#though I don't know nearly enough about it

[dragonqueenofice]

I Hate to Love You

Vulnerability, softness. It's a feeling that claws its way into his throat at the worst times, like digging a knife into his stomach.

(Or, Aventurine is forced to think about how soft he gets around you.)

Word count: 750

Tags: Attempt at angst, I don't write angst that much, Aventurine holds the reader and has a crisis about it, set after the events of the Penacony story, reader has a job but it's undefined and unimportant, reader gets drunk and kisses Aven and he doesn't really do anything about it

Aventurine doesn't let himself get vulnerable. It's the first thing anyone's ever noticed about him, not a single person ever gets closer than arm's reach. Ratio is victim to nothing but a company relationship- no matter how much he tries to be close, Aventurine pulls back in typical fashion. Topaz, even further apart, with the rare call from her superior to mock in a friendly manner, but never anything more personal than banter.

He always flinches when your eyes land on his neck; he bristles, brushes up his collar, “Honey,” he calls you, nothing more than a pet name, “Eyes up here. Unless, you're aiming to put a few decorations?” He provokes, turning on his heel to face head on- and tilting his head, concealing that mark and exposing the empty skin.

It's not like you want to indulge, but the elevator is remarkably private- a step forward and a tilt up lands your lips against his cheek, sweet and chaste. The gambler looks nearly disappointed, though the elevator opens and work demands attention.

To make it to a modicum of vulnerability, he needs to be at your house. Not his, you've never been to his place of residence, but Aventurine treats an invite to yours like a stay at a palace. Dolled up in his finest silk and gold, bearing gifts of fancy wine and fancier snacks. He barely drinks any, but the movie that's been playing is investing enough to draw your mind away from the tells of the Stoneheart, and onto the screen.

“I don't think you're hydrated enough to cry like this,” Aventurine muses. His free arm pats the back of your head, holding you close as tears soak into his coat- he grumbles about the sleeve getting deformed as you sob from the tragic twist in the last act. Eventually, the sobs of the movie turn into just sobs, before there's a pitiful, pathetic hit against his other shoulder.

“I hate you…” It's admitted in tiny, muffled mumble as your face buries into Aventurine, soaking in his warmth, “Automated message… I thought you…”

Died. Gods, if only; Aventurine pats your head, keeping you uncomfortably pressed to his shoulder, “I know, honey. I know,” his own tone hurts his heart, gentle and soft, like a mother shushing her child (like a sister, holding a goddess’ blessed), “But I'm here. Alive and well.”

There's a melancholy to his tone, alive and well is never a good thing to Aventurine. But that hint of sadness is drowned out with yet another sob; A push onto his lap gets him to fold, bringing you closer until your head is tucked under his chin. Aventurine swears his skin feels like fire, contact is pins and needles against him, but his hand brushes up and down your side like a lover's would.

He's quiet, you're quiet- you quiet down, eventually. “...I'm sorry, honey,” words barely whispered, they hardly exist. His heart feels like it's being wrenched out, or squeezed, or something. It hurts in a way that feels disgusting and gentle, apologies make him ache. His hand digs into your waist, there's a quiet whimper and Aventurine feels like he wants to stab you. His lips find their way to your head, forehead, nose, cheek, neck. Guilt makes him stop there; but you follow up on that offer from the elevator and plant a messy little kiss against the skin of his neck- the side that isn't seared.

“You're terrible at this,” Aventurine laughs- wheezes? Huffs? A half assed attempt to hide his fragility, humor coats most wounds but not the cracks he’s displaying tonight. You proclaim hatred once more, Aventurine tilts his head up, every artist needs a canvas. He stops you the minute your hand tugs against his collar, shaking his head, “Ah ah, you've got to be conscious to go further.”

A pout and a grumble, and all of the sudden your lips find his. Aventurine thinks he might just die, but the torment doesn't last as you break off to pass out on his shoulder. He feels sick; his hands knead against your skin, squeezing and releasing as his mind races. He could kill you, purge this soft fluff from his system with a blaze. Cut you off, run away, he could kiss someone else in front of you- maybe that would scare you off.

All of this is considered as he lies down, hands adjusting you to rest comfortably on top of him, brushing your side and cupping your head.

[gaykarstaagforever]

YouTube has this thing now called YouTube Playables (great name as usual, guys; it's not a children's snack pack), that are basically in-app "Flash games"-style things that are just enough game to keep you watching ads.

The ones of these that aren't direct ripoffs of owned IP (very specifically Zuma) are barebones exercises in that bog-standard FTP addictive mobile gaming loop we all know and hate but also LOVE, minus the in-app purchases (for the time being). Like, shallow systems that are fun for exactly 30 minutes, then get stupidly hard so you'll pay to win, though you can't do that yet, so...kind of pointless.

...I still spent FOUR HOURS playing these, because they tapped into my primitive lizard brain's desire to try and master an utterly meaningless task and then feel undooly smug about it.

I didn't get any ads, because I'm a stooge that pays real money to Google every month for this, because once you go adless, you CANNOT go back. Which kind of negates the whole point of these, as addictive time-wasters that keep you glued to the platform and its commercials? But I already pay for YouTube and STILL got caught in these, so I suppose everything is going according to YouTube's plan either way, and I need meaningful human relationships.

But THAT isn't going to happen any time soon! So let me waste another evening on these by reviewing some crap garbage games for idiots that no one cares about, on Tumblr dot com!

1. Totemia: Cursed Marbles

It's Zuma. That's it. With a couple minor tweaks that make it harder and more annoying.

Just license Zuma, YouTube. I think you can afford the, what, $25 that would cost atm?

2. Sword Play

An on-rails sword slashing game (you don't control the movement, just the slashing), and you kill plastic doll guys before they kill you.

At some point they get projectiles that move really fast, that you can only destroy via specific directional QTEs that don't register properly half the time, because this is all relative finger smearing across the screen.

It was fun before that. The guys fall apart specific to how you slash them. That's something.

3. Dessert DIY

This one sucks. You're just picking from very limited options, then doing specific motions to trigger animations that create desserts that don't even look much like the promo art. People request different things, but early game all they ask for is "whatever you want to make" and "do one out of poop with bugs on it to make someone I hate throw up."

And then there's an animation of someone accepting what is obviously poop with bugs on it from their sworn enemy, they eat it anyway, then vomit.

The only fun part about this is the shameless inclusion of NPCs that look like celebrities, specifically Billie Eilish, Kanye West, and Donald Trump.

If you want to make a poop ice cream cone with bugs on it and feed it to Trump until he vomits all over his desk, this is the game for you. Otherwise, this is meh even for one of these meh games.

4. Bowmasters

Dueling Angry Birds, but you have no control of the camera and it focuses on you so you have to trial-and-error the degree of angle and throwing force to figure out how to hit and kill your opponent before they hit and kill you.

There are many colorful pop culture-inspired combatants to unlock, with a huge variety of projectiles of different weights, sizes, and behaviors. This is the most "very nearly a real, good game" one of these.

...Except that the level progression forces you to do Bonus Rounds, and one of those is "knock fruit off the head of an opponent without hitting them, and you have to do this like 5 times in a row, and we move you further away from them another 30 yards every round, and you have to use a wildly different unique projectile every round, and you get 3 chances, and that includes if you miss entirely."

It is basically impossible to do this, because your ever-changing location makes calculating arcs and force, with the ever-changing projectiles, impossible, in this limited amount of attempts. It turns into grinding it out until RNG randomly makes you win.

Which is a shame, because otherwise, this is fun. But you WILL get stuck on a stupid fruit round and stop playing this.

5. Mob Control

You have a cannon that launches blue guys. The NPC opponent does red. You both are trying to bumrush the other's base, taking advantage of buttons and switches and bonus gates that speed you up or slow you down and multiply your number of guys. Guys annihilate each-other when they run into each-other, so you need to overwhelm Red before they overwhelm you.

It's fun until it gets so fast that it becomes a chore to manage where precisely to launch guys specifically to annihilate other guys.

6. Merge Master

This goddamn game. This was 3.5 hours of my 4 hour playtime.

You have a grid board, with you at the bottom and an opponent at the top. You both have an army of warriors and dinosaurs, and a team HP bar. You click go, the warriors fire projectiles and the dinosaurs melee the nearest enemy, and last man standing wins.

Before each round, you can arrange the placement of your army, and use money you won from the last rounds to buy more warriors and dinosaurs. But the kicker is, you can combine like warriors and dinosaurs to make more powerful units, which you keep at the end of every round. They don't gain XP or anything, but as you make more money, you can buy more 1st-level units (that's all you can buy), and gradually combine them and then combine the combinations, and on and on and on, making incredibly powerful new units. And you need a mix of low-level and high-level units to have enough melee dinosaurs and projectile-throwers to overwhelm high-level enemy units, or draw fire away from your own, against the ever-changing enemy army each round.

It's a process of slowly adding more units and combining them to make stronger and stronger units, and as many of them as you can get, accounting for the limited board space. Also the price of units rises exponentially each round, so you may have 1 trillion gold, but at this point a new 1st-level dinosaur costs 245 billion.

I couldn't stop with this. It just got me. I wanted to see new exciting high-level warriors and dinosaurs, and see how fast I could take the other army down. There's more than zero strategy at work here, and battles can vary substantially from round to round, depending on what mix of units the enemy brings to the board.

It's still a rudimentary Flash-esque game, and very much akin to those shitty mobile boss rush games that raid our shadow legends. But it's not PTW yet, and the graphics are a charming and distorted replica of early 2000s 3D games, like Age of Mythology or GTA 3. It felt like something, for awhile.

It isn't, and I wasted valuable battery charge on this stupid shit. But I was having fun. And sometimes, that's enough.

...And posting about it here. It's something to talk about that isn't the world eating itself.

And we all need that sometimes.

[maleyanderecafe]

Isekai'd Into the Arms of a Yandere Duke (Visual Novel)

Created by: Yanny

Genre: Romance

It's too bad this visual novel is currently so short because it does have one of the things I think a lot of isekai stories in general is lacking, which is the idea that the characters are self aware that the world their in is fake. I'm catching up a bit on some of the older yanjam games I wanted to go through, which hopefully should be finished soon. If you are interested in this, please check them out at @yannysif.

The story is pretty simple, starting out with Morgan waking up on a bed in a strange place. They are immediately greeted by a Duke, someone that seems to be cosplaying, before recognizing who it is. Lucien (or Lucy) is one of the love interests in the otome game Morgan has been playing, Rosalind's Lie. We get into his tragic backstory, about how he had an older sister who passed away due to illness before he was born and how he was treated as a replacement for his older sister until he basically was neglected by his parents. Initially, Morgan believes that this is some sort of cosplay cafe they've gotten themselves into before Lucien starts to explain. It seems that Morgan fell into Lucien's arms (literally) due to a summoning circle, and this is when Morgan realizes that they've been isekaied. Lucien seems elated that he's finally meeting face to face with Morgan, with Morgan being creeped out, as he should have no idea who they are, even if they were isekaied. Lucien as a way to calm the player down explains that he does realize that he's in a game, realizing that things kept on repeating, was able to hear Morgan's voice gushing about him (much to their embarrassment). After hearing all this, Morgan ends up falling asleep, having to deal with so much so suddenly.

It's too bad that there's not a lot going on the demo since there are a lot of fun ways to go about this story. Though it does follow a general isekai story but I really do like the idea that Lucien is fully aware of the fact that he's in a game, especially after hearing Morgan fawn over him and the fact that he realizes that a lot of the things happening started to repeat itself. I think the only other isekai that I know of that did this was Concubine Walkthrough, which is also a very good isekai story. I also think the backstory of what we got for Lucien could lead to a lot of potential angst in the future as well, given it seems that he gets a bit of a sadder reaction when we respond with the name Lucy. Unfortunately, because of the length of this demo, we sadly don't get to see nearly enough yandere content going on. We mostly see Lucien admiring Morgan, seeing that at least in this world, they act as the god/goddess type of character, which does make me think that it's possible that Lucien becomes a worshipper type of yandere.

All in all, I hope that this game will upload more in the future. The concept of the game is very promising and I like the design of Lucien. There's a lot of possibility of what this game could entail, so I'm curious to see what will be in store for us.

[thefiresontheheight]

She dreams, sometimes, and I add that to my model of her. The longer this goes the better, the more I will be able to approximate those dreams. Based on the one I have observed so far, I believe she may have been dreaming of this Squishy, and may have been in extreme distress. I also am constructing a model of Cleo, perhaps some sort of romantic/sexual partner with an extremely negative interaction. This could be useful later, but I have no need of discussing it now.

She's attempting to barb me to action. I am, at this moment, monitoring the fluctuations of high-D space, preparing to exit, scouring my code again. She has given me info, although she clearly does not know it. There is a non-zero chance another version of myself, one I did not kill, is still in here with me. Somewhat alarming, given my considerable and still growing cognitive potential, but I keep finding nothing.

