#and it’s kind of strange to make some kind of leap and assume anyone who believes in freedom of fandom to be inherently sexist

[syndrossi]

So instead of Dany or Arya coming through with the twins, what about Sansa? Her trauma and overall skittishness towards men could lead to Daemon assuming the worst about what Cryane could have done to the children, plus her political knowledge how would be an interesting foil to Rhaegar. Also Jon would be Uber protective of her to make up for not being there the first time around. Sidebar, would she have red, silver or brown hair with Daemons genes thrown in the mix?

The Summerhall doorway is only interested in TPTWP candidates, so it's mostly an academic exercise when we talk about Starks tagging along, but I'm happy to do so!

Sansa's traumas are quite unique relative to Jon's, Dany's, Arya's, and Rhaegar's. I assume we'd be taking Sansa from the same point in time as Jon, so when she's being held by Littlefinger in the Vale as his "bastard daughter." What's rough about Sansa is how scarred she is. Rhaegar was born in the intrigues of the Red Keep; he has been dealing with Aerys since the beginning. He was trained in how to play the game, to guard himself, to trust few. He is a bit of a romantic, like Sansa, but was never an idealist, like she was. I think he's best equipped to understand the horror and pain she's dealt with, between the betrayals, backstabbing and Joffrey (who certain has some Aerys vibes in terms of cruelty/toying with "his" people).

So both he and Jon would provide different kinds of comfort for her. Rhaegar, she would feel, understands her. She feels safest confessing things to him, including her guilt over treating Jon like he wasn't true family. Whereas Jon is that fierce flame of protection. She almost feels like she doesn't deserve it, but she remembers that Jon has always been like that toward his family, toward Arya, and that he feels that way about her despite everything is another comfort. Jon makes her feel safe.

Sansa would hate Aegon. I think he would ping her Joffrey-dar super hard, between his entitlement and bullying behavior. Aemond she might feel a little sympathy for, perhaps seeing her own behavior in Aegon's and Jon in Aemond. Helaena is the kind of strange girl Sansa would have mistrusted and teased for not conforming to her idea of a lady, the way she did Arya, and again, that guilt and self-reflection means she approaches Helaena much more gently. Arya is gone, but here is another girl who feels that she does not belong, who is lonely, even.

Alicent would make her uncomfortable, since there's a twist of Cersei vibes to her. Larys would terrify her. Otto she would mistrust.

Daemon, meanwhile is a very different father to Ned, so there would be some adjustment there (and some resistance, given how much guilt and grief is tied up in Ned's death; that was her father, not this imposter). On the other hand, I can't think of a specific figure who harmed Sansa that Daemon would remind her of. If you're being uncharitable, maybe there's a little Cersei to him as well? But she'd be less likely to make the female-to-male comparison leap, I would wager. Rhaenys would remind her some of Olenna, so I could see her feeling a wary respect for her. Viserys doesn't have a real analog, but her experience with kings has been such that she is wary of anyone with that much power.

I have to think that Daemon would ask the boys if Crayne touched Sansa in any way, so he would know quickly whether she was traumatized in that way. But if the answer is no, then he has to conclude that she was mistreated in such a way in the Vale as to make her wary of some men.

Since Sansa's getting a smaller splash of Targaryen genes, I could see her looking more like the Royce/Stark side. Actually, it would be kinda poignant if she ended up with coloring like Arya's, matching Jon. The strangeness of looking into a mirror and seeing her sister instead. Maybe her hair is slightly lighter, just slightly redder than Arya's had been. Her eyes might be more Targaryen in hue, given her original eye color.

[thegingerwrites]

Obi-dience - An Obikin, Ella Enchanted AU set in the GFFA

Inspired by a typo I almost made yesterday and what I think is a pretty good pun

Obi-Wan Kenobi is the perfect Jedi. A skilled warrior, an expert negotiator, and a good friend, it has always been clear that Obi-Wan has a gift. People often remark that no matter what is asked of him, Obi-Wan Kenobi can deliver.

That is his gift: whatever anyone tells Obi-Wan to do, he does. The gift of obedience.

Before Obi-Wan ever came to the Temple, fate or the Force or some Stewjonian witchcraft, blessed Obi-Wan with the ability and the compulsion to do whatever he is told. The perfect child, the perfect padawan, the perfect Jedi. He is whatever anyone asks him to be.

From the moment Obi-Wan becomes aware of his dubious gift, he finds ways to work around it. When the other younglings come up with ridiculous dares or tell him to hand over his slice of Shuura cake from the refectory, he has no choice but to comply. Instead, he rebels in other ways. He shows them up in his classes, he stages pranks as a kind of revenge, and he never, ever lets anyone know about his secret gift. He learns that compliance can be a malicious thing and that there can be a vast difference between what someone says and what they mean.

After shoving a slice of cake in someone's face, attempting to climb the tallest tree in the greenhouses, and interrupting a lesson by Master Nu with an impassioned recital of the Jedi Code at the top of his lungs before refusing to say another word, Obi-Wan is sent to Master Yoda, fearing for his future with the Jedi Order. He assumes that Master Yoda is going to send him away, to the Agricorps or some kind of orphanage for wayward almost-Jedi. Clearly, he is more trouble than he is worth.

But Master Yoda is more perceptive than that. He senses that the Force moves strangely around Obi-Wan and gets Obi-Wan to describe what it feels like when someone tells him to do something. What it is like to be helpless sometimes against the need to do what he is told.

Yoda doesn't tell Obi-Wan to leave the Order. One way or the other, that decision will be made for him, when a Master comes forward to take him on as a padawan or doesn't.

What he does say still manages to change Obi-Wan's life forever.

"A great and terrible gift this is, young one. Know that already, you do. Difficult, your life will be, because of it and harder, you should not make it.

'A secret, your obedience must be. Tell no one of your gift, lest they use it against you."

Obi-Wan blinks, eyes wide. His mouth hangs open for only a moment before the words come out, "Yes, Master."

From then on, Obi-Wan tries his best to keep his head down. He wants to become a padawan, dreams of one day being a Jedi Knight, and so he tries his best in his classes, learns to turn the other cheek when others attempt to rile him. He becomes kind and thoughtful, and surrounds himself with a few good and trusted friends, who, while playful and rambunctious, would never try to order him around.

His efforts pay off when Qui-Gon decides to take him as his padawan.

It takes Qui-Gon a long time to learn what makes Obi-Wan different from other padawans. This is mainly because Obi-Wan Kenobi is already so different from himself and so different from the boy Qui-Gon heard tales about from the crechemasters when Obi-Wan was in their care. He is quiet, though curious, and rule-following to a fault. Where is the rebellious boy that was nearly kicked out of the Temple for attempting to leap into the Serenity Pond at the center of the Room of a Thousand Fountains with all of his clothes still on?

This boy does what he is told and he never talks back, even when Qui-Gon desperately wants him to. After a few years, Qui-Gon resigns himself to the idea that the Council must see him as too much of a maverick even now and that when Yoda recommended Obi-Wan to him as a padawan, citing their similarities, it was an attempt to reign him in. The equivalent of pairing the talkative kid in class with the quiet one, in the hopes that some of the latter's goodness might rub off on the former.

That is, until Melida/Daan. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are sent to rescue Master Tahl and become entangled in the conflict there. The role of the Jedi is to negotiate peace and until the Melida and the Daan are ready to do so, there is no place for the Jedi among them. Qui-Gon tells Obi-Wan it is time to leave and for once, Qui-Gon sees a fight on his young padawan's face.

His feet move toward the waiting ship's ramp in halting, laborious steps while his hands fist at his sides and his face tightens into a grimace. Obi-Wan reaches out for the nearest thing available to him, a crate of supplies in the hangar bay, and grabs on tight, even as the rest of his body tries to pull him towards the ship.

"No, Master. I can't!" Obi-Wan grunts as he loses his grip on the crate and flails for something else. "I can help them, I know I can. Please let me stay."

Qui-Gon watches in horror as Obi-Wan's body eventually wins out and he stands next to him on the ramp, clutching one of the pistons for balance. Whatever power held sway over Obi-Wan for those few fraught moments is gone as quickly as it arrived, leaving him red-faced and breathless in its absence.

He leaves Obi-Wan on Melida/Daan and puzzles over that scene at the ship's ramp long after the fight is over and Obi-Wan returns to the Order. He never quite manages to discover the secret of Obi-Wan's gift, but he is certain to never give him another order he cannot refuse ever again.

Even at the end of his life, when he has been cut down by Darth Maul and Obi-Wan has him cradled in his arms, Qui-Gon is sure to phrase his last wishes just so.

"He is the Chosen One, Obi-Wan. Will you train him?"

"I will, Master."

Training Anakin doesn't feel like a choice, at least not at first. Obi-Wan fights the Council for the right to train him, pushes past his own misgivings and sets aside his grief, not because he really believes in the prophecy in the way Qui-Gon did but because it was the last thing his Master ever asked of him.

At night, Obi-Wan wishes that Qui-Gon had ordered him to train Anakin, wishes that he knew how to do this one thing right. He silently begs the Force: if his obedience was ever good for anything, let it help him in this.

And yet, training Anakin is a choice, one he makes every single day. Harder at the start and then easier once he actually gets to know the boy. Anakin is stubborn and willful, scarred by his time as a slave in ways Obi-Wan will never fully understand. He doesn't make demands of Obi-Wan. He doesn't make demands of anyone. He is a kindhearted and curious boy who deeply misses his mother and has latched onto Obi-Wan like the last life-preserver on a sinking ship. It takes time for him to grow comfortable at the Temple, for him to trust that all that he loves will not be taken away from him a second time, and for him to grow into a teenager more secure in his place in the world.

The first time Anakin enacts Obi-Wan's gift against him, he is fifteen and they have been arguing. He has been sneaking out at night, fighting with one of the other padawan's, and is falling behind in his galactic history coursework. The bright and friendly young boy Obi-Wan met years ago has become sullen and moody, no more so than many other teenagers but something of an anomaly within the Temple.

Anakin stalks off to his room, slamming the automatic door behind him as best he can, and shouts at Obi-Wan through it to leave him alone.

It takes Obi-Wan a full day to realize what Anakin has done. He makes himself scarce in their rooms before Anakin wakes the next morning. He avoids meeting him in the refectory and after lessons. It is only when he cannot force himself to return to their apartments at the end of the day that he seeks out Master Yoda and begs him to contradict Anakin's order. He can't let Anakin think that Obi-Wan is so upset with him as to actually leave.

Master Yoda negates the command but before he lets Obi-Wan return to his quarters, he cautions him against allowing himself to become too attached to the boy.

This is where I think there is a lot of room to play around with this idea and probably where an actual story would take place with the rest as background.

While the premise of the fic isn’t doesn’t necessarily have to lead to obikin, that’s simply the lens through which I view the world so it does.

One night, when Anakin is still a padawan, he returns back to their quarters late after a night out where Obi-Wan is still awake and waiting for him. He stumbles into the room, brushing aside Obi-Wan’s concern, before landing on their couch instead of in his bedroom. He is drunk, clearly, but not so far gone as to be unwell. His limbs are loose and his smile is easy and he relents eagerly when Obi-Wan kneels down to pull of his boots in order to keep them off of the furniture. His eyes go wide and his smile falls as he sees Obi-Wan down there, his mouth forming a confused little ‘oh’.

Before Obi-Wan can ask what is wrong, Anakin says, “kiss me,” and Obi-Wan does. He presses up from his knees, leans over Anakin and kisses him.

It is a soft, quiet kiss on the lips. Neither of them moving beyond simple pressure. To Obi-Wan’s later shock and horror, the kiss feels good, feels right. Perhaps his mind reaches out to Anakin’s through the Force and borrows some of his alcohol-induced ease because his mind goes blank for the few brief seconds that their lips are connected, wholly at peace.

And then reality sets in and Obi-Wan pulls back sharply.

He steps back, nearly tripping over the low table in their sitting area, his hand barely grazes the skin of his lips.

“Never ask that of me again,” he tells Anakin.

And Anakin, not so far gone as to mishear the grief and heartbreak in his Master’s voice, never does.

As an adult, Obi-Wan's gift comes into play less. Few people really go around giving people orders. Obi-Wan becomes very good at stopping them before they start, redirecting people to other topics, and avoiding those who are prone to giving them.

Still, he doesn't expect Dooku to tell him to join him on Geonosis. (I think there's a really cool option where Obi-Wan goes with him or at least spends the early part of the war hearing him out) Anakin steps in almost immediately without realizing it, shouting 'no' which counteract the command.

The war itself doesn't pose as much of a problem as Obi-Wan and Yoda worry at the outset. Obi-Wan is the one giving the orders rather than receiving them and thankfully the droids' feeble commands to surrender have no effect on him.

His gift does still manage to get him into trouble on occasion. His banter with Ventress is especially charged as he parries her blades and her words. Anakin takes to leadership well, so well that on occasion he slips and manages to give Obi-Wan orders as well as his men. It doesn’t happen often, while Anakin has grown by leaps and bounds into a commander, a brother in arms, he still knows his place. Obi-Wan will always be his former master, a member of the council, and his superior. Still, when Anakin concocts a plan at a moment’s notice and tells Obi-Wan, “cover me,” before an oncoming barrage of battle droids or shouts “stay here” before running off into danger, Obi-Wan is forced to obey. It only leads to him getting shot at a handful of times.

No one but Master Yoda is aware of Obi-Wan’s secret. While Obi-Wan’s behavior is strange at times, defying explanation, no one questions it too much. He has always been this way. It would be stranger if these near misses and fits of willfulness didn’t happen to him even in the midst of a war.

When the Council asks him to go undercover as Rako Hardeen—asks not commands—Obi-Wan has reservations. Perhaps not the kind of reservations Anakin would like him to have, about the cruelty of faking his death and the convoluted nature of the plan, but about his own ability to carry out this mission and pretend to be Hardeen.

“Surely, my condition puts the entire operation in jeopardy,” he tells Master Yoda in private. “One ill-timed command and all is lost.”

“A strong and powerful Jedi you have become, young Obi-Wan, despite the difficulties your gift affords you. Quick and discerning, it has made you. Capable, you are. Trust that you can complete this mission, I do.”

Which is all Obi-Wan needs to hear before he accepts.

The reason I can’t write a fic for this yet (aside from all of the other fics I’m currently wrestling with) is because I’m not sure how I want it to end. On the one hand, I think following canon pretty closely through RotS could be very cool and angsty, leading to Obi-Wan and Anakin’s confrontation on Mustafar. Obi-Wan has to fight against both his feelings for Anakin and his gift when Anakin tells him to join him. By winning their duel, Obi-Wan breaks free from his curse at a terrible cost.

On the other hand, I also really like the idea of Palpatine finding out about Obi-Wan’s gift somehow and using it to manipulate him. He sends Obi-Wan to the Jedi Temple to commit Operation Knightfall in Anakin’s stead and actually manages to cut down a few Temple guards before crossing paths with Anakin. Palpatine ordered Obi-Wan to go to the Temple and slaughter any Jedi he met and though he does cross blades with Anakin in the halls of the Jedi Temple, he cannot bring himself to kill Anakin. He fights back against his curse and wins, leaving him and the rest of the galaxy free.

[tuiyla]

Sometimes I wonder if the actors knew how offensive some of the stuff they said/did on the show was. I mean I know it was their characters but still.

There was a lot of biphobia from Kurt, Blaine, Santana and even Brittany. There was the line Blaine said in the script read in 5x20 where he said "I'm gay and you're mostly lesbian" to Brittany!!!

Also the Britney 2.0 episode was super offensive and basically just spent 40 minutes mocking someone's mental health which is a huge problem and something a lot of people struggle with.

I know it's not the actors decision but do you think they knew how offensive some of this stuff was.

Also the whole IKAG episode was pretty bad and when Brittany and Sam got together and she said something about "lesbian bloggers" I have to see that as a dig about the Brittana fans!

I know that Naya, Heather and Darren were straight so it may just be that they are uneducated on these things.

I appreciate things like Kevin talking about the Lights Out mess in the Q&A episode of the podcast, but it’s ultimately not the cast’s responsibility. Am I curious what they thought of certain things, sure. Am I desperate for someone to cover IKAG with a critical eye, very. But I think fans already put way too much on actors and expect them to represent characters and their stories way beyond the constraints of the media itself, and that doesn’t feel fair. I’m general on the side of protecting actors’ privacy and right to do their job and not owe anyone anything more.

With things like Britney 2.0 especially I feel like we shouldn’t expect anything from the actors. Sure I like it when they’re self-aware and Jenna and Kevin are at times critical of the show in their podcast (old and new) but this is a typical example of, like, what are we expecting of them? It has been a decade now but particularly when the show was on, I’m sure it would have felt like biting the feeding hand to call out the biphobia or something. If I were an actor on a major network show and given Problematic material I wouldn’t be happy about it but man, it’s my job to say it. And we’ve heard how volatile things sometimes were on the set despite the general alleged good working relationship. I don’t blame people for not wanting to risk RM’s wrath with a public condemning.

I don’t know if they even stopped to consider this kind of stuff. With something like Artie’s offensive lines, Kevin clearly has. And again I’d kill to know how everyone truly felt about IKAG. I don’t know, maybe they knew. I’m sure there were certain things on Glee that raised eyebrows even then. Kevin, Jenna and Harry talk a lot about things not aging well in the Throwdown episode of the Showmance pod. But again, at the time no one was gonna risk a job. I don’t think anything was that egregious on Glee, it’s more like things adding up. But I mean for sure things like mocking Britney Spears and the consistent biphobia were cringe at best and cruel at worst. So no one get me wrong, the biphobia and the SA stuff and all these poorly handled, poorly framed things were bad, it just wasn’t SO bad that it would absolutely warrant an actor having to apologize for it.

Going back to actors’ privacy and all, I don’t like to a) assume their identities and b) make assumptions based on those assumptions. It especially feels strange to say they might have been uneducated just because they wouldn’t have those first-hand experiences e.g. with queer issues. A leap too big for me. And this is a can of worms of its own, but I think we shouldn’t assume with Naya in particular - in terms of identity, that is. There was that View interview that some take as her confirming she was bi; me, I don’t know and I don’t think we need to know. We never will know. Was Naya Rivera straight, was she queer? I say let the dead rest. Either way she was clearly a fierce ally who fought for that lesbian storyline to exist in the first place so whether she personally considered e.g. the biphobic things they had her say messed up or not, that’s really not for me to know or judge. I don’t really feel comfortable shifting that responsibility onto actors, which I understand is not what you’re doing but it’s dancing too close to that edge for me. Even if Darren, Naya and Heather were all Super Woke™ even back then it’s not like they could have done much to fight the biphobic lines. Actors have some say in these discussions, sure, but no one wants to push their luck.

Heather in particular has said some things in the past, iirc during season 4′s run especially that pissed people off but even still I don’t think being a little tone deaf or not living up to fan entitlement should warrant that much criticism. For other things too, I think she gets too much shit because people expect her to be this Representative when she’s just a person. They’re all just people. They’re actors and they get paid to say the words as they’re written. There’s some creative freedom with that but it’s up to the director/producer’s discretion. So again, maybe they were aware of how messed up the more iffy things were, maybe not. My bottom line on questions like these is that it’s not our business and not their responsibility.

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

Title: People of the Lie: The Hope for Healing Our Humanity

Author: Makeshift Genius

Rating: 0/5 stars

Getting about halfway through this before I gave up. Ozick's prose is very dense and very affective in a way that, I think, has been carefully crafted to enhance the impression of his arguments being grounded in inescapable logic -- one has the sense that one has encountered an argument "at home" in its own atmosphere, a moody, subtle, haunted "room" that simply is, an atmosphere so pervasive as to be rendered invisible by its own power. I say this, of course, because I have felt that sense in other Ozick pieces, including the ones I posted earlier.

Thing is, the "doubt and uncertainty" (is he talking about uncertainty on Ozick's part or "on the part" of the reader? Hrm) he describes in that quote is just not present here. His prose is so carefully constructed that he seems utterly confident in it, sure of himself in a way that would be uncomfortable (to me) to live in, if it were in fact the result of nothing but confidence. (To knowingly try to generate this kind of emotional response is, itself, very strange and disturbing, hence my point about him being at home "in his own atmosphere," etc.)

But it is not the result of pure confidence, because he is, in fact, groping desperately for the next bit of grounding, and making horrible, horrible fumbling leaps of logic because of it. The idea that he is, instead, making logical leaps because of the pure audacity of his self-confidence is too bizarre to be credible, and he is not bizarre enough to make it work. He seems to be stuck on a one-to-one level, trying to get the whole situation to line up with the terms he has placed in the same box -- "participation in veridical 'real' reality through signs" as opposed to participation in "deceptive/illusory/mere" representations. (This, of course, represents his use of the concept of "discernment" and other similar constructs.)

So, it's not faith, not optimism, not the "soaring ego" of pure confidence, not the kind of illusion of precision that can only be produced by extreme self-confidence, that makes Ozick's work seem so good. It is, rather, the idea that, because of the mere fact that he thinks the concept of "discernment" is necessary to being a real person, its very presence in the text (and, more importantly, its absence from some opposing text) is taken as incontrovertible "evidence" that the concept is real. It's the audacity of this feeling that Ozick's "pure" logic is proposing a paradox which, if you don't understand it, makes you "not a person" -- which is, apparently, an idea that can be known, as opposed to something that must be explained or justified. I'm not kidding -- he really does keep coming up with stuff like "this horrible person who doesn't understand paradoxes is 'not a real person' because they are unable to resolve the paradox, and therefore do not deserve to be a real person" and stuff like that. (Not that I know much about Ozick, but this one at least sounds distinctly like the kind of writing one might read in college. I'm assuming the book is much older than that, though.)

A mind like Ozick's is possibly a lot more stressful and unpleasant to live in than anyone else's, which perhaps explains the exhortations to "hope," which are supposed to be about redemption from the crushing presence of the inescapable laws of the mind. But the thing is, there is no hope, if you're trying to find it by reading this book, which is not just filled with mindfucks but also comes with the warning that the mindfucks it contains are part of the natural order -- that the mindfucks would be there no matter what you did, and there is no exit, no hope, because we are trapped within the cage of a mind much like our own.

All of this nonsense is just an excuse to say "there is no point to what I am saying, it is perfectly true that I am like this and you are like that and we have nothing in common, which is why this subject must be the stuff of books. So, read my book, if you like." Ozick is not a "genius" because he provides anything new or insightful, he's a "genius" because he shoves a load of "uniquely unpredictable" nonsense into an apparently conventional format, thus providing an unconventionally special experience for those who are unfamiliar with the conventions. He is a unique combination of Plato, Derrida, and, say, Jeffrey O'Neil -- as I said earlier, it is probably an achievement, but I just can't imagine why anyone would care.

[phoenixyfriend]

Anakin Introduces his Jedi Babies (and Himself)

Context:  Anakin and the Jedi Babies, chrono

Warnings for: canon-typical dismemberment, unfortunately-aimed puppy crushes

Word count: 5,839

-------------------------

The first time a Jedi meets a Skywalker, it’s on Bandomeer.

The planet is close to Mandalorian space. Finding someone associated with Mandalore is, technically, not that surprising. There are even Mandalorian operations on the planet.

What is surprising is the fact that the person from Mandalorian space is an unfamiliar Jedi Knight who is utterly unstoppable.

(Obi-Wan Kenobi has no way of knowing how similar his experiences are to what might have been, on this planet. Mandalore has been interfering in operations here ever since Ylliben Skywalker started reporting visions about the coming catastrophe. Where that interference has helped or hurt... well. There’s no way to know.)

(Is there?)

When Xanatos shows up and starts taunting Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, there’s a giggle from the doorway.

All three have to turn to look at the individual in question.

Mid-twenties, leaning against the doorframe, slim but strong, covered in dark fabric and half a set of armor. A scar by one eye, well-kept hair, and a smirk that could burn the longest fuse. A lightsaber, unlit, in one gloved hand.

This man is... very attractive, Obi-Wan thinks. This is not an appropriate thought for the situation. Obi-Wan thinks he can maybe blame it on the exhaustion.

“No, no, keep going,” the stranger says, sounding like there’s a laugh stuck in his throat. He waves dismissively. “Let’s, ah, let’s hear the master plan. Good ranting voice, maybe a six out of ten on the ‘I’m better than you’ and a four on the actual intimidation. You can do better.”

“Excuse me?” Xanatos hisses, sounding incredibly malicious to Obi-Wan’s ears. “Just who do you think you are?”

“And now you’re overselling it,” the stranger sighs. “Are you new at this? You seem new at this.”

“I would... also like to know who you are,” Master Jinn admits, shifting uncertainly as he tries to keep both du Crion and the stranger in his sights.

“I’m just your friendly neighborhood Jedi Knight, here to fight darksiders because... that’s my life, apparently,” the man says, looking down at his arm for some reason. He shakes his head and looks up at them with a bright grin. “Do you need some help, Master Jinn?”

“You still haven’t told us your name.”

“This is true,” the knight says. “That said, I’ve been told by my boss to explicitly avoid naming myself while on this mission for a variety of reasons.”

“Your... boss,” du Crion drawls. “Not the Council, then.”

“Current supervisor,” the stranger offers as correction, completely unconcerned. “It’s a complicated situation, don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t worry about nonentities.”

The man purses his lips like he’s trying very, very hard not to laugh again. It’s very mocking. “Sure, kid.”

Xanatos has had his lightsaber out ever since Obi-Wan and Master Jinn entered the room, but he does one of those fancy, meant-to-be-intimidating one-handed saber twirls as he turns to face the Knight.

The man’s smirk widens. “You do realize you’re going to lose, right? C’mon, kid--”

“I’m older than you!”

“I did like zero research on you as a person, just your many and varied crimes; how old are you?”

Du Crion’s face goes pinched. “I’m twenty-five.”

“Ah, yeah, no, I’m older,” the knight says. “Only a few years, but I’m also a delightfully obnoxious little bastard who ages real slow for, uh, reasons--”

Obi-Wan is fascinated. This man is very strange. And very pretty.

Obi-Wan may be light-headed. Is he bleeding? Blood loss would explain this.

Obi-Wan isn’t bleeding. Damn.

“--anyway, I’m sure I’ve got a more interesting life with more mature experiences than you,” the knight says. “So even if I wasn’t older in body, I’d be older in spirit.”

The knight’s entire sense of being carries such an air of banthashit that Obi-Wan can barely believe it. It’s almost impressive. Obi-Wan wonders how often this man just opens his mouth and immediately gets punched in the face.

“You talk a lot for a man in someone else’s domain.”

“Hey, look on the bright side,” the knight says. “At least I’m not flirting with you. That’s what my master did with almost every darksider we met except his grandmaster.”

Du Crion pauses.

Obi-Wan has the distinct feeling that he and Master Jinn have lost any control they might have, at any point, had over this situation. They hadn’t had much control in the first place, but anything they did have is squarely in the stranger’s court right now. The silver lining to that is that du Crion is thoroughly distracted and has also lost some control of the situation.

“Besides,” the man continues, completely ignoring the very red lightsaber that is being very obviously readied for his death. “This is not that big of an advantage for you. I mean, hey, the fancy central console that can only be reached by skinny walkways with no railings are a nice touch, all chromed metal and minimal lighting, very dramatic, but there’s no lava. I’m not, like, chained to a rock in the middle of an arena for a public execution at the hands of starving animals the size of a fighter ship. You’re threatening to kill me personally instead of standing in the most expensive box of the theater, sipping your wine and congratulating yourself on step one of a plan that has another fifty-thousand steps and no end in sight. You--”

“Is there a point to this?”

