#this is another tool to convince people to watch rising too

[nyuudoupee]

arghhhh ultraman rising posting again but this is about the score. yes the miku stylophone is in the soundtrack but holy FUCK tim henson drops some utterly soul rending guitar shreds in this thing. it's not all over the entire ost but when it hits it HITS like DAMN. its like his exact guitar tone too and it bring so much style and badassery to the scenes in which they play like ARGHHHHH

i just love the fucking LICKS he drops on this soundtrack its insane... especially the way he plays the ultraman motif in the second track linked and the riff right after it GOD. it even adds onto like the thematic stuff happening in each scene i don't know how to explain it but it just DOES.... i hope tim drops a video or an interview explaining anything about how this went down (i know scot stafford did explain some in an interview that he did that's really good read it)

it kind of makes me wish the rest of the dudes from polyphia hopped onto another mild scoring gig even if its just like an insert track or something on anything. these riffs in particular kind of remind me of pre NLND/the worst polyphia LOL just a little bit. god i love guitars and god i love music

[kimbureh]

TBB, The Solitary Clone & Self-Harm as System Requirement

(This is very long and theory-laden, but it'll do. Bear with me, I try to articulate this as clearly as I can.)

There's a lot to be said about this episode, but I think I want to come at this from the angle of how coercive systems aren't just violent to people both without and within the system, but also how they foster a culture of self-harm among its members.

The rules of a coercive system like the Empire's can be enforced through different means; hierarchy is only way to do it, and it's a strategy that requires constant oversight. The more cost-efficient way to enforce regulation is through a panopticon: the members of the coercive system aren't constantly under supervision, but they do feel as if they were, because they can never be sure that they aren't. Which introduces a second factor into enforcing coercive systems: self-surveillance. If members of a system can be convinced to self-censor their behavior and regulate each other via peer pressure without the need for (constant) hierarchical supervision, you've got a pretty stable system that doesn't require a lot of resources to maintain.

But if you want an even stronger system that makes the cost of leaving too high for the individual, you need to introduce yet another factor: self-harm. If you can get people to the point where they willingly act against their own self-interest in order to uphold a system, you've got yourself an almost indestructible construct that can withstand immense pressure from the outside without the members inside revolting against their own abuse. The reason why this works so well is because of an instilled sense of both shame and superiority within the system members.

But let's back off here for a moment.

What does hierarchical control look like in the Empire? That's Admiral Rampart shooting Captain Wilco for not wanting to falsify reports. But it's also Rampart seeing himself forced to do so in the first place, cuz if he won't cover his own ass, the Emperor will discard of him. In other words: No matter how high you rise in hierarchy, the pressures of a coercive system don't lessen. Even Rampart is living in an panopticon and the constant fear of being found out. This is no flaw, it's a feature of the system.

The aspect of peer pressure gets of course most obvious in interactions among the Clones; when Cody cautiously hints at defecting, he does so at great risk, because the cost of leaving is so high, most Clones aren't willing to pay it. Crosshair isn't willing to do it because he is especially susceptible to the Empire's allure due to his internalized shame. I've written about this already at length, so this time I want examine his character through the lens of self-harm.

I've cited self-harming behavior as a stabilizing factor of a coercive system. There are many ways Crosshair is self-harming. Fo example, he isolates himself from the Bad Batch and instead chooses to spend 32 days abandoned on a platform on Kamino until the Empire picks him up. In The Solitary Clone, Crosshair fires the shot that kills the rightful governor. I have seen a take that argues he does that because he wants to prevent Cody from having to do it, but think about who else is in the room: the Imperial Governor, Crosshair's superior, is watching the scene. The panopticon isn't just an abstract notion in this moment, Crosshair is literally under surveillance.

Self-harm always contains a self-shaming component (I don't need to cite sources for that, do I? Let me know if this is not evident). And Crosshair is walking down the path he is because he's unable to face his shame. He is too ashamed to walk away from the Empire, because then all the harm he inflicted on himself and others would have been for nothing. Chronic shame is an emotion that threatens the core of one's being. That's why he needs to believe that he is worth something, even if that something is being a deadly tool for the Empire.

If you look at real-life coercive systems (for example cults, or certain political subgroups) you will notice a rhetoric of constant self-apotheosis that claims an inherent superiority of its members. At the same time, inner-group shaming is such an integral part of the system that it's often ritualized (dogpiling; a specific catalogue of insults that is used; public punishments). Ritualized self-harm is very much part of it (public repenting; engaging in dangerous group behaviors: think of frat students dueling).

Crosshair allowing the Empire to use him is a form of self-harm. Crosshair shooting Tawni Ames on Desix is a form of self-harm. And Cody analyzes this so swiftly, so pointedly, it leaves Crosshair speechless. "We make our own decisions." Cody says. "Our own choices. And we have to live with them too." Crosshair is committing all these atrocious acts in the name of the Empire, and so far ignores how it shaped him; in the season 1 finale Crosshair claims in front of Hunter that this is his true self he has always been; a lie, for course, any lying to oneself is a form of self-harm also.

After the talk with Cody, Crosshair doesn't sleep well even though he did before. After Cody's precise diagnosis, Crosshair can't lie to himself anymore. Even worse, after this ordeal, he is still drawing suspicions from his superior after Cody defects. "It appears he has gone AWOL." Rampart casually says "Clone loyalty does not seem to be as advertised anymore. Funny, isn't it? How these clones around you keep disappearing."

Spending 32 days on a desolate platform. Murdering people. All these sacrifices and Crosshair is still under scrutiny.

See, there is a tipping point to even the most stable coercive system; shame does an incredible job to stabilize a system, until it becomes too much and people either leave because the costs of leaving are lower in comparison (like Cody does), or they self-destruct (like Crosshair does?). The problem is, Crosshair is used to endure a lot of shame (as a 'defective clone') and a lot of pain; and these qualities *keep* him in the system rather than enable him to leave it, until he can overcome his inferiority complex.

In any case, Crosshair's arc is one of developing self-love (if positive) or succumbing to self-destruction (if negative).

(pls no season 2 spoilers, I haven't fully watched it yet)

[ereana]

Alhaitham/Cyno - out of habit

“With all due respect Acting Grand Sage Alhaitham, you cannot deny that with the ongoing upheaval of our nation and the willingness of certain sections of the Corps of Thirty to blindly follow orders that it is vital for the Matra to be strengthened so as to prevent further chaos.” Cyno states firmly, seemingly oblivious to the whispers and stares that have broken out around him since he appeared in the Grand Sage’s office.

Alhaitham bites back a smile, simply leaning back in the ornate, extremely uncomfortable chair and gestures to the papers splayed out on his temporary desk. 

“I agree that the Matra have been a key force in helping to stabilize Sumeru, but your recommended budget increase would see the organization receiving the same funding as one of the Darshans. Some would say that’s a rather exorbitant amount given the size of the Matra and their perceived reputation of stifling knowledge rather than seeking it.”

Cyno’s eyes narrow at him from across the desk as a hush falls over the crowd. Just what were they witnessing here? Was another Grand Sage, even if he was only an Acting one, about to be dragged off by the formidable General Mahamatra to be dealt wrathful judgment? Would Lord Kusanali need to intervene to protect the man she handpicked to be Azar’s replacement? Would Cyno be scolded for such an audacious request?

The onlookers are so caught up in their own musings and own perceptions of the truth that they fail to grasp what is in front of them. Not that any of them is equipped to understand either man in any case.

Alhaitham sees the sparkle in Cyno’s eye right before he launches into an impressive argument to refute the stinging implication of Alhaitham’s remarks.

It is quite something to watch the General wield words as skillfully as he does his weapon, Alhaitham would quite happily listen to Cyno’s voice for hours if he didn’t have his own part to play in this little performance of theirs.

He shoots down Cyno’s points, attacks the apparent weaknesses in his claims, and in doing so gives Cyno the chance to make his case to the Akademiya. Snippets of his speech and logic will leave this meeting in the minds of those here to witness it, a useful tool to quiet the inevitable grumblings when Alhaitham signs off to approve the increase as he had every intention of doing when Cyno first approached him about it.

This scene isn’t for Cyno to convince Alhaitham, it’s to convince everyone else. The words that fly between them may seem like arrows shot across a frenzied battlefield, but all are carefully aimed to display skill rather than to cause harm.

It’s surprisingly fun. They’d prepared a few of the arguments beforehand but so as not to make it seem rehearsed Cyno hadn’t told him everything, trusting Alhaitham to assist with his own intelligence and rhetorical prowess. Alhaitham hasn't had a good debate like this in years. Something about being labeled a lunatic made people shy away from engaging in discussions with him. 

Eventually the final point is said, the conclusion reached and Alhaitham bows his head to Cyno. To the outsider a sign of defeat and subservience to the rising star of the General Mahamatra but between them a gesture of respect for a game well played.

“You’ve made your point General. I’ll make the necessary changes before sending it to tLord Kusanali for her approval.” Alhaitham says, reaching for his pen.

He can’t quite hide the smile that curls at his mouth now, too pleased, too struck by the unusual playfulness of what they’ve done to pull a mask over it. Cyno’s eyes lock onto it like a Rishboland Tiger finding its prey.

With a movement that is as unstoppable as a desert sandstorm Cyno reaches across the desk towards him. His hand is warm on Alhaitham’s jaw as he bends his head down and Alhaitham doesn’t even think to stop him as he sinks into the familiar motion, already moving to meet him halfway, eyes closing instinctively. 

Like they’ve done so a hundred times before their lips meet in a sweet kiss that never fails to leave Alhaitham yearning for more. Sweeter than honey. Sweeter than sugar or any of the multitude of fruits which grow in this fertile land. An addicting, sticky sweetness that Alhaitham will chase after for as long as Cyno permits him to.

He pulls back with a sigh, opening his eyes to the welcome sight of Cyno’s smiling face. Soft and fond, and everything Alhaitham isn’t quite sure he deserves but wants badly enough to not care.

A strangled cough cuts through the blissful silence and Cyno freezes.

Alhaitham glances at the group of scholars gawking at the pair of them, moving his own hand to cover Cyno’s and prevent him from pulling away. The secret is out now and he’ll enjoy Cyno’s touch for as long as possible. 

Let it never be said he wasn’t a practical man.

Cyno drops his head onto Alhaitham’s shoulders and groans.

“Why did you have to smile like that?” He complains with a whine. Alhaitham bites his lip so as not to laugh. 

“Apologies, I did not know that would provoke such a…warm reaction from you. I’ll keep it in mind for the future.” Alhaitham spares another look at the crowd still staring at them as the whispers erupt once more at a new fereish pitch. “On the bright side I don’t think anyone will be grumbling about your budget increase when they’ve got this to preoccupy themselves with.”

Cyno groans again in embarrassed agreement, pulling back to meet Alhaitham’s gaze once more.

“The others are never going to let me live this down, they all thought you would be the one to slip up.”

Alhaitham rolls his eyes. “I know, Kaveh will be disappointed to lose the betting pot and try to make it my problem for the next week.”

That provokes a chuckle from his general. “I’m sure Candace will only be a little smug about winning.”

Alhaitham hums in vague agreement, already pulling Cyno closer to kiss him again. Cyno isn’t the only one with a weakness for his partner’s joy.

[emcandon]

Eyyyy I got asked to write an essay about big robots and digressed into mulling over monstrous metaphors

There’s Bones in that Bot By Emma Mieko Candon When people met me at 25, the wrongness of my body was immediately apparent. It was the thinness, the frailty, the new scars and fragile veins. Another clue: the walker and its cat-mauled tennis balls. So too the oxygen tank—the fancy kind you keep in a bag that spurts air up the tube into your nose only when you inhale. Tst-tst-tst. Even when I graduated to a cane and a steady gait, I made no effort to hide the red tangle of knotty scars at my throat, though I did my best to contain the chronic cough. (A mistake, BTW. Cover your mouth, but don’t hold it in. Great way to put even more stress on the flesh apparatus.) I had by then long since been convinced by Donna Haraway’s thesis of cyborg humanity—that we as entities exceeded our flesh the second we developed tool use, and that it got even worse when we introduced the context of gifts and possessions. But as the years go on, the extended thing-ness of my body only grows more apparent. I am artificial and constructed; I am alive because I have been built.  I thought this was what brought me to a fascination with robots and AI—the extension of humanity through embodied machines! But no, my friends said. We remember the whole Gundam thing. The Machine is a Monster Right, the whole Gundam thing. About that.

This might sound weird coming from someone who’s just put out a book about beautiful giant robots, but I’ve never really been interested in robots—at least when they aren��t moving. When a giant robot is just standing there/floating in space/being a Gunpla model, a monument to itself, my eyes pass over its silhouette as they would any other large structure. Perhaps I’m impressed by its artistry, or intrigued by the underlying design, but it isn’t really an object of curiosity.

But when that titan lifts its hand? When its leg rises and its foot crashes down—when it turns its arm to reveal the medium of great violence? 

Then I am afraid. Then I am fascinated.

I am drawn to large machinery in the way I am to monsters. When I describe something on the magnitude of a spaceship, I know it can be warmth and a home, but it is also, to me, an existential threat of size and speed and impact. My body is all too familiar with its own fragility. I cannot perceive this immensity without thinking of my fundamental physical relationship to it.

I don’t know that I was thinking any of this, even on an intuitive level, when Gundam Wing first stomped into my life—when it was Toonami’s heady alternative to Dragon Ball Z that I was instantly in love with for the pretty boys and twisty political intrigue. Now, though, I am well versed in the brittle nature of my body, and I have been taking new hikes through Gundam: Iron-Blooded Orphans, then more recently (it just finished! go watch it!) Gundam: the Witch from Mercury. Both series are immediately and intimately Gundam at its best: 

1. an interrogation of exploited bodies in the context of vast systems and machines

2. the absurd and precious possibility of human connection.

Ah, right, and 3., the eternal backbone of Gundam as a narrative: War…bad???

The Monster is People

War bad. Seems silly. Pithy. Of course war bad. No one right with their mind, body, or soul wants war. 

Do they? Enh. Reality seems to beg to differ. War is happening, right now, all over, in all its ugliness and horror. The great machines of nation, capital, hunger, and hatred grind our smallness through cruelty after cruelty. And for all these great things are the dire mechanisms, it is small human hands that pull the triggers and incise flesh. It is a devouring cycle, it is corrosively sick, we are so pitifully trapped.

I struggle to write this with any kind of resonance or meaning. War bad. Simple, two words, three letters each, and yet abysmally less than the entirety they gesture toward. How many more words would I need? How many more letters and syllables and theories and treatises and grotesqueries must I lay down to properly express war?

Because you have to say something. The nothing is worse. Deadly. 

But how? How do you encapsulate the monstrous enormity? How do you even begin?

I don’t know, I don’t know. But I see how some have tried.

The People is the Machine

Giant robots are shockingly silly. They’re physically impossible. They’re often being painted bright LEGO colours or being constructed out of mechanized lions. As often as they’re the centre of gritty stories of human suffering (with a touch of transcendent human connection), they’re goofy warriors for goodness, light, and the power of friendship, taking part in schlocky melodrama. When asked by a stranger what I write about, I say “Oh, giant robots” in the most self-effacing tone. SILLY!

Here’s the thing: this genre has a legacy, at least in Japan. There, mecha stories arrive in the aftermath of World War II, during which Japan both suffered and was the perpetrator of unconscionable violence. And in that aftermath, the Japanese government was (and still is) often eager to honour only its own dead—and to sweep under the rug all the horrors it committed. 

