#resistence to be used. precisely. as a weapon towards their own people. yet as it happens that theyres still brandished in the

[cacaitos]

i shouldnt force this but what do you think abt kakugos whole rising sun reclaiming situation

hmm to be honest.. if it's from the heisei manga. to begin with, it's a ridiculously senseless manga all down to quality. on one hand you got the guy that goes on and on about violence and revenge is always the answer and a count- i mean someone without weapons is weak and prone to be abused by the Every Other and like a woman while a conspicuous rising sun waves behind him fighting the both iron-cross-wearing punk ultra masculine violent misogynistic Other thats also the degenate kink leather-wearing queer (in the slur way) Other. and for some reason im supposed to get any productive synthesis out of that conflict. and like, at some point it gets all so bold, and having read KnS first, i could only imagine as i read that it must be some kind of conclusion or twist or literally anything at the end. and it then it just ends on a random mid-fight scene.

again, having read KnS first, thats not only yk Finished but that also basically negates basically most of the plot and elements of it, in comparisson heisei not only seems but ultimately revealed as even more amateur, unripe, weak structured, unfinished, thoughtless and useless of a read. furthermore, as i understand from yamaguchi works even beyond KnS, that's still one of his earlier less polished works, his works seem to deconstruct (though i didnt say how successfully) at least from his own experience those value systems, dunno if to his own work specifically tho, if at least from a their media legacy/influence level. but that's an idea i got from that essay i rbd a while ago, idk maybe his manga abt the toku fan one is shit and takes down everything i just said, idk since i havent read it. i look forward to know how he executes shigurui and such, a the toku fan one too, to confirm first hand in time. even if yamaguchi didnt change his stance it's just Weird. Red Flag. but also i don't get the fucking point of it.

deviation aside, if you meant from kakugo no susume, tbh i dont remember if the rising sun thing got assigned to kakugo at x or y, if any, moment; memory fails me. but the military uniform, for ex, to start with is a fair thing to point out to begin with. yes, kakugo is The Good Guy thats categorically opossed to resembling his g.grandfather or his ideologies, yet wears a hs uniform alike to the military japanese imperial one. but focusing on only kakugo is kinda missing the wider landscape. i mean the manga is riddled with that kind of contradiction, and to pick on one is to pick on many others. now, i wouldnt consider KnS any like Mature internal dialogue of fascism or anything, despite at least the textual reprehension for the imperial mindset and material effects/atrocities. the authors themselves admit is kind of a dumb series not precisely unintentionally, and again not the most polished work of yamaguchi, if you wanted to get a thorough and concise conclusion on anything. even if you tried the story wont help you on it lol, thats the thing with questionable quality writng.

[rotzaprachim]

i know i’ve said something about loving the lack of legacy characters in andor to focus on new characters BUT. let’s talk my spaghetti on a wall theory that would be very fun for ME (secret solo enjoyer.): anto kreegyr is enfys nest. a more solid piece of meta and theorising i believe in quite strongly is that the organised military rebellion as we’re used to seeing it, even in rogue one, doesn’t exist yet, and cassian will play a lynchpin role in creating it from his own path towards liberation AND the work of those who’ve come before him. (he isn’t joining! he’s creating! none of the white people telling him to wise up and join had any really solid, unified rebellion yet for him TO join.) and so into this comes anto krieger. krieger is a fascinating late-season sort of side-addition to the plot, but the andor plot is so calibrated and precise i can’t imagine they’d include him without specific reason. it interests me that we haven’t yet seen ANY kind of organised rebel flight technology or capabilities yet at ALL, and so krieger is also our first ever hint at some kind of armed flight-ready resistance action.

 (it’s also worth noting that there isn’t anyone cast yet for season 1 AS “anto krieger,” limiting the options to: it’s someone we know, it’s someone who will be cast in season 2, it’s someone who will remain perpetually off screen OR anto krieger just doesn’t exist and exists as a front for someone else.) 

(it’s also worth noting that at this point, t-minus 5 years till death star destruction, we haven’t seen a single x-wing. which makes total sense- why would the rebellion as splintered as it is USE flightcraft that mark them for what they are? i suspect krieger uses stolen imperial flightcraft, which would also provide the benefit of anonymity but FURTHER widen the playing field of who krieger is, actually.) 

so here’s what i think is interesting about krieger. they could be someone totally new. but the star wars canon has already given us someone with flight capabilities in the earliest stages of resistance, well before any kind of hinted at planned rebellion, and it’s this absolute badass: 

counting against this being her is a lot of logic - i don’t think erin kellyman was signed on for season 2, andor is for good reason resistant to being too interconnected with the “disney cinematic universe.” counting on her is a lot of interesting stuff both in terms of practicality and themes. 

let’s talk anto kreegyr. we know he’s male. (hmm.) we know luthen rael knows him and saw dismisses him as “stupid and slow.” (we also know that luthen and saw lie.) we know he’s connected, maybe, to the clone wars? (we also know the empire is frequently wrong.) but what really interests me is his M.O. we know he scares the shit out of the empire to be talked about at these kinds of meetings and that mid-level power players like dedra are applauded for figuring out how to outsmart him. he’s built a fucking image! and there’s the specific detail about the kind of raid kreegyr carries out: attacking imperial power stations, presumably off site ones. 

now let’s talk about enfys nest. we know she’s one of the first people to set up an organised flight-based resistance. but we also know she loves to build up an image- in fact, that’s arguably her greatest weapon! she manages to make a criminal syndicate bow in fear to a scrappy rebel group on space-motorcycles, basically, and that’s fucking incredible! we spend most of a movie assuming she’s a man, as well. and her specific m.o. we learn about in Solo is that she goes after stuff, working on breaking the supply chains of the empire (another way why, fascinatingly, solo for being a kind of fun-mediocre film feels imho oddly contiguous with the far superior andorverse. the most banal tiny aspects of this worldbuilding...). in solo her focus is on... stealing fuel, specifically coaxium, the stuff required from hyperdrives, both in refined form and unrefined form straight from the mines. so there’s also a pretty similar focus in modus operandi! another interesting detail is that according to the comics, unseen by the movie, she delivers all of it to saw gerrera! (and meets 11 yr old Jyn!), meaning that, absolutely saw knows of her and is outright lying about her being slow and stupid. which is... exactly what a tough partisan leader would do, tbh, around luthen. so while i think andor as a whole does not go into comics or non r-1 canon, there’s a really interesting foundational base here to return. 

that’s all the practical stuff, which I think is pretty compelling. but i also think enfys nest would be a great addition to the thematic world of andor as well. on a practical level i think the show’s metanarrative is about cassian’s involvement in the formation of the rebellion (somehow the prison colors of narkina 5 had to be reclaimed as the colour of liberation for an entire fleet, after all), with season 2 focusing on the practicalities of getting that up and running, and there is so much place for enfys to be in that, in particular as another group leader among the leftist infighting. (enfys and bix building the rebellion pilot fleet please pretty pls). she’s already such an andor-read character with her focus on the praxis of practical rebellion when you have nothing, after all, and the focus her story already had on liberating the people trapped by empire. but also: she’s a fascinating, fantastic foil to cassian! here we have a fascinating opportunity to dig into some imperial and rebellion gender politics- has everyone just assumed that Kreegyr is a man? Here we have a young Black woman who has, actually, already been radicalised against the empire, and she does it in hiding, disguising her anti-empire activities as the work of cash-oriented local pirates. she hides just like cassian does, except instead of behind a fake name, she has a mask! rather than slip into the abyss to become unnoticeable, unseen, unmemorable, as cassian does, we have enfys who makes a fucking legend of herself to use fear and image as a weapon. she also has a direct connection to her mother as a rebel, like cassian does with maarva. all of this makes meaty fucking material for season 2. i just- i wanna see her again!!! 

(i also would love to throw in the caveat that it’s entirely possible kreegyr is already dead, or she as kreegyr is dead, or- a very andor twist in its pretty systemic undoing of the idea a single person can messianically lead a rebellion- kreegyr is a collective of people. also, if she does show up it might not just be as kreegyr but possibly someone who recruited and trained cinta and vel, who seem to use some similar tactics.) 

[fic-request-blog]

Five Times Hanzo's Dragons Protect McCree and One Time They Didn’t Have To

This is a request by an anon here on Tumblr for a “Five Times Hanzo's Dragons Protect McCree and One Time They Didn’t Have To.” It really is what’s on the lid. Oh, and they fall in love while we’re at it.

Fluff, angst, humor, rated T for non-explicit violence and mentions of sexual content, ~3K.

Read it here on AO3 instead.

Five Times Hanzo's Dragons Protect McCree and One Time They Didn’t Have To

  Chapter 1

Jesse places his hand on the payload, sighing in relief, “Alright folks, we’re at the-“

Something clicks on the payload, a trigger slipping into place as Jesse checks inside. It’s empty except for a small bundle in the center. A tiny, almost translucent wire settles against the inner side of the payload and Jesse closes his eyes. Maybe he can save them from some damage on the off chance he survives this.

He knows what comes next, of course. The whole mission had been suspiciously easy. He shoulda figured.

The blast is strong enough that he’s blown clear over the wall behind him and dropped thirty some feet into the roiling sea below. From there, Jesse loses track of what’s happening. It’s a damn shame his boots and gear are so heavy, he muses, or he’d maybe be able to float up, or even swim up.

But his head is fuzzy, his ears are ringing, and it’s not like he coulda figured out which way was up anyhow. The world turns to blue around him, deep and quiet. His mind swirls around in his head as much as the water around him.

Peaceful. The blue around him is nice, and he doesn’t feel cold or any of the pain that he’s sure he should. He’d always thought he’d go down fightin’ it to the end, but this…this ain’t a bad way to go.

The blue gets brighter and brighter as he continues to slide through the water, which don’t make much sense, but he ain’t really thinking well anyhow, so maybe that’s just how death works. He watches pretty, sparkling circles drift away in the light and finally closes his eyes.

Something wraps around him, warm and comfortable, and Jesse thinks death really ain’t as bad as people make it out to be. Feels a lot like flying.

  Chapter 2

There’s another roar of laughter from the bar and Hanzo rolls his eyes, safe in the darkness of his corner booth. The cowboy has certainly recovered well, as is evident by the amount of whiskey he has managed to drink this evening. There was…uncertainty for a short time. The near drowning had been a non-issue, but the burns and injuries to his face, torso, and arms had been far more critical, though Baptiste assured them all he would make a full recovery. Being blown over the wall and into the water had apparently been a far better outcome than being blown into the wall.

Frowning, Hanzo drops his gaze to the sake in his cup. He is perturbed by his own strong reaction to witnessing McCree in peril. They have only been on perhaps four missions together; they have not known one another for long. As another boisterous laugh erupts from the bar, he cannot resist watching McCree again. He is honest enough with himself to admit that the cowboy’s easy and honest personality appeals to him, and the man’s appearance, though crude, is…well-built. Hanzo knows what he likes, and McCree would be, as the American says, a cool drink of water. It does not hurt either that McCree seems to enjoy complementing Hanzo, especially regarding Hanzo’s skill with a bow. It takes more honesty with himself than he has while sober to admit that McCree is partially getting to him through his ego, but with a bottle of sake to nurse, Hanzo can swallow that truth this evening. There are few things he likes more than someone appreciating his skills.

Yet, it is rare for him to become so instantly attached, especially at work. He is usually firm about separating his professional and private lives. It seems McCree has wormed his way into Hanzo’s good graces.

Flexing his fingers, Hanzo sighs. It is not only Hanzo who is intrigued either; the dragons had reacted both swiftly and violently at the danger to the cowboy. If they intend to react like that again, Hanzo may need to be more careful in the future.

By the time the other Overwatch agents begin to trickle out of the bar, it is late, and Hanzo decides he too should find rest. That he leaves shortly after McCree is but a coincidence, he is sure.

There is a pleasant buzz under his skin and the night air is cool as he walks back to the compound. He does not rush, but it takes only a minute or so to catch sight of a familiar hat bobbing through the streets. McCree has one arm across Baptiste’s shoulders, but the other man must be drunk as well because they both weave haphazardly through the streets.

Smile quirking at his lips, Hanzo slows to maintain distance between them. While he did not mind McCree paying for his drinks this evening in thanks for saving his life, nor any of the other words of praise McCree lavished upon him, he does not intend to deal to with two drunks. He will simply follow to make sure they reach the compound.

Later, Hanzo will blame the noise McCree and Baptiste are making for his lapse of concentration, though the sake likely did not help either. He certainly will not admit to watching McCree too closely, the way his hips sway pleasingly as he tries to walk upright down the street.

The first bullet catches McCree in the shoulder, only missing the back of his head because Baptiste had stumbled, dragging the cowboy to the left at just the right moment. Even drunk, though, the two can react swiftly, and the second bullet finds only cobblestones.

Hanzo does not know if the shooter is aware of his position nor does he wait long enough to see if McCree or Baptiste are hit by the third shot. He simply pivots, leaping against the wall to his right and ricochets off to the left, onto the roof the shooter is likely using. Tracing the trajectory of the shots is child’s play.

He has no bow, no weapon at all in fact, but that will make little difference. The silence of the night is interrupted only by a fourth shot. Hanzo’s quiet footfalls as he flits across the roof and his tattoos flaring to life make no noise at all.

He cannot see precisely where the shooter is, but the dragons can taste the gunpowder on the air. They arc across the roof, blue light blinding in the still of the night.

There is not a fifth shot.

  Chapter 3

“Thanks Angel,” Jesse smiles as he dodges into an alcove, reloading, “glad ta have your eyes on me!”

Hanzo makes an affirmative noise over the comms and falls silent. Jesse’s not sure if the man minds him callin’ him angel. Hanzo’s hard to read. He’s more stoic than a brick wall. But the guy has saved Jesse’s life twice already, so he can’t hate Jesse too much. If Jesse thinks of Hanzo as his own personal guardian angel, well, Hanzo hasn’t stopped him callin’ him that yet. An’ Hanzo’s not exactly a shy guy. Jessie is sure he woulda spoken up if it bothered him.

So, the real question is, does Hanzo like him callin’ him angel? Because if he does… Jesse certainly would like to know about that.

It takes some focus to shift his attention from thinking about Hanzo’s form when the man is pulling back that bow of his to the battle at hand. The way those tattoos wrap around Hanzo’s biceps as he knocks an arrow, almost like they’re alive, is real…distracting.

The man’s prettier than just about anyone Jesse has ever seen.

Something explodes behind their position and Hanzo’s voice crackles over the line, even more terse than usual.

“Move! All of you!”

Jesse jumps from their position, breaking cover with the rest of the team as the building behind them rumbles ominously. 

“They’ve destroyed the building’s supports!”

Cursing, Jesse breaks into a full sprint, watching as the building’s shadow continues to lengthen in front of the team, the ground shuddering beneath them. Things have gone from not great to shit real fast and Jesse’s not sure which direction will stop them all from getting squashed like bugs. There’s a lot of buildings all around them and the one they’d been sheltering behind was tall.

Probably no direction except up is safe.

And then there’s a bright blue light behind them, throwing the shadow of the building back, and Jesse is picked right up off the ground, something big rushing above him.

Gasping, Jesse wriggles, arms pinned to his sides, “What-!”

Similar noises of surprise over the comms from the rest of the team are drowned out as the building crashes into the ground, dust and the accompanying shockwave deafening and blinding Jesse to the ensuing chaos. Air continues to rush past him. He coughs but can’t hear it, can only feel the rattle of his lungs as he tries to clear the dust.

Jesse’s not sure how long they’re in the air. It coulda been seconds or minutes, he wasn’t keeping track. At some point, whatever’s got ahold of him slows down. He cracks an eye open, squinting in the sun as he continues to hack up a lung.

He’s dropped gently onto a roof, and there is, and Jesse ain’t a liar, two dragons dropping the rest of the team onto the roof as well. They are long and blue.

Jesse is freaking out a bit, trying to get a better look from where he lays on his stomach, but the coughing isn’t helping. With wide eyes, he watches Hanzo hop off the back of one of them, graceful as ever. The dragons begin to shrink, smaller and smaller, until they wrap around Hanzo’s arm, stilling as they bleed into his skin.

There ain’t a speck of dust on Hanzo as he turns towards Jesse and, as he walks over, Jesse’s not sure if it’s the dust’s fault that he can’t breathe right. The man is a sight to behold.

Lips quirking in amusement, Hanzo raises a brow, “you dropped this, cowboy,” he says, Jesse’s hat gripped lightly in in his hand.

If Jesse weren’t still winded and coughing, he’d swoon.

  Chapter 4

Whatever Hanzo and he have between them is new but so sweet and it feels like it could be goin’ somewhere real good. His thoughts are a little muddy though, swinging from their current predicament to maudlin anger. Life ain’t fair, Jesse knows that. He’s lived a life most people would consider pretty shit, but he’s never begged like this.

“Dunno what I gotta say,” he rasps, arms tightening around Hanzo’s limp form draped across his chest and down his legs, “but please, ‘m beggin ya ta get him outta here.”

It’s only been a month since they started taking dinner together, sitting in quiet spots around base and drinking long into the night. Jesse’s never considered himself a gifted conversationalist, but with Hanzo, words just come easier.

The wall behind him is cold and the alcove he’s dragged them both into is barely big enough to cover them, but with a bust leg and Hanzo’s dead weight, he isn’t going to get anywhere else. Still, the tattoos on Hanzo’s arm remain just that, tattoos.

“Please, please, I know you’re in there, please.”

With one hand, he presses against the sticky mess of Hanzo’s temple, using his chest as a better headrest than the wall, while the other hand shakily holds his poncho to the wound seeping at Hanzo’s side. This thing they’ve got going between them is still so new and the bitter reality that he’s probably not going to see where it goes is pulling pleas from his lips better than any torture he’s faced.

“Please,” he whispers, breath puffing across the crown of Hanzo’s head, disturbing the hairs escaped from the man’s usually perfect bun, “please.”

Hell, they’ve only kissed a couple times. The first had been messy with nerves and drink, but the second. Oh, the second had been slow as molasses and curled his toes right in his boots. Hanzo had backed him up against a door with a hand gripping possessively along his jaw. Just the smolder Hanzo left him with as the man sauntered away, bidding him goodnight, had made Jesse so hot under the collar a cold shower hadn’t done much.

There’s no glow from Hanzo’ arm still, no shiver of electricity in the air, and Jesse starts to lose the little bit of hope still scrabbling at the back of his mind.

“C’mon, you can’t leave him to die like this, please,” his voice just loud enough to hear over the pounding of blood in his ears as the stomp of boots echo off the walls not too far down the corridor, “please, ‘m beggin’ ya, please.”

Tears well hot and heavy at the corner of his eyes as his pleas continue, quieter and quieter as whoever is drawing near gets closer and closer. Damn it all, he’d only gotten the balls to ask Hanzo out on a real date days ago. They’re not going to get a chance to see where this will go, and he’s never hated this shit hand in life more.

A gun cocks at the entrance to their little alcove. Jesse doesn’t look up. Not because he’s too chicken shit to stare down a barrel, god knows he’s done that enough in his life, but because there’s a familiar blue glow spilling from Hanzo’s arm and he can’t look away. Relief steals the very breath from his lungs.

Well, maybe that’s partly the rib giving him a nasty poke to the lung too.

  Chapter 5

Someone makes a sound somewhere to his left, a whimper, and Hanzo struggles towards consciousness. His mind swirls. Time seems to waver. Eventually, or perhaps mere moments later, he cracks his eyes open. For long seconds, he is unable to place where he is, but slowly the shadows skulking about form into the familiar interior of the infirmary. He relaxes slightly. At least it is unlikely he is in danger here.

Again, a soft whimper draws his attention to the left. It takes far more energy to turn his head than Hanzo thinks it should, but he manages to nonetheless.

Tucked into the bed beside his own is McCree, fast asleep. The cowboy’s face is tight with pain, though perhaps in his dreams it is worry or fear. Hanzo breathes deep. It is good to see that McCree has survived, a miracle that they have both survived through their last mission. From what he can remember, it had not gone well.

McCree makes another pained sound and there is a tug, a pull from the dragons, against the skin of his arm.

This again. Tiredly, he tries to calm them, “He is not in danger, hush.”

They pull anyways, worried. It takes more energy to keep them there against his skin than to allow their thrashing, and Hanzo has precious little energy to spare.

“Fine,” he releases them, “but do not wake him. He must sleep.”

In the gloom, Hanzo watches them curl tentatively into the nooks of McCree’s body, nuzzling anywhere their little snouts can reach. As one of them snuggles into the rough bristles of McCree’s beard, the pinched expression on his face begins to smooth out.

With a deep warmth spreading through his chest, Hanzo lets sleep take him.

  Chapter 6

Hanzo dispatches two more of the talon mercenaries in quick succession, using his momentum to vault to the top of the building. While there are far more talon members than their intel had suggested, the mission so far is going smoothly. Jesse, and now Hanzo, have already reached the objective with little trouble. The rest of their team is not far behind.

Cresting the final set of stairs brings Hanzo in line of sight with Jesse, and time seems to slow around him, his senses sharpening. He breathes in. The scent of smoke sits acrid on his tongue. The sunlight is harsh in his eyes.

Too close. The cowboy is too close to the edge of the building. He watches as though in slow motion, watches as Jesse struggles with a talon agent against the lip of the roof, watches as the ridge they fight against begins to give way, watches as they start to fall.

“Jesse!”

His heart stops within his chest, throat closing around the word.

He breaks into a sprint, calling out to the dragons, their anger singing in tune with his own. There is still a chance he may yet catch Jesse.

But as he reaches the edge, all but prepared to leap, he spots Jesse. The man is not freefalling, but instead has somehow managed to drop into one of the talon helicopters prowling the skies. The helicopter gains height swiftly, pulling up to hover over the roof. Hanzo cannot help the smile tugging at his lips. The talon agents on the roof have yet to realize the danger they are in.

Jesse opens fire, catching the talon agents entirely off guard, clearing the roof in seconds.

The rest of the team arrives as Jesse turns the helicopter, opening fire on the two other talon aircraft still nearby. Hanzo walks back to the stairs as Jesse comes in for a landing. He is…deeply impressed.

Lucio brings the package over, grinning at Jesse in the cockpit.

“Y’all need a ride?” Jesse greets them, the roll of the self-satisfied words around his already-lit cigar sending sparks down Hanzo’s spine. There are far too many of their teammates around them for the embers of arousal to be anything but inappropriate, but Hanzo cannot stop himself from meeting Jesse’s eyes. He knows Jesse can tell where his thoughts have shifted by the stutter in his breath, the clear surprise flitting across his handsome face, and the answering interest darkening his eyes.

If Jesse flies a little fast, Hanzo does not mind. Nor do their teammates question. They have all felt the adrenaline of victory.

If he and Jesse break from their team members at base slightly sooner than etiquette usually requires after such success, none of them question that either.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, facialteeth!

For @facialteeth <3

When your soulmate loses something it gets sent to you and vice versa. For almost 400 years Magnus thought he would never have a soulmate until one day a pacifier shows up in his loft.

Read On AO3

*****

Who Are You Really?

Magnus stares at the pacifier in his hand. He doesn’t recall anyone bringing a baby to his loft recently. He doesn’t take in as many clients due to his position as High Warlock. He’s pretty sure he would remember a baby being in his home.

Thinking nothing of it, he sets it down on the side table in his living room and goes back to work. The Circle may be disbanding and shadowhunters are getting arrested, but there are still attacks happening in New York and the Institute has asked for his help in tracking the remaining Circle members.

Magnus snorts at his own phrasing. The Institute more so demanded that he help them. He of course made sure to set his price high for what he expected in return. The new Heads weren’t going to make him bend the knee to their every request. He was going to make life extremely difficult for the Lightwoods. They may have been forgiven by the Clave, but Magnus will never forget what they did. 

Without looking up from his cauldron, he reaches for an ingredient on his shelf, and instead of touching the vial he knows is there, a soft fabric brushes his hands. He whips his head up from the cauldron and stares at the blanket draped over the shelf. Not just any blanket, a child’s blanket- no an infant’s blanket. 

Magnus stares at the cloth for so long that his brewing potion is now ruined. He doesn’t care though, not when there’s something more important to focus on. With a shaky breath and hand, he grasps the blanket. It’s so incredibly soft in his hands, the fabric is perfectly suitable for a baby. Not just any baby though Magnus realizes, his soulmate’s. His soulmate must have just turned two, when most soulmates start to receive their partner’s lost items.

A sob escapes his lips and he presses the blanket to his face. 

Four hundred years, it took four hundred years for his soulmate to be born. Magnus had lost hope such a long time ago of ever getting one. Each year that passed with nothing showing up around had him made him lose hope. And after everything Camile did to him, the manipulation, the gaslighting, stealing his items, and pretending that they were soulmates, Magnus swore to never open his heart again.

Now here is this pacifier and blanket in his loft, letting him know that love will not be lost to him. That there is someone out there that is made for him. He scrunches his face at that thought. His soulmate is a baby, he shouldn’t be thinking like that, not yet. He still has many years to go, but Magnus will gladly wait as long as it takes to meet them.

“Oh god my soulmate is a baby and I’m a warlock,” he says out loud to no one. He glances in horror at the state of his apothecary. Everything is everywhere, the minute he forgets one thing it’s going to teleport to a baby. 

Potion forgotten, Magnus starts to clean his apothecary with precision, making sure that everything is labeled and in a proper place that is easy to find. The last thing he needs is to kill a baby, let alone his soulmate. 

“You better not die because of me,” he demands, glaring at the pacifier and blanket now resting in a case in his bedroom.

The first six years are filled with anxiety on Magnus’ end. His friends made fun of him at first, thinking he had finally gone mad. When he showed them the items, they rightly shut up and even occasionally helped him if he was looking for something for a potion. None of them wanting to be responsible for the death of his soulmate. This is the happiest they have seen him in a long time, if it means portaling at ungodly hours of the night to help him find something before it disappears then so be it.

Magnus did have fun “accidentally” losing toys for his soulmate to have and play with. He has no idea if his soulmate actually uses anything that he finds, he hopes that he does. While Magnus is sure that his soulmate’s parents spoiled their child to no end, Magnus was never one to not spoil someone important to him.

Somehow Magnus knew that the exciting thrill was never going to last. His soulmate would be eight now. He glances at the calendar on the wall, a big red circle around September 12th. Magnus had made sure to mark the date after he got a hold of his emotions all those years ago. 

He’s debating on what to send an eight year old child on their birthday. He’s been good about getting gender neutral toys for his soulmate, not knowing if they are a boy or girl. He’s going through a catalog on his phone when he spots a piece of paper on the coffee table. It's flipped upside down but Magnus can see some dark ink on the other side of the paper.