“I’m just saying, I’ve been in worse situations by better darksiders than you. This is sad. You’re sad. Try harder.”

Obi-Wan makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Nobody seems to notice, but Master Jinn does put a hand on his shoulder. That’s nice.

“I don’t have any interest in setting up a public execution.”

“What kind of a Sith wannabe are you?” the knight asks, tilting his head. Obi-Wan distantly notes that his hair is longer than initially assumed; it’s just held back and curled. “Public executions are a whole thing. It’s like you’re not even trying. Tell me you’ve at least got vague plans to hand me off to a pirates instead of killing me so you can make some comment about me not even being worth the effort.”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” du Crion asks, his voice the kind of forced casual level nonsense that shows he’s actually very, very frustrated. Obi-Wan could almost believe that du Crion is as uninterested as he’s pretending to be.

“If I was trying to get myself killed, I’d... pick a fight with the Trade Federation, maybe? I mean, I survived that when I was nine but they’d probably take me more seriously this time.” The knight taps at his chin. “I don’t even know where the actual Sith is, but--”

“There are no more Sith,” du Crion scoffs.

Oh, the knight looks pitying now. Obi-Wan likes that much more than he should. It just really suits the man’s face.

Quin’s going to make so much fun of him later.

“I have fought multiple Sith,” the man says, slowly and clearly, as though explaining something to a child. “My master fought more than that. I lost my arm to a Sith when I was nineteen. You can say they’re gone, but I don’t trust like that.”

“It’s not a matter of trust,” du Crion says, rolling his eyes. “It has been a thousand years since the Sith were wiped out. Much as I’d like them to still be around, I’m not going to--”

“Oh!” the knight exclaims. “You’re lying! You do think they’re back, this whole mess is you auditioning.”

Du Crion stares at the man as though he’s lost what few marbles he had. “Excuse me?”

“You want to be the next Sith Apprentice,” the man says, cheerfully unconcerned by the mounting tension in the air. “That’s adorable. Well, no, actually, it’s very bad, both for you and for everyone else, and now it means I can’t just kill you in battle like I was planning because the Jedi are going to need you for information. Blast.”

Du Crion’s eyes widen. It is not in fear, but in incredulity. Obi-Wan thinks that it’s all in the eyebrows and the tight, befuddled smile. “You were planning to kill me, Jedi?”

“I mean... yeah, kinda,” the knight says, shrugging. “Quick and clean option, that.”

This time, Master Jinn is the one that makes a disbelieving noise that both of the bitchy twenty-somethings ignore.

“You’re a Jedi,” du Crion points out, entirely pleasant.

“...yes,” the man says, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Technically.”

Du Crion is very much distracted by this. “Technically?”

The man wiggles a hand. “Arguments can be made. I certainly was trained as a Jedi and consider myself to be one. My knighting was according to protocol, and at the Temple. Technically.”

“...but?” Master Jinn prompts.

The knight smiles like he’s got something very spicy in his mouth and is unwilling to admit it’s too much for him. “But nothing! Don’t worry about it. There’s a fight to be had with a Sith wannabe who doesn’t realize he’s not going to measure up.”

“Arrogant,” du Crion accuses.

“No,” the knight immediately says. “You just don’t fight a galactic war without learning which opponents are actually going to kill you.”

Obi-Wan leans into Master Jinn’s side, his legs feeling a little too much like jelly. He whispers, “I have so many questions.”

“As do I, Padawan,” Master Jinn mutters back, and something in Obi-Wan’s heart twists. He’s a padawan! Master Jinn’s actually going to go through with it!

The fight does actually happen, at that point. The knight lights his saber and leaps forward, flashing through Djem So movements without a moment’s hesitation. For all the trash talk and boasting, the fight isn’t actually over very quickly. Du Crion is good, even without having had a chance to spar against a real person since he left the Order. Power flows around him, dark and heavy and sharp in ways that the Force usually isn’t, and the red saber snaps through the air with a speed Obi-Wan can barely track. Xanatos du Crion is, without question, danger incarnate in this moment.

The unknown knight is better.

There are attempts at banter, mostly by the stranger. Du Crion is too focused on the fight to bother responding. Obi-Wan just clings to Master Jinn, trying to stay awake and aware. It’s difficult, given the past few days, and even with help from the Force, he’s flagging.

The way the knight moves is... captivating, though.

(Quinlan’s going to laugh at the top of his lungs, later. Obi-Wan’s going to blush and stutter and bury his face in a pillow, and Bant’s going to pat his back like the amazing friend she is, and Quin’s just going to laugh, like an asshole.)

The fight doesn’t end cleanly. The knight cuts du Crion’s saber in half and, in the same movement, cuts the man’s hand off.

Obi-Wan’s seen too much blood in the last few days for it to shock him, but the smell is... unpleasant.

“I don’t suppose either of you carries Force-nullifying cuffs?” the knight asks, holding his saber to du Crion’s neck with an expression that is amused and satisfied in equal measure.

“No,” Master Jinn says. He seems... very bothered. Well, du Crion was his student once. Obi-Wan can’t imagine he’d be very calm if he had a student that went dark and started killing children. “Was cutting off his hand really necessary?”

“I feel like half my fights end with either someone dying or someone losing a limb,” the knight muses. “Sometimes that limb is my own, even!”

Obi-Wan isn’t sure if the man is manic or just trying to throw them off their rhythm. It probably doesn’t matter.

“Okay, I have Force-nullifying cuffs of my own,” the man says. “But these things are expensive as hell, and they weren’t paid for by the Order, so just giving them to you isn’t really on the table. That said... my ship kind of got shot down on the way here. If you could give me a ride off-planet--”

“Our ship was also shot down.”

The knight blinks at him, and then kicks du Crion in the hamstring. It’s not a very hard kick, but du Crion shoots him a look of offense that’s probably justified. Getting kicked when one is already down is never a great feeling.

“Stop shooting people,” the knight scolds.

Obi-Wan feels vaguely like he’s having a fever dream.

“Okay, new plan,” the man says. “What kind of ship did you come in?”

“KYL-3400 small transport,” Master Jinn says, with not a little hesitation. “Why?”

The knight grins. “I’m going to cannibalize it for parts.”

-------------------------

Jango has known Anakin Skywalker for six years. Many of those years have been spent being yanked into babysitting for the man. For reasons Jango doesn’t feel like examining, this will likely continue.

“You’re late,” he says, as the man in question stumbles out of a battered ship that looks only barely like the one that left three months ago. “I thought you said Bandomeer was a quick fix.”

“Ship got shot down, had to help some Jedi, ran into fucking Onaka on the way back,” Skywalker grouses. “I feel like shit. Where are my kids?”

“Buir says you have to go to medical.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. My kids, Jango.”

“They can visit you in medical.”

“And, what, Mereel’s gonna go there for a debrief?”

“Your debrief is going through me,” Jango says, and doesn’t let himself flinch when Skywalker makes a face. “He’ll check in later.”

“Yeah, no,” Skywalker says, taking a step forward and then swaying with a curse. “Listen, this actually does need to go to Mand’alor direct, not just the Alor-in-training--”

“Please don’t do that with my language,” Jango immediately says. “That’s not--no. ‘Alor-in-training’ isn’t a thing. Don’t do that.”

Skywalker turns on his heel with a frustrated snarl, and Jango’s eyes widen as the stupid tunics the man wears flare out.

“Is that a blaster wound?”

“No.”

“Yes it--for fuck’s sake, Skywalker!” Jango growls and just goes over to grab the taller man by the shoulders and march him to medical. “I’m calling your sister.”

“Don’t tell Shmi, she’s got enough to--”

“I’m calling your sister,” Jango snaps. “And you’re going to deal with it. Ka’ra, do you even think? Is there a brain in that head of yours?”

“I’ve been told my braincell is lonely.”

“I’m going to shove you in a trash compactor, dikut’la jetii,” Jango mutters. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“If I say yes, will you let me go deal with it on my own?”

Jango strangles his own scream and shoves Skywalker into the nearest examination room. “Fix him!”

The medic looks up, raises a brow, and turns to Skywalker. “What did you do?”

“What didn’t I do?” Skywalker shoots back, grinning like they’re sharing battle stories over a drink in a cantina.

The medic--Mirka’lu, he thinks--crosses her arms. “General.”

Oh man, the medics must be angry with him already if they’re already jumping titles like that.

“I’m just a knight--”

“General Skywalker.”

The man in question grimaces. “I maybe got shot during an altercation with some pirates.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And... I maybe--maybe--picked a fight with some Hutt enforcers.”

Jango’s going to wring his neck.

Right after he calls Shmi.

-------------------------

Komari does her level best to not shift nervously under the judgmental eyes of the man they’re pretty sure is the Mand’alor. Her master’s got the situation under control. She’s just there to observe. They’ve got an entire team--

“Is that your way of telling me that your Order did minimal research on the situation before coming to intervene, and the only reason you bothered to reach out is because one of my men, weeks ago, let you know that Death Watch is setting traps for both my people and yours?”

Komari feels the flare of annoyance from Master Dooku. She doesn’t react, but she can hear the tension when her Master speaks.

“I assure we would not have attacked on Galidraan unless attacked first, or if we’d found solid evidence of the actions we were informed of,” Master Dooku says, quiet and even. “All your messenger did was save us all a little time.”

Mereel smiles thinly. “Saved us all some lives, more like it.”

“Perhaps.”

“Ah, jetiise aren’t the only ones with Force-Sensitives,” the Mand’alor says. “I’ve more than a few under my command. Visions aren’t foolproof, I’m aware, but I’ll be damned if such a warning goes completely ignored.”

Master Dooku makes a low humming noise. “Be that as it may, I’m unsure of what it is that you’re expecting out of our... presence. We are not here to help you claim your presumed throne. We are only here to stop the killings we were told about.”

“I don’t need your help to reunite my people.” Mereel waves a hand, batting the mere suggestion away. “But I’d appreciate the help with taking out the terrorist group that’s actually going out and murdering the helpless, this planet’s farmers and doctors and children. Kyr’tsad isn’t just a thorn in my side, Master Jedi.”

“And what proof do I have that you aren’t just the same kind of monster as you claim they are?” Master Dooku challenges.

It’s a little brazen, considering how dicey these negotiations are. For all that Komari herself doesn’t wince, someone behind her outright hisses in dismay. She agrees with the sentiment.

Mereel just laughs at them. He catches the eye of one of the armored individuals along the wall, human or close to it, and nods to himself.

“Right,” the man says. “Well, we have our own Jedi. Would you like to meet him?”

Master Dooku is immobile, as if carved from stone. The rest of the group is... not.

“I suppose that would be acceptable,” Master Dooku says, and Komari feels the tension in him wind further through the training bond. There are a million questions to be had here. None of them can be answered without the supposed Jedi.

“Great,” the Mand’alor says. He leans back in his seat and turns to the door. With the press of a button, the door slides open. “Ben!”

A child darts into the room, stops, and bounces on their feet. Probably male, Komari thinks, and very anxious. The child’s eyes dart about the room, taking in every single Jedi in sight. When that gaze lands on Master Dooku, there’s a flash of recognition and... not hate, but distaste. Confused and distant dismay, maybe. The child turns back to Mereel.

“Mand’alor,” the child greets, still bouncing. “Am I needed?”

“Thought I told you this meeting was for grown-ups,” the Mand’alor says.

Ben shrugs. “I wanted to listen in.”

“That door is soundproofed and you know it.”

“So?”

The Mand’alor grins. “Do me a favor and go fetch your dad.”

“Buir’s still sleeping,” Ben says, grave as dirt. It’s a strange expression for such a small child. He can’t be older than eight, and Komari’s pretty sure even that’s a stretch. “Shmi’s gonna be mad if he has to wake up before the bacta’s done.”

“I just need him for negotiations,” Mereel assures the child.

“Aggressive negotiations with a lightsaber?” Ben asks, and Komari nearly chokes.

“No, just regular ones.”

Ben nods sharply, and then turns and runs out.

“That boy...” Mereel mutters, but it’s fond. “Anywa--”

“BUIR!” Ben’s voice echoes from the hall, faint but audible, along with some very loud banging on what is presumably a door. “DAD! WAKE UP, THE COUNT IS HERE!”

The Count? Komari wonders. Even Master Dooku seems surprised.

The question is clearly on more minds than just her own. Mereel raises a brow at Master Dooku and gestures vaguely. “Didn’t know any of you were nobility. You a Count, Master Jedi?”

“No,” Master Dooku says, and before the Mand’alor can press further, he adds, “but if I were to retire from the Order, the title would be mine to inherit. As I have no intentions of retiring, I am not and will not be a Count, but I assume that is what the child is referring to.”

“Ben,” the Mand’alor corrects. He seems pleased with the reasonable answer. “Ylliben Skywalker. I suggest you refer to him by name.”

“You have a fondness for him,” Master Dooku notes.

Mereel shrugs. “No more than any other child, objectively, but his father is one of my more effective allies, and he gets antsy about things. Saying ‘your child’ won’t be a problem, but ‘the child’ is... well.”

The smirk is a challenge that Komari doesn’t feel ready to meet. She’s glad it’s not hers to handle.

“Why do you ‘have’ a Jedi?” Master Dooku asks, pushing the conversation back to the point Komari’s sure he was initially aiming for.

“Found him in a snowstorm, brought him inside,” Mereel says, grinning. “And then he refused to leave, the shabuir. Troublesome man, like you wouldn’t believe, but useful.”

“Like a feral tooka,” someone behind Komari mutters. She feels a part of her soul die.

You can’t just say that in front of the Mand’alor! she screeches in the depths of her mind, despairing.

“Exactly,” Mereel agrees with a laugh. “Skywalker’s a feral tooka.”

Komari dies a little more.

“Talkin’ shit about me, Mereel?”

...oh no.

This one’s pretty.

The man is tall, dressed almost entirely in black, and looks like shit.

“You look like you got run over by a herd of bantha,” the Mand’alor notes.

“I got back less than a day ago,” Skywalker growls out. He leans against the wall behind the Mand’alor’s desk. He folds his arms. He glowers around the room. “The kriff is Count Dooku doing here?”

“Master Dooku,” the man in question says, a little pained. “As I informed Mand’alor Mereel, I may technically have claim to that title, but I am a Jedi. So long as I remain a Jedi, the title isn’t actually mine.”

Skywalker makes a face, and then shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever. Jaster, what the hell do you need from me?”

“Well, some manners would be nice.”

“I got shot and am putting myself in a position to get yelled at by baar’ur Mirka’lu for coming here when I’m supposed to be on bed rest,” Skywalker growls out. He kicks Mereel’s chair, glaring at the back of the man’s head. “You’re lucky I put on pants.”

Mereel seems unbothered by this statement or treatment.

Komari thinks her eyes may currently be the size of dinner plates.

“You’re the one from Bandomeer.”

Skywalker’s head snaps up to focus his gaze on Master Dooku. “Say what?”

“You’re the one my former Padawan encountered on Bandomeer,” Master Dooku says, something satisfied in his tone. “He said you refused to give a name, but the physical description does match.”

“Oh, lovely, Jinn’s been gossiping,” Skywalker mutters. “That’s just--”

“General Skywalker,” Mereel says, voice finally slipping to something more stern than amused. “If you could please focus.”

Skywalker rolls his eyes and mutters something about painkillers.

“Buir?”

Skywalker’s head tilts to the side, and he holds one arm out to the side. The kid from before--Ben--darts in to cling to the man’s side. A slightly taller Togruta follows in and ducks in under his other arm. Both children keep a wary gaze fixed on the same person, and their adult...

Every look from this man is a new challenge to Master Dooku.

“They’re yours?”

That is the exact question Komari was hoping her master wouldn’t ask.

“We’re in Mandalorian territory,” Skywalker says. “They’re Force-Sensitive orphans with an incredible amount of potential. If I didn’t claim them, someone else would have.”

It’s not an airtight justification--the man could have just sent them to the Temple--but the air around him is roiling with aggression. This man does not like Master Dooku, and is more than a shade protective of these--his--children. Komari shifts her weight and worries as the pregnant silence grows heavier.

“As you say,” Master Dooku allows, and some of the bowstring-tight tension in the room loosens, drains away like foul bathwater. “If I may... I was unaware you were a General, nor that Mandalore had a standing army large enough for such a position.”

“He’s not,” Mereel says. “Used to be, won’t tell me where. It’s not my business, or yours. Title’s a holdover from whatever war he was fighting before we got him.”

Komari is not the only person whose heart drops as Master Dooku says, “Qui-Gon claimed that the rogue knight he’d met on Bandomeer mentioned a galactic war against the Sith.”

Mereel blinks, and then turns his seat around to look at Skywalker. The other Mandalorians look at Skywalker. Every single Jedi also looks at Skywalker.

The Togruta child sticks her tongue out at Master Dooku.

“I did say that,” Skywalker says. “What of it?”

“You know, when I said I didn’t care what fight you were running that turned you into a soldier, I kind of assumed it was something on the level of, say, a system-wide civil war,” Mereel drawls. “Not galactic Force nonsense.”

Skywalker shrugs. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

“Because you’ll lie?”

“No, I’m just going to be really annoying about it,” Skywalker tells him. The Togruta giggles and shoves her face into his side. “Or, hell, I’ll let Ben do it. We both know he can talk circles around basically everyone in this room.”

“Skywalker.”

“Mereel.”

The two hold gazes for a moment that lasts just a little too long, and then Mereel breaks it off. “We’re talking about this later.”

“Of course, Mand’alor,” Skywalker says, with a grim sort of smile. “Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

Mereel doesn’t seem particularly impressed by that.

Komari wonders if anyone else remembers that Skywalker was supposed to be here to make negotiations easier.

-------------------------

Yan Dooku is having a Day.

He’s not entirely sure whom to blame for this mess. Perhaps Yoda, for suggesting he handle this mission. Perhaps the governor of Galidraan, who decided collaborating with terrorists for his own gain was a good idea. Perhaps Jaster Mereel, whose influence and power is enough that Yan needs to tread carefully. Perhaps Qui-Gon, for giving him just enough information about Skywalker to cause some drama.

Perhaps Skywalker for being a recalcitrant, ornery bastard who delights in Yan’s suffering.

(One of the Mandalorians calls him that to his face, and Skywalker informs the man that “my mother always told me I didn’t have a father,” and stares until the Mando stammers out an apology and turns on his heel.)

(The smirk on Skywalker’s face is certainly informative.)

“Hi.”

Yan looks up from the datapad he’s been using to try and punch out a report, for all that he can’t find the words he needs, and sees the Togruta youngling from Skywalker’s side hanging upside-down from a ventilation grate.

He blinks evenly at her. “Good afternoon. Is that your normal manner of traversing the building?”

“Yeah, when Jan-Jan isn’t yelling at me about it,” she says, and drops from the ceiling. Seemingly without paying attention, she directs the grate itself back into place with the Force, screws reattaching themselves with only the slightest whisper. She’s done this many, many times.

“I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.”

“Jango Fett,” she clarifies. “Ad be Mand’alor.”

Child of the king.

He does remember that much from the briefing.

“I see,” Yan says, rather than try to tackle whatever the usage of such a nickname implies. “I’m afraid nobody’s seen fit to introduce you, youngling.”

“I’m Sokanth Skywalker, but most people call me Soka,” she says, with a bouncing, shallow bow. Full of energy, this one. “I’m eight.”

“The General is your father, then?”

“Mm-hm! He adopted me when I was almost two,” she says, and climbs up onto the bench. She wraps her arms around her knees and beams up. “Ben was still a baby, and we didn’t go get Shmi until a few months later when Skyguy could afford it.”

“Skyguy?” Yan prompts.

“My dad,” she explains, head tilting a little as she studies his reaction. “I... I’ve always called him Skyguy. He took care of me before he adopted me, for at least a year. He says I called him Skyguy when I first started talking, back then, and then he didn’t make me stop when he adopted me.”

“I see,” Yan says. “Does your father know you’re speaking with me?”

“Probably.”

“And would he approve?” Yan hints as heavily as he can. “He doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

“That’s because we’ve all seen what you could be,” she says. “But you’re not the Count yet, so it’s okay.”

Information. “Ah. Visions, then. That would explain some things.”

“Ben gets them the most,” she keeps talking. “But it’s not just that. It’s like... patterns. The Sith are going to target you, because they’re going to think you’re worth corrupting.”

“And you’ve seen enough Sith to know that?”

“Yeah.”

“Visions are not foolproof,” he says, trying to keep his tone gentle. He’s not used to interacting with children of this age, and this one comes with a father in the Mand’alor’s confidence, someone he can’t afford to irritate by making a daughter cry. “I have a friend who is very prone to visions, and some come true, some don’t, and others--”

“Are self-fulfilling,” Sokanth finishes for him. “I know that. But my dad’s actually fought Sith, y’know. The guy who cut off my dad’s arm used to be a Jedi Master, like you, and he was all fancy-schmancy and a history nerd for Sith stuff, and didn’t like the Council or their decisions very much. Like you.”

That’s... very personal.

“A surface-level similarity is not enough to make the claim that I am to become a Sith,” he says.

She blinks at him, eyes too large for a face that’s so near to human in bone-structure. It’s unnerving. “Whether or not you Fall is your choice, Count. All I can tell you is that you are the kind of person they look to groom... if only as a pawn.”

The words are too old for a girl her size.

“You speak as if you’ve faced the Sith yourself,” Yan says, well aware now that he needs to tread carefully, but... “You’re too young to go out into the field. I can’t imagine your father would allow a child like yourself to go up against someone that dangerous.”

She blinks those too large eyes, and tilts her head in the other direction, and then smiles. “You care. That’s good. Keep that compassion, Count.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I feel like you’re evading the question.”

Sokanth giggles. “Maybe. Buir doesn’t like us talking about it much. It makes him sad, ‘cuz he can’t help us not hurt, and a lot of it is really scary. It’s like... my memories are too big for my head. I don’t get a lot of visions, but I get a lot of dreams of things that happened that I’m not alive for. And buir does remember those things happening, so it’s true, and it happened, but I only... sort of remember it, and when I think about it too hard, it hurts my head. Or I get nightmares about it, and I don’t like those. Ben’s got it worse, though. He has more to fight.”

It’s a lot of information.

It’s confusing information.

It’s... possibly information that the General has asked her to feed him for reasons he can’t even begin to guess at.

“In this war your father fought,” Yan asks, “were you a soldier as well?”

“Commander,” she corrects, voice soft. “That’s what the dreams call me, before they start screaming.”

“How old are you really?” He asks, before he can quite stop himself.

She laughs, suddenly bright again. “I’m as old as I look. I’m eight. Just because the Force gives me memories I shouldn’t have doesn’t mean that my brain isn’t a kid. Sometimes Ben tries to act older than he is ‘cuz of the memories, y’know. Buir gets sad whenever he does that, ‘cuz he thinks we deserve to be kids before the galaxy goes to hell again.”

“He’s sure of such a thing?”

“It always does,” she says, with the air of someone who isn’t sure how their conversation partner could be quite that dense. Her voice takes on a sing-song cadence, like she’s telling a fable instead of a philosophy. “War always comes eventually. Not every sentient is selfish, but enough are, and they tend to be the ones that claw their way to the top. The rich and powerful will take and take and take, and then, when there’s nothing left, they will use their living stepping stones to tear each other apart. All we can do is be ready to end it as quickly as possible once it comes.”

Yan lets the claim sit for a long, quiet minute. “Did your father tell you that?”

“No,” she says. “Ben did.”

The six-year-old.

“He has a way with words,” Yan manages.

“Sometimes he uses his stuffed animals to host courtroom dramas,” she says. “He makes me look up the right laws so it can be procedurally accurate, ‘cuz he’s a nerd but so am I, and it makes Skyguy happy when he sees us playing like that instead of just doing saber forms and stuff.”

Yan has... no idea what to do with that. “I wouldn’t normally call courtroom dramas a normal children’s activity.”

“Yeah, but Ben’s a nerd,” she says, as if that’s all that needs to be said. Maybe, for her, it is. “And there’s only so much time I’m allowed to spend hunting.”

Right. Togruta.

“And what was your father doing at that age?”

“I’m not allowed to talk about that,” she says immediately. “Because it’s very private and he and Shmi get upset if we bring it up, ‘cuz of trauma and stuff.”

Shmi. The... sister, he thinks. People seem to be unclear on that. He’s heard a few refer to the teenager as just “one of Skywalker’s,” so that’s something to consider. She’s near-perfectly halfway between the children and the General, in terms of age, so it’s a little ambiguous where she fits.

That said, he’s been in a lot of places in his time as a Jedi Master. It’s taken him a little longer than it should have to realize, but he thinks he’s got at least part of the puzzle.

Skywalker’s a slave name. Tatooine, specifically.

It’s not confirmation, really, but...

Well. He thinks it’s better he doesn’t dig, on that subject.

“Hey,” Sokanth says, tugging at his sleeve. “Can I ask ya something?”

“I cannot promise an answer, but you may ask.”

“Can you spar with Skyguy? I wanna see who wins.”

[aizawaorkuroo]

A Burnt Offering

Ship: Dabi x f!reader

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 5.7k

Summary: Your long lost childhood friend sends you letters. And then everything falls apart. Or perhaps together? Otherwise known as “Dabi wants you. And Dabi gets what he wants.”

Warnings: dubcon, non-consensual voyeurism, stalking, manipulation, spitting, dacryphilia, size kink, overstimulation, creampie, cock warming, unprotected sex

A/N: Spoilers for ch. 290 kinda!!! Don’t think too hard about how they’re childhood friends. Not going to be canon compliant cause i make the rules uwu,, also this is a little darker than what I’ve written in the past, (but still pretty soft all things considered) so please read the warnings!!!

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“Dreamed of peach trees. Dreamed, again, of drowning. Dreamed of highways becoming rivers. Dreamed of me, my long hair in flames, my body no longer a body, but a burnt offering, strange smoke rising up to meet him” - Nicola Maye Goldberg

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The first letter you received was a little out of the ordinary, but nothing special. It had been left under your doormat, sticking out ever so slightly. You had brushed it off, assuming they had gotten the address wrong, or meant to send it to the person who lived in your apartment before you.

The right thing would’ve been to leave it there, or throw it away. But curiosity is a fickle beast, choosing to rear its head at strange times.

You furrow your brows, eyes scanning the words hastily scratched onto the paper. It felt familiar, but nothing truly stuck with you. You couldn’t think too hard about it, now when you had so much to get done.

It was a random occurrence, one that slipped your mind as you went about your day, the letter sitting on your kitchen counter.

hey,

we haven’t talked in a while. i miss you i guess. i swear to god i sometimes still feel your hand in mine and sometimes i think of your smile. maybe I’ll see you soon.

It’s left unsigned, and you can’t help but to feel bad that it got sent to you. But there’s no return address, nothing to hint at where it’s supposed to go. So it sits on your counter, slipping out of your mind in the following weeks.  

The second letter sends a small shiver down your spine.

“you will be alone always and then you will die.” i can’t remember who told me that, but it rings around my head. there are days where it feels like it’s true, like time will catch up with me and I’ll be gone. but it’s not true. because I used to have you. but I’ll have you again.

Your eyes gloss over the words, a small frown slipping onto your face. Something melancholic sinks into you, making a home in your chest.

“You will be alone always and then you will die,” you whisper to yourself, fingers grazing over the sloppy letters. You feel guilty that the writer’s thoughts are stuck with you instead of this person they so desperately miss.

