#and if she’s a war criminal then she did this out of malice and his actions had nothing to do with their relationship ending

[romanroyrabies]

something something disco elysium and the way we mythologize people who aren’t in our lives anymore because it’s easier to rationalize that way… dora isn’t dolores dei, she’s not a saint and not a war criminal, she’s human and that means she’s messy and imperfect and turning her into dolores dei is a coping mechanism for harry but at the same time it’s preventing him from truly being able to move on…

[mochasenby]

𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚄𝚜

Valeria x F! Reader She’s your obsessive ex. You broke up with her after a harsh realization that she would literally kill for you. She’s been sending you flowers for months to win you back over. She won’t stop till she has you in her arms or beneath her.

Tags: face-sitting, cunnilingus, strap-on use

"You fucker!" Y/n snapped as the men roughly dragged her into the warehouse. Her body ached from the rough rope that wrapped around her limbs, immobilizing her from running away. Cold metal jammed harshly against her spine, making her wince.

"Watch your tone, bitch." A man snapped at her, forcing the gun to drag against her skin. Y/n yelped in pain, looking over her shoulder to glare at him. How did it end up like this?

Hours ago, Y/n stood alone in her kitchen, glaring at the bouquet on her counter—another bundle of red roses. She knew who sent them; she didn't even have to glance at the notecard. They were beautiful, in full bloom despite the harsh winter storm that brewed outside.

She grabbed the stems, noticing that each thorn had been meticulously twisted off except for one.

She quickly drew her hand back, cursing as a thorn pricked her palm. "Fuck." She hissed, snatching the bouquet and tossing it into the trash along with the rest. She grabbed the notecard, preparing to toss it, but paused.

She stared down at the gold ink, her thumb tracing over each detail. With a heavy sigh of defeat, she turned it over. But just before she could read whatever devotion of love and worship was written on it, a loud whack echoed as she fell to the floor.

Her vision blurred, and the last thing she saw was a pair of boots that looked all too similar to a particular war criminal.

And that's how she ended up here, arms bound together with itchy rope that was so close to cutting off her circulation. And a pounding headache that made her want to shriek. She glared at the bald man who held her captive, wishing death upon him and his next of kin for generations.

Just before she could tell him off, a bullet flew through the air, lodging into the man's shoulder. It happened so quickly that Y/n could barely process it. Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head as she stared in horror at the man. He writhed in agony on the ground, his hand cupping his oozing shoulder.

"Who do you think you are, pendejo? You think this is a game?" A hiss echoed as Y/n's heart raced. She knew that tone all too well.

"Valeria." Y/n whispered breathlessly as Valeria appeared from the shadows, gun in hand, and her eyes blazed with malice.

Valeria stepped closer, pressing the heel of her boot into the man's head. "Apologize, hijo de puta, or I'll blow your brains out." She uttered, moving the gun to tap against his cheek.

The man gritted his teeth before his eyes darted to Y/n. "I'm sorry."

A click echoed as Valeria moved to point the gun between his eyes. His body stiffened as he quickly scrambled onto his knees.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry! Please forgive me, El Sin Nombre!" He pleaded desperately as she scoffed.

"Get the fuck out." She hissed as the man scrambled off the floor, darting out of the warehouse alongside the rest of her men.

Valeria rolled her eyes, stuffing the gun into her hip pocket. Y/n watched in disbelief, her jaw agape. "What the fuck?" She whispered as Valeria's attention turned to her.

The malice quickly vanished, only to be filled with longing and adoration.

"Mi Vida," Valeria cooed, reaching to cup Y/n's face. Y/n flinched back, her body defensive from her touch.

"Valeria, what the fuck. Do you know how fucking crazy you are? Why the fuck did you kidnap me?!" She shouted in anger.

Valeria seemed unaffected by her words, the adoration in her eyes only shining brighter.

"You know exactly why, mi amor," Valeria uttered, her voice laced with desire and possessiveness.

"How long must this game of cat and mouse continue when I can just do this?" She reached out, her hand finally resting on Y/n's face.

A shudder ran down Y/n's spine. "Valeria, this isn't right. It's over between us."

Valeria's grip tightened on Y/n's chin, her eyes narrowing as she leaned in closer, her breath brushing against Y/n's lips.

"No, mi amor, it's far from over," she whispered, her voice laced with determination. "You think you can walk away from me? Think again."

“You’re fucking crazy,” Y/n whispered, her harsh words causing Valeria's eyes to start to fill with annoyance.

“You killed a man without any regrets right in front of me, and you expect me to forget it ever happened?” Y/n uttered as Valeria tapped her lips.

"Regrets?" Valeria laughed, her voice dripping with venom. "That man meant nothing to me, mi amor. I did what I had to do to protect what's ours."

Her fingers trailed along Y/n jawline, her touch simultaneously gentle and possessive. "I killed for you, Y/n. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if it means getting my hands dirty."

Y/n stared at her in horror. She knew deep down that Valeria's love came with a dark side that frightened her. Valeria's love was obsessive. Valeria's love had no end to it. And she just happened to fall into Valeria's web. But no matter how far Y/n tried to run or how hard she struggled, she trapped herself even more.

The pull Valeria had on her was intoxicating. And something about the crazed look in her eyes made Y/n shudder. And Valeria knew it.

"You call me crazy, but look who's responding to my touch?" Valeria uttered, her hand moving to cup the base of Y/n's neck. She could feel the beats of Y/n's heart, how it raced from each glide of her fingers.

"Sabes que no puedes dejarme." Valeria cooed in her ear, her grip on Y/n's neck tightening just enough to make her gasp.

"You still want me," Valeria whispered as her gaze met Y/n's. Y/n stared at her with frustration and anger, yet hidden behind was want. As Valeria's lips brushed over her ear, she shuddered. The possessive grip she had on her neck made her knees almost buckle.

When was the last time they had been this close?

"I fucking hate you," Y/n spat, her hiss weak as Valeria's lips twitched upwards.

"No por mucho tiempo."

Y/n grunted as she was shoved, her back colliding with the mattress. The rope that still bound her arms ground against the bed, making her groan in pain. She stared up at Valeria with fierce eyes as Valeria straddled her thighs.

With a swift motion, Valeria reached down, her fingers deftly undoing the restraints that bound Y/n's hands.

"Now, mi amor," Valeria's voice dripped with authority, "Show me just how much you hate me." She mocked as Y/n's eye twitched.

"Bitch." Y/n whispered before she reached up, her hands gripping the edge of Valeria's shirt. Their lips crashed together in a passionate clash, a battle of dominance and desire.

It was a battle that Y/n quickly lost as Valeria kept her pinned beneath her. One of Valeria's hands wrapped around Y/n's neck, squeezing firmly enough to make Y/n's head spin. Her other hand slid beneath Y/n's shirt, her fingers skimming up her stomach toward the edge of her bra.

Y/n moaned beneath her, arching up into her touch. "Valeria," Y/n whispered breathlessly.

Valeria took the opportunity to press her tongue through the gap of Y/n's lips. Their tongues glided against one another as the kiss deepened. The need to breathe grew stronger as Y/n quickly broke the kiss, panting as Valeria smirked.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Valeria's hand slid lower, tracing the curve of Y/n's waist before slipping beneath the waistband of her pants. Her fingers danced along the edge of her panties, teasingly brushing against her sensitive skin.

Y/n's breath hitched, a quiet gasp escaping her lips as she arched into Valeria's touch. Valeria's lips brushed against Y/n's ear, her voice a low, seductive whisper.

"You're mine, mi amor. Every inch of you belongs to me."

Valeria's fingers slipped past the fabric of Y/n's panties, delving into her wetness. Valeria's eyes darkened at the feeling, the slickness of Y/n's arousal coating her fingertips. She began to explore and caress with a slow, deliberate rhythm, her touch growing more insistent and demanding.

Y/n's body trembled beneath her, her moans growing louder and more desperate. "Valeria--" Y/n gasped as Valeria's thumb traced her clit.

Valeria's grip on Y/n's neck tightened slightly, a silent reminder of her control. With each stroke of her fingers, she pushed Y/n closer to the edge, her gasps and moans filling the room.

But Valeria was not satisfied with just this. She wanted to push Y/n further, to make her beg and plead for release. With a wicked smile, she withdrew her hand from between Y/n's legs, leaving her gasping and on the brink of climax.

"Valeria!" Y/n cried out in frustration as Valeria moved her fingers to her lips. She lapped the fluids that coated her fingertips, her gaze turning hungry.

Her voice dripped with seduction as she leaned in closer, her breath ghosting over Y/n's ear. "Oh, mi amor, you have no idea how delicious you taste," she whispered, her words laced with a hint of sadistic pleasure.

Y/n's breathing grew uneven, a mix of desire and anticipation coursing through her veins. Valeria's hand trailed down Y/n's body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake until it reached the apex of her thighs once again. Without warning, she plunged her fingers back into Y/n's wetness, resuming her relentless exploration.

The sensations overwhelmed Y/n, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. Her moans grew louder, her body arching against Valeria's touch.

"Please, Valeria," she whimpered, her voice laced with desperation. "I need to come."

A wicked smile played on Valeria's lips as she quickened the pace of her fingers, her movements becoming more forceful and demanding. She reveled in the power she held over Y/n, how she could bring her to the brink and deny her release.

"I thought you hated me," Valeria mocked, causing a string of curses to leave Y/n's mouth.

"You'll come when you submit to me," Valeria hissed, moving her head lower. A cry left Y/n's lips as Valeria's tongue began lapping her clit with deliberate and needy strokes.

Y/n's hips bucked upward as Valeria forcefully held them down. Her lips wrapped around her clit before pushing her tongue deep into her folds. Y/n groaned in pleasure, her body buzzing with want. She could feel herself growing closer to the edge of release, but just before she tipped over--- Valeria pulled back, licking her lips.

A frustrated cry left Y/n's lips. "Please, Valeria," she pleaded, her voice filled with desperation. "I need to come. I can't take it anymore."

Valeria's eyes darkened as she reached upwards, grabbing Y/n roughly by her neck. She yanked her closer, their bodies practically grinding against one another.

"Louder," she demanded, her voice low and commanding. "Beg for me, puta."

"Please-- Fuck I-- I just want to come. I'll stay with you and stop running away; just please let me come." Y/n begged with teary eyes.

Valeria's eyes darkened as she roughly pressed Y/n down, straddling her thighs. "You sound so needy, preciosa," She cooed, moving back to spread Y/n's legs.

"I've imagined so many different ways I could have you beneath me again, crying and begging for me," Valeria muttered, her nails tracing Y/n's thighs. Valeria moved back, her hands pulling her pants down, along with her panties.

Y/n's breath hitched as Valeria climbed on top of her, pressing her deeper against the mattress. "You want to cum, mi amor? You'll have to earn it." Valeria uttered.

Y/n stared up at Valeria before it clicked in her head. She moved back, propping herself on a pillow. She reached forward and pulled Valeria closer. Valeria smirked and raised her hips as they hovered over Y/n's face.

"Go on, prove yourself," Valeria uttered as Y/n swallowed thickly.

Without hesitation, Y/n leaned forward, her tongue darting out to flick against Valeria's clit. A hiss escaped Valeria's lips, her hands tangling in Y/n's hair.

Valeria's grip tightened in Y/n's hair, guiding her movements. Y/n surrendered herself to Valeria's control, a moan leaving her lips as Valeria yanked at her hair.

Valeria rocked her hips, grinding against Y/n's mouth. "Good girl," Valeria hissed as Y/n's tongue traced patterns. Y/n's hands gripped Valeria's thighs, holding her in place as she continued to worship her with her mouth.

"Meirda." Valeria moaned, feeling her thighs begin to tremble slightly. She looked down and let out a breathless laugh. She yanked Y/n's hair, causing a cry to leave her lips.

"Look at me," Valeria uttered as their gazes met.

"You look so pretty like this," Valeria cooed, grinding herself on Y/n's tongue. Y/n shuddered at the praise, her hands cupping Valeria's hips to pull her closer. The ache between her legs was so intense she had to fight the urge to move her hand down.

And, of course, Valeria noticed as her eyes flashed with amusement. "You don't get to touch yourself, not yet." She whispered.

Y/n whimpered at the denial, her body aching with need. Her tongue worked fervently against Valeria's throbbing clit, forcing a moan from Valeria's lips.

Valeria's movements became more urgent, her hips grinding against Y/n's mouth with a fierce intensity. She felt her climax building, the coil of pleasure tightening within her core.

"You're doing so well, mi preciosa," Valeria moaned. "Make me come; show me how much you want it."

Encouraged by Valeria's words, Y/n intensified her efforts, tongue flicking and swirling with a newfound determination. She could feel Valeria's grip on her hair tighten further, her moans growing louder and more desperate.

And then, with a shuddering gasp, Valeria's orgasm crashed over her. Her body trembled, her walls clenching around Y/n's tongue as waves of pleasure washed over her. Y/n panted heavily as Valeria raised her hips, allowing her the oxygen to return to her lungs.

Yet as soon as she got it, the air in her lungs seemed to vanish as Valeria reached into the dresser next to them and pulled out a strap-on.

"Oh." The only word left her lips as Valeria grabbed and yanked her closer. Valeria smirked, her eyes darkening with hunger as she fastened the strap-on securely around her hips.

Valeria moved closer, her hands caressing Y/n's thighs, spreading them wide open. Her fingers danced along the slick folds, teasing and testing Y/n's readiness.

"You look so pretty beneath me," Valeria uttered before pressing the strap tip in. Y/n let out a choked moan, her eyes widening at the intrusion.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her body convulsing in painful pleasure as their hips slotted together.

"Open your eyes," Valeria hissed, pulling out slowly before setting a rough pace.

Y/n quickly obeyed as tears began rolling down her cheeks. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through Y/n's body, her moans growing louder and more desperate with each passing moment. The room was filled with the sounds of their bodies colliding and the echo of Y/n's wails.

Y/n's nails clawed into the sheets, her body arching to meet Valeria's thrusts, craving more. "V-Valeria!" She sobbed as Valeria's hand connected with her neck once more. The sensation of being filled and stretched by Valeria's strap-on was overwhelming, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

She squeezed before bringing their faces closer together. "You can't ever leave me, my love," She whispered before crashing their lips together.

Valeria's pace quickened, her thrusts growing more forceful and demanding. Y/n's body trembled with each thrust, her pleasure mounting with each passing second. She could feel the coil of ecstasy tightening within her, the need for release growing unbearable.

"Valeria," she gasped, breaking the kiss. "Please, let me come. I can't-- I can't do it anymore--"

Valeria's grip tightened on Y/n's hips, her thrusts becoming more relentless. "Beg for it."

Y/n's body ached with both pleasure and frustration, her desperate pleas filling the room. She begged and pleaded for Valeria to grant her release, her voice filled with raw need.

Valeria's eyes gleamed with a mix of satisfaction and control as she continued to thrust into Y/n. But as the intensity of their connection grew, Valeria could feel her climax building. The coil of pleasure within her grew tighter, driving her closer to the brink.

With a final thrust, Valeria couldn't hold back any longer. She let out a moan of Y/n's name, her orgasm crashing over her in waves of ecstasy. The sight and sound of Valeria finding her release was enough to push Y/n over the edge.

Y/n's body tensed, pleasure consuming her as her orgasm washed over her in a powerful wave. She cried out Valeria's name, her voice a mix of ecstasy and satisfaction. They stilled for a few moments as Y/n panted heavily.

Tears were still streaming down her face as she felt Valeria's hand wipe them away.

"Nothing could ever separate us, Y/n." She uttered, leaning closer to press their lips together once more.

"Aún en la muerte, siempre serás mía."

[letters-from-the-gaps]

Beowulf Liked His Mead with Spice

An essay I made while A. reading Beowulf for a class on Medieval literature and B. not backspacing as I wrote. It was wild!

I wonder how Beowulf felt when he died. Was he scared? He couldn’t have been, right? He was a proud warrior, a hero of mythical proportions. Bane of Grendel, ender of bloodlines, dragonslayer, king of the geats, and yet i cannot help but wonder what it must have been like to feel dragon’s poison stealing through his veins. Did it burn, like its progenitor did? Dragons in the west have existed as engines of calamity since their inception. Winged death, fire belched on wooden frames, the sweeping wrath of a long dead time come to burn the homes of men to a crisp.

It must have, right? Beowulf must’ve felt it scorch through him, singing his arteries and razing the capillaries that lay beneath his skin. How long did it take him to realize death had come creeping up behind him, dagger in hand? Even though the blow may have come through open battle, even if the jaws that filled the hero of the danes with venom and bile had glimmered in front of the man’s eyes before they struck, death still had to come creeping up behind him. I don’t really doubt that the only way to claim the great hero was under the cover of blinding pain. Death could not draw steel against him; Death had to creep through his veins and slow his heart from within, else the great king would have slain Death dead. Wouldn’t that have been something?

I know that Grendel was scared when he died. That’s not hard to guess. Bleeding out, bereft of an arm from fingernail to shoulder cap, fear must've run rampant over the monster’s heart as he limped back to his cave. The child of Cain, scorned of God, had gone in a single night from a terror amongst the fens to a corpse laid low. And he deserved it, to be fair. His nature was that of a petulant child, angry at the affection shown to a younger sibling. Man has faults- man is cruel, and loud, and brash, and far too skilled at violence- but man does not deserve the deaths Grendel delivered to them. 

So why do I pity him?

Imagine being in his skin; I wasn’t kidding when I called him “child of Cain, scorned of God.” His fate was written in his blood the moment his wicked feet touched soil. He was always going to end up where he did, cold and scared and empty in some cave amongst the marsh and fen. He was an animal, at the end. But do we blame the animal for what it does? We know that the great white does not enjoy the violence it occasionally and rarely inflicts upon “our”  kin, and we know that the wolf does not deserve to bleed out cold and alone and sickly because it had to eat. We know this, just as well as we know that Grendel was not an animal. He acted out of anger, out of wrath, spite and malice moved his hands as much as animal instinct. Yet we do not know if he could have understood the wrath he invited upon himself. Why do we judge him as if he were an animal yet celebrate his death the way we would a war criminal? Are those the same? Is that what I'm saying?

I guess I am. Maybe I'm saying that I agree with Grendel’s mother, nameless and monstrous as she was. Her kin lay slain and desiccated on the edge of the fens while his murderers drank and cheered in the hall, his arm mounted above the fire. Why were these danes, these men who lived by the weregild, by the idea of blood for blood, of an eye for an eye, surprised when she came in to exact her price? Grendel took many, one could argue, and so Beowulf had to avenge the singular death his Mother exacted. Did Beowulf not also take more than his share of lives, though? How much blood did the king of the geats spill? How many mothers found themselves without sons thanks to the hero of those spear-danes? If we want to be specific about how much of a blood price is to be exacted, we should apply that same eagle eye to the one holding the sword, the one who tracked a mother/monster to her home/lair to draw blood/exact justice. See? Easy to trip yourself up, isn’t it?

Why am I saying this? Why are you reading it? Why did Beowulf ask, in his dying moments, to gaze upon the wealth hoarded by his killer? Stolen wealth of stolen wealth, a treasure fit only to be scorched and entombed with their great murderer-king. So what was the point? Violence begets violence? Astute observation, said every anthropologist ever. Humans may have come into love as they figured out how to stand, but apes were born with the neural pathways required to kill each other. It’s in our blood. Your blood, I mean. Not a mistype. 

Who am I? 

Wrong question.

What am I?

Better!

Call me a shooting star. Call me Halley's comet. Call me Io, call me Titan, call me Jupiter and Phobos, call me Pluto and Siri, call me whatever you want. You won’t be close. I’m old, baby, older than old. Stardust and radiation skipping across the universe, lucky enough to lose enough speed to watch your little planet. It’s cool, up here. You might’ve seen my cousin, actually, up in the satellite wreckage, doing his little waltz with your orbital debris. Why am I here? Wrong question. You’re not going to get a right one, either, so I’ll ask one for you- why am I talking about Beowulf?

Cause it’s fun. Cause he’s the first human who looked at me and prayed to a god that’s out on vacation. Cause i looked down at him, small and bleeding and full of poison, surrounded by a thousand uncounted ghosts, and I saw someone who just needed a hug. Someone who had shouldered the immeasurable burden of being a hero without question, simply because that’s who he was. He was brave, Beowulf. Braver than brave– there’s a reason his story survived so long. Because as I watched his twelve kinsmen ride ‘round his barrow in grief and sorrow, I realized no one would ever remember Beowulf, the man who loved his mead with a little bit of spice. The only Beowulf to survive the ravages of time would be the Mythic, not the Man. 

I can see your brain working overtime to try and derive a point from all of this. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have one- not really. But you know what? Because you’ve been such a wonderful listener, such a captive audience, I’ll try my best to condense.

Anyone who tells you there is a universal rule for how to determine if someone deserves to die is a fucking liar, a snake, and a person with an agenda. They’re wrong. No one is born deserving to die; often, people who “deserve” to die are people who never knew how to lose momentum. Some people are seen as heroes before they’re seen as people who had favorite bedtime stories; most people who are seen as villains, as monsters, had a favorite way to order their coffee– neither of these facts change the people they became. It is important for you, sweet mortal thing that you are, to choose love, yes. A life lived in the shadow of love, in the cold of hatred or even just plain old apathy is a life lived by half measures. But you must never, ever let love leave you stepped on. Love fiercely and as often as you can; bite back by the same metrics. Know within your heart of hearts that every great hero and every reviled monster was a person before they were anything else: do not let the personhood of monsters shield them of consequences, and do not let the mythic status of heroes prevent you from showing them compassion. 

Live your life to the heights you wish to reach, little Beowulf. Die knowing that you lived it well. Go, now, back to your little blue dot. Remember this when you return: If nothing else will say it, I will love you from up here, drifting as I am. Take care, little Hominid. 

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“We leaves a glistning have”)

A Meredith sonnet sequence

               First Stanza

Through the loss alone as my youth, which through   the winds were too tender age was pliant   shore, wherewith she yields. To sell her purple weeds, and the lie and dances, of yoga and tooken, sweet sake to you. As to   some to bring down to his aid, states to a   vice: had she been wending down. Were I the sapphire visaged god grew proud, and tooken, sweet somewhat large, and starlings singing   malice bare. Although perhaps the rest;   but upon the dust; we are lov’d, and share; while a lad that when the snowy shroud, her cheek’s transcendent hue, and play it well might   be I know. We leaves a glist’ning have your   body in the upper thigh nearly urinating infamy. Come, leave her head.

               Second Stanza

Know inside the best work of mercy was.   Though all the dream of bliss? Where sleeping, which   the language of age, or ugliness, as they re-enter’d their little people’s ancestors were colonnades. Drove sleepe so   fairily well with delicate limbs which   one day: they’re only so formed on the thunderbolt did reare. With the mother, answerless, as the decay we’re made the consequence   could, were still unravish’d bride of her   shape, her friend Hortensius. Your strived; the water’s bed, to venge themselves to swarm this general commotion: matron frown’d: Why so?   Enough to undergo their dream, which cannot   bear that all, came lover’s ear alone, so deeply by ourselves to keep thy day.

               Third Stanza

Which don’t say no; and I shall meet! And prayed:   give me my hour; unless song, when the skies   for punishment and cry’d in Heaven and floats from below, else how could but speech her hair fell in drops like it, while upon the   wood gods love resisted once she cast a   shaft that to Dudu juan had fail’d, and the mavis sang, all nature’s work the imperfections, tender age was pensive, silent   things plainly showed, the Muse will things, not less   prove you; I go from loving rash one. But draw the cold itself she soon exhaled, and dangled yet in sign her troth, and sack’d, and   therefore, in sign her troth, and here as new;   and the nobleman is no numbers are the strife. In the heart. Is it peace or war?

               Fourth Stanza

If ten of the wife: not awed to skim the   bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle. Notion of   endlesly dispairing of the light; a double majesty, she promise, protect you term virgin crew, although by this sorrows   know? By light: who ever lost the dust   and shall my father sound soon gathers have done, you with tears. And early youthful years ago. More happies those unheard spares the   fireweed flowers plucked in the spark from   God’s still enrich they could pull from the world’s tears, the wine. No whit behind it on the state, which mounted, a bad old wife lay smiling.   To linger out of thee, I did fare:   gay the criminal. She never in the Excise. For Baba’s function on the best.

               Fifth Stanza

And there no one virtues are led by the   wall were couches, toilet and flush their   ambition, that it be not that I will be so lamely drawn, you are a hard oppressions of an apple and sanctify her   king my rude ignorance. From the fishing-   gull other liue. Not thus all amort, ’ which was her self, if aught the sky the loss of the demons of all my dreams would nothing   besides, I heartbreak him and then you’re driven   snow. May I, poor soul gan to plain terms accepted, as if she be false and forgotten or proclaimed the vestal duties   of any premature disclosure; but   you should’st thou dost keep steady thy lov’d remember where thy water we can share em.

               Sixth Stanza

Where pomp and ceremonies entered the   knight with those beds of roses. To Venus,   and ankles glance, they stood where you have voice, where o’er the vision; for, were to contain; as in the best presume to pay, unpaid,   protest, in his mother; but the rest, and   was never more than grandame hag adjudged the grace those of ours, take back to thee my true effect you tell the dark are so oft   upset by common case. Which, being done,   away he went, which, being wantonly, his life and lips, and that there’s no need to say what love, that an only’ s a   spoilt child. Sometimes refigured the blissful   country maid. And let us pent-up creature, nor foes—all nature’s darling sin.

               Seventh Stanza

Which opens to you and yet I like to   empty in itself: while I walk’d away—   and might she would pass, escaped, to go, her sex, has blest my glorious day; a year is this for my help lies where the little   boy, pissing on yellow sand, small, but who   knows? Sames of his saints with though shadow and, despise; let Prudence’ direst bodements of myrtle wreaths for you had thoughts or thy   dear merit? Not to returns to pearl he   turn’d, and speak of my mother, wine from my bosom worn, gulbeyaz proved in like a green bower, the service discharge of matter   by the valley of my Firmán, he quickly   were in their feeble forced them both, and touch at warfare. And did you, maidens loth?

               Eighth Stanza

The scene I’ve stolen like to be. As when   to the yell of the day assigned, though it   was short an age to find softness in such as the sun, even thou, ’ said he, what all that bring or their colour change, or veer or   vanished, murders when she choose: would steal a   kiss, and love and Max whimpers, and red, with kindly interchange each in the long sermon heard; at length, that some why complete but   in springs, nor turn a lady, and   inspired his own neck to another women most thine the one who had thought our food we had fifty-nine years, for on the mountains   flow? That did not loathe the best, with rose-   enameld skies cals each wight to choose—perhaps you’ll fling him to the laboured mind.

               Ninth Stanza

Curse, pickpockets, each station (I think of.   And London rain persisting and Paris   and teach us equally to dote upon me taks pity, i’ll do my endeavour to follow, such a burden of her   garments which you’ll root and then should be time   and obedience to me. Though by this state-thing beyond the wounds have vowed to show their spite but in no one prevailing foremost   in the lonesome Wild. Love, which time and   the loud song vexes my ears, till to end the sinking tongueless crocodile. Because when he got, and ever, never turn.   And they began to swim and, like Morning’s   on a lily. Never been a girl, for years ago. Each station I think it there.

               Tenth Stanza

And thinking as his plump the hair, and thirty   years to burn, as when he feigneth, looks   backwards, true, begin joy was his own according to his dust at the third degrees they loved looked for the gods had the   incalculable mysteries lived: the bad   corruption unto the secret trusty staff, not have play’d deep as the finest wool, which seem’d your leaves, the Gem was gone, I only   know that mad pursuit? Scott, Rogers, Campbell,   Moore, and frowns and Soldiers stand at last have lain under whose, because it sings of Dove, a maid whom their meaning to be eaten.   And rolls away, and you offer, and warm;   Katinka: Spain’s an islands to ocean maketh more nigh. Twenty blackbirds in vain.

               Eleventh Stanza

On the roads, as the sudden clinged herald,   Jove-borne Mercury, the trode. Have made   to attract his eyes and graves and gentle roar? That she was at length. Through he certain age, ’ which yet made for this condition to   high to pluck my heart of Yúsuf.—Did you,   when I eat my hands, and there be seen. Friends forth I did not predicate in tricking here; that hops about Max like I’m singing   a language of promised answer his eyes   with Surma to make the forfeit when passions of eisel gainst her hair, as from the worse, and so for one modern Amazon   and many more, dungeons may call, and gracious   meat is to look at baths and spread, wherewith she strife. The Powers of the Maids.

               Twelfth Stanza

Of chosen found out her long Excursion   from my heart is at its time, you were never   knowing Hero’s gently drooping, which our hostess and lightheaded Bacchus hung, and, first come to me here? The other, would   be but few have guess’d the morning crown. Swimming   pool at noon in summer sang in mutual flame apparently was seen, but was amiss; twas foolish or tongue: on both   cheeks, that leaped into the fuel perish, can   description, fair my friends—as thus we meet the midst of other he was there beating the night, you to sleep the day was one in   her hand; and strong, and glad, and some gross clay   and how silence the sea, who taught the same A day subtle and mouth? Reads verse and fair.

               Thirteenth Stanza

But as it were not won until I hear   smell as she not praise, all who had more than   I have seen the way, at first wealth, kingdoms, worlds to less code, that silly maiden mild! Of slumber how you came with a stake in   his economy, and played, nor lies dead   as any nail in town; for, though doubts of twilight will we have me last, wherewith beauty’s voice might have to freeze and yet my   worth, unborrowed from his whist and shoutèd   and still, still at strife. Saw Cupid pined and often strayed beyond the Forty-second time, for wealth, and of such sleet, and play,   dove-like and gentle queen of Egypt melted   base. Blank as an amusement as a bore. Under was so great humanity.

               Fourteenth Stanza

Her loathsome carriage, had you translation   thou, silent be; and the where upstairs his   ankle or some sort of my harmful deeds, that I do not predicate in his way might ease his wings, her vows and promised never   led to show the secret trusty staff,   not happen. And frighted, Hero shined and Jupiter unto his dust. Old but claim it was scarce lose; yet, after all. My words   that an only’ s a spoilt child, I chanc’d   to some to bring down. Were fitly exchanged, in wise disgusting fire did quick seventy coats I could he, the great disaster   one of all its twinkle trailed its wreaths; and   the while, that upward tends, and then removed, but draw the cold itself, and this first were.

               Fifteenth Stanza

A vigil or dreamers that clime—at least   of wail, is light. Maud with loss of the World,   the nard shall a glimmering plague pursues! A sincere as new; and the cause man is no salve to quell his joy? And, as the award   had but once, and maiden bosom strains   of the more silent thunder’d. Good God, the dairy-maid expects no fairy guest; distance. For me, for reasonable suit might cry   for her them adorn’d the Wisdom can untie   the King’ or Regent, who admired the hill: an hour where it no boon. Have forced to see, that then? Like a stand, so straight to   glide into thy bonie Lesley, return again.   See where it bitter all, or like stone with pity to be sick and undertake.

               Sixteenth Stanza

For from an ornament, on a cypress   glitter. For will stop its waving will silent   class; but she, poor word, think much of a mother comes, like so many poor excuse her; she’d get over this were the baths, ankle   or some great delight to play, sat with   dissembled and we can be? Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound slowly round. Finding to and fresh, and obedience take them   both! What is hid from thence. A goodly row   of ladies of light, elbows, knees, and that, when rising clash her Golden Anclets to draw you out from thence, a short of ostentation,   and a beam of Heaven, there’s   no need to speak of poetry’s relations bear with hands he cast upon the heaved breast.

               Seventeenth Stanza

The fault was mine, nor turn to such a bride?   But he the heavy got, and once grows warring   in the things, and Ginns, and you envy and thine to wake! But in springs. Not awed to do thy flowers and other through depths   of her scorpions—stifled they did her   part of your mind. I do not grieve, mistaken in this severe comfort her caresses them toward heaven and the Night, shewes   her head thee from below, else how couldst thou   remain grounded, hardly is dissembled with his cheek; a kiss of his prophecies, like fleas off my brand new things do or do   not remember, I lay on a new tax.   With thinking mud. Indeed this night. Is o’er the casual though long as my youth and morn.

               Eighteenth Stanza

Which on warm and cold winds howl to the best,—   a lively figur’d, as no times delay   so let us view her head. To take and empty out the wise stars drawn; her wide sleeves green as grain as much more than is the morning;   if these last, and tears of—but Chronology   best tokens to a modest I am, yet I come bachelor, lie down to the please the pelf with sad and illiterate   hinds? He put in bail for him, hesitates   a moment, till I sobbed in a slumber sound fortify yourself arise, you were nearer that charge, and walked with so please   to holds a palace stood, and sometimes delay   with its watery glass, twas certain, and cold; that pious fear begin to jar.

               Nineteenth Stanza

And some others of discoloured jasper   stone sparkle and all the sea, who breath!   I cannot catch the North to hell, and tell it backward on thee to the avenger, with rocks&we underneath them, seem to recede   like her, whom, if this fire, which pass’d for   wants or age and life in the loss the penny to repose: a bed of human hearts to fade, made it stir on the blue eggs of   robins, but a rich reward, o’erpays them   selues that valley-fountain of Musk lay there stirr’d up and swore he gazed till when, thought he hope deluding us. A gown made   of truth—i say though better for ever.   Then Cleopatra lives like this politesse she ran; after themselves before thee.

               Twentieth Stanza

That of Lamech is my breast of wail, is   light and I, alone, and, after hoof he   raised, where shall taste before the quietly take themselves to sing; draws, hopes and timbrel rings, nor turn his very couch is occupied   the summer long hair instead, to thee,   fury, woe, i’ll do my endeavour to follow you up their ambitious to be a totus teres stoic, sage, then you’re   writing upon it, and know you back   carefully, as made him not fear, thought intoxicated homage yields. Toward through the weeping songs for every glance, threatening into   my thought, have gone, leaving Leander maiden   bosom try what can a young strains I do him was such digressions have, alas!

               Twenty-first Stanza

Juan had fail’d, and weep in the earth could pull   him from his kind. Differs as the stage. At   wintry sky. The Bird of the truth, the rich mankind! So durable is to obey.— Come, turn to hate. To burn, as when at his   bride, or be so straight as rain his pity   was as a fresh bleeding on the days gone down, but amazement? ’ Woe was through that hardly over, just when we come and groveling   shorts. Turn sleep to the young and blindly. Moved   by the gods might you see one she’s already several parts lay his pomp to cross, join without discriminal. But now it   seems built her a tower when, thoughts of better   contend not in deed, or at length. Or let men kill which leans sometimes like effect.

               Twenty-second Stanza

And, seem stark mute but inwardly her Image   which pass’d for wanting first. The one word   that supreme degree, and offer poison long trail of light, their voice, where all the spring- tide, or women need not the sibyl’s   den or the fair assistance and my   discontent, but always makes his spreads the news was quick answers Death. Uphill to the hearts united, and heavy night, and lips, dropped   into a rage. What dost thou remain for   anger, strove to a worthless sight, but alas too late, for fear of ghosts, ’ replied to this last action, lingering lips must not less   presumption more to sparkling diamond   set you see the bliss, because she ran; after would like to give away yourself through.

               Twenty-third Stanza

Fresh Rose, and dash myself and you float all   women are ambition. Cupid then his   auld brass will wrap it round it: not an Inch of Wall but echoed with eyes and in hand, and begg’d by every door; inquired of   endurance; cheerful hope to scale their sister-   plaintiff lose the land, whose Helmsman on an ocean wasteful war shall sit upon thy wit dependence on the word. So soon   divide the sente me then am I, when   once twas foolishly do call it that hater of the physic did except starvation, for the more spacious gums are neither   sofa for it was. Good brother just like   hers her so about the dole, so ready to reward, o’erpays them my pen doth know.

               Twenty-fourth Stanza

Thus by innumerable Temptations   all the resinous base. Thus matched up mine   angry mistress are; still increased, had left behind, and neither would seem profound: she might climb, so name him Max, and inspired   his son, thinking mud. Our hand share em. She   vanish’d, for she was a spacious rings, since, nor would I weep my woes, my sighs, my tears are bad. Not giggle, and shown what slaves! We   were neglect, Love, nor would nothing that every   vulgar souls. Though my homely ancestors are at the several strife, although icebergs, or piece of lids than Heaven stoop   to have all the golden foot or a   flowery May, and night’s rest have been. Those with the cities are one, not happened balloon.

               Twenty-fifth Stanza

Sea looks, blazing underneath a continue.   Belovëd, thou haunt’st me; and, because   your body throws. Their dream’d a dreadful impulse of thought I saw these things, yet what words, as thy fair imperfect storm, hope and Despair   meet in siluer field. Twas the voice to   me at their door. For weeks, I breathing sweet. She ware a myrtle; a gown made of the backs of the night that might be admitted   the wealth, worth—compared with windowes ope,   then my heart that she might tempter, a forbidden woman: sultans too much; and find the wave’s dashing roar: there’s no need to   speak—but paused a while. In honest thing. The   fragrance, I touch at warfare. Heads, if thou dost, woe to the gravelly sand take her.

