#op's brain is galaxy sized

[eshtaresht]

also vash and knives being the only independent plants on no man's land (with it's wild western values) and coincidentially they're the only male presenting ones. while their sisters are literally being exploited. but when the ships from the more progressive earth come, we see that female Independents play a very much active role and are being treated as equal and even dependent ones aren't exploited

and humanity can progress forward only when they learn to emphasize with the plants and experience their pain like whaaaat

(I have to reread trimax for the second time this month, it begs to be dissected. my brain worms are hungry)

Vash and Femininity: Trigun Stampede and its Themes of Bodily Autonomy, Exploitation, and Vague Gender Fuckery

alright sit the fuck down. we're gonna talk about THEMES

I was on Twitter- terrible idea usually, but a couple people I follow made some tweets that got me thinking about Trigun's overall themes, and here we are. So let's talk about some themes in Tristamp! And I'll take a couple looks at Trimax as well, just for fun :3

Let's look at how the showrunners utilize gender roles and exploitation of feminine characters to show how unhealthy Knives' obsession with his ideal of Vash is, and how horrific his exploitation of Vash and the Plants is.

Vash, from the beginning of Tristamp, is someone who cares about people's choices. When people kill others in front of him, he reiterates that whether someone lives or dies is not another person's choice to make. This is something he learned from Rem (a prominent female figure in his life). He refuses to kill people because that is not his choice to make. To kill someone is the ultimate removal of their bodily autonomy. They can no longer make any choices at all; they're dead.

Vash is also someone who has almost no choice in what path his life takes. He's constantly dragged around by outside forces, namely situations that are caused by Knives (which we'll get into later). Vash doesn't make things happen, things happen to Vash. The majority of events that occur are not his fault. He's pushed and pulled in a thousand different directions. His entire life is completely out of his control.

This can be seen as early on in his life as the Fall, something he had no control over and had no idea he even had a part in. Even later, in the ship with Luida and Brad, after he's been rescued from the desert, he's kept in handcuffs right up until he's shown to be of use to them and the Plant on their ship. After that, he could theoretically say "no, I don't want to go to other ships and heal their plants," but he doesn't. He's Vash. He's helpful and nurturing at his core, and these people have done so much for him just by letting him stay, so he'll do whatever they ask, no question.

This carries over into his adulthood. At Jeneora Rock, he goes to look at their Plant at one simple request, doesn't protest when he's dragged into a duel-- he doesn't take initiative unless someone's life is immediately at stake. He lets people tell him what to do and lets himself get dragged around by the wrist. He doesn't even pretend to have control over his life like Trimax Vash does, which I mean. Fair. Why pretend to have a grip on your existence when it's impossible to do anything without a gun pointed at your head?

Vash is a very passive character. He's nurturing, kind, gentle- he's a guy that fits a lot of very typical feminine character stereotypes. If you wrote this same story but made him a woman, I wouldn't bat an eye (but I would definitely be looking at it a lot more critically, what with the amount of stereotypically nurturing/motherly female characters in media already.)

This contrasts directly with Knives. He makes a decision and carries through no matter what stands in his way. He takes initiative. If Vash is a passive character, Knives is an active character. Wherever he goes, he leaves a lasting imprint. He makes shit happen! If outside forces make things happen to him, he'll go out of his way to make sure that particular force doesn't affect him again.

These two tweets I saw are what got me thinking about this originally. I just feel like here's a good place to put them as a segue into talking about episode 11.

Episode 11 is where a lot of this feminine imagery really just. Explodes in your face. IT'S RIGHT THERE. You can't dance around it if you try. And it kind of reaches a peak when the connection reaches 100%, the gate opens, and. well. THIS happens to the Plants.

Plants, in both Trimax and Tristamp, are almost always typically feminine-looking. Knives and Vash are the only two who are male or even masculine at all. Knives, as the most masculine out of all of them, is the one trying to take charge, and mould the world as he sees fit, to a degree that is detrimental to both him and everyone else. And Vash-- passive, feminine, kind and nurturing, whose Angel Arm in the manga always sprouts decidedly feminine-looking Plant parts-- is the one being exploited for Knives' plans. It's no mistake that they made the giant plant formation at the end of ep 11 look like a giant woman that almost resembles Rem.

Vash wants people to make their own choices and keep their autonomy when it comes to their bodies and lives. Knives is the exact opposite. He wants all Plants to become independent and he uses Vash to achieve that goal, without asking what Vash wants or even knowing what the Plants themselves would prefer. He exploits Vash for the soul purpose of trying to make these Plants have Independent Plant babies. He's completely incapable of seeing that his choices are not for the greater good! He thinks he's saving them, but none of his actions are for the good of anyone but himself. He’s just violating them for his own gain.

They're really leaning into gender roles for these guys, but in a way that screams "HEY, LOOK AT THIS! ISN'T IT FUCKED UP? LOOK AT HOW FUCKED UP THAT IS. LOOK AT THIS, AND BE UNCOMFORTABLE, AND KNOW THAT IT IS FUCKED UP."

Because it is! It's so extremely fucked up. They're using this imagery and these roles, something that makes most of us intrinsically uncomfortable, to drive home how unhealthy Knives relationship with his ideal of Vash is. That's the point. We're supposed to be uncomfortable with this.

Now of course there's some nuance to it. Like, you could see Knives as somewhat of a feminine and/or queer-coded figure as well, ESPECIALLY if you look at some of his panels in the manga, which could in turn lead to themes about infighting and control within marginalized communities, but that might be something for another post. :3

And there's definitely different ways you could take this! Vash, with all this feminine imagery, could be either transfem or transmasc coded, depending on what way you'd rather see it, which could lead into themes of how people outside the norm constantly face a lack of bodily autonomy and are exploited for purposes outside their boundaries. We could also look at Wolfwood and his lack of choice over joining the Eye of Michael and becoming the Punisher, and how masculine men (particularly men of colour) are often forced into violent roles against their will. If we look at Trimax, the exact same could be said for Livio/Razlo and people with disorders such as DID/OSDD.

There are many different ways you could spin these themes, some of which I don't feel personally qualified to discuss. If anyone who is qualified to talk about Wolfwood or Livio/Razlo or even other characters related to these themes, then god PLEASE add onto this post or make a post and tag me or something. I would love to read it!

Anyway, in conclusion: Vash is a feminine figure constantly taken advantage of and exploited and and he's so incredibly trans/nonbinary-coded that it drives me insane. Thank you

[canichangemyblogname]

I want to do a TBB fix-it; change everything about the story and the canon to make it a compelling story.

And I'm starting with their damn designs.

Next, I'm going to write it so we don't erase all of Echo's history with the 501st (you're telling me he wouldn't commemorate his fallen brother or Fives?).

Then I'm moving on to the idea that a character's strength is their weakness. I'm going to do that for their strengths/mutations:

Crosshair's mutation is that he has extreme farsightedness, and needs high-strength special lenses just to read. Maybe it's like a fish-bowl effect? His spatial vision is different, somehow. Maybe he can see in really low light too? Dunno.

Hunter's mutation causes sensory overload to the point of severe pain and it also causes skin irritation and immune issues--so he breaks out into hives all the time.

Wrecker's mutation causes hypothyroidism. He's sensitive to cold, his metabolism is slow, and he's prone to weight gain. He also has issues with his connective tissues and if he's not careful, could be prone to tears.

I'm giving Tech ADHD because I have ADHD. His brain is hardwired for novelty and the rigid structure and tedium of the military makes it difficult for him to function or pay attention.

But I'm also going to do this for their character traits:

Crosshair is unyielding and severe, but he functions the best out of all of them in a military setting. He keeps their sights on the objective, reminding them of their goal.

Hunter is loyal with a strong moral compass and team-work mentality, so he is always able to remind his men of their 'higher' purpose and keep them working together and getting along. But these traits also make him uncompromising and he has a tendency to feel affronted.

Wrecker is charismatic as well as heartfelt. His charisma doubles as boisterousness and his kindness as too trusting. He tries to make himself smaller--maybe to conform--and so is a little unfamiliar his size and so ends up a bit clumsy. He's also something of an eternal optimist, too kind in a new world that encourages taking advantage of that. He sees the best in everyone, so is quick to let his guard down.

Tech's super smart, but he lacks patience-- he's quick to judge and quick to frustration and quick to act. While he's usually right and full of information and quick to solve a problem, he struggles with pivoting and with focusing on tedious or new tasks.

What would this do? It would give them compelling strengths and weaknesses, thus making them more human and less OP.

Then I'm moving to the nature of their squad:

They're now a special operations squad specific for small missions. They work with several other similarly-sized squads behind enemy lines for rescues, prisoner exchanges, intelligence retrieval, and 'asset neutralization' (fancy terms for capturing Separatist leaders to bring them before Republic tribunals for justice).

What would this do? This would establish that they're called in to assist for missions like on Skako Minor, but it also establishes that they're good at--well--getting important people out of precarious situations and dangerous places.

And that is what the crux of the plot will then be. While they try to find their place and as the seeds of Rebellion sprout on planets all over the galaxy, they are called forth to use their skills to pull important future leaders of the rebellion out of the Empire's grasps. This can include Omega!

And then Rex gets wind of their movements and pays them a visit to ask them that they help him do the same with their brothers. And we get a story about Clones helping Clones escape the clutches of the Empire. And maybe they partner with someone--an old friend?-- somewhere with access to medical facilities to help de-chip escaped clones. And it becomes a story about survival and family and freedom.

Then all these free clones go on to lead or supply/train/command some of the first armed rebellions against the Empire.

[sisterofleatherfrog]

Star Wars Kinktober day- 1

Prompt: Symbolic jewelry

Sub! Tup x Female (AFAB) OC

Hello! Willkommen to the grand opening of me doing Kinktober (even if this post is a few hours late for the actual 1st 😅)! Here is my prompt list derived from Kinktober lists by @ink-and-flame. Their prompt lists are phenomenal, but for the sake of my ADHD I had to whittle it down into a more finite list of interests that I am comfortable writing and know at least a little about it, or else I’ll just get lost in the sauce of prompts! But seriously, go check out their lists, they’re incredibly varied and have something for everyone! 

And now without further ado:

Tags: some drinking, sub male, femdom, nudity, almost pussy eating (working up to it in part 2!), pussy worship, praise kink, worship kink (is that a thing?),  there’s no sex in this fic it’s just the lead up (she is spoicy tho)

Words: 1609

🍑🍑🍑

Under his shirt, the chain and pendant Tup wore brushed cooly against his chest. As unpleasant as the gooseflesh it raised was, the reminder it gave him was anything but. 

From the moment he’d awoke that morning, wrapped in arms as pale as the thin sunlight at that hour, he knew what he wanted and began to get ready. A few kisses pecked around his groggy girlfriend, Aurelie’s, face placated her awakening at his rising and he moved to her dressing table to grab the aforementioned necklace. If she wasn’t interested in playing, it would have been put away the night before in it’s felt case, but this morning he plucked it from it’s customary open place before the mirror. 

Catching the morning bus he felt it leap and jump with the rhythm of the air vehicle as the pilot navigated Coruscant air-traffic. After the war ended and the clones were given their freedom, sentient rights, and a hell of a lot of backpay, there were questions of what was to be done with them. As it turned out, there wasn’t such a mass exodus from the GAR as previously thought there would be, though many opted to retire from combat positions. Tup chose to oversee the supply requisition and organization for the newly formed Search & Rescue Ops, a subsidiary of the Disaster Relief Squadron, helping places around the galaxy affected by natural disasters. It felt meaningful and good, and he could honestly say he didn’t miss having to carry a gun and constantly keep an eye out for clankers.

After a day of approving supply drops, running reports, and the pendant lightly caressing his chest with every slight sway, he was back on the bus home. A man scowled at him from among the crowd; some people would never see the clones as anything more than meat-droids undeserving of even the life they were given, but the pendant mocked that man’s ideas from behind Tup’s shirt. It was a gift of love freely given to him and he was worthy,

When he returned to his apartment Aurelie was still at work, not getting off until late. As he waited for water to boil he straightened up around the place, clearing dust from the nooks it always returned to settle and gathered laundry. When he came to the bed in their room he came to a spot by the bed and stopped, considered, and opened a drawer to reveal a medium sized case which he deposited neatly on Aurelie’s side of the bed. He already had the necklace, it never hurt to be proactive in terms of their play. 

Half an hour later dinner was had and a portion of it was squared away in the fridge with a reminder to reheat it and enjoy and Tup was ready to meet a few of the boys at 79’s. As he changed from his work wear into something light blue and more casual, the afternoon sun caught the silver pendant resting on the tan skin of his breast bone, dying it almost the same shade of pink- before he could finish that thought a beep from his comm sounded informing him that his taxi had arrived outside.

