#does not make anything allusive or interesting or in any way use the fact that it is poetry

[unopenablebox]

you absolute useless bastards voting against ‘the tenor of your yes’ in that poetry poll

‘the orange’ is a bad poem

#box opener #i also dislike the didactic explanation of 'the tenor of your yes' provided by the pollster #and resent that they put it up against the orange thus making it extra likely that a bunch of people who only like poetry that #does not make anything allusive or interesting or in any way use the fact that it is poetry #would be confronted by a poem that is actually. doing work. consists of something other than a direct and uncontroversial thesis statement #and refuse to interact with or comprehend it. #. i should block that account so i don't have to deal with being enraged by this so many more times

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

Hi thank u for opening asks! Can I request headcanons for the male companions (and or gortash Raphael and the emperor) having a mute s/o either because they can’t talk or they’re very shy

A/N: Here ya go! Managed to get everyone to stay mostly in character. Please be warned there are hints of nsfw for each character, although nothing graphic in nature. And that the entries for Gortash and Raphael describe abusive relationships, so heed the trigger warnings below. 

🔇 Mute!Reader HC x BG3 Males: 🔇

TW: Domestic Abuse & Vaguely NSFW Content

(Abuse and Manipulation for the Gortash & Raphael ones. Also allusions to sex throughout each entry.)

Astarion: 

He’s suspicious of you at first. Even more so that you don’t talk. But if you prove you’re  not a threat in other ways, he doesn’t actually mind it all that much. He talks to you about the same. A good amount of what he says is either posturing or complaining- and that doesn't change just because you can’t talk back. If anything, he complains even more, knowing you wont tell him to shove off like the others. He greatly enjoys how dramatic he gets to be around you. He’ll lean against a city wall and dramatically lay the back of his hand over his face: ‘I tell you Darling, it’s like these people don’t notice me at all!’ You blink at his outburst, your expression unchanged, clearly unamused. 

Still says lots of witty comments under his breath, and subtly looks over at you to see if you’ve smirked or blushed in response. Gets really good at reading all the little reactions you make. He makes a mental catalog of every half smirk, every eye twitch, every shoulder shrug, so that he knows how you feel about something he or another has said.

Appreciates the fact that you’re unlikely to repeat anything he says to you, which makes him feel all the safer confiding in you about his condition and his past, knowing you can’t go sounding the alarm. 

Ends up going on tangents or rants about the others while you just sit there and kind of grimace, empathetically. He knows it can get annoying to just have to listen, but he’s extremely grateful for the outlet. Cazador certainly never cared what he was feeling. Nor did any of his ‘siblings’. But with you, he can bitch about his day only to turn around and find you still there, listening intently. 

Becomes a lot touchier. Like a lot. He switches from checking to verbal confirmation to physical confirmation. Takes your hand, or pulls you close, squeezes your shoulder- those sorts of things. 

Personally takes it as a challenge to see how loud he can get you to be when you’re intimate together ;) 

Gale: 

Doesn’t notice immediately lol. He’s too busy being overjoyed at the fact you don’t interrupt his long winded, pun-filled speeches to even consider it’s due to a disability or something similar on your part. He just thinks you’re the most wonderful listener. And of course, this makes him fall head over heels for you lol.

Once he does get it, he just sort of goes, ‘Oh.’ And lets that sit in the air. (He’s a bit awkward around you for a while, unsure of how to apologize, so you’d probably need to approach him and make your forgiveness known.) 

Once that misunderstanding is over, he immediately becomes occupied with finding spells to help you talk. If that’s something you want, you appreciate the effort, and let him know you’re in no rush. If that’s something you’re not interested in, you tell him as much. He’s a little disappointed and taken off guard. He explains he’s always used magic to solve his problems. You raise your brow and give him a look that says ‘And that’s been working well for you, has it?’ He relents after that. 

The two of you get really good at reading each other’s faces. And Gale takes it upon himself to talk less as well, even though you explain he doesn’t have to. He insists, saying he wants to understand what your life is like. He lasts like two days lol. 

Becomes mostly competent at understanding what you’re saying either via sign or body language, but occasionally Tera has to translate for you. Thank the gods for tressyms.

Wyll: 

Is momentarily taken aback, embarrassed by his concern he was being rude to you before, assuming you could talk to him but were choosing not to. Apologizes, profusely, for the misunderstanding on his part. 

Learns to communicate with you through other means, be it writing, or by whatever the Faerun equivalent of sign language is. He’s not the best at it, but he tries really hard to learn. Picks up basic phrases like greetings, and moods. Does request that you slow down if you’re fluent, to give his brain time to catch up. 

Doesn’t let anyone in the group make petty or passive aggressive comments while giving them a look or chewing them out. He’s very serious about it. The next time Astarion says something off the cuff, Wyll responds with, ‘Well, Astarion, I’d assume you of all people would be used to it being quiet. Having only the other rats of Baldurs Gate as friends for years.’ He’ll go for the jugular- he doesn't give af! No one gets to make you feel bad about it.

Considers going to Shadowheart or Halsin, or even Gale and asking them if there’s something they can do to help you/your condition, but that’s only with your blessing of course. He wants to help you, but doesn’t want to overstep. 

Comes to appreciate how honest you are in your other reactions- your eyes and your body language. Wyll is used to being deceived- by demons, humans, and the like- so he thinks it’s so special he can read you like a book. Whether you’re strolling through Baldur’s Gate, or enjoying your marital bed, it matters greatly to him how you truly feel and think. He’s glad he’s able to share your truth with him. 

Halsin: 

Catches on fairly quickly, although he doesn’t bring it up to you directly. He figures you will bring it up when you are ready to discuss it, and in the meantime, he would not want to pry. Listens intently when you tell him by checking in with your facial expression as he reads your writing. 

Tries to find ways to help you with what you can do. Suggests maybe enchanting a feather pen and scroll or some chalk and a small board to write out what you’re thinking so others can understand how it is you feel in real time. He offers his druid magic to do whatever you need. Hell, he even considers mentoring you to see if you feel nature’s calling. If you were a druid, perhaps you could develop a relationship with an animal companion, say a bird, or an awakened rat, or a giant eagle and get them to speak for you. 

Similar to Wyll, Halsin will try to learn sign language if that’s something you speak. However he isn’t the most adept at it. He’s very used to spellcasting, which requires at least one free hand, often his dominant hand. So he tries learning sign with his nondominant hand, but that makes it all the more difficult. He knows the alphabet, but that’s about it. You will have to slowly spell out your sentences word by word in order for him to get the gist. 

Makes sure you’re either safely hidden away at camp, or stay within his sight during a battle. He knows you cannot cry out for help, so he wants to make sure he can keep an eye on you throughout any conflict. 

Loves just being close to you. Swears he can hear the intention of your heart when the two of you are so close. He wants to assure you, your difference doesn’t make him love you any less. If anything, he is impressed with how much you continue to adapt to and overcome. He’ll say, ‘You need not speak for me to know your voice, my heart. One look in your eyes, and I know, it is an internal melody so beautiful, all of nature could not compare.’ He’ll place soft touches to your skin and face, and check your reaction before progressing any further. He thinks being intimate with you is the best way to express your emotions as a couple. After all, sex is the most ancient language of all.

Minsc: 

He doesn’t get it until Boo points it out to him lol. And even after being told, he still forgets from time to time. 

Minsc loves to talk. Well brag. And boast. And speak in the third-person. So he’s not thrown off by you having to refer to yourself with body language or with possessive pronouns in Common writings. 

He will ask you lots of questions, all throughout the day. Some are obvious and others are seemingly random, and difficult to explain with your words limited to being written down as fast as you can before Minsc’s mind wanders and changes the subject. It’s a workout for your wrists honestly. 

He will loudly announce that you’re mute every time you meet new people. ‘This is (Y/N), my dear love, she cannot speak. So (Y/N) will write her answers for Boo. And Boo will tell me. Then Minsc may tell you.’ You keep trying to tell him, the system doesn’t need Boo and him to interpret for you, especially if you’re already recording your answers in Common for others to read. 

He will never let you apologize for not being able to speak. He refuses to see it as a problem. ‘Minsc speaks loud enough for both of us, no?’ He thinks you’re the most wonderful person around. He could have his pick of the crop, and yet he chose you. Trust him, you’re the person he wants to be with more than anything. 

Gortash:

Actually kind of prefers lovers who don’t talk back, lol. He’s a very insecure man when it comes to his character. He’s cunning and wise, but clawed his way out of hell (quite literally) and the self-critical voice in his head never silences. So he’s oddly comforted that you can’t demean his temperament. 

He won’t try to fix it, nor will he allow you to try and change it in any sort of way. He doesn’t want you to go babbling on about his plans or how he is behind closed doors. That information cannot be getting out. So no, you will not be allowed any magic or spells to help you communicate. 

He will open up to you on occasion in private. The longer you’re together, the more safe he feels like confiding in you. If you feign sympathy, or if you are in fact sympathetic to his backstory, he’ll feel something akin to love for you. It’s not quite love. It’s much more logical, more calculating and pragmatic than that. But it’s about as close as you’d get with him. 

Likes how you have little to no choice other than to stay at his side and listen to him intently. He loves watching all your little apprehensive reactions when beckons you closer and pulls you into his lap. How your pulse races, how your breath quickens, he knows how his proximity makes you feel, even if you can’t open your mouth to speak the words. Besides, he’s very sure your mouth will be good for, let’s just say, other things. 

He will allow you to write him little notes here and there, but only in his office, and only when no one else is around. He’s rather paranoid that way. But he’s also rather pleased how it means you must keep seeking him out during his working hours. He’s under no false impression that he's the kindest lover. But you can’t leave him. You need him. He’s the only one who’s allowed to understand you. And he intends to keep it that way. 

Raphael: 

Like Gortash, Raphael feels a sort of sick satisfaction over the fact you can’t talk back to him. But then on the other hand, he feels a sort of sick disappointment that he can’t torture you into making all those sweet pathetic noises for him. So it’s 50/50 with him. 

He will consider giving you a voice via deviant magic if it means he can hear you beg. It drives him absolutely wild, and he refuses to go completely without it. Takes said voice away if you venture too far into brat territory, or you directly insult him. It’s a privilege for you to even look upon him, how dare you use the gift he gave you against him?

Has Harleep babysit you when he isn’t there. You can’t exactly call for help, and Raphael’s house isn’t safe for you to be wandering about unsupervised. 

Enjoys the look of pure frustration on your face when you try learning to write in Infernal, only to fail miserably. He thinks you’re adorable all revved up. He will read the notes you write in Common, he just doesn’t always respond to them. Despite his refusal to acknowledge most of them, you can tell he understands them, based on how large that vein on his forehead gets lol.

He will let you choose whether or not to have a voice during certain moments of pleasure; well, mostly pleasure. He loves the little gasps and moans you make, it fuels his lust for you even more. Then again, he doesn’t need to hear the sweet cries of your pretty voice to know whether he’s on the right track. ‘I can sense your heartbeat, little mouse,’ he'll whisper to you. Your body reveals to Raphael all there is to know, whether you want it to or not. 

The Emperor: 

It literally doesn’t matter. Dude’s telepathic lol. 

Wishes you’d become an illithid so you’d be telepathic too. Almost doesn’t take no for an answer on that one. 

Ultimately ends up relishing in the fact he alone can understand you- your wants, your needs, your dreams, and hopes. It makes him feel all the more powerful. 

Will give you the play-by-play about the Nether Brain and the Chosen Three because he’s been dying to tell someone, and he knows you can’t go running in the streets telling everyone and ruining his hopes of manipulation. Mainly because you don’t talk but also because he’s not letting you leave his realm lol, no way in hell. 

If you really don’t feel at home here, ‘You could always,’ he’ll suggest coyly, ‘Become one of us.’ You don’t even have to shake your head to tell him ‘no’. Your facial expression does all the talking for that one. 

#bg3 x reader #baldurs gate x reader #bg3 imagine #astarion x reader #gortash x reader #gale x reader #wyll x reader #halsin x reader #bg3 raphael x reader #the emperor x reader #minsc x reader #baldurs gate imagine #baldurs gate 3 x reader #baldurs gate 3 imagine #hc #bg3

[eddies-ashtray]

Insecurity and Love // Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader 

masterlist

Synopsis: You’re not feeling pretty today but Eddie, who wears his heart on his sleeve, is there to let you know just how much he loves you. 

WC: 1.3k

Category: Hurt/Comfort/Fluff. Some sexually suggestive content.

Content: Reader & Eddie are both 18+!! Insecurity (obviously), reader has some body-image issues and self-esteem issues ig (mentions of not being “thin enough”, not feeling pretty or deserving of love), brief descriptions of making out w Eddie, very brief allusion to cunnilingus, mentions of bottling up emotions, Eddie is a good listener and the sweetest bf ever, use of nicknames (sweetheart, baby, pretty) bc they make me melt, much tenderness <3. 

A/N: This is entirely self-indulgent, enjoy! 

***

“Okay. What’s going on with you today?” Eddie asks, bringing his hands back up to your face as you sit in his lap in his bed, Eddie leaning up against the headboard. 

When you don’t respond and instead look down at your fiddling fingers, he dips his head to look into your eyes. 

“Hm?” He hums, stroking your flaming cheek with the back of his pointer finger. 

You sighed. You didn’t want to bring it up. In fact, you tried so hard all day not to say anything, to keep your mouth shut because you didn’t want to sour the day. But you were not the type of person to hold things in. So many people just seem to bottle up their bad thoughts and feelings and store them away in an isolated part of their minds; locking those pieces of themselves away in the dark where no one can reach them. 

And maybe it’s unhealthy,—keeping things inside like that—but being unable to stop the dam from bursting, the water gushing out, recklessly flowing out and destroying everything in its path felt like a curse sometimes. People always say talking about things will make you feel better, but sometimes it makes you feel worse! Those thoughts and feelings all come out and they won’t stop and then you look like a fool because you probably didn’t make any sense and does anyone even want to listen anyway? Do they even care? 

So, you’d tried the bottling up thing. Which was way harder than it seemed. Especially as you told Eddie everything. And you might not think it most of the time, but he eats up every word. He wants to hear your silly rants about an episode of something you watched on TV the other night. He wants to listen to you drone on and on about your current favourite book or a new song you heard on the radio. He’s always prepared to hear about your shitty day and let you cry into his beat up Metallica t-shirt. And of course he is always ready to completely nerd out with you about any of your shared interests. 

But there was still that part of you that felt embarrassed when you went on rants about something or other. You weren’t used to that sort of attention; that much of it. 

To avoid talking about it you let a quick kiss become drawn out and slow and allowed yourself to be pulled into his lap and kissed until you were dizzy with it. You tried your hardest to focus on his hot tongue licking into your mouth and his large, rough hands slipping from behind your back to grip your hips and pull you closer. 

But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. And he could tell your mind was racing; that you weren’t fully there. So he pulled away and asked you to let the dam break. 

His big honeyed eyes traced your face with slight concern. But his expression was mostly soft, his lips kissed pink, a faint blush sweeping across his pale skin. He traced the line of your nose softly with his knuckle and gave you a soft smile, attempting to lull you into some sort of comfort. 

“Sweetheart,” Eddie prompted once more. You were a sucker for that nickname. 

“I’m sorry,” You shook your head, already feeling stupid. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry about, pretty,” He whispered, almost as if he was afraid he’d spook you if he spoke too loudly and then you wouldn’t talk at all.

His expression remained soft as he said, “Just want you to talk to me.”

You furrowed your brows slightly at that, heart aching. You just felt so much for him. Eddie was exactly what you wanted. Exactly what you needed. You didn’t deserve it. And that’s where the problem laid. 

“You’re too nice to me.”

“Not possible,” He said unflinchingly. 

Your brows knit together at that, titling your head at him, pained by how sweet this self-proclaimed metal-head truly was. 

“I just-I’m feeling-,” You began, and then stopped again as his right hand brushed down your arm soothingly and you finally looked him right in the eyes.

And then the dam broke and it all poured out. 

“I don’t feel pretty today. I mean-I don’t really feel pretty most days until I’m with you. Which I know is so awful because I should feel pretty all on my own, but it’s how I feel. And I always felt like I didn’t deserve any kind of affection or tenderness from anyone. Didn’t think I’d ever get any. I thought I wasn’t pretty enough or thin enough. And you’re just-you’re so-you’re you! And when you look at me I just feel pretty instantly. You make me pretty, Eddie…But sometimes I still feel the way I did before. Before I met you…And I know you used to have a crush on Chrissy and I’m so not as pretty or anything as her, and-I’m sorry, oh my god. See, this is the problem. I just keep talking and talking and I just-!” Frustrated tears stung in your eyes. You didn’t even try to hold them back, they just came rushing out, hot tracks down your face, staining your skin. 

But Eddie was right there, stunned to silence by your words, but brought back by your tears. He pulled you closer to him, wiping your tears away. 

“Baby, you are so pretty. You are so, so pretty,” Eddie sounded pained as he said it, brows knitting together as if trying to comprehend your words. 

“But, I-”

“Mm-mm, no. It’s my turn now,” He spoke, soft but stern, hands now cupping your hot cheeks and brushing over them. You shut up, thinking it was probably best, and let him speak, allowing yourself to be touched by him. 

“Look at me when I say this to you. Because you need to know that I mean every word of it, okay?” He asked, holding your face in his hands, ensuring you look into his eyes as he speaks. Then he nods your head for you and a smile breaks out onto your face as you giggle. Eddie was just like that; the perfect balance of seriousness when it was needed and silliness to lighten the mood, make things feel less heavy than they had been. 

Eddie smiles at your smile, infected by your sweetness, charmed by the sounds you make. Then he bows his head slightly, still holding your face gently in his palms, honeyed eyes charming you right back. 

He speaks slowly, allowing you time to process each and every syllable. 

“You deserve more tenderness and affection than I could ever give you in 100 years. And you’ve always deserved it; before you met me, and before I made you feel pretty…Which I am so glad I do, because you deserve to feel pretty too.” He says each word with such ease as if he doesn’t even have to think about them; he just knows they’re true. 

Your heart swells in your chest and your eyes wet with more tears because Eddie knows just what to say to make everything better again, knows just what you need to hear. But you think it’s more than that. You know he feels them too. Deeply. Eddie wears his heart on his sleeve and he never lies. He says what he feels; he’s always been this way and it’s incredible to be loved by someone like him and to love someone like him. 

“I love you so much,” You sniffle, brushing his long curls behind his ear and leaning in to kiss his cheek. And then down his jaw, to his chin, and finally his pretty mouth. 

He whispers he loves you too. He says it now and later in the evening when he’s between your thighs, making you feel the prettiest you’ve ever felt. 

***

Thank you so much for reading! This is my first piece of writing on here, so any feedback would be wonderful! Just send me an ask or like/reblog/comment! <3 

Wanna be tagged in new fics?

#eddie munson #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson hurt/comfort #eddie munson smut #stranger things #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson reader insert #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic

[twisted-tales-of-all]

What Really Matters

Summary: After losing your long-term partner in an accident, your mourning spirals into a quest to bring him back at any cost - and you actually manage to do it, but he's not quite the same. Pairing: Lee Minho x gender-ambiguous Reader Genre: Angst (Hurt, No-Comfort) One-Shot Tropes: non-idol!AU, established relationship, husband!Minho, occult/black magic themes (resurrection), loss of a loved one Word Count: 4K Contains: use of black magic, occasional cursing, use of pet names (both romantic and platonic), constant theme of dark and heavy topics (including death, grief, emotional outbursts, allusion to miscarriage) A/N: Please assess your mental state before reading this. The themes of this piece are heavy and dive into emotions that could pertain to similar real-life scenarios and could be triggering to those in similar situations. Approach with caution.

After a long day of repetitive condolences and far too many tears for your reddened, swollen eyes, you want nothing more than to collapse into your bed. But as you lie here, you realize the unbearable loneliness it brings. He's no longer taking up half of the cramped quarters. The coldness of the sheets reminds you that you can't siphon warmth from him any longer. Unable to think of anything other than his passing, you curl into yourself under the blankets, tears and snot streaming messily onto your pillows. Before you know it, your exhausted body gives in to the lull of peaceful slumber.

You wake in the same little ball, your body sore from the awkward position. As you peel your head off of the pillow, you feel the crusted-over liquids all over your face. With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom. You run the shower and begin to undress. As you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you hear his voice in your head.

"Well, don't you look interesting this morning? Did your fairy godmother's magic wear off at midnight?"

His little jabs always made you smile. Even now, you find your lips lifting on the edges. But as quickly as his memory comes, it fades, leaving behind the burning feeling of your emotions welling up in your chest. You shake your head, desperate to avoid crying, and step into the steaming hot shower. You simply stand there for a moment, letting the water hit the back of your head and run down your body as you focus on breathing and mentally preparing for the day ahead of you. You're thankful that your boss offered extra time off to grieve, but you need to do something so you aren't mulling over him all day.

"I'll clean. That's it, I'll clean!"

Welcoming the mundane task, a bit of energy sparks inside of you. You quickly work through the motions of the shower and walk around your home, taking note of the sub-tasks you need to get to and putting them in an order best suiting your mindset. Deciding to start in the kitchen, you immediately hit the dishes. You look at the mess in the sink and breathe out a heavy sigh.

"If you'd just wash them right after you use them, they wouldn't pile up, y'know."

