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zeroducks-2 · 6 months

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Idk if anyone is interested but in case someone is, yes, Barry reciprocates. Have my exhibits! With pictures!

.Exhibit A!

He keeps looking for Eobard subconsciously, can feel when he's there, his presence alone is able to trigger Barry's memories of past and future lives.

And look, Eobard was right there!

(panels from The Flash Vol.1: Lightning Strikes Twice)

.Exhibit B!

When he finds Eobard dead, Barry spends time with his body in the morgue struggling over how he died, what might have hurt him, observing that "whatever got him must have just slowed him down" (all the while softly whispering to and gently touching Eobard's body).

I can never not be insane over how tenderly he's caressing Eobard's forehead. Might I add that he spends just so much time in the morgue that he's late to his own birthday party. Might I also add that whatever Barry did in that morgue, it brings Eobard back to life. This man literally told his nemesis "come back to me", and Eobard obediently did.

The last panel, that's Eobard's powers reactivating as he's revived, moments after Barry left.

(panels from The Flash Vol.4: Running Scared)

.Exhibit C!

When Godspeed starts killing people, including the woman Barry was dating, Barry is shocked but keeps being willing to forgive if August is willing to stand down. Barry gets beaten up and humiliated and still worries for August, trying to appeal to his rationality and compassion.

But then August makes the mistake to threaten to find Eobard (who at the moment is being tortured a prisoner in Iron Heights), and kill him in front of Barry's eyes. And if Barry has been rational and willing to stop fighting, after the umpteenth time August tries to get to Eobard he loses his entire shit, grabs August by his head and neck and is just about to kill him, in a scene which is a direct parallel to when Eobard forced him to break his neck.

That's apparently what Barry does when someone insists on threatening to kill the people he loves and make him watch. He doesn't kill August of course, but he gets close to it - the moment Barry lets him go August is unconscious for lack of air, he was being choked to death even without the neck breaking part. All because he had threatened to murder Eobard.

This is Barry breaking Eobard's neck to protect Fiona, Barry's fiancee at the time, after he's been incessantly threatened to be forced to watch as he kills her. He did not want to kill Eobard, he felt extremely guilty to the point that now, having killed him is one of his worst nightmares, but he was essentially forced to do it (why Eobard did this to make himself get killed is another interesting and unhinged story for another time). So as you can see, this is how Barry reacts when he gets threatened with the death of someone he loves.

And this also is Barry reacting to the threat of a speedster killing someone he loves. I am in awe with the parallels drawn between these two panels. The same font and stile has been used for Barry's "Not again!" and "No!", and there is the same brutality coming from someone who 99% of the time tries everything but violence to solve any kind of situation. He's entirely out of his mind when he does this.

(panels from The Flash Vol.1: Lightning Strikes Twice)

IN CONCLUSION

Somehow, IDK HOW, Barry does reciprocate in some form. At least in Joshua Williamson's run he does. ...I actually have my theories on the how, which entail these two being each other's lodestone, being irremediably connected through time and space, and Barry having been loved&desired so much and so strongly for so long, both outwardly and through the natural connection of their powers, that at some point he just... started feeling back.

"But Thawne killed his mother!" LISTEN. I KNOW. I think Eo is as confused by this as you and I to be honest. And that's also something about Barry which is very fascinating imo: he will love in spite of everything. Even if the other person doesn't understand it, even if it makes no sense, even if BY ALL MEANS HE SHOULDN'T, even if he hurts, he will still love and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Luckily for Eobard, because there is no one else in the omniverse that ever loved him, and likely ever will.

#eobarry #they're canon yall #I have wanted to write this post for a while but somehow kept postponing it #I guess this counts as a meta?#my meta #speedsters stories are insane yall should give them a try #ESPECIALLY Williamson's run

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akashigadabi · 1 year

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There’ll Be Hell To Pay

Pairing: Yandere All For One x Consenting Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: After Reader comes home in tears with a visible bruise on their cheek, All For One comforts them and promises to “take care” of the offender.

Word Count: 3230

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Yandere, Homicidal energy/rage/urges (not directed at Reader), Consensual Relationship, Ambiguous Morality/Moral Ambiguity (Reader), various mentions of murder and bloodlust, implied/referenced past non-con/sa, implied/referenced sh + sa, anxiety/panic attack (hinted at, averted), implied/referenced ptsd/trauma

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Humor

Style: Present Tense, POV 2nd Person

*Note that Reader isn’t explicitly stated as one sex/gender or race/ethnicity—Tumblr just has a shitty gif selection tool on mobile and I couldn’t find any others that fit this scenario after looking for half an hour.

“Who did this to you?”

The cold undertone lining the softly spoken words sends a shiver down your spine. All For One sounds three seconds away from committing a homicide. The dangerous edge to his voice promises death to anyone involved, and not a swift one. The perpetrator or perpetrators would suffer by his hand, their deaths as slow and painful as he could manage. The darkest part of you relished in that knowledge, even as you stood there crying in near-silence.

Gods weep, you feel weak.

You couldn’t look at him. An All For One incandescent with rage truly offers a terrifying sight to behold. An eldritch abomination apoplectic with an unholy rage that made you tremble in its presence, though not out of fear. You know deep in your bones that this man, one dangerous as they come, would never hurt you. Boogeyman of the underworld and its undisputed king or not, he would never dream of laying a hand on you. Adrenaline coursing through your veins like poison causes half the pathetic shivering you can’t force to abate no matter how much you call yourself a weakling for the show of vulnerability in your head.

Yet you could not look at him, at your fearsome husband, eyes averted toward a rather hideous, if disgustingly expensive, painting on the spotless cream wall. Tears stream from swollen, reddened eyes. It shouldn’t rattle you nearly as much as it does, but somehow you can’t stop thinking about the catcaller bold enough to grab you, bold enough to strike you, even if you stuck back at him twice as hard because you learned early on the hard way that if you don’t have enough of a backbone to stand up for yourself, people will walk all over you. That would never happen again, not as long as you live. Even All For One would not raise a hand against you (unless you ask, of course), though that comes from his affection for you rather than any sort of fear of the reprisal you might intact in return.

That being said, some strange man was most certainly not allowed to hit you, let alone have physical contact with you in any other way. Before today, no one who knows who you really are, who knows the identity of your husband, would have the sheer audacity to touch you. That vile man you’d encountered earlier clearly has no idea who he’d harassed, not that he should be harassing anyone. Either that, or he has some bizarre sort of Death Wish™ and/or has lost the desire to live.

Who in their right mind would dare to grope, grab, or slap the loved one of someone so inclined toward homicide as a solution to nearly all their problems? Part of you wants to kill such a loathsome piece of shit yourself, though a larger part feels too shaken by the assault—for it had involved an assault, since the man hit you when you objected to being catcalled and groped on the way home—to do more than cry now that you feel safe enough to fully process those earlier events.

You feel so violated even though nothing worse happened to you. You’d decked the fucker hard enough to loosen one of his teeth, to make him bleed, and that had broken his hold long enough for you to haul ass back to your primary house, half afraid he might try to pursue you. Despite that victory, despite the safety of your environment, and despite a clear proximity to your mate, your heart still gallops along with all the finesse of a jackhammer. Blood continues to rush in your ears and the metallic tang in your mouth has yet to leave your tongue. Your breath stutters as if on the verge of hyperventilating, and your body remains so keyed up in all the worst ways that you flinch when your lover reaches out to caress your cheek with all the tenderness of someone handling a delicate treasure.

“My heart,” the self-proclaimed Demon King whispers, a note of devastation and barely restrained fury thrumming through every syllable. “Tell me who did this to you. Who dared to leave a bruise on you? Hmm? Tell me so I can take care of it.”

You want to tell him, you do, however, you can’t. Not at the moment. Not with your throat clogged by your emotions. The encounter opened an old wound, awakening a trauma you thought you left behind years ago. It gums up your lips so you can scarcely part them. A fresh wave of tears falls even as you lean into the gentle brush of knuckle against flesh still throbbing from impact. You sniffle, then, reaching out to anchor yourself in reality, in his comforting presence, lest your treacherous mind tries to drag you into some of your more unpleasant memories. A whimper somehow manages to escape your otherwise uncooperative mouth.

All For One, someone who should arguably not serve as a source of reassurance for anyone, draws you into his embrace. Instead of steel bars blocking out your means of escape, his strong arms instead offer a means of support and security. You allow him to bring you to his chest, until you’re leaning fully into him, uninjured cheek pressing firmly to his broad, muscular chest. Either all that murder keeps him fit, or he works out on a regular basis outside of your exercise routine together. Man’s jacked, and you love it, though it’s harder to appreciate it when you’re in such a frazzled state that you’ve gone nonverbal.

Signing isn’t even a real option at the moment with your fingers curled into his suave dress shirt like claws. The only option at hand comes from your bond, and you’ve been closing that off as much as possible to avoid the ugly truth filtering through. You’re just too overwhelmed to deal with more than clinging to your supervillain husband as you cry into his nice button-up, woven using some fancy ass fabric blend. He wears it with you in mind, since you have sensitive skin. He doesn’t want it to hurt you on the odd day you decide to put it on yourself, or during your clothed cuddle sessions when you rub your face against his chest.

One of his hands—as large as your head, because All For One really is such a large man—cups the back of your head. His long, elegant fingers tickle the skin of your neck, with his index finger curled at your nape and his pinky flirting with your spine. This close to his skin, his scent hits you full-on in the face even through his clothes. He refrains from wearing any cologne that might trigger respiratory issues in you, so the sinful way he smells is all natural, which makes it all the more attractive.

You close your eyes to soak it in as you allow him to fuss over you, using one of his Quirks to scan you for further damage. You sense it sweeping through you, stroking every cell with the care of a devoted lover. The man hums as he presses a kiss to the crown of your skull, his nose lingering amongst your hair as he inhales your scent in turn. You’re both sensual people, each equally guilty of indulging in satisfying the instinctive primal urge to fully submerge your senses in the other’s presence.

Vibrations rumble through his chest beneath your ear when he addresses you again. It soothes something in you to feel them buzzing against your ear, complimenting the flutter of his own heart. It beats at a rate that informs you he’s agitated, though not with you so much as over your current state. You arrived home visibly distraught and evidently sporting an already darkening bruise on your face. You could think of few things that would quicken him into righteous fury faster than a single hair on your head coming to harm. He would kill for you in an instant. All you had to do was direct his ire toward the appropriate target and he’d be more than happy to lay the corpse of that unfortunate soul at your feet.

All For One wraps his other arm around your waist. He uses it to rub your lower back while activating a catlike Quirk to purr in a further attempt to calm you down enough to communicate with him. His body heat radiates into the bubble of space around you. The air itself crackles with tension, permeated by the scent of ozone. A far away rumble of thunder booms in the distance. You wonder if it’s pure chance, or if he has a Quirk that affects the weather. His stormy mood surely isn’t helping if he does. He may be doing his damndest to alleviate your stress, but his own still shows.

“I can’t help make it better unless you work with me, little love,” All For One croons in his silkiest attempt at coaxing you for information yet. “Please help me understand.”

The earnest yearning to make it right—though the phrasing holds a different connotation for someone like him—finally breaks your resolve. You manage to pull yourself together enough to make your thoughts coherent, even if aural speech still escapes you. One last sniff precedes you opening up the mental channel of communication between you two, something only possible due to your Quirk. It had started as an Empathy Quirk that the two of you strengthened through him taking a copy of it so you could experiment with its applications together. With you each possessing the Quirk, you discovered you could both use it to communicate through touch.

A flood of images, sounds, and emotions cascades through the bond between you. You try to keep it short and sweet, though he seems more interested in replaying the memory a second and third time to memorize the face of the attacker. Since he didn’t experience it in person, he doesn’t have a sense of your attacker’s Quirk, so he has to rely on his appearance alone. No doubt he’ll order one of his people to snag the footage from any nearby cameras so he can hunt down his prey. A phantom whiff of blood blooms in your nostrils, a product of the thick cloud of bloodlust exuded from his every pore. The man in your memory is already as good as dead. All For One has laid eyes on him. There’s nowhere in Japan—or on earth—that he can run or hide.

All For One exhales before angling his face downward to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. Tension lines his form, even as he holds you close, not letting the indignation of such an act disturb the comfort he wishes to offer you. Despite that, leashed wrath bubbling on a slow simmer boils in his blood. You can taste it as vividly as a strong wine. It bathes your tongue, sharp and sweet. It evokes a heady sensation in you, making your head spin as if you’ve imbibed far too much champagne for one night. You feel light and protected in his arms, witnessing his wrath in quiet awe like an astronomer watching the birth of a new star so bright you can’t view it head-on for fear of being blinded.

