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skamenglishsubs · 15 days

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Subtext and Culture, Young Royals, Season 3, Episode 4

Last episode ended with Simon coming home to a smashed window, this episode starts the morning after, Simon takes the bus to school, while Wilhelm is anxiously waiting for him.

Culture: At a high school level in Sweden, there's national tests in Swedish, English, and Math. Like everywhere else, the purpose of these tests is not only to grade students, but to align all schools across the country to combat grade inflation.

Blink and you miss it: Vincent is trying to cheat by looking at Nils' answers.

Blink and you miss it: Vincent draws a dick in the gravel while waiting for the others to be done with the test.

Subtext: This entire episode is overflowing with examples of privilege. For Vincent, and many other rich kids like him, studying and learning doesn't matter, they'll graduate regardless, so he doesn't care about the exam, he only cares about the graduation party.

Cinematography: Even with Felice and friends being completely blurred out in the background, you can still see Stella and Fredrika turning to look at Sara, and then turning their backs on her.

Culture: In the US, a lot of people are using "socialism" as a catch-all phrase which means politics they don't agree with, regardless of its actual ideology. Likewise, in Sweden, a lot of people use "communist" in the same way about generally left-wing politics, which is what Vincent is doing here.

Subtext: Wilhelm asks Simon if he can reconcile the conflict of dating a royal while being anti-monarchy, but the real question is of course if Wilhelm can reconcile the conflict in himself.

Subtext: This is where the show's political stance shines through, and this argument, that Wilhelm wasn't allowed to choose his life for himself, is the main argument they're gonna use in the finale.

Subtext: Wilhelm is weakly defending the monarchy, but just ends up repeating what his mother told him; it's a privilege, not a punishment, but does he believe it himself?

Subtext: The letter-to-yourself plot is mainly there in order to help August along his redemption arc, but here the show is using it to reinforce the point of the previous scene. Who does Wilhelm want to become? Does he have a choice?

Culture: In Sweden, Säkerhetspolisen, SÄPO, is the government agency in charge of national security, which includes providing security and assigning bodyguards to the royal family.

Subtext: Note the great use of passive voice here by Farima to avoid taking responsibility for the decision to force August to join the birthday foundation event. She's also expertly bargaining with Wilhelm to get what she wants.

Subtext: We know it was the far-right assholes who posted comments to Simon's videos a couple of episodes ago.

Blink and you miss it: Jan-Olof really perks up when Linda talks about moving to Gothenburg, because that would probably mean the end to the relationship between Wilhelm and Simon, which would solve all of his current problems.

Subtext: Like Farima, he bargains with Linda and Simon to get what he wants, for Simon to stop posting things to social media. It's almost as if their strategy was to do nothing at the start, waiting for things to blow up so they could swoop in, help out, and start making demands in exchange...

Blink and you miss it: The option to inactivate and hide your social media account is right there, but of course Simon has to choose to delete everything, because it will cause more drama and anguish.

Blink and you miss it: Fencing! Woohoo! I did fencing for five years as a kid until 8th grade or something, but I only did foil, and not épée like these students. I have absolutely no idea where these two are coming from or going to though, where would they practice? Is there a hidden fencing hall somewhere on the grounds that we haven't seen yet? How many kids at Hillerska are fencing? Also, he's carrying a practice blade and not an electric competition blade, so that checks out. Of the three types of modern fencing, épée is unique in that the entire body counts as a valid target, while in foil only the torso counts, and in sabre only the upper half counts. Oh wow, it looks like the gear is now wireless and every fencer carries their own indicator lights. Cool! Back in my day you had to be strapped in with a cord for competitions.

This tumblr is now about French School fencing. Allez! Touché!

Subtext: The narrative is that it's perfectly ok for the crown prince to be gay, as long as he's not gay gay.

Culture: The show keeps saying this, but in real world Sweden it's no longer the case. Supporting los jibbities is viewed as a completely mainstream and inoffensive opinion, on par with supporting human rights in general.

Subtext: Another example of privilege is being in a position to do a lot of good, and then just not caring about it. Simon is fighting for the causes he believes in, so seeing Wilhelm just casually throw it away is extremely disappointing for him.

Subtext: Unlike Vincent, August is actually a natural leader, someone people listen to, which is why he manages to quiet down the room when Vincent is unable to. Maybe a good quality in a future king?

Subtext: Simon is continuing the argument from before. Wilhelm could have shown solidarity with mental health causes or LGBT causes, but chose not to. However, he immediately decided to join in solidarity with the other rich kids protesting the school rules, which is rather selfish.

Subtext: Colour theory! Sara in purple, because part of the reason she's back at school is that August asked her to? And Simon in yellow, because he sure isn't loving Wilhelm very much right now.

Subtext: Just a reminder that Sara has actually been completely out of the loop since the end of season 2. She has no idea about the school rules, what's happened at home, how it's going with Simon and Wilhelm, or what's happening at school.

Blink and you miss it: Fredrika is so close to stop striking as soon as she's threatened with repercussions.

Subtext: I keep hammering this point home: The culture is in the walls, it's not something some of the kids made up. The visiting alumni were also hazed as new students and kept it going as third years. Same for the parents of all these kids. They're all part of the system, they all kept the cycles of abuse going, because they want the school to be like that.

Subtext: Privilege is thinking you can get things your way with almost no effort. None of these kids have ever struggled or protested something for real and then not been given what they wanted, so they seriously believed they'd win immediately.

Subtext: Another theme of this season is bringing secrets out in the open. We've all seen August struggling with body dysmorphia and an eating disorder since season 1, but no-one has ever called it out and put words on it, until Simon immediately recognizes it and calls it out.

Subtext: ...while the rich kids are just stuck in denial, because eating disorders is for poor people or something, it's not something that happens to them. And if it did, you certainly wouldn't admit it to anyone else.

Subtext: August tries to jokingly fend off Nils because he doesn't want anyone to know that the letter actually meant something to him, until Nils pushes too hard, and August punches him.

Subtext: Vincent talked a big game about striking in solidarity, but when they're caught as hilariously unprepared as they are, they're not pooling their resources in solidarity with each other, and instead resort to selling them to the highest bidder. Capitalism in a nutshell, illustrated perfectly by the behaviour of spoiled rich kids. Also, pet peeve, the English word for the currency of Sweden is "kronor", not "crowns".

Lost in translation: They're actually repeating a single word in Swedish, "svikare", which is pretty hard to translate. The verb, "svika", is a bit worse than letting someone down, but not as bad as betraying someone. The adjective, "besviken" typically means disappointed. So "svikare" means a person who is letting other people down, disappointing them, or betraying them.

Subtext: The culture is in the walls of the place, but the kids are also pretty damn complicit in continuing all the shitty traditions. This looks like a game of strip poker or truth or dare that went off the rails and just resulted in more bullying, with everyone joining in.

Subtext: The other girls are upset with Felice because she broke the code. You don't snitch to outsiders, you don't tell the truth, you keep up appearances.

Blink and you miss it: Henry won the potato chip auction, happily ate the entire bag, and passed out in a chair, clutching the bag. Mmmm, sourcream and onion.

Subtext: Speaking of closing ranks towards the outside, this also applies to this strike. It would be bad PR for the school if anyone outside found out that it happened, so it's better to solve it quietly and discreetly. Vanessa can trust the kids not to snitch. Vincent is also right, the parents, who are paying the tuition fees, are on their side.

Subtext: Felice can't be seen talking to Sara, so she checks that the coast is clear, and then drags Sara into a private bathroom to have their conversation.

Subtext: Likewise, Sara was probably Felice's first real friend.

Subtext: Nice little foreshadowing. I would have loved seeing Simon's drawing though!

Subtext: Well, he could have just made his social media private, but the show has to maximize the drama, so here we are, piling on more examples of how Simon is losing himself to the monarchy, that maybe he can't reconcile the conflict.

Subtext: Erik spent three years living at Hillerska, of course he wouldn't have told his then twelve year old kid brother about all the shit going on at the school. August spent an entire year living with Erik at the school, seeing what went on first hand, so of course he knows a side of Erik that Wilhelm doesn't.

Subtext: August has been trying to keep his mouth shut and avoid Wilhelm, but since they have yet another fight, he decides to drop the bomb about Erik to hurt Wilhelm.

Subtext: Again, the culture is in the walls. This is not something that only Erik's class did, once. It's probably been happening to all the boys for decades. It happened to the current second-year students, it happened to Erik, and lots of students before him who kept this shitty initiation tradition going.

Culture: Let's talk about the gay porn hazing a bit more. To me, this is an urban legend. I heard about it when I was a teenager back in the 90's, but I don't personally know anyone it happened to, or anyone who did it to anyone else. It was always hearsay, it happened to a friend of a friend's brother, or a classmate's cousin's friend or something similar, as is typical of urban legends.

Let's also make one thing absolutely clear: It doesn't work. The homophobic idea behind this shit is that if you are forced to watch gay porn and get a boner, you are gay, and if you don't, you're straight. But that is actually not true, erections don't work that way, and the fear of being found out is quite the boner killer. Also, what if you like guys, but the guys in the porno aren't your type? There's just so many ignorant misconceptions behind this idea.

I've also seen a lot of fan comments that keep playing into this ignorance; that the only reason Nils decided to stop the tradition was because he obviously failed it. Or that the only reason August is against it is because he failed, and the only reason he failed is because he's secretly not straight. No. Remember that the test doesn't work. Nils probably passed, despite actually being gay. August might have failed, despite being completely straight. Regardless of what happened, they both found it humiliating, and that is why they made a pact to stop it.

#young royals #young royals subtext #young royals analysis #young royals season 3

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lili863 · 1 month

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Yes, all yours.

AN: Welp , I am finally writing for Sebastian Sallow. This was fun to write knowing how his personality is.

Warning: MDNI, SMUT, 18+, Enemies to lovers, DARK, DOM! SEB

TW: Slight Dubcon, a little blood involved (literally)

Sebastian Sallow.

The most charming boy I've met, he's witty, fun loving and just such an adorable flirty dork. In fact if I would have asked him to court me if only...he wasn't such an insufferable, arrogant, hard headed human being that I have ever had the displeasure of knowing.

He's a walking contradiction to better put it.

Just a week ago we were laughing and making our way to the library after sneaking out of detention and then in a span of 7 days I found myself firmly entrenched in his shitlist when he figured out I was communicating with a goblin in my investigation about Ranrok and Victor Rookwood.

Since then, it's been an onslaught of cocky remarks, disdainful glances, and thinly-veiled jabs. Oh, the joy of camaraderie among wizards.

I could tolerate all of it, really. After all, navigating the intricate social dynamics of Hogwarts has become something of a specialty of mine. But things took a turn for the worse when he had the audacity to label me as ignorant and then failed to extend even a semblance of an apology.

Initially, I empathized with his frustration and understood his misplaced anger. I made excuses for his behavior, attempting to rationalize his actions. But my patience wore thin faster than I anticipated.

Merlin, if I had known how stubborn he was going to be I would have given up hope of reconciliation a long time ago.

And it all started right after I had convinced myself that perhaps extending the olive branch should fall upon my shoulders.

I found him by the great hall. There he stood among a few of our friends: Natty, Garreth, Ominis, and Amit. A small smile crept onto my lips at the sight, hoping that this apology, however undeserved, would set things right. But just as I neared earshot, his words struck like a dagger.

"Can you believe her? The audacity. She parades around as if she's the font of all knowledge just because she's the apple of every professor's eye when she's barely scratched the surface of our world".

The words hit me like a ton of bricks as I stood there shocked.

"Sebastian, perhaps you're being a tad harsh," Natty interjected, her voice tinged with a hint of reproach. "She's many things, but ignorant isn't one of them."

Nods of agreement rippled through the small gathering, Ominis adding his voice with a weary sigh. "I'm inclined to agree. You're letting your temper get the best of you."

Sebastian's sneer sliced through the tension like a blade. "Of course you would agree, Ominis," he retorted, the bitterness palpable in his tone.

It dawned on me then that this matter held more significance for him than I had realized. I knew he was angry with me, but to this extent?

"Seems she's got all of you wrapped around her little finger, doesn't it?" he said, his gaze flicking between them with contempt.

"That's enough," I interjected sharply, drawing all eyes to me, including Sebastian's.

"You know, I would have taken your words more seriously if you had the guts to say them to my face," I challenged, closing the distance between us with purpose.

Sebastian turned to face me fully, his eyes zeroing in on mine. His deep frown transformed to a mocking smile playing on his lips. "Well, here I am, aren't I? Besides, your back is just as good a place as any for such heartfelt conversations, considering that's all I was faced with the last time."

I pressed my lips together, determined not to let his cutting words pierce through my resolve, though I could feel their sting like a sharp slap across the face. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed the group behind us watching with wide eyes.

Damn it. The last thing I needed was to turn this into a spectacle, but Sebastian was making it impossible to keep a level head.

"Funny, because I was about to say the same. Grow up, Sallow. I could handle you being a jerk any day, but immature as well?" I lowered my voice, drawing closer so our conversation couldn't be overheard. "We both know that everything I'm doing is for the greater good, including your sister."

That smile disappeared as quickly as it came, as a shadow crept over his features.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed the space between us, each step a calculated move. Startled at his demeanor I started backing up otherwise I was sure our bodies would've collided.

"Don't you dare pretend you're doing this for the good of everyone, especially my sister, when you're the one cozying up to a damn goblin."

Backed against the wall, I felt the weight of his presence looming over me, and it was precisely that moment I realized how much of a threat he could have been if he wasn't someone I knew.

He disregarded the stares of onlookers, his focus solely on me as if nothing else existed in the world.

I never saw this look on him. So scary. And so unforgiving.

My nostrils flared, and I clenched my jaw to tyring to ignore everyone gathering around us "But I am. And whether you like it or not, Lodgok is not the same. I understood your anger at first, truly, but enough is enough" My voice now ringing with authority I continued "Now back off".

He didn't move a muscle. I swear if looks could kill, I'd be 6 feet beneath the dirt right now.

With a glare, I pushed off the wall when his hand suddenly planted firmly against the wall besides my head, stopping me effectively.

His eyes darker then before trailed over my face and down to my lips "You know"... I shivered at the low timbre of it.

" For a so called prodigy you sure do run away a lot. Especially when your one marching in here telling me to man up".

My resolve wavered for a moment, but I steadied myself, meeting his gaze head-on. "Careful, Sallow," I warned, my voice laced with defiance. "Just because I choose my battles doesn't mean I'm afraid to fight."

Sebastian's lips curled into a menacing grin, a small scoff escaping his lips.

Amidst the murmurs of the gathering crowd, I turned my gaze towards them, trying to ignore his taunts.

"Well, while you're busy choosing your battles, you're losing the ones that matter"

Damn it, why is everyone here—suddenly, a calloused hand gripped my jaw, forcefully turning it back to face him.

"With me."

I sucked in a sharp breath, my heart pounding in my chest, eyes trailing back and forth between his.

He really did have a way of making every encounter feel like a fight for dominance and now I knew I was trapped. "Back off Sallow, now".

"No."

"I said back off"! With a hard shove I pushed him away from me, earning gasps and exclaims from the crowd gathering around us, all excited to see what was going on.

A sinister chuckle escaped his lips, his head thrown back in complete amusement, while I stood there, flushed with embarrassment. Whether it was from the fact that he barely moved an inch or from the proximity of his presence, I couldn't tell. He on the other hand reveled in the attention, knowing full well that I despised being the center of such spectacle.

But I wasn't about to let him see me falter. "You want a battle? Fine. Since you're so desperate to get on my bad side"!

A mocking nod was all he could offer at my not so threatening threat "Bad side, huh? And what does that entail?"

"Mopping the floor with your arse in the courtyard, for all to see. Perhaps then I can show you just how well being a teacher's pet pays off." I spat.

"Well, let me tell you what my bad side entails, since you're already on it."

I huffed, a sarcastic smile playing on my lips as I shifted my weight, a hand on my hip. "Do enlighten me."

As tension crackled between us, Sebastian's breaths came slow and measured, the controlled rhythm of his chest betraying the intensity of his emotions as he stood before me.

"When I emerge victorious from this duel," he whispered, his voice dripping with controlled menace, "You won't forget it. I'll ensure it. And it won't just end there. I'll make your life a living hell, and believe me, darling, it won't be a pleasant experience."

My heart dropped, and my hands fell to my sides as I looked up at him in shock. "Sebastian..."

Maybe it was just my imagination, but a flicker of something passed by his face. His gaze softened, but his face remained expressionless.

"Do you really think you can just come into my life and pretend to care about everything? To care about my sister and then just dump it back in my face, as if all the things we went through together meant nothing?"

I shook my head, my eyes wide as saucers, but before the words could come out of my mouth, he beat me to it. "You'll regret it." Cedarwood and pine filled my senses as he stepped closer. "I'll make sure of it."

Speechless. That was what I was. Turning back around, he faced our group of friends, all of whom were confused, and started walking back towards them.

"Tomorrow after classes, tell Lucas I'll be there at 5," he said. He really was going to duel me.

"Oh, and..." He turned back around, and the smirk on his face irked me. "Bring plenty of Wiggenwald, darling." My stomach churned, and I felt nauseous. I wasn't afraid to duel him, but now, I am not so sure. This was a much bigger deal to him then I thought it would be. And considering this involved his sister... maybe I underestimated the weight of it all.

And that smile on his face... the normalcy after that terrifying expression... it was as unsettling as it was unexpected. And I was going to have to face the full wrath of it tomorrow...

______________________

"Bombarda"!

Sparks flew as spells clashed in midair, casting dazzling lights and shadows across the courtyard. I dodged and weaved, my movements being fluid and controlled, but his relentless barrage of spells were uncannily precise.

There he stood, a calm look to his face as his spells were coming faster and more ferocious with each passing moment.

It's come to my attention as soon as this duel started that I might be royally screwed. Along with the insomnia I had suffered last night and eating next to nothing in the last 36 hours I was in a bad shape.

But what really threw me off was that he had dramatically improved from the last time I dueled him.

In fact he was arguably one of the best duelers in this school at the moment. I am, ashamed to say, it was more challenging with him then anyone I've encountered in my missions, including the trials.

Though in my trials I was fighting knights, not a actual human being so, I cant just use my ancient magic to spear a lighting through his head.

With gritted teeth, I unleashed a wave of fiery infernos, the flames dancing and twisting towards Sebastian with menacing intent. The crowd Oohs and aahs only got louder and more excited at my display of magic.

Too bad it only lasted about 3 seocnds before he countered with a powerful Shield Charm, the flames dissipating against the barrier with a hiss.

A surge of panic washed over me as he unleashed a dark hex, the ancient magic stirring within me in response. With a desperate effort, I summoned a powerful shield to deflect the attack.

As the spell collided with my shield, I felt the impact reverberate through my entire being, threatening to shatter my resolve. I staggered, barely managing to stay on my feet, disbelief etched into every line of my face.

Sebastian stood there, his lips slightly curling at my reaction.

He knew.

That would have been impossible to counter if it hadn't been for my ancient magic.

I heaved for breath, my chest tight with apprehension as I watched the young slytherin, seeing the powerful dark aura radiate off of him like smoke.

Shit...

He just flung a dark hex at me as if the very notion of it being forbidden never crossed his mind.

He stepped close enough for me to hear him say "Did you ever learn that while being a teacher pet"?

I growled, gripping my wand tight. I did not go through trials involving deadly knights, goblins and trolls to lose to an egotisical boy.

"Is this really how you wanna play Sallow"? I sneered.

Sebastian predatory eyes swept over me as I ignored the tightening feeling in my stomach. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips in anticipation.

"You know exactly how I play fifth year". He purred.

With a swift incantation, I conjured a dazzling array of illusions, each one more intricate than the last.

To my utter joy Sebastian's eyes widened in surprise as he struggled to discern the real me from the phantoms that surrounded him.

But he was quick to recover, his own spells flying fast and furious as he sought to break through my defenses. Bolts of lightning crackled through the air, sending shockwaves rippling across the courtyard as our magic clashed in a spectacular display of power.

The crowd's cheers and gasps melded into a deafening cacophony, but amidst the chaos, I could only focus on the piercing ringing in my ears. I gritted my teeth, my eyes narrowing as I prepared to unleash my most powerful spell yet. With a flick of my wand and a whispered incantation, I summoned a whirlwind of energy that engulfed Sebastian and everyone else in a blinding vortex of light.

Everyone gasped covering their eyes and as the brilliance faded, I braced myself for the next onslaught, but nothing could have prepared me for what came next

Suddenly I yelp, feeling the tip of a cold wand pressed to my neck and a warm yet menacing presence press against my back.

To my utter horror, Sebastian stood behind me out of nowhere, wrapping his arm around my waist, keeping me perfectly still.

Butterflies erupted in my stomach, unleashing a wave of blood to my core. It's almost laughable, the way fear grips me now, rendering me hesitant to face him. I just know what hes going to look like, and I am not sure I could take it.

I try to cast something as his lips brush against my ear, and he whispers "Expelliarmus".

My wand flies out of my hand instantly, bouncing on the ground before rolling away as the crowd watched in stunned silence.

Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead as I watched my wand disappear into the distance. And then it hits me.

Fuck.

How could I forget.

I taught him how to apparate last week...

_____________________

"Sebastian, please," I pleaded, struggling to keep pace with his brisk stride. Every two steps felt like a hurdle, but his iron grip on my arm prevented me from face-planting afterward.

"You've won, alright," I conceded, feeling defeated.

With a forceful tug, he yanked me forward and pressed me against the wall, eliciting a grunt from me.

"And yet, you're still defending a goblin," venom dripped from his words, saturating the air with its malevolence.

I hadn't known he was capable of such intense hatred. Part of it, I suspected, had something to do with his dalliance in the dark arts.

Melting into the wall did nothing as Sebastian stepped in to close the distance.

"He's provided more information than any other creature I've encountered, Sebastian. He's the reason I can move forward in this investigation." I pleaded.

"Yeah, and how do you know it's not all a lie?" he retorted sharply.

"You're acting as if no one else, or any other creature, hasn't lied to me before. How is it any different if a goblin does?" I shot back, trying to maintain my composure.

"You know why!" he exploded, pushing against me, his frustration palpable.

Ragged breaths escaped me as I struggled to remain steady. His hard abdomen was smashed against mine with no disregard for personal space. I was caged.

"I understand your anger, Seb. But only to an extent. Not all goblins are bad, just like not all humans are good. Victor Rookwood is scum, yet there are trusted relationships with all kinds of creatures and humans."

With a scoff like laugh, his fingers began to trace its way down my cheek, "You're adorable, living in your little fantasy world. But reality is much harsher than your dreams."

I let out frustrated grunt but before I could respond I felt his wand press against the side of the my lower thigh. "Goodness know mine is hell, your precious goblins saw to that when they decided my sister should be 'seen and not heard'"

With a hitched breath I felt him raise his wand, sliding the smooth wood closer and closer to core.

