#tragic saber man | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sentientcave · 4 months ago

Text

Retirement Party

Chapter 6 - The Butterfly Effect

Read on AO3

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N (2nd POV but Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Dubcon, Plus-sized Reader/OC, female Reader/OC, Everyone learns new things about each other, Manipulation, PTSD, Doll has a tragic backstory, Poorly translated Spanish, Lots of introspection

~4.2k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above but honestly nothing particularly bad happens this chapter.

John gives you space for the next few days, letting you settle in around the edges of his own routine. You’ve always been an early riser, and so is he, but he starts every day with a run, and you prefer a slower pace. You’ve taken to coming downstairs after you hear the front door close, and stretch on the living room floor (you wouldn’t call it yoga, but you’ve spent the last few years keeping up with the Kinsey kids, and you know how important it is to maintain flexibility), and make coffee before you go back upstairs to get dressed and ready for the day. John always showers first thing after his run, but after the second day he starts taking off his shirt before he drinks a glass of water at the sink, watching you from the corner of his eye to see if you’re looking.

And maybe sometimes you are. It would be a useless endeavour, pretending that he’s not nice to look at. He’s big, barrel-chested, with thick, muscular arms, and he’s hairy in a way that’s unbelievably attractive, and he gleams with sweat after his runs. If he didn’t look so damn smug every time he catches you looking, you’d probably gladly spend a few long minutes studying him. Something about the man makes your fingers itch to pick up a pencil.

You just orbit around each other for those first few days. He’s working on some project outside, and you putter around the house a bit and look for new jobs online. You were surprised that he didn’t confiscate your laptop to keep you from calling for a rescue, but he made no effort to stop you from using your laptop or your phone. Perhaps he’d really listened when you’d tried to set boundaries. He’s certainly given you space to adjust.

On Wednesday, you video call your Lola— It’s been routine for ages, since you always had Sundays and Wednesdays off from work— and catch up. You start the call shortly after John leaves, to give yourself some time to talk privately. It’s nice to see her familiar, wrinkled brown face, even if she’s half the world away from you.

She clocks that you’re not at home right away, and gets that sly, knowing smile when you tell her you’re staying with a friend. “¿Estás viendo a alguien?” she asks. “¿Un joven tal vez?” Are you seeing someone? A young man perhaps?

“No nada de eso. Sólo quedarme con un amigo.” No, nothing like that. Just staying with a friend. Once again, lying to make it seem like you’re not in trouble. It’s not like your Lola would be able to do anything about your situation anyway. You would just worry her.

Of course, Lola is much too observant not to see that you're hiding something-- Even if all she sees of you is a video call once a week, you're her granddaughter and she knows you. "Dalisay," she says, her tone a mocking approximation of sternness. "Eres una mujer adulta. Me gustaría saber que eres feliz, que estás saliendo con alguien agradable. No tienes que mentirme. Mientele a tu otra abuela.” You are a grown woman. I would like to know you're happy, that you’re seeing someone kind. You don't have to lie to me. Lie to your other grandmother.

You laugh. "¡Es complicado Lola! Él es—" It's complicated Lola! He's—

The door opens, and John limps back in, early. "Rolled my ankle," he explains, taking your wide-eyed look as concern. "Just need some ice."

"Muéstramelo," Lola demands, laughing. "Tiene una voz hermosa.” Show him to me. He has a handsome voice.

John turns toward you, frowning. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"I always call Lola on Wednesdays-- John, sit down, you need to ice your ankle, what are you doing?"

He's standing on one leg, in the middle of the kitchen, fishing a mug out of the cupboard rather than getting something cold and sitting right down. "I--"

You're not sure what possesses you, but you get up, and you make him sit, and you go to make him his coffee and wrap a bag of frozen peas in a tea towel. When you turn around, he's reached across the table to pull your laptop closer, smiling at the camera when Lola claps he hands together, beaming.

"Es guapo, Dalisay. Pero no joven, ¿eh?" She says, laughing. He's handsome, Dalisay. But not young, huh?

"No," he agrees, "soy demasiado viejo para ella. Todavía soy lo suficientemente egoísta como para intentarlo de todos modos.” I'm too old for her. I'm still selfish enough to try anyway. Lola laughs at his honesty, pleased with John already.

You set down the coffee and glare at him. But you gently set the ice pack on his raised ankle. He pulls you into his lap, sitting you on his other thigh. "John!" You protest.

"Oh, relájate, apo,” Lola chides, unhelpfully reading the situation just the way John wants her to. She seems impressed by John's accented Spanish, happy to not need to translate her words to English to speak with him. She speaks English perfectly well, but she prefers Spanish, calls English clunky and ungraceful. "Yo también fui joven una vez. Me preocupaba que ella nunca encontrara a alguien.” Oh lighten up, apo. I was young once too. I was worried she would never find someone.

"No es que ella no pudiera,” John says. "Ella es tan hermosa, pero mantiene la distancia." It's not that she couldn't. She's so beautiful, but she keeps her distance.

“John, stop that,” you say, and you do mean the way he’s talking, but you also mean the hand that’s firmly gripping your hip, kneading your soft flesh. It’s not hard enough to bruise, not even enough to hurt, but it’s distracting, and makes your heart flutter. The movement is also hitching your skirt up a little higher on your thighs.

The innocent, laughing look he gives you is no help. “Sorry, love.” He kisses your shoulder, his hand sliding up to your waist instead.

You glance over at the screen, wincing when you see two of your cousins crowded into the screen with Lola, all of them stifling laughter and one of them holding a chubby baby.

“He needs to buy you a ring, cuz,” Ligaya says, waving her baby’s chubby hand at you. “Say hello Berting, that’s your auntie Dalisay and her boyfriend.” She and her sister, Ceci dissolve into giggles. The baby laughs too, although he doesn’t have any idea what’s going on around him.

“He’s too old to be anyone’s boyfriend,” you grouse.

“He looks more like husband material to me,” Ceci crows. She points a threatening finger at the webcam. “You’d better be good to her! She’s our favourite cousin.”

“Y mi nieta favorita,” Lola says, And my favourite granddaughter, cupping her hand around her mouth as if that would keep Ligaya and Ceci from hearing her. They both laugh, unoffended, Ceci batting Lola’s shoulder lightly.

“I will,” John promises. “She makes it easy. She’s much too good for the likes of me.”

“And don’t you forget it, English!” Ligaya agrees. “Are you coming to see us for Christmas this year, Lisay? There’s at least four babies you haven’t met yet.”

“I’m not sure I can afford to this year. We’ll see if I can find work—”

“¿Qué pasó? ¿Perdiste tu trabajo?” Lola asks. What happened? Did you lose your job?

“You practically raised those niños!” Ligaya protests, as if that would change the facts of the matter. “They love you!”

You grimace, and haltingly explain that Mr. Kinsey had made a pass at you, and you’d been fired so that he and his wife could work out their marital issues. Apparently you’d been just too tempting to have around, despite the fact that you had less than zero interest in your former employer. By the end of your explanation, Lola looks ready to fight, and Ligaya and Ceci both look furious too. “It’s alright,” you say, trying to convince yourself as much as you are them. “I wouldn’t have been able to leave if they didn’t fire me. And I didn’t want to be raising someone else's’ kids forever.”

Ceci wiggles her eyebrows at you. “Yeah, Lisay, you want your own babies, eh?”

“You should start painting again,” Ligaya suggested, flicking Ceci with the hand not currently supporting her son. “You could sell prints online, portrait commissions. You’re as good as your mother, and she made it into that London Gallery.”

Lola notices the way your smile strains and shoos your cousins away. “El consejo es bueno aunque graznan,” she says. “Eres demasiado buena para dejar de pintar.” The advice is good, even if they quack. You’re too good to stop painting.

You change the subject, and Lola talks some about the children, about neighbourhood gossip, catching you up on everything before you end the call. You sigh, sinking into John unconsciously. He’s so big, and so solid, you wish you could do away with that undercurrent of fear ruining the little comfort his arms would provide you otherwise.

“Why’d you stop painting?” he asks.

“It’s not the same anymore.”

“Is anything ever the same?”

You twist to look at him. His eyes are too blue, piercing though you like he’s able to read the thoughts in your head. You have to remind yourself that he can’t, that he doesn’t know you well enough even to guess. You’re getting to know him pretty well though, and you recognize this earnestness, this plea to let him in, to let him help. John is a man who needs to do something all the time, that needs to focus on a task. You wonder what it is that nips at his heels so sharply— Is is inherent, genetic, something unavoidable, written in the core of his very deepest, truest self? Or is it just that he’s running from something, and must stay in motion, driving himself ever forward to keep it from catching up?

“Have you ever lost anyone, John?”

Surprise widens his eyes for a flickering second, before he hides it behind a tight smile. “Think we’re talking about you, Doll.”

“You don’t have to answer. I think it’s just easier to understand, when you have. Painting just reminds me of my mam. It’s like trying to swim with lead shoes on. It’s so hard to keep my head above the water that it’s easier just not to swim.”

“Maybe you could try takin’ off the lead shoes,” he suggested, his arms tightening around you. Levity and reassurance, like he knows exactly what you need. “Or maybe you just shouldn’t go swimmin’ alone.”

“A lifeguard,” you say, rolling the thought around in your head. Maybe that was the problem, the empty space was too apparent when there was no one around to fill it. You’d painted the flowers on the credenza with Ripley there, and that had even been nice. You’d thought it was just a fluke, but you hadn’t really thought about why it had been different. “That’s an interesting thought.”

“Did you have everything you’d need? We can look through the boxes for your supplies.”

You shake your head. “No. Yes. I have watercolours somewhere. Just no acrylics. But I could start with watercolours.”

“Yeah? We can look now, if you like.”

“Maybe in a bit. I’ll make breakfast first.”

“I can do it,” he offers quickly. “I want to take care of you.”

As much as you aren’t quite ready to admit it, he already is. “No, I think it’s my turn. Just give me a minute. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, but this is kind of nice.”

He hums his agreement, picking up his coffee. You think he’s doing it so he can’t kiss you, and you’re so pleased that he’s starting to get it that you almost consider kissing him instead.

But you don’t. You just let yourself enjoy the moment.

Maybe that’s enough, for now.

You decide that having him sit and watch you painting would be awkward, so once you hunt down your watercolours and a sketchbook with heavy paper, you set up outside while he works. He’s constructing some kind of frame over a concrete pad, a covered porch, you think. You sit out of the way, facing the copse of trees that surround the house, and the overgrown, weedy garden. It looks like it had been set up early in the season with the best of intentions, but you suspect that it was too hard on his knees and back. He’d made the mistake of planting everything straight in the ground— You probably would have suggested planter boxes, if you’d been here in the spring. Then he could have sat on a stool— It would have helped keep the bunnies out too. The few tomatoes left on an abandoned vine have little bites nibbled out of them— Almost everything has little bites taken out of it.

It makes you smother a laugh. It’s easy to imagine John railing against nature— He’s so stubborn, there’s no way he gave up for a good long time— Cursing the rabbits and deer, leaning over the once-neat rows until his back ached. There’s a pair of rusting garden shears stuck out of the ground, evidence that he quit in a fit of pique some months ago.

