it should go without saying but i’m gonna say it anyways that the person who runs this blog supports the freedom and resistance of palestine and palestinians civilians. if anyone should be paying attention to what’s happening currently, it’s those of us who regularly consume propagandist content like call of duty. although posts have been slow on this page as of late, expect a complete lack of original posts from me related to any kind of content surrounding call of duty. in the mean time, i will consider other characters to write for and i will continue to watch what is happening in palestine as i have been doing for the last month. i urge anyone who sees this to do the same. do research, seek out information from the source. if you, like me, have friends close to you who are of palestinian descent, please please please check in on them. see u guys later.
Summary: You wake up in the recliner after Harcourt’s party, painfully hungover and wrapped in Adrian’s arms.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of alcohol consumption, Mentions of sex (Adrian’s a lil bit of a freak and we love it), Mentions of vomit, Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author’s Note: Just watched the first few episodes of Peacemaker season 2 and I just couldn’t help myself. I love this freaky man and his hyperfixations. Enjoy! Please let me know what you guys think!
-
You’ve broken bones. You’ve lost fights that have ended with you being beaten nearly to death. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that you were shot, carried off the field by Adrian before he passed out in the hospital waiting room from his own bullet wound.
You’re pretty sure, in this moment, that none of it compares to this fucking hangover.
Your head is pounding. Your mouth is dry. Your face is smushed into a warm, smooth chest. You are drooling on said chest. You wonder, vaguely, if you were snoring.
Your groan is nothing short of agonized, and it’s then that you register fingers carding gently through your tangled hair.
You peel your face off of your boyfriend’s chest, peering up at him with one eye open and the other squeezed shut like it might help the pain behind it.
“Holy shit, you look so hot right now.”
He’s not even trying to be sarcastic. He’s grinning at you, wide and open with his glasses still on and his hand still in your hair. You reach up, and wipe some of the drool from your chin with the back of your hand. “You’re insane.”
He ignores the comment, shifting to lay a little more on top of you and smiling like he didn’t drink even more than you did last night.
“Do you wanna have sex? I think we probably have a little while before everyone else-“
“We were literally just having a conversation.” Leota says from the kitchen, and Adrian’s grin falls, open disappointment clouding his expression. “What was your plan if she said yes?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t think it through.” His voice is defensive and just a little too loud for this time of morning. You groan miserably, pushing your hand up to weakly cover his mouth. He nips at your palm, shifting you again so he can move your hand and press a kiss to your cheek.
“How do you never get hungover?” You ask, trying to hide your face in his neck in a sleepy attempt to chase the sweet relief of unconsciousness for just a few more minutes.
“I dunno. I’m just lucky, I guess. Hey, when you were sleeping I watched a spider make a web in the corner.”
“Mmph.” You reply eloquently. He’s already moving, rolling on top of you and pressing you between the recliner and his body. Apparently, despite the two other people in the room and your ripping hangover, you’re going to be waking up almost exactly the same way you wake up every morning - snuggled within an inch of your life while he talks about whatever might be on his mind at that moment.
You swat at his back with another miserable noise as the movement jostles your stomach and head, but he just moves the hair out of your face to look down at you as he starts rambling about bugs and birds. You close your eyes, losing yourself in the familiar cadence of his voice and the feeling of his hands on your skin. He’s always touching you, somehow, as absentminded and sometimes a little weird as it may be. His fingers brush through your hair again. His thumb swipes over your jawline. His finger even traces a line between your eyes down to the tip of your nose as he shares a fact about spiders that you’re pretty sure isn’t anywhere near correct. The touching isn’t even in a cheesy romantic ‘I want to memorize every inch of you’ sort of way - he’s already done that ten times over. No, it’s more like he’s just mesmerized by your existence. Like he’s magnetized to you. Like touching you is so second nature he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it at all.
“Can you hit his off switch?” Harcourt asks after a few minutes of spider facts, and you can’t help your affectionate smile as you crack your eyes open to look up at him again.
You reach up to rub at your crusty eyes, tapping your finger against his nose and pushing his glasses a little higher on his face. The contact makes him pause in his rambling, blinking down at you like you really did hit some kind of off-switch.
“Can I get up? I smell coffee.” You ask, voice hoarse and tired.
“Oh, yeah. I got it!” He presses a quick kiss to your cheek and nearly launches himself off of you. It’s only as he’s making his way into the kitchen that you notice he’s wearing Emilia’s robe.
“Where’s your shirt?” You ask as you sit up, only to look down at yourself and rephrase the question. You’re wearing his shirt. “Nevermind. Where’s my shirt?”
“Oh, I ripped it off of you last night.” He says, open and shameless, and you feel your face heat as he continues. “Remember? We came inside to wash the beer off me and everyone was still on the roof so we-“
“Adrian.” You stop him, memories flooding back and making you hide your face in your hands.
“You had sex in my shower?” Emilia sounds pissed, but not surprised.
“Twice.” Adrian says proudly, already looking through the fridge for what you assume is cream for your coffee. Maybe water. You’re not sure. Your hangover is still fogging your brain. “Well, technically once. The second time wasn’t in the shower. I bent her over the-“
“Dude. Stop. For the love of God, stop.” Leota covers her ears, dropping her head onto the table. You climb off of the recliner, wince at the ache in your head, smile gratefully as your boyfriend hands you a cup of coffee, and offer an apologetic look to Emilia.
“In my defense, you’re the one who brought out the tequila shots.”
“That’s the worst defense I’ve ever fucking heard.”
“I’m pretty sure Economos puked in there like, twenty minutes after we were done. So which one is really worse?”
“The sex. The sex in my shower is worse.”
You raise your coffee cup to your lips, knowing without needing to turn around that you’re the only one wearing a guilty expression. In fact, you can already feel Adrian wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you lean back against him. The movement is so casual, so normal for the two of you, that it doesn’t even earn a comment from the others, despite the topic of conversation.
Speaking of which, maybe you should change said topic before he decides to start trying to go into detail again.
“What were you saying about crows a minute ago?” You ask, turning your head a little to face him. You feel him light up with excitement, even as Leota and Emilia glare daggers your way. “They stab other crows?”
“Yeah! Not just that, but they use tools.” He begins, releasing you to sit at the counter. Despite your friends’ apparent misery, you love it when he gets like this. You love his rambling. The way he absentmindedly bumps his knee against yours while he shares his fact with Leota like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. You think the sound of his familiar voice might be the only thing keeping this hangover from killing you right in the middle of Harcourt’s kitchen.
It’s not long before Emilia sends him off to ‘check on’ Economos. He jumps up, genuine panic on his face at the idea of the other man choking on his own vomit, and bolts off. You wince at the sound of gagging and arguing, and now it’s your turn to glare.
“If he comes back covered in puke, I’m gonna kill you.” You grouch, sinking back into your chair.
“Well, if he comes back covered in puke, he’s sure as shit not showering here.” She retorts, already beginning to make her way to the roof.
You follow, and despite the pain in your head and the continued arguing coming from the bathroom, you can’t help but smile.
someone I follow on the bird app just announced they’re starting a very exclusive private fic server because they and a bunch of other people want to talk about how much they love the fics they’re reading, and as an author can I just say that a really great place to talk about a fic you love is in the comments for that fic
I understand that people are trying to create safe spaces, but as the number of comments that I get on my fics dwindles with each passing year, knowing these spaces exist where my fics are being discussed, places that I am excluded from, makes me want to write fic LESS
I mean I guess who cares, right, because if I stop writing, there’s 10,000 other people that will continue…but if you participate in a fic “book club” server and you say nice things there about a fic you loved, maybe copy and paste that into a comment on AO3?
the only thing fanfic writers are asking for in return for hours of hard work is attention. please don’t rob us of the one thing that we hope for when we hit “post”
this is directly related to this post I made about how fanfic authors now are treated like content mills, and not like valued members of a creative community who thrive on interaction. for the past decade, we’ve watched the fandom ecosystem disrupted over and over, as NSFW fan artists seek safety by putting their work behind paywalls, and self-conscious fic readers squirrel away their feelings in invite-only communities
an easy way to do your part to fight against the evils perpetrated by social media is to leave a comment on a fanfic you love
The fact I had a fic that was fairly beloved and NO ONE commented on it because it was all being done in a fucking book club server made me want to scream.
I cannot express enough how imperative it is to show the writer how much you love their work. The comments don’t have to be novels themselves - even just an “I loved this so much!” Or keyboard smashing works wonders to keep the writer going. Please, we need to bring back supporting writers and artists now more than ever!!!
PLUS, plus…if people are talking about fic in private servers and not telling the authors, those people get the idea that the fic writer is “big.” Meanwhile the fic writer is sitting there, staring at a Google doc, struggling to find the motivation to write the next chapter, with 2 comments on a 20k fic.
They don’t feel big. They don’t feel appreciated. They don’t feel motivated. And they might stop writing or shelve their fic, never knowing that people were loving it in private.
Honestly this is the same for social media threads or even on this very app. If you can, tag the author. A lot of us have our socials in our AO3 profiles.
anyways i have this dreadful suspicion that thunderbolts is gonna be bad (hilarious use of ai in the most recent trailer) and i’m already planning on pirating it because i’m boycotting disney/mcu etc. but i will feel very bad for sebastian stan. i have affection in my heart for him. i know he loves being bucky but someone free him from the hellish vice of disney’s utter refusal to be a good production company.
a/n: i know what i said the other day. idc whatever. anyways, i have a serious gripe with writing bucky bc i feel like i know him too well. every iteration of him i know is ooc. he wouldnt say that. he wouldnt say anything at all. he would telepathically communicate complete silence if he could. in my heart. my sweet, pathetic, wet dog of a man. i love him the way you can't just put into words why you would love anything.
synopsis: ...You stand up and walk back into the apartment. He reaches to stop you and you dodge out of the way at just the right time. It doesn’t take long before you come back around the corner of the hallway. He grumbles at the sight of a first-aid kit and small wet towels cradled in your hands.
gn!reader x bucky barnes
wc: 2.3k
warnings: cigarette shmoking, discussion of death
---
It’s late into the evening when you hear keys jingle in the hallway outside of your apartment. Lazily, you turn and peer through the glass door, a cigarette hanging from your lip. You prop your chin on the top of your chair and watch the front door swing open. Bucky crosses over the threshold and swings the door shut behind him. He drops a very heavy looking duffel bag at his feet.
Then, he stops momentarily. Like, he carried himself through the door first while another disembodied part of him was still catching up. He feels cool air wafting from deeper within the apartment and looks up. He meets your eyes through the glass and sees you sitting there, blinking at him. Your form is mantled in the dark blue backdrop of the night sky. His shoulders relax and he kicks off his shoes before making his way to you.
Bucky makes way across the apartment and steps out onto the balcony. You hold the cigarette between your fingers and look up at him. Besides the smoke in the air, the wind carries in just the slightest impression of mint. He looks back down at you with a curious expression.
You don’t usually wait for him. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d come home to find you still awake. For whatever reason, you had enough unearned faith in him to never feel the need to wait. Though, part of him was relieved that you weren’t wasting energy on worrying about him.
“Hey, buddy.” You say.
He kneels down to meet you at your eye level, chin on your armrest. “Hi.” His hand grasps your wrists softly, then turns it so his mouth can reach the cigarette filter. With your free hand, you brush fingers through his hair as you watch him take a long drag. There’s a cut on his cheek and a split in the skin above his temple, purple splotches in full bloom around it. He turns from you when you start to notice and blows the smoke through his mouth. But, with your hand beneath his chin, you tilt his head just enough to be face to face. “Don’t look at me like that. This is nothing.”
You snort. Slowly, you inch the cigarette closer to his mouth, offering it to him. Sensing a trap, Bucky glowers up at you as he wraps his lips around the filter. Then, you stand up and walk back into the apartment. He reaches to stop you and you dodge out of the way at just the right time. It doesn’t take long before you come back around the corner of the hallway. He grumbles at the sight of a first-aid kit and small wet towels cradled in your hands. “You’re remarkably awful at lying.”
He pauses for a minute, “Gimme that. I’ll do it.”
“No, I don’t think so.” You reply, before sitting back down in your chair. You take the cigarette out of his mouth and toss it into the ashtray. Bucky props his chin back on the armrest and watches your hands open the clasps of the first-aid kit, surrendering to his fate. The sound of his machine arm whirring softly over the sound of car alarms in the distance.
Then, his eyes move up your arm, over your shoulder, up your neck, over your jaw and land on the dark shade washing over your undereyes. He slips his hand through the gap beneath the armrest, pinching at the hem of your shirt. You hum, acknowledging him. He says, “Why’re you still up?” His voice is an impossibly soft hush. He was sure that in a lineup of every single person that has known him, only you could recognize it as his. It was a unique privilege. One he was reluctant to just give.
“Not happy to see me?” You lean in closer, a damp towel pulled across your fingers. You dab it gently over the cut on his temple.
“I am.” He watches the flutter of your eyelashes when you blink, ignoring the stinging throb of the cut on his face. There’s a clear nonanswer here that he’s sure you wouldn’t divulge further unless he applied pressure. He tugs on your shirt again. “Why’re you still up?”
You inhale through your nose, lean back away from him, and exhale through your mouth. “I was waiting for you.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, I was.”
“You never wait for me.”
“Well, now I wait for you.” You say. You make a little show of dropping the towel into the first-aid kit. You tear open an antiseptic pad, your eyes still looking into his. The sky above stains his irises a shade as dark as the ocean. “Is that okay with you?” There’s a little annoyed edge in your voice.
“Sure.” Bucky answers,
“Awesome.” You lean in again, dabbing the little pads on his cuts. Beneath the smell of generic soap, there’s him. The smoke of a coal fire. His eyes watch your face attentively. “So, what’s the deal? I for one would jump at the opportunity to be doted on by another attractive person. Did you hit your head so hard you forgot how charming I am?”
“I don’t need to hit my head to forget that you’re charming—“
“There he is.”
“And, I think I’d just do a better job than you at dressing my very fatal wounds.”
You smile, mischievously. “Maybe, you wouldn’t have any wounds to dress if you stopped blocking with your face.”
“Oh, haha. Funny.” His eyes narrow to slits momentarily. “I do not block with my face.”
“You certainly did these last few days.” You peel a bandaid open.
“It can’t be that bad.” Your fingertips are warm on his skin as you press the adhesives onto his face.
“Maybe not by your standards.” You brush your thumb along his jaw. “Some of us are still normal people. And, frankly, looking at you is making my face hurt.”
“There are better ways to tell someone they’re ugly.”
“That’s actually not what I said. But, by all means, the shoe must fit perfectly if you’re so eager to put it on.” You shrug, waving your hand dismissively. “Maybe I don’t care that you’re hurt at all. Maybe I just wanted to be close to you.”
He smiles, but it goes quiet again. Your eyelids look heavy when you blink down at him. It’s warm in the very little space separating the two of you. His back is vulnerable to the cold air. Out of the corner of his eye he watches the smoke in the ashtray disappearing into empty space. The last time he checked the time the hour number was entering single digits. Bucky watches you, watching him, and his smile fades. “Why were you waiting for me?”
A crease in your brow forms. “Because… I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want in my apartment.”
Bucky takes the first-aid kit out of your lap. Reorganizing everything into its rightful place. He shuts it, then tosses the towel aside. Then, he looks back up at you again. It was something in your face that looked foreign on you. Something that he recognized from whenever he sees his reflection. “Tell me.”
You groan and sigh. A warm hand wraps around your palm and squeezes. It was a welcome sensation against the night air.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Why can’t you sleep?” He watches your mouth become a tight straight line. “Is it me?”
“What? No.” You say it like it should’ve been obvious. It’s part of what he liked about you, he supposed. For Bucky, to be known by others is to accept that once they do, there’s always a level of unattainability present. Like, once they find out who he is—what he is, a fissure in the Earth cracks open. The gap is so impossibly wide, how could he ask someone to jump it for him? “Well, okay. I guess, technically yes. But, not in the way that I know you’re going to assume.”
“Come on, give me a little credit here. I let you put bandaids on cuts that will heal by the next afternoon.”
“Fine. But, don’t look at me when I tell you. It’s embarrassing and stupid.” You watch as he chuckles a little and turns so his shoulder faces you. “Anyways, the gods sent me a vision.”
He laughs, only slightly worried because there are very little traces of humor to detect in your voice. “What?”
“I have this dream.” You say, leaning back into your chair. You didn’t believe in gods. You operated on the sound logic that, when you talk to Bucky, cracks do not form in the Earth. It was a different kind of reality to grow accustomed to. If Bucky could see his whole life before him painted on a canvas, all he would look at is the red. The longest color on his spectrum—on the spectrum of the world. His vision is in perpetual red-shift. But, when you looked at him, you saw the whole of him. Every color under the white light of the sun. Clear-eyed truth. “Well, I keep having this dream—which is why I think I could be the next chosen Oracle of Delphi or something.”
“You’re using a lot of funny words that I do not like.” Bucky replies
“Oh please. You have an arm made out of space metal and you’re over a hundred years old. I don’t think it would be the craziest thing ever if I was psychic or something. Just bear with me for a minute.”
Now, he was scared. As far as he knew, you loved his utter lack of whimsy. And, now you were begging him to suspend his disbelief. Whatever it was that was preventing you from sleeping must have really shaken you. Something not so easily done. “Okay, I’m sorry. You were saying?”
“I keep having this dream. It always feels so real and then I wake up. And there’s a minute where I think it’s real when I am awake.” Bucky listens to your voice as the clouds roll over a bisected moon. “It always starts with Sam calling me talking about a funeral. Who to invite, where to do it. What flowers to buy. What song will play. What kind of burial. And I sit there and I think: I have no fucking clue what to do. And, then I realize that he’s talking about you. Then, this thought occurs to me that you’ve died. and then I wake up. I wake up and you’re not there and I think finally, the dream has become real. Like, I went through the entire process of going to bed and the entire time that I did, I forgot that you were just gone.”
There’s a dull ache in Bucky’s chest. Shame, guilt. More shame and guilt than was normal for him. He knows that you told him not to look at you, but he can’t resist. He turns his head and he sees you, looking back at him. “Well, I’m not actively dying.”
“I know.” You prop your chin in your hand. “I guess that's not the biggest thing I’m worried about. I know the deal. I mean, you go out and you beat up some real shitty people. I can be at peace with the fact that one night, you might not come back.
“If you’re having these dreams where I’m dead and that’s not the issue, then what else is there?” He says. Slowly, he reaches his hand up to grab your wrist, pressing his thumb into your palm.
You look a hundred miles away, staring down at him. Flecks of light cross over the wet of your eyes. Like, comets burning up in atmosphere. “If tomorrow Sam called me–or anyone called me–and told me you were dead, I wouldn’t have the first clue what to do. What flowers you would want. What kind of burial you would want–if you would want to be buried at all. What music you would want. Where you would want to be put.”
“I’m not really worried about–”
“I know you’re not.” You shake your head at him and look away. On a window in the building across from yours, you see a reflection of you and him. “But, as the sole regular of your hypothetical grave, I worry. I worry about getting the wrong flowers, or fucking up the song, or putting you somewhere you wouldn’t wanna be. I worry that I’ll be the only person to remember who we were and still not know a single thing about you.”
“You know me. That’s one thing you don’t ever have to worry about.” He squeezes your hand.
“Well, that’s sweet of you.” You press your lips on his knuckles. And, then a minute passes where the two of you sit there, his hand in yours.
“Daffodils were Winnifred Barnes’ favorite. My mom–she would’ve liked you, I think.” He says. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what she would think of you. He can’t remember very much of her other than her favorite flower and the fact that her old apartment building from 80 years ago is nothing more than a loose pile of rubble now. But, there’s a little swell of pride in him when he notices that you’re smiling. “The burial part I’ll leave to your discretion. Just don’t visit me all the time–”
“You’re right. I should move my things there. Put my entire life right next to your headstone.”
“Do not visit me all the time. And, for the song? I guess… if I had to pick,” He blinks out into space for a minute. “‘There Are Such Things’ Tommy Dorsey.”
“I guess… that solves my problem, then.”
“Do you feel better?”
“No.”
“It was worth a shot.” He shrugs. “I think you need to sleep.”
“Probably.” You murmur. “But, I like this. I just wanna sit here with you for a while.”
“I’ve got nowhere to be.” He replies.
You relax back down into the chair. Cold air on the tips of your ears, Bucky’s fingers dipping in the spaces between your knuckles. The birds are starting to wake up when you hear Bucky’s breathing sync with yours.
insane to write a bucky barnes fic in 2024 i know but i’m regressing. i turn him in my head like a coin on its edge. this a rlly small blurb to get myself thru whatever writers block grips the base of my brain stem or whatever
—
“I would’ve thought you’d enjoy yourself a little bit.” You say.
You step back, Bucky steps forward. Then, momentum swings the two of you into a circle. “What makes you say that?”
“I keep a file on everyone. Including my coworkers.” You shrug, still in perfect rhythm with the music. You put a puzzling emphasis on ‘coworkers’ that he’ll remember for the rest of the week. “For starters, Clint was up to some very intriguing mischief for a few years after… well. And, Scott has a daughter somewhere. He likes to keep that to himself more than he does with his criminal record. But, then again, which of us doesn’t have a criminal record.”
“First name basis, huh?” He says. “I never took you for someone who liked to get so close.”
“Getting close is only half the fun.” You say. Then, you blink through a thought. A realization like an exhale. “Oh, and you probably know that Sam has a particular love for music but he’s specifically partial to collecting records.”
Bucky snorts. “I didn’t think vinyl records were still a thing.”
“They’re quite popular these days.” You say. He watches his reflection in your eyes. His face swallowed by the void of your pupils. Your gaze remains trained on him, as scalpel steadies to a surgery, to flesh. Despite this, you were still watching the entire room—this he had no doubt about.
“And, what is it that you know about me that no one else knows? All of my secrets are in wide circulation as it is. I’m the golden boy of every world government.”
“That is true.” He watches the corner of your lips upturn. “But, I know things about the Sergeant James Barnes. Things that you must have thought previously lost to time.”
His brow twitches downward, momentarily. It gives you the slightest bit of satisfaction. The one thing he hates to give anyone. “Whatever it is you think you know: you don’t know.”
There’s a lovely lilt in your voice when you say, “I know that you love a good dance. Almost as much as you love a partner to share it with.” You cut the few-inch distance from him, leaning close to his ear. The music stops. The less rational part of him thinks that time has frozen. He’s convinced momentarily that it’s another one of your stupid little tricks, despite impossibility. As far as he knew, you were very normal. At least, unlike him, you didn’t have a vibranium arm. Neither were you under the influence of any serum. But then, you step away and there’s no music to follow. So, instead of stepping forward to your lead, he watches his reflection disappear from your eyes. And, when he looks up, every couple is already in the process of retiring from the dance floor. You’ve already shrouded your presence in the movement of the crowd. He hears you on his in-ear. “I’m in pursuit of our POI. Everyone on standby.”
hi y/n, read this wip and tell me if this is something thanks
qimir x gn!reader
note: this takes place sometime after qimir and osha get married or smth or whatever but honestly this could probably take place at any point in time. also idk if anyone else understands this vision but qimir has always given me victim of divorce vibes. exc the marriage in question is force dyadism.
—
You remember the first time you met Qimir. His name wasn’t Qimir, then. Or rather, that name belonged to someone else. Though, sometimes you still caught glimpses of this person washing momentarily over Qimir’s face. Rays catching in the walls of a hanging prism. Some things had remained the same.
There was an eerie familiarity to it. This person that you knew since his boyhood was the same and not the same. Idiosyncrasies that he kept after all these years. There was something bird-like about his focus. An awareness like distant starlight peeking through holes in a curtain he had punctured, moving too fast in all directions. It was a secret that only he knew, a precious one that he held dear. And by the nature of your connection, you had known the precious secret, too.
It had, for as long as you could remember, made others around the two of you uneasy. The Jedi were not superstitious—but there were rumors. One day, when the Council had grown tired of the novelty that was yours and his mystique, one of the members proposed the idea of sending you to the temple on Takodana and Qimir to the monastery at Mount Pasvaal.
It didn’t take long for the masters at Takodana to notice your bizarre sleeping habits. You stayed awake through nights, doing your chores, your training, your studies while everyone was asleep. The majority of your rest was taken in the afternoons unless you were asked otherwise by the temple elders. When the councilors on Coruscant relayed back with the elders on your wellbeing, they found themselves even more discomfited when the elders had remarked to them of your generally good behavior.
Qimir had no notable behaviors other than the fact that he was frequently spotted throughout the monastery staring blankly into any surface that showed him his reflection. Only, he was never looking at his face and seemingly always at something standing behind him.
You were one mind, conjoined into an image unfathomable to the naked eye. The Council was certain by this time that the two of you would drive one another mad.
The Jedi were not superstitious. However, the two of you were sufficient evidence of the fact that force dyads were a bad omen. A sure-sign for impending doom sleeping dormant on the not-so-distant horizon.
You supposed, now that you could see him here, that there was some truth to such suspicions.
unfortunately i think jin sakai has taken a midnight walk alone and asked for someone to take his soul bc he couldnt bear to keep it. he’d give it just to give. and all he would take were the consequences.
