#or any of the dream warriors

[thlayyli]

MAP part for the @barrenclan fan project which you can apply for here!

Really not sure why the entire thing seems jpeg compressed, it may just be bc i exported on the wrong settings bc im not used to davinci resolve yet. it also seems to have turned it from 24fps to 12fps so a lot of my animation was lost. but nothing i can do abt it now so

[weepingtalecowboy]

Fanfic prompt: Legend met his dream girl in his literal dreams

I am surprised that he didn’t try to take a six month depression nap in hopes of seeing her again

But it would have been so fucked up if he actually does see her again every time he dreams

And then proceeded to stop interacting with the disappointment that is the real world for anything that isn’t absolutely necessary

When linked universe happens he is constantly trying to get back to Marin

And at first glance everyone just made fun of him because he is worse than Sky with sleeping

Till they find out why exactly he is doing it (they feel like shit afterwards)

Because knowing that your brother is just so messed up that he would rather spend his time asleep in a perfect world he made up in his head then face reality

Legend be like : “when real life is meaningless you can always hibernate till it is worth living again” (also basically just forever because it is legend we are talking about)

The chain : “WTF , that is the most depressing and upsetting sentence I have ever heard and I know time personally (said time as well )

Then they desperately try to make him enjoy his time with them but it just isn’t working as well as they hoped for

Because the hero of legend has a life that really doesn’t offer something that he hasn’t already had in his dreamscape

The dream is peaceful and loving

Reality is not

The dream offers him the chance to meet his lover again

Reality doesn’t

The dream won’t be harsh and unforgiving

It would not end with him alone again

Reality would always leave him alone

The dream offers an escape

Reality will only offer the escape of death

[priscirat]

some mygos

[bonefall]

Tribe of Rushing Water Redux

It’s probably impossible to completely "fix” the Tribe, but here’s my attempt at making it a fully realized culture from which the clans broke off from, instead of a primitive imitation.

Notably, the Tribe is actually the root of cat civilization in this geographical area. The Sisters, the Guardians, and the Clans could all trace their histories to the Tribe, many, many generations ago.

Living

First of all, there are now three different ‘colonies‘ on the mountain, all of them touching the river that flows from the cave spring. There’s the Cave Wards which is the one seen in the books, the Stone Wards down the waterfall, and the Valley Wards at the foot of the mountain facing the lake territory.

A colony is to a Ward what a camp is to a Clan, only with much higher populations. There are no boundaries and cats move freely between colonies. Only the Cave is closely guarded; reserved for Tribe members, grand celebrations, and honored guests.

Combined, the three Wards make up the collective known as the Tribe of Rushing Water, because of their shared connection to the waterfall.

Hunting

The Cave Guard and Prey Hunter roles have been eliminated completely. The path of a To-Be is not decided in childhood. Instead, there are many types of specialized hunter, and a To-Be spends their adolescence learning from many different cats.

The mountain has a bounty of species, so cats typically live in the camp closest to their chosen prey’s habitats. In its rivers are crayfish, char, ducks. In the caves are bats and insects. Eagles roost in the peaks, and twolegs leave their sheep out to graze. The terrain makes hunting hard and risky, but provides enough to support many skillful hunters, if they work together.

Eagle and sheep hunters take on the most difficult, dangerous, and rewarding prey the highlands have to offer, and are highly respected as a result. Such cats are usually trained after they’re already accomplished hunters of more common prey.

As a result of this extreme cultural emphasis on hunting, they do not have ‘fighters.‘ Attacking other cats is a massive taboo, akin to making prey out of them. Most insults involve telling another cat to starve or be hungry, and implying that no one will hunt for them when they’re old.

Healing and Spirituality

There is still one Stoneteller; but the Tribe is democratic. Stoneteller is technically a religious figure, not a political one.

There is a fleet of medics, and the Stoneteller has a constant stream of cats visiting them to learn or seek advice. For this purpose, the Teller of the Pointed Stones relinquishes their mortal name, and accepts a special power from the Tribe of Endless Hunting; they’re completely invulnerable to illness, heat, hunger, and cold, and their ancestors can speak through their body.

The new Stoneteller does not need to be trained for their role. As soon as the old Stoneteller passes away, the oldest medic accepts the role and is trained by the old Stoneteller’s spirit.

Death comes for this nearly invulnerable cat only after their body completely stops working. Being killed is the only way to end a Stoneteller’s tenure early; and it’s an ‘early‘ death if these cats die in their 20s; average age of death is mid-30s.

Conflict

This is the hardest part for me. Up until this point I’ve just been building the culture out, but one of the worst problems of the books was the fact the Tribe was unable to sustain itself and the Clans had to rush in and save them from nearly everything, particularly physical threats like invaders and Sharptooth. I’m not sure how to tackle that from within the Tribe without also making the Tribe a battle culture...

And, well, I don’t want to do that. I’d like for the Tribe to remain a largely peaceful entity that’s been kept safe for surviving in such a harsh environment that simply doesn’t get invaded often... They have an emphasis on cooperation and hunting, not combat. I do NOT want to ‘fix‘ them by making them into a 6th clan.

That said, I don’t want to completely remove TNP’s Sharptooth or PO3′s Tribe Invasion plotlines either. The Tribe and Clan should be equal, and that does mean that Clan cats have a skill the Tribe cats don’t, just as the Tribe has skills the Clan cats don’t.

So... below are my working ideas.

The Tribe is more connected to the Clans for a while, sending a few of their numerous medics to help teach the medicine cats about their new environment, even lending a hunter or two. For Flick’s invaders, they request combat aid on purpose, not because they’ll be destroyed without the Clans, but because they’ll be a big help. And for Sharptooth? He was a supernatural force, not a random cougar in England the Tribe inexplicably couldn’t deal with.

