#literally and figurative and metaphorically

[philmonjohn]

A Call to the Children of the Global South: The System That Made My Father Disown Me

I didn’t write this living testimony for virality. I wrote it because silence almost killed me. Because truth, even when ignored by algorithms, remembers how to survive. If this resonated with you — even quietly — share it with someone else who’s still trying to name their Fracture. That’s how we outlive the system. - Philmon John, May 2025

THE FRACTURE Several months ago, when I, a South-Asian American man, turned 35, my father disowned me.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t cry. He simply stopped calling me his son.

My father is a Brown, MAGA-aligned conservative Christian pastor, born in Kerala, India, and now living in the United States. His rejection wasn’t provoked by any breach of trust or familial responsibility, but by my coming out as queer and bisexual — and by my deliberate move away from a version of Christianity shaped more by colonial rule than compassion.

I became blasphemy made flesh.

My mother and sister, equally immersed in religious conservatism, followed suit. Most of my extended family — conservative Indian Christians — responded with quiet complicity. I became an exile in my own lineage, cast out from a network that once celebrated me as the Mootha Makkan, the Malayalam term for “eldest son”.

This break didn’t occur in isolation. It was the culmination of years of internal questioning and ideological transformation.

I was raised with warmth and structure, but also under the weight of rigid theology. My parents cycled through different churches in pursuit of doctrinal purity. In that environment, my queerness had no safe harbor. It had to be hidden, managed, controlled — forced into secrecy.

Literal, cherry-popping closets.

Even my childhood discipline was carved straight from scripture — “spare the rod, spoil the child” was not metaphor but mandate. I was hit for defiance, for curiosity, for emotional honesty. Control was synonymous with love. The theology: obedience over empathy. Is it sad I would rather now have had a beating from my father, than his silence?

I would’ve taken the rod — at least it acknowledged me.

Instead, Daddy looks through me.

THE INHERITANCE And I obeyed. For a time, I rose through the ranks of the church. I led worship. I played guitar in the worship band. I wasn’t just a believer — I was a builder of belief, a conductor of chorus, a jester of jubilee and Sunday morning joy — all while masking a private ache I could not yet articulate.

In the last five years, I began methodically deconstructing the ideological scaffolding I had inherited. I examined the mechanisms of theology, patriarchy, and colonial imposition — and the specific burdens placed upon firstborn sons of immigrant families. Who defines our roles? Who benefits from our silence? Why is this happening to me?

These questions consistently pointed toward the dominant global structure: wealthy white patriarchal supremacy. Rooted in European imperialism and sustained by centuries of religious and cultural colonization, this system fractures not only societies but the deeply intimate architecture of family.

What my family experienced is not unlike what the United States of America continues to experience — a slow, painful reckoning with a foundational ideology of white, heteronormative, Christian patriarchal dominance.

My family comes from Kerala, home to one of the oldest Christian communities in the world. But the Christianity I inherited was not indigenous. It was filtered through the moral codes of Portuguese priests and British missionaries and the discipline of Victorian culture. Christ was not presented as a radical Middle Eastern teacher but as a sanitized figure — pale, passive, and Western.

In this theology, Christ is symbolic. Paul is the system. Doctrine exists to reinforce patriarchy, to police desire, to ensure control. When I embraced a theology rooted in love, empathy, and justice — the ethics I believe Jesus actually lived — I was met not with discussion, but dismissal.

To my family, my identity wasn’t authenticity. It was apostasy.

THE RECKONING In 2020, the ground shifted.

I turned the triple decade — 30 — as the COVID-19 pandemic erupted.

Remote work slowed life down, and I had space to think deeply.

That year, the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and countless others triggered a national and personal reckoning.

I turned to K-LOVE, the Christian radio station I grew up with, hoping to hear words of solidarity, truth, or even mourning. Instead, there was silence. No mention of racial justice. No prayers for the dead. Just songs about personal salvation, void of historical context or social responsibility.

As Geraldine Heng argues in The Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages, race was not merely a modern invention void of scientific basis — it was already taking shape in medieval Europe, where Christianity was used to sanctify, encode, and sell racial hierarchies as divine order and social technology.

As Ademọ́la, also known as Ogbeni Demola, once said: “The white man built his heaven on your land and pointed yours to the sky.” That brain-powered perceptive clarity — distilled in a single line — stays with me every day.

With professional routines interrupted and spiritual ties frayed, I immersed myself in scholarship. I entered what I now see as a period of epistemic reconstruction. I read widely — revolutionaries, poets, sociologists, historians, mathematicians, theologians, cultural critics, and the unflinching truth-tellers who name what empire tries to erase.

I first turned to the voices who now live only in memory: Bhagat Singh, James Baldwin, Frantz Fanon, bell hooks, Octavia Butler, Gloria Anzaldúa, and Vine Deloria Jr. Each carried the weight of revolution, tenderness, and truth — from anti-colonial struggle to queer theory to Indigenous reclamation.

I then reached for the veteran thought leaders still shaping the world, starting with Noam Chomsky, Naomi Klein, Shashi Tharoor, Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, Susan Visvanathan, Geraldine Heng, George Gheverghese Joseph, J. Sakai, Vijay Prashad, Vilna Bashi Treitler, Claire Jean Kim, and Arundhati Roy — voices who dismantle the illusions of empire through history, mathematics, linguistics, and racial theory.

In the present, I absorbed insights from a new generation of public intellectuals and cultural critics: Ta-Nehisi Coates, Jared Yates Sexton, Cathy Park Hong, Ibram X. Kendi, Nikole Hannah-Jones, Heather McGhee, Mehdi Hasan, Adrienne Keene, Keri Leigh Merritt, Vincent Bevins, Sarah Kendzior, Ayesha A. Siddiqi, Wajahat Ali, W. Kamau Bell, Mary Trump, & John Oliver. Together, they form a constellation of clarity — thinkers who gave me language for grief, strategy for resistance, and above all, a framework for empathy rooted in history, not abstraction.

