#i will not acknowledge your fucking existence if you say this to me
uh cw talking about trans pregnancy in the tags but don’t mind me! im just seething with justified rage :)
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There is nothing that makes me want to not get to know a person more than that fucking phrase coming out of their mouth. Because you realize you're not dealing with a person who thinks. Also, there's about a fifty percent chance I will burst out laughing in their face because they sound like small child imitating a parent.
Also, did you know the Nazis had their own phrase word to discredit the news? They called it Lügenpresse, "lies of the press". They weren't the first Germans to use it, but they co-opted it for use against any media of Jewish, communist, and foreign origin.
I think SB has made it his mission to fuck with my head
unpopular opinion but i dont like it when ppl call being an ally to a social justice cause “the bare minimum.” the bare minimum is nothing. “you dont get a cookie” rhetoric is so culturally conservative imo.
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Jokes aside, love u Bella but any negative comments about the boys’ appearances is a dealbreaker for me on here sorry 😔
okay that is genuinely a fair grievance. however i will say that my main opinion is that the boys should wear and dress and look however they want, and if it makes them happy then that is enough for me. i also think that it’s okay to say that i don’t, personally, enjoy a certain aspect of their style? with the knowledge that my opinion doesn’t matter? i guess maybe my comments about the middle part were expressed as more than just a personal opinion - like i think i probably was too much about that - which is a fair point, and i’ll make an honest effort to not be negative about their appearance in the future. i genuinely try to only put pictures of them on my blog that i have positive things to say about? like, i don’t always personally like the way they dress but it’s really not up to me, and it’s my blog, you know? so if i don’t like it, i just. don’t reblog it.
anyway i think i’m accidentally being defensive here, so what i mean to say is that you’re right, and i will be more careful !!
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don't be so sentimental no, this love was accidental so give it up this was never meant to be more than a memory for you *guitar riff* 😘
i don’t know if this is a prompt or just you listening to one of the greatest all time low songs of all time and sending me the lyric but either way i firmly agree
question for science here!! is it true a wholeass fandom bullied the animation studio who animated the show to bring back the very old theme song of said show instead of bringing up some new song and the animation studio actually did bring said old theme back but as a remix??? or something??? this is a rumour i read on but aint sure if its true pls confirm this shdnndnddn
i need to know n pls confirm this so i can do the same at intsys and nintendo for more jugdral content and fe4 remake on switch im literally pRAYIGN nintendo pLEASE listen to us and give us fe4 remake—
shoot me, chapter VI
pairing — changbin x reader
rating — 18+
genre of the overall series — smut, angst, fluff if you squint
prologue chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV chapter V chapter VI
word count for this chapter — 4.1 k
warnings — mentions of alcohol and emotional abuse
note — this chapter has no smut in it. still, the love-story gets completely developed here. next chapters will be filled with smut and angst so stay tuned! i haven't read this chapter because i wanted to upload it as soon as possible, so it may contain grammar mistakes. i will check it later since i have to go out with my family to have dinner! <3 hope you enjoy
taglist:@cozyblues @ahgasearmyfan @binnie-m00n @minaamhh @pinkishwen @spilledtee
"so?" you asked him, modeling one of the dresses that you had previously selected from the expensive clothing shop "what do you think?"
she looks like a goddess.
"good" changbin limited to reply. "is that the last one?"
"c'mon you are not helping at all" you grunted, turning around slightly on the mirror to see the full silhouette of the dress "this might be the one, don't you think?"
i think so. i think you look perfect in all the things you have tried on, actually.
"it's alright" the dark-haired man reply "just take that one and let's get this over with"
"jesus, changbin" you whined "you are such a pain in the ass. if you were in a bad mood then you shouldn't have accepted to drive me here so i can buy a dress for the wedding"
you had been in korea for a month and 2 weeks now, your relationship with changbin growing unconciously intimate as you often engage in sexual encounters with him. you wouldn't say the both of you were close, but each day that passed by you could feel how you learned more about him just like he learned more about you too. you wouldn't consider him a good friend, since hostility made a presence every now and then between the both of you, but you had learned to spend time with him without feeling the need to put plugs into your ears and a blindfold to stop acknowledging his existence.
"if you needed help picking a dress" changbin interrupted, standing up from the seat he had been occupying for the last 45 minutes "you should've asked hyejin or ryujin to come and help you out, not me"
"hyejin is busy" you were quick to respond "ryujin had work today and you were the only other person i know that owns a car"
"yeah well" you made a pause, swallowing hard "i don't like cabs"
"you could've asked arthur to lend you his private driver" changbin tilted his head slightly.
"i get uncomfortable with strangers" you answered after a few seconds of being completely silent, changbin's gaze making you incredibly nervous.
"really?" he inquired, one of his hands traveling all the way to the pocket of his jacket as he pulled his wallet out. "why won't you just admit that you wanted to spend time with me?"
"fuck no" a grimace of disgust was quick to appear on your face "don't get confused. i would rather be dead than to spend more time with you than i already have to"
"yet you are still here" he teased "maybe i'm not as unbearable as your mind is trying to convince you i truly am"
with lazy steps he took the bunch of dresses that were piled up on the chair next to him, putting them all over his shoulder as he walked to the counter. "what are you doing?" you asked, still wearing the last dress you tried on.
"you are indecisive and i am starving" he said without even looking at you "i don't need to spend another 45 minutes here looking at how much you struggle to pick between 5 dresses, just have them all and pick one when you are alone"
you looked at him in desbelief "do you have any idea of how much just one of them cost? are you stupid?" you almost yelled in astonishment, looking at the figure of changbin slightly turning around to face you.
"i am not stupid" changbin reply "like i said, i am just hungry"
and currently thinking about how beautiful you are looking right now with that look of amazement on your pretty face. if i could, i would buy you the entire world just for you to destroy.
"i will pay every single one of those dresses back before i leave" you mumbled, eating your food as if you had been starving for days "i had money, i didn't need you to come and rescue me as if i was some sort of damsel in distress"
"you were in distress though" he added, taking a sip of the drink he ordered "you took almost 30 minutes just to pick one dress to try on, you are really undecisive"
"yeah well, it's not like i had anywhere else to be" you replied.
"isn't arthur going to have a small gathering at his house today?" changbin inquired "like a pre-celebration of the wedding or something?"
you shrugged your shoulders "i don't know and i don't care. i am just here for the wedding and then i will be finally free"
you kept on eating your plate of food, confused as to why changbin's gaze stayed fix on you. "what, do i have something on my f-?"
"are you leaving right after the wedding?" he asked in a very hostile way, almost as if he had completely forgot that you were not going to stay forever.
"not right after but that's the main reason i came here, yeah" you replied, having a mixture of feelings inside your guts.
you couldn't deny the fact that you missed tsukuba, but living there meant to be trapped in the university dorms 24/7 just studying. but still, the lifestyle you have had for the past time was absolutely something you could get use to it: ryujin, hyejin, going out on the weekends, being free from school, changbin...
"i still don't know the exact date though" you added "school doesn't start for me in another months so..."
"how is your life?" he asked, earning a weird look from you as you couldn't quite understand his question "in Japan, i mean"
you sighed. you had thought that living in japan was really good and you felt utterly comfortable living there until you arrived to korea and discovered a whole new life style that you had already learned to love. not only that, but leaving everything here was going to get you a bit nostalgic in the future. "it is great, better than people say it is honestly" you responded as he nodded "i live at the university dorms so life is pretty much everything but rushed. i spend my days at the library studying, i sometimes work as a shadow teacher for like 4 or 5 kids and on weekends i go and visit my mom and her partner"
"your mom got married after divorcing arthur?" changbin followed, just in time as he finished his dish of food.
"uh, it's complicated" you gave him a smile "she lives with someone and she is very happy"
"and are you?"
you were about to answer the question when you felt a pinch on your heart. a month ago you would have replied "yes" without a doubt. you thought you were happy living in japan, you thought you were happy when you visited thea, your mother, and reiko, her girlfriend. you thought you were happy when reiko made you her special coffee and you thought you were happy when they ocasionally visited you on winter nights at your dorm. you thought you were happy when you worked with children and spent time with them. you thought you were happy when you rode your bike from school to work and you thought you were happy when ryejin visited you and your mom on the holidays.
however, you had learned a new definition of happiness here.
"are you?" you fired back.
changbin slightly tilted his head as he laid completely back on his seat "i could be"
"what is exactly stopping you from being happy?" you asked him, intruiged.
"even if i explained it to you" he mumbled "i don't think you will be able to understand it"
"ah, there you are again" you scoffed, slightly rolling your eyes "your god complex has not show all day. i guess you missed it."
"c'mon" he grunted, raising his hand at one of the waiters at the restaurant "let's go somewhere else"
"where exactly?" you laughed "to your place? your car? a motel? jesus changbin, you can't really go a day without fucking, can you?"
"that's not actually what i had in mind" he replied, taking out his credit card as he saw the waiter approaching the table "but i mean if you want to fuck i won't say no"
"you had something in mind?" you asked, faking excitment "for me? you planned something for me?"