KEEP IN MIND these are working ideas. If these ideas still invoke discomfort in a way I can still fix without just straight up deleting the Tribe, I’m extremely open to changes here.

Sharptooth

oh fugg a gougar

Sharptooth is a curse, and the newest mortal form of the creation deity who previously appeared as One Eye at the Dawn of the Clans. The Tribe has killed him several times before (possibly in different forms- a hog, a bear, a human), but not before Sharptooth slaughters several hunters. “A Silver Warrior“ is fated to break this cycle.

What they DON’T know is that by ‘breaking the cycle‘ this just means that Sharptooth’s next target is going to become the Clans (either the Tribe didn’t know either, or Stoneteller purposefully didn’t relay that half of the prophecy to anyone). He is a god and doesn’t die like mortals do. The cat who landed the final blow on One Eye was from the mountains; so he haunted the mountains. Since Feathertail was from the clans, he will now haunt the clans.

But anyway, that’s a plot device for me to hold onto. I’m undecided on if this means he’ll haunt the Lake or the Forest from now on; either way it’s moot because he wouldn’t be back for several series’ worth of books and I hopefully won’t still be in this fandom in 30 real, additional human years

hopefully

Flick’s Rogues

After training the clan’s medicine cats, the medics of the Tribe and their hunters leave for home; but are followed by a group of rogues. The Tribe is open to welcoming outsiders, but the rogues set down borders, stole prey from hunters, and eventually attacked the Valley Colony directly; forcing its cats to retreat up-stream.

The Stone and Cave Wards are able to defend their positions, and given enough time they’d outlast and drive the invaders out, but why risk so many lives to do it alone? The Tribe votes to request the help of the Clans knowing their whole culture revolves around warfare and they’d be good at handling this sort of thing.

After all, what else are allies for? The Clans are taken aback by the boldness of just... asking for help (as their culture obviously has an issue with ‘admitting weakness’) but they won’t say no. In fact, they’re a bit taken aback by the way the Tribe is so relaxed about the whole thing; RiverClan and ThunderClan fought a multi-generational war over some rocks and the Stone Wards are ready to play the long game and wait for winter to freeze their enemies to death.

“Why even ask for help if you have it covered?“

“...why would we not? We could just wait, but we’d have to hunt twice as hard on the rest of our land, and we don’t want them to suffer and die over several months either if you can just help us send them on their way.“

Anyway, that’s what I’m planning thus far. It’s particularly difficult to not just completely nuke the Tribe, but here it is, gutted with its bones completely intact. STILL, if anyone has input or ideas or thinks a particular aspect is still sus, hit me up and I’ll do what I can to fix it.

[kynimdraws]

-drops the 3Hopes article scans from the October-released Nintendo dream issue-

[keungking]

the twin swap thing being completely nonsensical until you realise that the only thing zee hates more than volleyball is his mum, and also he has no friends or connections to anything in his life except liking salmon anyway and the whole thing was her idea to begin with so it's a win-win situation as far as he's concerned (or i can only assume that was his initial reasoning at the hospital, before he got his ass handed to him)

while sprite already has his best friend in on the ruse too so he hasn't lost anything, and really it seems like actually he couldn't care less about jiujitsu if he tried. and most importantly he got a boyfriend out of the deal anyway so who cares

[moccasins]

ok. i've got some ideas for that au where the dreamtale bros grow up together (i need an au name please help XD), i'll plan out a story so idk how long it'll take for a story to come out, but i have a warrior cats comic that i've been making for a few years and that takes priority so progress will be slow

[cheshire-creeper]

I think if you are feeling disillusioned with whatever media it is you are experiencing, be it magic or warrior cats or Homestuck or weezer or whatever, ask yourself this: why did I like this in the first place?

Because often that discontent is because of a change in focus, in priorities. What attracted you to the property in the first place is not what’s going to be focused on going forward. But you know what? That’s ok.

Modern fandom kind of is a weird concept, because sure, you all like this one story or show, but why you like it changes how you engage with it! One person could be here for the jokes, and another could be for the deeper themes of the work, and yet another could be here for the characters and their relationships, and a fourth could be in the fandom for the aesthetics. And because of why they are drawn to it, well, it’s going to change how they engage with the text. And all of those ways of engagement are valid! They all deal with the text in some aspect. They all stem from it.

But here’s the kicker: they might not seem valid to another person with a different draw. It might seem like they aren’t getting it, and maybe they aren’t getting it from *your* axis of engagement. But they do understand what draws them in far better than you may ever know.

It’s hard when something you love changes. I know. But I feel like…idk if this post is, like, helpful to anybody. I just…these are just some thoughts I’m currently having. We should probably strive towards openly acknowledging why we are attracted to engaging with something, and understand that that might not be the reason somebody else engages in that thing. I guess that’s what I’m say.

[the-acid-pear]

Nothing distresses me as much as not knowing something. It's absuuurd. Such answer seeking behavior. AS IF!!!

[the-owl-tree]

that horse in the dark forest is like the one time someone dreamt a horse was a villian in warrior cats and everyone refused to talk about her cuz she stomped others to death

no no jodie is definitely a real character and not one that @/rioblitzle dreamed up

[kaerinio]

no because! i know all the houses sort of re-use names and there are certainly traditions associated with this regionally and even within the houses. like, i believe that in the north, names are often used as a reminder of ancient, honorable ties. for instance, many of the mormont girls are named stark-affiliated names to exhibit the connection running deep between their houses (lyanna for lyanna stark, lyra for lyarra stark, alysane for good queen alysanne, who was dear to alaric stark, the husband of a mormont ancestor!)! i think it's very different for targaryens, who have a history of naming their dragons after the valyrian gods, as if they can summon their power, providence, and grace into their mounts. i believe it's the same for the humans of the house, who name their children after past targaryens in hopes of summoning their characteristics, or even spirit, into their children! i'll write a thing about it later, but emily's stunning words in my askbox sent this into my mind!!