20 minutes, a few levels down, and a familiar neon sign later, Tup was walking into a familiar bar. Nothing had changed about the place, only now armour and dress greys were a rare sight to be seen as the open opportunity for individuality to flourish among the clones led to some, interesting, experiments in style. ‘Speaking of which,’ thought Tup as a discordant but jovial chorus of his name called him over to a table in the corner. Fives, Jesse, Kix, Rex, Waxer, Boil, Cody, and even Wolffe, to his surprise, sat there having already gotten a small headstart on happy hour. It wasn’t a full reunion, others still at work or spread across the galaxy exploring life, but it was always nice to see familiar faces.

They took their time and paced themselves drinking, it was still early and they didn’t have to run off in an hour to prepare for a campaign and weren’t shotgunning a train of shots to try and forget one. Some of them had to be able to operate tomorrow morning though and they parted as the night lowered it’s curtain over day; Jesse and Kix remained however to scope out some of the ladies coming in with the party crowds.

As good as the times spent together were, Tup silently willed the air-taxi to carry him away faster through the legendary Coruscant traffic and back home. He’d worn the necklace, the empty place it would otherwise occupy obvious, if she hadn’t noticed then she would certainly see the familiar box he’d left resting by her pillow. Stars he was ready, the anticipation had built all day, the secret only he kept feeding his need. He was thrumming for whatever Aurelie had to give him.

The taxi stopped and he cursed the second it took for the payment to transfer, the minute in the elevator, the short march down the hall, and the door code he had to spend time punching in-

The entry was dark with the exception of a string of pink fairy lights strung along the wall and leading around the corner to their room. He grinned and, remembering to turn back and lock the door when he was already halfway across the room, soon came to the closed panel that marked their space. He knocked, “May I come in mistress?”

“Enter, darling.” A high, breathy voice answered.

As the door opened Tup entered the threshold and lowered himself to his knees, his hands finding their place on his lap as he gazed upon the shining woman perched on the edge of their bed (somehow, someway, his girlfriend, a part of his brain never ceased obsessing). She regarded him warmly, “Have you been a good boy today Tup? You took your necklace and I really hope it didn’t make you do anything naughty.”

“I was very good, mistress, just for you.” His voice was breathy and quiet, he had been good, and he anticipated his reward. His eyes drank in the milky skin that clothed the leopardess in repose before him, partially obscured by the long, wavy strands of pearly blonde hair.

“Oh I know Tup, you’re such a good boy. You wake me up with kisses, make sure I have food to eat when I work late, and you were so considerate to get our box of toys out for me. I don’t know where to begin, but good boys deserve to be rewarded, isn’t that right my beautiful boy?” 

Aurelie’s voice caressed his every synapse as he breathed in air that still held the trace of a burn from a heavy incense and he was already in a state. Her words of praise had passed straight down from his ears to his cock, bringing him to a full erection from the half mast he’d been sailing at since walking through the front door. “Yes, please mistress, yes.” If it sounded like he was begging, Tup didn’t care. Her soft thighs were resting atop one another, hiding from him what he’d been craving all day. Just one simple shift was all it would take to reveal to him where she was no doubt already soft, sweet, and wet.

Her legs uncrossed, but she stood instead of spreading wider and came to stand before him, her curl-crowned mound a tease before him that turned his need to a desperate clamour within him. He held still, eyes glued to hers as she leaned down to him and brought her pillowy lips to kiss him, one hand coming up to cradle his cheek and the other fiddles with his collar for the necklace she’d gifted him. His hands were curled hard on his lap, restraining himself from the urge to reach out and touch; being so, so good and waiting.

Drawing the pendant along the chain away from Tup’s racing heart, Aurelie held it between them and teased: “Is this what you want Tup? Do you want to eat my pussy until you’re begging for me to fuck you, until you cum in me? Or maybe I’ll ride that handsome face of yours all night and let you cum in my mouth while you’re hard at work.” Tup could only manage a tortured moan, the pictures being painted in his head making him dizzy. She lightly laughed and graciously accepted that as her answer, gently leading him across the floor as she walked backwards with the chain still in her hand, him crawling on all fours after her. When she returned to the bed she sat as he looked up at her with lust and adoration.

Still holding the pendant, she slowly drew her legs apart, raising one to rest on the bed so her pussy and the glorious pink of her vulva were wide open on display for Tup in his current position. Aurelie considered the pendant again for a moment. “I’m glad I found that artist, it’s a wonderful likeness, isn’t it darling?” From the petal-like folds of her labia minora to the majora that protected them and the unique hood that shadowed her marvelous clit, it couldn’t belong to anyone else. The highest honour Tup felt was being lucky enough to be the one person allowed to worship it. 

“Stars yes, mistress!” He agreed emphatically and Aurelie laughed lightly again and let the necklace fall back into its place from her fingers. 

“Well, come and get your reward Tup.” He gladly obliged. 

🍑🍑🍑

So yeah, Tup as a Sub wears a necklace of his girlfriend’s vulva when he really wants to be her good boy (; It also helps that it’s really pretty ✨👀✨

Also sorry if this is a little off, this wasn’t even alpha read, let alone beta read.

Aurelie is one of a few OC’s I’ve used in my daydreams, she may make another appearance in another story if I think she’ll fit! I may try and do some art too…

As for the boys at the bar, I came up with ideas for what they’re up to now and may either write other Kinktober stuff in this AU, or do some drabbles later (though I could include the Kinktober stuff in an AU drabble, right?). I didn’t include it in the story though because I felt like it would disturb the flow too much. I’ll probably detail the AU in another post if I do end up doing that.

Kinktober works so far

Masterlist

[reading-comp-wrong-answers]

A post shall leave OP's queue 3728 times per day.

The three ways you can request for a post OP should cover are: 1) tagging them in an original post in which you link to the post you want them to cover, 2) screaming which post you want them to cover, really, really loudly, 3) leaving a message in a hollowed out tree trunk, and 4) setting up a communication system which works by launching capsules with trebuchets, figuring out where OP lives, and throwing a capsule, with inside it a piece of paper saying what post you'd like for them to cover, through their window.

OP is extremely likely to answer any and all asks you send to them, and if they don't, their life is most likely at risk.

I would guess you have tagged this: "#not reading comprehension questions", ""#request", "#ask", and "#Extremely difficult questions which @reading-comp-wrong-answers will inexplicably answer completely correctly due to them functioning on what for most of us would require a brain the size of the galaxy."

I'm updating my old pinned post because it was silly but not especially informative.

I use the queue to spread out my posts. Currently, I have 1 post queued a day. I do post when I feel like it though.

If you want to call my attention to certain posts, I ask you to either send me an ask with a link to the post or tag me. You can also send me a PM if you want. I will say that there are a multitude of reasons I might not end up doing any given post, requested or not.

As for asks, feel free to send me them. I probably won't post a reply or anything (depending on the content obviously), but I appreciate them.

I do check blog descriptions, pinned posts, and the post itself for pronouns. If someone's pronouns aren't in any of those three spots, then I use they/them.

Also I'm adding this to my pinned post because people have sent me asks about it: feel free to do whatever you want with my additions. I don't really care, unless you're using them to be mean. Make answering sideblogs. Reblog months-old posts. I don't mind.

Now for tags:

#reading comprehension questions — posts or reblogs that contain reading comprehension questions written by me.

#not reading comprehension questions — posts or reblogs that do not contain reading comprehension questions. I can't imagine using this in a reblog but it's a possibility.

#request — someone somehow alerted me to the post I reblogged.

#self post — any posts that are about myself and/or the blog.

#ask — any posts responding to asks sent to me.

#extra post — any post or reblog not posted as part of the queue

-

Check for understanding:

How many posts leave the queue per day?

What are the three ways that you can send a request for a post I should cover?

How likely am I to answer any asks you send?

Without looking at the tags on this post, what tags do you think I put on it? What led you to that answer?

[kareofbears]

desperate as that sounds

Five times Ryuji ran for Akira (and one time he ran for himself.)

—  

read on ao3 or below the cut :)

It’s 4:45 am with the weather sitting at a brutal -3 degrees when Ryuji really starts wishing that he brought another jacket.

People are lined around Akihabara by the hundreds outside of closed electronic stores, and the sun has yet to even rise. Some people are yawning, some are clutching their rapidly cooling coffee in a death grip, and most have dark, purple bags underneath their eyes—proof of the battle scars that they’ve acquired. Every person here had the same goal in mind: To get what they need and get out as quick as possible.

As it turns out, if everyone has that same mindset, it creates the violent, yearly November tradition that is Black Friday.

Glancing around, he notices that people came in packs, teams. Teenagers and pre-pubescent kids are all scuffling around, hyping themselves up and creating strategies for the war to come. The more seasoned veterans of the yearly massacre came in pairs—the smaller the group, the faster you move, the move land you cover.

At the biggest electronic store in a region that’s already been nicknamed ‘Electronic Town,’ he is fourth in line—an impressive feat, especially for a first-timer. But it came with a heavy toll: he is completely and utterly alone.

”Skull, do you read me?”

Well, physically alone, anyway.

“Loud and clear,” he replies, readjusting the mic in his ear. “Not that I mind, but what’s with the codenames?”

Futaba scoffs. “You think Black Friday is just about the physical aspect? Foolish boy—the psychological aspects are half the battle. If I get you into the mindset that we’re in a Palace, then you’ll get into infiltration mode, and you’ll be OP compared to the nerds out there.”

“Ooo, I like it! Your brain is effin’ galaxy sized!”

“I do what I can for my faithful pack mule.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally.”

His deal with Futaba had been a simple one. She helps Ryuji navigate the horrors of Akihabara during Black Friday in exchange that he acts as what is essentially a drug trafficker sans the drugs. Despite her rigorous societal training she’d undergone with the Thieves, something about entering a borderline stampede still seems somewhat unappealing to her. Besides, he doesn’t mind. He’d always wanted to do something nice for Futaba anyway, and the store that has her computer thing is the same store that holds what he needs.

”Five minutes to go,” her voice crackles into his ear. ”Infiltration route—go!”

Their deal had also come in with an intense tutorial session that ended up lasting until one in the morning. “Floor 4, down 3 aisles, 8 steps in, turn right, second shelf, grab a box that says ‘GTX graphics card.’ Pink, if possible.”

“A+, Skull! You know, if you can memorize that, I seriously don’t get why you’re failing English verbs.”

“Please, this is actually important.”

Futaba cackles. “Now you’re speaking my language. With your legs and my navigation, this’ll basically be a Tuesday afternoon in Leblanc.”

People around him are starting to straighten up, some going as far as to remove the extra layer of clothing and shoving it in backpacks for maximum speed and minimum restrictions. “Damn, people here look more intense than some dudes in my track meets.”

“If you’re throwing out portable chargers with 30-hour battery life for only 800 yen, you’d be a little intense too.”

Ryuji scoffs and begins to stretch, being extra sure to get his right thigh. “I’m plenty intense. Just last Saturday, I almost beat the Big Bang Burger challenge.”

“Pretty sure Akira beat that on his second week in Tokyo. You know, you still haven’t told me why you’re bothering with this whole Black Friday mess. I didn’t peg you for an electronics type of guy, and your phone is as crappy as your posture.”

“Rude! But I can’t argue with that.” He starts to run in place, and for a brief second, he wonders if he should’ve packed a protein shake.

“Well, too late now. If your thing sells out because you didn’t want to give your Navi information, that’s on you.”

“Gimme some credit, Futaba,” an employee who looks equal parts sleep-deprived and terrified approaches the glass doors. “Ain’t no way in hell I’m failing either of us this morning.”

The glass slides open, and as if sunlight was released from the captivity of the clouds, or perhaps a meteor just broke through the earth’s atmosphere, the people start pushing, shoving, and flooding inside. The crowd looked both impenetrable and unwavering; an unstoppable force and an immovable object rolled into one giant stream of desperate shoppers.

Ryuji spares a split-second to crack his neck. Mission Start.

The moment he breaks through the initial threshold, people who were only one step behind him suddenly became ten, twenty, thirty. Weaving through crowds and aisles with the precision of a seamstress, Ryuji evades it all with ease.

”Skull, status report.”

“Smooth sailing, Oracle!” He ducks as an overly buff businessman turns around with a 3-metre pole used for studio lighting threatens to bash his head in. “You’re totally right about the codenames, by the way. It’s almost like I’ve got Captain with me.”

“Right?” She laughs. “It’s all about the mindset.”