He’s looking at you— He has a sense for when you let happiness slip through, like a hound picking up a rabbit’s trail in the woods. You can feel the burn of those bright blue eyes on you, the heavy weight of his attention. Does he make note of everything you smile at? You wonder how long the list is now. Puppies, the Stuart kids, Lola and your cousins, and now his poor attempts at gardening. You haven’t really let much else get past your careful, polite mask, knowing full well that stone-walling him is your best defence. He’s searching for an opening, and once he finds it, he’ll pop you open like a clam.

It seems inevitable. Still, he’ll have to work for it, if he wants you to let him in. He’s already set himself the first of his Herculean tasks, to get you painting again. It would be easier to face the Nemean lion. Your grief has sharp teeth, unblunted even after a decade, still dug deep into your heart.

“You aren’t painting,” John says in your ear. His hands settle on your shoulders, holding you in your seat when surprise would launch you a few centimetres into the air.

You turn your head to look at him, and he’s far too close. “You aren’t working.”

“Takin’ a break. You look like you’re thinkin’ hard about something. What’s on your mind, Doll?”

“Your garden. Must have been a storm of misfortunes to make you give up.”

“Few things get the better of me, but this was one of ‘em. Have to settle for buyin’ produce at the shops like everyone else.”

“It’s not really so hard.”

“You the expert in gardening?”

“No, I just used to help my gran with her garden. Picked up a thing or two about keeping green things alive.” You take a dry paintbrush and dust it over his fingertips idly.

“That the one we talked to today?” he asks.

“No, that’s Lola. Gran is the Scottish one.”

He hums, smooths out tension in your shoulders with his thumbs, catching the slightest touch of your skin at the collar of your sweater. "Didn't think you had family in the UK."

You tip your head back, looking up at him. He shifts, leaning his forearms on the back of the chair, hanging over you. "Just my Gran, she got remarried a bit before we moved to Manchester. She thought her husbands-- Well, I'll say kids, but they were full adults, older than my mam already-- She thought they were more respectable than my parents. Wouldn't categorize her as a real warm and fuzzy lady."

"You don't talk then?"

"No. Not since my parents died. We had a proper row at the funeral and she's never apologized, and I'm certainly not going to."

"Learnin' a lot about you today, Doll."

“That I’m stubborn and that I distance myself from the people that love me?” you ask, flicking the paintbrush at the tip of his nose. His whole face scrunches, and it’s kind of endearing. You’re already feeling soft about him from this morning, because Lola liked him, and because he didn’t ask if she spoke English, just launched right into Spanish that was a maybe a little rough around the edges, but good enough.

“That,” he agrees. “But I think it’s good that you hold your ground. You’re not stubborn for the sake of it, you say what needs to be said. I’d bet good money that you were in the right.”

“It doesn’t always matter who’s right and who’s wrong, John. Sometimes you have to set aside ego to make things right.”

“Tryin’ to teach an old dog new tricks?” he asks.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll teach yourself. Now go on, get. You’re distracting me.” You wrap your hands around one of his, and press a fleeting kiss to a spot between his thumb and his wrist before releasing him. “And be careful of your ankle. If you need to carry something heavy, let me help you.”

He laughs and withdraws, his shadow sliding over your page as he moves away. “Yes ma’am. You’re pretty cute when you’re bossy.”

“I’m always cute,” you say blithely.

You don’t look at him, so you miss the way he glances back over his shoulder, blue eyes burning. “You’re damn right about that.”

Ducking your head down to hide your smile, you pick your pencil up and look back to the garden. Something about the red-handled shears stuck in the soil speaks to you, so you lightly sketch it out on the page, humming to yourself quietly. The next things you need to hunt down are your headphones and the old mp3 player so you can listen to music while you paint.

There’s something soothing about hearing John work anyway. The whirr of his drill as he screwed framing lumber into place, or the buzz of his saw when he cuts pieces to size. He’s methodical, exacting— What makes him so good at building probably made him a poor gardener too. He can cut and fit pieces of wood together to make any shape he pleases, he can make a plan and nothing will fight back against it, beyond a warped bit of lumber here and there, but a garden grows as it will, and there’s no controlling the wind or the sun or the rain, let alone the creatures that might come looking for something tender and green.

That same struggle plays out between the two of you. He sees a map and a destination where you see a landscape. The journey, the exploration, is what matters to you, the light and shadow, the soft growing things and the hungry teeth that nip at the roots. In his mind he’s already built a house at the top of the hill, and he wants to pull you inside, lay you down, plant his seeds in a different garden, watch something new grow. It’s not simply impatience, but a need for control, for surety.

He exerts that control outwards, bending the world to the shape he likes. You’ve always turned it inwards, pulling in on yourself, turning your life into a safe little cocoon, turning deprivation and isolation into an art. Constructing masks to get you through, reliable scripts, being whomever you need to be to make things easier.

And perhaps it was easy, but it was lonely too.

Maybe they really had done you a favour. By pulling you out of your comfortable routine, they’ve forced you to face yourself, for the first time in ages, to ask yourself what it is that you want, to see who you are.

You feel like a butterfly, wings still damp and unfurling, perched in John’s hand. He could risk letting you fly away, or he could force you to stay by destroying some integral part of you. There’s no telling which path he intends to take, not yet.

You can just hope.

It might be insane— It certainly feels insane— but you really want him to be a good man. Not just out of self-preservation, although it probably weighs something in the equation, but because you want him. He’s right when he says there’s something here, something that’s been rolling around in the back of your mind since Ghost dumped you in his lap. It hasn’t even been a week, but it feels longer.

You keep half an eye on him while you put the first pale washes of colour onto paper. A few small versions first, to get a handle on light and shadow, colour values, just to remember how to mix colours the way you want to, and then start on the larger version, feeling a little more confident.

You’ve just blocked in the base colours when you notice that John’s limping again, and showing no sign of stopping his work. Sighing, you set your paintbrush down and stand. “John,” you say gently, putting yourself in the path between the saw set up and his lumber pile. “It’s time to take a break.”

“No, I’m fine, Doll. Get back to your painting.” He tries to move around you, but you side-step and block his path again. “It’s just a sprain,” he says, exasperated. “I’ve worked through worse.”

As if that was a good reason to ignore pain. “And you never considered that maybe you shouldn’t have had to?”

He frowns down at you. The difference in your heights has to be at least a foot, but he has a funny way of tucking in his chin and hanging his head when you’re standing close like this, and looking at you straight on anyway. A soft little hand settles on his stomach, unbidden— You’re not sure that you’ve instigated contact with him before, it’s always been him reaching out for you, his big hands achingly gentle. Is anyone ever gentle with him? Is he ever gentle with himself?

“The work will still be here tomorrow,” you remind him. “You have time to rest.”

A raindrop splashes on your outstretching arm. The two of you look up in tandem, at a heavy grey cloud that’s rolled over head— It hasn’t blocked out the sun yet, and neither of you had noticed it creeping up— and then at each other. “Guess the weather agrees with you,” John says.

You both scramble apart and into action. John covers the pile of lumber and the saw with tarps, weighed down with a few odd bricks so they won’t blow away, and you quickly pack up the water colours and your paintings. You don’t get there in time to stop a few splashes of rain from hitting the page, but you get everything inside before it’s completely soaked and set it on the kitchen table for the moment.

While you’re filling the kettle and looking outside, watching the rain splash against the window, John comes in too, and looks at your work. “The rain ruined it,” he says. “I should have been paying more attention to the weather.” There’s guilt in his voice, as if it’s his fault that the rain chose to fall where and when it did.

You set the kettle to boil, and join him, studying the paintings. Each of them unrefined— The smaller ones are just work-ups anyway, but the raindrops have warped the colours, creating voids with saturated edges. You wouldn’t say they’re ruined. There’s an artistry to incident, story preserved on paper in a way that your art wouldn’t do alone.

“No, I like it better this way,” you say decisively. “It underlines the theme of futility, don’t you think? How we’re at the mercy of the weather, whether we like it or not.”

“S’pose so,” he admits grudgingly.

His mouth is set so it almost disappears under his moustache. He really does hate the reminder that he has no control over some things. You dash upstairs and grab a couple of towels and tuck them under your arm, and take John’s hand, leading him out onto the front porch.

He follows you without resistance, although there’s a funny, curious look on his face. “What’re you doing?”

You let go, and put the towels down on the bench. “What does it look like I’m doing?” The rain is coming steadily now, the sky turned darker, sun all but blotted out, and it’s cold on your skin when you step out from the shelter and into the downpour. You throw your arms out and spin, laughing.

There are many things in this life that you can’t control. Things that are fixed, unchanged and immovable, laws of nature, the whims of weather, and Captain John Price. But you have choices too. You can try to move a mountain, but you’d be better climbing over it. You can choose to struggle against the current, or let it sweep you along. You can dance in the rain rather than wish it were sunny.

And you can hold out your hand, and invite John to dance with you.

Image Credits: Banner Dividers

#Cave Writing #Retirement Party #RP Chapter 6 - The Butterfly Effect #John Price x OC #OC: Doll #John Price x Reader #x reader #call of duty modern warfare fanfiction #It's funny to tag it that when it is like sooooo far removed from the source material #Thanks for your patience everyone! This chapter kicked my ass #transitions are hard #If the Spanish is bad please let me know it is google translated and only slightly peer reviewed

197 notes · View notes

weadapt · 1 year ago

Text

I think it’s interesting storytelling how in the beginning of the game Cal says the Sixth Sister’s name, Masana Tide, and reminds her of who she used to be—and it visibly distresses her because it hurts what was done to her and Cal isn’t wrong in what he’s saying. The shocking thing for me was the moment when Cal said “It’s time to set you free”. It was such a surreal feeling hearing Cal say that, those kinds of words, to know he decided it was time to strike her down; it’s understandable because she killed his entire crew, but for Cal to be the executioner in that way was scary to see coming after only experiencing the young kid he was in Fallen Order. Now you really get the feeling Cal has been through a lot, he’s grown as a man since Fallen Order and he’s calloused, not entirely in a bad way given he’d have to be to survive but still in a depressing way, as a result. I know overall and gameplay wise, Cal has killed a lot of people, it’s nothing new, but storytelling wise it’s a serious moment for Cal. It’s a moment you know is going to follow him the rest of the game for character development. After he kills her, it’s made clear by the music and by Cal’s body language that this isn’t a good thing coming from him. It isn’t a triumph. Even BD-1 knows and worries for Cal with his little “Boop…?” and Cal is only able to respond rather shakily, “Yeah… I’m okay”.

When he meets up with Bode and Bravo and they ask him what happened to the Inquisitor, he gives a simple, no emotion, ��Dead”. The long pause of Bravo not saying anything in response to me says a lot; it feels like he isn’t used to Cal having a reaction like that.

