#rebel corps | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kanerallels · 9 months

Text

HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE EVERYONE BEHOLD THE EPIC (2013) KANERA AU WHICH I'M SO OBSESSED WITH RIGHT NOW @laughingphoenixleader FOR YOU

(by the way, don't read this if you haven't finished Jedi: Survivor, there are serious spoilers!)

Link to original ask!!

The Queen of the Jedi was a title that hadn’t been used in decades. Back when the Order had still existed, Caleb Dume had attended classes that talked about the title. How the Force only brought them on in times of greatest need, like during the battle against the Nihil over a hundred years ago.

A Force wielder of great power, who was perfectly in tune with the Force, who could hear shatterpoints and see visions of the future. Who could interact with the living Force in a way most of them could only dream of. It was said that their connection with it was so deep, they could wield it through the plants that seemed to spring up wherever they walked.

It was the stuff of legends. Caleb Dume had taken it all in with wide eyes, enthusiastic as always.

But Kanan Jarrus hadn’t believed in the Queen of the Jedi— and even if he had, why would it matter? There were no Jedi left— or if there were, they would hopefully be smart enough to keep a low profile. So a Queen of the Jedi couldn’t be less relevant to his life.

At least, that’s what he’d thought. Right up until two months after he met Hera Syndulla.

There’d never been a Queen of the Jedi who wasn’t first a Force user of some kind— at least, none that had been recorded. But Hera was more of a Jedi than Kanan had ever been. And besides, she had the powers now. That was what really mattered.

Even if those powers meant she had a habit of running headlong into danger, even more so than she used to.

“I don’t like this plan,” he told her.

“I know you don’t.” Hera’s voice was calm as she swept her gaze across the crowd. She, like him, wore a dark cloak that covered their clothing, and hopefully helped them blend in with the crowd. Ord Mantell was a good place to dress like this— half of the beings past them were hooded or cloaked, trying to avoid the patrolling Imperials.

Kanan doubted any of them were hiding a secret like theirs, though.

“And we’re still doing it?” he asked, shifting a little so he could rest his hand on his weapon. The hilt under his palm comforted him a little.

“You know we are, Kanan. The Force directed me here,” Hera told him. “We’re here to recruit him, and without us, there’s no telling what happens to him.”

“He’s ISB,” Kanan pointed out. “There’s no telling what will happen to us if he turns on us.”

“He is ISB,” Hera agreed. “But he wasn’t always. And he needs another— there.”

Kanan followed her nod to a dark-haired man, moving through the crowd. He wore dual blasters in the holster strapped to his chest, and something about the way he moved suggested danger. “You’re sure?” Kanan asked, but he was already moving to his feet, readiness humming through him. Hera was always sure.

“I am,” she said. “And I was right. He’s a shatterpoint.”

As they started through the crowd together, Kanan said, “I didn’t think a person could be a shatterpoint.”

“Anything can be,” Hera replied. “His choices are going to affect the galaxy, one way or another. It’s our job to steer him towards the right path. Hopefully the one that results in him joining us.”

“That’s your job,” Kanan said, sidestepping out of the path of a group of Ithorians. They paid him no mind as he continued, “Mine is making sure you don’t die trying to steer him towards the right path.”

Hera let out a snort of amusement. “I thought your job was to do what I say, dear.”

Catching her by the edge of her cloak, Kanan tugged her out of the way just as a speeder zipped by. “Only when you’re making sense. And sometimes when you don’t.”

“Your loyalty is heartwarming,” Hera said, already scanning the crowd again. “There— he went into the cantina. He must be meeting with someone.”

“And now that someone is going to be us,” Kanan said, checking his weapon again. “Which method are we going with this time? Subtle persuasion, or overwhelming him with your queenly majesty?”

“In the middle of a crowded cantina?” Hera said. “I don’t need to put your blood pressure through the roof today, thank you.”

“Thanks,” Kanan said wryly. “Subtle persuasion it is. You ready?”

“Always,” Hera said.

Together, the two of them slipped into the cantina. It was a dimly lit, shabby place. The tables were mostly empty, with the exception of a Weequay and his Ithorian companion playing sabacc, and a few others.

The dark-haired man had taken a table in a back corner, at a position where he could see the door and the rest of the room. Tactical thinker, Kanan observed as Hera led the way towards him. If this does go sideways, he could be a handful.

None of that, of course, stopped Hera from heading over and taking the seat in front of him. Kanan opted to stand. One hand hovering over his weapon, he watched as the dark-haired man looked up in surprise.

“Bode Akuna?” Hera asked.

“That’s me,” the man said slowly. Kanan could see his guard go up as he sized Hera up— a slight Twi’lek woman wearing a dark cloak. To the outside eye— well, it could never be said that Hera didn’t look like much.

But everything that Hera was couldn’t be contained in one glance, and so Bode relaxed fractionally. Kanan had to hold back a laugh. The guy didn’t know what was about to hit him.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m here to recruit you,” Hera told him.

One of Bode’s eyebrows shot up. “That so? Well, I’m free for hire— if your muscle there wants to let go of whatever weapon he has under that cloak,” he added, nodding at Kanan. “Then we can talk.”

Kanan sensed rather than saw Hera’s nod. This is a bad idea, he thought, but released his weapon anyways, lifting both of his hands just high enough in the air that Bode could see them.

Nodding, Bode turned back to Hera. “So, what kind of job are we talking about here?”

“It’s not exactly your average job,” Hera said mildly. “It would require dedication, and trust on both sides. And integrity.”

“Not a lot of call for that in my line of work,” Bode said with a snort of amusement. “Listen— I’m flattered, but I actually have something else lined up right now—”

“No, you don’t,” Hera said. “And if you do, it’s not a job you want to take.”

A flash of confusion crossed Bode’s face. “What?”

“What I mean is that working for the Empire isn’t sustainable. Not for a man in your position.”

Bode went still, his eyes locked on Hera. “What exactly do you know about my position?”

Kanan could hear the compassion in Hera’s voice as she said, “I know you work for the ISB as a spy. You do it because that’s what your supervisor needs from you, because you’re good at it. But most importantly, you do it to protect your daughter.”

Any pretense of confusion or amusement dropped at Hera’s last words. Bode’s glare was fierce as he said, “Leave her out of this. Whatever it is you want, it’s about me.” He glanced at Kanan, then back at Hera, his expression hostile. “So what is this? Some kind of test? Or do you want me to flip on the Empire for you?”

“It’s not a test,” Hera assured him. “And I don’t want you to spy on the Empire. I want you to leave them.”

Shaking his head, Bode said, “You may have looked me up, but apparently you missed some important things. I don’t just give my loyalty to whoever—”

“Agree to disagree,” Kanan muttered under his breath, and sensed a spike of disapproval coming from Hera.

Luckily, Bode either ignored it or didn’t care as he continued, “And I’m not just gonna let you threaten me. You’ve got ten seconds to drop this and leave, or things are going to get ugly.”

Oh, I don’t think so. Kanan gritted his teeth, wishing desperately that he could respond exactly the way he wanted to. But he knew Hera wanted to try diplomacy, and he felt her gratitude as he kept his mouth shut.

“Bode,” she said. “We’re not threatening you. We’re offering you a way out. We know the secret Denvik is holding over you, and—”

There was a crash at the door, and Kanan looked up sharply to see a flood of white clad troopers stomping into the room. In the lead was a black-clad figure, and Kanan cursed under his breath.

“Time to go,” he muttered to Hera, who followed his gaze.