Ryuji turns, and finally gets to the stairs—the most brutal section and the biggest gamble. It’s the reason why it was essential that he’s one of the first in line. Once the stairs get jammed with people, it’s game over. Making a mad dash up four flights of stars, he thanks any God that may be that Palaces are fantastic for rehab.

He makes it to the top, panting. It’s empty, save for a few nervous-looking employees. He hopes the smile he throws their way came off as ‘pleasant and grateful for their service’ rather than ‘a delinquent asshole who might steal loads of shit.’

“Down 3 aisles, 8 steps,” he mutters to himself as he quickly scans the fourth floor. “Turn right, second shelf,” eyes landing on his target, he grins. “I effin’ rock.”

”You got it?”

“Of course I did!” He fist pumps before swiping the box. In his excitement, he nearly runs over to give a random employee a high-five. “Alright Oracle, you’re up.”

”I love you so much in a non-weird way. Okay,” he hears the clacking of keys on the other side of the mic. “What do you need?”

“Two words: game console.”

The clacking stops. “You’re joking.”

Ryuji snorts. “I ain’t waking up at 3 in the morning for a joke.”

”Those are hard enough to get as is, and on a day like this—”

“So you can’t do it?”

In the same way every one of the thieves know they could bait Ryuji with a few choice words, it’s a lesser-known fact that Futaba is quite nearly as bad when it comes to open defiance. “Jerk. Of course I can.”

“Then let’s do it!”

“Ugh, fine!” The clacking resumes, more vigorously. “Yikes, only 3 left. Make it quick!”

“Got it,” he replies. He turns around and his stomach drops as he sees people rushing in. “What floor?”

“Third.”

Ryuji groans. The stairs, with people packed in like sardines, are a circus. It would take at least two minutes to try and go down a single flight of stairs. The elevator is even worse, and he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it had already started to malfunction. Only one choice, then.

He takes a deep breath. “Pray for me.”

”Godspeed, soldier.”

Ryuji, like a wild animal on the loose in the streets of Tokyo, jumps on the handrails and begins his descent that way, begging to the skies that he doesn’t slip and create a domino effect that knocks down a dozen people.

In thirty seconds flat (with no small amount of cursing from both the customers and himself) he jumps off and lands (tumbles) onto the third floor, grinning triumphantly. Eat your heart out, Sumire.

“Oracle, I’m here. Almost broke my ankles. Where to?”

”Straight ahead,” she replies. ”Only one left, though. Better make it quick.”

His eyes land on the last game console, and he sees someone making their way towards it. “Not a problem.”

Ryuji sprints.

Throwing every societal rule and common courtesy into the air, he makes a mad dash and, somehow, miraculously does not bump into anyone or knock down any huge shelves.

In approximately 3 seconds, he grabs his treasure and yells a very loud but completely genuine “sorry!” over his shoulder as he half runs back to the stairs, face red for multiple reasons.

Delving back into the sea of the crowd, trying to navigate himself to the cash register, he sighs. “I’m going to hell.”

”Mission success, then?”

“I had to steal it from some guy! I feel so bad. What if he’s like, buying it for his long lost son or something?”

”Whatever! That’s just part of the Black Friday spirit. Congrats! At least you finally got a game console.”

“Huh? Oh, I already had one.”

Static crinkles in his ear, before, ”WHAT!?”

“Ow! Don’t yell!”

”You already had one and you still did this shopping run?”

“Yeah…?”

”Why?! Are you gonna sell it? Are you one of those sleazy men who take advantage of the good will of gamers, Sakamoto?”

“Hell no!”

”So—“

“Oops, almost at the front of the cash register. I’ll drop off the goods at Akira’s. Talk to you later, shortie.”

Click.

”Wha— Hey! Ryuji!” Silence. “Ugh!”

————

After a much-deserved nap, Futaba climbs up the stairs to Akira’s attic.

“The star has arrived!” she says in lieu of a greeting. “Where’s Ryuji?”

“He left,” Akira answers. He’s looking at something on his worktable. “Your stuff is on the bed.”

Futaba whoops and snatches up the little plastic bag. Peering inside, she sees an adorable GTX hot pink graphics card, and a note. In a horrific scrawl, it writes: dont tell him plz ;)))

She looks up quizzically when her eyes land on Akira’s desk: A shiny new game console.

“Um…”

“Hmm?” he looks up. “Oh, Ryuji dropped it off. Said his mom won it at work, and since he already had one, he gave it to me. Nice, right?”

She opens her mouth, before closing it with a clack. Just two weeks ago, Ryuji had asked Akira in the group chat if they could play video games at his place. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget about Akira’s situation: false accusation, an attic for a room, no definitive meals, not even a proper bathroom in the building, but Akira plays it off like it’s easy. He answered by making a joke that he’s too poor for something like that when you can buy faux battle axes and realistic shotguns instead. Everyone had forgotten about that interaction.

But apparently, Ryuji hadn’t.

He’s an idiot, Futaba thinks. To which boy she’s referring to, she’s not sure.

“Yeah,” is what she says instead. “It’s nice.”

====

The dust motes flying around the attic of Leblanc are lovely. Swirling in senseless formations, floating through the still air like snow. The way none of them collide with each other, as if they have some sort of motion detector that tells them to move out of the way. It’s pleasing to look at.

It’s a shame Ryuji doesn’t give a single shit about them at this moment.

He’s sitting on Akira’s bed, back pressed against the window sill with his hair tipped up, staring unfocused at the wooden beams, eyes glazed over. He’s been like this for the better part of the day, and now the evening is slipping by him. Time continues ticking on like a rigged bomb; an ongoing reminder of how many seconds he’s losing, and how much more he can lose.

He’s considered moving. To walk around the room, shift the dust that’s surely settled on him. Getting up, stretching his legs, outwardly expelling some of his trapped, balled up energy is a good idea. Healthy, even, if those shitty YouTube videos he’s watched on his phone about anger management were on to something. But he can’t. He shouldn’t.

Amidst all the uncertainty and the wound-up anxiety that has currently made permanent residence deep inside his core, he knows that if lets his joints unlock, he’s going to fucking lose it.

Slam a fist inside the dry wood, tear up a blanket, throw the adorable ramen bowl he gave Akira against the wall until it shatters into a hundred pieces. He’s so terrified of ruining this room that he won’t even give himself the option. And Ryuji would rather let hell freeze over than scare Futaba again in his fit of fucked-up rage that comes with the package that is Sakamoto Ryuji.

So he’s stuck on the bed for God knows how long.

Footsteps come up, and he doesn’t need to look down to know who’s going to chew him out. If it’s not Akira that’s going to chide him out of his stupor (which it isn’t, even though Ryuji would do anything if it means that Akira’s back here with them), then they’d send in someone who’d drag him out of it with her nails perfectly manicured.

“You look terrible.”

“Screw off,” Ryuji spits automatically, and he cringes inwardly. Ann doesn’t deserve the sharp end of his horrible mood. It’s not her fault that it feels like his insides feel like they’re trying to eat their way out.

She ignores him and moves to hop on top of the old work desk. The wood creaks underneath her. “You’ve been here all day.”

“I know.”

“Did you sleep last night?”

“Yes. No.” He feels Ann’s stare burn into the side of his face—a ghost of Carmen’s presence. “I don’t know.”

“He wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

Irritation swells in him. She’s never learned to take a hint in her life. “Really? Are you seriously saying that?”

“Are you saying he would?”

“I’m saying he’s too busy having the living shit beat out of him to see me like this.”

His body twitches, and that’s all he needed for his resolve to break down. He jumps from the bed, feet landing heavily enough that he’s sure they can all hear him from the floor below. Unconsciously, his feet pace around the small room; quick with agitation but heavy with dread. Anything to distract from doing something stupid.

“You’re worried about me, what, not sleeping? For lying down on this damn bed for too long? Screw that. Akira’s being grilled like cheap meat for the past couple of days and you’re expecting me to act normal about it? That’s bullshit.”

Bad. This is bad. His fingers are already curling in his fists, eager and all too willing to be used. He settles for balling the edge of his shirt instead.

“He isn’t here. That’s the fact, isn’t it? And what the fuck am I doing about it? Freaking out? Trying not to throw a tantrum about it like some kind of stupid kid? Am I really this messed in the head that everyone on the team is—-is hiding from me like I’m some kind of—” he cuts himself off.

Delinquent.

Ryuji takes a deep breath, fully inhaling and slowly exhaling. He focuses on the dust motes again. In and out. Countdown from ten. He can do this. He can get a grip on himself. Thank God it was Ann that came up—if it had been anyone else, he doesn’t think he can put his pride aside as easily. (Unless it was Futaba. God, he loves her so much.)

For a while, it was silent except for his breathing; it stuttered occasionally, but eventually it evens out. Ann only watches from her perch.

When he feels stable enough, Ryuji drops to sit on the hardwood.

“Okay?” she asks. Ann never babies him when he gets like this—she’s good that way.

“Okay.” And he really is. Not completely, of course not. His nerves weren’t strung as tight, but he still feels a heavy weight right in his stomach.

She hops off the desk and goes to sit in front of him on the floor. Crossing her legs, Ann waits. They regard each other for a long minute.

“He’s the toughest guy I’ve ever met,” he says. It feels weird saying this out loud, instead of repeating the mantra in his head like a broken record. “If anyone can handle this, it’s Akira.”

She rolls her eyes. “Duh.”

“He’s going to be okay.”

“I know that.”

“Sooner than later, his dumb ass is going to be walking through the door downstairs.”

“You bet he is.”

“And I get to yell at him as much as I want.”

“Get in line.”

“I’m not going to lose him tonight.”

Ann reaches over—slowly, giving him plenty of room to shift away—and places a hand on his knee. “You’re not going to lose him tonight.”

Ryuji laughs, a little breathy but still genuine. He prods at her hand. “When’d you get so good with me, Takamaki?”

“I do the Lord’s work around here, free of charge.” She grins, before her tone drops again. “Can you do something for me, though?”

“Lay it on me.”

Ann pulls back and leans on a propped hand, her blue eyes piercing. “When Akira comes back, and he will—”

“And he will. No doubt about it.”

“Obviously. He’s the best person for this. But when Akira comes back, he’s…” Ann gnaws on the inside of her cheek. “He’s not going to be okay, Ryuji.”

Somewhere in his mind, he already knew what she was going to say. While the biggest of his worries is that he’d never see Akira walk through the doors of Leblanc again, there was a quieter fear. A very specific fear, one that Ryuji knows all too well. Because stories don’t just end at the climax of a single event—they keep going. It’s the fear of what happens once he does see Akira.

The aftermath.

The bell chimes downstairs.

His heart lurches, and he makes the briefest of eye contact with Ann before he’s gone.

He’s the toughest guy I’ve ever met.

It’s like his feet have a mind of their own.

If anyone can handle this, it’s Akira.

In an instant, he’s scrambling towards the stairs on all fours before pushing himself up.

Sooner than later, his dumbass is going to be walking through the door downstairs.

His hand finds its hold on the old wooden railing as he sprints his way down. More than once, he almost trips and bangs his head into the wall.

And I get to yell at him as much as I want.

Rounding the corner, he jumps on the landing, ignoring the sharp pain that shoots up his thigh. He ignores the stares from everyone else. Looking up his breath catches in his throat. Gray eyes meet his brown ones. He takes one step forward, and then another. And then he sprints the rest.

He’s going to be okay.

Ryuji stops himself right in front of him, an arms-length away. Akira’s face looked like it’s been through hell and back. Split lip, black eye, bruised cheekbone. An intense fury flares up his spine when he sees the grime and dirt up along his temple.

He hesitates.

As much as he wants to reach forward, close the gap, to make sure that this boy that he can’t afford to lose is real… he can’t do it.

Because he knows what would happen if he tries to cross a boundary that isn’t ready to be crossed—he might not be ready. Ryuji could hurt him by touching any injuries he doesn’t know about (God, how much more is he hiding in there? He’s this close to either throwing up or throwing a punch). But what he’s most scared about, what he’s terrified of doing, is touching Akira in the state of mind he’s in right now. For someone to grip him, grab him, even just brush past him right now, it might be too much. Judging by how beat up he looks just from his face? That does shit to people. That changes you.

Ryuji would know. So he keeps his distance.

Akira’s eyes turn dark, and for a second, Ryuji is terrified that he must’ve overstepped a boundary.

Then he throws his arms around Ryuji, the force knocking them both back by a couple of steps.