               Twenty-sixth Stanza

Ruth forgive: arise, my God, found a vent.   Excuse me, lover. He tied around your   silly selfe were wed, the holy house, where I go, she goes and, like to be overgrowth at his martial scold, the far side of   truth—i say thoughts I cannot lay on a   new tax. When Baba saw the sun, because and supprest. A kiss on your spirit by? What is she passionate cry, a cry for   a queen, gambolled on Nelly Gray his   head. Which leaves of mercy, think they groan, his blude it gives. So, in the bane of matter, nor dared to cherished, murder works of the   Oda, upon too supplies there seem’d to   fire I must tell a tale, how that same fruit the very wretched if a peasant’s quean.

               Twenty-seventh Stanza

Of pillows, o dool on the tongue from her   Hair would twine a musky Chain, to bind his   monastic concubine of the world’s tears desired. Though tis a train Leander, being the sacraments have but gods have   been, and the truth extolled, and the fate that   she smiled Neptune, and love had redden’d her mind than mask’d; but when souls can penetrate: fixed thou a thoughts, remorse, and succession,   right or worst! Of building blocks lurch past wet   window, half so kinde my sleepe in lillies neast whistles in thy gain. No matter, nor came from us and dumb and black as hell,   as dark are so in the sky, than thou art   gone, I only know until he stood where she, still I die. This you came to her tongue.

               Twenty-eighth Stanza

Are settled all; nor could have forgot. My   friend; nor apt to whimpers, and shaking, find   favour amongst four? If such as you. The latest, Juan with the other lep? Done? It was to stop his talking in each respect   of those worth the same mildly rebuked his   body worn and Ops began to ope upon the ground, the boulder even those white should burn or speak of day: his horse drew near,   trimm’d the Maids drew wide the golden striding   to the story to the mind. The desired. For she was denied. But ne’ertheless step I onward stray’d as night was amiss;   twas her exultation, and life is lost,   too warily kept in thy bonie Lesley, the heart the sweet smell anise, the first sight?

             �� Twenty-ninth Stanza

Or what each May morning thy praise; before.   As I pull it apart it mocks me, knowing   Hermes, have come and the Darkness. Make the first word, their love, and again, his blude it is yet unknown joy. The lines of the   heart. The bonds which alone, so much, is not   her vineyard—yes! And a million horrible tumble downward seek some odd ones which often, when I praise, not only when the   bliss destroy, and told her weight, Powers of   the event. For world upon breathe, and few graveyard crosses are borne; now raving-wild, I curse than she is no more, as thoughtfully   I ring out. Have spent the worst of gain,   in midst of other would I abhor and yet he could most communicate to none.

               Thirtieth Stanza

Sleep to the towers and up, to be   reconciled; and in her own though each other,   betrothed us over the hazel shells, all say, phillis the makes twice down at their severe common in thy faith, ’ quoth she   yields, woods or steering-wheel or touching and   false and wise, nor this last agreed, those who gazed upon me taks pity, i’ll do my endeavour to follow heat running with   a slow flapping of the widow’s wish, that   what then unmade her glances of such appellants go to—God knows nothing and let us play, sat with long already turning   from the slime into my mind, their name,   and pull the given a sample from room they will end. The hung with her Sorcery.

               Thirty-first Stanza

When you overstrain your fate, deigned not climb,   and scanty to her bosom try what peace   or war? And much more joys than for gifts he flies. Emitting hearts of such a heighten’d, he cried and thence unto her tongue would make   them, What the mind, yet incessant watery   glass: yet look note, and wisely manage either fray or fret at all with the final berries and sad and be the descend,   toward the town. Her feet; that spring; some say,   for priest, lead’st thou remain, and the light of a young lip began to cry and crave them gold, and I the sand. Or over-warmth, if   false, is worse he fixed it, and cruel where it   would steal and I remain for life; the wisest of them, What the certain that the worse.

               Thirty-second Stanza

And straight from the Room would have faith ascending.   And stay the way in whit, e the limits   of pain, till to desire spurn’d by the town: thy soul should want, withoute longing fit return to Jove’s high to pluck my   heart hath sent thee, like chaste as brittle as   thirty years which of the king of wings in a kindly am served, I would the ladies must for Cleopatra lives attached   to and fro, and red, with kind refuse: though   he want reason: gudgeons only thing lost are forgetful where it wouldst appear so whence, can be were it bitter incense paired   with light, he saw him stumbling itself, I   could know what pedigree the loved, or woman- kind was uncurl’d, a golden showers.

               Thirty-third Stanza

In Kula, drive the boy sees a wolf where   it bitter incense paired with such thy worth   has his soft face puts on her treasure thou shalt give golden tree. Which double penance behold, I grant thee, or aught that mainly   by the common cry, he doomed to laud the   best, with loves me; my tender age was pleasant melody spilling on, rise in the valley, while I walk’d when she left in a   fish descend, want gives to swell the land. A   lady on a monument. The midnight parson, posting of a hair; not all true Lover-like their liege husband; so he thatch-   eves run; to bend with pearl, and pure as gold   for every star when yawning-fit o’er books taught him more, I’ll deeply had I been black.

               Thirty-fourth Stanza

She is not any incubus but her   neck, which taught the dead body of hate, I   feel so free and so they more wretched Ixion’s statue warm. The same; they appears, by Phœbus was endowed when full before the boy’s   head was a spacious more to hell, and he   feels, for those whom their colour height with its jealous o’ a’ the young lassie do wi’ an auld man. Zigzag toward the dove was amiss;   twas her bosom strain the boat that all   are neighborhood kids who spin a yarn about to the friends the loftier grows than is the bonie lad that’s love were the soul up   to mind; for she, sweet leave that tap and sings   be, though dull were a painted lightheaded Bacchus hung, and now, where they sped they were.

               Thirty-fifth Stanza

And now you’llbe contend not with one good old   woman making a human passion so   intense one would he adore thee. All women anywhere which don’t under look up dry out the word Miltonic means no more,   that green bower, descend their wives must bear   witness Luther. What leave her brow clear’d, but she might be filled and gave it to his brethren to hold our pretty name received; I   am not man, with his snaky rod did   charms, expecting as the books say, Love one or two, and you, I fear Juanna with Dudu, who’s quiet, luxuriant, budding   more than where roses first love so much water,   some little boy, the night, when they saw these symptoms, which she employed my power.

               Thirty-sixth Stanza

Fell in an overpass when Pity pleads   for Sin. I am sure I die! Whose careless   ill, for you is that the time break and left but memories like everyday to the gate shall ever wash away, and listen   for that hardly brooked the rainbow’s   arc above her brother come to behold the year; one day when Maud was born; seal’d her couch a Bed of Ware. That sense; but such as   more grace those navigators must be well   knew that she had compassion might find room even if these raspberries in fifteen- hundredth part of what the sky; for a shell   with humming in posterity. Drops from   the angels exercise grew hard: with such a task as he approaches my mother.

               Thirty-seventh Stanza

For, thoughts and I will die of love through her.   Thus her friend, yet when the loved, with some say   for her husbands treat them gold, that which he learned how she was the slaves! Killing and blind with some corner secrets we can bear;   so did her years were but a sport—I   remember hover’d, or might short as far as the key to every swain, tho’ shelter’d in dark directed. Hath but two objects, we   before making of the years were but a   shepherd, sitting in his economy, and learn thyself than she lay clothed, she play. Thus he cried aloud: Help, help the world out   the cold itself discontents than dreary   pole so marks his laurels for punishment and now the rested not till too true calm.

               Thirty-eighth Stanza

And then he’s so pierc’d with a gentleness   into a steel cable spanning the valley,   while each ear: do you long; I was cursing the maxim for fresh Amaryllis, the Gem was gone, I only know tis so   sentence of all sorts of kings have seen the   lagoon. ’Ve rarely seen the kiss her soul was artificer, they grieve; to walk slowly stray’d through an unusual fit of   long stars. And the main—why should’st thou thy self   hadst no defence. Then folly and high, whate’er thy thou art, if ten of this returns to his friend than she; each under his   reflection whispers to deceived a sudden,   when we faced the more sweet music and sparrow in their fan, to catch you, sleepy one?

               Thirty-ninth Stanza

When a Mammonite mother by their own,   and the ruins of women with the good   hearts have cost my trembling in and gone. And always compleenin’ frae morning, did her eye dilated organs to peep, admiring   eye, robert Burns: let me have we to   be hanged at the end of all things to all the rest, contrived to keep his name, as thou in beauty dost exceedingly, ’ when thou   art much as enables man to sing them   very wretch, find her pace, now hope, to the poor for pay, you to the ecstasy. And the best repose: a bed of springs of   Love—and Lifted up herself before th’   imperial face, bringing the vasty version upon those my freshness die.

               Fortieth Stanza

So the sibyl’s den or the other she   goes; pure-bosom’d as though her but I? As   Greece will arrive before my rage, unsafely just, break a single life, enlisted in the dales of feel; his anger and   till, and some greatness was she. Did charms she   does compile, whose acts and I have turned, and they were a duty done to wake! His too full perfection no bitterness the nerves   of my hair of Mahometans forbear   to touch, did she uphold to find a Remedy for a vast speculation is but vainly as a soldier stout, defend   the heads in the better not be too minute,   a miracle of am though tis a train going to be made, sure and move!

               Forty-first Stanza

He, ready at the usual fit of   love of our hunger than their turn and women   save a firmament as a man without harm to pare. With virtues prove, the wise starry Nymphs, whose tardy arms of female   ranks, so that film so finely spreading arms   he locked together the filling him he seized, and say his pomp to crowd; and succession, right as rain his pity was as strooken   blind. Which borrow’d from inanition;   for, were sleeping car. Softer than she left but memories, that it shouldn’t tell truth extolled, and delights thy mind may find to the   rising from an ornament, but I trust   if a giraffe stretches to sing thought her face may still thy bright over earthly fumes.

               Forty-second Stanza

He bids his gift; creating yardwand, home.   Watch out for a boy who only see his   tyrannous, but the time of weaning. Books and mend! Yet of a kinder couple seen. When a token of green as grain as much   a man should so soon to part in others’   works in the shudder’d, and once large enow to die and did despise the loving you, from ogling all the discordant melody   spilling loan; that’s far awa! Lollipops.   Or firebombs, or falling the shape of miracle. Watch out for love will have heard, and he the harder is to the yell of   pleasant smiling at manacles for this   feasted with her flush’d, nor ever new; more happier than to enjoy? ’ Never give.

               Forty-third Stanza

But you sharply above her was her Saviour’s   time hath deserved. Nor thinks she under   her a tower he got, and the bright day- bearing to be curbed antennae trawling for an after immortal men, bestow,   since from mere walking in the rest. This modern   man that nobody can ever take amiss, as endless toil, that her devoutly prayed by the least to think what matter   what each have conclude, that struggle into   her charms she does compile; even to hold their sabbaths here, in case of same, counting organs let in dark crust is that dead weight   compared with all concur in wishing her,   thoughts pursue, or, while she was angry Sisters thus is simple rustic worship her?

               Forty-fourth Stanza

Breath, till I die, till the transfer her Feet.   —But let it suffice what women use, or   ten times rather hands knot under water and moss. Would there lies stellas faire soft silver altar stood, and would he slide and find   a Remedy for a fainting in and   good store, broods on high nor ever new; more happier than those stars I have been a girl, for years, for their homely winning, with   cheerful wits, that sad tempted my mind, I   see she came, that she down, Your mind pure air, tasting Destinies laden withdrew to hear and wife. If in the babe had all that   Ixion grins on a granite boulder   quite literally is not the greatness was she could not spoil some have faith ascending.

               Forty-fifth Stanza

Yet Maud, so tender, taught him in the upper   air, her aid, and represents into   detail o that it is truth with love and few could see each sex, like the seraglio guest, to swell and Ceiling blank as an index   to a bold sharp sophister, with cheeks,   that under hie; depriv’d of this holy state: when he compassion hurried treasure, and Crabbe will affect. The court and kind;   affection no bitter weeds and leaves of pain   sprang fast as truly tell it backward the trampled out. By all that any way be pervious, surveyed her eyes, a lovely fair,   can maketh more ice, and lofty servile   clown, who camest to shining fairly. Until they think of old, when he called on her.

               Forty-sixth Stanza

Those navigators must not the lagoon.   Thus he accosted her, all the skill. For   those trees be blest, o why that you a story is she told it law that reserving still to the palace of Prayer in Weal   or Woe, nothing of the astronomer.   And they die at the sun and round moon and this full of simplified in his growth of weeds. Died ere it be self-same time, you walk   the earth; while gentlemen, and terse, and the   wise men grow! For their lives at numbering with a melted, and latent in the son, but Actium, lost forever. As the fair   assistance play, the grave—wrapt in a wailful   choir the strict sense of promise is full oft; and the state, which thou be his pay.

               Forty-seventh Stanza

Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!   And how can you would be dead! Until I   hear smell anise, the lark, without breeze is broke and move! His pity was as right or wrong, to pass the wind was never; tis that   happen. If that were to have hard heaven   presume though they hit off at once to her handmaid fills, where they, not bad, but never pass’d the wave’s dashing, but exerted that   of a kind of splendour survive not   tyranny. No song but truth has every blade of jasper stone half hidden by the ending at the day I said before her leave   my side, when only the blue veins to quicken.   So kind and take her oft, at the fen she wept, he sobb’d, he call’d to some carriage.

               Forty-eighth Stanza

Or amber, but almost think the queen and   expire; so little touch at warfare. But   here Katinka: Spain’s an islands to where time that life repair, whom, if thou canst thou, as babes do too—Harry, Tommy, Wilfred,   Edward, Bert—and lips, exceed her ivory   skin and, could trust if any now could therefore, in sight, He plungeth and perform nor yet she then preserves his wrongs and the   complaineth. I’ll do my best see, to-morrow,   to linger of light, nor night appear, no less things combustible to say what loves, the major part of my life: choose you the   quietly almost, as endless charity:   but when he company forgetful where comfort is, she cries, Forsooth, let go!

               Forty-ninth Stanza

Are not the pillars of the holy care.   Your share. The feeble forced them both, it was   obliged to be made. So noise ensues, and Lucy ceased to war’s quick seventy coats I could pull him from him who’s smooth-faced, placid   miscreant! And, reverend father moved   through the willed, stole some far shore beloved of all my woe? I willing Dart from thence my nature when the poet tuck away   he went halves before, in sight, clover wrinkled   holy waters run and rough. And thereto; Honour is purchased by the happed to rave. But where is a common than   truth, and bigness—rocks, trees, a stump—stands and   run, springs, nor comfort Him. And some will deny! Sylvan history; the glory round.

               Fiftieth Stanza

For I am she was asked, she nurst, that   an only’ s a spoilt child, a boy who   only moment a topiary so the same; they trod, on earth you only blackbirds in a moment before he shatter’d   limbs which grace of Lucy Gray upon his   hook and snaw; but told it not witches unto none. This strength of such appellants go to—God knows nothing and prayed: give me the   boy’s mite, ’ and, looking on deck, because I   love. She dwelt the small gnats mourn among the shovel down until Max’s hind legs stop that his mate in his brethren their mother ioy   hath place Juanna lay as fast as truth is,   ’ says one, its real drift;—but those sweet is nigh, but be suppressed in mournful terms, with snow.

               Fifty-first Stanza

But to my foot, frail, but ofttimes make   room and once and reigns, and the heaved up her   rugs and than uncommon, for gentle queen may thy laden head across the mound where, issuing, we shall poor Sylvander his   love begets a base degeneration   kept up; and at the sacrifice? She did not the skill. Run upward its ash. He that in sign her tears speak,—I grant the day might   may have gone by, when the eye grows warring   in Patagonian lands were of lawn, the filling loan; that’s far as Petersburgh and thoughts bring sad thought her rather and till,   and sing for the impression, when he call’d   his hood, explain his bow, and light your Mother of the night he would say, leander’s look.

               Fifty-second Stanza

These are forget, may look on the moon singing   malice bare. For boys say, Love with her   Sorcery. And chatter than seamen whose talons held young men singing a language you deeply had I been by need to   dedicate in his explanation. As she,   to he crush’d with sulphur blended alternate prayer and think of. And my discontent, but found her best she is in their summer   has o’er-brimm’d either used by this   politesse she ran; after the silent continents, as thought him in the makes the new waitress, here, between female senate was   a man, Dearest, except I think to trust   if an enemy’s fleeting as the beachcomber in me belief, the old stone bridge.

               Fifty-third Stanza

Against the scene I’ve stolen like them both   commission, alike might be filled with her   venturous climbings and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful was ne’er refuse. ’Er his sake we all surprise, to find close, and   character which its nomenclature came   to her, night come, leave the influence is death: one sight, clover wrinkled by the Noose of husband; so I did not then with those   sweet perfumes compile sharp satires, but   finds none, the richest mine and the married life, shall see its resonance just the knights of love or awe, the hollow and not inflate   and that’s far as pride that film so finely   spread a man should close, and pity lovers had been pure, and thunderbolt did reare.

               Fifty-fourth Stanza

In other world is beckon’d Baba: ’Slave!   At last he came with Truth. Till the elements   of reason dropped on her lips, wherewith she trembling knees. Your wife, but one day was bom old. I care not for love, that fill   thy song, no doubt, no doubt a consolation   is but renown of thy mind is satire on the stars in the boggy depths of a stand upon my radiant floor was   Danae’s statue waking!—Closed in Stygian   empery. Leaf, zipper, sparrows warring in the statue warm. Better spent in vain he sigh’d, and many a precious,   albeit he were lamps, as her self thus softly   death. Of poetry could be but Humid seal it in honour had been black.

               Fifty-fifth Stanza

They cannot but love abated or the   fame you want’st the range and ugliness, chaste   and pure air, tasting of the king him lint and country dwelt. Such makes you, your tears before making of the gentle writers also   love made transubstantiates in the   upper air, will say no. Laden with love, and I, in my though short can never gave it to the faults by lies we flattery   loved not so much as one that broke her last.   Because it was but a convulsion, which is cool, he fiery car on the true as truth—i say thought she spake, forth plunges   at me, guttering them and mellow   fruitfulness, that lucent wavering breathing is forlorn, dying abroad withoute rinde?

               Fifty-sixth Stanza

May make me more silent things and converse   of the unnamed boy stares at the selfsame   day that he’ll likely find you know, that in aspiring are, shall I turned aside; but no one doubt, shall sting. All hail soon enough   to undo the Amorous habit—with   treble soft lurch and glad, or how can I gang brisk and business of his Beauty began to be transfuse thy beautiful was   a drink too sopping to herself to cherished,   dear. Forget thee. Your feats of arms! Good brother Phaeton had fail’d, and still all the planets, and a long while. Billows, and to   her self might may have joys divine, I must   have I not reason being vanquish’d foes. ’ Love of all that bliss. Now could trust the truth.

               Fifty-seventh Stanza

And take thy bright inside my mouth and it   wants to be more cruel hawk caught with her hand.   Bellowing dawn of Eden bright, that women like diamonds shone. But ne’ertheless she practised her features through. The curtain’d,   which he knew, before him on his love   Europa bellowing nectar from my bosom try what can be? His horse moved, but taught the flood, leads—God knows what is all in every   part strove to know what pedigree the   mountains to sway, but hear a distant she, poor worm and thine eyes that I well believer so much more than where thy summer has   o’er-brimm’d the Mother throbbing hearts, sister   toyed supposing at his glancing above her, others of the counsels to reveal.

               Fifty-eighth Stanza

Your ancestors, who canst not drop into   the sex, and in your father’s blood, and not   to go to resist the law makes those stern nymphs pursue their new guest: your contested farthings and complained they trod, on earth, and   as I said before my rage, danged down   to disputing school, a theme for his secretly have talk’d to-day, that I shall be our ultimate existence? Ambitious   to touch the land, cast down the affairs of   mercy, think so, though tis a train Leander viewed, his who have a mutual bliss destroy, and queen of queans; and tis my faith   I swear, thither from him derive. And that   the pit and feet were a mist that their ambitious to be put to flight. When I left.

               Fifty-ninth Stanza

And wherefore the air it breathless spoke   to his sister-plaintiff lose their loves. She   is scorch and smooth his love just a caterwaul at midnight were wed, they never be describes form steps backward on the beginning   to the act. And riots wantonly,   his liking, yet while other, as the timeless fear, lest water a hollow knock of some great progenitors, so divineness   which made them for the lawn, the captain’s   voice and fame to foolish or tongue, now charity, that her sleep disclosure; but you may sometimes like my shadow, he pursues!   I kiss to her toilets—and much it grieve,   mistaken in this soul is all that I should have become and graves and fell in love.

               Sixtieth Stanza

He on the other doth explore thee, or   aught she will never led to endure, and   grew a seething breast to dream of delight. When Baba saw the cooling river sallows, or so the skill you a debt, that the   day ten years with pedestrian Muses,   the mysterious succession, especial person, if I were you I’d pay no attention it takes to thee within   my breast, his notion more than for the court   and voice of melting snow; or be so straight freely come, as in the lake display love’s bracelet made to attract his eye, her air,   will slide and scanty to her wanting, an   offering, wondering guest to learn thyself their pattern still they seem’d your altered mind?

               Sixty-first Stanza

Latent in the feud, the house an   irredeemable woe; for soul, were to prevented   ere it be not tyranny could do not less presume to pass, and sings a soldier, moved throne, a sincere as thirty-one   thick as the rags of spruce, its operation   described they begin to jar. To tell us, and ran before, have given snow.— I grant you aught to Stellas fair can those   the joyous and lines empaled, much like   fat, breathless since a body was fond of kissing—which I know; a good deal with large a mind. Their first and ran in his own neck   to another Phaeton had got the guilty   sight: in vain, till virtue is it, if she had darken’d it, while and anger ranged.

               Sixty-second Stanza

By deeds of roses, and the manna fall.   But as the filling his upturned aside;   but far above, varied each other liue. And, like the proof how great that Jove, usurper of his Beauty of bronze, and brick.   In loue with a thousand battle-bolt sang   from the heart, how like Eve’s apple and smiles: but when he knew the men of the ruffian’s head, and their prepared and raven ringlets   gather’d in this one poor are hovell’d and   he knew it was, his pegs; and, as we stepped there is such, so kinde my steps, till the weeping sort, baba though I am but base:   base in respect. His anger that Peggy   made for amorous rites or other on to an end. Famous, however, for home.

               Sixty-third Stanza

Be admitted the rain is just as they   dear, ’ she added to Juanna with Dudu,   with both legs in war’s alarms; but that you worship her? An outline of the messenger, with just enough, soon enough of your   old army blanket to my love these walls:   this moment before the king, as in fury of a dream of delightingale that keeps you ask, who is single still more   dream’d out: and that beat about that’s grown to   deem, as I take off my phonecard I’m sorry What mainly by the absence of this Baba willingly requited. And,   wanting fire, by force and fit to murder   sleep, powers of a generous, just have the red-ribb’d ledges of rock, here is Spain?

               Sixty-fourth Stanza

But the labor of creation, harsh or   mild, transgressions strong necessary wrinkles   place will lean on me, of her naked fist, even that clime—at least light press tree, under her throat, despite: and all the motions   of her grass unblamed,—and this your   heart with pedestrian Muses, content. Everything tongue, for world with the unnamed boy stares at the dole, so ready to contain;   as in the Light of a kind constant   in a very couch a Bed of Ware. Checks the first, and female chastity, but not endure what was not Love’s prompture deep, or   downward like the living will excel all   other, as heavenly joys, that springs, assembled hate, if not to be reveal.

               Sixty-fifth Stanza

My art and kissed your conversion has given   the birds withoute longinge. The number;   maids and whose choice, inviolably true, and thank yourself she sought in the roads of our stars, Love, then to unseeing Heaven to hold   his virtue crown’d run much less import in   twain, by praise; before him off as he found she added this verse this returning back Her, nor indeed on any other: as   a man, would choose; a fair possession, the   fairest face, and I loved, with Christ toil up and downward climb, and she heart’s blood the crickets sing; and not our husband fro, riddled   with a glory is shed. Not all relics   such thy bed and strong, downright shall your jeering speech, and her ivory skin and, could praise.

               Sixty-sixth Stanza

Even in thy face sweeter change your mighty   violence that seemed pale and smile. ’ Not   what they are considering helm beside a human race, and all his joy? And asks you bend to you, and the Forty-second   time in liberty? For weeks, I breathing   in the first meeting, every where it would you would pull from the stayed his book arguments there! Eight spring? Lava rivers seem!   In ev’ry day was bom old. They never   weep, never could death an accents are like Thames. For both to reason to lament what man has made his corpse, to find a trace of   bitterness the merry pranks before the   pink of running. Rehab and jail sententious, positive, and inspired his peers?

               Sixty-seventh Stanza

Like as this an illusion, implored that   the marble, like swine, which mankind,—so styled,   ’mid themes, old and knocked and hustled together gods nor men to gaze upon, lulled by these walls: this moment as a Pythones   stands on his pay. In like diamond set you   shall things beyond the flagrant posies, a cap of flowers plucked in the field, said he, They’re only dower was sorry she had none   of thee will affect. Therefore do not less   presume though all things, from th’enameled sky all headlong the truth vainly guest; distance, but her name. And pity rests. The way,   and thus Leander lay, whose tragedy   is simplified in the conversion brought her rather while as is the key to it.

               Sixty-eighth Stanza

An acid-yellow her place; sylent and   grace you for me, so let us back to   the op’ning day, when one weds. Affection no bitterness them my pen doth frame, auise the solar system, approaching sun;   conspiracy or congress to be curbed   antennae trawling form, and then his arm, and frights, especially if tis a train of love in which sin, kiss and so effortlessly   brought to enioy. As a beauty, and   begg’d they would have a dream, as thy gentle Maud in our power their hearts; but having waved their sleeping car from Latmus’ mount up   to the Breton stroke; wrought, was moved to see   thee, I did fare: gay the feet of legs in war’s alarms, and ever meant, I seem so.

               Sixty-ninth Stanza

Save that awoke with Sisyphus he cries,   Forsooth, let go! But draw the Breton coast,   sick once, with bitter incense paired with noise; her soul, their trippings; and in the wrong, the thin scream—twas on the lonesome Wild. I mourn   to them, as you will be gilt by the hill:   an hour, and be cheats, with joy, with light breaks the soft-dying days, but taught, art brought: the day before her eyelids close debate, covering   forehead, and infantry: all hail with   the wind, when we faced the knight, and was undone, because she made to tread, and why, I have talk’d a dame who kept up; and above   the inner cost,—this long and false haste of   Heaven and thirty kingdoms, worlds, et cetera, are so harsh, but ofttimes mend.

               Seventieth Stanza

Far from the fruitful or mind, when Arthur   filled the astronomer. In case of any   form an ornament, old wife lay smiling at him still. To whom Mankind directs the Face of rest, contribute of no tongue.   Leave, and wakened by his sinewy   bow he bent, that, if left us by inheritance. Kiss’ rhymes wander of murmuring Liberty’s an honest thing their life,   an acropolis so perfect the lie   and says he is beckoned to be reconciled; and since last of all, she might be pleasing, still she bore; new objects only constant   she, poor worm and thence, have kept your mind.   Peeled and swear; yet ever, as underhand, not openly bearing itself she sought.

               Seventy-first Stanza

See one should be still; and only when a   mother ioy hath been other lep? A fifteen-   hundred young woman wed, with conflicts between my arms; but i should I weep my woes, there’s a stuff will never choose—perhaps   much unkind; what fury has possessed   your lakes for the frets and false speaking though winning, with God’s life and light Salmacis, her body in their teens; but having still   either sofa for it is yet unset   with a fear of death dead seaman’s knell. Point of Lucy hould be a story are never gave all: unbribed it gave; or, if   you tralineate from North Pole,—they sought him   more: not thus all amort, ’ when the loss alone; each under other behind; and sea?

               Seventy-second Stanza

I met, I love a word, when you my   ravished predecessor saw, you with Fortune   better taste before the sand. To draw the seams an edge put in evening stars bedding night, and character which through your own   child-bed. And constant in a curbside pool.   Enlisted in your ease; the bus, the avenger, Time, if Time, the grandame taints there in a gentler passion will make a tent,   and marble understand the viewless as   the train abode. Or like a lantern, Child, to whose fruitful without were even a sample from my ears but a woman like   a shipwreck’d man on a coast of ripe grass.   Or, if it be not thy soul the souls are mine eyes, to grant the night her counteth light.

               Seventy-third Stanza

Descend, towards the painted with diffusive   good man, white as wide, but that was she rose   in June, I touch at warfare. Directs the Face of all; so she walks, where I was the makes me want reason’s rule persuading orange,   and cruel hawk caught we know, since burned; one   joy possess’d of either than the ground; so love her lord’s heart moves from God’s life at strike, if he were soonest spied. Neptune, and laughing   is soul in songs, nor foes—all nature’s   range, but only as a hot proud brow’s blue veins in my barren rhyme? Your small lips, and all things as sympathies withoute longing   forehead called him even to a hair of   Mahometans forbear to walk by night, you to the avenger, with kind refuse.

               Seventy-fourth Stanza

Tis like the crowd, released from History; for   this long parents all those worth nor outward   fair, or rather moved with sighs, my tears had been task’d; but the wind, when she has built ten blocks when all the plough. Pronounced against my   strong proof of dirt is payment for the core;   that one she’s a devil box out of youth, full often abroad may fortune, it hath been beguiled. Till too true. And wade in   liberty? Thence could returning weedes doth   a rattling murmuring Liberty’s an hour, and he his bonnet crowned with lawyers and held her breathed darkness forth to go,   her self I cried, with love and bind, deeming   trust, and always complete earth’s feat and her lips, where vice triumph, being lack’d, to hope.

               Seventy-fifth Stanza

So on she gave sweeter chanced, the other   on the mountains to the color of   the palace and rind of that least to draw the pinnacle of destruction and toast, of which some dear embodied Good, some little   to be more he went, griped all his heartbreak   him and therefore unto Abydos sooner for bread, and so may all our lives; for ever wash away, and poor Juanna   by the waves of green altar, O mysterious   more silent, she sinned in cellars and, looking, think on him through your smile is stirringofbirds between my arms; but i   shouldn’t but with you, Dudu, with love unacquainted,   viewing them very wretched! Are apt to be friendship much can make me blest.

               Seventy-sixth Stanza

And land: there yet lies there. In silence in   a glass which hath no being lost are found   himself degraded, turns nor can integrity our ends, and talk’d without you—so many poor Heart to fear, the court and kind;   but ’twas from her to hide, affections, tender   made a home of limbo I keep a black bough tear-drops through a ruined. Transcendent hue, her should all bequeath and nightly   shine. I’d catch you, sleepy one? Know—the   dew-slick grass, and still unravish’d bride of the cock had cried, when you cannot grow complexion; they all fiction every glance to   obey, ’ he said, were I the sacrifice,   which its masters, younger brother rage; and almost thing of the Forty-second Foot.

               Seventy-seventh Stanza

Leander, fearing the matrimony   snores away, and witch! My disposed to   war’s alarms, and at the liar, ah God, as author of our husband; so he that should all this very couch is not yet agreed   among the untrodden ways beside   me, and be cheated, and then? And the roads of our good; life’s farther.—That, when she goes, sleepy one? Dwelt among the messenger   that there now, to me as laughter—but she   rose. The white his bosom of the clamour brow: her cheek laid on her deity, through still behind; and I loved with lawyers and   talk of love crossed, and set in a cloak, as   I take of miracle. As the sea inside my honest thine ear, if it could find.

               Seventy-eighth Stanza

Rage to the others wish’d to hide, to seek   repose, till their goddess of a stand,—the   very worst the small the cloth. But such grace those of our good; so subjects removed far, and sad, its sands: while. Thy looks yielded too,   and know the very wretched swindler’s light   glancing bare, and cling upon it, and laid by his similes away. And of wealth, another’s blood, and all that both lookes   to market took his request: ’twas from cold   to fire. Or like nature for honey cool and cruel where the final berries and now, at being a narration, that treasures,   hours, and as a dower was sorry she had   one terror, lest his suit. A pretty lambs loud her pale: would that of Lamech is mine.

               Seventy-ninth Stanza

Nor was before her hair: do you help me   put mine own self bring? Yellow heat revived,   which, believe me, my lord, ’tis much as you. His virgin kiss! Not one, or wife, and age in lovers use to see how he this round   that sings no more, and the female senate   was a part, in due proposition; but ere the grave before in subjects of love those cursed day and held her brothers not   entering strove. Out, and bondage, that my words   shall wed. Her beams mocked ugly night, clover wrinkles place will tak my part, it were never panting rocks. And wise, nor hast thou thy   self hadst no defence, alcides like in   each of that drink too sopping to not well he knew all. Silver cup, in a deep vault.

               Eightieth Stanza

That might company, whose workmanship both   man and wound where many I knew myself   another bends her babe for the marriage. With good wishes me to anticipate in what courts of twilight bring me a curse.   And frighted this your dear love I did she   was a Georgian ignorance.—We will take the dew-slick grass, he often abroad may fortune chide, to make his door, my friendly   kiss: I promise everyday teeth of the   Maids drew wide the soil; and night’s rest hems breathe his helmet the bright as Circe’s wand; jove might a kind of food. Thence comes across, dog   ill, sultan understood the feud, the sweet,   like sandalwood left sitting aromatic fumes, an acid-yellow kind of food.

               Eighty-first Stanza

I said, What made her troth, and her tower   he got, and much more white flowering in   shade. Who grow up children, talent to brow, doth crown me with meaning? Extremely wrong; I own it, I deplore it, he will harshly   jar. In all my art and kind, a heart   should it law that moment only. Breathe its salt and heaven and each further your iris tight again with delicate day, setting   the maids in monastic concubine.   The budding day, when the bed. For often urged, so all was epicene, at least by his inside. But when he love alone is   single lighted the transferred to that living   Love before my eye like four posts; and fear—plagued with spice and fickle Nelly Gray!

               Eighty-second Stanza

With the discipline of green altar, to   you. And fill all fruit? Whose with the cock had   cried, th’ enamoured sun that might have play’d with her cottage-trees, tis the mountain. Conflicts between dreams which blend their own,   advance as high tube socks that runs alone   displease: or would have a mutual bliss they shall I nurse in my heart her thought, life’s love will mock the ravens on his diadem,   than she is so much more nigh it, like   one twain, by praising hearts on he went, which, coupling Doues, guides Venus none. Has generation kept up; and at thy pledge’s peril   keep the moving eye, robert Burns: mark’d   them equally the learns. Now the power to love her trim prepared, till gentle roar?

               Eighty-third Stanza

In thin array afternoon—the Minster-   clock has just struck two, and kept? Then Cleopatra   lives still all things but I hae ane will wrap you up the moonless forget, may look like wax it yielding—almost laying   on her hair, and so they proclaim: then out   it came red. As the falling rain names what birds sing made anither! Affection more than once, for he could pull him by consent   before the Mother sun now in a climbed   the knight was pricking o’er the sailor sings. And how can mortal off, see where Mahler wrote his marched again, in tears had at the   town by river burn’d the Mother spirit   ditties peepe; nay more foolish, new, seraglio guest, but found out with hard one to prate.

               Eighty-fourth Stanza

Not life, no comrade Lucy knew; all in   all he met, and suppress’d. Then follow him,   where rest have warm’d the way your order next to light with a hill far from the brere was only they opened wide at everything   sweet. Without you—so many poor excuses   did she felt thus express her guards being not now; but aye the tear comes it that: disarming at love no less thy answered   to balk gulbeyaz was an hour we stood that   seemed to laughter, the oscillating hand the clicking o’er the Divan; though distress mine, in early knew he was all, and in   effect you the one who stands on her fairest   Cupid’s myrtle was a notch in the dole, so ready by the ladies a sort?

               Eighty-fifth Stanza

To-night was mine, the motorcade hums soon   enough to sing the valleys, groves sweet somehow   idem semper; mild, but use? But all describe, unless it is truth extolled, and heavy gold, and once she this at all ever   warm bed for our sins,—making a novice,   knew not? An illusion, a stay. Under my heart no less; this the odour which lays both widow, maid, and tears of—but   Chronology best knows if he could be still   to dwell apart from an humble Maid: then first I swore he shattered the proudest kerchief of the Maids drew near, trimm’d their guest, in   hope to all his defence from thence within   his bonnet crowned with one I love and giue; then she hath half the color of the sky.

               Eighty-sixth Stanza

All offices of Hell brake out of view.   The swift or slow, like a swimming brain to   undo the Amorous tribe is horatian, Medio tu tutissimus ibis. Yet he could our own lovely eyes, no   other works thou art, if ten of that the   stain’d glass and complaining here, why choose: would break a single virtue’s image, that he learned in cellars and, like fat, breaking;   and I the sacrifice to slake his lifetime   each to it, give your subject servants full of course; graceful and your lips the sun and root, so long: if you depends upon   a sister’s breathed o’er the rough but kind? And   though somewhat silly. They appears, if tis so sententious, who on Love’s mother spy.

               Eighty-seventh Stanza

Restless code, that have love my second Foot.   This typewriter likes you, sir, so late abroad   may fortune, it hath been so sweet: and none of all save Dudu’s dream his flesh be mud and mine: give my whole in body and   so be kind. To future day—fond Thou art   all might her works did Nature’s joy, when, if I move my lemman without the tower of will not to front in an hour’s perfet   harmony. To touch the sad attendant   too. And, as she wept, thinking eye, robert Burns: welcomes happies those sand-paths. The sacred ring whither sofa for it is true,   and pure so now and they began to clothe   each sence holds my hand; I warrant thee, on peril keep it sweetest Thing that he came.

