#that means it should be canon that he would have the master cycle

[ladye-zelda]

Another idea for Wild’s dark form: a horse

Think about it: all of the divine beasts exist in BotW and what does Wild get for his divine beast? A motorcycle in the shape of a horse

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Consequences | One

Word Count: 4.9k~ | Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, dark, medieval-canon sexism, heavy dub-con/noncon, mean Aemond, manipulation, abusing power, gore, blood, violence, major angst, oral (m receiving), Aemond being a possessive horny weirdo with a power complex, a dash of religious guilt if you blink

Series Masterlist

It was then the Prince had insisted that he had wanted her for himself. For her maidservant duties of course. 

The other maidservants were delighted with the new gossip, tittering amongst themselves at the reasoning that the One-Eyed Prince had taken a special interest in the new maidservant for which they’d come up with all sorts of reasons. 

Perhaps it was because of her pliant, quiet nature and she could slip into the chambers largely unnoticed and one wouldn’t be able to truly see her presence until she spoke. The other women had often described her as such. That she was like a shadow, silent, but always looming behind someone else. That she was like a breeze, gentle and discreet, as every maidservant should be in the presence of her master.

Or perhaps, they speculated, that it was because of another, darker reason. That Prince Aemond intended to make some fun for himself and torture the poor girl with his mere presence and shrinking stare with his one good eye, the other sapphire one on full display, rooting fear into the shy, young thing. That he wanted someone to torment, as he had so often been tormented himself and found the power behind it exhilarating.

Nobody could have expected the true reasoning behind his newfound desire for her company. Not even she herself. But the other maidservants were at least grateful they no longer had to enter his chambers.

Having only Prince Aemond to run after was a nice change of routine, albeit a strange one. For a man who had requested she be at his beck and call, he was rarely ever in his chambers past the morning. Usually, he could be found in the training yard for hours on end, and it occurs to her that this is how he’s managed to build the form he has, by mercilessly pushing himself to his limits for hours everyday. It must be hard work, she thinks to herself. 

He would only return in the early evening, to prepare himself for supper and then once again later for his bath and then bed. It was a rigorous routine, but it was nice to have some consistency in her life for a change. 

One morning after placing her week’s wages into the pocket within her pillowcase, she smoothes down her apron over her maidservant dress, intending later to send some of the copper coins to her young siblings, for without their parents to provide, as the eldest it landed to her and her alone to care for them.

Everyday she thinks of them and how they had begged her to not leave them in the care of the smelly widow from next door after their father had finally succumbed to illness. Her younger brother had stomped his feet, with each thump he would say 'she smells like cabbages' and the young woman would bite back her laugh, tell her brother that he was to be polite to their neighbour and that he was not to mess with the purple plants at the front of her home, or else she’d have him for supper.

She’d kissed her younger sister, the middle child, but several years younger than her, on the crown of her head and gave her a sad smile, apologising that such responsibility had fallen onto her at such a young age. Her sister had given her a tight hug, not wanting to play the big sister and fall into the endless cycle of domestic prison that could be seen once the eldest had disappeared. But she’d eventually relented and let her older sister depart for her new position in King’s Landing. With a warm wave, she’d boarded the stuffy carriage with other smallfolk, using all of her coin for the passage there and bid them goodbye.

She said she would come back for them.

And at the time she meant it.

It filled her stomach with dread and fear, to know she may never see them again, doomed to live her life in the manner of which she was born as a peasant to do. To do the same dirty, back-breaking work, day in and day out, for the same measly copper she was paid until the day her legs gave out. Or perhaps until they found no more use for her.

At least she could give them funds, she thought. 

Only a week had gone by, but she felt as if she could walk the short distance to his chambers blindfolded. She always knocked, but in the middle of the day, he was never there. So when she swings the chamber door open and shut behind her, she goes about her usual duties with a contented sigh. 

His chambers were usually always clean and not so much in need of excessive housekeeping. Once his bedsheets were made, the cotton taut to the corners of the mattress, she moves onto her cleaning duties. The fireplace needed a good dusting, so she takes her outer skirt and tucks it into her apron to keep it out the way and turns up her sleeves over her elbows. She’s used to getting dusty and grubby in her work, but fireplace work with soot and the burning stench is possibly her least favourite.

Suitably covered in soot, she continues to sweep up the black dust into the bucket beside her, wiping her face with her clean forearm, fingers too dirty to brush that stray curl from her face, so it hangs there annoyingly. 

“Working hard as always, I see.”

His voice makes her hairs stand up on end and had she not been head first in the fireplace, covered in soot and blackened ash at her cheeks, she might have been less embarrassed. But her cheeks flush at her dirtied appearance and she is immediately stood to attention, brushing whatever she can off her apron.

“Your grace, I apologise for my appearance,” she blubbers hurriedly, clearly distressed.

Aemond stands at the doors and she is amazed to find out that she didn’t even hear them open in the first place. He must have light footing, which surprises her since she has seen him train so aggressively and knows that hefty, adept and quick skills are needed for such activities. He wears his usual black leather doublet, hands behind his back as if he is hiding something and that signature lob-sided smirk he seemed to wear whenever he had found his little maidservant in his chambers. 

She is now accustomed to his trained silences in between conversations and has come to understand that it is because he is thinking so deeply about something that his mouth cannot move at the same time. And yet, he stands, basking in the uncomfortable feeling he gives her, rather enjoying it and letting his eye wander over her. He pauses and smiles wider at seeing her outer skirt tucked into her apron, showing the cream skirt underneath and when she notices, she quickly plucks it out and lets it fall around her ankles. 

Aemond lets the chamber doors close behind him, striding past her for the side table where the wine decanter sits. He moves past her with such speed that the stray curled strand of hair wafts a little in the still air. She cannot deny the aura this man has and the sheer authority he gives off, despite not being the first born of the King and Queen. Every time he enters the room, he commands the space and everyone in it with little but his gaze and even now, she stands where she had been, dirtied hands clasped before her, waiting for him to address her, command her, anything.

Emptying the first cup of wine, he sighs, tongue darting out to fetch the stain of it from his lips and he looks upon the petite little maidservant, waiting patiently.

“Continue.” 

She need not be told twice. Instead of tucking her dress back into her apron, she folds it behind her as she kneels before the fireplace once again, collecting the ash and old logs to fill her bucket, replacing them with new ones for later in the evening when the fire will be lit.

Aemond thrives in her obedience. The way she just does as she is told without speaking. So polite, he thinks. So as he sits in his armchair, shamelessly watching her, he finds he cannot tear his eye away from her profile, how soft her features are for someone who works doing such arduous and menial tasks everyday. He thinks her hands must be calloused, but when he looks upon them, they look so soft.

She had a profile that would rival the ladies at court. If he told her to wear the right dresses, hold her head high, keep her mouth shut, she could be his lady.

But he will certainly not say such things to her.

It may give her ideas above her station.

As she sweeps the soot off the tiles, he watches the way her body moves with the effort, the way her lips are parted in concentration. Such little, pink lips. 

He taps his finger against the cup, biting on his cheek when he feels the pained strain of arousal in his breeches. Such an innocent little maidservant, obedient and pliant. He knew from the moment he saw her what to do with her. What he could do with her. The week following their first meeting, Aemond had barely had his cock from his hand, tugging it as he thought of the way she always calls him ‘your grace’ with a flush to her cheeks. The way her eyelashes flutter when she strikes a match to light his candles. And today, seeing how she is dirtied and bent over the fireplace, he thinks why wait, he could just have her right there. Why wait.

The question becomes more difficult to answer the more he looks at her.

She stands with the bucket heavy in her hands, making towards the door.

“Wait.”

And his cock twitches in his breeches when she does, looking back at him with those eyes, the ones he imagines glazed over with lust, looking up at him as he fucks her. His tongue pokes his cheek as he stands, taking his time while walking towards her, not missing the way her grip tightens around her clasped hands out of nervousness. 

He scans her face as he stands before her, blackened soot smeared across one of her cheeks, making the colour of her eyes look as if they are illuminated by light.

He swears he could spill right into his breeches as his hand reaches out to her cheek and her lips part to let a puff of surprised air out. His thumb brushes her cheek, wiping away the soot and he finds his own lips part at the feeling of her warm skin against his hand. 

Although his touch is warm, she can feel something akin to fear pool in her gut and something else she does not quite understand. A shiver also runs down her spine when his hand twists that stray curl between his fingers, as if intrigued by her.

She can quite literally feel her lungs contract when his thumb brushes against her bottom lip, barely breaching them, but collecting the wetness that sits at the waterline. He watches her little pink mouth, reddened and wanting. He wonders what her mouth would feel like wrapped around his cock, fingers threaded in her hair to guide the rhythm to his liking. Would she like it? Would she swallow his spend like the good little maidservant she is? Was she a maiden? Aemond knew she was. And for some reason, it made him want her even more, knowing that no other man has had her, or would ever have her like he wanted to. Like he would.

Her eyes never leave him the entire time, frozen in place, pupils shaking and breath slow, quiet and scattered. Aemond wonders for a moment if she is standing there, cunny wet at the thought of him, at his actions. What would her slick taste like mingled with his? He finds he can't wait to find out.

She breathes again when he steps back, drawing his fingers away from her skin, leaving behind the hotness of his touch.

“Leave.”

Is all he commands. She swallows thickly, her mind busy at what had just happened. But she takes her chance when he has turned around to refill his cup, the bucket clanging in one hand as she allows the chamber door to shut behind her.

Should she tell someone? Hedi perhaps? Should she tell them that she fears that Prince Aemond has unclean intentions, but she fears even more if that assumption is even warranted. He had not been unkind to her, nor had he been particularly kind in any way either. But he had no need to be, she was a lowborn servant and he was a prince of the realm.

She could not disappoint her siblings by risking this job and not sending them money. Risking their lives for a silly little thought of Prince Aemond’s intent with her? Based on no real evidence?

She couldn’t.

So she steadied her breath and instead resumed her duties, largely ignoring that gnawing pit in her stomach. Fearful thoughts knocked upon her mind, and she couldn’t help but feel it deep in her bones.

She should have listened to her gut. She now realises.

Having lit the fireplace for his return after supper, she sat on the cold, flagstone floor with a needle and thread in one hand and one of his black doublets in the other, fixing the frayed hemming. The heat of the fire licked at the side of her face, warming her soft features as she delicately did her work, faintly humming the only song she knew the words to in her head.

Aemond had come back to his chambers in a mood, quickly shutting the door behind him so hard that it seemed to rattle the very Keep. At once, her wide eyes looked up and she stood to attention, hands clasped, and a timid ‘your grace’ from her lips, softer and quieter than she realised. 

He looked absolutely livid, shaking with rage, fists clenched so hard that the knuckles were white and pale. His mouth was taut in a thin line and even his scar managed to look angrier beneath the leather of his eyepatch, one good eye was still, unnaturally so. His chest inflated with silent breathing, trying to calm himself down. In the several weeks she had been attending to him, she’d come to realise the depth of his frustrations for various reasons, but never daring to step beyond her station to ask why.

She breathed as quiet as she could, as if she were in the dark and someone dangerous was looking for her. For a moment, his eye flitted to the floor and then back to her. Briefly, she thought he was looking at the doublet she was fixing, but it took her a moment to realise he’d been looking at her, dragging his gaze over her form. This fact alone sent gooseflesh on her arms and a shiver down her spine, unable to tell if this feeling was fear or not.

With a low hum, he stalked over to the side table for a cup of wine as he often did, thinking that he would dismiss her shortly, not knowing the aching arousal that he was trying with all his might to conceal. He stood for a moment, not saying anything as he sipped the spiced wine, allowing himself time to decide what to do. She was right here, his obedient little thing, nervous with gooseflesh on her skin and cheeks a dusty pink. 

He turned around to look upon her, warring with himself.

Out of sheer nervousness, her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

And that’s when Aemond decided. He needed to have a taste of the little maidservant. Or rather she would have a taste of him.

He stood before her, tall, broad and all encompassing, and she waited to be addressed. He simply glared down at her, as if angry, but in truth the hold he had on his own reins were slipping by the second with every breath the little maidservant let free. He finished his cup of wine, sighing as he looked upon her. 

“Take your braids out,” he commanded. 

She blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly. But when he raised an eyebrow, she took a steadying breath and reached behind her. Not one to refuse a Prince and a passionately angry one at that, she pulled the two pins that kept her braids in place away and tucked them into her apron. She looked down as she began to unravel them, one by one, the hair coming apart in waves around her shoulders. Once all the hair was freed, Aemond hadn’t moved an inch and she flicked her hair over her shoulders to run down her back.

Aemond sighed quietly, looking over her in this new state, hair loose and shockingly casual. He was intrigued to see that the rest of her hair, like the wayward curl at the side of her face, was also wavy from the braids she’d put in everyday. And he wondered if the beautiful patch of hair that framed her cunny would be the same. He hoped so. And he wondered what the heady scent of her sex would be like, if it would be addictive and once he’d had it, would he be able to stop?

She stood there, eyes averted to the fire and Aemond watched as the flames danced off the colour of them. His breath shuddered with anticipation, watching her pulse thrum in her neck.

Placing the empty cup on the mantle, he cannot hold back any longer.

“Kneel.”

She looks at him again, now her eyes spell confusion. Does he want her to kneel to prove her obedience? She doesn’t know. 

Her lips part, “pardon me, your grace?” she says in a whisper. 

“I will not ask twice,” he barks back almost immediately.

She swallows thickly and smoothes her hand over her apron, tucking the dress beneath her knees as she obeys, slowly sinking back to the floor. She clasps her hands before her, not sitting back on her feet, eyes trained to one corner of the room to ignore the fact that Aemond’s thighs are right before her. She can feel her heart thumping in her chest and she is sure he can hear it as well. It was like she was hiding, waiting for someone to come and find her.

She flinches when she feels his thumb and forefinger grasp her chin, the touch is light but determined and he pulls her head up to look at him. From this angle, Aemond can see all her delicate features and with her lips parted, he sees the wet inside of her pink mouth, warm and inviting. All for him. He can feel his cock needing relief in the tight confines of his breeches and the urge is beginning to overpower him.

“You are my good little maidservant, are you not?” he asks, voice low and commanding.

She can feel her breathing struggling against the front of her dress and she dare not look away.

Finding her voice, she can all but whisper, “Yes, your grace”

He hums lowly, his thumb travelling up to her lips, dipping the tip of it between them. His fingers still cradle her soft jaw, keeping her where he needs her, while the flat part of his thumb finally slips across the warm muscle of her tongue. Aemond holds back the desire to outright moan at the feeling of it against his skin, collecting the wetness of her saliva against it, moving forward to completely allow his thumb to be enveloped by her hot mouth.

All the while, she keeps her eyes on him, afraid to look anywhere else. She feels strange, like a constant chill is making its way around her body, overtaking every nerve and replaced with a kind of dark, gnawing ache. It halts in her gut, where she feels it the heaviest. 

After a moment, he pulls his thumb free and coats her lips, making them glisten. He wonders if his spend would look as good as this smeared all over them. If she would be good, and dart her tongue out to lap it up.

Powerless to hold back any longer, Aemond hands move to the laces of his breeches, his pupil blown wide with lust at the innocent confusion on her face. 

“Now, sweet girl,” he says, the name making her hairs stand up on end, “will you be good for me.”

Again, not a question, more a demand. And she is so shaken, all she can do is nod. 

“Have you been with a man, sweet girl,” he asks, as he pulls his cock from its confines, using his hand to give himself a few pumps, the tip, red and glistening with early arousal. He already knows the answer. Just wants to hear her say it.

She shakes her head softly. “No…your grace,” she answers with a shake in her voice. She tries to avert her eyes from this member, hard to attention right before her.

One corner of his lips turns up at her bashful nature. One hand threads through her hair, right at her neck, not tugging but not letting go either. She gasps at the action, now unable to move her head. 

“Good.”

He holds his cock in one hand, aching to bury himself in her mouth. But he holds his animalistic desire back, for the sake of not scaring her too much.

“Open your mouth.”

She obeys, pushing her embarrassment aside for the sake of politeness to her prince. Her lips part to open her mouth, still unsure of what he will do, her innocence skewing the reality of what's happening to her.

"Wider," he says, now just a low whisper, “that’s it, sweet girl” he coos as she does so.

She cannot say she has seen a man’s parts before and now that she has, if he does intend to do what she thinks, it’s unknown if it will even fit. The thickness of it combined with the length daunts her slightly. As he taps the tip of his cock against her glistening lips, she grips her dress tighter, more out of embarrassment and nerves than anything else. Who would she be to refuse the orders of a Prince anyhow.

His fist tightens in her hair as he slips his cock past her lips, only halfway in he feels her tensing up at the foreign feeling, “breathe,” he orders quietly, “through your nose”.

She whimpers at the uncomfortable feeling and wishes not to see anymore, so she shuts her eyes tight, attempting to do as he says and breathe through her nose. His taste is strange, salty and yet not unpleasant. His member is warm and heavy in her mouth, despite not being all the way within and she can feel her mouth aching to accommodate his sheer size. His fingers are tight in her hair, an attempt to hold himself back, and she whimpers around his cock at the feeling of the tugging of her follicles, the vibrations of her mouth against him make Aemond tip his head back just slightly. He sighs at the feeling of her warm, wet mouth squeezing him so deliciously and he holds back the desire to deliver his spend right into her there and then.

Once he feels she has sufficiently calmed down, relaxed her jaw, Aemond sheathes himself all the way in, briefly touching the back of her throat, making her whimper around his cock again. Her hands fly to his thighs to push him back for reprieve, but he is much too strong for that and he only tightens his fist in her hair more.

Without waiting a moment longer, he cants his hips against her mouth, sliding in and then out slightly, enjoying the friction her mouth gives him. He sees that she still has her eyes shut, hands tight on his leather breeches now and he gives a shuddered moan, tipping his head back all the way now, losing himself in the feeling of fucking her mouth, guiding the rhythm with the hand that’s in her hair. 

Caring not that she is a maiden, he hastens his pace and her little whimpers are becoming too loud for him to really enjoy this.

“Quiet” he demands, much more spitefully than he intended .

And she is. Which makes him even more aroused than he could possibly be right now. So obedient. Just the good, sweet girl she is. 

At the ache in her jaw, tears begin to pool at the corner of her closed eyes and fall in thin lines down her face. Aemond is lost beyond control, his thrusts sloppy and unforgiving as he feels the tight, wound up pressure of his peak creeping up on him at breakneck speed. He dares to look down at her, accepting his cock into her mouth like a cunt, his shaft now wet with her saliva and thrusting into her with the soft beat of his hips. His other hand comes to the side of her face, using his thumb to wipe the streak of her tear away, before he uses it for more leverage.

He’s never felt more powerful in his life. To have such control over someone he so fervently lusts over. It’s other-wordly. And he has no intention of stopping, not as long as she continues to be the malleable, sweet little thing she is now.

His thrusts cease, and he presses his hips right against her mouth as a strangled and uncharacteristically loud moan escapes his throat. He can feel his spend shoot at the back of her throat, and her flinch when she also feels it. But doing as he says, she makes no sound. Not until his cum begins to pool in one corner of her mouth and only then does she emit the tiniest of sounds. He can now hear the hurried breathing out her nose as she waits for his next command.

Aemond allows his breathing to even out, savouring the look of her, eyes softly shut with his spend and cock in her mouth, before he slowly pulls out. Her lips tightly shut when he does eventually vacate her mouth.

“Look at me”

She can feel something dripping down her face and when she looks at him, he looks a different person entirely. Breathing ragged, hair slightly tousled, looking nothing at all like the prim and proper royal she is used to. Her eyes are glazed, cheeks a dusty pink from the efforts of what he’d done. She waits.

“Swallow”

Assuming he requires her gaze still, she looks between his eye and eyepatch and to the best of her ability, swallows the strange, salty and thick substance in her mouth. She thought it wasn’t unpleasant, the taste of it, but that her jaw ached and she felt the gnawing agony of shame sink in through her skin. Aemond moans outright when he sees her throat bob and her deep exhale after she’s obeyed. 

He uses his thumb to collect the line of spend that had leaked from her mouth and puts it back into her mouth, humming at the sight of depositing it against her tongue. She need not be told, and she wraps her lips around the digit, sucking whatever she can off of it, before Aemond is sure that it is clean and pulls out. She shuffles where she is knelt, her knees now aching from the stone, and she feels the slick between her legs as she does so, coating the inside of her thighs. And it confuses her. What is this strange sensation, seeming to come from nowhere, deep and ancient. 

Aemond sighs contently and stuffs his softened cock back into his breeches. 

“Leave. Now” is all he says to her, not sparing her a second glance as he strides towards the side table once more for another cup of wine.

With a shaky breath, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, still being able to taste the heady, potent taste of his spend. Scrambling to her feet, she dare not look back to him, fearing that the shameful belief within would intensify if she did.

Once the door was shut, she wipes her cheeks of any remaining tears and takes a moment to recover, trying to understand how she feels, what just happened, and what this means for her. Is she a maidservant or a whore. Perhaps she is both now. Living two separate lives for him once the sun has gone down. Does she enjoy the duality of it, she cannot say either way. All she knows is that she cannot possibly refuse him and that she’s not sure if she even wants to. The wetness between her thighs may sway her in one direction, she fears.

She offered up countless prayers to the Mother. For forgiveness. To make her understand. 

But the Mother never responded. 

General Aemond Taglist: @risefallrise​ 

Consequences Taglist: @iiamthehybrid @manitskatrina @dahlias-and-marigolds @okfashionista @the-common-cowgirl @toodlesxcuddles  @darkenchantress @magnificentdelusionr  @tinykryptonitewerewolf @tssf-imagines @mandiiblanche @xdeath-soulx

[astarions-wife]

I can’t believe it’s come to the point of analyzing Cazador for all of you, but considering the amount of “Cazador can be redeemed!” And “Cazador x reader” I’ve seen, I feel like i need to make this.

So you feel pity for Cazador because he also suffered at the hands of his master. Good. That’s the point. You should feel something for Cazador, he also suffered abuse, and was dragged into the cycle of it by Vellioth. It’s awful, it’s terrible, but it doesn’t mean he’s redeemable.

Very much so, when Cazador kills Vellioth and chooses to start the cycle of power and abuse over again, he was too far gone. He made the choice, the conscious choice to be the same as his old master. Of course he’s suffering internally, somewhere is the soul of someone who lost everything, and became something awful. However he doesn’t even say he wishes for a reset. He wishes for death. Only in death is he free of the cycle of abuse, for his role in it is too far gone at this point.

“Orin and Gortash have apologists!” They do, but they’re also under different circumstances. It’s also justifiable to absolutely hate Orin and Gortash (believe me, even as someone who believes Gortash could’ve been better, I killed him in my initial run). Specifically as the Dark Urge, you can tell Orin that she’s being used just as Kethric and Gortash were. She’ll even break down as if she’s realizing that all this death she’s done in the name of her father/for her God, has been her being taken advantage of. Though she never gets a chance to be better, because she’s forcibly transformed in this ending, it’s just a sneak peak of what could have been. She was being used, and while it doesn’t erase or justify ANYTHING she did (and you’re well within your right, and should hold her accountable), it at least gives the player insight on to what could have been.

Likewise with Gortash, a victim of abuse at the hands of Raphael, with canonical lines on how he was beaten in the House of Hope as a little boy. His own parents sold him out, and he ended up being so desperate to be bigger, to have more power, that he also let himself be used, and in turn lost everything he worked hard for (and sold out Karlach, which is absolutely unforgivable of course). However he wasn’t too far gone. You can see his loyalty to you depending what options you pick, and although death is his inevitable end, it still shows that there was still a person inside.

