words so I'm not going to post it to ao3 but #this was too dumb and cute not to share #drabble #widomauk

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sadiecoocoo · 2 months

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Idk what this means someone please help

What is koboldAI??? Is the “disaster” an affectionate one??? I’m so confused 😭

#someone help #ao3 fanfic #ao3 comments #I don’t understand #please someone explain #because I’m too dumb to figure it out myself :)

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bisaster-energy · 5 months

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im not even done my current kuwameshi fic and im already getting ideas about new ones...

#kuwameshi #give me a sec i'll reblog later with the actual idea but like #WHAT IF UM KUWAMESHI BUT UM. PRINCESS BRIDE AU...#i also have another song fic idea but it's way sillier than the one i have on ao3 #based off you me and steve by garfunkel and oates #i got the idea cos i just remembered when yusuke got back from training with genkai the 1st time and instead of a 1 on 1 date with keiko #kuwabara is also? there? and it's just so funny to me like what. and then they're supposed to all 3 go to the movies together?#AND WHEN THEY GET THERE THE 2 BOYS DITCH KEIKO?? for a mission yeah but she doesn't know that!!#and then yusuke and keiko actually go on a date alone and it gets interrupted cos of younger toguro #and shortly after kuwabara shows up so it looks like he was bound to come across them??#as far as a i remember the next time yu and keiko get together alone is the day he tells her to just wait and she's like im literally #not gonna wait for you <3 and it was so funny she just walked off lmaoo #anyway im trying to say i wanna make a silly little fic addressing the fact that keiko is like. pursuing her crush on yusuke #but kuwabara is kinda just. always there and it's fun she does like him but it's just awkward #planning on having her ask kuwa to maybe give her and yusuke some time alone like maybe just avoid their next outing #and kuwa is like oh damn :( ok good luck and yusuke shows up to the date and he's like woah wait. where tf is kuwabara?#keiko is like bruh. and she makes up some shit about him mentioning that he felt sick or wtv and yusuke is like ''then y are we here?#i should check on him. i dont think that guy has even been put outta commission by anything but my fist!'' and keiko just follows him #cos what else can she do. and kuwa is fine ofc and yusuke is like bro what gives i thought you were sick and kuwa is dense sometimes but he #catches on from keiko's desperate look and he's like well i got better *flexes his arm* and yu is like i knew you were too dumb to catch #a cold. and he's stupid happy that kuwa is fine and can come with them after all ''hey he's fine ya hear that keiko''#and then keiko is watching this whole exchange eyes blown wide open and she's like actually i just remembered i have plans #you two should totally go without me tho and yu agrees so easily that it just solidifies that she made the right call #kuwa is looking back at her all confused and she gives HIM the good luck thumbs up. he gets as red as his hair and #yusuke is worried he really is coming down with something

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appleciderp · 1 year

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Gaz isn't wrong there, Soap.

Drawn in honor of Riolee's comment on my Ao3 CoD Sketch dump.

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghoap #my art #I legit take dumb request for CoD shit #like hmu either here or on my Ao3 and if it's dumb there's like a 99% chance I'll do it #(and if it's sincere too #but I prefer the dumb shit)#Military propaganda is making me do chubby Ghost propaganda >:]

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ziekkfreak2-0 · 10 months

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"Well since ao3 is down, I should try doing some other things. Let's scroll through Tumblr!"

"Awww what cute art! Man this would make for a good fic. Lemme check ao3 real quick-"

#and then this cycle repeats until I have too many fic ideas for my tiny little brain #Fuck I really have an ao3 addiction huh #ao3 #dumb ramblings

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gingiekittycat · 3 months

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Does anyone else struggle to read AO3 fics with the super triple spacing between paragraphs?

Like there are some fics that I really want to read but cannot focus with that spacing.... It just feels so much like they're section breaks

Does anyone know of an easy way to combat this or do I just need to try and get over it?

#I imagine it's one of those dumb formatting issues from copying and pasting into AO3's editor #It always fucks up my italics too (puts extra spaces where I have something in italics)#I have made it through some fics like that before but it is such a challenge for me idk #😕#ao3 #Fanfiction

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corellianhounds · 19 days

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Amidala the Resilient

Media: Revenge of the Sith

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,942

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, pregnancy, Force-choking, blood and injuries, traumatic labor and delivery, death in childbirth, no happy ending.

Art Credit: Iain McCaig, The Art of Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

Summary: In a universe where Anakin gradually descended into the Dark side of his own volition from the beginning— where his ambition and love were genuine and admirable, but the temptation of power too much— his turn is something much more destructive and purposeful. Amidala’s plan for retaliation is just as much so.

Padmé Amidala can feel tension twinging in her back and thighs. The pit in her stomach has coalesced into a tight knot as she steels herself for what she must do; she’s bringing a mattock and salt to the ground where pruning shears should have been used long ago.