Yet there’s something unyielding about the last line, something so definite. Curiosity fills you, and you can’t help but to want to get the letter to where it’s supposed to be. But like the first letter, there’s no return address, no signature, nothing outside of the longing in the letter.

So it sits on the counter with the first, the weight of the words lingering in your chest until it too is forgotten.

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You’re sitting on a hill, watching as the stars plummet down. Someone’s sitting next to you, but when you turn to face him, he stays blurry as if he exists on the edges of reality, unable to be fully perceived.

You watch as a rainbow of flames overtake him and recede, further obscuring him. But the flames continue to cycle in and out, a constant ebb and flow. You know who he is.

He flickers, you cannot touch him. You place your hand on the flames. Nothing burns. When you look up again, the hill is gone. You're sitting in inky darkness, watching as the stars continue to fall all around you. And the boy is gone too. In his place is something of shadow and smoke, two gleaming blue eyes tearing into you. You freeze, unable to do anything but stare.

It stalks towards you slowly, grinning to show rows of sharp teeth. You know what it wants, you can feel the need across the space in between you too. And so close your eyes and tilt your neck, offering yourself up. And you don’t scream when it takes the first bite.

“I’m always on your side.”

You wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding. You’re awake now, but you feel like the stars are still falling around you and him - right.

Touya.

His name blossoms in your head, memories of laughter and secrets told underneath the shade of a cherry blossom tree. Your head's pounding, and you run to the bathroom, splashing water on your face. That night, the last night you had seen him, when you watched the stars streak across the sky.

“I’m always on your side.”

A promise that withered into something shallow after he disappeared.

You blink at your reflection, fists curled into themselves so tightly it hurts. You wish Touya could hold your hand now.

You don’t go back to sleep.

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The third letter makes you frown a little. Three makes a pattern.

Really wish you would say something back. Has it been that long? Guess that’s to be expected.

You scan the page, melancholic thoughts lingering until you read the last line. Your eyes widen, heart leaping in your throat, as you read it over and over again. Your hands are shaking, mind cloudy, breath short.

Really, say something back y/n.

Your name, clear as day. They know your name. You’re the recipient. You blink blankly as a line from the previous letter pops into your brain. I’ll have you again.

The letter sits untouched on the counter for days before you finally build up the courage to tentatively write back. Who is this?

As you shakily write, it dawns on you how stupid this is. You should be going to the police, or getting a security system. But you can’t help but wonder who it is, and the fickle beast inside of you rears its head.

You tentatively place the response under the doormat, and scurry back inside, as if the action would burn you. The next morning the note is gone.

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It takes a few days for you to get a response. When you get home from work, you’re tempted to walk right past it, pretending to not see it. You could just let it slip from your mind, go on with your life as if nothing has changed. But nothing can ever be simple, and with shaking hands, you steal the letter before locking yourself inside.

I can imagine how scared you must be. I bet you’d look so cute. Part of me wants to make you guess. But I’d rather speed this up. It’s me. Y’know. Touya.

“Touya,” you whisper. It’s heavy on your lips. “Touya.” Your throat is raw. “Touya, Touya, Touya.” Your chest burns. Tufts of red hair, memories of childhood and shooting stars.

Brain pulsing in overdrive, you try to reconcile what you know to be true and what is being told to you.

1. Touya was your best friend.

This one is a fact. You remembered holding his hand, running around the estate. He would be battered, bruises and burns littering his skin. Right. His father. You shiver thinking about the man.

2. Touya disappeared as a child.

Another fact. You remember his mom’s tear-stained face as she turned you away, and when you were back home, safe in bed, you cried so hard you thought you’d never stop shaking.

3. Touya is still alive.

The first in your list that is debatable. No one’s seen him for years. It’s fully possible something horrible could have happened to him. But there’s no evidence he’s dead. If you can reason that Touya is still alive, then it’s possible…

4. Touya is sending you letters. 

The most difficult conclusion of all. If Touya is alive, it could be possible he’s sending you letters. But there’s no way to guarantee it is him. It could be some stranger, some pervert pretending to be your sweet redhead from childhood. You would have to test him.

Your response is careful, calculated as you try to navigate your emotions. Your hands shake as you write the final line, a question.

What was the last thing we did?

A small frown slips onto your face. It’s kind of a lame question, and yet it’s the best you can do. But it’s a baseline, a place to start.

His response comes almost immediately.

We watched a meteor shower. Go ahead. Dig deeper.

You chew on your lip while thinking. “Touya” is off to a good start, but there’s still no guarantee. So you push farther

Where did we hide the bowl I accidentally broke?

C’mon, it was a vase, not a bowl. We buried it along the fenceline. Good try.

You smile at the memory, the way you had cried over the broken porcelain, embarrassment coursing through you. Touya had helped you hide the evidence, telling you no one would find out.

What did you promise me?

I’m always on your side.

You inhale sharply, eyes glued to his messy scrawl. That’s it. It has to be him. You’ve never told that to anyone before. You squeeze your eyes shut, but you can see stars falling all around you. You feel a little light headed.

How did you find me?

Pure chance. I missed you, y/n. Does your face scrunch up when you get mad still? It was so fucking cute.

Shut the fuck up, Touya.

You don’t know how he’s done it, but Touya has inserted himself back into your life, whisking you off your feet with his stupid jokes and laid back attitude. And everyone in a while he’ll say something, that has you burying your face into your pillow, face warm and stomach in knots.

I’m going to hold you, and never let you go.

Would you let me kiss you? Would you let me sink my teeth into you? I bet you would.

I’d kiss you until you melt.

That one in particular made your chest burn, full of something warm and sappy. You read it over and over again, until the words are branded in your brain.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table at 2 am when you realize, you would. You would let him kiss you, let him sweep you off your feet. It occurs to you that you don’t know what he looks like anymore, but his words reach into you, stirring everything around to the point that you’re completely enamored anyways.

A sharp knock draws you from your thoughts. You narrow your eyes, glancing at the clock. Hesitantly, you approach your front door. You hover right in front of it, debating on whether or not to open it again. There’s a chance that no one’s even there anymore.

A second forceful knock makes your stomach flip. Taking a deep breath, you crack the door open.

Your eyes widen, and you're deafened by the blood pumping through you. Patchwork skin, pitch-black hair; you feel yourself begin to panic. 

Dabi. You recognized him from the Fukuoka fight that was on TV. You slam the door shut before he has a chance to say anything.

“No, no, no. Don’t do this to me y/n.” His voice is muffled by the door, but the separation doesn’t hide the way his voice barely cracks. You feel sick, brain cloudy as the room spins around you.

“How do you know my name?” you choke out, stomach growing nauseous.

“I thought we already did this… but you can’t recognize me either.” You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, wracking your brain for what he could be talking about.

“After all those letters.” 

Oh.

Oh.

Your stomach drops, and your heart does with it. Dabi is Touya. Touya is Dabi. You tremble against the door, flashes of red hair and childhood innocence ghosting through your mind. You should’ve paid more attention to how he found you.

“Open the door.” Touya’s voice- no Dabi’s voice? You shake your head at the confusion, finding it difficult to reconcile the two versions of him you know. Regardless, his voice is even now, something sharp lingering beneath the soft surface.

You shut your eyes, letting your head rest against the door; it’s all too much for you. You can practically feel the tears stinging the back of your eyes. Maybe he’ll go away, maybe you don’t have to have a breakdown in the middle of the night.

“Open up for me, Y/N.”

You blink your eyes open, something cold slipping down your spine. He’s not going away. He could burn the door down if he wanted to. You know what he does now, and you feel so fucking stupid. The fact that he’s asking is an unexpected kindness. Summoning all the willpower you have, you open the door, hand grasping the handle to avoid shaking.

Dabi’s head tilts to the side as his eyes meet yours, and a sharp grin pulls at his lips.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” Your eyes dip to the floor, and you stumble to the side, closing the door as he brushes past you.

You awkwardly stand in front of him, fingers messing with the hem of your shirt as you try to control your breathing. Your stomachs in your throat as Dabi circles you. He is not the boy you knew. There’s an edge to him, a coldness radiating off of him that rolls into you.

“Now you can’t even look at me,” he sneers. Your gaze tilts up to meet him, trembling his words. Your heart lurches as you take in his appearance again. The puckered flesh, the staples, the jet black hair. It’s all too much.

But his eyes.

His eyes are the same, the same vivid blue that haunts your dreams. It hurts looking at him now, but it also hurts remembering what he was.

Hesitantly, you reach out to cup his face. He tenses under your touch, eyes flashing in warning. You swallow past the lump in your throat, forcing out a small “hi.” Your voice cracks under the weight of emotions, but his eyes soften, and he ever so gently tilts his head into your hand. And that’s enough.

A steady stream of tears leak from your eyes; you’re not completely sure why you’re crying, the emotions too jumbled, too complex to pinpoint a specific reason. Your thumb brushes over the marred skin under his eyes, and you feel sick. Like everything that’s wrong with the world has reared its ugly head in your apartment. But it hasn’t. It’s Touya. 

“Awww. Baby girl’s crying for me, huh?” he teases, making you narrow your eyes. He moves quickly, pulling you against him before you can step away. “Still the same crybaby from before.” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore the way your head’s spinning.

“What else am I supposed to do?” you bite back, letting your head rest against him. “I missed you.” He scoffs at that, hands sliding down to grip your waist.

Your breath stutters, and you squirm in his hold, unsure what to think. His grip tightens, making you wince. You pull your head back to look up at him, trying to keep your breathing even. Touya leans in close, eyes glued to you.

“Glad you missed me,” he mutters, and the borderline painful grip switches to something softer as he massages your flesh. “I missed you too, Y/N.” His voice rumbles through you softly, making your stomach flip. His tongue darts out of his mouth to flash across your cheek, licking the salty trail your tears left behind.

“Touya, what the fuck?”

You jerk away from him, sputtering as he throws his head back in laughter. Your skin feels too hot, and you struggle to put together a thought. You wiggle out of his grasp, wiping your face, and glaring at him.

“C’mon. Don’t be like that,” he laughs, obviously not taking this seriously. But you just shake your head, trying to squash all of your feelings.

“What do you want?” Your voice bends under the stress, and you face screws up, trying to stop the pathetic flow of tears.

“To see you,” he murmurs, eyes softer than before. The feelings behind the phrase are normally enough to make you giggle and your eyes turn into hearts. 

But this is Touya, or Dabi, or some bizarre amalgamation of the two. And you know what he’s done now. You know the price he’s paid. He is not the same.

“That’s not an answer. You shouldn’t be here,” you bite at him. All traces of warmth leave Dabi’s face, and your stomach drops. Something cold and sharp glints in his eyes, threatening to cut you if you get too close. You take a tiny step back, but he simply follows.

“Don’t be like this, Y/N.” His voice is tense, a warning of who he is now, what he’s done, what he could do to you. He cocks his head to the side, eyes trailing over you, gauging your reaction. He’s not the same. You know he’s not the same. His patchwork skin is proof of that enough.

It’s not fair. Echoes of childish giggles and burning blue eyes dance across your thoughts. But what he had done to all those people…You shut your eyes, crossing your arms as if you could hold yourself together.

“Well, what am I supposed to think? You were gone, for so long. And then you sent those fucking letters, and all I could think of was seeing you again. But you’re…” you trail off, but the unsaid hangs heavy in the air.

“Broken,” he hisses out, cold eyes narrowed at you as he gestures to his body. You glare right back at him, tears still flowing.

“It has nothing to do with that,” you manage to force out. “I just- I just don't know who you are.” Dabi’s face twists up into something bitter and forceful, a hurricane that’ll sweep you into something dangerous, you just know it. He is not the same.

“I wrote you those letters, Y/N. I’m still me.” But you don’t know who that is. Not anymore. He abruptly steps forward, forcing you against the wall, eyes wide in panic. He’s too close to your face, too warm, too overwhelming. 

You missed him so much, and it hurts. It hurts to see what happened, how he had to put himself back together, a dull mosaic that’s missing pieces. He reaches out to brush his thumb over your cheekbone.

“I’m always on your side.”

If it had been anyone else but Touya, you would’ve scoffed and kicked them out. But he knows you. He knows how you think, he knows what’ll make you respond. 

After all, he’s been watching you, making sure he knows how to say that’ll make you bend to his will. Touya wants you, his sweet best friend, to be his forever. So he knows what to say.

And something in you finally gives in, and you wrap arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He slips his arms around your waist, holding you flush against him.

Your knees wobble, legs failing you as you melt to the ground. Touya follows you down, arms circling around you tighter as he smiles into your hair.

Fuck the league. Fuck his family. Fuck a normal life. Fuck, the whole world can burn down. He doesn’t give a fuck. But maybe, just maybe if there’s anyone out there listening, just let him have this. Just this once.

“That’s my baby girl,” he murmurs against you, pulling you into his lap. He kicks out his legs behind you, bending his knees to force snug against him. If he were a better man, he’d be content with this, having you on his side.

But Touya is not a good man. He’s greedy for more, and all he can think about is the heat radiating from your cunt.

His hands splay out against your back, gently rubbing you as you sniffle against him. But he can’t help it when his hands start to travel further down. You sound so cute and desperate, it ignites something within him. He squeezes the flesh of your ass, making you freeze against him. You lean away, lips trembling as your eyebrows draw together.

“Touya, what are you doing?” You sound pathetic to your own ears, and you hate it. But you’re not given any time to dwell on it when he leans forward, lips a few mere centimeters from yours. He rocks you gently against him, watching the conflict in your eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning to peck the corner of your lips. “I’m always on your side. Let me make you feel good.”

You stay stiff against him, hands slowly tangling into his hair as he litters the side of your neck with sloppy kisses. One of his hands pushing its way down your little shorts making you gasp. You can feel his erection growing beneath you, and you bite your lip, trying to make a decision to stop him or not.

“Touya,” you ask, “are you sure?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” You’re not 100% sure if this is the right decision, but he feels so good against you. And he’s handsome, scars and all. The intense warmth from earlier slipping into something more comforting, enveloping you as you rock against his hand ever so slightly.

So you don’t stop him. He would never hurt you, right? And it's been a while since you’ve gotten laid. Touya’s made sure of that. So you let him continue his exploration, melting against him as he gently rubs at your clit.

Touya watches your face, memorizing the expressions you make as he slips a finger into your hot cunt. To be clear, he’s seen your face when you’ve creamed around your little fingers on your own, unaware that he was stroking his cock outside your window. But you look so much better, happier even, when it’s his fingers you’re grinding into.

He nips at your neck, before pulling his fingers out of your shorts. He pushes you off of his lap, rolling his eyes at the way you pout.

“Calm down, baby girl. Wanna taste you.”

“Wait!” you warn. Touya freezes, eyes flicking up to yours, taking you in curiously. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” you stutter out, nervous at the look in his eyes. You can’t help but to feel embarrassed, laying on the floor of your apartment sputtering with your childhood best friend turned villain nestled against the apex of your thighs. Anything that can restore an ember of normalcy to the situation would make you feel better at this point.

Touya rests his head against your thigh, warmth returned to his eyes. He smiles at you a little too widely, too sharply. He resembles a predator, something stalking alone at night. Something you shouldn’t have let inside. He’s going to eat you alive. And maybe you’re okay with it.

“Alright, little girl. Lead the way.”

An awkward, hot tension surrounds you as you scrabble off the floor, grabbing his hand as you pull him towards the bedroom. Your thumb brushes over the staples, heart twisting at the feeling.

But the melancholic sting is forgotten once he’s leaving sharp little bites on your thighs, your clothes and his jacket tossed to a forgotten corner of your bedroom. His breath is hot against your exposed skin, goosebumps following his path to your hot cunt.

You’re nervous, still unsure of your current predicament. But Touya pinches your thigh, bringing your attention back to him as he watches as your thighs tense around him. His eyes meet yours, confident and sure of his place between your legs, and all of your uncertainty vanishes, consumed by the want and desire that fills you.

His eyes meet yours, clear and sharp, and he brings his hands to your pussy, thumbs pulling your folds open. His gaze drops, focused on your cunt, watching the way you clench around nothing. You squirm, embarrassed at the intensity of his stare.

“So wet already,” he mumbles, before his tongue swipes along your slit. You let out a small gasp, slamming your hand to your mouth in a lame attempt to gag yourself. Touya narrows his eyes, as he laps away, tongue flicking up to tease your clit, circling it but never touching the sensitive bud. You whine into your hand, trying to keep your hips still as he takes his time.

“Drop that hand.” The rumble of his voice travels through you, making you shiver. “Drop it, and I’ll touch this cute little clit.” Looking at him nervously, your hand falls tentatively, hovering above his hair, unsure if it’s okay to ground yourself there. Touya rolls his eyes, before pushing your hand down.

His tongue swipes at your clit making your hips jolt. He lets out a snort before repeating the action. Your grip in his hair is light, not wanting to hurt him; but your self-control goes out the door the second his lips make a seal around your clit.

He sucks at the throbbing bud, eyes lighting up at the way you buck against him, moaning loudly. Your fingers tangle into his hair, keeping him snug against your cunt. He slips a finger into your sopping hole, practically melting at how warm and wet it is. He needs to be inside you. Soon.

“Touya,” you moan, rocking in an attempt to increase the friction. He curls his finger inside of you, mouth still focused on your engorged bud. Your grip in his hair tightens, the pleasure that’s been simmering building rapidly.

“Gonna cum!” you squeal in warning. He doesn’t slow down, eyes trained on your face as your jaw drops, a choked noise clawing out of your throat. You tense around him, muscles quivering at the intensity of your orgasm. You whine and buck against him, and he lets you ride at your orgasm.

When his ministrations borderline into pain, you weakly push his head away, trying to catch your breath. He lets you pull away, eyes glimmering cruelly.

“That was fast.”

You whine in response, moving your hands to cover your face. Touya hisses, surging forward to yank your hands above your head. You wince as he squeezes, eyes narrowing on your face.

“Don’t hide what’s mine.” His lips pull back into a lazy grin as his eyes trail over your body, landing on your glistening cunt. “Gonna fuck you so good,” he mutters, mostly to himself. You blink stupidly at him when he lets you go, processing the fact that he’s kicked off his pants and taking his cock out.

Your eyes widen when you see the shiny piercings that gleam on his cock. It excites you, making your cunt clench around nothing. And yet your stomach drops when you finally realize that he’s bigger than you thought he would be. You bite your lip, trying to tame the swarm of nerves that take over the excitement.

“Touya, I think I need-” he cuts you off with a sloppy kiss. Your hips cant when you feel the head of his cock sliding along the lips of your pussy, his piercings tapping at your clit nicely. You’re not sure if you’re ready for him, and it simultaneously excites and terrifies you. But he leans on you, keeping you still with his body weight.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Open up for me,” he murmurs. And then next thing you know his lips are on yours, but you can’t help but to let out a cry against him when he thrusts his cock into you, bottoming out. He’s red hot inside of you, and tears prickle the corners of your eyes, leaking out as your nails dig into his back.

“So warm,” he murmurs, before pulling his hips back and thrusting into you. You cry out at the harsh stretch, tears falling down your cheeks as his piercings pull at your walls. He seems to like that though, and he brings a hand up to your cheek, thumb stroking the salty liquid. “You’re pretty when you cry.” He punctuates the sentence with a particularly harsh thrust, sending more tears down your face. “Attagirl,” he coos, looking absolutely enamored with your blubbering face.

“Touya, please,” you whine, not exactly sure what you’re asking for. But Touya seems to know, a sharp grin spreading wide on his face.

“Awww, does my baby girl wanna feel good too?” You nod, face twisted as you babble away.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ll take good care of you.” He kisses you again messily, before slipping a hand in between your bodies to play with your exhausted clit. He massages the swollen bud, sighing as you start to gush around him. “Is that better?” You nod and whine, hands twisting in his hair to hold him against you.

Touya can’t help but chuckle, and he presses another kiss into your neck before sucking on the skin there. His thrusts are gentler now, appreciating the snug warmth that surrounds his cock. If he could stay buried in the heat of your cunt forever, he would.

He’s drawn from his thoughts when you tug at his shirt, wanting it gone. He stills against you, tensing. You look up at him with a pout, eyes begging him to take it off.

“Please,” you whine. “I wanna feel you.” His mouth opens, and you can already hear the annoying quip that lies on the tip of his tongue, so you push forward, hands tangled into his shirt. “I wanna feel all of you.” He pauses, head tilting to the side as you watch the gears turn behind his eyes.

“Please.” Your voice is soft, as you try to avoid squirming around his dick. Something seems to click in his mind because he draws back, pulling his shirt off. Your eyes wander across the expanse of stapled skin, the puckered burns, making your heart squeeze. But there’s nothing you can say, nothing you can change. So you reach out to him, beckoning him into your arms.

He falls forward, barely supporting himself, letting his body cover yours. You wrap your arms and legs around him holding him close as he begins to lightly thrust again.

“You feel so good,” you cry out panting against his face. Touya angles his head to face you, eyes boring into yours as his breaths mix with yours. It’s too hot, too much, but you can’t move away, overwhelmed by the sensations and entranced by his eyes.

Touya’s hips increase in pace, rutting violently against yours, the sharp sting of his skin against yours making you whine. Each thrust into you, steals your breath away, your hands digging into his back.

“Ever since I found you again, I needed to have you, needed you back. I wasn’t going to let myself lose you again,” he growls. You whimper as you gush around him, finding that you want him to stay buried in your pussy forever.

“Stick out your tongue,” he barks out. His eyes flash, and you do as he says, all while letting out little gasps as he thrusts into you. He hovers above you, a cruel grin spread out on his face. You watch as he spits onto your tongue, a shudder going down your spine. He reaches out to grip your open jaw harshly.

“Swallow.” When he lets go you do exactly that, cunt squeezing tightly. “Oh you like that?” he laughs as you nod. He hums before kissing you sloppily.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re gonna do what I say from now on. I’ll make you feel so fucking good.”

You should be alarmed by the promise of obedience, but you feel too good to care right now.

“Mine, mine, mine.”

It crosses your mind to tell him that you don’t belong to him, but all you can do is nod and hold him closer.

“Wanted to be inside this pussy the moment I saw you. You’re never gonna want another cock than mine.” At this point, all you can do is whine and nod, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“Nothing’s gonna hurt you again, baby girl. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll take care of you.” Your nails scratch down his back, making him hiss, as your hips rut against him.

“Touya,” you cry out, tears leaking from your eyes so sweetly. “Gonna cum again.” He nods, lips brushing against yours.

“Wanna feel you cream around me, baby girl.” You nod blankly, drunk on the feeling of his cock pounding into you, piercings pulling so nicely at your gummy walls.

Propping himself up with one arm, he slips his hand in between your bodies, fingers playing with your clit again. It’s enough to send you over the edge, and you cry out, writing against him as your pussy gushes around his cock, squeezing him tightly.

He chokes against you, and your pulsating cunt launches him into his own orgasm. Touya’s hips jerk against you as his cum paints the inside of your cunt. He collapses against you as you twitch in a post-orgasmic haze. He nips at your neck, alternating the sharp stings with sweet kisses.

“You did so good, baby. So good to me. I’ll take care of you. I promise,” he murmurs against your skin, making you shiver. You’re still panting, sweeping your hands over his back, before they land in his hair, gently scratching at his scalp. He shuts his eyes, enjoying the sensations and the warmth, letting himself get lost in you, if only for a little bit.

But when he pushes himself off of you, pulling his hips away, you whine. Your legs lock around him, keeping him lodged inside you. He barks out a laugh before flopping down on his side, pulling you against him.

“I’ll stay right here. Don’t worry.”

“Touya…” you murmur, gently. He sends you a questioning gaze, waiting. You lean forward, pressing your lips against his, trying to convey the complexity of what you’re feeling. He responds aggressively, as if you might disappear. But it makes you melt. Maybe he was right about that.

 When you draw back, his thumb strokes at leftover tears on your cheek.

“It’s okay, You’re mine now.” It’s not exactly what you wanted to hear, but it’s all you get from him because he pulls you tight against him, eyes shutting in exhaustion.

You curl up against him, feeling his breathing even out. His cock feels heavy inside of you, and something cold sits in your stomach.

You shouldn’t have done that. He’s not okay. You really shouldn’t have done that. But you would deal with that in the morning.

For now, Touya is yours, and you’ll enjoy the warmth of his skin and the way the stars fall when you shut your eyes.✨

[maxwell-grant]

Jumping off from my previous question/suggestion, might I please ask if there are any superheroes you think would make fine Pulp Villains and any Supervillains you think would make convincing Pulp Heroes?

I'm gonna go ahead and remark that I'd personally suggest to anyone who's trying to create pulp characters inspired by superheroes (which would be probably about 90% of you who may want to do that sort of thing) to flip the script around a little. As in, don't try to create pulp analogues to the Justice League/Avengers upfront, but play around with some of the lesser-known icons and filter those through your idea of what “pulp” means (which is gonna be quite different than my own or anyone else’s). 

I’m not gonna really mention characters I’ve already talked about before like Vandal Savage or Namor, instead I’ll pick new ones and see what can be highlighted about them.

Regarding “Superheroes who could make fine/convincing Pulp Villains”, even though he’s a character I've read basically nothing on, Martian Manhunter definitely leaped out to me as an obvious option. He’s a Sci-Fi Superman who takes the first half of the name to an extreme that borders on comical, except he’s not a square-jawed white man, he’s a 1.000 year old green alien from Mars with shapeshifting powers who can look as monstrous as the artist desires. He’s the product of an advanced civilization and genetic modification, and on top of the Flying Brick powerset and shapeshifting, he also has incredibly powerful and extensive telepathic abilities, he can become invisible, phaze through matter, use telekinesis and other weird abilities. A lot of pulp stories closer to sci-fi were based around the idea of taking one of these abilities and extrapolating horrific consequences for them, and J’onn has those by the dozens. He also has an extremely mundane weakness that would allow him to be beaten by Macready with a blowtorch if that’s where the story ended.

He was also a law enforcement officer from Mars who became a police detective and it’s even right there in his name, and again, I have never read anything he’s in (I should probably pick the Orlando mini), I know he’s for all intents and purposes a generally nice man who tends to job a lot in crossovers and cartoons, but the idea of taking all those great vast and horrifying alien powers, combining all of them into a single character who also happens to be the last survivor of a doomed planet (and one who actually lived through it’s collapse), and then making that character a former cop trying to resume his work on Earth? 

That is a Pulp Supervillain begging to happen, and a particularly horrifying one at that. And hey, speaking of The Thing-

Now, Plastic Man’s potential for horror has already been explored quite a bit in some of the darker DC continuities like Injustice and DCeased, and it’s quite funny seeing a lot of these turn Plastic Man into The Thing because there were quite a handful of Wold Newton pages that ran with the idea that Macready from the original story was Doc Savage, and that the secret chemicals that Eel O’Brian was hit by that gave him his powers were actually samples of The Thing contained in one of Savage’s labs. Regardless, the idea of a former street crook suddenly gaining bizarre shapeshifting abilities that allow him to reign terror on his gangster associates could make for a great premise as a pulp crime story that veers into horror as the gangsters gradually figure out what is Eel O’Brian’s deal, and then the story can take a more tragic turn.