There wasn’t a person in Cazador anymore. He was trapped behind the wall of abuse that he continued, and refused to even acknowledge it, or try and see reason. Perhaps it wasn’t possible for him, but ultimately his actions brought him here. Those that say Ascension for Astarion would free him of those chains, are simply wrong. Why does Astarion deserve to live, anymore than his siblings? Or the seven thousand people who were turned against their will? Of course Astarion is more, controlled in his hunger—but so are his siblings. Even speaking to them after the fight they’ll all vow and attest that they can control themselves, and they’ll even help the others if brought to it.

Ascended Astarion picks up the abuse cycle, killing thousands of people with just his first command. Ascended Astarion no longer speaks to you, but instead at you. You’re his “favorite” spawn, but then again Cazador had favorites didn’t he? And all of them suffered just as badly as the rest. Ascended Astarion even mentions “covering the world in darkness for his spawn”, which shows him continuing the abusive cycle that got Cazador in the first place.

Cazador dying, and spawn Astarion choosing to break the cycle is the significant ending. The best ending for Cazador, the only one for him, is to let him die. He’s a horrible, cruel, bitter man, and any sense of his humanity died long ago. Only in his dreams is there anything left, and he’s too cut off to even reach them anymore.

We also know that the Szarr’s had family. There are relatives to Cazador (see his niece), and clearly it wouldn’t have been wrong of him as a vampire to have a family if he so chose. But he didn’t seek out a partner, like some of his other (vampire) relatives did. He chose to only live by his spawn, whom he considered his children, showing that he truly didn’t see a need for a partner. Themes of family are a vital part of his story, but the element of a romantic partner never has been.

TLDR—Some villains in this game are understood, and potentially redeemable if given the option. Cazador is not one of them.

[cooking-with-hailstones]

Forever Bound to the Soul of the Hero

Fi's retelling of the Breath of the Wild Memories

(Rated T: Canon typical violence)

For @linksthoughtbrambles

Awakening

I have been asleep for a very long time.

The woods where I was laid to rest have flourished since their destruction in the last war. The spirits of the forest are chittering with nervous anticipation as I spark back to wakefulness. The Great Deku Tree rumbles his warm welcome, even though my awakening signals a portent of doom.

I feel the evil gathering in the land. Even in my sleep, I have sensed the aura of dark energy seeping into the earth, the trees, the wind, the shifting of stone on stone.

It is hard to tell how long it has been between cycles. Sometimes millennia will pass, sometimes only a hundred years.  But every time the evil comes, someone will be chosen to fight back.

I can feel him out there. He sees me in dreaming, and he knows a great destiny awaits him.

It will soon be time. I shall be raised skyward once more.

Ceremony of Innocence:

“ Hero of Hyrule, chosen by the sword that seals the darkness… You have shown unflinching bravery and skill in the face of darkness and adversity. And have proven yourself worthy of the blessings of the Goddess Hylia. Whether skyward bound, adrift in time, or steeped in the glowing embers of twilight… The sacred blade is forever bound to the soul of the Hero. We pray for your protection…and we hope that-- that the two of you will grow stronger together, as one…”

I am afraid.

Much has been lost in the generations since the last champion of the Goddess bore me across his shoulders. I can see remnants of the technology, lingering vestiges that have not decayed over the millennia. But so much knowledge is gone. 

There is no mystery here as to why this spirit maiden is unable to awaken her powers. The Sheikah elders from whom she must receive guidance and instruction in every generation have lost their influence over the royal family. They are only now, through their adept understanding of ancient technologies, able to regain some of their former status. But the king and these so-called priests of Hylia take no account of the Sheikah’s wisdom. Instead, they have her bathing in the sacred springs, without any of the other rites of purification. They have her speaking prayers that carry no meaning and no power. And this blessing she speaks over Link, over my new master… 

This cannot be all there is. There is so much more to do. The hero’s soul has not been tempered, not been tested. While the sacred realm has long been sealed, the Sheikah of generations passed have devised many trials to strengthen our bond. But they are dormant, so it seems that this, too, is forgotten. 

I have been reduced to some mere symbol, a figurehead in this war. 

I am very afraid.

Listening 

“From here, we’ll make our way to Goron City. Then we’ll need some adjustments on that Divine Beast so Daruk can manage it as easily as possible. He’s figured out how to get it to move! However, it’s apparent that we still have much more to learn. But to think, that Divine Beast was actually built by people… That means we should be able to understand how it works and use it to our advantage. 

These Divine Beasts…so much we don’t know… But if we want to turn back the Calamity Ganon, they’re our best hope.”

My master always listens keenly to the spirit maiden Zelda, even though he lacks sufficient technical understanding to truly follow her excited monologues. She has much of Hylia’s wisdom and ingenuity. She is passionate and dedicated to her craft. In some ways, she is the most like Hylia of any of the spirit maidens I have ever encountered. I estimate that, given proper training and access to the correct tools, this spirit maiden would have a 78% likelihood of being able to forge an entity similar to myself. 

The lack of technical comprehension in this era continues to trouble me greatly. The slate the spirit maiden is holding is an invaluable tool, designed by the Sheikah to interface with my technology and assist in the transmission of information, transportation, and a myriad of other utilities that they cannot even fathom. All of these have been designed by the Sheikah to aid the fight against Ganon, and it is only being used at a fraction of its capacities. 

“Tell me the truth… How proficient are you right now, wielding that sword on your back? Legend says that an ancient voice resonates inside it. Can you hear it yet…hero?”

My master stops in his tracks. He cannot, I think forlornly to myself. I can see his thoughts, I am coming to know him little by little, but still, he cannot hear my voice. No matter how much I scream, my master only perceives me as an echo in his subconscious. 

Being the hero is not just a matter of drawing the sword – he isn’t tested. He has not passed through the goddess’ trials and forged the bond with the master sword through the goddess’ flame. His spirit may very well shatter when he confronts the agent of Demise. 

He is angry and sad and cannot tell her. He tries to listen for the sword but no one has ever taught him how, and I am too weak to reach him. 

And even now, I can feel the stirring in his heart. Every reincarnation of the Goddess draws the soul of the hero to her side. Whether friends or lovers, they cannot bear to hold hatred between them. I can feel the way his heart quickens when he has to grab hold of her. I know the thoughts he does not allow himself to think. 

He says nothing. She turns away in a huff, thinking this means he has nothing to say.

Devotion and Resentment 

My master has awoken, suddenly aware of Zelda’s absence from Tabantha stable. This is hardly the first time she has tried to evade him, but over the last few months he has become far more adept at finding her. 

There is a 75% probability that he has deducted that I am the reason he is able to trace where she has escaped, no matter how clever her trickery. He feels it not like the dowsing I used to perform, but rather as an itch behind his eyes. A compulsion that pulls him forward, towards her, demanding that he be near her. It was designed by the Goddess, that their souls should find each other. And I will always pull them together. He can no more stop following her than he can stop breathing.

After a fierce gallop across Tanagar canyon bridge and nudging his horse up to the ancient columns, he finally starts to relax. I can feel the tension leave his shoulders. 

Zelda, however, seems far from pleased. 

“I thought I made it clear that I am not in need of an escort,” she says with great indignation. “ It seems I’m the only one with a mind of my own. I, the person in question, am fine, regardless of the king’s orders. Return to the castle. And tell that to my father, please.”

She was in the process of examining one of the shrines left by the Sheikah monks, meant to temper the hero’s spirit and strengthen him for the trials ahead. These are objects of curiosity for Hylians, and for Zelda in particular, but they are meant to play a vital role. It is essential that the hero be able to access these shrines. Without completing a significant portion of the shrines, I predict a 98.2% chance that the hero’s spirit will break. 

My master takes this in stride. It is hardly the first time he’s weathered such outbursts. He steps in line, always three paces behind her. 

She whirls around. “And stop following me!”

She is so angry with him, all the time.  She does not understand that Hylia’s chosen hero will follow her to the ends of the earth and beyond. He will follow her through time, through space, through any hardship, just to see her safe and the land protected.

She does not yet know that she and the land are one. And he is now starting to realize that his duty, his destiny, is to protect them all.

A Champion’s Compassion

“Ah, well…you certainly got here fast. I should have expected as much from the princess’s own appointed knight.” The Gerudo champion looks down at the sleeping Zelda. “She was out on a survey all day today. Still as the sands now…” Turning to look at my master, her eyes sparkle in the desert night. “So…? Spill it, boy. Have the two of you been getting along all right?”

Quite the opposite, I think to myself. He must have heard the thought, because he winces. 

The champion laughs. “It’s OK… I know. Your silence speaks volumes.” She sighs, looking down at the sleeping princess on her lap . “She gets frustrated every time she looks up and sees you carrying that sword on your back. It makes her feel like a failure when it comes to her own destiny.”

And hardly fair, given how little progress this hero has made in his own right, I think sullenly. They are both so unprepared, so untested. Training drills and prayer are hardly enough to strengthen their spirits. The champions have been through much more rigorous trials to connect with their divine beasts. I am happy to say that Zelda’s confidence in them is well founded. 

“Don’t worry, it’s not like you carry blame in any of this.”   She sighs, stroking Zelda’s hair.  “It’s unfortunate. She’s put in more than enough time. Ever since she was a young girl, she’s gone through rigorous daily routines to show her dedication. She once passed out in the freezing waters trying to access this sealing power. And she has nothing to show for it… That’s the motivation driving her research. I’d be doing the same thing.”

I appreciate the Gerudo champion. She is a formidable blademaster, a dedicated champion, and a wise and supportive presence in Zelda’s life. Far more than can be said for the useless aristocrat that calls himself the king, without a drop of Hylia’s blood to his name. 

“She really is quite…special. You be sure to protect her with your life.” She looks at my master with a piercing maternal gaze. “It’s quite the honour.”

He knows this. I know he dreams of it every night. He knows he will fight and die for her. He meets Urbosa’s gaze, and I sense she knows it too. 

The champion reclines on her cushions. She has done much to make her divine beast a more comfortable abode, befitting a Gerudo chief. 

“The night brings a chill… It’s probably time we take her in. Or...” She smirks as some mischief crosses her mind, then with a snap of her fingers, the desert sky lights up with electricity.

My master stumbles at the quaking thunder and Zelda wakes up, frightened. Neither of them have ever been particularly fond of storms and lightning, even if they don’t know why. 

“Urbosa! What was that?! Did you feel that?!” Zelda gasps, before catching my master’s shadow by the doorway. 

“Wait, what--how did you-- what are you doing here?!”

He blushes furiously, and though the darkness might conceal the pinkish glow from some, Urbosa’s gaze is far too sharp to miss it. She leans back with a hearty laugh. 

“Wha-what’s so funny?”

“Ah, you, my dear.” Urbosa wipes a tear of mirth from her eye. “One day you’ll laugh about all of this.”

I hope she is right. They deserve to laugh. 

Blood on the Sand 

MASTER! I am screaming as loudly as I can. MASTER! DANGER! GO!

He feels my desperation, dropping the bundle of arrows he was examining from a merchant in the Kara Kara bazaar, and takes off sprinting towards the pull that he’s grown used to, the itch behind his eyes that’s always there. But now it is more acute, so loud he must be able to hear the ringing of the dowsing call in his ears. 

He rounds the corner and sees them. Those cursed agents of evil, seduced by the false promises of Demise, and they are chasing Zelda over the sands. They cackle, their wicked sickles glinting in the hot desert sun. There is a cold rage in my master’s heart, and he puts on another burst of speed, drawing me from my scabbard. I brace myself, ready for the battle, as the Yiga’s blade curves towards Zelda’s fallen body.

My master is quick, and ruthless. I feel myself slip through the Yiga’s neck with a cold efficiency as warm blood soaks the edge of my blade.  The body drops to the ground as he wheels around to face the other two. I can sense their fear, and I calculate only a 26% likelihood that they will attempt to continue the fight.  

Sure enough, they scatter and vanish into the desert wind. My master does not take his eyes from them until they are truly gone, only then sheathing my bloody blade and turning towards Zelda. He gives her his hand to help her upright. “Are you hurt?” he asks fearfully. I can feel his heart still pounding in his chest. 

Her eyes. She has never looked at him with any fondness before, but her eyes are brimming with gratitude and care. “ No, I’m fine, I just…” she pauses, and bursts into tears. 

I know Link is thinking nothing of propriety when he wraps his arms around her. I know she is thinking nothing of resentment when she buries her face in his shoulder and sobs, the fear and adrenaline rushing through her body. 

Maybe this is the beginning. Maybe this is how their spirits will grow. Maybe this is how evil will lose.

Laughter

I am not supposed to feel emotion. It was not part of my design. Yet after spending millennia borne by Hylians and getting to know their innermost thoughts, I have inevitably adapted to many of their traits. 

To that end, I am beginning to feel… frustrated. 

“There’s one! Oh! And another! The flowers we have in Hyrule aren’t just beautiful…They’re also quite useful as ingredients for a variety of things.”

Today the spirit maiden and my master are out on a field survey. I am grateful that they are getting along better, and that her resentment seems to have given way to a nascent friendship. My frustration is not with them. It simply irks me to see the Sheikah slate being used like some ordinary pictobox. 

She gasps with excitement, and Link quickly settles down beside her. 

“This one here is called the silent princess. It’s a rare, endangered species. Despite our efforts, we can’t get them to grow domestically yet. The princess can only thrive out here in the wild. All that we can hope…is that the species will be strong enough to prosper, on its own.”

She smiles, sadly, and my master’s heart flutters. He understands her meaning as clearly as I do. Neither of them can thrive here. They know that their destinies are not waiting for them inside the castle walls. 

The prayers, the training, the wasted time, the technology that they’ve only uncovered 18% of the capabilities of… they must feel as frustrated as I do. 

The somber moment is dissipated as Zelda gasps with excitement and lunges forward.

“Is that what I think it is?! Look at this, I don’t believe it, but I actually caught one! This delicacy is known to have very, very potent effects under the proper circumstances. Tada!”  

She opens her hands to reveal… a frog. My master recoils slightly.

“Research from the castle shows ingesting one of these can actually augment certain abilities. We wouldn’t be in a controlled environment out here, but with your level of physical fitness…you’d be a perfect candidate for the study! Go on! Taste it!”

Link makes a truly disgusted face. 

“Oh come now, I’ve seen you eating Goron rock roast. Surely you’re not put off by a little bit of mucus for the sake of scientific inquiry?”

She may have a point there. This particular incarnation of the Hero’s spirit seems to have a stomach made of cast iron. 

With a resigned sigh – he truly cannot refuse her anything – he leans down towards her hands… and the frog leaps straight into his face. He startles, falling backwards on his rear as the frog scampers away. 

Zelda collapses to the ground in a fit of infectious giggles, and soon enough the pair of them are leaning on each other as their laughter echoes through the hillside.

The Question of Destiny

In truth, I do relish sword drills. It is for my benefit as well; learning how my master moves, what his grip is on the sword, the gestures he favours. My algorithms internalize and optimize every movement. As we practice together, we grow closer. Even if he cannot hear me, he knows that I am with him, helping to guide his actions and see that each strike lands true.  

Zelda watches him closely from her shelter beneath the tree.

“I doubt this will let up anytime soon… Your path seems to mirror your father’s. You’ve dedicated yourself to becoming a knight, as well. Your commitment to the training necessary to fulfill your goal is really quite admirable. I see now why you would be the chosen one.”

He stiffens slightly. His father had only died a year ago, and the wound was still fresh. But Zelda seems too lost in her own thoughts to notice.

“What if… One day…You realised that you just weren’t meant to be a fighter. Yet the only thing people ever said…was that you were born into a family of the royal guard, and so no matter what you thought, you had to become a knight. If that was the only thing that you were ever told… I wonder, then…would you have chosen a different path?”

There was no other destiny for my master. He was born to be Hylia’s chosen.

Not for the first time in my long existence, I wonder at the cruelty of the Goddess’ choice of mortal champions in this cosmic war.

Link pauses a moment before returning me to the sheath across his back. 

“This… isn’t about me, is it?”

Zelda blushes. “I… well…”

He takes her hand. I can feel both of their heartbeats quicken.

“I think…” he pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I think that no matter who I was, where I was born, whatever was expected of me…”

“Yes?”

“I would find my way to you.”

Prayer and Dedication

It is a unique pain that my master must experience, and thus I experience alongside him. The unique pain that comes from watching someone you love torture themselves for circumstances beyond their control.

These prayers are useless. She is not praying to a Goddess. She is meant to awaken the Goddess within her own spirit. But they still cannot hear me, and nothing I could suggest to my master would have any effect. And so, I sit, sheathed and silent as my master and I ache at the desperation in Zelda’s voice. 

“I come seeking help, regarding this power that has been handed down over time. Prayer will awaken my power to seal Ganon away… Or so I’ve been told all my life. 

And yet… Grandmother heard them--the voices from the spirit realm. And Mother said her own power would develop within me. But I don’t hear, or feel anything! 

Father has told me time and time again… He always says, “Quit wasting your time playing at being a scholar!” Curse you…”

Holy water splashes against clenched fists. 

“I’ve spent every day of my life dedicated to praying! I’ve pleaded to the spirits tied to the ancient gods. And still the holy powers have proven deaf to my devotion.  Please just tell me, what is it…? What’s wrong with me?!”

Link’s composure finally cracks. I am truthfully relieved when he drops me down on the stones and splashes into the spring, wrapping a sobbing Zelda in his embrace.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. We’ll figure this out, together. I promise, Zelda, I promise…” He strokes her hair, and she weeps all the more.

I cannot weep, it is not in my design. I should not feel emotion, but despite my programming, I have begun to understand something of grief. Oh, children, what have we done to you?

They may not succeed. They may not have the strength and ability to fight off the coming Calamity. But I will fight back. The Goddess created me to protect and guide her chosen. I must do whatever I can. 

Calamity and Corruption

The final spring. The last hope they had. And just as I had predicted, nothing happened. 

The champions all do their best to conceal their dismay, offering words of encouragement to Zelda, but to little avail. The Zora champion starts to say something, but –

The ground shakes.

The sky darkens.

The Rito champion launches himself skyward to see what’s taking place, but before I even hear his horrified gasp, I know what has happened. 

My master leaps forward to support Zelda as she stumbles. He does not need to be told either. Just as with every Hero’s spirit preceding him, he has seen this moment in his dreams since he was an infant. But he is not ready, Zelda is not ready and the Calamity must know this as well. It has chosen this precise moment of despair to strike. 

The champions disperse, each of them racing back to their Divine Beasts. Without the spirit maiden’s sealing power, the only hope at holding the Calamity at bay now lies with the strength of the champions. 

Link and Zelda, now alone, race down the promenade towards Kakariko village. Bolts of purple and black tar seem to be streaking across the sky overhead, the sunset rapidly disappearing behind the dark clouds.

This is unfamiliar to me. What kind of attack is the Calamity readying? I have never witnessed this before. 

They keep running, over the Sahasra slope and towards Hyrule field. The castle is the nexus point. Link must be ready for when the champions reach the divine beasts for their attack. We must try to defeat the Calamity, with or without the Goddess’ power. There is only a 2.6% chance that we succeed, but 2.6% is not 0. 

beep

What…?

beep    beep beep beepbeepbeepbeep

A guardian! Link and Zelda both heave a sigh of relief. The guardians have been deployed from Castle Town to protect the surrounding villages. At least that will provide some measure of safety.

Wait... Something’s wrong.

POW!

Without a moment to spare, Link tackles Zelda to the ground out of the way of the guardian’s deadly line of fire. Without a second thought, he pulls me from my scabbard, leaps forward and drives me straight into the guardian’s vulnerable eye. It sparks, fizzes, and collapses, purple smoke billowing out of its joints.

“What’s going on?” Zelda screams, as torrents of purple-black tar continue to pour from the sky onto Hyrule field and Castle town. “Why did it fire at us?”

Wasting no time, Link grabs her arm and whirls around, sprinting back the way they came and dragging Zelda behind him. 

“Link, no! We need to go to the castle!”

“Zelda, we – ”

A bolt of purple tar slams into me.

“The master sword!” Zelda cries. 

CORRUPTION! 

This is the Calamity’s plan! Oh, Hylia, no!

He has remembered his defeat from 10,000 years ago. He remembered the technology that was turned against him and his armies, and his hatred and malice are now corrupting every element of Sheikah technology, and everything they interface with.

Including me.

NO! I twist through the dark tendrils reaching through my circuitry. YOU WILL NOT TOUCH ME. I WAS CREATED BY THE GODDESS HYLIA, AND I WILL NOT YIELD TO YOU, FOUL AGENT OF DEMISE. 

I push back along these tendrils of malice, burning them away with the divine light of the Goddess. I reach through the telepathic link I share with the Sheikah technology, cutting and blazing through the spreading rot. The Sheikah slate, the towers, the shrines, all the creations designed to interface with the Hero’s soul, I can still connect with them! With every scrap of energy I have left, I burn away the malice creeping through their networks.

The malice fights back, the darkness spreading… but I will not yield.

Exhaustion and Despair 

The forest near the bottomless swamp is dark and twisted, the tangled roots and mud are treacherous in the shadow of the storm. It is almost dawn, they haven’t slept, they are still running.  I can feel the exhaustion creeping in, their stamina depleting. I too am exhausted - still fighting against the malice, trying to keep it at bay. I cannot help them any more than this. 

Zelda stumbles and cries out, falling to her knees on the path made slick by torrential rains. 

“How… How did it come to this?”

My master kneels beside her, desperate to move along, but reticent to force her to keep running. 

“The Divine Beasts…The Guardians… They’ve all turned against us. It was Calamity Ganon. It turned them all against us!”

She is weeping in earnest now, rivers of tears meeting the raindrops already pouring down her face.

“And everyone--Mipha, Urbosa, Revali and Daruk… They’re all trapped in those things… It’s all my fault! Our only hope for defeating Calamity Ganon is lost, all because I couldn’t harness this cursed power! Everything--everything I’ve done up until now… It was all for nothing. So I really am just a failure! All my friends, the entire kingdom, my father most of all… I tried, and I failed them all… I’ve left them all to die…

“Zelda…” he grips her tighter. “Zelda, we have to go. There may be soldiers who can protect you at Fort Hateno. We need to go.”

She nods miserably, taking his arm and standing up again. They turn to the misty shadows, and keep running.

I truly had hoped their love might be enough. 

Hylia Reborn

They are tracking us. Some corruption of their programming has locked them to our signal. Perhaps it is me they are tracking, a beacon of the Goddess’ light flickering amid the swirling chaos of malice.

Wouldn’t that be ironic. 

The guardians homing in on us are coming thick and fast. While I am able to target their weak points with a respectable accuracy, I was made to cut through Demise’s creations - beings of corrupted flesh. I was never made to fight these machines. 

Link is exhausted. Almost two days with little sleep and hardly any food, he has taken more than his fair share of blows. There are gashes across his legs and arms that are oozing blood, and three of his ribs are broken. I predict that he will lose consciousness in less than four minutes. 

But Zelda is unharmed, for now. Nothing else matters to him at this moment.

He stabs me through the eye of yet another guardian, staggering backwards and leaning on me heavily.

“Link, save yourself! Go! I’ll be fine! Don’t worry about me! Run!”

He can hardly hear her through the blood rushing in his ears, and the incessant beeping as they scan for us. I don’t know what to do! The Goddess left no instructions for this. I have never witnessed my master die. 

Another guardian has spotted us through the husks of its fellows. My master is so tired, and I have no strength to give him.

And yet Link pulls me up once more, readying himself and covering Zelda with his body, as the laser flares to life. 