"if you want i can drop you at arthur's place right now so he can force you to have dinner with him and his bride. it's up to you"
you weren't really feeling like spending "quality time" with your father, and you also knew that hyejin was probably not going to attent the dinner, so there was no point of you being there. but at the same time, the thought of spending time with changbin doing non-sexual activities was something that it always made you nervous for an unknown reason, and you were feeling particularly nervous today.
the evening went on peacefully and that alone was unreal. he drove you to the center of seoul and suggested to take a walk around the most popular avenues because "the city looked better at night", something you have always believed too.
changbin was attractive and, even though your personalities crashed every damn time, you couldn't deny the fact that there were some sort of intimate bond going on between the both of you since that very first night at the bar. still, you wouldn't accept it. you wouldn't accept that the one person you disliked the most was starting to change your mind.
and you couldn't get yourself to trust him either. you couldn't trust any men, for that matter.
"have you thought about which dress you are going to wear tomorrow?" he asked so casually, his hands inside the pockets of his jacket as his gaze diverted from building to building.
"no" you replied, trying to get back at the trail of thoughts you had been threading since you left the restaurant with him. "have you?"
"have i thought about the dress i am going to wear tomorrow?" he laughed "i don't know, it will depend on which one you lend me"
"i got distracted" you admitted "but i will try on all the dresses tomorrow morning and i will give you the rest of them so you can return them to the store"
"i won't do that" he clicked his tongue "i bought them for you"
your heart skipped a beat after hearing those words and it was everything but pleasent.
"i don't want them"
"you can't reject a gift" he mumbled "that's the whole point of a gift"
"i will sell them on the internet" you threatened.
"do it, at the end of the day they are yours" he gave you a side look while smirking "but i wouldn't sell them if i were you. you look good in them"
"oh so you want to give opinions about the dresses now, huh?" you asked, mildly annoyed "you could've help me back at the store but you chose to be grumpy"
"at least i am helping you now"
"you are unbearable" you whispered.
a bright smile was quick to appear on his face. a genuine smile, as if he was enjoying the conversation. not only the conversation but the whole moment: you and him, walking around the city and talking about something so casual and trivial like which clothes you were going to wear tomorrow or which dress he liked best on you.
and for a moment it felt nice.
you felt safe.
"the red one was pretty" he added. you looked at him confused, once again lost in your trail of thoughts. "the red dress, the one that you tried on last"
"good" you responded "i'll make sure not to wear that one"
"you hate me that much?" he teased while a faint chuckle left his lips.
"oh changbin, you have no idea" deep down knowing it wasn't more than a vile lie.
you looked in the mirror one last time before you heard hyejin calling your name once again "y/n, how long will you take? i need to stop by the bakery to pick up the wedding cake"
"i'll be out in a minute" you replied, noticing how your hands got sweatier by the second.
you were quite nervous, but couldn't really understand why. maybe the sole thought of your father having his "happy ending" made you jealous because you knew that he did not deserve that at all; he didn't deserve the love he had.
the emotional abuse your mother and you suffered throughout your childhood and adolescence was not something that could be fixed in a month or two and you were certain about it. no matter how happy your father was, you couldn't help but to feel jealous about how he never had to suffer like you and your mother did.
and even though you got over your negative feelings towards him, the scars and aftermath of an abusive household still caught up on you: the mistrust, the negativity, the hostility and the lack of commitment were things you had to deal with on a daily basis.
of course he was the one to blame. but you were an adult now, and you were supposed to deal with all those issues by yourself. no one was going to fix them for you.
"jesus y/n, we are running late" hyejin busted the door open "are you ready now?"
"yes" you were quick to respond, grabbing the purse on your bed and trying to quickly divert from your sister's gaze.
"wait" she mumbled, gripping both of your shoulder as you intended to the leave the room "why are you tearing up?"
"i am not" you replied "i yawned"
she didn't look convinced, but still decided not to push any further "i'll meet you in the car, i just have to grab a few things"
you nodded and made your way through the hallway. because of how rushed she was, you didn't have a chance to tell hyejin how gorgeous she looked. she was wearing a golden shiny dress that embraced her body just fine and carrying a maching clutch with it. she was really pretty, maybe the prettiest woman you had ever seen, and not only that but she was also very smart. any guy would be head over heels for her, but she still decided not to engage in a "silly love story" as she called them because "it is a waste of her precious time, and time is money"
you wished you had the same mentality as she did, but you grew up getting educated on how love was portrayed in books, movies and television. it was ironic how you were the first person on earth to deny that love actually existed, but you were still a hopeless romantic after all.
"changbin, are you too far from the church?" haeun, his mother, asked desperately as changbin picked up the phone.
"i'm right outside" he grunted "i told you i was not going to be late"
"we are sitting on the second bench at the left of the altar" the old woman added "hurry up"
changbin hung up the phone and cursed under his breath. the weather today was maybe too nice for his own liking and his clothes were a bit too uncomfortable to be wearing them under the sun.
as quickly as he could, he closed the door of his car and started walking towards the entrance, making sure that the ceremony hadn't started just yet so he wouldn't make a scene.
"did you bring the gift?" jang-yeop inquired as he sat down next to him and changbin nodded "did you also bring your mother the pair of shoes?"
"yes" he responded "how long is this going to take?"
"40-45 minutes?" his father replied "i have no idea, what time is it?"
"7:02 p.m." haeun was quick to answer "now, the both of you shut up"
right after she mumbled those words, music started to sound on the church. changbin, being in a rush to get to his seat before the ceremony started, didn't notice that arthur was already standing up next to the altar and waiting for his soon-to-be wife. changbin's gaze was fixed on arthur, then it diverted into the bride walking down the aisle and then returned to arthur once again. he never thought about marriage or building a family. hell, he never thought about having a romantic relationship that would last longer than a few months actually. but as he grew older, and as he experienced new stuff, he wasn't sure if he still had the same mentality he used to have last year.
to changbin, arthur seemed genuinely happy. his half-lidded eyes along with that bright smile he was wearing indicated that the man was living one of the happiest days of his life. and as changbin witnessed that romantic scene, the question that popped up in the conversation he had with you last night grabbed his attention once again.
what exactly is stopping me from being happy?
and before he could respond himself with words, his eyes had already found the answer: standing on the bench at the right of the altar and wearing that promising dark red dress that could drive any man insane, the woman he never dreamed of looking just as beautiful as the very first day he met her.
not being able to have her completely.
after the ceremony, a big party was held at a very elegant event hall located in one of the tallest buildings of seoul. you were not particularly excited about having to see arthur's side of the family, but you still managed to keep yourself together the whole time.
"you are wearing the red dress" a sudden voice whispered into your ear as you were counting the tables that were still missing their dinner plates, an order given by hyejin. you slightly turned around to meet changbin's breath dancing on your neck and nape, goosebumps filling every single inch of your skin due to the proximity.
"congratulations" you sighed "your vision is crystal clear"
"i have been watching you since the ceremony" changbin added "i can't help but think about how pretty you are going to look when you are taking that dress off for me"
a spark of electricity traveled around your whole body and directly into your core. you immediatly looked around and notice a few people who worked for arthur's company sitting not that far away from the both of us "do you really want to do this here?" you asked "aren't you scared of being caught by any of arthur's friends?"
"are you concerned about that now?" he chuckled "that didn't seem to bother you at the company's elevator"
"c'mon" you whispered, your back slightly pressing against his chest "i have to help hyejin with some stuff"
changbin slightly gripped your hand and guided you to the dancefloor that was crowded with couples dancing around "i am sure that she can handle all of this by herself"
before you could protest, you took out your phone and sent her a message with the information she asked for. you had no idea what changbin was up to, but you still decided to follow him.
changbin positioned his hands on your waist as he gracefully dragged you across the dancefloor, looking for a spot in the middle of the crowd so it would be easier for the two of you to get lost.
"you are spending the night at my place" he mumbled over the slow songs that were now playing. it wasn't a question nor a petition, it was an order.
"yeah right" you chuckled "if you are too desperate to fuck we can do that, but i am not fond of sleepovers"
the thought of you spending the night with him was terrifying, but you would've been lying if you said that you hadn't think about what it would be like to wake up next to his him.
"i wasn't asking" he responded. "tell me when you are ready to leave".
with a swift movement, your whole body was pressed against his, his hands resting on your lowerback as you both swinged from side to side, following the rythm of the song. this was a whole new side of him that you didn't know it existed, and you couldn't deny that you were loving every second of it.
"who thaught you how to dance, huh?" you asked, your gaze fixed on his eyes that looked even brighter because of all the lights adorning the hall.
"there is so much about me that you don't know" he replied.
"oh i know everything there is to know about you, changbin" you scoffed "but let's see if you can keep surprising me"
it wasn't even midnight but people were already starting to get completely intoxicated with alcohol. arthur had spent the night dancing with ara and, after she was done being the unofficial wedding planner, hyejin ended up getting wasted with the small group of friends she invited to the wedding. you, on the other hand, spent the night dancing with changbin and eating your dinner with him.
it was not unusual to see the both of you together since you spent too much time at the company, but tonight it was sort of different. the looks he gave you, the way you two danced for hours on end, the way he was treating you... it felt different, a little bit more personal and intimate. his parents probably noticed this too, since they made a lof of comments about "how happy they were about us being really good friends". if only they knew.
"i think i am ready" you said to changbin after telling hyejin that you were going to spend the night somewhere else. she nodded her head and agreed to say, if asked, that "you were at ryujin's" even when she wasn't invited to the wedding in the first place. you just smiled at her and nodded, not leaving without telling one of her sober friends to look out for her.