How do you live with that? How do you breathe? What do you say?

I don’t think it’s always—or even usually—conscious. Maybe you just find yourself drawn to the idea of samurai and ronin, men of violence bound by rigid hierarchies and honour codes. And maybe you particularly like to write stories where their moral centres are flayed open by the commands of their superiors. “Kill that man,” says the lord. “This doesn’t seem right,” says the samurai—as he kills the man, and then has to somehow goddamn live with it.

Maybe this is what you need to express the overwhelming pressure of complicity and silence.

Or maybe you find yourself thinking in terms of the sheerly absurd. Monsters of incredible magnitude. Robots of like immensity. Maybe you use them to evoke atrocities lived and visited upon your world and body. Maybe it seems only right that they should also dance, that they should be cartoonish caricatures of human experience. Because maybe this metaphor of ludicrous size and self is just the best way to articulate a raw immensity that you cannot otherwise grasp. 

Maybe that’s why the robot needs to be larger than the world should ever let it be.

They’re Metaphors, Harold

Small wonder that, when I started writing a book driven by the dissolution of my body, I reached for the magnitude of mechs. It wasn’t intentional. It just happened. Here was an idea perfectly fashioned for a story of total self-destruction and survival. I wasn’t looking to express how I had been let to live because of my artificial hips, or because of the machines that pumped air and blood out of and back into my body. I was trying to capture a giant. 

No. That’s not right. I was trying to say that I had been captured by that giant.

No. That’s not right either. I was trying to say that the giant had pulverized me, and that in so doing, it had made me part of it, and that now I live with the tremors of its weight in my every step.

I got so fucking big.

[williammason1]

Are You Protected from Investment Fraud? William Mason Shares Crucial Tips to Safeguard Your Money

In recent years, the stock market has become a fertile ground for scammers, exploiting the hopes and dreams of unsuspecting investors. William Mason, a renowned financial expert and the creator of the "William Trend Momentum Portfolio System," shares his insights and advice on how to protect yourself from becoming a victim of stock market scams, all while highlighting the benefits of his innovative investment app.

The Rise of Stock Market Scams

The internet has made investing more accessible, but it has also provided scammers with new opportunities to deceive people. Recently, an Australian retired couple lost over $2.5 million in an investment scam, highlighting the devastating impact of such frauds. The scam started with a seemingly legitimate ad on Google, promising safe investment opportunities through "St. George Capital," which falsely claimed affiliation with the well-known St. George Bank. This case underscores the importance of vigilance and thorough verification before making any investment.

William Mason's Perspective on Fraud Prevention

William Mason, with his extensive background in finance and his commitment to investor education, emphasizes that awareness and education are the first lines of defense against scams. According to Mason, understanding the common tactics used by scammers and recognizing red flags can significantly reduce the risk of falling victim to fraud.

Mason's "William Trend Momentum Portfolio System" is designed to help investors identify market trends and make informed decisions. This system combines trend lines, moving averages, and other technical indicators to help investors capture market trends and achieve better returns. However, even the best investment strategies cannot protect against deceitful practices if investors are not vigilant.

Key Warning Signs of Investment Scams

Mason highlights several red flags that investors should watch out for. First, offers that seem too good to be true often are. High returns with little or no risk are a classic hallmark of scams. Pressure tactics are another red flag; legitimate investments allow time for consideration and consultation. Unverified credentials should also be a concern. Always verify the legitimacy of the person or company offering the investment through official channels. A lack of transparency is another warning sign. Legitimate investments provide detailed information about risks, terms, and returns. Finally, be cautious of fake contact information. Scammers often use false addresses, phone numbers, and email addresses to appear legitimate.

Real-Life Example: The Sawyer's Story

The case of the Sawyers, who were tricked into investing in fake Commonwealth Bank corporate bonds, serves as a cautionary tale. They were misled by scammers who posed as bank employees and convinced them to transfer large sums of money into accounts controlled by the fraudsters. Despite their efforts to recover their funds, they faced significant challenges due to the lack of support from the banks involved.

Protecting Yourself from Scams

William Mason's insights are invaluable in helping investors protect themselves from scams. He stresses the importance of verifying the source of any investment opportunity and understanding the investment thoroughly. Be wary of pressure tactics and ensure your online accounts are secure with strong passwords and two-factor authentication. Staying informed about common scams and fraud tactics is crucial. Seeking independent advice from financial advisors can provide an additional layer of protection. Utilizing tools like Bitdefender Scamio can help detect phishing emails and fake ads. Finally, reporting suspected scams to authorities can help prevent others from falling victim and aid in recovering lost funds.

The Power of the "William Trend Momentum Portfolio System" App

To further assist investors in navigating the complexities of the stock market, William Mason has developed a comprehensive investment app. This app leverages the principles of the "William Trend Momentum Portfolio System," providing users with powerful tools to identify market trends and make informed investment decisions. The app's user-friendly interface and robust features make it an essential tool for both novice and experienced investors.

By integrating real-time data, advanced analytics, and personalized investment advice, the app empowers users to maximize their investment potential while minimizing risks. Mason's commitment to investor education is reflected in the app's extensive resources, including tutorials, market insights, and expert tips. This innovative platform not only enhances the investment experience but also serves as a critical safeguard against scams.

Conclusion

William Mason's insights and the tragic experiences of victims like the Sawyers highlight the importance of vigilance and education in preventing investment fraud. By staying informed, verifying sources, and seeking independent advice, investors can protect themselves from scams and make more informed decisions. Mason's commitment to investor education through his "William Trend Momentum Portfolio System" aims to empower investors with the knowledge and tools needed to navigate the complexities of the stock market safely. The introduction of his innovative investment app further solidifies this mission, providing a reliable and user-friendly platform to enhance investment strategies and protect against fraud.

[away-ward]

oh my! Your blogs are lively these day, we love to see them! Happy valentines day KO, hopefully you have a good week 🥰

You reply to latest anon "Let me know what it would take to make WinterMichael work (joking)." HAHAHAHAHAHA IM SO SORRY WHATTTTTT im not gonna lie, i just bust out laughing when i read that. They never even come across my mind, now, but i'm very 🤨🫣 what have you done to me KO!! Damon Rika would end us!!

i love the damon-will-emory discussions that had been going on here too, so fun to see how people interpret characters and stories so similar yet so different than others! I can't lie, not until this week did i only notice about will being deceitful and cunning, maybe because it was never highlighted as much in other DN discussion & platforms? I only ever heard him being sunshine and suffering, but now that i took a step back and look at his personality... hmmm 🤔🫢 maybe these anon readers are onto something! Thank you all for this enlightening, maybe i should read this series more critically, how could i miss this!!

KO, question for you, list any 3 aspects of DN that you like a lot, doesn't matter if it's about the style, plot, characters, writing, feeling, etc. I don't think you've talked about this before right? Or maybe you did, but i never saw it, because i'm new ✌️😗

Hello new friend!

The frequency of asks definitely goes through phases. It’ll be silent for weeks and then a flood, but I don’t mind.

Damon Rika would end us!!

I’m still convinced that this is the reason PD made them siblings. They’re too easy to ship otherwise. But I also feel that they want to ship them, too, so they sort of shot themselves in the foot with that.

i love the damon-will-emory discussions that had been going on here too, so fun to see how people interpret characters and stories so similar yet so different than others!

It’s a lot of fun to see how other people interpret the series! It can be frustrating too, at times, but it’s mostly so much fun because it’s not really that serious. And a lot of readers have really good thoughts and insights that I would never have thought of. As long as it stays fun and respectful, I’ve loved getting asks of people just going off with their thoughts and interpretations.

Not until this week did I only notice about will being deceitful and cunning,

Seeing Will this way gives him so many layers, I highly recommend! I don’t want to toot my own horn, but if you haven’t read my 7k word Will analysis, you might find that interesting.

KO, question for you, list any 3 aspects of DN that you like a lot

Ooooo, okay! DN actually ticked a lot of boxes for me. I’ve touched on it before but no harm in going over it again.

I think the main thing I enjoy in any piece of entertainment is layers.

I really enjoyed the dual timeline aspect.

This is one of my favorite tools of storytelling. I love when the story starts in the middle and then takes us back and forth to tell the story. We get to watch everything unfold in layers instead of a straight shot. Don’t tell it to me straight, make me piece it together.

Friendship groups

I love strong friendship groups/dynamics. There’s been a rise in the core “3-4 Boys Rule the school” trope, and those don’t always hit with me, so it’s not that.

How relationships between people in the group grow and develop at different rates, and how different types of people show love in different ways, and how people band together to cover another’s area of weakness.

There’s a few quotes from Devil’s Night that I feel really hit on why this is interesting to me, but I ran across one the other day from Fire Night. Talking about Damon (who else, really?) Kai says,

“God, I hated him. I mean, I definitely jump off a bridge for him, but…”

It just drives me crazy wondering why? And I love that.

I’m debating on what a third thing was. I think the other two things hooked me enough to keep me reading, but…

The writing wasn’t terrible all the time. I loved Thunder Bay as a concept, and I think I was really hoping that the books would lean more into a crime/heist plot than they did. I remember in Conclave when Rika was like “but we’re not criminals” I was really disappointed.

They are criminals, and I wanted them to own it and do something with it. In my head, that’s were I would have taken the story. I don’t really care how they ended up in jail. They played with the law, they faced the consequences. The lesson they should have learned was be better criminals. Instead, we focused on how traumatizing that was for them, which… okay I guess.

I mean, overall the story caught me. If it wasn’t for Willemmy high school, I probably wouldn’t still be around. But I loved them so much that I sort of built up what I did enjoy and wish had taken place over the pieces that I didn’t really care for. A lot of what I talk about is just headcanon, but that’s okay. That’s what I use fandom for.

Thanks for the question, that was fun. Feel free to let me know what you enjoyed/why you're still here! It seems everyone loves to hate on the things that didn't work for them, which can be fun too. But there has to be a reason this series is occupying a space in our heads, right?

Looking forward to it

Ko

[hasanurrahmanseoexpert]

#ChatGPT is the future of, #content_writing, and #blogging

For the last 2-3 months, many people have asked me the question of whether content writing or blogging has a future or if is it all over after the advent of "AI"?

My experience of almost 8 years in the technical and academic sector says the future of blogging is not only good but this tech tsunami will give rise to a "new breed of blogger" community. One thing is for sure there will be a lot of pressure on beginner and mid-level writers. But those among them who have analytical and critical thinking skills or desire to develop them will enter that community very easily.

But if you still have the mentality of writing a hybrid blog after seeing the 10 articles on the first page, then the future is not very good. My personal opinion is that the industry does not need a writer anymore, now it needs someone who can look at a subject from many angles, analyze it, and write according to the needs of the reader in almost all aspects.

Writing in this whole process is not a big deal, it can let you write Chat GPT, Bing Chat, or the upcoming Google Bird. What's most important is whether the blog or video already on your blog doesn't rank well. And what is there that your target readers really want to read?

In my opinion, this is still not entirely possible for an AI to do. This can only be done by an expert researcher who can see and think about a subject from many angles.

The Weaknesses of "AI" in Content Writing (So Far)

Now let's see what weaknesses of "AI" you can exploit as an expert blogger. At the end of the day, AI is not human. Therefore, even if he wants to, he cannot bring any human experience or engagement to the writing. It is true that all "AI" tools write great English and almost 100% perfect writing but after reading you will understand that the writing is written by machine and written for machine.

When we write about a subject, our own opinions, viewpoints, thoughts come into play even if we don't want to and that makes our writing unique. "AI" can come up with a lot of data, statistics, or case studies, but it's true that a user got more mileage using which engine oil or which coffee grinder grinds arabica beans more finely than java beans, but that's too convincing for "AI". Hard to say.

Many more examples can be given where "AI" cannot create and write real human experiences even if it wants to. No matter how much you write a health and wellness blog with the "eye" of someone who has actually experienced the problem or seen it happen to someone else, you can never write it.

At the end of the day people want to know another person's experience and this is where you can show your charisma as an expert researcher. I started a health supplement blog last November where the writers write mostly with "AI" editing and fact checking myself and I do the final editing myself. The organic growth of the site is 92 keywords in November to 722 in February. Traffic in November 79 in February 591. Where is the worst?

After watching several SEO experts' videos and my own site experience in the past few days, it seems that Chat GPT or Bing Chat have not yet fully learned SERPAnalysis. Especially when the search intent is mixed or split.

As a researcher you have a lot of role to play here. It is not yet possible for any "AI" tools to understand what the reader is actually looking for and what the intent is "between the lines" by looking at a competitor's blog or video. So what can you content writers do now? As I have said before, I think the market will be much more difficult for beginner and mid-level writers who still read 10 blogs and write one. In other words, the work will be greatly reduced.

So what to do?

The only thing to do is to stay ahead of AI in human engagement. It can be in two ways. Try to break down a topic or keyword as much as possible. Treat the keyword as a problem and your role will be to provide one or more authentic solutions to that problem. Repeat the two questions: Whose problem is it and why is the person looking for the solution? These answers will help you understand the topics "between the lines". Hey, this is where you go way beyond "AI".

Another thing where AI still lags in my opinion is data selection. When you ask a question, Chat GPT or Bing Chat gives you a lot of data as reference which is not necessary for the reader.

Since you already know who is searching for that specific problem and why, you can use any data or references that actually meet the search intent. Can you stay ahead of "AI" by using only these two weaknesses? not at all Today "AI" may be a little weak in these two aspects but very soon they will be fixed by "AI". But at the end of the day, one thing never can. "AI" cannot be human. Yes, it can be much more humane but maybe "AI" still has a lot of time to understand that the same question can be answered differently depending on the situation, time, place, tense, container.

And as a true researcher, this is where you will always be ahead. Now is the time to ditch traditional writing altogether and hone your analytical and critical thinking skills. But keeping up with AI in the future will not be an easy task.

[moxfirefly]

Well! You ask I deliver. The 'only one bed' trope with Donnie and his crush? Doesnt have to be nsfw or anything, it can be pure pre-relationship fluff :3 (I also live for that trope even if irl sharing a bed isnt a big deal at all)

Have a nice day!!

*rubs hands together* you never let me down friend 🖤

Rated Fluff and Tension™️

This was stupid.

Absolutely dumb.

So why was he approaching it like it was a complex reconstruction of the truck and the tools just happened to be on fire?

Donnie sighed, there was no reason to blow this out of proportions. Everyone had already climbed onto their respective beds. While Casey and April had no issues sharing the small cot and Vern had been relegated to the couch, you were left to share a bed with anybody willing of. Before the sentence was done you had announced that you didn’t mind sleeping with Donnie.

Which earned you a snort from Mikey, who’s mouth was quickly covered, a smile from Leo and Raph basically telling you the bed would be yours since ‘Einstein don’t sleep shit anyways’

Baseless assumptions.

He slept. He slept plenty. He just slept really really really late into midnight…maybe dawn…sometimes around sunrise.

Point in hand though, he was genuinely tired right about now and you had drifted off a couple of hours ago and you were just…

Was it possible e to fall in love even more when somebody looks the way you do when they sleep? Your sleep shorts had little pineapples on them, that was downright the most stupidest thing that’s ever made him go keyboard smash in his life.

With a sigh he took off his glasses and bandana. Maybe you were an early bird, as soon as he crashed you would hopefully wake up and start your morning. Exhaustion reared it’s ugly little claws at his brain and with all the stealth he possessed he approached his bed.