His soulmate must be doodling or drawing and forgotten something they made for their birthday. Magnus reaches out and grabs the paper flipping it over to inspect the drawing.

The paper bursts into flames by his magic.

No that- that can’t be right. Magnus just saw the paper wrong, he must have. There’s no possible way that was what he thought it was. He gets a second chance to see when another paper appears on his coffee table. He feels himself starting to fall apart as he reaches for the sheet and flips it over. He recognizes the marking anywhere.

Iratze

The paper once again catches fire from his barely contained magic. Magnus feels his throat tighten and his breath getting shorter. Shadowhunter. His soulmate is a shadowhunter, his mind provides. He feels like the universe is playing a cruel joke on him. Of all the people living on this earth, his soulmate had to be of the people who have hunted and killed his kind for hundreds of years. 

Magnus barks out a wet laugh, immediately summoning a drink from his cart and downing it in one go. The glass is already refilled as he watches more papers appear on the table, more runes scribble on them. He doesn’t know how many times he refills his glass, but he got the desired effect he wanted: numbness. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s stared at those papers, drinking his pain away. He can barely sit up at this point with the alcohol flowing through his system. He can’t remember the last time he got this drunk. He’s been better since Camille, not wanting to go that far again. He hears the door to his loft open. Was he expecting guests? He doesn’t remember, doesn’t care. The intruder could rob him for all he cared.

“Well you look awfully dreadful,” a familiar British voice says. “Is this why you’ve been ignoring my calls and I had to take the long way in?” 

“Ragnor,” Magnus slurs, he tilts his head towards his friend. The small movement makes him nauseous, it takes everything in not to immediately stumble to the bathroom to throw up.

“What is it this time?” His friend sighs dramatically. Ragnor glances around the room, glaring at something out of his field of view. “Obviously something has upset you enough to drink almost your entire cart. Did Camille try and reach out to you?”

“No,” he says too quietly. He can already feel the emotions he’s tried to lock down start to bubble up. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Ragnor, his friend doesn’t need to worry about him. The man always has more important things to deal with than him. Still, his arm has a mind of its own and points to the coffee table.

“What, you were studying runes and decided that getting drunk would be easier?” Oh, he truly loves Ragnor, the old fool knows how to make him laugh even at his lowest of lows. 

“Not mine,” he manages to get out before tears start to fall. 

“Oh, old friend,” Ragnor whispers. He’s happy that he doesn’t have to explain more, his friend understanding what the papers mean. 

The couch dips beside him and an arm wraps around his shoulders. Magnus doesn’t even try to resist, he’s just so tired. He rests his head on Ragnor’s shoulder and cries. Damn the universe for dealing him this deck of cards. 

As his soulmate grows older, the less stuff they seem to misplace. Magnus would find it strange that he’s practically getting nothing, but at this point, he doesn’t care what the shadowhunter does with their life. 

He does, though, care about the number of arrows he’s been finding in his loft. 

Magnus glares at the vase he designated for arrow disposal and sees that it’s full. He has five more wrapped in a cloth in his hands. With a sigh he snaps his fingers and summons another vase, tossing them in. He doesn’t know why he’s keeping them, there’s really no point except to dump them at the Shadowhunter’s feet when they meet. Maybe even throw a few at them, he considers. 

There’s nothing on them so he figures that the shadowhunter is training. Though Magnus almost shudders at the thought that a child is already practicing how to use a weapon. His soulmate is only ten years old, surely Nephilim society would wait until their children are at least thirteen before making them train for hunting. 

“Stupid Nephilim, not keeping track of his arrows,” Magnus grumbles. “That’s almost thirty arrows in the past two months! I would like to think that a shadowhunter would at least know how to put arrows away after training and not leave them everywhere.”

“Do go easy on them, Magnus,” Ragnor snorts from the other room. “It’s not like they had a choice in what family and life they were born into.”

“They still have the option to run away,” he grumbles, knowing he’s being irrational.

“Surely you don’t want them to be homeless at ten years old?” Ragnor says, entering the room with two cocktails, handing one off to Magnus before plopping down on a chair. 

“Maybe,” Magnus whispers, he looks over at his friend and sees the raised brow. He rolls his eyes, “Okay I don’t, not really.”

Magnus knows he’s being unkind to his soulmate. But after everything in recent years with the Uprising and the Circle, it’s hard not to associate all shadowhunters into the same category especially when so many members of the Circle turned tail and came crawling back to the Clave. And the Clave willingly brought them back into their ranks with a slap on the wrist. Magnus rolls his eyes at the thought of Robert and Maryse Lightwood being allowed to look over the New York Institute as their punishment. Those two should have been put behind bars for all that they did for the Circle.

“Don’t you think you are being a bit dramatic?” Ragnor asks as Magnus takes the seat across from him. 

“Me? Dramatic? Hardly, my dear Cabbage,” he says dramatically, hand on his heart. 

“Right,” Ragnor snorts. “Just a gentle reminder that you are getting upset at a child for being born into a life he had no power over just like you with Asmo-”

“Don’t,” Magnus snaps, his glamor flickering for a moment. “Don’t ever compare my upbringing to that of a shadowhunter.”

Ragnor doesn’t say anything else which he kinda feels bad about. His friend also knows better than to talk about his father in such a casual way. The two fall into a tense silence as they go through the books scattered on the table. He sighs, glancing over at the two vases of arrows that he’s put in his library. Ragnor is probably right, but he’s not going to tell that to the old fool’s face.

Magnus will apologize later, right now he wants to focus on the spell they’re working on and not about the shadowhunter.

The day they do meet is not by fate, no, more so Clarissa Fairchild, who Magnus had almost forgotten about. It’s been a couple of years since her mother brought the frightened child to his doorsteps to wipe her memories. Seems the girl has fallen into shadowhunter hands after her mother goes missing. He wouldn’t put it past the rogue Circle members that were in his club a few nights ago to be the reason.

As he examines the ruby necklace, a memento of another time in his life, a shout echoes across the basement and something whistles past his ear. Turning around he sees a Circle member fall to the ground dead with an arrow to the heart. 

Magnus feels his own heart stop as he turns to watch the archer descend the staircase and make his way to the corpse, to search for life. Magnus feels his skin turn warm and start to tingle, like a lego piece snapping into place. A whisper of a no slips past his lips. The shadowhunter must feel the same as he stands from checking the body he stands straight. Hazel meets brown as the man, the shadowhunter, stares at him in shock.

It’s him.

Magnus doesn’t wait for the man to reach him. He summons a portal, ignoring Clary’s cry to wait, and steps back into his loft. His breathing is erratic and it feels like his heart is about to explode. 

His soulmate is here, in New York. What is Magnus going to do? He can’t leave his post as High Warlock, not with Circle members making a reappearance. His people need him to protect them. Over the blood pulsing in his ears, he hears a cry, immediately snapping him out of his thoughts. Reaching out with his magic he feels that his hideout has been infiltrated. Dammit, he shouldn’t have left this place for that girl. 

Magnus can worry about the ache in his chest later, his people need his help. 

He doesn’t even wait for the Circle members to notice him, magic blasts out of his hands attacking any person who dares to enter this safe haven. When he finds out who leaked the location, he’s going to ban them from New York. He doesn’t have use for someone who would rat out his own people. 

“Your magic is strong, warlock,” the Circle member taunts. “Much stronger than that horned warlock I killed this morning.”

“Elias,” he says solemnly. He throws a ball of fire at the man who easily dodges it. They circle around each other, the man’s grin never leaving.

“So that was his name, lucky he sold you out before I took his warlock mark,” the man laughs.

Magnus knows he shouldn’t let his anger get the best of him, but he still finds himself lashing out at the Circle member, trying to disarm him. The man's grin turns even more sinister and something in his stomach tightens.

“Cats eyes,” he points out. Magnus didn’t even realize his glamor had dropped. “Would be a nice addition to my collection.”

Before Magnus can reply an arrow sings past him and lands in the man’s leg making him stumble. Magnus doesn’t wait for him to recover and deals a finishing blow. The Circle member collapses on the fallen bookshelf and Magnus feels like he’s frozen. That feeling in his stomach wasn’t from the Circle member, it was from him.

Magnus spins and sees the same shadowhunter from the club stand there, bow still raised, panic in his eyes. The man releases a breath and lowers his bow, eyes rake over the Circle member’s body before turning to Magnus. Magnus steps back, magic sparking at his hands ready to fight. 

The man opens and closes his mouth, trying to say something but nothing comes out. His eyes show only concern and worry, but that can’t be right, no shadowhunter would ever look at him like that. He glances at Magnus’ hands and the look disappears to something more neutral, closed off but not before Magnus catches a glimpse of pain.

���Alec!” A male voice shouts from down the hall, Alec glances behind him taking his eyes off of Magnus. The man must have a death wish for taking his eyes off of him. Magnus could easily take him out now, but his body won’t let him. “That’s the last of them.”

The shadowhunter, or Alec, nods his head and turns towards Magnus again, “We should go join the others.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Shadowhunter,” he bites back, hoping to get a reaction out of the man, but Alec doesn’t even flinch, just nods his head again.

“Apologies,” Alec says, turning around and leaving the library but halts, looking at something on his left. Magnus follows his gaze and realizes he’s looking at the multiple vases of arrows he’s kept over the years. Alec’s face stays blank but the grip on his bow tightens before he continues his way out of the living room.

Strange, Magnus thinks. He thought the shadowhunter would have demanded Magnus listen to him or even drag him to where everyone else is. Instead he’s letting Magnus choose to go with him, giving him the option to run tail if he wanted. 

Of course, Magnus won’t do that, he realizes with a sigh. He doesn’t know how many of his people made it out alive, all of them probably scattering the second the Circle members entered the hideout. He’ll need to notify friends and any families of the fallen here. 

With a wave of his hand, Magnus rids the loft of any dead circle members and teleports their bodies to the ocean. Let the sharks have their fun with them, he doesn’t care. In another wave, he teleports the bodies of the fallen warlocks to another safe haven he has in New York and a fire message to Catarina about what happened and where she needs to go.

When Magnus enters his living room he catches Alec with his head down and a girl with long dark hair rubbing a hand up and down his arm looking at him with concern. Something in his chest aches and presses a hand to his heart. Is that what Alec is feeling? He hates it. He doesn’t want to feel what the shadowhunter is feeling. 

He must be projecting his emotions because Alec flinches, pressing a hand to his chest and looks up at him. Again the pain that he sees disappears by that blank look. The girl catches Alec’s change and looks over at him and sends Magnus the most heated glare he’s ever received. 

He doesn’t have time to deal with that. He puts on his High Warlock persona and makes a show of his magic. Clary, to no surprise, is as stubborn as her mother and refuses to leave without getting her memories back. So he tells them what they all have to do to get them back. None of them argue to his surprise, though the blonde boy tries but is stopped by Alec with a hand on the shoulder. 

The summoning goes off without a problem. All of the shadowhunters listen to his explanation of how the ritual works and that they must not let go of each other’s hands. When Magnus explains that they must hold hands, the sister, Isabelle, moves into a position that forces Alec and him to hold hands. Magnus tries not to let his frustration show and accepts the positions. 

The second he and Alec’s hands touch, it’s like the final piece of their connection is sealed. He hears Alec let out a gasp and the hand in his grips tight before loosening. Magnus looks at Alec and the shadowhunter is not even glancing at him, he continues to stare at the wall opposite of him. Magnus feels an incredible sorrow fill his chest that makes him want to curl up and cry. 

Alec shows no outward sign of what he’s really feeling and something pokes at his heart that this is not the first time that Alec has had to mask his emotions. He shakes off the feeling, looking away from Alec to see everyone else staring at him waiting, though Isabelle is still glaring at him. 

The demon asks for a memory of the ones they love the most. Of course, his is Ragnor, his oldest and closest friend. Jace, who he finds out is Alec’s parabatai, and Isabelle’s are of Alec, which warms his heart or well maybe not his, he looks over at Alec and sees the soft smile on his face as the shadowhunter sees himself reflected in the tornado of smoke in the center. He doesn’t even catch what Clary’s memory was, too enraptured by the kindness shining in his soulmate’s eyes.

When the summoning is over, Clary collapses and is caught by Jace. He scoops the unconscious girl and leads her out of the loft with Isabelle, a quiet thanks as they pass him, leaving Alec and Magnus alone in the room. Alec hasn’t looked up from his hands since they let go, rubbing the hand that was entwined with his.

“Thank you for helping us,” Alec speaks softly. 

“I didn’t do it for you,” he says.

“I know.” Alec finally looks up from his hands and there’s a small smile on his face. “I’ll let you be. Have a good night, Magnus.”

The shadowhunter doesn’t wait for his response and rushes out the room to catch up with his family leaving Magnus alone. 

Alone.

Something that Magnus has been used to for decades now. His heart had been protected under a lock and key for so long and then Alec, this shadowhunter, his soulmate had to barge in and rip the lock off the cage. 

Magnus doesn’t want to feel like this. He liked it better when he was alone and didn’t have a soulmate, when he didn’t feel this much in his chest. The people he knows who have met their soulmates have told him about how they felt butterflies the first time they met their other half. That it felt like they were whole for the first time. Magnus doesn’t feel whole, he feels rage at the universe for giving him a shadowhunter as his soulmate.

Magnus doesn’t care how kind Alec may or may not be.

He will never fall in love with a shadowhunter.

Of course, that wouldn’t be the last time he saw Alec. He made it clear that he was not interested in getting to know the shadowhunter and thankfully Alec respected that. Again throwing Magnus off about his view of shadowhunters. 

Now Jace definitely fits that shadowhunter personality. Brash, rude, demanding, following red heads around like a lost puppy. Magnus rolls his eyes as the blonde’s gaze never leaves Clary’s as she word vomits in his living room fretting over Luke. Luke, who is in the state he’s in because of Clary, and Simon who couldn’t listen to simple orders. 

One would think that the girl would take her time to recover after getting all of her memories back. It seems that when she discovered the location of the cup, she snuck out of the Institute and met up with Sherman only to get kidnapped which led to a fight between a Beta and an Alpha werewolf which led to a new leader to the New York pack and-

Lilith, Magnus needs a drink.

He sends Simon and Jace off to fetch ingredients for him to help with the potion that would save Luke. Which leaves him and Clary to wait for them to return. Magnus focuses on the potion to make sure it doesn’t turn sour.

“So,” Clary says. “You and Alec, huh?”

Magnus almost drops a vial in the cauldron. “I beg your pardon?”

“You two are soulmates right?”

“And what gave you that idea?” He grits. 

“The stuff in Alec’s room,” she shrugs, wandering around the apothecary. “He has a whole bookshelf full of trinkets and vials exactly like the ones in here.” Clary pokes at the vials on his shelves, he almost snaps at her to stop. “It’s really incredible, you can tell he took great care of them all.”

“Is that so?” 

Clary nods, smiling as she picks up a vial off his table, inspecting it. “Yeah, he got really upset with me when I tried to pick up one of the items. Even went as far to wipe my finger prints off the thing. You can easily tell they’re his greatest treasure.” Clary’s smile turns to a frown. “Though last time I went to talk to him, he had put a bed sheet over the shelf.”

Oh. That information does something to his heart, like something has a vice grip around it now. Magnus shakes his head, clearing himself of the feeling, and goes back to the potion.

“Maybe he’s upset that he realized I’m a warlock,” he snorts.

“No, that wasn’t it. When I first saw it, he had this soft, delighted smile on his face. He had said that he hadn’t met the warlock who was his soulmate yet, but that he was eager to meet them. Said that he hoped his runes wouldn’t scare you away and that he could prove that he would care for you the way he cared for the items he got from you through your connection.” 

The vial that was in his hand drops to the table. Clary jumps at the sudden sound and turns to him in surprise.

Surely Alec didn’t think that way about him. He was an abomination with demon blood, Alec was a shadowhunter with angel blood. There’s no possible way they would work and yet, Alec knew his soulmate was a warlock before he even laid eyes on Magnus. Had a bookshelf full of the items he had lost over the years.

“Why?” He mutters quietly. “He’s a shadowhunter whose soulmate is a warlock. We’re not exactly the perfect match.”

“Why should that matter?” Clary asks. “It is clear that Alec doesn’t care that you’re a warlock. His mother is a different story though.” Clary rubs her arms up and down her arms like a shiver passed through her. The accurate reaction when talking about that woman. “I don’t understand how he just stands there while she speaks to him like that.”

“Like what?” His mouth feels dry, the blank face from a few days ago makes sense now. With a mother like Maryse Lightwood, finding out your son has a warlock soulmate probably didn’t go over well. He’s positive that Alec’s other siblings didn’t get that treatment, especially Clary and Jace who discovered they were soulmates. 

“Like he’s inferior for having a warlock as a soulmate. The first thing she did when she stopped by his room was berate him for still having that bookshelf, like he should be ashamed of himself for displaying who his soulmate was so openly and that she thought she told him to toss out anything that wasn’t useful.”

Magnus feels like there’s no air in the room. He leans forward on the table and stares into the bubbling concoction. 

With each new thing he learns about Alec, the less his view of him is so harsh. 

“That’s when he had covered the bookshelf,” Clary whispers, biting her lip. “Ever since their mother came back to the Institute that spark in Alec’s eye is gone.”

“Maryse does have the personality of a brick,” he chimes in hoping to lighten the mood. 

Clary doesn’t take the bait and instead looks at him with sympathy. “I don’t remember much about when we came here last, my memories are still a bit jumbled, but I know that when I woke up, no one knew where Alec went. Jace said to let it go, that he gets that way sometimes, but I couldn’t help feeling like something wasn’t right. When I found him he was on the roof, shooting arrows, one after the other until his hands were bleeding.”

“Why are you telling me this,” he rasps. His heart is beating out of control. Was Alec that hurt by his rejection? He was a shadowhunter, he should be relieved that his warlock of a soulmate doesn’t want to be with him. It wasn’t like Magnus would be upset if Alec left. Something about that thought makes his heart stop. 

“Because you both deserve happiness,” she says. “And I think Alec at least deserves a chance before you kick him to the curb.”

Magnus doesn’t know what to say to that. What could he say to that? For centuries he’s kept away from shadowhunters as much as possible and now he was fatefully connected to one. Why should he be the one to make that step? It wasn’t like Alec was taking the first step.

That’s because you rejected him before he could, his mind unkindly reminds him.

Magnus doesn’t get the time to ask more questions about Alec as Luke starts to seizure on the couch. He tells Clary what still needs to be done with the potion as he rushes over to Luke and pour his magic into the werewolf’s body to slow the spread of the poison. 

He loses track of time, just focusing on making sure that Luke makes it through this process. Just as he starts to feel his magic flicker, the door to his home bursts open and there’s a warm body catching him as he falls back.

Magnus huddles closer to the warmth, clasping his hand around the one that takes his. 

“Use my strength,” a voice whispers in his ear. “Take what you need.”

Magnus doesn't waste a second, siphoning magic from the person behind him. It’s like being shot with adrenaline, the other person’s energy practically shoving its way into his body. It’s definitely a first for him. Anytime Magnus has asked to share strength with someone, there is always a tug from the other person, not fully trusting Magnus to not abuse the power the other is giving him. Magnus feels no resistance from whoever he’s taking magic from. For someone to trust him that openly and blindly that they just give him their very essence brings tears to his eyes.

He’s going to have to thank whoever it is once he’s sure that Luke won’t die on him. Maybe even take them out to dinner as a thank you. As if they heard his thoughts, Jace and Simon rush through the living room and hand over the last ingredient to Clary who tosses it in the cauldron. Moments later, the trio are rushing over to the couch and pouring the potion down Luke’s throat.

The reaction is practically instant. Luke is no longer seizing on the couch and the dark veins around his wounds are receding. Magnus stops his constant flow of magic and drops. Or would have dropped, if the person behind him hadn’t caught him preventing him from making a fool of himself.

He just settles into the person’s arms and closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. He used more magic than he had planned tonight and he feels exhausted. Not as exhausted as he thought he would be he realizes. That’s when he feels the hand still in his squeeze down and rub the back of his hand with their thumb. The person he’s leaning against begins to speak to Jace.

He jolts at the person’s voice, realizing just exactly who he is resting against. He opens his eyes and whips his head to Alec’s. Alec who is staring down at him with concern and worry that makes his heart ache. Magnus hurriedly lets go of their entwined hands and finds the strength to stand up. He doesn’t look back at Alec.

He asks Jace and Simon to help carry Luke to the guest room, ignoring the heat in his cheeks and the quick beatings of his heart. He hastily follows the men into the bedroom, making sure Luke is comfortable. He’s not ready to address that whole situation waiting for him in the living room.

As he gets Luke comfortable, his mind wanders back to Alec. He wonders if one of the others called Alec for help, but no, there would be no reason for them to notify Alec that he would need assistance. None of them but Clary knew about Luke’s deteriorating state and she was too busy making sure the potion was good to go when the others returned with the missing ingredient. 

He pauses fluffing Luke’s pillow and presses a hand to his chest as it aches. He had been so focused on healing Luke that he didn’t even notice his connection to Alec was so open. He doesn't feel much from Alec, but he understands now, why Alec knew to come to the loft. Magnus must have called out to him and Alec came running to help.

He doesn’t understand the Shadowhunter. Magnus couldn’t have made it more clear that he wasn’t interested in getting to know him. Yet, he still showed up, saved his life twice, helped Clary get her memories back and even assisted him in saving Luke, all without Magnus asking him to. He held Magnus close to his chest and let him practically drain him of his Nephilim energy to save Luke. The part of him that he kept under lock and key for so long slowly pours out and a warmth spreads through him at the fact that someone would do that for him without him asking, begging them to do so. It’s what he always wanted in a partner.

Why should the fact that him being a shadowhunter change that? Clary’s words from before also ring in his head, that Alec kept everything he lost and displayed them proudly in his room and told others about him, other shadowhunters. 

He’s hit with a yearning in his chest that makes him want to try. To maybe get to know Alec a bit and see what the shadowhunter is like. He’s never given Magnus a reason to think that he’s hostile. If anything, Alec has been giving him the space he’s asked for and was only dismissed when Magnus told him off. It’s Magnus who’s the one that’s been hostile. He should fix that, go talk to Alec. He should start by saying thank you.

Magnus excuses himself from the room and goes back out to the living room. Millions of thoughts race in his head, wondering what he should say, how he should say it. But when he reaches the living room, Alec is nowhere to be seen. Magnus steps towards the couch and looks at the entrance to his loft and doesn’t see the shadowhunter. 

His foot hits something on the floor. Magnus’ breath catches as he finds a small trash bin filled with bloody rags. He looks at his couch and sees that the blood stains are gone. 

Alec cleaned up the mess for him. Alec probably felt how depleted of magic he was and didn’t want him to exert himself anymore. The smell of lavender waffs through his living room, getting rid of the metallic smell of blood and decay.

He doesn’t know why that makes his eyes water. Alec did all of this without being asked to. He was being kind again, like he has been since he and Magnus first crossed paths. Magnus was just too stuck in his past to realize it. 

Not anymore, he decides, clenching his fists. He’s not going to let his past dictate his happiness anymore. He has a chance to be happy with the man who the universe has chosen to be his soulmate and he’s going to make the most of it.

Magnus is going to make this right, he has to.

[jackiesarch]

come undone.

my half of a trade with the wonderful @red-nightskies! thank you so much for letting me write your sweet anna — it was a blast getting to know her!

word count: 3.7k

warnings: minor character death, canon typical violence, some language

summary: there’s whispers among the resistance that staci pratt is being held at the grandview hotel. anna reid thinks she knows who she can trust to help her free him.

This is the last safe moment: Anna stepping over the fresh corpse of a bat wielding Peggy, her chest heaving with exertion. Getting to the top floor of the Grandview Hotel unseen and unheard had been surprisingly easy. Even now, as she stands in front of the closed door of Room 306, she can’t help but be impressed by her own handiwork.

The oak panel in front of her is intimidating. She isn’t sure why. She’s checked every other room in this building, has moved through the halls and the staircases with such brutal efficiency that she should be pleased to be standing here, staring at what is undoubtedly the easiest part of this entire operation. But she isn’t. If anything, Anna finds she’s uneasy.

It feels too simple.

The Peggies have never made anything particularly easy for her. Sure, she can take down an outpost in her sleep these days or clear a roadblock in the blink of an eye, but Eden’s Gate rarely ever provides easy access to their special targets — to their leverage.

It’s part of why she’d gone to the Whitetails when the quiet whispers about Staci’s location had turned into real leads. Could she take down the guards and liberate her friend on her own? Maybe. Would she feel a hell of a lot better with an army waiting in the wings? Absolutely.

She stares at the door to the room again, her stomach twisting at what she might find behind it. Staci’s alive — that much she knows, that much a group of Eli’s scouts had been able to confirm. He’s alive, but who is he? Anna knows firsthand what Jacob does to people, knows the frantic, red-bathed horrors he puts people through to break them. Staci’s alive, but he may not be the man that flew them to Joseph’s compound all those weeks ago. It’s a thought that terrifies her.

He’ll be alright, Anna. It’s what Eli had said as he outlined the plan in the Wolf’s Den. A simple extraction mission: in-and-out, with backup waiting in the wings.

If he’s anythin’ like you, he’ll be alright. We’ll fix him up.

Slowly, Anna reaches for the doorknob, Eli’s words playing on repeat in her head. He’s right — Staci’s not beyond saving, not yet. They can fix him. Make him whole again.

She doesn’t trust easy, but she does trust Eli.

The cold metal of the handle makes her shiver as she twists it. There’s a click as the latch releases, and suddenly the door opens, creaking on its hinges as it swings into the room. All at once, she’s hit with the sickly, metallic smell of blood. It’s no wonder — the first things she notices are the smears of it on the wall, on the floor, on the discarded rags that litter the room.

The second thing she notices is Staci. He’s strapped to a chair in the middle of the room, bound by his wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of it. His head hangs heavy, chin resting against his chest like it might take all the strength left in his body to lift it in her direction. He doesn’t.

“Staci?” Anna says quietly, clearing the room with a quick glance. “Staci, it’s me.”

He doesn’t answer. Anna can only barely make out that he’s still breathing, and the movement is one that both comforts and scares her. She takes cautious steps into the room, reaching for the radio on her hip as she does.

“Eli—it’s me. I found him,” she says, finger gripping the transmit button on the radio so hard her whole hand shakes. “He’s alive. I’m getting him out. Send the Whitetails in to secure the lower floors. Anna out.”

