#reede imperial

[sunset-peril]

I decided to be funny and make this

Based on this, and also this

Also a good visual for Link and Reede's scene in the first link.

[muffinlevelchicanery]

[cokiemace]

[mummer]

God the fucking punchline made it all so perfect. just crazy, crazy good. Messy messy messy MESSY season which didnt all work but: lol. lmao. And sally. Oh, my darling sally....... Main character sally

[koi-illust]

[StarTrek:ENT] [Malcolm/Shran]

Blue-shaped Love

The reason I decided to draw ShranReed (screenshot of my IG story):

Compared to TuckerReed and HayesReed, ShranReed is more aggressive and sexual to me, you can’t blame me, bcs when there is a worrier (especially an Imperial Guard lol) in the relationship, there is dom-sub, I’m not saying dom and sub sex is necessary, it’s just someone will want to control, or in order to make the warrior one be more cooperative, you have to control them in some ways… it’s very interesting to see the dynamic between them!

I have to say that Shran is a master of “Carrot and Stick”, and that makes stories even more flavorful (not that Shran won’t feel any frustration in relationship, he just never “admit it”, you all know what I’m talking about🤣), our poor, pessimistic, introverted baby Malcolm will suffer so much and I love watching my fav character suffering😉 (But I always grant them happy endings, my fav characters all deserve that💖)

[astrid-goes-for-a-spin]

something I do not understand is when we’re rightly complaining about Brian Reed’s Ms. Marvel run, why do we never mention the fucked up Monica Rambeau LMD stuff? Even in that run it stands out in its misogyny and disgust 

[specialagentartemis]

godddddd i have disliked becky chambers' work since long way to a small angry planet and I agree that that fish scene is SO much of what is wrong with contemporary SFF especially queer SFF. refreshing take, great review, thank you. would love to hear what authors or works you think of as the antidote to that sensibility.

The thing is, I enjoyed The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet when I first read it - it was a fun, light adventure, clearly a debut novel but I was excited to see where Chambers would go from there. And I actually really do think the sequel, A Closed and Common Orbit, was good! It did interesting things with AI personhood and identity.

... and then Chambers just kinda. Did not get better. She settled into a groove and has a set number of ideas that I feel like she hasn't broken out of, creatively. And they I M O kind of rest on an assumption that "human nature" = "how people act in suburban California."

As an antidote to that sensibility, I'd say... books where people have a real interrelationship with the land they inhabit, a sense of being present, and reciprocal obligations to that land; books that recognize that some things can never be taken back once done; books with well-drawn characters, where people have strong opinions deeply informed by their circumstances, that can't always be easily reconciled with others, and won't be brushed aside; books where these character choices matter, they impact each other, they cannot be easily gotten over, because people have obligations to each other and not-acting is a choice too.

And it's only fair that after all day of being a Hater I should rec some books I really did like.

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke - A man lives alone in an infinite House, over an equally infinite ocean. Captures the feeling that I think Monk & Robot was aiming for. Breathtaking beauty, wonder at the world, philosophy of truth, all that good stuff, and actually sticks the landing. The main character's love, attention, and care to his fantasy environment shows through in every page. (Fantasy, short novel)

Imperial Radch by Ann Leckie - An AI, the one fragment remaining of a destroyed imperial spaceship, is on a quest for revenge. Leckie gets cultural differences and multiculturalism, and conversely, what the imposition of a homogeneous culture in the name of unity means. (Space sci-fi, novel trilogy)

Machineries of Empire by Yoon Ha Lee - An army captain's insubordination is punished by giving her a near-impossible mission: to take down a rebelling, heretical sect holing up in a space fortress and defying imperial power. She gets a long dead brain-ghost of a notorious criminal downloaded into her head to help. Very, very good at making you feel like every doomed soldier was a person with a past, with a family, with feelings, with hopes and dreams and frustrations and favorites and preferences and reasons to live, right before they brutally die in a space war. Also very much about the imposition of homogeneity of culture as a force of imperialism. (Space sci-fi, novel trilogy)

The Fortunate Fall by Cameron Reed - Maya Andreyevna is a VR journalist in high-tech dystopian future Russia, and she decides to investigate the truth that the government doesn't want her to. She might die trying. It's fine. Also has digital brain-sharing, this time in a gay way. It's bleak. It's sad. It feels real. Not making a choice is a choice. Backing out is a choice. And choices have consequences. Choices reverberate through history. About responsibility. (Cyberpunk, novel)

The Vanished Birds by Simon Jimenez - Nia Imani is a spaceship captain, a woman out of time, a woman running from her past, and accidentally adopts a boy who has a strange power that could change the galaxy. Spaceship crew-as-found-family in the most heartbreaking of ways. Also about choices, how the choices you make and refuse to make shape you and shape the world around you. How the world is always changing around you, how the world does not stay still when you're gone, and when you come back you're the same but the world has moved on around you. About how relationships aren't always forever, and that doesn't mean they weren't important. About responsibility to others. It's a slow, sad book and does not let anyone rest on their laurels, ever. There is no end of history here. Everything is always changing, on large scales and small, and leaving you behind. (Space sci-fi, novel)

Dungeon Meshi / Delicious in Dungeon by Ryoko Kui - A D&D style fantasy dungeon crawl that stops to think deeply about why there are so many dungeons full of monsters and treasure just hanging around. Here because it's an example of an author thinking through her worldbuilding a lot, and it mattering. Also because of the characters' respect for the animals they are are killing and eating, their lives and their place in the ecosystem, and the ways that humans both fuck up ecosystems with extraction and tourism, but also the ways that you can have reciprocal relationships of responsibility and care with the ecosystem you live in, even if it's considered a dangerous one. (Fantasy, manga series)

Stories of Your Life and Others by Ted Chiang and How Long 'Til Black Future Month by N. K. Jemisin and Everyone on the Moon is Essential Personnel by Julian K. Jarboe - Short story anthologies that were SO good and SO weird and rewired the way I think. If you want the kind of stuff that is like, the opposite of easy-to-digest feel-good pap, these short stories will get into your brain and make you consider stuff and look at the world from new angles. Most of them aren't particularly upbeat, but there's a lot of variety in the moods.

"Homecoming is Just Another Word for the Sublimation of the Self," "Calf Cleaving in the Benthic Black," and "Termination Stories for the Cyberpunk Dystopia Protagonist" by Isabel J. Kim - Short stories, sci-fi mostly, that twist around in my head and make me think. Kim is very good at that. Also about choices and not-making-choices, about going and staying, about taking the easy route or the hard one, about controlling the narrative.

The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells - Security robot with guns in its arms hacks itself free from its oppressive company, mostly wants to half-ass its job but gets sucked into drama, intrigue, and caring against its better judgement. This is on here because 1) I love it 2) I feel like it does for me what cozy sff so frequently fails to do - it makes me feel seen and comforted. It's hopeful and compassionate and about personal growth and finding community and finding one's place in the world, without brushing aside all problems or acting like "everybody effortlessly just gets along" is a meaningful proposal. also 3) because it is one of the few times I have yet seen characters from a hippie, pacifistic, eco-friendly, welcoming, utopian society actually act like people. The humans from Preservation are friendly, helpful, and motivated by truth and justice and compassion, because they come from a friendly, just, compassionate society, and they still actually act like real human beings with different personalities and conflicting opinions and poor reactions to stress and anger and frustration and fear and the whole range of human emotions rather than bland niceness. Also 4) I love it (space sci-fi, novella series mostly)

[whencyclopedia]

Ninigi

Ninigi-no-Mikoto, or simply Ninigi, is the grandson of the supreme Shinto deity Amaterasu, the sun goddess. He is the son of Ama-no-Oshiho-mimi and, descending to earth as the first just ruler, he brought with him gifts from Amaterasu as symbols of his authority which remain part of the Japanese imperial regalia today. Ninigi became the great-grandfather of Japan's first emperor, the semi-legendary Emperor Jimmu, and so established a divine link between all subsequent emperors and the gods.

Ninigi Descends from the Heavens

In Japanese mythology, the sun goddess Amaterasu Omikami asked her son Ama-no-Oshiho-mimi to descend from the heavens to rule the world of the mortals. Twice refusing this honour after seeing the general chaos that prevailed in the world, Ama-no-Oshiho-mimi nominated his son Ninigi-no-Mikoto (full name: Ame-Nigishi-Kuninigishi-Amatsu-hiko-no-ninigi-no-mikoto) to go in his place. To this Amaterasu finally agreed, and she gave Ningi three gifts to help him on his way. These were the Yasakani, a fabulous jewel (or pearls or magatama beads), source of the ancient quarrel between Amaterasu and her brother Susanoo, the storm god; the Yata, the mirror which had been made by the gods and successfully used to tempt Amaterasu out of the cave which she hid in following some typical bad behaviour from Susanoo; and Kusanagi, the great sword Susanoo had plucked from a monster's tail. These would become the three emblems of Ninigi's power (sanshu no jingi), and they became the imperial regalia of his descendants, the emperors of Japan, starting with his great-grandson Emperor Jimmu (r. 660-585 BCE). Thus, all subsequent emperors were able to claim a direct descent from the gods and so legitimise their authority to rule Japan.

