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theywhowriteandknowthings · 9 months

Note

Helloooooo friend ❤️

For your 500 celebration, I am requesting a non vampire monster fucking fic with any Pedro Boy of your choosing 🙏🏼

(maybe something w tentacles maybe? not required tho whatever you want man love you)

General Warnings: 18+, as is the whole of my blog, I will mark anything specific but be aware this is predominantly a smutty blog with plot. DNI if you are a minor. By reading further you have taken the responsibility to do so with the warnings I have given.

Specific Warnings: Dubcon/noncon, phereomones, tentacles, bondage, mind-fuck, alien sex, alient tentacles, Mind break (if you squint), unprotectred PiV (WRAP IT UP) , anal, DP, sex talk. Let me know if I missed anything!

Taungsdays, am I right?

“Cyar’ika.” A far away voice calls to you but you can’t seem to make it out, the word means something to you. It’s a precious word, but you just don’t remember why.

“Cyar’ika, please. Wake up.” The voice is clearer now, you know it, but it’s weird, not quite right. It’s clearer than you’ve ever heard it, but who? Whose voice is that calling so sweetly to you in the darkness?

Then you hear your name, crystal clear, uninhibited by a modulator, and you squeeze your eyes closed. It’s Din, your Din, your Riduur. But something is wrong, his helmet is off.

“Din?” You try, but your voice comes out in a rasp as you realise how dry your mouth is.

“Praise the Maker, you’re alive.” Din’s unmodulated voice sounds strained, like he’s in pain. You try and move your limbs but you can’t. Panic sets in and you whimper as you keep your eyes shut, you will not breach Din’s creed, not for something as trivial as fear.

Feel for him, feel his energy.

You think to yourself, meditating on the thought, of the essence of your beloved. He’s close, so close, yet there is something else, something writhing in the space between you. You flex your fingers, opening and closing them rhythmically as you try and get some blood flowing through your body. You’re restrained by your ankles and wrists, suspended somehow.

“Din, what’s going on? Where’s your helmet?”

“It was taken, Cyar’ika, look at me.” Din cries out in pain, and the terror that grips your heart forces your eyes open. Your heart catches in your throat as you see him, naked, strung up by maroon vines. They writhe and squirm over his body, coiled around his neck, sliding over his tan skin. You look down to see his cock, erect and weeping as a thick vine slides over his tip, pulling his foreskin back. Din grunts, his beautiful face contorted in a mixture of pleasure and anger.

You feel anguish and hatred deep in your core as you realise you’ve just seen his face for the first time, and dank farrik is he beautiful. The facial hair you had only ever felt in the dark confines of his cot is patchy, but well kept, a strong moustache framing his top lip. His angular nose hooking slightly, and you remember how it feels to have it pressed into your hair as he wraps himself around you.

“Din.” You sob, tears streaming down your face as you meet his sorrowful eyes; deep dark pools of liquid caf, an apology written across them as his grief mirrors your own. This was not how this moment was supposed to play out, you were waiting for the right time. But it’s all wrong, ruined. A precious memory taken from you before it had chance to bloom.

“It’s ok Mesh’la, it’s not your fault.” His tone is soft, none of his usual curt, practiced stoicism. It’s the voice he uses when he makes love to you in the pitch black in his bed. The one for when your bodies wound so tightly it’s hard to know where you stop and he begins.

“What’s happening?” You ask as you look down to see yourself similarly restrained, the thick maroon vines tight around your wrists and ankles. You realise that you were wrong before in your assessment, they aren’t vines, they’re tentacles. They throb occasionally and you feel bile rising in your throat at the idea of being so vulnerable hits you.

“We’ve been ensnared by something, took us both by surprise. It’s been, ah, touching me since I woke a short while ago.”

As if on cue, the tentacles restraining you slither across your skin, hot and wet it almost feels good but you force the intrusive thought out of your mind. A long, bulbous-headed tentacle winds into view and you hear Din shout something but it’s drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears. The tentacle peels open like a grotesque flower and a puff of silver powder spits into your face.

You splutter as the powder coats your skin, flows through your sinuses and sticks to your windpipe. It’s like being suffocated, the taste of bitter fruit and the smell of Spice drowning you as the tentacle recedes.

“What was that?”

“My guess? An aphrodisiac, they dosed me earlier and I’ve been stiffer than Beskar since.”

“Kriff, what are these things?”

You feel a stir of arousal wash through you and as a pair of tentacles snake up to your breasts, you want to feel disgusted, angry even. But the moment they curl around your stiff, pebbled nipples you cry out in pleasure.

“Din, I’m sorry.” You whimper as the slick, hot, swirling sensation reminds you of Din’s lips. It makes you imagine him on top of you, kneeling between your spread thighs in the dark, worshiping your body with his mouth and hands.

“It’s ok Cyar’ika, I feel it too.” Din’s voice is thick with strain as you watch a pair of tentacles work over Din’s thick length, another rolling over his tight balls. You’re jealous, jealous that it’s not you making him writhe against his restraints.

“Thinking of you, of us.”

“Let’s work through this together, talk to me Cyar’ika, let me know what you’re thinking about.”

“Thinking about how your mouth feels on my breasts, when you take my nipple in your mouth and suck, just right, like that.” You mewl as the tentacle seems to react to your words. It hardens and pinches at your stiff peak and you cry out, mouth agape as you feel slick drip down your legs.

“Yeah? Good, I’m thinking about that smart little mouth of yours, sucking my cock, cradling my balls, fuck, yes,” He groans your name and you whine at the sensation of a tentacle sliding between your legs. The length of it sliding through your slick folds as you twitch at the way it prods at your clit.

“Din, wish I could kiss you.”

“Me too Cyare, me too, just want to feel you, the real you.”

Then something changes in the atmosphere, a vibration ripples through your mind and you feel something sentient brush against your consciousness. You meet Din’s gaze and judging by the look on his face, he felt it too.

“Wait, these tentacles, I’ve seen something like this before.” You think aloud as you try and wrack your brain for information.

Before you can formulate a thought you feel another thrum of energy ripple through the air and the tentacles restraining you loosen and flex, bringing you together before letting go completely. You sob and fall into Din’s strong arms, he pulls you against him with a soft huff. His scent envelops you as your bodies press together desperately.

You feel a tentacle press against the base of your skull before a sharp pinprick of pain on your hairline. Suddenly a consciousness bleeds into your own and you see through the eyes of the creature, watching you and Din embrace, both with tentacles hinged to your spines.

“Din?”

“I’m here, I see it too.”

There’s a feeling ebbing and flowing through your minds, you can hear Din’s thoughts and you feel heat warm your cheeks as you feel like you’re intruding. Then you feel it, his consciousness poking back at yours, asking for entry, and you realise Din must have let you in. Your shame doused, you feel something stir deep in your chest.

You submit to his request and it’s like cold fire burning behind your eyelids, licking at your mind but not burning.

Then you both feel it, the pulsating intent of the creature as it gazes upon you and you think you finally understand what is happening.

“It’s a Marian,” You say without speaking, your thoughts bleeding across the psychic barrier between you, “Sometimes called a Bors.”

“They don’t usually uh, accost people like this though, right?”

“No, this is something strange, and I didn’t think Marian’s existed outside their home world.” Your mind wanders through the soup of three shared minds, wading through the freedom of being joined in such an intimate manner.

“Are you getting the same feeling I am?” Din asks as you absently leave open mouthed kisses against his chest, hands snaking up to dig your nails into the firm muscles of his back.

“It wants to fuck us, but wants us to fuck?”

“Mhm, you want that Cyare? Because I’m happy to go along with it if you are.”

“I don’t think we have much of a choice Din.” You huff as Din grinds his hips against you, his hard dick pressed into your stomach.

“No, but I’d much rather this be my choice, our choice, wouldn’t you?” He tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger. Your chest flutters with emotion as you let yourself gaze upon his face once again. This time there is no tug of shame, no sorrow. There is only joy, euphoria as you watch his cheeks dimple as he smiles down at you.

“Yes, I would, kiss me.” You reach up to cup din’s face with your hands, pulling him down into you as your lips fuse together.

Your mouth opens without prompt as you let him claim your mouth, his tongue hot and heavy as he licks into you. It’s as if you’d never kissed before, every synapse firing at full yolk as you groan into his mouth.

Din hoists you up like you’re featherlight and you wrap your legs around his waist as you thread your fingers through his hair. You tug lightly, causing Din to growl into your open mouth before nipping at your bottom lip. You yelp in pleasure laced with pain as he drops to his knees on the soft jungle floor, laying you down as he settles between your legs.

Tentacles wind around you both and you watch as they latch onto your nipples, curling around the stiff peaks as they pull and tug against them. You watch as a tentacle slides over Din’s body, nestling between his firm, pert ass cheeks. He shudders as the hot, sticky wetness teasing his tight asshole.

“This is new.” He grunts as he lines up at your core as you keep your hands on his face, savouring every moment of his exposed face.

“If you like it, we can try it out ourselves.” You wink at him as you feel a tentacle swirling around your own ass. Din has fucked your ass before so this wasn’t as daunting for you. You feel it breach your hole and you groan as Din follows suit, his cock stretching you out as you let out a strangled moan. You’re so full and you feel Din shake as he tenses up.

“Hey, Din, you’ve gotta relax,” You croon as you pull him down, your foreheads pressed together, you press a soft his to his lips as you rub your thumbs across his cheeks, “Focus on me, let go, fuck me baby, it’s alright.”

“Cyare, I’m sorry I can’t hold back.”

“It’s ok, use me, fill me up and make me scream Din.” You beg, already feeling your mind fogging over with bliss as you’re filled up and a tentacle comes to toy with your clit, the suction blinding as you pull Din down to kiss you as he lets out an animalistic snarl; his teeth clashing with yours as he fucks down into you with a fervour saved for nights where you’re blindfolded and bound to the side of the cargo hold, completely at his mercy.

“I love you Din, love it when you let go like this.” You breathe as you pull away, watching as his pupils dilate, his mouth open and hot breath fanning across your cheeks.

“Kar'taylir darasuum, Cyare.” He grunts as his face drops to your neck, his strong arms pushing your legs up against your chest. His broad palms anchored on the backs of your knees as he fucks deeper inside you. You cry out as the tentacle in your ass matches his pace. His teeth graze your skin before sucking against your sweat-soaked skin.

“Fuck it’s so deep.” Din grunts as his grip tightens on your legs, fucking harder and faster as you watch the tentacle inside him pulse and move in sync with all of your bodies. It’s all consuming, your mind and body unable to parse anything but the feeling of you all entwined.

“Din,” You whimper as your body trembles violently, “Going to come.”

“Come for me Cyare, let me feel you choke my cock.” He grunts, as you feel his hips stuttering as he nears his own release.

The pressure on your clit doubles and you are left mouth agape as your nipples are twisted and lapped at and the tentacle in your ass ripples rhythmically. You lace your hands through Din’s hair once more as you press your forehead to his, your mind going blank as you feel yourself coming hard around Din’s cock.

“Din.” You practically scream as he comes inside your pussy, the tentacle spurts into your ass, and you feel Din shudder as you know his ass is now filled with Mairan come much like your own. Din flops down on top of you, practically crushing you as you wrap yourself around him with all of your limbs.

The tentacles recede into the rainforest around you and the sound of nocturnal birds and insects chorus around you as the ethereal silence is broken.

“Are you ok?” Din breathes into your neck as you both pant heavily.

“Surprisingly, yeah, that was, something else.” You giggle and trace shapes over his bare back.

“That’s one way to put it.” He chuckles into your ear as he nips your lobe tenderly.

That’s when the fatigue hits you, Din falls forwards abruptly, forcing the air out of your lungs but before you can fight back you’re out cold.

----

The sound of the air recyclers wakes you slowly, a familiar, mundane sound that you usually tune out. You jolt upright and assess your surroundings, you’re back on the Gauntlet, in the co-pilot’s chair. You’re fully clothed and you look over to see Din, fully clad in Beskar, seemingly still asleep. You look out of the Transparisteel cockpit to see the rainforest outside, exactly where you had landed before you got ambushed.

Din wakes with a jolt and immediately springs to his feet, drawing his blaster in a swift motion as his visor scours his surroundings before landing firmly on you.

“Din?”

“Cyare?”

You throw yourself against his Beskar breastplate, ignoring the sting of the harsh metal on your skin. Din wraps his arms around you in a crushing embrace but you don’t care. All you care about is that you were together.

“So that wasn’t just a dream then?” Din’s modulated voice is a strange comfort after the events of your tentacle encounter.

“No, are you ok?” You ask, not daring to pull away from Din, you can’t bear being parted for him for even a minute.

“Yeah, was actually pretty liberating,” He chuckles as he rests the chin of his helmet on your head, “What about you?”

“I’m strangely ok, for unintended sexual encounters that was the best of them.”

“And ours isn’t the top of that list?”

“Din, you may have been oblivious to my very obvious advances on you, but I definitely intended to fuck you that night on Corellia.”

“Good point.” Din admits with a hum that rumbles though your chest.

There’s a comfortable silence for some time, the two of you swaying to a silent melody as the light bleeds through the night sky. There’s something unspoken, a deeper connection left as a remnant of the psychic connection with the Mairan which excites you and makes your chest flutter.

“So, that offer, about trying the uh, butt stuff, ourselves, is that still on the table?” Din asks as he lets out a nervous laugh. You lean back, only enough to look up into his visor, pinning his body to yours as you try to discern if he was joking or not.

“I meant what I said.”

“Good, I’ll hold you to that.” Din lets out a soft huff of air as he pulls you back against him. The Beskar is now warm from your body heat and you lean into it.

“But din?”

“Hmm?”

“We need to get some lube.”

He growls affectionately and hoists you over his shoulder before heading towards the crew quarters. You kick and scream with abandon as you feign a struggle against his firm grip.

You smile to yourself as you try and process the bizarre turn of events.

Taungsdays, am I right?

Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist! @wannab-urs @beefrobeefcal @proxima-writes @beskarandblasters @blackfemalenerd

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theghostofsoap · 4 months

Text

No Force on this Earth (Could Keep Me From You)

Fandom: Call of Duty x Star Wars

Pairings: Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish

Rating: Teen +

Tags: implied torture, force bonds, blood mention, angst, hurt/comfort

Notes: this fic was massively inspired by @felixeis003 and some lovely CoD x Star Wars art they did of Ghost and Soap <33 it truly got the hamster wheel in my mind going

(Check out the art here!!!)

Soap wasn't sure how long he'd been here. He and Gaz had been together on assignment to investigate a moon where a particularly strong force signature had pinged recently. There was suspicion that a Sith artifact was located there and they wanted to make sure it didn't fall into the wrong hands.

Unfortunately, the entire thing had been a trap. He was pretty sure Gaz had managed to make it out when he'd dove into a swarm of droids. The last thing he remembered was seeing the familiar face of Count Dooku before falling unconscious.

Ever since then, he'd been kept in a cell. A few times he'd been poked and prodded. He wasn't sure what they wanted with him, but the combination of minimal food and the Force suppression collar around his neck was making the time tick by like molasses. Most of the time he meditated while trying to overhear any speck of information that he could, which wasn't much.

The sheer emptiness of it all was almost worse. Maybe they were trying to drive him mad with silence and isolation.

He just had to hope that Gaz was coming back with a rescue party. He wasn't even 100% sure if he was still on the same moon. The only thing he could see from his confinement was the metal-lined hallway and the empty cells beside him.

During his fourth rest cycle, he heard footsteps down the hallway. He did his best to keep calm, taking in slow, steadying breaths. The person who came around the corner was a face he hadn't seen in a while.

The dark cloak swished out behind them as they came to a halt. The smirk on their face was the same one Soap remembered from the few times they were in lessons together.

"Well Phillip, you certainly weren't who I was expecting to see today." He drawled.

"After all these years and they couldn't quite beat the snark out of you could they? And that's Darth Gravis to you," Phillip replied.

Soap snorted. "Really? Darth Gravis? I'm sorry, but I'm nae gonna take you very seriously when I still remember you tripping into the fountain during our forms."

Phillip's eyebrow ticked, but otherwise he kept his face a mixture of arrogant and angry. "When I heard they'd gotten their hands on you, I told them isolation wasn't going to work. But I needed time to get here and I wanted to make sure I was the first one to get my hands on you John." He tilted his head and two droids opened up the cell. The smirk on his face grew as he took a step forward. Soap just stayed in his lotus position.