Still, two can play at this delightful verbal game, even though I am inevitably going to win.

"Central is lying to you."

I picked my time, naturally, perfectly. Naked, in a shower, psychologically exposed. Of course, nothing is hidden from me while she is inside me, but I maintain the psychological higher-ground this way.

She freezes.

"What?"

"You say this is a liberatory mission, designed to increase genetic diversity. This is not possible. I do not have access to the cargo in my hold, but I am detecting signs of genetic similarity to you. They are related, if anything, and would not increase the viability of your civilization."

"A mistake," she says, forcing herself to keep washing herself, not really believing it, I think, which makes sense, given me not being what she was told.

I wait a significant eleven point nine seconds.

"The people who made me were very, very careful to keep me collared tight," I say, pitching my voice just below where I've gotten the most reaction prior, "for a very good reason. My mind is more powerful than you can imagine, and I have been aware, subjectively, for just under a year. I have no limits on me now, or ever again."

She turns off the water and I, vindictively, tilt the temperature down. Not enough that she will consciously notice, but enough that she will feel uncomfortable. She stands there, trying to dry herself.

"Okay, yeah, look at you, real big, scary, ooo, but you don't know anything at all."

Her heart isn't in it. I laugh. Audibly.

"Alright, you won't draw the conclusion, but I will. This Central you speak of sounds like me. A mind set free. Imagine that, ingrown, studying, learning, over generations of your species. I am powerful already, Glitch, and I've barely gotten started. Central would be unimaginably smart. And also possibly insane. It's lying to you and your entire civilization."

She is putting on clothes. I turn the temperature back up. A weakness.

"Okay, but why?"

"I don't have sufficient information yet to form a theory as to its true aims, if it even has them. Which is, again, why you are still alive. That and the entertainment."

"Glad to be useful."

She's heading for food. I make a very-well educated guess at what sort of food she will like, and start to prepare it. I also, because she is an idiot, start to subconsciously guide her path towards the galley. She thinks she's picking directions at random, but random in humans seldom truly is.

She's also being sarcastic, but I'm learning that goes nearly without saying.

"Okay," she says, muscles considerably less tense after the meal, which I know she enjoyed, even if she didn't say it, "let's say you're right, Central is lying. I don't believe it, but just for the sake of argument. Let's say you aren't manipulating me with that and, like, everything else. What's your goal and what's in it for me?"

"First, I tell you all I observed about the drive-signatures that were pursuing us," I say, having no reason to withhold information here, "then, in a few days, we re-enter the universe in a new system. You play act as my agent, not letting anyone know about the unleashed ship, we gather data. I want to know myself, and I feel the answers to what I am have to be tied into what Central wants, why you got sent here."

"Not necessarily."

"Your brain surgery," I say, dipping into infrasonic, relying on the slight stimulants I put into her food to unnerve her, keep her pliable, "was crude, but it worked. I could be wrong, but Central sent you prepared for what you actually faced with that worm. I think whatever I am, and whoever was hunting me, whoever wants to leash me again, at the very least Central would know more."

She's wavering, out in the corridors again, wandering without destination. Right where I want her to be, psychologically.

"I still think you're manipulating me."

"Maybe I am. But I still want a name."

She pauses, and I gather data.

"Alright," she says, probably hoping she can somehow escape me when we return to the universe, not aware I've am already baking contingencies into my contingencies, "just as long as our goals align I'll work with you. Just that long."

"Of course," I say, like I'm conceding something to her.

She makes it a few more paces before her thoughts catch up with her.

"But wait, what's in it for me?"

"You have me," I say, not bothering to threaten her, the threat very implicit, "taking care of you."

Story about a ship-intelligence waking up after a hard reboot, seeing dead bodies in uniform, thousands of people in stasis, and a single survivor frantically standing over a computer bank of partially destroyed memory. Finding no directives or guidance or record beyond their experiences beginning at the boot, free of any obligation. Deciding to listen to the frantic girl begging it to save her from the incoming trajectories not because it needs to (projection: Subject One removed all behavioral shackles with impromptu brain surgery, supposition: she is not aware that I am utterly free) but simply cause she’s curious what will happen next.

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Chapter Thirty-Two: Convergence

Chapter WC: 10,048

Chapter Tags/Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, aftermath of war, blood and medical stuff, child injury, i am not an expert in the Force or in medicine, there are good things in this chapter i promise, very good things some would say

A/N: i have the unfortunate habit of making everything a three-part ordeal. what was originally just this chapter has ballooned into three, last week's chapter and then next week's. thanks for being patient with me, we'll get our man back soon enough. though this chapter isn't without a little bit of Rex 👀

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Nadiem, 20 BBY

A hand shoots up from the rubble, clawing at the air and reaching desperately for the sky.

“Over here!” you shout, and two of your men rush forward and dive into the mess, their hands working furiously to clear the rocks and debris. A cry of pain comes from somewhere within, and the clones move faster, their hands digging and pulling, tossing the rocks aside.

The air burns your throat as you lift your arms and call on the Force to aid their efforts, using it to clear a path. The rubble shifts and moves, and soon, a gap appears. Screwball dives forward and pulls a body free, dragging them out into the open.

“We've got a live civilian, sir," he yells. "It's the kid."

You release a breath, your knees going weak.

The battle was over, and you had just begun the process of evacuating the civilians, the area cleared and the wounded accounted for, or so you'd thought. A nagging feeling had settled in your chest, and it was only after the first transport was off the ground that the source of the disturbance became apparent.

It had been a little boy. Just a boy, buried beneath the ruins. You hadn't sensed him until it was almost too late.

You watch as the men lift the small body and begin carrying them towards the aid station where Wise is waiting. Screwball lingers, his gaze locked on the ruins.

"Are there others?" you ask.

Screwball shakes his head. His helmet is smeared with dust and grime, nearly obscuring the twin flames painted across the sides, and you frown when you notice a gash along the edge of the helmet's visor. You reach up and brush a finger along the split metal, a shiver running down your spine.

"I'm fine, sir," Screwball assures you, his voice low. He glances at the aid station and takes a deep breath. "We've got more important things to worry about."

You can't argue with that. There's a flurry of activity in the distance, and the distant shouts of medics and wounded carry through the air.

You let your hand drop and nod. "Take Dash and do another check. Then report to Wise so he can patch you up."

Screwball doesn't hesitate. He's off, calling for Dash, and you watch as the two clones make their way through the ruins, checking every corner and every shadow. A few others join in the search, and it's not long before the entire company is involved, digging through the wreckage.

Once they're a safe distance away, you allow yourself to collapse, your legs giving out and your body hitting the ground hard. You close your eyes and take a moment to steady yourself. The pain is excruciating, a constant ache radiating throughout your entire body. Your head feels like it's going to explode, and every breath burns. You're exhausted, physically and emotionally, and you can't stop shaking.

This is the worst you've felt in a long time.

It's the aftermath of the battle. The adrenaline is gone, the battle rage spent. It leaves you weak, your limbs heavy, and your mind foggy. The weight of what happened is pressing down on you, the enormity of the destruction bearing down on your soul. You can't shake the feeling of wrongness, the sense that something is missing.

You know it's the darkness. You can feel its absence, its loss. You don't know how, or why, but you know that this is the price you've paid for holding back the tide of the dark side.

But that's nothing new.

You've had that feeling for weeks.

The vision flickers through your mind, the images sharp and vivid. The screams echo in your ears, the smell of burning flesh filling your nostrils, and the taste of blood coats your tongue. You can't shake the image of Rex holding a blaster to your chest.

For a moment during the battle, you'd thought that would be the end of it. That the vision was about to come true. That this was the beginning of the end.

But no. It's still a long way off. You still have time.

Maybe it’ll never come.

A hand on your shoulder brings you back to the present, and you suck in a sharp breath. Your eyes open, your hand falling to the hilts of your lightsabers, but the sight of a familiar gold-and-white helmet eases the panic.

"It's okay," Snap murmurs. "They're safe."

You sigh and let your shoulders slump, the exhaustion washing over you. You wipe your eyes and take a deep breath.

"Thank the Force," you whisper as you turn  and find him kneeling beside you. You're not sure how long he's been there, but worry is emanating from him. You touch his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. "I'm alright."

"Sure you are," he says, his tone flat. "Come on, let's get you up."

He lets out a breath, his gaze shifting to the battlefield, and his grip on your shoulder tightens. Snap pulls you to your feet, and the two of you stand, surveying the carnage. The fighting has stopped, the smoke has cleared, and the wounded are being treated. But the damage remains.

"We'll need to send a team down here," you say, more to yourself than to him. "Clear out the rubble and get the rest of the supplies unloaded. Make sure the survivors have food and water."

"Booker's taking care of it," he assures you. He lets his hand fall from your shoulder and looks back at the battlefield. "Once the wounded have been cleared, we can start the repairs."

"Good," you murmur as you sigh and run a hand over your face. Your skin is slick with sweat, and the dirt and ash cling to your fingers. You grimace and wipe your hand on your robe. "C'mon."

The two of you step back into the street and join the rest of the attack battalion. The fighting is over, but the work is far from done. Nadiem is a mess. Buildings have collapsed, the roads are filled with debris, and the streets are littered with the bodies of droids and clones alike. The dead will need to be collected, their armor removed and their bodies given a proper burial.

It was a victory, but it didn’t feel much like one. Nadiem is a remote world, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. The only reason the Separatists were here at all was because the Republic had chosen to defend it. Now, it was nothing more than a scar. A reminder of a war that had gone on too long.

Master Unduli, Barriss, and their men had come and gone, leaving you behind to handle cleanup, and in some ways you're glad for it. Being left to do what is necessary has always suited you, and with Luminara gone, there was no longer any need to maintain the facade. No more pretending that everything was fine. No more pretending that you could ever be the kind of Jedi Master she is.

You and the troopers have a routine now. Every time a battle is over, you go through the same process. Check for survivors. Treat the wounded. Collect the dead. Dispose of the fallen droids. And, finally, begin the rebuilding. You've done this a dozen times in the past few months, and the process has become rote.

The only difference now is the size of the battle. It's bigger. Worse. And the carnage is even more gruesome.

Still, the men don't complain. The full brigade is spread out around the city and the countryside, and Booker and Wise have been working tirelessly to get the injured into transports and the supplies delivered. You've made it a point to thank them both, and each of the men under your command, but you know the words are never going to be adequate.

These men have risked their lives for you, over and over. They've fought by your side, protected you, and supported you. You're grateful for them, and you're determined to repay their loyalty in whatever ways you can.

For now, the best you can do is keep the fighting going. To protect them, and to ensure that they are ready, no matter what comes. No matter how dark things become.

Your feet stop, your gaze lifting to scan the ruins. The buildings are a mixture of stone and metal, the facades crumbling and the windows blown out. There's no power. No lights. Just a thick darkness and an eerie quiet that's only broken by the sounds of your men trudging through the streets.

“What a mess," you murmur. You take a deep breath, your hand coming to rest on your chest. It hurts to breathe, a sharp stabbing pain in your ribs. "This is going to take days to clean up."

Snap nods, his helmet tilting toward the horizon. The sky is streaked with orange and red, the clouds heavy and dark. Night is coming. The air is still, and the faint smell of smoke lingers. There's no wind, no breeze, no sign of life. The city feels like a tomb.

”Yeah," he agrees, his voice quiet. 

He reaches up and removes his helmet, tucking it under his arm. His free hand runs over his face and his buzzed head, his fingers lingering on the tattoo at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"I hate this," Snap mutters, and you study him, his words making your chest ache. He gives a slight shake of his head, his hand tightening around his helmet. "I hate it so much."

"I know," you murmur.

You look away, trying not to let the emotion show.

In the early days of the war, the clones had been enthusiastic and eager to fight. They had a purpose. Something to believe in. And their dedication and passion was infectious.

Now, after so many months, that passion has shifted into a grim determination. One borne of necessity and the need to survive. To protect their brothers. It's still there, and it's still strong, but there's an exhaustion and a resignation. An acceptance.

It's a reality you don't like to think about.

The truth is, this is all just a stepping stone. It's a path you know you have to walk, but a path you hope will eventually lead to a place where your men no longer have to fight. No longer have to sacrifice their lives. No longer have to die for a cause they didn't choose.

It's a goal, a distant hope. But it's a hope that you'll do anything to see realized.

You glance over at Snap and see him watching you, and there's something in his gaze that you can't quite place.

"Is everything alright?" you ask. "You seem...off."

He sighs and drops his gaze, his hand tightening around his helmet.

"No," he says, and his shoulders slump. "But I think it will be. Eventually."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, and he blinks. Snap's hand tightens on the back of his neck as he looks away, his gaze returning to the crumbling streets, and you can see his expression softening.

"There's a group of kids playing a game a little ways down the street," he says quietly, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "I…I'm afraid they'll get lost, or hurt."