If there’s a response, Anna doesn’t hear it. She finds herself standing in front of Staci without realizing she took the steps there, finds herself leaning down and grabbing his shoulder to shake him without consciously telling herself to do it.

“Hey,” she whispers, her grip on his shoulder tightening. Anna shakes him again, a little harder, in a desperate attempt to rouse him. “Staci, hey—“

Staci jolts so fast it makes her stumble backwards, heart suddenly thundering in her rib cage. His head flies up, his eyes wide and bloodshot, and Anna watches him gasp in a breath that it looks like he’s desperate for.

“Anna?” he croaks, eyes flitting back and forth between her in front of him and the room around them. “That really you?”

It takes a half-second longer for her to recover than she’d like. Anna scurries forward, slender fingers grasping at the restraints keeping him in place.

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s me. I’m getting you out of here.”

The bindings are tight, but she manages. First she frees his wrists, angry red marks dug into them with how tightly the straps had been pulled. His ankles come next, and Staci kicks his feet out a little before, with Anna’s help, he tries to stand. It’s not surprising that he’s weak, stumbling as he brings himself to full height. How long have they had him tied up there? How long has he been forced to sit?

She’s about to reach for her radio again, ready to tell Eli she’s on her way back to the Wolf’s Den, when the vague feeling of uneasiness from before returns with a vengeance. Anna looks around the room, frown pinching her face.

Something is wrong. The hotel feels too quiet, too safe. Why can’t she hear the Whitetails filtering in to secure the building?

And then it happens.

It feels like a slow-motion shot in an action movie. Staci opens his mouth to say something to her just as the only intact window in the room explodes, showering them with shards of broken glass. Half a second later, he crumples to the floor.

Anna’s breath leaves her lungs in a short, sharp burst. She knows better than to scream if they’re under attack, knows better than to draw all the attention to their position. Still, watching him go down like that, she has to say something.

“Staci?” Anna says, her voice unsteady as she stares down at his limp form. “Staci!”

He doesn’t respond. A pool of red forms under his skull and spreads out in a circle, inching towards her faster and faster like spilled paint on a dirty canvas.

Anna whirls around, eyes snapping in every direction as she reaches for her weapon. There’s no one in the room with them, no one in the hall, and no one down on the balcony below the window when she cranes her neck out to check. Off in the distance, she can swear she sees a glint of metal — a hunter? A Peggie with a sniper rifle? By the time she blinks, though, it’s gone, and Anna ducks her head back into the room, turns herself back towards where Staci lays. She takes a half-step forward, drawn to him as if he isn’t well beyond saving.

Then pain blossoms in her shoulder so suddenly she thinks she might be sick.

Anna stumbles back, her hand flying up to grasp at the place where sharp bursts of agony are starting to spider down into her chest, her arm, the very tips of her fingers. Liquid warmth spreads over her skin, and when she looks down, Anna finds her hand coated in her own blood. It seeps out of a ragged hole in her shoulder, and it finally registers with her that she’s been shot. Someone, somewhere in the mountains, has fired two precise shots off into Room 306 of the Grandview Hotel: one to hit Pratt, and the other meant for her.

The shock of the wound hits her all at once, sapping the strength from her muscles and forcing her to sink to her knees in the middle of the room. Anna just barely manages to brace herself as she hits the floor, her good shoulder sliding along the hardwood as she collapses onto her side.

Her thoughts are scattered, but the few cohesive ones left desperately trying to connect in a way that doesn’t quite add up. Who shot them? Why? It feels too convenient to be a well-timed accident, too ridiculous to be a case of mistaken identity.

Muffled footsteps in the hallway shatter her focus just as she’s about to consider the very obvious possibility that this is Jacob’s handiwork. Anna stills her ragged breathing as best she can and tries to listen as whoever is in the hall grows closer.

It’s hard to make out specifics with the doorway to her back. Forcing past the steady ache in her shoulder, Anna trains her ears and tries to catch the disjointed pieces of conversation.

“They’re both down,” she hears. It’s a man’s voice, a familiar one, and with her back to the doorway she struggles to remember his name. Briggs? “Pratt‘s dead. Deputy Reid...”

Briggs trails off suddenly. There’s a hissing, scratching noise — the sound of a radio transmission? — but Anna isn’t able to make out the response.

Help me!, she wants to scream. Help us! Her mouth opens to get Briggs’ attention, but nothing comes out. It’s as if the pain has stolen away her voice — her last chance at salvation.

“Right. We’re headin’ back,” Briggs says into his radio. There’s a pause, and Anna desperately tries to work out how to get his attention. “Tell Eli it’s done.”

The floorboards creak again. Footsteps sounds against the hardwood outside the room and fade away slowly, until all Anna can hear are the far away sounds of someone taking the stairs down to the second floor. There’s a distant shout; she can’t make out the words, not with the ringing in her ears, but it sounds like someone gearing up to leave the hotel.

Tell Eli it’s done.

Understanding hits her hard, like she’s been broadsided by an armoured truck. This hadn’t been Jacob and his lackeys at all. This wasn’t a well-planned take down by Eden’s Gate, wasn’t a terrible misunderstanding. Eli and the Whitetails had planned this.

She’s been betrayed.

Thoughts ping around Anna’s head. An in-and-out mission. Rescue Pratt. Escape unnoticed. A simple extraction job. How many times has she done something exactly like this? How many times has she liberated a captive Whitetail whose name and face she didn’t recognize?

How many chances have they had before this moment to take her out? Why wait this long?

The answer to her own question isn’t far out of reach. In fact, he’s sprawled out on the floor across from her.

Staci.

Better to kill two birds with one stone. Why waste time on a second covert mission when they could take down two of Jacob Seed’s most dangerous, involuntary weapons at once? It only makes tactical sense, she thinks. They were being proactive. Smart.

Vile. Heartless.

She doesn’t mean to look at Staci. She doesn’t mean for her gaze to linger on his cold, expressionless face, but it does, and she finds she can’t tear herself away. Anna more dead people than she has ever dreamed of, has watched the light leave so many pairs of eyes that she can no longer keep an accurate count. It’s the nature of the situation in Hope County — or at least, that’s what she tells herself to get by.

But this man was her friend. He was her friend, and he was kind, and now he’s dead; and it’s her fault. It’s the only thing Anna can think as she lays there, memorizing every line and every freckle of Staci’s face. She trusted Eli, trusted Tammy and Wheaty and all the other Whitetails.

She played servant when it was convenient for them, and Staci is dead because of it.

For a moment — a burning, bitter moment — she’s young again. There’s no electricity in the hotel, but that doesn’t stop the coloured glare of neon lights from registering in Anna’s mind.

She’s at the Grandview, she knows she’s at the Grandview. Every muscle in her body screams it to her as she tries to claw herself closer to Staci on the dirty floor. You’re here, she tells herself. You’re here, this is happening now, this isn’t then.

Her name is Anna Reid. She’s thirty years old. She’s been shot in the shoulder, and she’s bleeding out on the floor of the Grandview Hotel in Hope County, Montana.

Memories swirl in her head like funnel clouds. This is the Grandview Hotel, and she is dying here, but it doesn’t stop the images of the rundown gas station and its flashing neon sign from filling her mind.

Her name is Anna Reid. She’s nineteen years old. Her best friend has been shot, and she’s bleeding out on the concrete outside of a Shell station.

Anna squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught of things she has tried so hard to forget. The images feel like they’re burned on the back of her eyelids, like she can’t escape them no matter how hard she tries to flee.

“No,” she gasps out, eyes flying open again. She’s met with Staci’s face, with the clean, dark circle on the centre of his forehead. “No, Claire—Staci, Staci, not Claire—”

A choked sob tears its way out of her chest. Her wounded shoulder has turned her arm to dead weight, and she can’t pull herself across the floor any further with just one hand; even the few inches she’s managed have turned her fingernails bloody and broken.

“I’m sorry,” Anna whispers, tears staining her cheeks. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t know who she’s apologizing to. Claire? Staci? Herself? All she knows is that the words come without her help, unbidden and spilling out of her like the blood spills from her shoulder.

My name is Anna Reid, she tells herself. I’m thirty. This is the Grandview Hotel in Hope County. I’m sorry.

It becomes a mantra, four sentences that she repeats over and over keep herself present. Anna forces herself to keep her eyes open, even if it means watching Staci’s body grow colder and colder — if she doesn’t, she thinks she might lose herself to the nightmare festering in her head.

Anna Reid. Thirty years old. Grandview Hotel. Anna. Thirty. Grandview.

Hours pass like that — or maybe it’s minutes, maybe seconds. Anna doesn’t know. All she knows is that the edges of her vision are starting to darken, that the blood pooling on the hardwood and soaking into discarded rags is no longer just Staci’s, but hers too.

Her shoulder feels dead. Heavy, too, as if the simple burden of having it attached to her might be what finally pulls her under, and part of her begs it to. She’s bone tired — the kind where every tiny movement feels like it’s being torn out of her, the kind where blinking is a burden and her battered body screams at her to rest. She’s tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being hunted. She just wants this to be over and done with.

And then she hears the noise.

Creak.

For a moment, she thinks she’s imagined it. After all, she hadn’t raised hell getting inside the hotel — in fact, the plan had gone off without a hitch, quickly and quietly. The only ones who should know that she’s bleeding out on the cold floor of a dirty room are the people that put her there: the Whitetails.

Creak.

The noise comes a second time, louder, and this time Anna knows she hasn’t dreamed it up. Someone is outside of the room. One of Eli’s strays, come to finish her off? A friend-turned-foe with a pistol gripped tight and mercy on their mind?

Worse still, one of Jacob’s Chosen?

Whoever they are, they’re watching her. Anna can feel the stare on her back, burning the proverbial hole through her bloodstained clothes. The door is open, she knows, because she’s the one that left it that way.

The silence is deafening as Anna waits for them to make their move. She should be scared, she thinks. She should be paralyzed with the fear of imprisonment, of death, of whatever else might happen to her when the terror waiting in the doorway finally finds her.

Instead, she just feels numb. Nothing.

Agonizingly slowly, the steps grow closer, louder, until Anna can see the outline of a single steel-toe boot in the corner of her failing vision. They’re familiar, somehow, as if she’s seen those same boots before.

Where? Who?

The wearer takes another slow, measured step, until suddenly they’re consuming the whole frame of her vision. Until Staci’s body is nothing but an obscure, blurry background that her tired brain desperately tries to block out.

Anna can’t help it. Her focus drifts to the combat boots, to the old, cracked leather that’s stained dark with mud and darker still with something worse.

Some desperate part of her thinks she should move, thinks she should try to wrangle speech from the bottom of her dry throat. She doesn’t.

He speaks, and she and all she can do is listen.

“Wolves finally getcha, Dep?”

The boots were a clue, but there’s no mistaking the voice. It’s the strangest mix of rough and soft, an instant contradiction that matches the rest of him. And hasn’t he always been that way? Twisting her mind into something brutal and sharp with a song while he whispers praises into what feels like her soul? Withholding food with one hand while the other touches her with surprising gentleness?

If Jacob himself has come for her, then she’s finally facing the end.

The numbness is still there, choking the fear she knows she should feel as he nudges her in the ribs with the toe of his boot to see if she’s still alive. Anna barely reacts. She’s dizzy and heavy with blood loss, and even if she wanted to — well, she isn’t quite sure she could make her body do anything more than it is in this moment.

Jacob moves her around on the filthy floor like it’s easy. A push on the shoulder to get her onto her back, a steel-toe nudge to her good arm to get better access to her wounded upper half. It’s as if she’s a marionette being manipulated by its puppeteer, she thinks hazily.

No, not a marionette — the movement’s not quite that gentle. It’s as if she’s a rag doll in the hands of an over-eager child.

Suddenly, without warning, a bolt of white-hot pain streaks down her wounded arm, shoulder to fingertips. Anna has been hurt before — constantly, even, since she came to Hope County — but none of it compares to the burning, stabbing sensation she feels when Jacob crouches at her side, peeling the strap of her bloody tank top away and pressing his fingers against her bullet wound. She barely suppresses a shattered scream. The noise comes out as a high-pitched, broken whine instead, and for a minute, she’s almost positive she sees a flash of something sympathetic cross his face.

Anna thinks she should be furious with him. She thinks she should kick and scream and fight with all the strength she has left, should give him hell for making her suffering even worse.

Instead, she’s grateful.

Something about the pain splinters the blanket of numbness she’s felt since the moment the sniper’s bullets made impact. For the first time since she hit the ground, she feels.

“What’d I tell you, huh?” Jacob mutters, leaning back on the balls of his feet. Anna watches him wipe her blood on the ragged knee of his jeans. “Eli and his people. Cowards.”

Another pain stabs its way through her, but this time it doesn’t come from her injured shoulder. This time she feels it deep in her chest, a pang of betrayal that makes her hurt in an entirely new and unexpected way.

Cowards. A few months ago, she would’ve scoffed at that. A few months ago, she had scoffed at that. Now, she’s not so sure Jacob’s wrong.

There’s a shifting noise, the sound of crunching joints and slipping fabric, and the next thing Anna knows Jacob’s face is filling the frame of her vision. She strains her eyes, forcing herself to focus on him.

He watches her curiously. The steely blue gaze she’s used to is the somehow both the same as always and entirely different. It’s strange, Anna thinks — there’s a softness in the depths of his eyes. A fondness, even. This man, capable of such dangerous and depraved things, has looked at her and begin melting.

She doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

The blood loss makes it harder and harder to focus. Before she knows it, she’s following the lines of his face, tracing the roughness of scar tissue before her vision swims again.

Jacob is an enigma. He’s a cipher, a secret code she hasn’t been able to break. One moment, he’s twisting her consciousness and using it against her to make her a weapon, and the next? Well, the next moment, the cracks start to show themselves like ice before it crumbles.

Pain launches her out of her thoughts. Her tired body is being jostled, being scooped up like she weighs almost nothing, and it takes a few seconds for Anna to realize Jacob is carrying her. He’s warm, tempting to lean into, and so she does — her head sinks to the side, right against his chest.

“They’re not your friends, sweetheart,” Jacob rumbles, the sound coming more from inside him than it does from his mouth. “Makin’ you play servant girl? Leavin’ you to bleed out once you serve your purpose? Don’t sound like friends to me.”

She doesn’t have the strength to argue with him. All Anna can do is blink, eyes thick and heavy and desperate to shut so she can rest. Between flashes of her eyelids, she sees stairs, sees the tacky decoration in the hotel’s front lobby, sees the shape of Jacob’s truck in the distance.

“I’ll fix you up, honey. Get you back on your feet. Show you who your real friends are,” he muses, more to himself than to anyone else.

Her vision swims again, and this time she doesn’t have the strength to fight it. Anna feels herself go limp, sinking further into his arms, and welcomes the dark curl of unconsciousness into her mind.

“Thank you.”

The words are all she manages before she teeters off the edge into a heavy, consuming sleep.

[morgana-ren]

Salted Ground

Here have a little overly dramatic, purple prose 1k short I wrote for Kylo Ren while staring at the ceiling last night.

Warnings: Kidnapping, graphic depictions of violence, sorta implied noncon and assault, general obsession and nastiness. 

Rating: Probably E, cause you know, it’s me. 

His coming is heralded by darkness. 

A ship so large it blots out the suns, casting an ominous shadow over the village you had come to call home. An eerie silence falls over the encampment; the calm before the storm builds anticipation as the black ship haunts the skies above you. Few have seen it, but all know of it. A weaponized omen of death, prophetic in its arrival.

First Order ships are a common sight in the galaxy, but none such as this one. Those not entombed safely within the metal walls often don’t live to tell the tale. A grand jewel on the crown to signify his rule. His Finalizer. 

He had found you once again. 

He doesn’t long allow you to dwell on the destruction you’ve hand delivered to the inhabitants of the planet. Manmade fire spits from the underbelly of the craft and his army spews forth from the pods that follow. Mechanized voices bark out orders and civilians, no, friends spill into the streets in a blind panic. The familiar sound of blasters firing couples alongside the shrill screams of your neighbors. Their sorrowful wails carve a hollow home in your stomach and you know their cries are the settlement’s death rattle.

There was no chance for them. If you didn’t run, there would be no chance for you either. 

The people here would die needlessly, never knowing it was you who ushered the First Order to their doorstep. The weight of your guilt drags you down as you bolt into the forests, pressure building behind your eyes as you fumble over the lifeless corpse of a kindly woman with whom you used to trade herbs. Survival carries you forward but gut wrenching culpability compels you to take one last look at the swan song composed in your honor. 

Thick, black plumes of smoke billow from the huts and pollute the heavens. The cacophony of cries and terror never seems to fade, even as your feet carry you further and further into the dense fauna that lines the forest. Bodies fall lifeless to the ground in the town center as the troopers fire at will and without reason. This was not a negotiation. This was a massacre. 

This was to prove a point. 

‘I’ll follow you to the ends of the galaxy.’ He had told you once. ‘I’ll annihilate anything that stands in my way.’ 

His mask had betrayed nothing, no flicker of emotion from behind the vocoder and yet even then you had known he meant it. He spoke the words as if they were pure and simple fact. The bruises he left behind on your delicate flesh meant nothing, he had already branded his ownership of you deeper than you could hope to heal. If you would leave, then he would follow, death and misery trailing his footsteps. Any planet you set foot on in your desperation to claw yourself from his clutches would become fuel for his fire. He would scorch the ground around you, pry you from the burning soil with his own hands only to wrap his fingers even tighter around your neck. 

And now he has found you again. 

Your feet pound the dirt, tear blotted eyes switching back and forth between the carnage behind you and the path leading deep into the forest. You can hear the shouts of the stormtroopers fanning the area and the leaves and twigs crunching underfoot as you stumble through the thickening shrubbery. The screaming has stopped, but the fires still burn. The smell of ash and scorched flesh lies heavy in the air, clogging your nostrils and mixing the painful lump in your throat with sick. 

Dodging vines and logs and driven purely on instinct, you push yourself forward until your chest clenches and your lungs convulse for breath, heart threatening to pound out from your chest. The muscles in your legs twitch and ache, your mind too lost in adrenaline to keep track of how long you’ve been running. The intense pain in your side doubles you over against a nearby tree, clutching at your ribs with trembling fingers. 

You can’t see the towers of smoke anymore, but it doesn’t sear the memory from your mind. Not from this home. Not from the one before. The stench of death is the same no matter the location. Death that with you walked hand in hand and wrapped its arms around you and squeezed until you couldn’t breathe unless it allowed you.

The same embodiment of death that was closing in on you now.

Your throat constricts as you think on all the roads that led you here, and how many bodies littered the pathway. His obsession destroys everything that dares to get close to you, and no matter where you run, no matter where you hide, he salts the ground around you and kills any chance you might have had to bloom somewhere new without his thorns tearing into your flesh. Every time you plant your seed, he poisons the soil and everything else your roots might find. 

The weight of your past crashes through the walls of the present and every sin in your history clouds your lungs until the air falls short in your chest. Every breath you draw, no matter how deep, doesn’t stop the onset of claustrophobia; it boils and churns in your gut and pounds against your temples until you collapse against a tree trunk, unable to run another foot.

Between the overwhelming nausea and the dizziness that turns your world upside down, you can hear the troopers fan the forests around you. All you can manage to do is pull your knees tighter to your chest and duck your head into your legs in hopes that they don’t see you. 

If they see you, you hope they mistake you for a civilian and shoot you. Anything is better than going back to him. 

You close your eyes, quiet your thoughts and your mind, try to will away the Earth shattering panic that so trembles your body. Like some remnant of biological instinctive fear, you can practically feel him closing in, as if you can sense him in the same way he’s sensing you. Something deep in your gut tells you that the footfall that approaches is not that of a lowly grunt, but of the Supreme Leader himself. 

You refuse to look but you can’t block out the sound of squelching leather as he kneels by you, and though you brace yourself for a blow, it never comes. Only the gentle tug of gloved fingertips digging beneath the cut of your chin, coaxing your head forward toward the source of your seemingly ever present misery. Though you resist him, he seems unbothered. Perhaps even bored. 

“Don’t be angry with me.” He whispers, baritone voice just as clear as in your nightmares. “I warned you this would happen.” 

There’s no need to voice your thoughts. You know he can hear them regardless. He’ll store each and every one away in his lockbox mind, waiting for the precise time he can wield them against you. He’ll tolerate your impudence, if only for a moment. It will only be punished on the rare occasion he can find no other reason. 

His thumb strokes your soggy cheek, even as you shake your head to will him off. It’s a mockery of affection, one he does solely to insult you. The sobs that rack your spine elicit no sympathy from him. You’re not foolish enough to believe that there’s any semblance of humanity hidden beneath his armor. He has proven time and time again that there is no antidote to his venom. 

He sits with you quietly, waiting for the moment when your little tantrum runs out of steam. When it seems as though you’ve finally run yourself ragged, he’s more forceful in bringing you up from your knees. 

“Come now. I’m tired of this.” 

And you’ll follow him through the destruction, cinder and sinew staining the skin beneath your feet, so calloused from running so long only to be dragged back to your gilded cage. You’ll trail behind him as he ascends the ramp to his ship, knowing countless blasters are trained on your pathetic form but none would dare fire. 

You’re not that lucky. 

Kylo Ren has taught you many things. He’s taught you pain. He’s taught you sorrow. But above all, he’s taught you that there are some fates that are worse than death, and yours is at his side. 

Whether you want it or not.

[meikuree]

the topography of pieck’s grey morality

at first glance there is a sort of tragic, damning irony in the way that Pieck is cognizant of the terrible system she and everyone in marley participates in, and yet still continues to have quite a prominent hand in maintaining it. every warrior is inflected by this irony in spades, and all of them face the common bind of having to make terrible choices in conditions that are structurally abject from the get-go, but what distinguishes Pieck from the others is her approach for responding, or her stance towards the world and all the misfortunes it brings.

unlike Annie who literally cordons herself off from being appropriated by wider forces or Bertolt and Reiner who have relatively explicitly articulated moments of outburst and struggle with marley’s tentacular influence and ideology, any resistance Pieck can be said to have is quieter and more attenuated. she jokes, she uses sarcasm, she renders quotidian comfort and benevolence to people she’s bonded with, and she makes observations in quiet about people who might not have her or her allies’ interests at heart. but just as true at the same time is the way she participates in marley’s various imperialist strikes (e.g. in the middle east war) and unambiguously is both directly and indirectly responsible for many deaths; she does not necessarily rebel against marley in the material and practical where it counts.

of course, it’s difficult for any of the warriors to do so, and she’s hardly unique in this aspect, but alongside her mode of response it makes her a morally grey character in ways others aren’t. she has her declaration of dissent in 116, but it is overshadowed by the realities of the situation at hand: she is part of a mission that will bring her even further away from her ideals of eldian liberation if it succeeds. it is also possibly undermined, depending on how you read the scene, by the fact that they were made for the purpose of deception: she spun her statements specifically to ingratiate the enemy long enough to lead them where marley needed them (i.e. they had some grain of truth to them, but she was definitely leaving out nuances/complexities in that moment for the sake of more instrumental objectives at hand).

her approach of going along with a regime that has none of her interests at heart is probably just informed by practicality (to ask her to go against marley in that moment would’ve been a tall order), as well as coercion and the sheer absence of any tenable alternative. but I think it also builds into her characterization as someone who rebels not through loud antagonism but through banal moments of care for others. she tries to work in the system and carve out small pockets of prefigurative care and hope, that won’t contest the system at large but might be able to alleviate life within it.

what makes this morally grey in the eyes of some readers is the question of how far this is distinguishable from rolling along unthinkingly with the system. she ideologically opposes everything marley does but the total effect is the same regardless of whether she does so: her actions still amount to the maintenance of marley’s imperialism.

(i suspect one reason some people chafe at the widespread adoration for her is that the tenor of that adoration overlooks how, in some respects, pieck has very much been capable of indirect moral cruelty and direct, obvious forms of physical harm against innocents such as those caught in the crossfire of the middle east war. she’s not all sunshine and wholesomeness.)

this is only one reading however. it is a tempting one, but also potentially superficial, and elides the fact that the game for pieck and the others was already rigged from the start. no matter how she responds, any decision will have untoward costs. if she defects, her father likely gets it. it’s impossible for her to speculate about some hypothetical benefit that will accrue to her if she defects, and thus to judge whether the benefits outweigh the price of more explicit, resistant dissent.

this reading would also ignore the fact that her acts of everyday survival have significance of their own beyond their power to contest the system. pieck, in trying to cultivate optimism/relief within the unremarkable margins of her and the warriors’ lives, is also trying to dwell as well as she can in the boundaries of the life marley has circumscribed for her. she could very easily not do all the nice things she is known for: to be bitter, be more excessively cruel, be impersonal. but in making the attempt at all, it is as if she is saying that there is potential to resist in quieter, more unremarkable ways. as if it is worthwhile nonetheless to sustain the tolerability of life until a day when more overt revolution will be feasible. quiet, everyday resistance-- a la James Scott’s “weapons of the weak” idea if you will-- still matters on its own terms, especially for extending the resilience of those living in unfeasible conditions, and even if it’s not as demonstrative or effective as outright resistance. canon doesn’t exactly frame it as a big resistance vs. small resistance debate. but given how canon consistently depicts her comforting others and dedicates valuable panel space to their significance (see: pieck squeezing gabi’s hand!) and the manga’s themes of trying to rise above predetermination and the hand given to you by fate, it’s possible to say that these are far from useless choices of acts. whether unintentionally or not, the manga seems to be making statements about the meaning of these acts.

pieck overall appears to be the walking embodiment of the “beauty in cruelty” message for some people. for others, trying to find beauty in a system of cruelty without doing anything to oppose it is a morally grey act or even... downright condemnable. i think that reading can have value for some, but my take is that: pieck’s character isn’t so much about “finding beauty in cruelty” as “beauty coexists alongside cruelty” (because pieck very much has the capacity for some cruelty) and also “precisely because beauty coexists with cruelty within people, and you can be responsible for both at any one time, it is an active choice to uphold that beauty and try to nurture what is good for other people, and the agency committed in that choice must not be understated; the choice to cultivate beauty also could be read as a refusal to give in to a system that does not encourage kindness and encourages lots of cruelty”.

[alisinchainmail]

More from the crossover fanfic no one asked for but everyone's getting...

Kylo + Quinn: The Last Harlequin: Ch. 1.2

[Gif sources: Part 1, Part 2]

Writers' favorite excerpt from Kylo + Quinn Chapter 1.2 of The Last Harlequin:

He exhales sharply through his nose and straightens. "My Knights of Ren detected you in our no fly zone. You didn't respond to our warnings we sent, so we mistook you for a threat."