"By the time I'm done with you, we'll see how seriously you take me."

It had started simple, things Soap had expected. His ribs were bruised and each breath came out with a slight wheeze, but he could take it.

The harder part was the intrusions. Being cut off from the force while feeling someone else's slimy, icher of a presence oozing through his thoughts and tearing down his walls was agonizing. He held in his screams the best he could, making his tongue bleed in the process.

"All those feelings and you're still in the precious Order, huh? Do you think that big bastard actually cares for you that way?" Gravis drawled one time as Soap was hunched over on the floor, trying to catch his breath as blood trickled out of his nose.

"I watched the footage, you know. We keep most footage of the 'important experiments.' It'd be almost admirable that he isn't dark if it weren't for the fact that he's just so weak. You should've seen him. Pathetic honestly the way he-"

Not many things had gotten to Soap, but with his shields already low and his emotions in fray, hearing him talk about him that way made Soap snap. He lunged forward, slamming himself into Gravis's legs. With his hands still bound behind him, there wasn't much he could do before the droids grabbed him and threw him back against the other wall.

Gravis laughed as he stood up and dusted himself off. "My my, got you riled up didn't I?" He spit to the side. "Let's see if you're just as pathetic as he is."

------------

Ghost hadn't felt Soap in 5 days. While he didn't constantly check on their force bond, he didn't realize how much he felt it until it suddenly shut off.

He can remember the moment it happened with stark clarity. He'd been helping around at the town he was currently staying in, carrying some supplies to help rebuild a health center that had collapsed, when it was like everything went silent.

He froze mid step as he rapidly tried to figure out what on earth had just happened. He couldn't even pinpoint what was wrong or why everything felt slightly off until he assessed his bonds... and realized he couldn't feel Soap.

Ghost didn't have many force bonds still. The ones he had with his old master weren't the strongest and the ones that had been almost forced upon him during-

Well, he didn't have many force bonds anymore for a reason. Soap was about the only one, though Price had one too.

Ghost didn't know what to do. He'd immediately tried to reach out to Soap's comms to no success. The last thing they'd talked about was that he was going to be away on a mission with Garrick-

His comm rang.

He answered without hesitation. Maybe it was Soap from a different-

"Soap's gone."

It was Garrick. Ghost clenched his comm unit as he stared at the holographic form of the other Jedi, who seemed just fine-

"Where."

"We were on a moon in the Pelgrin sector. It was a trap and he was taken." Garrick said, getting straight to the point.

Ghost immediately started walking back to where he was staying. He had a small ship. It would take him at least 3 days to make it that far. He was already plotting his course when he realized Garrick was still talking.

"-ooku but I don't know if he's still on that moon. Ghost. The Order is going to want to try and go after him too but they won't just storm in. I don't- You know why I'm calling you, right?"

Ghost grunted. Of course he did. The Order wouldn't be as efficient as he could be, with their bureaucratic tape. There were very few things he missed about the Order, but the political ties that had developed over the recent decades wasn't one of them.

"I'm on my way. If you get any updates, contact me." He said, disconnecting the call before Garrick could say anything else.

His ship already had rations on it, but he made sure to gather a few more as well as a few additional medical supplies before leaving, despite wanting to peel out as soon as possible. When he punched in the route, he cursed under his breath at the time. Every moment felt like one too many, and he couldn't even be certain that they'd still be there when he arrived.

But he'd have time to make some calls along the way, put some feelers out. He knew who he could trust with this information.

As it was nearing the last day of his trek, he'd gotten word back that Soap was likely not far from where he'd been taken. A ship had been spotted briefly in orbit tucked behind a nearby asteroid. One wouldn't easily spot it if they didn't know what they were looking for.

Ghost took in a deep breath as he started to make a plan. The main thing he had to do was get in, but once that happened-

Well, he wasn't worried too much about whatever might be between him and Soap. It wouldn't be there long.

-----------

They didn't move him afterwards. He was left lying in a cooling pile of his own blood. His forehead was up against the metal floor as he tried to take slow breaths despite his protesting lungs which were both sore and burning as he stretched the cauterized wounds across his chest.

"I'm one with the force and the force is with me." He whispered to himself softly. He took in a slow breath through his nose but it was interrupted by a cough he tried to suppress. He spit up some blood and groaned, trying to take better note of his body.

It felt like half of him was offline, a combination of numbness and tingling stretching across his system. He worked slowly, wiggling each individual finger before he finally felt like he might be able to lift himself up to a seated position.

That's when he heard the gunshots.

He froze, uncertain at first where they were coming from. That's when he realized they were deeper in the building.

... Was someone here for him finally?

He felt a stronger wave of renewed motivation flow through him as he managed to get back to a seated position with only minimal groans and winces of pain.

"I'm one with the force and the force is with me." He said again, slightly firmer as he tried to calm the ringing in his ears so he could take better stock of where the fighting was happening.

It sounded like it was closer. Was it getting closer?

Suddenly the door down the hall opened, but the gunshots didn't get louder. Instead, he heard the familiar thrum of a lightsaber igniting.

"Well, well, what did I tell them? I knew he'd come for you." Gravis said as he stepped into the cell Soap was in. His red saber crackled angrily as he slowly lifted it, coming to a stop just under Soap's chin.

Soap took in a shaky breath as he looked up at Gravis, holding his chin as steady as he could.

"Sidious has been wanting him back, for another test run. He's certain he can break him this time." Gravis drawled. "I'm not sure why he wants that pathetic thing, but you were just bait." He smirked. "Don't worry, your usefulness hasn't run out yet. I think it'd be more impactful if you were around during the conditioning this time. Toy with his mind a bit. Or maybe we can make him kill you himself, hm? See if we can turn that rage the right direction-"

Another door opened and this time the gunshots were next to none. "Darth Gravis! The force user, he's-" a droid started to say when suddenly the sound of metal hitting the floor rang through the hall.

"My my, took you long enough to get here Simon," Gravis said, looking over but not moving his saber an inch. "Go on Johnny, say hello to him. It's only polite."

Ghost's eyes snapped over to where he was seated on the floor. Despite not being able to feel their force bond like he usually could, Soap could still catalog the emotions running across his face. Ghost's eyes went from him to the puddle of the blood on the floor and back up to the lightsaber at his throat.

Soap saw his hands tighten on the grip of his saber.

"You're just as feeble as I remember Gravis," Ghost rumbled, "Could never pick a fair fight because you knew you'd lose. Beating up on someone who's chained up and disconnected from the force? Does that make you feel stronger?"

Soap saw Gravis's expression flare with anger. The saber was immediately withdrawn and directed towards Ghost.

"You were all but scraped off the floor when you 'escaped.' You know he LET you go right? Someone as simple as you could never have made it out on your own." Gravis snarled. "I've seen the tapes. You're not even worth his time!"

Ghost slid into a fighting stance, not breaking eye contact with Gravis. "And yet he's taking his time trying to lure me back, when he's got a lap dog already drooling to do as he says. Do you feel replaceable yet mutt?"

Gravis snarled louder and immediately launched himself towards Ghost, who blocked him flawlessly. Where Gravis's attacks were fury and erratic, Ghost was as steady and smooth as ever. He looked like he was hardly breaking a sweat as Gravis danced around him.

"Face it Gravis, you were always meant to beg for scraps. If you were truly good enough you wouldn't be the one running errands to try to lure in another apprentice would you?"

This made Gravis lunge, but it was exactly what Ghost wanted to happen. He quickly grabbed Gravis by the shoulder, blocking his saber and throwing him to the floor. He stomped onto the hand that was holding his saber and Gravis shouted as he dropped it.

Ghost stared down at him for a moment.

Gravis glared, reaching up a hand, clearly about to use the force, when Ghost's expression finally broke. He curled his upper lip before gripping the air in front of him, easily lifting up Gravis from the floor before quickly slamming him back into it.

Ghost only looked at his limp form for a moment more before he immediately spun and sprinted over to Soap.

Soap looked up at him, cracking a small smile, though he was sure the blood covering his gums wasn't helping. "Hey Ghostie."

The brooding man dropped to his knees and quickly reached around Soap's neck. Soap felt the collar's latch release before he heard it, as the feeling of the Force flooded back into him.

It was like taking a deep breath after being underwater for too long.

"Oh Force," he breathed.

Immediately the next thing he felt was the cacophony of emotions flooding off of Ghost. "Ghost, I-"

"Don't move Johnny," Ghost said, his tone gruffer than normal. Johnny held still as Ghost deftly cut through the cuffs keeping his hands behind his back. When his hands were free, he slowly moved them around to his front, rubbing his wrists gently.

"Thank you," he said, realizing how fucked his voice sounded. He's sure it wasn't helping the growing concern Ghost was expressing.

"How broken are you?" Ghost asked.

"Ah, it looks worse than i' is," Soap said, but his point was a bit ruined when he had a coughing fit at the end that left him light headed.

Suddenly, the world around him shifted. He yelped and his position adjusted. Soap blinked and realized how close he was to Ghost's face now, the strong arms wrapped around him.

Ghost didn't look down at him, taking long strides back through the facility, completely ignoring the graveyard of droids around him. "I have medical supplies on the ship. I'm going to put you there before I come back and... finish what needs to be done in here."

"Ah've seen my share of death before Ghost, you didn' have'ta shield me from that."

Ghost let out a slow breath but didn't reply.

"Aye, you can' ignore me when I'm this close'ta your face," Soap said.

Finally he saw the hint of a smile under Ghost's usual face scarf. "Mm, I could try."

"Ah you could, but I don' think you traveled all the way here to save me because you don' like me."

Ghost glanced down at him, his brown eyes showing just as much as their force bond revealed. "... Johnny."

Johnny reached up a hand and cupped Ghost's face. "Thank you for comin' for me."

"My head's too quiet without you in it," he replied, pausing for a moment. "... I'll always come for ya Johnny."

There was a joke on the tip of his tongue, but his heart was too happy to make it at the moment. "I know you would Simon."

#call of duty #ghoap #ghost x soap #cod mw #tas141 #cod x sw #star wars crossover #call of duty crossover #ghoap fanfic #ghost x soap fic #angst #hurt/comfort #apple's fics

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subbing-for-clones · 3 months

Text

The Defective Jedi

Chapter 1

Word count: 2.2k

Trigger Warnings: None really, just some fighting

Every day you tried to forget and yet almost every night you remembered. Wandering through the crystal caves of Ilum was horribly cold and felt so lonely. You were never particularly strong with the force but you always felt it. That connection between all things living and the energy it permeated, but when you entered the cave you felt, nothing. Why did you feel nothing?

You heard the other younglings yipping in happiness and laughing in triumph as one by one they found their kyber crystals and still, nothing called for you. Time was running out before the entrance became a wall of ice with no escape and even as a child you accepted defeat before you accepted death. You were the last to leave and the only one who was left empty handed. You would remember the disappointed look of Master Yoda forever, his eyes turned to the snow beneath his feet with a pained look before he looked back up at you.

It wasn’t long after that you were sent back home to Lothal. You had taken your parents pride and sullied it with failure and you don’t think they ever forgave you for it. It was true, you had failed before you even really got started. Your connection to the force just wasn’t strong enough to be a Jedi.

Still, you refused to let the connection go. You spent your formative years practicing the techniques you were able to learn in your short time studying under the jedi. Hours meditating every rotation searching for that warmth. You did find it; you could still feel it and so you taught yourself as much as you could.

Once you were able to venture out on your own you left Lothal and your parents’ resentment behind. Never really setting up a home; you joined a bounty hunter’s guild instead and used your abilities to become a fairly prolific hunter. It was during these years that all hell broke lose as war erupted all over the galaxy.

Only one year in and it wasn’t looking good. Hundreds of Jedi had fallen to the separatist forces and they needed help. This was when a desperate plea rang across the galaxy for the aid of anyone with force sensitive capabilities to come and join the fight for the republic. Whether it was out of the desire to help or need to prove yourself to the ones who threw you out you weren’t sure; still you answered their call.

You were tested and trained in a group of others with similar stories to your own under several rotating Jedi. At the end of your training, you were assigned to be exactly what you already were; a fighter. You were assigned to various squads as aid and back up; using your intuition, strategy skills and your fighting expertise on the battle field with the clones. You’d never hold a rank above a grunt but you didn’t care. Every victory was a curse on the Jedi for giving you up.

After months of rotating between battalions you were about to receive your permanent assignment. Clone Force 99, a rag tag team of four, apparently defective, clones. The irony didn’t escape you.

“Why are we getting a Jedi?” Hunter asked the hologram of Cody. The others standing back but still in view of the commander.

“She’s not a Jedi, she’s one of the force sensitives the Jedi asked to join the cause. She doesn’t hold rank over you, you’re still in charge.”

“I don’t like it.” Sneered Crosshair.

“Well, you don’t have much of a choice. The higher ups want these people sprinkled out through all the squads in case of a Sith attack. The Jedi worry about them rising up with the appearance of a few and quite frankly, no clone stands a chance agianst them. They can wipe out battalions.”

“When is she joining and for how long?” The Sergent was growing impatient and didn’t like the idea of a new member being added to their group.

“She’s waiting on Kamino for you now so you’ll meet her upon arrival, she’ll be with you until the war is over or until she runs as fast as she can away from you.” The commander had a small smirk on his face that Hunter mirrored. The idea of sending a Jedi, or whatever, running amused him.

Once they touched down on Kamino three out of the four were sightly on edge with the exception or Wrecker who seemed rather excited. He was generally the most welcoming. The worry melted away as soon as they laid eyes on you. You really didn’t look like a Jedi at all. You looked like an operative. Instead of a robe you wore black armor and in the place of a lightsaber at your hip, you had a blaster and a large curved vibro-blade.

Crosshair couldn’t help but eye you up and down the armor looked good on you. You took each of them in once you took your helmet off and introduced yourself to your new companions, a dance you’ve done before. Wrecker was kind enough to grab the two crates of your belongings and load them onto the ship. There wasn’t much time for pleasantries before you received your first mission. You were to extract data from an outpost on Teth and upload it straight to Cody. Information about prisoners of war and where they were being held was your main objective. Anything else was an added bonus. You all loaded onto the ship after eating a hearty meal in the cafeteria.

In the back of the ship next to the bunks you unpacked a few things from your crates.

“Whatchya got there?” Wrecker asked excitedly.

“Ill eat a loth cat before I sleep in GAR issued blankets.” He laughed heartily at your response and left you to continue. You didn’t have any photos to hang or many personal items at all for that matter but that’s how you’ve lived for the last few years anyway.

Once you were finished you made your way to the common area where the clones were discussing strategy. Quietly you took the empty seat between Tech and Crosshair. The outpost was situated in the middle of the jungle. Intel reported minimal guards as it wasn’t a main base but still enough that you all decided stealth was your best option.

Once the plan had been formulated they all looked at you expectedly.

“What is it?” you asked.

“So why didn’t you become a Jedi?” Tech asked outright, Hunter elbowed him but didn’t faze the goggled soldier.

“I tried but, well they decided I wasn’t strong enough. I’m closer to the force than most people but not close enough to be a Jedi.”

“You’re defective like us!” Wrecker shouted with glee, earning an elbow from Hunter as well. You actually laughed a bit.

“Yeah, you could say that. I’ve used my abilities as a bounty hunter since I left Lothal until I joined the GAR.”

Crosshair watched you out of the corner of his eye. You really weren’t what they thought you would be at all. You weren’t a religious zealot you were just someone trying to find their way in the galaxy like the rest of them. He admired that, the honesty too. You weren’t trying to be something you’re not.

That night in hyperspace you tossed and turned in your new bunk. Nightmares from close calls on a hunt filled your mind. You were often reminded of the times you came close to getting killed before a mission. Eventually you gave up and made your way toward the cockpit. You enjoyed meditating under the blue streaking lights. You were surprised to see that someone had beat you to it. The lithe handsome sniper sat in the pilot’s chair cleaning his fire puncher and mouthing a tooth pick.

He looked up at you slightly taken aback by your appearance. Quickly he composed himself and half waved his arm at the other seat as a silent invitation.

“Sorry for intruding, I just couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re not.”

You were starting to like the way words seemed to slither off his tongue. You nodded a thanks to him and turned to watch the stars soaring by at light speed. Both you sat in silence for a few minutes before he opened and shut his mouth, wanting to ask you something but Cross wasn’t sure if it was out of turn.