I also turned to the thinkers shaping today’s cultural and political discourse. I dreamt of the world blueprinted by Bhaskar Sunkara in his revolutionary The Socialist Manifesto and plunged into Jacobin’s blistering critiques of capitalism. The Atlantic’s longform journalism kept me tethered to a truth-seeking tradition. The Guardian stood out for its global scale and reach, offering progressive, longform storytelling that speaks to both local injustices and systemic inequalities across the world. And Roman Krznaric’s Empathy: Why It Matters, and How to Get It helped crystallize my core belief:

Be a good human. Practice empathy.

That’s the playbook, America. Practice empathy. Do that — and teach accurate, critically reflective history — and we have the chance to truly become the greatest democracy the world has ever seen.

And this empathy must extend to all — especially to trans people. In India, the Hijra community — trans and intersex folk who have existed visibly for thousands of years — embody a sacred third gender long before the West had language for it. But they are not alone. Across the colonized world, the empire erased a sacred third space: the Muxe of Zapotec culture, the Bakla of the Philippines, the Fa’afafine of Samoa, the Two-Spirit nations of Turtle Island, the Māhū of Hawaiʻi, the Sworn Virgins of the Balkans — each of these communities held space outside Western gender binaries, rooted in care, ceremony, and spirit. Some align with what we today call trans or intersex, while others exist entirely outside Western definitions. Colonization reframed them as deviants.

And still, we must remember this: trans people are not new. Our respect for them must be as ancient as their existence.

THE RESISTANCE As I examined the dynamics of coloniality, racial capitalism, and Western empire, I realized just how deeply imperial power had shaped my family, our values, and our spiritual language. The empire didn’t just occupy land — it rewrote moral codes. It restructured the family.

I learned how Irish, Italian, Greek, Hungarian, and Albanian immigrants were initially excluded from whiteness in America. Over time, many adopted and embraced whiteness as strategic economic and social protection — and in doing so, embraced anti-Blackness and patriarchal hierarchies to maintain their newfound status. Today, many European-hyphenated Americans defend systems that once excluded them.

And over time, some Asian-Americans have followed the very same racial template.

At 33 — the age Jesus is believed to have died — I laid my childhood faith to rest. In its place rose something rooted in clarity, not doctrine.

I didn’t walk away from religion into cynicism or nihilism. I stepped into a humanist, justice-centered worldview. A system grounded in reason, evidence, and above all, empathy. A belief in people over dogma. In community over conformity.

I didn’t lose faith. I redefined it.

I left the pasture of institutional faith, not for chaos, but for an ethical wilderness — a space lacking divine command but filled with moral clarity. A place built on personal responsibility and universal dignity.

This is where I stand today.

To those with similar histories: if your roots trace back to Africa, South Asia, Southeast Asia, Central Asia, East Asia, the Middle East, Latin America, the Caribbean, Oceania, or to Indigenous and marginalized communities within the Global North — you are a Child of the Global South. Even in the Global North, your experience carries the weight of displaced geography, the quiet grief of colonial trauma, and a genealogy forged by the system of empire. Your pain is political. Your silence is inherited. You are not invisible. They buried you without a funeral. They mourned not your death, but your deviation from design. However, we are not dead. We are just no longer theirs.

White supremacy endures by fracturing us. It manufactures tensions between communities of color by design — placing Asian businesses in Black communities without infrastructure and opportunities for BIPOC folk to share and benefit from the economic engine. Central to this strategy is the model minority myth, crafted during the Cold War to present Asian-Americans as obedient, self-reliant, and successful — not to celebrate them, but to invalidate Black resistance and justify structural racism. It’s a myth that fosters anti-Blackness in Asian communities and xenophobia in Black ones, while shielding white supremacy from critique. These divisions are not cultural accidents; they’re colonial blueprints.

And these blueprints stretch across oceans and continents and time.

In colonial South Africa, Mohandas Gandhi — still shaped by British racial hierarchies — distanced Indians from Black Africans, calling them “kaffirs” and demanding separate facilities. In Uganda, the British installed South Asians as a merchant middle class between colonizers and native Africans, breeding distrust. When Idi Amin expelled 80,000 Asians in 1972, it was a violent backlash to a racial hierarchy seeded by empire. These fractures — between Black and Asian, colonized and sub-colonized — are the legacy of white patriarchal supremacy.

Divide, distract, and dominate.

We must resist being weaponized against each other.

Every Asian-American must read Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong. Every high schooler in America must read and discuss Jared Yates Sexton.

Study the systems. Name them. Disarm them.

Because unless we become and remain united, the status quo — one that serves wealthy cisgender, heterosexual, white Christian men — will remain intact.

This is A Call to the Children of the Global South. And An Invitation to the Children of the Global North: Stop the infighting. Study and interrogate the systems. Reject the design.

To those in media, publishing, and the arts: postcolonial narratives are not cultural sidebars. They are central to national healing. They preserve memory, restore dignity, and confront whitewashed histories.

If you want work that matters — support art that pushes past trauma into structural critique.

Greenlight truth. Platform memory. Choose courage over comfort.

Postcolonial stories should be the norm — not niche art.

Jordan Peele’s Get Out was a cinematic breakthrough — razor-sharp and genre-defying — in its exposure of white supremacy’s quiet machinery: liberal smiles, performative allyship, and the pacification of dissent through assimilation. The Sunken Place is not just a metaphor for silenced Black consciousness — it’s the empire’s preferred position for the marginalized: visible, exploited, but unheard.