“Thank you.”

Palpable relief coats the entire sentence. Relief that he now knows the source of your distress. Relief that he can eliminate that source. Relief that you weren’t further harmed by that stranger. Relief that you stand safely in his grasp. The emotion slithers down the bond, bleeds through his skin, wraps you in a warm cocoon that soothes rather than smothers. Like a weighted blanket swaddling you in soft pressure. Steady in its firm hold without crushing you under its bulk.

You nod even as you offer a low hum of agreement. All For One grounds you, his crisp energy helping to clear your mind as the minutes tick by. He doesn’t rush you despite the itch to kill suffusing his being. The thirst to spill the blood of the one who dared to lay a finger on you ripples under the surface of the tranquility and security he pushes toward you in waves. It reassures you in its own way. Reprisal would come swift and sure for your errant catcaller turned assailant. The same man could not—would not—hurt or harass you again.

Your breathing finally evens out as you slump against him, boneless and suddenly exhausted. As if sensing the shift in your demeanor, All For One scoops you into his arms, literally sweeping you off your feet into a bridal carry. One smooth transition later sees him carrying you to your shared bedroom with ease, muscles rippling under the fabric of his expensive suit. He continues past the bed to the master bath, where he undresses you with loving care. He closes the toilet lid and sets you onto it long enough to undress you both, then helps you shower. You could do it yourself (even if you’d need to spend the better part of half an hour just standing under the stream staring numbly at the wall until you could collect yourself), but you allow him this indulgence. It smooths out your frayed nerves as much as it satiates something else in him.

Ten minutes later, he dries off both of you, taking the time to gently pat the water droplets off of your skin, then carries you back to the bed. He leaves your side only long enough to retrieve a gown for you. Silk glides against your skin as he redresses you, leaving goosebumps in its wake, yet it’s not sexual. Not right now. Not when he touches the unhurt side of your face as if the slightest bit of pressure would bruise it too. With your sensitive skin, it probably could if done in just the right way. Under normal circumstances, such ginger contact would seem overly cautious. Now, knowing he’s taking extra care not to worsen your physical or mental condition after an attack, it feeds something in you. You can take care of yourself, and you don’t rely on him to intimidate every shadow and strong gust of wind, but gods does it feel good to be taken care of like this.

‘Love you,’ you sign, at last not feeling like as much of a wreck. You pulse a strong burst of affection through the bond as you look up at him, using the skin contact to send the image of a kiss. All For One grins, teeth flashing in one of his trademark smirks. The supervillain wears the expression of the cat that got the canary.

“I know,” he replies out loud, to which you roll your eyes in fond exasperation. Smug prick. Equally fond chuckles tumble from his mouth as he withdraws his touch to sign his response. Between the two of you, you have signed speech, aural speech, your bond, and, perhaps hilariously, Morse code as avenues of communication. You two learned together to leave no stone unturned. Besides providing ample means for you to express yourself during one of your nonverbal episodes, multiple communication alternatives raises the chance no one could eavesdrop on your conversations or catch on to you sending each other messages, whether it be agents of the government, one of those pesky vigilantes that opposed him, or a rival villain.

‘Love you too.’

You huff yet say nothing further as he tucks you into bed. At first you’re not sure if he intends to join you now or immediately storm off to capture then maim or torture the current #1 Unlucky Asshole of Japan. Because of course he wouldn’t let the man die easily. He’d probably have him screaming for a few hours until the schmuck could spit up blood.

Pleasant surprise curls in your chest when he climbs in with you. He tugs you to his chest again, still naked as he spoons you. His fingertips brush your cheek again. This time, healing energy floods the smarting tissue until only echoes of remembered pain remain. All For One buries his face into your neck again, trailing kisses along the exposed skin. He drops one last one to the underside of your ear, hips flush to yours. However, his cock remains soft, or at least doesn’t get hard enough to do anything with it. He holds you to him with one hand splayed across your belly, arm hooked around your waist again. His knees knock into the back of your thighs, and his feet slide against yours.

“Sleep, my dear one. He won’t be able to put his disgusting hands on you ever again.”

You believe him. After all, he’s All For One, and if he wants someone dead, they’re dead. It might horrify someone else, but not you. To you it feels like an overt declaration of his love. A sacred vow. A display of his undying devotion. A gift from a doting husband to his beloved wife.

No one could stand against you because he’d cut them down himself—whether you could do it through your own power or not. Your enemies are his enemies, just as his are yours. A slight against you is a slight All For One can’t let stand. Some fool deigned to touch you, and worse, had done so without your permission, therefore committing the highest offenses he possibly could, as if he had determined he should do everything he could to spit in All For One’s face.

The man’s many interconnected sins signed his own death warrant. All For One is always merciless to his enemies as well as anyone who represents a threat to you. Any man who even breathes too aggressively in your direction counts as one, and this man decided to commit greater sins than that. The brazen bastard hit you after leering at you, catcalling you, grabbing you, and groping you. Most damning of all, your Quirk allowed All For One to witness it himself in real time high definition once you ran into the villain’s arms distraught and seeking sanctuary.

If ever All For One could possess an ounce of mercy, today would not be that day. Not where it concerns your well-being. He’s yours, and you’re his. No one possesses the privilege to hurt someone who’s his.

Someone out on the street now has hell to pay tomorrow. A dead man walking, for All For One would personally see to that man’s demise. That fucker hurt you, so he had to die. Simple, really.

All For One only provides so many chances for people. Chances this stranger managed to blow in one fell swoop. You don’t pity that stranger. You still feel a little gross deep down inside of yourself, even with your ferocious supervillain husband cuddling you.

You force yourself to relax enough to do as All For One asks. You know when you wake, he’ll be on the warpath. Right now, however, he seems almost peaceful as he projects his adoration for you at your person. Streaks of unfettered bloodlust still color the positive emotions he layers around you. Knowledge of its source puts you at ease. You drift off to sleep knowing deep in your heart that you’re the safest person/spouse in the world.

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reds-skull · 5 months

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Not Alive, Nor Dead

[PREV PART] [AO3]

I'll make a separate post for all of my thoughts (because I have a lot), but I'd like to thank all of you. This has been such an amazing experience, being able to tell a story from start to end. This has been a lot of firsts for me, first fic, first serious writing, first time I reach the end of any long form story I made.

Each and every one of you reading, liking, reblogging and commenting made this ride that more enjoyable.

Now, it's time we finish it, with the longest chapter yet.

Its name on AO3 will be "Together."

All that could be heard in the small room were crackling flames. For a while, they just stared at each other.

“Revenants of light, huh…” Johnny whispers, fingers gently caressing Simon’s hand. He scoffs in disbelief, “I can’t believe we actually did it…”

Simon sinks into the flames hugging his skin, “did what?”

“Broke that prophecy. Lived. Fuckin’ created a new Reaper.” Johnny’s eyes shine, his voice full of reverence, “you think this was… a new deal?”

Heat strikes down, deep in his chest. “It would make sense… new Reaper, new powers…” Simon trails off.

“New death.” Johnny grins lopsidedly, “looks like yer stuck with me ‘till the end, LT.”

“Till death do us apart, Johnny?”

His Sergeant laughs brightly, Simon grinning like an idiot under the mask. Johnny takes his other hand in his, donning a more serious expression.

“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone.” he recites slowly, eyes not moving from his. Simon inhales sharply.

“I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One.” his heart beats like a war drum, strong and heavy.

“Johnny…” he doesn’t recognize the lines, but the meaning expands beyond cultures.

“I give ye my Spirit,” he lifts a hand to cup Simon’s cheek, “’til our Life shall be Done.”

Simon leans in, resting his forehead on Johnny’s, chuckling in incredulity, “you’re fuckin’ mental, Sergeant.”

The Scot hums, nudging his head, “thought ye knew that already, mo chridhe.”

Fuckin’ hell, his heart won’t stop beating so loudly. Simon knows Johnny was half joking but…

But still his heart strives to etch the words into his rib cage. A vow seared into their very flesh, marked by forces beyond their comprehension.

An oath, so powerful it joins not only their lives, but the lives of otherworldly horrors, being who do not care for such things as human connection.

And yet, it is that very thing that changed the course of destiny, in a way not even Reapers could predict.

Simon leans close, to the man he calls home, a hearth to never be extinguished.

And he feels safe. He feels… complete.

When they finally leave the room, the air outside is considerably colder. The safe house is quiet, in a way it can’t be, for the amount of soldiers it contained before Johnny dragged Ghost away.

He catches the attention of a passing Vaquero, and the man tells him most have left for the base, as it was liberated once Graves died. He also informs them their teammates are waiting outside by the vehicles.

Price and Garrick smile at them knowingly when they reach the armored truck.

“Bloody hell, finally! What took you two so long??” Gaz kicks off the side of the truck to scowl at them.

Ghost squints, face heating up, “none of yours, Sergeant.”

Gaz opens his mouth, but Price pats his back, “we can argue in the damn car. I need a fuckin’ shower.”

The Sergeant instantly forgets his previous grievances, and floats away to the passenger sit, “oh fuck yeah! I’m drooling just thinking about the bunks. You think Rudy would make us tea again if we ask really nicely?”

Soap swings the door open while shaking his head, muttering, “feckin’ Brits and their shite tea…”

Ghost slides besides him and cuffs him over the warhawk, “you better respect Parra’s tea in this car, Sergeant.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, unable to stop the smirk spreading on his lips, “what are ye gonna do? Report me to the king?”

“You little…” Ghost starts wrestling his Sergeant in the back sits, Price sighing deeply and turning the ignition.

When Soap somehow manages to kick the Captain’s headrest, jostling his hat dangerously, Price turns to glare at the two of them.

“You stop that, or I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”

They both immediately freeze, “sorry Captain.” Soap mumbles.

The truck is left parked between the others already on base, and the taskforce makes its way to the barracks.

Rudy finds them after a shower, smiling, “hermanos. Feeling better?”

Garrick is still drying his hair with a towel, “feel fuckin’ human, brother.”

Alejandro rounds the corner, laughing, “Rudy got something even better than a shower.”

“What’s that?” Soap asks. Price’s eyes fill with wonder, and Ghost already knows the answer.

Alejandro swings an arm around the Sergeant Major, “how does ‘Parra’s infamous tea’ sound like?”

Gaz cheers, floating up a few inches, while Soap grumbles disappointingly, “sounds like bloody heaven, Rodolfo!” Garrick reaches to pull the Vaquero into a hug, “thank you!!!”

Rudy pats the Sergeant, laughing, “it’s nothing, hermano. A little thanks for all of you, for helping us with Graves.” he looks over at Ghost, the two sharing a nod of mutual understanding.

Soap pouts, “feckin’ tea though…?”

Alejandro smirks confidently, “we also got some… shortbread, you call it?”

Now that puts a spark in Johnny’s eyes, “ye all are saints, Alejandro.”

The Colonel laughs loudly.

They meet Commander Karim and Keller on their way out, duffle bags slung over their shoulders.

Farah smiles warmly at the Captain, “ah, Price. Glad I could find you before we leave.”

“You’re already going back to Urzikstan?”

The American sighs, “yep. The Vaqueros volunteered to search for any of our people, but currently we need to go back to protecting whoever we still have.”

“Graves may be dead, but this is far from over.” Farah looks over the serene hills surrounding the base, “as much as I want to get Shepherd, I cannot let myself be blinded by revenge.”

Ghost understands the sentiment. Revenge is a fuel, what you put it into could make or break your reality. “When we find him, we’ll make sure you’re there to take it.”

Farah nods, perceptive eyes landing on his, “I appreciate it, Lieutenant.” she turns to the rest, “thank you for everything. God willing, we will meet on better times.”

Price wraps a hand around her shoulder, making Ghost realize just how small the Commander is compared to him, “stay safe, Farah.” he winks at Alex, “make sure she takes breaks from time to time, will you?”

Keller laughs, “you know not even I can do that. Cya around, Cap.”

As the two walk away, Garrick mumbles, “think they’ll be alright without Graves supporting them?”

Price sighs wearily, eyes somber as they track Farah and Alex’s form, “they’ll have to be.”

They say their goodbyes to the Vaqueros, with a hopeful note to work together in the future, and get ready to board a plane to England. After a few hours, where the team took time to fix their undoubtably horrid stench and growling stomachs, and got to sleep (Soap dragged him to a sofa to nap, and Ghost will forever deny it was the best sleep of his life), Laswell called.

Ghost initially prayed they’re not being sent to another mission, in a way he never did. To his credit, the last few months were absurd.

She didn’t contact them for work, instead inviting them to stop by for a drink before they all leave for the UK. The promise of a good drink had them instantly agree.