This is it. 

Hylia, forgive me. I have failed you.

“NO!”

Zelda leaps forward, throwing herself in front of Link, hands raised in desperation. What is she -?

The world explodes with golden light.

Link winces, but does not shield his eyes. Nor would I, if I had eyes to behold this sight. The light radiates from her, guardians exploding and collapsing in its wake. 

She did it. Hylia has come into her own!

“Was… Was that…? The power?” she whispers in the sudden quiet that follows as the corrupted machines power down.

You did it, Zel. he thinks, and seeing her safe, he finally yields to the pain. 

She whirls around as he falls. “ No, no…Link! Get up!” She lifts him into her arms, hardly noticing the blood soaking into her ruined dress. “You’re going to be just fine…”

He looks up to her, eyes full of pride, of sadness, and love, and then he lets the darkness take him. 

Our telepathic link snaps. I cannot sense his thoughts anymore. He is... gone. 

Hylia help me, I did everything I could, but I could not save him. May the Goddess forgive me. 

The Goddess holds his body and weeps.

But, wait.

Against the pommel of the sword, I feel the slightest pressure.

thump thump

thump thump

thump thump

A pulse. A pulse! His heart is still beating. He might yet be saved!

With my  limited remaining computing power, I desperately run through the calculations. The medical infrastructure needed to treat these wounds is sorely lacking in this era of Hyrule, but... Yes! It is there! Reaching through the Sheikah network, I can feel it, safe from the Calamity’s corruption. I remember the monk Maz Koshia designing this shrine for just this reason. The Shrine of Resurrection. 

Above me, Zelda shifts. Slowly, she starts to relinquish him, not noticing the pulse that I can feel, still beating ever so faintly in his chest.

No. NO! She cannot let go! 

HYLIA, HEAR ME! I am screaming through broken circuits and fragmented code. I have been damaged beyond anything I was designed to withstand, I am decayed beyond measure, but she is awake! She must listen!

ALIVE

My strength is fading, but she cannot abandon him! Not now! 

ALIVE

ALIVE

“The sword…?” 

She has heard me! YES.

“So he can… He can still be saved?”

QUICKLY, THERE IS NO TIME! THE SHRINE OF RESURRECTION ON THE GREAT PLATEAU. YOU MUST TAKE HIM THERE, NOW. IT IS THE ONLY WAY.

“I… how..?”

“Princess!” a voice echoes from across the field. The Sheikah, loyal to the last, have tracked the Goddess here. Their timing could not be better.

“Princess! Are you all right?”

She draws herself up with a strength I have never seen in her before. 

“Take Link to the Shrine of Resurrection. If you don’t get him there immediately, we are going to lose him forever! Is that clear?! So make haste and go! His life is now in your hands!”

The two men nod, immediately setting to work to stabilize him for the journey. They lift him carefully, wrapping his deepest wounds in bandages, before melting into the shadows as only Sheikah can. Zelda watches them disappear into the rain, then grips me hard, clutching me to her chest.

“You speak? I can hear you? How? How is this possible?”

With the last bit of strength I can muster, I answer. YOU ARE AWAKE. 

“The power?”

YES. THROUGH YOUR GRACE AND WISDOM, AND LOVE FOR MY MASTER, YOU HAVE FOUND THE TRUE POWER OF YOUR SPIRIT.

“What do I do?” she cries. “How can I seal the Calamity without Link? Without the champions?”

BREATHE, ZELDA. 

I am not meant for this task. I am meant to guide the hero, not the spirit maiden, but I carry enough of the Goddess’ memories to know what must be done while she waits for the hero to return.

YOUR POWERS SHOULD NOW CONNECT YOU TO THE SPIRIT MAIDENS WHO HAVE COME BEFORE YOU. LISTEN TO THEM. THEY WILL GUIDE YOU. 

She looks startled, but she does what I say. Sitting in the mud amid the husks of the defeated guardians, she takes a deep, shuddering breath. Her ancestors gather around, and I hear the whispers of Hylia’s past incarnations floating past me, just on the edge of hearing. She glows with a faint golden light in the falling rain. After a few minutes, she opens her eyes.

“Yes.” She says. “Even if he cannot yet be defeated. I can hold the Calamity at bay. I… I have done it before.”

MANY TIMES

She nods. “And what of you? I cannot bring you with me, but I cannot leave you here.”

I am barely capable of speaking anymore. The decay of the malice has been stopped by her light, but I am already close to shattering. 

I AM WEARY. I MUST HEAL. 

“Of course, what must I do?”

TAKE ME TO THE LOST WOODS. THE CHILDREN OF THE FOREST WILL LEAD YOU THERE. 

Laid to Rest

With the spirit of the Goddess awakened within her, Zelda can now see the korok spirits guiding her, from the field of battle all the way through the Lost Woods. Now she stands at the roots of the Great Deku Tree. At last, I can rest. In Hylia’s light, my master and I shall both become whole again.

“Your master will come for you. Until then, you shall rest safely here. Although the Slumber of Restoration will most certainly deprive him of his memories, please trust me when I say that I know he will arrive before you yet again.”

She places me carefully back in the pedestal at the Great Deku Tree’s roots. I feel myself slipping into my deep sleep once again. 

As my consciousness fades, I hear the Deku Tree ask “If I may be so bold…what is it that you are planning to do next, Princess?”

Zelda looks resolute. “The Master Sword… I heard it speak to me. It seems that my role is unfinished. There is still something I must do.”

“I sense there is great strength in your dedication.”

She has greater strength than ever. She is not alone anymore. The spirits of her ancestors are guiding her now, all the way back to the first Zelda who sealed Demise for a thousand years, waiting for her hero to return. 

“Great Deku Tree, I ask of you, when he returns, can you please relay this message… Tell him I—"

He interrupts her. “ Now, then… Words intended for him would sound much better in the tones of your voice, don’t you think?”

She smiles up at him, nods in understanding.

As my consciousness finally slips away, I think to myself, dearest Zelda. He already knows. He loves you too.

Awakening II

He is awake, and so am I. 

The spirits of the forest are chittering with excitement. Even as I rest here, I can hear the Great Deku Tree stirring with anticipation. We all felt the call of the spirit maiden locked away in Hyrule Castle, calling him once again to her side. I have felt her longing for him these hundred years. 

This time, he will grow strong in spirit. This time, we shall fight together. 

This time, the Calamity will fall.

Thanks so much for reading! You can also find this fic on AO3

[simowis]

Vampire prothean head canon

*translate by deepL

I would hope that the vampire Protheans don't have the ability to turn other creatures into vampires, they are simply a blood-sucking race with the ability to sense touch. As vampires, they would believe in and worship blood as the source of life. They should be able to drink the blood of all kinds of creatures. As masters of the galaxy, they should have developed blood-related technology. At least an artificial plasma that guarantees survival, the equivalent of our compressed cookies?

When they consume blood, they should also share the life experience of the owner of the blood. They would probably like to see as little as possible of the experience of those providing the blood to feed their bellies. They would have had blood cattle, hooked up to pumping vessels every day, living a monotonous and tasteless life with a short lifespan. They also have the great meal, the blood of providers with a wealth of experience of intelligent beings from all over the galaxy. These experiences would not be just the 'flavour', but the 'main dish'. Sharing this kind of blood could be a form of socialisation, and drawing on it to gain memories should be more and deeper than just touching it.

Perhaps the blood of a high-ranking warrior would be a delicacy, perhaps it would be something so rare that it had to be given, perhaps it would be tribute collected from subordinate races; or perhaps it would be a voluntary sharing of the same race?

In the vampire Javik cycle, perhaps the sharing of blood between companions is for a stronger resonance of memory, will and battlefield experience? Perhaps inheriting the will of a dying comride means sucking all the blood out of him? Perhaps the Reapers' greatest tactic and insult was to poison the blood? Who knows if the act of bloodsucking is a risk of conversion to husks. They are forced to go back to drinking the blood of primitive creatures, or the artificial plasma they have seen created, but even that is dangerous.

…… So in this cycle, could Javik have intended to fight to the death? He might have thought that he should not live long enough to die of starvation? But the time in Normandy was unexpectedly long for him. He's very disciplined, so it was probably Shepard who would voluntarily give him blood.

…… How would he respond? …… And what would he say about Shepards Blood?

[mybatimblog]

You are entitled to your opinion— I am not trying to offend but you must admit there’s REASONS for these choices. I don’t know when this was posted either, so I’m not sure how much content was out when this post was made, but here’s some thoughts

(I hope I don’t come off as rude it’s not my intention)

Buddy Lewek is a nobody in his own book— but in the context of the story , he is not. Just say you didn’t like the book. (The book was good.) he’s a poor teenager cared for by no one but his mother. He is not someone who would be missed. And that’s tragic. And that’s the point.

The fact it was Buddy, a naive and vulnerable teenager is IMPACTFUL because it shows Joey was willing to hurt essentially anyone in order to get what he wants. This points us towards the testing we hear about in Dark Revival, where Gent was experimenting on people too poor to say no to the money. (This is in the audio tape voiced by SHB)

Wally would have been a great Boris but he was not as naive as Buddy. A little dumb sometimes, sure. But not naive. I don’t think he would’ve fallen for whatever trick Joey would pull to get him in the machine. Also, we used to think he was a Boris because he was associated with Thomas too, but that connection is not as strong as it was theorized to be.

As for Bendy, I think it’s much more impactful that the ink demon is the product of others treating it like a monster. It was born soulless and “wrong,” but mostly just paced around its enclosure. Until everyone else started treating it like a monster, so it became one. A soul does not make something perfect (Susie being proof). It was created for the wrong reasons (greed rather than love of the craft)

The creation of a beast and then the rejection from its creator— it’s all very Frankenstein, Yknow? And the game devs already use Frankenstein inspiration in other parts of the game, so I think it fits. Henry created Bendy, not Joey, and so having it be separate from Joey allows room for Henry to grief over his suffering creation.

Joey being the ink demon couldn’t have worked because… well… SOMEONE had to send Henry the letter! And he certainly didn’t have a canon partner or secretary at the time to do so. It just feels way too easy for him to be the ink demon.

Also… what happens in the machine IS real, that’s why it can change if left alone long enough. Just because it has a few sets of consistent events every cycle doesn’t mean it’s not “real”. If it wasn’t real, then all of BATDR should not have happened. BATDR is filled with the memories of people and then actual people— we know this because Wilson was able to enter it.

The truth is, whether it’s real or not is still a theory in and of itself. It is an alternate dimension that IS affected by time (you can tell by how much worse the studio looks in BATDR than BATIM and by the fact the Ink Demon has obviously evolved) but the cycle loops around again and again. Just because he has some pre set “canon events” does not mean they are not real. It just means there is a puppet master. Joey’s notebook.

Anyway rant over thanks for ur time

Okay so am I the only one who preferred all the theories about Bendy And The Ink Machine rather than what we got in the end?

Like the theories about Bendy being an actual demon Joey summoned or Joey himself being The Ink Demon is far more interesting than "Oh yeah it's basically a never ending loop and none of it is actually real it's either within in The Ink Machine or Joey retelling the story over and over and over again" like that's fucking boring that's entirely boring

I also think it's stupid to never have Henry become good Bendy because it would've worked so well with Joey being The Ink Demon it would be good Bendy aka Henry Stein the true creator of Bendy vs. The Ink Demon aka Joey Drew the one that cared about nothing but lining his pockets

Also lemme say that I also think it's stupid that the Boris we meet at the end of chapter 2 and get to know in chapter 3 and then have to fight in chapter 4 is basically some nobody who was introduced in some stupid spin-off book I think it would've been so much more impactful if that Boris was Wally Franks and it would be a good parallel to Thomas Connor as the Boris who's with Allison

[lovelessdagger]

The Fall of the Jedi | Chapter Six: The Revenge of the Sith

Pairing: Hunter x OFC

Rating: Mature

Summary: “In order to assure the security and continuing stability,” Palpatine says, “The Republic will be reorganized into the first Galactic Empire!”

Slow Burn, Canon Divergence

WARNINGS: Explicit Language. Sith Nonsense. Angst. Generational Trauma. Implied Abuse.

Words: 5.4K

Masterlist | Daybreak Masterlist | AO3 | Prev | Next

“Thank you for agreeing to come with me Master,” Odella grins, walking down the hall of Senate Office Building. The black strand of her newly formed Padawan braid swings with every step.

The delicate hand of Jedi Knight Elenia Tarré touches the back her head. “You’re quite welcome, Odella. Thank you for inviting me.” Together, they approach the office of the Chancellor, and the Padawan stretches her legs to match steps. “Though I can’t understand why Palpatine insists on meeting with you today.”

“He likes to have lunch with me once a week,” Odella says.

“Every week?”

“Yes.”

“How long has this been going on?”

Her head cocks to the side. “Since forever. Usually Ani—um, Anakin comes with me. But he’s busy with Obi-Wan—I mean Master Kenobi.”

Elenia chuckles, shaking her head. “You don’t have to be so formal Odella. They’re your friends, I understand.”

“Sorry,” she says, bashful.

“You apologize too much,” the Jedi laughs. “I understand you and Anakin have only known one another for a couple cycles, but I’ve been told how close you are. Obi-Wan and I have been friends since we were children as well. I used to call Master Jinn, Qui-Gon all the time.” 

“Master Windu says informal addressing is unbecoming.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Elenia whispers. “Mace Windu has a training saber up his rear.” Odella bursts into laughter, covering her mouth. “You call Anakin whatever you want, and I promise Obi-Wan will be horribly disturbed if you suddenly start calling him Master.”

“What should I call you?”

“You may call me Elenia if it makes you comfortable,” she says. “Though, in front of the Council we should probably stick to Master Tarré.” She winks. “You are my Padawan now Odella, but I find it vital that we be friends first. I plan on treating you as an equal as much as I can. I’ve never had a Padawan before, so I may make many mistakes; but it’s important that we trust each other. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Odella nods. “I’ve never had a Master either, so… we can learn together,” she giggles.

“That, is the second best idea I’ve ever heard,” Elenia says, stopped outside the door of the Chancellor’s Suite.

“What’s the best?”

“That I take you as my Padawan.”

“Sweet Odella, please come in.” Chancellor Palpatine smiles at the entrance to his office, waving a hand in. His glance to Elenia is short. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Thank you for escorting Miss Thoren, but she’ll be fine now. I’ll have a driver return her to the Temple.”

Odella enters the office first, nodding for Elenia to follow. The blonde Jedi frowns, cautiously stepping behind. “Actually Chancellor—“

“I assumed you would arrive with Anakin,” Palpatine says to Odella. Back turned he walks to the rooms center, set with a full table and chairs. “Is he on his way?“

“Oh, um… no Sir,” Odella says. “He’s on a mission with Obi-Wan right now, he won’t be able to make it.”

“That is quite disappointing. I do enjoy your visits together. Oh well,” he sighs. “These things do happen. It will be just us then.”

“Well, I was wondering if Elenia could join us today,” she says shy.

“Who?”

“That would be me,” the Jedi speaks, a tight smile on pink lips. “Odella was kind enough to invite me to join you both today. I hope that’s not an issue.”

Palpatine’s tongue clicks the roof of his mouth, brows raised. “Certainly not. Elenia, was it?”

“Master Tarré,” she corrects, a hand on Odella’s shoulder who looks in confusion.

“Of course.”

“Odella is my Padawan.”

“Is that right? I wasn’t told of this development.”

“It happened two days ago,” Odella offers. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Consider me surprised indeed. This calls for a celebration then! Please sit, both of you.”

Odella runs ahead to the table, climbing in the chair with an empty spot to her left. She pats the seat, beckoning for Elenia.

“This is quite the set up for expecting two children, Chancellor,” the Jedi says, taking her seat. Blue eyes scan the arrangement; roasted pheasant, sliced fruit, and juice in champagne flutes. “It’s very intimate.“

“Anakin and Odella are extremely close,” Palpatine says. “Isn’t that right Odella?”

She nods, popping jogan fruit into her mouth. “We’re best friends.”

“For now, yes. But I believe friends will become an understatement between the two.”

“I’m curious,” Eleina says. “How have you come to know Odella so well?”

“I’m sure you know your Padawan is from Naboo. I attended school with her parents years ago.” 

“Is that right?”

“In fact, I remember her mother’s pregnancy. Her parents had trouble conceiving for years. You can imagine their shock when their daughter ends up being one of your kind. I like to let them know of her progress. They’ll be very proud to hear she’s avoided the Service Corps, and will become a useful asset to the Order.”

“Chancellor Palpatine, there is no shame in joining the Corps. I find that work through and for a group can often be more rewarding than that on ones own.”

“My, aren’t you an altruist?”

“It’s important to have connections to something greater than yourself. To know the value of a team, to learn the care of community. My plan is for Odella to work alongside the AgriCorps and the Archeological and Research Division to help expand her skills. She’s a very smart girl who loves to learn, and from my knowledge her innate skills with nature is wildly underdeveloped. She can make flowers bloom with a touch, that is just as valuable as her psychometry.”

“I would argue that’s hardly as useful. She is to be a Jedi, Master Tarré, train her as such. There’s no need to bog her down in the work of failed initiates.”

“The members of the Service Corps do wonderful work that goes unrecognized, Chancellor. I ask you, what is a play without the ensemble?”

Palpatine scoffs. “A room full of talent, my dear.”

“It’s not the Jedi Way!”

Odella Thoren wakes with a start and the greatest pain she has ever known. Matched and beaten to that she experienced from the death of her Master almost four years ago. Her head pounds as voices scream through the Force. 

Her eyes shoot open into the black of the room. She gasps as if her soul reenters her body, chest lifting off the ground. With all the strength she can find within the Force, Odella sits and pants into the stale air.

She isn’t dead, that much she’s sure of. Jedi don’t teach about the afterlife, they only give speeches of becoming one with the Force. Returning to the natural state of things. This certainly isn’t that.

Or she hopes.

Her right hand reaches into the air. Fingers splay and close until the hilt of her lightsaber soars into her grasp. Purple lighting returns, the room as it was.

Okay, not dead, she decides. But if not that, than what?

“He must live!”

“Anakin?” Odella whispers.

“I need him!”

She repeats the name, startled, jumping to her feet while dizzy enough to tempt falling again. “Anakin!”

With her left hand, Odella feels for the holoprojector on her belt, pressing every button in a panic. “Come on,” she grumbles. “Work, work!”

Nothing.

Swearing to herself, Odella pockets the thing. Despite her weakened state, she breaks for the stairs. Her foot lands on the first step when the bellowing screams of Mace Windu enter the room. It circles like a tornado, stronger by the second.

Fear strikes into heart. How long was I out? A question she didn’t realize she asked aloud. Never mind the answer, that doesn’t matter. What matters is calling Master Yoda, Obi-Wan, anyone who will listen. To tell them everything she saw, to sit in meditation with the Council and share everything through memory.

Odella sprints up the stairs, back into the office and out of the home of Palpatine, the home of Sidious. The thought of the name alone threatens the soup she had on the civilian transport to spill out of her mouth.

She can’t think of that now. That doesn’t matter.

What matters is saving Anakin. 

She can’t be too late. 

She has to try.

Odella’s feet fly against Naboo soil the fastest they’ve ever gone. In a haphazard attempt for concealment, she wraps her headscarf with one hand. The other signals her commlink, rushed words into the microphone.

“Emergency Code Nine Thirteen,” she says. “Master Yoda this is Odella Thoren declaring Emergency Code Nine Thirteen. I’m requesting an immediate pick up. I repeat, this is Jedi Knight Odella Thoren declaring Emergency Code Nine Thirteen. I repeat this is Emergency Code Nine—”

Panicked shouts call from a cantina down the main road Odella occupies. Her feet skid to halt, now with the realization that she is alone. Typical bustling night market stalls stand empty, couples of civilians and wandering children no where to be seen. 

Before leaving Coruscant, Odella met with Padmé Amidala. The reason was forged in innocence, the Jedi claiming curiosity of their shared home. Known for their disguises, Jedi and Senator met in secrecy, bonding over grease covered ronto wraps. Padmé told her everything. Customs, dress, history, holidays. She made claim to a promise take Odella with her in the near future.

“I’ll need protection yes, but I’ll also need to stay hidden,” Padmé laughed. “Who better than a Thoren to act as escort? I’ll show you everything in person. You’ll love the nightlife, there’s always something to see.”

Apparently not.

Hair on Odella’s arm rises with the wind, more screams—now horrified, sounding. It would be simple now, yes, to ignore this. Continue onto a starship, circle back to Coruscant before the worst comes to reality. But for now, she is still a Jedi, and she cannot ignore this fact. 

Pocketing her comm, the choice of action is made without there ever being a choice at all. 

The entire population of Naboo crammed into the cantina, and Odella finds herself at the front of it all. Sentients of all nature crowd the center holocaster. Screens above the bar present the same image in color.

The Jedi Temple on fire.

“…Coruscant like the hard workin’ people that live ‘ere. No clone ain’t ever gonna understand what it’s like to protect a family.”

Bottom text of the broadcast on a scrolling banner details the little information known. Odella’s stomach sinks to depths within her she didn’t know she had.

At the same time, the small Republic issued communicator around her wrist lights up. It’s pattern flashes the yellow light three times, then one, than an other three. A call to return to the Temple as soon as possible. 

“What’s going on?” she asks to no one in particular, scanning the room.

“It’s Coruscant,” the woman beside her says. She looks older than Odella, only by some few years. “The Jedi Temple has been burning for hours. They’re saying the clones attacked, completely unprovoked.”

“That’s impossible. The clones and the Jedi are friends. They would never do this.”

“Maybe they’ve a chance of heart.”

In one hand, Odella holds her head, her body starts to sway.

“Are you okay miss? You don’t look so good.”

“Something’s not right…” she mutters. “I’m sorry I have to go.” Turning she almost falls, caught by the stranger.

Her hand presses against her temple, cringing. “You’re burning up… Can we get a chair over here?” She calls over the noise of the bar.

“No, no I have to go,” Odella protests.

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere,” she says, seating the Jedi. “Do you have family we can contact?”

She overhears someone to her left, another patron entering. “What horrible accident,” they gasp.

But Odella knows better.

The Jedi Temple, her home, is burning, and it’s no accident.

It’s a deliberate attack against the Jedi.

“No,” she says. “No family.”

It’s a declaration of war.

She’s handed a cup of water with ice, paired with a half smile. “I’m Nedora,” the woman introduces. She stays at Odella’s side, patting her arm like a mother to a child. “How are you feeling?”

“Not much better,” Odella admits. “But thank you. I’m sorry for causing a scene.”

“Nonsense.”

“Recent polling indicates Galactic City residents believe it was a matter of time before war finally came to Coruscant,” the HoloNews plays. “And some say, the Jedi are to blame…”

“I don’t know if I believe all that,” Nedora scoffs. She throws her dark braided hair over she shoulder. “If we’re blaming anyone for the war, I say we start with that Dooku and work our way down.”

“He’s already dead,” Odella mutters. 

“Is he? When did that happen?”

“Couple days ago. The Jedi killed him after he captured the Chancellor.”

Was that planned as well? Odella wonders. Had Palpatine genuinely orchestrated an attack on his own home to benefit his war? Did Grievous know it was his master he trapped aboard his ship? Was Dooku’s death a setback or a needed advancement? Was it even an accident at all?

“I must have missed the announcement,” Nedora says. “Still. I don’t blame the Jedi. The war has reached every other planet in the galaxy. I’m surprised it didn’t come sooner.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s come here. The only clone troopers I’ve seen work at reentry points.”

“That’s because the war already came here with the Trade Federation. It was only a decade too early.”