As did Bode, who cursed even more vehemently than Kanan had. “What did you do to get a purge trooper after you?” he demanded.

“I think you can guess that,” Hera said, a smile curving across her face. Kanan nearly groaned as he recognized the smile. It was the one that meant danger, and that she was about to head straight towards it. I take it that means we’re not sneaking out the back, he thought.

A heartbeat later, the purge trooper spotted them. “Stop right there, traitors!” he barked, striding forward.

Leaning over to Hera, Kanan murmured, “You want him or his friends?”

“I’ll take him,” Hera said, getting to her feet. As she rose, she shed her cloak, dropping it onto the chair behind her. Underneath, she wore a dress that was part armor, part elegance. The pauldrons and breastplate over her simple white top were painted green, with golden highlights, but at the waist, her skirt flared out into a full, fluttering white skirt.

Hanging from her neck was a white crystal, one that shimmered green and pink and blue as the light hit it.

“You really think an outfit change is going to help?” Bode said as Hera headed towards the purge trooper.

Kanan tossed aside his own cloak, under which he wore armor of a similar style to what Hera wore. At his waist hung a scabbarded weapon, the hilt made of a simple, silvery metal. “No,” he said, “but it does make us look pretty awesome.”

Grasping the hilt, he pulled it free of the scabbard. The blue blade of his lightsaber burst to life, and he heard a gasp from behind him. Kanan didn’t look back.

As he and Hera moved to intercept the troopers, he heard the purge trooper scoff. “I can take down Jedi scum any day,” he said. “But you should at least make it hard. Where’s your weapon, Twi’lek?”

Kanan felt a grin cross his face, and he couldn’t resist stopping to watch, just for a moment.

Hera smiled at the purge trooper. “I don’t need one,” she said, and the kyber crystal around her neck began to glow.

At the same time, her eyes lit with a bright white fire, and the ground beneath them started to shake. The purge trooper stumbled backwards, his movements unsteady. “Open fire!” he shouted, the slightest edge of panic in his voice.

The stormtroopers behind him raised their weapons, but then Kanan was moving, cutting through them, batting aside blaster bolts with ease. He kept one part of his mind on Hera as he fought, watching her through the Force.

She knew, and he knew she knew, and he sensed her amusement at his vigilance, which she saw as excessive. But they only had one Queen of the Jedi, and Kanan wasn’t about to lose her to a stray blaster bolt.

Hera could hold her own, though— a fact that was made clear as vines burst through the floor, shattering the concrete. They were a pale, pale yellow-green, like they hadn’t seen sunlight in… maybe ever. In Ord Mantell City, full of stone and glass and metal, that wouldn’t surprise Kanan.

He cut down the last trooper, and turned to watch as the vines twined around the purge trooper, crawling up his body. He tried to smack them away, but they grew faster, enveloping him and pulling him downwards.

“Wha— stop! Get off!” The panic in his voice was stronger now, as he tried to wrestle free of the vines. But it wasn’t long before one vine, stronger than the others, twisted around his throat and tightened until he went limp, crumpling to the ground unconscious.

Giving his saber a deft spin, Kanan resheathed it, extinguishing the blue light. He could feel the satisfaction of a good fight humming through him, and through Hera. She shot him a smile as they turned back to where Bode was sitting.

Or rather, where he had been sitting. His seat was empty, and there was no sign of the man. “He must have slipped out during the fight,” Kanan muttered, grimacing. “Not exactly what you planned?”

“Not exactly,” Hera agreed, her voice resigned. “We’ll go to plan B, then.”

“Which is?” Kanan asked as she grabbed their cloaks, settling hers over her shoulder.

Tossing him his cloak, Hera said, “Overwhelm with queenly majesty, of course.”

“I do like that plan,” Kanan said. “And we have a decent start here. But we’ll need to find him first.”

“After this, there’s only one place he would be,” Hera said composedly. “Which means we’re going to Nova Garon.”

#cut to: kanan and hera sitting in bode's house #and bode getting adopted into hera's little jedi corps #she's recruited most of the surviving jedi so far #anyways i hope you guys like this #i will HAPPILY answer questions about this #because i have a lot of emotions about it #especially kanan's katana lightsaber #which is inspired by star wars visions #epic (2013) au #star wars rebels #swr #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #kanera #bode akuna #(this is pre-survivor by the way)#501st follower celebration #writing stories is a kind of magic too

22 notes · View notes

risingsouls · 1 month

Text

⬆ This woman actively boycotts Naughty Dragon because she refuses to allow CC to corner every market with their products.

Shop small for your dildos and vibrators, folks.

#:: nabooru ☀#.:dash commentary:.#.:crack:.#ish lmao #she absolutely would #the minute she hears bulma and by extension capsule corp has now gone into the sex toy business #she's gonna rebel #it's bad enough you can't escape CC in like every other market #so she's gonna rebel and buy her toys from smaller retailers ✊✊#tho tbh i do see her being a more shop small type person #partially because of her background and partially from learning how capitalism REALLY works #through the frieza force and living on earth #she wants to help the little people over big corps and stuff

4 notes · View notes

chubakarus · 1 year

Text

#Cyberpunk 2077 #Johnny Silverhand #Keanu Reeves #rebel #corps #war #conflict

34 notes · View notes

andrews-reviews-and-thoughts · 2 years

Text

Fanfic Writers’ Appreciation Day

Today is apparently Fanfic Writers’ Appreciation Day, so I thought it’d be nice for me to bring up three writers and their stories.

First is @meridiansdominoes, who has done a splendid job telling stories about the Clone Troopers of Star Wars...and their unnatural attempts to fix what is wrong, rather it be with Domino Squad finding themselves alive again in Dominoes, or the ghosts of nearly every clone following FN-2187/Finn before The Force Awakens in Esprit de Corps. I can’t wait to see what happens.

Then there is @the-aggro-crag-car, or Weevilo707 on Archive of Our Own. Their writings surrounding Infinity Train are sure to entertain, and provide a good amount of content surrounding Jesse and Lake, especially with the latter’s struggles to be a person. This may seem too soon for some, but the stories should provide that feeling of Infinity Train that many are sorely missing.

Finally, there is a certain story that I read in either late 2020 or early 2021 by @alizrak (or yoski_soulnova as she goes by on Twitter), and that is Last Known Trajectory. The amount of thoughts I have on it could be its own blog, but suffice it to say, the story she made is a great one, showing Ezra Bridger and Thrawn having to survive together, while offering plenty of developments with Eli Vanto, the Chiss Ascendancy, Ezra’s state of mind and views on things, and Thrawn himself (even with him and his goals seeming mysterious). Some parts of it may no longer match up with the Canon, but it still provides a good look at what could have happened after the end of Rebels, and why the world Timothy Zahn made should be considered and treated with respect.

3 notes · View notes

cybertronianrebelcorps · 6 months

Text

So when I created the Cybertronian Rebel Corps, it was only going to be for my TFP fic. But then I started writing a movieverse fic, I went 'frag this', and put the 'boys' in that fic too so Liliy wouldn't be lonely.

However, I did change some of their names because the fic starts well before modern English is a thing so some of them needed more Cybertronian-esque names. (But they still conveniently correspond with all the letters of the English alphabet because that is just the way I am.)