The flight is spent mostly sleeping, again, as they were all incredibly tired, bone deep fatigue, emotionally and physically.

Garrick made sure to make his annoyingly aching shoulder everyone’s problem, complaining he couldn’t find a good position to rest in, until the Captain showed mercy and let him float around the cabin, leg held fast by Price.

Kate greets them warmly in a little bar hidden within Chicago’s winding alleys. Their drinks have been ordered beforehand, and everyone makes their gratitude known by taking a sip and melting into the bar sits.

Laswell smiles knowingly, letting them relax before starting, “this has been quite a ride for you boys, huh?”

Price sighs, “you can say it again.”

The CIA agent shakes her head morosely, “they got past us.”

“Well, they had a head start.” the Captain lifts his drink, “to cutting heads off snakes.”

Laswell clinks her cup with his. Ghost joins their conversation while they take the toast, “any sign of Shepherd?”

The woman puts the drink back on the counter, “totally off the grid.”

Gaz looks down at his whisky, frowning in conviction, “we’ll find him.”

“No,” Laswell answers, Garrick locking eyes with her, “we’ve got bigger fish.” she glances at Soap, “I did some digging on the Russian experiments.”

“That’s a dirty job if I’ve heard one”, Price mutters under his breath.

“Ultra-nationalists are after the fabled ‘revenant-killer’, John.” Price shakes his head minutely at the words.

“Kate,” he says lowly, “this is over.” almost begging her to let his boys rest.

“No. It’s not.” she ignores his pleas, as do all Reapers above and below. “They’re working with someone new.”

She pulls out a picture and shows it to Price, his expression instantly morphing into shock, and then cold rage.

Ghost tries to ask the Captain what he’s seeing, but he doesn’t need to.

Price points at the photo, “...he’s not new.” and passes it to Gaz.

Garrick’s brows furrow at it, glancing at the Captain questioningly before passing it over to Johnny.

Soap takes one look at the image, his smile lines deepening as his fingers singe the edges of the photo.

He slides it to Ghost, hand lingering, eyes full of uncertainty.

Ghost flips the picture, and his heart hardens.

“Who is he?” Laswell asks Price.

The Captain leans in to almost whisper, “Makarov.”

Laswell tilts her head, and Price continues to talk in their minds, “the Kastovian deserter, Konchar? He didn’t leave the military for no reason.”

Flames crackle threateningly under the bar, Ghost sliding a hand over white fire.

“He worked for Makarov?” Soap growls.

Price nods, “your Reaping took his work years back, but if what Laswell says is true…”

“He’s back.” Ghost finishes.

Johnny’s hand squeezes his, and they make eye contact.

It’s never really over, is it? Some say they’ll rest when they’re dead. Their harsh reality is that they’re not even granted that.

Blue eyes reflecting flames, as well as one floating man with a warm smile, and a reassuring voice in his mind, promise him that while yes, they may never rest, it does not mean they’ll fight alone.

Together, until death, as it brought them to each other, takes them away.

Soap is furious. They leave the bar not soon after, his Sergeant walking away as they say their farewells to Laswell.

On the flight back, he’s all uncontrollable energy, waiting for ignition to blow up.

Ghost, after 20 minutes of watching Johnny bounce his leg enough to wear a hole through the damn floor, places a hand to stop his movements.

“Talk to me, Johnny.”

Soap’s eyes stay full of rage for only a moment, before softening, “I’m thinking… maybe it wasn’t coincidence that me and Konchar were in Verdansk at the same time.”

Ghost hums for him to continue, drawing nonsense patterns on his thigh.

“What if I was an experiment, Simon?” Johnny looks away, his eyes fogging with memories, “what if Makarov knew Konchar had to kill me to live, and wanted to see if I could. If I was destined to be a revenant killer?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ghost grounds. Johnny looks unconvinced, so he continues, “whatever you were destined to be… you’re not it anymore. We’re both changed men.”

Johnny stares at him with more emotions than Simon can contain, reverence and trust and… something he can’t name.

“You… how could I tell you how much I adore you?”

Simon’s heart, gut and head, all line in decision for once in his life.

Actions speak louder than words, he remembers. And so, he rolls up the mask up above his brows, and leans in.

Gently taking hold of Soap’s nape, he directs his head to his face, pressing a touch of lips to his temple.

Simon whispers in his ear, “I already know. I look at you, and I can’t explain what it does to me. What you do to me, love.”

Johnny closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He looks almost conflicted, but the creases smooth over when Simon brushes lips over them.

“You mean everything.”

Price ordered him to his office the moment Ghost stepped foot on British soil. He glanced at Johnny, who was carrying his and Gaz’s bags. His Sergeant promised with a lopsided grin he’ll find him later, a sort of scheming glint in his eyes.

Ghost reaches the Captain’s office in record time, hoping to finish whatever this is as fast as possible.

Price, however, didn’t get the damn memo, and takes his sweet time settling into his chair. “How are you doing, Simon?”

Ghost surpassed the urge to roll his eyes, “good.” he gets the mental image of begging on his knees for Price to get to the point, and the Captain laughs.

“Alright, alright. I’ll spare you the suffering, Lieutenant.” Price’s smile slowly fades, “what happened with your Reaper, son?”

Right. He and Johnny may have forgotten to mention the new developments in the ‘Eldritch horrors beyond this world’ department.

“Our Reapers merged. They called themselves ‘Reaper of Luminary’.” Ghost huffs, “they told me and Johnny… we’re linked. We’ll live and die together.”

Price nods. He doesn’t seem too surprised, and Ghost wonders how much he already knew from his passing thoughts.

“I don’t know how long we would be able to keep it quiet…” he strokes his moustache, “this gets out, you two will have a target on your backs.”

Ghost straightens, hands behind his back at rest, “we’ll handle it, if it comes to that, sir.”

The Captain sighs, “I admire your confidence, Lieutenant, but I don’t think you understand the scale of the issue. You two are the first revenants in modern history to affect the Reapers the way they affect humans. We believed our connection was a one way street - that humans are simply too weak to change Reapers.” his stare is severe, “you however? You’re powerful enough to not only go against them, but physically mold them. What Makarov is after is nothing compared to the force you hold.”

Ghost closes his eyes. Price is right, of course. But…

He has faith. Hope.

Price’s moustache twitches, “...I understand.” he raises from the chair, walking around to place a hand on Ghost’s shoulder.

“I’m happy for you, son. You and Soap make a good team.” the Captain’s eyes crease with mirth, “I heard your conversation on the plane-”

“Fuckin’ hell Price, that was bloody private!” Ghost scoffs, embarrassment coursing through him.

“I stopped listening after the first ‘love’-”

Ghost drags a hand over his eyes, “just get on with it”

“As I’ve told you, you have my blessing. If you need anything, if anyone gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to come to me, got it?”

Ghost scoffs despite the threat of tears in his eyes. He looks at Price now, and sees much more than a Captain. He sees something he has never had.

“Copy.”

It’s not Johnny that finds him first, but Garrick, floating around the hallway in front of Price’s office.

“Need the Captain, Sergeant?” Ghost inquires.

Gaz stops, “no, I got a message from Soap.”

His interest instantly piques, “go on.”

Garrick rummages through his pocket with his healthy hand and pulls out a note, “he said ‘meet me here’, and that you should ‘clean up’.” the Sergeant wiggles his eyebrows, “sounds like he has a nice surprise for ya, sir.”

Ghost takes the note, examining the location. Looks like a street in the city neighboring the base. “I’m off then. Don’t get into trouble, Garrick. Cheers.”

Gaz frowns, pointing at his injured arm, “not like I bloody can…”

Ghost smiles while walking away, “if anyone could find a way, it would be you Sergeant.”

He chuckles lowly at Gaz’s fussing as he makes his way to the base’s parking lot.

The sun has started to set by the time Ghost reaches the location Soap left for him, the sky painted reds and oranges and yellows that remind him fondly of Johnny’s radiant fire.

He changed into a more casual outfit, covering his face with only a cloth mask and a hoodie.

Ghost’s lips stretch so much he fears they’ll get stuck like that, when he spots the place. An elegant sign hangs above a restaurant, one that looks small and cozy, with dimmed warm lighting, and plants covering the brick walls.

He parks the car nearby and walks in, a waiter catching his stare and approaching him.

“Are you uh… ‘Ghost’?” he says with hesitation.

Ghost scans the tables, trying to find one warhawk sticking out, “affirm.”

The waiter sighs in relief, “your partner is already here. Follow me.”

The man leads him to a more secluded area, a low wall separating it from the main room. Ghost feels his heart thrum a familiar beat when he finally finds Johnny, sitting alone in a table for two.

“Your orders will arrive soon, please make yourself at home.” the waiter gives him a wobbly smile, and Johnny chuckles at the man practically running away.

“You really do have quite the effect on people, don’t ye Simon?” his Sergeant smiles.

Simon huffs, sitting down in front of him, “what’s all this, then?” he nods to the restaurant.

Johnny leans in, taking his hand, “I promised I’ll treat ye nicely, to a good restaurant, didn’t I?”

“You remembered?” Simon blinks in surprise.

“Of course,” Johnny grins, “I also remember ye said ye will treat me equally.”

“Had a feeling this was too good to be true…” Simon sighs, mask covering his smile.

“Oi!”

Simon pulls the mask off, making Johnny snap his mouth closed, “thank you.” he smirks smugly at his Sergeant’s amazed expression.

“Fuck me, I almost forgot how beautiful ye are.” Johnny mumbles.

Heat spreads over his exposed features, Simon looks away, “guess I’ll have to remind you more often.”

“Oh, please! I won’t ask fer anything else!”

Simon glances back at him, “we both know that’s fucking bullshite, Sergeant.”

Johnny laughs, tugging at his hand, “aye, ye know me too well.”

They quiet down to a comfortable silence, grins fading to soft smiles.

“Whatever comes next…” Simon inhales, grasping Johnny’s hand tighter. “We’ll do it together, love.”

Johnny lets his white flames caress Simon’s scarred hands, casting an otherworldly glow over them, making them shine as if lit from within.

If his heart could, it would be brighter than the sun now.

“Together.”

The End.

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loveofmyknife · 6 months

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Live Blogging the Burrow’s end finale but it’s all in one post because I can’t be bothered to reblog the same post 10 times. So like… pre-recorded blogging I guess

Spoilers. Obviously.

- loving the finale outfits! Especially the caution tape accessories!

- hey girl hey! Poor Teedles is taking all of this very well and we love them for it. I too would rather face possible death than have to babysit my boss’s children

- someone really should go check on Simon

- love how Tula is advocating for a nonviolent solution and ends it with “and we should definitely track down and murder Phoebe”. It’s nonviolent except for one specific person (being?)

- Lucas is just doing his best as a congested little boy. Somebody get him some mint! (Bint)

- “oh, mommy has so much bloodlust!” is an excellent line

- again, Brennan is unhinged, and also maybe wearing pink lipstick, which I think adds to the vibe

- Thorn being concerned for Dr Steel is so indicative of his character. He just wants to protect his people, and even though they’ve only known this human for a few hours, she is one of his people

- I DID NOT KNOW HE COULD DO THAT

- love a good title drop, but this plan seems very hastily put together. I am concerned

- persuasion- “-OR ELSE!” … ok intimidation

- gasoline lasts for however long is narratively relevant

- how many stoats does it take to drive a truck? Apparently at least 5

- I mean as far at Nat 1s go operating a gear shift as a rodent makes sense

- viola is holding this group together by sheer force of will

-oh fuck human magic!

- new map! New map!

- Oh fuck “human” NECROMANCY!

-kinda sad that Carlos isn’t playing Wennabocker on the board in some way but it obviously makes sense from a practical standpoint

- the minis!!! So cool!

-“grandma casts sounding” oh no…

- box of doom strikes again

- 40 points of damage is insane

- Lucas no! I love his little hat but no!

- hate when the BBEG rolls a Nat 20

- 69 hp…nice

- not Lucas!!

- oh Tula is never going to forgive herself for this and I have Thoughts about it

- Phoebe really is just a situation at this point

- That is exactly what a 12 year old would say when beating up an eldritch horror

- yeah I’d say hitting the ground really hard is a reckless attack, Ava

-109 damage! Jesus fucking Christ

- oh it’s some eugenics shit, okay

- Dr Steel coming to the rescue!

- I love using a bunch of skills and mechanics to get the desired outcome. Casting a spell, moving out of range of counterspell, and disengaging an opportunity attack all at the same time just to be able to fireball this meat suit

- I also would not recommend hitting a nuclear reactor with fire

- “no that’s okay” was such a power move

- “I DEBONE THAT MOTHERFUCKER” yes you do, and somehow that invents cooking! I love it

- Nat 20! “THATS! MY! WIFE!!!” Viola has taken out 4 giants in a single round. She is a badass. She is a warrior. She is my hero.

