#and if i see you on my dash i still might send a boop over.....

[wardenhowe]

i have achieved the black paw in booping. i may rest now.

[hiddendreamer67]

Sorcerers of Sanderly Place (pt. 2)

Summary: Patton is the youngest in a long line of cafe-owning vampires. When one of their rival owners comes over to scope out the place, a handsome young wizard no less, Patton doesn’t think twice before inviting Logan into his home. 

Check out more of my writing at @hiddendreamerwriting!

(Check my reblog for links to the previous parts and the taglist)

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If Patton had a heartbeat, he was certain it would be one so fast that his heart would surely leap right from his chest. The young vampire felt incredibly nervous, guiding Logan down to his bedroom. He knew his family was watching him, likely thinking he had finally decided to partake in some mortal prey. They had been bugging him for centuries to settle down and properly suck a human’s blood. Thankfully, all the coffee scents in the shop above had masked Logan’s magical aura, or else Patton would have never even made it down the stairs.

Wizards were a vampire’s greatest enemy. They liked to hunt down vampires and would love to send a stake through Patton’s heart or send him to prison for eternity. As it turns out, eternity is quite a long time when you actually live that long.

Was Logan armed? Patton realized he should have checked before leading the wizard down into his home. Then again, Patton had a habit of acting with his heart rather than his brain. Besides, Patton couldn’t blame Logan for coming prepared- after all, not many vampires had souls like himself. Most were bloodthirsty killers just like the wizarding world feared.

“Well, here we are.��� Patton announced, opening the door. It was the first time he had shown anyone his room in several hundred years, and Patton was now nervous for a multitude of reasons.

“…oh.” Logan said, staring around in surprise.

Patton gave an awkward chuckle. “I take it’s not what you expected?”

“Well, I did not have time to adequately prepare a hypothesis, but upon second evaluation, it suits you.” Logan gave a slow turn in the middle of the room. The walls were a bright blue, and the room could almost be taken for that of a human child if not for the Birch-wood coffin pressed against the back wall. Logan approached it, softly running his fingers along the white velvet lining.

“Thanks.” Patton gave a proud sort of smile, closing the door to keep Logan’s scent from wafting up. He absolutely reeked of alchemy.

“Is it not claustrophobic to rest in a coffin?” Logan asked, and as he turned back to Patton the vampire could see more questions brimming behind his eyes. Patton knew he wouldn’t be able to help but answer every single one, in the hopes of seeing Logan smile again. Wow, Patton had really fallen fast this time, huh? Usually it took Patton at least a year to build up a crush this strong. But then again, the men of the past didn’t have Logan’s eyes.

“Not really, no.” Patton shrugged, sitting cross-legged on one of his high-rise stools. They were quite nice for perching on when Patton felt like reverting to bat form. “I’m a deep sleeper. Dead as a door-nail.”

“Is that a fact or another pun?” Logan squinted.

“A bit of both.” Patton laughed. “So, I take it wizards don’t have any fancy bedding of their own?”

“No particular magic traditions, no.” Logan confirmed. “Although in our youth my brother and I shared a bunk bed.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to do that.” Patton sighed wistfully. “Ever since humans invented them I always thought it was such a fun idea.”

“Were you around for their invention?” Logan seemed surprised, and Patton could see him trying to recall when bunk beds were invented.

“Yup!” Patton gave a playful grin. This was always one of his favorite parts, when boys tried to figure out his age. “I think that was back in the 60’s or so.”

“The 1960’s?”

“The 1460’s.” Patton corrected, watching Logan’s eyes turn into wide saucers. Patton outright laughed, amused by the adorable bewildered expression on the wizard’s face.

“You’re…” Logan paused, clearly doing rapid calculations in his mind. “…five hundred and sixty years old?”

“Older, actually.” Patton teased, never once having given away his actual age. Logan observed him again, and for a moment Patton worried that his age might drive the cute mortal away.

“…you’re quite attractive for your age.” Logan said finally, causing Patton to laugh again. The young vamp hoped his cheeks didn’t appear as pink as they felt from Logan’s compliment.

“Vampires mature more slowly than humans.” Patton was quick to explain. “I’m not full grown yet, that’s why my fangs haven’t grown in.” Patton opened his mouth, his tongue running along the human-esque teeth.

“I was wondering about that.” Logan admitted, sitting on a stool next to Patton as he inspected his teeth to confirm.

“They’re due to grow in soon.” Patton explained, closing his mouth again. He watched Logan subconsciously rub at his neck, and Patton couldn’t help but feel a bit hurt. “I still won’t bite, though.”

Logan quickly returned his hand to his side, unable to hide the tremor in his voice. “Ah, how does b-blood, ahem, blood transfer work for you creatures?”

Patton winced, not fond of being called a creature. “Well, most vampires just take directly from the source. My parents included, sometimes, but we don’t suck anyone dry. That can be lethal, or turn someone as well. I am against that  and drink blood substitutes, like animal blood. Recently I’ve also taken to blood bags donated from different facilities who want to help our kind. There’s a bit of pressure from my family, however, because while my methods are fine for a baby bat, everybody wants me to find ‘real’ prey once my fangs come in. I’ve been very firm about that though, and the topic has been dropped for the past several years.”

“Is your resistance to direct human blood perhaps a consequence of your humanity being retained after you were turned?” Logan suggested.

“Oh, I wasn’t turned.” Patton corrected. “I was born a vampire. We’re rare, but I’m not the only one.”

“Intriguing.” Logan leaned forward. “Do all vampires communicate with each other?”

“No, not everybody, although we’re mostly aware of each other.” Patton shrugged. “I’ve traveled around a lot with my family, and met vampires of… all kinds. Other supernatural beings as well. Not many wizards though, and I’ve certainly never had one come so close.”

“What makes me special then?” Logan asked, and suddenly Patton was hyper aware of how close they were. When had he leaned in to meet Logan? The two of them were practically nose to nose, but Patton saw no fear behind Logan’s glasses, only unbridled curiosity.

“Well…” Patton found his words drifting off, unable to vocalize the way Logan made him feel. The way that little twitch of his eyebrow indicating Logan was waiting for an answer only sent a thrill up Patton’s spine. He wanted to run his fingers through Logan’s hair, which would be so inappropriate for having just met and yet already Patton felt his hand lifting of its own accord. What would Logan’s lips feel like against his own? Patton found his mind wandering as he imagined pulling Logan closer-

“PATTON!”

Patton jumped, separating quickly from the wizard and turning on his stool to face the pounding on his bedroom door. His face was beet red, both embarrassed about what he had almost done and terrified that he had forgot to lock the door. “Y-yeah?”

“Hurry up darling, we need you for the lunch rush.” That was his mother. She was not a patient woman.

“Coming!” Patton dashed over to his desk, pulling out a quill and cursing quietly when the ink would not flow as quickly as Patton’s superhuman limbs could twitch.

“Perhaps that is my queue to leave.” Logan stood up, only for Patton to suddenly be putting a hand on his chest.

“Wait.” Patton insisted, flapping the card so it would dry faster. He felt bad, having clearly startled Logan with his speed. “Sorry. Um, here.”

Logan took the card, glancing down at the numbers scrawled. “…you have a telephone number?”

Patton laughed, once again amused by Logan’s queries. “Just because I lived through the middle ages doesn’t mean I’m stuck in them, you know.”

“I apologize for my ignorance.” Logan corrected, fanning the card once more before placing it in his pocket.

“Don’t; you’re cute.” Patton booped Logan’s nose, a jolt of happiness running through him when he got that adorable bewildered expression again and wasn’t driven away. “I was thinking maybe you’ll give me a call at a later hour, and we can go somewhere besides my bat-chelor pad.”

Logan took a moment to digest Patton’s pun. “That was atrocious.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Patton teased, slipping his hand once again into Logan’s own. “Here, you can go out the back exit. I doubt my parents will take too kindly to you.”

“There’s a back exit?” Logan said, seeming unfazed by the implication that Patton’s parents were still bloodthirsty killers.

“We’re vampires living on the same street as wizards, of course there’s a back exit.” Patton realized a moment too late that meant perhaps he shouldn’t be showing Logan this passageway, but as he moved the bookcase Patton found he didn’t care. He trusted Logan. More importantly, he liked Logan. A lot. Patton hadn’t felt butterflies this strong in centuries.

“Just around this corner.” Patton pointed, not wanting to risk getting caught in the sunlight on the street.

“Thank you.” Logan took a step forwards, but Patton continued to hold him still by the wrist.

“Sorry, I just…” Patton paused, not sure what he wanted to say but knowing he didn’t want Logan to go. “I’m being silly, but I feel like I miss you already.” And now you’re being desperate. Patton cringed, scolding himself. You’re just going to fall for another mortal and get your heart broken all over again.

Logan was quiet. Then, he took a step forward, leaning forwards to plant a kiss on Patton’s cheek. The vampire gasped, immediately releasing Logan’s wrist to cradle his cheek as if to confirm that happened.

“I understand how you feel.” Logan said softly, before disappearing around the corner.

[pennamepersona]

Live With You

-All tags can be found on the ao3 post: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546492 -

I had a dream the other night

About how we only get one life

“Never liked trains much, myself, too slow and the noise, honestly, it’s all so repetitive and sounds way faster than it is, which, salt getting rubbed in the wound, and that’s not even good seasoning!” Wade says, lounging on the top of a couch that isn’t his, in an apartment that isn’t his, in a building that his own apartment isn’t in, in a borough he also doesn’t live in. “And honestly, I should know, I’ve studied cuisine. Mostly by eating a lot of food, but all those impressive civilizations didn’t have to collapse due to idiotic european invaders who didn’t even appreciate most of the spices they were so eager to find in the first place!”

His rambling is only met with brief silence, and then a soft but fierce exclamation of “fuck!” and the sound of wood snapping.

“You aren’t still doing models, are you?” Wade asks, falling off the back of the couch and just barely landing without pain, then walking over to the kitchen table where he’s met with the sad sight of a former assassin glaring down at splinters of wood, the fingers of both hands covered in paint, which actually looks pretty cool on the metal one, admittedly. Still, though.

“Ain’t it gonna be hell getting the paint out of all those cracks?” Wade makes to pick up Bucky’s metal hand, pausing briefly right before contact is made, a pause so small that no one not trained in killing, in the necessity of awareness of each movement, no one who hasn’t lived through battle and war, would notice. Bucky doesn’t flinch, so Wade grabs his hand, flipping it over and gazing at the intricacy of all its parts.

“Y’know, I understand very little about this whole cool metal arm thing, mostly because I don’t care about this shit and this isn’t the kind of science that Spidey-pie usually goes on about, but it seems like getting paint in it would be bad.” He flicks at some of the dried paint on Bucky’s palm.

Bucky’s hand twitches, very slightly, and it seems to be a simple response to touch, but Wade looks at his face all the same. Bucky’s just looking right back at him, his expression almost entirely resignation with the smallest dash of amusement.

“Should I get a loofa?” Wade asks. “Or! I could do the maid thing, everybody loves that. I should have a spare costume - ”

“Steve will clean it later.” Bucky says, his whole being softening at the thought. Wade coos.