TFP-verse CRC: Alfa, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hirry, Indy, Julian, Kilo, Lima, Mike, Nova, Oscar, Pepper, Quebec, Romeo, Seaser, Tango, Ucon, Victor, Whiskey, X-ray, Yankee, and Zulu

Movieverse CRC: Alfa, Bolthex, Char, Delta, Echo, Fritz, Gearslip, Hardhit, Indent, Joules, Kilo, Lima, Micron, Nova, Onsight, Pitch, Queback, Roamin', Starwake, Tangent, Ucon, Victor, Warpkey, X-ray, Yank, Zero-IN

And since vehicons aren't really a thing in the movieverse, I did make some of the mecha Autobots before Scythe (Liliy) recruited them. Because, outside of TFP, Echo feels more like an Autobot to me, and then I just added some others besides him.

#musings #cybertronian rebel corps #Liliy is my OC #all my OCs

0 notes

ordinary-wonder · 2 years

Text

Aghbalou N'Kerdouss

Aghbalou N’Kerdouss

View On WordPress

#Africa #Amazigh #colonialism #France #Morocco #occupation #Peace Corps #prison #rebels #travel

0 notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 days

Text

1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Here at the midway point in our journey—like Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Inferno—would it be the right moment to review what’s at stake? Let’s begin.

It’s the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the party’s presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the end—in his death rattle—Humphrey begs to be Aemond’s running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.

Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriage—his wife, JFK’s younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympics—and has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the president’s “War on Poverty” before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemond’s commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.

Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communists’ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Hỏa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.

In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, they’re rescued by a SWAT team.

The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASA’s Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1962 promise to put a man on the moon “before the end of the decade.” If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.

The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiter’s gravity; to the casual observer, she doesn’t exist at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

What was it like, that very first time? It’s strange to remember. You’re both different people now.

It’s May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then it’s no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryens—minus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smoke—have already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.

One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaena’s garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatles’ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.

You’re giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. “Where are we going?”

And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: “To Olympus.”

In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like he’s proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. It’s intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isn’t just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond it’s a ritual; it’s something so overpowering it almost scares you.

“Aphrodite,” Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.

Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think you’ve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.

But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancé—shrouded in just the right amount of mystery—but your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.

Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; you’ve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that there’s nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Otto’s American Express.

That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwika’s favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasn’t put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: “You don’t have something else to wear?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemond’s nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemond’s celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He won’t be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemond—in the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an asset—but he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower.

When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?

Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suit—beaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waist—and Aegon isn’t smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.

Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimi—trying very hard to act sober, blinking too often—are chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and “help” you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.

As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedy—presently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his family’s compound in Massachusetts—approaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.

“You know, I was considering running,” Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. “But when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe I’ll give it a go in ’76, huh?”

“Hey, kid, what a tough year you’ve had,” Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You can’t tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldn’t keep one. What kind of sense does that make? “We’re real sorry for your trouble, aren’t we, Bobby?”

Now he is nodding somberly. “We are. We sure are. We’ve been praying for you both.”

Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. “Oh Lyndon, look, it’s just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.” Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. “I’ll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!”

“You’re so kind. We’ll see what happens in November…”

“Good evening, ma’am,” President Johnson says, smiling warmly. He’s an ugly man, but there’s something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet. LBJ is 6’4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called “Johnson Treatment”; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget he’s not allowed to hit them. “I have to tell you frankly, I don’t envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.”

“Lyndon, don’t frighten her,” Lady Bird scolds fondly.

“Everyone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,” LBJ plods onwards. “But it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? There’s no easy answer. It’s a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.”

Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I can’t stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.

LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. “It was so nice talking to you, dear,” she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.

The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isn’t trying to intimidate you. He’s just curious.

“Do you know what Aemond’s plan is for ‘Nam?” LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. “I’m sure he has one. He’s sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? We’re trying to train the bastards, but if we left they’d fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?”

“He doesn’t really discuss it with me.” That’s true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.

“We can’t let Nixon win,” LBJ continues. “It’s mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man can’t hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in ’60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. He’s a paranoid little prick. He’ll surveille the American people. He’ll launch a nuke at Moscow.”

You honestly don’t know what he expects you to say. “I’ll pass the message along to Aemond.”

“People love you, Mrs. Targaryen.” LBJ watching you closely. “Believe it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. You’re the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And you’ve had tragedies, and that’s a damn shame. But don’t you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.”

“President Johnson!” Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texan’s broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. “How thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.”

“The mayor of Trenton,” LBJ jabs.

“The butcher of Saigon.”

Now the president is no longer amused. “You’ve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. I’m looking forward to reading it someday soon.” He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.

You frown at Aegon, disapproving. You’re dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. “That was unnecessary.”

Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirt—half the buttons undone—khaki pants, and tan moccasins. “I just did you a favor.”

“What happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldn’t she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.”

“You know what he brags about?” Aegon says, meaning LBJ. “That he’s fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.”

“That sounds…logistically challenging.”

“He’s a lech. He’s a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.”

“And that’s all far less than admirable, but he’s not going to do something like that around me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not an idiot,” you say impatiently. “He was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.”

Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.”

“I guess you can’t stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now you’re both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. He’s flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.

“Aegon, wait, I didn’t mean—”

He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. You’re still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: “Follow me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. “Aemond, you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said about—”

“Later.” And this is jarring; Aemond doesn’t put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaena’s garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.

Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want another child with him. “Aemond…”

He doesn’t hear you, or acts like he doesn’t, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesn’t want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as he’s touching you, as he’s easing himself into you: He doesn’t want to have to look at my scar.

You can’t ignore him, you can’t pretend it’s not happening. He’s too big for that. It’s a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.

“I love you,” Aemond says when it’s over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. “Everything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.”

You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.

“What did LBJ say?”

“Can I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.”

“Of course.” And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.

For a while—ten minutes, twenty minutes—you lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldn’t help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?

When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. She’s on her knees and retching into a rose bush; she’s cut her face on the thorns, but she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s groaning; she seems lost.

You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. “Mimi, here, let’s get you upstairs…”

“No,” she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. “Just go away. Leave me.”

“Mimi—”

“No!” she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you tell her, distraught. “You can give up drinking. We’ll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.”

Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. “My husband hates me. My kids don’t know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?”

You weren’t expecting this. You don’t know what to say. “We can help make the world better.”

“The world would be better without me in it.”

Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, you’re lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you aren’t looking at them. You’re staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. You’re envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; you’re thinking that it’s a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.

Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiter’s radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.

Aegon trots out of the house—red swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flops—and kicks your chair. “Get up. We’re going sailing.”

“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“Great, because I’m not asking you to talk. I’m telling you to get in my boat.”

You don’t reply. You don’t think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.

“Let’s go,” Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.

Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegon’s sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. He’s had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.

You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.

You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: “Why did you bring me out here?”

“So you can drown yourself,” Aegon says, and you both laugh. “Nah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.”

You consider the math. “Wow. You haven’t been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.”

“It’s weird to think about. You don’t seem that young.”

“Thanks, I guess. You don’t seem that old.”

“Maybe we’re meeting in the middle.” He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. “What do you think, should I get an earring?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It might shock Otto so bad it kills him.”

“I’ll get two.” And then Aegon says: “It’s not cool for you to mock me.”

You are dismayed; you didn’t mean to hurt him. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. I’m up for a lot of things, but I can’t handle that. Okay?”

“Okay.” You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. “Aegon?”

He looks over at you. “Io?”

“I don’t want Aemond to touch me either.”

He’s surprised; not by what you feel, but because you’ve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. “What are we gonna do about it?”