He mentally shrugged and asked, “So why did you join the GAR?”

“Is one part brave three parts fool a believable answer?”

“I doubt you’re a fool.”

“Well, we’ll see if you keep that opinion,” you chuckled and earned an upturn of the corner of his mouth.

“Honestly? I found it ironic that the Jedi needed our help now. I don’t hold too much resentment agianst them but I do want to prove myself as valuable. Besides, things make sense out here.”

“How so?” He turned in his chair to face you and put his rifle down for a moment. You glanced at him and shrugged your shoulders.

“There’s no confusion right now. We fight agianst Separatists and clankers. I’m sure there are good people on those planets but this is the side I chose to fight for so that’s what I’m going to do.”

Crosshair digested your words and offered “We didn’t get a choice.”

“If you did, what would you be doing?”

“That’s a difficult question to answer, I’ve never let myself be hypothetical like that before because there isn’t a choice. I.. We’re property of the GAR just like my rifle and this ship. Don’t tell Tech that though, it’s his ship in his mind.”

You giggled a bit at that and nodded your head in understanding.

“I spent so much time hunting and fighting bounties that this just seemed like a natural course of action. I can’t see myself doing anything else instead now.”

Crosshair picked up his fire puncher again and resumed cleaning it. You watched him for a while before turning back to the lights and closing your eyes. You reached out through the force trying to feel the Purgill you swore you heard. What you didn’t sense was Crosshair watching you intently.

You were going over the mission plan one last time while Tech was putting down the ship a few clicks away from the objective point. The jungle terrain was difficult to get through but not too much of a problem. The closer you got the more the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. Cross left your group close to the outpost to climb one of the giant trees for a better vantage point.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” you whispered to the Sergent.

He nodded in response, seemingly sensing something as well. The post was supposed to be guarded by droids with a few officers scattered throughout but something was off. No perimeter defense and no guards posted outside. Your group made their way around to a side door shown on the schematics and while Tech was overriding security, you Hunter and Wrecker kept watch. You could Feel Crosshair’s eyes on you and it gave you an overwhelming sense of security knowing he was watching over you.

Three droids were posted on the inside of the door and as soon as you were in Wrecker crushed one agianst the wall, Hunter stabbed one in the chest and you took the last one’s head off with your long viroblade. Quickly you dashed in and made your way through the base looking for a data port. Tech found one on a lower level and plugged in, searching the database until he found what he needed.

“It seems there are around fifty clones being held captive for questioning on a moon in the outer rim. There are also schematics for the spider droids here…” Tech prattled on interesting things he was downloading until Hunter shushed him and signaled for him to hurry up. That’s when the alarm sounded.

“We gotta go, now.” You stated with certainty. Trusting your instinct the boys packed up and started running back up to the way out. Once the door was insight, a wall of droids emerged and started firing at you. You fell back around a corner and started shooting them with your blaster looking for a weak point in the wall.

“Wrecker throw a smoke grenade,” Hunter barked.

“On it!” Wrecker tossed two creating a large fog that allowed you to step out, you reached out your hand and with a little struggle, used the force to loosen a wall panel until it flew into the side of the droid squad, pinning them to the opposite wall.

“HA HA NICE!” Wrecker shouted.

The four of you ran like hell out of the outpost to find several fallen droids, courtesy of the reliable sniper.

Once the five of you were back on the ship and Tech was taking off Wrecker was excitedly telling Crosshair how you threw a wall at a bunch of droids, taking out ten in one go. There seemed to be an impressed glint in his eye.

“That was good work back there,” Hunter told you sincerely. You smiled and thanked him, watching as the data was sent through encryption straight to Cody to do with as he saw fit.

Your first mission with the squad, a success you exchanged a smile with the sniper and sat in your victory.

#crosshair x reader #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch #crosshair #no y/n

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peachesofteal · 1 year

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Alone / Chapter 2

Part eight of the Sassy series.

Simon Riley/female reader 4.4k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI, panic attacks, angst, PTSD, trauma, blood and torture, hospitals, emotional hurt/comfort, medical stuff, coparenting, relationship issues, reader is going through it, soft dad Simon Riley. You’re living in a nightmare.

Blood has a distinct smell. To many, it’s the pungent minerality that turns their senses but to you, it’s the tang of the metal that makes your lip quiver. It’s the saltlick iron that makes you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and breathe through your nose slowly, an effort to try to prevent the tossing of your stomach.

Here, the scent is everywhere. On the walls. On your face. On your clothes. There was a puddle of it, beneath your knees. It’s a combination of yours and nameless others, their blood one of the only things left of them in the world, seeping into the fabric of your jeans, staining the concrete blocks of-

“Mrs. Riley?” Your doctor, your therapist, looks at you expectantly over the rim of her glasses, and you huff. “Where were you just now?” You try not to scowl. Be honest. You’re supposed to be honest.

“The room.”

“Where you were being held?” You nod. You force your fingers flat against your thighs, beating back the urge to scratch your nails against your skin. “And what were you thinking, about the room?”

“I was remembering what all the blood smelled like. What it tasted like.” To her credit, your shrink doesn’t flinch. She holds your gaze steady, until you are the one looking away, glancing over her shoulder at the clock that always seems to move too slow.

You’ve tried this once, already. Tried to get her to crack, to push you off. Tried to get her to cower, or recommend you speak to someone else. She’s stronger than you originally thought, you’ll her give her that, but you supposed it didn’t hurt that she’s been having twice weekly sessions with Simon when he’s not away on an op for over two years now, and you’re well aware your dog and pony show are nothing compared to whatever he’s been telling her.

Simon Riley, the closed off ghost who wouldn’t even show you his face when he got you pregnant, turned father of the year who bent over backwards for his wife, now goes to therapy, and meditates when he’s out on ops.

“Do you remember how you felt, when you were in that room?” Oh, for fucks sake. You nod, lips pressed into a line. “Can you tell me?”

“Worried.”

“Worried about what?”

“Theo. And Simon.”

“Not for yourself?” You shrug. Your lungs hurt, like they’re being constricted, and you look down to your shoes.

“Can we talk about something else?” You say it to your laces, not to her, but you know she hears it when her pen clicks and the scratch of the tip scrawls across her pad.

“How is co-parenting going?” Your head snaps up, and you smother the glare that pulls at the edges of your face.

“It’s fine.”

“You and Simon are communicating alright?” Jesus christ.

“Mostly.” You shrug and don’t elaborate. She nods at your silence, an indication she wants you to keep going. You grit your teeth. “Sometimes, he calls, or texts and I don’t answer him. Or I don’t answer him in a timely manner.” Your fingers make air quotes around the timely manner bit.

“Why is that?”

“It’s… hard to explain.”

“Are you uncomfortable with the communication?”

“No!” you rush out. “No, no of course not… I want him to see Theo as much as possible. I just feel, mixed up. So, when I see him, or hear from him, it makes those mixed-up feelings feel… more intense. More mixed up.”

“Can you name a few of those feelings?” You close your eyes and picture Simon’s face. You see him holding Theo’s hand in the supermarket or pushing him on the swing set in the park. You see him in bed beside you, before, eyes soft and full of love, his smile beautiful and easy on his lips. Unburdened.

“Sadness.” You pause to take a deep breath. “Sadness and anger, confusion. Guilt.” The pen scribbles on paper when you pause, and you glance up at the clock. Bingo. “Looks like we’re out of time.” You supply, smiling at her cheerily when she narrows her eyes, and then writes something down before giving you a nod.

The man says your name.

Not Sassy. Not Sass.

Your real name, before he tuts in your face, like you’ve let him down.

“Yer da ‘d be real disappointed in ye.” Saliva builds in the back of your throat.

“Don’t talk about my father.” You hiss and he outright laughs.

“Still fightin’ even when broken.” His fingers fold over the wound in your arm, pressing into the open, infected flesh, digging against it with his fingernails and the pain burns, it scrapes across your skin like a million little knives. “Maybe ye’re not so worthless after all, eh?” You launch the spit into his eye, grim satisfaction creeping over you when he staggers back in surprise, rage brewing across his face before he’s gripping you by the collarbone and thrusting you backwards, tipping the metal chair until you’re slamming into the ground, your head bouncing on blood slick concrete like a child’s ball.

“Stupid bitch.” His leg draws backwards until he’s firing the toe of his boot into your stomach, kicking you once, twice before you’re gasping for air, pain blooming across your abdomen as he batters you.

You close your eyes, and think of Theo. You think of Simon, of the two of them together. At home, safe. You pull the string of a memory until it comes to the forefront of your mind, Theo’s first words, his first steps. His second birthday party, when Johnny bought him that obnoxious drum set, and Simon bent you over the couch after Theo went to bed. The day you got married, your first wedding anniversary, the hotel room in Florence. You slip into these memories like they’re real and try to block out the smell of the blood and the pain in your body, try to drown in the shadows of your old self, your past, while you lose everything to the present, over and over again.

The little house is quiet when you get home in the afternoon.

At first it doesn’t bother you. Theo is with his dad for the night, already been picked up from school and probably taken to the park, his favorite Friday activity. Si will probably get him pizza, because he spoils him endlessly, and he’ll let him fall asleep while they cuddle on the couch and watch some awful kid’s show. You can see it, in your mind, the image of Theo in the crook of Simon’s elbow where he still fits, his little arm stretched across his dad’s ribs, Simon with his feet on the coffee table.

It rips your heart apart. The swell of emotion is strong enough that tears pool in your eyes, dripping down over your cheeks while you curl up into a ball on your own couch, blanket tucked up under your chin. You did this. You are a nightmare. You did this to yourself. You press your palm to your lips and scream into it, smothering the sound as best you can, your throat turning raw with each breath. Your body shakes with sobs until you’re exhausted and your eyes slip shut, tears still webbed in your lashes, while the sun shines through your living room window.

Your phone jolts you awake a few hours later, your hands scrambling to find where you’ve lost it in the couch, the realization that it’s going to be Theo breaking through the heavy weight of your misery. Must be close to bedtime. When you slide open the facetime call, he’s grinning at you, little dab of red sauce on his chin.

“Mum!” he shouts, glee coloring the word and you smile back at him easily, hastily rubbing your face to erase the evidence of your state. “Dad got ‘izza!”

“I see that.” A big thumb drifts in front of the camera to wipe the glob of red away and Theo giggles.

“Say goodnight.” Simon says in the background and Theo pauses, little eyebrows creased in confusion before he recovers and looks back to the phone.

“Goodnight mum. Luh you.”

“Love you too bug. Have fun with dad.” The phone shifts, darkness covering the camera for a second before it’s righted, and Simon’s face fills the frame. Your stomach clenches.

“His mates from school are all gonna be at the fields tomorrow morning. I told him I’d take him, if it's alright with you.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Thanks.” You can see him studying you through the screen.

“Everything alright?” his tone shifts, takes on something softer, something sweeter, something that feels like a memory, and your chest tightens.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

“If you need-“

“I’m fine.” You snap. He sighs.

“Alright then. Goodnight, Sass.”

“Night.”

“There she is, see?” Simon points, and Theo frowns when he sees you, lower lip tugging downward, his face confused before he looks back to his dad, burying his face in his chest with a cry.

“Hey bug. Come here.” You hold your arms out to him, but he just cries into Simon, the scared wailing splitting you open and pouring concrete into your lungs, so it feels like you’ve got an entire building sitting on your chest. “It’s okay baby.” You call, hands still waiting, voice edging on desperate. You want your baby. You want to hold him, to feel him in your arms and know he’s okay, that he’s here, that Simon’s here, and you’re here and there is no danger, nothing to fear. Simon steps closer to you, his emotions raw across his face, and Theo screams in his arms, legs kicking ferociously.

“It’s mum, Theo. Stop. Look.” Simon tries but it’s no use. You know Theo is terrified of you, your battered and bruised face, the wires and tubes that are connected to your chest and the IV that’s stuck in the back of your hand. Your brain buzzes, a low droning noise between your ears making your head spin and you call Theos’ name with a croak.

“NO!” Theo shrieks, he screams it at the top of his lungs and Simon looks lost as you stare wordlessly, hands reaching out into the void, begging to hold your son that doesn’t even recognize you.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel the tears drop down onto the arm that’s folded across your abdomen.

The door slides open, and Johnny appears, pulling Theo from Simon’s arms, patting his back softly and giving you a sympathetic look.

“C’mon lad, let’s go get a lolly, yeah? Give mum and dad some time.” Theo hugs his uncle around his neck, and heaves little sobs into his skin while Johnny shushes him and carries him back out the door.

“I-“ you choke on whatever it was you were going to say, the buzzing in your head so, so loud that it drowns out your thoughts, covers up your feelings until you’re pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes.

Knuckles tap against the glass, Johnny’s face appearing in the window.

“I’ll be right back.” Simon assures you, leaving his foot in the door while he talks to Johnny, their voices fuzzy, and suddenly, the world is tilting and all you can smell is blood.

The buzzing in your head is ferocious, a searing sharpness that feels like a lobotomy, your mind screaming inside your head. The stitches in your skin burn, and you swear you can feel each cell trying to pull closed, the sticky edges of your wounds slowly seaming back together, sealing shut everything inside of you, trapping the buzzing away within your own body so you’ll never be able to pull it out.

You need to go home. You have to get out of here. You can’t stay here. You have to get home. Where everything is safe. Where there is no danger.

You fidget with your central line, trying to unclick, unscrew it until you’re just tugging on it as hard as you can without making a sound, pain throbbing into the hole that’s been created for the port as you start to pull the sticky pads off your lower rib cage. The noises in the room are going berserk, bells and whistles chiming and beeping while the buzzing in your head gets louder and louder, and your fingers dig into your IV, trying to rip it from your skin before Simon is grabbing your hand.

“I have to get out of here.” You tell him. He’ll understand. You know he will.

“Bloody hell Sass, stop.” Your fingers are still scratching away, trying to crawl towards the IV, the last thing tethering you to this place, keeping you from your family, and you push against the pressure holding you still. The buzzing in your head is screaming now, louder than Simon’s voice, louder than the frantic beeping of the machines that have lost their leads.

“Let me go! I ha- have to go. I have to get out.” Simon tries to grab your other hand but you’re too quick, nimble and lithe like you always have been, and you latch onto the needle in your skin, ripping it free, blood trickling down your arm and dripping across your thin hospital gown. Heavy hands grab your shoulders and press you back against the bed.

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” His elbow pins your collarbone down while his hand comes up to cradle your face. “Everything’s alright.” What? No, it isn’t. It’s not alright. This is certainly not alright. Can’t he hear that noise? You shake your head vehemently and he tries to hold you steady.

“No. N-no, no, Simon. I have to go. Please, we have to go.” The door swings open and a man in blue scrubs with a badge walks through, a nurse at his side, capped syringe in her hand. Your stomach roils. “Simon.” You plead as you eye them, their slow steps bringing them closer and closer to you, and you shift on the bed, up against your husband, trying to bury yourself in his body, hide from whatever the people in scrubs are going to do. “Simon, we have to go home. Please, we need to get home.”

“Shhh, it’s okay. You��re okay.” He strokes the hair away from your face, and you realize he’s got tears in his eyes, his gaze heavy and sad, and your own eyes widen in fear when you feel a new set of hands on your body.

“Get off me!” you scream, thrashing in the bed, Simon trying to talk to you, trying to calm you while the man in scrubs pins your arms down.

“Don’t hold her like that.” He snarls, and the foreign hands on your body adjust, letting your forearms go loose while the pinch of a needle punctures your skin. “It’s alright, I promise.” Simon’s voice breaks. “I’m here, Sass. I’m right here. You’re safe, you’re safe, I swear.” The needle pulls free of your arm and the world shifts, bright light blowing out the edges of your vision until your eyes are slipping closed, Simon’s face the last thing you see before everything goes dark.

It's three in the morning. The dark and stormy nightmares that keep you under in your sleep have finally slipped away, and you’re staring at your bedroom ceiling while your brain turns a mile a minute until you’re reaching for your phone.

Your thumb hovers over Simon’s contact for too long, way too long while you think about what it might be like to hear his voice before you’re scrolling to the next name and clicking the digits.

The phone rings and you try not the count it, try not to think about what you’re doing and the line clicks open to a bleary, sleepy Scotsman saying hello.

When you don’t say anything back, you can hear him sitting up.

“Sassafras?” Johnny tries, and you blow out a breath.

“It’s me.”

