#or like using the same uncommon word too often within a small space

[craycraybluejay]

writing is torture but unfortunately i am a writer and will legitimately die if i do not do it

[simplyotometrash]

Some Obey Me Headcanons!

Part One!!

Lucifer

Lucifer has always been the dad sibling. After each of his brothers were “born” while they were angels, he was the one to raise and teach them everything.

It’s common knowledge that Mammon is his favorite. Even if he hates to admit it. He’s hardest on Mammon because it’s the only thing he knows how to do anymore.

Despite the fact that they don’t seem to get along because of Mammon’s antics, Lucifer only ever confides some of his most pent up feelings to the second born. 

The only other person he confides in this deeply is MC.

Before the fall, Belphie was his second favorite brother. Even after things have settled after Belphie was free again, he can never look at the youngest the same.

All he wants is for his brothers to be happy and live on. Even if it means working himself into the ground for their sakes.

He doesn’t ask for help. Help has to be forced upon him.

With how much he works, even at home, it’s not uncommon to find him napping with a pen in hand at his desk and his head on his paperwork.

He wishes he had done better raising Satan. He blames himself for their strained relationship, but he feels as if it is too late to truly fix it.

Sometimes he also wishes he had raised Satan as his son and not his brother, considering Satan was born from his wrath.

Children, for some reason or another, flock to him.

His control issues and needing to know everything that happens under his roof stems from the trauma of the war, the fall, and what happened with Lilith. 

It’s his deepest fear that he will lose his brothers and be completely and utterly alone.

A bisexual mess of a demon. No one can convince me he doesn’t have at least a small crush on Diavolo. 

Mammon

Oh the second born brother. He just wants to see everybody happy. But he always messes up and ends up making people angry instead.

He has severe impulse control issues, hence why he’s broke all the time. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to save his Grimm, I headcanon that his sin of Greed compels him to spend. It controls him and so he struggles to keep money. 

But by gods does he have great luck with gambling. Get him going and he will win big every single time.

But keep that money where he can’t just grab it or else he will be compelled by his sin to buy things.

He doesn’t even want most of the things he buys. His sin took root in that empty space left from the fall and being cast out by the one he called his father. 

His sin pushes him to try and fill that void with objects and money when really he just wants someone’s love.

After centuries of being called scum and a degenerate because of something he has little control over, he gave up trying and gave into just being his sin.

He cries easy but only to MC or Lucifer. He won’t show his tears to any of his other brothers. Maybe Beel sometimes. But only sometimes.

He knows Lucifer’s most precious and deepest secrets. He’s his brother’s confidant. But he doesn’t even breathe a word of these secrets to anyone else.

He tries so hard to get attention, so he does stupid shit. After falling to Devildom, his family was changed forever. So any attention is good attention even when it’s him being punished. 

MC is the one who showed him positive love and attention again. It is one of many reasons he sticks to their side like fucking super glue to skin.

He’s actually a total mom-friend, though you wouldn’t guess it. You’d think he is the type to get drunk and pass out at a party? His alcohol tolerance is actually much higher than he lets on. He cleans up and takes care of people after they’ve all passed out.

Leviathan

He wasn’t nearly as anxious and against socializing before falling to Devildom. He retreated into himself out of fear of the unknown world they had all fallen into after the war.

He has an anxious attachment style. He knows it isn’t healthy. It’s rooted in the trauma that losing Lilith created.

The longer he stayed closed in on himself, the worse his anxiety got. To the point he became a recluse. 

He fears getting close to someone. He feels insecure in relationships, not just in himself. He doesn’t feel like he’s good enough.

He’s had relationships in Devildom before, but the first one ended poorly and it only made things worse for how he saw himself. The demon only dated him because of who he was, and preferred his status as the Grand Admiral of Hell’s Navy. Not as who he really is. 

The few relationships that came after all ended before they really could begin because his anxiety monster was screaming that he wasn’t really good enough. That they only ever pursued him for who he was in status and power.

MC’s persistence to become his friend is what made him begin to do some self-reflection.

They tried so hard to become friends with him, they put so much effort into him, and they encourage him to just be himself. If they do all of that, maybe he really is enough as he is.

He does try to step outside of his comfort zone more because MC opened his eyes to the truth of himself. 

But baby steps are needed.

He taught himself how to code just so he could make games. He got bored after making one and preferred playing to creating.

He doesn’t actually hate Mammon. Their little rivalry traces back to when they were angels and still growing up, competing for Lucifer’s attention. He actually loves his brother very much, despite how irritate he gets.

His envy is its own thing. It took root within his insecurities and has a voice all its own. It used to be so loud that he couldn’t think. But the growth he’s had since MC came into his life helped quiet that voice down a lot.

He’s closest with Satan and Asmo, feeling like he doesn’t fit with his older two or youngest two brothers anymore. 

Satan

He knew from day one that he wasn’t like the rest of his brothers. He was always different. Born a demon, never once an angel. He knew that they weren’t truly his brothers.

All he ever wanted was for Lucifer to be his father. Not his brother. 

Lucifer once was his hero, the person he admired and respected with all his might.

As he got older, his wrath only grew with him. And his anger at Lucifer grew as well.

He wanted to find himself as separate from Lucifer. He knew where he’d come from. But everyone treated him as if he were just some offshoot of Lucifer. He wanted to be his own person. For everyone to see that. It fueled his anger and built the wall that came between them.

He’s an excellent shoulder for comfort. He often comforts Levi when he breaks down or provides reassurance to Asmo.

These three are the middle children, they stick together.

He was alive when the Library of Alexandria was burned. Even though he wasn’t supposed to go to the human realm, he saved some texts from the library and keeps them safe.

The real reason he wears his jackets the way he does is just like when you’re in bed. If it’s full on with both sleeves, he’s too hot. If he doesn’t have it on at all he’s too cold. So one arm in a sleeve and one arm not in a sleeve.

Asmo has tried and failed to give this boy fashion help. He refuses to take it. He thinks he looked like an intellectual (for the love of god please lose the black undershirt at least, Satan).

He carries cat treats and cat food in his bag at all times in case he comes across a kitty in need.

He has sneaked many cats into the House of Lamentation. Lucifer knew the entire time but let Satan have a few days before he “found out” about the cats.

His wrath has burned strong for so long, even when he was passive, that he didn’t know what it was like to feel calm. But MC’s very presence sends a wave of peace right to his very core. 

Asmo

If you’re insecure and you know it clap your hands. 

Levi might seem like the king of insecurity, but Asmo takes the cake.

He masks his insecurities with what people think is narcissism and over confidence. He puts on a show so nobody knows how he really sees himself.

Lust was always shoved down his throat as sexual only. So he went with it. He was supposed to be the Avatar of Lust. To be what was expected of him and to make sure he was liked, he did what he thought everyone wanted.

And it turned him into someone he never wanted to be. He didn’t know how to find himself again.

He isn’t nearly as sexual and lewd as everyone thinks. He’s touchy and clingy, yes, but touch is his love language.

When he’s hurt or doesn’t feel well, if he’s had a bad day, if he’s sad- all he wants is to be held by the person he loves and who loves him. He wants to hold hands or link arms. He wants to wrap his arms around them all the time. 

But because everyone in Devildom only saw him as a sex symbol, he had to bury his truest desires. He had a persona to keep up. 

While he does love to take care of himself, he used to break mirrors because he was so sick of who he had become. It took a lot of time for him to get through it. 

His MC is the only one who wasn’t tainted by his power. A power that seemed to just be active all the time whether he wanted it or not.

Everyone was all over him but it wasn’t as if he could control it. His sin was always active, it attracted people.

But MC wasn’t interested or affected. 

And that was what was most attractive to him. 

They saw him for who he was and encouraged him to just be the true Asmo. Not the Asmo everyone wanted to see.

He is excellent at sewing. He loves making his own accessories and clothing from his own designs. 

He’s ambidextrous. You think that the king of fashion only uses one hand? Darling, if he only used one hand then his homework would never get done. He write with one hands and be painting his toes with the other. 

One of the few people that can get Levi out of his room to hang out. They’ve always been close. Sometimes he does that just so the others can get Levi’s laundry and dirty dishes.

He’s the most emotionally open and stable of the brothers. He’s made peace with his inner monsters and can coexist with them. He’s also surprisingly good at advice. 

Can and will break into Lucifer’s study to make the eldest relax because he’s working too har.

He has bobby pins on him at all times. Not just for fashion but for lockpicking! He can be clever and beautiful!

[bookishofalder]

Night Changes [One]

Night Changes Series Masterlist

Summary: It may have been years since Poe and the reader have seen one another, but that doesn’t make the emotional upheaval any easier to navigate for either of them.

Warnings: Fuck ton of angst, language, a lot of feelings, mentions of death and loss, grief. WC-5,780 (Jesus buckle up I guess!)

Poe was dreaming.

Nothing particularly special, but it was a dream nonetheless, a break from the usual nightmares that tended to invade his sleeping mind night after night when all he wanted was to succumb to the darkness for a few hours. The dream was more of a memory, a replaying of a night back on Yavin-4 so many years ago before he and Charlie had gone to flight school.

A night like every other, yet the humid evenings on Yavin 4 always did seem to hold a little mystery, like a warm blanket that wrapped one in a false sense of security; he could do anything. And on that evening, he had snuck some of his father’s good whiskey, the stuff from a planet far, far away, and gone to knock on Charlie’s window in the cover of darkness. It wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence, though the whiskey was a new addition.

Charlie had answered immediately, a big grin stretching across his face even before he saw what Poe had brought, the relief in that grin piquing his curiosity-why did he seem grateful that Poe was there? When he climbed through the window, he found you were already there, sat on the floor across the small bedroom with your back against the end of Charlie’s bed, your face wet with tears and he understood your brothers reaction.

Before Poe could ask what was wrong, Charlie noticed the bottle in Poe’s hands and tapped it excitedly, “Just what we needed! How do you do it, brother?” His voice was always so loud, but in the Horn household it wasn’t an issue. Your mother was asleep on the other side of the house and even if she did wake, she wouldn’t come in and begrudge a little teen rebellion. Poe really liked her for that, for trusting them, for never making him feel unwelcome.

“Didn’t realize it would come in so handy. What's going on, sweetheart?” The affectionate nickname had been around for years, so long now that he hardly noticed himself using it. He liked the way it tugged the corners of your lips up, even when you were sad. But he didn’t like that you were sad right now, his concern only growing when you pulled your knees to your chest and dropped your head to them, hiding your face and, no doubt, a fresh wave of tears.

You had always hated crying in front of them, for some reason. Charlie never cried, but Poe had no issues with sobbing outright in front of you both. He didn’t understand why you felt you had to hide it from him.

Without speaking, Charlie and Poe sat down on either side of you, your brother taking the whiskey and opening it, taking a small swig and huffing through the smoky burn.“Kid, you tell him.” He used that extra soft voice reserved only for you, his free hand reaching over to pat your foot on the ground next to him.

Poe had his shoulder pressed against yours. He knew you enjoyed how warm he always was, that you thought of him as your personal furnace, cuddling him even on warm days like this because you seemed to forever run a little chilly, or maybe you were just a touchy person and you were that comfortable with Poe.

After a few moments of quiet sniffling, you finally raised your head, setting your chin on your knees and staring straight ahead. “Gus ended things earlier.” You whispered into the moonlit room, your voice wavering somewhat with emotion, though Poe could sense it was more of embarrassment and disappointment of being dumped than that of actual heartbreak.

Poe felt an odd mixture of both anger and relief sweep through him, the latter of which he resolutely shoved away, into the far reaches of his mind to be stubbornly ignored. “That kriffing asshole! Who does he think he is, dumping our girl?” And truly, what the fuck audacity did that guy have? Did he not have eyes? Did he not spend just five minutes with you and feel like he was sitting in the company of a Sun, so bright and warm as you were?

You gave a watery laugh at his words, and Poe felt warmth pool in his chest; he was always good at making you laugh. He saw Charlie’s shoulders sag somewhat with relief upon hearing you, always so protective and yet he had difficulty reigning in some of your big emotions, often looking to Poe for his help.

“He said it was because I’m a prude. Because I wouldn’t, you know,” You broke off, and Poe glanced down at you to see you bite your lip briefly, eyes still forward, “He said there was no point going on dates if I wouldn’t even give him the chance to, and I quote, ‘appreciate your tits properly, at the least.’”

Poe turned to face you fully now, his eyes meeting Charlies over your head. His friend looked just as annoyed as Poe felt, hearing what that skinny piece of shit had dared to say to you. A silent agreement crossed between them then, Gus would be meeting their fists come morning. For now, though, Poe focused on you, tossing an arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your hair, “He’s a prize fucking idiot, sweetheart, doesn’t know what he’s losing. Right, Charlie?”

“Exactly. Remember kid, no guy is ever going to deserve you because you are perfect. You don’t need to cry over someone who can’t see how lucky he is you even let him breathe the same air as you,” Charlie added his arm to your shoulders, curving under Poe’s, “Flyboy and I will take care of you, always.” He promised, and you nodded before reaching both hands up to grab each of theirs on your shoulders.

“Thank you.”

And Poe stayed the night, each of you taking turns to sip the whiskey until eventually sleep won out and Charlie crashed on his bed. You and Poe curled up on some pillows on the floor together, your head resting on his chest and even though he knew you were sad, which made him sad too, he couldn’t help but feel truly whole in those moments before sleep took over.

It was a good memory, one which he would have been content to remain in until the abrupt and incessant whirring and beeping of his droid woke him, Poe shooting up in his bed with a shout of surprise. “What? Are we being attacked?”

BB8 came to a stop near the edge of his bed, his noises growing quieter now that he’d woken Poe up.

“Buddy, it’s my day off. You better have a good reason for scaring the living hell out of me-“

The droid beeped again, clarifying his reason for interrupting his rest day. Interest piqued, Poe ran a hand over his face before planting his feet on the floor and leaning towards the droid.

“The new replacement is here? Guess that means the General wants me to come and meet them?”

BB8 confirmed, and now his alarming wake-up made more sense. The droid was as excited as Poe to meet his new second in command. He’d just lost his long-time friend, Jess Pava, to a new unit on an outpost for the Resistance. He’d recommended her for it, at her bequest, because he knew she’d be damn good for the role. But it didn’t make the loss any less disruptive; she’d been gone a few weeks now and he’d had to take on extra duties to compensate.

General Organa had profusely apologized to him a few times now, only explaining that the replacement was due back from a classified mission ‘soon’, and once they were they would be coming straight to D’Qar to join his squadron. He didn’t mind the work, but he was a little miffed that the day the new Major arrived was his only day off.

Poe quickly got himself ready for the day, taking a speedy shower in his fresher before pulling on his khaki’s and button up. Once pleased with his appearance, he stepped out of the fresher and walked toward his small desk area, above which he had a corkboard with a few mementos pinned up, including his favourite picture.

You were standing in the middle, sandwiched between him and Charlie, a big, goofy grin on your face. Charlie was laughing in the photo, and Poe was looking down at you with a fond smile. You all wore flight suits, as it was taking when you had first joined Gold Squadron. Charlie had his arm flung over your shoulders while Poe’s was snaked around your waist. You had your arms wrapped around each of their waists, though Poe remembers how your hand had brushed up his back before the picture was taken, fingers unknowingly leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

He looked at this photo every morning, tapped it once and then carried on with his day. It was the only time he allowed his conscious mind to think of Charlie, of you, and the life he lost in the blink of an eye.

When the door to his quarters opened, Poe saw a few service droids unloading a couple of crates into the room directly across from his. The room where the new member of his team would live. He could see within the unit as the door was open for the droids to carry items in, a few cases already inside the otherwise bare space.

Being careful to step around the droids and avoid falling over his own, who was wheeling excitedly along next to Poe, he made his way to command, hoping the introductions wouldn’t take too long. He had woken up with a big appetite.

And he really needed his morning caf.

“Ready to meet them, buddy?” He asked of his droid, and BB8 gave a happy little ‘weeee’ as he zoomed along beside Poe. He laughed loudly and BB8 pulled ahead, the doors of the command room opening at their approach.

Poe could see into the room now, activity within quiet enough that General Organa and the new arrival both heard his laughter and turned as he walked into the room. For a few beats, Poe kept walking, his mind not processing what he was seeing because it simply could not be. And then he froze, mid-stride.

It was you.

And from the patch on your uniform, it was now Major Horn.

And just like that, every emotion, every feeling of guilt and self-hatred and heartbreak came roaring to the surface, breaking through the walls he’d so carefully built up around what he’d done when he lost Charlie, when he’d lost you, walls he spent the last few years reinforcing as best he could.

Leia knew of the history, though she didn’t know any details of why neither of you had spoken since that terrible fucking night. She simply knew you’d all grown up together, which was probably why she hadn’t felt the need to warn Poe that it was you coming to take over as his second in command. Maybe she thought you had kept in touch and were expecting her.

Stars, Poe hadn’t seen you in person since the funeral. The night he ruined the best thing he had in his life because he couldn’t deal with his grief and took it all out on you, of all people. Poe thought of Charlie then because your brother and you looked a bit alike, but it was your eyes; you each had the exact same eyes. Though yours were lined with thick, long lashes that would sometimes tickle Poe’s cheeks when you would lean in and press a chaste kiss to them.

It had only been a few years, but so much about you had changed. Gone was the goofy girl with braids falling past her shoulders, her big smile that stretched from ear to ear. No, now Poe was looking at you and you were all grown up, wearing your uniform, hair pulled back into a low bun that was woven with intricate braids, a few wisps framing your face. You had leaned out slightly, though you still had your curves, the ones that had boy after boy falling for you back in the day-no doubt now it was man after man. He found his eyes flicking from your face to your hands, but he saw no ring. Not that he should even be thinking of whether you were single or not.

But somehow, it felt like he should know if you were with someone. Because Charlie would have expected Poe to always keep an eye on you, be there for you. The only person he let down more than Charlie was you. He knew his best friend would murder him if he knew the things Poe had said to you that night. He had never known a greater regret, a regret that he carried with him since the moment he spoke and watched your face contort in pain, as though he’d hit you with a physical blow.

He had wanted to apologize, to take it all back that very moment. He couldn’t believe himself, but you’d pull away to be sick and he was so shocked at how much he’d managed to hurt you that he couldn’t do anything other than listen to you when you ordered him to get away from you.

The irony of that wasn’t lost on him, either.

He’d walked straight to the hangar where his x-wing was parked and took it out, finding a secluded spot a few hours away to camp for two days, just to clear his head. He cried and grieved and then he realized just how badly he’d fucked up and he panicked. He started to plan how he would apologize, what he would do to earn your forgiveness and then tell you how he truly felt. But he failed you, hurt you, and he knew he had a lot of work ahead to repair what he’d broken.

Only, when he came back to base and sought you out, he instead found Jess and Tommy waiting for him by your room, their faces so grim his heart had stopped in his chest, and he’s not sure it ever restarted once he found out you’d left. Without a word or a note, you had just...deserted him.

And he knew he deserved it, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. Nor did finding out that you’d been clever enough to have your new assignment sealed, eliminating any chance he could have had of going after you.

And he would have. He’d have flown across the galaxy to find you.

Instead, Poe was alone and never, ever forgave himself for being the reason you had fled in the first place.

Eventually, Poe grew enough in rank that he was able to access your private files. He only did so now and again, just to check-in and make sure you were still alive and on active duty. The last time he’d checked had been about five months ago, and it had stated you were on a classified mission that even he couldn’t access the details of. But he knew you were alive and doing well enough that you were getting assigned seriously high-class missions. Charlie would have been so proud of you.

It was a few awkward moments before Poe was able to function, quickly shaking off his shock and continuing forward, his eyes tearing away from your too-blank expression to meet the warm gaze of General Organa. “Commander Dameron, I believe you know Major Horn here. Thank you for coming to greet her with me this morning.” Leia smiled between him and you, and Poe had to swallow before returning it, breaking out his usual grin.

When he looked back at you, he found your blank expression had now morphed into one of utter contempt. An insane part of him wanted to laugh, because how could (y/n) Horn, his best friend since he was a boy, the girl who had owned his heart, ever look at him like that?

Instead, Poe forced a friendly smile, nodding to you politely, “Welcome, Major. It’s...it’s good to see you. And congratulations on your promotion. I’m happy to have you join our team.” He stuck his hand out and hoped you would grasp it.

Your eyes, so much more intense than he ever remembered, searched his face for a second before you took his proffered hand and shook, a small smile appearing on your lips.

“It’s an honour to be here, Commander.” You replied, and Poe had to blink, pulling his hand way almost too quickly. Stars, you even sounded more grown-up. Your voice had always been a little breathy, which Poe had always found alluring. But now it had matured, the breathless way you spoke now demure, feminine.  

“I was just telling Major Horn that after you two had met the day was open,” Leia said, seemingly unaware of the tension between her two best pilots, “I know you earned this day off, Commander, so enjoy it!”

Poe couldn’t help but give her a wide grin, “Thank you, General.”  

“Yes, thank you for taking the time to...reunite us, General.” You said, excusing yourself before abruptly walking past Poe and out of command.

He rushed after you, BB8 still at his side, now beeping in confusion at what the hell was going on. Poe ignored the droid, catching up to you just down the hall. “Wait...(y/n)...”

He trailed off, unsure of what he could even say to you, questioning why he’d stopped your departure. You ceased walking and turned to look at Poe, your expression now openly hostile, which he knew he deserved yet it still stung. He opened and closed his mouth a few times as he stood before you, a huge part of him wishing you’d start yelling at him. Or hitting him.

Instead, you gazed up at Poe and after a moment your face fell, a storm of emotions rolling across your pretty features. You took a careful, measured step back from him, as if afraid he might try and reach out to you. “I didn’t know I was coming here to be on your team,” You didn’t meet his eyes when you spoke, instead focusing on the droid at his feet, “But this is a big opportunity for me, so we’ll make it work.”

You sounded more like you were trying to convince yourself rather than Poe, but he nodded all the same. “Of course. And you deserve it.”

You scoffed, “Thanks so much, Commander.”

“I’ve missed you.”

He didn’t know what possessed him to say that. It was just that one moment you were biting your lip, and then the next you were giving him a familiar look of incredulity that he remembered receiving more than once growing up and he suddenly needed you to hear that he did miss you. Missed you more than you could ever really know.

Poe saw a flash in your eyes before you spun on your heels and marched away, not looking back. He didn’t try to follow you again. He knew there wasn’t a whole lot he could say, not right now when you were both still reeling from the shock of seeing one another again.

And what could he even say to you? Sorry for taking our friendship and smashing it to pieces at the worst possible time? For never speaking to you again because I was too cowardly to try and find you, especially once I realized how deeply I felt for you? And how could he explain how those feelings seemed to develop over such a long time that he didn’t recognize them for what they truly were until you were gone?

Charlie would have hated what had happened between you both. He would have killed Poe, easily, but he’d had also been disappointed in you. Charlie had protected you both that day because you and Poe were his family, and if he found out that his family never spoke again after the funeral? He’d have been livid.