Stop. Stop thinking of him.

You begin furiously scrubbing the dishes to disguise the fact that you can still hear his predictable statements clearly voiced in your mind. That you can't pass him the rinsed items to dry. That nothing's the same without him - even something as simple as the chores. As your scrubbing slows and your vision clouds from the tears building once again, you find yourself frozen. 

But time does not stop. Not for you. Not for him. Not for grief. Not for pain.

The small saucer slips from your hand, clanking rashly against the porcelain countertop. Normally, a noise like this would shock you straight, but this time you don't even blink. You simply stand there, frozen in place, in a world that refuses to stop with you, until the strength in your legs falter. You clumsily make your way to a chair, pulling it out and falling into it. Thanks to the sheen of your tears, you nearly fumble your landing, but you refuse to move.

Staring at the floor in front of you, you acknowledge the light slowly adjusting its positioning as the sun rides carelessly across the bright blue sky. In the movies, rain and storm clouds would accompany one's grief, but you get no such pleasure. The world goes on without him, even if you can barely function.

In the far-off distance, your ears catch hold of your phone's ringtone. Odd, because it's in your pocket. As you fish it out without the sound increasing, you understand that your intense grief is dulling your senses. Seeing your mother-in-law's name across the screen, you answer and place the phone in your lap, setting the sound to speaker phone.

A hoarse voice travels through the speakers, one almost entirely drained of positive emotion, "Y/N? Hello, honey. How are you holding up?"

You want to scream, to cry out about life's unfairness. But she knows. She knows just as much as you - maybe more. You had to send off your husband yesterday, but poor, sweet Mrs. Lee had to send off her son.

After a few seconds of silence between you, you find your voice. However, you do not find words. Instead, a manic fit of depraved laughter fills the room. The dull, repetitive laugh sends shivers up her spine, but she understands. After all, what a ridiculous question to ask not even 24 hours after the funeral, but it was all she knew how to ask, with sorrow clouding her senses all the same.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I understand. Remember, we're here with you. Please, don't hesitate to reach out. I'll hang up now, but remember not to beat yourself up too much. It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault."

She doesn't wait for a response. You don't have one to give. After the ending tone fades, silence envelopes you again, this time joined by the reddened glow of the sunset's fading light. Where did time go? How is today already ending? Didn't it just start?

Accepting defeat, you stand up and drag yourself to your bedroom. You stop at the doorway to stare at your unmade bed. He made it every day, so coming in to see it exactly as you left it this morning stabs you straight in the chest. But you don't have tears to cry, not right now. So you stand. You stare. You silently hurt.

At some point, your body must've remembered how to function and resorted to autopilot, because you wake up in bed the next morning without any memory of moving from your position in the doorway.

7:23 AM. It's early. You don't have plans for the day, so waking this early only means more time to kill, but you're up. There's no chance of falling back asleep. So, you pull yourself out of the warmth of your soft bed and decide to leave the house. If you go somewhere he's never been, maybe he'll leave your mind for a moment; maybe you'll have the time to breathe a sigh of peace.

Making your way into the forest near your home, you choose a trail you haven't taken before - something easy and peaceful, but deep enough into the foliage to let your mind turn blank. As you glide down the trail, you finally feel the weight lifted off your shoulders a bit. To your surprise, your plan actually worked. For the first time in a while, something finally goes your way. As you reach a small rest spot, you sit down to breathe that breath of fresh air, only to find tears silently streaming down your face, plopping onto the fabric covering your thighs. You don't feel the tears; there's no lump in your throat, no pain in your chest, but the tears fall nonetheless.

"Oh, hun, are you okay?"

Looking up towards the voice, you find an older lady looking down at you with pity painted on her face. You quickly swipe your forearm across your face to remove any indication that you may not be happy. You try to blow off the question with excuses, not wanting to burden a sweet old lady with your life's troubles.

"Honey. Don't hide away. It's much too hard to carry things on your own, and I wouldn't have approached you if I wasn't prepared to shoulder the burden of knowing." Sitting next to you, she places a hand on your forearm, lightly squeezing in a motherly fashion.

Looking from her hand to her comforting smile, you sigh and chuckle out a disheartened 'no' in response to her original question. She rubs your arm and nods, acknowledging your strength to admit your feelings properly.

"My husband died. We just got married a couple months ago, but now I'm a widow. The funeral was two days ago. It hurts."

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. If you need a shoulder, use mine. If you need somewhere to escape to, you're welcome in my little cabin. It's quite cozy - quiet and warm, too."

"No, no. I don't want to impose. I appreciate the offer, though."

Suddenly, the lady's expression shifts into something darker, but it reverts back as quickly as it came. As she smiles comfortably at you, she insists that you at least come see the cottage, so you'll know where it'll be if you change your mind. Understanding that she won't take no for an answer, you reluctantly agree. Standing up, you follow her, only a step behind, all the way down the trail and to her cabin. It catches you by surprise that anyone is allowed to live so close to all the hiking trails - you thought the whole forest was government property.

As she opens the door and ushers you inside, the lady happily explains the history of her quaint home. And she wasn't wrong for calling it quiet and warm. As soon as the door shuts, you feel quite comfortable to the point where you don't even think of Minho for a solid five minutes.

"So, if you ever feel the need to escape the toils of life, you're welcome here. Just walk on in and make yourself at home."

Now happy to accept the offer, you ignore the alarm bell blaring in your head about trusting a stranger who lives alone in an unlocked cabin in the forest. You stay for a while before she claims to have an appointment to go to. She insists that you can stay, so you thank her and settle in. On your own, your eyes drift to the filled bookcase against the wall. You look over the books for something to pass the time.

Down on the second shelf from the floor, you find an older book, thickly bound in navy blue leather with golden lettering along the spine. Although some of the paint has faded away, you can piece together the title - The Arts Guide to Perfection. Intrigued by the over-the-top title, you pull it off the shelf and dust off the front cover. You see similar remnants of gold paint on the cover, but can't make out what was originally painted there, other than the circle that remains.

Must've been a company logo.

Moving past that, you let the book fall open to a random page. As it settles on page 273, you see what looks like some sort of recipe, but the "ingredients" listed don't sound edible.

"Keeping your perfect partner? What kind of-?" You stop your words as you continue to read on, figuring out that this is a book of spells, "The DARK Arts, oh boy."

Thoughts sparking like dominoes falling, something clicks as you read through the spell: this can bring your perfect partner back to you, even if they've died. You shut the book and rush out of the cottage, holding the book tightly in the crook of your arm.

"I can bring him back. I can see him again. Oh my god, oh fuck. Oh my-" You spew filler all the way home, with the thought that this book can solve the issue of your grief through the miracle of bringing him back to life.

Slamming the book onto your dining table, you open it back to page 273, only to find an entirely new spell - one more specific to your needs. As you read through the spell and learn how to "bring back love," you carefully memorize the components and key steps in case the page changes its contents again.

After digging through cabinets for hours, you find that you strangely have everything you need already. Chalking up the coincidence to fate, you prepare everything and quickly complete the ritual. As you search the house, wondering where Minho will return to, you hear thunder outside.

"Huh. It was sunny when I got home. That's strange." You walk to the nearest window to check the weather, only to find a single dark storm cloud looming in the distance. As you watch a bolt of lightning strike down, you follow its trail, estimating that the storm must be near the graveyard, "Oh, that's because of me, isn't it?"

Understanding that the results must be brewing within the storm, you tuck yourself snuggly into bed with a joyous smile, ready to greet the day and meet your love again.

That morning, you wake up and notice the bed sinking differently. You turn and see Minho sleeping soundly, as if he never left your side. A warmth floods your body, a joy almost as fond and bright as your wedding day. You gently wrap your arms around him, ignoring how cold his skin feels against yours. As the man rustles from the affection, you kiss his neck softly.

"Good morning, my love. Did you sleep well?"

He hums in response, still not fully awake. As he turns to face you, you think something about him looks different - off-putting, even - but you shake the thought away with ease. He's back; who cares if he looks a tiny bit different?

You sit up on the edge of the bed. Determined to spend as much time with him as possible, you ask, "I'll cook up some breakfast for us. What do you want?"

"Anything, really. I'm starving. It feels like I haven't eaten in days."

Luckily, you're facing away. You couldn't let him see the look of horror his comment caused. He's back. That's what matters. Not that it seems he has no memory of his death.

"I'll see what I can whip up, then! But you have to promise to eat it!"

"I'll eat anything you make. It's made with love, so it can't be bad."

Not the fact that he's speaking in a matter entirely unlike him. Focus on his voice. He's back - that's what matters.

Over the course of the week, you do everything you can think of with your husband. And every time you interact with him, you find yourself repeating your mantra - trying to convince yourself that he's the same person, regardless of the changes. But the longer that you stay with him, the more differences you notice. His quirks have disappeared, his personality muddled.

"Y/N, can we go visit my parents? I miss them. The cats, too."

That's it! I've spent too much time alone with him! Let's go visit Mr. and Mrs. Lee!

"Sure, love. Let's go. I'll let your mom know."

Picking up your phone, you hesitate. How are you supposed to explain this to his parents? It's not like you could just show up to their house with their dead son. Carefully choosing your words, you message your mother-in-law to ask what she'd do if the death was faked. Shortly after, your screen lights up with her caller information, so you answer.

"Hi-"

"Why on earth would you ask me a question like that?!"

Before you have a chance to respond, Minho asks, "Is that my mom? Tell her that it doesn't matter what she says - we're visiting. I miss everybody."

A tense silence follows as his mother recognizes his voice after facing the fact that she'd never hear him again. You hear her choke back tears as she accuses you of playing a sick prank on her. Her emotions take over her words in the heat of the moment, calling you nasty names. Although her accusations sting, you understand where she's coming from. Hell, you've had issues adjusting to him being back even when you're the one who brought him back in the first place.

"I'm- I'm sorry, Mrs. Lee. I know it's strange, but I can explain if you'll let us over. It's a long story; it's heavy and emotional, but I'll explain if you want, no matter your reaction. Even if you hate me for it."

You and Minho silently make the drive to his parents' house, your anxiety bubbling in your stomach. Minho doesn't seem to notice your nerves, too busy enjoying the scenery and the joy of knowing he's going to see his family. As you slide your car beside the parked car in the wide driveway, you warn your husband that he may not get the reactions he hopes for. Confused, he nods but moves past the comment without much thought. You take a deep breath before knocking on the door. You try to ground yourself as you hear footsteps approaching. It feels like the doorknob turns in slow motion, and the door opens even slower.

Looking at Mrs. Lee, you see thousands of thoughts flood her face as the door stops obscuring her view of her son. Letting go of the door, both of her hands fly to her face. Her legs grow weak, so you rush forward to hold her up in case she falls.

"Hi, mom! What's with the reaction? You look like you've seen a ghost."

The noise that leaves her lips get caught somewhere between a gasp and a wail. You feel her stumble and lean on you more. The irony of the son she recently buried asking a question like that nearly breaks her heart all over again. She waves him off, and you close the door behind him. He rushes off to see his cats, leaving you alone with his mother.

"H-how?" Her voice barely a whisper, she's scared to learn how something like this could happen.

"It was magic. A spell written in an old book. I had no idea whether it would work, but I was so desperate. I had to try."

Moving away from you with disgust, she shakes her head repeatedly, chanting, "Out. Get it out. Get it out!"

Motivated by the hatred and rage unlocked by learning the truth, she rushes down the hall to the cats' room, screaming, "Out of my house! That's NOT my son!"

Flying into the room, you both stop hard in your tracks when you see the scene in front of you. All three of the cats are huddled in the corner, puffed up in defense. Minho is holding his wrist, face wrinkled in pain. He turns to you and softly admits that they don't want anything to do with him.

"Dori tore up my arm. I don't understand why they're reacting like this. It's me."

"Get. Out." Mrs. Lee demands, eyes burning through the boy in front of her. "You're not my son. They can tell, too. You're not him."

You grab Minho's hand and rush out of the house, dragging him in a confused flurry behind you. As you apologize profusely, Minho keeps trying to question his mom, who continues to spew out rage-filled comments about him being an evil imposter. She slams the door as you leave, the lock audibly clicking immediately. You slowly drag Minho back to the car, sitting in the driver's seat with your forehead against the wheel. You admit defeat to yourself and begin to prepare for the explanation you know you have to give him.

You turn the key and drive home, but the ride is a blur, with the air in the vehicle tense and thick. As you return home and park the car, Minho finally asks the dreaded question.

"Why did everyone act like that?"

Sighing, you refuse to look at him as you answer, "You died. Your funeral wasn't that long ago. We buried you, but I managed to bring you back."

After a short silence, Minho speaks again, "So, she really did see a ghost, then, huh? I'm... gonna think on this for a while. I'll be in the spare room; please don't come in."

You nod, acknowledging his wishes. As he heads inside, you sit in the car a while longer, thinking about everything. His mom thinks he's evil. The cats attacked him. Even you have to convince yourself that he's the same man you married. What did you do?

"I wish I could undo it."

As you say it aloud, you remember the leather-bound book sitting on the dining table. The reason you got into this mess would surely have a way to undo the results, right? Rushing into the house, you rip the book open, hoping for it to give you another spell that fits the situation. Instead, you're greeted by a loose note written in blood red, urging the reader to consult the owner of the book urgently.

"Fuck," You curse under your breath, "It's late already. How am I supposed to go out there alone?"

Even though it'll be difficult, you need to undo your actions, so you throw on a sweater, grab a flashlight, and bolt out the door. You run, as fast as you can handle, down the trail and over to the lone cottage. The lights inside welcome you, so you walk inside without an invitation. As you prepare to call out to the lady, you realize that you don't know her name. But even worse, your voice doesn't come out at all anymore, even when you try to say hello through the house.

"Cat got your tongue, honey?" You recognize the old lady's voice, but she's nowhere to be seen. Instead, a woman about your age emerges from the shadows along the far wall. A mischievous smile paints her face, and she twirls around to greet you, "I look good, don't I? It's all thanks to you, hun. When people use my spells, my lifeline is extended once again."

You try to speak, to beg for another spell to fix your mistakes, but no words come out. With her spell still holding your voice hostage, you hear her laugh out victoriously.

"I know why you've come. I know you regret bringing him back, but you can't just undo what has been done. There's a great cost in attempting to rewind time like that or to wipe memories from a period of time. I don't think you'd like to do that; you're not possibly that desperate, are you?"

She takes a close look at your face before pretending to be shocked, "Oh? You are that desperate. Well, well, what a surprise. So, sweetheart, what are you willing to give up to rewind the clock?"

With another long look, she simply nods. When you blink, you're back on the bench where you originally met her. Rubbing your eyes, you feel the remnants of tears mixed with the small bits of sleep dust. Looking around, it seems to be the afternoon.

"Did I fall asleep? Was I dreaming?"

Although your recollection of events is hazy and quickly fading, you distinctly remember that you had brought back your husband, and that he's staying in the spare room for some reason. You make your way home, quickly checking the spare room. Facing the empty room, an odd sense of relief washes over you but you can't understand why. However, the overwhelming loneliness of the empty home hits you quickly, pushing aside that feeling.

As you move to your bathroom to wash up, a wave of nausea appears out of nowhere. Walking faster, you make it to the toilet just in time. After a few minutes of the sickness overtaking you, you hear a voice ring in your head as you flush.

"Remember, you must give something up."

#cultofdionysusnet #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop angst #stray kids #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #stray kids angst #skz scenarios #skz imagines #skz angst #skz minho #skz lee know #stray kids minho #stray kids lee know #lee minho #lee minho scenarios #lee minho imagines #lee minho angst

[borrowedtimeandspace]

Observations and Refections

AU: A Patient, and Time (Donna AU); set after The Companion and A Doll's House, not long after Zepheera's rescue.

Note: Still not caught up with Doctor Who, but... the specials may have given me one or two ideas. Some points of business are in order before I get to them, though...