A system that offers the illusion of inclusion, weaponizing identity as control.

Ken Levine’s BioShock Infinite exposed white supremacy through a dystopian, fictional but historically grounded lens - depicting the religious justification of Black enslavement, Indigenous erasure, and genocidal nationalism in a floating, evangelical empire.

David Simon’s The Wire exposed the institutional decay of law enforcement, education, and the legal system - revealing how systemic failure, not individual morality, drives urban collapse.

Jesse Armstrong’s Succession traced the architecture of empire through family - showing how media empires weaponize racism, propaganda, and manufactured outrage to generate profit and secure generational wealth.

Ava DuVernay's Origin unearths caste and race as twin blueprints of white supremacy - linking Dalit oppression in India to the subjugation of Black Americans. Adapted from Isabel Wilkerson's Caste, it dismantles the myth of isolated injustice, revealing a global system meticulously engineered to rank human worth - and the radical act of naming the system.

Ryan Coogler’s Sinners — a revelatory, critically and commercially successful film about Afro-Asian resistance in 1930s Mississippi — exposes the hunger for speculative narratives grounded in historical truth.

Across the Spider-Verse gave us Pavitr Prabhakar - a Brown superhero who wasn't nerdy or celibate, as Western media typically portrayed the South-Asian man, but cool, smart, athletic, with great hair, in love, and proudly anti-colonial. He called out the British for stealing and keeping Indian artifacts… in a Spider-Man movie. That moment was history reclaimed.

A glitch in the wealthy white patriarchal matrix.

Dev Patel’s Monkey Man is a visceral fable of vengeance and resistance, where the brutality of caste, corruption, and religious nationalism collide. Amid this chaos, the film uplifts the Hijra community who stand not only as victims, but as warriors against systemic violence. Their alliance reframes queerness not as deviance, but as defiance — ultimately confronting the machinery of empire with what it fears most: a system-breaking empathy it cannot contain.

The vitriolic backlash from white male gamers and fandoms isn’t about quality — it’s about losing default status in stories. Everyone else has had to empathize with majority white male protagonists for decades. Diverse representation in media isn’t a threat to art — it’s a threat to white supremacy. It’s not just a mirror held up to the globe — it’s a refusal to let one worldview define it.

Hollywood, gaming studios, and the gatekeepers of entertainment — if you want to reclaim artistic integrity and still make money doing it, we need art that remembers, resists, and reclaims — stories that name the machine and short-circuit its lies. The world is ready. So am I.

Today, efforts like Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation, and the Federalist Society are not merely policy shops — they are ideological engines: built to roll back civil rights, impose authoritarian values, and erase uncomfortable truths. They represent a hyper-concentrated form of white supremacy, rooted in unresolved Civil War grievances and the failures of Reconstruction.

Miraculously, or perhaps, blessed with intellectual curiosity and natural empathy, through all of this, my wife — a compassionate, steadfast partner and a Christian woman — has remained by my side. She has witnessed my transformation with both love and complexity. While our bond is rooted in deep respect and shared values, our spiritual landscapes have diverged. Her faith brings her solace; mine has evolved into something more secular, grounded in justice and humanism. We’ve navigated that tension with care — proof that love can stretch across differing beliefs, even as the echoes of religious conditioning still ripple through our lives.

I am proud of her increasing intellectual curiosity and her willingness to accept me for who I am now, even if I wasn’t ready to accept myself when we met.

But our marriage has defied the splintering that white supremacy specifically creates: hyper-capitalist, hyper-individualistic, fractured families and societies.

As Children of the Global South — descendants of peoples who survived enslavement, colonization, and erasure — we carry within us the urgent need for stories that do not turn away from history, but confront it with unflinching truth.

In the pain of losing my family, I found a deeper purpose: to tell this story — and my own — any way I can. A sudden rush of empathy, pity, and love struck me: My parents’ and sister’s rejection was not theirs alone — it was a lingering Fracture left by colonization and global exploitation, tearing apart families across generations. As Children of the Global South, we still carry those wounds.

Make no mistake: white supremacy leaves wounds — because it is the system. And unless it is dismantled, both the Global South and North — and their collective Children — will remain trapped in a dance choreographed by empire — built to divide, exploit, and erase. Any vision of democracy, in America, will remain a fragile illusion — if not an outright mythology — built on a conceptually false foundation: white supremacy itself.

A cruel, heartbreaking legacy of erasure — passed down through empire — indoctrinating God-fearing Brown fathers to erase their godless, queer Brown sons. Preaching shame as scripture. Teaching silence as survival.

I reject that inheritance.

Empathy as praxis is how we reject that inheritance. In a world engineered to divide, it rebuilds connection, disarms supremacy, and charts a path forward. If humanity is to survive — let alone heal — empathy must become our collective discipline.

And perhaps what cut even deeper for my father — beyond my queerness — was that I no longer validated his role as a pastor. In stepping away from the faith he had built his life upon, I wasn’t just rejecting a belief system. I was, in his eyes, nullifying his life’s work. For a man shaped by empire, ordained by colonial Christianity, and burdened with the role of moral gatekeeper, my departure from his manufactured worldview may have landed as personal failure. But it wasn’t. It was never about wanting to hurt him. I love my father. I love my mother. I love my sister. It was never about them — it was about the system that taught them love was conditional, acceptance required obedience, and dissent unforgivable. That kind of pain is real — but its source is systemic. I still want to be Mootha Makkan — not by obedience, but by truth. By love without condition. Not through erasure, but by living fully in the open. Not in their image, but in mine.

Yet, and yes, I also carry the wound — but I also carry the will to heal it.

THE CALL I believe in empathy. I believe in memory. I believe the Children of the Global South are not broken. We are not rejected. We are awakening.