The celebrated 7th-century CE poet Kakinomoto Hitomaro composed this poem on Ninigi's descent to govern humanity:

At the beginning of heaven and earth

The eight hundred, the thousand myriads of gods

Assembled in high council

On the shining beach of the Heavenly River,

Consigned the Government of the Heavens

Unto the Goddess Hirume , the Heaven-

Illuminating One,

And the government for all time,

As long as heaven and earth endured,

Of the Rice-abounding Land of Reed Plains

Unto her divine offspring,

Who, parting the eightfold clouds of the sky,

Made his godly descent upon the earth.

Manyoshi (Keene, 104-105)

Amaterasu also gave Ninigi some specific instructions regarding the Yata mirror: "Consider this mirror as thou wast wont to consider my soul, and honour it as myself" (Hackin, 395). Eventually, the mirror would indeed become an object of worship or shintai and end up in the Ise Grand Shrine in the Mie Prefecture, dedicated to Amaterasu and still today Japan's most important Shinto shrine.

Ninigi, carrying his three precious goods, and accompanied by three gods (including Ame-no-uzume, the dawn goddess, and Sarutahiko-no-kami, the god of crossroads) and five chiefs, landed on earth at the top of Mt. Takachiho, in the south of Kyushu. From there, after first building himself a palace, he went to the temple of Kasasa in Satsuma province where the five chiefs set about laying down the principles of the Shinto religion, creating a priesthood and organising the building of temples. The chiefs would pacify the land and establish the clans which would dominate Japanese government for centuries to come such as the Fujiwara clan. In this capacity, the five became the ancestral deities of these clans, the ujigami.

Continue reading...

[hooked-on-elvis]

"It's Still Here" (1973)

Recorded on May 19, 1971 at RCA’s Studio B, Nashville, TN. Released on July 16, 1973. Album: Elvis (Fool)

MUSICIANS Piano: Elvis Presley, Bass: Norbert Putnam. * The complete recording of “It’s Still Here” runs 4:40, including a breakdown in the middle of the take; it was edited down to 2:05 for the initial master.

--

RECORDING SESSION Studio Session for RCA May 15–21, 1971: RCA’s Studio B, Nashville On the night of May 15 RCA’s Studio B had been decorated for an early Christmas. A tree with beautifully wrapped empty boxes stood in the center of the room, but Elvis brought real gifts for the musicians and his own associates — gold bracelets engraved “Elvis '71.” All the players from the June 1970 sessions were back, and again there were no backup singers present. With no personnel changes and as few distractions as possible, Felton expected to be able to get all of Elvis’s recording done in short order and save all the sweetening for later. BACKSTORY: The studio was decorated for Christmas in May most likely to create the right mood for the musicians - specially to inspire Elvis himself, since everybody knew how much of a Christmas enthusiast he was. During that session they would cut songs that would be release in the same year, 1971, on the then upcoming album "Elvis Sings The Wonderful World Of Christmas", as well as begin to record songs for the following albums - a contemporary music album and a gospel album. The Christmas decoration might have helped but fact is Elvis was in a great mood during those May recording sessions, cheerfully joking with everybody in the studio, even showing off his karate skills, while keeping himself seriously engaged in doing his best work, specially with the religious songs. His light mood is quite intriguing since what happened to him during the first days of the May 1971 recording sessions. During that first recording session in May 15-16th 1971, Elvis felt a striking pain on his eye and left to see a doctor, ending up being diagnosed with glaucoma.

Excerpt from book "Elvis What Happened" by Red West, Dave Hebler and Sonny West as told to Steve Dunleavy (1977).

Elvis leaving an eye doctor's office in Beverly Hills sometime in late 1971.

That year, 1971, was the beginning for the dark sunglasses era. Elvis took it all lightly, joking around with people about his serious health condition. One of those people was Kathy Westmoreland, to whom Elvis said, after showing her his collection of sun glasses:

"If I have to wear the damn things," Elvis smiled, making fun of himself, "I'm gonna have one in every color." Excerpt from "Elvis and Kathy" by Kathy Westmoreland (1987).

Surprisingly right after the brief hospitalization and the emergency eye treatment, Elvis got right back into the recording studio in Nashville.

— A LITTLE BIT OF THE RECORDING SESSION ON MAY 19, 1971 WHEN "IT’S STILL HERE" WAS RECORDED: During the day Elvis slept, but for most of the members of the band it was business as usual—sessions all morning and afternoon. When they came back to work nights with Elvis, Felton had an unwritten rule prohibiting anyone from yawning in the studio—for fear that it might “bring down” his star—and he insisted that the musicians take their breaks in the parking lot. And even Elvis made a trip to their “outdoor lounge” when he became bogged down in “Seeing Is Believing,” a new tune Red West had just frantically completed. Otherwise, though, he kept focused throughout the evening, actively directing the band, patiently discussing the backing parts with the female singers. Jerry Reed’s “A Thing Called Love” was completed with an elaborate vocal arrangement that featured bass singer Armond Morales in a unison part with Elvis throughout the song. References to the previous evening’s gunplay were flying, and after a while Elvis noticed how upset the Imperials became whenever he struck a karate pose. It was another night of good-humored ad-libbing. “He left the splendor of RCA—of Victor,” he sang self-referentially after one verse of “Listen To The Bells”; “went back to Sun Records. …” The next take of “A Thing Called Love” collapsed, and Felton as always deflected blame from Elvis onto the newcomer, Joe Moscheo. But Elvis, ever gracious when he was in good spirits, just changed the opening line of the song from “Six foot six, he stood on the ground” to “Three foot four …” and dedicated the song to Charlie Hodge. After the meal break the atmosphere changed. Determined to capture the mood he achieved while performing at home, Elvis sat down at the piano for an impassioned yet unassuming solo set. Two of the three songs he chose had been favorites as far back as his days in Germany: “I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen” and Ivory Joe Hunter’s “I Will Be True,” both of which he’d recorded on his home equipment in Bad Nauheim. This old material was hardly what Felton or RCA were looking for in an Elvis session, but Al Pachucki was ready with the tapes rolling just the same. The most moving of the three was another Ivory Joe Hunter song, “It’s Still Here,” but later Felton excitedly reported to the Colonel that with overdubs they all would make “great tunes,” keen to convince both Elvis and his manager of their commercial potential.

Excerpt: "Elvis Presley, A Life in Music: The Complete Recording Sessions" by Ernst Jorgensen. Foreword by Peter Guralnick (1998)

AFTERMATH Five albums were out a while before the "Elvis (Fool)" album could be released in 1973. Following the 1971 Christmas album was the contemporary music album, "Elvis Now", and then the gospel album "He Touched Me" preceding two live record releases, the "Elvis: As Recorded At Madison Square Garden" (1972) and the "Aloha From Hawaii Via Satellite" (1973) albums, and just then the "Elvis (Fool)" album was made by putting together songs recorded during the May 1971 recording session as well as songs taped during recording sessions in February-March 1972.

"IT'S STILL HERE" — LYRICS Songwriter: Ivory Joe Hunter The day you said we'd never part You turned around and broke my heart You had the nerve to tell me I would soon forget Now you've been gone away one year And I have not forgotten dear The love I had for you so long Is still here Wow-oh It's here, still here Because my heart cannot believe We're really through And though you said we'd never part You turned around and broke my heart The love I had for you so long Is still here It's here, still here Because my heart cannot believe We're really through Now you've been gone away one year And I have not forgotten dear The love I had for you so long Is still here Wow-oh It's here, it's here, still here Because my heart cannot believe We're really through And though you said we'd never part You turned around and broke my heart The love I had for you so long Is still here Wow-ow It's here, still here Because my heart cannot believe We're really through And though you said we'd never part You turned around and broke my heart The love I had for you so long Is still here Oh yeah

UNEDITED MASTER (4:45)

ORIGINAL RECORDING Ivory Joe Hunter (1968)

[sunset-peril]

I booted up my copy of Breath of the Wild to wander around for an hour (since I actually finished my homework before 9pm)

And of course, being who I am, I was immediately slapped with a BotW-era HFS story about the first time Link enters Hateno Village.

