#;EVERY SIDE OF ME IS THE REAL ME. PEOPLE JUST LIKE TO DEFINE THINGS IN ALL SORTS OF ARBITRARY WAYS. (musings)

[foxpriestss-moved]

i diagnose u with hot

friend you have a weird rivalry with hot

you are always fighting to show you're better. always seeing who can run faster, talk louder, be stronger. you both whirl to face eachother after every test, showing off the bright red numbers at the top of the page. when you beat them by a couple points, the "jokingly" smug look on your face makes them huff and turn away, give you a friendly punch to the shoulder that might leave a bruise. when you lose 90 to their 96, the bitter spark of jealousy in the pit of your stomach reminds you to study harder. you'll best them next time. sometimes this rivalry gets messy though, and for some reason you both tend to crush on the same person, hurting eachother to compete for their affection. though you always end up forgetting the crushes, and making up. whats some random fling compared to your friendship anyway?

tagged by: @nulltune​ <3 tagging: @hiisfire​ @oopsiliedagain​ @kanedoji​ @angerdriven​ @daemonesvicit​

#GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD #;EVERY SIDE OF ME IS THE REAL ME. PEOPLE JUST LIKE TO DEFINE THINGS IN ALL SORTS OF ARBITRARY WAYS. (musings) #;out of fox to give

[saecred]

tag dump

#;out of fox to give #;DEAR ME... AREN'T YOU CUTTING IT RATHER CLOSE? (ic) #;IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU'D BE MORE PERSUADED IF YOU SAW ME IN MY FOX FORM? IN YOUR DREAMS. (visage) #;THE WIND THAT BLOWS FROM AFAR CARRIES FRESH LIFE TO THESE SHORES. (aesthetic) #;PEOPLE SHOW YOU WHATEVER SIDE OF THEMSELVES THEY WANT YOU TO SEE. (desires) #;EVERY SIDE OF ME IS THE REAL ME. PEOPLE JUST LIKE TO DEFINE THINGS IN ALL SORTS OF ARBITRARY WAYS. (musings) #;ETERNITY IS FAR TOO CRUEL A FATE FOR YOU. (& ei) #;YOU REALLY HAVE TO LEARN NOT TO TRUST A FOX. 'CAUSE THEY'RE TRICKSTERS. THEY'LL FOOL YOU. THEY'LL FOOL EVERYONE. (v: nogitsune)

[katebishopsbow]

SOMEDAY IT WILL ALL BE OKAY • MAX VERSTAPPEN

pairing: max verstappen x driver!reader (platonic)

summary: watching kevin and his daughter, laura, playing together at the paddock makes you emotional as you remember the love that you never get to receive growing up. max is here to remind you that your past doesn't define you, and one day you will be okay.

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, daddy issues, mentions of absent parent

word count: 3.1k

author's notes: based on the real-life event of me tearing up when i saw that video of kmag's daughter playing with his visor. healing my own daddy issues one fic at a time :)

(image is not mine)

─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

Kevin Magnussen is a great dad.

People can say whatever they want about his driving – aggressive and maybe a little dangerous sometimes – but there is no denying that he is an amazing father who puts his daughters above all else. The Dane is always joking about how his two little troublemakers have been giving him a constant headache, but the rest of the grid knows that he would do just about anything for his girls.

Occasionally, Louise likes bringing Laura and Agnes to the track to see their dad at work. Being a Formula 1 driver with all the hectic schedules and non-stop traveling means that family time together can often be difficult to come by, so Kevin cherishes all the time he gets to be as present in their lives as possible. 

The drivers all love it when the Magnussens visit the track, not only because Laura and Agnes are the sweetest little angels ever, but also because they get to witness the rare sight of Kevin “tough guy” Magnussen shedding his hard exterior and tease him about the heartwarmingly softer side he displays to his family. 

And while you would never admit this out loud, somewhere residing deep within you is envious – envious of this kind of love that you never got to receive. Sometimes when you look at Kevin interacting with his daughters – just sometimes – you find yourself wondering what it would be like to have a father who is present, who genuinely cares, who loves you with everything they have so much that you never have to doubt your worthiness.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

You were standing with a few other drivers at the track, idly chatting about the upcoming race and your holiday plans now that the winter break is right around the corner when Kevin suddenly saunters nearby, holding the hand of the most adorable little girl. “Laura, come say hi!” he kneels down and says to her, sporting the biggest and most loving smile on his face as his daughter gives a shy little wave to the crowd of drivers before her.

“Hey there, Laura,” you wave at her, settling on a simple greeting since you have never been particularly great with children. “Hello, little one!” Lando greets with a wide grin as he offers Laura a fist bump, and the girl explodes into giggles when he pretends to yelp in pain at how hard Laura fist-bumped him. Classic Lando – always so good with kids.

“She’s got quite the punch, doesn’t she?” Kevin jokes while he chuckles at the sight, admiring the joyous smile on Laura’s face with the tenderest gaze he only reserves for his daughter. Becoming a father is the best thing that has happened to him, and he thanks the stars every day for being blessed with such precious gifts of life. Laura and Agnes – his biggest pride and joy.

“Here to be dad’s little assistant, Laura?” Max asks, his nose scrunching up in an adoring smile like the way it always does when he speaks to Penelope. The little girl nods bashfully before running to hide behind her dad, holding onto his hands as if he is her safe place, her rock.

Kevin laughs at his daughter’s endearing shyness, picks her up and envelops her in his embrace before placing a kiss on her rosy, chubby cheeks. “You’re the best assistant in the entire world,” he whispers softly, adoration swimming in his eyes while Laura lets out a giggle at her father’s words. The drivers around them cannot help but smile along with them – how can they not at such a heartwarming sight? 

Yet watching Kevin’s doting smiles and the way he looks at his daughter as if she is his entire universe, the initial warm fuzziness within you silently morphs into a dull ache that squeezes at your heart – an odd yet familiar feeling you know all too well. Despite your best efforts to push them away, your mind becomes clouded with hazy memories of the past – the painful past that has broken you and haunted you for years.

In the fogged-up memories of your childhood days, you were never at the receiving end of such an affectionate gaze. The only way your father has ever looked at you was indifference, annoyance, and a sense of uncaringness that tore your little heart up into pieces and left you wondering what you did wrong to be so undeserving of the fatherly love you yearned for. 

He never picked you up and hugged you as if you were a fragile treasure that he cherished. He never held your hand in a way that made you feel safe and certain that nothing could ever harm you because he would be your shield, protecting you from the world and its merciless cruelty. He never once made you feel loved and cared for, ignoring your attempts to gain his validation and approval because he loved himself and his ego more than he would ever love you. 

When you received good grades at school and showed him your report card with the rows of A’s, hoping that it would help you get his approval, he didn’t praise you. In fact, he didn’t bother saying anything. He simply gave you a half-hearted nod before shifting his attention back to the damned television screen in front of him, some uninteresting TV show that never should have mattered more than his daughter. So you stuffed the tear-stained report card back into your school bag, uncaring that it got crushed and crumpled, because in the end your hard work and effort didn’t matter. It never did.

When you had a rough day at school and came home with tears running down your cheeks, your father looked at you for a second, rolled his eyes and walked away. So that night you cried yourself to sleep as you soaked through your pillows with your wallowing tears, wishing that your dad could wrap you in his arms and tell you that everything would be okay. You knew that he could hear your sobs across the hallway, but chose to ignore you anyway. You wondered if he hated you that much, or was it simply because he never even cared to begin with?

And when he finally gathered all his belongings and disappeared from your life once and for all, you surprised yourself when you didn’t cry at the sight of the now-empty house. You had just felt empty and lonely – so painstakingly lonely. The kind of loneliness that seeped into your bones and slithered along your veins and consumed your soul. 

As you grew older, you became familiarized with that emptiness – comfortable with it even. You begin to find yourself pushing people away when they get too close, keeping most at arm's length because that seems like the safest option, breaking your own heart before others can do it because you never want to experience the same heartbreak your father has put you through.

Despite how painful it is, you hold onto that loneliness like a lifeline because how could you not when that’s the only thing you know? How could you love when you don’t even know what it feels like?

Even though it had been years since your dad had left, the emptiness he had left behind never seemed to fade away. They say time heals all wounds, but you call that bullshit, because then why does it still hurt like a fresh stab into the heart? 

Too deep in your storm of thoughts, you don’t realize the tears brimming in your glossy eyes and the way your lips quiver ever so slightly. “Hey… you okay there?” Charles, who is standing beside you, gives you an affectionate pat on the shoulders and whispers hushedly in your ear, worried at your sudden change in demeanor. Quickly nodding your head, you answer him with the best smile you can manage, “Yeah, just remembering some things.”

While most of the drivers still have their focus on Kevin and Laura, a few have also noticed your red-rimmed eyes and quietness. “What’s wrong?” Lando mouths the question silently toward you, eyes wide in concern as he tries not to shift everybody’s attention toward you. You shake your head and mouth “nothing” in reply to him as discreetly as possible, not wanting to ruin the group’s mood with your sudden sentiments. 

As much as you want to stay, you simply need to get away for a moment to recollect your thoughts. “Uh – There’s something I need from my driver’s room, so I’m gonna head off,” you hurriedly blink away the tears and put on the best smile – a skill you learned to master after years of being in the public’s eye. You hope that the excuse you just blurted out is somewhat believable, and you quickly disappear into the distance after your fellow drivers bid you goodbye. 

While making a beeline for your driver's room, you cannot help but feel so embarrassed, so guilty for the sudden burst of emotions that erupted in your chest moments ago. “What is wrong with me?” you mumble hushedly to yourself as you make your way to the garage – irritated and beyond annoyed at yourself that the mere sight of Kevin with his daughter is enough to bring you to tears. 

This isn’t something new to you. It isn’t the first time a good father-daughter relationship has made you tear up. Movies, TV shows, song lyrics – you always get so emotional when you allow yourself to get lost in your thoughts, thinking too deeply about the painful reminders of the love that you never have. 

It makes you feel stupid, because how broken do you have to be that trivial things like these are enough to make you cry? And it makes you feel scared, so utterly scared, because what if you were too broken to ever be capable of loving someone this much, too damaged to ever receive love despite yearning for it, and end up pushing away everyone who cares about you for the rest of your life.

When you arrive at your driver's room, you take a seat in the corner, breathing in and out while the self-blaming thoughts inside your head spiral in full force. This is so stupid, you are being stupid, and you hate yourself for being a fool and letting your past trauma affect you like this. Why were you even crying? There is nothing to be crying for. Stop. You need to stop.

Then you hear someone calling your name, voice faint and soft behind the door – Max. “You feeling okay?” he asks, and your delayed response and trembling voice as you answer him, “I’m fine.” are a clear enough indicator that you are far from okay. “Alright, I’m gonna come in now.” A sigh of mixed emotions falls from your lips – annoyance that you never seem to be able to lie to the man, and gratefulness that he always understands what you really need, and right now it is the company of your best friend.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says to you, eyebrows ceasing in sadness when he notices the expression on your face. Max hates seeing you like this, especially knowing the reason behind your tears is your absent father – someone who will never be worthy of having you cry over him. 

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your race suit, guilt weighing heavily on your chest as you apologize, “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to ruin the mood back there. Did the other drivers notice?” Max shakes his head with a frown, refusing to let you blame yourself for something you should never feel guilty for. “You don’t have to be sorry, you did nothing wrong.”

“I don’t even know why I am crying, honestly. Why am I still so angry and sad after all these years? It’s like… am I always going to be like this, broken? Will the hurt ever go away?” you explain truthfully to him while trying to piece your muddle-up thoughts together, yet you struggle to put them into words. How can you begin to explain the years of trauma your dad has left behind? How can you describe the mess of emotions you have for him – the hatred, the resentment, and the fact that you still love and miss him so much even after everything he has done to you?

You don’t need to, because Max understands, he always does. One of the reasons why you two became close quickly is because you share a similar, troubled past – something that is rather unfortunate to bond over, you would argue, but it brings you a great friend nonetheless. Max’s father isn’t exactly absent like yours – Jos Verstappen is still quite prominent in his life, along with his abusive and manipulative ways of raising his kids which he would vehemently deny and claims to be “tough love” instead.

Even though he is there, it doesn’t change the painful truth that the presence of his father has ruined Max. For years, he thought being violent was the way to solve problems because his dad always seemed to be able to solve his with his fist. He used to believe that you had to be perfect to be deserving of good things in life because he grew up with the punishment of “no dinner” if he had performed poorly in a race. He didn’t know if he would ever be capable of loving someone, and then he met Kelly and Penelope.

“You know… when I first met Penelope, I was terrified. I was scared that I could never be a good enough father figure for her, that I was too ruined to show her the love she deserved to have. But then I saw her, and then I realized I love her more than anything,” he confesses as he places himself to sit beside you, a reminiscent smile dancing on his lips while he remembers his first time meeting Penelope, the little girl who has become his family.

He remembers the suffocating fear of ending up like his father when he first held the hands of little Penelope, mind plagued with all the horrible what-ifs. What if he was a terrible dad? What if he couldn’t ever love Penelope? What if he was just like Jos Verstappen and ended up destroying her childhood with his anger and temper the way his dad had with his?

Then Penelope gave him a sweet smile, her tiny hand holding onto his pinky as she looked into his eyes with such trust and comfort, as if she knew that Max would love her more than anything in the world. Max genuinely thought he was going to cry, his heart surging with an overwhelming amount of love and determination to protect the little girl in front of her and give her the home she and Kelly deserve to have, and that’s when he knew that he had nothing to be afraid of – that he was going to do better than his father.

“Listen, kiddo. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, it just makes the pain bearable. But there will be a day when your wound will still be there – it always will be there – but the pain and the hatred will no longer consume you. And you will realize that you can be better and stronger than your past, that you can break the cycle, that you are deserving of such unconditional love too.” You listen quietly to your best friend’s answer, exhaling a relieved sigh at the words you so desperately need to hear, giving you hope that despite all your trauma, one day you will be able to love with such certainty as well.

You are never too broken to love or be loved. You are not damaged goods that need repairing. You are not a monster for being intimidated by love and affection, for pushing people away even though you want more than anything for them to stay. You just need to allow yourself to heal from the hurtful past, to understand that your past trauma does not define you. You need to allow yourself to feel, to accept the depths of your emotions, to understand that your sadness and anger are always valid. You need to believe that you will be better than your father, that you will not follow in his footsteps, and that you deserve to be loved just as much as anyone else. 

Feeling sentimental over this doesn’t make you stupid or a fool, it just makes you human. It is okay to cry over it, to be sad over it, as long as you remember that one day – while things will never be perfect –  it will certainly get better. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” Max tells you with a smile, reaching for your hand to give it a comforting squeeze, and you believe him. For once in a very long time, you genuinely believe that everything is going to be okay. The impact your father has on you will always be there. You can never wipe away the hurt and awful things he has done to you, nor can you simply erase the simultaneous love and hatred you hold for him, but one day you will learn to move on and find closure, and you are going to be okay, just like Max said.

There is a knock on the door, and you can hear your name being called again, this time in the soft and squeaky voice of a little girl. “I’m here,” you answer, and peeking behind the gap in the door is Laura with a cheeky grin on her face. Kevin leads her inside your driver's room with an apologetic smile, “Hey, sorry… Laura says she wants to play with you and insists that I bring her here.” 

You watch as Laura crawls up into the seat next to you and Max, looking at you with the brightest toothy little grin ever, and your lips begin pulling up into a huge smile as well. “Is it okay if she plays here for a while? I’ve got a team meeting in 5 and she never likes coming to those…” Kevin asks apologetically before relief floods his expression when you answer him, “It would be lovely to have a little playdate with Laura.”