mainly me catching up on the show lol

*vague allusions to captivity and experimentation and mental health distress*

~~~

The soft clicks of a sliding number puzzle cut through the silence of the TARDIS’ medical bay.

Well, silent for the Doctor, sitting quietly alongside one of the beds. For the borrower, nestled in the middle of the aforementioned bed, it was less so.

It was far from a distraction for Zepheera, who was concentrating on sliding the tiles around in a square puzzle a little over half as wide and tall as her own height. The ambient noises of people well over a dozen times her size were easy enough to tune out by now. The flow of air in and out of lungs she could probably fit inside of. The gentle rustle of fabric accompanying every shift in position. Every scratch at the skin or swallow or other such absentminded fidget, all background noise that Zepheera was beginning to get used to.

The Doctor had set her up in one of the Time Lord-sized beds days ago, lending her a silky, taupe cravat to wrap up in. Both were softer than anything Zepheera had slept on in half a year, despite the Doctor’s lamenting that it all wasn't necessarily built with someone under 5 inches tall in mind. She was far more anxious, at least at first, about the location. It wasn't all that far off from the lab, but at the same time it did feel…different somehow.

The way the Doctor treated her made all the difference. He spoke gently yet respectfully to her, laying out everything he needed to do in order to check up on her, and always got her consent before moving forward with any of it. Nothing was overly invasive or uncomfortable; it seemed the Doctor went out of his way to find methods of checking her vitals that didn't make her feel like a test subject all over again.

That part didn't take up too much of their time together, which Zepheera was grateful for. In fact, the Doctor seemed even more interested in giving Zepheera small games and puzzles to solve.

It started simple, with memory exercises with cards and playing naughts and crosses with the Doctor. Zepheera found the sliding tile puzzles odd at first, having to use nearly her entire upper body to move pieces around half the time. Even so, after spending the previous day's session getting the hang of the ones with pictures to put together, she found she sort of enjoyed the one in front of her now, with numbers to align. Her moves were smoother and more confident as the numbers fell into place.

She didn't understand the point at first, but she did now, days later. The Doctor wasn't only interested in checking up on her physical well-being, it seemed.

With the puzzle finished, Zepheera sat back and looked up toward the Doctor. He had a soft smile in return, and carefully reached forward to retrieve the puzzle. If he noticed the way Zepheera bit back a flinch at the hand’s approach, he didn't acknowledge it. “Nice one,” he praised, setting it aside on a tray.

“Doctor?” she called just as he was getting up to leave her to rest, as he'd done every visit before. He paused and regarded Zepheera, who hadn't spoken up unprompted at all the last few days. She fidgeted with the silk material under her as she ventured to ask, “Does all this mean I'm…okay?”

The Doctor let out a long, soft breath as he sat back down, leaning his elbows against his knees to put himself closer to Zepheera's level. This conversation was a long time coming.

“Yes…and no,” was the short answer. When Zepheera frowned in confusion, he expanded. “Well, you're physically fit as a fiddle thanks to your healing factor, albeit a touch emaciated. You're keeping down food, always good, that should help with that problem. And cognitively, you're brilliant!”

He tried to offer another encouraging grin, but Zepheera still looked hesitant, anticipating the ‘but’ at the end. His smile pressed thin and he nodded, pausing only to try and phrase what came next as delicately as possible.

“I do still have concerns regarding your…mental state.”

Zepheera blinked at him. “My…?” she uttered.

The Doctor hurried to clarify. “I only worry that, after what you've been through… Anyone going through all that would end up carrying trauma. That can manifest in a lot of ways, sometimes unexpected ones. And I'm sorry, but… well, the TARDIS has been automatically monitoring your sleep patterns in here.”

She felt her ears go hot, and her gaze dropped to her lap. Zepheera had done her best to make this process as smooth as possible, putting as much trust as she could muster in the Doctor to confirm that she was healthy and wouldn't be permanently affected by what was done to her. She hadn't panicked since waking up in his hands, hadn't put up any sort of fuss while the Doctor was around.

At night, or whatever time she took to rest, though… Then, things were less than voluntary. Zepheera knew her sleep was haunted by horrible memories, which more often than not jolted her out of any meaningful amount of sleep. Despite all efforts to make her more comfortable here, she couldn't hide from her own head.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of,” the Doctor insisted. “I only worry, because you'd said before that you didn't have anyone to get back to, anywhere to go. And I doubt that whatever's going on, it'll just stop with nightmares and lost sleep. You shouldn't have to go through that alone.”

Alone…

The word washed over Zepheera like a frigid wave. Her hands clenched around the silk of the cravat as her mind briefly flashed back to the cage. Unforgiving walls separating her from any others of her kind before they were all gone.

But that wasn't the only loneliness that flashed before her. Because even before then, around her own people, she knew that she was nothing like them. 

Every kind thing Zepheera had done for the people she helped felt so empty. Looking back on it all, she had no real passion for it, and was in fact rather reluctant to continue helping. It was simply the decent thing.

Zepheera had lied to the Doctor about them, about the place where she'd lived and the people she assumed had some level of care for her. It had been so easy to do, she realized, not just because of a deeply ingrained impulse to keep her race a secret. 

On some level, she knew that was never her home.

A shift in her balance brought her back to the present. When she opened her eyes and they darted back toward the Doctor, she found that he'd folded his arms along the foot of the bed and rested his chin on them. All this seemingly in an attempt to meet Zepheera's tiny violet gaze.

“The last thing I want is for you to feel trapped here,” he emphasized, his tone whisper-quiet and completely serious. “Whether you stay or go is your choice. I'm not going to make you stay if you don't want it. All I'm saying is, there's room for you here if you would like to.”

Zepheera blinked, searching the Doctor's warm brown eyes for any sign of an ulterior motive, any hint that he was being anything but incredibly kind in offering this. She found none.

She tried to nod to accept it, but nearly tipped forward with the weight of her head. Belatedly, Zepheera realized that all the tension had melted out of her muscles for the first time in what felt like ages, and she couldn't hide her exhaustion without it.

“You don't have to answer right away,” the Doctor assured her, gently shifting his weight away from the bed again. “Get some rest, and we can talk about it when you wake up. Okay?”

Zepheera ran a heavy hand down her face determined to stay conscious enough to convey how she was feeling.

“ ‘Kay,” she murmured, slowly easing herself to lie down. Her eyelids closed on their own, but she felt the vibrations of the Doctor getting up and trying to leave quietly. Mustering as much volume as she could through her fatigue, Zepheera managed to breathe, “Thank you…Doctor.”

She heard and felt the slightest pause in the Doctor’s gait before he continued out of the room and left Zepheera to rest.

#doctor who gt #doctor who g/t #doctor who crossover #the borrowers #the borrowers crossover #sfw gt #sfw g/t #borrower oc #Zepheera #A Patient and Time #APAT: a BTaS AU #giant #tiny #giant tiny #hurt/comfort #fluff

[come-see-our-show]

Into the Woods is clearly a story about growing up, but I want to acknowledge the underlying sexual themes in the story, specifically growing into one’s own sexuality, because there are so many allusions to that and I can't be the only one seeing it.

Fair warning, this analysis is going to be a mess.

CW: Discussions of rape and pedophilia.

(Also, when I refer to "sexuality" and "sexual indentity," I'm not taking about one's sexual orientation, but rather one's interest in sex and relationship to it.)

1. The Witch

I’ve always seen the Witch’s backstory as a metaphor for rape. When she says the Mysterious Man was “Raping [her],” she means that he was stealing from her. However, even since biblical times, gardens have represented temptation, maturation, femininity, and sex. The witch was told from a young age to protect her garden, and when the beans are taken, she feels an intense loss. She is cursed with ugliness because she has been “deflowered.”

This was clearly a traumatic event for her, much like how sexual assault is traumatic for victims. It reminds me of the scene in Maleficent where her wings are taken from her while she’s asleep. There’s something so graphic about it. From a young age, girls are taught to protect our virginities, and if we are too proud of it then it will get taken away from us. We are shamed for being comfortable in our sexual identity, but at the same time we are forced to make it a huge part of our identities. The Witch does not know who she is without her power, and the thing she loved most was taken from her.

2. Baker’s Wife

BW is also shamed by the narrative for having a sexual identity. We can infer that she’s had sex with the Baker because she knows they can’t have children, but the only time she is explicitly shown as a sexual being is when she cheats on him with Cinderella’s prince, which results in her demise. Again, female sexuality is seen as destructive.

3. Cinderella

Cinderella’s character doesn’t have any explicitly sexual themes like the Witch or BW, but I feel like that’s intentional. BW admits to Cinderella that she’s attracted to the Prince. It’s all described in a very tame way, but given the fact that BW has sex with him in Act 2, we know in hindsight that there is some sexual desire there.

Cinderella doesn’t show any desire for the Prince. She talks about how amazing the ball was, but doesn’t talk about the Prince unless BW coaxes it out of her. It’s weird to BW that Cinderella isn’t really excited about him, because shouldn’t all women feel that way?

I don’t think Cinderella is attracted to men at all (I see her as a lesbian or aroace). Her arc ends with her dumping the Prince, thus claiming her independence and rejecting the traditional expectations of female sexuality.

4. Rapunzel

The Witch projects her own trauma onto her “daughter” (bc uhhhh generational trauma 🤪). While she is undoubtedly abusive, you can see why she wants to protect Rapunzel from the world so badly.

Rapunzel’s first introduction to the world is by a man who enters her home and has sex with her after knowing her for maybe a day or two. We don’t know if she was the one who asserted the sex, but given the fact that she lived in a tower all her life and doesn’t know anything about the world, I doubt it.

Despite how dubious the consent is, Rapunzel probably enjoyed it since she was so happy to reunite with her prince after. Sex should be a beautiful and exciting thing, but she pays the price by becoming pregnant, another thing that I highly doubt she was educated on. Imagine how terrifying that must have been, to wonder why your body is changing so durastically, then giving birth to TWINS. Nightmare fuel.

Rapunzel’s storyline reminds me of Wendla’s in Spring Awakening. A sheltered girl is entering womanhood, but because she isn’t taught how to handle these aspects of life, she is sort of taken advantage of by a more experienced partner, and her first time having sex isn’t 100% consensual (even if she enjoyed it), she becomes pregnant, then dies. Rapunzel and Wendla never get full control of their bodies.

So, yeah, teach your children about sex because “children will listen.”

5. Little Red Riding Hood

Most actors portray the Wolf as a lustful character with lots of sexual undertones. The story of Little Red Riding Hood does sound a lot like a story about a little girl getting taken advantage of by a predator. That IS the story, even if it’s about a wolf eating her instead of a pervert molesting her. The lyric “Look at that flesh, pink and plump,” has undeniably sexual undertones. He’s attracted to her youth and purity (cough cough her virginity). He reacts to her the way a pedophile would react to a child. And yes, it’s disgusting.

Many victims of pedophilia don’t see the perpetrator as a threat initially. They’re kind, funny, maybe even give you treats. That was how Red initially saw the Wolf.

Red’s solo, I Know Things Now, is about not trusting strangers. All children are told to not trust strangers. In fairytales, it’s so you don’t get eaten by a seemingly-kind wolf. In real life, it’s so you don’t get kidnapped by a seemingly-kind adult. She acknowledges that “even flowers have their dangers,” again drawing the parallels of nature and sexuality.

Young girls are seen as women once they are objectified by men (hello barbie movie). So, we learn to be wary of men by protecting ourselves with keys or pepper spray. Red begins her introduction into adulthood once she is objectified by a wolf. She learns to be wary by protecting herself with a knife. However, Red reclaims her power by wearing the Wolf as a coat. She's hardened by this experience, which is tragic because she's still a child, but she holds her head up high by wearing her abuser's dead body. She views herself as a survivor. That's a power move.

6. Jack

Jack’s solo also has some sexual undertones, though less obvious than Red’s. The Giant’s Wife “draws [him] close to her giant breasts” and he "come[s] back again, only different than before."

In real life, boys are congratulated for having sex, but girls are shamed. Jack and Red, the two tweens in the show, have the same reactions to their pseudo-sexual experiences. Jack becomes greedy and impulsive, but Red becomes wary and guarded.

While I don't see Jack as a victim of the giant in the same way that Red was a victim of the wolf, his experience also parallels how male victims are treated (if you want to interpret his experience as statutory rape). They are congratulated for being assaulted because boys are expected to always enjoy sex (even though assault/rape are not sex!). Jack's Mother is the only person who acknowledges that he could have been hurt, and that he is "still a little boy." But of course, she gets killed trying to protect her son from that danger.

7. The Princes

I’m lumping the two princes together because they’re very similar. Much like men in real life, they rarely face the consequences of their actions!!! They treat women like prizes (evidence: all of Agony), but soon after, they cheat on the prizes they used to want so desperately. They aren’t satisfied because the patriarchy teaches men to view women as sexual conquests.

Also, it’s notable to me that after CP and BW have their affair, BW has to pay a much bigger price. While CP is dumped by his wife (and tbh he’ll just move onto the next girl), BW is literally KILLED. The Giant is not literally killing her for having sex, but it’s rather coincidental that these two events coincide.

BW and CP’s aftermath is similar to the real life aftermath of sex. If you’re a man, you’re gonna be fine. If you’re a woman, you need to pay a price because you’re a whore. I’m not saying BW should have cheated on her husband, because that’s wrong. But it takes two to tango, so it’s interesting that CP gets out scott-free. On the plus side, CP is still seen as an asshole and BW remembered as a loving person despite her flaws. A slight win despite all of the tragedy.

Anywho, that my spiel. I may edit it in the future, but I was just in a production of Into the Woods and HAD to get my feelings out at once. Toodles.

#i love this show so fucking much #i just played jack's mother it was an EXPERIENCE #a good one! #the entire cast would always cry backstage from witch's lament all the way to the finale #act 2 wrecked our shit #i cried ONSTAGE during the finale (which i was not supposed to do) due to how verklempt i was #i love that cast <3 #summer says stuff #into the woods

[thatredheadwriter]

Pleasure

ezra x fem!reader

So, I found this dusty old draft that just needed an ending and some polishing up, and here it is five months later. This can totally be read as a prequel to the other Ezra fic I wrote, sort of a happy accident that way. I intended this to be set a few years before the events of Prospect.

This is an NSFW oneshot for female reader with Ezra of Prospect. This work contains smut and mature language and should not be read by those under 18. As a writer, I will attempt to make accurate warnings for each of my fics, however, I cannot guarantee that I will identify each and every sensitive topic. My works regularly contain swearing, allusions to/mentions of sex, and canon-level violence.

**Content Warnings below the cut**

Content Includes (but is not limited to):

Coworkers to who the fuck even knows (they didn’t fuck, now they do)

Pet names

Mutual masturbation

Sexual competition

Dirty talk

Cum play/cum eating

Oral (fem receiving)

Fingering

Biting

Slight overstim

Slight D/s undertones, but switchy

Please read at your own discretion and remember to consume your fanfiction responsibly.

Sweat drips down your brow as you held your partner’s gaze, focus never wavering.

“You look good like this, Bug,” Ezra drawls, head leaned back on the rail of his bunk, cock leaking precum in his fist.

Your hand dips into your throbbing heat once more, fingers curling against that spongy spot that sent electricity up your spine. “I think I prefer you with the suit,” you pant as you withdraw your fingers and use the slick to rub steady circles over your clit.

It started as a joke.

Ezra liked to talk. Out in the endless sprawl of the Green, doing grueling work that somehow required all your concentration and yet left you completely bored, your partner tended to ramble. You didn’t mind so much. It filled the silence and your ears couldn’t ring as loudly when Ezra was pondering the meaning of life in your ear.

What you did mind were his little jibes–barbed words meant to provoke you to dispute. If anyone ever asked you what Ezra’s favorite activity was, you’d tell them it was arguing. Usually, you could ignore him. But every once in a while he’d find one that you just couldn’t abide. You were always rewarded for your efforts with a dazzling grin, brighter than any star you’d seen.

“You know, it’s men who’re always judged for our stamina in bed, but in my experience, a lot of you women folk are awful quick to release yourselves.”

The sudden change in topic from the rising cost of filter replacements made your head snap up, and you cursed as you nearly punctured the blister on your pod, which of course made Ezra laugh.

You tossed the acid blister aside and looked back at your partner, “What the fuck are you going on about now?”

“I was just thinking about last night. I know I’ve made many women cum in just a wink. And you cum so fast, Junebug, I don’t know how you can enjoy it,” he spoke casually as if he was commenting on the weather, but your jaw dropped in protest.

It was true, prospecting didn’t lend itself to privacy. Living in the small shelter you’d erected for the dig meant you’d seen, smelled, and heard everything the other had to give. But it was like an unspoken rule that you both pretended not to notice noises coming from the other’s bunk or the tiny shower room only separated by a wall of waxed canvas.

You bit your lip, trying to choose an answer that wouldn’t inflame the situation. “You really talk a big game, Ez. I try to be a considerate roommate, unlike some people.”

“So you like to listen?” a note of interest colored his voice.

“I like to take off my headphones and go to sleep, but I like to wait until it’s quiet.”

“That does not change my position, sugar. Fact is, I can last ten times longer than you.”

“Wanna bet?”

That was around midday yesterday. The two of you had finished too late in the day to do anything but collapse into your bedrolls, utterly exhausted and worn down by the harsh of the Green. But neither of you had forgotten, and you spent the morning discussing rules.

“No touching each other,” you started out, “And we can each wear one article of clothing.”

Ezra agreed without debate, “Whatever you want, Bug.” You work on it for a bit before he added his own rule, “No stopping for more than five seconds.”

“Makes sense,” you grumbled, focusing on not falling face-first into your dig pit.

You spent the rest of your day wondering if you were really going to do this, pleasure yourself in front of Ezra. Your partner, your only sentient contact on this armpit of a world.

That was just hours ago. Now you’re sitting across from him, legs spread wide to expose your dripping cunt to him. You weren’t sure how long you’d been doing this, but you’d lost count of the number of times you’d gone to the edge. As much as it nearly killed you to admit, Ezra was right. Lately, you’d been self-pleasuring with efficiency in mind, and your stamina has been stunted as a result.

Frankly, Ezra wasn’t fairing much better. He was a sight, pants shoved halfway down his thighs, which were currently flexing hard as he fought off his orgasm yet again. His hair was matted to his forehead with sweat, face flushed, and chest heaving. But all the while, his eyes never left you.

As yet another orgasm builds and slips through your fingers, literally, an idea forms in your cloudy brain. Maybe it’s playing dirty, but it’s not against the rules.

“I wonder what you taste like,” you say with a small, spacey smile. Ezra’s jaw flexes at your words, and you can tell you’re already getting to him.

“I’d be lying if I said I’d seen a prettier cock,” you coo. “Bet it’d fit perfectly….right here,” you slip your fingers back inside, pushing so it makes a sound that has him moaning in retaliation.

“You’re playing dirty, little Junebug,” Ezra growls, but his hand doesn’t slow down on his cock. He’s rubbing faster now, and you can see him losing control.

You chuckle, pumping your fingers in and out, putting on a show for him. “I think you like when I play dirty, Ez.”

He moans again and his head thuds against the bunk. His sounds are starting to get to you too, every time he makes a sound or the muscles under his soft tummy flex you’re inching closer and closer to a cataclysmic precipice.

“I’ve thought about it, you know,” you blurt, suddenly confessing in your pursuit to win and cum. “Wondered what it would be like, you filling me up. That’s what I think about, when I touch myself.”

Ezra shouts, and hot white ropes of cum spurt out, coating his hand and belly. He fucks his fist through his high and you wish you could exist in this moment forever.

When he’s finally finished, his hand falls away, body melting into the mattress underneath him. You realize that your hand has stilled between your legs, too distracted by the performance of pleasure in front of you to chase your own.

“You win,” he grins tiredly, popping an eye open to look at you.

“You’re the only one who’s cum,” you snort, breaking out of your daze.

It’s quiet for a moment between you two, save for your panting breath and the everpresent sound of life outside in the Green.

Your brain must have melted in the heat because your internal filter is totally gone. When Ezra starts to get up, presumably to clean the release from his body, you whimpered, and his eyes flashed to you. “Don’t. I want to taste.”

His eyes darken at your words and a sly smirk creeps across his face. “Are you going to allow me to return the favor?” Ezra asks hesitantly, careful not to ask too much. You’d agreed not to touch one another, but with the way every molecule of your body is yearning for him, you could give a shit about some stupid games.

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, slipping down onto your knees in front of Ezra, his plump bottom lip taking the brunt of his lust as you slip between his still-clothed thighs.

It’s unusually quiet as Ezra tenses underneath you, the only sound in the suffocating silence the air purifiers–no doubt working overtime with all the sweat and heat you two were generating. His thighs are lean and muscled beneath your fingertips as your brace yourself, leaning in to taste the wet release still clinging to his stomach.

You both groan as your tongue licks a thick strip up his belly, salty release coating your tongue. Instantly you want more, so you take it. By the time you’re finished, there’s not a trace of his release left and his cock is beginning to harden again.

“Shit, Bug, is it my turn yet?” Ezra pants above you, eyes dark and wanting.

“I don’t know,” you sit back on your heels, stripping off your sweat-soaked t-shirt. “Don’t the rules say I need to cum first?”

Ezra’s fingers unclench from the fabric of his pants, the fabric still creased from his iron grip. He strokes your jaw with unmatched reverence. “I’ll have you cumming until the next revolution, Bug. Can I?” his gaze dropped to your exposed breasts, and you don’t miss the way his tongue darts out to wet his flushed lips.

“Please, Ez,” you whisper.

With his hand on your neck, he pulls you up into a feverish kiss. The other finds your chest with ease.

Ezra groans into your kiss, “I knew you were hiding somethin’ sweet under that suit, bug.”

It’s not long before you find yourself sprawled back on your cot, Ezra knelt between your spread thighs. He eyes your center greedily, and before you can make a quip about knowing where to start, he’s started a pattern on your clit that has your fingers threading through his hair.

“How do you taste so fucking good?” his voice rumbles in your cunt, making you grip tighter at his dirty brown hair.

“How can you eat me like a man starved and still be talking?” you laugh breathlessly, head dropping back onto the pillows.

“I can do a lot of things, sugar,” Ezra breaks away from the task at hand so he can slide his hand up your body, stopping only to tap two of his fingers against your lips. Without question you welcome him inside, humming with satisfaction when you taste his precum from earlier. You suck and tease your tongue around his fingers, and Ezra lets out a series of low curses before pulling them from your lips with a small ‘pop’.

His tongue returns to draw steady circles on your clit, but you nearly lose it when he slips a finger inside of you, curling it up against that perfect spongy spot that makes stars appear behind your eyes.

“Fuck, fuck, that’s it,” you cry, bucking your mouth up against him, but he’s got you pinned. Another finger joins the first and soon they’re fucking and out of you like a piston, Ezra curling them ever so slightly each time until you can’t hold back any longer.

You cum when his teeth graze against your clit. One hand fists the roots of his hair–earning you a sharp bite to your inner thigh, a growl escaping him even as his fingers and thumb continue to drive you through your orgasm.

It’s as if you black out for a moment, and when you wake, you’re jolted by the sensation of Ezra cleaning up your release with his tongue, mischievous eyes locking on yours instantly.

“I knew that mouth was good for something,” you scoff breathlessly as you sit up on your elbows to look down at him.

“Keep acting like a brat and that’ll be the last release you get this cycle,” he says even as he licks through your folds once more, eyes fluttering shut as he savors the taste. Just as he’s starting to get going again, your walls fluttering around nothing, you push him back with your foot on his shoulder.

“Uh-uh, pretty boy. It’s my turn now.”

#ezra #ezra prospect #prospect #ezra smut #ezra x reader #ezra x reader smut #ezra oneshot #ezra fanfiction #ezra fanfic #ezra fic #smutty ezra fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character

[jessybarnes]

Again congrats on the 500 followers!

💎 - just because i want to talk to you about "Stay"

First and foremost, I must say I can't comment much about your writing skill in terms of the use of "pretty words" and all, because i myself is new at writing. so i'm not nearly qualified to judge but!! What i can comment on is how you make feel throughout the fic. With that said, I will be needing you to compensate me because a heart has been broken. You have triggered the melancholy side of me and damn does it shatter my heart to pieces. I love me some one-sided love angst; I mean I always like reading how unrequited love is written. Like, the pain, the longing, the joy that laced with doubt, everything about it. And the way wrote it!! Just muahh *chef's kiss*. Now the three things I always love in my stories (whether in reading ot writing) are angst, fluff and smut. And the fact that you have these is also another reason why i love it!! I don't know what else to say so why not we go through some reaction that you pulled out of me.

Here's some real reaction that went through when reading this fic:

Your warning of "out of character bucky"

oh please, emotional or not, we love him regardless. Tbh it is nice to see diverse characteristic from bucky, like he does in this fic. It expand my imagination to interesting possibilities 💫

You immediately choked on the cereal, the milk going down the wrong pipe making your face turn a deep red.

The whole scene was fucking relatable i would spil everything in my mouth if i saw him like that too 😩🤌🏼

"..the moment you stepped off that elevator the first time, my heart was yours. It chose you, James. You."

The imagery in my head was too beautiful that I fell in love with bucky... again!

By the time you were finished, tears were sliding down your cheeks onto the paper. You took a deep shaky breath and tried to stifle your sobs.

This. This pain. Yup. This is what why I love reading unrequited angst 🥀

"I ruin everything I fuckin' touch…" 

You can ruin me any time baby. Sorry, sorry. I was trying to distract myself from the pain 😭

His voice was firm, and it eerily resembled the tone he had when he was the Winter Soldier all those years ago.

Oooofff chills down my spine yall. Like imagine his eyes went void for just a split second there, so fast that Steve didn't manage to notice. Damn.

"A woman named Y/N Barnes was life-lined here. I need to see her."

*Gasped loudly* Excuse mee??? Am i your wife now?? When did we get married and how come I forgot??

"She's my wife!" 

Wait. Wait. WAIT!! I am??!!! Omg am i married??!! To you?? (Not me talking to bucky as if he can hear me)

"Alright, I gotta ask… since… uh… when did Y/N become your wife, mate?"

EXACTLYYYYY. THANK YOU FOR ASKING!

"I w-was always scared. Scared to let you in, because I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't want him to take you from me"

I'd do anything to have the soldat's cameo. Even if its just an allusion of him.

He would tell you stories from the ‘40s and at night Bucky would read to you.

I am a simple girl. I just want bucky to tell me stories of his past and read to me in my sleep. I'll die happy. 🤧

Then you woke up to Bucky and wait,… husband?! 

*gasped in shock* we really don't know when we got married do we?

"I lied and said you were my wife so they'd let me see you." 

God he is so dramatic and i love him so much 😭💞

"You like that, doll? Do you like when I kiss you here? Gonna mark your pretty skin so everyone knows you're mine." 

Yes please 🧎🏻‍♀️🥺

Can't comment much on the smut because it was amazing I just forgot to jot down my reaction.

You kissed the tip of his nose and rested your head on his chest so you could hear his heartbeat.

I love soft kisses in fics. Giving or receiving. Please i just want to pamper every part of his face and body with all of my kisses.

You were finally home.

Urghhh such a classic line yet as powerful as ever.

So that conclude my long-ass ranting 😂

And just so you know, I have gone through all your bucky fics. I will properly reblog them when I have the time. With that said, I want to give special shoutout to another fic you wrote call "Unexpected Saviour" because it was so cute, I love Cadence so much; I want to blow raspberry against her cheeks.

Anyway, thank you for writing such amazing works, I enjoyed my time reading them. And I hope you will enjoy mine as well! Looking forward to hear from you soon! Until then, I'm sending virtual kisses and hugs!

– yinn 💙

BABY OH MY GOD 😭😭😭😭😭

PLEASE I AM SOBBING AT WORK, I- 🥺🥺🥺❤️❤️❤️

I can't even begin to explain to you how much this means to me. The amount of detail, research, tears, and dedication I put into Stay is monumental.

But this? This breakdown and detail of how you reacted? This blew me away and I cannot even tell you how happy this made me.

Unexpected Savior is actually about my daughter. She is in love with Bucky and has been since she was very young. She's almost 12 now, but I know for a fact that if Bucky was real and that scenario happened in real life she would do that. She'd defend him just like little Cadence did. (Cadence is actually her middle name 😅). And because I can't pass up an opportunity to gush about how cute my baby girl is, she wanted to propose to Sebastian for her birthday last year and I actually took her to meet him at New York comic con last October. She proposed, he said yes, and I recorded the autograph session. You can watch that video here. ❤️

But back to you, you amazing, beautiful, talented, sweetheart... I just... I'm speechless. I...I love you and I...I just...thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for supporting me and reblogging my stuff and participating in my writing challenge and just...thank you for everything. 🥺❤️

Do you want to participate in my 500 Followers Celebration? Click here to join! ❤️

#j snow answers #winterarmyy #jessy loves yinn #jessybarnesreaches500 #i'm sobbing #this made my whole day #🥺🥺🥺❤️❤️❤️

[helloyesitstwig]

Death note oneshot: Intuition (Lawlight)

Warning:::: contains allusions/references to pregnancy, pregnant trans character, slightly OOC Light (for the better) Some language and a blatant disregard for canon.

Plot: Ryuk has a special talent that he's never told Light about.

((This oneshot is a part of a series. All context regarding said plot will start coming in as bits and pieces. For now, enjoy this and hold your questions until later on.))

"Boy, things sure were tense in there today, huh Ryuk?" 

Light laid back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as he released an elongated sigh. Ryuk stood in the corner of his room, calmly munching on an apple. 

"Certainly seemed like something had gotten into L today, I'll say. Or maybe I should say..  Someone. Hehehe." 

"Gross, Ryuk. I told you to stop talking about that. We were both just… we were very tense that night and… Look, the bottom line is that it didn't mean anything."

"If sleeping with L that night was such an impulsive endeavour, then you'd think that you would have been a bit more careful." Ryuk smugly replied. 

"What do you mean? No one would have ever thought to have found us there. It was the perfect hiding spot."

"I wasn't talking about that." Ryuk hissed "I was referring to the fact that you didn't wear a condom." 

Light froze a bit, balling his hands into fists. 

"I… it'll be fine. I'm sure of it. A-after all, surely L is on birth control!" 

"That's not a wise assumption to make." Ryuk chuckled. "Say…Would you like to learn a little shinigami fun fact?"

Light scoffed at his words. "If it'll cheer me up." 

"Oh you'll find this one really interesting. See, one of the benefits of having the shinigami eyes is that we are able to look at someone and sense certain little things about them: If they are very sick, if they've had surgery done, and most interestingly… We can see if somebody's pregnant." 

"How's that possible?"

"It's a mystery to me. Personally I don't see what good it does for us. Pregnancy is the exact opposite of what we deal with and we can't detect a lifespan until the baby is born into the world. We use it for fun, mainly." 

Light just took in Ryuk's words, nodding his head. 

"Is this going anywhere, Ryuk?"

"Oh alright, I'll just get to the point." Ryuk sulked. "Your dear friend L… I can sense that he is with child." 

Light nearly choked as he shot upright from his bed. 

"W- Are you saying that I'm the father?!"

"Well I can't think of anyone else that could be responsible for getting him pregnant. Except maybe your father. Hehehe." 

"Don't talk about my dad that way." 

"What are you gonna do? Hit me?" Ryuk chuckled.

"I can stop giving you apples." 

"H… I'll be good." 

Light sighed and put his head in his hands. "Damn it…Now what am I supposed to do? What if he wants to keep it?!"

"I don't make suggestions like these often, but last I checked, there's no explicit rule in the death note that states that you can't write a person's name while they're pregnant. Of course… it's been a while since I checked." Ryuk offered.

Light just shook his head, leaning his forehead against the desk. "No… I..  I can't kill L." 

"Well that's a surprising claim coming from you. I guess that little night of passion in the abandoned warehouse really did mean something." 

"Shut up." The young man mumbled. "So… Now what? I can't necessarily confront L about this without telling him how I know. I guess I'll just have to wait for him to tell me himself."

"That should be really… Interesting. Hehehe." 

