#liv does sa week

[olive-branch-witch-library]

Lightbringer Book 2: The Blinding Knife by Brent Weeks

Series Warnings: SA, non-explicit smut, violence, slavery, sex slavery, classism (the main villain wants to put magic-users above non magic users), assassination attempts, body mutilation (someone loses fingers, the antagonists modify their bodies with magic), drug abuse, large age gaps (19 year old with ~60 ish year old, used as a political scheme), PTSD, identity theft, fratricide, ceremonial killings to prevent insanity, Politics, lots of creepy men, betrayal, cheating, torture, insanity

Book Warnings: SA, non-explicit smut, violence, slavery, sex slavery, classism (the main villain wants to put magic-users above non magic users), assassination attempts, body mutilation (the antagonists modify their bodies with magic), drug abuse, PTSD, identity theft, fratricide, Politics, lots of creepy men, betrayal, cheating, insanity

Notable POV Characters: Kip Guile, Gavin Guile, Dazen Guile, Aliviana 'Liv' Danavis, Adrasteia, Karris White Oak

Ahhh I'm so excited! The plot twists and cliffhangers keep getting better! And there's more characters that I hate with my whole being!

First of all, Andross Guile? Can suck my dick. I hate him and everything he stands for. He made his grandchild play him in a card game to keep his friend from becoming his slave. Same with Teia's old mistress. The bitch gave her olive oil as a reminder she could become a sex slave in a brothel?? They both need to die and they need to do it now.

Speaking of Teia though, there's a new color on the spectrum! Paryl is completely invisible to everyone except paryl drafters and maybe superchromats (people who have perfect color vision), idk I don't think it was ever really explained who can see it. It's below sub-red on the color spectrum, meaning in our normal world it would have really long wavelengths.

Most of this book surrounds Kip's Blackguard training, and oh my god I adore these kids so much. I just want them all to be happy forever but I know that's not possible.

While Kip does that, Young Gavin takes a bunch of refugees and places them on an island that already has people living there. I'm sure that won't cause any problems. Anyway, after he does that he kills Old Gavin! And gets raped because he thought it was his room slave 'attending' to him after being around Karris constantly for 4 months. And then he thought it was Karris. He like immediately feels disgusted when he learns not only was it neither of them, but it was one of his students and I'm pretty sure a minor (by our standards). He did kill her almost the moment he got back to his room after trying to explain what happened (and failing), but then it's like... never talked about again? And I really feel like it should have been. Male characters are almost never assaulted like this in fiction, much less one who has as much power as Young Gavin does. Maybe it gets talked about in a later book, since there is currently a war going on and he's desperately trying to get the Spectrum (government) to help. He could just be pushing it down at the moment to focus on stopping the thing that will literally destroy the world because there's also giant monsters and the villains are trying to resurrect old pagan gods to tear down the Chromeria.

But then he marries Karris (he does explain what happened there and that he's really Dazen)!! I'm gonna be horny on.. not main really but you get it and say that I really want to be in a sandwich between them. Like both of them are my ideal concept of a partner. Young Gavin is smart, incredibly charming, and doesn't shy away from pleasure, and Karris is such a fucking badass and I know she could 100% kill me in like 10 different ways just with her legs.

I know how I said in my last post the author does the male fantasy author thing where he sexualizes women a lot, and it genuinely didn't bother me. But in this book a lot of the women being targeted are either underage or just barely legal. And that makes me really uncomfortable. For the most part Kip is the one doing the sexualizing, which is again acceptable because he's 15. But in the case of other characters doing it it feels gross. And I know this is a fantasy world, and their definition of an adult isn't necessarily someone who's over the age of 18 especially because it's wartime, but I still don't like it.

But back to the positives, the cliffhanger!! Kip and Young Gavin are both kidnapped on ships by separate people! Young Gavin is now completely colorblind! Kip killed a god! Liv is still a bitch and I hate her!

[archiveofolives]

APRIL 28: SHARE SONGS THAT REMIND YOU OF BAZE AND CHIRRUT → Here and Now by Blondefire and You by Keaton Henson

lol seeing as i was the one that suggested this theme i figured i ought to send some in. these are just two of the many songs that give me feels and they’re the ones that work for the canon. the rest are songs for the headcanon feels lmao. also the edits aren’t exactly my style anymore? but the fun part is that they were made entirely on the mobile pixlr app so if the quality turned out to be poor, i apologize as i didn’t check this on the pc prior to posting ❤️

[electrictoes]

I read a few theories for the traumatic experience she's gonna suffer that would lead to her leaving after this shooting, mostly about the position of the shot for Amanda like, 1 she could have been pregnant and she lost it, or 2 the wound affected her uterus so she can't have kids anymore now. I wish this not be the truth honestly because jesus fuck she has suffered enough now this too? Maybe this time was the only time she WANTED to be pregnant but can't? Kill me now, hell no!😭

So I think it could also just be: she was terrified to die and not being able to see her kids and Sonny anymore. You could clearly see it when that killer was about to 'finish the job' she saw herself dying in that second, she begged him not to, she thought she was gonna die in that moment. So now THIS is her trauma, she will have nightmares over this moment for weeks and PTSD, I hope she will talk to Hanover but it's not gonna be easy. The last time she was shot she was a different person, she was alone, her life was a mess, she had really very low self-esteem, she didn't think she deserved good thing or happiness, didn't even know what that looked like, if she would have die with that sniper shot she thought maybe she didn't have much to lose for herself, maybe she was ok with that (and this makes me so sad because she always deserved happiness!!). But NOW?? Now she finally got into that place in her life where she loves herself, she knows she deserves happiness and she HAS so much love in her life, real love, her girls are her life they love her unconditionally and she has Carisi too who loves her the same, she has Liv who loves her like a sister and Fin, she has her own found family, so now she was terrified to die and to lose everything and to leave them behind. I believe that's the trauma she's gonna have for the rest of her episodes. But I know she would have pull it through because she is Amanda fucking Rollins damn it! her leaving is just that Dick, forever pissed.

I've seen those theories too and I do very much fear that's the road they're going down. I do not want that to be the case. You're right - this whole situation is already traumatic enough - for a character who has been through a hell of a lot of trauma already, who is a survivor of SA, who has gone on a huge journey to get to where she is now. She doesn't need any more trauma, and the way the show treats its female characters makes me so mad - both Amanda and Liv deserve happiness that doesn't come after even more suffering. What message does the show want to send - that survivors can overcome their experiences and live happy, fulfilled lives? Or that your next trauma is just around the corner and your recovery will be knocked off track semi-regularly? Amanda in s24 has so, so much more to live for than Amanda in s14. You're completely right that she was a different person then and being shot now, seeing all those things in her mind - all the people who've become her family - of course she doesn't want to die, of course she pleads for her life. It absolutely is more than enough trauma on its own. I'm just not convinced the writers see it that way. I've talked before about Amanda's growth and her journey and how much it means - to me, to so, so many people. Getting rid of her is a huge mistake, but doing it this way is even worse. I hope that those theories are wrong - I hope that when she leaves it's a reflection on all she could have lost and left behind, and not because they've added yet another layer to her suffering.

[tamorasky]

Mistress Anna Chapter 21

Summary: It wasn’t uncommon for the women to be eventually cast aside, Anna was just naive enough to believe it would never happen to her.

Rating: M

Words: 3,717

Relationship: Anna/Kristoff

Canadian Frontier AU

Masterlist

AO3

Notes: Big thank you to my friend who did a read-through of this chapter and TO LIV!! Who helped me with a sentence that was really causing me some issue! THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH!!!! I LOVE YOU!!!

Also I’m not a mother, if I get development milestones incorrect please let me know

Anna stands on the porch, smiling as she watches Eliza water the newly planted garden. The Arneson sisters had planted their vegetable garden for the summer yesterday morning. Eliza, being enamoured with the process, stood in the garden throughout the entire planting. Amusingly, while she was putting her daughter to sleep last night the toddler continued to ask about the plants. Despite Anna trying to reason with her 19-month-old daughter that nothing would sprout for weeks, Eliza spent most of her morning in the garden watching the soil as if seeds would magically appear out of the ground. The young woman steps off the porch, the slight breeze brushing against her brown skirt as she approaches her daughter. She giggles as Eliza’s voice carries towards her. “Here, plants.” The red-haired girl says as the last droplet falls from the tin watering can. “Eliza, come here, sa jang.” Anna calls, as she stands on the border between the grass and dirt. The toddler looks up at her mother, then back to the soil, holding her ground as she slowly flips the watering can to ensure all of the water is gone. Anna waits patiently on the edge of the garden, an eyebrow slowly rising. Her daughter begins to stalk to the other side of the dirt. Shaking her head playfully, she follows after the toddler, stepping through the soil barefoot.   Eliza faces away from her mother as she continues to pretend to water the garden. As Anna approaches the toddler, she drops to her knees, inching closer to her daughter. She wraps her arms around Eliza’s body, pulling the little girl onto her lap. Eliza squeals as Anna begins to pepper kisses on each of her daughter’s freckles. Eliza’s laughter resounds through Anna’s ears as the little girl tries to push her mother away with her chubby hands. Reluctantly she lets go of her daughter, who stands from Anna’s skirts, pressing her hands against the ground. Looking at Eliza’s dirt-covered hands, Anna sighs, knowing she will have to fight with the toddler to wash her hands before lunch. She reclines back on her hands, watching Eliza as she continues to play in the garden. She feels the wet dirt under her palm as she notices Eliza has only watered one row of potatoes and nothing else. She sighs, thinking about the work she’ll have to get done once Eliza is finished.

She stares lovingly at her daughter in her cotton emerald dress, as she talks to the plants below the surface. Anna can’t help but grin at how gentle Eliza is with the soil as if she was touching a small animal. Despite being so young, Anna knew Eliza is all her, the way she smiles and bounces when she is excited. The only thing she had noticed different being the way Eliza’s eyes widen and focus forward when shocked, eerily similar to Kristoff’s manner. Eliza’s hair had slowly darkened with time, not the light auburn colour it had been when she was born but becoming closer as the colour of rust. But even though Eliza’s hair wasn’t the same as hers, Anna knew her daughter was all her and nothing like Hans. The grumbling of her stomach pulls Anna from her thoughts, signaling that it is time to head in for lunch. With a groan she stands, her knees clicking as they straighten. “Alright, Eliza, it’s time for lunch.” Anna approaches her daughter. The little girl’s sky-blue eyes look from her mother back to the ground, a concerned hum emitting from the young girl. “Plants,” Eliza says sadly as her face drops. Anna giggles at the toddler’s response, picking up the girl from the ground. Eliza’s shoes kick against Anna’s back and belly slightly, leaving dirt on her skirt. “It’s okay.” She reassures, poking Eliza’s jutted lip back into place. “You can come out to see the plants after lunch and your nap, okay?” Eliza is skeptical of her mother’s words. Her lips purse as she stares at the woman who birthed her with suspicion, as if judging whether to trust her or not. Reluctantly the little girl nods, glancing back at the plants as Anna walks towards the house. Noticing how her daughter longingly stares after the garden, Anna chuckles. “I promise.” She assures her pouting daughter and rubs Eliza’s back as the two of them walk into the house.

Anna goes back to water the garden after putting Eliza down for her nap, giving her 2 hours of free time. She carefully rations the water from plant to plant, avoiding the potatoes Eliza had watered earlier. It had been nearly 9-months since she had left Arendelle. Last summer, her hands hurt by the end of the days labour; her palms were torn and bruised after doing menial work around the property. Her hands are now calloused and tough from work around the house, as they had once been in her childhood. She wipes the sweat beading down her temples as the hot sun beats down on her. Despite Bulda’s insistence that it would be a long winter, the middle of April brought an intense heat that was unusual for Ahtohallan. The community had gone from being covered in snow to dry and lush within a week. Anna drops the watering can to the ground, rolling the sleeves of her blue blouse to her elbows as she stares at the property. Her brows furrow as she notices two heads appear from the riverbank, revealing Sven and Kristoff. She steps forward, thinking it is odd that the two are entering the lot through the back, and not by the road as everyone does. Elsa is the first to greet them, a pair of freshly caught rabbits in her hands as she talks with the men. The younger Arneson sister makes her way to the trio, becoming curious as she approaches. Her sister is looking towards the river, nodding her head as Kristoff continues talking, clearly proud of whatever he has been showing off. As she approaches the trio, their laughter resounds in her ears, making her pause, worried that her presence would be unwelcome among them. Biting her lip, Anna contemplates returning to the garden. Her eyes catch Kristoff’s as she goes to turn away from them. A smile occupies his features as he notices her, and waves at her. The simple gesture from the young man keeps Anna secure in her initial resolve, and she continues forward until she stands next to her sister. Elsa puts an arm around Anna’s shoulders with a smile. “I didn’t think you’d be out here.” Elsa comments, knowing Anna usually liked to nap for a small period after lunch.

“Turns out Eliza isn’t as much of a help in the garden as I thought,” Anna says with a shrug, causing the group to laugh. “Who would have thought?” Sven questions with a smirk and a shake of his head. Anna giggles, noticing the absence of Sven’s wife, who is usually inseparable from her husband of two months. “Where Marguerite?” Anna asks, her brows raising. Sven sighs, his smile dropping as he looks to his feet. “She hasn’t been feeling well these past few weeks. She is with Bulda.” “Is she alright?” Elsa anxiously inquires. “She is,” Kristoff affirms. “Ma said it isn’t anything serious.” Looking between the two men, their expressions mirror each other with slight worry. Anna suppresses the urge to tell them what she believes Marguerite’s condition to be, as she knows it’s not any sort of ailment they might suspect. Even if her suspicion is incorrect, it will surprise Anna if the young woman is entering her monthly. Since they have begun spending more time together, Anna and Marguerite have often found themselves menstruating at the same time. “Well, if Bulda says it’s not serious, then I’m certain she’s correct,” Anna reassures the men before her. “I’m going to see how she’s doing.” Sven shrugs, tucking his thumbs under his suspenders as he withdraws from them. “What about the canoe?” Kristoff questions. “You’re a big guy,” Sven states as he walks backwards towards the road. “You can carry it back yourself.” Kristoff huffs as his friend turns his back on them, muttering something to himself. Anna’s head whips back to the blonde man, a grin slowly creeping onto her lips. “Did he say a canoe?” Anna questions, trying to conceal her excitement. Elsa sighs, shaking her head as Kristoff’s eyes go wide. Elsa crosses her arms, grinning up at the blonde man clearly amused. “And you thought you could go the entire week without her noticing.” “Shut up.” Kristoff nudges the brunette woman slightly, causing her to chuckle in response and attempt to push him back. Unable to help herself any longer, Anna bolts forward, racing towards the river with long strides; her auburn hair flowing freely behind her. As she stands at the top of the bank, there sits a canoe; the stern seated in the river as the bow is perched on the sand of the riverbank. She slips down the incline rushing to the canoe. Running her hands over the polished wood, Anna can’t help but smile as she notices the care and work that has been put into the canoe. “Do you like it?” Kristoff asks, smirking as he crosses his arms as she looks up. Anna squeals, clapping her hands and bouncing with excitement. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He chuckles. “Where did you get it?” She questions. “I’ve been working on it with Sven since the fall.”

“This has been your winter project?” “Among other things.” Kristoff shrugs as he approaches the canoe. He places his hand on the edge of the bow, his eyes watching Anna as she circles the boat, the bottom of her skirt soaked through. “Can we take it out?” Anna’s head snaps up as she walks towards the shore, her hand still running along the canoe’s edge. Kristoff groans, his head falling back as he looks to the sky. Elsa chuckles, looking up at the man with a smirk. “There is no way out of this. Which one of us is risking our lives?” Kristoff sighs, looking back to the river, shrugging as he steps forward. “I’m the better swimmer.” “Hey!” Anna exclaims, putting her hands on her hips slightly offended by her sister and her friend’s comments. “I canoe wonderfully.” Kristoff hums as he grabs one of the paddles from the boat. “Sure feisty...let’s get this over with.” “I’m steering!” She raises her hand, grabbing the oar out of the canoe. “Absolutely not,” Kristoff responds, wading into the water. He grabs the canoe at the stern, his pants getting wet as he waits for her. “You’re no fun.” Anna juts her lower lip out. “Just get in.” Kristoff shakes his head, smirking. She smiles, stepping to the canoe’s side, carefully entering the boat as Kristoff holds it steady. Her oar rests across her thighs while he pulls the canoe from the shore, positioning it into the direction he wants to go. Anna holds the sides of the canoe as the boat rocks slightly. Looking over her shoulder, Anna can see Kristoff hoisting himself into the canoe. She smiles back at him as he settles, dipping his paddle into the water to launch the boat forward. Picking up her oar, Anna allows the blade to hover over the clear water. She hesitates for a moment before dipping the paddle into the water, a smile spreading over her face as she watches the movement under the water. Her biceps become tighter as she paddles forward. “Just let me know whenever you want to switch!” Kristoff calls. Anna nods, barely hearing his words as the breeze and the momentum from the canoe whip past her ears. As they move through the water, Anna pays close attention to her surroundings. With her gaze focused ahead, Anna begins to use more force in her technique, causing them to go faster. Anna takes notice of how droplets of water fall from her oar as she paddles, savouring the sensation of the water splashing on her as the blade dips back into the water. The two reach a fork in the river, the canoe slows drastically when Kristoff sticks his oar straight into the water. She isn’t sure why they’ve stopped, but she looks between the two streams, something eerily similar about these paths. Her hair whips as she looks back at Kristoff, his eyes darting between the two paths; he can’t remember which way to go. The motion of the waves bobs against the bottom of the boat, causing them to drift slightly to the north-west path as if the force of nature is telling them to continue that way. “I think we should go north-east.” Kristoff finally says. Firm in his conviction as Anna continues to look north-west, knowing better than to trust the women’s inclination. As Kristoff begins to move them away from Anna’s desired path, she sticks her oar straight into the water, halting the canoe. Kristoff curses as the boat rocks rapidly, trying his best to steady it. With the blonde man preoccupied with the stability of the canoe, Anna puts her oar in the water and moves it in a manner that resembles a hook, slowly angling the boat towards the north-west. She begins to paddle quickly, urging the canoe towards the path she chose. Kristoff curses behind her as he realizes what the young woman is doing. It is too late for him to redirect them, his heart hammers in his chest as he notices the pace of the water quickening. Anna isn’t made anxious by the racing water; her heart quickens with excitement as she paddles with the current. She laughs when Kristoff curses behind her as he steers them out of the way of a boulder. “This is a new canoe!” He calls to her, knowing he should have refused her back at the property. “You better have your wits about you then,” Anna shouts back with a grin. The rapids wouldn’t be far from them now. She sees the white water ahead of them, her eyes scanning the water to find the best way through them. “Steer right!” The woman shouts at Kristoff. He switches sides, angling the canoe just as Anna instructed; even as teenagers canoeing through white water, Kristoff has always trusted Anna. As they crash through the waves, narrowly missing the rocks, Anna can’t help but laugh while paddling quickly. The sense of giddiness building up inside of her, since the moment she had seen the canoe, is finally reaching its release. Kristoff again curses behind her as he does his best to steer them out of the white water. Suddenly, the canoe is launched forward from the rapids and into serenity. The water beyond the white water is calm and still in the clearing. Large spruces and evergreens surround the young pair, but closer to the shore is the marsh where reeds and cattails stick high out of the water. The sky nearly reflects perfectly on the water, creating the illusion that the horizon before them is all blue. A loon floats not too far away as it flaps its wings. Anna’s eyes are wide as she looks around the clearing, her mouth agape as she takes in everything. “Jesus Anna, you’re someone’s mother.” Kristoff jokingly scolds, shaking his head. But Anna doesn’t listen to him. Instead, she hangs her head, covering her mouth as a sob escapes from her lips. Her shoulders shake as tears fall down her cheeks, her chest aching. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.” Kristoff shifts, trying to get closer to her but instead he dangerously rocks the canoe. He holds the sides, steadying the boat once more as he watches the back of her head shake. “It isn’t you...” Anna trails off, her hand falling from her face as she stares up at the scenery before her. “I’ve missed this.” Her comment is met with silence, the canoe only rocking slightly as a hand comes to rest on her shoulder. Glancing back, Anna sees Kristoff on his knees on the boat, his hand outstretched towards her. “I know.” “I should never have left Ahtohallan.” “Anna…” Kristoff says, squeezing her shoulder as if he is telling her there is no need to dwell if she does not want to. “He took everything from me Kristoff…what was left of my language, my culture and my family. I should have listened to you; I was a fool for engaging myself to a man I hardly knew.” Kristoff shrugs. “Who am I to talk? My mother only knew my father for a day before agreeing to marry him.” Anna nods, knowing he is not referring to Bulda and Cliff but his birth parents; Lars and Eva, a young immigrant couple who came to the New World from Norway to find their fortune. Eva had passed the winter after they arrived in the north-west, only a year after Kristoff’s birth. Lars would die as an unfortunate casualty from a Dene raid of a Cree encampment. “Even still, I should have known better. I believed everything he told me. I even believed the letter I found on his desk.” She scoffs, looking to the sky. “Now that I think about it, he probably left if there on purpose to sully my opinion of you.” The air goes silent as Kristoff’s hand retracts from her body. “What letter?” Anna pauses, unsure If she should continue. Carefully she shifts in the canoe, slowly turning her body to face him. As she settles on the netted seat, she notices his eyes avert hers and immediately stare at the water. “When Hans was in London, I found a letter from Fort Albany regarding the illicit business you were conducting in the east,” Anna explains, picking at her hangnail. Kristoff’s hardened gaze remains transfixed on the water. “Did it mention a Mr. Caron, perhaps?” He croaks. Anna’s heart drops as he says the name, confirming she knew what the second half of the letter pertained to. She hesitantly nods her head as his gaze finally meets hers. “What did it say?” “It said you m-murdered him.” She wants to ask him if it is true, but the way he stares at her, his expression so raw as he tells her everything. “How could you, Kristoff?” The blonde man sighs, sitting up straight as he settles himself back on the netted seat. “It…escalated so quickly. I barely thought about it...” “What happened?” Anna questions, remaining firm in her resolve to get a straight answer from this man in front of her. He looks to his dirtied, calloused hands with a sigh before running one through his hair. “Sven and I were at Fort Albany conducting some trade with some Americans.” Kristoff rests his oar across his thighs. “There was a Seneca woman waiting for her husband to return from the trading post. Mr. Caron emerged from the bar, drunk and belligerent. He approached the young woman and the things he said to her…” Anna stares at him, glancing at her feet, momentarily. She knew that scene all too well; drunk men would approach young women who stood  alone, calling them that horrible word before continuing to harass them. “He grabbed her roughly by her wrist, and she jerked away from him. He called her a whore and then struck her. I interceded, placing myself between him and the woman.” His fingers rub against the oar, absentmindedly. “He pulled a knife on me, and I managed to grab his wrist…” Anna holds up her hand, stopping him from continuing as she knows what transpired next. She didn’t want to know how Kristoff managed to wrangle the knife from the French-Canadian man’s hands and then proceeded to take his life with it. “So, you did kill him...” Anna accuses, her voice barely above a whisper as if there were people around them. Kristoff averts his gaze from her once more, unable to look at her. He nods silently, rubbing the back of his neck as he continues to stare at the water. “Why did you help her?” Anna inquires, chewing on her lip. Kristoff looks up at her questioningly, his brow raised. “The Seneca woman, why did you help her?” “Why wouldn’t I?” Kristoff retorts, meeting her gaze once more. “She didn’t ask to be bothered by him, she was just standing there minding her own, and he took it upon himself to try something with her, despite her refusal. I saw what he was doing, and I had to stop it.” The auburn-haired woman stares at him, wordless as she recalls walking with Hans that afternoon during their courtship. The Cree woman standing on the street waiting and being harassed by two British soldiers. Hans had done nothing to stop it. He simply witnessed what was happening and justified it. How was a man like Kristoff, who tried to help this woman, considered dangerous and wanted? While men like Hans, who do nothing but watch injustice take place around them, deemed honoured and respected?