Anakin had been too far gone for a long time, and the fault lay in her and everyone in his life willingly turning a blind eye too often to his myriad of faults. In the past two hours she has seen actions the result of which came from an upbringing where his temper, jealousy, and ambition were allowed to slide because those who thought him destined for some great cosmic good were willing to overlook occasional— and often objectively justified— acts of wrath and ruthlessness. He had always been so good at justifying his reasons and putting his actions in a more favorable light, showing enough willingness for correction over the years people thought he was receptive to guidance and change.

What she’d come to realize with dawning horror was that the seeds of destruction had been sown long ago, and though the vines had borne occasional good fruit, they had always grown with selfish intent, inevitably choking out everything around them in an effort to keep his own desires hidden behind the barrier of thorns.

In the next hour, she will come face to face with the monster of a man he’s become.

The Jedi master doesn’t know. Kenobi knows she has some plan but wrongfully assumes it is to appeal to whatever mistaken shred of humanity might remain in Anakin. Obi-Wan— even now, even after what they saw— cares for him as a brother and would sooner cut off his own hand than see Anakin completely lost to the Dark. Padmé however has finally seen clarity of purpose.

For Anakin to be stopped, he must be killed.

The ship arrives on Mustafar. Padmé wrenches herself away from the viewport as Obi-Wan lands and she gingerly lowers herself to the cargo hold, donning a cloak. Obi-Wan hurriedly finishes the landing cycle, calling her name as she gathers her strength, but she’s hardly listening to him at this point and she knows she must conceal herself from him so he has no chance of stopping her.

A hand on her shoulder makes her flinch, and the Jedi lets go almost in surprise. “Padmé, you don’t have to do this. I will talk to him.”

“No,” she says, keeping her left hand secured across her waist beneath the voluminous sleeve as she cleared a path to the lowering gangway. “He’s made it very clear he’s past the point of reasoning with the Jedi. I will speak with him, and if I cannot convince him to come with us calmly, or I cannot ascertain his next move, I expect you to do what’s necessary to end this treasonous rebellion. That is an order.”

It was all false diplomacy, of course, for his sake. Padmé had no intention of believing Anakin was anywhere close to the realm of negotiation. They were far past that.

But she needed assurance that she could get close enough to Anakin to act decisively. She couldn’t have Kenobi interfering, not at this juncture.

Oppressive heat surrounded her as she swept down the ramp to the barren ground. Magma roiled and churned, flames flickering at the edge of the peninsula as Padmé approached the figure so cloaked in darkness an aura of blackened energy almost seemed to emanate from his form. The grip of the hidden dagger dug into her hand, grounding her as she approached.

Padmé’s eyes burned with a ferocity to match her husband’s. It was time for this to end.

When Obi-Wan had seen her determination in the hold of the ship he had never for a moment anticipated what it would lead to.

Padmé steadily approached Anakin, cloak and hood protecting her from the blaze. He could see her speaking forcefully with him, her face hidden from view but Anakin’s darkening by the moment in response. His right hand, devoid of glove, clenched the hilt of an already ignited saber, the bloodshine blade standing in stark contrast to his own cloak. Its presence alone was alarming, but Obi-Wan had been subject to so many tragedies that night already, he merely assumed Anakin had readied it in the expectation of facing his master.

What Obi-Wan hadn’t known was what Padmé concealed until she tried to close the distance between them, her own blade in hand. What followed happened in the span of a heartbeat.

Anakin’s saber blocked it on instinct, easily halting the approach of Padmé’s dagger, his eyes widening in surprise. In the following moment his left hand raised and with it, so did Padmé.

Obi-Wan’s astonishment lasted only a fraction of a second as he yelled “NO!” Padmé’s feet left the ground as an invisible force clutched her neck in a crushing, intangible grip, and in the breadth of time Padmé scrabbled at her throat, Obi-Wan acted.

Anakin stumbled back from the force of the bolt hitting his shoulder, releasing his hold on Padmé. Padmé crumpled to the ground in a heap, and Anakin’s sights zeroed in on Kenobi, standing at the mouth of the ship with both blaster and lightsaber in hand. Snarling, Anakin stalked towards his old master and brought his lightsaber down, red clashing against blue.

Padmé Amidala, heartbroken and dying, drags herself bleeding to the communication console.

Kenobi can hear her movement in the bay and yells her name, telling her not to move, that he’ll come to help her as soon as the ship breaches the atmosphere, and she stalwartly ignores him, cradling the underside of her belly with one hand and using the other to support herself on the railing around the sparse artillery deck. Her broken ankle protests at every movement, sending lightning arcing up the leg where she puts her unsteady weight. The cramps in her abdomen spread like bone-coral, sharp and hot and agonizing in her pelvis, sides, back— Every tendon and muscle in her body screams at their owner to relent, to succumb to the creeping darkness pressing around her vision, but she cannot allow herself peace until she finishes what she started.