- oh yeah, Dr Steel was just standing there for all that

- We may be experiencing a tragedy but at least they’ve also invented ice cream

- LUCAS NO!

- ok yeah i might be sobbing a little, what of it?

- I like that Ava can have a little magic as a treat

- I personally welcome our new stoat overlords

- babies!

-Get it, Tula! But seriously I like that she really got to process life without being just a widow and a mother before moving on

-baby’s first word: viscera. This is cannon

-Ava’s doing great, and her life is in her own hands. She’s completely overhauling the local law enforcement and creating triple A

- Dr Lila! She’s a nuclear physicist now!

- Did not expect Jaysohn to go for an Airbud plot line but I’m not mad at it

Closing thoughts: I loved it! I think the ending was pretty abrupt but taking out the BBEG in like 2 rounds will do that so I can’t fault them for it. I would have loved for at least one of the party to take over Education, and I think Tula was kind of set up for it but I’m glad she gets to just enjoy life now instead. I can’t wait to see tomorrow’s Adventuring Party and I’m super excited about next season!

#d20 #burrow's end #burrows end spoilers #dimension 20 #d20 burrow's end

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dailycharacteroption · 16 days

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Lastwall Sentry (Pathfinder Second Edition Archetype)

(art by GeorgeVostrikov on DeviantArt)

So, two weeks ago we covered both the Knight Reclaimant and Knight Vigilant archetypes, both of which require and are extensions of the Lastwall Sentry archetype. Well, guess what we’re finally covering today?

At the end of the life cycle of 1st edition and the advent of 2nd, the nation of Lastwall, a long-time bastion against not just The Worldwound but also the remnants of the Whispering Tyrant’s forces and the threat of his return was destroyed by the superweapon developed by the returned lich ruler and his resurgent armies.

However, while their bastions have been destroyed and their nation turned into a twisted wasteland of undeath and corrupted life known as the Gravelands, the defenders of Lastwall have not abandoned their post. Instead, those who remained renewed their vows and swore to hold the line and one day be victorious over the forces of darkness.

Whether they join one of the two divinely-empowered factions among their number or stick with their role as guardians and defenders, these warriors remain resolute against evil. Today, in this entry, we’ll see exactly how they do so!

The base dedication of this archetype requires the trainee to first learn how to properly use a shield to block incoming blows, but once they take the dedication, they can do so reflexively. In addition, they train to become more physically fit and learn more about their hated enemy: the undead.

Many also learn to always be ready against the undead, almost never being caught off guard by the classic ambushes and attacks of unquiet souls and necromantic abominations. However, they might be fooled by undead disguised as the living, or vice versa.

Incorporeal undead are the bane of any shieldbearer, but some learn to utter a prayer of protection to instilling their shield, as well as any shield boss or spikes, with just enough power to reach into the ether and block or strike foes with said shield for a few seconds.

For many, the title of sentry isn’t an empty role, and many are especially good at spotting danger or distant threats.

Others become so familiar with undead foes they almost always have a decent chance of recognizing their nature and abilities.

The guardians of Lastwall would rather face total oblivion that rise again as an undead monstrosity and become a threat to the very people they fight for. As such, some learn divine or occult methods of suffusing their bodies with trace amounts of positive energy that lingers after death, preventing all but the most powerful forces from raising them as undead, and making their corpse actually toxic to the unliving.

Similarly, many train to inure themselves to negative energy and harmful necromancy.

Though sometimes others may have differences of opinion or goals that run counter to these sentries, most will not slay the living if they can help it, learning how to better deal nonlethal blows against them when a peaceful resolution cannot be reached.

When one is part of a shield wall, it is often important to know how to push foes back with one’s shield, and so these warriors do, especially if they are also champions with a knack for using both hands to strike with a shield.

Some have fought they undead so long the can sense their presence, giving them an early warning against unseen foes.

The undead hoards just keep coming, and one must often adapt to the quirks of different undead types on the fly, and so these sentries do, recalling their weaknesses and how to pierce them in the same motion as they strike.

Like any foe, the undead are capable of mistakes and poor luck despite their relentlessness, and many of these warriors train to capitalize on that, punishing such fumbles with a mighty shove driving them back.

Rather it be by personal prayer, the blessings of a priest, or sheer willpower-driven occult power, more experienced soldiers of lastwall find their weapons able to strike true against spectral foes.

Some that revere a goodly deity sometimes channel a bit of their god’s blessing into their shield, causing it to flare with positive energy and light to harm and drive back the wicked undead.

Even negative energy is not exempt from their shields, giving them a new way to absorb the harm caused by the undead.

Necromancy is an insidious school of magic on the offense, and as they continue to inure themselves, they learn to better resist such spells which would have a partial effect even when they would succeed.

Those that have honed their senses against undeath can refine them further into a more precise sense, letting them better root them out.

True to their part as members of a shield wall, these warriors can protect others with their shields, not just themselves, and they often reflexively move to interpose the shield if it is an undead assailant.

Death and corruption are old companions of these warriors, and they not only better resist such effects but also try their best to ignore feelings of nausea and unwellness.

Whether it be divine intervention or a spot of uncanny luck in the face of doom, but these guardians sometimes find their shield holding out against one more attack when others would splinter and shatter.

It’s a simple lesson, if evil magic is being cast or manifested nearby, you disrupt it however you can, and some learn to do this with their raw spiritual power alone.

Some of the most powerful sentries are so resolute that they don’t just resist the life-sucking power of the void, but all forms of harm that undead would do to them, standing firmer against the deathly tide.

This archetype is one half improving your shield usage, and one half resisting and retaliating against the undead. As such, it really is meant primarily to be used by champions, fighters, rangers, as well as any sort of class build that makes heavy use of a shield in one hand and a weapon in the other. I will say, however, that a lot of the feats available to the class really are “you resist the deathly effects of undead, but in a different mechanical way”, which gives the homebrewer in me a headache. Even still, if you’re planning on building a shield-based character that fights a lot of undead, and this archetype is available, go for it, and remember it can also be a stepping stone for two other specific archetypes!

It really is inspiring to see heroes emerge from tragedy, to see people be subjected to the absolute worst that life has to offer and say “You will break before I do.” I suppose that’s why such characters are so popular across media.

Long has the Shining Legion stood firm against the horrors of the armies of Kados. However, when the necromancer king recruits a cadre of summoners, the legion will find itself against an unfamiliar foe in the form of hordes of elementals, including massive crystal striders and the like.

Though stout of heart, Pebbo the grippli is an odd choice indeed for a member of the Holy Phalanx, but he insisted he could be of use despite his small size, and he meant it, offering to train his very own underfoot brigade of smaller peoples to supplement the main shieldwall.

With the prestige of both the knights reclaimant and the knights vigilant, it’s often easy to assume that the sentry legion is full of those that couldn’t hack it in either of those groups, but that couldn’t be further from the truth, as most are proud of their role as defenders. However, there are rarely those that live up to the stereotype, and though some learn to move on from those feelings of bitterness, others do not, forming a festering cyst in the unbreakable shell of the legion.

#pathfinder second edition #archetype #Lastwall sentry #crystal strider #grippli #knight reclaimant #knight vigilant #Character Guide #Knights of Lastwall

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tomfooleryprime · 1 year

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In school, I learned U.S. history through a shallow, carefully constructed narrative that was more concerned with instilling patriotism than it was with imparting contextualized, factual accounts and records of times that came before. What I learned is America started when England was trying to tax us to pay for their imperialism and foreign wars and we didn’t like that, so we fought a revolution and then we didn’t have to have a king anymore and we were free. Most of us. Next up in the timeline was slavery, which was bad, but we fought the Civil War and then didn’t have slavery any more, which was good.

Around that time, the country was expanding and we couldn’t share the land with the native peoples, so we forced them west, which was sad. And then we never talked about them again, except a casual mention about the trouble they made on our road to achieve Manifest Destiny. There was the Industrial Revolution and the Gilded Age and people got tired of working all the time in dangerous conditions, so then there were some strikes or whatever and now we have weekends. We even allowed former slaves and women to vote: good job, America!

Then there was WWI, which got botched somehow so we had to do WWII. Hitler was bad and we beat his ass, and we also locked up Japanese Americans but that belongs in our blooper reel and we were sorry for that. Later. Kind of. Then it turned out maybe all the problems of racial inequality actually weren’t solved by the Civil War, so we had the Civil Rights movement and then things were basically fine.

Then came Vietnam and some stuff about communism, a hand wave through the later decades of the 20th century, then the War on Terror, the Great Recession, and now here we are in 2023, paying taxes to put more money into our military than most other developed nations combined because, you know...we love imperialism and foreign wars when we’re doing it, but shame on 18th century England for doing the same. Those assholes. Anyway, the best storytelling always comes full circle without beating you over the head with the symbolism and irony.

And that is how U.S. history was taught to many modern inheritors of this great experiment in democracy even before the culture wars got involved and people clutched their pearls over equity, diversity, and inclusion training, critical race theory, and the 1619 Project. But whatever you think about telling kids that most of the founding fathers owned slaves or that maybe Jim Crow didn’t end as much as it was transformed into the industrial prison complex, consider the inevitable fate of the Covid-19 pandemic in our history books.

It seems strange to think of events from three years ago as history, because we were there. It feels almost like a foregone conclusion that decades from now, chroniclers will reflect on the start of the 2020s as a time the nation, no, the world, was blindsided by an unseen enemy but how we all came together to fight back. They’ll tell about how science raced to develop treatments and vaccines in record time. There might even be pictures of the parades for healthcare workers and people singing to each other from NYC balconies.

But the stories about people who didn’t believe it was real, even as they gasped their last breaths in hospital beds, will disappear. So will the stories of the abuse frontline workers faced every day just for asking people to wear a mask. The stories about hoarding toilet paper and hand sanitizer and affordable housing and those who sold it at exorbitant markups will fade into the background, as will the reality that millions of people refused the very vaccines that the history books will tout as marvels of modern medicine and the American can-do spirit.

U.S. history books might note how more than 1 million Americans ultimately died—no mention about all the lives that were maimed by long Covid or the loss of a parent, partner, or breadwinner—but as Stalin once said, one death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic. 9/11 was a tragedy that killed 3,000 people and permanently altered the social and political landscape. To this day, I still can’t board a plane without taking off my shoes. But when that many were dying every day during some of the pandemic’s peaks, we had other people demanding we re-open restaurants and movie theaters and concerts because “we can’t live in fear.” The uglier parts will inevitably get left out of our story because they aren’t conducive to national pride.

I’ve learned a lot of things about American history since leaving school. It broke my heart to learn just how many Americans in the 1930s thought Hitler made some good points about Jews. To learn Lincoln wasn’t really opposed to slavery so much as he was the expansion of it. To learn just how pervasive lynching was in the American south or how relentlessly coordinated the genocide of the Native Americans was for more than a century. And I have a feeling that around the time I’m ready to breathe my last, I’ll hear young people insisting that while the pandemic was terrible, it was a unifying, equalizing force that brought out the best in us.

Never mind it only brought out the best in some of us. It brought out the worst in just as many others. Because to tell the story of everyone who resisted every single measure to slow or stop the pandemic with the dedication and ferocity of suicide bombers takes the “we’re all in this together” version of events and turns it into a disjointed narrative. That isn’t good storytelling. That isn’t good history worthy of an American classroom.

#covid #covid isn't over #us history

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children-of-epiales · 10 months

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Tagged by @voidika to do these quizzes

Quiz 1: what is your ocs true role in the story?