Currently occupied by you.

The most beautiful thing on this fucking side of the galaxy.

“Do you usually watch people sleep?” Came your groggy voice. Donnie yelped, no his best sound, but he could’ve sworn you were asleep. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you, I’m just trying to-“ You scooted away before he could say or ask and patted the free space on his bed. “Climb on” You smiled sleepily, half closed eyes watched him get in and lay on his side to face you. “Sorry for the accommodations, we did vote to throw Vern out but dad insisted we remain kind” That brought a sleepy snort from you, which only made him smile more. “Crushed that he vetoed that, but I’m not gonna lie, this beats hotel beds by a long shot” You offered him more of the covers, making sure he was snuggled and relaxed.

It was interesting. The idle chat whispered between the two of you. Your scent on his sheets, the way the fairy lights casted a soft glow on your skin.

He quite liked this.

Man, he liked you a lot too.

“I’m a kicker by the way, hope that doesn’t put you off” You nudged his knee with your toes.

“Cant be worse than Leo, I’m convinced he trains in his sleep, I bunked with him until we were maybe 7 or 8, I don’t miss it” The both of you chuckled as quietly as possible.

“Would’ve taken Mikey for the kicker” He saw your eyes run across his maskless face and missing eyewear, he liked the tiny smile you gave him.

“Nuclear warfare could go off next to Mikey and he still wouldn’t budge” That made you cover your mouth to stifle a louder snort.

Donnie caught you looking at his face more, if he could get red faced he would’ve. “You alright?” He hesitated to ask. You in turn nodded before sticking a hand out from the sheets to pat his chin. “You look different without the eyeglasses and bandana” You noted softly to which Donne felt another wave of embarrassment hit. Different good? Different bad?

“I like it, the shape of your eyes is cute”

Cute?

“Thanks, never really saw myself like that” It felt like an autopilot response regardless of his heart threatening to wake up everybody in the Lair. You shrugged, already feeling sleep tickle your senses.

“You’re very cute, Donnie” You yawned a little and turned away and bid him a good night.

The shape of your back, the curve of your body, he could memorize this forever, recreate it in his brain perfectly.

“Think you’re beautiful, y/n” He spoke more to himself, the gentle rise of your back told him you were fast asleep again.

You weren’t.

[himluv]

The Final Goodbye

This isn't the last piece of Inevitable, but it is the last one I wrote. In a lot of ways, it is my last Solavellan piece. And I have so fucking many feelings about that.

So, so many feelings.

Blackwall was the first to leave. Riallan had banished the Grey Wardens from Southern Thedas after the mess at Adamant Fortress, and Blackwall had made it clear he only wanted to stay long enough to see the Breach sealed once and for all. 

He lingered long enough for the party, to give his congratulations and his goodbyes. He had loved her, in his own way, even when she’d given her love to another. Even when she’d broken his heart when she sent the Wardens back to Weisshaupt. She had treated him as more a subordinate than a friend, and she would always regret that. 

But he’d still managed to say goodbye.

“My Lady,” he said, and gave her a respectful bow. “It has been an honor to serve at your side.”

She gave him a sad smile. It seemed all she had was sad smiles these days. They stood at the gate surrounded by their companions. Blackwall stood beside one of Dennet’s best horses, a gift from the Inquisition.

“Please, Blackwall. We were honored to have you.” She took a deep breath and put on her best Inquisitor voice. “The Inquisition could not have done this without your guidance. You taught our soldiers so much.”

He blushed. “Bah. Cullen had ‘em good and ready before I got my hands on ‘em.”

An awkward moment stretched between them, the tension rising until she knew he was on the verge of a confession. “Safe travels on your way to Weisshaupt,” she said. 

He watched her a moment, weighed the idea of saying what he had to say anyway, and then decided against it. “Thank you, Your Worship. Be well,” he looked around the throng of their friends, “all of you.” 

Then he swung up onto his Courser and rode away. 

Sera went next. Riallan was surprised she’d made it that long, the elf was so antsy to distance herself from the Inquisition. 

“Gettin’ too big,” she said, pretty much every chance she got. “You’re big people now, you and Stabby Whatsit. Maybe too big.”

Riallan got the sense that she was trying to convince herself to leave. “What’s keeping you, then?” She asked one night in the Tavern. 

“I don’t like goodbyes,” Sera said into her tankard. “When I do go, I’ll just pop off and be gone in the night.”

Which was exactly what she did. One day she was in the Tavern, the next she was gone, leaving only a note:

It ain’t goodbye. You’re a Friend, no matter how big your breeches get. And when you need a friend, you just call on Red Jenny. We’ll be there. With bees.

Upon further inspection, Dagna had also vanished, taking her tools and more than a little metal with her.

Vivienne stayed longer than anyone expected, arguing with Leliana about the future of the Mage Circles. The Nightingale would be named Divine Victoria in a matter of weeks, and the Enchanter saw her opportunities to mold events dwindling. 

Leliana was adamant that mandatory Circles be a thing of the past, instead hoping to replace them with optional Colleges. That was unthinkable to Vivienne and the disagreements became things of legend. The two were too well-versed at the Grand Game to ever shout, but any who heard them agreed that the undertone of the conversations was downright lethal.

Finally sensing her failure to persuade Leliana to retain the Circles, Vivienne de Fer decided to leave.

“Riallan, darling,” Vivienne said from her sofa. She’d invited the Inquisitor up to her loft for brunch. She patted the cushion beside her. “Please, sit.”

“Vivienne,” Riallan said. “You wanted to speak with me?”

“I wanted to see how you’re doing,” she said, sipping a tea cup. “You know… romantically.”

Riallan didn’t choke on her tea, but it was a near thing. She wasn’t aware they were close enough for such a conversation. She said as much.

Vivienne scoffed. “Please. You helped me with my dear Bastien. You must allow me to repay the favor.”

Riallan looked down at the dainty cup cradled on her lap. “You don’t owe me anything, Vivienne. I helped you because you asked. That’s all.”

Vivienne’s smile could frost glass, but a lingering warmth glowed in her eyes. “I do not enjoy being indebted to anyone, Inquisitor.” She sighed. “But if I must owe someone, I suppose you’re not the worst.”

Riallan snorted. “Thanks?”

“It has been most illuminating, working with you Inquisitor.” She stood, offering her hand to Riallan. “If you’re ever in Monstimmard, do call.”

And that was that. The Enchanter was gone the next morning, the lingering scent of her perfume the only indication she’d ever called the mezzanine home. 

Next went The Iron Bull. It was late one night, in the Tavern, and Riallan could feel the quiet anxiety that plagued the Chargers. 

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she asked Bull once they had a moment to themselves.

He sighed, leveling a soft eye on her. It almost looked like an apology. “Yeah.”

She nodded, staring down into her mug. 

“It’s time,” he continued. “They’re getting antsy.’ He tilted his chin to the Chargers, who all looked rather solemn for what was supposed to be a night of revelry. 

She raised a brow at him. “They’re ansty, or you are?”

He grunted at that. “Bit of both.”

“Where will you go?”

He shrugged. “We’ve seen a bit of Ferelden, a bit of Orlais… maybe it’s time we paid the Marches a visit.”

Riallan thought of home for the first time in far too long, and felt a distinct ache in her chest. She smiled through it. “I have it on good authority that the Marches are lovely this time of year.”

Bull’s eye twinkled with equal parts humor and sadness. “You’ll just have to come visit us then.”

They both knew the last time she visited the Marches was to Wycome. To put her Clan to rest. The last time she traveled to the Marches she was with Solas.

“Maybe I will,” she said. 

They clinked their mugs together at that, smiles a little bit wider, a little warmer at the thought that she might venture out to see them again.

Even though they both knew she wouldn’t.

The next morning, when Riallan woke with a headache thumping behind her eyes and the Waking Sea churning in her stomach, The Iron Bull and his Chargers were long gone. The quiet that settled over Skyhold in their absence was eerie. Unnatural. 

The keep felt empty without them, and for the first time Riallan felt the sting of farewell.

Leliana left soon after, unable to delay her arrival in Val Royeaux any longer. And while her goodbyes were genuine and heartfelt, they were brief. The Nightingale’s mind was far from Skyhold by then, already plotting her moves for the Chantry well in advance. 

Saying goodbye to Leliana was not hard. 

It was that Cassandra went with her that left Riallan feeling bereft. The Seeker came to her late one evening. With the Herald’s Rest too quiet and the rotunda too painful, Riallan had taken to wandering the gardens at night. The late summer air still had a bite to it, thanks to the keep’s permanent chill, and Riallan pulled her maela’s shawl tighter around her shoulders.

She heard Cassandra long before she saw her. Her boots rang heavy against the stone walkway, her sword clanging gently against her hip. Purposeful. Intense. That was Cassandra.

“Inquisitor.”

Riallan turned to face her, somewhat exasperated. How many times had she told this woman she disliked her title? She was about to say as much, but then she noticed the anxious expression on Cassandra’s face.

“Is something the matter?”

Cassandra winced. “No.”

Riallan raised a brow.

“Not exactly.” She grunted. “Leliana leaves tomorrow,” she said. 

Riallan nodded. “I know. She came to tell me goodbye after dinner.” 

Cassandra nodded, kicking at the dirt beneath their feet. 

“Do you worry for our new Divine?”

The Seeker snorted. “I always worry about Leliana.” She sighed. “That is why I must go with her.”

Riallan’s gut clenched and she barely stopped herself from taking a step back as if from a physical blow. She blinked at Cassandra and struggled to find some composure. She cleared her throat. “I see.”

Cassandra continued, as if trying to convince them both that this was the right decision. “The rifts are sealed. The Inquisition’s purpose is complete. You don’t need me.” 

Riallan couldn’t breathe. Cassandra’s voice sounded far away, as if through water. Riallan was sinking, and all she could think was that she needed the Seeker — needed her strength — to haul her back above water.

“Inquisitor?”

Riallan blinked, breath coming fast, but she nodded. “Of course. If Leliana needs you, you should go.”

Cassandra took a step closer. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Of course.” More nodding. Maybe if she nodded enough, said it enough, it would be true.

Cassandra gave Riallan a look that plainly said she did not believe her, but she sighed. “May I be  honest with you?”

“I should hope so.” Riallan smiled, but it felt forced. 

Cassandra gave her a critical look, one that sized her up and found her lacking. “I am torn.”

“About going to Val Royeaux?”

“About leaving you.”

Riallan scoffed, but Cassandra continued. 

“This year has been a difficult one, to say the least. Ever since Corypheus fell you have not been the same.”

Riallan looked down at her feet, at the embrium blossoms that had recently bloomed. Anywhere but at the Seeker.

“Frankly, you have not been yourself since Solas—“

“I know, Cassandra.” Riallan didn’t mean to snap at her friend, but she couldn’t talk about this. She couldn’t talk about him. “I know,” she whispered.

A long moment of silence stretched between them. Just the wind in the trees and the soft chirrups of crickets in the brush.

“I am sorry,” Cassandra said. “You deserved better than that.”

Did she? Once she had thought so, full of anger and outrage, but now she was just grateful for the time they’d had. And didn’t she carry some of the blame? He had warned her after all.

Riallan shook her head. “’It would be kinder in the long run,’” she said. “That’s what he said to me before he told me he loved me for the first time.”

Cassandra watched her, eyes heavy in the shadows of the garden. 

“He warned me. He always knew it would end this way, and I didn’t listen.” Riallan looked up at her friend, fighting back tears. “So did I really deserve better?”

Cassandra put a hand on Riallan’s shoulder, pulled her into fierce hug. “Yes, Riallan. You did.” She held her at arm’s length and stooped to look her friend in the eye. “Of course you deserved better! To leave without saying goodbye? Without the answers he promised you?”

Riallan nodded, and then paused. “Wait. How do you know he promised me answers?”

Cassandra paled. “I, uh. I—“ she sighed. “Varric told me.”

Riallan groaned, covering her face with her hands. “He’s writing a book, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes. If I’m not mistaken, he is very nearly finished with it.”

Riallan peered between her fingers. “If I decide to kill him, will you help me?”

Cassandra grinned. “I’m certain the Divine can survive long enough for me to assist you, if the need arises.” Her smile faded someone as she said, “But can we wait until the book is finished?”

“Cassandra!”

Both women laughed and smiled, and knew that their friendship would survive, no matter the distance. 

But if Cassandra’s departure left Riallan feeling bereft, Cole’s was almost unbearable. 

“I’m going,” he said, startling Riallan. 

She was sitting on the floor before the hearth in her quarters, reading a book she’d found in the basement library. It was a particularly old tome on the nature of magic, and while many of its theories had since been disproven, she found it very intriguing. 

And so she was quite absorbed when Cole manifested, sitting cross-legged on her desk. 

“Sorry,” he said once she caught her breath. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She sighed. “It’s all right. Now, what were you saying?”

“I’m going.”

“Going where?”

He shrugged. 

“You don’t know?” Riallan blinked at him. 

“Without the others, the only hurt left is yours.” He looked down at his lap. “But you say I can’t heal that.”

“You can’t, Cole. I’m sorry.”

He nodded. 

“So, you’re bored?”

He shook his head. “No! There’s plenty of things — the cats and the mice and the spiders. But they don’t need me. I help them, but they will survive without me.”

“I see.” She closed her book. “So, because you can’t help my hurt, you think I don’t need you?”

“Not just that.”

She waited for him to continue.

He sighed. “The sky is healed. The spirits are safe again. Dorian told me I can’t ask about his hurt anymore, and you say I can’t help your hurt.” He looked up at her with watery blue eyes, distressed. “What do I do?”

She thought about it. The fire crackled behind her, burning low. “You have to do what you want, Cole. What you think is best, for you.”

He hummed, swaying slightly as he considered her words. “I think I’ll go to Kirkwall,” he said finally. “There’s a lot of hurt there, still.”

Riallan smiled at him, even as her heart shattered. “That sounds like a good idea.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe talk to Varric first? He’ll have people you can get in contact with. People you can trust.”

He nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll be safe.”

“I know, but I’ll still worry.”

“I know.” He leapt down off of the desk and fidgeted from foot to foot for a moment. “If you need me—“

“I know how to reach you.” He’d told her once if she just thought about him hard enough, or reached out to him in the Fade, he would find her. She latched onto that fact now.

He smiled, so big and bright under the brim of his hat that Riallan couldn’t help but laugh.

“Goodbye, Riallan.”

“Goodbye, Cole.”

And then he was gone. He was gone, and it felt like losing yet another piece of herself. Riallan sat alone in the blossoming dark of her quarters and sobbed for the first time in weeks.

Thankfully, Dorian recognized how hard Cole’s departure had been on Riallan, and postponed news of his own plans to leave for several weeks. She was his best friend — he could hardly leave her in such a state. So, he’d played nice and smiled wide and never once hinted that Minrathous was calling him.

And yet, one night over dinner, Riallan caught him in her gaze.

“You’re leaving,” she said. She held a glass of fine Antivan Red in one hand, her second or third (or was it fourth?) of the night. 

“What makes you say that?” He’d had a fair amount of wine himself already.

She scoffed. “If the answer were no, you would just say so.”

“Perhaps.”

“You can’t lie to me, Dorian.”

He considered her, pale and thin in the candlelight. “No, I suppose I can’t, can I?”

She took a shuddering breath. “When?”

He sighed. “Ship leaves Jader in a fortnight.” He took a sip of wine to fortify himself. “I’ll spend a night in Kirkwall, and then it’s onto the Imperial Highway with a caravan. I’ll be in Minrathous by the end of the month.”