Anna reaches out to him, placing her hand over his as she tries to meet his gaze. He reluctantly looks up, staring into her sky-blue eyes. She offers him a small smile, squeezing the back of his hand reassuringly.

“It seems we’ve both gone through a lot over these past years.” Anna states. Kristoff smirks at the comment, nodding in agreement, both of them knowing it was a significant understatement.

“Yeah it does seem that way.” Kristoff nods, turning his hand over to take Anna’s into his own. She gazes at their intertwined hands, noticing how much larger his is in her own.

Her heart pounds in her chest as their gazes meet, Kristoff offering her a small smile as he squeezes her hand. Staring at one another, Anna knows that despite everything that has happened, he is still her Kristoff.

With a hint of mischief creeping onto her face, Anna pulls her hand from his. She places her hands onto the canoe’s side, rocking the boat until it tips them. Both Anna and Kristoff’s laughter echoes through the clearing and the trees as they emerge to the surface on that beautiful spring afternoon.

[inmyarmswrappedin]

Could you give your opinion in al the Noora’s adaptations? I was really interested in what you wrote about Zoe and Manon. My personal favorite is Nora from Spain, Liv from NL could have been a second... but that wedding dress scene is so bad.

Another anon:  Since I’m sure you definitely want to keep talking about the Noora’s, haha, just curious if there is a remake of her that you’d say was your fave?

Third anon:  Ardi, have you ever ranked the nooras? Because I would love to read all your opinions lol

ಠ_ಠ

I can’t say I was expecting this lol, like I thought I’d reflect on the first anon’s ask for a bit, but then I got two more. I find it a bit surprising that people still want to discuss the original characters and their remakes in this the year of the lord 2021. Especially Noora of all characters lol. (Like I said elsewhere, I’m pleased because there are some orig gen topics I want to pick back up this year, so I’m glad people aren’t tired of all this yet.)

I do have to say as a disclaimer that I find Noora’s season very upsetting to watch, so I didn’t bother watching most of their remake seasons. I watched eskam because they got rid of the major issues I had with Noorhelm in s1, such as the pregnancy scare and William coercing Vilde into not using a condom. Then I watched Grace’s season because I wanted to give them views and ensure a renewal. 😭

As a result I’m not going to rank the Nooras, because I feel a bit weird about ranking characters whose seasons I didn’t watch, you feel? I do have opinions on the characters of course, because they show up in other seasons, and I know the gist of what happened in most their seasons because of the typical dashboard watching. I also like... Look, I know the Nooras are very much you either hate or love them, and I generally don’t mind being blunt about the characters I don’t like, but somehow all this Noora discourse made me feel like I was taking shots at a bunch of teen girls (fictional, but still). 

(I had to cut this because it was so much.)

Noora - The thing about Noora is that I was never the intended audience. I’ve never really been into the tropes that make up her love story, like the good girl who says no when she’s actually dying to say yes, the bad boy with the fridged sister, the pregnancy scare, the pathetic friend/jealous shrew who’s only there to make the good girl feel bad, etc. These story elements don’t titillate me or make me interested, they turn me off a story completely. And I just never saw it coming that Noora’s endgame would be the asshole who had stepped so thoroughly over Vilde’s self-esteem. So like... I spent Noora’s whole season (every season after hers, even!) wishing something would happen that made Noora realize she deserved better than William,

Also, one thing about Noora that many of her remakes inherited is that she just doesn’t seem like a regular part of the show. Her friends’ problems don’t affect her in the slightest, she isn’t an actual part of the squad like the others. After her season she takes off for London or the US or to build houses for Habitat for Humanity or whatever, and she only drops by to break up and reconcile with William some more. Like I can’t buy her as a high schooler when after a certain point she’s just like, “I came back from Manhattan and I need a place to stay because Henry is too busy with the stock market to fulfill my needs.” I’m sorry what???? Is this a high school show or Desperate Housewives.

Manon - already talked about her here.

Mia - I’m going to try to be brief because there’s so much to say about her lmao. I feel like the reason Mia is bisexual is because Alex Lindh watched Skam and felt betrayed that Eva and Noora didn’t get together. Making Mia bi was his way to make it make sense that Hanna and Mia would kiss in the end. Unfortunately, I don’t think he put any further thought on how Mia being bi would impact her character.  �� I don’t think Mia and Alex make any sense as a couple, and I’m not so much surprised they broke up but more like how did they even manage to last that long? Also, I just kinda resent the way Alex Lindh made Alex such an asshole in s1 and the beginning of s2, that it necessitated a looooot more face time to make him likeable to the audience, so that s2 is more the Alex show than for any other William, to the point he gets the panic attack scene instead of Mia. I can’t really say for sure, but it feels like Alex is the most developed Druck LI and for what!!!

Elenonora - Look..... I know I said I don’t think of the Nooras as feminists, but like, Skam itself at least normalizes the idea that feminism is a good thing, you know? And yet, Skam Italia s1 makes such a concerted effort not to have Eleonora say anything too politically charged that I’m just like, okay, we don’t have to go all the way to the other extreme either. (I get the feeling this changes a bit in s3, but imo it was too thoughtlessly implemented.) All that said, the costume and makeup for Eleonora reminds me of Laura Pausini in her first era, so Bessegato has appealed to my 90s nostalgia lol. 

(I can’t be the only one who sees it, right??)

Grace - Grace is one of the few Nooras who does give me the vibe that she’s a full part of the squad. The Austin s2 writers were really good at incorporating the other girls in the squad into her season and involving Grace in the other girls’ problems. I actually really disliked Grace’s season when it started, but unlike a lot of other Skam seasons (and certainly a lot of Noora seasons), it kept getting better every week. I don’t care much for Grace (and Kennedy as a person didn’t help matters), but I do like how big a role the other girls play in her season.

Nora - Sooo I’m biased as fuck, but Nora is the only Noora for me. I think the eskam team did such a good job with the research into the young feminist movement that resulted from the Manada gangrape case. There are just so many Spanish teen girls like Nora, and giving her an older sister who was a SA victim herself was just such a great addition that made Nora even more in tune with the zeitgeist. Now, Nora did tend towards the performative, esp in s4, but I think even that is an accurate portrayal. I don’t think these young feminists are all activists, but they interiorized feminist discourse and applied it to their lives, and while woc were also part of this movement, I’m not sure that in the end they were actually listened to. (And the eskam team failing Amira when they did so right by the other 4, and even Inés and Lara, is certainly indicative of the kind of “feminists” they are.) All in all, I think Nora perfectly reflected 2016-2020 Spanish feminism, and for me she’ll always be a bit of a time capsule of this period, as well as a character I’d be ecstatic were she to become synonymous with Spain in foreign fans’ minds. Flaws in her feminism and all.

Liv - I have to say I don’t have many thoughts about Liv. I feel like, as a character she could’ve been such a game changer, on part with Nora Grace or Ava or Fatou, but the writing just wasn’t there. As in, I don’t think the Skam NL writer was particularly interested in the things Julie Andem did to break Noora out of the playing-hard-to-get mold, which is fair enough since it’s not like I love Noora myself, but then she didn’t substitute it with anything else either. I don’t think it’s on Zoë Love Smith, because the girl has charisma coming out of her pores, and I think she’s the only remake Noora who truly sold Noora’s introduction scene. I just feel like in the end Skam NL was more interested in making music videos than saying anything of substance, unfortunately. 

Zoë - already talked about her here. One thing I have to say about her is that I watched 7 versions of Noora calling William a cliche, but it didn’t hit me until wtfock’s take on the scene that Noora is as much of a cliche as William is. And that’s because Julie Andem’s writing elevated Noora to more than that, so that I didn’t think of Noora as a cliche. But the writing for Zoë never really did. I think that might be one of the reasons why Zoë and Senne are one of the most popular versions of Noorhelm, because they’re very much characters, they’re not really developed in a way that you feel like they could be real people you could know irl.

[noramachwitz]

i wrote a giant review post and i thought i’d keep the momentum going so here’s a giant review on skam nl under a read more

okay so i have to say i loved s1 and i think nl did one of (maybe even the) best versions of s1 i love isa so much and i loved the girl squad and i was super exicted to see their version of s2 since noah/liv were the only version that i didn’t dislike in s1 and i hate to say it but ... i find s2 pretty underwhelming. and i have for a while. i’m still keeping up with it but honestly i’m having some (kinda big) problems with the way it’s written

(and needless to say these are all my opinions and you can disagree it’s fine etc.)

what it boils down to are these points:

1) plot driven - this season is SO plot driven it drives me mad. somehow the entire plot just happens /to/ liv (and i’m not talking about the SA here of course but everything that happens before that) and somehow almost every decision she does make and where they’d finally show her having some agency is off screen?? i keep feeling like everything that happens happens because it’s the next step in the story and there’s little transition imo?? i feel like i always see plot point a then plot point b but a lot of the times i don’t know what actually happened to lead from one to the other for example i still don’t freaking know why liv actually went on a date with him?? or noah saying his brother can’t be trusted but then still believing him. i just feel like liv and noah both as characters just don’t fit into the way they’re going about this story

2) noah - i think noah as a character had a ton of potential to be really insteresting and different but ... NL changed the vibes around him completely and you have this artsy painter dude who seems quite charming and doesn’t take himself too seriously (which monk portrays perfectly ngl) but they just completely failed to adjust the story so it fits his character better. instead noah (in my opinion i’m very sorry lmao) actually behaves more like OG william than most other williams. he acts the same way, he justifies his actions the same way, he even says a lot of the exact same lines and ... why?? why not fully embrance those vibes and actually change the story as a consequence?? i remember soo many people in the fandom saying they can’t see noah beating up someone and it’s true i agreed but then it happened anyway and these moments just KEPT HAPPENING where i couldn’t see him doing something but he did anyway and i just don’t understand why.

so instead of changing things that were easy to change and would make noah better than william they change things that are unnecessary which leads me to one of the biggest plot devices i’ve ever seen: the death of noah’s mum. when i first realised that noah’s mum dies during this season i was actually pretty excited bc i thought they’d use that to explore him as a character more but!! no it was just a two week plot device to guilt trip liv?? and almost every clip we got during that time was just liv feeling guilty and guiltier and her staring at her phone constantly until she ends up at the wake and we find out actually noah wasn’t even close with her and it didn’t really affect him?? and it hasn’t been mentioned since either??? WHY!! instead of giving noah and liv a solid base for a relationship and use that time to idk get to know each other more and like just to talk it just feels to me like they took the easy way out writing wise

also it’s literally the penultimate episode and noah has had ZERO character development and we still know very little about him but we’re still supposed to be rooting for him and liv?? how am i supposed to do that when he’s so underwritten?? this is all such a shame goddamn it

3) time management/pacing - i have no idea if it’s because i binged s1 or not but you can tell so hard with s2 that they’re on a time limit and it always confuses me what they end up coosing to spend time on. prime example: the sleepover clip. we spend 3 whole minutes (yes i checked) with liv going around that wake having that weird conversation that literally adds nothing to anything and then she finally sees noah we see them sit next to each other and listen to a record and ... then liv talks to ralph on the phone and it just cuts to them getting ready for bed like why spend so much time on unnecessary stuff in the beginning and then when there are finally opportunities for development they’ve got no more time left!!!

in general when there finally is a moment of tension or conflict the clip usually ends and we have to wait a whole day or even 2 for another clip and it just really makes me wish we’d get less of these quiet moments (and while they’re definitely necessary too i just feel like nl actually has way too many of them) and just give us more plot movement instead so we can actually get somewhere. this is less of a problem if you only watch whole eps but since this is skam and real time narrative it just doesn’t work for me.

4) conversations - the lack of converstions REAL conversations between noah and liv is sooo frustrating to me. they’ve basically only had ONE real conversation so far and that was when liv broke up with him. that was the first time they actually /talk/ to each other and ... okay i know everybody keeps saying NL is prioritising liv since it’s her own season and that it’s about her and not her realtionship with noah but i mean that relationship is a big part of her story?? and i still don’t know why liv actually likes noah, i don’t know how she realised that she loves him and we haven’t actually like ... seen them bond??

the conversation i did actually really like was the one between liv and esra when she asks if esra has ever been in love but i was just kinda like where did that come from?? they’d made out twice at that point and that was it?? i guess this ties in with the fact that it’s just plot driven which means i don’t necessarily get a character’s motivations since they explore the plot and not the characters themselves. the other actual conversation was the one liv had with engel but there for me it was another case of Where Did That Come From you know? like engel gives liv this whole thing about how she’s scared of chaos which is true but from a storytelling point of view there was nothing to like ... trigger that realisation? i mean of course theoretically i know that the girls are all close friends and just know each other well but when you tell a story (even if it’s skam that’s based in realism and believability) you need buildup to things and i feel like that something that really lacks in skam nl

5) in general - to me personally it just feels a lot like nl shies away from proper conflict a lot because resolving it would take time which they don’t have but that means they don’t build proper tension that drives the plot forward. and i actually have the same problem with s2 in the OG as well don’t get me wrong but i feel like that’s something they could change but haven’t because nl just?? idk seems scared of changing too much?? they change the characters but not the plot but why? who knows, i sure don’t and it’s not they way i enjoy a story being told

okay to end this whole thing on a more positive note lmao here’s some thing i actually do like about this season:

soundtrack is a+ as always nl is good at that

the cinematography and general aesthetic is just ... so pretty (but ngl i feel like that sometimes comes at a cost of substance)

the girl squad! although i can’t say it’s the best as many other people do because i never would have thought iman missing would be this noticeable but for me it throws off the entire dynamic?? anyway but i do like them

esra!! she’s so great

i just love isa

okay that’s all

[nancydrew65]

SKAM NL Season 2 Episode 10 (FINALE) Thoughts

These last few episodes have been quite the rollercoaster ride. I was super busy this past weekend because it was my birthday and I am also in a musical production. I spent an average of nine hours each day in the theatre this weekend. I am exhausted. So that is why this reaction is posted so late. Well, let’s just dive into this finale!

Let Go

What the hell was this clip?

First, the good things. Engel making things 10x more awkward bringing up Kes and Noah. And Janna. Just Janna. She continues to be a joy to watch.

OK, now for the question of the week. Does Noah know Liv has been sexually assaulted. It is frustratingly vague for most of this episode! If he doesn’t know, then I can cut him a little bit of slack in this clip. But also? Liv is telling him nothing happened because Morris and Marie told her. That is a huge clue that she herself had no idea what happened.

Also, Liv. Honey. She tells Noah nothing happened. Like, OK, cool. But why not lead with “I was sexually assaulted, but thankfully I was not raped.” Because that is what happened. I am so frustrated with this show for brushing past this fact. In this version Liv was SEXUALLY ASSAULTED.

This clip went nowhere. I find it rather alarming how SKAM NL is handling this subject matter. In OG, it was meant to be educational and it inspired many women to come forward with the truth. In this version, I really don’t see that same message. I mean if you watch the clips, Ralph found out on his own and he basically pushed Liv to come forward. It wasn’t really her decision. Don’t get me wrong, I am so glad that Liv had that support earlier on than other versions of Noora. But I wish it had been her own decision. Right now, it feels like the SA storyline is just meant to be another source of drama instead of something educational.

Rather Just Alone

Ralph and Esra are helping Liv pack for Tallinn when Liv gets a call from the record company. She wants to make an appointment with the record company, but they say her father already made one. Liv tells them that she will be the only one at the appointment. Then she calls her father and leaves a message, firmly telling him that she would rather pursue her music career alone, without his overtaking it.

I really liked this part as it showed Liv having her own agency and seemed like a good character progression, something I think the character Noora suffered a lack of in Season 2.

And then this happens. Esra and Ralph find Noah’s poem and deduce who it is from. Esra says, “He writes poems for you and you’re just packing your bags.” OK, Esra. You know nothing about this situation. At all. Noah literally pushed Liv to the ground after he found about the whole Morris thing and he just told her he no longer loves her, but oh, he wrote a poem for her so it’s OK. This is utterly ridiculous. Esra has no idea how shitty Noah has been towards Liv and yet she is still offering her uninformed opinion to Liv? SKAM NL, you are in my bad books.

Say Yes to the Dress

What I will say about this clip is that it was visually stunning and beautiful. And that’s about it. I know where they are going with this and I am not happy.

No

Yup. Liv shows up at Noah’s doorstep in the wedding dress, a callback to when he asked her to marry him. This is already such a strange scene in OG, and now they just made it seem more degrading to Liv. Something about it, the wedding dress probably, makes this feel more sexist.

What I did like? Liv comparing Noah to ‘The Great Wave’. This was a really cool callback (unlike the wedding thing) to earlier in the season when Noah compared Liv to a painting. The close shot on Noah’s face with the ocean sound effects was really well done.

Then Noah says: “I told you not to go to him.” Color me confused. This is a scene influenced heavily by whether or not Noah knows Liv was sexually assaulted. If Noah doesn’t know about the sexual assault, then why doesn’t Liv tell him and clear this up?!! If he DOES know about the sexual assault, then this sounds an awful lot like victim blaming. Which is not cool. Which is very terrible, in fact. I sincerely hope Noah doesn’t know because otherwise this line right here just made him irredeemable.

Noah storms past Liv, leaving her to cry. Mascara is running down her face and she is sobbing when Noah comes back with a huge smile on his face, greeting her with “Hey, Crybaby.” Do you get why this feels so uncomfortable? Contrast Liv, mascara streaming down her face, in a white wedding dress with Noah, smiling and in casual clothes. The gender roles here feel really screwed up.

He says sorry, so…. Yay? I am very confused as to what changed his mind, but that also goes for OG William.

I really hated this scene. Liv should not have forgiven him so easily.

One Wish

So, SKAM NL improved a shit ton with this clip. They might have even redeemed the season. Over text, Noah apologizes. For his own behavior. I know, crazy, right? No other William (we are excluding my wonderful boy, Alex from DRUCK) has ever done this. They only ever apologize for their brother’s actions, not their own. This is a huge step in the right direction, though I really wish we could have gotten a clip for it.

Liv is led to her birthday party and it is a wild success! And guess who shows up? Eskild!!!! Like OG Eskild! OG Eskild meets Ralph, Dutch Eskild. On Pride!!!! And then he puts on Forever Young. Can this clip get any better?