Oh.my.goodness.

It was like my brain shut down as I realized what was happening.

I squeezed my eyes trying to concentrate on the conversation, a very important conversation.

"I am sorry Sebastian. I-I really am, I am most definitely not defending all goblins here, especially the ones who cursed Anne-"

"Oh yes you are. You even fought me for it". A cruel grin spread across his lips.

I started to step on my tippy toes instinctively to avoid the thin wood making it way under my skirt.

"You'll never understand will you"? His unsettling voice rattled me and thats when a tinge of fear seeped into my brain. This was not the Sebastian I knew.

"Seb..." My voice tremebled.

The tip of his wand disappeared under my skirt until I jumped with gasp when the tip pressed firmly on my core.

"You betrayed me".

I gasped, arching back, my hands shooting straight for his in an attempt to stop him as he began to move the wand up my clothed slit.

"I-I didn't-"

Through quick glances, I could see him observing my reactions without a hint of shame. I squeezed my eyes shut, whimpering at the sensation as the tip of his wand halted atop my clit before he started twirling it.

Despite my tightening grip on his hand, he remained unmoved. All I could do was throw my head back with a cry, feeling a tight knot forming in my stomach

"Seb s-stop" I whimpered.

"Are you sure you want me too"? His cocky tone showed now remorse as he watched me fall apart.

"Tell me the truth," his lips pressed on my to my cheek. "You wanted this from the day you met me didn't you"?

"W-what? NO-"

"Thats why you did what you did. Because pissing me off was the only way to get my attention" He chuckled. But it was hardly humorous.

I wanted to slap him, but my legs were shaking, my own wetness beginning to drip down my thighs.

His wand dropped instantly, rolling away from us. Panting, I thought maybe this was the end of it until his hand dove beneath my skirt, forcibly making its way down my underwear.

Gasping, I clutched his collar for dear life, feeling his calloused hand slide across my slit, rubbing my soaking cunt. As if my dignity wasn't hanging by a thread, my hips started to roll on their own, meeting his fingers.

"Ahhgh-Seb"!

Thats when his other hand swung around to grab to my ass and squeezed a handful of it. Hard. "Look at this"

I faced him finally. A smug grin draped over his face.

"You act all righteous but in the back of your mind all you wanted was a good fuck"

Suddenly, all sensations within my body halted. Without a second thought, my hand connected with his cheek, the sound of a slap reverberating through the dark hall.

His cheek swung the other way as he backed off slightly. I stood there, breathing hard, eyes wide, and clenching my thighs. If he thought I would just stand there and endure his vulgarity, he had another thing coming.

A small bruise formed at the corner of his lip, where a hint of blood emerged. However, what made me tense up, gripping the wall behind me, was his gaze slowly returning to mine—dark and hungry—as his tongue darted out to lick his lips over the bruise with a smirk

Clenching my jaw, I gritted, "You're a bastard."

Then I see the glint in his eyes

He charges towards me, "Well, if I'm a bastard, then you're my slut."

His lips crashed onto mine, pinning me against the wall. I groaned, attempting to navigate the kiss, but I couldn't keep up. His lips switched angles every few seconds, exploring every inch of me in a frenzy. His chest pressed against mine, his hands diving under my thighs, pushing me further into the wall as he devoured me.

I couldn't push him away, even if my life depended on it—which now it definitely did as I struggled to breathe. With no choice, I pulled my head back, opening my mouth to breathe, but he shoved his tongue in.

I whimpered breathing him in as forcifully as he made me. It was dizzying it, if he didn;t keep me upright I was sure I was going to fall from lack of oxygen. His finger went back to my gushing core as he slipped a finger in, pumping it rapidly. I pulled back gripping his jaw with a moan, barely able to stand right as he finger me harshly

Sebastian lips moved down to my neck pressing searing kisses "Your so wet baby" He murmered against my skin.

Then he brought his head up, pupil exploded with lust. I was sure I looked the same too hazy from the pleasure he giving me.

"Give me a taste huh"?

Nothing was registering in my mind. "Wha-"

Before I could finish, he finger, drove out of me with an audible pop before he yanked my panties down.

He fell to his knees, and without hesitation, his head disappeared under my skirt. Then the most startling sound escaped my mouth as I felt his warm tongue envelop my cunt, sucking and licking with desperation. No teasing, no foreplay, just an explosion of sensation.

My hand tangled into his hair as I cried out, hunching over as if he was sucking my energy. It didn't take him more than a second to find my clit as his tongue circled the hardened nub.

His other finger found my cunt, ramming in two fingers this time. The dark hall was filled with slopping sounds and loud squelches; if that didn't send a message to any poor classmate who happened to walk by, then my screams probably did.

Finally, with two more harsh thrusts, I became undone, crashing my weight onto his shoulders, my world spinning. My cries were silent with how intensely the orgasm hit me. Sebastian knew it too when his head popped out from under my skirt, licking the remaining juices off his lips. He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh, his smile, anything but friendly

No. I could tell he wasn't done.

My legs finally gave out as I kneeled before him. "Hang on, darling, I'm not through with you," he teased, his tone doing nothing to prepare me as he grabbed my waist and pushed me onto the ground, dirt be damned.

Oh fuck.

I realized I was going to be taken right here, in the middle of this damn hall, and no one was going to stop him. I knew I couldn't. Because hell, I needed him too. He nudged in between my legs, spreading them wide enough for him to see everything.

"You're so fucking pretty," he breathed heavily, his mouth still glistening from earlier. I went completely red.

No, not here. If someone walks in, I'd sooner get eaten by an Acromantula

"Stop, Sebastian! What if-"

A sharp slap to my thigh silenced me instantly before he loomed over me. "You don't want me to stop," he accused, slipping his hands beneath my shirt.

A sob-like cry escaped me as his other hand smoothed over the red mark on my thigh. I hated how good it felt, but what I hated more was that he knew

One last lie. Maybe he'll believe me and I can end this fever dream and not have to deal with the consequences after.

"I do".

Sebastian looked at me, studying my face scrutizing every aspect I tried to keep indifferent when he grins.

"Your cunt certainly doesnt". And he makes a point to show me by smashing his lips on top of mine as I taste myself.

Why is that I am always out of breath whens he kissing me? I breath him in hard.

Everything about him is overwhelming.

As pulls away with my bottom lips between his teeth. He unbuckles his trousers and I dare to look down...

"Sebastian".

His hand immediately grips my jaw bring it up to face him.

"It'll fit. Ill make it fit".

I shake my head, another excuse brewing in my head when he pauses what hes doing and rips open my shirt button flying everywhere.

A shaky sound leaves him he gazes at my breasts "Is that for me".

He was talking about the lacy bra I decided to wear today, and I realized, that today of all day I decided to wear it, because of him.

I gulped "No.."

He smirked, pulling the bra down. "Liar. Keep it up though; I love catching you and seeing the blush all over your face," he said, aligning himself over my entrance and pushing his blunt head in.

I flinched, grabbing his neck and pulling him down. "The least you can do is distract me from the pain..." He smiled, moving a strand of hair out of my face. "I don't think so; perhaps you're forgetting this is punishment," he said, his long, nimble fingers wrapping around the nape of my neck, keeping my head in place.

"Let me see those tears, baby, and don't you dare move your face"

I squeezed his shoulders, a pleading look on my face "Your being cruel".

"Only cause you made me" With that he pushed his length is as I gasp, a strangled noise leaving my throat.

Before I could adjust, he began thrusting into me. The room filled with the sound of his hips slapping against mine. I bounced on the cold stone floor, my breasts moving in tandem. He seized one in his mouth, and I cried out, closing my eyes tightly, feeling utterly helpless in his grasp.

Both of his hands gripped under my thighs and stretched my legs nearly to my stomach as he rammed into me at full speed. My screams and half-moans likely echoed throughout the castle as I flailed on the ground, arching my back, nails scraping against the floor, sweat slickening my skin.

Sebastian groaned as he observed one of my hands reaching for my breast and teasing my hardened nipples

Any pain I felt at the beginning was replaced by sweet utter bliss, it was powerful, and so blinding.

His length reached inside me and pulled out sqelching each time, as if there was a pull stopping him backing all the way out.

He grunted before proceeding to grab my wrists and pin them above my head, putting most of his wright atop of me.

Leaving hot wet kiss all over my neck, he faced me watching my tear stricken face, "Do you want to make this up to me".

I hear those words and immediately nod my head, knowing he would never accpet lodgok no matter what.

"Then promise me your mine. Promise me from now on you'll come to me whenever I summon you whether its the restricted section or in the middle of the damn dark forest. You'll come and do whatever I ask whether thats spreading your leg for me or giving me a taste of that sweet cunt of yours".

I gushed, my eyes nearly rolling at the back of my head with the speed he was going.

"Se-Seb" I whined. "I am-gonna c-cum"

"Promise me sweetheart. Or we stop this. Now".

I am no fool. I knew he what he was asking of me nothing short of being slave to all his desires. But he would never call me his girlfirend. No.

Thats my punishment.

"Seb, I- thats too much"

He clicked in tonghe, an annoyance washing over his features.

"Unless you perfer me to tell other professors what youve been up to. You know, sneaking out in the middle of the night, slaying goblins and ashwinders..."

The cruel grin made it way to his face when my eyes snapped up at him.

"Tell me" He leaned in pressing a soft kiss to my lips and everything I hated about him melted. "Tell me your mine" He murmed against my lips.

As if he knew extactly what to do to get wheat he wanted, his finger dove down to my clit, pressing the nub and rubbing it harshly.

I screamed arching my back as it all hit me. The blinding white pleasure that had me see stars. He wrapped my legs around his waist holding me tight, watching me and convulse against him in pure bliss. As it came over me in waves, I fianlly open my eyes to stare up at his. I cant believe I am saying this.

"Yes.."

His forehead leaned on top of mine a knowing smile on his lips.

"I am all yours..."

#sebastian x reader #sebastian sallow #sebastian x you #sebastian x mc #sebastian x y/n #hogwarts legacy #hogwart legacy headcanons #headcanon #drabble #hogwarts legacy drabbles #hogwart legacy imagines #sebastian hogwarts legacy

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misty-caligula · 11 months

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We’re all sad to see Nat go, but I think it’s important to recognise, she’s gone because of decisions that she made, over and over.

S1E10 she made the choice to shoot herself. It wasn’t a GREAT choice, but it was one that she made, which Lottie negated against her will. In eerily similar fashion as Misty with the cocaine.

S2E1 Lottie talked to her about her bees, about how when a new queen was born she’d sting the others to death for the good of the hive.

For most of the rest of the season, Nat began taking the lessons of the cult to heart, despite her initial reservations. Some people wondered how sincere she was, but I genuinely think that she began to really work on herself, really believe in Lottie’s wisdom.

Then the poison came out. Immediately, Nat’s demeanour changed. I was wondering what that was about when Lott was trying to convince them in s2e8. She told Nat that she was in so much pain, and Nat didn’t even fight back at all. Just gave her this look...

I think that right here, at this moment, she recognised Lott for what she was. A danger to them all. She decided that she wasn’t capable of changing, of being helped. Just like she’d said to Misty, “We’re ALL like this, aren’t we?” I think that at this moment, Nat decided that once again, Lott wasn’t fit to be queen, that she’d have to take charge, like she did before, and that she should take the example of the bees.

I think she’s also ... angry. Angry that Lott can’t recognise the SOURCE of that pain. She recognises the reality, that it exists, but she’s blind to how responsible she is for it. Consider:

As far as Natalie knows (because of what Misty said in the cabin) Lottie told them that eating Javi was what IT wanted them to do. And then immediately made her in charge of the team, dropping that burden of responsibility and guilt directly on her shoulders. She’s smiling in the moment, when everyone’s bowing. See how much she’s smiling when the reality of that weight sets in, when the unbearable guilt of being in charge crushes down on her. When that PURPOSE is lifted from her shoulders and all she has left is the pain of what she’s done, what she’s made others do in her name. And now, Lott has the AUDACITY to point at Nat’s pain in public, without ascribing blame, as though it were simply ... a natural state of being.

In the beginning of S2E9 she says that Lott shouldn’t go back to the psych ward, but I believe that she never meant any kind of help should be offered. I believe that she had already decided to kill her. I think that she’d hoped that Lott would draw the Queen of Hearts, and it would’ve made it easy. She’d have submitted, I’m sure. Because when she drew the Ace, she looked SO crestfallen I’d actually assumed at first she got the Queen. Lottie wanted that queen so badly, wanted so much to help her friends. And then Nat would’ve made it quick, with the secret real blade she’d brought with her.

But it wasn’t to be. So Shauna HAS to be the centre of attention, as always, and everyone’s playing along, not realising that Lott’s brought her own real knife to the party. And when they’re chasing her, if Lott catches up she’s GOING to kill her, for reals. I don’t know what kind of 4 dimensional chess they think they’re playing, but they’ve RADICALLY underestimated the danger level here, and it’s only when Callie steps in that she calms it down a little (with a bullet wound of all things).

But still, Nat goes in for the kill.

And it’s not just because she thinks she’d be a better queen, it’s not JUST that she’s afraid. She’s ANGRY. Because, despite herself, despite all of her bluster and her cynicism, her worldliness, and all of it, SHE was the one who bought in to the cult. Shauna and Tai and Van and Misty are here, they’re playing around, they’re drinking and partying and kind of just taking a vacation. They’ll do the therapy for a bit of fun, but they’re not taking it very seriously.

Nat, in a very short time, has found a BELIEF. She’s gone from 2 seconds away from a bullet to actually having a meaning, a reason to get up in the morning. Sober. And nobody except Lott is taking that seriously. Is recognising that she’s making real growth here, that she’s really trying. They’re begging her to drink with them - HER, NATALIE, THE FUCKING ALCOHOLIC, and they’re peer pressuring her to drink.... and she’s saying no.

Because when Lisa said “Do you want to die?” and she said “Not today” she pushed away her drink. Because that’s what alcohol IS to her. It’s not a fun party, it’s not a joyful thing. It’s a curse, a burden, a poison that hurts less than the one she’s trying to drown out. And now she’s found a way to live without it.

And it’s all a lie.

These two women are doing VERY different things. Shauna’s preparing for a pantomime. Nat’s preparing for a murder. Shauna’s in the light, and she’s casting shadow with her dark thoughts. Nat’s bathed in darkness and the only light is the bright fire of her rage.

So she goes to Lisa, and she BEGS her to leave. I feel like there’s a bit of a comparison here with Shauna telling Javi to run from the doomcoming, like go, you’re not safe here. She’s trying so hard to make Lisa understand that she’s the real deal, that SHE got through to Nat, that she can be better than the cult. (And there’s a layer here too, because Lisa is so much just like teen!Nat, and she’s trying so hard to save herself from the cycle). And Lisa just can’t hear it. Just like teen!Nat couldn’t in her shoes. It’s all hopeless.

It’s meant to be a pantomime, but Nat says “Something’s HAPPENING tonight, and I NEED you to leave, while you still can.” What’s happening tonight? She’s going to kill Lisa’s god, and she’s NEVER going to forgive her.

She stops before she leaves and says “Thank you for trying to teach me about forgiveness. It’s a nice idea.“

But it’s not an idea she can get behind. She’s too far gone for that. She, like Coach, can’t let it go. She’s going to burn the motherfucker down. And in the lull that Callie leaves, she does EXACTLY that, she takes the lunge, and it would’ve worked ... if only Lisa had taken her advice.

And suddenly she’s her dad. Attacking Lisa’s mother figure, without context why. For raising her wrong. And Lisa comes to her defence. And Nat can’t explain. And it’s all too fast and too much and Misty doesn’t understand, doesn’t know her well enough, doesn’t have enough faith that Nat has the situation under control. And all she has is a split second to choose, and so she does.

Because Lisa, like Javi, is just trying to help. Overwhelmed by a situation too big, too dangerous. Stepped onto what looks like solid ground, unaware of the danger til it’s too late. But this time, Nat’s not going to let Misty or anybody talk her into letting someone else take her place, not again. She closes the cycle.

I can’t stand seeing people saying she died for nothing, she died for EVERYTHING she believed in. She didn’t die just as she was working on herself, she died BECAUSE she gave up on that work, she was in that situation because she chose violence, and then she chose to give it up in the last moment. She died because she couldn’t forgive. Herself. Misty. Lottie. Any of the other ‘jackets who stood by and let her live. Let her kill. She died because she decided that Lisa was more important than her, and that maybe just maybe she could do it better than she had.

But here’s the thing. Coach says “You’re not like the rest of these girls.” And she replies...

Cycles, cycles... will Lisa be able to forgive herself for surviving Nat? Only time will tell, but we have to have faith in her, like Nat did.

Tai in the car, with Shauna says “I have Simone and Sammy, you have Jeff and Callie. Who does Natalie have?” Nat had Lisa. And now, Tai has Van. Shauna still has Jeff and Callie. Lottie’s hopefully got help. Misty has Walter (thoughts for another day). And Lisa?... Who does Lisa have?...

Watch this space.

#yellowjackets #spoilers #pain and pain and pain again

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shepherds-of-haven · 6 months

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Okay I saw this asked on another blog and it was hilarious so I have to ask here : what do you think inner circle’s Beige Flags are? ( weird/quirky or questionable things they do that give you pause but overall have no real effect on the relationship)

Also hope you are feeling better!! 🩵🩵

Ooh, this is a fun one haha! (And I'm feeling a bit better, thank you! I still haven't fully recovered, but getting there slowly but surely! 🥲) Anyway, let me think...

Blade: rather than accompany you into shops (especially small ones), he assumes you want to be left alone to do your shopping in peace (and also typically finds shopping boring) and will instead just stand outside the door, looming like a really intimidating security guard or bouncer. (He is assessing street security, guarding the only door, and positioning himself within shouting distance in case there's some kind of threat.) This often inadvertently drives away business, so sometimes he'll just wait at the end of the street instead, staring out at the crowd like a member of your own personal secret service

Trouble: sometimes he eats too fast, or more accurately talks too fast while eating, leading to frequent inhalation down the wrong pipe and people having to thump him on the back while he coughs. Sometimes he will power through the coughing by sheer force of will and will just... forcefully swallow through it. He refuses to slow down. Life's too short to try to avoid death by choking

Tallys: doesn't make a ton of affirming noises to let you know that she's listening. A lot of people go "uh-huh" or "wow" or "right" or whatever when you're in the midst of telling a long-winded story. She just stares at you patiently in silence until she's sure you're fully done. This is polite in Elven culture, and she is completely listening, but it can unnerve people who feel pressured by silence lol

Shery: she still has to look at her hands to tell left from right. Like sometimes she has to make her left hand form the L to remember 😅 She also finds it difficult to do math in her head and either has to sketch it out in the air or write it down!

Riel: always leaves a bite or two of food left on his plate; rarely completely cleans his plate. Same with drinks! So many teacups that always have a few sips left at the bottom. Why didn't you just drain it, man? It's like he does it on purpose!

Chase: always takes the most meandering, inefficient way to get to a place. like if the walk from A to B is a straight line down one avenue, he always seems to take the most roundabout, random path. Here, I'll draw you a map:

Red: he is very bad at matching the pace of his walking with others; with those long legs, he walks at a naturally and totally subconscious fast pace! He's mindful about it when on a date or actively courting someone, but when he's focused on something else, excited, traveling, or out and about with friends, he has to frequently be asked to shorten the length of his strides so others can keep up lol

Ayla: I've mentioned this one for her before, but she's very bad about sharing her food. She hates when you snatch a fry off her plate without asking, and even if you do ask, she can be fairly begrudging about it if she perceives food is plentiful (like "why can't you get your own, the line is right there?") In work circumstances, like sharing group rations, she's totally fine, but in restaurants or in the refectory, she's annoyed by it, like "I loaded this plate for myself and planned on eating all of it... myself 😒 If you wanted to share something, you should have said so earlier!"

Briony: she's constantly whipping people in the face with her ponytail. She tends to turn her head really fast or spin around in conversation and whoever's standing near her ends up with a mouthful of hair. She hasn't learned to not smack people in the eye with her hair yet despite several remonstrations

Lavinet: frankly shocked, upset, and scandalized whenever there isn't a little something sweet at the end of a meal. it doesn't have to be a full-on dessert--even a single chocolate served on a plate would do, and is often preferred! but when there's nothing?? nary a profiterole or cream puff or a little sweet treat for the lady in sight?? something is off!! her palette isn't satisfied!!

Halek: he always wakes up in the morning so loudly. unfold from the bed -> crack his back, neck, shoulders with the most ungodly series of pops -> loud groan. It sounds like an old accordion getting stretched out

#Shepherds of Haven #beige flags #silly #all characters

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huramuna · 2 months

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banshee's lament - chapter 6.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.6k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, my terrible, terrible combat writing, descriptions of injuries, allusions to suicide

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Instead of sleeping that night, Shera read over Aemond’s notes, unable to start once she started. She lit a few candles, shoving Moongeist over in bed. “Taking up too much room, bubby,” she huffed, sitting cross legged and stacking some blankets and pillows into a makeshift book stand. Finally, after adjusting the candles position a few times, she could finally see. She began to read.

‘Ser Symeon was known to wield a long staff with blades at both ends and would spin it in his hands to chop down two men at once.’ the text said. Aemond had written, very crudely and sloppily; ‘Ask Criston about double ended staves. What about double ended morningstars? Is there such a thing?’

Between notes and annotations, he would have pieces of plain parchment shoved between the pages. Upon it were no words, but drawings. They started simply, a shaky depiction of a box, an etching of a vase in charcoal. As the years progressed through the book, his drawings improved. He never strayed from the medium of simple charcoal on parchment, but they were still very good.

Shera tilted her head, inspecting the folded papers. She wouldn’t have expected Aemond to be the artistic one, she always thought Helaena to take up that mantle with her intricate embroidery of various insects and beyond. But these were on par with etchings pressed into a maester’s journal, or something displayed in a posh palace in Essos. She realized that besides a creative outlet, these served another purpose— it hit her quickly, he used drawing as a way to train his lone eye back into a sense of depth perception and attention to detail. Those two things were what Shera suffered with immensely, still. As adept as she’d become with sewing, she still pricked her finger or accidentally sewed into her skin because she couldn’t see the correct position of the needle. Her designs for her clothes were intricate but hardly ever symmetrical and never able to be duplicated.

It was so… smart. It was so smart of Aemond to pick up the skill of drawing, something so inherently reliant on sight, to train himself back to some sense of regularity. It was so… Aemond.

Shera clenched her hand, her nails sinking into her palm. Why didn’t she think of that? Why didn’t she do anything— her sewing was hobbyistic at best and not nearly enough to train her eyesight. She’d spent all that time wallowing in self-pity instead of doing something.