Then we have Rayvis. Cal defeats him in battle and asks him to join in the fight against Dagan. He doesn’t want to kill Rayvis—“You don’t have to do this”. The oddly tragic part to me is that Rayvis has dreams of seeing Tanalorr again. If Dagan succeeds his dream will be realized, but he’s given up on the dream and wants a warrior’s death now. He wants to die, and in his mind, honorably, by Cal’s hands, and he’s going to force Cal to do it. But for Cal it’s another execution on his part. He pauses before he lifts his saber and kills Rayvis. It isn’t a triumph. Again we’re given a sudden swell of music to tell us the emotion behind the action of killing Rayvis. You can see it’s affected Cal badly. BD-1 seems to ask Cal the same question as before, “Boop…?” but this time Cal doesn’t acknowledge the question and just replies, “We should go”.

Killing Dagan hurts for Cal too. Dagan is a Jedi, someone who held onto the Order, who tied his entire identity to it and all of his goals are focused on restoring the Order and fighting to change the universe. Just like Cal in a way. Dagan is single-mindedly focused on the mission, so obsessively, he lost himself and the one he loved as a result. Cal understands and see the parallel of that kind of drive in his own mission against the Empire and it terrifies him. Dagan could’ve helped him fight the Empire but it became another tragic moment of having to kill a once fellow Jedi. This is another tragedy. Bode doesn’t care about Dagan being dead on the floor but Cal does. Cal has enough respect to place Dagan’s lightsaber on his chest. Cal pauses to reflect but Bode immediately gets back to getting the compass.

We have this interesting arch of reactions to killing his opponents. They were each killed for the mission. It was necessary. They each started the fight against him. No matter the reason though, it’s still very painful for Cal.

Cal is being pushed into this direction of forcing him to question his beliefs and who he is. His whole identity at this point has been tied to the Order, of being a Jedi, and it’s very clear by his conversations in Fallen Order that it really matters to who he is. By the end of Survivor, we have three fallen Jedi: Masana Tide, Dagan Gera, and Bode Akuna. So who is Cal Kestis? What will he become? Is he doomed to fall like they did? That’s what troubles him—“Let’s just say I don’t wanna end up like him [Dagan]”.

He’s afraid he’s going to lose himself.

The fear is almost realized when he’s about to kill another opponent. The one behind the murders of his friends and mentors. Cal’s been killing each of his main opponents up to the point at Nova Garon—this one will be no different. Except killing the man who sent Bode on the mission to infiltrate his team is different. Cal is on the edge of losing himself to the Dark Side. In Fallen Order he pleaded for Cere not to use the Dark Side because “She’s stronger than that”, “[she] still had a choice”. But Cal is failing to remember any of that for himself. He wants to kill because he’s angry, grieving, and in immense pain. Merrin has to bring him back—“This is not you!” There’s a question of whether or not Cal would’ve been able to stop himself if Merrin hadn’t been there though.

When we get to the final battle, Merrin is warning Cal of what’s likely going to happen but he ignores her for a while which prompts her to say, “Well? Say something!” He doesn’t want to acknowledge that Merrin is right and they’re likely going to have to kill Bode, and with that, taking Kata’s father away—a loss of family Cal and Merrin know too much about. So they both try and give Bode every chance to stop and turn away from what he’s done, despite how much Bode had hurt them. Sadly, Cal once again is forced into using the Dark Side to prevent Bode from killing Merrin. It was worth it. It was worth using it to save Merrin. He couldn’t let her be killed. He couldn’t see that happen before his eyes like he had with all of his friends and mentors.

After everything is over, there’s this sickly feeling left behind. Not simply because of Bode’s death, but because of the impact on Merrin realizing Kata has lost family just like she and Cal had, but also because of the impact the death of Bode has on Cal. And after Cal carries away Bode’s body, the music changes to an eerie, ominous, high pitch, minor key when we see Cal board the Mantis. The kind of change in music which lets the audience know there’s something seriously wrong. Things are different now. Cal’s different. And he knows it.

He’s lost in time watching the pyre, reflecting on everything that had happened but also on how grateful he is to Cere, but he knows the impact of her loss will continue to be with him for the rest of his life. Just like Jaro Tapal. Another guiding force in his life is gone. With Cere and Cordova gone, there is no longer any Jedi wisdom to seek out. He’s now alone in that way as a Jedi.

“I’m scared… I almost lost myself… I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Cal and the audience are left with the dreadful realization—

“I don’t know if I’m ready for what comes next”.

417 notes · View notes

justmwahstruly · 6 months ago

Note

Do you have a spidersona? If so

SPILL THE BEANS AND TEA /nf

YAYAYAYAYAYYAYAY

This is Dasan Nushinko! Or the One and Only Spider-Man! (the illusion of singularity)

i should make him an actual colour ref, but this is he!

ALL the deets below!

Background!

He grew up in L.A! He’s one of the few America based Spider-people who aren’t in Brooklyn! (because i said so) He liked drawing a lot, and went a bit into fashion designing! He had a reallyyyy big crush on a girl named Juliana, though he was a closeted trans kid and most of the people he usually hung around were very clearly homophobic and transphobic. So he stayed closeted closeted. But he tried talking to her, and he had a pretty good relationship with her. Anyway! While he was just chilling, drawing while on the rooftop of the apartment complex he lived at, he got bit by a radioactive spider! And he became the one and only Spider-Man!

(He’s had to correct numerous people that he wasn’t spider-woman, but he was spider-man. “Spider-Man, okay? Not Spider-girl, or Spider-woman. No, Spider-Man. Got it? Got it.”)

Canon event!

A villain attacked the school while he was there. He quickly went off to become Spider-Man and came back to Juliana and some other students getting cornered. Unfortunately, while the others were able to escape, Juliana received a fatal injury. The villain was gone by the time she was. I imagine him revealing he was Spider-Man, his mask off while telling her he’d loved her, and he was a boy, and a tragic “I love you too.” And then she dies while he’s holding her and OUGHGHGH

He’s lightly based off of Beat Saber! The universe he comes from is a very neon, colourful and bright one. Full of music and techno! I think it’s very fun but rather hurtful to the eyes of some. And he sees the world of others as dull as a result. I think he’d take a liking to Hobie’s the most, though.

(He’d really look up to Hobie in general. He thinks he’s so awesome in so many ways)

have some doodles!

anyways he’s obsessed with fashion and simultaneously has really bad taste and he loves project runway second to only Juliana and he really loves music and that’s it

#spidersona #across the spiderverse #spiderman #atsv #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderverse #spiderverse oc #dasan nushinko #art #mwahskies

59 notes · View notes

shmistarkiller · 2 months ago

Text

So since it's been a few weeks since I first watched The Acolyte, I feel like I've managed to gather my thoughts about what I think some bits from s1 were hinting at wrt Qimir's backstory. This is just what I think, I really never expect anyone to agree with anything I say lol.

Obviously we know Vernestra was his master, and that she somehow ended up betraying him, using her saber-whip to carve that gnarly scar up his back.

I think where I probably differ from most if not all other viewers is, I'm of the opinion Qimir was actually fairly young when it happened. Like, younger than a teenager even.

The whole thing with him building the cortosis helmet based on the sensory deprivation ones younglings use. I guess that might not necessarily mean anything, but it would make sense to me that he'd more likely be inspired by it if he'd been abandoned closer to the age when they would be using it. He uses cortosis specifically to keep other force users out of his head, his former master by far who he most wants to keep from reading his thoughts. The fact that he reacts like a little kid being caught by their parent when Vernestra senses him again on Brendok could be a trauma response, him reverting to the last time she was in his mind. He keeps the magic helmet of protection on for the rest of the time until they leave Brendok and he's safely far away from the cause of his fear.

Osha saying she never heard of him? What if it's because Vernestra dispatched of her little youngling padawan not long after the beginning of his training? The loss of a youngling who hadn't been with the Order for very long would be a lot easier to cover up than one of the older padawans. Create some story of a tragic accident to be documented in the official records, Jedi are supposed to be all too-bad-so-sad-but-no-attachments anyway, so it goes completely unquestioned.

So then, what the hell did Vernestra see a small child do that led her to think leaving him for dead at her own hands was a reasonable reaction? She gets echoes from the force of the combat & slaughter that happened on Khofar and it's very clear she senses something familiar. It could just be that she's sensing the presence of her long lost padawan by itself, but it would be real gnarly if this is something she's seen quite literally before. I'm not saying fetus!Qimir managed to kill a bunch of people in the same way that adult!Mr. Stranger did .. but I'm not *not* saying that either.

I think it builds a stronger case for the kinship he feels toward Osha (and maybe initially with Mae as well). The twins were 8 years old when their personal life tragedy struck, so I can see him connecting more strongly with Mae's story if he too had been of a similar age when his own personal life tragedy occurred. Extra reason why he'd feel so much more in common with Osha, how much he recognizes himself in her.

Idk how deep I wanna dip my toes in on the Plagueis stuff, but if I can get back on my Ben Solo bullshit for a second, it wouldn't surprise me if old Muun-man Plagueis was whispering in little boy Qimir's ear. And Vernestra, rather than actually try to save an innocent child, would instead cut her losses, viewing him as a liability/lost cause already practically fallen to the dark side. We know The Acolyte doesn't shy away from citing the inspiration it took from TLJ, so I can easily see "You failed him by thinking his choice was made. It wasn't." applying here as well.

(And maybe the irony there is that Luke having attachment to his nephew is what kept him from attempting to murder Ben until he was at least a grownass adult. Whereas Vernestra who lives in the height of the Jedi Order's power would definitely be less inclined to preserve the life of a literal child if she thought they could prove to be an eventual threat to the status quo she prefers. Either way, a foregone conclusion. You treat a child like they're a monster, guess what they grow up to be.)

EDIT (09/07/24): Can't believe I forgot this one. The way Qimir is so callous about killing Jecki. Sol says she was a child, and his response just comes off very "yeah, so what, so was I (when I was left for dead)". Qimir seems convinced Jedi masters leading their padawans to their potential/inevitable death is definitely just A Thing™ that happens.

Some extra quibbling with ideas I just rather disagree with ..

I've seen others theorize that Qimir could actually be older than he looks and that it's Plagueis feeding him whatever that ability is to stay young/immortal, but I personally can't really think of any actual reason why that would be the case. His line about having been a Jedi a long time ago is pretty vague, so while it could apply, I'm not particularly swayed by it being proof of this theory.

I guess the other thing is people think he and Sol grew up together and were padawans at the same time? Which ties back into the idea of him being older than he looks, but again, there's nothing particularly convincing me of that idea either. When Qimir shows up masked and goes, "You don't remember me?" And Sol replies, "I do sense something familiar." To me that came off as taunting that none of them caught on when he was pretending to be the apothecary. (If anything, I initially for whatever reason thought the "You?" "Surprise!" exchange between Yord & Qimir was hinting to the idea that they'd known each other, until I remembered the aforementioned bit about Qimir's messy girl apothecary charade.)