[edredapologist]

Idk if Dimitri will ever come back but I'm still hoping he does and he turns out to be an asshole. Before he got zapped with the Hot Elf Beam he was part of the "magical community" - a community where everyone besides Clarice and Lao Xi Sheng are conartists lol.

Why is this 20 year old man making a living trying to convince people hes a legit magician? I mean he was upfront with Emma/Melinda about his performance being just a bunch of tricks but he's still presenting himself as a legit magician to the masses.

He also doesn't have any friends and family so it's like... what's up with that... Is he an orphan like Alfie or did he leave his family behind to pursue his dreams... What's his actual name? Dimitri Dynamo is clearly a stage name - no way he'd use his actual name while trying to con people out of money. Is he actually Russian? Why did his accent disappear completely while Alfie and Emma got to keep theirs? Why does Dimitri even have to perform to make a living... is he like a wanted criminal or something...

Very suspicious... Dimitri Dynamo is a man of mysteries.

[imdedinsidex-x]

Was bored so I decided to draw Granola! Her creator is @wiiwarechronicles and you guys should go check out his work and give him some love because Granola is genuinely the best thing ever actually

[crowdsourcedloner]

2. What was the first moment that they knew they were in love with their LI?

13. How do they react at being away from each other?

26. How important is the romance in your OC’s overall story?

these are going under a cut for length, but thank you!!!

2. What was the first moment that they knew they were in love with their LI?

There were a lot of little moments for Nailah, but if one had to be chosen as the moment... it'd be the one they shared before scaling Mount Gulg. She pieced together who the Exarch was shortly before then, and though she still didn't know why he was doing what he was, hearing someone she deeply trusted speak so warmly to her after some of the worst experiences in her life set her heart on fire for him.

It's a similar story for G'raha - several smaller moments rather than one big one - but the through-line of all of those bits was seeing Nailah let down her walls and just be herself. He fell in love with each glimpse of her gentle nature, each quiet chuckle he heard, each shy smile he caught... it was a slow, inevitable love for him.

13. How do they react at being away from each other?

If he's not kept busy, G'raha falls into wistful pining pretty quickly. His thoughts regularly drift to thinking about (or worrying over) Nailah, and he writes letters when his yearning becomes too much to bear. The letters rarely get sent - apparently postmoogles don't accept 'nondescript Eorzean wilderness' as a valid mailing address - so he stores them in Nailah's annex room for her to read when she returns.

While Nailah likes having time for herself, she doesn't like staying away from G'raha for too long - he's one of very few people she's comfortable being herself around, and going back into the public eye alone isn't something she enjoys. Tiring as it is, she retreats to her colder, distant professionalism, fighting off her yearning with her poetry in dark inn rooms or secluded camps while collecting stories and trinkets as gifts for her lover upon her return. The longer she's kept away, the colder she comes across to those around her - though admittedly, it's hard for strangers to notice the difference.

26. How important is the romance in your OC's overall story?

it's important, but it's not the be-all end-all if that makes sense? it's the culmination of lessons she learns through her journeys, but it's not the point of her story. the romance is supposed to represent Nailah finding her own self worth and choosing to pursue something for herself, even if that something is as small as loving someone else. she needs a space to figure herself out and just... be Nailah, and G'raha gives her that and more, while she gives him just as much support and encouragement in his own choices - choices that he also is starting to pursue for himself.

...i think that's as good an explanation as i can give without incoherently rambling tbh.

[lackadaisycats]

I hope you know that literally nobody is going to be able to live up to the standard you, V*v, and Glitch have set and your arrogance and exploitation of your fanbase and connections has screwed millions of creatives out of their dreams because Hollywood is a joke that isn't worth telling and wealthy e-celebs like yourself have claimed the indie scene all to yourselves and moved the goalposts into the stratosphere.

Nope. This isn't a zero sum game. There is not some limited, prescribed number of indie trophy slots that a few studios greedily filled up, blocking everyone else out. That is not how it works. Nothing any other creator is doing - short of personally sending hired goons to your doorstep or stealing your credit cards - is taking anything away from you or preventing your success. In fact if an indie creator can manage to demonstrate that they've got something viable going, it may help to map out a pathway for others.

I think I'm not going to bother trying to address whether or not cartoons in return for support from fans - an entirely voluntary exchange - constitutes exploitation. And I'm living in the Midwest driving a 2007 economy car with 200k+ miles on it, but let's just skip past the assumptions that I'm wealthy and connected too.

Instead, let's get to the weirdly myopic notion that the indie scene is held captive by three studios. Maybe YouTube algorithms or Twitter bubbles are somewhat to blame, but in actuality there are so, so many individual people, friend groups, and small production houses out there making independent animation, I cannot possibly name them all.

Here are some anyway:

Far-Fetched Worthikids Satina | Scumhouse Noodle and Bun Punch Punch Forever Ramshackle Noodle Papajoolia | Pipi Angel Hare | The East Patch Jonni Peppers Salad Fingers Monkey Wrench Studio Heartbreak Felix Colgrave JelloApocalypse Odd1sout (started indie, got picked up by Netflix) Allie Mehner JaidenAnimations Lumi and the Great Big Galaxy Cloudrise | The Worlds Divide Telepurte RubberRoss James Lee ENA Godspeed | Olan Rogers Ollie and Scoops Meat Canyon Port by the Sea Kekeflipnote Boxtown Kevin Temmer Weebl Joel Haver CircleToons Long Gone Gulch Atlas and the Stars Animist Skibidi Toilet A Fox in Space Alex Henderson Talon Toniko Pantoja Sr. Pelo Hullabaloo Kane Pixels (started indie, picked up by A24) Homestar Runner Fennah Gods' School Alan Becker Dungeon Flippers JazLyte Psychicpebbles (started indie, Smiling Friends picked up by AS) Piemations vewn Metal Family Dead Sound chluaid Jacknjellify Betsy Lee | No Evil My Pride Cranbersher GeoExe | Gwain Saga Horatio the Vampire Mech West Playground | Rodrigo Sousa The Brave Locomotive Finchwing (+ many other Warrior Cats animators) Quazies SamBakZa Kamikaze: Trial by Fire

By no means a full list. That's just YouTube, and mostly just English language stuff, and I didn't even get to the multitudes of Warrior Cats animation collabs.