Because I don't know if I ever mentioned: Reede and his family (Clavia and Karin) are the descendants of Link's sister, which makes them descendants of Link himself. They call him Grandpa/Grandpaw post-BotW once they learn who he is. (Zelda is just "Miss Zelda", so they're literally "Miss Zelda and Grandpaw"... but I digress)

ANYWAY

Karin, obviously quite young at this time (and probably not understanding the concept of a "lifespan"), recognizes Link from her great-grandmother's pre-Calamity photos and rushes to tell her mom and dad that Grandpa's finally returned home.

Of course, Reede (not having met Link) dismisses the idea like we all would. After all, Grandpa died 100 years ago. It's just a traveler.

But Karin's torn between the photos and Link. She knows that she knows him, even if her father doesn't believe her.

And then Reede meets Link.

And the seeds his daughter planted in his brain nearly consume him. There's no way that's him, but how could it not be?

[fantastic-nonsense]

As a follow-up to my previous ask, I was wondering if you have any recs for academic nonfiction (whether books or articles) about media studies/fandom history? I just read Textual Poachers by Henry Jenkins, but I’d love something more recent as well! 😁

Fandom history in general? Probably not, though I could go searching through my bookshelves later.

Comic history in general? Yeah, I've got loads of those. Note that all of these are about the American comic industry (and usually about cape comics). I have a few others about non-superhero books or non-American comic history, but most of my knowledge is American comics and thus, most of my recs are about American comics:

Seal of Approval: The History of the Comics Code, by Amy Kiste Nyberg

The Ten-Cent Plague: The Great Comic-Book Scare and How It Changed America, by David Hajdu

American Comics: A History, by Jeremy Dauber

Pulp Empire: The Secret History of Comic Book Imperialism, by Paul Hirsch

Comic Books and the Cold War, 1946-1962: Essays on Graphic Treatment of Communism, the Code and Social Concerns, edited by Chris and Rafiel York

Men of Tomorrow: Geeks, Gangsters, and the Birth of the Comic Book, by Gerard Jones

Slugfest: Inside the Epic, 50-year Battle between Marvel and DC, by Reed Tucker

75 Years Of DC Comics: The Art of Modern Mythmaking, by Paul Levitz and Benedikt Taschen (editors)

75 Years of Marvel: From the Golden Age to the Silver Screen, Benedikt Taschen (editor)

Marvel: The Untold Story, by Sean Howe

The Secret History of Wonder Woman, by Jill Lepore

Wonder Woman Unbound: The Curious History of the World's Most Famous Heroine, by Tim Hanley

"Seducing the Innocent: Fredric Wertham and the Falsifications That Helped Condemn Comics" by C.L. Tilley

"The Great Comic Book Heroes" by Jules Feiffer (Dial Press, 1965)

The documentary Secret Origin: The Story of DC Comics, Kevin Smith's interviews with Neal Adams, and random bits of history like Jack Kirby's interviews are probably the closest we're going to get to a DC equivalent of Marvel: The Untold Story for a long time.

For a little bit of comic fandom history, The Caped Crusade: Batman and the Rise of Nerd Culture by Glen Weldon is an interesting read.

I also have several articles that I've read and used for various papers I've written over the years, but I'll have to go dig through them to find ones that might interest you.

[thebrickinbrick]

Many Interrogation Points Concerning a Certain Le Cabuc Whose Name May Not Have Been Le Cabuc, Part 2

The murderer turned round and saw before him Enjolras' cold white face.

Enjolras held a pistol in his hand. He had hastened up at the sound of the discharge. He had seized Cabuc's collar, blouse, shirt, and suspender with his left hand.

"On your knees!" he repeated. And, with an imperious motion, the frail young man of twenty years bent the thickset and sturdy porter like a reed, and brought him to his knees in the mire.

Le Cabuc attempted to resist, but he seemed to have been seized by a superhuman hand.

Enjolras, pale, with bare neck and dishevelled hair, and his woman's face, had about him at that moment something of the antique Themis. His dilated nostrils, his downcast eyes, gave to his implacable Greek profile that expression of wrath and that expression of Chastity which, as the ancient world viewed the matter, befit Justice.

The whole barricade hastened up, then all ranged themselves in a circle at a distance, feeling that it was impossible to utter a word in the presence of the thing which they were about to behold.

Le Cabuc, vanquished, no longer tried to struggle, and trembled in every limb.

Enjolras released him and drew out his watch.

"Collect yourself," said he. "Think or pray. You have one minute."

Mercy!" murmured the murderer; then he dropped his head and stammered a few inarticulate oaths.

Enjolras never took his eyes off of him; he allowed a minute to pass, then he replaced his watch in his fob. That done, he grasped Le Cabuc by the hair, as the latter coiled himself into a ball at his knees and shrieked, and placed the muzzle of the pistol to his ear. Many of those intrepid men, who had so tranquilly entered upon the most terrible of adventures, turned aside their heads.

An explosion was heard, the assassin fell to the pavement face downwards.

Enjolras straightened himself up, and cast a convinced and severe glance around him. Then he spurned the corpse with his foot and said: "Throw that outside."

Three men raised the body of the unhappy wretch, which was still agitated by the last mechanical convulsions of the life that had fled, and flung it over the little barricade into the Rue Mondétour.

Enjolras was thoughtful. It is impossible to say what grandiɔse shadows slowly spread over his redoubtable serenity. All at once he raised his voice.

A silence fell upon them.

"Citizens," said Enjolras, "what that man did is frightful, what I have done is horrible. He killed, therefore I killed him. I had to do it, because insurrection must have its discipline. Assassination is even more of a crime here than elsewhere; we are under the eyes of the Revolution, we are the priests of the Republic, we are the victims of duty, and must not be possible to slander our combat. I have, therefore, tried that man, and condemned him to death. As for myself, constrained as i am to do what I have done, and yet abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself."

Those who listened to him shuddered. "We will share thy fate," cried Combeferre.

"So be it," replied Enjolras. "One word more. In executing this man, I have obeyed necessity; but necessity is a monster of the old world, necessity's name is Fatality. Now, the law of progress is, that monsters shall disappear before the angels, and that Fatality shall vanish before Fraternity. It is a bad moment to pronounce the word love. No matter, I do pronounce it. And I glorify it. Love, the future is thine. Death, I make use of thee, but I hate thee. Citizens, in the future there will be neither darkness nor thunderbolts; neither ferocious ignorance, nor bloody retaliation. As there will be no more Satan, there will be no more Michael. In the future no one will kill any one else, the earth will beam with radiance, the human race will love. The day will come, citizens, when all will be concord, harmony, light, joy and life; it will come, and it is in order that it may come that we are about to die."

Enjolras ceased. His virgin lips closed; and he remained for some time standing on the spot where he had shed blood, in marble immobility. His staring eye caused those about him to speak in low tones.

Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre pressed each other's hands silently, and, leaning against each other in an angle of the barricade, they watched with an admiration in which there was some compassion, that grave young man, executioner and priest, composed of light, like crystal, and also of rock.

Let us say at once that later on, after the action, when the bodies were taken to the morgue and searched, a police agent's card was found on Le Cabuc. The author of this book had in his hands, in 1848, the special report on this subject made to the Prefect of Police in 1832.

We will add, that if we are to believe a tradition of the police, which is strange but probably well founded, Le Cabuc was Claquesous. The fact is, that dating from the death of Le Cabuc, there was no longer any question of Claquesous. Claquesous had nowhere left any trace of his disappearance; he would seem to have amalgamated himself with the invisible. His life had been all shadows, his end was night.

The whole insurgent group was still under the influence of the emotion of that tragic case which had been so quickly tried and so quickly terminated, when Courfeyrac again beheld on the barricade, the small young man who had inquired of him that morning for Marius.

This lad, who had a bold and reckless air, had come by night to join the insurgents.

[vibrantbirdy]

No Survivors: Kylo Ren x Female Reader Fic

Title: No Survivors Fandom: Star Wars: Skywalker Saga Genres: Sci-Fi; Action/Adventure; Enemies to (almost) Allies; Hurt/Comfort; Romance if you squint Setting: Pre The Force Awakens Characters: Kylo Ren x Female Reader Chapters: 1/1 (Complete) Word Count: 3k Warnings: Detailed (probably inaccurate) descriptions of injury/aftermath of injury (non-fatal impalement); descriptions of (probably inaccurate) emergency/makeshift medical treatment; mild descriptions of death from a crashed ship; mild sexuality; mild/canon typical swearing

Summary: You are Resistance fighter who has been captured. You are in transit aboard a First Order transport destined for an Imperial prison on the swamp moon of Delka 6. When a violent electromagnetic storm brings down the ship, you appear to be the only survivor. That is until you come across Supreme Leader Snoke's primary warlord, Kylo Ren, amid the wreckage. The volatile Ren is injured and you have to decide whether you can put your reservations aside to help him in the aftermath of the crash.

