#I find there is reason behind every painful action executed in ignorance

[moodb-omb]

Eight years and the obsession posts are about someone new

[moopsy-daisy]

Wait, it was OCD the Whole Time??

That common moment, all too universal, when you connect a behavior in your present to an event in your past. I've spent YEARS trying to find a spiritual spot to land, trying out deities and faiths in earnest. Every time, I might find a little comfort but ultimately it would ring hollow. I'd move on to the next inspiration.

Last night, at the holy hour of 4am - when all the strangest things happen - some of my neurons fired together and now my self-image has shifted. Even dreamt of earthquakes after, though that might've had to do with my partner climbing into bed while I was asleep.

"Give your worries to God, and if you're sincere, His Grace will free you from your fears."

That's what they told me when I was growing up. I heard it a few different ways, but it always came back to the idea that if your faith is strong enough, you won't fear anything.

Except, I was Always Scared.

No amount of thinking or praying or Bible reading worked for more than 5 minutes, if that. Fear coursed through my veins at all hours, shocked me from my sleep, and began to eat my entire life. I trusted the people who told me that prayer should work, so I Tried Harder. It had to be my fault. I sat on the floor, weeping over my Bibles, and begged the Man in the Sky to take the fear away. Please, make me a better person. (And maybe I could have a boyfriend someday, too? I was shooting for the stars, I guess.)

It never worked. Eventually, I left Christianity behind, and thought I was none the worse for wear. I hadn't grown up Evangelical, after all. My parents followed shortly after, recognizing that the faith wasn't serving them, either.

Still, that ember of belief, the idea if I could woo god into helping, had burned deep into my subconscious. I had to be a better person. If I was righteous enough, I could protect myself from everything, climate change to cancer to capitalism. If I executed Zero waste, vegetarianism, composting, obsessing over every kind of plastic in my life. Second guessing every food, tallying my sins so I could erase them. I wanted to be beyond reproach, to sweep away my carbon footprints and to be a Good Person.

Eventually I figured out that individual action wouldn't fix the problems I saw. No amount of composting would protect me from a snowstorm. The Good Place's Chidi showed me that my worrying wasn't helping. I eased up on myself, kept what worked, and bought some bacon. (Therapy also helped. Therapy's great.)

In recent years, I felt something was missing. I figured that the spiritual people in the world had a peace and joy that I, too, should be able to achieve if I just found the right faith. That little ember of belief still glowed somewhere in the back of my mind. So, I tried again. I've been to temples in the United States and abroad. I had experiences that were beautiful, I learned amazing things and I regret none of it. And I never, ever got what I actually wanted.

I didn't realize it until last night, at 4am, but all I ever wanted was a Cure. Some belief that would make my brain stop hurting me. There had to be some reason God was ignoring me.

Finally, I can stop searching. There is no faith that works the way an SSRI does, or thyroid medication, or a SIBO test. Only medicine can make my brain calm down. Only medicine could tell me that my pain came from food intolerance and not character flaws. (Yes, I believed that excruciatingly painful diarrhea was a weakness of my character. I just needed to learn to relax, I told myself. After all, I could digest milk and wheat just fine. Oh honey, no.)

Now, I've got to come to terms with what being faithless will mean for me. I'll still dabble in witchcraft, because spicy placebo psychology helps while I'm waiting to see my doctors. I'll still read about sociology and culture.

There's a hungry habit that wants to reach for answers, to keep looking. I'm going to treat that like my other compulsions instead of indulging it. The next time I'm tempted to dive into a faith system, I'll go get my coloring books or sewing machine. I'll make my world better by living my life, instead of looking for a God who will finally take pity on me.

I hope reading this long ass post helps someone feel less alone. Fuck, I hope it helps me remember that 4am epiphany when things inevitably get hard again.

[strsburn]

destiny led me to you | loki

pairing - loki laufeyson x female reader

synopsis - driven by the heartbreak of losing your entire world by the hands of thanos, you set out to find him, leaving destruction in your path in multiple universes; thus creating a horde of branches in the timeline and catching the attention of the TVA.

but you would do it all again if it meant you could see him once more.

notes - this is hopefully going to be a series, depending on the feedback i receive, i plan to follow the episodes only slightly because i dont want it to be an exact copy of the show.

[THIS WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR LOKI SERIES]

idea credit ( @horrorisunknowntoyou ) thank you for the inspo and allowing me to run with it!

warnings - death, violence, angst, and possible smut (in later chapters?)

wc - 2.4k

MASTERLIST • AO3

"Dread it, run from it. Destiny arrives all the same." A wrinkled hand reaches for your chin, running prune colored fingers along your jawline, doting; mockingly.

Your heartbeat pulses loudly in your ears, eyes glazing over with exhaustion and pain as you attempt to glare, the notion in vain as the titan merely chuckled amusedly.

"I can see great power in you, little one. An infinity stone pulses beneath your every vein. Tell me, where is the tesseract?"

You remain silent.

"We don't have the tesseract, it was destroyed along with all of Asgard." Thor interjects weakly from where he lies, his body held tightly in the arms of the black order.

Guilt sweeps across your being as you make eye contact with Loki, sharing a single nod as you both know what you must do.

Thanos grows annoyed with your unwillingness to comply as he walks over with loud steps, his footprints visible as he raises his gauntlet up, the power stone shining threateningly close to Thor.

"The tesseract, or your brother's head. I assume you have a preference." It's not a question. Merely a statement, one that Loki knows he must prove unbothered.

"Oh, I do. Kill away." To anyone else it would seem he couldn't care less about his brother's demise, but you know your love better than he does himself and you catch the glance of fear that washes over cerulean eyes.

You can only watch in trepidation as the stone makes contact with the God's head. Agonized cries escaping as his skin is burned by the mere power of the stone.

Loki does his best to look unaffected, but you catch the hitch in his breath as he batters inner turmoil. the universe, or his brother.

"Alright, that's enough!"

Loki turns his palm up, as a familiar blue cube materializes in his hand. The eerie blue glow casting a shadow upon his face.

Thanos steps away, smug. You force yourself to look away from Thor's accusing gaze.

"You truly are the worst, brother." Thor shakes his head, eyes disappointed but not surprised.

As Thanos moves to take the stone from his hand cerulean blue eyes make contact with your own and you feel a wave of fear wash over you as you recognize the look in Loki's eyes.

"I assure you, brother. The sun will shine on us again." He does not move his gaze from your own and you can't help but feel this is an unspoken goodbye.

"Your optimism is misplaced, asgardian."

"Well, for one thing, I'm not asgardian. For another, we have a hulk."

In a blur of color you are shoved from where you lie, a slithe figure covering your own as you breathe in the familiar scent of cinnamon and leather.

"We don't have much time, my love. I just want you to know that I love you dearly, and I am grateful for the time I had with you. May I see you again, in Valhalla." His eyes are teary and you barely process his words, as his hands grab hold of your face and pull you into a kiss.

The kiss is desperate, filled with love and grief and you can only briefly kiss your love back as he steps closer to Thanos, rambling on about undying fidelity.

You catch a glimpse of silver behind his back and you gasp as realization sets in.

You move to reach him just as he leaps for Thanos, the knife poised for his head, frozen in mid air as the stones across his knuckles pulse.

"Undying fidelity, you should choose your words more wisely."

You cry out as Loki struggles in his grip, his skin fading blue. You crawl forward, legs aching as you reach for him, your progress hinged by your inability to walk.

"You will never be a god." The rasped words are followed by a snap as his neck gives out beneath Thanos' hands.

A tortured scream rings out and it takes you a second to realize it's your own. A broken sob leaves you as you crawl forward to reach where Thanos has carelessly thrown the body of your love.

You heave as your shaky fingers caress his face, his lifeless eyes staring ahead as you clutch him to your chest.

You rock back and forth knotting your fingers in his hair as you plead for the nightmare to end.

"No resurrections this time."

A portal opens and closes behind you, yet you make no motion to move.

You simply close your eyes and welcome the sweet release of death as the universe explodes around you.

N E W Y O R K 2 0 1 2

"'Coordinates for search and rescue, on my way now.' I mean honestly, how-" Loki is promptly shut up by the mouth guard that decorates his face, courtesy of his brother.

Displeasure makes an appearance as Loki is led to the elevator followed by the avengers that quickly file in. The only source of entertainment being the temper tantrum the green beast throws as he is denied entry. Loki can hardly contain his glee as he waves mockingly as the doors close.

As he is led to the ground floor his cuffed hands clinking annoyingly with every step he glances wearily around himself, dreading the lecture that is sure to come once he reaches asgard. He has no doubt in his mind that Odin will find perfect reason to throw him to the wolves, lest his mother get involved.

As he contemplates, his attention is caught by the sound of his brother calling for help, the guards holding him, attending to what he perceives to be a heart attack, to none other than the man of metal.

He watches, confused as a small stature kicks the case holding the tesseract away from view as the others tend to Stark.

Looking around bemused he watches to see what will conspire next. Before any other move can be made a shout is heard as the doors to the staircase along with the wall is torn apart, the hulk making his distaste for the tedious activity known.

For once since meeting the beast he feels thankful, as the case holding the tesseract is knocked open, the familiar cube sliding towards his foot.

A beat passes and grabbing a hold of the familiar cube he glances around, vanishing in a thin cloud of blue.

T V A U N K N O W N

Hurried footsteps echo down the corridor as the man moves with barely contained excitement. Tie swinging to and fro, a slightly wrinkled hand pulls at the collar of his neck nervously.

Mobius had seen many variants in his time at the TVA. Yet, none had ever come close to interesting as the file he currently held in one hand. Variant L1130 or Loki, as he was called, was perhaps one of the most complicated cases he had come across.

Born as a legend of mythology it was quite unbelievable to know that not only was he real, but he happened to be in their custody for creating a new branch in the timeline. Mobius could only hope Renslayer would agree to allowing him to be the God's superior.

Entering the courtroom, Mobius sits down and watches with rapt attention as Loki attempts to bargain with Ravonna. His plans are foiled as he tries to call upon his magic in a last effort to escape.

Mobius feels it's time to intervene when Renslayer makes it clear he is to be executed.

"You have no idea what I am capable of!"

"Actually I might have an idea of what he is capable of." He offers as he makes his way up to the stand.

His plea must be written across his face as Ravonna leans over to look at him directly.

"Whatever you're planning, it's a bad idea." She warns.

Nonetheless she reluctantly lets him go and Mobius has to fight off the urge to fist pump the air as he escorts Loki down the hallway.

"Oh, I'm Agent Mobius by the way." He offers a hand that is quickly ignored.

He can practically see the distrust written on Loki's face, his eyes calculating every move he makes.

Mobius is hardly surprised that as soon as he enters the room, his back turned to the God as he adjusts his projector, Loki is surging forward to attack. He doesn't even bat an eyelash as he clicks a button on his remote, resetting the God as if the action never even happened.

"C'mon, let's take a look at some of your greatest hits." Mobius waves a hand, as Loki curiously sits down, eyes trained on the projector.

He finds himself staring back at a hologram of his attack on New York. His blue eyes darting back and forth with glee as chaos erupts around him.

A feeling of something akin to shame runs down his spine as he recalls his reign of terror on the city, an illusion of preying on the weak to hide his own fear, lest he fail and succumb to Thanos and his minions.

Loki clenches his jaw, arms crossing over his form in an attempt to hide himself as he turns to avoid the screen.

"I see no point in this-"

"No, no wait, this is just getting good." Mobius grins as he points to the screen and Loki finds himself once again face to face with another variation of himself.

He briefly recalls the time he had lost a bet to Thor and had to change his form into that of a ginger haired man wearing a clean three piece suit, claiming he had a bomb and required over two hundred thousand in midgardian money just to see if he could pull it off. He did, in fact, pull it off, but his mother was not happy as well as the midgardians who failed to solve the case, naming him D.B. Cooper as they had no clue as to his real identity.

His attention is pulled to the screen as a familiar voice of silk enters the scene and he watches as his mother speaks to his future self, his eyes drawn into her face.

"Then am I not your mother?" He hears her ask. Yes, you are.

"No. You are not." Loki's eyes start to mist as he watches the look of hurt pass over his mother's features before she schools her expression into one of contempt.

"Always so perceptive, about everyone but yourself." She decides.

The screen flickers and he sees himself talking to an intruder, his voice amused as he suggests the monster to take the stairs to the left.

Then, his mother, Frigga, lying on the cold ground, a puddle of red growing rapidly beneath her body as her eyes remained closed.

His breath hitches, anger now licking up his spine. He turns sharply to Mobius who smartly remains silent.

"What is this! Some cruel joke? Where is she?! Where do you have her?"

Mobius steps forward, expression neutral as he speaks.

"She's dead Loki. This is the future, it's destined to happen, again and again because that's how it should be."

Loki falters his eyes narrowing as he spits "You're lying! I'll kill you!"

"What? Like you killed your mother."

There's a split second of silence before an angered shout is heard, a chair splitting the air as it crashes into pieces along the floor.

Before anything else can be said Mobius is summoned by Hunter B-15, his eyes falling to Loki who remains silent and he leaves with a slight tinge of guilt burrowing in his chest at the haunted look in the God's eyes.

"You think yourself so sly don't you." Loki looks up at the unfamiliar voice as the projector suddenly comes to life, a new image flicking gently on screen. His eyes catch upon your form and he watches in awe and wonder as you sit beside his future self.

"I don't think, love. I know." He grins leaning in to steal a kiss from you that leaves you both breathless.

He watches as your eyes are filled with nothing but love and adoration for him as you lean into his side.

"Loki?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Do you believe in soulmates?"

Loki tilts his head in contemplation as he looks to you, before a soft grin pulls at his lips.

"I didn't until I met you. I know that no matter who or what tries to tear us apart, we will always find a way back to each other."

A smile breaks out onto your face and Loki watches in stunned silence as the clip ends with the two of your voices fading into laughter.

"You two are meant to be together."

Loki turns as Mobius slowly comes to a stop behind him, his expression thoughtful.

"I don't enjoy hurting people you know." He responds, motioning towards the screen in reference to his attack on New York and the death of his mother.

Mobius doesn't respond, and he takes that as a sign to continue.

"I do it because I have to. Because I've had to." He looks down as he fiddles with his fingers.

Mobius hums as he replies.

"Why? Why do you think that is?"

"It's part of the illusion. It's the cruel, elaborate trick conjured by the weak to inspire fear."

Realization lights up in Mobius' eyes as he answers back.

"A desperate play for control. You do know yourself."

"A villain." Loki sums up.

"Not the way I see it."

There's a mutual silence between them before Mobius sighs.

"Look I can't offer you salvation but I can offer you something better. A fugitive variant has been killing our minutemen."

"And let me guess, you need the God of Mischief to help you stop him."

"That's right."

"How could I possibly be of use to you?"

"That's the thing. The variant we are hunting, we believe is y/n." Mobius looks towards the projector where your image is still.

"I beg your pardon?"

U N K N O W N

Mutilated bodies line the floor as a hooded figure steps over them, eyes glowing an unnatural hue.

"Is it finished?"

"Yes."

A wicked laugh fills the empty space as a portal opens in the deserted land, a set of footsteps following through.

"I'm coming for you, my love."

[yoonsshadow]

ETERNAL - v

➳ summary ; They have died so often that death has lost its meaning; hurt so regularly that pain has become inconsequential; lost so much that they hold each other to the light of the stars. They have nothing yet they have everything, as long as they have each other. And, after centuries, they now have her.

➳ pairing ; bts!ot7 x fem!reader

➳ genres ; The Old Guard au; fantasy, historical, action, romance, alternate universe

➳ themes ; angst, fluff, death

➳ warnings ; smoking, mature conversations

➳ word count ; 3k

➳ note ; Thank you for your patience!

masterlist

Fear is a fist that clutches your heart, reminding you of its presence each time it tightens its grip. It doesn’t hurt, necessarily, but you can feel the strength in its hold; the raging tendons wrapped around your tender organ that strain with each heartbeat. A singular emotion controlling your very pulse.

Cigarette smoke billows into the indigo hour of the night, and you find yourself unable to pry the fingers away.

The air on the balcony is cold, but it envelops you in a comforting embrace; it’s a soft coolness, as opposed to the harsh, biting climate of the desert that you’ve become accustomed to. Your skin prickles with goosebumps, but you don’t feel the need to scratch at yourself, to tear the skin from your flesh. It makes you feel alive, even if the definition of that word has changed for you.

Evidence of your newfound immortality, if that’s what you can call it, dangles between your fingers, ashes falling to the ground several storeys below with each gentle tap. It tastes terrible⎯⎯a bitter flavour of death in every pull⎯⎯but it serves its purpose for now. It keeps you grounded, gives you something to focus on other than the slowly growing anxiety that still holds strong in your chest.

Behind you, the balcony door slides open, startling the silent air with its soft drag.

“You’re up late,” Namjoon says. He speaks soft, low, as if hesitant to disturb you. “Or early, I guess. Didn’t take you for a smoker.”

You breathe out a puff of smoke, watching as it dissipates into the darkness. “I’m not.” He steps into your periphery, leaning on the metal railing beside you. “I just needed...something. Found them hidden away in the bookshelf.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Figures. We’re usually a non-smoking household, but sometimes the boys get sneaky. Pass me one?”

You hand him the box. Only two cigarettes left. He brings one to dangle between his lips and, without asking, you hand him a lighter. It takes him three tries, and then he’s sighing smoke into the air as well.

“Thought you were a non-smoking household.”

“We are. Stinks up the place, and it tastes disgusting. But. When in Rome.”

“You calling me Rome?”

He chuckles, but doesn’t answer. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head, despite knowing that he isn’t looking at you. “Too much on my mind.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t think I could if I tried.”

He blends in with the shadows, slightly, though the peaks of his cheekbones catch the dull light that glows through the mist of pollution. “I get that. Would you rather me talk?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“Not really.”

So he stays. Until the embers begin to burn your fingertips; until you’re snuffing your cigarette on the metal rail. You don’t think you’ll smoke again. You suppose it doesn’t matter, though. There’s forever ahead of you to change your mind.

Sunlight is just beginning to illuminate the buildings around you when Namjoon speaks up again. He stubbed his own cigarette before it was even halfway done. 

“I’m sure you’re curious,” he says. “About us, about the situation, about everything. And we’ll tell you as much as we can, but...There are some things the boys won’t feel comfortable telling you about just yet. We’ve lived long lives. We’ve done good things and bad things; experienced things we’re proud of and things that haunt us. We may not die, but we’re still human. I hope that you don’t mind being patient with us.”

Your heart aches a little at the melancholy in his tone, as if you wouldn’t give the world for these seven men after knowing them just a day. It feels as if your soul has missed them for a lifetime.

“Namjoon.” He turns to face you, now, and a halo of soft light glows around his face. “I don’t know what you’ve all been through, and frankly, it’s none of my business. If you want to tell me something, I know that you’ll do it in your own time. I’ve got the rest of my life to get to know you all, okay? There’s no rush.”

His smile starts as a twitch, a quirked corner of his lips, but quickly grows wide. Relieved. 

“I’m glad it’s you,” he says. He offers no elaboration, no further words, but you think you know what he means. Because you’re glad it’s him, too. You’re glad it’s them.

With breakfast comes clarity. As you sit at the large dining table, bowls of rice, soup, and several plates of banchan steaming into the morning air, you find yourself feeling calmer than you have since your death. It’s as though the raging tides of emotions⎯⎯uncertainty, confusion, downright fear⎯⎯have finally quelled into a tranquil body of water. There is sure to be a ripple sooner or later, but for now, it is completely still.

Yoongi, the cook of this morning’s feast, takes the first bite, and the rest of you follow. There is so much that you want to say, so many questions that you want to speak into existence, but the bitter taste of apprehension bleeds through even the delicious taste of your meal. You feel like you might choke on it⎯⎯the taste and your words both⎯⎯but your throat closes before you can even swallow.

Ah. There is the awaited ripple.

Perhaps it is the hours of silent companionship, or simply his centuries of wisdom, but Namjoon seems to sense your internal struggle. “If there’s anything you want to ask us, Y/N, go ahead. We’ll answer to the best of our abilities.”

Your throat eases and your tastebuds return to normal. “Well…” Where do you begin? What questions do you ask potentially ancient beings? “I guess let’s start with what this,” you wave a finger around the table, at the seven other sets of eyes who watch you patiently, “is. The situation.”

Namjoon nods slowly. It seems he’ll be taking charge for this conversation, much to the visible relief of the others. “Even we aren’t completely certain of what exactly this is,” he says. “From what we’ve learned, our death granted us immortality, or something to that degree. We cannot die, nor can we get majorly injured. Any wounds heal quickly, and any illnesses metabolise out of our system before they can affect us.”

You nod. All of this you were already aware of.

“As for this,” he continues. He looks around the group, fighting back a fond smile. “We’re all connected. When someone else becomes like us, we all see visions of each other to help us find them. The same happened with you. You saw visions of us when you slept, and we saw visions of you. That’s how we could find you. The dreams gave us enough information to figure out who you were, and then it was a matter of locating you.”

“Which wasn’t easy, by the way,” Jimin adds, though there is no annoyance. “Your files were so deeply buried that we thought they might not exist. And don’t even get me started on accessing the satellite.”

“You hacked a satellite?” You can’t hide the shock in your tone, and you don’t miss the glint of mischief in Jimin’s eyes.

“That’s not important,” Namjoon says, taking control of the conversation once again. “What’s important is this: the eight of us are intrinsically connected now. We might not get the visions anymore, but we are still linked. The easiest way to describe it is that we’re soulmates, though that might not even be true. We were destined to find each other, to be immortal together. Whether it’s for some higher purpose, or just a random curse, we don’t know. It’s better, I think, if we don’t try and find out that reason.”

Now that confuses you. “Why? Isn’t it human nature to be curious?”

Hoseok scoffs. “I don’t think we fall under the definition of ‘human’ anymore.”

You’ll have to file that away for later.

Namjoon ignores Hoseok, and looks straight at you. “If we become too enveloped in trying to figure out the big ‘why’, we’ll get lost in ourselves. We’ll lose our own sense of purpose. If we were chosen, for whatever reason, then we have to trust that our instincts will guide us to do what is needed.”

“Okay.” You suppose he’s right. “Then, could you tell me how old you all are?”

“We don’t do ages,” Taehyung says. He sounds almost amused. “We know the age we were when we died, but we don’t keep track of how long we’ve lived after that. It’s a rule.”

“Then how about...generally? Who was the first? How did you all die?”

All eyes turn to Namjoon. Honestly, you can’t say you’re surprised.