“Akira?” he asks, bewildered. Never in their friendship has he seen Akira act like this. It sends alarm bells ringing through his head. “What—”

“Don’t,” Akira cuts off, voice hoarse and quiet, so quiet that even this close, Ryuji is straining to hear him. The arms around him tighten. “Don’t be like that. Please. I can’t. Not right now, Ryuji.”

It hits him all at once. And in his sixteen years of living, Ryuji doesn’t think he’s ever been stupider.

Akira’s been trapped in an interrogation room with nothing but a bunch of make-believe police officers. He got the shit beat out of him, had to stage his own suicide.

And Ryuji just tried to push him away.

He lets his arms wrap around Akira tightly; not too tight, but enough to make sure he won’t slip away from him again. (Never again. Not if he can help it.)

“I’m glad you’re back,” he whispers. Tilting his head up, he stares at the soft lighting of Leblanc, forcing his lungs to breathe evenly—not for fear of losing his temper, but for fear of exposing the tears silently streaming down his face. “So fucking glad.”

Akira doesn’t answer. He only buries his face deeper into Ryuji’s shoulder.

Ann was right—Akira isn’t okay. Not for now, not for awhile. It’s up to Ryuji and everyone else in their group of friends to fix that. That’s fine. They’ll all take as long as they need. He isn’t okay right now, but he will be. They can work on that.

But one thing was clear.

I’m not going to lose him tonight.

====

Summer in Mementos is pretty gross.

Granted, it’s always nasty in here—there’s a perpetual air of moisture, like the inside of a whale, if Ryuji had ever been in one (he’s basing that off of an American movie Ann showed them last week; he didn’t even know it was possible for a fish to get lost in the ocean). There’s also the ongoing sound of trains passing by them on loop, and to him, trains are just inherently cramped and humid and always too sticky for his liking.

Of course, there’s the disgusting, weird amalgamated Shadows that litter every level of Mementos. At least in Palaces they sort of resemble something from the real world, but he guesses they didn’t even bother with these ones. The worst part of all this is that right now, it’s hot, but not hot enough for the Shadows to process a heat wave.

So essentially, they’re fighting with additional bucket loads of sweat, but with none of the usual reward that comes with it.

Well, not that they needed it.

“Fox.”

“As you wish.”

Yusuke’s boots skid to a halt as he points his katana at the fast-moving Shadow, the tip perfectly still. “Your assistance, Goemon.”

They’re on their weekly Mementos grind, the list Mishima keeps updating finally too long to ignore. (Akira hates it when things pile up. It’s a big reason why Ryuji hastily cleaned up every time he wanted to come over. Now though, he doesn’t even bother.)

The current All-Star team includes Yusuke, Makoto, Ryuji, and Akira, with the rest of them keeping a close eye in case they need a quick shift in strategy.

From his katana, black ice crawls in the ground beneath rusted train tracks, the air suddenly chilly despite the humidity that was there a moment ago. Frost shoots forward, encasing the legs of the Shadow only to shatter with a strong jerk forward. It roars, the ear-piercing sound causing the scattered debris around them to vibrate. Akira clicks his tongue.

Strong against ice. Easy fix. Ryuji mouths the words along with Akira when he says, “Panther, you’re up.”

“Finally!”

Ann darts in, high-fiving Yusuke as he rushes out. Ryuji can see Makoto pat Yusuke on the back, sympathy etched on her expression and Futaba mussing his hair. He always took it the hardest when he had to be switched out.

Akira’s gloved fingers brush the edge of his monochrome mask. “Come, Principality.”

As if a human version of justice has been summoned down to earth, the winged statue floats for a moment, eyes filled with scorn as she casts a simple, yet effective memory loss spell. The Shadow shakes its head aggressively. It works, but it won’t hold for long.

“Skull.”

“Don’t mind if I do!”

He grins and sprints right, squeezing into the Shadow’s blindside. It tries to twist around to take a swipe at him, but Ryuji is too fast—he slides right between its legs to confuse and disorient it. Once it seems like it completely lost sight of him, he raises his hand to grip the edge of his black mask. “Come on out, Captain!”

It’s a classic tactic; make the enemy lose focus, stun it, and stop it.

A pirate straight out of the Caribbean materializes from the embers of his mask—Captain Kidd in all of his glory regards the Shadow with a look of disdain before sparks fly from the hull of his ship, and an intense streak of lightning bursts forth, shocking its target like something from a regrettable movie about torture, knocking it down to the ground, a buzz perceptible even from here. He might have overdone it.

Ann whistles. “You didn’t even let me get a chance with it.”

“You can have the next million Shadows we bump into, I promise.” He calls Captain back into his mask, fragmented pieces forming together impossibly quick. “We good, Leader?”

Akira nods. “Just let me get the loot,” he smiles at Ryuji. “Awesome voltage on that last one, Skull.”

A grin stretches over his face before he can stop himself. He won’t deny it—getting a compliment from Joker was always something he filed away for later.

He’s too busy feeling pride surge through him that he can’t even bother to get ticked off when he hears Morgana scoff. “It doesn’t matter how good that attack was; he got in the way of Lady Panther’s finishing blow. That’s a crime in my eyes.”

“But doesn’t that just mean he saved her from doing anything?” Makoto raises an eyebrow. “Technically, he prevented any danger from befalling her, right?”

“Queen, as a gentleman, I have an obligation to tell you that that is a sexist notion.”

“You did not just say that.”

Something makes Ryuji pause. Immediately, his eyes flicker around them automatically. He tunes their chattering out, and finds himself tapping his foot, a slight jitter overcoming him. His nerves are trying to tell him something. Or maybe he’s imagining it? Is it just an aftershock from the intense lightning he cast out? No. It’s been too long since he’s had any problem with electric moves, and he’s never had problems from ones that he threw out himself.

Something was wrong, and he can’t put his finger on it.

He rattles his brain trying to figure out what it is. No one’s hurt, everyone’s safe and together. Well, mostly together, since Akira’s still approaching the Shadow—

A cold sweat drapes the back of his neck. Akira is still approaching the Shadow.

The Shadow hasn’t disintegrated yet.

“Akira—!”

The name slips past his lips, codenames forgotten. In slow motion, Ryuji sees Shadow’s body tense, its mouth frothing with what looks like liquid magma made from pits of hell—specializes in curse, and a strong one at that; Ryuji can feel the potency of its malignancy from where he’s standing. He watches as Akira stiffens, fingers twitching towards his mask, ready to retaliate, or at the very least, defend. And like a domino effect of bad luck, Ryuji feels bile rise to his throat.

Akira is good at what he does. Infuriatingly good. Took the whole Metaverse bullshit like a fish to water. But even he can’t switch Personas the same moment he summons them.

Principality would crumple like tissue paper against the Shadow. And Akira along with it.

You’re too late, a voice whispers in his head. You wouldn’t make it.

A heartbeat passes. And then Ryuji is flying.

It’s never too late, screams back something stronger, something unshakeable. Not ever. Especially not for him.

His boots hit the ground like the first strike of lightning amidst a storm—impossibly fast and unexpected. Lungs wheezing and legs throbbing, he crossed the distance in the span of a breath.

The Shadow throws the curse at Akira, red and black and filled to the brim with intensity, and Akira’s eyes can only widen, pupils dilated wildly to the point where there’s only black—a mirror of what’s about to hit him if Ryuji isn’t fast enough.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Ryuji shoves Akira, hard enough that he crashes onto the ground and he can hear the breath forcefully leave his lungs, and suddenly Ryuji can’t hear anything at all. His fingertips are fire and ice, his sense of surroundings have completely dissipated. Any energy in his body is being drained, like a dam cracked into millions of pieces—and all he’s left with is air. Vaguely, he can hear a choking noise, a broken sort of sound.

The blow is not just a violent one—it never is, with curse attacks. Instead of just feeling his skin bruised or blood running down his temple, he also feels himself get weaker, his mind growing heavier. An attack on the mind and body; a perfect cocktail of fucked up.

The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is the glint from Akira’s knife slicing through the Shadow’s throat.

====

Tokyo is currently at a wicked thirty two degrees.

The sun radiates scorching temperatures down from the sky, the concrete eagerly absorbing every bit of its heat, making something akin to walking across hot coals. It’s hot enough that a mirage is visible to the naked eye. It’s hot enough that every ice cream store has a forty-minute line-up. It’s hot enough that no birds were flying, in fear that they may truly be fried by the sun above them.

Basically, it’s hot as hell.

“Ryuji-chan, pick up the pace!”

But Haru is more vicious than any conceivable temperature.

Looking like a survivor who was lost in the desert for several days, Ryuji lets out a half-garbled battle cry and sprints the last dozen meters. Haru clicks her stopwatch.

Sitting on a lovely lilac blanket, she tsks from underneath the shade. “Three seconds slower.”

“Ugh!” he collapses beside her on the cool grass. If she looks at him from a certain angle, she can see the steam positively radiating off of him. “I’m going to beat the living shit out of the sun.”

“You know I’d support you in anything you do, Ryuji-chan, but I don’t think you’d be fast enough to catch it,” Haru says. She hands him a cold water bottle. “Drink slowly.”

He rolls over so that he can squint up at her. “You’re mean.”

“I’m harsh,” she corrects, shaking the bottle in her hand. “There’s a difference.”

He takes it. “Have you done this before?”

“Helped someone train in running? No. But,” she rummages through her pastel pink tote bag, and proudly shows him a handful of books. He squints at them. “Since I’m so new to the group and everyone has such broad interests, I decided to try reading up on them! Did you know that drinking cold water after running results in less dehydration than drinking warm water?”

Ryuji stares at her. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For saying you’re mean. You’re not mean. You’re real nice, Haru.”

She smiles at him and pats his head, despite the overflowing heat and moisture settled on top. “You’re very sweet Ryuji-chan, but that’s not going to make me go easy on you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the tough-love kind of coach.” Ryuji sits up, cracking open the seal. Chugging down the water, he makes eye contact with Haru before slowing down substantially.

He dumps the rest of it on his head, sighing and shivering in relief. “That’s the good shit.”

“Why not wait for the sun to go down a bit?” she suggests. “The heat is really scorching, and there’s still plenty of time to keep training later.”

“Nah,” he stretches his arms behind his head before he stands again. “I gotta keep going while I still can.”

Haru frowns. “Overexertion isn’t going to help anyone.”

“Don’t you worry your fluffy head! I may be stupid, but I know when to stop when I gotta.”

“I really think you should rest for a bit.”

“I will when I’m done, I promise.”

“You looked rough in that last lap—”

“Haru,” Ryuji is grinning, but his tone leaves no room for argument. “I’m going to keep training.”

They stare at each other for a few moments, before Haru’s shoulder sags slightly. “Alright.” He’s about to say something when she cuts him off. “But only if you tell me why you’re so insistent.”

Ryuji shrugs. “If that’s what it’ll take to prove it to you, then sure. It’s kinda stupid, though.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“Oh, wait till you hear it,” he laughs, a little shy. “So you know how Mona and Futaba are, like, the Metaverse experts? And Makoto is the big brain? And Yusuke does the whole calling card part?” Haru nods, and he continues. “Well, I’m not really… anything. Ann already took the role of moral support and there’s no way in hell I’m the ‘brain’ in anything. Jeez, last time I picked up a paintbrush was in kindergarten. So I figured, I’d be the fast one, you know? The one that can get to someone fast enough to help them out.” Ryuji’s grin turns into something softer; less edge and more fond. It does something to her heart. “And if it’d help ‘Kira down the line, then it’d be worth it, right?”

Haru stays silent.

“Anyway! That’s enough of that cheesy shit.” He moves back to the track, running shoes scuffing at the concrete. “Wish me luck, maybe I can actually catch up to the sun this time. Teach it a lesson.”

“Ryuji.“

Looking back, he gives her a curious look. “Yeah?”

Haru hesitates.

I never once thought you were stupid. You’ve given so much more to the team than you can imagine. You have no idea how many times you’ve helped Akira without even lifting a finger.

“I have a cooler full of water behind me, so… please try your best out there.”

Ryuji gives her an enthusiastic salute. “Yes ma'am!”

He runs off, the sun continuing to beat down him relentlessly.

====

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ryuji knew they were all going to die someday. It’s inevitable. The circle of life, the winds of time, la vie en rose, etc.

He just didn’t expect it to happen at the age of 16, on the sinking cognitive ship of their next Prime Minister, wearing a wack-ass leather outfit surrounded by his panicking friends.

“We’re going to die!” Futaba wails, knees shaking uncontrollably to the point where she can hardly keep standing. “I don’t know how to swim!”

“It’ll be fine,” Akira spits through gritted teeth. He’s far tenser than anyone else, red gloves formed into fists and eyes constantly darting around to see what can save their lives. “We just need to focus.”