She rolls her eyes, annoyed at the jab. "I guess I'm going to have to forgive you and your little Space Knights of Ni for not knowing who I am..." She does a flashy roundoff back handspring and flips over him so she's between him and her bat. "Harley Quinn, nice to meet ya." She extends her now uncuffed hand to the dark knight.

Overcompensating with stillness to hide that he's impressed with the stunt from an Earth girl, he looks down his nose at her hand. "Kylo Ren," he says quietly, giving her the decency of a reply. 

Harley withdraws her hand, slightly offended he still doesn't seem to have heard of her, "Never heard of me? The Cupid of Crime? The Maiden of Mischief? Princess... of Darkness." She trails off on that last one, unsure if she recently lost that title. "Formerly..." she corrects it quickly.

Kylo plays her game, "Leader of the Knights of Ren, Champion of the First Order, and Apprentice to Supreme Leader Snoke." He takes a step towards her, towering over her. She tilts her head acknowledging she has no idea what any of that really means, either.

"You're not part of the Resistance," he states more than asks. "However, the vehicle you stole has connections to the Rebellion. How?"

Clearly there's a lot of space politics that is not public knowledge on Earth. Why would Bruce Wayne be involved in space wars? He's probably friends with that Elon Muskrat. He's pretty sus with all that Space X shit.

She responds innocently, "Look, I just saw the thing in some local billionaire's driveway, and thought, 'Why not go for a joy ride?'" Kylo steps closer studying her expressions. Harley squints, "What?!" 

Kylo shakes his head, "The Empire has no use for you then. We'll decide what to do with you, or what remains of you, when we're done searching the vehicle."

Harley squints at him, gathering a pretty clear psychological profile from that golden threat of a response, his list of self-important titles, and his demeanor. It all screams of daddy issues.

If he wanted to kill her, he would've done it already. Is he her enemy or a potential new ally? How far can she push this guy before she finds out the hard way? 

She smirks and fires off, "So...you're building a crown-rule empire because daddy kicked you out. And you think this is a big fuck you, but in actuality it's a very misguided attempt to win back his respect." Kylo grips his helmet, and narrows his eyes at her.

Harley slowly steps back towards her bat, she looks at his mask grinning, "Daddy wanted a son, so now he has to hide behind a mask...I get it!" Kylo slams his helmet down on a sidetable next to him. This was too easy!

Harley continues, "Awh it's ok! I bet your mom still loves you. Mom's usually do... if they have the time to notice you through your desperate attention-seeking behavior." He looks in shock. 

She's really hitting a nerve with this guy. How is he so easy to read? "Or maybe you're trying to destroy the very thing that distracted her from you in the first place. Classic only child syndrome. She's part of this rebellion thing isn't she? Gotta love a rebel girl." Kylo lurches at her.

Harley lunges for the bat, but Kylo quickly raises his hand at it, sending it flying across the room. Harley looks at her empty hand, then across the room where it landed. What is he? Some sort of space wizard?

Harley shakes off her confusion, "Won't let me play with your toys? What would I expect from an only child with deep-seated father issues?"

Kylo yells, "Stop...TALKING," as he grabs at Harley. She dodges. Time to go all in.

"Tell me, what did dear old dad do to you? Or was it someone else? Got an uncle who paid some unnecessary visits to your bedside when mommy and daddy were away?"

Kylo clenches his fist and rolls his eyes. That was a hit. Harley taunts, "Awwhhh did I sink your battleship?"

"ENOUGH," he roars, grabbing a handle from his hilt and firing out a massive red flaming greatsword.

Harley stares at the new weapon in disbelief. "Come on! Lazer swords?! At least let me use my dinky baseball bat. I'm Little League compared to that!"

Co-Writer's (Brian) Notes:

I love this as an introduction to their relationship. Harley always has to get the last word in and Kylo is always struggling to keep his composure. Both their characteristics make them butt heads, and also is why they work.

They’re always gonna have a back forth with their personalities. A yin and yang basically where he’ll constantly try and stay level and she’ll try to trip him up.

Writer's (Alisin) Notes:

I like this part of the scene for their chaotic, impulsive energy playing off each other in different ways. Also for her first exposure to the world of Star Wars, which her inexperience with the world helps me get away with the fact I still haven't seen all of the Star Wars franchise yet and am newer to the fandom. We're sort of figuring out the world together.

I wanted them to be fairly evenly matched, which — much like with Rey— is Kylo's first experience with someone on equal ground like that, so it throws him off at first.

Harley is skilled with getting in people's heads from a psychoanalytical standpoint, whereas Kylo uses more of a brute force approach later in the scene. Luke criticized the way the Knights of Ren use the dark side of the force as being unskilled "like a hammer". I bring that characterization into Kylo.

Kylo wields his emotions and fighting style with a lot of intensity rather than precision and agility. In spite of his bloodline making him a more powerful force wielder, he can be quite clumsy with it. As though his power is greater than himself and the conflict he carries disrupts his clarity in his actions, while also fueling the power of the dark side through his raw emotion.

With Harley, I like to keep her dancing in between both, since as a character she is more morally gray.

Her weapons of choice are sometimes literal hammers but her fighting style and wit can be very fluid and agile, similar to the fighting styles of those who utilize the light side of the force. Her actions are impulsive, but not clouded in self-judgements. Without the Joker's influence, she knows herself well enough to have some faith that her impulses are in alignment with her fluid morality.

And to bring it all back ti Brian's point:

Kylo is brute force like Harley’s weapon and she’s skilled and precise like a sword, his weapon. Neither will admit it but both could run into situations where the others methods work better. Harley has been forced to be chaotic in her approach for so long she’s sort of rebelling against it in her style. Kylo has been wielding the force like a hammer for so long that everything looks like a nail. This further adds to their yin and yang relationship dynamic and how they’ll be able to survive by adapting the others' strengths when they need them.

[GIF Source: Part 1, Part 2]

Check out the full chapter on Wattpad: The Last Harlequin. For mature audiences only.

Kylo and Harley's first meeting was originally going to be more simple, but then it just took a life of its own. This whole chapter was originally 4 parts for the Tiktok series, and now it's pushing 16 on Wattpad...and I'm still not done writing it. I have a drug trip scene in the works where they take an intense hallucinogen called Jabbawaska. Yes, this is how ridiculous the Wattpad gets. They're fun characters to write for and it's interesting to see how they bring new characteristics out of each other.

Episodes are currently being posted daily on Tiktok: @KyloQuinnCrossover. Chapter 1 exists in full on YouTube.

Part 1: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNHnKH/

Part 2: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNAJAE/

Part 3: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNGWTx/

Part 4: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNGwEn/

Ch.1.10 WP Promo: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePN4pAy/

Ch.1.11 WP Promo: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNPmUS/

Ch.1.12 WP Promo: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMePNsnY7/

[comparatist]

Bengal Renaissance:

The idea of renaissance caters the concept of a glorious past, a history of deterioration in the intermediate period and a journey towards the restoration of the lost glory through various means of societal foundations and fields. The word ‘renaissance’ holds the literal meaning of rebirth or reawakening. The line of thought started gaining popularity in Bengal prominently in 19th century, though the distribution was unequal. The literatures of that time entertained the idea thoroughly though the absence of equality in the distribution created a target audience who resembled nothing more than an echo chamber. The concept of renaissance or reawakening was mostly pushed by the upper class, upper caste men of the society, often writers. India never had its own history to be precise. The model was launched by the British writers. They had divided their own in the column of ‘ancient,’ ‘middle,’ ‘modern,’ and tried to use the own template which writing the history of India. Hence the idea of ‘middle age as the dark era’ was subjective. To the east Asia, this time was a reminder of golden hours while in the European context, this time was a throwback to the chaotic hours, when the British started to decide the history of India, it used its usual font of depicting the Muslim countries as the invaders and the Muslim population as the ‘others.’ It was these writers, these gatekeepers of cultural virtues, who made their work easier, for the texts these writers wrote, propagated the idea of the ‘foreign savior.’ Since the Europeans were on the losing side of the wars which is evident from their depiction of their description of the era, the wars took place in, they adopted the path of willful amnesia. Willful amnesia or a self-initiated effort to internalize the idea of forgetting, as a defense mechanism made them to label the ages of religious wars as ‘dark’ and writing their history accordingly. When the same procedure was used on the Indian history, the idea was taken up by the writers with immense socio-economic privilege, to write about the restoration of the glorious past of the country, that is the ‘Hindu’ era, before it was invaded by the Muslims and tried to build up a cultural resistance that way. This created the ‘otherization’ on a prominent level and the race who held the roots of this system of segregation, i,e the Europeans, acted out their process of colonization as the foreign saviors. As the process got initiated without any major violent face-off and as they posing as mere traders went successful, in no time they were able to establish themselves as a trustworthy assistant in thwarting the rule of the ‘Muslim invaders.’

‘Anandamath’ penned down by Bankimchandra Chattyopadhyay displays the characteristics of a 19th century novel, as discussed before. The influence of Sanskrit in Bankim’s life isn’t unknown. From learning the Sanskritic tradition and remaining in the contact of the scholars of Bhatpara to reviewing Sanskritic publications in ‘Bangadarshan’ and referring Sanskritic notions in his writings including ‘Anandamath’ are examples of how he valued the traditional ways of life and how strong was his urge to restore the ‘lost Hindu glory.’ ‘Anandamath’ becomes the perfect reflection of that. The novel keeps the famine background during Mir Jafar’s rule which was a cunning motive by the novelist to portray a situation of anarchy during the Muslim rule, thereby suggesting that a foreigner can only loot from the land and can never do any good for the countrymen and are only here to destroy the cultural heritage. “Mir Jafar took opium and slept, the British took in the money and issued receipts, and Bengal wept and went to ruin.” With clarity, the sentence exempts the British from the guilt of torturing the common folks in collecting revenues and places the entire responsibility of the well being of the Bengalis on the Muslim ruler to support the claim of ‘foreign saviors’ in a very subtle way. The support for the British Raj in India is expressed more clearly in the novel when the character known as ‘sage’ is having a conversation with Satyananda of Santan Dal’ regarding the outward and inward knowledge of Hinduism and says, “we must bring in the outward knowledge from another country. The English are very knowledgeable in the outward knowledge, and they’re very good at instructing people. Therefore we’ll make them king.” So the whole concept of making Bengal a Hindu state from the clutches of a Muslim ruler through the hands of ‘foreign saviors’ becomes evident in the narration. The ‘Santan Dal’ present in the novel carries out the Hindutwa agenda by attacking Muslim households, burning villages with Muslim population, attracting people by their Hindu identity and always expressed their agenda being the freeing of motherland, restoring her lost glory from the ‘foreign’ hands but the subjects of alienation were not the British but the Muslims. It becomes clear from Bhabananda’s comment, “the English are not our enemies. But why are you here to help the Muslims?” He even adds later, “Victory to the English! We wish you well!” Thus the legitimization of the colonization gets propagated through a fictious adaptation of the Sanyasi Rebellion but not against the white-skinned foreigners. The Sepoy Mutiny against the British, therefore never had any support from these upper caste, upper class Hindu men.

As mentioned before, the ideas of this so called new awakening weren’t distributed in the equal basis. The literatures concerned with the rebirth of the Bengali Hindu culture were targeted towards the upper middle class, middle class audience by the writers who had huge amount of social capital as their backup. The targeted audience had the leisure to indulge into the cultural activities due to their class position. The middle class Bengali young rebels were so influenced by ‘Anandamath’ that there was a rumor of them getting radicalized enough to keep revolvers in their bags along with the copy of this book. The novel though starts with the accounts of people suffering from the high taxes, famine, epidemic, hunger, are starving to pay the taxes, selling the family members and Bhabananda telling Mahendra that a king who doesn’t look after his subjects shouldn’t have any right to ask taxes, after the Santan Dal have taken charge of a village Satyananda advises them to collect taxes, but this time, for the cause of buying weapons to face the royal army and make the motherland free by establishing the Hindu rule and restoring the ‘lost glory.’ The economic deterioration is presented to evoke purgatory responses from the readership from their positions of privilege. The novel though is subtle on its caste angle but not enough to be considered nil. The memberships of Santan Dal happen after the interested ones reveal their caste. Even the child of Mahendra and Kalyani doesn’t get spared of this question. Though Satyananda says that every Santan should think of the other as equal as all are ‘The Children’ of the Mother, the protagonists are all from the privileged section of the society. Hence, the class of the targeted audience who only get concerned with the society when the ‘culture’ gets attacked as the other aspects of life were in abundance for them, what is better than a Hindu revivalist novel where the writer can make up an attack on culture and manipulate it for his own needs?

Preaching for colonization in the garb of Hindutwa propaganda isn’t an easy task but Bankim managed it quite well. The idea of the ‘Mother’ figure and her Hindu sons fighting the Muslim ‘foreigners’ yet welcoming the ones with white skin can only be done if the former idea propagates the concept of Sanskritization and the latter gets managed with a vague concept of outward and inward projections of the Eternal code and the outward expression being lost and can be revived by the help of the British people. The concept of willful amnesia and the notions of pre-conceived theory sit here well. The former directs the author into preaching that the antagonist in his writings has nothing good to do and is here to ruin things during his reign. The latter helps in the plot, and tells the writer to think that the ‘foreign savior’ can be used to revive the lost culture as they have ‘advanced’ ideas about things and can be used to undo the effects of the ruins made by the antagonist. Self contradiction is also a feature of the novels of 19th century. Hence, when Satyananda laments that he couldn’t establish the Hindu rule and the British will now rule by saying, “Oh Mother, I’ve not been able to set you free. Once more you’ll fall into the hands of unworthy foreigners,” the sage, a personification of the said feature advises him that ‘this’ foreigner’s help is needed to serve the bigger goal.

The novel, ‘Anandamath’ serves its purpose well. It mocks the strength of the sepoys by comparing it to those of the British ones, to glorify the foreigners the author has chosen to aid. The fight takes place among the Santans and the British too but the latter don’t bear the grudge as the author felt they would be needed to serve the politics of the revival of lost cultural glory. Though it fails to establish the Hindu rule, the win against British soldiers do serve as a trailer to project the might of the Hindus before the Muslim rule and a small hint that one day this community will ‘take back’ the country from the Englishmen and establish its own rule.

[elmidol]

You Are My Fate (NSFW)

Three Blind Tooke Part Three Death Is An Art

Read on AO3

Three Blind Tooke 

 Part Three: Death is an Art

 Chapter Sixty-Three: You Are My Fate

 As you drifted off to a lullaby,

I held you tight in a warm embrace.

As you played in your dreams at night,

I waited, knowing the future you would chase.

 The value of an individual depended upon their deeds, or so you had been taught by your parents. It did not matter how many people fawned over the fallen Emperor. Popularity was rarely an accurate indicator of someone’s value, yet in the case of Leia Organa, you could not help but notice that it did reveal proof of her character. Her funeral was attended by the Resistance and the Order of Ren. Had it not been a risk to all others, the funeral would have been transmitted for others to witness. It was recorded by multiple droids for the future. Once the war ended, once the First Order was defeated, the galaxy would mourn again. In the meantime, you were left standing there beside Kylo Ren recalling the lessons that your mother and father had taught you. Leia and Palpatine had both been flawed, had made mistakes, had worked to gain versions of power. The difference was that Leia had not wanted to claim the power for herself. Palpatine, on the other hand, had lied and manipulated people for his own gain.

 According to Kylo, Palpatine had been a Force user, a Sith. It was not just Darth Vader whose shadow had been cast upon Kylo as a child, but Palpatine’s as well. His parents had feared the Dark side of the Force, ignoring the Light because they had become blinded by that fear.

This mistake that Leia had continuously made had not eliminated Kylo Ren’s ability to love her. In private he had cried. While his eyes were moistened as the crowd wept for his mother, Kylo did not weep again. You, on the other hand, felt tears trickling down your cheeks. There were less now than there had been earlier. Leia Organa had meant many things to you, and how she had touched your life had shaped who you now were for, in your opinion, the better. Feelings of surrealism toyed at the edges of your mind, shifting your focus and preventing you from breaking down as perhaps you would otherwise would have. You swayed in place, felt your hand twitch towards his, and jerked your arms around yourself when images of holding your father’s hand when you had died sprang to the forefront of your focus.

 War almost constantly had you surrounded by death with few funerals to observe. You felt out of place, leaned towards Kylo to aid in regathering your bearings. So many others had perished in the same battle that had claimed Leia’s life; not only on the same day either, but since then from injuries sustained. Vicrul and Ap’lek were absent from the funeral. Had they been there, it would have been in support of Kylo rather than any feelings of fondness for Leia, who had remained a stranger to them. A mere ghost of Kylo’s past when he had been Ben Solo before becoming the spectre that had prevented the Resistance and Order of Ren from banding together with Kylo as leader.

Hours later the crowd had not broken away, though you had left the area. As had Kylo Ren, the Knights of Ren, and Order of Ren and Resistance superior officers. You had been offered a chance to take part in the meeting to discuss the upcoming battle with Hux and the First Order, however you had opted to remain behind. Ap’lek decided to accompany you in favor of participating in the meeting in which he likely would have simply remained a silent member. Kuruk, Trudgen, and Vicrul had gone, however, and you were thankful that Kylo had them with him. Rey would not permit other Resistance members a chance to harm Kylo--any who did try would be foolish--however that would not still the tongues of those who despised the man.

 It was unclear whether or not your mother would linger by Leia’s body for the remainder of the cycle or not. The two of you had barely spoken a sentence since reuniting. She was emotionally distant. The loss of Naboo followed by your departure had aged her. Exhaustion crept into her expressions as well as her movements. She had also become rather skittish in areas namely those regarding you--it did not take a genius to guess that she was waiting for you to disappear from her presence once more. Giving her space was wise, as there was much that she needed to process. There was a tempest of emotions she combatted in regards to Kylo. That she did not know the full history between you and Kylo was what would allow her to eventually accept the alliance just as she had, in her own way, accepted your marriage.

 You sat in the quarters that had been assigned to Ap’lek, and together you observed Millicent in a silence that clung to the walls of the room. Two names ran through your mind in a repetition that one might refer to as obsessive. Cardo and Ushar. They had not perished, at least not permanently. Like you and Kylo, Cardo had lost his life only to be brought back. Once Kylo had mourned for his mother, as soon as he had learned of Cardo’s current state, he had gone to Medbay along with an old Jedi artifact and the power that he had taken from Not-Rey. You did not know if it was power from the Light, the Dark, or both sides of the Force that had returned Cardo to life. What you did know was that many in the Resistance considered it unnatural. As for Ushar, Rey and Finn had used Force healing to aid the medics. The Resistance said nothing negative in regards to this aside from the unsurprising jabs that their energy should have been devoted to Resistance members.

 Millicent spun in circles in an attempt to catch her own tail after spotting it twitching. She rolled onto her back once she did manage to secure it between her paws. “Is Ushar still resting?” you asked as you stretched out an arm and twitched your fingers to summon the small cat closer. Ap’lek gave a nod, which you spotted out of the corner of your eye. It was a simpler matter for one to discuss Ushar rather than Cardo. There was gray area with the latter. Unproven suspicions that Kylo Ren had siphoned the life force out of beings unknown to revive the Knight of Ren. The death had been fresh, unlike Leia’s. Had Kylo not been engaged with Not-Rey, it was entirely possible that he would have sacrificed the entire battlefield to attempt to restore her.

 Ushar would likely remain out of the battle with the First Order if possible just as Ap’lek had with this previous one. You were unsure when it came to Cardo. Kylo had revealed nothing, and you had not pushed. He had had other things to focus on, namely the upcoming funeral and meeting. Speaking with the Knight himself had not been an option. That had changed since the end of the funeral, and eventually that was where life would lead. You needed to decompress before that occurred. Ap’lek was one of the few individuals with whom you could accomplish this.

 Skimming fingers along your scalp, you tilted back your head to look up at the ceiling. Millicent had stared at you for a short handful of seconds before turning back to her tail. She released random yowls, which were signs that she missed a specific familiar presence. You pressed the hand that had run along your head over your mouth as she let out such a sound. She wanted him back, and you wanted him dead.

 Ap’lek drummed four fingers against his shin. “Ushar will be able to guide the newer Force sensitives. A position of command would prevent him from being removed entirely. Kylo will address this in the meeting regarding the battle.” The chains of command shifting into a single order would be chaotic. That was precisely the part of the meeting that you wanted to avoid. You were tired of politics, exhausted whenever you felt as though someone would question your loyalties; it was a single entity now, yet there would be people who strongly opposed this as a permanent alliance. It was a waste of time, which was a valuable resource that the galaxy was quite limited on.

 Ushar working as a guide for those less familiar with the Force would assist individuals who had been aligned with the Order of Ren since the beginning alongside those who had joined the Resistance. The young woman named Jannah, for instance, knew only basic techniques. The Knights of Ren had been around for years, were familiar enough with the First Order and Hux that there was wisdom in listening to what Ushar would have to say to anyone he assisted. If someone in the Resistance worked to object to this, they were a fool.

 You pushed yourself up off the floor and began to pace. Restlessness was creeping through your limbs as well as your mind. Whenever you paused or stopped movement, that was when thoughts of Leia and potential future losses crept inside. Bacta had healed your minor injuries. Rest had assisted in reducing fatigue. Those both might have been easier to confront than whatever demons wanted to catch you. Millicent crouched down to observe you, the small cat ready to dive into a hiding spot if you spooked her. You walked past her, back and forth, three times before she relaxed.

 “Would you like to train?” You stopped, twisting around to peer into the masked face with narrowed eyes. Due to the injuries he had since healed from, you were less likely to gain as many bruises sparring with him as you would have in the past. Regardless, any new ache could inhibit you in battle with the First Order. Ap’lek was not foolish enough to suggest anything that would lead to that. You worked through the other options that remained. The shooting range, which you doubted since Ap’lek had a different weapon of choice. You were not Force sensitive, so there was another option ruled out. What some people took for granted was that education and studying were forms of training.

 With his familiarity of First Order weaponry--admittedly, he was not as well-versed in the technology as were the former stormtroopers and officers--he would be capable of guiding you in how to best assist the Order of Ren. There would be dogfighting. There would be one Star Destroyer battling another. You had run missions with the Resistance, however you were aware that in the end you were no match for their best pilots, not when the fleet would be so large. More than that, you were aware of the fact that there would be certain Order of Ren vessels that required more protection than others. Those that housed civilians such as your mother would be at a disadvantage. Whichever ship Ushar resided in during the battle, that too would need protection so that he could help others be successful in taking down the enemy.

 The First Order was often in possession of new weaponry and technology that caused you pause. Even when you had been hunting Kylo Ren and other officers of importance, this had been so. You nodded in agreement, accepting Ap’lek’s suggestion. He stood as a result, poured a bit of food into Millicent’s bowl, and then preceded you out of his quarters. You smiled to yourself as the two of you walked. It was sweet, to you, that Ap’lek had appeared to have adopted Millicent as his own. It showed that she had helped him when he had been unable to go into battle. You had been able to find hope in her, and so had he. These seemingly small victories were everything in the world to you.

 Together the pair of you headed in the direction of an archive that had been initially created by two superior officers that had thought to bring along spare datajournals housing information the Order of Ren could utilize. Since then it had been added to by Kylo Ren and others when they returned from missions. In the past day, Rose and Finn had included more materials after it had been agreed upon by Poe and Rey as well. It was thus unsurprising to you that the archive was not empty when you and Ap’lek walked inside. You gave a general greeting, a small wave of your hand, whenever you passed by a familiar face, but did not stop to chat. Ap’lek, on the other hand, ignored all others in favor of maintaining a disciplined focus to arrive at the exact spot he had selected when proposing the idea.

 His hands were in constant motion, fingers seeking out a specific text at a rapid enough pace that it offered the impression such actions were unnatural. You blinked to help shake away some of that strangeness, and doing so allowed you to realize that part of the issue had been that your vision blurred due to how you had been attempting to fixate on both the words of each text’s spine and the fingers at the same time. It would have been beneficial to have the ability to execute both tasks with no issues. As it was, your mind was already crowded with all the information you had worked to digest in the past forty-eight hours. Names of people and weapons alike vied for your attention. You shoved all of them away as Ap’lek located the text, pulled it out, and began to scroll through its contents.

 “He won’t trust the ysalamir to keep him safe.” You nodded, thinking that even if Kylo had proven that they could be rendered ineffective during ground battle, Armitage Hux was most likely aware that the ship containing him being destroyed would result in his death. Due to this, no one was certain if he would be on whatever ships he sent in pursuit of the Order of Ren and Resistance. “He will be relying on science.”

 “Ancient or new?” you asked, though a part of you already knew the answer: it was both. This combination was what had helped the man to successfully steal the mantle of Supreme Leader and keep the galaxy under the First Order’s thumb. Starkiller Base itself had been an improvement on the old plans of the Death Stars that the Rebellion had brought down. The experiment that had yielded Rey and given Not-Rey her abilities, that might yet have had more benefits for Hux that had not been unveiled to the public eye.

 In answer to your question, Ap’lek had merely spared a quick glance before returning his attention to the text. “The others will focus on any Force-related obstacles.” It was just as well; though you were frustrated at the prospect of this robbing you the chance to meet Hux face-to-face and possibly end his life yourself, you knew that it would do you no good to push for a role in those tasks. “Ground support will need to be ready.” Again did he turn to consider you. Heart thumping in your chest, you recognized this as confirmation to your suspicions: Kylo also suspected that Hux would not remain on the ship. Former allies as enemies meant that weaknesses would be known. Armitage Hux was not a fool. This was a battle he had been preparing for ever since the First Order had split into two. “You will need to be prepared for close combat as well as long distance.”

 You chewed on your lip, tilted your head partway to the side, and read over the line of text that Ap’lek’s finger was pointing to. The First Order had Walkers that would not fall as easily as the ones of the Empire had. These would be used for both offensive and defensive purposes. Even with the Force, it would take great effort for either Kylo or Rey to down one of these behemoths. That expended energy could cost them their lives. Thus, while they focused on the Force, you and others who could not wield this mystical power would work to bring down these giants and other weaponry that the First Order was in possession of.

 The text, thankfully, contained the specs on the technological behemoth that aided you in learning what weaponry it housed. This might have changed since the division, however you doubted it would be by much if it had. “Does the Order of Ren have any of these?”

 “Only a few. It was simpler to grab starships.” That made sense, you conceded. “Others sacrificed themselves to blow up entire Star Destroyers. A way to cripple the First Order as well as conceal their defection save from those who bore witness. Their families are being watched by both the First Order and Order of Ren.” The former for signs of betrayal, the latter as protection.