“I was the first,” he says. A faraway look takes over his eyes, as if lost in the past. Seokjin puts a grounding hand on his shoulder. “I couldn’t figure out my actual age if I tried, but it was...a long time ago. I was the chief of my village. Killed for power. The story isn’t too interesting.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, and then Yoongi clears his throat. “I was the second. A slave to some tyrant who thought he was all-powerful. Killed in front of the other slaves to put them in line.” He shrugs, but doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

Hoseok is quick to speak next, his words are short and curt. “I was third. Court execution.” He seems reluctant, as if guarding his past behind the tightly-locked gates of his crossed arms, but you mean what you said to Namjoon earlier; you will wait for them. For however long it takes.

Next is Seokjin, and you have a feeling that his theatrics are for Hoseok’s benefit. “I was the lucky fourth, and a king, at that! Though I was only in the position for a few hours, and all public records of it were thrown into the river with my body. Which is a shame, really, because my portraits deserved to be in museums for all to marvel over.”

“Um.” Jeongguk seems nervous, and you see him hide his shaking hands beneath the table. “I was next. I died of...natural causes.”

“And we came as a set,” Taehyung smiles, arm slung over Jimin’s shoulders. “Died at the very same moment, and woke up the same way! We were best friends, right, Jiminie? On the opposite sides of a war, but I loved him with my whole heart.”

Jimin nods, a wistful smile pulling at his cheeks. “I remember thinking that I was so lucky, to die in his arms. To never have to live a single moment without him. And then we found the others, and I thought that I must’ve been in heaven to be so fortunate.”

“We’re all together,” Namjoon elaborates, though it’s unnecessary. A blind man could see the way they feel about each other. “It may be because of circumstance, though I like to think that it’s because we were all meant to be. Like it’s a gift from the universe, allowing soulmates born in different centuries to find each other.”

“And now you,” Jeongguk whispers. His eyes glimmer, hopeful, and so young despite the obvious years he has over you. You wonder why he doesn’t seem as emotionally aged as the others; what could cause him to cling to his youth the way he does. It doesn’t matter, though. If it means he keeps his heart, it will never matter.

“We don’t expect anything from you,” Seokjin says. “Not romantically or even platonically. You are still your own person, and if you don’t want to be a part of this, in any degree, we won’t force it.”

You are thankful for that. It takes away a pressure that you didn’t even know you had until now. The thought that this is a choice⎯⎯a decision that is completely yours to make⎯⎯relieves you to no end. And yet... 

“I don’t think that’s a decision I can make right now.” You mindlessly arrange the chopsticks on your now empty plate as you try to summon the right words to explain yourself. “There’s so much that I need to figure out, and so many things that I feel I have to do. I don’t even know if I’ve properly processed the situation yet, or if I’m simply in shock.”

“Is there any way we can help you?” Yoongi, as always, seems so genuine. So heartfelt. 

“You already have. So much more than you’d believe.” And it’s true. Independence is your life. You may have been in a team in your old life, a leader of a small group for whom you were responsible, but you were always brought up, always trained, to survive alone. To find comfort in an existence of solitude. Because that’s what the military is; it is removing yourself from others, from the world. You were in a team, sure, but you were all alike in your aloneness. Alone together.

Now, you have this group of men who, without knowing you, have plucked you from your misery and now offer you everything. Offer themselves, their companionship, their help. You are not the one responsible, the one with everything on the line. They have taken that from you with gentle hands, and you give it away gladly. There is not much else that you could ask of them.

Except. Well, maybe there is.

“But…” You trail off, and their eyes just scream patience. You don’t know how they do it, how they’ve grown to be so effortlessly composed and serene, because right now your heart is beating in urgency. It batters against your chest, yelling at you to just ask them, now, but your words falter in sudden uncertainty. They have already given you so much, offered even more; can you truly ask for the help that you now realise you may need?

You look into their eyes again, and know that the answer is yes.

“This mission,” you continue, sitting up straighter. If you speak with confidence, perhaps you’ll start to feel it. “As far as I know, it was never completed. When our team went in, it was under the belief that we’d be able to rescue all of the children safely and relatively unseen. Someone on the inside tipped them off, but they had to have had a reason. They wouldn’t have betrayed us like that unless something was wrong.”

“You speak like you know exactly who it was,” Hoseok says. It isn’t a question, and you see it in his expression that he isn’t necessarily looking for an answer.

You won’t give him one. Not yet. Not until you’ve figured out for yourself why this person would’ve left you for dead. “That isn’t important right now,” you say in lieu of a confirmation. “What matters is that those children are still out there somewhere, and there’s a leak in the operation.” Releasing a deep sigh, you slump down a bit. “I’m going back to the desert, back to the base, and I’m going to save those children. If you would like to help me...that would be really nice.”

“Of course we’ll help,” Jeongguk says, without hesitation. There’s a resoluteness in the set of his jaw that you haven’t seen in him before. “Anything you need. We mean it.”

“We should talk about this plan of yours first, though,” Namjoon says. “As far as the military is concerned, you’re dead. You died with your team. If you go back to your base of operations, that’s just going to open up a whole lot of complications for both sides. They might think that you were the traitor, being the only survivor. We’ll need to operate with a certain level of stealth.”

You were worried about that. Your dog-tags are with the rest of your team’s, your body supposedly burned along with theirs. You won’t be able to reprise the role you previously played in this, and you won’t have the military support that you once had. If you do this, it will be in the shadows, hiding behind corners and turning away from cameras. You are a ghost now. You’ll have to act like one.

“Okay,” you say. “I understand; we need to stay hidden. But there is one person that I need to see face-to-face. I can promise that they won’t do anything to endanger our identities.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Jimin says. “Trust is one thing when you’re alive, but if they’ve been mourning your death, you can’t know for sure how they’ll react.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you affirm. “I trust this person, and I’m going to need you all to trust me.”

Taehyung bites his lip in contemplation. “It isn’t that we don’t trust you,” he says, “but we can’t fully trust the situation. We don’t know this person, whoever they are, or how they’ll use this information against you. Against us.”

“I get it, I do.” You can’t help but sigh. “But this is something that I need to do, and something that I will do regardless of whether I have your permission. I won’t let my decision affect any of you, but if you decide against helping me because of this, I’ll understand.”

Yoongi leans forward. “We’re going to help you.” His tone is final. “And you’re right, this is your decision to make. We just want to make sure that you completely understand what you’re potentially getting yourself into.”

“You are all a lot older than me,” you say, “and obviously much wiser. But I’m an adult too, and I’m mature enough to know that my actions may have consequences. I’m no stranger to making tough decisions, or to taking responsibility. I may not be a Captain by rank anymore, but that doesn’t change who I am.”

“Okay,” Namjoon says. He doesn’t argue, nor does he apologise, but he doesn’t need to. There is a mutual understanding in the way you look at each other, and nothing more needs to be said. “So, what’s the plan?”

You take in a deep breath, and prepare your mind to return to the place you’ve grown to loathe.

< prev - next >

tags: @leafyturtle, @loveyoongles, @paint-music-with-me, @barbikatherine, @itsmorgo1604, @calling-dips-on-j-hope, @veronawrites, @applepie1000, @yoonchrisgullwrites, @ally22042000, @ireallylikefoodandyoutube, @blglmgk01, @basicgukk, @softescapism, @sinceritythatcouldntbedelivered, @m1nt-3lla, @hunnayesblog, @rosycheekb, @hemmofluke, @the-bisaster, @katbonv, @borahebangtan​, @monodroppp, @skyys-universe

[starshipsofstarlord]

God is With You, Even as You’re Sinning

Pairing | Sam Winchester x reader

Summary | it was your first time not killing a monster, and in its place, taking the life of one of your own. Guilt entraps you, and it is up to Sam to break you out of your pitiful hypnosis.

Warnings | mentions of death, blood, angst, guilt, some smut, oral sex (fem receiving), penetrative unprotected sex, fingering, swearing, mentions of murder

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Fuck God. This was all his fault, everything was to be fair. He had left the world to continue on its own accord, the apocalypse threatening to spill over the planet and destroy it and all beauty that was lingering through the existence of humans.

They killed each other, and the creator of all could care less. It was his smallest problem, he didn’t mind that the murderer was succumbed to guilt, or how many restless nights that he or she endured. God was cruel, even if he held up a facade of being your ally, and trying his hardest as he supposed, to be your friend.

Your hands shook as you remembered the entailment of your mistake. It was a slip up, a vast and surreal experience that people usually learned from. But what were you supposed to do, not kill a human again? Yeah you had gotten that, after all, the initial deed had not at all been intentional.

There was the victim’s blood dried upon the outer layer of your skin, casting you in the perfect image of murderous intent. However, you had no thirst to kill, instead, your hunting of monsters, alike to many others partaking in a similar lifestyle, executed the mythical beasts to protect the human population.

It pained you truly, to know that you had killed a person. You hadn’t even spared the familiar body a second glance, and out of panic, you fled the scene, leaving the body of the city cleaner in the gutter, laying in the remnants of his friends’ and family’s waste, burying him in their crude excrement.

The thought alone, and the sight that was engrained in the peripheral of your mind had you feeling sick. Slowly, you plodded down the steps of the bunker’s entrance, surely leaving footprints trademarked in all kinds of grotesque evidence.

Without much care for what lay heavily inside, you dropped your duffel from your shoulder, allowing it to fall on the ground with a disgruntled clatter. Nothing meant anything anymore, not if you were indeed a real killer. Whilst some monsters had weaselled their way into society, ending their pathetic attempts at normality was different than taking away the life of an innocent and mortal bystander.

Often, with the darker and crueler species, there were reasons as to why they pretended to be of human birth. Mostly, it was so that they could feed from the naive flock, or kill for their own amusement. Either way, none of their reasons were good.

But now, you thought of yourself as no different than them. A creature that needed to be put down for their crimes. Filing, you breathed in, only inhaling the various moulds of putridity that was weaved into your hair, and stuck to your skin like a face mask.

“Should I call you Cassie now?” At the joke, a laugh from the speaker was triggered. He was quite amused with the sight of you, and thus, you sneered at the tall man, hating him a little bit more than usual.

“Your pop culture references aren’t appreciated Winchester, it’s more Dean’s street.” Shoving past him, his high shoulder floundered back at the harsh and ignorant impact, an expression of offence covering his stupid face. Like a fawn, he tumbled after you, watching as you walked sullenly into the kitchen, yanking the door to the fridge open, and extracting one of his brother’s store bought beers.

“I’m going to guess the hunt went bad.” Sam speculated, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, and staring expectedly down at where you popped the cap off the bottle recklessly with your teeth. He almost winced at the sight, but he wished to keep this arrogant demeanour up with you, it was a natural desire to piss you off, and he’d be pissed at himself if he let it slip out of simple pity.

“Guess correct. Well done, you’ve won a trip to Hawaii.” You waved your free hand mockingly in the air, as the other raised the liquor to your mouth, allowing you to wilfully gulp the bitter liquid down. At his presence that remained nursing over you, you cocked a brow, leaning forwards as you expectedly looked back at the moose. “Just leave me alone Sam, I’m not in the mood for putting up with your bullshit.”

He, however, seemed not to be phased by you wanting to be left alone, and instead, quickly snatched the poison out of your hand, leaving you throughly prepared to keep him right in the balls. “What the fuck?” You all but screamed at the not so jolly giant. In turn, he crossed his arms across his chest, placing the bottle down on the island.

“I could ask you the same y/n.” His tone was dominantly serious, causing you to cower back into your shroud of guilty conscience. “Tell me what happened on that hunt, of which i told you that you shouldn’t have went on alone, since you wouldn’t have been able to handle it solo.”

You felt demeaned by his words, they sparked an anger out from the firm pit of your stomach. But you knew deep down, he was getting through to you, which was something that you had not managed to even do by yourself. Air heavily passed through and out of your nostrils, as acidic tears pooled in your eyes; a crack was falling down your walls, and out of all people, it was Sam Winchester whom had caused it.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have gone alone, but you know what, I thought of what a Winchester would do. And then I remembered, I am sure as hell not a Winchester and I don’t have a brother anymore! Not now, he didn’t even know who I was earlier, didn’t even recognise a single genetically identical hair on my head as he watched me parade through the town, the very one that I ran away from when he was a baby and I was seven, wanting to hunt a monster. Yet, i didn’t kill a damn monster Sam, I murdered my brother because you’ve been right all along, I’m not fit for this job. I am a mess, so congratulations, you finally have got me to admit the one thing that you keep reminding me of.”

“Y/n...” Sam wasn’t sure how to respond, he felt the waves of shock ripple through his body. Never so freely had you been vulnerable around him, and here you were now, with very visible tears cascading down your utterly torn face. He understood it was an accident, and the times that he and Dean had tried to kill each other under supernatural circumstances had him wondering what if.

Shaking your grime tethered head at the sound of his cracked voice, you stormed past him, and immediately raced towards the shower room, finding to your luck, which had been non existent during the rest of the day, the halls were barren of life. Walking through the door, you tore your ruined clothes off, chucking them upon the floor without much acknowledgement, before you went under the warm spray of the shower head, trying to calm yourself.

To rid your skin of its evidential accessories, you had to scrub your skin until it was immediately raw. Everything within you ached, as you flicked back to the memory of the clueless expression that had been worn by your blood brother. It was probably a good thing that he didn’t know who you were, or else, he’d have known that his own sister murdered him due to her incompetence to listen to others.

Now, you were not even sure what were your tears, and what droplets of water belonged to the shower itself. For over an hour, you basked int eh warmth that seemed unable to cure your cold blooded system, turning the spritz off, and covering your body in a fluffy towel, that you were sure belonged to someone else, but right now, you could care less about who owned what.

As you reached the door to your bedroom, you found it to be preached slightly open, and as you pushed it the rest of the way, you saw Sam sat on the corner of your bed. You held your arms around yourself, insecure on the fact that beneath the stolen towel, you were nothing more than you. A wolf in sheep’s skin.

“Can I help you?” You bitterly asked, your eyes still burning from your own faulted loss. Sam breathed in, his eyes trailing up to your face, that was naked from any gruesome cosmetics or make up. The bareness to your completion illustrated an aura of innocence, and evidence that you were the same as him - human.

“That’s my towel.” The male hunter laughed, in hopes of changing the previous and well wounded subjected to ensure that you felt better. But what was he kidding, nothing could fill the void that you had dug in your own heart, nothing was closer than the bond between siblings, even if you were considered as strangers.

“Take it back then.” Too exhausted from your gruelling day, you dropped the material, your confident action making his eyes go wide, as he tried to look away from your exposed skin to respect your boundaries. It was impossible though not to allow his hazel hues to slip up the trunks of your thighs, up to- no, that was wrong, very wrong.

You had just lost your brother, not to mention, by your own hand, and he was prone to checking out your freelancing body, taking in every curve and twisted scar that was prominent to his speculating eyes. His eyes dropped to the discarded towel, which he had purposely left on the heating rail for later use, and then, they switched back towards you.

He stood, walking behind you as you looked through comfort clothes within your dresser. A light touch of his hand brushed your hair away from your neck, as he breathed a sweet hoax of hot air upon your scare. Sam was relieved that you didn’t reject the contact, and instead, pressed his lips upon the flesh, finding succession whence you hummed deliriously to yourself.

This interaction had been inevitable for a long time, but now no longer were the suspected intentions for such an exchange to be to release well endorsed frustrations. No, he was going to clear your mind for some sensual moments, and make your pretty little head forget for a moment that you had pained yourself in the worst of ways.

Turning, you laced your hands through his chocolate locks, massaging his scalp as you pulled him closer so that your lips could endure a rougher clasp against his. There was no passion, behind each contribution there was a spur of hunger, he grasped your ass cheeks, pulling you up to be sat upon the top of your heavy dresser.

Obliging his command, you spread your legs so that he could stand between their partition, his hands now running up the windows of your thighs. For a while, the pair of you did nothing more than make out, and cup a feel here and there, but soon after, Sam dropped to his lanky knees, leaving kisses in the wake of his descent.

His thumb and forefinger spread your fluttering folds, watching as your slit squirmed for attention. Sam licked his lips at the sight, running his middle finger up the expanse, until he came to your yearning entrance. Slowly, after making sure you were wet enough, Sam slipped his digit inside, you wiggling your hips to adjust to the thrust of his one finger.

To add to the sensations that were overriding your body, he moved his mouth to closer proximity, smelling the divine aroma that pulsed out of you. It was far too addictive to not get a taste, and thus,he pulled his finger out, sucking off your juices contently.

But that small sample just wasn’t enough, which encouraged him to dive face first into your pussy - literally. His long tongue teased your folds, slurping at the lips, and then switching to your clit to heighten the stimulation. He kept up a rhythm, using it as a pattern to push you closer to that edge, and he was surely certain that you were enjoying his oral work as you ground your face against him, moaning at his succulent administrations.

“Sam.” Oh god, was it pleasant to hear his own name fall out your mouth in such an erotic manner. It was far different from the way that you usually used it to snide at him, though, the thought of your regular treatment of him aided only to spur his lustful actions on. He wanted you to cum, for your juices to run down his face in waterfalls, looking as though someone had tried to drown him.

His work would not be complete until you found it difficult to even pronounce his short name. Digging his tongue in the hood of your clit, tracing around the protective area, his fingers returned to their earlier placement, and he quickened their pace until he could hear a satisfying squelch in the air.

Rapid sounds of parted moans raked from your mouth, your chest sticking out as you breasts heaved with your heavy breathing. It was noticeable that you were close, not just from that, but you were squeezing the circulation out of his fingers. “Fuck.” Left you in the form of a squeal, as you pussy wept its juices.

Sam was quick to lap everything that left you up, once more, tasting those that clung to his fingers. He went back in for another taste, but you tightly grouped his hair, pulling him away from your sopping cunt. “Need you to fuck me Sam, now.”

In an instant, the hunter stood, working precariously on undoing the buckle of his belt, and pushing all material that covered his lower half to the bottom of his thighs. He read already hard, and oozing precum. You swept your finger across the tip of his dick, bringing it to your lips to taste his foreshadowing seed.

Sam huffed at the sight,picking his prick up in one hand, and jerking himself a couple of times. And then, he aligned himself with you, rubbing his cock around your wet crevice a couple of times, slapping his tip teasingly against your puffy clit.

“Want my cock baby?” He asked, smirking as he watched you nod your head repeatedly. With that being all the confirmation that he needed, he pushed into you,feeling even more turned on as he heard you mewl, and watched the ecstatic expression cross your face as his dick fit inside of you all the way.

He grasped your hips, pulling out once before pushing in again. He repeated the action, his own eyes rolling to the back of his head at how tight you were. This would make you forget the cruel method of god, his story was not as epic as he though, for his characters were screwing against his will, basking in a distraction rather than the regretful pain that seethed in your trodden heart.

Another thrust had your nails clasping onto Sam’s covered back, biting onto his shoulder through the plaid, as you held back the tears that were trying to creep out of your blissful eyes. A few grunts left Sam, as his pace increased, and with every thrust, which only served to fuel him further, the dresser smashed into the wall behind it, most likely leaving a decent dent within the historical architecture.

“Gonna cum.” You told him, dragging him in for another tongue filled kiss as your cunt pooled around him, coating his cock in the honey from your delicious pot. He soon followed after, and for a moment, he remained against you, allowing you to bask in the comfort of his strange presence.

And then he pulled out, watching as his distraction dripped from your entrance, trailing down your thigh in a white streak. An orgasm smile was pulled onto your face, but it was certain to not last long for when you returned to the reality that laid waiting for you to return.

Sam stepped closer again, moving his fingers towards your cunt, and pushed his seed back inside of you, watching as your puffy pussy lips swallows any part of him that it could get. He would distract you for as long as he could, and then, deal with the inevitable.

[fandom-hoarder]

Baby Brother

[companion piece to Feeling Small; Dean’s POV, fluff + slight angst; don’t come at me for the gimme title]

At first, Dean has no idea why he’s suddenly conscious and not reaching for his gun. His fingers just graze the butt of it, but he doesn’t have the urge to close the distance. After a split-second of concentration, though, the reason is obvious: Sam. Namely, the soft but ragged breaths Dean hears coming from the bed behind him, growing more labored by the second; a sound Dean is, unfortunately, used to identifying. Though, it’s been awhile. Almost a year, he thinks. Longer than the last time Sam woke up with growing pains, and Dean can tell Sam’s current anxious breathing apart from the pained groans that have been more frequent lately. Dean had started to settle into the idea that Sam was finally growing out of his nightmares.

Too much to hope for, apparently.

There’s a fleeting thought, a vague hint of annoyance, at the fact that this is Sam’s first nightmare since separate beds became their default rather than a rarity and a luxury. Calming Sam down is so much easier when they’re sharing space. But it had been Sam’s decision in the first place; yet another push for independence and his own (literal) space; and Dean hadn’t argued, despite the urge that nagged at him sometimes. When your sixteen-year-old little brother insists he needs his own personal space, it looks weak and clingy to try to argue about it. So, naturally, Dean had pulled away like the ultimate specimen of machismo that he was, making sure Sam knew that Dean had only been putting up with the arrangement for Sam’s sake in the first place, and to make things easier on Dad. Making sure to gripe about it at least as much as Sam any time they had no other option but to share since then. 

Even so, Sam was usually much more pliable in the middle of the night; accepting more help with things when he was sleepy; when their world was blurry around the edges, dwindled down to the bubble that encompassed the two of them in that space between wakefulness and sleep.

He calls out to Sam sleepily, refusing to open his eyes and hoping to quickly nip this in the bud so he can go back to sleep. So they both can. It comes out more grumpy than inviting, and he inwardly winces, but he doesn’t worry long. 

He hears Sam gasp sharply and then there’s a flurry of movement as his little brother flings his covers away and clambers over. Dean braces for the chill of air on his warm skin as Sam squirms in behind him, but his little brother comes with his own furnace-like aura, especially when he’s worked up from some kind of night terror. He feels the heat of the air between them close in as Sam settles, and Dean holds still, taking his cues from Sam for how much contact he wants. 

Sam’s bony elbows press against Dean’s lower back, and he feels the barest hint of contact between the backs of his thighs and Sam’s legs. Sam’s slightly clammy forehead coming to rest between his shoulder blades, however, is enough to raise faint goosebumps along Dean’s skin. He wonders how Sam can possibly be comfortable, with the way he must be contorted. Sam’s body is way too long now for this position to feel natural.

Sometimes it kinda pisses him off that Sam is going to be taller than him any day now. It also makes him proud, though. Somehow, despite all the odds against him, he managed to raise this kid up big and healthy. But right now, it just makes him kind of heartsick for the days when his little brother was, well, actually little. He guesses he should just be grateful that Sam isn’t actually treating him like the little spoon here, but it still rankles. Dean’s still bigger than him, dammit; at least for now.