You open your eyes and your vison is blurry. Your head pounds. As the world languishes into focus, you realise that you are staring up at the clear night's sky.

But something is wrong. The constellations look strange tonight. Where is Sheyn's bow? And why does Terrin's saber have several stars missing from its hilt?

Slowly, you realise you are not lying on the soft grass in the meadow by your family's farm. Your sister is not here beside you. You are not laughing as you star gaze together and make up silly names for your own constellations.

Pekka's left knee. Channa's wonky nose.

You are not at home on Bakura at all.

Instead, you are wet through and frozen to your bones. You are lying in a marshy puddle, and sharp, thick reeds are stabbing uncomfortably into your flesh. Your saturated clothes are plastered unpleasantly to your cold skin. With each inhale, the damp smell of rot and sodden earth fills your nostrils. A cloud of tiny insects swarm around your face and bite at your skin, feasting on your blood. Then, you notice that your ankle is throbbing dully. You sit up to examine it, cringing and shivering as filthy bog water drips from the tangled mess of your soaking wet hair and down your back.

Not broken. Good.

The fuzzy outline of your memories start to take shape. This must be Delka 6, your destination. You remember the storm already raging as the prison transport juddered through orbit and into the moon's atmosphere. The sky alight with white fire flashing violently through the slit of a window in your cell. You hear the shouts and cries of others, the unholy metal screeching cacophony of the ship as rips itself apart around you spiral down helplessly into the black abyss.

You must have been thrown clear of the wreckage.

The transport had been moderately sized, equipped for long journeys with living quarters and communal areas for the Troopers and cells for twenty prisoners. Only six of these were filled by the time you reached Delka 6.

You didn't know any of them, at least not to begin with. But stuck with nothing else to do in a miserable cell for days on end, you'd joined in sharing tales through the bars with the rest of them. Stories of your family and friends and life before the First Order when you thought you might one day complete your medical training and become a doctor.

Your heart breaks for the lives lost. God speed rebels. Brave men and women of the Resistance, fighting the good fight, just like you.

That is until a botched recon job on a backwater world in the Outer Rim lead the First Order right to you...

You spot a flash of brilliant white a few meters in front of you, shocking against the grim landscape. You realise it's the helmet of a Stormtrooper, broken and smashed and sullied by the thick mud. You're surprised to feel a twang of of unexpected sympathy for the Trooper and his fallen comrades.

As you stagger to your feet, you wander aimlessly for a time, feet sinking and sticking in the marsh. Amongst the debris you come across the bodies of more Stormtroopers and fellow prisoners alike.

Here and there, fuel fires still burn ferociously, eerie little funeral pyres in the dark water.

Suddenly, a drawn out howl of pain and rage echoes across the marsh. You spin around, trying to pinpoint the location of the cry and spot a torn-off section of the transport.

You wade through the bog. It's unpleasant, especially with your aching ankle which complains as you have to rip it free of cloying, stinking mud with every step.

As you reach the remnant of the the vessel, you have to duck and weave under sparking wires and clamber over and under pieces of jagged metal. When you finally make it inside, the interior is surprisingly intact - an officer's personal quarters - and it's an odd and surreal juxtaposition to the hellish wasteland outside.

A tall young man, about your own age is half sitting, half lying on his bed. He is barefoot, clothed in simple sleeping attire of three-quarter length black pants and a loose long sleeved shirt.

He has a full head of thick, shaggy raven hair which falls in waves around his long, interesting face. His prominent, aquiline nose sits well with his other features - deep set eyes, full lips and a sharp well-defined jawline.

Under normal circumstances you would have considered him to be handsome, but you recognise him immediately even without his fearsome mask.

Kylo Ren.

You've heard the stories. Ren is Supreme Leader Snoke's formidable dark apprentice. Powerful with the Force, an elemental warrior driven by a mixture of blistering internal rage and radical First Order doctrine.

It all makes sense now. The strange, tense atmosphere between the Stormtroopers on the ship. They'd been so uptight, hardly deigning even to making a passing jest at the expense of their prisoners. All because Ren had been on the transport. Kriff knows why he needed to visit a backwater swamp like Delka 6.

Ren is propped up at an uncomfortable angle as if he has been interrupted while rising from the bed. Oddly, he is framed by a variety of metal spikes, as if the bed has been designed to resemble some dark, otherworldly throne.

After a moment, you realise that these spikes are actually durasteel rods from the ship's internal frame work. They must have slammed through the wall of Ren's sleeping quarters on crash impact.

With a jolt of horror, you suddenly understand that one rod is jutting upwards through his back and out through his left shoulder.

Ren is panting with exertion, breathing hard through his teeth. His brow is ridged in a deep furrow of pain. Sweat is dripping from tendrils of black hair into wild, anguished eyes and down his neck.

Sensing your presence, he looks up at you. His face is unguarded and softened by distress. In this moment, he appears disarmingly like any other young man.

"Please," he says quietly.

His tone is low and firm, but it is filled with a humility you don't expect. Still, you hesitate in the doorway, saying nothing. Your resolve solidifies and you stare coldly at him, wondering at the Universe's poetic sense of justice.

Ren's face hardens. Any hint of vulnerability present in his expression vanishes in an instant. His eyes darken like storm clouds as he comprehends that you are not going to help him out of his well deserved predicament.

He turns his attention back to the rod embedded in his shoulder . He puffs out his cheeks and gives a long, juddering exhale through his lips before wrapping two large, shaking hands around the pole and wrenching upwards.

It budges, but marginally, the slight movement serving only to send a new wave of agony tearing through his body. Ren snarls in pain and slams his head back against the wall in frustration, eyes squeezed shut.

After a moment, he plants both palms flat against the mattress and draws his knees up towards his body, positioning his feet flat on the bed below his bottom.

Your stomach lurches as you realise that in his desperation, he is going to try and push his body up and off the rod.

Kriff knows what he'll do to himself if he tries that and gets it wrong.

"Don't!" You shout out before you can help yourself, moving towards him instinctively, palms outstretched.

Ren looks up, narrowing his eyes and squinting at you, clearly startled to realise that you're still there.

You curse your medical training for kicking in automatically, but you know you can't leave him like this. As much as you'd like to. As much as it would be a fitting punishment for Snoke's war dog.

But you've made your decision. You stride over to him and put a hand on his heaving chest.

"Stop moving."

You are surprised as he immediately does as he is told. You look down into his pain clouded eyes and are surprised to find that they are not the black, emotionless pits you'd expected. There is a golden, amber light behind them and you realise that he really is just a man.

Climbing up on to the bed, you straddle Ren as if you are lovers. You rest a knee either side of his hips, sinking into the soft mattress and bringing yourself to rest gently on his lower abdomen. You are careful, but you feel his whole body vibrating with pain beneath you.

He looks surprised, but you ignore it. With how Ren is positioned and the need to avoid the other sharp pieces of metal jutting out dangerously from the wall, this really is the best and easiest way to assess the damage. You have a direct view of the exit wound in front of you, and you can appraise the entry wound in his back by leaning over his shoulder, all with a low chance of impaling yourself in the process.

Still, you can't help but feel a flash of satisfaction as his uncertain face flushes when you move around on top of him.

The placement of the wound is not the problem. There will be no permanent damage and Ren is extremely lucky that the metal didn't pierce a lung, or his heart.

If he has a heart, you think sourly.

The real issue, you realise, is that the pole is stuck fast through the back of the durasteel wall, gripped tightly in molten, twisted metal. No wonder he couldn't move it. You'll have to cut it and he'll have to pull it out in quick succession.

Now you know what you're working with, you grab the front of Ren's shirt and tear it open, revealing a chiselled torso. You can't stop the heat that creeps up into your cheeks and despite the pain he must be in, the most irritating ghost of a smirk flickers across Ren's face.

Now it's your turn to feel uncomfortable.

You strip him to the waist, carefully working the fabric away from the areas where the foreign element is impaled in his body.

"Where's your laser sword?" you ask.

"What?"

Ren speaks the word so quietly, but there is a sinister, cold edge to it. Suddenly the energy in the room feels heavy and oppressive.

"We need to cut this or you're not getting out," your words tumble from your mouth and you are furious that you've allowed this sudden change in his demeanour to ruffle you.

You clear your throat and the next time you speak, you've regained some composure.