She felt an acute feeling of despair, then. I should have written to him more. I should’ve bombarded him with letters and given him no choice but to reply. I should’ve pried to Helaena to see what he was doing beyond niceties.

Letting out a sigh, she pushed those thoughts away.

Out of curiosity, she flipped to the end of the tome and looked for the latest drawing. Three pieces of paper fell from the back, onto her lap.

Opening the first one, it was a depiction of Helaena holding Maelor near the window. There were streams of light coming through the window and the sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky. Maelor was smiling, his chubby fist held out to the curtain, the small indent of his dimpled cheeks even visible. The detail was… exquisite, it was like looking at a mirror of such a situation.

Opening the second one, it was smeared with charcoal dust. Unlike the first drawing, this one took up the entirety of the page. It was hard to discern for Shera what she was looking at, at first. Leaning more to the light, it became clear. It was a portrait of Vhagar, evident in the pallor of her scales and lack of horns. Each scale was detailed impeccably, some wrought with scars and marks from her old age. The sag of her throat was held up in regard, her teeth jagged and crooked, opening in a sneer or even a laugh.

Shera imagined what Vhagar’s laugh would sound like— something out of children’s stories, like a cackling witch, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she swirled a cauldron of bubbling green ichor. It made her giggle, the thought of Vhagar hobbling from a hut in the woods with a cane made of gnarled oak, waving away the children who dared to set foot on her property. She would need to tell Aem— someone about her depiction some day.

She never did have the chance to see Vhagar up close, as much as she had wanted to. Aemond had promised to take her for a ride when it was daytime, so she could see the expanse of the ocean from the sky. But he never did. He wasn’t able to. Something in her heart clenched as she thought of the fact that Aemond only got one ride upon Vhagar with his full sight, one ride upon his destiny while he was still whole. Before it was taken from him— from… both of them.

She unfolded the third paper. It was a drawing of a woman, someone Shera didn’t recognize. But they… felt familiar. The woman had billowing curls and a snarky smile on her face, eyes lit up with fire and fervor. The positioning of the piece made it feel like she was looking back to someone— her arm outstretched in an offering, as if to beckon the person looking towards them.

Shera wasn’t sure what to make of it— the other two drawings had been something she knew and could understand. But she didn’t understand this one. She wondered who the woman was, even after she’d drifted to sleep.

—

“Shera, are you warm?” Helaena asked softly as she observed Shera fanning herself with her hand, while Moongeist was panting furiously.

“She ‘ought to be,” Aegon grumbled, arms folded over his chest as he looked out the slats of the wheelhouse window. “She’s still dressed like she’s in the North. Winter isn’t coming down here, Shera. You can take off the fur.”

“… a bit warm, yes,” Shera muttered, narrowing her gaze at Aegon. It wasn’t simply just the climate temperature, but the fact that there were so many people in this wheelhouse at present, all warm bodies exuding heat.

Helaena had Maelor on her lap with Aegon to her right, and the twins to her left, who were constantly swapping seats. Aemond was sitting across from Helaena and next to Shera. He tried to give her as much room as possible, but their thighs were still touching. Moongeist was sitting on the floor, riding out the bumps.

“Who’s bloody idea was it to stuff all of us into one wheelhouse?” Aegon continued, a bit crabby due to his lack of wine.

“We’re almost there, Aegon. You can stop your whining at any time.” Aemond finally uttered. He had been quiet the whole ride up to the Kingswood, focusing solely on looking out the window.

“I will stop whining when there is a breeze, a bottle in my hand and that dog is about ten feet away from me,” the oldest prince huffed. “He smells.”

“Aegon, you smell bad on the best of days. Moongeist just needs a bath— do you even know what those are?” Shera interjected, coming to her wolf’s defense in a heartbeat.

Helaena, Maelor and the twins giggled heartily. Aemond cracked a grin at the joke.

“Uncle Aemond should dunk you in the river again, kepa,” Jaehaerys tittered, still laughing away. “You might catch a fish in your mouth again!”

Aegon rolled his eyes and sighed— his lips perking up into a soft smile. “Maybe Uncle Aemond and the dog can fish in the river instead. Isn’t that what wolves do? Catch fish?”

“… that’s bears,” Shera said with an unamused tone.

The wheelhouse came to a creaking stop and Aegon was the first outside. Moongeist was next, followed by Maelor, then the twins.

Helaena helped Shera down the steps, Aemond behind her.

In a turn of events, Shera unclasped the fur stole from her shoulders, as well as the outer layer of her dress, tossing it back into the wheelhouse. She instantly felt lighter, the breeze cooling her shoulders. She had on a gray silk dress with cutout shoulders and a high throat clasp. It was flowy, almost weightless material. She adjusted her hat, which was a gift from Helaena. It was a sun hat with a veil sewed around it, coming down just below Shera’s jawline.

“Ah, finally, you look somewhat like Shera and not a furred beast,” Aegon whistled, walking backwards towards the clearing.

“I don’t wish to be encumbered any more than I already am in the wilderness. If I am chased by a boar, I don’t need ten pounds of fabric weighing me down.”

“If you’re chased by a boar, then we will be eating roasted boar that very night, won’t we, Moongeist?” Hela cooed to the wolf, who was letting Maelor climb on his back.

“It feels strange,” Aemond murmured behind Shera, his hand ghosting over the small of her back to help guide her, as Moongeist was playing nanny to Maelor– which she didn’t entirely mind. “To be back here after all of this time– all of us.”

“Except Daeron,” Shera reminded him gently, her hand going down to pat Moongeist on pure instinct, but upon realizing he wasn’t there, she let out a noise of discontentment, her hand going to her chest to rest upon her furs, which weren’t there either. “Ugh, I don’t know what to do with my hands when I’m walking alone.”

“Moongeist is the new Daeron,” Aegon called back, now having Jaehaera upon his shoulders, while Jaehaerys was on Helaena’s shoulders. “I’m sure your dog can squire just as good as Daeron, anyhow.”

“You could always hold Aemond’s hand, Shera, like you used to,” Hela giggled, Aegon howling in turn.

“Oh, please, you didn’t get me anything for my nameday, brother– count this as my gift if you and Shera skip through the flowers hand in hand!”

Aemond scowled. “If my niece weren’t upon your shoulders, brother, you’d be on the ground, preferably with a black eye.”

Aegon stuck his tongue out mockingly and Jaehaera imitated him.

Soon enough, the troupe was sitting down in a grassy clearing, blanket over the dirt. The twins were stained blue already from the amount of blueberries they consumed, laying on their backs in the sun like two turtles.

Aegon had managed to open a bottle of wine, sipping on it frequently while snacking on cheese and crackers.

Helaena had a leaf insect crawling on her fingers, murmuring to herself as she observed it carefully. “They do not bleed… the mulberry leaves, they walk, animated upon mine hand… when crushed, they do not bleed, no blood… the leaves have no blood,” she hummed, the foliage-like creature.

“Do they change color with the seasons, Hela?” Shera asked as she, too, watched the bug.

“Yes, they do,” the princess replied, violet eyes not moved from the insect. “In Winter, they die and crumble like the leaves, becoming gray and desiccated under the earth… but they’re just sleeping.”

“Mumma, mumma, tadboles,” Maelor squealed as Moongeist padded into the clearing with the toddler upon his back. “There’s… tadboles!”

Helaena was snapped from her reverie by his squeak. She extended her hand to offer the bug to Shera for a moment before an expression akin to recognition came over her face. “I’ll… put him back on the plant.” she murmured low.

Shera thought about her… disassociation spell from the previous day while staring up at the sky. They were in an enclosed clearing with tall trees all around them, the scent of pine sap wafting through the air. She watched birds pass overhead in the sky— they looked like robins, always in a flock.

There was a large, dead tree near the edge of the forest. Its bark was stripped from its trunk, laden with woodpecker holes, cracked and splintered. It had a larger opening in it, showing that it was hollow inside. She wondered if a family of raccoons lived there.

Turning her head to another part of the Kingswood, she felt that waft of breeze over her face again, just like yesterday. The same cream colored blur whizzed past her without any noise, merely the sensation of movement. She tried to follow its path, jolting up suddenly with alarming speed.

She lost track of it.

Putting a hand to her head, she groaned. She sat up way too fast, sending her brain into a tizzy. Glancing around, everyone else was gone— save for Aemond, who was staring at Shera.

“Where did they go?” she asked, her mind suddenly off of the creature evading her vision and moreso focused on the fact that everyone was gone.

“They left half an hour ago, Shera,” Aemond said, a brow raised. “They went to the creek.”

“Oh.” Half an hour ago?

“Helaena said you do this,” he continued. “Disassociating?”

“It’s… new. I think.” she muttered, pulling her legs up to her chest.

“You should go to a maester about that.”

“Mm. And why are you still here?” she tried to ask politely, but it ended up coming out a bit harshly.

“Well, I couldn’t very well leave you alone here while you were… occupied. That’d be depraved indifference.” he huffed.

“Depraved indifference? Like leaving a dog tied up outside in a storm?” she grumbled, digging a finger into the dirt. “Is it so hard for you to say you care about me?” she uttered suddenly, slightly mortified that it came out of her mouth without thinking. Well, I suppose the cat is out of the bag now.

Aemond stared at her, the pupil of his eye waned to a slit. His jaw clenched and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I don’t need to say it for it to be true,” he said. “Words mean nothing, they’re empty and meaningless. Actions are everything— keep that in mind.”

“You write a lot for someone who says words are empty and meaningless,” she pressed, the flare of indignation broiling in her— something that only surfaced when talking to Aemond.

“You misunderstand me, Shera,” he said her name like a blessing and a curse, his lip twitching again. “Someone can say all they like. That they care, that they will do something, that they will fix something— but their words are empty unless they actually do it.”

Her eye drifted once more, seeing the cream blur dive into the forest. She didn’t know what came over her, her limbs spurring into action as she got up with a start, bolting after it. She heard Aemond’s garbled voice behind her as she ran through the forest, eye unable to focus on it, but she could see it. Glimpses of it, calling to her as it bobbed and weaved through the branches.

Shera, Shera. She heard the whispers of some unfamiliar being in the back of her mind like an itch, a buzz at the base of her skull. It was calling to her, pulling her to it. She lost her shoes somewhere along the way, bare feet traipsing on the ground, cutting into jagged rock and sharp branches.

Aemond’s voice was more urgent now, but she still couldn’t understand what he was saying. And she… she was outrunning him. She felt like a doe, agile and free and the pain of her feet, bleeding and punctured, didn’t even bother her.

Come, come, little wolf! Come.

The dark of the forest let up into a wide expanse of blue sky, blue sky and the scent of the ocean… the blur was gone and all she felt was open air as she skidded off of the cliff. It was freeing, those splinters of wings bursting through her elytra, cracking and flitting. She treaded nothingness…

Then her wrist snapped, pulled right out of its socket as she was yanked back, her ears ringing as the adrenaline died down. The breeze of the sea stopped as she was enveloped in warmth, in fire. She glanced up– Aemond was staring down at her with a wide eye, hair sticking to his forehead with the sheen of sweat.

“What the… fuck, Shera?” he breathed, his chest heaving. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“No– n… no,” she croaked in turn, her uninjured hand grasping into the leather of his doublet with such force that her knuckles were white, veins bulging against her skin. “The… it…” her tongue felt tied, throat dry as the pain of everything caught up to her at once. Her bleeding feet, her ballooning lungs that couldn’t catch enough oxygen, her dislocated wrist, hand aloft at an odd angle.

Moongeist barked somewhere in the distance, howl echoing through the forest.

She did not remember much after that.

—

The next moon was quiet for Shera as she recovered from her outing. The maesters set her wrist back into place and set it taut with a sling. Her feet were bandaged and she was prescribed bed rest for at least a week. They tried to give her milk of the poppy, but she refused– she couldn’t stand how it made her head swim, swim more than it already did.

Cregan blamed Aemond, threatening to take Shera back to Winterfell until the wedding. Rhaenyra calmed him, citing that Shera wouldn’t go out of the keep without a more attentive chaperone.

Once she was mostly recovered, lunched with Helaena every day and watched Aemond spar with Criston every other morning– but she usually hid behind the ramparts to where he wouldn’t see her– she felt oddly shy about watching him. She hadn’t had any disassociation spells, nor saw anything of the mystery blur. However, she did have Ser Erryk Cargyll as her sworn sword, issued by Rhaenyra herself.

She hated being followed, being observed under a lens like she was a child. Indignation broiled in her chest– but one eve, while passing Aemond in the hall, he didn’t say anything to her. They hadn’t spoken since the incident, where Shera was fairly sure that Aemond was convinced she tried to kill herself by jumping off the cliff– she wanted to explain that wasn’t the case, to explain everything she’d been experiencing. But he would think her mad. Surely.

She pulled herself out of the corset after, slipping into a more comfortable, loose fitting garment. Shera had sent away her maids and told them not to return until the morn. She didn’t wish to be fretted and pulled at like a sickly hen, feathers plucked before the slaughter.

Slowly, she untangled the veil from her hair and set it aside. Fingers gliding through her braids, she let her hair fall in curled tresses down her back, resting well past her bottom once it was all out.

The last thing to come off was her leather choker— she placed it on her boudoir, the tips of her nails ghosting over the still prominent scar there. She abhorred looking in the mirror, seeing nothing but a banshee looking back.

Even though she had retired to her chambers, she didn’t sleep. She found it hard to sleep most nights and ended up pacing. It was late in the night and most of the Keep were asleep, save for the occasional guard. She found it the perfect time to sneak out to the tunnels that crisscrossed throughout Maegor’s Holdfast.

She wished to test and see if she truly remembered the path that led to the water gardens— which she hoped still sparkled just as wondrously under moonlight as they did before.

Moongeist was curled up atop her bed, snoozing away. He worked so hard to guide Shera that she loathed to wake him, so she didn’t. She wasn’t completely hopeless without her wolf guide, but it could be teetering on the edge of stupidity, to wander the dimly lit secret corridors without her safety net. Stupidity that masked itself in bravery in her mind.

Glancing back at her veil and choker, she left them behind as she descended into the tunnel— she would be out of sight, and wished to let herself breathe for once, uninhibited and unveiled. She pressed to the wall for balance, her nightgown fisted in one hand, the other committing the curve of the stone to her mind, for later. If her memory served her correctly, she should be passing the royal apartments and the other guest rooms.

The sound of hushed voices caught Shera’s attention. In hindsight, it is rude to eavesdrop upon conversations– but she couldn’t help herself.

The somewhat familiar gruff sound of Daemon’s voice met her ears as they perked up, pressed against the wooden backing of a bookshelf that led to the tunnel from, what she could assume, was Rhaenyra and Daemon’s chamber.

“She won’t be beholden to us, Nyra,” Daemon’s voice whispered in an urgent, hushed tone. “She was raised under them, she has no reason to like us.”

“The North is a powerful ally we need on our side once the time comes, Daemon. Cregan is already beholden to us by the oath of his father,” she breathed, “This is merely another way to bring the Starks into the fold. I’d rather them be ready to defend us, Shera, at a moment’s notice.”

“Beyond the allegiances, the betrothals, the treaties; she is hardly a worthy vessel of Valyrian seed. A baby with dragon’s blood would tear that soft bellied wolf apart. Even then, are we so sure she isn’t still… in favor of Alicent’s brood? You saw her with the two at the dinner.”

“You’re thinking too far ahead, Daemon. I suppose I do love your… farsightedness, but we must focus on nearsightedness. We will deal with the issues of the girl’s mettle after I’m on my throne,” Rhaenyra turned, a finger pressed to Daemon’s jaw, which was clenched in agitation. “You needn’t worry. If her constitution proves weak, she shan’t survive the court— and any trace of allegiance she might have to my half siblings shall be snuffed out swiftly when the time comes.”

Shera felt her sudden burst of confidence fester into bile rising from the back of her throat. Once the time comes? Her stomach churned– she knew that there had been tension between the two sides of the King’s family but she hadn’t expected such planning and cunning already, before the gauntlet had even been thrown down, before the King had even passed–

And she was a part of that plan, apparently. Moreso a link to her brother’s allegiances and by extension, the North.

The tunnel she was in suddenly felt very small, like the walls were closing in on her. Panic bubbled in her chest like frothing sea water, the undercurrent threatening to drag her out to the endless expanse, water filling her lungs until they burst.

Her bare feet stumbled as she continued forward, trying to recognize any of the exits from the labyrinth, but it seemed fruitless. Tears welled, stinging and blinding her even further. She wasn’t quite sure how long she had been lost for– but it felt like the better part of an hour before she finally pushed one opening forward, falling out onto the stone ground of another room in the holdfast.

Shera sniffed, her hair falling in front of her face like inky tendrils, clinging to her tear streaked face. Her knee was skinned from how hard she’d fallen, blood trickling down her skin and staining her nightgown. Glancing around, her vision was beyond fuzzy, her head spinning.

Idiot, idiot. She chastised herself further, fists supplanted into the ground, her nail beds scraping against the unforgiving stone as she attempted to pull herself up.

She hoped to every God, the old and the new, that the room wasn’t occupied.

“Alicent? Alicent… is that you?”

Fuck.

Shera froze, the croaking voice directed at… her? It was like hearing the Stranger speak, whispering in her ear. Surely it was a figment of her imagination.

“Ali-cent,” it spoke again, followed by a hacking cough and a drawn out moan. “My… my medicine— have… you brought it?”

Shaking her head, she ventured closer to the bed where the voice was coming from, a lone beeswax candle lit on the bedside. Some incense was also burning, an intense smell of concentrated herbs that was almost too much for even Shera— what was this? Finally reaching the bedside, she was in horror at what she saw.

Was this… the King?

He looked more corpse than human, cheeks sunken and teeth missing and blackened. His body mass was half of what it used to be— he… he was so small now, his labored breathing, moreso wheezing, wracking his body. His eye was missing.

She held back the urge to vomit as she got closer, now knowing what the incense mask was for. He smelled terrible— complete of death and rot, as if his body was already withering and decaying. It was on par with the scent of a dead elk she and Moongeist had found a few years before while exploring just outside of Winterfell. Its body was bloated and stinking, maggots writhing from the orifices of its body. It was one of the most disgusting sights she’d ever seen— ‘twas tainted meat, as the ravens and foxes wouldn’t even touch it.

The King— Viserys the Peaceful. He was no more a king presently, akin more to fodder for vultures. No, she didn’t think that vultures would taint themselves with his rotten flesh.

She peered on. Viserys wasn’t much older than Daemon, was he? And… as much as she hated to admit it, Daemon was only just past his prime, mayhaps still even in it. But Viserys… looked aged to about eighty or ninety, his skin liver spotted and plagued with… some disease she couldn’t identify. His hair was all but gone, sticking to the skin of his skull in small patches, like a child’s doll that’d been mutilated.

“… y-your grace?” Shera whispered, unsure of what to do.

“A-ah, forgive… me… dearest, there is a glint upon… your eye.”

Yes, and you lack one, decrepit corpse. Shera resisted the urge to huff.

“The… the vial—,”

“This one, your grace?” she murmured, seeing a small phial of liquid. She sniffed it, the overwhelming scent of milk of the poppy hitting her nostrils.

“Mm.”

She handed the medicine to him, watching him struggle to even lift his bony, gaunt hand. She brought the lip of it to his mouth, listening to him greedily drink it as if it were the most delicious of wines.

“Much… better, thank you,” he breathed, putting his hand back over his forehead. “Have… you thought much more upon… Rhaenyra’s proposal?”

“Her proposal, your grace?” Shera responded meekly. She still wasn’t sure what to do in this situation, where the king thought she was Queen Alicent. Her hands shook as she put the empty vial back on the nightstand.

“Helaena… and Jacaerys… ‘tis a fine match… it would… reunite our… the… the house of the dragon.”

Gods, what year did he think it was?

“... I am still mulling it over, my king,” she responded, glancing around the room for any way out.

“And… have Otto… send a raven to Lord Stark…” he wheezed. “Propose a union… between your ward… and Aemond. The North… has stayed out of the… realm for far too long…”

Aemond? There were talks of a betrothal to Aemond? Her heart began to race, even though she knew that the king’s mind was at least twelve years in the past or more– the mere thought of… it could’ve been true, it could’ve happened–

She bit her lip until blood welled to the surface. Everything could have been different.

Did Alicent refuse? Was there… even a raven sent?

“Yes, your grace,” she sniffed, holding back tears. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Alicent.”

#aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #banshees lament #aemond targaryen smut #aemond smut #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond x original female character #aemond x ofc

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yellowelectroslime · 3 months

Text

this is hilarious. yes.

Charlie:

SUPER EXCITED

brought board games, card games, snacks shes SO EXCITED

she would force everyone to play games like truth or dare in the dorms

makes sure eveyone brushes their teeth before going to bed and after waking up

goes above and beyond with the activities

she’s hell born so she never got to experience the human high school camp so she’s making up for it here :D

she’s just here for a good time okay?

Vaggie:

she’s only here to protect her girlfriend.

she’s armed.

like the moment she leaves the canin/dorm she’s drawing out whatever blade she brought with her

does this to “survive”

calls everyone her comrade in arms and forces them to do push ups like soldiers

treats this like a military

Charlie has to tell her to calm down and reassures her that shes safe :C

the bear grylls of hell

Angel dust:

HATES the outdoors

its funny cuz he’s a spider lol

hides in the cabin

whenever he sees something move in the bushes he screams and comically jumps in husk

has fun with indoor activities and games

like i said. hates the outdoors

I don’t think he will be all flirty and stuff when he’s like genuinely having fun

steals husks s’mores.

Alastor:

takes this opportunity to go hunt

probably teaches the others how to hunt deer and just wanted everyone in horror because the radio demon has a gun.

he drags a dead deer back to the cabin

vaggie scolds him saying thats it nasty as hell and it’ll attract flies

he cooks the deer for them to eat (vaggie is trying her best not to look like she likes the food)

best cook

purposely burns his s’mores cuz it’s fun and i think he’s the type of person to go “burnt to the core, that’s a s’more”

Husk:

brings alcohol :D 👍

vaggie has to drag his ass to get him to participate in the games

likes his marshmallows medium rare with a golden crust

…. along side a glass of whiskey

fucking HATES mosquitoes

will do everything in his power to kill all mosquitoes within a 7 kilometer radius of him

the only thing he brought other than alcohol is bottles upon bottles mosquito spray

he’s not taking any chances

Niffty:

Loves mosquitoes

she’s crazy

she kills the mosquitoes with a kitchen knife

will eat the burnt s’mores

crazy.

charlie has to keep her under supervision or she’ll run off exterminating the mosquito population

Sir pentious:

will bring all his egg boiz and make them do everything

vaggie has to convince him that camping means you have to do everything himself

doesn’t understand anything but nods and tries to have fun

he’s so innocent

Cherri Bomb:

she’s australian she’s BORN for the outdoors

probably knows the wilderness more than everyone

doesn’t really help with stuff and just chats with angie

plays truth or dare too but its the…. less family friendly type

nothing scared her

tells everyone scary stories by the camp fire

laughs how everyone screams when a hell bunny comes out of the bush

charlie has to confiscate all her bombs to not start a forest fire

makes the best s’mores

#hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #charlotte morningstar #vaggie #alastor #niffty #angel dust #cherri bomb #sir pentious #headcannons

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dokidokitsuna · 6 months

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BLADE_Princess

…I’m glad this AU idea came along, because I’ve been in WIP hell for so long…I really needed some reward doodles that I could actually feel motivated to draw~

So about 1 in 5 Kirby AU ideas takes shape as a game concept rather than a normal narrative, and this is one of those, the first one that’s JRPG-inspired. ^^ The main protagonists are a 5-member party of villains, but these two are the central characters, whose choices can affect the outcome of the story.

