#the lines on his face are from scarification

[afusionoffandoms]

I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow. And yet manage it so as to keep me alive. But I often turn about or compromise, because I know that you won’t eat me up, in the end, and I urge you: bite me.

[katakaluptastrophy]

Has anyone looked at ritual scarification in the Nine Houses? Because it gets mentioned at least twice as a practice.

Isaac says:

“The Fourth isn’t cannon fodder. If we’re first on the ground we need to stay alive … wards were the first thing I learned. When we get shipped out next year, we’ll get them scarified onto our backs.”

Which would seem to suggest that both Fourth adepts and cavaliers are warded in this way. How does that work? We know when a necro wards a room or suchlike, it prevents others from entering or is otherwise repellant. Are these scarified wards like shielding of some kind? Early warnings? How does that work on a non-adept?

And in the Harrow Nova AU:

“Harrow,” said the skull-faced cavalier of frightful aspect—upon stepping down from his post five years previous, Mortus had scarified the skull into his son, when the adopted necromantic heir had confirmed Ortus for her cavalier primary; the cicatricial lines showed clearly beneath the paint"

Is this just a gruesome detail that Harrow has come up with for her dark and gritty AU? Is it actual practice that would have happened if Mortus had been able to do the usual handover to his son instead of dying with the Reverend Parents?

These are both mentioned almost in passing. Is this sort of thing more widespread? Are other Cohort soldiers warded like the Fourth? And what about other kinds of wards? Do the Fifth or the Eighth use ghost wards like this, given their close traffic with the River? Is the Ninth (at least historically) doing this sort of thing for aesthetic/sacramental reasons part of their reputation for being weird and creepy?

[mosylufanfic]

Cassian and Kerri as adults. For the AU thing.

Kerri doesn't actually remember her parents. She was three! Who remembers anything from three? Which is why it's so strange that the Wanted poster catches her attention the way it does. The line of his nose, the fall of his hair, the shape of his eyes. It brings back cloudy memories of large, warm hands and strong arms holding her and a voice murmuring.

So. She knows two things: that is her brother, and her brother is a Rebel. (It could be neither is true, but it's still the best lead she's had in the twenty years since he went away with the other kids to check out the wreck and never came back.)

She keeps her head down and keeps an eye out, and when she gets a chance, she defects to the Rebellion. She asks every rebel she sees about the man on the Wanted poster.

Except that poster went out after Scarif. The Empire was pretty sure they vaporized all the Rebel spies, but they want everyone to know how much trouble anybody who chooses to stand against the Empire is in. But for Kerri, it's too late.

It was always too late.

Heh heh heh.

Okay, okay, here's a happier one.

Cassian gets a strange message from Jyn before their rendezvous, and it's stranger once he decodes it. Having a family reunion. Join us.

He is in a position to know that she has absolutely no family left to reunite with. Except, you know, him.

He goes into the cantina with his blaster ready. The young woman sitting across the table from Jyn already has a blaster trained on her. She also has tawny curls and dark eyes and a strong, square face, and seeing it is like a hook behind his heart, jerking him into the past.

"Ama?" slips out of his mouth. The first time he's called anyone that in over two decades. It's not his mother. It's obviously not his mother. He watched the mud fall down onto her still, grey face back on Kenari, before he was even Cassian.

But the woman who's a dead ringer for his mother looks up, and says, "Kassa."

[astromechs]

may i humbly request a mon x literally anyone you feel like? i love any and all content featuring my space wife <3

so. i got mon/draven in my head, and now this became a 1k oneshot. also on ao3, actually also tagging @andorerso in this because i'm going to take the other option on your prompt, but here is a bonus of mon/draven 💕

Soon, the base on Yavin IV will have to be evacuated in its entirety. To where, no one knows; there hasn't been enough personnel to form teams that could scout locations or to analyze the data they would find. Even if there were, though, there's always the matter of time.

The matter of time, which is always against them.

Still, the sounds of celebration continue to pierce the walls and shake the floor under their feet. A victory, especially one this significant, merits it; it's come at a cost, greater than most will ever know, but it's still a victory, and everyone here has had a role to play in it. Everyone here has earned their right to celebrate.

Even if the Empire, of course, is still out there, lurking closer than ever, with a firm Alliance location fixed in their databases that they will return to before long (the matter, again, of time), Mon will leave everyone be — if only for one night.

She's made her requisite appearance and delivered her requisite words, has smiled at their remaining numbers and given the energy of inspiration like any competent leader should, but it'd all burned out the instant she'd turned away. Her heart, heavy since the council meeting (heavy for more years than she can count up to this point), had not found, and still does not find, itself buoyed by the mood; the cost is a mark that is not so easily wiped clean.

As she slips away, into the corridors, she thinks of Jyn Erso, the woman they'd failed in so many ways, but perhaps most egregiously at the end, who'll now never get to live to see the results of her conviction; she thinks of Captain Cassian Andor, their best and brightest, a man who, in the time that she's known him, has shown nothing but unwavering dedication to exactly what this cause requires, even if it'd taken pieces of him that he'll never have the opportunity to put back together. She thinks of everyone who had gone with them to Scarif, the souls brave enough to act, no matter what, even when their own council could not. She thinks of the pilots who had not touched down on the surface of Yavin IV — the majority of the number that had taken off.

The assault on the Death Star is a victory against a seemingly unbeatable enemy, but it's difficult to think of it as an unambiguous win, no matter how much the Luthens and others of their movement would deem that thought naive.

Still, that's war — and far from the chambers of the Galactic Senate, she knows that now, with unquestioning certainty.

So, too, does the man sitting behind a desk in the office that Mon has found herself stepping into.

She can't remember a time when General Davits Draven hasn't looked tired and haggard, but here, in the low light of the power-savers, he's wearing years of cumulatively acquired exhaustion everywhere on his face; the circles under his eyes have somehow become more pronounced even over the past few days, his skin more sunken, hollow. There are two glasses with Corellian brandy on his desk, one mostly full, with his fingers wrapped loosely around the base, and the other just slightly off to the side, completely untouched.

Most in the Alliance would think of him as hard and cold, the sort of man one would depend on to make quick calls and snap decisions that might toe the lines of morality — at least for those who, like her, had come from softer beginnings. But hard and cold when needed, able to put aside sentiment for the sake of the greater good, doesn't mean that the sentiment isn't there; he cares for the subordinates under his command, looks out for them as much as he is able, and even if he may be reluctant to show, under that exterior, he has a heart that aches.

He's taken these losses hard; that much is clear. Beyond that, Mon has to infer, but it's a good guess that he's taken the loss of Captain Andor, someone he'd personally mentored for years, the hardest of all.

It says a great deal that he allows her to brush her hand against his when she approaches the desk, that he allows her to linger there for a moment before she gently drags it away, taking the untouched glass instead. It says a great deal that she can see a flicker of emotion in his face, a twitch of his jaw, before he hides it behind the rim of his glass, swallowing down half of its contents in one gulp, and hardly so much as even clearing his throat once he does.

Mon doesn't quite follow suit, but she stays close, leaning against the edge of the desk, taking a few sips herself. It's, specifically, from the bottle she'd gifted him once, several years ago — apparently saved until now. One might call it a special occasion, a celebration, but of course she knows better.

This is no more a celebration than the face she'd put on before quietly exiting the festivities. It's a requiem.

One moment carved out of time that's always running against them, because it's one moment that's critical for the sake of maintaining their humanity.

The chrono flashes, changing on the wall, emphasizing just how much those seconds are ticking away, but Mon says nothing, occasionally glancing out of the corner of her eye, until she, eventually, drains the contents of her glass and sets it back down onto the surface of the desk with a gentle clink.

Until her voice finally finds her again; it's shaky, hesitant under a mask that few can be allowed to see past, for the sake of their movement's survival — especially at such a crucial moment. But here and only here, she asks, "What now?"

Draven sets his glass down as well. His back straightens in his chair, and his hollowed face fills with purpose.

"Now," he says. "We have a war to win."

[hope-to-hell]

Shoulda missed the boat. Smut, pain, scarification, wounds, noncon. David 8 x Reader. Curiosity without compassion is a dangerous thing, especially when he doesn’t mind getting a little messy. This is more of a sketch than anything: brief moments during a long journey.

—-

You’re sick on the shuttle up to the docks, and so you miss the cut-glass cheekbones, the assessing glance, the uncanny stillness of his hand. The needle, however, can’t be ignored; there’s a blinding sting for half a heartbeat, and then nausea recedes and there he is. Better. It’s not a question.

The fuck?

And that’s the first time you meet David.

Of course, he’s not yet David to you; he’s still some anonymous creep and nevermind how you really do feel better. You can’t just—

Hm. Shouldn’t, perhaps. But I assure you, I most certainly can.

Can, indeed. He can navigate, name the stars, even recite old films line-by-line. He makes himself indispensable aboard the ship and the worst part is, he’s charming: so much so that you don’t feel the hand around your wrist until it’s too late, until his nails leave bloody indents in your flesh. He smiles his empty smile and says let’s get you to bed; the crew will gamble and tell their stories for hours yet, and you’re just the newcomer.

Gonna tuck your friend into bed there, Dave?

He doesn’t much like to be called Dave any more than he likes to be called you motherfucker or anything else, but at least with you he knows there’s a good reason to reach beyond his given name; he sees the bruises bloom under his hand and draws a line between your curse and the way you’re dripping wet. For me? Already? We’ve hardly gotten started.

Then there’s your bare ass cold on the table for the interrogation: how did it feel when he— It was, it was— the current sparking electric across your skin, leaving trails of heat and when he crooks his fingers there’s a moment when your vision goes white— am I dying—

Of course not, he isn’t finished with you yet. He’s hazy, sharp teeth sliding in and out of focus; his questions are stones piled on your chest. Tell me everything. Every sensation, every thought: he files it all away and next time he will be yet more vicious; he will drill down to what makes you tick and he will tear it all apart.