Vernestra mentioning that she remembered Sol as a shy little padawan, and having been Qimir's master seems to be another reason for the prior two theories. But to me that ignores the possibility that Vernestra herself could also have been a child when she first met Sol. It's less clear to me since she's a humanoid non-human SW species, for all we know she could be the one who's way older than she looks because of that. And if she was already an adult and knew both Sol & Qimir as children, that still doesn't mean that was at the same time.

Okay. I think that's everything. (And if it's not I'll quietly come back and slip in whatever relevant edits I'll want to add in.)

#zeech has words #this is one of those things i feel a lil self-conscious about and would rather not go in any of the main tags #but i've probs already fucked myself by not bothering to creatively censor any names #this is more for me anyways. going forward with how i'd want to go about it in any potential fics ig #if u happen to see this and feel differently that's fine. this is what makes most sense to me is all.#qimir #vernestra

19 notes · View notes

icantthinkyandere · 4 months ago

Note

Hello there! I hope that you are doing well. Could i request for a Yandere Miyamoto Musashi, Yandere Okita Souji and Yandere Murasaki Shikibu? (Romantic hcs)

Musashi's isn't the most yandere. Mainly because I was thinking about how tragic she can be.

{Miyamoto Musashi}

Musashi is a servant who I think is the one quickest and easiest to get attached to someone by accident. She's very friendly and has no problem making friends with the master and whoever is willing to hang out with her from the staff. With how easy she is to get along with it, it's not a surprise how close she can get to some people. Even with how she views the master servant relationship, she still wants it to be a positive yet disent relationship.

As she starts growing feelings and getting attached she wouldn't realize they're romantic at first and believing that her growing protectiveness is just her wanting to protect her new friend especially since they're important being a master or a staff member who's keeping the place running.

She realizes that her feels are much more romantic than she once thought when she sees more romance focused servants fawning over the master and declaring their love for them with pet names. Or with a staff member darling when the other servants who help with the jobs are particularly close to them. Like Raikou worrying about them getting cut while preparing food, Asclepius teaching new things in the medical area or hanging out with the engineer Nemos.

In her 4-5 bond, she talks about staying away from worldly desires and not getting attached. As well as not being close to each other when alone. So, in canon, when she's getting attached to some, she tries to stay away.

She doesn't want to affect anything or distract from what's important, so she'll put her feelings to the side no matter how strong they become. The goal that everyone is trying to achieve is more than her and is more than a relationship.

She's still very friendly and close, but it's clear that her behavior has changed around the person she loves to pretty much everyone. It looks the same on the surface, but other servants will notice longing looks and touches that might last a little too long to be friendly.

She'll finally let her feelings out when she's about to get erased. Adding to her speech about how much she loves them. Even if they don't or will never feel the same for her, she's happy to just have been with them and to fight for the greater good by their side.

{Okita Souji}

Okita would probably also mistake falling in love with servants' loyalty. She would figure it out faster, though, and wouldn't be as in denial as Musashi. She's one of the first servants that would confess her feelings after talking to the rest of the Shinsengumi about what she should do.

Whether she's accepted or not, she will always be loyal even if the person isn't the master. This loyalty leads into the fact that she's a pretty deadly yandere. She doesn't call herself a man slayer in both her Saber and Assassin bonds for no reason.

While she won't out right immediately, she'll try to kill other servants. If the person she loves is the master she will start training even harder to make sure no enemy can stop her. It seems pretty great, having a powerful man slayer to protect you! Until she's suspicious of everyone you meet, always whispering, "Just said the word." Or making subtle gesters that you have to shake your head no at. The worst part is that depending on if you're in the Singularities or Lostbelts, she'll use events that have happened to prove that she's right.

And if you're staff and depending on how much you know, she will use it to scare them away from other servants. The only people allowed near her love are the rest of the Shinsengumi since she trusts them already. It doesn't matter if her darling is staff or the master.

She is a great partner, loyal, attentive, and kind, but her overprotectiveness is suffocating. It makes sense that she'll ask too or just try to kill servants who were enemies once, but she starts to think everyone might be out to get your relationship. It's not even better if you rejected her. She'll do the same things but even worse to prove that she's worthy to be your partner.

Her behavior is so bad to the point that everyone who helped her, whether it's Hijikata who tried to give real advice or Nodu who teased her about, start to regret supporting her with how suffocating she is.

{Murasaki Shikibu}

Murasaki is a very withdrawn woman. She won't interact with a lot of people unless you're the master of Chaldea or a servant that she either wants to or has to interact with regularly. She's not the same level of friendly as Musashi where she'd fall for some by accident with how friendly she is.

The best way to catch her attention is simply to be interested in books. It doesn't have to be anything she's written or even likes. She just wants to hear someone talk about books. If you're the master she's would have already brought up books or suggested some for you to read.

When the person who asks for a book whether it's a recommendation or one they're trying to find is a staff member, she's pretty surprised. She's not one of the most extroverted servants and so isn't as close to staff as them tol, but they chose to ask her even with all the other writer servants.

She gets excited for them to come so she can ask them if they liked the book or not. It doesn't matter. She wants to hear them talk about books and just hear their voice in general. She has so many feelings about it that she starts to write whatever she can think of.

Once they come back, she asks a lot of questions and forgets to ask if they to come in and sit down. They're left standing in her doorway as servants and staff pass by confused. They have to remind her that they have a job to do and have to get going. With that, she apologizes and let's them on their way. Of course, I encourage them to borrow more books and talk about them again.

She starts thinking about them often, and her writing slowly turns into stories about the two in a relationship. She won't confess or anything. She's too embarrassed to do that, nor does she tell anyone. She doesn't want them to dislike her or pull away, so she doesn't really know what else to do, then just suggest some romance books and hope they get the hint.

The only way to find out is if you or some someone else finds and shows off her stories. If you're the master, well, that's normal. A lot of romance focused servants make stuff like that. The only thing that really happens is her reputation goes down.

If it's a staff member, no one will probably realize other than people they're friends with. Even then, most will just think it's just a new story she's written. Which will save her from the embarrassment. The worst that will happen is others asking why it's really creepy and weird in some places.

You'll have to confess to her, and even with that, she can get so shy and embarrassed it's hard for her more yandere tendencies to pop out

#yandere fate grand order #yandere fgo #yandere Miyamoto Musashi #yandere Okita Souji #yandere Murasaki Shikibu

14 notes · View notes

maverick-werewolf · 8 days ago

Text

Daily Werewolf Thoughts - Days 24-30 (includes HUGE posts on berserkers and Peter Stubbe)

img: illustration for my upcoming huge novel release (Knightfall), by Saber-Scorpion

Day 24- So I just talked about how much I enjoy the werewolf concealing the curse, something that may or may not always go with that is having no memory of what the monster form did-- or, sometimes, not even remembering turning into a werewolf at all. It is, again, another fun layer of drama, character exploration, and meaning that comes with the wonderfully robust tale of the werewolf.

I really cannot emphasize enough how much I love this kind of stuff. Everything about it. But on the subject at hand, the scene of a man (or woman, as the case may be, since we do have those too) awakens in the morning and finds just a few things off - or has literal blood on his hands. Has no memory of what happened. Does he know? Does he figure it out? Or is he left in total confusion? How do things play out from there? What -did- he do last night, and how bad was it? Will anyone else find out? There are so many endless possibilities. It's something else that I, obviously, love exploring in my own fiction*.

I always address whether or not such a concept existed in folklore, and in this case, the answer is pretty much no. This is yet another thing we can thank The Wolf Man (1941) and writer Curt Siodmak for. So, thank you yet again, Curt Siodmak, for adding another layer onto such a fantastically tragic story.

*: shameless plug for my book coming later this year, Wulfgard: Knightfall, so please stay tuned and check that out when it releases; I am currently dying during the editing process and every copy contains a small shard of my soul

Under the cut are some BIG POSTS on berserkers (and how they are not "bear warriors") as well as Peter Stubbe (who was not a werewolf), other thoughts, me freaking out about how cool werewolves are, and more!

Day 25- A hill I have chosen to die upon is that portrayals of berserkers as "bear warriors" are wholly inaccurate, preposterous, and baseless. This is considered a sweeping statement in the academic community (because they are the ones who first proposed this utter nonsense, in search of a "new argument" for "the conversation" in the 19th century; before this, everyone accepted that "berserker" means "bare of shirt"), and yet, when I made it, I received support and even a stamp of approval from a lifelong Old Norse and Icelandic scholar and professor. Let me tell you why…

Snorri Sturluson, the historian to whom we owe knowing about almost any of these legends and the preservation or creation of many Sagas and the Eddas, who lived from 1179-1241 AD, has always been the foremost source for all things Norse. It is he to whom we owe a great deal of, and likely even the majority of, our knowledge of Norse mythology. And yet, today, scholars love to disrespect Snorri and claim he was wrong about nearly everything. It's absolutely absurd.

Snorri said that "berserker" means "bare of shirt," and I've heard many native Icelandic speakers reinforce this theory and other scholars agreeing as well. It refers to throwing off their armor in battle upon entering their rages, or perhaps even fighting shirtless; there are arguments about that too. Many scholars still refute this idea of berserkers being bear warriors (there are numerous examples, such as Anatoly Liberman), and some don't even bother acknowledging it; you can find some things today that, thankfully, don't touch this bear concept at all, especially outside of America. Huge props to Robert Eggers for his incredible research for The Northman film and an execution that resulted in the coolest portrayals of a berserker that we have ever gotten, and that feels accurate to the sagas. Modern scholars like to say that Snorri was very wrong and that "berserker" means "bear shirt." They refute Snorri for saying that his theory has been abandoned because of "lack of supporting evidence," which is so rich because they have no supporting evidence for their "bear warrior" etymology, either.

Long story short, I will not stand for Snorri disrespect. We love Snorri in this house.

Now, on to berserkers themselves. Why do I insist, then, that they are wolf warriors? We have many examples of what are sometimes called the ulfheðnir, or "wolf-shirts." Note that you recognize the Old Norse form of wolf in "ulf," same as you generally would recognize "bjarn" or "bjorn" for bear*. An ancient Roman account describes them thusly: “Their eyes glared as though a flame burned in their sockets, they ground their teeth, and frothed at the mouth; they gnawed at their shield rims, and are said to have sometimes bitten them through, and as they rushed into conflict they … howled as wolves.”

Berserkers were described variably as "strong as bulls," "howled like wolves," and other animal comparisons. But, more often than not, we see berserkers associated with wolves across the sagas. They were said to enter mad rages, their berserk state, during which they endured impossible amounts of pain, were unharmed by fire or iron, and performed superhuman feats of strength and bravery. They were sometimes called hamrammr, or shape-strong, and it is implied they are stronger than an ordinary man no matter what shape they currently took. Some were associated with shapechanging, such as Kveldulf the evening-wolf, a highly intelligent man sought for his wisdom - but, around dusk each day, "he became so savage that few dared exchange a word with him … People said that he was much give nto changing form, so he was called the evening-wolf, kveldúlfr." Kveldulf appears in multiple sources, such as Egils saga and more. Other ulfhednir appear in the Vatnsdæla Saga and the Holmverja Saga, among others, with several being cited as capable of changing forms and "wolf-shaped."