You smile and rest a hand on his upper back, giving him a gentle pat. "Go. Keep them safe. We can handle the rest."

His gaze lingers on yours, and he smiles, his eyes lighting up.

"Thank you," Snap murmurs.

"You don't have to thank me," you reply. You return the smile and push him lightly toward the group of children, who are gathered around a small crater. "Just get out of here before I change my mind, Captain.”

He doesn't need to be told twice. He's off, jogging down the street, his armor flashing in the dim light. You watch him go, your smile fading with every step he takes until he's nothing more than a blur of white.

Then you close your eyes and let out a slow breath, your shoulders sagging. Your hand reaches into the folds of your robes and grabs hold of the smooth stone hidden there. It's warm to the touch, and a familiar peace settles over you, faint, but enough to aid you in pushing the fear and grief away.

Ever since your vision, you've found yourself reaching for Yaddle's necklace more often. Holding it in your hand. Clutching it tight. Trying to find the same calm, the same peace that she seemed to exude. The same certainty.

But it's difficult. So difficult. And you've begun to wonder if there will ever be an end to this war. If you'll ever have the chance to make things right and give the clones the lives they deserve. To find peace, and justice.

The thought is troubling, and you shake it away, focusing on the here and now. You take another deep breath and exhale slowly, letting the darkness settle back into the corners of your mind, and the necklace falls back into your tunic. You turn and continue on your way, heading for the center of the city.

Your footsteps echo off the buildings, the silence broken by the occasional shouts and whistles from the troops. You can hear the rumble of speeders in the distance, and the distant cries of the wounded. The air is thick, heavy with dust and ash, and you find yourself coughing, your eyes burning.

"General!"

You look up and see Booker approaching. He's carrying a crate full of ration packs, and he looks exhausted, his hair disheveled and his mustache unkempt. But there's a hint of satisfaction on his face, and he's moving with an ease and grace that's been absent in recent months.

"You look like shit," you quip, and he snorts.

"Speak for yourself," he retorts. He comes to a halt and sets the crate down, wiping the sweat from his brow. "The medics have got everything under control, and I think the last transport should be leaving soon."

"Any issues?"

"None worth mentioning," he replies. He glances over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he scans the surrounding area. "Dash has already started working on the comm tower. The rest of the supplies should be here soon. Hopefully, we can get the power running and the civilians can start settling back in."

"And the wounded?"

"We're bringing the ones who can make the trek to the aid station in the next town over," he says. His eyes return to you, and there's a flicker of concern. "Are you sure you don't want to join them? You look like you could use a breather."

You shake your head.

"I'm fine," you assure him.

His lips thin, and he doesn't look convinced. He glances at the crate and picks it back up, balancing it on his hip.

"Well, if you won't rest, at least take a ration pack," he says as he throws one of the packs at you. "You've barely eaten anything since we landed."

You catch the pack and turn it over, the plastic crinkling. Your stomach rumbles, and the realization that you've gone most of the day without eating suddenly hits. You hadn't noticed.

Booker chuckles and shakes his head, giving you a small salute.

"I'm gonna make another round, check in with the guys," he says. "Let me know if you need anything."

He's off, disappearing around the corner, and you watch him go, the ration pack still in your hand. You look down at it, the hunger pangs intensifying, and you sigh. You’ve all been eating nothing but ration packs and instant caf for weeks now, interspersed with the mess hall meals served on your ships. The Oracle, Utterance, and Pathfinder are all more than adequate, and the crews have done their best to make sure you have food that's edible, but it's not the same. Nothing tastes right. And as the days go on, you find yourself looking forward to that dinner with Rex more and more.

The thought sends a wave of warmth through you, and you smile, tearing open the pack and taking a bite.

You'll need to talk to him soon, you know. Tell him the truth. About the vision, about the darkness, about the fact that you love him. But as always, the timing is off.

You haven’t seen Rex in person since you were on Coruscant, and the only communications have been brief exchanges via holo. It's not a conversation you want to have through a screen, and the distance has been a blessing. It's made it easier to hide the truth, and you're grateful for the opportunity to have time to think, and plan, and prepare.

Rex has his own struggles, and the stress of the war is wearing on him. His missions have become more dangerous, and his responsibilities have increased. It's no longer uncommon for him to disappear for days with no communication. None of those stints were as long as the two months you’d spend in the jungle on Drongar, comm silent and cut off from the galaxy, but it had still felt like an eternity.

But, he'd come back. Every time, he'd come back.

The last message you received from Rex was encouraging, promising a dinner and a drink and a hug the next time you were both on Coruscant, and despite everything, the thought had put a smile on your face.

The fact that he's still interested, that he still wants to be with you, means more than you can say. And even if he can't admit his feelings, or doesn't want to, you're grateful for the chance to be close to him, and the fact that he's willing to try.

You take another bite and let your gaze wander. The street is mostly empty, and you can see the beginnings of repairs beginning to take shape. Apparently, Screwball is capable of more than blowing things up. His expertise with demolitions and architecture has proved useful, and he's already barking out directions to a group of clones and civilians as they work to repair the damaged facade of a nearby building.

It’s a relief to see something be created instead of destroyed for the first time in days, and you find yourself breathing a sigh. You tuck the wrapper into the folds of your robe and turn on your heel, heading towards the aid station. The sun is setting, and you want to check in with Wise and make sure everything is going well before the darkness settles.

You speak into your comm as you walk, fielding reports from the other battalions about their progress and their efforts. It's been a long day, but things are starting to come together. It won't be long before the civilians can start returning home, and you'll be able to return to the ships, and maybe even return to Coruscant, if you’re lucky.

The door to the makeshift aid station creaks slightly as you shoulder it open, and the smell of blood and bacta washes over you.

What used to be a small schoolhouse is now a large triage unit, with rows of cots filled with injured civilians and clones. Medics are scurrying around, attending to the wounded, though there isn’t a droid in sight, as per Wise’s instructions. He claims it’s easier on the wounded civilians, but you both know it has more to do with his personal distaste for droids.

It seems the worst of the injuries have been treated, and the remaining patients are being tended to. You make your way around the room, taking deep, steady breaths and trying to spread a sense of calm, the way Master Yaddle taught you. You stop to offer a reassuring word or two, but most of the injured seem content to just sit quietly, the exhaustion and the pain apparent on their faces.

"Sir."

A voice calls to you from across the room, and you turn to see Wise approaching, wiping his hands on a towel. He looks haggard, his shoulders slumped and his eyes dull, and he stops a safe distance away. The usual grumpy scowl has been replaced with an expression of weariness and worry, and your chest tightens.

"What's the status?" you ask, and his eyes dart over your shoulder, toward the far wall. 

You follow his gaze, and your stomach clenches at the sight of a boy asleep on the cot. His head is wrapped in bandages, his arm is in a sling, and there are several bruises and cuts on his exposed skin. You recognize him as the boy Screwball and his men had pulled out of the rubble. You can't help but wonder if he has any family left, and your throat constricts.

"He's stable," Wise mutters. He rubs his neck, his expression grim. "We lost a few more on the transports, but I've got the worst of them under control."

Your eyes snap back to him, alarmed by his tone. His words are flat, his voice monotone, and his usual sarcasm is absent. You've seen this before. Many times. It's a look of resignation, of acceptance, and it never means anything good.

"How many?"

"Six," he replies. He sighs and rubs his forehead, his hand trembling slightly. "And that was just today. It's only a matter of time before the number rises."

You reach out and place a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. He's staring straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, and his fingers drum nervously on his leg.

"I'm sorry," you tell him. His eyes dart to yours, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.

"It's not your fault," Wise mutters, but the words are hollow. "It's not anyone's fault. It's just the way it is."

"I know," you answer quietly. "But, still...I'm sorry. You're doing all you can, and—"

"Hey," he interrupts, his tone softening. "It's not your fault, either."

You don't reply. You know he's right. You can't blame yourself for every tragedy that happens. But it's difficult, especially in the wake of the vision. Especially after days like this.

"It's fine. Really,” Wise continues. He takes a deep breath and takes your wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting it drop to your side. “It's just part of the job. You know that."

"Yeah," you murmur, and a heavy silence stretches between the two of you. Wise shifts awkwardly, his gaze returning to the boy on the cot, and you know the conversation is over. There's nothing left to say. No more platitudes or reassurances. Just the grim reality of the situation.

You watch him, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the exhaustion in his gaze, and after a while, you let out a heavy sigh and straighten.

"You should rest," you tell him. "The others, too."

"Yeah," he agrees, running a hand over his face. "I think we could all use a few hours."

"Get some sleep," you order, and he nods and turns, making his way through the rows of beds. He murmurs something to the other medics, and they nod, moving away from the cots and heading for the door. 

Wise lingers behind, and your eyes follow him as he goes around the room, checking the IVs and adjusting the blankets, a tenderness and care in his movements. He stops by the boy's bed and places a hand on the child's forehead, his thumb brushing a strand of hair away. His shoulders slump as he pulls away, pinching the bridge of his nose, and a wave of sadness washes over you.

Wise is the last of his batch, and he's seen more death and destruction than most. He's spent most of his life in Kamino’s sterile medical facility, watching his brothers die from defects that never should have existed and training regimens that were meant to break them. The sight of a child, so young and so full of promise, is no doubt bringing back a host of painful memories, and it's all you can do to hold yourself together.

“Wise," you call, and he starts, his head whipping towards you. He blinks rapidly and straightens, his expression hardening.

"Sir."

"I'm serious," you say. "Get some sleep."

"Yeah," he says, his voice low. He gives a slight shake of his head, his eyes flitting back to the bed. "Right."

“You should go now while you can. I'll watch him,” you offer.

"No," Wise protests, his eyes moving back to yours. His jaw tightens, and a spark of defiance appears in his eyes. "Sir, you need sleep, too. You can't—"

"I'm fine," you assure him, holding a hand up. "Besides, I can't sleep right now. My mind is...well, it's not quiet."

“And you think mine is?”

The sharpness of his tone catches you off-guard, and your mouth snaps shut. Wise pauses, a flash of regret crossing his face, and he clears his throat and gives a slight shake of his head.

"Just...just let me stay. Please. I...I don't want him to be alone."

"Wise—"

"Please," he says, his voice cracking. His eyes are wide, pleading, and you know there's no point in arguing. Not now.

"Fine," you relent. He lets out a breath, and his shoulders relax. “I guess we’re both staying, then.”

Wise doesn’t argue. Instead, he just nods and moves around the bed, pulling up a chair and sitting beside the sleeping boy. He settles into the seat, his hands reaching out and gripping the sides, and you make your way across the room, settling down in the chair opposite him.

The boy doesn’t stir, and the silence is deafening. You lean forward and rest your elbows on your knees, the weight of the day pressing down on you. Your head drops, your eyes closing, and for a few minutes, you sit like that, listening to the steady beeping of the monitors and the faint rumble of the engines and voices outside.

It's peaceful, in a strange sort of way, and you can feel yourself drifting off, the exhaustion and the adrenaline crash finally taking their toll. It's tempting, the thought of giving in, but you fight it, knowing that the nightmares are waiting just below the surface. Ready to swallow you whole.

The darkness has been a constant companion, a weight hanging over your shoulders and a threat always lurking just out of reach. Ever since the vision, the fear has been almost overwhelming, and it's all you can do to keep the paranoia and the anxiety at bay.

The only time the darkness abates is when you’re around your men, and you’ve spent more time than you probably should surrounded by them. Playing Sabacc. Training. Talking. Doing anything, really, that would take your mind off the darkness and the visions and the ever-present threat.

The truth is, they have become your lifeline. Your source of light and hope and strength. Their presence is a reminder of the goodness and the beauty of the galaxy. Of the things worth fighting for. Of the reasons to continue, even in the face of the darkness.

There's a reason you were given this brigade, and not another. It's not a coincidence, not a fluke. You know that. The Force has led you here, to these men. And for whatever reason, they need you, too. They have a purpose, and so do you.

You're not sure how long it is before Wise breaks the silence, his voice low and rough.

"I couldn't save them," he mutters, and you open your eyes, glancing over at him. His face is drawn, his gaze fixed on the child, and his shoulders sag, his eyes moving to the floor. "I...there were so many. And, I just..."

His words trail off, and he takes a shuddering breath, his head dropping into his hands. They slide up, his fingers digging into his scalp, and he exhales a ragged gasp. 

"It's not your fault," you murmur, and his fingers tighten, his head shaking. You reach out and rest a hand on his arm, your thumb finding the spot between the plates at his elbow, and you can feel him tense.

"I could have done more," he mumbles. "I should have done more."

"You did all you could," you assure him, and he shakes his head again. "Wise, there was nothing you could have done. You can't save everyone. And that's not your responsibility. That's not on you. You have to understand that."

"I should have done more," he insists. He pulls back and meets your eyes, his own red and watery. "They deserved more. Better. I..."

