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ARCHIVING THIS BLOG. hmu over here instead!

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i think it’s time for some spring-cleaning. i haven’t been horribly active on this blog, in part because i’ve been kind of overwhelmed by everything i owe, and some of the drama that’s been circulating over the past while. i’m going to do a cleanup of my followers, my following, my ask, my drafts -- i just think i need to get some fresh stuff going, and clear out the stuff i’ve lost muse for. it’s nothing against anyone! but i want to like being here again, you know? so i feel this is necessary. mind the mess while i tidy up! x

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Masterlist can be found here. In order to be added all you have to do is reblog this post.

When you reblog please include the following information in the tags:

Character name

Whether your muse is a canon character, a character from outside the SW universe with a SW verse, or an OC

If the character is on a multi-muse blog

Any additional important details e.g. if your character is a Dark! variant

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          “THUS BAD BEGINS, AND WORSE REMAINS BEHIND.”

               IND. KYLO REN. WRITTEN BY IVAN. PERSONALS DO NOT REBLOG.

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                       ON THE DAY WE COME, IT’S OVER.

      ind. first order focused star wars multimuse rp. written by ivan. personals don’t reblog.                                                                        [ template credit. ]

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y’all i gotta be real, there’s a level in battlefront 2 that takes place solely in a character’s mind, and you walk through it as kylo and that was the raddest shit ever.

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No. I failed you, Ben. I’m sorry.

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hux-capacitor:

“That’s not what I meant,” he says quickly, his cheeks warming. Trust it to his luck to walk into a bar and instantly happen upon the most shameless person in the room– maybe on the planet. Still it’s– enthralling in its own way. Graceful, maybe. 

He catches himself watching the other man speak, watching how he forms his vowels, and he forces himself to look away, ice clinking in his glass as he sips valiantly. Two drinks is his limit, really, he should be careful. 

In a way though, he didn’t want to be. He’s wound so tightly in his day to day work, when he let loose– he sometimes has a tendency to overdo it. To allow himself small recklessnesses. And Ben– seems like a risk. His eyes drag over the bar, and up to Ben’s face. “Another drink,” he agrees, remembering that his company had bought the last round. “This one’s on me,” the Arkanis accent is always easier after he’d been drinking, and he doesn’t know if he hates that realisation or not. 

He motions the bartender over. “A sidecar,” he orders. One of his fingers catches Ben’s elbow as he gestures to get his attention. “What were you having?” Perhaps he’s sabotaging himself. But just now, he doesn’t care. 

    “I know.”

    It’s almost soothing, that low note in his voice, the way it rolls up from his throat. His words are kind of rounded; it speaks to a Core upbringing, despite his best efforts to rid himself of the accents. Luckily enough, he’d bounced around enough to never develop one planet’s too heavily -- but it does mean he’s picked up a little of everything from everywhere. He supposes that’s good though; it suits his smuggler persona, and if no one can tell just which planet he came from, so much the better. 

    Where is home? Ostensibly, it’d be Hanna City, Chandrila. He’d been born with salt in the air, and the silver sea on the horizon, glimmering, stretching on, beautiful. Not that he can remember as much, of course; to him, it’s little more than a point on a star map. He can’t remember the last time he visited. Home, he supposes, must have been -- the Falcon. It was one of the few semi-constant locations in his life. Everything else had been lost in the transience of his childhood. But that -- that ship remained.

    Not that it bears dwelling on at the moment. Rather than focus on that, he chooses to focus on the hand at his elbow, the offer of a drink -- unfortunate, given he’d not been intending to consume alcohol. It’d be risky and suspicious to turn it down, though -- and so he dips his head, agrees mildly. Glances over at the bartender, and considers briefly, before he shrugs a little. “Arkanian sweet milk.” A little strong for a man trying not to get drunk -- but he’s been drinking juice all night, and he’d like to change it up. He turns to the other, lips still tipped into a grin. “And maybe you’d let me walk you to your place after this? You’ve had a lot in a short period of time, and we’re in a rough neighborhood.” It sounds chivalrous enough -- his own intentions, however, might be less so.