Padmé staggers at the ship’s turbulent acceleration, her forearm slamming out against the bulkhead as the lights flicker, and she curses the unsteady pilot she thought was her friend. Perhaps if she’d been accompanied by someone more decisive, someone whose fatal flaw wasn’t a love too great for a brother that no longer existed, Anakin would have been dealt with and she’d have the wherewithal to fight against the added pain of a labor she was sure would tear her in two.

Sweat pours from her brow and forces her already shaking, slippery hands to scrabble for purchase on the blasted polished finery of a spoiled noble’s ship. Her muscles spasm and she gasps in abject terror as she feels something inside her snap; the membrane within her had ruptured.

Gravity pulls on her bones as her muscles betray her, and she collapses against the bench. Fingernails scrape vinyl and she chokes out a guttural, rending cry of pain in the effort it takes to haul herself upward into the seat.

Obi-Wan is yelling again. Traitorous coward.

Padmé punches in the covert frequency on the transmitter. Her other hand rests on her stomach, her infants moving restlessly under her touch. She forces the hot flashes of pain back, shoving down every instinctive response to curl in on herself.

“Sabé—,” she says into the comm, gritting her teeth and tasting blood once more; the contractions were stronger and with a strangled grunt she yanks the comm closer, ignoring the frantic waves of worry rolling off of the useless Jedi in the pilot’s seat.

“Sabé, if you find the man who was my husband,” she chokes, the creeping black at the edges of her vision beginning to overtake her.

“Kill him.”

Obi-Wan sat listlessly on a bench in the hold, what bloodied clothing he still wore sticking to him like a second skin. His hand rested on the makeshift bassinet, a gun locker repurposed into a cradle.

He could only imagine what directive she’d felt necessary enough to strain herself to get across the sublight waves; he could only imagine because the message was encrypted and the recipient unknown, and her mind had been shielded from his probing. He didn’t know whether to blame his failed use of the Force on the heartbroken, distracted nature of his psyche being pulled in a thousand directions as he’d manually flown from Mustafar’s orbital pull in order to make the jump to lightspeed, or to blame some unknown energy stalwartly blocking him from Padmé’s mind. Reaching out to her had felt like hitting a steel wall.

The tumult of their departure had preoccupied him until he was sure he’d escaped whatever enemy fighters Anakin’s new master had sent after them, the maneuvering less of a dogfight and more of a half-cocked evasive prayer for the hull to remain intact long enough for them to break atmo. Klaxons blared and the astronav’s interface barked orders, warning him of too many systems he already knew were damaged enough that if they took even one more hit to the hull they would be obliterated; shields were failing, exterior panelling being shorn off, the pursuing fighters gaining on them— Until by some stroke of luck he’d found a slip in space to pull through and immediately jump to lightspeed.

Lightspeed jumps themselves were already hazardous to expecting parents’ health. He was terrified of the condition she had been in when he’d finally gotten her onboard, and the fact he could sense her moving with purpose somewhere below decks while he tried to shake the fighters had sent his heart rate skyrocketing.

Piloting had never been his forte. As soon as they’d hit hyperspace he’d slammed a hand against the autopilot controls and bolted from the dash, scrambling down to the hold below.

He swore under his breath, calling her name and skidding to a halt beside her. Her face twisted in agony, her hands clutching the underside of her abdomen. Obi-Wan knelt beside her, hesitant to move her and instead ran a quick check over her vitals, astonished at what he found.

Broken bones in her leg, fractured ribs, internal bleeding, damaged trachea— how had she even moved?! By all rights she should be dead and yet something had propped her up long enough for her to drag herself to the terminal and send a message.

And now she was in labor.

“Kenobi—” she spat derisively, grabbing his tunic. “Get— up—“

“Padmé, hold still, let me—”

He was cut off as a violent shudder wracked her body, her limbs curling in on herself with a gurgling cry. Panicked desperation lanced through him as he reached out and grasped tendrils of the Force, gingerly cradling her neck and attempting to delicately, swiftly mend ligaments he couldn’t see. If he was even a millimeter incorrect, she would die.

A misaligned vertebrae shifted back into place, and Padmé screamed.

Obi-Wan bit back a sob, carefully tracing his fingers on either side of the back of her neck with as much force as he dared in an attempt to still her and provide what pain relief he could as his own energy was leached from him. Padmé gasped, her eyes flying open, her expression stricken as she looked up at the ceiling. Her iron grip loosened as the tension dissipated, if only in one area. She gulped air as if coming up from the bottom of a lake, and Obi-Wan settled as he felt his strength wane. A concrete task was better than guesswork at unknown variables.

The reprieve didn’t last long; Padmé grunted in pain, convulsing as a contraction rippled through her torso again. Further assessment revealed her leggings and the floor beneath her to be drenched, and Obi-Wan’s panic flared again.

“I have to get you up—”

“If you move me I will kill you,” she spat harshly. She trembled despite the ferocity of her glare, her hand still twisted in his robe. “There is no time— Here and now, Kenobi. Make do.”