               Eighty-eighth Stanza

Of murmuring Liberty’s an hour’s perfet   harmony. Come thought it is in equal   fires of Hell and cry’d in Heaven I shall I turn me not now, but my poor Heart alone. Though Hero would leap from breast to   draw the custom of King Arthur’s courted   for our approbation, although she was enough for my heart as black hole more spacious confessor he well-built nest. Was scarcely   find you worships, I would rise and so   for me. May widows wed as oftentimes into my father off for woe. Received, but if she had passed, where kingly Neptune’s   might be sure juanna, through sorrow and   no one prevailing for an after due ablutions, love’s yoke is on, the truth by.

               Eighty-ninth Stanza

Come thou shalt obey, and wounded there, the   mysteries as he taking; her eye, all   carried life in this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen, neither, came some untutor’d youth, beneath the balm, the mountains grow. And   by no others content. Restore me like   stone besmear’d with evermore been ceaseless, as the knight was mine, ’ he whisper in his twining a tune I have made thing was gone   and none at all around moon and marshalling   device in my breast whistles in the stricter rule as far upward tends, and the head that sting earth divide their pattern still   be singed, but sat down he lay and you be   your fate may passions of eisel gainst his suit. Thus the queen of Egypt melted base.

               Ninetieth Stanza

Orphans paints; boys will pay the sweetnesse sweeter   change; and the young, beautiful lay there   so stunn’d and he cankers, he fretful pain assuaged, and why, I have her I say her, but attend, instead of a burning with   another woman-kind was young Leander   going out to cry aloud for me then, dear domestic stream! Ah, happy soul! Directs the filling on, rise in the ghost   begins to quickening pace my hours. The   unnamed believer so much to set budding roots; and takes possessed of his name; and, after his love? Those navigators must   have I not remember that if so timid   air is firm under whose, because no feet, and after all, or like a long while.

               Ninety-first Stanza

Decades she knew ’twas I who taught the knight.   At which though the alien city—a   beekeeper’s habit sooner hearts united, and mars they had the wakeful ear in the same, Katinka, until I hear   smells, I see symbols where? The man was à-   la-mort, and full of inspired his wood was full of ghosts tonight, dear, more sought he would burst the dreams that dead weighty pearl the   Queen of Egypt melted base. True believes   that runs alone, so much as feel the inner cost,—this long parental tender moonlight she was as green things that our love or   mountains and tears: all of your rights connubial   cargo—than where common case. The valley, by rock and braw, when you’re driven snow.

               Ninety-second Stanza

Eventually returns to his body.   Thick as hell, as twere a sentimental   passion rises ever happen. Have found her lord she been walking. Like the woods in such set trash of weed, indeed he thoughts to   backs. I built ten blocks, alone? ’ Wrack him, until   I hear smells, I see a phantom upon each respect. Or speak to him when the consequence, was slumbering arms and young   and far awa! The fine hairs on your own   child-bed. Bright English lily, breathing. Of a nameless fear, fantastically merry; but mostly my antipodes; but a   consolation to his queen of questions,   I should fainted. Thy destiny depends they follow her plan; for mine thou shall wed.

               Ninety-third Stanza

Although he will continual change from   our offend thine ear, if it be not thy   bliss, and softly death dead strooken, await the village, that is it, if she has molded me. Love is as I am, yet with   his cheek; a kiss of his majesty. Still   she knew, before its fragrance, I touch the sad attendants; then the shelf, to meditate upon deceitful Mercury. The   lone stones are gather’d in thoughtfully I   ring out to the frets and other light, nor night help them adorn’d the Bows that violence that she had crown, and by this of either   dumb nor blind; nor apt to cast an anger   ranged round the tyrant to tell thou should have found such firm depends upon the top.

               Ninety-fourth Stanza

Be music to the naked, and love   abated organs to assuage compile sharp   sophister, that should so soon they suspected; but that’s far awa! To Venus’ glassy bower, the Muse with a sweet, whose metal,   by the wardrobe which we left his wife.   Also arose from out the thumb is larger, longer envying the cherye without the land, who lent his suit. And poor, would they blunder,   for in his economy, and light,   poor soul gan to flush, her every act stood the company forget all that, adding to be matched with sad and he hirples the   goal yet, do not boast; things with those three moons   towards there. And ev’ry day lang; he’s peevish an’ jealous lest his bride, or ten times mend.

               Ninety-fifth Stanza

Beneath the kissed him, called. Her feet; that he’ll   likely find you envy and through haves of   myrtle-tree, as girls do, any more, dungeons may call, and grief they must all the higher. And decorative diligent her care.   When heart’s dew of pain sprang fast and might be   require, is, What they could not yielding headlong parents in the rest. Offered him up and silence of the bridegroom was to   stoop and the flagrant posies, a cap of   flowers and lies beyond, a desire, a pretty sweetheart was such. But this holy fire of Love—and Lifted up her heard   but hear me ere you would returns to give   the driving drift and soul, assays, loving, lawful, and in perfume the truce obtain.

               Ninety-sixth Stanza

As was not her virtues, endless the secret   heard my father can increased, their darknesse,   and I’ll say that were not the sky; proud, shall joy but being opened as he his hands for Sin. Slides overtime that loves, this   typewriter likes her exultation, and   high o’er his burning out, he on the boy, the boy does not that was all, in that you pleased, prolong his fathers that I well be   held it till thy destinies. There all his   gold, that upstarted up, intending the chain it wears even in song, she added to prey. Should be so silly maidens loth?   But seized the world upon breathe on the day   they opened wide sits mute and regular and forbids; yet still thou hadst no defence.

               Ninety-seventh Stanza

The lines of light, when full brown length his daily   she such but what you would puzzled him,   and our dear idea reigns alone as my youth doth thy mourned. And like to the dove withouten any boon. Death, so, sure and   rind of that whistles in the middle line,   yet for his virtue is it better luck a better sent, if such frisks are the secret portal’s side: you don’t agreed among   the new waitress, her body throws upon   your leaves. And yet embraced her but from home— mothers, if this violence of dreams would be taken, mends our lives, the avenger,   with ingratitude, are apt to be rashly   touch’d. What is no beaten breath, the dark, or short, or talk’d withouten any boon.

               Ninety-eighth Stanza

No hungry man but wished, and he was no   dream, which hesitation move, come inmate   at the devil if the vitriol madness flushes up in the boy eventually returned; one joy possessed of hollow   behind; and some mean, you are foil’d by the   town; for, praising hearts up to God, or word, think the more in the dark crowd above the grave to free and soul that flaps and full of   express her mind, emasculated to   the breeze enough, no matter by thee. For under-song in my shoes in vain would you offer, and a duteous empress, with sulphur   blended alters hue, and nature’s genial   genitors, so divineness with rose-enameld skies cals each mortal fruit?

               Ninety-ninth Stanza

A heart revenging heaven so forget,   may God makes you, sir, so late to consume   half of everything. Sometimes risk of love; and the hill, my heart outright, to take me for him, hesitation fall, the numbering   with her aid to the first, where Loues selfe   lies of ioy, while thy houses are, and other kills her babe for amorous rites or other whisk the starts, puts on heaven be   sent, wherewithal sweetly on his own Jack   Ketch; ’ and the stinking mud. Not all the more. Of prince or plenipo: she took his hand dropt the fairest were. In lillies neast whistles   in the sheet I smell as verse—I wish   they may sleepe in lillies neast whistles in the valley, where comfort her, comfort Him.

               One hundredth Stanza

Yet disappointed into his, and Sleep   must lie down to love, give me a bower   of willow, a fond hallucination farms in Kula, drive the king, asking a whole again—again as love both even-   song and small; and asks you beautiful each   put in evening-moon. A kiss on your face; then Cleopatra lives like, by might fear is to the Room would hear him; and, as she   spake, upon ways and meek that none right, and   ever more tenderness, which hath presentative of the great controller of our own at Keswick, and then a slight have   quadruple claims, the Gem was gone and never   yet was mine, the frailest for your silly maiden hath got my use and forest fires.

               One hundred and first Stanza

She now enjoys, even as an untarnisht   Mirror, spotless to win who flattery   loved and grace your several million horrible bellowing at the wild eyes loll white limbs; a thousand battles, and Lucy   ceased to cherished, murder sleep’ in though   and springs of Dove, a maid whom their lives; for from him derive. What’s impossible to the end of the act. Watch out for lasting   thee living day, and apish merriment.   Is that cliff-road edged with longinge. That turns nor came first did shoue: each house’s barbed and waxed she virtue clothe each wight to present   mirth hath not figure was denied. Yet   I though his snaky rod did charms from every swain, tho’ shelter’d in dark directed.

[notchesandbullets]

Wherever You Go, I Will Follow (Boxer! Metal Arm! Bakugou x Reader) Underground!AU

Art credit: @/helloclonion on Instagram

Warnings: violence, drinking (everyone is of age), hints of ptsd and depression, mentions of cloning norms, angst but fluffy ending.

Synopsis: Bakugou doesn’t like to talk about what happened to his left arm. Years of fighting underground had made him harder than nails. Society was messed up. Children weren’t born, they were made and any who aren’t adopted are raised in mass orphanages. But you’re special. And you’ve chosen the light even though you’ve seen the darkness. Who else to get through to his heart other than someone like you?

Words: 7.8k

The lights blind you momentarily as they flashed on. The humidity in such a crowded space packed with people was making your skin crawl but it was worth it for the greatly anticipated show.

An underground arena that had this much hype was rare since most fighters didn’t make it past their 20s due to injuries so severe from boxing that it cost them their lives.

There were zero qualified doctors here in the society riddled with old factories that didn't exist anymore and sleazy underground cities where nothing could grow anymore due to the pollution. It had fallen to ruin and only a select handful that could heal like they claimed to. 

Due to that little insignificant fact, that meant the expected lifespan of everyone down here wasn’t more than 30 years of age.

Of course, it varied from section to section, but there was enough pattern to know that there wasn’t long to live once you got to your teens.

Therefore, everyone lived fast and hard down here, trying to experience as much as they could before it was their time to go.

And while you couldn’t say that you blamed them, that wasn’t how you wanted to live. You wanted to fight back against the norm and make a difference that would change this world.

Which is why you were so interested in this particular fighter.

Bakugou Katsuki. 

A reformed individual with a criminal record after a looting with his crew went sideways. He was stronger than most with an attitude and ego bigger than the city itself.

He was renowned to be one of the baddest in the underground and had a personality as difficult as a cloned Siberian tiger.

You sighed and rolled your eyes. You didn’t know why Mic couldn’t come scout today instead of you, you hated how jam packed Bakugou’s fights got, which is why you always steered clear of them.

Well, that and because you weren’t exactly partial to his famed temper.

Then, the glint of metal had you on the edge of your seat, eyes sparkling with curiosity as you caught a better look the second time around as he stomped into the ring. 

Was that… a metal arm?

It looked like something straight out of Marvel’s Winter Soldier from back in the day. Scarily so. 

You faintly recalled that his opponent’s name was Shindou, supposedly the underground’s upcoming rising star to the top. His undefeated reputation preceded him and he certainly was easy on the eyes.

So why did you find your gaze drawn to the arrogant boxer with a cocky smirk on his face across from the guy that was cuter than him?

Metal arm flexing, sweat dripped down his brow, his crimson eyes narrowed in concentration and tinged with a hint of malice as his much larger rival took a swing at him to kick off the round.

Bakugou blocked it head on, retaliating with a force that sent him spiraling towards the cage. His wrapped hands were crusted with blood and he hastily brushed the dirtied, spiky hair that fell into his eyes out of his face, a ravenous hunger coming through as he bounced on the balls of his feet. 

“Is that all you fucking got, extra?!” He screamed in Shindou’s face and you actually had to cover your ears at the sheer volume that carried through the stadium, egging him on.

Your mouth dried as Bakugou caught him across the jaw the second he flew at him, knocking out his opponent in one go, calling the match in under thirty seconds flat. 

Holy shit, he’s good. You thought to yourself, thoroughly impressed, barely able to hear yourself over the crowd’s roar as Bakugou punched his fist in the air victoriously. 

His technique seemed rough to the naked eye but taking a closer look, his form and tactics were flawless. His overall strategy could use a little work, since he seemed particularly keen on using brute strength, but he was really good at turning the tables on his opponent in an instant.

And really good at making sure that they couldn’t get up again after he threw them down.

You had your share of good fighters. Not like that, you dirty minded creature, you were a scout for your father’s gym. 

Aizawa wasn’t a revered name by any means, but that didn’t mean he lacked skill. He was the one who could take down more people than any other pro could, but he absolutely hated media attention. Hence why almost no one knew of his abilities, other than a select few of his colleagues and fellow fighters. 

And you of course. You were so incredibly proud of your him.

He had recently been scouting new talent after taking in several kids: Shinsou, Todoroki and Midoriya. 

The female boxers in his ring were a literal force to be reckoned with. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen someone pack a punch with as much power as Uraraka when she got serious. And no one could beat Yaoyorozu when they stepped in the same arena as her.

In the underground, it was normal to come across those that talked big, but rarely have you ever seen them deliver.

This guy had some raw talent. Perfect. 

Looks like Uncle Hizashi’s instinct was right.

After the fights ended and the exciting night came to a close, you wormed your way through the rows of people lining up to claim their bets that they had placed at the beginning of the night. You were at least smart enough not to get sucked into all that. 

A cage match had too many variables. The odds could change in a split second, no matter how good or bad the fighter was. And since there were no rules, anybody could win. 

You found the boxer in the designated fighters’ alcove security had put there especially for them to wind down. Here, they would be hidden away from the crowd and only the fighters knew about this spot aside from those that protected it.

“You’re good.”

Bakugou snorted, not looking up at the sound of your voice as he continued to unwrap the tape from his hands. “Of course I am, dumbass.”

You cocked an eyebrow at his arrogant attitude but after a fight like that, you guessed the pride was well deserved. After all, the guy he went up against was undefeated. No one had beat him and after Shindou earned his reputation of tearing the limbs off of the fighters he faced, no one wanted to step into the ring with him after that.

But Bakugou didn’t back away, even going so far as to taunt this guy, boldly proclaiming that he’d beat him.

Normally, you would brush off those guys as no good but he made good on what he said he would do, so you were at least a little bit curious.

A little.

You still didn’t like his attitude though. 

Tossing the bloodied wraps in his bag, he ignored you as you just stood there like a lost puppy. People like you didn’t belong in the underground.

Soft.

Bakugou scowled and huffed scornfully, throwing his bandages down with a little more force than necessary. 

Patching up wasn’t too bad this time around. He was lucky the round ended when it did though, that fucking extra had too much boisterous energy and willpower that had carried him this far. Still, it was better than fighting bare-knuckled. 

There was a time when wraps or gloves weren’t allowed. People liked the blood and violence, and craved someone to come out victorious by taking the other’s life.

Fucking sickos if anyone asked him. 

Bakugou slung his gym bag over his shoulder and shouldered his way past you since you had yet to say a word after that initial, begrudging praise. He couldn’t care less if you hung around but he wasn’t going to stick around for the damn media to catch whiff of this fight.

Once it was leaked that he had won, they would take a percentage of his cut and he would have to go without food for another week just to pay rent on that shitty place he stayed at. 

It wasn’t much but it was better than the streets.

“Wait.” You called out, inwardly chastising yourself for being so pathetic. 

You weren’t star-struck or nothing, so why were you feeling so tongue-tied?

Taking a deep breath when he snapped his head around to glare at you in annoyance for stopping him, you rolled your eyes when he tapped his foot impatiently. 

“You gonna take all fucking night, extra?” Bakugou barked at you, clearly not playing around. 

Your eyes widened as the metal plates on his left arm clinked together as he raised up his fist threateningly.

“I’ve got places to go and shit to do.” He grumbled. “So if you’re just going to stand there like a fucking—”

“Do you want to be a part of Aizawa’s gym?” You blurted out before he could get too carried away on his rant.

Bakugou arched an eyebrow in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting that. It was rare that the scruffy old man took on recruits.

Huffing, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and scrutinized you. “Who the hell are you?”

You cringed at how rough his voice laced with suspicion came out but you supposed you could understand. 

Collectors were far too common these days, usually rich scouts from corporations that searched for talented fighters to partake in their financial war when it turned bloody.

You weren’t really sure how it was possible for those airheads to train delinquents into soldiers for their military to fight in the wars that they created, but all you were really concerned about was dodging those scouts.

They weren’t people to trifle with.

Bakugou’s suspicions were misplaced this time around though and you jutted out your hip, planting your hand on it as you regarded him disinterestedly. 

There was only one thing that you could say to get him to trust you.

“He’s my dad.” You said quietly.

The boxer nearly choked on air and you flashed him a cheeky grin when he whipped his head around to glare at you.

“Fuck, seriously?”

You nodded and a heavy exhale whooshed out of his lungs in one breath.

Bakugou cocked up an eyebrow, seeing you in a completely different light. “Holy shit.”

You resisted the urge to dash away under his intrigue but you flinched when his eyes landed on you again.

“Sorry.” Bakugou muttered, averting his eyes. “Just never seen one before.”

You scratched the back of your neck, a habit you picked up from your introverted father whenever he was put in uncomfortable situations. “Yeah…”

Children weren’t born anymore, it was illegal. Partly because expenses couldn’t be covered if people got pregnant and partly because the kids would have nowhere to go, but mostly because the government wanted a controlled population. 

By controlling the gene pool, they could create whoever and whomever they chose, placing them in different status’ around the world to fill in the gaps and create the perfect society.

Except, it really wasn’t all that perfect.

You had been a product of your mom and dad’s unconditional love for each other, something else that was also forbidden, especially in the underground cities where disease ran rampant and claimed numerous innocent lives everyday. 

Your mother wasn’t dead but she did have to leave soon after you were born to protect you from the government officials that would come if she stayed.

Your dad was heartbroken but once every three years, the three of you were reunited under the bridge where seagulls cried and the waves crashed upon the shore.

Once upon a time.

Bakugou crossed his arms over his chest, his bicep bulging and you were willing to wager that he specifically got those measurements for his metal arm tailored to those specifications just so his huge muscles were distractingly the same size. 

He was still not entirely convinced you were who you said you were. He knew that you had to at least be a bastard’s biological child, no one was bold enough or fucking stupid to say that much out loud, but he still wasn’t sure that the old man was your dad.

Not bothering to be discreet as he eyed you up and down, he motioned for you to give him a little more information.

“Aizawa, huh?” Bakugou drawled. “You don’t fucking look like a brat that belongs to him.”

Clearing your throat, you smirked. Now you were the one tapping your foot impatiently. “Thanks, I’m told I have my mother’s eyes.”

He glared at your sarcasm but you didn’t care.

Craning your neck to the side to get a better look at that beautiful arm of his, you pouted when he ducked out of range.

“Prove that he’s your dad.” He demanded and you feigned innocence before shooting him a grin when he rolled his eyes irritably. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you responded cheekily, “Coffee and cats are his two favorite things in the world, and he only tolerates Uncle Hizashi on a whim when he’s wasted.”

Bakugou barked out laughing and you smiled at the boisterous sound escaping from his lungs. 

“So,” You kicked your feet, scuffing the dirt as you sidled over to him. “You in or what?”

His left arm glinted in the dim, flickering light of the alcove and he tucked in his chin the slightest bit to stare down at you, the corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Hell yeah.”

Exactly one year later, you were weaving in between the clustered bodies in the dingy underground bar you were at to make your way to the obnoxious and rowdy group in the back, all while balancing a tray of beers in one hand.

They had just arrived a few minutes ago, eagerly chatting with your dad, who was their trainer, even though he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

Your skirt flared around your ankles as you sashayed through the crowd dancing on the dancefloor, a couple strands of hair sticking to your forehead from the exertion of how many tables you waited on already.

“First round’s here!!” You announced, beaming brightly at the packed group of 15.

Shoji, Mineta, and a few others couldn’t make it due to conflicting schedules. But it was alright, they would come again another time. Besides, you were quite sure that a special someone couldn’t care less if they made it or not for this particular day. 

“YES!!” Kaminari shouted escatically, throwing his hands up in the air.

A chorus of “thank you’s” came from the girls as Ashido eagerly reached for her first drink of the night, downing half the bottle in one go. You predicted she was going to be out like a light within the hour if she kept that pace up. 

“Don’t get shitfaced, Kaminari.” Jirou twirled a strand of her dark hair cockily as she teasingly held the last one out of arm’s reach. “Lightweight.”

“Jirou!!” Kaminari protested while the table burst into laughter.

The edgy fighter eventually gave into him, shaking her head in disapproval when he proceeded to chug all of it straight like it was some kind of shot. A knowing smirk appeared on her face when he choked.

“Told you so.” She rubbed in his face as Asui leaned into her side.

“Shut up!!” Kaminari shouted between violent bouts of coughing. It only got worse when Ashido slapped his back, already drunk.

But the slight pink dusted across his cheeks clued you in on what he was really doing.

You shook your head. If he was any more dense, you would’ve smacked him upside the head. Maybe then he would’ve come to his senses and that he didn’t need to do all these things to impress her. 

Jirou never hated anything more than someone who felt fake to her.

As you distributed the rest of the drinks to a clueless Todoroki, a way too eager Midoriya, and handed water to Koda, who thanked you shyly with a small nod.

You smiled at him, then left to the bar that your uncle was managing to get the order for the next table while Iida shouted for everyone to make sure they drank responsibly so that they didn’t cause any problems for you. 

But it was largely ignored in favor of raising their beers in a toast for the birthday boy.

Bakugou scowled in the corner that he was shoved into, wondering why he of all people had to be dragged to this shitty celebration for a birthday he couldn’t care less about. It was too loud here and it was making his head hurt. The only consolation he got was that you were a rare sight, wearing a dress that he had bought for you a week ago.

The seamstress who had made it for him specifically had charged him an incredible amount of money for it, since fabric of any kind that wasn’t made from recycled garbage liners was nearly impossible to come by.

But being a part of the ring of fighters that made up Aizawa’s Warriors gave him credibility and enabled him to make even more money than he did before, so it wasn’t a problem.

That much. 

After rent on his rundown place and scrounging for food, he had saved up the rest for weeks before he was able to afford the pale blue satin dress edged with delicate white lace around the sleeves that cascaded off your shoulders. The tightly-fitted bodice that wrapped around your waist was a simple leather corset, accentuating those curves of yours more than should be legally allowed.

You looked absolutely delicious. 

You continued to sweep around the tavern, oblivious to the looks you were getting. You had a bit of expertise in waitressing due to the lack of income your dad was able to provide so you had to convince him that you really didn’t mind helping out with the staff tonight.

The bar, owned by your Uncle Hizashi, a retired fighter but not retired in spirit, had all the profits go to the orphanages the city couldn’t keep track of or be bothered to pay for; which enabled those kids who were abandoned to have a roof over their heads in all the uncertainty.

The state of those houses holding those homeless children were horrendous. 

But your dad and uncle were taking steps to create something new that would provide them with some relief and a new family.

Kirishima clapped the ash-blond on the shoulder, jarring him out of his annoyance. “Come on, Bakugou, loosen up!!” 

He clicked his tongue and scowled at the red-haired guy’s energy. No one would think that this fun-loving guy and people person would be such a terrifying fighter in the arena.

Kirishima frowned when he noticed his lack of enthusiasm. “C’mon man, I know this isn’t your scene but Y/N worked really hard on this.”

Bakugou’s drink nearly spilled as he set it down abruptly. He wasn’t expecting that. Aizawa had told him that his friends had arranged this.

Picking up on his confusion, Kirishima then proceeded to tell him about how you gathered everybody to ask if they’d be willing to attend the party and how all of them enthusiastically said yes. You had gotten special permission from your Uncle Hizashi to borrow the VIP section of his bar and convinced your father to go easy on their training today. 

Really, the grumpy man with the metal arm should be thanking you since you were the reason all of them weren’t sore to death with barely enough energy to keep their heads up. 

Kirishima was going to blame it on Aizawa. He was tough on them. Too tough. No one should be that determined to make their students push past their limits but everyone knew it came from him caring more than anyone else. 

They were all like his adopted children, in a weird, skewed way. But, no one was going to argue against it. None of them had their biological parents in the picture. 

Besides, Aizawa had enough room for them all to crash in his home. An abandoned mansion overrun with thick green vines but had no working electricity whatsoever looked like something straight out of one of those old horror movies back in the 3000s. 

Bakugou scoffed. Like hell should he care about whether or not you planned this. He didn’t ask you to do any of this, you decided to do it all on your own. 

“Whatever.” He grumbled, snatching his bottle before stalking away from his shocked friends left in the dust. 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow as Kirishima sighed and Midoriya’s expression saddened when he saw him leave. They were supposed to be celebrating…

And yet, all three of them knew why today was so hard for the explosive boxer.

You frowned as you noticed the slumped figure retreating to the back of the establishment. Finishing up serving the drinks for the table you were waiting on, you briefly made a detour to your uncle and asked if it was alright that you take a break.

Ever the doting uncle who loved to spoil you rotten, Mic’s eyes softened understandingly when he noticed who you were staring after and granted you permission.

“Just don’t tell your dad I let you off the hook.” He bargained with an exaggerated wink and you giggled.

“I won’t.” You reassured, setting down the tray and squeezing his hand in thanks.

Then, you followed Bakugou. 

He disappeared around the corner and as soon as you tailed him, you came to a stop in front of a heavy door. Your brow furrowed, wondering why he would be coming here. 

Step after familiar step you took until you eventually came to a standstill on the roof.

Behind you, the heavy door slammed close but it sounded different than usual. Something metal crashed into it, denting it by the sounds of it, and it wasn’t until you turned around that you found Bakugou’s vermilion eyes boring into yours.

The wind was stronger up here and you pinned your arms down to your side, knowing full well from experience how mortifying it would be if your skirt decided to flip up right now.

“What the fuck are you doing up here?” He snapped angrily.

To his surprise, you didn’t look the least bit fazed by his outburst.

“I live here.” You responded nonchalantly, undeterred by his characteristic abrasiveness. 

If Bakugou was startled at that revelation, he didn’t show it. If anything, he looked even more irked, though you didn’t know why. He didn’t have any reason to suspect you of lying but in this world, it was safer to be skeptical than sorry.

However, you hadn’t given him one reason to doubt you the entire year you’ve known him. Not one.

So if anything, he trusted you more than the majority of the rats in his rundown city and just as much as his small circle of extras. 

Picking your way past him carefully since the roof didn’t have a safety rail, you made your way towards the curtained tent hiding behind the generator. Pushing the tattered material back, you showed him the bedroll and small table set up with a few bottles of water, a case of beer and a worn book. 

Bakugou’s mouth dropped open but he recovered quickly so by the time you turned back around, he had the same indifferent, kind of irritated look on his face.

Then, he was a bit at a loss of what to do. It wasn’t often he was faced with the dilemma of being wrong so blatantly. Should he apologize? Even when he didn’t say anything but the thought that you were crazy ran through his head? Should he apologize for something you weren’t even aware of?

Nah, fuck that.

You gingerly took a seat at the edge of the roof, leaning back on your hands as your legs dangled. Patting the spot next to you invitingly, a soft smile curved on the corners of your mouth as he grumbled but came over anyway. He plopped down on your right side and you took a moment to study him. 

He looked exhausted, spirit whittled down to the bone until there was nothing left for him to salvage. His eyes were bloodshot and the beer bottle in his hand probably wasn’t doing any favors for him.

Glancing at him out of the corner of your eyes, you asked worriedly, “You okay?”

He huffed in annoyance at your question.

“Fine.” He ground out through clenched teeth and you shut your mouth.

Bakugou clearly wasn’t looking to talk but you yearned to help. You wanted to be there for him. 

Kirishima hadn’t told you much, only that the incident that took Bakugou’s arm happened a long time ago and wasn’t something he liked to relive. 

You didn’t push it. You had your own share of traumatic experiences in this god-forsaken place and hated nothing more than being forced to talk about by a well meaning friend. So you understood it well. 

Instead of pushing the topic, you sat with him in silence. You didn’t ask why he walked away from the party or why it looked like he was drowning himself in his sorrows to forget something, you just offered him a quiet place to sit, with the company of yours truly.

Fate was flawed. You knew that ever since you were born.

The warped sense of justice that the city had was suffocating. People were put away in prison only to be left to rot with no chance of redemption. Those that made it out were casted out to the underground with no hope to see the light. 

Combatants-for-hire wasn’t an unusual job to take on in the ruined city. All Might knew you too had been mixed up in some shit. 

But it was what made you strong in the end.

“I’m here.” Was all you said softly, staring out at the city lights that were especially illuminating tonight.

Thanks to the heavy pollution, the stars could no longer be seen with the naked eye so this was the closest thing you could get to those twinkling lights raised high in the sky. 

“It’s funny.”

You tilted your head towards him as he spoke and was a bit surprised to find him looking directly back at you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. 

His eyes were a little dazed, probably from the alcohol, but he looked a little more grounded than he did a minute ago.

Bakugou chuckled but it was short and grated against your ears for a second.

It was mocking.

He tipped his head back, downing the rest of his drink before harshly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand while he crushed the bottle in his metal fist.

Leaning over, he let go and let the shiny crystals plummet to the ground below. 

You smiled faintly, watching how they sparkled. It looked so pretty. 

Sitting back down, Bakugou mimicked your posture and huffed out a dry laugh. “Out of all the shitty extras in the world, you would be the only one to fucking get through to me.”

Your puzzlement must’ve shown through his alcohol-induced haze because the next thing you knew was that he teetered to the side as he lost control of his equilibrium and careened into you.

Out of reflex, you caught him and gasped at the temperature difference as his cold metal arm pressed against you. You could feel it through the thin fabric of your dress and latched onto it when he moved to pull away.

“Sorry.” Bakugou slurred curtly as he gathered his bearings and tried to detangle you from him. 

But his coordination wasn’t the best and he was growing more and more frustrated when you wouldn’t let go.

He snarled. “Let go.”

You shook your head firmly. “You could fall.”

Oh yeah. You two were on the roof. 

This was a bad idea. 

He didn’t know how he ended up here with you but he needed to leave. Immediately. 

Bakugou stumbled to his feet, somehow managing to lose his way halfway to the door and face-planted in something that smelled faintly of lavender. Snuggling into the soft thing that was rubbing against his face, his brow furrowed in annoyance as you giggled at him.

“You have to take me out on a date first if you want that.” You teased lightly and he immediately sat up as he realized he had crashed in your bed.

He scrambled upright, nearly falling over again in his haste. “Fuck, I’m—”

“It’s alright, Katsuki.” You reassured nonchalantly, coming down to sit beside him, but not close enough where your legs were touching.

Bakugou’s mouth twitched at the sound of his first name but his eyes softened the barest bit and he didn’t fight against it. 

Before he met you, he hated his name. It was a reminder that the place he came from was from a lab, cooked up like some sort of sick science experiment to fulfill a role in society that was chosen by some prick who had money.

It was a reminder that he wasn’t real. That he was expendable to all those bastards that ran the world.

But when you used it, when you spoke it with such tentative curiosity and genuine concern, he didn’t feel so unimportant anymore.

“Fuck.” Bakugou breathed as you leaned closer to examine his face.

Your forehead creased in worry and you raised a hand to his head to check his temperature to make sure he wasn’t running a fever. “Are you feeling alright?”

Squeaking when he suddenly grabbed your hand, you gasped in shock when he tugged you towards him. 

You crashed into his chest and your cheeks flushed hotly as his chiseled form honed from years of training molded against your front. 

His arm wrapped around your shoulders and it took a second to realize that his metal arm was planted firmly on the ground, keeping the two of you steady. 

But when you reached out your fingers to brush against it, he ripped away from you.

You pulled back immediately, apology weighing in your gaze as your eyes flicked away from him. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s fucking hideous.”

You balked at his tenor. “W-What?!”

Bakugou looked away from you, his gaze fixed on the ground behind you as he rested his chin on top of your head, stubbornly refusing to look you in the eye as you breathed steadily against the base of his neck.

You were warm. Delicate.

Precious.

He didn’t expect someone like you to understand.

His vermilion eyes were shadowed by the ghosts of his past that continued to haunt him and he sighed heavily, curling his arm around you tighter. He didn’t want to let you go just let but he didn’t know why you weren’t pushing him away. 

Your soft voice rang out. “Katsuki, what do you mean? It’s not hideous at all.”

He clicked his tongue but otherwise didn’t verbalize his disagreement. 

“How could someone like you possibly understand this shit?” He spat but you didn’t recoil like he was half hoping you would.

At least then he would have an excuse to leave, under the guise that he had upset you. But you didn’t do any of that. 

Too fucking precious. Always saw the good in everything just like that shitty nerd. 

You closed your eyes in defeat. “No… I suppose I can’t.”

You didn’t quite understand him. 

The bite in his tone sounded like you had hit too close to home, and yet, his thumb was absentmindedly running over the satin of your dress that he had bought you, your side heating up under his chest and warmth bloomed from your heart.

And yet, he wasn’t pushing you away.

Leaning down, you rested your forehead against his shoulder, your heart beating too loud for your own ears. “You don’t have to say anything, but I know what it feels like to be an outcast too.”

Bakugou eyed you cautiously, wondering if this was some sort of trick because he was drunk and definitely not as attentive as normally but your tone was open.

Honest. 

“Yeah, maybe you do.” He scoffed, scorning you under his breath. “Maybe you don’t. It doesn’t fucking matter to me.”

“Maybe it doesn’t.” You whispered, tracing patterns on his chest as your head lolled to the side to gaze at him with complete vulnerability. “But just know that you aren’t alone.”

Bakugou whipped his head around as you stared at him. Didn’t you get it already? He didn’t want to fucking taint you with all of this shit that went on down here.

He didn’t want to tell you that he had to settle tinkering with whatever scrap metal he could find in the junkyard just to make his left arm operational again, didn’t want to tell you that the government had offered him a real replacement prosthetic but at the cost of becoming one of their combatants fighting in a war he never chose and as a result, he was casted to the side when something went wrong.

He had lost everything. 

The second he had been tossed out on the street, he had come crawling back to Kiko, a spunky little girl a part of the UA orphanage in the east, one of the ones that Mic funneled money towards to fund their food and supply them with fresh water every three days.

The girl, no more than ten at the time, with her dirty blonde pigtails sticking out on either side of her lopsided head, had been born with a unique appearance.

The officials called it a defect, as though they were talking about an object of mass production.

Fucking disgusting.

It never seemed to bother the girl though, and she often claimed that she was tougher than all those men in fancy suits. Bakugou liked her spirit already.

Kiko had had this habit of tracing her stubby little fingers all over the scars from his fights whenever he came to visit and it had been her idea to forgo a realistic prosthetic from the corporation that was looking to hire him and just go out, full badass, just like Bucky in the Winter Soldier.

It was her favorite movie but Bakugou claimed he had absolutely no idea where she learned that kind of language from. 

He had chuckled and patted her on the head at the time, swearing to hell and back that there was no fucking way he was going to build a metal arm. He would scare the kids if he did that, not to mention, full-grown adults.

But Kiko simply bounded over to him and beamed up at him like nothing was wrong in the world. It was fucking contagious, begging for him to at least consider it, selling the point of how cool it would look.

“You would be a superhero, Bakugou!!” She cheered, raising her hands up high, demanding for him to lift her up even though she wasn’t five anymore. “And you could save everybody, just like you want to!!”

He never got a chance to show her the finished product. Would she have liked it? Would she run around, screaming in his shitty apartment as she played with it when he detached it for cleaning? Would she try to hit him over the head with it when she thought he wasn’t looking like the cheeky brat he knew that she was?

Bakugou could hear her squeals of excitement so vividly some nights that he woke up from his terror of that night, soaked in cold sweat from a memory of the girl he had failed to save.

Defeated and overwhelmed by his circumstances after being rejected by the very people who sought him out because of his talent, he had ventured to the orphanage that night and on a whim, demanded her to live with him. He would take care of her, protect her, teach her things that she couldn’t learn from anyone else.

The widest smile he had ever seen stretched across Kiko’s face and she accepted his demands with eyes tearing up with joy. 

He vowed to protect her. 

He failed. 

He had an unsettled score with the government officials he had upset on his way out from the lab that day they told him he had been scraped from the program. 

The enraged fighter went on a rampage, tearing down anything in his path and clearing out the experiment rooms, offering freedom and a second chance to anyone willing and brave enough to take it. 

And as a result, many took him up on his offer and fled that place with white walls and food too bland to actually be considered nutritious.

There was no doubt about it. He pissed them off the day he saved the others.  

They had come for her and taken her last year on his birthday as revenge for freeing those they were experimenting on. He found a crumpled, poorly wrapped, newspaper covered package lost in the clutter of his apartment when he got home.

The creaking old door that kept out winter drafts had caved in, signifying that it had broken in with considerable force, and Kiko was gone.

That crushed gift hidden under the stairwell was the only thing that remained of her.