"don't worry" the pretty pale girl mumbled "she will stay at my house tonight"
you glanced over to arthur and ara who were still having the greatest time of their lives on the dancefloor, and proceeded to walk away from the party with changbin. "you parents will stay here?"
"yeah, they will leave in an hour or so" changbin replied "i told them that you wanted to go home and that i was going to drive you"
"perks of living alone i guess" you joked.
the walk through the empty corridors of the building felt eerie as the loud sound of the music were still ringing in your ears. even though you were walking on your own, you could still feel changbin's ablazing touch on your body and that only provoked your heartbeat to go even faster.
as you waited for the elevator to open their doors, changbin's lips unexpectedly crashed against yours. it wasn't a passionate kiss, and it wasn't rushed either. it was just a kiss, an innocent kiss, a kiss you give to your significant other as a demostration of how much you love them. his soft lips dragged against yours as his teeth bite softly your bottom lip, earning a small whine from you. his hands, that were now located into your waist, guided you to the insides of the elevator once the doors were opened.
"you look so beautiful tonight" he whispered interrupting, his breathing getting faster each second that passed by "i can't get you out of my head"
his lips left yours to meet the sensitive spots on your neck, peppering soft kisses all over the surface. your gaze found the reflection of the scene in the mirror of the elevator, looking at how changbin was tasting every inch of your skin with his eyes closed, his rushed hands traveling all the way from your waist to your lower back trying to memorize every single trace of your body.
"i don't want to hurt you tonight" he continued "no roughness, no pain, no petnames. i want to make you completely mine, in the most pure way"
and for the night, you agreed to let your feelings out and let go.
no fear and no mistrust, you were ready to face the overwhelming feelings that had been building up inside you since the day you met him.
even if you could potentially regret it later...
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i dont even understand the proship shit anymore bc ive seen people use it to mean "i'm a proshipper bc im okay with incest/pedophilia/ect and consume it bc i can" but then people who use it like "i'm a proshipper bc i don't support bashing people for their innocent/totally normal ships, but this doesn't include the nasty stuff" and at this point idk if anyone who uses the word knows what they're saying lmao
its literally just because they learned no manipulate their language and use this weird fictional idea of an evil group of oppressors and harassers to play victim in a way paints themselves as the logical ones, but literally anyone whos taken a step outside of their echochambers would realize how this isnt the case and pro-ship is pretty much synonymous with pedo apologist, and i know this because as a kid on this site ppl in those echochambers would pull their shit on me, ive seen what its like first hand. i know all their stupid arguments and the motivations behind them, the whole victim act is just a way to garner sympathy and look like the rational ones even thought theres a huge fucking asterisks over all the seemingly rational stuff theyre saying.
and you know what, i dont consider myself an anti, because the concept of an anti is literally just this caricature they created to further perpetuate this us-vs-them group mentality, they dont even realize it but theyre using fiction to affect reality through this strawman character they invented. its all ironic as fuck. antis dont exist, stop calling yourself an anti, youre just a normal person against pedophilia just like any other person who goes outside and talks to people in places outside of greasy fandom shipping spaces. i dont even like fandom and i dont care much for shipping lol
they also like to paint this portrait of "the puritans" or whatever, claiming that clearly these people are against dark subjects in media all together and lack nuance. but after reading all the replies on my post i can safely say that the pro-shipping fandom brainrot people are the ones that can only think in terms of black and white, not the other way around like they claim, and thats why they can only conceptualize of the people who disagree with them as being this image of an extreme puritan that they made up in their heads.
what i mean by that is that literally every one of them thought that by comparing two things i must obviously be saying that they are a 1:1 because theres no room for nuance in their minds, and they jump to conclusions based on that, and on top of that most of them use this weird example of "oh so obviously bideo game cause violence !!!" when i never once stated that, but their mentality is so all-or-nothing that they cant differentiate between different examples of dark subject matter depicted in media.
i love dark subject matter in media, you do too, i see your wonder egg icon, you see my utenaposting, and the reason we're able to consume those things critically is because we understand the differences between types of depictions, we understand nuance and representation and its importance, and we dont shove things into one of two categories. media isnt a monolith and we need to look at things on a case by case basis, but they just refuse to do that, because if One thing is bad then that must mean All things are bad. and they dont wanna even acknowledge the possibility of that so instead they jump to the opposite extreme of No things are bad. its insane mental gymnastics to justify their weird fanfics lmao. at least like, gross anime nerdboy perverts know theyre deplorable, like guys thats your cousin, you both wank off to underanged anime characters but at least they dont pretend to be progressive about it.
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day five hundred and twenty-seven - having to get dressed again
Despite the fact that over 598,000 of my fellow Americans were killed by covid, that nearly 450,000 covid cases were reported globally yesterday, and that only 29 out of every 100 people on this planet have been vaccinated, the show (that is, the way we were) must apparently go on.
California is getting rid of all covid-era regulations on June 15th, despite the fact that we are undeniably still in the covid era, herd immunity in our tiny slice of the world notwithstanding. And what that means (among many other things) is that people are starting to wear non-spandex clothes again.
I have admitted before that it wasn’t terribly hard to not buy clothes in the lockdown days of the pandemic, and even this week I got dressed in workout clothes more days than not. But when I found myself at a picnic wearing the yoga pants and sweatshirt I had put on to take my dog to the beach, one particularly well done outfit forced me to take a hard look at if I was presenting myself the way I wanted.
To be clear, people should be able to wear whatever the fuck they want and many, many people don’t even have the luxury of choice. I, however, do, and I even like the ‘real’ clothes that I have. I am fully here for putting in effort, if only to dress up the background of other people’s lives. It’s just that the San Francisco weather doesn’t support this effort.
It turns out that my wardrobe has grown to mirror the climate it found itself in, and despite living in the Bay Area for over five years I have no idea how to dress for 55 and windy in June, especially after my Texan year. People joke about puffer jackets here, but I have spent hours this week browsing for an acceptably warm replacement and mostly come up short. Add to that my cold feet and need to walk multiple miles, and suddenly I have dozens of outfits with impractical coats and shoes - I have now gone on multiple dates in turtlenecks and Keds.
This post doesn’t have some sweeping moral, but I wrote it to acknowledge that getting dressed in 2021 can feel fraught, and it’s probably true that even the girl with the long suit coat and shorts outfit I could never pull off had to change out of sweatpants to make that ‘fit happen. I also wrote it to acknowledge that I’ve ordered not one but two (preowned) coats to fill the gap between my standard issue black puffer and my laughably thin green coat. I may return both of them, say to hell with it, and wear a pea coat through the summer, which would be much truer to the purpose of this blog, but if not then I’m ok with the thinking, waiting, and sourcing that went into that purchase. And I would also be ok with someone suggesting a sustainable and ethical walking shoe that doesn’t scream orthopedic - does it exist??
I couldn’t end the post without some rah rah something, so take this season of reopening/proving we’ve learned nothing as an opportunity to reacquaint yourself with your closet and try combinations you wouldn’t have thought of in the beforetimes, like Travis and Kourtney. The world we knew has ended, and there are no rules!
okay heres my take on The Jeggbert because my opinions are always correct /j
( tl ; dr at the end )
( ill mostly be referring to her as june and with she/her pronouns because of my own headcanons , john and ‘ jeggbert ‘ is also used when needed however )
to me , june is very easy to read as transfem . she very clearly relies on sburb as some weird form of escapism , and seems to want to rely on it to fill in an emptiness she feels in her life ( as someone with dysphoria : same lol )
this and the fact that she has the most questionable role model when it comes to her idea of masculinity its pretty obvious that something about her is very Genderish
or to me at least . boom . the four to five words that everyone needs to remember . that is how YOU are interpreting a character . not everyone has to go by that
jeggbert can be cis . jeggbert can be transmasc . jeggbert can be transfem . jeggbert can be some guy who just exists
your opinion on a character should not change because of their gender . this goes for both sides . june is not worse than john . john is not worse than june . they are the same fucking person !! i understand having a discomfort or squick or trigger from one ( i have a slight squick for john since i have been . harassed for preferring june lol ) but if you just dont like one and not the other . i think thats a you problem !
however , i am going to say A Controversial Thing :
june egbert is and always will be more canon than her non - transfem self . hussie themselves liked the headcanon before they made it canon , and it WAS made canon in a word of god way . if transfems are getting upset at you for not headcanoning her as transfem , you arent allowed to be upset with them .
if you want to be actually neutral on the Jeggbert Thing , you headcanon her as june . you headcanon her as transfem . being neutral doesnt make them coexist ; not even in different timelines ( timelines are based on choices and being trans isnt a choice ( transitioning of course is but . yeah those are very different things ) )
you dont have to headcanon june as transfem , but you do have to acknowledge that she IS more canon than your headcanons . anyway thank you for reading or whatever how do you end these things off
tl ; dr : i do not give a shit about what you headcanon but please understand that june is canon and transfems are allowed to be upset if your headcanons dont align with that
Another example of why I just believe Black people when they talk about their oppression, as a white person.
People keep telling me, "You're so underpaid and undervalued. You're so smart. You should get a new job."