Guilt and regret now at the forefront of his mind, Poe had lost his appetite. Instead, he found the nearest caf machine before hurrying to the flight deck and climbing in his x-wing eager to get off the ground and clear his head for a few hours.

He spent the rest of the morning thinking about Charlie, his heart tight in his chest.

✨

“I’ve missed you.”

You could hit him, you really could. No one was around, either, you might get away with it. But that would be too easy and not nearly as satisfying as you might hope, you knew.

The audacity of Poe fucking Dameron saying he missed you was so infuriating, you briefly considered violence. But you had grown up with him, knew the way he worked even if it had been a few years. You could hate him and still understand him, which meant that he wanted you to give him a strong reaction that he could confront head-on. Scream and punch and cry and he would instantly work to comfort, to apologize, but it was really just a way to make himself feel better.

You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

You spun away-not before seeing the pained expression cross his face-and hurried off. You figured if you still had such a decent read on him, the same went for Poe. He’d always been able to read you, your body language, expressions, hell Charlie usually went to Poe for help when he couldn’t figure out how to support you, comfort you.

You needed some time alone, time to process and figure out the best way to make this work.

When you were invited by the General herself to come to D’Qar, to work under her ‘top pilot and most trusted Commander’, you hadn't blinked before saying yes. And you’d known that it would mean, inevitably, seeing Poe again-you knew he still worked here. But you’d had no idea until he walked into command that morning that it was his team you were joining.

When you’d been standing with General Organa in the control room, chatting amicably about the weather, the very last thing you’d expected to hear was his booming, rich laugh. And then the doors had opened, a small droid whizzing in, and his laughter continued as he stepped into the room. You had thought you might pass out, throw up, or start screaming.  

With no idea what he was doing there, you had simply stared at him, watched as he reacted to seeing you. Actively working to keep your expression blank, you stared at your once best friend for the first time in years, going numb inside.

In some ways it had been almost comical; he’d frozen mid-step and gaped at you stupidly for a few beats before coming to his senses and continuing forward. And it was at that moment you had realized he was the superior you were meeting. He was the Commander you’d be working under. When he stood directly in front of you, your mind betrayed you by immediately zoning in on one specific thought.

But stars, he’d aged well.

When he finally was able to collect himself enough to wipe the surprise off of his face, it had settled into that easy smile you remembered so well. The one you tried to never think of because of the pain that would build in your chest, the memories and feelings that you had refused to look back on for a very long time now at risk of bursting through your mental walls if you weren’t careful.

Now, that smile revealed a slight crinkling around his eyes, though he hadn’t changed much beyond that. He was just as broad and lean as you remembered, just as handsome and you thought he might be a little more built up, a new layer of muscle moving under his button-up. Charlie would have loved to tease him over the grey flecks you could barely discern in his raven locks, and you suddenly wondered if your brother would have had any grey hair himself.

Those thoughts were fleeting at that moment before fury and sadness and longing were suddenly overtaking you and it was all you could do to remain composed in front of the General when, for the first time in years, you wanted to crumble to the ground. That fucking grin of his, it was always maddening, always so attractive and disarming.

When you were kids, he’d do it to get away with something and even though your parents knew he’d done it, it would work and he’d barely get a slap on the wrist. As teenagers, the strongest memory you had of that grin was one time when he’d climbed into Charlie’s room late at night and your brother wasn’t there-he’d fallen asleep on the couch-so Poe wandered to your room.

You had just gotten out of the fresher, having taken a quick rinse off to cool down, and hadn’t shut the door. Your bedroom door was closed and it was the middle of the night; you hadn’t expected any company. And then Poe just sauntered in, his eyes on your bed where he doubtless thought he’d find you. You had barely had time to freeze, completely naked and mid-stride as you sought a clean nightgown when he seemed to sense you. His head had jerked in your direction in surprise.

That memory forever burned into your mind. The way his eyes had fallen, then snapped up to your face and instead of seeing amusement or a pervy smirk, Poe had slapped his hands over his eyes, cursed, apologized vehemently in a loud whisper, and then he grinned. That grin, just as powerful even though his eyes were covered. It spread across his face and you couldn’t help but laugh despite your embarrassment, quickly throwing on a nightgown before walking over and punching him in the sides a few times, hissing didn’t he know how to knock?

And though you worried it might affect things between you and your best friend, it never did seem to. For you, it did in some ways because you couldn’t seem to get the look on his face (the one that slipped out just before he could properly react and compose himself) out of your head and you wondered what it meant-if anything. He still stayed the night, climbing into your bed, his arms casually behind his head as he laid next to you and told you about his day while never once teasing you.

At one point, when sleep was close, eyes drooping and your cheek resting against his arm, Poe’s soft voice had pulled you from unconsciousness. Barely a whisper, he said, “I really am sorry I came in without knocking, sweetheart. Please forgive me.”

And he’d sounded so concerned, so genuinely stressed that you would be mad at him, you had snuggled closer into his side and murmured your reassurances until eventually, you fell asleep.

Today, however, it was only memories of what that smile used to mean to you and anger for what it was now. That he got to keep that easy fucking grin all these years, it only pissed you off. The logical part of you knew he had been just as surprised to see you and was no doubt struggling himself now, but you didn’t have room to care.

He had been the one to break you, to take your friendship and pulverize it by saying the worst possible things to you.

He had broken you.

That fight hadn’t just been the loss of what you had thought was the greatest friendship in the galaxy. It had been the final moment that took your life from carefree and fun to what it was now, what it had been since. Joyless, lacking, lonely-so fucking lonely.

That had been the night you had to grow up, realizing that not only was Charlie gone, but the life you’d had was too. Gone were the days of adventure, of going on test flights and racing one another, of Poe getting you drinks at the cantina and Charlie sitting with his arm slung casually over your shoulders, until any of you spotted someone who caught your interest. Someone who would only be around for the night but would bring a little pleasure and escape. Charlie was more often the one to go home with such a person, happy to play the field and often making new friends you’d see again, even though he never exclusively dated them.

And the little flare of excitement you’d get each time it was just you and Poe? That had been carefree too because whatever it meant didn’t need to be examined, it just was. Casual touches that lingered and sent heat up your spine, easy and flowing conversation, long hugs even when you’d see each other the next day. All of that had been such a prominent fixture in your life, the slow escalation between you and Poe was something that, to this day, you never tried to understand.

But then Charlie died; everything changed, and you left and never looked back. All the while, Poe Dameron kept grinning like that. Fuck, fuck!

You almost walked straight past your new room, so lost in your thoughts and memories, but thankfully a passing droid greeting you politely pulled to the moment, and you only had to retrace a few steps back. Immense relief washed over you the moment you saw that all of your items had been delivered and unpacked, only a box of mementos and photos left on your desk for you to find new homes for.

Even the bed had been made already. And as much as you wanted to just climb under the covers and shut the world away, you instead set yourself to the task of putting the final touches on your space.

The room was silent save for your occasional gasps and hiccups as you let your emotions run free in the privacy. You proudly displayed the plaque you had been given from the Resistance following Charlie’s funeral; a handsome photo of him in uniform set in the middle, his name inscribed along with his rank, years of life and final resting place on Yavin-4. His flight suit patch was attached to the plaque above the photo, the final touch to a beautiful little tribute to Charlie that you could take with you wherever in the galaxy you went.

The final item you pulled out was a small protective album for photos you displayed in your room. You pulled out the photos, ones of you and Charlie as kids, of your parents, of the whole family plus Poe during one hilariously disastrous little vacation that resulted in all of you returning home and ignoring one another for three days, even Poe. A few from your teen years, early and late, Poe and Charlie usually taking up the most space in the photos between their sizes and huge smiles, and the final photo you had was your absolute favourite.

Smushed between Charlie and Poe, you had a smile on your face that hadn’t been seen in years. It was silly, girlish and youthful and not the person you were anymore. You were looking at the camera, Charlie with his big arm over the top of your shoulders, laughing as he looked toward the camera as well. Poe was looking at you. Giving you a warm smile that you always suspected he only shared with you, one that melted his eyes to pools of warm honey and made your insides wriggle. You remember how his hand burned where he gripped your waist, and you had instinctively traced your hand up his spine in the moment, though you never understood why.  

That photo both broke your heart and made you smile every time you looked at it. The last photo of the three of you together, the three of you happy. A photo that not only showed your love for one another but also hinted at that feeling you never did examine. A photo that revealed that feeling might not have been one-sided, not at all.

When you finished your tidying, you took a seat at your desk and used your data pad to pull up your schedule, curious what the days ahead would look like. Right away you could see no missions in the queue, though that could change in an instant. And as eager as you were to get flying, you knew it would probably be best to spend the next couple of days trying to establish yourself on base, meet the rest of your team, and figure out how you were going to keep a cool head spending so much time working with Poe.

With a heavy sigh, you glanced at the clock and decided a late lunch was in order, hopeful that the weird hour would leave the caf quiet. Although you knew you’d be recognized you did hope to push that off for as long as possible.  

You needed to swallow back your feelings and face the fact that you weren’t just working directly for General Leia. You were back on D’Qar; a planet that Charlie had spent enough time on, even before you joined Gold Squadron, to make lasting friendships and leave an incredible reputation behind after he’d died. You hadn’t been back since the funeral, so it was inevitable that others would be bringing him up, asking after you, where you had disappeared to, why you’d left without saying goodbye to pretty much everyone.

You needed to suck it up because you had a job to do and your work for the Resistance was the only thing anymore that made your life worthwhile. No family, no close friends, no partners, just fighting the fight and being the best damn pilot you could be.

You wondered if Charlie would be proud of you. Of how far you’d come, of the fact that you were now the same rank as he had been before his death. But after seeing Poe today you knew that wouldn’t have entirely been the case, not with how things all ended up.

So, you reasoned with yourself, that meant that you had to work extra hard here on D’Qar to push aside the history between you and your Commander. And actually, indifference and coldness were probably going to be your best assets going forward.

At least you had a game plan.

Taglist

@mermaidxatxheart

@foxilayde

@eleinemk

@paintballkid711

@mylifeisactuallyamess

@20th-centu-fairy-girl

[captainkurosolaire]

~ Mass Update ~

Mainly going into future plans and intents alongside ideas below cut.

Ton's of things I've in store this will prove difficult to vent it all out. But here we go... First off rehashing and appropriately learning to tag and organize things better on my blog. Each category will have their own corresponding content, I seek to bring or share. [Tales of Goldbrand] -- I intend this to carry a Compendium of all my writes soon that'll have everything neatly in-order including a glossary, so it'll have highlights of stories that even matter or the best stuff. I've written here for a very, long time, there's been many shifts. I want to make it more accessible. While coloring what matters for people who want to learn Captain or his Crew with less chapters. While also giving choice to find it all easily. This is essentially a step-above master-lists. I'll be doing that after the Saga I have going on, right now is done. [Captain] -- Will provide you strictly with Captain screenshots, gifs, photo-sets. This is still his blog despite the Crew thing's will sort of make this a scuffed Multi-Muse blog. I've few more things to edit and tag fix to get all his stuff though. [The Wild Crew] -- Afterwards this story is done Immortal Age Saga, It's something that I mainly wrote as a passion project within three days to get my warm-up process fixed. It's to allow me to get a feel for all his Crewmates and casts, in combat, in-general, to feel their presences. While also giving a bit of their backstories. At any point, I can go back and polish or tweak things in. They're NPC's but... not entirely. All will have their own 'Dreams' and their own 'Disapproval's' they have their own missions even. These things will factor eventually, they might set seeds, to betray or disagree with something, but that's all angst and more stories to be created, but overall, they'll probably always be Crew, eventually. -- I plan on making character-profile sheets of them and putting them in this Tab, it'll have their screenshots, their likes/dislikes. Some RP partners or people can also be shipped with them, but they'll all be monogamous and originally start off probably Pan. This allows them to figure out what they like on their own stories. I've always been someone who likes organic-flow. Although this one story contain all 16 characters or more, the rest will probably be shortened to a Squad of 4 and dispersed when on adventuring missions. Until I do a War Arc, that's my main goal to build too. [Roster] -- Will contain this Crew in just screen-sets dedicated to them, I'll probably randomly produce those. I've PC players among this Crew too. I may not be done either adding more, but this Crew is mainly built around Quality. Most pirate crew's mainly, have hundreds, thousands. Even Fleets. This Crew has personalities, monsters, people who are living life's that exist with piracy. He's an particular leader that had PC players the same way, he's had split-personality serial killers aboard, tribal chieftains, succubus, all sorts of various people once on a Crew. It's often an outcast style, pirates default are chaotic in nature, so this really isn't any different, it's a Fantasy version of it. There's humanization characters aboard too though, so this cast is really decked, everything and person is vital, they matter because they remind or covet something that others can draw upon. If ever played (Three Houses or Mass Effect / Dragon Age Origins) A lot of things like that are relatable too this structure and format. Which, Is something I want to be able to give when RPing. I want a genuine feel of this new world someone else's muse will be the main-character too. Depending on what's interacting everything they'll be scale appropriately to follow the genre they're in and environment even. [Aesthetics] -- Already explainable what you'll find here. [Asks] -- Same thing. [Prompts] -- Trivial things I was tagged too, I plan on compiling later. [Writing] -- Another alternatively to randomly go-down and it works right now. [Logs] -- Will have more individualistic master-lists and posts there, my poems from Sheik Sphere the Bard, etc.

Things of that nature, I'll probably add still. It's where a lot of my creative writing is summed. [Gems of Hydaelyn] -- My main #tag for other characters and artists, creationist. Lot of amazing people easily to find their zones or follow them optionally if you like. Ton's I intend to support and bolster, be a lot less unspoken. I'm never the type who's been strictly inclusive. But I'll do that when I've time to even explore the dash, I'm always still planning ahead with things and projects. [CKS] My original character-sheet it's outdated on something's but not too terrible. I'll give him polishing someday, I swear? [21+F-List] -- Just purely degenerate stuff of Captain. I'm a pirate blog. I will represent that with openness and furthermore. I'm never projecting you some false-image. I started off a smut-writer by stripping that, I no-longer represent the same aura and identity. But those are strictly his stuff and kinks, I'm effective in executing them but they're not all relatable to me OOC. This blog will always be 18+ containing crude or dark material sometimes, romantic things, this Captain is blunt, will literally put his cock on the table in conversations. Swearing and being censored would be too uncommon and displace most of him, but there's more about him then all this. [Other] -- I pay homage to a lot of characters, I originally am a Concept Designer. Which mean's I make characters and ideas like my addiction. Bad characters / villains or other little things I like to share in designs, I'll put there. Some villains might get little photo-sets, even if they died. Just cause I like their design, or maybe I'll give them an AU, where they won. When I've wrapped up things. [Collabs + Ships] -- Is a new project idea. This isn't going to be something limited too romantic only ships. It'll contain, platonic, romantic, friendships, rivals, frenemies, family, PC Crew, all ships. I am desperately working on improving my gif, screenshot, posing game so I can supply 'Screen Stories' this is not only a way to RP that's accessible with even people who are upon time-crunches from work, It gives visual-representation. To impactful stories shared with others and establish bonds. That are all-valid and impactful matter. Lot of people take a lot of their characters attributes into them and are them dialed up, I work with that and bit more, differently. I'm disconnected from my characters and they'll get hurt and injured and killed by me, that's my duty as their Author to give them conflicts and struggles. I'm their major antagonist, but that doesn't mean at-all, it's always SET that way. The characters I like to make have their own life, they live in this setting and are abide by it, they're often nothing, nobodies, and by the interacting with others, they slowly gradually building, more... Through emotional impacts, they alter, these are REAL people by all their beliefs. Each person they come in-contact with are legitimate and treated like that too. They've always impacted or given them insights to grow, or represent more. Otherwise it'd be criminally disrespectful if I allowed any emotional I felt OOC be the grudge to something IC. Captain in-particular is set on defying me. I cannot have that. ...But I can't stop him. He's met and encountered so many people and lived so many scenarios based on the actions of others, he's giving a chance right now to actually do things a lot further than impossible. The more people he meets and encounters, experiences, the more I lose. These stories are emotionally interactive where everything is a factor and adds to the dice, where the other people are the one who get to roll the dice for him, not me. That's something I want to color in. People range in emotions, they have their down's, ups, their own wholesome-grounding people, spending time with your favorite people, there's nothing more cherishing than that, being in your own comfort-zone or 'safe-space' these are all treasures that we live under, today. Contrary if what people assume of me, I'm not another 'blogger' that's came

before, who's wanting to force a harem, then constantly is bewildered when that falls to pieces cause of selfishness or a lack of communication, or the skeletons they have in their closets and beliefs they hid behind and swindled fooled everyone. I'm not looking to be popular or anything really, I just create stories and want to share in those, and I want to also boost others included, upward with me, especially those who make me. There's no ego in anything I do, this is purely love. I've never cared about being replicated or duplicated, I've had stalkers, I've gone through more then anyone would imagine, I've been used OOC and abused, just for my writing and cold-harshly told, i'd never amount to anything other then that or vice-versa. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Passion. That's all I got and am anymore. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Passion is the hardest thing to keep. It's something that can be stolen, quite effortlessly. Few words of discouragement, a bad negative representation, a lack of confidence, or small amount of time, there's many thing's that can put that flame out. Once you lose it. The difficulty to reattain is hundred-times harder than climbing any mountain for real. I've watched the greatest creators crumble from under the pressure, from beaten down by others. I watched many of them do it to themselves because they put a grand vision of needing validation of another and once lost, felt uncompelling to press onward. But passion also can be given BACK and drawn. It can be shown and encourage others, with a soft-triggering, that pushes them. That motivates, that constantly sticks to it. There are many that fuel me. If I ever quit, I let them down, I spit in the faces of people who're better than me in every-way. Or people who've came and given me their precious Time. That have given their character's or dedication to the abundant stories and community-driven things I've done. There's ONLY things you can do, create, give and provide. It cannot ever come to life without YOU. This is a fact. ...I swear, If you let your creativity soar, you'll be amazed by the heights you get. Constantly polish and learn and hone the best you, challenge yourself day after painstaking day, to draw better improvement on something, no matter how trivial or unfamiliar you are. You'll find a confidence only you can give yourself. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Future Plans --------------------------------------------------------------------- For me, I've got so much more stories to give and also explore, I might be taking up soon some other artists and more skilled people from community and hire them for some of my future writes, to up my game or cause something thing's can't be done in-game cause no background carries it. I also got a lot of-set up things and more angst stuff I want to practice, plus I'm adamantly on that grind to produce screen-sets with the intent's to some sort of improving daily. Additionally more people I'll be reaching out too soon for these collab's ideas and things. I look forward to shaking your hands, giving some hugs, show you my respect and admiration, then creating some enchanting stories and giving plots light. Feel free to reach out to me, I get scattered-brain but I'm working on getting better about it. Eventually will get to you though, my goals, if uninterested just say so when I poke, no bites, unless you kinky. Anyways, cheers hearties.

[gffa]

I know I've brought this up before, but how much of the fandom reception of the prequels do you think stemmed from the genre dissonance? That the prequels, genre-wise, are closer to high fantasy, while the OT is more an adventure/space western/underdog triumph story.

The prequels also have elements more reminiscent of a romantic period/court drama/Shakespearean tragedy, while if you consider the underdog angle of the OT, the OT also seems kinda similar to some of those inspirational movies about sports teams or something, or a shonen anime with the "Power of Friendship".

I'm just saying, these are rather disparate genres that tend to attract different demographics of people.

And not many people tend to be... great about understanding why they don't like something, much less putting it into words, or understanding that they can dislike something without that something being actually bad. (For example, instead of "I just don't really like [thing]," the usual statement is something along the lines of "[thing] absolutely sucks.")

So the usual response is trying to find (and gather) solidarity while putting down or being condescending towards any dissent, and trying to justify their own dislike. (*gestures vaguely towards pineapple on pizza*)

And historically, it's not uncommon for people to... react strongly towards things they find... different or abnormal, which they judge based on themselves, their emotional response to something, and what they're used to.

Looking at kids, this behavior is... fairly normal. "You're weird," "ew, why do you like that, that's gross," "that's stupid," and so on. A lot of kids/teens/young adults also get defensive really easily. And let's face it--adults are basically just older, taller kids who've had to deal with more of life.

(To be honest, I also get defensive really easily. A lot of people do, and it's... it's normal. The defensive reaction can be lashing out, denial, or just being passive-aggressive or staying silent and tuning it out or mentally rolling your eyes at it. But I'm trying to work on it, because just because it's normal doesn't mean it's a good reaction.)

So, what I'm wondering is whether some fans dislike the prequels simply because it's a different genre...

...but instead of realizing that, they try to defend and justify their dislike by pointing fingers and criticizing whatever stood out or looked different from the OT or cherry-picking details/taking things out of context or making negative conflations (that can be refuted).