Dean keeps his eyes closed and tries to hold still; relax; resist the urge to take control and switch their positions, and just breathe. Be the type of solid comfort Sam needs right now—no matter how dissatisfying it feels for Dean, or how much he knows Sam will end up with a crick in his neck and back if he stays like this—and let both of them fall back to sleep. For a minute or two, it seems to work, but soon he feels Sam’s breathing getting worked up again; shuddering the way it does when tears are in the not too distant future. 

Dean reaches back awkwardly to run his hand through Sam’s hair, hoping the contact will ground him. Somehow, though, it only seems to make things worse as Sam lets out a sort of wounded sob.

‘Yeah, okay, that’s it,’ Dean thinks with a sigh, finally opening his eyes as he accepts his fate. He twists himself around under the covers and wraps his arms around Sam, ankle looping around Sam’s and trapping that leg between his thighs. Dean’s left hand finds Sam’s right and wraps around his bony wrist, pulling it to his chest as he re-settles Sam against him more comfortably. And there’s something intensely satisfying about how he executed this maneuver; how easily he’s still able to manhandle his little brother, despite Sam’s recent increase in size. Dean’s momentary smirk presses his cheek against Sam’s head as he reaches up to card through Sam’s hair again.

It’s full; soft and fluffy on top, but still damp on the bottom layers from the shower Sam took after Dean last night. His hair is so long and thick, past his chin in the front and curling out around the nape of his neck; it always takes hours to dry naturally, and Sam refuses to use a hair dryer. Dad’s probably going to make Sam cut it any day now for practical reasons. Dean rags on Sam all the time about his girly hair, but secretly he loves it. The kid’s always had a lot of hair, but it’s gotten thicker in the last couple of years. And Dean grew up petting his brother’s hair—it’s the only thing that could get little Sammy back to sleep most of the time, or calm him down if he was fussy; although sometimes it’d only worked if it was accompanied by Dean’s careful croon of ‘Hey Jude’—and at this point he can admit, at least to himself, that it soothes him also.

And Dean definitely needs that calming action now as he prepares himself for what he needs to do. He takes a deep breath as he comes to terms with it, and the familiar, sweet scent of Sam’s special shampoo keeps his heart calm under Sam’s hand. Good.

“Nightmare?” he whispers.

Sam nods against Dean’s shoulder and cheek, and Dean’s fingers still until the movement is over so they don’t snarl in his hair.

“Wanna talk about it?” he barely wants to give the question breath, but he knows he has to. His heartbeat stays steady as he waits for the reply, but his dread of the answer seems to make the question echo around him.

When Sam shakes his head ‘no,’ Dean doesn’t hold back from tugging at his hair a bit in retaliation. Dean hadn’t even wanted to ask in the first place, but Sam is for damn sure gonna answer him now that he’s ignored his first impulse and asked anyway.

“Can’t remember it,” Sam mumbles, and the graze of his lips over Dean’s clavicle threatens goosebumps across Dean’s chest.

Dean frowns at the reply. On the one hand, he knows Sam’s telling the truth, but that Sam could probably remember it if he tried; he’s done it before, more than once. On the other hand, Dean has never liked the outcomes of those times--the subject matter or how remembering affected Sam. After the last one, Sam didn’t--maybe couldn’t--sleep again until… well, Dean’s not even going to let his thoughts go there right now. It was all just coincidence, anyway. Sam’s subconscious taking his worries and lore knowledge and coming up with unfortunately realistic scenarios in his dreams. Side effect of being the brainy, research geek, Dean had told him, and Sam clearly hadn’t believed him but only gave a patented bitchface in reply.  

Point being: every time it happens, Dean gets closer and closer to having zero excuses left for why he hasn’t told their father yet. But, hey, if Sam can’t remember then… who’s to say what he dreamed about? Probably just a normal, stupid, run of the mill nightmare about clowns or something… He digs his fingers a little deeper into Sam’s hair, massaging into his scalp a bit to ease any tension left there from his dreams, the way he has since Sam was little. 

When Sam was about four or five, he’d woken from a nightmare inspired by a monster movie Dean had been watching on late night TV. They’d been sharing a pull-out couch in the living room of a tiny, one-bedroom apartment Dad had rented, and Dean had gotten in the habit of falling asleep to the TV in the living room when Dad was gone; he didn’t want to say it made him feel safer, but that was the truth. When Sam had woken up with a cry, covered with sweat and face sticky with tears, the TV screen had long since stopped showing the blocky colors that signaled the end of the broadcast day and was now just the staticky non-picture that Dean called ‘snow.’

Dean had woken immediately at Sam’s cries, and pulled him over into his arms, doing his best to shield his little brother’s eyes from the light of the TV screen as he shushed him and dried his tears, asking if he had a bad dream. When Dean realized it was the monster movie that caused Sam’s nightmare, he’d felt bad, and promised not to watch scary stuff before bed anymore. Then he’d tucked Sammy against him and started combing his fingers through his sweat-damp, baby-soft hair, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Sam’s head as Dean whispered to him that he had a magic trick that would let him pull the bad thoughts out of Sam’s head. For a while, Sam wholly believed it was magic, and it worked so well that Dean almost did, too. 

The dread in Dean’s gut eases slightly with the memory, but not completely. He’s too aware of the thoughts he’s avoiding.

Just when he starts to think Sam’s drifted off, the pattern of air moving across Dean’s collarbone stutters as Sam breathes, “I miss this.”

“Miss what?” Dean asks, feeling an inexplicable eagerness as he anticipates Sam’s reply.

“Feeling small.”

Immediately, Dean’s thoughts cycle back to where they’d been earlier: Sam’s impending status as tallest Winchester boy, and Dean’s continued status as big brother no matter what. This time, the ache in his heart is more for Sam than himself. There’s a happiness, too, though; he’s glad for the darkness and the creeping slumber that loosened Sam’s tongue enough to say it. 

After he’s squeezed Sam close—feeling the incredible thinness of him, the ridges of bone under newly-stretched skin a little uncomfortable at spots but all the more a comfort because of how it adds to Sam’s overall delicate feel right now—Dean splays his hand over Sam’s back, testing how much area the spread from his thumb to pinky still covers. It feels like a lot, and Dean finds himself thinking proudly that he’s still able to be Sam’s protector.

Dean rubs his thumb soothingly over the edge of skin it can just reach, and presses his cheek against Sam’s head to promise, “You’ll always be my baby brother.”

When Sam’s fingers clumsily grab Dean’s amulet, the goosebumps that have been threatening this whole time finally make their appearance. The pull of Sam’s hand on the cord is a nostalgic weight that gives his heart a little lurch. Dean feels Sam’s breathing finally even out, and allows a long, slow exhale of relief.

But Dean knows he’s not going back to sleep himself any time soon. He’s going to stay awake and hold his baby brother tight; keep the nightmares away—real and imagined; soak in the memory of Sammy still small in his arms and needing comfort neither of them will admit to in the light of day.

And he knows this will be one of the few times he doesn’t tease Sam about it in the morning, whether or not Dad comes home safe.

[galaxythreads]

Should I continue fic???

I wrote up these five pages to a possible Porcelain/Append merge (kinda) and was wondering if anyone would be interested/read it if I continued on with it?

What do I mean by merge? I mean, it would be like a re-written version of Append with Hela’s background in Porcelain put in, and the entire story overall would be much darker. Just. To clarify that. XD

*Also note of warning, all my italics were removed, and I am too exhausted to and put them back in. Just...imagine it. 

Five Pages: 

“No!” The sound is a hoarse screech, tearing itself out of her throat and refusing to be ignored. 

Hela scrambles to get her feet beneath herself, dragging her heels into the snow, leaving a long blood trail smeared in the white, crystalized snow behind her. It’s not enough. He’s taking her. She’s not going to be able to stop him. 

Oh, Allfathers. 

A desperate, panicked sob begins to build in her chest, applying pressure until it feels like her ribs will burst from the effort of keeping it contained. She can’t breathe. Every inhale draws the sharp, painful air of Jotunheim into her lungs, searing them as it settles into her chest. It’s so cold that it feels like her tongue is beginning to go stiff in her mouth. 

She struggles in the grasp, trying to get some sort of leverage so she can fight her way out of the grip and draw a weapon, but there’s nothing she can do. With her hair wrapped firmly in the fist as well as her arm, her neck is pinned into place and leaves little room to wiggle. 

Desperate, she scrambles to find some sort of way to deal with the situation. She stops trying to claw off the fingers with her left hand and starts to flex out her fingers, feeling the familiar discomforting wedge as the dwarf metal implants in her arms start to form the weapon. She’s not entirely sure what she’s planning, anything sharp and easily maneuverable, but it doesn’t matter as Odin releases her abruptly, shoving her into the hard snow. 

Hela smacks against it, feeling the sensation rattle up her face, but no pain. Never any pain. She hasn’t been worthy of it since early adolescence. 

“By the gods, you insufferable child!” Odin exclaims, turning around to face her. His expression is twisted into familiar incense. Well, what’s left of it. Hela’s eyes snap up toward the unfamiliar sight of hasty field bandages wrapped around Odin’s head, covering his left eye. There’s still blood on his face from where it smeared down his cheek after the attack. 

It looks painful. 

Good. 

“How can you be so ungrateful?” Odin demands harshly. He takes a step toward her, and Hela feels herself draw back from him, fresh tears spilling down her face to trace down to her chin. Her eyes itch from how much she’s been crying, and she hates herself for showing this frailty in front of him. There are no weaknesses in front of Odin Allfather. 

Hela sits up slowly, her dark hair falling over her shoulders to spill across her chest. There’s wet blood on her fingers from the earlier battle, and it leaves ugly, morbid stains on the white snow. Something’s wrong with her arm, she notes distantly, it’s barely supporting her weight. She must have broken something. 

 She swallows thickly, wishing her voice didn’t sound so clogged. “What do I have to be grateful for?”

Odin snarls. “I saved you.”

“Saved me?” She hasn’t found much reason to laugh since Asgard invaded Jotunheim, but this--this arouses something. Not happiness, but a bitter sort of disbelief. Anger, perhaps. 

Hela laughs sharply until he strikes her. It doesn’t hurt, it never does, but a harsh feeling of shame washes over her. Her head turns with the force of the blow, and she looks toward the snow, hiding behind a curtain of long hair. She tastes blood in her mouth and feels absently for the cut on her tongue with her teeth. 

“You insolent wretch. I could have damned you by leaving you.” Odin hisses, and he waits for a second, as if expectant. He’s waiting, Hela realizes, for her to come to her senses and thank him. He hasn’t changed since she saw him last. Not in the slightest. 

She isn’t surprised by this, though she thinks she should be. 

“I would rather that you did,” Hela murmurs, and then looks up toward her father between her hair. He stands over her, imposing as always, tressed up in armor that adds to bulk she knows he doesn’t have. He looks every inch a king at this moment. A powerful enemy. Her enemy. 

She deserted. She committed treason. He has every reason to execute her at this point. She’d deserve it. She’s deserved nothing less since she was a child. 

Odin’s nostrils flare and he reaches out, grabbing her arm again despite Hela’s desperate scramble to back away. His fingers are iron against her clothing, a noose to choke her with. He hauls her to her feet, yanking her forward. In the far distance, Hela can see the remains of where she knows Asgard’s camp was set up. It’s gone now, which is to be expected, the war is over. 

Jotunheim lost. 

Asgard won. And now she’s being returned home. She’s saved. 

Norns. 

Hela starts to fight him again. “I won’t go with you,” she protests, “I’d rather be damned.” 

“I wouldn’t stop you,” Odin says heatedly, and the words hurt somewhere deep and quiet inside of her. “But your death would serve me nothing.”

Ah. So that’s what this is. Of course. It’s not fatherly concern, or even a base parental instinct suddenly aroused to save her from a beheading. She has not served all her use to him yet, so he will keep her. Because she’s a tool. A weapon. She’s so far from a living creature it’s a wonder that she breathes at all now. 

Maybe that’s what he’ll take next. 

Oh, Norns, Hela curses wildly. She can’t go back. She can’t. She can’t. She won’t survive that. Her struggles begin to grow more frantic, and Odin doesn’t let her go, because she’s not allowed anything. Not what she wants. The decade she spent as a war captive was a reperivie that’s over. He’s taking her back, and the sedirmasters will have more to do, and he’ll have more for her to kill, more for her to turn into, and--

Of course. Why is she protesting this? She’s a weapon. She’s his weapon. 

Weapons have no regrets. No remorse. No emotions. No desires, or wants, or needs. 

Norns. 

Hela’s stomach twists, and she staggers to her knees and vomits. It’s bloody and thin, but her tongue feels swollen and her neck feels tight. Her free hand’s fingers scramble to dig into her ribs, as if they can simply remove the vile substance by clawing it out of her chest. 

I can’t do this again. 

The thought is a distinct contrast of sudden, deep despair to her previous frantic scrambles. Her fight has lost, because there is no escape. Norns. She closes her eyes tightly, squishing tears out onto her face in the process, and breathes out sharply. 

Odin’s fingers tighten on her arm, she’s sure, to the point of bruising. It might have been more effective at intimidation if she felt it. As it is, the pressure becomes almost unbearable, and she bites on her tongue sharply. 

“How weak you have become,” Odin says. His voice is toneless. But the disappointment is obvious. 

And it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. She knows that she has changed. But it does matter. A part of her, she thinks, will always belong to her father. If not in body, then in mind. She wants this. His approval. She craves it. 

She slaughtered cities for it. 

“Go to helheim.” She whispers, trying to be snide, but bordering on desperate. 

Look at you, a voice purrs in the back of her mind, dark and laughing, the goddess of death, weeping at her father’s feet, trying to be intimidating. You have become a weak creature, haven't you? 

Odin sneers at her statement, but draws her back to her feet with force. Hela steps over the bloody bile, and the two of them carry forward. She seems to have vomited out her fight, because, though she stumbles on uneven footing, she doesn’t fight her father. There’s nothing she can do. If she ran from here, where would she go?

She doesn’t know if Laufey is dead, but she saw the corpse of his wife. 

They draw closer to the Asgardian camp, and every footfall sends a rattle of dread up her stomach. She’s still crying, and feels like a child for it. She hasn’t cried this much since she was a child, and even then, very little. Her father never believed in tears. 

“What will you do with me?” Hela whispers. She should fight, but she’s not even sure she could support her own weight without her father forcing her to move forward. “Public execution?”

“No.” Odin says derisively, as if this should have been rather obvious. 

“Then what?” 

“What do you think?” Odin snaps, “Your place is beside me. You are my executioner.” 

But not, Hela notes with a familiar ache, your daughter. He calls her his child when it suits him, but it’s a formality. They both know what she is to him. Their relationship has never been one of warmth. If they’ve ever had a relationship to begin with. 

“You will return to Asgard with me, and resume your duties. I will see to it that your recent...actions do not become public knowledge.” Odin says without looking at her. “That is what will happen to you. I do not intend to kill you, daughter.” 

Hela smiles at that, knowing otherwise. Not physically, no. Perhaps not. 

But he’s killed her so many times already. 

Her smile drops. 

Oh, gods. 

This can’t be happening again. She thought she was out. Laufey promised that it was over. Norns, he was helping her. He cared. She thinks he cared. But no one she knows has ever cared for her. Maybe it, like it has been with everyone else, has been some sort of facade to beat her into submission. 

It felt real.

It wasn’t.

It felt safe.

It wasn’t.

Hela sees the blood smears across the snow, the hard ice bearing the scars of war beneath thick sheets. The camp is empty, the tents set and the fires put out. The only remains that Asgard was ever here in the first place is the blood and the miscellaneous scattered around. It’s the first time she’s seen it, and she would have spit on it if she had the strength. 

Hela ducks her head, breathing in the familiar frigid air. It feels sharp against her throat and lungs, but she would breathe it in forever if it meant she could stay here. Asgard has nothing for her but pain. But maybe Jotunheim had nothing for her, either. She doesn’t know. She can’t keep the lies straight in her head anymore. 

Odin comes to a sudden stop, and Hela nearly stumbles over herself. The scorch of burned snow leaves a wet trail of slippery ice, but it takes her less than a second to recognize the markings. The Bifrost. It’s here. Again. This is really happening. Hela closes her eyes and feels fresh tears warm her cheeks. 

I’d rather die than go back, she thinks again. 

Odin turns his head up toward the sky, and Hela feels her gut tightening in apprehension. If her father notices, he doesn’t care. But he’s never cared about her before, he wouldn’t start now. “Heimdall--open the Bifrost!”

[doe-eyed-and-angel-kissed]

1️⃣ The One Where Shikaku Invites Trouble

Really. Whatever Inoichi says, this is not Shikaku's fault. Shikaku is a good shinobi. The Hokage clearly instructed them to build goodwill within the Daimyo's court. It's just a bonus that one of the highest ranking nobles approached him and introduced him to his latest conundrum.

That's Shikaku's story and he's sticking to it. Stop laughing Inoichi!

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Sarutobi Hiruzen stared at the two of his most promising shinobi. Namikaze Minato stood impassively before him and Nara Shikaku is on a slouch that was seemingly perfected by his clan.

"The second eldest son of the Daimyo was found dead yesterday at one of the Daimyo's residences. The period of mourning will start tomorrow for the family." The Hokage let his two ninjas digest the information. The family's period of mourning will last 5 days and then the public mourning will happen for another 5 days. The last day will include the funeral where the second son will be entombed on the family catacomb.

"That would mean that you would be expected to attend the 5-day mourning period in the capital."

"Yes Shikaku-kun. I want you and Minato-kun to be part of my contingent."

Minato nodded. "Was there a suspicion of foul play?"

"There's always a suspicion of foul play in these cases Minato." Shikaku is the one who answered. "Nobles may not have the same tutelage as us but they're sometimes more creative at making murder to look like a suicide or an accident."

The Hokage did not dispute the Nara heir. The Daimyo sometimes asks the Hokage to look at suspicious deaths in his court. But this time it is not the Daimyo but his heir, Hirohito-sama, who sent a second missive.

He relayed the information to Minato and Shikaku. Judging by their eyes  they got his underlying message. Building amity between the next generation ninjas and nobles is the main reason for asking the two of them instead of one of the older ninjas.

It is never too late to foster bonds that will help their village. Aiding the heir of the Daimyo is a definite way to do it. It may seem crass to capitalize on their grief but Sarutobi Hiruzen is the Hokage of their village and a ninja. As ninjas, they always need to know how to turn the tides in their favor, exploit every opportunity, and aid their village in whatever way necessary

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Shikaku went to apprise his father of the situation.

His father only gave him one piece of advice. "Try to figure out who would stand as the General for the heir when he ascends. I know that the current general hailed from a known samurai lineage."

Shikaku hates it whenever his father starts his advice with 'try to' because it actually means he better do it. He could also bet his napping hours that his father knows more than what he said about the samurai general. By his father's grin, whatever Shikaku will find out will be a huge headache for him and entertaining for his father.

Shikaku thought of the likelihood of the Hokage agreeing to just switch him out with Inoichi, since the Yamanaka would definitely get a kick out of the mind games of the court. Or maybe one of the Hyuuga twins or Fugaku since their clans are crazy with politics.

"Oh! That's the scheming face!" Inoichi's gleeful voice greeted him when he arrived at Chouza's. He spent the whole way there designing scenarios and then immediately shutting them down because he knows the Hokage will never go for them.

"Now that's the resigned face. What are you thinking about Shikaku?" It's really good Chouza is there to balance out Inoichi's exuberance.

Shikaku ignored Inoichi and turned to Chouza towards the low table in the living room. "Just a new mission. It's politically inclined and you know how I feel about that."

At their looks, he elaborated. "The second son of the Daimyo died. It was suspicious. The kicker was that the heir is the one who sent the missive."

"Meaning, there is a divide within the court, more pronounced than usual. The Daimyo may be appeasing both sides and ordered his son to intercede on his behalf or the heir is going rogue and acting on his own suspicions." Inoichi immediately supplied.

"What did Shikatsu-oji say?"

Chouza took one look at Shikaku and snorted, "Oji-san gave one of his try to do this or that advice, huh?"

Shikaku didn't even bother to answer. He just plopped his head on the table and proceeded to ignore his two snickering best friends.

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The palace at the Capitol is as opulent as Minato imagined. Uniformed guards lined up along the wall that sequesters the palace in the middle of the Fire Capitol.

Rumors that the circular base of the palace is due to a fuuinjutsu-added security by one of the successful Uzushio refugees may not be so baseless. Kushina hounded Minato, before he met with the other contingents, about that rumor.

Twelve years after—what the Shinobi nations refer to as the Collapse of the Whirlpool—Konoha's staunchest regret and there is still no concrete evidence about any Uzumaki other than Kushina. If this trip to the Capitol can give Kushina some resolution about what happened to her nation and meet a fellow then all the more reason for him and Shikaku to create a more permanent rapport with the ruling family. Even if the formal garb is itching on Minato and he can clearly see Shikaku and other members of the contingent to be fidgeting as subtly as they can.

With the Hokage up front and his two guards, greeting the Daimyo and his family, Minato and Shikaku are left to their unspoken side-mission.

"I don't see the heir," Minato observed. All of them familiarized themselves with the whole family of the Daimyo. It is a breach of protocol to not be present at the arrival of the Hokage.

Shikaku muttered a low, "Troublesome." Shikaku catalogued everybody and found out that the current General is indeed a samurai. He is standing at the Daimyo's right, two steps behind the ruler. His stance is impeccable, the alertness is clear, and it is fairly obvious that the General is someone to be reckoned with. Shikaku can undeniably see the usefulness of such person.

Shikaku felt a pointed stare from his left and saw the missing heir clearly motioning for him to follow.

Shikaku signalled Minato and it didn't take him long to trail after the heir. He found Hirohito-dono at the end of the corridor clearly waiting for him.

The smile he got, when the heir spotted him, is pained and obviously forced. Shikaku guessed that only the long-ingrained social etiquette allowed the heir to graciously greet him.

"Nara-sama, I hope your journey was well."

"It was, Hirohito-dono. The Hokage and the whole of Konoha express their condolences."

The smile got even more pained, "Thank you. Please send my acknowledgement to the Hokage and to your village. Konohagakure has always been good to the family and supportive of the current regime."

Oh. Shikaku finally got it. The reason he's so restless about the mission. And the constant thought of, what's so different about this suspicious death?

My acknowledgment. Not my family's acknowledgement.

Good to the family. Not my family. Distancing himself from the current regime.

Oh. This is. Oh, so troublesome.