Oh, yes it can! Liv and Noah take one of the cutest bike rides ever to Liv’s apartment. And then, if I’m not mistaken, Noah goes down on Liv! Hands down, best version of this scene. Noah is pleasing Liv. It is only what she deserves.

And then afterwards, Noah tells Liv she should go to the police about Morris. THANK GOD!!!!! I needed someone to say this, and I’m really glad they gave it to Noah. Hallelujah!

The Entire Trip

We all thought that that previous clip was the last clip, but then SKAM NL reminded us all how amazing it was and gave us this.

Before this clip aired, Liv texts the girls, telling them that she is definitely going to press charges against Morris. Yay!!!! FINALLY!!!! Still wish this had gone in a clip, but I will take what I can get.

The girls running in slow-mo to Forever Young is all I need in this world. Also, I cannot tell you how happy I am that instead of ending the season with Noah and Liv (like all the other remakes), it ends with Liv and the girls! I love the SKAM NL girl squad!!!! I am going to miss them.

General Thoughts

I was very upset with many of the clips released this past week, but by the end of the season I think SKAM NL did what it could to rectify its mistakes. Now, I really wish there hadn’t been mistakes in the first place, but then again, it was Season 2, so there were bound to be mistakes. I really wasn’t expecting them where the sexual assault storyline was, though. I felt very uncomfortable as the SA storyline was unfolding because it seemed as though the show was glossing over the fact that Liv was sexually assaulted. However, in the end, they have her deciding to press charges, so all’s well that ends well, I guess. Overall, I felt like this season felt very different from OG. And I really liked it! The times where I was super angry at Noah were when the show was trying to make him more like William and I just wish they let him be his own character. I wish we could have seen more of Liv’s music. I wanted to see that meeting! I really hope this remake is not canceled and has a third season. I would love to see how SKAM NL handles Lucas’ storyline!

[livyantonelli-blog]

Coming back from our Weekend, Livy is locked in the room. She did not want to see anyone. After several attempts to get it out. Now I see her go into the living room and go out. Seeing some things changed on her. Is it due to his discovery? I needed an answer and know what she has. I joined her on the terrace. Livy: Do not get too close please Hardin: Why? What happens to you ? Livy: I do not really know myself. Since I have been in touch with her. I have the voice of everywhere. She is in my head. I have the impression to see his past but it is so vague. I also see different creatures dragon, elf, fairy, vampire, werewolf and more. And this phrase that keeps on crossing my mind. "Many are not what they claim to be." What exactly does it mean to him? Hardin: Liv. You should ask yourself to change your ideas. Livy: Hardin, I need an answer. To know what's happening to me I become a monster. Look at me. White locks appeared and these marks. What am I really?

***********************

En rentrant de notre Week end, Livy c'est enfermé dans la chambre. Elle ne souhaitais voir personne.

Après plusieurs tentative pour qu'elle sorte. Voilà que je la vois passer dans le salon et sortir. En la voyant certaines choses on changé sur elle. Est ce du à sa découverte ? J'avais besoin de réponse et savoir ce qu'elle a. Je l'ai rejoins sur la terrasse.

Livy : Ne t'approche pas trop s'il te plaît  Hardin : Pourquoi ? Que t'arrive-t-il ? Livy : Moi-même je ne sais pas réellement. Depuis que j'ai été en contact avec elle. Je la voix de partout. Elle est dans ma tête. J'ai comme l'impression de voir son passé mais c'est tellement flou. Je vois également différentes créatures dragon , elfe, fée, vampire, loup garou et d'autre encore. Et cet phrase qui ne cesse de me traverser l'esprit. « Beaucoup n'est pas ce qu'ils prétendent être ». Qu'est ce que sa veut dire au juste ? Hardin : Liv. Tu devrais te poser te changer les idées. Livy : Hardin j'ai besoin de réponse. De savoir ce qui m'arrive. Je deviens un monstres. Regarde moi. Des mèches blanches sont apparue et ces marques. Qu'est ce que je suis réellement ?

[regularkat]

Okay, so I understand where the writers are coming from to a certain extent. It was supposed to be both Robert ans Aaron not being able to cope without each other and both of them going into self destructive mode. BUT in my opinion just like when Aaron was beaten up in Gordon's cell they took it too far. The whole thing is I understand where Aaron is coming from far better than where Robert is coming from, this is jus my opinion and I respect everybody that has a different opinion, and I'm going to explain why: I unetstand that Aaron had a target on his back the moment his inmates found out he was gay, so I don't understand Robert thinking that Aaron is fighting people on purpose and just likes to hit them which brings his appeal into jeopardy. Robert saying that Aaron should just keep his head down isn't possible ever since it is known that Aaron is gay. I understand even more so since the whole Gordon thing that Aaron needs something to get through the day, I'm not saing in any way that doing drugs is the right way, but I undrstand where Aaron's need for the drugs is coming from. I know that Robert doesn't know that they know about Gordon, but he knows his husband, he can see right through him whenever something is up and I think it's not in his character not to see that something more is going on, when Aaron has turned to drugs. I don't understand where Robert thinking they are over is coming from. Aaron lashed out after Robert said they ere over and took his ring of, again, not the right reaction, but I understand it to an extent. Robert knows Aaron and should have known that Aaron telling him he is useless is just Aaron pushing him away again, like he did so many times before when something more was going on. I understand that with Robert thinking they were over, for whatever reason, he lashes put just like Aaron did. I'm not going to get into what they did to the representation of women with Rebecca having absolutely no self respect and going along with it, apart from the fact that Robert was drunk, or at least supposed to be, because he seemed pretty sober to me, and not able to fully consent. What I don't understand is Robert going on about his mentally-ill husband of not even three weeks, that has been going through hell for over a year. Ever having Robert say that Aaron is weak was unnecessary for the whole cheating storyline. Also having him cheat in the home Aaron bought for him, Robert and Liv to live in as a family, where they haven't even moved in yet was too much, and that is what I mean when I say they took it too far. THE FUTURE: I see Aaron forgiving Robert eventually, but I hope the writers take their time with that and adress all of the issues Aaron and Robert have within themselves and also as a couple the way they should have been adressed a long time ago. I want to see Aaron breaking up with Robert, I know he has forgiven a lot in the past, but it always took time, and I can't see a Aaron just forgiving and forgetting the one thing he always told Robert he wouldn't forgive. When they had just got back together Aaron told Robert he had to be able to rely on him, and the place they are vote in right now this isn't possible. Also I need Robert to see that there are actual consequences for his actions, somehow he always got away with everything up until now. Furthermore Robert hasn't only just destroyed his marriage but also this little family they were building, just when Liv realized how much she really meant to him he goes and does that. In the long run, maybe after both of them try to move in with other people they are going to find their way back to each other, there is no question about it. But I hope we don't see "I was on drugs, you slept with somebody else, let's just forget the whole thing" because there are so many issues that finally have to be worked out and if the writers took these drastic actions to finally adress all this, then okay, I'm willing to see where it goes, but I'm still definitely not happy with the way the went there. Again, this is just my opinion and I had to write this out to clear my head, if anybody has a different opinion I will listen to it and always respect it. I see that the whole fandom was thrown into chaos last night and we are all just trying to get our head around it and deal with what happened in that episode, because for many people, me included, this storyline was their happy place, this is where I go, when my life is falling apart and I want to forget about it for a while and maybe even feel good again. Sorry for the long post, I just had to get all this off my chest and out of my head.

[olive-branch-witch-library]

Lightbringer Book 1: The Black Prism by Brent Weeks

Alrighty, this series is a doozy (5 books, each >650 pages) so I'm going to be breaking up these posts and making them as I read. These posts will contain spoilers for their respective books, so please don't read if you don't want to see that.

Before I get into my feelings on this book, I want to get the very lengthy Series Warnings out of the way: SA, non-explicit smut, violence, slavery, sex slavery, classism (the main villain wants to put magic-users above non magic users), assassination attempts, body mutilation (someone loses fingers, the antagonists modify their bodies with magic), drug abuse, large age gaps (19 year old with ~60 ish year old, used as a political scheme), PTSD, identity theft, fratricide, ceremonial killings to prevent insanity, Politics, lots of creepy men, betrayal, cheating, torture, insanity

Book Warnings: SA, non-explicit smut, violence, slavery, sex slavery, classism (the main villain wants to put magic-users above non magic users), assassination attempts, body mutilation (the antagonists modify their bodies with magic), drug abuse, PTSD, identity theft, fratricide, ceremonial killings to prevent insanity, Politics, betrayal, cheating, insanity

I am still in the middle of reading this series, so the Series Warnings isn't comprehensive yet. I will edit this post after the remaining books to make sure all my bases are covered.

This series follows several characters and goes through several different POVs. The main ones for this book are Kip Guile, Gavin Guile, Aliviana 'Liv' Danavis, Dazen Guile, and Karris White Oak.

In this world, there's a kind of magic called Chromaturgy, which allows drafters to turn light into a physical substance called luxin. Each color of luxin has its' own unique properties and influences the drafters personalities in different ways. Right now all we need to know about are the Seven Colors: sub-red, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, superviolet. Sub-red and superviolet are invisible to the naked eye, and I believe are supposed to represent infrared and ultraviolet respectively.

The Prism is able to draft all seven of the main colors without any consequences. When a normal drafter uses magic it eats away at their life source, slowly turning their eyes whatever color they draft. Those who can draft more than one color have different patterns that overtake their irises. Once the drafter 'breaks the halo' (uses up as much magic as they can) they become a wight and typically go insane.

This is a really strong starting point for me. I've never heard of any kind of magic system that focuses on colors before, which is a wild thing to think about. But aside from that, Weeks does an incredible job of actually writing characters that I hate with a burning passion, and making plot twists that seriously come out of left field for me.

For example, the reveal that Dazen stole Gavin's (For simplicity's sake I'm just going to call them Young Gavin and Old Gavin from here on out) identity and imprisoned him in a box of blue luxin? I had no idea that was coming. Same with Liv's betrayal of Kip and her father Corvan.

That being said, I do have some problems with this book. I don't think it was necessary to have Old Gavin be a rapist. Like, at all. In later books he even seems to take some kind of joy in breaking the will of strong women. I don't really see how it adds anything to the plot, and kind of just feels shoehorned in there to make readers hate him more (which definitely worked with me).

The author also does the typical male fantasy author thing where he focuses on how attractive a lot of the women are. In some instances, like Kip for example, it makes sense. Kip's a 15 year old boy who's never had anyone show interest or even really be nice to him, so I get having him be distracted. To me it felt a little heavy handed having almost every single male character point out how attractive different women are, but I like The Dresden Files, so it isn't really a huge issue for me lol.

The cliffhanger was spectacular though. The most powerful magic user in the entire world is losing his ability to do magic? I'm hooked. As of writing this I'm in the middle of the third book and I'm super excited to see how the rest of the series plays out!

[archiveofolives]

Ring of Keys and Other Stories VII

A/N/SUMMARY last fic! this has been fun. celebrations is set post-movie in the canon timeline which is prolly a giant spoiler lmfao. and that’s all you really need to know so enjoy maybe! and thanks to everyone who liked, reblogged, and left encouraging comments and kudos ❤️ this one’s for all of you!

RATING/WARNINGS ~pg or ~pg-13 i think idk/n/a

WORD COUNT 3,840

AO3 here

—

When Baze died, he thought he would never see Scarif, again.

But there it was when he opened his eyes, all fine sands and shoals and blue water and swaying trees like arachnids in the skies. The air was awfully quiet—no striking beams or screams of explosions, fighters swerving overhead and the filtered voices of the Empire’s Troopers. And it smelled clean, crisp and fresh, a relief from the stink of burnt air and burnt flesh. So was this Death all along?

With a sudden realization, he gasped sharply, like he was gutting himself, and flew up to stare and gape all around him. He sat where he’d died and he was alone.

He stared at the last place where he saw Chirrut lay supine, and saw only sand.

“No,” he whispered, quickly getting to his feet, racing the beating of his heart. “No, no, no!” Where was Chirrut? He was just there, he’d said that if he looked for the Force…!

“Chirrut!” Baze’s scream was a coarse anger burning through the silence. He flung his voice out to the emptiness, spinning like a drunk man in search of it. Why was he alone?! “Chirrut!!” Chirrut had said that if he looked for the Force, he would always find him there. And the Force connected all layers of life to each other. So where was he? Was he brought to the right place?

If this was Death, how could he live again? Was there a way to die again?

“Chirruuut!!” He yelled, doubling over as if that would carry his voice farther.

The responding silence was more than he could take. It was like a cruel deity mocking him. Fear came quickly to him like an unwanted lover, wrapping him in cold, unforgiving arms, suffocating him like an obsession. His breath shook, knees quivering. Where was he—

“Baze?”

It was like an echo that never existed, supplied by his imagination. But Baze was thunderstruck by certainty the moment he heard that distant call that that was him. He was here.

He stopped all of a sudden, dropping all his thoughts all at once. He sniffled, wiping his tears hastily before he could be caught crying like a boy and made fun of. “Chirrut?!” For all knew, this could just be an illusion, of course. He was alone, there was no one else to confirm it for him. But then, on the other hand, it was better to go mad than to deal with Chirrut’s non-existence sane.

Fortunately for him, that didn’t seem like the case. “Baze! Where are you?”

Baze almost jumped and cheered at the reply, still from a great distance though it was. Looking at the horizon, back to where he’d last seen their cargo ship blow up, he doubted Chirrut was anywhere so near. He couldn’t see his shape forming, anyway. If this was a product of his madness, then Chirrut would already be right there, wouldn’t he? Right where his mind wanted him. “I’m down here! At the beach.”

“Beach?” Chirrut sounded confused. “Oh!” he said after a moment. “Okay, okay, I remember now. I’m up here on the mesa!”

“The mesa?!” Now it was Baze’s turn to be baffled. If this was his imagination talking, he’d either gone crazier than he could imagine, or he was a lot more creative than he gave himself credit for. His brows joined each other tightly in the middle. What was Jedha doing in Scarif?! Or did Scarif have mesas of its own? It didn’t look like that when they were touching down. “Where is that?”

“Where is that? Really, Baze?!” Baze wasn’t sure but it sounded like Chirrut was laughing. “Come on, Baze! Who raised you?!”

Who raised him?! What a thing to say! Baze opened his mouth to protest.

“Anyway, look— listen, I mean.You know where to find me so I’m gonna go ahead, okay?”

“What!” Baze barked.

“Keep up!”

Keep up?! A blind man was telling him to keep up? Baze was bewildered. He supposed if one survived death—if survive was a word that could still be used for them—one enjoyed the feeling of…well, being indestructible. In a way. Chirrut must be over the moon.

“Chirrut!” Baze called him again. “Chirrut!!” Typical of the man, though, Chirrut went on his foolhardy way, anyway. He snarled, listing down an endless number of items he swore he would do once he’d caught up with that blind fool. Jedha damn him, where was he, anyway?! What mesa? How would he start to find his way?!

Look for the Force, Chirrut had once told him as he lay dying, and you will always find me.

Baze’s knees almost collapsed under the weight of his understanding; it was like a planet had come crashing down on him. He couldn’t believe it had taken him that long before he grasped that Chirrut meant for him to use the Force as a compass. Of course!

How embarrassing. Baze felt the familiar heat of shame rushing up to his face. He’d strayed so far from his faith, he may as well be a child now, learning the first teachings of the Force. He couldn’t even remember the last time he prayed before the last few moments of his lifetime.

Well, was he not once the most devoted Guardian of them all? Baze figured it was just like muscle memory—or at least he hoped so.

Rolling his shoulders and popping the bones of his neck, Baze started back the way they came, towards the landing pad. It wasn’t lost to him that he wasn’t really following a suddenly enlightened path of the Force, more so that he was following an age old technique that was proven to work when he least expected it: winging it.

⚭

Making his way to the mesa, Baze began to realize many things. The first was that he felt light. He left the beach without his backpack and his cannons but they’d been nowhere to be found in the first place. And then his bones felt strong, and all of the aches that came with age and a life out on the streets, a life full of risks were gone.

The second was that his kasaya robe still fit him even though it had been years since he’d last worn one. He didn’t notice this until after he realized that the red armor over his collar was gone. He thought that was part of what made things lighter—the kasaya robe wasn’t made simply to distinguish them as the Guardians of the Whills, after all, it was made with form and function in mind. It was in one that he first learned how to fight with his hands—which was why no matter how much time had passed, he still remembered how to move in one without tripping all over his train.

The third was that the Force wasn’t a secret pathway. It was the belief that wherever he was going, whichever turn he took, he was going the right way. Or as Chirrut would put it, he was following the will of the Force. Baze didn’t stop to think about this until he couldn’t remember the last time he saw those arachnid trees. When he looked back, Scarif no longer existed behind him, hidden as it were by the canyons and swooping dunes that could only come from Jedha. It was a spectacular view, Baze thought, gazing over the vast golden landscape, halfway up the trail that would lead him back to his beloved NiJedha.

He couldn’t begin to describe how good it felt to be home, again. It was different from the relief of coming back after a long gig offworld, it was sweeter than that. It was closer to the bliss of having reached his final destination, that triumph of having accomplished the last hurdle before the prize.

Sweeter still, this was the NiJedha that the Empire had never yet touched. Where the walls weren’t rubble and the air didn’t smell like the fumes of their tanks and the ground wasn’t broken by the weight of them. He could see clear skies where there had once been the belly of a Destroyer, he could go wherever he wanted and there would be no Trooper to stop him. This was the NiJedha of his childhood; he could recognize it almost as if it was his own shadow. It was a pleasant discovery but not one, he could say, that surprised him greatly. For this was a perfect world—he understood that much by now. A world where everything made sense, and everything fell into place.

The city was empty but he didn’t need it to be full. He passed through the once-bustling marketplace and found himself a full body mirror suspended off a hook at the side of a dubious antique shop. The reflection that looked back to him was off-putting—quite simply, he looked like a homeless man who’d been dressed by the Guardians out of pity. He was the main character in a story about charity and compassion. Which was to say: he looked like a charity case. That was unnerving.

The leather bindings had to go—there was no going around them. Baze had never bothered with them in the past, they were just things hanging down the sides of his collar, to keep his hair off his mind, useful especially when sniping someone. Chirrut liked to pull on them when he was being playful, singing ding dong as he laid on his lap but aside from being a cat’s toy, there was no longer any use for them.

The ends came free with one determined tug each. Little by little, the old straps unraveled and fell off. He gathered the rest of his wavy locks to the top of his head where he looped them and knotted them and sealed them in place with an elastic band. The result still wasn’t all that impressive, but at least he was cleaner and he looked more like he was in his element.

Now he could say he truly was ready—ready to leave the past behind, ready to face eternity. Without a second glance, Baze moved on. He knew where to find Chirrut, of course. He realized a bit late that he always had.

High above him, the Temple of the Kyber loomed ever closer—a massive monolith of faith and knowledge erected near the edge of the mesa. For as long as he could remember, it had become nothing more than a shadow of what once was, a monument for everything that was broken and gone. Now it glimmered under the light of the unseen sun, a promise of many tomorrows.

That started now—with a man in his own kasaya robe who sat on the temple steps, welcoming him with a grin. He was…as he had remembered him—not as he had left him. Carefree. Strong. Alive. He couldn’t see where he’d left his staff but Chirrut didn’t look like he’d noticed either. He shined like a changed man, glowing with a star within, brimming in its light. Was it any surprise that the Force looked good on him?

Baze smiled in contentment. He would say it to him, he would tell it as a joke. He missed the sound of Chirrut’s honest laughter.

Chirrut leaned forward, arms on his knees, as if to look at him better. Baze stood still, a man carved straight out of patience while Chirrut satisfied himself with his appearance. He could feel his heart bursting for no other reason than that he had finally come so close to the man he loved the most. Then with a decisive nod, Chirrut passed his judgment. “Took you long enough.”

Baze’s mouth fell wide open, and all the light that seemed to fill the place suddenly grew dimmer—or maybe that was just his own eyesight and his rising temper. What a thing to say to welcome him! And after a long journey without a map. He’d perceived differently—this Chirrut was still the same man! Impudent, stubborn, infuriating.

“Took me long enough?” He sputtered in absolute surprise. He jabbed a finger to himself and demanded, “Took me long enough?!” Chirrut laughed at him. Well, he got what he wanted but it was at his expense. And just the nerve of this man, really! “If you didn’t like me taking long enough, then you shouldn’t have gone and run off like that in the middle of a war zone!” he cried, marching, stomping his way up to Chirrut’s damn throne.

“Technically, I walked,” Chirrut argued, non-plussed. He shrugged, watching Baze’s swift progress. “Come now, how could a blind man run off?”

“It’s all the same!” Baze roared. Walking, running…the method in which he left him was not the point, the point was that he was accusing him for being too slow when in the first place, he left him. When they’d stuck together when Jedha fell, when they’d looked after each other in the forests of Scarif…at the end of it all, at the most vital point of their lives, Chirrut still left him. In spite of all the care they’d taken, he’d taken, Chirrut still did the one thing he shouldn’t have done to stay alive. Impudent. Stubborn. Infuriating!