Blade The title character, who eventually becomes the most powerful in the group…due to a debilitating sickness that slowly destroys her mind and body. After losing her home, family, and entire civilization to similar strains of bio-magical warfare, she alone is resurrected by a strange wizard and his evil allies, and agrees to take part in their plans. During the story, Blade is continually confronted with memories of her past, and the destruction wrought by her happy family on the rest of the universe. She starts to wonder whether they all deserved to be exterminated, as her illness progresses and the idea that she should rejoin them consumes her thoughts. Meanwhile, she gradually loses control over her actions in the present, and in the end is torn between begging her adoptive father for help, or using the last of her self-awareness to take him down with her, for dragging her into this hell in the first place. +++ In this AU I really tried to break away from my usual depictions of the characters, and I think going from my usual portrayal of Dark Matter Swordsman as a classic “crouching moron hidden badass” to this more somber, sensitive character is probably the most dramatic example here. ^^; A little of that old characterization remains, however, as she’s not much of a deep thinker…she only joins the adventure because war is all she understands, and because Magolor really does remind her of her own father. Whether she remains fully loyal to him, or tries to choose a different path before the end, is up to the player, I guess. ^^;

Magolor The secondary protagonist, and the leader of the group. After his previous attempt at world domination centuries earlier, he’s back for a second try, and this time he’s assembled a whole team of formerly-defeated villains to help him out…including a strange alien girl that, until now, he had written off as a failed experiment. During the story, he comes to realize that the universe has changed a lot since his younger days, and that maybe his ultimate goal of taking it all for himself might not satisfy him as much as he’d hoped. Whether this shifts his priorities or makes him more hungry for destruction, desperate to feel something, is up to the player. And whether he decides to show concern for Blade’s suffering, or purposely take advantage of it to accelerate his plans…is also up to the player. ^^ +++ Since I’ve written so many Magolors over the years (I think I’ve done at least 10…I do have a problem, yes) I’ve formulated a basic breakdown of the essential aspects of his character: Charisma, Deception, Sweetness, Fury, and Bloodthirst. So every time I make a new Magolor, I try to emphasize different ones. For example, for Dream Alliance Magolor I downplayed Fury and removed Bloodthirst entirely, creating a very heroic and likeable version of him to serve as the main protagonist. This time, I’m going to downplay Charisma and remove Sweetness…so I’m sure you can guess what this version of Magolor is like. ^^; By default, he doesn’t really care about Blade, and reciprocates her concern for him only as far as it helps him manipulate her. I don’t think seeing her in pain would actually affect him emotionally (he’d probably just be wondering how much longer she’ll be useful…); what would get to him is her flipping the script and lashing out at him, even if she ends up backing down. Y’know, some tangible proof that his influence is having an effect on her, and that, in a strange way…she might be the only person left in the universe who still cares enough about him to truly be hurt by him.

#anyway we'll return to this on my next break #kirby #gijinka #au #BLADE_Princess #dark matter swordsman #magolor #tw vomit

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the-scandalorian · 2 years

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like a moth to the flame, part II

Pairing: monster!Din Djarin x female!reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 7.9k Warnings: monster!Din, dark!Din, stalking, predatory/obsessive/possessive behavior, creepy shit, hunting and gore, blood, masturbation, size kink + references to reader being small but only relative to monster!Din who’s like 7ft tall and massive, smutty monsterfucking thoughts Notes: HAPPY HALLOWEEKEND, MY BELOVED MONSTERFUCKERS! Thank you to @ezrasbirdie and @dincrypt for the help! xx

Part I | Masterlist

YOU

It’s one of those summer nights that feels like a sun-baked, scorching noon. The air is hot and heavy and completely still. Even lying in bed completely naked, blankets tossed off and scrunched up below your feet, you’re sweating. All the windows in your room are thrown wide, the drawn curtains unmoved by even a hint of a breeze, the crickets outside chirping rapid and relentless in the heat.

You’ve been tossing and turning for hours.

It doesn’t help that the Mandalorian’s smoke-dark growl of your name has been playing on repeat in your head. You’ve only heard the actual thing three times, but the sound—the tone, the inflection, the cadence—is seared there. And it plays.

Again and again.

It’s been happening a lot lately—forcing its way into your mind like a mantra, especially at night when you’re trying to sleep. Usually, making yourself come helps. But you’ve already done that tonight—while you unapologetically imagined those big gloved hands on your body. Sometimes distracting yourself in other ways tires you out, but you’re too restless to read, too overheated to want to get up and do anything else.

Plus, you’re too busy ruminating on the fact that tomorrow is Saturday yet again, and it will likely be as much of a disappointment as the last few.

Each week, you wait hopefully. You watch him enter the market street—even if you aren’t actively looking for him (which you always are), how could you not immediately notice his blinding glint in the morning sun?—and anticipation draws up tight in your stomach. You tell yourself that you’ll be ready this time. You’ll actually speak to him; you won’t just ogle the devastating spread of his shoulders or think about what he smells like. You won’t be distracted by the gentle but significant weight of his large hand on your cheek if he ever decides to touch you again. No, you’re determined to make a connection with him. He asked what you liked. He asked where you were going. You want to know what he likes, where he’s going.

Except…he hasn’t stopped at your kiosk again.

Instead, every week, you watch him effortlessly part the crowd, moving down the busy street with purpose. He turns his helmet to look at you as his long, decisive strides take him past. You meet his spotlight gaze, and you get a…perfunctory nod. But that’s it. He never stops, never comes near enough to even exchange a verbal greeting. The fact that you get a subtle jerk of his helmet while he never acknowledges anyone else doesn’t soothe the sting of his avoidance.

You want more than this.

And it’s driving you crazy.

A bead of sweat drips down your temple. You sit up in bed and decide you’ve had enough.

Fuck this.

The lake is so close, and the moon outside your window is paperwhite bright.

You climb out of bed to throw on a light dress and pull on your socks and boots, sliding your sheathed blade into the space between your ankle and the leather. The little fawn is tucked in a tight circle in her basket by the foot of your bed, fast asleep. You decide not to disturb her—you don’t want to have to worry about losing her in the dark or protecting her from hungry things if she follows you.

Keeping her wasn’t your initial intention, but she seems to have imprinted on you. You were hoping to help her heal and let her go, and instead you have a dappled nut-brown shadow. After only a few days, you knew that keeping her temporarily was never an option. She’s a baby—old enough to be weaned but young enough to still be unsteady on her skinny little legs—and she’d never have survived alone, even without the injury. So during the day, she trails behind you as you go about your work, sifting through the undergrowth to nibble at the softest shoots as you harvest or prune or fertilize or weed. And at night, she curls into that same tight circle, her dark nose tucked against the white bandage on her healing ankle. She’s sleeping soundly tonight, her tiny belly moving almost imperceptibly as she breathes slowly and deeply.

You decided to call her Luna because when she looks up at you with her big, bright eyes, you think the inky depths could contain a night sky of their own.

You toss a flashlight and a towel into a bag, sling it over your shoulder, and you’re out the door. Outside, the air is just as stifling and oppressive. Not a single leaf or blade of grass is stirring. You don’t really need the flashlight. The moon illuminates the landscape, and even if it didn’t, you know your gardens and orchards and the nearby forest by heart. Your feet follow a familiar path through your vegetable patch, down a row of cherry trees, and into the woods. After a few minutes of picking your way through the ferns, the trees open up onto the lake.

Moonlight paints the glassy surface in long, luxurious strokes of silver. The water looks black and deep, though you know it’s not. You skirt the edge until you reach the most inviting stretch of pebbled shoreline and slip out of your dress, shoving your things into a pile on a boulder. You step over the smooth rocks with bare feet, careful as they shift underfoot, until the water laps against your toes. You splash your way toward the deeper water, falling forward into its inviting embrace, reveling in the instant relief.

You swim laps in the moonlight until you’re satisfied to simply float. You let yourself drift and enjoy the cool.

You’re not thinking about the Mandalorian.

You’re not thinking about what it would be like to remove his armor, piece by piece, and coax him into the water with you.

Would he ever let you? Would he ever trust someone else with that power?

A branch snaps somewhere in the forest, the loud sound jolting you out of your reverie, and you right yourself immediately in the water, looking to the place where the sound came from.

You hold still and strain to hear anything else.

Something is definitely moving; a black shape shifts in the shadows between the trees for a moment then stops. You can’t make out any details, its silhouette obscured by the darkness, but you can tell it’s large. And all you can think about is how long it would take to swim to the shore and reach the boulder where you left your things. And your vibroblade.

Fear slips a new filter over your surroundings. The grasping dark around you is hungry now. You start to paddle your way to the shore as quietly as you can, your gaze still fixed on that spot in the trees.

Panic churns hot in your stomach when an even worse sound rends the silence. There’s a low, rumbling growl, an even louder snarl, and then what might be the scuffling of clawed feet on the forest floor—no, you’re sure of it.

You freeze for a second, treading water again, feeling intolerably vulnerable. There are two indiscernible shapes moving in the shadows now, the larger one approaching the smaller until they’re a few feet apart.

A standoff.

You're almost to the shore, and whatever is out there seems occupied for the time being, so you force yourself to swim the rest of the way toward the shallows as quickly and quietly as you can and hurry out of the water, painfully aware of your naked body. You snatch up your dress to pull it over you and grip your blade, shoving your feet back into your boots.

The whole time, you keep your eyes on the place amidst the dark trees where you witnessed what looked like the start of the skirmish.

It’s silent.

All is silent.

All is still.

Then, for a moment, a strange, dull glow emanates from amidst the trees…but when you blink, it’s gone. It’s over so fast that you’re not sure if you imagined the light and the familiar shine of silver that reflected it. But when you blink again, the shape is imprinted on your eyelids—you can see the negative space around that imposing silhouette.

It’s him. He’s here.

Like you conjured him straight out of your fantasy.

Some combination of confusion and excitement and apprehension whirls around in your stomach.

Why is he here?

What else is out there?

What if your eyes are playing tricks on you in the dark?

What if it isn’t him?

What if it is…and he isn’t as harmless as you want him to be?

It’s too much—too risky, too overwhelming. Your blade still clutched in your hand, you back up slowly, only turning when you reach the place you’d cut through the forest on the way to the lake.

Then, you turn and run.

***

The questions eat at you for the rest of the night. The sky outside your window lightens from midnight blue to cobalt until a smudge of rose gold breaks across the horizon. The rising sun brings a reluctant morning breeze.

Was it him?

You’ve decided one thing by the time you get up, dress, gather your things, and head into town for the Saturday market: enough is enough.

You’re tired of waiting for him, and you have to know.

Was it a crazy coincidence that you ended up in the same place at the same time?

Was he watching you?

Was he even there?

You’re determined to find out.

You decide to catch him on his way to the market. It means you have to stick a Be back in 10 minutes! sign on your stall in the middle of the first morning rush. But he always shows up around 10:30, half an hour after the market opens. So you help the first group of customers as quickly as you can—you have to hurry Terek, your regular who always lingers to remind you he could date anyone in town he wants but isn’t, through his usual string of slightly intrusive small talk—then slip away when there happens to be a few-second lull, setting out your sign and zipping off toward the entrance to town.

The Mandalorian shows up right on time, like clockwork. He’s coming through the stone archway that marks the entrance to town just as you’re coming down the side street that intersects the main one.

You fall into step beside him, lengthening your strides to keep up with his gait.

He doesn’t startle. He isn’t surprised. As far as you can tell, at least.

You realize that’s what you want from him—it’s the bare minimum of what you want from him. A break in his composure. You’re desperate to get something from him—a reaction he can’t hide behind his beskar. Something he can’t choke back.

You want to know him.

“Hi,” you offer, looking up at his helmet, which is still trained forward.

“Hello,” he says, inclining his head to nod in your direction without actually looking at you.

You walk in silence for a moment, waiting to see if he’s going to say anything else. He doesn’t. He just continues stalking down the street, his gloved hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. His pace seems to flag just the tiniest bit, though—as if he’s noticed that it’s hard for you to keep up with him.

You want to ask him about last night, but just the thought makes you clam up. It would be a ridiculous accusation if he wasn’t there.

You decide to take a different tack.

“So you hated the peaches.”

He swings his helmet down to look at you, betraying a little surprise. “No?”

You smile up at him, pleased. “Well, you never came back, so I had to assume that meant you didn’t like them.”

“There are other places that sell produce,” he points out, his calm composure returned, visor pointed forward.

“Not ones that sell better fruit than I do.”

“Oh yeah?”

You can detect the slightest hint of amusement in his voice.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

He’s teasing you.

“Of course, I’m sure,” you say.

“How?”

You scoff and peer up at him again, and he’s looking down at you. “I mean, do you disagree?”

“No.”

“So you agree.”

He bows his head slightly. “I do.”

“Okay, so then why go somewhere else?”

“None of the other vendors harass me about the quality of their fruit.”

You crack a wide smile and look up at him. “You just made a joke.”

He hums in a noncommittal way.

You can’t help but wonder if he’s actually looking straight ahead, where his helmet is staunchly pointed, or if he’s watching you from the corner of his eye. Something tells you it’s the latter.

As soon as the market street comes into view, Mando stops in his tracks, turns toward you, and as if he just realized, asks: “Shouldn’t you be at your stand right now?”

“Of course,” you say, looking up at him with another bright smile, “that’s where we’re going right now.”

It feels so fucking good to have his full attention, even just for a moment, his body squarely facing yours, his black visor fixed on your face. It feels like stepping outside into the warm embrace of the spring sun after an especially cold winter, like you can finally thaw. You wonder how rare it is in a context other than a fight—how often he actually engages this directly with another person outside of violence.

He looks down at you, completely still but for the rhythmic expansion and contraction of his chest. What would it feel like to rest your head there? To feel the steady rise and fall of his beskar plate against your cheek? To be constantly reassured that there is a beating heart under all that metal? To know that it endures.

You stand there, drinking him in, and an uncomfortable truth unfurls in your mind: you hope he was at the lake for you. You hope he followed you there. You have to suppress a shiver when you think about him watching you from the trees. You hope he saw all of you.

It’s fucked but it’s true: what should scare you, what would scare you about anyone else, makes him all the more alluring.

“Come on,” you beckon, jerking your head toward your stand. “I have something for you.”

He cocks his head in question but turns to follow when you don’t explain.

DIN

He watches the hypnotizing sway of your hips as you head up the market street, staying close in your wake. His presence parts the crowd, and he likes keeping everyone at a safe distance. He likes the illusion of having you to himself. Watching and protecting you without anyone else knowing is one thing—having you know, having others know is something else all together. It feels good. Too good.

Like a claim and a warning.

Din shoves the thought away.

He watches you and wonders if you know. If you saw him at the lake.

You’d say something if you did? Right?

When he wandered his way to your house last night, you weren’t there. The windows were all open, the sheer curtains drawn, but the only detectable heat signature was the tiny snug fawn sleeping at the end of your bed.

You were always there at night.

You had been there every single time he’d shown up.

Until last night.

Panic had slid into his stomach like molten metal as he’d gotten closer to your house than he ever had before—close enough to stand by your open bedroom window and look down at your empty bed through a gap in the curtains. If he’d reached out, he could have touched your rumpled sheets. He thought about slipping his glove off to see if they were warm, if you were there recently. He didn’t.

He didn’t know why that felt too invasive after all the shit he’d already done, but he honored the arbitrary boundary.

All he knew was that it was midnight, and you were gone. There was no sign of a struggle. Your front door looked secure. And you wouldn’t leave permanently with the fawn still inside. The fact that you did plan to leave for good rankles at the back of his mind all the time these days, but it couldn’t be that. Not yet.

Maybe you were with someone.

A growl rumbled through his chest. He didn’t like that idea one bit.

Throwing caution to the wind, he had eased his helmet up and off his head and taken in a lungful of balmy air. He could smell you. It confirmed his suspicion that you weren’t home but told him that you had been recently…and you’d left.

He followed the delicate, lingering traces of you, retreading your path across your vegetable patch, down one of the lines of the cherry orchard, and into the forest. He followed the hints of you that clung to the curving ferns and low-hanging tree branches, the ones that had skimmed your legs as you’d walked, until he found you at the lake.

Alone and vulnerable.

Din watched from the cover of the trees as you made quiet ripples on the surface of the dark water, your bare shoulders just visible enough to tell him you weren’t wearing anything at all. That knowledge made his armor feel heavy. Tight and suffocating. You shouldn’t have been out there—alone and far away from him—like that.

He watched you swim, free and happy, and he wanted to strip off his beskar and join you, to splash into that black water and capture you, hold you against his chest and kiss your cold-water lips breathless. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you out of there.

He thought about warming you up, about laying you out on the moss-covered edge of the forest under that perfect spilt-silver moonlight and licking the beads of water from your skin until your shivering ceased and he could feel—and taste—the heat of your blood pumping through your veins.

He’d slide his tongue over the dips and rises of your body until you begged and whined, your grasping fingers tangled in his wet hair, your back arching, and he’d growled: What is it, sweet thing? Tell me what you need. And he’d wait until you were so desperate that you said it aloud, spelled your need out in words for him and told him to drag his mouth down—

Din’s spine had stiffened then, the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention as he realized yes, you were vulnerable, but no, you were not alone out there. He had picked up the scent of something else—something close, prowling the forest edge on the opposite side of the small lake.

This one wasn’t a fawn. He could tell right away.

It smelled territorial and hungry—warm-blooded and predatory. A hunter. And it was stalking you, pacing back and forth as it waited for you to emerge from the water, circling the end of the lake where you’d stowed your belongings on a rock. Din didn’t have to wait long for the creature to notice him. A breeze stirred lazily through the trees, and the distant orange shape stopped its patrol to stare in his direction. When Din flipped off the thermal readout on his helmet, he could just barely make out the two yellow pinprick eyes gleaming through the black curtain of night.

And when he lifted his helmet just a little and breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the night air again, he could detect others not far off. The pack, ready to come when called.

He didn’t give the thing the chance to come to him or to call for reinforcements. He wouldn’t risk wasting any time when it was closer to you than he was, when he wasn’t sure when you’d decide it was time to go home and walk right into its trap. Din made his way quickly and silently through the forest, the dark saber in hand, a brutal satisfaction roiling in his chest. The idea of killing this thing for you was pleasing to him. For once, the hilt in his grip didn’t feel unnaturally heavy. It felt right—balanced and poised for action. It wanted blood.

The creature met him halfway, waiting for him between two wide tree trunks.

They assessed each other for a moment.

It stood on four legs, with thick, dark fur, hackles raised in warning and pointed ears pinned back. It was tall, looming over the undergrowth, its head almost as high as Din’s chest. Definitely an apex predator, the top of whatever food chain existed on this planet. Its viciously clawed feet looked the perfect size and shape to make the gouges he’d seen in the ground and the tree trunks.

The beast growled, its snarling lip revealing a jagged set of white fangs, and without intending to, completely on instinct, Din answered. The sound tore out of his chest like thunder, as he automatically fell into his defensive stance, feet spread wide and muscles tensed for a fight.

Right away, he knew you’d heard it.

It was loud. The sound had carried.

He wanted to look at you, to assess your reaction, but he kept his gaze trained on the creature before him. He knew you were in the middle of the lake. He had time before you could get close enough to see either of them.

But..if he slaughtered this thing like he wanted to—like his salivating mouth was begging him to do—he would risk drawing your attention even more than he already had, would risk completely exposing himself. He needed to take care of this quickly and quietly. So he gritted his teeth and forced himself to silently scare it away instead, flicking the activation on the hilt of the saber. It hummed to life, and Din dragged it back and forth in a quick motion, slashing the dark air with the lightning-struck blade. The beast hesitated immediately, the beam of light reflected in its blown pupils as it fell backward a few steps.

Din pushed his advantage, surging forward and letting out another growl—this one much lower. A subtle, seething warning.

It was enough.

As soon as the creature turned-tail and raced away from him, Din retracted the blade and turned back to the lake.

And there you were.

You were standing at the edge of the lapping water, wearing a white dress that clung to your wet skin, staring at the place illuminated mere seconds ago by the saber. Staring at him. There was no way you could make him out from that far away though, not when he was under the dense cover of trees.

Right?

If he could see every tiny detail of your body limned in moonlight—down to the pert attention of your nipples through the damp fabric—then he had to admit that you might have been able to make out the general shape of him in the dull glow of the saber. But he couldn’t be sure. His eyesight was excellent, better than the average human now.

He waited, remaining completely still, and watched as you backed your way toward the forest, turned, and broke into a run. Din let out the breath he was holding. After a moment, he followed, lagging behind to ensure you made it home safely. He didn’t leave until he heard the click of your front door lock.

Now, he watches you walk down the market street in front of him, and he wants to ask.

And he can’t, of course. He won’t.

But he wants to.

You slip around the back of your kiosk and smile brightly up at him when he settles his gloved hands on the counter in front of you.

“What can I get for you?”

“You said you have something for me.”

You smile again and drop a pint of shiny red cherries in front of him.

Of course.

Sweet and ripe and perfect.

“Thank you.”

“Need anything else?” you ask.

He nods and looks around, starting to gather his weekly staples. You watch him as he does; he can feel your gaze fixed on his helmet. He works quickly; he needs to get out of here, needs to put more distance between your body and his, more than just this wooden countertop—one that would splinter so easily if he put any weight on it. He looks down at the pile of produce he’s gathered, reaches into his belt for credits, and holds them out to you, hurrying the transaction along.

You ignore the proffered credits and reach for the pint.

You select a perfect polished-garnet cherry from the top of his box and bring it up to your mouth, the thin stem caught between your fingertips when you pop it between your lips. Din’s helmet follows, like the cherry itself is a magnet for beskar. You know you have him—Din can tell you know—so you make a show of trapping it between the white lines of your teeth and biting it slowly, piercing the flesh until berry-red juice bleeds freely, staining your teeth and seeping onto your lower lip.

Din is standing, outstretched hand frozen in midair, transfixed. The air is thick with what neither of you will say but both of you know.

This is spiraling.