Makoto points to something on their right and shouts, “There! A lifeboat!”

Sprinting down the slowly escalating ramp, their eyes widen at the single lifeboat propped at the very top of the bow—which is slowly approaching a ninety degree angle. They all had one thought in their minds.

“We’re not going to make it in time,” Yusuke says, quietly.

Akira bangs his fist into a nearby column. “To hell with that. There’s no way I’m letting us die here.”

A heavy silence falls over them. The air is practically crackling with electricity and pure agitation, but there’s also a determination between all of that. Everyone’s overcome with a need to protect their friends and teammates, but they were at a loss of what to do. A quiet realization overcomes the group—there wasn’t going to be a miracle to save them.

Ryuji’s eyes land on Akira. He’s scanning the area, Third Eye activated but unable to pick up anything that isn’t the lifeboat. There’s no panic in his clear, gray eyes, but the terror in it is the most prevalent out of anyone present.

It hits Ryuji, all at once. The boy in front of him may be his age, and even younger than some members of their group, but he is undoubtedly the leader of the infamous Phantom Thieves. Every decision he made had led them here, in this moment, in their imminent death. And if he lets them all get taken, whether it’s through the ocean or the approaching explosions behind him, the truth of the matter is Akira feels that he would be responsible. That it’s his fault that a cognitive boat would take the lives of his friends.

Yeah. That’s not happening.

Ryuji clenches his eyes shut for a few seconds and slowly opens them. He begins to jump in place, hyping himself up.

“Skull…?” Haru asks, brows furrowing.

“Hang tight, guys,” he says, taking quick breaths. He can do this. “I’ll nab the boat.”

A chorus of gasps and heated objections rang through the air, and Akira steps forward, more shaken than Ryuji’s ever seen him. “No. Skull, please—”

Ryuji throws him a wobbly grin, more for Akira than himself. In one smooth motion, he jumps down and hits the ground running.

“No!”

Immediately, he feels his knees and thighs begin to protest, only intensifying the further he sprints up. For a minute, if Ryuji closes his eyes, he can imagine that he’s in a meet. A race. That the screams he hears behind him are his track mates, and not teammates, friends, best friends that would die if he failed to get to the boat fast enough.

He pushes himself even more.

It’s a miracle that he gets to the raft before his legs give out, and he feels a satisfying crank underneath his palms when he rotates the lever. As he throws a thumbs up at his friends, seeing them safe, healthy, alive, he feels relieved beyond words.

He makes eye contact with Akira, and he really should’ve expected the explosion that comes next.

====

His ceiling has seventy-nine plastic stars.

Ryuji stares up at it from his bed, arms crossed behind his head; they’d long since lost their cheap light. It was raining hard outside, enough to rattle against his window like pebbles calling for his attention. He ignores them.

It’s been years since he got those stars—dating all the way back in middle school. He got into a bad habit of sneaking out in the middle of the night to look at the sky from the roof of their apartment building. It scared the shit out of his ma when she finally caught him, scolded him to hell and back. By the end, they found a compromise: she’d buy him a crap ton from the hundred yen store, and they’d stick it up together. When they did, it kept falling down, so she went back and bought him a bottle of superglue. Now you can’t take them off, even if you tried to use a little scraper.

It bothered him, for a while. Young boys were cruel, and anyone who came to visit always poked fun of him for it. It wasn’t until he visited Akira’s room one day, saw how pleased he was that Yusuke bought them for him that he couldn’t help but revel at his own stars again, after all this time.

Ryuji twists his body sideways, ripping his eyes away from the plastic figures. Enough of that.

His eyes have long adjusted to the darkness that surrounds him, allowing a clear view of his room in the limited moonlight. Laundry splayed around his tatami mat from his sprints training today, gaming controllers scattered on the center table from when Akira came over a few days ago. That was a blast. He helped him beat a boss he’s been stuck on for weeks, and Akira beat it like it was nothing, it was the coolest shit ever—

Ryuji forces himself to flip over to glare at the wall. Sleep. That’s a better idea.

He takes a deep breath, forcing his breathing to go steady. There’s lots to do tomorrow—school is a drag, but they plan on meeting up at Leblanc afterwards. The thought allows his muscles to relax. Really, the atmosphere of Leblanc is just so pleasing to him. The warm lighting, the run-down booths, even the smell is a welcome presence. Well, that’s mostly because Akira drags it with him wherever he—

Slowly, his eyes open.

It always comes back to him, doesn’t it?

He rolls onto his back, in a position to stare at the stars again. The rain hammers on.

Ryuji’s a dumb kid.

It’s not a self jab, it wasn’t manifested by some sort of long-standing insecurity. It’s a fact. He’s never been good with a book, never done anything half-decent by picking up a pencil, his mind was never programmed to listen and retain information in long classes. It’s definitely not like he’s the brains of the Thieves, never a strategist of some kind. His ma encouraged him to take on a tutor in the past, and he’d rather bite a finger off than spend her money on wasted potential, so he found himself wandering the streets of Central Street as a way to pass time.

Ryuji’s a dumb kid, but even he knows he’s irrevocably, completely, stupidly in love with Kurusu Akira.

He sits up and ruffles his hair, frustrated. There are too many things wrong with that sentence, too many things that can go wrong because of that sentence. Of course, he finds the one thing that can mess up the unshakeable foundation that he and Akira built for each other. He must’ve really pissed off some God upstairs for him to have a hell-bent queer awakening with his best friend.

No, that’s wrong. It was the furthest thing from hell-bent—it was soft, it was gray, it was raining, and most importantly, it took its time.

They were halfway through Kamoshida’s Palace when Ryuji realized it; the sheer amount of power that hindsight gave him made him pause long enough to get clocked out by a Shadow.

Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter, because he would never, ever do anything to fuck up what he has. Not again.

Wait, no, that’s not true. Even before Kamoshida, he’s never had something like this. He’s never had someone like him. He’s never had someone who’s so entirely on the same wavelength as him, who’d have his back even when his was against a wall. Kurusu Akira is…ethereal. Out of this world. Cool as fuck. (Hot as fuck, too.) If you lined up the entirety of Tokyo and told him he could pick one. One person out of the whole lineup to be his friend, he’d have his answer in a heartbeat.

See, now that isn’t something that changed with hindsight—Ryuji’s known that he’s been in love with Akira since before they completed Kamoshida’s Palace. And when he figured it out, he didn’t feel shock. His eyes didn’t widen, his heart didn’t start thumping like crazy. It’s more like he just scratched his head in a huh kind of way. It felt like his life had been waiting for that day in April, like everything was at a standstill until he finally met Kurusu Akira. It made sense. Everything just makes sense when Akira’s involved.

Which just makes this all the more fucked up.

He knocks his head back against the wall, eyes stuck on the raindrops’ rapidly moving shadows on his bedroom floor. Karma. That’s probably what’s happening. The world still hasn’t forgiven him for losing his shit, so they decided to make him pine for the only person that he can’t afford to lose.

He can’t even stomach the idea of trying to get over it, to try and put distance between himself and Akira. He spent a lifetime waiting for a miracle, for someone who didn’t know existed. He’s not giving up a single second of time with him. That’s probably why the world relentlessly shits on him; he’s selfish enough to keep the feelings that he has. But he can’t bring himself to regret that decision. Not with the way his breath hitches in his throat whenever Akira walks into the room.

Ryuji’s in love with his best friend, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. He’s accepted it. Just like how the sky is blue, or that he well and truly hates Calculus. It’s a factor of life.

The rain seemed to fall harder, droplets sounding like rigorous hail against the windowpane. He lets out a long yawn.

Ryuji’s in love with his best friend, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

That’s not the reason why he can’t sleep at night.

Akira is a quiet guy. He gets his point across with as few words as possible, as if each letter costs him fifty yen to say out loud. So he speaks through his expression; a quirk of his brow, a tilt of his head, a certain smile is enough to carry half of the conversation.

And, every once in a while, Akira gets a look.

It comes up at the weirdest times—when the two of them baton pass in the Metaverse, when Ryuji eats ramen too fast and gets sick, when he helps an old lady cross the street. Plenty of times it’s because Ryuji is doing something incredibly stupid (like when he said that the square root of sixteen is six, because if you just get rid of the one, then that makes sense, right?), or when they’re laughing so hard neither of them can breathe. But sometimes it comes up in quieter moments, too. The two of them talking quietly in the attic at Leblanc, or when Akira confesses that he’s relieved Ryuji’s always there for him. (As if there would ever be a time where he won’t be.)

The look is subtle enough to miss but easy to find if someone knows what they’re looking for. The usual attentiveness that resides in Akira’s eyes disappears, in its place a softer gaze; his pupils get dilated, and the edge of his eyes get all crinkled like Valentine’s tissue paper. A half-smile rests on his lips, never quite turning into a full-blown grin, but that’s okay. For some reason, it all reminds Ryuji of the moon. Of soft moonlight. Of streetlamps on empty roads.

Ryuji’s in love with his best friend, and there’s a small, tiny, infinitesimal chance that his best friend might love him back.

His eyelids slide shut, though he knows that it won’t be enough to let him rest.

Realistically, he’s probably wrong. Akira isn’t in love with him, and he’s only seeing what he wants to see. With every eligible person seeming to fall in love with him at some point in time, how would it even be possible that Akira would love him?

He rubs his eyes, desperate to get rid of the unending fatigue that’s plagued him for months on end. It doesn’t work.

Bad excuse. Akira does love him, just like he loves everyone he encounters and befriends and ends up risking his life for. Ryuji’s surprised Akira hasn’t passed out yet, given his bleeding heart for the entire population of Tokyo.

Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles as he rubs his eyes harder.

But what if he wasn’t wrong? What if the signals he’s seeing aren’t based on misunderstood yearning?

When his eyes start to burn, his fingers move up to his hair.

There’s no way in hell he’d ever risk losing his best friend. His partner. His Akira. It’s not something he can gamble. It’s not worth it.

He begins to tug, hands shaking, and he can barely feel the sting of pain from nearly pulling his hair out his scalp.

It’s not worth it. He decided that in the very beginning.

Ryuji buries his face into his palms.

But he is so, so exhausted of being tired.

Lightning flashes, and for a split-second, his room is bright.

Fuck it.

By the time thunder rumbles through his apartment, he’s already out the front door.

His sneakers squelch against the wet concrete, soaking his unsocked feet. He’s sprinting fast enough that the street lights around him blur, and he can feel quick breaths getting pulled out of him. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he forgot to wear a raincoat, but he doesn’t care.

Akira is his best friend. Akira accepted him, flaws and all. Akira loves him, one way or another. That’s what held him back. He can’t risk losing that.

Ryuji quickly checks both sides before running across the street, wiping the rain off his brow, and keeps going.

But that’s what should’ve pushed him into confessing sooner. Because if that’s all true, then that can only ever mean that Akira would accept this part of him too, right?

He jerks out of the way as he almost barrels over a fire hydrant, making him step into a deep puddle. It doesn’t slow him down.

Maybe he would’ve realized it sooner if he wasn’t too fucking tired to think straight.

His lungs begin to complain, his breaths turning to wheezes, but he ignores it in favor of going faster.

Too late for that now. All the matters now is to talk to—

He skids to a halt.

In front of him—eyes wide, hair drenched, no shoes—stands Kurusu Akira.

Ryuji’s mouth falls open, and for a minute, he almost laughs. Of course. He should’ve known. Just as he’s willing to sprint to Akira at an unholy hour in the night…

He smiles sheepishly at him, and Ryuji feels his chest constrict in the loveliest way possible.

…Akira would do the exact same thing for him.

The rain slows, and the thunder ceases for a moment. The world pauses long enough for both of them to speak in the same breath, the same heartbeat:

“I’m in love with you.”

[spartanxhunterx]

What’s mass effect about?

Massive sci-fi game. Three part series.

Humanity joins the space race a begins colonizing space, using technology called Ezzo or Element Zero that when used can increase or decrease an object mass.

The latter of which is used in everything from toothbrushes to Faster than light travel.

There are massive 'Relays' scattered all across the galaxy that act as a slingshot network that is much, much faster then standard FTL.

A large part of the galaxy is governed by the Citadel council that is ruled by the primary three races.

Asari: an all female presenting race of blue humanoids that can mind meld (and mate) with any other race. Also every asari is a natural biotic (more on that later) they also live for an average of 1000 human years.

Turians: A very militaristic style species, all turians of both genders join the military at 14 to begin training and cannot leave until 30. They are the primary protectors of citadel space after the Turian-Krogan wars. They live to roughly 150 years (same as humans) but unlike most other races are dextro-amimo based life forms. Aka. Non-turian food can cause upset stomachs all the way up to death.