“Padmé—”

“Look around you,” she seethed. “There’s no level surface in this blasted ship big enough to work. There are no other choices. There is no one else to help. Sleeves up. Now.”

Kenobi’s brow remained twisted as he stripped off his outer tunic, knowing it was laden with silicate and volcanic dust. Padmé propped herself up on her elbows as he raced to scour his hands and forearms, coming back to remove her boots so he could work her outer garments free. Whether the blood seeping between her teeth was due to the injuries she’d sustained or because she was gritting them hard enough one had cracked, he didn’t know.

Padmé gasped again as the fracture in her shin shifted— He wanted to settle her, to fix this, but the contractions were coming more quickly and closer together. They were running out of time.

He finally seated himself before her, kneeling and shaking in just his undershirt and trousers, feeling acutely unprepared for what was to come. Battlefield triage and casualty care were the extent of his healing knowledge, and though he was adept at relieving or numbing acute nociceptive responses, it was usually with soldiers whose minds were open for him to assess areas of injury. A commander with a blaster burn would be focused on the point where his plastoid hadn’t covered. A civilian’s attention after suffering a fall would be turned to the joints and bones that took the brunt of the effects of gravity.

Labor and delivery were far too different from his experience in the medical field.

And Padmé was still blocking him out.

Her knuckles gripped bone-white to a ridge of floor plating, one knee bent and her foot planted flat. The other lay weakly to the side, and Obi-Wan grit his teeth as he raised it up to rest over his thigh despite the lancing pain he felt radiating from her, tucking a blanket beneath her and readying his hands for whatever instruction he prayed she could give. With him gathering his wits and her gathering her strength, they set to work.

The whole ordeal couldn’t have lasted longer than thirty minutes, and it was the longest and most arduous process of their lives. Between her strangled cries, his intuition, and the muscle spasms that told him everything about this was wrong, Kenobi’s concern grew with the pool of blood beneath her, and she forced him to focus on the children, refusing to allow him any modicum of time spent healing her injuries between her screams. Untended bone cracked further as she thrashed, her screams echoing back in the cargo hold.

By the time Kenobi had swaddled the two squalling— living!— infants in what sterile dressing he could find from the field kit, Padmé had gone a sickly pale. Her skin was waxy under the recessed halogen lighting, her hair sticking to her forehead. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and different muscle groups continued twitching of their own accord as if sparked by electricity. Obi-Wan was torn between ensuring the infants had been properly cared for, and wanting to drag Padmé to the captain’s berth to fully assess her wounds and heal her: Padmé kept stubbornly shoving him away, tears tracking unnoticed down her face as she continued to choke out instructions for the care and keeping of her children.

He’d finally been forced to stop when that iron grip returned in full force— Padmé grabbed his arm and yanked him down to where she had propped herself up against the wall. Kenobi lurched forward, her ashen face now level with his. She forced her voice to obey despite the strain in her throat, rasping the words she needed to say.

“Keep them away from him.” The venom in her tone was undeniable. “You keep them safe, Kenobi, get— get them as far away as you can—”

Kenobi grunted, refusing to let her continue her orders. He pressed a palm to her chest, willing those wisps of energy to sustain her just a few moments longer as he tried to haul her up into his lap, coax her arm around him so he could lift her— If he could just get her somewhere comfortable, somewhere clean, if he could focus—

Padmé shrieked in pain, clawing at his chest and arms, and the sum of their separate fights came crashing down on him as the Force dissipated from his mind’s grasp. His knees gave out, his strength sapped from the energy he had poured into her, and they lay heavily back against the terminal yet again. The children cried distantly behind them.

“Padmé, please…” Obi-Wan pleaded, tears streaking down his face, but she shook her head yet again.

“Keep them safe,” she coughed, begging for the first time. “Get them away f-from—”

“He’s gone, Padmé, Anakin is gone—”

She shook her head fiercely, squeezing her eyes shut. “No. He’s there. I can feel him.”

“Listen to me— Anakin is dead, I saw him—”

“You’re wrong,” Padmé said. Her breath rattled. Tears dripped from her chin. “If— If you won’t k-kill him then t-take care o-of them. Wh-Whatever it takes.”

Her chest hitched as she gasped around the liquid filling her lungs. Her bloody hand trembled against his neck. She hiccuped, her eyes went glassy, and her hand fell away.

And in the stillness of hyperspace, Padmé Amidala Naberrie passed from one life to the next.

It had been an hour since then. Only an hour since Obi-Wan had had to keep himself from buckling under the weight of his grief, an hour since he’d sobbed on the floor of a ship as one of his oldest and dearest friends died in his arms. The former queen of Naboo, dying in the bloody cargo hold of a stolen ship, her own life stolen from her by the one person the two of them had trusted beyond measure while her infant children cried out for comfort he felt wholly incapable of providing. Obi-Wan wept alongside them, digging his fingers into the cold, unfeeling floor, wanting to scream as the agony of heartbreak threatened to overwhelm him.

