fasciinating‌

           ❝ I ADMIT I MAY BE UNQUALIFIED, ❞ he reiterates, factually, unscathing, & this time, he does it out loud. Spock is not hassu, not an expert with which to fix, to cleanse, to heal another beyond oneself. & it is for this reason, he is uncertain, shuttering his hesitation in silence, at first, for these many seconds too long. he does not know in what manner to assist him, Oz, but Spock sees what he sees — allowing his eyes to roam, to wander, as he scans the thin armor of clothing, takes note of the hidden wounds Oz directs him to observe, that he gives permission for Spock to learn. & they are slow, curious, calculating movements. his gaze dark & assessing, when they settle quietly against the angles of Oz’s shoulder. he cannot fix the injury, not completely. not until they have obtained the resources; bacta, anesthesia, whatever is necessary, to do so fully. Spock narrows on greater solutions to which his initial response had been inefficient. unuseful. there must be something, he quandaries, & with speed his thoughts supply him —                  of something he could confess. something private. delicate & perhaps, invasive. it is Vulcan. a little known truth of his kind, if it were known at all. Spock’s instincts warn him against such a decision; his father’s voice ringing faintly in his ears. there is something, indeed; a secret with which to share, to break together, despite his drive to protect it. so said surak, accept their reaching in the same way; accept their reaching, with careful hands, he recalls. & right now, Oz is reaching, requesting his help. his own hands flex precariously, open fists, at his sides as he draws closer. Spock looks to Oz sincerely.  ❝  i cannot cure what ails you. not entirely for that matter. ❞  he explains, pausing, reminding himself of the logic behind his forward suggestion. a hand stretches, reaching, searching for acceptance in the same way & yet, not quite there, ❝  — however, i may be able to ease any pain. if you will allow it. ❞ 

       HE WATCHES the other. he has never been a calm person - rarely has he ever found a moment to exist where his temper doesn’t command his every move - and, likewise, has not quite gotten used to seeing others in indifferent states. those who wear masks over their true emotions draw his ire time and time again by virtue of their attitude alone; if they can act as though they are not intertwined with him, their fates embroidered on a mass tapestry, then he cannot understand them. if he can’t see what happens with them internally, and he can’t comprehend or get a feel for what they are thinking, it scares him. it brings about feelings of insularity that may as well bury him alive.         still, he watches. he listens to the other with only the intent to turn him down, for he refuses help. this is the paradox of oz icelus: he needs aid to function, knowing that he will never be strong enough to exist without the company of others by his side, but he refuses it time and time again. his master raised him to be self-dependent. she brought him up to be able to defend himself without needing to rely on others, without requiring their presence to hold his sanity together. this paradox has created an unknowing co-dependency on those around him: without them, he loses himself to the mess of guilt-ridden thoughts that throw him into a spiral of demise and despair.        he has fallen into it before. he does not want to fall into it again. he fears it more than anything else, but craves it to the same degree. pain makes him stronger. isolation makes him unstable, true, but to suffer through it is to prove to himself that he is worthy of something more than the dead and dying bodies that fall around him all too often.         the young jedi regards the outstretched hand with unmatched skepticism. the other’s words bounce around in his mind: if he wants to ease the pain, what does that entail? he cannot stand the thought of something tempering or calming his mind, after all, for altered thoughts will be the bane of him. he does not want to say something that he will regret (though, as any well-versed observer knows, this will likely happen regardless).        ❝ knock yourself out. ❞ his voice speaks of an all-encompassing dismissive attitude. in his mind, the worst thing that he can do in the situation would be to say that the other cannot help - but, to that end, perhaps this is a double edged sword. it could be a way to catch him off guard. to hurt him. to kill him. he pushes those thoughts to the side as quickly as he can, but their imprint remains. ❝ just don’t fuck with my head, okay? not too much.  ❞

gonna be working on replies / memes for oz real quick, but here’s a quick lil psa on where else to find me if i’m not busy writing this edgy fool !! 