Children of the Global North: join us. We are not your enemies. We are your present and future collaborators, business & creative partners, lovers, and kin. We are building something new — something ancient yet reawakened, a pursuit of empathy, and a reckoning with history that refuses to forget.

If this story resonated with you, kindly share it, spread the word and please comment. I’d love to hear from you. Your voice, your memory, your Fracture — it matters here.

You are not alone. All are welcome.

Thank you so, so much for your time in reading my story.

You can also email me directly: vinesvenus at protonmail.com I'll be writing more on Medium as well: https://medium.com/@vinesvenus/a-call-to-the-children-of-the-global-south-the-system-that-made-my-father-disown-me-fecad6c0b862

[regretismyconstantcompanion]

Aberforth watched Harry down the drink like it was medicine he hated but knew he needed. He didn’t interrupt—just leaned an elbow on the bar and let the younger man speak, his own weathered face unreadable under the lantern’s glow. Only when Harry finally trailed off did Aberforth straighten, the wood beneath his palm creaking slightly with the movement.

“You’re not the only one who didn’t know what to do when the fight ended.” His voice was quieter now. Not soft exactly, but lower, like it had dropped into something deeper—an admission he hadn’t made in years.

“I remember the day Gellert won. Or rather, the day Albus lost.” His gaze grew distant, jaw tight. “The world didn’t end. It just… shifted. Slid into a darker place, like a wagon losing its wheels but still dragging on. And I kept going, same as always. Served drinks. Kept my head down. Watched people adapt. Forget. Pretend.” He let out a breath through his nose, something like a laugh with all the joy wrung out of it.

“Turns out we don’t know what to do without a war either. Whether we win or lose.” He looked back to Harry then, more directly. “You think you’re broken because peace doesn’t fit right? You’re not. You’re just someone who’s spent so long surviving, you never figured out how to live. Same as him.” Aberforth’s eyes narrowed as Harry stood, the card still clutched like a lifeline. He didn’t stop him right away—just let the weight of the silence hang between them. But as Harry moved to go, hand brushing the doorframe, Aberforth finally spoke again—low, and harder than before.

“You need to be careful, lad. This world—it’s not just darker than yours. It’s dangerous in ways you clearly don’t understand.” Aberforth stepped out from behind the bar. His movements weren’t threatening, but there was a certain weight to his presence now. A warning, quiet and grounded in grief and survival.

“You keep saying you want to speak to him. That you want to help him. But what you don’t get is that Albus isn’t just in hiding. He’s in exile. Not self-imposed, not entirely. He’s been cast out by the Ministry, by the wizarding world, and for good reason—their reason, anyway.” He paused, jaw working as if the words tasted foul.

“They didn’t just strip him of titles or ignore him. They made it law. Albus Dumbledore is forbidden to interfere. Forbidden to lead. He so much as sets foot near London, and they’ll lock him in Nurmengard—or worse. He’s a relic they fear. And Grindelwald? He made sure of that. He didn’t just win the duel, Potter. He won the world. Quietly. Cunningly. A wizarding government that looks like peace but smells like chains.” Aberforths voice dropped lower still.

“You so much as start poking that fire again, you could bring the whole weight of Grindelwald’s regime down on your head—and his. They’re watching, even if you can’t see them. And they’ll crush anything that looks like resistance before it even knows it’s begun.” He stepped closer, gaze fixed and sharp now.

“I’m telling you this not to scare you, but because if you’re going to charge into that cottage like a Gryffindor on fire, you’d better know that it could kill him. Not just metaphorically. Not just in the heart. Literally.” Aberforth let out a breath, slower this time, and something softer flickered in his tone.

“But if you still think you’ve got something to offer him—something worth the risk—then go. Just… do it with your eyes open. Because the man in that house isn’t waiting to be saved. He’s waiting for the world to forget he ever existed.” He nodded toward the door, not unkindly, but with grim finality.

“And if you disturb that silence, Harry… there’s no putting it back.”

Albus Dumbledore was sitting on the couch, staring into the fireplace that was across from him. The crackling of the flames was the only sound breaking the silence in the cottage that was nestled in the Scottish Highlands. It was isolated, miles away from even the nearest village. He had chosen it for that very reason, desperate for solitude even if it wasn't something that had been forced upon him. He had lost the duel against Grindelwald. He had known that had always been a possibility. There were equals after all and had known each other painfully well. They had spent that summer duelling, friendly but pushing each others boundaries. They had grown and changed and become more powerful but their tendencies had lingered. The fight had lasted well over an hour but in the end, Gellert had just gotten the better of him and managed to disarm him and send him flying backwards. His only minor consolation was the fight had left them both panting and injured. But it had been clear who the winner was. There was no backing out of the agreement they had made. His time in Nurmengard had been brief. A chance to recover from the duel before Gellert gave him an ultimatum. He could remain free if he agreed to leave Hogwarts and retreat from the Wizarding World. Albus had already known he would leave the school, for certainly he had lost that right when he had failed his students and the Wizarding World as a whole. He had agreed, knowing Gellert wasn't giving him a choice and not agreeing would result in either his death or being imprisoned in Nurmengard forever or the deaths of those he cared about. And so here he was, over a year after the duel. Staring into the fire, sitting beside a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Books had been removed from the overflowing bookshelves, scattered around the room. Some had been read, some he hadn't even yet opened. Plain parchment piled up on the desk. Few knew where he was and so letters came rarely. He had picked some of the fruit and vegetables he grew in a small garden he tended to. Perhaps he would make some jams and chutneys if he could find the strength and motivation. It came sometimes, mixed in with the heavy weight of despair that seemed to fill his waking hours. He had failed. He had let down the wizarding world and now he banished just beyond the world he loved so much. He knew what was happening there, of course. He did his best to learn of Gellerts ongoing plans and rise to power. Without him there, there was nothing to stop him. He knew the few Ministries that still existed moved against him but it wouldn't take much for them to fall. Everything would be lost then and Albus knew he was powerless to stop it. @johamfated