Quiz 2: the "oh" quiz

Kijou

the h̶e̶r̶o̶ villain

so we meet again, don't we? pity, I hoped our reunion would never occur. oh, pardon my discourtesy would you? but I really find tyrants unpleasant to the mouth. "sic semper evello mortem tyrannis." I have seen many before you fall, and I will see many after you descend as well. oh don't give me that hateful sneer, you more than anyone should know the expanse of my kindness, but vain little heroes are but villians in different shoes. you grew up wishing to prove yourself, you were good once, or I thought you were. maybe you were born nasty. you strove to reach the stars, for you felt unworthy, ha, perhaps you were onto something you pushed those you saw as dirty into the dirt, face down in the name of righteousness. but one does not merely hate for hatred itself. all abhorrence stems from fear. you call yourself a savior to merely stomp on the ones beneath you. would you like a bitter truth? no one's beneath you, some just strike more worry into your heart. are they better than you? as much as I'd adore saying yes, there might still be hope for you yet. after you swallow a few slices of humble pie, and wake up to reality. you cannot force anyone to change. you cannot force anyone to do anything. it is as simple as that. reality has very few set rules and somehow even then people find a way to break them. you're not a god, little beast. it's time you stopped acting like one, for one day a real god will smite you where you stand, and they will be disguised as the "lesser" people you mock so bitterly.

the kiss

you typically wait until the last second to believe the truth--because it would destroy you to believe it, and then find out it was a lie. you are someone who has never wanted to want, but has rarely been able to do anything else. the idea that you might have to break down your walls for the sake of someone else, someone who could easily decide they don't like what is on the other side, is harrowing. why let people get close enough to be rejected? you are enough for yourself. and you will tell yourself that every time you catch yourself staring at their mouth, smirking at their joke, finding a reason to flick their shoulder. until the kiss. that's when the flood of want, want, want bowls over you and you realize that you are torn between two ways of living. Oh, you think. because despite how complicated you have made it, the moment you kiss, somehow, things seem incredibly simple. they won't be once you start thinking again, but for now, for this moment, you live in the quiet peace of revelation. Oh.

Helena

the rising underdog.

why hello again dearie, I see you managed to help those frogs those children were kicking, hm? oh how much I can emphasize we are but the ghosts of our childhood passions. and, unsurprising enough, the hero to the trodden little creatures of the earth is now a rising golden savior to the masses. oh love, I said you'd go far, didn't I. for the good always prevail in the end, somehow, they do. you lived a difficult life, I know, but you never let that get you down. you took beatings with a grin, and dished back kindness in return. inequality and injustice made you outaged, and you strove to assist the hurting and abused. oh shining dragon, you are bathed in golden light. please keep being true. you have tasted blood and death, but you refused to force it down the throats of others. and that alone proves there is inchor in your veins, demigod. you will be struggling until the very end, battling for your comrades, your people, and yourself. never lose sight of your goal my dear. sometimes you needn't have one, except see the good, and protect it. that is all my advice can tell you. I implore, protect the goodness in yourself with everything you have, but never refuse to share it also. young hero, you are growing. you are destined for wonders even I may not live long enough to encounter. keep up the good work, and keep your head held high. you are bound to do the impossible, all because you see the truth. there is good in the world, and it deserves to be found.

the unrelated moment

you tend to be more preoccupied with practical things, to the point where you've been blinded to matters of the heart. sure, you're close with this person. you like to be close with people. it is rewarding to know and be known in return. you leave realization no choice but to sneak up on you. they're not even in the room when it happens. someone or something else spells it out for you, an observant friend's passing comment or a particular sentence you were reading in a book, and suddenly it hits you, what it all means. the person your feelings have been building themselves around. Oh. it's them. it's time. it's them and you, here and now, and you have to decide what to do at this crossroads. luckily, you're practically-minded.

Manat

the antihero

ah yes, hello edge lord. it is lovely to see you again. you my dear, are the incarnation of duality, and you might think of claws and venom mixed with grace but alas, nothing near as poetic. you my friend, are mixture of what is seen as right, and what is questioned. you follow the path of your own two feet, you know the twists and turns of life's forests quite well if I do say so myself. and you can meander along them wonderfully. you strive to stay true to a certain sense of principles you might call your code, but whereas in reality, those would be your morals. people tend to see you as strange. sharp edged and glinting you hide behind a cloak of chain mail but really you just prefer to show off your imperfections first. unlike many who scramble to make it as if their flaws never existed, you proudly raise yours up. saying, "this is me, this is the worst of me, now you know what to expect." and might I say, it is quite an intriguing mindset, for truth be told, the ones that love your spikes and craters are the ones who appreciate your softness the most. you wish not to be loved as something lovable, but as a monster. for aren't we all just beasts in human skin? you are brave, but you are lonely. you know quite well how to scare off most, making even the heroes with the boldest bravado creep away with their tails between their legs. you are not a villian, sometimes you play the part a bit too well. but nevertheless you are no hero either. you put yourself first, but if one wins your trust then may the gods have mercy on those who might wrong them. you long to be a poetic mess of sorts, and well, if the ink sets in long enough you might just become that sooner or later. but for one who is so dead set on truth you sure do hide a lot don't you? please, step out of the shadows, there is a difference to not making your flaws visible and to simply acting as if you're the most despicable person in all the realms. it's because you're afraid of attachment is it not? well let me tell you a little secret, everyone is. you say you wish to be left alone for eternity but than why are you craving connection. you wish to be known and understood truly, but you snarl and push the ones that might be trying away. please little wolf, accept you are lovable. you are not some ravenous beast that terrifies the multitudes, sure, you are not for the faint of heart but that does not make you an inkling less perfect as you are. young antihero, step into the sun. you would do better actually reaching for the things you want rather than pining for them in the darkness.

the unrelated moment

Tagging: @shegetsburned @poisonedtruth @scentedcandleibex @jinfromyarikawa

#uquiz #thank you gen #well damn #cod kijou #Dulcie Black #mk Helena #r6 manat #Hayat Barakat

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yandere-plague · 2 years

Text

[Yandere! Agent Jones - Fortnite]

(Headcannons + oneshot)

// mentions of suicide , stalking , kidnapping

I never thought I'll be writing for Fortnite. But hell yeah the lore is fucking dark as shit. I thought I knew it pretty well but obviously not when I looked at the fortnite wiki lol. Some things may be wrong / will be wrong in the future so keep that in mind.

Yandere is not a healthy thing so please back off kids.

He had a wife, kids and grandchildren.

He couldn't see them, but as long as he works for the IO they'd be safe from the dangerous planet he lived on.

Though, after IO found out that he's immortal. His plans to retire was denied, and if he quit they would stop protecting what remained of his family.

So he kept on working, slaving himself away to protect an descendant he's never met, or going, to meet.

He soon realises that he's never going to see real family again, and what point is it to work for the company that leeches from him?

He still wears his wedding ring, the least he can do is honor her memory on him.

If you are another IO employee

He looks at you, and instantly he crushes, hard.

He does everything he can to hide from you.

He doesn't want to love anymore.

I mean, whats the point if you are going to die?

There are hundreds, if not thousands, of employees, so you might not even know he exists. For better or for worse.

But obviously something happens and you are both forced to strike up conversation.

He's a nervous wreck, he wants to get away but his heart and everything else wants to stay.

He finds your schedule, looking it over and over to find any crossovers you both share.

If you don't have any, don't worry! He'll be sure to persuade some people to give you a raise to his level of work.

He's gone too far not to be attached to you. But all his thoughts are on you.

He has, no NEEDS to make you his. Even if you disagree.

When the Zero Point is exposed

Everythings going to shit, the IO is in shambles trying to stop loopers from trying to escape.

Due to your, shockingly recent promotion, its up to you and Jones to stop it.

"We should have done this from the start! We're going to the Seven!"

"hang on, what do you mean 'we?' Jones?"

If you are trapped in the loop

24 hours , 7 days a week you are forced to fight to the death.

An endless loop, if you will.

You win, you get to go home.

If not well, your memory gets wiped and you start all over again.

All methods of communication are stripped except from non verbal forms.

It doesn't matter if you are superhuman, invincible or not even human at all. You are not impervious to bullets.

He goes onto the island and watches you, seeing you fight after fight after fight, in your mind to be the last one standing.

Obviously he can't just watch you, even he gets bored of that. That's what he tells himself, in reality he just doesn't want you to leave.

He finds your records and looks at everything about you, your name, homeplanet / universe ect, and your favourite loadout by statistiction.

He starts nudging your favourite weapons to more frequently show up in the chests and loop YOU find. Not anyone else.

The slight smile, the slightest emotion that your numb body can give fuels him.

When the Zero Point is exposed

No no no no!

He can't have you leaving the loop! Not now!

This is his breaking point, he's joining the Seven.

He sees you, running and jumping for your life towards it, as if it was calling for you.

"No!"

You fingers grazed it, a huge smile appearing on your face. Freedom, at last.

Sand instantly filled your mouth.

Wait sand?

You coughed it out, suddenly realising you got shoved out of the way of it.

A Jonesy you had never seen before, wearing clothes you never saw before towered beside you.

"I can't let you leave the loop, I am so sorry (Y/n)."

(Y/n)? That sounds so familiar...

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

You opened a chest, grabbing the loot and searching the rest of the building. The slight mummer of creaking keeping you on edge.

You turned the corner, your gun pushed into the chest of a Jonesy wearing a suit and tie.

He held his arms up defensively, while you stared down at him and tighted your grip on your weapon.

"H-hey." He spoke.

You know the words, what it means.

A greeting.

You had forgotten how speaking felt like, sounded like. You moved your tongue behind your closed lips, wanting to sort of recreate that feeling.

His lips curled slightly at your reaction.

"You don't realise you miss the little things until they're gone."

You nodded lightly, lowering your gun a smidge, he didn't seem like a threat.

He reached behind his back, he was going to grab something.

In a blink of an eye you raised your gun back at him. A feeling of betrayal and anger clear on you.

"Easy, I'm just going to-"

You fell towards him, your head felt like it would have been split apart.

He didn't get to finish his sentence, or if he did the words wouldn't have reached you.

A stranger went inside the same building, and shotguned you in the head.

You would have collided with him if your body didn't turn into a hologram seconds after, a machine collecting you almost like data waiting for the match to be over to be wiped and reused.

You opened a chest, grabbing the loot and searching the rest of the building. The slight mummer of creaking keeping you on edge.

No wait, this has happened before.

The gun you held felt different, it didn't feel the same, as last time?

You swung around, and yet again face to face with him.

"Hello again... Okay well, not for you. Its your first time seeing me right?"

Familiar but not quite at the same time. He definitely sounds familiar though.

"...or do you recognise me? Honestly the loop is so wierd- I wasn't supposed to say that- I-."

He sighed, putting his hand to his face.

He has a ring, he's married. But to who?

"Anyway..." he went to go grab... something in his coat.

Instinctively you held up your weapon at him.

"Okay, this is getting nowhere."

He ripped the gun out of your hands before you could react, quickly pulling out a device and putting it on you.

You fell to the floor almost instantly, uour vision became blurry, liquid running down your face.

Where you crying?

"Hey, its going to be okay."

His sudden soft demeanor was terrifying.

"Im taking you home."

"... Home?" You whispered.

With wide eyes. You grabbed the gun, ripped of the thing he out on you, turned the gun towards you.

And pulled the trigger.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

So... How's this? Should i do more?

#yandere #yandere hcs #yandere imagines #yandere x you #tw yandere #tw kidnapping #yandere fortnite #yandere agent jones #fortnite x reader

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bbq-hawks-wings · 2 years

Text

HAWKS HAWKS HAWKS HAWKS: Chapter 353-354

Hey, folks, we're finally at the end ready to review the latest couple of chapters after only... *counts* SIX full-sized posts in so many days.

By the way, kids, go look up what "scope creep" is some time. The knowledge might save your sanity some day, assuming you properly plan for it unlike me.

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Shouto's victory over Dabi is an inspirational force among the heroes when the news rings out. All of the other heroes are facing enormous, existential fear on an individual level despite being more than willing to fight and that's understandable - they're only human. Nevertheless, a young, teenage hero who had barely received his provisional license faced his own brother - one of AFO's top fighters, nonetheless - and all but single-handedly took him down. It's a major morale boost which also understandably serves to rattle the opposition.

Btw, knowing that Spinner accepted AFO's offer to make him stronger before the strike, I really want to know how his story's going to play out. He isn't near Shigaraki, AFO, Dabi, or Toga, so this could be interesting to see him spotlighted alone once again.

I'm also excited to finally get some quality screen time with Tentacole whom I believe to be criminally neglected in the series as a whole. Rooting for you, Cephalopod Son!

The news of Dabi's fall reaches Endeavor and the other heroes facing AFO.

And now I'm so glad to have gotten these chapters all at once. Hawks knew going into it that AFO would taunt Endeavor specifically where he was sensitive exactly like he did, but I don't think he anticipated AFO being able to find any fodder that would actually get under HIS skin, and that will likely really come into play later, even if we don't see the results of the battle for a few more chapters, and that's where I predict anything new or unsure about Hawks and his feelings are going to come out.

Now, I love this interaction and series of events. We all know it was Hawks that rose me from my dormant state on this blog. Up to this point there's only so much we had to talk about, especially since what was being speculated in the discussions of leaks that I saw were really far off from what the official translation wound up to be.

The panel about him calling himself "crippled" when AFO tries to make him feel weak and Hawks just deflects it, AFO not getting anything out of him by calling him "Nagant's replacement", and the comment Hawks made about him making "a clean break" from his family history were very sensationalized and taken out of context when I saw them. So far, everything seems to be well within character for Hawks, and literally none of that stuff bothers him. He knows AFO is just the villain trying to get his way, and Hawks has already put on his armor for whatever he anticipated AFO to throw at him.