 It amazed you the feats that people were capable of achieving when the time came for them to make a choice. Some failed to act at all. They flickered out of existence or cowered before potential death. Others, like Leia and the First Order defectors that had not lived to see the true birth of the Order of Ren, they did the one thing they could to help others before they perished. The galaxy had known Leia and so mourned. It did now know these unsung heroes, who were mourned by only those close to them. You spent a moment of silence to pay your respects, to silently swear that their sacrifices would not be in vain.

 “Aerial support will focus on the Walkers as much as they can, correct?” Ap’lek held up a hand in a one armed shrug. You puffed up your cheeks and rolled your eyes, annoyed that there were too many lingering questions in regards to the upcoming battle. It was no one’s fault. Until Supreme Leader Hux’s location was pinpointed, there could be no definitive plans of attack. “Hypothetically?” This time Ap’lek admitted that he suspected as much, although it could not be said for certain unless the Resistance and Order of Ren came to an agreement as well as managed to deploy enough ships that they could take on enemy starfighters and the Walkers both.

 The Rebellion won with horrible odds, you mused. And with less Force users on their side.

 The Knight of Ren passed the text to you so that you were able to scroll through the file on the Walker at your leisure. There were logs of repairs that some of the Walkers in the First Order’s possession had undergone. You were no mechanic, however you knew enough to identify areas of weakness that you could use to your advantage. The odds in this were also slim in terms of your success. Ultimately, it was not as though you had much of a choice. The First Order had to be defeated. Supreme Leader Armitage Hux had to meet with Death, whose name was Kylo Ren.

 That thought caused you pause. The shower wherein he had shown you his mind via the Force slipped forward. That was not the kind of Death that he was. He was an artist of death, one capable of correcting some of its flaws if given a chance. That was why you remained alive. It was how your mother had not perished along with those on Hosnian Prime. It was how Cardo had been revived. And it was how Kylo Ren himself had returned from death. You released a shaky breath.

 “I’m not as afraid as I used to be. I trust him.” These words received no response. Not that they had been uttered for a reaction of any sort. You felt Ap’lek watching you from behind his mask, and you lifted your chin in order to meet his gaze. “I want to be by his side when he succeeds. Before the next step has to be taken, I want to be there and have that chance to just breathe with him.”

 Even with the periods of silence where you could pretend that the war was over, the truth never failed to come forward like a tidal wave set to crush you. The steps to take after the war ended were numerous. What would be left once Armitage Hux was dead, that would take years. It would close a chapter in history and in your life. The Destroyer of Worlds gone from the galaxy he had sought to enslave. Once this occurred, you would be able to breathe. This would have always been true for Kylo as well, however now he would be killing the man that had murdered his mother. It was more important than ever that Kylo Ren be the one to kill Hux, to gain some semblance of retribution in a world where justice was a mere concept. Flawed and rarely obtained.

 “The mission that almost killed me, it was worth it.” You snorted at that then groaned. You did not enjoy recalling him in the bacta tank, unsure whether or not he would survive. “There’s another file from it. We’ll read through it next.”

 Hours for the day cycle dwindled as the pair of you studied in the archive then in Ap’lek’s quarters. The file that had been added as a result of the mission that had nearly killed the Knight had been placed inside an encrypted box to ensure that none of the younglings being taught to wield the Force would attempt to foolishly utilize the information contained within. That sort of behavior was something that would not have surprised you even before Aris had lost her life, though now it hammered at you in a way that it otherwise would not have. The First Order under Supreme Leader Armitage’s command had chosen to utilize discarded and old projects that the Imperials had abandoned or else never completed. Palpatine and those under him had given blueprints for their successors. They had hidden away resources that were currently at the First Order’s disposal as well. Hence the amount--along with the variety--of Walkers that the Order of Ren would face. That both the Order of Ren and the Resistance had already faced during previous skirmishes.

 Before encountering Not-Rey, you had discarded the notion that Hux would use weapons or individuals that wielded the Force’s powers, the exception being ysalamiri that deadened it. The file that Ap’lek showed you shoved such preconceptions of the man’s tactics off to the side. Armitage Hux had been using research on what the Empire had dubbed Terror Troopers in order to modify Force sensitives that had come from Rey’s birth planet. That was, you assumed, why he had been there. It had not only been for Not-Rey and to lure Leia to her death. It had been to create these super soldiers that were cyborgs with enhanced strength, agility, and speed. These characteristics would be further amplified in Force sensitives. All of this coupled with the terror troopers’s ability to continue fighting after the loss of one or more limbs meant that Armitage would have the mindless soldiers he had tried to create with his stormtrooper program. The combination of technology and the Force had you sliding down to the ground so that you could sit while you processed the information.

 Ap’lek had been correct in stating that the mission had yielded results. It offered the Order of Ren a chance to prepare for an encounter with these soldiers when it worked to kill Armitage and the rest of his army. You set a hand over your mouth, stared with wide eyes at the text, and tried to not think about how many lives might be lost in the upcoming battle. You felt that, in the end, the First Order would be defeated. There would be more losses before that would happen. This reality made you yearn for your mother. You recalled what it was like to be a child who reached out for her whenever she was setting off to travel for work.

 “They will be untrained, which will give us an advantage.” You heard the Knight of Ren’s words without processing them until several more seconds had transpired. Only then did you slide your limb away from your mouth and give a nod. “Along with these and the SuperLaser Star Destroyers that we took the kyber crystals from, we may also face a torpedo sphere.” A curse slipped off your tongue.

 Only when fatigue creeped in and your concentration was poor did you and Ap’lek agree to set aside any further studying. You both had your wits about you enough so that if an attack came, you would each be ready to assist. For the time being, while things were quiet, Ap’lek decided to meditate with Millicent as company. You chose to head to your shared quarters with Kylo. You paused in the doorway when you immediately noticed the new additions.

 Kylo Ren had previously ensured that his quarters contained various ancient texts and artifacts, most of which you had considered with your eyes while refraining from touching them, unsure what they were capable of. Weaponry was stashed away in a locked cabinet to which you had been given the code after you had sworn allegiance to him. A new collection of ashes stood in a section that your eye often skipped over. Your growing assortment of digital pets had their own place. Medications in case either of you required swift treatment; it was more for you than him, however he had done what he could to not cause you to be overly prideful by stating what the materials were primarily there for. There was--what had not been there when you had left at the beginning of the day cycle in order to be present for Leia’s funeral--a two-tier shelf that contained four potted plants that were native to Naboo. Your heart leapt in your chest at the sight of them, your eye instantly drawn to the ryoo.

 Littered on the floor were flowers that had been used in the funeral. Some were crushed, trampled by Kylo, who was seated on the edge of his bed. His helmet was in his hands, staring up at him. You walked into the room in full to allow the door to close so that there would be more privacy. Due to uncertainties with Resistance members, stormtroopers made rounds to guard the quarters. They knew to allow Rey close without hassle. All others were subject to searches for weapons. You stopped when your legs hit against his knees. You had maneuvered your way past the flowers without squishing a single one.

 “Do you want to talk?” His eyes lifted from the helmet. There was a chance they would never fully return to their original color. You waited, held your breath, exhaled in a sigh. Arms crossed, you lifted your shirt above your head then let it fall to the ground. The helmet joined it, rolling forward so that you had to step out of the way. Had you not, you imagined that he would have used the Force to prevent it from rolling over your feet. You stripped down to your underwear and socks. Kylo shrugged out of his cape, lifted his hips to fully remove it, and then laid back. Toying with the hem of his tunic, you shifted onto the bed and straddled his hips. “Hey.”

 “I returned to the Falcon after the discussions ended.” You worked open his belt then started on his tunic. His hands started to move. Together you bared his torso. Your fingers skimmed the faint scars that decorated his flesh. His did the same to your body. Memorizing one another. “The Resistance is no more.”

 “It’s officially joined the Order of Ren.” His head bobbed. You crawled your fingers down towards his pants to open them. “Now they are working to locate what strongholds he might crawl into, correct?” A repetition of the nod. You wanted to speak more of his time on the Millennium Falcon, however you were aware that it was sentimental. He had gone there to remember his parents. Perhaps to remember his childhood. If he wanted to speak about it, you were there; you could not and would not pressure him. “Where did you find the plants?”

 “Your…” His lips formed around the word mother though he failed to give it any sound. Pursing your lips a little, you shushed him in a soothing, gentle manner while cupping his face between your hands. You leaned down and kissed his mouth. Kylo placed one hand on the back of your head, the other on your lower back just above your ass. “Mm.” This groan subsequent to the pair of you parting for air and him taking in a deep breath. His eyes seemed to spark, to dark closer to their natural color as hunger gripped him.

 Kylo reached between your legs and tugged aside your panties simultaneous to the moment you withdrew his cock from his pants and began to stroke him. He twisted his wrist, plunged two fingers into your wet entrance. You clenched around the digits. “I feel more complete when you’re in me,” you whispered. You lifted yourself up, groaning at the fact that this made his fingers slip out of you, and worked to position his cock in line with your cunt. You lowered yourself. His hands were on your hip, plunging you downwards, impaling you and splitting you open.

 He rolled you over so that he was on top, shoved you forward, off of his cock. You obediently moved up onto your hands and knees. Felt one hand on your waist, the other finding your throat. He tugged you backwards, reentered you. His mouth on your ear, teeth clamping down, pulling, making you clench. You whimpered his name. Met his thrusts, which were shallow, quick. He controlled you with the grip he had on your neck. His mouth was no longer on your ear but instead on your shoulder. His teeth clamped down once more. He was leaving marks, leaving bruises on your body. The hand on your hip found your breast, squeezed. Pinched.

 Swearing, Kylo Ren withdrew and twisted you around so that he could nibble then bite down on your breasts. First one then the other. Your mouth dropped open. Shakily breathing, you felt your cunt clenching around nothing, and you whined for him to fill that emptiness with his cock. Instead he skimmed his teeth on your sensitive flesh, his tongue laving over one of the bite marks. The two fingers that had been inside of you slid along your slit, growing wet with your juices, your slick smeared up towards your belly. Kylo moved his fingers in reverse, back and forth, toying with your clit on each pass. Your hips jerked into his touch, your body screaming for him. You felt as though you were on fire. Your nipples hardened. Kylo rolled one of the buds around with his tongue counter clockwise in unison with tracing his middle finger around in a circle on your clit.

 “Mm...please.” You reached down, pumping him, feeling his cock twitch in your hand. His nose kept contact with your skin as Kylo shifted upwards until he could pin you to the bed, your wrists in just one of his hands and set against your sternum. You squirmed as best you could, toes clutching at the blankets underneath your feet. “Kylo.” You were a panting mess, feeling him unravelling you bit by bit, layer by layer. You could not recall him having ever marked you like this, not this many times, with his mouth.

 The next bite on your shoulder broke skin, made you gasp and furrow your brow. You felt the light sting, the throbbing. Turning your head, you met his gaze then looked down at his lips, which were reddened by traces of blood. With a sigh of understanding, you bucked your hips and worked to throw him off. Twisted your wrists, working your fingers towards his exposed arm until your nails dug into his skin. You raked them along his limb. Kylo yanked back to free your wrists now that you were delivering pain along with the pleasure.

 This dance of despair was one that you had executed in the past. Both with Kylo and with Hux. Use me. I am nothing. Hurt me. Destroy me. All because you had been in pain that you had not wanted to articulate nor accept. This period between his mother’s death and eliminating her murderer was one of utter agony for him. You scratched his flesh, made rivulets on his back. Threw back your head as he thrust his cock into your wet cunt and began to fuck you hard, his length pounding into you as you seized his bottom lip between your teeth and tugged, earning a growl that you returned. You entwined your fingers in his hair and yanked his head backwards, tackled his throat. Heard your name in that voice, the one that meant everything to you. Your eyelashes fluttered.

 Tasting his abused skin on your tongue, you pinched his cheeks so that his mouth opened and forced your tongue inside. His met yours in a battle for dominance, working to pin yours. Flattening your hands, you led them down the entire length of his torso. The muscles jumped under your touch. Kylo Ren gripped your inner thighs in a bruising grasp, spreading them apart so that he could better watch his cock moving in and out of you. You shifted one hand off of him and onto your cunt, parting your lips and toying with your clit.

 Your vision blurred at the edges as you spilled on his cock, your walls pulsing around his cock, which throbbed inside of you. Kylo pulled out of you before he could cum, and you expected him to jerk his cock, to cum on your stomach. Instead he slipped his arms around your thighs and tugged you so that you fell backwards and he could engulf your cunt with his mouth. Your hands entangled in his hair, tugging at his head as you rolled your hips to meet the thrusting of his tongue.

 An invisible hand of Force energy pressed on your throat, shoving you back onto the mattress before spiderwebbing, nonexistent nails threatening to break layers of skin as they explored. Despite the threat, there was little pain. Kylo Ren was more in control of his powers than you had remembered. The sensations were intensified compared to what he had been able to deliver in the past. Clawed limbs drew your hands out of his hair mere seconds before Kylo shifted, his tongue trailing along your flesh the entire time as he pushed upwards until he could kiss you. His tongue delved into your mouth and he placed one hand at your throat, pinning you more firmly. The mattress dipped under his weight and yours. You could breathe; he was careful to not crush your windpipe

 You moaned into the kiss, your eyes snapping open as he thrust himself inside of you. His eyes were open as well, watching you the entire time, the way you submitted to his will. A snap of his hips and you were panting more desperately than before as he pulled back from the kiss. Saliva connected your mouth with his. Kylo flicked his tongue along his lips, causing that trail to break. It was tinged red from the blood that you had each drawn. His kisses had tasted of you, of blood. You wound your arms around the back of his neck, drawing him nearer, which ultimately increased the amount of pressure that was on your throat. You wondered if it, too, would bruise, or if he would instruct you to use bacta to hide the evidence so as to not upset anyone else. You could, you mused, simply wear a collared shirt. A smile crept onto your lips at that thought. The way you could hide the marks that he left. The way his clothes would conceal those that you were leaving on him.

 “We’re so close to the end of this chapter.” You had to whisper in order to get the words out. Kylo Ren removed his hand from your neck as you spoke, using it to knead your breast.You trailed your hands along his back, uncrossing your arms as you did so. Running your fingertips along his collarbone, your hands joined together briefly at his throat then split away to trace his chest. You toyed with his nipples as he pinched one of yours.

 He tilted his head back, his hips never stilling, and you panted, rolling yours to meet every one of his thrusts. Kylo cupped your face. You leaned into his touch, felt the pad of his thumb pressing down on your lip. There was a request in his gaze, one that you understood. It was the same as it had been this entire time. Use me. Complete me. Make me feel something. I might be a mere machine of death. You bared your teeth, snarling as his agony became yours. His turmoil woke within you, accompanied by anger. Your hands shot towards his throat, wrapping around it. Kylo pressed into your touch, his mouth on yours in a kiss of gratitude. His hand dropped down to your neck. Neither of you fully pushing on the other’s windpipe. Merely applying enough pressure that the threat existed. That the realization that you were one another’s source of air, that you controlled the other’s ability to breathe, remained in focus.

 His hand left you simultaneous to the moment yours left him. Speaking was not a necessity. You understood one another as though you were a single being. You moved onto your hands and knees for a second time. His body enveloped yours, his hands on your hips tugging you backwards onto his cock, which stretched you inch by inch as he moved so slowly. Kylo groped your other breast that he had previously been neglecting. With his other hand, he cupped your pussy. His teeth found your shoulder. This time he did not draw blood though you knew that layers of skin had been sawed through. The Force nails ghosted over your stomach. Your cunt throbbed, your jaw dropping open in a silent moan.

 Licking where he had bitten, Kylo pressed his lips on the flesh in a kiss that made shivers run along your spine. You felt close to another orgasm. Felt the dam ready to break as his cock hit against your cervix. He angled himself differently. Grabbed your hand in his, guiding it so that you could feel the bulge from within. “Do you feel it?”

 “Yes,” you cried out, losing yourself in that moment. He fucked you through your orgasm, which was a cacophony of sensations. You felt as though you were floating. In your body and outside of it. Your walls clenching him. Your blood pulsing so loudly in your ears while sound faded. Kylo’s breathing suddenly all you could focus on as you clenched and unclenched in time with his panting.

 You vaguely felt Kylo Ren pull out of you, felt him pinning your wrists on either side of your head while you were laid out on your back. The Force hands grabbed your ankles and wrapped your legs around his waist. As you recovered, you used one hand to support your weight and the other to pull him down into a kiss as he fucked you, seeking his own release. His tongue fought yours, pushing it down into submission.

 There was wetness on your face, and you did not know who was crying. Did not care. It was the same, in the end. Pleasure and pain coursed through your body, more the former than the latter. Even the mental anguish that had been filtering through your bond lessened. Kylo nuzzled your cheek, nipped, kissed you again. You felt the heat of his cum fill your body, rocked into his thrusts as he kept moving. His hands raked down your body from your neck towards your breasts, down your sides, fingertips biting into your hips, your thighs.

 His fists met the mattress mere inches from your head. You did not flinch. Cupping his face as you had before this had started, you searched his face for any flicker of emotion that you could find. “Soon,” you promised him.

 Kylo’s lips parted, his breath washing over your face. “Yes.” That single word was what allowed you to relax underneath him in full. He was calming. The pain was not gone; that was impossible at that point. It took so much time to process death, to fully understand the loss as you were allowed to mourn the dead. It took time to realize what futures there might have been. The end of the war might have marked a reunion for him that now would never be. He pounded one fist this time, and it was not as harsh a blow as the first had been. “You’ll bruise.”

 “I know,” you said, feeling your lips twitch towards one side in amusement. Kylo nodded, his eyes half-lidded. You stared at one another, both of you breathing heavily though you were each regathering yourselves bit by bit. You stretched your legs, running your feet along the backs of his legs. One of your socks had fallen off during your activities. The other remained on, which caused an interesting contrast of sensations.

 Tilting your head to the side, you forward and kissed him again. Kylo wound one arm around your waist, holding onto you as your tongues met. The two of you were so entwined, neither wanting to pull away. If there was a break in contact, a different part of you first entangled or touched. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, your chest rising and falling at a more evened rate.

 He was less spent than you were. This in itself was not new, however the rate at which he recovered was drastically quicker than before. You observed him for other signs of how absorbing Not-Rey’s life force had changed him. Noticing that you were watching him, Kylo pressed one finger into your mouth. You sealed your lips around it, sucking until he pulled it out and popped it into his own mouth. His seed was slipping out of you, creating a sticky mess between your thighs.

 “In some ways none of this feels real.” Kylo made an exaggerated show of running his tongue along his teeth. You groaned. The bite marks that he had already left were tingling around the edges. The tips of his nails drew lines down your fingers and along your palm. You shivered. “I want to keep living. I want to win. I want to stand there with you at the end. I don’t ever want to feel incomplete again.”

 “I’m always with you, tooke.” As he spoke, his brow furrowed in what appeared to you as confusion. As though he could not comprehend how you wouldn’t know this. At the same time, you knew that he understood the very thing you feared.  It was what he refused to accept; it had been the first time he had defied death--reviving you.

 This brought you to a new train of thought. “Kylo…” A grunt of acknowledgment was all the prompting you needed to continue. “How did you revive Cardo?”

 “A combination of Sith and Jedi techniques.” You nodded in the hope that he would elaborate. There was a pregnant pause before he entertained your silent request. “There were crystals of fire that were mentioned in old Jedi texts.” You remembered the way he had healed you, nodded, and listened as he finished. “After absorbing her life force to augment my own powers, I drained the last of such an artifact’s power to bring him back from death.”

 “You poured some of her life force into him, right?” The question tumbled off your tongue subsequent to another lapse in conversation. His answer was one of affirmation. You suspected, but would not ask for confirmation, that Kylo Ren had noticed Vicrul drawing nearer and made the plan to use his blade to kill Not-Rey well before the Knight had caught onto what was expected. “Have his abilities in the Force increased?” This time Kylo admitted that he was unsure. Death could awaken one’s latent abilities. So could the use of a Force-imbued artifact. Sith techniques as well. Yet there could be no change. Only time would tell.

 Recovered more from the physical exertion of sex, you rolled out of bed and relieved yourself in the refresher before dressing in one of his shirts. You kicked off the other sock, stretched, and walked to the Naboo plants. Your eyes raked along the petals of the ryoo then lowered to the flowers upon the ground. Kneeling allowed you to scoop up the nearest flower, which you cupped against your chest while inhaling its strong aroma. It was relaxing. A scent that was utilized in many candles intended to calm an individual. That explained why Kylo Ren had brought so many to these quarters.

 Footsteps informed you that Kylo had left the bed and was drawing nearer. You closed your eyes. Felt his strong thighs on either side of you, his arms wrapping around your body and chin resting on your head. “Are you afraid to see inside my head?”

 “No.” It surprised you that this was not a lie, though the shock was fleeting. Your previous experience with the blood-soaked walls and the ash in the shower made you sad more than afraid. You reopened your eyes to see what he had to show you. Tears began to spill from your eyes as petals fluttered around you similar to how rain would. Similar to how the ashes had. The petals caressed your flesh, offered warmth. The warmth of an embrace--of a mother’s embrace. The flowers smelled like her, like Leia, you realized. That was another reason they so calmed you when you had picked up the one bloom.

 You twisted around in his arms, your nose running along his. “Kylo…” His hands were on your shoulders, steadying you as you swayed. “She loved you.”

 “I know.”

 You pressed forward, kissing him. Felt him melt against you; it was not so common that he would relax to this extent, that he would allow himself to be so vulnerable. You murmured words of praise between kisses. Said things that Leia had. Asked him to peer into your mind to the moment that Leia had worked to console you when you had been in mourning for him. After a pause, you felt the tendrils begin to slither into your mind. These were not barbed as the others had been. You were open to him, willing. In so many ways, you were one; your mind was his, and his was yours.

 “They are always a part of us,” she said. “Even before I knew that Darth Vader was my father…” There was a momentary pause in her words during which time she cupped the side of your face and tilted back your head so that the two of you were staring into one another’s eyes. “He tortured me. I don’t know all that my son did to you, but I do know that pain. Learning that I was related to him, it made things worse but it also changed nothing.

 “I couldn’t understand how Luke saw any good in him.” Your own pain, in some ways, could never equate to the losses that this woman had faced. Her entire planet. Her family. Her world. Her everything gone in an instant. She had been forced to watch as the Death Star destroyed Alderaan. Darth Vader--her biological father--had held her in place. “I empathize with Poe.” She smiled in a bittersweet way. “I know the things that Ben has done...that Kylo has done.” It was visibly painful for her to speak that name; to admit to the crimes that her son had committed. “You never want to stop hoping that they can come back.”

 Kylo frustrations, hurt, love, longing, poured through you as he observed this woman from your perspective. The simultaneous acceptance and rejection of who he was from her hit anew. As though he could understand in some ways that she worked to differentiate between Kylo and Ben because of Darth Vader. She had let that override the truth, had allowed it to prevent her from working with him. She had given way to fear.

 You trembled in her embrace. “I… When he would seem human instead of being a monster… After I realized who he was, I blamed myself sometimes. Thinking that I pushed him further into the darkness. That if I had done something different then he would have returned to you. Then I didn’t care. I wanted to kill him. I tried several times. He said… When he was lying there dying… He told me…” You choked. Actually choked on a sob and broke down into a coughing fit. Leia did not relinquish her hold on you. Her hand rubbed soothingly along your back until you regained your breath. “He said ‘You won, tooke.’”

 “There was never any winning.” You nodded at her words, at the truth they contained. She more than anyone else understood. When it came to Darth Vader, her decision to forgive him or not, her position had been the same as yours was with Kylo Ren. “You did nothing wrong.” Your yes was met with a shh.

 “You mourned me together.” He sounded utterly baffled, not unlike a lost child, at the way his mother had been conflicted. Fighting against herself when it came to Vader, when it came to him. “That time you learned I was alive...those were her words you spoke.”

 “It’s what made me start to realize that I wanted to live. That I missed you. I… I tried to ignore that, my feelings for you.” You wiped at your eyes. “Your mother might have messed up… She did mess up. She failed you in areas, and I can’t argue against that. She never stopped loving you. And because of her, I didn’t feel guilty that I loved you. Because Luke and Leia could still feel something for Vader no matter what he did...no matter how the galaxy judged them… That’s what helped me to stop caring about that. Because they aren’t me, they aren’t you, they aren’t us. They were just voices drowning out my own, telling me that my feelings and thoughts were both insignificant compared to their views. I wish she had been able to do that for you, Kylo. She should have done that for you.”

 “Another tried.” You blinked, eyelids descending then slow to rise. You searched his face, the expression on which had become guarded. “Tai.” His eyelashes fluttered. “‘Just be.’ I had a connection with him.” You did not know the full story there, and you might never know--you did hope that he would tell you more in the future. Kylo said your name, and your heart stuttered. “You were the first to keep returning to me. Not always by choice.”

 You loosely threaded your fingers in his. You had not been searching for a Ben Solo in him during your captivity as a way to change him so much as a means to escape your position. Yet even then you would return to Kylo Ren, to reality. It was him that you learned. First you had blindly hated him. Glimpsing who he was underneath the mask, you had become more complicated. You had seen endless possibilities for him, in part because of who his parents were, and yet also because of how he spoke to you. You had considered his actions. His choices. Whoever this Tai was, you imagined that he had been much the same; he had worked to understand the man himself instead of some name or fantasy.

 You lifted one hand to tuck strands of his hair behind his ear. Kylo sat there perfectly still, allowing you to do so. It reminded you a bit of when you had slipped the tooke hair clip into his hair. You smiled at the memory, though it was one of darker times. A long journey to this point. All that mattered to you was that you were here. You were with him. You did not feel so torn apart.

 “I am so proud of you.” His throat bobbed when he swallowed. “You did it. We played pretend that you would defeat Snoke, and you did. You make these things reality. You are amazing. Creating your own fate.” It was your turn to swallow. “You said that you used to have a secret name for me...that you would call me Fate since I was your alternative fate in some other life. But, Kylo, I don’t know if that’s true. I think in every life we would possibly live, we would share the same fate. I think we are one another’s fate. No matter how long it took, I would come back to the same choice… I chose myself and my path, and that always led to you. In choosing me, I choose you.”

 Kylo cupped your chin with forefinger and thumb. He tilted back your head, kissed directly over your pulse so that he could feel it on his lips. Though he did not say them aloud, you could feel the emotions, the words that went through him: yes, tooke.

 You felt as though all you had to do with him was be yourself. He knew now for certain that this was true for him as well. He was enough. He would always be enough with you. The wounds on your body that you had believed robbed you of your future were nothing. He was your future. Your present. Everything. You had come to love the flawed being he was, and he loved the flawed person that you were. Even when you clashed or argued, those were minor skirmishes. They meant nothing. Always, always, you came back together.