[eddiewasinthearmy]

so many beautiful baking posts on my dash, I just have to write a follow up to my long ass baking meta .... the only real baking updates we have gotten are in 8x13 and 8x16 but lets start with the chicken and rice casserole

so in my last post to summarize, basically in 8x07 you see that buck is kind of baking everything. sweet, savoury, meals, treats. and also he doesn't know what pond to jump back into. but by the end of 8x08 it seems like he is sticking to baked goods, and specifically is delivering them to eddie. so kind of I think the variation is a loose bisexuality metaphor, and baked goods are men/eddie. but interestingly, in this scene, buck is baking a meal again. and specifically I want to draw attention to the cook book here

you quite literally dump everything into one dish and wait while the oven does the rest. (waiting is the hardest part!)

and then you have the added aspect of how, in this scene, eddie is describing a slow cooker meal that is 7.5 hours done but is supposed to take 8 hours to cook. which I know several people have pointed out they think is a buddie canon metaphor. so we have buck baking something (a meal) that we only used to see him bake when he was figuring things out about moving on from tommy, in a scene where eddie suggests metaphorically that he might be starting to figure things out soon as well... mind you this is all with the back drop of them literally being on a cooking dinner together facetime date. :)

then the second facetime scene in this episode. which literally several baking things worth pointing out here... firstly lets all remember that the last time buck was baking before this was in 8x11, when he was baking banana bread for jee-yun (who is the placeholder special person for buck, per 8x07). and this facetime scene opens not only with a call back to that scene via eddie having a picture of buck baking in that scene as his screensaver but also he is propping his phone up on a bowl of fruit/bananas. and lets all remember thats the in love with eddie? 🙂 scene. okay. okayyyyy. not to mention right beside buck there is also packages of muffins and some other treat (donut holes I think? but unclear). so in the first scene eddie is about to figure things out, and in the next scene we get several call backs to the closest buck has been to figuring out/admitting his feelings for eddie. right. and then also in this scene buck is asking eddie if he knows hen's favorite pie. its once again buck baking as an expression of love. and specifically hes asking eddie, who we know buck thinks is awesome and all knowing. but I think the really interesting part is that he never ends up making a pie for hen. instead, he does indefinite yard work for her. so once again, the baking at this point stays between eddie and buck (and jee, who is an eddie place holder)

finally, the 8x16 scene. eddie is indulging in another buck baked good. he doesnt even know what it is, just buck making it was enough for him :) and just walks in there and takes the baking, that was waiting for him in the kitchen. and notably, he asks ravi if he wants some, and ravi says no. so thats maddie, chim, ravi, and maybe hen who have all rejected his baking in some way. eddie and jee-yun are the only ones who indulge in it, and jee-yun is supposed to be an eddie placeholder and also is like 4 years old. the baking is an explicit expression of buck and eddie's feelings for each other which makes me want to cry. buck's baking is filled with love for eddie. and eddie accepts and cherishes it every time buck gives it to him. and its something thats just for them.

anyway. buck and eddie baking together soon I hope...

[theofficialuriel]

orvies when they remember that the reason Dokja hated Kim Namwoon sm was because he was the character Dokja could see the most of himself in and he couldn’t understand why Jonghyuk kept taking Namwoon in in every regression

[awetfrog]

tbh "Leave" is the funniest dialogue option in most situations

[transpanda-1]

🎀Hi! We took a lil second to figure this out, cause it turns out plurality is super duper everywhere!! But it’s hard to narrow it down or to find it be overt AND positive at the same time! But here’s some examples from a super duper cutie (me!)

Sakura Wars V remains to be probably the most positive depiction in a video game we’ve seen, featuring the boxart love interest have her resolution be “yes, I am happier not being alone by being plural, I love my alter sister”

Ace Attorney Spirit of Justice (turnabout storyteller specifically) features the best bait and switch plural character in media. They’re set up as a possible suspect to intentionally set the player up to be smacked across the face that thinking like that is highly presumptuous and rude, and that they’re a good person who couldnt hurt a fly (also rest of AA honestly)

Birdy the Mighty (BUT SPECIFICALLY THE OVA) is FANTASTIC sci fi plurality of a space officer accidentally fatally wounding an earth human, and needing to fuse with him body and mind to save his life. The OVA treats it as something they’ll just have to live with from now on.

Immortal Hulk is the most “hey Bruce Banner is plural right.” Story there is, but fair warning it does have a fair bit of body horror + gore. But we’ve heard consistently good things

The Glass Scientists is a very lovely Jekyll & Hyde reinterpretation that is ourselves taught the author what OSDD is, both alters are not “evil” but just not great at coping

Celeste!!! We’re literally wearing a shirt of the game of Madeleine and Badeleine right now omg. It’s honestly more a plural game than trans one!

The Owl House! Eda Clawthorne’s relationship with her owl curse is obv a general metaphor, but because the owl is sentient it’s also pretty plural!

YUGIOH like omg so many Yugioh’s are soooo plural apparently one main character named Yuya’s manga version is one of six alters! OG Yugioh ends with separating bodies trope (bleh) but still good!