“Aw, precious,” He boops Bucky’s nose. “I’ll leave that for some good ol’ fashioned bonding time between you two smitten popsicles, then.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he looks more amused than annoyed, which is part of the reason Wade hangs out here in the first place.

“For real, though, dude,” Wade says, glancing meaningfully at the pile of broken, mostly painted wood. “Models? Not your style, I’m thinkin’.”

“Steve says it might help with focus,” Bucky says. “Keep my hands busy like I want, without guns.”

“Oh!” Wade cries, which does make Bucky wince, so he lowers his pitch. “You wanna clean guns, don’t you? Take ‘em apart, slip ‘em right back together, all that stuff?”

Bucky pauses, then nods. Wade smacks himself on the forehead, then pulls out a smaller handgun from his side and tosses it down onto the table.

“Don’t know why that didn’t click sooner, honestly,” He says, sliding into one of the chairs and putting his feet on the table. “Go on, it’s been a bit since I cleaned that one. Only brought it ‘cuz Peter-man said low-to-no weapons around the trauma patient, so I had to dig out my littlest babies. You’ve got stuff, right?”

Bucky stares down at the gun, unmoving.

“I shouldn’t.” He says. Wade waits, to see if he’ll elaborate, which doesn’t happen within twenty seconds, so Wade goes on assuming that it won’t happen at all.

“Eh, you’re more comfortable with a weapon in your hand,” He says, waving his own hand as he speaks. “It’s what calmed you down for ages, why stop that now? Not like you’re any more or less likely to kill somebody if you’ve got a gun in hand or just the hand, ya feel? Could murder in cold blood just the same with the hard metal you’ve always got on ya.”

Bucky still doesn’t move, but he does glance at Wade.

“What if I do kill someone with it?” He asks, voice sounding what Wade would classify as both curious and nervous.

“Well, you’ve got the perfect test run right here,” Wade says, gesturing to himself. “Can’t die, pal, you’re not gettin’ a control group like this just anywhere.”

Bucky nods, then, and picks up Wade’s gun.

Nothing at all happens for a brief, charged moment.

Then, Bucky stands up, sets the gun back on the table, and goes to one of the end tables in the living room area, pulls out a drawer, and comes back, carrying cleaning supplies for the weapon.

Wade smiles as Bucky starts to take his gun apart and clean it, allowing for a stretch of silence he thought would be much longer, but then another impossibility happens.

Bucky looks over at him expectantly, and Wade knows that he’s waiting for Wade to start talking again. He still doesn’t look annoyed, hasn’t since the first week or so that Wade knew him, and it’s this moment of two clearly traumatized killing machines comfortably contrasting that lets a tiny knot in Wade’s chest unravel.

“I was wondering, too, if you knew anything about anniversaries,” Wade says, leaning back in his chair, half the legs off the ground. “I’m pretty sure one of mine with my arachnid amore is coming up, and you seem the romantic type. Got any pointers for me, wintogreen?”

“A ring,” Bucky says, a small smile on his face that Wade knows to his bones is mocking.

“Alright, I’ll give, why a ring?” Wade says, narrowing his eyes.

“You talk about him so much, figured you’d be dying to get on down to the courthouse and make your sap nice and legal.” Bucky’s still smiling, and yeah, Wade’s positive that it’s mocking, matches the shithead’s tone perfectly.

“Oh, so now we’re taking cheap shots?” Wade asks, leaning back even further. “Nice to know you’re not even trying, pal.”

“Always used to give my friends shit,” Bucky shrugs. “Why stop now?”

Wade falls backwards with a shout, cracking the back of the chair beneath him, and damn, it’s gonna leave a very small and quickly gone bruise, but even a lasting one would’ve been made up for by Bucky’s laugh.

And I had the week that came from hell

And yes I know that you could tell

Clint’s on what could, very generously, be called sick leave.

He’s not actually off the clock (never is, as an Avenger, which is mildly annoying but so’s most of Clint’s life), but they aren’t sending him on long, high-stakes missions at the moment. He didn’t do anything wrong, didn’t slip up, but he’s been...tired, lately. The higher ups (sometimes he thinks of them as his handlers, but he never really likes thinking that, so he tries not to) have noticed that tiredness, the way it doesn’t affect his physical reactions, but does make him less overall energized during training, during missions, even during what’s basically off time where it’s just him and Nat sparring, which he normally enjoys, but lately…

Well. The last time he got tired like this, he got emotional during a mission. And the last time he got emotional during a mission, actually let himself get invested, he brought Nat in. And that turned out fine (great, actually, in a lot of ways, Clint thinks), but no one wants that to happen again. Well, no one who makes decisions. Clint doesn’t like decisions. He doesn’t love being told what to do, but it’s usually better than thinking about what he’s doing. But when he’s tired, like this, he thinks more, and when he thinks more, he starts looking at what he’s doing, and that just makes things so complicated. He’s been doing all of this too long to overthink it now.

But he’s human, wasn’t tortured or trained or brainwashed or whatever they want to call it, like Nat and Bucky were. Like Wade was, too, and he supposes that last tack on is some part of the reason he’s outside the window of Peter Parker and Wade Wilson’s living room, watching the Winter Soldier and Deadpool play MarioKart.

He’s been keeping an eye on Bucky, while he’s on leave, or whatever, because he might not be close with Cap, might not know Bucky personally, but he appreciates that Cap’s always been trying to do the right thing and that it broke him down a lot when he couldn’t find his best friend (and lover, Clint’s brain helpfully reminds him) and keep him safe. And right off that thought is that Bucky is important to Nat, so maybe he doesn’t actually know Bucky Barnes, but he knows that he’s a worthwhile guy if those two care about him so much. And Bucky’s, like, really traumatized, and Steve tries to give him space, but he worries a lot, talks to Nat about it sometimes, and Clint’s kind of bored now? So he covertly babysits the Winter Soldier.

Definitely not the weirdest thing he’s ever done, but it makes the top ten, which is impressive in a really hard to explain and probably fucked up way.

All of this to explain why he’s watching two guys play MarioKart. Because Deadpool has also been looking after Bucky, but instead of hiding and being, like, stealthy and not dealing with feelings, Wade Wilson just breaks into the apartment that Bucky shares with Steve and talks to him about literally anything in the world.

And it works.

Bucky’s calmer around Wade, more relaxed. He laughs, sometimes, which Clint knows happens with Steve, but not often. He pushes Wade around, doesn’t worry about where his arm is and where weapons are, because Wade does this thing where he just hands a super traumatized former assassin guns and tells him to clean them while Wade chatters on (mostly about Peter, which also makes Bucky kinda smile because it’s hard to hate a guy who’s that in love). Clint may not like thinking too much, but he knows two and two makes four, and that keeping guns away from someone who’s been used to holding them for going on a century isn’t gonna make him less twitchy, and having him get used to feeling them in his hand and not worrying about Suddenly Murder around a guy who literally can’t die is, actually, really fucking smart.

Which could maybe mean that Clint can stop stalking the Winter Soldier and let Deadpool be the cool babysitter. He’s in good hands (Nat would smack him if he said that, but Nat’s version of good hands probably doesn’t actually exist, and also Nat smacks him a lot anyway, so he just assumes it means he might be right and she doesn’t want to say it, which is fine) and Clint’s not actually helping.

But here’s the thing: Clint really wants to play MarioKart.

No one plays stupid games with him much, and he kind of misses it? It happens sometimes, usually when Thor’s around or he’s bribed Nat somehow, but he’s realizing suddenly that he could probably go up to Wade Wilson at almost any time and ask him to play dumb video games and Wade would totally say yes.

And maybe he wants that. To play dumb video games that mean nothing tangible with some fucked up, traumatized dudes who just wanna let loose and be morons for a while because everything just keeps happening all the time and Clint’s fucking tired, and he’d bet his favorite hoodie that Nat stole three years ago and he’s been trying to sneak back for just as long, that those two are too.

So Clint does a stupid thing without thinking and opens the window to goddamn Deadpool’s living room and slides in.

“Hey,” He says. “You guys got another controller?”

You got something I need

In this world full of people, there’s one killing me

“Cap, I get that you’re worried, but why would I know where he is?” Peter asks, fiddling with the door to the apartment, bags weighing down his arms and phone shoved between his ear and shoulder.

“I don’t know, Bucky said something about Wade the other day, so I thought he might know,” Steve says, sounding frustrated. “And it’s impossible to get ahold of him, so I called you.”

“Yeah, makes sense,” Peter sighs, kicking the door. “Wade! I know you’re home, you texted me like five minutes ago, open the door!”

The door opens, which is great because that means Peter can rush in and set down the grocery bags, but is also weird because Wade didn’t open it.

“Hey, Cap?” Peter says, shifting the phone so he’s holding it with his hand instead of his shoulder. “Found him. Don’t worry, he’s safe.”

He then hangs up before Steve can say anything else and stares at Bucky fucking Barnes, who opened the door to his apartment, where Peter lives, with his boyfriend, who is not Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Spider-babe!” Wade cries, leaping over their couch and crushing Peter in a hug, which he returns much more lightly, still really confused as to what the hell is going on.

“Hey, Peter,” Another voice calls, so Peter looks, and yeah, turns out life can get weirder, because Clint Barton is eating pizza on Peter’s couch.

“Alright,” Peter says. “What the hell?”

“Boy’s night.” Bucky says, which just leaves Peter more confused, so he pushes Wade back to look him in the eyes, and whoa, Wade’s not wearing his mask.

Wade always wears his mask around people. Not around Peter, thank god, and he’s worn Wade down to usually not wearing it to dinners with Aunt May, but that’s about it. There are two people in this apartment who are not Peter or Aunt May, and Peter just got home, so the logical step is that Wade’s been not wearing his mask for a while.

It’s so strange, seeing Wade’s perfectly happy face in their apartment when there’s more than just the two of them. Peter’s not complaining, just confused, but if whatever this is makes Wade more comfortable...well, he’s probably not going to object.

“Really, though,” He says. “What the hell’s going on, Wade?”

“Like he said,” Wade points over his shoulder to Bucky. “Boy’s night. We would’ve invited you, but it’s more like ‘Boys Who Have And Will Probably Continue To Kill People And Are Also Probably Traumatized Or Whatever’ night, so you didn’t quite fit the bill, sugar cheeks.”

“No to sugar cheeks,” Peter says, which makes Wade whine, and then he looks at Bucky. “Cap’s looking for you, dude, might wanna call him. Won’t force you, just thought you should know.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, then he nods and goes to grab a small tote bag from the living room and walks out the door with only a small wave to Wade and Clint and Peter’s pretty sure he saw at least one gun in that bag?

“Uh,” He says, squeaking a bit. “Did he have a gun?”

“Little bastard better give it back,” Wade mutters, folding himself against Peter’s back. “Don’t worry, though, baby, he’s just borrowing it. Helps him to get used to being himself again, not some coddled and half-dead trauma patient.”

“He’s right,” Clint says, popping up in front of Peter, mouth still full of pizza. “Thanks for the hospitality, man. Text me, Wade.”

And then Clint’s gone, too, though he leaves through the living room window.

“Um.” Peter says, still not totally sure what’s going on, but really not wanting to stop whatever it is, because he’s almost never seen Clint that comfortable and he’s definitely never seen Bucky express anything but discomfort, anxiety, and dissociative hatred.