“I remember that,” Odella says. “I didn’t understand why it was so important then.”

“That feels like child’s play now, doesn’t it?”

“A bit,” she nods, “Yeah.”

“So what’s your name?”

“Abigail.”

“Abigail…”

“Just Abigail. Abby,” Odella says. “Like I said, I don’t really do the family thing.”

“Fair enough,” Nedora nods, “How long have you been in Naboo?”

“Got here this morning.” Her story goes exactly as crafted by her and Obi-Wan. “It was a spontaneous trip. I’ve only heard stories of Naboo, figured I’d see it for myself.”

“Well, you’ve certainly picked quite the day. What have you done so far?”

“Sight seeing. I visited the Thoren House… can’t say it’s like anything else here.”

“Neither are they.”

“Really?”

“I frequently work with the middle sister. Mara. She’s quite the character.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“They aren’t known for their hospitality, I’ll leave it there.” Nedora stands, glaring around the bar. “Listen. You seem like a sweet girl and, I’d blame myself if anything happened to you while you’re alone. I own a dress shop just down the road, okay? If you ever need something while you’re here, don’t be afraid to ask.”

“Thank you,” Odella says. “But I’m used to doing things on my own.”

“Maybe,” Nedora shrugs, “But that doesn’t mean you should.”

Odella sits at a hightop table, she swirls the same glass of petty liquor given to everyone else. 

“Mind if I sit?” Someone asks, a girl.

She shrugs, captured by the on going report. 

“For those who may not be aware, the Jedi Temple has been a longstanding landmark here in Coruscant for over four-thousand years…”

“Go for it,” she says.

Chair legs scratch against the wooden floor, a matching glass is placed by Odella’s.

“It’s actually burning?” The girl asks. “Word got back home and—I didn’t believe it.”

“Yeah,” Odella mutters.

“Do they know how?”

“No… they think there’s been another attack.”

The girl sighs, flagging down the bartender for a drink. She doesn’t speak until glass hits wood and swigs the brown liquid in one go. “My sister’s in there.”

Odella’s head snaps right. What she’s met with is a face exactly like her own. Same brown eyes, same arched brows and dark hair, same sun kissed skin. 

“Cain Thoren,” she introduces.

“Abby,” Odella says. “I’ve heard your family looks similar. I thought it was an exaggeration, but it’s actually uncanny.”

Cain middle finger stirs the delicate straw. “That’s the Thoren curse for you.”

“Thoren curse?” Odella repeats dumbly.

“Naboo legends say the gods created the perfect woman in the first Thoren. We’ve looked the same since the Grizmallti because there’s nothing to improve. Mother calls it a blessing though.”

“For those who may not be aware,” the newscaster says over the sounds of the bar. The Thorens turn back to it, head cocking the same way. “The Jedi Temple has been a longstanding landmark here in Coruscant for over four-thousand years.”

“Your sister may not be in there,” Odella says. “I hear the Jedi are scattered all over the galaxy. Maybe she’s safe.”

Shaking her head, Cain takes another drink. “I want her to be in there,” she admits. 

“What? Why?”

She sets the glass down, now empty. “Nothing I’ve done will ever be good enough for my parents because I’m not my sister.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Do you know why there are eleven Thoren children?” Cain asks. “My parents have everything anyone could want. Maids, servants, butlers, cooks, riches. Our home is a goddamn tourist attraction,” she snorts. “We are founders of Naboo and they still worry about legacy; about being forgotten; about being stuck to this planet; about being powerless. My parents believe having a Jedi carry the name will cement the Thorens as the greatest, most perfect family in the galaxy. They never wanted children, they wanted a trophy.”

“You’re certain of this?” Odella whispers.

“Blood exams are done the moment any of us are born to find those… M things the Jedi have. Ten times my parents have been disappointed by the numbers they saw. My oldest sister raised eight kids because my mother was too busy being knocked up. She almost died giving birth to me. The doctors said she could never get pregnant again and it broke her. My father threatened to leave us because of it.”

“I had no idea,” Odella says. “None of you should have been treated that way.”

“I was three when my mother got pregnant again. They called it a miracle. They made us pray every night for the Force to give them a Jedi. The second Odella tested positive? They call for the Temple to collect her and throw a party when she leaves.

“You have no idea what it feels like to be compared to someone you’ve never met.” Cain continues. “Every day all I’d hear from my parents was Odella eats her vegetables. Odella wears her hair in braids. Odella doesn’t wear makeup. Odella is thinner. Odella is prettier. Odella’s a Knight. Did you hear that? Our perfect Odella Avana is finally a real Jedi.”

The inclusion of a second name takes the Jedi by surprise, having never been told of it. She repeats the word silently behind her mask.

Avana.

Odella Avana.

“How would they find out that information?” she asks. “I always heard the Jedi kept all of that secret from families.”

“The Chancellor is her godfather,” Cain mutters. The admission sinks rocks into Odella’s lungs, drowning her in the air. She feels sick and faint, gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turn white. “Every week for years he’d call and tell us all about how perfect my sweet sister is. He sent us photos of her when the war started. She looked like a model and now they’re plastered all over our home. I can’t turn a corner without seeing her. I can’t even look in the mirror without seeing the one person I will always be beneath.”

Odella can find no words within her but four. “I’m so sorry Cain.”

Her sister shrugs, turning to the HoloNews. “The Jedi have made being a Thoren a curse,” she says. “If my sister is in there, I hope she burns.”

Sunken against the bar, Odella holds her knees to her chest. The Anthem of the Republic plays as patrons of the cantina slowly trickle out while the sun rises on Naboo. She catches its rays in her eyes, squinting. 

Knuckles knock by her head. “Hey.” The bartender, rag draped over his shoulder. “We’re closing up. You have to leave.”

“Of course.” Despite the absence of liquor in her system, she stumbles to stand.

The Jedi Knight follows the crowd outside, while everyone retreats to their home or their speeders, she’s alone. Left on the cobble road, staring at the lavender sky. She raises her commlink to her mouth. “Master Yoda?” She whispers. “Are you there?”

Against her better judgement and pitted against desperation, Odella does the only thing she can think of. A small bell above a doorway chimes as she enters Nedora Adorations. The shop is a cute little thing, tucked away on the corner of the street. Even with the lack of sun the space is bright and colorful, an assortment of beads and jewels draped on mannequins.

“Excuse me?” she asks into the empty space. “Hello?”

“Sorry love, I’m afraid I’m not opened yet!” Calls a woman from the back.

“I’m looking for Nedora?” Odella replies. “I met her last night, in the cantina. She said I could find her here.”

“Abby?” Nedora comes into the room, pins placed on the cuffs of her sleeves, thread between her dark lips. “What happened to doing things on your own?”

“I’m sorry for intruding. I know it’s early, but I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“Were you in that bar all night?”

“Yes. I haven’t slept.” Odella rubs her arms, shifting her weight. “I was wondering if you had a ration bar by chance? Or a cot I could use? Only for a few hours.”

“Well,” she chuckles, opening her arms as if to say look around. “I don’t run a military operation, so cots and rations are short supply here.”

“Oh.”

“But, I do have a bed upstairs and a pack of oats I can prepare. If you’ll accept that is.”

“Yes, yes I would.” Odella breaks a smile under her covers. “I very much would. Thank you.”

Nedora points to the stairs, waving her off. “Second door on your left. Make yourself comfortable and take as long as you need. I have to set up for opening, but don’t be afraid to shout.”

“Thank you,” Odella says again. “I promise I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can.”

“Darling, it’s five in the morning. As far as I’m concerned you’re staying in my hair whether you like it or not. Now go upstairs and rest.”

“Of course. I’m sorry again.”

Nedora laughs. “Has anyone ever told you apologize too much?”

Odella nods, swallowing a collection of spit. “Once or twice.”

“Master Yoda,” Odella whispers into her commlink. Hours later the sun has fully risen on Naboo, passing through Nedora’s thin white curtains. “Master Yoda? Master Windu?”

She’s met with radio silence and almost crushes the device in her palm. Her rest lasted all but two hours, too panicked and woken by another jolt of fear.

Her bracelet continues to blink its emergency signaling. Outreach to the Temple itself is too dangerous, for fear of communications being compromised. She’s tried to call Jesse through their emergency line, hopeful Ahsoka had news. But the line was completely disconnected without static to share. The only person left is Anakin.

Thinking of him alone is enough to bring a lump into her throat and tears to her eyes. Years. For years she watched him bond with the Chancellor with no question and no protest. She sat with him every week at their gatherings until Elenia request Odella no longer attend.

She never spoke kindly of Palpatine… not in front of Odella at least. Openly questioning his intentions, his politics. Had she known something was amiss all along? Why wouldn’t she speak up to the Council then? Why wouldn’t she tell Obi-Wan that it was no longer safe for Anakin to around the Chancellor.

Odella shakes her head and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. She can’t worry about this now. Elenia did everything she could, and Odella refuses to blame her for anything that has happened. 

If Anakin is alive… No. Anakin is alive. She would know it with every part of her if he died. He is alive. The question is whether he’s been captured by Sidious or not. Her fading vision provided little context, but he sounded in trouble. If he’s hiding, a contact could compromise his position. If he’s captured, it would compromise her. Maybe hurt him more.

It wouldn’t be safe.

“Master Yoda,” Odella whispers, pressing the metal to her forehead. “Yoda please answer. It’s Odella.” She sniffles. “I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult lately, but I really have to talk to you right now. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He says nothing to her, if he is there at all. And for the first time since the Outer Rim Sieges, having to recount the betrayal of Quinlan Vos, Odella Thoren weeps.

“I met one of the Thorens,” Odella says. She walks around Nedora’s shop, fingers dancing on the fabric of dresses. “Cain.”

Nedora snorts, shaking her head. “Lucky you. You got the evil one.”

“Evil?”

“She’d kill her Jedi sister if given a chance, though I can’t say the rest of the girls are better. If you think the sisters are shit, wait until you meet the brothers. You’ll never see men with a bigger or more fragile ego.”

“You said you work with one of them. Is she nice?”

“Mara?” Nedora laughs. “No. But I guess you don’t have to be when you’re Naboo’s closest thing to royalty. Their parents treat them horribly, but they get everything they want.”

“Cain said there was a curse? That that’s why they all look alike.”

“The perfect woman,” she mocks, cutting thread. “If that’s true I can tell you now the gods spent all their time working on that pretty face of theirs, but they left their hearts ugly. They weren’t always like this, the past Thoren families that is. My nana used to say Novalise Thoren was the nicest woman to exist in Theed. Her beauty was inside and out. But she fell in love with a man who ended up having an evil soul and… I don’t know. They had Paloma and her brothers. Her father was furious none of the children had his last name. Paloma was the only girl too, so everything depended on her to keep the Thoren name alive. After her mother died, her father drilled into her that power is what matters. Legacy. I hear that while he was dying he told her that marrying Nova was his biggest mistake.”

“That’s awful,” Odella says.

“Paloma’s plan was to prove him wrong by making the Thoren name the best in the Mid-Rim. But all she’s done is make her children resent her and stop tradition.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Thoren name is passed through the women. You’d think with seven daughters it would never die out. But six of them have declared intent to or already have taken the name of their husbands. The only daughter to live and die as a Thoren is their Jedi, and it isn’t like she’ll be having children. In Paloma’s greed to bring glory, she’s killed every chance she has.”

“That’s unbelievable,” Odella says. “It’s horrifying to hear what happened to the grandmother alone. To think the behavior continued to her daughter too… and now their children…”

“I take it your family problems aren’t as bad as that?”

“My family problems?”

“Stars,” Nedora swears. “I’m sorry. You mentioned last night you didn’t do the family thing and—I shouldn’t joke about it.”

“No,” Odella reassures. “No it’s alright. If I’m honest, I have a great family.” Her vision focuses on the rhinestones scattered across a skirts hem. “I have a big brother. He can be a little pushy and he’s sensitive, but he’s my best friend. And I have a little sister. She left home recently though. And well, there’s my brother’s best friend. He’s the kindest man you’ll meet. And my grandfather is… the craziest guy ever,” she giggles. “And then there’s—“ she stops, shaking her head. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Nedora says, smiling. “Who else?”

“I had an uncle. After my… mom died, he was the only one to step up. He was always there for me, you know? I felt like I would never enjoy anything ever again, and he just let me be a kid. For so long I could never be upset around him.”

“What happened?”

“Addiction,” Odella mumbles. “He met someone who gave him a taste of something he shouldn’t have had. He ended up hurting a lot of people because of it. So I cut him off completely. Everyone says he’s recovered now and he’s working himself but,” she swallows, “I still can’t forgive him. I don’t know if I ever will.”

“Is that why you ran away?”

The question stumps Odella, who frowns. Is she running away? Was that why she was so eager to take the mission to begin with?

“Yeah,” she finds herself saying. “That’s part of it.”

“Any word from your family?” Nedora hands a cup of oats, cooked and filled with fruit to Odella. The latter stays hunched on a windowsill, obsessively tapping at her communicators.

“No.” Odella groans, chucking the thing across to hit wood paneling. 

“Do you know what the time would be there? Maybe they’re sleeping.”

Her head shakes. “It’s morning there, they should be up.”

“Where are you from?”

The truth slips. “Coruscant.”

“No wonder the Temple fire freaked you so much. I’m sure they’re okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s not like they’re Jedi,” Nedora says. “They’re probably listening the Chancellor’s speech.”

Odella’s eyes widen like saucers. “The Chancellor!” she gasps. “Do you have a radio?”

“Yes,” Nedora answers with an ere of suspicion. She pats the metal block beside her on the counter.

“Quickly, turn it on. I have to know what he says.”

The empty shop fills with a crinkling static, Nedora turning dials until a proper signal is caught.

“…our enemies showed their true natures,” says the voice of Chancellor Palpatine. “The Jedi hoped to unleash their destructive power against the Republic be assassinating the head of government and usurping control of the clone army.”

Odella jumps off the window, jaw fallen. “He’s lying,” she says, approaching the radio. “The Jedi are peaceful, they would never think to do such a thing.”

“…Our loyal clone troopers contained the insurrection within the Jedi Temple and quelled uprisings on a thousand worlds.”

“Holy shit,” Nedora swears. “Did he say thousands of worlds?”

“The remaining Jedi will be hunted down and defeated!” Palpatine shouts.

Odella sprints to the nearest bin. Throwing off her headscarf, she drops to her knees and spills out everything she’s had inside. 

“Abby!” Nedora calls, rushing to her side. “Take a breath love, it’s okay. Why don’t we try calling your family again?”

“It’s not use,” Odella gasps, face first in the can. “It’s no use. It—It doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t go back.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They’re dead,” Odella says, lifting her head. “They’re all dead. All of them.”

“The Separatists have been defeated, and the Jedi rebellion has been foiled.”

Nedora pulls away, face mimicked in shock. “You’re a Thoren!” Then, she leans closer, heavy brows pinched together. Her expression falls to awe all at once.  “You’re the Jedi!”

“In order to assure the security and continuing stability,” Palpatine says, “The Republic will be reorganized into the first Galactic Empire!” 

Sounds of the Senate echo through the channel. The screams come so loud, the speakers dare to rupture. And Odella Thoren realizes what she should have many years ago. 

The Clone Wars could never have been conducted through the Senate and between meetings with tea. Because there was no war. There has never been war. There has only been one man sat playing chess with himself, turning the board at every move. Not caring for consequence, but the end result.

The grand conspiracy of Sith echoed within the Temple has always led to this moment, right now. To watch Jedi Knights, as they stand scattered across the galaxy, remain helpless to defend their home. To be turned into villains and murdered with no remorse. To know that everything lost to the war, every information; every life; every civilian; every home; every clone; every Padawan; every Jedi, never mattered.

The Clone Wars served one purpose, and one purpose only. A purpose which has finally been fulfilled to its perfect intention. To act as the grand finale in the revenge of the Sith.

“For a safe and secure society.”

Next: SUPPLEMENTAL DATA II

[tunglo]

For the character ask thingy : Anakin! Feel like this is an obvious one but oh well

Why I like them - He's like the embodiment of that 'well, if it isn't the consequences of my own actions' meme. And that's not to dismiss his trauma or his role as a tragic hero and victim of circumstance. It's just that whenever he is given a choice, when he's called on to make a decision, 9.5 times out of 10 it will be terrible. He's a walking disaster zone. When he becomes Vader he can't even do being a villain properly. He's still getting upset by the same stuff he did as Anakin, and repeating the same stupid cycles over and over again.

Why I don’t - It's like the whole point of his character but, wow, he can be such a dick. Granted, nowhere near as much of a dick as he'll later become as Vader, but still enough for it to sometimes be a struggle to not cheer on whoever is hurting him at any given moment.

Favourite episode (scene if movie) - RotS. It's just the culmination of everything Anakin's always been - I forget which book exactly now, but the ya one where he arrives on Tatooine at three and is just openly fixated as guards kill a guy in front of him. He's a scary murderous child who consistently follows the wrong paths and grows into a terrifying genocidal adult.

Favourite season/movie - I'll go with books to be awkward. I love Jude Watson's Jedi Quest series. In a lot of the later stuff we're told Anakin spends his entire teens pining for Padme. In Quest he never spares her a single passing thought because his head's too full of stuff like this:

‘He should not focus on what he didn’t have. He had this. This was his. And that was something. He would work hard. He would be a great Padawan. And Obi-Wan would come to love him. He would make him do so.’

Favourite line - “I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further.” Because it sounds so cool, but it's probably just a verbatim repeat of something Obi-Wan said to him when he misbehaved but still got to stay up and watch his show on the holonet or whatever.

Favourite outfit - the RotS Jedi robes. I did not understand the teen mags' love of Hayden Christensen at all until he turned up looking like this in RotS.

OTP - Obikin, duh. xD

Brotp - Just a boy and his droid.

Head Canon - I'm sure we all know about my river stone obsession. He carried it with him everywhere until it was finally lost to the flames of Mustafar. (or maybe in the realms of my own fic, even beyond...) Also that he wears his robes oversized 'cos it reminds him of being younger and wearing Obi-Wan's robes. Home and safety and all his unhinged possessiveness...

Unpopular Opinion - I don't know really? I'm not a big fan of TCW in general so I never really gel with 'Anakin as the cool Master' vibe. I mean, Ahsoka thinks he's great, but I imagine most of her age group view him as just as weird and unsettling as how own peers did.

A Wish - I want more of his doomed attempts to find an Obi-Wan replacement. I loved The Ghost Prison so much. :D

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen - can it get worse than canon? He brings about all his own worst nightmares.

5 words to best describe them - reckless, tragic, tortured, broken, babygirl.

My nickname for them - my Anakin snips folder is now called 'Anikuntery' ♥

[tlcwrites]

Consequence

A birthday gift for @paper-n-ashes

Summary: When you steal the Supreme Leader's sweater, there are... repercussions.

Word Count: 3483

Tags/Warnings: Kylo Ren x Fem Reader. NSFW, 18+. MINORS DNI; PIV sex, unprotected sex (no glove no love), oral sex (m receiving), fingering, heavy dom/sub dynamic, praise kink, breath play, I'm probably forgetting other kinks but I finished this at 3AM last night and I'm not even sure that I used real words let alone remember what I wrote so if I missed any let me know and I'll update the tags, smuuuuuuut for daaaays, canon what's canon The Rise of Skywalker can go fuck itself mostly except for that beautiful white set of rooms on the Steadfast.

Author’s Note: It's my hetero lifemate @paper-n-ashes' birthday today (at least in my timezone for a few more hours so IT COUNTS sorry Sarah at least you got to read it yesterday) and she has been waiting SO patiently for me to finish this damn fic. I started writing it back in like November? Maybe even October? and have struggled so fucking hard with finding the mojo to finish it. Then out of the blue this week, said mojo came back and I figured Sarah's birthday was the perfect deadline. So, voila. And don't forget to go tell her how awesome she is.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY SISTER IN THIRST AND SHAMELESS HOEING. I couldn't actually get you Kylo so I got you this instead. #throne room hair is the best hair forever the end

You’re perched on the sofa, open book on your lap, when the comm chimes. You can’t help your soft smile; it’s finally that time of the day cycle.

You don’t bother answering the comm, since it’s an alert, not a call. Closing your book, you rise and return it to the bookcase set into the wall of the lounge. With a gentle press, the hatch closes, and the bookcase disappears into the stark white expanse of the rest of the room, precious cargo hidden. Books are an expensive indulgence, even for the Supreme Leader.

Or whomever he choses to share them with.

You cross to the base of the stairs that lead to the chamber’s entrance and open a small compartment, also a part of the structure of the room. You toe off your slippers, setting them carefully inside the cubby. Your soft leggings pants are next, folded carefully. You start to remove your sweater as well, but hesitate. It is chilly. For all of the technology the First Order has amassed, you’d think they’d have figured out how to keep their Destroyers at a comfortable temperature.

You leave the sweater. He’ll definitely have an… opinion about it.

Now bare but for the sweater and your bra, so scant it hardly deserves the term, you take your place at the base of the stairs. The hem of the sweater brushes your thighs. Standing tall, feet together, hands clasped loosely behind you, you wait. You keep your eyes on the blast doors.

When the doors finally open, you smile softly. “Good evening, Supreme Leader.”

His cape billows behind him as he descends the stairs (he’s clearly inherited his family's flair for dramatics). As he reaches the bottom, you respectfully drop your gaze. His boots stop in front of you, your bare feet looking so small compared to his. But then again, everything looks small compared to him.

He raises a gloved hand and strokes the back of a finger down the collar of your sweater. “What’s this?” His voice is throaty and deep. As usual, it sends a thrill through you.

You keep your eyes downcast. “A sweater, Supreme Leader.”

“Clearly.” His finger continues down from the collar of the garment, caressing the soft rise of your breasts. “Perhaps I should rephrase my question.” His finger catches your nipple, and you can’t help but gasp. “What is my sweater doing on your body, when your body doesn’t have permission to be wearing anything?”

You finally risk a glance up. His face is impassive, but there’s a glint in his eyes. He’s amused.

You raise your chin. He loves when you’re confident. “It was cold.”

“Cold.” The finger continues to tease your nipple through the fibers. “In space.” The tease turns into a flick, and you barely smother your gasp. His lips twitch. “Imagine that.”

He’s in a good mood. You decide to toy with him. “Perhaps I simply need something substantial to keep me warm, Supreme Leader.”

One eyebrow raises, ever so slightly. He’s going to play along. “Do you find my care unsatisfactory?”

“Of course not, Supreme Leader.” His finger has shifted to your other nipple. You take a shuddering breath. “I would never dare to question your wisdom.”

He shifts almost imperceptibly closer to you. “And yet-” He brings that accursed finger back up your sternum, tracing up your neck and ghosting over your jaw. “-is that not exactly what you’ve done by ignoring my directive?”

Kriff.

He passes the leather-wrapped digit over your lips, stroking the soft skin. “Nothing to say, pet?”

You drop your eyes again. “My most sincere apologies, Supreme Leader.”

His hum of approval reverberates in your chest. “I imagine they will be.” He applies the barest hint of pressure to your lips. “Open.”

You comply immediately, opening your mouth enough to allow his finger entrance. The leather tastes so different from his skin. He presses the thick digit inside, and doesn’t have to say a word as you begin to suck obediently. He adds a second finger and you can’t stifle your moan.

“Good girl.”

Two words. Just two words, hummed in that honeyed voice, and you can practically feel your arousal dripping down your thighs. You glance up once more.

He’s watching you, his pupils blown wide with arousal. Maker, you love his eyes. You can always read him through his eyes. He tries so hard to bury his emotions, but nothing can be hidden in their cinnamon depths. And right now, his eyes say that he’s about half a standard second away from losing what’s left of his famously little control.