His knees gave in under the power of his emotions, one step away from Chirrut’s position. Chirrut, the Force smite him, only looked on with a smile like an apology—but one worn without regrets. Baze stared at it, at him, incredulous. “You still left me,” he said, gaze turned upwards. “After all this time…after all that I did to keep us together…Chirrut, how could you just leave me like that? How could you have just…let yourself die! Like that? Without a fight?” A hand fell on his chest. “Without me?”

From one side, Chirrut tilted his head slightly to another. His smile remained unchanged, but it spoke volumes where his tongue chose silence. Finally, he moved lower, closer to his heartbroken, grieving partner, and reached up to touch his cheek.

“Baze,” he began, dark eyes looking into his. He looked cheerful for all the crime that he committed. “Did you think I would go, knowing you wouldn’t follow? That world didn’t belong to us anymore, and neither did we belong to it anymore. If I hadn’t pushed the master switch, what do you think would have happened?”

They’d have lost their side of the battle, that much was certain. The only question they had to ask was how it would happen. Death. Captivity, then death. Captivity, torture, perhaps a long episode of it, then ultimately death. Even if some foolish, optimistic side of Baze might argue that they could still have had the slightest opportunity to survive, escape and live, he realized he would still prefer death than to see Chirrut captured and tortured. Or for either of them to be used as a tool for the submission of the other.

Now Baze saw his faithlessness plain. Did he really think Chirrut would leave him just like that? Of course not. Of course Chirrut, of all, wouldn’t do that. His best friend, the man he loved and who loved him back, the other half of his soul. Now, more than ever, Baze understood that. That Chirrut knew what he was doing all along, what he would be doing. And what laid in wait for them beyond life, death, and all that came with it.

“Chirrut,” Baze gasped softly, reaching up to catch his cheeks with trembling fingers. Dark eyes looked back into dark eyes, living pupils following each other. He choked out his surprise, “You can see?!”

Chirrut beamed, chuckling at the base of his throat. With another self-affirming nod, lips pressed in the same way, he delivered another merciless verdict: “Took you long enough.”

This time, Baze responded with loud, ugly laughter, barking unstoppably as if Chirrut had just dropped the funniest joke in the entire galaxy when all he’d spoken was the simple truth. It came through his mouth and painfully, out of his nose. It came even as his tears flowed, spilling quickly like a waterfall. They mingled with his joy, masked under all that laughter—but it wasn’t long until they drowned his cheer. And then he was crying helplessly.

It wasn’t sadness that drove him, it was just…everything. The fear, the relief, the anger, the joy. He covered his face and wept, full of shame and hilarity; he was laughing at himself and his doubts which embarrassed him. Chirrut took him in his arms and whispered sweet hushes. Deft fingers picked at his hair band until it came off and his locks fell around him. Those same fingers ran through them like an instrument, stroking the same chords, playing the same music that would calm him down. This huge baby called Baze.

“It’s okay,” Chirrut sang softly to his ear, kissing it lightly. “It’s okay! Why are you such a crybaby?” he laughed, and sniffled. “We should be celebrating this happy reunion. You and I, together again!”

He and Chirrut, together again. It was the sweetest thing that Baze could have ever heard after all the heartache and the beating but he couldn’t stop. It felt like now that all the fighting was over and all the grief had ended, there was nothing left to do but to cry until he felt sick.

When he let Chirrut peel his hands from his eyes, he was still choking and gasping and leaking all over. Chirrut tittered underneath his own tears, stroking away a graying lock, tucking it behind an ear. “You’re such a sap!” he said, taking his face with both hands to cover it in kisses, like he was drinking his tears and closing his wounds. “My poor, crying Baze is such a sap.”

“You’re one to talk,” Baze croaked, wrapping his fingers over one of Chirrut’s hands. “You’re worse—you’re the pot calling the kettle black!”

“And we wonder why?” Chirrut choked, smiling. “It’s tears of joy, fool. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you!”

“Idiot,” Baze chuckled. “And that’s supposed to make me feel bad? C’mere.” Reaching to the back of Chirrut’s neck, he drew him for a hungry kiss. Their lips opened up and met in sweetness, containing a private world of wonder within them, warm and familiar. A place like home. So this was how forever felt, Baze thought. This was how it started. He felt so much like a young man again, sharing his first kiss under the eaves of a tree in full bloom.

Chirrut slid down his lap and sat awkwardly, putting Baze between his legs. His fingers made a nest within those long locks as they so often did when they renewed their kiss. Baze slipped a hand between his robe and his flesh to pull him closer, receiving a delightful moan from the man in response.

They stopped to breathe, their lips bruised but hungry still. Baze inhaled Chirrut’s scent which reminded him of nectar and the wood from fragrant trees, no longer of the soil of foreign lands, of cannon smoke and the salt in the sea breeze. He felt a keen temptation to start with his neck but knew better than to rush. Not after they’d waited for each other for so long.

“So when do we start?” he asked instead, brushing the back of his fingers on Chirrut’s damp cheek.

Chirrut’s brows wrinkled briefly as he canted his head sideways again. He looked almost boyish as he did it now that he had regained his dark eyes, and Baze wanted to kiss him more than ever. “Start with what?” he replied.

“The celebration. You wanted one, didn’t you?” Baze said, bearing his weight on the step he sat on. “Or we could just sit here and admire NiJedha, I’m fine with that. We have all the time in the galaxy to do what we want with.”

“Okay,” Chirrut said, nodding while he wiped his face on his sleeves. “Do you want me to pull out a rocking chair for you too, grandfather?” His forearm was up even before Baze’s swinging fist connected with it. The impact cracked sharply in the silence, later replaced by Chirrut’s happy laughter.

“You’d like that!” Baze scowled.

“An eternity of this, are you sure you’re ready?” Chirrut cackled. He fell back to the steps before Baze could retaliate and lifted himself up in a handstand, legs swinging upwards smoothly to bring himself down to the landing before the sealed gates of the Temple of the Kyber—and he did it all without wasting a breath, not even a sound. If he had to compare it with some worldly thing, Baze would be stumped. The Force could give him another lifetime for it and it still won’t be enough time.

An eternity of that. Baze decided he was ready for it.

Crouching near the step, Chirrut folded his arms on his knees, smiling down at him. “You’re sure you don’t want to come inside? You look like you could use a homecoming party.”

“A homecoming party,” Baze snorted, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re calling it now? One day, you’re going to run out of jokes and innuendos.”

“Want to find out?” Chirrut challenged him, holding out a hand like an invitation.

Baze couldn’t remember the last time Chirrut moved so brazenly. Pockets of intimacy had been a luxury for the both of them, who lived by the rules of instincts and practicality to survive and make ends meet. Stay alive, together until time was up. Now it seemed it was time to reap what they’d sown. They both knew the point was not in the finding out, of course, that was just something silly for Chirrut to say.

It was in his hand slipping onto Chirrut’s, and their fingers wrapping around each other. The brush of skin on skin was electrifying, each tiny spark sending shivers up his flesh and a smile up his face. Had he really felt that hand go limp and cold in his? Even if he did, what did it matter now? To him, Chirrut was alive again. And that was that.

They rose, hand-in-hand, eyes locked onto each other as Chirrut moved back and eased the doors open. There would be yet another life to revisit in there, another world to rediscover. They could go on and on reliving the old days, the good ones and the bad ones, just because they could.

What they did with the time they were given, it didn’t matter anymore. So long as they could do it together.

[judefan823-blog]

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[archiveofolives]

Ring of Keys and Other Stories VI

A/N/SUMMARY fun fact: i finished the first draft of soulmate/soulbond in a day. which should tell you that i feel very nice about this fic and it’s my favorite bc of that. set in yavin 4 between eadu and scarif in the canon timeline. inspiration also comes from one of my most favorite films and love stories of all the love eterne (whose influence is also in the last fic if you know where to look)

RATING/WARNINGS pg or smth idk/n/a

WORD COUNT 3,484

AO3 here

—

The hangar bay was empty. There were no technicians, no rebels, no ragtag crew standing around, screaming and shouting at each other near the cargo shuttle they’d commandeered from Eadu. After the long journey from Jedha, after the life and death situations they’d put themselves through, there being no other path to take, the silence and the emptiness were suddenly so jarring. That was the point that Baze realized that an empty hangar bay with an empty cargo ship with no soul to speak of was the picture definition of depressing.

How apt that he should choose this point in his life to philosophize when he’d pretty much lost what was equivalent to everything. His past, his home. About the only reasons why he was still standing on his own two feet were Chirrut Imwe and the rebel crew they were suddenly a part of. So did that make those idiots his friends?

Baze chuckled suddenly, but they weren’t as bad as they looked; the captain turned out to be competent, his droid the same, the girl managed to earn his respect and even the pilot hid a little fire in himself. People like that, he could learn to appreciate.

Besides, Chirrut seemed to like this dysfunctional group. People Chirrut liked, Baze could learn to like, as well. Where was Chirrut, anyway? Alliance Intelligence—or whoever it was who debriefed them—couldn’t be all that interested in the life of a blind man, could they? Unless they’d made the mistake of asking Chirrut about the Force.

The thought almost made Baze want to laugh if he just didn’t feel so stupid doing it alone where no one else could hear. He decided to wait for Chirrut outside in the hangar bay, exploring its high walls, the panels and screens, and the toys—parts, really, and tools and equipment—lying around, out in the open where they could kill a person, safety warnings be damned. When he’d run out of pipes and plates to knock his fist on, he decided to move onto the open cargo shuttle and tour himself. He was familiar with its interior of course from the days he was away from Jedha. The layout and terminals were all pretty much standard issue (he realized then that the Empire, for all its invasiveness, didn’t quite bother personalizing all their possessions) that he didn’t need more than 10 minutes to reacquaint himself to the ship.

He stepped out. Still no Chirrut. Which volume of the journals was he at now? A deep sigh escaped Baze as he wandered over to a heavy turbine on its side that must be about his height, propped atop two ridged transformers that must be big enough to contain a child each. He sat down on one of them where he could best keep an eye on the entrance to the bay. Folded himself forward to get comfortable, praying hands finding his nose and his mouth.

Before he could stop himself, he closed his eyes and started to breathe deeply. In spite of his divorce with the faith, meditation was still a large part of his life. It was a difficult habit to break, having been a part of his daily routine in the days of the Temple, and even as a skeptic, he could find some nugget of peace with himself in it. His red armor wrapped around his collar made it a little difficult to focus, but it could be managed.

Could be forgotten with the rest of the gray hangar, the echoes of footsteps, of distant commands, the fragrance of leaves, of the strange forests that surrounded them, that seemed inescapable. But there he was, floating in the void of his own emptiness, away from the world and alone…

He heard him first before he saw him, as always—like a drop of water that sent a ripple all across his senses and roused him from his deep trance. Baze felt like a statue coming to life after a long century of slumber. His eyes opened to the sound of his steps and the tip of his staff—and true enough, when he turned, he was there, smiling as he would, a female pilot at his side, all but ready to lead this blind man by the hand. Little wonder then that Chirrut should look quite happy and amused. He felt the familiar tugs of his own smile knocking on his cheeks but self-consciousness squashed that like a bug. The flush of relief was an entirely different species, though, and he permitted himself that much.

He folded his arms on his lap while he watched his friend’s progress. The woman caught sight of him, then.

“Oh your friend’s here,” she announced. She was young, idealistic by the tone of her voice.

“I know,” Chirrut assured her. Then with a theatrical whisper that was meant to be carried out to the audience, he leaned to the pilot and explained, “I can smell him from here.”

“I heard that!” Baze snapped.

The pilot looked like she was caught between laughing and blushing but she powered through. “Can you find your way from here? He’s just straight ahead.” She even pointed to Baze on the occasion that the blind man could see her.

“I can do straight ahead,” Chirrut assured her pleasantly. “Thank you, Shara.”

She waved to the sightless man and then to Baze who lifted his brow. While she hurried back the way they came, Chirrut started forward with his uneti staff held away at an angle, one end at the ground. Snakes of cables and discarded canisters and valves littered his path but he kicked away those he could and hopped over those he couldn’t. Baze watched with no expression.

Once Chirrut arrived, he stretched out a leg to mark his finish line. The younger man didn’t stop walking until it hit his tummy. A hand wrapped itself around his ankle on instinct lest he overbalanced. Chirrut’s fat cheeks restrained a laughter from within.

“You want to sit? What took you so long?” Baze asked with a frown, shifting aside while Chirrut tested the side of the transformer with one foot, and then the turbine’s frame next to it.

With hardly a breath of warning, he flew in two kicks, turned in the air and landed quite impressively on his ass. “I got lost along the way,” Chirrut answered cheerfully, staff meeting the ground with a sound tap. “It’s a big place and I took the wrong turn.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you see the giant water fountain in the middle of this base? It’s so huge, it’s big enough to fit a full-grown Hutt!”

“I’m sure.”

Chirrut clicked his tongue and frowned. “You’re no fun.”  

Well, Baze was also sure of that.

He clipped Chirrut’s ear between his fingers and yanked it down. Chirrut yelped, catching his ear before it fell off. He started laughing again.

Baze shook his head, smiling slightly at the blind man. “What sort of questions did they ask you?”

“I think they were mostly concerned about whether or not I was a Jedi,” Chirrut said. He frowned after, tilting his head to one side, brows knotted in deep conversation. “Now I wonder if I should have just said yes. I think they were looking to hire me. That would have made a good income.”

“What use is a good income if you’re going to be dead before you spend it?” Baze asked, one brow up again.

Chirrut turned to return to him the same expression. “I guess you haven’t figured that out yet, have you?” Baze responded by jabbing the side of his head with a strong finger. Chirrut grinned impishly. He knew he got him there. “Well, what did they ask you?”

“They were interested about my cannons.”

“Were they looking to hire you for that?”

Baze frowned, the corners of his lips pulled low. He shrugged and said, “Who knows?”

“Well, it’s definitely not for your winning personality.”

Definitely not. Baze smirked and nudged the man beside him. “You know I’m expensive.”

“Sounds just like the thing a jobless man would say.”

This time he snickered with his cheeky partner. When he shoved him sideways next, it was with the fullest preparation of meeting Chirrut’s blocking forearm, which felt not unlike slamming into a wall, even as Chirrut was shaking with laughter. It felt good to be talking like this again—as if the entire galaxy wasn’t about to come down on them, as if they hadn’t been quite literally chased out of their own home. A home they no longer had.

It hit him then that this was the second time they’d lost a home. He couldn’t say which was worse, though. The first time had been harder, but this time, there was nothing and nowhere they could go back to. No street, no rubble, not even a piece of carpet on which to sleep.

He didn’t even know what was going to happen to them from here on out. A leaf in a storm would probably be a good analogy to their present situation. They’d survived Saw’s rebels, they’d survived the Death Star—one of the few who could say that—and they’d survived the Empire and the Alliance on Eadu. Now they were stuck here in Yavin 4 for no other reason than that they were dragged along. They had no choice. It was run or die, sink or swim.

Baze wasn’t one to panic—that had always been one of his greatest strengths even when the galaxy was already giving him every reason to tear his hair off, screaming. But he wasn’t young anymore and he wasn’t getting any younger either. This life of constantly fighting for food, shelter, survival, day in and day out…it wasn’t meant to go on forever. Just when he thought he’d finally figured it out for Chirrut and himself, here comes a death ray destroying everything they’d built. And then they were back to square one again.

He heaved out a great sigh, staring into nothingness. “How did we get here?” he asked, wearily.

He wasn’t really expecting any answer, but apparently questions were part of Chirrut’s expertise. Bless the man really for still finding reason to smile in spite of their circumstances. Head tilted a little towards his partner, he said, “It’s the consequence of being alive.”

That was true, and Baze was glad for it. Being alive meant more days of worrying and fighting but it was far better than being dead and non-existent. In fact, death and non-existence would be far worse. Baze could never do that to Chirrut—leave him alone again to fend for himself in this vast galaxy, just because this time he’d been too slow, too weak, too stupid. Just because he’d failed. Jedha had already given him too many names to pray for, sagging him under their weight. He’d heard him muttering them even in his sleep, on the flight to Eadu from the ruins of Jedha. That was enough.

“What do you think happens now?” Baze asked.

Chirrut shrugged. “Who knows? No one can tell the will of the Force, we can only follow it. The Force led us to the Holy Quarter to rescue Jyn. It brought us to Eadu for the same reason. Now we’re here.”

“So you think we’re all here just to,” Baze was the one who shrugged this time, “protect Jyn?” He nodded to the entrance to the hangar. “She looks like she gets into too much trouble for her own good, but not someone who needs a sitter. Much less two.” Besides, he was already looking after one fool who liked to fling himself headlong into battle. He wasn’t sure he needed another.

“I think we’re here for another reason,” Chirrut said, furrowing his brows, looking like he was inspecting his dangling feet. “The Force brought us to these people for a reason.”

“You saying the Force wants us to join the Alliance?” Baze’s brows flew.

“Not the Alliance,” Chirrut explained quietly. “But the rebellion.”

His meaning was plain to Baze, but the man still found enough reason to pretend that it wasn’t. In all the time they were running and fighting, he never felt that cold hand of dread wrapping itself around his heart. Funny that it should come now, when they were supposed to be safe among friends. Besides, wasn’t this what he’d been dreaming of in the past? A chance to finally bring revenge to the Empire’s doorstep.

“You think…Jyn is going to keep fighting? No matter what the council says?”

Chirrut raised his eyes to look blindly ahead of him. “I know she will.” He had seen through her heart of Kyber.

Well, that was it, wasn’t it? The truth as plain as day. Whatever it entailed, he didn’t know—but Baze knew for sure that he could finally breathe in relief. The uncertainty had lifted, and the inevitable has come. Now he knew what they were going to do. And what he was going to do.

Whatever gave him the idea, he couldn’t say. Probably some childhood tale from all those old holocrons, during the days they were still learning verses. But whatever it was, it made him glad that he kept a piece of blade in one of his many pockets, and that they’d gotten into the habit of salvaging whatever could be reused and repurposed while they still had the chance.

Baze reached back to his wavy, oily locks and carefully snipped off a finger’s width. The crisp sound drew Chirrut’s attention towards him, like a bird turning so suddenly. “What’s that?” he asked, curious.

“None of your business yet,” Baze muttered, looking for something to pin his hair in.

Chirrut nudged him with a toothy grin. “You’re my business.”

Baze eyed him incredulously. “Are you trying to look cute?” he asked. “Now’s an inappropriate time!”

“I wasn’t saying anything like that,” Chirrut said, sulking like a boy and doing well at it. He was always so good at impressions. He made a bed for his chin with his two hands on his staff and pouted at an unseen object.

Baze snorted, shaking his head and smiling slightly. Eventually, he managed to produce a synthetic red cord from one of his other pockets which he tied around one end of his lock of hair, making it easier to knot the rest in a nice and tight braid. Chirrut started humming a song soon after, tapping the heels of his shoes to the transformer in different configurations to provide the beat to his rhythm. Baze always thought that he had a good singing voice, that he could carry a tune.

He was in the middle of a second repeat of the song when Baze finally jumped off to his feet and told him, “Give me your hand.”

“In marriage?” Chirrut asked, jesting. Excitement filled his smile at the opening Baze had walked right into. He sighed, but that only caused Chirrut to grin wider. Baze couldn’t say if the blind fool would ever get tired of these jokes. He didn’t think he ought to, of course. “We’ve been through this a number of times, Baze.”

“We’ve been through this a number of times!” Baze echoed him to agree although their contexts were definitely different from each other. Chirrut held out his left hand anyway, the one without the impeller gauntlet, and Baze draped the length of his braided lock over the back of his wrist. He made a few measurements and a few quick adjustments with the cord and the end knot.

It didn’t take him long to finish the bracelet after, wrapped loosely around Chirrut’s pulse. It was his hair woven and stitched with the cord, locked with a complicated knot he’d learned from the streets. “There,” Baze said, wiping his hands on his suit and putting away the blade and the little that was left of the cord. “Now you can look.”

Look, of course, was a subjective command here. Chirrut’s idea of looking was running his finger down the plaited locks and testing its width. His brows met in intrigue. “This is…” He brought the bracelet to his nose and sniffed the familiar smell. “Your hair!”

“Mhm.”

“This means ‘til death do us part.” The gravity of which was not lost on Chirrut, who stared perfectly straight at Baze in surprise, as if his milky blue eyes had been suddenly cured.

Baze gave him a small smile. “It seems that you know what’s going to happen now, and I think I do, too—but I’m not the one who’s attuned to the Force here.”

“Baze…”

Baze scratched his head briefly, feeling the part where he’d taken his hair. “The point is,” he continued, “and I know this is a redundant symbol, but whatever happens now, what’s important to me is that you’ll always have a part of me with you.” He slid his hands onto Chirrut’s palms and let the man hold him.

Looking at his blind eyes, he said, “I just can’t bear the thought of you alone without me.”