Although slim, Shikaku knows there may be a slight chance he might be reading too much into the heir's words. But the heir's words and actions point to a planned usurpation.

His Hokage needed to be informed right away. Shikaku and Minato are given a great leeway but it does not take a lot of thinking to know that a takeover by the heir against the Daimyo during this time with, what looked like, help with Konohagakure elite ninja is not on either of their purview.

They were walking for about 5 minutes—the heir was prattling about the structure of the palace and the famous arts that surround the hallways—when Shikaku noticed the circuitous way the heir is taking. At Shikaku's askance, Hirohito just gave a shrug and a wink. The move appeared more natural.

Shikaku is even more baffled by the shrug and wink than the plan of usurpation. Was the pained smile and grimace the sham or was it the easygoing attitude?

The layers and level of deception Shikaku is being privy to makes him think that the heir is quite confident the Hokage will back the play that the royal have for the Daimyo's place.

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The Nara heir briefly thought that he was being herded towards the office of the royal. The polished hallways giving into cobbled stone made him think otherwise.

They stopped at the archways that lead towards the palace armory. The heir stepping sideways and urging Shikaku to enter first with a telling grin does not inspire any sort of positive feeling to the jounin. Given the current circumstance though, Shikaku is confident that no permanent harm will happen to him.

Five steps in and Shikaku is ready to just blab to the Daimyo and let the heir get executed.

One second he saw a black-haired person, wearing a funeral garb, tending to a very sharp-looking sword,then in a blink he had the said sword right at his throat.

The woman—because with that face, it is clearly a woman—moved alarmingly fast from being cross-legged on the table in the middle of the armory towards him. It is all that Shikaku can do to snag the woman's shadow to stop her movement. She still managed to poise her sword on his neck.

Everybody is frozen, with Shikaku's hands in the air and the Heir looking thoroughly amused.

"Hirohito-sama, how many times do I have to tell you? The armory is off-limits to visitors and you should not startle me."

The heir stepped forward and gestured her sword down, "He's suitably cowed, my lady."

The said lady gave Shikaku a considering look. She gave a challenging smile. "Desist your shadows, Nara-sama."

Shikaku nudged his chin towards the sword. "At the same time, hime-sama?" At her nod, the shadow receded while Juko lowered her sword.

If Shikaku is only a split second slower to connect their shadow his throat would have had a gash. As it stands, Shikaku's throat would no doubt have an angry red line. Her sword felt so cold it burned even if it barely touched him. That is no ordinary sword and he'll label her a ninja if not for her obvious samurai stance.

The blue of her eyes really lent well in throwing icy glares to the two of them. And while Hirohito looked to be somewhat immune, Shikaku is not lowering his guard.

"Minamoto Juko," the heir presented grandly, "Meet Nara Shikaku-sama, the heir of the Nara clan and Konoha jounin."

"Shikaku-sama, meet Juko-chan. She's my carer, sentinel, and the brains and brawn of the operation."

[texanredrose]

Camellia Monochrome for an old friend?

Blake entered the throne room hurriedly, Weiss hardly two steps behind, and she only became more unnerved by what she saw. When the summons arrived, the faunus princess knew that it was important; her parents rarely sent an official messenger to find her and had never before specifically requested Weiss’ presence as well. It had to be something far outside the norm to prompt such and the full legion of royal guards flanking the throne room, decked out in full armor with their weapons on display. At the end of the hall on the dais, her parents sat on their thrones in full regalia, her father’s expression severe with his crown sitting low across furrowed brows while her mother appeared only slightly more at ease, her feline ears standing tall and far too still to be natural.

“Mom? Dad? What’s wrong?”

“Blake,” her father said, a heaviness to his tone. “We’ve received trouble news that may be... upsetting to hear but we believe it to be true.”

“We have diligently searched for any potential indication that there might be misinformation or falsehoods but there are none.” Her mother tilted her head slightly. “We have done our due diligence. You must listen to what we have to say.”

“Of course,” she replied, confused and uneasy.

With a heavy sigh, her father spoke again. “Your knight attendant was sent here to kill you. She’s an assassin, Blake.”

Although it probably shouldn’t, the accusation prompted relief and she couldn’t help but say the first thing that came to mind because of it. “I know that.”

In the silence that followed, one could hear a pin drop, if any dared to break it.

“You... know,” her mother finally said deliberately, ears twitching. “How long have you known?”

“Since a month after I arrived,” Weiss answered, waving off Blake’s attempt to do the talking. “I told Blake about my mission to assassinate the entire royal family when I realized I wouldn’t- and couldn’t- complete it.”

The royal guards surrounding them shifted uneasily, a few inching closer, looking to their king and queen for any sign that they should attack.

But the order didn’t come, even as her father’s expression became even more severe. “You’re bold to admit to such so openly.”

The woman shook her head. “No, for the same reason I can’t complete the mission I was charged with; it takes no courage to admit such here.” Then, she gave them a small, sad smile, the same one Blake had become rather familiar with during their time together. “All three of you... are kind, to a fault one might say. A hundred knights you have, this great show of force... but you would’ve had every right to arrest or execute me without so much as a word as to why. You didn’t do that. Because that’s not your way; you will defend yourselves but never take that first strike, even if it might save you from pain. So here we are, all truths laid bare, and a implicit understanding that if I raise my hand, your knights will react... but not a moment before.”

The King pressed his lips into a thin line. “Then, you must realize you will be banished from the kingdom-”

“Banished? For what?” Blake stepped forward, hands balling into fists. “She’s done nothing to warrant a banishment.”

“She’s literally an assassin, honey,” her mother gently said.

“A very poor one!” A pause as she turned her head. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Weiss wryly replied. “But they have a point. I’m a liability.”

“That’s not true.” Blake looked to her parents. “She told me the truth months ago; it was my decision to not tell either of you. Weiss has done nothing wrong.”

“Be that as it may, she did come here with the intent to kill us. That she’s changed her mind is... irrelevant.” Even as he said the word, she could tell her father didn’t like it and didn’t agree with the sentiment. It didn’t sit well with any of them, not when they spent so much time preaching and practicing forgiveness where applicable. “She’s an enemy of the crown.”

“I refuse to believe that.” She could feel her anger rising up, taking a step forward. “Does she not deserve a chance to redeem herself in your eyes?”

“Blake.”

With reluctance, she looked back, recognizing that tone of voice. It was the same one Weiss used whenever disagreeing so staunchly that no amount of discussion could sway her. Although a rarity nowadays, it came out whenever Blake suggested anything along the lines of reaching out to the woman’s family. Her refusal to complete the mission she’d been given had made her an enemy of her home kingdom and she could never return. There was no going back. “Weiss...”

Without responding, the woman strode forward towards the dais, stopping when the assembled knights began to fidget. Then, she knelt down and bowed her head. “I willingly submit myself to the judgment of the crown. My destiny is in your hands, Your Majesties.”

Her father shifted uncomfortably; it was always easier to enforce harsh penalties on the unrepentant because then it felt justified. Those who accepted their judgments with grace and dignity tugged at his desire to show mercy.

Her mother, however, seemed intrigued. “Your destiny? Not your fate?”

“There’s a difference?” The King muttered.

“Destiny is a function of choice; fate is beyond one’s individual control,” she replied. “And I believe you’re well read enough to know the difference.”

“I am, Your Majesty.” Weiss lifted her head and spoke with such a certainty that it made Blake hold her breath. “From the moment I met your daughter, I realized I was fated to love her and to be in love with her. My heart belongs to her completely and there’s nothing I can do to change that... nor would I want to, frankly. It is also my fate, then, to protect her from any harm; my very soul demands it.” A brief pause. “Whether or not I remain by her side... is a choice I can make. I could choose to defy your judgment and remain beside her but that would be the selfish option. Instead, I make the choice to continue loving her no matter what, no matter where I am, no matter if I ever see her again, and dedicate myself to keeping her safe from afar. If it is your decree that I am exiled, I choose to accept that destiny.”

Tears stung Blake’s eyes at the sincerity in the woman’s voice. While she’d lived all her life on the receiving end of unwavering, unconditional love, she knew Weiss hadn’t. For the woman to love so deeply- love her so deeply- touched her to the very core.

And she refused to let the declaration go unacknowledged.

Drawing her sword, Blake marched forward and walking around until she stood before Weiss, with her back to her parents. Blue eyes looked up at her questioningly but she didn’t hesitate, kneeling down and flipping the blade around, the tip of her it digging into the stone beneath them. “Draw your sword.”

“Blake-”

“Draw your sword,” she said again more forcefully, ignoring her parents’ warning.

Weiss did as asked and mirrored her position, their knuckles pressed against each other. From her forearm, Blake drew her ribbon and began winding it, entwining them together in a rite as old as her kingdom’s written history. Like marriage but more intricate, carrying more symbolism; the ribbon bound them in a way that escaped articulation but went beyond a mere promise of fidelity and support. If Weiss was fated to love her, then she would bind their souls together.

The various knights murmured their surprise but none dared interfere. Although her off hand struggled at points, the woman wordlessly offered her assistance, and together they completed the pattern.

“No matter where you are, in this world or the next, we are bound,” she said, resolute in her decision. “I love you, Weiss.”

“And I love you, Blake.” Weiss fought to keep her voice steady but failed as tears gathered in her eyes. “No matter what.”

Leaning forward, she caught the woman in a kiss. A thousand things they wanted to say had to be conveyed in the meeting of lips, for fear they might not get another chance, and when they pulled away, Blake could see so many emotions swirling in blue eyes. Despite how calmly she’d spoken before, Weiss was in pain at the thought of them being apart, just as much as her.

The King spoke, choosing his words carefully. “Have you protected her thus far from anyone aside yourself, Ser Knight?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Weiss replied. “I’ve killed seventeen assassins thus far.”

The Queen, once again, seemed keen on clarifying. “Are you counting the courtier from last week? The one who mysteriously disappeared after the feast?”

“My apologies, Your Majesty, that would be eighteen-” Then, Weiss’ eyes went wide, and Blake joined her in her surprise. Just as the woman’s mission to assassinate the royal family had been a secret, so too had Weiss’ actions to keep the royal family safe. Even Blake didn’t know the full extent of the things the woman did to take care of any threats.

“Stand down, guards, and return to your posts.”

Then, her mother appeared, a small smile on her lips as her ears relaxed. “We, perhaps, were a touch misleading earlier. We’ve known about your mission for a bit longer than Blake has.”

“You... have...”

“Mom?”

“You’ve never been shy about reminding us that you can take care of yourself,” she explained with a chuckle. “And we could tell from meeting her that she lacked the soul of an assassin. She isn’t the first sent to try and kill us, after all.”

Her father sighed in relief. “We thought you would’ve mentioned it to us; we didn’t want to bring it up first and potentially cause an argument.”

“But now that everything’s out in the open.” The Queen reached out and set her hand on theirs. “The crown recognizes your bond... and we welcome you to the family, Princess Weiss. Would you like a proper wedding as well or will the bond suffice?”

They both looked at each other as a moment of silence stretched, the situation sinking in until Weiss finally smiled widely.

“I would,” she said, a tear slipping from her eye and rolling down her cheek, the meaning of it changed entirely in a very short amount of time. “I would like nothing more than another chance to tell everyone how much I love you, Blake.”

That prompted a laugh to bubble up from her chest as it finally sunk in, relief flooding through her body. “I rather like the sound of that as well.”

---

AN: kinda a continuation from the other ask, but works well enough on its own I guess, idk, hope you enjoyed.

[jingabitch]

Armed to the Fangs ch.9

SUMMARY: you grew up in the hunter’s guild, understanding that it is your sacred duty as a hunter to protect humanity from the vampires that lurk in the dark, draining the life from anyone unlucky enough to be caught. while making the rounds one night, you encounter taehyung, a fabled born vampire - not that you know that when he tries to entice you into a dark alley. next thing you know, you’re kidnapped and taken to their home, where you realise that all of them somehow crave your blood and seem to know more about your past than you do. finding out about where you came from might be the key to setting humanity free.

PAIRING: eventual ot7 x reader

WARNINGS: some description of violence, angst, pining, maybe eventual smut but not for a looooong time, slow burn (really the slowest of burns), there is violence in this chapter, tense confrontation

RATING: T

WORD COUNT: 4k

A/N: yay action! thank you @pasteljeon and @jminacious​ for looking over this for me.

series index

Jungkook was the one who noticed it first.

His appetite started waning, and truth be told he hadn’t noticed it much at first. As the youngest of his brothers, he’d always had the greatest appetite of his brothers, always hungry. They’d promised that as he grew older, this would fade and he would no longer be so controlled by his bloodlust, but it hadn’t shown any promise so far. When he noticed that he was snacking less throughout the day, he chalked it up to that at first. Blood didn’t smell or taste as good anymore, but that was normal, right?

Besides, he had so much more to occupy his time now that you were around. He’d read that hunger was tied to boredom, and while life around the manor had been kind of mundane before, there was never a dull moment these days. Between spending time with you and your cat or listening to the stories of his brothers doing the same, there was so much more life in the manor now.

Really, it was no wonder that there was less time in his day (night?) for him to constantly be going down to the fridge now. And just like that, he managed to convince himself that a vampire losing his appetite for blood wasn’t really a problem.

Still, even the eternally optimistic and sunny baby boy of the manor could not ignore the fact that when the new delivery of blood arrived and he went to put them in the fridge, there wasn’t any space because it was still packed with the blood bags from last month.

“That’s weird,” he muttered to himself as he perused the contents of the fridge. He knew he hadn’t been drinking as much, but the others hadn’t said they were limiting their consumption either. And yet, based on how many packs were piled on top of each other, it looked like hardly any of them had been taking any at all.

It wasn’t the only strange thing that was happening around here, he thought as he remembered his strange visit with Hoseok a couple of days ago. He’d kept quiet about it out of respect to his hyung, recalling how desperately the older vampire had begged him to keep it a secret. Against his better judgement, he had, though in the back of his mind he still worried.

He was still standing in front of the fridge, frowning at the neat piles of blood bags, when you ran down the stairs. He truly didn’t know how you’d been a hunter when you were so goddamn loud all the time. It sounded like you were stomping through the hallways every day.

“Y/n,” he greeted as you darted past him.

“Oh, hey!” You paused to greet him. You were dressed in the same black jacket and trousers you’d been in when Taehyung first brought you to the manor, with your gun strapped to your hip and – he was sure – knives in your boots. Thankfully, as you’d eased up around them, you stopped carrying around the machine gun on your back, but you still felt vulnerable and naked being unarmed. Old habits die hard, after all.

“Where are you rushing to?” he asked, observing your jittery and anxious demeanor. Your eyes were constantly flicking towards the hallway that led to the front door and you couldn’t stop shifting your weight from one foot to another.

“Oh, Jennie-unnie said she was going to come visit today, so…” You trailed off.

“Right, okay.” He smiled at you to hide his unease. One hunter in their midst had been nerve-wracking enough at first, and you were his mate. He knew you were best friends with Jennie, though, so he tried to keep an open mind about her.

You didn’t notice his hesitance, so excited about finally seeing Jennie again. Since you’d been living at the manor, you hadn’t been able to meet any of your old hunter friends, and as much as you were starting to enjoy living here, you did miss them. Jennie had just texted you to let you know that she was almost here, so you were on your way to greet her.

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Jennie stood in front of the manor, staring up at the massive, imposing building. Her fingers were loosely curled around the barrel of her shotgun as she remembered the task from the Head.

“You have to get rid of her,” he said impassively.

Jennie’s eyes widened. This wasn’t what she’d expected. “But sir,” she started to protest. “I’m sure there are other options we can explore first – recalling her, training her again…” Her eyes searched Master Bang’s expression for any sign of sadness or regret at having to issue such an order for you, the hunter he had practically raised.

“You know there is no other option for a vampire sympathizer,” he cut her off.

“Sir, please,” she begged, tears falling down her face. She didn’t want to have to do this. You’d just been misled by the vampires you were living with, that was all. This was an unprecedented situation, wasn’t it? Did he have to be so cruel?

“You have your orders.” His tone was firm and brooked no opposition. She’d been a hunter long enough to know what that meant.

“Yes, sir,” she muttered in defeat, before turning to leave. Her shoulders slumped and her head bowed as she shut the door behind her.

One would think, probably, that she would be more of a mess. Crying, maybe, from the stress of having such a mission placed upon her. But Jennie was, first and foremost, a hunter, and she would carry out her orders no matter how much she didn’t want to. Her eyes were dry and focused, her hands steady. The last thing she could do for you was to make it a clean shot, so you felt no pain.

Still, she swore, she would avenge you. After carrying out your execution, she would make it her life’s mission to hunt down and kill all the bloodsuckers who’d made you like this. Who’d pretended to be civilized and kind, intentionally misleading you and tempting you from the path of austerity that hunters committed to. How dare they, she thought, her fingers tightening around the handle of her gun. When she finally got her hands on them, it wouldn’t be a clean, pretty shot like she was going to give you. She was going to make them suffer for what they’d done to you.

“Unnie!” you called out, opening one side of the double doors. You waved at her cheerily as you skipped down the steps to the driveway where she was standing.

“L/n Y/n,” she said emotionlessly, raising her gun to your face. You stopped short at the unexpected sight.

“Unnie, what’s going on?” you asked, eyes darting to her weapon as you raised your hands in the air. Your training kicked in automatically - don’t say or do anything that might startle the person holding a weapon at you, of course, and always follow every instruction they give you. Still, as composed as you looked on the outside, you were a mess inside. Thankfully Jennie wasn’t a vampire, because she would have been able to hear your heart rate ratcheting up. Hell, you could hear it pounding away in your ears.

“Drop your gun on the floor,” she instructed, her eyes flicking down your body. She knew you definitely had them on you. The months you’d spent here couldn’t break the habits of a lifetime.

“Okay,” you said slowly, keeping your left hand in the air as you slowly reached down with your right, shifting the lapel of your jacket aside so she could see the holster strapped to your hip. “I’m going to take my gun out, okay?” When she nodded, you took the gun out and bent down to put it on the ground.

Meanwhile, Jungkook heard the conversation from the kitchen and ran out. You’d never closed the door, and he was standing behind you, in the door frame. “Jungkook,” you cautioned, hearing his footsteps, “You should go back in.”

“Y/n, what’s going on?”

“Jungkook, this is hunter business. You need to go inside.” You didn’t know why you were trying to protect Jungkook when Jennie had never even faltered in her aim, clearly uncaring that he was there. He might be a vampire, but to you he seemed so young and innocent, and you didn’t want him to have you watch you get your brains blown out.

“Y/n, come back in!” His raised voice drew the attention of his brothers, who all dropped what they were doing to come see what was going on.

Hoseok, still in his room, pulled back the drawn curtains slightly to check out the commotion. He gasped when he saw the hunter standing in the driveway, her gun pointed straight at you.

“Unnie,” you ignored Jungkook to address Jennie, “why are you doing this?” Your voice didn’t tremble, even though you were staring down the barrel of her gun. Jennie wasn’t crazy, you knew, and she had to have a good reason for showing up here all of a sudden to murder you.

“Master Bang…” In the face of your calmness, her voice unexpectedly trembled. She swallowed hard, then tried again. “You’ve changed, Y/n. You’re sympathizing with vampires now, and there’s no place for that in our organization, you know that.”

“Jennie-unnie…” you pleaded. “Don’t do this, please.”

“I have to,” she whispered, the sound of her voice barely carrying in the wind. “Goodbye, Y/n.”

In the second before she pulled the trigger, there was a giant crash from upstairs and glass and plaster rained down on them. Jennie, who was standing exposed, screamed and threw her hands up over her head to protect her face, and without looking up to see what had caused the commotion, you dropped to the ground and rolled, picking up your gun as you went.

When you looked back up, in a different position now, you saw Jennie lowering her arms – and, nearby, Hoseok, who’d apparently flung himself out the window and was lying on the gravel now, groaning in pain. “Shit!” he hissed. His body, which was already weak from starvation, had not been in any position for what he’d just put it through.

Your eyes flicked towards him, ascertaining that he was alive, before returning to Jennie. You needed to help Hoseok, but before that, you really needed to get rid of your friend – former friend? – and fellow hunter.

“Unnie, you need to leave,” you said firmly, pointing the gun at her.

“No,” she insisted, aiming at you again.

You flicked the safety off with your thumb. It was a bluff, of course – you could never actually shoot her – but she didn’t need to know that. “I’m going to count to ten, and if you’re not back in your car by the time I’m done, I’m going to start shooting.”

Jennie’s lips flattened into a line, but she knew that you were a crack shot. You’d started learning how to shoot a gun when you were six, after all. As good as her aim was, yours was better. She had no chance against you.

“Ten…” You started counting. Jennie started backing away, though she held her gun up to you the entire time.

“Nine… eight…” She rounded the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. It was only when she was in that the gun aimed at you was put away, although you didn’t lower your weapon as the car started.

“Seven… six…” You continued counting until she drove away, then hastily stuffed your gun back in its holster. As you ran over to the man who was still lying prone, you heard the six other vampires in the house burst through the door to get to their fallen brother.

You reached first and fell to your knees next to him. “Hey… you okay?” you asked, touching his face gently. To your shock, he jerked away from you with more force than you would have thought him capable of, given how weak and in pain he looked earlier.

“Get away from me,” he snarled.

“Hey, I just want to help, it’s okay, I won’t hurt you,” you rushed to soothe him, thinking that he was reacting to a hunter coming close. He was the one you’d interacted with the least, after all, so it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to think that he didn’t trust you because you were – had been? – a hunter.

Instead of being comforted by your words, however, he just bared his fangs at you again. By this point, the others had reached you, and Jungkook, who recognized the expression on Hoseok’s face as ravenous hunger, quickly got between the two of you.

“Wha—hey!” you protested as you were shoved aside. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Y/n,” Jimin said apologetically as Namjoon knelt on the ground next to Hoseok. You couldn’t hear what they were saying or see what was going on through their legs.

“Yeah, he’s in pretty bad shape and it’s dangerous for you to be around him,” Taehyung added. You stood up and brushed the dirt off your clothes. What was he talking about? You tried to peer over their shoulders at Hoseok, who was now being lifted by Jungkook and Jin, but they closed ranks around him so that you couldn’t see him.

“We’ll just put him back in his room, okay? Why don’t you go get some rest, you look pretty shaken up.” Jimin came close to try and hug you, then seemed to hesitate at the last moment, his arms awkwardly stretched out. He didn’t actually know how you would react to a hug, since all of them had made sure to keep a respectful distance from you.

To extricate you both from the uncomfortable position, you took a step back and his hands fell to his sides. “Right, well…” you said, looking away. “I’ll see you later, then. Feel better soon, Hoseok-ssi.” Then you turned and walked away, heading back to your room.