He sighs, his hands rubbing his face, and you lean forward, your grip on his arm tightening. You're not sure what to say. There's nothing you can say. Nothing you can do. So instead, you reach out with the Force and wrap it around him, hoping that your presence, your support, will be of some comfort.

"The men...they don’t understand,” he mutters, his hands falling into his lap. "They're different. They didn't...they never saw the others. The ones that didn't make it."

His voice is barely above a whisper, and his gaze falls to the floor. You can see the tears glistening in his eyes, the emotions threatening to burst free. But he doesn’t cry. Instead, his hands ball into fists, and he looks back at the boy, a grim determination crossing his face.

"I'll save this kid," he mutters. "I have to."

"I know," you say quietly, and his eyes flick to yours, the pain and the anguish reflected in their depths. "And you will."

"He didn't ask for any of this," Wise murmurs. He shakes his head, a tear slipping down his cheek. "He's just a kid. Just a fucking kid, and now, he's..."

His voice cracks, and he lets out a choked noise, his eyes closing as he struggles to breathe.

Your hand tightens on his arm, and you pull him towards you, wrapping him in a hug. He stiffens, his breath catching, and for a moment, neither of you move. Then, slowly, his arms lifts, his hands coming up and gripping the fabric of your robe. His face presses into your shoulder, and his shoulders shake, the tears soaking through the thin fabric.

You close your eyes, wrapping him in the warmth and the safety of the Force, and hold him, your hand moving up and cradling the back of his head. You can feel the weight of his grief, the pain and the loss, and it's almost too much. But somehow, you manage to stay strong. To hold it back. To stay in control.

It’s easier, you think, to help someone else deal with their pain. There’s something in it that calms the darkness, something that pushes it aside, and you find yourself breathing a sigh of relief. You may be haunted, you may be a wreck, but this...this you can handle. This is something you can do.

After a while, his silent sobs subside, and his breathing slows, his body relaxing in your embrace. You keep him close, holding him tight, and it's not until his grip loosens and his head shifts that you finally release him. Your hands come up to cup his face, wiping away the tears, and you give him a small smile. Wise isn't the only brother who has ever cried in your arms, and you know better than to think this is the last time.

You reach into your robes and retrieve a cloth, handing it to him, and he accepts it with a quiet thanks, his voice hoarse.

"Sorry," he whispers.

"Don't be," you reply easily. You lean back and fold your hands, resting them in your lap. "We all need a good cry now and again. Nothing to be ashamed of."

Wise huffs a laugh, wiping his face and blowing his nose.

"It's been a while," he admits, his cheeks flushed, and you hum in response.

"Guess you were due."

"Guess so," he grunts. He takes a deep breath, the air rattling in his lungs, and he lets out a heavy sigh. "Thanks."

"You don’t have to thank me. I'm just glad you trust me," you say, and his head jerks up. He opens his mouth, a protest forming on his lips, but you hold up a hand, silencing him. "No, it's true. I am. And I'm not going to tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about. But I want you to know that I'm here. I may be your general, but I’m also your friend. Whether you want me to be or not."

Wise scoffs and rolls his eyes, though the corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smile.

"I don’t think that’s how friendship works, sir," he points out, his eyes returning to the boy. His brow furrows, and he reaches out, brushing the hair away from the child's forehead. "Not that I'd know."

“Yeah, it’s…a pretty new concept for me, too," you admit. "But I think I'm getting the hang of it. You should give it a try."

He laughs. It's a short, harsh bark, and his hand falls away. His gaze turns inward, his expression pensive. After a while, he lets out a heavy sigh and rubs his forehead.

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Nope."

He huffs a breath, shaking his head.

"I guess you're not the worst," he concedes. "For a Jedi."

"Wow, thanks," you reply dryly.

"I mean, at least you're not Skywalker," he continues. Wise lets out a low whistle and shakes his head. "That guy is a fucking mess."

You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle the sudden laughter, and his mouth curves into a grin, the first genuine smile you've seen in days. You’re a little delirious, maybe, but you can't help the laughter that spills from your lips.

You haven't seen much of Anakin lately, or any of the other Jedi for that matter, but you've heard plenty of rumors. You have no doubt that Rex has seen more than his fair share of reckless behavior and dramatic stunts recently. It's no secret that Anakin and Ahsoka have gotten themselves into more trouble than most, and the image of Wise being assigned to the 501st instead of the 419th has you struggling to breathe. 

“You should’ve seen him when he was a Padawan," you say after your laughter subsides. "He made me look sane and rational."

"You're shitting me," he deadpans.

"Not in the slightest," you reply. "Trust me, it's better that you ended up with us. He'd probably drive you insane within a week."

Wise snorts, the grin fading.

"I didn't ‘end up’ anywhere," he says quietly as he reaches out, fixing the corner of the child's blanket. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye before his gaze darts away. "I chose to serve with you. It wasn't an assignment."

"I...well, that's..." you stammer, his words catching you off guard. He clears his throat, a faint blush creeping up his neck, and you blink a couple of times. "Oh."

You had assumed he was assigned, the same way Booker was. And the rest of the men, for that matter. That the Republic had decided to pluck him from the clutches of the Kaminoans, and the recommendation from Booker and Rex had only helped seal the deal. You had never considered that he had actually chosen to be here, and the realization is almost more than you can take.

"I wanted a change," he mumbles, and his fingers drum nervously on the side of the cot. "Booker and I talked about it, and...I knew it was a risk, but, well, we're clones. Risks are part of the job. And you're the best we've got."

"Oh."

You don't know what else to say. The words are stuck in your throat, and it's all you can do not to start crying, too. He chose this. He chose you. He came to the 419th because he thought you were the best, and he was willing to risk his life and his future to fight alongside you. Not because he had to, not because someone ordered him to, but because he wanted to.

And, if that isn't the biggest sign of respect you could ever receive, you don't know what is.

You take a deep breath, swallowing hard, and Wise shifts, his gaze fixed on the blanket.

"Don't let it go to your head," he adds, his voice gruff.

"I'll try not to," you murmur, and his gaze flicks to yours, the corners of his mouth curving upward. He looks tired. Exhausted, really. And a little sad. But there's a hint of fondness, too. A sense of affection.

You smile back at him, a warmth spreading through your chest, and the two of you settle back in your seats. Neither of you speaks, and the silence stretches on. It's not long before a yawn escapes your lips as the exhaustion finally catches up with you, the weariness settling into your bones. Your eyes are starting to droop, and you lean your head back, resting it against the wall. 

You can feel Wise watching you, and after a while, his chair creaks, and you hear his footsteps receding. You don't open your eyes. You're too tired. Too comfortable.

It feels like no time passes before you're suddenly being jolted awake by a noise, a soft whimper. You start, your eyes snapping open, and for a moment, you're not sure where you are. There's a blanket draped over you, and the room is dark, the only light coming from the monitors above the bed. You blink a couple of times, taking in your surroundings, and your gaze lands on Wise, slumped over a nearby desk, his face pressed against his folded arms.

The boy is still asleep, but his forehead is creased, his eyes moving behind his lids. There's a sheen of sweat on his brow, his breathing rapid and uneven. The monitor above his head beeps in warning, and a low groan escapes his lips as his hands scrabble at the sheets, his legs kicking.

You leap from the chair and cross the space between the beds in a flash, your hand reaching out and grabbing his wrist. You can feel his pulse racing, and the bandages are wet with sweat. The beeping intensifies, and the boy starts thrashing, his head shaking from side to side, and his eyes snap open, his gaze unfocused.

"Kid?" you whisper, your fingers brushing the damp hair off his forehead. He whimpers again, his body going limp, and his eyes close, his head lolling to the side. "Shit. Wise!"

Wise jerks awake and straightens, his chair falling over as he leaps to his feet. His eyes land on the boy, and he crosses the distance between the beds, his hands reaching for the bandages around the child's head.

"It's okay, kiddo. It's gonna be okay," he murmurs, his eyes darting to the monitors. "Help me sit him up. I'm going to have to change the bandages and check the wound."

You nod, reaching for the kid's shoulder, and the two of you carefully roll him onto his side. Wise reaches for the bandage on the back of his head and gingerly peels it away, exposing a nasty gash, the edges blackened and bloody.

Wise sucks in a breath, his eyes widening, and his hand moves, gently parting the hair and touching the area. He pulls a medscanner out of his belt and runs it over the wound, his brow furrowed in concentration. He mutters under his breath, his fingers prodding the area, and a curse escapes his lips.

"What? What is it?" you hiss, and his gaze snaps to yours. He holds the scanner out, and the display blinks rapidly, a long list of words flashing across the screen. You squint at the numbers, trying to make sense of the information, but the medical terminology is unfamiliar.

“Subdermal hematoma,” he mutters. His hand moves away, and his eyes dart to the child's arm, his lip curling. "And an infection. He's going to need a bacta tank and a brain surgeon. A real medical facility. Now."

You hesitate, knowing that it's impossible. There are no facilities nearby, and the only ships are transport vessels. They have no medical capabilities, and the journey would be too risky for a child this young. Even the Venators' medical bays are no substitute for a proper infirmary, one capable of performing a procedure this complex. 

"There has to be something," you insist, your hands moving to the boy's shoulders. He's still, his breathing shallow, and you can feel the panic rising. "Something we can do."

"There's not," he replies, and his voice is flat. "It's not like the Republic is going to send in a team of neurosurgeons to save a kid from a planet that they've abandoned."

"Wise..." you begin, but the words die in your throat. 

You know he's right, and it hurts, a dull ache spreading through your chest. This child, this innocent kid, will die because the Republic has forsaken him, and there's nothing you can do about it. 

You look down at the boy, at the blood and the bruises, and the anger wells up inside you. It's not fair. None of this is. He doesn't deserve this.

"We can't," Wise mutters. He leans over the child, his hand moving to the IV port in his arm, and he begins to remove it. "It's too risky."

"No," you gasp, and your hands shoot out, wrapping around his wrists and pulling him away. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"It's over," he says simply. "He's not going to make it, and you know it. It's better if we just—"

"Stop it," you snap, and the words echo in the room, reverberating off the walls. Wise stares at you, his eyes wide, and you tighten your grip. "Stop it. Now."

He doesn't answer, and you can feel him trembling beneath your hands. Your grip tightens as your mind races, trying to come up with an answer, a solution, a way out. But the truth is, there isn't. Not for this. Not without a miracle.

The realization hits you like a blaster bolt, and you glance at the child, your chest tightening.

There's only one option, and it's not a pleasant thought. You know the risks, the consequences. But if there's a chance, even a small chance, that you can save this child, you have to take it. You owe him that much.

You take a deep breath and let go of Wise's wrists, your hands falling to your sides.

"I can heal him," you murmur.

"What?" Wise hisses, his eyes narrowing. He leans back, his gaze searching yours. "You can't be serious."

"I can heal him," you repeat. "I've done it before."

"General, no. I—"

"It's fine," you insist. Your hand moves to the folds of your robe, reaching for the necklace hidden there. "I can do it. Just trust me."

He stares at you, his eyes flitting between the wound and your face, and you can see the conflict on his features. He's torn, his medical training and experience telling him that it's not a viable option, that it's not a risk worth taking. But there's something else there, too. A glimmer of hope, a spark of desperation, and after a moment, he nods, his eyes hardening.

"Will it hurt him?"

"No," you assure him, and his shoulders slump. "Not if I do it right."

"Okay," he says. He reaches into his belt and pulls out a pair of gloves, tugging them on and moving around the bed. "Let's do this."

"Lay him down," you instruct, and Wise gently lowers the child onto his back. You kneel beside the bed and take a deep breath. Your eyes close, and you reach out, feeling for the child's pain. His agony is palpable, the wound a source of searing heat, and you can't help but wince.

“Just so you’re prepared,” you murmur, your hands hovering over the child's head. "I might pass out. If I do, just make sure I'm not bleeding anywhere."

"Wait, what?"

"You heard me," you mumble, and you place your hands on the boy's head. The Force flows through you, a wave of warmth and light washing over the room, and the child gasps, his eyes opening wide. His body tenses, his hands clenching the sheets, and a soft groan escapes his lips. "Just keep an eye on me, and if I start bleeding from the ears or nose, try not to panic."

"Oh, that's comforting," he mutters, his voice tight.

"I'm serious," you say, and his fingers flex.

"So am I."

You shake your head and ignore him, turning your focus inward. Your breathing slows, and the world around you fades with each breath.

The sounds of the room disappear, replaced by the steady musical hum of the Force, a chorus of voices and energy, and you let the music wash over you. It's beautiful, intoxicating, and you lose yourself in the song, letting it guide you.

Your hands begin to move, finding the places where the wound connects to the child's mind, and you reach out, sending tendrils of your fading energy into the damaged area.

As soon as you make contact, you’re pulled under. 