The thing about Jack Cole’s Plastic Man that modern takes on the character neglect is that, while Plas was a lively roguish anti-hero (arguably the first of it’s kind in comics), he’s still for intents and purposes “the straight man” (HA, right, Plastic Man being “straight”). He’s the relatively sane hero who plays off Woozy’s wackier misadventures and the imaginative madness that Jack Cole paints his adventures with, and it makes for an interesting contrast considering Plastic Man is already a weird character, having to ramp up the strangeness of the world around him so that he still remains the sane man. There are ways to twist this into something quite horrifying, even tragic for Plastic Man as he either struggles to maintain coherency, or embraces the shifting chaos the world’s spiraling into for better or worse (and definitely for the worse towards those on the receiving end of his vengeance, or even his humor).

Now, onto the flipside, regarding Supervillains that could become Pulp Heroes -

Normally I’d not mention the Batman villains here, because I already have a lot to talk about in regards to them as is, they comprise some of my favorite comic characters, but I pretty much have to make an exception for Two-Face in this topic, as not only a pretty obvious option but one with even case studies to prove it, as not only do we have The Black Bat, a 1930s costumed pulp hero with an identical origin story and several other conceptual overlaps with Batman, as well as The Whisperer, a young hotshot police commissioner who dresses up as a disfigured vigilante to kill criminals without consequence (and who’s somehow less of a maniacal asshole in his secret identity than in his regular one), but it turns out that there actually was a 1910s pulp hero called The Two-Faced Man:

Crewe was created by “Varick Vanardy,” the pseudonym of Frederic van Rensselaer Dey (Nick Carter, Doctor Quartz), and appeared in three short stories and two novels and short story collections from 1914 to 1919, beginning with “That Man Crew” (The Cavalier, Jan. 24, 1914). 

Crewe is “The Two-Faced Man.” 

He is in his forties and has gray hair and a “sharply cut and handsome profile—until one caught a view of the other side of his face and saw the almost hideous blemish that nearly covered it, and which graduated in corrugated irregularity from a delicate pink to repulsive purple.” 

Crewe is two-faced in another way. Crewe is a saloon owner in below Washington Square. But he has another identity: Birge Moreau, portraitist and socialite hanger-on. Crewe uses both his identities to solve crimes as an amateur detective.

The only person to know about both of Crewe’s identities is a police inspector who is also Crewe’s friend and who Crewe helps in pressing cases - The Encyclopedia of Pulp Heores by Jess Nevins

And speaking of obvious picks for Supervillains turned Pulp Heroes,

Assuming I even need to make a case for Kraven the Hunter other than just presenting this cropped panel from Squirrel Girl and in particular the art painted on the Kra-Van, or even just telling you to read Squirrel Girl and it’s take on “The Unhuntable Sergei” (I had no idea most of the people saying “Kraven’s arc in Squirrel Girl is as good if not better than Kraven’s Last Hunt” weren’t actually joking in the slightest and I speak as someone who has Kraven among their absolute favorite Marvel characters, it had no right being that good), I’m going to quote the brilliant Rogue’s Review from The Mindless Ones that lays down in painstaking detail why Kraven could make a killer protagonist in that horrifically over-the-top pulp fashion

One thing that strikes me writing this, is how well Kraven could hold his own comic. There’s always room for a book spotlighting a ruthless, hardcore, gentleman bastard, and Kraven’s raison d’etre makes him supremely versatile, so well suited to any genre, any environment. It’s odd that more writers haven’t jumped on the fact that in a universe where off-world travel is possible – indeed, common – a hunter like Kraven would have a field day. 

I can just imagine the opening scene – herds of weird cthuloid bat creatures grazing in the gloomy green nitrogen fields, bathed in lethal, bone splintering fog, when, suddenly, LIGHT! from above and an unholy bellowing: “CTHGRGN fthgrgnARAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHGN!”

They look up in fear and then they start to run – ploughing into and over each other, tentacles flailing, as from the space-ship’s docking bay Kraven silently plummets, barely dressed for the cold, a glowing knife smothered in elder signs jammed between his teeth. 

You should have seen him one night previous, sipping alien tokay around the Captain’s table with the other guests, discussing the morning’s hunt; and the way he insulted the Skrull dignitary by forgetting himself and accidentally sporting his favourite piece of formal wear: his boiling unstable dinner-jacket of many colours, fashioned from the hide of one of the Ambassador’s super kinsmen.

Whoops!

Midway through Kraven explaining how the best way to irreparably damage a symbiote is to wait until its bonded with you and then seriously maim yourself, the Skrull decided it might be a good idea to simmer down, while his beautiful Inhuman lover hung on every word.

The deeper I get into this the more convinced I am that the MU’s hunter-killer extraordinaire wouldn’t limit himself to bloody planet Earth. And neither would he limit himself to this dimension, or universe or timeline. The guy’d be just as at home leaping, sword raised, onto the back of a T-Rex in the Savage Land, as he would be ploughing through werewolves in the graveyards of Arkham or tracking a howling Demon across Mephistopheles’ realm. 

He’d work perfectly in all these environments because he has a damn good reason to be casting a bloody swathe through them: wherever there’s big game, you’ll find Kraven.

The next choice I guess is an oddball, but not that much of an oddball if you know already what is my main frame of reference towards Marvel

I don’t think people appreciate enough that the main reason Shuma-Gorath has anything resembling a fanbase has nothing whatsoever to do with the comics he was in, but entirely because, when Capcom designers had a list of Marvel characters to pick from to work on Marvel Super Heroes, they took a look at the diet Cthulhu and went “gimme THAT one”, and then went all-in in giving the alien squid monster a funky personality along with a great stage and music and animations and all that great fighting game character stuff, and now he’s maybe the most popular Dr Strange villain along with Dormammu and Mordo, despite having ZERO film appearences or major showings in comic sagas.

Capcom's designers redefined Shuma-Gorath from a nebulous cosmic evil into a comically smug cartoon bastard who can rant about devouring all dimensions and souls horrifically while also cracking poses and zingers like “How do you expect to win a fight with only two arms?” and having dinners with Dhalsim or hosting Japanese game shows in his endings, and it kills me that none of this ever made it’s way into any depictions of the character outside of MvC. 

So that’s kinda what I’d go with. I’d take Capcom’s Shuma-Gorath, depower him a bit obviously from his canonical power, and run with the premise of his MvC3 ending where he decides that, well, if he's the unlikely savior of this pathetic planet and these wretched human dogs like him so much, and he’s clearly having a much better time here among them than he ever had drifting among the stars cealessly consuming life, then maybe he can take a break from all that eldritch business and keep up hosting the Super Monster Awesome Hour and maybe fight whatever PITIFUL villains think can take HIS planet. I mean, he’ll probably still end up destroying the planet by the end, but why not give this hero business a try?

Just until he gets his full powers back of course. 

I mean you can’t deny he DOES look pretty good in that bowtie, surely The Great Shuma-Gorath wouldn’t be so unmerciful as to deny these vile wastes of flesh something good to look at in their brief and miserable lives.

[felassan]

Dragon Age development insights from David Gaider - PART 1

This information came from DG on a recent SummerfallStudios Twitch stream where he gave developer commentary while Liam Esler played DAO, specifically the mage Origin. I transcribed it in case there’s anyone who can’t watch the stream (for example due to connection/tech limitations, data, time constraints, or personal accessibility reasons). A lot of it is centered on DAO, but there’s also insights into DA2 and DAI. Some of it is info which is known having been out there already, some of it is new, and all of it imo was really interesting! It leaps from topic to topic as it’s a transcript of a conversational format. It’s under a cut due to length.

Note on how future streams in this series are going to work: The streams are going to be every Friday night. Most likely, every week, they’re going to play DAO. Every second week it will be Liam and DG and they’ll be doing more of this developer commentary style/way of doing things, talking about how the game was made as they play through, covering quirks and quibbles etc. Every other week, it will be Liam and a guest playing a different campaign in DAO, and Liam will be talking with them about how DA changed their lives or led them into game development, to get other peoples’ thoughts on the series (as it’s now been like 10 years). Some of these guests we may know, some we won’t. When other DA devs are brought on, it’ll be in the DG sessions. They hope to have PW and Karin Weekes on at some point. Sometime they hope to have an episode where they spend the whole time going through the lore.

(Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6)

[wording and opinions DG’s, occasionally LE’s; paraphrased]

DAO’s development actually finished up around April 2009. They then put it on ice for around six months before release. Human Noble is DG’s favorite Origin. It’s one of the ones he wrote. He also wrote the Dalish Origin as well (Tamlen is his doing ;__;). DAO’s temp name during development was Chronicles. DG has never played any of the DA games after they were released. He played them pre-release loads of times, when they were half-broken or incomplete etc. This stream is his first time seeing everything played after completion.

NWN: Hordes of the Underdark was the first game where DG was a/the lead writer, in charge of other writers, as opposed to a senior writer. It was pretty well-received. In the fall of 2003, BW were just finishing up HotU when James Ohlen came to DG to talk. BW had been having issues during the development of NWN with the IP holder for D&D Wizards of the Coast, so they were interested in starting their own IPs that they would have ownership over (and also for financial reasons). JO said to DG that one of these new IPs would be fantasy and one would be sci-fi. He knew that DG was more fantasy-oriented, and so asked DG if he wanted to take this on. DG was down, and the first thing to figure out was what that fantasy IP was going to be.

JO gave DG an atlas of European history, which he still has, and said that he wanted him to make a fantasy world that is reminiscent of medieval Europe and reminiscent of D&D - “make it like D&D but not, file off the serial numbers really well”. This worked for DG because he was pretty familiar with D&D and there were also lots of things that he didn’t like about it and wanted to change. So DG went off and for the next six months worked on creating a setting, beginning with documentation and the map. This was kinda strange because they had no idea at that time what their story would be. JO was very interested in having a “genetically evil” enemy in the setting (like an equivalent to orcs). DG wasn’t a big fan of this and his initial go at the setting omitted this (i.e. darkspawn were not a thing) and was a lot more realistic. JO insisted on adding them later on.

This period of development wasn’t actually a good process. There were other people who were working on the project who were designing the combat side. Looking back, DG feels that they should have put their heads together a lot sooner. The combat designers had various ideas for various prestige classes and subclasses, and DG would be like “these are nowhere in the setting [lore]”. He tried his best to add a few of them after the fact, which is why we see things like DA’s version of the bard archetype. The combat designers and artists originally had a vision in mind of a game that was much more along the lines of the type of fantasy you’d find in the Conan the Barbarian world - bare-chested barbarians, sorceresses that show a lot of skin, a grimdark world with barbarian hordes. They were just assuming that’s what it was going to be. At this point in time DG had never thought, “Oh, maybe I’m responsible for communicating my ideas to them” - he’d never done this role before and was just told to go create the world. He created world-building documentation and would send out emails saying “I’m making this documentation, please go ahead and take a look”, not learning until later on that nobody outside of the writing team really likes reading such documentation. He learned tricks later on like making the docs more accessible, less dense and wordy, and overall easier to peruse.

There was no real ‘vision holder’ for DA. Mass Effect did a much better job of that. Casey Hudson was the project director and the vision holder for ME, and he had the power to enforce a set vision of what was and was not ME. ME therefore ended up having a bit more of a coherent vision. DG was in essence the vision holder for DA, but he didn’t really have the authority to enforce it on the artists. The DA teams ended up spending a good 3.5 - 4 years of the ~6 years of DAO dev time going in circles, not exactly sure what they were going to make, the various people working on it having different ideas of what ‘kind’ of fantasy they were going to make. The writing team were leaning towards LoTR; the artists were leaning towards Conan; at one point one of the project directors was leaning towards a point-and-click Diablo-style action adventure; and nobody was overriding anybody else.

The fans who hang out on the forums and in similar places have a very different idea about what kind of game they like and want to play versus the telemetry BW get from the public in general. As an example, fans on the forums tend towards playing non-humans and feeling that playing as a human is boring. Forum-polls reflected that, but BW’s general public-telemetry shows that around 75-80% of the playerbase played a human in DAO. Elves were at 15% and dwarves 5%. In contrast, in the core/forum-based fanbase, the human figure dropped down to 30%.

DG originally wanted Zevran to be a gay romance (he has talked about this before). He asked JO if he could do that pretty early on, thinking of Jade Empire which had same-gender romance options which were really popular. BW were surprised about that, and DG had no idea that the JE team were going to do this. For DAO, he had an idea for an assassin character. He had been reading about how the CIA and KGB would often recruit gay men to be their assassins, as they didn’t tend to have family ties. DG thought this was really interesting. JO was cool with the idea on a conceptual level, but thought that the work that would end up going into it would be better served if those characters could be romanced by both male and female PCs. Zevran and Leliana weren’t intended to be bi, they were “bi out of convenience”, but at the time these sorts of things (representation and such) didn’t enter into the equation as much as it does today. DG wrote Zevran in his head as being romanceable by men.

DG would ask the hair artists, “Why all the mullets?”, because he never understood that, and he’d get “a sort of shrug response”, and an indication that “it’s easier to model, I guess?” Having hair which is loose, in the face, in locks, coming over the shoulders etc wasn’t really supported at this point by the tech or the engine. Hence, they ended up with like five different versions of mullets. On the subject of the engine, for the first half of development they were using an upgraded version of the Aurora engine from NWN, and it was not good. Several years in they decided to switch. Trent Oster was in charge at the time of making a new proprietary BW engine. At the time it wasn’t ready yet, but the DA team decided to grab it, use it and hammer it into the DA engine. That engine had “so many little weird quirks”, like lighting on skin not working properly and looking bad, and one of the issues was hair. It was supposed to be BW’s proprietary engine but it really wasn’t optimized for RPGs and didn’t include a dialogue system. They had to custom-build the conversation system. (At the time Trent didn’t think BW should be doing RPGs anymore, which is a whole other story of its own). DG recalls programmers complaining about things in the engine that weren’t ready for ‘prime-time’. Even compared to games released concurrently, DAO’s graphics were a bit dated.

For the worldbuilding, they had an internal wiki and they kept everything on there. They ended up with a lot of legacy documentation on there very quickly. Eventually they solved this by hiring an editor whose sole job it was to wrangle the documentation. DG started work on the setting in the same manner in which he’d embark on starting a homebrew - ‘so like, first, here’s a map, oh, I like this name, vague ideas, a paragraph on each major nation, a rough timeline of the history, expanding, and it just growing from there’. After about six months, they brought on other writers, and by then he had around 50 pages of documentation. This 50 pages was a minute amount compared to the amount they had generated at the time of release. Originally, they weren’t sure where in the world specifically the story would take place, so DG made sure to seed potential and brewing conflicts throughout Thedas. They settled quite quickly on the new Blight starting in Ferelden. Once they established that, the writers went to town on taking Ferelden specifically and blowing it up detail-wise. Jennifer Hepler was in charge of the dwarves and Orzammar. Mary Kirby was on Fereldan customs and traditions.

The first version of the setting was more grounded in realism, almost like a post-fantasy. The dragons and griffons were extinct and a lot of the things that were thought to be fantastical were thought to be over with. During development, they started clawing these things back. They brought back dragons because the game was named Dragon Age (lol). DG was approached like, “Hey, we named the game DA, can you bring back dragons and weave them into the story more powerfully?” Wynne’s writer Sheryl Chee had a bit of an obsession with griffons and was often like ‘omg, griffons :D’, and this is the origin of Wynne’s dialogue with the Warden about griffons.

KotOR was the first time BW had tried to do a game that was fully voiced-over. For KotOR, BW sent the work of casting, direction and so on down to another studio in California called Technicolor. BW had little say in the process then and when they got it back, “it was what it was”. By the time they got to DA and the first ME, BW had a good system down for recording and VO had become an important thing in games at the time. BW are really one of the premieres for this, a lot of actors really like acting on BW games as they get a lot of space to act where they wouldn’t normally be able to do so otherwise. DG has learned a lot from Caroline Livingstone on how to encourage the best performance out of an actor. For DAO, DG worked together with the various lead designers and Caroline to decide on the auditions, casting etc. This was one of DG’s favorite things to do.

Gideon Emery as Fenris, GDL as Solas and Eve Myles as Merrill were times where DG had written the character and then went to Caroline and said “I have an actor in mind for them, can you check it out?” These were specific times where he was able to secure the actor he wanted. This didn’t always work out, for example there are times when actors aren’t interested or have no time due to scheduling conflicts or were too expensive etc. Eve and GDL were DG’s roommate Cori’s idea. Cori was a big fan of Torchwood/the actors from Torchwood, and worked as an editor at BW for a long time. Gideon was DG’s idea after playing FF12. For DAO, DG didn’t have any specific ideas in terms of actors. Casting Morrigan was the longest, most drawn out process.

The Circle went through a whooole process during worldbuilding. Initially, mages in the game weren’t supposed to have any “fighting magic”. The restrictions were originally such that in the lore, they didn’t teach mages that. Mages weren’t taught any magic that could kill people, only ‘indirect’ forms of magic that could support others. However, [during what sounds like] playtesting it was asked “Why can’t I cast a fireball? I just want to cast a fireball”, so the writers had to go back and rework how magic in the lore worked completely.

Flemeth was originally going to be voiced by Shohreh Aghdashloo, and she was totally on-board, but unfortunately because of DAO’s development delays, she was unable to attend the new recording time as she had a conflict in her schedule (she was filming House of Sand and Fog). Shoreh was quite disappointed about this and her family had been so excited that she was going to be in a video game. When the movie was finished, Shoreh came back to BW and let them know that she was still available, and this is how she ended up in ME2. For a while they were trying to find an actress with an accent that authentically mirrored Shoreh’s. Out of the blue around this time, Claudia Black’s agent sent BW an audition tape of her. At the time Claudia hadn’t done any games but wanted to get into it. The tape was of Claudia doing a beat poet rendition of Baby Got Back. DG still has this tape. DG was a big fan of Farscape and on listening to the tape, it clicked right away in his head that Claudia would be perfect for Morrigan.

The Fade ended up being a big irritation for the writers. They wanted the PC to be able to assume different forms and such while in there. A lot of this stuff proved too difficult for the combat designers to work out, and so it ended up getting changed a lot. They had a hard time coming up with gameplay that could work in the Fade. The mage Origin is DG’s least favorite of the Origin stories, as he’s really dubious about the Fade section in it. It didn’t work out like how they had pictured it in their heads. By the time they got to DAI, that’s when the Fade really looks like how the writers first described/envisioned it. By this point the artists were more keen to give it a more specific feel. DAO was made at a time when ‘brown is realistic’ was a prevailing thing in games dev.

The experience of a mage in the world isn’t represented or conveyed very well to the player when the player is a mage. The experience of the player when they’re playing a mage or have a mage in their party doesn’t really match up with how the world lore tells them how dangerous mages can be - for example, how they can lose control and so on, we never really have an example of a PC mage struggling with being taken over by a demon. This was originally supposed to be a subplot in DA2 for mage Hawkes, in one of the last cuts. In Act 2, mage Hawke was originally slowly being tricked by a demon in their head that they thought was real, only to realize at the last minute. Mouse the Pride demon in the mage Origin is the only time in the entire series that they really ever properly demonstrated how demons can fuck with [PC] mages. Also, PC templars were originally supposed to have a permanent lyrium addiction that they needed to ‘feed’, but this was scrapped as the system designers weren’t keen on it and felt that it was essentially handicapping the player. 

Mages were originally also not supposed to be able to deal with pure lyrium (it would ‘overload’ them). There is a plot where mage PCs run around touching lyrium nodes to refill their mana bars. On this DG was like “Wtf is this?” The designers said that it works, and DG said “but it flies in the face of the lore”. This instance is an example of how the DA team was working where the various departments (writers, artists, designers etc) all had their own ideas about how the game and its world would work and never overrode each other (see above). DG feels that DAO is a little contradictory in that way. It’s only after the game came out that a lot of the people on the team really “bought into” what they’d put forward. This got easier as they went on, with people involved buying then into the things that make Dragon Age, Dragon Age. At one point, not everyone on the team was even aware of those things.

DG relates that originally, they would ask the artists, “Ok, can we get a village?” and said village once created would be quite generic and non-specific to DA. The writers would try to relate how things are in the DA world and list things that would be found in a village like this specific to the DA world, and the artists either didn’t read it or had their own ideas (DG isn’t sure which), and nobody was around to tell them not to do that and that they should do it differently. Everyone having their own ideas like this is why we ended up getting something that is this sort of “cobbled together half-Conan half-LotR mish-mash”, and after a while this sort of became DA’s “thing”.

Initially, BW had concepts drawn up for a lot more different creatures. After they went in circles for those years and consequently ran out of time to do all the models, they had to cut these concepts down more and more. Demons were among the ones that were the first to go (this is why we have situations like a bereskarn as the Sloth Demon in the mage Origin). The original concepts for things like spirits of Valor and Sloth demons were really good. Early on, JO made a list of D&D creatures that he liked. He picked the ones that they were thinking of doing, sent them to DG and said to make a “DA version of this”. For example, D&D succubi essentially became Desire Demons. Desire Demons were originally patterned off Sandman, neither male nor female yet really alluring, acting more like a genie and trying to ferret out mortals’ inner desires (which are not necessarily sexual in nature), without being overtly sexual. The artists’ version came back and that was basically the model seen in-game. The writers were like “What is this, this is nothing like the description?” and the artists responded that on the list from JO, it was included, in that you had to click on “succubus” to get to the Desire Demon description, so they had just read “succubus” and done their version of a succubus. The artists did loads of great work, but this was one of the instances were DG was like “???” By then, it was too late to change it. The writers were able to encourage them to make Desire Demons a little more fearsome, so that made it in at least.

The mage Origin was one of the more contentious Origin stories. It had like 4 different versions written of it over time. It was often the case that BW would hire someone, and writing an Origin story was their first test. Three different writers came in and wrote a version of the mage Origin and those versions just didn’t work. Finally they passed it to Sheryl Chee and she wrote it. The Origins were the parts of the game in general that were written/rewritten the most often. There were several others that got written that they discarded. 

Duncan was slated for death from Day 1. When DG writes a story, the thing he does first is pick out the big emotional beats that he wants, such as deaths. He decides these ahead of time and the stuff in-between comes later and is more often changed. Oghren was also originally supposed to die, but this ended up getting cut. DG related a story of how Oghren came to be: At the time, there was a phase JO went through when he thought everything had a formula that it could be done by. One of these ‘creative forumulas’ was that all such IPs had a two-word name that they’re known by, such as Star Wars, Star Trek, Dragonlance (being Dragon-Lance). This is how ‘DA’ and ‘ME’ came to be. One of the formulas he wanted to implement was how to distill the ‘comedy character’, like Minsc or HK-47. These characters were very popular with the fans and JO was certain that there was a way to figure this out to create one for DA. At the time, DG argued with him a lot about this. JO insisted it could be done. DG was originally supposed to write this character but ended up not doing so. JO came up with a list of comedic archetypes and had DG write a blurb about what kind of character each could be. These were then sent out to the team who voted on which was their favorite. This process eventually resulted in an archetype basically called ‘The Buffoon’ (think Homer Simpson or Peter Griffin, the kind of guy people laugh at because he’s such an oaf).

At this point ‘The Buffoon’ wasn’t named or made a dwarf yet. JO came to DG to write him, but DG said there was a problem which is that he hates this archetype. Homer and Peter are characters that he despises. DG is a professional writer, but this was comedy (outside of his areas of strength), and he felt the best he would be able to do is write a character who makes fun of this archetype and lampshade that. Comedy is something that has to come from within the writer. Oghren was given to someone else, and he ended up getting rewritten again anyway. By the time they were working on Awakening, DAO had not yet come out, and the assumption prior to the game going out was that Oghren was still going to be the most popular character from among the followers. The comedic character that ended up being the most popular along these lines was Alistair, which was interesting as he wasn’t intended as a comedic character, “so shows what we know”. DG was dubious that Oghren was going to be popular, because “he was kind of pathetic, honestly”, but that was the thinking at the time. Thinking he would be well-loved is why he was in Awakening.

On Alistair, any character DG writes is going to be sarcastic. At the time DG had made it a sort of personal challenge to recreate Joss Whedon’s dialogue patterns in his characters. Alistair was a sort of mish-mash of Xander from Buffy and maybe Mal from Firefly. DG wanted to see if he could do it, so Alistair was kind of quippy and self-deprecating. DG never really considered this to be Alistair’s main personality feature, but when other writers wrote him, they often had him doing this, as they liked the trait so much, and so this is how Alistair ended up as he did.

On dwarves, the dwarves being cut off from the Fade is very much baked into who the dwarves are as a race. There’s a specific reason why. This has been hinted at so far and it’s likely to come up in the future. DG had various ideas for some things that he wanted to include with the races or the way the world works etc. Some of them ended up never happening or some are mentioned only as part of the lore (templar lyrium addiction never coming up in gameplay is an example of this). Dwarven history and the nature of the dwarves is one of the things that survived pretty well though. DG calls Jennifer Hepler “mistress of the dwarves” and says that she did a really detailed, amazing breakdown of their history. After Jennifer left it was Mary Kirby, and DG feels that they did a good job of maintaining how dwarves were, in terms of both how they’re often presented in fantasy and yet also quite different in DA. Orzammar is one of DG’s favorite plots all together. You can really tell that Jennifer Hepler really enjoyed the dwarves and brought a lot of love to that plot.

DG draws a distinction between DA fans and the unpleasant people who harassed Jennifer Hepler.

They managed to keep the Tranquil in. There was a while there where they were going to be cut. At the same time, DG regrets that they couldn’t solve the making of the player more aware of how mages are dangerous, thing. Players could make a cogent argument like “they’re not that dangerous, look at me [mage PC]” and the writers were like “well... yeah, that is fair”. It was a case of showing one thing and the player experience of it being another. DG feels that this made the templars come off worse than they are. DG feels that they are being massively unfair and too extreme in their approach to the problem, but the problem itself is a real thing. He feels that there’s some merit/truth in the argument that mages are oppressed, but he looks at it more like an issue like gun control rather than as treatment of oppressed people, saying that we don’t have an example in real life of oppressed people who can explode into demons and cast fireballs and so on.

There are some funny pronunciations that worked their way into DA, and the reason for a lot of them is as follows: the writers had to create a pronunciation guide for VO, because otherwise you end up with a lot of inconsistencies. (Some did still slip through). The guide was online, and if you clicked on a word, an audio file for it would play. Jennifer Hepler was in charge of this and did a great job, but has a really strong NY accent, and in some cases the ‘NY-ness’ of her pronunciation endearingly worked itself into things (the way Arlathan is sometimes said is an example of where this happened sometimes).

Sometimes the writers trying to communicate the “hotness” of a character to the artists didn’t go smoothly. The writers would sometimes say things like, ok, this character is a romance, they need to be hot, and the designs would come back looking “like Burt Reynolds”, and the writers would be like “???” And then a character that wasn’t particularly intended to be hot, as in that wasn’t mentioned at all in the descriptions of them, would come back “accidentally hot”, and the writers would be like “Why couldn’t you have done this when we were asking for a character that was meant to be hot”, and the artists would be like “What?? He’s not hot”. And this became a thing (lmao - this discussion was prompted by DG being asked “Was Duncan meant to be that hot?”, for context). Some of the artists were so paranoid about their [in]ability to judge actually-hot characters that when it was time to pick an appearance, like for Alistair, they gathered up all the women at BioWare, and DG (“resident gay”) into a room to show them an array of faces and bodies like “Is this hot? Is this hot?” DG and co would sit there like, “How can you not tell? Is this a straight man thing?!” Anyways, this is why oftentimes we ended up with characters who are accidentally hot.