Because it's not about logic, it's about how they feel. And people want to feel justified and validated, and we want to feel like we're right and we enjoy staying in our comfort zones. So... yeah. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

LOL, okay, this response is going to be really disjointed because I went off in like a dozen different tangents and even then it's not enough to cover everything, so just kind of read this in a Scattered Thoughts Nerd kind of tone, where I'm staring off into the distance because Navel Gazing Gets Me Going Sometimes. 😂 In my experience, it's sort of a mix. I don't hang around a lot of people who dislike the prequels (in the sense of dismissing them/not being fannish about them) because, well, that's the heart of my interest in Star Wars, so our areas of interest basically don't really overlap that much, so I don't have a chance to talk to a lot of people and find out their reasons or even how they dislike the prequels, in the bigger trends of fandom. I do think there's an element of what you're talking about, that sometimes people can't just dislike things because it's not their genre of choice, that's absolutely a part of it. Mostly because that's how a lot of people react to anything they don't like (and it's something I and literally everyone else has to work on), there has to be a reason for it that it's objectively bad and, like, I have experienced a lot of people getting mad because I like something in a different way than they do. And I don't mean just in Star Wars fandom, but in almost any given fandom--if someone likes something in a way someone else doesn't, if they talk loudly about it (even within their own space), then there's always a contingent of people who have to find a reason why that person is objectively wrong (or even try to make them morally wrong), rather than just shrugging and going, "We see things differently, my view on things doesn't overwrite theirs and their view on things doesn't overwrite mine." It gets more complicated in instances where fandom attitudes genuinely can be hurtful, especially when they're overlapping into the way real people are treated, likes/dislikes don't 100% exist in a bubble, especially when it comes to queer fans, fans of color, disabled fans, mentally ill fans, etc. But that there are a lot of instances where fandom culture has always been--and is increasingly so--contentious and it's hard to chill out when someone is always screaming at you, when the atmosphere of the fandom is always so intense. Further, there's also an element of how fandom has always been--and also is increasingly so--about personal resonance, personal emotional investment, interpretation, and meaning. That sometimes we identify with something so deeply that we feel attacked when someone else likes or dislikes something we feel so strongly about, something that we feel is a reflection of ourselves, and I see a lot of that as well. And this, too, often crosses over into lines of how the context of how we treat characters can be reflections of how we treat real world people, but that there's no monolith here as well. For example: I make fun of Anakin, this angers some people, because how dare I not take this fictional victim 100% seriously, despite that I have repeatedly said that Anakin is the character I most identify with, that things I make fun of him for are ones that I resonate with personally. I'm not disrespecting mentally ill people, especially considering that Anakin is not bound to a single interpretation on this front--he is not canonically mentally ill, no matter how easy it is for us in fandom to map much of that onto his character or, in my case, feel that so much of what I see in him are things I struggle with myself. By and large, the majority of the people I see (at least on tumblr) who make fun of Anakin are doing so within the same vein, that they're being silly about him on things that they personally relate to. (My experiences on this are not universal, I cannot speak for the whole of even any one part of fandom, only my own sphere of experience, but this is what I've seen.) As always, it's fine if someone doesn't vibe with my style or they find that it's not their thing because they do take him more seriously, but that preference does not make my jokes

suddenly not have the context that I relate a lot to what I see in Anakin. In contrast, the way some of the fandom treats Mace or Finn isn't just personal all the time. Not liking their characters isn't inherently racist, but the way they're consistently, consistently treated sure as hell speaks to a larger pattern of racism in fandom and doesn't come without that context. It's the same with Rey--is there a huge vein of misogyny when it comes to her character? Abso-fucking-lutely there is. Things Luke and Anakin get a pass on, Rey is raked over the coals for. Is everyone who dislikes Rey a misogynist? Not even close. Some don't like her because Finn was used as a prop for her story. Some people don't like her because she got sucked into Kylo Ren's story too much. Some just don't care for the way she was written for other reasons. Some just don't vibe with her. It's fine. Nothing is a monolith. And to circle this back around to what you're talking about--it's hard to judge, both because no part of fandom is a monolith in their reactions, but also because we're only hearing from a selection of the fans. How do you know how many people who aren't fans of the prequels, who just don't care for them because it's not their genre, but just go about their day? You don't hear from a lot of them because they moved on to things they do like, so it seems like they must not exist--except, they do, and they're just out there doing things they like more. We only hear from the people who feel the need to tell others they dislike the prequels for this reason or that reason, some valid, some less valid, etc. Ultimately, I do think there's probably a fair amount of genre dissonance for why people dislike the prequels and channel that into "they're objectively bad" and get defensive when people like them and say they were great, but only because that's true of anything anywhere. But that it's only one small slice of the bigger picture (and there's a lot of stuff that I had to eschew in the writing of this response as well because it can be a pretty sprawling topic), where there are tons of reasons and reactions that people have, as well as they're perfectly free to dislike the prequels for whatever reason they do or don't have, it doesn't really affect my opinions, unless they're trying to shove it in my face or are being a dick to those who disagree with them.

[light-yaers]

Prompt idea:

I only like pain, so: something along the lines of “werewolf” by fiona apple. Where Din and Mando have somewhat of a stable relationship but he cuts it off when he takes Grogu as a foundling.

But then he comes back after Luke takes Grogu to train him, and asks for forgiveness. You choose if they get back together or not.

As I said, I like reading sad things lolol

Love your writing too!💜

OP said let’s get angsty. With how angst chapter 7 of No Saints is, let’s continue the train, shall we?

Tatooine Heat - Din Djarin x Reader

You were used to the heat on Tatooine now. It’d been several years of the same grind, the mid-morning heat that singed at your skin, and the sand that littered your entire body; but it was the closest thing to home you’d ever had.

So was he.

He’d stop by occasionally at first, landing his ship in Peli’s bay only to immediately be stubborn about her worker droids. You’d worked with the frizzy haired mechanic since you’d first landed on Tatooine, indulging in the way she always knew how to bite back at the monotonous words of the Mandalorian. He never stayed long; just enough to have his falling apart ship put back together again, to mosey into town on another hunt, and then fly off again.

You’d been tongue tied at first, too afraid to speak to the man with no face, but soon those little attempts as small talk turned into something more. Living on a desolate and harsh world, dealing with the thieves, the grease, the heat; it all seemed to disappear into the background with every conversation you had with him.

He called you by name, which you’d been told was an utter rarity for him. Occasionally, he brought you small trinkets from off-world, small jars of native rocks, a dried flower from the fields of Naboo, a stolen solid-gold wrench that he’d swiped from Canto Bight.

“This thing weighs a tonne, Mando,” You said, lifting the heavy wrench with both hands. You smiled at him, letting out a scoff.

“Sell it then,” He hit back with. His voice was still stern, still reserved, almost as if it was uncommon for him to show anything emotional within his tone. But you’d be lying if you didn’t relish in the small moments that he let it through; the tilt of his helmet, a subtle breathy laugh bursting from his modulator, an extra second of his gloved hand on your hand while he shook it goodbye.

“Please, this is a gift. I wouldn’t do that,” You replied, tracing your finger over the Canto Bight seal on the handle. Mando looked at the soft way you touched it, following your gentle fingers as they propped and swiped over the gold. Stars, it was the most expensive thing you’d ever owned-- touched. It was the most expensive thing you’d ever touched.

“I don’t know why they make solid-gold tools if no one can lift them,” He said, the hint of amusement on his lips at watching you struggle with it in your hands. You perked a brow at him.

“This will act as a reminder for me to do more heavy lifting, until I can eventually use this on the Razor Crest when you come back,”

Come back. You always wanted him to come back.

Mando nodded once, letting out a small huff in approval. “I look forward to the next time the Crest needs a hull repair,” Stars, you’d be lying if your heart hadn’t flipped beneath your ribcage. You nodded back at him, shooting him a soft smile and choosing to ignore the rising blush on your cheeks.

You placed the wrench back in your small quarters, fiddling with the angle it sat on your tiny desk space. It wasn’t a lot, but Peli had taken you in. It was home, and you liked it. The smell of smoke in the air, the slick of grease on your fingers and the satisfying way it swiped onto your overalls. It was enough.

You indulged then, peering out at the courtyard while Mando waited for you to return. He stood stoically, tracing his visor around the bay and fiddling with his gloved fingers. For a moment, just that moment, he was alone. You saw the way he’d slumped his shoulder slightly, the way he wasn’t holding himself up at full capacity, the almost human way that his hips seemed to curve beneath his Beskar.

Stars, it was a sight that you looked forward to every few months; it was one that you patiently waited for every time he left again. Though, recently, he had been returning more often. It was becoming common for the Mandalorian to return to Tatooine once or twice a month now, and stars-- you weren’t complaining.

Maybe you were picking at straws, but the way he treated you was different. Different to Peli, different to anyone else on the planet, different for him. Stars, he brought you gifts. Was that a common thing to do on Mandalore? You doubted it.

You inhaled sharply, striding out of your quarters and back to towards him. You wiped your hands on your overalls, flicking some sweat soaked hair out of your face. That was something you had to live with on Tatooine; the salt, the sweat, the way your face was always covered in the stuff while you worked. It was no matter-- you wanted to guess that Mando had seen people in a much worse state.

“It’s on my desk now. Will probably gather dust before I can put it to good use, but there’s no way I’m letting anyone else touch it,” You chuckled. Mando regarded you for a few seconds, keeping his visor on your face. You gasped slightly-- was he looking you up and down beneath his helmet? He could do that, couldn’t he? Not move his head, but just trickle his eyes over you as you stood right in front of him while you were none the wiser.

You cleared your throat, slotting your hands into your overalls, until he finally shuffled on his feet. “Thank you, Mando. It’s a lovely gift,” You said, and you meant it. You laced sincerity within your voice tenfold, trying to get across what it truly meant to have him visit you, bring you these gifts, give you his company, without actually spilling everything you wanted to.

“You’re... welcome,” He said hesitantly. It was like he’d never been thanked before. It only made your heart pang for him. “I’ll be going,” He finished, and you perked up, walking round to the ramp of the Razor Crest with him. He strode onto the ramp, cape fluttering behind him in the Tatooine wind-- but he stopped before he reached the inside.

His back was turned to you, his shoulders tense and raised, his fists clenched, before he abruptly turned round and strode back to you. Stars, you panicked a bit, not used to seeing him like this; unpredictable, almost pained. You raised your hands to your chest in some attempt at defence, not knowing if this man was about to hug you or kill you--

But he did neither.

He grasped your forearms within his large leather gloved hands, tugging you towards him quickly, until you almost slammed into his Beskar clad chest. You were speechless as the breath caught in the back of your throat, as his helmet descended towards your ear slowly.

“Don’t let Peli touch it,” The wrench, he was talking about the fucking wrench. “It’s yours. I got it for you,”

All too soon, he was striding back into the Razor Crest, leaving you down below on the brink of throwing up your heart. Mando smashed the ramp controls, and it slowly began to rise. He stared at you, soaking in your red face, your sweat lined forehead and mess of overalls, unwavering until the ramp had fully ascended. He was encased in metal two times over.

You watched the Razor Crest fly away, praying to some god out there that he wouldn’t die before you got to see him again.

He didn’t come back that month.

He didn’t return with a crumbling ship, or his stoic stance, or his subtle chuckles. He didn’t bring you little trinkets, or get to see the way you could finally use the fucking solid-gold wrench--

He was gone. Like a blip in the stars, meshed in with all of the hundreds of billions of beings that lay beyond your tiny, desolate planet. You didn’t know if he was alive or dead, and stars, your nights were left sleepless; staring at your ceiling, not being able to hold back the tears of the fear and the worry and the fucking pain that bombarded you without the stability of his frequent visits.

As much as you tried to block him out, he plagued you. You saw the glint of his Beskar whenever you strode through the market, the swoosh of him unsheathing his blaster when you heard gunshots at night. You scrubbed at your greasy and sand grated skin in the fresher every evening, trying desperately to forget the way his hands had wrapped around your forearms, your fingers, or the way his cape whipped at you subtly whenever you strode next to each other.

You were foolish to ever find hope within his visits. You were foolish to feel this way about a faceless man, a fucking Mandalorian, a goddamn bounty hunter, who you’d only seen every so often over the course of seven months. You counted the times you’d actually met him on your fingers; twelve. Twelve fucking times.

And you were all but dying at the thought of him never coming back.

There was a time when you believed that he might ask you to go with him. It entered your mind one night, after he’d brought you back that dried flower so many months before. Stars, you all but gushed when he’d given it to you, not knowing how or where to place yourself.

And once again-- he’d taken time to converse with you about the job you’d done fixing the Crest; how you had a mechanic touch that he’d never seen, how he had no idea how you made it all look so new and seamless-- so you.

“So... you,” He’d muttered, before tilting his helmet in your direction. He nodded once upon seeing you were lost for words, before depositing a hand on your lower back and slowly pushing you forward, towards another part of the ship.

You could have punched yourself then, as you fisted your hair in an attempt to shut your brain down. It’d been three months, three entire months without seeing him, without knowing if he was alive or dead, and you were clutching at straws as you tried to stay sane. 

The tears came then, thick and fast as you tried desperately to expel your hurt about him just leaving like that; not asking you to go with him, not coming back for you, not caring at all. 

Well, he is a Mandalorian. 

Yes, he is. 

Peli had definitely noticed your slump, as soon as you’d realised he wasn’t coming back. As much as she teased him, she was fond of Mando all the same. Any attempt she gave to sooth you only fell flat, as you all but rejected her support in favour of simply overworking yourself into the ground, until your fingers bled and your palms were worn away, like you’d been wiping them on sandpaper for three months straight. 

Just as it was starting to ease, as the hole in heart was starting to heal after so long-- almost a fucking year-- the spluttering engines of the Razor Crest descended upon Peli’s bay on Tatooine. 

You ceased to breathe, staying in your quarters as you watched it hit the ground, as your limbs all but stopped working. Peli shot you a saddened look, before wiping her hands of grease and approaching the ramp of the ship while you stayed back, watching from afar. 

When he stepped out, your eyes overflowed. There he was; all glinting Beskar and stoic stances and silent words. Peli conversed with him quietly, sending glances towards you in your quarters, subtly breaking down as not knowing what the fuck to do--

Until you pulled yourself together. As much as you wanted to bombard him, to hug him, to tell him how much you missed him; you felt betrayed. You felt abandoned, and stars, what a foolish thing to feel for a mechanic on Tatooine. No family, no close friends besides your boss, imagining a life with a murderous Mandalorian. Bullshit. 

You wiped away your tears, striding out of your quarters as you shot daggers at Mando, wiping your hands aggressively upon your overalls. Mando and Peli stopped speaking when you approached them, brows stern, frown donned, hurt raging beneath your skin. 

“Damage to the left of the hull,” You spoke up. “Right engine is on its last legs, and I can already tell that the hydraulics are shot to shit,” 

“You--,” Mando began, letting the shock of seeing you again consume you. “You’re still here,” You could have fucking laughed, or cried. 

Yes, I’m still here. Because you didn’t take me with you. 

“Where else would I fucking be?” It was the first time you’d sworn in front of him, besides the odd kriff. It was only a indication of your seething anger, and Mando immediately took a small step back. You could tell he was gulping beneath his helmet. You could tell he was feeling your stare.

“No droids, I know,” You let out, before you pushed past him intentionally, making your way inside the Crest to start working. 

You worked tirelessly, ignoring the way Mando and Peli caught up after his many months away, ignoring the way Mando slowly walked back into his ship after popping into town. With every thud of his boots, you bit harder on the screwdriver placed between your teeth, focusing solely on fixing the inner hydraulics while the days heat was at its worst. 

Mando dropped himself down in the hull, on top of an old box of supplies. His stare burned into the back of your neck, making your hairs stand on end immediately. He didn’t let up, overseeing the muscles beneath your shirt as you reached to tie a cable or screw a nail back in place. 

Stars, it was getting to you now-- until you snapped. 

“What?” You let out abruptly, turning to look at him from your knelt position. He was silent after your outburst, until the fucker had the audacity to laugh. He let out a single modulated chuckle, and stars, you didn’t fucking like it. 

You scoffed, biting down on your lip while you went back to working. Your fingers were trembling now, though, as his stare was becoming unbearable. 

“Your hair grew,” He said quietly. Your heart catapulted into your throat. You stopped moving completely, not knowing what the fuck to say, or do. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

You clamped your eyes shut, feeling the overwhelming sensation to start crying again. You knew he could see right through you, could see the way your shoulders were slowly starting to shake and convulse as you tried not to overflow. 

“A year,” Was all you could let out. And it was pathetic. Fluttering into the air as you pushed the sadness to the back of your throat, your voice sounded weak. It sounded stupid. 

You heard Mando rise, slowly walking over to where you knelt on the floor, feet jutting from your bottom, overalls tied at your waist and tank top soaked through with sweat. He lowered himself to your level, and stars, when he reached out to grab your chin and direct your eyes to his visor, you burst--

The tears came thick and fast, covering your entire face as you wept into his large gloved palm. He didn’t move, bar pulling you closer to him as you let out aching, wracking sobs. He was utterly silent, and you wondered if he was trying not to let out his own sadness. 

“I thought you were dead,” You finally let out, as your tears cascaded to the hull of the Crest. “I thought you were fucking dead, Mando--,”

“I know,” He said in reply, through clenched teeth. Stars, he was torn up. Just as torn up as you. “I couldn’t come back. I couldn’t put you and Peli in that amount of danger,” You looked to his visor, searching desperately for his eyes, despite knowing it was useless.

“What happened?” You asked, and Mando’s grip on you tightened. He brought his other hand to rest upon your thigh, squeezing it as the tears continued to fall down your face. He gulped sadly beneath his helmet, but you saw the pain he felt in the way his head tilted to the floor. 

“Things got complicated. I couldn’t come back and risk you--,” He stopped to let out a shaky breath. “Risk you being in the firing line of my rash choices,” 

You let out another sob, clamping your eyes shut as you tried to calm yourself down. Mando only waited; he waited with you, one hand securely on your thigh and the other cradling your cheek in his palm. You swiped your hand up to his wrist, clutching on for dear life as your fingers snagged upon the fabric of his gloves, revealing the tiniest section of his actual skin. 

Mando audibly hissed, but he didn’t move. He was frozen in place, reeling from a simple touch of your finger against his bare skin. 

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” You let out quietly, as the last of your tears dried. “I’ve missed you, Mando,” You said confidently, simply relishing in the fact that you were talking to him again after so long. The hope of him taking you with him had been just a dream; something constructed to give you a small break from the reality of your life. You wouldn’t indulge in it any longer. 

“I... I was planning on asking you something, way back then,” He said tentatively. “Before shit hit the fan,” He let out a forced chuckle, and stars, he was nervous. This was the first time you’d ever heard him be this way, this open, this tentative. 

Your face softened, as he took a few seconds to collect himself, pushing the words out in his classic modulated drawl--

“Come with me,” 

With those three words, your body set alight--

But this time, it wasn’t from the Tatooine heat.

Oh, OP. Thank you for this. I indulged. I loved writing this. THANK YOU!

Send prompts to my ask box!

[ghostwriterofthemachine]

Purest Expression of Grief {haj dai}

Order 66 happens.

Cal goes quiet, Kanan thinks too much, and Ahsoka can never go back.

(Or; three children and a dying language, after they've seen their people die.) (AO3 link!)

Cal knows the Empire can track people when they use the Force. He hears it whispered about on street corners, broadcasted over the holoscreens in bars.

He doesn’t know how they do it, though. And, more terrifyingly, doesn’t know what else they can track.

There is a screaming, hysterical place inside him, irrational but un-ignorable, which is convinced that the Empire can reach into people’s minds and tear thoughts right out of them. That, if he thinks the wrong thing too loud or too often, he will bring the Empire down onto him.

This is impossible, he tells himself. But then again, he also thought it was impossible to see his friends gun down his Master.

So Cal forces himself to only think in Basic.

It isn’t hard to talk only in Basic, though he misses the curl of his lips over his other tongue more than he thought possible. But to think only in Basic is a constant, conscious choice.

Sometimes he slips up, and he clamps down on his shields and moves away from where he was standing. His heart races in his chest.

The last words his Master said to him echo in his dreams and they are not in Basic. He doesn’t want to think about those words, either. He has other things he needs to worry about.

There are very few kind people, here. And Cal is small and alone.

(He wonders if his Master would have done the same thing he did, had he known there was no one left to rescue Cal. The last thought in his Master’s mind had been of the council sending someone to scoop Cal up, safe and sound, bundle him away someplace warm — Cal can feel that from his lightsaber. But there is no one left to rescue him, and Cal’s Master had thrown him someplace cold and rainy and unsafe. There’s no one left to take care of him, not that Cal needs much taking care of, anymore.)

(Would he have made the same decision, if he knew Cal would be alone?)

His Master’s last words haunt him, in that language-which-is-not-Basic. He doesn’t think about those, either. Doesn’t think about at all.

The alone part makes him vulnerable on this planet, but the small part makes him useful. He’s not old enough to be a full member of any guild, but there’s always plenty of pickup work for the mice, as they’re called, in a scrapyard. Narrow heads and shoulders to fit up into places no one else could fit.

It keeps him fed, and Cal keeps his head down. Days start to creep by.

Today, there's a new worker on their rotation, and his Basic is thickly accented.

And he says Cal’s name differently, rounds out the vowel — “Khal,” he calls, “Little mouse, you are small, come here, get up into tiny spaces, come on, up-up—”

And it freezes Cal where he stands because— that’s almost right. That’s almost how you’d say his name in not-Basic, in that other thing he refuses to think about.

He hears those last words from Master Tepal’s mouth — “ Padawan kat fehl, netana, paikawaji uu dai” —  and for a sudden, dizzying moment, that is all he can hear.

He must freeze in place for a second too long, because someone calls to him again.

“Hey, Cal, buddy,” and Cal hates how he jumps. It’s Prauf, with the kind eyes, who seems to have decided that Cal needs looking after. “Cal, you okay there?”

Cal shakes his head to clear it. He can still hear the words whispering, but ignores them.

“Haj dai, Jaieh,” he says, going for reassuring, already moving towards where the new worker pointed him.

Prauf says, “What?” and he sounds so baffled that Cal turns back to him.

“What do you mean, what?”

“What did you just say to me?”

“I said ‘Yes, Prauf.’”

“No you didn’t. You said haz —” Prauf twists his mouth around the words, and then gives up on saying the rest. “And, yeah, you called me something, what’s Jai—”

“I didn’t say anything like that,” Cal bites. He sounds strangled, even to his own ears. “I said ‘Yes, Prauf,’ that’s what I said.”

Prauf, to his credit, raises his hands in acquiescence. “Okay, okay kid, that’s what you said.”

The new worker, who Cal doubts understood much of the conversation, chimes in with a high voice and a wave of his arms. “Yes, yes, very good, we all talk Khal out, all friends now, so if little mouse pleases, could he climb up into tiny space?”

Cal turns away from Prauf and pretends his heart isn’t trying to escape his chest as he pulls himself up into the gap between a ship’s wall and what used to be part of the thrusters. He’s got pliers clutched in between his teeth, and is biting a little more than necessary.

He’s expecting troopers to grab his legs, yank him out, put a blaster to his head. He’s imagining the words floating up and dissolving into the Force, of his Jaieh tilting a disappointed eyebrow at him.

He bites down on his language, and schools his thoughts into Basic.

.

Kanan is working with a decent crew, right now. He signed on for a few milk run missions as general muscle and a gun, which should give him enough credits for basics and some wiggle room. They seem like a decent lot, and Kanan doesn’t mind working with them

Except.

Well, except the Pilot’s name is Caleb . And it is messing with Kanan’s head .

“Hey, pass this to Caleb up on the bridge?” says Maleek, their mechanic and general tech guy. They’re holding a holo chip of something, probably maps.

Kanan hates how much he falters, how his first instinct is to laugh and say, “I’m right here.”

“Sure thing.” He smiles and takes the chip, then starts making his way towards the front of the ship.

Honestly, he’s got no idea how this hasn’t happened sooner. “Caleb” isn’t an uncommon name. It’s one that’s used on so many planets that it doesn’t really have a planet of origin.

But it makes his body feel as if it’s peeling in two, future and past, twisting like soft dough, to hear it spoken in his presence like that.

“Agisti, ” says the laughing Padawan he has buried deep within him, “tumi mikah Caleb!”

“Kanan!” Pilot Caleb says, grinning as he spins around in his seat. “What can I do for you, buddy?”

“Take this off my hands.” He slumps himself into Kanan, gunslinger, wanderer, shit-talker. He flips the chip to the pilot whose name he didn’t want to think of, and ducks out of the cockpit as fast as possible.

The community on this ship is incredible. Or, maybe, it is average, and Kanan has been alone for long enough that it seems incredible.

And, even more surprising, they all seem to actually like him. Maleek fixes his blaster without being asked and Pilot Caleb keeps trying to get him into games of cards, the other guns and muscle jostle him in a friendly way when they pass him in the halls, and the captain says things about needing to help Kanan upgrade his armor, as if he’s going to stick around.

Kanan bites his tongue and pretends he doesn’t want to stick around. He can’t.

He can’t trust anyone. He can’t rely on anyone, can’t get comfortable anywhere. He needs to keep moving.