And for some reason people just don't think I'm trying hard enough to get a new job, because I get NO interviews or anything. So they just assume I'm not trying.
So, to express the issue, I tell them this recruiter ghosted me. This dude called me twice, said he had a good opportunity for me, said he'd email it to me, and I haven't heard from him since. This dude literally gets paid to find people jobs, and he ghosted me.
And people are like "Oh, harass him. Don't let up. Blah blah blah." First of all, the more time I spend bothering this guy that literally doesn't give a fuck is less time I could spend looking for a job.
But second of all, these people whom acknowledge my skills and know how smart I am are just BAFFLED that it's so hard for me to find a job.
A female presenting person with a feminine name in the tech field...
Can't find a job...
Because, it's like. They think just because they aren't sexist then sexism doesn't exist.
It's so fucking obvious to me, and no one else can see it, but God forbid that I say, "It's the sexism." Because if I said that, they'd think I was making excuses and I'm not trying hard enough.
So if I feel like this talking to men about the sexism I experience, then like... I'm sure Black people feel the same talking to white people about racism.
So instead of being that dipshit that makes Black people feel the way I feel when trying to explain why I'm so under paid at my job. I just believe Black people. Because I know it's frustrating as hell when you're looking at this person that supposedly cares so much about you, but fails to acknowledge your struggle.
(And now that I'm thinking about it, the reason why I'm so under paid is probably because my boss saw how hard it was for me to get a job, and he knew it would be hard for me to leave. Learning to like this job would literally be Stockholm syndrome.)
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summary: three hundred and sixty eight days—one standard year—that’s all he agrees to. then you’re gone.
word count: ~4.5k+
warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, mean!mando for now hehe, hand around neck once (no choking), language, x fem!reader
a/n: this takes place post s2, meaning there’s no grogu (and we are ignoring the darksaber), but there will be plenty of ~other things~ to fill that void. the title comes from a painting of the same name by edward hopper. many thanks to @djarinsbeskar for being some extra eyeballs on this one! gif by @djarsdin.
let me know if you’d like to be tagged in the following chapters. xoxo!
A girl—you’re just a girl. Barely a woman.
You stand beside Karga, tendrils of hair framing your face, and Din sees the haughty strength in your shoulders, the iron viciousness in your stare. He sees you—green and gung-ho and itching for a fight—and he bites his tongue to keep from groaning.
His hands clench to fists at his sides. Fuck, he doesn’t have time for this.
Karga keeps talking anyway. “You owe me, Mando. You know you owe me.” He gestures to you, and your eyes slide to the side, for the first time breaking from the visor of Din’s helm. You pin Karga with that steely stare, all impetuous edges and self-important sheen, but Karga ignores the weight of your glare. “One year—that’s all I’m asking for here.”
Three hundred and sixty-eight days? No. Din doesn’t do jobs like this anymore. Not for a long time.
Hooking his thumbs beneath his belt, he shifts his weight to the side and shakes his head. “I’m not a nursemaid,” he says. “I’m done carting children around for you, Karga.”
Your gaze snaps back to the panel of his visor—and Din is almost impressed by the flash of raw, unbridled anger that sparks across your pupils. Almost.
Anger is a good place to start for an inexperienced bounty hunter. It’s as potent and propulsive as any formal skills training, a breeding ground for guts and determination. Like a shot of hard liquor, it ignites the blood and swirls through the body, pushing, pushing, pushing until, in order to find reprieve, the only viable option is success against the enemy. Against the anger itself. Din knows the look you carry well, was practically a slave to his own ire in his younger years, but he’s older now. Older, and maybe a little wiser, but certainly not as convinced that the ways of his youth are as well-tried as he once thought.
So much has changed in the last year. Everything he once knew, cradled in his palms like his own flesh and blood, is gone, ripped away like a seedling on a harsh wind. His hands, his thread-bare satchel, the sling above his cot—it’s all empty now, tinged with ghosts he doesn’t like to acknowledge in the light of day. He is left with himself and himself only, which isn’t much by his own estimation, but it’s what he knows. It’s what has always been. And it’s easier that way—going at it alone, silent and sure and guided by a carefully honed set of skills. He never falters, never bends to his humanity—that niggling, irksome part of himself—when he is alone.
No—the mess of it all… of existing alongside another… of crumbling beneath the weight of responsibility and duty and attachment… Din doesn’t have time for that. Not again, anyway. Karga needn’t of bothered to ask.
Your voice, sharp and curling, breaks his thoughts. “I’m not a fucking child, Mandalorian.” You mirror his stance—whether on purpose or on accident, he isn’t sure—but your hip juts to the side, your hands on the tac belt slung low around your waist. “I’m a grown woman. I can handle myself.”
He laughs at this, at the naivety that swaddles you safe and warm. It’s a husk of a laugh, peeled from his chest like a tight bandage on tender flesh. The sound is awkward, sudden, in the cramped storeroom of the cantina, and Karga winces. True laughter—borne of friendship and shared memories and the luxury of a moment of respite—floats through the flimsy door separating the cantina from the storeroom to affront Din’s ears. He shuts his mouth, laughter swallowed, a hard lump in his throat.
“What’s so funny?” There’s no mistaking the sneer of your upper lip, and he has to hand it to you: you’re fucking persistent. Anyone else vying to be his apprentice would have beat the dust by now, dissuaded by his refusal and mockery alike, but you’re still here, still waiting, eyes set hard and fast. So, he has to hand it to you: you aren’t a complete poseur. Just ninety-nine percent one.
He needs to put an end to this. No way, no how, is he taking you back to his ship. He’s better off alone, and he doesn’t have the energy or patience to drag along a girl and teach her the ways of the Guild. The mere thought makes his shoulders droop with exhaustion and a sigh work its way through his chest.
Maker, he’s getting too fucking old for this. Whatever Karga hoped to achieve by baiting him through the storeroom door with the promise of an intense hunt, one rigorous enough to drown out the noise of his past—it ends now.
Din takes a step forward. Another—another—another. His feet fall heavy on the worn, uneven ground, and your eyes grow wide with each purposeful advance. Stretching to his full height, he meets your gaze head on. A muscle in your brow twitches, a beast caught by the leer of another beast. He notes the way your right shoulder shifts backwards, toward the exit, as though prepared to flee. Good—you’re scared. As you should be.
Like the snap of a well-corded whip, he reaches out and curves his hand around the column of your throat. He’s vaguely aware of Karga’s protests—Mando! What are you doing?—but Din doesn’t release his hold. Doesn’t tighten his grip either. Still, the ligaments and cartilage of your neck give, bending slightly under his grasp. The leather of his glove catches on a stray thread of hair; your heartbeat thrums against his palm.
When he speaks, his voice is naught above a rasp—deadly, slow, and smooth. “I could snap you like a twig, girl.”
There it is again—that irate spark that shoots across the circle of your irises. A muscle in your jaw twitches; your chin lifts almost imperceptibly. “I could crush your balls in my palm, Mandalorian.”
He drops his hand, skin singed under his glove. A hot rush of frustration surges through his veins, and he resists the urge to drop you to the ground with one fell swoop to the back of the leg. You’re fiery, angry, brazen enough to threaten him without a second thought. He’s seen it all before, in the bright eyes of other arrogant young recruits always dead before the end of a lunar cycle; you’re nothing special.
Kargra grabs Din by the shoulder, pulling him further into the storeroom, away from you and your swirling cloud of disdain. It’s darker here, the single square window partially obscured by the corner of a cabinet; its door hanging on the last bolt of a rusted hinge. Dust mites drift through a pale beam of light casting the unlit portions of the room in shadow.
“Mando, please,” Karga starts. He sounds conciliatory, but determined. Which is too bad considering his offer of one thousand extra credits isn’t enough.
Without warning, the storeroom door opens on a thin creak, and a lithe Bith, armed with a crumpled sheet of paper, ambles into the room. He brings with him the sound of tinny, off-beat music from the heart of the cantina and the smell of overcooked meat. His food-stained clothes drape over his wiry frame, the stoop of his shoulders pronounced. His large head swivels as he takes in the tense air of the narrow closet, the clench of Din’s fists, and your wide, battle-ready stance. Muttering something in his native tongue, he backs out of the room as quickly as he came, waving his hands in dismissal. Karga curses—his time is running out.
Lowering his voice, he glances over his shoulder to where you stand, fingertips pressed to your sternum. You glare at Din through your lashes, and he grits his teeth. “The Guild is running low on bounty hunters. You know that as well as anybody.”
Din drags his eyes from you to Karga’s worn, haggard face. The older man isn’t wrong. The last year has been tough on the Guild, resources and willing hunters run thin, stretched like rations among too large a crowd. There’s more lucrative work to be found in the private sector, and Din doesn’t blame any of his counterparts for jumping ship and taking a post as security for some bigwig on Coruscant. He can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed his mind, either.
He’s simply too tied to the stars, to the vast expanse of space and all he can forget there, for a job which roots him to the ground.
“Yes, I do,” he says. “You’ve run me like a dog.”
Karga grimaces, his eyes skittering to the floor. Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, he nods, shoulders seesawing in an admonition of guilt. “Can you blame me? You’re the best I’ve got.”
“I’m almost all you’ve got.”