He always loved the kind of smile that Chirrut put on every time he bared his soul and opened up his weakness. It was at once shy, at once comforting, but the entirety of it was drawn by a deity of love. “Stop being silly,” he chided him softly. “When you left, you came back—because there’s no world that can exist without you beside me. The Force brought us together. And what the Force brought together, no creature, no worldly thing can separate.”

He raised a hand and laid it lightly on the side of Baze’s face, stroking his tired skin. Baze wanted to close his eyes and pour himself into the softness but he wanted to look at Chirrut’s face, too. “Where would I be without you? Nowhere. It’s a fallacy, Baze. It simply won’t work.” His smile stretched out wider, and Baze grinned back.

They kissed, Baze pulling his chin towards him, Chirrut’s breath shuddering under his mouth, eager to pour out the same love through his lips. It was mind blowing, an embarrassment towards them, how little they’d shared a kiss since they escaped Jedha. It was no wonder they were constantly so starved for each other whenever they were alone, no matter how long they spent together or how hard they kissed. Damn the Death Star if it thought it could get in the way of all that was good to them. It may take away their home, their family and friends and past—but they would kill it first before they let it separate them permanently.

Baze pulled free with a wet smack and a heavy breath pouring out of his mouth. Chirrut was catching his own heart even as they connected their foreheads to each other.

“No matter what happens,” Baze growled, looking closely at his love, “I’ll never leave you. I promise.”

“You can’t!” Chirrut reminded him, laughing. They kissed again, hands on their cheeks, lips in perfect unity. They kissed sweetly with the bliss of a reunion after such a long parting. Nothing mattered in their little pocket of the galaxy. Not the heat, not the scent of fuel or of alien trees in the forests.

Not the hurrying footsteps and the excitable, “Mr. Malbus, Mr. Imwe!” Sadly, the shouting was an entirely different story altogether.

The end to such a perfect kiss came abruptly, flesh torn so rudely without the last negotiations for more. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know, I didn’t see!” the visitor cried.

It was a rebel at the entrance to the hangar bay, waving his hands to the Guardians while he averted his eyes, as well. Baze looked at him with immense disappointment while Chirrut sighed, head bowed low. “Y, you can forget I’m here,” he insisted stubbornly. “I, I was just looking for the captain—!”

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to knock?” Chirrut demanded sharply, using the voice of an angry parent. The rebel started to stammer again but that was only because he couldn’t hear Chirrut gasping for breath and see his cheeks aching from grinning. Baze groaned, ducking under a hand to hide his own mirth from the poor flustered man.

“I, I said I didn’t see it, okay? I didn’t see it!!” Which made Baze wonder what he thought he was seeing. Well, too late for that, Chirrut was already laughing uncontrollably. What a shame. And that had been a very good kiss. Probably the last they’d have in a while.

They’ll get another chance after all this is over. He swore that on all the stars above them.

“A, anyway!” The rebel persisted stubbornly, even though he was blushing like the lavas of Mustafar. “Where’s Captain Andor! They said he was looking for volunteers.”

[archiveofolives]

Ring of Keys and Other Stories IV

A/N/SUMMARY theme says bodyswap/role reversal and i, as should no longer be any surprise to everyone, am an amateur with no experience with this challenge whatsoever  SO i decided to take things literally and twist it like hell. i give you: rogue one: a star wars story with umm…serious role reversals, i guess. (i should also note and stress that alexander freed’s novelization is a huge, huge, huge help for this fic and that this is a non-profit fan work)

RATING/WARNINGS g/n/a for a change (everyone breathe a sigh of relief, liv is sticking to her comfort zone)

WORD COUNT 7,767

AO3 here

—

“I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me, I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me, I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me, I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me…”

He heard the shrouded walls chant it back to him more than he heard himself speak it. It came in rapid successions of words and breath, barely a pause between inflections, commas and periods. The sad part was that it had become nothing more than a tick. A bastardized version of a prayer of the faithful, no matter that he whispered it to clenched fists as he sat hunched over the table. Because no matter how many times he recited it—“I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me,”—he would never forget the soft neck between his fingers, and the snap of a bone a heartbeat later. He hadn’t even given the muscles time to tense but that was a shallow consolation. Poor Tivik may have outlived his…value…but he was no animal. The Force reminded him of it, swirling darkly like shadows in his eyes, a persistent weight in his chest—but nothing more than that. A nagger, a silly warning that went away as soon as the deed was done but leaving him with regret. When was the last time he heeded it? He couldn’t remember. It used to be that he reconsidered on account of its message but now he just…killed swiftly. To get it done and over with.

But he killed for a purpose—another familiar chant. He may not do it according to the lessons of his childhood but if one looked at the bigger picture, it could still be said that he took away life to preserve the Force of others. He was never raised as a Jedi, who anyway killed without regret. He never killed if it could be avoided.

It just tended to happen more and more this late…

He silenced himself when he recognized his visitor. She felt light, subtle but powerful at the same time. With his eyepiece off, he couldn’t very well see her—or this small room he took refuge in anyway, but he knew who she was even before he caught her footfalls.

She had the grace to tap him lightly on the right shoulder before she greeted him with a quiet, “Captain Imwe.”

Turning to her, he responded equally with, “Senator Mothma.” She was a white blur moving against a dark background in his tired sight, as if he looked at her from a filter of tears. He followed her all the same to the seat to his left where she braced her forearms on the tabletop.

“You look worried, Captain,” she observed.

“Maybe you’re finally rubbing off on me, Senator. That’s good.” He laughed a little as Mothma shared her own shier, more polite version. It was times like this that Chirrut was reminded of how much younger she was than he was, even though she acted like a mother even towards him. Or maybe he really was just more childlike than he gave himself credit for. He pressed his fingers lightly on his eyes as he added, “A follower must be more like his leader to walk in her path.”

“It’s a hard path to follow, Captain,” Mothma replied with her characteristic gentleness. “But all the same, I’m grateful for your loyalty. You’ve done valuable work, as always.”

He remembered the sound of Tivik’s boots frantically pacing the ground, his harrowed breathing, the weight of his body as he dropped it, broken and lifeless. The echoes of his last words resonating in his head as he escaped.

“You think it’s true, Senator? What the Empire is building?” Chirrut asked her all of a sudden, keen to get away from his latest crime. “A Planet Killer. It sounds crazier than anything I can come up with. I can’t imagine how they’ll make it possible.”

Mothma was quiet, considering the question in deep silence. He couldn’t see her expressions, and could only make guesses based on what he felt around her. “It’s nothing out of the ordinary,” she conceded long after. “We’ve already been warned by the message the pilot brought to us when he defected, and this certainly falls under that category. If this is true,” she paused to realign her head. Chirrut couldn’t say for sure but he imagined she was looking at him now, “then we may have a good guess…about why they took over your home planet. And your Temple.”

The Temple of the Kyber was the first thing the Empire had taken from Chirrut. Ever since then, he’d been slowly losing everything that he knew and loved. The teachings of his Faith, his life, his old life, his friends…

His…brother…

“The good news is that we’ve taken the steps to confirm this.” Mothma moved back to rest her shoulders on her seat. “Operation Fracture is officially signed off. General Draven and I worked on it while you were en route from the Ring of Kafrene and our asset was being extracted from the Wobani Prison Camp…” It wasn’t like Mothma to trail off even though her temperament seemed to point to the contrary. After all, like all leaders, like all politicians, she had her own mischievous techniques. But these slivers of honesty were reserved for tiny rooms, the few moments she had between one executive decision and the next. So when it came, Chirrut heard it. “I’m sure you’re aware by now, Captain, that the extraction was successful.”

Chirrut smiled, something that came easily and with complete honesty. For all that he went through—alone—it was bright and ready, not a mask he showed to Mothma. He really was glad for the news. He’d never heard of anyone who could escape Wobani in one piece, and he was relieved he could make this one possible. “I am,” he said. “I’m here because of that, aren’t I? I had hoped it would be a success even before I sent the message from the ship. I really ought to thank you and General Draven for making it possible.”

Mothma’s blob nodded. “You’ll be leading this operation, Captain. You have your team, and your course is set for Jedha. Report all updates to General Draven, your instructions moving forward will be coming from him.”

“Understood.”

“Do you have any questions?”

He always thought it was generous of Mothma to be opening this opportunity for him. It was not a part of her obligations, and yet he couldn’t help but feel as if she did it in deference to his age—or perhaps because when he came in, no one could really tell the difference between a Jedi and a Guardian of the Whills. So everyone treated him like a Jedi.

Well, he wasn’t one for wasting chances. Chirrut began to ask, “If I can’t convince him to join us—”

“You have to, Captain,” Mothma insisted gently. “Without him, we lose our chance to gain support for the rebellion.”

And that was that.

She rose, the folds of her simple gown dropping all around her. She laid another hand on his shoulder to tell him, “Whenever you’re ready, Captain.” Then she left.

He would never be ready. And no passing of years would help. He knew this as he sat in the humming silence of the private room. But there was a task to be done and he never shirked from his responsibilities.

He took his eyepiece from the tabletop—nothing more than a slender strip of metal that bridged one ear to the other, conservative nose pads and a thin device that spanned the top of his right eye to the start of his ear—put it on and with a weary dread, switched it on. The washed up details of the room came slowly into sharp clarity. It was there to help him see better but he couldn’t help but feel like the strain it was putting on his already-ruined eyes was more trouble than was worth it. But what could he do? His job required him to see.

He bought more time for himself to pull at his jacket, as if it needed straightening, take his walking stick from where it leaned by the table and tuck its wooden joints into itself, until all that was left was the metal stub at the top of it. It was an old thing he’d brought with him from the Temple, made from flame-hardened uneti wood, modified to be concealed for whenever he could see and needed a secret weapon. It was one of the only things he kept with him from his previous life.

One other was a necklace he wore under his shirt: an old starbird symbol made out of reforged gold, hung down from a black cord.

He tugged on it self-consciously, tucking and retucking it and smoothing down his shirt. Unlike his collapsible staff, it bore no purpose really other than to be a part of his neck and his life. With no more excuses to grasp on, he finally started towards the bunker.

General Draven was conducting the interview when he stepped into the connecting bridge, already so short-tempered five minutes in. He marched carefully lest he draw attention to himself; he knew who he was up against, knew what this person could do by heart. It was the same skills he’d learned, the same skills he was raised in. The walls were high and dark, the shadows thick but he knew that when it came to him…to the both of them, those walls may as well be made out of glass. He couldn’t believe he could even hear him saying it in his voice in his head. And his chuckle…

Chirrut had always understood that memories could get so invasive at times, but he never realized until then that that was only because he allowed these thoughts to invade him so easily. Now he couldn’t get him out of his head. How smart of him to let this happen now, of all the times he needed to concentrate on his mission, and not his past.

“Possession of unsanctioned weapons, forgery of Imperial documents, aggravated assault, escape from custody, resisting arrest…”

General Draven sounded off his list of trespasses. In a better world, he might have burst out laughing at the utter lack of respect and damn this man gave to the law. How entirely like him that was. But then, this was also a brief history of what he’d done, what he’d been through since they separated—and it was no laughing matter. Decades of running, hiding and fighting, wondering if the day you woke up in would also be the day you finally closed your eyes permanently. It was…romantic, perhaps. The danger, the risks, the adventure.

He knew the taste of that life, and it was too bitter to sustain a man. If his life was a soil to sow seeds on, it would be like Jedha now: barren, dry and wasted. The only reason why he could still stand this sort of life, decades past his prime was…

His steps slowed down, but he could not stop. Decades have passed since their last day together. Could their separation really end just like this? It wasn’t that Chirrut held onto an ideal reunion that could be ruined by any single moment but he had learned how to live this life, an entirely different one from the old days. Could he still do it? They say you couldn’t teach an old animal new tricks.

“Imagine if the Imperial authorities had found out who you really were, Baze Malbus? That’s your given name, is it not?”

Chirrut stopped finally. He couldn’t believe it, he really was there! But so different, he could hardly recognize him from the man who left him but he knew in his veins that it was him. He was dressed in a plain, old-fashioned flight suit, arms crossed, weight against the back of his seat. He’d grown bigger from the lithe, trimmed version he could remember but looking at the size of those knuckles under his fingerless gloves, Chirrut had no doubts he could still kill a man without breaking a bone or a sweat. No, they weren’t built for such frailties. His hair, once shaven so closely to his head, was now long and wild. He had a beard and a mustache, and his days traveling in different parts of the galaxy had burnt his skin to an even brownness.

Baze Malbus. He couldn’t believe it. They’d gotten the right man out of Wobani!

He went no further lest Baze spied him off the shadows of the bunker. If the Force moved darkly around a killer, then maybe it could do him a favor of shrouding him from a reunion he wasn’t prepared for. He folded his own arms and leaned his weight against one of the glass screens illuminating the bunker, practically as tall and wide as a wall. He stood somewhere to the back, watching the proceedings like a hunter stalking for dinner. Baze looked bored behind the conference table that parted him from the red-haired General Draven with his permanent scowl, white-haired General Dodonna who looked with soft eyes and Senator Mothma, standing right there, front and center where Baze could see her.

“You top the Empire’s most wanted list, do you know that?” General Draven continued, referring to his datapad again. “Wanted for murder, espionage and treason. You’ve been on the run ever since you fell out of their graces.”

Baze’s eyes rolled from Draven, to Dodonna, to Mothma in turn and then back to Draven. And then he laughed—not loud or vulgar at all, something wheezy that came with a white smile. This was the Baze that Chirrut knew. The complete lack of ceremony, the easy confidence.

“Okay,” Baze finally spoke, with a voice that felt like it came from within his chest. It was much too deeper than what Chirrut last remembered but if he’d heard it from a busy marketplace, he could have picked it out easily. “What’s all this?” Humor me, he might as well have said.

“It’s a chance for you to make a fresh start,” Mothma answered, her gentle tone carrying easily across the board. “We think you might be able to help us.”

Baze nodded towards her, one brow raised. “And you are?”

“You know who she is,” Draven hissed and might have spat out more poison if Mothma hadn’t waved for him to stand down.

“My name is Mon Mothma,” she went on as if she hadn’t been interrupted to begin with. “I sit on the council of Alliance High Command, and I approved your extraction from Wobani.”

Baze’s brows curled, the face of a man doing some quick calculations. “There’s a bounty on your head,” he said when he remembered it. Chirrut had no doubts he would know that, considering the circles he rubbed shoulders in. Baze celebrated his triumph of having uncovered this detail with a huff and a handsome smile as he looked again at Draven, then Dodonna, then…

That smile fell like melting wax, those eyes staring back at him in recognition. Now there was no escape. Chirrut had to swallow down his nerves when he met Baze’s gape with a nervous, stoic gaze.

Mothma turned in time to see this exchange. Raising a hand to him, she finally made the necessary introductions. If it could even be called that. “This is Captain Chirrut Imwe,” she said. “Rebel Alliance Intelligence. We believe…” She looked at Chirrut’s watching eyes. “That you’ve met,” she finished.

Now he was called on to play; there was no escape. He moved easily into the bunker, greeting the two generals and the senator with a nod of respect each. Mothma and Dodonna returned the gesture but Draven scoffed, shook his head and rolled his eyes.

He approached Baze carefully with quiet steps, barely making his heels tap the surface. Baze was still staring in utter disbelief. Chirrut felt as if he could hear him gasping, You’re alive. Well, yes. For his information, he was still very much alive after all those years that he was gone. Maybe if he’d stuck around instead of running off to wherever there was money to be had, he wouldn’t be so surprised.

In spite of that, Chirrut drew much closer than he ought to—because he couldn’t help it. They’d been friends in the past, they’d been more. And after all this time, he was still there in his mind—like the necklace was still around his neck. Was Baze okay? He had to make sure. Wobani was not for the faint at heart, barely even for the strong-hearted. And his curriculum vitae did not exactly promote a healthy lifestyle. He could spare his old friend that much concern. He looked at his face and noted two scars. Neither of his hands were robotic. The rest was under the flight suit.

Chirrut could only hope for the best for now. He placed his weight on the side of the table, arms still crossed. It was time to forget the past and remember the mission. “When was the last time you were in contact with Director Orson Krennic?” he asked.

The shock flickered out of Baze’s expression, his eyebrows furrowing in its place. This was not the kind of hello he was expecting from an old friend, which only bolstered Chirrut to darken his glare. “Fifteen years ago,” he said after a moment, tone careful all of a sudden. He was testing the waters, a predator at work.

Chirrut doubled his guard; he bounced off the table and walked around his friend. “Any idea where he’s been all that time?” he asked, tone a little sharper now.

“Not that I can recall,” Baze answered, following him with his eyes. “Have you tried looking under Coruscant?”

Chirrut whirled to eye him with a warning but this time, Baze fought back, pulling down his own features to a tighter knot. What are you doing? it seemed like he was asking. Don’t you remember me? In fact, Chirrut did. Worse, he never forgot about him. But Baze left him. After everything they’d been through and all for money! If the man thought that was a mistake easily forgivable, then he knew now that he was wrong. Decades of surviving by the skin of his teeth were no joke. Even a former Guardian like Chirrut had his limits.

“Look,” Baze sighed, twisting in his seat to better look at his old friend. “When I last heard from him, I was in Wadi Raffa in one of his smuggling routes. After that, I escaped. That’s my last contact with him.”

“Really?” Chirrut parked himself closer to Draven now. “He was your employer, wasn’t he?”

Baze flinched at the accusation. It was true, though. This was information discovered and confirmed when Chirrut finally joined the Alliance, after years of waiting and worrying and praying for his friend who’d disappeared so suddenly, without even so much as a goodbye. Ever since then…he’d lost faith in everything. If Baze could trade him for greener pastures, then there wasn’t much else to believe in anymore.

“I don’t make it a point to track down someone I’m hiding from,” Baze growled with a slow acid.

Chirrut felt surprisingly at ease when he responded coldly, “No, I didn’t think so.”

Baze’s jaw fell open. Shock drained his colors and broke his eyes wide open. He might have spat out something less than helpful to the already tensed interview if Draven hadn’t decided to step in with a threat.

“We’re up against the clock here, Malbus,” he snarled, rubbing his fingers on his wide forehead. “So if there’s nothing to talk about, we’ll just put you back where we found you.”

No.

Chirrut turned to him urgently. “General, let me take care of this,” he whispered quickly, meeting the frown bravely. “Please. Baze Malbus is my friend, I know how to do this.”

Draven glared at him closely. “Then stop beating around the bush and get to it, Captain.” He stood back once more, shuffling a little farther. “The galaxy is waiting.”

Chirrut breathed and muttered a word of thanks. He turned to Mothma and Dodonna each and received from them the tiniest quirk of a smile and a generous nod respectively. He couldn’t believe he’d let his personal matters get in the way in front of these leaders he respected.

He nodded back, then turned again finally to Baze who wore the eyes of an observer. Chirrut flared a little. Damn if he would let this man read him so easily like that! If anything, that at least put him right back to business.

“When was your last contact with Saw Gerrera?” he asked.

“You know, if you’re studying to be a lawyer, I’m here to tell you that you’re doing a great job, Chirrut.”

“I’ve learned many things since we last spoke,” Chirrut snapped. No namedrops for him, they hadn’t even started rebuilding the bridge Baze had burned yet. And he wasn’t going to admit that hearing his name spoken in that familiar voice had caused his heart to jump.

Baze responded with a chuckle and a shake of his head. He was getting comfortable again and Chirrut hated it. Whatever gave him the right when he was on his toes here! “I know Saw but I only met him a handful of times. The last was maybe,” he shrugged, “ten or twelve years ago.”

“He’d remember you, though, wouldn’t he?” Chirrut stepped closer to Baze. “He might agree to meet you, if you came as a friend of Liana Hallik.”

Baze’s brows met again, weighed down by questions, the first of which was: “Why Liana?” He detected an edge in his voice, cleverly coated by a healthy dose of confusion. Chirrut felt sorry that he felt a tiny flare of triumph in it. He wouldn’t just drop Liana’s name like that without reason, after all—he knew they were close. He didn’t know how they met, only suspected that an association with Saw may be behind it but the records never lied. As it turned out, they clicked, even going so far as to do a couple of missions together. It wasn’t that he derived a sick sort of delight for finding and picking on Baze’s weakness but information was his playing field now. And information was an asset.

Was this revenge?

He got Baze where he wanted him. “Look,” the man said, shifting in his seat again, “if you just need someone to find Saw, I can do that.” Leave Liana out of this.

“We know how to find him,” Chirrut told him, instinct softening his tone to ease Baze’s alarm without his noticing. “That’s not our problem. What we need is someone who gets us through the door without being killed.”

Baze didn’t seem to understand that. “Huh,” he said, dropping back to his chair. “But you’re all rebels, aren’t you?” he asked after a pause.

“Yes, but Saw Gerrera’s an extremist.” This time, Mothma rejoined the conversation. “He’s been fighting his own war for quite some time. We have no choice but to try to mend that broken trust.”

“And you think,” Baze pointed to himself, “I can help you mend that trust? I’m not even a part of Saw’s rebellion and I don’t think he cares how many Imperials I’ve killed.” He slumped a little lower in his seat, arms snug across his chest.