The point is, the indie landscape is vast and populated by creators new and old, making all kinds of animated media from skits, to shows, to ARGs, to films. Audience sizes vary as much as the content, stylistic approaches, subject matter, and budgets do. There are no compliance standards, no gateways to entry, no goalposts. There's not even any preset definition of success except what you decide for yourself.

Anyway, instead of nurturing your resentments, consider making something. I assure you, it's a far more rewarding use of your time and energy, and pretty much no one can stop you. ------------- EDIT- Made some additions to the list based on comments. Thanks!

[rae-gar-targaryen]

darling, how could i fear any hurricane? [qimir/the stranger x force sensitive!reader]

Summary: Neither the backwater planet you’d chosen for yourself, nor the sanctity of your own mind, is safe from the nightly visitations of your dream stranger. Is he real, or just another trick of the mind? And what of the power he promises? Desire, he’d spoken of. Desire, desire, desire…

Pairing: Qimir/The Stranger x Force-Sensitive!reader [my reader is written ambiguously, but as with all of my reader inserts are written with a Latina!reader in mind]

Warnings: 18+ please – fingering, dry humping, the brief mention of choking, Qimir being a seductive motherfucker, relatively minor smut, all things considered. The briefest descriptions of violence; reader has female anatomy.

Word Count: 5.7k of sinful soliloquy and definitely no manipulation. No, you want this power, don’t you??

A/N: Breaking my writing drought with this. I don’t know if it’s any good, and no one asked for it. But I’m glad to be sharing my writing again. Please be gentle!! Also, if you’ve ever read my Mandalorian x princess!reader fic, there’s an easter egg in here for you!

--

The verdant planet of Vorduun was known for very little – A small, outer-world, far from the shiny Core planets that boast chrome, progress, and bureaucracy. Lush plantlife, a fertile place with brimming riverbanks, and jungles teeming and thrumming to life with flora and fauna at the turn of the seasons. Off the edge of the map. Off the edge of the world. A perfect place to hide.

To lose yourself. 

And the night is stifling, to say the least. Of all the Vorduunian summers you’d endured in your self-isolation, this one had to be the worst. The months’ long deluge of spring rains had made for a stiflingly humid summer, the green jungle steaming with sticky heat. If a saving grace was to be found in the swelter, it was that the night skies were unlike everything you’d ever beheld – a far cry from the fluorescent pollution endemic of your years on Courscant. 

Tonight's Vorduunian sky is no exception – a clear expanse of rich velvet, stars like diamonds crushed into the smooth folds of the expansive sky. Twinkling and winking richly down at you through the gaping slats of the shack you now called home. 

You twist, a serpent in your own threadbare bedsheets, attempting to find comfort in the sticky summer heat of the planet, chasing the elusive promise of coolness as you flip your pillow to the other side with a huff. 

Kind of a sick game, if you thought about it. That if you weren’t running from something, you were chasing something else. 

At present? Chasing a good night’s rest. Preferably dreamless, if you were honest. Your dreams of late are plagued with all sorts of incomprehensible flashes, feelings of being watched, feverish and hazy. Your subconscious’s foreboding certainty that if you’d only just turn around, you’d be met with a face that was not your own -– the disquieting sense of something, or someone, lurking just around a corner. Sprinting down echoing hallways with promises, greatness, a warrior's oath, all just out of reach, certain that if you’d slowed your pace, whatever was pursuing you might just snatch you, an unseen stranger.

Other nights, the dreams were different – the unflinching and unchanging grin set in a mask of metalloid teeth, baring themselves at you . Of ever-watchful eyes judging, as you forced yourself through training drills. The disapproving shake of your Master’s head, his disappointment palpable and always, always directed at only you . The seizing terror of being dropped into combat with no saber – of being skewered through by an unseen shadow with a red plasma blade. Of walls closing in on you. Of the Knights whom you had once considered your friends turning their backs on you while you fought tooth and nail. Of your lungs filled with your unreleased screams – of terror or frustration, you weren’t sure – pulling you down beneath the surface of your failure until you drowned in the disappointment of others’ unfulfilled expectations. Of hands on an unseen body tinkering with phials of something, producing poisonous concoctions of sickly green that the unseen stranger dripped down your throat, pouring them past your lips with sure, warm fingers pressing on your tongue. You swore you could feel the poison upon your waking, the phantom feeling of liquid shredding your veins with horrific heat, your heart thundering. 

Other nights the dreams were different yet, still. Of shadows shedding their inky cloak to reveal hands that caressed. Of hands that held you and wiped your tears. Of thorns falling from vines – leaving what once had pricked and scratched you to now soothe with velvety softness as the vines wound their way around your wrists, tugging you into an unseen embrace with whispers of promises humming in your ears like the tufty wings of insects. And you would go willingly. Of the warm breath of another in your ear, their body warm behind you, distinct in its softness from that of the sunwarmed cliffs the two of you would watch the sunset from, just you and your unseen stranger. Of those same metalloid teeth melting into a radiant smile of brilliant white, beheld in a sharp jaw – the critique of disapproving masters replaced by his balmy, sublime approval. 

Of the tease and taste of his cinnamon lips brushing your own, the fluttering fan of lashes along the peaks of your cheekbones. Of warm, wan whispers of want , desire , soothing your ears. Of warm, fine-boned, assured hands atop your own, guiding yours in a sensuous glide along your own skin. Promises of m ore, more, more as silken lips slipped their way along the column of your throat – your hitching gasps met with his rumbling hums of satisfaction that lasted in your ears for the duration of the following day. Of the gentle lapping of water over smooth-rocked shores, a hand grasping yours with a promise of power. Yet again of more, more, more, if you’d just … Well, you weren’t sure. 

What you were sure of was that it had been weeks of these dreams. Your exhaustion was tugging at the corners of your reality, manifesting itself into silly mistakes – a slipped knife while cutting your meals, or the prickling feeling of someone watching from the dark corner of your room. At times, you weren’t sure what was real and what was dreamscape. A slow descent into madness, torment that felt justified, somehow –-

This purgatory was clearly your penance for your failure. To atone for the fact that you could never be more than what you are now – a former padawan cast out of a renowned Order, thanks in part to her own passions and propensities, roiling rages, and lilting lust. A warrior stripped of all pomp and credential. A blistering reminder of something never to be, of someone you could never be. 

And so here you were. Piteous and exiled in the jungles of Vorduun with no one other than your occasional unseen dream stranger for company. And what of tonight? Had you slept? Were you asleep? The hazy jungle heat made it impossible to tell. When your days consist of the same, tedious routine maintenance to your little corner of jungle, purely isolated, save for irregular treks to the nearest settlement to barter … And when you tossed and turned your nights away in fitful fugue states of half-awake melded with oppressive dreams – well, who was to say what was really real?  

The ghost of a touch along your exposed shoulder didn’t merit a response … Until it happened again. Causing you to sit bolt upright in bed, eyes tracking the room for any disturbance – seen or unseen. 

That prickle, so like static rippling across your skin couldn’t be the Force. No, no. It was the trickle of sweat down the back of your neck, and nothing else. What reason would you have to feel the Force here, now? 

Just another heated night, just another heated dream….

And now, were your eyes deceiving you, or were the shadows in the corner of your room were moving, swirling into shape as a well-toned arm emerges from the darkness, raised in a gesture of … peace? And the rest of him follows, stepping into the muted illumination from your single gaslamp that sputters in the corner of your room, casting his shadow along the opposite wall, sinuous and slinking as he slowly approaches. 

You spring from your bed, eyes darting to the loose slat in your floor where you housed your ill-used saber, quickly considering the relative size of your room and how many steps it would take him to reach you, arms outstretched, to snuff the life from you before you could call the blade to your hand . 

His eyes track yours, clocking the floorboard, before placing both hands up in front of him now, a plea – 

“You don’t need that,” he murmurs, taking a tentative step toward you. And whether it was the room that shrank around you both, or that was just his presence in your space – so unused to anyone but you – you weren’t sure.

“Need what?” Play dumb, and he won't have any reason to harm you, leaving you an opportunity to strike. Your favorite trick, a minor deception for a tactical advantage.

He steps into the dim, flickering light of the gas lamp, a mild smirk blooming along his full lips, the lamplight warming his skin.

“Your Jedi weapon.”

You glance once more between the loose floorboard and the man slowly approaching you, cocking your head as his features became revealed to you, your mind tickling with recognition as you noted the sharp angle of his jaw and the baleful, syrupy darkness of his eyes –

“You,” you breathe. “I know your face.”

“Do you?” His eyes meet yours, searching. 

Yes. You had a good memory for faces, and his you had seen a few times before. Your trips to the nearest settlement every tenday for the open-air market to barter what you had cultivated from the land around your ramshackle home for fruit, thread, and other goods you didn’t often come by on your own. You had seen him at a stall selling tinctures and other apothecary-type goods. You’d never approached, of course. Hadn’t had a need for burn creams or toxins. But there was no denying the swooping lock of hair that would curtain over his eyes, the sharp angle of his features. The way his eyes would track the movement of the market, hawkish, despite the seeming ineffectual haze in them…

A minor deception, you now realize. But for what tactical advantage?

“The chemist from the bazaar,” you reply.

His lips quirk at your realization – the bud of the smirk now unfurling into a full smile. 

“You’re more observant than I gave you credit for, warrior,” he stands before you now, hands still lightly held up in a gesture of peace. “That’s good… A nice surprise ,” his voice taking on an almost-purr of satisfaction.   

You pause, lips parting lightly. What could he mean by that? 

“Qimir,” he gestures to himself by way of introduction.

Qimir. Likely not his real name. Still, you ponder, an interesting choice. Qimir. Like Chimaera, something ancient and unknowable. A monstrous creature signifying the parable of illusion – the promise of something only too impossible to achieve. You wonder if he knew what his “name” sounded like when he’d picked it.

And you hope your face hasn’t betrayed your whirring thoughts as you continue your assessment, hoping to keep a sweep of neutrality across your features as you address him again.

“If you say so. Business must be slow if you’re here to rob me, poisoner. I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed,” your eyes flit around the relatively bare bedroom, gesturing with your chin to the equally Spartan main room of your little ramshackle cabin. “Not much here of value.” 

He crosses one foot over the other as he takes a step to orbit you, almost swordsmanlike. As though he were preparing to duel. You mirror his step, your back to your bed now, facing your doorway. His body between yours and your exit. 

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” he brings a finger to his chin as if in ponderment. “You’re here, after all. And why would I give you my name, show you my face, if I intended to rob you?” 

“Why you do anything means nothing to me,” you bite, “and you’ll have to forgive my manners if I don’t feel like giving you my name. Leave, now , while I let you leave, Qimir.” 

His eyes sweep your form, note your weight on the balls of your feet, bracing for a fight. You probably have weapons other than your laser sword stashed away, if he had to guess . He takes a tentative step toward you, a low chuckle escaping him at the fire in your eyes, trying not to smile any wider than he has already, to give away his pleased impression of your fury. 

“I know who you are,” you blink at his statement, trying not to let the surprise show on your face. “You don't have anything to fear from me, little Jedi.”