“Which”—Karga’s face lifts, and he points to you, the girl hovering in the corner—“is why you need to take her with you. Train her, make her out to be as good as you are, better even! The more bounty hunters that model their skills after yours, the sooner you can retire, kick back and—”
“I won’t retire.”
A pause, swollen with obstinance on either end of the debate. Karga works his jaw back and forth, focus tightening on the smooth curvature of the helmet, the center of Din’s forehead; Din tilts his head and, though his eyes are obscured, he’s sure Karga can feel the indifference in his unblinking stare.
Finally, Karga speaks. “Fine, take a day off, whatever.” There’s another pause, as though Karga expects Din to respond, but when the silence stretches a beat too long, he just gives a pinched-lip smile as he digs a hand deep into a pocket at his hip. “Take this as a down payment. There will be more at the end of the year. And consider yourself promoted with a fifty percent raise on every bounty, too.”
Din weighs the offering—a slim ingot of beskar—in his hand, brow lifted beneath his helm. The metal weighs heavy, appearing dull in the hazy light of the storeroom. He brushes his thumb over the seal in the bottom corner.
“Where did you get this?” he asks. Never in all his years at the Guild has Karga offered him beskar. The sight of it now—unsullied, clean, weighty in his hand—twists his gut with something akin to… longing? Forlornness? He’s not sure. Sliding the ingot into his back pocket, he looks up, pushing the tug in his chest to the side.
Karga shrugs. “No matter. I have my connections, as we all do.” He again glances at you before swinging his gaze back to Din, eyes gone round and soft. “You’d really be helping me out here, Mando,” he says. “She’s good. I know it.”
“She’s got a tongue on her.”
Across the room, tucked between the door and a shelf that scales the chipping wall, you fold your arms over your chest. “I can hear you, metal man. And yes, I’ve got a tongue. I’m not afraid to use it either.”
Din huffs. Little brat.
Only—he could use the money. Due to the untimely death of the Crest, he had to drain his accounts in order to purchase the Sunder. Not a cheap investment; not one he particularly enjoys, either. His pockets remain empty—the Sunder too—and, though he’s by no means a creature of comfort, with a new ship comes new burdens. Parts break more often on these sleeker, high-tech models; he’s learned that the hard way in the last year. So even with his regular bounty load, he’d be just scraping by, eking out an existence in the cosmos, after all is said and done and the Sunder kept well-maintained. A modicum of cushion where credits are concerned would be nice, he has to admit.
He swings his head to the side.
Fuck. It’s going to be a long year.
“I can see you thinking about it.” Karga grabs Din’s elbow. “I see those wheels turning. You need the money, I know you do. And after everything that happened with—”
Din yanks his arm from Karga’s grasp and skewers the old man with one long finger in the chest, the bluntest of knives Din is willing to use on his employer. For now. Through the orange fingertip, he can feel Karga’s heartrate ratchet higher. “Don’t talk about that. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Okay, okay.” Karga lifts his hands in surrender, shaking his head in contrition. “My apologies, Mando.”
“You want to be a bounty hunter?” Din’s addressing you now, his bulky frame across the floor in two easy strides.
You push away from your spot against the wall and drop your hands to your sides; there’s no nervous twitch to your fingers, only clenched fists, knuckles tight and prepared. You nod once, resolute. “Yes.”
Most new bounty hunters are in it for the fun. The thrill of the chase and the excitement of weeks on end racing across the stars can’t be beat; it’s a drug as heady as any other. It’s not a terrible reason to join the Guild, but the high of hunting criminals doesn’t last for long. Soon the unending monotony of planets and foulmouthed villains and cuts and bruises that scar deep grates on the soul. The job wears the nerves thin and papery, like parchment withered with age. It forms the body to steel, rigid against attack. And the heart? Shit, Din can’t remember the last time he let himself get comfortable or—
A wrench in his chest like the twist of a butcher knife through the ribs. A pair of round, deep eyes between oversized ears swims before his vision, and he remembers. Yes, there was a time—recently, not so long ago—where the metal cage around his heart unlocked and he let someone in, if only for a moment.
But it’s easier—so much easier—to lock that part of yourself away for safekeeping. Fresh bounty hunters don’t know all that: all the job takes out of you, all it forces you to become against your own will.
Din isn’t surprised when you do not hesitate before responding to his question; he anticipated as much from someone with your ego. He is, however, intrigued by your answer and the calmness with which you speak.
“Because the people you catch take advantage of people like me. I intend to stop that.”
As he did Karga, he levels his finger at you, though he keeps his distance. You stiffen, face folding in a frown, and push his wrist away with a swat of your hand. He lets you.
“I’m doing this for the credits and the beskar. I don’t care about your personal goals, however lofty you think they are.”
You lift one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug and return your arms to cross beneath your breasts. “Doesn’t bother me.”
“You default to my orders. Is that understood?”
You blink, slow and syrupy, lashes fanning your cheekbones. Your lower lip disappears beneath your teeth as you consider his request. Din sets his jaw, leaning forward, his chest expanding on a deep inhale.
“I said: is that understood?”
It’s another moment—Karga seething, Just say yes—before you nod, chin dipping toward your collarbone in a single sluggish movement.
Din backs off. “One shit move and I throw you off the ship without a second thought.” Then, turning to Karga, he motions to the door. “Now give me those fobs. I’d like to get out of here while it’s still light.”
Five fobs—five bounties—the start of the rest of your life. The pucks clatter against one another, strung together on the Mandalorian’s hip. A red light, solid and small as a pinhead, winks at you from the center of each fob—on, off, on, off.
Find me, find me, find me.
A smile tugs the corner of your mouth. Stars, you’re excited.
You trail behind the Mandalorian, a lone duffel thrown over your shoulder. The bag, half-filled as it is, slaps against your back as you navigate the uneven terrain. You keep your eyes forward though, despite the roll and twist of your ankles over the hardened edges of liquid fire; you won’t let him—that hulking mass of gleaming metal and boorishness—out of your sight.
The lava fields of Nevarro smell like shit. It’s the sulfuric lava running hot beneath your boots, you know that, but damn, the scent curdles in your nose like rotten yolk. Everything on this planet is dim and gloomy, cloaked in a heavy shroud of darkness: the landscape, the sky, the small outcrop of buildings. You are as eager to leave as you are eager to smell something sweet.
You hope the Mandalorian’s ship doesn’t smell like shit, too.
Since leaving the cantina, he hasn’t spoken a word, and neither have you. You don’t have anything to say, and polite conversation has never been your strong suit, so it’s easier if you keep your mouth shut—for now. You get the feeling there are plenty of arguments to be had, plenty of words that will cross like swords, over the next year.
Your skin still burns with the ghostly remnant of his hold on your neck. He hadn’t even so much as flexed his finger muscles, but in that moment you felt it—the insane depth of his strength. He could crush you like a glowbug, squeeze until you ooze pus and blood like an irritating insect to be wiped away. He wouldn’t even break a sweat pressing and folding and pinching your neck until you died of suffocation, face blue and eyes bulging from their sockets.
Okay, so at least you know who—what—you’re dealing with: an asshole with zero people skills and brawn to spare. Sounds like every other man that has come and gone through your measly, sad existence. Par for the fucking course.
Unannounced, the Mandalorian stops walking. You catch yourself, tilting forward on your toes, before you can ram forehead first into the solid plate of his back.
“Hey—watch it!” You clear your throat at the shrill sound of your voice and step to the side, out from behind his towering form. A harsh tug to the strap of your bag bites the flesh of your armpit, but it distracts your focus from the heat rising to your cheeks.
He casts you a sideways glance, and hell, for a helmet so masking, you can practically see the loathing in his stare. He’s unimpressed by you on all accounts. Which, you think, is fair enough considering you know the bare minimum about everything in relation to bounty hunting. He’s got his work cut out for him.
Turning away, he pushes a square button on his vambrace, and the ground beneath your feet shudders. You careen your neck back, releasing a low whistle as the entry ramp to a behemoth transport ship lowers to settle on the cracked earth. Pressurized steam swirls around the gaping mouth of the ship, and the Mandalorian strides up the length of the steel tongue, tattered cape swinging behind him. You hurry up the ramp in his stormy wake, only pausing long enough to admire two blaster cannons stacked atop one on opposite sides of the incline. Outfitted for a fight, apparently. The excitement settled at the base of your stomach swirls to life.
The Mandalorian closes the ramp as you step into the ship. He’s halfway across the cargo hold when the ramp thunders shut and daylight is snuffed out like a candle. Pale blue light filters from the floorplates, and a frosty chill skitters across your skin. You resist the urge to rub your arms for warmth.
There is little time to survey your surroundings before Metal Man disappears behind a glass door at the far end of the cargo hold. In a whirl of sucking air and mechanics, he is lifted to the upper deck, and you are left alone, to wait in thick, angry silence until the turbolift is prepared and ready for your ascent. When you exit the turbolift, you step into a curved common area.
Your teacher or tutor or instructor—whatever he is—stands at the far end of the room, shucking his weapons into a narrow compartment built into the bulkhead. He does not turn when the turbolift whooshes back to the lower deck, empty.
“Dick move,” you say, dropping your duffel to a padded bench against the closest wall. “You could have waited.”
He says nothing. Just drops the five fobs onto a circular table by his side. You eye them with interest. And you’re sure he knows—he’s probably got eyes in the back of his helmet—so you look away, shoving your hands behind your back as you stroll about the anteroom.