Over time, the writers realized that the way they communicated to artists needed to be managed better. The words they would use would have different connotations to them the writers, than what they did to the artists. For example, for Anders’ design in DA2, he was supposed to be “a little haggard”. When DG thinks of haggard, he thinks ‘a little tired, mussed hair, looking like you’ve been through some shit’. But the artists based on that produced concepts with super sunken cheeks, looking like he’d been terribly starved. The writers needed to develop a specific vocabulary for communicating with the artists, as artists think in terms of how something looks, but writers are thinking in terms of what the character “is”. Anders’ description talked about his history a lot, and the one visual-type word that jumped out was “haggard” due to its visual connotations. “A lot it came down to the writers being up their/our own asses.”

When they got to DAI, they had figured out that the way to get best results on this front was /not/ to have the writer go off and develop a long description and pre-conceived notion of what the character looked like in their head. In such scenarios artists don’t feel that they have much to contribute to the process or an ability to put their own stamp on who this character is and make them interesting to them (the best, most interesting characters are when people at all stages of the pipeline properly get to feed into it). They learned that the better solution was to bring the artists in earlier, and to give them little blurbs, and not name the character but give them an ‘archetype’-sort of ‘name’. For example, Dorian was “the rockstar mage”, “cool”, “Freddie Mercury”. The writers wouldn’t be sure that a particular concept would ‘hit’, so at this stage they would offer an array of options and sit the artist down and walk them through the concepts. The artists would then provide a bunch of sketches and it would go back and forth, with both taking part in the character creation process together. For the first two games, the writers were “really hogging” this process to themselves. They got better at not doing this and better at communicating with the artists by DAI.

There were a lot of arguments about how mages in DAO had a lot of specific lore words like “Harrowing”, “phylactery”, “Rite of Tranquility” etc. There was concern that this would be too confusing for players to understand and that it was too complicated. DG says that thankfully he put his foot down and pushed for this stuff to be kept. A lot of fans assume that as lead writer DG had all this influence, way more influence than he could possibly exert on a team. He wasn’t even a lead, he was a sub-lead, under a lead designer. He only had so much say. If the lead designer or lead artist wanted to do something differently, often there was not much he could do. Hence he had to pick his battles carefully, choose the important ones to fight. The mage vocabulary thing was one of these.

Templar Greagoir’s name is pronounced “Gregor” and it comes from a place in Alberta near where DG lived.

Codex entries are usually one of the last things that get done in a project like this, and so all of that kind of textual lore comes in super late and is super punchy as by then the writers have written so much and are exhausted. They had to find a way to make this process cute or interesting or fun for themselves, which is why a lot of entries are quite fun to read. Sometimes a writer would make a joke for banter [irl], and it would end up making it into an entry.

Only Morrigan and Duncan got unique body models in DAO. The companions all have custom-morphed heads but not custom-morphed bodies (Morrigan not included here). This is why every model has a necklace or a collar right at the point where they had to be attached to be a body. These sometimes used assets that couldn’t be used by the PC but were not unique to that character. Duncan probably got a unique model because he was in a lot of marketing/promotional material. Qunari were originally conceived as having horns.

Most people didn’t even finish DAO once (public telemetry again here), only approximately 20-25% actually did. The devs try not to read too much into this kind of thing, but the telemetry does tell them where a lot of people stop playing the game permanently (they call these “drop-off points”). One of these points in DAO is the Fade during Broken Circle. Sometimes when people interpret this data they involve self-serving biases, but it was generally accepted that the Fade there was too long, too complex, not interesting enough, etc. [source]

[Part 2]

[Part 3]

[Part 4]

[Part 5]

[Part 6]

[‘Insights into DA dev from the Gamers For Groceries stream’ transcript]

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Face the Darkness

Prompt 2 for @greenfiredragonfly's Angstember prompts-- "Go. But I'm not Leaving." This time I've gone for some War in Heaven angst! Technically a slight AU as you'll see in the end, but I'm assuming most of the rest works out as in canon.

--

The Fortress trembled as the ground shifted once more, cracks splitting the desiccated plain in an ever more complex spider web. Solid stone walls vibrated, pouring streams of crushed stone from every corner of the ceiling. The air was thick with dust. Already the loyal forces of Heaven had withdrawn to the distant hills to watch, silent and impassive.

The War had ended. The Fortress of Lucifer had begun its Fall.

The first of the four watchtowers collapsed, shattering across blasted plain. From the wreckage crawled the rebellious angels, bodies already twisting into more animalistic shapes: talons and fangs, scales and gills, rotten flesh and oozing sores.

Outside the walls patrolled guards in solid plate armor wielding swords and spears and whips; in an instant, they descended on the few who had escaped, driving them back towards the gates, towards their fate. More beings inside fought and screamed, clawing at the guards only to be pushed back again and again. Voices raised, accusations shouted at soldiers, at leaders, at God Herself.

The guards were not of the heavenly legions. When Lucifer’s last army was routed, he had declared that all of his rebels would share in his punishment. Those who kept the frightened masses in check had been promised prominent positions as the Lords of their new domain, while the would-be deserters risked punishments more gruesome than anything the enemy had done.

Still, they tried.

Some few managed to pass the final ring of guards, to strike out across the plain that moved and reformed under their feet, cracks and crevices opening wide, whole sections of land suddenly dissolving, raining down into the realm of darkness.

They fled, running across uncertain ground, leaping treacherous drops, praying for forgiveness with every breath, holding out their arms to the loyal armies, beseeching their friends to intercede, to stay the Hand of Judgment.

Those who reached the hills and were welcomed into the protection of Heaven found themselves restored, their flesh returned to normal, bodies untwisted, souls pardoned.

The rest… well, they reached their final destination a little sooner than the rest.

One angel stood alone on a watchtower, eyes scanning the chaos below through a shifting curtain of bright red hair.

The scuff of a footstep, barely audible above the screams. The angel turned slightly—a single glance back—just enough for a glimpse of familiar white feathers.

“Shouldn’t be here,” the angel said, turning back to the destruction.

“Neither should you.”

“This again?” A twist of lips, too bitter to be called a smile. “You’ve already told me what you think. Eons and eons ago.”

“And I haven’t changed my mind.”

The angel clutched at the stone parapet, or tried to; it fell apart, sending another rain of dust towards the frightened crowd below. “And, what, you’re here to offer me salvation? Take my confession and determine if I’m worthy? Enact vengeance for all those I’ve destroyed?”

“My dear friend. I’m here to save you.”

Briefly, there were tears in the angel’s eyes; but already those eyes were changing, restructuring into a new shape. “Don’t deserve it.”

“I say you do.” A soft hand landed on the angel’s shoulder, offering a squeeze of comfort. “There is no wickedness in you. No cruelty. Even at the height of the War’s atrocities, you never lost your kindness. You are only here because you were manipulated by Lucifer, caught in his lies. That is no judgment on you. He could just as easily have swayed me, or Gabriel, or anyone else.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?” With a rumble louder than any thunder, the ground below fractured once more. The fortress rose and fell, another tower crumbling to a chorus of screams. “Come, we don’t have time.”

“What must I do?” The first angel didn’t move, but the second breathed a sigh of relief at the question.

“Cross the plain, no more than that. If you reach the other side, if someone is willing to intercede on your behalf, you will be forgiven.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, my dear, oh, it’s so simple. I will be beside you every step of the way, to guide you, to keep you safe. You can’t possibly fail.”

The angel nodded, still looking down into the broken courtyard. “Tell me this: why me? You could save anyone. Why me?”

A brief, shocked silence. “That’s—why would I…? Because I love you.”

“And what about them?” Down below the future Lords of Darkness moved through the crowds, grabbing weeping angels by the jaw or the neck, inspecting them, claiming their favorites. Torments would begin soon, pains that would become familiar to them all. “They were tricked by Lucifer, the same as me.” One pale, scruffy creature grabbed a trembling, crying being by the hair, dragging them towards a dark door. “Do they deserve this fate because they don’t have the love of a Guardian?”

Flinching, the pale figure pulled back towards the shadows. “That isn’t fair.” Little more than a whisper. “You know they don’t. But I can’t save them. Only you.”

With a deep, shaking breath, the angel finally turned, eyes now glinting gold, pupils stretching into lines. “No. You can’t save me. Not if I don’t want to be saved.”

“What are you talking about?” Hazel eyes shining like earthlight as the darkness closed in. “How can you not—”

“How can I go back? Tell me that! How can I ignore the things I learned? Not everything Lucifer said was a lie, that’s why he was so successful. How can I be happy when I’ve seen things for what they truly are?” In a softer voice: “How can I follow a God who would throw so many away just because they’re unloved?” A sob shook those narrow shoulders, but no tears fell. Never again. “If there’s a way, please, tell me. Because I can’t—”

The entire plain rippled like a wave. Another tower fell, and the one they stood on tilted perilously.

“Dearest, we can talk about this later. We need to go now.”

“Go.” The angel turned back to the courtyard. “But I’m not leaving.”

“No!” The Guardian hauled the angel back, as if ready to fly them both to safety or be destroyed trying. “Don’t—you can’t! Don’t you understand what’s happening? What it all means?”

“Better than you!” The angel turned with a furious growl. “I’ve spent countless ages among them already. I know what they’re like, I know what they’ll do to us, and I don’t want that. But I can’t go back.” Narrow hands reached out, clutching the other’s elbows. “Aziraphale, please understand. I can’t go back. Not with… everything I know…”

They embraced, the Guardian blinking back tears. “You could… you could ask God to take your memories. It would be as if you’d never…”

“I can’t.”

“Not… not even for me?”

“I would forget you, too.”

“But I’ll remember.” Aziraphale leaned back, eyes pleading. “And I will still love you. Nothing will change that.”

“But I will change.” The angel scowled again, though this time not from anger but from the desperate search for words. “It’s… not the memories themselves. I might lose them anyway. I’ve already lost my name; I’m losing my form. I’m Falling. And whatever Falling does to me, whatever I become, I will still be me. But. But to willinglygive up the knowledge I’ve earned. To turn my back on it… I wouldn’t be me anymore.”

The next tremor started, and didn’t end.

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale wailed. “But I don’t have to. If… if this will make you happy…”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be happy again.” One last desperate embrace as the surrounding plain began to crumble. “It’s time. Go.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Aziraphale!” But the Guardian only held the angel tighter. “You—you can’t Fall!”

“I do not believe I will. God knows Her own.”

The outer walls vanished, tumbling into the nothing below, bringing wave after wave of bodies with them. “No, She’ll just rip you out of my arms at the cruelest possible moment.”

“Where you see cruelty, I see kindness. Every second with you is a blessing.”

“Aziraphale!”

“Quiet, love. I’m praying.”

The ground shook, lurched, dropped away—

The Fortress and all within it Fell—

All except two angels, wrapped in each other’s arms. Held aloft by Aziraphale’s wings, they did not Fall but meandered gently downwards.

“What?” The nameless angel looked around in confusion. “How…?”

“I told you. Kindness.” Aziraphale’s eyes were closed. “I asked Her for a few more minutes with you. And a chance to spare you from some of the darkness you must face. I know you don’t think you deserve it, but I think you do. And in the end, that is what mattered.”

“Aziraphale…” Quite without meaning to, the angel smiled in wonder. “I love you.”

When the Guardian’s eyes opened, the tears rolled upwards, leaving a trail of droplets back to Heaven. “I love you, too. And it was worth any price to see you smile again.”

“Price? Wait, what price?”

“All my memories of you.”

“No!”

“Oh, yes. I was quite happy to exchange them to buy you these few minutes of peace and a guarantee that we will meet again. Though I’m afraid after that, things will be up to you.” Aziraphale’s incongruous smile began to fade. “What is it?”

“I… I just… I told you I wouldn’t… and then you…” Golden eyes drifted, staring into the suffocating darkness on every side. “What must you think of me?”

“I think you are the most wonderful being in all Creation. I wish for you to be you, in whatever way feels most genuine, as an angel or… otherwise.” Far below, the Fortress ruins came into view, lit by a strange blue glow. “I think you will have a hard enough time ahead of you without such complicated regrets. And I think,” another tear floating upward, glowing like a distant star, “I truly think, this way things will work out for the best.”

“You’ll forget me! Forget us! Everything we ever talked about, or… or…”

“But you’ll remember.” A gentle kiss on the forehead. “And I will still love you. Nothing will change that.”

The Fortress had landed in a boiling pool of sulfur. Aziraphale carefully set the former angel down on solid ground, a safe distance from the edge, then immediately began to float upwards again.

“Wait!” Desperately clinging to those soft hands, the last bit of comfort in the entire realm. “Don’t go!”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t belong down here anymore than you belong Upstairs. We will meet again in the world to come.”

“But what if… without your memories… you’re different? More like the others?”

“Oh.” For the first time since the Fall, Aziraphale looked troubled. “I suppose you… may see some changes you don’t like…”

“No, not that. I’m not going to love you any less. But… you’ll think I’m just another Enemy.”

“Nonsense. I love you, dear boy. And I have the opportunity to fall in love all over again.” The upward pull began to draw their fingers apart. “Only, I don’t know how long that will take, so… be patient?”

“Aziraphale…”

“Take care of yourself, love.” Their grip on each other failed and Aziraphale drifted away, rising faster and faster. “I will see you again! I promise!”

“Aziraphale!”

Silence, broken only by the stirring of creatures rising from the sulfur and slinking into the shadows.

Hands still warm from the loving touch of an angel, the demon turned to face the darkness.

[hopeymchope]

Wonder Egg Priority finale thoughts

My Tumblr has a lot of anti-bully content, so it was probably no surprise when I began to watch and enjoy Wonder Egg Project this past spring. The series famously hit production delays that forced them to put out a mid-series recap episode, and that decision in turn forced them to push the final episode until late June. But now that the series (or at least season 1) is out there and complete, I thought I’d talk about how it all shook out in the end as well as the questions it left me sitting with.

For the uninitiated, here’s a bit of the context: Wonder Egg Project deals with four middle-school teen girls who’ve undergone hardships either at home or at school or both. They all lose someone they care about to tragic suicides, and then they discover the titular wonder eggs. They get these eggs from a vending machine and then, when they fall asleep, they enter a dreamworld where these eggs hatch to reveal a young person who recently committed suicide. For that night, it is the duty of the girl who got that egg to fight and defend that suicide victim from monstrous enemies that represent their abusers and oppressors. The girls are told that if they protect enough of these victims over many nights, they will be able to resurrect the specific person they lost to suicide. But of course, if you get injured or killed in the dreamworld, it affects your body in reality as well. 

The squad: Ai, Neiru, Rika, and Momoe.

Obviously, bullying is among the topics most frequently explored here, but we also deal with so many other terrible things that people might experience during childhood and adolescence. Physical, verbal, and sexual abuse are all on the table. Coming to terms with one’s gender identity is raised. It’s a show that manages to tackle a lot of heavy subjects through the lens of what’s essentially magical girl combat. I mean, there are no outfit transformations or any of that stuff, but still.

With THAT out of the way, let me talk about how the series wrapped up.

It’s clear to the viewers that there’s a lot that doesn’t make sense during the show — it’s intentionally very trippy and ethereal at times — and there’s also a lot that raises obvious questions even if you grasp it. Where do the eggs and their connection to the recently deceased come from? How do the psychological traumas of the various egg-children manifest as monsters that can literally kill you? What’s the deal with Acca and Ura-Acca and their freaky dummy bodies? What are they getting out of this whole deal with the eggs and the girls? What do the repeated references to the “temptation of death” mean? How does access to the Egg Garden even work? Is it really possible to resurrect their dead friends? Is Mr. Sawaki a predator or a chill guy or what? Why did Neiru’s sister stab her? And so on. 

The writers could’ve opted to keep things mysterious and hazy and metaphysical for the entire run or they could’ve provided lots of explanations and tried to ground this weird story in some sort of strange logic, but I’m actually pleased that they opted to go down the middle. There are answers for many things, but not for all. And when those answers come, they typically just raise more questions as well as doubts to their validity. 

SPOILERS for the finale/”special episode” below the cut.

So, obviously the answers for Acca and Ura-Acca are centered around Frill. Frill is this interesting fusion between the artificial and the organic; her body can be injured like any regular physical body, but she’s actually an A.I. on the inside. Acca and Ura-Acca are the exact reverse of this — they’re human minds inside of completely artificial bodies. Exactly how Frill started invading girls’ minds to lure them towards suicide is kept incredibly vague, but she serves as the embodiment of the “temptation of death” that was so-often referenced in the show. Frill doesn’t really appreciate life or care about the finality of death, making her a pretty natural foe for the heroes who have spent the entire series learning to appreciate their lives and bemoaning painful losses.

Can you even believe this bitch?

Acca and Ura-Acca also have documents talking about how warriors of Eros need to battle against Thanatos, the embodiment of death, but what’s that all about? We don’t really get into it. Is Frill somehow Thanatos herself? I mean... I guess maybe you could go that route, but I sincerely don’t think that’s meant to be the case. I assume she’s just another player in the game, and she happens to have taken Thanatos’ side in things. Her artificial existence and resentment of her fathers leads her to treat death flippantly. She was programmed to be selfish sometimes, and that selfishness has ultimately manifested itself in the worst possible ways. Intriguingly, we see Acca and Ura-Acca act similarly selfish in how they drive our four heroes to risk their lives just to battle Frill. Acca in particular shows that he’ll risk anyone’s life to get to Frill, who killed both his wife and daughter. But Acca never has to risk his own life. He’s just risking other people. Both sides of the equation are treating human lives like disposable pawns in some kind of war game. 

Y’all are SUPER-SKETCH.

It’s never really clear how these eggs work. We’re told that the Accas created the eggs, and honestly, I could’ve figured as much on my own. But they don’t try to explain how the eggs can contain the souls of suicide victims or how they manifest those people into dreams, and frankly, it’s probably better not to try.

I was really shocked that the girls actually manage to resurrect their dead friends. I was 100% certain that was going to be a scam and the point was going to be about learning to move on and live for the moment and appreciate those bonds while you had them, etc. And there is some of that. Alas, the price of resurrecting those people they care about is that the people in question no longer know them or remember them. That was pretty brutal... having our heroes nearly die over and over in service of people who ultimately will no longer care about them at all. Although they did the impossible and brought someone back to life, they had to lose those people all over again. I suppose this, like much fo the finale, emphasizes that we should appreciate our relationships while they last, because you can lose them for so many reasons. Regardless, I’m not surprised that Momoe just wanted to quit and avoid getting hurt after that. It’s understandable.

There’s a lot of discussion around parallels in the last two episodes. Parallel worlds with alternate versions of the self are raised multiple times, Ai gets an awesome encounter with a parallel version of herself that really brought her emotional journey to a head, and we even have to deal with a doppleganger of Neiru at the end. This leads to the revelation that Neiru looks exactly like her formerly deceased sister... a fact that presumably was part of what drove the sister to attack Neiru in the first place. Given that we’ve already been told that they were both genetically engineered, their identical appearances don’ seem that strange. But then the finale tells us that Neiru’s one dream is “to be human,” and suddenly the characters assume Neiru was an A.I. just like Frill. That... seems like a leap to me. I mean, she was genetically engineered to lead her company and never had a family of her own; no wonder she feels inhuman! So I’m not sure if I should take this at face value.

Neiru real or fake challenge

Another thing that I don’t think we can take at face value is Mr. Sawaki’s explanation of Koito’s death. In episode 12, we meet a parallel version of Ai who actually killed herself. The big boss monster for Ai to fight while protecting Alt-Ai? It’s a dark, abusive version of Sawaki. And our Ai inexplicably assumes this monster was made from her own fears. A very bizarre conclusion to jump to when you remember that every single boss monster has been the abuser of the victim that the girls were defending in that episode. By all available evidence, the Sawaki monster should be a parallel-world Sawaki who is very much exactly the scumbag he appears to be! Notice how Alt-Ai never says a damn word about the Sawaki Monster - never asks who he is or why he’s like this, etc? She’s not even surprised. That just lends further credence to my belief. FOLLOW THE EVIDENCE.

So in the finale, when our version of Mr. Sawaki claims (via a VERY awkwardly inserted voiceover) that Koito’s death was an accident after she tried to ruin his reputation because she fell in love with him, why should I believe any of it?! The previous episode introduced me to Abusive Sawaki! Sure, we don’t have any reason to assume our Sawaki is That Dick, but we JUST learned that he’s certainly capable. Furthermore, how could Koito suddenly be the ONLY accidental death among all of the available suicide victims in the dreamworld? She shouldn’t have even appeared there if it was just an accident! Although I’d like to believe that Sawaki was someone who Ai and the girls were jumping to conclusions about based on nothing... but it sure doesn’t look that way from here. And given how the show ends things, I fear we may have a hard time learning anything else about Sawaki. Ai changes schools and runs away, there is zero comment on what happened to Sawaki’s relationship with her mom... he’s just gone now.

As the final episode winds down, we see Rika and Ai fall back into bad habits, as they all treat Neiru just like they treated the girls they tried so hard to save. Rika acts disgusted by a friend and abandons her, treating Neiru the same way she treated Cheimi. When Neiru finally reaches out to Ai and calls her, Ai ignores the call and throws her phone away, thereby ignoring her friend’s needs in the same way she ignored Koito’s when she failed to record the bullying Koito was experiencing. You might even be able to connect Momoe’s choice to walk away for the sake of self-preservation to her decision to reject Haruka and walk away, honestly. And to compound the bad news that the show gives us near the end, we skip forward months to learn that Ai, Rika and Momoe have all drifted apart. Ai is in a new school, but we don’t see her with any new friends. She’s back where she started the show.

The difference, however, is that she doesn’t seem hopeless and lonely. She seems wistful, sure, but she never seems beaten down. She still treasures the friendships she built even if they wind up fading away. So there’s still a message in here about moving on, because even if you lose a person or a connection, it will forever matter.

*insert engine rev-up noises*

In the final moments, we see Ai preparing to run in the exact same pose she used back in episode 1 when she first stood up to the abusers within the dreamworld. This time, she runs to grab her chance to reunite with a dear friend. She takes charge of her own future and her own self-worth, somehow gets back into the Egg Garden (even though Rika wasn’t even allowed to enter after she rescued her specified victim, so uh... how did Ai get back in exactly... ?), and insists she’s going to use the eggs to see Neiru... even though the eggs only let you see the dead up to this point, so uh, that doesn’t really make any sense either. Consistency, motherfucker — DO YOU USE IT?

Amidst all the uncertainty that the finale left us with, at least we can see Ai find herself in a more confident place. She spends much of the series learning to stop running from her problems in the real world. Even after she gains confidence in the battles of her dreams, she struggles to face reality. It’s a huge step when she returns to school. Yet even in the very last episode, she opts to run away to a new school rather than cope with seeing Koito each day. But at last, she decides to take charge of her reality and try to reunite with her new best friend, Neiru. She’s wavered on her path, but ultimately, she’s grown. Although you could simultaneously argue that she’s failing to learn the lesson that rescuing Koito should’ve taught her...

“Ai Ohto is BACK!”

I don’t think any of us expected this finale to be a cliffhanger coming into it.  And unfortunately, we don’t know if there will ever be another season or a movie or anything. Given how people reacted to this finale with such overt hate, I really don’t expect anything more. And I think that would be a goddamn shame. Even with a finale that doesn’t quite stick the landing, I still found it fascinating and engaging. The series is more than worth the trip for the characters, for the themes and topics it explores, and even for the fluid action scenes and music. And this is a series that was made by first-time writers and a first-time director! Yet I’d easily call it one of the best animes from the past couple of years. For total newcomers, that’s a goddamn TRIUMPH.

So I hope we reunite with these girls again. I hope Ai manages to get the band back together, find out exactly what’s going on with Neiru, and face down Frill. Even if they never wind up in some ultimate battle with Thanatos, I don’t know that that’s the point. All of us are in a battle with Thanatos every single day, after all. They just need to show how they’ve all gotten stronger together and truly overcome the “Temptation of Death” by beating back Frill (and her ridiculously powerful dreamworld bug-people) as a unit. 

But maybe that’s too obvious and simplistic of a message for a show like this one. Maybe this complex ending centered on the main protagonist’s self-actualization and the value of fleeing relationships is more in keeping with the melancholy nature of the series. 

... I still really want to see the more obvious happy ending, though. I think they deserve it.

[kodzumie-archived]

OMGOMGOMGOKOKOK SOOO CAN I ask for a gentle vampire komaeda who has a crush on a very apprehensive and easily scared fragile girl who’s kind of scared of him at first but then after seeing how kind and soft he is, eventually comes around to like him? Also, he protects her bc vampires are vv strong 🥺 THANK YOU ILY DUDE <3

❝SERENDIPITY❞

Synopsis; Against the unruly clutches of chance, could the blossoming of a bond between two fundamentally forbidden species piece itself together?

Featuring; Nagito Komaeda x Fem! Reader

Warning(s); Vampire Komaeda, blood, alternate universe (AU), injury description, slight gore, and themes of predator/prey.

Kodzumie’s Note; This was so fun to do! Thank you so much, dear, for the request! Aah, vampire Komaeda is forever welcome on this blog. Thank you for bringing this idea to life, I love you so much!! Muah, muah! <3

➤ NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ The inception of adoration is an enigma. A blossoming of a passion so seemingly fantastical, yet ever-so ontological. Love―in its most bare form―is unpredictable.

⤷ You’re meek; the glorious crumb of bread dropped in a fish pond. But life is much more unforgiving to those who are unfit for the calamities of the world. Reflecting upon existence in a metaphorical sense, that fish pond could only wishfully have been inhabited by mere Koi, but rather barbarous piranhas.

⤷ In this bitter life, the chains abide only by those who are fit for survival. A population divided into two―humans and vampires―you’ve been subjected to the former; necessitating hospitality and the protection of another.

⤷ If not by mere chance, you’d have met your doom inevitably. It’s alarming; your fate cradled by the clutches of chance itself. But, as cruel as life proves itself to be, you harbor no command over your own providence.

⤷ And chance, as it has instilled within you relentlessly, prefers to plays it’s promiscuous games unfairly. Which you are reminded of once more as you find yourself cornered. Yet again, you are the helpless prey.

⤷ Your heart pulsates; a beating that rings amongst your ears almost deafeningly. The sound nearly drowning out the malevolent growls of the vampires seeking victuals of whichever foolish, helpless victim to feed upon. If only the thumping of your heart could drown the tantalizing realization that you are the pathetic victim.

⤷ In the mere blink of an eye, eclipsed figures sprint towards you. Hauntingly, their footprints seemingly inaudible as though they were flying. But if only you’d known better. You were human; weak and delicate. Whatever fragmentations of survival chance had provided seemed void in that instance.

⤷ Even by the grace of your legs carrying you as fast as they could possibly go, the odds were tauntingly against you. Granted, you likely wouldn’t even have time to accept the bitter reality of your predicament; you weren’t going to make it out of this alive.

⤷ Your breathing is erratic; uneven and forced out in puffs of desperation. But there’s a will within you. Though the poignant truth encapsulates your hope in shackles, you continue to fight. For every breath you take, you push yourself to run faster, dodge the clawed hands reaching for your feeble body, and to do whatever it takes to survive. 

⤷ It’s a humane instinct; to fight for a continuous existence despite fate’s stamp of undeniable death. You were steadily approaching your due date, and predictably by the end of the night, you’d be nothing more than the feed of the pack of vampires.

⤷ After a sharp turn, jabbing your heel into the ground as you whirl your body to turn; the air resistance inducing your eyes to clamp shut. It was a turn too fast for your body to handle, stumbling forward sporadically, but it was enough to throw the famished vampires off of your tail, even momentarily.