“And you're certain?”

“Of the itinerary?”

She rolled her eyes. “That you want to leave?”

“Maker, no.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to leave, Ria. But I must.”

“I’m beginning to think all men care about is what they ‘must’.”

He bristled at that. “That’s hardly fair. This is different and you know it.”

She stared at him, her eyes glazed by the wine and maybe tears. 

“Tevinter will never change is someone doesn’t make it.”

“And that someone has to be you?”

“Yes!”

She looked away then, unwilling to let him see her cry. She looked at her wine, at the tablecloth, at the plate of half eaten dinner. Anywhere but at him. 

“I know you’re upset. You’re mad, I understand,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s fair of you to take your anger at him out on me.”

She swallowed, her lips trembled, but she said nothing.

“I’m not abandoning you, Ria.”

She scoffed and threw back the last of her wine.

“I’m not! I’ve stayed, longer than almost anyone else. I postponed my voyage, after I saw how Cole���s leaving hurt you so. And you’ll damn sure get to say goodbye before I go!”

He was shouting. He didn’t want to be shouting, but there he was, in the dining hall, across the table from his best friend. And he was shouting.

And she was crying.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You’re right, it’s not fair. I didn’t mean—“

He was at her side in an instant. “Hush,” he said. “I know you didn’t. I’m sorry, Ria.” He pulled her into a hug, her face pressed to his chest as his hand brushed the hair back from her forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

That was the last they spoke of Dorian leaving. Even as she walked with him down the keep stairs. Even as they reached the gate that lead onto the bridge and out of Skyhold. He stared out at that bridge — he’d crossed it hundreds of times over the past year.

But, Maker, this was different. 

This was harder. 

She took his hand. “Dorian?”

“Yes, darling?” Her turned to look at her, in her tunic and shawl, her feet bare despite the chill. He would miss her so very much.

“I’m proud of you,” she said.

“Ah.” So she wanted to make him cry, it seemed.

“I mean it. You’re doing something incredibly brave.”

He scoffed. “I’m just going home, Riallan.”

She glared at him. “You and I both know that’s the bravest thing you could ever do.”

He cleared his throat and blinked a few times. “Fine. I’m incredibly brave. If you insist.”

“I do.” She squeezed his hand in hers. “Write to me?”

“Pfft. Like you could stop me? You’ll be sick of my letters before I even make it to Vol Dorma!” He shot her a shaky smile. “But I will admit, I’m going to miss you. Terribly.”

Tears shone in her eyes and Dorian knew that if she cried, he would too. Before he could make a joke or say something crass enough to prevent them, Riallan leapt up onto her tiptoes and wrapped him in a fierce hug. 

“I’m going to miss you, too,” she whispered against his neck.

He closed his eyes against the tears, but they didn’t care. They fell anyway. 

By the time he’d reached Jader, Dorian had written three letters and outlined at least three more for the journey across the Waking Sea. He was determined that she would not forget how much he loved her, and that he was only ever a raven away.

She deserved at least that much. And he couldn’t survive on anything less.

When only Varric was left, Riallan knew it was just a matter of time before the dwarf returned to Kirkwall. He’d received notice of his new position as the Viscount, which he seemed to simultaneously dread and take pride in. It was a healthy mix of feeling for a leader, Riallan thought.

And it was about time someone saw Varric for what he was worth.

She was in the library when he found her, sitting cross-legged in Dorian’s favorite chair. It still smelled like his cologne.

“Hey, Freckles,” he said. 

She’d heard him coming up the stairs. Knew that the only reason he’d seek her out here, now, was to break the news. Riallan sighed and closed her book. 

“When do you leave?”

He chuckled. “End of the week.”

She smiled at him. “I’m surprised Kirkwall lasted this long without you.”

He grimaced. “Ah… it hasn’t, really. I’m pretty sure there are several fires I need to put out when I get there.” He shook. His head. “Maybe even a few literal ones, knowing Kirkwall.”

“You love it.”

He shrugged. “For better or worse.”

“Thank you, Varric, for everything.”

He waved her off. “I didn’t do that much. Mostly sat around, scribbling.”

There were several heartfelt conversations she could call to mind to refute him. Varric was always willing to listen, to help her when she couldn’t decide something for herself. And he helped so much with Cole. 

And Solas.

No, she owed Varric very, very much.

“I, uh, actually have something for you.” He shuffled his feet and then dug in his pocket to reveal a thick brass key. He held it out to her. 

She took it, thoroughly confused. “A key?”

“Yeah. It, uh, opens a door. In Kirkwall.” He smirked. “Consider it a royalty payment.”

“Royalty…” her head snapped up to look at him. “Varric! You did not write a book about me.”

“The house is lovely, I’m told.” He backed away from her slowly. “I had Daisy pick out the furnishings so it should feel nice and homey.”

“Varric!”

“It’s in Hightown, so you’ll be away from the riffraff—“

“Varric Tethras, you did not write a book about me.”

He was halfway down the stairs when he shouted up at her. “Don’t wait too long to come visit! I can’t wait to give you the tour!”

“Varric!”

On the morning he left, Riallan found a stack of pages, of which the topmost read: THE INQUISITOR’S TALE. In parenthesis was a hastily scratched note that read, “figured you’d prefer this to “Freckles and Chuckles Save the World”.

Riallan decided then that she would be visiting Kirkwall very soon indeed. She had a dwarf to kill.

All ire aside, with Varric’s departure Skyhold was too empty to feel anything like home anymore. The only ones left were the bare minimum staff, Josephine, and Cullen. And while her remaining advisors were her friends, she wasn’t exactly close with either of them. 

And she could tell the emptiness wore on all of them. 

So, she announced to Josephine that she would take up Varric’s offer of a home in Kirkwall, and relocate as soon as reasonably possible. Josephine and Cullen were both relieved, and both planned to return to the city-state as well. At least for a time. Eventually, Josephine would return to Antiva, and Cullen to Honnleath, but not quite yet. 

Their last weeks in Skyhold were busy ones. Cleaning the keep was an enormous task, and there were rooms of resources and documents Riallan had to oversee and approve before they could be packed and shipped to Kirkwall. 

“There is one last matter you must attend to, Inquisitor,” Josephine said one afternoon. 

Riallan rolled her eyes. She’d begged Josephine to call her by her first name for over a year.  “And what’s that?”

Josephine paused. Cleared her throat. “The rotunda.”

Riallan stiffened at the mere mention of the room. She had not stepped foot inside the lowest level of the tower since her last conversation with Solas. Before the battle against Corypheus. She had avoided it this whole time. 

“What about it?”

“There may still be artifacts, documents, and books from Master Solas’s time with the Inquisition.” Josephine spoke gently when she added, “You would know best what the Inquisition should do with these items.”

She was right, of course. Solas was a Rift Mage, and was studying the Fade and the Shards and who knows what other varieties of fringe magic before he’d left. She was the only one left who might understand any of his notes. 

And the rotunda had been theirs once. It only seemed right that she be the one to clean it. 

“All right,” she said. “I’ll get to it.”

Josephine looked nervous as she nodded. “Wonderful. Let us know if you require assistance, Inquisitor.”

But Riallan knew she wouldn’t. She needed to do this alone. 

Stepping foot into the room shouldn’t have been this hard. And yet her heart hammered in her chest and her hands shook as she approached the desk. She’d expected books and pages strewn everywhere, as it had been the whole time he’d worked there. But instead she found the desk clear and tidy, with a single book in the center. 

There was a note attached to it:

Riallan,

It is finished…

Solas

The words sent her heart into a staccato rhythm. She knew they were finished. He’d made that painfully clear before he’d left. Why bother leaving her a note?

But then she looked at the book, truly looked at it. 

It was his sketchbook.

All those long months ago, he’d given her his sketchbook as a birthday gift. But it had only been half full of drawings and sketches. She’d wanted to see more, wanted to see what more he would draw in their time together, so she’d given it back to him. 

Trembling fingers traced the soft leather cover as she sank into the chair. His chair. And pulled the book into her lap. Slowly, she flipped through the pages. Some were familiar — old drawings she recognized from before. The Hinterlands, her palm and the anchor, her vallaslin. But the further she flipped the pages the more her face stared up at her. 

Her, beneath the big tree in the garden. Her at the water’s edge in the Fallow Mire. Her, beside a fire, cheeks shaded with heat or wine. 

And then the drawings shifted again. 

Their hands intertwined. The curve of her hips as she lay asleep in bed. The arch of her neck as she tilted her head to the side. Her freckles, so close up you could hardly tell they belonged to her face. Her face without the vallaslin still looked strange to her, but the way Solas drew her made it seem truly beautiful. 

The last drawing  took her breath away. It was the only one in which Solas had drawn himself. It was them, in her meadow in Wycome. They sat facing the creek, their backs to the viewer. They sat so close their shoulders touched. Riallan’s head rested on his shoulder.

In the corner, in tiny, tidy script, was a note:

Ir abelas, vhenan. Ir tel’silaima na la’var ar syla. 

Riallan ran a shaking finger over the words. His perfect script. All these weeks, she’d been so furious. She’d been heartbroken, and only felt that pain grow wider as each of her companions left. The loneliness clattered around inside her ribs, a pale echo of the ache that’d carved her chest hollow ever since he’d left. 

And all this time she couldn’t believe he didn’t say goodbye. Had wondered if she’d truly meant so little to him, that he could turn and leave so easily. She’d been desperate for any sign of him — any word.

And it’d been right here, in their rotunda, the entire time. He had said goodbye, in his own way. He’d given her a gift, an apology. And a promise. The final goodbye she had been so desperate for.

Ir tel’silaima na, la’var ar syla. 

‘I will never forget you, as long as I breathe.’

[pontevoix]

there  are  nights  that  smith  keeps  vile  &  noble  company;  he  swirls  amber  liquid  in  a  crystal  glass  &  entertains  the  empty  complaints  of  men  who  decide  that  they’re  like  him.  he  listens  to  a  factory  owner  grumble  about  unions,  listens  to  the  mayor  of  a  rising  town  describe  the  renovations  he’s  performing  to  his  government  home,  listens  to  a  merchant  laugh  about  how  he  had  conned  a  competitor  into  thinking  that  he  was  getting  away  with  the  better  side  of  a  deal.

the  merchant  wears  a  beard,  but  it  is  patchy.  smith  remembers  idling  the  time,  eyeing  a  circle  of  exposed  skin  at  his  jaw.  the  merchant  wears  a  beard  &  a  too  tight  belt.  he  leans  forward  in  his  chair  to  waggle  a  finger,  to  say  :  my  friends.  the  secret  is  that  you  have  to  let  people  think  it’s  their  idea.

as  though  he  were  the  first  one  to  think  that,  the  first  one  to  realize  that  forcing  another  into  decisions  or  behaviors  is  inefficient  —  that  charisma  is  a  better  tool.  smith  drains  his  glass  &  pretends  to  laugh.

levi’s  language  is  unapologetic  &  unfiltered.  smith’s  language  is  silver.

there  was  never  a  chance  that  smith  would  have  been  able  to  make  levi  do  anything  —  &  when  smith  had  tried  to  quicksilver  con  levi  into  more  appropriate  language,  it  had  been  a  half-hearted  effort.

there  are  better  battles  to  pick,  better  cons  to  orchestrate:  what  it  means  to  wear  the  wings.

&  levi  is  still  here  (  an  acting  captain  ),  so  smith  supposes  that  he’s  given  a  relatively  convincing  show.

it’s  feels  as  effective  a  strategy  as  it  does  an  indulgence.  smith  still  lets  levi  outpace  him  a  step  —  it’s  not  enough  for  him  to  be  distance,  to  hide  the  turns  of  expression  levi  offers  when  he  claims  a  conversational  victory,  when  he  settles  into  something  petulant.

it’s  another  indulgence  :  levi  flaunts  the  privileges  he  has  earned  &  the  pieces  of  him  that  indisputable.

smith  waits  until  a  lull  to  offer  a  countermove,  one  in  which  he  can  claim  his  own  petty  victories.  unfortunately,  he  has  always  worn  a  competitive  edge.  it’s  something  he  that  he  often  mutes.  levi  opts  to  pick  at  it,  to  see  when  he  can  make  it  loud.

smith  hums  &  keeps  himself  mild.  ‘  sometimes  you  are  quick  to  make  assumptions,  ‘  he  decides  empty  threats  are  empty,  after  all.  he  finishes  adjusting  the  cuff  of  his  sleeve  &  brings  one  hand  up  on  half-hearted  surrender.  ‘  i  expect  nothing  of  you,  &  i  never  assigned  you  to  gardening.  ‘

empty  threats  are  empty,  &  smith  turns  it  into  an  observation.  there’s  something  upward  turning  at  the  corner  of  his  lip,  &  it’s  barely  there.

‘  though  you  spin  an  interesting  story.  a  man  emerges  from  a  city  with  no  sunlight,  &  he  is  confident  that  there  is  no  job  worse  than  watching  the  growth  of  a  tomato;  he  assumes  that  his  comrade  has  suffered  a  head  injury  for  thinking  of  farming,  &  he  offers  to  treat  it  with  a  bout  of  violence.  what  do  you  think  ?  am  i  well  or  unwell  ?  ‘

there’s  something  upward  turning  at  the  corner  of  his  lip;  it’s  barely  there.

long  ago  he  stopped  holding  his  tongue &  long  ago  smith  stopped  trying  to make  him  hold  his  tongue.   he  thinks  of  those  days  in  the  underground,  fighting  with  so  much  power  &  hatred  behind  movements.   how  in  the  hell  had  he  ever  roped  him  into  this  endevor?   he  had  seen  promise  in  him   ––   something  that  levi  has  never  understood.   it  would've  been  easier  to  eliminated  him  &  his  friends.   instead,  erwin  had...given  him  a  new  lease  on  life.   he  still  has  yet  to  decide  if  it's  a  debt  that  needs  to  be  repaid  or  a  life  that  needs  to  be  taken.

his  body  isn't  as  stiff  when  it  moves  now;  equipped  into  the  movements  of  soldiers  that  have  been  well  trained,  the  mental  counting  of  steps  that  he  takes  &  the  seconds  it  takes  to  take  them.   he  remembers  the  foot  prints  of  titans  &  the  tracks  of  horse  hooves.   remembers  the  taste  of  blood  on  his  tongue.   this  is  what  it  means  to  wear  the  wings.

"  enough  of  that  because  i'm right,  or  enough  of  that  because  you  don't  want  to admit  that  i'm  right?  "   eyebrow  raies   ––   faintest  upturn  of  the  corner  of  his  lips.   yes,  he  has  the  privilages  that  others  don't  &  he  takes  full  advantage  of  that  fact.   he  likes  doing  it.   likes  watching  everyone  else  gasp  &  squirm.

let  them   ––   he  has  paid  his  dues  over  &  over  again.   erwin  has  proven  time  &  time  again  that  he  can  handle  levi's  insubordination.   if  he  truly  didn't  like  it,  he'd  stop  it.   personally,  levi  thinks  he  likes  having  someone  around  that'll  take  him  down  a  notch  when  need  be.

it's  just  a bonus  that  he  takes  so  much  pleasure  in  it,  really.

the  next  words  out  of  his  mouth  though  have  him  pulling  up  short  for  a  moment,  eyes  widening then  narrowing.   obviously,  he  hadn't  heard  him  correctly.   there  is  an  empty  threat  that's  hanging  between  them   ––   &  levi  has  known  for  a  long  time  that  those  sorts  of  threats  would  come.   it's  inevitable  given  their  statuses  &  the  world  that  they  live  in.

but  over  gardening?

erwin  has surely  lost  his  mind,  it's obvious  now.

sneer  pulls  up  his  lips  now  &  he  lets  out  a scoff,  boot  childishly  kicking  at  the  dirty  beneath  it.   gardening.   does  he  look  like  someone  who  would  get  his  hands  dirty  in  the  filthy  soil?   does  he  look  like  someone  who  would  gladly  harvest  for  the  fun  of  it?   there's  a  twist  in  his  stomach  &  a  soft  panic  in  his  chest   ––   surely  this  is  all  conjecture.