“Nice wings.” You poke your head down a narrow hallway to your left. “Smells new. Is it new?”
He sighs, the sound grating, like durasteel dragged over sharp rocks. You startle, spinning around on your heel to see him standing directly behind you. Fucker moves like an apparition, silent despite the pounds and pounds of heavy armor on his person. You’ll have to get used to that.
“Yes, it’s new.” He flicks a switch on the wall upwards, and the hall is bathed in warm white light. You count four sealed doors, two on either side.
“What happened to your old ship?”
He pushes past. “Nothing that concerns you.”
You frown. Fine—be that way. Asshole.
The Mandalorian opens the first automatic door on the right side of the hall. He faces you as he swings his arm across the threshold. “You’ll sleep in here.”
Brows lifting with anticipation, you walk forward. You’re sure the accommodations are cramped, as is customary on most starships, but nearly everywhere beats the shithole bed you rented on Nevarro and anything beats where you came from. This is a nice ship, afterall—a hell of a lot nicer than anything you’ve ever set foot on before. Maker, you can already imagine the clean sheets and the fluffy pillow and—
Your jaw drops when you look inside the room.
It’s the galley. He’s offering you the fucking kitchen.
Your head whips to the side. “This big of a ship and you’ve only got one room?”
“No, there are two. You’ll sleep in here.”
You scoff, open your mouth to respond with something snarky and rude, but he’s already moving up the hall to the cockpit. You grit your jaw hard enough to send a sharp pain lancing through your skull.
Gripping the doorframe, you call after him. “Where is your fresher? I want to shower.”
The Mandalorian lifts your duffel from the bench in the anteroom and tosses it down the hall with a flick of his wrist. It lands with a thud halfway to the door; a bra strap slips from a small opening where the zipper won’t shut.
“It’s there,” he says, pointing to the door directly across the hall. “Don’t use too much water. We have to conserve between the two of us. I’ll give you ten minutes before we take off.”
You bend to scoop your belongings from the floor, clutching them to your chest. A sudden wave of exhaustion crashes over you, and all you want more than anything in the entire galaxy is to shut the door to your room and sleep.
But the Mandalorian isn’t done talking.
“Oh, and don’t touch anything in the galley. Everything is—”
You slip into the fresher before he can say anything—demand anything—more.
Nary a thought tumbles through your head as you stand beneath the scalding shower. Just the suds of a body wash you bought at Nevarro’s open-air market and the steam and the pounding water to drown out the voices in your head and your mounting hesitations.
You shower for twelve minutes and towel dry, dressing in your only spare outfit, before slipping back into the galley. You seal the door behind you, careful to lock it from your end, though the thought does cross your mind that the Mandalorian can likely go anywhere he wants on his own ship, lock or no lock. He surely has all the override codes. Still, you hope the keypad in the hall now illuminated red is something he can respect.
The galley is modest in size—bigger than a shoebox, smaller than the least expensive room for rent in Coruscant. A steel table bolted to the floor, two chairs on one side, another padded bench against the wall on the other. On the far side of the room, a squat conservator tucked beneath a long counter and one cabinet scaling floor to ceiling.
You drop the damp towel from your hair and the open duffel in your hand when you spot it: the caf machine, still snug in its packaging.
Stars above! You haven’t had a good cup of caf in eons. Your fingers fumble as you rip the box open and unsheathe the magnificent hunk of white plastine. It’s a cheap model, one you’ve used before, and you’ll be damned if you let it gather dust in a box on the counter.
You find caf beans included in the machine’s box, and it’s enough to prepare a single cup of caf. (You make a mental note to purchase as big of a bag of caf beans as you can get next time the ship lands. This year is bound to give you headaches, and nothing staves off the dull ache at the base of your skull better than some bitter bean water.) Drink made, you slouch on the padded bench and rest your head against the cold wall. Steam curls from the mug in your hand; it’s chipped at the rim, and you run your nail over the imperfection.
The ship has long since lurched into space. It glides through the stars with ease, and your eyes flutter shut as the hum of the engines vibrates through the vessel. A lullaby of old, from a long time ago, when things were better.
This is good. This will be good for you.
You couldn’t exist on Inora anymore. Not as you were, anyway. Offering yourself up to the Guild seemed the only way out of that mess, and now here you are, secured an apprenticeship with a faceless Mandalorian who definitely has the skills and the weaponry to make you out to be the warrior of your imagination.
So you might be sleeping in the galley and your teacher might be a raging asshole, but you’ve dealt with worse. You have the scars to prove it, too.
You want this. You need this.
Defending the defenseless, protecting the prey—maybe this is how you make up for the loss of Jeelia…
Three hundred and sixty-eight days. A full year by the Galactic Standard calendar.
Leaning over, you withdraw a datapad from your duffel. It’s cracked at the edge, but still usable. You open a new note and make a tally with the keyboard.
You’re already counting down the days.
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Listen, I know you, the customer, want to ignore the fact I exist so fucking much, but when I’m in charge of the fitting room, you can’t just ignore me and try to self serve yourself in front of me.
No, you can’t just count your own clothes and grab the number and walk in, I’m literally standing here saying hello and “can you please hang your clothes on this T stand rack so I can count them”, PLEASE.
I ain’t standing here for shits and giggles, my back hurts from standing so long, I can’t slack cause I’m tending to people, I have to be presentable and mentally present for hours for the customers, you WILL acknowledge my existence and say hi back, do what I ask, and bring me the number card AND your hangers back WITH THE CLOTHES STILL ON THEM SO I CAN RECOUNT THEM AS IS THE POLICY, and you can hand me the items you don’t want and go about your day.
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First thank for answer my question about Sarada and Sasuke in Boruto, I think it's really interesting how you talk about the family relationship from an asian perspective. Maybe I can't fully understand how family and bonds are in asian culture because I'm latinoamericana from Argentina and family is really closed for as like father or mother relationship could be pretty closed with their kids not always but it's normal be really closed to your parents.
Besides, I have to say that I really dislike Boruto for many things although I have to admit that Kishimoto and Kodashi play the daddy issues card pretty well because even if I dislike both Boruto and Sarada I can't deny that I understand both of them. First I understand Sarada because I have the same relathionship with my father how never really care or want to talk with me, of course both aren't the same but I understand with Sarada is bitter with her father and likes Naruto because it's realistic for her wants a dad like him because she sees him at least in the village and she is jealous of Boruto because he has a father there and he still complains. On the other hand I understand Boruto was bitter because he's a teennager and I was like him, I was bitter with my mother for not spend time with me because she was working and raising me like a single mother because she didn't have any other support but I was like Boruto and didn't understand how hard she worked and it was the same with Boruto that didn't understand how hard Naruto had to work for the village.
Being honest, it isn't weird the relatioships that Boruto and Sarada have with their parents, both of them see in the other the lifes they would like having, Sarada wished Naruto was her father because he spent some time with his family and they saw him almost every day, Boruto likes Sasuke more because he sees him likes this cool guy that is an strong ninja and goes to wild mission unlike his fathers. However, it's funny that if Boruto was in Sarada's place and Sarada was in Boruto's both of them stills would be bitter about their parents for differents reasons.
Ahhh!!! Now I get it!!! Anon. 😊😊
I can't blame your perspective and it's very relatable to think of that way. Because you have both parents who resembles Naruto and Sasuke in some way, and you relate yourself to both Boruto and Sarada sometimes.
Just my two cents,
This Boruto series itself is a big piece of trash. So, please, please, dont take inspiration or reference from this series. It's not even worth it.
My reasons are
Boruto is an abominable series that shouldn't have existed in the first place.
Naruto series was a success because of the characters' tragic flashbacks and how they pull themselves up from nothing. Since all New Gen characters are the carbon copies of the characters from Naruto we know so well, they won't have any backstories. How do you give stories to them??? By making their parents into their Asshole version you see today. It's just a ploy to make the New Gen characters shine by making the old characters bad.
Objectively speaking, It's a message to the readers/viewers that if you shoulder a precious dream where you don't even have time for yourself, then don't fucking marry. If you marry then dont spew out kids. This is what I took from this series, anon. Because, these guys with their noble dreams, they shouldn't have married in the first place. Or they, say Naruto, should have shared their dreams with their partners, say Hinata, rather than 'a friend' 😊😊 say Sasuke.
It’s another message for little girls in hopeless love that ‘Girl!!!! Fucking move on and do something with your life. If you end up marrying a boy who never acknowledged you, this is what will happen’.
My final reasoning would be a farfetched one, but funny. Kishi can write a good couple dynamics like ShikaTema. He could very well make a scene where Naruto and Hinata walks together and speak something after Pain arc. We, readers, would get it. Instead of writing something like that for our Main Characters Naruto and Sasuke, he wrote up a garbage for them. SS was a nightmare and NH was stained with the blood of Neji. I find it as something Kishi doesn't want to do this but forced to write this because of popularity. So, Kishi gave them, the shippers, all they want and now trashing them mercilessly. Like he was indirectly saying, 'this is what happens if you make me do something I don't like'. Otherwise, why would he make Sarada look like Karin?. So, instead of taking this series too personally, consider it as a revenge from Kishi who is trolling the shippers.