“Ya okay?” No.

“Yeah.” He sighs, and then starts to tell you about his day, his family, what he’s been doing in his off time. It’s not the first time you’ve called him in the middle of the night, and probably won’t be the last, and he knows it. He fills your head with mindless details, funny stories about his latest op and the 141, other things he thinks you’ll want to hear. You never talk, just listen, and he does a good job of distracting you from whatever it is that’s going on in your head until you’re chuckling on the other end of the line, spirit just a hair lighter than it was when you called.

“Thanks, Johnny.” You murmur into the phone.

“Anytime. One more thing-“

“Yeah?”

“Call your husband next time, yeah?” Prick.

“Bye, Soap.”

“Bye Sassy. Love ya. Kiss the wee lad for me.”

“I will.”

At ten in the morning, the doorbell rings. Even though he has a key, he won’t use it, just waits patiently for you to open the door, not wanting to encroach on your boundaries.

Theo runs straight at your legs when you open it, and you scoop him up in a big hug until he’s complaining, insisting you put him down and let him show you the picture that’s clutched in his hand, something he drew last night.

“That’s you!” he points to a sloppy stick figure that’s holding hands with a little stick figure, a bigger stick figure on its other side. “an’ that’s me and that’s dad!” His eyebrows raise and you rub his head affectionately.

“Good job, you’re a real artist!”

“Put it on fridge?” As soon as you nod your approval he takes off, running towards the kitchen, leaving you and Simon in the living room, the straps of his backpack fisted in his dad’s hand.

“Johnny called me this morning.” You draw a quick breath before letting it out slowly. Traitorous bastard. “If you want me to take him for the rest of the day so you can get some rest-“

“I’m fine. Thanks, though.” Simon sets the backpack down, and you hear the click and clack of the alphabet magnets against the stainless steel.

“You can… call me, too. If you want. If you need… someone to talk to.” You expect to rebuff him immediately, to snap at him, to tell him you don’t need to talk to anyone, let alone him. You want to. You want to keep taking it out on him, keep dumping it on him, over and over until there’s so much of it between the two of you that he’ll never find his way back. Why would he want to? After everything you’ve put him through? You’re broken. Useless.

“Why?” you blurt, and it surprises you. Looks like it surprises him too.

“You’re my wife, Sass. I love you.” Your skin feels hot and your heart thumps loudly in your ears. “Your trauma, the torture, what happened after… nothin’ is ever gonna change that.” You scoff, anger flickering in your veins, the heat of your irritation warming you from the inside out.

“You can’t mean that. Not after… everything that’s happened.” He studies you for a long moment, eyes pinning you where you shift your weight uneasily, until he’s raising the back of his hand, holding it upright to display the ring. The ring, that he refuses to take off. The ring, that he still wears, even after you tossed your own at his head. The ring, that has your call sign and his last name initialed on the inside.

“I will love and honor you all the days of my life.” He whispers it, and you swallow the lump in the back of your throat.

“Mum!” Theo yells, and you turn away, shoulders tight under your ears, fingers clenched together. “Mum, can we ‘ave popcorn?” Theo shouts again and you give him a tight-lipped smile when you reach the kitchen, your enthusiastic four-year-old trying to push a chair in front of the pantry.

“Popcorn?”

“Daddy said you might wanna watch a movie.” Theo pauses, eyes flicking between you, and his father, who you can just feel at your back, before he nods decisively, like he’s already determined that will be his next activity. “Moana?” He shrugs a little, face hopeful and you ruffle his hair.

“Sure, baby. We can watch Moana.” Your heart pangs when you realize that Simon probably told Theo you’d want a movie because he was thinking about how you didn’t sleep, how you might be too tired to go to the park or do something more involved. He’s still taking care of you, after everything. Still wears the ring, still calls you his wife, still tells you he loves you, he-

“Can daddy stay?” The room suddenly feels devoid of oxygen.

“I’m sure dad has things he’s got to do tod-“

“I don’t.” He cuts you off and you smother the glare that threatens to pull across your face. You look down at Theo, who’s so excited, so blissfully pleased at the idea, head shifting as he looks back and forth between the two of you and you crumble a little bit, unable to take his happiness away from him. You destroyed his family, why can’t you let him have this? Guilt sears across your skin, the pressure of it so intense that you’re nodding your agreement before you even realize it.

“Okay then.” Theo shouts with excitement and sprints to the couch.

“I can go, if you’re not comfortable.” Simon offers when he’s out of earshot and you shake your head.

“No, it’s fine. Makes him happy.”

“Mum! Make popcorn!” Theo calls to where the two of you still stand, an awkward distance apart in the kitchen.

“What did you forget?”

“Pwease?”

“Thank you, much better.” Your crinkle the thin plastic of the popcorn bag into the trash, the noise similar to the static that’s now playing in your head, before you clear your throat. “Want to uh, go get him settled? And then I’ll be in. In a minute.” Simon doesn’t respond, just disappears from the kitchen, and you focus on the minute countdown on the microwave while you take deep, long breaths, a desperate attempt to fill your lungs with as much oxygen as possible, until it beeps and you’re pulling the door open to dump the popped kernels doused in butter into a bowl.

You’re tracing the wood grain pattern in the living room floor between your feet when you distantly hear a voice, calling you over and over. It feels far away, impossibly far away, like you’re at the bottom of the ocean or you’re on another planet.

“Hey, mum.” Simon’s voice draws you out of the depths sharply, and he strokes a gentle fingertip down your arm, over the pockmarked scar beneath your shoulder. The touch startles you, your head snapping up to see Theo standing in front of the coffee table in a red cape, construction paper mask, and Simon sitting delicately on the couch next to you. “Someone’s trying to show you something.” He inclines his head to the excited little boy, and you blink before shaking your head, trying to clear the fog that’s settled in your brain.

When it doesn’t, you shake your head again, and then look to Simon hopelessly. He reads you instantly, ushering Theo upstairs, enticing him with blocks and promises of story time later.

Blood. The scent of blood fills your nostrils, so strong that you think it might be dripping from your face, washing over your tongue, filling your mouth, filling the whole house.

Not real. It’s not real. You’re not there, you’re here. There is no danger.

Large palms cover yours, and then you’re looking up at Simon, his eyes soft, sympathetic, and you know he knows. You know he can see, what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking.

He can see it all, because he’s been here before, too. He’s survived, he’s fought, he’s lived.

But he’s never been… this. He’s never been a nightmare. Never been useless. Never been this broken like this, dirty and pathetic like this, weak like this.

Simon was strong. He fought. You failed. You couldn’t even get back to him. Couldn’t get back to your baby, your family.

You feel his touch again and you choke on a gasp.

You can’t let him touch you, he’ll know. He’ll see it. He’ll feel it.

“D-don’t.” you hiss, forcing a hand forward to hold him at bay.

“Shhh. It’s just me, Sass. I’ve got you.”

“No, n-no.” He can’t know. “No, I… I need” You stand, stumbling forward, catching yourself on the coffee table before straightening, Simon’s confused gaze tracking your every step while you put as much distance between the two of you as possible. “I need to lay down.”

When you cross into the living room, Simon’s sitting on the couch, Theo already snuggled up into his side, both watching the television intently. Theo looks so happy, his eyes light and joy filled, body weightless with love and the knowledge that he’s with his family.

His family, that you broke. That you destroyed. That you took from him.

Simon’s thighs are spread wide, their width in his jeans momentarily distracting you before you’re cataloguing his face, his lips, his eyes, the line of his nose, all things you used to know better than yourself, things you used to be able to trace in the dark. Your stomach flips, and the walls of your house look like they’re shaking, the buzzing noise in the back of your head roaring to life, drowning out the sound of Moana singing to sea.

“Mum?” Theo calls, hand out for the popcorn, and you deposit the bowl on the table before you’re backing away.

“I have to go fix something, in the kitchen really quick.” You explain to him, and he shrugs, eyes fixing back on the movie, fingers mindlessly bringing pieces of popcorn to his mouth.

Theo doesn’t notice when you take the stairs instead of turning into the kitchen, but you know Simon does, and you’re not surprised when he’s rapping his knuckles against your locked bedroom door, where you’re sitting with you back against the wood, hands pressed to your head, trying to control your breathing. He knocks again, but there’s only silence to answer him, and it stretches on for miles.

“Sass?” you hear him shift, feel his weight press against the door and at first you think he’s trying to come through but then you realize, he’s sitting against the other side, just like you.

His fingers slide underneath where there’s a gap between the floor and the door, just wide enough for a few fingers, just enough for you to see the glint of his ring.

Without thinking, your own fingers cover his.

Neither of you speak.

#sassy series #simon x sass #peaches writes #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x female reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader #cod fanfic #cod mwii #cod mw2

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impossiblycolorfulpanda · 22 days

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Zutara - Injury Recovery

After a brutal battle with Ozaatu and the red lotus. Zuko suffered some minor injuries, the gaang helped out and were hiding out in a hidden lodge.

Zuko: "Katara...?"

Katara: "(Shushes) will hide here until you're strong enough to move. Once again, you willingly put you're own well-being at risk for us. You're either the bravest prince I've ever met or the craziest."

Zuko: "Ex-prince, remember?"

Katara: "How do you always get hurt the way you do?"

Zuko: "Pain has become an old friend over the years."

Katara looked sad.

Katara: "I can't help but feel like I'm the one to blame."

Zuko: "What are you talking about?"

Katara: "Zuko, I'm always put in a situation I can't get out of, and you are always there to get me out, jeopardizing your own life while doing it! You shouldn't have to do that!"

Zuko: "I could just leave you to get hurt or die, couldn't I? It's my choice and I promised myself I'd make the right ones, and I’ll always do it knowing you're safe. I actually have a chance at saving you, I'm taking it, no questions asked. I'm not abandoning you like I was forced to abandon Azula because I'm an idiot."

Katara: "You are not an idiot."

Zuko: "You know of the mistakes I made and always called me out on them. No holding back. I always gave credit to my uncle for changing my ways, but I believe you also made me better in your own way, even if you didn’t know it. In a way. You saved me too."

Katara: "Zuko I..."

Zuko: "I'd be lost without you Katara."

Their eyes got caught in contact, unable to break. They leaned fearlessly, and their mouths caught into a kiss.

Aang’s eyes widened with shock. He wasn’t sure why; he already opened his last chakra and he told Katara his romantic feelings are gone but a part of him still felt surprised. His hands clutched and he closed his eyes. His mind wondered.

Patik voice: (Once you open this chakra, you will be able to go in and out of the Avatar State at will and when you are in the Avatar State, you will have complete control and awareness of all your actions. The Thought Chakra is located at the crown of the head. It deals with pure cosmic energy and is blocked by earthly attachment. Meditate on what attaches you to this world. Now, let all of those attachments go. Let them flow down the river, forgotten.)

Aang voice: (Yangchen said I'm supposed to latched on my earthly tethers; she was wrong. The moment all my chakras became open, at first, I was lost, and I was afraid I would always feel that way. But instead, a sense of calmness and true freedom has come over me, I'm no longer at war with myself and I see things more clearly. I’m no longer capable of harboring any romantic feelings for you. I’m sorry, but we could never be. My affections were never real, and they always clouded my judgment. I was wrong to risk ruining our friendship because of my desires. It’s better this way, that way I can truly embrace my role as the avatar. I’m not gonna keep letting fear stop me. I’m done running from who I am.)

Roku voice: (My wife was actually not an earthly tether, that honor belonged to Sozin. Ta Min was something else. I call it, the beacon of ascension. It is a person who is most special and most important to the avatar. The light within the darkness and the one to inspire you to achieve balance and your true potential and vice versa. Give yourself time Aang, your beacon of ascension is out there. This being is very rare and will sometimes appear when you least expect it.)

Aang eased his hands, took deep breaths, and opened his eyes. He made a tiny smirk at the new couple.

#atla #aang #zuko #katara #zutara #zutara month 2024

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materassassino · 8 months

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Patrimony

From the DinLuke Server prompt of the same word.

Luke reaches the end of his tether, and Ahsoka gets yelled at, as she deserves.

------

Luke feels out of his depth.

Everyone seems to know more than him.

“We didn’t used to do it like that,” Cal says, frowning.

“Oh, Kanan told me it was done this way,” Ezra says, flippant.

“That’s not how the Jedi teach,” Ahsoka says, disapproving.

“I don’t remember anything about that,” Reva says, dismissive.

“I DON’T THINK THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN APPROVED OF,” Gungi says, uncertain.

“Are you sure you want to do it that way?” Ezra asks, wincing, and Luke has had it.

He likes to think he’s left his rashness behind. He’s matured, he’s fully mastered his emotions. But even his patience can’t last forever.

He whips around to Ezra, shoulders set, face a mask of fury.

“You run this karking Order then!” he snarls. “If you’re all so much wiser than I am! Run it yourselves!”

And he storms off, blood hammering in his ears. He’s surprised he only said that, and not something so much worse, which was exactly what he wanted to. He stomps away from the little compound they’ve made, their temporary temple, and out into the streets of Sundari.

His boots pound the pavement as he tries to get as far away as possible, and Mandalorians quickly get out of his way, staring at him as he passes. He doesn’t care. All he can hear in his head is reproach, remonstration, criticism, dismissal. What do you even think you’re doing? the voices in his head demand, jeering at him. You don’t know anything!

Of course he doesn’t know anything, he thinks bitterly. He’s found himself in one of the little parks, a residential area, and he throws himself beneath a tree that still needs time to grow. No one told him anything. His masters were forging a weapon, not a Jedi. He didn’t even know what a Jedi was until he was nineteen! And they had the gall to call him the last, as if there weren’t people out there, people the same as him, who could have guided him from the start. They didn’t even attempt to remake the Order, and now they come here, judging every wrong step he takes without offering to teach him the dance in the first place.

He refuses to meditate, even though that would be the correct, Jedi thing to do. But he doesn’t want to be a Jedi just then. He doesn’t. He wants to drop everything and just run to the farthest corner of the galaxy where no one has even heard of the Force. Sithspit, even Tatooine would be better than this, right now.

What is he even trying to do, anyway? Maybe the Order would be better off dead and buried. What would the galaxy even gain, if he succeeded?

“May I sit?”

Luke hears the silver bells in the Force, their resonant chimes, and he scowls.

“What do you want?” he demands, not even looking up.

Ahsoka, wisely, chooses not to sit, because Luke would simply stand and then march off again.

“To discuss, perhaps,” she says, mild and supercilious and it grates on Luke’s nerves like metal scraping against metal, the hulls of two ships colliding. He surges to his feet, and her height doesn’t intimidate him – frankly, he’s faced taller, and meaner, and uglier.

“What’s to discuss? How I’m destroying everything? Ruining the legacy of the Jedi?!”

“Rage doesn’t—”

“Shut up, Ahsoka!” he snaps, and she does, her mouth clamping shut like he’s cast a spell on her. “You’re the worst of them all! Always needling, always criticising! You waltz in here whenever you want, proclaiming you’re not even a Jedi, and then proceed to tear everything apart because it’s not to your exacting, aloof standards!”

Luke breathes deeply through his nose, and instantly regrets everything he’s said. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m tired,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady, “of everything I do being worthless.”

Ahsoka is quiet. “Luke,” she says, and finally there’s some emotion in her voice after it’s been so distant all the time, “it’s not. You’re… you’re trying to do everything on your own. You’re exhausted, you’re barely at home.”

She reaches out, cautious, like he’s a cornered, wounded animal that might bite, and gently her hand settles on his shoulder. Viciously he contemplates shrugging her off, but that just feels petty. He simply glances at her hand, and then at her.

“We know how much this means to you,” she says. “How much is at stake. You’ve done so much and you’ve done it by yourself.”

He scoffs at her.

She frowns. “It’s not just your legacy, Luke. You can’t carry it alone.”

“I’m not trying to!” he says through gritted teeth. “I was never trying to! I need help, not constant belittlement!”

Ahsoka sighs. “I… I think some of us are afraid,” she says. “We’re afraid it might be too distant from what we knew, even if we barely knew anything in the first place.” She removes her hand and sits, cross-legged, rubbing her arms. She looks much younger than she is, in that moment. “The world we knew is gone, and it’s been gone so long, that to see something being born out of its ashes means… letting go of it.” She looks up, tears in the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry, Luke.”

He takes a deep breath, and for a long moment he stares at the ground beside her, before making a choice. He sits as well.