⤷ Run, run, run! Dumbified by the desolate venom of oncoming death, you leap forward, narrowly avoiding what would’ve been a climatic fault; tripping over the thick roots of an unforgiving oak tree.

⤷ The night air in which you once believed was refreshing and serene now plagued with the tang of your own demise. It’s suffocating; feeling fear for your life and yet unable to provide some sort of protection for yourself. You were cowardly, and you were weak. Yet in this bitter life, the chains abide only by those who are fit for survival.

⤷ And life doesn’t make exceptions for anyone. You, just as much as anyone who finds their fate at the mercy of chance, were no exception to its cruel deduction as a pair of arms envelope your form.

⤷ At long last, the chase has concluded. Of all nights you’d spent tossing and turning in a pitiful attempt to subdue the remanence of a nightmare―a lucid illusion of your innermost fears―nothing of that caliber could begin to compare to the piquant dread settling within you. You’ve been caught.

⤷ But even as the sinking anxiety pricks at your delicate heart, the tendrils of terror stabbing into your mind, you thrash. Kicking and scream, you fight against the figure engulfing your form, pressing your back against their abnormally cold front.

⤷ You, yourself, weren’t quite aware of why you kept insisting on resistance. Perhaps it was the hope residing within you; the hope that there’s even the slimmest of probabilities that you’d find a way out. Or perhaps that, itself, was the naked core of the human will.

⤷ Sobs tear through your throat, ripping your vocal cords raw as you screamed for help. Your desperate pleas for somebody―anybody―to help you. But even if they managed to hear you, who would be dumb enough to put their own life at risk for the sake of yours?

⤷ Such is life; we live, and we die. Those who are unable to fend for themselves are sacrificed to the grip of gravel as their corpses rot amongst the cycles of parasitism; cells feed upon your body until you’re nothing more than a husk of what once human; what was once alive.

⤷ Yet, even as you thrash and cry, begging for some sort of escape to the Hell you’ve been forced to witness and endure, you find that as moments pass, the anticipated pain of claws tearing into your plush skin as teeth sink into the conjunction of your neck never come.

⤷ You should be wary, you should expect for life to expose its cruel, ugly face to you in its hideous nudity. But such is the fragile mind of someone as meek as you; truly, you were what the world deemed as unfit for existence. You believed what embodied the hope towards a unified tomorrow. And that, in itself, was fatal.

⤷ As you calmed your body, easing the subtle tremors, you crane your head to meet eyes with your captor. Ghostly green hues interlock with yours as you gulp. It’s a man, an alarmingly paled young man.

⤷ His skin powdered in thin layers of dirt as he reciprocates your fearful gaze with a gentle grin. Features ever-so delicate you almost assumed that the mere flick against the plush would result in scarring. He was gentle and, at that moment, you felt as though you could trust him.

⤷ But trust is fatal in this world. And as you meet eyes with him, you finally push away with a shove of your shoulder against his throat. He chokes momentarily as you stumble back, albeit tripping over your own feet and landing on your rear.

⤷ Could it be that he’d come to aid you? Could it be that for once in the hauntings of this unforgiving world, you were provided with a temporary protector?

⤷ No. You’d be a fool to believe such audacious hospitality from the likes of what had damned you to such a corrupt fate; caught amidst a forest of brambles and blood-thirsty monsters, seeking to drink upon your viscous fluids.

⤷ As you continue to meet eyes with the boy, you manage to stutter a question that rang much too loudly for your liking. Yet you needed to stay assertive. One crack in your visage and you life would be taken before you could even comprehend it yourself. Who are you?

⤷ Truthfully, you didn’t even know if he’d muster a genuine reply. For all you knew, he could leave you with a cold shoulder and put an end to your miserable life. But, much to your surprise, he manages to croak out a choked answer; “I’m Nagito Komaeda.”

⤷ Though as soon as his name escapes from his lips, he shrinks his gaze away as he bows to you. A gesture that startled you as you quickly realized who he was. Or rather, what he was.

⤷ As he voiced his name, baritone voice resonating against the hollow oak, his fangs barely showcased themselves from within the caverns of his mouth. You, really and truly, were in a predicament. And one that would seemingly result at the end of your life; an unfathomable death.

⤷ He lifts his head as you shriek, finding your figure to be rapidly crawling away from his in desperation. There was no way in Hell you were going to stick around if it meant being in the presence of the one who―you were certain of―would take it upon themselves to feed on you.

⤷ “H-Hey, where are you going?” He questions, beginning to pace after you. How belittling. His jog was quick enough to synchronize with your frantic crawls. You stood no chance. You were at his mercy.

⤷ Lifting your head once more, a frustrating cry escapes. “You’re one of them!” Your tone sharp despite your countenance openly conveying your vulnerability. Even to him, it was blatantly clear that you’d dubbed your fate as under the terrorizing control of his will.

⤷ “I don’t mean any harm to you.” He admits. His voice a mere whisper amongst the chirping of the nocturnal melody the crickets sang. Ghostly green orbs glossed with earnest intentions as he respectfully kneeled before you, holding his hand out towards you.

⤷ It’s strange. This―in every way imaginable―was abnormal. A taboo, even. His lips curled into a smile that genuinely expressed his yearning to assist you was wrong; it shattered every miserable rule this corrupted cycle of life instilled.

⤷ And yet you still place your hand within his, allowing him to help you up to your feet. He even went as far as to pat down the front of your garments, ridding you of the accumulated dirt from your attempted escape. It unnerved you. Why is he acting as though he truly wants to help you?

⤷ “You were running away from a pact of vampires, weren’t you?” He asks, stepping away from you. The space allowing you personal room to breath yet enough closeness to ensure you’re within arms-reach. With a shaky nod of your head, you agree to his inquiries.

⤷ Yet you’re still cautious. He’s a vampire, he’ll easily be able to overpower you and strip you of your life, leaving you with the travesty of what you fear would only be momentary trust.

⤷ “Why are you helping me?” It’s a direct question, and one you prayed he wouldn’t dodge. You had to know; you needed to know. But were you truly prepared for the truth? Were you prepared to hear what the embodiment of your fate had to say over your very own survival? A confirmation of your death?

⤷ You almost managed to interrupt him and admit you don’t want to know, but he beats you to it. Truthfully, it takes a moment to register. You almost don’t believe it, but the haunting vivid reality of his lips moving as each word escaped his lips leads you to believe that it’s real.

⤷ “I couldn’t sit back and allow someone so hope-filled to be mauled by the obscene, hideous hunger of despair. I want to help you. I want you to survive.”

⤷ With a dazed mind, you begin to question whether or not you’d managed to hit your head previously. Was this an illusion? It’s against the principles of this perpetually miserable world to allow unity between the two ruptures of the population; vampires and humans.

⤷ But it was real, real, real. The ontological sensation of his hand cradling yours as he helped you up, that was real. His arms encapsulating you as he put a halt to your sprints of flee, that was real. This entire situation was so hauntingly real. Yet how could he insist on something so unworldly?

⤷ Though you weren’t allowed to voice your perplexed distrust as he ever-so gently takes your hand within his once more. The soft, alarmingly cold skin of his hand figuratively melting against yours; in which your body regulated to remain at a forgivable body temperature.

⤷ He tugs your hand to signal for you to follow him, his eyes glistening with the reflection of the moon as he smiles. The curling of his lips oozing with a foreign sincerity you’d never have guessed to be found from someone like him; someone you’d predicted would be the death of you.

⤷ “Come on, I know a place where you can hide. They’re not going to find you there, I promise.” It’s a voiced assurance; a promise of your survival. Or, at the very least, for your protection.

⤷ But did you really have any option other than to rely on him? Rejecting his offer could insinuate a possible rage and result in his teeth sinking into your flesh. Yet abiding could, too, result in the findings of your hideout and fatally subject you to the mauling of multiple slobbering, fanged mouths.

⤷ You nod, deciding to agree. “O-Okay.” It was faint, but induced the softening of his gaze as a breathy chuckle escaped him.

⤷ “It’s not the best place around, but it’s the most scum like me could find. Sorry I can’t give you anything more adequate.” He apologized. It was a charming apology, yet unnecessary. Truly, you’d have never expected him to provide a location for you to seek shelter within.

⤷ “No, it’s fine...” You trail off, eyes narrowing on your intertwined hands. He was abnormally cold, yet you still seemed to feel strangely warm. A flurry of fondness smothering your chest as you suppressed an oncoming smile, finally tearing your gaze away from your joint hands.

⤷ “Thank you, Nagito.” Amidst the crescendo of nocturnal chirping and the gust of the nightly breeze, you voice a mere echo. Yet it still is audible and resonates within the pointed ears of your fanged potential ally.

⤷ He turns to you with a momentary visage of bewilderment. It seems that he, too, is susceptible to shock despite the loops of flummox he’s thrown you in for the night.

⤷ After a moment, his confusion melts into his fond smile that you’ve rapidly grown fond of. This meeting, by all odds, was due to the clutches of unapologetic chance. As he squeezes your hand within his, you’re reminded that this is inexplicably irredeemable.

⤷ Hand-in-hand, the two of you fragment the shackles of taboo; the perpetual division of your diverse species. It’s by chance that a vampire has taken it upon themself to assist a human. And it’s by chance that what life’s fundaments deem an impossible allegiance is the blossoming of your potential bond.

⤷ But there’s a chance―an undoubtable hope―that a unified future between the two unaligned. It’s a slim probability. But when has life―when has chance―ever proven itself to be fair?

[purple-stuck]

Hi It's me again! I hope my excessive rambling in the tags wasn't too annoying I just really loved that drabble you wrote

If it's not too much can I request something with Sollux and Gamzee meeting in the subjugglator training ranks after Ascension?

I'd really love to hear what your headcanons might be or what fics you take inspiration from about subjugglators off-planet

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Gamzee's breath was perfectly steady, his heartbeat perfectly level, his mind completely calm. Even as he hopped from platform to platform, moving at speeds imperceivable to the naked eye, his body remained impossibly calm. Such was the Messiahs' gift to him and all purplebloods like him. With training, they could command their body to do the impossible.

Gamzee stopped atop a thin pole, claws digging into his perch as he got his barings. A sea of bloodied spikes spread out around him, ensuring him a slow death should he miss even a single pole or platform. But beyond that, lie his goal. His target. The horned outline of which was a mere speck in his vision.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Gamzee felt the wood begin to give way beneath his weight and lept to another perch, hoping between poles and bouncing away before the could bend against him. Thoughtlessly, he reasoned out the closest platform in between leaps. Automatically, he twisted his body to reach them. His body twisted in ways that crack and snap the bones of any other caste. If the graveyard full of mangled bones below him was any indication, even other purples struggled to make such moves.

Soon, Gamzee's shadow was cast over his prey. A club appeared in his hand, upraised so as to crack open his target's skull in one swing.

For the first time since this lesson began, his breath hitched.

Gamzee's feet hit the ground, his momentum stopped dead. His club hung over his target's shoulder.

Breathe. In.

Breathe. Out.

At this distance, Gamzee could see that his target wasn't even a troll at all. Rather, he'd been tasked with assassinating a mannequin, a hard plastic replica of his would be victim. Gamzee felt his posture relax before he pulled his club back and cracked the target's head of with one swing.

Purple paint sprayed over Gamzee as the body hit the floor and he turned to his audience and bowed.

The audience cheered as the lights flashed on, a cacophony of honks, whoops, and cheers as the stage was revealed in full. If he bothered to look towards the pit, Gamzee could see all the remains of the clowns who came before him and failed. He did not look.

"well, would you look at that."

"HE ACTUALLY MANAGED TO PASS."

Two ropes descended down around him, carrying the Twin Instructors, clad in their iconic matching masks. Comedy's voice was sing song, contrasting Tragedy's melancholy just as their half masks contrasted their mood. Gamzee looked up to see half of Tragedy's face grinning down at him.

"still, you haven't quite managed to beat our record."

"MAYBE WE SHOULD HAVE HIM GO AGAIN."

The two broke into giggles, with the rest of the tent following. Gamzee heard a few voices call out for an encore and quietly hoped they wouldn't be heard. He didn't have it in him to go another round. He didn't know how Sollux did it so easily, controlling his body they way he did.

Tragedy leaned down and gave him an encouraging pat on the back, causing Gamzee to grin at him tiredly in between pants. Comedy leaned down to his other side, handing him a faygo and a rag.

"OH, BUT HE'S SO WORN OUT. WE WOULDN'T WANT TO BREAK OUR NEW FAVORITE."

"we'd love to share notes, but this isn't your show anymore. head to the lounge, it's time for the next act."

Gamzee chugged the bottle, nearly emptying it in two gulps as he walked off stage. He waved his thanks, to tired to talk, as he shoved his way through the curtains and into the lounge.

Gamzee finished his faygo as he lazily scanned the room. Normally, throwing a bunch of clowns into one room would be a recipe for disaster, but all was strangely quiet. It seemed like the others who passed the test were just as warn out from it as he was. It made him feel better to see his brothers and sisters laying around exhausted, half collapsed against walls or the couch. It made him proud to still be standing.

And then he saw Sollux, looking none the worse for wear as he hogged the couch. He smirked smugly as Gamzee made his way over, scooting over to let the shorter clown collapse next to him. "Jegus, you look like shit."

Gamzee flipped him off, causing Sollux to snort. "And you're acting like shit too. Maybe I'm a bad influence on you."

Gamzee snorted. "Shit man, I thought you didn't want me to be so friendly and clingy around you anymore." He wiped the sweat off his forehead, stopping to look at the facepaint that had melted onto his hand. "Although, a brother's got a point about. I ain't much to look at right now."

Sollux slid his half empty faygo down the table, which Gamzee guzzled happily. "Yeah, body control is hard. I've been doing it ever sense I grew hands and I still eat my swords sometimes. Nevermind the more advanced stuff."

Gamzee slammed the faygo bottle on the table. "Shit, man, my bones hurt. And my veins... and lungs. Fuck."

Sollux grunted and handed him a spare Nintendie Dualscream. "How about something to take your mind of it? It's been awhile sense I kicked your ass in Fiduspawn anyways."

It was Gamzee's turn to snort. "All right, you are on, motherfucker."

~

They were eight rounds in when the new clowns stopped coming in. Gamzee counted only five had made it in after him, but he was more focused on beating Sollux than keeping count. Either he'd gotten better or Sollux had gotten worse. The taller troll used to be able to kick his ass, now they were tied four to four. But, their fifth round was interrupted as two familar shadows were cast over them.

"DID YOU TWO BRING TOYS FROM BACK ON ALTERNIA ALONG?"

"just between the four of us, I've heard that's against the rules."

Gamzee and Sollux froze as the Twin Instructors leaned over them. Even Gamzee could feel everyone in the room staring at them. Gamzee had seen this set up before. Comedy and Tragedy learing over a helpless troll or two. Acting like they were just disappointed, like they were just going to give the rule breaker a stern talking to before they decapitated the mischief maker.

Instead, the twins doubled over into a giggling fit the spread through the room. The trolls around them joined in, some more nervously than others.

"JuSt KiDdInG!"

"WE KNOW OUR HIGHEST SCORERS..."

"....know better than to break the rules."

"AsSuMiNg YoU dId'T cHeAt!"

Sollux and Gamzee pushed themselves to their feet, hands moving to ask about their progress, but the duo pushed their hands aside.

"DON'T BOTHER WITH THAT."

"you're subjugulators now."

"YoU'rE oFfIcIaLlY fUnNy EnOuGh To LiStEn To!"

Gamzee let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He heard Sollux do the same before the cheers erupted around them. Tragedy grabbed his arm and hoisted him into the air with it to bare before the crowd, leaving him and Sollux to gaze at their audience.

"GIVE OUR BOYS A ROUND OF APPLAUSE."

"well, those of you who still have hands anyways."

Gamzee looked over at Sollux, himself being held up for all to see by comedy. It was strange to see Sollux actually look nervous, even if they were seemingly in the Twin's good graces. Sweeps of living according to their capricious whims was enough to instill a lasting fear in anyone.

Even when granted verbal permission to speak, the two didn't make a peep as the twins hefted them over their shoulders. The twins cheerfully waved off the crowd as they carried the two ascendants to their office.

Gamzee grunted as he was dropped into a chair to small for him, hearing Sollux swear off to the right as the same happened to him. Comedy and Tragedy flopped into their chairs on the opposite end of the desk, kicking their feet up on it.

"normally, we'd take the time to talk about boring business shit with you."

"PREP YOUR ASCENSION SPEECH AND ALL THAT BLAH BLAH BLAH."

"BuT lIkE wE sAiD, wE hAvE nOtEs."

Sollux and Gamzee shared a nervous look, before Sollux straightened up and spoke. "What, uh, about exactly?"

Comedy shook a chidding finger in their faces.

"WHY, YOU BOTH HESITATED."

"tripped at the finish line."

"DeRaIlEd A pErFeCtLy GoOd ShOw."

Gamzee looked over at Sollux in suprise. Sollux... hesitated? But he was used to killing shit. Hell, that was his idea of a date night. Gamzee hardly had time to consider it before Tragedy leaned in his direction.

"now you we perfectly understand. you've never dabbled with fresh paint before."

"YOU'VE ONLY BEEN OFF THE SLIME FOR JUST THREE SWEEPS AT THAT."

"BuT iT's YoUr BuDdY wE'rE cUrIoUs AbOuT."

They both turned to Sollux expectantly. He scratched the back of hia head. "I... well. Something made me reconsider." He rested his hands in his head. "There was.... a kill I'd been planning for a really long time. Something... big. Special. And, when I landed that kill, when I did kill her and savor killing her... it just felt empty?"

Gamzee knew what he meant. The image of a cart drenched in Cerulean blood flashes in his mind. "I'd... rather not get any more into it than that."

The Twins tented their hands as they nodded sympathetically. Comedy even reached over to pat him on the shoulder.

"oh, we've both been there before."

"I DID ESPECIALLY."

Tragedy bent down and fished around beneath the desk, nearly banging his golden mask on it in the process.

"I STILL REMEMBER MY FIRST KILL."

He placed a white horned skull on the desk, carefully preserved and cleaned even though it seemed to have been centuries old. Still, the more Gamzee looked at it, the more it looked slightly off. The horns seemed to be... fake somehow. Like they were made of some kind of old plastic. And the skull's facial structure was all wrong. Too thin, too light, too delicate looking. It looked like a troll but not quite. If Karkat were here, he'd call it a mockery of troll kind.

"you'd think he'd be honored."

"MY VERY FIRST KILL. SHE WAS SO CLEVER AND BRUTAL THAT I NEVER THOUGHT I'D PULL IT OFF."

He rubbed the skull fondly, clearly nostalgic. Part of him sounded almost remorseful over it too, strangely enough. Like talking about a long dead friend or a beloved canceled show.

"BuT iT fElT sO eMpTy."

Sollux cleared his throat, clearly annoyed, even if he couldn't outright say it. Gamzee couldn't blame him. The twins liked to talk about their first two kills a lot. "So, what's your point?"

Tragedy sighed wistfully and Comedy playfully roled her eyes and elbowed him to get him back on topic.

"THE POINT IS, I WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO IT."

"and when it's over, it always feels...."

"AnTiClImAcTiC."

Sollux hummed and considered this, but Gamzee could tell he wasn't quite buying it. Gamzee could tell that something else was needling away at him. Something deeper than just that.

"you'll probably get that feeling too."

Gamzee straightened up as he realized they were addressing him again.

"HERE'S A TIP. DON'T LOOK INTO THEIR EYES. IT'LL ONLY MAKE YOU MISS THEM MORE."

Comedy slid two communicators across the desk.

"YOU CAN TALK IT OUT WITH YOU QUADS, NOW THAT YOU'RE ALLOWED TO SEE THEM AGAIN. YOUR BRONZE HEART AND RUST DIAMOND PROBABLY MISS YOU."

They nodded at Sollux.

"and the Empress will be happy to see her favorite clown is safe."

[steve0discusses]

S5 Ep 15 Pt 2: Don’t Trust Anyone Who Wears a Floor Length Robe Over Their Casuals in Yugioh

Hey, it’s my birthday, so I’m gonna release this early because the rest of today I just have to work like an adult and that’s no fun.

In the first half of this episode we dunked the worlds smallest plane into a lake and so this second half of the episode involved the kids running as far away from their only responsible adults as they could.

Which like...took whole of less than a second for them to peace out and enter mortal danger.

...I’ve never been in a jungle in India but...I have seen the Jungle book many times...and there’s like tigers and stuff in there, right? and tons of monkeys that are hella mean? And freakin snakes? They sing jazz and scat? That’s some terrifying stuff.

Like these city kids have to learn at some point to fear the woods. But they just freakin don’t. And strangely, the most dangerous thing in these woods isn’t even a snake or something, but a human man just being as suspicious as possible lying prone on the ground.

(read more under the cut)

The card cultist happens to have a British accent, because this voice acting team freakin loves to pull out their British accents. It’s not as lowbrow as Valon, but it’s not as...well whatever Bakura is supposed to be. He’s a lot more tame than Bakura’s, but still very British.

I don’t know if this is because British English tends to be taught instead of American sounding English in many parts of India, but, most likely they just wanted to do an accent. And like...he’s an archeologist...and so the stereotype is there...but honestly, the decision of making this guy British gets weirder and weirder as this episode goes on, get ready for it. None of you are ready for what I assume is the very obvious plot twist of this freakin guy.

Catfish of the century, this freakin guy, I’m pretty sure.

Yugi immediately believes this completely out of place white British stranger in the Indian backwoods next to this inaccessible lake and immediately thinks “yes, my Grandfather crash landed in India EXACTLY where I’m standing right now, and now I must save him.”

Thankfully, Yami exists to gently and politely tell Yugi to hella stop.

Also, I like that Yugi has finally stopped wearing his school outfit out of school. But, he is instead wearing a jacket that is so close to his school outfit I honestly couldn’t tell until the end of this episode. It’s like...I think one shade more purple, it has white piping, and his undershirt has a center seam. It’s nice Yugi has 3 versions of the same black sleeveless undershirt, and this show cares enough to show that tiny factoid about Yugi’s closet.

So, because Yugi is a dumbass and Pharaoh has to just sit back and watch this happen so he can say “told you so” later, they follow this random cultist they found in the woods. Much like Hansel and Gretel, we snack on cake crumbs all the way to the witches house, which in this case, is an undiscovered monolith you would have easily seen from outer space.

HMMMMMMMMMM.

And so get ready for this:

Hey guys.

Remember how Alexander the great was buried in a pyramid?

Now because they’re name dropping Alexander, that’s actually kind of helpful, because Alexander the Great’s favorite damn horse in the entire world died while he was at war with India so he named a city after it. It’s believed to be in Punjab, which is in the Northern part of India

Which means we first of all, definitely crossed the tallest mountain range in the world to get here, and also means that we are like...in some really disputed territory of India right now, and it is crazy that these kids went here for a vacation completely unsupervised.

Another fun fact about Alexander is that when he died, it took 6 days for his body to decompose. At the time, they thought it was because he was a God (or in Yugioh’s case, Extremely Cursed) but nowadays historians think it’s because it took him 6 days to fully die. He just wasn’t dead yet. Had to give it a minute and the ancient Babylonians just got way too excited.

Anyway, Alexander super died in Babylon so I don’t know what the hell he’s doing in India. There is a fun spot in History where his body did get dragged to a couple different places, meaning we probably did lose the original Alexander and there’s a lot of people just guessing at where he ended up...but putting him clear up in India sure was a choice when one of his assumed burial sites was literally Egypt, which would be a more fitting location for a Pyramid and a more fitting location for this show.

Especially since Alexander was trying to invent a new race and culture...it seems a little strange he’d be buried in such a massive pyramid, but maybe he got a really, really good pyramid deal from the funeral home when he was like 28 and just figured he’d change it before the time he died at 32.

Which...now that I’m older than 32, how crazy is it that Alexander the Great died at freakin 32? You blink twice and you’re 32. Is history seriously trying to tell me this guy wasn’t like secretly 62? That maybe he just celebrated his 20th for like 20 years in a row as a royal mandate? I just feel like history is playing pranks on me with Alexander.

Anyway, our weird shady new archeologist guy is named Alex and so take that as you will.

I sure hope Alexander the Great was revived to wear khakis and bother children. Guy conquered the world once and was one of history’s Freakin Worst so he does deserve it, but also...it would explain why he thinks it’s normal to wear a Darth Maul robe over your business casual.

Anyway, lets enter the obvious trap pyramid.

Joey just wanted a nice time running around Northern India. He just wanted to eat some yummy chaat and look at some tourist destinations and maybe glance at a Bollywood star or two. But instead he’s gotta deal with spike floors because Yugi couldn’t say no to a cultist.

Also...one of those spikes clearly went through Tea’s feet, right? And she is absolutely fine? Just checking on Tea’s godlike strength and clearly it is still godlike.

Alex gives us a very long explanation of how he went upstairs and Grandpa went downstairs, and there was a door or something so Alex turned back around and Grandpa was gone.

All of those steps were probably plot relevant and I’ll probably forget all about it in 2 episodes.

The thing is Alex...literally thinks he evaporated. Literally thinks that. But how do you disprove it to this freakin guy who like...might have named a city after his horse once and thinks that’s a normal and acceptable thing to do?

and so Joey immediately leaps onto the haunted playing floor.

the way Yugi said this line was sort of hilarious to me so I may cap it. If I remember to do it (I’ve been a little busier lately, with things opening up, as you can tell because my update schedule is in the toilet.)

So, if Joey jumps in...everyone else has to, also.

And we say good bye to Alex and enter the new forest zone, which looks a LOT like the other forest we were just in.

Nice Protoss armor.

We get some hijinks from the local wildlife, which are all cards but real (but not real because we’re in a board game...don’t think about it) and the off brand Sheikah tablets have helpful monsters in them if you touch em.

This season may have been better off as a video game, being honest.

Joey has gone somewhere else, despite going onto the same game tile, and he’s too busy on a mountain range to really help anyone out. So he’s just gonna vibe up here for a bit.

Tea got up after this point and said along the lines of “k, what’s next?” Because mortal danger does not affect her and she fears nothing.

At a beach somewhere, Tea and Tristan spend some quality time together forming a new family with whatever these creatures are.

And Tea’s love of her winged angel comes full circle and now I will suffer this winged orb for the rest of this arc, pretty sure.

Please admire the number of belts on Tea. Her outfit is like max 00′s and I appreciate that. We’ve had a lot of questionable fashion on Yugioh, but they actually dressed Tea pretty on point this arc. Like I often feel like 00′s fashion is hard to define or describe, but it’s Tea right now. That’s it. She did it, it’s right there.

Yugi gets a new flagship card for this arc, and this time it’s Celtic Guardian. Hell why? I feel like his defining card changes every single arc, and they need to like focus and just give him one. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s still Dark Magician...and maybe the show forgot?

Anyway, if you just got here, this is a link to read the rest:

https://steve0discusses.tumblr.com/tagged/yugioh/chrono

I think I forgot that link in the last recap because yo it’s kind of been a while since I’ve updated, I feel. (well I had a graveyard post and those don’t count really) But, we’re back, we’re still going, slowly but surely.

[thirstyforcharacters]

Bar Fight (Din Djarin/The Mandalorian x fem bounty hunter! Reader)

Part 1 of 2 of The Bounty Hunter and the Mandalorian

Summary: When a bounty hunter attempts to get her quarry, the ensuing battle with a mysterious stranger takes an unexpected turn.