So, anon, watch Boruto like a fun project rather than connecting yourself with that sewage. Because it's not worth it. 😒😒😒
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You can't say you "don't give a shit" and "don't judge" in the same sentence as "it's strictly prohibited in my religion". Way to make your LGBTQ+ followers feel like shit during pride month, coming out with such a bold statement. You're both acknowledging and ignoring gay people's existence using religion as an excuse. If you say it's prohibited to "act on it" it means deep down you will always judge and you will never see same sex relationships equally to heterosexual ones. Disappointing.
Let's see if I can read between the lines: all the millions of lgbtq+ muslims (they exist you kno) are sinners who are performing forbidden acts by feeling love and attraction towards other people of the same gender. you claim to be accepting and yet you say you can't "think about it". do you realize how ridiculous and homophobic you sound, do better and realize that this is not the right way to be 😬 you're 17, educate yourself. i'm begging you
“Acknowledging and ignoring gay people’s existence and using religion as an excuse.”
Believe me, acknowledging gay people (and any different type of people)’s existence is not something that islam stops me to do, It’s a part of my humanity and it’s something Islam itself tell me to do: be acceptant of the others and don’t judge them.
I alrdy know there are lgbtq+ muslims, in fact, I’m mutuals with two of them actually, the only thing that separates our ideals is that they’re lesbians and I’m not. Other than that we’re just the stupid fangirls who never stop simping for Gojo sensei.
I never said that being muslim makes me deny lgbtq+ people’s existence and be the judgmental bitch who vomits upon seeing one of them and tells them to fuck off and go die.
Being a muslim only tells me to not be a part of it.
Being a muslim also teaches me to be open to all people, to accept them for who they are, to fight for their rights and stop racism and any type of hate in any way possible, which also includes being against the homophobic fuckers you’re blaming me to be one of.
Hope that explains what I’m aiming for, and I apologize for any misunderstanding that happened. Love you all ♥️♥️♥️
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Life without death
For #dbhcolorsofdeviancy, prompt:
June 4th: No human lives forever
Characters: Connor, Hank Anderson, Markus
Relationships: Connor & Hank Anderson, Connor & Markus, hinted Connor/Markus
Additional Tags: Mortality, Existentiality, Fear of Death, Swearing, Gun Violence, Injury, Graphic Injury, Suicidal Thoughts, kind of but it’s there so keep safe readers, Hospitals, Medical, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Summary: Connor learns about Hank’s mortality on a mission gone wrong.
TW: Blood, Graphic gun injury, Slight suicidal thoughts
Story below! Or, read it on AO3
There were some things Connor didn’t like to think about. As an android, it was quite easy to shut away these topics in little boxes in his mind, neatly sorted away.
One of them was Amanda. Of course, that box would open itself up sometimes, despite the fact she and the control she could exert over his programming was gone… it would open itself up and play back images in his mind whilst he went into stasis.
The point of these boxes, however, were to protect himself, and for the most part, they worked. Never in his waking moments would he have to experience the unpleasant feelings they brought.
Of course, never… well, never experiencing them in a perfect world. And the world was far from perfect.
Mortality was another.
He knew he could not die, instead his body would be fractured beyond repair and if he did not upload his memories, he would cease to exist. That’s what the more logical side of his mind tried to argue, anyway.
The side unlocked by deviancy, well, it quivered in the face of fatal danger, it took the fears of no longer experiencing the world, no longer experiencing at all, and locked it away in a vault.
Connor supposed that’s why he’d never even thought to breach the subject of human mortality.
In hindsight, maybe he should have at least acknowledged it.
It was a Monday. Late afternoon, and the weather in Detroit was less than optimal. Rain was pouring down, making every known surface slippery with moisture. Hank, as predicted, was grousing about it.
“Fucking weather. Fucking rain. Fucking criminals.”
Of course, Connor couldn’t deny that it was rather unfortunate they were on their way to a crime scene, a murder that had been committed outside rather than in the comfort of a rain-free building.
“It is rather loud.” He commented, listening to the raindrops hammering onto the roof of the car. “I can’t even hear your music, which is at a few decibels above the recommended levels of—”
“Rain?” Hank scoffed. “I can’t hear it over the stick up your ass.”
Connor pursed his lips, still in the process of reaching to turn down the music. “If I had a proverbial stick up my ass, I don’t believe it would make a sound.”
Hank laughed. Pulling the car into park, he was still chuckling. “I just… can’t get over the sound of you swearing.”
He raised a brow, smirking. “Would you like me to say it again, Lieutenant?”
Hank’s good mood was gone again as they got out of the car, expression souring as the rain pelted down onto his head.
Connor found it was even more troublesome as he crouched down beside the body to analyse it. Whilst a small tent had been set up over it, the rain had already done enough damage to wash away vital evidence.
“All blood on the body belongs to the victim, Caria Moltoz.” He sighed, rubbing his hands on his trousers as he got up. “However, the sample is fresh, and along with evidence shown by the wounds… I don’t think the crime was committed all that long ago. We may still be able to find evidence of the killer on the nearby security feeds.”
Hank nodded, turning to go and find these feeds, before noticing Connor’s LED was swirling yellow, eyes flickering rapidly. He was about to express concern, until the android suddenly turned to him.
“I have accessed the cameras and have reviewed the footage—”
“Of course you have.”
“—and I believe the suspect is not too far away from this location.”
And so, they made their way to the direction Connor had viewed their suspect going in. They had appeared to duck into a nearby clothes store, which unfortunately was quite large.
“At least we’re getting out of the rain.” Hank sighed in relief as they entered the building, placing his coat on the rack so he didn’t track water all over the store.
Connor shook a little, reminding him of Sumo coming in from a walk after the rain. At Hank’s look, he frowned and placed his own jacket onto the rack. “Apologies, Lieutenant. I forgot I am no longer wearing my Cyberlife jacket. It was waterproof.”
“Looked shit, though.”
He nodded. “I agree.”
The store was fairly busy, with handfuls of customers here and there. No one had any recollection of a human running inside the store in a hurry, so the suspect must have kept their cool.
Luckily, they were fairly undercover themselves, so it was unlikely the suspect would see them with suspicion and find a way to slip out unnoticed.
“They were wearing a navy blue coat along with dark jeans when I viewed the footage,” Connor whispered to Hank through a stand of clothes which they were pretending to browse through, “but I cannot see anyone of that description in this store.”
Hank nodded, eyes scanning over the room himself, before he spotted something. “Wait here.” he said, taking a black shirt off the hook and making his way towards the changing rooms.
Connor nodded, data piecing together in his mind, forming a conclusion when the older man came back over to him, navy blue coat in his arms along with other items of clothing.
“The suspect changed. Unfortunately, then, I didn’t manage to get a look at their face on the footage, it was covered partially…”
“We’ll get ‘em.”
Deciding it was in their best interest to drop the undercover act, they had the store manager close up briefly, keeping everyone inside for questioning.
“It won’t take long.” Hank placated the disgruntled shoppers.
They made their way through the groups, Connor using his questioning tactics to try and find out who it was. He kept an eye on everyone’s stress levels, including those they weren’t currently talking to, but nothing changed drastically. There were no signs of a killer among them.
“Yeah, thank you for your time.” Connor could tell that Hank was trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone as the shop opened up again. He shared the feeling. They’d spent all this time searching, probably on what would be their best lead to solve this case, and they had nothing.
“Fuck. Well… at least whilst we’re here, I could do with a new coat. This one barely kept the rain out.”
“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant.”
Hank made his way over to the displays, pointing at a brown overcoat. “That looks like it’d suit me. Maybe not the hat, though,” he laughed, pointing to the fedora perched atop the mannequins head. He reached for it, pulling it—
Connor shouted at the same time the mannequin moved, pulling a gun out of the pocket of the brown overcoat, shoving Hank to the side just as the shot went off, and another.
People screamed. The suspect managed to run out of the store, skidding out into the rain, away, away, away…
Connor didn’t move. Why wasn’t he moving? He needed to move. Needed to chase away the…
He groaned. Something flashed in his vision, red and warning. A damaged biocomponent. Huh. Maybe that’s why it hurt.
He was losing thirium, however, it wasn’t fatal, not yet. “Hank, we need to get them, they’re…”
That was strange. Why wasn’t Hank answering? Usually he pushed Connor back to the ground, telling him he’s injured, that he should stay down and wait for him to come back.
But there was nothing.
Panic coursed through his systems. Despite the hot flare that spiked in his side when he moved, he didn’t stop, not until he saw Hank—
Hank, laying beneath him. And there was blood. There was a lot of blood. Red, flowing on the floor, soaking into his coat, staining the fibres and the bits of Sumo hair caught in the fabric—
He couldn’t focus. He might get repaired, but Hank couldn’t. He… humans didn’t live forever. Would he die? Would Hank die here, on the floor of a clothing store in Detroit, whilst Connor could do nothing to stop it?
The wound. Right. The wound. He grabbed the nearest thing he could find (a scarf) and pressed it against the wound. He had to stop the bleeding. Staunch the flow. Stop Hank from dying—
His grasp was weak. Stupid, it was weak. It was the damn wound in his side, thirium leaking out of it steadily, it was making his hands shake and his brain go fuzzy.
“Hank.” He tried again. The Lieutenant didn’t stir. He could see he was breathing, but was if he stopped? What if he died?