Yoongi sighed as they watched you leave. “She’s going to have a hard time later,” Yoongi predicted, and the others nodded, a few murmuring in assent. They would need to see if she was all right, but later. First, their brother demanded their attention.

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It felt like your body and your mind were on autopilot as you walked back to your room, retracing the path you’d taken earlier this evening, when you’d been so excited to see Jennie. So much had changed in the few minutes that she’d been here, and you could hardly process it.

The room you returned to seemed different, somehow, even though you knew it was objectively the same. Injeolmi came to greet you, chattering softly as he wove around your ankles, and you bent down to pick him up, rubbing your face in his fur for comfort. This room, once your prison and workplace, was now the only place you had to call your own. For now, anyway – you didn’t know if the boys would even want you to remain here now that you weren’t playing a diplomatic role. You didn’t need anyone to tell you that you were no longer a part of the Guild, not after a hunter had been dispatched to kill you.

Almost robotically, you walked over to the drawer where you kept your weapons, putting your gun away and hanging up your holster. You toed off your boots, keeping the knives you kept in them, then fell onto your bed face-down with a groan. Injeolmi hopped onto the covers next to you, looking concerned as he sniffed at your hair.

Even though you wanted to, you couldn’t cry, the tears refusing to come. Instead, you just lay there, not even attempting to process your emotions. What was there to think about? You’d been cast out of the Guild, the only home you’d ever known. Worse, you’d been sentenced to death. Even if Jennie hadn’t succeeded in carrying out her orders, it was only a matter of time before other hunters showed up to finish what she’d started. Your days were numbered.

Thankfully, your whole body was still numb from the shock, and every emotion was dulled. While adrenaline had allowed you to act quickly, picking up your gun when you saw the opportunity, now that it was fading, so, it felt, were you.

Closing your eyes, you ignored the plaintive meows of your cat as you tried to block the world out. As the energy drained from your body, all that was left was an overwhelming exhaustion that you allowed to steal your consciousness.

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“Hobi, what’s going on with you?” Yoongi fussed over his brother. Since there was now a giant hole in the window in his own bedroom, Hoseok had been brought to Yoongi’s, the older vampire gladly giving up his bed for his brother. This was the first time that most of them had seen him in weeks, and they were shocked by how weak and sickly he looked – even accounting for the fact that he’d thrown himself out a window.

“Nothing,” Hoseok groaned, even though they could all clearly see that it was a lie. His colour was off, and his jawline and cheekbones were more sharply defined than before. He curled up in bed, clearly still in pain, which meant his healing abilities had been affected too.

Namjoon sat down on the bed next to him, patting his face with some concern. Vampires were made of hardy stuff, and there were few things that could cause something like this. “How long has this been going on?” he asked.

“Couple weeks,” Hoseok gritted out, turning his face away from his brothers. He just wanted to go to sleep, and they kept bothering him.

Namjoon’s gasp made him turn his head back to his brother, and the shocked expression on his face made him kick himself inside. Of course Namjoon would be able to put two and two together.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Namjoon asked. Resigned, Hoseok nodded slightly.

“Hobi…”

“Stop,” he groaned. “I can’t deal with this all over again.”

“Well, it doesn’t appear like you have a choice, does it?” Jin cut in. “Or did you just happen to fall out of your window just in time to save her?”

“Hyung…”

Seeing his obvious pain and misery, Jin relented. “Fine, you should get some rest. But we’re talking about this later.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” Despite his current state, Hoseok never missed a chance to mouth off to Jin.

“All right, everybody clear out,” Jin ordered. As all of them filed out, he turned back to take one last look at his brother, who’d turned onto his side and pressed his face into the pillow.

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There was a minor scuffle among the remaining boys over who would get to see how you were doing – one that Yoongi, surprisingly, won. He claimed that he was bored because he’d had to give up his room to Hoseok while the window in the latter’s room was fixed, but his brothers knew better than that.

As he walked down the hallway to your room, Yoongi straightened his clothes. He really should remember not to get into physical altercations with his brothers, especially that muscle pig Jungkook, he thought to himself. Not that the younger really had a chance against him, but it was usually annoying.

Standing outside the door to your rooms, Yoongi hesitated before knocking. He remembered the shell-shocked expression on your face earlier and knew that you’d be dealing with some pretty intense shit right now. You might not want any company, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to let you know that you weren’t alone.

With that in mind, he rapped his knuckles against the solid wood of the door, then waited. There was no response, and he tried again. When he heard only silence through the door, he grew concerned.

His hand hovered over the doorknob as he debated over whether or not to enter without permission. He didn’t want to interrupt you or invade your privacy, but at the same time, he was worried – you hadn’t even spoken to tell him to go away. In the end, his curiosity about what you were up to won out over his prudence, and he opened the door, promising himself that he would only check to see if you were safe before leaving if you wanted him to.

It was cool and dark in your rooms, and Yoongi didn’t see you at first. “Y/n?” he called quietly. You didn’t respond, but Injeolmi woke up and leapt off the bed, padding quietly over to Yoongi.

“Hello,” he greeted the cat. He wasn’t as fond of Injeolmi as Jimin was, but even he had to admit that Injeolmi was an exceptionally good-looking and well-behaved feline, a fine companion for their mate. Injeolmi blinked at him, then went into his litter box.

“That’s nice,” he said with a slight grimace before continuing into the bedroom. There he found you, still dressed and wearing your socks, lying face down on the bed. Your legs dangled off the mattress and your arms were laying by your sides, looking for all the world like you’d just collapsed out of exhaustion, which was basically what had happened.

He knew that he should leave now that he’d ascertained that you were fine, but seeing you look so defeated, he couldn’t help but feel a tug in his chest, compelling him to go to your aid.

Gingerly, he sat on the edge of the mattress next to you, raised a hand to place it on your back, then thought better of it.

“Y/n?” he said again. This time, you stirred slightly. Emboldened, he repeated your name.

As you woke up, you became aware that you were lying face down in a puddle of your own drool, and you pulled your face away from your bedspread with a grimace. “Ugh,” you groaned, wiping at your cheeks and chin with the long sleeve of your shirt. Yoongi looked at you with fond amusement, as you suddenly became aware that he was there and lowered your arm to the bed sheepishly.

“What are you doing here?” you asked with a cute little scowl. He noted that your reflexes had slipped from when you’d first arrived, although he wasn’t sure if you’d eased up because you trusted them more now or if it was a result of your emotional state.

“I just wanted to check up on you,” Yoongi said simply with a little shrug.

“I’m fine,” you grouched, even though you really weren’t.

“I know,” Yoongi accepted, instead of calling you out on your lie. “Just… I had to give Hobi my room, so is it okay if I chill out here for a little while?”

You knew what he was doing, and you appreciated it more than you could say. “Sure, you can stay,” you allowed, striving for nonchalance. From the small smile he gave you, though, you knew that you’d missed the mark. Still, he didn’t call you out on it, instead crawling onto the bed so that he was reclining against the pillows you’d stacked against the headboard.

You followed suit, snuggling close to him and throwing an arm over his middle. Your forehead pressed against his side, and you closed your eyes. You knew that you definitely wouldn’t have done something like this if you were in your right mind, but you’d never felt so alone and helpless in your life and here Yoongi was, offering his own quiet, subtle brand of comfort that you couldn’t help but take greedily.

Yoongi draped an arm around you, rubbing his thumb against your back, and stayed there with you, letting you know without words that you hadn’t been completely abandoned. No matter what, you had him in your corner.

[little-ligi]

Febuwhump - No.28

No.28 - “You have to let me go!” Fandom - BBC Merlin Wordcount - 2308 @febuwhump

Follow on to No.10 (Hostage Situation)

“How dare you?!” The king rose from his throne, his face red with anger. He threw the parchment to the floor and Merlin caught sight of Arthur’s signature, his seal, and a horrible splattering of blood. His own blood went cold. This was the last time he was ever going to let Arthur go anywhere on his own. He knew he should have insisted on going with him.

The sorceress was restrained and manhandled to the floor. She hissed angrily at the men holding her but didn’t fight them.

“An eye for an eye, your Majesty,” she spat. “Release my husband, and I shall let your prince go.”

“Where is he?” the king growled. His hands were balled into fists, shaking with rage at his sides.

The sorceress merely laughed. “Agree to my terms or you shall never find out.”

Merlin was almost vibrating with nerves. He could feel Gaius’s arm tense beside him. He leant towards him, nudging him with an elbow.

“I can put a tracking spell on her,” he muttered. “I’ll follow her to where Arthur is.”

“Be careful, my boy, she’s powerful.”

“Gaius, I have to save him.”

“I do not negotiate with sorcerers!” the king yelled.

“Your son said the same thing, your Majesty. But I think perhaps you are both wrong,” she said with a cruel smile. “If you want to see your son alive you will negotiate with me.”

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Uther roared, storming down the steps towards her.

“If you harm him…”

“Release my husband,” the woman cried, sitting up on her knees to glare at the king.

Uther scowled at her with cold contempt. “He is already dead.”

“No!” The sorceress let out a scream so piercing that many of the guards around the room slapped their hands over their ears, the ones holding her letting go. Merlin winced, feeling his magic surge inside him, reading for if he needed it.

The woman shouted a spell and Uther staggered, tripping and falling backwards at the foot of the throne. A guard leapt forward to grab his arm and pull him up, but the sorceress was on her feet again and bearing down on him, near spitting in anger as tears poured down her face.

“You killed him! You will regret that, Uther Pendragon! I shall send you back your prince. I’ll send you back his bloody corpse!”

“No!” Uther growled, reaching for his sword, every guard and knight in the room copying his action.

The sorceress flung the king back to the floor with a second spell then began a chant, turning on the spot so her cloak swirled in a sudden whirlwind. Merlin shot his hand out, muttering the tracking spell just in time before the woman vanished into the hazy air. Luckily, in the chaos, no one except Gaius seemed to notice him.

Gaius put a hand on Merlin’s arm, squeezing briefly and nodding.

“Go, my boy. Good luck.”

Merlin wormed his way out of the throng of onlookers, pushing between servants and knights alike to get to the doors.

“Sir Leon,” the king was shouting behind him. “Take two score of men, find the prince! And find that witch and bring me her head!”

Ignoring the clanging of armour and clamour of voices, Merlin burst from the throne room and began sprinting through the palace, tripping down stairs and hurtling along corridors.

He got to the stables and breathlessly demanded a mount, for once using his status as the prince’s personal manservant to get the stable hands leaping to obey his order. He’d thank them and apologise when he got back, but for now speed was of the essence. Within a couple of minutes, he was galloping out of the front gate, following the tug of his magic to find the sorceress’s location. 

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A distraught scream heralded the sorceresses return. Arthur tensed against his restraints, gritting his teeth and trying, in vain, to curl his numb hands into fists. The door burst open and the sorceress swept in, her staff already pointed at Arthur, a spell on her lips before he even had time to blink.

Blinding pain burnt through his head; he cried out, screwing his eyes shut as black spots danced across his vision.

“He’s dead!” the woman screeched. “Executed by word of the king.”

Arthur could do nothing but gasp ragged breaths in and out, trying to stop shaking. He felt limp, only the restraints that held his arms and legs against the wall keeping him upright.

The sorceress raged, screaming spell after spell, her staff flashing in the air as she wielded it against Arthur. It felt like fire blazed in his chest, choking him, stopping him from taking a breath. He twisted and thrashed, his back arching away from the wall, which only increased the pressure of the bonds around his wrists. He was in agony, and he couldn’t prevent the sobbed cries bursting from his raw throat.

Eventually the sorceress stopped, her own breathing heavy, tears streaked down her face.

“Your father has signed your death warrant, Prince Arthur,” she spat at him, her voice shaking. “The second that axe blade fell on my husband.”

Arthur’s head dropped to his chest. He’d known his father would not negotiate with this woman, had known that her demands would not be agreed to. Her husband had been arrested for sorcery and therefore must be killed. That was the law of Camelot. He wasn’t entirely sure how this sorceress had even got into the city, demanded the release of her husband and managed to get back out alive.

“Please,” he croaked. “You have to let me go. Killing me won’t bring your husband back.”

“The king must pay for what he’s done!” she shouted.

“If you kill me, the king will never stop hunting you,” Arthur tried to reason, but he knew it was futile.

With a sneer, the sorceress jabbed her staff forwards. Arthur was flattened back against the wall, his head thumping into the stone. Blood bloomed across his already stained shirt as if she’d stabbed him with a blade. His stomach lurched, pain radiating through his entire torso.

Before he had time to recover from the blow, the magical restraints holding his arms and legs vanished and he fell to the floor in a crumpled bleeding heap. The staff was levelled on him again and the pain ricocheted through his body. Agonising pain, like a thousand tiny daggers plunging into his skin, crawled up his back. He keened, the sound torn from him until even his voice gave out. His hands grasped uselessly against the floor, trying to pull himself away, but the pain was never ending. It burned and burned and burned.

He couldn’t breath. Nothing existed apart from the constant pounding in his head. He kicked his feet into the stone floor.

“Let me go,” he begged, his pride shattered as he sobbed into the blood stained floor beneath him. “Let me go.”

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A horrible ragged scream echoed through the building and Merlin dashed forwards. He reached a door at the end of hallway and burst through it, his hand already up and ready to unleash his magic.

Arthur was curled on his side on the floor in the middle of the room, panting and whimpering, blood seeping through his shirt and trickling from between his lips. The sorceress was standing over him, her staff jabbing into his back.

Merlin threw his hand forwards, sending the woman flying into the wall, then hurried to the prince’s side.

“Arthur!” He dropped to his knees, placing one hand on Arthur’s shaking back, keeping the other outstretched to the sorceress.

“Who are you?” she spat, pulling herself up from the crumpled position she had landed in.

“Someone you’re going to wish you hadn’t crossed,” Merlin muttered, bending to try and see Arthur’s face, which was pressed against the flagstone floor, his eyes glazed and partially closed.

“I doubt that,” the woman hissed.

She pulled her staff up and suddenly burning pain was racing through Merlin’s head, ferocious and blinding, feeling like it was going to split his skull in two. He cried out, arching his back and grabbing his head. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t think. Every muscle in his body jerked as fire lanced down his spine.

“No!” he ground out, gritting his teeth.

He blinked, trying to see through the haze of agony, forcing his magic up to fight the incoming spell. Slowly and painfully he managed to push her magic out of his head, clearing his mind and blocking her from making another attempt.

With a gesture of his hand he tugged the staff from her grip, snapping it easily with a spell. He let the two pieces of now useless wood drop to the floor and a flicker of fear crossed the sorceress’s face.

“You can’t…” she whispered.

“You gave me no choice!” Merlin yelled, flinging her back against the wall again.

She slid down it, motionless. Whether she was dead or just knocked out, Merlin didn’t care; Arthur had just groaned and shifted his hand.

“Arthur? Arthur, can you hear me?” Merlin muttered to him, his hands sliding across Arthur’s back and shoulders, searching for injuries.

“M’lin?” He blinked up at him, his eyes clouded, unfocussed and streaming with tears.

“Come on, we have to get you out of here. Can you stand?”

“Wh’ happ’d?” Arthur slurred, his head lolling as Merlin tried to hoist him up a bit.

Merlin didn’t answer, concentrating on getting Arthur sitting upright, leaning against his chest. He pulled Arthur’s arm over his shoulder and slightly unsteadily got to his feet, dragging the prince up with him. He wrapped his arm around his waist, pressing against him and taking his weight on his hip. Arthur just about got his feet under him and together they staggered from the room.

Merlin looked back over his shoulder, saying a spell to bring the ceiling down as soon as they were out of the building. The rumbling, crunching crash of falling masonry roared behind them as Merlin dragged Arthur towards the woods where he’d left his horse.

Arthur wasn’t completely with it as they made their way into the trees, his stumbling feet catching on a root and sending him tumbling to the floor. Merlin was pulled down as well and he breathed heavily as he scrambled back up and leant over Arthur. The prince groaned, his hand clutching at his wounded stomach. Merlin propped him against a tree, brushing the hair back off his face. His eyes still wouldn’t focus.

Frowning, Merlin pulled Arthur’s hand away from his stomach, replacing it with his own. With a quick glance at Arthur’s slack face and closed eyes, Merlin muttered a healing spell, lifting Arthur’s shirt to check the wound. His spell didn’t seem to have had any effect. Whether that was because it was a magically inflicted injury or just because Merlin had never excelled at healing spells, he wasn’t sure. He tried again and managed to at least stop the bleeding.

“M’lin, sound str’nge…” Arthur murmured.

Merlin cut off from the spell guiltily, he’d thought Arthur was unconscious. But his eyes drifted open and he gave Merlin a bleary look.

“How are you?” Merlin asked, ignoring Arthur’s inquisitive comment. If he asked anything else, Merlin could just pass it off as his delusional mind playing tricks on him.

Arthur groaned. “Ev’rythin’ hurts.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I –” He stopped, leaping to his feet when he heard approaching horses. His hands balled into fists, magic pooling in his palms and he stood protectively in front of Arthur.

Thundering hooves shook the ground until suddenly several dozen horses burst through the trees ahead of them. The red cloaks of Camelot knights flowing behind their riders.

“Merlin?!”

One horse cantered over and the rider looked down at him. Sir Leon opened his mouth to ask a question but before he could say anything, he caught sight of the prince slumped behind him, and immediately slid off his horse, hurrying to Arthur’s side.

“Sire! Arthur?” He put a gentle hand under Arthur’s chin, tilting his face up to look at him. Then turned to Merlin. “What happened? Where’s the sorceress?”

“I… I don’t know,” Merlin lied. “I didn’t see her, I just found Arthur and got him out.” He gestured behind him in the direction of the collapsed building.

“Go and search! Find that sorceress and bring her back to the king. Preferably dead,” Leon ordered the other knights and half of them rode off in the direction Merlin had pointed, the rest circling the trees around the fallen prince. Leon grimaced and looked back at Merlin. “How did you know where to find him, Merlin?”

“I – he told me where he was going and I, um, just searched the surrounding areas?” Merlin offered, knowing his voice sounded uncertain in the lie, but hoping Leon would be preoccupied enough by Arthur to not notice.

The knight gave him a brief searching look, but then turned his attention to the prince.

“Leon…?” Arthur looked up at him, confusion tilting his eyebrows into a frown.

“Yes, it’s me, Arthur.” Leon smiled, his hand gripping Arthur’s shoulder. “Come on, we’re going to get you home.”

Merlin helped Leon lift Arthur to his feet and carry him over to Leon’s horse, where they hoisted him up into the saddle. Leon gave the patrol of knights orders to keep searching the area, then mounted up behind Arthur, wrapping an arm securely around his middle to hold him to his chest.

Merlin dashed into the trees to find where he’d tied his own horse and scrambled up into the saddle, trotting quickly back to Leon’s side.

“Thank you, Merlin.” Leon gave him a large smile. “Well done.”

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “Keeping Secrets.”

Wrote another for you all. Hope you have a good day :)

“But I’m HUNGRY.” 

“We don’t have time for that.”

“I’m the commander, I’m your boss, and I say I’m hungry.”

Ramirez turned on his heel going toe to toe with the taller man, “I don’t give one shit if you’re hungry or not, something is wrong with you, so I am taking you back to Dr. Krill and Katie, so they can to a scan of your dumbass skull.” 

Commander Vir bared his teeth in a feral snarl held back only by Sunny, who had two of her arms wrapped around his chest. He was being absolutely impossible to control. First it had been other people, largely women, but with Ramirez in the crossfire once, and Sunny taking the brunt towards the tail end. Then it had been the aggression, the heightened need to fight absolutely everyone for the smallest infraction, and then had come the hunger, which he hadn’t shut up about for over a mile now.

Ramirez would have gotten them a taxi, but everything here tended to fly, which made Adam assume that it was his since he was “the best pilot in the known galaxy, so it should be me that flies everything.”

Yeah right, like he was going to let commander jackass fly the plane.

But deep down he was worried. Whatever this guy was, it wasn’t Adam.

Adam was….. Well how about the exact opposite of everything this person was doing, he was shy, and polite, and friendly, and humorous. Even when he got angry or indignant, his actions were usually justified for some sort of reason.

But whatever that thing in the alley had been, it had definitely done something to him.

He glanced down at his implant, and pulled up the tracking device that Krill had managed to weld to the commander’s ribs and found that it did indeed say that the commander was right behind him.

Up ahead they were just stepping onto the docking bay platform where ship shuttles were constantly rolling in from the sky above. Noctopolis didn’t have a station big enough for entire ships to land, so they were going to have to take a shuttle back to the ship. It would be best not to take their shuttle as the other marines would need a way to get back when they finally finished with their carousing, so he finally hailed another shuttle, which pulled to a stop in front of them.

“This piece of junk.” The commander snarled, “I’ve seen better shuttles in junkyards. Look at it, the D-4 coupling. Only some kind of bitch drives a shuttle with a -”

Sunny clamped her hand over the commander’s mouth and Ramirez sighed as the shuttle ramp opened and allowed them to step inside.

“To the station?” the pilot asked turning around in its seat to look at them.

“Yes please.” Ramirez said scanning his implant under the reader for payment.

As soon as that was done, he helped Sunny to strap the Commander into place getting a fat lip for his troubles when the man snuck in an angry knee to the face. Ramirez contemplated ‘accidentally’ closing the five point harness on the man’s junk in retaliation, but assumed it wise not to piss the man off more than he already was.

Sunny still had her hand over the Commander’s mouth, as the roar of the engines started up nearly deafening the.

Sunny yelped in shock and drew her hand back from Adam.

“He bit me!”

He barred his teeth at her, complained for a couple more minutes, though, luckily it wasn’t loudly enough for the pilot to hear. Eventually his messed up brain moved on to a quieter activity, pressed against Sunny head resting on her am.

Ramirez wasn’t stupid.

Had he guessed that Adam had a thing for sunny. Totally, who didn’t, but he doubted that Adam wanted anyone to find out like this. Ramirez honestly didn’t care about what he did in his free time, but he was worried about what would happen to his friend when he came down from whatever freaky psychotic behavior this was.

So, what did he do?

He decided to piss him off some more.

The commander could more easily come back from anger than he could from the humiliating of letting everyone know he was in love with an alien.

“Adam, Fuck you.”

It wasn’t his most eloquent diatribe he had ever given, but it worked pretty well.

Adam turned to look at him face twisted into an expression of murderous rage. Sunny was forced to hold him back as the cursing began and the struggling. Ramirez stayed very calm. He just had to keep him pissed like this until they made it to the infirmary.