“Alrighty, see you later little one,” Kevin leans down to place a kiss on his daughter’s head, reminding her to be a good kid when he is away for the meeting, and you smile at the sight. Not an envious one, or a reminiscent one, but one of contentment because you know that one day you will be able to receive and give such unconditional love to someone too.

Someday, it will be okay. You will be okay.

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine #kevin magnussen x reader #f1 drivers x reader

[sashayed]

have you heard that jordan peele said steven yeun's character is the one that has the most in common with him. have you thought about how most of his cinematic career has been built around discussions of race and the traumas that come from racism. have you thought about how any media handling real and personal topics is a sort of emotional self-disembowelment on the part of the creator. have you thought of the glory and horror of being Seen. have you screamed

Have I? HAVE i. Have I thought about how Peele has discussed being objectified and tokenized on set, especially early in his career? Have I thought about what it's like to suffer real-life trauma in a space created for make-believe? Buddy, I haven't thought about anything else for days!!

I think one thing that makes this movie so visceral to me is that it's an exploration by a great popular artist on the human cost of making popular art. The link between the auteur and the cult leader--both are people consumed & defined by stories, people who are compelled by a narrative and feel an urge to spread that narrative to an audience.

And I am really impressed by how hard Peele seems to work to reject the cult leader in himself as best he can -- to make art that enriches the lives of ALL THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE IT. Every interview is about how collaborative and present he is as a director. Obsessed with this Q&A for many reasons but this moment sticks with me:

KEKE PALMER: There would be moments where we’re going through different parts of this script, this story, from when we first rehearsed to when we were actually on set, or when we had an idea that happened that morning. I would be listening, my head would be down, I’d be listening to what Jordan’s saying, I’m like, man this is deep. And I look up and there’d be just this one little tear falling. Man, this brother’s deep. JORDAN PEELE: I’m not afraid to cry as a director. KP: And he’s chill! He’d be like, “That’s what happens” and tears are falling. I’m like, “Are you all right?” But he keeps going and he’s like “Yeah, yeah. So that’s the thing.” And then he just walks out.

To me, that reads as a person who is NOT JUST super smart and deep and creative etc but who is also aware every moment of how lucky he is to be doing what he's doing, and who is not ashamed of his own reaction to that gratitude. What's to be ashamed of? It's incredibly fun! He is having an amazing time! He's hanging out with people he likes and respects and coating actors with goop in the esophageal tube! What a job!

I wonder if, to be that thankful and that aware (and that collaborative), you have to have experienced the flip side; if you have to have been Jupe, at least for a little while. I wonder if the process of -- to some extent -- commodifying your own suffering (as capitalism practically demands that artists do in order to survive as artists) leads, almost inevitably, to a moment where you think, "I survived this horror and became a Star because I am the main character of reality: I am more special than other people, I have a special ability to communicate, I have a special destiny." That is a powerful story and a seductive one, but if you don't leave it behind, it will eat you and the people around you alive.

It seems to me like an extension of what Peele is exploring in Us--the notion that your contentment is entangled with someone else's suffering. Why you? Why not the person with all your qualities who for whatever reason never ended up where you are? Especially for creators with marginalized identities, right? "Am I occupying a space that should belong to someone else?" You can avoid that question by deciding that you have special individual qualities that make you the Chosen One, as Jupe does. Or you can accept that the question will always haunt you, that luck (LUCKY THE FINAL HORSE??) has no logic, and you try to spread your luck out and open your space up to as many other people as you can. Which you see Peele doing all the time! Gah!!

#NOPE 2022 #nope spoilers #art monsters!!

[wings-of-fire-confessions]

I have liked the ship Cleril since the very beginning. Yes, I know that Peril is very toxic in her mannerisms, but I still feel like she can improve, and she already has! By the tenth book she's learned to not put Clay on a pedestal and trust in other dragons besides him. Obviously they shouldn't get in a relationship right away, but I think they'd be a good couple after a few years of healing.

Also, people don't focus on Clay's side of the ship enough. He's seen Peril grow and change for the better, and she was the first real friend he had outside the mountain. Plus (getting into headcanon territory now), I've noticed that a lot of dragons think that his entire personality is food. The other dragonets of destiny are not exempt from that; assuming that the books are warped in the protagonist's limited perspective, all Tsunami, Glory, and Starflight think of Clay as the food-obsessed guy first and the bigwings second. Even Moon and Qibli’s POVs do that too! Yet Clay's own book portrays him as a complex character, and Sunny sees him as her protector and likely-favorite sibling, so her book is more representative of Clay's actual mannerisms. But he's still a foodie, because of course he is.

Then we get to Peril’s book. Of all the times that Peril talks about Clay, when does she mention any food? Exactly once: when she jokes about Clay sighing because he wants a goat. Literally every other time, she's thinking about his big heart, bravery, and compassion, or all the things Clay wanted other dragons to see when they meet him, rather than his initial internalized monstrosity.

And yes, we all know that Clay likes food. It's the only thing anyone can think about. But that does not define him, and Peril seems to understand that, albeit subconsciously. Through that, I think they can bond even more, and not just because "he can help her". They lift each other up and constantly support one another when no one else is. That, in short, is why they're my favorite Wings of Fire ship.

TLDR: Cleril isn't just a "he can fix her" relationship. Trust me.

.

#wings of fire confessions #wof confessions #wof #wings of fire #shipping #cleril

[shuttershocky]

what do you make of samurai remnant so far? As it's a weeb game, I don't expect any of the normal review sites I trust to cover it

I /hate/ Musou combat and I'm sick of Servants, so me avidly talking about this game means it's way better than even my biases can overlook.

Here's the thing: the vast majority of Type-Moon games fucking suck, because they make visual novels, not video games. "The story's good enough to make you play through this abomination" is the battlecry of Fate/Extra fans. If it wasn't for Melty Blood they might not even have any games where people play for the actual game.

This is not the case with Fate/Samurai Remnant. It's not here to blow your mind out of the water, but it's clearly a title made by people who are both great fans of the source material and are very experienced with producing games on a budget. Solid execution all-around from combat design to character art to environments.

The most notable thing about FSR though is that this game cares a lot about how things are supposed to feel. I've talked enough about how great it is to have Servants feel like real powerhouses again, but this level of care exists within the rest of the game.

"How would it feel to be partners with a superpowered being?" is the defining question informing the majority of the game design. If there's a high place you can't climb without a ladder, Saber simply throws you up there with their superhuman strength. If you're squeezing through a tight alleyway, Saber simply reappears via magic on the other side, sometimes getting ahead of you and waving mockingly while Iori can only grumble and slowly pull his fleshy human body along a tight crevice. There is actual destruction in the aftermath of the first Servant battle that you can see for yourself, which informs Iori's motivation of putting an end to this death game. Iori's neighbors express relief that he's safe because they saw his house explode, or tell him about the whereabouts of his sister Kaya, making the town feel just a little bit more like a setting Iori actually lives in.

As Iori's relationship with Saber grows, the game also tacks on more and more mechanics involving their cooperation. At the very start, Saber cannot be controlled whatsoever and is entirely dependent on the AI. As you progress though, you unlock the ability to give Saber commands and even play as them for a short time. But that's not all, Saber's AI will also start to cooperate with you, following up on enemies that Iori knocks away with a finishing move, or calling for special partner moves called Link Strikes. When you're in trouble, there's even a chance Saber will come rescue you, activating a quick time event where they lock blades with the enemy, attempting to push them back.

This is what the whole game is like. Samurai Remnant doesn't have the resources of an AAA game with an army of developers to create features like ultra HD 4k textures for all environments or realistically shrinking testicles, but you can feel most ideas started with a question of "What would it be like to have Saber here and how do we depict that in some way?" Saber would be fascinated at modern (17th century) Japan, so they often run from place to place pointing out new things to gawk at and demanding explanations from Iori. They didn't have food stalls, paper, or money in their life, so Iori has side missions to buy from every food stall to satiate Saber's hunger, which murders your wallet in-game as you are a poor ronin living hand to mouth every day and need odd jobs to make money.

It feels good to play, and not even as a Type-Moon fan where a lot of these things are something I've been asking for. I mean it's good to see another mid budget game that's neatly focused on simple, solid execution. Most review sites are giving it around a 7.5-8/10, and I'm telling you this isn't a 7.5 from a Type-Moon fan pleading with you that playing Fate/Extella's Altera route makes it actually worth it, this is a 7.5 from people seeing a decently hefty, well-made title.

#Fate Samurai Remnant

[goosewriting]

Warmth

summary: now that reader got to look underneath the surface, they discover the not so pretty parts about being an inquisitor

relationship: inq!Cal Kestis x gn!reader

warnings: 18+, semi-graphic violence, mentions of blood, trauma, it gets pretty steamy, but still fade to black, implied sexual encounters, cal being emotionally constipated because what else is new, dom cal, soft cal, dirty talk? sorta?, talking about killing people, reader being a nerd, having a bath together, non-sexual nudity, reader gets choked, a lot is happening ok

word count: 12k … this one got away form me, i–

A/N: tbh when i started this i had no idea where i was going with it; this just took on a life of its own. i guess this one’s a little more grounded than the previous one, as reader and cal explore what it means to be an inquisitor. it’s a bit different to my usual stuff but i hope you like it nonetheless :’D

this can be read on its own, but it's technically a sequel to underneath!

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

— — —

It’s rather calm today, uneventful, as you sit at your office desk doing your work absent-mindedly.

You think back to your first night together with inquisitor Cal Kestis. It’s been some time since then, and you’re glad that there were more nights after that one.

Whatever is going on between you two, you try to be discreet about it. But it didn’t go unnoticed by others how Cal would approach you in the hallways to say hi or have a quick chat to check in on you. At first, you were nervous that it would affect your job in some way, negatively change your relationship with your boss and colleagues (not that you’re too close with them, but you still want to keep it professional and respectful with them). To your surprise though, the others seem to respect you more because of it. Apparently being able to hold your ground against an inquisitor isn't a small feat. ‘Hold your ground’... More like being wrapped around his finger. 

You smile to yourself as you think back to a couple of nights back. Your heart quickens and the tip of your ears burn as you remember the trails of kisses Cal left on your skin, setting your whole body on fire, accompanied by words of praise and adoration, words only for you to hear. 

Shaking your head to rid yourself of the slippery slope that is your current train of thought, you refocus on the screen in front of you and continue clacking away on the keyboard. You haven’t really defined or put a label on what you two have, but you know it’s special, and it is real. And you’re content with that for now. You like the current dynamic, where you have dinner together as often as your jobs will allow it, and you sleep over at his quarters every other day. 

However, lately there’s been a habit of Cal’s that worries you a bit. There’s been several instances now when you wake up in the middle of the night and your hand reaches out to find him, but his side of the bed is empty. Sometimes he’s not in the room at all. Other times you can see him standing at the window with his back towards you; his red hair seems to glow above his dark silhouette contrasting with the dim fiery glow coming from Mustafar, appearing from behind a veil of clouds. You know he knows you’re awake, but you stay still, pretending to be asleep. Whatever is weighing on his mind, whenever he feels ready, he’ll come to you. And you’d wait for as long as he needs.

Still, getting up so often at night starts to take a toll. You notice he’s more irritable, you see the dark bags under his eyes. But when you try to confront him about it, he dismisses it as unimportant, saying he’ll get better sleep that night. But it’s just the same thing over and over again.

One night after dinner, you’re both sitting on his couch, and you finally manage to pry out what has got him unable to sleep: nightmares. You don’t really understand what the problem is; everyone gets nightmares every once in a while. Even if he were to move around a lot, you’d try to calm him down and get him back to sleep.

“Do you know how inquisitors are made?” he asks seemingly out of nowhere while on the nightmare topic.

You take a moment to think about it, and realise that you do, in fact, not. So you shake your head.

“The Empire captures Jedis, to torture and remake them however they see fit”, he explains and stops from a moment to let it sink in.

“Part of them is lost forever,” he continues, his gaze moving to the side, looking at nothing in particular. “The other seems to be trapped, unable to move or escape. Jedis are trained to not give in to hate or anger. For inquisitors, those are the only things keeping them going. Ironically, feeling an enemy’s life force fade away… It makes you feel alive again.” He looks down at his hands. “It lets you feel something again at all: the rage, towards oneself and towards everyone who’s ever wronged you. It’s an addicting feeling, all-consuming. But much too short. So you seek it out again. And the Empire has plenty of enemies they need gone, so you comply.”

He pauses, allowing you to interject if it’s too much, but you remain silent, listening attentively. You’ve never heard this side of him, of how it felt being an inquisitor. 

“In those moments–” he goes on, clenching his hands into fists. “–feeding off of someone's desperation and pain that you can feel through the Force, it also opens a minimal gap for you to feel other things too. Things you thought you had forgotten or want to forget, like regret, fear and doubt. Or things you think you don’t deserve to feel anymore, like warmth. Happiness.” He pauses for a moment. “Love.”

You remain silent for a moment longer in case he wants to add anything else, but it doesn’t look like it. So you ask something instead. 

“And what do you remember in those moments?”

Cal closes his eyes and throws his head back slightly, taking a deep breath.

“The smell of the temple library on Coruscant,” he replies. “The rare sound of the clones laughing in the mess hall. How safe I felt with my master.”

You tilt your head with a slight grimace; it breaks your heart to hear he thinks he can’t have those things anymore because of what he is now. Or rather, what he was made.

“You still deserve all of that, the warmth and feelings of safety,” you say, and reach out to run your fingertips over his cheek, but he turns away.

“You don’t think I’m a monster? Like everyone else does?” he asks with a wry chuckle. “You know what I do. I don’t deserve any of it.”

Or you.

He doesn’t say the words aloud, but they hang heavy in the air between you two. 

“Okay, Kestis,” you say as you stand up, one hand stretched out towards him. “No moping, c’mon.”

He gives you a suspicious look, but accepts your hand nonetheless. You guide him to the washroom and run a bath for him, using one of your nicer bath bombs which you kept for special occasions. 

“Time for some pampering. You deserve it,” you enunciate that last part. “Clothes off.”

He narrows his eyes at you, unsure of what you’re scheming. You can’t help but laugh at the faint blush spreading on his freckled face as you start to strip yourself. 

“Now, don’t get any ideas. No funny business, I mean it. Just a bath,” you say, pointing a finger at him.

“Alright, alright,” he gives in with a low chuckle, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

Not long after, you’re both in the tub, with you sitting behind Cal, both enveloped by fragrant bubbles filling the warm water surface. You instruct him to lean back so you can wash his hair. Using your own shampoo instead of the boring, Empire-issue one, you lather up his hair, massaging his scalp, which earns you a grunt or two, and you can’t help a triumphant smile.

“Does it feel good?” you ask, and you get another grunt in response, so it must indeed feel good.

After you’re done with the hair, you tell him to turn around, and you squirt some soap onto a wash cloth. Starting at his neck, you scrub gently in circular motions, making your way down over his shoulder and his arms. Then you repeat the process on the other arm. As you lift it out from the thick layer of bubbles, you notice some reddening on his skin at his bicep. You take a closer look.

“Is that a new scar?” you ask.

“Yeah, don’t know where from though,” he says, and you get the impression that he does, but you don’t ask him about it. 

“Is that so,” you mumble, then lean in to place a soft kiss on it. “There, now it will heal faster.” 

Cal snorts and rolls his eyes, but his gaze remains soft.