~~~

The next day, Light made his way down to headquarters, sucking in a deep breath as he stood at the door.

"Alright, I just gotta be calm about this." Light sighed. "There's no way I can predict how this is going to map out. I just gotta nod my head and act like everything's fine.

He had spent the previous night working out every possible scenario in his head: Whether or not L would want to keep it, if he was going to be angry/emotional about it; he even tried to work through the possibility of L not even telling him anything. Maybe Ryuk was just messing with him? Guy was really not all that reliable when it came to certain things.

All thoughts in Light's head were abruptly cut off by the sound of Misa's loud delighted squealing. She was standing in front of him with L sheepishly lingering behind her. It was as if she had been anticipating him this whole time. 

"Light, welcome back! Ryuzaki has something very special he'd like to tell you!" 

Oh fuck. Here it was. 

"Misa, I'm still not sure I even know how to inform him of this." L sulked, lazily rubbing at his eye.

"Oh relax, Ryuzaki." Misa tutted. "I'm sure it won't be that hard to tell him." 

"Tell me what, exactly?" Light played along, although his heart was absolutely pounding in his chest.

"Light, I… We… I'm going to have your baby." 

Misa was squealing and doing her little happy dance. Ryuk was losing his shit. 

"Hehhehe! Well I guess he didn't waste any time letting you know the news." The shinigami guffawed. "Now then… Aren't you going to implement your plan now, Light?... Light?" 

It was at that exact moment that Light Yagami collapsed to the floor. Misa screamed and L lunged forward to reach for Light. 

"L-Light? Are you alright?!" The detective stammered.

Meanwhile Ryuk just stood there and watched, snorting a bit.

"Hm. Interesting strategy. You know, you humans really never fail to amuse me." 

#death note #lawlight #lawlight au #light yagami #shinigami ryuk #l lawilet #misa amane #l x light #pregnant trans character #trans pregnancy #author is trans

[lovelessdagger]

The Fall of the Jedi | Chapter Eight: Cin Vhetin

Pairing: Hunter x OFC

Rating: Mature

Summary: Hunter can’t get it out of his head, the undeniable facts of their situation. The Republic, the one thing every clone stood for, now washed away in favor of this new Empire. The Regs, having never been particularly personable, have somehow become more cold than before. Governor Tarkin, an avid objector to clones, dared to send his squad to kill innocent civilians. The Jedi… are gone.

Slow Burn, Canon Divergence

WARNINGS: Explicit Language. TBB S1E1. Canon Typical Violence. Allusion to Torture.

Words: 7K

Masterlist | Daybreak Masterlist | AO3 | Prev | Next

Hunter can’t get it out of his head, the undeniable facts of their situation. The Republic, the one thing every clone stood for, now washed away in favor of this new Empire. The Regs, having never been particularly personable, have somehow become more cold than before.  Governor Tarkin, an avid objector to clones, dared to send his squad to kill innocent civilians. The Jedi… are gone.

Just like that.

In four words and less than thirty minutes, the Jedi disappear. The oldest and strongest institution ever known, wiped, branded traitors, summarily executed.  Every single one of them.

Well, Hunter thinks. Not all.

Not yet. The kid, Commander Dume, he made it out. Though Kaller is no haven. If the clones didn’t kill him, the elements might. Either way, he’s just a kid. What does he know about survival? What shot does he have when he’s alone?

If he can’t make it, what does that say about them?

Hunter’s leg bounces inside the Marauder, gloved hands wiping on thighs. “How much longer til Kamino?” he asks, standing.

“Our projected time of arrival is eighteen minutes,” Tech says. He looks over his shoulder. “Your anxiety will not cause the ship to go any faster. Given Omega’s status as a medical assistant, it is unlikely she is under any real threat. Although, the odds are not zero.”

Hunter scoffs. “Thanks.”

She’s the final piece of it, the ruckus of his mind. She’s the biggest really. Undeniably. It was bad enough before, her weird and incessant following of the group. Sitting with them in the Mess Hall, caring over Echo in the infirmary, searching Hunter out personally. She actively warned them of what Tarkin had planned, what trouble this… Empire would cause. Leave Kamino, don’t come back.

Let me come with you.

He should’ve listened the first time. They could be long gone from Kamino already, not headed towards it. A log transmissions onto the Maraduer from the now Imperial database shared with Kamino. The only one clones have access to. A running list of every known Jedi of the Republic and their status of termination. Working with Jedi was a rare occurrence, the amount closer to zero than anything substantial. Scrolling through, Hunter ticked off what he could recognize.

Shaak Ti.

Depa Billaba.

Caleb Dume.

Anakin Skywalker.

He closes the log each time Crosshair walks by, before he can comment on his search for a fifth name. Before he can tell him there’s no point. Laugh at him. Tell him what he already knows.

Echo behaves the same, though he takes the list in a more personal manner. It’s easy to tell when something strikes particularly hard. He gets more reserved, closing the log and leaving for some odd minutes before coming back.

For a moment, Hunter considers asking.

Ultimately, he decides against.

“Assuming she is there,” Tech asks. “How do you propose we find Omega?”

“Tipoca City’s a big place,” Hunter responds. “But there’s only so many locations she can be. We split up. You and Wrecker take the lower levels and comm areas. Echo, you and I will check barracks. Crosshair—“

“Pass.” He sits in the corner, pretending to sleep but tapping fingers give away the facade. “I’m not interested in putting this squad at risk for some kid.”

“She’s one of us whether you like it or not. We’re not leaving until she’s on this ship. Echo, you take Cross for the barracks. I’ll get into the labs. If any of us find her, we comm and head directly back.”

“What are we doing after?” Wrecker asks.

“I haven’t gotten that far,” Hunter admits. Crosshair scoffs. “Right now, all we need to worry about is making it back and off world in one piece. It’s a big galaxy, plenty of places to camp out. We wait for things to calm down before moving on.”

“Ten minutes until hyperspace exit,” Tech announces. “Reports indicate class three storms, the landing may be bumpy.”

Echo approaches, nudging his back. “Hunter,” he mutters. He nods towards the end of the ship, leading the way. “Something’s wrong.”

“Really?” He snorts. “You don’t say.”

“I mean with Crosshair,” Echo whispers. “He isn’t acting like himself.”

Hunter looks over. “Yeah… I noticed.”

“What Tech said earlier, about the programming.”

“Crosshair’s fine. A lot has happened, he’s easy to stress out. Doesn’t like change. That’s all.”

“I don’t like it.”

“He’ll be fine. Better when we finally leave this place.”

“You all really don’t like Kamino.”

“Hard to like somewhere you don’t belong.”

“Five minutes,” Tech announces.

“Grab a seat,” Hunter says. “We’ll be in and out. Then everything will be back to normal.”

Maz Kanata likes to keep her ship cold, that much Odella is certain of. It may be all she is certain of. She hasn’t moved from her three square foot box since boarding, confining herself to the floor, knees to chest. Maz has been generous, ignoring her for the most part. Until now that is. 

“You didn’t strike me as a caf girl, so I made tea,” she says, holding out a mug. “Drink, it will boost your energy.”

Odella mouths, Thank you, taking it.

“We’ll be landing soon.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.”

“Are you normally this vague?”

She admits, “No.”

“Then why am I so lucky?”

“You hold yourself back,” Maz says. “Were I to tell you, you’d refuse. Regardless of it being for your benefit.”

It takes everything in Odella to not roll her eyes. Even then she fails. “If you won’t tell me, can you at least explain what you were doing on Naboo?”

“The Force sent me.”

Odella scoffs. “I’m not a child. You can say you were stealing.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“That the Force sent you to Naboo on its biggest day of surveillance and occupation since the battle with the Trade Federation? You’re right, that’s definitely believable. My mistake.”

“You have quite the mouth on you,” Maz chuckles. “I would have never guessed. You come off so shy.”

“I don’t know you. You refuse to tell me where we’re going. And, I don’t know you,” Odella says. “Excuse me for not being chipper. There’s no reason the Force would send you to Naboo.”

“It sent you.”

“Master Yoda sent me. There’s a difference.”

“Did the Force not compel him?”

“No,” Odella says bluntly. “Unless you call Obi-Wan Kenobi the Force. Which I certainly wouldn’t.”

Maz hums. She nods, slow. “If you must know. I feel treasures call to me through the Force. Now, I happened to be called to Naboo.”

“For treasures?”

Maz nods.

“What did you collect?”

“You.”

“Stars,” Odella mutters. “So what, you’re going to hold me for ransom? Get payment that way?”

“Of course not. Girl like you would make a far greater profit working in my establishment.”

“Is that where we’re going?”

“No. Unless…” Maz leans in, squinting. “What is your talent? Artistically.”

“I don’t—“

“You are a Thoren. Art runs in your blood the same as those midichlorians. Do not lie.” 

Odella sighs. “I’ve been told I can sing.”

Maz enters some deep internal debate Odella has no interest in deciphering, humming. “No,” she settles. “Best not.”

As if Yoda weren’t confusing enough.

“So…” Odella drags. “The Force calls you to Naboo. You find me. That hardly feels worthwhile.”

“You my dear, are the famed Thoren daughter. You must recognize your value is beyond words.”

“My value?” Odella repeats, dumbfounded. “How can I have any value in that family? All my siblings despise my existence, my mother’s gone mad with legacy, and my father hates what he has created. I may be a Thoren but I claim no fame from it. Cain is right. It’s all cursed.”

“I don’t believe that. I’ve known the Thorens a long time now. Your late grandmother Novalise was a great friend, as was her mother Evangeline, and her mother Amara. The only curse Paloma brought to that house were the trails of her abuse. You should not blame her for it.”

“Then I blame myself,” Odella concedes. “I should have never been born. They should have been satisfied with the children they had, not risk my mothers life. For what? A Jedi?” Odella waves her hands out. Her words grow rage the longer she continues. “Look how that’s gone. I am on a ship with a pirate I do not know and the Jedi are dead. The only thing I have ever known is dead. Yet somehow I am left to survive when I never asked for any of it to begin with. I only did this because everyone told me to. It’s what they asked of me. I never wanted to be a Jedi.” She catches herself too late. Hunched over, the steam hits her face. She sits frozen without breath. 

Maz holds her shoulder, Odella pushes it off.  “Oh… my child,” she whispers.

Shaking her head, Odella sets down the mug. “I should’ve left when my Master died,” she says. “I could’ve avoided the war all together. Actually done something with myself, helped people. Really helped people. People who care about each other. Who aren’t afraid of compassion and emotion and community. I should’ve gone to something far away from the Jedi.”

“The galaxy is quite large, grander than any thing could wish to see in one lifetime,” Maz tells her. “You are young. There is still time for you to become whoever you are meant to be. You are unrestricted. In the face of this tragedy, you are free.”

Maz announces their arrival fifteen odd minutes later. The ship slowly enters atmosphere and lands with a final thud on the ground. Odella stands only when she is told. Maz takes her by the bend in her arm, leading her out.

The air is cool, fresh, free from the growing pollution of Coruscant. Dried grass breaks under footstep, harvested crop cut on weakened soil.

“Perhaps I stay with you,” Odella says. Her free arm blocks her eyes from the sun, squinting away. “I wouldn’t mind being a performer.”

She would.

They both know this.

“The nearest town is a ten kilometer walk east,” Maz says, pointing to the sun. “I recommend you stray from the Protectors until you gain your bearings. The last thing you need is to be taken for interrogation.”

“Interrogation?”

Maz waves her hand. “The likelihood is low. Though not zero…” she trails. “Never mind it. You will be fine.”

“You said you’d take me somewhere safe,” Odella argues.

“Wrong. I said I would take you where you need to go. I promised your friend safety, but you are not her.”

Odella swears under her breath. Damn pirates. She lifts the hood of her cloak. “I suppose I’ll be off now. Thanks for the ride.”

“Not so fast.” Maz raises her hand, making a beckoning motion.

“Right,” Odella sighs. Payment. She reaches for the bag of credits dangling on her hip. “I’m not sure how much I have but… how’s two hundred?”

“No.” Maz reaches under her cloak, tapping the metal sabers hanging from her other side. “These.”

Odella frowns. “What? No, no I can’t—“

“They will do you no good here. Besides, they are a Jedi’s weapon, are they not?”

“Yes but—“

“You will find your way through new means. Accept change. Embrace it.”

Odella kneels, closing her eyes. “They mean an awful lot to me.” She unhooks them from her belt, thumb brushing over ignition.

“You have your crystals, do you not?” 

“I do.”

Maz takes the hilts, rolling them in her palms. “Then they’re never truly gone, are they?” They connect to her trousers, free hand cupping Odella’s cheek. “When it is safe, should that time ever come, they will find their way to you again.”

“You’ll keep them well in the mean time?”

“I give you my word.”

Odella nods, saying nothing more.

“Go now,” Maz ushers. “This is your new beginning.”

ALDAMI’S DINER

OPEN

Odella wipes her forehead, open palms stretching her lower back. It couldn’t have killed Maz to drop her anywhere closer? She shakes out her muscle, craning her neck from side to side. She looks around the outside, buildings sparse, streets moderately empty. It is a welcomed change of scenery however, dying crops become an eyesore past the first hour. Nauseating by the second. 

Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to gain a clue of where she’d been put. The light chill of wind stayed consistent, pointing to a change into winter season or late fall. Outer Rim most likely considering the lack of city life, speeders. Agricultural settlement, obviously.

The diner is the first thing to greet her, a faded and chipped blue painted wooden exterior. Exhaust from the chimney fills the street and her senses, stomach growling. She weighs the options: keep hiking until she lucks out and collapses, or… the choice isn’t hard.

Stepping into the establishment, a bell rings above her head. It smells divine. Odella almost drools. 

“Hi doll, welcome in,” an older woman calls. Mid-forties, jet black hair pinned on her head, pieces framing her round face. “Go head and take a seat where ever ya can, we’ll get someone to you in a bit.”

Either she came in right before or after the morning rush, a dwindling occupancy keeping only half the diner busy. Odella makes her way to a corner booth, faced away from the crowd. An effort of vain, no one pays her any mind. Her gloves slip off onto her lap, fingertips dancing on the table’s counter.

Nothing notable comes through her visions. Various families, children, dishes.

Thank the Maker.

“Name’s Sela. Can I get you started with some caf?” The woman from before, stood in front notepad in hand.

Odella keeps her gaze locked, shaking her cloaked head. Her throat clears. “Do you have tea?”

“Iced tea.”

“I’ll take it,” she says. “Sweetened. Please.”

The woman snorts. “Like there’s any other way.” The booklet snaps close. “I’ll get that out to ya. Take your time with the menu, it ain’t changing anytime soon.”

“Thanks.”

Left alone, Odella rubs over her face. She flips over the menu, foot bouncing. Tiingilar, uj’alayi, bone broth… something is recognizable at least.  ALDAMI’S DINER stays printed at the top, faded, stained. No address, no contact information.

She’s in the middle of no where.

Perfect.

Sela returns with her glass, ice cubes floating atop. “Pick something out yet?”

“Uh,” Odella stutters. “What do you recommend?”

“Al’s good for pretty much all of it,” she says. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Protein,” she decides. “High carbs. I could eat a bantha.”

“Can’t say we got those layin about,” Sela laughs. She takes the menu, tucking it under her arm. “But I’ll see what he can do.”

“Thank you,” Odella breathes. She looks up, lowering the hood. “Honestly, anything is fine. I shouldn’t be staying long.”

“You ain’t from these parts, are you?”

Bashful, Odella asks, “Am I that obvious?”

“Just about. Accent gave it away. Mid Rim?”

“Naboo.”

“Naboo,” Sela repeats, tongue clicked to the roof. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Good question. Wish I had an answer. Just… had to get away from home. I guess.”

“Well, you couldn’t have picked a farther place to do it.” She taps at Odella’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, we ain’t a stranger to strays.”

“Do refugees frequent here?”

She laughs. “Maybe less noble than that. Just people lookin to get away. They never stay long.”

“Why’s that?”