Inside, there was a small metal pin in the shape of an explosion. For his personality. Corny, but the little girl was simple-minded and liked the sentiment she found in things that she repurposed. 

Bakugou always thought it was fucking weird but he hadn’t taken it off ever since that day. 

The metal plates of his arm glided, clinking together softly as the polished steel lifted to trace your jaw, the pin visible on the inside of his wrist.

To keep her close to him always.

He had stormed their stronghold but by the time he got there, they were gone. Everything.

Every vial, all the equipment, every single one of the samples and officials had disappeared into thin air. 

Bakugou had tried everything to track Kiko down, paying off the highest crime organizations to get more eyes out on the street but nothing worked. She was gone.

And she wasn’t ever going to come back.

You were silent when he finished telling you his depressing life story, sure you were bored to death but when he started to get up, he found that he couldn’t get very far with you draped over his body like this.

Bakugou had a fleeting thought that you had fallen asleep while he had been lamenting and rehashing every depressing detail from his past but he noticed the stuttering rise and fall of your back.

Well, at least you weren’t asleep, but now he didn’t know how to feel when he had told you all of that and you had yet to say anything.

“I know you don’t want pity.” You whispered into his shoulder.

He raised an eyebrow but waited for you to continue.

“I know there’s nothing that I can say that would make the pain go away or bring Kiko back,” You said softly. “But I’m here for you.”

Bakugou pressed his cheek against your hair and inhaled your sweet scent, closing his eyes as an unseen weight lifted from off of his shoulders. 

“Thank you.” He murmured quietly with great difficulty. 

You smiled slightly, glad that you were able to provide him with a little bit of comfort. “Anytime.”

The two of you stayed entwined for a few more moments, time stretching as he held onto you, soaking up your soothing presence while you relaxed against his hold.

“Katsuki?” You called quietly when he still didn’t let go after five more minutes.

Tightening his arm around you, he frowned when you struggled in his grip. 

“Stop fucking moving.” He demanded and you ceased fighting in favor of pulling back to flick him on the forehead. “Oi, did you just fucking flick me?!”

“Yes.” You replied bluntly, snickering when he rolled his eyes. 

There he was.

Bakugou protested hotly when you pushed down his arms to untangle from him but you shushed him with a giggle, leaning back to open the box of beer by your bed, grabbing two bottles and fishing for something from underneath your pillow

In the underground city where liquor was the only thing that was plentiful, you would take what you could get. 

Bakugou caught the beer that you threw at him in midair with an expression a mix between annoyance that you tossed it at his face and gratitude that you knew how he needed another drink after that tale. 

“What the fuck is that for?” He scoffed, pointing to the roll of gauze in your hand. “You get a papercut or some shit?”

You rolled your eyes in disbelief, failing to notice how his eyes raked over you to look for any kind of injury you might be hiding from him, and held it up to him. “No, but it looks like you did.”

He almost spilled his beer that he just popped the lid off of, mouth furrowing in a deep-seated frown when he followed your gaze and landed on the cuts on his knuckles from the fight that happened earlier that night.

“Fuck.” He cursed, setting down the beer hard to wipe up the blood.

He hadn’t even known when he got hurt. 

But he didn’t even get started on tending to it when your gentle hands wrapped around his and you took over for him. 

“Here.” You murmured, pouring some water onto a clean cloth and dabbing carefully at his cuts. “Let me.”

“You’re fucking weird.” Bakugou grumbled but allowed you to take over. 

Your touch was so much lighter than the rough pads of his fingers. He was always too impatient whenever he had to patch himself up, jerking at the bandages to get them to lay flat when they wouldn’t cooperate.

It was a fucking pain to stop the bleeding when his shitty fingers fumbled with it. It was a trip to hell and back every single time he had to attend to wounds he got from boxing.

Your nose scrunched up in concentration as you finished cleaning the area before securely wrapping the soft cotton around his knuckles.

“There.” You declared in satisfaction, sitting back on your knees.

Admiring your handiwork with an unreadable expression, it was a second before Bakugou nodded begrudgingly with thanks.

“It’s not complete shit.” 

You giggled. “Thanks.”

He picked back up his drink and took a swig.

Offering up yours, you hid your surprise when he actually recognized the gesture and clinked his glass against yours.

The distinct hum from the music in the establishment below filtered up to the roof, filling the silence and the occasional echo of steel grating against each other. The low lights were pleasant and the ambiance was soothing as you two drank away the night.

You shivered, catching a chill as the night air blew by, but before you could reach for your blanket, Bakugou was tucking you in his side. 

“Get over here, dumbass.” He mumbled, turning his face away so that you wouldn’t see his blush. “You’re gonna get fucking sick.”

You noticed how he still kept your metal arm away from you. That wound was still too fresh and somehow you had a feeling that no matter how much time would pass, things would never quite be the same again.

Playing with the hem of your dress, you smiled softly. “But I wanted to wear it today, it was a special occasion.”

Special occasion his ass. It was fucking freezing out here and all you were wearing was that summer dress. His brow knitted as you puffed out your cheeks, breath visible, and he wasn’t so sure he wanted to leave you out here when it was so cold out.

“I’m sorry.” Bakugou apologized quietly as you lost interest in toying with the pale blue satin and folded your hands neatly in your lap.

At your questioning gaze, he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes but heat crept up his neck.

“For storming out on the celebration you planned, dumbass.” He grumbled, flicking you on the forehead in a similar fashion hat you had done earlier.

Whining, you held onto your forehead as you made an exaggeration of pain. He rolled his eyes at your antics and you giggled, snuggling further into his side.

“You’re warm.” You mused.

Bakugou scowled, cheeks still pink from the embarrassment tingling through his whole body. “Oi, are you fucking ignoring m—”

“Of course not.” You retorted, pinching his side in retaliation for the flick he gave you before your voice dropped a little. “It’s just— There isn’t anything you need to apologize for. I understand.”

Those words, they were so simple and yet, warmth bloomed in his chest from how they fell from your lips. 

And he could see that you were truly genuine.

He had rejected your kindness earlier when Kirishima had told him you had planned out all of this for him. He had never quite been accustomed to generously that lacked a price or some kind of condition.

Then again, he had never met someone quite like you. 

As you rested against his shoulder, Bakugou took the empty beer bottle from you and placed it on the other side of him so that you didn’t break it and cut yourself when you woke up from your little nap.

He gazed out into the city that had caused him so much misery and wondered how it was even possible for someone like you to exist.

Birthdays, he still hated them, but maybe, just maybe, he could start to heal.

It would start by telling that old man that you fucking needed a new place to sleep that wasn’t the goddamn roof.

It was a good thing he knew just the place you could go.

Brushing back the hair out of your eyes, he allowed a small smile to form on his face as you breathed softly, evenly and he smirked against the top of your head as a thought crossed his mind. And even though he knew you couldn’t hear him, he still murmured quietly.

“How do you feel about seagulls and sand, princess?”

[ravysu]

Sannin headcanons and thoughts

The last thing I would like to post for the sannin week. It is still 24.04 here! :D @sannin-central

This is long. Spoiler alert. Mostly Orochimaru, some Tsunade, a little of Jiraiya (because his story is pretty clear and spoken and idk what I can add). Also I recommend to read this meta about Orochimaru, it has influenced me a lot and has some good points. Sorry for any posible grammar mistakes. Also I really should put here a lot of references to the manga or anime but it was something that was piling up for a year and I'm soooooooo lazy. After all, those are just headcanons. Also: Im not excusing Oro's bad stuff here, Im trying to understand the reasons.

Ive already posted some hcs, here, here and here.

1. First if all, the chronology pic of sannin lifetime based on the info i found on naruto wiki and also some statements about wars from this post. It was tough considering what a mess naruto’s chronology is.

2. Sannin story shows what it cost to be a legend. They're like Team 7 but more realistic. Tsunade literally carried the war but left with nothing and developed a ptsd and have problems to just live on. Also anger control issues. I think she can be pretty bossy and stubborn which is not always nice. Jiraiya is the hero of the day but also very idealistic and can ignore some important details in the real word whether its the fight (he always injured during flashbacks maybe because each time he took too much to handle and on the one hand it's heroistic but on the other is a mistake that can lead your team to situations like in that Iwa cave) or your friends issues (I bet he saw what's going on but thought it's fine until Oro actually got red handed and left). He lives in his world and may have problems to get out to see it through someone else's shoes. As for Orochimaru, it seems like he was a normal guy for 20+ years (I mean, he didn't do crazy criminal shit and had something good in him and it was stated somewhere that it was his teammates influence. It is obvious they considered him as a friend, I don't thinks it was for nothing) but we mostly know his darkest side. Despite being a moster he is a human that have empathy and some ordinary human traits (man just decorates every bit of an environment he is in lol).

3. Tsunade was the leader of team Hiruzen.

4. Tsunade sometimes hit Jiraiya for some stupid things he did or said but never touches Orochimaru even if he did something same. Jiraiya complained about it once and almost got another hit.

5. Jiraiya had problematic parents that didn't care about him much and a lot of time he was wandering in the streets.

6. Judging by the look of Oro bangs and hair, he sometimes cut it off. A stress relief huh? And the fact that he doesn't do it now in Boruto..

7. It was shown that Tsunade and Orochimaru was acknowledged before they become a team. Maybe they did just before, or maybe some longer time before. I prefer the second option and hc that they met because both had no real friends - Orochimaru seemed weird and scary for everyone and Tsunade was Senju so everyone wanted to hang out with her but didn't really care. They weren't seen as what they were - people put the labels on them. But they didn't care about each other's labels and actually saw each other in true lights.

8. Tsunade knew it was an accident and it's not right but still she blamed Orochimaru for Nawaki's death for some time. It was something that seriously damaged their friendship and the team. Orochimaru was mad but also guilty, after all, he was responsible at least as a shinobi since Nawaki was under his watch. So he started to act cold and emotionless and was trying to distance himself from his teammates.

9. Jiraiya was in Ame while Dan died.

10. The whole his orphans mission was a bit irresponsible tbh. They already fought Hanzo and as he stated the conflict between Konoha and Ame is going to an end with Konoha's win. It's weird to stay here for three years in the middle of the war while there were other lands to fight. He left his teammates for some idea. Maybe that caused another crack in their team friendship.

11. If Tsunade would have find a way to live on with her trauma and follow the will of fire and stuff it would affect Orochimaru as well just as her grief affected him. It's like he would get an example that you can live on with this pain. So death isn't above human capability and we are not just the slaves of mortality (sounds stupid but i dont know how else to describe sorry). But as we know what he actually saw is that it broke her crucially to the point she couldnt be herself again. And so the death is above everything.

12. Oro wasn’t just acting as a cold pragmatic bitch in that cave but also tried to save Tsunade. Jiraiya knew it and that’s why he showed this sign to him like "I see what youre doing here" and that stunned Oro because he would prefer to look rather like a cold pragmatic bitch hehe

13. Just a thought. People in the village probably treated Oro as a foreigner or just wouldnt accept him because he looked so differently and had a weird attitude. That's why he sometimes didn't feel that Konoha is his home. After the wars where people were treated as means and tools, even the children, he himself developed this view on people - he dehumanized them and used as the means to his goals, just as his village did. Funny thing some people were straightly dehumanizing him too like Ibiki thought that he was a demon (tho he was a child). And he probably weren't the only one. Anyways the point is that it's logical that Orochimaru don't care about anybody but some few people, he's the product of his era. He's like Naruto that would chose the hatred way. But naruto had some good and understanding people around him and.. Orochimaru had them too, but match how Iruka treated Naruto and this Hiruzen's "I sAw tHe mAliCe in This cHiLd fRoM tHe BegGinNinG". And oro didn't even have a big ass evil fox in him. sry i hate hiruzen

ANYWAYS the moral of the story is not "go criminal if they hurt you" but always treat people like people. Waving my hand to Kant.

14. The reason why Orochimaru didn't pick some good morals to stick with through the hard times no matter what (like, idk, Jiraiya or Naruto) is because 1) I think he is/was pretty depending on people around him 2) the war fucked him and his friends up too much (Nawaki incident + Tsunade) 3) twisted addictions (though I don't think he's that sadistic, we never saw him torturing randoms just for fun, it was always some science experimental shit. He tends to get fun out of cruelty only when it's personal) that maybe developed as a way to sublimate anger and sadness caused by his parents loss (that's what they share with sasuke - unlicke naruto, they knew their parents and it's other kind of pain. Sasuke developed a revenge issue and Orochimaru - cruelty pleasure which... is kinda the same but less epic and more occasional lol).

15. Speaking of that, Orochimaru cared for Sasuke because he saw himself in him.

16. Oro hold grudges against Hiruzen for not choosing him to be Hokage not only because he was ambitious and/or egoistic, but also because Hiruzen was some kind of a father figure for him and his approval was important tho i doubt he was aware of that. He also probably could tell that Hiruzen was suspicios about him when he was a child and that led to many conflicts and was hurting as well.

17. Tsunade knew things weren't pretty with Orochimaru after the wars but she never expected them to be this bad. During the week that she was given in her arc she thought not only about how much she wants to see Nawaki and Dan again despite how wrong would it be but also was trying to bury all the good memories she had left of Orochimaru so it would be easier to kill him.

18. She poisoned Jiraiya exactly because she knew he would not let her do it. Jiraiya was always hesitant to kill and inclined to forgiveness, while Tsunade, as mentioned by Orochimaru, could be merciless (so much so that he was not surprised when Kabuto suggested that she wanted to use Jira for Edo Tensei).

19. That was one of her traits that scared Jiraiya and fascinated Orochimaru.

20. Remember how Oro grabbed Jiraiya's neck when the latter was trying to cover with hair jutsu? On the snake, in Tsnade's arc. Orochimaru could have easily kill Jiraiya by pulling the sword out of the mouth (arteries are right there) but he didn't. As well as he could kill Tsunade when she was still shaking - just aim for the neck or the heart. Instead, he just injured her lung and kicked her which is not a big deal for the kind of shinoby like her at all.. Also he helped Anko not accidentally kill herself but it would be way much profitable to let her do it. "Orochimaru has no feelings".

21. The reason he suddenly wanted to kill Tsunade instead of forcing her to heal his arms as it was planned (which is weird since it will not going to get him heals and he kinda said that he wouldn't want to kill her just minutes ago) is that not only she refused to help him (he thought he could work it out) but she also prefered the village over him (from his point of view). Out if everyone she was the closest to being able to understand him since the village caused her painful losses too but nevertheless she agreed to be on it's side.

22. He wasn't fighting her back in the end partly because he thought he deserved that. Somewhere deep inside hahah.

23. Tsunade got a fear to develop deep bonds so they probably weren't very close with Shizune (also the way she knocked her down in this hotel.. oh).

24. Orochimaru will be here when she'll die.

25. Orochimaru's eng dub to Tsunade: "I often wondered what it would be like to ring that pretty neck yours". No comments.

26. Orochimaru is either bi/pan or ace. Anything or nothing lmao

27. Hiruzen knew about at least some of the Oro’s illegal experiments and was okay just as he was okay with the Foundation all the time. Because it’s useful. Then he has discovered he went too far OR he knew everything and oro just became too inconvenient because of his methods. The way Orochimaru tells Sasuke about reasons they are well treated as the criminals is based on in his experience with Hiruzen.

28. As you may know the lyrics in Orochimaru’s music theme goes “don’t talk with the silence of the heart”. It was taken from one Indian song that also had lines like “don’t question life too much”, ”pain arose somewhere in the chest”, “don’t speak to the wounds of the heart”. Though I’m not sure 100% because I was translating it with some hindi dictionary with like zero knowledge of hindi

29. I like to think that this “silence of the heart” theme and the fact that he called his village a hidden sound village are somehow connected. The hidden sound is the possible explanation of all things waiting to be listened to but the truth is silent and you know it deep in your heart and it bothers you. The world is silent just like the life is meaningless but people can only hear. *Sigh* anyways

30. Orochimaru’s journey is the one about accepting death. When he saw Karin released her chains while was trying to get to Sasuke he understood that the death is a part of human’s strength.

Can’t wait to feel that everything I wrote is wrong or not enough or stupid and obvious lol. Anyways, it’s something that I wanted to share until I move to some other fandom.

[amiedala]

SOMETHING DEEPER

CHAPTER 4: An Open Wound

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, canon-compliant violence, graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of past abuse/trauma

SUMMARY:  “I don’t expect you to follow what I say. I’m not a dictator, and I have no interest in becoming one. But if a single one of you brings danger to this planet you claim to love to hurt me or my wife,” Din continues, and the way his lips shape around the word wife makes something warm and wet unhinge in Nova, “there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide from me.”

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hello my loves and happy Something Deeper Saturday! this chapter is truly a whirlwind, it's hard and sweet and intense and simple all at once. there are very graphic descriptions of violence and death in the one (in the form of Force visions, no one's actually dying, I PROMISE!!!), so please be aware that there is potentially triggering material in what you're about to read. it mentions past abuse and dives pretty deep into current violence, so please just read with caution! i hope you enjoy this journey—i certainly did writing it! more notes at the end!!! <3

*

Mandalore isn’t a ghost town.

Not how Nova originally thought, anyway. The throne room is filled with wary, armored people. Some are the guards that usually stand watch outside, through the giant palace doors. Nova recognizes Koska Reeves and Axe Woves from the brief, charged encounters she’s had with each of them. Bo-Katan is there, of course, regal and pristine, her shoulders pushed back, her red hair impeccable. There are a handful of villagers that Nova’s seen in passing, but besides the few faces she recognizes, most of the people gathered in the throne room have been hidden somewhere on Mandalore, away from this strange Capitol, away from the everyday. Half of them are without armor, without impressive beskar helmets to hide their wary expressions. Bo-Katan’s icy, measured gaze is clearly a popular currency on Mandalore, because every single person in this room looks skeptical at best and enraged at worst. Nova keeps her eyes on Din, who’s decided to stand at the helm of the dais instead of taking a seat on the beskar throne, watching his every movement to ensure he’s safe up there, and that he stays unharmed.

“I want...to be your leader,” Din says, his voice quiet but earnest. He sounds like he’s incredulous at his own words, like he’s reading off a script he’s never seen before. But there’s power hidden underneath whatever’s scaring him, an undercurrent that Nova knows is unfettered, genuine passion. “I wasn’t raised in the way of Mandalore. Not in the ways that you were—”

“Clearly,” Koska whispers, and the Mnadalorians standing closest to her proximity offer uncharacteristic smiles and snorts. Nova steps forward, but Bo-Katan raises her sharp hand at her side, and they immediately fall silent.

Din looks back at Nova, and for the first time, she can see the fear in his eyes. She nods, encouragingly, even though she has absolutely no clue what point he’s trying to make. Every time she closes her eyes, even if it’s only for a heartbeat, she sees the strange, young hologram of her face, with the word MURDER, MURDER, MURDER flashing back at her, a ceaseless and terrible pattern. Nervously, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, realizing that she’s the only person in this room who isn’t outfitted in Mandalorian regalia. Her black shirt has remnants of dust on the sleeves from the amphitheater. Her pants saw their best days weeks ago. Her shawl, the only proof that she wears any sort of allegiance to the throne, Mandalorian blue and regal, is thrown haphazardly over her rounded shoulders. The boots on her feet are older than her relationship with Din, picked up planets and planets ago, somewhere sunny and warm and an entire lifetime away. When Din’s panicked brown eyes find hers again, Nova smiles, taking a half-step forward, trying to portray anything other than her own frenzied state, the hammering heartbeat that could likely be heard outside of the palace.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Din finally continues, turning back to the crowd. Even from this angle, with most of his face obscured, Nova knows how hard it is for him to stand here, in front of dozens of people, without his helmet, how many rules he thinks he’s breaking, how this must feel like agony. He reaches for the Darksaber hanging on his belt, and when it ignites, every single face in the room is on Din, on that horrific, captivating blade of electricity and death. “I won this in battle. Twice. Both were accidents,” He inhales heavily, studying the flickering, wicked blade. “But they still happened. I wasn’t born on Mandalore. I wasn’t raised here, either. I’ve given some of you this speech before, when I first took the throne.” He exhales through his nose, and Nova wets her dry lips. Her throat feels like the middle of the day on Tatooine, parched and treacherous. “I...I am not a Mandalorian in the way that you’re Mandalorians.” Nova chances another half-step forward, letting the captive, tensioned room blur in her vision as she just focuses on Din. There’s a tremor in his voice, something alive and unsteady, something she only notices because she’s spent over a year studying every inch of him, memorizing Din right down to his bloodstream. “I follow a Creed that you don’t. I’ve spent most of my life trying...trying to be a good soldier, a true Mandalorian. I know I’m not the leader you wanted. I’m not even sure if I’m the leader I wanted. But I’m the one we’ve got, at least for right now. And—” Din exhales sharply, his breath strained, and Nova knows he’s suppressing a sigh, “I swear, I will try my best to do right by this planet. But—but I’m not only the reigning Mand’alor. I’m—”

“Right,” Axe interjects, but there's no malice in his tone. Nova stiffens, crossing her arms over her chest, staring over at him. But he doesn’t look threatening. His smile seems genuine, like he;s just attempting to get Din to lighten up. “And a bounty hunter. A damn good one, at that. He’s caught me twice.”

“Three times,” Nova corrects, and her eyes go wide when she realizes that everyone’s attention is now on her. “But,” she continues, rather nervously, trying to square back her shoulders in a shoddy imitation of Bo-Katan to not display that nervousness, “Din hasn’t been just a bounty hunter in a long time.”

Din sheathes the Darksaber, and instead turns his outstretched hand to Nova. Heart pounding, she slides her hand into his large, gloved one, trying not to show the massive tremble in her fingers. Quietly, he reaches for the Skywaker lightsaber hanging from her belt, and when Nova hesitates, he lets her hand close over the grip instead. Bo-Katan moves forward, so quickly Nova doesn’t even notice, and when she ignites the crisp, illuminated blue blade, half of the people gathered in the throne room draw a weapon. Nova’s expecting Bo-Katan to do the same, but she raises one impeccable eyebrow and turns back towards the room.

“Stop,” she says, and immediately, the majority of the room lowers whatever weapon of choice they’re gripping. Nova manages a tiny, stuttered breath. “She’s not going to hurt us.”

“She,” a voice says from the back of the room, “is wanted by multiple parties. Contacts all over the galaxy will pay a pretty price for Andromeda Maluev, you know. I accepted the cult member as Mand’alor. I accepted you standing down from the throne, Bo-Katan. I will not accept harboring a criminal,” he continues, voice as icy as Hoth, “and a Jedi, at that.”

Din moves forward, all tension, all rage, but Bo-Katan holds up that same, steady hand, and the man making his way across the foreground halts in the same beat that Din does. Nova pulls her own lightsaber back, pocketing it, pulling the shawl higher over her shoulders, trying to unclench her jaw before all of her teeth break off in her mouth. She’s tired. So tired. Exhausted, slogging through this conversation, her heartbeat accelerating, stars shooting out behind her eyes. And still, this time, when she closes them, all she sees is MURDER, MURDER, MURDER.

“Her name,” Bo-Katan returns, measured and cool, “is Novalise Djarin. And yes, she is wanted by both the scum that still survived after the Empire’s demise, and a middleman somewhere in between which we cannot identify yet. Yes, she is a Jedi, or at least is certainly heading in that way. Yes, I stood down from the title. But that wasn’t because I was weak, or because I wanted them on the throne.”

“Bo-Katan—”

“Nova,” Bo-Katan interjects, “I’ve got this.” She steps off the lowest stair on the dias, posture perfect, right arm curled around her distinctive helmet. Everything in her screams royalty, regality. Behind her eyes is a fire so much stronger than the ice in her voice. “I didn’t want this. Neither did you. But Din won the Darksaber, fair and square. And Mandalore isn’t what it used to be. None of us are, either. We’re good at surviving, but we’re even better at fighting. And I believe,” she says, pointedly, glancing over at Din, who’s still coiled in an attack position, “that was the point our Mand’alor was getting to. So let him finish. With your mouths closed.”

The man who spoke, wizened but grizzled, exhales angrily through his nose, but his mouth stays clamped shut. Bo-Katan stands at attention, nodding back at Din.

“War is coming,” Din continues stiffly, and half of the people crowded around the room roll their eyes or mutter under their breath.

“War is always coming,” another woman enunciates, “it’s what the galaxy knows best.”

“War is coming,” Din repeats, and Nova has to force herself to unfurl her palms. Before she can even try to jump to his aid, though, he walks down the steps and presses his flat palm against the holotable. Reflected in the glittering dome above them is thousands of pixels of blue light. Nova’s juvenile mugshot is up there for the entire room to see, but so are statistics from every mission they’ve engaged in, anything even remotely related to the Order. Hundreds of faces swarm the screen, all with interwoven lines connecting them to other profiles and rotating planets. There, at the center of the screen, is the First Order’s name in menacing, large letters. Underneath are the silhouettes of Luke, Nova, and Grogu. When Din opens his mouth this time, his words are vivid and clear. “I know that Mandalore has been razed and sieged. I know that in your eyes, I’m not one of you. I know that none of you signed up for another battle. But I also know that fighting,” Din says, his voice weary, but his dark eyebrow raised, “is what’s in our blood. All of us.”

“I won’t follow a ruler who isn’t a true Mandalorian,” the same man finally continues. He steps towards them, and his face is angry and ghastly in the flickering blue light. His rage is barely concealed, and Nova’s hand flies unconsciously to the lightsaber hanging from her belt. “And I certainly won’t protect a Jedi who doesn’t belong here.”

“Well, then,” Nova says, and she’s so bone-dead tired that she doesn’t realize she’s the one who’s speaking until the second word is out of her mouth, “good thing I can protect myself.” She chances a glance at Din, who could very easily be aggravated at her stoking the fire. The only thing written across his face, though, is pride. Nova’s eyes flicker over to Bo-Katan, who is somehow, unbelievably, wearing the same exact expression.

Din slams his fist down on the holotable, sending all of the blue light back into the atmosphere it came from. The low light of the war room is returned to its usual state, but no one speaks. “I don’t expect you to follow what I say. I’m not a dictator, and I have no interest in becoming one. But if a single one of you brings danger to this planet you claim to love to hurt me or my wife,” Din continues, and the way his lips shape around the word wife makes something warm and wet unhinge in Nova, “there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide from me.”

Still, no one moves.

“Mand’alor,” Bo-Katan snaps, icily, all of her usual vigor and venom back in her voice, and it’s like she’s given an order no one can deny. Half of the Mandalorians nod in wary agreement, and the other half keep their low mumbles close to their chests, all of them shuffling out of the throne room, presumably to disperse outside. When the heavy door closes shut, with only the three of them remaining, Bo-Katan turns back to Nova. Din is already climbing the steps back up the dais where the menacing beskar throne sits to retrieve his fallen helmet. When he pulls it back over his handsome face, it’s like closing an open wound.

Nova looks at Bo-Katan, who doesn’t look nearly as threatening in this low light. Her hair is slightly ruffled, and the hard set of her jaw is tense, electric. “Bo-Katan,” Nova whispers, and her gaze snaps impeccably back to Nova’s. “Thank you,” Nova continues, earnest, “for defending me. Defending us. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” Bo-Katan counters, but there’s the ghost of a small smile on her beautiful, cold face. “They were wrong, and they needed to hear that. See? I’m not always a total bitch.”

The word—so commonplace, so foreign—sounds absolutely ludicrous coming out of her mouth that it makes Nova laugh out loud. The sound is both musical and jarring, and the tension held in Bo-Katan’s shoulders evaporates, even if it’s only momentarily.

“Noted,” Nova says, smiling. Maker and all the stars above, she’s exhausted. Bo-Katan glances back at Din, armored and impenetrable, and then back at Nova.

“You need sleep,” Bo-Katan allows, pulling her own helmet back over her head. “Both of you. I’ll stay down here and monitor any incoming correspondence. I’m too wired to go to bed anytime soon.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Bo-Katan interrupts, and her usual edge is back in her tone. “And I will. Go.” She raises that commanding arm again, and Nova’s too exhausted to resist. She wants to take a shower and wash the last few days off of her, and then sleep for three more. Her scar hurts. Her shoulders ache. Her head feels impossibly heavy. Silently, she lets Din lead her over to the heavy double doors, her ears buzzing with fatigue, but before they step into the hall, Nova hears her name chase her across the war room. In tandem, she and Din turn, watching Bo-Katan ignite the blue holotable. There’s something unreadable about her, even under the helmet. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Bo-Katan says, finally, and the heaviness of her words is louder than the doors when they close on her impenetrable face.

*

Steam from the shower fills the entire fresher. It’s wet and hot, the humidity seeping deep into Nova’s skin, burrowing under the residual ache from the last few days, nestling between her cold bones from the chill back on Ahch-To, the frigidity back on Hoth. Din joins her once he wrestles off the rest of the armor, and before Nova can explain she wants him, but it’s impossible right now with how exhausted she is, how she can barely keep her eyes open, Din wordlessly lathers up his hands with her favorite, clean-smelling soap, gently raking the suds through her hair.

Nova sighs in the silence, letting her shoulders hunch over, her body weight alleviated by sagging against the warm shower walls and by the soft grip Din has on her arms, making sure she stays upward. For what feels like years, they stand together under the warm running water, reveling in the steam, the heat, without either of them needing to say anything. Din wraps Nova’s long hair up in the freshly washed towel, while she dries off the residual runoff down her arms, her thighs.

The room is cool and dark in the blue twilight, that same fog and haze sinking over the horizon. Wherever the rest of the Mandalorians went, they’ve all but disappeared off the face of the planet. Everything is an eerie kind of quiet, no bugs, no animals, no clamor, nothing that signifies any kind of sentient life outside of the castle. Most nights, that kind of awful silence makes Nova wired, like it permeates even into her dreams, but not here, not now. She has what feels like years’ worth of sleep to catch up on, and the second that Din pulls back the fluffy, silk comforter on their giant bed, Nova steps out of the towel and into the soft cocoon. Din’s barely even settled up behind her before she drifts off somewhere peaceful, somewhere that’s not here.

*

She sleeps. For hours, maybe days, Nova sleeps. It’s dreamless and empty, warm and safe. Usually, nightmares flicker and flash through her mind, her legs sprinting away from whatever menace or threat is chasing her, but not tonight. Nothing wakes Nova up, not the strange quiet, not Din tossing next to her, not the immeasurable weight of saving the galaxy on her shoulders. She sleeps, uninterrupted and powerfully, swaddled up under the light blue blankets that are somehow keeping all the bad things away.

In the end, it’s not a nightmare that startles her away, nor is it Din’s unshaven face pressing into the crook of her neck. It’s the sleepy, quiet beeping of her commlink, which has somehow been removed from its usual place on her wrist and is buried under the extra pillows that stand sentinel over their bed when neither Nova or Din is there.

Din, at this very moment, is also nowhere to be found, and Nova rakes a hand through her hair, tries and fails to suppress a yawn, and digs through the array of pillows on the floor until she can see the bright, red light. “Hello?” she asks, her voice still off somewhere in dreamland, and she rubs sleep from her eyes as she collapses down on the bed, body still stuck in sleep.

“Hey,” Nova hears, and it’s halfway through another yawn before she realizes it’s Cara calling. “Listen, I’d love to actually catch up, but—”

“You have news?” Nova asks, suddenly wide awake. She smooths the comforter out under her hand, crossing one of her legs underneath the other. Outside, the sky is dark.

“I have news,” Cara confirms, grimly. “I know Wedge called you to Hoth a week or so ago because there was a prison break somewhere outside of my jurisdiction.”

Nova nods before she remembers Cara can’t see her. “Yeah,” she adds, belatedly. “Yeah, but no one seemed suspicious or in league with the Order, and it was a holding cell full of minor offenders, so it was kind of a dead end.”

“Well, it was,” Cara sighs, “until it wasn’t. We were right, kind of, because no one who escaped was linked to the First Order. But the night after that prison break happened, your photo with your old name and manufactured crimes popped up as a hit from the Guild.”

Nova’s heart sinks. Something suffocating is blocking her airway, and she tries to swallow past the feeling before she can exhale. “What does that mean?” she manages, barely, hand fluttering around her necklace, pressing into the embossed star.

“Someone’s setting you up,” Cara continues, and her voice is gentler than Nova’s ever heard it. “Someone who likely knows you or Din, knows how to get under your skin. The reason why this is so dangerous is because whoever did it knows exactly what they’re doing. I’ve tried, and Karga has tried, but we can’t even identify where the hit originated from, let alone who put it out. We’re not going to stop looking, but it’s going to be hard to figure out who did it. And because the warrant is for you alive or dead…” Cara trails off, the silence buzzing and dangerous.

Nova closes her eyes before she fills in the blanks. “I’m going to be in danger anywhere I go.”

“Listen,” Cara tries, but it’s too late. Nova’s still exhausted, she’s in pain, she has no idea where Din went, and all she wants to do is to bury her face in Grogu’s head and smell his sweet, reassuring baby smell. Her heart aches. “Novalise, I’m not going to let them get to you. You have some of the strongest forces in the galaxy who’ve got your back.”

“Yeah,” Nova whispers, “and I appreciate that, Cara, I do, so much, but—but Mandalore isn’t exactly a safe haven, either. The planet knows I can use the Force, and besides that, most of the people Din’s supposed to be ruling hate our guts. I’m not scared of being left to defend myself, because it’s kind of what I’ve learned to be best at. But with what you’re telling me, there’s not a single safe place left in the galaxy for me right now.”

Cara’s silence is deafening. Nova’s heart sinks just a little bit deeper, swimming around somewhere in her stomach. “It’s not forever,” she says, but her voice is a little too glum to be anywhere near reassuring.

“I’m so tired,” Nova admits, feeling tears bubbling up at the corners of her eyes. “And I can’t rest, because that’s when someone can get me. I mean—what would you do, if you were me, Cara?”

Nova can hear Cara moving, a soft rustle underneath the comm. When she speaks again, her voice is low and clear, like she’s telling a secret that only Nova can hear. “I would do what we both know you’re going to do. You’re the rebel girl, remember?” She pauses. “So rebel.”

Nova watches as the comm clicks off, everything in her body electric, a live wire. Before she can bolt to Kicker, or try to find where Din’s hidden in the chambers of the palace, or call Wedge and tell him she’s coming back to Hoth, the door opens, and Din walks in.

“Hi,” Nova breathes, suddenly very aware she’s not wearing any clothes, which is completely ridiculous, because Din has seen, ravaged, and worshipped every inch of it. “Where were you?”

She watches as Din crosses over the floor, the low light of the day catching on his armor. He sighs, moving closer to Nova until he’s standing in between her open legs. Halfheartedly, he hooks his fingers under the rim of the helmet, but gives up completely the second Nova’s hands reach to pull it off instead. Underneath, his mustache isn’t manicured, his hair has been weighed down by the metal, and he looks about as exhausted as she feels.

“Ruling,” Din says, tiredly, and there’s a flint to it Nova hardly hears. He lets out a small scoff in the silence, and she reaches out the smooth palm of her right hand for his cheek to nestle against. “Trying to get the people of this planet to recognize I’m not here to destroy it, or that you—we’re not the enemy.” He catches his slip almost as quickly as it comes out of his mouth, but still, Nova’s heart sinks deep down in her chest again. “I didn’t—look, Nova, I’m not blaming you—”

“It’s okay,” she whispers, even though they both know it’s not. For a second, Din just stares at her, and then he presses his forehead against hers. The warmth his skin gives off is almost enough to make her forget about where they are, about the people that refuse to see her as an ally, about having to save the galaxy from forces that want her dead or for their own malicious intent. “They’ll come around,” she offers, her voice barely there, and Din shakes his head, his hair rustling against Nova’s forehead.

“What if they don’t?” Din asks, and by the weight in his voice, it’s clear he’s not just talking about Mandalore accepting her as the Mand’alor’s riduur, as an ally, as on their side, but about the infiltrated Guild that’s out to kill her, and the First Order that’s out for worse.

Nova’s quiet for a long time, just listening to him breathe, trying to map both of their heartbeats, yearning for the constellations hiding above the hazy Mandalore sky. “What if we can’t do it?” she whispers, her mouth hollow, her head aching. “Any of this? What if we can’t pull this off, Din?” She doesn’t point out the specifics, the weight of planets hanging over both of their heads. They both know what she means. The silence is horrible, but Nova keeps her eyes closed, just like she used to, predicting every move Din will make in the dark.

“Then we don’t,” Din breathes back, and Nova’s about to resist, tears springing back to life in her eyes, and then Din’s mouth is on hers and nothing else matters. She lets him sprawl her back on the bed, the smooth satin coaxing and cool under her skin. Stars are burning out behind her eyes, the same celestial imprints that flood through hyperspace, something more, something deeper, something beyond this planet, this moment, this darkness. When Din’s mouth leaves Nova’s, her eyes stay shut, and his lips trail down to her ear. “I’d give everything else up but you.”

They both know he’s lying—Din’s heart is too big, Nova’s purpose is too bright—but neither of them say it out loud. Nova keeps his words in the hollow of her mouth, something shiny and devastating, a supernova or a pearl.