They made it off the shuttle without incident, and walked through most of the station. Aside form the man hungrily eyeballing a couple of passing people, and a couple of passing food carts, they made it to the ship.

People came to approach them but Ramirez vigorously shook his head waving them off and out of the line of fire. Commander Vir glared them down as if he intended to fight each and every last one of them.

Sunny practically carried him up the corridor and through the ship towards their final destination.

Along the hallway up to the medical bay they ran into Conn, who took one look at Commander Vir and floated backwards a bit. Whatever was inside the man’s head, the starborn wasn’t to keen to be apart of.

Ramirez ignored that little fact and shouldered the next door open with gusto practically bursting into the medical bay with sunny close behind.

Dr. katie and Krill looked up from their work frowning in confusion as Sunny struggled to make the Commander do what she wanted.

Krill floated up.

“Is everything alright?”

Ramirez shook his head, “Something happened to the Commander. I think he was attacked?”

Both Dr. Krill and doctor Katie stepped forward in concern as Sunny forced him to sit down.

Krill moved forward, and so did doctor katie until eventually the man’s eyes fell on her. They all watched as his head tilted slowly moving up to her face after passing over her body. The look on his face was so uncharacteristic of him that Dr. katie and Krill took  a step back.

He licked his lips.

Dr. Katie’s eyes narrowed, and she walked over grabbing him aggressively by the face and turning his head this way and that. 

He mewled in pain.

“You are definitely right, something is completely wrong with him. Sunny pinned his hands down as he tried to fight Katie off.

“He got all weird like, started going after everyone, and then he tried to fight the, and then he got all hungry. And he's been aggressive and pissy ever since. I have never seen anyone behave like this ever, and I joined the army.”

“Yes the behavior is completely out of character. What did you say happened before he started acting like this.”

“I think someone may have used a device on him. It was dark, and I didn’t get a good look of the shadow, but I saw some metal, like there was a contraption on his head. Sunny continued to hold the commander down as doctor Katie looked over his head. She completely ignored whatever he was saying, though it did happen to be rather alarming coming from Adam.

“Here, on the scalp, what do you make of it Krill.”

Krill moved forward to take a look leaning in closely for an examination, “Hmmm, yes. Puncture wounds on the temples and under the eyes, very minuscule. Almost microscopic in fact.

Adam bit at Katie’s hand and she pulled back.

The look on her face was one of complete no nonsense as she stepped away grabbed something and then came back.

Adam looks almost shocked when she stabbed him in the back with the syringe.

“What did you give him.” Krill wondered 

The concoction was self-evident a moment later as the man lost all muscle tone. Sunny grabbed him and lay him back.

“Combined sedative and paralytic. That should keep him still she said.” Behind her glasses her warm eyes had changed to one of worry. She wasn’t mad at the commander knowing that something had been done to hi to make him behave in such a barbaric manner.

“Call in Dr. Adric will you. He might be able to help us explain at least some of this behavior.”

It wasn’t long before the man slipped into the room honey tones of his dark skin washed out by sharp overhead light. He walked forward and stopped with the other two doctors.

“Something is wrong with the commander.”

“Increased libido, hyper aggression, and hunger to the point of not being able to control himself. We had to sedate him.”

“Strange, sounds like you just gave me the textbook definition of the Id.”

“The what now?”

Dr Adric shrugged, “Oh nothing it was simply a theory proposed by a psychologist more than two thousand years ago. His methods have since been questioned and greatly disproven, but Freud did coin the idea of the Id, or the subconscious driving for of the human mind that encompasses all our base desires, food, sex, aggression, and so on.” he glanced down at the commander, “In this case, i might suggest something in causation with the function of the brain stem (including all base drives) and an inhibition of the frontal lobe and limbic system.”

“Why those in particular?” Krill wondered 

“The frontal lobe, as you know is in charge of executive decision. Whatever function has kept these drives and habits suppressed, is not working. With the limbic system down, he has no way of controlling his emotions which might explain the aggression, though I have never seen anything manifest in this way.”

“So you have seen it?”

“Alzheimer patients can experience similar behavior towards the end stages of the disease as their executive function and limbic systems break down, but he doesn't appear to be having any related memory involvement. I would suggest an x-ray fMRI and CT scan to begin.”

“Why the x-ray?” wondered Ramirez pretty sure that that could show you the skull and not the brain.

“Looking for metal of course.”

It was probably a good idea as the first x-ray image lit up like a lightbulb. Gathered around the screen, Sunny and Ramirez looking over their heads they saw the skull was packed full of shiny white dots. The skull was intact, and the dots were on the outside of his brain, but they were small, very small.

“Think you can get those out, Dr?” Katie asked turning to look at Krill.

“Yes, they are very small, a large magnet should do the trick.”

Dr Adric made a joke about putting him in an MRI to do the work quicker, and received a look form Krill while Katie laughed.

By the end of the hour all oft hem were staring at a minute grouping of microscopic electrodes that had been pulled from the man’s head.

“That would explain it.” Dr Adric muttered

“Explain what?”

“Generating a magnetic current through areas of the brain can disrupt its function. We’ve known that for thousands of years. Continuous stimulation of the occipital lobe, for example, can make someone go blind. So whoever did this intentionally shut off his executive functions, or stimulated his base drives. I believe what we just saw is the hardwired, natural human instincts.

“How very comforting”, Krill said, obviously not very comforted

“Well, lets wake him up and see if the problem resolved.

Nervously, the group gathered around the man who had been mostly sedated for the entire procedure. He wasn’t fully asleep, but he was only half conscious. The reversal agent woke him up pretty quickly, and he lifted his head sort of groggily.

He blinked owlishly at them, his face neutral.

They waited worried.

“What…. Happened?” He groaned hand to his head 

His single eye slowly focused in on Dr Katie, and then he blanched absolutely white. Eyes widening he put a hand over his mouth.

“Yep, that’s him.”

“Commander, are you ok? What do you remember.”

He grabbed Katie by the arm stammering, “Katie I… I’m so sorry I-I dont know what came over me. I’ve never done anything like that in my life I swear to god.” he looked near close to panic, “You know I would never intentionally ever do anything like that to you ever, and I am so sorry. I have no idea why that even happened.” 

She grabbed his hand, “Adam, it’s alright. I know you wouldn’t. It wasn’t your fault.”

He turned his head, and as he saw sunny and Ramirez his face went from bleach white to pale pink, to bright red.

Ramirez grinned and threw in a wink just for fun.

He thought the man was going to stroke out and die. He dropped his head into his hands. Even his hands were red.

“Do you remember what happened, commander?” Dr krill asked 

“I…. I don’t now I was waiting for Ramirez and sunny but then…. I saw something in the alley. Next thing I knew everything was dark, and I was being thrown around. It pinned me to the ground and did something…. That’s when ramirez and sunny came out. After that I remember….. I remember feeling, so angry and, and hungry and….” He went quiet as his neck blushed and even deeper shade of red, “I’m so sorry”, he moaned.

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything else, Commander.’

“Well I mean…. I’m not sure, but maybe...I thought it might have said, the Kree, but I wasn’t really paying attention.” 

“The Kree. Didn’t the GA make contact with a race that called themselves the Kree.”

Te commander lifted his head, “Yes, though it was only by long distance communication, otherwise no one knows anything about them.” 

“Well, rest, Commander, and we will figure this all out later.”

He nodded dejectedly as the doctors stepped from the room all the while discussing what the device could have been.

Ramirez followed after them having taken a step out the door when.

“Sunny, I am so sorry. What happened, I didn’t meant to do any of it.”

He paused beside the doorway knowing he should move on, but being unable to do so.

“None of it?”

There was silence.

“I…..”

“So I shouldn’t expect anything like that ever…. Even in an appropriate context?”

Stammering 

He really should go

“It’s fine, Adam, but that is something I just needed to know.”

“But I didn’t say that, Sunny I…. I just.”

“You just…. What?”

“Eventually yes of course…. And I want to…. But I….”

Ramirez shook himself and pulled away. He shouldn’t be listening in. It was wrong despite how much he wanted to shove it in maverick’s face and claim his two hundred bucks.

He wasn’t going to rat out his friend to everyone.

He knew what being a friend meant, and often that included keeping secrets.  

[shakingthestars]

The problematic conclusion of the Rise of Skywalker – a “whitewashing” of the Skywalker legacy ?

Art by  kasiopea-star-wars

Nearly two months after The Rise of Skywalker came to theaters, I have finally found a way to express my throughts about the conclusion of this galactic journey. As a new Skywalker trilogy was announced years ago, I remember not feeling thrilled by the idea of a sequel, asking myself what would be the added-value to the story for an arc that started and ended with Anakin Skywalker. Yet I remember feeling pleasantly surprised by how promising The Force Awakens (TFA) was in introducing the characters, playing on their dynamics and setting up the family dramas : a stormtrooper taken away from his family ; a scavenger waiting for the return of her parents ; an heir rejecting his birth name ; a family desintegrated by a repeating tragedy. The Last Jedi (TLJ) felt refreshing by bringing the family drama to a higher level, deepening the heroine/antagonist dynamic and paving the way for a refined sight of the Jedi philosophy. As much The Rise of Skywalker (TROS) has its entertaining moments as a standalone, I couldn’t help feeling growingly unconfortable about this movie as a conclusion of the Skywalker story.

Why Return of the Jedi (ROTJ) originally felt like a satisfying conclusion of the Skywalker story…

Among the several reasons why TROS fails to deliver a satisfying conclusion to this 42 years old arc, the very last act of the franchise stands out as strangely  dissonant with the rest of the entire story. Let’s have a look back at the original ending set up by  Return of the Jedi (ROTJ). Far from being my favorite Star Wars movie because of the Jabba the Hutt sequence, ROTJ never failed to get me emotional by the way it beautifully concluded the Skywalker arc. Beyond the joyful atmosphere around the galaxy and the celebration of the victory on Endor, the last sequence sets up a powerfully emotional ending because it’s all about healing the wounds through reconciliation :  reconciliation of a man with himself, reconciliation of a father with his son but also reconciliation of a fallen Jedi with the old friends he once betrayed. Thus, as sad as Anakin Skywalker’s death may be, the outcome of his tragic life is counterbalanced by what we get to experience on screen with the characters, from his funeral scene to the appearance of the Force Ghosts.  Everything is synchronized in a way that enables the viewer to feel that the hero of the OT, Luke Skywalker,  has now completed his journey to find himself, can let the past behind him and move on to build a brighter future surrounded by his « family ». At that point, this conclusion left  me as the viewer with the satisfying feeling that the Skywalker arc is complete, bringing me back to my initial question : what was their story worth to continue for ?

…that left the Skywalkers with an unresolved family business

Yet, when we meet the Skywalkers again 30 years later, it appears that the family has completely imploded : a fallen son enrolled in the ennemy camp, the parents separated, the uncle exiled on a planet far far away. TFA introduces the viewer to a family tragedy that repeated itself with a kid targeted by a master puppet for his “mighty blood” in order to follow his grandfather’s footsteps. We learn from the canon novel Bloodline as well as TFA make it clear that neither Leia nor Han ever forgave Vader and very much feared that their only son would take after him: “We’ve done everything we could have done. There’s too much Vader in him”. As impressive as his sacrifice might have been for a 1983 viewer, Vader’s redemption was the result of a sudden turn for the sake of one person, an action that neither Leia nor the Galaxy got  to witness, making Anakin only an unsung hero of the victory against the Empire. His sacrifice didn’t enable any reconciliation of his daughter with the dark side of his legacy, paving the way for the tragedy to repeat with his own grandson. As unsettling as Luke’s characterization may have been in TLJ, the attempt to kill his own nephew in his sleep suggest that he probably wasn’t as reconciled with his father’s legacy as he thought. In other words, the wound healing through reconciliation set up in ROTJ was uncomplete and left door open for the tragedy to repeat, which leads to consider the importance of Ben in the sequel trilogy of a family arc that has been told over 42 years in 9 episodes :

-        A son who witnessed his slave mother dying in his arms

-        A mother who died in childbirth from a broken heart

-        Husbands and wives who losed their respective partners

-        Parents who lose their daughter

-        Kids who got separated from their parents

-        A nephew who witnessed his adoptive parents getting killed

-        Fathers who died sacrifying for their sons

-        An uncle who died apologizing to his nephew

-        A son who lose his mother after she sacrificed for him

"As I once fell, so falls the last Skywalker”

Named after Ben – “You’re my only hope” – Kenobi, Ben Solo represented the hope that at least a Skywalker could finally make it through darkness. He was not just the only descendant of the Skywalker family. He was also the bearer of all the abuse, pain and tragedies that this family has been through since his grandfather himself was targeted by their sworn ennemy: Palpatine.  Thus, he is the recipient of all the wounds that didn’t heal properly within the family, making his manipulation by Palpatine, his feeling of rejection by his parents and the murder attempt by his uncle all the more tragic. The fact that Ben – and the Galaxy – was kept ignorant of the family connection with Vader certainly didn’t help, making him from early age an ideal target for the revenge of Palpatine: “I have been every voice you have ever heard inside your head”. People may argue that the outcome is okay since there will be no Skywalker descendant for the tragedy to repeat one day and that Rey  will ensure that  their legacy lives on by carry on the name. That Rey deserves to be part of the Skywalker legacy through her personal achievements is unquestionable. However, she is not the bearer of the tragedy that has plagued the Skywalker family for the viewers to witness over 9 episodes. Although her backstory is heartbreaking to say the least, TROS doesn’t let the viewers  time to feel the depth of her own tragedy adding to the fact that we didn’t get to relate to the tragedy of the Palpatine family over  long-run. Even if Rey shoudn’t be reduced to her bloodline (which was the risk of making her a Palpatine through), didn’t Palpatine achieve what he wanted in the end ? People may argue he lose since his own granddaughter will carry on the Skywalker name as a Jedi. However, if his personal revenge against the Skywalkers was to end their bloodline, then he definitely got what he wanted after being the cause of most of their tragedies:

-        He predicted Padme’s death, which he brought Anakin to provoke

-        He wanted Anakin’s death, which happened through his sacrifice  for Luke

-        He wanted Han’s death, which he brough Kylo to provoke

-        He wanted Luke’s death, which indirectly happened through his sacrifice 

-        He wanted Leia’s death, which happened through her sacrifice for Ben

-        He wanted Ben’s death, which happened through his sacrifice for Rey 

The problematic execution of Ben Solo’s redemption

From the moment TFA had Ben Solo aka Kylo Ren commit a parricide, the question of his redemption was at the heart of his character arc. Beyond the passionate discussion about whether or not he should have lived given his dark actions, it’s the way he was treated in the last act that doesn’t feel right put in the bigger context of the story. It is legitimate that Rey was the one person to ultimately take down Palpatine, all the more so that she is revealed to be a Palpatine descendant. Yet, the role in which Ben Solo was relegated during the final battle on Exegol doesn’t feel right within the framework of the entire arc. The Skywalker descendant – as bearer of the family tragedy – got to stand barely 5 seconds against the abuser of his family, only for his body to be used as a mean to resurrect Palpatines, grandfather and granddaughter. Worse : the entire set up for the Force dyad in the ST was made useful for that sole purpose : draining the Force energy of the Skywalker to death so that the Palpatines could live on. Even if the last Skywalker was meant to die anyway, why giving him the same redemption as his grandfather, knowing that this redemption path only reconciled one person – Luke – with the dark side of the Skywalker legacy? Why having him sacrifice for the sake of only one person instead of putting him in front of a dilemma that would have required to overcome the evil voices once and for all for the greater good of the Galaxy?  Why having no witness of his ultimate inner struggle instead of letting the Galaxy finally know what was behind the darkness of both Skywalkers grandfather and grandson ? I am aware that this is easy to critisize directing choices once the movie is out but based on all what was demonstrated above I believe that the Skywalker family would have deserved that their only descendant had a more active part in overcoming their abuser once and for all by overcoming the darkness he planted in them.  In my ideal scenario, Rey would have taken down Palpatine all alone in her badass way all alone but there would have been an ultimate twist. The remaining fleet would have been programmed by Palpatine to execute the last order,  from a signal sent from a dark artifact on Exegol for all the Galaxy to witness in horror. The only way for someone to desactivate it would have required to overcome his/her darkest struggles within, which would have been a meaningful way to confront Ben with his family tragedy, the dark legacy of his grandfather and his own dark actions. I would have loved the idea that the evil voices put him in front of a dilemma and that his grandfather finally helped him to take the right decision based on his own fateful experience:  choosing between saving  a loved one from her death state or saving planets from destruction for the greater good. There were several meaningful scenes that could have foreshadowed this kind of scenario. Instead, TROS gave us the same redemption as ROTJ :

-        A short-term redemption path 

-        A sacrifice for the sake of one person

-        No witness of the good action other than said person

Yet, disappearing to never be seen, mourned or mentioned ever again...

 A whitewashing of the Skywalker legacy

The ending scene of the Skywalker franchise takes place on Tatooine with Rey burrying the Skywalker lightsabers in the sand as a funeral, which is meant to enable her – and the viewer – to move on peacefully. According to Lucasfilm VFX supervisor Roger Guyett and screenwriter Chris Terrio, no Force ghost of Ben was created because “when you see Luke and Leia there, it’s about the Skywalker legacy”. For a movie that was supposed to tie all 9 movies together, the Prequel Trilogy (PT) doesn’t seem to exist as if the Skywalker story began with the Original Trilogy (OT). We get to see Cloud City and Endor after the final victory but no shot of Coruscant & Naboo. The family tragedy begun with the separation of the twin but the grooming of their father and the death of their mother doesn’t seem to be part of the traged. The Skywalker lightsaber is primarily presented as Luke’s lightsaber as if he was its original owner. What is canonly established through is that the Skywalker story began with a slave boy named Anakin Skywalker who was believed by the Jedi to be the Chosen One, which made him the target of a Sith named Palpatine, which led to a long-run family drama in the middle of a never-ending battle between the dark side and the light side. Given the importance of his fall to the story and how it fed the family drama beyond his death, his absence in the sequel trilogy is surprising, aside from a very discreet line to Rey : “Bring Balance as I did”. Shouldn’t Anakin have guided his fallen grandson too instead of helping only the granddaughter of his sworn ennemy ? More problematic is the way the family drama is resolved with the ending of TROS. While the family was split at the beginning of the ST, TROS doesn’t care to show the healing of the family wounds, except for the memory scene between Solo father and son. The reason why this scene is the most powerfully emotional moment of the movie in my mind is precisely for its ability to symbolize the reconciliation of a man with himself and a son with his father. Yet, the ending scene is only about reuniting the all in the white Holy Skywalkers who have never “sinned”, giving the unconfortable impression that the Skywalker descendant was disposable because he wasn’t worthy to have any place in the Skywalker legacy contrary to the heroine. After all, the original script of Duel of the Fates by Colin Trevorrow had Luke telling his nephew “You are no Skywalker”, as if the Skywalker legacy wasn’t made of both darkness and light and Luke himself didn’t contribute to this with his own mistakes. Although TROS is more subtle in its approach, the difference in the handling between  Anakin Skywalker and Ben Solo’s redemption after their death is telling:  kept a guarded secret by the person he saved; not even mourned by the only person he bonded with; not even shown alongside his family. Dead or alive, his treatment on screen left me as a viewer with the unconfortable feeling that the Skywalker family as a whole wasn’t reconciled with the dark side of their legacy. Which brings me once again to the same question: what was their story worth to continue for?

Excerpt of the canon novel Bloodline

The purification of the heroine

Let’s talk now about how Rey ends her heroine’s journey compared to where she began. That journey was announced by Maz Kanata already in TFA: “The belonging (family) you seek is not behind you (birth family), it is ahead (found future)”. She was introduced  as desperate to find a place to belong because of her feeling of loneliness, which never incapacitated her ability to be a strong independant woman who knows how to handle herself.  Yet, her heroine journey alone on Tatooine where she takes the Skywalker name looking at the Binary Sunset under the watchful eye of the Skywalker Twins as Force Ghosts. Some may argue that she will be okay since she found a family in them and her Resistance friends, which is true to some degree but  uncomplete through. However, the ending looks out of place with a key character missing in this scene, whether he was supposed to be dead or alive: Ben. Although it was important to show in TROS that Rey was well surrounded by a supportive entourage (as a constrast to Ben before his fall), the ST established that the deepest emotional connection she had was with Kylo Ren/Rey.  I wouldn’t allow myself to judge those who find Reylo abusive and/or questionable because of his actions but I personally don’t think that the outcome of TROS is a feminist as it was meant to appear by having the heroine as a strong independant woman free from any romantic involvement . The ST makes it clear all along that although Rey obviously suffers from abandonment issue, she is more than capable of handling herself, know by herself what is right or not and decide conciously what (who) she wants for herself.  Some people may disaprove the very idea of “Reylo” for valid reason but claiming that the kiss came out of nowhere doesn’t make sense when one look closely at their interactions all along the ST. TLJ shows that the hand touch she initiated is the decisive moment where she gets to see what the viewer finally get to see only at the end of TROS :  the true face of Ben Solo, without the mask named Kylo Ren behind which he hid himself. From this moment on, my understanding is that Rey perfectly knew how to dissociate the person from his persona, thus her disenchantment in the Throne Room while confronted to his unwillingness to let go of his dark persona. With Rey shutting the door of the Millenium Falcon to his face, TROS could have made their dynamic an unrequited villainous crush afterwards. Although this is what it looks on the surface, the visual subtext tells a different story, which is a huge reason that makes their interactions so compelling to analyze. On Pasaana, Rey is shown staring longingly at little kids, sadly confessing that she has no family (despite living with the Resistance and her friends for a while) and being in deep thought at that moment. Barely 2 seconds after enter her dyad to renew his hand proposal. Of course, different interpretations can be made about this scene. I would argue that the chain of events in a matter ofminutes is meant to convey a specific message if one accept the idea that the hand proposal is metaphorically a marriage proposal. The ST sets the record straight through that despite her attraction to him Rey always rejected Kylo Ren and his entitled behavior while making heart eyes to Ben Solo and the selfless person she knew he was deep inside through their bond. The core of their unresolved business in TROS is all about him being desperate to know why she wanted to take his hand while being frustrated by her refusal to acknowledge it and her being desperate to hide the reason why she didn’t take it while being frustrated by his refusal to acknowledge who he really is. Both lied to themselves and each other out of fear of being rejected and disentchanted again. Thus, the tension rising until a confession that changed everything : “I wanted to take your hand, Ben’s hand”. Rey chose consciously to kiss Ben only once she was sure that the mask had definitely dropped and he had renounced to be someone else than who he really is.  Although Kylo Ren was chasing Rey, she was always the one who set the rules and initiated willingly any further step in their relationship and only when she felt he was his true self with her. This teaches an important lesson  – especially to teenage boys  – that you don’t earn the feelings of someone (no matter what feelings he/she has for you)  by hiding yourself behind a virile persona  and/or showing off toxic behaviors in order to impress said person. In other words, the love triangle was always between Rey, Kylo Ren and Ben Solo from a  female gaze perspective: it’s Ben who was presented as “object” of desire all along.  Yet, the choice that Rey willingly makes – and the desire that goes along with it – is taken away from her as if it was decided at her place that Ben Solo was never the right partner for her anyway.  After three movie setting up that the heart of her emotional journey was with him, the fact that he is totally erased from screen after – and despite – their love scene looks like a puritan attempt to purify the heroine from the sin she has committed.  Worse, she ends her journey where she began:  on a desolated sand planet, sliding innocently the dunes, wearing the same all white costume and an adopted child under parental watch. In a nutshell: pretty much like Luke at the beginning of his hero’s journey.