The front bell rings again, a group of three staggering inside. Each man armored in worn blue and gray. Visors of helmets shaped in a black ’T’. 

“Al!” The one in front calls, fist banging the counter. “We’ll take the usual to go!”

“Well,” Sela sighs. “That’s part of it.”

“That… Those are Mandalorians,” Odella stumbles.

“Sure is. You ain’t ever seen one?”

“Only in books.”

Sela emits an audible, heh, shaking her head. “If you’re expecting knights in shining armor, look else where. Stop bangin’ on my counter!” She shouts to them. “Damn animals.”

The one in the back… barks.

Sela spares her a look saying, See what I mean?

“Point taken,” Odella responds. 

“Sela!” The front calls, making his way over. “You’re looking as beautiful as ever. Have you lost weight?”

“Fenn Rau,” Sela introduces. “He’s tryna be like his daddy and failing miserably.”

“All with practice my dear,” the Mandalorian corrects. Removing his helmet, a blond head appears. “My father can’t say he’s helped train the Republic army, now can he?”

“So much for that,” Sela laughs. “I hear they’re calling it an Empire now.”

“Is there a difference?”

“There is when them clones you train kill the wizards.”

“Jedi?”

“That’s what I heard.”

Fenn snorts. “Then I have trained them as Mandalorian, haven’t I?”

“Bit macabre if you ask me.” Sela taps at Odella’s shoulder. “You’re from the inside,” she says. “You hear anything bout it?”

“Huh? Oh, no,” Odella says. “I don’t do politics.”

“Smart move.”

A smile drags onto Fenn’s features, brow raised. “Hello, hello,” he says. He takes Odella’s hand, kissing its back. “My name is Fenn Rau, Journeyman Protector. And, you are?”

“Passing by,” Sela interrupts, swatting his arm. “Leave the poor girl alone.”

“I’m being friendly. It’s part of the role.”

Odella removes herself, nose scrunching. “I’m flattered,” she deadpans. “Truly.”

“If you need somewhere to stay, my home is always available to you.”

And she thought Coruscant boys were bad.

“Rau!” A gruff voice shouts from the back. “Order up!” 

Fenn straightens, tipping his head. “I’ll be seeing you around,” he says. “Welcome to Concord Dawn.”

Treason. Conspiring with Saw Gerrera.

That’s what Tarkin called it, taking the word of a probe droids data. Shock troopers surrounding the Batch the second they landed on Kamino left them without fight. Not one that would leave all five alive anyways.

Hunter blames himself, he should’ve accounted for this possibility.

Now here they are, stripped to their blacks, pushed into a makeshift prison. 

“I assume you know the punishment for treason,” Tarkin said. The answer was clear as day, something they all knew would be waiting for them past these ray shields.

Death if they’re lucky.

Reprogramming if not. 

While Clone Force 99 tries not to make it a habit of coming back or staying on Kamino for too long, one way or another they manage to catch up with chatter. Lucky or not, Hunter’s status as Sergeant grants him acceptance with the Regs. Not much, but greater than someone like Wrecker anyways.

Word circled around about some new experimental operation. A machine the Kaminoans begun sticking clones into when they strayed too far. Some say it’s what was done to the reg from the 501st Legion, rumored to go mad, threatening the Chancellor.

Emperor. 

Other stories were more specific, coming from those claiming to have walked into the wrong room, overheard the wrong conversations. 

It didn’t have a name, not that they knew, but the premise was clear. A type of factory reset. Mind completely erased, personality cleared, memories, names— in extreme cases, basic human function— gone. Flayed.

This was the obvious route for the squad to take. Their… uniqueness, value, was never lost to the Kaminoans. Even if it was to the rest. Successful mutations, viable to see adulthood. As cadets they were frequently separated from the others, given more exams, more physicals. Trained harder, stricter, made the other in every way possible.

No, Tarkin won’t kill them. He’d be stupid to.

Hunter sighs. That can be worried about later. For now… his vision drops to Omega, sat on the ground.

“Me?” she asks. “You came back for me?”

“The option’s yours,” Hunter tells her. “Though, I’d prefer if you’d come with us. I’d hate to get us captured for nothing.” He sighs, treading on obnoxious. “But if you’d rather stay on Kamino…”

She gasps, leaning up. “No! I told you before, I want to go with you.”

Hunter nods. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

From the back, Crosshair groans. “Cute,” he mutters. “Touching, really.”

Wrecker clears his throat. “Hunter,” he says. “How are we breaking out of here?”

He responds, “I’m working on it.”

“You know what you should work on?” Crosshair asks. “Explaining when you went soft.”

“Stow it Crosshair,” Echo snaps. He shakes out his right scomped arm. Phantom pains.

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t all noticed. He’s been failing ever since Anaxes, and I’ve been the only one to say something about it.” He steps up, Hunter blocks his way to Omega. “Why don’t you own up to the truth of why you’re really doing this, Hunter?” 

He pauses. “What truth?”

“That she’s dead,” he says. “We all know it. She was a Jedi who never knew you existed and you were still weak enough to get attached.”

“Crosshair. You don’t want to start this,” Hunter warns.

“Wake up Hunter. There is nothing you can do to bring her back. Not letting the Padawan escape. Not helping Guerra—“ he points to Omega, “—not saving this kid. She was a Jedi. She betrayed the Emperor. They all did.” He grips the side of his head. “You don’t even know her name. She deserved to die.”

Echo acts before Hunter gets the chance, shoving Crosshair into the wall. “Say that again.”

Crosshair snorts, looking down the three inches between them. “Oh look, the mech has something to say.”

“Guys,” Wrecker attempts. “C’mon. Not in front of the kid.”

They ignore.

“Why haven’t you told him?” Crosshair asks.

“Tell him what?” Echo responds. 

“That you knew her.” His gaze flickers past, back onto Hunter. “There was only one girl on Anaxes. Worked in the med bay with the regs. Fixed up Echo.”

“What’s your point?” Hunter asks.

“You’ve got competition. We were on that base for four days and all I ever saw was her with the 501st. I bet she was with them when the Order went off. I bet, they all shot her dead. Maybe if Echo stayed he would’ve done it himself.”

“Shut it,” Echo hisses.

“I’m telling the truth. You know it. Deep down, you’re still a Reg.” Crosshair shoves at him.

“A Reg with ARC training,” Echo reminds. “Don’t push it.”

“You should be the most loyal to the Empire out of all of us. Why aren’t you? Why defend a worthless Jedi? Hunter becoming a liability I’d expect, but you?”

“That’s enough,” Hunter snaps. “Both of you. We’re a team. Act like it. You’re right,” he says to Crosshair. “She is dead. But that doesn’t matter anymore. We can discuss my choices all you want later. For now, let’s focus on getting out of here.”

“Now I know you say it’s fine, but I took a bit off your tab for having to put up with Fenn,” Sela says, placing the bill in front of Odella. “Puts you at thirty even.”

“How’s fifty?” Odella asks, reaching into her pouch. “You can keep the rest as a tip.”

“Oh don’t do that.”

“I insist,” she says, placing the credits. “You wouldn’t happen to know of any places I can camp out for the next day or so, would you?”

“Can’t say I do. Like I said, strays, they squat wherever they like.”

“No inns?”

“Not since the last one up the road closed. Al’s been looking to buy it but, no chance cubes.”

“You’re not looking for a roommate?”

Sela laughs. “You wanna nanny five kids under ten?”

“Pass. I have enough trouble tolerating one.”

“Then I’m outta options. Sorry doll.”

Odella sighs, raising her hood as she stands. “How far’s the next town?”

“Bout… fifteen klicks north.”

“Great,” she mutters. “I better get going then. Thank you again for the food.” She waves the canteen strapped over her torso. “And the water.”

“You’re leaving just like that?”

“Course. Gotta make land while the sun’s up. Give my compliments to Al. I haven’t had food like that in years.”

Sela nods. “I will. Best of luck to you.”

Odella makes it approximately fifteen footsteps to the door before collision, running directly into a stout man, double her size. Clean plates fly into the air, the male falls onto his rear, the diner goes silent.

She catches them all. “I am so sorry,” she gasps, struggling to stack. She moves them to one arm, offering out the free one. “I’m so clumsy.”

The man ignores her, swearing under his breath. He stands on bent knee, heaving up.

“Are you hurt?” Odella asks.

“‘m fine,” he mutters. He spares her a look, half disgusted half shocked. “You’re too small to have that much force on ya.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Bet I’ve got over a hundred pounds on you and you knock me down like that?”

“I swear it was an accident.”

“I believe you.”

She holds out the plates. “Sorry. Again.”

It’s his turn to blink. “You caught them?”

“Opposed to what?” She asks. “Letting them fall?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Sounds like more trouble on you.”

He confirms, taking them. “It would be.”

“Exactly.”

“Huh.” He looks around the diner, to her, then out again. “Sela!” He calls. “This one yours?”

She answers from the back. “Sure is Al.”

“Of course you’re Al,” Odella sighs. “Maker, I really am a piece of work aren’t I? I wish I could say I’m not usually like this but I’d be lying.”

“Accent’s weird. Where you from?”

Odella answers shy. “Naboo.”

“These are Naboo decor plates,” he says, holding one up. White, hand-painted in blue. “They’re expensive.”

“Most Naboo things are. Never-mind import tax.”

Al huffs again, walking away. “How are you with people?”

Odella’s quick on her feet. “I try to be friendly.”

“Can you cook?”

“Basics, but no. Nothing like you.”

He grabs a menu from the counter, passing it. “How’s your memory?”

“Above average.”

“What’s in the special?”

“Roasted porg, pasta, fresh vegetables and herbs. Sautéed with a side salad.”

“Breakfast?”

“Bluemilk pancakes and fresh fruit.”

He takes the menu back. “Prices for the first three items on the dinner side.”

“Twenty, seventeen, and fourteen. Without sides.”

“You got a place to stay?”

“No sir.”

“You need one?”

“Desperately.”

Al nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of his apron. “I know a guy,” he says. “Little over three klicks south. Kyr Drios, he’s an mean old lonely fucker, don’t take kindly to strangers. Could shoot you dead just for stepping on his land.” 

“Oh.”

He throws the rag from over his shoulder, wiping the bar. “But like I said, he’s an old fucker.” Odella lifts the napkin dispenser, he wipes under it. “Meaning, he won’t.”

“Oh.”

“He’s been bitching to me about needing help on the day to day. Now he doesn’t say he needs help, but the implications are there.”

“Right.”

“He’s got a big white place, though it’s dirty, run down. Porch out front, can usually find him smoking. Now, I try to pop by when I can, give em food. You can do that. Tell em I sent you, offer your labor. He likes you, he lets you stay. You stay, you get a job here.”

“You mean it?”

“My last girl walked out yesterday. Sel likes you, I don’t hate you, I’m sure you’ll get along with the others. Now it won’t be easy convincing him, and he’ll say no but be persistent. Not too much you get shot, but enough to wear em down. Think you can do that?”

“Annoying old men is my specialty.”

“Glad to hear it. You can start tomorrow. We open just after sunrise. Oh, and the nice girl act is cute and all. But Rau’s tame around these parts. Toughen up a bit.”

“Less nice, more tough. Easy.”

“Easier said,” Al corrects. “You don’t strike me as a fighter.”

“Well,” Odella sighs. “I guess you’re in for a surprise or two, aren’t you?”

He chuckles. “I guess I am.”

They took Crosshair.

Worse than that, they took Crosshair and Hunter did nothing to stop it. They hit him in the gut and he fell and he did nothing. 

The Batch file into Tipoca City’s hangar, one by one, ducked to their tossed items. The storm rages on outside, Tech predicts levels to rise to a four within the hour. Thunder clashes while lightning strikes. The floor is slick with spilt in rain, their boots slide and squeak along the cement.

“No one waste time,” Hunter says. “Suit up. Let’s make this quick.” Turns out emergency dressing drills do have their benefits. “Tech, get in and power up the ship. The rest of us will track down Crosshair. The second we come back we’re out of here.”

Bay doors chime with finishing touches, Hunter’s vibroblade just sliding into its holster.

“I don’t think we’ll have to go far,” Omega says. 

Doors open to a squad of shock troopers, six total in ready position. They spread around the entrance, leaving way for one final man. Crosshair. He walks tall, proud even. Rifle hoisted into the air, a matching helmet to his new all black suit at his side.

Wrecker asks the obvious. “Is that Crosshair?”

No one answers. They already know.

Yes. It is.

Hunter stands, walking forward. “Stand down, Sergeant,” Crosshair says. “Make it easy on yourself.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Hunter asks. He waves out. “What is this?”

“We should’ve killed that Jedi. You disobeyed orders. You betrayed the Emperor.”

“I did what I thought was right.”

“You never could see the bigger picture. You’ve always been like this. Always lost inside yourself. Your fantasies. Look where that’s gotten you. You want to do what’s right? Surrender, Hunter.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Is that an order?”

Crosshair laughs. “I guess it is.”

“Well,” Hunter says. “I guess I’m disobeying that one too.” 

Locked in a stalemate. Brother against brother. No one wins. Everyone loses.

Time stands still.

Quick draws were easier as children. Less deadly. Hunter wants to behave the same as when they were cadets. Kids. Weapon lowered, fake with paintballs. Shields disappeared.

Crosshair doesn’t play the same anymore.

In hindsight, neither does he.

Crosshair is the first to shoot, Hunter senses the build of energy within the rifle before the trigger is pressed. He ducks and the rest of the Corrie guards fire. They throw smoke grenades, aiming through the fog. 

“Tech,” Hunter says through their comm. “We gotta move, now!”

“I’m working on it.”

“Work harder. Wrecker, we need the smoke cleared.”

“Got it, boss.”

“Omega, keep your head down. Don’t look.”

Crosshair doesn’t hesitate. Wrecker is shot, his helmet tumbles, gaining a new scratch gained against the pavement. Omega dives after him, pulled back by Hunter. Crosshair’s shot barely misses.

“He’s using Wrecker as bait,” Hunter tells her. “Don’t.”

“He needs help!” She cries. “You can’t leave him!”

“And we won’t—Tech! We’re out of time!”

“Almost got it!” The Maraduer powers on, engines blasting blue flame. 

Alarms sound overhead, Crosshair shouts and the bay door cranks to shut.

Until… they don’t. 

“I suggest you move now!”

Hunter grabs Omega’s shoulders. “When I say go, you head for that ramp and you don’t stop? Got it?”

“But—“

“Listen to me. Nothing’s gonna hurt you, I promise. Echo and I will grab Wrecker. Everything will be okay.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“There’s only one way out, Hunter!” Crosshair calls. “Your move.”

Hunter shouts, “Go!” Blaster fire erupts within the hangar once more, plasma bolts of red and blue scattered in the air. Echo handles Wrecker, Hunter standing guard.

“C’mon big guy,” Echo mutters. “Gotta go.”

His response is a groaned blinking consciousness. “Wha…”

“Hunter! A little help here!”

“Shit.” Hunter takes Wrecker from under his left arm, Echo the right. “On three, pull him to stand.”

“Crosshair’s got a lock on us!”

“Then we hurry. One… two…”

Three.

A blue plasma beam shoots over their heads. Crosshair’s gun falls.

Helmeted heads turn upward, gravitating to the source. 

Omega.

She continues the assault, and whether purposeful or not she misses Crosshair each time, chasing him into the corridor.

Hunter and Echo drag Wrecker onto the ship. “Move Tech! Seal the doors!” He pulls Omega’s arm, removing her from view. “Are you okay?” He asks, kneeling. “Are you hurt?”

“Yes—No,” she says, shaken. “I’m okay.”

“So’s he. In case you were wondering,” Echo says. He struggles to lift Wrecker onto the nearest seat, moving his head up. “Cross hit the armor seam, took the brunt of the impact.”

“Still check him out, make sure nothing’s sprained,” Hunter instructs. “Tech!”

“Just a moment!”

“Get started,” he tells Echo. “While he’s still too out of it to complain.”

“Fine by me.”

“I am not out of it,” Wrecker objects. “I’m just—ouch!” Grabbing his shoulder, he glares at Echo. “Watch where you stick that thing.” 

“Just hold still, you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well I do—ow!”

Tech enters next, swerving by a laughing Omega. “Right then,” he says, tapping away at a handheld. “Don’t move.”

“Don’t examine me,” Wrecker grumbles. “I’m not a computer.”

“No,” Tech agrees. “Echo is far more agreeable than you.”

Things feel almost normal.

Almost.

Within the commotion, Omega leaves into the cockpit. She stays small, hands playing with themselves close to her chest. Lighting is minimal, mixes of red, whites, and blues. She stops at the window, Hunter follows.

“Your first time in space?” He asks. 

“First time anywhere,” Omega says. Her eyes are blown like saucers, dancing connecting lines between each star. “I’ve only seen pictures.”

Hunter clears his throat. “Impressive shot back there… Where’d you learn to do that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never fired a blaster before,” she shrugs. “They’re not as heavy as they look. I guess I got lucky.”

“She’s not the only one,” Tech says. The rest of the Batch enters, filing behind while Tech takes control. Wrecker mutters about his strength, denying any possibility of failing to a blaster. Echo pats his back.

“Sure thing Wrecker.”

“I’m serious!”

“Course you are.”

A space of silence falls, a natural prompting for the lack of noticeable sarcastic commentary.

No one fills it. 

“So,” Tech says. “What’s the plan, Hunter?”

“It was to go off on our own,” he says. “Lay low. But with Crosshair gunning for us, I’m not so sure.”

“What about your friends?” Omega asks. “Could any of them help?”

Tech snorts. “That would be a short list.”

But not nonexistent.

“I can think of one,” Hunter says. “Plot a course for J-19.”

Echo repeats. “J-19?”

“We know a guy.”

Wrecker laughs, fist pumped in the air. “Yeah!”

“Strap in,” Hunter tells Omega, guiding her in the co-pilots seat. “You’re not gonna wanna miss this view.”

Jumping into hyperspace, Omega holds a million stars in her eyes. It’s here and now that Hunter decides he will do anything he can to make sure they never fade. 

Odella arrives at the Drios homestead by the late afternoon, the hour long pebbled trail building blisters on her feet. Set in the middle of nowhere, crops rotted over, soil closer to dust. From her position, gridlocked on the road, a home on either side. The right being the stranger to the situation. By the looks of it, a completely abandoned home. Weeds and vines towering and gripping to exterior walls. Windows boarded, paint weathered and chipped. The other, exactly what Al explained. Run down, white, dirty. One old man sat in a rocker.

Bingo.

Her approach is overly cautious, lowering her hood, not speaking until at the base of the steps. “Hello,” she says. “Are you Kyr Drios?”

The man wears patched overalls, worn at the knees, a rolled cigarette between his fingers. He rests with closed eyes, straw hat shading his face. “I ain’t buying it,” he says.

Odella blinks. “Sorry?”

“I said I ain’t buying it,” he repeats, louder. “Take your catalogue elsewhere.”

“Catalogue?” She whispers. She’d seen a few of the door to door types on Coruscant, those from the lower levels, Underworld. Usually selling makeup or cheap knickknacks just to make a dime. What relevance that had now is lost on her. “I’m not here to sell anything,” she says. “I was wondering if you could spare a moment of your time to—“

“No.”

“What?”

“What are you deaf?”

“No?”

He scoffs. “Don’t sound too sure.”

“Right,” Odella says. “I’m new in the area and I happened to run into a friend of yours—“

“I ain’t got friends.”

No kidding.

“Point is, we got to talking and he said—“

“Who?”

“Oh, Al? From the diner, just down—“

“I know it.”

Her lips press into a tight line, nodding. “Well, Al gave me this.” Her hand juts out, bag of take out swinging. “He said it’s your favorite, and I’m not supposed to say but I think there’s pie in there too.”

“Huh.”

“Smells like jogan.”

Only now does he care to actually look at Odella. She smiles. He rolls his eyes. “Set it by the door, then get out.” 

“I’m not done.”

Kyr groans. “Course not.”

“Like I said, I’m new in town and… I don’t know if you’ve heard of this new Empire thing going on but—“

“No.”

She claps. “If I could get one sentence out—“

“My answer is no. I ain’t giving you money, and you sure as shit ain’t squattin’ here.”

“I’m not asking to squat!” Odella cries. “Squatters don’t ask, they just squat. If I wanted to squat here I’d just do it. Now, if you could shut up and listen to me for more than five seconds of your life you’d know I don’t want your money and I don’t want to squat here! Al said you need help. I’m help. Whatever you need, I’m here. All I need is a place to sleep. That’s not squatting, that’s an exchange of service.”

Kyr doesn’t miss a beat. “Girl, get off my property before you meet my gun.”

“Fine!” Odella laughs, raising her hands. “I don’t want to live here anyways. And just so you know it’s not going to kill you to say please and no thank you. And maybe, just maybe, let someone else talk!” She storms down the steps, creaking under her feet.

At the bottom, she comes back, placing the food at the door with a thud. 

“I’ll have you know that in the past week I have been victim of two terrorist attacks, persecuted, damn near possessed, found out my family hates me, found out my older sister wants to kill me, smuggled by a goddamn pirate who makes less sense than a literal green goblin who raised me, hit on, and everyone I know is dead! And now I’m here, bothering you and I wish I weren’t because Maker knows you have no one in your life for a reason, but I am. Because guess what Kyr, we don’t always get what we fucking ask for!” At the end, Odella’s face is as red and warm as Dathomir. She sighs, wholly antagonized, then smiles. “Have a good day.”