Apparently Warframe 1997 has a SUPER good sideplot on a character grappling with their plurality? Which is a sentient guitar? It’s sick! (/pos)

A friend recommended Xenoblade Chronicles 2 but we’re a bit unsure about that cause they separate at the end ;^^

But, seriously, we think it’s important to recognize that plurality is EVERYWHERE in stories. If you want more that feature them but not necessarily well, an off the head list is(and this takes sharing a body in general into account): Resident Evil, Dungeon Meshi, Dangan Ronpa, Ranma 1/2 (where I’m from!), Trigun (I heard the plurality there is good actually?), Inside Mari, Cyberpunk 2077, One Piece, Naruto, Bleach, From Bureaucrat to Villainess, OK KO, Steven Universe, Amphibia, Dead End Paranormal Park, My Little Pony(in some eps), Murder Drones, Homestuck, like every Batman series (two face the ventriloquist etc), Venom, Ai The Somnium Files, Mage and Demon Queen, Xenosaga, I’m in Love With the Villainess, Skullgirls, Tadahiro Ore Wa Heroine Toshite, Bobobo-Bo Bo-bobo, Uta-No Prince Sama Shining Live, Project Sekai, Dumbing of Age, El Goonish Shive, The Wotch, Teen Titans (that Raven episode), Dragon Ball, Kamen Rider W, Paper Mario (Mr. L), Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure, Moon Knight, Pseudo Harem, Persona, The One Within the Villainess, I Can't Choose a Childhood Friend!, ENA, When I Was Reincarnated in Another World I Was a Heroine and He Was a Hero, Toy Story, Ratatouille, Ducktales (2019), Silent Hill 3, Devil May Cry V, Darkstalkers (Morrigan Lilith), Street Fighter (M. Bison was in not Lisa Lisa for awhile??), Indivisible, Fate Grand Order (Saber + Alter Saber??), All Saints Street (only the show), Mob100, Hunter x Hunter, NU: Carnival (REALLY HORNY but surprisingly positive on plurality), Omori, Full Metal Alchemist, Chainsaw Man, Dandadan, Professor Layton (Alfendi and… Prof Potty…), Jeritza from fire emblem, Crazy Jane from Doom Patrol, Alice from Bakugan, Ensemble Stars Shu Itsuki, Disco Elysium, Doctor Who, Kaguya Sama Love is War, Guilty Gear, AND MORE DUMMY STUFF WE DIDNT LIST

Did I make this list unnecessarily long as a joke? Yes dummyyyyyy!!! Ehehehe!

it always annoyed me that the Naminé and Kairi merge happened off screen in kh2 (since when they meet again after Xemnas boss fight pt 1 Naminé is ghostly like Roxas) bc honestly why did she and Kairi have to merge in the first place? I remember Nami did that weird fuzzy/fading out thing while they were escaping in tctnw but what actual impact is there on the two of them when they weren't merged as one person? like this situation has not really been detrimental to kairi in anyway (aside from her forgetting sora but that's unrelated to her and nami being split)

like nami's explanation to Roxas earlier in the game is that "you hold half of what he is" and I understand the memories part. because of Naminé's memory powers they went to Xion through Roxas. but if Sora had just never gone to CO would there even have been a problem with a Nobody and Somebody existing at the same time?

adding to my list of reasons why its a good thing RNX came back in 3 bc kh2 did not do a good job of explaining the whole situation

[brbarou]

you never forget a friend like him

[catboygirljoker]

thinking to myself "hmm i have this idea for a plot beat in my fic, but it'll be a challenge to communicate this subtle emotional reality through character interactions and internal monologue" and then stopping and going "wait. im writing a kingdom hearts fic. i can just make it literal and turn it into a fight scene or Lore or something"

[enigmaticexplorer]

I was giggling and kicking my feet when I first wrote the beginning of this chapter 😂 "Each morning started with a kiss" made me so happy; so much so that I would reread it on occasion haha. But on a deeper level, it was important to me to portray their relationship with these slow steps: kisses, making out. There seems to be an increasing expectation in relationships that the moment you commit, you have to completely give yourself to the physical. And, as someone who has to take those slow steps first, I wanted that to be shown.

But this was actually beautiful, because it could have been a huge issue. It was almost a huge issue. But Wolffe didn't ALLOW it to be.

And that was the entire point of the scene! To show how much Kazi can overthink a situation, but then balance it with Wolffe's "I'm not going to accept that shit" personality. It's such an important moment in their relationship: Kazi is outright told that she's overreacting (which needed to hear from someone she respects and trusts, without being humiliated or demeaned for it); and Wolffe gets a glimpse into her. That glimpse is everything, because he knows she overthinks, but he hadn't realized the depth that it could go. So he's figuring more about her. And vice versa, Kazi's learning more about him - this is the way he shows his love, and he likes doing that, and even if it makes her uncomfortable, she has to get over it.

I think firm Wolffe does something for me. I can't think of the word I want to describe him. He's not mean. He's not aggressive. He's not domineering. He is just firm with her. Firm about this. And he's not going to budge about it.

This is literally my favorite characteristic about Wolffe in this fic. It's a fine line between being respectfully firm without crossing boundaries into controlling territory. Wolffe respects Kazi; but he also won't accept this type of treatment - the type of treatment that disrespects his actions. He understands Kazi's hesitance and control issues, but he's not going to let those dictate their relationship. I don't know if that makes sense...it's just how I like Wolffe. Respectful but firm in his beliefs and how he wants to be treated.

Oh dang!! And to know she would have if no one else had been there? That was a good sign of things to come!!

Yes! I think it's been a month since they first established their relationship (I can't remember the exact passing of time), but Wolffe is ready for that next step in their physical relationship. He's been ready for a long time. But he's not going to pressure Kazi. And the comment is so simple, and maybe to some readers it's meaningless, but for me it shows Wolffe letting Kazi know that he's ready whenever she is - but that there still isn't pressure. He'd like to get to that point; but he's more than willing to wait, too. And the comment shows Wolffe initiating, which is important, because Kazi wouldn't do that. She would overthink it, so much so that she'd back out. So this is Wolffe reminding her that he's here and ready when she is. (I like to think he'd make comments like that often enough just to remind her, but not too much that it would seem like he's only interested in fucking her.)