Mothma and Chirrut turned to each other. She gave him a little nod. With a slight exhalation, Chirrut faced his old friend again, resting his weight against the table. “We recently received intel from an Imperial defector—a pilot—that the Emperor could be creating a weapon with the power to destroy entire planets.”

Baze stared at him. And this time, it was not shock or plain disbelief printed in his face. Quite simply, he must have taken it as…a joke. A bad joke, too half-baked to be hilarious.

“That’s a terrible lie,” was all he could say in the end.

“I believe it’s the truth,” Mothma said. “I may be wrong, and I pray that I am—but I believe a weapon that murders worlds is the natural culmination of everything the Emperor has done. You’re right, though.” The senator paused to let out a little sigh. “If this were just about Saw Gerrera, we would have other approaches.”

“If this weapon exists, we have enough reason to believe that it should fall under the jurisdiction of your former employer Orson Krennic, director of the Imperial Military’s Advanced Weapons Research,” Chirrut picked up from where Mothma left off. “But since it isn’t possible to locate him at this short a time, we need a different angle to work from.” He stopped then and breathed, like a man building a reservoir of courage.

“So we decided to look for a man called Galen Erso, father of Jyn Erso,” Chirrut said and he saw it, then. The stiffening of Baze’s jaw, the hardness of his eyes. “Otherwise known presently as, Liana Hallik.” As if Baze needed telling because he knew. He’d known of it before any of them had stumbled upon that information.

Now he was using her as a bait. Again. Because this was his mission and he knew that Baze would protect her to the best that he could. From what, he didn’t know, but it was clear he wanted her out of Imperial business. Because this was Baze, after all, and he knew him. He knew all about his dreams and promises, and the little of those that came true.

“We need to stop this weapon before it is finished,” Mothma said as an appeal.

“Captain Imwe’s mission is to authenticate the intel and then, if possible, find Galen Erso,” Draven added.

Chirrut wondered if Baze heard any of those. He watched him closely. His old friend looked troubled, lost in thought, unable to look at anyone or any one thing. Could he break another promise? Could he live through that trauma again?

Baze, he whispered in his head as Baze’s eyes fell to his crossed arms. Please.

“It would appear Galen Erso is critical to the development of this superweapon,” Mothma explained, eyes on Baze. “Given the gravity of the situation and your relationship with Saw and Liana, we’re hoping that you could convince them to help us locate Galen Erso and return him to the Senate for testimony.”

“We know Saw treats Liana like his own daughter,” Chirrut interjected quickly. He didn’t actually know for sure but he knew enough to assume this was the case. “And we won’t be able to get to Saw if we don’t get through Liana first. And she won’t be able to help us if Saw gets in the way.” He looked for a reaction in Baze’s crumpled face but found nothing but warring thoughts. And then he knew he had to do something before he lost Baze to them completely.

He stepped towards his old friend and leaned close enough that Baze had to turn to look in surprise. There was no way he could have missed that. Chirrut reproached himself for taking advantage of Baze just like this but he was out of ideas, and they were running out of time. “Please, Baze,” he whispered. “We need your help. I need your help.” What was the penalty for manipulation?

Baze considered his words in pain but it wasn’t much longer when he asked, “And if I do it?” They were almost there!

Chirrut turned to Mothma.

With a smile and a nod, she said, “We’ll make sure you go free.”

It didn’t take much longer for the Empire’s most wanted man in the list to finally accept the mission.

⚭

As soon as he and Chirrut were alone in the bunker, Baze struck before the opportunity was lost.

“Chirrut!” He reached for his wrist and grasped air, but he knew all about his moves and first instincts and the man moved like an overplayed hologram in his head. What first started as a series of evasions became a quick exchange of blocked blows until Baze finally enclosed both his hands around both Chirrut’s wrists. Chirrut glared at him and tried to break the trap but Baze refused.

“How long have you been a part of the Alliance?” he spat out in one breath.

“Since you never returned, you bastard!” Chirrut directed a kick to his shin which Baze dodged with a quick shift in his leg but that was all Chirrut needed to regain his hands. He aimed the heel of a palm to Baze’s nose but met the side of his hand instead as he swung back for space.

They danced again, a well-rehearsed sparring track that went nowhere. Chirrut was the first to break out of the loop when he wove his fingers between Baze’s grasping ones and twisted their connected forearms only to be stopped mid-way by Baze catching him at a pressure point. Chirrut aimed a punch with his free hand but missed. Before the next breath, he pulled and pushed Chirrut through their joint limbs until he’d switched their places and flung his old friend to a mean corner with a solid slam. He received the business end of a harsh word for that.

“I came back to Jedha,” Baze explained quickly. “I tried to look for you but I couldn’t find you!”

“Then you should have tried harder,” Chirrut snarled. “Or you could have stayed!”

“I did it to protect you!”

“Leaving a blind man alone in the streets is protecting him?” Chirrut scowled. “Baze, I was becoming blind! I can hardly see now without these glasses!”

Unfortunately, Baze had no excuses. Only that he’d hoped he would be faster than Chirrut’s condition.

Now they marched down the tarmac together in hostile silence. Baze still nursed the bruise forming at his side after Chirrut marked it with his heel. He could practically see the smoke rising off Chirrut’s back, one shoulder weighed down by a well-worn duffel bag, the other a complicated mechanized hybrid of a bow and a cannon he knew was called a lightbow—because he’d made one himself in his youth. The lightbow was a weapon any self-respecting Guardian of the Whills carried with them.

He was surprised to see that Chirrut still had his and it looked like it was in perfect working condition, too. He’d lost any right to speak about it now, though—or about anything, actually. Chirrut really was mad—and should he even be surprised? He left him, there was no going around that fact.

He just hoped that Chirrut could maybe hear him out, assuming he still deserved the chance. He really had left him because he wanted to protect him. In those days, and as it always had, the Empire was growing stronger and stronger and they were getting hungrier and weaker. Baze felt that he had to do something about it so he became an Imperial mercenary hired on constant occasions by Orson Krennic. But he wasn’t in it for the money, although he liked to think that he’d used it to build himself up for his eventual betrayal. He wanted to be inside because he thought he could destroy the Empire from there, and that would stop the injustice and the cruelty. It was a sound plan but he was only one man bolstered only by two things: his righteous anger, and Chirrut Imwe.

In the end, he lost—he realized too late that in his vengefulness, he’d become too blind to see that he was willingly aiding the destruction of Legacy worlds, that he may as well have destroyed Jedha itself. After an assignment in Wadi Raffa, he left the Empire’s employment and hurried back to Jedha. He wanted to find Chirrut and go into hiding with him.

But he came too late; there was an Imperial attack against a separatist insurrection cell hiding out in the smaller corners of NiJedha—and that was the last anyone had seen of Chirrut Imwe. The only conclusion he could come to was that his friend, the man he had dedicated all his sacrifices to, had been killed then. He never realized that this was because Chirrut had already joined the Alliance.

Ever since, he felt like a lost soul, a shadow unanchored to a pair of feet. He grabbed every opportunity he could to kill any Imperial in sight. He became an assassin for redemption, to avenge his friend. He became acquainted to the unlikeliest people and hid his past to all except one—a young woman named Liana Hallik who later revealed herself to him as Jyn Erso, daughter of Galen Erso. She was a star in the midst of the darkness of the war-torn galaxy. She was Saw’s rebel, throwing herself at the line of fire if it meant one more day of defying the Empire that had destroyed her life. But more importantly, she was his little sister.

He promised her he would protect her, the same way he once promised Chirrut he would keep him safe. Figures that he would fail Jyn, too, the same way he’d failed Chirrut. Baze felt ugly—he felt like he was trading one for the other in his thirst for redemption. If all things went to pot, he had no one to blame but himself. He was here in the middle of a crossroads because of his own stupid decisions.

“Captain Imwe!”

Baze turned with Chirrut to see the red-haired general striding up to them and half-wondered if he had more bitterness to spew. Baze didn’t mind, he understood it was like peeing and you couldn’t hold it back, but he thought they were under the clock here?

“Wait in the U-wing,” Chirrut muttered as he dumped his things on him. Baze grunted in surprise and almost fell with the combined weight of Chirrut’s fat pack, his lightbow, his slightly more emaciated pack and the heavy set of his armor, ammo tank and cannon. It was all he could do not to fall apart or die of hernia when he finally climbed aboard the dinghy little freighter—which was all gray and mismatched, modified machinery plugged onto wherever there was space, leaving enough for a small crew’s legroom. It wasn’t much. At all. If this was the best that the rebellion had to offer—which he hoped to doubt because that would be depressing—it was…well, depressing anyway.

Baze found that he liked it, though. There was a warmth in there that was probably only reserved for people like them, people like him who made do with whatever, customizing and reinventing something that would soon be a part of him. His red armor, his bulky ammo tank, the hundred-in-one cannon that had saved his life more than once, he didn’t buy them off somewhere or much less stole them. He made them—started from scratch and built them up into the monster that he loved.

He caught himself smiling slightly in appreciation of this patched up ship when someone called his attention with: “Hey. You’re Baze Malbus, aren’t you?”

“Hm?” Baze directed his attention to a slight man working on one of the communication panels to his right. He was definitely dressed to be a member of this crew: long hair tied up, goggles on his head, a dark green-gray Imperial flight suit with a black band wrapped haphazardly over the insignia (he couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just pull it off. If he was an Imperial spy—which Baze highly doubted—he was surprised he made it this far) and a fat, sagging utility vest. He looked like he was born straight out of the U-wing.

“Baze Malbus, Captain Imwe’s friend,” he added. His voice had a slight husk in it, and his eyes were too large and friendly for Baze’s comfort. He was instantly on his guard even though the man was smiling and he could break him in three if he wanted. “The captain told me I’d be meeting you.”

“Huh,” Baze said. Suddenly aware of himself, he put down Chirrut’s stuff, letting them lean against the wall.

The U-wing’s son took this as an opportunity to come forward with a hand out, even though Baze was in the middle of unslinging his own baggage. “Bodhi Rook,” he introduced himself. “I’m the pilot.”

In that one moment, Baze remembered three things: Bodhi was the pilot who came to pick him up from Wobani and told him happily, “Congratulations! You’re being rescued.” He was also the pilot for this mission, and he was also the Imperial defector. The pilot who provided the Alliance intel on the Empire’s superweapon.

“I remember you,” Baze said.

Bodhi smiled again, then looked at his unshaken hand consciously and wiped it in his suit. Baze wondered if he should apologize for completely forgetting about that part in their conversation. With a hesitant cheerfulness, the pilot added, “The captain also has me working on strategic analysis now.”

Baze nodded. With nothing left to say, Bodhi went back hastily to the panel he was working on. While he did that, Baze found himself a place on the U-wing’s central bench. His pack met the floor, and then carefully, his ammo tank.

Seated this way gave him a good view of the bay beyond, an empty plot of land save for a few fighters and pilots in the background and smack dab in the middle, General Draven and Chirrut Imwe, standing in quiet discussion. Chirrut had changed so much, he noticed belatedly. It wasn’t just in his bomber jacket, his combat pants or his hair, which was still short but too long and unruly for a respectable Guardian. He saw it more vividly in his stance—that weary, business-like form of a true rebel. Ever since they were young, he always stood with the gracefulness of a bird, spine straight, chin high, shoulders low. Now his figure was twisted with impatience, his chin deep and his shoulders skewed while he carried his weight on one leg, his hands on his sides.

“I uhh…heard that you defected, too.”

“Uhh,” Baze couldn’t pull away his eyes from the general and the captain until the last minute. He looked to Bodhi who looked back at him, a harris wrench in hand. “What?”

Bodhi used his tool to indicate him, then twirled it like a magic trick in his hand, a habit borne out of practice. “The captain said you defected from the Empire, too.”

He was looking for kinship, that much was obvious. Fellow defectors like him. Baze shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. I wasn’t really a part of the Empire, though.”

“Why not?”

“I was a mercenary, and an assassin.” Baze tossed his hand slightly. “I get hired to do their dirty work.”

“Oh,” Bodhi said, because what else was there to say? He held on to his harris wrench, which suddenly looked like a weapon in his hand.

And then he turned to the ammo tank sitting idly by Baze’s feet, and said again, “Ohhh…”

⚭

“Galen Erso is vital to the Empire’s weapons program,” General Draven reminded him as they stood outside the U-wing. “There will be no extraction. You find him, you kill him. Then and there.”

Easier said than done, as all expectations from General Draven were but this particular order came with a special set of complications—namely Baze Malbus and Bodhi Rook.

Two men inadvertently connected to two Ersos. Chirrut might as well find a rock in the vast forest of Yavin IV and smack himself up the head with it. This was not a problem he would have fun solving at all, assuming he could come up with a win-win situation for everyone involved. He was going to use an old friend—who he manipulated through his guilt—to help him murder his friend’s father, and he was going to betray another friend whose defection was encouraged by none other than the victim himself, Galen Erso. The man who held Bodhi’s greatest respect.

How would he even begin to lie? How would Chirrut begin to destroy everything that was important to him? His reason for living?

For what it was worth, his mission did at least tell him one thing: Baze Malbus was still important to him. That much was clearer than crystal now. He could direct all the anger, all the hatred this galaxy and this Dark Side of the Force could spare to this man who abandoned him as easily as one would dump old clothes, but it would still break his heart if Baze ever severed their relationship. He had been the one who recommended his extraction, after all, hadn’t he? He had been the one to throw all caution to the wind when he sent that message from hyperspace.

He could barely look at his hunched form when he finally climbed aboard the U-wing and went for his pack. Baze didn’t bother with him either, too interested with the clicks and slides of the cannon he was breaking open and sealing again. Bodhi was doing flight preps in the cockpit.

This was a good neutral topic to cover his guilt, Chirrut decided. He nodded towards the youngest man among them and asked, “You met Bodhi?”

Baze, his cannon split in half, stopped to regard the smaller man hidden behind the pilot’s chair. “Nice kid,” he said. “Where’d you pick him up?”

“I didn’t pick him up, he defected,” Chirrut spat in a hurry, carrying his belongings to the back of the co-pilot’s seat where he would be spending the duration of the journey in. Not exactly a smart place to put them but he had to look busy, like they were running late. The more movement he made, the less he would remember his guilt.

He chanced upon Baze’s backpack next to his feet. That overcompensating piece of metal that baffled everyone in the Alliance when they saw it in the holding room. He doubted that there was any rock in the entire galaxy where it was considered even borderline legal.

He decided to pick on that, too. “You couldn’t find a bigger gun, could you?”

Baze paused from his inspection again and responded to Chirrut’s needless criticism with a high brow. He looked at his hip and nodded to it. “You have a lightsaber.” Okay, Chirrut didn’t expect that.

He grabbed the metallic stub of his folded stick and scowled. He climbed into his seat and started to do his own flight preps.

“Seal the doors. Pull away in five,” Chirrut instructed mechanically.

“Copy that,” Bodhi responded flatly.

That was enough to throw Chirrut off his rhythm. Bodhi was never so lackluster on his assignments, not when he’d practically had to walk on burning embers to be inducted into the Alliance Fleet. And that opened Chirrut up to the noisy buzz that surrounded Bodhi’s form which sat hunched and tensed over his settings. The buzz was non-existent, of course, at least in the normal sense of the word. It belonged to a layer much deeper than the one most everyone perceived, a layer that connected everyone to each other. Something that he could read in spite of all the violations he’d committed against his faith. Well, it didn’t take a weapons engineer to find out, really. Leaning slightly to the stoic pilot, Chirrut whispered kindly, “Bodhi? I sense fear in you.”

Bodhi jumped and whirled to stare at him. He would be the recipient of a smile stubbornly refused of Baze who had probably expected it from a long overdue reunion. Well, if he’d waited that long for it, he could probably afford to wait a little more. For now.

The pilot threw a nervous glance over his shoulder towards Baze’s shape. He shifted closer to the rebel spy who quirked his brows up in amusement. “Your friend, Baze Malbus,” he whispered. He directed another furtive look at the man, as if all these theatrics could keep their conversation a secret from the assassin. Chirrut almost wanted to laugh, a strange feeling to be felt in relation to the man he hadn’t seen in ages. “He really did defect from the Empire, right?”

“Did he give you any reason to doubt that?” Chirrut turned to Baze to catch him polishing his cannon, a far quieter task than fiddling with his machinery although he didn’t have to work so hard to eavesdrop when it came to Bodhi.

“It’s just…” Bodhi hissed, flicking his tongue across his lips nervously. “Well. He said he was an assassin hired by the Empire…to do the dirty job. So. I’m just thinking.”

“What if this was all a setup and he was hired to silence us?”

“Yes!” Bodhi said, who himself carried a hefty bounty for betraying the Empire and committing theft. Excited now, he spoke quickly. “I just think that the probability of him using his weapon against us is high—very high!” he amended quickly.

Well. If Bodhi found out the truth behind his mission, the probability of him using Baze’s cannon against him would also be very high. At least Bodhi didn’t know how to shoot. Which may or may not be a good thing, depending on the context.

This was going to have to be one of those things without the right answers. It was times like this that Chirrut missed the past, when things used to be so simple, and everything was just the will of the Force.

The radio came on with an officer from the control room. They were cleared for take off. Chirrut heard the engines rising and what sounded like Baze securing himself lest he fall off. It almost felt like he was saying goodbye to yet another life. When this mission was over, there was no saying whose corpse would be flying back in the U-wing.

I am one with the Force, Chirrut found himself chanting, and the Force is with me.

Facing Bodhi again, he smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder. “Trust in the Force,” he said to him.

He could use a little reminder of the Force’s power himself.

[archiveofolives]

Ring of Keys and Other Stories III

A/N/SUMMARY this is the first hurt/comfort fic i have ever written my entire life so fair warning about amateur writing skills. this also doesn’t make any sense timeline-wise so just try to suspend disbelief for a bit thanks ♥ 

RATING/WARNINGS mature/extensive foreplay, mentions of sex, also the author does not know how to write intimate scenes At All

WORD COUNT 6,266

AO3 here

—

He heard the crack of his head more than he felt it. Not for the first time, he wondered if there would be blood leaking through a wound but that seemed a distant worry compared to a more urgent danger. Still dazed, he felt the man mount him, and those rough fingers close around his neck, driven by murderous intent. He choked, but those thumbs only pushed in further to ruin his windpipe. Maybe this time, maybe this time he would actually do it.

“Jedi scum!” Words of hate filtered through the mouthpiece of a helmet.

Chirrut grinned in spite of his pain, a laughter wheezing through his teeth. “Are you blind, as well?” he rasped. His words tasted the same as when he’d first spoken them: his blood and the dirt on his back. “You should get your eyes checked.” He felt the tension in his muscles as he pulled his lightbow free. It fanned out.

Heat burst at the pull of a trigger, a cruel hand ripping it from his belly. He gasped sharply, a man drowning. Numbness surrounded him like a heavy blanket. He felt disconnected all of a sudden, a vessel lost in the cold, dark void of space, floating untethered. He heard nothing, saw nothing.

Felt nothing. Not even the fingers still attached to his neck, or the dead weight pressed to his own. No fire, no empty coldness.

There was nothing.

⚭

Panic roused him from his nightmare. It took him a second to realize that he was awake—him being blind—until another one ticked and he discovered that no, not yet. He was still trapped within the phantoms of his mind, one of those cruel, endless dreams like a twisted torture machine. Horror seized him anew, coursing through his bones with an electrifying urgency as he struggled free from the arms that confined him and beat the body that suffocated him back. His breaths came in rapid gasps. He had to escape.

“Chirrut,” someone called to him. “Chirrut!”

He stopped just when a hand snatched both his wrists from their flight. He listened to the echoes of the room, the soft buzzing in the air like the wings of a tiny insect, acquainted his breathing to that one next to him. He knew that pattern, could play the sound of it even in his sleep.

“Baze…?” he whispered feebly, scared to get it wrong.

Baze exhaled a great sigh. “You’re awake,” he said in his deep voice that sent a comforting shudder down Chirrut’s spine. “You’re safe. No one will harm you here.”

A wave of relief washed over Chirrut, his limbs turning to gel. Recollection followed swiftly and surely as he sank back to the rough face of their one pillow. It smelled strongly of naphthalene and cold stone, the way the rest of their windowless, narrow apartment did. The way home smelled like.

Baze had practically dragged him there after the encounter near the market and stayed with him except for when he had to go and scout for dinner or use the communal bathroom, which always left Chirrut half-mad with anxiety. The only way he could fall asleep then was to be pressed up to Baze, nose to skin, both of them stripped to the waist and covered in layers of thin blankets up to the neck. Chirrut leeched off the man’s warmth and odor, languished in them. Baze kept his hands and arms where Chirrut could feel them.

“You had a nightmare,” Baze said, freeing his wrists. It was both a question and an answer.

Chirrut considered the silence a bit longer, though empty thoughts were all he had, before he replied, “You haven’t been sleeping.” He felt not unlike a child, meeting accusation with even more accusations in a desperate effort to come off cleaner and more worthy of forgiveness.

Baze shifted slightly beside him. He still smelled of sweat, sweet musk, the heat of his skin and warm metal. “I managed a bit,” he admitted. “I woke up again when you got all tensed. And then you started hitting me.”