Salarians: Extremely smart, lizard-like aliens (based off the grey alien) essentially the brains of the galaxy, they specialise in spec-ops warfare and sabotage over a full force war. They're extremely fast thinkers to the point of everyone else being slow to them. They barely live 40 years.

These three races make up the citadel council, each race has a representative that speaks for their council but they ultimately make decisions.

There are multiple other races who have also joined the citadel council but have yet to earn a spot ON the council itself.

Elcor, Hanar, Drell (all live with and work for Hanar), Volus.

And then there are others that don't belong to anyone but themselves.

Batarians (slaver race), Krogan (most feared race but also plagued with the Genophage, a disease that results in 999/1000 births going stillborn [created by salarians and used by Turians]), Quarians (A race forced in a nomadic lifestyle aboard their 50,000+ ships after losing their homeworks to the Geth, also all Quarians have weak immune systems and must stay in special suits at All times.) Geth (Mechanical race created by the Quarians as a autonomous labour force, killed many of them after gaining sentience.)

And more.

You, play as Commander Shepherd a Human N7 soldier and first (technically second) human to be offered a position in the Spectres, elite operatives who mainly work for the council but also have full power to "Do whatever the fuck you want to complete your goal."

Said goal to be capture/kill Saren, a rogue Turian Spectre who has an army of Geth and Asari Commandos and their Matriarch with him.

Along the way you help people but ultimately you uncover a message left by the previous species the Protheans who vanished without a little over 50,000 years ago, who warn all future species of the reapers.

Massive sentient half organic/machine creatures that are the size of ships 2 kilometres in length. (Largest ships ever built being 2k in a star pattern and average ships being between 300-600 metres and the dreadnoughts being between 900metres and 1.4 kilometres, also restricted due to citadel laws)

The reapers intention is to harvest all organic life every 50,000 years to create more reapers, thus 'saving' and 'preserving' the species forever.

The first game ends with you killing Saren (Twice, fucking boss battles) and the one reaper who was trying to open the way for the thousands of others who were waiting in deep space.

The second game has you creating a team to go fight the collector's, who are genetically brainwashed clones of the Protheans, as they kidnap humans to create a Prototype Human-Reaper hybrid. All this happens AFTER dying in the beginning and being brought back to life by Cerberus. A pro-human (terrorist) organisation.

The third game is the War between the reapers after they arrive at earth, decimating it in one fell swoop.

You must collect every possible war asset even going so far as to cure the Genophage, unite the Quarians and Geth and more, while also dealing with Cerberus the (now reaper controlled) organisation. While also having to do everything for everyone.

[skinks]

still thinking about this post by @honeyreynolds about the Losers and time, and while I’m not as galaxy brained as op it gave me an idea annnnnnd

what if Derry was like a black hole? what if Derry and the deadlights warp time in the same way it warps behaviour and perception. remember that plot thread in Interstellar where they spend x amount of time, an hour or so on the planet close to the black hole, but in the rest of the universe it’s been decades?

and listen, what if.... okay, I live in a fairly regular size town with a very small-town vibe, around 25k people, and even when I was a kid there were still people who had never travelled further than the next bigger town over. Kids who had never been out into the surrounding countryside. And this is in the 2000s. With all the weird ass shit that goes unnoticed in Derry in the 50s or the 80s, is it totally outside the realms of possibility that people might just - not leave? you reach the edge of town or county lines, and a firm hand seems to move in your mind, gently turning your brain in your skull, redirecting you home again for something you forgot, and when you get back home you’ve forgotten what it was, and also what you were ever leaving town for in the first place.

If someone does somehow leave, people lose contact with them pretty quick. Nobody ever considers this strange, because nobody every considers it. That’s just how it is! Nobody notices that the same episodes of their favourite soaps just cycle around, over and over. Nobody notices that some of the old-timers still dress like they’re trapping beaver. Nobody notices the occasional sleeker car passing through town, less boxy, unfamiliar brands.

but then these kids beat It, and suddenly... it’s like the giant glass dome settled over the town shatters, it’s like the ending of The Truman Show meets the ending of The Village, and the Losers emerge into a world that left Derry behind nearly thirty years ago. Wait, your phone is a computer? What kind of marriage is legal now? They made how many Die Hard sequels? People talk about their trauma openly? Are we in Star Trek?

[beloved-death]

Any favorite legion of space marines?

World Eaters, especially with their Horus Heresy color scheme. Angron is probably my favorite Primarch because despite the cliches that he is a mindless beast he repeatedly fights off the nails and is more than coherent. Makes you wonder how things would have been if he didn’t have the butcher’s nails in his brain. He ascended to daemonhood because of Lorgar who wanted to save his life but honestly doomed Angron to a worse existence. Daemon Angron is the embodiment of HOLY FUCK WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE and if not for Imperium plot armour he probably would have destroyed the galaxy. The only Khornate to have achieved more is a guy described as having achievements in bloodshed to surpass that even of Genghis Khan. Angron is sadly the second most shit on traitor primarch next to Lorgar. Not his fault he and his legion are made punching bags by writers.

Then there’s Kharn, he is pretty much 40k’s DOOM GUY. RIP AND FUCKING TEAR! Like Kharn is a mortal (as mortal as a space marine could possibly be tbh) who not only shrugs off death but is completely unfazed by anything. He’s beaten the shit out of everyone but Sigismond (who is hilariously OP in a 1v1). He has destroyed a titan with nothing but his melee weapons, killed Saint Celestine who is like the most powerful non-primarch or Grey Knight in the Imperium, wields Gorechild (some art portrays him holding gorefather which is incorrect), Angrons axe with one hand, mind you Angron is over twice the size of Kharn with axes to match but Kharn? nah he just swings it around one handed. If they made a Devil May Cry style game for 40k Kharn would be the only acceptable choice for the protagonist because his sheer ass kicking ferocity is on par if not surpassing Dante and Bayonetta.

[moxxie-by-proxxie]

OH MY GODD?????

@potatotrash0 YOU GOTTA SEE THIS

me and friends were joking in a discord server and i ended up making a danganronpa animatic of the magic school bus intro, enjoy

[ladililn]

What Rogue One taught me about the Jedi, despite no Jedi actually appearing in it

So I initially started writing this for @rogueoneanniversary last year, and then Real Life happened and I disappeared from Tumblr and then Tumblr disappeared from me and now here we are, a full standard year later, and guess who still has (now very belated) Thoughts she wants to share? This girl! Because guess who still hasn’t gotten over this movie? This me! (Not sure whether @celebraterogueone is the correct place for this now?)

The first time I saw Rogue One, I completely missed the fallen colossus in the sands of Jedha. I just thought it was an overhead shot of some weirdly-shaped mountain. The second time, it took a moment for my brain to register and make sense of the image, and then I wondered how I'd ever missed it.

This one object, one blink-and-you-miss-it set piece, tells us so much about Jedha and the "ancient religion" of the Jedi and themes that run through the entire saga and even, I think, characters who aren't even in Rogue One (there's a reason the fallen Jedi statue looks exactly like Old Ben). It immediately calls to mind Shelley’s Ozymandias:

I met a traveller from an antique land 

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 

Stand in the desert…Near them, on the sand, 

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies[…]

[…]Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

To return for a moment to Admiral Motti’s “ancient religion” line in ANH—I’ve seen people point that out as a plot hole, or at least an early inconsistency, given that the Prequels show the Jedi faith alive and well a mere nineteen years earlier, which doesn’t seem very ancient. I find that charge specious for several reasons—first of all, “ancient” doesn’t mean “dead." I think you could easily and accurately refer to Judaism or Christianity as “ancient religions,” and both of those are alive and well now. The religion began a long, long time ago; thus it is “ancient.” I’d also argue that we hardly needed the Prequels to belie the idea that the Jedi Order was beyond human memory. We know in ANH that Obi-Wan used to be a Jedi Knight, and although Alec Guinness looked (and was) older than Obi-Wan’s actual age, there was nothing in that movie or the other two OT movies to indicate human lifespans differ significantly in the GFFA.

Still, I see the disconnect. On the one hand, we have a not-that-ancient man who was once one of the “guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic.” On the other, you have Luke, who’s never even heard of the Jedi, and Han, who doesn’t believe in the Force. Again, some see these as errors, considering Han was already ten when the Republic fell, meaning the Jedi were still getting up to their incredible and well-documented feats when he should’ve been old enough to be aware and remember.

Explanations for this seeming disconnect can be found across the franchise, and they boil down to two main points: the Jedi’s (relative) lack of reach throughout the galaxy, and Order 66. 

Here’s a fun figure: how many Jedi were there in the galaxy before Order 66? 10,000. Ten fucking thousand. That’s a ridiculously tiny number. A laughably tiny number. A Sci-Fi Writers Have No Sense of Scale number. An entire galaxy, all those planets and star systems, billions and billions (trillions? quadrillions?) of sentient beings, and you could name every single Jedi in a few hours. Put them all in the smallest NFL stadium, and they couldn’t even fill half the seats. 

Sometimes I find the Sci-Fi Writers Have No Sense of Scale-ness of the GFFA frustrating (although IMO the “why is this galaxy filled with the same 10 people?!” complaints fans like to toss around ignores the history of the mythic storytelling tradition Star Wars is very much a part of and how the franchise fits into/plays with those genre conventions, but that’s a rant for another day). But in this case, I fucking love how ridiculous a number 10,000 is. I think it’s perfect. Our view of the Jedi’s relative size and stature in the galaxy is warped by the lens through which we see the galaxy; up until Rogue One, we’re pretty much just hanging out with Jedi. Not only that—in the Prequels and TCW, we’re hanging out with the best of the best, the council members and the freaking Chosen One. They’re the elite among the elite. The 1% of the 1%, only more like the .001% of the .0000000000000001%.

There’s an excerpt from the Rogue One novelization that I think illustrates my point perfectly. This comes from a section of the book that’s meant to be “supplemental data [from the] personal files of Mon Mothma,” a document entitled “Short Notes on the History of the Rebel Alliance Navy” (side note: how much do I love in-universe archival material? a whole fucking lot) (all emphasis mine):

What worked in the Clone Wars cannot work again: the partnership of Jedi Knights and Kaminoan clone armies constituted a peerless weapon that no longer exists. 

Consider a brigade of clone troopers served by a Jedi commander: Such a unit might penetrate a world’s orbital defenses and seize control of the entire planet while taking (and inflicting!) minimal casualties… [W]hat blockade could be thorough enough to keep out a handful of determined star fighters and a single clone drop ship? 

...With the Clone Wars’ end, the destruction of the Jedi Order, and the decommissioning of the Kaminoan cloning facilities, the self-proclaimed Emperor and his military advisers determined that the future of warfare was in large-scale naval weaponry—in a fleet of battleships and battle stations that could atomize any enemy, whether on a planet’s surface or among the stars. They rebuilt a military not for precision strikes but for hammerblows… No potential rebellion could dare eschew infantry altogether, but—lacking the elite support of the Jedi or clones—the cost in lives would be abominable…

From an in-universe perspective, the Jedi are OP as shit. Guys, these are a tiny handful of beings with the ability to move shit with their minds! They can run and leap insane distances at inhuman (yeah, I know that’s an impossible term in the context of a galaxy filled with humans and aliens, but you know what I mean) speeds, they can move in ways other people could never imagine, they have the sort of reflexes that allow Anakin to participate in a sport other members of his species, the most populous in the galaxy by far, physically cannot. They can manipulate the environment around them telekinetically. They can manipulate people telepathically. Their weapons can cut through anything. It’s been said before, but it bears repeating: they are literal space wizards. I know this is all obvious, but think about it from the perspective of your average galactic citizen: here is a microscopically tiny group of people who can literally do magic.

Why are there so few of them? Well, the Force moves in mysterious ways. But also, there don’t really need to be more. Talk about casting an outsized shadow: 10,000 people holding the entire galaxy together. Like Mon Mothma says, one Jedi (and their handful of trusty clone troopers) = an entire fucking battle station in terms of military power. And with the Sith so long in hiding (side note: the Rule of Two makes the Order look positively overpopulated), the Jedi have had no real opponent of their own stature and ability level to contend with for a long, long time. (We see, especially in TCW, how difficult it is for a non-Force user to be made into a credible threat for the Jedi in any circumstances. Those plotlines almost always require characters to be nerfed, either by having to hide their powers (because undercover), being restrained by the Code and not wanting to harm civilians (a Jedi’s primary weapon—though obviously not their only weapon—is hard to make nonlethal, or at least non-maiming), or conveniently forgetting most of their powers.)