“What, you don’t believe me?” you retort in mock offence. Then you start placing kisses on all his scars, the ones on his face, at his jaw and over his nose. The scars on his chest, his shoulders. You end by placing one last kiss on the tip of his nose, and grin up at him, but your face changes into worry when you see his expression. His brows are furrowed, as if in pain, his eyes shut tightly, his shoulders tense.

“Cal, are you okay?” you ask, and his hand comes out of the water to hold your face. You place your hand over his. He blinks a couple of times, and when he fully opens his eyes again, his features relax, and he smiles warmly. But what shocks you the most is that his eyes aren’t their usual yellow; they’re greenish blue. You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. His gaze is not only a different colour, but also as vulnerable and tender as you’ve never seen before in him. 

“You’re too good to me,” he whispers, leaning in to place a single, lingering kiss on your cheek. 

Suddenly, his face contorts in pain again, this time more than before, and his hands shoot up to either side of his head, pressing onto his temples. When he opens his eyes again, they’re back to the yellow you know and love.

“My head is killing me suddenly,” he says through gritted teeth. “Can we wrap it up?” 

“Uh, of course, yeah,” you answer, making quick work of rinsing off both of you and getting some towels. 

Soon you’re both in bed, with your back against his chest, as he holds on to you like his life depends on it. Cal falls asleep first, but it’s rather restless. He keeps twitching and flinching, and with every sudden move, you’re dragged back out of your almost drifting to sleep. When he seems to finally have calmed down, you exhale deeply, eager to follow suit and drift into dreamland as well. Instead, Cal groans loudly, and you lean onto your side to look up over your shoulder. He looks distressed, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.

“Cal, are you okay?” you ask, placing your hand on his shoulder to try and wake him, but you retrieve it quickly when his eyes shoot open, wild and angry and disoriented. 

“Prauf!” he screams, grabbing you harshly and rolling over so he’s straddling you, one of his hands fisting the sheets while the other goes to your throat, starting to choke you.

“C-Cal…!” you rasp out, holding onto his wrist to try and get him off of you. “You’re hurting me!”

He puts more weight into his hold, and you start seeing white dots sprinkled in your field of vision.

“It’s me, please,” you gasp, raising your hand to hold his cheek instead, and that seems to work. Slowly, his eyes seem to focus again, and his ragged breathing calms down slightly. When he finally sees you under him and understands what he is doing, he lets go and jumps off of you, off the bed, and slams his back against the opposite wall. You take a gulp of air, falling into a coughing fit. 

“Are you okay?” you croak when you can finally talk again, and you see him holding his head, trembling. 

“I- I’m sorry- This-” he starts, but can’t form a sentence. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he lets his hands fall back down to his sides. “I’m sleeping on the couch.” 

Cal leaves the room before you can protest, and the doors close behind him. Just like that you’re left alone, wondering what in the world just happened. Does it have something to do with his eyes earlier? And what, or who, is Prauf? 

— — —

The next morning, you’re awoken by the alarm clock on his night stand, and it takes you a couple of tries to turn it off. Sitting up on the bed with a yawn, you start remembering what happened the night before, and your hands comes up to your neck, where you can still feel some soreness from being choked like that.

You tiptoe out of the room, but just as you expected, Cal is gone. Taking a quick look at the clock, you yelp as you realise how late it is, and you hurry to the washroom to get ready. 

Once you’re ready to go, you take one last look at yourself in the mirror, and realise that your neck has visible marks, clearly in the shape of a hand. You grimace slightly, propping up the collar of your uniform as high up as it will go, and it covers up most of it. As long as you don’t look up or stretch your neck too much, you should be good. So you leave Cal’s quarters and head to your office. 

The whole day, you’re a bit distracted, hoping that Cal doesn’t feel too bad about what he did. You just want to help; sure, the nightmares are worse than you thought. But you’ll figure it out, together. 

You don’t get to see or hear from Cal the whole day though, or the next, or the one after that. For almost a week, he seems to be avoiding you completely. He doesn’t answer your holocalls or texts. You only catch the occasional glimpse of him leaving a room just when you’re entering. 

Tired of this game of cat and mouse, you decide to go find him. Instead, you end up cornered by the Ninth Sister. You’re slightly scared of her if you’re honest – no, scratch that. You are scared of her; she’s incredibly intimidating, not just by her sheer size and strength, but her presence in general. She always sounds mad, a deep frown etched into her face. So when she suddenly tells you to follow her, you don’t find it in you to refuse. To your surprise, she hunts down Cal as well, and brings you both to an empty hallway.

“Whatever is going on between you two: fix it!” she barks, then turns around with a scoff, muttering something about it being like scolding children. 

You look around, and there’s no one around, so you look up at Cal’s helmet visor, trying to find his eyes under it, but obviously only seeing your own reflection.

“Hey,” you greet him, giving him a smile to signal you’re not mad. “I missed you.”

His shoulders slump slightly, and he looks around as well. Instead of answering, he grabs you by your elbow and guides you some steps down the hallway to a maintenance shaft. He flicks his wrist, and the doors open, he shoves you both inside and closes the doors.

Only now does he take off his helmet, and you can’t suppress a gasp, horrified at the sight. His hair is sticking out everywhere, the bags under his eyes are the darkest you’ve ever seen, and he not only has new scratches on his face, he also a black eye that seems to be a couple of days old. 

“What happened to you?” you ask, and you’re aware that it’s not a great opener, but you’re genuinely worried. Your hands gingerly run over his face as you inspect the damage. Cal shrugs nonchalantly.

“I’ve been distracted lately and it affected my performance,” he says with a wry smile. “So they had to correct my bad behaviour.”

You take a moment to make sure you’re properly understanding what he’s implying. By the look in his eyes, kinda sad and a bit ashamed, it seems you are.

“Do you get corrected often?” you ask carefully.

“Sometimes. When I get greedy,” he answers. You think back to your conversation about being an inquisitor, and remember how he said that he only got a glimpse back into his own heart when he was out there, doing horrible things. Does that mean he was defying orders just to be able ‘to feel something at all’? 

“Do you usually get corrected… after being with me?” you ask this time, almost scared of the answer. 

“It’s not your fault,” he indirectly answers your question, taking your hands in his. “Being with you is just as addicting as being out there. I’m just… weak like that, I guess.”

“Oh, Cal,” you whisper, giving his hands a squeeze. “The warmth you yearn for and that you seek, it may make you feel vulnerable, and you think that makes you weak, but all it does is make you real. You’re real, Cal, and so am I. And I don’t want you to get hurt. You don’t need to be greedy; I’m here, I always will be. You deserve that warmth, and if you’ll have me, I’ll give you all of it.”

His brows rise slightly in surprise, and you realise you basically just professed your love for him. Heat erupts on your face and in your panic, you grab onto his collar and kiss him, hard at first, but then you’re both moving in unison with a rare softness you don’t always get to experience from him. 

Suddenly he pulls back with a pained grunt, and he slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor. 

“Cal, are you okay? What’s wrong?” You kneel down beside him, and you lift his face to look at him. Once again, you’re met with blue eyes, this time like an ocean about to erupt into stormy waves. He’s close to tears, and he looks so scared, so small, it breaks your heart. If only you knew how to mend the broken pieces of his soul, you’d kiss them all better if you could. 

“I’m sorry I stayed away so long,” he suddenly says, hugging you into his chest. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you again. What if I don’t snap back in time? What if I do something worse?”

You rack your brains for something reassuring to say, and finally land on something.

“You know, as a kid I used to have this recurring nightmare,” you start, hoping to not only get your point across better with your story, but also getting him out of the rabbit hole he was about to go down. “I kept dreaming that my parents abandoned me. We would all be together somewhere, and I looked away for a moment, but by the time I turned back around, they were gone. And I would feel so alone, and full of dread, I felt like I was going crazy. I’d often wake up screaming and crying.”

You take a moment to gauge his reaction; talking about your pasts has been kind of a taboo topic between you two. He openly said once that he doesn’t want to talk about his past, which you respect, but it also meant he never asked questions about yours. Maybe he’s scared to know more because it would reawaken memories of his own. Maybe he just doesn’t want to pry. Maybe he doesn’t care. Either way, you’re now crossing that invisible line and hope it won’t scare him away completely.

“No matter how much my parents reassured me that they wouldn’t abandon me, it always played out the same,” you continue your story. “One night, I was so scared of having the nightmare again, that I straight up refused to go to sleep. That’s when my mother told me this: sometimes, dreams are just your mind and soul processing something that actually happened. But other times, it’s the mind’s way of trying to find closure for something that hasn’t happened. So even if the dream isn’t nice, you have to wait until the end. Only then will your mind be able to tell you what it needs, even if it’s something you don’t want to hear.”

Wiping the silent tears off of Cal’s cheeks, you give him a comforting smile.

“And I know this doesn’t compare in any way to the nightmares you have,” you say. “But, maybe, you just need to let them play out. What if it’s your subconscious trying to tell you something and you cut it off before it has a chance to? What if… it’s the Force trying to tell you something important?”

This seems to click in some way with Cal, and he takes a moment to think over your words.

“Whatever happens, when you wake up you won’t be alone. I promise”, you assure him.

Cal is about to say something, when his eyes shut closed and he claims his head hurts again. He blinks a couple of times, holding his head, and his eyes switch between greenish blue and yellow. 

“Don’t block it out,” you encourage him, removing his hands from his temples and bringing them to your face instead. “I take back what I said earlier. You can be greedy, but not out there. Be greedy with me. Take everything you want, Cal. As much as you need. It’s all for you.”

He blinks one, two more times, his eyes fully reverted to their usual fiery yellow, and the fear from before is completely gone, now replaced with something sharp and dark.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says through gritted teeth, his whole body trembling in anticipation or self-control, maybe both.

“But I do,” you reassure him, climbing over his legs so you’re sitting on his lap, and gently press your forehead against his. “That yearning is eating you up from the inside. You’re hurting. It doesn’t have to be like that.”

Cal’s hands wander from your cheeks over your shoulders, down your arms, until they rest on your waist. He looks up at you, still a little unsure, and you roll your hips against his to further encourage him and tell him it’s okay. You both can’t help the low moans that escape your lips.

“It’s okay, Cal,” you whisper, leaning in and stopping just above his lips, where you feel his shaky breath. “Consume me until there’s nothing left.”

That seems to snap him back to his usual, more dominant self that he is in intimate moments like this. Adjusting your position in his lap, he presses your body into his, kissing you passionately. It’s just as intense as your make-out sessions usually are, but there’s something else lingering as well. You can’t quite describe it, but it’s like there’s a newfound meaning behind his actions. As if he is trying to pour his whole being and soul into it in an attempt to reach you. And it does. In fact, he’s using all his senses, Force included, to breathe in all of you, and his presence envelops you like it never has before.

You start undoing both your uniforms, and you pull back for a moment to take a much needed breather. 

“You’re doing great,” you pant, not really thinking about what you’re saying as you try to undo the clasps and buttons as fast as your trembling hands will allow. “Such a good boy for me.”

To say that his whimper takes you by surprise, is an understatement. You stop your movements and pull back a little more to take in the image before you: Cal’s partially exposed chest is rising and sinking rapidly, a violent blush spreading from the tip of his ears all the way down to his sternum. His usual confidence and cockiness seem gone, and biting his bottom lip, hair completely dishevelled, he gives you a flustered look you’ve never seen on him.

“Don’t call me that,” he breathes, trying to pull you closer again so you can’t look at him.

“Call you what, a good boy?” you tease him, and his whole body tenses up under you as he takes a sharp breath. “I think you rather like it, no? Being such a good boy for me. C’mon, keep going.”

He relentlessly attacks your neck just the way he knows you like, biting and licking and nibbling along your pulse. 

“Ah, kriff, these uniforms, I swear–” you curse under your breath into Cal’s temple, trying to rid yourself of your jacket without losing contact with him. You only manage to push it down to your elbows. Cal’s hands slip under your shirt and start wandering up and up. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire, goosebumps erupting on your arms and back as you arch yourself into his hold. Another moan escapes your throat as he bites down hard, immediately licking the darkened spot. You finally manage to shake off your jacket and–

Your comlink beeps and you groan. Cal seems unbothered, as he’s still going, now moving back up to finding your lips, tongue darting out to meet yours. After blindly tapping around to find the device in a pocket of your discarded jacket, you take it out and look at the caller ID. Your blood freezes when you recognise it to be your boss. Right, you’re in a maintenance shaft half naked with the inquisitor when you should be at your office. 

Shoving Cal away begrudgingly, he growls in annoyance, about to flick the still beeping comlink out of your hand.

“Wait, wait, it could be important,” you say through heavy breaths, trying to calm yourself down enough to sound somewhat normal. Cal merely pushes his face into your chest with a defeated sigh. After clearing your throat, you take the call.

“Took you long enough, officer,” your boss says in a clearly annoyed tone that makes you cringe slightly.

“Sorry, Sir, I was, uh, occupied,” you stumble over your words and mentally slap yourself. Cal doesn’t even try to hide his snort at your response. You smack him lightly on the back of his head.

“Whatever you were doing, officer,” the man says in a way that he knows exactly what you were doing and with whom. “Prepare your things and get ready, you’re to leave for an off-planet mission by tonight.”

“Yes, Sir,” you reply, instinctively straightening your back.

“You’re to meet us at the hangar by 1900 hours. And officer,” he adds with a sigh, his voice adopting a strange tone of embarrassment, almost. “If inquisitor Kestis happens to be there, tell him to come as well.”

“Understood, Sir,” Cal replies with no qualms, and you’re petrified. 

After one more sigh and some unintelligible curses, your boss hangs up. 

You blink a couple of times, trying to recover from the shock. Great, now your boss knows for sure what you were up to. 

“We’re not done here,” Cal says, as he places one last kiss on the corner of your mouth and stands up, helping you get on your feet as well. “We’ll pick up where we left off later.”

“At a different location though, I would hope,” you chuckle as you two get ready to leave the little room.

After a quick detour to the nearest washroom, where you both fix your messy hair and uniforms (his smirk as you’re barely able to cover all the hickeys with your propped up collar will be the end of you), and one to your office for you to pick up some supplies, you make your way to the hangar. A group of people is already waiting for you two; two purge troopers, two stormtroopers of your own squad your boss stand next to Cal’s ship, a zeta-class shuttle: black, sleek and menacing. 

After the debrief, you review the data on your holopad. It’s a mission on another planet, and you’re always excited to get one of those, as you don’t get to go out “into the field” often. In this case there’s a possible rebel cell, but their transmissions are set up in a way that decoding them from the Fortress Inquisitorius would take a considerable amount of time, so it’s quicker to get close to the base and physically infiltrate their comms system to get the information you need. Additionally, there’s been a tip about a possible Jedi being hidden within the rebel group, that’s why they’re sending an inquisitor as well. You’re to stay on the ship working on the decryption while they do their thing.

The ship takes off, and once you’re far enough, you make the jump into hyperspace. During the trip, both the purge troopers and Cal sit unnervingly still, probably power napping and saving their energy for the possible fight ahead. Your two troopers are in the cockpit flying the ship and having a chat, so you have a lot of time for yourself. You mainly work on preparing your equipment, revising your software and getting all the tools you’d need ready. It doesn’t take long for you to have everything prepped; the moment you’d enter the planet’s atmosphere, your scans would tell you the rebel’s comm system location within seconds, and once you land, you can head right out to hook up your own tech. There’s still a good portion of waiting after you’re done though, and with the constant hyperspace humming, you find yourself dozing on and off, replaying the earlier conversation you had with Cal in your mind, wondering how to act and what to say once you get back to base. 