You watch his visor, eyes dark, as you dip your fingers into your mouth to pucker your lips and suck the fruit away from the pit, making a soft, borderline obscene sound that he feels in his cock.

You’re doing this on purpose. You know. You know you’ve trapped him.

Does this mean you know he’s been following you? That he wants you?

How much do you know?

You make it all even worse when you swipe up the lingering drop of juice from your bottom lip with your thumb and flick your pink tongue out to lap it up. Slowly.

The glint in your eye and quirk of your lips when you swallow tells him you absolutely know what you’re doing to him. You’re teasing him. Testing him. Torturing him. And having fun while doing it.

He likes it just as much as he hates it—likes that you’re doing it for him, hates that he can’t do anything about it.

Most of all, he’s mad at himself. You feel like you’ve figured him out—because you have figured him out—and you’re comfortable enough to push him. He should have been more careful, less friendly. He shouldn’t have let this get so far out of his hands.

The fire of this burgeoning obsession is just a fraction of what it could become if you know how to stoke it. It will devour you both if he doesn’t snuff it out now. What started as a spark will rage and burn if he lets it—if you learn to feed it so generously.

Din slaps his credits on the counter and shoves his purchases into the bag slung over his shoulder, pointedly looking anywhere but your face.

You shouldn’t feel safe enough to tease him.

You have no idea what he’s capable of.

So he swallows back his thanks and leaves without a word. He doesn’t turn around as he stalks away, even though he’s desperate to see the look on your face—to rush back and soothe you if you seem hurt, to be furious and bitterly satisfied if you don’t.

Instead, he angles his helmet toward the ground and lets his feet follow the familiar path to his house, to the dead part of the forest where he can be alone.

***

Din grits his teeth and steps through the drill again, his muscles straining against the reluctance of the blade in his grip.

The quiet of this place was supposed to help him clear his mind, to settle his thoughts, to allow him to make a plan. Instead, it’s starting to sit heavy on his shoulders and ring in his ears. Oppressive and ever-present and irritating. The perfect silence of the forest isn’t peaceful when he can’t focus.

And it seems like he can never focus these days.

There’s always something vying for his attention: Grogu, his covert, his constant hunger…you.

Right now, thoughts of Grogu are winning.

Is he happy? Is he safe? Are they feeding him enough?

Din knows he won’t get the answers to those questions for a long time. He is unwilling to let himself visit the kid—no matter how much he wants to—until he feels like he has a handle on whatever is scratching so incessantly at the inside of his skull. Until he knows for sure he isn’t dangerous.

So he tries not to dwell on the kid, which means his thoughts wander to other things.

…to you.

A droplet of wine-dark nectar on the perfect bow of your lips.

A white dress, almost translucent with moisture, clinging to the secret curves and planes of your wet body.

All of you, your familiar silhouette, edged in the soft halo of moonlight.

Din finds himself taking breaks from his drills to roam for miles, thinking and seeking…something. Anything but the burden of silence. He walks until he can hear life. The titter of birds and the rustle of leaves in the wind.

And when he can stand it, he picks up the dark saber again, and forces his way through the drill.

Ehn.

Solus.

T’ad.

The blade is still fighting him. Or he’s fighting it?

He can still hear the crackle and drag of the saber against the metal grating of that catwalk. He can still hear her words.

You are too weak to fight the dark saber. It will win if you fight against it. You cannot control it with your strength.

What the Armorer had tried to explain to him then has not become any clearer in the months since. He thought something had clicked into place the other night—hoped that meant he was making progress—but all he knows now is since that shining moment of its cooperation by the lake, the saber has been just as heavy and unyielding as ever. He thinks back to the Armorer’s exact words, trying to parse them for the thousandth time.

Your body is strong.

But your mind is distracted.

She wasn’t wrong about that. And that’s still true now. The part that doesn’t make sense to him is why that matters. Why is an inanimate object dissatisfied with his concentration?

Why does his state of mind have any bearing on the behavior of a stupid fucking laser sword?

Din does sense some fuzzy, amorphous presence on the edges of his mind when the dark saber is humming in his hand, though. It’s the blade itself, he thinks. It brushes against his consciousness faintly, like a spiderweb he can’t see in the dark. But when he flips the proverbial lights on and tries to grasp it in his hands, there’s nothing there. Even the spider herself has skittered beyond the ring of gold.

I am focused, he had insisted. He had lied.

The blade says otherwise. The Armorer had seen right through him.

It doesn’t make sense.

None of it makes sense.

Din had been so tempted to ask the Armorer more about the saber, as they ran through those impossible drills, to ask if she had any real idea what was happening to him. To ask if the dreams and the pain were normal.

He might have. If they were truly alone.

But Paz was there. Watching, listening, waiting in the wings.

Paz had waited until he’d witnessed Din struggle with the blade. He’d waited until he’d felt confident enough to stroll in and challenge him. Classic Paz—only willing to bluster and provoke when his victory was all but assured. It had made Din’s entire body sing with defiance. In that moment, he’d have done anything to keep the saber from Paz’s hands.

He did.

Din shakes his head, letting the saber zip closed. He can’t relive the rest of that right now.

After an hour of continuous drilling, his head is pounding, and his body is sore. The trees ringed around him are scored by deep lacerations, some of which are still flickering orange and red as they smolder. The ground, too, is torn up from the places the blade dragged against the hard-packed dirt. The air smells like wildfire.

He makes the long, slow walk back home. He limps inside and rips off his armor and his clothes, letting it all fall into a heap, before stepping into a scalding shower. The hot spray feels soothing on his tight, overworked muscles, so he stands under it until it starts to run cold.

When he emerges, toweling himself dry, he can’t bring himself to put his armor back on right away—even his soft underlay or his flight suit. He looks at the pile, knowing he needs to put it all on anyway, and he balks. It’s so rare that he spends any time without it anymore. It’s not safe without it. He’s not safe without it.

Being trapped in a beskar prison when his body is aching to change is more painful than anything he’s ever felt before—but it works.

But, right now, his sore body and pounding head are screaming for reprieve, so he pulls on some loose sleep pants and sits on his bed, back straight against the headboard and lets himself be unweighted.

He’ll relax for a little while, just a few minutes, and then he’ll put everything back on.

It’s a mistake.

***

Din wakes up, completely splayed out on his bed, lying face-down.

Before he even opens his eyes, he knows two things:

One, he’s changed.

He can tell by how heavily he’s sinking into the give of his feather mattress, by the fact that he’s too long for his bed, his feet hanging off the end. His once-loose pants are tight across his hips, stretched taut over his quads. Each inhale through his nose brings with it a bevy of nuanced information: a hundred different scents of the house and the forest outside, each of which he can untangle and identify. Copper pipes. Old, dry cedar wood. Moths. The apple on his kitchen counter. Pine needles. Dusk.

The twin spots on his head, just behind his temples, are throbbing. He flexes his clawed hands, and his sharp, half-moon nails catch on the fabric of his blanket. He stretches out his wings, extending them until he can sense complete darkness close over him, even through his closed eyelids.

And the second thing he knows? He’s ravenous.

He’s vibrating with hunger—the type of need that won’t be ignored is singing through him, making his jaw ache and his palms itch. He doesn’t even entertain the idea of changing back before he finds something to eat. He’s in the perfect form to hunt like this. Why deny it?

He’s not sure he could change back if he tried, but he doesn’t want to think too hard about that. He doesn’t think too hard about anything aside from his base instincts—food, water, sex, sleep—when he’s like this. It’s like his rational mind is muffled, buried too deep to hear, and his hindbrain is brought fully online. The animal in him is awake. And in charge.

Din hauls himself out of bed and pushes his way out of the creaky front door. He doesn’t even need his helmet or its night-vision setting. It doesn’t fit when he’s like this anyways. And he’s so sure that no one could ever catch him off guard like this, sneak up on him and see his face, that there is no risk whatsoever to his Creed.

The forest outside smells like possibility. Like snuffling midnight scavengers and rich, damp soil, and searching vines. It smells like life.

They’re not close—all the things that make his mouth water—but his sense of smell is so acute when he’s like this. He can pick up the faintest whiff of a beating heart within a several mile radius. Hot blood calls to him, drawing him in like gravity.

He stalks through the tall trees, silent as he moves through the shadows, and something else—something aside from the base allure of a pulse—beckons him. His clawed feet are ignoring the siren call of a sure kill in favor of a familiar path, one he’s tread almost every night. The monster inside him isn’t bothered by this, though. In fact, that growling, snarling beast in his chest seems to be sated just by the fact that he’s moving closer to you. It doesn’t make sense.

Maybe this hunger he’s feeling isn’t all physical.

The forest lightens around him slowly. Distant stars blink in the coal-black sky visible through the ever-thinning canopy above him.

He passes a myriad of small game, things too insignificant to warrant his attention. A rabbit isn’t worth his time. He needs to sink his fangs into something substantial tonight, something that will twitch and struggle bodily when he severs its carotid artery with his canines. Something he has to hold down with his own weight while it thrashes.

Not yet, though.

First, he needs to see you. He needs to be sure you’re okay.

It’s become almost too easy to watch you when he’s himself—and when he’s like this? It’s laughably easy. There are no barriers for him—nothing he can’t sense, no creature he can’t kill.

Stalking has been his job for decades. He perfected the art of hunting when he was chasing bounties. He’s always been a hunter by profession, and now he is one for pleasure. And by physical design.

He hovers on the edge of the trees, lurking in the dark safety of the shadows, when your cottage comes into view. It looks so tiny tonight, like something from a fairytale, nestled in a little hollow amidst the encroaching forest and orchards and gardens, like it could be swallowed by green in the blink of an eye. Your bedroom window is half open, and no lights are on anywhere in your house. It’s hours before dawn.

He takes a deep inhale, filling his lungs, and amidst the tangle of scents he can pick out several distinct things: you, which is a scent he has yet to name, something like rain and lavender and sunshine; the warmth of the fawn and some other little things that scurry in the night; and of course, all the richness of the orchards. Fruits and flowers, pollen and honey, vegetables and wriggling worms.

The moon is shrouded by thick clouds tonight, so Din lets himself get a little closer to your house than he usually would. He steps through your yard and hugs the gnarled oak that stands sentinel outside your window.

Your curtains are not completely drawn. He can see you through the small gap, fast asleep in your bed, the tiny fawn curled up in the crook of your bent knees. That makes him smile. You look serene and comfortable. Safe.

A warm contentment settles in his chest. Despite his ever-present physical hunger, he almost feels sated. Standing here, watching you, he feels still.

He wants to stay.

But, eventually, he forces himself to pull away and do a perfunctory circuit of your property, his usual perimeter check. All clear.

Satisfied, he finally moves toward something that will slake the gnawing hunger in his gut. The farther he gets from you, the more acute the feeling becomes.

He stalks through the woods with purpose. He doesn’t just know what he wants; he knows which he wants. He wants the thing he didn’t get to kill that night by the lake.

He wants the one that wanted you.

It’s easy enough to find the pack, to follow their pungent scent all the way to the place where the flat ground of the forest buckles and rises into rolling hills. They’re grouped loosely around the mouth of a wide cave, asleep. Even in the dark, he identifies the one he wants right away—it’s the biggest of the group, its fur the color of pitch, swallowing the wan light of the moon. Din is too hungry to enjoy the long, satisfying fight that would inevitably involve all these creatures if he woke even a single one. He’d get the bloody brawl he truly wants—he’d get that brutal satisfaction that comes with barely walking away with his life—but he’s waited too long.

Plus, he can’t eat all of them at once. It’s smarter to pace himself.

So he moves through the group silently and snaps his target’s neck before it even detects his presence. He’s gone, the limp body of his still-warm kill slung over his shoulder, before the rest of them even wake. He listens to their far-off mournful howls as he makes his way back home, content in the knowledge that there is one less thing in the night that poses a threat to your safety.

He’s already looking forward to picking the rest of the pack off one by one, slowly, until they’re gone. He’ll savor each one. For as long as he can, for as long as you’re here, he’ll clean out the forest of anything that could hurt you.

Another idea occurs to him halfway home, and he changes course one last time, heading back to you. Some innate part of him knows what to do. He sets down his kill and walks the wide perimeter of your property one more time. He slashes his blood-wet claws across random tree trunks, carving through the rough bark almost as easily as the dark saber would. He rustles through the underbrush, ensuring his natural musk will cling to the leaves.

A warning. A claim.

He doesn’t know how he knows it will work, but he does.

He marks his territory in blood, and then he shoulders the carcass again, turning for home.

***

None of the beast remains by the time Din gets home. He has left a scattered trail of shredded hide and cracked bones and ribboned viscera in his wake—a path no creature would want to follow—and eaten the rest. His hands and forearms and face are sticky and tight with drying blood, his claws encrusted with it.

He closes his front door behind him, and the old house shakes with the impact. He doesn’t have control of his strength like this; it seems like he’s always misjudging it and leaving things broken.

Right now, he doesn’t care.

He strips off his pants and pushes his way into his bathroom, into the shower, turning it up to a scalding heat. Now that his hunger is sated, he can only think of one thing again.

You.

Din’s resolve is paper thin, his self control a single fraying thread, when he’s like this. He doesn’t even bother working up a sense of guilt when he steps into the shower and wraps his hand around himself.

He has to keep his wings folded tightly against his back to fit in the small tiled alcove. His head looms higher than the shower head, so he bows slightly to feel the hot spray on the crown of his head. He lets it rush through his tousled hair and run down his forehead, his brow, his cheeks and jaw.

The water picks up traces of the tacky blood drying on his face and races faint red lines down his throat and chest. Steam fills the confined space, and Din closes his eyes, bracing one hand against the slippery wall in front of him, as his other works himself with a tight stroke.

He thinks about how you looked tonight, safe in your bedroom, your features soft and sweet in sleep.

For a thing so much smaller than he is, you spread out in your bed a surprising amount, your limbs splayed and relaxed, fingers tangled in rumbled sheets. He thinks about what it would be like to gather you up, to feel you stir molasses-slow from sleep, and wrap himself around you, to pull you on top of him and hold your weight on his chest, your thighs bracketing his hips.

He can hear the drowsy, contented noises you’d make as you roused to find him under you, the gentle smile that would pull on your lips as your eyes fluttered open, the way your hands would start to wander his shoulders, his arms, his chest—the pass of your fingertips leisurely, then exploratory, then greedy.

He thinks about how easy it would be to wrap an arm around your waist and flip you both, to hold himself over you, ducking his head to graze his teeth over your fluttering pulse. He’d be able to taste the iron tang of your blood, even through the thin layer of your skin, if he slipped his long tongue out to tease you. He thinks about how you’d look trapped under his huge body. How you’re his perfect opposite—soft and good and sweet—and that’s everything he wants.

You’re not just sweet, though, and he likes that. He thinks about that knowing look you gave him at the market, a challenge in your darkened eyes, framed by fanned lashes. You’d wear that same expression if he let himself want what he wants, if he let you see how mad you drive him.

You’d be thrilled to watch him unravel over you. He can picture so perfectly how you’d smile up at his black eyes in invitation. In encouragement. Your small hand would slip down to stroke his throbbing erection, where it rested heavy against your inner thigh.

Din tightens his grip and moves his hand faster. His cock is slick with water and diluted blood running in rivulets down his forearms.

He’s bigger like this. Bigger everywhere. He thinks about how small your hands would look wrapped around him, how easy it would be to slip two of his fingertips under the edge of your panties and snag his claws in the threads of the thin fabric, tearing them away from your body. He’d brush the torn scrap out of the way and retract his claws to slip just the pad of one finger into the slit of your sex, rubbing gently against your clit.

How long would it take for him to work you open, he wonders, petting and licking and biting and coaxing, until you were dripping and ready to take him? He wonders if you actually could.

If you’d want to.

He imagines what your lips would look like forming the words, “Please, fuck me.”

The water running down the drain is still a pale, bloody pink when Din comes over his own clenched fist in a series of hot pulses. He growls his way through it, his abdominal muscles tensing and hips stuttering forward, jaw clenched and lip pulled up in a low snarl. The hand he’s leaning on contracts reflexively in pleasure, and he cuts a series of short, deep scratches in the white tiled wall, silver claws gouging easily into stone.

Din leaves himself four lines of evidence, stark proof of his own lack of self control, something for him to stare at tomorrow when the painful clarity of reality returns to him.

#dark!din #monster!din #tw monsterfucking #like a moth to the flame

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illuminatedquill · 6 months

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Sabine Wren x Ezra Bridger

Knightfall

Story Summary: A mysterious new enemy attacks Grand Master Skywalker's Jedi Temple in the dead of night. Faced with overwhelming odds, Jedi Master Ezra Bridger and Jedi Master Sabine Wren must fight against an enemy determined to finish what Emperor Palpatine started so long ago: exterminating the Jedi, once and for all.

@sabezraweek Prompt: Free

"Everything dies. In time, even stars burn out." - Revenge of the Sith novelization, Matthew Stover

The temple was burning.

Jedi Master Ezra Bridger moved with all the speed he could muster, drawing on the Force to aid in his movement. Merely a hundred feet ahead were the stone steps leading into the temple -

His eyes narrowed and a lance of agony pierced his heart.

Bodies lay scattered on the steps. Silhouettes, lit by the inferno engulfing the Temple, were engaged in fierce battle up and down the staircase: some of them were garbed in the traditional Jedi robes, lightsabers ignited in shades of blue, green, yellow, and violet; others wearing the familiar sinister plaster-white of what could only be stormtrooper armor.

As he approached, the rapid staccato of blaster-fire pierced the cool evening air. Some of the remaining Jedi went down.

He called to his wife, Jedi Master Sabine Wren. "Sabine!"

"Yeah, I see it!" He heard swift movement somewhere behind to his left and felt her reassuring presence through the Force.

"You can get there faster and clear the way!" he shouted.

"On it! I'll try to save some for you, old man!" Sabine, wearing her customary Mandalorian armor underneath her Jedi robes, fired her jetpack and raced ahead. A moment later, her lightsaber flared to life, the green-white blade a stark contrast against the fiery red and orange they were racing towards.

Her humor, Ezra noted, was purely reflexive. In the Force, he could feel her inner turmoil and despair barely restrained by sheer force of will.

Be safe, my love, he thought, desperately.

His wife flew through the battle and lopped off a head from one of the stormtroopers. She landed, pivoted, and switched to her patented akimbo lightsaber/blaster style. With grim determination, she set to work, with the other Jedi Knights rallying to her aid.

Her lightsaber blade cleaved through the enemy force, a green blur punctuated by shots from her blaster.

Ezra allowed himself a grim smile.

He needn't have worried. Closing the gap quickly, he ignited his own lightsaber and joined his wife in the fray.

Her name is Sabine Wren. She is a Jedi Master.

In her lifetime, she has been born many titles.

Mandalorian. Rebel. Traitor. Jedi. Mother. Wife.

She is all of these things . . . and more.

Her story is famous among the Jedi younglings. She is fearless, passionate, and forthright. The first Mandalorian Jedi in a thousand generations.

Sabine is not particularly attached to any of these titles, although she is grateful for them; for what they taught her and how they continue to guide her, even now.

Sabine Wren, Jedi Master, values one thing above all: balance. A sense of life and purpose that, for the longest time, had eluded her.

After much hardship she finally found it in the most obvious of places: herself. She didn't need to be a Jedi to matter.

She just needed to be herself.

And that is what she excels at. That is what gives her such fearsome strength. She is the personification of a tempest in battle; her prowess in combat is said to rival that of Grand Master Skywalker himself.

She never gives into the anger; the fear. They are tools, merely to sharpen her edge. Through the Force, she burns so brightly like the starbird of legend that she wears proudly on her armor.

Her name is Sabine Wren. And even in the blackest of nights, she shines like a torch for all to follow.

A flicker in the Force; Sabine angled her lightsaber to swat away another blaster bolt. She crouched and aimed her blaster at a stormtrooper, a dozen steps up towards the entrance.

Pulling the trigger once, twice, three times - all shots found their mark. He fell limp and tumbled down the steps in comical fashion.

"Watch it!" she snapped to a Jedi Knight - a Wookie, still young, named Lowbacca - who was busy with two stormtroopers. A third was taking aim at him from the Temple entrance, a long rifle in his hand.

Lowbacca growled his acknowledgment and snapped his lightsaber, a unique bronze color, to a defensive position. The long rifle fired; the bolt was deflected away by the younger Jedi.

However that left his flank exposed to the other two stormtroopers he was previously engaged with.

Sabine prepared to jetpack straight for those two, only to find a barrage of blaster-fire halt her progress; another squad had appeared from the burning entrance of the Temple and began to batter the remaining Jedi with shots.

Realization hit Sabine like a gut punch.

I'm not going to make it. Lowbacca's going to die.

The stormtroopers, sensing their opportunity, raised their rifles -

And were promptly cut down in a flash of humming blue-white energy.

Fierce exultation filled Sabine's heart.

He was here. Ezra was here, at last.

Her husband sprinted up the steps with speed that shouldn't have been capable of any being, let alone a middle-aged man. But with the Force as his ally, there was little that couldn't be accomplished by Jedi Master Ezra Bridger.

Throwing out his hand, he called his lightsaber back into his hand and pounced towards the squad of stormtroopers at the Temple's entrance.

They saw him too late. His blue-white blade cut through the air, scattering away their fire, moving at a speed that defied logic. Within mere seconds, the squad was cut down.

Ezra pivoted away from them and raced down the steps, picking off the remaining scattered troops.

Sabine trained her blaster on the entrance but no more troopers appeared.

And like that, the battle was over.

She reached out through the Force, looking for any signs of life among the still bodies - but nothing.

Ezra had done what was necessary with his usual efficiency.

Lowbacca lowered his lightsaber and stared at Sabine - and then at Ezra, coming up to check on his wife.

The Jedi Master wasn't even breathing hard.

"Show off," said Sabine to her husband, smiling a little underneath the helmet.

"Hey, you liked it," retorted Ezra. He came close and eyed her. "Are you okay?"

"No injuries. Armor took all the pot shots, as always. You?"

He shook his head. "I'm alright."

They both looked around at the chaos around them. The remaining Jedi Knights were looking at them. Waiting.

Ezra turned to them and said one word. The word they were all dreading.

"Knightfall."

The fire burned behind them, casting shadows on their faces. Through the Force, she felt the grimness of their duty - what needed to be done - and the mourning for what was lost, bursting forth like a fountain in each of them.

But they nodded and ran into the night, one by one. Their duty was paramount. The future of the Jedi Order would be decided on this night, by their actions.

Lowbacca let out a howl of anguish. Ezra clapped him on the shoulder and spoke something in private to the Wookie Jedi.

Sabine felt a chill go down her spine - the wookie's howl sounded so much like the mourning cry of the Loth-wolves back at home.

Almost like an omen . . .

The Wookie Jedi Knight chuffed out a response, nodded once to Sabine, and then ran after his fellow Jedi Knights.