Hmm. Time to have a little more fun.

You deliberately graze his fingers with your teeth, the leather of his glove supple under your bite.

His cheek twitches and you know instinctively he’s chewing on it. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart,” he warns you.

Pulling your mouth off his fingers with a ‘pop’, you smile serenely up at him. “Whatever do you mean, Supreme Leader?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” he purrs, dragging his spit-soaked fingers along the edge of your jaw, his own clenched as he tries to keep himself in check. “Careful you don’t get burned.”

Your smile becomes less teasing, and more sincere. It’s okay, you think, knowing he’ll be able to feel your emotions. You never guard yourself around him. I trust you, Master.

There’s a split second when his eyes search yours; for permission, for acceptance, for confirmation of that trust that you hold in him and that he holds in you. It’s a breath of a moment, but he leaves his raw self exposed.

He’s affection starved, your Supreme Leader, even if he’ll never admit it. Deep inside, where even his former masters couldn’t reach, is that little boy he once was; still desperate to please and be praised by those too focused elsewhere to pay attention, and terrified of disappointing those who do. It breaks your heart that he’s spent his whole life feeling so alone.

Your dynamic fills that void in a way he feels safe with. It’s on his terms. He needs your adoration; needs your worship. He craves the affirmation. No more abandonment and fear from those he should be able to trust most; no more abuse and gaslighting at the hands of those who are supposed to guide him.

Just trust, and love. Pure, unconditional love.

He presses his lips to yours.

You whimper into his kiss, pressing a hand against his massive chest to steady yourself.

In the next moment, he scoops you up, pressing you against the window and hooking your legs around his waist. You yelp at the coolness of the transparisteel against your back, even through the sweater, but he swallows your cry as he plunders your mouth.

“Kylo,” you whimper when he lets you up for air, but he ignores you, sucking a line down your neck to your collarbone.

“Get this off,” he growls, tugging at the neckline of the sweater. “Or I’ll take it off for you, and it won’t survive the removal.”

You let go of his shoulders, grasping the hem of the top and practically ripping it over your head.

His mouth is on you in an instant, those plush lips teasing one nipple at a time through your lacy scrap of a bra.

“Maker!” you gasp, flinging the sweater in the general direction of the floor and bringing both hands to grip his hair. Frantic fingers twist his dark waves. You could write sonnets to his hair. “Kylo!”

You feel the clasp of your bra come undone. He rips his lips from your breasts, and with one barely-there flick of his fingers, the undergarment is on the floor next to the sweater.

“Did you just-” It’s next to impossible to smother your giggle when you realize what he’s done. “I can’t imagine the Force is meant to be used for that.”

Kylo ignores you, although you’re positive you can detect the barest hint of a blush on his ears. But then you’re not paying attention to his ears, as he’s sucked one of your nipples back into his mouth and is grazing it with his teeth. Your moan turns into a shriek when he hooks his arms under your legs and hefts you higher against the wall, so it’s easier for him to feast on your flesh.

He shifts your weight to one of his massive arms, that paw of a hand gripping the opposite flesh of your rear as he brings his other hand back up to your mouth. “Open,” he commands once more.

You take the two still-gloved fingers as deep in your mouth as you can, gagging slightly as he presses on the back of your tongue.

His dark chuckle is breathless. “Such an eager whore,” he murmurs against your chest, your answering whimper going straight to his cock. Pulling his hand back, he nips the skin at your collarbone at the same time he drags the fingers you’ve just drenched straight through your swollen folds below.

“Do you even deserve my fingers, Pet?” He smirks as you drop your head back and moan. “Such a wanton little thing you are.” He teasingly traces a circle around your clit with just a fingertip, satisfaction growing at the sound the movement elicits from you.

“Master,” you gasp.

Without warning, he twists you away from the window, carrying you with ease to his desk. When he drops into his chair, he’s unable to suppress a sharp intake of breath as he settles you on his lap and brings your core into direct contact with his cock, hard and throbbing beneath his trousers. The contrast of your nudity with his still-clothed body is intoxicating. He guides your hips to roll against him again, your moans simultaneous as your cunt makes slick the leather stretched taut over his arousal.

Already closer to his breaking point than he'd prefer to admit, Kylo clamps his teeth down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to break the skin, the pain working as usual to allow him to refocus his energy and reclaim control of his passions. Unhinged as his reputation is, there is part of his life the Supreme Leader rules with meticulous care- you.

He knows you love him, and you’ve declared time and again it’s unconditional and without reservation. Your submission is a gift he knows he will never truly be worthy of. Maker knows he adores you with every part of his long-shrouded heart. But the fear never leaves him. Decades of distrust and broken promises means he lives in terror of the day his tenuous temper snaps, and he horrifies you or, stars forbid, truly hurts you.

That dark voice lurking at the back of his mind teases him with a possibility somehow perversely worse than fear or injury: abandonment. That you’ll inevitably see him at his most honest; broken, contemptible. Unworthy.

He loathes himself all the more, because he knows if it comes to it, he couldn’t survive letting you go. He isn’t strong enough to endure the loss of the only light he still has.

Unaware of his internal torture, you grip the front of his gambeson and try to rock your pelvis against him, whining as you’re foiled by his hands still gripping your hips. “Master, please.”

Your voice jerks him back to reality, and your begging makes his cock twice as hard. “Something you desire, Pet?” he purrs, grateful you were too wrapped in lust to notice his momentary lapse.

“You, Master.” You can’t help a frustrated whimper as you try once more to undulate against him and are again prevented from doing so. “Please, Kylo, let me please you.”

He reburies his anguish, and smirks at you. “Very well.” He releases your hips. “Please me.”

As soon as he lets go, you’re sliding off his lap and on to your knees, scrambling to unhook his belt. He obligingly helps you open his trousers. You make quick work of the placket and draw out your prize, salivating as you pump his already-leaking cock.

He hisses as your mouth engulfs him. “Yes, just like that. What a good, good girl you are.”

A lewd moan escapes around his length as he fists his hands in your hair.

He doesn’t need to say another word. You can read it in his eyes, every filthy, dark thought as you bob your head on his shaft. How good it feels when you take his cock in your throat; that he knows exactly how hot and wet it makes you when he fucks your mouth; how knowing you’re waiting in his quarters to be used as his personal whore is the only thing that gets him through the day. You moan again, and one corner of his mouth twitches.

You know him well enough to recognize it as a smirk.

“As delightful as this is, Pet,” he finally sighs, a slight waiver to his voice the only indicator of how close you already have him to release, “there’s a different part of you I desire at this moment.”

Releasing his cock with a ‘pop’, you continue to stroke him with your hand as you beam up at him. “As you wish, Master.”

Your mouth and chin are wet with precum and spit. He drags his thumb through the mess and brings it to your lips, his cock jumping in your grasp as you wrap your tongue around the digit.

“Up,” he snaps.

Rising immediately, you can’t help your squeak as he spins you to face the desk and pulls you back onto his lap, impaling you on his cock with one hard thrust. You gasp, unable to cry out as all the air is expelled from your lungs. Your arms are wrenched behind you by invisible bonds, the posture thrusting your breasts out. You hear his low chuckle as he tweaks both nipples while simultaneously bucking his hips, eliciting a shriek from you.

Thick fingers twist into your hair, pulling you back until you're flush with his chest. His breath is hot against your ear as he snarls two words that have your cunt clenching in anticipation: “Ride me.”

No further encouragement is necessary. He works your body over as you rock in his lap, reducing you to a burbling mass of arousal. Releasing his grip on your hair, his hands make their way down your body, the leather feeling so kriffing good as he caresses every inch of you.

Plush lips drag against your jaw as he leans forward, pressing his chest closer against your back. He trails his fingers up your thighs while simultaneously dragging his teeth along your earlobe. The noise that escapes you is undignified at best, and positively libidinous at worst.

The bastard’s smirk is obvious against your heated skin. “My beautiful Empress,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up your neck.

You can’t suppress your panting as he nips at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “I’m not your Empress,” you manage, your voice breathy with arousal as you continue to move.

“Mmmmm.” Kylo hums as his right hand trails up your abdomen to gently cup your left breast, those elegant fingers plucky at your nipple and making you moan. “Not yet.”

“Oh.” You squeak as he latches on to your pulse point, his teeth scraping over your skin as he marks you. His other hand drops to your core, fingertips stroking your folds as deftly as a musician plays a hallikset. You cry out as he deliberately ignores your clit, but your cry becomes a gasp as he abruptly slaps the inside of your thigh. “Kylo!”

“Feel how wet you are, little whore.” He pulls his hand from your cunt and wipes your slick across your cheek. “Only the most depraved whores drip like this.” When he wraps the same hand around your throat, you sob in euphoric bliss. His chuckle is low. “Look at you, reduced to a needy slut who wants nothing more than to be filled by her Master.”

You can’t help but moan as he tightens his grip, the other hand on your breast squeezing hard.

“Speak, Pet.” His order is hissed in your ear, his breath hot on your skin. “Tell me how much you want my cock.”

“Need you, Master,” you gasp, deliciously light headed from the lack of oxygen. “Need you to- oh, Maker!- need you to fill me, need you to fuck m-me oh!”

A squeal erupts as he abruptly thrusts up, hard, and proceeds to set a brutal pace. Helpless to do anything but take what he gives you, all you can do is wail and enjoy the desperation in his movements.

When he stands and surges forward, shoving you against his desk while still buried in your swollen heat, it’s just enough to send you over the edge and you crash into your climax with a scream.

Over your shoulder, you hear Kylo tsk in admonishment. “Oh, princess,” he chides, as you feel your Force bonds tighten even more, “you know better than to cum without permission.”

With that, he shoves you forward, pressing your chest flat against the thermoplastic and using his knee to spread your legs. You willingly comply, relishing in his hiss as he pumps into your wet, waiting warmth. He finally releases your throat, and the sensation of your cunt clenching as you cough is too much for him. His pace becomes blistering, each thrust sending your pelvic bone into the edge of the desk; speech is now beyond your power, incoherent babble all that remains as he obliterates your cunt.

The lewd symphony of your coupling is punctuated by his growls and your cries. You can already feel the crest rising anew and you beg for salvation. “Master, please!”

He grips the back of your neck, anchoring your head, snarling as he takes you with rapid, deep thrusts. “Do you think now you'll be able to follow instructions?”

You nod frantically, trying desperately to stave off your orgasm. “Yes, Master!”

His voice is deeper than ever, trembling slightly as he uses your body to chase his own end. “Tell me, my little slut; who owns you?”

“You, Master!” You can’t hold back the shriek that erupts from your lips as you feel that subtle tickling of his powers against your clit.

The sounds you’re making have him right on the edge. “You’re mine, all mine,” he sneers as you cry out once more. “Say it.”

“Yours, Kylo,” you gasp. “I’m yours!”

“You need to cum again, sweet little Pet?” When you frantically nod, he fists your hair and yanks your head back. “Do it,” he hisses next to your ear. “Cum for me. Now.”

You explode around him, screaming your pleasure. His echoing roar is your only warning before he slams into you a final time, ripping himself from your heat and snatching your body off the desk. You land on your knees just in time to receive his spend, splashing across your face and chest as he pumps his length.

---

It takes several moments before you can even start to become aware of your surroundings once more. In that time, Kylo has bundled you in your favorite cozy blanket, and cradles you in his lap as he smooths your hair back and murmurs sweet words of praise. His seed still decorates your body, and you preen as you feel his hands, finally ungloved, gently rub it into your skin as one more claim of his ownership.

Your contented sigh is what alerts him to your consciousness, and he can’t help his proud smile as your eyes slowly flutter open, or the chaste and caring kiss he presses to your temple. “How are you feeling, princess?”

A beaming smile is his reward. “Wonderful,” you sigh, and then giggle. “And filthy, in the best possible way.”

“As requested,” he slyly teases.

You notice that sometime during your torpor, he’s shed his gambeson and trousers, replacing them with soft lounge pants and  the stolen sweater. Hooking your fingers over the neckline, echoing his own earlier actions, you tug gently. “Thief.”

He laughs, your favorite sound in the galaxy. “The Jawa calls the Ewok short.” Your answering eye roll elicits another chuckle and another brush of his lips. “Happy birthday, love,” he murmurs against your forehead.

“Thank you, Supreme Leader.” Your smile is soft as you raise your face, content when he understands the overture and leans down to press his lips to yours. A/N: Alexa, play "I Want Kylo Ren To Rail Me on a Desk" by Beyoncé or someone.

Likes and reblogs feed my dirty, dirty soul. I always want to tag mutuals but then I feel like that would be super presumptuous even though I love being tagged, so IDK I guess send me an ask if you want me to tag you in new writings?

[spacehorrors]

fascinated by the qgj apprentice shenanigans. what do u mean xanathos would be an interesting parallel to anakin? I know the basic stuff, how would his existence haunt(??) obi wan and anakin??

haunt is the perfect word yes ok so I'll break down some basic similarities and differences to anakin first.

similarities:

had a master who saw themselves as a father figure/protective familial figure to the person even though they knew this was against their code

said master then indulges them and is blind to their flaws (true master shifu attitudes right? right)

is brought away from their birth family at an age where they still remember them/has familial roots that they are encouraged to ignore but don't.

believe in their own power and that they should exercise it.

to different extents and for different reasons they blame their master for their parent's death

differences

most obviously xanatos' family connections stem from privilege and wealth and anakin was a slave. they both seek out their family for very very different reasons.

so I think xanatos would be an interesting character to compare with anakin even if he wasn't in the same lineage as him because it could've actually delved into jedi and their families a bit more and examined where jedi see the root of their power being. also whether they feel like they are owed something because of their power or whether they owe something themselves.

their relationship with their masters and the flaws of having master padawan pairs and a rule of non attachment could shine a light on that contradiction.

he just makes an effective foil simply you could see on the surface they both fall to the dark side for their family but deeper than that they are very different. so it's a fun exploration!

where it gets interesting is the fact he's in the same lineage as anakin. this creates the idea that this lineage is doomed to repeat its own mistakes and is trapped in a cycle as they are so similar.

on a more character based level you can see the way xanatos might have impacted obi-wan. xanatos is the perfect, and perhaps too easy, an example on why jedi shouldn't contact their families.

the fact, in canon, this is one of the only examples obi-wan sees of jedi and their birth families might suggest why's he like that later on. do I think he's right? no! do I think xanatos changed his perspective of attachment and parenthood? yes.

xanatos also haunts obi-wan because of his impact on qui-gon! and he haunts anakin by his impact on obi-wan's childhood.

side note that I also think qui-gon was thinking of xanatos when he first met anakin. but that's a whole other kettle of fish.

hope this is an ok explanation? yeah. feel free to ask me more things if you want to!

[crispyjenkins]

I saw that you were open to prompts... what about Codywan being domestic af. It could be canon or a modern au? Just, I’m love them being soft

(sorry this one took so long! i combined these prompts ‘cause they were so similar and i didn’t think i could make two completely unique stories, ‘cause i tend to repeat myself a lot. i don’t do modern stuff so i’ve stuck this in the early days of the war before anakin is knighted! he super did not sign up for two war dads, but that’s what he got thank you both for prompting and supporting!)

  It’s always worse when Anakin comes back from long missions away from his master. It probably has something to do with Obi-Wan’s penchant for loneliness and the troopers picking up on it, that has Cody and the others filling the empty space when Anakin isn’t there, and Anakin supposes he appreciates it, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it either. 

  Because his first battle back with the 212th after an extended stay at the Temple forces him to witness his master lose his lightsaber again, during a fight with Grievous again, which Cody has to pick up and be fondly annoyed about again, and Anakin is less uncomfortable watching Padmé flirt with politicians.

  Well, maybe not that much. But he still hates the little smile Obi-Wan gives Cody when he accepts his 'saber back; has Anakin ever even held his 'saber? Maybe once when he was a fresh padawan and too curious for his own good, but certainly not since then. And how many times had his master's commander held it this year alone? 

  The number almost doesn't bear thinking about. 

  Because then Anakin would also have to face that sometimes he walks into Obi-Wan's rooms on the Negotiator and finds Cody sitting across the desk from him, a pot of tea between them while they fill out reports. Sometimes it's early enough in the cycle that Cody will then make them all breakfast in the little kitchenette in the corner, sitting at their table as if he's always done so. And he's a kriffing good cook, so Anakin can't even be mad about it. 

  It would be easier if the entire GAR didn’t know about Cody’s perfectly Obi-Wan–shaped soft spot. Anakin has been dealing with troopers’ waggling eyebrows and teasing jabs since the start of the war, and if he gets told one more kriffing time that he’s officially the nephew of millions of vode, he’s going to kriffing lose it.

  Not that Obi-Wan is any better, when he shows up to command meetings with a cup of caf for Cody, perfectly made to his tastes, or the time he used the Force to keep the rain off Cody until he could find his missing helmet (Anakin still wonders how he’d misplaced it in the first place, or why.) Force, is his master even aware of the smiles he gives Cody when he brings tea to the bridge in Obi-Wan’s personal mug? That would explain a lot, actually, if Obi-Wan is ignoring his own feelings. Should— Should Anakin intervene?

  Sometimes he finds them in one of the Rec rooms, stripped to their blacks and inner tunics, sparring with blank expressions but with the Force singing in contentment. It’s never hurried or heated, Anakin would almost call it gentle, if the thought didn’t make him red in the face. Their movements are intimate, but never sexual, just softly pushing each other’s limits, just happily existing in each other’s space. Anakin would almost prefer it if they were fucking.

  But Anakin still has no idea how he even landed a woman like Padmé in the first place, much less how he married her; how is he supposed to help his emotionally-repressed perfect-Jedi of a master to even consider he might have amorous feelings for a subordinate? He has enough trouble getting Obi-Wan to admit he even tolerates Anakin.

  “But the supply order went through?” Obi-Wan asks quietly, wrapping a bacta bandage around Cody’s upper arm, the commander’s armour removed just enough to give him access to the wound. 

  “A couple of protein packs are on backorder,” Cody says, smoothing a butterfly suture over the cut on Obi-Wan’s brow as the shuttle shakes around them. “But Commander Fox put in a good word for us, so it shouldn’t be long.”

  Wupi is busy with the worse-off troopers injured in the ambush, and had already set Anakin’s broken leg, so he has plenty of time to watch his master and his commander flirt without actually flirting while they patch each other up like a holonet drama cliche. Anakin can’t even move to the cockpit to get away from it, which is hardly fair considering he thinks Obi-Wan has forgotten his presence entirely.

  Hmming in thought, Obi-Wan manages to stick Cody with a hypospray without the trooper complaining. “We still have to get the secondary bacta tank on the Integrity repaired as well; have you put in the work order?”

  “Of course, sir.” Cody takes his sweet time in bandaging Obi-Wan’s sprained wrist, and Anakin has to look away before the sickly sweetness infects him. 

  He can’t escape it when Cody accidentally calls him ‘son’ as he’s helping Anakin disembark the shuttle, but at least Obi-Wan appears to be just as embarrassed by the sentiment.

[aot-snk-4238]

My thoughts on AOT No Requiem (Fanmade Ending) Part 1:

With another chapter of this story coming out soon, I thought now would be a good time to share my thoughts on the first part. Before I do that, though, I have a few things that I would like to get off my chest.

A part of me hates that this project exists. Not because I find it disrespectful, but because it serves as a bitter reminder of what a complete mess this ending caused among many fans. I'm still in disbelief how things got so bad so quickly. First, you've got the people who hated it. People began turning on Isayama and calling him a terrible or incompetent writer, regretting ever getting into the series, insisting that it was worse than Game of Thrones, the list goes on and on. People who liked the ending are now endlessly referred to as "ending defenders" or more crude names like "Isayama cockriders," as though they're a bunch of incompetent fools who don't know the first thing about reading comprehension all because they just happened to like it. And then of course you've got the other extreme end of the spectrum where the ones who were disappointed are accused of not understanding the story or they're only upset because their favorite ship or fan theory didn't become canon. This, too, is very demeaning and invalidating for those who grew up with this series that they gave their heart to and cherished for so long, only to have it do what they felt was a complete 180 at the very last second that undid every part of the story they thought was special and unique. It's one of the hardest slaps to the face you can get as a reader and long-time fan, and while I can't fully relate to everyone's feelings, I can at least understand and acknowledge that it's there and it shouldn't be laughed at. Now with all of that out of the way, here are my thoughts and analysis of this fanmade ending and how it differs from Isayama's.

To start things off, I found that part 1 started off similar to how 137 did in the canon manga, with Armin and Zeke conversing in PATHS. The biggest difference would be kid Eren being transported there and seeing his older self. To be fair though, this chapter was only about half the length of what we're used to reading, so I'm sure we'll get a lot more in part 2 onwards.

While Zeke is enlightening Armin on the history of the earth and how the life form that attached itself to Ymir sought to avoid death forever, young Eren is in PATHS too with his older self, witnessing the moment Ymir found the tree and fell in it to become the first titan. At first, there is no dialogue exchanged between them. They just hold hands and watch. Meanwhile, Zeke is still talking to Armin about Ymir and how she continued to serve her oppressive master despite acquiring godlike powers that would allow her to obliterate him whenever she pleased. This is where the team working on this project attempt to provide their own alternate possibilities as to why this happened in a way that would make more sense than what we were given in the canon story in which she simply had a severe case of Stockholm Syndrome and couldn't let him go no matter how much he made her suffer.

So what are these new possibilities? They come in the form of a question, so their validity is not made absolutely certain, but they're presented as the most likely candidates nonetheless.

According to Zeke, she was unable to separate her own desires from King Fritz and was a lost girl who sought meaning. A place to belong. Tragically, King Fritz was the only connection she had in her life, so she clung to it with everything she had despite it being toxic and abusive. I could argue that these are the very reasons why she supposedly loved the king in the official manga, as explained by Eren in 139, but they weren't explained or touched on as plainly as they were here. I feel like they could have been if Isayama had just been given more time, but sadly the whole thing was rushed and underdeveloped.

Moving on, Zeke states that despite his efforts in trying to understand Ymir and her feelings, it was Eren who ultimately was able to get to her and offer her the choice of freedom. The next page transitions to young Eren standing in the clouds with his arms spread out and a smile on his face just like in the official 137, only this time 19yo Eren is next to him. Now I'm going to be honest here, this is where things started to get a little corny for me. Yeah. I know a lot of people hate that argument, but that's just how it felt to me. And before I say anything else, I want everybody to know that I am in no way about to mock anyone's fondness of this Eren over the one we saw in 139, even if it was a little over-the-top. It's perfectly fine to prefer one over the other, I'm just going to try to explain myself the best I can without coming across as harsh or unprofessional.

Eren is drawn in these panels to be a stone-faced, determined and unstoppable force who will "keep moving forward until his enemies are destroyed." This is the Eren that many people grew most familiar with throughout the series, despite his occasional breakdowns, but something about the way it was executed just felt a little too overdramatic and exaggerated. For me, the contrast between this Eren and the Eren we were presented with in 139 is too jarring. It came across to me as the fandom's idealized version of Eren, the "chad" Eren if you will, rather than Isayama's portrayal of Eren who is cold and determined, but has also been experiencing stunted mental growth ever since the day he saw his mother get eaten; side note: I know that Eren himself was responsible for his mother's death, but that's a discussion for a later time. Not only that, but the "keep moving forward" line starts to get overused at this point. We already heard Eren say this a number of times before 137 where this first fanmade chapter takes place, so I didn't find it necessary to include that at the end, but it seemed to be the writers' way of trying to reinforce Eren's ultimate goal.