"  you  expect me  to garden.  "   the  words  are  out,  flat,  plain  as  day.   there's  a  growl  in  his  voice   ––   arms  crossing  against  his  chest.   he  is  the  exact  form  of  defiance   ––   childish  despite  his  age.

a  sniff.   another sneer.   "  you  rescued  me  from  the  underground,  where  it  is  a  broken  city  with  no  sunlight,  &  you  expect  me  to farm?  "

a  wave  of  his  hand.   "  if  you  were  looking  to  get  your  ass  beat  you  should've  just  said  so.  " 

[zodiyack]

A Work Proposition

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female!Reader

Warnings: Nothing really

Words: 1,370

Summary: The female detective Lestrade has introduced is compelling, and upon seeing her and Sherlock interact, Enola’s cupid skills subtly kick in.

Taglist: @matth1w, @redspaceace-writes, @fandom-puff, @darling-i-read-it, @simonsbluee, @sebastianstanslefteyebrow, @missihart23, @maan24, @beck07990​

Masterlist | Henry Cavill Masterlist

The woman often hired to work with Lestrade, who was a common friend with Sherlock, had been at her job for a few years now. Lestrade thought highly of his new detective friend, so much so that he introduced her to the well known, Sherlock. His plan was to have them crack some cases they’d been stuck on, two mighty detectives better than one, but he had to get them to agree without scaring them off with the idea of meeting and working with a complete stranger.

Y/n agreed quickly, Sherlock taking some convincing, but the thing was, he didn’t tell either of them that they’d be working with another person. Both, however, showed up with mild confusion. It was his fault, he admitted. Confusion had to have been expected with his letters. The letters he’d sent out for his plea of summoning them went as this;

“Dear Detective,

You’re receiving this letter because I am of urgent need. I would like to request your assistance in a case that has us rather stumped. If it isn’t too much trouble, of course.

Though I will not explain too much of the case at hand, I will give you some convincing, hopefully, reassurance. Fear not for your life nor safety, you will be far from death’s doorstep on this mission.

The rest of the details of the case will be provided upon your arrival. Once informed, you may still have the choice of rejecting or accepting my beseechment. I ask you to at least hear out what I would like to solve before any denial of this matter.

Nothing is required except you and a healthy amount of sleep, for both you and your extraordinary intelligence. Bring your tools, or supplies if you prefer that name more, if you wish.

We shall supply you with any and all information you need, as well as a meal in apology for dragging you away from your personal life. I do hope you take my imploration into consideration.

Sincerely, Inspector G. Lestrade.”

It wasn’t the most specific of information, nor the longest letter he could write, but it would do. He sent it off in the mail then went home and slept peacefully. Early the next morning, Y/n was at his door, up and ready without a trace of sleep lingering on her face, whereas Lestrade had bags under his eyes and was yawning ever few seconds.

“Sorry to disturb your sleep, Inspector. Your letter lacked any instructions for when I do indeed accept...which would be now.” She waited by the door politely as Lestrade walked to his kitchen.

“Come in, Y/n, I would hate to make you stand outside.” He called from the other room. Y/n obliged happily, stepping in and closing the door behind her. A few seconds later and Lestrade was scurrying back to her with another piece of parchment. “My apologies, I knew something felt left out.” He chuckled nervously.

“Oh, it’s no worries, Inspector!” She put the note in her satchel, then faced him again. “I hope you get some rest. Again, I’m ever so sorry to have woken you-”

He held out a hand, quieting her instantly. “Y/n, you’ve done no wrong, there’s no need to be distressed.”

Y/n nodded, approaching the door again but stopping with her hand upon the handle, “Perhaps you should go back to sleep whilst you still can. I’ll see you then, Inspector.” A warm smile was thrown his way before she carefully opened the door and left.

They awaited Y/n’s arrival. Enola had tagged along with her older brother, hoping to be granted permission by both men, more hopeful with Lestrade’s words of guaranteed safety. Both Holmes siblings and Lestrade were sat patiently in his office. Well, in truth, only Lestrade dawned patience.

“Excuse my impoliteness, Lestrade, but why exactly are we yet to begin?” His brows were knitted, blue eyes holding great confusion.

“It’ll be only a few more minutes now.” He commented rather casually as he fished out his pocket watch, inspecting it for a second before placing it back in his waistcoat pocket. “My sincerest apologies for the hold up.”

Like he had promised, a few minutes went by and then- Just as Enola and Sherlock were about to rise, thank Lestrade for the job offer, turn it down and then return home for a quiet reading in the library, knocks sounded from the glass of the door.

Y/n stood on the other side, rapping her knuckles against the door, her eyes trained on Lestrade. He rose from his seat, her hand dropping and the knocking ceasing. Enola and Sherlock looked over, suddenly intrigued with the surprise guest as she stepped into the office.

“Please, detective, have a seat.” He smiled and gestured his hand to the large leather couch against the wall.

Enola scooted to the end, resting her palm and the arm of the sofa, Sherlock scooting slightly to make room for the detective despite there are already being enough that no one would be forced to move. It was only polite, plus, they were still strangers.

“I’m very sorry for my lateness, I got rather sidetracked with the anticipation for this case.” Y/n explained with a sheepish chuckle, sitting down and turning to face the others on the leather seating. She extended her hand to Sherlock, “I know you. You’re Detective Sherlock Holmes...and that must be your sister, Enola, I’ve read fantastic things of you two, marvelous work by the way. I’m Y/n L/n.”

“Detective Y/n L/n.” Lestrade corrected before either Holmes could respond.

“Ah, yes. I am indeed a detective, as Lestrade has mentioned, however, I see no need for either of you two to reference me with such formalities. My work pales in comparison to the Holmes cases.”

“I’m honored you think that, but you mustn’t put yourself down,” Sherlock drawled, a small grin upon his lips.

This peculiar, new woman aroused his curiosity just as much as he did hers. If she were a case, he’d be at work on her for hours at a time and still have towers to unravel. A mystery, complex but something he was determined to solve, shrouded her.

Sherlock had his eyes trained on her, the world becoming silent around him as he took in her face, mind creating a mental photograph he could hold onto as long as he pleased. The details of her features were like a rare piece of art, but not one he could find in the museum. No, she was far too unique, far too rare to be held up in a marble building with works nowhere near as beautiful, as desired as her.

“Now that you’ve made acquaintances, we shall speak about the case! I called you both here without knowledge of each other’s appearances, and I am deeply sorry for tricking you, but I wanted to introduce the two...” his eyes drifted to Enola, “three greatest detectives I’ve ever met. I originally intended on having Y/n and Sherlock work on the case, but I assume Enola would enjoy helping out?”

The older Holmes opened his mouth, ready to confirm his sister would be joining the two, but Enola was much faster. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’ll be the one to decline your invitation for this case. Nonetheless, I don’t doubt that my brother, or detective L/n, would be up for the task.”

She stood up and left the office. Lestrade was ready to begin his explanation on the case before Sherlock rose suddenly and started after his little sister. He pushed past the people working at the station until he reached her, grabbing ahold of her arm and giving her a perplexed look.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“I thought you said you wanted to help?”

She smiled softly at her brother, “I saw the way you looked at detective L/n the second she walked in. You should work with her, get to know her. Worry not, brother, she isn’t here to usurp your name, only provide whatever assistance she can.” Then, she left the station, her words racing through Sherlock’s conscious the entirety of the day.

Maybe Y/n really would usurp his name...without the illegality of it obviously.

[nebulablakemurphy]

The Red Room

Summary: Meeting Yelena in the red room is the best and worse thing that’s ever happened to you. Warning: romantic Yelena x Fem!reader pairing and depictions of violence.

Those first weeks in the red room pass in a blur. You have one room. Just you. Meals are delivered like clockwork; no one speaks to you. Your only company being the television set that plays the same clips; morning, noon and night.

Until one day the lights flip on brightly above you and a woman enters. You squint up at her, “hello?”

“Hello.” She replies, “are you ready to get out of here?”

“Where will I go?” You wonder.

“Wherever I tell you.”

That is your first encounter with Madame B. When you were younger you thought her something of a savior. You know better now. Still when she calls for you, there’s no choice but to go.

You make your way down the long hall, florescent lights humming above you. Finally reaching the room you’ve been assigned; you grasp the door knob. Feeling the weight of the cool metal against your palm, with a steadying breath you turn it.

Inside is only Madame B and a girl. One you’ve only seen in passing, one of Dreykov’s favorites.

“Y/N, meet Yelena. She will be your partner from now on.” Madame B leads the introduction.

“Did something happened to Oksana?” Your brows pull together, voice small. Afraid to cross an unspoken boundary. She’s always been your partner.

“Oksana is no longer your concern.” The woman bites out. “Shake hands and prepare for your lesson.”

You nod, biting your tongue.

Lesson…

Sparring.

Dancing.

Captive simulations.

What will it be this time?

“Oksana is ok.” Yelena tells you, once the trainer is out of earshot.

“Good,” you whisper, holding your hand out to shake without another word.

“Is that why they kept you locked up so long? You don’t play well with others?” The blonde takes your hand, eyes narrowed into slits.

“I don’t play at all.” You inform her. Pleasing these people is your ticket out of here, and you will get out.

“Everybody plays, whether you want to or not.” Yelena tells you, letting your fingers slip from hers. “Just don’t get in my way.”

——————————————————————-

You don’t get in each other’s way. Somehow having Yelena as a combat partner is a lot less annoying than you anticipated.

Oksana is a better friend, but you aren’t here to make friends. You’re here to kill. Topple regimes from the inside out, Yelena helps you do that.

Your training with Yelena is different. Chipping away parts of you until you fit together seamlessly. From trust falls to synchronized attack plans, you name it you do it. Sometimes until you bleed.

One of your trainers, Ivan, has taken a liking to blind folded direction. Outside of captive simulations it is your least favorite team building activity.

You remind yourself to focus and breathe. In some ways guiding is worse than being guided. “Veer slightly to your right.”

Yelena lifts one bare foot, holding it airborne, allowing you to assess the placement of her next step. “Here?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, as she clears the bit of shattered glass. “That’s perfect.”

———————————————————————

Your first real assignment comes on Monday, June second.

“Come in, Miss American Pie. I have eyes on the target.” Yelena informs you through the ear piece.

“That’s still not my name, over. Stay high, I’m going down.” You reply, deploying your rope and riding it to the ground.

“Five ticks northwest and the package is yours.”

“Copy.” You follow her instruction, ducking away as a bullet shatters the window beside you. “Easy.” You chastise, in a hushed whisper.

“Sorry,” she apologizes half heartedly. The kill was necessary and she had a clean shot.

You spot your target, ready to turn onto the main street from the alleyway. You wrestle him to the ground, he puts up a good fight. Not good enough.

You wipe the blood from your hands before removing the usb drive from his breast coat pocket. “Just admit it,” you taunt, turning to the building Yelena is scoping from, “you’re proud of me.”

“Y/N!” Her tone is not playful at all.

What’s wrong? Before you get a chance to ask the man you’d assumed dead has his knife buried in your thigh.

You crumple to the ground as he prepares to strike again. In the time it takes to unholster your weapon a silent bullet reaches his temple from the sky.

You squint up at Yelena, watching her ride her teether down to the ground beside you. “Thanks.” You pant, inspecting the damage.

“That was sloppy,” she frowns, searching her pack for the midkit, then tearing open a package of gauze. “You always check the body, confirm the kill.”

“I know, I was stupid.” You gasp, feeling Yelena apply an obscene amount of pressure to your wound.

“We need to move to the extraction point, they can deal with you in medical.” Yelena rises, tossing your arm over her shoulder for support.

“It won’t happen again.” You promise, leaning heavily against her side.

“You’re right, it won’t. I have no idea what happens to me if you die.” She grumbles, somewhat bitterly.

———————————————————————

Interactions with Yelena are sparse after that. She doesn’t trust you. Only showing up for your lessons and leaving the moment they’re finished. You understand why she’s angry, you would be too.

According to your weekly rotation, today should be live target practice, however you are directed to a different room.

Once inside your eyes find the chair. You hate that chair. You hate this room. Nothing good ever happens here.

Slowly you move toward Yelena at the far wall.

“A little birdie told me that you’ve been holding back in combat lessons.” Ivan says, tapping a finger to his chin. “Why is that?”

You bite anxiously at the inside of your cheek.

“I said why is that?!”

You notice Yelena flinch from the corner of your eye. “It’s my fault,” you hold up a hand. “I took a hit on our last mission and my partner was being mindful of my injuries.”

“Oh I see.” He smirks, condescendingly. “You don’t want to hurt each other.”

“It would be counter productive to harm my partner.” Yelena points out. The red room drilled that into you.

“That is true.” His eyes dart between you. “But we can’t have you afraid of sparring together. Now can we?”

Your jaw ticks, awaiting the consequence.

“When’s the last time you girls ran a captive simulation?”

“Two weeks ago.” Yelena presents her left index finger to him for inspection. The nail just beginning to grow back.

Ivan hums, “When’s the last time you ran a captive simulation on each other?”

Your heart drops, all the blood running out of your face. Not for months.

“Hmm,” he wets his lips. “Who gets to play the captor first?”

Neither one of you volunteer.

“Belova,” he purrs. “Come choose your tools while Y/L/N straps herself into the chair.”

You don’t hesitate, it’ll be worse if you do. Tuning out his incessant chatter you find your seat. The metal chair sends a chill up your spine. Bending at the waist, you strap each ankle into a leather restraint, then your non dominant hand. Free hand waiting, curled around the arm rest.

Yelena kneels before you, her selections resting at your feet as she closes the final strap around your wrist. Your breath quickens.

“Fifteen minutes on the clock then you’ll switch.” Your spectator announces. “Make them count or we’ll start over.”

On autopilot Yelena reaches for the scalpel.

You don’t mean to scream…but eventually you do. You always do.

———————————————————————

Yelena knows your weaknesses and regularly exploits them to leave you face up on the floor during hand to hand combat sessions.

You used to resent her for it, but it made you strong. Stronger than you’ve ever been or hoped to be. The day you finally best her the room is filled with hushed whispers. Now you are ready.

You learn to move in harmony. The trainers ease up a bit and the other girls line up to watch you like an exhibit. You are two halves of a more perfect whole.

“Madame B, can I ask you something?” You say, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

“Of course.” The older woman replies. “What is it?”

“Why was my training so different with Oksana?”

She leans in. “You were not brought here to be a partner to Oksana. She was standing in until we could be sure you were ready for a partner. Nothing more.”

“Was I brought here to be Yelena’s partner?” The question burns at the back of your throat.

“I understand the desire to seek meaning in these things. You hope to find your place in the world.”

You nod.