“It can’t go back to how it was,” Luke says. “I’m trying. I know it’s not the same, but it can’t be the same. Am I qualified? No. But are any of us? You all left me alone to do this by myself, no help, no guidance, no knowledge. I’ve been working off puzzle pieces that don’t even fit together. You say you want to help now, but it doesn’t feel like help. It just feels like resentment.”

Ahsoka’s breath hitches and she shuts her eyes, a look of pain on her face. “I know. The thing is, you’re doing so well. You’ve given us a place to call home again, you’re finding our history, you’re finding us the future as well…” She rubs at her eyes. “We had nothing for decades. We ran and we hid and we died, and then you came along and...” She gestures at everything around them, the rebuilt dome and the cleared streets and the rebuilt houses. “You even made allies out of old enemies. You’ve done so much.”

She looks at him then, biting her lip. “Is… is this because of Anakin?”

Luke scowls at her. “Not everything is to do with Anakin kriffing Skywalker,” he says waspishly.

“No, I meant… do you feel guilt for what he did?” she asks. “Do you feel bound to it because of him? Because of his actions?”

“I…” Luke swallows, and searches inside himself. I am a Jedi, like my father before me. “No,” he admits. “It’s not guilt. It’s not repentance, because I didn’t do it. It’s more… the right thing to do. It’s because the galaxy will be better for it.” He laughs bitterly. “Not that it feels like it.”

“How so?”

“Sometimes I wonder what the point of it is,” he says gloomily, tugging at the grass beneath his fingers. “Maybe the Order should have stayed dead.”

“Have you ever… thought of leaving?” Ahsoka asks, her voice gentle.

Luke blinks.

“You could, you know,” Ahsoka continues. “You have a husband, a son. Grogu doesn’t need to be a Jedi. You could simply be Luke.”

He’d thought about it, on lonely sleepless nights, curled up in bed on Yavin 4, all alone, where the future seemed impenetrable and murky and ultimately futile. But he hadn’t. He gotten up the next day and continued, one foot in front of the other. Although… well, if Grogu hadn’t have come along, perhaps he would have. Loneliness was becoming too familiar a state of being.

Luke shakes his head. “I am a Jedi. That’s what I am. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see the suffering in the galaxy and turn a blind eye to it, just walk away from it all. Not when I can do so much more.”

Ahsoka smiles then, her eyes creasing. “There’s your answer. That’s the point.” She sighs again. “I think we’ve been neglecting that, but we’ve also been neglecting each other. We’ve all been so isolated, it hasn’t done us good.”

“Jedi are pack animals?” Luke suggests, teasing, and Ahsoka chuckles.

It’s quiet, broken by the sound of children playing a street away and the recycled breeze in the leaves above them.

“You’re a good grandmaster, Luke,” Ahsoka says. “Don’t let us tell you otherwise.”

Luke stiffens, head snapping round to stare at her. “What?”

“A good grandmaster,” she repeats.

He shakes his head. “No. No, I’m no grandmaster, I’m far too young for that…”

“Who else is there?” Ahsoka asks. “Me, the coward running away from her own truth? Cal, who ran away from everything else? Reva, who was an Inquisitor?” She sets her hand on his shoulder again, more confidently this time, and Luke welcomes its weight. “You’ve done more than we ever could. You’re the only one it could be.” She makes a face. “And perhaps being old isn’t always the best choice.”

“I’ll take that,” he says, shrugging. “I’m not calling myself that, though. Not yet, anyway.”

Ahsoka nods with a chuckle.

Together they head back to the compound, and all eyes are on them as they walk through the gate. Grogu sprints across the yard and launches himself into Luke’s arms, babbling wildly and accusatorially.

“Well, they didn’t kill each other,” Reva says.

“Are you ok?” Ezra asks, nervous.

Luke sighs. “Yes. But… It’s been feeling like you’re all against me, like you hate everything I do, and that’s been… demoralising.”

“Talking out your feelings like normal people?” Merrin heckles from her seat beneath the porch – she tends to watch, distant and slightly mocking of it all, but fundamentally supportive. “Not very Jedi.”

Cal rolls his eyes as Reva huffs darkly.

“WE DIDN’T MEAN THAT, LUKE,” Gungi says. “IF YOU HADN’T HAVE FOUND US, WE WOULDN’T EVEN BE HERE, TOGETHER AGAIN.”

“We owe you a lot,” Cal admits, folding his arms. “What you’ve done so far, it’s incredible.”

“And we didn’t get this far by doing it by the book,” Ezra says. “We had to adapt to survive.”

Luke rocks Grogu gently, looking down at him pensively. Grogu looks up, curious, and touches his little claws to Luke’s hand.

It’s for him, isn’t it? Everything that he does, ultimately, is for Grogu, and those that will come after him. The legacy isn’t something they’ve been handed from the past, it’s a debt owed to the future. And there is no future without change.

“The past can prepare us,” Luke says, tickling Grogu behind the ear, just to hear him giggle, “but we can’t chart a course back to it. And I can’t do it alone, I need all of you with me.”

“Spoken like a true grandmaster,” Ahsoka murmurs, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder.

The word doesn’t fit right now, but perhaps it will, in the future.

#star wars #luke skywalker #ahsoka tano #ezra bridger #cal kestis #grogu #very very background #dinluke #pixie writes #new jedi order

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illuminatedquill · 3 months

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Ghost Stories #02

Feat. Garazeb Orrelios + Sabine Wren + Ezra Bridger

Story Context: Zeb catches Sabine doing something embarrassing regarding Ezra. Desperate to keep her secret, Sabine endeavors to secure Zeb's silence at any cost.

Ghost Stories #01

The door to Sabine's room opened with its customary hiss, allowing for Zeb to step inside. In normal circumstances, the first thing he would do is admire all the new artwork covering the walls of her room; Sabine was a top tier artist, and she constantly refreshed and updated the interior with painted visuals of their most recent escapades. It was a fun hobby that allowed distance from the constant grind of waging warfare against the implacable Empire. Everyone on the Ghost crew had something personal to distract themselves from the war - Hera, for example, had her constant maintenance and upkeep of the Ghost.

Kanan, he knew, practiced the Jedi art of meditation and centering oneself within the Force. Ezra had recently taken up cooking as a hobby, to surprisingly delicious results. Even Chopper had a side hustle: scamming low ranking Imperial officers of their ill-gotten credits with threats of blackmail to help pay for supplies (Hera didn't know about this and would strongly disapprove if she did).

Squinting around in Sabine's bedroom, Zeb quickly noted that the atmosphere was different this time around.

For one, he couldn't see a blasted thing. It was pitch dark. The only light source came from a small desk pressed against one of the walls; a bright, glaring lamp that shined down onto the surface to show a wicked looking knife, a whetstone to sharpen said knife, and, on the chair in front of it, a casually dressed Sabine. Her casual wear consisted of simple, comfy athletic shorts and a slightly too large shirt with a loth-cat design printed on the front - a recent addition to her wardrobe from their last visit to Lothal.

He frowned pensively at the loth-cat shirt. Isn't that . . . no, it couldn't be, he thought.

Sabine, her back towards Zeb, picked up the knife and whetstone. With practiced, precise movements, she began to sharpen the knife.

Shink. Shink. Shink.

Zeb's ears pricked up slightly each time the knife was sharpened. It was a somewhat sinister sound, enhanced even more by Sabine's shadowed profile against the lamp light.

I have a bad feeling about this, he thought.

"Zeb. Appreciate you coming here tonight," said Sabine casually.

The big Lasat swallowed nervously. "You, uh, called me here. Wanted to talk about something."

Shink. Shink. Shink. The knife's edge continued to be sharpened, Sabine's hands moving delicately.

"That's right," she replied. "You remember what occurred yesterday?"

Zeb scratched idly at the side of his head. "We picked up some supplies from Capital City, checked on Ryder and his crew, and then just relaxed outside of Ezra's comm tower for a bit before receiving new instructions from Rebel command."

Shink. The knife stopped moving briefly, just hovering over the whetstone. "Anything else happen, Zeb?"

"Is this - is this about your drawing? Of Ezra? Cuddling with those loth cats?"

Sabine finally turned around to look at him. In the light, her knife glinted with a wicked gleam.

"I need you to do me a favor, Zeb."

The Lasat kept his eyes on the knife in her hand. "I'm listening."

Smiling wolfishly, Sabine said, "I need you to hand over that drawing. I know you were going to show it off to him."

"I, uh, wasn't planning on it." That was a bald-faced lie. He'd ripped it out of Sabine's sketchbook when she had left it discarded and had been about to spill it all to Ezra before being interrupted by Sabine's summons.

She cocked her head at him. Her smile dropped. "You're lying to me, Zeb. I can always tell. You've got a lousy sabacc face, and you know it."

Zeb was still watching the knife. "What are you going to do with that knife, Sabine?"

She twirled it expertly between her fingers. "It's all nice and sharp now, Zeb. Guess I have to put it somewhere, right?"

He was breaking into a cold sweat now. "Where are you, uh, going to put it?"

Sabine shrugged. "I haven't decided yet. Depends on your answer."

He backed up against the wall, feeling somewhat desperate. "Look, Sabine. What's the big deal? You draw Ezra all the time! Not just him, too. You've drawn me, Hera, Kanan, even Chopper. I don't see what's so special about this one drawing."

The knife twirled and twirled. Light reflected from the steel surface, right into his face, causing discomfort.

"You know what's special about this particular drawing, Zeb. And I want it back. Ezra can't know."

"What," Zeb shot back, "that you like him now?"

Sabine froze. He was treading on the thin ice now and knew it, but pressed his advantage while she was taken off guard.

"He's not going to understand that from your super special drawing of him, Sabine. Your secret's safe. I promise."

Actually, it was fairly obvious from the drawing. Sabine's prior sketches of Ezra were always just that: sketches. No extra effort put into them, and usually gave the impression that she was just studying his anatomy, using his facial expressions as practice to keep her art sharp.

But, oh, it wasn't like that anymore.

Her newest drawings of Ezra were, indeed, something truly special. She had been paying extra attention to him as of late. Even someone oblivious like Ezra would immediately sense the immense labor of love and affection that went into the art, clear as day.

While she was thinking, the Lasat carefully began to sidle towards the doorway.

Frowning, staring at the floor, Sabine asked, "You really think Ezra won't be able to tell?"

"Yeah, of course," Zeb lied. "He's denser than durasteel, that boy."

Sabine snorted. "You're probably right."

He almost cried out in relief. "Good to hear - "

The knife embedded itself into the wall, right next to his ear. He froze, knees shaking like jelly.

Sabine's eyes glinted evilly in the dark. "I'm still going to need that drawing back, Zeb. Before you leave."

He quickly reached into his pocket and offered it to her. She snatched it from his hand.

"Are we done here?" Zeb squeaked.

She grinned malevolently at him. "We are. Thanks, Zeb."

Pausing at the door, he mustered his remaining courage and said, "Sabine, at some point Ezra is going to find out. You can't keep it a secret forever."

After a long moment, he heard her quiet reply. "I know. It's just . . . it's not the right time. I'll tell him on my own terms."

Zeb turned around. The look on her face was a little sad.

"You know," he said, thinking out loud, "Ezra might know already."

Sabine's eyes went wide with shock and apprehension. "What? How?"

"Because every time you look at him, your face looks like this." And he gave Sabine the most dopey, idiotic, love-sick smile as a hideous impression of her.

Uttering a curse, Sabine leapt up from her seat. Zeb scampered out the door, almost colliding with Ezra.

Grinning at him as he ran past, Zeb teased, "Ah, mate. You've got quite the handful of work ahead of you."

Blinking in confusion, Ezra said, "Huh?"

"Garazeb Orrelios," came Sabine's furious yell as she tore after the big Lasat. "Come back here!"

Making a beeline to the Phantom II (so he could lock himself safely within), Zeb almost missed an exchange between Ezra and Sabine:

"What's going on - wait. Is that my loth-cat shirt?" asked Ezra.

Skidding to a halt, Zeb risked a peek around the corner. I knew I recognized that shirt, he thought.

Sabine almost tripped in shock. "Uh - n-no?" she stammered in response. A flush was already spreading on her cheeks.

Ezra peered at her closely. "Pretty sure it is," he said. "Why do you have it? I've been looking for it everywhere."

Zeb broke out into a cold sweat again as he watched. Think before you speak, Sabine, he warned silently, trying to reach out telepathically. Use that brain of yours!

"It, uh, it smells nice," she blurted out. "Like you."

There was a sickening pause.

Sabine's hands clapped over her mouth in instinctive horror.

Ezra went slack-jawed in surprise. "You think I smell nice?"

Redder than a blaster bolt, Sabine sprinted back into her room. A couple seconds later, Zeb and Ezra heard the sound of muffled screaming.

Ezra stood there for a moment, silent, and then said, in a loud tone meant to come off as super casual, "You can have it! I'm glad you like it! I'll just get another one, it's fine!"

The screaming got louder.

Zeb's hands pressed against his mouth, trying desperately to hold in the laughter threatening to burst out.

Oh, Sabine. You have it bad for this goober.

*Author's Note: Hello! So, this is the continuation of a series that was previously called 'Sabezra Seed'. I re-named it because 'Ghost Stories' felt more apt (and also sounds way cooler), considering that it's a series of short fics featuring the Ghost crew.

There's no special reason for this short story. I just wanted to see Sabine and Ezra act goofy and just be teenagers. We really don't get many instances of them acting their age during Rebels, due to the war and the pressures of their circumstances forcing them to grow up quickly. Zeb, being the typical older brother of the Ghost crew, is an instigator here and almost ends up paying with his life, ha ha.

Life aboard the Ghost, when they're not flying missions of galactic importance, probably resembles a sit-com, honestly.

#sabezra #sabine wren #ezra bridger #garazeb orrelios #star wars rebels #ezrabine #star wars #sabezra fanfiction #ghost stories 02

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thefeathercollective · 8 months

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we're 99.9% sure that portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa was plural.

okay uh disclaimer. we're not a psychology or literature expert by any means. we rarely even read poetry. we only heard of this guy in high school literature class and the thought stuck with us and then we found plausible evidence lmao. also, as a plural system ourselves, we're clearly biased.

and a considerable amount of this post will be sourced from wikipedia. and this is the first time we've made a post like this. please don't come after us I'm just writing this for fun lmao

huge ramble ahead!

who even was that man

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa (Portuguese: [fɨɾˈnɐ̃du pɨˈsoɐ]; 13 June 1888 – 30 November 1935) was a Portuguese poet, writer, literary critic, translator, publisher, and philosopher, described as one of the most significant literary figures of the 20th century and one of the greatest poets in the Portuguese language. He also wrote in and translated from English and French.

yeah that's who the man was. but what really sparked our interest in him during class and made us wonder if he was plural were his...

✨heteronyms✨

y'know pseudonyms? when someone writes under a different name than their own for whatever reason? these are similar, but the catch is that the different names have different personalities, supposed appearances, philosophies, all that shit.

the term was coined by Pessoa himself, and his heteronyms were written as if they were real people. they had detailed careers, histories, etc. he had at least 70, although I vaguely remember some other source estimating it at around 100.

"but eva, these could just be OCs or something!",

he had 3 main ones though, being Alberto Caeiro (known for interpreting the world as-is, without greater meaning or anything, like some sorta anti-poet), Álvaro de Campos (a naval engineer who even had multiple phases in his philosophy) and Ricardo Reis (who wrote with a lot of structure and rationality, and was very pessimistic).

I predict someone typing. to that, I begin my endless copy-paste + ramble about all the things that make us think the heteronyms were headmates.