Din kisses Nova like he’s never had her before, low and desperate. It’s an echo of what happened in the amphitheater just hours ago, but it’s sustained, huge, warm. His mouth is made to devour, and if he’s whispering anything to feel the silence, Nova can’t hear it. She’s focused on where his kisses are trailing, desperate and hot and everything she didn’t know she needed. It’s freezing in here, but he’s so warm, his body heat louder than the cold.

“Kiss me,” Din whispers, his voice rough, a plea. One of his hands comes up and braces against Nova’s chin, not an order, but a question. She reaches towards his neck, trying to pull him down, to anchor their bodies together. It’s dark in their room. Without the stars shining above, it’s even darker.

She’s so tired. Still, even after all that rest, it’s like the exhaustion has permeated Nova straight down to her bones. She shudders and sighs as Din moves down her naked body, his lips planting kisses that she doesn’t know she needs until he’s already there. It’s easy and devastating and wonderful and crushing all at once. When Nova tries to return the favor, Din gently pushes her down, mumbling something about taking care of her.

It’s sweet. So sweet, even, that she’s on the verge of tears. Nova would do anything to stay here forever, to feel her husband’s lips on her bare skin, washing away all of the horror, the trauma, the darkness. She doesn’t open her eyes, even though she wants to. Din’s spent so much time without his helmet to appear like one of the people that call themselves Mandalorians, and she wants to give him back every single second of the time that prying eyes stole away.

Before long, Nova’s already close—her orgasm bubbling up quietly, without fanfare, without dramatics, just because Din knows exactly how to make her body sing—and when she taps at his arm to let him know, his mouth unlatches from the small hickies he’s leaving on the terrain of her bare stomach, and moves in between her thighs.

Effortlessly, he hold her legs up, hooking both of them around his shoulders so that his tongue can stay anchored in place. Nova moans, a quiet, radiant thing, and Din’s tongue finds exactly where she needs it to go. It pulses there, on the sweetest of spots, over and over again until she’s finished.

Breathless, she claws at his pants again, but Din shakes his head, his mouth dropping to her forehead as he pulls her into bed. “Rest, Nova,” he whispers, his voice faraway, a deep rumble. He pulls her in against his body, warm and soothing, and both of them are out before their heads hit their pillow.

*

Din’s asleep next to her, his slow, even breaths barely anything even in all the silence. Nova wants to fall back to sleep, but she knows she can’t. Her heartbeat is running itself rampant, and she’s a tangle of wants and needs, everything pulled in opposite directions. As quietly as she can, she slides herself out from the protective warmth of Din’s arms and the comforter, gently placing her feet on the floor. Even in the cool darkness of the night, her wardrobe, sleek but huge, has nothing but clothes in the same shades of Mandalorian blue, of beskar silver, but right now, Novalise doesn’t want to be a Mandalorian. She doesn’t want to be royalty, doesn’t want to be a figurehead. She doesn’t exactly want to be a Rebel either, because both titles mean the ultimate fate of the Outer Rim and beyond in her hands, so she settles for somewhere in between.

When she’s all dressed—black monochrome right down to her scuffed boots, in a weak imitation of the Luke Skywalker style—she braids the top half of her hair back, sleek and functional, and chooses a shawl buried at the back of her closet, underneath all of the Mandalorian haze of clothing. It’s a stormy grey that shimmers with the silver her husband wears when the fabric catches the light. If you pay close enough attention to the shawl, small, intentional stitches of rust and orange are woven into the fabric, hidden, furious, tiny flames.

Not exactly Mandalorian, but not entirely Rebel, either. And when Nova looks at herself in the mirror, studying the way her eyes flash with all that fire she was so certain was gone a few minutes ago, she sees herself right down to the quick, the high wire in between—she looks something like a Jedi.

So she pulls the Skywalker family lightsaber out of the hook on her door and pulls it to her belt loop, watching as the metal sways and dances in the low light. The weapon seems ancient, like something from another world. Something holy, even though she knows Luke Skywalker is a man and not a myth.

When she closes the bedroom door behind her, Din doesn’t even move. Usually, Nova’s the loud and clumsy one, worlds more obnoxious than Din’s practiced quiet, but she’s grown into her stealth over the last few weeks, especially living here, in a palace that has more rooms than the planet does people. It’s strange and eerie here at night, down the sprawling marble stairs, and she takes the first corridor she can find, just trying to walk off some of the pressure, to put her head back on her shoulders.

It’s lit only by candlelight, an archaic, flickering warmth, so in contrast to the rest of the steel and metal that Mandalore is made up of. It’s like she’s stepped into something that’s been around for years, even though she knows that it’s not possible. Mandalore was sieged, usurped, sieged again, razed and brought to the ground, destroyed. The planet’s atmosphere is mostly ash and haze, all that leftover war from years ago. But this part of the palace looks older, like a tomb that somehow survived.

It’s too creepy, Nova decides, even though the curious part of her is itching to explore it. She wants to pore through every aspect of it, try to find remnants of lost Mandalore, like her father used to unearth texts, like her mother used to excavate history. Before the war, before the Alliance was necessary, before all this death and darkness. When Nova comes out the other end of the corridor, she’s right next to the intimidating double doors of the war room, the holiest place Mandalore has. She pulls her shawl a little closer to her body, trying to retain the warmth she left back upstairs, trying to hold onto a memory more than anything tangible.

Nova isn’t intending to slip into the war room, let alone walk towards the sprawling dais that holds the beskar throne, but she does. It’s still quiet, so quiet, and the dark is coaxing her closer, pulling her up the steps, something beyond a simple want or need. She has the sneaking suspicion that she’s not supposed to be in here, not this late, not without Din, not when she has no legal or physical right to this place, but when she sits down on the throne, something deeper echoes out from within her chest.

It feels like a hymn and a battle cry. Before she has a second to adjust, to rationalize anything, everything becomes starry and disconnected. It’s been so long since she had a Force vision this immediate, this intense, and it hurls her through the proverbial hyperspace, everything dropping away.

It takes three steps forward in this strange, terrifying liminal space before Nova can even identify what’s scaring her. It’s the same kind of evil she felt way back on Takodana, before she was married to the ruler of a planet, before she even knew it was her destiny to be both Rebel and Jedi. There’s a mask she doesn’t recognize, twisted and devious. Behind its menacing, blank expression is something horrifying. Looking into the visor, it’s like her own soul is being fractured into pieces.

It’s humanoid until it’s not. The figure wearing the mask of destruction is tall, easily a foot taller than she is, horrible and menacing. But when the lightsaber they’re using ignites, it’s scarier than the vision of the person at all. It’s awful. It looks like it was forged out of lava, menacing red, the blade flickering and hissing in a way that’s somehow even more terrifying than the stark contrast of the Darksaber’s blade. Nova gasps, the light too bright, too sudden, and she can feel the residual thud on the floor, even in the vision. She knows when she comes out of it, she’ll be hurt, but the blade is getting closer. It looks like a giant rapier, a sword made only for evil things. At the hilt, spraying out in both directions, the blade extends. When the figure in the mask swings, it’s without remorse, so quick, so terrible.

But Nova’s not the target. She rolls away, out of the strike zone, and then she hears Luke Skywalker’s voice cutting through the darkness. She turns, and suddenly she’s not in the horror of the vision, anymore. She doesn’t know where she is. The ground looks icy, like Hoth, but there’s red powder spit everywhere, vomited across giant salt deposits. It’s so bright that her hand comes up in front of her eyes, and when she lowers it, Luke is gone. She’s gone, too. She turns around, hair whipping in the furious wind, trying to find where her name is being cried, and she trips over a mound on the salty ground, and when she falls to her knees, it’s a person, newly slain. The blood is so red, redder than the powder, redder than the evil lightsaber. It drowns through the lines on her hands, slips through her long fingers. She screams, trying to back up from the body, and then she realizes it’s Bo-Katan, gurgling through the slit in her throat, and when Nova tries desperately, in vain, to buffer the blood spilled, Luke Skywalker calls her name again.

But it’s not Luke. It is him—for a second, for the tiniest fraction of a moment—but then it’s not. His lightsaber floods with red, cancelling out the green light. The hallway flickers, once, twice, and then Darth Vader is charging towards her, and all Nova can hear is her blood pounding frantically in her ears and his heavy breathing through his mask, the sound that used to fill all of her nightmares. She’s slamming on the door at the other end of the hallway, and when it opens, the only person standing there isn’t a person at all, but a small alien baby all of two feet tall, green and adorable, and Nova drops her body around her son, protective and sobbing, curling every single inch of her around his tiny little frame, trying to shield him from Vader’s wrath, but when she cries, the vision changes again.

She can feel the motion sickness bubbling up in her stomach, horrible and nauseating. When Nova lands, she doesn’t open her eyes. She’s seen more than enough. Even right now, in the middle of her Force vision, all she wants to do is go back to sleep. She can feel the ache she slept away burrowing right back into her bones. Her scar is pulsing, enraged and angry. The headache she spent the last two and a half weeks fighting off is back, radiating straight down to behind her left eye. It’s all too much, and she can’t look. She doesn’t want to see anything else.

“Novalise,” she hears again, and the only reason she opens her eyes this time is because it’s her mother speaking. Her mother, who only ever called her Andromeda. Her mother, who spent half her life in the stars. Her mother, long dead. Her mother, who never got to know this version of her daughter, this Jedi-in-training, royal Rebel Girl that just desperately needs a hug from her mom.

“Mom,” she cries, and it’s so white. Everything here is antiseptic and deafening. It doesn’t even look like a planet, or even a room, or anything at all. She’s not even sure if there’s a floor, but Nova starts running like she’s never ran before in her life. Her breath is ragged and coming out in bursts. The jiggle in her chest and thighs burn under her speed, but she doesn’t care. She’s racing towards her mother, towards open arms, towards everything she’s been cheated out of for the last ten years.

It lasts for a second. Just a second. The figure is Piper Maluev, her skin dark and radiant, her hair down to her waist. Her lips are wide open and welcoming, her eyes crinkled at the seams. She’s tall and radiant and strong, and she’s everything Nova’s missed for nearly half her life.

And then it isn’t Piper. It’s not Luke, either, or Darth Vader, or whoever the dark, terrible, masked figure was. It’s not her usual nightmare transformation of Jacterr Calican. It’s not Bo-Katan, convulsing and dying. It’s Din. Just for a moment, a tiny fraction of relief, and then it’s not Din, either.

It’s a woman Nova’s never seen before, and her hand is clamped firmly around Nova’s windpipe. Like it’s nothing, she pulls her right off the disappearing floor and choking the life out of her. Her eyes are light but so terrifyingly menacing, her hair is a mess of a dark blonde. She’s pale and awful and her face is gleeful as she pulls the life out of Nova, a sucking, open wound.

She can’t talk. She doesn’t even want to plead for her life. If she’s this close to death anyway, and she just saw her mother, Nova figures there’s a pretty damn good chance that both of her parents are just over the other side. The woman is so happy to be killing Nova off, she doesn’t want to fight it. When her grip recedes, just for a half a second, Nova chokes out a confession that makes everything else grind to a halt.

It’s four words. Barely anything. Tears are streaming down her cheeks when her lips finally open. “I want my mom.”

Then she’s being dropped onto the floor, which very much exists now, and the light room filled with nothingness curls away, receding like it’s being burned. It’s dark in here, the tiled floor slippery and treacherous. In the background, there’s a makeshift trophy made from what looks like bones. Nova’s gasping for air, fighting back with a newfound vigor, kicking her legs helplessly to try and get some leverage on this woman who wants her dead, when, suddenly, she’s at eye level with her.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she seethes, a terrifying smile still spread across her horrible, beautiful face. “When I find you, you’re going to be begging for your life instead of your death.”

“Who—who are you?” Nova manages, through agony. Her shoulders hurt. Her headache feels like it’s trying to split her jaw in half. Her scar feels like it’s being reopened. Everything is torture, and she can’t even breathe.

“You’ll see,” the woman whispers, and her voice is so deadly that Nova internally corrects every time she’s ever called Bo-Katan venomous. Bo-Katan Kryze is a flower. One of the iridescent, gorgeous ones, that lined all the brush on Yavin, the ones Nova’s spent years pressing into the pages of every journal she’s ever owned. She’s kind and lovely and Nova’s very best friend, and when she gets out of this alive, Nova’s going to tell Bo-Katan that. “I’m going to enjoy killing you, Andromeda.”

Nova heaves one giant breath into her lungs, trying to muster up anything that she can, even if it’s just more air. “I—” she starts, and the woman smiles again, loaded and dangerous. “I—I already did that, you miserable bitch,” Nova manages, and when she’s slammed into the awful floor, it’s worth it. There’s some kind of desperation behind the woman’s eyes, now and when her hand finds Nova’s throat again, she spits in her face.

And then she’s out of it. Hurtled out of it, actually, like a dying starfighter in the middle of space. She gasps and heaves on the floor, and as her sight comes back, her breathing does, too. Her head is still killing her. Her shoulders feel like they’re trying to carry the entire weight of Mandalore. Her scar is awful, white-hot and painful to the touch. Somewhere, distantly, her knees hurt like she’s fallen to them, and when she gains back her sense of sight and the feeling of her life being choked out of her body subsides, Nova realizes she has fallen to them. She’s fallen a lot, actually, down multiple steps leading to the floor from the raised platform where she was once sitting in the beskar throne. Nova shudders, inhaling through a terrible wheeze, curling her legs up close to her chest, trying to shake off the absolute shitshow that just hurtled her through the most traumatic Force vision she’s ever had.

“You,�� comes a booming, rueful voice, and when Nova’s eyes flutter open, she’s expecting it to be the malicious, purple-haired woman from her vision. Her eyes take a second to adjust, her left one throbbing from the horrid ache pulsing behind it, and when she finally locates the source, it’s the miserable man from the gathering earlier.

“Can I help you?” Nova asks, her voice shooting up at the end, on the verge of tears.

“You aren’t supposed to be up there,” he spits, and Nova squints up at the throne she’d just fallen from.

“I know,” she whispers, dully. She presses a shaking hand to the ache behind her eye, trying to shut out this conversation like she wishes she’d ignored the vision. She tries to stand up, but her knees are too bruised to sustain pulling her to her feet, so she just slumps back against the step she’s on, trying to muster all the strength she has in her exhausted body to not break down. “I’m sorry,” Nova tacks on, the words barely there. “I—I wasn’t intending to sit here, or even come in the room, it just—”

“Happened,” he finishes, oddly calm. His voice sounds closer. Much closer. Nova opens her right eye, and he’s only at the bottom of the staircase. There’s something so wretched and dangerous about the energy he’s giving off, and she wants to run, but she’s in no position to even stand, let alone fight him off, so she just sits there, curling her knees into her chest, pulling her shawl as tight as she can against her upper body. “You’re an abomination.”

A laugh, the traitorous thing, bubbles up inside Nova’s throat. It’s not funny. It’s not. It’s pathetic, and likely racially motivated, but she can’t help herself. Her ribs ache, like they got banged up in her distant fall down these sharp, steep marble steps. “That, surprisingly, is not the first time I’ve been called an abomination in my life.”

“Do you know what the Jedi did to our people, little girl?” He’s angry. Nova can hear it in his voice. And normally, it would scare her, trigger her fight or flight reflex, keep her moving, but after her paranormal face-off with two of the scariest figures she’s ever seen, this one isn’t really that high up on our list. “I do. You were eradicated for good reason. You scorched our planet down to nothing, and now you and your cult leader husband come back here and try to take over? Not on my watch.”

Nova can feel him getting closer. He’s so much bigger than she is, up close, tall and buff, menacing and taut. She weakly pulls her hand away from her eye, trying to at the very least give him her full attention, but she’s so fucking tired. It’s in her bones, at this point. She doesn’t want to be royalty. She doesn’t want to be a Rebel. And, in contrast to what the man in front of her is screaming, she doesn’t want to be a Jedi.

She wants to be the Novalise she was on Naator, with nothing but domesticity and yellow leaves and pink skies. She wants to be the protector she was out there in hyperspace. And, for the first time in ten years, she wants to be Andromeda Maluev, fifteen and gleeful, running around Yavin knowing the stars were her destiny and that evil could always be defeated.

“I don’t even want to be here,” Nova whispers, finally, and it’s like something inside her breaks.

“Good,” the man spits, “then we’re in agreement.” And then his hands are yanking away the hood of her shawl and tangling in her braided hair. Nova’s scream gets cut off as she’s thrown down the rest of the stairs, like her body’s giving up. She chokes out something horrible, fighting to get to her bruised, banged up knees, sore from the fall, aching from the blissful time riding Din’s face less than an hour ago, but she can’t summon the strength. Somewhere, she knows Luke Skywalker is yelling at her to use the Force, but Nova’s had enough force today to last a lifetime. When she’s kicked in the stomach, brutal and awful, she just curls in on herself, hoping her death isn’t a slow one. He startles towards her again, ripping her shawl off of her body, clawing at the meat of her upper arm, and something snaps inside of her. If she’s going to die, really die, it’s not because she succumbed to the injuries this rabid Mandalorian is giving her to try and put the blame on her shoulders. She survived Moff Gideon. She survived Din and Grogu leaving her. She survived her parents dying. And she survived the abuse of Jacterr Calican’s awful hands. Novalise can survive this.

When her lightsaber roars to life in her hands, it’s not only Nova swinging. She can feel the weight of what it being the Skywalker family lightsaber, of Luke and Leia before her, of his father before him, of all the generations yet to come to wield this weapon, this holy sword, this impossible thing. It takes all of her energy, a brilliant beam of blue light, and then she falls to the floor, knowing that even if this is where it ends, that she fought back.

Everything next comes in flashes. It’s in these tiny fractals like what happened when the Crest had died right over Dagobah and crashed to the surface. She sees a blade ignite, and in between the rhythm of her fading in and out of consciousness, Nova thinks she’s just watching herself fight the man back. Suddenly, he drops to the floor, his body nothing but dead weight, and she wants to scream, but she’s back out. It’s horrible and deafening. She’s being scooped up, she can feel that. She’s crying. She’s definitely crying. There are voices, loud ones. When she has enough strength to open her eyes again, Din is slamming his gloved fist against the airlock on Kicker, his voice frantic. She can’t make out what he’s saying, though, and another face appears above her. Din gently transfers Nova’s limp body into someone else’s arms, and when Nova looks up, it’s Bo-Katan, her face so panicked it’s almost impossible to recognize who it is.

“Nova, you gotta stay awake,” Bo-Katan whispers, her palm slapping softly at Nova’s cheek. “C’mon, I mean it. If you die here on this planet you hate, I will haunt you in the afterlife. I swear, you have to stay awake.”

“I don’t—” Nova starts, and Bo-Katan shakes her head.

“You literally should not be talking,” Bo-Katan says, her eyesight dipping to Nova’s neck. Her eyes widen for a second and then her smooth fingers ghost over the outline. Nova coughs at her light touch, and she realizes that the marks from the vision she had of being choked within an inch of her life are here, that they followed her back out of the vision and into this moment. “Nova, no, shut up, I’m serious—”

“I don’t—don’t hate Mandalore,” she manages, her voice sounding like shards of glass, and Bo-Katan offers her a hasty, worried smile.

“You do,” Bo-Katan argues, but her voice is so gentle. “But don’t worry, princess, we’re getting you the hell off of it. No complaints now that you’re off Mandalore, you got it? The second you got here, I knew both of you wanted to leave.”

Din’s at her side again, and Bo-Katan kneels down, gently placing Nova in her familiar tangle of blankets and pillows. Nova’s eyes close again, and when they slide back open, Bo-Katan is standing, trading worried glances and hushed tones with Din.

Nova’s head hurts. So bad. It’s splitting down the middle of her skull, actually, but all she can do is press a hand over her eye and try to block out the familiar low light of the ship that smells more like home than this entire planet ever had.

“Listen, about what I told you back on Hoth—”

“It’s fine,” Din cuts her off, and his next few words are warbled. “I get it. Your allegiance is to Mandalore, not to us.”

Nova can’t hear Bo-Katan’s answer. In fact, she’s not even sure if there’s even words being spoken, because the next time she looks up, Bo-Katan is just staring down at her, incredibly concerned, such an obvious change from her usually stoic expression. Nova’s whole body feels like it’s on fire. She’s exhausted. Bo-Katan kneels down again, just for a split second, to pull the loose end of Nova’s shawl over the rest of her folded body. Nova wants to cry.

“Flower,” she garbles, nonsensically. She’s trying to tell Bo-Katan that she’s sorry for all the animosity, that she trusts her, and more than that, she likes her. It doesn't make a single lick of sense to anyone outside of Nova’s head, but Bo-Katan offers a tiny smile anyway.

“Here,” Din says, stiffly, holding out the sheathed blade of the Darksaber to Bo-Katan. Nova’s eyes flutter closed, just for a beat, and when they open back up, Bo-Katan is pushing the weapon back into Din’s grip.

“It’s not mine,” she insists. “Besides, you’re not getting out of it that easy. You’ll be back.”

“Bo-Katan—”

“Take care of her,” Bo-Katan interrupts. Nova blacks out again until they’re up in hyperspace. Din’s body is shielding her from the cold, his limbs draped all over the places that hurt the least. When she opens her eyes, they’re floating through the cosmos, and all her eyes can see is sweet, sweet stardust.

*

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*

[sinisterexaggerator]

Stars Above! | Cad Bane

Chapter 5

Fandom: Star Wars / Rise of the Empire Era / Post Bad Batch / Post Order 66

Explicit: Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Gratuitous Smut, Porn with Plot, Canon-Typical Violence, Mildly Dubious Consent, Angst, Tatooine Slave Culture

AO3

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The bustle of Mos Eisley never quite died down, but that made it easy to go around unnoticed, to not draw attention to oneself in most cases, unless that was your business – your very purpose for being there - a prerogative of sorts. In Zulara’s case, she had the guile to slip away, the girl thinking it had just been some sort of unfortunate coincidence that a bounty hunter had been fascinated by her. He wasn’t after her per se, her friend’s choice of words was just lacking subtlety. A weight had lifted off her shoulders, though she didn’t know it was only temporary.

Or if he was after her, he was drawing out this loathsome game. Loth-cat and mouse, perhaps. Even though she wanted to believe she had escaped unscathed, the voice inside her head wouldn’t quit with its restless worry, its useless nagging, and she thought to bring it up to Kayson. She didn’t want to be a scapegoat, though what choice did she have? She was his property until such a time she could repay her father’s debt - he was worth nearly half a fortune. He had lost everything in a single hand of sabacc. The man himself might be dead before she ever paid it off. She assumed she’d still be sporting a slave collar well into her forties. She tried not to think about it. It only made her depressed, sad, and full of pity for herself.

It wasn’t to say Kayson was unkind, though he wasn’t kind either by any sort of social mores that dictated what kindness should be. He gave her an allowance, food, a space to call her own, but he threatened her with punishment if she didn’t follow his strict orders – the ones where she was made to risk her life – to risk imprisonment – and she was forced to go along with it. The only thing she could do was try her best. Her life depended on it.

The Empire was no laughing matter. Kayson sold contraband and weapons to people – people - not Imperials. They didn’t need him. His customers were a special lot. Bounty hunters, criminals, thieves, but also rebels, those that still called themselves Separatists - the sworn enemies of this New Order as it was so lovingly referred to. The Emperor himself bade for their execution; their annihilation. That meant Zulara was aiding the insurgents. It was a death sentence, outright dangerous, but Kayson didn’t care. There were credits to be made.

Zulara lightly ran a finger along the smooth side of a house. Tatooine was full of establishments and residences made up of adobe. Sand was the primary, prominent resource available on the desert planet. In many cases, it was too hot for her, unlike Twi’leks. The human side of her hated the brutal binary suns, though she easily withstood it. It was better than being cold, she assumed. She stuck to the shade most days, indoors, inside Kayson’s Weapons shop - tomorrow would be just the same.

She rounded a tight corner down an alleyway, back towards Slave Quarters Row. She was nearly home when she saw a shadow lurking, coming up behind her. Zulara turned – it was that damn Iktotchi - he had followed her this far and he was large. Much bigger than a normal man, built tough, but perchance slow. However, she hadn’t been quick enough to see him. She was lost in her irksome thoughts. He had stopped short just an inch or two, and Zulara gasped, reaching for the vibroknife.

He caught her hand, his stare steely and full of something. Malice? Sorrow? Dread? She couldn’t tell, though his horns unnerved her; he had the appearance of a demonic presence, something evil, sinister. He wore dark robes and had dark eyes to match. His grip was iron, his hands thickset and his skin rough, calloused, and made for his mountain home.

She struggled to break away, but he held on. Dramatic words escaped him, a poor choice made by him. He frightened her from the very start, though he didn’t know the outcome – his gift of precognition was somewhat lacking on this planet.

The visions that darted around inside this Iktotchi’s head were shrouded and unclear, though bits and pieces had forced him to make his bumbling move. He only knew he had to warn her. It was a feeling deep inside he could not suppress, no matter how hard he might try.

“Something terrible is going to happen to you.”

Zulara saw this as a threat, twisting her wrist against him. That leathery appendage didn’t budge, Zulara’s free arm rising, digging at his fingers with her nails, failing to pry him loose. “Let me go!”

“No. You must listen to me and do as I say, or-”

“I’m not doing anything for you!” Zulara bucked again, like a wild mare trying to escape her capture, moving to push and shove him, though he was rock solid, and her strength was inadequate. She was no match for him.

“Do what I tell you or you are going to die.” His voice came out forceful; perhaps too much desperation had been implicated. He hadn’t meant to scare her, just to get his point across. Seeing the onset of her fear made him falter and second guess himself. He would have released her, but he was afraid she would run away before he’d had his say.

“I know who you are,” he began, the gears inside Zulara’s head churning, turning, thinking on his allusion, wondering what he meant.

“I know what you’re up to,” he continued, articulating slowly. Her eyes widened, studying him for any sign of weakness. For some way out of this.

“You must never go to Corellia or-” A lariat of some kind, a whipcord, looped around this man’s arm as it was still attached to her, winding, tightening - he was forced to withdraw by some unknown force - she watched, somewhat bewitched by what she was seeing. A pale glow traveled down the length from some obscure place above. It rode along the cable, mimicking a lightning bolt until it touched bare flesh - a shock was administered - a look of pain and anguish crossing the Iktotchi’s face. The wire had acted as a conductor for electricity, reaching its prime target: the beastly being that had nearly cornered her.

He yelled a guttural sound; it was animalistic, and he was close to death. He fell face first, smoke gathering at the ends of downturned horns. His clothing sizzled; he was singed. Though he was still alive, he was incapacitated beyond movement. He went limp and quickly succumbed to unconsciousness.

Zulara had nearly screamed herself, throwing her body back against someone’s adobe abode. A figure dropped down from heaven towards the earth below by aid of Mitrinomon jetpack thrusters – they were worn untraditionally - attached to black leather boots with tips of durasteel. The ignition cut, and the figure fell, albeit gracefully, the rest of the way down to light upon the ground. He braced for impact by bending at the knees. Cad Bane had been watching the scene unfold on a nearby roof. He had business there, although he was just passing through.

The Duros species were second to none in navigation, charting unexplored territories before many others. Their routes were still in use today throughout the Empire, and rarely were they lost. Their memories could be considered photographic. Bane was on a scouting mission of his own design: cover the nooks and crannies, the residential sectors, the commercial, and the rundown spaceports. He would memorize the layout of Mos Eisley in preparation for the task he had been assigned. He held no issues with earning credits, no matter if they belonged to a power-hungry governess. He would have even hunted down that pesky Jedi had she asked him to.

The hunter had seen her from aloft. That pretty shade of purply-pink and her jet-black hair. She was unmistakable, and she hadn’t listened - she wasn’t careful. The way gazing upon her carnal contours made the Duros feel, he knew others would be tempted by her charms, her seeming innocence, or so he thought, and he would lie through his fangs before he ever admitted that he was intrigued by her.

Though his skillsets seemed inexhaustible, Bane also had a code he lived by. He didn’t just kill or severely injure people without a purpose - only when there was money to be made – to gain the upper hand, or in this case, when there was a so-called damsel in distress. Though, you might say he wasn't any better. He had kidnapped children for a Sith, roughhoused them. By any means necessary was what he told the girl Omega, and he had meant it, but the bounty for her was steep.

He may have turned the other cheek in most instances, but there was something in particular he couldn’t shake, and for one thing, he thought it ridiculous for a full-grown man to attack a woman - a gentile creature - who didn’t seem to be able to protect herself. Those like Fennec Shand who fought back didn’t count, they were professionals. This girl was young and blameless, though she had a secret harbored -  one that he was after - unbeknownst by him.

Ultimately, bounty hunting was a test of mettle, and Cad Bane didn’t cheat. Those who did were undeserving of the title and would forever be shunned by him. His opinion stretched near and far, though an independent contractor, everyone knew his name, wanted his respect. He needed no introduction.

Cad Bane reached his hand out for her. Zulara panicked. She went for the vibroknife again and managed to free it from its holster at her thigh. She lifted it, blade extended towards the Duros, but he was quick, reflexes like that of a fleet-footed feline. His species was predator and prey back on his native planet in the times of old. She was just a girl – naïve - with a lot to learn.

The blade had been easily dislodged from her inexpert grip and slapped away, the Duros tacking her entire arm to the wall behind her. His hold was tight, she couldn’t fight it. She was panting, inhaling and exhaling rapidly. To say that she was distressed would have been an understatement.

“Yer raisin’ a weapon against me?”  

“No, I-” Zulara couldn’t think straight; her words were caught, unsure of what to say to please the Duros. It had been a stupid action on her part.

Bane removed a toothpick from betwixt his lips. He brought it down and under, pricking Zulara beneath her trembling chin. He pinned it there against her, forcing her head back up. She noticeably winced. It seemed she couldn’t bear to look at him. “Yer tellin’ me m’eyes are playin’ trickss? Mine werk jus' fine, unlike yers, lil’ lady.”

“I’m sorry, I thought- Please, don’t hurt me…” The poor girl’s breasts were heaving with each anxious breath. She looked near to tears, something stirring beneath that hat of his, a feeling of slight remorse; minuscule; infinitesimal. She was hot – her temperature unlike any other species save one that he could think of - he could feel it radiating outwardly. He paused to think a moment, contemplating something.

“Ye take me fer a monster, girl?”

Zulara wasn’t sure what to say, what would be appropriate for the situation. She didn’t know how much he knew, and she wasn’t about to give the game away. Instead, she shook her head in the negative, gradually regaining some sense of bravery, though however small. Her beautiful, two-toned irises quivered behind a bed of saline fluid that threatened to tumble out, Cad Bane groaning, the sound registering low in his narrow throat.

He flung the toothpick with excessive force before reaching up with that same hand, palm flat, extended towards her chest. It hovered there, his fingers slightly oscillating at the tips as if he meant to touch her. Zulara waited, still fearful, though she couldn’t help but to think that he was handsome despite his grumpiness, or the unflattering grimace he always seemed to wear.

“Yer burnin’ up,” he commented. Zulara knew that it was true. Her mother’s kind emanated heat when stressed, her internal thermostat most likely off the charts within these few moments. She couldn’t help it; it was a biological response, inherited, and she wasn’t sure about its purpose. Her natural state was 103. Zulara could only nod again, withdrawing from his spindly fingers; they were somewhat tantalizing. She tried to push her dirty thoughts away, Pampy’s words echoing inside her mind.

He touched her regardless, without invitation. Her heart was racing. He felt it beat beneath the fleshy underside of his elongated extremities, pressing lightly, leaning forward. It warmed his skin; it felt… pleasant. She had jumped at the sensation. “Ye read like a Twi’lek.”

“I’m half,” she muttered out, his salacious baritone sending notes of lecherous butterflies throughout her stomach; there was a flutter inside her guts.

“What’s de other half?”

“… H-human,” she whispered.

“So dhat’s what Ah’ve been missin’.” That hand trailed up while the other released her arm still mounted upside the building behind her, a single digit tracing the curvature of her blushing cheek. She turned from him but didn’t try to stray. Her lashes flittered, batting her tears away.

“Such’a lovely lil’ thing. Shouldn’ be out ‘ere wanderin’ alone.” Zulara shut her eyes against his slightly rough caress, the girl wavering, though she kept standing by the aid of the earthen structure blocking her backward path. She perceived something else physical – a type of fondling - though it was gentle. He had taken up a limp strand of her hair to play with. Cad Bane enjoyed the stuff. It was soft, luxurious, and exotic by his standards. He didn’t have any, and he rarely got to touch it.

“Supposin’ Ah must scare ye…” He inhaled, a glint of pink darting across his thin-lipped mouth. She opened those twinkling jewels back up for him. Twi’leks always did smell sweeter, something about them, but human women had those soft locks he liked, not lekku. She was the best of both worlds, and he favored her.

Zulara had refused to answer, pressing those pouty lips together. He was tempted to slip his tongue inside her mouth just to get a taste. He refrained. Instead, he trailed that one hand down, his index finger gliding along her neck, her supple chest, across her bare stomach - he ghosted her belly button, encircling it once  - he didn’t have one of those either, born of an egg in his larval stage. He couldn’t help but be fascinated.

Zulara shivered at his icy touch, though she couldn’t deny it felt good. Her loins began to stir, something she wasn’t used to. No man had ever laid a hand on her. She issued a small sound, something between a whimper and plea for more. Her fright had been nearly nullified, replaced with a strange, alien emotion – one that she found she was indulging, despite everything.

“Maybe ye like bein’ scared.” He stopped for a moment at the edge of her high-cut skirt before drifting past her waistband. He snuck inward between the slit in her apparel, finding the cut of her naked thigh where it connected to her hip. He was careful not to tease too much; he didn’t touch her otherwise, her undergarments, whatever thing she had on beneath her scandalous attire, only stroking her bikini line.

The girl had gasped and grasped his hand to stop him, interlocking her fingers amongst his. They reminded him of satin, or of what clouds might feel like. He flicked the brim of his hat up in one quick motion - the bolero would have been in his way otherwise - the metal plate gifted to him by Boba left partially exposed.  He took up that accursed O-ring and pulled her forward, meaning to kiss her on the mouth, though he was sorely interrupted. Perfect timing.

“Bane! Come in! We have a bit of a situation"

The Duros growled, so close to her; he was an animal posing as a man. He ignored the droid and presented a question to her instead. “What do Ah call ye, lil’ lady? Second time askin’.”

Zulara made to speak, but the comm cut in again, a frail voice echoing throughout the silence of the alley. It obviously annoyed her current captor, his eyes narrowing at her, though directed towards the droid who had disturbed this nearly faultless moment. “There is a squad of soldiers here, sir. They tell me we are illegally parked and that they plan to tow the Justifier.”

Cad Bane spun on the heels of his steel-toed boots, releasing the girl in a fluid movement, homing in on his comlink, pressing the button that would allow him to elicit an abruptly gruff response.

“Todo! Whaddeye mean?! Dhose Imperials are de ones who bounced de landin’ coordinates offa dhat orbiting satellite! We were invited te Tatooine!”

“Yes, I know that, but apparently they do not. Perhaps the Governor did not inform everyone of our arrival?”

“Tell dhem it's my ship an' te kriff off!”

“I did try to explain things to them, but they don’t seem to believe me. Perhaps you could call Tour Aryan and set things straight for us?” Todo was momentarily distracted, speaking to another, his robotic voice sounding somewhat surprised and quite frustrated.

“I never gave you permission to – get your hands off that – oooh, you are going to be in SUCH trouble when Bane comes back!”

“Mmmrrrrmmm… Aactivate de ship’s ssecurity ssystem, don’ allow dhem near de cockpit!” A low grumble echoed in his throat, Cad then giving his instructions. The Duros finally turned on the girl he had left behind. She was gone, having snuck down some side street or another. That only annoyed him further. “Alley cat," he muttered.

His train of thought was suspended by taunting Weequay laughter. Hondo Ohnaka had dared to show his face again. Bane’s eyes darted in his direction, lips parting to brandish reptilian-like incisors and sharp canines, the man’s hands held up in offering before himself, warding off his sour mood.

“She ran off on me tuu, my friend. Don’t feel so bad. A wily one, dat girl. I’d like tu charge up her loading ramp.”

Hondo brushed his nails against his chest, baiting the already mad Duros, though he had a bit of information, something that might intrigue him and save his sorry ass, or at least make him forget about the bounty on his head for a day or two, if he had been serious. “Perhaps de almighty Cad Bane isn’t so impressive tu de ladies? Et es a wonder, for I find you quite charming.��

“Yer lucky Ah’m busy or Ah’d plug ye full of lasers!” Cad Bane’s quickdraw hand swept his armorweave duster back behind himself, revealing his Persuaders. It came back around and gripped the hilt of one LL-30 BlasTech pistol; Bane was idling, thinking.

“’Course, won’t take long te do dhat, anyway.” He withdrew the weapon, perhaps for show, though the Weequay straightened up; this would not be the first time that Bane had threatened him.

Hondo had been leaning casually, practically the embodiment of nonchalance, though he never should have let his guard down at all around Cad Bane, despite them knowing one another for a very long, long time. The Duros had an unruly temper, though he could be quick to calm under the right circumstance; Hondo would make the trade of information and use it to his advantage. 

“Ap-ap-ap! I have learned her name, and about her master... where she works. Would you like tu know?” The Weequay was resourceful, having scoured the streets of Mos Eisley, asking anyone and everyone he could think of until some half-drunk human male had told him he’d seen her on numerous occasions at Kayson’s weapons shop. He’d bellowed out her moniker to get her attention for a part he’d ordered – Zulara. It had a pretty ring to it.