If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe you’d know.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii fic

187 notes · View notes

demilypyro · 2 months

Note

What I find especially interesting about Clown corp is that lorewise, they started out being a part of the firefighters, IE their job was disaster relief and people saving, not enforcing the law or protecting the interests of the rich. So the story as a whole is about the active attempts to corrupt and control the Clown corp, trying to turn them into "Superheroes-as-cops", and how the clowns, rightfully, bristle against that kind of degradation of their work.

It's so good. They fucking hate the idea of being cops, they don't WANT to be cops, they want to be SUPERHEROES like the old days but the pressure of capital forces them to do work they hate. They're on a sinking ship, their organization is becoming more corrupt by the day and the younger generation can't see it because they want to believe it's like the stories. At every turn, the older clowns are trying to rebel against the growing corruption, and this explicitly includes the Dean letting a criminal join them, a criminal who by the way is loudly critical of the justice system. It's so good

#clown corps

168 notes · View notes

lu-is-not-ok · 10 months

Text

Lu's Guide to Sin Analysis

Welp, since my brain is too focused on having K Corp Hong Lu go full unga bunga in Mirror Dungeons to write full analyses, I decided I might as well give something else to all the people starving for Limbus Theory content.

So, here we are. A basic guide on how I approach the Sin Analysis portion of my analyses, covering my personal interpretations for each Sin, as well as how to use those when analysing both E.G.Os and Identities.

That way, ya'll can dabble in doing some of this on your own when I'm too busy grinding my way to 400 hours of play time on Limbus to write up full analyses.

Sounds good? Awesome. Under the cut we go, wheeeee!

Sin Interpretations

Let's start with the most important part - the Sins themselves.

I want you to take a moment and think about your own associations with those Sins. Perhaps your immediate thought is to take the words used literally. Maybe you immediately think back to the Biblical ideas of the Seven Deadly Sins. Mayhaps there's some other media you know that also uses Sins in some way, which you subconsciously default to when thinking about them.

Whatever those associations are, I want you to throw them away.

That's right. Whatever is telling you that Lust = Horny, Wrath = Angry, Envy = Jealous, etc, etc? Throw all of those preconcieved notions away.

This is the biggest mistake I see people make when trying to analyse Identities and E.G.O based on their Sins - they assume that those Sins have the same meanings in the context of Limbus as the popular, more common interpretations of them.

And while, sure, some of them can definitely overlap with what one would expect them to be, I think relying on those during analysis instead of trying to understand what the game itself is trying to tell us by using those Sins as symbols is doing its storytelling a massive disservice.

Do I think my personal interpretations of the Sins are a 100% accurate reading? No, of course not. I can't see into the mind of Kim Ji-Hoon or whoever else at Project Moon might have been the mastermind behind deciding what Sins connect to what. I have no way of knowing what exactly they intended here.

However, I do wish to believe that my interpretations not only strive to meet the game's storytelling on its own terms, but also hopefully make further analysis based on those interpretations a bit easier to wrap one's head around.

...God I really need to stop writing massive preambles and just get to the fucking point.

So let's actually get to The Fucking Point. Sin Interpretations, one by one. Let's fucking do it.

Wrath

The flames of revolution burn bright in the face of cold winds.

Wrath is the Sin of self-righteousness and defiance. To act with Wrath is to decide that one deserves better, that things around then should bend to their will, and then take matters into their own hands. It's the Sin of deciding one has the right to change something simply because they don't like the current state of things.

There are many ways one can act because of Wrath. It can show through trying to rebel against authority, to subvert one's fate, to escape one's unfavorable circumstances, or to even reject one's own true nature. To act with Wrath is to stand up for oneself and tell reality "No, I refuse!" loud and clear.

A common misconception of Wrath is the idea that anger is an inherent part of it. While it's true that those feelings often coincide with defiance, they're not required for one's acts to be fueled by Wrath. Some can be Wrathful while being completely calm and collected, as their acts of defiance could be more on the quiet and simmering side.

Likewise, being quick to anger isn't always a sign of Wrath. It's very possible for someone to have a short temper, while also being fully accepting of the reality they live in (Ryoshu, I am looking directly at you), thus lacking Wrath.

Lust

One's base insticts go all the way back to that genetic code.

Lust is the Sin of self-indulgence. It's the Sin of letting one's own desires and whims dictate one's actions. It's also the Sin of seeking personal fulfillment above all else. To act with Lust is to give up one's self-control and let one's instincts and wants guide them.

Unlike what the name and symbol might initially imply, Lust can include many different types of desires, not just the carnal.

Likewise, acts of Lust can be just as varied as one's desires. Satisfying one's most basic of needs, searching for a form of spiritual enlightenment, or even just saying the first thing that comes to mind because one feels like it are just a few examples.

Sloth

A stone will not care for what happens to it, nor the world around it.

Sloth is the Sin of apathy and resignation. Unlike other Sins, which mostly show through one's direct actions, Sloth can also show through inaction.

To act with Sloth is to ignore reality, to let oneself go along with whatever is happening with barely any complaints. As such, Sloth is commonly associated with blind obedience or unwillingness to act out.

Due to its nature as a Sin of resignation, Sloth can be seen as the direct opposite of Wrath, the Sin of defiance. This creates a unique situation where the inclusion of one can drastically shift the context of the other if both are a part of the same Identity or E.G.O.

Gluttony

Plants never stop waging wars, always wanting just a little bit more.

Gluttony is the Sin of hunger, and it's unique from the other Sins in that it equally represents two different ideas of that hunger, which can appear together just as often as they can be completely seperated.

The first type of Gluttony is one of the starving hunger of survival. In this context, to act with Gluttony is to do anything for the sake of scraping by and living to see another day.

The second type of Gluttony is the hunger for more, or in other words: greed. In this context, to act with Gluttony is to do everything for the sake of this idea of "more". To gain more wealth, to find more recognition, to make more progress.

Both of these types of Gluttony are unified in one main point - they are, by definition, endless. The struggle for survival never ends, unless one fails to survive. Likewise, there is no finite "more" that greed is reaching towards, it's a neverending process of one-upmanship.

Gloom

When a wave of emotion rises, many will be swept away in its wake.

Gloom is the Sin of dwelling on feelings. To act with Gloom is to be guided by one's negative emotions, to buckle under stress and let it control one's mind and actions.

While sadness, grief, and depression are the states of mind most commonly associated with Gloom, and are often a part of it, they're not inherent to it. The only "requirement" here is the experience of severe emotional duress, and acting out in direct response to it.

In a way, Gloom is the Sin of losing control over oneself, not dissimilar to Lust. However, the main difference here is the cause of losing that control. Gloom is the loss of self-control due to being overwhelmed by negative experiences, while Lust is the loss of self-control due to seeking out positive experiences.

Pride

Be careful, for that double-edged sword may cut you as well.

Pride is the Sin of ignoring consequences. Acts of Pride are all actions taken because of the belief that their benefits outweigh the cost in some way. While the most common way this can present is through actions that benefit oneself at the cost of others, it's not the only way Pride can manifest.

One can be Prideful when believing the benefit to many outweighs the consequences. Likewise, refusing to acknowledge the harm one brings to themself because their actions benefit them in some other way also counts as Pride.

The idea that Pride is inherently tied to selfishness or self-confidence is another common misconception. In fact, Prideful acts can manifest just as often from a lack of self-confidence or a misguided selflessness. Rather, one could interpret Pride as a form of willful ignorance, in a way.

Envy

Thorns don't go out of their way to harm, they merely react to your touch.