It was so sweet when he unbraided her hair. Such a small thing, but it showed how comfortable they both are getting with each other.

It's a symbolic moment, too, because Kazi wears her braids as a defense mechanism. In the earlier chapters, it had mentioned that they were used to give off the portrayal of control and competence. With Wolffe unravelling her braids, he's metaphorically taking down her walls, letting her be her true self with him, letting her know that he sees past the competence and control issues and sees her for her. And then it's balanced with Wolffe admitting he wants to be needed. He shows himself through his actions, such as earlier that morning with breakfast. Admitting he wants to be needed is his vulnerability; and it's a BIG vulnerability. He's letting Kazi know that even though he may come across as confident and self-assured in himself, he still has his own doubts about his worth. He's a clone; he's believed his entire life he was nothing more than just a clone; so to want to be needed by someone tells him that he's more than a clone.

because early on, before my husband and I were actually dating, back when we were just hanging out in a grouup...my friend came up with some lame excuse to take his picture. He said after we were together that he knew she was doing it for me.

This is so cute! It genuinely made me smile!

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter XIX

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 5.8K

A Like without a Reblog will result in an automatic block.

19 Relona

Each morning started with a kiss. 

Some mornings—when Kazi saw Wolffe for the first time in the kitchen—the kisses were chaste. A soft peck to her cheek or temple.

Other mornings—when she joined Wolffe on his runs, or he joined her swims—the kisses were…more.

The gray of nautical twilight, and the silence of the quiescent jungle, offered them privacy.

Her back pressed to an elder tree as Wolffe mouthed on her neck. Held her face in his hands. Ran his palms beneath her shirt and touched her skin, his thumbs caressing the underside of her breasts. 

Wolffe was a haven, his body aligned to hers as she sought him. Skimmed her hands along the planes of his back, traced the tattoos of his left arm, licked his neck and kissed behind his ear. He held her so tightly she thought he’d never let her go. 

Intentionality dominated their friendship.

Evenings were spent as a group, the men’s rescue missions rarer since the Senate’s clone-decommissioning bill: board games, lake swims, starry hikes, holofilms Neyti picked. 

Kazi taught Cody her favorite Ceaian recipes, and he lent her his favorite book: techniques of the galaxy’s most famous painters. Some mornings, when she didn’t work, he explained his own paintings—the thematic coloring and symbolic styles and the reasons for certain brush strokes. It gave her an opportunity to understand Neyti better. 

Some nights, Kazi listened to Nova’s studies on war-related trauma, its effect on survivor’s guilt, recent advancements in cognitive behavioral therapy. She, in turn, helped him with his quilt. (Her stitches lacked his precision but he didn’t mind, even if she did catch him smothering a smile when she called it quits, most times, after half an hour.)

Fox was teaching her how to wood carve. However, and much to his amusement, she was abysmal. Most times, while Kazi tried to mimic his hand placement and the movement of the knife, Neyti joined them, feigning interest in Kazi’s carving. The little girl’s true motivation was obvious, though: Neyti liked to listen to Fox’s stories. 

The stories were war-based. Daring rescue missions. Intense battles. Developed comradery. Heart-breaking sacrifice. Some of the stories Kazi recognized; others were new. She was no less enthralled than Neyti.  

“I read up on every battle. Every mission,” Fox told her one night. “I had to. It was part of my job.” He gazed out the windows, took in the starlit sky. She could imagine him doing the same on Coruscant. Watching the sky. Waiting. “And I kept tabs on my brothers—made sure they were still alive. It made some days easier.”

Only after Kazi read Neyti to sleep would she and Wolffe spend time together. Alone. 

They laid a blanket outside and watched the moons rise; they went for late-night walks along the jungle’s paths; they enjoyed dessert on the back porch, illuminated by lightning bugs and a lantern; they swam in the lake, admiring the bioluminescent flora that lit the lake’s depths. 

They shared stories about their childhood, and she listened to Wolffe describe his missions throughout the war, and he listened to her sailing adventures and the caves she frequented. 

Similar to their mornings, though, they reverted to debates. Politics, historical recounts, scientific advancements, philosophical theories Kazi had no business arguing in favor of or against. 

Sometimes, at the bottom of the staircase, the hour late, they couldn’t part ways. 

“Without a central authority,” Kazi argued, “there’s risk of chaos and general inability to address large-scale problems.”

“You’re assuming the central authority would address those problems.” Wolffe rolled his eyes. “Central authorities prioritize their own interests. They don’t give a shit about the people.”

“The Jedi cared.”

“The Jedi were confined by the Senate’s decisions. And their political power was minimal. Nonexistent by the end.”

“If the Jedi had been a true central authority, would your opinion be different?”

“I…would’ve put my trust in them.” He squared his shoulders. “But only them.”

While Wolffe was intentional with their time, he was also intentional in giving Kazi space. 

On her off days, she and Daria and Neyti wandered around Hollow’s Town, neighboring towns, or the capital: toured museums, attended orchestral concerts, perused Eluca’s historical sites. 

Meanwhile, Wolffe and his brothers lived their own lives: visits to the local theater, flights to Eluca’s less-inhabited neighboring planets, outdoor recreation, cantina hopping, meetings with other deserted troopers offplanet. They even lent a hand on Fehr’s farm, on the occasion. 

Wolffe was easy to be with, a constant presence Kazi found solace in.

There was a balance, and her walls—those damn walls she relied on for so, so long—were weakening. Like, after so many years, they had reached their breaking point.

She was…happy.