The only thing that AFO did that actually got to Hawks was wound Endeavor. Hawks' weakness far more than his need for prosthetic wings are those he cares about and his mission. And now, Endeavor has been impaled like the shish kabob.

Damn it, Endeavor. It's okay, though, this is actually the spot I wanted to catch up to, because this is where i think we get the best Hawks characterization crumbs of the chapter.

Up to this point, the main motivation for Hawks as a whole has been the same since he woke up in the hospital- "Finish the job I started as soon as possible because we're running out of time!" It's been weeks. Things have only gotten worse. The goal has never changed - only the logistics and limitations it took to reach that goal. He needs to end it yesterday. Hawks has long accepted that his death may be a necessary price in that equation, and he's at peace with that if it really will bring about the change he wants to see. Sacrificing himself so Endeavor can live and defeat AFO is more than reasonable to him.

These two, though. They weren't in the plan. They weren't in the calculations, ever, because unlike him these were never acceptable potential loses to Hawks. In the moment, he doesn't consider their abilities or the fact that they just saved his life. He can't risk losing them, so they were never a consideration in this fight before.

On the subject of mind games, I think it's safe to say that AFO is going to try to leverage Hawks' protectiveness of the kids to get him to slip up later on, but Tsukoyomi is the one who'll help him psychologically stay on task, while Earphone Jack plays more traditional power support. Tsukoyomi has experience keeping up with Hawks in real time, plus he has a good idea of how his teacher thinks. He also has known and worked closely with Earphone Jack as her classmate for more than two years now, and as she doesn't have to be the one maneuvering she can just focus on communicating with Tsukoyomi to set her up for success.

It's a clutch impromptu support team and one that only gets better if Endeavor is able to rejoin them. There's likely going to be bumps and hiccups, I predict predominantly on Hawks' end and difficulties keeping Jirou airborne, just because of the desperateness of the situation; but the actual important things here is we're going to hopefully get some real quality Bird Bros material in a moment and get to see the goths kids kill it out there. I'm here for it!!!

#bnha 353 #bnha 354 #she speaks #bnha chapter review #let's talk hawks

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lesbiansanemi · 11 months

Note

Hey, I wanted to ask here because it isn't really important to the story, but in Last Sunrise how does Shinobu feel about Giyuu's death?

Like, how does she feel with the fact that the deppresed and somehow lazy (I don't think she saw him as someone hardworking, she in canon sees him as someone very distracted), who isolated himself, voiced against her experiments and even sided Sanemi after he helped Kyojuro, died like he clearly wanted. And she, who did everything for the cause and worked hard for what she wanted, didn't? (I like to think Shinobu in canon actually likes to socialize with Giyuu because she figured that like her, he is intending to die.)

Has she even noticed? Because again, Giyuu isn't that important and right now she has too much on her plate to care of how is anyone doing. She has even started to isolate herself, so unless the butterfly girls or Kanao told her she wouldn't know who survived and who didn't, besides with everything she is going through some deaths of people who were never arpund to begin with might take longer to sink in.

Btw I love your writtings, thank you for sharing your works.

Yeah, so! Honestly (like you guessed) Shinobu isn't exactly processing everyone who died. She was told by the Butterfly Girls who died, as well as who was in critical condition and are now currently living in her estate due to injuries. So she does know, but she is... not exactly caring.

Part of it is due to the fact that she spent the first few weeks after the battle transforming, so she was unconscious, and then in so much pain she couldn't function. (She wasn't exaggerating when she told Akaza she spent days with her "skin sloughing off"), so she missed most of the grieving period most people got, as well as all the memorial services, so it feels less... real, that so many people died, including Giyuu

She is also most definitely pissed and grieving her own missed death. Because she is so bitter, she is definitely jealous and upset that so many people died while she was forced to live. Giyuu is not necessarily any more significant than characters like Mitsuri and Gyomei in that sense. However, she also has no idea how Giyuu died because no one told her. For all she knows, he just so happened to die. She doesn't know he deliberately sacrificed his life for Genya. If she knew that, she might harbor more intense feelings of envy towards Giyuu since he was able to sacrifice himself for the cause like she intended to, and with "little effort" on his part (quite literally just pushing Genya out of the way of Kokushibo's sword strike)

And now, with quite literally every bit of her focus being poured into recreating the cure, and isolating herself to the degree that pretty much the only person she talks to is Yushiro and maybe Kanao if she can catch her in the right mood, the potential grief and feelings for all the lives lost has been stalled even further

Ultimately, she's still stewing in so many of her own negative feelings (now coupled with guilt and regret over what she did to Kyojuro) that thinking about the people she's lost has been pushed so far back, whether it's negative or positive feelings about them. It won't be until much later that she actually considers it, and is able to have genuine feelings on all the death

I hope that was a satisfying answer!

#kimetsu no yaiba #shinobu kocho #giyuu tomioka #asks #kaz rambles

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therewasatale · 2 years

Text

closed together

On Ao3.

Summary: Obi-Wan finds out that Cody has a scar on his face. And they trapped in the turbo lift.

Their steps echoed softly down the hallway. Through the walls one could hear the sound of ceaselessly working repair droids. Somewhere a turbo lift just began to descend, or ascend. There were only a few clones around now, most of them were either resting or concentrating on their duties to occupy themselves.

They were just through a serious fight; the Negotiator got numerous hits and damaged not just on the outside but also inside. They lost many brothers, thanks to Grievous and the separatists. They ambushed them on a diplomatic mission and if Skywalker hadn’t showed up with the 501st, they might not have gotten home to Coruscant.

Cody glanced at his general. The man looked like he was deep in thought. General Kenobi's white eyes stared into nothing as they left the bridge behind. Although the Jedi could not see, the commander knew it very well that this did not hinder the man in doing anything. Well almost anything.

"What is it, Cody?" Obi-Wan's slowly tilted his head towards the clone. His voice was tired, and there were sadness lingering in it.

Cody noticed the dark lines under the general's eyes, his face seemed gaunter, and as he rubbed his own arm, it became more and more clear to the commander that the Jedi is reaching the limits of his energy reserves. The clone's arm tightened around his helmet. It was the generals request that when they aren't in combat, his men shouldn't wear their helmet. "You should rest, sir. The others are already recuperating."

"The one who are still alive," the Jedi added, not hiding his sadness, and if Cody had a good idea of his disappointment. He blamed himself, for each and every one of his fallen brothers, for not being able to save them.

They both knew this was just what happens in war.

As a Jedi, Obi-Wan, had to learn it more than once that despite his extraordinary abilities, he had no power over death. No matter what you did, there will be losses and you will not be able to protect everyone.

And Cody was raised to be ready to give up on his own life, if it was needed. Death could strike any time and take anyone, but that wasn’t important. They lived and died for the Republic. They were made for it, and it was everything they were, expendable. At least that's what they were told. Then the Jedi appeared in their life.

"Please, sir. You need some rest." He reached out, putting a hand on the general's arm.

Obi-Wan slowed down, the hand felt heavy, but warm on his arm. "I-"

"Please. We will take care of the rest, but you should get some sleep."

He felt through the Force, the true worry and care. He could feel his own heart soften with every beat. "All right, Cody. Will you walk with me?"

Cody stepped closer, letting the Jedi took his arm. "Of course, sir."

The clones knew their general did not actually need their help. Through the Force, he was able to sense any incoming danger and he learned to fight without his eyesight from a very young age. As an adult, he could find his room without any problem, but someone leading him there became a little habit of the 212th. When their Jedi was too exhausted, someone always accompanied him on the way. And Obi-Wan never objected.

Together they made their way to the lift, their steps synchronized into a rhythm.

"One week, that’s the fastest we can get the Negotiator to 100% again." Obi-Wan said with noticeable annoyance. "During that, I have to report to the Council at the Temple."

"I'm sorry, sir. Let us know if we can help you with anything."

The turbo lift's console flashed as they called for it. The lights went off on it before turning on again. Cody raised an eyebrow. Maybe their energy grid was also damaged.

"I just hope I don't have to explain myself to Master Yoda," Obi-Wan nodded. "Or, come to think of it, I'd rather talk with him than with the Chancellor."

"You are starting to sound like Fox, sir."

Obi-Wan chuckled softly. "I didn’t even know how he can get along with that many politicians sometimes."

"With an almost limitless supply of caf, or so I heard."

The lift arrived a little slower than usual before stopping in front of them. Its doors slowly opened.

"You all always do your best, Cody. What could I do without you?"

"Is that a poetic question, General?"

The exhausted but warm smile on Obi-Wan's face remained. "Possibly. In truth I mostly asked those from my old padawan. He used to deliberately misunderstand them."

They stepped inside. The doors closed behind them and the turbo lift started moving down from the level of the bridge, vibrating slightly.

"I never would have thought, sir."

"Really? And-"

The elevator shook and stopped.

"What was that?" Through the Force, Obi-Wan tried to assess the potential danger around them. If there was a droid left on the ship that has been hiding so far…

"Shit." Cody raised his head as the lights went out on the lift console, and around them again.

A nervous feeling flowed through the Force.

"Cody?"

"We just lost power. This is Commander Cody!" He spoke into his communicator. "Anyone copy?"

"Commander? This is Helix. Are you all right, sir? The power grid is still a little unstable here and there. The damned clankers got into, and did damage to everything they could reach."

"We're stuck in the turbo lift with the general. We need a little help to get out."

"One moment, sir." The communicator fell silent.

"Cody?" The Jedi put his hand on the clone's shoulder, the nervousness subsided in both of them.

"We will be moving again soon, sir."

"As long as the system is okay, I'm not worrying." Answered Obi-Wan with a half-smile.

Helix's voice spoke up again. "All right, sir. My people are working on it, the good news is that the elevator itself isn't damaged, so it will be fine, nothing to worry about."

"And what's bad news?" Cody would have guessed that he won't like the answer.

"There's a minor glitch in the system that we need to fix. It will take some time."

"How long?"

"An hour, maybe two."

Cody suppressed a curse. "And there's no way to get us out sooner?"

"Well-" Helix hesitated.

"Yes, Helix?"

"The general can cut you two out from there?"

Cody raised an eyebrow at the man standing next to him. "Sir?"

The general slowly tilted his head the side, then waved it off. "No, I don't want to do any more damage to the ship. I can wait for those two hours."

"Maybe three." The communicator added.

"Helix." There was a warning in Cody's voice.

"Only two, only two, I promise, sir."

"Two hours. Let me know if something happens. Cody out." The clone lowered his arm with a small sigh. "Then, we're stuck here for a couple of hours, sir."

"It's all right. It's often said that time flies in good company." He reached out with his hands just enough to touch the wall, then slid his cloak off his shoulders and sat down on it. "But if that's not a problem, I wouldn't spend those two hours standing."

"Of course, sir." By this time Cody's eyes got used to the darkness. There was a faint light coming from the elevator shaft through the tin line separating the doors. He took a hesitant step.

"You can sit down too, Cody."

"Thank you, sir." He did as he was told and placed himself next to the Jedi putting down his helmet on the other side.

"And feel free to call me Obi-Wan."

Cody's face twitched, it wasn't the first time the general had asked him to do that, yet he was still getting embarrassed every time. "All right, Obi-Wan." The name escaped his lips easily, still he refused to notice the red blush spreading on his face.

The silence was not uncomfortable or gloomy. It was as if the air was full of patience and expectation.

Cody leaned back against the cold wall. He also needed a rest; the Force knows when was the last time he was able to sleep properly; it may have been on the Kamino. In infancy. He rubbed his forehead slowly with his fingers, hoping that he could drive the exhaustion away.

"Are you all right, Cody? I can feel you are uncomfortable."

Of course, he can, the clone allowed himself a small smile. "Yes, Obi-Wan. It simply that my scar aches sometimes. Just very rarely after long days."

There was a second of silence.

The Jedi's blind eyes turned towards him.

"You have a scar? Where? Since when? Are you injured?"

"Sir-, Obi-Wan, everything is fine." The smile persisted on his face. "An old injury, I got it on Geonosis."

"Are you sure? I never knew…To be precise I didn't even ask-" Obi-Wan murmured under his breath, stroking his beard. "Not as if it's that important or would change anything, but still. I should had…"

"It's all right, sir, it's just a little something that makes me a bit different from the others."

"You are all different, Cody, feeling and thinking souls." The general's voice was as serious as ever when this topic was raised. He would stop and argue the individualities and importance of the clones with anyone, even with the Kaminoians. The only one who was possibly more adamant about this topic was General Plo Koon.