Envy is the Sin of reaction and retribution. It's the idea of doing something because of what someone else has done. By definition, one cannot act with Envy without some form of provocation.

Like is the case with many other Sins, acts of Envy can take many forms, from taking revenge to following orders. The main connecting idea here is letting oneself be influenced by another person, whether it's being coerced, provoked, ordered, or otherwise manipulated.

Out of all of the Sin misconceptions, seeing Envy as inherently tied to jealousy might be the worst one of all. While acts done out of jealousy would likely count as acts of Envy, they are but a miniscule part of the sheer scope that Envy represents.

...

Alright, so you know what each of those Sins means. Now it's time to figure out how to Actually Apply Them.

Sin Affinities in the context of Identities

The main way Sins play a role in a given Sinner's Identity is through their Sin Affinities. Mechanically, these are the Sins attributed to each of their skills, signifying both their type of Sin damage and what Sin resource they generate upon being used.

However, this is Project Moon we're talking about, and these fuckers can't keep their gameplay mechanics seperate from the story to save their lives.

So, this begs the question: what can we learn about a Sinner's given Identity through their Sin Affinities?

Here is the method that I believe works best in my experience:

The Sin affinities of each of an Identity's skills represent a different layer of their psyche and motivations. I'm going to try to show what I mean by using base Identities of the four Sinners who already had their own Canto.

Skill 1's Sin Affinity is the surface level motivation of the Sinner's actions. This is the most obvious and "shallow" reading of them and their actions, and also likely the one the Sinners themselves are most aware of.

Gregor's Skill 1 is Gloom due to him being constatly haunted by his trauma, with much of his cynicism and dark-ish sense of humor being shaped by his war experiences. Rodya's Skill 1 is Gluttony due to her tendency to value material goods and love for food, which are signs of her greed and will to survive respectively. Sinclair's Skill 1 is Pride due to him taking many actions (such as sharing his father's secrets or giving Kromer his basement key) for their immediate benefits, without considering the consequences. Yi Sang's Skill 1 is Gloom due to him falling into deep depression and letting the trauma of the past shape his current actions.

Skill 2's Sin Affinity is a deeper motivation of the Sinner's actions. It's delving deeper into their psyche to see what guides them in less obvious ways. This Sin Affinity can also have noticeably closer ties to the Sinner's background in one way or another.

Gregor's Skill 2 is Gluttony due to him being driven by the will to survive, most notably expressed by him leaving the rest of the veterans to escape the war and try to live after it ended. Rodya's Skill 2 is Pride due to her fully believing in what she does working out in her favor, completely ignoring consequences on the way. Her killing the pawnbroker is the biggest example of an act of Pride, as she fully believed that it would help her neighbourhood despite the consequences that murder would bring. Sinclair's Skill 2 is Wrath due to him not accepting his circumstances. His want to defy his future prosthetics procedure is what eventually led him to agreeing with Kromer, and his will to defy her is what drove him through the events of his chapter. Yi Sang's Skill 2 is Envy due to his passive nature and how easily he lets other people dictate his actions. It's especially notable in how after the League fell apart, he would have been willing to do anything Gubo told him at that moment.

Skill 3's Sin Affinity is what I would like to call a Sinner's Core Sin. It's the true main reason behind their actions, and has a much closer and direct tie into their past than the other Sin Affinities. In a way, this is the deepest layer of their psyche.

Gregor's Skill 3 is Sloth as his resignation to his circumstances is what colors much of his past. He learned that resistance is futile early in life, and it shows. Though he didn't want to fight in the war, he felt like he had no choice but to. All of his life, he simply listened to orders without complaint, unable to see a way to change his situation. Rodya's Skill 3 is Wrath as her self-righteousness and defiance is what drove her actions at the deepest level. She first joined the Yurodiviye because she wanted to bring change the state of her neighbourhood, and likewise left them when she no longer agreed with how they did things. Her murder of the pawnbroker was her biggest act of defiance, of taking matters into her own hands and trying to bring change to her reality at all cost. Sinclair's Skill 3 is Envy as much of his actions were dictated by other people. Social pressure was what led to him first breaching the trust of his family, and Kromer's coercion and manipulation is what then led to his family's death. In a way, you could also interpret Sinclair's arc in Canto III as one big act of Envy, as he finally tries to take revenge on Kromer for what she has done. Yi Sang's Skill 3 is Sloth as his apathy to the reality around him is what led to him ignoring the warnings signs of the League falling apart, and the resignation that followed could have resulted in him helping Gubo and the New League out with their horrible plans had there not been an intervention. It's only by the end of Canto IV that he finally manages to break out of this state for long enough to stand up for himself and decide to keep on living.

So, that's the basics of Sin Affinities when it comes to Identities! Now, some of you might be asking, "Hey Lu, what about Sin resources needed for Passives?", and my answer to that is...

Honestly, I don't entirely know! I do think there probably is some reason beyond pure gameplay mechanics... Buuuuut I don't think their importance is as major as the main Sin Affinities of a given Identity, especially since there isn't a single Passive that is activated by a Sin that the given Identity doesn't have any Affinity to.

Sin Affinities in the context of E.G.Os

Alright, so, when it comes to E.G.O, we run into some additional complexities. Unlike Identities, which can usually have their Sins Analysed with minimal additional context, E.G.O Sin Analysis has to be done under a specific angle.

This is because while Identities represent the Sinner as a whole person, E.G.Os represent a specific singular part of that Sinner.

Base E.G.Os usually seem to tie back to a specific event or action or some other thing in that Sinner's past. Likewise, E.G.Os derived from Abnormalities represent the ways that Sinner connects to that Abnormality's own themes.

In a way, the game's worldbuilding even acknowledges the fact that a Sinner can only use the E.G.O of an Abnormality they relate to in some way, as Dante's Notes describe the process of the Sinners using E.G.O as trying to make the Abnormality's emotions and identity their own.

That little tangent aside, there are two main things to analyze sin-wise when it comes to E.G.O - the Sin Affinity, and the Sin Resources necessary to use that E.G.O.

An E.G.O Sin Affinity works similarly to an Identity's Sin Affinities - for a Base E.G.O, it's the main Sin that action manifests as. For an Abno-derived E.G.O, it's the Sin that contextulizes the way the Abno's themes connect to the Sinner in question.

The Sin Resources an E.G.O needs is where things get fun. These are what a Sinner needs to be able to use the E.G.O, both mechanically AND story-wise. The Sins here represent what a Sinner has as their motivation and drive to fully reflect what that E.G.O represents. For Base E.G.Os, it's why they took the actions they did. For Abno E.G.Os, it's why they connect to that Abno's themes and why they're able to relate to it.

Now... There is one more thing about E.G.Os that I don't really talk about.

Sin Resistances.

The reason why I don't talk about them... Is because I have No Fucking Clue how to interpret them. There has to be some importance to them (Hong Lu being weak to Wrath in all of his E.G.O thus far, I am looking at you), I just don't know what it is. In fact, I doubt we even have enough information available to us right now to be able to say for sure.

I don't know how to end these posts dear fucking lord-

So uh. Yeah. That's. Everything that I think is important to mention on the topic of Sin Analysis and how I do it. If I ever change my mind on something or have an epiphany regarding one of the things I currently have no idea about, I'll probably reblog this post with an addendum or something, but until then...

Uh. Yeah. Hope this helps the people who wanna get into analyzing Limbus stuff but don't know where to begin. Or just people who wanna understand the method to my madness a little bit better.