So many dead, or lost. There was no solace even in the Force.

But as Obi-Wan Kenobi found himself doing so often in his life, he shoved his feelings down into the furthest recesses of his broken heart, let go of another loved one returned to the Force, and turned himself back to the task at hand.

The infants were asleep now. He’d shakily scrubbed at his face and arms with cold water and spared only enough time under the sanisteam to ensure he was clean enough to handle them before finding a spare undershirt for himself. He fed them, cleaned them up, and held both of them together against his chest as they squirmed, dissatisfied at their situation before accepting their present accommodations and falling asleep. By the ship’s chrono he had roughly two standard hours before the ship was due to drop out of hyperspace.

He sat unseeing in the captain’s berth with the ad hoc bassinet nearby. Padmé was still in the hold; he couldn’t be two places at once, and he couldn’t stay down there with the children.

Something bothered him about the infants in his arms, though. Once the girl had passed from Padmé’s body, it almost seemed like the barrier keeping him from sensing Padmé’s thoughts had broken. He was too drained and scattered to dwell on it as his last moments with her had been focused on her well-being, but despite his utter exhaustion he had a suspicion that had already begun to crystallize under the sheer openness of the twins’ young presences within hyperspace.

It troubled him.

Whatever message she’d sent was evidently received by the people she’d needed it to. Bail Organa met him at the hastily assembled but covert rendezvous, his ensuing shock and horror upon entering the ship’s docking ramp turning to commanding resolve as he followed the trail of destruction to Kenobi’s station. Organa had to shake him from his stupor before Obi-Wan could tell him of Mustafar, of the newly appointed Sith and Padmé’s scheme, and of Padmé’s last words. The senator’s brow furrowed. He knelt next to the Jedi, looking over the sleeping children.

“What of Anakin?”

Obi-Wan shook his head tiredly. “I cannot sense him. I don’t believe Anakin is alive.”

“… Who else did she contact?” Bail asked.

Tears dripped onto Obi-Wan’s shirt. “I don’t know.”

Bail sighed, bringing one hand up to rest on his shoulder. “I am truly sorry, Obi-Wan. For everything.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t respond.

Bail’s team, handpicked and vetted by the senator himself, worked below decks as the men weighed their options. The aftermath of the despotic coup was rippling out and changing by the minute; the Jedi had been slaughtered and scattered, the clones had broken all communication, and the Senate had reached a fever pitch of chaos. Anything that needed to be decided needed to be done now.

The feeling of loss that bordered on consuming him was one he’d rarely felt in his lifetime as acutely as he did now. The comfort he found in the Force was absent. He’d felt like a ship unmoored when his master was killed. Now it was as though he’d been dropped into the middle of a hurricane.

Bail’s hands were clasped loosely together against his forehead, elbows resting on his knees as he bowed his head in thought. Kenobi could have been a corpse for how still and gaunt he was.

“Obi-Wan…” Bail began. “Are you certain Skywalker is dead?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “I cannot sense him at all.”

Bail was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “… But you, of all people, couldn’t sense what must have been growing within him. Is it at all possible the body of Anakin remains, but the reason you cannot find him is because the man we knew is entirely lost to the Dark?”

A chilling fissure of clarity cut through Obi-Wan’s senses. His reaction told Bail everything he needed to know.

Even if it was only a suspicion, they could not afford to waste time figuring out the emperor’s next move. Anything that could be used to motivate Vader had to be hidden from public knowledge. They couldn’t leave a trace of his past behind.

Bail mulled over his thoughts, then stood, gesturing for Kenobi as his resolve hardened to steel. “Come. We have work to do. We will mourn when we are done.”

Sabé trembled with the effort it took to control her breathing. She stowed her bag behind the seat of the starship and brought the engine to life, moving with purpose as tears streamed unbidden down her face.

The ship rose, coordinates locked in place to meet the others of her gathering retinue. These weren’t the orders of former nobility, of a governing senator— This was the last request of a dying friend, someone whose very existence was woven into her bones. Padmé Amidala’s death would not be in vain.

Sabé looked out beyond the stars, her breathing finding stasis despite the ocean of grief beneath it.

“My hands are yours, Padmé,” she said to herself. “For as long duty compels them.”

She wasn’t going to kill Anakin. Not until he felt every bit of the pain and suffering he deserved.