 And together you felt as though you could accomplish anything. That included locating and killing Supreme Leader Armitage Hux.

[onthevirgeofdestruction]

Dreaming While I Wake

Sanders Sides Foster Care AU - Roman-centric Angst & Hurt/Comfort & Abuse Recovery

Roman tries to be upbeat and hopeful despite all the shit that’s happened to him. And a lot of shit has. Luckily, his new foster home is with two literal rays of sunshine (and a sarcastic asshole).

Words: 3,998 Warnings: Bad Teachers, Scorn of Peers, Violence Against Golems and Soldiers, Weapons, Negative Self-Talk, Negative Self Image, Playful Threats Characters: Roman, Thomas, Virgil Universe: Dreaming While I Wake Genre: Vibing™ too hard

Chapter 23

chapter 1 for new readers - ffn mirror

   Roman sighed and leaned back on the bleachers. It was dodgeball day, it seemed. He wasn’t the biggest fan of being hit by something unexpectedly, so not having to participate was relieving. Roman didn’t want to do homework or read a book to pass the time, like they allowed him to, because it would make him look like a major nerd to a ton of dudes with testosterone pumping and that was just bullying central. 

   He couldn’t use his phone during school hours, though. He’d just do it anyway if the gym instructor wasn’t watching. She wasn’t a fan of the doctor’s note at all and continued shooting glances at him. As if he would mysteriously heal or something equally miraculous. They weren’t all mean glances. Mostly just annoyed. He got the same from most of the other people in his class. He’d probably also be jealous of sitting out on dodgeball, too, if he wasn’t already.

   The gym teacher seemed miffed about the fact that the physician’s note was open-ended since Roman had to be cleared for exercise by a doctor. It was the same for any broken bone, but without a cast, people had trouble believing it seemed. This wasn’t Roman’s first rodeo with broken bones or anything. She was vexed she’d have to print up packets to serve as make-up classwork. Roman wasn’t aware you learned anything in gym class other than suffering, so that was new. 

   He wished he had the packets to work on already. She wasn’t doing anything other than lying back and ignoring a bunch of teen boys pummeling each other with dodgeballs, so it’s not like she couldn’t go into her office and print them up. Maybe she was attempting to make Roman stew in frustration for not taking part. If she was, she was succeeding fantastically. Roman was jittery and pissed off and generally in a terrible mood.

   Fighting slouching in bleachers was surprisingly difficult. He just craved to lie down and take a nap, but the classmates would hate him more if he did. So Roman persevered and watched from the bleachers, catching himself slouching when the soreness in his side got worse. He positioned himself up high enough up that he was out of the danger zone of dodgeballs, but that meant the people against the wall could see him clearly. 

   He received bitter looks from people who were out and sitting on the sidelines on the gymnasium floor. He didn’t understand the ire since they were relaxing, too. Roman would personally rather take a dodgeball to the chest than a steel toe boot, but life just didn’t work out like that. He tried to elevate his feet while he watched. He wouldn’t get much of a chance to raise them throughout today, and they hurt. It was still better than staying home again. At least they were finally well enough that he could walk.

   It was Roman’s bitter luck that Nolan was in his PE class and kept shooting him glares. This period was taking him forever. Nolan seemed to get progressively more annoyed at him for whatever reason. Roman sighed and decided not to look back. He didn’t prefer to accidentally start some kind of glare war. Roman’s left foot tapped nervously as he stared at the gym ceiling, waiting for the minutes to pass.

   When he noticed himself fidgeting, he was supposed to wear the gloves, but there was no way he was ostracising himself even further by doing that. He didn’t care that he technically agreed to a compromise over it not wearing them in school. He stood out like rainbow tulip in a dead lawn with gloves and a T-shirt. They weren’t as obvious with his jacket, but his jacket was white and the brown leather just contrasted it. Roman just couldn’t find a way to make it work. He had shoved the gloves deep in his backpack instead.

   He checked the massive wall clock in the gym as he carded his fingers through his shaggy hair. Roman had a bit of time to pass until history class. He had just sort of stewed in anger for most of the period, but his brain must have finally ranted out what it wanted to say for Roman to be capable of thinking about something else. He knew better than to challenge the times his head was obsessed with something by now. It was just easier to wait it out. Just another 10ish minutes of chilling on the bleachers to go. He was so bored it hurt, like a painful pressure gripping his brain and trying to open it up.

   Roman lolled his head back to the ceiling and forced his mind to drift instead of fighting it. Something fun. Something cool. Fighting off an army atop a dragon. A spectacular sword. The dragon’s flames were acid green and melted everything instantly. Roman leaned back on his hands on the next row up of bleachers. 

   He was fighting the magically animated golems of an evil tyrant. He fired a crossbow to protect the dragon as it decimated the golems below. The great iridescent black dragon was trying to charge up a blast when Roman was nearly thrown off of it by flying machinations that expelled ice beams from their torsos. He was able to catch on to the tail and pull himself back up, deflecting ice beams with his sword. The dragon charged up its power in time thanks to Roman’s defense, and the machinations melted into puddles far below.

   The dragon shot Roman a look, and Roman understood in an instant. The mighty winged beast flew close to the earth, and Roman tumbled expertly off the dragon. Roman and his trusty sword ploughed through the golem army, swinging wildly and protecting himself with well-timed blows and using the enemies as his shields. Roman approached the castle by foot as the dragon cleared out further golems around him. The army was dwindling, and they were successful.

   Roman turned his eyes to the looming castle ahead. He had to stop this madness. Roman reached out and the dragon’s great claws swooped down and grasped Roman’s arm and lifted him from the field of decimated golem parts. The dragon flew Roman over the moat and past the raised drawbridge, but ballista prevented the dragon from going any further in. Roman was jettisoned towards the outer castle wall to get him closer to his target. He rolled as he landed on between the crenelations, skidding to a stop to stand and fight the soldiers. 

   Humans were arming the ballistae and defending the doors, and Roman couldn’t bring himself to kill, so he sheathed his blade and instead relied on his legs to do the talking. Roman leaped about and kicked soldiers off the machinery, knocking them out in a few precise hits to disable them. The guards at the door brandished blades at Roman, but he reached for his crossbow and fired a well-placed shot at each, pinning the soldiers by their clothes to give Roman just enough time to breach the doors.

   The guards inside weren’t so easy, though. Roman had to take out his trusty sword once more to defend himself. He knew the evil sorcerer’s magic compelled them to fight, and they didn’t deserve death for the mistakes of another. Roman did his best to take the higher ground and send soldiers toppling down the stairs in the tower. He hoped he hadn’t harmed them too severely, but perhaps once this was all over healers could come help mend those Roman had to battle off.

   Roman ascended the stairs into an upper corridor. Massive banners billowed in the wind that blustered through the hall. The magic was stronger here. Roman had to resist the powerful effects that caused his head to swim in the aura alone. Things would be worse in the inner chambers. His boots clicked loudly against the cold stone floors as he dashed down the hallway. This area was suspiciously empty of soldiers and the smell was strange. It felt almost electrically charged. Roman ran into a dead end. This couldn’t be the wrong way, could it?

   He examined the hall further as he turned around. The walls were adorned with massive tapestries and sconces fitted with gems. The waste of the kingdom’s resources alone was ample reason to dethrone this monster. But his use of the forbidden magics propelled Roman forward to do what had to be done before the entire kingdom fell to ruin from the sinister arts infecting the lands.

   Banners and tapestries littered this hall, but a strangely blank wall between two sconces caught Roman’s attention as he passed. Roman wasn’t practiced, but he felt what he was looking for. He reached deep within himself and forced out the raw power within. With unrefined powers, he could do nothing skilled, but he could break a barrier. The illusion shattered and a strident cracking sound shook the hallway. One minor success wasn’t enough to celebrate, though. Roman was here for one reason alone. He scaled the stairs that were obscured by the now broken barrier two at a time as he pushed deeper into the belly of the beast.

   The staircase narrowed and Roman sprinted with all of his being to escape the shrinking passage, staying ahead of the walls cinching shut behind him. This dark sorcery could try to deflect him, but Roman was quicker. He raced up the stairs and cleared into a new chamber just as it was becoming too narrow to traverse. Roman stumbled in, his bearings shaken by the sheer intensity of the tainted aura encasing the chamber. This would be his most challenging battle yet.

   He straightened his back and locked eyes with the dark sorcerer upon his despicable throne. The entire room shook with the sorcerer’s booming, sinister laugh. Roman drew his blade and stood his ground. He wouldn’t show weakness now. Now that the final battle was here, he had to stay strong. He couldn’t afford an ounce of fear as he slowly approached the villain’s throne as the ominous wind howled all around them. Then the bell rang and Roman tumbled back on his bench from the shock. Shit.

   Roman grabbed his backpack and left as fast as he could safely stand down the bleacher stairs. The students down on the wood gymnasium floor weren’t familiar, however. And even the wrong age group. Son of a bitch, did he miss lunch? Stupid ridiculously short lunch periods! He was late for class. Goddammit, he didn’t even get to defeat the evil sorcerer!

   He wasn’t surprised nobody told him or anything, but he couldn’t exactly be a speed demon on his healing feet. Roman knew if he stepped the wrong way he’d get stuck at home a few days again and he wasn’t risking it. He also didn’t need detention for running. Roman went as hastily as he could manage to his history class. 

   He’d rather be back in the castle than history, but he could never get a daydream back once he lost it. That meant that particular kingdom was doomed to fall to the taint of the forbidden magic under the rule of a tyrant. He was at least lucky he ended up daydreaming instead of sitting there and being bored for the whole period.

   Roman pushed the classroom door open as quietly as he could achieve, but a classroom’s worth of eyes landed on him as he arrived. He flinched at all the unwanted attention and headed for his seat.

   “Detention, Mr. Reinhart,” The teacher drolled as Roman slid into his desk. Son of a bitch. Roman was fated to detention either way. He had so much homework though, it wouldn’t make a difference if he started it in after-school detention or if he did it at home. Roman may as well do it today, just to have it out of the way. 

   The teacher’s voice droned on as Roman got out the things listed on the board and struggled to follow the lecture. It felt like the words went right into gibberish land when he attempted to focus on them, so Roman had to find the careful balance between focused and distracted without slipping into another daydream every class. It was annoying as hell.

   He tapped his fingers on his thigh and started doodling stars in the margins of his notes. Other than clearly jumping in the middle of a lecture, he could start to try to pinpoint things that sounded important to take notes on. People, years, locations, quick event summaries, and concepts that were generally interesting. Teachers liked to use kinds of things those on tests. Missing part of the lecture was nothing new for Roman, anyway. His notes were always a scattered mess out of context, but if he managed to label an overarching category, he could usually understand them.

   Roman was sketching a bobcat jumping between the stars when the bell finally rang again. He traded his homework for a detention slip at the teacher’s desk and left the classroom in a huff. That dragon with the awesome super hot flames would totally eat that teacher for breakfast. He wished to know more about those tapestries, too. He had lots more notes to fail to take and pages of homework to turn in, though, even if he could get a daydream back.

   If Patton didn’t help him on Sunday Roman didn’t think he could have possibly done all the homework he had gotten over the 3 days he was out. It was like the school was trying to kill students with mountains of paper. How many trees did academia kill every year, anyway? Probably a horrific number he shouldn’t look up and depress himself further with. He couldn’t stop thinking about that daydream. Those golems made such a cool noise when they died, damnit. He’d probably give up and attempt to bring the daydream back next class.

—

   Roman sighed with relief when his eyes met with the couch as he arrived at the house that afternoon. His feet were sore as shit and he wanted to put them up more than anything. Stupid fresh skin, not hardened to the brutal reality of life yet. He felt it every time the skin on his foot bent. 

   He slid his backpack under the coffee table so no one would trip over it and kicked off his shoes to lay back on the couch. Bed might be better, but couch . Sure, he seemed like he lived there lately, but right now home was wonderful. Roman buried his face under a throw pillow and sighed with relief as blood shifted out of his feet and he was no longer opposing gravity to keep a straight spine. Good posture was hard.

   “Roman?” Thomas asked, and it sounded like he came into the living room from his office. “Oh, there you are. I was wondering where you were. You didn’t answer your texts,” He said, sounding concerned. Whoops. He felt a little bad for worrying Thomas.

   “Sorry, after school detention,” Roman said plainly, flipping his hand. “Hadn’t taken my phone off silent yet,” He explained from behind the cushion.

   “Detention? For what?” Thomas asked curiously.

   “I was late to history,” Roman responded blithely as he flopped his arm loosely off the couch.

   “Because you couldn’t move quickly enough? Those heartless-” Thomas sounded surprisingly pissed. He’d seen Thomas being irate before, but this was new and a little scary, if he was honest with himself. He knew it wasn’t about him , but all angry adults made him want to run. He needed to cut Thomas off.

   “I was late because I was an idiot and spaced out waiting for gym to be over, not because I couldn’t get there on time in the stupid 8 minutes they give you,” Roman interjected quickly. Thomas settled down fast, thank god, and just looked concerned again. He was used to ‘concerned’ from Thomas. That was fine. Roman settled down again, sinking the tension from his muscles back into the couch. He was hungry and thirsty but didn’t feel like getting up. He didn’t even feel like getting up to play games. Though he had at least another hour of homework and shouldn’t play anyway, or he’d forget to do it.

   “Were you-” Thomas started and Roman had a feeling he knew where this was going.

   “I was fine. I was just daydreaming and didn’t hear the first bell go off,” Roman cut him off to explain.

   “How did you not hear ?” Thomas asked, bordering on disbelief and befuddlement.

   “Daydreaming, remember?” Roman reminded him, unsure why Thomas was confused. Had he never gotten caught up in a daydream before? It happened to Roman every few days, it seemed.

   “And nobody told you?” Thomas asked, furrowing his eyebrows. What kind of school did Thomas go to where people looked out for you? Geez.

   “I’m lucky I didn’t get pelted with a dodgeball. It’s fine. The detention is already done, and I did some homework in it,” Roman shrugged lazily. “Detention isn’t much of a punishment when you have nothing better to do. There was a stoner in there just doing zen finger crochet for the whole hour. It was amazing. I think I learned how to do it just by watching him. I’ve only ever used a hook,” Roman said, still feeling very impressed by how he didn’t stop or do literally anything else. Roman’s gesturing knocked the throw partially off his face and he didn’t bother to move it back.

   “I… suppose that’s a good way to look at it. Is there something we can get so you can have more fun at home?” Thomas proposed, sounding awkward. Roman had no idea what he could feel awkward about, though, and he certainly wasn’t giving Thomas any money-spending ideas.

   “And make detention suck worse for the next time I mess up?” Roman lilted airily and let out a single dark laugh.

   “ Roman ,” Thomas responded firmly, crossing his arms and furrowing his brows. He had a surprisingly intense gaze for a dumb joke.

   “What? It was a joke,” Roman replied dryly with a small huff.

   “I don’t appreciate that you made the assumption that you’ll inevitably mess up,” Thomas sounded upset and shook his head lightly, looking pointedly at Roman.

   “Well, it’s the one constant in my universe, so why not embrace it?” Roman sighed and flipped his hand dismissively close to the floor, feeling too lazy to move more than that.

   “ Roman ,” Thomas chided. Roman rolled his eyes that were partially skewed by the pillow.

   “Fine, whatever. I don’t need anything. I’m sorry, that was in poor taste or something,” Roman conceded. He was too tired to argue.

   “Why are you shaking? I didn’t scare you, did I?” Thomas asked quickly in a concerned tone. Roman furrowed his eyebrows and threw off the throw pillow to look at his hand.

   “Oh, huh,” Roman commented blithely, watching his hand slightly tremble. “No, you didn’t startle me. I’m okay, I’m just fu-frickin’ tired. That happens often, I don’t know why. I assume it’s my crap sleep,” Roman explained and his hand sagged back down.

   “Good catch, kid,” Thomas chuckled weakly. “I’ll make you some tea, maybe that will help?” Thomas said, not sounding sure but hopeful nonetheless.

   “You don’t need to do anything for me, like I said it just kind of… happens,” Roman shrugged and laid his arm over his eyes.

   “I’ll make myself some tea, too,” Thomas said lightly and headed to the kitchen. Roman huffed, but he wouldn’t mind some tea. He could make it himself without bothering Thomas, but if Thomas was already doing it for himself, then maybe that wasn’t a big deal and he could let it go.

   Something was unsettling about laying his arm over his eyes, so he returned it to limp noodle status and stared at the ceiling instead. He wondered how Remus was doing. He also wondered what Virgil was doing holed up in his room again. Virgil had that laptop. Maybe he did something on that all day. Being allowed to use the TV here was awesome, but Roman got the draw of hiding in your room with the door closed. The living room was open and a central part of the residence. Lying around in the living room for nearly a week made him much more comfortable here, though. Thomas and Patton were worrywarts, but they were… nice. Being out here was okay sometimes. He didn’t want to push it, or anything.

   Thomas came back out into the living room and slid a mug of tea on the side table near where Roman was laying and he sat down nearby with his mug, holding it in his hands and looking like he was sniffing it. Roman caught a whiff of the tea while he passed, and it smelled like vanilla and spices, which smelled relaxing.

   “I feel like playing something kind of silly. Do you want to join me?” Thomas looked over to Roman with a small smile.

   “Um, yeah, sure,” Roman nodded and slowly shifted himself to sit up on the couch again, putting his feet up and sitting sideways. “I’ll go lay in your office, or something, you don’t have to stay out here to watch me,” Roman offered nervously. He had fun playing with Thomas last time, and Thomas knew when to stop so Roman wouldn’t end up playing forever on accident and forget his homework.

   “No, I hit a roadblock with writing. I need to take a break before I fry my brain. We cook stuff together in this game, it’s kind of fast-paced but it should be fun,” Thomas responded brightly, getting up to grab the controllers. “The game is kind of hard with just two, so inviting Virgil might help. Will you text him?” Thomas asked, slipping out another controller from the charging station. He passed off a joycon to Roman with a smile. Roman nodded and invited Virgil to play with them.

   “Do you think he wants to?” Roman asked carefully.

   “It never hurts to ask. It’s nice to feel included even if he’s busy with something,” Thomas said, settling down on the couch again. That was a nice thought, but Roman didn’t like it when people shot him down when he invited them to things. Roman watched his phone uneasily while he waited for a response. Virgil normally texted back quickly. Virgil sent back a thumbs up and came down the stairs a moment later.

   ‘I will kick your ass,’ Virgil signed with a smug smile, backing up into the couch and climbing up to the top. Thomas tossed him a joy-con and smiled brightly.

   “Okay, one sec,” Thomas said and straightened his hair while the game loaded. “Cool. Pick your characters here. Make sure they look different enough you don’t get confused. Patton had that problem,” Thomas chuckled. Virgil picked a vampire, Roman chose a dragon, and Thomas picked a unicorn. Roman was amused they all chose supernatural avatars. Virgil stared at the loading screen in confusion for a moment where it showed the map.

   ‘Wait, co-op?’ Virgil fingerspelled and narrowed his eyes at Roman. Roman held up his hands and shrugged.

   “What’s wrong, Virgil?” Thomas asked, noticing Virgil’s glower.

   “I suppose I should have specified this wasn’t a versus game,” Roman replied, glancing between Virgil and Thomas and chewed his lip.

   “It’s fun, just give it a shot. A few levels and we can switch to a fighting game if you don’t like it,” Thomas offered. Virgil considered it for a second and nodded in agreement, turning toward the TV and looking intense. Roman liked that compromise, as well. He hadn’t played a fighting game in a long time and couldn’t wait to show Virgil he’d need a lot more than determination to beat him.

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[atamascolily]

Tyrant’s Test. Okay, we’re almost done here.

We open with Chewie on Kashyyyk having family time! I may re-read that section because I want to do a Kashyyyk thing later and there’s not that much detail in the TTT. Right now, I’m interested in Luke stuff.

. It’s impossible to work when the Current is in chaos. And it’s intensely uncomfortable to remain connected when the Current is carrying so much pain. 

This is interesting - so the Fallanassi live the way they do by necessity as much as choice - they cannot function without peace and quiet.

We start to see more of Akanah’s perspective and realize she’s manipulating Luke to keep him with her. At least Luke is aware of it?

But that threat was also nakedly manipulative, and his reflexive resentment allowed him both to see the emotional blackmail and to resist it.

It was not that he gave no credence to the threat. Akanah’s conduct on Atzerri had made clear that she was perfectly capable of striking out on her own when her interests so dictated. But he had no compromise or concession to offer her. The old, familiar demon of Duty had reentered his consciousness during the conversation with the shipwright, and he could do nothing else until he either answered to his conscience or silenced it.

There was no point in seeking a rapprochement with Akanah until Luke knew his own mind—until he knew if he could allow himself to continue the journey.

Again, DUALITY. fuck. “my way or the highway” - LITERALLY.

For the question gnawing at Luke was not whether Leia wanted his help, but whether she needed it. If his presence might mean the difference between triumph and defeat, then he would go to her—as she had come to him in his darkest moment, aboard the clone Emperor’s flagship.

Leia had pulled him back from the precipice of the dark power, and joined her power to his to defeat Palpatine. If she had not been willing to sacrifice herself and the child inside her in confronting the reborn Emperor, Luke would never have broken the grip of the dark side—and the history of the intervening years would have been written with the pen of tyranny. He could not have done it alone.

But having seen not only the great strength in her heart but also the Jedi power she could summon, Luke was all the more loath to volunteer himself as a rescuer. He knew that Leia had within her extraordinary resources of will and power—resources she had of late become reluctant to draw upon. Luke thought that he was much of the reason, with both his example and his presence creating disincentives. It was important that she find that strength again.

It seemed to Luke that Leia had neglected, even abandoned, her own training, and that her training of the children had become unbalanced, with the disciplines of warrior and weapon excised as if they were dispensable. Luke had not spoken of it with her, but from what he had seen, it was almost as though Leia hoped to delay, training the children as Jedi clerics rather than as Jedi Knights—as if the path before her, the path he had followed, promised to take her somewhere she did not want to go.

It was her choice to make. Her destiny was no more clear to him than it was to her. But whatever that destiny was, it seemed that she was fighting it rather than following it.

And it was certain she would learn nothing from an errant Knight’s well-intentioned but unnecessary rescue—if she would even allow it to happen. Knowing her streak of aristocratic, self-reliant pride, Luke was not at all confident he could count on her to ask for help, even if she needed it—not after the fight they had had the night he left Coruscant.

No, those around her, the others who loved her, would urge Luke to return to her side, no matter what the circumstances. And Leia herself would insist that he stay away, no matter what the circumstances. It was essential that Luke make his own assessment of the situation, that the decision be his alone. And it was better that Luke stay out of sight and out of reach until the decision was made.

Hey, a Dark Empire acknowledgment! And also, again, duality: either/or. Either Leia saves herself or Luke saves her. There’s no middle ground, no compromise, not alternatives. Sigh.

As always, there were hundreds of blind messages—love letters and propositions, requests for personal favors, questions from amateur and would-be Jedi, the occasional diatribe from an Imperialist stubbornly resisting the idea that his world had changed.

Luke almost never looked at any of it. The novelty value of blatant proposals had long ago faded, and the one-two punch of praise and begging had worn thin even faster—it was as uncomfortable as being surrounded by a crowd in which everyone wanted to touch him.

So let me get this straight: Luke is constantly being bombarded with e-mail requests, yet he’s unaware that women want Jedi babies? UNREAL.

The young woman looked up at him with eyes widened by surprise. Her tattooed forehead and cheeks marked her as a follower of the Duality, a popular and benign Tarrack cult founded on the twin principles of joy and service. 

Oh, wow, DUALITY AGAIN.

“My goodness,” Manes said, his steps slowing as he reached the main level and saw Luke clearly. “My goodness. This is an honor.” As an afterthought, he gathered himself for a salute. “Forgive me, sir—I don’t know your proper rank—”

“I no longer hold one,” said Luke, leaning over one of the data stations.

“Oh—I see. Then I’ll confess that I’ve never met a Jedi. Nothing unusual there, I guess—I don’t know anyone who has. Is there a proper form of address—”

“You can call me Luke.”

LOL.

The event had given both such inexplicable pleasure that he hated to take those memories away from them, but he had no choice. He had already blocked the machine records of his visit from being written to the logs. Compressing a nerve here, a blood vessel there, Luke brought on a moment of unconscious paralysis, and in that moment swept the memories from their minds.

Luke is very cavalier about mucking with peoples’ minds, I’m just going to say. Why not just mind-trick them directly?? Seems like that would be less invasive that cutting off blood vessels. 

By the way, this is how we learn Luke and Akanah Did It:

He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Have you ever had sex in hyperspace?”

This time she could not contain her bubbling laugh of bemusement. “Yes,” she said, and melted away into the night.

*shakes head*

“Where the Current touches self-awareness, there is a tiny ripple—as when you sense a presence with the Force. The metaphor is more different than the means.”

“But I can’t feel anything here—nothing more than the energy of the ecosystems on the fourth and fifth planets,” Luke said. “Nothing of consciousness—nothing of will.”

“It is not consciousness or will that matters—it is the profound essence of being, nothing more,” she said. “I can perceive the crew just as you would perceive a handful of sand I scattered on the far side of a pool. From a distance, sometimes you can see only the effect, not the cause.” She smiled. “But you must be very still to see even that, for you are also of the Current, surrounded by the ripples of your being.”

Yeah, okay, so the water metaphor is spot-on. 

“Best for everyone if they never see us at all,” he said as he charted the course.

“Done,” Akanah said, looking on from behind Luke’s flight couch.

Luke looked up at her quizzically. “It can’t be that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Eh—don’t you have to know who it is you’re trying to hide from?”

“Why?” she asked.

“So you have a focus. So you know whose thoughts you’re trying to deflect. It’s done with precision, not brute force.”

“That’s coercive,” she said. “And invasive. You reach into another mind and bind its thoughts, or place your own there.”

“Well—yes,” Luke said. “But the use of that power is constrained. The purpose must be important enough to justify the deed and the consequences.”

“It seems the Jedi are always finding reasons to justify their violence,” she said. “I wish you would try as hard to find ways to avoid it.”

“Violence? What violence?” Luke protested. “More often than not, all that’s required is to induce a moment’s inattention, or reinforce a suspicion. No harm is involved. A sworn Jedi would never—oh, make someone walk off a cliff thinking there was a bridge there.”