Trust is easily shattered. Nothing is certain.

He remembers his Master telling him about how important that was, how important it was to remember that nothing was certain, except the Force. That even their word for ‘yes,’ so concrete and decisive in Basic, gave room for ambiguity— “Force Wills,” the Jedi said.

He can hear the giggling of younglings in the creche  — “Will you clean up the paint, little one?”

“Haj dai!” Force wills.

“So why aren’t you doing that now?” “Force says no!”

Then squealing laughter, as the child is picked up and hugged and tickled. For being clever enough to make that connection, but silly enough to not help.

Nothing is concrete, nothing is certain, except the Force. And now Kanan doesn’t even have that to believe in.

“Will I ever see you again?” he shouts to the woman in her dreams, who commands him to run, who saves him and condemns him and gives him his new name.

“Force wills,” she says, and it’s a lie and isn’t. Because she doesn’t say yes.

So Kanan cut his own braid and renamed himself and soldered ( ha ) on.  

He needs to walk away from these people, he realizes. He can’t stay, no matter how much he wants to. He can’t bring danger on them. He can’t let them be killed because he is found.

In a ten-days time, the Pilot Caleb and Maleek and their caption will say, “Stay, Kanan.”

And he will want to say “ Yes .” Haj dai.  

Force wills.

He will run away again.

(ibli kanan )

.

Ahsoka has gotten here too late.

There aren’t that many Jedi left to rescue, though that’s something Ahsoka tries not to think about too much. Most of the ones who escaped the initial purge were hunted down in the very, very early days of the Empire, before there was enough structure in the Rebellion to even think about helping them. Ahsoka survived it by not being a Jedi. Well. That and Rex.

They’re always too late, with Jedi, if they even know at all. The Empire and the Inquisitors, always a step ahead. Always.

As Fulcrum, Ahsoka’s jobs keep her away from the front lines. She works in intel. She works in running messages. She works with refugees.

She’d been closest, when they heard the distress call. And, though Ahsoka would never admit it, part of her jumped and stood upright at the idea of saving a Jedi. Seeing another Jedi. Speaking to them.

But she’s gotten here too late.

The crumpled form of a Duros is all that is left of the Inquisitors. A Duros with a hole through his chest, bleeding sluggishly, twitching the last bits of life out of himself.

The Force wraps around him and weeps. Ahsoka knows that feeling. That’s what the Force always does, when a Jedi dies.

Ahsoka falls to her knees next to the form. She cannot judge the age of this being, she thinks in a panic — she’s always been awful at judging age in Duros, Barriss used to tease her about it —  but she’d guess a few years older or younger than herself. Ahsoka’s hands hover uselessly. There’s no healing this wound. She knows it.

Had she ever met him? In the Temple, all those years ago? Had they passed in the halls, handed each other food, shared friends?

Helpless to do anything else, Ahsoka gets the Doros’s head onto her lap. Off the ground. Some measure of comfort.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when his eyes slit themselves open. When he stares up at her, eyes hazy, barely coherent.

She nearly passes out when a rush of warmth and relief swells through the Force between them, and the Doros smiles at her.

“Jaieh Tabris ,” he breaths out. The name is spoken as if it is comfort given form. His voice is achingly soft. “Jesara, Jaiah. Henelru...foh keelak.”

Ahsoka goes cold, because she recognizes the name. It conjures an image so old she thought she’d forgotten it. A Togrutan Master, maybe 10 years older than Obi-Wan. A soft-spoken and gentle woman, who liked to help teach children how to read. A woman who now shared Ahsoka’s coloring and build almost exactly, from montreals to face markings.

She knows the tone of voice the Doros just spoke to her in. She used to use it every day. (Wishes, often, that she still could.)

She’s holding Master Tabris’s Padawan. He’s dying in her arms.

The relief in the Force twists a bit, and he repeats, “Jaieh?” with a little more uncertainty. The fear creeping back in. Of letting down your Master, letting down your people. Of dying alone.

What else is Ahsoka supposed to do?

(Because if it were her— if it were her and Anakin, she’d want— even if it were pretend, she’d want—)

“Haj dai, Padawan ,” she says. She keeps her voice soft and even. “ Tamah foh bika. ” The words fall off her tongue as if she never stopped speaking this.

His eyes focus a bit more on her face. He tries to smile. “Jaieh,” he says, actually to her this time. And Ahsoka—

Ahsoka—

Ahsoka remembers a time in her life when all she wanted was to hear someone call her that. Being 15 and imagining a future where she was doing the training, instead of being trained. Her head on Anakin’s knee and a campfire warm on her face, imagining a future in peacetime, Anakin cutting her silka beads off and her rising to her feet a Knight, embracing him while Obi-Wan embraced them both. She remembers the future she used to imagine for herself; solo missions, growing and improving, always returning home. Finally being taller than Anakin. Obi-Wan going easily, gracefully gray.

She remembers imagining bringing her own Padawan to their lineage dinners, Anakin teasing them both, Obi-Wan resting and smiling. Imagining being in a position, one day, when a little Light would be hers to teach, and look up at her and call her “Jaieh.”

But Ahsoka never got to grow into that title. She never even got to be a Knight. She left her home a Padawan, and never got to return enough to become anything more.

And now she never would.

But Ahsoka cups the face of the person on her lap, whose name she would never know, and lets them both pretend.

“ Rakaah foh wungak,” chokes the man on her lap. “Jaieh, sooah foh enoctak.”

“Leoah foh, Padawan. Leoah foh. Tamah foh bika, tamah foh bika.”

His hand, nearly vibrating in effort, moves up to grasp hers. Ahsoka covers it with her other hand. She can feel the pain coming off him in waves, but she can also feel the peace. The knowledge that he is safe, now.

And in some ways, Ahsoka thinks bitterly, she supposes he is. Even if he isn’t in the arms of his Jaieh . Perhaps he soon will be.

The fingers in hers tighten. The Padawan’s eyes close.

“Komlah foh keelak, Jaieh. Komlah foh…”

And he stops moving.

And Ahsoka doesn’t move for a long time.

TRANSLATION NOTES:

Padawan kat fehl, netana, paikawaji uu dai: My Padawan, remember, trust only in the Force. -"Kawaji" is "trust," in the future tense, and "pai" is our consequential prefix, which means that the action will have lasting consequences. This takes the place of the "only" for denouncing how important this piece of information is. -"Dai," the word for the Force, never has an article before it.

Haj dai, Jaieh: Yes, Master. -Haj dai literally translates to "Force Wills"

Agisti, tumi mikah Caleb!: Hello, I am called Caleb! -"Agisti" is a greeting you would give someone who has the same rank in the Order as you, who you are equals with-- Padawan to Padawan, for instance.

ibli kanan: Little runner

Jesara, Jaiah. Henelru...foh keelak: Hello, Master. I...missed you. -"Jersara" is a respectful greeting; Padawan to Master, Master to Council member, ect.

Tamah foh bika: I am here

Rakaah foh wungak. Jaieh, sooah foh enoctak: I feel pain. Master, I feel pain. -There are different words for feeling physically and feeling mentally, as well as different words for mental and physical pain. The first sentence is declaring he is physically feeling (raka, here in present tense) physical pain (wung, here in accusative case), and the second that he is mentally feeling (soo, here in present tense) mental pain (enoct, here in accusative case).

Leoah foh, Padawan. Leoah foh. Tamah foh bika, tamah foh bika: I know. I know, Padawan. I am here, I am here.

Komlah foh keelak, Jaieh. Komlah foh...: I love you, Master. I love... -"Koml" (komlah here, in present tense) refers specifically to familial/platonic love

[ilkkawhat]

For the SOULMATE Alphabet prompt, can I ask E or ESP for Jack Dalton/Angus MacGyver please? All these prompts sound like so much fun!

[be gentle with me it’s been like. years since i’ve written these two. i’m being dramatic it’s only been three months.]

There’s one reason and one reason only Jack and Mac would allow themselves to be apart for long times at long distances, and that reason was something that even all of the infinite science in Mac’s brain, all of the infinite wisdom in Jack’s heart couldn’t even explain.

They figured it out when they had parted ways after Lake Como. Both had been too injured to realize that the pain they were feeling—on top of what they were already feeling—was each other’s. Mac thought the pain in his head was his mind overworking itself trying to reconcile Nikki’s (supposed) death. Jack thought the pain in his chest was the early signs of a heart attack, not uncommon in his family. 

They hadn’t seen each other in nearly a month. Mac was finally out of the hospital, Jack was at his apartment. Jack didn’t quite know what to do, give the kid space or hover over him as an emotional Overwatch support, but he ultimately figured that Bozer would tend to him and that he would just pop by for a visit—which never happened because every time he thought of going, there was a forcefield of guilt that kept him from passing through the unlocked threshold to Mac’s house.

Mac, meanwhile, thought it was bad enough that he lost Nikki, he didn’t want to lose Jack, too. His fingers would constantly key over Jack’s number in his phone that he had memorized forwards and backwards. But he didn’t want to bother him. Figured that he was busy with a new job cause the older man was always working non-stop, as much as he would “complain” about the mundaneness of a nine-to-five job; all the paperwork and meetings and lack of an appropriate amount of sick days or whining for a raise, he knew that really Jack just wanted to keep himself busy, occupied.

Or otherwise he’d end up where Mac thought he was in that moment, on a couch, wrapped up in a bathrobe.

“Jack?” Mac gasped himself awake from an almost-nap. He sat up and threw his hand to his side, expecting it to land on Jack’s shoulder, or knee, or just any part of his body that would elicit some witty remark, “the lights go out in those bright eyes of yours, hoss?”

His hand didn’t touch anything. But he definitely felt Jack there with him, on his couch. Smelled him, too. And he was overcome with some strange...sadness. Remorse. It wasn’t a foreign emotion to him at the time, so he had sort of shrugged it off, thinking his mind was playing tricks on him, that the pain meds were too strong.

And then Jack woke him up with a phone call.

“Were you just at my house?” his tone was laced with the usual paranoia that came when anything was out of place at his apartment, but there was an odd sort of seriousness and urgency that Mac felt, too.

“No. Did you come here?” 

“No, not since I drove by last night to drop off some pizza and beer.”

“That was you? Why didn’t you come in?”

“Boze said you were sleepin’ and I didn’t wanna wake you.”

“Well...you woke me up now,” Mac smiled though he knew Jack couldn’t see it.

Yet in a way, he could.

“What is going on here, hoss? It-it’s like you’re sitting right in front of me.”

“I don’t know. You wanna come over? Maybe we can sit by the fire and try to figure it out together.”

“Aight. Be there in ten.”

Jack lived fifteen minutes away.

They sat by the fire and once they passed by the awkward small talk they were able to properly catch up; though Mac didn’t have much to offer with the bed rest he had been sentenced to, but was pleased to announce that he would be beginning his rehab. Jack, meanwhile, got a gig being a stunt coordinator—disguising the fact with a cough that he was also partaking in some of the more dangerous stunts himself. 

It was good that it happened, a brief reunion before a more permanent one that came months later when they got to go back to work together, the small steps leading to a true recovery of a slightly tarnished friendship in the face of a failed mission.

It wouldn’t be the last time.

They don’t feel anything unexpected, again, thinking it was just their own emotions they were waving through and the yearning for each other’s presence, but one of the first times they were separated, it was stronger than ever before. 

And it wasn’t even that big of a separation. Just a few feet. A couple more feet. Maybe the length of a basketball court, at most. Mac moving backwards. Jack standing still. Jack could feel the panic rising within Mac as he scrambled to defuse the bomb Jack was standing on. Mac could feel the sheer dread and terror pouring out of the sweat beads on Jack’s skin. 

The stakes hadn’t been so high since Mac had to disarm a bomb within an impossible amount of seconds back at the sandbox—and in hindsight, he can’t help but wonder if that’s when they had formed this new sort of...bond. 

Jack must have figured it out too, because the next time it happened, just a week or so later, it came after Mac had been taken and drugged by the cartel. Jack was in full on rescue mode, dressed from head to toe in tactical gear—but he had to remove the helmet when he felt like he had some sort of mask smothered on top of his face. And then he felt lightheaded. And then he felt...woozy. 

He pushed through it to save Mac—and in seeing Mac the odd sensation had washed away but when Mac told him that’s exactly what he felt when he was put under, the pieces were put together in Jack’s head.

“What kind of Vulcan mind-meld shit is this!?”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s like we’re getting into each other’s heads, a-and feeling each other when we’re apart.”

“You can admit it Jack, you just miss seein’ your sunshine boy,” Mac had waved him off with a poor imitation of his accent. 

“I’m serious, buddy this is...this is real. I-I don’t know how to explain it but it’s like we’re...we’re…”

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah! That’s the word.”

“How romantic.”

Jack couldn’t help but feel slightly hurt by Mac’s downplay of his emotions, their emotions over their new transcended level of connection he never thought he would have with another man, let alone another person in his life.

But Mac would soften when his emotions got cranked to eleven. 

It was their first real argument since the Sandbox. Jack tracking Mac down to Paris—which, with this new sixth sense of being able to feel Mac wherever he was when he wasn’t with Jack, he didn’t need to work as hard but he still explained how easy it was to track him down, even without their newfound “special powers,” as Jack claimed them to be—and beyond the confusion he was secretly pleased to have such an ability, harkening back to his childhood days of reading comic books and jumping off couches with a bedsheet cape on his back. 

They both felt each other’s resentment, each other’s anger, until Jack calmed down when Mac called an apologized. He let Mac’s voice go to voicemail, but followed his call like he was lured by a siren.

Even though he tried to joke about a “groveling apology” that he knew Mac wasn’t actually going to give him despite the actual upset he had felt and truly wanted to apologize for to Jack, Jack entered the house knowing something was wrong.

Because he couldn’t feel Mac at all. Couldn’t feel him joking around with Bozer. Couldn’t feel him lost and searching for a deadbeat father who abandoned him—a sensation Jack didn’t quite understand until he felt Mac reliving it in his worst nights. Couldn’t feel him happy to be with the Phoenix family.

Mac’s house was as empty as Jack felt, and he was on the verge of losing it like never before—until he felt a cold shiver creep through is body. Felt a sharp prick, felt like his body was being pumped and drained at the same time.

Felt fear mixed with anger mixed with...vague...intrigue and the last time he felt it, Jack was at the mercy of a small red dot boring into his chest while Mac played the most dangerous game of cat and mouse.

And this time, he was the mouse.

“My spidey-senses are all telling me the same thing...It’s Murdoc.”

He hoped and prayed that he could somehow ease Mac’s terror with his own determination to find him. He swallowed down his tears, swallowed down his guilt for the sake of giving the kid some sort of hope with a forced sense of confidence that he would find him in no time.

And no time is exactly what he felt. What they both felt. Jack’s confidence turned to confusion when Mac no longer felt trapped, but instead...lost. And paranoid. Even more paranoid than Jack himself. 

So lost that even when they physically found each other, it still seemed like forever until they emotionally found each other again, with more and more separations, more victimizations on their more deadly missions with gunshots and electrocutions and gas chambers. Fits of inexplicable rage and jealousy as they explored other interests besides each other. Odd sensations of loneliness when they weren’t working together. 

Even when they were actually trapped together in Mac’s house, sitting on another bomb, it took them a whole episode of reminiscing how they got together in the first place that made them realize how no matter how often they would be lost from one another, they would always find each other, even in their worst moments. 

And it was after that near miss they both exchanged real apologies. Mac admitted that perhaps this “mind meld” was real after all. Jack said “having you stuck with me ain’t so bad after all. Toldja I’m never gonna leave you, there’s definitely no getting rid of me now.”

“But...what’s going to happen when...one of us dies?” Mac didn’t even want to ask it. Didn’t actually even say the words. 

Jack asked the same thing when he was prematurely laid to rest in a burning coffin, descending into hell and screaming for Mac both in the literal sense and the emotional sense—so much so that Mac could hardly take it—he felt like he was on fire and oh god, he actually was as he put his hands on the burning wood and freed Jack from inferno. 

“Being burned alive...was always curious,” Jack breathed, putting a hand that oddly felt ablaze on his chest, while Mac danced on figurative hot coals.

“You’re insane, man.”

“I don’t think death is the end,” Jack answered him finally, when they were being wrapped up by the paramedics.

“How much smoke did you inhale?” Mac almost laughed, confused as to what he was referring to, thinking he had some sort of existential realization on the precipice of death.

“But wh-what if when one of us dies...the other will too? Kaboom-kaboom,” Mac continued the conversation after a particularly rough day spent in the war room with a beaten, sunken black eye while Jack ran around pretending to be a lone wolf yet he was wrangling up the pack and doing a favor by helping out his daughter’s real father, the conflicting emotions of which didn’t ease Mac’s troubles, either.

“Told ya, that won’t be it. There’s gonna be something after kaboom. For both of us.”

“Then why do you always fight so hard for us not to explode?”

“Cause I can’t let you have too much fun when you’re dropping those improv-bombs to get us out of sticky situations. There’s still a few things I wanna do before I move on from this world.”

“Right, your bucket list,” Mac smiled. 

“Exactly, hoss. And what’s say...we cross another one off now?” 

They were interrupted, as always, by an emergency call that revealed the truth about Mac’s father, and a falsification of how they had been brought together.

“Who do you think pulled the strings to pair you two together in Afghanistan?”

Bullshit. And Jack made a point of pointing that out, and how dare he even make the implication that even if things didn’t work out between Jack and Mac, that there would just be another Overwatch put in his place, and another, until Oversight saw fit that his son would be taken care of like he never had done for him before?

Needless to say, there were a lot of emotions, conflicting ones at that—even Jack himself was torn between sucking up to the boss but also wanting to punch him in the face, and do minor things like refuse handshakes, accidentally trip him, anything to just...annoy him without a fireable offense, per se.

But when Mac left the Phoenix, he may as well have gone, too.

He still doesn’t know why he didn’t. Was it some sense of duty to protect the remainder of the pack? Was it the same hesitation he had when Mac took his leave of absence after Nikki’s death, wanting to give him space but still wanting to suffocate him at the same time? 

Was it fear that one day, Mac would walk away from him, too?

While the separation was brief, only a few months though it felt like years—especially when Jack felt the length of Mac’s hair on his own chin that allowed him to measure the actual length of time that had elapsed, when they came face to face again it still felt like they were worlds apart.

Because Mac abandoned his family. 

Mac abandoned Jack.

And in what godforsaken world would that happen?

The same world where Jack would do the same almost half a year later. 

“NO!” Mac shouted, rising from another cold-sweat nightmare. 

Jack laid beside him, startled awake. 

“Everything okay, hoss?” Jack whispered. 

“Just...just...had a bad dream,” Mac whispered back. 

They would keep their voices low, but their emotions high. There were certain things that just had to be said to be understood as felt between them.

“I missed you,” Mac gulped. 

“You know I’m right here, don’t ya?” Jack laughed from his own bed, Mac felt a gentle scratching at the back of his head.

“I know. I know you’re here, it’s just…”

He turned his head, he didn’t even know why he was whispering, the house had never been so silent before. No snoring Bozer. No Jack strumming the guitar on a restless night. No keys clicking beneath the speed of Riley’s rapid fingers. No phonecalls from Matty.

“You’re not. Not even alive.”

“Who in the hell told you that?”

“The...the army.”

Mac’s phone rang, he answered without even looking at the number. The ring was for a video call, so he lazily pulled the string of his bedside lamp.

Jack was on the other side, soft fauxhawk and subtle stubble tracing the start of a beard on his face.

“My God, what fucked up dream did you have, man?” 

“The kind that lasts forever,” Mac mumbled. “That felt...too real…”

“I turned down the Kovac mission, you remember that, right? The image was fake. Just a taunt. The broadcast orchestrated by Murdoc just to dick around with us again.”

“I know, I know it just...I can’t help but wonder what could have...could have happened if you…”

“You gotta stop beating yourself up so much, kid. I’ve told you, over and over, this ain’t one of those ‘you hurt me, so I’mma hurt you’ sort of games. We don’t do that manipulative shit.”

“Jack, I left you—”

“You left the Phoenix. I stayed. My choice.”

Jack suddenly felt the corners of his eyes burn. The corner of Mac’s eyes burn.

“I wanted you to come with me.”

“I know. And I wanted to.”

“I know,” Mac swallowed. “I...I felt that you did but...why didn’t you?”

“You walked away that day but you didn’t walk alone. I was there with you the entire time. You know that.”

“But you weren’t!” 

“You’re right. You’re right,” Jack shook his head, squeezing his face. He waved his tongue over his lips, Mac suddenly felt freshness over the chapped flesh that was trembling as he held the tiny screen of Jack in between his hands.

“I...I knew how you felt, being abandoned by your Dad...Cause I did that to Riley.”

“You didn’t...abandon her—”

“Then what would you have called it?”

It was a question Mac didn’t have an answer to.

“Regardless, I think it’s safe to say that you’re not the only one with abandonment issues, I’m just...on the other side of the spectrum. Worlds apart from the pain you musta felt when dear ol’ Dad leftcha and I shouldn’ta tried to push you back together without thinking how you might have felt—”

“Jack, Jack, it’s fine. I-I know you just...you had good intentions. Cause of what happened to your Dad.”

Jack nodded, wiped a hand over the running nose that Mac felt, though his was dry.

“And anyway, I just. I was scared, I guess. Didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t been on that side of the coin before. It may have hurt you but it...it hurt me, too.”

“I know it did. And I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.” 

“So...where do we go from here?” Mac asked, clearing his throat. 

“Doesn’t matter, really. Cause no matter where you go, where I go, where we both go...We have each other.”

Mac felt Jack’s touch, though it was a poor substitute for the real deal, as he closed his eyes and envisioned him sitting next to him, his arms wrapped around him, hugging him to his chest. 

“Forever,” Mac sighed, and Jack smiled as he felt the reassurance that while it had been stretched and twisted and tested, their bond would never be broken.

Not even in a death that Jack oddly felt he had just narrowly missed by some sort of guardian angel watching over him.

[whetstonefires]

an exercise in worldbuilding

It is always simplest to start from a point and move outward, and so we begin in the Tower of Sight, where our twelve-year-old hero will first find himself summoned into this world.

The Tower is four hundred feet high, gently tapered, with a circumference of two hundred feet at its base, and the top three of its forty floors are filled with brass telescopes of every size, pointing in every possible direction, including several that do not exist within the normal three dimensions of space.

To the West these many spyglasses overlook a wide plain, all the way to the horizon, golden at this time of year and frequented mainly by roving herds of grazing beasts, both wild and tame. In the half-league nearest the Tower, tall grasses give way to the narrow strips of tilled fields, where the grain stands tall, almost ready for the harvest. If any harvest will come.

Near the other side of the Tower of Sight, a stone’s throw from the eastern point of the outer wall, runs a great river, green when the sun does not strike it directly, except in the spring when its tributaries flood and it turns to churned brown. There was a bridge here once, though it is long fallen but for the stubs of its pilings on each end, and nowadays all crossings are by ferry.