“It’s like therapy, but better,” Wade says in his ear, sounding content in a way that Peter’s worked towards for years, and there’s a tiny little prick of what could be a desire for it to only be Peter that makes him this kind of happy, but Peter’s not even remotely interested in indulging that, so he turns around in Wade’s arms and leans against his boyfriend.

“Alright,” He says, simply, giving Wade a quick kiss. “Help me with the groceries.”

Wade does, and it’s a nice little moment of domesticity. It’s probably the unexpected shock to this part of his routine that’s making Peter think, but when he does think for a minute, he realizes that he’s really happy.

He lives with his boyfriend, who is also his best friend, he’s got a Master’s Degree and is considering taking the plunge for his Doctorate, he does freelance science work and research that brings him more joy than he ever thought any job could, he has dinner with his aunt every other weekend, and he’s really, indescribably happy.

He turns to Wade once they’ve finished putting away the groceries and kisses him again, soft and firm.

“I love you,” Peter says, looking right at Wade’s eyes, right into the still-warm contentment there. “A lot. More than I ever knew I was capable of. I’m so happy, Wade, and so much of it is thanks to you.”

He can see Wade’s eyes getting a bit shiny, and when he leans in to kiss him again, Wade’s already meeting him halfway.

“Love you too, Peter.”

And if we only die once

I wanna die with you

It’s strange, Bucky thinks, dropping a shell and slamming into Clint’s kart in a quick maneuver that has both Clint and Wade shouting, to be feeling like this.

He can hear Steve in the kitchen, talking with Natalia about weapons safety for their apartment, can feel Wade’s knee brushing against his leg and Clint’s foot on his shoulder because Clint’s somehow ended up sprawled nearly vertical on the couch and mostly upside down, can see out of the corner of his eye Peter leaning against Wade’s side as he types on his laptop and absently chews on something he has on a necklace.

He knows where all these people are, knows who they are, knows what they’d do if he asked for anything. Knows that, even though this place isn’t his, is Wade and Peter’s, that he’s safe. Knows that he can trust these people with his life, if he needs to, could even trust them with Steve’s.

He crosses the finish line and Wade throws his arms up in the air and Clint groans about how Bucky always plays dirty and he can hear Steve laugh from the kitchen and it’s strange, to be sure, for Bucky to feel like this.

But as he stands up to go get another box of pizza from the kitchen, brushes against Steve as he does, feeling the casual warmth that always comes as Steve loosely pulls him in for a short embrace, a soft press of lips against his own, he also thinks that he wouldn’t mind doing this long enough for it not to be strange.

Clint’s lifting himself onto the table the pizzas are on, sitting cross-legged in front of Natalia and picking each individual mushroom off his pizza and tossing them at her to see if she’ll catch them in her mouth or her hand, and Bucky can see his lack of tension mirrored very directly in her.

Bucky looks back into the living room, Steve’s arm around him, and watches as Wade gently nudges Peter back into awareness and hands him a glass of water that is actually flat sprite, which makes Peter choke slightly and punch Wade’s arm, seeing so easily into the domestic teasing and care that seems to always run so fully through Peter and Wade.

It’s strange, to be so okay, so unworried, but Bucky thinks he likes getting used to it. He leans into Steve, and when his guy drops a kiss onto his head and laughs at Natalia tossing a mushroom back at Clint and hitting him almost perfectly in the middle of his forehead, Bucky smiles and gives himself to permission to do what he’s been trying to do for a while: be happy.

If we only live once

I wanna live with you

[thorsweek-blog]

Glitter and Ribbons

Glitter and Ribbons by @thorbiased on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17257982

As king of Asgard, Thor didn’t have as much time as he would like to visit his friends. He came for the big things, of course, like holidays, the birth of Tony’s daughter Morgan and subsequent birthday parties. But every once in a while, Thor came just to visit.

Thor slipped the hood of his jacket off his finally-long-enough-to-pull-up hair and sighed contently. There was just something about coming home. The lobby of the compound was ever-busy, filled with bustling interns and one cheerful assistant. Thor headed over to her.

Jenna, the aforementioned assistant, looked up from her computer screen with a cookie cutter “customer service” smile. “Hi, how can—“ she choked on her own words. Thor’s smile widened; he really did get a kick out of messing with Midgardians. Why else would he have come in through the main entrance and not the team door? “Hi, Thor.”

“Hello, Jenna,” he said, “The team is in, I hope?”

Jenna nodded. “Yes, sir. They’re on the third floor, as always. But they have a meeting soon. You might not be able to hang out for long.

”That’s alright.” He backed away from the desk and bowed once. “Thank you. I’ll head up now.”

Jenna waved goodbye, and he started towards the elevator. He heard the distinct sound of Jenna squealing under her breath. He’d learned that was called “fangirling”. Peter had taught him so much. Laughing, he jumped into the elevator and hit the button for the third floor.

Thor stepped into the common room moments later to find the team gathered there, dressed to the nines and bustling around. They were so distracted by meeting prep (and if Thor remembered correctly, things were always like this before a meeting; the Avengers were notoriously disastrous), that they didn’t even see Thor standing in the doorway.

Amused, Thor watched the chaos for a few seconds before speaking up. “Hey, guys!” he shouted over the crowd.

The Avengers—though they’d lost a few members to retirement—was still a pretty large group of people/cyborgs. And every single person stopped at the sound of Thor’s voice. A king thing, he supposed.

Peter broke out in a grin. “Thor!” he shouted. Even though he was nearly twenty now, he’d still retained his childlike appearance and attitude, meaning he wasn’t afraid to launch himself into Thor’s arms like a toddler.

Thor grunted under the sudden weight. “Still sticky, Peter?”

“Still sticky.”

Sam, who’d taken Steve’s mantle after the old captain retired, nodded at Thor. “Hey, man. You came crawling back, huh?”

Thor sat Peter down on the ground and chuckled. “I did,” he said with a nod. “Where’s Stark?”

Rhodes laughed. “Diaper duty,” he explained. “Good to see you, man.”

“You, as well. I heard you have a meeting to get to,” he said, looking over everyone’s semi-formal wear. Everyone except Peter, who wore sweatpants and a tee shirt.

Bucky grumbled something under his breath before tugging on the left sleeve of his dress shirt. “Course we do. I wouldn’t be in this get-up otherwise.”

“You look dashing, Barnes,” Natasha said, poking his side. “It’s a meeting to discuss the revisions to the Accords.”

Thor grimaced. “Thank the Norns I’m retired,” he said with a shudder. “I just came by to say hello. It’s been too long.”

“It’s not like you have a kingdom to look after,” Wanda snarked, smirking. “You’re probably just living in the lap of luxury up there.”

Thor chuckled because they all knew that was far from the truth. “How long is the meeting supposed to last? I could probably stick around a little while longer.”

“Hopefully not long,” Natasha said, flipping her hair back over her shoulders. “But we’ll see.”

“The meetings on average last a total of 3 hours and 17 minutes,” Vision reported, unaware of the comedic timing of his statistics. Peter, however, snorted.

Tony entered the room with a squirming 3-year-old Morgan held tight in his arms. He groaned. “She’s smells—“ he started, then his eyes landed on Thor. “Oh, hey, man. Nice to see you.”

“Uncle Thor!” Morgan exclaimed, her face all lit up. Of all Morgan’s uncles, Peter was her favorite, but Thor was a close second. The mini-Stark wriggled out of her father’s grasp and padded across the floor right to Thor.

Thor chuckled and scooped Morgan into his arms. As much as Morgan loved Thor, he matched that and then some. Tony’s daughter was exceedingly popular with the Avengers and with the Asgardians and with anyone who met her. Thor propped her up on his hip and booped her nose.

“Hello, Morgan. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” the toddler said.

Unable to wipe the smile off his face, Thor gently brushed her dark brown curls out of her eyes.

“Say, Mo,” Peter said suddenly, “How would you like to stay with Thor? So that I can go to the meeting.”

Morgan nodded immediately. Thor didn’t object. Babysitting a three year old would be way more fun than going back to New Asgard and dealing with meetings of his own. He’d been working nonstop for weeks—months, even.

“I don’t know if he’d want to, Mo,” Tony said.

Thor quickly shook his head. “No, no. It’s fine. I’d rather stay here than go home. I have my own meetings I’m skipping out on.”

“Please, Mr. Stark?” Peter begged. He clasped his hands together. “Please, please. I have dress clothes.”

“Get dressed, Underoos,” Tony sighed. Peter darted down the hall to his room, and Tony turned back to Thor. “Sure you don’t mind?”

“Positive,” Thor said. He looked over at Morgan, then tickled her belly. “Morgan and I will have a grand time, won’t we?”

Morgan grinned. “Yeah, daddy! We have fun!”

Tony shrugged. “Alright, then. You guys ready to go?”

The Avengers gave Tony a collective nod.

“Pete!” Tony yelled, “We’re leaving whether you’re in the jet or not! Bye, Morgan.”

Tony pressed a kiss to Morgan’s cheek before following the rest of the team into the open elevator. Packed in like sardines, they all waved goodbye to Thor and Morgan. A full second before the doors slid shut, Peter came bounding out of the hallway. He slang a web into the car and pulled himself in before they could leave him.

“Bye, Mo!”

Thor just laughed. “I miss them,” he said with a nostalgic smile. He carried Morgan to the couch in the common room and plopped down with her in his lap. “What have you been up to, my lady?”

“Mommy cut my hair,” she said, reaching up to run her little fingers through her curls.

Thor wrapped a ringlet around his finger. “Oh, it’s very pretty.”

“Thank you,” she giggled. Reaching out to pat Thor’s hair, she tilted her head. “Braid?”

Thor pulled his hair out of its bun, letting it fall to its full length. Thanks to his mishaps on Sakaar, it wasn’t quite as long as it had been, but it nearly reached his shoulders. It was certainly long enough to let Morgan braid. “Of course you can. Come on, I’ll sit on the floor. You sit on the couch so you can reach.”

Thor stood and sat Morgan on the edge of the couch cushions before taking a seat in front of her on the floor. He crossed his legs and shook his hair. “Who taught you how to braid? Mommy?”

“Yep,” Morgan said, running her hands over Thor’s hair. Thor held in a laugh. She handled his hair like a professional. Thor sat back, content, as Morgan pulled his hair into two very sloppy braids. The toddler gasped. “Bows! You need bows!”

Thor opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, she’d already jumped off the couch with a very firm, “Stay!” Thor just watched, entirely amused, as she sprinted down the hall. He heard the distinct sound of a door slamming open, then a few seconds later slamming shut.

“I got bows!” Morgan cried, holding two fistfuls of colorful ribbons and pins over her head.

Thor grinned. “Good! Put them in.”

Morgan brought them over to him as quickly as her short legs could manage. She started tying them all over his hair, both in the braids themselves and in the loose curls she’d missed. It wasn’t long before the mighty god of thunder and king of Asgard was decked out with glittery pink ribbons and pom poms.

Morgan took a step back to admire her work. She crossed her arms. Thor swore she’d never looked more like her mother than in that moment. “Makeup,” she said decidedly before tottering off again.