Akanah shook her head in earnest disagreement. “You, who’re immune to your own tricks—who are you to judge the harm done? You do this in secret, to lead a suggestible mind, or compel an opposed one. Do you think that those you’ve coerced see the morality of it the same as you do? Besides,” she sniffed, “it’s inefficient.”

“What?”

“Inefficient,” she repeated. “It requires your constant attention and involvement.”

“If you know an alternative, I’m your eager student.”

“What about the way you concealed your hermitage?”

Luke frowned. “That’s different. I created it from elemental substances to have that quality—to blend in with the coastline as though it were part of it.”

“It was a powerful bit of work,” she said. “When I saw it, I knew you had the gift of the Fallanassi. But you didn’t go far enough and apply the principle to its ultimate conclusion.”

“Which is—”

“To make it not merely resemble its surroundings, but merge with them,” Akanah said. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath. She let the breath out slowly as she lowered her chin to her chest—and then she was not there.

“I’ll be a—” Luke reached for her where she had been standing, but his hand grabbed only air. “Cute trick,” he said, taking a step toward the refresher, away from the forward deck. “Handy for breaking into libraries, escaping arranged marriages—where are you?”

“Here,” she said from behind him. He turned to find her silting sideways in the right-hand seat, wearing a small proud smile. “Did I touch your mind?”

“No,” he admitted. “Not that I could notice.”

Akanah nodded. “A long time ago, one of the Circle discovered that when she achieved a particularly profound Meditation of Immersion, she would disappear from the view of others. Much later, we learned how to take an object in with us and leave it there.”

“Where do you go when you disappear?”

“Where do you go when you dream? It’s impossible to say. What does an answer from that context mean in this one?”

“Well—is it difficult?”

She shrugged. “Once mastered, it’s no more difficult or mysterious than concealing a cup of water by pouring it in the sea.” Then she smiled. “But achieving mastery is much like trying to remove that cup of water afterward.”

“And you’ve merged this ship?”

“Yes. Some time ago, while I was in meditation.”

“Will the engines still work?”

“Did the floors of your hermitage hold you, and the roof keep out the rain?”

Luke wrinkled up his face. “So we’re completely undetectable now?”

“No,” she said. “Nothing is absolute. But we’re safe from eyes, and from the machines that are like eyes.

gotta say, Luke totally deserves being dragged so hard here, given his behavior in these books.

“If I have to pick between your being an illusion and your being real, Akanah, I think I have reason enough to know that you’re real.”

OH COME ON WHY THIS COYNESS ABOUT THE SEX, LUKE??? Are you never even going to talk about it directly???

Oh, and Luke deduces that the Fallnassi are around him, and he can’t see them, which is clever. Not all of them are human - interesting. Luke convinces them to abandon their vows and help the NR against the Yevetha.

Leia goes to see Mon Mothma, which is kinda nice. They watch birds and it’s nice for Mon to be a mentor figure to Leia.

Leia turned and looked back at her mentor. “But I still don’t know how to choose between the other two.”

“I think you do,” said Mon Mothma. “What you don’t know is how to live with the choice. And there I can be of no help to you. That secret escaped you when the clarity left you.”

“When did that happen?” Leia asked, returning to sit on the edge of the stool at Mon Mothma’s feet. “I didn’t see it go—did you? Never before in my life have I struggled with decisions, or with accepting their consequences. It’s been so strange, watching myself from the inside, wondering why this woman was speaking for me.”

“Your clarity came from your certainty that our cause was just and our purpose worthy,” Mon Mothma said. “But there is little certainty of that kind to be had in a place like the Senate, in a city like Imperial City. Certainty is eaten away by the thousand and one compromises that are the currency of democracy. Causes fall victim to the building of consensus. Accountability becomes so diffused that it vanishes, and agreement becomes so rare that it startles.”

OH NO, there’s the duality again. Luke and Leia are mirrors of each other - see Luke’s ideas about isolation vs. civilization earlier. Sigh.

[kittenfemme27]

Bastion: What it means to truly move on.

“Someday, your bird is gonna fly.”

Bastion is the first game released by what is now the critically acclaimed Supergiant Games, makers of other games like Transistor, Pyre, and most recently Hades. But back in 2011 they were a nobody. 7 developers from various backgrounds within the industry came together to make games that could focus on storytelling first and foremost more than any of their previous studios would allow. Bastion was the result of that. Starting out from the idea of a top down isometric RPG, Supergiant realized that they wanted to portray a world that was fractured and broken, and wanted to show the vast and empty sky as a contrast to that destruction, but realized the camera angle wouldn’t allow this. So they came up with the idea that the ground would come up in front of the player as they walked forward, allowing the empty sky to show beneath them since the groundwork would not originally be laid until the player walked towards it. To explain this choice and why the world reacted this way, a destructive event known as “The Calamity” was created in the game's story. Thus, Bastion found its ethos.

Bastion’s a masterpiece. Plain and simple. It's been ported to nearly everything under the sun for a reason, being playable on literally 3 different console generations as well as every OS a PC can run, but coming back to play this game for the first time within the current political and geological climate that we find ourselves within as time goes on only makes it more and more apparent how much the story has to say. Even if you could somehow ignore it’s absolutely incredible music, insanely varied and addictive and yet delightfully simple gameplay, jaw dropping art direction and set pieces, Bastion’s storytelling is at its core and the story it has to tell is one that I think a lot of people didn’t fully appreciate back in 2011. From what I could find online, most people either ignored it in favor of the gameplay, or let the meaning of it glaze over them. And that's really, deeply a shame. Because Bastion is one of the best games I have ever played. And I’d like to talk about why.

Gameplay:

“Kid just rages for a while...”

I want to start first and foremost by talking about the gameplay and how you engage with the world. Combat in Bastion is simple and not exactly groundbreaking. An isometric hack ‘n’ slash with 2 weapon slots and a single ability, with a shield that has a parry mechanic and a dodge roll with fairly lenient invulnerability frames. Player movement is very, very slow which encourages you to very quickly become proficient in dodging and blocking. It’s fun, for sure, if just a little bit easy. But it’s nothing to write home about at first. As you play, though, you’ll begin to uncover Bastion's hidden depth and variety within its combat. A lot of that depth comes from the sheer number of Weapons, Upgrades, Passives, and Skills you can equip in any combination. 

You are given 11 weapons, each of which can be upgraded with collectibles found within the levels for a total of 5 times per weapon, and these upgrades form a loose “trees” of upgrades that you can switch between at will. You can make the Spear better at critical hits and critical damage and faster thrusts, or make it better at throwing with more spears per throw, for example. Every single weapon has a 2 distinctive upgrade “Trees” in this way that clearly make it better at one specific aspect of the weapon, but you are free to mix and match these upgrades as you see fit. Maybe you want the Spear to have a high critical hit rate, but also throw 2 spears per throw, you can do that. It’s also worth mentioning that there are no restrictions placed upon you on what type of weapons you want to take. You can take two melee weapons, or two ranged weapons, whatever combination you desire is up to you. The narrator even has a line for literally every combination you can have that you’ll hear upon exiting the armory. Some compare you to legends of yore from the game worlds past, others point out just how plain silly it is for the Kid to carry both a mortar launcher and a rocket launcher.

Each weapon also comes with two skills that you can use during gameplay, ranging from protective skills like one that makes you block all attacks for a few seconds, to damage based skills such as the Bow’s skill that fires a ricocheting arrow between enemies. Even then, there are other Skills that are tied to no weapons at all which brings the total of skills in the game to 30.

In addition, there’s the Tonic system in which each level up confers a slot that you can equip a drink from the bar, for a total of 10 at max level. These function as passives applied to your character that allow even further customization. Some are basic things you’d expect, such as overall more health, or more restoration or ability potions, a flat 15% damage resistance, and so on. A number of these however offer a very very strong benefit in exchange for a side effect. Werewhiskey, for example, gives you a 100% crit rate but only below 35% health. Doomshine offers a permanent 10% crit but takes away 10% of your health permanently. Or Leechade, which allows you to gain health from striking enemies, but makes your health potions only 1/3rd as effective. These can all be stacked upon each other in any order or combination. You choose and be changed at any point between missions..

All of these systems together enhance the very simple hack ‘n’ slash combat to be something with infinitely more depth than presented to you at first glance, and something that you can experiment with as much as you want, since no choice is permanent. Part of the way it encourages you to experiment are the Weapon Challenge missions that crop up each time you obtain a new weapon. They ask you to complete some sort of challenge related to that weapon with no Skills, no other weapons, and in some of them not even the ability to dodge or block. Besting these will net you 1 of 3 prizes, depending on how well you did, With the first two prizes being upgrade materials and the last being a Skill for the weapon the challenge is based on.

Beating Bastion unlocks a “Score-Attack” version of New Game+ that keeps a running overall score during the whole game and during stage specific score for each mission, with a multiplier and a timer to keep that multiplier up. This effectively turns the game into a leaderboard chasing isometric arcade game. Every enemy adds 1 to the multiplier, and resets the timer, so it's up to you to run through each mission as fast as possible and challenge yourself to see what kind of score you can get, and since it lets you replay any mission you want, you can always find ways to get a higher and higher score. One of my playthroughs of this game was on the PS Vita and even since beating it, I've found myself trying to one-up my own score while i’m just sitting around since each mission only takes about 10-20 minutes. The most challenging content in the game is a set of 4 different repeatable combat arena’s with 20 waves of some of the toughest enemies in the game. You can make this even harder by invoking each God within the games Pantheon and raising the difficulty of every enemy you encounter. Doing this raises how many points you get per kill, and in these combat arena’s I’ve regularly topped a million points in just a single stage from precise gameplay.

I think that’s what I find amazing about Bastion’s combat is that despite 3 playthroughs, I never once found myself bored or annoyed by any of it. All 3 of my playthroughs had me switching up Weapons, Upgrades, Skills, and Tonics between every mission just to experiment and see what crazy builds I could make. Every challenge was always a delight and a real test of skill, every mission a romp where I got to find a new weapon and play with it each time. Often, I would die, but that was fine! Losing in Bastion is fun. It’s part of the experience, because you can always go back and change your build to whatever you desire to try again. In a way, it’s fitting for the entire theme of the game. It’s the End of the world, and there are no more rules. Do whatever you’ve gotta do. Might as well have fun with it, while you do. 

Art & Sound:

“I suppose all that's left... is to try'n remember this moment.”

I think the other reason that I didn’t get bored on any of my 3 playthroughs of Bastion was the absolutely breathtaking art and music the game features. The soundtrack, composed by Darren Korb, clocks in only at an hour and while that does sometimes mean that there are repeats of songs, I'd be lying if I told you there was a single song on that score that I didn’t absolutely love. Or that I thought was out of place during any section of the game. Each and every song is its own radically different soundscape that, in songs like “Brynn the Breaker”, invokes a feeling of complete and utter destruction around you and a sense of leaning into that destruction. It’s fitting that the first time this song plays, you are almost assuredly going to hear the line “Kid just rages for awhile...” as you wreck each and every enemy and object around you after waking up on a floating rock in the sky.  Meanwhile, in other songs such as “Build that Wall”, it's clear that Supergiant was acutely aware of the impact their music could have on a scene. In Caelondia, the games world, “Build that Wall” is a jingoistic anthem meant to inspire the Cael by noting the danger they face from the outside world and from the Ura, a people who live to the east, and implores them to build walls to keep everyone else but keep themselves safe. But the first time you hear that song, you’ll be rolling through the dilapidated ruins of Prosper Bluff, a place overrun by birds ready to rip you apart and barely hanging together by literal boards between each floating island, and not a wall in sight. Guided only by the simultaneously soothing and haunting voice of an Ura girl singing the theme of the people who hate her. In that moment, it sounds much more sorrow and sad than any anthem for a nation ever could.

Darren Korb has stated that the point of Bastions music was meant to invoke a sense of the “American Frontier”, of exploring new and uncharted land, but it’s interwoven with melodic and slow moments of tragedy and despair, featuring lots of slow acoustic guitar and lots of slow vocals when there are any at all. I really cannot praise enough this choice of frontier-ism interwoven into the music itself, as it sells the entire theme of the game perfectly.

The art of the game is just as fantastic, too. Supergiant set out to make sure you could see the sky in a top down game, which sounds a little absurd and like a nearly impossible feat, and yet they succeeded with such aplomb it almost seems like it was easy. Below each stage is a blurred barrage of trees, nature, clouds, sky, sometimes ruins within those things, it reminds you constantly that the world has ended and nature has reclaimed it. Progressing further and further down the set of missions and further away from the Bastion and Caelondia sees you going more and more into what's left of those wilds and away from the ruins of civilization, before reaching the icy peaks in the east of the Ura. It creates this feeling of loss and tragedy at what's lost, a sense of exploration into this new and unknown world, before finally getting to it's cold center as you get closer to the truth of the Calamity.

In general, the art style of Bastion feels like a living breathing oil painting. Features on people are exaggerated with small bodies, yet large heads and eyes and hands or feet. Making them feel like something out of a children's book. Every single thing in the game is full of color and life, down to the animals and the foliage, with the only notable exceptions being the ruins of buildings that are oppressive and gray, and the final cold reaches of the Ura’s leftover ruins. Because of the oil painting aesthetic, the narration, even the surreality of the world coming up before you, Bastion feels a lot more like playing a fairy tale than anything else I've ever played, even things that have tried to emulate that same effect. Bastion reminds us that the presentation of a game, in both its art and its music, tell just as much about the story and the world of a game as the actual story itself does.

Story: (Spoiler Warning)

“Now here’s a kid who’s whole world got twisted, leaving him stranded on a rock in the sky.”

Bastion is a game about a lot of things, but at its heart, it’s a game about Tragedy. A tragedy you can’t prevent no matter what you do, because it has already happened. Setpieces in the game constantly remind you of this, like going through the Hanging Gardens, a place where people used to gather and finding nothing but ashen corpses. Rucks, Bastion’s narrator, will even tell you the names of these people. I remember playing this game in 2011 and being upset at this. I wanted to know about Maude the Tutor, I wanted to hear the life of Percy the Snitch, but I couldn’t. That was the tragedy. It didn’t register with me at the time, but that was the point. I was supposed to be upset I couldn’t know these people, that they died in a tragedy I couldn’t prevent. 

The core story of Bastion revolves around a war that took place some 50 odd years ago. Caelondia and her people, versus the Ura. In the modern day, before the calamity, the war was over. There was an Ura named Zulf who was trying to broker peace, even. But the Caelondian’s military-science division, the “Mancers” had a secret weapon. One they intended to use to get rid of the Ura for good. It would cause a genocide of the very land the Ura lived in and cause it to literally fall into nothing, ripping apart the physical earth where it stood before. Worse yet, this weapon was being created by an Ura inventor that lived within Caelondia named Venn under threat to his daughter, Zia. Venn couldn’t stand to aid the destruction of his people and sabotaged the weapon that ushers in the Calamity with vengeance in his heart, so that it would backfire and take Caelondia down with it. Imagine Venns shock, then, when the mancers asked him to pull the trigger.

Turns out an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. Just like that, the Calamity has already happened. The Ura who were discriminated against in every part of Cael society and the racism and cycle of vengeance and violence within the Caels and the Ura reached a boiling point that caused the literal end of the world.. And that’s where you wake up. In a world already torn apart and crumbling before you. On a rock in the sky.

Tragedy permeates everything about the game. In the Hanging Gardens, you find Zulf as he’s about to kill himself after watching his Cael wife crumble to ash right before his eyes. When you meet the second survivor, an Ura singer who just so happens to be Zia, Venns daughter. She’s mournfully singing the tune of Caelondia that was the anthem used to inspire the Caels to oppress her own people, and her sweet voice sounds like the dying breath of an entire nation. Bastion makes it very clear that these people's lives as they knew them are over. But then Bastion asks you a simple question: You have to keep going, so what are you going to do with that world?

Before you get to make that choice, though, you’re asked to decide the fate of a man who hurts you. Zulf at one point reads the journal of Venn that he obtains from Zia and learns everything about the Calamity. He learns about the Mancers plan to genocide his people. He learns about Venns sabotage. Zulf spent his entire life advocating for peace between the two peoples, and this is what he’s met with. Unable to stand it, he attempts to destroy the Bastion and flees after injuring Rucks. As you chase him, he lures you far from the Bastion and sends the signal to an entire army of Ura survivors to attack the Bastion, even persuading Zia to come with him to try and convince her to abandon the Bastion. In the end, though. You chase him all the way to the heart of the Ura nation and as retaliation for bringing someone so powerful who kills so many Ura, the Ura forces attack Zulf and leave him for dead. You come across his body and are given a choice to either leave him and carry on, or take him with you and abandon your weapon. You’re asked right then and there, can you forgive someone who hurt you and your chance at fixing the world and break the cycle of violence? Or will you press on, like Venn, with vengeance in heart. If you choose to save Zulf, you walk forward with zulf on your shoulder through multiple Ura archers shooting you nearly to death. It’s only once they realize that you’re trying to save Zulf do they stop trying to attack you. This moment of compassion, this breaking of the cycle, inspires the Ura to let you pass. If you choose not to save him, you must battle an entire army, which isn’t even hard for you at that point. It’s a bloodbath. You, a Cael kid from nowhere, end the last of the Ura outside of Zia who knows so little of her culture that she can’t even read the journal her father left over. You succeed where the Mancers failed. The cycle of violence remains unbroken within you and within your heart.

You’re given two options upon returning to the Bastion at the end. You can use the power of the Bastion to reset the world to where it was before the Calamity. You’ll lose all your memories, but everyone and everything that died will be okay and alive again. There’s a risk, though. Rucks has no way of knowing if this plan will work. If it will prevent the Calamity in the end. “Problem with a machine that sets things back to a bygone time,”  he says, “Is that you can’t test it.”

Your other option is Zia’s choice, though both her and Rucks support whatever decision you make, they know it’s not an easy choice. Her plan is to turn the Bastion into a floating island ship that can travel anywhere. To forge a new world and look for survivors on other floating islands and carry on in this destroyed world and find hope within that tragedy. Make something new, and beautiful, from the ashes of something dead. Maybe that’s not possible, she thinks, but it’s better than recreating a world with institutional violence, with cycles of hate and vengeance, a world where something like the Calamity could happen in the first place.

Supergiant knew what most people would pick, though. Resetting seems like the only real choice, at first. Maybe the Calamity will happen again, maybe it won’t, but you can’t just let all those people die. The whole game has been building up to fixing the Calamity. Rucks, old and clinging to the past, is sure that resetting it will work and that things will be okay again. He’s a bit like a father figure to you, too. He’s narrated every action you took, made sure you were never truly alone in this ruinous world. So of course you trust him. An overwhelming amount of people chose to reset the world the first time they play. I did, too. I knew that maybe the Calamity would happen again, but I couldn’t just let everyone die. Maybe things would be different, I thought. Maybe this time people won’t let something like a genocide happen again. Maybe Venn won’t pull the trigger. I didn’t know, but it was better than letting everyone die, right? It had to be. I had to hope that I made the right decision. So with trepidation in my heart. I chose to reset everything.

Rucks comforts you when you choose to reset that “No matter what happens next... you done good.” Credits roll. You see pictures of the lives of each character in the reset Caelondia. The lonesome Kid continues his work as a mason on the wall built to keep the Ura out, where he isolated himself after losing everyone in his life. The only person to ever sign up for 2 tours on the Wall. Rucks continues his work on the Bastion, refining it for the future, meaning that there’s still a need for a safeguard like it in the first place. Zia plays a concert on her harp with a mournful look on her face, she found comfort in music but that comfort was equally as isolating and lonely, what with her being an Ura girl in Caelondia. Zulf gets married to his fiancee, blissfully unaware of the impending genocide on his people while he fruitlessly brokers peace. Upon seeing these credits, these images of the lives of these characters, I knew I made a mistake. History is going to repeat itself. Sure they were alive, and so was everyone else, but the cycle of violence remains unbroken and eventually, even if the Calamity that befell the world the first time doesn’t happen again, another will. Rucks final words in this ending are a simple forlorn goodbye. “So long kid... Maybe I'll see you in the next one. Caelondia... We’re coming home.”

Choosing this ending left me feeling anxious at first, and then hollow and empty. I didn’t save anyone, I just clung to the past. I expected things to be different in a world where something like the Calamity could happen in the first place. I knew, then, that for there to be any hope at all I had to move on from the old world. I had to do right by Rucks, by Zia, even by Zulf. They were my friends. They deserved better, they deserved more. They deserved a world without the conflict and violence that Caelondia brings. I understood even more clearly what I had done when, upon starting a new game, Rucks final words echoed over the loading screen. As far as I could tell, the Calamity had happened again. Rucks even makes comments of feeling a sort of deja-vu while retelling the story and is much less confident resetting will work the second go around, for a reason he just can’t quite explain.

Bastion is a story about tragedy, about generational trauma left over from a war, about the cycle of violence and all that it perpetuates. It’s a story about waking up in a world that has already crumbled and fallen apart through no fault of your own and being told there is nothing you can do about that destruction. And there isn’t. Climate change is a bigger problem now in 2020 than it ever was in 2011. People are going to die, it’s just an awful fact at this point. Those in charge continue to ignore that fact and these issues while also continuing to stoke the fires and flames of the impoverished and destitute more and more every day, bleeding them dry for any pennies they might have. 

But that’s not all Bastion has to say. It’s not fair for the next generation just like it wasn’t fair for the Kid, to wake up in a world already destroyed, and yet still, people like the Kid and Zia found hope. Within Bastion, you can save Zulf and end the cycle of violence, you can choose Zia’s option and set out on a world that is better for everyone in the end, as ruined as it is. Even in the end of the world and everything you knew, there is hope. Bastion doesn’t just ask, it begs on hands and knees for the next generation to take up this dying world and make it better. Bastion, and Supergiant, believes in the next generation. that it's possible to move on from the past and make something better, to seize control and make a better world while purposefully never forgetting the cycles of violence that led us to the end of the world in the first place. Our great Calamity is already unfolding before us and there isn’t anything we can do to stop it, only delay it. Bastion tells us that it's okay, that we can make something beautiful, and new, and better from those ashes. 

In the scene for the Evacuation ending, Rucks tells us that he’s not sure how to live in a world like this, but he’s willing to learn. And excitedly offers to help teach you how to fly the Bastion through the skies. The very first image you see during the credits then, is the Kid finally collapsing of exhaustion and resting while Rucks tucks him in. The next is Zia looking forward on the deck of the Bastion, a smile on her face and hope in her heart. You get to see Rucks later teaching the Kid how to fly the Bastion, finally giving the Kid the family that he so desperately needed, and finally you see Zulf. He’s got a frown on his face, he’s still lost everything in the Calamity after all. More than anyone. But he’s chopping food for everyone else still, helping out where he can. I couldn’t help but think upon seeing his expression that he might hate me for the rest of my life, and that was alright. I’d always just be happy he was alive. Seeing the smiling faces of everyone in the Evacuation made something very clear to me. In the Old World, Zia was an outcast, Zulf was a fool, Rucks was nostalgic, and the Kid was alone. In the Calamity, they found friendship, they found happiness, they found love and family in each other, they found adventure and they found hope for the future. Zia’s final words to the Kid echoed in my head:

"Any moment I'd want to live again... happened after the Calamity. Not before."

And I was at peace. I knew I had done the right thing I had chosen to move on, accepting the world for what it was and not looking for miracle solutions to fix it or change it, but to forge on ahead with what I had and make something better. 

Bastion’s story is not directly told to you, especially after the ending. There is no epilogue that tells you exactly what happened, just a few lines of dialogue that you can make of what you will and some pictures of the lives after your choice. it’s never explicitly stated that the Calamity happens again if you choose to reset things. It’s meaning is in between the lines that Rucks has to say. It’s In the subtext. It's in the art, it's in the environment, like the tragedy of finding nothing but ashen corpses around a lone peace talker right before he’s about to jump to his death. It’s in the music, like the haunting melody of an outcast’s voice singing the song of her oppressors while never realizing how much the very city she was raised in tried to exterminate her. But more than anything it's in the feeling you get while you play. Bastion’s story plays out in your heart as much as it plays out in your mind and on the screen in-front of you. What you feel, what you make of it, that’s just as important to the meaning of the story as what you’re hearing and seeing. Obviously this can be said of all stories, but Bastion is maybe the one that’s resonated most in my heart and in my soul more so than any other story. It offers no simple answers, no painless choices, and no easy ways out. Move on, or cling to the past, those are your only two options and Bastion forces you to make a choice.

In the end, I chose a new world. A better world. A world with my friends that would never let the cycles of violence and the generational trauma that caused the Calamity to happen again. Sure, resetting technically brings everyone back to life, but it wasn’t until I chose to move on and move forward that I felt I could even say in my heart that I’d saved anyone at all. 

Conclusion: 

“I dig my hole, you build a wall.”

“Build that wall, and build it strong, Cause we’ll be there before too long.”

Bastion is, and I'm not saying this lightly, a perfect game. The gameplay loop and combat is phenomenal and addicting, the music and art and aesthetics are so top notch you could honestly create an entire art style out of them all on their own, the storytelling is amazing and has so much to say that I cannot believe something this important was just thrown out by an indie studio nobody had ever heard of while it was only 7 people strong, and how many people slept on it or completely missed the point of the tragedy of Caelondia and the Ura. 

This game will live in my heart for a very, very long time and its music and messages it conveyed will stick with me even longer. My only regret with Bastion is that I’ll never get to experience it for the first time again. But, even with the spoilers here, you can. Play it, Kid. You won’t regret it.

“We can't go back no more. But I suppose we could go... wherever we please.”

[soundtrack-scribe]

Betrothed

Summary: Lady Keira finds herself betrothed to Lord Ashton.

A/N: Last part of my Game of Thrones AU. Be sure to read parts 1 and 2!

Content: Medieval stuffs.

Word Count: 2.3k

And away, and away we go!

__

Part 3

“My lady!” Ashton’s squire burst into the dining hall, breathless. Ashton had been knighted the evening after their arrival at Riverton in preparation for the wedding and subsequent acquisition of title as Lord and Lady of House Irwin, and as such had been given a squire.

“Yes, Bryen?” Keira asked, smiling softly at him. She had spent her first week studying the people closest to her and Ashton, and that meant Bryen Hawthorne. He was a young lad of barely fifteen, but the boy was more than eager to prove his value to his lord by doing every task at a literal run. She’d grown accustomed to his smiling face and the way shocks of his black hair would flop about when he nodded too fast at a request before dashing off with a quick “Right away, my lord.”

“Lord. Ashton,” he panted as he caught his breath, “is requesting your presence. He’s down in the training yard.”

Keira pushed back her chair, rising to her feet. “The training yard?” she wondered aloud.