“I am no Jedi,” you snipped, rolling your eyes at the insolence of the man before you. If he cared at all about your rude display, Qimir said nothing.

“I am more than aware of that, too,” he murmured, his voice like silk in your ears as he takes yet another small step toward you, invading your space, close enough to breathe your air, a hair’s breadth from touch.  

Too close. You flex your fingers, calling your lightsaber from its hiding place under your loose floorboard into the palm of your hand in a flash, the cool metal meeting your palm like an old friend, a sense of relief. You surge forward into Qimir’s space, pressing the hilt of the saber into his abdomen.

“If you know so much, then you also know you shouldn’t have come,” you snarl. “I don’t know if you didn't take the hint, here at the edge of the world, but I don't take kindly to uninvited guests.”  

“You did invite me, little viper,” he insists, his voice never losing its even, dulcet quality.

At your furrowed brow, he gently brings his fingertips to brush the bare skin of your wrist that’s pressing the hilt of your lightsaber into his stomach. A familiar, prickling ripple bursts across your skin, causing goosebumps to stipple your arms. So familiar. So like the feel of lips from your unseen stranger. So like the Force. 

The dark eyes that met yours in the low light of your room were familiar for more than just an observation in passing at the market. 

“Y-you,” you gasp, the realization causing your chest to seize, to clench your teeth in the wave of seething anger. “You’ve been … in my head … for months …” 

He cocks his head at you, watching the emotions process along your face. He had seen your fears and failures, your heart’s greatest desires. He had seen it all …

“The quickest way to your heart,” he reasons. “Through your head. So you’ll have to forgive my intrusion. I wanted to know you.” Sweet words meant to soothe.  

You aren’t sure if that makes it any better. Perhaps the reasoning makes it worse.

“So like a poisoner,” you level his gaze with a steely one of your own. “To try to slip through the cracks unseen. But I know the quickest way to your heart.”

“You do?” He seems surprised at your rejoinder. As if he hadn’t expected you to play. To be so quick of wit as you were of reflex.

“Between your fourth and fifth rib,” you hum, your voice taking on an almost-seductive tone – a contradiction to the reminder of you pressing the hilt of the saber into him, precisely where you mean to. 

“I appreciate a good threat. Clever,” he smiles, placating. “But there’s no need for that, little warrior. After all… I wouldn't leave you to the dark, not like they did,” he assures, brushing his fingertips against the bare skin of your wrist, so lightly you would’ve thought you’d imagined it. Using the contact to connect to you through the Force once more – your shared memories dancing behind one another’s eyes. Of your fellow Padawans succeeding while your Master only saw failure. Of the dazzlingly white smile of your classmate with the bronze skin and twists in his hair, his yellow lightsaber flashing as you drilled together, his smile fading to frown with the rest of his features as you had used the Force to push him away a bit too hard – rage bubbling to the surface – in direct violation of your training ordinances. Of your departure from Coruscant, no one to bid you goodbye, not even your training partner who had once called himself your friend.

You make to turn your head, to break contact with his dark, glimmering, all-seeing eyes. Like tar pits, drawing you ever deeper. His other hand catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, drawing you back to his gaze, an orbit you cannot escape. Would you even want to?

“And do you believe you would have belonged? The Jedi are deceivers. They deal in abandonment … cloaked in empty platitudes,” he trails his index finger along the curve of your  jawline, an almost illusory brush of his skin against yours – the whisper of a touch, as though to illustrate the point. “The wisp of a  promise, like spun sugar. Sweet, but false, their promises of righteousness. Of importance.”

Your lips part, catching the barest bit of his thumb as it does so, your eyes now searching his, seeking motive.

“And what do you offer instead? That's what this is, right? An offer?”

He smiles wider now, nodding in the barest acknowledgment. As though you’ve finally asked the right question.

“I … make the intangible tangible.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning …” his hand leaves the curve of your jaw to touch his fingertips to your temple, pressing, rendering a vision to your mind. And what Force magic was this? To make you see beyond your own eye’s sight. Foresight? An illusion? A vision? A memory? A promise or a deception?

Whatever it is, you see it so clearly – an uninhabited plant roaring with ocean as far as your eyeline can perceive. Waves lapping gently along grey-stoned shores. Moss-covered alcoves where you sit with him, your stranger, the sunset warming your skin as he caresses your face, your hair, whispering praises just beyond your mind’s own comprehension into your ear – the tone sinful, syrupy. His arms securing you in the night as you rest, no more dreams of abandonment. 

Warmth, endless warmth… as his lips trail the shell of your ear, down your neck, bestowing belief of besotted brushes of lips. Adroit affection aimed right at the heart of you. 

“Hmmm … meaning …. Your feelings, your power, your talent all working, to manifest toward something real. Something you want.” His hand leaves your temple and rests on your shoulder, taking advantage of your state of ponderment to gently guide you, ever mindful of the still-unlit lightsaber pressed to his stomach, leading away from your bed to the wall just next to the adjacent doorframe, the patient waltz of a waiting predator. He brings his hand to rest on the wall, next to your head.

“Something I want,” you reply dreamily, coming back to yourself just enough to realize what he’d said, exhaling through your nose in an indignant little huff. “In exchange for … ?”

“Tell me something,” he replies, lithely lilting around your question with one of his own, flexing his fingers where they rest on the wall. “Why are you no Jedi?” 

“I … abjured,” you admit, a bit too primly, the lightsaber now feeling like an unbearable weight in your palm at your words, the weight of choices – both your own and those of whom purported to teach you. To guide you to something greater. Was it as he said? Were their promises so meaningless? “Broke my oath,” you suck your lower lip between your teeth, pausing before daring to meet his gaze again. “I couldn’t … suppress how they wanted me to. I didn’t want to fail anymore. I was so tired of failing. So, I … abjured. I was weak.” 