She makes it farther this go around, trudging through a path to the broken picket fence. In hindsight, Odella blames Elenia for this entirely. She never used to be confrontational before their meeting, content to keep her head down and do as told.

That version of herself feels a millennia away now.

Odella marches back up the porch, much to Kyr’s annoyance, arms crossed, scowl threatening to be permanent.

“Girl, I told you—“

“Shut up,” she says. “Is that your garden?” Her thumb jutting over her shoulder.

“What?”

“What are you, deaf? Is that your garden?” She repeats.

Kyr narrows his gaze. He nods. “It is.”

“How was your last harvest?”

“What are you on about?”

“You’re a farmer right? How was your harvest?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Not great, right? Your soil’s dried up, roots are dead, I doubt you’re doing a proper rotation to let anything heal. I’m guessing you can’t make it to market as often as you’d like either.”

“I’m givin’ you ten seconds to get off my property.”

“I can help you,” Odella says. “I garden, I know plants. I can get you the best harvest you’ve seen in your life. Just give me until next season and I’ll prove it. I’ll take care of everything, I’ll even go to market for you and you can keep all the profit. I just need somewhere to stay, as soon as the season is done I’ll be out of your hair forever. I promise.”

“The hell are you doing here girl? Don’t lie to me.”

“Ask the pirate,” Odella answers, blunt. “I don’t have family or friends or anyone I can go to. All I’m asking for is one season. Three months that’s all.”

For a long time, Kyr says nothing at all. He blows smoke, tapping his foot, rocking his chair. Then, “Can you fight?”

“What?”

“You ain’t picked the safest area to run away to. Girl your size, gotta be able to protect herself.”

Odella nods. “I can fight.”

“Well?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“You shoot?”

“I can.”

“Shy bout killin someone?”

“I’ve done it before.”

Kyr’s brows raise, the answer unexpected. He nods, purposeful. “I got a room in the attic,” he says. “It’s busted to hell, but if you’re willing to fix it up, it’s yours.”

“Yes,” Odella responds immediately. “Yes. Yes that’s no issue.”

“This ain’t charity. If you’re living here you’re puttin in work. I’m old. Meaning, I’m too old for teenage bullshit. Won’t stand for it.”

“Well, actually I’m twenty so—“

“I don’t care. I don’t stand for it. I don’t want friends over. No parties. No boyfriends.”

“Trust me, I’m not here to make waves.”

“And imma need someone to clean, cook, make sure this damn place don’t fall apart.”

“Deal.”

“I ain’t paying ya either.”

“Al offered me a job.”

He sighs, sounding like Yoda. Odella almost laughs. “You aren’t giving up. Are you?”

“No sir,” she says. “I’m very stubborn.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“You can stay. Just for the season, then you’re out. Got it?”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes. Understood. Thank you. Thank you so much. You won’t regret this.”

He snorts, flicking away his roll. “Better not,” he mutters. “So what’s your name?”

“My name?”

“I gotta call you something don’t I?”

Odella’s hand falls to her collar, gripping the crystals from over her shirt. A name… It comes without hesitation.

“Avana,” she says. “Avana Tarré.”

Next: SUPPLEMENTAL DATA III

#the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #the bad batch fanfic #Hunter TBB #Crosshair TBB #Echo TBB #Wrecker TBB #Tech TBB #Omega TBB #Hunter x OC #Hunter x OFC #SW Fanfic #Daybreak

[zumpietoo]

So, the SS piece I linked to was what popped up when I did a google search for “Cole Sprouse lawsuit”-----and, again, was the perfect means to illustrate how Amy was, once again, lying....and, honestly, I’m not even sure why? (similarly, the outraged hate, clearly from her already blocked from my askbox further illustrates it hit a nerve).....

And this (and her obsession with baseless, imaginary lawsuits, as well as the results of such (let’s not forget the multiple times she threatened to sue me and said I’d “go to jail” for my “lies”-----when, doesn’t work that way, you ignorant trash) is another element of her endless obsession with $$$ (as well as double standards, but that’s already established) is a perfect intro into her similar obsession with $$$----and explains why the haters (who obtain at least some of their “insider info” from her lies.....

There are, during the time SH were splitting up significant and very weird allusions to money, that on any level seemed remarkably off and out of place. Especially with the 20/20 of hindsight----in fact, it becomes apparent the “Cole’s so broke” (and Ari’s a prostitute) rumors started with her....and why?

Because her “disappointment” in Cole started when he stopped footing all the bills:

PP, similarly, has some odd, outdated obsessions with $$$, she’s the first to state she’s really cheap, also thinks her biggest bragging rights are being “rich” and does a lot of shilling to ensure she doesn’t have to ever pay for anything. She’s even bragged, way in the past, about how she buys very little.

Something she does have to pay for? The charges above her show rental stipend for the Serenity Suite, a much larger than she needs, much moar expensive apartment she used to share with Cole. And always waaayyy moar her taste.

There’s no question in my mind, for the first year and until he got an alternate pad, Cole paid for everything. I have zero doubts his $$$ paid for the Villa Carlotta throughout their time there. I suspect even past his moving out, he likely paid half for the Serenity Suite....but that wasn’t enough in Amy’s and PP’s eyes....and they were already making noises about Cole’s “failure” to pay for things....like continuing to foot all of PP’s bills----and Cole NOT buying PP the bracelet around her birthday.

Never mind, from what we can tell----she never bought HIM any gifts or, if we’re being real, bothered to plan anything for them to do....(and yeah, unquestionably, their last vacation together, was a combo of promo’d and Cole, again, paying for stuff.

The irony was, it wasn’t enough.......and Amy set out to less than subtly let everybody know/think Cole was broke. It’s clear Cole ended the rental at VC and didn’t stay there over quaranteen because entirely too many negative memories, etc. Instead he stayed at KokeJ’s empty house....which I’ll admit I still find a bit weird, but who knows?

Regardless, it was always weird to me how Amy pointedly told me “for free”, because, again, why was that even a component? (plus for all we know, KokeJ already couldn’t afford the place and Cole paid his mortgage for a couple of months.....cuz wouldn’t be surprised).

It’s interesting, too, how it further feeds into the raging materialism of dating up for PP (which would make HER a prostitute) and the obsession with Ari being poor (when she comes from the more affluent, cultured background and does have her own productive career), that Ari can’t possibly live with Cole in his house, is a prostitute, etc....

Because it’s all a shit ton of wishful projection....that started with Amy.

[beyuji]

early november 2022 lime entertainment practice room      cw //  ( warning for instances of gaslighting and allusions to homophobia )

yuji’s lucked out these last few weeks. her mother’s phone calls have lessened-- likely due to yuji’s continuously busy schedule. she’s managed to scrape by with a few scattered text messages, always followed up with a phone call she’s quick to dodge. maybe she’s finally putting that line down, maybe her mother’s beginning to fold. maybe, just maybe-- is yuji finally getting the independence she wants. 

it’s a nice idea. it’s a nice dream, at least. 

september passes, and as october crawls by, her mother’s calls lessen and lessen. yubin begins to reach out, and it’s easier to talk to her than her mother. it’s still tense as ever, but yubin doesn’t bring anything up. doesn’t apologize, but doesn’t antagonize; so yuji bites her tongue. 

and then her phone buzzes, as november trickles forward. 

  💌 yubin call mom. she’s asking about you.

yuji doesn’t. in fact, she reads it, closes it out-- and doesn’t look at her phone for the next few days. it feels ominous, uncomfortable. an eerie calm before a storm that yuji knows is going to rock her to her core.

yubin sends a few more messages after that. one that says don’t be like that, and another that says she’s our mom. you have to hear her out. frankly, yuji doesn’t have to do anything. she shouldn’t have to. she doesn’t want to. and the more people tell her to do it, the more she lets her notification count crawl up and the more she isolates herself. 

when the call comes, she’s half expecting it. it’s late, later than her mother would call-- but one glance at the screen has yuji’s mouth drying up and her body thrumming in discomfort. instead, it’s her father-- which in a way, is a little bit worse than her mother. at least in yuji’s opinion. 

she ducks out of the practice room with an excuse to go use the bathroom; she keeps her head down through the hallway, staring at the buzzing of her phone, her body thrumming with nerves. part of her wants to let it ring, let it go to the voice message box-- and the other part of her knows she doesn’t want the consequence of that action. whatever it may be.

far away enough from the practice room, only then does she answer. maybe she cuts it too close, because after her greeting, it’s silent. it’s uncomfortable. 

“yuji,” her lips purse, one arm crossing over her stomach as she leans against the wall of the hallway. “i’m surprised you answered.” 

yeah, yuji thinks. so am i.

it’s small talk, after that. carefully crafted. it feels like a script, the way yuji falls back into answering; her parents are always wanting to hear something, and she’s had years to perfect it. they don’t want complaints, they want compliance. they’re not interested in yuji, they’re interested in what yuji’s doing. and she feels like she’s being read, being dissected; it’s like she’s a kid again, and her father’s eyes bearing down at her, analyzing. waiting to pull apart any sort of argument she can make. give her some bogus reasoning and glare down at her and wait for her to wilt. she knows it all too well-- like father, like daughter, she supposes. 

and he sets the bait. 

“i talked to yubin the other day.” he brings up, casual. “she said she went by your...job. said you weren’t there. apparently, you haven’t been there for a while.” 

yuji purses her lips. “maybe she got the wrong place. that’s not her cup of tea. i know she doesn’t approve of it. neither does mom. neither do you.” 

a hum. “maybe.” silence. yuji bites down on the side of her nail, staring mindlessly at the decor on the hallway wall. stares at how the color of it pops out in a shade that’s rather ugly. wonders how much lime paid for that. wonders how many people think it’s ugly like she does. wonders-- “how long are you going to be doing this for?”

she blinks. “what? working? singing?” 

“attention seeking.” yuji freezes. “whatever it is that you’re aiming for. your mother thinks you’re having your rebellion's phase a little late. yubin thinks you’re being blinded by your pride.” the tone of his voice makes her feel sick; it makes her tense and stiff. anger licks at her wounds. fights the urge to hang up right then and there. 

“what the hell does that mean?” she retorts, dropping her arm to wrap around herself. angles the phone away from her mouth so she can lean her head back and exhale sharply through her nose. “did you really call to tell me that you all are gossiping about me behind my back? i knew that. i’m aware. i don’t need a reminder.” she pushes off the wall and aims to walk further down the hallway. make it to the bathroom like she said so she can regroup before going back. her head is already tensing with the oncoming of a headache she’ll endure. she shouldn’t have answered the call.

“don’t get angry. it was just a question.” there’s a rustle over the phone, something like papers. probably at work, yuji notes. it’s all he ever does-- all he ever did. “i’m not trying to start anything with you. i’m not going to yell at you. just,” a shut of the door. “be good, will you? make good choices. i know you have a history of choosing... rather unsavory decisions. but you know better, don’t you?”

    ( “you know better, don’t you?” dad says, after she’s just left room and it’s just yuji and him. “you’re not that kind of girl. you don’t do those sort of things.” 

dad never yells, never raises his voice. he speaks in the same tone every time-- but his eyes doing the shouting. and now he’s demanding, the curve of his frown threatening. “let’s not make this out to be a big deal, yuji. when you’re older, you’ll thank me. you and--” her name tumbles out of his mouth, and yuji hates it. there’s a part of her that wants to lash out, go for his throat so she doesn’t have to hear it. “it won’t mean anything at all to you. that’s not what’s normal. that’s not right. that’s not what you want.” 

the way he smiles is pitying. condescending. mocking and taunting. )

and it’s taunting now. he’s been baiting, laying in wait until yuji’s bound to snap. and she feels it, burning under her skin. she grinds her teeth and pushes into the bathroom. it’s forcible and swift, her arm throbbing with the result of the push. 

“yeah.” she mutters. “i know.” i know better now, she thinks. i know what i feel. i know how this makes me feel. and i know it’s real. “you don’t have to worry. you don’t have to remind me.” it’s real to me. it was real to me. 

“good. we do this because we care, you know that don’t you? we have your best interests at heart.” her gut swoops low; she’s nauseous. “and pick up the phone more, please. or at least answer yubin. your mother can be overbearing, i understand. but yubin at least entertains you. you should be more grateful for her.”

throw the phone down. stomp on it. throw it in the toilet. scream. yell. there’s a million and one thoughts going through her head. “i’m hanging up now. i’ve got to go.” she mutters. her tongue is heavy in her mouth. yuji’s argumentative to her core, sure, but never to the root of the tree. how do you argue back and counteract the person who helped shaped the way you are? 

she fumbles her way through some half-assed goodbyes, and hangs up in the middle of her father’s. drops her hand weakly to her side and stares at the floor; she’s shaking, maybe trembling-- bits of the mask falling off in the quiet. 

she stays in the bathroom longer than she likes. it takes a little while to feel normal again; the rage settles until all there is a numbness. the scolding she gets for taking too long barely phases her; she takes it all with a bowed head and body. she stays another hour extra to make up for it-- the words you know better, don’t you? running through her head. 

#🌧️ SOLO ; #tw: gaslighting #tw: homophobia #wc: 1400 #( fleshing out more stuff for development don't mind meeee

[sagurus]

Regarding a Common Misconception of Hakuba Saguru

Lately I've been doing some reflecting on Saguru & the various ways I've seen him portrayed, as well as the ways I've portrayed him in the past. And then I was rereading some MK manga, and had some realizations. I've been feeling like rambling about them! So here I go, rambling.

[Disclaimer: I'm not personally taking issue with anyone's interpretation or impression of Saguru - just sharing my own impressions! This is just for fun <3 ]

Misconception: Saguru is constantly accusing Kaito of being KID

It’s a generally accepted fact in a lot of fics I’ve read (and honestly, maybe some fics I’ve written -- I used to hold this belief too!) that Saguru just unendingly insinuates that Kaito is KID--alone, in front of other people, always.

I won’t cite any here, but I’ve seen nods in fanwork to Aoko feeling a little stressed/frustrated about the fact that Saguru thinks Kaito is KID and makes it known. I’ve also seen fanwork where Saguru explicitly calls Kaito KID, presses Kaito for information, or otherwise makes his beliefs clear, even when others are around.

There are only five scenes in the Magic Kaito manga where Saguru makes direct indication toward his knowledge of KID’s identity.

First, of course, we’ve got chapter 17 - the first chapter where Saguru puts together that Kaito is KID.

For a long time, when I’d consumed more fic than MK canon, I recall an image born in my head of Saguru singling Kaito out in class and making the claim that Kaito is KID in front of everybody. I don’t know if I ever read any such allusion in a fic, or if it’s just an assumption I drew based on portrayals I read, but imagine my surprise when he does nothing of the sort.

Now, to be fair, Saguru is A LOT in this chapter. MK is still heavily in gag manga territory, so his behavior is extra extra played up. But if we take away the visuals, the dialogue between Saguru and Kaito can be summed up thusly:

[First scene where Saguru makes direct indications as to KID’s identity]

Kaito: You look so tired. Haven’t gotten enough sleep after chasing KID for three nights In a row, huh?

Saguru: Hmph. Aren’t you tired as well?

And then, a few beats later in the conversation:

Saguru: I’d like to invite you to the Ochima Art Museum tonight, where KID’s declared his next target. Kaito: Eh? Saguru: Then, you’ll understand why I’m so tired. Or, do you have other plans tonight? Kaito: Okay, I accept your invitation. It’ll be great to see your work in action!

And that’s it, that’s the big class confrontation. Aoko is present for it, but she’s more interested in joining in on the fun, and while I do think Aoko pieces together that Kaito is KID, she prefers to live in willful ignorance of it until it becomes impossible for her to ignore. She’s bright enough to pick up what Saguru’s implying, but because he never brings it past implication, there’s no reason for her to look at it too hard. Anyway, I digress. That’s conjecture and headcanon talking. My point is that Saguru never makes any explicit claims, just invites Kaito along to the heist.

Another neat thing about this scene is that--while certainly not motivated by mercy in this case, Saguru does give Kaito an out: “Or, do you have an excuse not to go tonight?” Of course, if Kaito took it, it would be rather damning, but I do think it would have been enough confirmation for Saguru. I don’t think there would have been any arm-twisting to get Kaito to agree.

But Kaito and Saguru are competitive bastards, so here we are.

Let’s move on to the heist!

Once again, the manga certainly plays up the whole ordeal. Saguru is intense and waiting for his moment, and Kaito’s being, well, Kaito.

At the heist, there are a few points where Saguru has opportunities to make allusions to Kaito being KID in a way others would pick up on, or otherwise make his suspicions known, but he doesn’t.

First of all, is this exchange:

Nakamori: Why are you guys here? Aoko: Hakuba-kun invited us! Nakamori: What’s the meaning of this, Hakuba-kun? Saguru: I thought she might like to see if KID is arrested tonight. Nakamori: You’ll fail if you’re too cocky! Saguru: We’re well-prepared. Besides, who knows… KID may already be here.

Saguru does imply KID could be present, but he makes no indication that he means Kaito. His next opportunity to hint at Kaito being KID or otherwise make accusations is when Nakamori asks him to consult as a magician.

Nakamori: Kaito, since you’re here, do you want to use your magic against KID? Kaito: [laughing sheepishly] Saguru: Oh, I want to see that fight, too. If you really can do it.

Needling, yes. Saguru knows what he’s saying and so does Kaito. Accusations, no. This is well within the realm of something Saguru would have said even if he didn’t suspect Kaito, considering their dynamic up until this point.

And then, the most explicit Saguru ever gets in terms of literally calling Kaito out as being KID, beginning when Kaito excuses himself to go to the bathroom right before the heist:

[Second scene where Saguru makes direct indications as to KID’s identity]

Saguru: [handcuffs himself to Kaito] Kaito: Huh? Saguru: I won’t let you do that, Kuroba. Kaito: What do you think you’re doing?! Saguru: I got the report back from the lab. The hair I got from KID indicated that he’s a high school student. After I compared KID’s data with other high school students’ data in the database… Kuroba Kaito came up in the final list. Kaito: That’s a coincidence. Saguru: Really? We’ll see soon enough. Let’s wait until the time KID is stated to come. [Some heist hubbub occurs as officers get into position even though KID hasn’t arrived at the heist time] Aoko: What? KID’s not coming? Saguru: Ha! It looks like I win! You’d better confess who you really are.

And from there, of course, ‘KID’ (Akako in disguise) swoops in and takes care of the heist. That more or less wraps up chapter 17, the first chapter where Saguru understands that Kaito is KID. And I would argue this is the most aggressive Saguru ever is. In fact, rather than persist in trying to accuse/capture/implicate Kaito as KID, he straight up vanishes from the narrative for several chapters.

Saguru doesn’t show up again until the Chat Noir heist, in chapter 25, when he calls from France.

It’s also important to note that at this point, Magic Kaito’s narrative has experienced a slight tonal shift. At the very least, while still often comedic, it reads less like a gag manga. Between the last time we saw Saguru and now, we’ve learned the apparent motivation behind Toichi’s murder, we’ve met Snake (an albeit rather incompetent villain) and Kaito has faced down gunfire and the danger posed by Snake and his men.

The way Saguru is portrayed has also shifted to reflect the shift too. Instead of a hulking antagonist-like character in a Holmes cosplay, he’s dressed primly and presents more as a cheeky but polite character. He’s also more effectively emulating the charm that the story tried to imply he had early on (“Hakuba Saguru, at your service!”, the girls in class fawning over him, the newspaper calling him out as a famous detective making a long-awaited return to Japan).

The interaction is entirely less antagonistic, too. For reference, I’ll paste the exchange (sans Saguru’s massive info dump) below.

[Third scene where Saguru makes direct indications as to KID’s identity]

[At the heist for the golden eye] Kaito: [Hiding in a bathroom stall while putting on a disguise] [His phone starts ringing] Hello…? Saguru: Hi, it’s been a while. Are you still alive? Kaito: [Thinking] This sugary yet obnoxious tone of voice is... Hakuba?! Saguru: You’ve made quite the stir in Paris. They’re all talking about how France’s Chat Noir is going to go up against you in Japan. Kaito: Idiot! It’s not me. It’s Kaitou KID! Saguru: Ha… it doesn’t really matter. I’ll share some information that I gathered over here. [Info dump cut from dialogue] Well! That’s about all I have to say. Do your best. I don’t want to see you lose to anyone until I capture you myself. Kaito: Like I’ve been saying, I’m not KID! Saguru: Oops, it’s almost time for the Paris Fashion Week. See you! Kaito: H-hey…

The only part of this conversation that I could consider to fall into the territory of antagonistic is when Saguru says “I don’t want to see you lose to anyone until I capture you myself.” And more than anything, I think this is less reflective of a real desire to capture Kaito, and more reflective of his competitive nature. Not to mention, within the context of the conversation, it feels much more like teasing than anything.

Saguru’s motivation for making the call is clear: He doesn’t want Kaito to lose, and he wants to help ensure Kaito’s success.

And most interestingly (although I’d like to see the raw manga to confirm this, or otherwise a more literal translation) he never explicitly calls Kaito KID either. Outside of alluding to KID’s actions, Saguru doesn’t explicitly say Kaito is KID or mention KID at all. It’s Kaito who does that.

When Kaito points out that he is not, in fact, KID, Saguru doesn’t argue. He simply brushes off the denial and shares the information he’s collected.