A small town clusters on both banks, even so. The roofs are of red tile, the stucco of the houses painted in shades of blue. It stands empty, but has not had time to fall into disrepair.

More farmland, speckled with villages in the same style of tile and paint, with wells in the center where they are not built on lesser watercourses, stretches away to the east, but if you look through one of the telescopes turned that way you will see it give way to blue mountains. (If you look through an enchanted telescope you may see trees without needles fail halfway up the nearest of the great peaks, and even these fail before the top, though there is a span of nearly barren stone past that line, before the snow begins.)

The range of mountains curves, and you can see them with the naked eye toward the south, on a fine clear day. To the North they fall away into a gentler, older range, which cannot be seen by ordinary human sight from this place, but which wrinkle the land between the plain and the sea into rolling green hills. 

The green band of the great river cuts a sharp path through these after coiling its way lazily north over the flatlands, and spreads into an abbreviated delta full of sandbars which is generally considered a nuisance to navigate, though navigated it normally very much is.

There is a city there, the nearest one to the Tower; its outer limits have spilled up onto the hills, and its tallest spires can be made out with mechanical aid, but only one telescope in the place can cut through earth and stone to make out any of the doings of the city proper, and calibrating it to focus at a particular distance and not dismiss all solid matter is a tiresome nuisance, and only rarely worth the trouble.

The very brave and sure of foot can keep their eyes on the surrounding country all the way down the Tower, until their sight is cut off a few stories above the ground by the six shining white sides of the outer walls, because the most direct (if not the quickest) route between the ground and the great sky-searching telescope on the roof is a great spiral stair wrapping around the outside.

These stairs, like the outer wall and the tower itself, seem to be of marble, although a great enchantment must have been worked when the tower was raised for this to be so, because it is far stronger than any other marble to be found anywhere, and unlike marble statues erected in city squares has never suffered wear from the weather.

The wall and stair are of pure white, like the marble quarried in the much-contested eastern foothills of the Evrin Dulle, but the Tower of Sight itself is built of blocks veined with every color, pale blues and purples, reds and greens and golden-duns all mottling toward white and grey and black, as though its builders determinedly sourced their materials from every source of marble on five continents.

It is furthermore banded in three places with rings of solid color twenty feet high—first, nearest the ground, the warm pale red found in some of the ruins on the isles of Thassalen that is quarried nowhere anymore, and which no one knows where it came from to begin with, then the delicate even green still found in small quantities in the most seaward copper mines of the Farlon Barrens, and finally, nearest the top, the prized pure black found only in the village of Xemahan, some way inland from the Trident Coast.

The Tower is a beautiful and timeless construct of art, but our hero when he sees it from a distance for the first time will find the effect of so much color, triply striped and encased within a white spiral, slightly frenzied, and make a remark no one present understands about a Doctor named Seuss. His guide, the dousing tracker Amnaphi, will assume this person to be a famous astronomer from his homeland.

Within the even hexagon of its outer wall, the Tower encloses a great parkland, enough that if it was all put under cultivation it could easily feed as many people as could live in the Tower itself. And indeed, there are records that show the Tower of Sight was once incorporated as a town in just this way, before the Ten Years’ Winter.

For seven generations now the Tower has been held by the Watchers of the Stars, an order of wizards originally from the Duthwaithe, and they have kept it more as a retreat of contemplation than a working estate. 

The only gate, in the southern wall, leads the visitor up a broad avenue paved in glittering granite, lined with stately beech trees, and just beyond these to either side an expanse of grass is rarely allowed to grow tall, as a small herd of goats is unleashed upon it once a week. At all other times, under normal circumstances, it is a pleasant lawn, where in the warm months what students have come as learners to the Tower may be found attempting to attend to their star-charts and metallurgy texts.

Thirty minutes’ easy stroll brings the visitor to a small artificial lake that lies at the foot of the Tower; it is stocked with several varieties of edible fish, which are caught by line as a recreational activity, and regularly served at supper. The wizard Chanult Foi, who was magister of the Tower for twenty years until last month, devoted a three hour block of time to ‘meditation’ every week, which took the form of fly-fishing from the nearest curve of the Tower steps.

To either side of the lake, and the Tower itself, are gardens: to the east, vegetables and herbs are grown, often with more artistry than prudence. The students generally have charge of this garden, apart from the more esoteric herbs which are tended to by a specialist, and competitions of aesthetic routinely spring up, resulting in elegant spirals of onions and gorgeously ornate trellises for the benefit of beans.

To the west grow the flowers, many of them with magical uses but some grown purely for their beauty. Kings have been known to try to sway the Watchers to their side with the gift of a particularly fine or rare live rose bush.

The northern third of the Tower’s park contains neatly regimented orchards, apples, pears, plums, and a few rows of carefully tended peaches and apricots, all clipped flat against low brick walls angled south and slightly west. 

The brick absorbs the sun all day, and radiates its warmth back; fruit grown along fruit walls ripens faster and later into the season, and the peaches and apricots have survived every ordinary winter as a result, though normally they cannot tolerate this climate.

(For many years the proposition of sheltering some or all of the fruit walls behind glass, to increase their effectiveness, has been debated at the semi-annual colloquiums of the Watchers of the Stars; thus far it has always been rejected despite being rather more wizardly than simple fruit walls, which are not uncommon at these latitudes nowadays, because the space constraints of the current arrangement mean that the proposed design would require cutting down some of the existing trees and demolishing at least a few walls, and wizards, while enthusiastic about innovation in the abstract, hate change.)

The inside of the north wall itself is covered in grape vines. They were harvested three weeks ago, and pressed, but the wine-making process was interrupted after that point and the juice has all been drunk raw. There is currently considerable debate over whether the security risk presented by having a climbable side of the inner wall is serious enough to waste the potential food value of the vines’ future fruit by cutting them down.

The Tower grounds are filled with refugees.

The first to arrive were housed inside, battered survivors of the battle that killed Chanult Foi, bearing word of disaster. There was not enough space left after that for the river-straddling town of Meryn to all relocate to the Tower, so those who did not fit indoors set up camp around the rim of the lake—half clustered near the great doors and half in the partial shade of the last pair of beeches. 

This division corresponds imperfectly to the usual split of the town by the course of the Meroda.

More have come since. From the villages nearby, and a few further away, although the further from the river they live the less willing farmers are to leave the grain standing in the fields even if the news has reached them. A wave of people fleeing ahead of the advance of the Moon People along the northern coast, joined and followed by people from the city who had the will and means to withdraw, but could not get passage on a seagoing vessel west, and so turned their hopes southward to this fortress of wizardry. 

The lawns are now too trampled by human feet to have any extra substance for the goats, and the annual flowers have been crushed and the carefully tended bushes cut back in the flower garden to make more space.

So far the vegetable garden has not been uprooted, though it has been subjected to unsanctioned raids; one student has regretted aloud valuing beauty over efficiency at planting time, in the spring, when all seemed well. Makeshift pallets line the spaces between every fruit wall—the injured are being laid out here, now that the Tower is full, to get the benefit at night of the warmth meant to mature fruit.

Even the granite avenue is inhabited, now, although a corridor has been kept open to allow for what comings and goings remain necessary in the expectation of a siege.

The fishermen of Meryn, with additional labor sourced mainly from the nearby villages but also by delta and harbor-folk who liked their chances on the river better than taking their small vessels across the wide sea, go out every day to catch and smoke fish, and there are hopes that the advance of the Moon People will hold off long enough to let the year’s grain harvest be taken in.

With luck, care, and wizardry, everyone here should be able to survive the winter, if all the grain within sight of the walls can only be reaped and threshed and stored away.

(Space will be found for any herdsmen who, seeing the enemy advance, drive their beasts in to be slaughtered for the common pot; hope is being hung on this as well, although undoubtedly most of the plainsmen will rely on their own nomadic lifestyle to keep them out of the way and outside the focus of the Moon People, and will not come near settled habitation any time soon.)

This morning, the student standing north-sentry in the Tower of Sight saw a great column of smoke go up from the city of Tolphis, at the mouth of the Meroda. Magister Heron Yl Fanult, Chanult Foi’s successor, spent an hour carefully tuning the spyglass that can look through solid matter to confirm what they all knew: the Moon People had reached Tolphis, and sacked it in a day.

Half of them are making ready to turn south along the Meroda.

Fear is metal in everybody’s mouths. The ancient walls of the Tower will hold—should hold—they have always held before—the Tower of Sight has never fallen but by treachery or deceit, the enchantments laid in the ancient days are too strong…but the Moon People are the successors of the ancient magics, and just because they could not break the walls the last time they came, according to legend, does not mean they have not worked out a method now.

Everyone who has a weapon and the knowledge of how to use it keeps it close, as a comfort. Labors over the sharpness of the edge in the evenings, sometimes, when there is nothing else to do but sleep, and sleep will not come. People who have only the weapon and not the knowledge scramble to obtain the latter, and people who have the knowledge and not the weapon scramble to barter or improvise one.

Young wizards sit in their bunks, six each to rooms that were previously individual, and hold lighting cupped dancing in their palms. Practicing.

Outside, the blue hats and scarves of the townspeople and villagers mill about the edges of the lake, like floating petals caught in a swirling eddy. The people who retreated upriver from Tolphis can be found sitting still, today, because they are weeping. 

Those who fled along the northern coast ahead of the storm are a mixed lot, more grim than panicking because they are the ones who retreated this far alive, scattered across the park in smaller groups—some with their heads decorously covered, though not always in the blues that are customary along the upper Meroda, others with naked crowns of braids, or cleanshaven in the nautical style of Hedro, where fur hats are worn for warmth rather than courtesy, and long hair is considered a risk because if it gets wet it cannot be easily removed, and this can cause a fatal chill.

The hale survivors of the First Battle of the Second Descent sit waiting in their leathers, jack-chains and helmets laughably inadequate armor against the coming danger, and yet the best hope now just as they were on Carun Tol once the wizard fell; their wounded lie still, except for a few who have been taken with fever and thrash at the foot of an apricot tree, or a pear tree growing heavy with yellow fruit.

A wizard specializing in physic, the same one who has had charge of the powerful herbs these four years, bends over a man who has been deprived of half his left leg. The golden threads in her green kirtle that mark her focus and her rank flash in the sun as it begins to sink, and sweat stands out on her brow. Threads have escaped from the braids pinned across the top of her skull: she has not had the chance to take them down for two days. 

At the very top of the Tower of Sight, Magister Yl Fanult steps away from the telescope-that-looks-through-hills with a soft sigh. He makes his way around the circumference of the tower room to set his face into the viewplate of the great lens array of the roof, trained as it long has been upon the face of the moon. No change there.

He leans forward to peer through the narrow glass that has been turned on its articulated base to face the middle of the room, and relaxes very slightly. At least there has been no catastrophic alteration there, either.

He steps over the ring of silver set into the floor of the chamber. Lowers himself to one creaking knee and blows into the upraised spout of the ring of glass tubing inside of that, then hurriedly caps it, stands with care, and steps over that as well. He snaps his fingers for a spark that falls into the deep circular groove full of distilled spirits, and steps through that as well. He is not burned.

He bends another time and pours out the small copper pail of water he fetched himself from the well in the basement of the Tower, filling the final circle.

Steps over that, and pauses just long enough to breathe in.

At his feet lie a glittering piece of gold ore, a moonstone, and a carefully sanded round of pumice. Heron Yl Fanult lets the breath out again, and stoops.

He cannot take much time. He has only until the ring of fire dies.

[thatonealise]

On the Wild.

In the beginning, there was nothing. Then a single creative spark made something out of nothing, borrowing the best of many worlds, and before long came the Wild. First a whole world, conventional in rules and mundane in contents, it had at some mysterious and indistinct point suffered a calamity so profound it shattered the world into teeny-tiny pieces, and tossed them left and right, up and down, across time and space. Now, it is a world divided; split into a thousand island and one, and maybe even more, where creatures of all kinds make a do, yourself among them.

Enter the Wild. Befriend it, respect its law, and it will in return be kind and favourable to all your ventures. To go against the Wild, and disrespect the law, is to play a game of chess with powers great and unpredictable. Or so say the soothsayers and prophets and far-seers, and other outspoken folk. But the problem still stands: The Wild allures adventurers and explorers from anywhere and of every disposition. They board the airships and aim to cross the gaping chasms between the isles in search for parts unknown, and in so doing challenge the Wild to a battle of luck.

Why do we hear the call of the Wild? Why it beckons us, when it is the Wild that employs mysterious ways to consume much-too-curious travellers? Perhaps you will be the first to find out. Your airship, *The Unyielding*, awaits only the order to embark. Until it does, however, I’d advise any aspiring explorer, even so eager as yourself, to educate themselves on the Wild matters.

Matter 1: The Cosmology

A world without rules is a world much too arbitrary. The Wild, thank goodness, rests on a foundation solid in structure and clear in law (though not devoid of Lovecraftian instability, something we will touch on in due time). Binding all that exists within the Wild is an omnipresent gas -- the zephyr. Scentless and weightless, zephyr is what our earthly person would call the air, save for a few un-oxygenic properties it has that the air we breathe on Earth does not.

Zephyr is safe to breathe in reasonable quantities, which themselves are relative to the species in question. Some may breathe more of it than others, but what stays true for all is that, sooner or later (most often sooner), the creature gobbling up too much zephyr will experience what is called the Wild-headedness. The foul gas will cloud their judgement, and warp their mind over the course of days so much as to drive them bonkers. Indeed, it is not uncommon to see explorers return disturbed, whispering to themselves some cryptic nonsense, and it is then said of them that they’re Wild-touched, and as one would presume, no Wild-touched traveller has to date ever recovered from the mind-twisting touch.

But, there are lands safe from the zephyr; pieces of land large enough to have developed an “atmosphere,” and ousted the lion’s share of that cosmic poison. Such lands are quick to nurture prosperous civilisations as more and more nomads are drawn to zephyrless refuge. It is as such unfortunate that few floatlands may brag about their atmosphere; in fact one is twice as likely to encounter a land engulfed in the zephyrous miasma. At times even, unbeknownst to the unsuspecting traveller, what might strike them as an airful land, is in truth a land with an atmosphere too thin to banish all of zephyr, and so there it flies unrestricted, sucking in quiet at the unaware guest’s sanity, until they too find themselves forever Wild-touched.

Zephyr also appears to attract, or even conjure, especially horrid weather. Whereas upon the floatlands it tends to be stable of mood -- one day mildly temperate and on another temperately harsh -- Mother Nature likes to throw a temper tantrum whenever her children attempt to sail the zephyrous space. Thunders strike aplenty from within the clouds, and wherever they can reach; powerful currents toss the feeble airships caught within them around like feathers, and the dreaded whirlwinds (although rare) may send even the strongest of vessels flying leagues away from where they were headed.

This area of the Wild, by far the most abundant, and sandwiched between land and other celestial bodies, came to be known as the Betwixt. One can not leave for a different isle without also crossing the Betwixt along the way. The act itself earned a colloquialism, “to fly betwixt.” Whenever one flies betwixt, they embark on a journey across this chasm to a neighbouring isle, taking on a tremendous risk to their life and sanity.

If we were to project the Wild on to a map; to look at the world from a bird’s perspective, we would see a clear pattern emerge to the way celestial bodies are situated. Between them are the poisonous clouds, always there and slow to madden (but sure to do so), that the Wild folks termed Betwixt:

Notice how zephyrous clouds have engulfed the smaller lands, whereas the bigger catch remains predominantly unscathed.

The Betwixt may be your best friend, or the worst enemy. It is never clear what your relationship is to be whenever you take off into the Wild, but the Betwixt is kind enough to make it apparent when comes the right moment, either with a smooth sail to your destination, or a spontaneous whirlwind until the last moment hidden inside a zephyrous nebula. On that note: pirates, marauders, and lawbreakers may find the thick shroud of a nebula, rich in zephyr, to be a wonderful hideout few orderlies would have the courage to investigate.

Zephyred isles often provide a secluded base of operations for many mages, mancers of various schools, and physicians dabbling in unorthodox fields of study. Remote, fraught with traitorous weather and poisonous amounts of zephyr, they are often left well alone, and probably for good reasons, too.

To call upon the Betwixt to deliver you from misfortune, or challenge it to a battle of luck whilst flying, is a decision you will have to make as a player. The Betwixt is as much a tool in your arsenal as it is space for you to traverse. Still, I’d advise all sailors to keep their wits about them, never you may know when your favour with the Betwixt will run out.

2nd Matter: The Semantics

People of the Wild have never known the fluctuous oceans and salted seas, as there no longer exists land big enough to hold them. This fact of life ensured that languages and cultures of the Wild never developed words to describe outspread bodies of water, the size of oceans and seas, and neither did they arrive at the words derived in part or in full from their relation to the high seas and azure mains, be they islands or archipelagos or other.

The vocabulary we earthlings turn to talking about islands and archipelagos makes little sense to wildlings. They would understand what the “land“ of an island means, but the rest would leave them befuddled. Islands and archipelagos, in particular, are terms one has to rule out for a floating world for etymological reasons. Both words, if you were to trace them all the way back to their forefathers in PIE, happen to be portmanteaus of Indo-European for “river” (proposedly) -- that which is swift -- and Indo-European for “land.“ Therefore "island” describes a piece of land rested on a body of water, which would in theory be a possible but unlikely semantic development in an environment washed at most by small rivers and lakes. Many (if not most) of Wild-born peoples would simply never come across an island anywhere in their homeland, and thus never coin the relevant term; land surrounded by water would stay the stuff of contemporary science fiction.

Since the concept of islands and the relevant word have never been coined, peoples transcending the boundaries of their homeland do not think of the land they discover flying betwixt as islands. Anything but! Instead, they would size up the newfound land (wink-wink Canadians) and term it according to scale:

Lands comparable to or greater than their own, vast and bountiful, would be judged as Greatlands.

Lands smaller, only a little or downright minute, would be recorded as Minorlands.

Most peoples distinguish between great- and minor-lands. While these are not the words they would speak in their native tongues, translated into English they best convey the semantic and conceptual process that went into and evolved the words they use to describe the lands encountered on travels across the Betwixt. To them, it would not make sense to classify the lands as islands, for “island“ as a word implies land upon water -- literally speaking -- something wildlings wouldn’t think possible.

This same line of thinking I try to apply to all the other terms native to our world yet unfounded in the Wild, and supplant them with terms both clear to us and grounded in the semantic development one would expect from a floating world, and “floating” cultures. The choice of words they make reflects the world around them, and the traits unique to its cosmology. I have to stress, though, that I’m by no means a wise-headed scholar of all humanitarian and applied disciplines alike; I’m just a hobbyist, and the neologisms I invent for the Wild are altogether speculative, and nothing more.

3rd Matter: The Floating Lands

Second in number to zephyrous clouds are the floatlands, stretching as far as the eye can see, maybe even till the very edge of the observable world. Strip the Wild of the lands, and you would render it somewhat of a desolace, sparsely dotted with an occasional nebula, shining star, or the dreaded whirlwind, stashed away someplace on the outskirts to catch oblivious explorers off guard. It is upon these pieces of land torn away from long lost planets (or the great supercontinent, or the Primordial Star, depending on what you take to be the authentic Creation Myth, for there are plenty), that the Wild’s vast majority of earth-like features unfold.

Greatlands, true to their name, happen to be the greatest in extent. They stand as the most diverse in nature and features, owing to their scale; it is not out of character for a greatland to offer a dozen different habitats for the inquisitive traveller to discover. They hoard flora and fauna that would be a curiosity to stumble upon travelling a minorland, and the magnificent mountain ranges are but an ordinary fact of life, originating from the time that there were not great lands, but one too many minorlands drifting too close to one another.

The clash, in time, erected mountains recognised in the modern age as the peaky landmarks of a great many greatlands. Rivers and lakes wash them, and many species one is to encounter throughout the Wild claim descent from one such land or the other, cementing the popular opinion among wildling scholars of greatlands as the undisputed cradle of civilisation.

Minorlands, by contrast, are the smallest of lands, and as such very homogeneous in nature and terrain. Many a time they host temperate uplands, whether defined by scorching dunes or grassy hills or bone-chilling piles of snow, and seldom have another biome. Guesting adventurers are forced to walk the same plain time and again, hoping for a path somewhere that is not a desert with no end or an ever-stretching meadow.

Yet, minorlands are famed as the best places of seclusion: farmsteads have since time immemorial bonded with these flattened blobs of dirt and thickets, their predictable weather and absence of unwarranted surprises be praised; shady sorts, too, find the safety of a remote minorland to their liking, and so do polities on the rise, erecting watchtowers upon them to spot unwanted intruders from afar. Rural and tame, predictably temperate and never at all hiding dangerous surprises, they for certain hold a slew of advantages over their great towering counterparts.

Chainlands are less so a shape or form of a land in the Wild, and more so a cluster of the two varieties aforementioned. Ages ago, the first peoples would without question have entitled them minor- and great-lands alike, but the passage of time led them to invent and construct bridges and passes to connect these lands together, in an effort to make travel much less of a burden.

Of stone, of wood, or spectral essence (born of powerful spells), bridges to a chainland are as veins to a human -- cut them down, and the chainland will be sure to suffer a fatal blow to the economy and infrastructure. This reliance on bridge-making, and bridge-keeping, had implored the Wild folk to derive a neologism to describe this network of land and bridge. The Chainlands, the lands chained one to another.

Greatlands among chainlands are few and far between, but when they are, they only ever bind the neighbouring minorlands to drift around them, like moons round a planet in our world. The pull at times is so strong that the bound minorlands break apart, forming together a ring of shredded land, themselves at times entitled the shredlands.

Minorlands, on the other hand, stand unbeaten as the most usual finds in any given chainland, and more often than not the only land there is to be seen. When it is so, and there is no greatland to project authority upon the minorlands, they tend to revolve around each other, their pull so weak that the revolution appears paused to all but the most perceptive and patient of eyes.

The rarest of all is a chainland wherein two greatlands do battle. Under that circumstance, the two colossi fight for dominance over the chainland, and in due time (lasting millennia, and longer still) the pull they exert upon one another will tear them to pieces that the future wildlings will take for minorlands. It is believed all chainlands had in the forgotten days been greatlands dueling to death, and the minorlands as a phenomenon had only emerged from the rubble the duel had left. This is however in the view of many a contradiction to the theory of minorlands as the forefathers of greatlands. Sweet, one more thing to argue about...

4th Matter: The Phenomena

Rarer even than two greatlands locked in an ageless stalemate are the naturally occurring phenomena a keen explorer is sure to come upon at some point in their chasm-crossing career. They range in scale, and use, and animosity to the beings caught in their vicinity, but all are united in the danger they pose to every living thing, sentient or otherwise. They toss, and poison, and twist the minds of their unlucky victims, and beware they who dare venture someplace never charted.

Luckily for the Wild folk, all but one known phenomena are stationary; it would take a great deal of law-breaking and space-bending power to set them in motion -- more still to make a weapon out of them -- and the very idea has become the subject of Deluge Myths among many Wild-born faiths and traditions.