Rian Johnson:  “ The hand touch is the closest thing we’ll get to a sex scene in Star Wars”

Luke Skywalker (deleted line): “You’ve opened yourself to the dark side for a pair of pretty eyes”

Tatooine: an iconic place...of desolation

Although Tatooine may appear as a logical choice for the ending scene, the intention to recreate the atmosphere of the iconic scene from ANH falls flat in the context of TROS but also in the context of the whole franchise. According to Chris Terrio, the point was to fix the original sin of the franchise, which was the separation of the Twins by tying the lightsabers together like newborns. Did it make sense through to burry them on Tatooine ? Based on the Prequels, the Skywalker/ Palpatine arc has its roots on Naboo, when a Queen was forced to flee in order to meet the Senate representative of her home planet on Coruscant but met a slave boy from Tatooine on her way. Naboo may have been a less iconic choice for fanservice but in regard to the heartbeat of the Skywalker story, this is where Anakin and Padme’s love story blossomed, where Padme planned to give birth to their babies, where she is now resting forever: “Ani I wanna have our baby back home on Naboo”. Wasn’t the original sin that these kids were separated from their parents and all of them never got reunited ? Yet, Padme’s babies - and her husband by extension - were metaphorically burried on the very planet where Luke was never supposed to end up had the family tragedy not happened, where his father grew up as a slave, where his grandmother had a painful death, where his adoptive parents were murdered, where his sister was enslaved, where his brother in law was imprisoned, where he himself never wanted to return. Yet this is also this place that was chosen to end Rey’s heroine journey.  She ends up being the spiritual heir of the Twins, especially the Jedi that Leia would have become by her brother’s side had she not chosen romantic attachment over that path. In general, the ending sends the message  that romantic love and children only cause destruction while preventing parents from achieving their ambitions.  Padme and Anakin’s love created destruction through the immiment birth of the Twins ; Han and Leia’s love created destruction through Ben’s upbringing, only to have their sacrifice rewarded with his death and his sidelining of the legacy. Terrible message for teenagers  that no matter the selfless acts you do, you still deserve to be forgotten or even replaced  with someone more worthy if you lose yourself following the wrong way because you were a problem from the start. On a sidenote,  DLF probably failed to get people invested in the new characters, precisely because most of the characters and their interactions turned out to  feel superficial, interchangeable and disposable on the long run. Jahnnah was introduced to Lando in the very end for no particular reason, except maybe baiting the fans with future added-materials about a potential father/daughter dynamic. Finn and Rose kissed in TLJ? Let’s have her sidelined, Finn friendly tapping her shoulder, telling her to stay away and choosing the company of someone else in the next film. Zorii asked Poe to come with her? Let’s have her refusing to be with him, barely hours after their conversation. Rey and Ben kissed before he died?  Let’s have her flying out of Exegol with fanfare, happily reuniting with her friends and paying tribute to the Twins without showing an once of interest in the fate of her dyad.  In general, the movie leaves the feeling that  there is no deep sense of belonging for anybody and that they all are pretty alone despite forming a big "family" of friends on the surface. The ending feels even more out of place knowing that Rey’s journey was never meant to parallel Luke’s, who only wanted to become a Jedi like his father and ultimately became one. It was never the motivator of Rey’s journey to fight for a higher cause by becoming a Rebel or a Jedi in to follow the footsteps of a loved one and/or a mentor. Yes, she accomplished great things and it is absolutely right to enable her to fulfill any ambition she wishes to accomplish in the future. However, it is not because she had simple human needs too  that they were unimportant and meant to diminish her character. Let’s go back again to this Pasaana scene where we are reminded of the core of her heroine’s journey: “The belonging you seek is not behind you, it is ahead”. Of course, that could be interpreted in retrospect as a foreshadowing that she will take a new generation of Jedi as Rey Skywalker continuing the legacy of Luke. But again, the directing choices suggest otherwise: why showing her staring at 1-2 years old babies instead of 9-10 years old kids? Why suggesting that she may not have a family at that point but that she will have this possibility at the end of her journey? More important: why suggesting through the hand proposal that Ben Solo is the one through with she is meant to have a family ? Although her thoughts ain’t explicit, the chain of events suggests an underlying desire: marriage proposal, forming a family, having babies. Yet, Ben and Rey finally coming together resulted in a kiss of death and her ending like a virginal nun metaphorically burrying the kids she’ll never have with him. Terrible message for girls from a female gaze perspective that no matter how heroic she was and all the harships she went through, she is not allowed to get the belonging she chose willingly (contrary to most male heroes). Terrible message in general that  the wants openly expressed by women never really come true in Star Wars: Padme never got her babies back home on Naboo; Leia never got her son back home alive; Rey never got the home she really wished for with Ben. Even if Ben was meant to die like Jack Dawson from Titanic (given the few parallels used by TROS), his total absence after his death feels incredibly wrong, especially given how the only person whom with he bonded emotionally appears indifferent on screen to his fate. This closure on Tatooine without him rubs the viewer from witnessing the definitive healing of the family wounds but also from the feeling that the heroine can move on peacefully with her life: fulfilling her goals, being surrounded with her friends and why not  raising a family until she’ll be ultimately reunited with Skywalkers in death. Thus, a tragic ending like Titanic where you are aware as a viewer that Jack and Rose technically can’t be reunited in the afterlife feels strangely  more uplifting than the ending of TROS where it’s technically possible that Ben and Rey get reunited someday. What is shown on screen is what remains enshrined in the mind of the viewer. An ending scene on Naboo with Ben (alive or dead)  would have given a different vibe, reuniting metaphorically all Skywalkers (except Shmi Skywalker-Lars) in the same tombstone and symbolizing the family reconciliation: a husband with his wife; parents with their twins; a nephew with his uncle; a son with his mother ; a father living in his son’s heart since his death. Beyond that, what more meaningful message for Rey Palpatine than choosing the Skywalkers on the very planet where her own grandfather came from like Padme and began tormenting the Galaxy and her family ? Alas, the conclusion of the franchise shows the heroine  ending her journey alone on a desert planet, her birth family dead, her found family decimated, without her lover and her friends to be seen, surrounded by robots and ghosts…but with a cool name as consolation prize! 

[blackjack-15]

Are You Poe-ndering What I’m Poe-ndering? — Thoughts on: Warnings at Waverly Academy (WAC)

Previous Metas: SCK/SCK2, STFD, MHM, TRT, FIN, SSH, DOG, CAR, DDI, SHA, CUR, CLK, TRN, DAN, CRE, ICE, CRY, VEN, HAU, RAN

Hello and welcome to a Nancy Drew meta series! 30 metas, 30 Nancy Drew Games that I’m comfortable with doing meta about. Hot takes, cold takes, and just Takes will abound, but one thing’s for sure: they’ll all be longer than I mean them to be.

Each meta will have different distinct sections: an Introduction, an exploration of the Title, an explanation of the Mystery, a run-through of the Suspects. Then, I’ll tackle some of my favorite and least favorite things about the game, and finish it off with ideas on how to improve it.

If any game requires an extra section or two, they’ll be listed in the paragraph above, along with links to previous metas (or not links, as tumblr is freaking out with links).

These metas are not spoiler free, though I’ll list any games/media that they might spoil here: WAC, mention of Sabrina the Teenage Witch (the OG live-action show not the horrible CW monstrosity); discussion of the Poe short stories “The Imp of the Perverse” and “The Black Cat”.

The Intro:

It’s time to go to school, y’all — and not just any school; a rich, elite, all-girls school. Welcome to the jungle.

Warnings at Waverly Academy is one of two games that I don’t sort into a category (like “Expanded” “Jetsetting” or “Odd”), the other being the game that follows it (TOT). There are a few reasons for this — the next category really doesn’t apply, but neither does the previous category, WAC and TOT both feature a gradual shift in tone and approach to the games, etc. If I really had to pick a designation, I’d say that these are the “Growing Pains” games, where the world gets a little bit more open — but not all at once, the characters get a little more fleshed out — but not by much, and a few new things are tried with our character rolls — to varying degrees of success.

On the whole, WAC tackles its efforts far better than TOT does, but it does make for a slightly less interesting meta if one was just to focus on what WAC does wrong and what it does right. Instead, we’re going to take a look at how brilliant WAC is tonally and thematically, and how its source material — not kept secret in the game — builds it up and makes it better and better upon replays.

Before I begin, it’s fair to warn you all that my thesis was done on Poe and adaptation theory (and its relevance towards detective novels but I won’t touch much on that part of it), so I might get a bit nerdy. Hopefully it’s still exciting and relatable enough to the game that it’ll make for interesting, rather than academic, reading.

WAC uses Poe’s stories — specifically “The Black Cat” (obviously) and “The Imp of the Perverse” (in my slightly expert opinion) — as thematic (what the game means) and tonal (how the game feels) touchstones, not to mention their inclusion for some of the events in the plot. A brief summary of both is probably important when looking at how they relate to WAC.

“The Imp of the Perverse” is an essay-like short story by Poe that basically states that inside of every person is the desire to do something wrong or incorrect simply because it is wrong or incorrect (not morally, but in terms of self-interest).

In the story, a man commits a clever murder and gets away with it, receiving the inheritance that he wanted from the dead man. The man cannot be caught — there is no evidence of any wrongdoing, let alone any that points to him — unless he confesses. The idea of confessing — not out of guilt, but just because it would be the wrong thing to do — plays on his mind until, driven half-mad with his preoccupation, he confesses and is imprisoned and executed. The titular “imp” is basically a devil on the shoulder who wants what would be worst for our own self-interest, simply because it is the worst.

MENTIONS OF ANIMAL CRUELTY FOR THE STORY OF THE BLACK CAT. PLEASE SKIP IF THIS BOTHERS YOU.

“The Black Cat” on the other hand is pretty much a proto-“Tell-Tale Heart” — an alcoholic man becomes emotionally distant from his cat (a rare sentence, I know) because he things the cat is judging him for being a drunk; one night in a drunken rage, he cuts out its eye and kills it. A fire catches his home, leaving an imprint of the hanged cat upon the only standing wall.

END OF DIRECT MENTIONS OF ANIMAL CRUELTY.

The man and his wife move, and he, after a period of guilt, makes friends with another cat — a cat nigh-identical to the first one, even missing an eye. When he (drunk, as per usual) and his wife are walking down the cellar stairs, however, he nearly trips over the cat and becomes enraged, trying to kill the cat, only to be stopped by his wife. He instead kills his wife, burying her behind the wall of the cellar and bricking up the hole.

When the police come by they find nothing, and the cat has disappeared, so the man feels safe. The police come back to investigate the cellar, the man taps on the wall to boast of how well the house is made — only to have horrific screeching start up behind the wall. The police break the wall down and find not only his wife’s body, but the black cat sitting on it as well. The man breaks down, overwhelmed by his own guilt, and the story ends.

END OF BLACK CAT STORY SYNOPSIS.

It’s pretty clear what influence “The Black Cat” had on WAC — not only does the villain name herself after the titular cat, but WAC is also a story of guilt, hidden crimes, and personal weaknesses that manifest in rage towards other innocents.

It’s actually really interesting that Corine takes the mantle of “The Black Cat” up when she begins targeting other valedictorian candidates; the black cat in the story is sort of a symbol of the man’s sin — a reaction to his sins and misdeeds, and sort of a catalyst of justice. This ties into how Corine sees herself — someone rejected and mistreated by those who are “filthy” themselves, and who must then show others the things they hate about themselves.

It’s Corine’s self-identification as a victim that starts all this, and it causes her to victimize others in potentially fatal ways. The black cat stands for guilt, for the sins of others, and yet it leads Corine further and further away from any justness herself.

The story of “The Imp of the Perverse” has a little bit of a more subtle tie-in to the game; in a way, each suspect does exactly what they know they shouldn’t.

Rachel and Kim are obvious — they really shouldn’t switch back and forth so regularly, nor should they be so sloppy at informing the other as to what they did and who they met that day. Leela, who should be studying if she wants to keep her spot in the race, instead passes the time by playing sports. Mel knows that the cloak-and-dagger meetings are to be an absolute secret, yet wears hair bows that she constantly loses to one. Izzy has her future meticulously planned out, yet refuses to back up an incredibly important paper (and also relies on being popular, yet pursues other girls’ boyfriends).

Even Corine falls under this; by targeting Nancy, she’s ensuring that suspicion will fall on her, as 2/3rds of the victims would then be her roommates. She’s also cutting her chances of being valedictorian by not working hard for it and instead relying on other, riskier methods. Every move she makes leads to it being more and more obvious that she’s behind them — and yet, she continues anyway, just like the man in “The Imp of the Perverse” — leading from a few small incidents to attempted murder.

Ignoring WAC’s ties to Poe renders it as a good, solid mystery without anything remarkable about it (other than the pendulum, of course). Exploring its ties to Poe not only helps set up exactly who the villain is, but also sets the tone for the mystery. This isn’t a mystery of Nancy foiling a villain through her smarts; instead, it’s a story about how guilt and a perverse desire for self-destruction leads a once-promising valedictorian candidate to more and more severe crimes, culminating in the exact opposite of what she was working for.

The Title:

It’s pretty awesome, full stop.

Warnings at Waverly Academy is honestly a great title for a Nancy Drew mystery; it gives us location, a sense of the world we’re in (scholastic), and a vague yet not too vague sense of what’s going on. The alliteration is good, the abbreviation amuses me — it’s just solid all the way around.

There’s not much else to say; sure, you could strengthen it by finding a punchier “w” word to begin with, but that’s just quibbling. It’s great, I love it, let’s move on to the Happenings at Waverly Academy (which, by the way, would have been a terrible name for the game).

The Mystery:

Called in as a professional undercover detective, Nancy’s just young enough to hide in plain sight at Waverly Academy, an upper-crust private school for those girls fortunate enough to be both rich and smart (aside from a few scholarship students, who are simply smart). Nancy’s called in due to a few near-death experiences by students, punctuated always by notes simply signed “The Black Cat”. It’s only a few days until break ends, so Nancy must work quickly to stop the sabotage, find the Black Cat, and solve the mystery before anyone dies.

Nancy, as always, finds quickly that not everything is so cut-and-dried. Each valedictorian candidate has the motive, means, and opportunity to get the other girls out of their way, and all have something to lose. Add in a secret society, the threat of demerits from an overly zealous RA, and the sneaking feeling that there might be a greater mystery behind all of these incidents, and you get a case mostly unlike any that Nancy’s had to crack before.

Oh, and Ned is on the phone, serving the player up with the single punch of testosterone in the game (aside from the hunky Mr. Harris, of course).

As a mystery, WAC is honestly super solid. Lots of characters, lots of clues, lots of red herrings, lots of mini-mysteries going on inside of the larger mystery…it’s everything you want from a Nancy Drew game, and it doesn’t really drop any of the balls it juggles. Sure, the pendulum might be a bit much for you if you’re not up on your Poe, but I think it’s a lot of fun, and for sure a very different type of ending puzzle — not drowning or running out of air or any other ending that Nancy Drew games likes to do.

Let’s go to the movers and shakers behind this mystery, then, shall we?

The Suspects:

Mel Corbalis is the fan-favorite character, so let’s start with her in this huge, estrogen-laden cast. Distinctly of the goth persuasion, Mel is a fantastically talented cello player and a Waverly Legacy, despite the fact that no one at school wants to be caught dead near her. She’s not an outcast the way that Corine is, however, because of her simple insistence on being exactly who she is, and not trying to hide or apologize for it.

Go Mel.

As a suspect, Mel is slightly more suspicious than most other girls, on account of Megan being her roommate, but otherwise sits on fairly equal standing with them all. She’s by far the most outwardly aggressive, but also comes across as simply no-nonsense (a welcome thing in any girl’s academy, believe me). She also has the least of Poe about her, despite her taste in fashion, and is in general a breath of fresh wind.

Next up is Leela Yadav, athlete extraordinaire. She sure can bounce that ball, at least. Izzy’s roommate and just as much a social climber (though in less in-your-face ways), Leela wants it all — popular, athletic, and valedictorian. It’s a lot for any girl to handle, much less one who can’t seem to keep it all together.

As a suspect, Leela’s not bad — she’s as even as (most) anyone else throughout the first half of the game, but falls off a bit when Izzy isn’t specifically targeted by the Black Cat (as most of her gripes are against Izzy, particularly). Leela’s more there to increase the number of students and throw suspicion around, but she does a darn fine job of it, and is well-rounded enough to be genuinely enjoyable.

We’d be remiss not to mention the queen bee (and my personal favorite suspect) at Waverly Academy, Izzy Romero. Snobbish, arrogant, and with apparently the smarts and people skills to back it up, Izzy is the first Waverly girl that Nancy (as Becca) meets, and boy does she set the player up for what Waverly is really like. Izzy’s smart enough to know when she should put in the effort and clever enough to delegate it when she can, and that alone endears her to me, even leaving aside her hilarious dialogue and general vibes.

As a suspect, Izzy is the sole girl who really isn’t set up to be much other than what she is — a girl with more than enough smarts to get power, and enough power to pretty much do what she wants to do. Sure, Nancy can catch Izzy doing stuff she shouldn’t do, but she’s never really a heavy-hitter when it comes to the Black Cat stuff. I love her for that, too. She’s a lot like Libby from the original Sabrina the Teenage Witch show; a bit nasty, but hilarious and effectively harmless — and I’ve always liked Libby-style characters.

And her stint in the Blackwood Society is aces too. Man, this girl does not quit.

Rachel Hubbard, is, of course, actually Rachel and Kim Hubbard, and they are the plot point that WAC is most known for. They actually have marginally separate personalities too, with one being far snappier than the other, and having strengths in different subjects.

Part of the reason I love the Hubbard twins so much is that their presence is so...Poeian. Poe was all about duplicity and mirrors, and the Hubbard twins show off both themes. It’s just a wonderful little bit of a nod to the source material (thematically speaking) of the game, and I adore it.

As suspects, the Hubbards aren’t bad at all; they’re lying, sneaking around, and blatantly “forget” what they’ve said to people, all of which adds up to be very untrustworthy. Were it not for Nancy (and Corine) sneaking around, they might have gotten through their Waverly experience without anyone figuring it out — and that’s something to respect, even if it does make them prime targets for blackmail. And speaking of blackmail…

Corine Meyers is both Nancy’s roommate and 100% our villain this time around. Obsessed with becoming valedictorian and knowing she probably won’t get it, Corine basically puts out self-assigned hits on each of her fellow candidates, attempting to get the title by violence rather than by being worthy. She’s even cunning enough to blackmail the Hubbard twins into doing some of her dirty work, throwing people off her scent. Sure, Corine is a rather pathetic (in the non-sympathetic sense) person who I have little respect for, but she does make a good villain in a Poe-ish story.

As a suspect, the game actually makes a pretty good go at not assigning the blame too quickly to anyone, so Corine does manage to hide out in the shadows. Sure, one of the girls who went home was her roommate, but the other was Mel’s, so suspicion isn’t centered right on her. I also love that she’s actually punished for what she does — no amount of sad pictures at the end of the game changes that. Corine actually has the cleverness that CUR tries (but doesn’t succeed) to give Jane, and I think it’s wonderful.

I’m not going to give Megan Vargas or Danielle Hayes their individual chunks, but they are present here as well, standing in as victims so we know that this teenaged effery very nearly had a body count. They really help to give a sense of…well, purposeful disconnection to the game, where the setting and the snow and the fact that these are high school girls doesn’t stop the crimes from being deadly.

The Favorite:

The first thing that I have to say is that I love how the tone and crimes of this game contrast so well with a lot of the games (especially, sorry, CUR). This takes place at a school, your suspects are all teenaged girls…and yet the game doesn’t shy away from how horrific things really are to get Nancy called in. Two girls have nearly died in quick succession from one another, and the girls are going on chasing acclaim. It’s a messed up situation, and the game doesn’t shy away from pointing that out.

These crimes are treated with severity, and the culprit, despite things that might have softened her ending under lesser writers, is punished with total removal. WAC in some ways is a spiritual successor to SCK, in that it takes place at a school, lives are endangered, Nancy is (mostly) undercover, and the culprit is not above killing Nancy messily solely for personal gain. The difference, of course, is that SCK is not done well, and WAC, on the whole, is.

As mentioned above, I have a soft spot for Poeian detective stories, and so I enjoy WAC probably more than I would had they modeled it after, say, Holmesian detective stories instead. The ideas of duplicity, mirrors, guilt, the Imp of the Perverse — the self-destructive tendency to do what we should not simply because we should not do it — these are all present and accounted for in WAC from different girls and facets of the plot (Corine and the secret society both represent duplicity, the Hubbard girls are mirrors, Waverly’s own guilt towards the students it failed, etc.).

My favorite puzzle has to be WAC’s resident cooking minigame, where Nancy prepares hot lettuce sandwiches and definitely underdone cookies to the delight of the gossiping horde. It’s like TRN’s cheeseburger minigame writ large, and every second of it is wonderful — the gossip, the food-making, the unexpected panic of a teacher order — everything. It also helps Nancy keep her head above water, should she be caught sneaking around after hours, and I think that’s great as well.

My favorite moment of the game is when Nancy comes out of the wall in Mel’s room and Mel isn’t having even one iota of her excuses to cut and run. It’s not often that a non-villain will press Nancy so intently when Nancy does something Inherently Untrustworthy, and I think it’s great that a 17 year old girl behaves exactly as one would, demanding an explanation and not letting Nancy wiggle her way out of it. Sheer perfection and the moment, I would guess, that Mel became a lot of people’s favorite WAC character.

I also love everything to do with the Blackwood Society. Nancy goes so…metal there and we really don’t get enough of Metal Nancy. It features one of the few moments of absolutely, unequivocally brilliant voice acting that Lani stumbles upon (the conversation about the bow), and it’s a wonder to behold.