Sabine saw Ezra stare after them. She didn't need the Force to tell what her husband was feeling.

The fallen Jedi on the Temple steps spoke loud enough for her.

After a moment, Ezra turned to her. "Have you heard from Master Skywalker?"

Sabine frowned. "I'm not sure. Scattered reports from the other Jedi; they haven't seen him. He wasn't inside the Temple when the explosion went off."

"I can't sense him either. You?"

Sabine reached out - multiple presences inside the Temple, too numerous to count or identify.

She shook her head. "No, nothing. But there are survivors, I think. Other Jedi, still fighting."

Ezra grimaced. "We'll have to head inside, then." He paused. "Sabine, did you hear from . . . ?"

"Our daughter? Last I heard she was gathering up the younglings into the mess hall."

Aster Bridger-Wren, a Jedi Knight, like her mother and father. Their pride and joy and love.

Still inside the burning Temple.

Ezra asked, "Anything else?"

"No. Comms were jammed shortly after that."

Ezra nodded, but she felt his concern and anxiety double through the Force, thrumming like a taut power cable.

She reached out and grabbed his hand. "Ezra. She's tough. She'll be alright."

Ezra swept a hand at the chaos before them. "This enemy - who are they? Imperials?"

"Can't be. Empire's been dead for decades. This is something new."

She paused before stating, "I think it's the enemy General Organa was warning us about."

Ezra narrowed his eyes at her. "The Imperial remnant hiding in the Unknown Regions? They had this kind of firepower out there this whole time?"

"I don't know, Ezra. It's possible."

Another explosion rocked the Temple and the two Masters were briefly buffeted by wind and debris.

Her husband shook his head. "No time to talk theories. We need to get in there, find Aster and the younglings."

"What's the plan?"

He looked at her and ignited his lightsaber.

She grinned. "Oh, I like this plan."

He snorted. "You always do."

His name is Ezra Bridger. He is a Jedi Master.

A model to the other Jedi, he is considered to perfectly embody the quintessential Jedi essence: kind, compassionate, and diplomatic.

What very few realize is how funny he is; how passionate he can be, just like his wife; and, most importantly, how hopeful he remains on even the bleakest of days.

His love story - and subsequent marriage - with Sabine Wren is the stuff of legend; not just among the Jedi, but the galaxy as a whole. Holo-dramas have told and re-told their story to trillions galaxy-wide, never failing to amuse him (and exasperate his wife).

His proudest achievements are his daughter and marrying Sabine.

Where Master Wren is a storm, he is a gentle wind, swaying the grass fields; where she is a firestorm, he can be the rain; his light is not the burning torch of his wife, but a calm, unwavering candle in the night to guide your way.

His skills in combat are vastly underrated, only due to him preferring a more diplomatic approach to problem solving - but the few who have seen him in action have been awed to silence at his speed and efficiency.

Ezra Bridger is merciful. It is a quality that his wife - and others who admire him - adores.

But he is no push-over. And his mercy has its limits.

Something more eternal, more truthful, and more deeper to the Light Side of the Force exists within the soul of Ezra Bridger.

Because he knows the truth of life; of the light and the dark. He has seen it all in his life.

He knows the fundamental law of nature and lives its creed to the best of his ability everyday: that the dark must always yield to the light.

No matter how small the flame.

The way to the mess hall was choked with fire, smoke, and stormtroopers. Sabine pulled out a re-breather mask from her pouch and handed it to her husband.

"Thanks," he panted. Jedi had techniques for dealing with smoke inhalation, but they could only stretch out air for several extra minutes - and that was if they weren't doing anything strenuous at the same time.

The stormtroopers were handled with little problem by the two Jedi Masters; it was the bodies of fallen Jedi that disturbed them the most. Friends and acquaintances, all of them. Too many to count.

Sabine wondered if this was how her master, Ahsoka Tano, felt during Order 66. Did she see the bodies of her friends and comrades too? She never spoke much about the events of that bloody period of history.

Vaulting over the corpse of a Jedi youngling, Sabine didn't have to wonder why.

They felt the presence of her daughter huddled inside the mess hall with a group of younglings. The two Masters reached out through the Force and let her know that they were coming.

Reaching the door, Ezra said, "Sabine. Watch my back?"

"Always." She ignited her lightsaber and turned around to scan the hallway for any incoming enemy traffic.

He opened the door.

Inside was a mess; benches pushed to the sides of the hall, with the long tables used for dining bunched together in a tight half-circle. And enclosed in that circle . . .

"Aster! All clear!"

His daughter poked her head above the table, along with ten or so Jedi younglings.

"Dad!" She waved a hand at him.

Ezra felt his heart lift with the immense relief at the sight of her uninjured. He ran over and gave a huge bear hug that lifted her off the ground.

Sabine ran behind him and quickly closed the doors and locked them before joining her husband in an embrace of their family.

"I told your father you'd be alright," said Sabine. "Smart of you to barricade yourselves in the mess hall."

"Thanks," said Aster. She was tall for her age, a latent gift from her grandmother, Ursa Wren, who stood at a towering six feet. Her hair was cut short in a bob fashion, similar to her mother but she had inherited her father's dark blue color.

Even now, he smiled faintly at the memory invoked whenever she was within eyesight; she was the spitting image of her mother at that age. Except for the eyes - those she had gotten from him, perpetually piercing with their blue, bright-eyed gaze.

"You're not hurt anywhere?" He searched her all over, with all his senses.

"I'm fine, Dad, really." She paused and said. "There were Jedi Knights outside the door. Did they . . . ?"

Sabine shook her head. Ezra remembered the bodies they stepped over on the way here. "They didn't make it. I'm sorry."

Aster bit her lip and looked down.

Ezra put his hand on her shoulder and said, "Hey. They did their duty. Just like you did yours. Remember."

"Honor what they fought for," she said.

"Right. And we do that by getting you and the younglings out of here."

He looked to his wife. "Hangar bay?"

Sabine nodded. "I know a short-cut. Should be safe. We hid the corvettes pretty well in case of something like this. I doubt the Imperials know about it."

Aster looked at her mother sharply. "Is it really the Empire?"

Ezra shook his head. "I'm not sure. Your mother and I don't think so."

Sabine said, "Well, they fall pretty easily to a well-placed lightsaber."

Aster snorted. "That doesn't narrow down the list of suspects much, Mom."

Sabine shrugged. "Hey, I'm a Jedi Master. Not a detective."

Ezra smiled briefly at his wife before asking, "Have you seen or heard from Master Skywalker, Aster?"

His daughter frowned, thinking for a few moments. Then: "No, I haven't."

Ezra shared a despairing look with Sabine.

"But I saw his astromech droid."

Ezra's eyes widened. "Artoo? Where did you see him?"

One of the Jedi younglings - a small Togruta female - spoke up. "He was being taken by the troopers. They were heading towards the inner defenses."

Ezra felt an icy fist clutch his heart. He looked at Sabine.

"It's bad, isn't it," she said, quietly.

"They have his astromech. Luke trusted Artoo with everything regarding the temple - if the Jedi are to escape, we need those defenses. They're probably trying to get him to turn them off."

She cocked her head at him. "What's the plan, Ezra?"

He smiled sadly at her. "I'm counting on you."

Even under the helmet, he could feel her eyes blazing at him. "Absolutely not. We go together."

"Someone needs to stay with Aster and the younglings to guide them out safely."

Sabine took off her helmet and stepped closer to him; her eyes were swimming in tears. "I am not leaving you here to die some stupid, noble death!"

Ezra gently grabbed her and lead them both away from Aster and the younglings. He could feel the worried eyes of his daughter watching her parents.

"I don't want her to see us fighting. Not at a time like this," he said to her in a low voice.

"The Jedi Order is dying, Ezra. We need everyone to fight back against this shadow enemy - "

"No, we need them!" He waved at Aster and the younglings. "They're the future! They're what we need to save, Sabine."

She shook her head. "Don't ask me to do this. Please, Ezra." Sabine reached out and cupped his face.

It took everything he had to step away. How badly he wanted to stay with her.

Just like before. A long, long time ago . . .

Softly, he gave his wife a kiss. "We had our time. I was happy with you. With Aster. With Hera and Jacen and Zeb and Chopper. And Kanan."

Sabine started to weep.

"It's time to pay it forward, my love. For the future. For Aster."

She looked away from him for a long moment. Then she put on her helmet. Sorrow radiated out from her like a furnace but he felt the iron will of his wife begin assert determination into her being.

She had made her choice.

Once, a long time ago, she had made a wrong choice. And Sabine had vowed never to do so again.

No matter the cost.

"Aster. Gather the younglings. Keep them in a tight formation."

Aster nodded and started issuing instructions. Sabine looked to her husband and said, "Thirty minutes."

Ezra frowned. "What?"

"I'm giving you thirty minutes, Ezra. Then we leave."

"Sabine . . . "

She grabbed him by the tunic. "I don't care, Ezra. The Force can't decide all of it. You owe it to me and your daughter to try."

Ezra blinked and smiled at his wife.

Do or do not . . .

"I promise to try," he replied. "That's the best I can give."

Sabine nodded and let him go. Igniting her lightsaber she went to the door and peered out.

"All clear. Aster, we're heading out."

Aster ignited her own lightsaber - a vivid, pink hue - and led the tightly formed group of younglings out the door. Ezra took up the rear.

Before they went separate ways, Aster gave him a quick hug.

"Is this . . . good-bye?" she asked, voice quivering. His daughter was trying so hard to be brave.

Ezra almost couldn't trust himself to answer.

She would have known if he was lying.

He just squeezed his daughter a little harder in the hug, feeling her; the strength born from him and Sabine, all their knowledge and fears and joys, flowing into her.

"Follow your mother. Remember your training. And trust the Force."

She nodded into her shoulder. "I will, Dad."

He watched them leave, Sabine leading them into a side corridor.

Ezra looked at his wife. Sabine paused and took one last look at him.

He wanted nothing more than to freeze that moment. To savor the image of his wife, beautifully fierce, for an eternity.

A disturbance in the Force -

"Ezra!" shouted Sabine.

He whipped around, igniting his lightsaber in time to parry two shots aimed for his sternum.

Stormtroopers, coming around the bend. They aimed their rifles and started to fire.

He batted away the shots. "Sabine! Go!"

He felt her hesitation . . . and then it was replaced with grim determination. "Thirty minutes, Ezra! Don't be late, old man!"

And then she was gone, quickly ducking into the side corridor.

Ezra huffed out a quick laugh, dodging another blaster bolt. He deflected another one straight back to its shooter.

"Sorry, fellas," he said to the remaining stormtroopers. "Can't be late for this date."

He moved in on them, the Force guiding his hands.

Drawing on the Force, Ezra made the sprint to the Temple's inner defenses in five minutes.

His comm-link chirped as he stood outside the door, reaching out with the Force. Five presences, all filled with malicious intent.

He could also hear the pained squealing of an astromech droid.

Ezra ducked to the side and spoke into his comm-link. "Sabine?"

"Ezra. We've arrived and are powering up the corvette."

He breathed out a sigh of relief. "Any issues?"

"Not really. Diced up some stormtroopers on the way. Aster did this neat flip move that I think Master Skywalker taught her."

Exasperated, Ezra heard his daughter groan. "Mom."

"It was very fancy. I think I saw you do something like that, when you were younger. Way younger."

Ezra growled, "I'm not that old, Sabine. You're older than me, you know."

"He's a charmer, your dad. How are things on your end?"

Ezra readied his lightsaber. "About to get this party started."

He paused and said, "Wish you were here."

Sabine replied, "Well, you can tell me all about it when you get back in twenty minutes."

Ezra smiled, despite the situation. Sabine always knew what to say. "I'll do that."

"Yeah. You will. Or I'm coming for you." The call ended.

He readied a breath and stepped inside.

Despite the simple name, the Temple's inner defenses were a complex network of fail-safes and redundancies; all tied to a single, massive computer core that oversaw a whole network of protocols that kept the Temple running smoothly.

In case of an attack, the whole network was to run automatically without need of supervision; an alarm was to be sounded for evacuation and a recorded message from a selected Jedi Master broadcasted to the other temples to warn them.

In addition, multiple turbo-lasers were embedded in the grounds all surrounding the Temple. If there was a carrier waiting in orbit - as Ezra suspected there was - the turbo-lasers would fire unceasingly, giving fleeing Jedi a cover to escape.

It was an ingenious system devised by Master Skywalker and the New Republic's best and brightest - but it failed to account for one possibility.

Sabotage from within.

As Ezra stepped inside, the first thing he noted was the slashes all over the consoles. Sloppy, powerful, angry strokes - but not made from any metal blade.

Made from a lightsaber. The Force radiated with the rage and power from within the room; an echo of whoever had done this damage.

I've got a bad feeling about this, he thought. Ezra hadn't the slightest clue who from Luke's students would be capable of such a betrayal.

The second thing he noted was the squad of troopers huddled around a familiar astromech - R2-D2, Master Skywalker's trusted droid. He lay on his back as the troopers took turns poking stun batons at him.

"Stupid droid," one of them muttered. "Have you ever met one so annoying? They usually cave after the first shock."

Ezra decided that stormtrooper would be the first. Igniting his lightsaber, he said, "Hey, why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

They all whirled around. "Jedi!" screeched one of them.

Ezra pounced. There was a random array of shots, easily blocked by him.

Five swift slashes later, he was alone in the room with Artoo.

"Hey, buddy," he said, picking up the droid. The astromech warbled a relieved response to him.

"Have you heard from Master Luke, Artoo?"

Artoo replied in the negative. He sighed. "Figures."

Artoo beeped worriedly. "I'm sure he's alright. Anyway, can you get these consoles up and running? We need to get the defenses operational before - "

A sudden flicker in the Force was his only warning. Ezra dove to the side as an explosion shook the room. Bits of ceiling and rubble sprayed over him.

Shaking himself at this daze, Ezra looked up and saw the stars.

And then he saw the stars blotted out by something massive. Hovering over the planet.

Artoo had already jacked himself into the console. Within seconds the consoles came to life - and beeped an alert at him.

"A little late, but thanks. Yeah, I see it Artoo." He whistled. "That's a huge ship."

Artoo beeped a statement at him.

"The Supremacy? Sounds like someone important is visiting us tonight."

"Shall I tell you his name?" asked a menacing voice.

Ezra ignited his lightsaber and looked around to the source. A human man stood there, mid-30s with brown hair and a permanently pinched expression, garbed in what looked like an Imperial officer's uniform.

Only it was all in black. Not the usual monotone gray.

He held a blaster pistol in his hand, aimed at Ezra.

"Artoo, get those defenses up and running now."

More footsteps - hard and orderly; a marching formation.

Twelve more stormtroopers filed into the room and formed a semi-circle around Ezra and Artoo. They raised their rifles.

Ezra forced calm into his voice. "I know you're all scared. I'm a Jedi; I can sense these things."

The officer sneered at him. "We've killed plenty of your Jedi tonight."

Ezra cocked his head at him. "Not me, though. I'm still alive. I'm sure some of you are wondering why that it is."

He lifted his lightsaber in a defensive salute. "If you want to leave, you may do so."

The officer laughed. "No one will be leaving, Jedi. Except for you, in a body bag."

"So, what are you? Empire? Or something else?" Ezra couldn't help but be curious.

At the word Empire, the officer seemed insulted. Ezra could practically feel the man boil over with indignant rage.

"Do not," he said through gritted teeth, spittle flying from his mouth, "compare us to that bureaucratic, bloated waste of an Empire!"

Ezra raised his eyebrows in astonishment at the man's reaction. "My apologies."

"We are so much more! Led by our Supreme Leader Snoke, we will create order! We will enforce peace! No more New Republic, no more Empire - just an Eternal Order, the first of it's kind in the galaxy!"

He jabbed the blaster pistol at Ezra in a frenzy. "We are the First Order, Jedi!"

"First, huh." Beside him, Artoo beeped softly.

All finished. He nodded at the astromech droid.

All at once, the ground shook as the turbo-lasers, finally re-activated, began to blast away at the super-carrier in orbit above the Temple.

The First Order officer blinked in surprise. "What . . . ?"

Ezra pulled him forward with the Force, impaling him on the lightsaber blade.

"Ggghrk," said the First Order officer. Ezra leaned in close to whisper in the idiot's ear.

"The Jedi Order will make sure that your 'First Order' will also be the last. You should have learned something from your predecessors - never let a Jedi talk."

The fury erupted in the man's eyes - and then faded all at once. He was dead.

Ezra tossed him off the blade and waved to the stormtroopers. "Next?"

They opened fire.

Letting the Force guide his hands into a defensive pattern, Ezra shouted to the astromech droid. "Artoo! You're all good, buddy. Go find Master Skywalker!"

Artoo squealed in protest.

"I'll be fine. Gotta stay here to make sure they don't shut down the defenses again." His blade hummed angrily, swatting away more blaster-fire. "Go, go!"

The droid sighed in resignation and activated his boosters, flying through a hole in the ceiling.

And then it was just Ezra. Alone.

Deflecting more shots, he spoke into his comm-link to say good-bye to his wife . . . only for him to realize that it had been damaged in the explosion from earlier.

So that was it, then.

No more good-byes.

Ezra Bridger drew the Force into him, letting him fill his entire being until he could feel his cells glowing with its power.

And then he went to work. Moving with impossible speed, cutting down the stormtroopers; dodging, weaving, parrying with unerring accuracy and grace.

The twelve that entered didn't stand a chance.

But more came. Filing through, blasters firing away.

And then more. And more. And more.

And more. An unending, unceasing flood of white armor and red blaster-fire.

Ezra Bridger, Jedi Master, knew the math was not coming in his favor for this battle.

But he could not let them turn off the defenses.

And so he fought. Drawing more and more of the Force into himself.

It was dangerous, he knew. That much Force usage would burn out even an experienced Jedi in minutes.

He was burning himself out.

Ezra wondered if he could count how much time he had left in heartbeats. His hands weaved the lightsaber, blocking three shots -

A fourth got through. His leg.

He drew more of the Force in, walling away the pain. He pivoted, sliced through the abdomen of another stormtrooper -

His shoulder erupted in pain. Ezra ignored it.

And then his abdomen, left side.

He was fading. Somehow, barely conscious, he was still moving. Still fighting. His body moved on instinct, despite the increasing toll of his mounting injuries.

F a d i n g . . .

Memories.

Meeting Sabine for the first time. How intimidating she was; how fierce she looked in the Mandalorian armor. How beautiful she looked under the helmet. Feelings that had never gone away - that he never expected to be reciprocated until she found him again.

Kanan. His first lessons as a Padawan, learning how to wield the lightsaber, how to open himself to the Force; but, above all, how to be a good person.

Hera. The Twi'lek who was like a mother to him. The laughter they shared, how she protected and taught him. He remembered the tears she wept after his long voyage home from Peridea, sweeping him into the deepest, warmest hug he could ever have imagined after such a lonely exile.

Zeb. Cantankerous, reliable Zeb. The joy and deep soul underneath that gruff exterior.

Chopper. Foul-mouthed but ever dependable. The fun times they had getting out of sticky situations with the Empire.

Ahsoka. Always looking forward, always wise, always a mentor whenever he needed. She was the one to knight him. Helped mold him into the Jedi Master he was today.

More memories. More fuel to keep him going. Feeding the fire that was going out.

Sabine finding him again on Peridea. How easily they slipped into old habits, hiding away what had changed.

How her betrayal had shaken him - but they made it through, together. Forged a bond that could never be broken.

Meeting Jacen for the first time. Feeling his heart crack at how much like Kanan he looked.

Ending Thrawn's reign of terror against the galaxy. Saving the New Republic.

Living with Sabine. Falling in love all over again.

The marriage. Their vows. Waking up to Sabine, sleeping next to him, softly snoring. Feeling the weight of her, how she felt, the strength of her heartbeat.

The birth of their daughter, Aster.

Seeing her first steps, her first words; seeing her enter the Academy for the first time.

So many memories.

He fed them all into the fire.

The blaster-fire stopped at some point.

Ezra stood, just barely. He couldn't feel much at that point. His lightsaber held just aloft in a position that required the least amount of energy to hold.

Around him lay the crumpled bodies of at least a hundred stormtroopers. All dead.

A voice crawled into his head. Through the Force.

You have fought well, Master Jedi.

It sounded like . . . the Grand Inquisitor? No, it couldn't be. Or maybe it was Vader?

Or . . . Thrawn?

"Who is this?" he muttered.

The death of your Order, the voice said. The beginning of mine.

Somewhere in the haze of his mind, he remembered. "Snoke," he said.

Remember it well. For the short time you have left.

Three figures walked through the entrance, wearing scarlet armor. They moved through the sea of dead bodies like red wraiths.

In their hands, wicked blades with purple electricity surging through them.

Ezra had heard of them from the days of the Empire from Luke.

Praetorian guards.

Die well, Master Bridger, said the voice.

Still fading. Just embers left now.

Ezra, still in pain, lifted his lightsaber one last time.

Sabine looked desperately at the chronometer. Ezra hadn't arrived yet.

They were out of time.

"Anything?" she asked Aster.

Aster, tears streaming down her face, shook her head. "I can't raise him. Comms must be down."

Another explosion rocked the hangar bay.

"Not much of the turbo-lasers left," she said. "The massive ship above is bombing what's left."

She looked at her mother. "We have to get Dad. Let me get him."

I'm counting on you.

Sabine grabbed her daughter and sat her back down. "Tell the younglings to strap in and prepare for take-off."

A part of her was screaming, dying at what she was about to do.

"What? No - no, we're not leaving him, right? Mom!" Aster looked at her mother, pleading.

Sabine didn't listen. She keyed the control for the hangar bay doors and pushed the engines to maximum.

"Mom!" Aster yelled at her. "You're leaving him! You're leaving Dad behind!"

She glanced out the view-port to the burning Temple below.

Good-bye, my love.

Sabine knew, deep down, that she would always regret not saying it to him for the rest of her life.

She pushed the throttle and aimed for the stars.

The battle didn't last long.

It didn't need to. Ezra had done what was needed.

The praetorian guards pulled their blades from him. He fell over, watching the blood seep onto the stone floor.

One of them kicked him onto his back.

Through the crack in the ceiling, he saw a frigate rocket by, weaving through the laser bombardment, flying towards freedom.

He knew his wife and daughter were on there. Safe.

I'm sorry, Sabine. Going to be late after all. Hope you don't mind waiting a bit.

One of the Praetorian guards raised his blade for a final blow.

Ezra reached out one last time into the Force. Blowing life into the embers that were left.

With a strained shout, he threw his hands towards that cracked Temple ceiling. It shifted and groaned -

And then collapsed. Tons of rubble falling, caving in on the room.

The Praetorian guards screamed but had nowhere to run.

Ezra Bridger smiled, thinking of his watchtower - how the sun hit the capital city at the right angle making it sparkle in the early evening; how holding Sabine's hand felt on a warm, breezy day, just sitting in the grass fields, watching the Loth-cats scurry about . . .