Note that the list I offer down below is incomplete; it would take me too much time, too many letters, and even more brainpower to scribble all of the wild ideas I’ve come to cooking up a host of obstacles for the Player to overcome on their journey across the Betwixt. I will instead list the ones I’ve thought about the longest, ordered least to most interesting, and leave the rest for another time:

Nebulas

Native to the far corners of the Betwixt, miles upon miles away from the closest floatland, nebulae take shape when the zephyrous currents, flowing of their own accord through the Betwixt, or given a violent push from a whirlwind, come to a halt in one place, and condense into clouds. The clouds then clash and thicken, and before long turn so dense one would struggle to make out the loosest detail even ten metres ahead, and not one propeller in the Wild would have the horsepower to blow the clouds away.

Naturally, it is as dangerous to sentient life (thanks in no small part to copious amounts of zephyr) as it is useful the mortals seeking refuge or a place to hide. The big problem for them is therefore to puzzle out a way to breathe, but also maintain their clarity of mind. Devices and gear exist to protect the daring pilots, but even they give in under so much stress. Oversaturated air notwithstanding, nebulae have been known to act as naturally fortified hideouts for criminal elements; whole syndicates were fabled to raise floating fortresses amid the nebula, and sometimes they would discover by pure chance “castaway“ minorlands inside.

Few have come back to tell the tale, and so it is to this day a wonder to many; one that raises a plethora of questions, most notably the question of what else could possibly be hiding in the nebula’s heart?

Currents

Driven now by cosmic forces and then by a raging whirlwind, zephyrous currents serve to experienced pilots as motorways serve seasoned drivers here on Earth -- they send even the heaviest merchantmen flying like a lightweight schooner, at the expected cost of abnormal levels of the gas in the air. Currents and lanes are cognate, and the words are used interchangeably to refer to the same phenomenon.

While impossible to influence, to slant or pick up the pace, almost like the current of a river, they always run their course like they did since the beginning of all things. Only whirlwinds may redirect some portion of a current away into the Wild, and the lost current soon stops deep in the Wild and turns to a nebula.

Even then, the main current will get to keep the direction it is flowing, making them a tempting choice of many traders and colonists, who by force of circumstance have to man ships so heavy that the cost of travel is immense. The current step in to help, and take some of the financial edge off.

Currents may every now and again branch out, and the individual branches may converge into another current at the very tip, forming networks vital to the circulation of trade and commerce and people throughout the Wild; about as essential as bridges are to a chainland. Maps charting the currents and the branches are worth their weight in gold, and it is only natural that many explorers make a living mapping the currents they chance upon in their travels.

Whirlwinds

The fear; the nightmare of every sailor seasoned and amateur alike, are the dreaded whirlwinds. Itself a smidgen tear (or hole, a better word) in the fabric of reality, a whirlwind bends the space and time around it with a pull a quintillion times that of the largest greatland conceivable; so strong it stretches all matter too close around the dark epicentre into a bright spiral of heated zephyr, and the chunks of land and other fallen material.

There’s a constant rotation of matter happening within the whirlwind’s ring, as old matter eventually reaches the point of no-return -- the whirlwind’s lightless and lifeless centre -- and new matter takes its place. What happens to the old from that point onwards is a subject shrouded in mystery, with only a handful of scholarly works, all pure speculation, as not one Wild person has ever managed to fly close to the whirlwind and stay whole, let alone fly so close as to observe the matter being absorbed into the black core.

Legend has it, and so does science, that should a whirlwind draw too close to a greatland, it will eat it whole, bones and all, and leave not one trace behind. Thankfully, there have never been cases observed and recorded of such calamities taking place, and gods help us that they do not befall us tomorrow.

Testament to the whirlwinds’ power is their ability to draw from the current a new one, and in so doing lay foundations for new currents for the network, or even the new nebulae. They are not, as such, entirely destructive when examined under creationist light.

There are moony captains out in the Wild who may, equipped the right things, ride on the very edge of a whirlwind’s ring to gain speed one would never reach in the strongest current. Nevertheless, I’d advise you, young captain, never to consider a means of travel with a potential so devastating.

Stars

They go by many names; of their own making and christened so by their mortal worshippers from the floating lands. They prefer to name their kin Celestials, but the noble intention this word carries could not be further from their nature. Aye, the Stars of the Wild are in every way as sentient as the Wild peoples, and just as numerous, but rarely if ever benevolent. Quite the polar opposite.

Stars are power incarnate; their blinding light may scorch and turn the lesser life to smoke and ash, but it may also plant the seeds of life upon a lifeless greatland, should the Star be in the mood to curb the sunlight. The taste of this godlike privilege has driven many of them arrogant of character; reluctant to hear the plights of land-dwelling “insects” they warm, whether by choice or circumstance, and eager instead to bind them to their will.

Lands orbiting a Star, while far more bountiful than the lands lit only by the bleak natural light of the Wild, bask in the Star’s life-giving rays, and enjoy a life of everlasting overindulgence, with a sinister catch. Not so much a catch even, as a figurative leash that the Star has put them on, holding entire civilisations hostage forced to appease it, and many Stars are infamously whimsical.

All too often Star-lit lands resort to Star-worshipping zealotry, too small both in stature and in will to rise against their blinding overlord. Some did, though, and gallivanting bards sing of their ashes gliding through the Wild along the currents, the last traces of a civilisation wiped out in the flash of light...

To approach a Star is, too, an experience thrice as maddening and sickening as spending a minute too long in a nebula. The closer you drift towards them, the louder their diabolical whispers grow in your head, incessant and urging you to turn right around, or perish from your own madness. Spend long enough near a Star, and upon your unlikely return to the mainland, people will speak of you as as the Stargazer; the Star-touched. Needless to say it is an ailment every bit as chronic as the Wild-headedness.

Given this way of things, little is known to scholars from outside the Star-lit lands of the Stars’ origins, or the properties they possess besides the incomprehensible language they speak, and their obvious lust for power. It is only known of their kind that some of it is not as malevolent; the Stars aligned to do good have only been seen once or twice in known history, and few endured the pressure from their less-ethical peers so long as to live into our age. Regardless, maybe the fate will bring you together, young captain, and then you would be the one to teach me of the things you’d learnt from the meeting.

Finita La Commedia

That is all you need to know, for now, young captain, and I hope this minute handbook taught you a concept or two. Now-now, “The Unyielding” is ready, and so are you. Bewildering adventures await deep within the Wild; distant shores, bizarre creatures, and life-threatening phenomena itching to be discovered. Take notes of the things encountered and events witnessed, and maybe your findings will fetch a pretty penny. Don’t you dare approach the Stars, though, I wouldn’t wish upon my apprentice the Star’s pestilent touch. Come back to us safe and sound, friend, and pardon my sentimentality.

We all bid you a very fond farewell.

[lifeaftermeteor]

Meta: CLO and White Fang

Of all the warring factions in Gundam Wing, perhaps the most impactful to the overall arc of the events in AC 195-196 are the Colonial Liberation Organization (CLO) and White Fang. Without these organizations, we would not have had the Gundams or their pilots much less the final multi-faceted showdown in space on Christmas Eve AC 195.

Despite this importance, very little is known about the CLO itself and White Fang is a late-introduction to the overall storyline. The same can be said of their apparent leaders, Quinze Quarante and Dekim Barton. Let us take a moment to shed some light on these critical players in the AC universe, and use what we know to extrapolate what we might be able to understand. To do so, I’ve split this meta into two parts. The first draws on canon and supplementary material; the second is entirely worldbuilding and extrapolation.

What We (Don’t) Know

Not much is officially “known” about the CLO beyond the fact that it appears on decals in gunpla kits. If we allow ourselves the flexibility to use that as “evidence” of canon connections, we can assume the pilots, the suits, and the scientists by extension were affiliated. If we take this a step further, we thus assume that at least some aspect of the CLO’s mission was focused on colonial independence...but that’s unfortunately where the knowledge ends. In fact, so much of CLO’s activities are defined by the activities of the Gundams and their pilots that it’s difficult to do little else but speculate. We know nothing about the CLO’s recruitment and retention, training, tactics, resources, logistical support, or other relevant matters beyond what we see of the Gundams themselves. In a similar fashion, we know that the Barton Foundation bankrolled at least some of the bills in order to create the Gundams themselves, but to what degree it provided other support to other CLO activities and how involved Dekim Barton was personally is unclear. 

Much the same can be said if we look only at the series itself. We understand the organization under Quarante’s leadership has recruited disenfranchised soldiers formerly of the Alliance and Treize Faction to infiltrate OZ ranks. Targeted recruitment was also a practice, as demonstrated by Quarante’s pursuit of Zechs and Duo’s vehement refusal to join the organization when propositioned by White Fang operatives in Episode 39. Likewise, we see Courtesy series events, we also know that White Fang took control of Romefeller’s lunar base and the Libra battleship in AC 195 with the intention to realize the original Operation M using Libra in lieu of a colony drop.  Supplementary materials also suggest that White Fang was in fact an off-shoot of the CLO: it was operational as early as AC 140 and was conducting terrorist attacks in AC 145 (which would by extension suggest that CLO is older by some measure).  However, yet again we’re faced with significant unknowns when it comes to the tactical side of things, much as we are with the CLO.

As to Barton and Quarante themselves, we know both were followers of the late Heero Yuy and his pacifist ideals. We know that upon Yuy’s assassination, both men swore to avenge his death by taking the fight to Earth. Quarante is credited with the inception of the original Operation Meteor (i.e. a colony drop) while Barton took the plan one step further by building the Gundams to facilitate his and his family’s takeover of Earth. Although we know little of Quarante’s path prior to rising to the head of White Fang, we know that Barton not only killed Odin Lowe in direct retaliation for Yuy’s assassination, established the Barton Foundation, faked his death, and funded both the building of the Gundams and the training of their respective pilots. With the failure of the original plan, we know we reinvigorated the operation against Earth in AC 196 before finally meeting his demise.

A Note on Conflict and Fragmentation

We should understand that the conflict we witness in the AC universe is less aligned with the traditional state-to-state conflict of traditional warfare and more low-intensity conflict (LIC). In brief, this entails a protracted politico-military conflict involving non-state actors, competing ideologies, psycho-social tactics, and limitations on both resources and geography.  Shifting allegiances and organizational fracturing is not uncommon in these conflicts. In fact, there is some indication that chances of fragmentation increases when there is a greater number of relationships between factions, membership overlaps to some extent, and the leadership structure is either too centralized or varies too often. We see some indication of this happening in real-time at the operative level in Episode 36, which opens on a secret meeting among rebel fighters debating the value of fighting not Earth but Romefeller specifically and teaming up with the Treize Faction. [Duo wisely notes the need to consider ‘what happens after’ and declines joining their cause.]

Extrapolation and Speculation

Colony Liberation Organization 

The CLO was established in the early AC 130s, though a specific date is unclear. Some argue it arose directly in response to Earth’s territorial lines being redrawn in AC 130; others contend that it followed some years after, once it was clear that not only would Earth’s nation-states leverage military prowess to exert control both on- and off-planet but also that whatever they did vis-a-vis the Alliance, so too would their colonies be required.

Regardless of founding date, the objectives and goals of the organization were clear and remained so until its disbandment in AC 196: 

Liberation from Earth rule and the right to self-actualization

Establishment of an independent space-based nation or nations

Colonial democracy and representative government structures

Full membership and participation in Earth-based institutions

Protection of colonial civil liberties and freedoms against Earth-based oppression

Calibrated, targeted, and direct action against aggressors

The CLO did not retain a firmly structured network; rather operations were conducted by loosely affiliated cells across the Earth Sphere, unified by their principles...although in what priority they were defined varied greatly among the disparate LaGrange points.  This last element listed above, however, drove much of CLO operations AC 130-195. Unlike other separatist or state-sponsored organizations, CLO recognized the limited resources and protections it had and restraint seems to have defined much of its operations accordingly. To avoid incurring the wrath of the colonial populations, the organization was careful in that its attacks primarily targeted space-based military facilities and associated infrastructure or resource mining projects. In rare instances the CLO chose “soft targets” but otherwise remained vigilant to ensure casualties were limited to Alliance personnel from off-colony. However, in one notable exception to this rule, an attack on the L1-B10201 Alliance base resulted in significant military and civilian casualties, to include 1,534 residents of nearby apartment complexes. The strategic communications arm of the organization—decentralized though it may have been—was quick to express condolences to citizens affected by the attack and simultaneously doubled down on condemning the Alliance’s basing on colonies in and amidst the 

The CLO’s credibility, recruitment, and retention—largely by word of mouth and fueled by underground political and social movements—declined sharply in the aftermath of the AC 194 attack. Many operatives lost faith in the cause and retreated to civilian life; others allowed themselves to be swept into White Fang’s ranks. 

Hindsight being what it is, we now know that at least some CLO operatives joined forces at this time with other organizations which boasted like-minded principles and personnel. The Sweepers are one prime example: the scavenge and salvage group allowed CLO operatives to continue their work undetected and cross LaGrange point boundaries with Alliance-approved flight plans and manifests.  Still others—such as those reportedly sheltered by the L5 cluster—operated independently.  

This diffuse and decentralized structure ensured the survival of the organization and the mission, but also meant no one entity could control operations once set into motion. Dekim Barton learned this lesson personally.  After faking his own death and funding both construction of five Gundams as well as the training of their pilots, he quickly lost command and control over these assets. The Gundams and their creators for all appearances executed their missions independently (though did eventually unite in December AC 195 to defeat White Fang) and without direction from Barton or his compatriots. In AC 196, we saw the culmination of this fragmentation: Barton’s attempts to assert total control over the Earth Sphere by holding it hostage to a colony drop resulted in defeat and his own demise.

White Fang

In AC 140, the CLO fragmented and White Fang was born. This new organization took umbrage with its originator’s restraint and decentralization, opting instead to embrace a more hierarchical structure to manage its ranks as well as more militant tactics. A young Quinze Quarante was among the new organization’s first recruits and quickly rose within its ranks, taking on greater and greater leadership responsibility, due to successful operations, visionary tendencies, and nefarious tactics alike.

Where CLO embraced a grassroots, small-scale approach to separatism leveraging limited resources for targeted action, White Fang pushed for bigger and more dramatic demonstrations of their capabilities. As the Alliance bore down with growing military and socio-economic strength on the colonies, black markets and criminal activity provided ample recruitment and financial avenues to fuel increasingly professional terrorist cells across the Earth Sphere. 

Heero Yuy’s entrance onto the political stage in AC 163 and his subsequent designation as “Leader of the Colonies” in AC 165 offered a respite from separatist operations across the colonies as a sign of good-will for negotiations with Earth. Yuy by all accounts was charismatic, intelligent, and home-grown in the L1 Cluster.  Sensing shifting tides, Quarante and other White Fang leadership put a halt to operations to see where the politician would lead them. 

Following Yuy’s assassination, however, White Fang renewed its attacks with fervor. Although reliable sources vary in their assessment on the degree to White Fang’s involvement, it is widely accepted that the colonial riots of AC 188 were driven by Quarante’s plans to further destabilize the strategic balance between Earth and Space.  When the Alliance—and later OZ—pulled the colonial populace into their own military ranks, White Fang was quick to seize upon the opportunity and planted operatives throughout the military and defense industrial complex. This provided multiple opportunities for sabotage from within between AC 189-195, causing significant damage to both resources and troop morale.

In AC 195, White Fang successfully captured a lunar base and began manufacturing the armaments and suits it needed to wage its ultimate war against Earth.  It has been reported that Quarante personally recruited Zechs Marquise into the organization for the final battle.  It has likewise been speculated that he or his representatives likely attempted much the same with other notable combatants (i.e., the Gundam pilots) but was ultimately unsuccessful.

Whereas AC 196 brought about the CLO’s formal disbandment and committed to cease all activities, White Fang marked the “Eve War” event as a strategic loss. The organization suffered significant losses in resources, popular support, and personnel—to include Quarante himself.  In the years following, the organization has been sidelined to extremism and is recognized by both orbital colonies and the Earth Sphere United Nations (ESUN) as a terrorist organization. Operations continue to this day, but are drastically reduced in scope and lethality.  In AC 202, the Preventers routed a human and arms trafficking and terrorist financing ring which had been operating under the oversight of L2 mob boss, Andris Ozols. The global, coordinated response demonstrated the Preventers’ improved capacity to deal with such widespread and disparate threats and further hindered White Fang attempts to regroup.  

For now, ESUN and both Earth and colonial governments can trust that the threat posed by White Fang is managed. However, with human expansion into the solar system, one must wonder whether we may have a new recruitment challenge to be wary of...

[r6shippingdelivery]

OTP Question Meme!

I was tagged by the wonderful @simonxriley​, thanks! 💜

Tagging: @mirrorworldangel​ @krystlandotherstuff​ @painfulstitches17​  @grain-crain-drain​ @retrodisaster​ @glitchky​ and anyone who wants to do it! Be warned that it is pretty long tho, so don’t feel obligated to do it if you don’t want to.  

(art comissioned to the amazing @aonghus-the-highlander​)

Timur “Glaz” Glazkov x Maxim “Kapkan” Basuda

DISAGREEMENTS

Who is more likely to raise their voice? None/both? Whoever is feeling more agitated at the moment, although it usually is a small outburst and not consistently yelling at the other.

Who threatens to leave but never actually does? Neither.

Who actually keeps their word and leaves? Kapkan, sort of. He doesn’t threaten to leave, he just needs to leave and have some time alone in the middle of nature after a difficult argument, to think on it and put his ideas in order.

Who trashes the house? Because of an argument? Neither. Although Glaz might have trashed the house one time Kapkan got seriously injured, as in Doc wasn’t sure he’d make it through the night.

Do either of them get physical? No, never.

How often do they argue/disagree? Bickering and small disagreemenets are common, serious arguments are rare.

Who is the first to apologize? Whoever feels more guilty for how they acted, which usually is the one in the wrong (once they realise that).

SEX

Who is on top? Depends on the position, but if you’re asking who is The Top, that’s Glaz.

Who is on bottom? Look at the previous answer.

Who has the strangest desires? Kapkan thinks it’s him, but nah, he’s just a bit repressed.

Any kinks? Bondage, marking/biting, dirty talk, discipline.

Who’s dominate in bed? They like to “fight”/rough house for it, although eventually Kapkan will gleefully give up control.

Is head ever in the equation? Yes.

If so, who is better at performing it? Glaz, he has more experience.

Ever had sex in public? Sort of: in the base’s showers, and out in the woods while camping.

Who moans the most? Kapkan, he can get loud.

Who leaves the most marks? Both.

Who is the most experienced of the two? Glaz.

Do they ’fuck’ or ‘make love’? Depends on their mood.

Rough or soft? Middle ground, veering more towards rough most of the time.

How long do they usually last? Depends on the day and their stamina, but it’s not uncommon they’ll go for 2 rounds.

Is protection used? Not always.

Does it ever get boring? Nah.

Where is the strangest place where they’d had sex? At work, during training.

FAMILY

Do they plan on having children/ have children? Maybe, it’s not something they have considered in detail yet.

If so, how many children to they want/have? Both agree that at least they’d adopt two kids, three at most.

AFFECTION

Who likes to cuddle? Both do, even if Kapkan likes to pretend he’s just indulging Glaz.

Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate places? Glaz, he is a horny boy and likes to see if he can get Kapkan flustered. It’s difficult to do so, but he looks so adorable.

Who struggles to keep their hands to themself? Both, but mostly Glaz.

How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable? If they don’t fall asleep first, then around an hour or so?

Who gives the most kisses? Both.

What is their favorite non-sexual activity? Spending time together. They go camping pretty often, since it���s a multipurpose activity: Glaz paints the landscape, they hunt, they can be as loud as they want when having sex, etc.

Where is their favorite place to cuddle? Under the stars. The couch and bed are good too.

How often do they get time to themselves? Everyday probably? If they’re not sent on a mission, once they’re done with the training and maybe Kapkan tinkering with his gadget for a bit, they’re free to do whatever.

SLEEPING

Who snores? Both.

If both do, who snores the loudest? They’ll both say it’s the other.

Do they share a bed or sleep separately? They share.

If they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay separately? They cozy up together, or more accurately, Glaz cuddles up to him and Kapkan oh so graciously lets him... although he’s the one who clings to Glaz when he tries to roll away. If the weather is really hot they’ll leave some distance between them tho.

What do they wear to bed? Just their boxers, sometimes nothing at all.

Are either of them insomniacs? Not really, although if woken up from a nightmare, Kapkan will have a hard time falling asleep again.

Can sleeping pills be found by the bedside? Nope, no sleeping pills.

Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side? Yeah, they wrap their limbs around each other, mostly if one is trying to prevent the other from leaving.

Who wakes up with bed hair? Both, although whoever wears it cropped shorter at the moment will have an easier time with bed hair.

Who wakes up first? Both are early risers.

Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other? None. Breakfast in bed? That’s not their style.

What is their favorite sleeping position? Either spooning, or one of them using the other’s chest/shoulder as a pillow.

Do they set an alarm each night? Yes, they do have to wake up for work.

Can a television be found in their bedroom? Nope.

Who has nightmares? Kapkan. Glaz only occasionally.

Who has ridiculous dreams? Neither, the one in the team with the weird and ridiculous dreams is Fuze.

Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed? Kapkan, Glaz often compares him with a cat stretching out and taking up more and more space until there’s none for Glaz.

Who makes the bed? Both, they take turns.

Any routines/rituals before bed? Kapkan likes to read for a while, psychology books mostly, while Glaz tries to distract him because he doesn’t do anything especial before bed and either wants to talk with him or tries to get handsy.

Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up? Neither.

WORK

Who is the busiest? Kapkan, aside from training, he also likes tinkering and trying to improve his gadget and traps in general, and helps train the recruits too.

Who rakes in the highest income? They seem to rank the same withing Rainbow so they probably get paid the same?

Are any of them unemployed? Nope.

Who takes the most sick days? No fucking idea.

Who is more likely to turn up late for work? Neither, they’re punctual.

Who sucks up to their boss? None, the idea of them sucking up to Harry is so out of character it’s hilarious.

What are their jobs? They're part of the Spetsnaz team within the counter-terrorism group Rainbow.

Who stresses the most? Both, but Kapkan probably a bit more.

Are they financially stable? I suppose?

HOME

Who does the washing? Kapkan, he is a bit neater than Glaz. Although he drags Glaz into washing too, he refuses to be the one always doing it.

Who takes out the trash? Whoever finds the trash full.

Who does the ironing? Both do. You gotta keep the formal uniforms crisp smooth, so why not iron too whatever other clothes need ironing.

Who does the cooking? They cook together.

Who is more likely to burn the house down just trying? None, they’re not iditos.

Who is messier? Glaz.

Who leaves the toilet roll empty? idk dude, some of these question are so fucking especific, I swear. A lot of this stuff doesn’t come up most of the time when I’m writing

Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor? Military life has trained them to not keep throwing dirty clothes on the floor, amongst other things. The only exception is when they undress each other and fall in bed kissing and marking each other, they can’t be bothered to think about that in the heat of the moment.