Also, not only is there a suspicious lack of named bears in Norse myth as a whole (though we have many named wolves, a named boar, named goats, ravens, and even named roosters, squirrels, and more) to claim they are so important to their culture historically, but again, we are notably lacking in direct evidence of this "bear warrior" concept. Some love to cite Bodvar Bjarki from Hrólfs saga kraka - a warrior who could assume the shape of a bear - but he specifically was NOT a berserker, and in fact he frequently came in contention with berserkers and talked down about them.

As you can see, I could go on about this for quite some time, and I plan to at some point. There's a lot more to say and discuss, but I'll leave it off here for now.

More on this in a huge article sometime next year, probably. Way too much work left in this year. I do have this one, however, that I wrote many years ago now and have expanded upon some since, though it requires far more expansion and specificity (some of which I did here instead): https://maverickwerewolf.com/werewolf-facts/berserkers/

And this is also discussed in my book, The Werewolf: Past and Future, which I will always shamelessly plug as a great way to get started with the werewolf legends throughout the march of history: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1949227022 And also my own edition of Sabine Baring-Gould's fantastic work from the 1800s about werewolves, includes footnotes, translations, etc by yours truly; he discusses the sagas quite a bit: https://www.amazon.com/Book-Werewolves-Superstition-Annotated-Translated-ebook/dp/B0CK4YY16Z

*: why aren't they called "bjarnskins," then? Why would berserker begin with a Proto-Germanic "bero" for bear when "berr" is Old Norse FOR BARE, like "bare of shirt"?? A form of "berr" meaning "bear" did not exist in Old Norse. Why does anyone even believe this bear warrior berserker crap?

image: helmet plate from the Vendel period (540–790 AD) depicting Odin and a wolf-cowled or wolf-headed berserker

Day 26- A huge pet peeve of mine is werewolves that turn utterly brainless when they assume their monster form. You see this a lot in media, like a werewolf that becomes so angry after transforming that it will bash its brains out against a wall trying to reach a person. I'm all for uncontrollable and furious werewolves, but they shouldn't just be idiots. How do they even still feel threatening when they're so earthshatteringly stupid?

Creating a sense of threat with a werewolf is incredibly important to conveying a good, serious, and earnest werewolf story. If the werewolf is that braindead, it will never feel like a real threat. In folklore, as well, werewolves retain their human intelligence (whether they are capable of speech or neutral/good-aligned or not), and this is very much a mark of what makes them so dangerous and terrifying. I can't think of any justification for making the primary monster and/or primary threat in your story so dumb that it will accidentally kill itself against a solid object or run headlong into a mirror or not understand doors and trees. It's plain old bad storytelling.

image: William Corvinus from Underworld again - I know that some Underworld comic or another suffered from the extremely stupid werewolves trope, because at one point Selene perches on a building and watches the "lycans" kill themselves bashing against a wall trying to reach her. Just typical Underworld things.

Day 27- Alright, remember how I'd die on that berserker hill? This is my other hill. "The Werewolf of Bedburg," Peter Stubbe or Peter Stump or Stumpp, is considered one of the most famous werewolf legends. Problem is, it is not a werewolf legend. Let me tell you why.

Firstly, let's begin with the legend itself. I will be pulling quotes from The Werewolf in Lore and Legend by Montague Summers. It's a good werewolf book, but Summers sometimes contradicts himself in his ramblings and sources, so you have to study it carefully. Overall, though, it's a very good work and very good for cross-referencing. His account of Peter Stubbe is one of the best elements of the book.

Peter Stubbe was a man who used satanic magic ("Damnable desire of magick … and sorcery") to assume the shape of a wolf and commit terrible crimes. The works specifically say that the devil may grant followers "the shape of some beast" (it was not always a wolf; witches took the forms of many, many animals) inorder to "live without dread or danger of life, and unknown to be the executor of any bloody enterprise." Stubbe asks for the shape of "some beast," not a "wolf" specifically. However, the devil gives him a girdle that allows him to "transform into the likeness of a greedy devouring wolf, strong and mighty, with eyes great and large, which in the night sparkled like unto brands of fire," among other description. Should he remove the girdle, he would become human once more.

This separates him from other werewolf accounts and tales of his era in that he asks for no specific animal and the court ruled him a "sorcerer," not a "werewolf," unlike - for example - Jean Grenier, whose tragic tale took place in 1603. Stubbe would "ravish" children and women and devour them, as well, something never before associated with werewolves. And not since, either, until these wonderful modern scholars latched onto Stubbe and decided his trial was a werewolf trial, even though it wasn't. So we have even more quotes about how he committed "devilish sorcerie [sorcery]," no reference to lycanthropy or werewolfery or anything else as such, while he went about performing atrocities like killing, devouring, and violating women and children, including Stubbe's own sister. And no matter how many times he is referred to as a "wolf," he is never called a "werewolf" even once.

Tales of "witch-creatures" exist that are apart from werewolf legends and other sorts of monster legends due to the fact that witches and/or sorcerers were very unique and important entities during their time. Stubbe's account concludes,

"Thus Gentle Reader haue I set down the true discourse of this wicked man Stub Peeter, which I desire to be a warning to all Sorcerers and Witches, which vnlawfully followe their owne diuelish imagination to the vtter ruine and destruction of their soules eternally, from which wicked and damnable practice, I beseech God keepe all good men, and from the crueltye of their wicked hartes. Amen." Note: sorcerers and witches again. No mention of werewolves.

Stubbe was executed in Bedburg, near Cologne, on the 31 of March 1590. He has a pamphlet from the time period, as his case and execution created quite the stir…

"A true Discourse. Declaring the damnable life and death of one Stubbe Peeter, a most wicked Sorcerer, who in the likenes of a Woolfe, committed many murders, continuing this diuelish [devilish] practise 25. yeeres [years], killing and de- uouring [devouring] Men, Woomen, and Children. Who for the same fact was ta- ken and executed on the 31. of October last past in the Towne of Bedbur neer the Cittie of Collin in Germany."

Note that he is referred to as a "Sorcerer," and again, another discourse about the case from the period refers to him as "Stubbe, Peeter, being a most / wicked Sorcerer." Works from Stubbe's time period and covering Stubbe's trial never once refer to him as a "werewolf" or reference "werewolfery" (a term seeing relatively frequent use in this era). He is repeatedly referred to as a sorcerer and using sorcery, and he is even once called a "hellhound," but he is never directly called a "werewolf."

Here's where the issues start. Peter Stubbe lived during a time period when people were, in fact, still using the term "werewolf" (and/or "loup garou" and other terms) in a fashion almost as categorical as what we use today. This is in opposition to older time periods that didn't collect and classify legends and monsters and declare they're all madmen and rationalize them in the face of scientific thought. This was entering the Early Modern Period, when werewolves became seen as madmen and belief in them justified via diseases and insanity. Many other werewolf trials occurred before, after, and during the time of Peter Stubbe, and they were specifically called "werewolves" in their trials. For example, a decree issued by the parliament of Franche-Comte in 1573 - years before Stubbe's trial - specifically orders that people "chase and pursue the said were-wolf in every place where they may find or seize him" (after properly arming themselves with "pikes, halberds, arquebuses, and sticks" of course).

Peter Stubbe, however, was not. He was only ever referred to as a "sorcerer." If you've read the Malleus Maleficarum and other, similar works of these eras, you would know how important classification of such things was during the time period, and why it is important to recognize the differences among witches, "witch-animals," werewolves, and other beings ranged from cursed to satanic to insane to everything else. His case also lacks integral elements to werewolf trials of the time period, such as the lack of self-control and declared insanity (remember, werewolves were associated with madmen at this time).

Scholars only started referring to Peter Stubbe as this "Werewolf of Bedburg" in later time periods. Calling him a werewolf at all is very much a machination of modern scholarship and academia and a distortion of werewolf legends that has in turn led to some misconceptions about werewolf legends as a whole.

And if you think I'm just being pedantic, I'm a scholar and historian. It's what I do. Preserving things as they were actually believed in during their own time periods is important. Calling this a werewolf legend and/or account is simply inaccurate, and it never should have happened. Peter Stubbe's trial was not a werewolf trial. It was a sorcerer trial.

There is a very large Werewolf Fact for this. I go into laborious detail here, with many quotes, citations, and further discussion of this entire concept and its lasting importance: https://maverickwerewolf.com/werewolf-of-bedburg-peter-stubbe/

This is, again, also something I discuss in my work, The Werewolf: Past and Future: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1949227022

img: woodcut depicting "The Life and Death of Peter Stubbe," 1589

Day 28- I have all too often seen assertions that "werewolves don't have tails," as if there are facts to be had about a mythical creature at all and as if this is a certainty. If we could theoretically have any facts about werewolves (as is my nonfiction branding), we would turn to folklore - which explicitly states that yes, werewolves have tails. What's more, having a tail is what separates a werewolf from other mythical beasts.

This begins not only in the fact that werewolves in folklore are often described as being wolves, often very big ones, without mention of lacking a tail, but more specifically in that the Early Modern Period, a differentiating factor between werewolves and witch-creatures was a tail.

In 1590, Henry Boguet in his treatise "Of the Metamorphosis of Men into Beasts" says specifically that the difference between a werewolf and a witch that has turned into a wolf is that witch-animals have "no tails." This is in fact true of every witch animal, apparently. And yes, in this time period, again, they did in fact differentiate between a werewolf and a witch who turned into a wolf. This specificity persists in the Malleus Maleficarum, specifically question X of part I, "Whether Witches can by some Glamour Change Men into Beasts," which states, "the devil can deceive the human fancy so that a man really seems to be an animal." This is a deception, not a transformation, as we generally get with a werewolf. Furthermore, "no creature can be made by the power of the devil, this is manifestly true if Made is understood to mean Created. But if the word Made is taken to refer to natural production, it is certain that devils can make some imperfect creatures."

Bear in mind that there were some works in this time period that considered werewolves to be related to witchcraft but not entirely equal to it. Generally, a werewolf becomes a werewolf and is out of his or her own control, unlike a witch, who undertakes such practices willingly. The idea of witches being "imperfect" animals persists in many works of this time.

Not saying this to rip on the tailless werewolves of popular culture, though. Just providing context. I actually fully understand not wanting your werewolf to have a tail. While I don't think having a tail inherently makes a werewolf "cute," and I personally will always battle tooth and nail against that, I also understand that having a tail could insinuate "cuteness" to certain modern audiences in particular. Perceptions change over time, and this is definitely one that has. I also realize that tails are frequently left off of film werewolves because they're very hard to create in a convincing way, and then regardless of anything someone might be capable of creating today, the design concept kind of stuck in film.

I also often hear excuses that "people will be attracted to the monster" (to put it in more socially acceptable terms, but I'm sure you know what I mean) and that's supposedly a justification for making werewolves look like naked mole rats with scabies and mule faces and bulging eyes and arms longer than their legs, but honestly, someone's going to want to screw even that thing. And tail or no tail, regardless of design, this definitely still applies. I don't think such a discussion has ever been held in the boardroom of a major film project (no one cares), but I've seen it discussed on the internet, and I don't think those internet people should let other internet people dictate monster design or perception to them.