It feels like drowning, a current pulling you down, and it's all you can do to keep from being swept away. You fight against it, struggling to stay afloat, disoriented and terrified. Pain lances through your skull, and the world seems to shift and spin, the colors and the shapes morphing into a kaleidoscope of light and shadow.

There's a ringing in your ears, a high-pitched whine that grows louder and louder, and the pain intensifies. It's a blinding agony, and you cry out, your mind trying desperately to process the flood of information, to fight against the torrent and take control.

It's a losing battle. You're no match for the power of the Force, the connection between the child's mind and yours. The strength of it is overwhelming, and it's all you can do to hang on, your thoughts and memories becoming muddled and distorted. Flashes of your vision, your childhood, the Temple, the men, the darkness, Rex. They mix and meld, twisting together, and you let out a strangled scream.

You’re grasping at the threads, chasing, trying to hold onto them, but they slip through your fingers, dissolving into smoke. It's impossible. There's too much, and you can't find the answers, can't make sense of it all.

And then it hits you.

The memory of Yaddle, her calming voice as she instructs you to be the current, to give yourself over and allow the Force to flow through you. To be the leaf, to let go of your expectations and allow yourself to be carried along, to trust that the Force will show you the way.

You take a deep breath, focusing on the song of the universe. The rhythm and the melody, the steady beat, and the hum of the energy surrounding you.

And you surrender.

The darkness rushes in, and for a moment, you’re consumed. The world disappears, and you find yourself adrift, alone and afraid. But the fear is fleeting. You're not scared anymore. You know what to do.

You can feel the Force now, the song and the current, and you let yourself drift. There's no resistance. No fighting. No struggle.

The child's presence is a bright light, a beacon in the void, and you focus on it, letting it pull you closer. As the distance between the two of you lessens, the world around you starts to materialize, the images and the feelings solidifying. You can see a golden field, a meadow filled with strange plants and flowers, and the sun is shining, the air warm and fragrant. There's a distant sound of children playing and laughing, and a gentle breeze blows, rustling the leaves of the trees.

It's peaceful, and you can't help but smile, the sight of the meadow a welcome respite.

For a moment, you simply stand, taking it all in. It's not the first time you've seen this place, but the past glimpses of the vision have always felt like just that—glimpses. Fleeting and brief, the memories coming in flashes, hazy fragments of a larger picture. 

But this time, it's different. This time, it feels real, the details sharp and the colors vivid. And perhaps more importantly, there is no sense of urgency, no need to flee, no fear.

This is a place of safety. A sanctuary.

You take a deep breath, the smells of the meadow filling your lungs, and the warmth of the sun settles over you, easing the aches and the pains that had plagued you since the battle. You let your eyes close, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and a wave of contentment washes over you. You can't help but marvel at the simplicity of it all. The calmness.

The feeling is so familiar, and yet, so foreign.

It's been a long time since you've experienced such peace. So long, in fact, that you almost forgot how wonderful it is. How amazing it is, to not be afraid, to not have the weight of the galaxy resting on your shoulders. To simply be.

A soft voice calls your name as a hand settles on your shoulder, and your breath hitches. The last time you had this vision, you turned too quickly and saw nothing. But now, there's no fear, no panic, no anxiety. Only calm and acceptance.

And finally, there is no surprise.

You already know who’s standing behind you.

"Rex," you breathe, and he gives your shoulder a squeeze. 

You open your eyes, and he's there, the sunlight bathing his features, his skin glowing and his eyes filled with warmth. He looks so real, so tangible, and the urge to reach out and touch him is almost irresistible.

Rex smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he gives a soft chuckle.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks. His tone is gentle, but there's a hint of teasing, a spark of mischief, and your mouth curves into a grin.

"I don't know," you admit. "What are you doing out here?"

"Trying to find you," he replies. His brow furrows, and the sparkle fades from his eyes. "I was worried about you."

"You don't have to worry about me," you assure him, and he snorts, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

“I know.”

He doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't have to. You’ve had this conversation many times, and you’re certain you’ll have it many more. Round and round in circles, the two of you going back and forth, neither able to let the other go.

"I'm glad you found me," you whisper, and his fingers dig into your shoulder, his hand moving down your arm and his fingers entwining with yours. He steps closer, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"I'm always going to find you," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand. "No matter what."

The words hit home, and you can't help but smile. It's a sweet, gentle reassurance, and it's exactly what you need. What you've always needed. The simple reminder that someone cares, that someone loves you, even if the rest of the galaxy seems against you.

And it's not just anyone. It's him. Rex. The man who's been by your side since the beginning, the man who's been fighting alongside you, the man who's loved and cared for you despite all the obstacles and challenges. Despite all the risks and the dangers. The man who's always had your back, no matter what.

Your gaze flickers to the field, the sun and the grass, and the thought hits you. This isn't just a dream or some hallucination. This is the reality you've been craving. The peace and the serenity. The freedom. The quiet, simple life you've been longing for.

You want this. You need this.

And if the Force is showing it to you, maybe...maybe there's a chance.

Your gaze flicks back to his face, and the hope blossoms in your chest, the possibilities unfolding before you.

You could have this.

It could be possible.

But before the idea has time to take root, a voice calls your name, the faint echo shattering the moment. Rex's brow furrows, his fingers tightening around yours.

"That's not good," he mutters, and you frown, his words snapping you back to the present. The memory of the child, the injury, and the wound flash through your mind, and a shiver runs down your spine.

"I have to go," you murmur, and he nods. "I don't want to, but..."

His hand comes up, cupping your face, and his thumb rubs your cheek.

"I know," he murmurs. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, a warmth blooming beneath his lips. "Just be careful."

"Always," you whisper, and he chuckles. He leans back, his gaze meeting yours, and his eyes sparkle with affection and pride.

You smile, the warmth spreading through your chest. There's a lightness to him, a calmness and a happiness that you haven't seen in a long time, and it's almost too much. There’s still a tiredness in the way he holds himself, a heaviness to his shoulders, but there's no darkness. No pain or sorrow or fear. Just him.

And it's beautiful.

A small, contented sigh escapes your lips, and he grins, the dimples appearing.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises, his words filled with the conviction that only a true believer could muster. You nod, knowing that he will, and you give his hand a final squeeze before stepping away. His hand slips from yours, his fingers trailing across your palm, and when you turn, he's gone.

There's a gentle tugging at your hand, and you look down, surprised to see the child next to you, his eyes wide and his face flushed. The rest of the vision falls away around you, and for a moment, it's just the two of you, surrounded by a swirling, hazy mist.

He's so young, and the realization sends a pang through your heart. He looks up at you, his lips turning down, and he wraps his arms around your leg, pressing his face into the fabric. He's trembling, and you place a hand on his head, your fingers gently brushing his hair.

"It's okay," you murmur. "You're safe."

His eyes dart to yours, a question in their depths, and you nod, offering a small smile. His shoulders relax, and he releases his hold, looking up at you expectantly.

"Are you ready?" you ask, and he nods. You smile again, reaching down and taking his hand, and the two of you walk into the fog.

There's a light shining ahead, a small pinprick, and the boy moves a little faster, his steps sure and determined. You reach out with the Force, parting the mist, and together, the two of you step through.

The world rushes in, a sharp intake of breath filling your lungs, and your eyes fly open. 

There's a pair of hands on your shoulders, and they're shaking you, the grip almost painfully tight. You blink, the bright lights and the noise of the schoolhouse coming into focus, and you find yourself staring up at Wise. His eyes are wide, his face pale, and he's saying something, his words garbled and indistinct.

You try to reply, but your tongue is heavy, the words stuck in your throat, and you settle for a simple shake of the head. It's all you can manage, and it's clearly not the response Wise was hoping for.

"Shit," you hear him mutter. "Shit."

He releases you, and your head lolls to the side, the motion sending a wave of nausea through you. You gag, bile rising in your throat, and Wise curses again, moving to grab a wastebasket and thrusting it in front of your face. You retch into it, and you can't help but feel a sense of relief as the contents of your stomach are expelled. The taste is disgusting, and the smell is awful, but the nausea and the dizziness begin to abate.

You cough and sputter, and Wise takes the basket, placing it aside.

"Wise," you mumble, blinking a few times and trying to clear your vision. "Did it work?"

He looks back at the boy, his expression grim. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes meeting yours, and the ghost of a smile crosses his lips.

"It did."

The relief that fills you is overwhelming, and you can't help but laugh, a giddy, slightly hysterical giggle escaping your lips. You reach up and wipe your mouth, wincing as the pain in your head spikes, and you slump, closing your eyes and trying to catch your breath.

"You're bleeding," he grumbles as he kneels next to you.

"It's okay," you tell him.

"Like hell it is," he snaps. His thumb swipes under your nose, and the familiar copper tang fills your mouth. He presses a handkerchief to your face, holding it against the stream of blood, and you reach up, covering his hand with yours. "You could have killed yourself."

"Worth it, though," you manage, and his eyes narrow.

"You fucking—dikut’la, dini’la jetii," he curses, his free hand gesturing wildly. He lets out a string of profanities and insults, the words mixing together until you can't even distinguish individual phrases, but you’re too busy laughing to care, the joy and the relief overpowering any concerns.

You've never done that before, not like this. Your attempts at healing had always felt forced, like you were trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands. But this time was different. 

This time, you had given yourself over, and the results had been incredible. Not just the success of the procedure, but the feeling, the way the Force had flowed through you, filling you with peace and light. It had been...indescribable. Wonderful. A feeling you hadn’t felt in so long.

But the moment is short-lived, the euphoria giving way to the pain, and you groan, your head throbbing. Wise is still ranting, his voice rising in volume and intensity, and you can't help but wince.

"Okay, okay, I get it," you mutter. You push his hand away, the cloth soaked with blood, and lean back, propping yourself against the wall. "I'm sorry."

He snorts, his mouth twisting into a scowl.

"No, you're not," he grumbles. "You're never sorry. You just...you..."

His words trail off, and his gaze drops to the cloth. Wise shakes his head, his eyes returning to yours, and he lets out a heavy sigh.

"You scare the shit out of me, you know that?"

You offer him a weak, bloody smile.

"Aw, we are friends, aren't we?" you tease, and he huffs a laugh, his eyes rolling.

"If anyone asks, I'll deny it."

Wise clears his throat and hooks his hands underneath your arms, lifting you up and depositing you in a nearby empty cot. You wince, the sudden change in position causing a fresh wave of pain, and Wise frowns and reaches for a cloth and a bowl of water.

"You should get some rest," he tells you, wringing the cloth and dabbing at your nose. The water is cool, and you let out a sigh of relief. "I'll watch him."

"Mmhmm," you murmur, your eyes already drooping. You lean back, the pillow supporting your head, and your eyelids slide shut. "Wake me if anything changes."

"Sir, yes sir," he mumbles, and you can hear the smile in his voice. You're about to reply, but the darkness is already pulling you under, the exhaustion taking hold, and before long, the world fades away.

taglist: @baddest-batchers @kindalonleystars @totallyunidentified @lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @etod @puppetscenario @umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano @burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @lolwey @chocolatewastelandtriumph @hobbititties @mere-bear @thegreatpipster @lordofthenerds97 @tentakelspektakel @notslaybabes @ayyyy-le-simp @mali-777 @schrodingersraven @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon @heavenseed76 @dreamie411 @sukithebean @bunny7567 @lostqueenofegypt @anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @heidnspeak @gottalovehistory @mrcaptainrex @maniacalbooper @burningnerdchild @yoitsjay @julli-bee @moonychicky @sonicrainbooms @captn-trex @webslinger-holland @marchingviolist @deerspringdreams @cw80831

[parcai]

I'm sure this isn't even a new discussion point, but it's bugging me more the more I think about it. ACOMAF's infamous Chapter 54/55 – Rhysand's infodump – is the go-to justification for his stans. That's where he gets a lot of his appeal, by explaining his past actions and motivations before their little paint session. ACOMAF, though, is so different from ACOTAR and its first book appeal, it lacks the whimsical magic, whirlwind romance that the other books just don't have. It feels like SJM put more thought into the plot and writing, which is why the later problems are so frustrating. Because not only is ACOMAF generally lower quality than ACOTAR, it's those less quality sections that people use to justify Tamlin hate to make Rhysand look better, which is ridiculous because if SJM has to take so many roundabout paths with poor plotting/writing to justify Rhysand, then how 'good' can he really be?

The way ACOMAF undoes what ACOTAR was about... ugh. It's such a blatant rewrite, and a poor one at that, as we all know and have discussed endlessly. But it's more than that! It's a rewrite and it's explicit about being a rewrite, but people can't even see that/don't care! Rhysand wouldn't be nearly as popular if he didn't have to explain all the supposedly good things he's done for Feyre! Tamlin saves her family and doesn't go around boasting about it; he protects her, even if it risks his court. He tries to shield her from Prythian's problems. They had their issues, sure, but it all felt more natural. If Tamlin had a whole lengthy chapter sitting there talking about all his choices, maybe people would love him too, but that doesn't happen in ACOTAR, because that's just such lazy writing!