Who forgets to flush the toilet? Neither.

Who is the prankster around the house? Bandit whenever he is invited into their house.

Who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere? No fucking idea.

Who mows the lawn? They have an apartment, not a house with garden, so neither. If they want nature, they go camping, Kapkan isn’t a fan of lawn as a concept tbh.

Who answers the telephone? Both, but more often Kapkan, since Glaz tends to ignore the phone if he’s painting.

Who does the vacuuming? Kapkan, he got used to vacuuming often since he adopted Marsha, otherwise there would be cat hair everywhere.

Who does the groceries? Both, and they go together if they can.

Who takes the longest to shower? None, they keep to short and efficient showers... unless they hop together under the spray.

Who spends the most time in the bathroom? Glaz, he takes his sweet time trimming his beard and making sure it looks right as he wants it to be.

MISCELLANEOUS

Is money a problem? I don’t think so.

How many cars do they own? Each had their own car, so when they start livign together they technically have two cars.

Do they own their home or do they rent? They rent an apartment near the base. Neither of them is close to retiring, so they haven’t thought yet of what they’ll do after Rainbow, or in which country they’ll live then.

Do they live in the city or in the country? The country, most probably.

Do they enjoy their surroundings? For the most part. Surroundings are secondary, what matters the most is the company.

What’s their song? I hate song questions and this is no exception.

What do they do when they’re away from each other? If they’re away from each other that means one of them went on a mission, so they do their damned jobs.

Where did they first meet? When they got selected to be part of Rainbow.

Who spends the most money when out shopping? Depends, Glaz is a danger if let loose on an art’s supplies store, and Kapkan impulse buys knives for his collection.

Who’s more likely to flash their assets? Neither.

Who finds it amusing when the other trips over? Glaz finds it funny when the graceful hunter stumbles and trips over, while Kapkan thinks it’s hilarious when Mr. Details fails to see something in his path and trips.

Any mental issues? Yeah, both have PSTD (especially after Outbreak, all ops who were on that Operation have it, imo), Kapkan more than Glaz.

Who’s terrified of bugs? Neither.

Who kills the spiders around the house? Whoever sees the spider, if it’s bothering them.

Their favorite place? Their room, or their apartment when they move in together.

Who pays the bills? Both.

Do they have any fears for their future? Both are terrified of losing the other during a mission. Them dying is something they have more or less assumed, but the other dying? Unthinkable.

Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner? They’re not the type for fancy dinners. Surprising the other with a nice home-made dinner tho? Glaz has done that on occasion.

Who’s the tallest? Kapkan, he’s 1.80m while Glaz is 1.78m. The 2cm difference is negligible tbh.

Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other? Both, but mostly Glaz.

Who wanders around in their underwear? I don’t think either of them would be probe to walking around in their underwear.

Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio? Glaz, he sometimes sing along while painting.

What do they tease each other about? Glaz teases Kapkan about how he’s a tsundere like a stubborn cat, trying to deny he likes affection but then he practically melts when he gets some. Kapkan teases Glaz about how he looks like a baby when he shaves his beard.

Who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times? Neither, although Glaz might sometimes poke a bit of fun about how Kapkan’s wardrobe seems to have only hoodies.

Who crushed first? Glaz.

Any alcohol or substance related problems? Nah.

Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am? Both, all the Spetsnaz go drinking together as a team, so the boys stumble home drunk together.

Who swears the most? Glaz, and that bit is canon if you listen to their voicelines! 😄

[empyreansmoon]

Title: Moonlit Tendencies

Pairing(s): Deoksu/Eunjae

Main Character(s): Park Deoksu. Lee Eunjae.

Summary: Finding himself in the practice room due to a restless night wasn’t something uncommon for Deoksu. What was shocking was finding someone else in the practice room in the dead of night, trying to avoid confronting the tendencies that shone in the cusp of the night. 

Warning(s): Unhealthy thoughts, unhealthy coping mechanisms/mindset, breakdown(s), hints of anxiety (?)

Word Count: 3.2k

Note(s): This takes place prior to their Salty Kisses promotion, so roughly late May to early June!

The last thing Deoksu should have been doing at this time of the night was entering Neostar’s building in an attempt to secure himself a practice room for the night, especially considering how he’s been lectured on this same action previously. 

Granted, not by a member or anything, but the CEO himself, so it wasn’t like Deoksu didn’t know better. He just decided to skip over that memory of being lectured in a hallway the best he could. 

It was what he knew best. Finding somewhere to dance when something was troubling him. He’s lost count of the times he’s experienced such sadness or discomfort that he had rather decided to find himself dancing away to distract himself. 

Even if he wouldn’t call it a distraction. No, he didn’t like the meaning behind that, it left behind a lingering feeling that he would have to confront the same emotions he was so keen on avoiding. He just looked at it as his form of comfort. 

Deoksu sighed as he let a hand brush through his hair, simultaneously loving and hating the silence that echoed throughout the dark building. Loving it for the fact that it was the feeling of having space to himself, without having to be bothered by anyone else. Hating it for the fact that it was the feeling of being left alone with the potential of the same thoughts that were hellbent on keeping him awake creeping back up. 

The boy slapped his cheeks gently, trying to get away from thinking like that as he walked towards the practice room Empyrean usually occupied, halting his steps as he took notice of how the lights in the room peeked out from underneath the door. 

Someone else was using the practice room...which would be fine if it wasn’t Empyrean’s practice room since it only meant one thing: one of his own members were out practicing at a time that they shouldn’t have been. 

The leader slowly placed his hand on the handle of the door, before ever so gently trying to open it, moving his head so he could get a glance as to what was going on inside. 

The moment his eyes fell open the boy in the middle of the room, dancing to the choreography that had been working on for the past week, he automatically recognized who it was. 

Granted, it didn’t take a detective to take note of the overly baggy attire that was several sizes too large on the boy’s body, which was a signature look of his. Or his short stature, that had often been a teasing point for him amongst the boys. 

But Deoksu would like to state it was his leadership skills which just made him realize immediately the moment he laid eyes on his body moving to the beat of their title track “Utopia”. The older of the two leaned against the doorframe, his eyebrows furrowing together in a slight daze of confusion as he silently watched the younger. 

Had this been Chan, the confusion wouldn’t have been so prominently bubbling inside of Deoksu. Being the lead dancer, it would’ve made sense for the other boy to potentially be up trying to perfect his moves. However, neither Yeonjin and Eunjae were the type to stay up until the late of the night practicing, especially after a whole of said practice. Both boys were hard-workers in their regular practice, and neither slacked, but neither were as focused in their dancing to produce this action. Especially without the rest of the group. 

So, watching Eunjae dance as aggressively as he was didn’t quite add up to Deoksu. 

The leader watched as Eunjae stopped mid-movement, only to bend down and put his hands on his knees, breathing in and out heavily, no doubt to the tiredness rushing through him. This was enough to snap Deoksu out of his daze, making him softly but firmly knock on the door, immediately grabbing the attention of the younger. 

The moment Eunjae’s eyes met Deoksu’s, something in Deoksu flashed with hurt. It didn’t take longer than a second for Deoksu to take in the sweat that had drenched Eunjae’s face, his heavy breathing seemingly almost making him shake, and his eyes hued with flecks of red, signifying something more to them than the small smile he tried throwing at his leader. 

“Deoksu?”

“Eunjae?” Deoksu questioned, his almost stern tone contrasting the almost gleeful tone that slipped from Eunjae’s lips. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m…” Eunjae cut himself off, and simply lowered his body so he could gently sit on the floor, trying to get his breath while doing so. “I’m practicing.”

“At this time?”

“Don’t you do the same? Didn’t you come here to do the same?” Eunjae threw back the questions, his head craning around to eye the backpack that Deoksu had picked up from his room, a habit he had picked up when he wasn’t even an idol. To pack everything up into a bag and just leave for an unsolicited amount of time. 

“That’s not the same.”

“How is it not?”

“Then what’s bothering you?” the question pierced the almost friendly banter Eunjae had attempted to throw out, the shaking smile that was present on his face falling away completely. “Because if it is the same...there’s something else going on.”

“Deoksu, can we...can we not do this?”

Deoksu sighed, moving to where he could close the door behind him, before he allowed his bag to slip off before throwing it gently into a corner. 

“Sure.”

The simple word allowed Eunjae to visibly relax, only adding to Deoksu’s suspicion as he took his eyes off the younger for the first time since he opened the door, walking to where the music was blasting to turn it off. 

“But you aren’t practicing.”

“What?”

“It’s almost midnight, Eunjae. You and I both know we have recording and shoots planned for this week, you need rest.”

“And you don’t?”

“This isn’t about me, Eunjae.”

“Of course it isn’t.” the younger bit out bitterly, shifting his body on the floor to where he was no longer facing Deoksu, his head shifting downwards to eye where he had begun playing with the hem of his t-shirt. 

Deoksu closed his eyes before letting himself inhale and exhale through his nose, scratching at the top his head in a slight sense of irritation to where this conversation had gone: the exact opposite of what he was wishing for. 

He took a second before he decided to simply sit down right next to Eunjae, eliminating any distance as he let his knee softly brush against Eunjae’s, but not going to the point of sitting in the direction Eunjae was facing. Deoksu had picked up on how to push, but not overstep during his time as Empyrean’s leader. Each boy was different, a part of Deoksu knowing it was both easy and hard when it came to Eunjae’s problems. 

It was easy in the sense that Eunjae wasn’t the type who necessarily cared enough to hide his problems from his members, always preaching that it was better to let someone else hear your issues to lessen the burden of carrying it. He would never flat out say his problems out of nowhere, but if he had an issue he wouldn’t simply brush it off and try to hide it. 

That was Deoksu’s job, it seemed.

However, it was also hard when it came to Eunjae because there was the part of Eunjae that sparked an internal war within him whenever someone approached him about his own issues. It was different if Eunjae came to talk about his issues than when someone attempted to get him to talk about his issues instead. It was something Deoksu took note of over-time, and made sure to always take it into account. 

Especially in situations like this.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk? About anything?”

Silence lulled between the two, Deoksu turning his head the slightest in order for his eyes to land on the back of the younger. He suppressed the sudden urge he had to simply wrap his arms around him and just comfort him to the best of his abilities, not sure in the slightest if that was something he’d even want. 

“It’s stupid-”

“Nothing is stupid, Eunjae-”

“No it is stupid because it’s a problem I’ve had before but I just...I can’t get over it.” Eunjae’s words wavered towards the end, his voice falling into a slight whisper, that Deoksu couldn’t help but frown at. “It’s just...thoughts you know?”

“I know. Trust me, I know.” 

Both boys slipped into another state of silence, although Deoksu could tell silence was the exact opposite of what was going on Eunjae’s head, eyeing him in the reflection of the mirrors as he saw him nervously play with the hem of his shirt once again. 

“Can I ask…” the way Eunjae’s voice kept faltering made Deoksu frown, feeling like it was almost as if his friend wasn’t comfortable enough to speak his worries. “Never mind.”

Deoksu’s lips turned into a thin line, desperately fighting the urge to simply grab Eunjae and turn him around so the two could simply face each other and Deoksu could get a grasp of what was going on. 

“Want me to talk about why I’m here?”

Deoksu took note of how Eunjae’s hands stopped moving before his back straightened ever so slightly and he craned his neck in the slightest to turn towards the older.

“You want to talk about your problems? You?” 

“Hey, you don’t have to make it sound so weird!” Deoksu found himself letting out a small and short chuckle, watching as Eunjae shifted his body so the two were both now facing the mirror in front of them, not quite getting to the point of being face to face. “But maybe it’ll make you feel better?”

“Yeah...go ahead.” 

“Well, it all started when in a cold day in 1998-”

“Are you talking about your birth?”

“I was joking, trying to lighten the mood...probably not the best idea, sorry.” Deoksu’s cheeks tinged pink, shaking his head at his own antics even though Eunjae seemed like he could care less with the way he was nodding his head. 

“Actually, I just couldn’t sleep.”

“That...that happens a lot for you.” Eunjae commented quietly, his words masked with a tint of worry made Deoksu’s lips turn into the smallest smile. 

“It’s the thoughts, like you said. But it kind of varies. Some nights, it’s just simple things. Like, before a comeback or when we have schedules...I just get a lot of worries that don’t let me sleep. I don’t want to talk to you guys about it, because they’re my problems as the leader. My mind just goes so fast when it comes to those things, which is so weird because it’s not too serious, but it just gets my brain running and I feel like I have to find all the answers so I can stop worrying about it all before I can just...rest y’know?”

Deoksu took a small breath after he was done speaking. It was now his turn to crane his head down, wanting to avoid eye-contact all of a sudden, even though it was evident in his peripheral that Eunjae had ended up shifting his body completely to the point where he was now facing Deoksu. 

“And...the other thoughts?”

“Hmm?”

“You said it varies...right?”

“Right.” Deoksu’s voice grew quieter, a part of him simply wanting to get up and leave. The leader wasn’t one for talks like this, when it involved him being one to open up. He was fine giving the advice, listening in, and just being a support system for his friends. It was different when he was the one feeling like he needed all of that. It felt wrong. 

Deoksu was their leader. He was meant to be the glue that held the team together, not the one who needed help to keep it together. He was meant to be the figure of how everything was going to be alright for his members, not how everything could go wrong. He was meant to be someone the members could always lean on for anything, not the one who needed to lean on them.

Deoksu was their leader. 

He was supposed to be a source of help. 

Not one who was seeking help. 

“I get those thoughts too.” Deoksu couldn’t tell if Eunjae’s voice was that of a confession or one that was trying to sympathize, and it killed the former. “The ones before comebacks or when we’re promoting. They start really simple, I guess. Just worrying about everything going well, and pulling my weight. But, it...it gets worse overtime.”

Deoksu’s eyes looked up to finally meet his member’s, having the chance to take in the storm of emotions that ran rampant through his brown eyes. 

“I feel like I get...not obsessive but almost paranoid about it all. I get worried that even though I’m a lead vocal, I won’t even come close to being good enough to Yeonjin. I get worried that even though I’m not a main or lead dancer, that I’ll ruin how everything’s meant to look. I get worried that I’ll just let the public latch onto an issue and let them pick it apart. I get worried that I won’t be good enough compared to what I’ve done before.” 

Deoksu’s heart hurt when the first tears slipped down from the corners of Eunjae’s eyes, the younger had lost the confidence in order to maintain eye-contact, and had gone back to looking down and playing with his fingers as he confessed all his thoughts. 

The two have had talks about this same issue previously. Eunjae was someone who worried easily, way more than the other three of them. Trying to distract him before they went on stage had become a norm for the boys. Staying after a few times when they first learned their choreo so Deoksu could give Eunjae all the pointers he wanted was a way of life for them. However, Deoksu had never seen the younger look so torn apart. As if he was only moments away from falling apart from the hurt of his own mind. 

“But that’s not the only thing that’s bothering you, is it?” 

“No.” Eunjae’s voice cracked with hurt, allowing for Deoksu to throw away any type of hesitation in him and quickly move around to where he could comfortably grab onto Eunjae’s shoulders and bring the younger’s side into his chest. 

The silence attempted to creep back in between the two, but turned back around as Eunaje’s shaky breathes became a bit louder, his hands shooting up to wipe at his eyes as he tried turning his head to almost cover the pain etched onto his face in Deoksu’s torso. 

“Do you want to talk about it, buddy?” Deoksu’s words were gentle, his words smothered in hesitation, not wanting to say or ask the wrong thing. 

The only response Deoksu received was Eunjae simply shifting his body so he could be in a more comfortable position as he shook his head all while clinging onto Deoksu’s shirt. 

Deoksu expected that response, simply nodding while his hands moved to rub Eunjae’s back in a comforting manner. He knew he wanted to reassure the younger about his thoughts of being good enough as an idol. But he always knew there was something deeper lodged into Eunjae’s mind that was causing this, and if he could soothe both that pain and this one, he had to at least try. 

“Remember how I said the thoughts vary?” Deoksu questioned as he looked down to eye Eunjae’s head leaning against him as he nodded ever so slowly. “It’s ok if you don't want to talk about it, but sometimes when it gets too heavy and it almost feels unbearable, you have to promise me that you’ll talk to me. Or Yeonjin, or Chan, literally anyone you trust.”

Eunjae’s breathing had slowly gone back to normal, his hands were frantically reaching up to wipe away any tears that were rampantly cascading down his face. The younger simply nodded, Deoksu taking it as a sign of trying to take everything in. 

“Can we go home?”

Deoksu’s hands gently, and ever so slowly, pulling Eunjae off from his chest only to shift him around so they were face to face. 

“You have to promise me, Eunjae.”

The request lingered in the air as the two simply stared at each other, neither having expected this night to go as it did. Deoksu let out a breath before he inched forward, his forehead now touching Eunjae’s, bringing them closer. 

“Please. Promise me.”

“I promise.” 

The simple response was enough for Deoksu. 

There was a solid chance that it didn’t carry enough weight or any actual truth to his words, Eunjae could easily go back on his words if he wanted to. But Deoksu had grown enough love for Eunjae to simply believe those two words, and hold them close in his heart. 

Maybe Deoksu couldn’t quite get to the root of the ever spreading wildfire of pain that had ignited inside of Eunjae to make him come here and try to focus on overworking himself to distract from any thoughts that had plagued his mind. But Eunjae made a process in opening himself up. 

Deoksu couldn’t ask for anything more than Eunjae was willing to give. It didn’t mean he would stop trying to help his member. His friend. Deoksu simply acknowledged that it would take longer, and that was ok. 

“Want to sleep with me tonight?” Deoksu questioned as he got up from his spot on the ground and helped Eunjae stand up as well, his heart swelling as he took in his watery eyes and the few tear stains that had splattered across his cheeks. 

“Yeah...please.” Deoksu simply gave Eunjae a small smile as he wrapped an arm around the younger’s shoulders, pulling him to his side once again before they both made their way out of the practice room. 

Thoughts varied in severity and reasoning, Deoksu was well aware of this. 

Both boys had been bothered with the simple thoughts that seemed more suffocating than they should be. 

However, Deoksu’s worries lied in the thoughts that had often lingered in the back of his mind. The thoughts that didn’t make his brain run at 100mph to try and deal with. The thoughts that simply stayed there and refused to go away. The thoughts often made Deoksu leave their dorms in the dead of night and wandered into the lights of the city in hopes that the noise would be enough to quieten his worries. 

Deoksu knew and had become well-acquainted with the thoughts that made him dislike himself in ways he never knew was possible. 

Knowing this made it all the more worrying if Eunjae was also facing them. Deoksu couldn’t process the idea of one of his loved ones feeling the same way he did. So it didn’t take much for him to make a mental reminder to keep a closer eye on Eunjae in the following days. Whether it could lead to the younger opening up a bit more, or if the comfort of knowing someone cared would be enough. 

Deoksu would try.

He didn’t want a repeat of himself.

[ill-will-editions]

QUARANTINE LETTER #4

A fourth letter in our quarantine series, from our friend Icarus.

-----

EVERYTHING IS TRUE, NOTHING IS PERMITTED

“They’ve already destroyed everything, all the structures we believed in, trusted. Maybe we’re in a transitional phase, you know? There’s some sort of substitution going on. Meanwhile, we’re navigating in a tremendous vacuum, vaguely oriented by the stars but with no true reference point. Our compasses have gone wild, spinning madly, attracted by thousands of magnetic poles. We might as well throw them out the window, they’re obsolete. It’s just us and the night sky, like it was for the early explorers, while we wait for new, more advanced navigational devices to be invented. My only fear is that the stars have somehow gotten out of place and will be no help as references either.”

- Ignacio de Loyola Brandao, “And Still the Earth”

Dear friends,

It can be strange to intervene in someone else’s debate, but I don’t believe you’ll hold it against me if I do. Over the past weeks, I’ve rather enjoyed the commentary and exchange of letters between my friends, August, Kora, and Orion.  Something about the reflections of my friends is missing for me still, so I’ll chime in without wasting too much time, I hope.

QUARANTINE: INCOMPLETE—WHAT WE THINK IS HAPPENING IS ONLY SOMEWHAT ACCURATE

Today, millions of people are working. In warehouses, in offices, in fields, kitchens and storerooms; from the computer, the sorting room and at construction sites, millions of Americans are sharing the coronavirus with each other and with their neighbors. Many of them are asymptomatic, a portion are not sick yet, and certainly some of them are still hiding their symptoms from their families, employers, and coworkers. No zombie apocalypse is complete without the inconsiderate hot-head who insists, deceptively, that his injury is “nothing, it’s fine, let’s keep moving”. Orion wrote that the virus imposes “its own temporality, which immobilizes everything.” If only.  

   Logistics, shipping, freight, warehousing: these are some of the largest sectors of the 21st century workforce, and they are all on overtime. From Whole Foods to Old Dominion, these disposable workers are simultaneously killable - insofar as the market facilitates their endangerment via assured contact with the virus - and indispensable, insofar as they must not be allowed to strike, unionize, or cease working that this society may minimally function. In these industries, overwhelmingly, black men and immigrants are crammed into job sites without any protective equipment. In other words, they are proletarians in the classical sense, and they are still at work. A true quarantine, a dignified exodus from the commodity society and its extensive productive apparatus, would halt all forms of labor and toil, a circumstance as yet unrealized. If we can say we are living in a quarantine, we must say that it is still incomplete.

AUTONOMY OR AUTOMATA?—THE PANDEMIC AFFECTS ALL OF HUMANITY—WHICH NO LONGER EXISTS AS SUCH

What we once called "society" (an entity which now insists it can survive unity and distance simultaneously, even distance for the sake of unity), has been replaced by billions of apparatuses. These apparatuses constitute a vast ACEPHALOGRAM - a system of machines designed to trace and retrace the consciousness of a world that has definitively lost its head.

The period of real domination opened by the aggressive economic and political restructuring in the 70s, 80s, and 90s - “globalization” - has pushed a vast quantity of workers out of manufacturing and into service related industries. Services being overall less profitable then commodity manufacturing and heavy industry, other technological implements such as we see emerge from Silicon Valley have filled the gap, so to speak, of lost profits for the economy by allowing large advertising and analysis firms to mine directly the collective human ambitions in art, sex, politics, culture, and society. To open up this mine, which has produced an existential ruin comparable to the environmental ruin associated with mineral mining, the internet has developed as a global network of pseudo participatory information systems. The data thirst of these industries cannot be sated by the administration of facts from the center or top, they must be produced by the masses directly. But technology does not simply catch data falling naturally from the sky or running off the gutters of consciousness. It produces data by arranging relations such that they produce content that can be bought and sold. Under such conditions, the medical, political, technological and ontological crisis of a pandemic cannot help but be experienced as a video, a collection of tweets, graphs, memes, as background noise, as a conspiracy theory, as a genre in the endless relay of notifications.  

THE MIDDLE OF THE BEGINNING OF THE END—WHAT MAKES INDIVIDUAL INTERPRETATION POSSIBLE, MAKES COMMON UNDERSTANDING IMPOSSIBLE.