Notes:

The line “clarity of purpose” comes from Saw Gerrera in the Andor TV show

I wrote Sabé’s line before seeing that one similar was used in one of the books. Good to know I was on the right track with a character I know very little about lol

#Revenge of the Sith #Star Wars fanfiction #Padme Amidala #Obi-Wan Kenobi #Anakin Skywalker #Bail Organa #Sabé #Heed the tags #prequel trilogy #The Force works in mysterious ways #my writing #If you’re aiming to write a tragedy. make it tragic ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#I think Amidala and Kenobi should have known there was no reasoning with Anakin given everything they find out prior to Mustafar #I think Kenobi’s lack of action at seeing his best friend strangle his pregnant wife is utterly baffling #Like that should have been the point Obi-Wan realized ‘‘OH’’ and pulled a glock on him #I also think it’s dumb to reduce Padme’s death down to just a broken heart because Anakin DID strangle her #(In case it isn’t clear here. Padme tried to stand and fight Anakin again after Kenobi started fighting too.)#I was nooooooot going to write out the literal longest swordfight in cinema history. It simply wasn’t going to happen 😆#The prequels needed more of a sense of urgency at every turn. Just from like a storytelling standpoint there were—#— way too many calm conversations being had about events or topics that needed to be paired with active choices and danger/deadlines #ANYWAY my point is #I only wanted to write this epilogue to revised prequel trilogy #not the whole thing #I’m already revising other stuff. Prequels would be too much work #TLDR: Anakin would have been better served as a character if he were the one driving the action instead of the story happening to him #He needed to be more impressive. more powerful. more loved by a multitude of characters.#More dangerous. and actively seeking out the power himself. He is otherwise uncompelling to me.#If he were written more like Boromir these movies would have been more of a tragedy #AO3 link in reblog

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tinkertoysdamn · 10 months

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Fic: Escape (oh god, not this song)

“I think for this task,” Loki said, looking over their planning boards, “we’re going to need a Thor variant.”

Mobius, coffee in hand, glanced over the same materials. He was doubtful. “But who’s going to help us?” He took a pointed sip. “You aren’t exactly the most,” he paused, glancing over his paper cup, “trustworthy.”

“True.” Loki wasn’t foolish enough to deny it, “but according to this device,” referring to the Tempad, “we may have a possibility here.” He showed Mobius the coordinates.

The other man shrugged, surprisingly cool and collected in the face of existential uncertainty. “Sure, worth a shot.”

Once ready, they teleported to the coordinate points, and were surprised to find themselves on a spaceship. There was no Thor, but a motley crew of aliens and one Midgardian woman all lounging about.

The Midgardian woman, a brunette with wavy hair in her late thirties, glanced up from the comic she was reading upon sensing their arrival. Loki was surprised at how unperturbed she seemed at their sudden appearance.

“What do you think?” the Midgardian asked her compatriot, a creature that looked like a raccoon. “Asgardian?”

“Yeah,” the raccoon said, wrinkling her nose. She was clad in a jumpsuit, with tiny fingerless gloves gracing her hands. “He’s got that hoity-toity look most of ‘em got.”

“Sorry,” the MIdgardian said with a grin, “we’ve got a one Asgardian at a time policy on the ship. Afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I can throw him out the airlock,” a blue man with cybernetic implants and a husky voice suggested.

Another male alien with antennae and big dark eyes clapped his hands in glee. “Can I do it?”

“What about me?” Mobius asked. “I’m not Asgardian.”

“Where are you from?” the Midgardian woman asked.

“Earth.” Then Mobius added: “Hoboken.”

The Midgardian woman grimaced. “Jersey? Yeah, he might need to go out the airlock too.”

“Hey!”

“Hold it!” Loki held out his hands in silent command. “I am here to see Thor. I request an audience.”

“‘I request an audience,’” the raccoon mocked him.

“Rocket,” the Midgardian admonished her friend before turning her attention back to Loki. “What do you want with Thora?”

Thora? Interesting. “I am Thor’s brother,” Loki explained.

The aliens all looked at each other, seemingly coming to the same conclusion: they didn’t believe him.

“Funny, Quill,” Rocket said, addressing the Midgardian, “I don’t remember Thora mentioning a brother, outside of the God of Death one.”

Quill, the Midgardian, regarded Loki. “You the God of Death?” The smirk on her face almost made it seem like she wanted it to be the case, that she was itching for a fight.

“No,” Loki explained, “I’m the God of Mischief. I’m—” He decided to lay it all out of the table lest this crew make good on their airlock threat. “I’m from another timeline.”

The grin slipped from Quill’s face to be replaced with a grim resignation. “Oh god, one of these.”

The alien with the antenna placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He soothed her by suggesting, “We can still shoot him out of the airlock.”

“Nah,” Quill took to her feet and rolled her shoulders, “I’ll take them to Thora. Can someone tell Draxa to be on standby?”

The antennaed alien stood as well. “I’ll wake her from her nap.”

The blue one glared as Loki and Mobius moved past as if daring them to step out of line.

Quill waved for the Time Agents to follow her. “Thora’s holed up in her room,” she explained.

Mobius quickly looked up some information on the Tempad as they walked. “Apparently these are the Guardians of the Galaxy in this timeline,” Mobius whispered. He scrolled over some pictures, giving Loki names to faces: Rocket the raccoon, Nebula the blue one, Mantis the one with the antenna, Draxa a hulking Kylosian woman, Groot the Flora Colossus and the Midgardian, one “Star-Lord” Brandy Quill.