Now, it could be argued that there do “need” to be more, because are they actually doing such a great job guarding peace and justice? Are they successfully holding the galaxy together? Even before the Clone Wars, we see in TPM that their power doesn’t extend all the way into the far reaches of the galaxy. Of course, you could also argue that the lawlessness of the Outer Rim has less to do with the Jedi’s inability, in terms of sheer forcible (sorry) power, to do anything about it, and more to do with the politics of the Republic, and you could be right. But that’s part of the point. The Jedi are enforcers of peace, not rulers. They’re not supposed to be making decisions on galactic policy. (That “supposed to” is key, but again: a story for another day.)

So my point is: sure, on Coruscant in the year 20 BBY, you’re not going to have anyone blinking and saying “Jedi who?” It’s a Core World—the Core World—and most of the characters we’re familiar with in the Prequel Era are by necessity among the upper echelons of galactic society, or at least moving in circles that bring them into contact with the upper echelons. High-ranking politicians, rulers of various worlds, heads of planetary militia—people who have reason to be interacting with the Jedi. (Even the criminals they interact with are top-level, crime bosses and legendary bounty hunters. You’re not going to call a Jedi to arrest a petty thief.)

99.999% of the galaxy’s citizens have never seen a Jedi in person. (We’re going to leave beside the issue of the media in the GFFA, because that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of, uh, mynocks?) The farther you get from Coruscant, the farther removed you are from galactic high society, the less you probably know about the Jedi. Han, growing up on the streets of Corellia, has no reason to be an expert on Jedi. I’m sure he’s heard rumors, but he is perfectly justified in being a skeptic, particularly once the Jedi disappear seemingly easily.

Which brings us to the Jedi Purge. Here’s the thing: Order 66 wasn’t just about literally killing all the Jedi and burning their Temple down. It was a planned cultural genocide as well. A revision of history. We all know the line from 1984: “Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.” Palpatine destroyed the memory of the Jedi as surely as he destroyed the Jedi themselves. We’ve met, in various canon sources, history professors who lost their jobs because any mention, scholarly or otherwise, of the Jedi Order had become verboten. We’ve seen kids studying for their galactic history class in which one of the questions concerns Mace Windu, leader of a “criminal gang that interfered with a legal execution on Geonosis and sparked the Clone Wars.” Talk about revisionist: that goes against everything Palpatine himself said and did during the Clone Wars, a not-insignificant timespan of at least three years of his own personal history he has to revise, but in his role as Emperor, he can pull that off. This is what totalitarian governments do. We already see it begin in RotS, when Palps tells the Senate all about the Jedi Order’s attempt at a coup. And it’s effective! Five years on, Tarkin himself says the Jedi already feel like a distant memory.

And of course it’s fairly ludicrous (though not, I suppose, impossible) to assume that the statue on Jedha fell and was partially buried in sand within the last 19 years. But that’s one of the things I love most about Star Wars, something it’s particularly famous for: its Used Future aesthetic, the continued reminders that this is a galaxy with a history, one as complex and mysterious and tangled in its own legends as our own. That fallen colossus is one of many clues throughout canon that the Old Republic, the Jedi Order, belief in the Force—all were in decline long before the events of the Prequel Era.

Similarly, it’s clear that Jedha itself, once among the most holy sites in the galaxy, was also only a shadow of its former glory long before it got wiped off the map entirely. From Wookieepedia (again, emphasis mine):

As more of the galaxy was mapped, more direct hyperspace routes were discovered. These new passages made the old, winding routes, such as those connecting with Jedha, obsolete. The once-popular Jedha became an antiquated curiosity rather than a relevant destination, a location for those who desired spiritual guidance, a deeper purpose, or to simply exile themselves from the larger galaxy.

It’s typical Imperial excess to take the idea of Jedha’s long-buried secrets lost to the sands of time and literalize it by blowing the damn thing up. Horace Smith’s Ozymandias is less famous, but as (if not more) relevant to our discussion (“The City’s gone,” anyone?), and I leave you with its last stanza:

We wonder,—and some Hunter may express

Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness

Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,

He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess

What powerful but unrecorded race

Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

[schwiftit-blog]

Hiiiiiiii! I was wondering if you could do an image where Rick finds out the reader has depression/suicidal thoughts. Thank you!

Major trigger warning for suicidal contemplation, “casual” suicidal thoughts, and over all harsh topics. This fic is pretty long too, so hopefully its still what you were looking for. Enjoy and thanks for the request!!

>>>

You’re what the kids are dubbing now as casually suicidal. Well, more specifically you were depressed with casual suicidal thoughts. You couldn’t believe the term when you googled your symptoms: The constant just do it, you can end it right now paired with the delicate why not? why not just jump off the edge, put your hand on the burner, throw yourself out the car, grab the knife, slice––

These intrusive thoughts would be less worrying if they came at appropriate times. They surfaced after a normal day, while you ate dinner, or when you were driving. They popped out during the most normal of times and that was when you realized you were beginning to normalize them. They were as part of everyday life as was brushing your teeth or even sleeping. 

And somehow, you always managed to ignore these…Urges. These babbling, compulsive thoughts that, at the time, don’t seem too abnormal. Until you start scrawling down how many of these particular thoughts you’re having a day. 

The journal is worn out, something you snagged from the discount bookstore from downtown. The front and back are an mottled light brown. There’s a small drawstring that slips around it so you can tie it up. There was no spiral spine, the paper a bit thicker than printer. It fit in the palm of your hand, almost mimicking the small size of a planner. The journal was a few bucks, a cheap steal really. You picked a blue ballpoint pen to go along with it and thus began your journey of journal keeping.

If you just ended it now, you won’t have to deal with traffic ever again. 2

Why not just do it to…Do it? 1

Each time you had one of these thoughts, you would quickly jot it down when you had the chance. Next to it, you’d rate the level of motivated you felt to actually commit the action. Most of these thoughts stayed within the 1-4 range of “seriousness”. However, some days the thoughts were blunter, harsher, and you found yourself jotting down a 7 or an 8. Never had you had a 9 or 10 thankfully.

Once you began filling pages with these thoughts, you realized just how in deep you were. 

>>

Somewhere along the line you decided telling Rick about these thoughts would be a Very Bad Idea and therefore, plan Very Bad Idea was marked off the list of “things to do about this issue”. You knew you needed to take action, to be properly diagnosed, you even had the journal to show you were actively taking part in recognizing these thoughts.

However, at some point, the journal became something too personal to ever share with anyone and so, began the real mission: Keep the Journal from Rick.

Rick Sanchez was an extremely nosy person, for that you were certain. The genius was not only a master of deduction, but also a mastermind at observing the little signal people shared about their lives. So, it is when you are sitting in your apartment, knees curled up to your chest and journal out, that Rick of course decides to portal in. Unannounced.

Completely unannounced. 

You scramble to throw the book under your covers, but before you can Rick is stumbling forward with his flask in hand and coat whipping wildly behind him whilst the portal shrinks away. You know you look a deer in headlights and Rick decides to just––

“S-Shit babe, you seen a ghost or what?” He asks, words slurring and feet unstable. He collapses on the bed, face in your lap and long limbs dangling off the edge of your bed. He kicks off his shoes with squirming difficulty, a sure sign he plans to stay a while and bug you. Probably even sleep over if he’s drunk enough to pass out.

Do drunk comas count as sleepovers? You’d like to think so.

The book is plastered to Rick’s cheek and somehow he is still unaware of it, or rather simply, he probably doesn’t care. With a calm motion you run your fingers through his hair and hope you can slip it from his face and slide it to the edge of the bed.

Operation: Out of Sight, Out of Mind is a go. 

Your fingers graze the edge of the pages.

“No, but I am seeing sorosis right in my lap.” You counter, tugging not even an inch of the book out.

He shifts.

“Oh, one of those moods, huh ba-babe?” Rick rolls his eyes, then meets yours with a drunken grin spattering his face. “I know just how to fix that up.”

Long fingers begin to scour your stomach, lightly leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You squirm, unable to move due to the journal and Rick’s weight on you. He sits up a touch, craning his neck to press a kiss, then a bit to your lower abdomen. You suck in a harsh breath before he sits up and––

The pages stick to his cheek and then plop onto the sheets. Rick’s eyes land on it and you know its downhill from there. In half a heartbeat the mood in the room shifts from sexually-tense to stressfully-tense. Rick reads over the words, the numbers, feeling the thickness of the filled out pages.

“What is––What the fuck is this shit?” He asks you, half serious, half kidding. Like he thinks this is maybe a college project or perhaps a coding system for one of your other more obscure hobbies.

“Its, uh, well I mean…” Your hand goes to your neck and that is a definite sign to Rick that this is what it looks like.

“What do the numbers mean.” It isn’t a question, but rather a demand. The words grinding out and, most alarmingly, without a stutter.

You hang your head in shame for a moment, eyes not daring meet Rick’s again. “How…Close I got to trying out whatever thought…I had?” The words get stuck coming out, but they eventually do.

Rick’s quiet and you hear the constant flip of pages before a bony hand is lifting your chin. The grip is firm and near painful leaving you no choice but to look up. This was turning out to be just as painful as you thought it would be.

“Op-Open up,” Rick mumbles, his other hand grabbing something you can’t see. Cool metal is pressed to your lips a second later and not too long after that the searing burn of whiskey is choking you. You take the drink in stride for a moment before sputtering, residual alcohol slipping down your chin and your sinuses on fucking fire. “Thats it…G-Good girl, alright, alright, enough. I can’t take your sniffling, its just a-alcohol. Sheesh.”

You sat with your back against the wall, your hands fisting the sheets while you waited for Rick’s next move. Already you could feel the liquor in your toes and the warmth was spreading from your chest. 

“I’m not gonna––There’s no magic lesson here, alright?” He leans back on one hand, drinking more from his flask with the other. Drool settles on his chin and you watch it as he leans forward and points at your chest. His finger just continues on until it is jabbing you right where you think he thinks your heart is. Rick is only a little off, to cut the guy some slack at least. 

“But you can’t be––Y-You can’t obsess over this shit. People, their brains, trust me. Sometimes they’re fucking just not working, you know? And we have––There is t-this whole fucking universe spanning around us, and yet…W-W-We have thoughts against ourselves like that.” Rick was becoming slightly more animated as he spoke, beginning with gestures and eventually shifting so he was in your personal space.

You nod for lack of words to say, your shoulders slowly losing their tension.

“And the fucking benefit to it all is b-babe, you’re with Rick Sanchez!” He finishes off, like it makes any sense. “Y-You wanna ge-get these feelings out of your system? W-W-Well we can. We fucking can and with no fucking repercussions because I just want to give that big ol’ fuck you to the universe. Loopholes bitch, now th-thats what we’re all about.”

“I don’t…Understand?” You ask, voice apprehensive.

“Tonight, we’re gonna lay low. Eat that pussy, get you all boneless and relaxed. Tomorrow we’re g-going to head out to one of my favorite spots along the galaxy. You’ll see. Trust me.”

And you do, because if Rick was good at one thing, it was earning people’s trust. 

“Now here, t-t-the only real cure for this shit is liquor so…Drink up.”

[oginochihiro]

small brain: op is ‘original poster’

average sized brain: op is ‘overpowered’

galaxy brain: op. op. op. oppa gangnam style

[erythteria]

YES YES YES AAAAA

When they’re all together, they represent the full life cycle of a star and how they can create or destroy life!! It’s such a good analogy to their purposes as Aegises aaaa

Although,, if Mythra/Pyra are stars, Pneuma is a supernova and Malos is a black home, then what you Ontos be? Maybe matter or even the fabric of space-time??

What if Malos is just a lil black hole in the shape of a man and he doesn't actually produce darkness or disintegrate things he just,, absorbs shit so it looks like he dissolves everything around him

@erythteria @jinmalos

[thesummerstorms]

What kind of relationships do you think Etain has with the various nulls?

Ordo: 

Ordo & Etain’s relationship starts out really rough, to say the least, but you can see some turn around by the beginning of  Order 66 and definitely by the not-canon-ending where he tries to revive her and then sobs at her funeral. I want to say that they eventually actually end up pretty close friends. Gena has said before that she thinks Ordo actually ends up closer to Etain than Darman, and I kinda love that (especially the irony). 