After what feels like an eternity, the piloting troopers finally announce you’re here. The drop out of hyperspace shakes you slightly, and as you look out the window, you see your goal: a small planet on the very edge of the Outer Rim; you’ve never been this far away from the Core Worlds, and as you see the vast expanse of pitch black void surrounding it, you notice the lack of starts in the distance, and you almost let yourself be swallowed by the dread that runs a cold shiver down your spine. Shaking your head, you rid yourself of any distracting thoughts and get to work. As expected, your holopad is already beeping, alerting you that it found your target location. You stand up from your seat and approach the cockpit, for which you have to walk past Cal. His helmet visor is aimed at the floor in front of his feet, and he doesn’t look up as you walk by. For all you know, his eyes could be trained on you though; there’s no way to know for sure. 

Standing between the pilot seats, you show one of the troopers the coordinates on your holopad, and he punches them into the console. Holding onto the back of the seat, you stand there as the ship approaches the area you marked, and the landing is swift and almost motionless. So this is what the good ships feel like, you think to yourself. And the troopers seem to be thinking the same, if the slow whistle coming from one of them is anything to go by.

You turn around to go inform the purge troopers you’re here, but Cal is already standing in front of you, blocking your exit from the cockpit. 

“My men and I will look for our target, you two stay here,” he says as he points at the two stormtroopers. Then he gestures towards you with his head. “The officer is in charge while I’m gone, and better be unharmed when I come back, understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” they respond in unison. 

Cal seems to linger on your form for a second longer, then turns on his heels. The cargo door opens and the smell of humid, tropical air reaches your nose. Cal and his troopers take off, and you nod to yourself with an ‘alright’, as you get to work. Connecting a couple of wires here and there, you call one of the troopers to you.

“We need to bring this–” you point at your contraption. “–to the base of this structure.” You show him the red dot on the holomap at the edge of a water body. “That seems to be the backbone of their communication system. There have to be wires that we can hook the machine into.”

“Understood.”

He picks up the machine and starts heading out. You gather a couple more tools, throw them into your bag and sling it over your shoulder. As you approach the cargo door, you turn to the other trooper one last time.

“You stay here and hold down the fort. Keep the usual channels open for us and for C- Inquisitor Kestis.”

“Yes, Sir!” 

And off you go.

After a while, you get to the point at the cliff as indicated by your holomap. Both you and the stormtrooper stand at the ledge, carefully looking down. At the base, a broad river runs along the cliffside. Scanning the rocky walls with your eyes, you find what you’re looking for.

“Jackpot,” you say, pointing at something, and the trooper follows your line of sight. “That’s our transmitter.”

It’s essentially a big metal box built into the side of the cliff, with an antenna on one side and a rather wonky satellite dish on the other, partially hidden under a rocky overhang. You’d have to climb down quite a bit to reach it.

“We didn’t bring any climbing equipment,” the trooper points out. 

“We improvise,” you retort with a shrug.

You take the rope out of your bag and tie one end to a nearby tree that looks sturdy enough, and the other around your legs and waist.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Sir,” the stormtrooper starts. “If anything happens to you, Inquisitor Kestis will–” He’s stopped by the stern look you shoot him. 

“I know how to take care of myself, trooper,” You say firmly. “Now, help me get down there.” 

You plug in one of the thicker wires into your machine, holding the other end between your teeth. The trooper helps you climb down the cliffside step by step, slowly letting you down. Once you reach the desired point by the transmitter, you take the wire out of your mouth.

“Here’s good! Hold it there!” you call. A  grunt is all the response you get. 

You plug in the wire, and your holopad starts beeping, starting to intercept the messages. But they’re not written words, voices or even proper sounds, it just sounds and looks like static. 

“Guess I have to calibrate my receiver,” you think aloud. “Pull me up!”

Climbing back up the way you came, you untie the rope the moment you find your footing again, which left a slight stinging sensation at the back of your legs, and you absent-mindedly rub your bum to alleviate the sensation. You notice the trooper giving you a strange look, and heat spreads on your face.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” you say as you straighten up, looking for an order to give. “Go, uh, go collect the rope.”

“Yes, Sir…” he responds with a snicker.

You roll your eyes, but you’re not really mad at him. That must have just looked really funny. Either way, time to get to work: you kneel down next to your contraption, holding your holopad next to it, adjusting some levels here and pressing buttons there. But no matter how much you try to isolate the signal, it still doesn’t get cleaner or clearer.

The trooper places the neatly tied up rope next to your bag which you left on the ground, then holds up his blaster, undoing the safety. You look up at him in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” 

“I’m not sure…” he answers. “I have a bad feeling about this place. Let’s get what we came for and go back to the ship.”

“Okay…” you stretch out the word, unsure what put him on edge like that. Yes, there’s known aggressive fauna here, but all in all the planet is abandoned, there's no particular danger. Not documented, anyway. You keep looking at the static on your holopad, trying to make sense of it. But the more you see, the less random it seems. That’s when it dawns on you. 

Suddenly, you furiously type away on your pad, trying to translate the encoded message, but it’s just gibberish. You tilt your head in confusion, revising your translation; it should be right. But it isn’t. Why?...

“Oh!” You say after a few more seconds, getting up to your feet so quickly that it almost makes you dizzy. “Oh, this is actually quite brilliant. Ah, these rebels sure are getting crafty. Come here, you’re gonna love this.”

The stormtrooper shoots one last look over his shoulder into the vegetation, then turns to you, still holding tightly onto his blaster.

“You ever heard of Dadita?” you ask, not bothering to hide your excitement.

“No?”

“Of course you haven’t,” you say with a click of your tongue. “It’s an ancient Mandalorian code consisting of short and long bursts of static, where each combination stands for a letter. But these rebels combined it with Mon Calamari blink code, which is the same principles but with light sequences. They used Dadita static, but the sequences actually correspond to the blink code letters. No wonder back at HQ they thought we couldn’t intercept proper comms. It’s made to look like static.”

“Uh-huh,” is all you get out of the trooper, still nervously looking around.

“C’mon, this is cool,” you try, but to no avail. Sighing in defeat, you add, “You know what, nevermind. Let’s just go back.”

At least Cal will show interest in your find. Or so you hope. Speaking of, you wonder how he’s doing. You know you shouldn’t ping him as it could interfere with his mission, but you just hope they made it back safely to the ship by the time you’re there.

“Contact the ship, will you? And tell them we’re going back,” you instruct. The trooper presses some buttons on the console on his wrist.

“Ground team to ship, do you copy?”

The only answer is static.

You look in the direction of the ship as the trooper tries again, and you feel something cold on your nose, then on your cheek. You look up; it’s starting to rain. Great. Your machine shouldn’t have trouble with a little rain, but you still don’t feel great about it. You kinda made it up on the spot, so there are a couple of exposed wires. 

“We need to go get something to cover the receiver. Any answer yet?” you ask, and it’s really starting to come down now. You have to blink several times to get the water out of your eyes.

“No,” he responds, nervously looking around. “I told you, something is wrong.”

“Okay, no need to panic,” to try to calm him down; his demeanour is starting to make you nervous as well. “Let’s just quickly go back; I'm pretty sure I saw a piece of canvas that we can use to–” You sling your bag back onto your shoulders as you speak, but the inertia of the bag makes you lose your balance for a second, and with the ground now turning into mud, your boot loses its grip on the ground, making you slip and your knees give out under you. 

“Officer!” You hear the stormtrooper call as he stretches out his arm in a vain attempt to catch you, but you’re already falling backwards off the cliff. Seemingly in slow motion, the trooper and the treeline disappear from your view, being replaced by a grey, cloudy sky. You close your eyes, feeling the droplets on your face and the air rushing by your ears, and you’re strangely calm. All you can think of is Cal.

Are you okay? I wish we had properly made up before this. 

When your back hits the water of the river at the base of the cliff, your survival instincts are awoken all at once. The current is stronger than what it seemed from up the ledge. You swim with all your might, trying to stay afloat and taking gulps of air whenever you can. it isn't long until your arms are burning from the sudden effort, and you scan your surroundings, desperate to find something to hold onto. The river seems to open up and away from the cliffside. Here, the shores are filled with mangrove-like trees, their roots thick and plenty, some of them stretching out like low-hanging branches over the water surface. You try to hold on to one, but your gloves don't provide much of a grip, so you take them off and ditch them. Nearing the next big branch, you ready yourself and throw your upper body out of the water so that you can hold onto it with both your arms, and it works. Slowly, you inch closer and closer to the tree trunk, until you reach the shore. Letting yourself fall onto the mossy ground, you take some deep breaths trying to calm down your breathing, racing heart and aching limbs.

You pat your uniform and conclude that you lost your bag somewhere along the way, which had your holopad and all your equipment. You sit up and wipe the back of your sleeve over your eyes, but the constant rain keeps hitting your face. You pop open the collar of your uniform and it feels like ridding yourself of a chokehold. The uniforms were never particularly comfortable, being on the stiff side, but drenched like this, it’s much worse.

Looking around, you stand up; you have no idea where you are or where the ship could be. Giving yourself one more pat down, you find your comlink in one of your zipped up pockets, and thank the Maker under your breath. 

“Hello? Does anyone copy?”

You can hear static, so you assume that it is working, but it’s the mic or speaker, or both that are ruined. At least from the ship they should be able to locate you with it. 

A gust of wind makes you shiver slightly; despite it being a rather tropical climate, being completely wet does make you feel the dropping temperatures that will probably await you at night. In fact, it’s starting to get dark. 

They’ll find me. It’s fine. I just have to make sure I’m alive by the time they get here, hah, you tell yourself with a wry chuckle. 

First thing you have to do is seek shelter from the relentless rain. Hugging yourself, you cringe at the sensation of your feet against the wet boots, but you still take step after step into the vegetation, looking for some place to dry off. Completely lost and giving up on the idea of ever getting out of this maze by yourself, the only information you keep in your head is the direction of the river; you'll be needing water after all. For now, you could just drink rain water though, so you venture further and further away into the forest. With the dense branches sporting big, round leaves, they already stop part of the rain, but not enough. Finally, you come across a big tree, the roots lifted into the air so that they form something akin to a cage, and the ground beneath it is dry; that's exactly what you need.

Hurrying through the gaps between the roots, you take off your boots, jacket and trousers, giving everything a good squeeze to wring as much water out as possible. Left in your underwear and a black short sleeve shirt, you wonder what to do next. You’d need food soon. You sigh, leaning back onto the rough surface of the tree.

“This is exactly why I wanted an office job,” you say bitterly. So much for being excited about a mission ‘on the field’. 

For now, you decide to wait out the rain, which could hopefully stop just as suddenly as it started, and you just sit there, holding your comlink in your hands, looking at it intently. 

After a while, the rain finally seems to subside, and while your clothes are nowhere dry, you don’t exactly want to explore a jungle half naked. So you put your trousers back on, which takes a while, as the wet fabric keeps sticking to your legs. After what feels like another workout, you finally zip them up, and put on your equally wet boots. Oh, how you crave a warm shower right now. 

Taking the jacket into your hands, you feel the wet fabric and decide to leave it. Your skin dried much faster, so it was better to be a little cold without a jacket than very cold with a drenched one. Placing your comlink into your pocket, you go foraging for some sort of fruit or berry. After the rain and with no equipment, you doubt you’d be able to start a fire to cook anything, so you have to find something you can eat raw. 

As you’re picking some reddish purple berries from a bush and contemplating if you can eat them, you hear some rustling behind you. Dropping the berries and immediately turning around, you’re met with a human and you notice several things. First of all, they’re holding their side, which is bleeding a lot, their clothes stained in a dark red. Second, you see the lightsabre in their hand, emitting a blueish hue, its electric hum the only sound aside of their ragged breathing. And third, you see the plea in their deep brown eyes, silently asking you for help. Almost in the same moment, you also see their eyes dart down to your uniform and back up to your own, realisation spreading on their face. And you’re conflicted.

You know who’s after them. You know what’s going to happen. So it’s not like you don’t want to help; you can’t. If the circumstances were different, would you help? You realise you don’t want to know the answer to that. Either way, you're unarmed, hungry and shivering, so you can't really put up much of a fight against them either. 

“I'm sorry,” you say instead, and you're not really sure which part you're apologising for. You're about to take a step to the side and gesture them to go past you, but you hear footsteps approaching quickly.

The stranger winces in pain as they try to take another step, but collapse onto the ground, the sabre retracting with a whirr. They look up at you again, this time enraged, a deep frown etched into their face, and you're about to say something, but a modulated voice is quicker.

“Officer, what are you doing here?” It’s the purge trooper.

“I- I fell,” you say sheepishly. He scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head.

“Well, good job stopping our target. It’s a slippery one, this one.”

The trooper picks up the sabre, and turns around the Jedi onto their back with his boot, earning a pained grunt. From behind him emerges Cal out of the vegetation, and you’re horrified at how he looks: helmet gone, hair wild, and face partially covered in blood. If it’s his own or not, you can’t tell. He looks frustrated and beyond angry. You’re about to say something, asking if he’s okay, but the sharp look in his eyes freezes you in your spot. 

“It’s the end of the line now, Jedi,” he spits through gritted teeth, and holds his red lightsabre a little tighter. He shoots you a quick look, then at his trooper, and motions with his head to the side. The man nods and turns to you, grabbing you by your bicep, and starts dragging you away. 

“Wait, wait!” You try to turn back around, but the trooper’s grip keeps facing you forward. When you reach a thick tree, he slams your back into it rather harshly, and tells you to stay there. He doesn’t move from in front of you, holding onto his electrostaff with both hands. It emits an electric crackle of purplish hue, clearly warning you not try anything funny. And to be honest, you don't have the energy right now, so you just rest the back of your head against the bark. You can hear the stranger starting to plead for their life, trying to get under Cal’s skin, saying something about a time before being an inquisitor, but Cal is fresh out of patience, and the Jedi chokes on their words. Their laboured breathing fills this corner of the jungle, and after the sound of a lightsabre swinging and the distinct sizzling of flesh, there is silence.

The purge trooper stretches his neck to see past the tree, then gestures to you with a quick nod.

“Let’s go,” he says, and you comply.

Cal stands in front of the body, partially shielding it from your view, and you walk past him as well, following the trooper. As you three make your way back, you notice there's no trace of the second purge trooper that had left with them.

“The other one's dead,” Cal says before you can even ask, and gets handed the Jedi’s lightsabre, which he clips onto his belt. “Why are you down here? And where's your jacket?” You sigh.

“I fell,” you say, and it still sounds as stupid as it did before. “I slipped, and fell down the cliff. I left my jacket by the river. But before that I did get the receiver hooked up and I know how to decrypt the messages. Do you know if my squad made it back to the ship?”

“Don’t know, our comms don't really seem to work down here.” He suddenly stops and looks around, gesturing to a different direction, and the purge trooper takes off through the bushes. Cal turns back to you, and you shoot him a questioning look. 

“You fell from a cliff? Just what were you doing.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly distressed by your reckless actions. “I pinged you several times, and you didn't answer. I knew it probably was the signal being jammed but… I thought that– What if–”

“Hey, it's okay. I'm okay.” You place your hand on his chest and that's when you notice several gashes on his uniform. “Are you okay, though?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, his worry replaced by exasperation.

“You really shouldn't have–”

He stops in the middle of his sentence and takes a quick step back away from you as both your heads turn towards the sound of approaching footsteps. The purge trooper approaches Cal and hands him his helmet. Or what's left of it, anyway. The visor is broken, the part that sits above the jaw seems to have been sliced off entirely, and there are several dents on the other side. Your eyes meet Cal’s again in worry, but he avoids your gaze entirely. 