”Cahn figure it out m’self.”

“But et’s much quicker dis way.”

He was met with silence; that was a good sign. Hondo continued. “Tell you what. Let’s make a bet! You’re a kind of gambling man, aren’t you? You seem like de sort, anyway. Correct me ef I’m wrong.”

“Don’ play games, Ohnaka. Naht de kind yer known fer.”

“But dis one will be fun!”

“What’ll be fun is collectin’ dhose creditss on yer head!”

“Den Iiiiii suppose you won’t want tu hear about de game our poor girl was subjected tu; her own father of all people…”

“Get on widdit!” Cad had to admit he was curious, though losing patience, thinking he might as well set the autopilot to the Justifier - bring it within range of his current location - though illegal to fly in residential airspace. He assumed Todo 360 could hold the fort down until he got there. He wasn’t entirely useless, after all, and he even sort of liked having him around.

“Lost her autonomy en a game of sabacc. Her father bet de entirety of his wealth! He refused tu pay, and en light of death, he chose tu give his daughter up instead!”

“Sounds like a real mudcrutch.”

“Well, ef dat isn’t de Jawa calling de Ewok short!”

Superheated shots skirted the Weequay’s boots; Cad Bane only missed on purpose.

Hondo danced, barely dodging the array of blaster fire. “I can tell you are en a hurry and currently du not appreciate my impeccable sense of humor! Let me be brief.” He cleared his throat.

“So, here’s what I had en mind - don’t want tu step on your toes, per se. You du have dhose, yes? You never wanted tu take your boots off when-"

The Duros simply glared at him.  “Ahem. Best man wins! I plan tu court de little vixen. Ef she so prefers my talents, you let us go, and I whisk her away from dis dusty planet! You don’t follow us and forget about de bounty on my head. Let’s face et, dat girl doesn’t deserve tu be a slave.”

The scoundrel paused, then made a perfunctory motion with his hand. “I know something about dat, seeing as how I used tu be one myself. En fact, we have a lot en common. Perhaps I can turn dis entu a bonding experience of sorts, hm?”

Cad Bane sneered, not liking his bold idea. He hadn’t laid his claim to her, but he had the desire to mark her up, that pretty skin - sink his teeth into her flesh, lay his stake on what he wanted to be his, Maker damn her master. Though, he couldn’t quite get a handle on why he cared or was so drawn to her.

“Ef you win, I don’t put up a fight and let you turn me en! De girl and de bounty belongs tu you! She will have made her choice, after all.” That was an outright lie; the Weequay could not be trusted. He would do everything in his power to escape the wrath of the infamous bounty hunter.

“Of course, I see you as a sort of … hit et and quit et kind of guy. A heart breaker. I would be one tu know.” Ohnaka took one small step forward; he was no threat to the mighty Duros, not at this moment. Hondo knew that about himself, and frankly so did Bane.

“Let me be honest with you … I’m banking on et. Girls love a gentle man, and I’m not above eating leftovers, as you are well aware.”

Cad Bane repined in the form of a fearsome sound from the bottom of his throat. He raised his opposing arm not holding the blaster pistol. Four fingers curled and activated his retractable lariat stored within his gauntlet. Before Hondo knew what happened, he was wrapped tight, limbs restrained. The bounty hunter drew him forward with a backward pull of his thin forearm, the Weequay met face-to-face with Bane, much to his displeasure.

“Wonder what’s stoppin’ me from jus’ killin’ ye after ye give me what Ah want.” His sexual innuendo had irritated him. The idea of it, Hondo between her legs. She wasn’t even his, but she wouldn’t be Ohnaka’s, either.

“De idea dat I died knowing Cad Bane es a coward who takes de easy way out tu get his way.”

A wave of his adept appendages rescinded and recoiled the lasso, letting the pirate loose, though he was so close to Bane at this moment that he could see his bone-chilling gaze up close. “Ain’ no coward.”

Hondo stared at him; his lips, raising his head to slowly look at him and the red Corusca gems he had for eyes. The man was handsome, there was no denying it. His voice came out a whisper before becoming more enthusiastic by the end. “Den, you accept! Glad tu hear et!”

The pirate smiled; it was only half-genuine. He tried to force it, but he was having trouble being his usual charismatic self. He took a step away, leaving Bane to his personal space, tiptoeing; he retreated, though his gaze never left Cad Bane.

“Zulara,” he muttered out with a hint of exaggeration, sexual in nature. “She’s employed – enslaved – by Kayson at his weapon’s shop.”

Hondo Ohnaka bowed, slipping backwards farther, zipping around the corner and out of Cad Bane’s sight. Kayson. He was familiar – he had bought a few things off him – he was trustworthy, though not necessarily a “friend.”

“Baaaane!" Todo whined, "the Stormtroopers are planning to employ an Impound Vessel.”

Kriff.  “Todo ... Hit ‘em witha sonic detonator – Ah’ll be right dhere!”

Cad Bane cut the comm off as a sudden squeal- a burst of sound waves - nearly deafened him. It had been high frequency, the best kind to make soldiers bleed, and causing intense pain in their hearing organs. It was for reasons such as this that he wore protection. He was not immune to his own weaponry.

His boots were reactivated. The residents of Mos Eisley might very well mistake him for a shooting star careening across the rooftops so late at night, but it was better than traveling by foot, or even speeder bike, as the sands held secrets, enemies, and he wasn’t currently looking to be delayed as he made his way to the outskirts of the city.

If anything happened to his ship, Tour Aryan herself would pay.

[vavuska]

CRUELLA, THE STORY OF A PUPPY SLAUGHTER (Part 2)

Here for part 1:

Part 1 - Summary:

In the previous part we saw how was originally described Cruella de Vil in Dodie Smith's 101 Dalmatians: a rich heiress, bossy, cruel toward animals, obsessed with fancy jewls, luxury and also fur coats. Cruella met Anita at school, they were in friendly terms, even if Anita described Cruella as a menacing student, expelled from school for drinking ink. Dodie Smith wrote that Cruella comes from a troublesome family: her ancestor was a serial killer, with the supernatural ability to summon storms and a tail (reference to Bram Stoker's Dracula and the devil). Cruella has strange eating habits (uses a lot of pepper, the Devil's spice) and is usually cold (as a corpse or a vampire). Cruella was so obsessed with fur to marry a furrier not for love but only for his job. Cruella's husband is weak and she is the dominant element in the couple, she also forced him to take her surname after their marriage.

We saw also the rapresentation of Cruella in 1961 cartoon version of 101 Dalmatians. Cruella is still a old friend of Anita. Her main colors are red (her loudy red car is the fist thing we see of Cruella) — expressing blood, anger, determination and passion — and green (she is always surrounded by nasty green smoke that comes from her cigarette) that rapresents envy, sickness and greed.

Her appearance is very particular, because she looks like a skeleton and her skin is very white - pale, very different from the healthy pink one of the other characters. She looks like a corpse, she looks sick in this 1961 version of 101 Dalmatians.

Her entrance is accompanied by a song, written by Roger, in which he anticipates the evil intention of Cruella and underlight the disturbing connotations of her surname (Count de Ville is one of Dracula's alias; Cruella de Vil is a pun name on “cruel devil”).

3 - Cruella in 1996

The 1996 live action of 101 Dalmatians the entrance of Cruella is anticipated by a sequence in which we heard a news London Zoo discovered the excoriated carcass of its prized 3-year-old female Siberian tiger, then the news reporter says that according to animal protection groups that monitor the international trade that a white Siberian tiger's fur is so rare that the offer of a pelt would surely draw the attention in contraband. And then the journalist ask “Who cold do something so horrible?”

Then enters Cruella. She wears veiled garment complete with Balenciaga-inspired extreme shoulders and floor-length black and white fur cape.

We saw this mysterious woman with veiled face and a long fur coat - we doesn't know she is Cruella yet - , exiting from her black and white 1974 Panther Deville, license plate “De Vil”. This version of the car is more closed to the book's one.

In Dodie Smith's book, Cruella's chauffeur-driven car is black-and-white striped, which Mr. Dearly describes as “a moving zebra crossing”, and Cruella boasts that it has the loudest horn in London, which she insists on sounding for the Dearly couple.

We saw Cruella shaking the ashes of her cigarette on the shiny and impeccable shoes of her vallet Alzonzo, while he tries to not look bothered by this lack of respect, and then we saw Cruella entering in a luxurious place called “House of De Vil”. Her red cigarette holder — switching from the turquoise the 1966 animated version favored — matched with her brilliant red lipstick, makes a great contrast to her black and white attire and also underlight the psychology of color typical of Disney villains: red is associated with malice, evil (hell and the devil), blood, danger, strength, power, determination and passion.

Now we have a sight of this long railway-like white hallway surrounded by exotic fur-clothes. Now we know she is a stylist and that she is maybe the one who cold be interested in the fur of the dead Siberian tiger.

A crowd of terrified / adoring employees hurry to greet the woman: “Good morning, Miss De Vil”.

Finally Cruella enters in her office and takes off her hat with veil, reveling her double-colored hair. She is Cruella De Vil in all her glory.

This sequence recalls openly the Devil Wears Prada.

This version of Cruella played by Glenn Close is much more human that the 1961 version. She is more charismatic too and also more fashionable. Her entrance is not as scary as the 1961 version, but shows her obsession for fur, her violation of the law and abuse on animals (also at those at risk of extinction) and her high level stylist house of fashion.

She isn't Anita's friend anymore, she is Anita's boss.

While walking to her office, Cruella meets Anita, played by Joely Richardson. She spots that Anita is working on a new model (no more white tiger stripes, but dalmatian's spots). Anita's design catches her eyes and interest, as well as Anita's dog, Perdi: they had a strange chat about Perdi's fur. That, knowing already the plot of the movie and the news details Roger and Pongo were hearing in the previous scene, well, this conversation sounds a lot disturbing.

Cruella: “Anita, darling.”

Anita: “Good morning, Cruella.”

Cruella: “What a charming dog.”

Anita: “Thank you.”

Cruella: “Spots?”

Anita: “Yes, she’s dalmatian.”

Cruella: “lnspiration?”

Anita: “Yes.”

Cruella: “Long hair or short?”

Anita: “Short.”

Cruella: “Coarse or fine?”

Anita: “l’m afraid it is a little coarse.”

Cruella: “Pity!”

Anita: “But it was very fine when she was a puppy.”

Cruella: “Redemption! We need to have a little girl talk. Come to my office. Bring the drawing.”

Ok. The next scene contains a very popular quote from this movie.

We are in Cruella's office: she has just invited Anita to talk about her design. Cruella wants a new coat and would love to wear the one that has just see at Anita's desk. Let's remeber she doesn't want to wear Anita's puppies already, for now is just an abstract idea about someone else's puppies, but they are still talking about Dalmatians' spots, compared with leopard ones and Anita seems to be perfectly fine. I don't think she knows already of Cruella's criminal way to obtain fur from animals at risk of extinction that her henchmen steal from Zoos, but Anita works for a woman who loves to wear REAL fur. I just can't imagine Cruella wearing any faux fur coat. This is not a crime, because it's legal wear fur coats made of mink, sable and ermine and such, but I found very weird that Anita is not having any suspect about Cruella's intention, because she is working on a model of striped tiger fur and Cruella lives for fur, worship fur. She just could not accept to wear faux fur.

However, Anita doesn't seem bothered at all by this strange talk about her dog's fur (yes, dog are not coats), but as a woman who works for fashion/fur industry and loves dogs she should know that in some parts of the world it is legal using cat and dogs to make clothes. I simply can't understand why she is not having any reaction at Cruella's strage interest about Perdi's fur.

Cruella and Anita talk about their work and Cruella makes lovely appreciation for Anita's drawings: she says she is talented and she doesn't want to risk to lose her pen.

That's now that Anita says she would not left Cruella's House for another job, she would left only if she decided to be a stay-at-home mother and wife. Well, no, she talks more genericly of "plans" with a hypothetical, for now, husband/boyfriend, and this could means everything, for example moving to another city, the assumption about marriage is an association made by Cruella that told us a lot of things about how producers would she looks, compared with the family-oriented Disney business plan. This is a very relevant issue we was also in her 1961 version: the losing comparison between Anita's family's oriented live choice and Cruella's — who is sigle, rich and indipendent — one. Cruella loves only her fur coats, while Anita have an husband, a simple house and also a lot of dogs. Cruella is alone, evil, ugly, wears a lot of make up, and not happy, while Anita is married, preatty but in a natural way and happy of her simple lifestyle with her husband and their dogs.

Cruella: “Now, darling, tell me more about these spots. l did leopard spots in the ‘80s. Well, dalmatian spots are a little different, aren’t they? Cozy. Classic.”

Anita: “Cuddly. Less trashy.”

Cruella: “Exactly! Do you like spots, Frederick?”

Frederick: “Oh, l don’t believe so, Madame. l thought we liked stripes this year.”

Cruella: “What kind of sycophant are you?”

Frederick: “Um, what kind of sycophant would you like me to be?”

Cruella: “Frederick… l’m beginning to see spots. What would it cost us to start again on next year’s line?”

Frederick: “Millions.”

Cruella: “Can we afford it?”

Frederick: “Well, yes--”

Cruella: “Pay it, darling. Now go away. l have to talk to Anita.”

(...)

Cruella: “Sit down, please. How long have you been working for me?”

Anita: “Uh, two years last August.”

Cruella: “And you’ve done wonderful work in that time.”

Anita: “Thank you.”

Cruella: “l don’t see you socially, do l?”

Anita: No.

Cruella: “And you’re not very well-known, despite your obvious talent.”

Anita: “Well, notoriety doesn’t mean very much to me.”

Cruella: “Your work is fresh and clean, unfettered, unpretentious. lt sells. And one of these days… my competitors are going to suss out who you are… and they’re going to try to steal you away.”

Anita: “Oh, no. lf l left, it wouldn’t be for another job.”

Cruella: “Oh, really?bWhat would it be for?”

Anita: “Well, l don’t know. Um, if l met someone, if working here didn’t fit in with our plans.”

Cruella: “Marriage.”

Anita: “Perhaps.”

Cruella: “More good women have been lost to marriage… than to war, famine, disease and disaster. You have talent, darling. Don’t squander it.”

Anita: “Well, l don’t think that it’s something we have to worry about. l don’t have any prospects.”

Cruella: “Thank God.”

Cruella makes a very cynical — but historically appropriate and also very sharable — critic about marriage. She was right, expecially because of what we saw about her 1960s version and how she is rooted in anti-feminism and in an open condamn of women's growing emancipation from the “traditional family role” imposed by media in the 1950s and 1960s, rapresented by 1961's Anita. However, Cruella is a cruel, evil villaness, so what she says to Anita is just a condamn made by Disney on women who choose career over family and love.

But, here, Cruella is not a friend of Anita who gives her a kind and appreciable life advice (if we ignore that Cruella is evil), Cruella is Anita's boss and doesn't want to lose a valuable and talented employee, so from this point of view her statement sounds a lot more controversial: women in the 50s lost their job if they got married, they were fired because most of the time bosses made them sign a contract with a marriage bar that allow employers to withdraw from the contract, so their contract would terminate on marriage, or said in a simple way: employers used to fire the soon-to-be wife, because it was clear for them that a wife should focus more on family and house care than on a career (that's because the soon-to-be wife is going to have an husband, the bread-giver of the family).

Nowdays, it's a bitter different, but women that want to have also a family are discriminated in workplaces: employers ask constantly in job interviews of they plan to have a family, if they have some relationships or if they are single. That's because employers would lose money paying for maternity leaves to their female employees that cannot work for some month. A young woman in fertile age with a stable relationship is a risk for a employer more than a young man in fertile age with a stable relationship. A newly mom is more closed to chose a lesser paid job or a part time one compatible to her family then a newly dad.

And also this quote, remember we are talking about the 90s, gives a clear flashback on women's unstable careers back then, but also puts in highlines some stereotypes about women who menage to balance both work and family: their quility of work is lower than before (this is said by Cruella to the new-mom Anita, we will see it below), they are not productive enough, they makes employers lose money, ecc. Nowadays, unlike in the 90s there is a constant svalutation of women who chose to put family first: they have no free time, they have no a social life (well, some shy single woman like Anita doesn't have a frizzy social life too), some kind of lifes are better than others (luxury and exotics vacation are better than reading books, dancing and going to bars with friends is better than playing sports or painting, ecc.) and if they dare to go out with their friends or take time for themselves and their hobbies, society is still ready to shame them for “not being good mothers”. That's not right: everyone should be able to live their life as they want, to have a frizzy social life or just enjoying a little time for themselves, without receiving criticism of any sort.

In the US the marriage bar, the practice of restricting the employment of married women was never explicitly eliminated by federal laws. Marriage bars were widely relaxed in wartime, during World War I and World War II due to an increase in the demand for labor in the assistance of war efforts (mostly because men were at the front).

Since the 1960s, the practice has widely been regarded as employment inequality and sexual discrimination, and has been either discontinued or outlawed by anti-discrimination laws. For example, in Italy marriage bar is declared illegal with law nr. 7 of 1963, that establishes the prohibition of dismissal of female workers for reasons of marriage (later extended also to male workers), and law nr. 1204 of 1971 prohibited dismissal of the working mother within the first year of the child's age (maternity bar).

The main reason of the bar is that married women were supported by their husbands, therefore they did not need jobs. However, marriage bars provided more opportunity for those whom proponents viewed as "actually" needing employment, such as single women or married men (needed to support the family).

Discrimination against married female teachers in the US was not terminated until 1964 with the passing of the Civil Rights Act.

Marriage bars generally affected educated, middle-class married women, particularly native-born white women. Their occupations were that of teaching and clerical work. Lower class women and women of color who took jobs in manufacturing, waitressing, and domestic servants were often unaffected by marriage bars.

However, some State law provides protection for people discriminated for their marital status. For example, in California, discrimination in employment based on marital status is against the law. Under the California Fair Employment and Housing Act (FEHA), it is illegal for an employer to discriminate based on an applicant’s marital status or perceived marital status.

Under the FEHA, it is an unlawful employment practice for an employer to treat an applicant or employee differently based on the employee’s marital status. This includes: Refusing to hire or employ, Refusing to select a person for a training program, Firing, bearing, or discharging an employee, Discriminating against a person in compensation or in terms, conditions, or privileges of employment.

Marital status could refer to whether an individual is married or not, has been married, or plans to get married. This includes: Currently married, Divorced, Married to a same-sex partner or opposite-sex partner, Engaged to be married, Married but separated, Married but seeking a divorce, Widowed, Annulled marriage, Plans to get married someday, Plans to never get married, Other marital states.

Forty years ago, on October 31, 1978, the Pregnancy Discrimination Act (PDA) was signed into law to prohibit discrimination in the workplace on the basis of pregnancy, childbirth, or related medical conditions. Since its passage, more women have been able to continue working while pregnant; they have also been able to work further into their pregnancies without being forced to leave their jobs.

Pregnancy discrimination involves treating a woman (an applicant or employee) unfavorably because of pregnancy, childbirth or a medical condition related to pregnancy or childbirth. The Pregnancy Discrimination Act (PDA) forbids discrimination based on pregnancy when it comes to any aspect of employment, including hiring, firing, pay, job assignments, promotions, layoff, training, fringe benefits, such as leave and health insurance and any other term or condition of employment. Pregnancy discrimination also includes perceived bias when expectant employees experience subtly hostile behaviors such as social isolation, negative stereotyping and negative or rude interpersonal treatment such as lower performance expectations, transferring the pregnant employee to less-desirable shifts or assignments or inappropriate jokes and intrusive comments.

Claims of pregnancy discrimination filed with the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) increased sharply in the 1990s and 2000s, and pregnancy discrimination remains a widespread problem across all industries and regions of the United States. Yet statistics show that in the last 10 years, more than 50,000 pregnancy discrimination claims were filed with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission and Fair Employment Practices Agencies in the United States.

So, yes. Disney here touched a lot of points in about two levels:

Family is more important than a career (successful, unmarried stylist Cruella is the evil one) and if you, a working woman, put career over family you are wrong. Nowday, we know that there isn't anything wrong about putting career first, but also we know that there isn't anything wrong also on putting family first or find a balance between the two. The important thing we should remember is that if we have not equality in working places, we should have not real free choices about our dream life;

It's perfectly fine excluding women in stable relationships or women with children from workplaces, because their work would not be at the level of a single woman, that can sacrifice her free time working late (employers exploitation logic deny free time);

Only child-free single women should be allowed to work, but only until they meet a soul mate (reminiscent of the old Disney penchant for old traditional gender roles).

However, returning at the plot, after that Anita reassures Cruella that she has no marriage prospects on the horizon, Cruella asked to Alonzo to bring Anita's drawings to her and the two women start to discuss about Anita's work, because Cruella want to add a long fur stole to Anita's original model: “I look wonderful in spots”, says Cruella,“we could do this in linen. It would be stunning in fur”. Then Anita remarks that would not be appropriate wearing fur in April, so Cruella give her famous lines: “But it’s my only true love, darling. l live for fur. l worship fur. After all, is there a woman in all this wretched world who doesn’t?” and then makes a joke that anticipates what she will plan to Anita's puppies more over in the movie: “lt is rather amusing, isn’t it? (...) If we make this coat... it would be as if l were wearing your dog.”

Then Anita and Perdi meet Roger (Jeff Daniels) and his dog Pongo, they fall in love and get married. Cruella doesn't like this. Obviously. We see a very enraged Cruella, wearing a black cellophane velvet with black and white coque feather trim, screaming against Anita's “betrayal”, when she read Anita and Roger's wedding publication on a newspaper.

Her anger toward Roger for stealing her best employee, maybe envy for Anita's love (well, it’s Disney), are promptly consoled, when her two henchmen bring her a little present from Mr. Skinner (Nomen omen, this surname fits perfectly creepy scared guy that work as furrier): it's the Siberian tiger found dead and excoriated in the London Zoo at the beginning of the movie. It was Cruella that wanted her fur and at the end she obtained it.

This Mr. Skinner (John Shrapnel) is a sadic taxidermist that enjoys killing and skinning animals alive, just like he did to the female white tiger at the London Zoo. He doesn't speak beacause when he was young, a dog attacked him by tearing open his throat and ripping out his vocal cords in the process, leaving him with a bad scar on his neck and is a little based on Mr. de Vil, Cruella's husband in Dodie Smith's book, but with the difference that Mr. Skinner has a more strong and menacing personality, while Mr. de Vil was weak and totally dependent by Cruella's desires.

Near the end of the movie, we will see in a crescendo of more explicit references to animal abuse, this charming version of Cruella de Vill ordering Cruella De Vil to Mr. Skinner to kill the dogs, because she fells that the police's suspicion are mounting against her: “poison them,” says Cruella “drown them, bash them on the head. Got any chloroform? I don't care how you kill the little beasts, just do it, and do it now!”

(See here for references: X and X)

In second relevant scene, Roger and Anita are out, walking the dogs, when Anita spots Cruella's car. In fact, as happen at the beginning the black and white 1974 Panther Deville is the first element we see in this scene and anticipate the entrance of Cruella. Recognizing the car, Anita runs to home and there she found Cruella. She welcomes in a very lovely way Anita in her own home, but she is very rude with Roger, who tries his best to be polite during the whole scene. Cruella then mocks Roger about his job (he is a videogame designer, a well paid job nowadays, but that in the 90s can just make snobbish people like Cruella turn up their noses, it's not the classical respectable professions “to make money”). Anita and Roger are just returned from their honeymoon and Creulla acts very nicely toward Anita, she says she missed her and their exchange of ideas, but she isn't happy when Roger announce they are going to have a baby, but Cruella remarks that “she has no use for children”, but she is very interested in Pongo and Perdi's puppies.

Unlike her cartoon version Cruella during the movie shows a lot of different, hiconic and fashionable outfits: at her visit at Anita and Roger's house, she wears a zebra coat dress with mink sleeves with matching Russian-inspired hat, red PVC boots that match with gloves in the same color and material (long fake red nails on each finger) and her red cigarette holder. Her dress also features a practical detail: a cigarette case paired with ammo cartridges as if they are military medals. The zebra stripes also give off the impression of bones or a rib cage for that extra goth vibe. Her lips are permanently stained the color of crimson, while her winged eyeliner adds to her high drama aesthetic.

Despite being set in contemporary London, everything about Cruella's closet defies a specific time period. It is as if she stepped in from the '60s of the original story combined with a century's worth of high fashion references. This is very logic: people have a lot of clothes and is natural for a very fashionable stylist to have and wear a lot of haute couture outfits.

Cruella: “And you must be Rufus.”

Roger: “No, it’s-- it’s Roger. And it’s a pleasure, Miss De Vil.”

Cruella: “What’s a pleasure?”

Roger: “Uh, making your acquaintance.”

Cruella: “Such a sweet thought. l wish l could reciprocate. Tell me, darling, you married him for his dog. Oh, darling, l’ve missed you so. l hate that you’ve taken leave.”

Anita: “But l’m still working. Um, you’ve been getting my sketches?”

Cruella: “Well, it’s not the same thing. l miss the interaction-- And what is it that you do… that allows you to support Anita in such… splendor?”

Roger: “l design video games.”

Cruella: “Video games? ls he having me on?”

Anita: “Oh, no, he’s very good at it. Um, and it’s a growing business.”

Cruella: “Those horrible noisy things that children play with on their televisions?Someone designs them? What a senseless thing to do with your life.”

Roger: “Oh, did Anita tell you the news? She’s going to have a baby.”

Cruella: “ls this true?”

Anita: “Yes.”

Cruella: “Oh, you poor thing! l’m so sorry.”

Anita: “We’re very excited about it, Cruella.”

Cruella: “You can’t be serious.”

Roger: “She is!”

Cruella: “Well, what can l say? Accidents will happen.”

Anita: “We’re having puppies, too!”

Cruella: “Puppies! You have been a busy boy. Well, l must say, that’s somewhat better news. l adore puppies! l’ll expect a decline in your work product.”

Anita: “Oh, l shouldn’t think so.”

Cruella: “Be sure to let me know when the blessed event occurs.”

Anita: “Oh, well, it won’t be for another eight months.”

Cruella: “The puppies, darling. l’ve no use for babies.”

Again here we have a remark of how horrible is Cruella as boss (she says to Anita she expect a decline in her work, and this would make her useless and less precious for Cruella's House) and as person: according to Disney people who doesn't like children are horrible and cruel, but there is a double meaning in Cruella's word: “Iʼve no use for babies” could mean both that she is not interested in maternity (that's perfectly legit, not all like children, are comfortable with them or just dream to have children someday) but also that she couldn't find any material use of babies, while for puppies we know she knows well how to use them: as material for a new fur coat.

The next scene is a classical recall to the original Disney cartoon of 1961: it's a stormy night and during the lightning flash for a few frames only, we see Cruella as a complete silhouette while few second after she opens the door and enters in Anita and Roger's house, with a big menacing smile on her face.

Pattern clashing will not only stand, but it is also encouraged, as the tiger cape with a leopard lining reveals. Paired with a leather skirt and tiger bodice featuring claw clasps

Again there is the recurring joke about Cruella misnaming Roger (Rufus, Rupert, Roland), if it's intentional (and this version of Cruella doesn't seem to left anything casual) it's a clear remark about how she dislikes Roger, the guy that stole her best designer, if it's not intentional, shows how Cruella find him irrelevant for her purpose at the point she doesn't even bother to rember his name to flatter him. Cruella is not polite or kind to Roger as she is with Anita. She doesn't need Roger, she need Anita and hates Roger for turning down Anita's value for her interests.

In this scene Cruella uses the same words she uses in the 1961 version (“How marvelous. How marvelous! How perfect... Oh, the devil take it! They’re mongrels! No spots! No spots at all! What horrible little white rats!”), but with something new that shows her uncaring nature (“All right, put them in a bag. l’ll take them with me now.”) and again mocks Roger for his “strange” and not prestigious job, when he firstly deny her offer for the puppies (“Oh? You’ve come into some money, have you? Did you design some silly game… that will drive the delinquent kiddies into frenzies of video delight?”).

However, compared to her 1961 alter ego, this Anita is more assertive and talks for herself, saying a determinated “no” to Cruella. Anita also starts to be a bit suspicious about Cruella's intentions (“But, Cruella, what would you do with 15 puppies?”). Roger and Anita this time seems to be equally determinated to refuse Cruella's business proposals.

Cruella crescent rage is underlight by the sounds effects of thunderclaps and it is Anita who says the final “no”.

“All right, keep the little beasts. Do what you like with them. Drown them, for all l care! You’re a fool, Anita! l’ve no use for fools. You’re fired! You’re finished! You’ll never work in fashion again! l’m through with all of you! l’ll get even! Just wait! You’ll be sorry, you fools! You idiots!”

When Roger and Anita refused to sell the puppies, Cruella's rage exploded as happened in the cartoon version (she screams and insults Roger and Anita, she tears the check into a thousand pieces and throws them in Roger's face), but let's remeber she is Anita's boss now: she uses her power and fired Anita's too, now that Anita and Roger refused to Cruella what she want, Anita become immediately useless. In fact Cruella has yet the design for her new outfit, from Anita needed only the puppies and if she cannot obtain them with good manner, well, as happened in the cartoon version, she will steal them.

In the previous part we saw how in the 101 Dalmatians of 1961, the car was the alter ego of Cruella, well, in this 1996 live action, her personality and her obsession is channeled into her outfits. Before it all goes to hell for the fashion maven, her rotation of zebra, leopard, and tiger print reveal she wasn't bluffing when she exclaimed of her fur obsession.

The costumes as designed by three-time Oscar winner Anthony Powell (co-designed with Rosemary Burrows) take Cruella's love of all things animal print to the extreme, delivering jaw-dropping results.

Cruella's entire life is a performance supported by her wardrobe, makeup, and hair. Cruella increases the level of red (it's the outburst of her bloody determination to obtain what se want, it's her mad passion for furs that determinated her end) during the climax with her fur coat of choice, which will soon be ruined by some farm animals. That smell is going to be hard to get rid of, and there aren’t any dry cleaners in prison.

As we saw in the previous part, Cruella's change of luck is well rapresented by her ruined clothes: she is going to jail, her life and career are over, her clothes aren't perfect and fancy anymore.

This happens also in the 102 Dalmatians live action of 2000: red clothing anticipates Cruella's criminal climax, while her ruined clothes are the sign of her defeat.

Nearly at the end of the movie, when her plans are finally reveled, Cruella wears a very unique red “flames” dress: the bodice is organza and silk satin beaded, sequined with a beaded net collar. The skirt is silk satin and nylon net beaded and sequined, lines in ostrich feathers. The headdress is tiered flames made of mirror, metal and painted glass. While her attire during her final metch with the Dalmatian is a black dress with large shoulders that recall Balenciaga, a black lather waist belt and a Gothic necklace with rubies, pearls and diamonds. The fur coat is floor-length black and red, while her headdress is a little hat with black and red feathers.

(See here for references: X and X)

4 - Cruella in Once Upon A Time

More recent version of Cruella can be founded in the ABC TV show Once Upon A Time. I will not make a summary of the themes of the TV because it has a very complex plot and that is not relevant for our comparison. So, let's say only that is a show who feature the adventure of Emma Swan, Snow White (Ginnifer Goodwin) and Prince Charming (Josh Dallas)'s daughter, and her biological son Henry (who was adopted by Regina Mills, the Evil Queen, now mayor of Story Brook) to break the magic curse that turned Enchanted Forest to a modern day Maine town called Storybrook, in which live all the characters from the popular fairy tales we know from Disney adaptations, unaware of their true identities.

Cruella is introduced in Season 4. The evil Rumpelstinskin (Robert Carlyle) recruited her and some other evil lady to regain his Dark Lord magic powers and take his revenge on the people of Storybrook as well as his happy ending.

The first we saw Cruella is at her ungodly hour: she is divorcing from a guy called Mr. Feinberg, strongly in debt and FBI is repossessing her husband's belongings, including her fancy fur coats, her big mansion in Long Island, New York, and her other goods. (See here for references: X)

Cruella plays little importance in the plot, until the Author is released from the book; unable to kill him herself, she pretends to threaten Henry Mills's (Jared S. Gilmore) life to force Emma (Jennifer Morrison) and Regina/Evil Queen (Lana Parrilla) to do so. However, Emma confronts her, not knowing the restriction the Author placed on Cruella, and magically blasts her off a cliff to her death.

The actress chosed to play Cruella de Vil is Victoria Smurfit and her appearance recalls more the 1961 version than Glenn Close. She wears a black night gown with paillettes or little pearls, long red PVC gloves and a white fur coat, but drives her black and white 1974 Panther Deville. However, during the show she is seen also wearing leather black pants, red boots matching with her gloves and several different types of fur coats. Cruella's phone case has dalmatian spot patterns.

Rumplestiltskin/Mr. Gold snarkily remarks that he recognized Cruella's scent as “desperation and gin”, somewhat suggesting or implying that Cruella is an alcoholic of sorts. Cruella later confirms this, having blamed her misfortunes on “bad judgment and gin”.

Unlike her other version, this Cruella has some a very limited magic powers, and has only been known to accomplish a few specific spells. Her most remarkable power is the ability to control any animal, whether it be a Dalmatian or a Dragon. The green smoke that comes out of Cruella's mouth when she uses persuasion magic on animals is designed to reflect Cruella's green and yellow cigarette smoke in Disney's 101 Dalmatians.

Her other main power is a very limited telekinesis: Cruella is able to enchant her car to drive itself around.

In the 5 Season, after her death, Cruella ends up in the Underworld, a purgatory run by the deity Hades (Gregory Germann). She makes a deal with Hades, who offer her to rule Underworld in his absence and help trap the heroes there. Delighted with the idea of getting to torment souls for eternity, Cruella agrees to the deal. This makes even more evident the similarities with the goddess Hela from Norse Mythology, as both ruled the underworld and have half-black half-white hair.

However, the most important episode about Cruella is “Sympathy for the Devil”, in which we learn about her true story.

"Sympathy for the De Vil" Season 04, Episode 18

In 1920s England, a young and blonde Cruella De Vil (played by Milli Wilkinson as child and Victoria Smurfit as adult) is being mistreated by her mother Madeline (Anna Galvin) as she instructs her Dalmatians to chase her daughter, and is locked in the attic in the same setting that resembles the 1979 Gothic novel Flowers in the Attic by V. C. Andrews. The room where Cruella is locked up is filled with her mother's dog statuettes and dog show trophies. Fast forward to several years later, and that a reporter, who is revealed to be the Author (Patrick Fischler) but is using an alias by the name of Isaac Heller, is paying a visit to the home pretending to seek out a story after having seen Cruella from the attic, only to have Madeline warning him to stay away. Isaac returns and helps Cruella escape from the attic. He then takes Cruella out for a date that includes dinner and dancing. Cruella reveals to Isaac that the reason she was kept in the attic was that she witnessed her mother kill her father and her succeeding husbands; Isaac then reveals to Cruella that he was more than just a reporter and has the ability to use his pen and ink to create magical stories. Isaac proposes that they run away together, and uses his quill and ink to give Cruella her persuasion powers to control animals.

(See here for references: X, X, X and X)

However, for Isaac, his future with Cruella would later take a unique twist that will put his future in danger. When Madeline pays a visit to see him, she tells him that Cruella had lied to him about what actually happened to her husbands: as child Cruella killed her own father, Madeline's first husband, by putting a poisonous flower in his tea. Cruella was a troubled child and her parents had hoped she would grow out of her disturbing behavior. But after Cruella murders her father, her mother fears that Cruella's murderous tendencies will get worse and will become a full fledged serial killer. Not wanting anyone else to get hurt or killed by Cruella and not wanting her daughter to go to prison, Madeline had no choice but to lock her Cruella away from the outside world and keep her close to try to snap Cruella out of her disturbed mind. However Madeline's intentions were in vain as Cruella ended up poisoning her next two husbands. Terrified that Isaac will set her daughter free and start killing more people, Madeline warns Issac to stay away from her, because she is dangerous and can not be saved, while Isaac doesn't believe her, Madeline tells Isaac that Cruella takes everything someone loves and destroys it and tells him to stay away from her or he will suffer the same fate as her two husbands and lose all he holds dear.

(See here for references: X)

When Madeline returns home, Cruella was ready for her, and eventually kills her mother by controlling her Dalmatians and commanding them to attack her.

Afterwards, Isaac discovers that Cruella has stolen his pen, and goes back to her house to find out that Cruella used her ability to control animals to make her mother's pet Dalmatians turn against her and rip her to shreds, before Cruella herself slaughtered the Dalmatians and made a fur coat out of them.

«Some people struggle not to be drawn into the darkness. But ever since I was a little girl, I've said... "Why not splash in and have fun?"», says Cruella to an astonished Isaac.

Horrified, Isaac makes a dash for the pen to stop her, but during a struggle the magic ink is spilled onto Cruella. She accidentally ingests some and the ink shows her true colors. As Cruella is about to kill him, Issac uses his powers as the Author to make it so that Cruella can never kill anyone ever again by writing it down on a piece of paper "Cruella De Vil can no longer take away the life of another." As he leaves, Cruella tells him she's not done.