Thor sat and waited until he heard her scream, “Heavy!” He scrambled to his feet and came after her. He saw her struggling with a large pink box of what he guessed was makeup. Holding back a laugh, he took it from her.

“Thanks,” she said. She looked up at him, then lifted her arms over her head. “Up!”

Thor pulled her up to his hip with one arm, then toted both the little girl and her makeup back to the couch. Once they were situated again, Morgan rummaged through her box of lipstick, blush, and eyeshadow.

“What color?” she asked, holding up three tubes of lipstick.

Thor stroked his beard thoughtfully. He hummed, then ran his finger over them. “This one,” he decided, tapping a light purple shade.

Morgan tossed the other two in her case. “Up,” she demanded, so Thor sat her in his lap. She skillfully applied the lipstick, but Thor could tell it was all over his face. “Good.”

“Now what?” Thor asked, watching her as she combed through the contents of her box.

“Cheeks.”

“Ah.”

Morgan dabbed Thor’s checks with a light pink blush, but she paused. Her gentle fingers brushed the scar over his eye. With a frown, she turned concerned blue eyes up to her uncle. “Hurt?”

Thor swallowed thickly. “No, I’m okay. A mean lady hurt me a long time ago, but I’m okay now. She can’t hurt me anymore.”

Morgan seemed to understand. “I sorry,” she whispered, before kissing his cheek. “All better.”

Thor actually had to blink back tears, but her gave Morgan a grateful smile. “Thanks, Mo,” he said. “Finish my blush?”

Morgan grinned and nodded. She applied the rest of his blush, then started on eyeshadow (a lovely shade of pink) and mascara. “You look good,” she said. “Pretty like mommy.”

Thor laughed. “Thank you, Morgan. Should we take a picture and send to Mommy and Daddy?”

Squealing, Morgan clapped. “Yes! Phone?”

Thor pulled out his phone, then pulled Morgan to his chest. Four years as a permanent resident of Midgard had allowed him to master the art of a “selfie”. Peter for some reason still cringed whenever Thor said that.

“Smile!” Morgan called.

Thor and Morgan grinned, then snapped a picture. Said picture went viral in minutes, after Tony posted it with the caption, “Prettiest princess in all of Asgard ;)”

[lachalaine]

HOW I RUN MY BLOG

SPEED: my god i am slow. i am the slowest of the slow - the slowest slow to ever BE slow. i have threads in here from two months ago and asks from three months ago and it’s not that i don’t have the will nor the muse to answer any of it tbh. it’s more so that i just don’t have time. between juggling work, friends, family and the additional need of trying to make up my overtime hours for the dates i’ll be overseas in august and october, it’s been more than a little difficult to try to keep everything afloat. that’s one of my issues. 

my second issue is that i... tend to try to write in depth threads and responses, as much as possible; and i’m a perfectionist of my work to the worst degree. to the point that if i don’t have the right idea or the right flow of words at the time - my work is not getting posted. at all. in fact, i’d likely rather delete something i spent two hours working on rather than take the risk of posting it only to hate it for the rest of my life. it feels like shame for some reason i don’t ??? get it ???

like i want to try to create variety, but also i want to try to build an actual story. something that will be fun for both me and my partner, that will be a thread that will have some possible semblance of weight to future interactions. and sometimes the ideas don’t come as quickly as i would like. or they do, and then my brain runs out of vocabulary. and throttles a pillow i hate it, i hate that my standards for myself are like this, but my god - it’s the only way i can be confident about my work and know that i’m not wasting mine or anyone else’s time and it just has to be my own standard of perfect or i run myself into the ground with my anxiety and have a minor breakdown and that’s the worst thing i can do to myself, honestly asdbhsabdha !!!

REPLIES: i write long replies, unfortunately. though i never expect people to match ( and honestly it fluctuates; sometimes it’ll be long, sometimes short, so there’s no pressure or requirement at all really ) , and all i care about at this point is i’m given something to work with and it’s not the kind of thing where it’s a reply for the sake of a reply. i also would prefer to have threads where people add stuff to the threads, and like... i don’t really have to run the show by myself to keep things interesting? that would be nice tbh. in terms of length however, i will likely do at least two or three paragraphs, because one paragraph threads don’t quite encompass everything my muse tends to feel, and sometimes it can get longer - meaning like... two word document pages long. though that type of novella is usually reserved for people i know can match it, otherwise, i try my best to keep it as succinct as possible. 

my brain sorta has this.... organization thing going tbh? where its like i can only do ask replies today, or i can only do threads today, or i can only do headcannon or ooc stuff today. sometimes it even goes by verse, where it decides if it can manage pokemon threads, or main threads, or fate threads, etc. which i understand isn’t quite the... best way to go about things, and it’s weird. very, very weird. but that’s also really the only way i’m able to sort of figure out where to put my attention nowadays. so everything gets replied to in truth, it just. it takes a while. :c :c :c please be patient with me, i’m trying my best!! 

STARTERS: i hold starter calls a lot. sometimes it can be every two months or it can be ( most likely ) when i get a new influx of followers and i want to interact with them. though it can tend to take a while for me to get them out, even if i have them on a list. usually its because i want to try to create starters that will be interesting enough to keep going ( which is sorta my overall theme with everything on here, if you’ll notice ) and sometimes the ideas don’t quite click. or, like with the organization thing, my brain needs to be able to conjure up starters in particular for anything to work. 

more often, i will do inbox calls instead, and those i do personalize according to the muse i’m sending it to. that way if the other mun replies with a response i like, i can continue it into a thread, so that’s sorta like a reverse starter call in that way, i guess. i always clear out my starters owed though, i promise. it just takes me a good while. 

INBOX: sucks in sharp breath 

i’m gonna be way honest here - once upon a time, i didn’t get that many asks at all, so i thought like, if i got like 20 of them, that already was a heck ton and i had to get the number lower. and then somehow i got an influx in asks a few weeks ago and that number jumped to thirty. and then it kept going until forty. and then i thought ‘okay you know what, so long as its not 50, you can still get it down, you’re good!!’  

let me tell you - i am at 76 right now and i am confused as all fuck as to how it got to this point. BUT I HONESTLY DON’T MIND. i love getting asks !! even if i take a while to answer them, because like the starters, i try to give it an actual moment and not a quick snip of an interaction that doesn’t matter in the long run. so asks? same length - two or three paragraphs and more, nothing less. and i tend to do anons first because i know whoever sent it might check back and i don’t want them scrolling through the whole blog thinking they missed it, but tbh, i try to do my older asks first overall. and sometimes there are some asks that require a lot of emotion on jackie’s part, so those get long and take a wee bit longer than most, but i always try to make the wait worth it. luckily, things appear to be going kinda well on that end tbh. i have a good pace set up so i don’t feel like i’m drowning in stuff, and if i could just have ONE DAY WHERE I CAN WORK, I CAN CUT BACK THAT NUMBER EASY, I SWEAR TO GOD. 

i just. i need that day dashdhabdha

but on that note, please. feel free to send me anything you like at any time, i’ll get to it asap, even if i have six asks for you in my inbox still from past memes. and tbh, i’d rather i always have the option available to answer that particular interaction rather than leave it so it never happens no matter what. so always remember, as always - 

FEEL FREE. 

SELECTIVITY: severely selective. to the nth degree. i follow about less than 180 rp blogs because the rest are aesthetics at the moment, though i’m always looking for more. i try to find blogs with muns that i feel really care about their muse as a whole, and blogs that have a pretty good grasp on writing. i decide whether or not i can make jackie work with them somehow, and then i sorta check the writing itself to make sure i can jive with it, and then that’s when i decide to follow. 

i have. a very particular standards with other blogs that need to be checked off tbh? because i want these interactions to actually matter. so besides the writing, honestly the thing that rings out the most for me would be their passion and their ideas. like, i want to make sure i can create something new with this mun so i just try to see if they will match what i give them with their own ideas, because coming up with a majority of the plots on my own is the most exhausting thing, and i can’t do that consistently. if i can get that sense from them that they’re willing to try to push their own ideas forth, that’s really what makes me follow them back asap !! on the other hand, i also check the mun - make sure they’re not the type i’ll likely have trouble with down the line. i check tags, i check ooc posts, i check everything. i am a self proclaimed blog stalker and tbh, its the only way i keep my dash in check. and so far its worked out very well so it’s all good on my end, even if that means less people to interact with.

quality over quantity, always. 

WISHLIST: FIGHT THREADS. POTENTIAL ROMANCE THREADS. FWB THREADS??? though i am selective on that one. SMUT THREADS FOR ROMANCE PEEPS. PLATONIC THREADS. ADVENTURE THREADS. HARD TO GET THREADS. CRIME THREADS. JACKIE FUCKING UP YOUR MUSES LIFE THREADS. ANGST. MURDER. HEARTBREAK. INJURY. ROAD TRIPS. NAPS. LATE NIGHTS IN THE CITY. JAIL. HAUNTED HOUSES. MUSIC FESTIVALS. MUSIC COLLABORATIONS. FATE VERSE THREADS. POKEMON THREADS. PERSONA THREADS. I DON’T CARE, I LOVE IT ALL, JUST GIVE IT TO ME, AND IF YOU HAVE A PARTICULAR THING YOU WANNA TRY, LEMME KNOW AND I’LL MAKE A VERSE FOR IT NO PROBLEM !!! 

but also i have a wishlist here :”> and i will love you if you boop me for it, thank you !!

HONEST NOTE: i love all my mutuals. i love all my non mutuals. i love people that like my posts. i love people that reblog my posts. i love when people feel comfortable enough to plot with me. when they’re comfortable enough to send me stuff randomly. when they’re patient with my sloth like tendencies and still they find the muse to respond to my threads even if a whole month has passed. i love people that are understanding and don’t mind the wait, because i do promise that i don’t delete anything. it’s there, and its waiting, and its only taking a while because i want to provide you with something good. something that will make you smile, and make you want to pursue the interactions with my muse. i want all this to mean something, and its never because i’m bored of you or your muse or our thread.

my brain just has a filing cabinet i never asked for. 

but honestly, come plot with me, just boop me randomly, send me all the things no matter what it is. i promise you i will LOVE IT and in truth, NOTHING at all makes me HAPPIER than that. and though fair warning i am exhausted a lot which impacts my response speed ooc - it’s honestly never because i don’t want to reply. my timezone as a whole is shitty and my energy levels doubly so, and i want to be sure that once we start talking or plotting, i can give you as much energy as i can spare, as much energy as you deserve. not five minutes of conversation and then i pass out. so if that means taking some time to respond, please understand that i’m trying my best. 

please be patient with me, that’s all i ask. and i promise you, i will make it up to you. as best as i can. as fast as i can. no matter what. 

thank you, i love you, have a amazing day xx 

TAGGED BY: S T O L E N

TAGGING: anyone who actually went through and read this as a whole heckie !! I JUST NEEDED TO GET THIS OUT IN CASE ANYONE WAS CONCERNED BECAUSE I SLOW, PLEASE UNDERSTAND. I’M TRYING MY BEST I LOVE EVERYONE WITH ALL MY HEART AND SOUL AND ENERGY I PROMISE T.T

[starwrite-er]

Poster Boy [Chapter 6] - Poe Dameron x Reader

A/N: As you can see, I got a little carried away ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

Tags: @vanessawolfblue @kxylo-ren @britishteahater @umbrellabrass

 "It’s still peaceful here. There’s been no sign of First Order activity since we arrived, but with the attack scheduled for tomorrow, I’m worried,“ I tell the General through the holopad. "The locals seem to have gotten used to us being here, though. I’ve told you how they were kind of suspicious of us at first, but I think now all of the pilots have reunited with their families, people trust us.”