(This ship is haunted: moans ascend into wails that batter their way through the vents but dissipate into ethereality by the time the crew can hear; rumors whisper through the mess and are immortalized in little sketches scratched into the table. Ghosts, deep-sea fishes, strange creatures that walk like men but are all claws and teeth: each has a place on this ship, and each is almost true. Sailors shared their fears and became stronger for it. He drips venom in a pattern on your thigh; it hisses and smokes and all you can do is scream into his hand. I know. It hurts. Acknowledge it, accept it, let it fade into the background. Pretty words. He will be with you always, woven through your flesh in tight and shiny knots.)

He takes the pieces of you that fall away; he immortalizes them in a steady script on paper gone yellow at the edges, diagrams and sketches illuminating all the margins. Of all the luxuries on all the wide worlds he chose this: paper from trees long gone to dust, streaked with red across an image of your face gone slack and still. Do you dream of him in the long darkness between islands of awareness? You must, for how he’s dug himself deep into your bones; he says goodnight and— strange— it’s almost tender. Perhaps the scorpion and frog are fond of one another, in their way.

(Hey Dave, where’s your friend? You two were up real late last night. Still the crew means to be friendly; their gentle teasing floats warmly in the air and they don’t know— but how could they not; how could they miss the way his smile only ever bares his teeth— his hand grips at the memory of flesh and bile; he thinks of peeling off your scabs to taste the serous fluid there. Will it taste of copper, or of sharpness? Will the burn of acid still linger at the edges of the wound?)

He is all big broad smooth hands— nails digging in and unearthing the red-yellow-red of bubbling blisters gone to scabs— there is beauty to be found, even in the dullest places— he will leave concentric lines of healing skin; he will press his fingers down to make you writhe. There, there. Don’t cry. Don’t be so ungrateful; you are an infinitesimal speck and yet you sail among the stars. He bends to lick your wounds and considers the taste; life itself flows there in lost little eddies, waylaid from its journey to your heart. He takes those clever fingers of his— sticky, now, and with their imprints still welling red across your thigh— and plunges them deep into your center without warning.

Curious. One hand moves in you with a wrenching wet sound; the other now creeps its way across your thigh, sketching pain in livid streaks. One sensation amplifies the other. And now he will dig and twist and claw until he unearths that pearl inside you: the little seed of self that’s buried deep. Try your best to separate the two, and tell me how it feels.

(He guides you to your seat with a hand at your back— such a gentleman, aren’t you, David— and though he is in silhouette, still he seems all teeth and eyes. There is emptiness there, fathoms deep; he sees how much of you he’s pared away, and how much is left to cull.

Better, he says.)

[griefabyss69]

05 scarification reclaimation for wip weekend?? (title alone has me like, hello? 👀)

Thank you for asking!!! So this one is like, an idea I've had for about a year, but didn't start writing until a few months ago (and didn't get much written on it). It's one of those things I wanted to just let rest for ages before attempting and then even now it's like, it needs time! And care! The gist of this fic is that Eddie needs to do something to take his body back for himself and is struggling with the aftermath of the UD This snippet is earlier than the stuff I just wrote (like twenty lines lmao) but I think it's a better introduction: ---

It's not until he's taking a weekend trip into the city that would make both his doctor and Steve go all tight in the mouth that he learns about what would really help.

The path to the answer is like a thread. It starts with a billboard advertisement about plastic surgery, moves onto a well timed news segment about scar reduction technology as he passes by a TV display, and almost it ends there, two simple steps to figuring out how to get himself back.

But he's dropping in to say hi to his tattoo artist even though he's not getting anything done, zoning out while he waits for their appointment to be done, a list of piercing prices going all blurry in front of him as someone drops into a seat near him in the waiting area.

"Hey, that looks pretty gnarly," greets a voice that sounds too much like Jonathan's neon friend Argyle to be coming out of a guy with a bull ring in his nose.

He just smiles, his confusion coloring it as he tries to think of what he's referring to, clearly something about Eddie with how it's just the two of them there.

"The scar," the guy clarifies, tapping at his own cheek, reflecting where Eddie's got the aftermath of a demobat's whip-like tail curled up around his jaw. "You get that done here?"

The confusion gets worse, and he squints at him, trying to puzzle it out, knowing he gets a slow brain sometimes but he's been feeling good today.

"Maybe not," the guy mumbles, before saving face with the barreling grace someone who doesn't let putting his foot in his mouth get in his way. "Just looked intentional, sorry man."

"People do that on purpose?" He asks, and he must sound interested enough because the guy lights up.

"Yeah dude," Heavy Metal Argyle says. "You ever hear about scarification?"

Eddie's mouth twists as his brain works over his memories, finding them all pretty inaccessible at the moment. He just shrugs, shakes his head, and indicates for him to go on.

He ends up digging through the stack of magazines on the waiting room table, an alternate dimension mirror to a hospital lounge, except all of the mags are of body modifications and alternative lifestyles, instead of recipes from ten years ago that will let housewives all across America throw the best Sunday Dinner or whatever.

Eddie watches him work, his one-track focus leaving Eddie sitting in an ignored silence, but he doesn't care, this guy is working hard just to find an example of something he wants Eddie to know about. It's kind of touching, makes him really miss just meeting strangers and caring way too much about them for like five hours before they part ways and never see each other again.

"Here we go! I knew it was in here," the guy eventually says, holding out a magazine he's folded open. "Read over that shit, and tell me yours doesn't look as cool as the photos there."

Eddie's flattered before he's even got his eyes on the page, used to any compliments about his body these days coming from praise for like, doing two pushups without giving up, or relief about how well the scar cream worked on his face - though given how obvious the injury is, it could be working a lot better.

It feels good, and so he gives the guy a smile, and yeah, maybe it's flirtatious, fucking sue him. It'll just look friendly anyway.

"Thanks man, I really appreciate that," he says, and starts to skim the page, looking for the gist of what he's been talking about.

He's still re-reading over every word when the guy's appointment comes up, and he nudges his foot against Eddie's, shooting him a grin.

"That's me, gonna punch another hole in my face," he says, winking as he stands. "Good luck."

"Thanks," he says, giving him a casual wave as he watches him walk away.

He realizes when it's too late that he never got the guy's name.

Maybe he knows he's just changed Eddie's fucking life.

[meshlasolus]

House Of Memories (22/?)

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Padawan!reader

Warnings: jealousy, fluff, comfort, mentioned nightmare

Summary: Duchess Satine Kryze is the most beautiful woman you've ever encountered, and you hate it... funny how she doesn't seem fon of you, either.

A/n: i wanna drag out the Satine drama don't mind me besties i'm just shuffling through different clone wars episodes.

Words: 2.7k

It had been a day later than you expected, when you were called out to the landing tarmac, invited by Chancellor Palpatine himself to welcome home the two Jedi, along with the one person that they were sent to protect, Duchess Satine Kryze.

You were standing at the edge of the platform, side by side with Ahsoka, waiting for the ship to come in. You'd been told to wait off by the side upon your arrival, and you knew it was because padawan learners didn't sit quite as high in rank as Knighted Jedi or Jedi Masters. You weren't to be so closely associated with the other republic leaders, even though you'd been asked personally by the chancellor. It didn't bother, you, because all this time, you were just happy to be standing where you were when Obi-Wan arrived. You hadn't seen him since the day you got back from the mission on Scarif. You'd had a bad nightmare about him last night and had gone into his room to sleep in his bed, though he was not there, which made it all that much more unbearable.

The dream was one that had repeated several times since you first had it. The one where the great General Grievous had beaten him to bits, then used your lightsaber to kill him in front of your tear-filled eyes. No matter how many times that dream occurred, you were never able to take it lightly. It always had you waking in a sweaty, crying, thrashing mess. Not being able to hold him last night or hear his voice made falling back asleep impossible, so you just laid where he normally did, wrapping yourself in his blankets while clutching a pillow that still vaguely held his scent. You probably could have taken a relaxing midnight stroll through the gardens, but the Council was keeping a close eye on you while Obi-Wan was away, and if they caught you out of your living space after everything was emptied for the night, they would probably find a reason to question you for it.

You saw the ship coming in, a smile on your face as it was approaching, and started bouncing on your heels as it docked. When the ramp lowered itself, you saw two familiar figures standing at the front of the line. They exited, and you let out a breath of relief as Obi-Wan and Anakin went to stand beside the politicians. He was here, and he was okay.

You caught his eyes for the first time in almost two weeks and felt something safe and secure wash over you. His signature, which was never truly gone from your presence, but the intensity of it was soothing, and practically intoxicating for you by now.

You were about to walk over and greet him, but one of the female politicians fell behind, the duchess, speaking to him very casually considering they were not exactly well acquainted, or at least that's what you thought. You'd never seen the woman before in your life. She raised a hand to the side of his face, caressing it gently and brushing over the hair of his beard.

Oh... Oh.

Your blood was boiling. As far as you knew, you were the only one to do that to him for years. You hated the way his eyes locked on hers, and stayed there for a moment too long, before dragging themselves away and dropping them to the ground as his face began to flush bright red. What did she just say to him?

You couldn't stop your steps, beginning in their direction as quickly as you could before Ahsoka grabbed your arm.

"Are we allowed to go, yet?" She asked, not wanting to get in trouble over something trivial. You weren't afraid of any consequences. Not when the jealousy run rampant in your veins.

"Not sure," you told her, breaking away, and running towards Obi-Wan. He turned his head as he saw you coming up to him, and you slowed down, a bright smile on your face as you stepped as close to him as you could, wrapping your arms around his middle and tucking your head into his chest.