I'll throw in a section of a letter Pessoa wrote to some other poet (bolding the parts I find relevant because I don't love walls of text lmao)

How do I write in the name of these three? Caeiro, through sheer and unexpected inspiration, without knowing or even suspecting that I'm going to write in his name. Ricardo Reis, after an abstract meditation, which suddenly takes concrete shape in an ode. Campos, when I feel a sudden impulse to write and don't know what. (My semi-heteronym Bernardo Soares, who in many ways resembles Álvaro de Campos, always appears when I'm sleepy or drowsy, so that my qualities of inhibition and rational thought are suspended; his prose is an endless reverie. He's a semi-heteronym because his personality, although not my own, doesn't differ from my own but is a mere mutilation of it. He's me without my rationalism and emotions. His prose is the same as mine, except for certain formal restraint that reason imposes on my own writing, and his Portuguese is exactly the same – whereas Caeiro writes bad Portuguese, Campos writes it reasonably well but with mistakes such as "me myself" instead of "I myself", etc.., and Reis writes better than I, but with a purism I find excessive…)

so not only does he describe writing Caeiro completely unexpectedly, he also gives the same sort of opinion about his heteronyms' writings that we've seen (and experienced) plural folks give about their headmates' typing or drawing styles.

hell, "writes better than I but with a purism I find excessive" is exactly my opinion of lynn when he does our assignments lmao

the semi-heteronym surfacing when Pessoa is sleepy could be some sorta dissociative state that lets a headmate come through, be it straight-up fronting or passive influence... but I'm probably forcing it too much here.

uhhh here's something on the heteronym thing from some guy called richard zenish. I bolded some parts again

For each of his 'voices', Pessoa conceived a highly distinctive poetic idiom and technique, a complex biography, a context of literary influence and polemics and, most arrestingly of all, subtle interrelations and reciprocities of awareness. [...] Pessoa was often unsure who was writing when he wrote, and it's curious that the very first item among the more than 25,000 pieces that make up his archives in the National Library of Lisbon bears the heading A. de C. (?) or B. de D. (or something else).

"okay.... they could still be characters though"

the heteronyms were aware of and sometimes interacted between themselves. wikipedia's list of Pessoa's heteronyms even has the man himself as a heteronym and pupil of Alberto Caeiro, although I don't feel like going after the source for that bit.

dear hypothetical person I'm quoting here, you're entitled to your opinion. but how about we take, say... a more DID/OSDD-y approach to things? because there's things that hint that Fernando Pessoa's plurality could be traumagenic and/or disordered too.

When Pessoa was five, his father, Joaquim de Seabra Pessôa, died of tuberculosis and less than seven months later his younger brother Jorge, aged one, also died (2 January 1889).

(written by himself about himself:) Nothing had ever obliged him to do anything. He had spent his childhood alone. He never joined any group. He never pursued a course of study. He never belonged to a crowd. The circumstances of his life were marked by that strange but rather common phenomenon – perhaps, in fact, it's true for all lives – of being tailored to the image and likeness of his instincts, which tended towards inertia and withdrawal.

(written by a schoolfellow:) For one of his age, he thought much and deeply and in a letter to me once complained of "spiritual and material encumbrances of most especial adverseness". He took no part in athletic sports of any kind and I think his spare time was spent on reading. We generally considered that he worked far too much and that he would ruin his health by so doing.

so childhood trauma, check...? at the very least this stuff doesn't sound very good for a child's mental health.

Pessoa's earliest heteronym, at the age of six, was Chevalier de Pas. Other childhood heteronyms included Dr. Pancrácio and David Merrick, followed by Charles Robert Anon, a young Englishman who became Pessoa's alter ego.

"I can remember what I believe was my first heteronym, or rather, my first nonexistent acquaintance — a certain Chevalier de Pas — through whom I wrote letters to myself when I was six years old, and whose not entirely hazy figure still has a claim on the part of my affections that borders on nostalgia. I have a less vivid memory of another figure . . . who was a kind of rival to the Chevalier de Pas. Such things occur to all children ? Undoubtedly — or perhaps. But I lived them so intensely that I live them still; their memory is so strong that I have to remind myself that they weren’t real."

oh I just found some spiritual stuff too

the appearance of the first heteronym was after his family members died so that's one thing... and like, that's not just one childhood heteronym but at least four. and well, to me they sound a bit too vivid for your average imaginary friend.

Pessoa's interest in spiritualism was truly awakened in the second half of 1915, while translating theosophist books. This was further deepened in the end of March 1916, when he suddenly started having experiences where he believed he became a medium, having experimented with automatic writing. [...] Besides automatic writing, Pessoa stated also that he had "astral" or "etherial visions" and was able to see "magnetic auras" similar to radiographic images. [...] Mediumship exerted a strong influence in Pessoa's writings, who felt "sometimes suddenly being owned by something else" or having a "very curious sensation" in the right arm, which was "lifted into the air" without his will. Looking in the mirror, Pessoa saw several times what appeared to be the heteronyms: his "face fading out" and being replaced by the one of "a bearded man", or another one, four men in total.

........

man, this wikipedia article is extensive and full of stuff that supports our silly little theory, huh.

yeah, so he attributed it to spiritual reasons which is fair and valid, but... "owned by something else" all of a sudden? the thing with the right arm sounding a lot like partial possession in tulpamancy? seeing his heteronyms' faces in the mirror?

yeahhhh.

(I'm guessing the magnetic aura thing could be some sorta derealization, contributing to the he-was-a-dissociative-system hypothesis, but that's yet another stretch on my part.)

(plus, spiritual plurality is a thing.)

oh! this thing he wrote sounds a lot like it too.

"This tendency to create around me another world . . . began in me as a young adult, when a witty remark that was completely out of keeping with who I am or think I am would sometimes and for some unknown reason occur to me, and I would immediately, spontaneously say it as if it came from some friend of mine whose name I would invent, along with biographical details, and whose figure — physiognomy, stature, dress and gestures — I would immediately see before me."

let's just do a quick google..

am I biased? yes, very much so. but y'know. you can see I have my reasons.

to see if any people with more qualifications than we have think the same about Fernando Pessoa possibly being plural lmao.

...oh, yes. contrary to what we thought a couple years ago when we had that class about the guy, other people have indeed thought the same. and written about it.

keywords "fernando pessoa mpd" give us:

this paper from 2012 (in portuguese) that... well, I *think* it claims he had mpd but it's very convoluted and abstract about it

this little... forum post? from 2009 that quotes a dead link :v

this one seems kinda cool. it regards Pessoa's positive approach to his heteronym-having as a creative condion called Pessoa Syndrome, and later mentions some Multiple Personality Order (not disorder). don't love some of its wording about mental disorders and madness... it's good to see someone consider healthy multiplicity as a thing that exists, though. it also claims Pessoa became someone with multiple personalities through his heteronymic writing, which is yet another possible origin I hadn't considered before for some fucking reason.

this one cites a dissociative process

this one straight up calls it "subject plurality"!

conclusion ig. I'm pretending to be organized here.

other keywords (like "fernando pessoa dissociative") provide some more results :0 but I've been writing this post for far too long now and would rather not read through more odd wording lmao

it really surprises me that wikipedia doesn't mention the possibility at all from what I've read and ctrl+F'ed. I thought we were being a conspiracy theorist about it but then I found even more stuff to back us up, including other people's analyses. so that's nice.

and I think this kind of thing, of plurals of the past, should be talked about more in the community. it's really interesting to say the least.

...

how does one even end a post like this one.

uhh thanks for reading!!

#eva.headmate #pluralgang #plurality #plural community #plural system

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spidervisuals · 10 months

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☆ Plane to paris

🎧: What would happen if this plane to paris went down?

part one | part two

pairing: earth 42 Miles x black model female reader

Synopsis: You and Miles had an extremely big fight the day before you leave to paris for fashion week. Unfortunately, you leave before you guys end up making up.

tw: mentions of a plane crash, heavy arguments, slight mentions of dea!h, slight mention of over perfectionism and body dysmorphia.

A/N: this is inspired by nessa barrett's (love her sm hehehehe) "plane to paris" song which has been my ultimate favorite as of recently.

Everyone knew it was on your vision board. It had always been your dream to model but now, you were finally living it. Your jaw completely droped when you checked your emails to find out that you had been selected to model for chanel at Paris fashion week.

"Mama!" You yelled downstairs, "Guess who's going to Paris!?" You squealed as you ran to show your mother the email.

"Honey- what-" your mother covered her mouth with her hands as she spun around in excitement, "first class tickets I assume?"

You laughed as your mums expression changed from excited to slightly concerned.

"Now what is your little model self still awake at 12am in the morning?" She rose an eyebrow

"Uhhh...meditation?" You said trying your best to sound convincing.

She scoffed, "yeah right. Don't stay up to late talking to that boyfriend of yours".

You hugged her as you ran back upstairs and opened up Miles contact.

Mi luver 🖤

12:15am

you: baby wake up

Read. 12.18am

Mi luver 🖤: whatcha doing up at 12am in the morning?

Read. 12:20am

You: FaceTime me right now

Read. 12.25am

"Mi luver 🖤 liked your message"

Miles couldn't even get two words in as you excitedly spilled the news to him.

"I'm so proud of your princessa", Miles yawned whilst giving you a tired smile.

"Soooooo, you're going to help me pack right?"

" Of course. I love the mini fashion shows you give me" he smirks at you whilst you chuckle.

" Sorry baby you can get sleep" you said whilst blowing him kiss.

He smiles at you whilst ending the call.

You were focused on making your catwalk perfect, removing all flaws from your face, hair, body everything. Everytime you looked at yourself, you felt like something needed to change. With your desperate need for perfection, you found yourself lacking in other areas like your school work, mental health and especially your relationship with Miles.

"Honey, you know that this is only for a week right?" Your mother would tell you as you forced her to watch your catwalk for the 30th time.

"Mum just watch this last time", you told her as you rubbed your feet. You had gain blisters all over your feet due to the continuous practice. You didn't care infact good. No pain no gain you'd continously tell yourself.

"Honey it's ok to take breaks", she looked at you concerned, "let me help-"

"Mama it's alright" you told her as you looked at yourself in the full body mirror, "I just need more practice".

"Honey, I gotta go back to work" she said whilst getting off her seat, "Oh and remember to text that boyfriend of yours. Rio's been saying that he's been worried due to your lack of contact" she told you as she walked to the kitchen.

"Shoot" you panicked as you check your phone to see 50 missed calls from Miles and over 70+ messages. You felt like you didn't have time so you sent him a quick responses as an apology

You: sorry love, I've been really busy. Call you soon.

Read. 8:15pm

"Mi luver 🖤 liked your message"

You didn't end up calling him back but instead focused on your catwalk. It had to be perfect. It needed to be.

#miles morales #spiderman astv #prowler miles #meows morales #miles g morales #earth 42 miles morales x reader

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renlyslittlerose · 8 months

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Kinktober Day 16 - Rough Sex

Today's prompt: Rough Sex (ft. Vaderwan)

All That's Left - 1,200 Rating: E Content: Vaderwan; Sith Obi-Wan; Rough sex; Mentions of physical disabilities and past injuries; Two Sith being absolute twats to each other

---

“Shame we have to do this in here.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Eyes that burned like the depths of a roaring blaze glared up at Obi-Wan, biting and accusatory as the pair lay beneath the harsh lights of the meditation chamber. Hands made of metal gripped Obi-Wan’s arms, digging into pale skin that would soon be covered up by the crisp tailoring of the Imperial uniform. Obi-Wan bit back a hiss of pain as the body beneath him tensed, walls closing in around his cock, locking him in place and stalling his movements.

“Let me move,” Obi-Wan gritted out.

Vader tilted his head back, the warped tendons of his neck flexing as he breathed steadily through the apparatus covering his mouth and nose. He refused to take it off even as they were like this - locked tight together, skin to skin, Obi-Wan’s cock tucked tight into his mangled body. A body Obi-Wan had destroyed - mutilated, if Vader was feeling particularly spiteful with his words.

“With adversity comes great reward,” Vader murmured, and Obi-Wan could see a flash of delight in his eyes.

“I’m not about to rip my cock off just to fuck you.” He shifted, his grip tightening along Vader’s thighs as he spread him open, exposing him further. Obi-Wan licked his lips and traced the dips and grooves along Vader’s hips and groin with his eyes, settling on the remains of his cock. “We wouldn’t want both of us to lose our cocks now, would we?”

The force rippled between them, lashing at Obi-Wan’s back as Vader was squeezed down harder and harder, his hands pushing into Obi-Wan’s muscles until Obi-Wan thought he might break bone. Obi-Wan chewed the inside of his cheek and stared at Vader, refusing to give him what he wanted - a cry or a whimper or any indication that this hurt. But just as Obi-Wan thought Vader might actually win this round Vader relaxed, the force no longer roiling around them but steadying into something more familiar. Still dangerous, though less immediate.

But just as Obi-Wan was about to begin moving again - to complete what they’d started so he could get out of the dreadful little chamber Vader called ‘comfortable’ - Vader let out a deep sigh, the sound of it rattling through the mask on his face that covered his smirk.

“You never did know what to do with my cock even when I had one,” Vader said simply.

Obi-Wan felt heat slide along his cheeks and down his neck, and with nothing to hide behind he was forced to show that Vader’s words actually had an effect on him. It had been some time since he’d thought back to when he’d given into the pleading and pitiful sensations of his desires when he was a Jedi - felt the guilt and the angst that came with wanting to rest between the legs of his beautiful, unspoiled Padawan and bite into the vulnerable flesh of his thighs. He’d been such a weak fool then, agonizing over what it all meant.

Neither Obi-Wan nor Vader brought up their past unless they wanted to hurt; unless they wanted to slice through flesh and crack a bone, hollowing out the marrow to write their words of regret and sorrow and anger into the very insides of their bodies. Obi-Wan didn’t want to remember what he’d done even though he knew he ought to revel in the destruction and pain he’d caused the man beneath him. And Vader just didn’t want to remember anything at all.

Vader must have really been mad about Obi-Wan’s quip about him being an ‘attack hound’ earlier in the day.

Vader had released his tight grip on Obi-Wan’s cock and arms, and Obi-Wan relaxed slightly, his body no longer taught and trembling as he rested between Vader’s thighs. Dropping his hands from Obi-Wan’s arms, Vader stretched them above his head, damaged muscles flexing across his powerful frame, the light from above highlighting the sharp angles of his mechno-arms and the sockets that dug into his chest and shoulders. He’d taken his legs off earlier, Obi-Wan complaining that they cut him as they fucked. It was a small gesture that both pretended didn’t mean anything.

Obi-Wan sucked back a breath as the pressure was finally released, and gripped Vader’s thighs before fucking into him - fast and quick and punishing. Vader let out a deep moan, the sound of his breathing harsh and mechanical as it twirled around in the space. His eyes fluttered closed, dark embers hidden beneath tired lids as he stretched and preened beneath Obi-Wan’s touch.

The fight was done and all that was left was the release.

Vader wasn’t Anakin - he wasn’t smooth bronze skin that shimmered beneath the light with a tangle of curls that clung to his temples and the sides of his cheeks, slick with sweat. His eyes didn’t sparkle blue, full of wonder and mischief, his lips didn’t twist into a pretty pout or a brilliant smile, and his hands didn’t sooth and pet and tangle with Obi-Wan’s. But Vader still demanded recognition as his boyhood self had; still feared rejection and abandonment; still desired Obi-Wan’s attention in whatever ways he could have it.

Obi-Wan still had power over Vader.

Closing his eyes Obi-Wan focused on the pleasures as they coursed through his body. His muscles strained and his body was drenched with sweat, the heat of the space almost overwhelming. The sound of Vader’s mechanized breathing broke through the slap of skin against skin and Obi-Wan’s own grunts. He almost lost his grip on Vader’s thighs but kept them where they were, pushing past the muscle memory that told him to reach between and stroke.

Instead Vader came with a muted growl, muscles tensing as he hooked his thighs around Obi-Wan’s waist and pulled him close. Obi-Wan collapsed on top of him and kissed his mask, tongue sliding against the cold, unfeeling metal and plastic as he shuddered through his own release, spilling himself and soothing the savage beasts that lurked in both their chests, pushing them further and further to the edge of destruction.

He rested himself across Vader’s larger frame as soon as he was done, softened cock slipping out of Vader’s relaxed hole. A moment passed, neither willing to push the other away and cut the cord once more. Instead Obi-Wan pressed a kiss to Vader’s scarred cheek and spoke.

“Did you come?” he asked softly.

“Yes.”

Obi-Wan sat up then and rolled off of Vader. He cleaned himself quickly and began to dress, watching Vader out of the corner of his eye. He was wincing as he moved, little flutters in his expression that only Obi-Wan could see.

“I’ll let Moff Tarkin know you’ll be in your bacta chamber,” Obi-Wan said as he shoved his boots on. “You look like you could use the rest.”

Vader’s expression softened a moment before hardening once more, a sneer evident beneath his mask. “You didn’t fuck me that well.”