Quill paused in front of a metal door, knocking with a modest tap. “Hey, I’ve got some weirdo claiming to be your brother out here,” she said.

A muffled feminine voice came from the other side of the door. “My what?”

“I’ll let you guys talk.” Quill pointed at Loki and Mobius in turn, her voice low and threatening. “You make her cry and I’m throwing you out the airlock.”

“What is with you and the airlock?” Mobius asked.

“Piss me off and find out,” Quill said with false cheeriness. She walked off shouting to her crew, “Put on some music, we’ll give them privacy.”

A second later, a breezy guitar number started over the loudspeakers.

I was tired of my lady We’d been together too long

Mobius looked horrified. “Did she, did she just Pina Colada us?”

The door to the cabin opened, revealing a giant of a blonde woman in a fluffy bathrobe. Buff and with long flowing locks, she was a goddess in early retirement. She stared out at Loki and Mobius with anticipation and then disappointed confusion. “Oh, who are you two?” she asked.

“I am Loki,” Loki explained, “and I presume you are Thor?”

“Loki?” Thora, Goddess of Thunder, frowned. “Prove it, do something Loki-ish.”

He should have anticipated the request, especially since several variants of Loki were dead, the one in this universe might be gone as well. He thought it over for a second and then shapeshifted, becoming a feminine version of himself with long black hair.

To his surprise, Thora immediately enveloped him in a hug. She was taller than him, her head rested easily on his shoulder. “It is you,” she said. She sounded so desperately sad that Loki felt his own heart twinge.

“I assume I’m gone here?” Loki asked, afraid of the answer.

“Yes,” Thora said, obviously reluctant to pull away. “Thanos killed you, I couldn’t stop her.”

Loki swallowed down his discomfort. It seemed that certain things were the same. “I notice your friend,” he said, trying to change the subject, “is very protective.”

“Oh, Quill?” Thora disentangled herself, wiping at her eyes. “She’s been kind, letting me join the Guardians. She’s given me a home and a purpose.” Then, as if she couldn’t stop herself, “She lets me make out with her when she’s sad.”

Mobius’s eyebrow arched all the way up to his hairline.

Thora, horrified at what she just said, grasped Loki’s shoulders and shook him. “Do not tell her I said that. She might not allow it again.”

Loki’s head wobbled back and forth, Thora’s strength was more than comparable to the Thor he knew. “Are you serious?” Loki asked, somewhat disgusted. He remembered the great beauties his brother had pursued. This Quill was perhaps cute but worth this much energy? Ugh, what was with Thors and Midgardians?

“Her lover had been killed by Thanos and then a version from an earlier timeline came back but he doesn’t remember her,” Thora said, explaining too quickly. “When she gets sad about it I comfort her and–” She made a gesture that Loki simply could not interpret.

Variation or not, Loki was not going to sugarcoat his feelings on the matter. “That is incredibly pathetic.”

The expression on Thora’s face shifted, becoming less open and friendly. “What do you want, brother? You did not come here to discuss my love life.”

“We’ve got a big mission,” Mobius said, uncertain how useful this version of Thor would be, “the life threatening kind but you seem to be busy–”

That changed Thora’s attitude instantly. She perked up, like the promise of battle was a lifeblood. “Let me get dressed.”

Although their purpose was recruitment, Mobius was still confused. “I just said this is life threatening.”

Thora went back into her room and tossed off her robe, grabbing her clothes and armor with no regard for modesty. “How life threatening? Can I get injured a little?” She was pleased as punch. “I can have Quill play nursemaid, it would drive her crazy.”

Loki and Mobius shared a look. “As long as she’s strong,” Loki said, under his breath, “I can overlook her–” He tried to think of how to put it. “Everything else.”

Thora slammed the door behind her, dressed for battle. “Come,” she said with great enthusiasm, brandishing a mighty axe, “to glory!”

If you like makin' love at midnight In the dunes on the cape Then I'm the love that you've looked for Write to me and escape

#gotg fic #thorquill #this is very dumb and fits into no timelines #self indulgent #rule 63 #this was too dumb for ao3 #world building in less than 1500 words

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 10 months

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Ao3 Confusion

Okay, so I'm finally trying to put my fics up on Ao3, but...my brain can't brain to figure out the rules over there. I can't even figure out if my Green is My Favorite Color Series would qualify as a "series" on Ao3, or whether it would be considered a "Multi-Chapter Work". 😩(I don't even really understand the difference between those two terms!) I'm so confused by the site. Does anyone smarter than me have advice, or ideas of how to understand stuff over there?

Edit: Would Green is My Favorite Color be a Multi-Chapter Work while GIMFC + Get Me to the Church on Time, + I Will Find You in the Dark is a series? Because they're all Multi-Chapter Works that feature the same characters in the same universe?

Maybe???