Sirens. Sirens were loud, he noted, hands shaking, blood caking his fingers, getting stuck up his artificial nails. Someone was pulling him away. They seemed comforting, but they were pulling him away from Hank, and their words were distant, sucked away in a vacuum—
“Please, you have to save him,” Connor choked out, “he can’t die—he can’t—”
The hands tugged, and with his fading strength, Connor let them. He hoped they would save Hank. And if they didn’t, he mused internally, blackness creeping in the edges of his vision, the warning messages getting dimmer, then he would like to join him.
The first thing Connor registered upon waking was that he wasn’t dead.
The second thing was that he couldn’t see Hank.
He sat bolt upright, finding himself restrained slightly by a tube attached to his side, along with multiple wires across his body. Connor didn’t register where he was—the sheer panic from before starting to creep back into him.
He tore the wires out, before beginning to tug on the tubing. However, before he could get it dislodged, alarms set off by his disturbance had alerted people to his struggle. Some technicians ran in, shouting something about blue blood. But he couldn’t think about that right now, whatever damage he had sustained; he couldn’t see Hank.
Hank was dead.
Connor pulled on the tubing with more force, only stopping when gentle hands clasped around his arm.
“Connor, you need to calm down. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
The words were steady, despite the situation, filled with comfort, and the voice was familiar.
“Let the technicians plug the wires back in, they’re helping you. Just… easy…”
He couldn’t yet put a name to the voice, but he complied, allowing himself to be eased back onto the bed. If Hank was dead… there was nothing he could do about it anyway.
He stopped his struggling but couldn’t stop the tears slipping from beneath his lashes. His body shuddered minutely, hand scrubbing over his face. As everything became more in focus, he looked up to the voice, and saw Markus.
Markus met his eyes, and his gaze softened. As soon as the technicians were done, he ushered them out of the room before perching on the side of the bed Connor was laying on.
“What’s wrong, Connor?”
He took a breath. Opened his mouth, then closed it again. His thoughts were incoherent. The box was open, tipping its jumbled contents all over his mind, and he couldn’t string the words together. In the end, he mumbled, “Hank.” Voice breaking in the middle of the syllable.
Markus nodded. “I know you must have panicked not seeing him here, but rest assured, he’s safe. You saved him, actually. The shot you blocked would have hit—well,” he softened his words upon seeing Connor’s expression, “you saved his life.”
Connor furrowed his brows, looking down at his hands. They were clean. “But… there was so much—so much blood. Hank’s blood.”
The other android grimaced. “Yes, the wound he sustained did hit some arteries, but nothing major. He will need a fair amount of time to recover, as will you, but he’s stable.”
“That’s… good.” Connor breathed, suddenly feeling the urge to change the subject. “But—recover? I thought my systems would be able to self-heal.”
Markus shrugged. “The technicians said that you will be able to self-heal the damage now given adequate thirium, but because the damage was to a major biocomponent, it will take time.”
He nodded. That made sense. At least it would give him an excuse to stay home with the Lieutenant whilst he recovered.
“He’s lucky he didn’t die. I’m… lucky.” Connor breathed after a moment of thought.
Markus placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Humans are fragile. That’s why he has you.”
“But one day… I might not…”
“You’re not perfect, Connor.” The RK800 blinked at that, taken aback. “No one is. But you didn’t fail today, and you won’t tomorrow. Besides, Hank is a skilled detective.”
Connor breathed in deeply. Markus’ words made sense. But now the box was tipped out, his mind was rifling through its contents. Mortality.
“Even so, the Lieu—Hank won’t live forever.”
Markus smiled sadly. “No, he won’t.” He agreed. “Someday, neither will we. But that isn’t what living is about, Connor, not thinking about death.” A pause. “What do you enjoy doing with Hank?”
He thought over it. “I like working on cases with him. But- right, other than work. Well, we do watch movies together in the evenings; he usually ends up falling asleep halfway through them, but it’s—well, it’s endearing. And sometimes he comes along with me when I’m walking Sumo, we stop in the park…” he drifted off into the memory, looking to the ceiling, eyes starting to feel heavy, tired out from the wound and the exertion.
“That’s what life is about, Connor.” Markus said softly, hand moving away from his shoulder, briefly trailing over his forehead and pushing the stray strands of hair to the side. He smiled.
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My favorite WandaVision take (and by favorite I mean most hated but it's also kind of hilarious tbh) that I've seen is that since the show was about Wanda "getting over" Vision when white!Vision comes back they won't get back together and instead they'll platonically coparent their children together asdfghjkl
Like, I get annoyed by the "white!Vision isn't actually Vision" arguments since the show straight up refutes it. And similarly I get annoyed by "white!Vision lacks emotions so he doesn’t love Wanda" because (1) that implies the mcu is gonna follow the comic route exactly, (2) vision clearly has emotions in this scene, and (3) white!vision literally got his emotions back and became regular vision again in the comics so what's your point?
But those arguments have like a thread of logical consistency. They believe that Wanda and Vision cannot get back together because their relationship is irreparable (either cause they interpret Vision as being dead-dead or white!Vision as lacking the ability to ever love again).
But the people who want Vision and Wanda to "platonically" coparent make no sense to me. What's the logic???
You believe their relationship is repairable enough that they could become close friends again and coparent children together but you don't think they should fuck?
If the show is, like you say, about grieving Vision then shouldn't Wanda let go of Vision entirely? 🤔
"Sorry, Vizh, you were dead and that made me sad and I went through the five stages of grief and reached acceptance of your death. I can't fuck you anymore even though you're right here in front of me and I never stopped loving you."
Why not go all the way, Wanda? If you've grieved him and accepted his death than you should zero-contact him asdfghjkl. No platonic coparenting cause Wanda shouldn't acknowledge Vizh's existence at all if she's really moved on!
It just makes no sense!
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Is it weird I'm just kind of not into Pride? I'm a non binary pan person who lives with a conservatives family with no chance of actually being able to be open. Seeing corporations support Pride here in America where it's safe, but still do business with countries that hate us all. That would kill us even. I'm not able to be out and proud. This month sucks if you don't live in a big city that accepts you. Can't wait to hear about how the (insert f slur) are ruining this country in my area.
Let me start off by saying that I'm so sorry you're dealing with that, anon. I can't personally speak to being in a position where it would be impossible/dangerous for me to come out (at least, I hope not), though I do know the feeling of people just... ignoring it? The liberal acceptance of, "We won't actively harm you, but we're also not going to acknowledge this part of your identity in any way. Everything's fine provided you don't bring it up ever again :)" sort of deal. There are many different ways - many different reasons - for being in the closet and all of them are valid, from the horrific "I will literally not be safe" to simply "I'm not ready to come out yet. Maybe I never will be. That's for me to decide." Despite the strides we've made, I think it's worth acknowledging that this progress - acceptance in some places, some queer couples in media, the pressure for corporations to at least pretend like they don't hate us, etc. - comes with a newfound pressure to be out and to be out in a particular way. We're loud, we're proud, and we're going to risk it all to be ourselves! ... which means that when someone can't risk everything, or simply won't, there's this idea that you're doing queerness wrong. I'm not risking alienating my family to push for more acceptance. I don't currently have the means to get myself to protests or parades. My ability to support queer movements depends a lot on funds that I also don't have. In some respects, Pride (month) has been simplified down into this sterilized, celebratory narrative that can, paradoxically, make a lot of people feel unwelcome. What if it's not safe for me to walk out bedazzled in rainbows? What if I don't want to be grateful to these corporations using my identity for clout? What if even my own community still doesn't think I exist? What if, while social media is bombarded with everyone celebrating themselves, the most I can do is air grievances anonymously?
That's okay. Far more than being okay, that's a part of Pride. Pride isn't just a celebration, Pride is a battle. An ongoing one, despite what some would have us believe. We're all allowed to be angry during Pride. Disappointed. Frustrated. Scared. Just plain, fucking tired. That pressure to not just be out, but to be out "correctly" and to be out loudly can become its own kind of exhausting performance. Hell, I'm about to get my hair cut soon and I honest to god was worrying about whether I could get something that "looks queer" because right now I "look too straight" and that's apparently a problem because I've internalized a bunch of nonsense about how we do and do not perform queerness, especially during the month of June. That's obviously an incredibly minor non-problem compared to what others are going through, though the point I'm trying to make through my own, subjective experiences is that none of us need to pretend to be 100% ecstatic about queer politics for the next 28 days. Because it does suck when you don't feel like you have a reason or a means to celebrate, but those feelings themselves are an important part of Pride; one of the reasons that battle exists. It doesn't alienate you from the community (despite how much it might feel that way at times), but rather makes you a crucial part of it.
Idk, I apologize if this response is rambling and too "me" centric. I have trouble working through such complex, delicate subjects, especially during a time when I'm already overthinking them 24/7. I guess what I'm trying to say is that, in as much as our personal situations may differ, I understand those feelings. As much as I'm actually full of pride during Pride, reblogging all the queer memes and sending rainbows to my friends, I'm still equally scared, furious, and disheartened by how far we still have to go and sometimes that translates into just... not wanting to celebrate. None of these feeling are necessarily independent of each other. We can take pride in our identities while also, simultaneously going, "Yeah, this stuff still really sucks." We wouldn't be fighting if it didn't.
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