The Un-Favorite:

While WAC certainly has great things about it, it’s not by any means a perfect game. It wouldn’t sit in my top 10, and possibly not even in my top 15, though it would depend on the day. The reasons for this?

A big one is my least favorite puzzle: taking the pictures. It’s a good idea — a gofer quest to help Nancy get to meet each student, talk to them, etc. and make sure no one gets lost in the shuffle (like with what usually happens with Guadalupe in ICE, for example) — and is also great for acquainting Nancy with the Hubbard(s). However, in practice, the interface makes it incredibly obnoxious to do, what with having to retake pictures because the pan or zoom is slightly off, and having to jump around from place to place. It’s a good idea, but could have been implemented far, far more smoothly than it actually was.

My least favorite moment in the game is actually the whole deal with Izzy’s paper being deleted. It’s a dick move — and I have no problem with that, honestly, but the fact that she has no backup is just like…girl, what on earth are you doing where you don’t back up your work.

Adding to that is the fact that even in the far-off yesteryear of 2009, Word autosaves (as did many, if not all, word processors) and a copy definitely would have still been retrievable on her computer, and that the teacher would almost definitely have a previous rough draft or at least outline…it’s a pretty shaky thing to have happen (the not-having, not the deleting), and it does break the game down a bit. I know it’s not that big a deal to most people, but it seriously hampers my ability to stay within the world of WAC and to take the mystery seriously.

The Fix:

So how would I fix Warnings at Waverly Academy?

There’s honestly not too much to do; while not a perfect game, WAC is perfectly solid, accomplishing what it needs to do properly and well, without too many little flaws to mar its reputation.

In other words, it’s a bit like an unsuccessful valedictorian candidate; well-rounded, but not a standout when compared to others that burn a little brighter.

I would, however, re-work the picture task; I’m not sure how you could make it less clunky, mechanically speaking, but it definitely needs it, along with a way to know if it’s a good picture or not before you go through all the effort of going to the library and plugging in the camera. I love the idea — just make the idea work better.

I’d also change the “deleted paper” storyline and go a little more destructive — give the computer an awful virus instead. Sure, her paper is backed up (in 2009, probably on a USB drive, or saved to her email or something), and she has her stuff, but that locks away all personalized notes, study sheets, etc. It’s something that would be pretty damning for a Valedictorian candidate, while also still being firmly in the realm of believability.

And on a smaller note, remove the ability to call Bess in this game. It always goes to voicemail and serves no purpose. Why even include it?

Where WAC really shines is its individualistic approach to each girl and in its permeation of Poeian themes; that’s what makes it special as a game, rather than any of its individual parts. Sometimes, you need to take a break from haunted mansions and carousels and museum thefts and marriage troubles and friends who are always in need of help – and you just need to play a game with gossip galore, hot lettuce bagels, and an actual death-bringing pendulum to round it out.

[bedrockbros-hell]

Ok so I couldn’t stop thinking about the epic confrontation between c!Tommy and c!Dream that’ll probably go down Thursday/Friday when Tommy breaks into the prison so I wrote it out :3

TW: blood, gore, PTSD, death, manipulation, swearing, graphic depictions of torture and violence

(Seriously this got kinda intense, make sure you stay safe ok?)

(Also I’m ignoring the whole Wilbur-gets-revived thing for now)

*DISCLAIMER* I do not condone or support torture or murder, nor do I condone or support any malicious action of c!Dream’s (e.g. manipulation, child abuse, etc.). All characters in the story are referencing the DSMP characters, not the content creators.

****

It was time. The plans had been made. The break-in had been executed. The TNT cannon had worked and Tubbo was off somewhere distracting the Warden. Tommy stood at the threshold of the cell, at the precipice. It was time.

Tommy recalled the last instance he had been at the prison, swearing that it would be the final visit. And he remembered how sourly things had gone: instead of healing, his visit had left him more broken than before. And now, being back there, staring at the wall of lava, things felt a little too familiar...

No, Tommy reminded himself. Things are different now. He pulled out his Axe of Peace, its dark netherite surface glowing with magic. Things were certainly different now. This time, it really would be the final visit. He stepped onto the platform and pushed the button.

Waves of heat rose up around Tommy as the moving platform brought him through the molten liquid, and he could feel himself sweating underneath his netherite armor. As he got closer to the cell, his heart began to pound from old fears and he worked to steady his breathing. Tommy gripped his axe tighter to stop his hands from shaking. The platform halted and Tommy stepped off, facing the wall of netherite blocks. As the platform receded, the curtain of lava closed behind him, trapping him inside. Tommy fought down his panic. He knew he could leave whenever he wished, but it didn’t stop himself feeling suffocated.

Suddenly a mechanical groan and whirr distracted him from his thoughts. The wall before Tommy split apart, the top receding into the ceiling and the bottom sinking into the floor. Inch by inch, the innards of the maximum security cell were revealed to him.

And there he was.

Dream sat cross-legged in shadow, directly in front of Tommy, his back against the cold obsidian wall. He wasn’t wearing his mask, though his unruly hair had grown long enough to cover his face. Looking around, Tommy found the mask a few feet away from him. It was cracked in half. Everything else in the cell, Tommy noticed, was pretty much the same as when he had last been there. The chest, sink, and small bookshelf were tucked in the same corner, wood moulding from the crying obsidian. An empty space by the sink showed where Dream’s clock had been. The low orange light cast from the lava gave the whole place an eerie glow. It was all too familiar. Tommy swallowed, reminding himself again, this is not the same. I am in control.

As Tommy stepped into the cell, Dream spoke, without lifting his head. “Welcome back. You’re earlier than usual.”

Tommy halted, surprised. “You’ve been expecting me?”

At the sound of Tommy’s voice, Dream whipped his head up. His eyes widened. “Tommy! It’s–I thought you were...” He paused. “Never mind.” Suddenly, Dream smiled. “You’re here! You’ve come back to visit me!” He stood and began walking towards Tommy, arms outstretched.

Tommy raised his axe. “Stay back! Stay the fuck away from me! I didn’t come here just to visit you.” Dream stopped, lowering his arms and eyeing the axe. Tommy took a few deep breaths, his heart racing in his chest. “Just shut up and listen to me ok? You have caused me so much pain, Dream. And not only me, but everyone on the server. I thought locking you away in here would put a stop to all that, but I was wrong. You are still ruining people.” Dream was silent, no longer smiling. He was still shadowed, and his eyes were unreadable. Tommy continued, “I am here to finally end your reign of terror, permanently.” The netherite axe glinted wickedly in the dim light.

Dream said nothing. Then, astoundingly, he burst into wild, humorless laughter. Tommy bristled, taken aback. “What the fuck is so funny?” he yelled over the cacophony of Dream’s cackling. “I’m here to kill you!”

All at once, Dream stopped laughing, though the crazed light hadn’t quite died from his eyes. “You’re here to kill me, Tommy?” he repeated softly, smirking. “Are you sure that even death can stop me from–as you put it–ruining people?”

“What do you mean?” Tommy asked roughly, his voice betraying the fear that bubbled in the pit of his stomach. “I know it will. You’ll be dead!”

“Tommy,” Dream said, as one speaking to a child struggling to understand, “death doesn’t have any power over me. I know this, and I know you do too.”

Memories cascaded over Tommy. The body-wrenching pain and the mind-shattering numbness. White light. The images were like hands tightening themselves around his wrists, his neck, his heart. His very soul ripped from his body. The void. Wilbur...

Tommy shook his head, forcing these thoughts out. “Stop it! This is different. There won’t be anyone to bring you back.”

“Won’t there?”

Tommy faltered.

Dream chuckled softly. “Ah, of course,” he said. “You don’t know.”

“Know what? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Dream said nothing. Then, slowly, he stepped into the light, and Tommy felt the axe slide out of his grip and hit the floor with a clang as he processed the full horror of what was before him.

Dream’s body was utterly broken. His face was black and blue and covered in gashes, and there were gashes on his arms and legs showing through the shreds of his prison jumpsuit. Some of them were still bleeding. His nose was crooked, and trails of dried blood ran down his lips. There was blood everywhere: on his hands, in his hair, stained on his clothes. He walked with a limp, which Tommy hadn’t noticed before, and looking down, he saw that one of Dream’s feet was bending the wrong way. Many of his fingers were also bent at unnatural angles, and in fact... Bile rose in Tommy’s throat as he realized that not all of Dream’s fingers were there.

Tommy dug his nails into his palms to stay alert. He had just enough presence of mind to pick up his axe. “What the fu...what–what the hell happened to you?” His voice was pitched with hysteria.

Dream grinned, revealing several missing teeth. “Let’s just say you haven’t been my only visitor.”

Tommy was at a loss for words. For all that time spent preparing for this final confrontation, running through a million scenarios in his mind, he had never, ever, expected something like this. He cursed himself. It was supposed to be simple, straightforward. Find Dream, kill him. But now, though he was disgusted with himself for being so, Tommy couldn’t help but feel sorry for Dream. The axe lowered slightly as Tommy wavered in indecision.

Dream tilted his head, shifting his hair, and Tommy saw that a chunk of his ear was gone. “So are you gonna kill me or not?” he asked innocently, though Tommy knew Dream could sense his hesitancy, and was enjoying every bit of it. “You know, at this point, death would probably be preferable to what I’ve had to endure here,” he said, almost nonchalantly.

“I–,” Tommy stammered, trying to collect his thoughts. “No, no wait. What did you mean before, when you said, ‘you don’t know’? What don’t I know?”

Dream barked out another dry laugh. “Oh, Tommy,” he said, “there’s so much you don’t know.” Tommy hated this, hated feeling like Dream was always two steps ahead of him. It made him feel powerless, despite his weapons and armor. “You wanna know the reason I look like this? Where I got these injuries from?” Dream asked, coming closer to him, and Tommy had to look upwards meet his eyes. “I was being tortured. Every day.”

Shock boiled inside Tommy. He was torn. One part of him was screaming in vindication, the other was absolutely sickened. Even Dream didn’t deserve this, did he?

“Know why I was being tortured?”

Tommy said nothing, his mouth completely dry. He didn’t want to know the answer, but his voice stuck in his throat.

“The revive book, Tommy,” Dream said. “Someone wanted to know how to use it.”

With great effort, Tommy managed to get his throat unstuck. “What–what the fuck does that have to do with anything?” His words were raspy and shaky.

“It has everything!” Dream screamed so loudly it reverberated off the obsidian walls. “Everything to do with this! Do you know how fucking long I endured what would have had you crawling and pleading in two minutes? You know how many days I spent with nothing more to look forward to than the destruction of my body and sanity? And I could have gone on longer,” he said, punctuating his words with hysterical laughter. “Oh I could have gone on until they chopped off all my arms and legs and I was nothing more than a half dead chunk of meat on the floor! But guess what?” Dream stepped closer, and Tommy could see the manic glint in his eyes. “Guess what? I chose to give in. I let them in on my powerful little ability. Know what that means?”

Tommy took a step back, revulsion rising up inside of him. This was too much. It was too much. This was not what was supposed to happen, everything was going wrong. Tommy hated feeling so out of control. A voice inside him was screaming at him to just put the fucking axe through Dream’s face, but Dream was so clever; he always knew exactly what to say to derail Tommy, make him doubt himself.

“Know what that means, Tommy?” Dream asked again. The light from the lava behind Tommy painted Dream’s face in an evil red glow. “It means there will be someone to bring me back if I die. I have a safety net. You can’t kill me!”

“No.” Tommy shook his head. “No, no, no, no! You’re lying! All you do is lie, Dream!”

Dream shrugged. “I mean, you can think that, if you want. And who knows, maybe they won’t want to bring me back. But the thing is, now there will always be a chance that I could come back. As long as one person knows how to revive the dead, the dead can’t be gone forever.” Tommy’s eyes widened with the horror of revelation. Deep down, he knew Dream was right. And just like that, his entire plan was all for naught.

“So go ahead, kill me,” Dream continued. “But I’ll never truly be gone. You will always live in fear that one day, I’ll come back. So you see? You can never escape me, no matter what you do.” Dream stepped even closer to Tommy, who was frozen in terror, and put a mangled hand on his shoulder. “Did you actually think,” he said, bending down, his beaten face inches away from Tommy’s, “that you would ever get closure from me?” Tommy’s skin crawled, and every part of him wanted to recoil at Dream’s touch, but he had been cornered against the lava. It burned the back of his neck. “You didn’t actually think I would ever let you be free of me, did you?” Dream’s voice was deathly soft, quiet but dangerous, like hidden poison. “No. You may think you’ve moved on, but I will always reel you back in. You may think you have me under control, but I will always have you right where I want you. You might be able to physically leave this prison, but really, we both know you will always be stuck in here with me.”

Something snapped in Tommy’s mind. Without thinking, without pausing to let his brain register what his arm was doing, Tommy swung his axe. He felt it connect with something solid with a sickening crunch. He pulled back and swung again. And again. And again, even after Dream’s lifeless body fell to the floor. It was as if he had been possessed by a hateful monster, avenging himself for all the suffering Dream had caused him. He didn’t even realize he was screaming until he was out of breath. Tommy continued hacking away until the violent energy seeped from his body, until he was utterly drained.

Tommy stepped back, breathing hard. It was over. It was done. Dream was dead. But was he truly gone? Tommy looked around him, as if Dream’s ghost might be in this very room. Stupid, he chided himself. Tommy wasn’t going to let Dream get the best of him anymore. He was done. Fuck whatever Dream said about there being a chance of him coming back. With new purpose, he cleaned off his axe, wiping away the stain Dream had left on it. Tommy would see to it that Dream stayed dead. This really would be the final visit. Now all he had to do was deal with the person that knew how to use the revive book. Tommy turned away and left the prison. For the last time.

[littleladymab]

The Phoenix Suite (SW Rebels Pod+Fic)

Do you know what a phoenix is? It is said that the bird would go out in a burst of flames, and then rise from its ashes, born again. Even if we lose here, the Rebellion will never go out. Someone will always be the spark.

((Kallus tries to get a message to the Rebellion, but he fails -- tries to get a message to the Rebellion but he fails -- but he fails -- he fails))

Series: Star Wars Rebels Characters: Kallus, Thrawn, and the Ghost Crew Rating: Teen Tags: S3 Finale, time-loop, warnings for implied torture/character death/suicide (but again, it's a time loop, so it doesn't stick)

Read by Litra (link to stream)

----

Kallus hits the ground, hard.

He wheezes, more in shock than in pain, and inhales a lungful of dust and air tinged with the ozone of blaster fire. His shoulder takes the brunt of the blow, hands cuffed uselessly behind him.

Still, he’s able to roll into the fall and scrambles to his feet as the call goes up behind him.

“Grand Admiral!” a trooper shouts. “The prisoner is trying to escape!”

Kallus can’t hear Thrawn’s response, but the screams of the dying Rebel forces and the heavy tread of the walkers is enough of an answer: He’ll die with Atollon, and with the Rebellion.

For a wild, frantic second, Kallus considers charging one of the rear guards and taking their blaster, dragging down whoever else he can with his inevitable demise.

But then the part of his brain that clings to survival, to the barest glimmer of hope that this can still be salvaged, urges him onward.

So he runs — away from the sounds of the massacre, away from the orderly advance of the troopers and their walkers. Far enough that the only thing he can hear is the distant roar of chaos and ships crashing to the planet’s surface in his ears.

Breaking the cuffs is easy when he has a moment. He knows where to apply the right amount of pressure, even with his hands locked behind him.

There’s a faint and ominous skittering sound to his left, so he banks right. He has no knowledge of Atollon, and he certainly doesn’t want to learn about the local fauna.

Not when his brain is reeling and clawing desperately for a solution. Not when he’s staunchly ignoring the voice in the back of his head, the cold, calculated tone of the ISB Agent, as it scoffs and says you know a hopeless case when you see one.

Because he does. He knew from the moment he woke up in the cell after being knocked out by Thrawn on the communications tower.

Shit, probably earlier than that, if he’s being completely honest.

Playing at being a Rebel, thinking he could handle the mantle of Fulcrum.

The moment Thrawn walked into the picture, he was fucked.

His feet carry him without thought, winding away deeper and deeper into the wilds of this uninhabited planet. Further, he thinks, from the remains of his failure.

Until he crests a ridge and he’s standing on a cliff and he can see it all spread out before him. The base flattened, like a bug squashed beneath a boot. The white shapes of troopers picking their way through the remains, and the occasional flash of blaster fire when they find a survivor.

His stomach turns at the sight, the now familiar sickening sensation that this is the mighty hand of the Empire. This is not a war, and it never will be.

And it’s not that he wanted to go down in a blaze of glory or anything. He just wanted to make a difference for once. The tug in his chest, the last desperate pull of hope that led him this way, finally dies, leaving him standing on uneasy legs at the edge of the precipice.

“This is all my fault,” he says to the valley below, and wishes that it could be more of an apology and less of a goodbye.

“Which side do you mourn for?” a voice like thunder asks, and Kallus whirls around — reaching for a weapon that isn’t there.

But instead of a man, instead of Grand Admiral Thrawn with his glowing red eyes or the emotionless mask of a trooper, Kallus finds himself facing a creature that towers like a mountain above him. Its head is framed in a halo of dust as constellations of atmo burners light up behind it, and eyes like twin suns stare down at the human.

Kallus is speechless. Nothing in all of his training has prepared him for this. “What are you?” he asks instead.

“I,” the creature intones, shifting its head so that its silhouette is visible in the fading light, “am the Bendu.” It creaks with every movement, the coral that forms its antlers and outer shell grinding together as the beast lowers itself to Kallus’ level. “And what are you? You found me, yet… you are not a Jedi.”

Kallus wonders what makes being a Jedi a prerequisite for this. “I am…” Kallus starts, but in the end, he can’t figure out what the answer should be.

“Alexsandr Kallus, Imperial Security Bureau Agent 021,” the creature supplies, and Kallus feels hot and cold inside all at once.

He grinds his teeth and clenches his hands into fists and refuses to give into a physical display of his anger. “Not any longer.”

The Bendu studies him, those burning yellow eyes peeling him away layer by layer. “You wear the uniform. You keep that name close to your heart. Who are you, Alexsandr Kallus, if not an agent of the Empire?”

Enough is enough.

Every bruise and broken rib and laceration stings, the pain pulsing in time to his ragged breathing and his labored heartbeat. They are what reminds him of who he is, because everything he can see and hear tells him that the Bendu is right, he still is ISB-021.

He draws himself up to his full height, and throws his shoulders back in a way that he has seen Rebellion fighters do — one that conveys defiance instead of the perfectly postured lines of the Empire. “I am Fulcrum,” he says. “I am a Rebel spy, an Imperial defector. I am—” Here he falters, voice finally cracking. “I am well and truly fucked.”

The Bendu gives a low growl of something that might be understanding deep in its chest. “So then, Alexsandr Kallus: Which side do you mourn for?”

A laugh, strained and hysterical, boils up the back of his throat, but he swallows it down before it can get loose. “Why would I mourn the Imperials? They are the clear victors here.”

“Ah,” the Bendu says, as if it had caught Kallus in a particularly clever trap. “But in their victory, have they not also lost? Things they don’t even realize are missing.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Kallus counters. “If you were here, why didn’t you help the Rebellion? Why didn’t you help the Jedi?”

There is another rumble, this time like a storm, and the blazing suns of the Bendu’s eyes flash in warning. “I am the one in the middle. As I told the Jedi Knight who came and asked for my assistance, I take no side.”

Kallus just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. More Force and Jedi nonsense taken to the extreme. “This is a war. You side with the oppressors when you refuse to take action against them.”

“You picked a side, Agent. You carry pride for what you have done. Who are you, with your accolades and titles bestowed upon you by your Empire, to tell me that I do more harm than good? I am the Bendu. I am the one in the middle.”

Standing there on the cliff’s edge, still in his ISB uniform, Kallus wonders if he himself isn’t currently dangling precariously in the middle. Stranded between two worlds, no longer one but not truly another. He rejected the Empire, but was never fully accepted by the Rebellion.

Except that’s not true, is it? Not really. It wasn’t all that long ago that he was in the detention cell, undoing Ezra Bridger’s handcuffs, and the boy turned to look up at him with an expression of distrust but determination. The crew of the Ghost put everything on the line to try and save him, but he had said no. I can do more good here.

“I didn’t think that I had a choice,” Kallus finally says. “I didn’t know anything else.”

“Then what changed?”

How to answer? A part of him had died after that night on Bahryn. The person who crawled his way out of the ice and into the trader’s ship was someone else entirely.

Kallus had been given a choice; several, in fact.

He had spared Garazeb Orrelios’ life, twice. He had declined the invitation to be rescued by the Ghost crew.

That’s when he began to acknowledge the cracks — the chipping veneer on the Empire’s elaborate portrait of the future. When given the chance to do something more, he knew that there was another answer than the easy one offered by the Empire.

Eventually, he gives a helpless shrug. “Everything.”

The Bendu considers this, considers him. It’s similar to the feeling of being studied by Kanan Jarrus, or by the Inquisitor. That depth in their gaze that sees beyond this moment, like they know something is about to happen.

Someone who can see the full picture, where Kallus cannot.

Kallus knows, without a doubt, that he’s about to be given another choice. He is a man who takes disjointed pieces and knows how to put them together into a narrative. He is a man who has thrived on logic and reason for so long that they are second nature to him.

There is nothing left for him except execution at the hands of the Empire, or a slow death in the wilds of Atollon. There is no other way for this story to end, except for the choice that he will be offered.

“Would you change this, if you could?” The Bendu waves one massive hand, encompassing Kallus beaten and bloody, the smoldering valley below, the remains of destroyed ships like falling stars in the hazy sky.

“Yes,” Kallus says without hesitating.

“What would you change?”

Another shrug, not knowing where to begin. “Everything.”

The Bendu leans in closer still, until its eyes are the only thing that Kallus can see, and its hot breath washes over him. “If you could do this over again, would you?”

Now is not the time for logic and reason. Now is the time for gut instinct, in trusting something bigger than himself, bigger than the Empire.

Alexsandr Kallus, no longer an ISB Agent, no longer Fulcrum, dead man walking, looks the Bendu straight in the eyes and says, “Yes.”

It happens all at once. (It happens over the course of an eternity.) [It happens in juddering starts and stops and flashes of moments strung together.]

Kallus feels like he’s being plunged into a pool (into the dead cold of space) [like he’s being torn apart and reconfigured]. There is a weight on his chest that saps the air from his lungs and before he can get a chance to wonder if he’s made a mistake, everything goes black.

(( read the rest on ao3 ))