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i can’t stop imagining him with a robe and frowning… so fragile yet vicious

just want to give him a hug <3

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@onceweak cont. from here.

    Exhaustion sits bone-deep; what energy had not been sapped by the fight was drained by the snow and blood-loss. Even now he feels the chill, the cold of death, narrowly avoided. He barely lacks the strength to turn his face away, sluggishly tilting it to one side, away, to hide the majority of his features from the General’s inspection. He is not for ogling. Especially not now -- the bandages covering the wound on his face feel stiff with plasma, with dried blood. He cannot know the extent of the damage -- only remembers the burning agony of it, the arcing, blinding pain that had sent him reeling. And even then, how he’d struggled to sit up, to right himself, to find his feet -- but oh, cruel defeat! He had not been allowed even that dignity.

    Instead he had collapsed, a crumpled heap, a failure. He certainly feels it. Everything aches, and his consciousness wavers, darkness hovering at the edges of his vision. Some desperate, aching part of him wishes for nothing more than to succumb once more, to let himself slip into the bliss of oblivion. Some part of him wishes to argue with the General -- that, at least, would feel normal. He wishes to snap back that it doesn’t matter if he’s awake or not -- his privacy should be respected regardless.

    He cannot bring himself to do so. Instead, he remains almost painfully quiet; his breathing is shallow, a quiet, echoing rattle in it as death might yet try to claim him still. That is not the case; he knows that, he feels that. Some part of him is...disappointed. He dare not dwell. Kylo’s eyes close -- pain sparks through the one affected by the saber slash, but at least, so far as he can tell, he has not lost sight in it. Small mercies. His lips press into a line, and fear twists his gut at Hux’s words, sudden and sharp -- his Master is not tolerant of failure, and this, this is a catastrophe that defies all reasonable expectations. Kylo wants to say no. No, not to him, anything but that. Kylo wants to run away. Neither are options. He cannot run. He will not beg.

    “ --- very well.” Acquiescence, soft, softer, perhaps, than Hux has ever heard him speak, particularly without the pitching distortions of his mask’s vocoder.

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Lavender.

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serratedlight:

Keep reading

    His brother’s compliance is immediate, and Kylo is grateful beyond words for it; one hand finds Jayden’s shoulder, nails digging sharply into the skin even as his other hand buries itself into the dark of his hair. His fingers curl into the curls, but not to pull Jayden away; if anything, he only seems to be trying to encourage the other, pressing the warmth of Jayden’s mouth closer to his throat with a low whimper. Those teeth digging into his skin feel delectable, and his hips buck in response, his breathing going a little ragged.

    Kylo’s thoughts are a tangled mess -- his mind reaches blindly for his brother’s, begging him to understand all the things he cannot verbalize at the moment. The desperation, the heat burning him up from the inside out, the unbridled pleasure that comes with every thrust of Jayden’s cock into him, the slight bulge of his knot an enticing promise of what’s to come, and the hungry need to be bred, the desire to have Jayden fill him with come, again and again, until he can’t hold any more of it. But from his mouth, all that comes out is a slightly broken, “Please.”

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@freckledcybernetics, a birthday drabble for the curly birthday boy.

    Cheap linoleum creaks underfoot despite his best efforts; he’s a large man, and as quietly as he can move through streets, on stages, through building hallways, there’s nothing he can do to stop the squeak of of worn flooring in an old building. It’s not the best place. Ben knows that someday, someday things will be better. They’ll pool in. Get a house? The thought sends something fluttering through his chest, a mixture of warmth and panic -- domesticity, though he practices it nearly every day, at this point, still does not suit him; an ill-tailored jacket, all too-short of sleeves, buttons straining to contain him within cheap material.