Your eyes meet his once more at your admission, yours shining with unshed tears waiting to fall like stars. Shimmering promises to slip down your cheeks, unkept and unchecked. Your fingers fumbled, seemingly of their own accord, unwilling to hold the weight, the threat, of the saber against him any longer. The hilt clattered to the floor, a clanging finality to punctuate your words. And when was the last time you had been so honest, so vulnerable with another?

How … unlike you. 

“Not weak,” he cups your cheeks with both hands, fine-boned thumbs tracing the peaks of your cheeks, as though to wipe away your unshed tears. “The same as me. Power searching for its other half. An unwaning, unflickering flame.” 

Your unseen stranger, now seen, takes your hands in his, the buzz of the Force still tingling across your skin at his words, at the recognition of his power.

“You asked what I want. You want the same as me, and I the same as you. A companion . A partner. Unlike them, I won't judge you for your feelings. Won’t judge you for your power …  You want – I can feel it rippling across your skin,” he closes his eyes, cocking his head, shivering as though to illustrate the point. “... Mmm, and I want,  too. We can want together. If you'd let us.”

The flickering light of your room seemed to dim in tandem with his syrupy words, cloying and dripping like honey into golden nettle tea. The swirling honeytar of his eyes appraising you as the Force connection prickled with hazy heat between your bodies and the damnable musk of the jungle air.

You press yourself further into the wall he’d leaned you against, tilting your chin to appraise him in kind, searching for veracity in his words. Something more substantial than the “spun sugar” he’d accused the Jedi of weaving. 

As though he could sense your trepidation before it could cross your face, he placed a hand on your hip, the contact searing you through the thin fabric of your tank top.  

“They kicked you out because you feel. I'd never do that. I want you to feel … to feel power. To feel what you’re capable of. Of what it can become. Rage. Fear. Loss. Desire. Train with me, you’ll feel it all. I want you to feel it all … to feel me.”

Desire, he had spoken of. The gentle roll of his low voice over the syllables echoing perfectly in your ears. Desire, desire, desire. That desire, so  like venom snaking its way through your blood, hot and purposeful. An all-consuming burn through your blood, befitting of a poisoner as he. 

“You felt it, didn’t you? When I came in,” he iterates, somewhere south of a plea. “All. That. Power.” The hand not resting on your hip comes to cup your face once more. “I can teach you.” 

You had read somewhere once, in the Archives, about creatures on long-abandoned planets with the ability to draw their prey in through vanity. The flash of feathers. Or shiny scales. Big, baleful eyes, perhaps. Only to sink their teeth in once their intended had come too close. 

You draw in a breath, searching his pleasing face for any sign of a tell. Of the flicker of eyes that would signify deception. Of hidden fangs beneath his beautiful, full lips. Of anything that would bely his true intentions behind your Force connection. You swept your eyes across broad, defined shoulders, down toned, muscled arms exposed through his sleeveless shift. A warriors’ weapon wrapped in a pleasing package, to be sure. But … with no discernable hint of false suggestion. 

You shift your weight once more onto the balls of your feet, away from the wall and into him . Continuing your appraisal as you tilt your head, allowing the scent of his skin – the tang of sweat from the humid jungle air commingling with something sharp and clean – to wash over you. 

You invade his space now, leaning into the hand that grips your hip and the other that cradles your head, boldly brushing your lips along his with the barest hint of touch, feeling his lips smile against yours.

You whisper, your lips silken against his, “Tell me, poisoner … You seduce me with lies, is that it? You wish for me to call you Master? Forsake all else to worship at your altar?” 

You catch the flash in his eyes as the word “seduce” leaves your lips.

“I haven't lied to you,” his voice is a hum. An attempt to provide reassurance as he couples them with what he hopes is a comforting gesture. His fingers travel from your hip to trail your ribs, a partial embrace.

“Do you consider not telling the entire truth to be a lie?” 

“Have I shown you any lies? No. Just dreams. The promise of what could be. What I –,” he pauses, “– we could be. I cannot fabricate the Force, little warrior. Everything you feel tonight is you . It’s me. What more could you want? ” 

Your once-steely resolve is crumbling under the weight of his insinuation … "everything you feel tonight” –  the honey in his words sweet to your ears, you wonder fleetingly if he'd be even sweeter on your tongue. 

And he knew you, didn’t he? By his own admission, he’d seen your faults and flaws for months … your desires. And he had shown you promises, premonitions, predilections… a future of power. And if there is power in two hemispheres – one of sweltering heat, one of blistering ice. Which were you? And which was he? 

Together you would surely melt…

“No more rules, little warrior,” he sighs, “just the power of two.” He slides his lips across yours, purposeful, before capturing your lower lip between his teeth, nipping once before releasing, admiring the way your expression flickered from defiance to desire before surging forward, pressing you back into the wall as his lips capture yours.

He swallows your gasp, bringing his fingers to wrap loosely around your neck while his other hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt. 

You break from his kiss with a gasp between swollen, bitten lips. But he gives you no reprieve, his lips trailing to your neck, where he sets about pressing hot-mouthed kisses. Molten lava flooding the column of your throat, chased with the scrape of nipping teeth. Soothe and scrape. Push and pull. Give, give, give, take.  

You thread your fingers through the silken hair tucked behind his ears, tugging him from his ministrations on your neck and forcing him to meet your eyes – to see if the blaze of want you felt scorching your skin was reflected in the liquid coal, ready to ignite. 

His lips twist into a smirk at your insistent tugging; if he was at all surprised, he didn’t show it. His face the perfect picture of pleasure. 

“What would we do with it?” You inquire, “This power?” 

“Hmmm,” he pretended to ponder, suddenly scooping you, a brief lift as he crossed the short distance to your bed, seating himself with you on his lap. No concession of dominance; merely placing you precisely where he means to. To allow you to feel him beneath you. 