“But you have no place in the world,” the words cut like a knife. “What you do have is an opportunity to prove that you are not a waste of space, time, or resources. Come, let’s sit for debriefing.”

You wait in silence for Yelena to arrive, finally she does. Taking the seat beside you in the meeting room.

“In two days you will undergo the graduation ceremony, after which you are granted up to three days recovery time before you will be deployed to Moscow.” Madame B reviews the information, handing you each a folder of details.

“Enclosed you will find your identification cards and aliases. I suggest you take this time to familiarize yourselves. Tomorrow we will begin shooting photographs for the past two years of your lives. Report with several changes of clothing. Congratulations on this assignmet. It is a great honor.” Madame B dismisses you.

You open the file. ‘Katherine and Irena Reiner.’

“We’re sisters?” Yelena guesses.

Worse. “We’re married.”

“Even better.” She says under her breath, rising from the chair.

———————————————————————

Life in Moscow is different. Good. The neighbors are easy enough to convince. You play your parts to perfection.

The company you work for being the main focus. They have access to some sort of programming that Dreykov is desperate to get his hands on. You know better than to ask why.

Most mornings you get ready together, discussing the events of the previous day to prepare for the next.

“How come you only speak English?” Yelena wonders, turning off the steady spray of water from her shower and reaching out to grab a towel.

“I have a theory,” you reply, spitting excess toothpaste into the sink. “I think keeping me dependent on translation had more pros than cons.”

“They taught me.” She says, stepping onto the bath mat. “But I guess that’s different.”

You were brought in much older a majority of the other girls.

Your eyes meet in the mirror, seeing each other as if for the first time.

“I could teach you.” She offers, breaking the connection as she turns away.

“Yeah?” You pass the brush through your hair.

Yelena shrugs, “I have nothing better to do.”

“Just don’t teach me the wrong words to make me look stupid.” You arch a brow.

“It would be counter productive to harm my partner.”

Hours turn into days. Days into weeks and suddenly you stand on a blurred line. How much is she pretending? How much are you?

The two of you rest on opposite ends of the couch. Enjoying another round of prime time television.

“Yesterday I was talking to that girl in accounting.” Yelena pulls your attention from the picture.

“The blonde one?” You ask, tossing a piece of popcorn at her.

She attempts to catch it in her mouth. Having had more than a few drinks her coordination is lacking.

You smirk, when it falls into her lap.

“No Maggie.” She corrects you, finding the wayward piece and biting into it.

“Mmm.” You hum.

“Mmm? What do you mean, ‘mmm?’” Yelena’s brows pull together.

“Nothing,” you insist. “I was just acknowledging what you said.”

“You didn’t sound very happy about it. Did she do something to you?” Yelena demands, straightening her posture.

“No, she didn’t do anything. Anyway tell me what happened.”

“She’s worked there for a long time. I think she knows more than she says she does.”

“So are you gonna talk to her again? See if she’ll open up?” Yelena has that effect on people.

“I am married.” She rolls her eyes, flipping her left ring finger in place of the middle.

“Shut up.” You chuckle.

“I’m crazy about you, know you. Ever since we met in high school. You didn’t like me at first but you came around.” Yelena elaborates.

“I don’t remember seeing all that in our cover story.” You cock your head to the side.

“That was a shit story, I’m rewriting it.” She waves a hand.

“Tell me more.” Tell me everything.

———————————————————————

“Did you get milk?” You shout, peeking into the nearest paper bag.

“Was it on the list?” Yelena hollers back, from the front door, kicking it shut. Her arms full of groceries.

“I don’t remember,” you say, unpacking the head of lettuce and eggs.

“You made the list.” She scoffs, setting the rest of the haul on the floor.

A knock pulls your attention away from the food.

“Who is it?” You wonder.

“It’s me, George. From next door.” Your neighbor answers.

Yelena rolls her eyes, waving you out of the kitchen. It’s your turn to make small talk.

You step carefully around the produce to the main entrance. “Hey George.” You smile, swinging open the door, “what’s up?”

“Katherine!” He greets you. “Could I borrow Irena for a minute?”

“Is that lawnmower giving you trouble again?” You guess, leaning against the door frame.

“It’s running great actually. There’s something else I’m curious about though.”

“I can send her over after dinner.” You attempt to dismiss him.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” George moves his foot to prevent the door from closing, producing a pistol from his waistband.

“George!” Yelena waves, clearly oblivious.

“Irena,” he looks down at the gun, pointed at your chest, “we have much to discuss.”

“Clearly.” Yelena agrees, coming to join you on the threshold. “Are you going to tell me why you have my wife at gunpoint?”

“We should take this inside.”

“I’m good here.”

He presses the barrel against your skin through the fabric of your shirt. “You sure about that?”

“On second thought, I could go for a drink. Do you like scotch?” Yelena takes a step back, leaving room for him to enter the house.

“Who sent you?” George demands, guiding you into the kitchen.

“We also have brandy.” She says, expression unreadable.

“Who are you working for?” He asks a second time, adjusting his grip on the gun. “First one goes in her leg.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Yelena drawls. “But I’m going to warn you, if you hurt her, you die.”

“You have three seconds to give me a better answer,” the nuzzle of the gun sits flush against you upper thigh. “One, two-“

Yelena lunges, the gun firing into the floor when he’s knocked off balance.

George tosses her off as if she weighs nothing. You rush him, knocking the fire arm to the other side of the room. Your arms locked around his neck, flush to his back. He rams you back first into the china cabinet.

You fall away with a grunt.

“Now,” the man rights himself. Wiping away the blood from his split bottom lip with the back of his hand. “We’re going to have fun.”

Taking a fist full of your hair he begins pulling you toward the center of the room. You grab for a large shard of glass, slicing it over the back of this knee. He releases you, doubling over.

“I warned you.” Yelena snarls, stabbing her knife into his belly, making a straight line up to his sternum. “You thought you could use her to break me? They used to make me torture her! They used to make me-“ she breaks off, withdrawing her knife. Only to ram it in again and again.

George, if that was his real name, is long dead. A crimson puddle blooming on the floor. It doesn’t stop Yelena, hot, angry tears rolling past her cheeks.

“Yelena.” You say softly.

“They used to make me do it.” She repeats, the weight of the words crushing down on her.

Your arms envelope her from behind.

“No.” She sobs when she feels you there, holding exactly where it hurts.

“It’s ok.” You whisper against her ear.

The blood stained blade clatters to the ground. Her breathing ragged as both her hands find yours, squeezing tightly. Don’t let go.

“It’s ok.”

“No it’s not.” She cries, frantically shaking her head.

“I did it too.” As if she needs reminding. “They made me do it too.”

She allows you to stay curled around her, desperately trying to absorb some of that pain.

———————————————————————

Yelena’s drug of choice is alcohol, the spirits burn their way into her blood stream. Erasing all that she’s done.

“You want a glass?” She offers, setting the bottle of clear liquor down on the coffee table.

“No thanks.” You shake your head, hair still damp from the shower.

“Don’t be a hero,” she rolls her eyes as she takes a seat. The water had washed away any trace of George.

“Fine,” you take a long swig from the bottle in question.

“You’ll thank me later.” She tosses back a shot, sliding the strap of your pajama top down to assess the damage to your left shoulder. “It’s deep, going to need stitches. This is why we don’t go through china cabinets.” Yelena chastises, moving for the first aid kit.

“Yeah, not my finest moment.” You peek at her. “But it worked.”

“Mmm,” she hums, returning to her spot. Flipping open the white box and removing what she needs to stitch you up.

First she hits you with the antiseptic “сука!” Bitch.

“See,” you can hear the smile in her voice, “you are learning.”

You let out a pained laugh, “I guess I am. We need to call someone to clean this up.”

“Here,” she hands you her phone, blowing gently over you wound. “You take care of that, I take care of you.”

Your heart clenches at her words. But Yelena is your partner. That is all.

“Belova, do you have a status update?” A familiar voice answers after the first ring.

“Yeah, we need a cleanup.” You say matter of factly.

“Agent Y/L/N.” He greets you. “How many?”

“One.”

“For now,” The man remarks.

“You didn’t tell us we weren’t alone in this pursuit.” You purse your lips.

“There’s a reason we sent the best. I’ll put in for a clean up crew in the morning.”

“Let them know the body is in the bathtub.”

The goes dead.

The conversation distracts you well enough from the dull ache of the needle poking and pulling at your shoulder.

Carefully Yelena bandages the abused skin. Her finger tips running along the back of your arm.

“Thank you.” You whisper, relaxing into her touch.

Her lips ghost over your skin. “You’re welcome.”

Oh.

Slowly you turn, as if not to startle her. Yelena’s eyes find yours.

You move closer, tracing the line of her jaw. “Thank you,” you repeat.

She nods, still unsure.

“Of all the people I could’ve been stuck here with…I’m glad it was you.”

“You don’t have to say that.” She pulls your hand away gently.

“You’re right. I don’t have to say anything.“ You murmur, “But I want to… and it would be counter productive to harm my partner.”

“We can’t.” She knows it. You know it. “It will get in the way. They’ll kill us.”

“No.” You chuckle bitterly. “They’ll make us kill each other.”

“I wouldn’t do it,” Yelena insists.

“You won’t have a choice.” You point out. “Didn’t you hear about that stuff they started pumping into people?”

“Mind control.” Yelena replies in Russian.

“It’s only a matter of time.”

“Maybe we get out.”

“Maybe,” you smile sadly, “maybe we find each other.” In another life.

———————————————————————

Three days later Yelena comes home late. During your day off you were tasked with the more mundane tasks of running a household, but you suppose there are worse things. She finds you in the laundry room, drink already in hand. Her mouth set in a frown.

“What’s wrong?” You drop the piece of clothing back into the basket.

“I have it.” Yelena confesses.

You press your lips together, you knew this was coming. That information is the only reason you are here. “Did you contact them?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to?”

“You say that like I have a choice.” She stares down at her drink.

“I just meant-“

“I know what you meant.” Yelena knows you, better than anyone. The red room saw to that. “Do you want to stay one more night?”

“Do you?” You wonder.

“When I was a little girl…I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye.”

“In the morning,” you offer. Any longer and the risk will be too great. “We’ll go in the morning.”

She nods, taking in the room around her. “I wanted it to be real.”

“It was.” You choke down the lump in your throat.

———————————————————————

Your return to the red room is swift. No pat on the back or celebration to be had. Just two pawns, returning to their places on the board.

You’re separated from Yelena. Because your loyalties are to each other and that poses a threat. But what did they expect? They made you this way.

You are alone. Perhaps the most alone you’ve ever been. Or maybe you’d just forgotten that you could feel things. You remember now and wish you didn’t.

Like it or not she changed you. Knowing her had changed you, for better or for worse. After Yelena you were never the same.

Word of Oksana’s escape only fuels the need to chemically alter the minds of all agents. Beginning in order of importance.

Finding Yelena seated on the bench outside the physician’s office steals the breath from your lungs. To see her now is blatantly cruel and calculated.

Still you sit in the empty space beside her.

“Do you know where your orders are?” She asks.

“Yeah,” you nod, “Budapest. You?”

“Back to Moscow.” Yelena informs you.

You swallow hard, your pinkies skating past each other.

“Agent Y/L/N,” the doctor opens his door. You watch as another widow exits, she doesn’t look any different. Maybe the mind control drugs aren’t affective.

You steal one last glance at Yelena. Her eyes are desperate, ‘don’t go.’ Both of you knowing you can’t stay.

“Enjoy Moscow.” You whisper, moving reluctantly to your feet.

She tears her gaze away, unable to watch you leave. “I hear Budapest is beautiful.”

You hope so.

Wanna know what happens next? Check out chapter one of Miss American Pie! 💜

Yelena Belova Taglist: @captainwonderwidow

[misamccn]

linked - killua zoldyck. 

pairing: killua zoldyck x female reader

chapter word count: 2182

content warnings: violence, blood, child abuse, trauma, anxiety, death, abusive parents. 

summary: soulmate au - seventeen year-old (y/n) has never been free. after 9 years of being locked away with her father who uses her for her nen ability, (y/n) escapes and is on the run. she has big plans to become a hunter and see the world...until she meets her soulmate killua and his friends after discovering that her father is after her and wants to take her back. will she escape her father with the help of killua, gon, and alluka? will she bond with killua, or will they sever their link? 

:: prologue - running to the starting line

You craved control.

For all of your life, you never got to experience any kind of control, except when you were a little girl. Your mom would let you choose things for yourself. Like when you wanted to train, what you wanted to eat, and who you wanted to play with. But one day, she dropped you off to your father's house and she was gone. Murdered in cold blood that same night. Your light, happiness, and control died with her that day too. Gone in an instant. You would never choose another thing for yourself from that moment forward.

Until now.

Your feet, clad in thick black leather combat shoes worn with dirt and time, slapped against the wet pavement as you ran to the bus station. You roughly rubbed your hands against your tear-stained eyes. How could I be so stupid, you thought to yourself as your heart pounded in agony against your chest.

He really fooled you good, didn't he? For a second there, you felt safe. Like someone actually cared and didn't want you for your power.

Giichi...you bastard.

You clenched your fists angrily as you wiped the tears from your eyes. No more tears, I have to keep going or else dad will find me and I'll end up back in that cell.

After your mom died, your dad took you in and decided to make you use your gift as a payment for him taking you in. He took you underground in his base. There were no windows, no light, no color. It was dull and empty. The only things in your cell were a mat with a blanket, a toilet, and chains on the wall that were used to restrain you when you failed him and needed to be punished. You spent nine painful years down there. You spent your time healing your father's gang members and guards when they came back from a fight. The worst nights were the nights where a lot of them got hurt. Healing that many of them at once would almost kill you at some times, but your father never let you stop. He never let you have a break. The pain of it all left you breathless.

You were his tool and your purpose was to fix the people that were destroyed for him and his money.

The most painful part of it all though was probably the loneliness of it all. You didn't get to have any friends, and the only person your age that you knew was this boy that you met on an island a long time ago.

There was also your soulmate, of course.

He was always there, never fully in focus, but lingering in your thoughts. His emotions and feelings often filled your mind when they were strong. You didn't know his name, or what he looked like, but you knew him. Even if it was just a little bit.

You first felt him there the night your mom died.

The thunder and rain pattering against your window drowned out the sound of your sobs as you lay in bed awake that night. You had never felt so alone before. Not only was your mother gone, but her whole clan was gone. The people that she loved so much, and the people that you were just getting to know. Your small hand grasped your pillow tightly as a sob ripped its way through your throat when all of a sudden, you felt it. It was small, but nonetheless present. A soft, unfamiliar warmth lingered in the corner of your mind, almost like it was a little bit timid. It soothed her, suddenly she didn't feel so alone.

"I'm sorry," it seemed to say.

With tears still streaming down your cheeks and your eyes wide open, you whispered back, "Thank you."

There were multiple other occasions that you felt him there.

After your father smacked you around a few times for not healing fast enough, or not giving the results he wanted, you'd feel that same warmth.

When you were on the brink of death after healing too many terrible wounds at once, you felt his panic in the corner of your mind.

Sometimes, you could feel a deep loneliness in his mind. Sometimes you could feel he was in physical pain, just like you.

Was it possible that he was going through something similar?

You often wondered if he felt the lack of control that you did.

You knew that you would be destined to meet one day. When and where you didn't really know. You haven't found him yet because his first words to you were still written across your collarbone and you had yet to hear them out loud.