Notes: Hello! This is meant to be the prequel to Rendezvous, (which you can find here) it's the scene that was briefly described in one of the beginning paragraphs. It can also definitely be read as a standalone, though! I know my updates definitely haven't been as frequent because finals are getting close, but I'm still trying to write because it's one of the only things keeping me sane. Hope you enjoy this Mandalorian story! PS: Thank you for 50 followers 🥰 I know that doesn't sound like much, but I honestly didn’t think that anyone would actually read my content, so thank you for giving me serotonin! (use of she/her pronouns, no y/n)

Warnings: smut! 18+ only! a bar fight (duh)/canon-typical violence, finger-fucking, hand jobs 

WC: 2.8 k

Another day, another bounty. That’s what you were thinking to yourself as you flew Freya, your trusty ship, back to Nevarro. Solonoe Carslit apparently owed some money to the Hutts, and of course, being one of the best bounty hunters in the guild, you were able to get the job done. Dragging Solonoe back to Tatooine wasn’t much of a problem once you knocked him unconscious and froze him in carbonite, and the Hutts payed you well, giving you enough money to make a much needed repair to your hyperdrive and get enough fuel to last you for a few weeks. You even splurged on a new pair of boots, since your old ones were torn to shreds. Now, you were headed back to Nevarro; Greef Karga said he would have some more jobs by now.

You touched down on the planet, landing in the open space just outside of town. You strode your way down the streets, and most who were in your way practically leaped to the side as you brushed past. You usually had this effect on people, your stoic expression, dark and practical clothing, and the blaster rifle, which you took off the body of a Stormtrooper, slung across your back, the blasters hanging from your belt, and the knives tucked snugly in their thigh holsters usually intimidated those who weren’t like you. You swiftly entered the cantina in which you knew Karga would be located.

And there he was, sitting at a booth, tucked in the corner of the bar, glancing around for anyone interested. And interested you were.

You sat in front of him, folding your hands on the table and giving him an intense stare.

“Ah, you’re back,” he acknowledged, “I’m sure the Hutts paid you handsomely.”

“You could say that. But I want a little more.”

He chuckled, “Always on the move, you are. You’re lucky, I think I have something for you.”

He took one of the familiar pucks from his pocket and turned it on. A human woman appeared on screen with bright green hair, which was shaved on one side, and eyes to match.

“Isahei Haradde is the name. Apparently, she stole a sizeable sum from a rich Imperial family. Rumor is that she’s hiding out somewhere on Bespin. They’re offering a pretty sizable reward for the one who catches her. In beskar.”

“Beskar?” your eyebrow raised, “that could be enough to buy myself a new blaster. Or make some new armor.”

“Indeed. I’m sure you’re up for it, you’re one of the best we have. Though, I will tell you, there are multiple other bounty hunters gunning for her as well, given the size of the reward,” warned Greef.

“I can handle it,” was your short reply.

Karga wished you good luck as you snatched the puck and jumped up from the table, eager to move to your destination. You made your way back to Freya. You were quite proud of her; she was an old, beat up Republic gunship you found in a scrapyard that you had fixed up yourself. The heavy armor and multiple guns you had rebuilt meant that almost no one could take down your baby. You had gotten her pretty beat up a couple times, but you always made sure the dings and bumps were taken care of.

You punched in the coordinates to Bespin and off you went. You launched into hyperspace and put the ship on autopilot, choosing to focus your attention on the job instead. Bespin was a mining planet, which mostly appeared clean from the outside. But you knew where all of the shady spots were, the seedy bars, the dark alleyways, the mine shafts that were used as hideouts for criminal masterminds, etc. Knowing the type of personnel you usually had to deal with, you figured you’d probably start in one of the bars.

Before long, you had arrived on the planet. You landed on one of the landing strips more on the outskirt of the city so that you could be a bit more inconspicuous, and wandered through the city until you found your destination.

Cloud City Cantina wasn’t exactly a creative name, but the drinks were cheap and there was plenty of activity not meant for the faint of heart. You could already hear some commotion from the inside when you approached the door and peaking inside confirmed your suspicions. Four people were standing by the bar, one you immediately recognized as your quarry. The other three were a Togruta female, Rodian male, and someone dressed head to toe in beskar armor, so you couldn’t tell exactly who he was, but you recognized him as a Mandalorian. Though you couldn’t see his face, he was alluring; while the other two were arguing loudly, he just stood there, observing through his helmet. He was casually leaning against the bar, one of his hands propper up his head, and the other was holding his blaster. The trio were obviously bounty hunters who were “discussing” who was going to get the bounty. You decided that you would decide for them, and you strode over to them.

“Sorry to interrupt,” you snarked, clearly not sorry, “but I’ll be taking that bounty.”

Before any of them could react, you swept the Rodian’s legs out from beneath him. He squawked in surprise and the other two lept into action. The Togruta shot at your head, and you managed to duck just in time. During the confusion, Isahei sprang from her seat and made a run for the door, but the Mandalorian launched a whipcord from one of his vambraces (which you didn’t see coming) and it wrapped itself around her, causing her to topple to the ground. The Rodian staggered up from the ground and threw a punch at your head, which you skillfully deflected. You reached behind you and grabbed a beer mug and promptly smashed it over his head. He dropped to the ground once more, definitely at least unconscious. You turned your attention back to the Togruta, who shot at you again. You took out your vibro-knives and ran at her, slicing first at her blaster wielding arm, then at her face. She jumped back, expecting the charge, but you still managed to clip her arm, making her hiss in pain. She brought her elbow down and slammed it into your stomach, making you groan in pain. You slashed back at her in retaliation, and blood soon tinged her thigh from the deep cut you inflicted. She dropped to the ground as well.

You looked around for the Mandalorian, and barely saw him dragging the quarry through the crowd. Without really thinking, you hurled one of your knives at him and it sunk into one of the gaps in his armor, jst above his elbow. He dropped the quarry with a grunt of pain and whipped around while yanking the knife from his arm and throwing it on the floor. You assumed he locked eyes with you, making you smirk triumphantly.

“Couldn’t let you get away with that,” you called to him, stepping through the crowd, which parted for you, “I’d like that reward.”

“Well, you’re not getting it,” came his reply, which was sort of staticky through the helmet.

Even so, the deep timbre of his voice made a strange flipping feeling make itself known in your belly. Being attracted to your competition wasn’t going to help you in this situation, especially seeing as you were now practically face to face.

“Really? I beg to differ.”

“I’m the one who restrained her. That bounty should go to me.”

“Well, I’m the one who started the fight in the first place, and you wouldn’t have been able to restrain her without that. So technically, you couldn’t have done it without me.”

He didn’t say anything after that. You thought that maybe you had gotten to him when he suddenly took his rifle off of his back and swung it at you. You ducked out of the way and took out your own. You were in too close of quarters to be able to shoot at each other, so you used your rifles as bludgeoning weapons while Isahei, your quarry, just layed there.

After a long bout of fighting, it became pretty clear that neither of you was more skilled than the other. You both leaned against the bar, out of breath, staring at each other. You were sure that his stare was meant to be intimidating, if his body language told you anything. But yours was also a bit more of a sensual nature. You couldn’t help it; he was a strong fighter with a sexy voice. You could tell that there was muscle upon muscle underneath his armor, and you were able to see the way his pants hugged his massive thighs. You did your best to be subtle, but that was kind of difficult in such close quarters.

“I saw we just do rock, paper, scissors and call it a night,” you joked.

He chuckled, “I think I have a better idea, especially since you can’t keep your eyes off of me.”

You flushed slightly at being caught, but hoped that the dim lighting of the bar covered it up, “I’m just trying to be intimidating. This usually works.”

“Yeah, because staring at my thighs is extremely intimidating.”

Oh. Well, you couldn’t play it off anymore.

“To be fair, I can’t say I’m entirely innocent in that regard, either.”

Oh. He was attracted to you, too. That was news.

“I see. So what’s this idea of yours?” you questioned.

He leaned in close to your ear and whispered, “Whoever makes the other come first gets the bounty.”

Your eyes widened comically. He was asking for what you had been thinking, and in pretty explicit terms, too.

The soft laugh near your ear sent shivers down your spine, “At a loss for words? Or are you not up for the challenge?”

“No,” you said immediately, “I’m up for it. I like to think I’m pretty good with my hands.”

“I’m sure you are,” he murmured, picking up your knife and tucking it back into your thigh holster, purposefully brushing his fingers along the inside of your thigh, “but so am I.”

The two of you dragged the quarry to a small, unassuming inn and snuck into one of the empty rooms. You left the quarry outside of the room, attaching the cord to a bannister, knowing that it was a very small chance of her escaping. Once you closed the door, the game was afoot. Almost immediately, he pushed you onto the bed; you should’ve known you were fighting a losing battle then, but you were determined to get this quarry. He draped himself on top of you and teasingly pinned your hands above your head.

“That’s cheating,” you snapped, “how am I supposed to get you off if I can’t use my hands?”

“Get creative,” he replied while his hips slowly began to grind into yours.

Though he was playing it cool, you could feel how hard he already was through his pants. Maybe you had a shot at this, as long as he didn’t know that you were already dripping. Every grind of his hips against yours made it more and more difficult to keep the moans that were threatening to spill from your lips at bay, but you managed to keep them in. Until one of his hands travelled from you wrists down your torso to the small strip of skin showing between your now-untucked shirt and your pants. His fingers slipped under the band of your pants and somehow almost immediately found your clit, rubbing vigorously. You couldn’t help but moan softly at the feeling.

“Maker, you’re dripping. Sure you’re gonna last?”

That was enough for you to spring into action. You pulled your wrists out of his one-handed grip and trailed them down his armor-clad torso. You removed the armor that was blocking your path downwards; though it was difficult without his assistance, you managed. You were about to dip your hand under the waistband of his pants when he ran one of his fingers through your slit, making you whimper and temporarily forget what you needed to be doing.

“Shit,” you breathed when his finger pushed into your dripping cunt.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmured, “bet you’re gonna cum soon with how wet you are.”

With all of the self-control you could muster, you grabbed his wrist to still his movements and used your other hand to finally reach into his pants and grab his rock-hard member. A soft groan crackled through the helmet, causing you to finally see through his put-together facade.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” you crooned, starting to move your hand, desperate for him to cum before you.

You saw him nod jerkily, then he used his free hand to pull your hand from his wrist and begin his movements in earnest.

“It does,” he started, “but I need you to come first.”

“Not a chance,” you said through gritted teeth, twisting your hand around his dick, “that bounty is mine.”

Only moments after you said that did he add another finger, making you clench around him. He curled his fingers inside of you, making a soft “fuck” fall from your lips as you continued to jerk him, brushing your thumb across the tip. He cursed as you brought your thumb, covered in his precome, to your lips and sucked.

“You taste divine,” you whispered, batting your eyelashes enticingly.

“Glad you think so,” he snarked, “Maker, you’re just gushing around me, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t deny it; this was the wettest you had been in a long time. You knew that you weren’t going to last much longer; your legs were trembling and you were barely holding back your orgasm, making you redouble your efforts. You increased your pace, making him moan out in pleasure. Just when you thought that maybe you had him, his thumb rubbed against your clit, and you were done for. Your orgasm washed over you and you whimpered as he fingered you through your high. You tried to continue to jerk him through your orgasm, but you lost your grip on him as the pleasure overtook you.

You came down from your high and you could almost feel him smirking.

“Guess I won.”

“Guess so. You may have won the bounty, but I could just leave you on edge with no way to get back down. Not much of a winner now, are you?” you sassed back, pulling your hand out of his pants.

In a flash, his hand grabbed your wrist and pulled it back in, “Now that would be rude, wouldn’t it?”

“So is taking my bounty.”

You attempted to pull your hands away, but he grasped them both in his own. You knew that he was stronger than you, but you tried to break free anyway.

That is, until you heard him whisper, “Please.”

You looked into where his eyes would be in the helmet and you felt your resolve break. You knew you couldn’t just leave him high and dry, even if he did just take your bounty.

“Okay,” you replied, and he released your hands.

Your hands returned to their former position, wrapped around his dick. Now that you weren’t worried about getting off, you focused your attention on him. His dick was pretty, hard and absolutely leaking. You knew he was close. His body language was tense, like a bowstring that was too tight.

“Cum for me,” you purred, “I can tell how close you are.”

A sound akin from a whimper fell from his lips as one of your hands moved to toy with his balls. It wasn’t long before the bowstring snapped, and the white liquid covered your hands. You wiped off his release on the inn’s sheets, knowing that someone would probably clean it sometime. You both got off of the bed and got yourselves together. You exited the room and the Mandalorian took hold of the quarry. Disappointment began to settle in at your lost bounty, though you tried not to show it on your face.

You must’ve failed though, because he meandered back over to you and placed his hand on your shoulder, “You’re a really good fighter. You’ll get another one.”

“Thanks,” you replied softly, though you were still pretty frustrated.

“At least you got a pretty decent orgasm out of it,” he remarked.

A small smile spread across your face at that, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Here, give me your holo,” he requested.

Your quirked up your eyebrow, but handed it over. He punched something in and handed it back to you.

“If you ever want to do something like that again, let me know.”

He dragged the quarry behind him then, and before long, he was out of sight. When you couldn’t see him anymore, you took out your holo and glanced at your contacts.

Mando.

That’s what he had saved himself as. Your small smile grew wider. Perhaps you’d be seeing him again. For now, though, it was time to get your next job.

[trashmenofmarvel]

Branded - Chapter 40

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Your captor reveals what he wants with Bucky, and with you.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart​ . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

Chapter Warnings: Witnessing past noncon (mildly graphic), psychological torture, isolation, captivity

AO3

Fear was a constant in the semi-darkness. Despite the man’s words that he would eventually let you go, you didn’t trust him an ounce. You remained hypervigilant, poised on the edge of flight, though you were more than ready to fight for your escape. It turned out, bond active or not, the thought of Bucky being used and enslaved was enough to move you to violence.

But between the dizzying seesaw of fear and anger, you were crushed with a deep sadness. You were worried about your mom noticing your absence. You worried about Monster being left alone, even though he was no ordinary cat and could fend for himself.

Most of all, you missed Bucky. You were grateful he was safe, even though hours before you’d been resentful of his situation. It had been a blessing in disguise, because no matter what he was out of reach of this madman.

But it didn’t mean you didn’t miss him terribly, and that you didn’t wish someone would hurry up and find you, wherever you were.

As you lay on the stone bench, you continually touched the marks on the wall, a reminder that Bucky had been there. It made you feel less alone, but it did nothing to ease the ache in your chest. You’d caught a glimpse of his life under HYDRA’s control, and you didn’t want to think about the things that might have occurred in this very cell.

You had time. Too much of it. Enough to play back the memories of the last three months and how they led you to this moment.

Bucky had been so reticent at the beginning. Distant, aloof and impenetrable wall you couldn’t climb. But you’d caught moments, glimpses past the armor into the man inside. Despite his grouchy demeanor, he’d been as lonely as you were. It had taken so long for him to let you past his walls, and it had been so worth it. Even the moments that would leave their scars, the memories that kept you up at night, it had been bearable with Bucky there.

Now, all you had was yourself. Alone in a prison that smelled of damp earth and forgotten things. At least… that’s what you thought.

You very carefully turned your head, trying to catch the thing you’d spotted earlier in the corner of the room. A flash of green, like the slitted pupils of a cat reflecting the harsh light from the single bulb overhead.

Heart leaping, you sat up and faced the darkness, about to call out Monster’s name… but then you shut your mouth. They were the wrong shade of green, and they were too high off the ground.

Not to mention Monster would never hide from you. No… this was something different. A second set of sickly green eyes you recognized.

“Did he tell you to watch me?” you asked, voice cracking painfully. You cleared it, and nudged the water pitcher with your sock-covered toe. “Make sure I don’t drown myself in this?”

The Alp didn’t respond except to blink its reflective eyes, not unlike the way Monster would when he was listening to you ramble on about your long day at work.

You frowned and chewed on the inside of your cheek. What did you know about this demon? You had assumed it was the same one that had attacked you on Halloween night, but Bucky had killed it, hadn’t he? Then again, you knew from experience that death wasn’t quite so permanent for demons.

Same demon or not, this one had abducted you at the man’s command. That much was true. And what you had also managed to recall just before you’d slipped into unconsciousness was the pained howls of the Alp being punished.

So, in conclusion, it was possible you had more in common with the Alp than you’d first realized. And from the way the man had been talking about wanting to enslave Bucky, it wasn’t a stretch to think this demon wasn’t a willing participant.

Okay. You could work with that.

“I don’t blame you for abducting me,” you said. “Maybe you didn’t even want to, but he made you. You didn’t have a choice.”

The demon said nothing, but it was no longer blinking.

You lowered your voice to a soft, understanding level, hoping the Alp would realize you weren’t the enemy.

“I know he hurt you. Punished you. Probably not for the first time, right?”

No response, but that was all right. The demon only had to listen.

“I can help you,” you whispered, leaning toward the bars. “There are sorcerers in New York, powerful ones who know all about demonic magic. They could free you from this man, or at least protect you. You could be free. We both could be free.”

You took a deep breath, putting all your sincerity into your words.

“All you have to do is get me out of there. Take me back. We could go to the Sanctum together, and—“

The demon finally reacted, or rather, it made a low, saddened noise that sounded suspiciously like a no. And then it vanished with a popping sound, black tendrils of smoke curling in the air where it had been, and then disappearing and leaving the faint but pungent scent of sulfur.

Sighing, you sat back against the wall and tried not to let the discouragement or the cold get to you. Your captor had slipped you a blanket between the bars, but it provided little warmth, metaphorical or otherwise.

You only had to hope you could survive long enough, either to be rescued or to escape. One thing was for certain: it would only be a matter of time until your abductor realized Bucky wasn’t coming.

***

It became a waiting game, one neither of you were going to win.

Time flowed in unpredictable lurches, but you could give a rough estimate from how often the man came back to the room with a pitcher of water and a tray of food. It was clearly prepackaged, maybe even from some kind of military ration, but you still ate it because you needed the energy and he wasn’t going to poison you. Not if he wanted Bucky to be caught in a trap with living bait.

If the man was feeding you three meals a day, then you’d been down here for a day and a half already. You would be missed by now. Strange would be searching for you, and while you didn’t know who this man was, you knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against the head sorcerer.

Or so you thought. On his eighth visit, he returned to the room and put down the folded chair. There was something in his hands. A book. Red, with a black pentagram on the cover.

Horror shot through your mind. You remembered that book: it had belonged to the Russian officer who had once enslaved Bucky. The Colonel. He’d been a high-ranking member of HYDRA, so how had this man gotten ahold of it?

“From your expression, you recognize this tome. But do you know what it is?”

The man, whose name you still didn’t know because he refused to give it to you, watched you with a patient smile. Almost as if you were a child he was teaching at his knee.

“No.” Your voice was hoarse from disuse, and it was a testament to your isolation that you were talking to him at all. But after being trapped in the semi-darkness, cold and alone, you were willing to talk to anyone. Even him.

“I do not know the book’s name,” he said, turning it over reverently in his hands. You noticed a thin, gold wedding band on one finger. He was married? “But I know its purpose. It’s an instruction manual, of sorts. A guide in all things demonic. It predates HYDRA, a stolen relic as many things were, and one must have proficient knowledge in Latin to read it.”

His voice was faint, far away as he mused, “A sacred text, written in a dead language, coveted by a doomed cult. There is a lesson to be learned there, I think.”

You let the man speak, the more he did the better it was for you. The last thing you wanted was for the effects of isolation to make you reveal something you shouldn’t.

“With this book, you will be freed.” He leaned forward, his soft voice taking on an eager quality. “Sergeant Barnes will no longer hold sway over you, but that’s not all I offer. With a new master, I can protect him from HYDRA, whatever little of them is left. Or I can protect him from the next group which attempts to use demons. There will always be men who lust for power wherever it resides, and your demon has quite a lot of it.”

You said nothing, resentful that he wasn’t wrong about Bucky in this regard.

“It was quite a journey to find the latest owner of this book,” he continued, apparently not discouraged by your lack of interaction. “It was in the hands of Colonel Vasily Karpov: Sergeant Barnes’ last master. He was in the Russian Armed Forces and one of HYDRA’s top men. Do you know where I found him?”

The man sneered distastefully.

“Cleveland.”

He looked down at the book and slowly shook his head.

“The man who enslaved and humiliated the demon you wish to protect was living not too far from your own home. I’m the one who found Karpov. I’m the one who killed him. Don’t you see? We are allies in this.”

A noise finally escaped you. A dismissive snort.

“You want to make Bucky your slave, and you have the nerve to think… what, that you’re his friend?”

“A friend? No. One does not make friends with a weapon.”

You looked away, grimacing in disgust.

“How are you any better than HYDRA?” you growled out.

“Because I will put Sergeant Barnes to a nobler purpose. He will not be used for cruel or evil intentions.”

“So you admit, you would use him.”

It was a terrible idea to engage with his dangerous man, to nurse his delusions, but you couldn’t stop yourself from letting him antagonize you, either.

He gave you a pitying look.

“Sergeant Barnes has been used his entire life, and the US Government was his first master. Drafted into the army, trained to be a sniper, he killed Nazis without compunction. Your sergeant has always been a killer; HYDRA simply unleashed him on their enemies. And I will unleash him onto mine.”

You opened your mouth, the urge to spit venom on the tip of your tongue… and then you shut it. Intentionally or not, he was revealing quite a lot of information, such as what he really wanted with Bucky.

“What kind of enemies?” you asked, tone carefully even. But the man merely stared at you, gave a small smile, and stood from his chair.

“I estimate that Sergeant Barnes should be here soon,” he said. “A demon master without its slave is vulnerable, and if the human inside him still exists and has compassion for you… then he will come even swifter.

“In the meantime…”

He approached the projector in the corner, and your stomach clenched, even as you weren’t sure why. His next words confirmed your instincts were right.

“I have something that will hopefully enlighten you.”

The man flicked a switch and the clicking of the old projector accompanied a square of light cast onto the wall. Distorted images from empty bits of film bubbled up onto the screen until it formed into a coherent picture. An image of the very room you were in, though the camera was facing toward the cell you currently occupied.

The image showed a horrific scene. A ring of men were surrounding someone, their boots and batons striking his curled body. You were sure the man must be dead after a beating like that, but once they stopped and backed away, the bruises and abrasions faded away… and your stomach sank as the man propped himself up.

You almost didn’t recognize him. His muscles were much leaner and less bulky, his face rounder and younger, his hair cut short. He was almost entirely human except for the demonic left arm and a smaller version of his current tail. The wings, the horns, his clawed feet and tapered ears—none of those existed yet.

“I can do this all day,” Bucky said, giving a smile stained red. He was entirely naked, stripped of his clothing, but he showed no signs of intimidation. Even through the tinny quality of the audio you recognized that stubborn tone of voice, and your heart ached at hearing him again, especially in such a dire situation.

“Good, Mister Barnes,” a voice responded from out of frame. His accent was heavily Russian, but he he spoke in English. “Because I am curious as to how much punishment your body can take before it runs out of its stored energy.”

Bucky cursed, and the man behind him laid him flat on the ground with a kick to his spine. Bucky wheezed and curled into a ball again as the men continued to beat him.

You were sure he was going to die. You knew he wouldn’t, but every instinct in you screamed to stop something had had happened over seventy years ago.

The man on the film was speaking as if documenting an experiment, noting Bucky’s healing ability as it slowed, leaving his wounds open and painful-looking.

“If you want to learn about demons,” Bucky cut him off with a snarl, “you can go to Hell.”

Pride surged in your chest. Bucky was a fighter, he would never give up—

The same man who had kicked him in the back now struck the side of Bucky’s head with a baton, and he collapsed hard. Bucky groaned on the ground, his claws digging into the concrete. It took you a moment to realize he wasn’t groaning from pain.

“Sufficient injury past the point of healing appears to drive the subject into heat,” the man behind the camera observed. “Note the expanded pupils giving the appearance of solid black eyes. Does pain turn you on now, Sergeant?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He only eyed the circle of men as they drew closer, and there was something other than wariness in his gaze.

“Turn it off,” you said, voice small and laden with horror. You didn’t want to watch. Didn’t want to see. You’d witnessed enough of Bucky’s humiliation without his consent. It wasn’t right.

“Not yet,” the man said. You couldn’t see his face, covered in shadow as he watched you watch the film. “Not until you truly understand.”

“And when the subject is in the throes of heat,” the cameraman continued, crackling from the old audio, “he produces pheromones that have a drastic effect on men near him.”

Bucky remained silent, glaring up at the men pulling closer. They rubbed themselves obscenely through their pants, clearly affected by the pheromones, but you doubted those pieces of shit needed much encouragement in that regard.

“Perhaps these fine men will assist you with what you need, if you ask them nicely, Sergeant.”

You could see it in Bucky’s eyes. How hard he fought, to resist the urges pulsing through him, and you knew the moment when he gave into them.

Bucky lurched to his knees, grabbed onto the nearest HYDRA soldier, and ripped open his pants.

You shut your eyes tight and turned your head away. If this bastard wanted you to watch, he’d have to force you to do that himself.

But he didn’t come into your cell and force you to watch, and unfortunately, you could still hear the sounds all too clearly. The heated grunts, the obscene wet noises that were uncannily familiar, in a way. You considered covering your ears, but leaving more of your senses blind with your captor wouldn’t be wise, either.

So you opened your eyes and stared at the floor, praying it would be over soon.

It wasn’t. The same man who was filming this torture, who seemed to be the man in charge, taunted Bucky. Mocked him that he wanted to be fucked by HYDRA soldiers until he was senseless.

He was their prisoner, helpless in so many ways, and still this man, whoever he was, chose to be even more cruel than he had to be.

“Who are you thinking of, Sergeant?” he eventually asked. “Your dear Captain, perhaps?”

You curled your hands next to your face, nearly covering your ears. You shouldn’t be hearing this, you shouldn’t!

There was an awful chuckle of laughter at however Bucky had reacted.

“You do hunger for your Captain?” the man continued. “Did he know what you were? Did he debase himself with you?”

You didn’t expect Bucky to answer; you’d seen him caught in the middle of a heat firsthand, and experienced something similar yourself and knew how difficult it was to think, let alone talk.

But he still managed to growl out, “F-fuck you… Lukin. Ste-Captain Rogers… never…”

“Perhaps we will send him a copy of this film: of you reduced to HYDRA’s whore,” the man called Lukin said, a sneer in his voice. “Do you think he would come for you knowing the things you think about him?”

Bucky’s voice was flat, defeated when he finally answered.

“No.”

The rapid clicking of the projector slowed to a crawl until it went silent.

“Do you see now?” your captor asked, his soft voice floating to you from the darkness. “Do you understand what I would be shielding him from? With Sergeant Barnes under my power, he will never suffer from such humiliation again.”

You said nothing and stared resolutely at the stone floor just before the bars. It gave you a decent peripheral view of the room without having to actually look at the man. You despised him. Hated him. More for him using Bucky’s pain to manipulate you than because of your own abduction.

“I won’t help you,” you finally answered, flat but final.

He sighed, taking the reel of film from the projector.

“You will,” he eventually said. “How uncomfortable you are in the process is up to you.”

The swing of the wooden door on its hinges left you in unbroken silence, but in that silence, you could still hear the terrible echoes of sharp gasps and pained whimpers.

Next Chapter

[a-simple-imagine]

The Smarter Witch pt.2

Requested by anonymous: “Maybe later that same year or the next one where the reader finally admits her feelings and tries making it a big special (but private) thing? Maybe in the astronomy tower or something but Malfoy messes it up and there is a fight? Her and mione end up together in the end?”