“What would you like to do, little warrior, hm?” His fingers flicked the thin straps of your flimsy sleep shirt, exposing your shoulders, leaning forward to trail his lips along the now-bared expanse of your shoulder, your collar bones, your neck, his eyes glancing up to watch your face as he went. “Make them pay? Take what’s yours?” 

His hands feel their way down your form, down your sides, along your hips, the skin of his palms rasping against the smooth expanse of your thighs has his fine-boned fingers make their way beneath the loose fabric of the cropped pants you sleep in, dangerously close to the precipice of your desire , urging you to move. Guiding your hips in a rhythmic glide in his lap. 

You gasp at his attentions, at the combination of his promises and the heady feel of his skin along yours, bringing your hands to grip his biceps – desperately seeking a way to anchor yourself. 

And if it’s his poison that will bring you to the edge, would you regret it? You were starting to believe you could never regret him , not at the feel of his chest pressed against yours, the toned muscle beneath your fingers. His sharp angles caressing your soft curves, replacing the lonely ache in your bones with the lovely heat of him, both his promises and his attentions.

His mouth was keyed and intentional in its work of you, with pressed kisses like flower petals blooming along the skin of your neck, followed by the scraping thorns of his teeth. Brutish and beautiful, as his fine-boned fingers crept to the inside of your thighs, rubbing along your clothed center, intensifying the ache you felt. He shifts your weight in his lap, causing your legs to spread wider, straddling him lowly as he tugs the offending fabric aside, guiding your hips into a roll over his clothed lap and his growing hardness. Manifesting his delight at the choked gasp you emitted in the form of a teasing little buck of his hips, guiding you down as he guided himself up, delighting in the sharp gasps that met his ears as he continues to sway you to his rhythm. 

“Desire isn't a sin, little warrior,” he breathes the words into your mouth, lips a hairs’ breadth apart, the better to swallow your moans. “What we feel feeds our connection to the Force, gives you strength ... If you know how. Let me show you. Touch me.” 

It was as though electricity was crackling, popping beneath your fingertips as you took his instruction and began to explore the expanse of his body, slipping your hands beneath his tunic to feel the silken heat of his firm torso, the ache within you mounting at the heady combination of the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips – so long since you’d touched another, been touched – and his hardness between the cleft of your thighs. Smoldering, low-heat burned along your skin and beneath your fingertips. Or was it his fingers that were doing the burning? It was hard to tell where he ended and you began, one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you bodily into him, an infinite loop of power and pleasure.

As you continue to touch him, you could feel it – his connection to the force, strong, volatile, like lightning striking the ocean – crackling and formidable like the man who contained it.

And Qimir – you had long since given up trying to determine if it was, in fact, his real name – rewards you with a gift of his own, the velvet rumble of a groan of pleasure emanating from his throat at your touch. A sound of syrup and satisfaction. 

Pleased that you could garner such a reaction from a being as powerful as he, you smile, boldly meeting his lips with a kiss, opening your mouth with a gasp, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth, to taste the zip of power that he had determined in his moths of observation was just you, a torrent of citrus drizzle, bold and sweet. 

Reluctantly, he parts his lips from yours, ducking his head to tug the straps of your top down with his teeth, exposing your breasts to the heated air of the room. And if your desire at the repeated rolling of his hips beneath yours wasn’t enough to do you in, you figured this might. Bathing in the celestial feel the press his lips to your nipple, tongue swirling over the peaking flesh. Pleased at the goosebumps that erupt now in the wake of his attention. 

While he continues to tease your breasts with tongue and teeth, Qimir guides his other hand along your thighs, slipping his practiced fingers beneath your shorts, delighting in the wetness he was met with, basking  in the jolting shiver the motion elicited from you, at the friction of his fingers rubbing along the seam of you – causing you to wiggle, to roll your hips into his touch. 

And oh, as he slips his fingers inside of you, your eyes roll back, tilting your head to allow Qimir to admire the curving, elegant slope of exposed throat – prey before a predator, gasping at the pleasure he wrought. Breathless. If you thought he was teasing you before, his fingers inside of you were their own type of mocking punishment, well aware of his effect on you and the way your cunt throbs as he strokes inside of you. You could do nothing but wriggle your hips, whimpering piteously and attempting to roll your hips to follow his fingers as they work you, as this crescendo builds.

“Say you’ll be mine, warrior, and you can have it.” he promises. A new oath. One you’d never forsake. For him, you’d never turn, never abjure. Not so long as his touch made stars erupt behind your eyes, not so long as his lips dripped syrup promises down your throat.  

Kissing you once more, golden and slow, molten and revelatory as he works his fingers inside of you, your thighs parting to accommodate him. His thumb rolls repeated brushes over your clit, delighting in the starshine burst as you reached your peak, a broken little moan that sounded suspiciously like the word “master,” passing your lips in a keening sigh. 

You regard him through bleary, closing eyes and the warm, citrus haze of your orgasm as he slips his fingers from you, guiding you down to recline in your bed, stroking your hair as he does so, lulling you as a lover would. 

“Sleep, warrior,” his velvet voice meets your ears, lyrical and lilting. “I’ll be back for you.” 

And like each night before that one, his figure slips from you… as though he was never there. It wasn’t a dream, was it? It was hard to tell after months of this teasing game. After his promises built so much only to guide you to this release. 

And in the silvery light of the jungle’s dawn, you awoke with that very question on your lips, met with the sight of your saber placed gently on your little bedside table as opposed to its usual hiding spot. You wake to the sweet afterache of something between your thighs, to the scraped marks of teeth along the expanse of your neck. 

And to the promise of something – of a future of power and partnership. If only you’d be so bold as to accept it. As you eyed the saber, you recalled the prickle of his Force power along your skin, increasing with his proximity. And by the time he arrived to meet you again, you knew what your answer would be … 

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