    He does not dwell on it. Today isn’t about his personal issues; it’s not about his fears of commitment or of the future. It’s not about anything but the quiet creeping down the hallway, to the kitchen, at some ungodly hour in the morning. He hasn’t slept -- didn’t dare. Knew that if he closed his eyes, he’d never wake before Fergus. He’s hoping that with his hearing aids out, the occasional creak or bump from the kitchen won’t disturb him, or that he’ll dismiss it as one of the cats. Two of which, he knows, are watching him; one with both baleful eyes open, following every movement, the other irritated, only one eye visible, reflecting the light of his cell phone as he uses it to navigate the familiar furniture that has, in the dark, turned the living room into a veritable labyrinth. He stubs a toe; he dares not makes a sound, but lets out a sharp breath.

    A third cat slides itself against his ankle, nearly making him jump -- but it moves on along its way, seeming content not to trip him. Not tonight, anyway. 

    He only turns on the light above the oven for his work, navigating otherwise only by cell phone and moonlight, not wanting to make too much noise, but also not wanting the light to alert Fergus, should he stir in his sleep. The door to their bedroom is closed, true, but the crack beneath it might give him away yet -- so he is careful. 

    There’s nothing he can do for the smell, though, and soon the kitchen is filled with it -- the scent of breakfast being prepared. Eggs, sausage, pancakes -- Ben tries to make sure there’s a little of everything. When it’s all prepared, he makes a heaping plate of it; beside the plate go a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice, and a singular flower Ben had bought the day before and kept hidden. He makes his way to the bedroom, just in time to see Fergus reaching for his hearing aids, the bedside lamp now on. He waits until he’s certain the other has them in before he speaks up, softly.

    “Good morning, sunshine.” A pause, and then he’s lifting the plate, smiling a little. He enunciates clearly, knowing that mornings can make it more difficult to recognize his speech and make sense of it. “And happy birthday. I made breakfast.”

    And he brings it to Fergus, moving over to seat himself at the edge of the bed as the other stares at him, seemingly startled; that’s not surprising. Ben can’t remember the last time he was up early enough to see a sunrise, but dawn is steadily creeping in through the windows, dispelling the cover of darkness underneath which he’d worked to craft this surprise. He leans over, presses a kiss to Fergus’ forehead. He settles the plate and tray over Fergus’ lap, smiling softly. Mornings might not be his thing, but this?

    This, he wouldn’t have missed for the world.

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PERMANENT STARTER CALL.

so i saw people passing these around again, and figured it was about time i made one. i’m going to keep this short and sweet, folks. i want to interact with everyone but i get nervous approaching people sometimes, so this just makes it super easy on me.

if you like this post, you’re giving me permission to:

tag you in random starters.

send you random ic asks.

come bug you when kylo wants something from your muse in particular.

yell @ you via ims/discord when i think about our muses.

tag you in things that remind me of your/our muse(s)/thread(s)/ship(s) etc.

and you’re expressing to me that:

you have an active interest in interacting with me/kylo.

you want to plot/yell about headcanons, etc.

you’re fine with me just jumping into your ims/discord to share ideas with you/spam you with song lyrics that make me cry about our muses and a billion au ideas.

if you don’t like this, we might still interact, but this will make me feel more comfortable about approaching/talking to you, bc admittedly, a number of you intimidate the heck out of me with how talented you are. so give the button a like if you’re interested in all of the above! x

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                                  HEADCANON. TOUCH & AVERSION.

    as a child, ben craved physical touch. it was a form of security, something that helped to ground and tether him. in his mother’s arms, he always found it easier to ignore the whispers constantly flitting through his head. snoke was a constant presence and pressure in the back of his mind through childhood, but when his mother was stroking his hair, or his father had him up on his shoulders, it was easier to ignore, easier to push him away. however, growing older came with it the expectation of greater independence; his mother was busy with her work in the senate, his father struggled to connect with him because of the lack of understanding regarding the force, and their presence in his life went from scarce to nearly nonexistent when he began training under luke.