So, to summarize what we’ve covered so far: after Saguru failed to arrest Kaito during chapter 17, he stopped troubling Kaito so thoroughly that the next time he features in the story isn’t until he’s calling from overseas to try to lend Kaito some helpful information. He’s not even playing a part in trying to capture this thief he allegedly wants to catch.

And then, Saguru dips back out of the narrative, although for a shorter period this time. The next arc he appears in is a few chapters later--the Nightmare Heist which he arrives in the middle of. But, there’s not any interaction between him and Kaito, nor any allusions made by Saguru about KID’s identity, so we’ll move on.

The fourth time Saguru makes any indication that Kaito is KID is during the Corbeau arc, when KID is being challenged by a clad-in-black KID lookalike.

Before jumping into that specific scene, though, there’s another interaction I’d like to call attention to--between Saguru and Nakamori. Not because of something Saguru says, but because of what he doesn’t say.

Nakamori: Hahaha! Looks like you let your guard down because you thought I was at home with a cold! Saguru: Our plan succeeded, it seems. Nakamori: But I only told Aoko I had a cold, so how does KID know…? Saguru: Hm...

If Saguru were wanting to make some kind of accusation, even a non-explicit one, he would have made some remark. Instead, he doesn’t say anything at all, which continues to speak to the fact that he isn’t really interested in implicating Kaito.

Anyway, the next time Saguru makes any sort of implication that Kaito is KID he is, once again, trying to help. Last time it was over the phone, so the conversation was private. This time, the conversation is in a classroom, although based on the panels, it seems like Saguru and Kaito are alone at the beginning--or at least, no attention is being paid to them.

[Fourth scene where Saguru makes direct indications as to KID’s identity]

Kaito: [Talking to himself] It must be the case, there’s no other way. There must have been some trick with the case.

Saguru: [Eavesdropping, apparently alone in the room with him] The case didn’t contain any hidden mechanisms. Kaito: Eh? Saguru: No hidden doors or things like that, as are often used in magic tricks. Kaito: W-what on earth are you talking about? Saguru: A new notice from Corbeau arrived this morning. ‘I’ll come and take the real Midnight Crow tonight.’ My name is Hakuba--so I don’t want a ‘white’ person to lose to some ominous black crow. [From here, Akako and then Aoko jump into the conversation.]

Surely a classroom is a risky place to have a conversation about KID, but the nice thing is that Saguru--once again--doesn’t bring up KID at all beyond saying that he doesn’t want the ‘white[-clad] person’ to lose to the black crow. From the outside looking in, all he’s doing is sharing information about the case with Kaito. It may also seem unwarranted from that perspective, but not at all implicating.

Also, another thing I’d like to call attention to is that when Akako joins the conversation (and seemingly blindsides Saguru, as if he wasn’t expecting anyone else to join), Saguru stops talking. He continues to be quiet when Aoko chimes in, and he doesn’t have any relevant dialogue for the rest of the scene.

Once again, Saguru’s clearly motivated to share information in the interest of helping Kaito. He has to share with Kaito’s civilian identity, since he can’t exactly arrange a conversation with KID, and this is likely the easiest way for him to do it. He makes no accusations, and this time he doesn’t even imply he wants KID caught.

So--Saguru is a part of the narrative again, but since rejoining the narrative he seems less interested in actually catching KID and far more interested in helping Kaito. And no accusations or incriminating allusions have been made since chapter 17, before Saguru’s first hiatus from the story.

The final time Saguru nods to Kaito being KID is from the Sun Halo arc. This is probably the interaction that’s closest to what fanon tends to depict when it comes to Saguru making subtle accusations that Kaito is KID. And even then, I tend to take this arc with a grain of salt if only because it felt less like Gosho was trying to add to the story and more like he was just trying to make a Magic Kaito addition that hit various fan expectations while still being wildly disappointing, lmao.

[Fifth scene where Saguru makes direct indications as to KID’s identity]

Saguru: [approaching and commenting on Kaito’s motorcycle] I see, a Suzuki GSX 250R. Akako: Ah, Hakuba-kun… Saguru: You’ve shown me something interesting. Perhaps this might help the police tonight. And could it be that you’ve forgotten… that the only motorised bikes we’re allowed to ride to school are scooters? Kaito: Eh?! For real?!

Once again, Saguru doesn’t explicitly mention KID at all--and segues from his mention of the police to pointing out that Kaito is breaking the rules right now, actually, which helps blend this teasing comment into the conversation.

Yes, later in the chapter Saguru does show up with a team of motorcycle experts. But that also means there’s more disguise opportunities for KID and more factors to account for, thus complicating things for, well, everyone--not just KID.

Also, I tend to dismiss that as Gosho throwing in some comedy, and as less to do with Saguru’s character. Call it cherrypicking if you like :P

To recount--there are five times where Saguru implies Kaito is KID.

The first two are in chapter 17, when Saguru first puts it together, and it is during this chapter that he gets the most explicit about calling Kaito out as KID, as well as the most aggressively he behaves about it. And he backs off so hard after that doesn’t work, that we don’t see him for several chapters.

The next two times he implies Kaito is KID are both in order to help him. No aggression or accusations, just the sharing of information. Even when teasing or suggesting he’s interested in catching KID, he’s good-natured about it, and when he realizes there are potentially people witnessing the conversation, he stops participating.

The final time he implies Kaito is KID is a tiny comment about finding something Kaito has shown him ‘interesting’ and ‘helpful for the police’ before smoothing into gently teasing Kaito for bringing an illegal vehicle to school.

In conclusion, Saguru may start off apparently aggressive in part thanks to early Magic Kaito’s overall tone, but rather than persevering in trying to catch Kaito after cornering him in chapter 17, he actually seems to back off. Once he’s playing a part in the narrative again, when he interacts with Kaito it’s almost exclusively to help him. Yes, he is on the task force and participating at heists, but where it matters, he’s less interested in catching the thief and far more interested in those the thief is opposing (excluding the police force).

#hakuba saguru #saguru hakuba #dcmk #magic kaito #meta #nefrit talk

[abbacchiosbelt]

Someone Great | Yandere!Satoru Gojo x GN!Reader

Word Count: 3.1k.

CW: Manipulation, yandere behavior, kidnapping. SFW but allusions to not sfw acts.

-

"What's wrong, sugar?"

Gojo's sing-song voice makes you cringe - he knows what's wrong. It's just like him to play the fool, to pretend that he was innocent in all of this and that you were the one with the problem. You glare at him and he holds his hands up, the grin on his face never faltering.

"You know I'm just doing this to keep you safe. How many times do I have to tell you—"

You cut him off, repeating the phrase he had attempted to drill into your head back to him. "You're the strongest. No need to tell me again."

Gojo shrugs, unbothered. "I'm the strongest." You roll your eyes at his need to repeat what you'd just said, the words only meant to stroke his out-of-control ego. Gojo plops down where you're tied up on his couch, snaking an arm around your shoulder. Even if you pulled away, there would be no escape from him. Some bullshit jujutsu sorcery kept you bound to your current spot, unable to move. Gojo squeezes your shoulders with his broad arm, making you wince. "C'mon, at least look at me. You know I love you."

Anyone else in the world would be lucky to see Gojo's eyes and hear those words from him - you'd felt lucky once, too. But that was before Gojo took an interest in you, before he took control of your life.

"Baby," he sighs, pressing a peck to your cheek. "You've gotta get used to this. You can't keep fighting me forever. I know you love me too."

"It's been a week," you spit. "A week since you trapped me here."

"And haven't I treated you well?" Gojo replies, calm.

"I would never hurt you. You'll realize one day that this is what's best for you."

I.

There was a distinct divide in the world you lived in - there were civilians, and there were Jujutsu Sorcerers. With the sorcerers came curses, although the average civilian wasn't meant to be aware of curses or what they entailed. You, however, had become a frequent flyer when it came to needing the help of Jujutsu Sorcerers.

When you were born, a curse attached itself to your back. Later, you'd learn that there was a man in the hospital room with your parents meant to dispatch the very thing that had attached itself to your back. You were only 5 when your grandmother had told you about the family curse - each child born in your family was cursed upon birth. It had been happening for centuries. Allegedly, one of your ancestors had done something to anger an obscenely powerful curse. Your life would be filled with troublesome events, she'd said. But it wasn't all bad. There were people in this world who could dispatch such curses. They could see them, unlike you or your family. Your life wouldn't be easy, but it wasn't over before it began.

It wasn't easy. People tended to avoid you, even when you were young and innocent. It was hard to make friends, and most of the interaction you got aside from your family involved the sorcerers dispatched to take care of the ever-returning curse on your back. They were kind to you, but they were always distant. You did the best you could, hoping that one day someone would be able to see past the gloomy aura that followed you around.

That someone came in the form of one Satoru Gojo, dispatched to dispel your curse when you were in your mid-twenties. You had recently moved and registered with the local technical college. By now, it wasn't a big deal to you to tell people about your curse, especially to jujutsu sorcerers. They always were a bit odd, and though you had never grown close to any of the sorcerers who had serviced you, their presence was more calming than the presence of your peers.

Gojo had been sent to your home, the technical college hoping to ease your burden (and unknown to you, hoping to offload Gojo for just a couple of hours) by not making you take the train. His arrival was like no other jujutsu sorcerer you had met - he'd barged in your house without knocking, a broad smile on his face and stylish sunglasses covering his eyes.

The shriek you made at his surprise intrusion was undignified, but the white-haired sorcerer didn't seem bothered. He had laughed and rubbed the back of his head. "Aah, sorry. I thought this was an urgent deal." He raises his eyebrows as he watches your lips contort into a frown. "I'll knock next time."

"You'd better," you mumble, and Gojo smiles.

"Or else?" He quips, taking a step towards you. You didn't even know this man, and he was acting like this? This is who the technical college had sent over?

"I'll request someone else." You respond, curt. He laughs, loud and jovial. What was with this man?

"They didn't tell you about me, then?" He crosses the distance between the two of you and sticks his hand out, tongue poking out of his mouth. You take his hand, dubious, and he shakes it with vigor. "I'm Satoru Goju, and I'm the strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer."

You stare at him for a moment, dumbfounded. He really had an ego on him. He takes your silence in stride, still smiling. "I know. You don't meet people like me every day. But trust me, I'm here to help you. Don't you feel better knowing that I'm here?"

As much as you wanted to tell him no, that he's a certified, over-bearing maniac who just barged into your house... You can't help but bask in the comforting aura he emits. Something about him, despite his manic personality, felt safe. The air in the room felt calming—

Gojo notices your sudden shift in behavior and tilts his head, still smiling "When we shook hands. No need to worry about it coming back for a while."

"Oh," you reply, amazed. It didn't take the other sorcerers long to dispel the curse on your back, but it usually was a bit of an affair. Satoru Gojo had gotten rid of the damn thing without needing to lift his pinky finger. "Well... Thanks." You shift from side to side, suddenly feeling small in his presence. Maybe he really was the strongest.

Gojo puts his hands in his pockets and leans back, relaxed. "If you really want to thank me, let's go into town. I'm starved."

The awe you felt immediately dissipates and turns back into annoyance. Sure, he had done you a great favor, but it was part of a contract you had with the college. Now he wanted food? Still... You couldn't deny that you were curious about him, even if he was managing to press all your buttons upon your very first meeting. You sigh, resigned to the fact that you knew you would regret it if you didn't take him up on his offer.

"Fine. Let me grab my bag." Gojo claps his hands together at your response, humming contentedly.

"Great! I have a bit of a sweet tooth, so I hope you're okay with sweets for lunch..."

Gojo goes on and on about his favorites while you grab your bag, fighting with yourself not to roll your eyes at him. What had the college gotten you into?

-

II.

As time passes and Gojo visits you to remove your clingy curse, the two of you grow closer. It's slow, at first. He gloms onto the fact that he annoys you and revels in it, smiling with glee every time you roll your eyes at him. At one point, he removes his shades when he arrives and teases you about the expression on your face for the rest of the day. It's like he can read your mind - you want to kick yourself for being so obvious, but it's impossible with someone like Gojo around. No matter what he does or how much he makes your blood boil, the calming aura surrounding him never falters. You feel at home around him. When you start to feel something tugging at your heart whenever he's around, you know you're at the point of no return.

You don't expect anything, though. Gojo is beyond your level - it's not a judgment of yourself, but simply a fact of life. Besides, Jujutsu Sorcerers were hesitant to get in relationships with civilians from what you'd learned over the years. You couldn't blame them, as their line of duty would put their partner in harm's way. The least they could do was be with another sorcerer who was able to defend themselves.

It comes to a head one evening when Gojo had stopped by unannounced. You weren't due for another curse removal, but you didn't mind his company. You had answered the door in your pajamas, not expecting anyone other than perhaps a neighbor wanting to ask you a question. Instead, you opened the door to see Gojo standing there dressed to the nines and holding a gigantic bag from the sweets store you and he frequented.

"U-uh." You stammer, feeling at a loss for words. "Gojo?"

He shifts from side to side, and you catch the tiniest hint of nervousness from him. Odd. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. I know you're curse-free right now, but I always want to check on you."

You balk at how smoothly he'd confessed, ushering him in without saying another word. You weren't sure what to say - had Gojo really just said what you think he'd said? He always wanted to check on you? Surely he meant it platonically, there was no way he looked at you romantically.

Gojo sits down on your couch likes he owns it and pats the spot next to him. You sit down without thinking, watching Gojo carefully as he unloads the bag of sweets on the coffee table. He talks about the different sweets as he places them gently onto the table. His blindfold had been pushed up, revealing those sparkling blue eyes of his that made you feel like you could gaze at him forever.

"Are you even listening?" You snap your head towards Gojo, finding his lips just a breadth away from yours. He had moved closer, close enough so that you could feel the warmth of his body, and you had been too distracted by your thoughts about him to notice the very real physicality of him.

"Gojo," you mumble, He pulls back a little and simply gazes into your eyes, waiting for you to continue. For a man who always talked, he was being rather quiet right now. "Why did you come here?"

Gojo smiles, soft - it's a look you haven't seen on him before. "Why else?" He leans towards you, oh-so-close again. "I can't stay away from you."

Whatever self-control you had is gone, and you lean forward to press your lips against his. He responded immediately, using one of his broad hands to cup your face as he deepens the kiss. The tension between the two of you is palpable, and the heat flooding through your veins is telling you more, more, more—

But just like that, he pulls away, sighing.

"Gojo?" You ask, concerned. Was it you? He looks at you, the longing in his eyes obvious.

"You know you can call me Satoru," He says, playful. But a second later, his face falls into a serious expression again. "I want this. I want you." He turns to face you, sliding one of his hands onto your thigh. "But this isn't what jujutsu sorcerers do. The danger you would be in if we were together... I can't put you through that."

As much as you want to argue, you know he's telling you the truth. You place a hand atop his. "Satoru, then. I think it's obvious I want this too." He smiles and gives your thigh a tiny squeeze. "I won't force you to do something you're not comfortable with. But, you'll still be my friend, won't you?"

Gojo chuckles, but there's no mirth in his laugh. "Who else would annoy you? Ah... I could never be without you, either." He turns away from you and stares into the distance, closing his eyes. "Maybe..." He shakes his head suddenly and turns back towards you.

"I should go." He bites his lip, staring at you. "Or maybe... just once. We could be together."

Oh. Oh.

"I'd love to, Satoru."

-

III.

Once turns into twice, and twice turns into three times. Gojo departs after cleaning your sheets and making you breakfast, ignoring your pleas that he didn't have to do any of that. 'It's the least I can do,' he'd said, smiling all the while. It had felt off, though - like there was something unsaid. You'd chalked it off to melancholy over the fact that things could go no further, and had spent the rest of the day busying yourself with chores.

The visits continue, though, even when you don't have a curse that needs expelling. Things don't make it to the bedroom again, but Gojo is intense. His eyes are always on you, and he's practically plastered to your side. When you go out he keeps his distance, but he's always on alert. He takes your hand when he knows no one is looking and sneaks kisses to the top of your head in private. You accept it, knowing that this is how things have to be.

It concerns you when suddenly, Gojo starts to appear at your apartment every day. You'd thought about giving him a key, but you couldn't remember if you had or not - yet he had a key, and he'd told you that you'd very much given it to him. Perhaps it was the curse muddling with your memory, he'd suggested. It had happened before.

It's fine, then. He's just looking out for you - it's the best he can do in the current situation. Gojo starts to spend the night, walking around your apartment at inane hours to make sure things were okay. When you're sleeping, he checks your phone (he'd watched you put in the password) and your calendar. He deletes texts from people he doesn't approve of and removes calendar dates when they interfere with his schedule. It's all to keep you safe, of course. You are the most important thing in the world to him.

You're blissfully unaware of this, writing off any strange incidents happening to you simply because of the curse that clung to your back. Even when it wasn't present, it still appeared to meddle in your life. As long as Gojo was there, though, you felt safe.

You never expect Gojo to be the one who makes you feel unsafe.

-

IV.

A particularly busy week at work left you unable to see Gojo for longer than usual - you were working, and he was out of the country on official business. You couldn't answer his calls or texts like usual, only replying every once and a while when you had the chance.

When Gojo returned, he was angry. You'd never seen him angry before, yet here he stood in front of you, eyebrows furrowed as he lectured you about answering his texts. It was unusual, and it felt wrong. You weren't dating him. You were just friends. That had been established by Gojo himself, so why was he acting like this?

"Satoru, you're not my boyfriend. You don't need to keep track of me every second. Even if we were dating, it'd still be too much."

He grits his teeth at that, clearly not impressed. "Don't you understand how much you mean to me? I can't stand it when I'm not with you."

You give him a pointed look. "This is... too much. I don't like it when you act like this." As much as you cared about him, this was ridiculous. He wasn't your keeper. You think of the threat you made the first day you met him. "I can request someone else to dispel my curse." He glares at you. "We'll still be friends. We just need some time apart."

"You don't get it." Gojo scolds. "I didn't want to do this, but I can't take it any longer. You can't take care of yourself. I need to protect you." He's on you faster than you can blink, and the last thing you see before your vision goes black is his angry expression softening back into bliss. "Just go to sleep. We'll be home soon."

-

V.

When you wake up, you're in a strange room with no windows. It's pitch black, but whatever you're laying on is heavenly. It's plush, and it smells like Gojo— Gojo. You panic, sitting up in a hurry and rushing towards the door. Locked. You shake the handle and pound on the door, confused and terrified. "Satoru? Are you there?" You yell, panic in your throat. "Please, let's talk! Please, Satoru!"

The door swings open and you fall back, gazing up at the towering figure before you. Gojo had never intimidated you, but the way he stood above you now was terrifying.

"How are you feeling, sugar? I hope that didn't hurt." He steps into the room and flicks on the light switch, alighting the room with a soft blue glow. He crouches in front of you and pushes his blindfold up, a manic smile crossing his lips. "I love you. I want to keep you safe. This is the best solution," Gojo says. "It's the easiest solution."

"W-what?" You're baffled by his words, by his behavior. What had he done? "Satoru, this isn't... This isn't normal. You have to let me out of here." You pause, trying to think of something to push him towards your favor. "We can figure our relationship out. I-I didn't mean what I said about requesting someone new, I just got scared."

"And I don't want you to be scared of anything," Gojo says, giving your head a condescending pat. "You won't be as long as you're here with me."

You grunt, frustrated. He was the reason you were scared! "I can't stay here forever. You won't do this to me."

"I will." Gojo tilts his head. "I told you, I love you. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe."

Tears well in your eyes - what else could you say or do? Nothing was getting through to him. Gojo notices the tears brimming in your eyes and leans forward, wrapping his arms around you. What once felt comforting feels suffocating, the warmth of his body and the familiar scent of him all too much.

"This is what's best for you. I promise."

#jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #gender neutral reader #yandere #yandere satoru gojo #manipulation cw #kidnapping cw #my writing #jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere gojo

[emerald-chaos]

Insomnia

*gif not made by me, credit goes to the owner*

Hi Everyone! So it's been probably like...10 years since I wrote my last fic lol. Watching TFATWS has rekindled my undying love for Bucky Barnes and I just couldn't help but start writing again. I had to get my feelings out! I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I've been considering writing some more parts...so tell me if that's something you'd be interested in! I appreciate any and all constructive feedback or just feedback in general! Much love.

Pairing: Reader x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 2533 (lowkey popped off...oops)

Warnings: Just in case...vague allusions to a dark past, struggles with mental illness, explicit language, and some suggestive conversation. Oh and some really bad jokes lol. Fluffy and angsty.

No matter how much you tossed and turned, how many sheep you counted, or how much you prayed and pleaded to any higher power that would listen – the release of sleep just wasn’t going to happen. You’re not sure why you were surprised, it’s not like this was the first time. You let out a heavy sigh and toss off the covers. This has been a nightly occurrence for as long as you can remember. When you were trying to rest, when there was no noise to block out the images in your head, it was a battle. A battle which you have always lost.

You flip on the bright florescent lights of the bathroom as you trudge in, dragging your feet in exhaustion. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the harshness of the light as you place your hands onto the countertop. The cool marble feels good against your palms as you close your eyes and lean your head back, another sigh leaving your lips. You twist your neck from side to side, trying to release some tension and maybe get a satisfying pop. No such luck. As you open your eyes and gaze upon the person staring back at you a small laugh tumbles from your chest.