 "Stay on high alert, Captain. There’s no knowing what the First Order may do,“ The woman tells me. I nod, preparing to shut off the connection. "But, Y/N, have you met with your family?”

 I’m taken aback by the question and look away as I try to answer. “I-I…” I sigh, guilty. “No. I haven’t. I’ve… tried to avoid them these past couple days.”

 "Take my advice and find them before the battle. You never know when they might be gone.“ General Organa’s words are heavy and hold hidden truths. I tell her I will, and with that end the message.

 I step out of the Resistance tent pitched on a small hill overlooking the village we’re staying in on Pamarthe. An old friend of me notices me finally emerge and makes her way over.

 "We still in the clear?” Niyele asks, hand on her hips.

 "It looks like it. The rest of the Resistance is ready at a moments notice, though.“ I tell her. She sighs, running a hand through her dark, curly hair. We walk down the hill in silence, the weight of the upcoming attack on our minds.

  It was nice being back after so long. I didn’t realise that I actually missed the dark rocks and crashing waves of Pamarthe. I’m not surprised my parents settled down here after moving around so much.

 "Y/N! I sailed around the island by myself!” I turn as the little girl shouts, hurtling towards me. Keipii almost crashes right into me, catching herself.

 "All by yourself? You really are brave!“ The Pamarthen girl grins, her eyes twinkling as she bounces on the balls of her feet, her mass of wavy black hair windswept. I crouch down to her level and poke her playfully in her belly, making her giggle. "We’ll make a fine pilot of you yet.”

 "I did have a little bit of help from my dad…“ She admits, rocking back and forth and she tries to hide her embarrassed blush.

 "Everyone needs help sometimes. That’s why we fly in squadrons, after all.” I smile at her reassuringly, standing back up. I spot Chertan talking with his parents and wave at him. He spots me and ends the conversation, jogging over.

 "What are you doing?“ Niyele whispers angrily at me, frantically pulling her hair back into a bun on the top of her head. I roll my eyes at her. She sees my smirk and glares. "What?”

 "Any updates, Captain?“ Chertan asks me, not paying attention to my friend.

 "No, but I want everyone on high alert. I’m happy they’re enjoying themselves, but break’s over and I want everyone to be able to take off the second we need them,” I tell my teammate, who nods in acknowledgment. I cast a sideways look at Niyele before continuing. “Go tell everyone else, and take Niyele with you. She needs to make more friends anyway, and I have something I need to attend to.”

 Chertan shrugs and gestures for Niyele to follow him. She trails behind, glancing back at me, her dark skin tinted red. I smile after them, before turning and walking in the other direction, the seven-year-old at my heels.

 "Niyele likes him. She’s so obvious,“ Keipii pouts, seemingly unamused. I snort at the girl’s bluntness. "She’s not even gonna see him again unless she joins the Resistance like the rest of us.”

 "Oh? And when are you joining?“ I raise an eyebrow at the young girl.

 "The moment I’m able to!” She grins, before looking at her feet shyly. “I wanna be like you…”

 "I have a feeling you’ll be better than I’ve ever been.“ I smile fondly at Keipii.

 "But you’ve been around the galaxy countless times! You lived on Coruscant before coming here, so you’re a top pilot, too, and you’re a Captain in the Resistance!” The tanned girl groans, throwing her head back as she talks.

 "I mean, you’re not wrong, but how do you even know that? We only met a week ago.“ I laugh, mildly confused. She avoids my gaze.

 "Uhh… where are we going?” Kaipii changes the subject quickly, looking around our surroundings.

 "Well, I’m going to see my parents. You, young missus, are going home for now.“ I tell her, leaning over to get to her height. She pouts at this, but her disappointment dissolves as I boop her nose. The Pamarthen girl giggles before agreeing to go home. I watch her run off just to make sure she’s okay before continuing on to my parent’s house. As I walk, I notice my pilots have changed into their flight suits as I had ordered. Good.

 I walk slowly, trying to figure out what I’ll say to my parents after all this time. My father will understand. He might even defend me. My mother, on the other hand… Maker, I’d rather take on a fleet of TIE Fighters that deal with her lecturing.

 My stomach drops as I hear a familiar whirring high above me, followed by an explosion in the distance. Oh, God.

 They’re early.

 I should have kept my damn mouth shut.

 I sprint to my X-Wing, all prior thoughts thrown aside. I run faster as BB-09 finds me, my fellow pilots all doing the same mad dash as I am.

 "This is Ivory Leader, do you read me?” I speak over the comms as I take to the air. Damn it. I knew I had a bad feeling about this.

 "What’s happening over there?“ Someone back at base quickly responds, concern lacing their voice.

 "It looks like the First Order likes to be early.” I growl, already chasing TIE Fighters.

 "Sending backup now.“ They inform me. It’s a relieving piece of news, but we’re not in the clear yet.

 "How’s everyone holding up?” I ask my ragtag squadron of Pamarthens. Everyone answers with ‘okay’ and 'fine’. “Keep them off the village. Reinforcements will be here soon.”

 I push aside the unusual nerves, instead focussing on destroying as many TIE Fighters as possible. I capture the attention of as many enemy pilots as possible, luring them into the trap.

 "Captain, you’ve got five TIEs on you.“ One of the pilots tells me nervously.

 "I know; that’s the plan.” I reply shortly. With TIEs following close behind, I nosedive towards the crashing waters of the Pamarthen ocean. I take a deep breath and hold it as the rough waves come ever closer, eyes half lidded as I trust my instincts, blocking out the fearful calls of my teammates. At the last possible moment, I straighten out, the bottom of the wings almost clipping the salty waters below. I loop back up as the TIE Fighters fail to change direction in time, resulting in them plummeting beneath the waves and crashing against the jagged black rocks below. The fifth TIE realises what is happening and narrowly avoids the fate that the others had, but I’m behind them and shooting before they can do anything.

 "Well, I’ll be damned.“ I can almost hear Chertan shaking his head at the risk I took as those who saw whoop. A proud smile curls across my face.

 Some flyboy in his TIE starts to follow me, quickly receiving backup from one of the others in the fleet as I draw them into the ever erupting geyser field just outside the village. I weave the X-Wing in between the spouts of water, not wasting time as I gracefully exit the rocky field, leaving the wrecks of the two TIEs to be tossed through the air on the powerful jets of water.

 "How nice of you to join the party.” I grin, spotting our reinforcements speeding across the water.

 "Better late than never, right?“ Poe replies, his black and orange X-Wing soaring past and truly showing off just who he is.

 I find myself flying close by to the man as we keep an eye out for each other, making quick work of any Fighters that we can’t shake off ourselves. Of course, I do plenty of the work myself.

 "Oh, shit,” I say aloud as two First Order Assault Landers come into sight, protected by a number of TIE Fighters. “The villagers won’t be able to protect themselves against all those Stormtroopers. We cannot let them reach the ground.”

 On my command, half of our forces focussing their fire on the TIEs, shooting at the Assault Landers through chinks in the armour when possible.

 In a wordless agreement, I fire my missiles at the closer Assault Lander the moment the number of escorts thin out. My missiles hit the general area in which the ship’s engine is located, whilst Poe’s hits the bottom of the front of the ship. The grey First Order transport ship smokes, falling out of the sky and hitting the black rocks below, bursting into angry flames.

 The other Lander takes advantage of the destruction and our momentary distraction, landing just inside the village. Soldiers clad in white armour rush out and take cover, preparing for attack. A few brave villagers reveal themselves, valiantly fighting against the Troopers. They’re trying their damnedest, but it’s not a fair fight.

 "Let’s even the odds a little,“ I murmur, taking down another TIE as I begin to descend. I speak up. "Someone cover me for a moment.”

 "Hey, what are you doin-“ I don’t hear the end of Poe’s sentence as the second my X-Wing has touched down, I leap out, helmet cast aside, blaster in hand as I swerve around the corner and into the thick of the land based fight.

 There’s fire and death on the wind. Loose hair whips around my face as bodies fall all around me. I spare a glance to the sky, watching the black and orange X-Wing twirling through the air, shooting down any TIE that dares come close.

 Two Stormtroopers crumple to the ground, dead by my hand as I duck behind the cover where the other Pamarthen fighters are.

 "Get the younglings and elderly out of here. Anyone who is willing to fight can join me.” I order them. Two women and one of the men nod, running in the direction of the larger family homes. The other five watch me, readying their weapons. I look over to the other side of the street to see another four villagers waiting my order. A hum alerts to another Assault Lander setting down. How many of these faceless soldiers are left?

 The wreckage of a TIE Fighter crashes in the street, skidding by the alley I’m hiding in. I take that as our cue, stepping out and opening fire.

  Hiding behind fallen rubble from the buildings that lined the street, myself and the villagers do our best to hold off the oncoming attackers. I shoot at a couple of Troopers before ducking back down, back against the stone and breathing heavy. Starfighters watch over us from the air.

 "Heads up!“ I yell, spotting a slightly charred Trooper - must have dragged itself from the TIE wreckage - sneaking up behind one of the men. I fire before the Stormtrooper can do any damage. The man look in my direction and nods in thanks. My heart almost stops as I look him in the eyes.

 "Go! I can hold them off!” I shout over the noise of the battle. A young couple beside me exchange a look, debating whether or not to stay. I make the choice for them, shoving them away from the fight, urging them to run. I watch the remaining three follow soon after them.

 I volt over my cover, approaching the two Landers. A Stormtrooper grabs me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides as they wrap their arms around my torso. One of his comrades comes over to shoot me, but he comes to close. I kick him back with both my feet as I’m held up by the one behind me. He trips backwards and I slam my foot into the knee of the Trooper holding me. I hear the snap above the noise of the fighting. He cries out and falls, and I’m quick to shoot them both while they’re down. I duck into another alley, realising that the Stormtrooper numbers have thinned out considerably. Though, I suppose the same could be said for my side.

 The orange jumpsuit just makes me stick out like a sore thumb, but I can’t ditch it completely. I quickly unzip it, shrugging it off my shoulders and tying the sleeves around my waist, leaving my arms freer to move. I glance down at the corpse closest to me and spot a belt of small bombs adorning the white armour. I snatch one and peer around the corner to check my target.

 I run out into the middle of the street and as close as I deem safe to the nearest Assault Lander as possible. I activate the bomb and lob it into the open carrier ship, quickly turning to fire at the three troopers just in the entrance of the other ship. I see one of them wearing another of the ammunition belts, and I make sure to hit it.

 I crouch, covering my face with my arms as the ships explode. Scrap metal and fire rains down around me, roaring. Hesitant, I stand slowly, facing the flaming wrecks. Holy shit.