"I haven't come across any actual medical equipment in this hell hole, so your lightsaber will have to do."

His expression is full of suspicion, but you hold his gaze defiantly. After a moment, he appears to acquiesce that he has no real choice.

"By the door."

He lifts his chin in the direction of the twisted sheet of metal that had once been the door to his quarters, and you see the weapon hanging from a belt on a hook on the wall.

Carefully, you extract yourself from Ren, trying not to hurt him further. It's difficult as the soft mattress bends and shifts under you. He places a big hand on the curve of your waist to help guide you and you try to ignore the glance that passes between you.

You walk across the room and unclasp the weapon from it's belt. You examine it, fascinated. The black hilt is an odd shape, roughly made, with its wiring exposed. It is far from the elegant thing you've heard described in the old tales of the Jedi Order.

But then, Kylo Ren is no Jedi.

You take up some of Ren's torn shirt, rip a length off and coil it into a something for him to bite down on. He looks at you, weary and resigned, before he takes it and positions it into his mouth, pliantly.

You make sure he understands that when he comes to pull the metal out, he must do it all in one go and make sure he follows the exact angle of the rod's path through his body.

You get him to sit up slightly. A growl, low and long resonates in his throat as he gingerly props himself up. The gap he has manged to make between his upper back and the wall is small, but you should be able to cut through the pole quickly without catching him with the blade.

Ren grips the base of the rod as close to the exit wound as he can. He takes a couple of deep, heaving breaths, clenches his jaw, then nods.

You flick the activation switch on the lightsaber's emitter and the laser roars into life, crackling and sputtering. You are suddenly overcome with an ugly feeling of power as you wield this deadly weapon. And you suddenly understand how vulnerable Ren is right now. Paralysed and defenceless before you. You could end his life in a second right here and no one would be any the wiser.

You'd be a hero of the Resistance... And a murderer and a coward for striking down an unarmed, wounded man.

So you don't.

Instead, you use the spluttering, fiery blade to quickly cut through the durasteel pole which impales Ren to the wall. The metal gives way like butter under a knife.

Ren doesn't hesitate. In one swift movement, he rips the pole from his shoulder as soon as you sever it. He gives a roar of anguish which hitches in his throat somewhere, and throws it across the room where it lands in a corner with a metallic clang.

Finally free, he leaps up from the bed as if distance from the place of his injury might help quiet the white hot pain flaring through his body. He staggers wildly and you step back out of the way, realising for the first time the enormity of his height. He collapses in a heap on the ground with a thud then rolls onto all fours, spitting the cloth out of his mouth.

Ren lets his forehead come to rest against the cool metal of the durasteel floor. He is gasping in deep, shuddering lungfuls of air, nostrils flaring with each ragged breath. You get the distinct impression he's trying not to throw up. His dark hair cascades about his face. One hand is pressed flush against the wound in his shoulder, the other, supporting his body weight, is clenching open and shut against the floor, fingers clawing at the metal tiles.

"Thank you," he utters, finally.

He doesn't move, he doesn't even look at you, but you are taken aback by the sincerity in his voice. He means it.

"Don't thank me yet," you snip coolly, "that's bound to get infected. Bacta spray?"

Ren shakes his head, although in his exhaustion, he doesn't bother to lift it from its resting place against the floor. The tip of his long nose graces the metal tiles with the movement. Ren is bleeding freely down his back and rivulets of crimson are seeping through his fingers where he is pressing against his shoulder. Bright red drops spatter on the metal floor.

You need to do something soon.

The hilt of Ren's lightsaber is still in your hand and you reignite it. Ren's head snaps up and you realise you've made a dangerous mistake by arming the blade without consulting him first.

You've heard stories about how he can hurt people, throw them about like ragdolls with just with his mind.

"We need to cauterize the wound," you explain quickly, "I can't see another option right now."

You think you see a shadow of panic cross his face, but he quickly composes himself and he nods once in reluctant ascent. With great effort, he pushes himself up to his knees and sits back on his heels. With resigned, laboured movements, he reaches out and picks up the throng of twisted fabric, placing it back between his teeth.

You move behind him. His shoulders rise and fall rapidly as his heart rate quickens and adrenaline surges through his body. Just a touch should do it, you don't want to cause more damage.

Grimacing with concentration, lightsaber feeling clumsy and unwieldy in your hand, you press the searing blade lightly against the entry wound in his back.

Ren throws his head backwards, muscles tensing down his long neck. A muffled scream escapes through the material in his mouth, but he doesn't move. He is gripping his knees tightly and you notice his knuckles are white.

You crouch down in front of him and prepare to cauterize the exit wound. He locks his gaze on you, the unstable red beam of his weapon dancing like fire in his golden eyes. He reaches out grasps the emitter, large hands coming to rest upon yours, enveloping them. His touch is almost gentle.

It's a silent plea for a moment to brace himself. It's back again, you realise, that sliver of humanity in his expression.

He inhales deeply, readying himself, then lets go of you. Without wasting time, you press the blistering blade against his shoulder once more.

This time he makes little sound, save for a low keening in his throat as he grits his teeth against the twisted length of fabric in his mouth. He keeps his penetrating gaze fixed on your eyes. You don't look away.

After it's done, you give him a small nod of approval and allow the trace of a smile to form on your lips. He did well.

You both sit down on the bed again and you set to work, using the rest of his tattered shirt to fashion a sub-par bandage which wraps around his wounded shoulder and across his muscled back.

"You're a medic."

It's not really a question, but a statement.

"I was," you say sharply, "before the First Order turned the hospital I was training at into ashes."

Silence.

You finish your work on his injury.

"There, try not to move it too much."

Once you've finished, he rises and you notice in alarm the way he towers above you. He looks down with an odd, appraising look on his face, as if he is trying to make a decision.

"Come with me."

You don't see how you can argue. You both clamber outside and you recoil as the stench of rotting vegetation from the swamp hits your nostrils. Still, you welcome the cool air on your face after the heat of your exertions and the metallic smell of Ren's blood.

"A rescue vessel will arrive soon," Ren states.

You say nothing. Some rescue.

"There is a settlement ten klicks west of here," he muses, almost casually.

"I came to look in to reports of a Resistance faction operating on this moon," he continues, "But having had the opportunity to thoroughly investigate, I will be able to report back to the Supreme Leader that this is no more than mere rumour. For now."

Ren turns to you. There is a smirk on his face and a spark of humour in his eyes. It makes his expression boyish and almost charming.

There it is again, you think. That light in the darkness.

You can't bring yourself to thank him. The words refuse to leave your mouth. But you do allow yourself to give him a reluctant half-smile of your own in return and an inclination of gratitude with a bob of your head.

With that, you set off across the bog and into the unknowns of Delka 6.

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

Kylo Ren watches as you limp westwards across the marsh. You disappeared into a cover of stunted trees and out of his sight.

Behind him, a Lambda shuttle descends. He holds the emitter of his lightsaber in one hand and his mask in the other, both salvaged from the wreckage.

Boarding the ship, Ren ignores the almost imperceptible turn of heads from the Stormtroopers who line the durasteel ramp as he traipses slowly up it bloody, filthy, shirtless and barefoot.

As he passes the Captain at the top of the ramp he utters two words in a flat, level monotone.

"No survivors."

[kallie-den]

Rebellious Mind

Karteya Vall, a general plotting to overthrow the usurper to the Imperial Throne, submits to a ceremony to prove her loyalty. A simple, traditional - and above all, completely normal - ceremony…

This story was chosen by my patrons via a poll, and features some delicious, highly-ceremonial, unaware mind control~

If you like my writing, please consider supporting me on Patreon!   For less than the price of a cup of coffee each month, you can get   immediate, early access to everything I write - along with exclusive stories and the ability to vote on what I write next. Your support helps  me keep writing and is greatly appreciated

---

“General Karteya Vall! Warden of the Northern Commandery! Master of the Imperial Chariots! Conqueror over the Barbarians! Custodian of the Fifth Wall!”

The herald’s voice is clear and strong, but that doesn’t stop it from sounding small as it echoes around the cavernous space. The innermost sanctum of the Imperial Palace had been built a thousand years ago, by men who were determined to make a building that matched the magnitude of all their worldly ambitions. A thousand years later it’s still an unmatched architectural wonder, but the glory of the empire has far outstripped even their vision. Whoever rules here, rules over an unimaginable vastness of humanity and geography. It hosts diplomats and tributaries from lands its architects could not have imagined, and it’s decorated with treasures they would have considered impossible miracles. Our empire is the greatest power this world has ever known.