Jesus, she looks awful.

The dark circles that permanently reside below your eyes appear more pronounced than usual. The corners of your mouth hang low and you just look…tired. Like you were rode hard and put away wet.

The bottle of melatonin tucked away on your counter catches your eye. You pick it up and twirl it as you inspect the writing. “Sleep Support” you read, “may help promote restful sleep”. What a load of shit. You place the bottle back down and inspect the orange one next to it. The pills inside were about as useful as the melatonin. Nothing seemed to quiet the voices or stop the scenarios that plagued your mind. You splash some cold water on your face and grab for a towel to pat it dry. Your eyes drift to the mirror again, as if though the water was going to wash away the dead look in your eyes.

Yeah, fat chance.

Before you know it, your legs are carrying you through the compound. The only sounds present are the whirring of various appliances and the soft patter of your feet against the tile floors. The moonlight casts shadows over the various pieces of furniture and lights your path. Your fingers curl around the handle as you pull the sliding glass door open. The crisp outside air kisses your skin as you step out and close the door behind you. You find yourself settling down in your usual spot on the balcony and you sink into the comfort of the chair.

Many a sleepless night has been spent out here, admiring the way the moonlight gleams off of a nearby pond. Before the compound and the balcony, it was a fire escape and a bottle of bourbon. You kind of missed that coping mechanism a little bit. You were thankful, of course, to call this place your home. Thankful to feel safe for once. Thankful to be a part of a team that felt like more of a family than any sorry piece of shit who had been in your life before. Not that you were bitter about that or anything. A little baggage builds character. However, life hasn’t always been kind to you and your stupid brain had a cruel way of constantly reminding you of that fact.

In all honesty, Tony rescued you. You absolutely hated to allow him to relish in that fact, but it was true. He took a chance on a royally fucked up kid out of college who managed to skate by and earn a mechanical engineering degree. If you were to ask him, he would say it was because the first words you said to him were fuck off. Apparently, something about that translated to, “hey, I would be a great addition to your tech and development team”. Although, you were pretty sure you just really meant that he should fuck off. I mean, the guy’s reputation does have a bit of moral gray area to it. Somehow, some way, your tenacity made an impression on the billionaire. Now here you were - living at the Avenger’s compound, sitting on a balcony at 3:30 in the morning because you couldn’t turn your brain off long enough to find some peace and sleep. What a life.

Even as you were sitting here in your special spot, reminiscing about some actual good memories – your brain still tried to drift into the darkness. Glass breaking; voices, thick with hate, engaged in a screaming match, and the cold nights spent trying to find a safe space to eat and lay your head. Your fingers gripped into the arms of the chair as you felt the heaviness in your chest increase.

“God damn it,” you cursed through gritted teeth.

The panic attacks were a second nature at this point, but you still really hated when you lost control. Your eyes closed tight as you tried to rack your brain to remember the bullshit your therapist had told you earlier in the week. Something about 5 things you can see?

“We gotta stop meeting like this, Doll”

The voice ripped you from inside your mind and back to reality. Your eyes opened and were met with a beautiful pair of cerulean ones. You blamed the skip in your heartbeat on your fading panic attack - although, you knew better than that.

“Well, it seems to me that the only logical conclusion is that you’re stalking me, Barnes” you quipped as a grin spread across your face.

“Could say the same about you,” Bucky retorted as he sank into the chair beside you, “besides, been doin’ this a lot longer than you’ve been around”.

You rolled your eyes, but the super soldier had a point. Almost each and every time, aside from the ones that happened when the team was away, you two would meet like this – here on the balcony, both searching for something to replace the sleep that neither of you could find.

“Yeah, we get it, you’re old” a laugh fell from your lips as Bucky snorted at your remark, a grin remaining ever present on his lips.

The familiar silence took over as he leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes. Meanwhile, yours were hungrily taking him in - tracing over the stubble on his chin, the soft pinkness of his parted lips. Recently he’d gotten his hair cut and even though you much preferred the long hair, you would rather die than actually admit that to him. Your crush on the 106 year old grumpy ass was one of your best kept secrets. At least, you thought you’d kept it from being painfully obvious.

The man sitting before you, he had a tough exterior and a horrific history, but you knew him better than that. You knew about the way his nose scrunched up when you made him laugh and the way his eyes looked as he listened intently to every story you ever told him. You knew the sweet melody of his laugh and the far off stare that meant he was also held captive by his own thoughts. This late-night rendezvous had become somewhat of a routine for the two of you and you would be lying if you said it wasn’t your favorite part of the day.

The first time it was a short nod and typical white person, thin-lipped smile as you left to find a different spot to suffer alone. Shortly after, it developed into cohabiting the balcony – staying on your own separate sides of course, only occasionally sharing words. Then, before you knew it, the two of you would be sitting beside each other, shooting the shit like you’d known each other for years. Just two, incredibly fucked up individuals, trying to make each other feel a little more human.

Bucky had always given off the quiet, brooding energy. Typically he kept to himself, other than with close friends like Steve, choosing to stand in the corner and listen to the conversation rather than be a part of it. Occasionally he would give a quip during a meeting that would catch people off guard, but mostly he just sat there and stared. The Bucky you had come to know was nothing like the person that others wanted to make him out to be. Sure, at one point he was a masterful assassin who killed like he got pleasure from it – but that wasn’t him. The Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes were not synonymous.

If only the world could meet Bucky at 3am.

“What’s going on in that empty head of yours over there?” Bucky’s voice once again brought you back to reality as you laid your eyes on the familiar grin plastered across his face.

“Please,” you huffed, cheeks tinted a light shade of pink at the thought of him catching you staring, “which one of us has a college degree again?”

His laugh was a symphony to your ears. Your smile mirrored his when he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at you.

“So, what is it tonight? That nightmare again?” he asked, voice dropping an octave as his facial features softened in a way you really hoped only you got to see.

“Mm, not quite” you responded, your voice a broken whisper.

Bucky wasn’t the type to pry, but with you he wouldn’t even have to. Talking to him, sharing your deepest secrets and fears, telling him about the nightmares that kept you awake at night – it all came easily. Too easily.

“This week it’s...it’s that image of my stupid mother. Standing there with her black eyes and busted lip, telling me that it was me that was the problem. That it was me who...” you swallowed hard, the heaviness creeping back into your chest and tears fighting to wet your eyes. God you hated that you let this get the best of you.

Just as your mind started to bring you back to that dark place it was interrupted by the feeling of warmth spreading over your body. You looked down to see Bucky’s large hand resting right above your knee. When your eyes met again, he gave you a soft look that made your heart scream.

“I’m sorry,” you could tell he meant it as he gave your knee a soft squeeze.

A small smile flashed over your face and you had to resist the urge to reach out and cup his soft, stubbled cheek in your hand.

“Hey, we’re all a little fucked up, right?” you joked.

“Some more than others,” he replied, those beautiful wrinkles appearing around his nose as he scrunched it up with another laugh.

“Thanks, Buck... I’m sure you’d rather be doing anything other than listening to my sob story,” you reluctantly broke eye contact and looked down at the hem of your shirt as you fiddled with it in your fingers.

You were all too aware at the loss of contact as Bucky drew his hand back and leaned back into his chair.

“Doll,” he started as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes again - you could swear you almost saw a grin on his lips, “there are very few things I’d rather do than sit with you on the balcony at 3am”.

At that moment it felt as though time stood still. Sure, you had flirtatious banter back and forth occasionally and made a habit out of spilling your deepest regrets to each other during the wee hours of the morning, but this felt different. This felt like a confession.

You’d be lying to yourself if you tried to convince yourself, or anyone else for that matter, that you didn’t have a thing for him. I mean - who wouldn’t? The guy was a gentleman; he was soft spoken and caring, he was a dork who loved to crack jokes at the most inappropriate times, the type of person who would give you the shirt off of his own back if it meant you were taken care of.

He....well, he was Bucky.

And god damn it if you didn’t love him.

You’re unsure of how much time has passed, but one minute you’re sitting on your chair, chewing your lip and droning on about the man in front of you in your head. The next minute you found yourself on his lap, knees seated on either side of his waist as your legs straddle him and your hands connect with the skin they so desperately craved to feel. Bucky’s eyes opened slowly and met yours as you let the pad of your thumb gently run along the curve of his bottom lip. The uneven breaths leaving your chest hitched as you felt his hands grip your hips softly. Refusing to break eye contact, Bucky gently pressed a kiss to the pad of your thumb. You dragged his lower lip down briefly.

“Well,” he began. His voice was barely above a whisper but it’s thick, lustful tone made you shiver from head to...well, you know, “are you gonna kiss me, Doll? Or do I have to do all the work myself?”

He barely finished his sentence before your lips captured his. It was messy, almost all teeth and tongue. It was needy, as if it was the last time either of you would ever kiss anyone again. It was fucking incredible.

Bucky’s metal arm snaked up your back and found its way into your hair, curling his fingers gently around the strands at the back of your head, as his other arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer to his form. He was intoxicating. This whole situation was something you had briefly imagined months ago, but ultimately pushed out of your mind. There was no way that he would ever be interested in someone like you. Yet, here he was, tongue fighting for entrance into your mouth.

You aren’t quite sure who pulled away first. Both of you were gasping for air, chests heaving up and down as you both stared into each other's lust-blown pupils.

“You kiss pretty well for someone who hasn’t had a girlfriend since 1940,” you teased, laughing as he rolls his eyes at the comment.

“You just don’t know when to shut that mouth of yours, do ya?” he practically growled, ever so slightly tightening his grip on your waist, and you almost lost it from just the sound of his voice alone.

“Why don’t you make me, Barnes?” you leaned in close, warm breath fanning over the shell of his ear.

A yelp escaped your throat as you were suddenly jerked up to a standing position, locking your ankles behind his back as he effortlessly held you up by your thighs.

“Oh Doll,” he chuckled darkly into your neck, almost making you pass out from the sensation, “I thought you’d never ask”.

#eeek #i hope you all like this #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky x you #bucky barnes x female reader #sebastian stan character #sebastian stan #James Buchanan Barnes #James Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes angst

[daloy-politsey]

On my first date with Yehoram, I offered him a sip of my prosecco at the hip Tel Aviv bar I had brought him to. He tensed, paused and quietly replied, “I’m not sure if I can. I don’t know if it’s kosher.” I immediately recognized his confession for what it was: a coming-out. I told him that it’s fine, that we can ask the waitress if the wine has a certification, that I grew up in an observant family too. He finally breathed.

I already knew that Yehoram is female-to-male transgender. In fact, it was the only thing written on his dating profile. Over the course of our year-long relationship, and then our seamless transition into friendship late last year, he explained to me that the queer community will often accept that he is trans but not that he is religious. But the same is not always necessarily true of the religious community – and particularly of his family.

There are many preconceptions about his family. The matriarch Mazal, 74, and patriarch Yehiel, 78, were both born in Sana’a, Yemen, and immigrated to the newly-declared State of Israel in early childhood. (Haaretz is honoring their request not to publish the family name.) They are visibly Haredi: Mazal wears long skirts and tucks her hair into modest black caps; Yehiel trims his salt-and-pepper beard, and wears a uniform of crisp dress shirts, black pants and a black velvet kippa.

They speak with heavy Yemenite accents – which have been at least partially adopted by their seven children – and their speech is seasoned with religious aphorisms and allusions. People are surprised to learn that Yehoram, 32, is accepted and supported by his parents, to a degree that is rare even in the secular homes of Tel Aviv.

At their kitchen table in a town near Rehovot, central Israel, Mazal has set out water, juice and a homemade cake. Yehiel has set down a voice recorder of his own, to make sure he isn’t misrepresented. They have a story to tell about being the parents of a trans son, and they have decided that I am allowed to tell it.

Before we begin the interview, both are apprehensive. After much deliberation, they decide that I can publish their names but not their images. Yehiel is a respected figure in religious circles: he serves as his synagogue’s main cantor on the High Holy Days, is a mezuzah scribe and kashrut supervisor for the Chief Rabbinate. He spends his free time poring over religious texts, with Yehoram often alongside him. His son no longer attends the local synagogue in which his father plays so large a role; the congregation knew him before his transition, and it could hurt his family’s reputation.

If someone goes to the rabbi with this article in hand and tells Yehiel that he’s out of the fold, “at our age, there’s no fight left. There’s nothing you can do,” he says. “It would destroy me.” When he thinks I cannot hear him, he says that he suspects that one of his contracts as a kashrut supervisor was not renewed for this exact reason – because of his unconventional family.

But if getting his story out shows religious parents that they can embrace their own LGBTQ children, he wants it published. “I want to help,” he says.

Mazal chimes in. “Both of us do. You hear these stories about parents throwing their children out ... I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how you throw out your child.”

She recounts going to the shivah of a friend of Yehoram’s – the transgender queer activist DanVeg, who took her own life in 2016.  “I saw them all in the living room, with their heads on each other’s shoulders. I started to cry. I wanted to hug them all, to go one by one. And they came to me; they saw the look in my eye. There was a man who had become a woman, who came to hug me. And a young girl, and more. I couldn’t take it,” she says, wiping away tears that are coming faster and faster. “More and more of them told us that they’re alone, abandoned by their parents. How can you throw out your child? The child of a human being!”

I get up to hug her, and she cries into my back: “Why? Why would you throw your child out of your house? Why?”

They say they never suspected that Yehoram was different before he came out to them, if not unconventionally, as queer at the age of 18, some 14 years ago.

He did not employ the usual lexicon: “I told them, this is how I am – I’m wearing pants from now on and I’m not interested in men,” he recounts. In Yehoram’s absence, Yehiel recalls it as well. Yehoram sat his parents down in the living room and said his piece, and then asked his parents for a response.

“We got up immediately, as if it were coordinated,” Yehiel says. “We hugged [him] from both directions … and we told [him], ‘You have nothing to be afraid of, no need to worry. You’re our daughter, it doesn’t matter what you do.’” Yehoram then opened his backpack to show a couple days’ clothes inside. “If you didn’t accept me, I would have killed myself,” he told his parents.

From there, they worked to make sure that their son wouldn’t, for one moment, forget that he is loved and cared for. They also made sure that he could live a normal life. “It was important that he be self-sufficient, have a respectable career, be able to build a life without us,” Yehiel explains. “Every day, I’m afraid that he won’t be here. I think about how he can build his life so he’s not dependent on anyone else.”

Mazal and Yehiel tend to refer to Yehoram with female pronouns when he isn’t in the room, and occasionally slip into them when he is. To her, Mazal says, he will always be their daughter. “It’s hard for me,” Yehiel concurs. “[He] should be patient.”

Mazal calls him by his chosen name – an anagram of his birth name – to make him happy. “And to connect with [him] – what can you do? We love [him] either way. [He’s] our daughter.”

There have been difficulties in accepting him along the way, she concedes. But like many parents of LGBTQ children, they are mainly rooted in concerns that he will be able to live a safe, fulfilling life.

No one should mistake their acceptance for liberalism – they repeatedly note that the Pride Parades, with their scanty clothes and glitter, are unsightly. “The left brings it in,” Mazal says. “Non-Jews from abroad, with all their tattoos and whatnot.” However, their embrace of their transgender son and the many queer people who have passed through their doors does not come in spite of their firm religious beliefs, but is the direct result of them.

Yehiel, a lifelong religious scholar, has poured over sources biblical, talmudic, rabbinic and kabbalistic. The kabbalistic concept of the soul provides a simple explanation for the transgender phenomenon, he believes.

“We have the knowledge that Jewish souls can be reincarnated into anything – into non-Jewish families, into animals, even into food,” Yehiel explains. “We were taught that the soul of a man can be reincarnated into a woman, in order to remedy something he had done in a past life.”

When Mazal was pregnant with Yehoram, she had already given birth to five daughters and was hoping for a son. The couple went to a respected rabbi, who told them to buy a bottle of wine for the circumcision ceremony and to come see him 40 days into the pregnancy. Yehiel says that when the time came, it was hard to get hold of the rabbi to schedule an appointment, and they were only able to see him eight months in. The rabbi gave them the blessing regardless.

“The body was already formed female,” Yehiel says, but the prayers had worked: “The soul was male.”

And there is scripture to back up the existence of LGBTQ people within Judaism. “You’re not different, you’re not strange,” Yehiel says. “This [phenomenon] has always existed. It’s in the Torah, and it’s in the mystical sources.” Mazal adds: “It’s a shame that we don’t lay this out these days, to have everything written up and organized to say that it’s all there in scripture.”

At 26, Yehoram told his parents he was transitioning. He underwent top surgery – a double mastectomy – without informing them. “On the one hand, it hurt us,” Yehiel admits. “For us, it meant that’s it – it’s sealed. If he’d told us in advance, we would have told him to wait. Maybe the situation would change.”

But what’s done is done, Mazal says. “What hurt me is that [he] underwent the surgery and I wasn’t there. That ate at me.”

Both loudly agree that the important thing is that he is happy and healthy. “We hope just for success – and thank God there are many successes, so everything is alright,” she says. “I’m just waiting for children,” she laughs.

Yehoram, who has taken a seat next to her, smirks. Mazal jokes about him coming home pregnant one day. He’s slightly irked, but jokes along. A couple of years ago, he froze his eggs through Ichilov Hospital’s fertility clinic for transgender men, and hopes to one day become a father, no matter how he has to do it. His parents strongly supported the move. They have 31 grandchildren and two great-grandchildren.

Yehoram asks a question of his own: Whether his parents want to talk about the time they took him to an esteemed rabbi in Tel Aviv, after he came out at 18.

“After he told us everything, we consulted with a rabbi,” Yehiel relays. “I remember that he got angry and yelled at him. I didn’t like that. He hurt him, and I couldn’t stay any longer, so we left.”

“The rabbi told me that I had lapsed, deteriorated in my spirituality,” Yehoram explains. It’s clear that he remembers it vividly. “That I had fallen.”

After that, the rabbi told him to leave the room, and for his parents to stay. “I heard shouting, and then you left the room,” he says to his parents. “You didn’t say anything, I didn’t say anything. We were quiet all the way home.”

No one discussed the incident for days after, and they barely spoke at all. After three days, Yehoram says, he asked his mother what had happened after the rabbi told him to leave the room.

“I didn’t know what happened, I assumed the worst. You told me that [Dad] got very angry and told [the rabbi], ‘How dare you hurt and belittle a Jewish soul?’ You said you had to give him however much money, and that you just threw a small bill onto the table and left the room,” Yehoram tells his mother. “It really surprised me. I thought you were on his side, and then I suddenly heard that you were on mine.”

When he is with us in the room, Yehoram sometimes seems agitated by his parents’ insistence that their acceptance has always been complete. He tries to direct them toward other instances, other rabbis they don’t or won’t recall. It is often difficult for parents to acknowledge the pain or discomfort that their actions caused their children, even if they were accidental. Mazal brings out a picture from Yehoram’s bat mitzvah, of them embracing the young girl he was. They look almost exactly the same, 20 years later, beaming. Young Yehoram, in a long-sleeved, high-necked dress, is smiling, but the smile does not reach his eyes.

Elisha Alexander, co-CEO and founder of the transgender advocacy and information organization Ma’avarim, says that even though Yehiel and Mazal’s acceptance of their son may seem unique, he would like to think it’s more common than we assume.

“There are religious and even ultra-Orthodox people who accept their trans family members, but it’s usually in secret. The main problem in these communities is the leadership,” he says.

But if more of them realized that embracing their children was a matter of pikuach nefesh – the Jewish concept that saving a life supersedes most religious commandments and norms – they would be more inclined to find a halakhic solution to integrating transgender people into these communities.

There is also a misconception that acceptance is a binary choice: That any parent who does not kick their transgender child out of the house or disown them has, by default, accepted them. “This could not be further from the truth,” Alexander says. “Accepting your child means accepting every aspect inherent to them, including their gender identity, pronouns and so on.”

When parents refuse to do so, their child may seek acceptance elsewhere. He adds that studies show that acceptance within the family drastically reduces the suicide rate among transgender people.

Knowing this, Yehiel says that any parent in his position must continue loving and supporting their child. “This child can fall,” he says. He does not mention it, but he is aware of the stories and statistics: trans youth who find themselves on the street face high rates of abuse and exploitation. Thirty to 50 percent of transgender teens report suicidal thoughts and behaviors – a rate three times higher than for teens overall. But that figure falls to 4 percent when families accept and embrace them, says Sarit Ben Shimol, manager of the Lioness Alliance for families and transgender children and teenagers.

Yehiel adds that it is the duty of parents to give children the support they need to thrive. “As a parent, it is your responsibility to tell your child: You are my child and you are my life. My life depends on you. Watch over me so that I can watch over you,” he says.

As we get up from our seats, Yehiel looks at me for a moment and asks, “If it’s not too personal – since we already opened up the topic – what is your relationship like with your parents?”

I tell them that I talk to my parents, and especially my mother, almost every day. That it was difficult for them to come to terms with my sexual orientation as well, and that sometimes I have an inkling that it still is, even if they won’t say it outright. But I try to be patient.

“Good,” Mazal says. “It’s important to be patient – they’re learning too.” She embraces me again, and Yehiel rests a hand on my shoulder. They invite me to come again, whenever I like. “After all, you’re like our daughter, too.”

#lgbt jews #transgender #judaism #jumblr #transphobia cw