“Said something about a surprise, my lady. And that I should send for you at once.”

The lady chuckled. “That man and his surprises.”

~~~

She followed Bryen out to the training yard where Ashton was conversing with three other men she had come to learn were set to become his small council. “M-my lord,” Bryen stammered, both announcing his arrival with Keira and interrupting the conversation at hand.

Ashton’s head snapped to attention, the markings of a scowl ready to lecture his squire for not waiting for a break in the conversation. The scowl however, turned quickly into a grin as he took notice of Keira. “Ah, thank you, Bryen. Keira, you remember Lords Calum, Luke, and Michael, yes?”

“My lords,” she curtsied in greeting.

“My lady,” they chorused, bowing back.

“Bryen spoke of a surprise?” she asked Ashton.

“Yes. Michael, if you would.”

Michael, set to become Ashton’s lead general, turned towards the table that was usually home to an assortment of dull practice weapons, but today housed a single shortsword and two matching daggers. The green-eyed blonde picked up the shortsword and offered it to her.

Keira gasped as the weight dropped in her hand, expecting it to clatter on the dusty ground. Instead, she found the blade to be light and balanced, like it was crafted just for her hand. The pieces finally clicked together as she recalled Ashton’s mention of teaching her how to fight, and his hushed conversations with the blacksmith and master-at-arms. “It’s not too heavy is it? I had the daggers made in case it was. Or we could try another weapon if you find none of this suits you. I just remember you admiring my own sword and dagger that I thought you might like some of your own.” The words tumbled from Ashton’s mouth as his cheeks flushed and his friends held back their laughter at his apparent embarrassment.

She tried her best to move her arms the way she had seen Ashton do so when he trained, causing all four men to jump back and out of her way as the blade sliced through the air.

“Oi!” Calum exclaimed, looking over at Ashton to see if he would step in before his friends got hacked to bits by accident.

“It’s dull, right mate?” Luke asked, his blue eyes sharp as they focused on the sword’s wild movements.

“Stance and technique needs work,” Michael critiqued.

“Careful not to nick anybody. I had it sharpened this morning,” Ashton warned her.

Calum, Luke, and Michael jumped further away. “You gave an inexperienced swordsman a sharp blade?!” they thundered.

Ashton howled with laughter as Keira continued to test the weight, liking the feel of it more and more with each pass. “How’s it feel?” he asked, while his friends continued to glare at him and question his sanity.

“I expected it to be heavier,” she answered. 

“A good sword matches the strength of the one weilding it. Too heavy and you won’t be able to use it. Too light and it’ll fly from your hand, leaving you unarmed,” Michael told her.

“Precisely,” Ashton nodded at Michael’s words. “Focus, Keira. You want it to feel like an extension of your arm.”

She closed her eyes and made a few more small passes, really paying attention to the weight of it as it moved with her. “It feels…” she started, pausing to find the right way to phrase herself. “Like I’m passing my hand through water. No resistance.”

Ashton was smiling at her when she opened her eyes again. “Perfect. That’s exactly what I was hoping for. Ready for your first lesson?”

~~~

“Sideface!” Michael directed from beside Keira. “You make yourself a much smaller target that way and your opponent has to work that much harder. As the less skilled fighter, your advantage is in the long game. Tire them out.”

She shifted her feet and lunged at Ashton. He effortlessly blocked her attack, knocking the weapon from her hands. He had been practicing with her for the better part of three weeks now, with Michael coaching her from the side. Being her practice partner had three benefits for Keira. One: no one dared question what the lord was doing parrying with his lady. Two: while he trusted Michael to coach and direct Keira, he only trusted himself to partner up with her, which meant she she got to spend a lot of uninterrupted time with Ashton. Which lead to three: she had all the time in the world to admire the way he held the practice shield and blunt practice sword, while imaging how handsome he looked in his full set of armor. “Also focus on keeping your face blank. You twist your mouth at the edges and your eyebrows furrow. I know your attack before you even move,” Ashton chided with a playful smile.

Keira felt her chest heave with her breaths as she forced her face to relax. Her eyes darted to where her sword lay in the dust and back at Ashton who followed her movements. She knew he would allow her to reach for the sword and then go in for an attack with another quip about not letting her guard down. Another steady breath and she remembered the daggers at her side. She fought back the grin, and with her eyes locked on Ashton, she reached for the sword. He moved with her and the shield dropped ever so slightly in preparation for her sword. In a blink, she changed her course, reaching for her daggers, placing one up against his ribcage and the other pressing into the base of his throat. Ashton dropped his shield and sword, raising his hands in surrender as he backed away. “Yield,” he told her, smiling proudly while Michael laughed his approval, “Good one, my lady.”

“Now if only I could find my own handsome lord to teach me to fight like that,” a dreamy sigh spoke and Keira whirled around to find Lilliyan Malver resting her arms along the fenced yard, admiring Calum as he practiced with Luke a few paces away.

“Lilliyan!” Keira rushed over to wrap her friend in a hug. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!”

The other lady laughed as she returned the embrace. “Well, I couldn’t very well miss your wedding now, could I? Although, you could have warned me that you had such a handsome council.”

“My lords, might I introduce you all to Lady Lilliyan of House Malver,” Keira began and Calum and Luke stopped their battle to come join the ladies along with Ashton and Michael. “These are Lords Calum, Luke, and Michael. And you’ve already met Lord Ashton.”

“My lady,” the men bowed and Lilliyan curtsied in kind.

“I trust you had a pleasant journey?” Ashton asked.

“Yes, the view was wonderful riding up. Although not nearly as good as the view inside your walls, Lord Ashton,” Lilliyan replied, her eyes still fixed on Calum. “Keira tells me you’re on the small council?”

“Lady Keira would be correct,” Calum nodded.

“Yes, I remember now,” Lilliyan smiled flirtatiously. “The married off lead general, Michael Clifford. The master of coin, and betrothed, Luke Hemmings. And Lord Ashton’s right hand man, Calum Hood, who still has yet to find a lady of his own. Pity… Say, Keira, would you happen to know of any eligible ladies who might be suited for such a handsome bachelor such as Lord Calum?”

Keira smiled brightly, playing along with her friend’s game. “Why yes. Matter of fact, word has it that Lord Malver is looking for a match for his eldest daughter.”

“Well it might be in Calum’s best interest if he were to send Father a raven, expressing his interest. Do you think he would teach me to fight like your lord does?”

“Oi!” Calum scoffed at Ashton. “Training all the ladyfolk now, are we?”

“Afraid you’ll get bested?” Luke teased.

“I’m sure Michael has much more pressing duties to attend to,” Calum deflected.

“She’s quite good with a bow,” Keira boasted.

“I’d pay my weight in gold to see Calum get bested by a bow,” Michael marveled at the thought.

“You’d be wise to consider it, Calum,” Ashton told the man. “It’s a relief on the mind to know that your lady is always in capable hands- her own. Plus, who better to learn from than by a skilled archer like yourself?”

“My lord, you flatter me,” Calum said with biting sarcasm and a roll of his eyes. “Alright, someone fetch Lady Lilliyan a bow.”

“And perhaps your writing material as well?” Keira pressed.

“Yes, yes. That too.”

~~~

“You look beautiful, Keira,” Ashton murmured low for only Keira to hear as he wrapped the cloak around her shoulders.

She didn’t have time to respond as the septon continued with the ceremony, so she merely smiled, hoping that Ashton understood the thought she wasn’t speaking. Which was that he too, looked as handsome as ever in his long sleeved, forest green overcoat that highlighted the green flecks in his eyes, and was fastened shut with golden clasps that glistened in the afternoon light.

“Look upon each other and say the words.”

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” they spoke in unison. “I am yours, and you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days.”

“With this kiss,” Ashton continued, “I pledge my love.” His lips were soft as they pressed against hers, and while the kiss was brief, she felt the power behind it, like he was willing her to believe that they could be more than an arrangement.

~~~

Keira was watching the crowd enjoy the feast, particularly amused by Calum and Lillyan’s growing affections. “Think they’re all distracted enough that we might sneak away?” Ashton’s voice was low in her ear.

“What about the bedding ceremony?” she asked, feeling a knot in her stomach tighten at the very concept. While she certainly planned to consummate her marriage to her new husband, the idea of it being public knowledge was unsettling.

Ashton waved a hand dismissively. “There will be no ceremony. Our chambers are adjoined should you ever wish to spend your night elsewhere, as it were.”

“Mmm, so that’s where that door leads,” she teased. She had already known about this fact, having explored every inch of her room in the early morning after her arrival, and reveling in the fact that one door had opened to reveal another bedchamber, with Ashton sleeping soundly.

“Something tells me you already knew that though,” he teased back, having caught her on more than one occasion admiring him from the doorway when she thought him to be asleep.

“Perhaps I’ll find my way there.”

“Perhaps I’ll be waiting when you do.”

“And where do you propose we sneak off to now?”

“I hear the beach is lovely this time of day.”

~~~

“I know I mentioned it already, but you really do look beautiful,” he confessed as the water rushed over their bare feet, soaking the edges of their clothes.

“And you look quite handsome yourself, Ashton. More so than usual,” she returned the compliment.

“Ah, so you do think me to be handsome.”

“Among other things.”

Hmm? How do you mean?”

“You mentioned once that you don’t wish for this to be a matter of business. That it hardly seemed fair that our marriage should be viewed as another duty to attend to.”

“Yes. I believe I also mentioned that I only wish for you to be content here, and that I enjoy your company. But what does that have to do with how you think of me?”

“It has everything to do with how I think of you. It is one thing to say you wish for me to be content. It is another to consistently go out of your way to ensure it. And from showing me this beach to probably defying everyone close to you in order to both craft me my own set of weapons and then teach me how to use them… well it shows me that you're a man of your word. A quality I greatly admire.”

“A man is only as good as his word.”

“That may be so. The point remains however, that I long had little interest in being a lady because I envied those who got to marry for love.”

“And has your interest since changed?”

“Very much so. See, I found myself betrothed to a lord with much to offer in terms of prestige and title. And while he easily could have been a stubborn lord who viewed his lady as a mere plaything meant to please him, that wasn’t the what happened. In addition to being charming and handsome, he is kind and wise. Any lady would be a fool not to love him. And, I’m no fool, Ashton.”

Rather than speak, he decided to let his actions do the talking as he ducked his head to kiss her, much like he had before at the ceremony. This time though, his arms wrapped around her lower back, holding her tightly as her eyes fluttered shut and she melted into him. Fuck duty, they both thought, love was far better.

__

Tag List

@frontmanash​ @goeatsomelife​ @flameraine​ @here-for-the-uproars​ @cxddlyash​ @1-irwin-94​ @sparkling-calm​ @tea4sykes​ @youngblood199456​ @5-seconds-of-obsession​ @gosh-im-short​ @aquarius-hood1996​ @talkfastromance4​ @itjustkindahappenedreally​ @philthepegacorn​ @boomerash​ (and @sexgodashton​ because I thought you’d like to read the rest)

[draconscious]

@iruludavare sent:  - 📕 + 76

[book drabbles – no longer accepting (as of now!)]

“The others seemed completely calm, oblivious to the insanity of their nighttime pursuits. Maybe they had been hunting the Parasites for so long that this was a normal night for them. Or maybe, and much more likely, they were all crazy.” - The Supernaturalist, by Eoin Colfer

[Dystopian AU incoming. Because I’m weak for dystopian AUs...this might be a novel.]

As the world continues to grow, we must grow alongside it! Introducing a limitless resource, a solution to the scarcity problem: Infinity Energy! Want to help build our future together? Donate today!

The tinny announcement rings from a nearby lamppost, echoing across the rain-slicked Magenta Plaza. Clair, the newest arrival to Neo Lumiose City in the Kalos region, winces under the cover of darkness. She already knows that the exact same declaration will repeat itself in a few minutes. Forever.

Everything is quiet--the futuristic metropolis’s strict curfew works wonders on the average citizen--and soft, white light washes over the cobblestones, courtesy of the gleaming Infinity Energy Building. The construction of the shining, towering structure seemed to take place overnight, Pokemon and workers bulldozing Lysandre Cafe--a hotly-contested historical site in its own right--to make room for the corporate behemoth.

This is the latest Infinity Energy power grab, using a tried-and-true takeover tactic. Back in Clair’s home region of Johto, the gigantic corporation quickly moved on the Goldenrod Radio Tower, crushing opposition with legalese and public marketing instead of brute force. Even as traditionalist Johtoans began embracing the potential of the corporation’s product, Clair remained weary. She studied the sordid history of Infinity Energy, and how people manipulated it to power weapons and entertain unfathomable destruction. While the Infinity Energy Corporation marketed prosperity, the Dragon Tamer found their actual motives (and takeovers) suspect. 

When Blackthorn, proud Blackthorn, finally capitulated to Infinity Energy and agreed to let the corporation use their city’s precious lake, Clair flew to Neo Lumiose City, home of Infinity Energy’s central headquarters...and the heart of the problem.    

It was there that she met the resistance.   

Like Clair, the resistance--a small group of talented trainers--was critical of Infinity Energy’s promises and takeovers. In order to join the reclusive, back-alley organization, the dragon tamer had to prove herself by defeating the existing members, which she easily did...in a row. However, the resistance’s leader, a soft-spoken yet firm blonde, finally overwhelmed the rampaging Johtoan in a fantastical battle outside of city limits...one for the ages. Serena.

Clair learned much from Serena, who also recognized the harmful potential of Infinity Energy. The Kalosian also knew that the corporation’s headquarters were built upon the ruins of a long-deserted weapons lab, further clouding the entity’s ultimate goal. The resistance knew that they needed to stop whatever was conspiring within the shiny building...before it was too late. All over again.

Clair nods, slipping out of the shadowed alleyway with Serena close behind. The blonde moves with dancer-like precision and silence, her eyes locked on their targets: two Infinity Energy employees, assigned to keep watch in front of the building. The guards each sport portable Snagem Machines on their wrists, lending an added risk to any Pokemon offensive (lest their partners be kidnapped). However, once Clair and Serena make their moves, the unassuming henchmen have no chance.

Following their trainers’ silent commands, Dragonair and Daphne make themselves known in a flash. With her long tail, Dragonair skillfully constricts one of the guards, and Serena’s Delphox takes care of the counterpart, levitating the shaking loyalist of the ground. In just a few quiet moments, the job is complete: both guards lay unconscious, their expensive Snagem gear smashed across the walkway. With another nod towards Clair, Serena reaches down to pluck the ID card from one of the guard’s uniforms and takes a deep breath, anticipation flooding her veins. This is it. They’re finally going to uncover Infinity Energy’s true motives... Clair grinds her boot into the remains of the Snagem Machine for added emphasis.

As the world continues to grow, we must grow alongside it! As the world continues to grow, we must grow alongside it! As the world continues to grow, we must grow alongside it! As the world continues to grow, we must grow alongside it! 

Behind the infiltrating pair, the speaker sounds once again: distorted, broken...and perhaps an omen of what’s to come.

[l0chn3ss]

The shot I missed

Written for @mastar-week MaStar Week 2020 (Bonus) Day 8: Gold

Black Star won, so obviously he got gold right? (Disney’s) Brave AU

Beyond the boundaries of the grove was a small clearing with short grass and a leveled field. There, a crowd of onlookers whispered excitedly about the princess’s marriage prospects. Those visitors were princes (firstborn sons of clan leaders), each with their own reason for attending. Some wanted a union between territories while others wanted glory of taming the Untamable Maka.

With a crown of blonde hair that was touched with the color of moss and a cape with a deeper green than the forest she was raised in, Maka sat eerily quiet in her seat. She was kept there by her mother’s maidens (because Mama was too delicate and unbothered to be present) and by her father’s nerves (because Papa won’t let her leave from his sight). Maka sat with her back straight and her hands in her lap, the picture of royalty as always to the people, but a rumbling mountain in her heart. If another prince, high born or otherwise, smiled at her in hopes that she would respond— she would be so inclined as to sew his lips in that position for the rest of his life.

None of them were like the freedom she wanted nor the bow by her side. None of them would be the lush autumn that she enjoys nor the call of the wind that always waits for her to join. And likewise, she would never be the homely queen that she was expected to become.

Papa often cultivated her wildness, but Mama always brought them back to reality. She said in her articulate voice— that charismatic tone that won over Papa’s homelands, “Maka, you are a princess. Do act as such.”

The word enunciated the second syllable in a way that grated in Maka’s ears. Prin-CESS, Maka mocked behind the closed corridors of her castle wing. She would mutter angrily before disappearing through the curtains of her open window. To hell with that.

And yet, she attended the show of talent because she was expected to. She faintly reminded herself through her mother’s voice that she was still trapped by traditions. Her disdain marred her pretty face, and it so happened that someone met her eyes then.

Instead of ducking his head as any humble gentleman should, he stared back. Against the vast green and muddy brown behind, he was a sore sight. His royal tunic screamed of wealth and his bulky sword was a contrast to that, rugged and plain despite the good leather that supported its weight around his waist. Down his right arm ran cerulean tattoos that swirled across his bicep and down to his wrist. On his face was a collection of nicks and scars (one across his nose and another running down his cheek) while a fresh wound peeking from what looked like his eyebrow was covered by a bandana. No man wore head wraps in these lands, so if that weren't strange enough, it was also a bright foreign blue that matched his crystalline eyes. It’s charm swirled like the sea, and that was a force unwelcomed in her forest.

Maka broke their connection first, remembering that women should be more demure than what she’s displayed. Still, when she opened her eyes again, she saw the figure’s body move from his last few chuckles and melt back into the mass. It enraged her. If a man— a boy— like that were to be her husband, then fate had cursed her.

It made her resolve all more solidified. When the games began, and when the games drew to a close, she will challenge the final few for her own hand.

She announced that to the three remaining prospects and to the crowd below her, standing up from her seat and walking down the pedestal against Papa’s protests. He followed her down (in her shadow) as the people parted to make way for her. She went to stand by her suitors at the archery range, and while two were noticeably shocked that a woman entered the area, the wretched blue one hadn’t batted an eye. If anything, he was amused, not upset— and that infuriated her again.

With the regality that she inherited from Mama, she announced. “I am Maka, firstborn of the Albarn Clan, and I will be shooting my own hand.” She looked to the handmaidens who were frozen, still by the chair under the canopy, daring them to stop her. When none of them came to collect her, she addressed Papa who pleaded to her under his hushed breath. “It is my right to challenge this crooked fate.”

The more established residents were horrified, unable to stop their concerned whispers. They wondered if their princess had lost her head to the harsh sun. Normally she was well-behaved— kind and quiet behind her more imposing father and likeable mother. The mercantile class, however, knew that this was the girl who roamed the streets and who bit into fresh bread without reserve. This was the Maka who they saw everyday. They laughed good naturedly, almost expecting her outburst.

While the crowd was stirred, Maka went to the bow rack and appraised the selection. They weren’t like her personally crafted ones that were safely in her room, but the flexible one that curved heavily at the tips was what she landed on. She matched it with arrows with less spine. Though practiced, Maka decided that she didn’t have the upper body strength to handle anything heavier. A few eyes were on her while she hunted down a quiver. To her annoyance, she found that the assistants would be handing her the equipment as she went down the row of targets.

As the firstborn of the land they competed on, she went first. Despite the restrictive dress she wore for the occasion, Maka managed to pull the string back and aim for the bullseye. She inhaled quietly as she was trained to do, and upon the release, she exhaled.

For the initial shot, Maka was disappointed. It was within the red center, but not symmetrical with the circle (instead it was a little to the right). She relished in the applause from her people, though. Even without a test shot or feeling the weight prior, she still hit the middle— a feat that regular hobbyists wouldn’t be able to manage unless luck was on their side.

At the next one, Maka reached behind for her back, expecting feathers to touch her finger tips, only to be met with just her hair. She heard a cough that masqueraded chuckles from her left, and immediately she knew that it was him— that boy. Glaring over, her suspicions were proven to be correct. He had a fist in front of his mouth to hide his smile while she pretended to stretch her arm, extending it upwards and sighing in feigned relief. She cleared her throat and the audience stopped again, ready for her next shot.

Learning quickly, Maka adjusted herself. She hit the second target perfectly, and the third one the same. The praise and uproar that rang out fueled her. She used that momentum to regard Papa, who was caught between joy and dread.

“I will win this,” she said loudly enough for him to hear, but softly enough to be carried away in the breeze.

His response was sad relief. He hoped that her words were a statement and not just an empty wish. “I know, baby.” Maka had always looked miserable in her prim braids and jeweled shoes. If she could win her freedom, Papa would not stop her.

The real challenge came when the next competitors stepped forward one at a time to best Maka’s aim. The first came from a southern territory (nomadic but friendly) where hunting game was crucial. He should’ve been good at moving targets, but it looked like he struggled with stationary ones. He hit the outer rings of two, and missed entirely on his last round.

The second was from a powerful warrior clan. It made Maka nervous, but she had no reason to be. The firstborn from there specialized in brute weapons, not precision. He won the previous tasks and advanced forward as the favored winner— and it was as far as he would go. None of his arrows flew. He broke them all instead in anger.

Finally, the Northern blue announced his name. He said confidently (with an air of dismissal under his breath), “I am Black Star, firstborn of the Star Clan—” and he turned to meet Maka’s eyes yet again, “I will be shooting for Maka’s hand.”

The weight of his declaration stopped every whisper and focused every person. After a beat of silence, disorder erupted. If he wanted attention at that moment, he earned it then. Visitors passed on his reputation while others questioned his authority. Could he shoot better than their princess? 

The audacity of that barbarian— Maka huffed. They were empty words meant to draw a reaction from her. If he wanted to terrify her, he should’ve done so before she drew her bow. Shaking her would do nothing for him while he prepared for his task. It was his turn to fail.

While the crowd was distracted, she said to him, “You.”

He bent his arrows to test their flexibility, as if to remind him of their resistance. “I believe you know my name now.” They were firm, unyielding.

Maka stifled her primal reaction. “Black Star,” she corrected herself amicably, “you are rather confident for someone who hasn’t nocked their arrow yet.

Humming (not in agreement), he did so. He looked behind him and towards the audience though, as if waiting for him to settle. “I may be.”

Something about his response and laissez faire made her want to break it. “Black Star, you know who your competition is, don’t you?”

“A prince who would rather lose than give up the plains, and a war hungry oaf who relies on brute strength.” He barely turned to look at her. “I was the clear victor from the start.”

“And?”

A few seconds pass too slowly. “Princess, are you suggesting that you stand in my way?” Black Star gives her a side glance. “With that performance?”

Maka refused to stumble. She snipped back at him, “You should know who’s hand you are fighting for. I am—”

“The firstborn of the Albarn Clan,” he cut her off. “Beloved by the common folk and protected by the elite. Rides a mare by the name of Josephine. Prefers bread encrusted with nuts from the local market. Hides in the grove outside the borders until dusk at times. An archer.” He turned to her fully at the last point.

Taken aback, she was unable to respond. All of those (observations at least, accusations at most) were true. Exposed by a stranger, she attempted to regather her thoughts, but they all fell through her hands. Was she not just a pawn in her mother’s domestic affairs? A trophy to be won and taken to be wedded?

Black Star mercifully filled the silence. “Princess, you surpassed your mentor at the age of twelve, then your father at fifteen. But—” His benevolence ended there. “— I did so at the age of thirteen.”

Maka bit her tongue (unsuccessfully). Her pride was known through the clan, and surely he knew of it if he pressed her so much. He wanted her to snap at him and be destroyed, and she fell for Black Star’s taunt anyway, willingly.

She said harshly, “I’m the best in these lands.”

His smile disarmed her because it was too perfect— too confident. “Then, I will be better than the best.” He left her to be shaken by him. His back was broad and his attentiveness to the target board was maddening.

Maka hadn’t realized how quiet it had gotten until he pulled back the string. His form was flawless and his breath was steady. He was experienced after all, she realized. Originally, she thought that he chose the strongest bow because the other princelings did too. The difficulty of the draw and control of the arrow were sacrificed for power. It was a poor choice for any person looking to win a competition of accuracy, but the way that Black Star handled the weapon was deliberate.

He started at the third target, aiming carefully. Upon his release, less than a second later, Maka heard a crack of wood, and her heart stuttered. His arrow that was propelled with force far greater than hers had struck and split the shaft down to the tip, embedding itself into the bullseye directly over hers.

It was all planned. From his bow to his banter, it was all a part of his horrible plot to ruin her. Maka clenched her teeth. The patience he tried to show— the pause as if he were waiting for the wind to stop— it was an act. He already knew that he wouldn’t miss. The relaxation on his face proved it.

For once, the spectators were silent. Black Star moved on quickly before any sound broke. He nocked his next arrow, and with a certain laziness on his face, broke the second the same as the initial third. A sickening snap echoed again as Maka’s arrow broke under its foe’s weight. Half of it fell off and splintered onto the ground, leaving his protruding alone.

At the final target, Maka’s first arrow hung from the middle, off centered. She didn’t forget— can’t forget. Everyone knew that Black Star could very well win with three bullseyes in a row, but Maka saw him smirk. For a brief moment, he gave her a glance (just to make sure that she was watching) and he aimed for the target.

Black Star took a slow inhale, and released his hand on his exhale. Maka didn’t look to see if he missed. She knows that he didn’t, but then, she heard a horrible and familiar sound— the split of wood.

Maka furiously turned to the target. His arrow wasn’t in the centermost area that he could’ve easily taken, obstacle free. Black Star found his own target in the form of her pride. The third arrow had struck its mark, breaking her arrow cleanly yet again for the final time.

It was unnecessary. It was a vicious display of accuracy and the last thing he could do to prove his superiority (and stomp on her mistake). He was the winner.

Maka unfurled an unfaltering trill, drowned out by the awe of the crowd. Her clansmen cheered (seemingly encouraging towards their new prince) while the other visitors who came in support for other territories accepted their loss. This was a result they could welcome because who else could be a match for the Untamable.

Knowing that she’d lost their attention, Maka grabbed her bow and an unfamiliar arrow (the closest one). She tried to redeem herself and strike the center again, but her shame clouded her perception. It only managed to land in the second ring, worse than she’s done in a long time. No one noticed, but she had— and he had.

Ignoring the noise, Black Star came to Maka’s side to kneel down and kissed the hand that gripped her bow. She shook him off, discarding both him and the weapon as she tried to escape. Unfortunately, Black Star didn’t let her go too far.

He cut her path and said to her, “My, what a scary look you have, Wife.”

She shoved past him and went to duck under the royal canopy where she hoped that he dared not follow, leaving the celebration and her husband-to-be behind her. Except, he went after her anyway, all smiles and complete smugness.