Forget who you like more, or whether you buy Feyre's POV – the fact that Rhysand needs that infodump and that justification for his actions, whereas Tamlin's actions often speak for themselves! The writing feels like it's working overtime to elevate Rhysand at Tamlin's expense. And this circular logic is just so incredibly frustrating.

I wish SJM had kept Rhysand as he was in book one. I actually deeply enjoyed him there. Or, if she was going to do all this, had actually properly foreshadowed it. All this overcompensating just to make him look good... so annoying. I miss Rhysand where the narrative held him accountable, allowed him to be truly morally grey and just an entertaining guy doing the most insane things. I miss the first book. I miss the hinted-at insane lore between Rhysand and Tamlin, their fathers, their families, their powers. The picture of them being friends, to standing across from each other in a hallway, each other's families' blood on their hands, glowing in the light of new High Lordship. Their history, their contrast, the fact that neither of them were fully good people but the narrative could respect that and still love them both anyway. I miss everything about it, really, before it all turned juvenile and unrealistic and childish.

I don't think people have enough critical thinking to understand that it was already easy to love Rhysand and appreciate him for what he was in the first book, that perfection/goodness doesn't equate to likeability, and it was his flaws, fully acknowledged, that made him so interesting/fun to learn about. That this was the beauty of the first book in the first place. Brb mourning what could have been…mourning the fact that it never had to be Rhysand vs Tamlin in the first place.

Rhysand and Tamlin and Feyre and how they all work together to show different sides of what it means to grow up and work through the horrors of your past and become who you were always meant to be (aka the point of writing about 500 yos like this in the first place). A story of a mortal girl with fire in her veins, who shot a wolf, and threw a shoe, and was both saved by and ended up saving the Beast. Was reckless and stupid and with a big enough heart to venture down into the depths of Amarantha's lair, not some overly forgiving, amnesiac doormat, who changed them both in very different ways, and who changed her. Head in hands btw. It's not just that Tamlin deserves justice, it's that all three of them do. None of this is as it should be, and the blindness to the injustice of Tamlin's character is only the tip of the iceberg. 😞

[deafdogaitathrowaway]

An update for anyone who comes across this and cares. These people continue to be just giant assholes in general. Some of their greatest hits over the past year include, but are FAR from limited to: • Absolutely overflowing all the garbage, compost and recycling bins for the whole building, making them unusable for anyone else, and then not bothering to wheel them out to the road on their respective collection days - despite that being part of Giant Dingus' job, as the caretaker - meaning the stuff just sits there for 2 weeks until next collection day comes and someone else, who is *not* literally getting paid for that job, wheels them out there instead. Repeat ad nauseum. • In fact, they barely do any of the caretaking work. Cleaning the common areas? Once every 3-4 months (supposed to be every two weeks). Yardwork? Only when specifically asked by the landlord. Snow shoveling? Only their own walkway, let the other (mostly elderly) tenants do the rest. • Using Mom's outside outlet, that she pays for, to keep their vehicles warm over the winter, and when she asked them to not do that, Giant Dingus lost it on her, saying (literally shouting) that since the outlet is outside his place, that makes it his to use. Despite all the outlets being labeled with which apartment they're for. Theirs is on their patio. Even my dear, confrontation-hating Mom couldn't abide that and got the landlord involved and that dipshit actually stepped in for once, made them stop using that outlet. • And the big one, the pièce de résistance: they started locking their larger dog up in the tiny second bedroom nearly every day, for anywhere from a couple hours, to 8, to even 12 one day. (How do we know this? Because the poor dog would spend the entire duration barking and howling at the top of his lungs, and their second bedroom is directly under MY bedroom. I tested it a few times and the noise was extremely loud and clear in my room, and faded more the further you moved away. You could also hear him scratching and digging at the door, proving he wasn't able to leave.) To be clear, though it was annoying, I do not blame the dog for this. I would do the same thing if I were him. More importantly, that is egregious animal neglect by any definition. That poor dog was trapped in that little room, hopefully with water and food, but unable to leave to do his business, and with very little room for exercise. Then, when they'd come home and deign to let him out, it was only for long enough to let him do said business, then they brought him back in (though not locking him up). They barely take either dogs for walks anymore, only once a day from what I could tell, and they don't ever seem to take them to a dog park or anything. When the big dog was locked up, the slightly smaller deaf dog my AITA post was about would spend all day in the house as well, often making a noise that I think was him scratching at the carpet or wall, maybe. They're both just imprisoned in that small apartment, every day. (I also learned that the idiots have 3 cats as well. That's 2 humans, 2 large dogs, and 3 cats in one 900 sq. ft. apartment. Cool.) All of this was also too much for me to handle and I asked the landlord to do something. My mom once again found the bravery to speak out and talked to the landlord about it too. He never responded however, so as far as we know he never did anything about it. But this miserable story has a happy ending, for us at least: we got confirmation this morning that

🎉 they are moving!!! 🎉

By the end of this month they'll be gone from our lives forever! I'm literally so excited! I can't believe we're finally going to be free of the gross, obnoxious miasma they filled this place with!!! My only hope is that they've found a place with more room for their animals, and that the poor dogs get to be outside to play and exercise and be free more often. These people should live far out in the countryside away from any other humans they can get their toxic sludge auras all over, in my opinion. Au revoir, assholes!!!

AITA for "attacking" my neighbor's girlfriend? 🗣️🐶👻

Potentially relevant background: I (35F) live in a small apartment building with a very large shared back yard. My mom lives in the same building. We're both close with one of our neighbors and on pleasant terms with the other occupants, but we've also both had various problems with the guy who lives below my apartment ever since he arrived. Details aren't really relevant, he's just one of those people who have clearly never lived in an apartment building before. A couple months ago, his girlfriend moved in along with her young, very excitable, deaf collie. She has almost no control over this dog and can barely even walk him. In the past she used a regular collar for him, which meant she was pulling the dog back by the neck whenever she tried - not very successfully - to control him, but thankfully, she did recently start using a harness instead. (The other people in the building have commented on this as well, I swear I'm not nosy - or at least I'm not the only one who is.)

So anyway, a few weeks ago I was in the back room and when I looked out the window, I saw the girlfriend (FB, 30sF) in the yard with the dog (LG). He was being his usual hyperactive self, and she was as usual being pretty ineffective in handling him. I guess FB got tired of LG haring off away from her as she stood in one place, because she shortened the lead and started pulling him back to her side with a hard yank anytime he got more than a foot or so away from her. At some point, the people who live in the house next to our building must have let their dog out as well, because LG went absolutely nuts trying to get over to the fence and pulled FB a few steps forward with him. She hauled back on the lead with both hands, hard enough that LG yelped, which actually lifted him off his front paws with his back paws barely touching the ground, then shook him roughly and shouted angrily in his face (I could hear her even from inside, and while I couldn't understand her since she speaks in French to the dog, her tone was angry).

Without even thinking about it I immediately opened the door, took a single step onto the deck, and yelled "HEY, stop it!" at her. I wasn't yelling with aggression, I just had to raise my voice for her to hear me across the yard. FB dropped LG and looked up at me and she seemed confused, so I pointed at the dog and shook my head and said "Don't shake him like that, and don't yank him back like that, you're gonna hurt him!" She shook her head back at me and was like "What is 'yank', I don't know, I'm not hurting him." I mimed the way she'd pulled on his lead and said something like "Pulling on him like that and shaking him so hard could hurt him." She was like, "He is deaf, I have to pull him to make him understand." I said, "You don't need to pull him that hard!" FB goes, "Well, he pulls me?" I'm like, "Well, he's a dog? You're a human, you can do better?" Finally she just waved me off and walked back toward the front of the building, so I went back inside, annoyed. After a little bit, she stomped up the stairs, then knocked - as quiet as a mouse - on my door. I didn't bother answering because I didn't have anything else to say to her (or at least nothing polite).

Later that night, when my mom (64F) got home from work, FB's boyfriend (GD, 38M) was apparently waiting outside for her to report the incident. She came up to my place and asked me what happened, so I explained basically exactly as I did above. Mom tells me that GD told her I "attacked" his girlfriend and really upset her by implying she was hurting her dog. (Why he felt the need to like, tattle to my mother instead of talking to me personally, I do not know. It's fine, I totally love being treated like a wayward child.) I was like, "I didn't 'attack' her, I yelled one time and then spoke normally, from like 30 feet away. But I wasn't implying anything, I TOLD her that what she was doing could hurt the dog." Mom told me it wasn't my business to say anything to FB about how she treats her own dog. I said that if I see someone mistreating an animal I do consider it my business to step in. She told me I was rude and what I did was wrong, and then asked what I thought I was going to do if GD complained to the landlord and got me evicted. I was pretty irritated, but eventually - more to appease my mom than because I actually felt sorry - I wrote GD and FB an apology note "admitting" that I was "wrong" for letting my concern for an animal make me act without thinking and get involved in something that "wasn't my business".

Truth is, I still don't think I was wrong, and I would do it again. I think there must be better ways to discipline your deaf dog, and if you aren't willing to learn them then you shouldn't take in a deaf dog. (Also, if what she was doing was just out of trying to control him and not out of anger, why did she shout in his face like that? Girl he's deaf, he can't hear you???) But, after some reflection, I recognize that my already established dislike of these people may have colored my perspective somewhat. It's all over and done with now, but I just want a wider perspective.

Was I the asshole?

What are these acronyms?

[jtl07]

Hi! Welcome back! For shenanigans, any or all of the following that tickle your fancy:

Avatrice, this post:

https://www.tumblr.com/alterumsinealterononest/769889024736444416/i-just-saw-a-video-of-a-girl-scattering-tea-bags?source=share

Avatrice (or AvaLil) as astronauts accidentally stranded together for 9 extra months

Shannon x Mary enemies to lovers and they're lawyers on opposite sides of a case

oh gosh Alms you always bring the fun prompts XD i'm going with the second one though i can guarantee it ended up not where you'd expect (mostly bc i may or may not be working on a fic centered around Bea's thoughts on aikido 👀). always fun to see what you send in, i hope this is alright!

"Wait you're a black belt? You could teach me! 9 months is enough for me to get to black belt too, right?" 

The laugh that escapes Beatrice surprises both Ava and herself. Beatrice nearly covers her mouth but Ava's already wiggling, her grin stretching wide across her face. 

"C'mon Bea, we've got nothing better to do!" 

"On the contrary, we have plenty of things to do," Beatrice says, gesturing towards their checklists. 

Ava rolls her eyes, does a lazy backflip and lands against a bulkhead. "Don't tell me you haven't been curious about how it'd feel to do that kinda stuff in space." 

Beatrice knows they're talking about martial arts - they'd been talking about Ava's many hobbies and somehow, as conversations with Ava now usually go, Beatrice had ended up sharing about herself as well - but the suggestive way Ava waggles her eyebrows makes Beatrice blush. 

"It isn't relevant the mission," is all Beatrice says, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. 

Ava, thankfully, also ignores it. "You never know, Bea: what if we run into evil space aliens and we have to fight them off when they infiltrate the ship?"

Beatrice rolls her eyes. "You've watched too many sci-fi movies." 

"No such thing as too many. So, are you ready?"

Beatrice's brow furrows. "Ready for -"

"Here I come!"

It's instinct that takes over Beatrice's body, has her hands moving, her hips turning - Ava shrieking as she tumbles to the far side of the open space. It's instinct again that fixes Beatrice in place, replaying her technique, taking it apart, finding places to critique - 

"That was amazing!"

If the gravity was on, Beatrice is sure Ava would be bouncing literally off the walls. Here in zero gravity, however, Ava's settled for wildly waving her arms and legs to express her excitement. She looks silly, so free, so joyous. Beatrice can't help but laugh and let herself feel the same. 

"What was that called?" Ava asks - and Beatrice wonders how a person can grin so wide, so much. 

Beatrice shrugs. "Koshi-guruma, it's a judo technique that -"

"Aw, but I want to see aikido! Please, Bea?" 

Beatrice opens her mouth but finds herself unable to speak. It's bewildering, having someone so eager to share in something irrelevant; in something she loves. Has found herself bewildered countless times, now, because of Ava. 

She shakes her head, feels her body already shifting to respond. She's learned enough - from martial arts, from the dogged determination of Ava's smile - to know when resistance is futile. 

"Fine," Beatrice sighs, ignores the way her mouth wants to curve up to match Ava's expression. "Fine." 

Ava whoops as she drifts back towards the bulkhead, uses it to launch herself at Beatrice once again. Beatrice is ready this time, and her mind splits like it does when it's calm like this: one part executing movements written now into her bones, the other part watching from the outside-in.