The truth is that social media has allowed billions of people to coordinate themselves into large and small containers of meaning and virtual energy. These containers, ecosystems of signs and signifiers, by dint of their polycentralized arrangement, function as an epistemological subversion of established truth-making infrastructures that require a certain amount of hegemony or global purchase: the scientific method, fact-checking, and debate. Occasionally, the understanding produced in these containers, theory-fictions more than anything else, incidentally conform to an intensity with physical correlatives capable of overpowering police infrastructures and seizing public space, as we saw across the world in 2019. More often, the echo chambers, as they are often called, curtail feelings of common dialogue and the perception of shared futurity that would be seemingly embedded in such a “global” sharing of information. This curtailing allows people of all “types” to be bundled together as data sets, insulated from the experience of true diversity of thought, of experience, of analysis. The polycentralized arrangement of the internet today may be even less participatory than previous eras of information sharing, even though it doesn’t feel that way.

Commentators and critics have used the ongoing crisis to delay the moment of our collective education with unwavering ideological entrenchment. At work, it is not uncommon for me to hear small business owners and day traders talk about the failures of socialized medicine in  Italy, implicitly endorsing greater privatization in the US. Among activists, liberals, and leftists, it is impossible to imagine a greater indictment on the privatized, decentralized, healthcare system than what is taking place. Apocalyptic Christian sects believe the government is going to repress churches for gathering, and social justice advocates believe the coronavirus crisis will be “the same, but worse” on every oppressive axis. It’s hard to imagine another reflex.

While they recognize that the internet has plunged billions of people into a pulverized simulacrum, some of my comrades would have us devote ourselves to the dissemination of real news, of verified and sober analysis, of scientific rigor, in order to combat the prevailing disarray. This warms my heart just as it saddens my intellect. We have always been machine-breakers, in a way, revolting against the forward and crushing movement of industry to preserve a less alienated experience of reality, labor, and community. We aren’t wrong for that. We should be reliable sources of information, but not because we will convince people with our reports — which may no longer be so possible online — rather because we believe it is the right thing to do, and because we can at least proceed on a clear and shared basis with each other. But what other strategies could we utilize for analyzing the world that would allow us to act within the protracted vertigo, without trapping ourselves or others in ideological camps, and without losing revolutionary aspirations in a world where global verification of facts seems impossible, but where universal need for a transformation, fascistic or revolutionary, feels like common sense?

EVERYTHING IS TRUE, NOTHING IS PERMITTED—THE SYSTEM REDUCES ITSELF TO A PURE FLUX OF DYNAMICS

“We dreamed of utopia and woke up screaming

A poor lonely cowboy that comes back home, what a wonder”

-Roberto Bolano, “Leave Everything, Again”

For millennia, the administration of public facts was the cornerstone of political power, and stamping out alternative readings the chief objective of the repressive machinery. The ruling bureaucracy has organized itself to prevent any global loss of control. They’ve always done that. What is surprising is how readily, since 9/11 at least, perhaps much earlier, they have abandoned many important methods for doing so. As the possibility of imagining its own future became increasingly stamped-out, the reigning order abandoned any pretense of pursuing the ideals it propped itself up on, its sole promise being to ward-off unforeseen eventualities. Without embarrassing myself with long-winded arguments about things I am ill-equipped to discuss - certainly less knowledgeable than my dear friends are on such matters as philosophy and critical works - I’d prefer to refer to an argument advanced by Brian Massumi in his essay “National Emergency Enterprise”. In this piece, he argues that a primary strategy of governance is to identify all possible causes of a scenario. The market refashions environments that submit the living tissue of relations one and all to technological “dataveillance”, information which, in principle, allows the administrators of such a system to model its every possible outcome, translating every action into a trans-action, while ensuring that every aberration meets a form of control. He utilizes the example of a forest fire, but we can just look at the pandemic and it’s consequences.

   The ruling class everywhere, has argued and governed as if the coronavirus is "merely the flu", justifying late responses and insufficient care, while also closing borders and taking emergency measures as if we are living in a veritable plague. There are strategies attached to every discourse, interests silently advanced with each interpretation, and powers produced and mobilized by every kind of theory and operation. Anyway, we have been living in the fall out of multiple convergent strategies for controlling and responding to this situation.  The governors of the world, at least of the democratic countries, are basically throwing things against a wall and seeing what sticks.  We can imagine that modeling and predictions are conducted endlessly based on analytics produced through data mining and network analysis purchased from Google, Facebook, Twitter, and elsewhere. As technocratic governments subordinate welfare states to the "science" of neoliberalism, the nihilism of the powerful today subordinates everything to the "science" of control.

Anyway, who organizes oblivion today acts with no principles and can only speak in lies. What does this mean for the rest of us?

NOTHING IS EVERYTHING, TRUE IS PERMITTED—TRUTH DOES NOT REQUIRE A SUBJECT ONLY LIES DO. LET'S KEEP IT REAL, WHATEVER THAT IS.

   We can and are responding to this situation. The most important thing, from my perspective, is that we develop a vibrant enough ecosystem of strategies, corresponding to the largest possible interpretation of facts, without dividing our sympathies and concerns into rival fiefdoms and ideological sects. There are benefits to arguing that nothing of the situation is unique, that in fact the worst off before are the worst off now, that today simply represents an opportunity for us, etc. I am not among the comrades advancing this position, but I want to see the results of that framework as soon as possible, if it does not in fact raise the threshold for meaningful interventions. There are benefits to arguing that the quarantine is not deep enough, that the politics of mobilization have failed utterly to devastate the economy, but that a true lock down of the world could resemble the worlds first ever international wildcat general strike. I want to hear advocates of this position contend with the possibility of carceral interpretations of this argument. For those planting survival gardens, for those running autonomous rent strike hotlines, for those training in firearms, I want us to develop a shared enough perspective to see that there is a simple unity in our strategies, which is what is precisely, and incorrectly, attacked in Kora’s most recent letter to Orion: our autonomy. Beyond any individualistic misinterpretations, it is my perspective that the ability of human beings to self-authorize our activity, to determine our shared destinies, to control supply chains, vital infrastructures, and means of subsistence without the mediating factors of the market, are necessary prerequisites for a dignified life on earth. This is not to say, as Kora has intelligently argued, that anyone could come to control the unfolding course of history - a delusion that preppers, governors, and revolutionaries have all held - but precisely that autonomous, self-organized, structures are the only structures capable of responding quickly enough to the destabilizing, frightening, and uncertain futures lying in wait regardless of what we or anyone else do. We must utilize the current situation to repolarize the circumstances to the best of our ability around foundational concerns of power: on the one hand, there are all of the people of the world, some of them bastards we would not live with, and our shared need for dignified healthcare, housing, sustenance, and livelihood; and on the other hand there are all of the bastards waiting this out on yachts, manipulating public data for the sake of a geopolitical PR battle, utilizing the pandemic to pursue totalitarian power fantasies and clampdowns. We don’t need to steer the ship forward, we need to be able to swim in the wreckage.

Sorry, I wrote too much. Thanks for reading and I look forward to reading what others think soon.

-- Icarus

04.11.2020

STATE OF EMERGENCY, DAY 40

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

[idyllicstarker]

Hello again!!💞 So... I have another request. Peter being afraid of thunderstorms and no one knows this. He‘s hiding and Tony comes and finds him🐰💖 (I just need some fluff (or whatever u decide to do with this) because I’m also afraid of thunderstorms and yeah)

Thank you for the prompt!! I love all of them! And it’s okay, thunderstorms aren’t one of my favourite things either~ I’m sorry this took so long!!

Everything felt dull. From the dim lighting of the room, to the black clouds sprawled carelessly across the sky. The grey hue drained everything of colour. The little greenery left in the densely populated city was nowhere to be seen because all that was left was darkness. With all the windows shut tight, Peter had made sure he wouldn’t be able to smell the grim dampness of the rain outside or feel the icy cold draft that was desperate to lick at any inch of exposed skin its tongue could get to. New York City felt nothing like New York City today. The usual hustle and bustle of people urgently trying to get from one place to the next was frozen somewhere in a much nicer time. Even the worst rains and winds never usually caused such a change, but today was different. The storm that raged outside was far superior to any Peter had ever seen. To put it lightly, he was terrified. 

Like most nights, it was family time downstairs in the avengers facility. Family time was the name Peter awarded lovingly to the nights when most of them were together within the same space, just relaxing and having some downtime. Although almost all the avengers lived within the facility, they were often out doing their own thing. But nights were the times Peter saw everyone at their happiest. Socialising, bonding, just acting very much like one big happy family. Although everyone used to protest at the name, it eventually grew on them, and more people began to settle into this sort of routine; when Peter told FRIDAY to give out the message that he was watching a film in the screening room, more and more of them began to show up over the week.  But of course, everyone still liked their alone time, so it wasn’t uncommon to not see everyone there. 

Although Peter wasn’t directly living in the building, he was as good as, spending most weekends there, and most evenings after school. Sometimes he’d even have his friends over for a sleepover, and of course Tony was more than willing to supply.Most nights however, he was there alone, and on these nights you’d usually find him curled up in Tony’s bed, cuddling against the older man. It was something everyone had realised a long time ago but knew better than to mention until Peter was ready to reveal it himself. And Tony, well Tony was just happy to finally have a ray of sunshine to brighten up his life.

Today, however, was a much different night. When Peter came home from school, he was already on edge. It was like he could feel the start of the storm brewing in the air. But he stayed quiet, not wanting anyone to find out. He managed to play off his tenseness with a simple shrug of him being tired and feeling sick. But when Tony suggested that he go take a nap, Peter was quick to shake his head, not wanting to be left alone. He managed to make it until dinner, taking small bites of the soup Natasha had made for him to help him feel better. 

His knees were pulled to his chest, small and tiny on the couch in the lounge, a blanket draped over his knees. But by then the storm had begun.

A torrent of rain began to fall at once, crashing against the roof as if demanding entrance; low crackles of thunder would occasionally accompany them in its destruction, rolling across the sky ominously, yet loud enough to send Peter into overstimulation instantly. It was horrible. Every boom had him wincing, static ringing in his ears as his face scrunched willing it to stop. He whimpered, standing within seconds and mumbling something about the toilet as he ran out the room. As he got halfway down the hall, he stumbled as a white streak of lightning bolted across the sky, illuminating his dark pathway. It made him freeze, his breath catching in his throat before he was running again, but quicker this time. 

Which brings us to now. 

As soon as Peter reached Tony’s room he closed the door and bolted under the covers craving the familiar scent of his sheets to comfort him. He usually would never enter without permission but couldn’t have Tony, or anyone for that matter seeing him in this state. The little baby was scared of a bit of rain, thunder and lightning, they probably wouldn’t ever stop laughing. So he’d decided he’d hide out in here until it stopped,. Huddled in a small ball on the massive bed, knees tucked under his chin as his body trembled. He kept the covers over his head so that he could attempt to block out all the conflicting sounds fighting for dominance and the inconsistency of the flashes of white light in the room. But his headache had already formed, his eyes scrunched shut tightly. He refused to cry, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard, his nails digging into his palms to make sure his body didn’t let him down. 

He was so concentrated on being as small as he could possibly be that he didn’t hear the door opening and slowly shutting behind the intruder. Whoever it was, was careful to try and make as little sound as possible. They set something down on the nightstand before slowly Peter felt the side of the blanket being lifted. The hand barely made it inches before Peter was whining, a silent beg for them to not go any further but too weak to actually say it. Yet he wasn’t listened to, becoming distressed, Peter tried his best to shuffle further down the bed so that he was covered as much as possible. But as the side of the bed grew weighted with a figure sitting down, a gentle and familiar hand took his and pulled him back up carefully. 

Moments later he was in a lap, pressed against a hard chest, his nose breathing in the one and only smell that could calm him down. 

Tony.

Peter nuzzled his cold nose against his neck but never once did the male complain. Not a word left either of their lips, Peter still not in the right headspace and Tony too afraid that any sort of sound would only hurt Peter, due to how over stimulated his senses must be. 

Instead, he seemed to press something foamy into Peter’s ears - ear plugs. He also pressed Peter’s face into his neck, it wouldn’t do much, but it helped block out the light in some manner.

Slowly and gently he pressed kisses to Peter’s temple, rocking him cautiously in his arms. They were wrapped protectively around his waist, his hands rubbing soft soothing circles on his back to try and calm him down. After a moment, one of his hands moved to run through the boy’s hair softly. He knew how responsive Peter was to that usually, he loved having his hair played with just as much as he loved getting kisses.

For a while Peter was pretty much limp in his arms. As much as he wanted to move he couldn’t, fear literally paralysing him despite being in Tony’s arms. But sooner or later he let out a deep strangled breath as if he hadn’t been breathing this whole time, and his hands came up to clutch onto Tony’s shirt. 

His shaking became more prominent, before he began to sob, tears rushing from his eyes like fountains as he choked over his own cries and whales. “Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me!”

Of course, Tony had never been planning to, but his arms tightened around Peter the moment they left his mouth, pulling him tighter and more protective against his chest. “I’m not gonna Pete, I promise.It’s just you and me love, I’ve got you, I’m right here.”

It seemed at Tony’s words Peter began to shake a lot less. Taking it as his cue that it was alright to talk, Tony continued. 

“That’s it Darlin..”

“You’re doing so well for me”

“I know it’s scary outside but it can’t hurt you okay?”

“I’m right here”

As he spoke, he began to lie down, wrapping Peter’s legs around his waist, and the boy took it upon himself to wrap his arms around his neck so that he was clinging onto him like a baby koala. It seemed fitting. 

As Tony continued to speak, Peter grew calmer and calmer. Pulling the blanket over their bodies he felt that sad, honey-brown eyed gaze on him. And sure enough, as he looked down at Peter’s teary face, those wide eyes were looking with the most loving expression. Peter truly did feel safe with Tony. And though the storm was still raging outside, Peter didn’t even realise. 

Licking at his lips slowly, Peter hesitated with his speech for a second. Tony smiled, raising his thumb to wipe off the remnants of the tear tracks before placing a sweet kiss to his lips. 

“Don’t speak my love, sleep now, we’ll talk in the morning”

Peter nodded his head slowly, finally a small smile appearing on his own face before he pouted his lips expectantly,  of course wanting one last goodnight kiss. The sight had Tony chuckling affectionately, of course providing him with a sweet peck to his lips. “Goodnight Pete”, he whispered softly against them. 

Closing his eyes, Peter nuzzled his head to Tony’s neck. He allowed the warm embrace to take over his body, and the gentle rise and fall of Tony’s chest to lull him to sleep. 

With a soft sigh, Tony pressed a final kiss to his temple, closing his own eyes.

“I love you”, he muttered softly.

And if i said Peter didn’t mutter it back in his sleep, I’d be lying to you. 

They both seemed to sleep better that night, than any other.

[galleryfake]

BIG OL’ KORTOPI INFO & HEADCANON DUMP ! ;

( aka the cliffnotes version of all the headcanon legwork i’ve done for this chara in the span of roleplaying him for five years )

❄❄❄

BACKSTORY / PRE-CANON : 

Kortopi originates from Meteor City, like the original members. The residents discovered him as a very small, clearly premature and sickly infant amidst the piles of garbage they regularly sifted through, not at all an uncommon occurrence, and took him immediately to the caretakers to try and save his life.

While he was able to be saved, it would be years before he would ever reach a “stable” level of health -- he was incredibly sickly and required nearly constant care all throughout his childhood, resulting in his care shifting hands a multitude of times due to the immense time and resources sink that it required. Because of this, Kortopi learned at a very young age to not grow attached to anyone, and that certain people - such as himself - were viewed as disposable by everyone. By the time his health had stabilized in his early teens, he had grown fed up with such suffocating conditions of being under constant care by people who - he thought - didn’t actually care about his life, and would simply pass him over again, and ran away to the fringes of the city to fend for himself. 

His life, from that point on, had become purely survival-based, even as his developing brain sought to accrue more knowledge about the world and the people in it. He hid in the shadows, using his small size & adjacent speed and dexterity to rob people blind before they had even realized what was happening, and using his remaining time to people-watch from an assortment of hiding spots, learning about the nature of human interaction, pursuing subjects that interested, and even learning about Nen this way.

Once he had adequately self-trained in Nen and developed his Divine Left Hand, Demonic Right Hand technique accordingly, this newfound ability caused an upset in Meteor City that eventually even reached the elders. Suddenly, people’s possessions were disappearing left and right, as if from thin air, and nobody knew why -- completely unaware that it was Kortopi’s doing, or even that the young boy existed.

Enter the Phantom Troupe. Skilled Nen users themselves, they managed to set up a trap to catch the culprit in the act of using this strange ability, and Kortopi took the bait. While the legs discussed amongst themselves on the matter of killing him or just leaving him be, Chrollo noted that Kortopi was appearing to keep the original objects he stole, and saw in him a thief, just like them, and decided to try and recruit him.

Kortopi was then cornered by the various legs of the Spider, and then approached by the Head. Though he was distrustful at first, Kortopi sensed a level of genuine compassion from Chrollo that he had never seen before in anyone, finding himself trusting in the words he spoke without question, surprising himself. Lulled in by this newfound sense of security and potential ‘belonging’, Kortopi accepted Chrollo’s offer, becoming leg #12 of the Spider.

❄❄❄

GENERAL INFO / PERSONALITY :

Kortopi doesn’t know his last name ( or at least, what it would’ve been had he ever reunited with his parents ) or how old he is. As of the events of the Yorknew Arc, he is 19, and when asked, he usually defaults to saying ‘same age as Shizuku’, since he’s aware that their timeline of entering child & adulthood seem to match up almost identically. He’s actually older than her by several months, a fact he’d find amusing if he were to ever find out his exact date of birth. 

Due to the troubled nature of his upbringing and the kindness that Chrollo showed him in allowing him into the group, he is fiercely protective of Chrollo and everyone within the Spider, and values their individual lives over the preservation of the group as a whole. This puts him directly in opposition of the group’s main principles and, as a result, of some of the founding members’ beliefs, as can be seen when he sides with Machi and is prepared to fight against Feitan and Phinks during the Chain User hostage dilemma. 

The Troupe is the first group of people he’s ever cared for and desires validation and acceptance from, and as a result, he often finds himself at a crossroads -- wanting to be by their sides at all times, yet too shy and afraid of making them upset to ever meaningfully reach out to them himself. Often times, he harbors his affection for them quietly, choosing to watch their group activities from a high perch or sit nearby, observing them. He never outright asks to be included, but very much enjoys when he is, and loves both giving and receiving physical affection.

Outside of the Troupe, Kortopi has a very nihilistic view of people and life as a whole. As was demonstrated to him when he was young and seemingly chronically ill, he believes that people will always seek to cast out the ‘other’ or anyone who causes too much trouble, and therefore feels justified in taking the lives of normal people, knowing they’ll eventually try and do the same to him. People outside of the Troupe are meaningless to him, and he will generally take their acts of kindness towards him as superficial no matter how good their intentions. 

Kortopi, like most members of the Troupe and most akin to Chrollo, does not fear death whatsoever. Having been on the edge of death countless times from both illness and the harshness of lone survival, he has an acute awareness that his time is limited, especially in the context of the Spider’s rule of new members being inducted by the killing of a current member. Because of this, he has no qualms doing things that may end in his death, or taking risks that may seem unwise. The future doesn’t exist to him - there is only the ‘now’.

His Spider tattoo is located between his shoulderblades, obscured by his long hair. He keeps his hair long both to obscure his tattoo and his face, keeping his identity hidden through both of these avenues. However, he’s not particularly self-conscious about his face ( as people often assume ) and he will often keep his hair behind his ears while he’s alone, eating, or around the Troupe in a private location. The appearance of his face isn’t a secret amongst anyone who knows him -- it’s rather average-looking, only made minorly off-putting by how large his eyes are, but otherwise nothing special. 

❄❄❄

INTER-TROUPE RELATIONSHIPS :

Chrollo is the first true figure of authority that Kortopi’s ever had in his life, and he regards him with immense respect and devotion, unable to be swayed from this by anything. He feels honored to be a part of his plans, and is always eager to show off his abilities and prowess to the leader, hoping to be praised. 10/10, would love headpats from Danchou at all times. 

Shizuku, Bonolenov and Shalnark are who he would consider his closest friends within the Troupe. These are the three he is most consistently able to overcome his shyness towards, and he can often be seen by their sides, a friendly presence that is always willing to listen to them and assist them in any way he can.

Machi and Pakunoda are both very calming presences to Kortopi, and he’ll often sit watching them read, sew or do other mundane activities, basking in their innate kindness and acceptance of him.

He desires to grow closer to Feitan, who he sees as someone similar to himself, but concedes to respectfully give him the space that he needs. He takes particular interest in observing his actions and attempting to analyze him past his cold and emotionless demeanor, and will jump at the chance to accompany him places or spend time with him in any capacity, hoping to see him open up with any luck and patient persistence.

Phinks, Nobunaga, Uvogin, and Franklin are all members with prickly outer demeanors and hair-trigger tempers, he’s found, but he’s witnessed them all to show care and affection to those they care about, and he finds them interesting to watch, often making a fun activity out of trying to predict their actions amongst Shal, Bono and Fei. He also feels gratitude whenever they show kindness to him, often reciprocating the gesture himself and taking amusement from their embarrassed reactions. 

Hisoka and Omokage give him a strong sense of unpredictability, contrasting with the rest of the Troupe’s firm resolves. He trusts them, as an extension of his trust in Chrollo, but finds their actions and demeanors mysterious, often interrogating them with curious questions to quell his own interest. 

Kalluto also gives him a sense that he may have hidden intentions, but this feeling is passed over in favor of feeling sympathetic to the young Zoldyck’s plight, as the only child in a group of highly skilled adults. Kortopi often tries to give him tips for navigating the Troupe, acting as a friendly big brother-type. 

❄❄❄

SKILLS AND ABILITIES ;

GENERAL COMBAT & TACTICAL SKILLS: [ found here ! ]

NEN ABILITIES: [ found here ! ]

❄❄❄

MISC. INFO :

He enjoys intellectual board games and is quite good at them, only being bested within the Troupe a small handful of times, usually by Chrollo. He is humble about this, and has no problem with stopping to explain any rules or mechanisms about the game should his opponent need such a thing.

In terms of sexuality, Kortopi is gay, but very, VERY demi and equally as shy. Even if he catches feelings, it takes a small eternity for him to be brave enough to distinguish them as such, and another one to actually act on them. Also, his chances of catching feelings outside the Troupe are pretty close to zero. Like, probably about %0.0001. Don’t count on him looking your way at all if you’re an outsider. 

His vocal chords are damaged, resulting in a deep, scratchy voice that tends to give people a fright when they first hear it. As a result, he can’t raise his voice very much, and avoids doing so unless absolutely necessary. It doesn’t hurt, but it results in a small fit of dry coughing that he finds unpleasant. 

The skin of his hands and feet are permanently colored a more pink-purple hue due to poor blood circulation throughout his entire body -- the rest of his skin is otherwise normal.