 I make the mistake of thinking all the Stormtroopers in this area are gone, as I come face to face with a white-and-black-clad hand when I turn around. I stumble, lip split, and trip over rubble, falling back and slamming against the hard, rocky ground. The Stormtrooper pins my hands above my head with one hand and holds a blaster to my temple with the other, preventing my movement by straddling me.

 "And here I thought all Stormtroopers were supposed to shoot first, ask question later,“ I spit my words, glaring daggers at solider. The metallic taste of blood drips into my mouth. "At least buy me dinner first.”

 Someone shoots the Stormtrooper, but only hits one of his arms. Suddenly able to move my limbs again, I slam my head against his helmet, taking him by surprise. I seize the opportunity to shove the Trooper off me, ignoring my throbbing skull. Without my blaster, I improvise, slamming my boot against the soldier’s barely exposed neck. The crack is all I need to hear.

 And then there was silence. Silence. The only sound I hear is the sound of my breathing and the crackling flames.

 "I told you to go.“ I say, picking my discarded and scratched blaster.

 "I didn’t go far.” A man says to me. I sigh, forcing myself to look at him. I go to speak, but the words catch in my throat and I struggle to get them out.

 "Thank you, dad.“ I smile weakly. He mirrors my look as we stand amongst the smouldering rubble off the ruined street, the sudden silence almost deafening.

 A blaster bolt whizzes by me and I hear a muffle groan behind me. I barely have time to look back and see the First Order soldier fall before I’m practically tackled by someone in an orange pilot suit.

 "The hell were you thinking?” Poe grips my shoulders, leaning down slightly to look at me at eye level. His brows are furrowed and his stare is intense. His gaze flickers across my face, from my cut lip to my aching forehead. I wince as he brushes the pad of his thumb over a cut I wasn’t even aware I had. He speaks more softly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

 "It’s nothing.“ I tell him, shrugging him off and dismissing my injuries. I begin to walk away when I spot villagers and pilots peering around the corners of buildings. I hesitate, looking back at my father for guidance.

 "You put on quite a show.” It’s Poe who speaks instead, explaining their presence.

 "Everyone else is at the east road out of here.“ My dad tells me. The adrenaline is wearing off and I’m made aware of the aching and stinging all over my body. I swallow thickly, taking a deep breath, preparing to face the distraught villagers.

[operationrainfall]

I will fully admit I probably should have played Cuphead much, much sooner. Especially given that I bought it on a Steam sale a year or more ago. But there was a small part of me that was holding out hope, perhaps unreasonable at the time, that Cuphead might come to a console I own. Namely, the Nintendo Switch. Sure, that was seen as a pipe dream by many, until a breathtaking Nintendo Direct that totally took us all by surprise. Once they announced it was coming to Switch, I knew I had no more excuses, and I gladly agreed to review it on Nintendo’s latest console. The question is, was this challenging boss rush worth the wait?

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Though I won’t recap all the elements of the game, which were done already in our Steam review of the game, I will give a quick summary. The game takes place in a cartoon world full of mischief and whimsy. You get all the main story beats from cutscenes, both still and animated, that explain the basic plot. Things go wrong quickly after Cuphead and Mugman try to beat the Devil at his own game in his personal casino, and whether old hornhead cheated or not, the two brothers are quickly indebted to him. Specifically, they are forced to become his bag men and collect the soul contracts from others who tried to welch on deals with the devil. Thus begins our story, and though there isn’t much plot or characterization other than this, it’s still a wonderfully enjoyable adventure.

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Cuphead is split into 3 sections – Run & Gun levels, Mausoleum challenges and of course the boss fights. While the latter is where the meat of the game is experienced, the other two shouldn’t be ignored either. The Run & Gun levels are spread through each world except the last, and provide a meaty platforming challenge. Frankly these were harder for me than some of the boss fights, mostly cause I tried to get a great score every time. That involves parrying a certain amount of times, collecting all the coins, using your super meter and not taking any damage. As you might expect that last part is a challenge, especially since each of these stages is flooded with nasty critters trying to maim you. Though I liked these sections for the diversity they provided, I felt they paled in comparison to the others. Their one saving grace was that the coins you find in each can be used to buy important upgrades.

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By contrast, the Mausoleum challenges are fun and tricky platforming sections that never wore out their welcome. That could be cause there’s half as many of them as there are Run & Gun, only a mere three, and it might also be because they each take place in a small room as opposed to a long stretch of areas. Your goal is to keep hordes of nasty ghosts away from the chalice in the center of the screen until the clock runs out. I liked this since you can’t kill the ghosts, you instead have to parry them into oblivion. The parry mechanic is well used here, since the whole point is to bounce off each ghost to send them back to the afterlife. Best of all, by beating each Mausoleum you’re rewarded with a powerful super attack you can use during battle. There’s a standard mega laser beam, temporary invincibility and the ability to control two Cupheads simultaneously. I admit I only used the first 2 super arts, and found they did the job. But in case that wasn’t enough, you are also able to customize your loadout with different bullet shots and charms.

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At the beginning you’re stuck with a basic linear shot, the Peashooter, but you eventually will have 6 different shots to choose from. You are able to equip 2 shots for each boss fight or Run & Gun section, and can switch between them with the L button. My personal favorites were the powerful Spread shot and the homing Chaser, but they all work well. There are also 6 Charms, and they serve very distinct purposes. There are some that increase your starting health, others passively charge your super meter and more. I found the most useful was the Smoke Bomb charm, which turned Cuphead and Mugman’s basic dash into one with temporary invincibility. Much like the shots, the charms all have their place, and each also has a slight negative condition to balance them out. The extra health makes your bullets weaker and the dash makes you invisible for a second. Put together with the Super Arts, these help make the game feel balanced and diverse, allowing different playstyles to win. And that’s a good thing, since the game has some challenging boss fights.

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Now, I’m gonna assert right now that while Cuphead is a challenging game, it’s nowhere near as challenging as people were saying it was. That could be because I grew up playing games like Contra, or it could be because I’m stubborn as hell, but either way I found the game very well balanced. Sure, there are some fights that are incredibly difficult or tricky to get through unscathed, but there’s also several that were downright easy. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say any boss is a pushover, there are some that definitely feel more like a mini-boss. These would only take a handful of tries to beat as opposed to dozens. That’s not a bad thing though, since they serve as welcome breaks from the more hectic battles. And given that each boss fight has different phases and dramatic transformations to mix things up, that’s probably for the best. I’d say the hardest fights for me were the following – Grim Matchstick, Baroness Von Bon Bon, Rumor Honeybottom and King Dice. Compared to these, the other bosses are much easier to deal with. And yes, that includes the final fight against the Devil himself.

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Besides the standard boss fights, which involve running and gunning, there are also aerial battles. These are essentially the same, except that you’re forced to only use 2 specific shots and are locked into a specific Super Art. The other change is that in place of your dash move, you instead hold X to shrink to teeny tiny size. This makes it very easy to avoid bullets, but it also dramatically reduces the range of your attacks. I actually really enjoyed these fights, and found some of my favorite bosses there, including Cala Maria, a mix between Betty Boop and the Little Mermaid; Wally Warbler, an insane Coo Coo Clock brought to life; and Dr. Kahl, the twisted love child or Robotnik and Wily nobody wanted.

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It goes without saying that the art in Cuphead is fantastic, but I didn’t realize how fantastic until I played it. The screenshots I took while playing don’t do the art justice, as part of the beauty is how fluid and detailed the animation looks in motion. Best of all, the game ran really smooth portably on the Switch, and only had occasional minor bouts of slowdown. The only real downside to the art is that sometimes stages were so detailed that my character could get hidden behind a piece of foreground, which could be problematic in especially dire fights. The music and sound effects are also transcendent, featuring larger than life big band jazz tunes that really liven things up. I loved how all the sound effects were bold and served a strategic purpose, usually indicating an incoming attack or new battle phase.

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There’s a tremendous amount of things I loved in the game, but even here I found some nitpicks. While I liked the idea of parrying pink objects, they often felt forced and didn’t really fit the flow of battles. Sure there were some fights that were the exception, such as facing the slot machine frog and parrying his lever, or bouncing off Werner Werman’s blocks to avoid his soup tank, but there were plenty more that were just irritating. Especially since you often have to jump into incoming objects to parry them, which goes against every instinct I’ve learned over 30 years of gaming. I almost wish parrying inflicted damage to foes or something more intuitive, and it wouldn’t be a problem except that getting a good score requires parrying at least 3 attacks. And though I loved the music in the game, there were a few rare occasions it was so loud I didn’t hear a sound cue to avoid an incoming attack. Lastly, though I loved all the bosses in the game, I don’t feel the final boss was epic enough. In many ways the second to last boss fight against King Dice felt like it should have been the final battle. Other than that, I really loved every other aspect of the game.

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I managed to beat Cuphead in about 3 days, though I spent several more getting all its achievements. Which is something I rarely do, unless I truly love a game. So if that doesn’t tell you everything, I don’t know what will. It’s a wonderful indie gem, and the only thing it lacks is a art gallery and music select. Studio MDHR has shown tremendous talent in this first outing, and I can’t wait to see more from this creative and dynamic universe.

It’s even worth getting the bad ending…

IMPRESSIONS: Cuphead on Switch I will fully admit I probably should have played Cuphead much, much sooner. Especially given that I bought it on a Steam sale a year or more ago.

[kyberled]

Flashback

Send “Flashback” to have your muse see one of my muse’s bad memories || Accepting

(Length warning - 5204 words, cut put in place to save your dashes)

The roof of the inn leaked. He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised; the entire building had screamed ‘cheap’, and the bags over the windows (’to keep the weather out’, he’d been told, but the fact that they were opaque had not been lost on him. He hadn’t complained then, and certainly wouldn’t, now (at least, not much), but it didn’t change the fact that there was water dripping onto his nose. His brow furrowed as he glared at the far wall.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting.

He groaned as he sat up, stretching his arms over his head. He glanced up to the ceiling, and a fat, icy droplet plopped onto his face. He flinched, and grumbled as he wiped it away. A metallic rattling drew his attention to the corner of the room, where R7 was shivering and holding a scrap of cardboard over his dome. He beeped sadly at Braig, swivelling his sensors in the ex-Jedi’s direction.

“I know, I know, I’m cold, too.” Braig sighs as he stands, shaking his head vigorously to send water droplets flying in every direction (much to Tess’s chagrin, and the little rabbit droid let out an irritated chirp).

“Rust!” Tess whined, wiping frantically at his head and shaking back and forth in an off-kilter mimicry of Braig’s own attempt to dry off.

“You’re not gonna rust, Tess,” Braig said, rolling his eyes and pulling the hair tie off of his wrist with his teeth before pulling his shaggy hair from his eyes. “We got you and R7 coated a few rotations ago, back at that one station, you know, the, uh–” He snaps his fingers in the air, scrunching his face up and pressing his forehead into the space between his thumb and forefinger as though that might help him remember.

“The one with the crushed-ice machine,” he gave up with a sigh, shaking his head and keeping his face pointed down as he reached for the door.

“Rust.” Tess sulked again, at the lowest audible range his speakers would allow. Braig paid him little mind. The door opened with a creak almost before Braig’s fingers even touched the knob. He blinked, frowned, patted at his jacket until he was certain he could feel his sabers under his jacket, and checked both holsters to ensure that his blasters hadn’t been lifted.