I also still think a tail as a sign of inhumanity can still hold frightening power, as long as it is presented properly. A tail is something humans do not have - only beasts have tails. To grow a tail is a sign that one has truly become something other than human - a werewolf turning into a monster.

I will continue the fight. My terrifying werewolves have tails… mostly just because I think it looks better as a design choice instead of a tailless human rear like a donkey without a pinned tail, as pictured here on The Howling werewolf.

Day 29- It's almost Halloween! Honestly, my very favorite kind of werewolf could essentially be summarized as "the Halloween werewolf," which is of course very inspired by The Wolf Man (1941). I love the spookiness, the classic horror, even the way they're generally lit. I love the dead black trees, haunting graveyards, the full moon, the tattered clothing, the bite that can make you share in its curse… and the promise that behind that terrible wolf-beast is an innocent man.

Even just seeing werewolves like the classic Halloween kind inspire me to an incredible degree. They fill me with joy and set my imagination aflame. They always have. I love their motifs and how they're portrayed, everything from scary old horror movie werewolves to spooky Halloween setups with fog machines to silly cartoon Halloween werewolves. I've adored them since day one, and really, the werewolves that come out at Halloween are the ones that made me fall in love with the concept and legend of the werewolf.

I've always used these classic motifs to inspire my own fiction (and Halloween monsters and atmosphere is like my entire thing) because they do make me so happy and give me so many thoughts and ideas and put so many stories into my head. Did you know, too, that the idea of a werewolf stalking a graveyard (as Halloween werewolves often do) also comes from folklore? Werewolves were often associated with sites of the dead - like many other wolf entities - and could be found in graveyards digging up graves and devouring the corpses, in many stories.

So, although I have so many thoughts and rants and raves and research and countless stories to write and folklore to preserve, I'll always be inspired the most by the simplest werewolf concept: the ones that come out at Halloween.

Day 30- This one might seem like it's coming out of the left field, but I overthink every single aspect of werewolves and also their designs, so naturally I have thought long and hard about what ears look coolest on a werewolf. I've come to the conclusion that a werewolf needs big, scary ears. They're just badass and really emphasize the wolf aspect.

No, I'm not talking about cute ones or the silly ones or the big lynx-bunny ones (sorry, The Howling, but you went seriously overboard). I'm talking about horror werewolf style emphatic beast ears. If your werewolf has short, squat, or rounded ears, it ends up looking more like a bear. I'm talking much more like Anubis. Man, those werewolves look so awesome. But, obviously, the usual wolf ears are great, too. I also have gained a considerable fondness for the Underworld like William Corvinus style side-of-the-head ears, as long as they're sufficiently long and pointed.

But these werewolves that have really small and de-emphasized, rounded ears? Yeah, they mostly just look like bears or something. Ears are so important. Even on wolf-men, I think bigger, pointed ears help emphasize the inhumanity and the wolfishness. It makes them scarier.

img: some werewolf from a thing called Horror Legends? I actually have no idea what it is, but I've seen this image going around and I just really love this design

14 notes · View notes

is-there-an-echo-in-here · 1 year ago

Text

Strength in Duty

Read below or read on Ao3

...

Grievous played his usual game with them and Obi-Wan was determined, this time, not to allow the separatist general to escape.

He believed that they took Grievous by surprise as much as he did them, dropping out of lightspeed in a heavy nebula that glitched the scanners and essentially blinded them to their surroundings. Their cruisers had practically bumped into one another as they made their opposite paths through the nebula. Grievous had launched an attack in an instant, aiming for their engine room, their data collection, anything that would decimate Obi-Wan and his legion or give his masters the upper hand in the battle.

Obi-Wan guarded the main data point, where they stored the outpost locations, the Jedi general’s missions, the clone ranking lists. His commander was stationed at the engine room and, if his urgent call over the communicator was anything to go by, Grievous was making his way there, cutting down clones as they made hasty, final reports into the comms, ending in screams and static.

Obi-Wan left his post—left it in the very capable hands of a clone unit he had commandeered, but left it all the same—in favour of joining his commander, in fear of losing him.

He heard the death screams of his men over the comms as he ran down the corridors, and wondered if he would be able to identify Cody’s if it came. It was not a pleasant thought. It was a fear of his, one that concerned him greatly, because Jedi should not be afraid of loss. Jedi could not grow so attached, so selfish in their affections, and to fear the death of a clone of all people was, in Obi-Wan’s opinion, doubly concerning. Clones died every day. They gave their lives for the republic, for their brothers, for the Jedi, and Obi-Wan convinced himself that, although their loss was tragic, it was also honourable.

He did not know why it was so hard to convince himself of that in regard to his commander.

A flash of movement down the corridor spurred his efforts, sprinting after Grievous as he made a break for the engine room. Blaster fire erupted through the hallway and Obi-Wan rounded the corner to see Grievous advance on the commander and his men. The separatist general deflected shot after shot. Clones yelled in pain. Obi-Wan leapt for Grievous’ back, parried by a swinging saber.

A clone had a grappling hook around the general’s left arms. He and Cody were straining to hold him. Grievous cast a defensive slash at Obi-Wan, forcing him back a step and using his moment of respite to wrench the line forward, flinging the clone towards him and sinking two lightsabers deep into his chest. The dying choke let out by the man fuelled Obi-Wan forward in a fit of anger. Cody, similarly, fired off a merciless round of blaster bolts, avoiding Obi-Wan’s erratic movements with an expert precision.

It was just the two of them left standing. Obi-Wan trusted him completely. He was able to sever one of Grievous’ arms at the joint, tearing a mangled scream from their foe. Cody buried three shots in him, maiming his wrist of another arm, setting burning holes in his chest, and provoking the general to lunge at him with a frightening malice.

Cody dodged, rolled beneath the swinging arm, blocking Grievous’ escape now, grazing his head with another, rapid shot. Obi-Wan held position at the entrance to the engine room. He tilted his head when Grievous groaned in frustration and cast a glare back at him.

“I will accept your surrender,” said Obi-Wan with a crooked smirk, “and you can avoid any further damage.”

Grievous growled, guttural and defeated, turned towards Cody again, and Obi-Wan’s heart thudded. One saber swung back at him. The other thrust forward at his commander. Obi-Wan managed to keep Cody in sight as he dodged the mad swing, relieved to see that his commander avoided his own attack, and promptly panicked to watch Grievous snatch a hand to the front of Cody’s chest plate.

He slammed Cody against the wall so hard that, for a moment of stunned fear, Obi-Wan thought he had killed him too. He ran to his commander as Grievous took off down the hallway in retreat. Cody was pushing his hands to the ground before he even got there, shoving his helmet off to spit blood from his mouth.

“Commander,” Obi-Wan gasped, moving to crouch by his side, but Cody was shoving himself to his feet with a determined growl and with blood on his lips and teeth.

“I’m good,” he rumbled, and kicked into a sprint after Grievous, leaving Obi-Wan to followed, slightly bewilderedly, behind.

Another man would have stayed down. Obi-Wan had expected him to stay down, in truth, and not rise again unless aided by a medic, if at all. So often now, Obi-Wan expected to lose him. Every time, Cody proved him wrong.

They chased the separatist general back down the corridors, keeping a ruthless pursuit under Cody’s lead.

“He’s going for the hangar!” Cody huffed, and kept the speed as he lifted his blaster, firing rapidly at Grievous’ back.

Blaster bolts were deflected back at them through swinging blades. Obi-Wan pushed forward to protect his commander, slashing his lightsaber out and he scarcely had to aim. The weapon knew. The force knew. This man was theirs to defend.

A bolt slammed into Grievous’ jointed leg, stumbling him through the hangar doors. Cody launched himself forward with a shocking speed, sliding and rolling in front of the general and lifting his blaster in threat. The force lashed out for him. Obi-Wan wrenched Grievous back a pace and those hollowed eyes turned on him. A ragged chuckle jolted his frame.

“Your other soldiers died easier, Kenobi.”

Cody twisted a grimace of a mirthless grin, showing off the blood staining his teeth.

“This one still cannot be called a challenge,” the separatist general wheezed, lunging towards Cody, sabers swinging.

Cody ducked and weaved beneath the slashing blades, flicking something small and dark from between his fingers. It attached itself to Grievous’ left side as Cody rolled under the back-handed swipe cast at him, blaster aiming as he was still moving, firing before he had come to a complete stop, and hitting the item with blunt precision.

It detonated loudly, a fireball gouging a messy crater and severing both of Grievous’ left arms. He shrieked in rage or pain. Obi-Wan leapt forward to block the frenzied attack aimed at his commander, though he was beginning to suspect that Cody did not need his help.

Blaster fire rained upon Grievous as lightsabers locked in battle. Cody was merciless in his assault. Obi-Wan gave the same courtesy. The enemy general yelled in wordless, groaning anger, slammed a hard attack to fling Obi-Wan’s weapon from his hand. He dropped to his remaining limbs, launching himself at the Jedi in a furious frenzy. Obi-Wan had scarcely enough time to reach blindly for his saber before Cody was in front of him, holding Grievous back with his bare hands, straining to hold his wielding hands at bay.

Fighting not to gape in shock at his commander’s suicidal bravado, Obi-Wan summoned his own weapon back to his hand, lunging forward when Grievous yelled and tossed Cody aside. He hit the ground somewhere to the side with a loud thump of armour, and Grievous slammed Obi-Wan back again, leaping up and shattering his way through the cockpit of a fighter.

Footsteps behind him had Obi-Wan casting his arm back, catching Cody at the chest as he moved to pursue, because it was no good. Cody had tested fate so many times already during this attack. Obi-Wan’s determination to capture Grievous had ebbed away over the course of the fight, coming so close to losing Cody with every assault of the separatist general. The gust of the ship leaving the hangar had Obi-Wan slumping back to sit on the floor, catching his breath and feeling his bruises.

“Sir?” said Cody, sinking to one knee beside him, concern bleeding through in his voice.

“We stopped him,” Obi-Wan said. “We won.”

Cody gave him a stiff nod. “Yes, sir.” He looked the Jedi over. “Are you hurt?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Someone will turn up soon anyway. We caused quite a commotion.”

Cody huffed, fell back to sit beside him. “I suppose so.”

They caught their breath there, together, on the ground.

There was blood on the floor. Obi-Wan looked over to where it led, over to where Cody had landed in Grievous’ final blow, following it back to Cody himself, who turned his head aside to spit firmly. His face was a mess of crimson. It was coming out of his nose now as well as his mouth.

“Are you okay?”

Cody smiled faintly, looked over at him. “Nothing serious, sir.” He glanced back at the entrance to the base, bringing his hand up to wipe at the blood dripping from his nose. “The rest of the men were not so fortunate.”

Obi-Wan lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry, commander.”

The corner of Cody’s mouth twitched upwards briefly. “It’s what we do, general.”