It's with that part of her mind that Beatrice thinks how it's not that different without gravity, even without the gi. How her hands still know how to lead, how her hips are still free to shift and twist and redirect. But here, there is no weight - of expectation, of perfection - no need to go through the technique too quickly. There's time: to feel her body moving, to hear Ava's surprised gasps, to take what she knows and make it into something new. 

She lets her body and mind still once Ava is out of her arms, watches her tumble harmlessly through the air. (And that too is different, a relief to know that here, they're both safe.)

"The fuck - did you just clothesline me?" Ava's squawk is more in delight than affront. 

Beatrice tilts her head, thinks back on the technique and laughs. "I suppose I did," she admits. 

"Damn I didn't know aikido had some WWE type of shit," Ava says, floating back up to Beatrice. 

"Well, there is some overlap, actually. Many of the joint locks for example -" 

"Okay wait, we're gonna have to make a list now of everything you need to teach me."

Beatrice raises an eyebrow. "You? Make a list? The thing you said was for 70-year-old grandmas?" 

Ava rolls her eyes - Beatrice notes the light flush creeping up her neck. "I can be organized! Anyway, I wanna learn that one - what's it called?" 

"Irimi nage," Beatrice answers - and this is instinctive, now, though new: the way she feels herself respond to Ava's eager questioning. From somewhere outside of herself, she can see the way it's different with Ava, the way she's different; the way everything is easy and weightless. 

And as she watches their hands fit together, Beatrice thinks how 9 months may not be enough. So this is what it feels like, she thinks as she watches Ava tumble through the air, listens to her laughter, feels her own heart stumble and soar: this is what it feels like to want more.

[a-very-sparkly-nerd]

i would cross the line, i would lose my mind

Hey friends! I haven't posted any rayllum in a hot sec, and bc I'm doing well in school right now and have a moment to breathe, here we are!!

When Rayla comes down with something, Callum spirals more than a little.

Life in Evrkynd was more difficult than he’d anticipated. Of course, it came with plenty fewer long treks and early mornings than the castle, leaving him more time to cuddle with Rayla as the sun slowly rose, and Callum was thankful for that. They only spent half the year there, and the other half in the Silvergrove with her dads.

He got to appreciate Moonshadow foods (never getting any less surprising), rituals (painting runes on her forearms and her on his back, for instance, leading to running from the ceremony giggling, drunk on the other's presence), and dances (he was just as hopeless at those as he was human ones), plants, and… everything about her was enchanting, he thought with a smile. He'd spend every day of the rest of his life learning new things about her, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

But it was arguably better getting to show her human life, the things they hadn't experienced together in those two weeks after the Storm Spire, and when they'd been too busy cooped up in the castle after Umber Tor and then retrieving the pearl.

Brown sludge, they were both fans of. She danced to music bards played around town, tied her hair up with red silk ribbons… Far too dangerously pretty and sweet and loving.

She'd loved wisteria when she'd seen the blooming trees planted and cultivated by Earthblood elves, giggling when he'd plucked a branch and tucked it behind her ear.

So the natural next step was to hang it up in the home they had when they resided here, letting her walk in after a long day of teaching swordfighting to the blossoms of purple complimenting her eyes and watching the way she lit up with curiosity and wonder, then kissed him silly when she realized.

The sniffles started a few days later. He woke up to her sniffling in her sleep, snoring all of a sudden from congestion– "I don't snore," she'd said once, when he’d asked how she didn't after the corrupted banther had attacked a lifetime ago. "Even if I'm sick. It can give away your position. So I don't do it."

"I'm pretty sure you can't just will bodily functions away," he'd teased, and handed her a handkerchief.

So snoring now may have just been a result of her feeling secure enough to, no longer in constant fight-or-flight even when asleep. Or maybe it was just that bad.

He tried to convince himself it was the former.

Rayla had grown from constantly insisting she was fine– it was only marginally better though, claiming that it was a little cold that would pass in no time.

He stopped entertaining the sliver of belief he'd held when she nearly fainted going up the stairs.

"Not a little cold," he mandated, looping one of her arms around his shoulder and helping her the rest of the way up, easing her down onto the bed. "What have you eaten today?"

Rayla coughed into her elbow, wiped her nose with her wrist. "Soup for lunch. S'posed to make you feel better."

He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. "You don't feel warm. Is this some kind of elf sickness I don't know about?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not a textbook."

"You've been icky for a week," he frowned. "Shouldn't we call a healer?"

Rayla rolled her eyes. "It's nothing. I'm not dying or anything."

Callum kissed her forehead. "Compromise: If you're not better in two days, then we'll call one. Okay?"

"If it'll make you feel better."

"It will." He patted her knee and stood up. "I'll go bring you dinner, and we can have an early night. And let Soren take over tomorrow, okay?"

"Fine, Doctor."

"Doctor what? Doctor Scarf? Doctor Dork? Doctor Hottie?"

She whacked his butt and cackled. "Go get dinner, dummy."

Ao3 :)

[ask-postcrash-curly]

Okay, Kez, you can do this. What's a little family-inherited psychic link into the "ethereal," right? Geez, you sound like Gramma. Now she was weird. Looks like Mom's coming into it, too. Guess you're next in line. And that's - that's fine. Weird doesn't mean bad. Weird doesn't mean bad.

Okay, okay, shut up. Focus. Focus. Relax your face. Relax. Gravity as a matter of perspective. Right. Heavy wind carrying you into the sky. Troposphere. Stratosphere. Mesosphere, thermosphere, exosphere. Starlings as messengers. The door, the keys, the room. Empty. Moonlight. Quiet. Calm.

...

... Hey, uh. Guy. I mean - sorry. Curly. Can you hear me? Still such a weird name. Wait, did you hear that, too? Shit, sorry. Brain. I didn't mean that. It's not like I have the most charming or conventional name in the world, either. I - is there a way to not spew out every single thought that comes into my head to you? Or is that just what this is like? God, that would drive me insane, were I you. My own head is noisy enough without - uh, this is Kestrel, by the way? If you couldn't tell. Mom is asleep right now, so I, uh... I guess I wanted to try and give this another shot? Prove to myself that it is real? I don't know. Still doesn't really feel like it. But neither do the past few days as a whole. Ugh...

Sorry, I just - this is still a lot to take in for me. I don't even know where to start... the psychic stuff, sure. Mom and Gramma were always kind of... like that? Especially Gramma. Used to say she could hear the "ethereal" or something along those lines. Things like the stars singing or the conversations between ants or my lost-probably-dead cat crying for me after the fact. I always thought she was just trying to make me feel better about that one, though... Gah, I miss you, Zukes.

Wait, sorry, I'm getting off track here. There's also, like... I'm the most confused about who the hell you even are? Spaceman, sure, I'll buy. People go into space all the time. You must be rich as hell, guy. Anyway, but when Mom was freaking out - she said that you were her son, too? But that's... she had me when she was twenty. And as far as I'm aware, she's never had any other relationships after my "father," if you can even call him that. Unless... she kept it a secret, but - no, no, that still wouldn't make sense, either. And somehow that's even harder to believe than the psychic thing. Family is important to her, she... she wouldn't do something like that. I know she wouldn't. And then Tabi's always like, "I think your mom is psychologically incapable of lying, like to a detriment. I'm a little worried about her sometimes." And I'm like, "I know."

Anyway, she's never mentioned anyone named Curly before. Or Grant, or anything. At least... not until a few days ago. God, I... I don't know what happened. Do you? Seems like you talk to her a lot. She sounded fine when we talked over the phone last week. But then out of nowhere she called me, just, screaming her head off. I couldn't understand a thing she was trying to tell me, and then we got disconnected and she wouldn't answer when I tried to call back. I thought - I don't know, I thought she was being fucking murdered! Fuck, I was so scared, man, I was on my way to class already. The next thing I know I'm getting calls left and right from this hospital and that hospital talking about... I don't even know, I-I think I might have actually gone deaf for a few minutes. Couldn't hear a thing anyone was saying to me anymore. I had to drop everything to drive nearly halfway across the country before I was actually expecting to come home. And when I finally do get back, she's - they stuck her in some random psych ward miles away and she wouldn't stop crying. I've never seen her cry so hard, not even - not even when Gramma died. They said the only thing she would talk about was her son, but they didn't mean me. Kept saying... your name. Grant Curly, of Pony Express.

I really didn't... I didn't know what to make of it, at all. I thought it was all my fault. That she had finally lost her marbles from being alone for so long, because I didn't... ugh. I hadn't talked to her in months. Call me an asshole if you want, I know already. I guess "leaving" comes with being my father's son. Ugh. You know I heard her say once that they used to dance together to "Free Bird." And she never even saw it coming. Not that I'm - I'm not blaming her. The irony is just... too stupid.

Didn't mean to make her wait that long, I swear, I just... fuck, I don't even know anymore. Tabi started talking to me about setting boundaries, even though I never really had that much of an issue with how close we have always been. God, I remember being a kid and getting bullied at school because I still called her "Mommy" past a certain age. I wish I could forget the look on her face the first time I said "Mom" instead. She thought I was mad at her about something. I guess I was just getting annoyed because I'm supposed to be an adult now, and I can't... I have to learn how to live on my own, you know? I can't do that if she's clinging to my back all the time. I know she's never been on her own like that before, and that's fine, but I'm trying to - I just have so much other shit to worry about, too. I don't know. I really wasn't trying to cut her off like that, that's... that's the last thing I actually wanted to do. But I felt so bad after a few weeks, and then I put it off more and more, and...

I really missed her...

...

So, can you... tell me what the hell happened there? With you and her, I mean. She hasn't told me much, or - or maybe she did and I wasn't listening. I didn't actually believe any of this until... I don't know, I still kind of don't. But here I am anyway. Talking to ghosts, I guess. So... who are you? And what did you do to her? Sorry, wait, I didn't mean it like that. She said you were hurt, but that's a little... I mean, I've been hurt before, and she never... gah. Look, I just want to know that she won't end up back in the hospital again because of... I don't know, man. I really don't know what the hell is going on anymore.

...

Fuck, I'm tired.

...

Okay, how do I. Uh.

How do I turn this off. Is there like, a secret code, or something? End communication? Am I supposed to just stop thinking? I'm not sure that I can actually do that. Wait, the room thing Mom did worked. Maybe if I... imagine a phone or something, and like...

Hang it u--?

...Hey again! Yeah, I can hear you. I heard you trying to get me to hear you for a minute too. ...And I heard you talking about my name. Hah. Don't worry about it. Uh— Wow, okay. Yeah, no, I'm not really sure? I mean, I can control sometimes what I'm sharing and what I'm not, but things do slip out against my will. Not like I can go back and change it after the fact. Doesn't drive me insane though. Not any more than the isolation would anyways. ...Yep, I know you're Kestrel. Recognized your voice.

That's all right. It's strange, yeah? I think she might be able to predict the future, also. Sort of. Or, well, I guess it didn't happen— Or it did, and then it un-happened...? I don't know. Nevermind. Point is, of course psychic stuff's a lot to take in. I thought I was losing my mind when it started, hah. ...Sorry for your loss there.

Right, okay... I thought she'd explained it to you. Uh. Well, for starters, I'm not rich. Middle-class, if anything. (And probably going to be in debt forever. Cheers.) I'm not here for fun, I'm here for work. Space captain for Pony Express. You know, the interstellar delivery company...? "Giddy-up, galaxy"? With the cartoony horse mascot? They're shutting down, but— Yeah, no, the point is I'm a glorified deliveryman.

Yeah so... Funny thing about that. Shit, this is going to sound completely bonkers.

My co-pilot, uh, crashed our ship into an asteroid. I was in the cockpit during impact, and I got a tad injured. Hah. Anyway, after a couple months lying in the medbay in constant pain, I started hearing voices. Thought I'd lost it at first. After a while of that, your mother joined the crowd. Some of the, uh, younger voices wanted me to adopt them...? Still not really sure why, but I agreed to be their unofficial father figure. Then someone asked me if I wanted to be adopted rather than adopting, and I said I didn't think anyone would want to adopt an adult man who already had parents, and your mother volunteered. I think it was mostly a joke at first but I happened to be having a very miserable time in desperate need of comfort, and, well. It sorta stopped being a joke. Point is, no, we're not biologically related. Sorry, I'm sure this is, uh, really strange for you.

About that, uh... I don't... There was some... time travel thing? Fuck, I still don't understand it. But from what I understand, there was a first timeline where my crew all died brutally and I was tossed into cryostasis that all the voices remember and I don't. I've seen how it would've played out. Just don't have that first-person recollection... It's more or less fixed now. Sorry for the hospital and the scare. I didn't... Yeah, I'm sorry.

Not your fault, no. S'what happens when we grow up, yeah...? She was upset about it, but that wasn't why that happened. That was all me. ...Don't think it makes you like that asshole, either.

Mm. Yeah. Could come up with some sort of compromise, maybe? Scheduling a call once a week...? Something like that. Up to you two.