Though he was certainly surprised at your public display of affection, he didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around you and kiss the top of your head. Call it an instinct.

"Sorry to interrupt," you said sweetly, but you were all too happy to be doing so. You looked up at him with a smile so genuine he swore it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "I'm so happy you're back."

"Obi-Wan, who's this?" the woman behind you seemed very confused. You broke away from Obi-Wan's embrace, turning to greet the duchess with a short bow and a confident stance. Now you were just being cocky.

"I'm Obi-Wan's padawan, my name is Y/n," you saw the glint of confusion in her eyes as she took in your entire being. You were the glimmer of hope and light that Obi-Wan had mentioned while speaking of his padawans. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Duchess."

"Well, you certainly are a lovely girl. I must apologize, I thought his second padawan would be far younger," her confusion was replaced with a different tone... did you sense envy? If you did, you'd say you were getting exactly what you wanted.

"Most have that understanding, although I'm only two years behind Anakin."

Oh, to hear you were even older than she thought you were, her face had changed yet again. She wasn't smiling at all, anymore, the small tilt of her lips upward hid the fact that she was nearly dead faced.

"I'm sure she will be entering knighthood within a year or two," Obi-Wan said proudly, and to hear it sent pride through you as well. Your knighthood had yet to be discussed, but he sounded so sure.

"I'm sure," she said, her amusement had left her the moment you'd arrived, engulfing Obi-Wan. Now she was tired of your presence and needed to remove herself. "If you'll excuse me, I must be going."

"It was pleasure, as always."

Those last words from Obi-Wan stung a little, but you wouldn't let it bother you, because she was leaving, and you were grateful not to keep pretending to like her.

You huffed, realizing the lot of you were still watching after her when she walked away. Your reason was just making sure she was truly gone from the scene. The reason of Obi-Wan and Anakin, you weren't sure.

"I missed you, little one," Obi-Wan said softly, and though he knew Anakin was still in earshot, he could not bring himself to care. Anakin knew, so it wasn't like he was going to care, anyways.

"I missed you, too."

-

Later in the evening, when you were about to settle for bed, you remembered about the nightmare that had been plaguing you in Obi-Wan's absence. It wasn't fair, the things your mind did to you in the night when you were trying to rest.

On top of everything, you were trying your best to ignore another painful, annoying fork in the road. Duchess Satine. She was truly breath taking, the perfect woman in anyone's eyes. You didn't hate her, you couldn't. She hadn't done anything to you personally to truly warrant hatred, and damnit you wanted to, really, you did. It was the ways of the Jedi, drilled into your mind, time and time again, that prevented you from feeling something so horrible against a woman who probably didn't deserve it. She really was beautiful; you couldn't even deny it. Perhaps everything you wished you could be in another life. Platinum blonde hair that was decorated with lovely ornaments from her home world, piercing eyes that could make anyone come to their senses if they looked into them for too long. Her smile, so elegant, worthy of sitting upon her face.

You huffed, leaving your room, your bare feet padding across the one room in the apartment standing in the way of you and your destination. Obi-Wan's door.

You knocked three times, and the panel opened, but Obi-Wan was not in the doorway, he'd used the force to allow you entrance. He'd been pulling on his night tunic when you'd knocked, so as you stepped in, you were able to catch a glimpse of his skin before the fabric covered it. He had a new bruise. It didn't look too bad, but you hated to see when he had gotten hurt.

"Can I sleep with you, tonight?" you asked, innocently approaching the bed. "I hadn't slept well while you were gone."

"Of course," he said, nodding to the bed and rearranging some things on the stool by the foot of it before you crawled in. You didn't feel the need to tell him you'd laid here last night, you figured he might have guessed that already since it wasn't the way he left it. "Was it another dream?"

You nodded, curling up into his comforter and putting your head near his pillow. You knew he would hold you as soon as he laid down, but until he did, you wanted to be able to look up at him.

"I would take them from you if I could. I fear I'm not as strong as you are," he chuckled, reaching over and fixing your hair where it fell over your eyes. You smiled, leaning into the hand, but he brought it back too soon, setting it beside you on the bed.

"I don't want you to take them from me, because then you'll have them, too."

He knew he would, but it didn't stop him from trying whenever he could. He didn't want to argue with you, he wanted you to relax, so he changed the subject.

"How was your mission with Anakin and Ahsoka? He barely told me anything about it," he leaned on his arm, bringing him just a tad closer as he spoke with you.

Lying next to him while he conversed with you about little things in your life seemed so intimate, and it was. It was such a tender exchange that he would always have with you, and he genuinely wanted to.

"It wasn't anything big, we secured an event for some political leaders. We got to spend some time with Senator Amidala, that was nice."

He listened intently, and waited for more, but now you were the one to change the subject, your mind getting the better of you as it was distracted with thoughts from earlier in the day. You knew you shouldn't be talking about this with him, and you weren't even sure if he would want to, but you didn't know what else to say, your mind completely trapped by the horrible mess it had made in and of itself.

"I was a bit surprised to see the duchess act so informally with you today," you fessed up, turning your face into the pillow a bit more to hide your emotions. "I suppose you both have history."

"I've known her a long time," he admitted, but there wasn't anything special in his words. He didn't seem to care that his relationship with the woman had extended for so long, which both soothed you and made you tense.

It was her, it had to be.

"She's the one, isn't she? The one that you..." it was funny, you were almost about to say it straight out. You were glad you stopped before you regretted it.

"Yes, she is. I hadn't seen her since the day I ended things; this mission was a bit of a struggle, I'll admit."

"She still wants you to be with her?" You found the words he wasn't able to find, searching his signature for any other feelings of the woman, but fortunately for you, there were none that weren't completely platonic.

"I'm not completely sure. If I'm being honest, I very much hope she doesn't. It will only result in endless complications," he seemed to become stressed about this topic now, which hadn't been your intention, but you needed to know. Now you did, but you very much realized you were better off in the dark.

"Is there any way I can help?" You figured there was little you could do, but whenever you had a problem, that was always his first response, so you wanted to at least offer it to him.

"I'm afraid I must deal with this on my own, little one," he finally moved from his sitting position, lying beside you and looking at your features in the dark light of the window. Your eyes were heavy, but he could tell the gears in your mind were still turning. "But I thank you for wanting to assist me."

He kissed your forehead, and it wasn't long after that your brain settled, the thoughts that were swirling around the interior of your head like a tornado were beginning to fade, now a dull wind.

"I really missed you, Obi," you nuzzled your face into his chest, taking in a deep breath of his scent. His pillows didn't smell nearly enough like him, and you were so grateful for his safe return, bringing him back so you could lay within the haven that was his strong arms.

-

"Duchess!" Obi-Wan sprinted after her with as much speed as he could muster, you were lagging behind a little.

"Satine, wait. I just heard what happened in the Senate."

"You're sweet to be concerned, but I promise I'll be all right," she replied. You both had attended the large gathering in order to hear what the initial rumors were about. The whole morning there had been talk about Satine and the cult of Death Watch.

"I am concerned. We're friends, are we not?" he thought that his choice of words was appropriate, and you were grateful for them, but she did not share the sentiment.

"Yes, friends and nothing more."

You wondered if you'd heard a small bit of spite in her words.

"Satine, as your friend, I don't think you should make any decisions in this state of mind," his intentions were good, as they almost always were. He was just trying to help. He was always just trying to help.

"This state of mind? And what state of mind would that be, precisely?"

Oh boy... even you cringed slightly at the way he said the words. Never say anything to a woman about her emotions, especially the ones that show.

"What I'm saying is, any person would be hysterical by now, but-"

"Hysterical? The Republic is attempting to force its will upon innocent people!"

Honestly, he was playing all the wrong cards. You weren't complaining, of course, because as long as she preferred to stay away from him, you were greatly satisfied.

"I only meant-"

"Frankly, I'm surprised you're not hysterical," she waved her arms around for emphasis.

Watching the two of them go back and forth was exhausting, but you couldn't bring yourself to intervene. It was - in a demented way - very entertaining.

"Perhaps if more citizens got hysterical, they'd be more inclined to speak up when the Republic tramples on their rights."

"Rushing in like this, it's... It's foolhardy," Obi-Wan was a defensive person by nature, and you didn't blame him. He believed that what he was fighting for was right, and though he respected her choices of staying neutral in the wars, he didn't want to let her make this decision. He was still a decent human being, and would feel responsible had anything happened to her.

"Ironic words from a man who spends his days running hither and yon, wielding his lightsaber with deadly force as if on a crusade. Why should I listen to someone who so frequently relies on violence?" She may or may not have struck a nerve with you with that last sentence. Obi-Wan was many things, but violent? Never. He proteced himself and others when it was required of him, protected you as well. Again, he was a guardian, living his life on the defensive side. "In my opinion, you're the one who's foolhardy."

She left to her ship, and when you sensed he was about to chase after her, to make his point more solidified, you grabbed his hand, keeping him in place and trying to help him think rationally by extending your force signature.

"She will get herself killed one day; she seems to ignore caution whenever she can."

"Yes, but we know someone like that, and he isn't dead, yet..." you joked, making him smile and relax even more into your force presence.

-

Tags:

@spencerrxids @sawendel @fandomstanner24 @i-shall-abide @officialjellydoughnut @whatshxrname @darkened-writer @superavengerpotter @cutiepoo16 @hypnoash @softlymellow @howlerwolfmax @mephistominion @honestlywtfisgoingon @anakinskywalkerog @mandiiellen @je--a-n @guyinachair27 @avenger5-a55emble @amelia-song-pond @kaminanii @the-abyss-of-fandoms @queenofnightdreamland @world-dominating-kitty @mandowhatnow @ella-error505 @annahalo @infinity-witch @beetlejuice-stuff @liueski @solarbxby @sirianisrock @lxdyred @endless-warrior-always-fighter @iloveinej @msjb2002 @shoochi @itsilvermorny @gingerrosecosplay @sebschicken @loversjoy @argentinemango @1-800-vader @house-of-kolchek @marierg @graciexmarvel @ttzamara @truly-madly-nerdy @molieux @majahu @dyzlks @pancakefancake

[themarginalthinker]

Scarification

“The only lasting mark a vampire can get, aside from a stake, is from other vamps’ teeth,” Marko explains.

Michael discovers a new and interesting way he can adorn his vampiric, immortal body. Marko enjoys making his art in various forms.

(Coauthored with @berd-alert . We had no idea we'd love Marko and Michael as a ship as much as we would until several little drabbles later and suddenly boom, they're living in our heads rent free. Cross-posted to ao3 as well.)

-

It was a phenomena that Michael had noticed in his time with the pack, that vampires expressed their love in blood. 

It was hard to put to exact words, the feeling, the expression. Michael had tried to explain the sentiment as it solidified into a cohesive thought in his head to his journal - multiple times. But none of his human words seemed fitting. They never quite managed to encompass what he was actually trying to say. 

How did he explain what it was like to know that inch-long teeth that could break bone could be set to your neck and know it means devotion in the rawest form? It wasn’t sharing a meal, it was feeding. It was life and connection and. And blood. 

Blood for anger, and pain, and sorrow and joy. Blood passed through lips or across the tips of claws. 

Hunters said that vampires were violent creatures. They weren’t wrong. 

But they were also not on this side of things. 

Michael doesn’t mean to stare like he is, but he can’t help it. Standing in the doorway, knowing his face must be showing the shock at the very least. 

Paul is sitting up from the nest, slowly. He’s shirtless, wearing only loose sweatpants. His long arms hold him up like pillars keeping a great weight suspended, and in the bond, Michael can feel the odd heaviness and lightheadedness of his packmate. Dizzy in the pain and the pleasure. 

“Marko’s a hell of an artist, huh?” Paul murmurs.

The design takes up most of Paul’s back. A mandala, the circle stretching from the base of his neck to the middle of his back under his shoulders. Circles within circles, leaf-like shapes fanning out from the center, like a flower unfolding itself on his back. 

All of it carved into Paul’s skin. 

The design glared out from pale skin, the red flesh underneath having been exposed through expert use of blades and maybe claws - Michael wasn’t sure how Marko had made it. The skin and meat wept blood, filling the space left behind and shining darkly in the low light. 

Michael opens his mouth to…maybe say something, try to break the hesitation in his own head, but Paul’s blood is on the air. Pack blood, the sweetest of all. It makes him pause even longer. 

Paul picks up on it. He smiles, a tug to Michael’s mind like a hand taking his, beckoning him in. 

 "It's okay," he says. "It's nice, isn't it?" 

The way he says it, with a soft reverence.  

Michael steps into the room properly, coming to the bedside, and crawling up. Paul’s face is so relaxed, Michael thinks he might go to sleep sitting up. It’s…a heady feeling, even from across the bond. 

He can only imagine how Paul himself must feel.

This close, Michael can see more detail. The tiny pin-pricks dotted into the skin at mathematically exact points, how the lines were of differing depths - in between some, how whole sections of skin peeled away to fill in a space. 

Michael’s hands drift almost without his say so, to the unmarred skin near Paul’s ribs. Fingers near, but not touching. He doesn’t want to actually hurt him. 

Paul for his part lets out a little noise at Michael’s warm hands on his cool skin, leaning back into it. Michael feels his face redden a little. 

Michael’s feeling a lot. A jumble of emotions and sudden new experiences he can’t quite hold steady in his mind. Burning their way into his memory in a way he won’t forget any time soon. 

Carved with an exacting hand. 

-

Scarification, Michael learns, is about the only kind of adornment that stays on their skin.

Piercings have to be left in, or redone night after night. Tattoos with ink don't last more than a week. This will stay, though. Slowly healing and lingering for a year or so, the skin and flesh itself changed in shape.

Marko had apparently learned this little skill from David, who had learned it from some other vampires out there in the world in passing. 

Idle hands making idle marks, and realizing something beautiful could come of it. 

It sits in the back of Michael’s mind, for weeks, months since he’d seen Paul’s. Whenever he catches sight of Paul without a shirt on, whenever those (now pink and white, slowly sinking back into his supernatural body) lovingly sliced lines in his back were visible, Michael’s thoughts hitched. Latched onto the feeling he only got deeply second-hand. 

Imagining what it would be like, to be under Marko as he made something bloody and beautiful of his love. 

His thoughts can’t be kept wholey to himself - woe the condition of being in a vampire pack. And this recurring pattern catches the attention of their resident artist.

Marko corners him one night, when they’re alone.

"You want me to do one for you?" 

It's a question that takes Michael by surprise. It’s asked so casually, lightly, even. Like offering a smoke or a handful of candy shared. 

But it’s a question, that demands answering, finally. 

…Michael's gotten used to the biting. It was just how vampires did things. The rough playing, blood as their boundaries at the edges of their territory, delineating what is theirs for all the rest of the supernatural world to heed or risk becoming a meal. 

A vampire’s world was blood. 

Michael has accepted a lot so far. This is. New. A little frightening. 

He's used to that too, though. 

"...Yeah," he says, like an admission. 

Marko's face splits into a grin, eyebrows shooting up in surprise at such an immediate, candid answer. "Wait shit, for real? Oh man, I have had so many ideas I've been dying to try out." 

He had? The thought that Marko has considered this before - thought about Michael…

Suddenly he’s come closer, a lot closer, and is looking over Michael like he's a canvas. His deep blue, analytical eyes taking in every shape and plane of body. 

It's hard not to squirm under that gaze.

Michael can practically see the artistic machinations of Marko's mind. What he does with needle and thread and trinketry will now be applied to skin with knife and claw. Marko reaches out, fingers tracing Michae's collarbone. Michael’s teeth itch.

 "Could do vines here, those would be cool. Flowers." 

He grabs Michael's wrist. "Bangles, or bracelets. I'd be gentle, there." 

He slips around to Michael's back, but doesn't let Michael turn to keep his eyes on him. He can feel Marko there all the same, hovering so close he can feel the air move with his breathing. His hands spread across Michael's shoulders, down, to the center of his back.

 "Wings, here. Right here."

Michael cocks his head, glancing back to Marko. "Like, Angel wings? Seems a little cliche, don't you think?" 

Marko hums, tracing a shape over Michael's shoulders. "Nah. That's too easy, and not you.” 

 He draws a single finger in long, curved lines under  Michael’s scapula, down to where the muscles of his back just meet his ribs. 

“Maybe insect wings. You'd look good with a dragonfly’s."

Michael suddenly thinks of someone who would like something like that. The intricacies of a gossamer wing and shiny, iridescent body of chitin. Who would run cold fingers over the lines in red, down Michael's back. Icy eyes that would appraise the artwork and find it everything he may want that evening…

"That would be cool," Michael says, only a tiny bit breathless. He can tell Marko is smirking at him, but he’s learned never to blink first. 

"It really would be. That sound like something you want?"

 "...Yeah." 

"Sweet." Marko leans forward and nips at Michael's ear, excitement and his own anticipation in his bite. "Lemme know when you wanna do it."

Michael lets him draw away before letting out his breath. 

-

It’s not long after that Michael comes to Marko. Determination in his heart and assuredness in his mind. 

He wants this. 

Marko has them in the nest, stripped of most of the blankets and pillows and various other soft things that the pack likes to sleep on when not roosting. (Michael had wondered where that hoodie of his had gone. The white hair all over it indicated he’d have to have some strong words with Thorn.)

All that was left was the plain sheets and a pillow for Michael to hold or bite. He currently had that in his arms. 

Michael is still sitting up, hearing Marko puttering around in the other room. The lights in the nest were low, just a couple candles scattered around the couple of ledges where windows used to be. This was one of the lowest levels in the haven, the vampires making sure there was no chance of sunlight coming through. 

It felt closed. Protected on all sides. 

Marko comes back to the nest. He smells like soap and clean water, flesh clothing. Unlike Michael, he wore a shirt. 

In his hands, a small wooden box. 

He sees Michael’s eyes drawn to that, and quirks an eyebrow. He climbs onto the bed, and sits cross legged beside him. 

“You wanna know why scars last so long on us?” Marko asks, flicking open the latch on the box. 

“It’s taking parts of us away, without the skin to like. Close on itself and heal?” Michael guesses, watching him. 

Marko shakes his head, though. “Sorta, but no. If I used a kitchen knife or something, I could do exactly the same things, but it would heal up in a day. It’s not that.” 

The lid is lifted, and from it, Marko pulls a tool. A wooden handle, hand-carved into angular, geometric designs. Metal and small leather strap secures the blade to the end. 

Shining white bone. Long, an inch and some long, elegantly curved, the natural groove down the middle to allow fluid to flow upwards and into a mouth made more prominent and turning it into a gouge. 

A vampire’s fang. 

Marko lets Michael take it, run a finger down the length of it. 

“That one’s Dwayne’s,” he says, setting the box aside. There are other tools in there, all of similar make. All teeth. One long, thin, a needle to make art in pointillism, and another almost straight with the edge on the other side of the curve. A slicing razor’s edge. 

“The only lasting mark a vampire can get, aside from a stake, is from other vamps’ teeth,” Marko explains. 

Michael swallows, and hands him back the tool. There’s that feeling again, building up in his head. Humming, warm and dark, like the candle light around them but rushing through him like a pulse. 

Marko moves closer, the hand not holding the gouge coming up to find Michael’s chest. Pushing just so. 

“Ready?”

Michael nods. 

-

Marko makes his sketch first. 

Michael is on his front, resting his chest on the pillow, holding it to him while Marko straddles his legs, to get the best angle. (Marko had assured him of such, to which Michael correctly zeroed in on the secondary intentions of the smallest vampire, who didn’t deny the seat was a good one…) 

Claws run over Michael’s skin, barely not breaking skin. They raise red welts in their wake, stinging. The lines Marko will follow. 

Michael has felt worse, far worse, from just roughhousing with the pack before. But never with this intention. 

Marko’s hands follow paths Michael can see in his mind’s eye all too well. Intricate connections and details too small to be outlined this way. Saved for the real work. 

Finally, Marko draws back. 

"Do you bruise easy, Michael?"

Michael glances back at him, over his shoulder. "Not that I'm aware of? Is that a problem?"

"Nah, just changes how I do it. Like, David bruises like a peach so I gotta be careful if I work on him. That should take care of the sketch..." 

Marko reaches out of his line of sight, and Michael hears the click of Marko picking up one of the blades.

He turns back around. Watching the shadows and light flicker across the walls. 

Marko’s free hand finds the small of his back, keeping him still.

 "You tell me if it hurts too much, okay?"

Michael wraps his arms more securely around the pillow. He nods. "Okay." 

Marko hums, and sets knife to skin. 

-

It's bright. 

It’s like a glow as it happens. 

It's almost cold in how it sears into him, the first break of skin. The edge of the tooth parting him like water, a long line through the layers of his back.

Michael feels his jaw open, flex, show his own teeth as it rolls up his back like a wave. Marko pauses, for only a moment, but then completes the stroke. The scent of vampiric blood stats to fill the air - Michael’s blood. 

Marko flicks the blade, and moves back to the beginning.

He makes the same cut, imperceptibly further to the left. The outline of a wing, carved with the precision of a sculptor. It burns, but a small part of Michael's brain is singing. 

So much care, so much attention in one gesture. Marking him, making something beautiful. Something that he will carry for as long as it lasts. 

Something made by the teeth and hands of his pack. It's so much it makes him feel a little drunk.

It goes on. Line after line. The blood seeps up, filling the open wounds like dry creek beds bursting with sudden rains. Michael occasionally feels a small rivulet give way, down the curve of his shoulder, or towards the dip of the small of his back. 

Marko chases it. His tongue flicking out to catch the ruby drops. Michael shudders when he does. He knows Marko is smiling. 

Michael's head is in another world. ‘Somewhere between here and frith’, as his mother would say. His eyes have slipped closed, but he still hears, still feels. 

It's a long process, to do it right. But they have all night.

By the time they finish, The sun is starting to peak its head above the horizon. Marko wipes the last of the blood off his tools, and gently applies a bandage to Michael's back. 

"I wouldn't normally do this, but we are about to go to sleep and I don't want to wake up with blood on the sheets. We'll see how it looks in the evening?"

Michael's arms feel like some impossible combination of lead and cooked noodles, but he raises himself up. The carving twinges with every move, and Michael breathes against the bandages. 

"Yeah," he agrees. 

He pull of the late (early?) hour is in his head too, but before they do, he feels like he can't go another moment without it. He turns, and catches Marko as he's starting to slide off the nest, to put his things away. 

He draws Marko in close, and sets his teeth to his neck. All the feeling behind it that he can possible impart. For this. 

For everything.

Marko turns a pretty shade of pink under his teeth, and Michael feels a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. Michael nips, just once, not even hard enough to draw blood.

Marko's hand comes up to Michael's jaw. Thumb stroking over his skin. 

"Soft mouth, babyteeth," he murmurs. 

Michael stays on the bed while Marko cleans up, and he's almost asleep by the time the others filter in. They want to see, to touch. He can feel them in the back of his mind curious and excited, but they're stayed by firm hands, and a body physically coming between them and him. 

Marko settles in beside Michael, letting the day come, a night well-spent.

The taste stays in Michael’s mouth, his head as he sinks into sleep. His own and Marko’s. 

Love, and blood. 

[quarantineddreamer]

Hi, idk if you're doing the ask game still but if you are, could we get rebelcaptain for number eight?

Hi, anon, thank you so much for the ask 💜 Confession? I read the prompt wrong a bit wrong and got through this whole thing before realizing it was things you said when you were crying 😬 but I'm going to argue that in this they both cry at points, so I hope you'll forgive me my error (and I really hope you like it!!)

things you said when you were crying

It took all of Cassian’s concentration to command his left foot forward, hands gripping the bars on either side of him so hard it hurt–though not nearly as badly as the rest of him. 

Every muscle in his body was on fire, every bone sharply aching. 

Not even ten minutes into today’s session of physical therapy and he was drenched in sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, shirt stuck to his chest, the salty taste of it on his lips, stinging his eyes. While he glared down at his feet, a large bead of it–containing all the grace of a raindrop and none of the beauty–dragged down his nose and fell to the floor.

The next step hurt just as bad as the last, and the one after that took twice as long and left him trembling, teeth practically rattling from the effort. 

But he was determined, eager to heal. The Rebellion needed him. Already he felt like he’d been away for too long. Months spent in and out of surgery, in and out of consciousness, he refused to let any more time go to waste.

Cassian squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, fighting a wave of exhaustion, pain, and nausea that threatened to drown him; they were sensations he had grappled with more times than not since Scarif, and he had quickly learned that each was tortuous in their one unique way. 

“Take a break if you need to, Captain,” the medic told him. “You have a long journey ahead, so pace yourself.”

Screw that. He opened his eyes again and, biting back a shout, forced his foot forward again. 

But the toe of his shoe slid in a pool of sweat–all of his own making–sending his leg sliding out from under him. He tried to catch himself with his arms–to brace his weight on the bars framing either side of him–but his palms were too slick, making his grip precarious, and he crashed to the floor, the intense agony of his injuries hitting him all over again. 

“FUCK!” he shouted, because what else was there to say when you could remember taking down stormtroopers without so much as a blink and now a single step had turned you into a humiliated tangle of limbs, sprawled across the ground. 

Fighting for breath, he used what little energy he had remaining to reach up to the bar above his head and pull himself upright, clumsily positioning his back against the wall.

But following that act, he had nothing left with which to defend himself against the frustration, the hurt, the fear that fell upon him, predators on wounded prey–devouring, consuming–until he’d forgotten himself entirely and all he knew was the dark wash of anguish tearing him to shreds from the inside out.

“Cassian, Cassian.” A hand caught his own midair, preventing him from smashing the floor with his fist again. 

The touch grounded him, bringing reality surging back to his frayed mind–he found himself wishing it had left him alone. 

No…not now. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Couldn’t bear the look of disappointment he expected to find on her face. “Jyn…” He caught her knees on the floor beside him out of the corner of his vision, made himself look up at her, her image swimming before him.

 “Let me–”

“What the hell are you doing here?” He tore his arm free from her hand.

“I came to check on you, I wanted to–”

Cassian did all he could to turn away from her. “Don’t,” he said sharply, loathing the tears that were cutting lines down his cheeks. 

Before Scarif he had been better than this at controlling his emotions, hiding them from others, but the regiment of medications he was on created a fog so thick he discovered his own thoughts betraying him all the time. If it wasn’t his short-term memory in shambles, it was his temper–forcing everything to be felt with a heightened sensitivity. The perfect storm of conditions under which he was dealing with perhaps the greatest challenge of his life. 

It was hell. 

“Will you please look at me?”

“Leave, Jyn. You don’t have to be here, this isn’t your problem. Leave.” His head fell back against the wall and he watched as Jyn’s face darkened, her fingers curling into tight fists where they rested over her thighs.

“Is that what you really want?” she asked quietly, fixing him with a hard stare.

No… A strand of her dark hair was hanging across her face and he wanted to push it back–maybe would have if he’d possessed the strength to do so. Force, her eyes were beautiful.

He was on the floor crying from pain and exhaustion; what must she think of him? Weak, pathetic.Yes, yes I want you to leave… 

But she wasn’t looking at him like that, no, he wasn’t quite sure what her expression was saying, but it wasn’t that. I don’t know… 

“What if I told you I’m not going anywhere?” Jyn murmured, reaching a hand tentatively towards his face, wiping a tear from his cheek with surprising gentleness. She caught his eyes again, still waiting to see if he would offer a reply.

“I’d say it’s just like you not to listen,” he finally sighed. 

“It does sound like me doesn’t it?” she teased, lips briefly twitching upward. But her voice was serious, expression intent, when she said, “Cassian, why are you asking me to leave?”

I don’t deserve this… I don’t deserve you… At his best he’d been a mess–so used to playing whatever part the Rebellion needed that he’d half-forgotten himself–what could he possibly offer her or anyone else now? It wasn’t clear yet if he’d ever be able to walk well again, much less run or fight. He would only slow her down, burden her–and Jyn had carried enough in her life as it was without adding his weight to the equation.

But Cassian didn’t know how to put those thoughts into words–or maybe it was that his voice was betraying him as much as he felt his body was–so he just shook his head, looked across the room to where the medic was standing in the distance, awkwardly trying their best not to encroach despite the need to hover.

“I’ve pushed people away before,” Jyn said softly, pulling his gaze back to her face. “Usually when I needed them most… I did it before they could do it to me, because I thought that’s how it always went, that there was no other way that life could go.” Her hand returned to the side of his face, thumb gently brushing over his cheek. “But it’s not like that with you… I said horrible things to you on Eaudu, but afterwards, when I needed you, there you were.”

“This isn’t like that,” Cassian murmured. 

“Isn’t it?”

“You can’t help me with this,  I might not get better. And then what?” his voice broke on the question, the first time he’d dared to voice the possibility aloud. If he considered the notion for too long he thought it might take life, form the shape of a black hole, a yawning void that would threaten to swallow him alive. Where would I go? What would I do? What now? 

Jyn blinked at him. “You think that’s a reason for me to abandon you?”

“I’m not the person I was–I might never be again.”

“Neither am I,” she replied fiercely. “Neither is Chirrut or Baze or Bodhi–any of us. How can we be? After everything we went through? And besides, it’s not the first time any of us have changed–I know you know that. ” He opened his mouth to speak but she held up her hand. “No, listen. I know you’re going to say it’s not the same, and you’re right, it’s not. This is a big change, a hard change. None of it was your choice, and I can’t even begin to understand what you’re going through. 

“But if you’re trying to tell me that your ability to ‘get better’ is what determines your worthiness? I’m going to…” she took a deep breath, “to have to fight very hard not to strangle you, because whether or not you know this right now, you're worthy no matter what happens next.

“However you have to show up each day, however you’re feeling, the good, the bad, I’m with you. Same as…same as I know you’d be for me.” She cleared her throat, blinked back a watery shine that had fallen over her eyes. “Okay?”

He leaned his head into her palm. “Okay,” he breathed, because even though he knew he might not believe it tomorrow, he believed it for the moment–and he had a feeling if and when he changed his mind, Jyn would do all she could to bring that belief back.

She wiped her tears from her eyes and offered her hands to him, “Can I help you?”

It still wasn’t easy. He still felt some embarrassment, he still held anger and frustration for it all. He still hurt…

But together, they slowly rose to their feet. 

[dyad-of-fate]

Are Thorne and Kestrel's character designs done yet?

You have... no idea how hard this made us laugh, thank you X'D

And for the most part Kestrel is done, yes~ The only thing left for them is a few tattoos, and those will just evolve as I get to them. But since these are on Kestrel's back (most likely), I'm just calling them done. Really the only big thing I want to draw is Kestrel with their hair down but I know what that looks like.

Now Thorne's design may just continue to evolve and change until we get further in the story- or maybe it will just have small changes until we actually finish haha. But this is the most up to date version and there are key features that are locked in place: long and lanky, delicate, lil snaggle tooth fang poking from his mouth, monochrome pallet with dark skin, kinky-curly hair, heterochromia with one dark eye and a light eye, and freckles. His patterning may change a few more times, tattoos are a hope but those aren't designed, we knoe he has a few accessories but not sure what exactly yet, he has family scarification (cultural thing) but those aren't designed yet- we want to do our research and make sure we don't use a real culture's practices incorrectly... but yeah! Yarne is pleased with what his face and body type looks like. And he actually looks like his mom and dad's kid now, so that's a nice bonus.

Here, enjoy their canon height difference. For context, Kestrel's about 6 feet tall (183 cm). Which means their dog half is about the size of a large pony. Thorne's actually not terribly short for a wolf :)

Oh I guess that one thing will be redrawn on Kestrel, now that I'm looking at this. That shirt is not in line with the fashion of the Wall, so they probably wouldn't wear that unless they made it... overall fashion in story is more like 1920's meets 1940's - 50's era (from various places around the world). Clothing design isn't a strong suit though, so I just draw them in whatever my heart desires at the time XD

Thorne's jacket is canon though, it's his dad's old coat.

[catreginae]

Me, whenever you offer a morsel of your fanfiction: It is I, a humble peasant, can you please spare me some good food for me and my family? We are in need of your good works.

Here you go! A snippet I don't know what to do with! This was written with "overworked/exhaustion" as a prompt and also writing for the "modern" TSNF (in the future with no Ganondorf but also in the past?). TW: Warriors practising bloodletting on himself.

It was the first time in a long time that Link felt truly exhausted. He was used to sleeping a lot more these days, but even when he was jumping through portals and fighting alongside with people he regarded as brothers, he was still sleeping at least a little bit every night.

At it was currently, he was on his third night of no sleep. Even if Ash was stable, he was too anxious to even sleep. He never turned anyone before. He wasn’t sure if his method was even viable but biting her might result in her death instead of actually saving her. She would die anyway if he did nothing but if he watched her carefully, she would have a second chance at life. If she lived, all of the work and sleepless nights would be worth it.

Link dipped his bowl into a basin of water and scrubbed at it with a clean rag gently to remove the dried blood from the previous session. Once he was satisfied, he retrieved a little brass box, cocked the lever, then turned it upside down and pressed the side with a dozen small lines against his arm. He pressed the button on the side and hissed as the little box did its job of making a dozen small incisions in his arm.

He wasn’t completely sold on the medical benefits of bloodletting but at least the tools were useful for the extremely niche purpose he needed it for. He gently put the box down, turned his arm over the bowl, and watched his blood fill the bowl for a whole thirty seconds before his regeneration kicked in and Link had to squeeze his arm to get a little bit more blood out before the injuries healed enough to stop the bleeding entirely.

At least it was more blood than he got yesterday.

He brought the bowl into her room, walking carefully so he didn’t waste a drop of his blood. If Link felt tired, he couldn’t imagine how Ash felt. If she wasn’t busy coughing up a lung, she was trying her best to sleep for however long she could, which was never more than a couple of hours before her illness woke her up.

“I have more blood,” he muttered as he walked inside and set the bowl down on the night stand. He shifted her to a sitting position, as she was too weak to do so herself, tilted her head back, and when he was satisfied, he retrieved the bowl and slowly tipped the blood into her throat.

Much to his surprise, she drank all of it. That was already better than yesterday where drinking half the bowl made her gag. Maybe feeding her his blood was working after all.

She slumped back into her pillows. “That was... not bad,” she mumbled as her eyes dropped.

“Just try to get some sleep. I’ll be back later with some more blood.”

Ash said nothing, as expected. She was already asleep. Her face seemed a bit more relaxed but maybe that was just his wishful thinking. He pulled her blankets up and tucked them in around her thin body, then stumbled his way back into his temporary bedroom. He collapsed into the chair, even though the bed looked pretty tempting. He didn’t dare fall asleep yet. He would sleep when Ash was better.

So, fun fact! Warriors is using a scarificator on himself and it's purpose was bloodletting. I can't imagine it's easy to clean though.

[goingroguepod]

What changed in Rogue One's reshoots?

First things first - basically every major film has reshoots. They're built into the schedule to solve problems that come up in the edit. Lotta good things happen in reshoots (arguably one of the best scenes in Rogue One happened cos of reshoots).

BUT the Rogue One reshoots were so significant they weren't just fixing problems, they were restructuring the entire film. It takes up a full ep of the Going Rogue podcast but the TL:DR is: Tony Gilroy, the Oscar nominated writer and director who is now the showrunner on Andor, came onto Rogue One after the directors cut. He has a screenplay credit. To get that, he had to be responsible for at least 33% of the final film's script.

Again, he came in after the directors cut.

So what exactly did he change? Hard to get specifics for everything but here's a bunch of things that were added in the reshoots:

Jyn's Prison Breakout and Cassian's mission to the Ring of Kafrene

The film originally cut from child Jyn to adult Jyn in rebel custody. These scenes were added during reshoots to set the scene and establish the characters better. It's also likely that Bodhi's first scene on Jedha was added in reshoots, but that also might have already been in the film and just moved earlier (although it was shot on a Volume LED background which makes me suspect it was a last minute addition, as the Volume was still being tested/developed during principal photography)

2. Most of Scarif

This was significantly restructured to make it less complicated and shorter (the original cut was probably over an hour). Not all of it was reshot - often new scenes would be spliced into old ones. Jyn and Cassian climbing the data tower, and Cassian's apparent back-breaking fall, were reshoots - but Jyn's face off with Krennic on top of the tower was from the original cut (in that version, Cassian and K2 were probably guarding the bottom of the transmission tower and were shot down - there's some BTS footage of this with K2 dying dramatically next to an apparently dead Cassian, but Cassian and Jyn always died on the beach together so presumably Cassian still got a "return from the dead" hero moment.)

Other things on Scarif that changed included Chirrut and Baze's deaths, but probably not Bodhi's (although Bodhi was likely the first person to die in the original cut).

3. Most if not all of Saw's scenes

This all gets a lil tin-foil hat vibes but the first few trailers/images of Saw Gerrera look much more like the younger Saw in the opening scene with a bald head/no beard. That could mean there were originally more backstory scenes of Young Jyn and Saw, but there's also some BTS footage of Felicity Jones in Jyn's Jedha costume talking to a bald, beardless Saw in what looks a lot like the Death Star attack scenes (lots of wind effects and blue screen). So unless Jyn has had exactly one set of clothes for the past 10 years, it's likely all of Saw's scenes on Jedha were re-shot.

4. Jyn and Cassian's argument after Eadu

This is a vibes call rather than direct evidence but all the dialogue in this scene is very Tony Gilroy-esque. (Gilroy loves to write a smart, competent man who does what needs to be done in spite of grey morality, surrounded by and struggling against malignant bureaucracy.)

** EDIT: just realised this isn't as clear as it could be - there was probably a confrontation here in earlier cuts but the dialogue was almost definitely re-written by Gilroy, esp. because it plays into a mirror line from one of the first scenes ("I've never had the luxury of political opinions"/"We don't all have the luxury of deciding when are where to care")**

5. The Darth Vader Corridor Scene

This one is thanks to editor Jabez Olssen - Rogue One always had at least one Darth Vader scene with Krennic, but during the edit everyone realised that they needed a "Jurassic Park T-rex" ending. Olssen pitched bringing Vader back for a final scene to slaughter Admiral Raddus and his crew while Princess Leia just barely escaped. The idea was approved by Kathleen Kennedy and workshopped into the final scene in the film, which Olssen's friend and mentor Peter Jackson was on set to watch. (this is why there's two credited actors as Darth Vader - one did the talking scene, the other was a stunt man who just did this fight).

As always, there's a full podcast episode on the reshoots that covers much more of Gilroy's career and style and how and why re-shoots happen, but also a much broader issue of how the reshoots stripped away a lot of who Jyn was for the sake of narrative simplicity, and why I don't think that would have happened if she was a male character.

[astromechs]

Smut prompt 26 pls?

"i want you to come inside me this time" from this list; also on ao3!

She wakes up shaking all over, gasping for breath. It isn't the first time she's seen him dead in her nightmares; she's seen him vaporized on Scarif, too late to be saved, she's seen him flatline on the operating table, seen him succumb to a blaster wound too deep for bacta to fix, seen his lifeless body in an Imperial cell with the pouch on his jacket that normally holds two lullaby pills torn open, with just one on the floor.

Jyn has seen him dead hundreds of times behind her eyes, in hundreds of ways.

And one time, she knows, she has to know, if she isn't completely fucking kidding herself, it's going to be real.

It's with a struggle that she manages to sit up in the bunk, burying her face in shaking hands, willing herself to get it together, because this is pathetic. At least the stinging in her eyes hasn't become anything else, she can give herself that, but otherwise? Truly fucking pathetic. She would've never survived if she'd gone to pieces like this alone in the bunker after being left behind, in the cave on Lah'mu…..

There's breath, warm, at the back of her neck that makes her own come just a little easier. A press of lips there as soft as the hand that grazes down her arm and laces fingers with her own, that finally makes her stop shaking. She lifts her head, then, and turns to meet Cassian's eyes in the dark.

She wonders if he has dreams like that, too. He has to, doesn't he? Neither of them ever say anything about it, but from the way he looks at her sometimes in the middle of the night cycle like this when sleep eludes them both, the way that the lines crease in and the way that the circles shadow under his eyes in a mirror to her own, tells her everything.

It's been an age since either of them have truly had something to lose.

There aren't any words she could possibly begin to even form, so she lets the caress of her free hand against his face start the conversation, lets the kiss she presses to his mouth continue it.

He's warm and steady; if she doesn't fight it, it could seep in, wash away her fear like the last remnants of something left on a shore for the tides. She parts her lips under his and pulls him over top of her as she sinks back down onto the mattress, which creaks under their weight; it's good. His hands get to work, finding the most sensitive spots on her skin and leaving heat in their wake; it's good. They only part long enough to pull shirts over heads and recklessly discard the rest of what's left between them, press together until they could practically fuse into one being; it's good.

But it's not enough.

Jyn arches up her hips with purpose, says, on the rough edge of a precipice, "I want you to come inside me this time."

And so he does, burying himself in so deep that she forgets everything else.

(Cassian knows how to follow an order when it counts.)

[swan-orpheus]

Cassian saying, “Kill me. Or take me in.” The child adoption parallels , the full circle of Cassian showing up of his own free will in the ship fully awake rather than waking up aboard a ship and seeing a sun in the distance over Kenari, awful parallel to the dead sun he’ll see rise later as an adult. The connection between the line in Ep 4, “Or you could always kill me, and take the ship.”

Taking up or picking up a weapon or tool, picking up a sword, Cassian is a sword that Luthen wields except that this time he is not a mercenary, a mere tool. “Kill me, or take me in (and kill me later in service to the Rebellion).”  Children as weapons. The dead man walking. And when Luthen dies, what if Cassian takes the sky kyber and carries it with him until the end, to his own funeral. 

“Every loss [death]is different, every one’s the same.” A long line of faces of the dead who came before to Rebel, all different. A long line of Imperial faces, hidden behind masks, all the same. 

The narrative is circles within circles, the Empire is circles within circles, the circular ISB, the Imperial logo, cavernous core world labyrinths, maze-like ships, depersonalizing, inhuman; the warm circular architecture of Ferrix, winding streets, personalized, human.

A life is a broken circle. 

“I burn my life for a sunrise I’ll never see”

A sun rise is a star rise.

The Death Star, like an anti-sun, rising in the sky over Scarif, a horrible perversion of a real star that generates warmth and light and gives life, fixed like a tree, singing in the dark. The Death Star silently roaming the darkness of space bringing fear and death. 

Cassian’s kyber crystal is an anti-death star crystal focusing the light of his soul to bring light, to save lives even when it deals in death. 

Cassian will see the bright light on the sea’s horizon like a sunrise from a fake, dead star, but the true sunrise will be the data stream rising up off the planet carrying the Death Star plans, a signal that will signal the beginning of the end of the dark times, it is the start of that sunrise, the predawn. 

Cassian and Jyn on the beach as the light rises, hidden kyber crystals singing in the dark.  

“The strongest stars have hearts of kyber.”

Death. Life. Stardust.

[mostthingskenobi]

CASSIAN’S RECKONING - Chapter 2: The Scythe

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Things turn bad very quickly for Cassian. Commence whump.

Thank you so much for the feedback and the interest generated by chapter one. I hope you enjoy this new chapter :)

Please heed the tags. This is a whumpy fic with subject matter that some may find difficult. Please check the tags on AO3.

READ THE FIC ON AO3

——————–

CHAPTER 2: THE SCYTHE

The mission started fine. Cassian’s credentials were real, taken from an Imperial Intelligence officer currently being held prisoner by the Alliance, so docking on the star destroyer had not been a problem. The inspection crew came aboard, approved their presence, and allowed them to disembark. It was the first and last step in the plan that went well.

Cassian led his men into the ship’s corridors and headed directly for the data vault, only to be sealed in a crosshatch almost immediately. When one set of blast doors opened, a death trooper squad poured in and the game was up; the mission was an instant failure. If Cassian had known what was going to happen next, he would never have agreed to the assignment.

He and his men were quickly disarmed, lined up, and forced to their knees. A viper probe droid came forward and scanned them one at a time, moving up the line, registering each face before finally reaching Cassian. The large red iris rotated and whirred. He lowered his eyes, praying for a miracle, but his face produced a match in less than four seconds. The droid buzzed loudly and projected hologram footage of Cassian taken from the Scarif security system.

The lead death trooper’s voice crackled through its helmet. “He’s the one we want. The rest are expendable.”

The squad lifted their weapons and shot all of Cassian’s men. He screamed in useless protest, grabbing hold of his fellow rebel who collapsed beside him. But, before his brain could process the horror, something heavy collided with his head, sending him sprawling across the reflective, black deck. The trooper who hit him advanced quickly, expertly striking him again across the face with his blaster’s stock. Cassian’s head snapped back, knocked senseless by the blow.

He didn’t lose consciousness but he no longer had control over his limbs. He lay stunned, aware that blood ran down the side of his head. Eventually, two troopers hoisted under his arms and dragged him down the corridor. He couldn’t really see, and his brain could not understand the troopers’ voices. All he registered was how his body jostled, how his feet dragged, and how occasionally he heard the whoosh of blast doors opening and closing. After what felt like a lifetime, he was dragged through a final set of doors and dumped unceremoniously on the floor. He looked up just in time to see a heavy, armored fist pummel him. A strange grunt escaped his throat before his head smacked against the tile, making the world go dark.

——————–

Cassian woke long before he opened his eyes, passing in an out of consciousness over an indeterminate amount of time. Everything was eerily still, no shuffling fabric, no mechanical whirring, no energy from another living being. He gradually became aware of himself; his head was wet with cold blood, his arms and neck and face ached, even his teeth hurt. Slowly, he opened his eyes to get his bearings, but froze when he saw his wrists. He had forgotten about the death troopers, forgotten about his murdered soldiers, forgotten he had been on an imperial star destroyer. But when he saw his wrists locked with metal cuffs to the arms of the chair he was sitting in, everything came flooding back. His veins turned to ice as his stomach dropped.

He twisted in his seat to check the rest of the room but he was completely alone. The chair he was secured to sat in the center of a cold, plain metal cell. The walls were totally bare. A table covered in his confiscated gear was behind him against the wall.

His mind began to race. Where am I? How long have I been here? Has it been long enough for Jyn to realize something’s gone wrong? No one has a clue where I am…

His thoughts were interrupted when the cell door suddenly hissed open. A squad of six death troopers entered and took position around the room’s perimeter.

A final figure crossed the threshold, a man slight and compact but who moved like a scythe through wheat. Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin had the most unsympathetic eyes Cassian had ever seen. The very look of his sharp, skeletal body sent a shiver up the rebel’s spine. Andor clenched his jaw, replacing all feeling of fear with disdain and practiced smugness.

Jyn, like a mythical oracle, had predicted this mission’s pitfalls down to the letter. Cassian felt relieved she wasn’t part of this assignment. Force knew what kind of horrible punishment awaited an Erso if captured by the Empire. Whatever Tarkin had planned, Andor was grateful she wasn’t here to experience it.

The Grand Moff stood staring at him for a long time, as though waiting to see if Andor would display any bravado. When it became clear the rebel refused to speak first, the older man smiled mirthlessly. “Cassian Jeron Andor, rebel intelligence. An excellent catch, to be sure, but imagine my elation when I discovered you were also the scum who led a deadly attack against Scarif. How fortuitous.”

Cassian doubted that Tarkin had ever felt elation. The hatchet-faced man clearly only felt sadistic or sardonic pleasure.

Tarkin advanced on Andor, glaring down his beak-like nose at the young man, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Your mole on the Death Star is really my mole in the Rebellion. I have to confess, I’m rather disappointed by how easily you fell into my net. But not to worry. We’ll make the most of our time together.” He waved his hand at the death troopers around the room. “Each of these men lost a comrade at Scarif. They want their pound of flesh, Andor, and I’m inclined to give it to them. One can never underestimate the importance of keeping up morale.”

The officer nodded to one of the troopers before returning to his place by the door. The soldiers closed in, one grasping Cassian across the forehead, straining his head back while other troopers began pulling off his boots and socks, leaving him barefoot. His mind instantly flashed with fear as memories of Narkina 5 came rushing back. His belt was removed, then his stolen imperial jacket was unbuttoned and pulled open revealing his white undershirt.

Cassian had run his own interrogations; his mind quickly tried to anticipate what was coming, tried to comprehend why they had removed these particular pieces of clothing. Even so, he was unprepared for the torrent of ice water that suddenly sprayed down on him. A tapered nozzle directly above his chair quickly drenched him and left him gasping for air.

Finally, the deluge ceased. Cassian spit water and squinted through the blood that washed out of his hair and into his eyes. He couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering against the cold that burned across his skin, the kind of cold that eventually sunk into your bones.

Tarkin didn’t say another word. He simply turned on his heel and left the room, followed by the death trooper squad.

Cassian, wholly caught off guard by this encounter, sat violently shivering.

The lights flashed out and he was left in total darkness with only the sound of his icy gasps to keep him company.

——————–

END NOTES

NEXT CHAPTER IS CALLED “THE COLD” - The Empire would need a lot more than cold and dark to break Cassian Andor.

Thank you for reading!

Likes, comments, and reblogs are very welcome!

Much love!

——————–

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

READ CHAPTER 1 “The Razor”

READ CHAPTER 2 “The Scythe”

READ CHAPTER 3 “The Cold”

READ CHAPTER 4 “The Expendable”

READ CHAPTER 5 “The Truth”

READ CHAPTER 6 "The Detritus"

READ CHAPTER 7 “The Salt”

READ CHAPTER 8 “The Power”

READ CHAPTER 9 “The Betrayal”

READ CHAPTER 10 “The Ruse”

READ CHAPTER 11 "The Reprieve"

READ CHAPTER 12 “The Ghosts”

READ CHAPTER 13 "The Redemption"

READ CHAPTER 14 “The Spoils”

READ CHAPTER 15 “The Interrogation”

READ CHAPTER 16 "The Rogues"

READ CHAPTER 17 “The Absolution”

READ CHAPTER 18 "The Reach"

READ CHAPTER 19 "The Hologram"

READ CHAPTER 20 “The Divide”

READ CHAPTER 21 “The Cost”

READ CHAPTER 22 "The Fallout"

READ CHAPTER 23 “The Wounds”

[streetkid-named-desire]

Tell me the sceeeeene :3

(send me one of my fic titles and i'll tell you which was that scene)

I think it was the meet cute.

"B-E-A, you're 'V, just V" "You're goddamn right I am"

I'm trying to remember because Bea started as a self insert and I had a whole prequel with a tragic backstory about the VDBs and Pacifica and it was really just a huge fuckin' mess. And then the Clouds rescue idea?

I still have the original Streetkid doc in its 119 page glory in my gdrive, I haven't deleted any of the earlier scrapped versions. It was in first person too. Also there was no ending I just lost interest.

Actually, if anything, I wrote it around the title. It was never untitled, it was always "A Streetkid Named Desire" and a love story between Bea-as-self-insert and the Masc V I made (only his hair color has changed).

Here all three versions under the cut, starting with the very first original version. And you can find it in this chapter of the original fic and this chapter of the rewrite.

Embracing the embarrassment but here you go, also I illustrated certain scenes with screenshots of V because I just liked looking at him and re-reading my fic because it was just how I daydreamed. I never had any intention of publishing it in any version when I first wrote it.

Look at this shitty ass outfit in my baby modder days.

OG gdocs for MY eyes only version

We walked into a dark room, only dimly lit by the dancing nude hologram in the center of the table. The table was scattered with shards and diagrams. A man sat on the right side of the round couch and Jackie motioned for me to slide in from the left. I eyed the man suspiciously as I sat down. Jackie slid in next to me and nudged me to move towards the right, closer to the stranger. He was reading a screamsheet held in front of his face. He wore a leather jacket and dark jeans, I noticed the fingers replaced with chrome, silver. Gorilla arms, maybe?

"V, meet uh, heh, Bea," Jackie chuckled and said under his breath, "Didn't realize your names would rhyme."

"Sounds like you took my gimmick," the man said. He had a smooth voice with a slight gravel, a hint of some eastern state accented his vowels. Philly, maybe? Or Brooklyn? 

"B-E-A," Jackie said, "You're 'just V'."

"You're goddamn right I am!" The man put down the screamsheet and tossed it on the table, finally revealing his face. He looked me up and down, slowly, and offered his hand to shake. I obliged and shook his hand. His fingers were cold and he let his hand linger too long. I started to squeeze tighter and tighter as I narrowed my eyes at him to see how long it would take until he had to pull away. I saw the corner of his mouth lift up in a smirk when we both realized I'd reached my limit. I must have been right about the Gorilla Arms. 

He had dark blue eyes, like an ocean, or at least what oceans used to look like. I felt a stabbing pain in my chest as it brought back memories of Pacifica for a brief moment. His hair was a matching blue with green undercut in a hideous mullet. He had blackwork tattoos going up the sides of his face and down his neck, covering the top half of his ears and around his eyes giving him a striking if not haunting look. His lips had the barest tint of black bleeding inward from the liner around his lips. Interesting tattoo. He had his septum pierced and three lip piercings, just silver studs below his lower lip. Two eyebrow piercings, one on either side as well as the bridge of his nose and a dermal anchor under his left eye. He had scarification on his cheeks, basic line work, subtle. It finely accented the chrome highlighting his cheekbones. Carved into the tattoo on his neck was more chrome, following the curve of his neck down to his collar bones.

A Streetkid Named Desire - Chapter 5

The booth was dimly lit by a blue dancing nude hologram in the center of a table littered with data shards. A man sat on one side of the round red velvet couch that lined the wall and Jackie motioned Bea to slide in next to him. Jackie followed and nudged her with his elbow in her side to get even closer.

The man held a screamsheet in front of his face. He wore a flashy red crystaljock bomber with garish yellow accents. His fingers were black and silver, some kind of cybermod. The sleeves were rolled up but Bea couldn't see any addition marks to tell if it was Gorilla Arms, Mantis Blades, or what.

"V, met uh, heh, Bea," Jackie chuckled and mumbled, "Didn't realize your names would rhyme."

"Sounds like you stole my gimmick," the man said. He had a smooth voice with a slight gravel, a hint of some eastern NUS accent on the vowels.

"B-E-A-," Jackie said, "You're 'V. Just V."

That sounded familiar to Bea. She never remembered customer names, it was like her brain automatically purged everything the moment she clocked out.

"You're goddamn right I am!" he tossed the screamsheet on the table, finally revealing his face. He looked at Bea like she was an all-you-can-eat buffet and he'd been stranded in the wilderness starving for weeks. He offered his hand to shake.

Bea shook his hand, his fingers were cold and he let them linger too long. Bea squeezed tighter and tighter to see whose grip was stronger. She couldn't grip any harder and the corner of V's mouth lifted in a smirk.

Hmm, definitely Gorilla Arms.

He had piercing grey eyes, almost a hint of green like the sky before a tornado hits. His hair was cut in a mullethawk, turquoise on top with a black undercut. He had black tattoos along the sides of his neck that went up to cover the top half of his ears. His eye sockets were also tattooed black and two sharp angled black lines under his cheekbones carved his face into a skull.

Wait a minute, where had she seen those ear tattoos before? Tons of edgy wannabe rockerboys had some skull tattoo, but the ears were unique.

He smiled at her, his lips had a tint of black bleeding inward from the tattoo liner around his lips and multiple facial and ear piercings. The black cyberware across his aquiline nose and cheekbones finely accented the chevron scarification on his cheeks.

His look was haunting and Bea tried not to stare. Something was eating at her. He seemed so damn familiar.

Faster Nomad! Kill! Kill! - Chapter 4

V sat upright in the booth and fidgeted with the placement of the data shards again when he saw Jackie walking towards the booth with a woman. She was tall with yellow and green hair. V had to do a double take. Lots of people in NC have that color hair, besides, hers was shorter, straighter, and the sides were shaved. She also had bangs. The girl in the window did not have bangs. She wore a loose green tank top, tight black leather pants. An HJKE Yukimura smartpistol in a drop holster was strapped to her right thigh. V couldn't help but stare at the femme fatale walking towards him. As she got closer, V noticed she wasn't wearing a bra and her nipples formed tight points in her shirt, he could even see the outline of a nipple piercing. He picked up a screamsheet on the table and pretended to read, hiding the redness spreading across his cheek.

Two pairs of footsteps, one heavier than the other, stopped at the edge of the table. "V, met uh, heh, Bea," Jackie chuckled and mumbled, "Didn't realize your names would rhyme."

V smiled behind the magazine, "Sounds like you stole my gimmick." He had a smooth voice with a slight gravel, a hint of some eastern NUS accent on the vowels.

"B-E-A-," Jackie said, "You're 'V. Just V."

V slapped the screamsheet down on the table, "You're goddamn right I-" he looked up, "am." It was her. She changed her hair, sure, but her green eyes and the gold cyberware across her cheeks, the gold cyberware lines around her shoulders, it was her.

He tried so hard to forget her, but she was permanently etched into his brain. It didn't look like she recognized him, either. He could make a better first impression then. Jackie nudged her into the booth first. When he slid in, he nudged her even closer to V until their legs touched. Her leather was cool against the thin denim of his worn jeans. V turned to her and stuck his hand out to shake and she took it. The same electric pulse when her fingers brushed his against the glass of tequila was magnified by her whole hand. It was soft and warm; she wore a thin gold chain bracelet around one wrist and a series of thick black and gold rings around each finger. He let his touch linger, she felt like a lifeline and if he let go, he would drown.