“Let’s move.”

The trek back to the ship is quick, as per the relentless pace of the two men. There are some obstacles on the way though, where you need a little help. When crossing a river with a particularly strong current, you lose your footing on the rocky riverbed, and find yourself holding onto the next best thing, which happens to be the purge trooper. He lets you hold him as he guides you across to the other side, where he quickly shakes you off. You wonder if he’s really that uncomfortable to be close to you, and you make a mental note not to ask purge troopers for anything in the future, especially if it entailed physical contact of any kind. But what you didn't see were the Force daggers that Cal was stabbing into the back of the poor man’s head.

Not long after the river, you come face to face with an abrupt slope with a flat, rocky surface. It’s almost like a wall, leading to the plateau above. It’s too high to jump and too even to climb, so you wonder how you will get up there. Once again, Cal seems to read your mind, as before you can even ask, you see him essentially levitating up and onto the ledge above. Now that's a handy Force trick. You expect him to throw down a rope or something for you to hold onto, but instead, you're being lifted off the ground by an invisible force, as is the trooper next to you. Once you reach the top, you’re gently placed back on solid ground, while the trooper is let go far earlier, which he is unprepared for, so he falls forward and onto his knees with a grunt. But he gets back up onto his feet without complaints or remarks, simply dusting off his thighs and continuing the way back to the ship. You want to scold Cal a little for being unnecessarily mean, but the harshness still etched into his face, now stained with dry and flaky patches of blood, refrains you from making any comments. 

Finally, you make it back to a place you recognise, where the ship isn’t far away. You run off first, despite your muscles screaming in pain to finally give them some rest. The cargo door is closed, and you bang your hand on it twice.

“Open up!” you order, and the ramp opens with a mechanical hiss, then gets lowered down. You quickly climb up before it even completely reaches the ground.  

“Officer!” both stormtroopers exclaim in unison and in apparent relief when they see you alive and in one piece. One of them runs off to the equipment storage to get a blanket for you, and you gladly accept it. Only now do you realise how cold and stiff your whole body feels. 

“Have you been intercepting the messages?” you ask, grabbing a spare holopad to log into your receiver’s software to start decrypting. 

“Yes, and as you said, it’s a coded transmission made with static bursts” the first trooper explains, the one you had been on the cliff with. “I covered up the receiver with the canvas as you asked, and we’ve been monitoring it this whole time, but we didn’t know how to decrypt it without you…”

“That’s okay, that’s my job after all.” You playfully shove your elbow into his side. “I’m just glad you’re both alive.” You smile genuinely at them, and you wonder if they're smiling back at you from under their helmets as well. The Empire may think that stormtroopers are easily replaceable, but this is your squad. And you intend to take care of them.

You take a step back to take a seat and start decrypting, but your back bumps into something, or rather someone. You turn around just in time to see Cal gesture to the purge trooper, who once again merely gives a short nod, then heads to the cockpit.

“Let’s get out of here,” is the last thing you hear him say before the cockpit and cargo doors close with a hiss, and the engines start.

Cal and you just stand there for a moment, looking at each other. 

“Are you going to say something?,” you go first. “Because if not, I have work to do.”

You sit down and he doesn't stop you, instead taking a seat next to you. You type away on the holopad, letter by letter, and the message starts forming. By typing with both hands you’re quicker, but the blanket keeps slipping down from your shoulders. Cal notices and picks it up, wrapping your form in it properly again, and then leaving his arm around you so it would stay there. You give him a quick ‘thanks’, but don't stop what you're doing. For a moment you wonder if you're giving him the silent treatment, and if so, why, but you really have to get this thing decrypted, so you focus on that for the time being. 

At some point, Cal carefully places his head on your shoulder, and when you don't shoo him away, he properly gets comfortable. By then, you've written a program to automate the decoding. It's a bit crude and not your best, but it works. Now the decrypted message appears much faster, and it seems to be mostly correct, except for the occasional letter here and there. The message is still clear and understandable, though, and you can feel your focus and energy quickly depleting, so you decide it’s good enough for now. You set it up so that the live decryption gets sent back to HQ as your receiver feeds the rebel comms into it.

Setting down your holopad on the seat next to you with a yawn, you gently stroke Cal’s cheek.

“You awake?” you ask softly, and he hums.

“You done?” he asks back, and you hum as well.

Then you sit in silence again. The constant rumbling of the ship, combined with your adrenaline completely gone now, is all inviting you to the sweet embrace of sleep.

“We have to talk when we get back,” is the last thing you manage to mumble before drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

— — —

You wake up to your shoulder being shaken and the repeated call of your name. Your eyes shoot open and you sit up straight, immediately slumping back down with a wince as your whole body aches, both because of the whole river action earlier, and sleeping in such a weird position. 

Standing up with a grunt, you shiver as you look down at yourself: still without a jacket, your boots and trousers are stained with dirt, moss and sand. Your upper half must look even worse. Especially with the marks on your neck and who knows where else, courtesy of the inquisitor himself. So you grab the blanket and wrap it around yourself like a hooded poncho of sorts, hoping to hide most of your face and dirty clothes.

“I called earlier and they're waiting with a stretcher for you at the hangar,” Cal says as you try to hide both your head and legs, but the blanket clearly isn't big enough for that. You turn around with a raised eyebrow. “They're going to wrap you up and take you straight to medbay. So no one will see you.”

“How–”

“I may or may not have said that you might have a slight case of hypothermia.”

“We were on a planet with tropical climate,” you retort.

“I was convincing,” is all he says.

You can't question him further, as you feel the familiar sway of a landing ship. When it hits the ground with a ‘clunk’, everything happens so quickly: the cockpit and cargo doors open, and Cal suddenly picks you up bridal style. He places you onto the promised stretcher which is already waiting at the base of the ramp, and two med troopers quickly wrap you up in an emergency foil blanket. Just like that, you're taken to the medbay. 

After your check-up, they tell you that other than being a little shaken and dehydrated, you're fine. You're free to stay a little longer to rest up, but you can also leave if you feel like it. And just like that, you're alone in the little room. How Cal managed to convince them to give you the private medbay room, you still don't know. But at this point, you should probably be used to it. Inquisitors seem to get almost anything they want here. Albeit at a cost.

The cot is decently comfy, and you consider staying here for a couple more hours to nap and rest up, knowing you won't be interrupted. So you get comfortable with a sigh, and just as you find a good position to sleep in, the doors open. You groan, lifting the blanket over your face. 

“I thought you were asleep,” Cal says as the doors close behind him and he approaches your bed. 

“I was about to be,” you reply with a sigh and fold the blanket back down to sit up properly. You're about to ask him what he wants, when you see that he’s sporting several bandages, one on his jaw, and some on his torso, visible through the white shirt he’s wearing. 

“Are you okay?,” you ask and scoot over on the bed to make what little room you can spare for him to sit. However, he stays where he stands.

“Just a couple of scratches, I’ve had worse,” he replies, but it doesn’t make you feel better. “What about you?”

“Well, it’s not hypothermia,” you joke, in an attempt to ease the strange tension building between the two of you, but he doesn’t react. “I’ve basically been discharged. I was just about to nap, but… what is it?”

He looks at you as if he didn’t know what you mean. But the whole time, he’s been chewing the inside of his cheek. Clearly something is on his mind, and right now you don't have the energy to play the back and forth game.

“You want to tell me something, right? So, tell me.” You want to sound trusting, but it comes out harsher than you meant. He seems slightly taken aback.

“You said earlier you wanted to talk,” he retorts defensively. “And I understand.”

“What do you mean?”

He hesitates for a second.

“We don’t need to keep–” He looks for the right word. “–seeing each other.”

You pause for a moment, trying to dig deeper behind his words and try to get the real meaning out, but you're lost and rather shocked by his words.

“What do you mean?” you repeat yourself, alarmed.

He sighs, running his hand through his hair; he's nervous.

“I didn’t want you to see it,” he starts, avoiding looking at you. “It’s a side of me I didn't want you to see.”

“Oh,” you say, and you understand what he's getting at; the whole hunting and killing Jedi business. 

“What do you mean, ‘oh’?” he asks, his eyes finding yours and narrowing them at you. “Isn’t that what you wanted to talk about?”

“I mean, we can talk about it if you want to. I–” You sheepishly fidget with your fingers on your lap. You actually wanted to talk about how he treats his purge troopers, but this is far more important, you realise. “Yeah, let’s talk about that.”

Before he can inquire what you actually meant to talk about, you gesture for him to sit next to you. He still doesn’t move.

“Please sit,” you insist, and finally, he does. With the extra weigh dipping the mattress, you kind of lean into his side. You keep talking, both of you looking ahead. “Everything I said earlier, it still stands, you know.”

He doesn’t respond, so you continue.

“About the… warmth. And you being you and still deserving it.” You gingerly place your hand over his, and he momentarily flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “I’m not stupid, Cal. I know what you do. I’ve been aware of it from the start. And I simply don’t care. It’s not like my job is any better. My work also has… certain consequences, for others. And I’ve made peace with it.”

Finally you dare look up at him, his gaze still cast down. You can feel him trembling slightly though.

“You may be an inquisitor to others, but to me you're just Cal.” You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. “Cal who makes pancakes with me. Cal who calls in a stretcher for me so I can save myself the embarrassment of my boss seeing me being a dirty, flustered mess. Cal who would stab someone else for looking at me the wrong way.”

He chuckles lightly at that. You reach out to cup his face, and make him look at you.

“But also the Cal who has nightmares. Cal who is sometimes scared out of his mind. Cal who asks me to stay the night because he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. I want all of them.” You pause for a second, but you’re too tired to fight the question that’s been pestering your mind for ages now. “And all those versions of Cal… they give me warmth too. Right?”

His shoulders slump slightly with a sharp exhale.

“They do,” he finally answers in a voice so small you almost miss it. 

“Glad we could clear that up then,” you say just as softly, and close the gap to place a kiss to his lips, and he reciprocates so tenderly, holding your face like it could crumble any moment and disappear through his fingers. 

You want to pull back from the kiss, but his lips follow yours, capturing them once again. Cal climbs on top of you, pushing you back down onto the mattress.

“Don’t you want to get back to–” you try offering to move to a better location, but your words are interrupted by the squeal you let out as he pinches your side. 

“We have to make up for lost time,” he states, getting back to attacking you with kisses, each one more and more ferocious.

You hear the distinct hiss of the doors opening, but Cal is quick to close them again with a quick flick of his wrist. From the other side, you can hear the nurse complaining. 

“The officer is busy,” Cal calls over his shoulder, looking down at you the way a predator looks at its prey. “Come back later.” 

— — —

Later that night, after a shower and slipping into your comfiest PJs, you’re both in his bed. Cal lies on his back and you have your head on his chest, drawing random figures onto his shirt. 

“Are you sure about this?” Cal asks for the hundredth time. 

“Yes,” you reassure him, propping yourself up on your elbow so you can place a kiss on his nose. “I’ll talk you through it. Just, try to stay in the dream. It will all work out, I promise.” 

“Right,” he sighs, closing his eyes, and takes a deep breath. 

You get back to cuddling into his side, and the even drumming of his heartbeat does quick work of lulling you to sleep.

It doesn’t take long, however, and you wake up to Cal twitching again. His brows are furrowed, his hands holding onto the bedsheet for dear life, and you sit up next to him, caressing his hair and holding his hand, whispering words of encouragement.

Cal is back on Bracca, collecting scraps from the same ships that he used to call home back when he was a Padawan. That seems so long ago now. Lifetimes ago. And maybe it is. 

What would his younger self think of what he is now? 

Cal stands at the edge of the partially stripped apart engine, impossibly small against the size of the machinery. A voice calls out to him, and he turns around. The world around him spins, turning into a blinding white, and he shields his eyes from the sudden change with his hands. 

“Why are you here?” a trembling voice asks.

Cal looks up, meeting his own eyes, still a greenish blue, of his 13-year-old self. Disappointment and horror etched into his little face.

“What have you done?” another voice spits condescendingly.

Cal whips around, now looking at his master, Jaro Tapal, looking at him in disgust. 

“Cal!” 

He turns around again, starting to get dizzy, and his body freezes up, he can’t breathe. He’s standing at the edge of a scrapper platform now, surrounded by other people he used to know, but all their faces are blurred or scratched out. However, he can clearly see Prauf, his good friend Prauf, confronting the Second Sister. She holds her sabre at his throat, the blade sizzling in the rain. The red hue reflects in Prauf’s eyes.

Cal instinctively reaches out to his belt, expecting to find his own lightsabre, but it’s not there. He looks down at himself, and sees that he’s donning full inquisitor armour. 

“Kill him,” the Second Sister orders.

Finally, Cal seems to be able to move and breathe again, and he takes a huge gulp of air. 

“I said, kill him,” she repeats.

“No,” Cal says, and she slowly turns around to him. 

“No?”, she chuckles, but the venom spills out of her voice like an overflowing glass of spotchka. It burns. 

Suddenly, Cal is shoved in her direction against his will, and his inquisitor lightsabre appears in his hand. His arm is lifted into the air by an invisible force, about to swing down on top of Prauf’s head. 

“Do it!” she yells, and Cal screams as well, trying with all his might to hold back his arm. 

He hates this, he wants out. It hurts too much. The force trying to push down his arm and the sad look in his friend’s eyes tear into his heart like iron claws, shredding everything in its way.

Cal can hear the Second Sister’s voice yelling, urging him to get it done, but he hears something else too: it’s you. Your voice cuts through the cacophony of the scrapping grounds, pushing away all sounds of machinery, drills, saws, the rain itself and the inquisitor’s voice. Shoving it all aside, there’s just you.

“It’s okay, Cal,” you say, and the oppressing force on his arm is lifted with every word of yours. “I’m here, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re not alone.”

Finally, the force is gone entirely, and he screams in both pain and relief. Cal lets go of his weapon, which retracts mid-air with a whirr, and it falls to the ground. 

The world around him freezes, and everyone disappears. He’s back in the blinding white room, now  in his old scrapper outfit.

“Cal,” Prauf’s voice comes from behind him, and the redhead whips around. 

“My friend,” Prauf says warmly, as he always did, and stretches out his arms. A silent invitation. 

Cal hesitates only for a second, then gives in. Taking the few steps that separate the two, he lets himself be embraced by the Abednedo. Unable to hold back, he cries into his friend’s chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps between sobs. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” the older man comforts him, lightly patting Cal’s back. “It’s not your fault.”

After a few more moments, when Cal’s cries subside, he pulls back to look up at Prauf.

“Why am I here?” he asks.

Prauf smiles down at him.

“I just wanted to let you know: it’s not your fault,” he says, placing his hands on the younger man’s shoulders and giving them a squeeze. “And to say thank you, for being my friend. I hope you found your way off Bracca and can have a peaceful life. You’ve been through so much, kid.”

Cal feels another wave of tears prickling behind his eyes.

“You never really belonged on Bracca, but I’m glad I met you,” Prauf says, his voice trailing off, as if swept off by the wind, as his image also starts disappearing from in front of Cal. “I hope you found your place.”

“No, wait!” he calls, trying to hold on to him, but his hands phase through the shadow of the figure still left.

Suddenly, Cal sits up on the bed with a scream, which takes you by surprise and you flinch backwards, falling onto your hands on the bed. 

He holds his shirt over his heart so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and with a broken sob, he lets himself fall back onto the bed. You hurry to scoot closer.