Regarding the rest of the chapter, young Eren asks older Eren what Ymir is still waiting for after he showed her that she's not alone. 19yo Eren proceeds to explain that while he was able to make her feel something again, she still needs somebody to free her. He shows his younger self all of the visions from PATHS that he's seen so far, ranging from past events to alternate realities to things that couldn't be changed no matter what. Now there is only one path left that he strives toward. The one that he believes will grant him and his people freedom. This next line is the one that stood out to me the most throughout this fanmade chapter. Still talking to kid Eren, adult Eren says, "When you wake up, you will forget what you learned, but not what you felt here. This will all feel just like a long dream." Only when he kisses Historia's hand will it all come back to him. This line more clearly explains why Eren woke up crying in chapter 1, but couldn't remember why. Then he circles back to how he intends to carry out his own plan to end the cycle of hatred once and for all. Despite his efforts along the way, he couldn't change the flow of PATHS and save the friends he lost or prevent certain events from happening altogether, so he had to accept that sacrifices had to be made. In this case, he will have to literally sacrifice the world, much to Armin's horror.

To wrap this up, I'm going to finish comparing this to the canon 137, but since the first part of this project only covers the PATHS portion of it, that's where I'll stop as well. To save a little but of time, I'm just gonna be lazy and copy the first part of a quick overview of the chapter I found as part of the wiki:

So clearly, canon 137 starts off focusing a lot more on Armin and Zeke's differing philosophies and does not provide any further insight into Eren's ultimate motives like this one does, at least not yet. Armin and Eren are bound to face off soon in this fanmade version, but it looks to me like this time the writers are planning on flipping the outcome and having Eren come out victorious instead, especially when I remember the name of this project and what it's based on. I guess that means that in a way, I already know what's ultimately going to happen throughout the rest of this project. Whether it's going to be considered superior to the actual ending is going to depend on if its executed properly. I could very well be wrong about some of this, though. I want to give it a fair shot since these people have clearly put a lot of hard work and passion into this, so I will refrain from further judgement until we get the full picture. On a side note, I just want to say that the artwork is beautiful so far and I commend every artist responsible for their efforts. I also liked the song choice at the beginning and thought it set the mood pretty well.

Thank you to everyone who read the whole thing. This took me far longer to write than it should have because I'm not always good at expressing myself in a way that does not come across as confusing or contradictory. I will continue to share my thoughts as more content is released, which by the looks of it could be any day now.

[stxleslyds]

MY TOUGHTS ON PART FOUR OF RED HOOD BY CHIP ZDARSKY :)

THIS ONE IS A MESS.

But first a little rant about my feelings about Red Hood in general at the moment.

I am not going to lie, it took me a long time to read this comic, I am kind of tired of reading this book, I feel like I lower my expectations each issue that passes by and I still get disappointed at the result.

Maybe I just love a Jason Todd that is no more and I have to accept the one we have now, but here is the thing, if this is what we get then I just don’t like it, and on rough days I hate it. These are very negative thoughts about one of the two DC characters that I love and I don’t enjoy having them, I don’t want DC to keep giving us this version of Jason or these versions of Jason, each time they change little things that just change the character from the one that he once was even more.

I feel a bit defeated about it and I don’t know, on one side I want to fight and scream so they can finally give Jason the characterization he deserves and for them to give up the bland formula they have going on with him and on the other side I just want them to stop, stop writing Jason Todd/Red Hood and that is so sad, imagine loving a character and wanting the publisher to stop making content with them because what they give is just terrible. I don’t know, this is a rant that I felt like writing before I read the issue (I did skimm it briefly), so don’t take this as part of the review, its just me explaining my feelings right now.

Anyway, I will start the review now, sorry for the rant.

Wonderful, this book is on crack (or should I say Cheerdrops?), the thing with this particular issue is that I had a great laugh, it’s funny but in a good way, it's stupid and it kind of doesn’t make sense, the only way to describe Zdarsky’s writing here is with a phrase that we say here in my country “se pisa el palito”, which means that he lies about something and after some time he reveals the truth himself by mistake or because he got confused, in this case Zdarsky makes Jason say something like “this time I have come prepared” but he is actually not prepared at all and like two pages later (within the same scene) he has Jason call himself an amateur, it's very weird and to me it translates to Zdarsky not liking Jason or just not caring about him at all.

And that sucks and it really bothers me. As I have said before this anthologies book might be called Batman: Urban Legends but the particular story I am reading is a RED HOOD one, I am not here for Batman content, I am here for Jason Todd content.

The fact that we are not getting a Jason-specific story in a Red Hood book is killing me, it would suck if we get, let’s say, a Nightwing book and its all about his relationship with Barbara…That is not a Nightwing book, that’s a Nightwing and (fake) Oracle book.

Anyway, this issue in general is like a connector, the things that happen are all happening because they will be developed in the next issues but what is said here is absolutely absurd so I will be talking about that.

This issue starts with a flashback and Jason from the present (who is currently a popsicle because he fell in Freeze’s trap) having a monologue. The flashback is set when Jason finds out that his birth mother is alive and is being used by the Joker so he (in civilian clothes) and Batman at doing some reckon. What I want to dive into is the monologue because it's interesting but also very dumb so here we go.

“What was I supposed to do? I thought I was an orphan; I carried that sadness and anger everywhere I went and then I found the woman who gave birth to me halfway across the world. I found her…and the Joker. He was blackmailing my mother, forcing her to help him steal medical supplies, which he replaced with a deadly gas, that was being hauled to a village.”

“Batman knew what he had to do. Save people, forever saving people. Batman has always been a master of control, every situation, everyone around him. He’s always known just how to handle everything. Until I came along.”

“How could he be surprised? How could the great Batman not know? I wouldn’t listen to him and he couldn’t hear me. And the fucking cycle continues.”

The first part of the monologue is pretty simple it's basically setting the scene in time and space for the reader and it also gives us a little insight on how Jason was feeling at the time which was quite nice. It sets up the fact that Jason wanted to help his birth mother out of a horrible situation, he wanted to save her from the Joker. (Hear that DC, haters and fanon, Jason was a good Robin and a loving and caring son!!!!!)

In the second paragraph of the monologue I would have assumed that Dick never existed in this universe because the idea of Batman being able to control Robin!Dick or Gotham back in the day by himself is incredibly funny to me but because Dick exists and has been mentioned in this story already I will just take it as Zdarsky wanting to really push the “Jason could never reach the level of good Robin because he was reckless and nothing like Dick” and the “Dick was always completely obedient and Batman’s perfect little soldier” narratives. It sucks man, this is like bad fanon made real and I don’t like it!

During this part we also have a little dialogue between Batman and Jason where the narrative of Jason being so incredibly reckless is explicitly shown once more.

Let me repeat myself, Jason didn’t take on the Joker because he wanted to prove himself to the Bat or to prove that he was as good a Robin as Dick was, Jason did what he did because he wanted to save the last person that he had that he felt was family, he wanted to save the woman who birthed him and that he was hoping he could call a mother. He worried and cared for this woman and then he was betrayed and it ended up ending with him dying at the hands of a mad man that to this day is still alive.

Jason wasn’t reckless for the sake of being reckless, he took the decisions he took because he didn’t feel heard by the man that was supposed to protect him and care for him, a man that had the same feelings of sadness over being an orphan, a man that despite being the greatest detective to ever detective in the multiverse couldn’t understand that Jason felt like the woman that was his birth mother could come first in his list of priorities. Jason was a child and the adult responsible of him at the time bares the fault of his death as much as the mad man that committed the crime.

There, I fucking said it.

Gladly in the third paragraph of the monologue Jason calls out Bruce on his bullshit.

Also, what the hell was Bruce thinking leaving Jason stranded in the middle of the dessert, the man literally takes the only mode of transportation away from him. What the hell.

That’s it for the first glimpse at the past, now we are in the present with Ice!Jason where Zdarsky lies to our faces, he says that Jason is prepared for this situation…I am sorry but I do not believe this.

Anyway, Jason does manage to break the ice but he trips on the iced floor almost as soon as he breaks free and falls in a hole. Are you kidding me? I know this is supposed to be funny but Jason has been written as this incompetent dumbass in this book so much that this is just insulting.

He manages to escape for three or four seconds but he realises once more that the whole thing was a trap because Freeze had actually closed all the exists with ice because he meant to trap the Bat (also maybe Freeze is under the effects of Cheerdrops?), Jason also tries to use his guns even though he had already thought about the fact that they wouldn’t fire because of the cold AND he didn’t pack his explosives, yeah… “I am now prepared”, sure Jan.

The last thing we see in this scene is Freeze getting ready to ice Red Hood once more before we start jumping from past to present scenes as Jason’s monologue continues, he does that a lot in this issue, it’s quite impressive.

We jump into the past and we see Jason going to help his mother in his Robin suit, her betrayal and the Joker being ready to torture and kill a child. From there we go back to the present where Jason manages to ask Oracle for help but not anyone’s he asks for the Batman’s help.

First let’s talk about the monologue that happens across these scenes because it has some interesting takes.

“Stupid amateur, its not going to be okay, not if we keep repeating the same mistakes. He never trusted me, I never trusted him. Neither of us lived up to the idea of ‘Batman and Robin’, the ‘Dynamic Duo’. Because Batman and Robin requires trust, it requires knowing you can’t do it alone.”

Let’s be honest as per the modern take on Batman and Robin (if it includes Bruce as Batman) the dynamic is quite dysfunctional, Batman doesn’t know how to care for a child and children shouldn’t be responsible for an adult’s safety, so the whole thing has been weird for every Robin, its not something that happened only to Jason but here is the thing, in Under the Red Hood (which is canon in this story) when Batman and Red Hood fought side by side Bruce said the following: “…Neither of us has the strength to take him out, it will require skill and teamwork. It happens before I have time to question it, a manoeuvre that comes without thought, executed as practiced and practiced many times in the cave.”

So, him and Jason worked well, they trusted each other and the work they were doing but that is not all, because they are in the middle of a fight the Red Hood doesn’t act recklessly and takes the opportunity attack the Bat when he is vulnerable, he sticks to the coordinated fight because he trusts it will work. Batman’s thoughts confirm that because he continues saying this: “To complete it (the manoeuvre) I’m forced to leave myself unprotected from an attack, an attack from the Red Hood. But the attack never comes, he just takes cover from the blast, like practiced.”

– Batman: Under the Red Hood, chapter 10.

This thing alone, written in 2005 kills the narrative of Bruce’s Batman and Jason’s Robin not working well together.

Secondly, I have to laugh about what it's actually said in the very last panels. I am sorry but it's too funny to me, I know it acts as a parallel to Jason asking for the Bat when he was about to die but this is a man, a grown man that has experience on this job, this situation would have never happened if Jason was written fairly. This is funny because of all the people in the world I would never imagine the Red Hood asking for Batman’s help. Fuck that.

Oracle of course contacts Batman but let me say something really quickly, Barbara and Bruce are both acting like Jason getting in trouble and needing help is an annoyance. What the hell is wrong with these people? Why would Jason work with Oracle or Batman in the first place?

Batman gets in the Batmobile as soon as he can and dares call Jason his son. No thank you sir, I will not be taking that kind of bullshit today. Anyway, the Bat also has a monologue because he can’t be less, here it goes.

“Jason. Dammit, son. I’m on my way, I won’t let you…” (explosions) “You’re alive. In the here, in the now. I know this, like magic…with a curse…You’re alive.”

“I don’t need to be there again, in the past. I’ve learned my lessons, the guilt doesn’t help me, it doesn’t have a hold on me anymore. You’re alive, Jason and I intend to keep it that way.”

To this I have to say the following, the only reason why Bruce is not feeling guilty about what happened to Jason is because Jason forgave Bruce/Batman for not arriving in time in order to save Jason from the explosion back in that warehouse all those years ago. Jason forgave Bruce when the final confrontation happened in UtRH. He did it because he believed that Bruce tried and still didn’t make it.

- Batman: Under the Red Hood, chapter 13.  

And something else, Bruce might have been “keeping Jason alive” but he has harmed him. Rebirth RHatO #25 exists, I don’t know if it's canon within this particular story but I can’t not bring it up if this is what this man has to say.

My take on the Batman and Red Hood relationship is that it shouldn’t exist. Red Hood is not a Batman villain but he IS a Batman antagonist. STOP making Batman and Red Hood work together, with how things ended in UtRH Jason would never work with Bruce again. I am sorry but the concept of the Batfamily with Jason as a willing participant is the biggest lie this fandom and Lobdell gave us.

Enough of my takes, let's go back to the issue because it's ending is closer and the funniest panels in this whole ass book are coming!

Batman does Batman shit and as he grapples out of the Batmobile, he manages to get Ice!Jason out of a truck and everything comes to a stop, the bad guys come out of said vehicle and one of them is going in Red Hood's direction with the intention of killing him, Batman of course saves Jason and starts fighting the rest of the baddies.

I will show you funny panel number one.

You really want to make me believe that Bruce can pull that move, shut up!!!! There is no way! That’s some Nightwing level of leg work, stop it, if the Bat pulls that move he will break something or get stuck like that…

Ahh it doesn’t matter because as Batman finishes defeating all the baddies he goes to Jason’s side and here is where funny panel number 2 comes!

STOP IT, WHAT THE HELL IS THISSS? I am losing my mind over this, have you ever seen something and thought “oh this is wrong wrong” like what? This interaction is so wild to me, everything about it makes no sense…Imagine putting Jason Todd in such a vulnerable position that he is, I don’t know, happy or glad that the Bat showed up and that Batman would say that he will always be there for Jason, this shit is hilarious.

But that’s not the end, at this point nothing should shock me (as far as character designs) but this dude shows up…

Who the hell is this guy, and why does he look like that, why are all these new character designs the same and horrible? He reminds me of the weird discount-Joker-looking dude that we had in Rebirth RHatO #52

Anyway, the new dude that will be called Cheer (apparently) and Freeze ice Batman as well and that’s it, our Red Hood related suffering is over up until next month!

This one, this one was wild, I don’t know what else to say about it…I am honestly drained after reading the issue and writing this.

Let me know what you thought about this issue and if you want to read my reviews of the previous parts I will link them here! Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3!

[hello-nichya-here]

So imma break what seems to be the typical trend with these asks and not just tell you a head-cannon lol. What is your opinion on taking a good character and making them "bad-guys".

Warning - this part is long lol.

For example, I'm playing around with the idea of writing a story where Katara was kidnapped by the Southern Raiders at the age of 4 or 5. She was brought before Azulon who, upon seeing her age, decides to introduce her to Azula. His plan is basically to curb a bit of Ozai's influence on her. (For reference, Azulon is still an ass. Just not to his family and he has a respect for the power the other elements have.) So alongside that, he goes and collects everything he can on waterbending, and takes it upon himself to teach her (I'm having Azulon be the one that gave Iroh that speech about the elements being connected which he later told to Zuko. Just roll with it lol.) So Azula and Katara grow close over the years, Katara eventually not remembering her original home (when I say that, I mean emotionally. She feels no connection nor desire to go back because she was taken at a young age). As she's learning, Katara is quickly found out to be a bending prodigy, despite not having a real master. At age 8 she goes to the Royal Fire Academy for Girls with Azula, where they meet Mai and Ty Lee. While there she learns about different places water can be found, such as the water cycle and eventually the composition of the human body. (I feel like having Hama teach her is to predictable and it's counter intuitive to where I want the story to go lol.) So she begins experimenting. First with the water vapor in the air, then with the water within plants, moving on to her own blood and eventually other students. As she practices, and spends time with Azula teasing other kids, she becomes increasingly cruel. This trend continues and influences Azula as well, bringing out the worst in her (Hey she has a healthy respect for the other elements though. So Azulon didn't completely fail.) This trend continues until the girls are ten. Katara by this point isn't very outspoken. She finds the act of internally injuring someone fascinating, listening to how they scream differently depending on what's damaged. Azula is more outspoken, similar to how she is in canon only much more likely to actually do the threats she makes or even sometimes act first then give the order to someone else. At this age both girls are essentially bending masters (completely believable to me considering Katara became a master in just a couple months in canon). This is also the age when Azulon passes away.

Ursa leaves and not long after Iroh returns. That's when he does the unthinkable. He gives Katara a drug rendering her unconscious before taking her from the palace. He has her put on a boat and sent to the Southern watertribe. She hates it there, her body not adapted to the frozen wasteland of the tundra. She views Sokka as an idiot, but she does like Gran-gran. Her soft demeanor reminded her of how Azulon treated her. Unable to leave, she has no choice but to wait, choosing to hide her current bending skill. Things proceed as they did in canon until they find Aang. When Zuko arrives he does the same thing he did in canon. Aang reveals himself to be the Avatar. When he tries to turn himself over, Katara reveals herself. (I'm thinking of having her say "Hello Zuzu" in a condescending voice lol. Not 100% on how that particular scene would play out.) Zuko immediately recognizes (and fears) her. She proceeds to use her bending to throw him back on the ship before taking off with Aang, leading them away. Canon proceeds as normal, certain scenes like the waterbending scroll not happening because she's already a master bender. She focuses on learning Healing while in the NWT until the invasion. She kills Zhao when he threatens the moon spirit (her ability to bend. I wanna make this scene rather gruesome. She does it with subtle bloodbending so the others don't know it was her).

As they are escaping the earth kingdom fort, Katara has pretty much reached her limit with traveling with the group. She had hoped he would be the quickest way back into the nation, hoping Azula would be sent after him. She had every intention of ditching them at Omashu when she finally sees Azula. Katara pulls Azula out of the fight, into a secluded area where they have thier reunion (I am having them be soft with each other, and only each other.) Katara wants to join Azula but Azula instead wants her to act as a double agent. Seeing Appa flying in, Katara quickly pulls Azula in, stealing a kiss before running back and flying away.

Canon proceeds as normal clear up until the crossroads of destiny. Katara of course is happy to find Azula in the throne room. She willingly hands over the invasion plans before they spend the day together, eventually setting a trap in the Catacombs (Zuko is still going to be there). When Aang breaks in, she asks why he's with Iroh. Aang tells her about Iroh saying he saved her from the firenation before. Katara realizes what he means. She takes being on Aang's side eventually using her bloodbending during the fight to immobilize him, leading to Azula getting a clean hit with her lightning. Iroh tries to interfere as Sokka and Toph arrive. Katara goes off about her kidnaping her before preventing his blood from reaching his heart, killing him. Zuko trust to attack her in anger while Sokka and Toph grab Aang and flee. Zuko is captured and taken back to the firenation in chains.

*takes deep breath*

I went through ALL of that because my questions start at this point. I could have Ozai order Azula to kill Katara, leading to them fleeing and joining the Gaang, leading to a nicer ending. Alternatively, I could have the same thing happen and have Katara and Azula kill Ozai instead, with them systematically killing the members of the Gaang leading to fire nation victory. Or I could find some kind of middle ground, where the Gaang doesn't die but the fire nation doesn't give up the colonies as a condition of ending the war.

Which of these makes the most sense to you. Are these darker stories something you like? Should I make Katara and Azula's relationship co-dependent! On a scale of 1 to yes, how kinky should I have Katara get with bloodbending Azula lol? Overall, what are your thoughts? Hopefully this isn't way to much when it comes to an ask. I know that was a lot of set up for just a few questions but I felt the context was important. If nothing else, I hope you found that incredibly rough outline I came up with off the top of my head pretty interesting lol. I never actually wrote any of that down. I probably should at some point.

Holy shit, this was one hell of a wild ride. And yeah, you should write it at some point. Your story is interesting and from what I know about Azutara, that ship needs more content.

I really like dark, grim stories... but I live for happy endings. However, this is YOUR story. The advantage of fanfic is that it can be as self-indulgent as your heart needs it to be. Go with whichever ending you like the most.

Some sweet, sweet codependency is perfect for darker stories. Also you made me very curious with the bloodbending thing.

To sum it up: DO IT! JUST DO IT!

[lovelessdagger]

Starlight - Chapter Twenty-Nine: Only the Wretched will be Saved

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC, Din Djarin x OFC

Rating: Mature

Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Smut

Warnings: Explicit Language. Angst. Daddy issues on ten. 

Words: 8.9k

Summary : “So I don’t know if I’m dying, or I’m… possessed? Or, I mean you go so long without feeling anything ever and then you feel everything and I don’t—I can’t function or regulate myself. I feel like—“ she stutters on the word. “Like I’m some bomb, right? I’m just, I’m gonna—I’m gonna pop. And I can’t save anyone from it. And I’m actually a little excited for it because then something will be normal.”

Starlight Masterlist Here

Read Chapter Twenty-Eight Here

Read on AO3 Here

“I heard a rumor,” a voice says, echoed as a hologram in the Slave I. “They say you’re working for the Empire.”

It’s been a month into the arrangement, or the trial of it. Her concept of time is weak, practically nonexistent. Mustafar lacks weather, and a proper day/night cycle, but she assumed she saw him—the green man— once a week, and this would be the fourth.

He doesn’t talk to her, which is fine, preferred honestly. She can’t hold a proper conversation, not the way she should at her age. He mocks her way of speech, likening her to a droid with her formality.

If all goes as she suspects, and it always does, this will be the last time she sees him. Unconvinced he will want her any longer.

A move entirely too predictable.

“I was hired out from Jabba,” he says, inside the cockpit. He’s aggressive. Maybe he’s always aggressive. There must be a reason Vader trusts him so.

Fett, she reminds herself. The bounty hunter. She should not deprive him of a name despite herself.

“So it’s true?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

She is not his choice. She is nobody’s choice but her Masters.

“There is always a choice.”

Listening is bad manners, but she’s been staring at the same wall for the past hour, strapped into a chair her feet don’t touch the ground in.

It’s not as though she can help it either way.

He must not know.

If he did he wouldn’t talk so loud.

How odd. From what she can deduce, he knows far more about her than he should.

She may be too young to understand properly. 

“I asked you to stop meddling in Underworld work. To come with us. To help. And you decline for Palpatine?”

The woman he talks to says the Emperors name in disgust and she finds a churn in her empty stomach. He is a great man, and a greater leader. That woman should be ashamed.

“Not… Not Palpatine.”

“Then who?”

Fett doesn’t say anything, but the ship lurches out of hyperspace. It’s a shame there are no windows in the hold. She would like to see the stars before she is windowless once more.

“Who Boba?”

His silence is continued, her gaze fixes on a rolling canister, clinking back and forth on the surrounding walls. 

“Vader?”

The disgust comes in again, sprinkled in fear and disbelief. This is acceptable. The Machine is meant to be terrifying. That is why it was created.

“Tell me you’re lying,” she pleads. “Tell me it’s not true.”

Why this stranger should concern herself with the matter is beyond the child’s comprehension. Then again, most things are. It is an honor that Fett’s services are of use to the Machine. She should be proud of his crowning achievement, it may be the greatest thing he will ever achieve.

“It is. It is true, isn’t it? I… I can’t believe you. After all he’s done? To the galaxy, to us, to—“ she stops, “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“I need to speak with you,” he tells her in hushed urgency. “In person. As soon as we can.”

He didn’t strike her as one to be capable of fear.

“Why? So that another siege may be conducted? Have enough people not died? Do you really think it safe that we see you? You could be being tracked right now. He could be listening to this very conversation. I can’t trust you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I would never—” 

From her hip she removes the silver hilt attached to her belt.

“Harm us? It’s too late for that. You already have.”

The Machine gave it to her before she met Fett.

“I am doing what I have to.“

It belonged to that Jedi girl he killed on Malachor.

“For your payment, yes we’ve discussed it. Will you stop at nothing?”