This place is the beating heart of it all. Decisions made here touched countless lives and had the power to reshape seas and mountains. It is the center of the world. The pillar that holds up Heaven. It is also the embodiment of the empire and order I have devoted twenty hard years of soldiering to serving.

Once, it would have brought me immeasurable pride to hear my titles and my achievements announced here by the herald. As a girl, I was raised on dreams of being permitted to set foot in these hallowed halls, even as the lowliest servant. Once, but no longer - just as the jade carvings and scarlet silks of the palace had once been beautiful to me, but now seem like an affront. This regal beauty no longer belongs here. It’s a remnant. A lie. For a spider has spun this place into Her web.

All the same, I rise from my seat and stand tall and proud as I answer:

“I am here!”

I was summoned, and so I am here. I may be one of the most powerful women in the empire, but that doesn’t mean I can ignore a summons from the palace. And She does so love issuing summons. Her appetite for prostration and ceremony is that of a tyrant, not a true ruler.

“Your request for an audience has been granted! Approach the Lion Door!”

My request. This charade grates on me to no end. But I keep my face serene and approach the colossal door that bars the way to the throne.

“Halt!”

I do. This is expected.

“You must relinquish your blade in the presence of the empress!”

The demand chafes. I’m a soldier. My sword is my arm. But it’s just as well. If I was allowed to carry it into the throne room, I’m not sure any force under Heaven could restrain my fury.

An unsheathing. A few sprinted steps. A single stroke. She has guards, of course. But it could be done.

When the usurper first seized the throne I was a thousand leagues distant, at my post on the frontier. The first I heard of the vile coup was news of its success, along with Her demand to come and bend the knee. I tore the scroll to pieces in my hands. My oath to the imperial dynasty was not some reed bending in the current. In the span of a heart heartbeat, I had decided to turn my armies inward and revenge myself upon the throne-stealer.

Only the calm heads of my advisors had saved the land from civil war. Though no less faithful than I, they had persuaded me that there was no undoing what had already been done. I had armies, but together the other generals had more, and they had already pledged new loyalties. If I raised my banner against the usurper, my vengeance would never find satisfaction.

Instead, they suggested, I could be a snake who hides her fangs. I could feign obedience and bide my time, and make my move only once every preparation had been made. Then, I could be successful - and all it would cost me is that I would have to go before Her and bow and scrape as She demanded, for a little while.

A bitter price. But one I had resolved to pay - although I might have decided differently if I’d known the usurper would call me back, time and time again, insisting on fresh oaths of loyalty.

Well. No matter. A thousand oaths couldn’t stop me from avenging the dynasty I’d been sworn to.

All I need to do is bide my time and wait.

“Here.” With the ease of long practice, I draw my sword and hand it to the perfumed servant who approaches. The way its weight surprises him makes me sneer. “If there’s a single nick on this bronze,” I warn him, “it will take your head.”

He pales. As well he should.

The herald nods as I turn back to him. “You may enter.”

With his words, the Lion Door begins to yawn open. Those carved gates are taller than any tree I’ve ever seen, and they move like twin glaciers. All the better to be awed by the space beyond. The throne room is even grander; taller, wider, more lavish. An impossible space. A humbling space. Once the gates come to a halt I begin to march, paraded on both sides by guards - an honor, supposedly, not a threat. The walk to the throne is long enough to make the legs of idle noblemen ache but I’m well used to worse, and I can spend the time contemplating the object of my loathing.

The usurper. Our empress.

The Pearl Throne is well-named. A tall, looming thing, its white-rainbow iridescence is said to represent the labor of ten thousand divers’ lifetimes. It’s meant to humble and devour even the anointed demigod who sits upon it. The cold, hard edges allow for no comfort and the severe, flat surfaces admit no luxury. The proportions are wrong; inhuman, such that a man full-grown sitting the throne looks somehow less and more. Towering, yes, but like a child rather than a king. Even the emperor is a child under Heaven.

The usurper makes it look like a reclining couch.

It must be the supreme ease with which She lies across the throne. It’s like it’s nothing to Her; like the empire that rests on Her shoulder has no more than a feather’s weight. There is no respect in Her. None at all. Not a single drop. She’s draped across the throne with the arrogance of a girl-queen who’s been there all Her life. You would never imagine that She’s been empress for mere months.

Oh, Her figure is regal enough. Bounteous. Like She’s tasted every pleasure under Heaven and taken them as Her birthright. She’s proud of Her fullness, and Her fulsome curves are so admired they have shifted trends among her courtiers. Her imperial silks are cut close to Her body. Too close, as a courtesan’s might be. But they’re layered, too, rather than thin, and unfathomably rich. She likes to display Herself. To be like the sun. And yes, She is remarkably beautiful.

How I hate Her.

By the time I reach the base of the throne, I’m trembling with loathing. But She can’t see it. I can make myself almost still, and for all Her inexplicable success in seizing the throne, She’s too much of an arrogant fool to see the viper She’s invited into Her bosom.

“My general, Karteya,” Empress announces. She takes pleasure in the music of my name under Her tongue. “Kneel.”

I do, of course. What choice is there? Though my limbs rebel against the gesture of submission, I place a foot forward and drop to one knee before the throne, an arm resting squarely across my body.

Empress is relaxed to be sure, but Her eyes are singularly focused on me. On the way I sink before Her. The rich, swelling pleasure in Her gaze is yet another challenge to my inhibitions. It’s like She’s daring me to cast Her down. There’s something piercing in Her gaze, too; it’s tempting to succumb to my bleak humors and imagine that She knows something of my designs. She doesn’t, of course. Empress outstretches one arm toward me and lets it hang off the throne.

“You may kiss my ring,” She says languidly.

Indignity after indignity. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

I reach out and take Her hand to guide it to my lips. On Her finger is a ring that has, I gather, produced endless discussion amongst the ladies of the imperial court. Into it is set a gem of unknown providence, so large as to be vulgar. The gem came into the usurper’s possession when she was just a beggar, so it’s said, and the poets love to wax lyrical about how there’s none other like it in any treasury in the world. Those courtly ladies whisper that sometimes it glows with strange, shimmering lights, like those that can be seen in the skies above the great northern snows, and that it can even ensnare the souls of men.

Ridiculous. It’s just a ring.

I bring it to my lips and kiss its surface, pointedly ignoring the garish way the light glints from within its depths.

“Good.” Empress nods and retracts Her hand. Her approval tastes like bile. “You have come to swear your loyalty and obedience.”

It’s not a question. “As my empress commands.”

“As I command.” Her voice dances with a cruel laugh. “Proceed, my general.”

I brace myself. I have to, or else I may choke on my words. The oath I swear to the throne is old indeed, the words dictated by proud tradition, but saying them to Her makes them sour. My honor revolts in my belly at the thought of pledging myself insincerely - but it must be done.

To tolerate it, I have to tell myself: they are just words. Just air. They mean as little as Empress’s throne. They’re empty, and any honor I lose by speaking them will be won back when I finally make my move. When I make Her pay. Until then, all I have to do is play the role of the simpering, obedient servant.

All I need to do is bide my time and wait.

But it’s strange. Over and over again, She commands my presence and my oath. I alone am subject to these incessant demands. The pleasure She takes in forcing me to pledge myself over and over again is evident. Why? It’s almost as if She knows. As if She can sense my inner hatred. As if She knows what I’m planning.

Those are my weak nerves talking and nothing more, I decide. She has no idea. She couldn’t possibly. My performance is perfect. All I need to do is stay the course. I part my lips and begin to recite the vow that has been sworn in this place since time immemorial.

“I, Karteya Vall, pledge my eternal faith, loyalty, and obedience to the Pearl Throne and She who sits upon it. On my honor, I offer Her my fealty and service to Empress, from this day until my dying day. I vow to take up my sword in Her service, to defend Her rule and Her realm, to make Her enemies my own, and to keep faith with Her descendants and Her dynasty forevermore.”

I keep my voice slow and measured. The words deserve respect, even if She doesn’t. The vow is long and exacting - as it should be - and immutable. The words have never changed, even as centuries and dynasties have gone and gone. It’s comforting that some things don’t change. Not in a thousand years.

“I vow to obey Her in all things, without limit, without question. I offer Her my faith and my skills, so that I may be Her sword. I offer Her my very soul, to twist, to spend, to debase, to profane as She wishes. I offer Her my mind, to twist and change. I offer Her my body, for Her delight and Her pleasure.”

I hate the way She's smiling as I speak. Almost grinning, really. It’s like She’s about to burst out laughing. Has She no sense of solemnity? Of respect? These words are ancient. It’s tradition.