You were in no rush to find your soulmate though, you still had plenty of things you wanted to do. So many places to explore. So much life to live and take back. You were in no rush to settle down with a partner that you had no control over choosing, especially since you just freed yourself.

You ran away from your father's house about 3 months ago. There was a big raid. Enemies of your father had never broken into his base before, and you knew it was likely that it wouldn't happen again soon. So when the locks on your cell were unlocked due to the damage that was happening to the base, you took the opportunity and ran. You took your katana from your father's storage unit on the way out and bolted.

After running for a while, you found a small city. It was called Junipo City. The population was small and the poverty level was high. You were homeless for a while. You slept in an ally way behind the city's supermarket, and that's where he found you. Giichi.

When you first saw Giichi, you thought that he was very handsome. Just looking at his slick back black hair and green eyes made your heart do a little jump in your chest. However, it was his smile that pulled you in. There was something so friendly, so inviting about it. How naive you were then...

He acquainted himself with you and started dropping off food to you for about two weeks. After those two weeks, he convinced you to stay with him in a shelter that he lived in and worked in. He gave you your first set of new clothes in nine years, a place to sleep and food to eat. He took care of you, and for the first time since you escaped, you felt like maybe you didn't have to do things alone.

For the next two months, things were perfect. Giichi showed you all over town during the day. At night, he would bring you hot chocolate before you went to bed. You loved watching him play with all of the other kids and talk with the elderly at the shelter. Sometimes, late at night, you found the courage to confide in him. You told him about your past and all of your fears. Your heart began to flutter madly in your chest whenever he walked into the room. You thought that maybe, everything would be okay, maybe he even liked you too...

But after everything that happened tonight, you found yourself back in square one, alone again.

He had asked you if you had any career plans for the future.

"Hmm," you thought as your feet swung back and forth over the side of your cot, "I was thinking that maybe I could become a Hunter. I'm hoping to take the next exam. I think that my experience with nen and my katana gives me a good chance of passing the exam," you replied sheepishly.

"The next exam?" Giichi asked sorrowfully.

"Yeah," you smiled, "is there something wrong?"

Giichi smiled and shook his head, taking his seat on his cot across from yours.

"There's nothing wrong with that, of course. I'm really happy for you. It's just that...I'm really sad to see you go so soon. The Hunter exam is next week after all."

He looked back up at you. His sorrowful sage meeting your (y/e/c) ones. There was something in his look that made your heart soar...

"Giichi, I-"

He leaned in closer to you from his cot and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. Almost immediately you felt heat rise to your cheeks. He's so close...

"(Y/N)...I was going to wait to tell you this, but since you're leaving I have no choice but to tell you now," a mischievous smile found its way onto his face, "I really like you, (y/n). I have since the moment I met you. You're beautiful and strong. It really makes me sad that you're leaving before we had the chance to become something more than friends..."

Something more than friends? You had never thought about being more than friends with someone other than your soulmate...and even when you did think about that you figured that would be happening way down the line. Right now, you're free and you're allowed to finally make choices for yourself.

The first words of your soulmate burned angrily against the skin of your collarbone.

Could you pursue this, soulmate aside? No...no you couldn't. You were going to become a Hunter. You were going to make money and explore the world. Maybe along the way, you'd meet people and you'd get to finally use your power safely for people you care about...For now, though, you didn't have room for a relationship, despite what you felt for Giichi.

"Giich-"

Before you could tell him how you felt, he placed his hands on your cheeks and pressed his lips to yours.

You were completely frozen. Your eyes wide open in shock and your heart pounding against your chest. This was your first kiss. Before you could even process that thought it was over, and your soulmate mark was on fire.

He was there, lingering dejectedly in the corner of your mind. Feelings of jealousy, betrayal, and finally something passive washed over him in your head. And then he was gone. He shut himself out almost faster than your kiss.

Giichi pulled away from you, "After you get your Hunter license, will you come here and show me?"

You nodded your head slowly, your fingers playing with your tingling lips, "S-Sure."

He smirked and patted your head before walking away, "Get some sleep, (y/n). Goodnight."

Sleeping was the last thing you did. You laid awake in your cot, your soulmate mark throbbing against your collarbone. After about an hour of tossing and turning, you decided to get up and get some water, walking on your tiptoes to avoid waking the other sleeping children in the cots around you.

You were almost to the kitchen when you heard Giichi talking on the phone in his office.

"...uh-huh, yeah...She should be back from her Hunter Exam in two weeks, I'm guessing... Yeah...You can pay me and take her at the same time I guess, no need to make two trips... trust me, she'll definitely be back..."

You rocked on your feet outside of his office, almost losing your balance at the same time. He tried to trick you...he tried to gain your trust and sell you...To who though? Your father? A third party that knew about your power? That didn't matter, right now you had to get away and lay low.

You ran back to your cot and took the few things that you owned. You pulled on your black hoodie and pulled the strap of your Katana case over your chest and let your katana rest on your back. From there, you crept out of the back doors and ran into the night.

Your feet slowed to a stop as you reached the bus stop. A bus was there loading passengers so you immersed yourself into the line, pulling your hoodie over your face.

You took a seat alone at the back of the bus, the rain pattering angrily against the window and the wind rattling the bus.

You can do this alone, (y/n). Don't be afraid, you have to lay low for a little while.

You took a deep breath and shut your eyes. Regret weighed heavily on your heart and you tried to push these thoughts to your soulmate but you were met with silence.

The intercom on the bus buzzed to life, "Next stop: Yorknew City."

[draconic-ichor]

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 22: Reservoir House Call

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, body horror

Summary: Moraue needs Heisenberg’s help.

Feedback appreciated, 18+

Movement tripped the alarms, something deep in the factory stirred the sensors. Heisenberg and Juniper entered the control room. He sat in the chair, looking over the cameras.

“What the fuck it that?!” Juniper pointed to one of the screens. Heisenberg turned to look where her finger led.

Down on the lowest reaches of the factory, where water from the reservoir flowed through the factory a large shape lumbered out.

It was a mass of fat and eyes, pulling free of the water with multiple legs.

“Aw Christ…” Heisenberg sat back in his chair rubbing the bridge of his nose, “it’s Moreau.”

 

“That’s Moreau??” Juniper said in disbelief.

By the time they made it down to the lowest level, Moreau had changed back into his more humanoid form, coughing near the edge of the waterway.

“H-Hello Juniper.” The man croaked. Seeing him now, without his usual coverings was a sight to behold. His back was covered with bulbous, pulsing growths. Damn, some looked to be monstrous eyes. A vestigial aquatic tail poked out from the mass, moving on its own accord. It looked painful, forcing the man into a hunchback.

“H-Hello.” Juniper managed.

“Yea Yea, fish.” Heisenberg stomped up, “What do you want, I’m busy.”

Moreau seemed to worry his hands, glancing down, “Brother…I…I need your help.”

“I fucking know that, what is it?” Heisenberg interjected, annoyed.

His tone made the other flinch a bit, “My television…i-it broke. I can’t f-fix it.”

Heisenberg signed, thinking over the situation. “I’ll come fix it.” He finally spoke.

Moreau’s face lit up with hope, shuffling his feet a bit. He turned towards Juniper, “You’ll come too?”

“Sure.” She nodded tentatively, hearing Heisenberg groan behind her.

“I can take you over!” The man gestured to the water excitedly.

Juniper felt a shiver, remembering what emerged from the water, until Heisenberg cut in again. “Thanks but…uh…fuck that.” He waved his hand, “Well take our own way.”

Slightly dejected, Moraue nodded, “I’ll meet you there.”

“Mhm.” Heisenberg shrugged tightly. Before anyone would speak again the fish man turned and jumped back into the waterway.

~

“Is that a purse?” Juniper asked amused. They walked towards the Reservoir, the ground muddy from the melted snow.

“It’s a tool bag.” Heisenberg answered through gritted teeth. He pulled the bag closer, it was letter and hung around his shoulder at hip level.

“It looks like a purse.” Juniper snickered, earning a growl of annoyance from Heisenberg.

As they drew nearer, past the town, the ground grew more sodden. The air slowly began to gain a certain smell, like the rotting of waterlogged plants. Juniper wrinkled her nose.

They walked through a narrow passage between a cliff face, Heisenberg holding back a bramble patch for Juniper to safely squeeze through.

She could see the windmills now, old and groaning as they slowly turned. Most of the land surrounding them had long since been lost to the rising water. The roofs of houses and other debris could be seen floating on top of the murky water.

“This is it.” Heisenberg announced, “The beautiful Reservoir, perfect place to cool off in the summertime. Just watch out for the fish!” His voice mimicked an old radio announcer as he split his face into a cheeky smile.

Juniper brushed him away, walking towards the edge to look into the swirling water.

“Be careful, buttercup.” Heisenberg came up behind her, “Won’t be able to fish you out if you sink in that.”

She felt a little shiver run down her spine.

She stepped away from the water, “So where does Moreau live?”

Heisenberg gestured for her to follow, easing his tool bag more comfortably on his shoulder. They entered the closest of the windmills. The old wooden mechanism slowly turned and groaned as they took stairs deeper into the underground. They came to a lift, resembling ones in the factory, but this one was wooden.

They rode it down into what looked to be an old mine. Juniper’s eyes caught the glittering flecks of crystals embedded into the rocky ceiling.

Going deeper still, with the far off shuffling of Lycans in abandoned mining shafts, they finally came to a metal door.

It bore the crest of Miranda.

“Don’t touch anything.” Heisenberg warned, “I don’t want you getting any diseases.”

Before Juniper could scold him he knocked at the door.

They heard mumbling and the scraping of feet across the wooden floors before the door opened. Moreau was a mixture of joy and apprehension, greeting them inside.

His ‘house’ was one of the mine shafts that had been converted into a living space. There were wooden floors and walls, and some furniture about. It was definitely sparse, save for some shelves with old books and storage containers.

Everything looked to be heavily damaged by water and the goo that Moraue would produce, not to mention the off colored stains that Juniper didn’t want to ask about.

It smelled about as one would expect, given the circumstances.

“I’m sorry…about the mess.” Moraue picked up a pile of old magazines, their covers warped and faded.

“It’s alright.” Juniper tried to sooth.

“So where is the tv?” Heisenberg asked with disgruntlement.

“Oh!” The twisted man exclaimed, “It’s right over here.” He padded around a corner into another small room. An old television set was staked on a crate, some soft things and boxes of films close by. This room looked to be the space he spent most of his time.

“Thank you, Heis-Heisenberg.” Moraue stammered.

“Yea, yea.” Heisenberg strode forward, kneeling down behind the machine. He placed the bag of tools beside him, pulling out a screwdriver.

Juniper wandered back to the entertainment room, Moreau curiously following her.

Heisenberg, busy with his task, took no mind of them. He wanted to finish this job as quickly as possible.

Getting all the screws loose he was able to free the back panel. It came away with an odd sucking sound, goo oozing out with it. The slimy substance hit Heisenberg’s boots as the television gave small sparks.

“Fucking hell!” Heisenberg grimaced at his boots, shaking the panel free of the muck.

“The TV is full of your green shit slime!” Heisenberg yelled into the next room. He heard more apologies from the room over. Grumbling, he began to clean out the inside of the box.

Juniper walked along the wall, looking at various  things that were hung alone it. Most of it was old gushing memorabilia but a few worn picture frames peaked her interest.

One photo in particular stood out. It was faded, the edges being ate up with mold. But she could still make out a man, stocky with jet black hair. He stood proudly in front of a clinic. She squinted her eyes to read the sign in the photo: Moreau’s Clinic.

“Sal?” Juniper turned, pointing to the photo, “Is this you?”

Moreau came closer, looking to where her finger led. His wide mouth parted in a smile as he spoke, “Oh yes!”

“Were you a doctor?” Juniper turned back towards the photo. Looking now she could see the shadows of his features hidden away under all the twisted flesh.

He nodded, “Yes, I took over the clinic. It was my Father’s. I helped people…before…before all..”

His voice trailed off, but Juniper understood.

He shook his head a bit, his smile returning, “But I help Mother Miranda now! I try to make her proud of me.”

Juniper gave him a small smile, knowing that nothing she said would sway his devotion.

“Heisenberg said you were sick.” Moraue looked up at her, his good eye full of worry.

Feeling her stomach she answered, “I went through a lot recently, but I’m feeling much better now.”

“Mother’s gifts hurt sometimes.” He tried to sooth, “But it’s worth it, she wants us to be strong.”

She tried to nod, her gut turning a bit at the memories.

“You are Heisenberg’s helper?”Moreau tried to change the subject.

Heisenberg’s voice sounded from the other room, “She’s my wife!” He corrected.

Moreau gave a small ‘oh’. Juniper’s cheeks bloomed with a rosy blush.

“I’m trying to teach him some manners.” She whispered mischievously, earning a warbling chuckle from Moreau.

“I heard that!” Heisenberg yelled again making the two snicker harder.

~

It was a good few hours before Heisenberg was able to get the inside of the machine clean and in working order once more. He had to use his powers with electricity to rewire some parts, replacing one of the tube bulbs and showering it with a plethora of curses for good measure during the whole ordeal.

Juniper kept Moraue occupied and out of Heisenberg’s hair. He had convinced her to look at his collection of finishing lures. Given his simple speech patterns and twisted visage one would think him very dim; but he was surprisingly intelligent and talkative with certain topics. Fishing was one of those topics, Juniper discovered.

The sound of boots tore them from their conversations, Moraue closing the old wooden tackle box to look up.

“Well I got it working again…but damn your slime mess is really fucking it up.” Heisenberg announced, holding his tool bag.

Moreau took Juniper’s hand excitedly, “Would you want to see one of my movies?”

“No, no.” Heisenberg interjected.

“One movie?” Juniper looked at him with big puppy eyes, “Just to make sure it’s working properly.”

The two looked at Heisenberg expectantly. After a long moment Heisenberg pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed, “Jesus fuck…Fine!”

As Moreau excitedly went through his box of films Heisenberg pressed, “Only one.”

“Thank you.” Juniper whispered, hugging Heisenberg softly.

Rolling his eyes, Heisenberg hisses, “I don’t know why you humor him.”

“Because it’s a nice thing to do.” Juniper snapped under her breath, “Don’t be so mean.”

When he didn’t speak she gave a little huff, wandering closer to the crouched Moreau.

The man was sifting carefully though the films, mumbling things to himself.

Juniper made a sound of surprise pointing into the box, “You have ‘The Secret Garden’?”

Moreau nodded, pulling that film free. It was the 1949 version, in black and white.

“I used to love that book.” Juniper spoke excitedly, “Can we watch that one?”

Moreau, just overjoyed to have company, instantly agreed.

Heisenberg leaned against the far wall, watching them set up the television. Moreau apologized profusely for not having proper seating, while Juniper shrugged and sat on the floor.

He smiled as the two became quiet when the movie started, walking quietly up to sit besides Juniper. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer as he settled in.

The movie wasn’t his cup of tea, liking westerns or thrillers more himself, but the quiet was nice. Even if the place was damp and smelled.

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Roommates - Theo x Reader

(gif source)

Summary: y/n’s landlord is increasing her rent once her lease is up. She has two options: move out or find a roommate. Theo, coincidentally, is looking for a new apartment.

Word count: 2105

Warnings: cursing, theo being a total house husband

a/n: and they were roommates

master list

“So then he finds out that Leia is his sister and- y/n, are you even listening?” Stiles cut himself off and looked over to where the y/h/c was nervously bouncing her leg. y/n’s head snapped up when she heard her name, nearly dropping her phone in the process.