I'm gonna go to sleep now, cause it's 4 AM already and I spent like the whole fucking night writing this post.

#limbus company #limbus company project moon #lcb analysis #lcb canto iv #lcb spoilers #lu speaketh #god help me

381 notes · View notes

i-identify-tanks-in-posts · 1 month

Text

Okay. So, last night I was scrolling through my news feed and I came across an article with one of the most dogshit takes I've ever had the misery of reading with my own two eyes.

The article in question? From 'The National Interest', "The M60 Patton could never be built today."

So, come with me as we absolutely rip the fuck out of this dogshit article. (Now is your chance to read it.)

So, first, let me say, that I don't dislike the m60. It's a venerable tank, extremely capable for its time, and the fact that it still sees some use more than 60 years after it's creation says a great deal as to its capabilities.

However, I take great issue with some of this article's claims.

First, the idea that the M60 was some revolutionary miracle tank, developed out of the blue, and rushed to the field before it was ready. To be frank, that's a bold-faced lie. The M60 is the result of a long lineage of medium tanks and MBTs, stretching back to the final days of ww2. A fairly common piece of cold-war tank trivia is that the M60 was never formally called the "Patton", it just looked so much like the m48 "Patton", that the tankers never saw fit to call it anything different. (Below is a comparison of the vehicles: from the front, the tanks can be distinguished by the m48s concave frontal armor, while the m60 has a flat wedge.)

M60:

M48:

The m48, itself, was a development of the m46, which was itself an upgrade of the m26 Pershing, the American medium tank used in the last days of the European theater. So, the idea that the m60 was flawed because of its "revolutionary design" not being given time to be tested is, quite frankly, horseshit.

Next up on the chopping block is the claims that the M60 is still in use by nations today. The article states that, throughout the Middle East, you can find nations that use the m60 and its modernization still today, from Egypt to Saudi Arabia. However, you'll notice that none of these nations are exactly military powerhouses, with Egypt not having won a war that wasn't against starving partisan rebels since the British packed up their shit and went home, and Saudi Arabia quickly transferring to the M1, and offloading as many of their Pattons on other nations as quickly as they can manage. And let's be honest, when's the last time you even thought about the Iranian military?

Next, I'm going to directly quote this line, because it's peak comedy. "in 1991, the United States Marine Corps, one of the most innovative branches in the US military, deployed the M60 in battle against Saddam Hussein’s Iraqi Army." Ah, yes, the Marine Corps, famous for it's innovation and openness to change...

The Marines wouldn't know innovation if it grabbed the crayon out of their mouths. They hate change more than H.P. Lovecraft hated penguins and Irish people. So to come out and say that something is amazing because the Marines are still using it instead of a newer thing? It's peak comedy.

Then, the author goes into his highly-political diatribe about how, because the m60 was so "rushed" and "untested", it's head-and-shoulders above any US defense project since, because it still sees some use by tin-pot dictators, outdated militias, and the Marines in Iraq. However, what he fails to mention is that the m60 was the ultimate result of the 2nd generation of MBT technology, building on a lineage of tanks going back to 1945. The idea that the m60 is special in any way other than being the culmination of a generation or armored vehicle technology is ludicrous, and I sincerely hope that not too many are suckered in by this ex-congressional staffer's bullshit.

#tanks #us tanks #military

83 notes · View notes

marinawolf · 10 months

Text

[hi! work has been crazy but I finally found some time to post this. An angsty first kiss fic for all my supercorp girlies- hope you like it!]

A Revelation (Supercorp)

Lena may or may not have killed Lex, but she did it to save Kara. In the days that follow, she grapples with her confusing grief, her feelings for Kara and the knowledge that she would kill Lex over and over again to save Kara. (OR: Several times Lena wants to kiss Kara, and the one time Kara kisses her.)

(Almost 4K words of angst and fluff tbh)

It was one a.m., and the darkness of the night was only matched by the heavy weight in Lena's heart. She sat on her couch, her eyes fixed on her laptop screen, but her mind lost in the haunting memories of the events that had unfolded just two days ago.

The shadows had crept into her dreams, replaying the chilling scene that had changed everything, making sleep an unwelcome torture, which is why she was trying to distract herself with work.

Lex had made a sinister last move to ensnare her in his web of darkness. With the L Corp building held hostage, he had cruelly used Kara, her closest friend, as a pawn, rendering her powerless with dreaded kryptonite. Yet, even in the face of danger, Kara had displayed unyielding courage and loyalty to Lena, standing firmly between Lena and the loaded gun Lex aimed at her even as her strength drained away.

The situation had been impossible – Lex held a detonator in his other hand, forcing Lena to make an unimaginable choice. Save Kara, the woman who meant everything to her, or save the countless innocent lives in the building.

Every fiber of Lena's being rebelled against causing harm to Kara, but the weight of responsibility for those innocent lives crushed her soul. It was as if Lex had crafted this hellish scenario solely to break her, just as he had been broken by the darkness that consumed him.

In that desperate moment, Lena's mind became a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

But the woman standing before her, the one she was secretly in love with, was worth fighting for, worth sacrificing everything to keep safe. It was her fear for Kara's life that made Lena reach for the gun she had concealed, clutching onto the last shreds of hope to rescue both Kara and the innocent souls caught in the crossfire.

Time seemed to stand still as she pulled the trigger, the sound echoing through the air like a chilling proclamation of her resolve. The bullet found its mark, and Lex's body crashed through the window, disappearing into the night, but not before Lena saw the shock and betrayal in his eyes.

But no body was found, leaving Lena with the torment of uncertainty – had she truly taken her brother's life?

The days that followed were a blur of guilt and sleepless nights. The image of Lex's haunting face, juxtaposed with the memories of happier times, tormented her relentlessly. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the Lex she once knew – the kind, sweet big brother who had once been her protector, before corruption twisted him beyond recognition. It felt like she was being pulled apart by conflicting loyalties, torn between the darkness of her actions and the knowledge that she had ultimately done the right thing.

And now, as she sat on her couch at one a.m., her emotions reached their breaking point. Tears welled up in her eyes, ready to spill over. She felt adrift in a storm of self-doubt and remorse.

But just as she was about to be swallowed whole by her emotions, to be consumed entirely by the darkness, a familiar thud outside on her balcony drew her attention. Her heart, heavy as it was, skipped a beat as the door creaked open, and Kara stepped into the room.

Her radiant presence illuminated the darkness around Lena, a lighthouse guiding her through the storm. With her blond hair gently tousled by the night breeze and her brilliant blue eyes sparkling in the soft light of Lena's living room, Kara was a vision.

A heart-stopping smile graced Kara's lips, and Lena's brain short circuited for a second. Despite the turmoil inside her, she couldn't help but smile back, a small flicker of light in the shadows. Kara's presence always had a way of making everything else fade into the background.

"Kara, hi," Lena whispered, her voice barely above a murmur.

"Lena. How are you holding up?" Kara's voice was gentle, filled with genuine concern.

Lena's gaze, clouded with unspoken anguish, met Kara's tender eyes. The kindness and care reflected in Kara's gaze threatened to shatter the fragile facade Lena had constructed to hold herself together. She clenched her trembling hands, determined to suppress the overwhelming surge of emotions, and instead fixated on Kara's consuming presence.

"I'm okay, all things considered," Lena managed to respond, her voice laced with a hint of weariness. But she knew that Kara, with her unparalleled understanding, saw through the veil of strength Lena presented to the world. She could sense the tumult raging beneath the surface, the cracks in Lena's composure.

Without a word, Kara sat down beside Lena, her graceful form slipping effortlessly under the blanket Lena had draped over herself before she took the laptop from Lena's hands and gently placed it on the floor. The contours of her Supergirl suit accentuated her physique, offering a fleeting and welcome distraction from the weight of Lena's thoughts.

Kara snuggled up to Lena, a strong arm encircling Lena's shoulders, drawing her into a protective embrace. The proximity, their bodies pressed together, sent Lena's heart into a tumultuous frenzy. But amid the whirlwind of conflicting feelings, Lena found safety in Kara's comforting presence.

"I'm sorry about Lex," Kara whispered, her voice barely audible, "I know you loved him. I'm sorry you had to do what you did," she continued, her words a gentle caress against Lena's fractured soul.

The floodgates within Lena, already straining under the weight of grief and guilt, gave way. Tears streamed down her cheeks, unchecked and raw, as she began to sob uncontrollably into Kara's steady shoulder.

Kara responded with unwavering tenderness, enfolding Lena in her arms, holding her close as if to shield her from the pain that threatened to consume her. In that moment, Lena realized the true depth of Kara's understanding. Throughout the aftermath of the ordeal with Lex, others had commended Lena for her actions, expressing admiration for her courage and bravery. They had offered hollow reassurances, asking if she was okay after being subjected to such a harrowing threat. But none of them truly comprehended the complex tapestry of emotions woven within Lena's heart. No one had truly understood the agony Lena had endured—the impossible choices she had faced and the torment that plagued her every thought. None of them understood the profound grief that gripped her.

But Kara saw her. Kara felt her pain with a depth that no one else could fathom. And Lena loved her all the more for it, for the genuine empathy and compassion she showed without reservation. In that moment, as Kara placed a gentle kiss on her head, Lena realized just how much she depended on this extraordinary woman by her side.

Kara held her tightly and her hand soothingly caressed Lena's hair, offering a tender reassurance that she was not alone in her grief.

Her sobs eventually subsided, but Kara continued to hold her, their hearts beating in unison.

As Lena's tears finally subsided, she felt utterly drained, her body and soul exhausted from the emotional release. She found herself nestled against Kara's chest, their closeness causing her to short circuit again. As she lifted her head slightly, she couldn't help but notice how close their faces were, their lips almost brushing against each other. Lena's heart pounded in her chest, and for a fleeting moment, she entertained the intoxicating idea of closing that distance, of kissing Kara.

The intimate proximity sent a surge of anticipation through Lena's veins, her gaze fixated on Kara's enticing lips. They were so close, just a breath away from tasting the sweetness she had longed for. So close that she could feel Kara's breath on her own lips.

Time seemed to stand still as they sat in that charged moment. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest, teetering on the edge of an exhilarating precipice, as she summoned the courage to bridge the distance and claim the kiss she desired.

Kara, still and unmoving, met Lena's gaze.

The seconds stretched into eternity as Lena's heart fluttered, desperately seeking the courage to take that daring step. But the weight of their friendship, the fear of crossing a line and losing Kara's precious companionship, held her back. Kara was there to offer comfort as a friend, and Lena wasn't willing to risk their precious bond. With a sudden, almost desperate movement, Lena sat back, wiping away her tears, and offered a shaky laugh.

"Ugh, I think I ruined your suit," she quipped, trying to diffuse the charged atmosphere that enveloped them.

Kara's smile was both tender and reassuring. "It's pretty impervious to most things, don't worry," she joked.

"Feeling better?" Kara asked gently, her concern still evident.

Lena nodded, her voice barely above a whisper, "Thank you."

"You should get some sleep, Lena. You look like you haven't slept in days."

A wry smile tugged at the corners of Lena's lips as she replied, "I know. I'll try and get some sleep tonight."

Kara stood up then, extending her hand to Lena, her intentions unclear to Lena in her emotional haze. "Come on, then," she said softly.

Lena was momentarily confused, her thoughts still tangled in the emotional web that had enveloped her. "Where?" she asked, her confusion evident.

"To sleep. I'm gonna stay with you to make sure you sleep."

Lena's heart skipped a beat, and a rush of emotions flooded her as she took Kara's outstretched hand. She followed Kara into the room, feeling a mixture of vulnerability and gratitude for this gesture of kindness.

Once in the bedroom, Lena handed Kara some sweats and a t-shirt, their fingers grazing ever so slightly in the exchange, igniting a spark of electricity. They settled into bed side by side, and Lena tried to control her somersaulting heart.

The comfort she found in Kara's presence was unlike anything she had ever experienced, a blend of safety and tenderness that wrapped around her like a blanket.

Despite the whirlwind of emotions that engulfed her, Lena finally found herself relaxing, her thoughts consumed by Kara. Kara's steady presence offered her a sense of peace and security that had eluded her in the restless nights prior. Listening to the sound of Kara's steady breathing, Lena finally drifted off to sleep.

Lena woke up to a soft light bathing the room, immediately noting the warmth enveloping her. As consciousness swept over her, she realized that Kara had cuddled up to her in their sleep, closing the physical gap between them. Now, Kara's body pressed intimately against Lena's back, her arm encircling Lena's waist. Lena felt the gentle rhythm of Kara's breath cascading over the nape of her neck, sending a surge of electricity through her veins.

In an instant, her heart pounded in her chest, the presence of Kara so near amplifying the intensity of her emotions.

The soft sounds of Kara stirring reached Lena's ears as Kara slowly woke from her slumber.

"Hey," Kara whispered in a sleepy voice, her words laced with concern. "You okay?"

"Yes," Lena managed to choke out, her voice catching in her throat. "Did I wake you?"

Kara untangled herself from Lena's embrace, allowing her to turn and face her. The sight of Kara, her eyes drowsy but still sparkling with affection, made Lena's heart skip a beat.

"Your heartbeat woke me," Kara explained with a soft laugh, her superhearing attuned to every nuance of Lena's being. "Were you scared or something?"

Lena's cheeks flushed, and she could only imagine how obvious her racing heart had been to Kara. Of course, Kara would hear her racing heartbeat every time. Before she could find a suitable reply, Kara stood up, and stretched. The hem of Kara's t-shirt lifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of her well-defined abs, and Lena's heart rate skyrocketed once again. She cursed her body's inability to calm down in Kara's presence. Lena could have sworn she detected a mischievous smirk on Kara's lips, but the moment passed without further remark.

"Coffee?" Kara offered, and Lena nodded, grateful for the distraction. She followed Kara to the kitchen, where she busied herself with the coffee machine. Lena watched her, captivated by the grace in Kara's movements and the effortless way she made a mundane morning ritual look like an art. She loved that Kara had made herself at home so easily, as if she had always belonged in Lena's apartment. The domestic familiarity made Lena smile.

With the coffee ready, Kara handed Lena a cup. As she took a sip, Lena couldn't help but marvel at how Kara's coffee always tasted perfect. She made it perfectly to Lena's taste, something that even Lena's trained assistants failed to do.

Placing her empty cup in the sink, Lena pivoted to find Kara standing closely behind her. Kara reached around Lena, placing her own cup in the sink. Their bodies pressed together, the charged atmosphere crackling with anticipation. Lena looked up, her gaze landing on Kara's tousled hair and sleepy eyes and she longed to lean in and capture Kara's lips in a searing kiss, to express the intensity of her emotions . The desire to taste Kara's lips, to bridge the gap between them, surged within Lena, a hunger she struggled to contain. And in Kara's intense gaze, Lena could have sworn that for a second she glimpsed a mirrored yearning.