“I offer Her my tongue, though I may be unworthy to lick Her pussy or kiss Her feet. I offer Her my tits, for Her to display or ogle however She wishes. I offer Her my lewd, fuckable cunt, should it bring any comfort to Her faithful soldiers. I offer Her my untrained ass, for I am nothing but a worthless hole for Her to enjoy. I offer Her my orgasms, whether She wishes to withhold them forever, or make me cum like a stupid mutt in heat in front of my own men. And I offer Her what little dignity I have left, as a stupid bitch who thinks she knows better than her Empress.”

I’m surprised it amuses Her so much. She seems like the type to find tradition boring, although She clearly never tires of making me recite the oath for Her. I know it off by heart, of course. Every good soldier does.

“Thank you, general,” Empress snickers. “I’m very moved by your fidelity.”

She’s mocking me, obviously. I just can’t quite figure out how. After all, She has no idea I’m plotting against Her.

“You may disrobe,” She says.

“Thank you.”

This is the next part of the ceremony, every bit as traditional and timeworn as the vow. I rise to my feet and begin to remove everything that I’m wearing. My dress armor is first - I wear it everywhere, as a general should. It takes a little time to manage all the clasps and fastenings.

“Tell me, Karteya,” Empress comments suddenly. She’s watching me with lurid interest in Her eyes. “Do you know why I summon you here to swear your faith, time and time again?”

I grit my teeth and focus on the task at hand. “It is your right, my Empress, to demand my vow as many times as it pleases you.”

“True, true!” Her laugh is musical. “But that doesn’t explain why. No; the reason is that every single time, I’m wondering if some part of you will notice what’s really going on. It seems almost too good to be true that even a powerful, strong-willed, oh-so-dignified woman like you could be so completely and totally unaware. But you really are, aren’t you?” She lifts Her hand. “I truly love this ring!”

More nonsense. She’s taunting me, no doubt, though I can’t fathom what She means. Better not to guess. I set my breastplate down and start unstrapping my vambraces.

“It’s such a rush that I can tell you, straight to your face, and it simply doesn’t matter,” Empress boasts. That stupid, high-handed grin on Her face just keeps getting wider. “I’m manipulating your thoughts, Karteya, and making you completely unable to tell. Because of me, you think that ridiculous, vulgar tirade I fed to you on a whim is some ancient, sacred vow. You think taking your clothes off now is just part of the ceremony. It isn’t.”

I decide to ignore Her. It’s better for my humors if I focus simply on getting through the ceremony. With all my armor removed, I begin to slip out of the long, hard, green robe I wear underneath.

“You think you’re plotting to overthrow me, but that isn’t true either,” Empress goes on. “Not really. I already have everyone you trust wrapped around my fingers in exactly the same way. Most of the time you think you’ve spent planning, you’ve actually spent plunging your sword hilt in and out of your cunt until you pass out from the orgasms. You will never have your revenge, General. You will never even make a move.”

Next, my smallclothes. I remove them and feel all the small hairs on my body stiffen from the cool palace air on my naked skin. That’s not all, though. The ceremony also requires that I present myself appropriately. I begin carefully folding and stacking my clothes along with my armor, presenting them as a soldier would for an inspection in their barracks.

“I could stop you altogether, obviously,” Empress muses. “I could make you as obedient as a dog, just like everyone else I used as a tool when I took the throne. I could even make you love me. But I think this is much, much more entertaining. I can even get into your head and make you think of me as ‘Empress’, make your thoughts tremble with reverence and worship for me, and you will never once notice.”

With all my clothing and belongings neatly folded and presented before the throne, I sink back down to my knees in front of the usurper.

“You can keep thinking of me as ‘the usurper’, though,” She adds. “Every time you do, it makes me laugh.”

I place both hands in front of me, palms down, and then bend forward slowly, lowering my head as I do until my forehead is pressed to the ground in a gesture of absolute, unmistakable submission.

It’s just part of the ceremony.

Now that I’ve finished undressing, Empress shuts up. It’s just as well. I’ve become skilled at tuning out Her senseless prattling, but Her voice still grates on me after a time. Silence is preferable, even when it stretches on for so long that my knees and back start to ache. The usurper must be enjoying looking down at me. I can feel Her gaze on me, even if I can’t raise my head to look. It would be an unspeakable breach of etiquette to break this pose without Her permission.

She doesn’t deserve the respect. But my pride is at stake, and it certainly does.

I remind myself again. All I need to do is bide my time and wait.

Empress stands. I can hear Her clothes shifting as She moves, and Her footsteps as She descends the throne. She stops just inches away from me. The usurper is barefoot, of course. The Daughter of Heaven need never touch the filthy ground outside of the palace, and the ground here is kept fastidiously clean. She lifts one foot. I brace myself.

Empress brings Her foot down and stamps on the back of my head.

Not hard, but certainly hard enough to force my face down into the ground. She takes pleasure in it, I can tell. In grinding my face into the floor as I simply kneel and accept it. With the usurper, this part of the ceremony is particularly distasteful. The lowest part of Her body atop the highest part of mine, as I struggle to force out the right words.

“Empress,” I manage, although my voice is clearly strained and distorted by the way She’s stepping on me and smearing my lips against the ground. “Please accept this stupid, impudent cunt’s humble apology for daring to imagine I could ever deceive or outsmart you.”

It’s just another part of the ceremony. It’s tradition.

“Hmm.” Once She’s had Her fill, She steps back. “Apology accepted.”

I sigh. Being done with that is a relief, but the ceremony isn’t over yet. Empress raises a hand and snaps Her fingers, and a servant springs into motion. She hurries to Empress’s side and kneels, holding out a large, golden tray. On it are two objects. One is a bubbling cauldron of molten wax, lit from beneath by a small flame. The other is a large, metal seal.

“Prepare yourself, General,” She tells me.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

My body is grateful for the permission to move, but only briefly. The next position I must hold is even less comfortable. I raise my torso and then bend it backward, extending my legs ahead of me to form a bridge with my hands behind me, as I arch my spine and present my body upward towards Her.

I painstakingly removed all of my body hair this morning. Yet more tradition.

“Stay still,” Empress chides, as She lifts the cauldron of wax, positions it above my body, and tips.

The wax falls on my skin perfectly; on my lower abdomen, directly above my womb. It cools in the air, but only a little, and the scalding pain makes me grunt. I do stay still, though. It’s a matter of pride. She can chide all She likes, as if I’m a child who doesn’t know proper etiquette. I’ll show Her. I won’t give Her the pleasure of watching me humiliate myself. She can’t take away my dignity.

Once enough molten wax has pooled on my skin, Empress sets down the cauldron and lifts the seal. She bends down over me and presses it to my skin in the same spot, imprinting the reverse of its shape on the wax. The cold metal is a salving balm. The pain recedes, and I’m able to breathe normally again.

Empress lifts the seal. I can’t help but crane my neck to look. Sure enough, it’s there. Her symbol. Her personal mark, raised on my skin like a brand. It’ll only last a day or two, which I take to be a mercy, even if it gives Her an excuse to summon me back and apply the wax anew.

“Very impressive,” She says, staring down at me. “I’m glad you’re a soldier, General Karteya. You’re so very good at taking whatever I give you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” If She thinks a few sincere compliments here and there will engender any love for Her, She’s sorely mistaken.

“Let’s see if you can make it through the next part this time,” She comments and snaps Her fingers again.

The servant bearing the tray retreats. Another appears in her place, and she’s holding another of the ceremonial relics: a large phallus, shaped lovingly out of bronze. Meanwhile, I’m trying to puzzle out Her words. This time? I would never display improper form during the ceremony. She’s mistaken, clearly.

It is challenging, though. My muscles are screaming complaints at me, and it’s an active effort to keep them from shaking and spasming. My entire body is covered in a sheen of sweat from the exertion. And the worst is yet to come. I need to save my strength.

“Enjoy, General,” Empress says with a sneer, as She takes the metal cock from Her servant and rams it all the way into my pussy.

The sound that forces its way out of my lips is something between a scream and a moan. She is not gentle, and having something so hard and cold forced inside me hurts. But I cannot help the other half of how my body reacts, with treasonous shocks of pleasure radiating from between my legs as I begin to drip eager wetness onto the ground.

A lesser woman could easily have collapsed. I won’t. I hold firm. I can be proud of that.

“My!” Empress raises an eyebrow, Her lips curled with amusement. “You really are getting better at this.”

More nonsense. I can reply only with a grunt. I’m reaching my limits.

“You may go ahead and stand up,” She adds when She notices how much I’m struggling. “You’ve earned it.”

I have indeed. Somehow, I manage to fold my body forward without collapsing and rise to my feet - and crucially, I keep the muscles in the core of my body engaged the entire time, so the bronze cock inside me doesn’t slip free. It wouldn’t do to make a spectacle of myself by dropping it. Not here, at the very end of the ceremony.