He was still thinking about Sabine when he died.

FAR, FAR AWAY (Jacen)

Jacen Syndulla, Jedi in training, raced onto the docking ramp of the Ghost. His mother, Hera, is already preparing to lift-off from the Ghost cockpit.

"Jacen! Are we all set?"

He mentally checked the list one more time. "Yeah! That's everything!"

The broadcast from Master Skywalker's Temple had hit them hard - but the plan was already in motion. The Jedi were on the move.

Knightfall. Knightfall. Knightfall.

"Jacen, get up here! Gonna need you for navigation!"

"Alright, Mom," Jason shouted back. He began to close the ramp -

He paused. Two figures, shrouded in ghostly blue and somewhat translucent in Jedi robes, stood at the end.

One of them lowered his hood. Jacen sucked in a breath; it was a face he had only seen in holos and photographs.

"Dad?" he whispered.

His father, Kanan Jarrus, waved at him. He smiled sadly and turned to the other figure who also lowered his hood.

Jacen took a step back. "No, it can't be."

It was Ezra. He looked pointedly at Jacen and the younger Jedi could hear him in his thoughts.

It's up to you now, Jacen. You're the future.

Jacen began to cry. "Ezra, wait - "

I'll be seeing you around, kid. Don't worry. And look after your mom.

And then he was gone. They were both gone.

The docking ramp closed.

"Jacen! Where are you?"

After a couple minutes, Hera let Chopper doing the flying. She found her son, huddled at the docking entrance, still crying.

FAR, FAR AWAY (Ahsoka)

Ahsoka Tano turned to Huyang and asked, "Are the coordinates set?"

"Yes, Lady Tano. I expect we'll be the first to arrive."

They were sitting in the cockpit of her trusty T-6, waiting in deep space.

"Good. Any news from General Organa?"

"She'll be meeting us there, along with the other Resistance leaders," replied the droid.

The Jedi Master sighed and began to feel her age. "I can't believe it's happening again, Huyang."

The droid concurred with a sad tone. "Yes. Twice in my lifetime."

"And mine, too." Ahsoka had felt the disturbance in the Force, shortly followed by the broadcast from Luke's Temple.

Knightfall. Knightfall. Knightfall.

She drove a fist into her leg. "We're ready this time, though. We saw this coming."

Huyang replied, "The enemy is far more devious and quicker than we imagined. But, yes, we do have a plan ready for this."

Ahsoka opened her mouth to reply . . . only to feel a wave of sadness and grief wash over her. It was so intense and immediate that she doubled over in her pilot's chair.

I'm leaving it to you, Ahsoka. Thank you for everything.

"Ezra," she whispered. "No, oh no. Ezra."

Huyang, alarmed, asked, "Lady Tano? What is the matter?"

Ahsoka didn't reply. She was too busy crying over her lost friend.

FAR, FAR AWAY (Sabine)

Aster felt Ezra's passing before she did.

Sabine watched her daughter whisper, "Dad?", shudder once and then begin to sob, unrestrained.

And then - an invisible hand stroked her hair.

Ezra's voice, in her head.

Sorry, Sabine. You'll have to wait a little longer. I love you.

She reached out to grab the hand, but it was already gone.

And that's when she knew, more than anything else she had seen in the burning Jedi Temple, that her world had ended.

The frigate lay hidden in an asteroid field.

They had been pursued, as she expected. Sabine had used up every piloting trick she knew or heard about to escape the enemy.

Finally, they had stopped in an asteroid field to take stock and rest. Everything but the life support was turned off, in the event their pursuers came sniffing around.

And all that was left to do was . . . wait. Until they heard from Ahsoka.

Sabine sat in the darkness, feeling almost grateful for it.

Ezra was dead.

She kept repeating it in her head. It was a fact but that didn't make it feel any more true.

Ezra was dead. Ezra was dead.

"Mom?"

She looked over to Aster - and realized they weren't alone.

The younglings had all come to the bridge. They were scared, even if they were doing a good job of hiding it.

"Yes, Aster?"

"I'm - I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier. About leaving Dad behind."

Sabine shook her head. "It's the truth. That's what I did."

Aster reached out and took her hand. Sabine could feel Ezra's strength in those hands.

"It's what he wanted. He wanted to make sure we were safe."

The words tumbled into the hollow space in her heart where Ezra used to be. They didn't make much of a difference in how she felt, but she forced herself to nod.

"Master Wren?" asked one of the younglings.

Sabine said, "Yes?"

"Can you tell us a story? To pass the time?"

Sabine almost laughed. "A story?"

What use are stories at a time like this?

Aster replied, "I think that's a good idea. Mom?"

Sabine sighed - and then heard Ezra's voice.

Tell them a story, Sabine. You've got plenty of them.

She frowned. Why? What good would it do?

Well, it'll stop you from moping around, for one.

Oh, funny.

You've got to give them hope, Sabine.

Even when I don't have any for myself? she asked.

Especially, then, replied Ezra's voice.

She sighed. I miss you so much, already, goofball.

"Alright, gather around. I've got one. About going into another galaxy."

The younglings eyes widened and they huddled into a circle around her.

There was a small yelp. "Ouch."

Sabine winced. "Yeah, okay. Probably need some light, then. Can't use technology though . . ."

Aster said, "Hang on, I've got a lighter here."

She flicked it on. "Is that from Dad?" asked Sabine, amazed.

Her daughter's eyes opened in realization. "Yeah, for my birthday. He said they used to use this way back in the early, early days before the Republic. It's an antique."

Sabine watched the small flame, dancing defiantly in the dark. It lit the faces of all that were present -

And, for a small instant, she saw Ezra - smiling, huddled in the circle, ready to hear one of her stories.

I'm counting on you, Sabine.

She smiled, feeling the tears coming on. Sabine bowed her head for a moment, cleared her throat - and started telling the story.

"A long time ago, in a galaxy, far, far away . . . "

"The dark is generous and it is patient and it always wins – but in the heart of its strength lies its weakness: one lone candle is enough to hold it back. Love is more than a candle. Love can ignite the stars." - Revenge of the Sith novel, Matthew Stover

#sabine wren #ezra bridger #sabezra #ezrabine #star wars rebels #star wars #fanfic #sabezraweek #sabezraweek2023 #I promise guys that I actually love these two #the next one will be happier I swear

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katyspersonal · 2 months

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Katyyyyy where are you, new way to hate gehrman just dropped. Basically now he disrespected maria because doll is a levelup maiden that helps hunters during the hunt despite the fact she hated the hunt.

He is even at fault for not doing enough to prevent it in case it was moon presence doing. Its that absurd

fdsjhfh Hrrrrg sorry anon, I've been taking a break from the internet for health reasons (and still need more of it). But, damn, this sounds so... forced? Honestly, I do not understand such a strong hate-boner for a sad man in a wheelchair some people in this fandom have. I can't really think of any benefit of the doubt to spare here, it just feels like some people are unable to enjoy any piece of media without pulling real life problems, grudges and extremely unsympathetic judgement into it, especially towards characters and stories where they do not apply.

ANYWAYS, TWO-PARTER!

1) "Maria hated the hunt"

I think an important point to make here is that Maria's disdain for the hunt was, first and foremost, rooted in personal reasons! She was that strong, capable hunter of beasts (and undead Pthumerians of the Chalice Dungeons, for all we know!) but slaughtering the fish "monsters" that could still speak and think and pray was what broke her and made her unable to kill any longer. The way I see it, it was a trauma, and damaged self-image. She could not stand herself as that horrible killer, SHE was the real monster and it was plain to see!

If the point here is that making the Doll, a creation to immortalise Maria('s softer side), help Dreaming Hunters to become stronger and carry on the night, I don't.... understand it? Maria was no longer willing to hunt herself, and in the end, it was very likely that guilt that driven her to su1cide. We don't know that, though. It could've been losing Adeline, it could've been that Cainhurst massacre happened while she was still alive and she hated feeling like a traitor of the sinking ship, it could've been madness and misery of patients rubbing onto her, or all at once, or something else.

But let's say, dreading her past as the hunter was the core thing. I believe this as well, because in the Nightmare part focused on tormenting her, we can see a Chalice and a picture from Abandoned Old Workshop. This is very telling about what she does not want to remember the most:

The problem with the hunt and the beasts though? Beasts attack and eat people. Maria maybe never wanted to draw a blade again, but we can't say she would be opposed to helping the hunters. If nobody hunts the beasts, while they are growing in numbers, they will just... eat people? It actually reminds me of a misconception about Djura hating the hunters in general! He specifically asks to not attack the beasts of Old Yharnam, for the reason of them not being able to harm anyone unprovoked! Meanwhile, he encourages the Paleblood Hunter to go and hunt beasts out there, that can and will just attack humans! I think that Maria must be similarly rational: she can't fight anymore, but she can't deny that if no one else fights as well, beasts will just overcome people, and there will be no one.

If anything, Maria spent the rest of her life, after having revoked her hunter status, to help in the walls of the Research Hall. Research Hall was laboratory of the Healing Church, who were having and governing the hunters by proxy, even if their own type (the Holy Blades) and not Gehrman's type (the Old Hunters)! I would not say that her helping to sustain the hunt past death is so alien to her! The Hunter's Dream was Laurence's plan, and very likely the purpose of it is so that the Dreaming Hunters are able to sustain the full-moon nights with their power and immortality - all so Healing Church has more time and resources for research on ascension. In conclusion, Maria resorted to the role of passive helper, the support, rather than fighting force, even in life. Doll, in a twisted way, continues that quest.

P.S. Just because Maria hating all hunt and hunters as concept would be irrational, it doesn't mean that it can't be! It is still possible that she went 'may Chaos take the world' and spiralled into thinking that maybe humans of Yharnam had to pay the price for messing with things beyond their comprehension by simply perishing. Just.. not only I think this doesn't work so well for the character, but also in this case, Gehrman's "disrespect" would only be charitable! As in, 'Maria lost all sympathy and hope for humanity in life, but she might be her real caring self once more, in this new form', you feel? Not disrespect, but feeling like he must carry on the image of her true self when she no longer could.

For the next part though, let's assume that Maria would not want to ever help the hunters with no other ways around it, and that Gehrman was aware of it, to cut to the main points!

2) "Gehrman did not do enough"

Moon Presence is a literal God that owns the Hunter's Dream, I strongly doubt that Gehrman would be able to have much of a say in this...? If it was Flora's intent to animate the Doll, she might just do what she sees fit regardless of his wish. Or, more twisted yet: even if Gehrman asked her to please leave the Doll out of the hunt to honor Maria's wishes, Flora could read in his heart that he was miserable and lonely so still chose to give him a company. Great Ones might not understand the complexities of humans, such as the conflict between "selfish" needs and their integrity! Whereas for us it is a known thing to understand we must not want what we want, and we must do what we should, for her it was just that the host of the Dream was sad and missed a dear friend that looked just like that doll thing over there!

+ Moon Presence is only able to be defied with a large amount of insight and ascension-potential gained from consuming Umbilical Cords that Gehrman most likely didn't consume. I think it's worth pointing out as one of the reasons why he couldn't even "fight it" if he wanted!

This also made me think of another possibility I discarded long ago, I guess time to blow the dust from it!

Doll's face notably has these cracks on it, and at first I wondered if maybe, it was Gehrman himself who was trying to either beat the influence of Moon Presence from her, or simply destroy her. And yet, every time, she rose back to life, as eery and unfeeling as ever, until he gave up trying over and over... What if he did not want Moon Presence and the Hunters to tarnish precious memory of Maria, to the point of trying to break the Doll to stop mocking him. To stop mocking Maria. And although Doll always assembled back, something was still always off, as the evidence of his attempts - these cracks!

...in the end, I've personally decided it worked better as manufacturing mistake because his hands were shaking at Maria's face part. But like, imagine: Moon Presence cannot be reasoned with, and the next option, to attack the Doll itself, as much as it hurts to hit something Maria-shaped, doesn't work either. It is possible that he did not quite have a choice here, and Doll was animated regardless of his will. Could be for the sake of the Hunter's Dream, could be Flora's twisted "gift" for him that she would not take back... could be a coincidence, too.

Not only it is strongly implied that Maria was buried near the Old Hunters Workshop, since Old Hunter's Bone is found at the same grave Doll prays to and that leads to Hunter's Nightmare, but Doll also has two-to-three confirmed belongings of Maria herself in her design! It could be not Moon Presence's choice and not Gehrman's, but Maria's soul simply dwelled in this body on instinct because of all the odds that attracted her! Maria's soul could be split between Nightmare and Dream, since the two have spiritual connection (Doll remarks that she felt at ease after we kill Maria), Doll sometimes sleeps and we find Maria sleeping too, they have the same voice although Doll's body has no vocal cords (she is a doll, not a robot!) and we know Maria cared about Gehrman at least at some point.

It could be the odds not even a God would have the power over, let alone a man!

+ The cut lines of dialogue offer to her NOT hating the hunt entirely too. She literally tells you that "you will not find your enemies here", and since she seems to know you are a hunter under Gehrman, it makes sense to think she is referring to actual beasts to hunt that would slaughter people in the waking world... So, yeah, her "hating the hunt" isn't outright stated nor supported by both canon and cut content, but can still be a headcanon.

But what if Gehrman did it himself?

I will admit though, there is a potential for an idea! After all.. I love this take a lot. That maybe, initially, Doll was not animated, and Gehrman was the host of the Hunter's Dream all alone by himself. But his sanity was giving up from carrying the Dream by himself and being completely devoid of company. He was losing it, he could no longer trust his own restraint, he needed to keep his distance from the Dreaming Hunters for their own safety. After all, as we can see from one of the endings, if he allows a Dreaming Hunter to kill him, he will be free and the Dreaming Hunter will take his place. The freedom from endless solitude, nightmares and torment of the wait, always so close....

( x ) for translation of his lyrics. Also I want this to be written in the protocol that I hate listening to Gehrman's theme and it makes me cry every time even these three years later fsdhfhdsds

It might have been a sad necessity. To perform some sort of ritual to bring the Doll to life, so someone could take the duties off his shoulders while he is not stable. Because he could not trust the power of his will any longer. Why not direct this to someone that could not feel the loneliness and the pain? Even at the cost of tarnishing his precious memory of a special person?

In this case, sure, he is "guilty". "Guilty" for burying her near this place when she did not want to be a hunter, sure. Again, we don't know the extent of Maria's disdain for the concept, only that she personally did not wish to draw a blade again! And "guilty" for being a human being with human limitations. I think that if someone still wishes to hate him despite it, over their own misuse of the "explanation does not equal excuse" sentiment, this is just the same overly judgemental attitude I actively oppose and I can't approve of this even as much as I want to give a chance to every interpretation. I just recently made a post digging into how the way people treat certain "problematic" characters can reflect their morality towards real people ( x ), and this brings my point again. So, person had every single reason to do the thing, and basically no other choice in the situation, but they are "still guilty"? Context matters a lot, and still willing to hate someone when they had no choice but to do the thing is inhumane, I think. It reeks of pure desperation of excluding and exiling a person "touched by sin" even if it was not their fault, and this very specific sort of superfluous judgement had rotted the society, let alone media analysis!

________________

Alright, I've gotten quite emotional in the last part for someone simply disagreeing with a take on a fictional character, but every other time no matter what reason to hate this guy is touched upon I can't find any explanation but general lack of sympathy and understanding. Heck.. I guess Gehrman was written SO, so brilliantly, that the way people treat him is a great vibe-check? Any character can be disliked, including him, but people's reasoning for why the character is disliked can give away ignorance at least, cruelty and judgemental attitude at worst!

I just hope that I've made my stance on the take clear! Admittedly, it is a more interesting discussion than "misogynist creep" discourse that has been debunked 5000 times now! I think in this case, it is harder to find a final word, and I just offered mine. A lot of this depends on how one perceives Maria and Gehrman, there is no The One True interpretation and I've just suggested my thought process and what I think is more reasonable to assume. Taking away Gehrman's complexity and potential for sympathy for the sake of 'just another man that disrespected a woman' is a pet peeve for me but I am open for surprises. You just said that people "hate" on him yet again, and it just gets old.

#bloodborne #gehrman the first hunter #lady maria of the astral clocktower #plain doll #ask replies #bloodborne headcanons #bloodborne observation #disco horse #back to the bed i crawl #I leave for 2 days and Gehrman is everyone's punching bag again what is going on fshhfdfsd #maria doesn't need your gehrman-hating to preserve her integrity and complexity she had her own demons to fight (and lose against)

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mentally-ill-for-bes · 4 months

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Blue Eye Samurai Analysis Episode 2

I published this post half-finished and I don't even remember when I did it, sorry everybody!! If you're reading this, the analysis is already complete, talking about the whole episode.

Thank you all for the reposts and likes!!

You can read the analysis of the first episode here.

The episode starts with the Four Fangs searching for Mizu at the petition of Heichi, however; what I like from this episode is:

Ringo, the episode serves to show the characteristics of the character, he wants to be great, he's kind and funny but mostly, he knows he's useful. It's not like he wants to be useful, he knows he's, the only person who has to see it too is Mizu.

And Mizu isn't even setting him aside because she thinks he's useless, she does it because he's kind, kind, and friendly enough to distract her from her purpose. That's why Ringo won't seek what he wants at her side.

I wonder if in these first moments between them Mizu sees Ringo's friendliness as a weakness, of the way she hides her own feelings from all the people while Ringo wears his heart on his sleeve. But the fact they're different doesn't mean Ringo is strongless than her, in the end:

"My whole life has been a battle"

Just like hers.

When Akemi and Taigen are shown, they are both in a yellowish and warm ambient, contrasting that Ringo and Mizu are both in the snow, cold and blueish.

The scene gives us more about Akemi and Taigen's character and their current priorities:

"— Why didn't he just kill me?

— The Gods have shown you a longer path

— Ugh

— You still have me, we'll be married-

— Your father will never allow it now.

— I can convince my father

— And have everyone to mock me?"

While Akemi's priority is marrying (since finally, her father allowed it), for Taigen marriage isn't enough. He's losing the status and prestige he's gained by his own hand, he was the son of a poor fisherman to the champion of the Dojo and fiancé of a princess; any kind of honor that will come with marrying her will be null, because as Taigen as Akemi's love for each other comes from the opportunity they offer to the other.

For Taigen, Akemi is some kind of "prize", he came from being no one to being someone good enough to deserve the love of a princess, as Akemi's father said, his rise reminded him of his own.

While for Akemi, I guess Taigen offers an opportunity to be in control of (at least) her marriage, he's someone she already knows, when she talks to him, she never lilts her voice since he's not in a situation of power as her father is; if she married to a lord, she would have to live with him, while if Taigen married with her, is he the one changing his home for hers (which also adds ro Taigen's estatus). In some way, with Taigen being poorer and Akemi having a royalty status, the power he could have on her is lesser than the one a lord would have being her husband where she loses power for being a women despiste being a princess.

But even when she doesn't lilt her voice to Taigen, she does have sex for him as a way of returning him the power he lost in his duel with Mizu. Also, I guess that in some way, consuming the "marriage" would also be a way to make Taigen stay in a moment where he refuses to marry due to what others will think of him.

The fact that in the sex is she who takes the initiative, basically serving him, not enjoying it, and narrating something that serves his sole fantasies; will make a clear contrast with the next sex scenes where Akemi is involved, where instead of being the one who serves, it's the men serving her, the men talking to her.

"I can see it now. You challenge him.

And like a dog, he comes running.

He faces you.

An onryo. His demon eyes.

But your courage drives him back like a squall against the sea.

You unsheathe your magnificent sword.

He lunges at you, but his sword is no match for yours.

You strike with your blade.

You draw his blood.

His eyes are like two angry waves in a storm.

They try to suck you in, but you're too strong.

You thrust your sword into him again.

And again. And again.

A final cut, you feel the hot spray of blood.

Glory!"

The whole recitation, besides having a clear gay sex background with all the swords stuff. It's also useful to keep relating Mizu with water "drives him back like a squall against the sea", and "his eyes like two angry waves in a storm" and it also relates Taigen with getting lost in it "they try to suck you in, but you're too strong" which defines pretty well Taigen's obsession with getting a duel with Mizu.

But this scene will start Akemi's arc; after saying this Taigen goes away, she loses the power she's gained over her life and fights to get that back.

Going back to Mizu and Ringo, they're walking through a cliff.

At first, I thought Mizu was being way too optimistic here, planning to kill a whole army and Frowler in one day. But considering she's already killed Violet, I wonder if she indeed killed him in 1 day (ending up mortally wounded).

When they try getting a boat, everybody is focused on drinking due to the Hadaka Matsuri. All the scenes establish how different Mizu is from the rest of Japanese society, blinded for her own revenge; probably, but still outcasting of it, while everybody drinks, everybody's happy, she never drinks, and she never smiles in this episode; besides this being a characteristic of the character, I think it's also how the show is constantly reaffirming how Mizu's doesn't entirely belong to Japanese society due to her identity of a mixed-person; just as Mizu won't entirely belong to English society in season 2.

For Mizu, there's no shame in making a home except if she's the one doing a home. As it's said in the first episode during her prayer, she lost direction in what, we'll know in episode 5; making a home. Mizu's constantly putting aside Ringo from getting closer to her, not because she considers him useless or something, but because she won't open her heart and affections to somebody who can betray her ever again. Not when this will cause her pain and will distract her from his purpose, when it's her purpose the only stable thing in her life.

In other matters, we're presented to Heiji Shindo and the white man he protects:

In episode 1, the four white men are presented surrounded by blue, here Frowley's color palette is red/orange, opposite to blue, his coat is red, his hair is orange, and even the paint he does is filled with red.

It's not just contrary to the first shot of the white men, but also to the whole Mizu's, her hair is black, his is orange; her clothes are blue, his are red, she's smaller and thin, he's taller and much bigger. While the demon Mizu's features are related to blue, the white man in person is related to red. He's not close to her, he's not even similar to her, but they're both considered demons.

But there's a difference in why they're both demons, while Mizu is one for the color of her eyes, Frowler is one for his violence, for his hunger for destruction and power, his brutality. While the reason of Mizu is considered a demon is blue, her eyes, the reason Frowler is considered one is red, like the blood he spills, like the fire that will keep following him for the rest of the season.

So, while our first shot of Mizu is in the snow, cold; the first shot of his enemy is at the side of the fire, with a corpse at his side.

While it is shown the story about the broken sword made by Mizu, some phrases about sword-making are dropped.

"Your fire" Until this moment Mizu's has been water, but she's also fire, just as she said in episode one, she has an ember, but isn't an ember a glowing wood in a dying fire?

What will see through the season is her ember becoming the greatest of fires.

But for now, let's focus on sword-making.

Through the season, both swords made by Mizu will break, as Swordfather says:

"The yaki-ire is when metal is reborn,

and the soul enters the sword.