“Uh, yeah, of course! I just um, keep going, I’m listening,” she replied unconvincingly. Her odd behavior caught the attention of the rest of the pack - not that they were really paying much attention to Stiles’s retelling of Star Wars: Return of the Jedi - causing the previous conversation to be forgotten.

“Okay, spill. There’s a handful of mostly human polygraphs in here and you’re a terrible liar. What’s up?” Malia grilled, looking at y/n expectantly. 

“It’s really nothing, everything’s fine,” y/n squeaked out, her ability to lie getting worse and worse with each word. After receiving another pointed look from Malia, she finally cracked. “Ugh, fine. I just got an email from my landlord that he’s bumping up the rent when my lease is up and I can’t afford to stay there by myself anymore,” y/n ranted. The group, minus y/n, glanced around at each other with frowns. Each and every one of them would drop everything to help y/n, but it just so happened that they were all already stuck in leases or didn’t have any extra rooms at their homes. After a few moments of silence, Theo piped up.

“I could be your roommate and split the rent if you want,” he offered nonchalantly. Stiles looked between Theo and y/n as if they’d both grown two heads. Before y/n could decline the offer, Theo continued. “My lease is almost up and your place is much nicer anyways. It’s a win win,” Theo pointed out casually and leaned back deeper into the cushions. 

An awkward silence hung in the air for a moment as y/n mulled it over. It wasn’t a horrible idea. Having a chimera as a roommate was basically like having a top-of-the-line security system. Plus, between being a full-time student and working part-time, y/n was hardly home so it didn’t really matter who her roommate was, just as long as they did their fair share of chores.

“Sure, why not,” y/n replied warmly.

It had been about a month since Theo moved in. Aside from sleeping, y/n had spent very little time at their now shared apartment. If she wasn’t at school or working, she was spending time with the pack, which felt like a full time job in and of itself. Too bad they weren’t getting paid to keep the whole damn city safe. For what felt like the first time in months, y/n finally had an entire weekend off. No looming deadlines from her classes. No long and grueling shifts for work. No supernatural threats. 

When she got home that Friday night she dropped her purse by the door, toed her shoes off halfway through the room, and unceremoniously flopped down onto the couch, sighing loudly as she did so. 

“Well hello to you too,” Theo called as he entered the room stealthily. y/n jumped, startled by his presence.

“Jesus, I didn’t even know you were home. What are you, a ninja?” y/n asked, chest heaving slightly.

“Something like that,” Theo smirked, earning an unimpressed eye-roll from y/n. Theo moved to sit down on the couch next to her, making sure to leave a respectful distance between their bodies, and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “So, you’ve been busy,” Theo began, striking up a light conversation. y/n snorted and leaned her head back into the cushions.

“You’ve got that right,” y/n groaned, running a hand through her tousled hair. The last thing y/n expected when Theo moved in was for him to be willing to hear her vent about school and work, but he actually seemed to enjoy the conversation and company. She told him about her lazy group project members and the sleazy old men who came to the diner she waitressed at. She told him how poetic justice had been served when one particularly disgruntled customer slipped and fell on the drink that he’d intentionally spilled when a waitress wouldn’t give him her number. Theo actually laughed in response to that story, his gleeful chuckle brought a warm smile to y/n’s face. 

“I didn’t mean to unload on you, thanks for listening though,” y/n finished shyly. Theo brushed off her comment.

“That was entertaining, thank you,” Theo replied with his signature grin. y/n felt heat rise to her cheeks but turned away before Theo could notice.

“Anyways… as much as I’d love to not move from this couch for the next 48 hours, I should probably clean up a bit. I’ve been a pretty shitty roommate,” y/n grimaced as she forced herself off of the couch. Theo gave her a puzzled look and patted the spot next to him on the couch, rolling his eyes when she seemed unwilling to sit back down.

“You’ve hardly been here since I moved in. I don’t think you’ve eaten a meal here, much less made a mess. Except for maybe your shoes in the middle of the floor,” he pointed out, gesturing towards her anti-slip waitressing sneakers. y/n’s face continued to burn as she moved to kick the shoes towards the shoe rack by the door. Naturally, she turned to sarcasm as a defense mechanism.

“What shoes? I don’t see any shoes,” y/n quipped slyly, waltzing back across the room to once again sink into the couch. Theo chuckled wordlessly at her antics and tore his eyes away from her to look at the TV.

“Friends or The Office?”

As luck would have it, y/n’s free weekend was short lived and the following Monday she was back to her never ending stream of school work and back-to-back work shifts. Fortunately, she was able to run home during her lunch break and wisely chose to use the time for a well-deserved nap. As she pulled out her keys to open the apartment door, she heard mechanical humming coming from inside. Truth be told, she had yet to figure out what kind of roommate Theo was, much less come close to understanding the walking enigma, so she had no idea what she was about to walk into. Was he building something? Did he figure out a way to bring the dread doctors back? Was he doing something unspeakable with a lady friend that would surely scar y/n for years to come?

As y/n mentally prepared herself for the horror movie that she was expecting to walk into, she inserted her keys in the lock. I need a fucking nap, whatever weird shit going on behind this door be damned. She pushed the door open with tense shoulders and hesitantly peered into the apartment. There stood Theo. Not holding any tools, not actively in cahoots with the nightmarish scientists that occupied part of their high school days, and (thank God) fully clothed...

But vacuuming.

Her murderous, half-human, former dirt bag roommate was vacuuming. Like a bona fide house husband. 

Theo heard the door softly close shut behind y/n and he turned to face her, unplugging the vacuum machine in the process.

“What’s with all of this?” y/n asked hesitantly, gesturing vaguely to the vacuum cleaner and the various cleaning supplies set out on the coffee table. Theo glanced at the area around him, proud of his work.

“I had some time to kill so I figured I’d clean up a bit. I’m pretty much done now so I shouldn’t bother you if you’re studying or…” he trailed off, giving y/n an opportunity to fill in the blank.

“Ha, I probably should, but no. I will be dead asleep for the next thirty minutes and then I have to head to the diner for a double shift,” she groaned and shrugged off her jacket as she made her way towards her room. Considering the fact that it was only noon on a Monday, y/n seemed far too tired. Theo frowned for a moment and genuinely considered going to have nice civilized chats with her manager and professors. That’s probably a bad idea though. Unless...

For some reason unbeknownst to y/n, her professors had begun to show some mercy in the number of papers and projects they assigned. Her manager at the diner even offered to decrease the hours she worked each week if she was feeling overwhelmed. Theo wore a knowing grin when a joyful y/n came home one day and explained this all to him. If y/n caught his mischievous smirk, she certainly didn’t call him out on it. With all of her newfound free time, y/n decided that she wanted to host a pack movie night at their apartment.

“Alright, the pizza is on the way and Scott is bringing snacks. We should probably get the movie set up before Stiles gets here and somehow convinces us all to watch Star Wars again,” y/n rattled off while she paced the apartment to make sure everything was in order. “I washed a bunch of blankets earlier, could you take them out of the dryer and put them on the couch?” y/n requested as she anxiously walked to the kitchen and began pulling out plates and cups. Theo nodded gently as he popped into the kitchen to check things out.

“Don’t stress too much. As long as there’s people and pizza, everyone will be happy,” Theo said, attempting to ease her anxiety. y/n smiled lightly at his words and took a deep breath. Lately he seemed to have some magical ability to calm her down. Theo left the kitchen to take care of the blankets while y/n put together a makeshift snack bar, complete with plates, bowls for snacks, and beer. The pizza and most of the pack arrived just as y/n and Theo were finishing up with their respective jobs. The pizza delivery boy seemed a little scared by the tall, muscled men and tiny but mighty women surrounding him so she gave him a decent tip and rolled her eyes at her friends’ naturally intimidating nature. After y/n ushered them all inside and set the pizza down on the kitchen counter, she joined the rest of the pack in the living room. To her surprise, the blankets had been neatly set out around the room and folded with expert precision. She sent Theo an impressed smile and winked when she thought no one was looking.

Stiles was the last to arrive and much to his disappointment Ghostbusters had already been set up on the TV. It didn’t take long for everyone to grab food and get situated around the living room, so by the time y/n was done buzzing around the apartment like a madwoman to get everything situated there was only one spot left on the couch. y/n knew that her friends - aside from Stiles - weren’t actively trying to hurt Theo’s feelings, but seeing him tucked into the corner of the couch distanced away from everyone pained her more than she’d admit.

So, she did what any good friend would do. Not only did she gladly take the spot on the couch next to him, but she also casually tossed her legs over his and covered the two of them with a blanket. The action definitely earned her a few raised eyebrows, including from Theo, but no one dared to call them out. y/n was able to easily ignore the sideways glances they earned throughout the course of the movie, mostly because she had fallen asleep about 15 minutes in. By the end of the movie her head had fallen to lazily rest on Theo's shoulder and he had subconsciously pulled her in closer to his side.

After the movie finished and they spent some time catching up, the rest of the pack began to trickle out of y/n and Theo’s apartment. Lydia was the last to leave so she offered to lock the door behind her so that Theo wouldn’t have to move and wake y/n. Lydia tossed out a few stray cups on her way out the door, and because she was never one to tell secrets, she definitely didn’t send the girls a picture of Theo and y/n now both passed out and cuddling on the couch.

a/n: this seemed like a great idea in the shower and now i’m not sure i even like it but i hope you enjoyed :)

edit: enjoy my best friend’s live reaction to this fic

join my tag list!

@linkpk88 @grace-wade-08 @plq-cid @jazzyhales @ineedyourskulls @lilyspells @pure-ghost​ @ellxpsismm​ @samkysnks​ @sweetfairyprincess17 @basicbibitxh​ @rogershoe​ @dashkana​ 

[penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories]

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point. 

Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up. 

Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv​ for being my incredible beta and to @maybege​ for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content! 

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control) 

Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.

As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss. 

As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother. 

As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine. 

As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.

Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet. 

Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments. 

You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.

The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.

 In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.

  But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.

 He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.

 You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.

  You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you. 

Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be. 

You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.

But here you were anyway. 

Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well. 

Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from. 

And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life. 

The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby. 

You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly

Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead. 

He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least. 

The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.

The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes. 

The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.

You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours. 

*******

When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.

You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things. 

But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.

It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project. 

You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any. 

The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!” 

“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize. 

Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”

You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen. 

When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”

“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way.  “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”

Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.” 

You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?” 

“In town. We needed some things from the market.”

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you. 

She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”

You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast. 

But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving. 

In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch. 

By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru. 

You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…” 

“How far along are you?”

Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.

“I… what?”

Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.” 

Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod. 

“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.

A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves. 

Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own? 

“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.

At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”

“He doesn’t know.” 

Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.

“Would he not be happy?”

You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.

It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.

After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area. 

She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”

Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.

********

The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him. 

You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house. 

There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.

So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working. 

It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him. 

At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours. 

You’re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in. 

You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent. 

Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.

There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away. 

“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “

The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.

His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams. 

Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence. 

The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.

You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.

The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.

He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.

He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.

Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest. 

“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.” 

“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.

If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall.  “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.

“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?

“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.

Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover. 

What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to… 

When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs.  Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it,  meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don’t do this alone. Let me…”

Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.

You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso. 

 And you begin to weep with him.

 *********

 The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut. 

At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth. 

 You cannot tell him for a long while still. 

 *******

 It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.  

There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.

But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.  

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it. 

Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.

 At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words. 

“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.

Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.

 And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.

 *****

 The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air. 

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance. 

You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors. 

The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.  

You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh. 

“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”  

Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”

He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.” 

Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet. 

He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist. 

“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.” 

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.  

“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface. 

“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.  

He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.  

The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.

He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality. 

When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”

He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.

“Certainly not.” 

You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him. 

Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss. 

He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you. 

His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all. 

Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features. 

You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him. 

But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth. 

You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.

Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?

But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal. 

No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest. 

So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.

You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.

Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him. 

His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern. 

You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.

Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.

When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.

One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in. 

And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first. 

But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there. 

You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.

You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”

You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”

“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”

You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy. 

“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”

Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.

“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity. 

Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”

But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other. 

Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.

And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.

But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other. 

*******

The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.

It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived.  With more than ever to lose. 

So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course. 

What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down. 

“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”

You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him. 

His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile. 

The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away. 

The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating. 

“I can feel you staring, little one.”  He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.

“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence. 

Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.” 

“On?”

“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek. 

Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively. 

You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest. 

He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”

“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.” 

He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.” 

Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from. 

But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter. 

And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms. 

The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches. 

What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy. 

Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin. 

The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously. 

He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.

It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted. 

 With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.

The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too. 

But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed. 

Although first you needed a blank canvas. 

“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up. 

Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance. 

The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created. 

No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this. 

You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew. 

How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him. 

Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.

So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises. 

The word “complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.

Kind.

And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?

Beautiful. 

You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods. 

Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing. 

When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue. 

Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors. 

So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.

When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now. 

“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?” 

He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.” 

Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.

You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”

With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you. 

 You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.

A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat. 

Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.

You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay. 

You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan. 

But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold. 

You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.

He needs to know. 

Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen. 

Wise.

Perceptive.

He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.

Strong.

The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it. 

Gentle. 

He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.

His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again. 

You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. 

You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow. 

You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him. 

Stars, how you want to let him. 

For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture. 

With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach. 

Disciplined.

There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is. 

Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind. 

But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother. 

And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him. 

Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.

Charming.

Humble. 

Confident. 

Steadfast. 

You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you. 

Nothing can. 

But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you. 

Treasure. 

This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.

Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion. 

Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.

You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying. 

Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him. 

“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.” 

The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons. 

“Darling, I’m…” 

You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.

Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now. 

It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now. 

It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.

His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping. 

Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before. 

Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself. 

Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly. 

I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.

You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.

You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.

“Shall we do something about that?”

You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists. 

“Allow me.” 

He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.

Or so you think.

There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head. 

At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves. 

“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.

Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”

Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.

When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening. 

“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind. 

You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did. 

“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples. 

You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing. 

And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...

“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked. 

He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.” 

Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”

He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.

His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it. 

“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”

An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again. 

“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”

Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone. 

It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is. 

But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night. 

Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him. 

You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care. 

You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple. 

“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all. 

“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control. 

“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand. 

“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.” 

You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him. 

Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all. 

Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.” 

“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”

You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.

So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.” 

You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”

It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.

You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.

Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body. 

He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips. 

You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…

He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.

Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you. 

And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you. 

It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own. 

You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.

His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time. 

The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this. 

Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed? 

Anchor. Anchor against me. 

He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.

Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…

Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before. 

Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck. 

But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge. 

You still have much to learn.

Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.

When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought. 

“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him. 

He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit. 

“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear. 

Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back. 

There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.

He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under. 

But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up. 

He projects his thoughts across the tether to you,  how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this. 

You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion. 

It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.

You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths. 

And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it. 

“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth. 

His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes. 

How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations. 

Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.” 

You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough,  how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied. 

But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.  

Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you. 

With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it. 

The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity. 

It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force. 

Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all. 

*********

In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind. 

On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.

He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them. 

And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been. 

He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time. 

“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.

Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke. 

“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair. 

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand. 

“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke. 

When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment. 

Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over. 

Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too. 

“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms. 

“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”

She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it. 

“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle. 

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.” 

The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef. 

You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses. 

He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day. 

The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving. 

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning. 

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite? 

So is the promise of the return of the Light. 

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs