Myth is the story of Phoebe, a young orphan turned thief unraveling her supposed destiny and learning just how easily a gentle heart can be manipulated by those who rule in the dark as she fights the mysterious Other and restores the Myth Sword to its former glory. Myth is like if She Ra meets Madoka meets Bojack.
His hands trailed down Ysen’s sides, moving underneath his shirt so he could touch his skin. He loved you, Tuhor. He loved you and he meant it, maybe more than Pasche, more than anyone who ever said it before her. He loved you in the dangerous way of a person who has never really been loved at all, and it’s almost terrible to watch because the reality of love could never be held up to this ever again.
And someday it would all go wrong and you know it because you’ve seen it, old man. You remember what it’s like to love someone in a dangerous way. You remember what happens afterward, too. But when Tuhor looked up at Ysen and his careful (real) smile, the way he spoke – the soldier picked up his head and kissed him anyway.
“Hey,” he said, quieter than before and strangely unsure. “I got you.” I got you: and I’m keeping you, too.
An enormous thank-you to each and every person who came to the anniversary fight night. We’d expected a large turnout, but the actual numbers were easily more than twice what we’d anticipated. We were blown away for sure, and still are.
The event was an overwhelming success, and I don’t think it could have been so without the assistance of a number of people. Most notably, Jude Paw (@dat-paw) put his incredible GIF skills to use for the RISK fight profiles, resulting in the series of member features you’ve likely seen at numerous points throughout the past week. Thanks also to Mirazu Ysen from our good friends at <<GARTS>> - the basement design was his sole creation, and I don’t know how we would have been able to accommodate our many guests without him.
And of course, to all Riskbreakers. It’s been far, far more than a pleasure knowing you, regardless of how long you’ve been in the company. It has been nothing short of a gift. Two years is a long time, and you’ve helped us get there just by being yourself.
But on behalf of all of us, I’d like to send out our love to all of our friends and neighbors. Happy two years, and here’s to longer still.
Does Tuhor ever pop The Question to Ysen, and if so how
It wasn’t like before. With Pasche, he knew from the moment he saw her that he wanted to marry her — to build a home with her, to make a life. With Ysen it was different. It came slowly. He watched him grow away from a boy seeking comfort into something else, still scared, but a little more worldly then before. Tuhor didn’t doubt his love for the rattataki, but he wasn’t foolish enough to ever expect it to last.
They were sitting underneath an awning on one of the upper levels of Coruscant. It had been raining for an hour and the taxis were slow; Ysen went from sulking at one edge of the bench while he looked at his datapad to being tucked underneath Tuhor’s jacket, his face pressed against the old man’s neck.
“It’s cold,” he complained without really meaning much.
Tuhor looked down at him, his mouth brushing up against Ysen’s pale temple. “You want my jacket?” Something caught him in his gut and left him watching Ysen after the boy wrinkled his nose.
“No. It smells like those shitty cigarettes you smoke.” But he used the edge of Tuhor’s jacket all the same, shielding the screen of his datapad from the rain. The old man didn’t reply right away. He trailed his hand over Ysen’s back, slow and easy; he watched the blue tinted reflection of the datapad on the rattataki’s tattooed face.
Here you are, old man. Not really where you expected yourself to be. Dating a kid half your age, back in the military with a desk job and a title you hated to show for it all.
But for the first time in Tuhor’s life, he understood the meaning of content.
“Ysen,” he said. The rattataki didn’t look up from the datapad, but Tuhor knew he was listening.
Ysen’s body went rigid, his pierced finger tense over the datapad’s display. What? He meant to say it, but it didn’t come out. Instead, he just looked up at the old man (his old man), with an expression gone from childish irritation to one of adult shock. Tuhor wasn’t sure how to read it; angry or surprised or wanting, all of it, any of it—
“Marry me,” he said again, and the old man’s voice sounded real. This is what feeling happy was like. How did he not notice it before. “Pl–”
“Are, are you–” Ysen said, startled. His eyes were wide (are you joking? you aren’t joking are you) He felt like his heart was going to burst.
Ysen launched off the bench and flung his arms around Tuhor, his breath hitching as he kissed him, launching them both into the rain. “Yeah,” he said, his voice muffled against the collar of Tuhor’s shirt. “Yeah, uh– yeah. Yes.” Yes. The soldier felt his whole world go still when he curled his arms around the boy, reeling. Don’t give it up, old man. Not this time.