"Thank you, Obi-Wan, but it's really nothing."

The Jedi's hand rose, but stopped a few inches in front of the clone's face. "Can I?"

Cody glanced towards the general's eyes. Even though they could not see him, they seemed to be warmly waiting for an answer. His heart skipped a beat. "Go ahead." He shuddered involuntarily as the fingers first touched his chin.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine." The commander shooed away the emerging thought before the Jedi could sense it in his mind. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath.

Obi-Wan gently caressed his chin, tracing the line of his right ear with the tip of his fingers. Then he slowly felt his skin under his eyes, and nose.

Cody knew he should inform his general where exactly his scar was, but the feeling was too pleasant and made him fuzzy and warm inside. He wanted this moment for himself as long as he could.

The Jedi's hand hesitated for a moment as he reached his lips, then slowly touched and caressed them carefully.

The urge to kiss the finger resonated deeply in the clone's soul, certain parts of him were very much urging him to do so. Cody clung to his logical self, which was just strong enough to be able to stand on its own two feet. The thought made the heat spread across his face even more. When Obi-Wan's fingers moved away for a moment, he inadvertently moved after his touch.

"Sir?" He had to clear his throat to gather himself. "Obi-Wan?" A moment later, nervous thought gripped his stomach. Maybe the jedi can see all his thoughts? If he realized his feelings, maybe-

The fingers reached for his face again. Then the Jedi's palm touched his skin as well.

"Nothing, Cody. Everything is all right."

The warmth of his touch reassured the commander. He wouldn’t have cared if his general was doing some kind of jedi mind trick on him, at least as long as he could enjoy his touch. His head lowered towards the man, his hair brushed against the Jedi's.

They were too close.

Obi-Wan was aware he should pull away, but he didn't want to. He needed and wanted this, just as much as Cody. He could not rely on his eyes, but he was able to perceive everyone through the Force. And for that he felt lucky, since it was very hard to deceive him in any way, the material world could not distract him. However, very rarely, he wished he could be able to see, just for a moment. So he would be able to remember the faces of his clones, and his padawan. That's all he wanted. With the tip of his fingers, without prompting gently caressed the little lines on his commander's face.

What he was doing was wrong. Yet, the warmth and serenity emanating from Cody also affected him.

He hasn't touched anyone in a long time.

His hand moved and slowly reached the clone's scar. For a moment he stopped breathing.

"Everything all right, Obi-Wan?"

"I just, I was just hoping-, This was a serious injury.”

"The doctors said I hit my head quite a bit, but nothing important was hurt. They patched me up and I was on my feet as soon as I could."

His fingers explored the scar and then wandered towards Cody's chin again. "And you came, to be my commander."

Their foreheads touched, but neither of them pulled away. Their breathing slowed, and felt in to the same rhythm.

The ship around them seemed completely quiet now.

Cody silently focused on the path of the Jedi's fingers. He shivered as they reached his neck, then caressed along the line of his armor. That was the boundary that separated them. He was still an expendable soldier who served the Republic. And Obi-Wan was a Jedi who could not become attached to anyone or anything.

"I'm sorry." The Jedi whispered.

The clone waited in silence.

"I-" he himself didn't know what to say. He could clearly make out Cody's feelings through the Force, but he was unable to return them. Neither the Jedi Order nor military protocol allowed it. "You're a good man, Cody. You're important, just like all of your brothers."

"We were bred to fight and to be expendable, sir."

"Don't say that. It's not true. Not for me." For the last time, he caressed gently the clone's cheek. They couldn’t immerse themselves into their feelings. It wasn't right. He was about to move away when Cody moved closer to him.

The kiss first felt awkward and unsure. Cody's desire to be with Obi-Wan, to take care of him, was almost palpable. There was a longing, hoping that this moment will last forever.

They both knew it wasn't right. But still.

Obi-Wan snuggled closer to him. He let himself be pulled into an embrace and be gently kissed. Deep in his soul, he knew for a while now, that they both felt same ways, but he kept it under control, until now.

They remained in each other’s embrace, even when they broke the kiss to breath. The Force was swirling around and deep inside of them.

"Cody." Obi-Wan sighed slowly. "I-we can't."

"I know."

"We shouldn't-, that's not right."

"I know." Cody's voice became almost a whisper.

"You could be in danger if anyone found out..."

"I know."

Obi-Wan didn't push him away, not even when he kissed him again. There were just more warm and gentle kisses. Maybe, knowing that it was forbidden made it even sweeter.

Obi-Wan felt himself losing his head. He felt the hands gently exploring his body, and Cody pulling him closer and closer. He let himself be embraced. Every part of him wanted this. Maybe all the exhaustion, or the losses drove him this far, but even so, he let it happen. He became happier and happier with every second. His heart was drumming in his throat and ears.

"Obi-Wan?" The clone finally broke the kiss while he embraced the Jedi closer himself.

"Yes?"

"You need to sleep. I don't want to-, I don't want to take advantage of your exhaustion. You need to rest."

Obi-Wan gave out a small protesting snort but when he felt the kiss on his forehead he relaxed. "Maybe you're right."

"We'll be here for a while longer. In the meantime, please have some rest."

The clone buried his fingers into his hair, and Obi-Wan couldn't fight against the tender pleasantness that descended on him. "And you will be watching over me?"

"Yes, always. As long as I draw breath."

The blush deepened under the Jedi's eyes. He hadn't even noticed before how exhausted he felt after the battle. "Thank you, Cody." He could feel the tiny kiss in his hair before he succumbed to fatigue.

Cody listened to his Jedi's soft breathing for a while, then closed his eyes for a moment to rest. He wanted to be very careful not to fall asleep. Nevertheless, his breathing relaxed, his fingers buried deep in his hair.

After an hour, the elevator began working and gone up to the appropriate level. However, it still remained unused even long after that.

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #obi-wan fanfic #obi-wan kenobi #commander cody #CC-2224 #cody x obi wan #obi-wan x cody #copper #obi-wan #kenobi #sw cody

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nellie-elizabeth · 2 years

Text

The Handmaid's Tale: Together (5x06)

Well damn! I wasn't expecting that!

Cons:

I don't know how to speak about this eloquently, it's definitely not a subject where I'm the expert, but I'm just not sure how I feel about seeing Luke beaten and nearly strangled to death. It's... well, this show has a problem with the way it depicts race. I'm not crying foul that they dared to depict something so gruesome, it just... it kind of feels like an infamous death on Orange is the New Black where the show is using a specific real death as the inspiration for a trauma inflicted on a character, and I'm not sure how to feel about that. This show just has such an erratic track record with actually dealing with structural racism, which is a big, big problem I've talked about before. You can't have a show about the struggles of women in a patriarchal totalitarian system without considering race as a very serious factor. And the fact that we saw Luke struggling for breath while he was being suffocated... I don't know. That was viscerally upsetting to me on a level beyond a lot of what this show does to me. And it didn't seem to specifically propel the story forward in any way, either.

I continue to be a little frustrated by the repetitive journey of Aunt Lydia. She feels all guilty about the abuses these young girls have suffered with her full knowledge and permission? I mean, I guess I'm glad she's trying to stand up for them now, but that doesn't make her any less complicit in the rest of it. It's all rape, Lydia. All of the Handmaid stuff is rape, and she knows that. I hope the show actually grapples with that, and we don't just have a retread of the same thing again and again.

Pros:

I've been complaining about Luke and June a lot this season, that their relationship is just not convincing to me along the lines of an actual endgame romance. But I gotta say, them leaning in to the different ways Luke and June are each handling their situation worked really well. June is calm, resigned, but Luke is, in my opinion understandably and also rightfully, pointing out how crazy the situation is, how over the top evil Gilead is to have done all these things to June. It's one thing to hear about it, but until he's really living it, he could never really know. Maybe this glimpse really will lead to him being able to connect to his wife about what she's suffered. We'll have to see.

Commander Putnam! Damn, I did not see that coming at all. When Aunt Lydia goes to Commander Lawrence about the fact that a Commander raped a Handmaid before she officially became his property, I expected it to be another lesson on how the women in this society are powerless. Esther is pregnant with Putnam's baby, and who cares if it didn't happen during an officially sanctioned ceremony? Well, Lydia cares, apparently, and Commander Lawrence and Nick are able to arrange that he pays for his crime. When Nick actually shot him in the head, I gasped out loud. It was a callback to the beginning of the show, to the book, where rapists were treated with the full force of the vengeful law of Gilead. The morality imposed upon the citizens might come to strike even the most powerful and seemingly safe.

And while I stand by the fact that Aunt Lydia's journey is hard for me to feel invested in because of how repetitive it's becoming, I do want to praise the acting. Lydia doesn't want to believe that Esther has been raped. She wants to believe in Esther's wickedness. You can see her swallowing down her anger and validating the pain Esther has felt. She doesn't lash out, even when Esther screams at her and accuses her, rightfully, of complicity in all of it. And then Lydia actually follows through and makes Esther's rapist pay for it. That's pretty intense, I hope we can keep that momentum going.

We have the Nick scene with his wife, where we learn that she's pregnant, and he promises that he went ahead with the killing of Putnam for the sake of creating a better future for Gilead. I love the way Nick is portrayed this season, where he's toeing the line but you can tell he finds Gilead so repulsive in so many ways. His look of open disgust when Putnam and Lawrence are celebrating Esther's pregnancy is just so priceless. Nick is a big question mark, in the best way. Is he really leaning into Gilead, fighting to protect the little bit of security he's carved out for himself? Or do we think he might take Tuello up on his offer and turn traitor, or will he take his wife and unborn child and run, or will he and Lawrence team up to keep taking down the worst of what Gilead has created? We just don't know!

And then we've got Serena and June. Oh boy. For better or for worse, and I think you could argue both at different points in the show's history, The Handmaid's Tale is really about these two women. Both are given deep psychological depth by the narrative, both have suffered and triumphed, they are inexorably connected through their experiences, they have been allies in rare moments of desperation, and enemies far more often. Serena is June's rapist. June is the murderer of Serena's husband. It's all down to the two of them at the end of the day.

The setup for this moment of truth from Serena has been coming all season. Serena has been forced to see the consequences of the world she helped create, in a very real way. It's not as dramatic as losing a finger for reading the bible. It's more insidious, more familiar, to so many of the women watching the show. Serena's movements being monitored and forestalled. Being treated like she's incapable of making up her own mind about things. Being examined by a gynecologist and then asked out on a date by that same gynecologist. Being told her feelings are not as important as her baby having a father, being invalidated in her emotional experience by everyone she comes across, including another woman.

And then she has a chance for revenge against June. She is able to convince her captors, so to speak, to let her come along. She's standing there, she has the gun... and in the moment of truth she turns it on Ezra, her bodyguard. What I love about this is that Serena hates June so, so much, and really would like nothing more than to see her suffer. But in that moment of truth, her desire for freedom wins out over her desire for revenge. It's a slim margin, and we're not sure that Serena won't just run right back to Gilead and fall in line if things get too tough.

This episode really woke me up in a lot of ways: this has been a solid season, but the fact that Serena is on the run, holding June at gunpoint, just amped things up to a whole new level of intense. I'm excited to see what's coming!

8.5/10

#review #the handmaids tale #the handmaids tale review #the handmaid's tale #the handmaid's tale review #handmaid's tale #handmaid's tale review

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tkc-info · 2 years

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Guilt

Day 10 - death

@wagner-fell @chibi-tsukiko @littleturtle95

1880

“Mr. Woolaham, they’re calling for you,” the maid said.

Camille looked up from his newspaper. For a second, he struggled with attaching a name to her person. Margaret? Vivienne? Anne? She was one of the newer additions to Woolaham Manor, and he had yet to get truly acquainted with her.

“Who is calling?” he asked, having silently decided to abandon the pursue of a name “My sister?”

The maid shook her head vigorously; her cheeks suddenly tinged crimson. “Not Miss Kirkham, sir. Two robust men in military regalia.”

“Two, you say?” Camille hastened to set his newspaper aside “Not one?”

The maid nodded. “Two, sir.”

“That truly is strange,” Camille passed a hand through his hair; it needed to be cut, yet Marcus had been away for three months “Never mind. Fetch our visitors a cup of tea.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Camille inclined his head in recognition. “Thank you. And your name?”

“Pardon me?” the maid looked puzzled.

“Your name,” Camille repeated “Might I know your name?”

“Ingrid, sir,” Ingrid’s cheeks became a darker shade of crimson “I shall take my leave now, if you’ll excuse me. Visitors mustn’t be made to wait.”