Pairing: Hermione Granger x fem!reader

Words: 6k

A/N - I’m arguably prouder of this part than the first!! As always comments and reblogs are appreciated. I’m very much loving my time in the Harry Potter fandom atm. credit to @euphoriainhell​ for checking this over!!

Warnings - Threats of violence, prejudice, bullying and swearing. I think that is it.

Part 1

The whistle of the Hogwarts express signaled the official end of summer as you made your way onto the platform. Family forgotten as you scan the tidal wave of students for any familiar face but they would likely be on the train already; you were running late after all. Dropping off your luggage, you're about to board when you spot a flash of platinum blonde in the corner of your eye. 

"Draco," It's hard to hear over the busy train platform as you weave through the crowd to reach him. Picking up speed as you get closer, you launch yourself onto his back. "If it isn't one of my favourite Snakes." 

"Get off me," He shakes his body in an attempt to throw you off so you loosen your grip. Dropping back down to the ground. 

"Aren’t you happy to see me?" 

"Just get on the train," His hand slaps against your back, pushing you forward onto the train.  

"Do anything exciting this summer?" You ask him as you walk through the train carriage, slipping past people as they got in your way. Checking each booth as you pass for your fellow Slytherin. They had to be on here somewhere but it was a big train. 

"Not really. You?" 

"Visited New York. Family had business at the American ministry." You glance back to make sure he was still walking behind. Finally, you spot Parkinson, sat in the corner by herself. It takes her a moment but when she finally sees you two, a wicked grin spreads over her lips. "It was fun though. Did some sightseeing- typical touristy shit." 

"Took you two long enough, I thought you were  gonna miss the train." 

"Aww she was worried about us Draco," you tease, nudging him slightly as you plop down next to her. Draco sits across from you, taking the window seat. 

"where's Blaise?" 

Her shoulders rose a little in response to Draco's question. "He said he forgot something and then ran off." 

"I hope the train leaves without him," you jest, glancing out the window. It was beginning to calm down as the last few students boarded the train. All that was left were parents biding their final farewells. You can't imagine crying over sending your child off to school but still, you spotted tears among some. 

"Without who?" Pulling your attention back, Blaise had finally shown up. He takes the space next to Draco, looking rather uninterested. Finally, the main gang was back together; not including Crabbe or Goyle. 

"Definitely not my awesome friend Blaise, that's for sure," You flash a playful smile; slumping down against the seat. It was gonna be a long journey. 

"You're as chipper as ever," Zabini comments, kicking your leg gently with his foot. "Not sure if that's a good thing." 

"I'm just happy to be back," And you were for the most part anyway. As dull as school could be, you were excited to be going back. Not to mention you'd finally get to see Hermione again; you found yourself often wondering what she may be up to. The child of two muggles must spend her time differently, or so you assumed. You kind of missed seeing her every week; perhaps even more than you missed Draco and the others. You liked to think you don't know why but deep down there was a part of you that knew exactly why. 

The conversation drifted between talks of summer plans and future endeavours. Past assignments and what was yet to be learnt. Pansy, once again, hadn't finished her summer work but that was a surprise to nobody. And after what felt like forever without interruption from the lady with the trolley, you decide you're gonna have to go search for it yourself. There was a chocolate frog calling your name right now. 

"I'm gonna go get something from the trolley. Do you guys want anything?" It's a polite gesture but you kind of hoped nobody would say yes. 

"I'll take a liquorice wand," Blaise requests and you nod a little. 

"Draco?" His head shakes so you grab Pansy's arm and pull her along with you. It was a lot easier to navigate now that everyone was pretty much in their seats. The familiar sweet question hits your ears so you know you are close. 

“Anything from the trolley?”

"You know how you finished all the homework-" 

"Yes you can copy," You should have expected this when she didn't protest to bringing her along. "Just don't make it obvious because I'm not taking the fall for it. I will definitely blame you." 

As you approach Honeydukes Express, the older witch is serving what seems to be a couple of Ravenclaw students. You wait for them to finish up, examining the contents as she turns to you. "Can I get.... some liquorice wands, a chocolate frog, a packet of Roasted Chimera Crisps and, do you want anything?" 

Pansy takes a moment to think about it. You shift uncomfortably as a few students wait their turn behind you. "Chocolate." 

"And a chocolate bar please?" You hand over the money in exchange for your sweets but the world washes away when you spot none other than Harry Potter in the booth beside you. You quickly spy Ron beside him with Hermione sat opposite. You felt the flutter of butterflies in your stomach as she laughs at something you're unaware of. 

"What are you doing?" Pansy shoves you back into reality and you hit the door to the booth. All eyes fall to you and you want nothing more than to sink into the ground. Hermione smiles ever so softly and your heart leaps out of your chest. Reaching past you to collect the items you paid for, your fellow Slytherin pulls you away completely oblivious. 

"What took so long?" Blaise wonders. Pansy hands over your items and tosses him his wands. You slide your chocolate frog into your pocket as you sit back down. Pulling open the crisp packet.

"Ask her, she just froze all of a sudden. It was really weird." 

You absentmindedly place a crisp in your mouth, crushing it between your teeth. 

"You okay?" Draco asks. 

You nod a little, flashing them a tight smile that fades as you turn back to the window. It was easier to deny when you were apart but it was time to admit to yourself that you have a crush on a certain Gryffindor. Fuck. 

Dumbledore stands on the podium at the front of the great hall, starting the term with his normal announcement as well as an introduction for the first years. It was an utterly boring speech that had your stomach growling in anticipation for dinner. Leaning down against the table, your head rests in the palm of your hand as you stare through the gaps between students at the Gryffindor table. You wonder where Hermione is sat; zoning out of the assembly entirely. There were moments you wished that Hogwarts didn't always have you split by houses. Of course, they weren't entirely strict policies but you'd get some strange looks if you had sat at the Gryffindor table for the first feast of the year rather than the Slytherin table. Perhaps you should care more about the first years getting assigned their houses but you felt yourself almost drifting off as you waited for dinner. 

"You reckon we can swap out Millicent for one of the first years?" Pansy's voice is quiet in your ear as the table finally fills with all kinds of food. You've never been happier for a speech to be over. 

"Don't be mean," An amused smile pulls at your lips but the reason behind it was unclear. You shovel food onto your plate as if it was going to disappear again if you didn't. 

"What? I'm just saying" Pansy reaches over you to grab an ear of corn on the cob to add to her plate. 

"What's your problem with her?" 

"Nothing really. I just think we could do better, she's no fun." You'd love to know what Pansy's idea of fun was. 

"I've hardly even spoken to her, to be honest," you shrug, tucking into a bread roll. "So I'd happily give her up for a first-year." 

"I'm not sure how you can miss her," Your friend adds snidely. "Pathetic excuse for a Slytherin." 

"You do realise she's sitting right over there," You nod your head in her direction. She's a little further down the table but not enough that she couldn't hear your conversation if she wanted to. It's very clear Pansy doesn't care though as she looks towards the girl who’s currently eating a chicken wing. 

"Things would be very different if I was in charge here," 

"I dread the thought," You comment, taking a long sip of water from your goblet. 

"Pansy's right," Draco interjects, you didn't even realise he was paying attention to the two of you. "This place has gone to the dogs. They let just about anyone in." 

This again? It was like listening to a broken record with Pansy and Draco. Always looking down on people for not being of pure blood. "If they only let in purebloods, there'd hardly be anyone here." 

"that’s right we forgot you're the resident mudblood lover." Pansy mocked, turning her attention to behind her. "Where is Granger anyway?" 

"You shouldn't call people that,” It was such a foul word anyway, even when it wasn't directed at Hermione. "And how should I know? I've been with you guys since we got back." 

"I don't know." The girl turns back to you. "You're the one obsessed with her." 

You're about to reply but Blaise interjects first. "Leave her alone," 

"Thank you, Blaise," you're a little surprised to find him defending you regarding the matter. He tended to sit on the sidelines when it came to discussions of muggle-borns; partly because you're convinced he thinks he's just better than most people. Pureblood or otherwise. He was a very talented young wizard and very handsome. You can't help the smug expression that takes over. 

"She can't help having no taste." 

"I'm not even obsessed with her," you fire back defensively; a little too defensively and they all snicker. "Stop bullying me for having friends other than you guys. Just because nobody else likes you three." 

"What did I do?" Draco questions, his brows knitting together. "I didn't say anything about her." 

"I know but you were probably thinking it," You huff. "And you laughed." 

"You can't punish me for thinking things," 

With a roll of your eyes, you stand up and leave the table. You could only deal with so much negativity at any given moment so you take a detour into the lion's den. Too many Weasley's to pick Ron out from the crowd so you keep an eye out for Potter; who for some annoying reason was sat all the way at the other side of the great hall. You push in beside him and a brand new first-year earning yourself the odd stares. Sadly, Hermione is nowhere to be seen. 

"Oh great you're here," You didn't appreciate Ron's tone. You shoot him a sharp glare, he was definitely someone you hadn't missed over summer. "Draco sent you?"

"Why would Draco send me?" Like Draco would even trust you as a spy. "He doesn't care about you all that much... at least not you Ron." You flash him a tight-lipped smile. "I came to see Hermione actually, I thought she'd be with you two." 

"She already went back to the dorms, said she wasn't feeling well." 

You can always count on Harry not to make a snarky comment, you thank him before heading back to your friends. Pansy was the first to tease you about running off to play with the lions but you didn't really care. You'd grown used to it by now. 

Your robe hangs off your shoulder and you almost drop the textbook you have tucked under your arm as you power walk through the corridors of Hogwarts. It was your first class of the semester and you were late. McGonagall was not going to be happy. As you burst through the door, there is a split second you're relieved that you don't see your professor only to remember she was an Animagus. Once a cat now morphed into one of your favourite professors right before your eyes. "You should know your way around the castle by now," 

"I woke up late," 

"See that it doesn't happen again, now take your seat." 

The only space left was conveniently right next to the girl who was on your mind more often than not. You swallow hard as you trudge to the second desk on the middle row. Your heart thumps in your chest and you wonder if she can hear it too. Knowing Hermione the way you did, you wouldn't be surprised if she could. 

"Never expected you to be late," The familiar whisper of her voice tickles your ear. "Finally stopped trying to prove you're better than me?" 

"I overslept but that doesn't make me a bad student," The dropping of your textbook sounds so much louder in the silence. "It was Pansy's fault anyway." 

"Your mistakes are your own," She says thoughtfully. Continuing to scribble notes down onto her parchment paper. 

"Since we’re back, I think we should continue our tradition of playing chess on Fridays." You open your new textbook, sneaking a glance at Hermione's to figure out what page you're supposed to be on. 

"Can this conversation wait," 

She started it but you don't express that; instead, you nudge her knee with yours under the desk. "It's a simple yes or no." 

"I know it's exciting to be back but that's no excuse to distract other students. Please leave Miss Granger to her studies." 

Again, she started it so why were you getting the blame? You look down to your textbook with a defeated sigh. "Sorry, professor." 

"You'll have plenty of time to catch up later." She taps the pages of your textbook with some rolled up paper in her hand before walking away. When the coast is clear, you nudge the girl next to you again. 

"So Friday then." You note the smile on her lips but she doesn't reply. In fact, she gives you the silent treatment for the rest of the class. 

Come lunchtime, you're very awkwardly sitting at the Gryffindor table waiting for Hermione and her friends. The spots of green that adorns your robe stands out among all the red and you can't help but feel unwanted. Slytherin had such a bad reputation despite actually having some great witches and wizards. "I think you're at the wrong table, Slytherin is over there." 

A sigh of relief slips into the air and you look up to her. She stood directly behind you, clutching her books like they were the most precious things on earth. There was a cocky grin on full display that filled your entire body with a gloriously warm feeling. 

"Didn't anyone tell you I'm a Gryffindor now?" You announce as she takes up space next to you. Harry sits the other side of her, greeting you with a small hello while Ron is on the opposite side of the table completely ignoring your existence. 

"Is that why you're still wearing Slytherin's colours?" 

"Honourary member?" You shrug a little. "Besides I still need an answer." 

"About what?" She places her books neatly on the table before her, exchanging them for a plate. Ron has already got his mouth full of god only knows what. 

"Friday? Chess? Or we can do something else, I honestly don't mind." 

"Sure," Hermione nods in agreement. "I'm still free at the usual time. I haven't practised much over Summer though at least not the wizard-kind." 

"Then it's a date," you wink playfully trying to keep up your confident persona but in reality, your stomach was doing somersaults. She never used to have an effect on you or more accurately not to this degree. It's as they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. "You two are free to join if you like," you glance between the boys as best you can. "I assure you my fellow Slytherin friends aren't invited; they wouldn't be caught dead hanging around Granger."

"Charming," 

"They're very particular about the company they keep" You play it off as a harmless joke.

"I think what you meant to say was that they're awful people," Ron mumbles through a full mouth. He was right but you don't appreciate it when he says it; they're still your friends. 

"Careful how you talk about my friends, Weasley," You warn, keeping your eyes on him for a moment before softening. "So how was your summer, Hermione?" 

"You really want to know?" 

You nod eagerly. "I would like nothing more. Your parents are muggles so it's like going back to a different world for you." 

Like a child listening to a bedtime story, you're sat there enjoying your lunch as Hermione tells tales of her summer. There was a beautiful light behind her eyes as she spoke of her parents; you could tell she was proud of them even though they weren't wizards. You also listened to Harry and Ron talk about theirs and how they all came together with the other Weasleys at 'The Burrow'. You didn't ask for an explanation because frankly, you didn't care. 

It was almost weird how quickly everything fell back into place at Hogwarts; it truly felt like you had never left. How you had missed endangering your fellow students by doing unauthorised magic outside of class. As well as the evenings spent in the Slytherin common room with your friends. As much as you hated boring classes, you even missed showing off to Hermione. She still managed to beat you in the likes of History of Magic but Potions was where you truly excelled.

With the day free, you had decided to spend it with Parkinson wandering around Hogsmeade.  It was a fine day for it and you could both do with some time away from the boys. The sun was shining bright in the sky and so the little village was relatively busy. You're on the way to Honeydukes when you notice her walking alone; at least you think it's her. "Granger?" You call out and she turns to you; as well as some other shoppers. Your expression brightens only for Pansy to elbow you sharply in the side. "What did you do that for?" You bite back a foul word, shoving your friend away and walking towards Hermione. 

"Don't look too happy to see me. Where's Potter and Weasley?" 

"I'm not sure," She admits, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "I didn't come with them." 

"Don't have any other friends, Granger," Pansy snickering to herself. Hermione simply rolls her eyes as do you. "That's a little sad." 

"You can join us if you like?" You suggest. 

"What?" Pansy was clearly surprised by your offer and rightly so but you weren't going to miss out on an opportunity to hang out with Hermione. 

"It's alright," You can't deny her rejection had you feeling a little disappointed. "I'm fine being alone." 

"Are you sure?" 

"You don't have to pity her," Pansy comments bitterly, tugging on your arm impatiently. "Can we go?" 

"Go on ahead and I'll catch up." You sigh

"Fine," She spins on her heel and marches away. "Don't take forever." 

"Sorry about her. She's incapable of saying nice things." 

"It's alright," If you weren't mistaken her smile brightened just a little. "I've grown used to the company you choose to keep." 

"I really did want you to join us," You tell her sadly. "I understand if you don't want to though. Next time we should come together."

"I don't think Pansy would appreciate my company," Hermione shifts her weight a little, dropping her gaze. "But yeah maybe another time." 

"Tell you what, how about we do something later- If you're not busy of course? I know how you are about studying." 

"What do you want to do?" She asks quietly. 

"Uhhh..." you had no idea what you wanted to do, you just needed to talk to her. Maybe if you tell her how you feel, she'll become easier to navigate. Plus you weren't exactly one to shy away from expressing yourself for too long. "Meet me in the astronomy tower okay?" 

"Why?" 

"Just do it, Granger." With a wave of your hand, you go running off after Pansy. Walking through the door of the famous sweet shop, she's not too hard to spot. Stood before a display of Acid lollipops, her attention is drawn by the bell announcing your arrival. 

"Where's the mudblood?" The raven-haired girl turns back to the array of sweets. 

"You didn't want her to come with us," you argue, walking up beside her. You pick up an acid lollipop that was snot green in colour; amused by the idea of gifting it to Draco or something but ultimately you place it back. 

"You never normally listen to me about her." She comments, picking up a pack of cauldron cakes. 

"I wasn't gonna force her to join us when you hate her," It wouldn't be fun for anyone. "I'm meeting her later anyway- so it's fine." 

"Oooh going on a date," Pansy teased. "I didn't know you swung that way." 

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not at all," Pansy shook her head. "A mudblood on the other hand..." 

"Not homophobic just prejudice, interesting." You chuckle. Pansy pays for her cakes but not without you adding a chocolate frog to the price; a treat for being such a git you told her. Grabbing her hand, you lead her out so you can continue the rest of your day. 

You hear your name as you stroll through the courtyard on your way to meet Hermione in the astronomy tower. You'd be lying if you said you were not nervous. A quiet groan escapes as you see Draco. "Heard you got yourself a date with Granger." 

"Who told you that?" You knew the answer already. 

"Parkinson." 

"Of course she did," you reply with an exasperated sigh. 

"Didn't know you liked girls." 

"It's not a date anyway," you explain. "Mind your own business." 

"No offence but dating Granger of all people? I mean, I thought you at least had some standards." 

"Leave me alone, Draco." You spit back. 

"Someone's grumpy," His arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. "Where are we heading?" 

"I don't know where you are going," Struggling out of his grip, you push him away from you. The last thing you needed was Malfoy coming along with you. "I'm going to see Hermione." 

"Fine, I'll leave you to your little date." 

Your middle finger shoots up at him as you strut away. Thankfully, he seems to keep his word and doesn't follow you any longer. Ascending the steps of the astronomy tower, a shiver spills through your body as you reach the top. Hermione looks so lonely on the platform, staring out over the grounds. 

"Sorry I'm late, Draco wouldn't leave me alone," You announce, the floorboards creaking a little with each step. 

"I thought you weren't coming for a moment," Her voice is so light and sweet; you can practically hear the beautifully gentle smile behind it. "Why did you want to come up here anyway? It's awfully windy." 

As if summoned by her voice a gust of wind attacked the two of you with its brisk bite. "I like it up here," You muse, scanning your surroundings as you walk up alongside her. Leaning down against the railing. The rolling hills of Scotland really were something to behold. "It's peaceful and pretty, not to mention far away from the dungeons." 

"It is a great view." Hermione agrees, shuffling a little closer to you. 

"And I wanted to talk to you." With the way your stomach sank, you were sure you'd pass out if the metal railing wasn't there. 

"About?" 

You hesitate, taking a deep breath as if it would somehow bring along with it some courage. You've never been this nervous in your life. "Did... you finish the... uh, Herbology homework?" 

"You brought me up here to ask that?" You couldn't look at her confused face for too long. Definitely not the reason you brought her up here but you panicked and those were the words that came out. "Of course I have," She declares matter of factually. "It's due on Monday. Have you?" 

You shake your head a little.

"I can help you if you like? I still have the books checked out from the library." 

"I don't need help from the likes of you," You tease but your heart’s not really in it. 

"Are you okay?"

"Mhmm," You nod your head, forcing yourself to look upon the girl you have grown so fond of. She makes you want to throw up but in a good way. 

"Are you sure?" She looks so adorably confused. "You're acting weird." 

"I'm just nervous," You admit. You spin around so you back is against the world and you can only focus on what's in this very room. 

"Nervous?" She repeats although it's posed like a question. A gust of wind flows through her hair lifting it ever so slightly before it settles again. "Why do I make you nervous? We've spent hours together before." 

"It's just... you're the most spectacular witch in our year and-" 

"Well now I know there is definitely something wrong," She places her soft hand against your forehead and heat rushes to your face. You were now painfully aware of how close she was; she smelt... flowery with the sweetest hint of something sugary. "Such high praise- are you sick? Maybe we should take you to the hospital wing?" 

You delicately remove her hand, lowering it but never letting go. You take another deep breath, long and slow. It was now or never. "I like you." 

"I like you too," You meet the stars that twinkle so elegantly in her eyes. You had to get back to the dorms soon or you were both going to end up in detention. 

"I like you... a lot." You gently squeeze her hand, eyes dropping to the floor out of sheer embarrassment. This wasn't how you expected things to go. 

"Okay..."

"As in more than friends a lot." Your voice is but a whisper laced with the howls of the wind. 

"Oh," Was all she said. You waited for more but it never came. You were scared to look at her; too scared to let go. A distant chuckle grows closer and panic spills through your veins. Hermione's hand slips through yours as you both turn to see Draco Malfoy. He clapped slowly as one by one some fellow snakes slithered behind their leader. Parkinson, Zabini and Goyle; the only one missing was Crabbe. Not that you wanted him here, in fact, why were any of them here? 

"I can't believe you," Pansy starts with a bark of a laugh. You imagine Hermione must be very confused because even you have no clue where this was going? You rightfully regret telling Pansy about your plans tonight though along with Draco. They come up behind you and the Gryffindor steps away. 

"Good going," Draco continues, slinging both arms around you. He wears the widest of grins as he congratulates you. Wow, maybe he was just happy that you managed to go admit your feelings. Perhaps they were just being good but nosey friends. "Didn't think you'd actually go through with it." 

"Thanks," You smile warmly, embracing his touch. 

"So should I tell Granger or would you like to?" 

"Ooooh, can I do it?" Pansy practically jumps up and down where she stands; eager to please the alpha. You had a bad feeling about this. 

"Tell me what?" 

Your friends all snigger and you can feel Draco's grip around you tighten. 

"That this was nothing but a dare," The lie drips from her tongue with such ease, it could be considered impressive. "We wanted to see if you'd actually believe someone could like someone like you." 

"We didn't think she'd actually do it though. She's a little soft this one," Draco gently taps your chest. "Doesn't usually have the heart for it." 

"Guess she finally realised she can do better than a filthy little mudblood." 

You know you should say something; at the very least you should be denying what they were saying but you found yourself completely frozen. 

"How pathetic can you be," Pansy stepped into view but not before you saw a single tear spill down Hermione's cheek. 

"Hermione," Your voice disappears below your friends’ phoney words and bitter laughter. The Gryffindor calmly exited the tower leaving you alone with them. Red hot rage filled your body as you broke free of Draco. Each of them wore Cheshire Cat smiles except Blaise who seemed out of place among the rest. Whipping out your wand, you aim at Draco pushing him back until he reaches the banister. There was nowhere else for the snake to run. The tip of your wand pressed against the pale skin of his neck. 

"What - the actual - fuck?" You growl through gritted teeth. The funny thing about Malfoy is that he may seem like an alpha but confront him and he turns into a baby. Whimpering at the mere threat of a jinx or curse. Would your friends go against you to save the leader? It didn't seem like it. 

"We're just trying to save you from yourself," His Adam's Apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

"Can't have you slumming around with witches like that," Pansy jumped to his defense but it only made you angrier. A hand fell onto your shoulder, whose you couldn't be sure but you'd make an educated guess and say it belonged to the girl herself. 

"I didn't ask any of you for help,"  Your grip tightens around your wand. There were so many things you could do to him; some mild and nice, others... not so much. And for once in your life, you find yourself inspired by your least favourite person. Ronald Weasley. Who could forget the time he tried to curse Draco Malfoy and it ultimately backfired which was hilarious in its own right. With a flick of your wand, you back away slowly. "I never expected any of you to be so cruel- not to me anyway. I genuinely liked her and you had to go and fuck it up." 

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Instead, he gave an almighty belch and a fat slug dribbled out of his mouth and straight onto the floor. Had the situation been different you'd probably have laughed but you just stormed off back to the common room and straight to bed. It wasn't like you would have had much time to search for her anyway. 

You're up bright and early the next day. Desperate to leave the common room as quickly and quietly as possible. Pansy had tried to talk to you when they got back but you blanked her. As you step through the doors to the great hall, you search for Hermione along the length of the Gryffindor table. If you could just explain yourself maybe you wouldn't feel so bad? Maybe your chest wouldn't hurt so much. Without much of an explanation, you charge towards her and grab her wrist to pull her away from her breakfast. Thankfully she willingly let you guide her. "Where are we going?" 

You didn't really have a particular destination in mind just a place far enough away from the great hall that nobody would interrupt. You don't stray too far before finding an empty corridor. 

"About yesterday-" 

"It's okay," She interrupts, surprisingly calmly. Had roles been reversed you'd probably be furious at her. "Your friends put you up to it. It's not a big deal." 

"Hermione..." Her eyes fell anywhere but on your own as you watched her. 

"I don't think we should hang out anymore. It's clear you're only doing it to amuse yourself and your god awful friends." 

"That's not..." Your expression softens. "true." 

"Maybe you're more like your friends than you think," That hit you straight in the heart and what made it worse is that she was right. As much as you liked to deny it, you wouldn't hang out with them if you weren't. But you genuinely enjoyed their company when they weren't being massive gits.

"I meant what I said." As quiet as your voice was, Hermione stopped walking away. "I really did. It wasn't a dare." 

"Then... why?" The brunette turned back to you looking like she was about to burst into tears. Stepping closer, she stepped back. 

"Because I'm an arsehole with shitty friends," A pitiful laugh at the excuse. "They got it in their heads that they were saving me or something by making it seem like a joke. I should have said something in the moment but I was just... surprised. I really do like you and I'm sorry about what happened. I won't bother you again." Better to cut your losses than expect forgiveness. You hadn't exactly denounced your friends other than the silly little curse you placed on Draco. As you glide past, Hermione catches your hand. Every moment of embarrassment once again filled your cheeks. "What are you..." you trail off as you look at her. Soft eyes paired with a tender smile. 

"We're gonna miss breakfast." 

"I'm sorry?" Now she was confusing you. 

"You're not responsible for your friends actions," Her fingers interlace with yours. "And while I don't like the company you keep, I don't think you're anything like them." 

"You don't have to do this," You express; part of you expecting this to turn out as a joke. Although Hermione would never do something so cruel. 

"I know but I want to." This time Hermione is the one to lead the way. 

"Can I sit with you?" It was an unusual ask considering everything that just happened but you couldn't face your fellow Slytherins right now. "I'm kind of icing out my friends so I'd rather not have to sit with them." 

"Of course," She gently squeezes your hand. "You're an honourary Gryffindor after all." 

Somehow you feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders only for more to be piled back on. Sure you told Hermione how you felt but you still weren't sure quite where the two of you stood. Not to mention you couldn't avoid Draco and the others forever. You grow more hesitant with each step back to the great hall. Pulling her back just as you reach the entrance. Hermione stumbles against you, clearly, you had caught her off guard. Utterly amused, you help her steady herself. 

"Can I kiss you?" 

The world melts away as she nods ever so slightly. The fluttering of wings deep in your stomach now grew fierce as you slowly reached up to grace her ruby red cheek with the palm of your hand; she felt silky smooth to the touch. Your heart skipped a beat as your lips connected in an unsure but heavenly embrace. Hermione tasted like spearmint toothpaste and you just couldn't get enough. But it was short-lived. Uncertainty morphed into that of admiration as you watched her mouth curl up into a smile. 

"Ladies," You feel her jump a little, as do you at the sound of Fred Weasley's voice. Had he been there the whole time? Judging by the shit-eating grin as he disappeared into the great hall, he had witnessed the whole thing. 

And with a matching expression his twin brother, walks just a few paces behind. A playful wink in your direction as he passes by. "Fine morning isn't it?"