“You were right,” Cal says between sobs. “The Force was trying to get a message to me.”

That night, you hold him as he cries, this time not out of fear, but because he can finally allow himself to grief the loss of a friend from a long time ago.

I found my place, Prauf, Cal thinks, about to drift off to sleep after the exhaustion of crying takes over. He looks at you lying on his chest one last time, a soft smile spreading on his lips.

He hopes that some day, he’ll be able to find warmth just with you, not needing to resort to other methods ever again. And maybe then, finally, he can offer you all the warmth back that he forgot he held.

~~~~~

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#goose feathers #cal kestis x reader #star wars cal x reader #jedi fallen order x reader #jedi survivor x reader #inquisitor cal x reader #inquisitor cal kestis x reader #inq!cal kestis x reader

[writers-potion]

♛ Write Your "Alpha Girls" Right

Women in literature and other media have traditionally played a side role/ femme fetale, with the "strong female character trope" often falling into two categories:

Loud and abrasive characters taking on traditionally masculine roles of skillsets.

Overly modest strong characters who doesn't know what they are capable of.

There's nothing wrong with your characters having the above qualities. The problem is when your character has ONLY these traits.

Let's start with a definition of an "Alpha Girl":

A girl/woman who has embraced her ambitions and power. She is talented, highly motivated and self-confident.

The term "alpha" comes from research on animal behavior, and used to designate the animal that is the leader of a pack. Thus, an alpha girl will have characteristics like:

believing her ability to achieve is limitless

self-identify as a leader

being recognized as others as impactful and competent

have extremely high ambitions

Here are some things to keep in mind to make such a character believable:

Give her complex emotions

The greatest danger of writing powerful women is that they are only powerful, which reverts her back to being a one-dimensional trope.

she can be a stoic warrior who cries when her best friend dies, or a sweet kindergarten teacher who boxes to deal with her rage.

People are complicated and often unpredictable, so giving your female character the same complex range of emotions you yourself experience as a human being is a good way to start writing stronger characters.

2. Give her flaws

Trying to create a "perfect" character will make her ingenuine and one dimensional. If your alpha girl has flaws, that flaw cannot be one that is somehow advantageous or liked by everyone that essentially makes it NOT a real flaw.

Every character trait is a double-edged sword. Instead of just leaning on sterotypical "female" flaws, think of how a good thing about your girl can also be bad, adding depth to her.

You can also give her multiple (albeit minor) flaws. Trying to define a character using a sole primary flaw tends to appear forced and unrealistic.

Refer to my list of good character traits gone bad.

3. The alpha gril doesn't have to be alone to rise above sterotyping

One thing that annoys me is how strong female characters are often portrayed as being a lone wolf. This includes the "I'm not like other girls" attitude where a smart girl is simply set apart from the rest, with the other girls either (1) admire/half-fearing her or (2) trying to bring her down.

Integrate them into a group of friends/ society/ league. Show how she can lead naturally and mingle with others, not just being high-nosed and better than everyone all the time.

4. Give her More than Looks

I'm not against attractive female characters, but it makes me sad how being good-looking is the default for being powerful.

So, no more "she was pretty but didn't know it". Does she have a defining physical feature that is integral to the storyline? Does she know that she is pretty and actively uses it to her advantage? Give us a character who is not beautiful but still confident and liked.

5. Give her Female Allies

Sometimes writers try to make a female character appear stronger by turning her into a "tomboy" with only male friends.

Make her sound more real by giving her genuine female friends (not some paper-cut princess to complement her, but an actual alluy)

6. Involve character growth

The reason why "I'm not like other girls" trope is criticized is because the strength of such female characters come by default and not a result of character growth or actual effort or further development/evolution.

Your alpha girl must put in the effort to be the alpha, not rely on circumstance or worse, another character, for her powers.

Women, like all people, are always changing and evolving. Focus on creating a dynamic that pushes your alpha girl to face new challenges and even change herself.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

References:

https://www.scienceofpeople.com/alpha-female/

https://www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-strong-female-characters#5FssLVhh2sHsEUpxARewuS

#writers and poets #writing #poets and writers #creative writing #writers on tumblr #helping writers #let's write #resources for writers #creative writers #writeblr #write #writers #writerscommunity #author #writers block #writer #how to write #writer community #female writers #writer stuff #writing advice #on writing #writing prompt #character writing #female characters #female character design #alpha girl #alpha female #writing inspiration #writing community

[nelyos-right-hand]

Before I start, this is about toxic and abusive behavior in Rings of Power that is portrayed positively. I will not get any hate for this because I should be allowed to point out problematic views in a show and people should talk about this.

The thing that bothers me most about Rings of Power is not the terrible plot. It's not the unnecessary love-story between Galadriel and Sauron. It's not the bad costumes or the extremely uninteresting side stories not even the RoP fans themselves care about. It's not even the canon that is burning and breaking all around us.

The greatest problem (in my opinion) is Galadriel herself. Because she's just... extremely unlikeable. Through the entire show, there was nothing that made me sympathetic towards her, that in any way inspired me to like her. And you just can't ignore that because she's literally everywhere. The entire show is about her which makes it impossible to watch, even if you are ready to lower your expectations and ignore minor flaws.

The way she treats everyone around her is just... I don't even have words for it. It's extremely disrespectful and impolite and imposing and... you just don't treat other people like that. Ever. It's extremely obvious that she thinks herself better than everyone else and she shows that to everyone.

And the worst part is that the show portrays that as the "right behavior". No matter what, Galadriel is always right, she always makes the right decisions, and those that see that and listen to her, and let her treat them like that are the "good" people, and those who contradict her or disagree are the "stupid" people.

The best example for that is her conversation with Elrond which we already saw in the trailer. You know, the one where's she's like "you have not seen what I have seen". I always disliked that scene because I didn't like how the show downplayed Elrond's own traumatic past, but the more I think about it, the worse it gets. Because think of the situation:

At first, Elrond (her only friend, so you would think she would bother to treat at least him well, but nope) tries to comfort her, at which she gets mad and tells him she had it harder then him. And this already... He's trying to help her, he is listening to her problems and she just immediately starts insulting him. But it gets even worse. Because Elrond defends himself, he says that he has suffered as well and that he knows what he is talking about, and she's just "nope, I suffered more that you did".

And that's just so wrong in so many ways. Because who does that? Even if she was right (which I don't think she is), who compares trauma like it's a competition?

She is suffering because she lost her family and her home, and so did he. They both lost people they loved and she just tells him that his losses weren't as painful as hers???? That she suffered more when she lost her brother than he did when he lost his?! Just- just imagine that for a second. Imagine you lost family members and then your friend tells you that it wasn't that bad because they what? Lost more? Lived longer? Again: It's Not A Competition!!! And Elrond even defends himself and tells Galadriel that she can't say that because he suffered just as much, but instead of admitting her mistake and apologizing, she just goes on.

And the worst thing is that the show makes it look like Galadriel is right. Galadriel is the hero and since she never makes mistakes, they try to somehow make this behavior look "cool" and "strong". Remember, kids are watching this show. Amazon wanted this to be for the whole family. And kids are gonna see her as a role model. They are gonna think her cool, as every twelve year old thinks a strong warrior who doesn't make mistakes cool. Is that what you want jung teenagers to define as "cool" behaviour? To treat everyone else like garbage and to never admit your mistakes?

Now, both Galadriel and Elrond aren't real, but in real life you can seriously hurt a person like that. And if the only way you can make a person appear "strong" is by making them hurt and downgrade others, then you shouldn't be filming TV shows in the first place.

And this was just one example. I could show you ten more scenes where Galadriel is just as condescending, this was just the one that bothered me the most.

And I don't want anyone telling me that "the show doesn't actually support that kind of behaviour". Yes it does. If the protagonist and hero of the show constantly treats others that way and is not once called out or criticised for it, it supports it. If it doesn't mean to, it should be more clear about it. I don't care whether they might still criticize her for it in season two (unlikely), they should have done it the moment Galadriel started comparing her own losses to those of her only friend in the trailer before the show even came out.

#the rings of power #anti rings of power #galadriel #elrond #sauron #halbrand #tolkien #lotr #silmarillion #the silmarillion #tolkien elves #the lord of the rings #my post

[the-unconquered-queen]

With Blades 2 coming to an end, I just wanna get it off my chest that I'm really not a fan of how they wrote Nia for a great part of this one, particularly vis-à-vis the way they wrote MC. I know I've been saying some stuff along those lines for ages now, but it hasn't left my mind so now I'm gonna actually get into it.

For starters, I think a lot of the issue with Nia's writing was captured pretty well in the tags of this post, particularly on point 2. Like I've said, Nia unfortunately falls into the category of a Mary Sue in that every "flaw" she's given just serves to elevate her to perfection. Hell, even when corrupted—when a person is supposed to be in their most volatile state—the worst she does is be snarky that first chapter (she is aggressive toward MC at one point before this, but it's neither acknowledged nor repeated later). After that, she is entirely normal, just not as much of a pushover, and while I much preferred shadow!Nia, I do think that this really undermines the whole gravity of corruption and b2's emphasis on shadow-light balance, since shadow!Nia comes off as quite balanced already, especially compared to other corrupted characters we've seen.

But here's the thing, that post that got me thinking is months old, and we have gotten more story since then, and what I have noticed is that Nia does, in fact, have one real flaw in canon, but it's the one flaw she's absolutely not meant to have: Nia in canon can at times come off as self-absorbed. She either makes things about herself or doesn't stop people from doing this, and there are multiple examples of it. There is the instance in Riverbend when MC is taking a moment to finally try to process Kade's capture (which, following their own capture, they never got the chance to process) and Nia derails the conversation and makes it about her own grief and is comforted by MC and Mal. Another example is the moment on Gerhard's ship when she vents about the pressure she's been under and lets MC comfort her without at any point considering that MC might have been under similar pressure.

And don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with a character putting themselves first. But when the book doesn't waste a single chance to tell us that Nia's character is the complete opposite and that she is chronically incapable of not being considerate 25/8, it's quite contradictory. I mean, you can even call out Ethan Ramsey, PB's golden boy, on making things about himself at some point in OH, but because, unlike Ethan, Nia is written for you to consider her super sweet and wholesome and perfect, the Blades MC actually contributes to this by performing mental gymnastics to turn something around to be about Nia.

Which brings me to my final point: Blades 2 pushed MC to the side to revolve around Nia, but MC is exactly the person they meant for Nia to be, by virtue of the dissonance between showing and telling. They tell you that Nia is selfless because she always puts everyone else first. Well, I can and did name examples showing the contrary, meanwhile, MC is the one who was been through the most traumatic ordeal and is constantly checking in on everyone else without expecting and without receiving much of the same courtesy in return, even apologizing to Nia because she was "carrying all that weight on her own", never mind that MC always has the weight of the world on their shoulders. They tell you that Nia is the heart of the party, but they both told and showed us that everything fell apart without MC.

Even some of Nia's most defining character traits, MC has in similar measure. Nia sees the best in everyone? MC can be the #1 believer in Aerin's redemption after all the shit he pulled. Nia is trusting to the point of naivete? MC literally trusted Valax while she outright told them at every turn she would turn on them at the first opportunity, and was genuinely hurt by the betrayal. Miss me with MC calling Nia "our better self".

Every trait that they've gone out of their way to tell you Nia has they've shown twofold in MC, which is why it's so exasperating to me that they reduced MC to the conduct through which other characters' (particularly Nia's) stories get told while their own is an afterthought. I am by no means saying that two people can't have similar traits or that two people can't be good people at the same time, but there is something about praising these traits in Nia when, based on these, MC should be held to a similar standard. Instead, they relegated MC (main. character.) to a supporting character in Nia's story, elevating every trait that MC possesses only in Nia while ignoring them in MC to the point that many scenes felt frustrating to play.

#it's not that she's a bad character but I do resent making her the protagonist of b2 at the expense of MC #I really hope MC gets their flowers in b3 and the chance to really be in the spotlight because this aspect of b2 was not it #I do like that she had the whole light v shadow thing going on and got to be super powerful and I think her arc was overall good though #it's just those other things that bug me

[dollopheadsandclotpoles]

For the quotes thingy, 94 for Merlin and Arthur

Sorry for the delay anon. Here's some modern-era workplace au merthur for ya. (There are sexual references but no actual smut in this, sorry if you wanted some haha)

“I bet I can make you scream my name.”

The worst thing about being in a secret relationship with Arthur Pendragon was that he could be a right bloody tease. 

All Merlin had done was suggest they keep their relationship a secret. They had just gotten together after all, and they weren’t fourteen anymore. They didn’t have to immediately run and tell their friends every single thing about their dating life the second it happened, did they?

Sure, their relationship was a culmination of months of frustrated pining that Merlin thought was one-sided until Arthur dropped him to his flat post the office party and abruptly (and clumsily) confessed his feelings, which resulted in a kiss that made Merlin so weak-kneed he was positive he’d never been kissed like that before. 

But the next morning, when he saw Arthur rousing in his bed, the sunlight alighting on him like he was a Classical painting of a half-naked Adonis, Merlin’s senses returned to him.

The words had come out in a rush, before he could stop them. “We shouldn’t tell anyone. About us.” 

It took Arthur a moment to register the words, but as soon as he did, he looked affronted by the mere suggestion. “What? Why?” 

“Just… you know. We work together. People will think I’m… sucking up to the boss.” 

Arthur gave him a look that made it clear he knew that was bullshit. Technically, yes, Arthur was one of the bosses, but Merlin was in another department and didn’t report to Arthur at all, so they weren’t actually breaking any rules by getting involved. And Merlin in particular was known office-wide for not giving a single shit what his bosses thought anyway. A fact that made him far from Uther Pendragon’s favourite employee. 

Arthur was watching him, brows raised slightly in suspicious contemplation. “What’s the real reason?”  

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Merlin said, flicking on the electric kettle and letting the sound of bubbling water fill the small room. 

Arthur wore the grumpy expression he wore during too-early meetings with particularly aggravating clients.

“Fine,” he said, eventually. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

Merlin smiled, relieved. “Thanks. I just think it’s better t-”

“But we’re not having sex.” 

Merlin let out a scoff. “What?” 

“Either you tell me the truth about why you want to hide this, or we’re not having sex.” 

Merlin crossed his arms, raising his eyebrows. “Your threats aren’t going to work on me, Arthur.” 

Arthur gave him that lopsided grin of his that made the back of Merlin’s neck burn. “We’ll see.” 

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

It started off small. A brush of their hands by the water cooler, or Arthur bumping his knee against Merlin’s when they were seated next to each other in the conference room. It was sweet, and hardly distracting. But then, Arthur started wearing that cologne that Merlin liked a bit too much, and leaning all the way over him when taking a look at the agreements, instead of just taking the files back to his office, like he used to. With the heat of Arthur’s body behind him and the smell of his—utterly intoxicating cologne— all around him, Merlin had to remind himself not to let his conviction waver. The prat couldn’t always have his way. 