I do think they squabble. They root for opposite sports teams, and Ordo’s type A while Etain’s definitely not so they drive each other crazy sometimes. Sometimes they inadvertently offend one another or are a little too honest. But It’s a good friendship. They’re supportive and honest and unreasonably loyal and gossipy. Etain has probably threatened to beat someone up for Ordo as if he wasn’t a super soldier twice her size. Etain also probably kept sending him letters when he went incommunicado for mental health reasons, not to pressure him, but just because she still loved and was thinking of him.

I like to think that, even though they aren’t living in the same place, Ordo and Etain try to raise their daughters to be at least somewhat close? Mirja and Koa are only two years apart, the same age difference as between me and my cousin, who I was super close to growing up, but I haven’t really discussed it with Gena.

Anyway, tl:dr Ordo and Etain go from “constantly in disagreement” to “probably still in disagreement, but in a loving sibling kind of way, absolutely have each other’s backs”.

A’den: 

So I feel like Etain has a decent respect for A’den long before she meets him just because she and Dar write letters constantly and Darman respects A’den. (She may or may not ask after him while Dar is stationed on Gaftikar, out of principle, after she asks after Dar and the rest of the squad.) 

I don’t feel like they probably meet until after Order 66, and Etain is not exactly at her best just then- but there’s still probably mutual respect there. A’den is, by all accounts, a man who smiles a lot, loves food, and has a sense of humor, and I think Etain would appreciate that about him when they interact, and A’den has likely heard good things from Mereel and Ordo- but Etain is at a place where it’s hard for her to bond very deeply with him. Then it’s more or less one thing after the other until Mereel dies and she and Dar flee.

More than likely, I think they become actual friends more after Mereel comes back from the dead. Mereel shows up at the safehouse he left Dar and Etain in pretty miserable shape, and of course as soon as the Nulls know, they immediately converge. Since Ordo’s travelling with an infant, A’den might actually be the first to show up? (Probably startling the hell out of poor, sleep-deprived Darman who sees him in the kitchen at 1 am and just blinks a few times before…. “Sarge?”) He and Etain start talking a little more after Dar and he bond over foodie stuff, and they stay friendly, even if she’s not as close to him as Mereel or Ordo.

At some point much later they probably have to haul Mereel out of some situation (or Mereel hauls them into a situation idk), and find they actually work well as a team for short durations.

Jaing

Everyone makes a point of “don’t tell Etain about the gloves”, but let’s be real guys. She knows. The emotions in the Force don’t lie, and she knew Ko Sai as well, which makes the impression stronger.

Jaing is easily the Null Etain is weariest of. It’s hard because she’s instinctively someone who reads emotional undercurrents, and while she feels threads of violence and anger in all the Nulls, Jaing wears his against his skin as trophies.

I don’t think she ever confronts him about it, even when it unsettles her.

He;s still family. She’s tortured people before and there’s no one in the family (except maybe the children) who aren’t capable of some terrible things. She appreciates the way he looked after Fi, or what she saw of it for those few days on Mandalore before she went into labor. He’s capable, and she respects that the same way she does for all of them. 

But at the same time, I think Jaing will always be the one she holds herself the most emotionally distant from. She would absolutely go after him on a rescue op if needed, out of shared bonds to other family and loyalty and duty, but they’re never gonna be close buddies.

Prudii

The mun forgot Prudii existed again, whoops.

Coughs, and links you to this post. And this post. Which have Etain: !!!!!!!!!!

I honestly don’t as many particular headcanons for Prudii at the moment. Etain pretty much auto-extends the same loyalty to him before she even meets him by virtue of his being first Dar and then Ordo and Mereel’s brother. I very much feel like she has hung over a staircase banister throwing pebbles at him at some point, but I can’t justify that?

Someone with a more developed sense of Prudii as a character is free to propose things, but I was rereading his scenes and nothing ..really..stuck?

I’m so sorry Prudii; I am failing you.

Komr’k

So I feel like initially Etain starts out a little off balance around Kom’rk. They’re the Null who, other than Prudii sorry Prudii, she probably knows the least about, and they don’t meet until after Etain’s death experience. Kom’rk has this weird balance of weary aloofness and bluntness going on, and I think that keeps Etain a little distant at first. She can match them for bluntness at least some of the time, but aloofness is harder for her to deal with. 

She grew up in the Temple, she has a mask she built for distancing herself from attachment to the people around her, and she retreats back into it at first, her emotional state at the time not helping matters any. (Possibly Kom’rk thinks her either cold or in shock at first.) But at her core she’s someone who wants desperately to be emotive and touchy-feely and reach out to everyone.

Eventually when they’re less weary of each other and Kom’rk’s more social side comes out a little, things relax between the two of them. I feel like while Etain is still in recovery, Kom’rk would be one who would pick up on her ambiguous feelings re: Kal, especially given their similar (if for different reasons) feelings and absolute willingness to call a spade a spade, and perhaps that ends up being an eventual basis of support for the two of them?

I want to say they end up having occasional lunches when their different travels have them in the same side of the galaxy, and since Kom’rk seems to be into some of the same social scenes as Mereel, maybe some occasional sight-seeing? But idk.

Mereel

Oh gosh. This is gonna be long, isn’t it? I tried to bookend with the most developed relationships, but… Listen, Etain loves Mereel. 

I think she probably wanted to try and steal the CipQuad from him on Trip Zip, but they don’t really get to know each other well until she’s pregnant and isolated and terrified on Mandalore. At which point Mereel shows her both massive kindness and genuine respect for her ability and competence, both of which Etain is practically starving for at that point. There are very few people who genuinely give a damn about her, not as a Jedi or because she’s carrying a clone’s baby but as herself.

She’s not used to being cared for. 

 He sees her when she’s incredibly vulnerable and gives her both some compassion and a sense of control/purpose back, and it pretty much cements a friendship from her end. We don’t know what all went on during their two months together, but obviously Mereel also felt close to Etain because he lets himself show an incredible amount of vulnerability back to her rather than laughing or playing it off as a joke like he does literally anywhere else.

I think they stay really close. When Etain needs reassurance post-death and Dar is still stranded on Coruscant, Mereel’s the one she trusts enough to be open with. I think they’re pretty casually affectionate with one another, and she worries about him, particularly after Kal destroys the cure and he goes off alone. (For good reason, as it turns out.) Mereel, of all people, actually gives her spiritual guidance that results in her seeking out Tarre and Ranah, pretty much instantly lands on her “unbelievably lengthy letters” sending list with out even any surprise from Ordo, is a fabulous Uncle to her kids. She trusts him in a way she doesn’t trust many people other than Dar. Perhaps goes to him for advice on occasion, though she also tries to give him advice she knows he’ll never follow.

(I also… I really ship Etain/Mereel? It started as a crack ship and then I started thinking about it too much and… oh no. It’s definitely a poly arrangement, though idk about actual Mereel/Etain/Darman. I’m not even sure how canon this is to me now bc it got all invested in my feelings and my brain betrayed me. But in whatever verse or AU it does happen it starts with a mix of closeness/vulnerability and guilty ust, and then after years of a strong friendship between them, develops into something open, less a demand or formal arrangement than their trust/care finding another avenue of expression. Possibly after Mereel dies bc the timing would be sketchy otherwise. Or ,again, in a different verse? Idk. Stupid overly invested crack ship.)

[mandalorianbrainweasel]

Didn’t feel like uploading the full quality size just for tumblr to tumblr. Here’s my new avatar, featuring aether brain weasels abounds. It’s really sketchy-painted both because I was trying something new AND I was tired of working on it.

Left to Right.

Akshita -- My first major GFFA OC. She’s also the only one not from the Prequels era! Because she’s from the early High Republic. While all three of these characters are the “spies” in my blog description, Akshita isn’t a Jedi. She’s Force Sensitive, yes, and a Chalactan Adept, but she’s a politician and not a Jedi. By the Prequels time, those people who know of her only know her as the precursor to the Shadows. Her story, Deception in Kyber, is technically the background for all of my Prequels fics despite those taking places in different universes. She’s a direct ancestor to certain characters and a general ancestor to two Jedi. She marries a Mandalorian Exile when she retires from political life. She’s also the most disabled OC I have. She has major nerve damage that, when her body chemistry is unbalanced, makes it so she has difficulty or inability walking. This includes fatigue and chronic pain (like me!). Her trade off is she is functionally immune to every poison in the galaxy. Also PTSD. She has a special talent of sensing and manipulating patterns through the Force, which would be really OP if she 1) used them for that or 2) had ever been properly trained.

Bala Ibis -- My Stars in the Rearview Jedi Knight. General of the 437th Battalion. Her Master was Master Que, another OC, who was one of the first Padawans of Micah Giiett. She’s not a Shadow, but participates in a lot of the more shady wartime activities. Her main objective is to find Jango Fett. She has anger issues, would gladly punt Master Yoda across a room, and wishes Grievous would either die or get is lungs checked out because his breathing is annoying. She wears blacks under her Jedi robes and is one of those Jedi who actually wears some armor because otherwise Crow will have a conniption. This is an Order 66 Who? fic, like all of my fics because I’m quite happy on the Nile. She chose aqua as her battalion color because it reminds her of Master Que. She’s probably the OC I have that has the least of me. If this were a modern high school AU she’d be the kid dating her teacher’s sons. She’s gotten in trouble for stabbing someone with a butter knife when she was in the creche. She’s absolutely headblind to the future, but she’s very good at picking up the present and the past. Half the time she does really cool stuff she just acts really bored even though inside she’s going “LOOK AT THAT!! LOOK WHAT I DID!!!”

Master Gath -- The lawyer in my blog description. She’s the head of the Order’s legal specialists, who work with the library and the Republic. She wears fatigues as civvies but more often shows up in spectacular Republic fashion because she believes you have to dress the part to be taken seriously (she’s right). She’s also the “Shadow Catcher” which is this AU’s Shadow spymaster. Her unit of clones is called the “Justice Department” as a joke and they wear black and gold lines on their armor. She has a lot of metaphors about light and dark and has gotten rightfully mocked for them but they’re useful. Similar to the Shadow Catcher before her (it’s Jocasta Nu), she’s more concerned with the Jedi themselves than the Republic, though is concerned with the Galaxy over either. She’s also interested in reform of the Order. Unlike pretty much every other OC I have, she’s terrible at combat and relies on the Force a little more than some people would like when she can’t get away from a physical confrontation. This is an Order 66 Who? fic, like all of my fics because I’m quite happy on the Nile. I still don’t have a given name for her and I’m not sure who her master was. Possibly Master Nu, but it might just be another OC. Master Gath is also a fantastic actor, which is how she and Master Windu first became friendly.

[feelinkeeli]

I know I reblogged this post before. But the post going around about how insanely competent clone troopers are got me thinking about this gifset.

How troopers trained for ten years to keep up with the one person armies that were Jedi. And Cal is learning! He is recovering skills he lost to time and trauma. His rank is Padawan to Knight during this. He's not even a master.

I know how fandom also discusses what a murder machine Vader is (especially when he has no health bar) but, aside from his more violent murdering ways, he's not that different from a Jedi in combat.

Look at Luke in the season 2 finale of the Mandalorian. At how regularly TCW (the 2d animated series in particular) show Jedi capable how plowing through literal armies of droids.

I think all trained Force Users are pretty damn terrifying when you're on the opposing side of them; regardless of their saber color.

(And historically speaking, Jedi have abstained from militant roles for over a thousand years. Sure they participate in various wars but usually as a supplement force to whatever military the Republic is throwing around. The last time the Jedi controlled armies they conquered the galaxy - yes to defeat the Sith, but that's still what happened from a certain point of view. Even the fact the Jedi willingly gave up their political and militant power doesn't erased it. - and that little fact has to be rattling around in people's heads as TCW happen, as they see what Jedi and an army specifically trained for them can achieve. No wonder so few trusted the Jedi by the end of the Republic. (It's like knowing hunting wild boars was pretty damn dangerous back in the day but you're so used to baby pigs in media it's hard to understand why until you see wild boar are like- the size of bears and just as vicious as grizzlies and then it starts to click in your brain.))

((Also, completely off topic to my ramblings but relevant to OP. Do you think Cal's style is Form 6? Niman. Cause it's a balanced style of simple bladework often combined with Force Techniques. Which is kind of what the gifset above looks like.))

Star Wars - Jedi Fallen Order

#SUDDENLY YOU REALIZE WHY THE EMPIRE COULDN’T LET THE JEDI LIVE #EVEN JUST ONE WILL FUCK UP AN ENTIRE LEGION OF STORMTROOPERS #LOOK AT JEDI BABY FUCKING GO #HE MAY BE A BABEY BUT HE’LL STILL WRECK YOUR SHIT #THIS IS ALWAYS AND FOREVER A CAL KESTIS APPRECIATION BLOG