Camille watched her close the door, remained unmoving until her footsteps had faded away, and then heaved a sigh. He tried to bar his concern from overruling him. Woolaham Manor had never hosted visitors he hadn’t previously known, and he certainly only knew one man who was part of the martial hierarchy —his husband— not two. It was all due to Camille himself, of course.

His existence as a man was a secret to all who’d known him before his marriage to Marcus. His past existence as a woman —or, rather, his past existence as a man forced to live in a womanly body and assume a womanly identity as a result of some cruel joke he’d never consented to— was a secret to all who’d met him after his marriage. His existence as Marcus’s husband as opposed to Marcus’s wife was a secret to all but a select few.

Camille observed himself through the image reflected on his study’s mirror. He used his fingers to alter his hair so that his smoothest facial features would be lessened, and pinched his shirt forward to make his chest appear flatter and the lines of his silhouette straighter. All trying to eradicate anything that would hint to the difference between his body and the body of the other men. Marcus wouldn’t invite a hateful person into their haven, but still. A stranger was a stranger nevertheless.

When he finally realised he was worrying to an absurd extreme, he compelled himself to walk out of the study and greet Marcus and their guest.

Marcus’s military career forced him to stay away from home for prolonged periods of time; waiting for him, Camille had always thought, was torturous. Soon excitement over meeting him again overpowered getting acquainted with his colleague. Whatever-his-name-was surely could be influenced out of Woolaham Manor in less than a fortnight —Camille would tell Cook to bring forth his most innovative dishes, and the maids to dry his blankets on the grass near that one ants nest they’d stumbled upon the former Monday.

Immensely satisfied with his resolution, Camille arrived to the main drawing room on light feet.

However, his happiness vanished the second he proceeded to take notice of the room.

Marcus wasn’t there. Both the men before him were strangers.

Both wore black regalia.

“Is Mrs. Camille Woolaham here?” the older of the men asked, having heard Camille approaching. He ought to have been in his fifties, and had a striking moustache.

Camille felt himself shake his head. “She took ill and vanished to her brother’s house in London,” he turned to the other man; he was only a few years his senior. Handsome, Camille supposed. His left sleeve hung limbless and formless from his jacket. He didn’t have an arm “I’m Marcus’s cousin, Arthur Woolaham. Where is he?”

The older man’s gaze went downward. “Mrs. Woolaham must be the one I speak with.”

“Where is he?” Camille pressed.

His heart beat frantically, ominously. The younger man glanced at him quickly; Camille saw him swallow down hard, his eyes shining. Two men in black had presented themselves before Camille’s door without his husband, asking for a woman that wasn’t there, asking for Camille. That could only mean one thing —Camille knew as much— yet he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Not until he heard his fears articulated into words.

“Where is Marcus?” he repeated.

“Dead!” the younger man jumped onto his feet. His words came out broken, frantic, wrong “He’s dead! Woolaham—”

He couldn’t finish his sentence, for the older man apprehended him in the middle of it. In the process, he knocked down a vase Marcus had given Camille as a drunken present for their first wedding anniversary. The vase shattered into a million pieces, and somehow that was the sole tether to sanity Camille was offered.

“My apologies, Mr. Woolaham,” the older man said once the younger man had calmed down by virtue of having received a punch “Mr. Smith was there when the incident that took your cousin’s life occurred, and is still quite scarred about it, as might be obvious. Despair not, anyhow, for your cousin decided to follow this line of work fully knowing the nefarious consequences that might befall him. Alas, the only ones entitled to feelings of sorrow are the female members of his family, mainly Mrs. Woolaham. Becoming a widow at such a young age —and before her husband could give her children— truly is the worst experience a woman’s sensitive nature can suffer.”

His words were like stabs to the gut. Camille couldn’t bear to hear him any longer. He was a widower, now, he’d lost Marcus. His body was consumed by ice as a numbness of sorts invaded him. No. It wasn’t numbness, it was pain so acute his psyche couldn’t register it as his own, but only as a faraway echo.

Camille did little to suppress his tears; he did even less to control his breathing. Neither of the men paid him any heed.

“Mr. Woolaham,” the older one called, in as impassive a tone as there could ever be summoned “Your cousin left a message for his wife.”

In a blur of motion, a piece of yellowed paper manifested itself on Camille’s palm. The scribbled-on ink letters seemed unintelligible upon first glance. Marcus had written a great deal, however Camille could only understand the first paragraph.

Camille, you are the reason I have perished.

Camille woke up in a sweat.

However, he woke up.

It had all been a dream. A shattering, incapacitating, inhumane nightmare that scared him away from any possible return to the oneiric realm.

Trembling, he kicked the sheets wrapped around his legs aside, and hastened to his feet. The cool wood under his soles had a grounding quality to them; he tried to search a tether in them as he made his way out of his room. Every one of his steps was accompanied by a heavy beat of his heart. Thump, thump, thump, thump…

It took him twenty-three heartbeats to reach Marcus’s door. He knocked on it.

“Who’s there?” came his husband’s sleep-roughened voice.

“It’s me,” Camille gulped down “Can I come in?”

Marcus groaned in a fashion Camille took as an affirmative.

His husband was laying on his bed; sheets pooled around his hips, making his most recent scar visible from end to end, from left pectoral to navel. His forearms had been pressed against his eyes —that’s how he slept— but he must’ve noticed something was amiss, for he withdrew them and turned his face to Camille. “What has happened?” he frowned.

Camille shrugged, pinching the front of his nightshirt forward. “I had a nightmare,” he nodded to the scar.

“About this?” Marcus brought a hand to his pectoral “I’m well on my way to recovering, you know that. Wait,” he sat up; a fraction of Camille was at awe at the comfort he displayed around his nudity “Did you dream you were the one who sustained this wound?”

“No,” frustrated, Camille strode to the bed and sat opposite him “I dreamed this,” he struck a finger against the upper extreme of the scar “Pierced deeper into your heart. It was a nightmare because you died, and it was my fault.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for too long a time to quantify. Camille looking into Marcus’s eyes, and Marcus returning the gesture.

“If I died, it would never be your fault,” Marcus eventually spoke, his voice low.

“You chose the military—”

“To infuriate my brother as well as force him to pass ownership of Woolaham Manor onto my person, so that I could live away from my family, and you could live as the man you truly are,” Marcus shook his head “Don’t blame yourself for decisions I made while in full possession of my consciousness, Camille.”

“I know,” Camille sighed “It is only that I have been so scared these four weeks.”

At the start of the month, Marcus had been struck with a sword —by a young soldier who Camille had made sure was fired instantly— and been left almost unable to breathe. The blade had very nearly slashed right through his heart; he would have perished then and there, and even if constant nursing over the past weeks had cured him, Camille couldn’t discard the fear he’d felt.

“I’m not going to die. Not unless a war occurs or I’m too ancient to sustain myself,” Marcus reassured with a smile.

Camille felt his lips beginning to tug upwards.

“I can’t help you ageing,” he said “But if a war ever breaks out I’ll end it myself before you are called to participate in it.”

Marcus laughed.

#oc tober 2022 #oc tober #oc-tober 2022 #oc-tober

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samatedeansbroccoli · 2 years

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Steps of the Past

A long mission leaves Sev’rance exhausted, but not too tired to spend time with Vandalor.

For @flufftober Day 4. Except I used the alternate prompt Slow Dancing.

Ao3 Link

Rating: General

Warnings: None

Characters: Sev’rance Tann, Vandalor

Ships: Sev’rance Tann/Vandalor

Tags: Dancing, fluff

Words: 1.1k+

Exhaustion hit like a slugshot. Another day of shouting, avoiding death, demanding perfection out of her. Another day where she pushed the limits of her mind, quick decisions always coming naturally, but ebbing away at the energy already depleted from nearly three days of being awake. After all that, who wouldn't want death to descend upon them swiftly?

The feeling didn't strike until the limping freighter finally landed upon Ando, a planet which had just recently joined the list of CIS sympathizers. And even still, she held it off until the droids were shut down and the few living crew aboard had left the ship to enjoy the next day or two off.

Now alone on the bridge, Sev'rance gave one more check around for something she might have missed before too turning to find a place to stay. It wasn't like her to become excited over sleeping, but given the frigate's state, she wouldn't be needed for at least two days. Plenty of time to catch up on rest and return to the battlefield with brand new eyes.

But her steps came to a halt when the Force gave her a tiny nudge. Not out of malice that would draw her lightsaber, but enough to catch her attention. And Sev'rance remained in her spot as the bridge door opened, revealing a man. The only being who could make her smile more than a clean victory.

Suddenly she wasn't quite as tired.

"General," he addressed, continuing to approach her with ever the authority the CIS knew him by.

"Bounty hunter," she responded.

"How was the battle?"

"Would you consider grounding a ship for major repairs a success?"

"Sure, to a specific degree," he said as he stopped before her. "As long as your head's still intact, you can always fight another day."

A small scoff left her lips and she shook her head. "You know as well as I this would hardly be considered a win. To drive the Republic back? Perhaps. But not without massive losses on our side."

"Always the perfectionist. The Count and Lord might not be pleased, but they got what they wanted. And, in your defense, they always tell you by any means necessary."

"I'm not concerned about the Count. He's easy to convince with liquored words. And the Lord? That's the Count's problem."

"Good. Don't get between them."

"I don't plan to."

Silence crossed them, but Vandalor's mind spoke weight Sev'rance couldn't ignore. The other had gotten far too good at figuring out to stiffen and lower his natural mental barrier to the Force. Something she thought was only present in Force beings but he kept proving otherwise. Specifically today, his thoughts were on memories she thought she buried back at the Chiss Academy. By no means were they bad memories, but then were ones she always worried would distract her from her work.

A mischievous slipped onto Vandalor's face, Sev'rance realizing with great reluctance that she had let her guard down and he knew she was reading his mind. As though to accentuate his point—perhaps even mock her gullibility—he offered his hand forward.

"Vandalor..." was all Sev'rance gave for a warning. One she didn't really mean and he knew that. With nothing but a sure smile, he lured her hand into his and drew her close. Their foreheads met, though he gave her every chance to break contact should she change her mind. Not that Sev'rance wanted to, craning her neck slightly to meet his height. One hand rested around his waist while his own sat upon her shoulder. His skin ever so cold, reminding her of a home they would never be back to.

Then again, wasn't the whole point of love to feel as though the other person was home?

He wasn't done with his games. He even bothered to convince her with words, as though his mind hadn't already. "You remember when we were last alone on a bridge together, right?"

"Yes."

"Then you probably remember the steps."

"Of course not. I gave that life up a long time ago."

"It's only been twenty standard years."

"That's a very long time given Csilla's years have more days than a standard year."

"Well, I remember. I'll lead you through them until they feel familiar. But..." And he met her gaze. "Only if you trust me."

His patience was annoying. Annoying enough that she didn't have the strength to warn him for the inevitable as he began to rock her back back and forth. Teasing her to dance. It didn't matter how powerful she became. How easily she could defeat thousands of armies in battle. He would always be stronger than her with just a few well placed words and a grin. It was both infuriating and admirable and she couldn't figure out which emotion won over the other.

Perhaps she'd never understand love no matter how much she tried to parse it.

"Always."

In classic Vandalor style, he guided her with the same ease he did back when he first taught her to dance. Ever the gentleman. A replica of the past when they first fell in love and would sneak aboard ships to dance together. Her idea of resisting being continuing to talk, but even then she found herself losing whatever battle that as.

"Why are you here? I thought you'd be on Coruscant during the insurrection."

"I was paid by one of my Republic employers to be here. They want information on Ando's senator. I suspect the Republic only did this because you're in the area, but I doubt they understand how far Ando's aligned themselves with the CIS. Curiously, they haven't sent their own scouts. Just me."

"So they sent you to spy on me and the Senator."

"Precisely."

"Do you plan to kill him or me?"

"My orders are to take the senator alive but scare him a little. You? I'll kill your feet dancing if you'd like."

"Persuade me, and I'll allow it."

"Would you like to help me torture the senator?"

"I'd rather sleep."

"The offer always remains if you change your mind." And he fell silent to persuade her in another way. One that didn't need words.

In time, she fell into his gait as she recalled the steps of the past. Back then, it was more about how long they could get away with it before someone caught them over the joy of one another's presence. But like their place in the galaxy, their interests had changed as did their situation. No one could scold them for breaking rules. Only droids who held no judgement. The silence finally let Sev'rance see through the blindness her younger self had always yearned deep down but repeatedly denied. That being the desire to be at Vandalor's side forever. To let him be the only one who could control her heart, but never use it. To make her feel like they were the only two to exist.

She wouldn't change that love for the galaxy.

#Star Wars #Sev’rance Tann #vandalor #Sev’rance/Vandalor #flufftober2022

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