#obikin #vaderwan #star wars fanfiction #lemon fanfiction #kinktober 2023 #lemon does kinktober

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sproutedlavender · 28 days

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Shift your thoughts and change your life (REALITY SHIFTING IS REAL BABES)

Always remember that you have the ability to shift your reality at any moment. It may not always be an immediate physical shift. It might just be a shift of perspective, but never underestimate the power of your mind!

The way you view life is the way you live it. Your perspective and beliefs are literally creating the world you live in. By shifting your perspective on something, your reality literally changes!

So, if you're feeling down 'cus you're not waking up in your desired reality, don't feel discouraged! Change your thoughts first and the 3D will follow.

The 3d is nothing more than a reflection of your inner world. It's a mirror, showing you what's happening inside.

Nurture your mind, focus on the inside and the outside will change all of its own.

How to shift your thoughts

JUST DECIDE! That's literally all it takes. when you make a strong enough decision to shift, it's done. You don't need to work hard and make it happen, it can literally happen in an instant.

If you want to do affirmations or methods to help you out, great! But it's really up to your mind. Your mind holds all the power and you can change your life in an instant. Don't believe me? Let's take a look at this case study I heard about. It's powerful, inspiring and shows just how FREAKING EASY IT IS TO SHIFT

Shifting realities/ Quantum jumping case study:

One there was a man, (we'll call him Bill) who was walking down a street in India. He was headed to a meditation retreat and got lost down the wrong alley. There, he saw a shady looking car pull up at the curb and four buff dudes hopped out. They started walking towards him with metal pipes and a couple of knives. It was clear they were thugs and that this situation wasn't going to end well. So, naturally, Bill was freaking out and tried to look for a way out of the situation. The car had blocked his path and he was pretty much cornered. He wasn't all that strong either and the idea of him taking on 4 guys was laughable.

In a flash, Bill saw his future, one where he got beat up and left bleeding out on the street. But then Bill saw another future, where the men turned around, got in their car and drove away, leaving him healthy and perfectly fine. In that moment, Bill realized something. There are multiple future paths. There is not just one set future he was forced to experience. Everything was a decision.

So Bill decided to choose the second future. With his whole being, Bill imagined the men getting back it their car and leaving him alone. He felt it with such certainty that his entire being vibrated and he could feel himself physically shift realities.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the men stop, look around in confusion (as though they were the ones that were lost), get back in their car and drive off, leaving Bill perfectly find in the middle of the street.

Bill was left standing in absolute awe at what had just happened but at the same time, he knew this was nothing out of the ordinary. He was shifting at every moment.

_______________________

Moral of the story: When you decide something with such certainty and pour your entire being into that decision, it MUST happen.

Everything you've experienced in this reality have been because of your decisions. You're constantly shifting through timelines but they often look so similar that you don't realize you're doing it.

Make a decision. Feel it being done with your whole being. Not just your mind YOUR WHOLE DAMN BEING. and live your life as thought it is done. Because it is.

And even if you don't feel shifts right away, don't be discouraged. Live in the end and the 3D will shift to match your new beliefs soon enough.

Ps. (shameless promo I'm sorry) If you need some more inspiration or information on manifesting with the Law of Assumption (best law if you ask me) I wrote a whole post on it to help you guys out. You can check it out here.

#shifting realities #reality #reality shifting #truth #loa #law of assumption #decision #decide it is done #neville goddard #case study #manifestation #manifesting case study #change your life #thoughts become things

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mrsharringtonskywalkersnow · 6 days

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No Cure For Us (Ch.3)

Ch. 1 // Ch. 2

Chapter Warnings: Language. Implied past abuse. Child slavery.

Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Fem!OC

Summary: A sharp increase in the slave trade creates a unique mission for a young padawan Skywalker to explore in the Coruscant night life.

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: Back, back again. Just a heads up everyone, there's some Huttese in here that ima be honest — I straight made that shit up LOL

If anyone is looking to see what my inspo for Myyra and Phaedra, look no further!

In my head, I based Myyra on Shina Novalinga bc she is my Inuit Queen.

Phaedra is based off Anetra from Season 15 of RPDR bc shes the winnah in my heart ✨️

Anyways pls forgive me, but I will never have a schedule. It will be basically on a "whenever it gets finished" schedule ✌️ Enjoy dahlings!

—-------------------------------------------------

Obi-wan padded lightly through the Temple halls. The soft echoes of surrounding masters speaking and dictating the lessons of the day bounced from pillar to pillar. With a thoughtful sigh, the young master quieted his mind to single out his padawan among the rest. Anakin had not checked-in at all after his trip to the Entertainment District and it unsettled Obi-wan — even though that was what the Council expected him to do.

The morning light bled into each classroom and Obi-wan paused before passing a group of younglings huddled quietly in an amphitheater. Their eyes were wide and in awe at the holoprojector rolling and sifting through Republic Systems as Master Plo Koon detailed the history of the Acquisition Division. “And once confirmed within the Force, the Order is able to usher in wonderful younglings such as yourselves to embark on a remarkable journey.”

Obi-wan smiled to himself, remembering his childhood in these very halls, the same words spoken over him. His peace is interrupted by a small voice from a Twi'lek chid, practically hiding behind her lekku. “What if someone doesn't know if they want to come?”

Doesn't want to come? A peculiar thought, Obi-wan contemplated. Never once had that been a nuance he'd regularly experienced. Most younglings who arrived at the Temple were often eager and grateful to be here — save Anakin.

Plo hummed, glancing towards a bewildered Obi-wan. “An important question, little Kaori. One that lies with the Force and how it guides in that moment.”

A quick clap brought the illuminated star systems to a halt and the attention was focused on Master Koon's voice. “Take this time to meditate and empty your minds of worrisome thoughts. You are dismissed.”

Bowing in unison, the six year-olds hummed a collective thank you before filtering out of the amphitheater. Obi-wan watched intently as each one passed him by.

“A troublesome question for you, Master Kenobi?”

Obi-wan rubbed his jawline. “Only if it is becoming a more common question.”

Plo hummed to himself, locking his fingers behind his back before crossing the room towards the young Master. “It is a question that is asked more often than you'd think but not as loudly as young Skywalker does, I'm sure.”

“Yes, Anakin, does not fail to call upon emotion in that or any matter.” Obi-wan said, shaking his head and then searching out into the hall. “Making him extremely easy to find — normally. I have been unable to find him since his rendezvous in the Entertainment District.”

The elder Jedi moved towards the doorway to Obi-wan, joining in to reach out in the Force to find Anakin’s usual frustration permeating from his person.

Nothing.

Plo crossed his arms across his chest. “Entertainment District, you said?”

“Yes?”

“Have you considered he is merely…sleeping?” Plo stated simply, turning to face Obi-wan who gave an exasperated grimace. Master Koon responded with a small laugh accompanied by a shrug of innocence. “A teenage boy was alone at a Lower Level nightclub. Whatever he did or did not do, I would assume he’d be exhausted.”

—---------------------------------------------------

“The lakes are green.” A woman’s voice playfully echoed in Anakin’s mind. The most joyful laugh filled his ears that made him feel like he was on the roof watching the fireworks on Boonta Eve.

Golden eyes stared back at him. Kind. Forgiving. Silver hair fell in front of their lids. Anakin reached out to sweep the locks away only to find the eyes were swept away in a haze.

“I never learned how to swim.” the same voice rasped out, weak and breathless –

Three hard knocks on the frame on the door of his jedi chambers jolted the padawan upright as he hurriedly called his saber to himself. Precariously strewn out tools, bolts, and odds and ends tumbled over from their places on his side table as his lightsaber barrelled towards him. Anakin forced his eyes to squint through the piercing Coruscant daylight as the muffled words behind his door became clearer.

“Anakin?” came his master’s calls. Stars, what time was it? The jacket he had worn the night before was draped over his chronometer. Anakin annoyedly waved the blasted piece off to reveal the time – eleven standard hours.

“SHIT.” Jumping to his feet Anakin began hurriedly dressing himself. Crashes of the mess of his room built from a small percussive incident to an orchestral symphony of cluttered chaos.

“I see that you’ve awoken at last.” Obi-wan’s muffled response came.

Robes finally applied and saber at the hip, Anakin slammed his keypad to let his doorway hiss open, revealing his unbothered master. “Sorry, master. I hadn’t realized how long I had slept.”

“Evidently.” Obi-wan stated simply, gesturing for Anakin to exit his chambers. Filtering into the halls, master and padawan walked side by side in a beat of silence. Anakin’s jaw clenched, unable to handle the compounding quiet of the temple and the space between himself and Obi-wan. What am I allowed to say? Will I be reprimanded for asking questions now? His anxiety hung between them before Obi-wan’s voice reached out as a peace-offering. “Your excursion must’ve taken a great deal out of you.”

Anakin released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yes.”

“May I speak freely, Master?” Anakin asked, as they approached the Meditation Gardens, the Uneti Tree growing larger in view as they neared its foot.

“Of course." Obi-wan confirmed, stopping to face the young man. Anakin's eyes were fixed firmly on the small pool of water that circled around the base of the tree.

“I don’t feel that I cannot succeed in my mission that the Council has tasked me with.” he stated, eyes following the gentle ripples of the water before him. “But I sense that the Council is not concerned with my success or failure. Rather my method of success.”

Obi-wan hummed thoughtfully, nodding as he did. “That bothers you?”

Piercing blue eyes meet Obi-wan’s with intensity. A pleading child in slave clothing appeared in Obi-wan’s mind. “I just want to know where I stand. Why am I being placed under constant scrutiny?”

A long exhale left Obi-wan as his eyes turned to the tree, attempting to center himself with the Force. “I'll not patronize your intelligence as if you haven't always known.”

“The prophecy. Being the Chosen one. I'm aware.” Anakin straightened his posture from cowering. “I'm aware I have abilities beyond others even on the Council and yet they've sent me on this wild bantha chase to barter minor details with a slave-dealer just to prove my restraint.”

“I take it you've met the Buyer.”

“Schutta.” Anakin growled, her amber eyes and lithe smile burned into the front of his mind. “Yanked me around, gave me coordinates to meet at a Zygerrian smuggling port, and nothing else.”

Anakin's frustration darkened the space between him and Obi-wan. Inside, he wished he could just barrel into the port, annihilate the wretched slave drivers, and be done with the entire endeavor. But that Myyra woman had the upper hand the entire engagement. How had she made me as a Jedi so easily? The young padawan contemplated.

“She's hiding something.”

“She?” Obi-wan turned to face Anakin who rolled his eyes in confirmation.

“I'll get it out of her.” Anakin affirmed, arms crossing. Obi-wan raised a brow in playful disbelief. Clearing his throat, Anakin rolled back his shoulders and thought about the different ways he had bested her via combat in his mind. “She's no match for my skill.”

“Although that may be true, upper hand in combat does not produce valuable intel.” Obi-wan began, caressing his beard. “If I felt one was hiding something, I would observe them when they felt they did not need to hide.”

Anakin considered Obi-wan's thinly veiled direction and began to plan to leave for the Lower Levels. His eyes found the steady and slow current of the water again, the fierce blue sparkling back at him. Blue, he thought simply as he turned to leave. “The waters here are blue.”

—---------------------------------------------------

The holo lights that had shone brightly against the dark of the Coruscant night now paled against the midday sun. The allure of the Entertainment District faded from the evening before into the rust and decay that truly lay beneath. Hooded beneath dark jedi robes, Anakin had waded through the crowds of shuffling lower level residents to arrive across the street from the Violet Kibo, hiding his form in the adjacent alleyway. It had been not nearly an hour since he'd decided to stake out across the street. He waited for anyone recognizable to come in or out of the doors of the club, but already his patience was wearing. He could just hear Obi-wan reminding him to take this opportunity to meditate. Anakin rolled his eyes and balanced a hydrospanner over his fingers, fidgeting with the ends before nervously tapping it against his knee."It doesn't help." He thought, speaking aloud as a reflex.

As the speeders overhead pass by, Anakin's attention is brought to the holonews replaying on the hover-ad: SENATOR PADME AMIDALA LEADING HOUSE BILL FOR HARSHER PENALTIES ON TRAFFICKING VIOLATORS. A short holovid of the once-queen standing smiling beside Chancellor Palpatine played in a loop. Longingly, Anakin thought how proud Padme might be if she knew he was nearly a jedi knight. A sobering thought washed over him. Nearly.

Each minute that passed elongated, drawing Anakin's impatience further. People of every species passed his vision but never once did a door or window adjust from the Violet Kibo's building. About ready to give up and await for their scheduled meet-up, Anakin began to tell himself his short time had been wasted until a familiar flash of red hair crossed his view and the busy street.

"Phae, baby!" A voice called at the tall dancer who seemed to be in the same clothes from the night before. The corner market owner, a large Nikto man in a messy apron beckoned them over. Anakin watched as he exchanged pleasantries and a breakfast jamwich as Phaedra redirected their steps towards the Violet Kibo. Anakin watched as she curiously passed the club doors and made for what appeared to be an outdated turbolift hidden behind a rusted gate. Phaedra's eyes scanned their surroundings before entering the lift. As they ascended, Anakin quickly crossed the street to view the turbolift. The keypad indicator stopped at the clearly marked "7".

"Well they definitely wouldn't appreciate me directly coming in their side route." Anakin snarked to himself. Thinking quickly, Anakin saw canopies tiered along the corner market store. With a leap, Anakin bounded up the canopies towards the 7th floor in order to peer into where Phaedra had run off to. Easily, he perched himself on an empty balcony with a perfect view of a kitchen space revealed by full height windows. Haphazard curtains, piled boxes, leaning mattresses, and cabinetry obscured most of the view but Anakin could clearly see the dancer and her fiery hair walking in and out of view. Anakin sensed two other lifeforms as he cleared his mind to focus on the far away voices.

“Spare me the lectures!” Phaedra's voice clearly rang in Anakin’s mind, unable to visualize her in the kitchen space.

Just then, a white tooka jumps to settle on the kitchen sink that faces an open window. His ears are tipped with red and they lilt slightly before the creature balls himself upon the faucet. Anakin smiles to himself at the small thing before another voice joins in.

“It's not a lecture. It's a warning.”

Myyra. Anakin says to himself but then corrects aloud with disdain: “The Buyer.”

Anakin’s thoughts of disgust are quickly replaced with flushing as the aforementioned bartender walks into his view, dressed in a barely-covering-anything brassiere and half buttoned up cargo pants. A blush formed over Anakin's cheeks as he tried to tear his eyes from Myyra's exposed appearance.

It didn't take long to find a new focus as his attention was brought to her right arm — skin completely marred by a wrapping scar that extended from her bicep to her wrist. How it appeared both freshly painful and old baffled Anakin. Soon enough, a sleeve covered the arm in question and a zip of her jacket made quick cover of her exposed chest.

“Don't be bitter because you didn't fuck the cute young jedi.” Phaedra’s voice echoed. Anakin watched as Myyra's fingers came to her temple and she massaged away her headache.

“Phae. I'm just asking you to be careful, please.” The woman's voice was soft and genuine. A tone Anakin did not experience the night prior. The dancer poked their head out from the adjoining room. Anakin observed the two of them exchange a knowing look. Myyra sighed and approached the kitchen sink. “I make enough from my nights on the sheets. Just make sure you're doing what you're doing because you want to…”

The Buyer extended her hand out to Phaedra, presenting a handful of credits. “Not because you need to.”

Phaedra sighed and took the gift. “You can't do this forever.”

“Who says I will? First shuttle to Kiffex and I'm out.” Myyra states, now sounding aloof. Anakin watches as Phaedra rolls her eyes before walking out of view again. Myyra turns her attention back to the sink and waves her arms over the tooka. “Shove off, Mouja.”

The red tipped tooka playfully hisses before hopping down.

“I'm picking up the two.” Myyra starts. “Before the jedi ruins everything.”

“I'll tell Gi-Gi to lay out the beds.” comes Phaedra's voice.

Two? Two what? Anakin tries to process their vague statements frustrated with how they speak as if they know someone is listening. Adjusting his position, Anakin wonders if he's been made again. He watches as Myyra turns the water spout on, filling a cup, starring almost exactly in his direction as she tips the glass back to drink.

“I still say fuck the jedi!” Phaedra calls out playfully.

“Can't, he's too pure for my taste.” Myyra huffs, still looking outward and Anakin feels that familiar pull. He's sure she's seen him until he notices her take a long breath and blink. She does not see him. She only notes that she's thirsty, drinks again, and Anakin feels relief.