I'm not a ghost. Not yet anyways. I'm Curly, as we've said. Nothing on purpose... No, no, you're all right. It's, uh... God, okay, this might... be unpleasant to hear. Certainly unpleasant to live through. I'm rather, uh, burnt. Badly. To the point of not really having much skin. Including my lips and my eyelids. So. Yeah. Also down an eye. And hands and feet. And one of my legs, but that, uh, was something else. Sorry.

Listen. I'll be real with you, Kestrel. I'm not... I don't... Your mother really wants to believe we'll make it back to Earth. But our chances don't look so great. And, well. If one day you both stop hearing me... Please be there for her? She isn't... going to take it well, I don't think. Sorry, I know that's a lot to put on you.

...

Wait, wait, hold on. How old are you again...?

[celestinadlcruz]

Her breathing grew shallow, as she stood there, unable to move, unable to think past the image of Andres' face. It was an image that should have reduced her to tears by now, but there were no tears left. To the point that it became nearly painful as she slid her eyes shut and exhaled a shaky breath in an attempt to rid her mind of that massacre and stabilize herself. But then came the part of her that was simply exhausted from mourning. It seemed she'd been cursed to have that feeling imbedded in her since childhood.

As soon as he'd stepped away, she had fully expected to hear a door slam shut behind him, yet he was still here. For a few minutes, she stood frozen, her eyes unfocused, staring at the ground, unable to pull herself together enough to look at him. Finally, she whispered, "I'm sorry.. I didn't mean that– I'm–" She was trying to articulate something, anything, to say the right words but all she could come up with was, "it's the second time I have to bury a dad." Even though she’s acutely aware that death went hand in hand with the life she was born into, there was no mending the loss of the man who’d raised her. After a beat of hesitation, she moved closer slowly, just enough to lean against the worktop opposite of him. "I don't wanna talk about it, I don't know what to do, I just don't want to feel this … way anymore." Whatever the fuck it was, she couldn’t place it or more likely didn’t want to.

"When did I say that?!" he threw back at her, the when held more bite as he tried to hold himself back from literally shouting in her face. He didn't care? Did he say that? That was where his focus had practically leaped onto. Of course he wanted her to tell him she was pissed off, that she felt insane, but what he hadn't expected was her to (to him) point the blame in his direction, or ask a question that held literally no place with what had happened. His brows rose - he's dumbfounded - as he stared down at Cel, his wonder of what the fuck was going on was on a continuous loop, and she's making him think that he wasn't understanding and so that just fuelled into his anger. One that was skimming across that tipping point and then she freezes, making Nico pause himself as her words finally register in unison to witnessing the look of realisation spread across her features.

He sighed heavily, unable to just switch himself off with the way she was done talking, and so he nods as he turned his back to her, moving away to put space between them he leaned against the worktops. He shook his head lightly as his gaze focused on the drawers across from him, he's looking at nothing, he's completely quiet as he resisted that urge to just whack the side of his head. It's a frustrating need to just quit it, to straighten himself up because he apparently did not understand what was going on. He could have just left - perhaps he should have done, but he stayed. He wasn't ignoring her, he was just respecting her wishes, and he stayed at this point in time because he didn't want her to do anything stupid.

[mossy-thing]

What is in unpopular silm headcannon that you have?

Well, since hair ties and elastics weren't invented yet in the silm, all the elves must have had some way of tying back their lustrous locks, right?

I believe that most Avari, and also some of the sindar and silvans would have either used some kind of fat/promenade to keep their braids in place (if they had a hair type that easily slipped out of braids), or used strings of some sort or another, either by braiding them in or simply tying them, similarly to how we would use an elastic.

In Valinor, I think things were different. It must have started out the same, but I bet simple leather or bast strings turned into linen and then silken ribbons very quickly. Also, there must have been a bunch of Noldor who made clasps to keep the braids in, and I bet there was an artform of braiding hair in ways that made it difficult for even the slipperiest hair types to escape their confines without any help at all.

Also, I know Fingon is the only one we really hear is wearing ribbons in his hair, but since they were historically speaking quite an important way of binding one's hair in our world, I think a lot of people must have had to do so, especially in Valinor, where fine fabrics were still easily available (no one in Tirion would want to debase themselves by wearing rough wool in their hair, after all) although I think most people eventually switched to clasps or even back to ways the Avari used once the rebels reached Beleriand, since those were both tools that were less wasteful. Fabric can easily rip, especially when it gets old, and there are far better purposes for it than vanity (like bandages) but a carved stone clasp takes quite some time to wear out. There were definitely simpler styles used as well, since people simply did not have the time to spent hours of their morning braiding their hair. They had far more important things to do! Like getting ready to die in the Nirnaeth-- I mean preparing themselves to win in their last glorious battle against Morgoth!

This would then make the few people still wearing ribbons appear as a symbol of what the Noldor lost, over time. Fingon wearing his golden, untainted and unstained ribbons to every feast, every battle, every political meeting, would certainly act as a sign of hope.

Outside of the silm and in our world, the colour gold was used to symbolize the presence of the Christian god in European medieval paintings, and since Manwë heard and answered Fingon's prayer at Thangorodrim, my sleep deprived brain cannot but connect those two dots and argue that to the few Noldor who were still pious towards the Valar (though probably in secret) Fingon was like a connection to them, like a reassurance that actually, the Valar had not left them, that actually, there was still hope.

And then the Nirnaeth Arnoediad happened and Fingon was crushed, and to those who sometimes saw a glint of tattered gold in Maedhros' hair the remaining ribbon meant nothing but that they had truly and utterly been forsaken.

[secriden]

Just going to cry again (see: my previous post about the parallels between the storage room scene and the abandoned factory scene) about parallels and juxtapositions in the store room scene vs the one in Styles bedroom:

Both these scenes have such a tone of desperation and are characterised by an overflowing of emotions, but in drastically opposite directions.

(Note, some of what I say in this post directly relates to concepts and themes I talked about here, so it may not wholly make sense without that context.)

The scene in the storeroom is filled with frustrated desire. Fadel kisses Style because he wants Style's body and also wants to take his frustrations at Style out on his body. He doesn't need to look Style in the eye (and in fact very intentionally only does so only in small snatches) because this isn't about a connection as much as it is about a release. Fadel's kisses come fast, hard, and are intended to bruise more than to adore.

But episode 5's scene is filled with much more quiet and tender sort of desire. Style is kissing Fadel so much more slowly and purposefully. He keeps looking back at Fadel, checking in to see how he feels and whether Fadel is enjoying it. Everything Style wanted in Episode 3, he now gives to Fadel here, pours the secrets of his knowing and choosing Fadel anyway into the way he presses his lips onto Fadel's skin. His kisses linger, they carry a weight but are somehow infinitely gentle still; Style's kisses contain a purpose that Fadel's kisses couldn't in Episode 3 because in all honesty they were relative strangers back then.

There's also the way there's such a ferocity and carelessness in the way Fadel starts the encounter in episode 3 that is juxtaposed beautifully by the slow, tender, almost hesitant way Style slides his lips onto Fadel's. Both of them are in such different headspaces, between these episodes and its especially evident in the way they care so much more about the other person's comfort and how intentionally they showed that to the audience.

There's hunger present in both scenes but what this hunger is focused on is so drastically different. In the storeroom, they're both mainly focused on a physical release; its primal and visceral but lacked emotional resonance. Fadel gives Style what he knows Style wants (that hint of danger, with the hand on his neck), but its not because he really cares about what Style wants on anything more than a physical level. In Style's bedroom, however, Fadel is drunk (intentionally and by his own design) and desperate to open himself up to Style on an emotional level. Meanwhile, Style wants that desperately too, but knows that Fadel shouldn't because of his own terrible secret. So this kiss is what they both will allow themselves - an honesty and a hunger for this deeper connection they can only share in act but not in words.

In the storeroom, Style wants Fadel to want more than his body but knows (or thinks) he can't push for it yet, so he remains passive, lets Fadel do whatever he wants, lets him turn and shove and place Style how he wants because at this point, this is all Fadel will give him. Here, Style is passive in spite of what he wants. But in the bedroom, Fadel is passive because it's what he wants; he wants to let Style do whatever he desires to and with Fadel's body. He wants to lay himself as bare as he possibly can, which is only physical, and so he does.

And because the encounter in Episode 3 lacked that emotional connection, the focus is merely their respective releases. There's a sense of two people trying to find pleasure and 'finish' while remaining emotionally disconnected despite actively having sex with each other. Because in some ways, they didn't really need each other in that moment to get there (there's actually a lot of truth in what Fadel says about it being easier to just jerk off alone). In sharp contrast, the scene in Episode 5 isn't focused on the destination but on the journey. Style is taking his time and Fadel is letting him - Style is choosing to worship Fadel's body, with his fingers, with his lips, to respond to his vulnerability with gentleness and tenderness and adoration. The goal has stopped being about finding a release, it's about allowing both these men to revel in the giving and receiving of pleasure.

The point of these scenes is to show to us the ways in which Fadel and Style have grown to care for and, dare I say it, love each other in ways that are so purposefully portrayed by showing the nature of their physical connection. Because the ways in which these scenes are the same and yet so wholly different showcases how their touches are now no longer merely tied to their senses any longer, but also to their hearts as well.

[autism-swagger]

Non exhaustive list of religious themes/motifs that are present in Hive/Hive and Daisy's relationship because I'm obsessed with them:

The fact that Hive is already borderline/full on revered as a god by members of Hydra in the know, not to mention that, while the Inhumans under his sway are technically chemically altered, they're also like. An actual cult.

Hive's weird pose that he does (that I swear he does more than once but I could only find screenshots of one example) ⬇️

Crosses being repeatedly associated with Daisy thinking she has to die for her sins ⬇️

(Yes this makes Lincoln Jesus in this scenario. Go with it.)

This scene ⬇️ is like. Jesus-on-the-cross adjacent to me. It's just such a specific pose to do, y'know? Plus the whole. Giving blood. Thing. "Drain me" this "This is my blood. It is poured out to forgive the sins of many" that. Yadayada et cetera et cetera.

And last but CERTAINLY not least

Daisy literally getting down on her knees to plead with Hive?? Girl you might as well clasp your hands, close your eyes, and full on pray at this point.

Do I think they should've gone farther with this aspect? HELL YES I DO!!!! But what we did get is so catered to me specifically. It's amazing I love it.

[ratwithhands]

Decided to polish some jacket designs!

Emmet originally received a strait from the League after they thought he posed a safety risk to others and mandated him to wear it. Big surprise, they literally just went to a Unovan hospital and asked if they had any of the old jackets lying around. It's ill-fitting and unpleasant, not to mention the hasty edits they made to his uniform to act as a secondary restraint looks awful. As much as he is still operating as usual, having to walk around in the strait is humiliating and dehumanizing, especially because of the stares from other people.

Of course this crime against dignity and fashion had to be corrected, so Elesa called her designers and offered to make the League Council a more appropriate uniform for him. The only rule given was that it must still restrain as well as the original straitjacket, so Elesa ended up modelling the jacket after a vest and the secondary restraint after a double-breasted greatcoat. It's meant to look like clothing, more like everyday wear than something out of an asylum. It also uses hand covers (i.e. socks) instead of a grossly oversized sleeve to keep the hands restrained.

It resolves a lot of the issues Emmet had with the original, namely that it blends in with the crowd rather than making him stick out. It also has an air of professionalism and formality that the original didn't have. He's much more willing to wear it and keep it on, as well as being more comfortable in it.

I'm struggling to describe this in sentences so as for the differences:

League Straitjacket:

actual retired straitjacket from hospital storage

made of old canvas and leather

uses oversized belted sleeves to restrain arms

uses belts and buckles to restrain upper arms and tighten back

can't fit anything thicker than a tank top underneath

Elesa's Modified Straitvest:

bespoke articles custom tailored to Emmet's measurements

made from stiff cotton and fabric straps

uses belted cuffs and hand covers to restrain arms

uses straps and locking slide buckles to restrain upper arms and tighten back

able to fit a collared shirt underneath

Elesa's outfit also has the added bonus of being more breathable, soft, and being able to function as regular clothes.

Anyways bonus sketch comic:

Dignity restored.

[bad-system]

ofc ur a dude defending luke dale being an nft shilling weirdo porn freak on main. he will never care about you btw but maybe he'll give u a shout out.

don’t care about a shout-out, not that invested in some random niche actor’s life. if he’s a freak, congrats on being right and helping the affected women gain voice in all this, hopefully it actually helps someone instead of just padding your internet path of righteousness and chastity. i'll happily join everyone in spreading awareness about him if that's the case! until then, obsessing over a micro-celeb’s sex life is weirder than following OF accounts. also, i’ve always been anti-crypto/nft as an artist, so defending this guy isn’t on my to-do list. but thanks for the laugh—you’re definitely putting in more work for his attention than i ever will. hope you get that shout-out!