@knightbark​ - knight of ren oc ( moderate activity ) @wroughthope​ - resistance of ( moderate activity ) @sibylsaid​ - force oracle oc ( high activity )

“ you want a reading. ” the oracle groaned, her disappointment immeasurable. “ why does everyone always want a reading? reading this, reading that. prophecy here, prophecy there - you know, just once, i’d like to finish my breakfast before being asked to look into the future for someone i hardly know !! ”

     independent & private force oracle oc, based in the star wars universe. adored by quail. 

template & psd credit

fasciinating‌

                HIS EXPRESSION SHUTTERS; his mouth pressed, as he stares first between their feet, this distance he’s kept firm suddenly turned cold, to then, the measured canvas of what has become Oz’s face. Spock had not meant to offend. he aims to make that clear in the stern sense of his posture, the way he leans slightly, his chin downward of his chest. reality would remind him, Spock has no idea of the things that have made him, Oz. what history has taken & wounded or spared him, what has been carved into Oz’s mind, in the places Spock cannot see. not without touch & neither without permission. silently, he allows his brows to furrow above his eyes, dark & fathomless. it is a careful knot of his consideration in what to do next. but he is unfamiliar, no — unqualified, to combat, to handle, to respond, to these emotionalisms correctly or, perhaps, at all. Spock nods then, an unnecessary gesture save filling the void. it serves its purpose. he agrees to leave titles behind. ❝  as i am unfit to inquire of more personal matters, allow me to rephrase, ❞ he concedes, arms crossing. Spock slides his hands into the long sleeves of his outer robes. a dark fabric made of thick, warm layers, the crest of the house of Sarek on his breast, vulcan. ❝  have you sustained bodily injury in a manner that will require further medical attention? ❞ it is more detail in words than is needed. too pedantic, as his peers, as those who do not know him well, might say with a roll of their eyes. however, specificity appears the best path in where to begin. it is direct. it is accurate. it is logical.  ❝ i will accept whichever your answer  —  , ❞  he pauses, deliberate, then with purpose,  ❝ Oz. ❞ if only for now. 

       HE CAN’T STAND big words. maybe that’s a simple thing to notice when it comes to him; he’s never been the type to enjoy being around those who speak with more logic than love, despite the fact that he has never truthfully known what the latter means in comparison to the former. he wishes that everyone would speak simply, in a way that he could understand - he cannot make a retort, nor can he properly reply, to someone if he doesn’t know what the fuck they’re saying. they can spout a thousand languages, sing a million ballads, but that won’t help him. it never helps him.         he wishes that the problem applied to this situation. he wishes that he could write off the other’s concern as just another set of meaningless words that he didn’t have a single hope of understanding. alas, this isn’t the case; the other speaks in the ideal way for the youngling to understand, and it pisses him off. the one time he wants to be clueless, the one time he wants to abandon what the world means, of course he comes into contact with someone who refuses to abide by an unspoken prayer!          he bites his inner lip. the taste of copper floods his tastebuds. it hurts.         he stops.         he sighs.         he speaks.         ❝ there’s one more. ❞ he makes a pained motion towards his left shoulder; beneath his shirt, beneath that which wards off all manner of cold, there sits a blaster wound that has gone far too long without treatment. this is his own private punishment, he supposes; this is what he gets for believing that his body doesn’t need help healing itself. for all the cuts that linger without stitches, for all the bruises that have existed without a cold press against them, this is his retribution.         ❝ it’s old, but it hurts. been hurting. ❞ more as of late, which draws all manners of concern from the fledgling jedi. ❝ think you could check it out for me ??  ❞ it may be infected, or it may be in his head. there’s no true way to tell when it comes to him; one’s guess is as good as any others.

“don’t kill the messenger,” they warned.  “that’s my damn job.” he replied. 

                independent & selective knight of ren original character / hunted by quail.  template credit. 

landspeeding

INCOMING TRANSMISSION FROM REY . @enmityborne·

            “—————I THINK THEY’D LIKE YOU. The Resistance, I mean. The ones that are left? I have friends that are a lot like you…. well, Poe can be stubborn and Finn is as funny.” Rey pauses, lacing her fingers together around her knees. “You ought to come back with me, when this is all over.”

        HER OFFER IS MET with an immediate sense of skepticism. he has never been one for teams or groups, after all ( the more that are around him, the more he can lose ). yet, he does humor her - if only for the moment.         ❝ i’m not saying no, ❞ he begins, despite the fact that his tone clearly implies that he’ll be more inclined to turn it down than anything else. ❝ but i am saying ‘eh’. i want to whoop the order’s ass as much as the next guy, but the resistance already has you. you really think they could deal with me of all people ?? ❞

ya boi really out here formatting differently huh         anyways, boop that heart for a tiny dialogue starter!!

                    SO I HAVE YOU TO BLAME                               FOR THIS PAIN IN MY CHEST?

                      independent & selective star wars oc / penned by quail.  template. 

’ FEWER still could have done so without turning to DARKNESS .  every person obi-wan ever truly loved—anakin, satine, padmé, and qui-gon himself—came to a terrible end. every step of this long ,  unfulfilling journey is one obi-wan had to take alone …  and yet he never faltered. ’

                                              ——  independent  obi-wan kenobi.                                                      penned by quinn.

         INTIMIDATION DID NOT come easily to one who - by all means - had lived on his own for years upon years. youthful vendetta and struggles cast aside for the time being, rarely had an individual crossed his path who he shrunk at the sight of. bounty hunters, liars, thieves, killers - they were all viewed in the exact same way through bittered eyes: pests. entities who no one would have thought of if they vanished into thin air, funerals with not a single attendant in sight. this immediate indifference towards others - and the following lack of care for their perceived strength - had landed him in rough situations time and time again... but, to that end, had kept him alive all the same.            if he had backed down from every taller jackass who stood over him as a father did to a child, he wouldn’t have been on the hellish planet. he wouldn’t have been in possession of his own ship. no, he would have still been in the care of a mother who rested in a shallow grave, wrapped in an embrace fitting for one who had died to a single blow.            instead, he’d meet the eyes of the man who intruded upon his space, and sneer.             ❝ don’t call me kid. ❞ a polite smile, charmed, taught by a master who knew of what he would become without care. rambunctious. vile. ❝ i’m short. just means i can break your kneecaps a whole lot easier than other guys. ❞ if he was joking or not remained unclear - though, given how practiced the threat sounded, perhaps it was clear that he had followed it through once or twice prior.              he would give credit where credit was due: there was a heavy burden on his shoulders, urging him to tell the truth to someone who deserved far less. his general attitude irked the bastard son, perhaps more than any others had before. was it an honor? a curse? probably both.             ❝ you got me there. ❞ he cocked his head to the side, arrogance rolling off of him in waves. ❝ i’ll be honest, alright ?? i was messing around in the cockpit. got bored. oops. ❞ he would refrain from making a quip about a lack of teaching from the other’s masters in terms of sarcasm; although it would have been far too easy to do so, escalation wasn’t his goal. teasing, picking a possible fight, bickering - that was what could have been defined as casual fun for the runaway. getting serious, however, was far less desired.  ❝ tell you what, big guy. when we get out of this mess ?? i’ll run you by where i got the ship from, and the seller can tell you that i’m the rightful owner. sound good ??  ❞ 

“ walk with me? ”

         ❝ ‘WALK WITH YOU’ ?? ❞ laughter rose on the edge of his words, critical of the other without directly saying so. if he didn’t know better - and, somehow, he does - oz would be inclined to ask if the other is suffering from a sudden burst of heat stroke… but, then again, there was merit in sticking together. humorous coping mechanisms set to the side, a primary lesson harkened back to him: there was strength in numbers, and roaming alone would have only invited disaster.           with a sigh, he slipped his hands into the pocket of his coat, shrugged dismissively, and took a tentative step forward.           ❝ consider it done, princess. ❞ he teased, casting a glance at his temporary acquaintance. he could have been royalty in another life; all jewel-wearing dolts had the same charismatic sense about them, albeit its intensity wavered as often as their approval towards so-called peasants. safe to say that - in the view of that particular jedi - the other would have fit in just fine among a crowd of upper-class bastards.           ❝ c’mon. i said i’ll walk with you, but its your job to keep up. i ain’t waiting on you. ❞

@debonairvagabond / misc starters / accepting!

misc sentence starters

“  i wish i knew how to talk about it.  ”   “  you don’t have to talk, we can just sit together.  ”   “  i don’t want to be alone anymore.  ”   “  i wish i could hate you.  ”  “  take a seat, we’re gonna be here a while.  ” “  i need you to trust me.  ”   “  i missed/miss you.  ”   “  she/he won’t listen to me.  ” “  let me do this for you. please.  ”   “  is there anything else you want to say to me?  ” “  tell me something happy.  ”   “  promise me.  ” “  i just want/wanted to help.  ”   “  let me explain.  ” “  i didn’t/don’t need you to understand, i just wanted/want you to support me.  ”   “  i’m on your side.  ” “  i’ve got your back, okay? ” “  please, tell me you have a plan.  ” “  stay with me tonight.  ” “  don’t go. please.  ”   “  i’ve been alone for so long i’m afraid i don’t know what it’s like not to be.  ”   “  talk to me.  ”   “  i did what i had to do.  ” “  we can’t keep going on like this.  ” “  i’m just tired.  ” “  i’m scared.  ” “  it’s okay to be afraid. fear can be good. use it.  ” “  it’s better to expect disappointment.  ” “  hope is dangerous.  ” “  i like seeing you smile.  ”   “  you look beautiful.  ”   “  be patient with her/him. they’re trying. ”   “  i’m trying my best and it’s not good enough. it’s never good enough. ” “  i’m starting to think i’m just fucked up.  ”   “  have a drink with me.  ” “  she/he is better off without me. but i guess that’s their choice.  ” “  you can’t dictate what’s best for someone else. ” “  can i help you?  ” “  i thought you’d like this.  ” “  do you wanna get out of here?  ” “  walk with me?  ” “  well, shit.  ”

                           people like us aren’t meant for happy endings.

jedishope‌:

       he almost opens his mouth about his father. there’s a heavy feeling in his chest at the thought of him —– to get off his chest what haunts him would bring sweet relief. yet, luke also knows to be wary. not everyone would take too kind to knowing who his father was (he doesn’t blame them, of course) so he holds his tongue instead. “ something i’ve learned about death, though ? those that leave us are never really gone. ” the reminder of this knowledge lifts some of the weight trying to hold him down and he can breathe again.

       ❝ GUESS THAT MEANS i can pester a lot of people even when i’m dead. ❞ a sly chuckle underlines his quip, albeit there is persistent worry that - by chance - he isn’t taking the morbid conversation seriously enough. granted, this is to be expected; when death surrounds you, consumes you, there is a repetitive tendency to exist in a primal state of humor towards it. when one can joke at the reaper, in oz’s own private philosophy, it lessens the pain of the scythe’s final cut. the laughter fades quickly, though, and is replaced by a somewhat more serious tone. ❝ do you think they’re watching over us right now ??  ❞

sensedechoes‌:

( ✶ )  ——     A STRIKE OF FEAR HITS HIM LIKE LIGHTNING.   he can feel the force spark and burst around them before the unrelenting force hits him straight in the chest.  his feet slide across the floor, his form moving back a good distance, losing balance as he unwillingly falls back into the couch.  out of strategic panic, his own palm is pressed outwards in front of him, attempting to stop the harsh slices of the other force user’s saber within the air.  focusing upon the bright blue blade.  his eyes are wide, fearful, but troubled.  this was another jedi.  he was sure of it.   cal silently prays that the commotion couldn’t be heard from outside.  other figures appearing would surely make this situation more hostile for the other.          ❛  NO !  ❜   he snaps back, raising his saber for defense to block any other oncoming attack.  teeth baring as their sabers clash in contact, the blades whirring and spitting out sparks between them.  he could sense the anger.  the rage that festered within him.  a misunderstanding surely taking place.  he knew that anger, and he knew the faint grief and desperation that followed with it.  he was being wrongly accused.                ❛  i’m like YOU !   i’m a SURVIVOR !  i barely escaped with my life !  MY MASTER DIED FOR ME ! ❜   he breathes frantically, staring at the other through the window created by the sabers as his heart aches.  his gaze now pleading, screaming to be heard.  usually he wouldn’t be so transparent or give up such an identity, but confirmation was needed.   ❛  please !  i’m telling the TRUTH !   ❜  cal insists.  he didn’t want to fight another jedi —- not until there was no other option.  there was a chance at being allies.  he could feel it.  he had that hope that they could trust.  for once before, he had trusted little to no people except for prauf who was now probably lost within the bracca soil.   

        HIS FIRST LESSON calls back to him. not taught by his master, nor by any others, but learned on his own; to trust in this life, where villains and vagabonds worked hand-in-hand to bring about a new age of despair, only served to set up a meeting with the ever-present threat of death. give someone enough of a reason, he knows, and they’ll pretend to be jedi until the two suns of tatooine extinguish themselves. part of him quakes at the thought of his self-taught teaching coming true in the face of a new enemy: the saber, the stance, the plea - it all feels too genuine. a breath of fresh air after living in captivity for so long.         he presses onward. if only for a moment, a split second, there is a flake of doubt in his gaze. if he pulls back, will he be killed? or will this become the newest chapter in a life filled to the brim with ill-thought decisions? if he grants the other a split-second of reprieve, just enough to catch his breath, will that mean the end of a rogue jedi? to his credit, he doesn’t think of death all too often - not anymore - but... being defeated by a child is not the legacy he wants to leave behind for whoever happens to find his body.         killing a child, likewise, is not ideal.         with a low and hostile growl, he retreats. he pries his lightsaber away from the golden embrace, sheathing it with a quiet click. he stands, silent and observing, albeit his caution is blatantly obvious.          ❝ if you’re lying, ❞ his voice is calm. unnervingly so, as though he has promised the oncoming threat a thousand times prior. ❝ i will break your legs, stomp your jaw, and leave you for dead on a forgotten planet where no one will find your body. ❞ he takes a deep breath, exhaling the remnants of a rage now slightly quelled.         ❝ if you’re not lying, ❞ he continues, clicking his saber back into its rightful place on his hilt.  ❝ then... welcome to the dead master’s club, kid. what’s your name ?? ❞

lyric starter call !!

landspeeding‌:

A DEAL. Rey wets her lips with the tip of her tongue as she watches his saber ignite in a brilliant blue. She responds in kind, a twin blade with wavering blue pure as the water of Naboo. Oz may not believe in promises, but she’s made an unspoken one towards her ally. Whatever light greets him and whatever darkness consumes him, she’s decided here and now that she’ll stand by. It’s what Leia would caution. ( It’s what Luke would have wanted. )

While she doesn’t gravitate towards the same vulgarity, Rey shares the same sentiment. Somewhere within her there is anger, and where that anger lies is a vendetta she can’t erase. A parentless child staring up at the vast sky of nothing wishing someone would come save her. Most night she’s still that same child counting the stars and wondering when someone might eventually whisk her from this life, the savior of the resistance, until the shadows confirm her lurking suspicions this entire time: no one is coming. no one would ever come.

And so she became her own hero.

“On the count of three,” she murmurs with a reassuring nod. “One.” One last calling. She takes a deep breath in and calls upon the Force for aid. “Two.” Two can make it out of here if they don’t slip up and falter. 

                                    “Three.”

Taking off into a sprint, Rey shouts as she uses the Force to push one of their enemies towards a wall, blocking a blaster shot with controlled precision.

        IF ONLY FOR a moment, he finds himself back. back on a planet best left forgotten, back underneath the cover of darkness, back with a body laying disturbed at his feet. his body moves then as it does now; on his own, without his permission, propelled by the rush of anxiety that comes from witnessing a particular death. back then, he runs. he goes as fast as his legs will carry him, boarding the nearest ship that he can find. he clings to safety. he knows it will not last long.          now, he finds his body once again disobeying his commands.          the second rey takes off, he follows. part of him is excited, in truth, for he adores the rush of combat. although his master raised him to be a peacekeeper, he cannot help but delight in the thrill of a riot. the rush of bodies as they collide. the yells and cries of men dismantled by the cosmos themselves. the splatter of pleasant red, should it have escaped the burning embrace of his saber - he finds himself enamored with it as he runs, determination mingling with called upon anger.          control is not his strong-suit. he sets a mental timer: he has pulled the pin on an internal grenade, and can only flaunt its potential explosion for so long before suffering the consequences. broken bones and burn scars speak volumes of his inability to properly gauge situations - but he is distracted in the moment, and refocuses himself just in time to raise his blade. a shot bounces off from the blade with a satisfying hiss.          he grins. he shouldn’t, but he does. he demands the force to respond and - for once, perhaps at the will of an unseen fury - it does. a wave of force constricts around one trooper, dragging him forward with all the grace and ease of an invisible berserker. his saber finds its mark in the trooper’s chest; the scent of burning flesh drenches his senses, and oz hastily casts the body to the side. it’s satisfying. it shouldn’t be, but it is.         it’s been a while.          ❝ come on !! ❞ he shouts, taunting, infatuated with adrenaline’s warmth. he is following rey nonetheless, though, just as a loyal jedi ought to. if that title will still apply to him after the battle, of course, has yet to be seen.