    under luke, he was trained to follow the traditional jedi path; he was taught a light-only rhetoric which included abstinence of all kinds, self-control, celibacy, and the ever-familiar idea of ‘no attachments.’ as this was the case, combined with snoke’s influence, ben slowly began to isolate himself; this was not difficult to do. many of his peers sensed the conflict within him between the light and dark, and under luke’s light-only teachings, this served to unintentionally alienate many of them from him. when the revelation of his lineage was exposed to the galaxy, most of them turned their backs on him, and he felt more alone than even before. by this point, ben had started to think of touching other people as a nearly punishable offense; he found his own cravings for physical affection and comfort a weakness, and would pull away from attempts to touch him, even so briefly as a hand up from the ground during sparring matches. shortly thereafter came luke’s intended attempt on his life, and the massacre.

    after the massacre, ben took the few remaining students with him to begin training anew under snoke. together, under snoke’s guidance, they formed the knights of ren, a sect built around snoke’s tutelage and the newly named kylo’s ideas. as master of the knights, he heavily influenced their habits; it was his decision to cover himself entire, leaving no inch of skin uncovered. his grandfather had been less a man, bound by physicality, and more a machine, more a nightmare, more an idea. kylo wished to be the same – to remove himself from what he considered to be base needs that would only lead to distraction. his training under snoke often separated him even from his knights, however, isolating him further; by the time he became a formal member of the first order, it had been nearly a decade since anyone excepting snoke (and perhaps his knights) had so much as seen his bare face.

    as this was the case, the thought of physical contact (outside of a fight) felt almost repulsive to him, and played against a skewed sense of purity he had developed in regards to himself. the thought of allowing another to touch him, particularly his bare skin, was unpleasant, and something he considered to be avoided at all costs. if touch is required, he expects it to be aggressive, and will respond in kind, though his first instinct is to simply withdraw from it as quickly as possible, to sever the point(s) of contact. 

    he does not see his body in a sexual context, and thus is not ashamed of partial or even full nudity, though it is something he would prefer to avoid if possible, if purely because he is a private person (and because too much attention can lead to dysphoria). to him, his body is a tool, a weapon, and is only useful in the context of battle. thus, though he is not ignorant of the act of sexual intercourse, he has never truly considered himself engaging in it. (this is not because he does not experience desire, but purely because he considers it a non-option.) were he to find himself in a sexual situation, he would very likely have to stop very early on during the first few encounters purely because he would quickly become overwhelmed by the sensations. it would take time to build up tolerance and endurance, and patience on the part of his partner. 

    willingly allowing someone to touch his bare skin would likely cause feelings of guilt and shame in the aftermath that he would need to work through individually; he needs time to reconcile his desires with what he has learned and been taught. he needs to re-learn how to allow himself to be touched; it is something he could very much enjoy, and once he was given the proper amount of time and support to work through his own complicated feelings on the matter, he would very quickly become quite attached to shows of physical affection again, as he was as a child. should he get to that point with a partner, physical touch becomes the quickest way to influence him and his mood, and he responds quite well to physical guidance, comfort, support, discipline, etc. 

    note: this headcanon is heavily tailored in regards to his star wars ‘verses. while i do consider him touch averse in some other ‘verses, it is usually to a far lesser degree, and in some is absent altogether/functionally nonexistent in that it doesn’t play a large enough role to be worth mentioning. as that’s the case, this should be considered true for any star wars ‘verse unless we have a pre-discussed ship, etc., and should be worked out individually when regarding other ‘verses.

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okay so my day’s been cool. i was harassed by an angry drunk man on the train who smelled so heavily of booze that if i knew my beers better, i probably could have told you what he was drinking. he yelled at me, and when i didn’t respond, he drew back like he was going to hit me. i didn’t respond, and eventually he just got frustrated and moved on to bothering someone else. so i ditched out as soon as we got to me stop, and got on the bus, cool, fine, and then! our bus was almost t-boned! the car would have directly crashed into my seat if the bus hadn’t jerked to the side! so! cool! cool cool cool!

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I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. I did not like to be touched because I craved it too much. I wanted to be held very tight so I would not break.

Marya Hornbacher, Wasted (via wordsnquotes)