Still both there.

He glanced to R7, who whizzed over to him with a whistle and opened one of his compartments to reveal a neatly-hidden stack of credits. Braig grinned, popping his eyebrows for just a second before R7′s compartment closed and the ragged trio stepped out into the mould-scented hallway. If the puddles on the floor were anything to go by, the entire building was in disrepair. Braig wrinkled his nose at the sorry state, then turned back to his door. He closed it, then gave it a nudge with the knuckles of his loosely-curled fist. It creaked, and, with a groan of protest and a little more pressure, it opened again.

Braig scowled, pursing his lips into a thin line of displeasure.

“Kriffin’ barve’s just lucky the important stuff’s hidden away on the ship,” he muttered, pushing a few stray locks from his face (though he knew they’d fall back into place as soon as he started walking, again). He stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and set off down the hall, giving a nod to signal for his two droids to follow (though they were already all but clinging to his ankles at every step; places like this were magnets for scrappers, and neither of them wanted to be torn apart and sold on the invisible market). Braig sniffed, still blinking sleep from his eyes and craning his neck against the moisture-borne stiffness that was settling itself oh-so-neatly in his muscles. His head throbbed, and he ground the heel of his left hand into his temple as his right fished in the inner pocket of his jacket for the cold metal flask that he kept closer to his heart than a beloved childhood toy.  

It made things easier.

The cap came off with a pop, and the spout was cold against his lips. A nice, if not somewhat jarring, contrast. He tipped the flask back to prompt more of the foul-tasting liquid down his throat. He was about to descend down the stairs, when a slew of voices caught his attention. Normally, such a thing wouldn’t have phased him, but the Force was being particularly insistent that he take heed. His foot hovered over the top stair, and he raised one eyebrow as he stood otherwise frozen in place at the top of the stairs. From where he stood, he could just barely make out the light from the open doorway. At his feet, Tess peered around Braig’s leg, clutching onto the rough material of his trousers, and R7 rolled forwards just enough to nudge at Braig’s side. He paid them little mind, instead craning his head to listen, and felt his blood curdle even as it froze as he understood what was being discussed.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen him,” that was the inkeeper’s voice, nasally and phlegm-filled, and yet somehow dry and raspy at the same time. There was a faint rustling sound that Braig could only imagine was the reptilian scratching at those loose, half-shed scales that framed his face like  scraggly facial hair, sending a few flakes falling like fetid snow to the mouldy floor. “Staying up on the second floor, he is. Had a couple of droids with him, too - they worth anything to ya?”

“Negative,” came a second voice, and Braig had to take a half-step back to keep his balance, remembering at the last second that the floor creaked (that was always the mistake they made in holos), and to instead prop his weight against R7 before he could give away their position.

He knew that voice.

He knew that voice very well, had, at one point, known it almost better than his own.

Even worn down by age, by decades sloughed off long before they were due, he knew that voice.

“We’re not interested in clan– in droids,” the voice corrected itself, adding a cleared throat for emphasis. “Just the Jedi.”

Braig turned and ran. He hesitated just long enough to scoop Tess into his arms (rabbit droids were not, ironically enough, known for their speed or agility) and bolted down the hallway. There was no point for stealth now, not with that slagbrained inkeep pointing the soldiers in his direction, not when he could hear their feet pounding up the rickety staircase (he felt a bit of grim satisfaction when he heard the wood splinter beneath a plastoid boot, and a string of Mando’a curses as the soldier struggled to free himself from the poor construction). The whole reason Braig had paid for this dilapidated piece of trash was because he’d been assured of the anonymity of the patrons would be closely guarded, and, having judged by the signatures of those he had sensed bustling in the background, Braig had believed it. How foolish he had been.

And now, I won’t even get in on that ‘cheap’ breakfast, he thought to himself, trying desperately to bring some light to his otherwise desperate situation. The Force let out a blood-curdling shriek to his left, and he threw himself into the right wall just in time to avoid being pierced by a bright green blaster bolt. Tess squeaked at the sudden impact, though Braig wasn’t sure if it had been prompted by fear or discomfort. He didn’t stop to think about it. He kept running, legs and lungs working to put as much distance between himself and the soldiers as he could. Another bolt was heralded through the Force, and he pivoted abruptly, amethyst blade screaming to life in his hand as he did so. The two vivid streaks of light connected, sending the bolt ricocheting off to the side. R7 whistled loudly, and little jets sparked up around his wheels to propel the old droid through the filthy window. Braig followed after him, throwing Tess into the air, clipping his saber to his belt. He hit the ground in a roll. Glass dug into his jacket, scraping at any exposed flesh it could reach. Tess dropped from the air; Braig caught him as he stood, huffing a breath and raising his eyebrows in a silent apology for the rough handling. A shout from behind; more bolts whizzing by. More scorch marks on the wall; they’d blend in with the others. He doubted the chaos behind him would even draw any stares, unless they overheard the shouts of ‘Stop the Jedi!’

…

He really hoped nobody heard.

Another bolt; he swerved again, then noticed R7 bobbing down beside him.

“Sev,” he said, and the little droid turned his dome towards his friend.

“Catch.” Braig said, and tossed an indignant Tess through the air once more. Tess clutched on to R7 desperately, and the astromech bobbed a bit under the sudden increase in weight and booped his offence. As the pair of droids reached an alley that veered off in two different directions, Braig waved them one way and turned himself down the opposite path. Sure, they’d said that they weren’t interested in his droids, but (another bolt) better safe than sorry.

They were friends, and together held the privilege of carrying the legacy of the Jedi in the datachips under their casings (Or, the legacy of the Jedi, from his own point of view).

Another bolt.

That one had come a bit too close, sparks shooting off of the impact site. A few nicked his ear. It burned. The footsteps were getting closer. Shouts; ‘Jedi’, and he could almost smirk, almost laugh. He wished that didn’t sound like an insult.

That it didn’t sound like a death knell.

Another bolt.

He glanced over his shoulder, and the shrivelled, shattered old thing in his chest clenched.

The storm trooper suits looked so much like what the men had worn, back when they were still considered ‘men’. Not quite, though.

He looked forward; a building was coming up. He didn’t bother looking up; Crouched, coiled, and let the Force hurl him into the air.

More shouting, more bolts; One connected with his shoulder. Just a clip, but it still burned. He hissed, swore against the wind that screamed around him. A part of him was numbly aware that he would have gotten into a lot of trouble for language so foul only a few decades prior. The bolt had altered his focus; he hit the ground harder than he would have liked, any further profanity kept locked in his mind as air was forced from his lungs. He didn’t give himself time to breathe.

Stood, pressed his hand over the injury with gritted teeth as he threw the Force around it to suppress the pain.

The soldiers wouldn’t hesitate. He couldn’t, either.

He stood, feeling the ground thundering under his feet as he ran. The voices were louder behind him, though the fact that they had to go around the building slowed them down. He vaguely noted that most of them were different. Not all of them, though.

There was still the one he remembered.

Don’t think about it.

Run.

The good thing about hiding out in the slums was that it wasn’t organised into blocks and districts like the city proper (like home had been); it was a maze of shacks and ditches and shanties, the perfect place to get lost in. The downside was that he didn’t know this place any better than they did - and, if these soldiers were stationed here often, they’d have some idea of how to get around. He, however, did not, and found he had no way of knowing where he was. Didn’t matter; keep running. He wasn’t sure where he was going, or what awaited him up ahead. Didn’t sense anything worth worrying about, and so kept running. He knew he couldn’t keep this up forever.

Hopefully, the soldiers couldn’t, either. He was pretty sure he could hear and sense them falling farther behind. He let himself slow as buildings began to thin out, as dirt-trodden ‘roads’ made way to dried out plains of yellowed grass. He staggered a few steps, then bent forward to rest his hands on his knees as he gasped. He had to consciously remind himself that that was a poor way to regain breath, and stood to correct his mistake. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in measured, increasingly deeper breaths until his lungs weren’t wailing quite so loud. His throat still burned from the run, and he swallowed, hoping to soothe the dry, scratchy texture, even a little bit. He pushed his hair out of his face, ignoring the sheen of sweat that dripped between his fingers as he did so. He looked around, squinting against the light that somehow filtered through the bleak grey clouds that gathered overhead. Nothing but dirt, dust, and grass for as far as the eye could see, in every direction except for behind him. Braig turned fully to face the dilapidated town, mouth still hanging slightly open as his tired body worked to cool itself off and return functions to a normal pace. His brow furrowed, and concentration lapsed in the wake of exertion, and he winced and sucked his teeth as the bolt-burn on his shoulder let out an inaudible shriek through his nervous system. He seemed to scrunch in on himself as he pressed his palm against the wound. It sizzled and oozed and crackled all at once, and he grimaced as he felt the gritty texture of dirt, likely lodged there during the chase. It hurt, but he didn’t want to heal it up, here - that would require him to go into a meditative state, and he wasn’t sure that was such a good idea with Imps on his tail. He glanced to the comm on his right wrist, and was about to tap the button to signal R7 to his position when a distant, buzzing rumble caught his attention. His head snapped up, pupils shrinking to pinpricks as adrenaline hit him hard.

It wasn’t a voice, but it was a very familiar sound.

Speeders.

Of course, they would have speeders.

Braig was already backing up when his fingers found the comm button; its cheery beep seemed grossly out of place given the current situation.

“R7, you there, buddy? Gonna need you to bring the sip around- Like, now-!” He was about to turn and run when the first speeder breached the perimeter of the slums. Braig knew there was no way he’d ever be able to outrun a speeder, not when it was that close, and there was no cover; He caught the birth of a whistle before he shut his comm off. R7 and Tess would be on their way, so all he had to do was hold off until they got here. They just might stand a chance if they could get into the air. He took a deep breath, then drew both sabers, letting them come to life in his hands as more speeders emerged from the alleys he had lead them through.

He had been right; He noted with a bleak huff of amusement that these soldiers really did know the lay of the land here better than he did. No real surprise there; he’d only been here for a little less than a full day. No, the surprise came when the final speeder pulled into view. The others had formed up in a wide semi-circle, spaced evenly and caging him off from the city. These were all white, gleaming in regulation plastoid, just like their faceless, inhuman riders, who all sat stock-still with blasters trained on him, but not firing; That was strange. He didn’t sense enough fear from any of them to justify being literally petrified, in fact didn’t sense much fear at all. They had numbers on their side, and the reputation of the Jedi wasn’t as imposing as it had used to be, but it was more than that… His brow furrowed, and he was about to search deeper through the Force when it hit him like a sewage-coated brick. He almost staggered back, instead compensating the sudden loss of balance by shifting his weight and adjusting his stance. The Force spat at him like a feral cat as the dark grey speeder settled to the centre of the perimeter, its rider’s dark robes billowing out like noxious smoke in its wake. Black leather boots stepped into the dust, a cloak of an equally dark shade swishing around the dark figure’s ankles as they walked.