Chirrut’s eyes fell, drawn by habit. A careful hand alighted Baze’s shoulder, its muscles coiled tight from carrying his armor and his ammo tank day in and day out, and then followed an invisible map down to his solid chest. Baze’s hand, rough, but warm and familiar, sealed it to his flesh. “Forgive me. I’d thought you were…” The corpse, still trapping him to the ground, immovable. He could not say it, not out of good manners, but simply that it was a thought he could not fathom. Baze’s corpse. Not even his nightmares could be so powerful as to draw for him something so…unreal. Baze’s non-presence, his inexistence. How could that be when he was always around? Just there, within arm’s reach.

Baze didn’t chase it. Chirrut knew he knew what he meant but was grateful for the silence all the same. “What time is it?” he asked softly, seeking another subject.

Baze shifted again. He felt the bed sink a little beside him, as it would if Baze braced his weight on an elbow. The answer didn’t come quickly. “Three hours past midnight,” he said. Chirrut knew then that the tenement’s power supply was scraping the last of its dregs again, and that the single light panel on the ceiling was probably not performing at its optimum. That would explain why the air buzzed when there were no windows to speak of. Baze had said, when they’d moved in, that it was like the color of a fierce sunset when turned on. Now Chirrut imagined it was closer to mud than an everyday miracle, and that it was flickering besides.

“Three hours past midnight,” he sighed. Just three hours…and he still had an entire darkness to sleep through. He couldn’t take this.

He pushed down their covers and rose; his head felt a little heavy. In the soft silence, Chirrut sat, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The sheets rustled as the mattress bounced and creaked. Baze must have rearranged himself now that he no longer had to share their pillow. “I’d killed a man,” Chirrut began quietly to break the silence, turning a little to where he imagined Baze was lain, “hadn’t I?”

He knew, of course. He’d known since he pulled the trigger of his lightbow and blew a hole through his would-be murderer’s belly. As a youth, he learned that death was a part of life as much as birth was, and that killing for the defense and preservation of one’s ideals cannot be condemned if it must be done. He had no regrets, but he could not have been less prepared to take a life. This was only the first time he’d done it.

He remembered again the great, black weight pushing the air out of him, the smell of scorched flesh and burnt air mingling with metal. He could still taste them in his mouth, bitter like poison. Baze had come to rescue him before he threw up lying down, practically flinging the corpse off him as he gathered him in his arms, clawing him from the dirt. He might have been sobbing. He might have been retching over his shoulder, he couldn’t remember that part too well.

Only this: Baze’s voice hissing to his ear, “Remember what you taught me? When we were kids. I am one with the Force,” he inhaled, “And the Force is with me,” and exhaled. “I am one with the Force…and the Force is with me. Breathe with me, Chirrut! I am one with the Force…”

It was a breathing technique he’d discovered to aid with their exercises when they were still initiates. He never imagined then that Baze would use it to save his life.

He waited in silence for the man’s response…

“That’s about the size of it,” he said.

Chirrut snorted, smirking a little. “That’s one way of putting it,” he agreed. He returned slowly to his feet, toes wiggling and flexing as if he could see them play. The muted buzzing of the light filled the space again. An unchanging rhythm, the music of a private world.

He opened his mouth. “I…” he began uncertainly, looking for a discernible path through his labyrinthine thoughts, a way to punch through the crowd, to make it give. “…felt him. Baze,” he finished, flicking a tongue across his lips. “He was…there.” His hands rose to hold a shape between his shoulders. “A black mass, coiling and shifting. He would have killed me. I would have suffocated. It felt…” His brows twisted with the pain of remembrance. It was difficult to find the words to describe something that was…much more than all of them. The Force was never meant to be pared down to such simple words, but he persisted. “Heavy,” he said. “I felt its crushing weight on my chest, expanding. It was…” His features writhed again. “like dread. Cold and hot at the same time. Like you perspired,” he tossed a hand somewhere to his right, “but inside, you felt cold. I never thought I’d meet anyone who could be filled with so much anger. And hatred and abhorrence. And bask in them.”

His shoulders fell, and he shuddered. His stomach felt hollow inside him. “And then he was…gone. I, I pulled the trigger and he…” His hands flew up. “Shattered. Torn to pieces. To…” Non-existence. “Nothing,” he said. “I…” His hands fell on his chest. He felt restless with confusion and shock, both of them etched deeply on his face. “felt him. He was there, alive, breathing with so much…intensity!” He tossed his hands up. “I, I just…” He frowned at his feet. “I just don’t understand how something so…big, so powerful and…so present…alive could suddenly be nothing. He was alive, he was bearing down on me but all that could not have preserved him from nothingness. How could there be nothing in spite of it all?” he demanded of Baze, turning to him. “If that’s how it all works, if that’s how it all ends, then what are we worth? We’re supposed to be connected to the Force of others. All of us!”

Baze said nothing. There might have been a time when the man—when he was still a boy—might have shined some light on the will of the Force but that boy was gone, and it was not the boy or the man’s fault. Chirrut could not and would not take it against him. He never expected Baze to attempt an answer, just to hear him out.

But when the sheets shifted and the mattress moved, Chirrut waited with eager patience, holding himself still. Baze’s warmth filled his back, and then those arms engulfed him, anchoring him to the man’s energy, connecting them again. He shuddered with relief, embracing those arms, wearing them like a scarf. He inched backwards. He wanted to be closer still, closer than their flesh allowed them to be.

“I’m so glad you’re still alive,” he sighed, shaking while Baze marked his bare shoulder, the crook of his neck and the side of his head with kisses, his beard and mustache scraping lightly at his skin. These reminders of Baze’s life, his presence, his warm, large, familiar presence, became his shield against his nightmares, against trauma. He filled himself with them, breathed them in. He wanted to focus on Baze, and only him. He was the safe world where nothingness did not exist. If Chirrut had to compare him to something else, he was like a burning hearth. Light, warm, safe, golden. Within his circle, he was protected from the darkness that surrounded them.

“You’re just saying that to congratulate yourself,” Baze mumbled between his kisses.

Chirrut laughed with his breath. “You don’t sound happy,” he said. That was how it all started, after all, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one expected an incursion of stormtroopers in a sprawling marketplace and when it happened, all he and Baze could think of was saving the civilians from the crossfire between the Empire and Saw’s rebels. Baze had stayed close to him as he charged forth, throwing and kicking down anything that could block the fighters and pave a safe exit until a child, a young aqualish, had run out into the open despite his mother’s warnings to stay inside. Baze rushed to pick him up, saving him.

And then Chirrut came in to smash his lightbow onto a stormtrooper who’d aimed at Baze and the child. He would later pay for that with his neck.

“You haven’t even thanked me yet,” Chirrut reminded him when he paused from his kisses to breathe in his thin hair. He raised a hand to slip his fingers between Baze’s thicker locks, idly pressing on his crown like a lazy masseuse.

“You sound like a tax collector,” Baze said and they laughed. Briefly.

It felt good to laugh, but it felt as if he’d forgotten how to do it. There seemed nothing to laugh about. There was nothing to laugh about. He’d killed a stormtrooper. He’d killed a stormtrooper.

Baze pressed a kiss to his ear. “You’re not cracking any jokes,” he whispered.

Chirrut turned slightly towards him. “Do you want one?”

“If it’s black humor, I don’t want it. You don’t do black humor well.”

Chirrut smirked a little. “Shame that,” he said quietly. And then those arms slipped away from him. And then he panicked. His connection to the Force of others. Baze’s presence, they were both leaving him again. Alone. He sat in complete paralysis, hardly breathing, straining his ears to follow Baze’s movements even when the man’s warm hands fell on his arms and pulled him gently around.

“What?” Baze asked, the slightest tension ringing in his voice, although he may as well have screamed and shaken Chirrut, and he would have heard it no differently. “What? I’m here.”

Baze was here. And of course he would be. Where else would he go? What was he thinking? Even in the past, Baze would not have left if Chirrut had stopped him, no matter that they parted ways in bitterness then.

He felt his face burning. He couldn’t even look up to Baze in his embarrassment. He raised both hands to his head.

“Hey,” Baze beckoned to him, tilting his head up a bit. “You’re in shock. You’re traumatized.”

“What did you feel when you’d first killed a person?” The question spilled out of Chirrut in one breath, hands falling to the space between his crossed legs. “Was it this? Did you feel the life go out of them? Did you look for it? One second, it was connected to yours and then it wasn’t. Was it like that?”

“It should have been,” Baze answered carefully, a tinge of sadness in his voice. In the confines of their four walls, Chirrut heard it loudly and clearly. He felt it in his being, where it resonated. “But…you know…it wasn’t. I don’t see…and feel the Force the same way as you do anymore.”

Chirrut’s brows met. “So it was just…nothing. You felt nothing before you killed the person…and you felt nothing after you killed them.”

A pause…but Chirrut already knew what he was going to say: “That’s about—”

“—the size of it,” Chirrut finished with him. He was surprised to feel the familiar tugs of a smile on his face. “That seems awfully convenient.”

“If disrespectful.”

Baze knew the concepts, of course, even though he’d lost faith. He was raised in it, it had been his life, the air that he breathed. It was how they met, what pulled them together.

He felt Baze’s rough fingers stroking the tips of his. His hands fanned outwards, turning over, and Baze filled his palms with his. They folded their fingers around each other, a habit that had survived years of separation. Something that came back to them as easily as a happy memory.

Something slammed against the wall, and then the entire place thrummed deeply. The heating had come on, a clunky old thing that kept the tenement’s residents half-alive somehow. There was a soft clink overhead. Chirrut imagined that the light had gone out. Thankfully, neither of them needed it.

“What are we going to do?” he asked, seemingly bolstered by the cover of the generator’s motors.

“What do you mean?” Baze asked.

“I killed a stormtrooper.”

Baze snarled. “They had it coming.”

“Baze,” Chirrut shook their combined hands, “we talked about this. This was not supposed to happen!”

“So you should have just let him kill me and then kill you.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Chirrut snapped. He never did pull back even when Baze was starting to show a little of his temper. He always figured that was part of why they worked so well together. “We have tried to oppose the Empire and look at what happened. Look where we are now!” He shook those hands again. “We were supposed to stay low. To find an opportunity to strike. Let me be clear on one thing: I may not like what Death felt like but I do not regret killing a stormtrooper when he was asking for it.”

Their walls jumped again and the heating changed pitches, moving a notch lower.

“But if the Empire finds out what happened—”

“That stormtrooper,” Baze responded with a slow, low, and careful tone, with just a hint of his natural grumble, “could have been killed by me, a rebel, or one of their own, caught in a misfire.”

“That’s the thing about this place!” Chirrut protested. “There are spies everywhere. Imperial spies, rebel spies, Saw’s spies. There are spies for spies of spies!” He broke a hand free from Baze’s grasp, flinging it behind him to the approximate direction of the door. “Those stormtroopers would never have found the marketplace if no one told them it was one of Saw’s strongholds.”

“You think Saw’s rebels, his ragtag crew, are actually professionals, don’t you?” Baze asked with a note of surprise.

“If they knew about the marketplace long before, then why didn’t they attack it then? Why now?”

“I won’t say I know the Empire’s reasons,” Baze said, “but I won’t be surprised if they’d known about it all this time and simply chosen to strike now.”

“So nowhere is safe,” Chirrut said with a finality. His face crumpled at his ghastly conclusion. “One day, at their fancy, they could just…grab us and that would be that. There’s no telling what will happen after.”

“Chirrut, what are you saying?” Baze asked, sounding incredulous. “Do you mean…are you saying we should leave NiJedha? Do you hear yourself?”

Chirrut didn’t know if that was what he’d meant, but he couldn’t say it wasn’t what he’d meant either. Could he really do it, though? Leave the world that he knew, leave the life he was constantly being forced out of to maybe find a new one. He thought about the Temple of the Kyber, his old friends and those that have shown charity to him and Baze. He thought about the streets he could walk blind, even without Baze by his side. The familiar spices, how the earth used to smell when it was still rich.

In spite of himself, his lips made an upward twitch. “We could go and make our own nomadic crew. It’ll be fun.”

“I guess you’re feeling better now.”

Chirrut offered a small smile. “I try,” he said.

Shyly, the light clinked again. Chirrut didn’t ask if it was back on, or how bright it was.

“So what are you really saying?” Baze asked after a moment.

The answer came to him with surprising clarity: “I just don’t want us to be separated again.” He didn’t want the stormtrooper’s nothingness to happen to them, and the dreadful future of the Empire storming into their tiny room, ripping them apart with no hopes of reconciliation. Baze was his comfort when the Temple fell. He had protected him all this time, and he’d saved him earlier when he’d killed the stormtrooper and succumbed to his shock. He cared for him after…where would he be without him? What could, and would, he do without him?

“I could kill,” he continued, “a thousand stormtroopers…I could tear down the entire Empire with my own bare hands, for as long as I know that you will never be gone from me.”

“And where do you think am I going?” Baze asked. He thought he heard the softest laughter under his breath. He wondered if Baze was smiling.

He should burst out in happiness if he wanted to. Chirrut would love it. He understood why—a world without both of them together, whoever thought of something so stupid? But for now, he couldn’t join Baze in his certainty. He just had to say one more thing, one last thing before he would allow himself to be returned to the darkness and sleep, to Baze’s arms and reassuring presence. “Somewhere I can’t follow,” he replied earnestly. “Somewhere I can’t find you. Where you can’t find your way back.”

If that place existed, they didn’t want to think about it just now. Chirrut knew that if it ever came to a point where they had to be parted, they would fight to find their way back, no matter how ruined that might leave them. Scars were old friends to them. Wounds and broken bones, they know how to mend. But without each other, these struggles, all that they’d been through, would mean nothing.

“Hey,” Baze said. “Look at me.”

“Really, Baze?” Chirrut chuckled even as Baze commandeered his face to look at him. Baze clicked his tongue. Chirrut suddenly, and finally laughed.

“Blind fool,” Baze muttered. His hands came off Chirrut’s cheeks. “Remember that game we used to play when we were young?”

“Now you’re making us sound our age.”

“When you’d just gotten blind? You didn’t like being touched because you couldn’t see who was touching you. Your ears were still weak…it became a problem because you were having trust issues.”

He remembered, of course. That had been a trying time. But Baze never left him, even when he’d given him every reason to do it. Even then, he was always beside him.

“So I thought, how do I get you back? I couldn’t just let this go on and leave you in the dark forever. Do you remember how to play it?”

Softly, Baze’s hand alighted his face, tips on his forehead, palm on his nose and lips…it was hard to fight off a smile when nostalgia reached out to you. Those sweet old days when all he worried about were his duans, or being caught by the Abbot outside his curfew.

“Where am I?” Baze asked in a whisper, his voice rough.

That was how it always began. Chirrut knew where he wanted him to start, too. He took Baze’s hand and moved it down, until those fingers touched only his lips.

Baze obeyed readily, coming forward with a kiss. His breath shook upon contact, and he might have sighed in sweet bliss, shoulders falling slightly. He remembered that when they started this game, the young Chirrut had been so frightened to kiss back, at that point already uncertain of Baze’s motives for all that he’d done to make him comfortable. The game moved quickly in those days.

This time, he could not let Baze go without catching his face, trapping his fingers in his oily hair and running the others down a familiar route of scars, wrinkles, the rough mat of his beard, once an irritation, but now something closer to an obsession. He might have trembled just at the feel of it, knowing the places it would go.

He felt Baze’s smirk and he chided him for it, wiping it off his lips with his own kiss. They slipped and parted, and met again in an unhurried state, sucking lightly. Baze’s lips were chapped. At any other night, he might have scolded him gently for it but the rules of the game had no room for such domesticity. Instead, Chirrut welcomed himself to nip at Baze’s lower lip as they parted again. Baze rested his hands carefully on the back of Chirrut’s bare shoulder as an anchor of sorts. In the past, he never did that. In the past, he touched only when asked.

Chirrut ran the tip of his tongue lightly under Baze’s lips. His heart was pounding. When Baze moved in to kiss him again, he stopped him to ask, “Where are you?” He caught the edge of Baze’s lips with his thumb just as the man smirked again. In response, he found himself biting his lower lip. He couldn’t say if he did that on purpose or not.

Baze rose; something about the bed felt lighter and steadier. A young Chirrut might have started to panic at this point but now, he was hard-pressed to keep his smile to himself, even when he bowed his head to hide it. Practiced ears kept track of Baze’s footfalls to his right, soft and heavy. Quiet—but never to him. These were the steps of a trained predator, but to Chirrut that word just meant something different.

He’d almost told him, I can hear you, you know? but swallowed the jab before he broke the rules. For a time, Baze was silent. He’d stopped, but Chirrut knew he was somewhere behind him.

Baze? Chirrut imagined himself asking, even turned his head slightly to his shoulder.

Those hands fell carefully on his back again, fingers folding to hold him in place. Chirrut was grinning where Baze supposedly couldn’t see him. That was when he sank into the mattress again; by the weight, Chirrut could tell that he was on his knees. Anticipation built up in him, his breathing coming out louder but still controlled.

Tender lips met the base of his skull. Chirrut arched his back slightly with a delightful shudder. A hand fell lightly on his crown to guide him sideways. Chirrut craned his neck happily to his left to welcome Baze to his open right. He took it with tender kisses, mustache poking softly, scraped his teeth lightly on the empty flesh which made Chirrut laugh. He left a trail of wet patches all along his shoulder that only seemed to frustrate the blind man. He swallowed a little and flicked his tongue briefly over his dry lips. He wanted those lips again, but he would be patient. He knew he would get more of that later where it came from.

He followed Baze on his way up to his neck, the edge of his jaw and finally his ear. He kissed it, and Chirrut shuddered. Could he do it again?

“Where am I?” Baze asked. He did it again.

Chirrut felt happy. There were so many places he wanted explored now, so many places he wanted Baze to touch. He turned, shifting and wiggling until he was facing his general direction again. His pants had gotten rather twisted up around him in all that movement.

He raised a hand, and Baze took it. Chirrut smiled. Now where could he put that hand? He could finish the game now and move on to the next, but he figured they had all night to play.

He carried it, slowly, to his throat, swallowing so Baze’s thumb could feel the bobbing movement keenly. Baze responded by tracing the shape of it with his own fingers, careful and light. Chirrut breathed deeply, smiling wider. When he went to sleep tonight, he knew this would be what he would dream about then: rough fingers cupping the column of his neck tenderly.

Hands drawing a path down to his chest, those calloused pads scraping lightly. Chirrut barely bit back a whimper of disappointment when they slipped down to his tummy but Baze whispered shushes. Promises that Chirrut hung onto. They would get there soon—but for now, his fingers slipped to the sides of his waist and pulled forward slightly, holding him in place once more.

Chirrut obeyed happily, a marionette in the hands of his master, and a quiet one at that even when it seemed like Baze was going to make him wait forever for his kisses. Even though his chest was bursting, and he could hardly breathe at the suspense. Baze felt absolutely still, steady—stubborn—as a rock. He was like a void that melted into the humming of the walls, and Chirrut would have been driven mad had it not been for Baze’s solid grip around him, the one thing that anchored him to everything. He could hardly feel his own fingers curled over his knees, tensed. Please, his entire being seemed to beg.

He almost leapt with joy when Baze’s lips closed into the skin of his throat, nipping lightly. It made him laugh again. He loved it. He tucked his fingers into Baze’s tangle of hair to pull him closer, trapping him before he got any smart ideas again. The bastard knew how to play this game he made, after all. And he laughed, too, the ass.

Baze’s lips moved up and down his throat, his kisses wet, erasing the trauma from the fight. He traced his path back to the skin under Chirrut’s chin with the length of his tongue and Chirrut sighed, his breath shaking.

“Where are you?” Chirrut breathed.

Baze rose. Chirrut held his breath. Those hot hands released him, callous brushing, and scaled his back up to the pits of his arms where he held him again. Chirrut’s chest expanded. He waited in expectation.

When Baze kissed him at the tip of his nose, Chirrut sent a sharp kick out to Baze’s thigh, easily displaced when the man knocked it sideways with his knee. He was barking in delight, Baze with him, a full-blown laugh that filled their entire room, bounced off the walls where once there was only dread and silence. This was not what he was promised!

“Where are you!” Chirrut demanded, face split sideways with a mean beam. Baze had given him the wrong answer, but he loved him for it. It felt good to laugh, to worry about nothing except…except nothing. What was there to worry about when he was safe? Baze answered whenever he asked, ever-present.

Now the silence that passed between them was the kind of silence shared by lovers. Soft. Comfortable. A secret language only they could decrypt. Their foreheads met in a single motion. Chirrut breathed in Baze’s scent—the oil in his hair, NiJedha on his skin, his breath. He wanted to be covered in them, swathed, soaked. His fingers traced the shape of Baze’s jaw, fell lightly on his shoulders to bend and knead. Baze groaned contentedly. One day, he’ll have to look into those tightened muscles, but not tonight.

“Where are you?” Chirrut asked quietly.