Obi-Wan regarded the side of his face, the blood shining at the arch of his cheek, on the bridge of his nose, on the swell of his bruised lower lip. His face was a mess. His eyes and his heart were full of light and purpose that Obi-Wan both admired and feared. Cody was brimming with determination and courage and honour. Cody was prepared to die and, although Obi-Wan could not admit it, he was not prepared to lose his commander. He was not ready to be without that constant, comforting light that Cody provided simply by being.

“Something on your mind, general?”

Obi-Wan was staring, he realised belatedly, and cleared his throat as he averted his gaze. “You must forgive me, commander,” he said, explaining himself to Cody’s soft frown. “I believe I have been underestimating you.”

Cody’s lips curved gently at the corners. “They didn’t make me a commander because of my skill at paperwork, sir.”

“Indeed,” said Obi-Wan, taking the risk and wiping the blood from Cody’s jaw. The commander said nothing to challenge such intimacy. “Although, you are also good at paperwork.” He considered the events that had just unfolded, taking his time with his words. “Most people would have stayed down.”

Cody looked up at him. “I have my duty, sir.”

“And you do it well,” said Obi-Wan, “but you don’t have to address every sentence with ‘sir’ or with ‘general’… nor is it necessary for you to die for me.”

Cody’s eyes were very soft, very kind, and Obi-Wan was beginning to realise that it was his natural gaze, his inherent state. “I respectfully disagree, sir. With the latter more than the former.”

Obi-Wan looked him over, wiped at the bridge of Cody’s nose and a spark of pain narrowed the commander’s eyes. “Sometimes you give me the impression that you want to die.”

“I have no strong desire to die any time soon, sir,” said Cody, and his nose was red even beneath the blood, “but I am not so arrogant as to assume I will survive this war and, when I die, I will be glad to die for you.”

Concern worked Obi-Wan’s jaw. “Don’t,” he murmured softly.

Any embarrassment Obi-Wan may have felt for staring before was a distant memory now. Cody’s expression was soft and sympathetic. Cody always looked at him gently. Cody always looked at everyone gently.

He turned those same eyes on the squadron of men that breached the hangar, blasters raised for the threat, lowering instantly when Cody gestured a wave at them, and they rushed over. The medic among them came to Obi-Wan first. It had never sat quite right with the Jedi, that the men were trained to prioritise him over their own. Cody seemed not to mind, however, he cast that quiet smile at the men who knelt beside him to colloquially check his welfare.

“Not to worry, boys,” he murmured, clapping an anxious rookie on the shoulder. “Gave Grievous a good lick. Won’t be back too soon.”

“Chin up, sir,” the medic at Obi-Wan’s side ordered, fingers hooking beneath his jaw to tilt his head, flashing the scanner against his face and head.

“I’m alright,” Obi-Wan said, gestured a nod towards Cody. “The commander took a beating. I’d like you to look at him, please.”

“I understand, sir, but there is protocol to be followed—”

“I am overruling protocol at this time.” The medic lowered his scanner, shifted his jaw in conflict. “Please.”

The medic hummed, shrugged one shoulder as he looked to the screen built into his wrist bracer. “Your scans are clear anyway, general.”

He did as he was told, moving his attentions to Cody, instructing him to keep still as he passed the light of the scanner over his body, lingering at his chest. Obi-Wan watched his commander’s face, unchanged, watched the medic’s face, creased.

“Found some trouble, huh?” Cody uttered, huffed a strained breath of amusement.

“You’ve broken several ribs, commander. Your sternum is fractured.”

Cody hummed. “Up for a few injections then.”

He was remarkably calm, but, then, he always was. He got up by himself—though the medic held his arm and muttered concerns and the men around him frowned anxieties and twitched forward to aid him, waved off by a dismissive hand from their commander—and turned to Obi-Wan with a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Coming, sir?”

Obi-Wan quirked a forced smile to match Cody’s own. “As you wish, commander.”

Cody held a hand to him, as if to help him to his feet. Obi-Wan took it to honour him, but put no pressure on his hand, his legs holding every scrap of weight as he rose to his feet. His commander surely noticed, but said nothing. He was good at holding his tongue. It was necessary, in his line of work. If the Kaminoans had not stressed their duty of obedience so strictly, Obi-Wan was sure that Cody would be far more vocal about a great many things.

His commander was a good soldier, however, and he released Obi-Wan’s hand, turning to allow the medic to lead them out of the hangar and down the hallways to the infirmary. There was an almost imperceivable limp to Cody’s step, an inconsistency so minor that Obi-Wan may not have noticed if he did not know his commander so completely. He did not mention it, wishing to save Cody this façade of strength he was putting up.

In the infirmary, a scant collection of medics took the needle right into the split of the bone, using their scans to angle precisely into the break and injecting a scarce amount of binding fluid to each side. It would encourage Cody’s ribs to knit back together, like magnets attracting and melting into one another. It was a painful process. Obi-Wan had received the injections himself more than once and the movement they encouraged from the bone could be agonising. Cody took it without complaint, even continuing to type up his report with one hand, the holopad laid on the mattress at his side.

Men would come in at intervals, relaying news of the ship’s condition or Grievous’ escape, or simply seeking the advice of their commander, and Cody spoke to them all even through the needle piercing his side. Obi-Wan watched him, in utter awe of this man and his strength. He tapped into a holopad of his own, accessing the medical records of his commander’s current state, a file still being updated. He mulled over it from his seat in the corner of the room.

“General,” a voice uttered, dragging him from his snooping, and he lifted his gaze to another medic. “Is there anything I can do for you? Were you injured at all?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, I’m fine.” He shifted his jaw. “The commander is not.”

The medic’s brow pinched in soft confusion. “Sir?”

It was too personal, too transparent of his anxieties. Obi-Wan swallowed hard.

“How was he continuing like this?” he settled on asking.

The medic scarcely seemed to know what he was talking about. “We are soldiers, general. The commander, he was trained intensely, and he is greatly skilled.”

“His ribs were broken,” said Obi-Wan distantly.

“There is a reason he is our commander, sir. Our leaders are… brilliant and terrifying.”

Obi-Wan regarded the medic for a moment, tilting his head in interest, and turning his attention back to his commander. As he watched Cody take the injections with no word of complaint, type up his report with quick fingers, give straightforward orders and gentle advice to his men, ‘terrifying’ was not the word that came to mind. He had a great many thoughts regarding his commander, but that had never been one of them.

He supposed, if he were to ask Grievous, the separatist general may have newly inspired thoughts on the matter. Obi-Wan, certainly, had his own revelations today regarding his esteemed commander.

“There is a reason he is our commander,” Obi-Wan echoed, because Cody was his as much as he was his troopers’, because Cody was strength and courage and kindness, because Cody was light and life and Obi-Wan was in awe of him now more than ever. “He is brilliant.”

#obi-wan has a competence kink #i don't make the rules #commander cody is the most capable man I know #commander cody #obi-wan kenobi #the clone wars #ao3 #star wars #tcw #clone wars #codywan #writing #fanfiction #kit writes #been a while since I wrote anything

56 notes · View notes

little-meowyao · 2 months ago

Text

Okay hear me out but GHG au

JGY is a control type player, with a skill like a mesh of puppet Zhang's and Bai Liu's! He can buy and trade for souls (and use the skills of souls he owns). He can also control other players via puppet strings (that only last until the game is over, or until he takes them off)

His skill is that because of his core desire for agency/control in his life

He owns SMS's, XY's, and MXY's souls.

SMS is a tank/defense type player, his skill ups his defense (similiar to Miao Gaojiang). His core desire is to protect/defend (JGY), but in a body to the bullets way. He's a human shield

NMJ is an attacker - his skill consumes mental value to make his physical strenght and attack stronger. His core fesire is justice, and his way of attaining it is through violence. He is also unstable. So his skill makes him stronger but consumes his sanity

LXC's skill lets him paralysed players and monsters with music. His core desire here is peace, but also to be able to make peace when necessary.

XY is a healer because of XXC (which I'm not sure how it would translate to a modern au). He wants XXC back really bad. He's known as a sanguinary sadist, but his skill heals other players.

MXY's skill is to trap players in a space controlled by himself. I think he would have a skill because his like, frantic nature, and the "I'm never gonna see gege again" of it would make him just barely be first on his (relatively small) batch of newcomers. His skill is that because his desire is JGY, and JGY for himself.

#ghg au #mdzs #ghg #i became a god in a horror game #nie mingjue #lan xichen #jin guangyao #su minshan #xue yang #mo xuanyu #modao zushi #tragic saber man #underestimated loyal dog #poor poet lan #feral little meowyao

18 notes · View notes

forgloryforhonor · 4 months ago

Note

may i ask if gintae can be considered as parallel characters? since they share a lot of similarities in values and all. what do you think? i love parallel characters as much as narrative foils

I always thought they were parallels as well as foils to each other

GinTae as Parallels

Roles in community and family

Both are in wish-granting or dream-fulfilling kind of business (otae in hospitality/hostess sector and Gintoki as an Odd Jobs guy)

Considered as bosses/leaders and top class in their specific areas of specialty

Aniki (boss man, big brother) / Anego (boss lady, big sister) persona

Gintoki is kind of the Joui Vanguard (in the Joui war he is the first to rush in, and in action scense he always works alone and is the first to deploy himself)

Otae is also first line of attack/offensive defense (Silver Soul Arc-Siege of Kabukichou)

both had strong mentors that defined their way of life and philosophy. Gintoki knew Shoyo best while Otae understood their father best.

Gintoki canonically sees himself as surrogate father to Kagura sometimes

Otae raised her brother on her own after their father died

Otae also wholeheartedly accepts the Anego title Kagura bestowed on him

Gintoki is considered by Shinpachi as his Aniki too

Speak and curse in the same kabukichou accent

Personality

both act as Boke (stupid man) to the other straight man characters (tsukkomi)

both tend to hurt the people they love in order to protect/save them

Both can be incredibly self-sacrificial and suicidal for others and for their core beliefs

Both can be truly cruel at insulting others and each other (fatphobia, ageism, classism, misogyny, etc)

both are very very good at finding each other's weakness and exploiting them to cause most damage (or get them to do what the other wants)

both are very good at finding/recognizing each other no matter where or when

both have been positive and negative change to each other in many ways

Friends and Admirers

Both of them have similar group of friends. They operate in the same circles.

both of them are well loved in their community for their strong leadership and cunning bastard personas

both of them have admirers that are mirrors of each other: Kondou-Sarutobi, Kyuubei-Tsukuyo

Both of then are parallels and foils of Hijikata

Both of them are used to mingling/hanging out with opposite sex and know how to play their charms well to their advantage

Storywise

In my old posts, both Otae and Gintoki have preached the same things to other people at different points in time, which means they seriously have a lot of shared values and both live under the same life philosophy.