All must be pure for the sword to be pure.

The metal, the maker, the one to wield it."

It's clearly explained, that the sword doesn't break because Mizu's a woman or because she isn't pure; it breaks because it was made for an assassin who lied to both of them. Later, Mizu's blue sword breaks, not because it was made by her hand, but because of the change in her soul.

"A soul like that is drowned in blood.

There is no stopping them.

They will always find their broken blade.

We can only mind our own soul, Mizu."

After this memory and a cold water bath, Mizu can cut a whole tree.

Because water is her peace, her "safe place" To put it into simpler terms, she's at peace with the water she's; she goes to water to cure herself after the duel with Taigen, and she goes to water when she wants calm and re-focus; she doesn't need to come in terms with water, she'll need to come in terms with the fire inside her, the fire that she ignores.

First, he's incredibly delusional and I find it hilarious. Second, he does it because he sees Mizu cutting a tree and he wants to put himself at the same level as she. But he isn't, Mizu's better than him and his arc goes through learning from her and improving his beliefs and point of view by meeting her. By admiting he can learn from her.

In a quick change, we see Akumi again being surrendered with golden lights, dressed in red and warm colors, the show just keeps reaffirming her as red and golden.

When she's presented to the lords to see the arranged marriage:

Akemi's dad has already been dressed in the same yellow and purple the lords are. For Akemi, they both mean the same, men who will make her lose her autonomy and freedom. Same as her father.

Blaking her teeth is so traumatic for her because it represents how much autonomy over herself she's losing, Taigen should black her teeth like a norm for being a bride, but with Shougon's son, she blackes her teeth as a way to please him, as even her teeth are for his enjoyment.

The Lord smiling with all his white teeth at the same time the ladies smile with their black teeth just reaffirm for Akemi the loss of power and domain women have over their own life. While Lords can do whatever they want with teeth.

And, the first time Akemi is under blue lights is in this scene.

When she's finally under the snow, under blue lights is in the moment where she lost it, she lost hope, and she's in an arranged marriage with someone she doesn't know. This is so opposite to her whole identity, which is golden lights and warm ambient, now she's in the cold, outside her domain and the things she knows and it's related to. I guess in some way she's thrown to the cold, a thing that looked unknown to her until now.

And the moment when she decides she'll run away is when she's again under golden light, in her domain, but under the water; just like Mizu.

When she's running away, she abandons the red kimono for a purple one, purple is closer to blue in the color wheel.

In other news, the Four Fangs find Mizu and:

Parallel my beloved! In episode one as in episode two Mizu is being persecuted, while in the first one, she gets cornered on a cliff resulting in Taigen saying "Go ahead. Just jump" In episode two she indeed jumps to the cliff. Using it as a strength.

Another thing I want to point up is that all the fights of Mizu are generally surrounded by red or yellow, opposite colors to her characteristic blue, in the Shindo Dojo the uniforms were yellow and all the ambient was illuminated by yellow lights; with the Four Fangs the fights occur during sunset, the sea literally looks like blood.

But water is water, and Mizu at the end is water, looking blue or red, she's water. As she's some fire at the same time. Japanese and white, water and fire, and red and blue, both exist at the same time.

In the town, Ringo is fighting for the sticks that the priestess throws, and, as Mizu, it's in the water where they can be reborn. Sure, under the hope of getting their fondest wishes, but it's still just as Mizu, getting in the water every time she needs to focus on getting her fondest wish, to kill the four white men.

She doesn't entirely fit in Japanese society, not like everyone else, but that doesn't mean she's entirely and totally different. Just like any mixed person, one never entirely fits but that doesn't mean there aren't places of meeting between one and the culture.

#mizu blue eye samurai #mizu #taigen blue eye samurai #taigen #akemi blue eye samurai #akemi #ringo blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai #i actually don't know when i publish this

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etruatcaelum · 2 months

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[ @nothingbutthenight \\ for cinder]

Cinder isn’t altogether sure what brought her back to the convoluted ramble of Mistral’s lowest slums. Maybe a vague impulse to recapture the clear, burning sense of purpose she’d felt the last time she found herself stranded here, alone. It had been raining then; it’s sleet now, pelting down in miserable formless globs of slush.

Prowling through the deluge with nowhere to go and nothing to do is not how Cinder imagined this would go.

She’d planned to run.

Salem would come after her, and the unsettling mask of magnanimity would end. There would be pain enough to make what happened on the whale seem like a kindness, and Cinder would endure it all. No more pretending. No more games. Just the unvarnished truth Salem thinks she’s too stupid to realize, that Cinder is nothing more to her than a pawn, dredged up and laid bare.

Exactly none of that has happened. The dark glint of connection through her arm has lain quiet and still for eighteen days. Cinder made it to Forever-Fall like she’d planned—and there had been no chase, no hunt, no vindicating struggle against her fate.

Nothing.

Several tense, sleepless, uneventful nights led her to conclude that Salem believes she’s bluffing, and even worse was the uncomfortable realization that she might be. Alone in the wild dark of that forest, Cinder found that she could think of nothing she wanted that wouldn’t lead her right back to Salem. In pursuit of a new world…

Fuck her.

Cinder scowls, kicking disconsolately at a loose paving stone. Slush splatters everywhere. She’s not going to give Salem the satisfaction of crawling back empty-handed. She won’t.

She can’t. She won’t.

The problem is that Salem has the lamp and the staff, Cinder can’t retrieve the crown for her without first going back to Beacon, and with the whole world forewarned and rallying to Vacuo’s defense, she doesn’t like her odds there alone. And all Salem cares about, the only thing she wants, is those damned relics.

Snarling under her breath, Cinder whips around a corner. There has to be something–

Cinder never gets cold, but few other people are willing to brave the slum’s tangled byways in such foul weather; so her eye narrows when she sees another person coming her way, bent against the driving wind.

No one down here is worth robbing, and the stranger doesn’t have the bearing of a huntress. Still, Cinder draws an obsidian knife out of thin air to hold in her palm as they pass. Talons on the one hand, a blade in the other: if the woman recognizes her, she won’t have time to scream for help.

#LEGENDS AND FAIRYTALES ( ic. )#THE CROWNED KNOT OF FIRE ( sc: cinder. )#I DO NOT FEAR IT: I HAVE BEEN THERE ( v: dawn. )#nothingbutthenight

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tdciago · 3 months

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Fargo: C and Ch

(Originally posted to Reddit on 1/20/24)

I want to point out a couple of significant things that Noah Hawley did with alphabet letters in the finale. You can reject my interpretation of their meaning, but we should at least acknowledge that they were done.

The first is the absence of the letter C, but its repeated use as a sound in a spoken phrase.

The episode title, Bisquik, leaves the letter c out of the brand name, even though we've seen the correct spelling on the box several times during season 5, and the product has been mentioned many times.

Lorraine, in her description of Roy's punishment, mentions that she's helping prisoners in cell blocks D, B, and A, but not C. Once again, the C is missing.

During the scene in Dot's house, the phrase "across the sea" is spoken three times. If we think of sea as c, this phrase becomes part of the motif that highlights the letter c in this episode. We've also had references to "seeing" throughout this season, including eye patches and complete blindness, or lack of seeing/c-ing.

One of the meanings of C is cancer, as in the big C. Roy has said, "Cancer can't survive outside of the body," and Jordan Seymore repeatedly emphasized that he had cancer, and that, "I need this cancer out of me!"

Cigarette smoking is a major cause of cancer, and Lorraine gives Roy a pack of cigarettes with the fictional brand name Original, as in "original sin."

This "gift" can be seen as paying off the Trojan horse idea that was depicted in the shot through the windmill blades, showing two buildings on the ranch configured like a Trojan horse. The blades of the windmill itself look like matches with red tips, and the windmill is a gravesite. We can associate this with the cancer-causing cigarettes accepted by Roy. They are presented as a gift (because he can theoretically use them to bargain away abuse), but they are actually something harmful, just like a Trojan horse.

Munch also mentions being approached by a man with a "wealthy horse" to be given food and two coins. This was also a Trojan horse, because the food was actually sin.

Munch's sins are like a cancer that he can't get out of him.

Now for the second unusual thing with letters in the finale.

In the space of a few minutes, we hear the words chili, cheddar, chopsticks, chocolate, chimpanzees, and choice. That's an odd assortment of words, particularly the decision to include chopsticks and chimpanzees. What's going on with all those ch words?

The letter combination ch is a digraph: "two letters used to represent one sound," from Greek di- "twice" (from PIE root *dwo- "two") + -graph "something written," from Greek graphe "writing," from graphein "to write, express by written characters," earlier "to draw, represent by lines drawn" (see -graphy)."

I've theorized that season 5 is a story being written by Gaear Grimsrud, the kidnapper and killer of Jean Lundegaard in the Fargo movie, and that he was representing himself in the narrative as two characters: Ole Munch and Roy Tillman.

Munch is the pancake lover who just wants some peace and quiet. Roy is the domineering Marlboro Man side of Gaear, who commits ruthless murders.

In the movie, another character says of Gaear, "You know, he looked like the Marlboro Man." She proposes that this may be a subconscious thing, "'cause he smoked a lot of Marlboros." And Noah Hawley described Roy's look as the Marlboro Man.

The purpose of writing this story would be to pay a debt to Jean in the only way possible now, and to gain her forgiveness and hopefully some measure of redemption.

Just as Dot (who represents Jean) gives Munch the biscuit and speaks of forgiveness, the movie theme music kicks in. The victim has forgiven the perpetrator. In the previous episode, the perpetrator literally pulled the victim from the grave, resurrecting her in the form of this fictional character, Dorothy Lyon.

The only thing left now is redemption. So Munch eats the biscuit and is apparently freed from the curse of sin. At the same time, Roy (his other half) is damned to eternal hell for the crimes he has committed.

So there is both acknowledgement of Gaear's crimes, and recognition that they deserve punishment, but also some measure of salvation in the fact that his victim forgives him.

This is my interpretation of the finale. I also believe these events are taking place, within the story, as a bardo in the afterlife, a liminal transition space in which earthly trauma and sins can be worked out before reincarnation, much like Camp Utopia was for the abused women in Linda. As Munch says, "This is the other side."

We've had various discussions before about reincarnation and cycles, and if we look back, there are a lot of hints along the way that could point to smoking and cancer. I think this is what the author is dying from.

However you interpret the finale, we should recognize that Noah Hawley was trying to convey something with his emphasis on C and Ch.

#fargo #fargo fx #fargo season 5 #fargo spoilers #bardo #gaear grimsrud #roy tillman #ole munch #Bisquik

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spinchip · 1 year

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Turn You to a Colder Summer

(a/n: I wrote and edited this during my breaks at work, don't judge my grammar mistakes too harshly hehe)

(Warnings: frostbite (descriptions of numbness), violence, blood, injury, torture, mentions of past self harm, mouth trauma, threat of potential death. Kai does not have a good time, but he lives. The Ice Emperor is a Bad Guy)

(Wordcount: 2600)

Cold fingers drag along Kai's cheek in painful friction, ice crystals cracking and cutting into his skin like nettles as the hand arcs up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. The Ice Emperor's eyes are uncanny where they piece Kais gaze- black sclera where there should be white, burning electric blue where there should be warm sky, little flecks of gold that shift in and out of existence in the glow of the ice spires around them. No love. His expression is blank but not in the way Zanes usually is. It's cruel, clinical, and coldly detached.

Kai is bound in the floor, laid sideways to avoid the throbbing agony of brushing his frostbitten shoulder along the too-cold stone beneath him. That mark is hand-shaped, pressed brutally into his skin with a purposeful touch because Zane's ice couldn't get past the fire in his blood normally, not without excessive force or access to unlimited power. The ice blocks binding his arms behind his back and his ankles together don't sink frost as deep as when the Ice Emperor had torn him from his friends with an iron grip around his bicep. Their ambush failed. They were trying to escape, back through the tunnels Krag had shown them but he hesitated to follow, a part of him wanting to try and succeed where Lloyd had failed and draw Zane from the tyrant wearing his face. Kai knew better, he knew he couldn't get caught.

But he did, and now the Emperor is crouched over him with strange eyes and snowflakes trickling from his palm.

"He's not himself." Lloyd had said after stumbling back into the village- he’d left to look for the land bounty and had stayed gone three days, "If he catches you, he'll kill you." He promised, the sash from his ninja suit rewrapped tight over his belly and stained with his blood. The Staff of forbidden spinjitzu had a blade, after all. The Emperor was not afraid to use it. It was pure luck Lloyd had avoided the thick of the blade and hadn’t dropped his guts on the throne room floor.

To further prove his point and to save a life, he'd been dragging behind him a girl with each of her limbs encased in ice and delirious from blood loss, her mouth smeared with red where she'd coughed up bits of her lungs. He’d tapped her- just a tap against her sternum, the barest of hits that she’d nearly dodged, and he’d pushed ice into the delicate capillaries lining her lungs and frozen her blood half solid. The first breath she’d taken after had been agony, the second had torn. Akita. Lloyd had to tell them her name because she had passed out not long after arriving in the village- and when she tries to speak she was too out of it to form the right words. The blood flooding in her mouth wasn’t any help, either. Her body gave out once they began to chip her limbs free of ice, exhaustion claiming her. She was holding on to her life by a thread. Zane had done that.

No, the Ice Emperor had done that. It was an important distinction.

Kai, who'd just gotten his power back- the weak flicker that it was- had gone and gotten himself caught by the man.

The Ice Emperors eyes cut paths along his face, searching for something he knows is there but can't quite place. He'd been pacing around Kai for a long while, agitated and upset as he stared daggers at his prisoner. The frost on the edge of Kais cold and chapped lips reminds him not to speak. The Emperor has no qualms about forcing his silence. At first he’d thought the man was guarding him, too worried about the threat his powers might impose to regulate him to a typical cell under the palace. He was wrong. The Ice Emperor has no fear of him at all. Now he's so close Kai can smell oil, tracing burning cold lines into his skin as if finding the right path across his face will reveal what he's looking for.

Kai prepares for the eventual question. He also prepares for the scenario where the Emperor asks no questions and freezes his heart in his chest, but he hopes it doesn't come to that. He imagines what the Ice Emperor might ask- what the part of Zane still alive in him might push him to ask. There's no doubt that Zane still lives, because if he didn't the Emperor would have no reason to take any interest I'm him at all. He'd have been dead ten times over. Maybe he'll ask who are you? Or how do I know you? Or how do you know me? And Kai can explain to him that he loves him, he loves him, he loves him and that will make everything okay. It will. It has to.

Another long moment passes where the Emperor is crouched over him searching. Kai searches him too. Looks at everything in hope of finding the piece of the puzzle he can use to slot everything back into place. He's wearing completely different robes than he was before he was struck by the staff, white and gray and hand embroidered with diamonds made to glitter everytime he moved. His armor is growing fractals of ice in a messy, unkempt way. There's a patch where the icicles have been meticulously chipped away, but that chore was dropped and now they've been left to grow rampant. His face is dented and there's a patch of ice that's holding his jaw in place- an ugly crack from the corner of his mouth, a gap, and Kai can see where the connection between his mandible and skull has been snapped. The lopsided frown makes the break even more apparent.

The hand on his face is covered by a pure white glove. The hand on the staff is bare other than a thick case of ice, and Kai can see clear through it to the mess underneath. The titanium casing on his hand has been split apart to reveal his skeletal structure below. Kai has spent enough time in Jay and Nyas' mechanic lair under the monastery to have at least somewhat of a grasp on the basics of Zanes parts, so he knows what he's looking at. More specifically, he knows what he's not looking at. Wire- important wires, the ones Nya complains about because they have to special order them and they take ages to come- are missing. Not torn out, but neatly trimmed down near his wrist. The structure boning for his pinkie is gone, removed in the same clean fashion. There's more- Kai only knows so much, but he can tell the machinery underneath looks far more barren than a few wires and bone. Lloyd told them about the message in that cave, where he'd tried to fix the mech.

Kai can see it clearly in his mind. Zane, desperate and alone, taking the edge of a ninja star and sliding it along the near Invisible seam holding the casing of his hand together and shoving, cracking the connection points until it pops clean off. He and the mechs used the same type of wiring, after all.

The Emperor's voice is quiet when he speaks, the unfamiliar deep grit softening in the question meant just for the space between them, "Why do I hate you so much?"

Kais heartbreak over what might have happened in the cave stalls, every part of his mind thrown off rhythm with a question he never would have guessed he'd be asked. He can't articulate a response because he can't understand why Zane would hate him, and why that emotion would be leaking out into the Ice Emperor now.

"Zane-" He starts before his mouth is sealed shut with a layer of ice. Brain freeze hits first, sharp and cruel and like an icepick up through the roof of his mouth. Frost invades his mouth and glues his teeth together, crawling halfway down his throat. It hurts all the way to the roots of his teeth and he thrashes on instinct, bouncing his head off hard stone before he can control his reaction. Every part of his face hurts. There's a terrifying moment where the ice spreads over the back of his throat and seals off his sinuses and he's certain the Emperor has finally decided to kill him by suffocating him to death.

But the ice recedes almost as quickly as it came, though the Emperor keeps his hand over Kais mouth as a reminder not to slip up again. That was worse than the first time he'd done it, Kai doesn't want to know how bad it might be next.

The Ice Emperor's face is terrifyingly blank, a mask that gives absolutely nothing to Kai, so empty it scares him more than anything he's done so far. The interest in his eyes has fractured, and underneath is a hatred that makes the black of his pupils seem darker.

"You and your friends," his voice is still gentle, chillingly calm, "I hate all of you so much. I do not know why, but I do. I want to punish you."

Kai’s heart is jack rabbiting in his chest, beating at his ribs as adrenaline floods his system with nowhere to go. Fight or flight and he can't do either.

He takes his hand off Kai's mouth, "Speak." He orders.

Kai is woefully unprepared, stumbling over himself to try and come up with some way to remind Zane who he is. Lloyd told him that Zane said he loved them in his goodbye video. Why did that change? Was it the staff corrupting his mind? But the staff can only feed feelings that were already there. Did some part of Zane, some small part, really hate him?

"You're sick," he tries, his tongue darting out to try and wet chapped lips but its been hours since he's had a drink and his mouth is dry, "The staff is altering your mind, Zane. This isn't you. We're all friends! We love you!" He isn't above pleading and he pours desperation into each word, "You have to remember! I love you!"

The Emperor tilts his head inquisitively to the side as his expression flickers along the edges. Kai still knows Zane well enough to pick up on the minute changes- not a hint of it is kind. Whatever Kai said picked something loose, but not enough. Not enough. The light In his eyes changes but not in any way Kai can understand. He presses his finger to Kais mouth and seals it with another layer of ice, stopping his words. The air is thick, fraught with a tension so strong Kai can barely breathe through it. The Emperor looks at him. His eyes are so dark. He can still see Zane in everything the man does.

"I waited for you," the Ice Emperor speaks slowly, sounding out the sentence as if reaffirming its truth. A piece of Zane, just a sliver- a curiosity for the man crouched before him. It's a feeling, a certainty of a grievous crime, "And you never came."

It's bone chilling hatred.

It's betrayal.

Kais heart drops through his stomach and cracks to pieces on the icy floor. No no no-! He can't wrench his jaw free of his muzzle but he tries desperately to. He tries to scream, to howl and pour heat into his mouth- fire reacts to his devotion to his family, rushing through his body but again Kai is not enough.

We didn't know! We couldn't have known! We came as soon as we could! He thrashes on the floor, tries to bash his jaw down to shatter ice. He wants to grab the Emperor by the shoulders and shake shake shake him until his head pops off. I would have torn apart the sixteen realms to get to you! He's crying and the tears sting where they drip down his face. I would do anything!

He slumps, boneless and sore where his skin bruises on stone. He's thirsty, he's starving, and he's so so cold. The fire flickers out of him back down to an ember, faint and comforting if not much else. He blinks the wet from his eyes and sees the Emperors white white robes are stained with blood at the bottom. Above him, the tyrant moves.

Kai pushes himself back, the reality really sinking in. He was going to die here. No! he couldn't! He couldn't let Zane do this because when they got him back- and they would get him back, Kai has to believe that- he would never forgive himself. His back hits a pillar of ice and he looks around wildly, trying to figure out some way to get out of this, a smoking gun, a dues ex machina- anything! To stop what's coming.

He can do nothing. He squeezes his eyes shut as the Ice Emperor cups his cheek gently- but there's no ice stabbing into his brain, no agony of a literal ice pick lobotomy. The Emperors thumb wipes away an errant tear. A heartbeat passes before Kai hesitantly looks up at him.

The Emperor's face is still and serene, "I am not going to kill you, Kai." There is a moment of relief, even an inkling of hope before the chill comes.

It seeps into his skin from the Emperor's hand, down down through his face- It pours like slush through fat and muscle, cutting through his cheek to burn his gums and freeze the nerves in his teeth. It gets colder. Kai tries to dislodge his hand but the Emperor jerks forward and slams him down, holding his head against the stone floor as he pours ice into his blood faster, more brutal. Kai can't scream, his jaw locking against the bite of frost. It gets colder. It burns like the road rash he’d gotten the first time he’d wrecked his motorcycle, but a million times worse. Pain overwhelms all of his senses until he forgets how to breathe, hyperventilating and trying miserably to suck in enough air through his nose. His mouth is still sealed shut, he can't get enough air- he can't- His vision flickers with black spots.

It gets colder.

Feeling stops, numbness spreading like a balm over dying nerves. He stops struggling, taking advantage of the respite to catch his breath. His chest hurts with how hard his heart beats. His head is spinning. He looks up at the Ice Emperor with exhausted eyes and finds no pity, and especially no mercy. As Kai had struggled and sobbed in agony, he’d watched it all happen. He’d just watched. Kai is aware of the hand in his face by pressure alone, feeling blissfully gone.

The Ice Emperor takes his hand away.

He lays there and breathes, a tingling feeling spreading over his cheek. Pins and needles that turn sharper and sharper. With the loss of cold, feeling creeps back in and Kai is slowly aware of every inch of dying skin the frostbite has decimated. It hurts- it hurts like nothing he's ever experienced. He can't comprehend the pain, his mind blanking out as the blood roars in his ear. His vision goes gray at the edges as he struggles to stay awake. He can't pass out- he has to bring Zane back. He has to. He can't let him hurt the others. He can’t fail him like he did with the fight against Aspheera. Kai has to be enough. Please let him be enough.

The Emperor cards a hand through Kai's bangs, deceptively gentle as he wipes sweat slick hair off his forehead.

"I want you to suffer."

#ninjago #kai ninjago #zane ninjago #ice emperor #ice emperor ninjago #ns11 #blood #gore #frostbite #violence #graphic descriptions #injuries #serious injuries #torture #mentions of past self harm #mouth trauma #threat of death #ask to tag #spinchip fic

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