In her vision she is beautiful, skin the richest orange.

“It is money I send to you.”

If she weren’t a traitorous Jedi, the girl would have very much liked to meet her.

“It is money I do not ask for! If you wanted to help you would be here.”

She was a friend of Anakin.

“You know why I can’t do that. I won’t have this fight again.”

Did Anakin have many friends at all?

“Jango died fighting for the enemy Boba.”

Presumably not.

“Do not speak of him.“

Fett must not have many friends either, if he is so desperate to keep this one.

“And you will match his fate if you do not end this.”

The Machine told her the saber is an extension of herself.

“It’s not that simple.”

She’s been practicing with it every day, hopeful to have a second like the orange girl in her visions.

“This will kill you.”

The blade is blue, the color of a Jedi.

“Allow me to visit. I can explain everything.”

It makes her uncomfortable.

“I called to tell you we’re moving again. It isn’t safe for us here right now.”

“Why? Is the boy—“

“He no longer concerns you, Boba. I don’t want you contacting us anymore. Not while you work for them. I’ve spent my life protecting him, you will not be the reason it happens again.”

The canisters noise pinches a nerve in her senses of irritability. Flying into her hand without effort, she can only note how uninteresting it is, empty packaging for thermal detonators. It is scuffed and marked in dust. She hates how her gloves prevent her from feeling texture, but she imagines it’s an odd sort of fuzz. 

“What did I say about touching?”

Fett is in front of her now, and she frowns at her carelessness. She has trouble with being enamored on the unimportant, losing herself in her studies. She needs to be alert, cautious, present.

A very difficult thing to do when stuck in the past.

“You’re upset,” she says.

His throat clears, muddled by a cough. “I’m not.”

“I know that you lie to me a lot, and that you probably have to. And I know I can’t ask, and even if I did you would not tell me. But you cannot lie about your emotions. That I see whether you’d like me to or not. So it may be easier for all of us if you are honest when it is possible.”

He crouches in front of her, metal head tilting. “What do you see?”

“I believe you being honest begins with you telling me what I see.” 

He may laugh, though she’s had so little experience with the expression she can’t be sure. “I feel…” he sighs, “A bit lost. Alone.”

“Alone?”

“For a very long time I was on my own, then I wasn’t, and… now I am again. It’s a very strange experience.”

She hums, rolling her saber from one hand to the other. “I have always been alone. I thought when I was taken in, I wouldn’t be anymore, but I still am.”

“You don’t sound too bothered.”

She shrugs. “I have known no other way. The thought of being with others who aren’t— “ The word Master sits heavy on her tongue, but she thinks Fett would not understand her calling him Machine. She avoids it all together. “It’s as though my body constricts on itself and I cannot breathe.”

“You feel comfort with him?”

Another shrug. “I feel something. It is not all together negative.”

“And how do you feel around me?”

“I am not sure.” Her palms sweat inside her gloves, leather traces the ignition. “I suppose I feel nothing.”

“I see.”

“It’s not quite nothing as it is… the absence of something else.”

“Do you know what?”

“No, but I do not mind it.”

Calm, is a word she will not know for some time.

“I should let you know, Vader and I have come to an agreement about the terms of your training.”

”You’re staying with me?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Correct.”

“Ad’ika,” he says. “From the moment I met you, I promised to always protect you. It was never a question in my mind to accept, but only if this is something you want as well.”

She can’t believe him. Not yet. Not when it may still be a trick. But she can pretend, it is something she is quite good at. And if indeed he is true, being alone with someone else is far more pleasant than to be alone with no one at all.

“It is.”

---

The Mandalorian’s ship is ugly.

For the tragic life of him, Boba Fett cannot place the last time he’s seen a Razor Crest outside of a junkyard. Never-mind in working condition.

“Get on with it.” It’s Fennec, slightly garbled through the commlink on his hip. “My foots cramping.”

He used to be faster, physically. Now he can feel the exact nerve pinched from the rock he steps on. He liked to believe he’s left his dramatics with the sarlacc.

“He’s rubbing off on you,” she said once, flying from Bespin. “What in the galaxy possessed you to side step that entrance?” Leaning over the hovering block of carbonite, she traced the smugglers frozen face. “We would be honored if you would join us,” she mocked. “I hope you rehearsed that, it was hilarious. You’re both so… theatrical.”

It feels too much like ascending a stage now. 

“I’m not making you be up there,” Boba says, into the cylinder.

“She’s dangerous,” Fennec says. “So is he. You don’t have your armor, so neither of us get a choice in this.”

“There’s always a choice,” he grumbles, away from the mic.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Stand guard, I’m on approach.”

The itemized list he has on the silver Mandalorian is organized by quantity of information.

Bounty Hunter

The best in the guild according to Fennec. He has a stowaway bounty on his ship. Its capture notice is the highest reward since Solo. Previous work experience comes mainly from the Guild and his status is questionable. But he isn’t a stranger to Underworld work.

Armor and Ammunition

His own is pure unpainted beskar. He’s arrogant, stupid, or both. He carries an amban rifle and various explosives, though his preferred style of combat is close hand to hand. Fennec says he never takes off his helmet.

Tatooine

While in a small town Boba now knows as Mos Pelgo, the Mandalorian befriended a marshal named Cobb Vanth. Vanth was in possession of Boba’s own armor. Now, it is in the possession of the Mando.

General

Male. Late thirties. About six foot in height. Human.

A girl.

He travels with one.

Boba concerns himself with each with importance in reverse order.

“He’s headed towards you,” Fennec says. “No visual of her.”

Boba gains his own sight of him and doesn’t bother to reply. He is a tall man, broad, though it may be illusion of armor. He walks with his pistol in front, finger prepped on the trigger.

“I’ve been tracking you, Mandalorian,” Boba says. His voice itches, carrying a old dragging scratch down his throat. It’s hard not to cough nowadays.

“Are you Boba Fett?”

The muscles of his brow twitch, taking a step. “I am.”

Mando motions with his pistol. “Prove it.”

“There aren’t many of me left.” There was a time he denied his genetic heritage. At times he reconsiders his distaste. Life was easier then. “My armor is on your ship, I’m requesting its return.”

“The armor?”

“It belonged to my father. Now it’s mine.” He takes another step. “I’d prefer to do this peacefully, so why don’t you drop that gun of yours?”

“That’s why you’ve got Fennec looking to shoot, right? For peace.”

“Bold assumption,” Boba says, calm. He looks around, hands up. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Did you think you were the only one with backup?”

“Where is she?” He’s too reactive, words coming without a pause between the end of the Mandos.

Mando plays with buttons on his vambrace. “Yeah,” he says to no one. “It’s him… No.” He nods to Boba, then to the wall of stone. “Call off Shand, and drop your weapons.”

“You will tell me where she is.”

“Udesiir. Fennec died once, don’t make it a second. I give the word and she’s gone.”

Boba reaches for his comm, lifting to his mouth. “Stand down. She’s locked on you.”

“How—“

“Don’t argue. Just come down.” Boba tucks the comm away, and sets his gaffe stick on the grass. “There. I’ve done as you ask. Now tell me where she is.”

“He wants to see you,” Mando says. “Looks real to me…” He starts to back away, and Fennec makes it to the bottom of the hill. “Take your time, they’re not going anywhere.”

“What’s going on?” Fennec asks.

“Don’t get comfy,” Mando says to them. “She’s coming.”

---

Boba Fett wishes he could say that it’s all the same. That they… revert back into how it was. How it used to be, how it still should be. That he sees her, as she runs down from the deep of the woods, and they can continue as if five years have not passed. He wants to say that when she stops, heaving for air, that she sees him, and it all falls back into place.

It doesn’t.

He’s had few rotations to think about how it would go exactly. Imagined scenarios range from no reaction at all to the more uncharacteristic burst of tears. From him and her. Then there was the issue of if she weren’t alive at all.

He couldn’t stomach the defeat so it was never contemplated.

She stares at him. She stares and says nothing for twenty seconds. And neither does he, which may feed into its own issue but he is nothing if not arrogant. Even now.

The Mandalorian doesn’t do a thing but watch. And Boba’s always known her to be reactive, so this may be a habit she’s picked up.

A green thing peeks from behind her leg, some alien sentient.

It must be the bounty Fennec briefed him on.

She is the same in laden silence, but as a cautionary measure. She stands beside him. Her hands never leave her rifle and her eyes dart between them all. She’ll have plenty to say when the encounter is over. She always does. She’s kept him good company, but he could do without the constant opinion.

It’s for his benefit, he knows this. But it’s still never particularly helpful in the moment.

Boba’s thought about first words as well. Hers. He wagered a swear, she’d just become comfortable with adding them to her regular vocabulary when they’d last been together properly. Or, a comment on his appearance. He’s been through hell and the conditions of Tatooine are unforgiving.

Briefly, he worried she may not recognize him at all. It’s not as though he can. 

Whoever stares back at him in the reflection of his ship’s tarnished mirror is not his father.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” she says, finally.

She lost her accent. It was never particularly strong to being with, but she’s less of him now.

That’s good.

There’s no point to argue. She’s correct, as she always is.

“Yes, I am,” he agrees.

“And you’re not?”

“No.”

Her breath quickens, he worries she’ll hyperventilate. “I thought you were dead. He told me you were dead, they both told me you were dead, and you’re alive? You’ve been alive this whole time? I went through hell by myself for five years, and you’re alive?”

He knows nothing to say so that is what he does.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she says to Fennec.

“It’s good to see you too kid,” Fennec says. He didn’t suspect they’d know each other. It all gets worse by the minute. “Your…” she trails, trying to find his eyes. She can’t. “Boba, saved my life on Tatooine. Now I am in his service.”

“How long have you been with him?”

“Nearly a cycle. Half, maybe.” Days blend together, he couldn’t give a better estimate if he tried.

“Where was he before that?”

“Wouldn’t you rather ask him?”

“I’m asking you,” she snaps. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Her throat clears. “When he found me he was living as a nomad in the Dune Sea. Before that, I’m told he lived among the Tuskens. Became a member of their tribe.”

“He had a family?”

“If you can call it that, yes.”

Her movement is like a snake in the grass, quick and unsuspecting. A knife comes from her side, blade a vibrating blue. It points directly to his neck. 

“Lumina—“ the Mandalorian says, a panic in his voice. 

Lumina.

“Grogu go inside,” she says.

The alien toddles off on command.

At the same time Fennec raises her rifle, cocked at her head.

“Stay out of this,” she grits, left hand stretched behind her. It twitches to close, and tremors.

Fennec takes a step back. He’s told her too much. He’s told her everything. She shouldn’t be the first person to know it all and she is.

He has no excuse.

The Mandalorian doesn’t move at all. He doesn’t know, and if he does he is unafraid.

How fitting. 

Boba motions downward, a slight shake of his head. She listens at least, Fennec. Her rifle is lowered but her stance remains strong. This is good. Her confidence is more genuine than his, perspective will balance.

His vision focuses on the blade and its vibrations. It’s the same that he gifted her on their first mission. The blaster on her hip as well. The handle is worn, smoother than he remembers.

“You had a family?” She asks.

“Lumina,” the Mandalorian says again. 

Her stretched hand relaxes, closing without inflicting harm.

“I told you to stay out of it.” 

“Let him talk,” he says, calm, slow.

“Why should I?” She bites. “So he can lie to me again? Like he always has?”

“Lumina.”

Her hand waves and the blade is close enough to warm his throat.

“Fine,” she says. “Fine. You wanna talk? Talk.”

“Fix your form,” Boba says, near immediate. He’s colder than he should be. He shouldn’t be cold at all. But they have company and reputations to keep. He will be damned if he allows her to see him weak. “You know your blade strikes are stronger in a reverse grip. And tighten your stance, turn out before you hyperextend your arm.”

Whatever she expected from him wasn’t this either. It can’t be when her brows pinch together and her lips part. It’s acceptable. He can only calm the way he knows.

“You’re a fucking coward,” she sneers.

“You’re angry,” he says.

She laughs again, and her knife finally leaves his throat. He can’t recall if she’s ever laughed before, and if she has, if he has heard it.

No, that’s a lie. He has. He knows he has.

But it wasn’t like this.

Her feet shuffle, adjusting posture. “I have been nothing but angry for the past ten years.” Her words are biting punctuated at every syllable. “You do not get to stand here and tell me I am angry as if it is some grand revelation. I know I am angry.”

“I understand—“

“No you don’t,” she snaps. “You do not. You never have and you never will. You don’t get to survive, that’s not how this works. You don’t get to leave me, again, and survive. You had a family, Boba. I was stuck whoring myself out on Coruscant for a meal and a bed and you had a family?” Every thing she says is as a gasp for air, standing at attention.

“It’s not that simple. Do you think I had it easy? Can you look at me and say that I have been at peace all these years? That I have been happy? Content at the least?”

“You got out!” she tells him. “The whole Underworld thinks Boba Fett is dead. You get to live. You get to go on the rest of your pathetic life with the ability to do whatever you want.” She breaks in a whisper, “If you knew what has happened… I will never have what you have.” She steps back, steel eyes flooded. “I don’t care if you were happy, or at peace, or content. I don’t. I missed you every day for five years to find out that you’re alive, and you moved on, and you had a family and I was not a part of it.”

“Ad—“

“Do not call me that, I am not your child.”

“I thought you were dead,” he says, as soft as his burnt throat will allow. 

“And I wish you were.” Her fists squeeze by her side where nails gnaw into skin. “I didn’t want you to be alive, I was fine being miserable because you were gone. I was fine. I have your armor I was fine having you like that I—”

Boba steps forward and she flinches back, shaking.

“It’s already ruined, it’s—if you are alive then everything she said—you can’t be alive, you can’t, you can’t—then I—I can’t, I don’t want to—”

“Lu,” the Mandalorian says, he steps up and she jumps again, hand out for distance.

“Do not touch me.”

“Lu—“

Her fists clap together, knuckles sounding on impact. “I’m sick,” she whispers. “I’m sick. I’m still sick. It’s that thing, none of this is happening.”

Her fist hits open palm now, and she steps away from the group. “This is Palpatine,” she says, a startled manic laugh. “It’s him again.”

“He is dead,” Boba says.

“So are you.”

“I want to talk. Explain.”

She takes a pause. “Fennec stays outside.”

“Lumina I don’t think—“ Mando interrupts.

“I know how he is,” she says. “He won’t leave me alone until I listen, he’s done this before. We’ll be on the ship. Wait outside too, I’ll be fine.”

---

The inside is dark once the door shuts behind, only small multicolored illuminations of buttons and switches litter the walls. When the overhead comes on she’s sitting on the floor, a bundle of blankets in her arms holding the green creature.

“He missed his nap today,” she mumbles, caressing the top of its head. “If he eats when he’s tired he won’t finish and then he’ll be upset all night.”

“What is it?” Boba asks.

He still hasn’t looked her in the eyes. He can’t without saying something he shouldn’t. His gaze bounces over her features, cross-referencing with whatever he can remember.

She’s matured, of course she has it’s been years. She’s not as thin as she used to be, muscles grown, needed fat added. Her hair is longer, thicker. Her skin is darker, closer to what his should be. She’s taller, just by an inch or so.

Now, staring at her, he’s only reminded of exactly why he cared for her to begin with.

“A baby,” she says. 

“Is it…” he trails, stepping forward. “Is it yours?”

She nods. “He is. And the Mandalorian’s.”  

His stare falls to her shoulder, exposed, scarred. It shouldn’t be what causes him to finally break. He’s littered in them and hers shouldn’t affect him. 

But they do, and he does.

“Do you want to hold him?” She asks. 

“Uh… I don’t know if—“

“C’mere.” He does, sitting with popping joints and aching muscle. She passes the bundle, and it now lays cradled in his arms. It’s a familiar weight. “Support the head,” she guides, close to a whisper. 

It’s the first time he can find it in himself to chuckle. “I have held a baby before.”

She looks to him, head tilted and brows pinched in a quizzical manner. “When?”

He looks her right in the eyes and he can’t make her that little girl anymore. Really he’d rather not. She was always so scared, and at the time he forced himself to forget things he shouldn’t.

“A long time ago.”

She snorts. “Everything was a long time ago.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “You and the Mandalorian, is he your…”

“Correct,” she says, cheeks turned red.

“For how long?”

“Only a month or two. But I’ve known him for plenty more than that.”

“Are you married?”

“No,” she says immediate.

“Does he treat you well?”

“Extremely. I don’t know why. He’s protective also. I haven’t been well recently. He’s worried for me.”

“Are you alright?”

“I don’t know.” She sits with knees to her chest, arms wrapped around herself. “I’ve…” she sighs, “I’ve been trying to be… nice. I don’t like it. And I’m not good at it either. Sometimes I think that’s what’s making me ill. Force stuff.”

“Oh.”

“But… I—I feel.” Her words are broken like a child learning speech. “I don’t know what’s going on half the time anymore. I think I just float through things… or I’m hallucinating. When I saw you I threw a fit, it took forever for him to convince me this was actually happening.”

She laughs again, stressed.

“So I don’t know if I’m dying, or I’m… possessed? Or, I mean you go so long without feeling anything ever and then you feel everything and I don’t—I can’t function or regulate myself. I feel like—“ she stutters on the word. “Like I’m some bomb, right? I’m just, I’m gonna—I’m gonna pop. And I can’t save anyone from it. And I’m actually a little excited for it because then something will be normal.”

“What happened to you?” Boba asks.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I don’t know.” She takes a breath, shaking out her limbs. “He says I’m in shock. So… I’m sorry. For, almost killing you.”

“You have grown up,” Boba says through his own shock.

“This is when you say it back for being a piece of shit.”

He chuckles. “Commanding someone else to apologize, especially with an insult, tends to negate the first apology.”

“Does it really?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Fuck.”

“But,” he says. “That is… partially why I wanted to speak with you. To apologize.”

“Really?”

“If you are so easily convinced that I could have forgotten you, or purposely chose to abandon you, then I have failed in raising you away from Vaders teachings. I think of you every time I see a child. Every night I would look up, and remember your fascination. All of your items are still on my ship, exactly where you left them. You can never be someone I can ‘move on’ from.”

Her eyes close, thumb digging circles into her pants.

“Lumina, is it?” he asks, the name new and fresh on his tongue. “Is that what you’ve chosen for yourself?”

Her jaw tightens, and she nods.

“I like it. It suits you well.”

She bites a trembling lip and he worries she may bleed.

“Had I known you were alive, Lumina,” he continues, hushed. “I would have ripped apart the galaxy looking for you. Believe me in that. I promised to protect you and I couldn’t, not from who I should have. I am sorry I failed you.” 

“You look like shit,” she says in a whimper type of laugh, blinking heavily. “Like really, really bad.”

“Yes,” he chuckles. “Stomach acid will do that to a man.”

“I can’t believe you’re bald.”

“It seems that you’ve taken it all from me. You look—” he stops, head shaking. “Just like I imagined you would.”

“So… good?”

“Beautiful,” he clarifies. “I can’t believe my little girl is all grown up.”

She shrugs. “Me either.”

Boba Fett carries many regrets with him. Most of which he’ll have no choice but to live with for however long his life continues to be. He is full of guilt and were he thrown into the ocean he would drown without thought.

Thinking back on it, Boba doesn’t wish it could go back to normal at all. Normal is what what caused this all to happen. Normal is a horribly wretched and he wishes to never know it again.

He wishes he could go back to the first time they met. The very first time. Before he knew of what would become of her. When she were still the smallest thing he’d ever seen, so much that he could hold her with one arm and still be afraid to break her. Before his bones became too sore for his age and his skin burned raw. When he himself were still young and naive and believed there could be a place for them.

Or at least for her. He gave in too quickly to his own fate and never had a chance. He wanted one for her, he needed one for her. He needed proof it could all be okay and that somehow he was doing the right thing.

Nothing in the galaxy can amend what he’s done. Nothing can make right on all the harm he’s caused to her, inadvertently or not. 

 He should have comforted her when he didn’t, given her a break when he didn’t, told her when he didn’t.

Saved her when he didn’t. 

He had so much planned for them, for her. Everything was ready. When he picked up the Slave I their destination was still plugged into the NavComp. 

He requested Fennec sit outside for two hours as he sat, and stared.

The past is behind them both now and it is unchangeable.

Whatever happens now is all he has.

Being said, seeing her now, seeing her cry right in front of him. He vows to do right, as much as he can and as well as he can. So he’ll start now, and he doesn’t expect to tear up when he holds her.

But he does. 

“I don’t understand, how did you survive?” She asks into his shoulder. “How are you here?”

“Fate sometimes steps in to rescue the wretched,” he whispers against her head. He pulls her back, wiping his thumb under her eyes. “And it has brought me back to you.”

---

Pheasants roast on a spit over the open flame the four circle around. Wood crackles into the open air of constellations and a soft wind enters from the east. The sounds are of nothing but the chirping and whistles of insects in the tall grass.

Lumina busies herself with nothing at all, her eyes turned a fiery sunshine color in reflection. She sits on a stone a foot above the rest in height. Her palms are stained red with the blood of the animals that she cannot completely wash away.

Fennec drinks from a flask of which none are sure of its origin or contents. She shares it with Boba and stares to patronize when he takes more than his allowance.

Lumina is fixated on the staff rested by his leg, and the returned armor on the other side of him. Watching her. She’s yet to mention how she’s worn it, pieces, one at a time on random occasions.

He may mention later how his vambraces feel tighter, his belt and holster are marked with fresh blaster cleaner, his helmet having a single piece of curled black hair inside with fingerprints on the out.

She hasn’t thought of how to explain it all yet.

-

“Have you told her the plan?” Fennec asks, mouth full.

Boba groans, tossing his cleaned bone into the dirt. “I was going to wait longer for that conversation Fennec, thank you.”

“What plan?” Lumina asks, tucking her knees under her chin. She’s barely touched her food, picking off pieces to drop into the Child’s mouth like a baby bird.

“Your old man has wants to usurp Jabba’s throne, well, Bib Fortuna’s, but it’s all the same.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“There’s money to be made,” he offers calm. “People to look after. Good people.”

“Well you’re just on a streak of it aren’t you? If power and credits are what you want I know of a leader in Coruscant itching for a decapitation.”

“I have no interest in the Kelli territory. He runs the Senate who runs him in return. I refuse to be told like a dog how and when to act.”

“And you’re finally fighting the system. I’m impressed. There’s more to ruling than making money and having a nice chair, and you’re no Hutt.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I have no intentions of ruling off the base of fear. In my experience, those results are… unfavorable.”

She scoffs. “So what do you want with me?”

“Nothing. I’m only… offering a hand,” he says, shows his own. “An invitation, if you will.”

“To join? You’ve already got a gunman in Fennec.”

“I’m not looking for muscle. As you said, there is more to ruling than I know. I need someone to show me what that is.”

“You want an advisor?”

“Sure.”

“I think you underestimate Fennec’s capabilities.”

“Fennec knows the Underworld, I’m talking about those above. The workers, the children, the women, the elderly. Those directly affected by the state of rule.”

“That sounds like a job for a politician.”

“And you have formal education on diplomacy, intergalactic affairs, trade, economics, and policy.”

“Do you?” Din asks.

“She’s smarter than she makes herself out to be.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Even so, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d at the very least give it thought. This is ultimately what you were trained for, don’t forget that.”

-

When they’ve all had their fill, conversation dies to muttering of their company. Lumina rests against Din’s side nestling herself into him, his arm lazy over her shoulder. 

“My head hurts,” she whispers.

She’d be embarrassed if she weren’t so exhausted.

“Atikya,” Fennec says. She looks up. “Fett hasn’t explained well, so I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“How does the Force work?”