“What do you know, a real life Jedi!” They said, in a sing-song voice that brought to mind curdled lullabies and ash-covered nursery rhymes. “Perhaps I should call a zoo - you don’t see too many specimens like this, any more.” A sneer decorated a washed-out face, once an almost sky blue, now a dishwater grey. That was what really knocked Braig off kilter - he remembered that face.

He bared his teeth, an instinctive reaction to accompany the snarl building up in the Force around him, but the battered old thing in his chest gave a painful tug when he made contact with those wide, gold-tinted eyes,

(’Padawan Braig, are you sure these jackets will be warm enough? I don’t want to freeze before I can find my crystal.’ Looking down to that earnest face, so full of naive fear and yet brimming with eagerness at the journey ahead of them; clutching fistfuls of his own sleeves, the youngling had alternated between staring out the viewports of the ship, chattering with the others, and posing countless questions and concerns to him, their chaperone, and Braig had smiled down and told him that ‘of course, I’m sure, you’ll be fine–’)

“Ry'Za,” he said aloud, breaking the trance of memory. The Nautolan scoffed, tossing their head to the side. The saber in their hand shrieked to crimson life, and it confirmed what Braig never wanted to be true. Another fallen to the dark side.

(’Look, look, I did it, I found one!’ Bounding out of the frigid caves, little mitten-wrapped hands clutching their crystaline prize to his chest like it was the most valuable thing in the galaxy, and, perhaps to them, it was. ‘I found my crystal! I can be a real Jedi, now, just like you!’ The smile that was directed up at Braig was pure and brilliant, but lasted only for a moment before Ry’Za’s attention was pulled back and away to the chatter of the other younglings; they would still be carrying on long after the last of their group emerged from those tunnels.)

Braig wanted to ask what had happened to that bright-eyed little one, but he knew already that he wouldn’t like the answer; He wanted to ask where that pride in being a Jedi had gone, but he knew there hadn’t been anything to be proud of for a long time.

He wanted to ask what Palpatine had done to turn such brilliant hope into such burning hate, but he knew he had enough nightmares, as it was. All he could do was stand and stare as Ry’Za strode forward, the point of their angry red blade scouring the ground with every step.

“If any of you hit me,” they announced, scowl of distaste melting into a feral, toothy grin, “I’ll kill you.” They said so in such a casual tone that it could have been a joke, but nobody laughed. Braig didn’t have time to; a violent red arc was intercepted by a slash of purple. Sabers clashed again and again. Braig ducked, slashed at Ry’Za’s knees; missed. Ry’Za sprang back onto their free hand, then pushed off to flip back onto their feet. Distance now between the two Forcefuls, the troopers let loose. Flurries of green erupted in an unforgiving gauntlet. Braig stumbled back, throwing sabers up to deflect the onslaught. It should have been easy. But exhaustion was a cruel mistress, and the burned gauge in his shoulder crueller still; a bead of sweat rolls down his temple, and his jaw clenched as he called upon the Force to give him a second wind and force the pain to the back of his mind. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out like this, especially not when the Force gave a malicious howl of frenzied excitement over his head. He leaped backwards to avoid being cleaved in two, and even then his sabres came up in an X to intercept the attack. Frustration and pain made a home for themselves on his face, a twisted mockery of the delighted grin Ry’Za sported. This couldn’t go on. He had to get the upper hand, or all Tess and R7 would find when they finally showed up would be a few miserable scorch marks in the grass (where were they?).

Muscles coiled and released as Braig lunged - left hand flipped to reverse-grip, right slashed up at Ry’Za’s chest. Deflected- Turned to parry another round of bolts (realised he was now stuck between Ry’Za on one side, and the troopers on the other - not a good position to be in), flicked his wrist to block, flourish, bring blade down on Ry’Za’s wrist - missed, but only barely; a satisfying hiss from his opponent.

(’Do we get to pick our crystal colour? …. Because I want mine to be green, like Master Yoda’s. I want to serve the Order as long as he has.’)

Another blast from the side. Braig took advantage of Ry’Za’s pain; sabers joined together with a practised flick- hand curled around the darksider’s damaged wrist and dug into singed flesh (a snarl from Ry’Za), pivoted. Knife-edge of his boot met Ry’Za’s knee with a satisfying crunch, throwing them off-balance and into the path of an incoming stream of bolts. Only a few made contact, striking the side of the ribs, the shoulder, the arm. It seemed to be little more than an irritant, and Braig found himself wondering what kind of armour the Imps were doling out, and how he could get his hands on some. Ry’Za reeled from the impact and came up spitting like a feral beast.

“I told you if you hit me, I’d kill you!” There was the fear he had been looking for, rank and vile in the split second before Ry’Za raked their hands through the air and sent three of the speeders careening sideways, crashing into each other with a noise like confused thunder amid the screams and yelps of the men who had been riding them. The dusty air filled with a metallic, sulphuric scent as smoke billowed upwards. Braig used the brief distraction to glance up to the skies, hoping to see his ship somewhere on the horizon, but there was nothing. He looked back down as Ry’Za turned to face him, raising his brows and tiling his head to the side to accompany a shrug.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he chastised the former youngling, and Ry’Za snarled before lunging again. The rage and hate that burned off of him was suffocating (’Padawan Braig?’), fuelled each strike like an exploding star. Slash, block, block, step back- Pivot, turn. Strike, duck, jump back roll duck block strike slash parry (’What is it, Ry’Za?’) At some point, Ry’Za had caught on to Braig’s bad shoulder; most attacks were aimed to that side.

It hurt.

The remaining storm troopers had exchanged looks before helping the survivors from their wreckage before taking aim and firing, though more hesitant this time, lest they once again strike their superior (’Were you ever afraid of the tunnels, when it was your turn to go?’)

Braig’s jaw ached with how his teeth clenched at the smouldering ache in his shoulder. The snarl on Ry’Za’s face morphed into a twisted grin, dancing into a hissing, savage, bloodthirsty cackle. Braig’s blood curdled at the sound. (’Mm, well…’) He jumped a few paces backwards, landing in a roll and bringing his saber up just in time to intercept another near-lethal blow (’Maybe a little. Just don’t tell anyone, okay?’). Ry’Za’s laugh morphed into a chuckle as they pressed down, inching shrieking plasma closer to Braig’s face. Gnarled yellow teeth bared in a victorious smile as the angle shifted suddenly. Braig let out a hiss– His shoulder screamed its own pain through his nerves as the pressure was forced to his freshly-weakened side. His arm buckled.

(’Hey, Padawan Braig?’)

He threw one saber aside, putting both arms behind one to release the strain. He found himself looking up to Ry’Za, and wondering when the little youngling had grown so much - but part of his mind rationalised that the height difference wasn’t just because Ry’Za was taller. They were also forcing Braig to lower his stance, closer and closer to kneeling as though he was waiting for execution - he almost was.

(’You can just call me ‘Braig’, you know.’)

He looked up into those wild, dead eyes, searching for any trace of familiarity, of warmth, of light. Ry’Za only grinned again and leaned in until Braig could feel the rank dampness of their breath mingling with the heat of the saber blades as it danced across his face. He had to squint against the blinding light.

(’Oh, okay. Braig?’)

Ry’Za hadn’t noticed the discarded saber. They likely thought it had been cast aside, and would be ignored for the rest of the fight. And, if Braig had been interested in fighting fair, they would have been right; but, he hadn’t lived through the war by fighting fair.

(’What is it?’)

He pivoted abruptly- Weight was thrown to his rear leg as he turned. Forward leg stayed where it was, taking advantage of the force Ry’Za had been exerting to send the young Inquisitor toppling off balance.

(’Will we see each other again?’)

Braig’s free hand found strands of the Force.

Pulled.

(’Hm… I don’t know.’)

The discarded saber’s locking mechanism clicked, its blade howling as it flew threw the air.

(’I hope so, though.’)

Devouring amethyst bloomed from Ry’Za’s throat, right over where their precious armour had ended.

(’Yeah…’)

Their dying scream was little more than a gurgle accompanied by a puff of steam.

(’I hope so, too.’)

They collapsed to the dust in a heap; their saber rolled slowly to a stop at Braig’s feet as he pulled his own into his hand. 

Silence fell, and Braig felt his shoulders rise and fall as he panted for breath. To him, it seemed as though he was staring at that corpse, the black of their robes making a fitting funeral shroud. The Force around him seemed to grow emptier all the time, and he nearly managed to shudder before a bolt flew by his head, and he jumped back just in time to take another bolt to his leg. 

He snarled as he fell to the ground, bracing his landing on his forearms to keep from smashing into the ground. He looked up through rivulets of sweat and strands of hair to glare at the troopers, struggling to stand even with the Force bolstering his efforts. Blasters were steadied in his direction, and the curse that crawled upon his tongue would have curled the toes of the saltiest spacer died with the sudden roar.

He closed his eyes– The wind tugged at his hair and kicked a cloud of dust into the air. Flash of light.

Screams. 

Heat, explosion. 

He looked up to the sight of the ship touching down. The gangplank hit the ground with a thunk, and R7 rolled out, nearly toppled over as his wheels caught on a rock, and whizzed over to Braig’s side. The battered rogue gulped a breath as he wiped sweat from his eyes, then reached out to pat the astromech’s dome affectionately. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said raggedly, grunting as he struggled to his feet. R7 beeped cheerily, scooting forward to act as a support when Braig’s freshly-injured leg threatened to give way.

“Thanks again,” Braig said, though exhaustion sapped the emotion from his voice. R7 began rolling towards the ship, and Braig limped alongside him before he stopped and turned to the smouldering heap that had once been the squad of storm troopers.

“Wait,” he said to R7, nearly losing his footing when the oblivious droid kept trundling on for a few seconds. R7 paused, letting out a curious whistle, but followed after his friend, anyways. Braig knew that he should be getting onto the ship, even if only to lay down and rest or drown himself in Bacta, but he had to know.

He had to be sure. 

Dirt and grime dripped into his eyes as he limped forward, and he no longer cared enough to wipe the hair from his face. He kept his eyes focused on the ground, searching for that corpse that had until now been host to that familiar voice. The smell of charred meat reached up to him, but he’d grown used to that from a lifetime of war, and so barely noticed. He stumbled over one, two, two and a half bodies by the time he made it to the one that had brought back memories. He only found a fragment, but, fortunately, it still had its head attached. R7 booped warily, focusing his sensors on the corpse, then on the tired man at his side. Braig muffled a noise of discomfort as he crouched down, used his good hand to tug the helmet aside. His vision seemed dull as he regarded the face - so similar to the others, and yet so different at the same time. 

He remembered the scar on the aged clone’s lower jaw, just as well as he remembered the explosion that caused it (faintly, but he remembered), but more than that he remembered the small tattoo right under his ear. A gentle swirl of spirals, allegedly inspired by the waves on Kamino. Braig felt his face crumple, just slightly, and he bowed his head and closed his eyes as R7 slunk a bit closer.

“Otto,” Braig said simply, nodding to himself. “That was Otto.” He sat there for a moment longer before he nodded again and struggled back to his feet, leaning heavily on R7 as he did. “Let’s go - staying here was a bad idea.” R7 chirped his agreement, and spun his dome to express his enthusiasm. As they walked side-by-side back to the ship, R7 gave a soft, low-toned boop.

“Yeah,” Braig nodded, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I miss home, too.”