“I suppose we’re done here,” Empress says, sighing theatrically as if dismayed. Then the smirk returns. “For this time, at least. You put your clothes back-“

She pauses. Something’s occurred to Her, clearly, although I can’t imagine what. All that’s left is for me to dress myself and leave. But the malevolent, gleeful grin that suddenly splits Her face from ear to ear is truly unsettling.

“Actually,” Empress tells me as She climbs back onto the Pearl Throne. “Leave them. You can walk out of here naked.”

“What?” I say sharply. I didn’t know She still had the power to shock me - but clearly, She does. There are some traditions even an empress can’t alter. She doesn’t have the right to dictate these things on a whim. They’re older than Her by many centuries, and if She tries, the people will surely turn against Her. She’s gifted me a perfect opportunity, and my anger is righteous. “How dare you? That is not… n-not…”

Somehow, at that moment, Her ring catches my eye. The light glints off it in a way that seems impossible, and I am briefly captivated. Before I know it, my eyes have unfocused completely. The whole world is a blur. I have to struggle to recenter myself. It’s like I’m a dancer who has stumbled and lost the rhythm. What was I saying?

“That’s not…” I continue uncertainly. Not what? I was… arguing with Her? Suddenly, the context comes flooding back, and it brings with it a sense of complete and total humiliation. My cheeks are tinted red with shame. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I must have forgotten.”

How? How had I forgotten? I pride myself on my respect for tradition, and this is an error only an unruly schoolchild could make. All the court will be laughing at me. What had come over me?

Leaving naked is simply part of the ceremony.

“It’s been a long day, I’m sure,” Empress says. Her eyes glint with amusement, and I inwardly scold myself for providing Her with it. “We can overlook a small indiscretion. You’re dismissed, General.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!”

To make up for my grievous error, I offer Her the crispest salute I possibly can. Then, as She nods, I turn and begin to walk - leaving all my belongings set neatly before Her, as is only proper. The walk back to the Lion Door is long, and feels longer still thanks to the awkward, bandy-legged gait I’m forced to use to keep the ceremonial bronze cock inside my cunt.

But that’s fine. The long, difficult walk is simply an opportunity to contemplate the depths of my loathing for Her, and the satisfaction that my revenge will bring.

The preparations are being made. All my plans will come together - and the best part is that She will never see it coming. She has no idea.

All I need to do is bide my time and wait.

---

I would like to express my gratitude for the generosity of all those who support me on Patreon, and to give a special thanks to the following patrons in particular for their exceptional support:

Artemis, Chloe, J, Grillfan65, The Secret Subject, Morriel, Dex, orangesya, Red, dmtph, Queenfisher, MegatronTarantulas, NewtypeWoman, WhyamIhere, Vanessa, Madeline, BTYOR, Sarah, Mattilda, Emily Queen of sloths, ntad, Shadows exile, Abigail, Hypnogirl_Stephanie_, Jade, mintyasleep, John, ZephanyZephZeph, Michael, Be_Be, Tasteful Ardour, Chris, Dennis, paxDulcetGirl, Full Blown Marxism, Morder, S, Myles_EXVS, Brendon, Drone 8315, Jack the Monkey, Jim, Erin, HannahSolaria, Christopher, hellenberg, Kay, Miss_Praxis, Violet, Noct, Charlotte, Faun, BrinnShea, B, Foridin, Jennifer, EepyTimeTea, Slifer274, Roxxie, Phoenix, Ivy, Jim, Sebastian, Joseph, Yaoups, Thomas, Liz, naivetynkohan, Basic dev, SuperJellyFrogEx, night, Katie, Lily, spyrocyndersam13, zzzz, Mal, Jose, Bouncyrou, Anonymous, ravenfan, Bacon Man, Nimapode, Melody, Selina, SkinnyQP, NuclearBoarhead, Kunoichiru, Jonathan, Friday, FemKUltra, Z!, WhyamIhere, Pluto

[getvalentined]

For the ask game:

Vincent: 5, 7, 9, and 50 (any or all!)

[For the Random Character Asks game.]

5. Best personality trait?

Vincent's best personality trait is probably his intense sense of responsibility, which comes with a peerless level of determination to do whatever it takes to set things right in whatever way he can. This is also his worst personality trait. It pushed him to leave Nibelheim and strike down Hojo for what he allowed Sephiroth to do, and also kept him in the coffin in the first place based on the assumption that everything he touched fell apart. It makes him reliable to a fault in some situations, and utterly useless in others.

It's both the driving force behind his entire existence, and the weighted chain around his neck that keeps him anchored in place, unable to move forward.

7. Age/height/weight headcanon?

We have a canon birthdate for Vincent, contrary to the contradictory Ultimanias' timelines, down to the day of the week based on the real-world calendar for the same date, so we have his canon age at any time and I align with that. Vincent Valentine was born on Friday, October 13th, 1950. He's fifty-seven years old in December of 2007, meaning he was born in 1950, and yes, October 13th of that year fell on a Friday.

He's also twenty-seven until the end of time, but I've written a whole fic about that.

Vincent believes he's 184cm tall, which puts him at just over 6' in Imperial, and this was correct at the time of his death; it is not correct anymore, although Vincent doesn't know that until sometime postcanon. I've talked about it before, but my Vincent had an issue where his skeleton didn't completely scale back down after his first traumatic transformation into Galian, so his arms and legs are disproportionately long (and he already had legs for days) and he's just slightly larger all around, putting him at 194cm or just shy of 6'4" in the present.

After the incident with Omega, he actually starts growing, albeit inconsistently and very slowly; little by little, Vincent is developing into a shape befitting the role into which he was cast when Chaos' consciousness returned to the Lifestream, because at that point Vincent isn't a vessel for the Weapon anymore, he is the Weapon unto himself. The original animal consciousness is gone forever, and the role now belongs entirely to Vincent. It takes a long time for him to pick up on the physiological changes, and everyone except Nanaki and Genesis are dead by the time it starts to become noticeable to anyone else, but he'll top out around 225cm/7'5" not counting the horns and wings.

Vincent's weight is a goddamn mystery because his bone and muscle density are all fucked up because of mako exposure, while he's simultaneously built like a goddamn reed and has the shoulder to waist ratio of a dorito. It also fluctuates slightly between transformations for a while due to incomplete or inconsistent reversion, although those issues eventually resolve. It's anyone's guess, really.

9. Scene that first made me love (or hate) the character?

I've kinda talked about this before, but basically I was super interested in Vincent from the moment I learned of his existence, and fell in love the first time I activated his limit break and realized I was dealing with someone with a much more complicated story than previously let on. I have only fallen deeper in love with the character since then—he's smart and snarky and socially awkward, with a specific sort of trauma, both previous and impending, that makes him compelling to me specifically for very personal reasons—and he remains my favorite fictional character of all time.

50. A memory they’ve blocked out?

Vincent canonically blocked out all the memories of Lucrecia's involvement in his seven-year stint as a victim of science, although most of those come back eventually. My Vincent actually has a staggeringly clear memory, to the point that he remembers being on the operating table while Hojo removed all his organs, at least during the term that Hojo was keeping him conscious for it, and is also pretty cognizant of what he does when transformed.

Postcanon, the things he has blocked out are very intentionally blocked out, can inadvertently be brought back at any time with the right trigger, and are mostly related to the experiments. There was a short term when Hojo was still working on Vincent that he would instigate a transformation and run him through the sim on the bottom level of the research facility to observe the monsters, or occasionally just throw Vincent in there once the mako enhancements finally "stuck" in order to get data for Project 0, and Vincent has blocked most of that out. He knows it happened, but the details are either a blur, or he's pushed them so far back that he might as well have naturally forgotten.

[westerberg]

Tagged by @antiquesintheattic for my top 10 albums of all time thank u Lexi!!! I did my best to put them roughly in order, but the only one set in stone is Tim as #1… that is my album!!!!

1. Tim- The Replacements

2. The Idler Wheel…-Fiona Apple

3. Paul’s Boutique- Beastie Boys

4. Street Hassle- Lou Reed

5. Hejira- Joni Mitchell

6. Imperial Bedroom- Elvis Costello

7. Daydream Nation- Sonic Youth

8. Exile in Guyville- Liz Phair

9. One Beat- Sleater-Kinney

10. Twice Removed- Sloan

Blonde on Blonde and Murmur got left behind in this list, in a different mood they might be on here… but this is my truth today 😋

Tagging @juliebarnes @fortheturnstiles @brnunderpunches 🌬️💙❄️☃️❄️💙