Then, Arthur began joining Merlin and Gwaine in the squash court before work, clad in shorts that showed off his stupidly well defined calves, which—until then—Merlin hadn’t ever thought of as a particularly sexy part of a man’s body. But seeing Arthur run around in a sweat-damp t-shirt, his golden hair sticking to his forehead as he whooped loudly about scoring a point, seemed to awaken a part of him that he did not want to acknowledge. 

He didn’t even want to think about the locker room after. Arthur really had an aggravatingly nice ass. 

The cute knee bumps in the conference room turned into Arthur’s hand on his knee, then his thigh, rising steadily upwards until Merlin choked on his water, and started coughing so hard Uther Pendragon asked him if he was unwell. 

But Merlin was stubborn. Arthur was being infuriating on purpose, and Merlin was not going to acknowledge that he was tempted. Was he expected to just give in to the prat’s every whims? No. He wasn’t going to cave. Especially not when Arthur came into his department wearing a light blue shirt that was a little bit too tight and which brought out the deep, fervent blue of his eyes, asking to use their photocopier. 

“Of course,” Gretchen, Merlin’s department head said. 

“I think you have a slightly different model down here. I’m not sure how to use it. Maybe Merlin could help me?” 

Gretchen looked expectantly at Merlin, who breathed in sharply through his nose. He couldn’t very well say no in front of his department head. He ignored the smirk Will gave him as he stormed past Arthur and into the photocopy room. 

The room was cramped, made even smaller by the four massive photocopiers they had crammed in there. He refused to look up when he heard Arthur come in, and when he heard the telltale click of the lock. 

Why did they even have a lock in here? 

“What do you need to photocopy?” Merlin asked, he kept his back to Arthur, his tone a lot ruder than he had intended. His skin already felt like it was buzzing with static. Damn Arthur Pendragon and his bleeding ultimatums. 

Arthur reached past Merlin, his hand grazing Merlin’s side as he placed the document on the bed of the photocopier. Even though the rough fabric of his shirt, Merlin’s skin seared with heat at the touch. 

“Need 30 copies of that,” Arthur said, his breath warm on Merlin’s neck. 

Merlin slammed down the lid of the machine, ignoring the goosebumps that ran up his arm, and turned to face Arthur, realising belatedly that he was caught between Arthur and the massive copy machine. Maybe he hadn’t quite thought this through. Arthur smiled, crookedly, putting one arm up on the machine to trap Merlin in place.

“Is that all?” Merlin asked, forcefully. 

“I think you should stay here. In case something goes wrong with the machine.” Arthur was pressing up against him now, his hips right up against Merlin’s own. Merlin felt the vibrations of the giant machine run through his spine. 

He swallowed hard. “I think I should go back to work.” 

“I’m your boss, Merlin. You have to listen to me.” 

“No you’re not, and no I don’t.” Merlin said, though his thoughts were buzzing, melding into the whir of the copier.

He could feel Arthur’s breath on his lips now, hot and sweet. “These machines are so loud, I’ll wager we could be as loud as we want in here.” 

“I… have no plans of being loud in here.” 

“No?” Arthur asked, eyes boring into Merlin’s. “If you give me the chance, I bet I can make you scream my name.” 

Merlin’s whole body was burning hot and felt stretched too-tight, like a rubber band about to snap. He could barely muster up his next words, which came out more like a croak. “I’m good.” 

Arthur groaned loudly, pushing away from him. Merlin instantly missed the heat of his body. “God, Merlin, you are the most stubborn person I have ever met. You think I can’t tell how pent up you are? Why are you so insistent on keeping this a secret? Do you not want to be in a relationship with me?” 

Merlin blinked, the fog in his brain clearing away, just a little. “What? Of course I do.” 

“Then why the hell are you so insistent on keeping this a secret?” 

Arthur was watching him, his expression was raw, his eyes wide. There he was, his emotion laid bare, and Merlin understood, suddenly, what it all meant. He’d thought it was harmless, asking Arthur to keep them a secret. But all this time, Arthur thought he didn’t care. 

“Do you not want to be exclusive? Is this going too fast?” Arthur asked. 

“It’s not like that,” Merlin said, putting as much earnestness into his voice as he could. “It’s…,” he ran his fingers through his hair, making one side stick up, and sighed. “It’s Gwaine and Will. And Morgana.” 

“Huh? Do you mean… you’re… also seeing Gwaine, Will and my sister?” 

“What? No! Yeesh. I don’t think I have that much game. No! It’s… they…,” Merlin sighed loudly, dropping his arms to his side. “They used to say I had a crush on you.” 

Arthur stared back, uncomprehending. “Huh?” 

“Well you used to be really bloody annoying when I first started working here! And I kept saying that I hated you, and they kept saying I had a crush, and I didn’t… not then… but then I did, but by then I didn’t want to admit it… and you were still a giant clotpole, by the way… so I kept saying that I didn’t like you and…” Merlin gestured wildly towards the door. “If they find out we’re together they’re never going to let me hear the end of it.” 

Arthur was staring at him now like he’d grown a set of donkey ears and was braying. 

“That’s what all this is about?” he asked, disbelief in his voice. “This is about your pride!?” 

“It’s about my reputation,” Merlin insisted. 

“But you are going to tell them eventually, aren’t you?”

“Of course, dollophead. Just… they’re going to be so annoying about it. I just want to put that off for as long as I can. Alright?”  

“You really are infuriatingly stubborn,” Arthur huffed. He tugged Merlin by the tie, yanking him closer and kissing him hard on the mouth. Merlin’s skin burned. He was practically dizzzy when they pulled apart, his fingers still threaded through Arthur’s hair. 

“So,” he gasped, trying to regain his breath, “are you done tormenting me now? You only said I had to tell you why.” 

Arthur straightened out Merlin’s tie that had gone askew. “See you at my place after work then. I have a bet I have to make good on.” 

Merlin grinned, his heart still hammering in his chest. “Don’t be so sure you’re gonna win.” 

 Arthur smirked. “This time, I’m pretty confident I will.” 

#drabble game #my writing #bbc merlin #merthur #merlin x arthur #merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin fic #merlin ficlet #merlin emrys #i first thought It'd be really funny to find a totally non-smutty way to use this line #but then I was like let's just give the people what they want #you knew what you wanted when you asked for this I know it #anonymous #ask

[mybworlds]

Bittersweet

CHAPTER 1

status: ongoing

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: your life is full of 'must'. You live with your overprotective mother who controls every aspect of your life. You have a dream, to write romance novels, but love - real love - you haven't found yet. Your mother has even decided what you must do in your free time: play music. One day, however, when you go to your music teacher's house, you will have an unexpected encounter and from that day on things change…

rating: 18+ explicit (minors, DNI)

Before to start... Hello people, I know there are other two ff that I already started, but I dreamt this new idea for my new ff. So I decided to write it down it. So here we are. If you want to let me know what you think about it I'd be glad to read you.

No offence pls, if you dislike it go away :)

Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner

You always dreamed of doing something special, of being the person who would make a difference in the world….

So you hoped.

You hoped to become a great writer of romance novels, and you hoped to instill hope in the hearts of young people not to give up in the face of love and the possible obstacles that may arise.

But not all dreams come true.

In fact, you ended up working in a small bar on the outskirts of your town, surrounded by the many stories of the many diners who populate the place during the daytime or evening hours--depending on the shifts. These stories are the most different, and cannot help but feed your wild imagination.

In the evening, when you are not on shift, you write dozens and dozens of stories on your computer: some are shorts, some are very long and have happy endings, some less. It depends on your mood and how you imagine certain events you've witnessed or heard will end.

"I'm home!"

Your mother has just returned from a nearly seventy-two-hour shift at the hospital, she works in emergency medicine, and - since your father died (or at least she always said) - when she's not at home, you have to do everything, housework and bar work, grocery shopping, paying bills.

"Hi, Mom."

You absentmindedly greet her by putting down your computer glasses and crinkling your eyes in exhaustion.

"Did you buy groceries?"

The usual string of questions starts, to which you always answer with a distracted yes. You are almost 30 years old, but sometimes you feel like you are 40s or even 50s. Sometimes you think you would just like to enjoy youth, to be carefree, light-hearted, you would like to be free even to make mistakes, and instead you feel caged in this life. In a life where the only rule is you must.

"So you're okay with that?" your mother suddenly asks, making you get your feet back on the ground.

"What?" you ask confused.

"You might even listen to me for once!" blurts out Mom.

"I just got distracted for a second!" you exclaim trying to catch up.

Mom snorts, "I asked you if you were free tomorrow for your guitar lesson."

Ah yes, the exhilarating guitar lessons!

Mom, ever since Dad left (but she always said it was as if he was dead), has demanded that you take piano lessons first and guitar lessons later, like your father. You can't understand your mother, sometimes she seems to hate your father, sometimes she doesn't.

About love, you've always wanted it to be forever. Maybe it's just some romantic bullshit you always watched in movies or read in books, but you want to believe that there really exists out there for you, someone who is willing to love you for a lifetime. Too bad you haven't found anyone so far who is willing to love you the same way you love, to want you the way you want!

Going back to your guitar lessons, your teacher is a bit of a peculiar guy, a bit of a loner, a lover of many things and one opposed to the other. He's -- you don't know exactly how to define him. You've never been able to decipher him. He seems gruff, but at the same time he has a good side and probably deep down sweet.

Very deep down.

"Yes, don't worry." Mom, ever since he left, has become overprotective in some ways with you, has demanded to control you even though you are not so young anymore, wants to know what you read, what you see, what you do. It may seem normal, perhaps, for a mom to try to get to know what her child does, but not the way she does. If you are evasive for one reason for another, she becomes a hound, suffocating almost. Once she even demanded to read a chat you created with friends fearing that you might be in touch with a man much older than you, and instead she found herself a chat where you were exchanging sometimes funny and sometimes even private messages with some of your close friends from school, which even embarrassed you, but mom justified herself by saying she was doing it for you. She even banned you from driving for fear that you might have a car accident! You have a driver's license, but your mother won't even let you drive around town. She always has to be the one to drive you. These manias of hers are suffocating!

"Good. Do you have money to pay for it?" she asks you.

"Yes, don't worry," you reply, going to prepare dinner.

"We have to be very punctual or I'll be late for the hospital," she informs you.

"Do you have another night?" you ask her "It will be the fifth time in a month! But didn't there used to be shifts once even in the hospital?" you ask again as you prepare some pasta.

"Yes, but -- you know, there are only a few of us and then there are even more emergencies than usual."

You follow your mother with your eyes as you see her typing on her cell phone. Your mother sometimes looks like the young woman and you look like the mom.

What an unfair life!

The next day your life flows as usual, you get up very early, make coffee bringing it also to your mother, go to shower, get dressed and go to work.

At the café there is the usual hustle and bustle, who wants coffee, who wants a croissant, who wants a slice of pizza, who wants something else. You don't have a moment to yourself. Only when it's almost lunchtime now, you stop and go to the back of the store to eat your sandwich and smoke. Yes, you smoke. The only real transgression in your life. If your mother found out she would probably kill you, but you don't care smoking makes you feel good and maybe it makes you feel good because it's a decision you made, not because it was forced on you.

You rub one temple and look toward the road covered with a hint of snow. You wonder what you would have been doing by now if you had not been there with your mother, if maybe you were busy in college or maybe in pursuing some master's degree, you wonder who you might have been if you had dared to live your life to the fullest.

In the afternoon, your mother - after making sure you are dressed appropriately, that you have sheet music and whatnot - drops you off in front of your teacher's building.

The latter lives on the top of seven floors, it's practically a penthouse, it's beautiful place. Being with him -- a little less so.

When you knock, you are about to greet him, but a completely different man from your teacher appears in front of you. He is tall, much taller than your teacher and you, curly brown hair, dark eyes, a look that is at first grim, then curious, defined jaw line and curved nose. He is perhaps 40 years old.

You stand open-mouthed, thinking you had the wrong house for a moment, then realizing it's the right address.

"I was looking for Mr. Miller," you say.

"In person." he replies.

"Tommy Miller," you say.

"I'm his brother." he says again.

You are about to say something, but he is the one who interrupts you by asking if you are his student and calling your name, you nod in confusion.

"My brother had to leave yesterday morning. He told me you were coming and to wait for you to let you know." he clarifies by placing his hands on his hips.

He is incredibly muscular; you have never seen a man like him. He hits you right away.

"I see. Then -- I'll go." ready to leave.

You make to turn your back to him "Did Mommy tell you not to talk to strangers?" he asks making you turn back to him "I saw you get out of your mother's car." he adds noticing your confused look.

"What did you say?" you ask in annoyance.

You see him smirking and cross his arms "Are you afraid the big bad wolf will eat you?"

You wrinkle your forehead "First, I don't even know who you are." you say moving a couple of steps closer to him "And second…"

"Joel." he introduces himself by extending his hand.

"You're creepy -- Joel," you say looking first at his hand and then at his face.

"You, on the other hand, are shy." he notes looking at you and running his gaze over your figure. No one has ever looked at you like this. Making your skin warmed. "Yes, you are a shy little one." he adds, smiling and making wrinkles appear on the sides of his eyes.

"Your brother is definitely nicer," you say.

Lie. Tommy has always been very much on his own.

He just bends his head to the side, "Funny, people always told me I'm the nice one of the Miller brothers."

Gotcha.

"Well, maybe they never really knew you!"

"And you in less than a minute figured out who am I?" he asks, leaving you speechless.

No, you know very well that you cannot judge anyone in less than a minute. If someone had judged you in less than a minute they probably would have dismissed you as an ordinary young woman, lacking dreams of her own, trivial.

Perhaps the same thing applies to the man in front of you, Joel Miller.

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel tlou #joel miller hbo #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #the last of us hbo #joel miller self insert #the last of us #joel fic #the last of us fanfiction #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal as joel miller #smut #joel x f!reader #joel x female reader #joel x you #dom!joel #dom!joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller angst #bittersweet ff

[sophieinwonderland]

Stop Posting Hate and Disinformation in Endogenic Tags!

Does it? Are you sure? Because that's a really bold way to start off a post in a community with a lot of people who have PTSD!

But even bolder is this claim:

I would ask for the source for this, but I already know it.

Now, to be fair, there is a lot of wiggle room where some can argue semantics of what an "alter" is.

Luckily, today we aren't arguing semantics, as they made it clear in a comment that they don't believe endogenic systems are experiencing any sort of plurality! Yay!

Now, back to their claims... it's true that most evidence of any forms of consciousness in psychology is based on believing people's personal experiences.

Psychology is distinct from neuroscience in this way. Hopefully, we can get neurological evidence too. Stanford University was conducting an fMRI study into tulpamancers. But that study isn't complete yet.

But it is worth noting that practically every researcher who has looked into endogenic and non-disordered plurality do believe it's a real phenomena.

As mentioned above, Stanford University has invested anywhere from tens of thousands of dollars to hundreds of thousands of dollars into a neurological study of tulpamancers.

The ICD-11 by the World Health Organization states that you can have multiple "distinct personality states" without a disorder.

The creators of the theory of structural dissociation have said that hypnosis and spiritual mediumship may create "self-conscious dissociated parts of the personality."

Transgender Mental Health by Eric Yarbrough has an entire chapter discussing plurality, including acknowledging non-disordered and endogenic plurality. Eric Yarbrough is a Distinguished Fellow of the American Psychiatric Association, and this book was published by APA Publishing.

And these are but a few.

Psychiatrists and psychologists overwhelming support the existence of endogenic plurality.

Is there any reason for the human brain to just randomly decide to be a singlet?

Why do the 80-billion neurons in the human brain just decide to be one person? Why is a singlet treated as inherently the default for humanity?

Total side tangent, but not all alters fit neatly into the ANP/EP dichotomy. The thing that defines an ANP is not simply being dissociated from the trauma, but trying to continue on with normal life and avoid it. Hence, being "apparently normal."

Many alters though, just don't fit into that as described. I would argue that a non-traumagenic alter who never fronts isn't really an ANP according to the Theory of Structural Dissociation.

Yup. That's why I'm responding to this. Your post is nothing but misinformation.