Whatever color can be seen in the light of the flame quickly falls from her. “Sorry?”

Boba coughs. “Fennec.”

“Boba?” Lumina asks.

“Fennec when I tell you something it is with the expectation you keep it to yourself,” he says.

“It’s not like we all don’t know,” Fennec argues. “If she will be your advisor there should be no secrets between us.” Her shrug is nonchalant, irksome. “Now we all know that we all know.”

“Boba,” Lumina says again.

She can feel Din’s chest stiffen under her weight, shifting. “We all know what?” he asks.

Fennec looks to Din, then Lumina. “Does he not know?”

“Know what?” Din asks.

“Nothing,” Lumina says.

“Lumina—“

“You haven’t told him?” Boba then asks.

“I have,” she says without thought.

“Lu, what’s going on?”

“They’re talking about him,” Lumina says. She adjusts herself, posture correcting away from Din. “I grew up on stories about the Force. Lightning coming from hands, girls who could… make a perfect duplication of anything they wanted. Illogical things.” She looks to Fennec and shrugs. “I can’t tell you how it works.” Then she shrugs, in that same irksome way without any care. “Sorry.”

“Lumina tells me you worked for her father,” Din says to Boba.

“Fennec,” Boba coughs. “Would you mind taking my armor to the ship?” With her gone, his gaze settles on her. “Ad, what does he mean your father?”

Her laugh is small, panicked. “He paid well,” Lumina says. “I was a troublesome child. Physically he was in no condition to train me the way he wanted. He chose Boba because of his reputation. Right Boba?”

“You’re calling him your father?” He says instead.

“Of course. He is my dad.” It’s the first she says the title without an inkling of vomit behind her words. “He raised me, he took care of me, he’s my dad.”

“What are you saying?” Boba asks.

“I don’t agree with it either,” Din adds.

“You didn’t know him,” Lumina says. “He could be harsh and… unkind but he provided for me. He gave me everything. He did all the things a dad is supposed to do.”

“He abused you,” Din says.

“He couldn’t help it. He was sick. He cared about me, Boba said so himself.”

She should almost be concerned with how fast Din’s head snaps to his direction. “You told her that?”

“It’s true,” Lumina argues. “You know, he… he was horrible but—“

“There’s no but Lumina. If he hurt you, he didn’t love you.”

“Yes he did,” she snaps. “He saved my life. Boba tell him.”

“Her father,” Boba says to the company of two, standing to leave. “Was the greatest man I could ever know. He loved you until the day he died. That, I am sure of.”

It is now, Lumina notes how the brightness of the fire hurts her eyes. It’s too much like Mustafar, the anxiety to match.

“Be careful,” Din says to the Child who strays too close to the burning.

She thinks she should heed his words.

---

An entire day passes in nothingness.

It is a basket of freshly grown uneventful serenity, picked from the trees and ripe with affection.

Daybreak coincides with its end, the rise and fall of the sun in under an hour.

There is not a single note worthy of public recollection. She is burdened in loneliness with the greatest company one may hold.

The day will be a forgotten tale, trapped between the ugly of her history.

It is the happiest she has ever been.

---

“Din!” Lumina’s laughter erupts outside of the Slave I. Boba watches from the cockpit as she’s thrown over the shoulder of the Mandalorian. Din, apparently.

“You know,” Fennec says, leaned in her chair. “As far as missions go, this one does count as a success.”

“Yes,” Boba nods, glancing over. “Yes, it is.”

“You have your armor, you got your kid. She’s safe, happy… you know these are objectively good things, don’t you?”

He nods again. “I’m aware.”

“Then would you care to explain why you look like you’ve been thrown back in the sarlacc?”

He says nothing, and plans to never speak of it. But Fennec knows him too well, in their few months together, she’s become the closest thing he has ever had to a friend.

“She reminds me of your sister,” Fennec says. He looks up, tense. “I hear she’s alive. If family is what you’re looking for, finding her would solve the rest.” 

“Ah.”

“When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Make sure your things are packed. We leave in the morning for Tatooine.”

“You’ll have to tell Lumina,” she says. “It’s worse if she finds out herself.”

“It’s late,” he says, standing. “Make yourself comfortable up here. I think I’ll be resting outside tonight.”

“You need to tell her,” Fennec calls, Boba halfway out the cockpit.

“Goodnight. Fennec.”

---

Despite all that Lumina believes, or wishes to believe, or has believed in her lifetime, there is an inescapable truth.

She is burdened with the ghost of the Machine and his Maker. They weigh heavy on her shoulders and press her lungs until she is without air.

She can feel the gaze of the Machine through itchy cybernetics, she can hear his respirator struggle for life.

Her bones are chilled in exact replication of her presentation before his Maker. 

He watches her, the Maker.

He watches as she wakes before the Mandalorian. He slowly guides her bones one by one to lift her body away from Din.

Din grasps her wrist, pulling her down. “Don’t go,” he mumbles to the darkness. “Stay.”

“I’ll be back,” she tells him. She says it again. “Hey, when I get back—“

He kisses her.

“We have to talk when I’m back.”

“About what?”

“Things. Don’t worry about it, okay? I have to go,” she whispers. “I have to leave.” She considers the possibility that the Maker has taken control of her tongue as well. “I love you.”

Din falls back asleep after a second kiss, her hands caressing his face to remember all of him. Not that she could ever forget.

The Maker watches her dress in the darkness.

Her boots fit lace tight around her calf, he tells her to make them tighter. She worries for her circulation but does so anyways.

She reaches into a hallowed gap in the alcove and retrieves a photograph. From the armory, she grabs a modified 773 Firepuncher rifle. Between two crates of equal appearance, she takes her lightsaber out of the shadow.

The black paint of it has begun to chip, revealing its silver.

The Maker tells her to not forget her cape. She doesn’t.

The day is still dark, it will remain this way. Today is the day of the winter solstice, the sun will not dare to show her face.

She carries a lantern ignited in frantic flame and her belongings  into the woods. Grogu is at her side, jumping along.

The Maker takes her to a stone in a plain by the edge of the mountain. She climbs atop, crossing her legs to begin mediation. 

She discovers her hands are still stained in red, now fresh from the night before.

Grogu excels in his training, he may not need her at all anymore. He is confident and will have ability beyond her with age.

There is no river to practice in.

There are no trees to climb.

There are no flowers to admire.

Her pain is endless.

---

“I hoped you would have stopped this.”

“How did you find me?” Lumina’s saber is ignited in a dastardly red, whipping in the air to an invisible opponent.

She slices the air. 

“Right now, or in general?” Boba asks, dressed in his armor. He carries his helmet by his hip.

His entrance is expected.

“Are they different answers?”

He points to her wrist. “I had a tracker installed in your comm before I gave it to you. It connects to my armor and my ship.”

“My ship.”

“Not yet.”

Her saber disengages, and she hooks the hilt to her belt. “You owe me a new untampered one,” she says, taking off the watch. It falls to the ground and in a single stomp it breaks to pieces. 

“Now the saber,” he says. 

“My saber?”

“It isn’t good for you.”

“My saber,” she repeats, more monotone.

“The Force. It’s killing you. Even in the day that I’ve been here I can see you grow weaker.”

“I’m tired, Boba. Everything is so exhausting. All I do is cry and scream. I want it to stop.”

“So leave it all behind.”

“It’s not that easy. It’s literally in my blood. Boba, ever since I was in Nevarro with Din I— when Vader took me in, I fell into a coma because I touched his saber. The power of the dark side was so strong I just had to touch it and… I understood him. I touched something in Nevarro. The same thing happened.”

“What did you touch?”

“A clone.”

Boba repeats it with shock.

“Not from Jango’s strand. It was deformed, but steeped in the dark side. The Empire was creating it, a whole batch of them, failed and barely living. I felt its energy. It was in pain. Horrible pain. I felt it. I still feel it. I haven’t stopped feeling it since. That’s why I’m sick.”

She walks to her personals, off by the Child, and lifts the frame from the grass. She cringes, and hands it over. “I was hoping you could tell me something about this. I get the sense there may be a connection.”

“Where did you get this?”

“I found it. Technically I stole it, but—“

“Where?”

“Ord Mantell, I was on a job. It was in some clone parlor. At first I thought they didn’t look like clones at all.”

“So they aren’t.” He’s too definitive in tone, and his thumb tenses in hold.

“That’s what I thought too, but—“ she stands beside him, leaning over. “Look. This taller one is closest to your face but he’s too pale. And this one,” she points to the largest in the back, “Looks like you but is a giant, and then the one with goggles I thought had no connection at all but he has your eyes. This one looks just like you, just blond, so I figure he’s normal. Same with this one, with the hair, his facial structure is one of the lesser dramatic changes. Out of the odd ones he’s more like you but honestly I feel like he’s the most different too.” Her finger circles around the group, hovering just above each member. “Do you recognize any of them?”

“No.”

“What about her?” She asks, pointing to the girl in the middle. “She has to be what, thirteen? What’s a kid doing with a bunch of clones?”

Agitated he answers: “I don’t know.”

“Have you considered that they are just men, dead men might I add.”

“Just because they are dead does not mean they are not important. And I believe they are.”

“Why?”

“Because the Force tells me they are. Every single thing I’ve ever touched in my entire life I can see everything I need to know. You know what happens when I touch this? Nothing. That is for a reason.”

“Ad, have you thought this through at all? What could the Empire possibly want with my fathers clones? Now, after so many years and all of them dead?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. At first I thought another army, but that’s been done. Successfully. Cloning may have been difficult before, but now any scientist worth their spit could figure out the basics. Why do they fail now? What’s changed?” She shrugs.

“Are you sure its a clone then? If it is so easy, then it is something else.”

“Like what?”

“Are you familiar with strand-casts?” Her head shakes. “It’s a type of cloning. When the base template is added to with separate genetics. Creating something completely new, and organic. I knew a clone from Kamino who worked in the labs, they said this was the next goal.”

“They’re modifying templates at a genetic level?” She asks, though more to herself. “At the embryo?” She takes the frame, holding it up. “That’s what they are.”

“Correct,” Boba nods. “Although, from… observation. It looks like they are only of my father.”

“Maker,” Lumina swears. “On Ryndellia, I went to another lab. They were… injecting pregnant women with Grogu’s blood.”

“What?”

“Our abilities, they come from the blood. The scientists there they… they wanted the fetus to be Force Sensitive. They thought the blood would take.”

“And?”

“All the women died.”

“They aren’t creating clones,” Boba says.

“They’re making Force Sensitives,” she finishes. “And they’re making the Force angry.”

“Wouldn’t it be easy to just clone one of your kind?” Boba asks. “Why create from nothing?”

Lumina’s face pinches, and falls all at once. “They want clone children.”

Boba mimics her. “What?”

She hands the photo back. “It’s not about these clones at all. It’s about their children. Theoretically.”

“Ad’ika—“

“Boba, listen to me. The Empire wants Inquisitors, Sith, whatever. They want the army I always did. Strong Force wielders, able to do anything. But what if you have that? You have an Inquisitor able to do the impossible. How do you level up? You modify them at a genetic level.” She points to the photo. “If you can genetically alter an embryo—“

“Lumina—“

“If they were able to create these modifications, whatever they are back in the Republic, imagine what they could do now. Immunity to disease, longevity of life, limbs regrowing, mass reconstructing. The possibilities are endless. Imagine that being Force Sensitive.”

“You’d have a biological super-weapon.”

“Or at least the potential. If they’re trained right, they would be unstoppable.”

”Of course,” Boba whispers. “Adi’ka, listen to me—“

“I have to stop it.”

“What? No. You will not involve yourself in this, do you hear me?”

“They’re attacking my son. I have to protect him.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll… I’ll fight Gideon. I’m stronger than him. If I can get close enough I can snap his neck with a thought.”

“And you will be right where you were when we met. You have done so much work to remove yourself from Vader. If they get their hands on you—“

“I’ll kill them.”

“You were valuable to Vader, you will be valuable to them. Remember what he taught you, to keep you in the dark. That is what you are tempting right now.”

“I will do it to protect those I love.”

Her words stop short as soon as they begin. She feels heavy again. Possessed.

Just like him, she thinks.

“Moff Gideon wants me,” she says. “He’s offered me a position in the Empire, says my crimes will be forgiven.”

“Moff Gideon?” Boba repeats. “The man who destroyed Mandalore?”

She nods. “He knows about me. Things I don’t even know… where I come from, who I—I can get everything I want from him, kill him, kill all of them, I’ll win. I’ll finally be free of it. Of all of it, my Master will finally—“

“Ad’ika, listen to me,” Boba grabs her shoulders, forcing her to face him, “Stop it. You’re done with the Empire. You’re done with the Sith. It is eating your soul alive child. Vader is not here, you do not have to impress him. You could’ve been anyone you wanted to before him, that is still possible now without him.”

“But—“

“You have only known pain in this life. End it here. I have seen what it does to you. You are alive now, stop testing that fact.”

Lumina blinks, her unrealized blurry vision coming into focus.

“You’re right,” she says, soft. “You’re right I don’t know what came over me.” She shakes the nerves of her limbs, then her head. “I apologize.”

Boba’s breath is of relief. “I can’t keep Fennec waiting,” he says. “She may leave without me.”

“We can always drop you off,” she teases. “I have a gift for you, before you go,” she says, lifting the rifle. “I want you to have this. It’s from the Clone Wars,” she holds it out, “it belonged to the best sharpshooter in the entirety of the Republic Army, and the Empire. I won it from someone and did restoration work. It’s as good as new.”

Boba takes it, she swears its timid.

“Originally, my plan was to do a study on it, like how I used to. But whenever I try to look I only get taught on technique, not its owner. I don’t think I’m supposed to see… Either way, I want you to have it. It belonged to a clone so, the way I see it you’re its rightful owner.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I need a reason to visit you in Tatooine. I’ll be wanting it back.”

“I’ll keep it away from Fennec.”

Lumina brushes her hands on her thighs. “Keep the photo too. It means something to you.”

“What are you—“

“You can lie to me Boba,” she says. “But you can’t hide how you feel. We’re too connected for that.”

He laughs, and she’s sure that’s what it is.

“You’re right,” he agrees. He pats her shoulder, and steps back. “You’ve grown into your own beautifully. I am proud of you.”

She smiles. “Thank you, Boba. I do have one question, before you go.”

“Yes?”

“What you said, about my dad. Did you mean it? Did Vader love me?”

His cracked lips purse. “Vader?” He asks, waiting for a nod. “I don’t know, Lumina. I don’t know.”

---

A dangerous thing of being enamored with the past, the future is quick and unsuspecting.

The future is now.

It comes in the absence of dawn. It comes because of the absence of dawn. The future exists as it does right now because dawn does not exist.

Not anymore.

She is catalogued in a records book as missing for everyones reassurance of her return in the summer, but truth stands:

Dawn is dead.

Even the stars do not appear. They are covered, hidden by dark clouds of a Star Destroyer, and greeted by the cold.

Imperial shuttles disperse from its base, flying into atmosphere.

A shot fires from the ship and hits the walls of the forest, trees catching fire.

They are full of rage.

Two shuttles land opposite the fire, two more head south to camp.

One by one stormtroopers in their angelic white exit. They carry shields and rotary blasters and electric staffs.

Lumina’s heart exits into her skull, pounding, screaming. 

She can hear their screams, feel their footsteps march on the open dying grass.

She has no protection.

No modulator.

No scarf.

No mask.

No gloves.

No beskar.

She has nothing but herself and a sword of pain.

It will do.

She collects the Child in her cape, swaddled and close to her chest.

“It’s okay my love,” she whispers. She wonders if her words are even her own. “You’ll be okay. I promise.”

It’s too familiar.

She knows this. She knows this.

“Please stay quiet sweetheart. I know, I know.”

It is her dream of Mandalore.

She holds her child with one arm, detaching her saber from her belt.

Options are limited: Fight in the open, taking on twenty men by herself. She is trained for it and would stand her own, but there is a child, and she is down one saber, up one baby.

She still does not trust the Force.

“Target is south bound!” A trooper screams into the dark. “Do not kill unless instructed!”

They sprint, and snipers set their stations.

She can only do what she knows.

The future is now, and it is repetition.

Lumina runs into the burning, and does not look back.

The end starts now.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY: A REQUIEM FOR DAWN

Taglist: @lexloon @jay-bel @xsadderdazeforeverx @spideysimpossiblegirl @sarahjkl82-blog @annoyinglythoughtfuldestiny

[hearts-hunger]

together wing to wing || chapter one

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Series Summary: He's offered his protection before, on the Green. In the hospital, Cee wonders if he'll offer it again, and Ezra wonders if she'll even want him to.

Chapter Summary: The hospital is noisy.

Pairings: Ezra & Cee (platonic!!! if you ship them no offense but i will kill you with my bare hands <3)

Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort, angst | Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: hospitals, injury, mentions of canon-typical violence

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing Ezra, and I find he’s a challenging and engaging character to write. I don’t know how long this series will be, or when the next part will be up, or any of the details one could reasonably hope to know, but I hope you like it! ♡

He’d imagined healing would be painful. Exhausting, maybe, and likely bothersome. Restrictive. But never this damn noisy.

The Green was a lot of things, but one thing it wasn’t was noisy. Quiet came as naturally to the tangled forest as the dust, hung heavy in every branch and twisted into every blade of grass. Nothing could live on the Green that wasn’t as mean as the air it breathed, and in Ezra’s experience, nothing mean was ever partial to singing. No birds, no crickets, no creeks that hadn’t been choked up with dust so burdensome it seemed like the water could barely move. Just the quiet, and your own mind to fill up the space in between.

The hospital, on the other hand - he’d never been more beleaguered with needless noise that he had been these past few cycles. The monitors, the doctors, the alarms - even his own breathing was noisy. It rattled in his chest like a broken thing, wheezy and prone to bouts of coughing that left him bone-tired. He slept, but only when his exhaustion surpassed his irritation at the cacophony. He’d thought he would welcome the sound of people, of civilization. Not once had it occurred to him that it would wear on him so deeply, not after so many cycles with naught to listen to but the hum of the filter and his own inane rambling.

He’d been more reserved than usual on that front. It seemed his body had had enough of his loquaciousness, at least for the time being, and insisted on dredging up uncomfortable ills whenever he tried to speak for more than a sentence or two. He was too damn tired, and his lungs hurt too badly with the treatments the doctors kept giving him to clean out the dust. He settled for silence; and, for the first time in a long time, he listened.

She was as bright as the ruby’s blaze, that one. Smarter than anyone he’d kept company with in a long time, and more vibrant than he could recall being in many, many years. He’d seen some of that fire in her on the Green, when she talked of her favorite novel and confided how she wrote her own stories. He was captivated by it now, charmed by her youthful innocence and struck, as he had been even in their first unhappy encounter, by her pluck and intelligence. 

She was telling him about The Streamer Girl, and the sound of her voice soothed all the other noises to a dull racket as he tried to follow the twist and turns of her excited chatter.

“Clo doesn’t even like Reive in the beginning - she thinks Reive is a know-it-all, and she is, kind of, but what Clo doesn’t know is that Reive has been the one covering for her when all the professors think she’s skipping class.”

Ezra rubbed a hand over his chest to ease the urge to cough that never seemed to fade completely these days. “Isn’t she skipping class?”

“I mean, yeah,” she conceded. “But not to slack off, or anything. She’s fighting the - ”

She cut herself off, and Ezra quirked a brow when she didn’t continue. She gave him a little smile, just this side of teasing.

“I shouldn’t say. I don’t want to spoil it for you.”

He hummed in agreement. “Kind of you, birdie.”

He watched as she ran her fingers over the front cover of her well-loved notebook, tapping the beat to a song only she could hear. She looked tired, and he made a note to attempt to steer her towards a good, long rest if the opportunity arose.

“Ezra?”

“Hm?”

She worried her bottom lip; she’d done it so often these past cycles he was surprised it didn’t bleed.

“You will read it, won’t you?”

He watched her expression carefully. He was no authority on teenage diction, but he felt there was likely more she was asking with that question than it seemed at first blush.

“Of course,” he said easily, like he had when they made their unlucky arrangement. If reading her favorite book meant sticking around for longer than the duration of this hospital stay, of course. Of course he would.

Her expression eased, and he felt a measure of relief. She hid a yawn behind her sleeve and brushed her hair behind her ear.

“Maybe after you read it, you can help me write some of my book.”

He smiled. “I assure you, little bird - you would not be so keen for my writing talents if you knew how sorely lacking they are.”

She looked amused. “How can someone who talks as much as you do not know how to write?”

“Oh, speaking is a matter of decisiveness, birdie,” he explained. “No time to mull over what you say - only time to speak it, and see what it reaps.” 

That had been one too many words strung together for his body’s liking, and he obliged its need for a volley of coughs against his fist. He took a stilted breath when recovered and rested his arm over his wound, protective of the stitches that still burned when he moved.

“If I attempted to write... I would fret over every single word,” he said slowly. “I would be one sentence in by the time you’d moved on to another book entirely.”

That much he’d learned from his short-lived endeavor to journal in the early days of his prospecting career: better to speak when the words came easily and never revisit them. Better to let his thoughts come and go rather than record them when they were so frequently things of no true worth that habitually bore unfortunate consequences.

He nodded to her notebook. “I would like to read your book, though, after I read the original.”

She was pale enough with tiredness that her blush was bright pink on her cheeks.

“No, you wouldn’t,” she said. The self-deprecation in her voice had likely been mastered at her father’s behest with his disinterested and contemptuous manner, and Ezra felt a streak of resentment towards the man that warred with his near constant guilt. He wondered how moral it was to be glad Cee would never endure Damon’s scorn again.  

“Best practice is to allow a man to decide for himself what he’d like and wouldn’t like,” he said. He bottled a cough in his chest. “Of course, if you’re of a mind to keep it for yourself, you’ll find no pressure from me to do otherwise.”

Her shoulders visibly relaxed and she opened up again, looking at him like she couldn't quite puzzle him out. She yawned again and she seemed so young to him, then; a tired little girl too world-weary for her own good.

“Try and get some shuteye, birdie,” he said. He tried to settle into a more comfortable position, but his stump had started to ache again; it was a dull pain, like a sick tooth, and evaded every attempt at soothing.

Her brow creased. “You’re hurting.”

He shook his head. “Just a little sore, is all. No use getting into a fluster.”

“I should get the doctor,” she said, and made to rise from her cot. He waved her down with an unsteady hand.

“Settle yourself, birdie,” he chided. “They’ll be in soon enough with appropriate remedy for my ills, and you’ll have lost no time...” He drew a wheezing breath. “Scampering up and down the hallways.”

She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “I don’t scamper.”

His chuckle was half-cough. “No? Stride with intention, then. Either way, you’re better off having a lie-down.”

She considered him for a moment, then curled up in her cot and tucked the blanket under her chin. He reached up to the panel behind him to turn the lights off, wincing a little as he did; the sun came through the heavy blind only enough to cast the room in a warm, dim glow. 

“Wake me when the doctor comes,” she said. Her voice was already heavy with sleep.

“Shh, birdie,” he soothed. “No more of your fretting. You try and sleep for... as long as you can.”

She’d proven adept at sleeping despite the noise, though he felt that was likely more the result of her exhaustion catching up to her than any real comfort in such a busy place. He watched as she succumbed to her fatigue, one hand tucked under her cheek, and was glad that at least one of them could sleep.

He rested his hand on his collarbone, tentatively pressing on the hollows of his too-thin frame. His ministrations did not improve his discomfort, but they offered something to do; he closed his eyes and listened to the noise, missing Cee’s voice in spite of himself.

Read chapter two!

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