#Ao3 #Ao3 help #too dumb to figure things out #help! lol

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thaliagrayce · 1 year

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Jasico argument! About something really stupid , and their friends Takes Sides

i had SO MUCH FUN with this, the hardest thing about it was narrowing down which stupid argument they could be having. hope you like it!!! send me a number or drop a prompt in my ask box for a jasico drabble!

“You can’t be serious.”

Nico is staring straight ahead as they walk, doing his best to ignore Jason. Unfortunately for him, Jason can see the way one corner of his mouth is edging toward a smile.

“Nico! I have personally watched you go up against a hydra without stopping to plan! How would this be any different?”

Nico takes a sharp turn toward the beach volleyball courts, where it looks like a few of the other demigods are taking a water break. He tugs on the sleeve of Jason’s jacket even though he doesn’t need to. They both know Jason would follow him regardless.

“You’re wrong and I’m going to prove it, Grace.”

A smile threatens Jason’s Argument Face as they get closer to the others. He can remember a time not that long ago when Nico would have grumbled at the idea of getting an outside perspective on even a serious problem, and here he is, all but dragging Jason to their friends over what is likely the dumbest argument they have ever had.

Hazel is the first to notice them, as usual. She breaks out in a smile and waves them over as if they weren’t clearly on their way already. Piper looks up and grins, and Percy and Annabeth stop whatever discussion they’re having. Or is it an argument? Sometimes debate and flirting look the same for those two, Jason has given up telling them apart.

“Hey, guys. You wanna play?” Piper ducks under the net to get back to what is presumably her side. “We were just resting for a bit, but three on three would be fun.”

“No thanks, we’ve got plans for later,” Nico replies. Jason blinks. He had been unaware they had plans, but if Nico says so, he isn’t going to argue. “We’re just here to settle something.”

Percy stretches from his spot next to Hazel. “Shoot.”

Nico looks up to Jason, expectant. He can’t help the dumb grin he feels. So much for the Argument Face.

“Okay, would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck? No powers allowed.”

Annabeth raises an eyebrow. “Why are we fighting them?”

“Because they hate you. Which do you choose.” Nico looks around at their friends, who all appear to be giving it at least some level of thought.

Piper breaks first.

“The horses,” she says, grinning. “I might lose, though. Having a bunch of pissed off My Little Ponies after me could make me laugh myself to death.”

“But there are a hundred of them!” Jason interjects. “One hundred! And horses are pack animals, so they would probably have great teamwork. I trained with Lupa enough to know that I’d rather take on one creature on its own.”

“Wrong.” Jason rolls his eyes at Nico’s voice, but he’s smiling. “It’s not just any horse-sized animal, it’s a duck.”

“So?” says Annabeth. “I agree with Jason, we know how to fight solitary monsters. It would take a lot more time and effort to fight all the horses. I’ll take the duck.”

“It’s a duck, though,” Nico insists. “Waterfowl are assholes. You notice it more in swans and geese, but that’s just because they have a size advantage over ducks. This duck would be taller than me, and it would hate me.”

“The horses hate you, too,” Jason reminds him. “And you’ve met Arion. Horses can be mean, too.”

“What can they do, though,” Nico turns to face Jason more, “bite at my shins? They’re tiny, their teeth probably wouldn’t even be able to get through denim. That duck could decapitate me with its beak. You’re too tall to understand.”

“I would go with the horses, I’d just tell them to chill.”

Everybody turns to stare at Percy.

“Babe,” Annabeth finally says. “No powers. Normal people can’t talk to horses.”

“Right.” He squints at the volleyball in his hands. “I would still choose horses, though. I’ve always kinda wanted to punt one. Just to see what it was like, y’know?”

“Annabeth, can we switch partners?” Hazel calls out. “I don’t know if I trust him anymore.”

“Hey!”

She ignores him. “I would choose the duck, because I would never want to hurt a horse. Doesn’t matter how much the horse hates me. I trust it, it probably has its reasons.”

Jason leaves them to their squabbling as he leans down toward Nico. He lowers his voice so just the two of them will hear.

“That’s three on three. I don’t think you proved me wrong, here.”

Nico tries to shoot him a glare, but Jason can see a tiny bit of a blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Yeah, well. They’re wrong, too. Let’s go.”

The other four don’t even seem to notice them leave, absorbed in their own version of the argument. That’s alright with him. He leans down a bit, trails his hand to the edge of Nico’s jacket, and brushes Nico’s palm.

Nico stares straight ahead as they walk, but he interlaces their fingers. Jason grins.

They have plans, apparently.

#mj talks #jasico #my writing #i hope the format isn't too wonky ;_; i'm too used to ao3 #light on the romance but heavy on the dumb argument #also comment which one you would choose. for science #other dumb arguments that almost made it:#correct pizza toppings #worst sensory experiences #tobey maguire vs andrew garfield spider-man (someone mentions tom holland and gets verbally dogpiled)

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