He was on his lips, sealing him with a full kiss, and then he was traveling down to his open chest—a violation of the rules of their little game but no one was keeping tabs anymore. Baze’s mouth opened up, warm breath tickling him, and swallowed one of his taut tips with a wet kiss. Chirrut arched forward with a gasp and a sigh, fingers weaving together at the back of Baze’s neck to keep them close. Not that Baze was going anywhere—he lapped and nipped, and then he suckled. Chirrut’s pleasure came out in half-made grunts, milky blue eyes rolling back. He missed the days he could still watch Baze. He used to get off at the sight of his lathering tongue, at those eyes looking up to him with a challenge. He thought about those eyes as Baze’s lips bit, and his tongue flicked. He thought about how soaked he was. He whined, writhing between his legs. Could he ask Baze to touch him there?

That thought flew out of his mind when a hand ghosted to his untouched nipple and pinched it. His shock came out with a cry but the hand was as relentless as the tongue, twisting and playing, stroking and pressing. A deep moan escaped him from his open mouth. His heart was racing and his form was sagging. Chirrut’s mind was torn between two pleasures, the pressure between his thighs and the heat within his belly.

It stopped all of a sudden, and he couldn’t be more relieved. He was done with this.

Baze climbed up to his lips for a quick kiss and the question he’d been waiting for: “Where am I?”

Everywhere. He wanted him to be everywhere.

“Take me home,” Chirrut asked of him, panting. That was the end of the game—and thank all that was holy for it, too.

Baze was quick to celebrate it with a crushing kiss, inelegant as compared to their earlier sweetnesses, one that was sure to leave a flowering bruise but Chirrut took it in its entirety, sucking him back. He braced his hands around Baze while the man looped an arm around the back of his waist and guided him down, back to the pillow. Their lips broke with a smack as Baze flew up. Chirrut growled out in frustration but he wasn’t one to waste a second on waiting uselessly. His ears followed Baze’s progress, his grunts, the sound of fabric sliding down flesh, as his own hands worked quickly to undo the cords of his trousers and shove down his bottoms. Baze’s hands came to help, and then they were throwing off their clothes and Baze was crawling up to Chirrut, who spread his freed legs wide open for the man. They kissed, wet and quick and repetitive. A pleasant shudder ran up Chirrut’s spine when he felt the familiar weight of Baze’s length on the inside of his thigh. Anticipation carried his knees up.

They shared the first of their long kisses for the night, Chirrut trapping Baze’s jaws with his hands again, when the man drew a line down his aching sex to catch its length. Chirrut gasped and moaned within their mouths. His toes folded themselves back while Baze measured him up and down the shaft, grip slipping easily with his first seeds.

Chirrut had to break the kiss to breathe and to ask him one thing, “Don’t make me come. Not just yet.”

“I know,” Baze assured him and kissed him quickly.

“You know how, and when, I want it done,” Chirrut groaned, raising his head to meet Baze on his forehead again. “I want to do it that way.”

“Don’t worry too much,” Baze chuckled. “You’re in good hands.”

Chirrut laughed at the pun, smiling widely. “Baze, I’m so glad you’re alive…”

Imagine his shock when Baze’s hand froze mid-stroke. It felt like a cold lake had been poured down his rising libido, catching his breath, filling his lungs with shaking nerves. He started to ask why but Baze beat him to it with a serious question of his own: “Do you mean that honestly or is that an innuendo?”

Confusion lasted Chirrut all of a second. With a sudden enlightenment, he burst out in laughter, shoulders shaking so hard, he had to fall back to the bed because he couldn’t carry his head anymore. Somewhere in the ruckus he was making, Baze was chortling. He kissed Chirrut’s chin, nipped him on his throat and proceeded to leave the same breadcrumbs down to Chirrut’s parted legs.

“Oh Baze,” Chirrut wheezed, breathing heavily in bliss. “When did you get so funny? Who are you and what have you done to my Baze?”

“I’ve always been here, Chirrut.” Those warm hands wrapped themselves around his fruits and Chirrut hummed in pleasure. “I never left you.”

“I know,” he sighed happily, fingers grasping for their sheets. “I know,” he repeated, because it was a joyful rediscovery. He knew. Chirrut had always known that about Baze.

He felt Baze’s breath on his waiting length. He hissed, and let out a moan too soon which made Baze laugh. He certainly knew how to take his time. A kitten’s kiss fell on his throbbing head and he shuddered. A wet tongue ran up the underside of the shaft and Chirrut whimpered, “Please.” He swore he was leaking, even before Baze had taken him.

Their walls thrummed as the heating came back on, a chorus to Chirrut’s sighs and moans, the soft exhalations of Baze’s name. He lost track of it when his moans came out in tight gasps and whimpers, cries of pleading that followed the rhythm of Baze’s sucking. He couldn’t remember what had led them to here. That heavy black mass that had encroached his waking hours suddenly seemed so insignificant to Baze’s warmth, his all-encompassing light and fire. Safety. Home.

He would take it all. He would take Baze’s fingers slipping inside his entrance, the taste of Baze’s sex as he wrapped his mouth and tongue around the head. His rocking motions, his grunts and groans of victory.

They were an orchestra of pleasure, filling the room with the music of their union, banishing the nightmares that had once lingered. They passed the remaining hours of darkness hand-in-hand, their bodies entwined.

Chirrut woke up with a kiss from Baze and a quiet, sweet, “Good morning.” Hearing that the night had passed, Chirrut smiled.

[archiveofolives]

Ring of Keys and Other Stories I

A/N/SUMMARY in which liv tries to avoid coming up with individual titles and cool summaries for all themes so y'all are getting something half-assed lmao. just pretend this is a short story collection and the first one’s for the theme first impression which is all that you need to know about it actually. but this was inspired by a song in the musical fun home entitled ring of keys (obviously the only title i could come up with) and just a word of warning, if you’re planning to go see it, bring some goddamn tissue. set in the younger days of baze malbus and chirrut imwe, when growth spurts were still all the rage

RATING/WARNINGS g/mentions of sex organs but otherwise none. these are kids, what do you expect

WORD COUNT 3,489

AO3 here

—

Sometimes, Chirrut didn’t know why he even bothered to put up with his friends in the first place. Here they were, in the grand library of the Temple of the Kyber, a vast storage of knowledge reaching far beyond the system that they knew—and what were they doing?

“Holy…look at the size of that thing!”

“It can’t grow that big, can it?”

Looking at penis pictures.

“Well, maybe for an aqualish, it can’t,” Dama, one of his human friends, snickered.

In retaliation to this accusation, the aqualish Omi rose and batted Dama right on his shaven head. His two other friends, Kar and Lin the duros, threw themselves to their fullest heights in response and came between Dama and Omi before they caused any damages that could not be excused as a training accident. At any other time, Chirrut might have risen to help.

He wasn’t in the mood for it just now, though. For one, unlike his friends, he still hadn’t quite reached his growth spurt which would put him at quite a disadvantage and for another, he still felt sour over losing the private reading time (and what little of it he could manage already!) he had pinched for himself just because he, well, had to put up with his friends.

There was a reason, after all, why he’d gone through so much trouble to come to the library unnoticed. Following his afternoon prayers, he’d rushed out like an errand boy running late to his master’s bidding, employing the best of his budding stealth skills to sneak past the Elders and the older trainees without so much as a nod of respect.This was the most daring he’d ever been in his very short life thus far, the most insolent and worthy of punishment since he started on the path to be a Guardian of the Whills, but he reminded himself that all was fair in the pursuit of knowledge and the Force.

And knowledge, today, lied between the pages of a book called the Manual for Desire. Roughly translated from its original language, of course. But it meant the same thing either way: it was a textbook on courtship, marriage, copulation and maintaining the quality of life thereafter.

This was not a kind of reading that should be exposed to boys his age without proper guidance, and he doubted he had proper access to it either way but he’d heard it said that the Force moved differently between thoughts and intentions. It glowed to celebrate the birth of a new life and darkened around a person who was about to kill. Anger burned a black fire but at peace, the Force moved smoothly like a shallow sea. Since his first lesson about the nature of the Force, Chirrut had been quizzing his Elders about what it “looked” like and what it “felt” like.

But no one, not even the wisest of them all, had been able to tell him how the Force moved when one was in love.

At most, the answers he received were half-hearted simplifications—it was warm, it pulsed, it radiated—but mostly his Elders blushed, sputtered or redirected the conversation urgently to his duans when asked. Such a hodgepodge grasp of love’s Force could not satisfy a serious future Guardian like Chirrut Imwe. That was when he decided to take the bantha by the horns and seek this knowledge all by himself—for who better could he entrust with such a delicate task? And where better to start but in the Manual for Desire? Restrictions be damned and all.

He’d managed to acquire the holocron with little difficulty as soon as he’d located it in the directory. After loading it onto the viewer, Chirrut was on his way. Deft fingers swept past blue pages reflected onto the clear crystal surface that stood atop one of the holocron terminals in the circular reading table. The drawings of a man and a woman, a human couple, was done in the old way and did not move. But flipping through them brought them to life, and the man to the woman and eventually, the both of them out of their own clothes and into various positions that seemed impossible to achieve without aide of the Force.

Or at least that was what Chirrut thought, as he slowed down when the love story started, looking closely at the captions, at the figures, in case there was something he might miss. But all that he learned so far was where to touch a woman to please her and enhance her sexual energy, or how one should hold a “man’s stem” so as to invigorate him. Book’s words, not his.

He didn’t know what to make of them. It was obvious that the characters were passionately in love but Chirrut could not yet see the part where the Force entered (it would be years yet before he got this joke). The couple did not pulsate, they did not radiate.

He never got much farther than that, though. Sat in the middle of the dark reading room, surrounded only by the quiet blue lights of holocrons arranged in mile-long rows and ceiling-high shelves, he became the perfect target for a surprise visit from his friends. As it turned out, it wasn’t the Abbot and the Elders he had to worry about but the wandering droids who were programmed to speak nothing but the truth. That was how he was caught quite red-handed, staring intently at a picture of a woman on her back with a man between her legs on his knees, both of them quite naked. Chirrut’s first defense against his friends’ jeers had been to tell the truth, of course, for there was nothing shameful about seeking enlightenment—but to no one’s surprise, they didn’t believe him. They were at that age where the changes in their bodies were becoming a source of great curiosity. So, rather than he let the whole thing blow up and invite the attention of the Elders, he did the one thing that was expected of him: he lied, and admitted that he was in it for the nudity and the coital action. Then they believed him.

And so there they were, arguing about penis sizes and the shape of a woman’s breasts. Supposedly, it was a benevolent act of friendship when they joined Chirrut in his “weird hobby” by selecting holocrons of their own liking but Chirrut knew better. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed behind his head, his legs up the table while he watched his friends jab and shriek at each other, filling the dark void with their excited voices. It occurred to him then that if he didn’t do anything, this might escalate into something much worse than he could handle.

Suddenly, his feet swung down with an echoing slam and the truest sense of purpose if they knew of any. He stood up in attention, staring across him with a look of terror and a sudden difficulty in getting his throat to work. His friends turned to him, all of their shoulders rigid like his. “A, A, A…” He tried to swallow again and this time succeeded. “A, A, Ar…Ar-Boel!”

That name was enough to invoke an immediate respite among the boys. As one, they, too, pushed back their seats to stand in attention, facing Ar-Boel. Dama went the extra mile of shielding the lewd images from their visitor with his body.

Except their visitor did not exist. What he stared at instead was the deep shadow between the rows of shelves illuminated and brimming with knowledge, each one blinking quietly, humming softly.

The penny dropped when Chirrut made an ugly snort, wheezed as he doubled over then bent backward with a hearty laugh. Everyone else’s glee trickled after him. Everyone but Dama who burned.

“That was a mean joke, Chirrut!” he snapped in his deep voice.

“Look at yourself,” Chirrut gasped, wagging a finger at him. “Your face shows plainly your thoughts! What would you do if Ar-Boel grows her womanly curves and you cannot command yourself?” he asked, shrugging with his hands. Then with a sigh, he wagged his finger again at the flustered boy. The rest followed suit. Sometimes, he didn’t know why he even bothered putting up with his friends but he knew it was because of this: he made them laugh and they all liked it that way. They put up with his jokes and his mischief.

Sometimes, he just wished they put up with his ideas, too. About the Whills, about the Force, instead of just dismissing it as classroom fodder. He loved his friends and he had many of them who indulged his humor, but sometimes he had the distinct feeling they didn’t love him as much to understand that even jokesters like him had a right to serious reflections.

The bell rang just then, a quiet and thoughtful don that penetrated the thick darkness of the library. Chirrut and his friends stood still to heed its summons.

Don, it said again.

“That’s us!” Lin realized in a panic, all but ripping their embarrassing discoveries from the holocron terminals. “Supper duty, that’s us!”

“Leave the holocrons, I’ll take care of them!” Chirrut volunteered heroically, unloading the Manual for Desire himself. “You all go to the kitchen now, it would be better for us.”

“But what about you?” Kar asked, his voice regaining its childish trill in his hysteria.

“Tell them I’m in the library. Save me a task!” This time, Chirrut could at least count on them to keep their actions a secret.

They nodded as one and bolted.

Chirrut waited for their pattering steps to fade out completely before he gathered himself up with a sigh. Too bad, how this all turned out. He thought that by asking them to go ahead, he could bargain even just five more minutes of reading time—but who was he kidding? He had to put the holocrons back, the chairs in order…

Even just returning the books to where they’d been taken from took him much longer than he expected—and much deeper into the library than he was familiar with. Chirrut was pretty sure that was because the scandalous volumes had led him right into the heart of the restricted area, like breadcrumbs drawing him to a trap where a council of Elders could be waiting to sentence him to a year full of chores for trespassing. At the very least. That was the nightmare. The good thing was that he’d had enough time to come up with a story for his defense and he had the size and the voice (and the face, he’d like to think) to make it convincing. Sometimes, being developmentally delayed had its perks, after all.

He practiced it in his head, rehearsed it quietly as he slipped the last holocron into its nook. “Respected Elders,” he whispered to his phantom audience, “I beg your pardon for straying from my path. I came only to expand my knowledge of the Force and in so doing have lost my way…” Well, that was half-true.

His task done, he hurried back away from the incriminating object, wiping the sweat off his hands on his trousers. A chime rang just then, like the shimmering bells they sometimes used in rituals which caused him to stop. It was not a sound he often heard within his usual corner of the library so he couldn’t say what it was for, or where it was from. Only that he hoped it hadn’t come to judge him for his unquenchable curiosity. Could it have come from one of the Elders?

He waited for the next jingle to come. When it didn’t, his tiny brave feet made a bold turn and dashed for the source. He decided it was time to investigate it—if the sound was the herald of his doom, he wanted to come at it like a man than to have it as another unwelcome surprise. Everyone in NiJedha knew he’d had enough of that in a day. Quiet as a mouse, he slipped down the dark, cold aisle between the high blinking shelves, keeping a straight direction as instinct commanded. The chimes came again but this time, they didn’t ring so clearly as they had earlier, as though they’d been muffled, perhaps by a hand. There was definitely someone out there. He just didn’t know who they were, or how many they were.

His answer lied at the end of the narrow path, opening up to an illuminated center he had never found before. More aisles of shelves branched out from it, like the petals of a flower. Dead center, aglow with rainbow lights was a replica of NiJedha, carved from crystals, sitting atop a blanketed pedestal. One of the Elders stood close to it, raising his hand to a bowing youth.

The boy rose, and Chirrut felt his heart catch at the end of his throat. For who else could be so young, and yet be so welcomed to be peers of the Elders and the Abbot, but no other than Baze Malbus himself, the best of his class.

This was the first time he had ever come so close to the darker-skinned boy who was only a year older than him, but he knew him from classroom gossips and voices echoing down the hall. He knew from them that Baze had reached the highest duan his age had ever achieved in history that in order to progress to the next level, he required a special instructor to guide him personally. His martial skills were impeccable and so advanced that he was now being pitted against trainees of a higher grade. And his devotion to the Force was so true, he once went a whole day without sustenance because of how deep he was in meditation.

That last one might just be a rumor. But looking at him, Chirrut could believe it. He was tall, admirably so. His back was perfectly straight, the perfect model whose inadequacies could be measured up to, but he had an easy posture with a slight drop of his shoulders that did not make him look so severe. Even his head, tilted just a little upwards, looked perfectly shaped under its closely-shaven hair, not too round but not flawed at all…

In fact, that was the thing about him: nothing was too perfect and whatever physical faults he had, Chirrut could not imagine a world where they could be called as such. If he ever had a scar, it would be because it was meant to be there, and not because he had failed to prevent it. His clothes hung properly onto his frame, not so tight that it twisted incorrectly when he bent a little to laugh with the Elder, but not so loose that one could no longer make out his broad shoulders, his trimmed shape. It was like…by being on him, his clothes gained the power to breathe. He was the perfect recipe, the perfect balance between all flavors.

Could he ever be like him? Small Chirrut, Skinny Chirrut with a voice that was yet to drop. Baze’s voice thrummed melodiously in his ears, full of insight, like he really knew what he was saying. He walked, and Chirrut was drawn to his movements, the way his graceful feet made it seem like the world turned because of them, that finger tracing circles in the air and his perfect head spinning with it as he recited a verse. When he wanted to learn about the Force, then he should have just looked for Baze Malbus—because he radiated. He pulsated with so much…spirit! And so much…knowledge and so much…life! This was the light, the enlightenment he never found in those books. Why was he even looking for it in them when they were matters of the past? They no longer lived and breathed the way Baze Malbus could. Baze Malbus! He could say that name over and over again.

He heard the chimes again, clear as the day and there he saw it: a ring of crystal shards held in his other hand, with the jagged teeth of keys. He, a boy so young, had been given those. Access to a treasure trove of lessons and wisdom.

At the end of his speech, the Elder who listened intently nodded deeply to his ideas, and Chirrut ached.

Could he ever be like him? To have learned so much in so short a time, to be so respected, so bright in every way. He was the boy to be, the aspiration. He was…

Everything Chirrut wanted to be, and everything he was not. His simple knowledge would never match up to his mastery, his short legs would never swing like that. His clumsy hands with its stubby fingers would never be able to twirl like that.

How embarrassing it would be to even try and come close. And yet, here was a boy he could greatly admire. A boy who showed him that even at such a young age, there was nothing wrong about being faithful. About wishing to devote more of himself to learn about the Force that surrounded them, in a way that his friends, who looked only to the physical world, could never seem to appreciate. Baze could appreciate it, he bet. Baze would understand him.

Baze Malbus would understand him.

Chirrut was certain of this, for he understood Baze’s passion, his commitment. For they were his own, too. If only at a slightly smaller scale, one that fit his size just right. Could they be friends, he wondered?

Could he hear his heart saying hi?

With another deep bow, Baze and the Elder parted as friends. As the senior Guardian disappeared to the back of the library, Baze turned and started to the opposite side of the building. Those dark, sharp eyes of his swept over the empty room, past the boy ogling at his tall presence, hidden between the shelves. He stopped to stare.

Baze jumped back with a startled squawk, dropping his keys to his feet. Chirrut hurried out of his hiding place—he hadn’t meant to be caught in there!—in his panic, arms out in a pacifying gesture.

“Please don’t be terrified, it’s just me!” he said in his tiny voice. “I’m Chirrut Imwe.”

Baze continued to stare at him in a way that was appropriate for an Endorian ewok who literally just came out of nowhere.

“You’re Baze Malbus, aren’t you?”

Still frozen in time, Baze nodded carefully.

Chirrut smiled brightly. “Well met!” he said, a little surprised by the opportunity practically laid out on his feet. This was the first time he’d ever met Baze Malbus and in an instant, he’d been taken by his aura. Now they were acquainted. Soon they could be friends!

Baze offered a toothy smile but it looked a little too uncertain to be heartfelt. Chirrut should probably dial it down a bit.

“Uh—” He cleared his throat and looked around for something to break the awkwardness. His eyes fell on the crystal keys and he zoomed down to pick it up, setting loose a chorus of tinkling sounds. “Here,” he said, offering them to Baze. “You dropped your keys.”

Baze looked down to find them in his tiny hands, and with a flowing swoop picked them up with his longer fingers. That the keys made no ruckus at all, just the gentle ringing of music, was testament to Baze’s discipline. Chirrut was in awe.

He had to remind himself that it was rude to stare so he ripped his eyes from the taking hand and redirected them to Baze’s face. He was a handsome boy, or at least he was very attractive to be sure.

…was it okay to think like that?

He peeled his hand away from the keys. Respectfully, he stepped back, and offered a smile to Baze who watched with open-faced curiosity. “Well, then. Goodbye…then.” He wished he could tell him a joke. Leave him a souvenir to remember him by.

But Baze inclined his head, then once again, and finally, turned to leave.

Even his back was something to watch—the way he swayed just a little, how he carried his frame. He swayed back to the safety of the shelf, a dependable friend to rest his weight on when his own strength could not be relied on. Chirrut could feel his heart beating in his chest, fanning a fire that burned in his neck, his cheeks and his ears. Once again, Baze was a myth that could only be admired from a distance.

But he swore, in that one heartbeat their eyes had met, he felt like they were kindred spirits.