Their moment was shattered by the shrill ring of Kara's phone, piercing through the charged atmosphere. Kara moved away, swiftly grabbing her phone with a groan of frustration. "Duty calls," she lamented before dashing into Lena's room and emerging once again in her Supergirl suit.

Before she could leave, Kara turned to Lena, the concern evident in her eyes.

"Will you be okay?" she asked, softly.

Lena nodded, her heart aching, "I'll be fine. Just be safe."

"I'll be back later," she promised, and Lena knew she would anxiously await Kara's return.

As Kara disappeared into the sky, Lena found herself wishing she had seized the moment, wishing she had kissed Kara before the day took them in different directions, but she was too afraid. Time and circumstance, and her own fears, always conspired against her.

As soon as Kara's presence dissipated, Lena's sanctuary crumbled, leaving her adrift in a sea of restlessness and longing. The haunting image of Lex's face returned to torment her once again. Lena sat down on her living room floor and closed her eyes, seeking solace within the darkness, grappling with the demons that relentlessly haunted her soul.

Lena's world felt shattered as she remained huddled on the living room floor, her thoughts consumed by the overwhelming weight of guilt and uncertainty. Her mind was a whirlwind of torment, constantly questioning whether she had truly killed her brother, or if he was still out there, a looming threat, plotting his next move. Each possibility carried its own brand of torment, but she didn't know which outcome would be worse.

Lena could sense Kara's presence behind her before she even heard her voice, and she realised then that she had spent hours sitting there, on the floor. Kara's arms encircled Lena, almost immediately calming the storm raging within her.

"Lena?" Kara's voice was soft, cutting through the haze of Lena's torment.

Summoning every ounce of strength, Lena managed to lift her gaze and meet Kara's eyes. "Hey," she whispered, her voice laden with weariness and vulnerability, "You're back." Kara's mere presence offered a glimmer of comfort amidst the chaos.

With gentle care, Kara lifted Lena from the floor and settled her onto the couch. Kneeling before her, Kara's eyes bore into Lena's, their intensity captivating her. Lena yearned to lose herself in the depths of Kara's gaze.

"Lena, I know you're hurting. What you had to do—I can't even imagine having to do something like that. But I need you to know that it's not your fault, okay? Lex made his choices, and he chose darkness every time. And he tried to force you to choose darkness too, but you resisted. You chose to save lives, to save me." Kara's words penetrated Lena's shattered spirit, cutting through the darkness, offering some absolution.

Tears streamed down Lena's cheeks as she finally spoke.

"I killed my brother, Kara. My own brother. I should have tried harder to save him, to bring him back."

Kara sat down next to Lena and pulled her closer.

"You loved him, but he wasn't the Lex you knew anymore, okay? He lost himself a long time ago and he didn't want to be saved. Believe me, my cousin tried. And you saved so many people, Lena. I wish I could take this all away, all this pain, but all I can do is tell you that you didn't do anything wrong. And we don't know that he's dead. If he's still alive, I'll find him and bring him back to you, okay?"

Lena nodded, acknowledging Kara's words, and they sat in shared silence. Amidst the weight of her grief, Lena's mind wandered, considering the alternate path that could have unfolded. What if Lex had succeeded in killing Kara? The thought alone devastated Lena. She realized then, with unwavering conviction, that she would willingly traverse the same harrowing path if it meant protecting Kara. For her, Kara's safety was worth any sacrifice, even if it meant sacrificing her own life.

Finally, Lena mustered the courage to look into Kara's eyes, her heart laid bare.

"You know, if it meant saving you, I would do it all over again."

The words hung in the air. Kara's breath hitched.

Lena reached out, her fingertips gently caressing Kara's cheek. The moment crackled with an electric energy. However, the abrupt interruption of the elevator's ding shattered the intimacy of the moment. They instinctively pulled apart, Lena's desires restrained by the intrusion of their friends from the DEO, who entered Lena's apartment, their voices jarring against the backdrop of the emotional maelstrom that had enveloped Lena and Kara.

Lena couldn't look at Kara, afraid of what she would see in those eyes. So she stood up, plastered a fake smile on her face and turned to face their friends.

Hours had passed since her friends departed, leaving Lena alone in her apartment. She stood on the balcony, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the illuminated National City skyline. A mixture of emotions swirled within her, longing for Kara's comforting presence, even though she understood the demands on her friend's time. Lost in her thoughts, the sudden thud behind her drew Lena's attention, and she was shocked to see an exhilarated Kara standing behind her.

"He's alive," Kara's words tumbled out, rushed and filled with urgency, causing Lena's heart to seize in her chest. "He's alive. I found a camera pointing at where he fell, and the footage shows him getting up. He's hurt, but he's alive, Lena and I'm going to find him for you. He couldn't have gotten far. I'll bring him to the DEO, and we can figure out what to do from there. I just wanted to make sure you knew that you didn't kill him."

Lena's breath caught in her throat as relief mingled with disbelief. Lex was alive. Despite the pain he had caused her, a part of her couldn't fathom being responsible for his demise. But she didn't care about saving his soul any longer- She understood now that he had willingly given himself over to the darkness. She didn't kill him and that's all that mattered. And she couldn't bear the thought of Kara placing herself in danger for her sake. All she could think about now was Kara- how much she loved her. Kara was willing to face her own enemy, to save him, just for Lena's sake, to place herself in danger at Lex's hands just to offer Lena some relief. What had Lena done to deserve such unwavering devotion?

"Kara, I--" Lena's voice faltered, her words lost in the torrent of emotions coursing through her. Before she could find the right words, Kara cut her off, her voice laced with determination.

"And also, there's something I've wanted to do."

In an instant, Kara closed the distance between them, placing her hands on Lena's waist and capturing Lena's lips in a searing kiss. Shock and surprise coursed through Lena's veins. Kara's lips were soft yet demanding, a revelation- a thrilling revelation that Kara reciprocated her feelings, that their connection ran deeper than mere friendship.

As they kissed, tears welled up in Lena's eyes, spilling down her cheeks and onto their lips. The tears were not of sadness, but of unadulterated happiness, a release of the pent-up longing, years of yearning and the countless nights she had spent grappling with her feelings. She had longed for this moment, and now it was here, making everything else fade away. Time seemed to bend to their will, allowing this moment to stretch into eternity.

In that kiss, Lena poured all her hidden feelings, her love that she had guarded so fiercely, into a single moment of pure vulnerability. She felt her doubts and fears dissipate as Kara kissed her back with the same intensity, affirming that this was real, that her love was reciprocated.

Lena's hands desperately tangled in Kara's hair, pulling her closer. As the kiss deepened, the world around them faded into insignificance. There was only Kara and only Lena, and every hidden feeling now laid bare.

As they reluctantly broke apart for air, breathing heavily, Lena's voice trembled as she finally confessed,

"I love you."

And in response, Kara kissed her once again, with an intensity that spoke volumes.

And as they finally pulled apart, their foreheads resting against each other, Kara whispered,

"I love you, too."

#supercorp #kara danvers #lena luthor #supergirl #kara x lena #supercorp fanfic #kara zor el #kara danvers x lena luthor #lena x supergirl #lena luthor x kara danvers #protective kara danvers #supercorp first kiss #fanfic #cw supergirl #supercorp endgame #supercorp fandom #kara zor el x lena luthor #lex luthor is the drama

248 notes · View notes