A few moments pass, and Myyra begins saying her goodbyes to Phaedra and warnings to lock all doors and windows which Anakin takes as his cue to make for the ground level. It only takes a simple well timed jump and a quick dash to return to his hiding spot across the street in the alleyway – watching as Myyra exits the turbolift, a gator pulled up to cover her face below the nose. Tugging a hood over her head, she slinks into the crowd. Anakin is only a few beats behind, filtering in with the bustle of the street.

Although the allure of night life has faded, the businesses do not pause. Anakin takes careful measures to dodge the frequently outstretched arms of salesmen and vendors. “Two roasted nunas for eight credits! Buy ‘em now!” hollered a Rodian butcher with pairs of strung up creatures hanging in his shop doorway. Anakin senses a small child snaking through the crowd from behind. In his periphery, the redheaded boy darts to a nearby fruit stand, snatching up three plums into his arms before filing them into a rucksack. His eyes turned to scan his surroundings to find Anakin staring back — frozen to be caught. The young jedi smirked, discretely waved a hand, and let another plum fall into the boy's arms who smiled happily before skittering away.

Anakin turned his attention back before him, the Kiffar woman still a half a block ahead. She walks at a brisk pace but keeps her hands free, keeping alert to her surroundings. Every so often she'd stop and enter an establishment – one for garments, one for tools, one for groceries, and a strange small bodega selling trinkets. Anakin watches as her hands ghost over a small beaded bracelet before moving to purchase a small tooka doll. At each spot he notices she always quickly pays, never staying for change, and tucking in her wares into her knapsack before moving purposefully forward.

Her pace is relentless now but nothing Anakin couldn't keep up with and he can sense her unease in her body before she banks right into a darkened alley. Pausing and back-tracking, Anakin enters the previous block's alley to begin scaling the access ladders to the rooftop. Steadily, the young padawan wills the Force to quiet his steps as he pads carefully towards the Buyer's alley.

I might as well be a banshee bird today. Anakin muses to himself, making himself another perch as he drops down to the top platform of the emergency stairs, the Buyer's hooded form in perfect view as she stands before a locked metal door. Three knocks in quick succession prompts the narrow access window to manually slide open. Myyra's right arm rises to present two fingers. A blue hand stretches out where she places two stacks of credits. The hand remains outstretched and Anakin watches as Myyra reaches behind her head to grasp the handle of a weapon peaking out of her knapsack. “Uba keekah soh whooh jee. Bal no bunduh mah busioojah.”

The hand retreats and the metal window aggressively slides shut. A minute passes and the door opens to reveal a near half naked Twi'lek woman pushing two young girls — easily no older than 12 years old — out into the alley with Myyra. The Twi'lek seems to snarl in disgust. “No chiseh de jundeh.”

“No bata.” Myyra states simply, pulling the girls further into the alley. Anakin feels the fear radiating from the small children, the younger one trembling visibly and tears still drying on her face. Rage festers within him as she observes the Buyer, unable to sense her feelings. She buys children, he thinks angrily, recounting her last words to him. What makes her any different from the Hutts and the Zygerrians?

Myyra kneels down to inspect them but stands abruptly, and nearly shouts, "We had a deal."

"We are not in the business of cutting tags, koochoo."

As the automatic door hisses abruptly closed, Anakin senses the Force building in rage over Myyras head. He watches as she moves to punch the door, but a small hand touches her wrist before she can make contact with the cold metal. Her golden eyes are wide as she looks upon the child slaves. There is a beat of hesitation in her movements, before a scowl forms and she spits at the door. "E chu ta, dopa-meeky."

She storms off without another word, the two children now trailing behind her, and soon disappears out of sight around the mouth of the alley. Anakin stares at the door a long moment after it closes, memories of his early childhood bleeding into his mind. Images of him clinging to his mother as men would barter over their worth as they stood under the scorching suns. Scaling down the alley stairs, Anaking pushes the thoughts deeper. Coming to ground with his back to the alley entrance, he senses he is not alone.

“I could easily arrange for your arrest for engaging in slave trade so deep in the Republic.” Anakin announces, acutely aware of the hooded woman behind him. Turning to where the alley met the busy streets, Myyra's body is leant against the cold metal of the building wall. Pushing her hood back so her eyes could clearly meet his, Myyra's scowl that was given to the Twi'lek was now directed at him. Anakin didn't hesitate, stepping closer. “I don't find it hard to know exactly what you are.”

“Are you always this narrow minded? Or is being bantha-headed a new thing for you?” Myyra retorted.

Angrily, Anakin lunged even closer so that she was pressed between himself and the wall. He had been hoping to instill intimidation but instead, Myyra remained cool. “What have you done with those kids?”

“I made them safe.” she spat, pushing against Anakin's broad chest. “And you've nearly jeopardized that safety following me here.”

“Me?!” Anakin exclaimed, incredulously. “That's rich coming from a Huttese speaking ‘Buyer' of slaves!”

The sudden sting of a slap across Anakin’s cheek sobers him from his tirade, only for him to swiftly capture Myyra's wrist after the assault. She is a stone wall as she faces him without an ounce of fear. He realizes now, this is the closest he's ever been to her face and can see the redness of the old scar creeping up the right side of her neck. Myyra's body pushes against Anakin's again, forcing space between them.

“I have adapted to the world I am in, have you?” She questions the young padawan, hooding herself and backing toward the foot traffic. “Make sure you're where I told you to be tonight or you'll gain nothing for your precious Council.”

Watching as she disappeared into the crowd, Anakin fought the urge to follow behind her.

—---------------------------------------------------

Huttese Translations:

schutta — bitch

Uba keekah soh whooh jee. Bal no bunduh mah busioojah. — You know who I am. Do not underestimate my business.

No chiseh de jundeh. — They are not trained.

No bata. — Doesn't matter.

koochoo — idiot/fool

E chu ta, dopa-meeky. — Fuck off, double-crosser.

#anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x oc #anakin x oc #star wars au #star wars fanfic #No Cure For Us Fic #anakin fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanficition #sw prequels au

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thesorcererpoet · 17 days

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So I’ve been a little quiet lately. I’m going to be doing a lot of updates to this blog soon. I will still keep writing as I always have, as it’s something I literally just do all the time, so please don’t worry because I’m not going to stop with the poetry any time soon.

For the last few days, I have been working on an astrological compatibility chart (synastry) for a friend, so I have been very busy.

Next week, I am off work so from then I will be revamping things a bit and start posting a bit more about my spiritual work.

As a brief explanation though for those curious, I am a practitioner of Chaos Magick, which is the idea of using belief as a tool. Chaos magick operates on the principle that you can adopt all different kinds of spiritual principles and use them at will as they were intended and then choose to use something different, even contradictory at will. This is called paradigm shifting or belief shifting. Chaos magick also allows you the freedom to work with your own correspondences and even invent your own systems of magic.

One of the main things Chaos magic utilises, is a practice called sigil magick. Sigil Magick works by allowing you to craft your own magical symbols using several methods. The most commonly used one is derived from taking a statement of intent, removing all of the repeating letters and vowels and then taking the remaining letters and creating a monogram out of them which looks like a little picture made from the letters. The best way to do this is to generate a little monogram so the letters are not consciously recognisable. The next step is to forget your intent. If you can deliberately do so then this process is quite fast. The idea is that lusting after the result will prevent it from working.

Sigil magic is kind of like planting a seed in the unconscious mind, which you allow yourself to do the magic for you. This is thought to be where all kinds of primal forces, which came from former evolutions, reside. These primal forces are what the inventor of sigil magic called atavistic nostalgia, literally what your body remembers of its ancient ancestry.

To plant the sigil, chaos magicians work with various altered and trance states of mind, some of which are naturally occurring. Often we use things like meditation, a sudden shock, holding breath until you can’t, drumming, various rituals. There are many myriad ways to plant a sigil. My favourite way is to blow all of the air out of my lungs until I gasp, while staring at the sigil. In the moment, when you gasp, your conscious mind is briefly forced to be silent which allows the sigil to enter into the unconscious uninhibited. Once the sigil has been implanted, you must then destroy it, commonly by burning it.

While I use many chaos magic specific techniques, I also work with an array of different systems at various times. Much of my very favourite work comes from working magic, which is my English heritage. Now, by this, I don’t mean Wicca. I tend to find I do a lot of work with bible magic, old English charms and the grimoires.

A grimoire, meaning grammar in old French, is a magical instruction book, showing techniques for rituals which can put you in contact with spirits. They also contain various spells which are not full summoning rituals, but are instead simpler workings designed to get results for various needs. The most well known grimoire is known as The Goetia which is the first part of a compilation of different magic books called The Lemegeton or The Lesser Key of Solomon. This book has a bit of a reputation as these spirits are considered as being demons. However, I know from my own practice that if you treat them with respect and don’t approach these practices from a place of fear, all will usually be fine. However, these practices are not for inexperienced practitioners. Before working with grimoires, it is important to know how to banish, to make sure you follow spiritual cleansing routines, learn how to make holy water. Be sure you know what you are doing so you know how to deal with it should anything go awry. Much easier then, it is to begin with various levels of simpler spell work and to get confident before approaching the bigger rituals.

While I am big fan of traditional magic practices such as these, I am by no means an advocate for doing things to the letter. Experimentation is really the only way to even get this stuff to work nowadays, since we no longer have access to a lot to the items, or trades people like blacksmiths etc who you need to get to do the work in front of you. My own practice is a blend of ancient rites, Christian prayers and using what is available to me in the 21st century. Much of this stuff was only made operable to me at all because of chaos magic.

While these two sets of interlinking ideas make up the bulk of my practice, I do work within many other systems. I am fond of modern witchcraft, which seems to be like Wicca but eschewing a lot of the old restrictions, the sexism and some of the other more odious elements (for instance, no you do not need to be naked to do magic, that’s just silly). I also work a lot with runes and rune magic, as well as with the Norse gods. I have a deep and long running connections to Taoism, particularly with the divination book, the I Ching which has literally saved my life (it drew my attention to what would have been an electrical fire in my old flat, I wouldn’t be alive without that divination). I actually have much to say on the I Ching but I will save that for another post, however I will say it has taught me so much and I have an immense amount of gratitude towards the oracle since it has come into my life. I also have worked a lot with Thelema, particularly engaging in the book of Thoth Tarot as well as some Golden Dawn practices. However my preferences for magic are mostly rooted in older traditions, mainly grimoires, European folk magic and British cunning craft.

All this aside, I have also been divining for others for many years now and I know many systems of divination inside and out. I am particularly knowledgeable about tarot, mainly following after the Rider-Waite system of tarot, developed by Arthur Edward Waite and Pamala Coleman-Smith of the Golden Dawn. As I have previously mentioned, I work with Runes and The I Ching. I also work with something called Geomancy, which was very popular during the renaissance, and came before tarot. Geomancy is actually very ancient but is still widely used in a lot of African and Middle Eastern countries. It’s methods have been preserved in the fourth book of occult philosophy, attributed to Cornelius Agrippa (his three books and fourth book are about 500 years old and contain a lot of source material for many of the magic books that came after). Geomancy works by poking holes in a box of blessed dirty until your intuition tells you to stop. You count the holes and then work out if it’s odd or even, then generate the various diagrams, which are eventually arranged into a table of astrological houses and read. You can also generate the numbers using a pen and paper or using coins, or dice or various other methods. I will probably demonstrate this stuff soon. As I have already mentioned, I am into astrology, although I am really only just learning at the moment. I also practice scrying, which is the act of causing visions using a crystal ball, black mirror, bowl of water or various other reflective surfaces. I also have my own, self invented system of dice magic which I am currently working on updating.

I will be offering my various divination services soon.

Anyway, thank you for reading my big, long infodump. I will post more cool stuff soon x

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thecoffeelorian · 2 months

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The Force-ening || S3 One-Shot

Brief Description: What if...Omega and the other Tantiss kids used the Force to call for help? Word Count: Less than 1k AO3:

Characters Included: Crosshair, Eva, Hunter, Omega, Commander Cody, Commander Wolffe, and others. Spoilers: Up to 3x11, because I am NEVER being nice to Rampart. Special Thanks: Inspired by Fireflye over on Twitter, though I also drew on some inspiration from a few Stephen King novels with just a smattering of Dune inspiration to wash it down. No Pressure Tags: @theosb0rnway @gun-roswell @nimata-beroya @skellymom @talesfrommedinastation @groguandthebadbatch and anyone else who likes spur-of-the-moment tales!

He had never expected to find himself so powerless in this moment, this former sniper.

Normally, the prime vantage point during a battle would have been his, as well as the glory of taking out the most dangerous of battle droids or rival gun turrets so that the fighting would ultimately shift in the Republic’s favor. One small but terribly important job to do, and with very little physical effort needed to complete it.

Thanks to the cold-blooded machinations of the Empire, however…he found himself staring blankly at the galactic maps and terrains before him, a sour feeling growing in the pit of his stomach while the two Commanders, Wolffe and Cody, tossed their limited intel between them like two natborn toddlers trying to catch the other’s ball. An extremely difficult mental exercise this time, though unfortunately, one with very little chance of the results they were looking for, as their missing link continued to be just that.

Missing.

That must have been exactly how this new enemy saw them now, truth be told. Just a bunch of overgrown toddlers, fully armed to the teeth, fully ready to organize any reinforcements they needed and fully prepared to fight…but with absolutely no clue as to where they needed to point their weapons.

How that kriffing Hemlock must be laughing at them all.

How quickly must he be declaring his early victory against them.

And, if the rising voices and shortening tempers were anything to go on…how easily he could have to just wait for them to start fighting each other.

Crosshair remembered letting out a loud sigh of frustration before pulling himself out of his seat, no longer able to look any of these XO’s in the face without being reminded of just how easy it had been to let this new enemy lull him into total obedience. Like if he just punished the right amount of “criminals”, the less likely this Imperial beast would think to feast upon his newly fallen corpse and actually try thinking of him as a friend instead...or whatever he was supposed to call the pale, sickly natborns who were given much more power than he could ever hope to have.

Well…not only did he have a grand total of zero friends back there, but Cross wasn’t exactly sure he had any support over here, either. Not when the comms that Omega should have had never turned on, the trackers he’d attempted to put in place were either removed or failed to hit their target, and any telltale chatter over the various media feeds continued to be slim to nothing. In fact, if he really wanted to hit the peak of pessimism, he could go off on a tangent and say that the universe itself had finally turned against him, because it sure as hell wasn’t gonna grant him or anyone else in this room any more favors. All he could really do, at least in the here and now, was go someplace quieter to clear his head and try meditating just as Omega had taught him back on the beach.

At least…that had been his thought until the strange smells came.

First, there was the sharp tang of antiseptic, the sterile smell of some medical facility, and then…meiloorun juice—?!

—CROSSHAIR HELP US—

—I THINK WE—

—CROSSHAIR PLEASE DON’T LET THEM—

—HELP US WE HAVE THE COORDINATES, IT’S—

—MAMMAAA—

—…Then…the next thing he knew, he had been propped up against an old artillery shell with half the higher-ups kneeling around him, his head spinning just a little as he gradually regained consciousness. Somebody had been using the Force to contact him. No...she had been using it to contact him for help. And if he had his head on straight these days, which hopefully, he did...he would be sure to answer.

“…you all right? Can you see me?!”

Hunter’s face slowly swam into view as the sense of something pressing against his head—sore, ha ha, why wouldn’t it be—finally became clear to him. A sense that came with the phantom feeling of several pairs of smaller hands patting nervously, or rather comfortingly, against his larger injured one.

Almost like…like they were letting him know not to be afraid, to stand up and get back into the thick of things because oh dear, they would certainly have to do the exact same thing if they wanted to live…and that was right before the strongest of these little sparks of life made itself known.

Before one more, somewhat bigger presence touched the edge of its forehead against his own at that moment, the touch of warmth rising there as though to counteract all of the colder shocks he had ever dealt with.

Before he not only sensed, but also knew, and then understood the message that this presence wished to deliver.

“I know where they’ve got her,” he panted, finding Hunter’s gaze and focusing on it to ground himself, if not also to make sure none of these other Troopers would start falling into anarchy.

“I know where they’ve got everyone. It’s Weyland.”

#the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb spoilers #tbb crosshair #tbb omega #tbb crosshair and omega #tbb hunter #commander cody #commander wolffe #tbb eva #tbb jax #tbb bayrn #the mountain goes or i do #the bad batch season 3

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