Them doing dogeza in Beam Saber Arc (nuff'said)

Their tragic future selves dying at the same time in Be Forever Yorozuya Movie and Novelization

Both risked their lives/ imprisonment/death penalty for Hijikata and shinsengumi

Otae earning Queen of Kabukichou title from Otose, Gintoki seen as Tatsugurou/Jirocho Protege

Similar Stands

Lots of manga panels where they mirror the same actions and dialogue on different pages

And etc

GinTae as Foils

Opposite Genders

Otae usually needs to be saved; Gintoki is usually one of the saviors

Gintoki can be quite a gourmet pastry chef and cook; Otae cannot cook ever

Different social classes / poverty level

Gintoki usually needs to be found, Otae does the finding (or is the cause) of the Yorozuya getting back together

Fighting style: Otae is rooted in reality and the traditional martial concepts; Gintoki is more freestyle, fantastical and wild

Fighting Style: Gintoki is Vanguard, Otae is backup/Rearguard or Home Defense/Baggage Train

Sexual experience: gintoki isnt a virgin and have slept with men and women, otae is a virgin through and through

I'm quite rusty on the GinTae nowadays so I hope you can suggest more too. But may I recommend my big essay "Otae's Involvement With The Odd Jobs" back in my older sideblog called @ukaiknowsbest ?

Thank you so much for the ask. I love questions like these.

#gintae #sakata gintoki #otae shimura #gintoki x otae #i have numerous essays on a lot of the points here tbh

16 notes · View notes

manda-kat · 3 months ago

Text

Look at my superhero characters and tell me which one you think sounds cooler:

Rose Bacon. One of the triplet daughters of Robert Bacon. She is an aspiring actress and puts a lot of effort into her public image. When the heroes return, she works to promote their brands and manage their public image.

Saberwolf. Once a normal man, now a saber-toothed tiger/wolf hybrid man. Despite his beastlike form, he is still intelligent and his cunning usually is his greatest weapon.

Salem McKellan. Son of Gothric, one of the magical McKellans. Salem does a lot of study to prepare himself to follow in his father's footsteps. He's very sheltered and doesn't realize there is much of a world outside of sorcery.

Scarlet Burn. Horrifically scarred, inside and out, by a tragic event in her past, Scarlet works alongside Guillotine to violently condemn villains and any who would protect them. Her mask covers half of her face, hiding her terrible scars.

Seventh Son. The seventh and youngest of the magical McKellan brothers. He has the power to heal others with his magic. He is generally the most willing to help superheroes, especially after losing Mister Mystic, his brother. He wants to avoid anything like that happening again.

#mkpolls

11 notes · View notes

morganas-pendragons · 2 years ago

Text

Defensor | O.K.

this one is dedicated to @penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories because they're all dedicated to her now

prompt: obi-wan needs a protector from Anakin within the force. seeing as you are his spouse, you're more then happy to give it to him.

set during episode 3 and the beginning of 4 of kenobi

****

It’s hard to remember how old he is sometimes. How worn and calloused his skin is underneath your fingertips, the coarseness of the curls you thread through your fingers as he sleeps peacefully at your side for the first time in years.

Obi-Wan Kenobi has spent the greater majority of his tragic, lonely life dedicating what he can to protecting you. It is his obligation. His commitment. His promise.

But he so rarely allows you the opportunity to protect him.

You intend to change that now.

It comes with the confession from the mouth of the Third Sister in your search to find Leia. Anakin Skywalker lives. You nearly want to run the girl through with your own saber for being so careless with such a confession, but you’re smart enough to know why she’s uttered it.

She’s trying to break him. Break down all that remains of that shell of a man you love so ardently until even you can’t put the pieces back together.

When the three of you finally sit safely upon the transport is when he disappears in search of solitude to attempt meditation. You let him. These precious, quiet moments are all of the peace he can get in this lifetime.

His breath catches in that quiet, carefully controlled way that has come from years of learning to compartmentalize his emotions. That was one thing you’d always resent the Jedi for. Keeping you from properly being able to process things like a human being should.

When Obi-Wan’s breath catches as Anakin’s force presence through a fractured bond tries to overwhelm him, you are there to be his peace.

“My love,” You murmur, running your hand across the expanse of his shoulders. “You cannot keep doing this to yourself. It is simply the worst type of torture to hang onto this.”

Obi-Wan catches your hand to kiss your fingertips. A feeble attempt at a distraction. “I believed that bond to have been broken on Mustafar,” He said quietly. “I was wrong.”

It isn’t a lot to go off of but it does tell you one thing: Anakin Skywalker really is his curse. He’s been dead for years, but even now, Obi-Wan Kenobi cannot be rid of him. He lingers everywhere. In his mind. In his heart. In his daughter.

Poor, sweet Leia is far too innocent and naive to be tainted with the truth of who her real father really is.

“Have you slept since we started this?” You ask, to which he shakes his head. “You will.”

“Darling-”

Again you shake your head, holding your hand up to silence his rebuttal. “No, Obi-Wan. You seem to forget that when I married you I also made you the vow you made me.” Wide, vulnerable blue eyes shift upward to meet your own as you cup his face in your hands and run the pads of your thumbs across his cheeks. “It’s my duty and honor to protect you the way you’ve spent so many years protecting me. Allow me this. Please.”

He almost finds it in him to argue, to attempt some type of logic that justifies his reasoning for believing your argument is false, when he recognizes the silent plea on your tongue.

Obi-Wan acquiesces to your demand. It’s evident that you’re overjoyed by his submission because the minute he does, your aspect lights up and you’re surging forward to kiss him despite Leia lingering just around the corner with her newly repaired droid.

A broken moan echoes in the back of his throat as he presses closer. When he does allow himself the ability to be distracted by the warm, pliant form of your mouth, Obi-Wan’s shields unintentionally fall and allow you full ability to step inside.

That’s where you stand your ground from that point forward. Your Force Presence will always linger there in wait of the one who dares to try and bring him to his knees.

***

“Only when the eyes are closed can you truly see.”

“See what?”

“The Way.”

You know exactly what’s wrong as soon as he doubles over in the tunnels. Your husband’s hands scramble for purchase in your robes as debilitating pain echoes through the remains of a former force bond, breath coming in short and panicked as he struggles to keep his grasp on reality.

“Obi-Wan,” You say calmly as you turn around and place his hands on your hips while using your own to steady him. “Is he here?”

Obi-Wan nods. That’s all you need to know. He doesn’t need to say anything else.

You can see the shadow of his form down the street as you peer out the window. He is all darkness, bathed in the shadows of the night around him and the dark of The Force that clings to his very being.

That man is not the same one who used to be your son.

“My love, you need to take Leia and go-”

“No.”

Obi-Wan’s grasp is tight as he wrenches you backward and presses your shoulder into the wall. “I have already lost every piece of me that remains except you,” He snaps, and you are caught off guard by the bite in his words as you meet his eyes. “And I refuse to do so. Do you understand me? You take Leia and you go. I will be right behind you.”

Dread floods your veins as you nod. You can’t do anything else. You can’t cry out, you can’t fight him, all you can do is pray to the Maker that he will indeed keep that promise and come home.

Obi-Wan kisses you like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do before disappearing through the door that will lead him away to do the one thing he’s been fighting this entire time: Fighting Vader. Acknowledging who Vader really is.

“You have to help him. You know as well as I do he won’t be fine,” Leia argues as she yanks her hand from your grasp and stands tall in front of you in the tunnel like she’s preparing the rest of her inevitable argument. You’re struck by how much she looks and carries herself like Padmé. “And you might be the only one who can also keep up against that bad man. Please go. Defend him!”

Defend him.

A cyan lightsaber ignites the dark of the tunnels. “Cuyir morut'yc, kih solus.” You whisper, to which she nods - like she’s somehow understood what you said even though she didn’t - and continues with Tala down the tunnel.

When you leave, you don’t look back.

***

It’s difficult to catch Vader off guard. Nearly impossible. What he is not expecting in the midst of forcing Obi-Wan into the fire is the arc of the cyan saber - the mark of the healer, ironically enough - that effectively cuts through every single standing trooper around him.

The weapon flies back in Obi-Wan’s direction and lands in the hand of someone he swore had died during Knightfall.

‘’Ah, so you have come to defend your sworn husband at last.”

You roll your eyes and spin your weapon slowly in your hand. “Yeah, well... you did an osik job of it.” You snapped. “Try attacking him again, Vader. I will make you regret every moment of it.”

Then your saber is cutting through the tank to your right, and the world is one again illuminated by fire.

“Y/N!”

Tala’s presence sprints out of the dark as you bend down to collect your husbands body in your arms. “Get your transport ready, Tala,” You demand. “We need to get him to Jabiim.” Peering around both shoulders and her body, you frown at the lack of Leia’s presence. She’s not anywhere near you. “Where’s Leia?”

“She should be at the transport when we arrive. Let’s go, NED!”

The pair lead the way before you to the escape ship as you cradle Obi-Wan’s body to your chest and begin to follow them. He’s practically burning - both physically and mentally, every part of his Force Presence is ignited by the pain he undoubtedly feels over confronting his former Padawan - in your embrace, but the gentleness of your touch and the quiet nature of your words is enough to bring at least a modicum of comfort.

Obi-Wan Kenobi submits to your gentle prodding against poorly constructed walls and allows himself to sleep while you defend him.

Should Vader get in his way again, he knows you will be there to do what he can’t.

***

“He will be fine, you know. Bacta works wonders for burns.”

You snort and press your hands against the glass. He’s only just been put in there - even more quickly then usual as the demands of a former medic really do work - and has only just succumbed to the severity of his injuries.

“He may be fine physically,” You call out in response, eyes closed and hands pressed to either side of the glass as you slowly sink deeper into The Force. “But mentally, I am his only defense.”

Tala doesn’t talk again after that. Realizing what you are doing, she leaves you alone with your thoughts and the soft hum of the bacta tank as it works to heal your husband’s burns.

“The years have made you weak.”

You can see him standing there, submerged in his own tank somewhere far away where there is nothing but the comfort of his own rage and the pain he so often conceals beneath a suit of armor. A suit of armor that lives in place of the man who occupies it.

The armor is more alive then Anakin Skywalker ever was.

His body is riddled with scars both old and new. The scar tissue is raised in most places and leaves little of the original skin to be seen, and the limbs he lost during the battle on Mustafar are gone too.

He is more mechanics then man.

“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”

Pressing harder, deeper, you wrap the Light around Obi-Wan’s flickering Force Signature and push.

Vader isn’t expecting that. Where he finds the cracks in his former Master’s chassis, he is instead met with steadfast resistance that screams, “He does not belong to you and The Dark.”

“Sh.... my love,” You whisper softly. Obi-Wan’s presence shifts from a startling, sharp gold to a muted, content blue as his thrashing slowly eases and his body becomes limp again. “I have you. Now sleep.”

While the battle of minds is fought, the war against the dark and the light threatening to consume him happens far, far away while Obi-Wan Kenobi sleeps.

#Obi-Wan Kenobi #Obi Wan Kenobi #Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader #Obi-Wan x Reader #Obi Wan Kenobi x Reader #Obi Wan x Reader #Star Wars imagines #Star Wars oneshots #Star Wars fanfic #Star Wars fanfiction

340 notes · View notes