Most words have etymology in other cultures. Hurricane, for example, comes from an indigenous religion that referred to storm gods. This is a natural process as cultures interact.

For the record, "tulpamancy" IS created headmates. The term "tulpamancy" is purely Western, with the -mancy suffix originating in Latin. And whether you like it or not, the ongoing studies into tulpamancy will be into this Western practice, not the Tibetan sprul pa from which it draws its etymology.

Maybe you should take your own advice.

Although if you have a single credible source proving that endogenic plurality can't exist, you're welcome to show me.

You: "Stay out of DID/OSDD spaces" Also You: *Tags post as "#endogenic" and "#endogenic systems"*

Anyway, as always, anti-endos coming into endogenic tags means the response goes to anti-endo tags. If anti-endos do not like me posting in their tags, please take a moment to explain to @frenzyborderlines why crosstagging into our spaces is bad (and incredibly hypocritical from someone telling endogenic systems to stay out of CDD spaces) so I won't need to do this again.

#syscourse #pro endo #pro endogenic #anti endo #anti endogenic #endogenic #endos are real #endos aren't real #multiplicity #endogenic system #psychology #psychiatry #science #actually plural #actually a system #Youtube

[impulsivesuperrobin]

i saw a post talking about neverafter slander on twitter so i went to check it out

here are some thoughts: (keep in mind, i’m not calling anyone out or saying your opinion isn’t valid if you agree with one of these points. try to read this as a light hearted discussion, like talking about a book with a friend)

a lot of it is people saying the season wasn’t horror enough and while i agree it’s not exactly as straightforward horror as the marketing suggested i think that that’s a take that is fundamentally misunderstanding what this is. it’s the horror season of dimension 20 which is a d&d show first and foremost. it’s not going to be following the beats of a horror movie because that’s not what they’re doing. when you run a horror campaign you fold in horror elements which they have been excellent at doing especially in the eldritch and existential categories

not to make assumptions but it seems to me that a lot of people making a big fuss about this haven’t played d&d for themselves. the things i have seen suggested the most for making the season more in line with the horror people were expecting involves turning the campaign into a more dm vs players situation (which is joked about a lot in fandom but in more of a meta humor way than is being suggested). this is something that anyone who has ever played in a bad campaign knows makes it a hell of a lot less fun to play and, i’m assuming, not so fun to watch either. the point of playing d&d is to work together to tell a story, if you go into to making a campaign with the goal of making your players lose, everyone is going to be miserable and your story is going to suck.

following that, some people are ragging on brennan for forgetting details and not having the lore entirely fleshed out. as someone who does unnecessary worldbuilding for homebrew campaigns every single time, i would just like to say on behalf of dms everywhere: it’s hard! there’s so much stuff to keep track of and so little time to keep the lore straight if you want the session to keep moving smoothly, i’m sure it’s even harder when you have a limited time to film the episodes/season

and maybe it’s just me, but i love horror movies (and other media) and neverafter is about as scary as most horror movies i’ve seen. it’s definitely better written than a lot of horror movies, we get to know the characters and are fully invested in them when bad things happen. it’s sort of on the level as the hellraiser reboot imo. some people make the point that besides the body horror, there’s not enough gore/blood kinda stuff, but i think gore isn’t truly horror, especially in a spoken format. it’s more of a shock factor thing, like a verbal jumpscare

and i’ve seen people saying that the pcs are too much like heroes/they’re too capable to be in any real danger, but in a horror movie, most of the bad things happen around the protagonist(s), they’re still thrown into the shit but most of the time they make it out. horror as a genre is so ill-defined anyway that people still debate if slashers and thrillers even count. plus, how many times in a movie has a side character been forgotten or something about the lore has been off? and that’s with multiple people overseeing the production.

jumping away from the “it’s not like the horror movie i envisioned” complaints, i’ve also seen a lot of people say it’s confusing??? and tbh i’m more confused about that than the campaign. to me it’s pretty straightforward, no more confusing than starstruck at the very least.

for the big picture: it’s different factions of people with conflicting (but occasionally overlapping) goals than all need to get to macguffin in order to reach whichever goal they’re aligned with

the pcs have their own character arcs which are very clearly laid out throughout the season

the minute details are there because that’s how you make your world feel lived in

and yeah, there’s a lot of potential in the stuff they could’ve done but didn’t. but i feel like that’s the whole point, y’know? this is the story they did tell, and the thousands of other ways they could’ve told the story live on like every retelling of a fairytale.

#tbh a lot of the criticism feels like people nitpicking to find stuff to hate but you can’t please everyone ig #feel free to disagree and tell me why! just please don’t turn my notes into a rage-bait discussion #dimension 20 #d20 #neverafter #dimension 20 neverafter

[fizzigigsimmer]

Fargo Season Five: Finale thoughts.

I AM UNWELL. I have never seen a piece of television so beautiful. More of me just rambling and processing my thoughts beneath the cut. Spoilers naturally for the season.

Oh boy. I’m going to start this off by saying preemptively that I know there is going to be a portion of the audience who feels underwhelmed by this finale. In comparison to seasons past, this last episode was surprisingly lite on the blood. The epic showdown and fantastic shoot outs that Fargo has become known for was quite literally skipped over. The feeling is anti-climatic and that won’t sit well with some.

But here’s why I don’t give a shit and wouldn’t have it any other way.

This season wound us up. It brought us to a place where we were on the edge of our seats, so certain that the only way out for Dorthy, if she got out at all was going to be pathed in blood and bodies. We thought that the only way for Dorthy to be free was to rip and tear and destroy all who tried to stand in her way. We wouldn’t have blamed her. What else can she do, in a world that is kill or be killed. Fight or die. Conquer or be conqured.

But that was never the point of Dot’s story. Her story has been about how to live this entire time, and the secret to living is not more death. It’s acceptance and forgiveness. It’s empathy for your fellow man and a helping hand. It’s sacrifice, doing the right thing even when it costs us everything.It’s learning to bear the burden of the unfair, because those sacrifices are rarely made by the people with the most to give and the least to lose. It’s giving what you can, and leveraging the privileges you have for the greater good and learning to appreciate those around you. It’s putting aside our bias to find common ground and appreciate the best in each other. It’s a meal made with helping hands. It’s oatmeal cookies. It’s a buttery biscuit. It’s love.

👏🏾

I will forever love this season for giving me Dot’s story. For telling a story about abusers and survivors without the cinderella syndrome. For showing abuse survivors as they are in reality : complex human beings with flaws, phobias, bias, and toxic coping mechanisms just like everyone else. The only truly innocent character in the entire season was Scotty, a child and that is purposeful. Everyone else is just human, and it’s the choices they make that are important and define their fates.

Roy chooses to be a cowardly monster until the very end and so Lorraine sentences him to a lifetime of feeling the suffering he’s dealt to others. Feeling what it is to be weak and small and violated and at the mercy of the system. We stan a queen.

Lorraine didn’t have to open Dot’s file and hear her truth, or accept it for that matter and at first she had no interest in educating herself about the woman she disdained and tried to discard. But she chose to open that file and reckon with Dot’s past, and not only that she let it change her and how she lived going forward. It changes her for the better in small but significant ways. It saves Dot, preserves her family and allows for the chain of events that lead to Roy getting his just deserts. *Side note, Dot hugging her and her not knowing how to deal with such a kind touch and intimate moment is such a mood. 😆 I laughed out loud.

Indira was laden down by a man who could only love himself, but still she chose to get up every day and try to serve her community. Even when nobody else cared, she cared about finding the truth and helping the real victim in it even if it cost her everything. The only person she didn’t know how to fight for was herself but Dot and Lorraine showed her how. We stan a principled Queen who knows her own value!

Witt. 😭 😭 😭 In a lot of ways Indira and Witt are two sides of the same coin. They are both sentinels. Principled individuals who truly want to serve the greater good. And it’s so meaningful that the two characters showing us what true justice - true law and order - should look like, are marginalized individuals. While Indira’s struggles as a brown woman in the police force are less pronounced for a more internal subplot, the narrative does such a beautiful job of showing us the battle against external powers through Whitt. He is a state trooper. A good and dignified man worthy of his badge and yet his authority is always challenged and he is constantly reminded by those around him that he is less than. There’s a huge emphasis on names and their meaning throughout the season, and the importance of what we call people. But few characters bother to remember his name. He’s called Boy or Son more than any other character on the show. Every time he stands up for Dorthy and goes into battle we’re made aware of his powerlessness despite the badge he wears. He’s powerless to stop Gator stealing evidence. He’s consistently demeaned and threatened, and yet he chooses to bear it all with grace. He chooses to stay his course and help Dot, even when he has the least power and the most to lose. He dies alone, without backup and the last words he hears are Roy’s “Don’t fight it, it’s over now Son.” It’s not fair. It’s not right. But in so many ways he saved Dot’s life. He’s a big part of the reason she gets to go home. She’s the last character to say his name. “I’m looking for my trooper. Whitt Farr.” I cried. Still crying.

Gator. Gator, Gator, Gator, Gator. 😭 I will probably do a longer post about this someday when I’ve fully processed it all, but for now… I was fully expecting for Gator to have a “last moment act of goodness” through killing Roy, and probably die himself. My Billy girlies know what I am talking about. I’ve seen it over and over again in books and movies. I have talked about this many times over the years in multiple fandoms, but our society loves to write “the human villain” for their capacity to emotionally hook an audience. But they have no idea what to do with that humanity once it is written, and that’s because we ourselves barely know how to live once we’ve been at our lowest and done our worst. We don’t know how to forgive ourselves or others, and we don’t know how to heal and move on. We’re afraid of the work required when you live past the redemptive moment. We resent the work required and the loneliness of it. It’s boring and difficult and messy and it never seems to end. It’s so much easier just to write characters who either choose not to change or die sacrificially. But we need more than that. We need to see and to believe that it’s worth it - clawing your way through the dark, searching for light - doing the right thing and learning from the pain of yesterday. We also need to know that we will find someone waiting on the other side for us, who sees that struggle and believes in our potential. This is what Billy Hargrove deserved. This is what anyone who has ever been abused and abandoned deserves. This is what everyone who wants to change and chooses to do it deserves.

Ole. What a phenomenal use of magical realism this character is. He is the man who has swallowed the sins of mankind for centuries. He’s carried the burden of our atrocities and our most inhumane impulses until he forgot his name, his place of birth, or even how to dream. Until he became a function of the system. Tit for tat. Eye for eye. The man who ensures that the debtors pay their debts. A soldier. Until he became a code and forgot how to be a man. His use of the third person as if he is narrating the life of All Men from some position outside himself is so profound in the face of the truth he finally shares with Dot and her family. A truth he’s probably never shared before. He echos Gator’s character in a fashion. He’s a soldier who doesn’t know how to dream, a victim of an unjust system, but deep down he yearns to be better.

The old woman whose house he invades is never named, simply called “Mama Munch” and we see how he takes on an almost childlike role with her. She asks him what he wants, and the answer is pancakes - reminiscent of Scotty’s love of all things breakfast for dinner - and it’s of course deeper than pancakes. He wants to feel a mother’s love and a child’s ability to take comfort in it. But he can’t. Because he has invaded her life, and even when he guards the door the war gets inside. She’s abused by an ungrateful child and then killed on her own front step. Ole came to Dot’s house to continue the cycle and perform the only function he knows, but Dot reminds him that he can choose. He can choose to stop swallowing the fruit of the poisoned tree. He can choose to remember beautiful things. He can choose mercy. He can choose kindness. He can forgive and he too can be forgiven.

Dorthy Lyon’s story was always about more than survival of the fittest. It was about more than the fight to live on and get back to the people who loved her and find a safe space for herself. Her story was about rejecting the lie we’ve all been told since birth.

That life is like a prison. You’re born and then you’re shuffled into groups, separated by class and race, and within those groups the strongest rise to the top. And until death it’s an endless fight to take take, and hold onto what you take.

Dot’s story presents us with an alternative viewpoint. That life can be devastating, but it can also be beautiful and it all comes down to who we choose to be.

#fargo #fargo s5 #fargo spoilers #gator tillman #Dorthy Lyon #reaction #And that my friends is how you WRITE A SHOW

[smallishdoggo]

Taliesin said on a 4sd once that Ashton spent the couple months FCG and them were together before the start of the campaign gently rebuffing FCG’s attempts to get to know them, because FCG was markedly more overzealous and rigid in their notions of how they were supposed to operate in relationships. Or, in short, the therapy schtick didn’t fly with Ashton. (when aimed in their direction; he’s always found it amusing to watch when aimed at other people)

Which, this is totally fine and valid. This isn’t a judgement call on Ashton or anything, I just find the talk of how FCG and Ashton’s relationship is one sided to be very in itself one sided. Considering their relationship from FCG’s perspective, I think FCG would have every reason to believe that pursuing a real emotional connection with Ashton would be kinda futile. From their perspective, he’s been rejecting their attempts at that since they met.

Ashton doesn’t really make an effort to talk to FCG about things! They don’t tend to initiate conversation beyond casual remarks in group settings. It’s apparent from the viewer’s perspective that Ashton cares about FCG, but FCG just knows that Ashton doesn’t like when they ask him about feelings and junk and doesn’t really seem all that interested in talking to FCG more than casually. It is very telling that Ashton literally thinks FCG’s behavior is dangerous to the group, but has only every brought that up directly with Laudna. It seems to me that when he interacts with FCG, he tends to focus on nudging them towards behaving in ways they approve of, like with their support of FCG’s baking hobby.

I read Ashton’s attitude towards FCG's feelings and beliefs to be very condescending (this is said entirely without judgement). It stuck out to me in last night’s reunion episode how any times Ashton asserted that they understood FCG’s feelings, and that those feelings were wrong and could be dismissed off hand. Like, with him telling Prism that FCG only distrusted her because of Mother and that she could freely ignore that instead of taking him seriously and meeting him halfway (like she did with the deal to protect FRIDA in exchange for FCG protecting Orym). FCG didn’t even distrust Prism until FRIDA said they thought she was shady, so Ashton was confidently wrong about FCG’s feelings on top of being dismissive. I think Ashton thinks they understand FCG more than they actually do, which might be why they don’t tend to put any effort into talking with FCG about the behaviors they don’t like; he thinks he understands FCG just from observation and can guide them without discussing things with him.

Not to flip it and reverse it and be like “you think FCG is the terrible friend, but actually--” FCG does struggle to connect with people. Thinking that you are an object that exists to serve people will do that to ya. FCG has said outright, in his conversation with FRIDA while walking to Jackoby’s, that he hasn’t let people know him. He has a sort of fragile sense of self, and finds it difficult and scary to define himself outside of a greater purpose, a script he can follow when things get confusing. I don’t think FCG considers themself close with anyone in the Hells, honestly. I think they like the group well enough, but I don’t really know how much they trust them or feel like they’re all truly friends. When they talk about FRIDA and the Changebringer, they talk about being seen and understood and liked in a way that makes it seem like they don’t really feel like the Hells care about, understand, or like them all that much.

So, yeah, FCG and Ashton aren’t close friends. But I think that’s both of their fault, and frankly I don’t actually think Ashton wants or expects to be close friends with FCG. I think they care about FCG but don’t really see them as an adult on equal footing with them. They want to protect and guide FCG to some extent, but that’s not quite the same thing as friendship. Not mutually exclusive, but. I don’t think Ashton’s looking for friendship from that corner in the way that he’s plainly looking for it from Laudna and Orym.

#cr spoilers #not really specific ones #fcg #ashton greymoore