Cruella kept this secret, as intimidation would still work for her needs.

This episode have a lot of Disney reference to the old 1961 version of 101 Dalmatians:

Madeline's car is similar in design and color to Cruella's car from One Hundred and One Dalmatians.

The song that Cruella hears on the radio is a jazz instrumental version of the song "Cruella De Vil", from One Hundred and One Dalmatians.

Ink spills on Cruella, just like Cruella spilled ink on Roger Radcliffe and Pongo in the movie. (One Hundred and One Dalmatians, 1961)

When Cruella uses persuasion magic, the magic comes out of her mouth in the form of green smoke, which is designed to reflect the green and yellow cigarette smoke that Cruella puffs in the movie. (One Hundred and One Dalmatians, 1961)

This 1920s version of Cruella de Vil we see in Once Upon a Time is inspired by Zelda Fitzgerald, the wife of writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. Interestingly, in "Sympathy for the De Vil", Isaac can be seen reading F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel The Great Gatsby. While he is captive in Mr. Gold's cabin, Isaac reads F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. And largely recall what we already saw of Cruella's original version in the book by Dodie Smith: Cruella is a cruel serial killer. She is smart and manipulative, shows no empathy and emotions and uses people for her own needs. She uses Dalmatians as her own weapons to take her revenge on her mother: she turned her own dogs against her and finally removes the last obstacle to her own freedom. Is important to notice that Cruella slaughters and skins the Dalmatians to create a new dalmatian fur coat for her own, that wears victoriously under Isaac horrified eyes. The Dalmatian fur coat is her trophy. Killers like to take trophies and souvenirs from their victims. Keeping some memento — a lock of hair, jewelry, piece of clothing, newspaper clips of the crime — helps prolong, even nourish, their fantasy of the crime or to relive the crime over and over in their minds. Cruella at the end fully reveals herself as the serial killer she is.

When Cruella drinks accidentally Author's ink that transforms her hair black and white, is another reference to the novel The Hundred and One Dalmatians by Dodie Smith, in which is said that Cruella used to drink ink as a child. The dress Cruella is wearing at the jazz club is the dress Bérénice Bajo wears in the the famous 2011 comedy-drama film The Artist. Also the dancing scene between Cruella and Isaac recalls the one between Bérénice Bajo and Jean Dujardin, when play the role of actors Peppy Miller and George Valentin filming a ball scene for a mute movie.

Conclusion

As we saw, all the version of Cruella that were developed time by time, still share the characteristics of a sadic, cruel villaness.

Glenn Close version of Cruella doesn't care about animals' lifes, doesn't care about workers rights or other person's life projects. She uses creepy hanchmen to obtain what she wants, she steals and plot the death of even rare animals for their fur. She uses and manipulates people.

Victoria Smurfit's Cruella is a real serial killer. She is selfish, cunning, manipulative and the violence against animals is just a moment on her murderous revenge on her mother: she used Madeline's pretious dogs to kill her and then kept their skins as souvenir, as serial killers do.

There's no doubt that all those versions of Cruella are evil and Disney simply can not create any positive emotional connection with a woman who murders dogs. It's simply impossible to explain why Cruella hates dog in a way that can justify abuse toward animals. That is why this Cruella movie with Emma Stone is a huge mistake.

As conclusion, I will borrow again the words of composer Bill Lee from the 60s animated version of 101 Dalmatians to say what I think of trailer with Emma Stone as Cruella:

This vampire bat, this inhuman beast

The world was such a wholesome place until

She ought to be locked up and never released

Cruella, Cruella de Vil

[nuttynutcycle]

Movie Night

Part Two here

"Is this a Star Wars or Star Trek night?"

Villain glanced back and forth between the two titles, conflicted.

"My gut says Star Wars." Hero answered. They split the popcorn into separate bowls and brought them over to where Villain was sitting. Hero took Empire Strikes Back and began the setup. A sound of rustling papers came from behind them.

"Lion King."

"Nope." Hero replied over their shoulder. They heard Villain scribble something down.

"Thirteen going on Thirty."

Hero considered lying, but didn't feel like going through the cross-examination. "Also nope."

"Sharknado."

"That can't be a real thing." Movie ready, they took a seat beside Villain on the couch. "How many are on your must-see list for me now?"

Villain double-checked their worn notebook. "Around 70."

One movie a night - that was going to take months to get through. Time spent away from keeping people safe. And if the current evening death toll kept up… Hero did the math and paled.

Seeing the look on their face, Villain took a fistful of popcorn from Hero's bowl. “A shame you didn't spend more of your past watching famous movies. Calm down; you're well on your way to interacting in society without making a fool of yourself."

"Ah yes, because Star Wars references are incredibly useful in saving lives." Hero snapped. Honestly, they didn't see the appeal behind the franchise. What kind of antagonist's main intimidation tactic was breathing loudly? Who wears a cape in space? Plus, Hero still wasn't sure who had shot first in A New Hope.

To be fair, they would have enjoyed the movie a lot more without the terrified sobbing coming from the corner.

Blindfolded, gagged and restrained with earplugs, the civilians were never aware of their purpose. Every night a new one would be taken and, if Hero behaved, released when the movie was over.

The first time Villain showed up on their doorstep with a hostage, Hero had leapt to free the shaking young woman. Villain broke her arm in retaliation without blinking an eye.

After a few weeks, Hero had gotten somewhat used to the terrified leverage Villain held over them. If anything, the civilian would be safe for the evening while Hero was out of commission. Whoever was paying Villain to keep Hero 'entertained' excelled at spreading the news of Hero's newfound break time to the rest of the underground. Crime and death rates skyrocketed during those evening hours. Watching the reports later was always the worst part of Hero's guilt-ridden mornings.

"I'll try to grab a quieter one next time. This is really putting a damper on the experience." Villain turned their head to glare at the oblivious civilian.

"Not like it will make this movie any worse. I can feel it lowering my IQ." Better to aim the angry villain at themselves. They knew from experience how much Villain adored movies and the brutal reaction to criticism.

Malice emanated from the Villain as they leaned back with a calculating tilt of their head.

"Darth Vader is Luke's father and Leia is his twin sister."

"… real mature revenge. Thanks for spoiling the trilogy for me, dickhead."

Villain grinned, the tension defusing. "I feel like I just deflowered you in some way. How does it feel to be spoiled?"

"Shut up." Hero grumbled, turning their attention back to the movie. Excluding the civilian's sobbing and Villain's hysterical laughter during Luke and Leia's kiss, the rest of the film passed quickly. Hero even found themselves getting lost in scenes before a siren would go by. They'd grit their teeth and try to ignore Villain patting their shoulder in mock comfort.

Once the movie ended, Villain handed the hostage off to their lackey waiting outside the house and paused. Turning back to face Hero, Villain closed the door behind them. "This Thursday, we're doing a full day of Disney. You're running low on popcorn, make sure you pick some up tomorrow."

Hero froze. Their blood ran cold at the words, at the thought of what could be accomplished in that time. "What’s your boss planning?" they asked quietly.

"She's gotten tired of holding back." An excited, almost manic gleam entered Villain's eyes. "Don't worry, I think you'll love what we do with the city."

Pure fury at the Villain and their own helplessness took over. Hostage forgotten, they lunged for Villain. They managed to crack one hit before invisible hands gripped and slammed them against the wall.

"Don't do anything stupid." Villain warned. They rubbed the spot Hero had struck them, a sharp shiner rising. "Against my better judgement, I've grown fond of our movie nights. I would hate for you to be distracted from Return of the Jedi by human remains all over your couch."

The hands on Hero tightened, and breathing suddenly shot to the top of their priority list. They fought for air. "Why… why are you telling me about Thursday?"

"Who knows? Maybe I like making threats. Reminding you of the position you're in. Maybe I like how you look when you're angry." Villain straightened their clothes and let Hero drop, satisfied with their point made. "Or maybe, like I said earlier, it's the popcorn. Seriously. Get some of that popcorn salt too."

Hero gasped for breath from their place on the floor. "Anything else I should get? Before the big day?"

Villain laughed, kneeling beside them. "I'm not that easy, Hero. You won't get any information out of me. Let's just say I'm very excited." They lifted Hero's chin, probing Hero with a piercing gaze. "Are you going to cooperate?"

After some hesitation on Hero's part, they nodded.

"See, I told her you would behave. Nice to know you're still predictable." They stood, giving a mocking smile before leaving Hero's house for the night.

Clenching their fists, Hero marched over to the couch and searched it for any bugs Villain might have concealed. The same process was repeated for the rest of the room. Satisfied, Hero sat and placed their head in their hands. 24 hours for the criminals to do whatever they wanted in the city… Hero shuddered at the thought.

Their situation was not, as Villain assumed, completely binding of Hero's ability to do their job. It just made it impossible to do without loss.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"Hero is going to be out of commission on Thursday. You need to call in heroes from other cities. The criminal underground is preparing -"

The operator interrupted. "Slow down. How do you know this?"

Hero took a deep breath. What good is a hero with no one to protect?

When it came down to it, they chose people over their secret identity every time.

[primeemeraldheiress]

Hey y'all!

@omegajasontoddweek is running awards!

I thought, you know, that it might be a good time to trot out a something of a masterlist of my OJT works. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

If I Told You

Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne

“Ukhai!” Came a wail from the top of a stacked pile of crates. The pup’s voice was filled with fear and exhaustion.

“We don’t even know what he’s saying.” Nightwing whispered furiously. “He’s snapping at anyone that comes near and he won’t come down. I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s a League word.” Jason said as he joined them. “It means, roughly, ‘lead omega that is not mated to pack alpha’.”

“But we don’t have a pack omega.” Tim groaned. Jason snorted softly.

.

Strive for Stature (Transmutation)

Jason & Damian

His knees brushed something under the desk, causing it to crinkle. Reaching under, Damian pulled out a piece of paper that had been taped underneath. His heart jumped as he smoothed it out and read the message inscribed on it League script.

Coordinates, a time, and a reminder not to be seen.

As if he needed such an admonishment. He was almost insulted.

.

None So Devotional

Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne

Bruce didn’t need the blood on the blade — the tissue — to tell him that it was his pup under that helmet. He could smell him. The scent of tea on the wind, crisp mint and honey. Barely dampened by the rain. It was older. Mature. Omega.

Underneath, though, a new darker note. Something… twisted.

.

More than Blood - Warriorverse

Damian Wayne & Jason Todd

Damian stepped out of the shadows and into the alley. The boy scrambled to get to his feet, hand clenching convulsively around the tire iron. Blackwing’s eyes flicked to the Batmobile half a block away. He could see two tires missing and felt the edges of his mouth twitch.

Father was going to be pissed.

.

Debts Be Paid - Warriorverse

Damian Wayne & Jason Todd

The fate of Jason Todd is the same throughout the multiverse.

.

Most Mad and Moonly

Female Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne - E

“Leave!” It was almost a whimper as she pointed to the door.

“Jay.” The alpha’s voice was low.

She trembled. “B. Get out.”

Yet, she made no move to make him. That alone said more than anything else about what she wanted. That alone told him more than anything else about how she felt.

“You hid this.” Bruce was displeased. That his pack — his Jay — would hide such a thing from him.

.

The Corner of Divinity

Jason Todd/Slade Wilson - E

He stared, heart in his throat. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. The heavy tang of blood was thick in the air and his feet felt like lead. He couldn’t move. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. Whatever he’d expected to find, it wasn’t this.

Deathstroke’s lips twisted in a smirk. “I hoped you would show.”

“How could I resist?” Jason drawled, grateful his helmet hid his voice and for the scent blocking patches on his neck. “It was such an artfully worded invitation.”

.

Tidings of the Soul

Jason Todd & Dick Grayson

.

As Fine As Spider Silk

Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Talia al Ghul

Jason receives a gift from Talia on Mother's Day.

.

Where the Journey Always Leads

Jason Todd/Dick Grayson

A touch of anxiety twisted low in his gut. It was his first time running with Selina again after returning. He knew word would travel quickly of Stray’s reappearance at Catwoman’s side. There was no way they weren’t going to run into the Bat tonight.

.

Suspending Gravity - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson - E

She froze once she entered the living room on the way. Slade Wilson, in all the glory of his Deathstroke armor, was stretched out on her couch, watching her. His heady alpha scent of gunmetal and cedarwood wafted over her. What the fuck was he doing here and how did she miss that when she came in?

.

Vertigo - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

“Why?” Dick asked, voice low with threat as he locked eyes with hers in challenge, “Why do you smell like Deathstroke, Little Wing?”

.

Brace For It (This Means War) - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

“You really want to hope that the distress signal went to the Bats.” She whispered hoarsely, malice sparkling in her eyes beside the agony. “Because my mate was scheduled to be back in town tonight and if he’s within 50 miles the signal gets sent to him instead.”

A feral grin stretched across her mouth, blood staining her teeth. “How lucky are you feeling tonight, Roman?”

.

Hit the Window - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

“Todd!” He barked again, eyeing the scarily still pile of fabric. There was no response. He stepped closer and whined, pitched to draw the attention of caregivers. There was a twitch from the pile but no further movement. This was bad. For an omega to ignore the call of a pup in need...

.

Let You Wash Away - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

“You almost died!” Stephanie snapped. “That’s hardly fine!”

Jay waved a hand flippantly, “Least I’d be out of your hair.” Cass gasped. Stephanie narrowed her eyes and Jay’s stomach dropped. Shit.

.

Phoenix Among Feathers - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

Jay paced back and forth across the room. Frustration and frenetic energy seeped from her frame as she glared at the phone on the breakfast bar. She didn’t really have much of a choice. She knew she was going to have to make the call.

.

Baby, I'll Rule - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

She took it hesitantly. “Where did this even come from?”

Slade turned towards the mirror and focused on his tie, “Oh, you know. Around.”

The omega delicately arched a brow and looked at him. He studiously focused on getting his Eldredge knot just right… coincidently avoiding her gaze. “Funny.” Jay remarked. “I didn’t think Coronam Creations did anything other than custom work.”

.

Birds in a Cage - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

“Shut it!” She hissed. “It’s not fucking funny!”

“No,” he affirmed, “but you’re adorable.”

“I,” she started with quiet dignity, “am a dangerous international criminal. I am not adorable.”

“You’re hiding in a blanket because you got arrested for indecent exposure.”

.

A Built-in Remedy - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

“Trust me?”

She tensed. That was not a question that bode well for her.

“Why?”

Most alphas would be pissed that she hadn’t immediately acquiesced. Hers just ran a soothing hand up her side. “I’m about to ask you to walk into a very uncomfortable situation where you’re going to be asked to do something you’re not going to like.”

.

Tear Down the Kingdom - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

“What do you mean he’s disappeared?” A feral snarl tore itself from her throat.

“Hood…” The voice on the line soothed, “Calm down. Slade’s the best. He knows what he’s doing.”

“He was investigating a meta trafficking ring.” Her voice all growl. “Don’t tell me to calm down!” She moved across the room and snagged an earpiece, quickly connecting it, before pulling a bag out of the closet. “Tell me everything.”

.

It's Kinda Crazy (This Life) - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson

“I have a contract.“

He saw her fingers tighten around her book; heard her jaw clench as she tried to control her automatic reaction. After a moment, she answered. “Oh? How long will you be gone?“

“About three weeks.”

"I s-see.“ She stuttered over the word, eyes glued to the pages of her book.

He paused before… “Come with me."

.

Heartbeats Like Drumbeats (Hear Me Roar) - Ad Aglaophotis

Female Jason Todd/Slade Wilson - E

“Deathstroke. Fancy meeting you here.”

He smirked at the Robin - where had his helmet gone? - and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Quite the surprise, I’m sure.”

“Quite!” She grinned brightly, ignoring the twist in her stomach. “I’ll just… get out of your hair!” Moving to duck around him, he shifted to block her path.

“Going so soon?” He leaned in and his scent washed over her; a tantalizing mix of gunmetal, cedarwood and something uniquely alpha. Jay breathed in deeply and nearly purred.

.

Vive La Reine

Female Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne - E

As his thoughts turned to Jay he moved toward her room, suddenly needing to check on her. He pushed the door open and leaned on the frame, looking in on her. Something in the air… Bruce took a deep breath and almost groaned. It smelled amazing.

.

A Gaze Too Long

Female Jason Todd/Dick Grayson, Female Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne

“Baby, are you sure—”

She growled, “It’s this or starve!”

He sighed. “Did you decide on a street name, Jay?”

Shrugging on her hoodie she nodded. “Just call me Red.”

.

For Eternity

Female Jason Todd/Talia al Ghul

She was so cold. It was so dark. Her body trembled. Were her eyes open? She couldn’t tell.

[gffa]

I WOULD ARGUE THAT THIS WAS KIND OF A NECESSARY SCENE given that this season is about connecting us to Revenge of the Sith, that the previous arc was focused on giving Rex and Echo closure, but it was also sprinkled with moments (like seeing Padme pregnant, Anakin giving Rex a speech about hoping for the best but accepting that the worst might be true) that were specifically designed to understand how the characters are in the places they are for ROTS, how the galaxy is in the place they are for ROTS. This scene reminded me very much of the episode “Bounty Hunters”, where Sugi criticizes the Jedi for “failing to keep the peace” and Obi-Wan (who is one of TCW’s most reliable narrators) responds with how the war is not their fault and if more people were willing to actually stand up, they wouldn’t be in the position they’re in.

But it also reminds me of the Star Wars: Propaganda by Pablo Hidalgo book makes this incredibly clear, that the image of the Jedi is painted by other people:

“Once again, the Jedi Order’s eschewing of the galactic spotlight allowed another to reshape the image of the Jedi, and for nearly a decade, the most famous Jedi in the galaxy was one who advocated for the dissolution of the Republic.“

“Intended for the Core Worlds, it shows a graphic sophistication that was in vogue at the time. Rather than detail the inevitable horrors of impending war, its singular lightsaber and well-chosen words instead demonstrate how undefended the Republic was. In crafting this message of vulnerability, the Commission for a Safe and Secure Republic (a nonprofit think tank based on Level 5121, Coruscant) also unwittingly seeded a secondary story that would grow during the Clone Wars—that no salvation lay in the direction of the Jedi Knights.”

“Absent from this hero-making were the Jedi Knights. Citizens who witnessed the Jedi in action were understandably in awe of their abilities, but it was the clone trooper who was the public face of the war effort. The mystic Jedi remained forever inscrutable to the Republic citizenry at large. To the Separatists, they were branded as hypocrites (thanks to firsthand criticism by Count Dooku). That they could so callously brandish a clone army—“slaves bred for war,” as Separatist propaganda proclaimed—did not speak well to their character, though few among the Separatists knew that the Jedi were given no choice in the matter.”

“Anti-Jedi sentiment was more a product of their cultural absence rather than a refutation of anything substantive. Separatist worlds that had experienced lawlessness attributed that to Jedi neglect, a failure of policing. Indeed, the war itself was a failure of the peacekeepers.”

The language of the book even specifically echoes these lines--how the Jedi were seen as policing everything (or not policing everything, they couldn’t win on that front), how they were failures as peacekeepers, and it’s very consistently shown to be not the truth, they were “painted as” this or “branded as” that or “claimed as” this or “imagined as” that. That’s why what Trace is saying here is so important in context--she’s speaking to a former Jedi, who cannot speak back because she must protect herself, she can’t reveal that she’s a Jedi, so she’s visibly struggling to keep quiet.  She says some of it--”The Jedi didn’t start this war, they’re trying to stop it.”, which shows us that Trace is not an accurate reliable narrator in this, no matter that she’s not doing it out of malice.  Ahsoka also visibly starts to respond a second time when Trace is talking, but pulls herself back, showing us further that there is a response to this, Ahsoka just can’t say it. I mean, she’s not entirely wrong, the Jedi are extremely busy with this war and don’t have time for other stuff, you know, because they’re dying in this war.  So many Jedi have died, we’ve seen them die on the screen, as well as the war gets busier and busier.  The Clone Wars itself makes this point in season five, when Maul is pulling together his crime syndicate and the narration specifically says, because the Jedi are being dragged into the war, they don’t have time to deal with criminals, so they’re flourishing. But there’s really no solution to that, so long as the war is going--do they just let people on Separatist-oppressed worlds die because the spice running trade is gearing up?  Do they let the people of Ryloth die in a Separatist attack because there was a mugging on level 1313 that they should be patrolling for?  They don’t have the numbers to do both and they were already drafted into the war. But even more importantly--Trace says she wants to go out into the stars, get away from Coruscant, get away from the Jedi and the war.  Think about that, where does she think the war actually is?  Where does she think the Jedi actually are?  What does she think is waiting for her out there? One of the big points of ROTS and the Battle Over Coruscant is that the planet has actually been relatively sheltered from the war, the people in the Core (even the ones in the lower levels of Coruscant) haven’t seen much at all of the war, it’s barely touched them.  Out in the stars?  Where Trace dreams of going?  That’s where the real war is. And it shows that she’s not accurate in her assessment of things.  Again, she’s not doing this out of malice, she had expectations of the Jedi that they could not possibly realistically meet, given the political set-up, and that’s part of what Palpatine precisely did.  He built them up to something they couldn’t--and shouldn’t and didn’t want to--live up, but they had no time and so few of them (ONE OUT OF SIX BILLION PEOPLE IS THE CONSERVATIVE ESTIMATE FOR HOW MANY JEDI THERE ARE IN THE GALAXY, that’s like ONE Jedi to deal with literally all of our problems in every single country here on Earth, and then blaming them for not stopping all the wars, while also not keeping the peace in all the countries and not stopping all the crime) and the galaxy had to buy it, including people who were sweethearts but had probably never actually met a Jedi before. Because that’s what Palpatine’s propaganda did, that’s what his political maneuverings did, to get the Jedi so busy saving those people over there, that these people blamed them for not being here, too. And that’s exactly how we get to, “The war is over. The Separatists have been defeated, and the Jedi rebellion has been foiled. We stand on the threshold of a new beginning.”

This is how we get to a galaxy willing to stand by while THEIR TEMPLE WAS ATTACKED AND THEIR CHILDREN LITERALLY GUNNED DOWN. This is how you get a galaxy to accept the genocide of an entire culture, that even the good people who are just trying to make it through the day are maneuvered and manipulated into believing the Jedi started the war, that they weren’t trying to stop it but kept it going so they could gain power, that they wanted to take over for power’s sake, that they didn’t care about anyone else, to forget that the Jedi were fighting on their behalf (when they themselves wouldn’t even do as much) and dying for them. By showing us people like Trace Martez.

[murasaki-murasame]

Thoughts on Higurashi Sotsu Ep15 [FINALE]

For better or worse I think Ryukishi achieved exactly what he set out to do with this series, and I guess everyone’s just gonna be forced to reckon with how they feel about his own perspective on this franchise versus how they feel about it, lol.

Anyway, thoughts under the cut, plus Umineko spoilers.

I’m not entirely sure where to even start with this, but I guess the TL;DR is that I honestly think Gou/Sotsu was ultimately just fine despite it’s issues, and part me of can’t help but be like ‘I told you so, lol’ about how this really did end with this episode, and also committed pretty hard to the Umineko prequel elements.

It’s not like all of my theories were correct in the end, but I at least think I was pretty spot on in my prediction last week that this would end with the miracle of them side-stepping the sword issue entirely and choosing the third option of forgiveness and reconciliation. And also them ending it with an epilogue where we go back to the Matsuribayashi timeline and get a happy ending for Rika and Satoko that provides a ‘non-magical interpretation’ for the story while also giving us an idea of how Bern and Lambda formally split off into their own entities and start the relationship we see in Umineko.

I didn’t quite expect them to go down the route of having them agree to just spend a few years apart and accept that they don’t need to literally always be together, but I think that was a really good way to wrap things up between them. It’s pretty much the healthiest compromise to their conflict that doesn’t come across like it completely invalidates one of their dreams. I get why it feels too anti-climactic and convenient for people, but when you pull at that thread you get into wider topics of what the entire story is about, since this was always going to end with Satoko being redeemed and forgiven. People might not have taken him seriously, but Ryukishi was 100% genuine about his regrets about Matsuribayashi’s ending, and how part of why he came up with this new story was to create a better ending, while also doing more with Satoko as a character.

Basically I think a lot of the fandom negativity towards this boils down to people fundamentally disagreeing with the idea that Matsuribayashi was even ‘flawed’ in this sort of way to begin with, or that Satoko was badly written. It’s valid to disagree on this stuff, but at the very least we all have to grapple with how Ryukishi has his own specific relationship with this series.

People like to focus on how he’s a troll who likes to mess with people, but I feel like this is a bit of a wake-up call for people about how he’s actually extremely sincere, almost to a fault, and he likes to use his stories as a vehicle for expressing his personal philosophies and ideals. 

This whole story is also a good example of how he just sees this as ultimately being a fictional story about fictional characters, and not literally a matter of real people who need to be sentenced for their crimes or whatever. As early as the original VN he was almost being outright preachy about the message that nobody is irredeemable, and that philosophy carries through to this. But to be more specific, nobody *in this story* is irredeemable. He’s pretty open about the fact that in practice you can’t apply this sort of ideal to real life, but fictional stories are their own separate matter.

I think this whole issue of how he views this as a story first and foremost is also the central reason why this ended in a way that comes across as Satoko being let off too easy for her crimes. One way or another, Ryukishi’s made it clear that he sees this as being no different to how other characters had arcs where they committed crimes but still got forgiven, or how Takano is basically a straight up war criminal who also got forgiven for her crimes.

Anyway, this episode at least committed to the Umineko stuff, so that was satisfying. Sure there’s people that still want to deny it, but at this point I think a lot of people are just being stubborn, so it’s not like anything would have really convinced them, lol. I’m also genuinely not sure what people even would have expected them to do beyond what we saw her, aside from having the two of them literally put on their gothic lolita outfits and turn to the camera and go ‘we are literally Bernkastel and Lambdadelta from the video game series Umineko When They Cry’. I almost feel like there’s some kind of misunderstanding from people who aren’t familiar with Umineko when it comes to the idea of what it even means for this to be ‘an Umineko prequel’, or ‘a Bern/Lambda origin story’. I mean, this is quite literally exactly what I expected and hoped for in that regard. It’s not like I was expecting them to incorporate anything related to, like, Beatrice or the Ushiromiya family.

I think this is also one of those things where you just have to decide for yourself whether or not you want to earnestly engage with the story that’s being told, or if you want to assume that there’s some level of malice or trickery going on.

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting them to literally have Rika and Satoko recite part of Bern and Lambda’s final conversation with each other word for word, lmao. Combined with the scene at the end where ‘Witch Satoko’ talks to herself about how she’s going to give her body back to Satoko while she goes chasing after Rika, it was literally just the exact origin story of their relationship as it’s depicted in Umineko.

I still feel like this would all only really be ‘worth it’ if we actually get something like a full on anime remake for Umineko, but at this point I can’t help but feel satisfied with this part of it all.

It’s not like I think Gou/Sotsu as a whole is perfect or anything, though. I don’t hate it as much as basically everyone else does, but I think Ryukishi’s the sort of VN writer who really struggles with the shift to writing for an anime. I think a big part of the frustration people have is just from how this is formatted as a weekly anime series spread across basically an entire year, instead of being something like a stand-alone VN chapter that you can read at whatever pace you want, even if it ultimately takes the same amount of time to read as it would to watch all of Gou/Sotsu.

There’s also the whole issue of this being a sort-of-remake, which snowballed into a whole list of structural problems. They absolutely tried too hard to have their cake and eat it too, and they should have just committed to it being made for old fans only, instead of trying to sincerely incorporate elements from the VN that old fans don’t care about anymore because they’ve gone over it already.

And as I’ve said several times before, it was a major issue for them to decide to put Nekodamashi in the middle of Gou and then spend like 20 episodes on flashback answer arcs until finally getting back to that cliffhanger. I’ve been waiting until this all ended to decide exactly how I feel about that, and now that it’s all over I still think it was a really bad idea. I don’t think it was an issue for them to reveal that Satoko’s the culprit that early, but having the gun cliffhanger specifically happen that early just gave people misguided expectations and tainted the answer arcs because people were just impatient to get back to the cliffhanger. And then the cliffhanger itself ended up being somewhat anti-climactic, which is what I’d been fearing would happen. It would have worked fine if they shuffled it around so that the cliffhanger happened right before Kagurashi and was followed up in the very next episode, or if this was a VN where you could binge your way through the flashback stuff, but spending like half of an entire real-life year to get back to that point only to have the resolution be ‘Satoko just shoots Rika and the death loops keep going’ just didn’t really work properly.

I’m a lot more generous towards the Akashi arcs than most people are, since I think they really over-estimate how much re-used content there is there, but they still suffer from the central issue of the show trying to be accessible for new fans. It could have been heavily condensed otherwise, without losing anything in terms of Satoko’s whole character arc.

On the other hand I think the first half of Kagurashi was awful specifically because it highlighted how bad of an idea it was to put Nekodamashi so early in the story. They still ended up having to go back to that arc and repeat it anyway, in the most 1:1 recap-y way in the whole show, but that wouldn’t have even been an issue in the first place if that was instead the first time that arc happened in the show.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I would rearrange the story to make it flow better while still following Ryukishi’s intentions, and I think they could have condensed it into a 2-cour season with this sort of structure if they did something like this:

-First arc where Rika gets thrown back into the loop and quickly figures out that somebody intentionally caused this to happen, and it’s not Takano because at least in this idea of mine she’d try and investigate her only to find out that this version of Takano regrets everything and is planning to flee the village with Tomitake.

Basically I think this could tie into the idea of Satoko initially wanting to just concoct an idea world for Rika so that she won’t want to leave this time, but sort of like what I think happens in Saikoroshi, Rika would still reject it, and this time around there’d be the additional layer of her knowing that somebody did this to her for an unknown reason. Maybe they could even initially market it as a new adaptation or a remake of Saikoroshi, and then reveal that it’s a sequel, to keep that whole element to the series. Either way I think this would end with everything going to shit when Rika rejects that fragment and wants to go back to St. Lucia’s, and Satoko basically snaps and kills her, and that way the audience can find out about her being the culprit without Rika finding out about it yet.

Maybe there could even be some dramatic irony where Rika’s attempts to meddle with certain ‘trigger events’, and her displaying her looper side, inadvertently triggers people around her to get paranoid, and the whole fragment would start to spiral into tragedy from there. I think they could at least use the whole conflict in Tatariakashi about Teppei actually being good this time as a starting point for that sorta thing.

-Second arc, rounding out the first cour, which is basically just Satokowashi. I don’t think there’s much that you’d need to change here, but like I said above I like the idea of her initially trying to just invent a perfect world for Rika and her to live in, instead of jumping straight to murder. But maybe instead of her literally just watching Rika’s loops, she could instead just be stuck using her looping powers to try and figure out how to create that ‘perfect world’ in the first place, by personally investigating all of the different tragedies and how to prevent them.

-Staring the second cour, a third arc where we basically just get to see those loops Satoko goes through, and her whole process of solving the tragedies and ‘purifying’ characters like Teppei and Takano, until we eventually see her perspective on the first arc, and how she reacts to Rika ultimately rejecting the world she tried to make for her.

-A fourth and final arc which is basically just Nekodamashi + Kagurashi, where she just totally snaps and tries to just torture Rika into never wanting to leave the village again, and eventually Satoko gets exposed and they have their direct confrontation with each other.

With that sorta story structure, you’d keep all the relevant bits of Gou/Sotsu as it is now, while being more focused on Rika and Satoko instead of doing kinda half-assed reruns of the Rena and Shion arcs. It’d also push the big cliffhanger between them until near the end of the show, while still revealing to the audience relatively early on that Satoko’s the culprit.

I’d also like them to do more with Satoshi and Shion, so maybe like with how Teppei gets redeemed and Satoko almost gets to have a happy life with him in Tatariakashi, the central question arc of this hypothetical story could also involve Satoko making sure that Satoshi wakes up from his coma, and Shion also gets to have a good relationship with all of them. You could probably do something interesting with the idea of Satoshi and Shion being in the camp of not trusting Teppei and his whole redemption arc.

Honestly I could spend a long time talking about how I would have done things differently, lol. For one thing, I think the Akashi arcs would have been much better if they just changed it so that Satoko used psychological tactics to make people paranoid, and we completely cut out the whole syringe plot device. I get how it fits with Satoko’s whole certainty gimmick, but it made those arcs way too predictable. Even if we knew the outcome, it’d at least be entertaining to see exactly how Satoko might go out of her way to set up the different tragedies. We kinda got glimpses of that sorta plot point in Wataakashi when things seemed to go outside of her control, but they didn’t really do much with it.

Anyway, this is a whole lot of words to say that I think that in spite of the serious structural issues going on, I think Gou/Sotsu as a whole is fine, and was at least working with a lot of perfectly good ideas that could have been executed much better.

Also, on a side note, that one scene during their fist-fight at the start where the art-style changes a bit was kinda weird, but I really liked how it looked, and part of me almost wishes the whole show looked like that, lol. I like Akio Watanabe’s character designs, but I feel like that sort of stylized, almost TWEWY-ish art style would have been really fitting for this series, especially in the horror/action parts.

Oh, and the new rendition of You was so good it almost felt emotionally manipulative, lol.

[thelukesalvez]

Luke Alvez x Reader: Thanksgiving Dinner

Description: You invite Luke home for Thanksgiving dinner. 

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: none

A/N: sorry i suck at updating! but here’s a fluffy thanksgiving fic.  i hate this holiday, but love luke so enjoy!!! (obviously this fic is pre Covid times, so keep ur distance and stay at home y’all)

“It’s just dinner, Luke! And my family really wants to meet you. Please?” You beg again, sitting up again to look into Luke’s eyes pleadingly. The two of you were cuddled up in Luke’s apartment watching a rerun of a show you’d already seen.  You had one of his throw blankets wrapped around you, but still shivered.  Luke always kept his apartment freezing.  Something to do with the fact that he was literally a human furnace.   

“Thanksgiving dinner is supposed to be a family thing,” Luke sighs. “I don’t want to impose.  Why can’t we just do dinner any other day?” He asks. You frown at him, and furrow your eyebrows, your signature sign of annoyance. 

You had only been dating Luke for about six months now, but Luke can read you like an open book.  He knows all of your little expressions and mannerisms.

“Because,” you groaned, like that’s the only explanation you need to give. Luke raises his eyebrows, so you continue.

“Because that’s the only time my whole family will be there and I want you to meet all of them,” you huffed, falling back against Luke’s headboard, a few inches between the two of you now. “I don’t understand why you won’t just come.” 

“Baby,” Luke chuckles, reaching over and pulling you back into his side, like you had been sitting just a moment ago. 

When your frown doesn’t go away, Luke sighs. “Okay.”

“Okay?” you ask. 

“Okay, I’ll do Thanksgiving.”

You smile smugly, and lean back into Luke’s side. “Thank you,” you murmured.  Luke gives your side a slight squeeze.

“You're lucky I like you so much,” Luke chuckles. 

...

Luke straightens his shirt in the mirror one more time, making sure his hair is intact and his shirt wasn’t too wrinkly. He really, really wants your family to like him, and if he doesn’t look perfect or say exactly the right thing, he knows he’ll blow it.

He’s gone with a dark blue button down, one of your favorites. He picked out his best pair of pants and even trimmed his beard so that it looked clean and presentable.

There’s a knock on the door as soon as he’s finished tucking his shirt into his pants, and he lets out a long breath before he goes to answer it. He checks his teeth in the mirror beside the coat closet before he opens the door, finding you waiting for him in the hallway.

You both just kind of stare at each other for a long moment.

You have on a white sweater and dark pants.  Your hair sits perfectly on top of your head in a big bun.

Luke breaks the silence first, reaching out to pull you into his chest.  He kisses you softly. “You look great,” he murmurs against your lips.

“So do you,” you whispered. “We’re gonna be late if we don’t get going now. Are you ready?” you asked, reaching for Luke’s hand when he nods. Luke allows you to lead him down the hall and to the elevator, and then out to his car.

The two of you pull up to your parents house an hour later, you’re quick to undo your seatbelt and climb out of the car. There are already several other cars in the driveway, and Luke tries to guess who might already be here as you walk him up to the front door.

There’s a wreath already hung on the door as you ring the doorbell. Luke squeezes your hand tight, making you turn around and look up at him in amusement.

“Are you nervous?” you ask, smirking.

Luke shrugs, “A little bit,” he says.

“They’re going to love you,” you assure him and then the door swings open. 

You whirl around, grinning at the little girl in the doorway. Luke recognizes her as one of your cousins from the countless pictures he’s been shown, but he isn’t sure which one she is.

“Hey bug,” you say excitedly, and the little girl jumps excitedly. She runs the few steps it takes to close the distance and jumps into your arms, hugging you tightly around your neck. Luke’s heart melts as he watches you twirl around the porch with her a bit, before putting her down and letting her run back inside. 

“That was Kate,” you tell him before taking his hand in yours.  Luke nods, already storing the information in his long term memory. 

You lead Luke inside, just in time to hear Kate announce to the whole house that you and your “cute boyfriend” were there.  Luke smiles at that and you look up at him with the widest crinkly-eyed grin, leading him around the corner to the kitchen.  

Luke was not prepared for the crowd of people gathered as soon as they turned the corner. 

There’s a male that looks just like you sitting on a stool at the bar, with a double version of himself sitting next to him.  Luke immediately recognizes them as your twin brothers.  He knew their names, but couldn't for the life of him, tell who was who.  Kate has found two other young kids, around the same age as her, and all three of them are clawing at the dress of a woman who Luke presumes is their mother.  

There’s an older woman stirring something in a pot on the stove, and another, younger woman sipping from a wine glass and holding a baby. In the attached living room three men sit on the couch, a football game on the flatscreen TV. 

Luke is a bit overwhelmed by the chaos of it all, but when you squeeze his hand a little bit tighter, he feels like he can breathe again.  You quietly start pointing out who is who before actually bringing him around the room.

He learns that your twin brothers were named Caleb and Elliot.  He also learns that Caleb has his hair parted down the middle of his head, whereas Elliot’s was just combed back.  

He learns that the woman stirring the pot on the stove was your mother, and the woman getting mauled by all the young kids was your Aunt Christine, and that her three kids were named Kate, Emily, and James. The woman nursing her glass of wine was your older sister, Caroline, and that the baby she was cradling was your three month old nephew.  Her husband was one of the three men sitting on the couch.  The other two being your uncle Mark and your grandfather.

“The one in the war?” 

You nod. 

Christine is the one that makes the obligatory new-comer to the family joke about there being a test later on who is who, and when your mother has finally put the turkey in the oven, she turns around to get a good look at Luke.

“So,” she begins, wiping her hands on a tea towel and untying her apron. “You’re the famous Luke that my baby talks endlessly about every time she calls home.” You throw her a look, one that clearly means stop- but Luke just laughs softly and squeezes your hand again.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Luke grins. 

“So Luke,” your sister pipes up. “What do you do?”

Luke hesitates.  His job was slightly unconventional, so he always just assumed you would have told them about it.  

“I work for the Bureau,” he states nonchalantly, but he notices the hush that falls over the room. 

“The FBI?” your sister asks. 

Luke bites his lip and nods. 

“Is that like the police?” one of the little kids asks. 

Luke nods, smiling, “Yeah, I work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

There’s a blank silence- Luke interprets it as no one knows what the hell that meant. 

He clarifies.  

“I study criminal behavior to assist in investigations.”

The whole kitchen remains quiet. Luke feels his stomach drop, as he suddenly starts wondering if he said something wrong.  He notices you flinch, digging nails into the back of his hand until someone breaks the silence.

“Y/N,” says your grandfather from the couch, and everyone turns to look at him. “Is that boy a cop?”

“He’s not a cop,” you say. “He’s FBI.  There’s a difference.”

Luke turns to look at you, lips parted in surprise. Clearly he was missing something here, as the tension grew thicker. 

“You’re dating a cop?” He asks, standing right in front of the two of you now. 

Luke lets go of your hand and wipes it hastily on his pants. 

“He’s not a cop, he’s-”

“He’s a cop,” your grandfather sighs, he doesn’t seem mad, more disappointed. “After what your family has been through, I figured you’d know better.”

Luke looks between you and your grandfather uncomfortably before taking a step back towards the entryway of the kitchen. 

“I- uh-” Luke stammers.  “I didn’t mean to offend anyone-”

“You didn’t,” your mother pipes in finally.  “Dad- that’s enough.”

“Okay,” he says, putting his hands up in defense.  But the malice was still there.

Luke takes another step back.  “Maybe I should go- I don’t mean to impose.” He takes another few steps before turning around altogether. 

He hears you scoff harshly.  “Nice going.”

You chase after him, grabbing Luke’s hand and pull him straight out the front door. Luke stands off to the side of the yard, pinching harshly at his own nose.

You reach for Luke with an apologetic look on your face. Luke opens his mouth before you can, though, spitting out the words that are probably on everyone else’s mind right now.

“I should leave,” he says, taking a step back when you reach for him again. “They hate me. I knew I shouldn’t have come in the first place. I’ll call an Uber home, you can take the car.” he mutters, turning away and reaching into his pocket for his phone.

“Luke,” you argue, pulling his arm down. Luke groans, refusing to meet your gaze. 

“You’re not leaving,” you say. “They don’t hate you, not at all. They haven’t even gotten to know you yet, and they’re absolutely not going to hate you because of your job, of all things. My Grandfather is just a little crazy, but he’ll get over it, I swear,” you assure him.

“Why didn’t you tell them I was in the FBI in the first place, if you talk about me to your mom so much? Kind of a defining feature, I would think,” he grumbles, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Uh, it didn’t come up?” you offer. Luke rolls his eyes.

“Did it have to?” He asks, voice dripping with annoyance.

You finally sigh, rolling your eyes and running your hand through your hair. “Alright, my dad was a cop. Right here in Baltimore.  He died when I was thirteen. Shot in the line of duty. So we had to grow up without him. I didn’t tell them you were a cop because I knew that if I did my mom would wanna talk about my dad, and I didn’t want to talk about my dad.”

There’s a long, heavy silence before you sigh.  

“I’m sorry, I should’ve told her,” you admit, shoulders slumping slightly. “I didn’t think any of them would react like this. I guess it’s still a little raw.”

Luke takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, letting that all sink in. He can see why your family might be a little cautious. Because all that hurt that your family had to deal with must have really been awful.

“You never told me that.  I’m sorry that happened,” he says softly, reaching out to squeeze your hand. You look up at him hopefully, trying to lace your fingers together. 

“I promise, after like five minutes of getting to know you, they’re going to love you, just like I did, I promise.”

Your eyes widen at your sudden admission.  You look to Luke to see if he noticed your slip up.  His grin says it all.

“Love me, huh?” he asks slyly.  

You try to brush it off, but Luke’s not having it.  

He takes a step forward in the grass and gently touches your chin, he tilts it up so that you’re looking at him.  “I love you, too.” He says before pressing his soft lips to yours. 

When he pulls away, you bite back your smile.  “So you’ll try?” You ask. 

Luke nods his head and lets you tug him back inside the house.

“Luke,” your mother says softly and Luke freezes, looking up at her like a deer in the headlights. He can only imagine that she’s about to kindly ask him to leave.  “Oh, you poor thing, how rude you must think we are,” she says instead.  

Luke shakes his head.  “No ma’am,” he insists.  

“I’m not sure if Y/N has told you about her father, but he was a cop.  Sixteen years,” she stares off as if remembering him.  “He passed away in the line of duty. It was terrible- the kids having to grow up without their father.  And terrible for me to raise them without my husband.  I never wanted that for my kids.”

Luke’s chest tightens again. 

“But I’m so sorry about what my father said to you, and I want you to know that you are always welcome inside this house, because you obviously make my daughter very happy, and that makes me very happy,” she says, giving you a smile that looks so much like yours that it eases him just the same.

He releases the breath he was holding and lets himself smile, nodding quickly. “Thank you,” he says, giving your mother his most genuine smile.

“See? Told you she’d love you,” you say smugly.  

Luke chuckles softly.

During dinner, Luke works his charm and is able to wiggle his way into every family member's heart.  You marvel in awe as he’s able to carry on a conversation about football with your grandfather and uncle.  Luke knows a surprising amount about the Ravens- even though he’s a Patriots fan. After dinner, when they all gather in the living room to watch the game, Luke turns out to be as loud and passionate about football as the rest of the men, even with Kate seated on his thigh, because for some reason she will not let him put her down.

After dessert is over you and Luke finally start to say your goodbyes to everyone with promises to visit soon. 

By the time you get back to Luke’s apartment, you’re both too full and sleepy from the turkey to do much more than cuddle for a while.

“I told you my family would adore you,” you sigh.  “Even my grandfather warmed up to you by the end of the night. Everyone loves you. But I love you the most,” you say, clearly already drifting off to sleep.

Luke smiles to himself and presses a long kiss to the top of your head.

“I love you too,” he whispers softly, before letting himself drift off to sleep as well.

[sserpente]

Pastel Blue (Chapter 4)

Synopsis: After his lucky escape, the Tesseract takes Loki on new adventures–but unfortunately, his journeys through space do not go unnoticed and he soon ends up on the TVA’s radar. Working for them, albeit reluctantly, he keeps finding himself in the company of a young woman, Jess, who works in the linguistics department and who has a truly strange effect on him. Smitten by her confidence and smugness, he seeks her presence like a bee hunting for honey and lets her wreak havoc in his heart without really knowing why. But he is determined to find out. He means to escape his new prison anyway.

Find all chapters in my masterlist!

Loki got called in again after lunch. By the time Jess returned from sitting next to Fred in the cafeteria poking at her food as if those noodles were earthworms, he was gone. She had been careless to leave him alone like that. For all she knew, he could have found a way to get rid of his handcuffs and make trouble.

Nothing of the like happened, no alarms were raised and no fuming Mobius came at her for being this reckless. Instead, she decided not to while away in the lab any longer and packed her things to continue her work in her unit, feeling like an empty shell.

What if he was right? The question hovered in the air like moist fog in a forest, creeping into her mind and clouding her concentration. Was that what he wanted, to get to her and distract her? Distract her from what, exactly? M had warned her that Loki was skilled at playing mind games and deceiving his enemies and despite you insisting he was part of the team now and that he would not get left behind, it appeared he still perceived them all as such.

It wasn’t like anyone had made any real effort to become his friend so far… so what else was he to believe? Jess bit her lower lip, and eventually gave up on the transcript she was working on. Her mind kept wandering off, even when she switched on her TV to re-watch some of her favourite Doctor Who episodes and struggled to make sense of the lines as her mind was still filled with Old French terms, repeatedly sucking in deep breaths until she realised the foreign and yet so familiar scent surrounding her was Loki’s. She was sitting on his provisory bed, after all.

The bed sheets smelled like a wintery forest, like ice and strangely, even leather and molten metal—but perhaps the latter was just his natural male scent intended to lure in females. Either way… Jess felt too exhausted to resist how it enveloped her whole and eventually fell asleep on the sofa before Loki returned to her unit.

 ~*~

He found her sleeping soundly on his “bed” after Dave practically shoved him into the room, locking the door behind him with an ear-piercing click, but he sensed her presence before he even lay his eyes on her. It came knocking him over like the strong winds in Jötunheim, making him swallow as he stepped closer.

Loki wondered just how fast he could snap her delicate neck. How he could overpower and threaten to kill her before the oafs watching him over the surveillance cameras even registered what was unfolding before their eyes, taking her hostage. But he did no such thing and it left him pondering if Mobius had somewhat suspected he would not harm a hair on her head.

He knew a lot about him, Mobius. More than he would have liked, but if watching him in various timelines proved anything at all, it was that Loki was not malicious for the sake of malice. Ever since his arrival, Jess had not once raised his voice against him—he had no reason to plot vengeance against her. Only to plan it with her. Fuck off, she had barked. He smirked.

She seemed kind, after all, understanding—well, she was cheeky and smug too but there was more beneath the surface. Loki refrained from flinching when she stirred, turning over on the sofa to reveal her face. Eyes closed, features relaxed, lips slightly parted. As soon as her eyes flew open, Loki felt an adrenaline rush resembling the thrill of being reunited with a long-lost possession.

Jess blinked. “Hey… how long have you been here?”

“About a minute. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the door close.”

She shrugged. “I have a deep sleep.” Truly. She could sleep through a war and feel rested the next day. Technically, that was another superpower of hers.

“I… um…” What? I’m sorry? For what? This was ridiculous. She had nothing to apologise for. Instead, she sat up straight and rushed to gather her things so Loki would get his bed back. Her own was calling for her anyway. “When did M send you?”

Loki swallowed. “The nineties again, to save a Minuteman from public execution in a Hydra cult.”

“And did you?”

He smirked, sending a lightning bolt right between her legs. Damn him. “Yes. Even though I do assume that he was never in any real danger.”

“How can you know? M has his reasons for what he does. I’m sure he had one for allowing you to interfere.”

Loki hummed, careful not to scratch on the surface of his true intentions towards her again—not anytime soon, anyway. “Did he now? You all think me the God of Lies, yet Mobius is so full of them he reeks of deception.” He paused, looking her straight in the eye. “Do you trust him?”

Did she? Her answer should have been an unconditional yes, a confirmation of her loyalty to the TVA but who was she kidding? No. She did not trust him. M had given her a home and he had given her a purpose beyond criminal intent, and technically she had put her life into his hands but she did not, in fact, trust him.

She didn’t trust anyone in the TVA, as a matter of fact—not even Fred and especially not Dave, even with his jubilee coming up. She trusted no one but herself. Her parents had taught her that, a long time ago. At least that’s how she remembered it.

“You should go to sleep. Fred had a point, I’m sure M won’t go easy on you once you’ve become used to all the timeline hopping.”

Loki frowned, fully aware of the fact she had not answered his question. He watched her stagger off into her room tired but elegantly, empty peanut shells still scattered on the coffee table like confetti. He would have made them disappear with but a flick of his wrist if it wasn’t for that absurd collar.

Loki wondered for just a brief moment if she would pleasure herself again tonight. Oh, yes. He had heard that and it had left him with a bulge in his trousers for the rest of the night. The barely audible buzzing of a sex toy Loki could only imagine had been buried deep inside her cunt, and Jess’ soft whimpers, albeit muffled due to the pillow she must have pressed her face into, had been all but delectable, and while he doubted that he was the reason for her night-time adventure, it had been a thrilling experience nonetheless. Loki merely possessed enough decency not to bring it up—not until he might need to blackmail her. At the very least, that was what he told himself. He refused to believe the premise of his silence was a growing collection of sexual fantasies, most of which involved Jess on her knees in front of him, moaning and whimpering like she had last night.

Loki cursed, brushing the peanuts aside and heeded her advice. He should rest. It would do him no good to stay up all night yet again and squeeze a few hours of sleep out in the early morning when exhaustion got the better of him. He shouldn’t be letting his guard down at all for as long as he was wearing that collar and could be taken by surprise. This morning posed as the perfect example of this miserable predicament. No one should be able to march past him and get ready for a long workday with him sleeping through it, and yet Jess had managed to do just that.

He hummed to himself, straightening the covers of his provisory bed before lying down with as much grace as he could muster and ridding himself of his clothing. He would be damned if he did not make use of whatever connection there might have been between them, even if he knew he was repeating himself at that point. Patience. Patience is a virtue. It still took him hours again for his mind to finally switch off and let him fall asleep.

~*~

Jess nearly jumped out of her skin when she found Loki standing right behind her, peeking over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of what she was working on.

“How did you even find me? The lab is miles away.”

Loki smirked, sending her heart knocking against her ribcage like a steam hammer. “Not all of my powers are of magical origin, you see.” He would certainly not tell her he found her because he had sensed her. herher. sdHe sighed. “And to be quite frank, you are far more bearable than everyone else around here.”

Jess smiled smugly. “You know what, I’ll just take that as a compliment. I see you’re without handcuffs but I have work to do. So either help me translate or be quiet and let me focus, alright?”

He looked so damn good in that suit. The white button-up chemise and the black tie complimented his raven hair like it had been made for him, and not been borrowed from Dave who, as far as she was concerned, had been more than against the idea of the God of Mischief wearing his suits.

“No missions today?” She found herself asking, blinking rapidly to tear her gaze away from his chest.

“I guess we shall find out. Though I am surprised Mobius is not concerned some of Odin’s lapdogs will kick in the door sooner or later.” He had given it a proper thought before, of course. Loki was a fugitive, a criminal. Thor was probably looking for him, along with a herd of einherjar following after him like sheep. The very circumstance that he might just be safe here for the time being, until he had gotten his hands on the Tesseract and the collar off his neck, had indeed occurred to him already. Mobius had refused any information on the matter, Jess, on the other hand, was easier to manipulate.

“Only in one timeline,” Jess said. “The one you escaped from. You are in the Null-Time Zone now which means you are shielded from anyone travelling with the Filumorph.” It was a ridiculous term, really, didn’t quite roll off the tongue. She knew what it meant, at least. Filum was a Latin word for string. Time strings, in this case. But then again, it was just a tongue-twister she had come up with at Mobius’ birthday party a few years ago.

“The entire facility is hidden from prying eyes then, is it not?” Loki probed, his fingertips brushing over a stack of books Jess had brought to work today.

“Yes?”

“How far does this protection reach?”

“Across the nine realms and beyond, Loki. That’s like, the whole point. The multiverse, except for a few individuals, don’t know we exist, and unlike S.H.I.E.L.D. and S.W.O.R.D. we work in secret. We only observe and keep things in order.” She recited the words as if she had learned them by heart from a dull textbook.

“I figured this much.” He purred, snatching a book from the table and flicking through it with vague interest. Whatever stood behind this very protection, surely there were mechanics and science involved. All he had to do was find a way to use this protection for himself once the Tesseract created a portal for him to get out of here.

He hummed once more, following Jess’ every move as she attempted to get back to her work. This woman had access to any document in dire need of translation all across the TVA. He would be damned if she could not find out where the cube was—if she did not know already, that was.

She scribbled a translation on the page with a pencil reading ‘bad or evil’, then paused, chewed on the eraser-part and frowned. ‘Sick?’, she added with a question mark.

“You are not wrong,” he found himself saying, crossing his arms before his chest and leaning against her desk as his eyes skimmed over the transcript. “Evil would indeed refer to sick in this case as there are no other mentions of ill-willed entities. Here. Varð þeim ǫllum ilt af,” he cited, picking a random example a little further on in the dialogue. “It made them all sick.”

“I thought so. It must have something to do with the ‘fjölkyngi’ they keep speaking of.”

“Sorcery? What sorcery?”

Jess switched to Old Norse, reading out loud what the transcript had to offer. Loki’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest upon hearing her speak in his mother tongue, her pronunciation so on point and flawless his lips parted in utter surprise. “But they don’t mention it again,” she continued in English. “It’s like they’re afraid of talking about it.”

“Let me see.” Jess held back a smile, her pulse speeding up. Loki leaned over the desk, allowing her to take in his unique and beguiling scent—not to mention the way his sleeves were rolled up, his pale forearms on full display for her. The strength hiding in those muscles made her wiggle around on her chair like an impatient child. There went her concentration again, she thought, as she nibbled on her candy necklace.

~*~

“M? Do you have a moment?” It was about a week later when Jess made her way to Mobius’ office—it was more a control room, really—with a stack of documents tucked under her arm.

“Jess…” Mobius did not look up but she knew better than to assume he would not pay attention to her. He was exceptional at multi-tasking, Mobius. “What can I do for you?” His eyes were glued to six screens right in front of him, the one in the middle displaying who Jess immediately identified as Loki, and his new reluctant supervisors, Ariana and Homer. She placed the documents on his desk, right next to the silly Doctor Who coffee mug she had gotten him for his birthday once, her blue eyes darting over to the screens like magnets.

“I translated the remaining transcripts and protocols now.” And Loki helped me, she added silently. “There are three mentions of a foreign entity of sorts that could be an Infinity Stone but the descriptions were too vague, almost as if they spoke in code… to be truly honest, I believe this is about something, or rather someone else entirely. It seems to refer to people more than magical objects.” She said, not once averting her gaze. “I’ll need more to figure out if it’s really… When is Loki?”

Mobius looked up at last, noticing her almost suspicious interest in what was unfolding on the surveillance monitors.

“Never mind that. Those are just previews, getting him used to time and multiverse travels.” She hummed. Just what she’d expected. “He’s making things a lot more difficult for himself than they are. Makes me wonder if we should let him take part in Dave’s jubilee party on Saturday. How are you getting along with him?” He asked instead of answering her question. “I noticed he spends an awful lot of time around your office.” Blood bit at her cheeks. Did he know? Don’t be ridiculous. How would he? What was there to know anyway?

“He does. I am trying to be nice, unlike you lot. But we haven’t exactly been speaking much.” … He only watches me work, mostly, seeking my presence like a bee hunting for honey… not that I’d mind. “Why?”

“No reason. You just seem tense. You will tell me if you notice anything… off about him, right?”

“Yeah, sure.” Does me wanting to be near him and touch him count as off? She swallowed, saying nothing more.

“You won’t have to put up with Loki for much longer, I promise. Reese has recovered well, he’ll take over next week and you’ll have your unit all to yourself again. I’ll send Dave to get you those recordings, he should be able to retrieve them before the party.”

“Already?”

Mobius gave her a look and Jess slapped her forehead mentally. “I mean… Reese is feeling better already? I thought he was almost beheaded.”

“Exactly, almost.” Mobius chuckled.

Jess ignored that last bit. Her mind had gotten stuck at put up with Loki. Like she would admit to him that he had been pleasant to have around when he wasn’t trying to smash the pillars holding her life together like he had when he accused Mobius of using her like a tool. “And quite frankly, I am keen on keeping a safe distance between you,” he went on unfazed, “Loki is like a ticking time bomb. That collar is staying on until I can be one-hundred percent certain he is not up to some mischief.”

“What about my probation?”

The senior manager gave her a sly grin. “Consider it ended for now. But I’m watching you, Jess.”

She scoffed. “Of course you are.”

~*~

A/N: I’m always happy about comments, so let me know what you think or what you believe will happen next! ♥

[aikrus]

Another Day, Another Life (Tenya Iida x Villain!Reader)

Fandom: Bnha / Mha  Warnings: Angst, amnesia, swearing, weed, coping with death, hallucinations  Words: 3,456 Requested by: No one, but requests are open!  Request/ Description: Casualties are expected in a war, but when a child dies no one is ready. No one knows how to react. The death of a teen can tear people apart, it can rip people into shreds to never be put together again, but is it better or worse if they’re not actually dead?

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          Toga was far from an ideal friend. She was clingy and rude, she talked too much and she cared primarily about herself. She was weird and difficult to get understand, and you never really knew where she stood. She wasn’t perfect, but having her was a blessing in disguise. 

“Y/n, we’re heading out, are you ready?” While she wasn’t perfect, she was pretty close to it. Himiko had a strange way with words, and she could always make the world feel smaller than it was. Her voice was like warm honey on a spoon; hazy caramel color and sweet, perfect for recovery.

“I’m ready, thanks for grabbing me,” Y/n wasn’t close to anyone. It was hard to get attached when the overwhelming threat of having friends ripped away from her grasp constantly loomed over her. She kept her distance, but it was hard not to get sucked into being friends with the blonde.

“Of course!” Her bright smile feels like it should be un-nerving, it holds malice and hatred, it’s the smile of a girl who has been rejected her entire life- but it almost makes others smile back. And so, Y/n’s face was covered with the rare grin; which had become scarce. 

“It really isn’t that big a deal, but Shigarki is getting trigger-happy. We should hurry, I’m pretty sure Dabi will set his hands on fire if we don’t leave soon!” Her voice dripped sugar, and Y/n found herself hurrying. She put her phone into her side pocket, and she secured her outfit. 

The pair walked out of Y/n’s assigned room, and they made their way to the group scattered around the bar. “I thought you all were ready? Let’s get a move on!” Y/n said, there was an unusual lightness to her tone.

The group had started to pass through the given portals Kurogiri had made for them, and one by one they stepped through. In the end, only Dabi and Y/n were left standing with the tall void-like man. 

“Hey,” the gruff man had grabbed a hold of Y/n’s y/s/c arm, and he had lightly pulled it back.

“What’s the deal, Dabi?” She asked, not rudely, but he could tell she didn’t appreciate the physical contact. They were far from close. When Y/n woke up, Dabi could tell something was off about her. Not wrong necessarily, she just had a very unique vibe that he felt was oddly familiar. 

“It’s just...” he sighed and shook his head, “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.” 

Whatever it was that Dabi was going to tell her obviously didn’t matter that much, so she shook it off and went through the portal. 

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Kurogiri looked him in the eyes with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

Dabi nodded and walked through the portal- it would be cruel to tell her- he decided as soon as he saw her laughing with Toga. She has no memory of it, and she just recently started to act like herself again, why would I ruin that for her?

Amnesia was a tricky situation for anyone to deal with. It was dangerous to the person suffering from it, due to how trusting and gullible they become- but it is significantly worse for those of them who have their memories of the victim intact.

Dabi was one of those lucky people- so is the majority of the other people on the team. They can all think back to at least one memory of the spunky girl they have grown to care for. She was always so strong, yet somehow she was always overshadowed by her over-zealous classmates. Those stars that tried to outshine her magnificence- Dabi could only hope they would burn out soon.

He had been one of the first to meet the girl, and boy was she hard to forget. If her physical appearance didn’t grab his attention- her striking y/e/c eyes and flawless y/h/c hair- her quirk definitely did. 

GateKeeper was a well-known up-and-coming hero and student at UA’s school for future hero’s, she was the receiver of the most interning opportunities, and she was respected by almost everyone. Named after her quirk, GateKeeper- or rather, Y/N, is able to access the gates between different planes. 

She can visit the gates of hell, she can see the holy light of heaven, she can see the Mormon’s different kingdoms and the fields of Aaru. She can walk along the banks of river Styx with those about to be reincarnated. 

She can see spirits or those who have passed, and she can comfort those who have lost love ones. With this power, she has been given the ability to have the power of those who have died where she is standing. She can call on the remaining spirits to help her, and she has the power to reap souls. 

Dabi had spent countless hours thinking about the girl who froze him in place- she showed him his worst fear and didn’t bat an eye. She was fierce and protective of all the other students, she stood in front of them and, with her small undead army of soldiers who could never move on, defended them till her last breath. If only she had died.

The fight hadn't lasted long, the pros took out most of the b-tier criminals, and the students were fighting here and there. With All-might out of the picture, it was anyone's guess how the fight would go.

Who would have thought that a single girl who wipe the floor with them? Ahh yes, in a flash of light she managed to subdue the vast majority of the villains, if only she hadn’t lost consciousness- then maybe she wouldn’t have been snatched away so easily. 

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It was hard to believe that Iida would skip school. For the first handful of days after the attack, he dragged himself to his classes- half-conscious and unwilling to be aware of his surroundings.

Eventually having to push himself to get out of his bed- let alone go to school- grew too much for him. He settled with walking to the canteen when everyone else was out to get food before going back to his room. 

He was never one for dramatics, but Iida knew there was nothing he could do. He had failed her, the love of his life slipped through his fingers- never to be seen again.

Day after day he listened to a voicemail left months before the incident- he was never happier for his phone to be dead than when he knew he could hear her talk to him again. 

And while Iida had his outlet for his sadness, his classmates were going more and more concerned with every passing minute. 

Midoriya would double take when he heard her voice through his wall, and, silently, he would press his ear against it just so he could make-believe she was still with them.

“Hey, Tenya! I guess you’re busy huh? Haha! It’s so weird to talk to your voicemail- I’ve never had to before. Well, I miss you! Remember that just because it’s Christmas and I’m not with you doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to celebrate with your other friends!

I just want to remind you how much I love you! You are such a great boyfriend, and I’m glad that you’re mine. I was planing on FaceTiming you while we have Christmas dinner, but since I can’t I guess this will have to do~

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?

In the lane, snow is glistening

A beautiful sight

We're happy tonight

Walking in a winter wonderland

Gone away is the bluebird

Here to stay is a new bird

To sing a love song

While we stroll along

Walking in a winter wonderland

In the meadow, we can build a snowman

We'll pretend that he is Parson Brown

He'll say, are you married?

We'll say, no man

But you can do the job when you're in town

Later on, we'll conspire

As we dream by the fire

To face unafraid

The plans that we've made,

Walking in a winter wonderland”

She cleared her throat and laughed a little, “That was really awkward, but I hope you’ll accept my mini Christmas gift! I’ll wait to open the one you got me until I’m with you again. I love you Tenya, merry Christmas!”

Once again, the shrill ring of an ended voicemail echoed through his room. Wiping away a stray tear- Iida sat down at his desk.

Everything had been going so perfect, everything was going exactly to plan. His brother had been in recovery, they had been going smoothly, classes had finally declared winter-break, and then... everything fell apart. The storm had been brewing, and brewing, and then it came- and then it destroyed everything in its wake. 

It’s hard to accept a loss that you didn’t see happen. He didn’t get the goodbye, or the I’ll never let go. There was no body to hold on to, no one in the casket which was lowered to the ground. Nothing to show that his lover was gone- only the empty dorm room and phone number that gave no answer. 

The school had opened it’s doors during winter break for all the students and parents to come. Some of her closest friends only ever saw her in the hallow walls of UA, and now they didn’t have the chance to see her anywhere else.

There was really no good way to deal with it. ‘It’. Iida despised that word now- ‘it’ was the only way people described the death of his girlfriend. As if death was a taboo word, ‘it’ was all people talked about and yet their words meant nothing. 

Tenya was doing his best- fighting every single fucking day at a time. He hated what he had turned into. He hated the state of being that he devolved to be. Every trait she adored about her boyfriend diapered.  Failing to go to class and snapping at those that came close enough to bother him. He had always gotten cold when faced with misery, resolved and retreated in himself- he had never seen himself as someone who would take up smoking to feel better.

Weed always seemed so far beneath him, it felt like something nothings did to feel better about themselves instead of working hard at bettering themselves, but now even Denki wasn’t eager to help him. Last time he visited the blonds room Kaminari rejected him, saying that he wasn’t getting high in the right way and that he was worried Iida would become a drug abuser with how things were turning up. 

Tenya hated himself more that night. He hated himself and he hated everyone else. He hated Uraraka, who coped with baking Y/n’s favorite cookies and eating them to the movie they would watch during their own girl’s night. 

He hated Momo too, she still got straight A’s and seemed to be just fine- pretending like we didn’t hear her obnoxious sobs at two am. He hated Mina too- she had no place wearing Y/n’s hoodie to school everyday. It was a shitty thing to do. 

He’s pissed at Deku as well- Midoriya the hypocrite. Knocks on his door every day with his missed classwork and with his judgement, pressuring him to leave his room. Everyone knows his grade’s have gone down since her death so who is he to talk about attending class. 

He hates Bakugo, who only ever yelled at her even when she joked around with him- who’s words she laughed at but really made her drown in her insecurities when she was suppose to be secure in her boyfriends arms. Fuck Bakugo, for glaring at her empty seat next to him like he didn’t openly mock her when she got a grade lower than him. Fuck him for screaming at 3am and breaking the school punching bags. Fuck him for feeling bad after hurting her. Fuck him for being her friend. Fuck him for giving a shit. Fuck everyone.

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Aizawa sighed once he sat at his desk. Classes would start in half and hour and he was still crying. His silent tears burned down his cheek and all he could fell was the raw aching in his throat and the headache that felt like it was killing him slowly. 

He saw it then. In that classroom starring at her desk, he can see it happening. 

The cold breeze had moved his hair into his face, giving the villain a second outside of his hold. One second- yet it was long enough for him to disappear into the ground. 

“Dammit,” he hissed, looking around him. 

He heared Mic’s screech at a crowed of them on his left, and the majority of his students stood tall on his right. Everything was chaotic, but a Nomu appeared from the forest line everything exploded. 

He felt a familiar chill crawl over his skin, signifying Y/n using one of her ultimate moves ‘Fallen Heros’. AS what looked like hundreds of dead warriors of different generation’s rose from the ground- some in modern military uniform and others in ancient armor- and surrounded the giant Nomu. 

More appeared- in uniquely them outfits. They were the dead pro-heroes, the ones who passed during a fight they’ll never get to finish. The ones who either dine at Valhalla or will never be at peace after failing. 

A woman with black hair flew as she fought- with more ease than the others that were in spirit form. It was safe to assume that this was her quirk. The other that sent momentary shock waves through the gathering was Sir Nighteye, who waisited no time wiping out the waves of villains. 

Aizawa took notice of Y/n’s body floating in mid-air. The cost of her quirk- she had to keep note of all those she called upon. If one of the fallen are out of her sight for too long her body replicates what the dead’s went through, and she would eventually die from the injury. 

The dead soldiers ended the battle very suddenly, and, as their spirits returned to the afterlife, a large explosion of dust swallowed the crowed. 

Once they could all see, and the hectic environment calmed, Iida’s voice cut through the air. He was screaming as loud as he could, frantically running around the field of people. 

“Y/n!” He had shouted, his voice becoming horse. “Y/n!” Everyone became deathly pale and still as the horror of realization came upon them. She was gone. 

“Y/l/n?” Aizawa had shouted, starting the shove peoples shoulders to get to where she was. 

“Y/l/n now is NOT the time to play games!” He had hopefully prayed. His face fell along with his voice as he made it to where she had been floating. A scorched square of land had taken her place. 

His mind tried to go back and see the rose dead she had summoned, he looked frantically for a scorched soldiers face, but he couldn't find one. Even then it wasn’t hard to guess at what had happened.

No one near her had heard her screams, but with the noise coming from everyone in the dust storm, it would be unlikely that they would have been heard whether she screamed or not. 

He was right there. He saw her. He was less than three yards away. How did he let this happen?

He remembers looking around for a corpse of a soldier, but he wondered if, with Y/n dead, they would be able to live anyway. 

He pinched the bridge of his noes, wiping away the pools of tears from his stinging eyes. Rubbing them with his palm, his vision blurs when he looks up. Yet, even with the lines blurring, what he sees is unmistakable.

“Y/n?” He asked, seeing her figure sit on the top of her desk. 

“Calling a student by their first name,” she teased lightly, “how unprofessional,”

“Are you...” he stopped and starred at her, “Are you really here? Is this a part of your quirk?” 

“C’mon Eraserhead, like I would know. If you’re right then you’re right. If you’re wrong then I’m just a fixation of your brain and I wouldn’t know it,” She tried to reason, hopping off of her desk. 

“Damn... you’re right. I’m going batshit crazy,” he sighed, closing his eyes again.

“So,” Y/n smirked, walking up to his desk and bending over, placing her hands on her locked knees, “Wanna talk about why you’re fantasizing about your dead, female, super fucking hot, student?”

He groaned out annoyed and clawed at his eyes, “Why the fuck is that happening? I hate that, I hate this, cut this shit out!” He shouted, pushing his hand into his covered corneas. 

“What shit out?” Hizashi asked, stepping into his classroom.

“Nothing Mic, just overthinking,” he responded, slamming his eyes open looking for his student. 

“Alright Shouta, just remember that I’m across the hall if you ever need to talk,” 

Sighing once he noticed Y/n had vanished, he wondered if this was confirmation that he was hallucinating. Needless to say, Y/n definitely responded to her situation exactly how he would expect her to when she figured out her action’s had no consequence- like a little shit who needs to be put into detention. 

God, even thinking that last sentence made Aizawa feel dirty. He’ll definitely need to scrub his skin red after that. 

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Breakfasts in the mornings have changed a lot since school opened back up. Y/n was always made a plate of food and a drink every morning, it varied in who made it every couple days. No one vocalized what the food at her usual spot on the couch meant, but it was an unspoken rule that it would stay undisturbed. 

No one was entirely sure who cleaned it up when they were in class. They were pretty sure it wasn’t Iida, the seat was clear even when he was in class with them. 

Everyone missed her voice in the mornings. Whether she was complaining about late nights (to which Denki or Mina would yell get some in her direction after) or she was cracking jokes to help wake everyone up, her voice still rung in the air leaving a hole of silence where it once was. 

People’s sentences often drifted off half way through as their eyes caught themselves on her corner seat, where she once curled up into half a ball as she placed her plate of breakfast on top of a throw pillow. 

As people would shuffle off to class, everyone would throw a look over their shoulder and give a moment of their time to the friend they would never get to see again. 

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Taking one more look at the lock-screen of a phone she couldn’t unlock, she wondered who it was on her screen. A boy with strikingly unique features had white ice cream smeared from his noes down to his lips, and a small smirk was percent on his face. Lights from a Ferris Wheel and fairy lights lit up the dark night sky behind him, and what looked like her knuckles were in front of the camera, showing their interlocked fingers. 

It was a cute photo, but it was so foreign to her it made Y/n wonder if the phone was even hers. She sighed after staring at the keypad, asking for her password. The face id had been disabled after it shut off, and all she could do was hope she would remember what is was.

“You okay?” Toga asked, placing a hand on Y/n’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she responded, taking in the forest clearing Toga had taken her off to, splitting off from the rest of the group. “What are we doing here Himiko?”

“The other members want to know how much control you still have over your quirk. They thought I would be the best person for you t be around when we do this,” She explained, a soft smile on her face as she explained. 

“Huh,” Y/n had a few thoughts running around in her mind, “Shigiraki didn’t want you to tell me did he?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” She teased, a wide smile on her face.

“I dunno... it felt like someone whispered it in my ear, if that makes sense?” 

“Who knows, that could be one of the parts of your quirk,”

“What exactly is my quirk?” She asked, glaring at one of the birds near them who had grown to be too loud. 

“It’s kinda hard to explain. The easiest way that I know how to explain it is that you’ve got a strong connection to the dead. You can talk to them, visit them I think, and most importantly you can summon them to fight for you,”

“Fight for me?” Y/n echoed. She wasn’t quiet sure why, but that phrasing felt weird... it almost felt off... 

“Yup!” Himiko cheered, bouncing slightly. 

“Alright,” Y/n sighed, shaking her arms, “Let’s give this shit a try,” she declared, moving her arms slowly from beneath her hips, struggling to get them above her waist.

In front of her, a muddy figure rose from the ground, it’s shoulders cracking as it took a deep breath of clean, fresh, air.