And in the middle of the night, when she lay alone in her bed and couldn’t stop herself from overanalyzing, that cold voice whispered in her ear, You don’t deserve this.

(She knew this, of course.)

Remember what you did to Papa? it demanded.

(It had haunted her for seventeen years; she had never forgotten.)

But it was easier to ignore the voice, to avoid its insistent lull, when she awoke each morning to a kiss.

Four new dragon carvings stalked the shelves of the white bookcase. Varying in size and color, they seemed to eye Kazi as she descended the staircase.

The dragons were Neyti’s idea. An unspoken request one night before bed, the little girl’s own carving snuggled in her arms.

So, one afternoon, Kazi, Neyti, and Daria visited the Marketplace, tracking down a carver who studied Neyti and Daria’s drawings, offered his recommendations, and then spent three weeks creating the figurines. 

The blue-gray dragon, its spikes sharp though its face was soft, prowled alongside Kazi’s. Neyti tended to play with the dragons and reposition them, waiting for one of the adults to notice. Her toothy grin whenever she was caught never failed to make Kazi chuckle.

Smiling at the thought, Kazi reached the final step, rounding the corner. 

The smell of baking bread, spiced fruit, and something else, familiar yet unidentifiable, wafted through the air. She frowned at the scent. It tugged on a memory, like a hand reaching through the fibers of time and space, and yet she couldn’t place—

Kazi staggered to a halt. 

At the stove, Wolffe was frowning at his datapad, a spatula in his hand. A plate of well-baked cakes—their dough cooked to a light brown—rested on the counter. Nearby, a pot of carmine sauce simmered. 

Sea-cakes.

Wolffe had prepared her favorite meal. One of her mother’s recipes. A staple from weekends with her family when they would gorge themselves before spending the entirety of the day at the beach.

The last time her mother had made sea-cakes, she was fourteen, and she refused. Her mother’s hurt expression—green eyes dull and mouth pinched—sometimes haunted her nightmares.

Shoving aside the memory, Kazi blinked at Wolffe. Apathy kept his expression even as he scrutinized her.

“You made breakfast,” Kazi said. Even to her ears her voice sounded unnatural. Too high. Forcibly cheerful. 

Wolffe considered her for a quiet moment. “I did.”

Grimacing, she stepped closer to the kitchen bar. Pink flower petals, frail and faint, splotched the metal bar, and she grabbed one, rolling it between her fingers. 

The dead petals belonged to the dying bouquet she’d given Wolffe two weeks ago, one of many the last month. (She secretly liked the way he studied each bouquet, his touches gentle and smile soft.) Typically, Wolffe kept the bouquets in the basement—to brighten the atmosphere. However, Neyti had loved the white-flecked petals so much that he kept this bouquet upstairs. 

Now it was dead. Littering the kitchen. She should’ve realized it yesterday, or the day before, and thrown the bouquet out and bought a new one. Fuck.

Kazi smiled. “I’m sure your brothers will appreciate it.”

Wolffe cocked his head to the side. “This is for us.”

“Oh.” 

“They can’t be overcooked,” Wolffe said, hesitantly. Setting aside his spatula, he assessed the stack of cakes. “I followed the recipe.”

“They’re not overcooked,” Kazi murmured. “They’re perfect.”

He frowned at her. “Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s just…” She smiled apologetically. “I didn’t ask you to make me breakfast.” 

Disbelief furrowed his brows and she winced, picking at another fallen petal. 

Why hadn’t she thought about making him breakfast? 

Why hadn’t she done anything nice for him? 

Even her sister was more thoughtful: Daria had bought him a 1500-piece Venator-class Star Destroyer puzzle last week. A quarter of it sat completed on the game table in the sunroom.

Self-hatred stung the back of her throat, and Kazi swallowed it.

This was a mistake. She was.

Wolffe was good and kind and considerate, and, for him, she would never be— 

“I make breakfast for Neyti and myself.” Rubbing at the tightness in her chest, Kazi gestured to the sea-cakes. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Wolffe blinked at her. Slowly. “You’re upset…that I made breakfast?” 

“I’m not upset—”

He scoffed and she grew rigid. Frustration lined his shoulders, and she balled her fists behind her back, hating herself for overreacting. For being so ungrateful. For not being competent.

“There was no need to make breakfast,” she repeated. “I can do it on my own.”

“I’m well aware,” Wolffe said. Exasperation hardened his scowl. “It’s breakfast, Ennari. Not a marriage proposal. Stop overthinking it.”

Kazi flinched. 

A year after her father’s death, she hiked to a cave near her family’s house. Inside, cold water bathed the walls and ceiling, trickling onto her shoulders, her head, steadily numbing her body. All the way to her bones. Seated in the cave’s mouth, she watched as the skies darkened and the waves worsened. She knew she needed to leave. To abandon the cave before she was entrapped, sure to drown. But she couldn’t. 

The numbing felt so good—to scour her of her instructors’ criticisms, her mother’s disapproving sniffs, Daria’s distance.

Most juveniles escaped the pressures and stresses and anxieties of youth through other outlets. Kazi found her escape in that cave. In its bone-wearying chill and the sinister tug of the waves.

Now, she wished she could run away from this conversation for that cave. Because she couldn’t bear the weight of Wolffe’s disappointment, the fucking pity narrowing his eyes.

He’d made her breakfast, and it was thoughtful and sweet, and she didn’t deserve it. 

She was selfish and uncaring. She was self-centered and greedy. She couldn’t give him what he deserved, and she was so fucking imperfect, it wasn’t fair to him.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Kazi said. 

Working his jaw, Wolffe stalked toward her, and softly, lethally, he demanded, “Why can’t I make you breakfast?”

“I’ve never made you breakfast.” Her fingernails dug into her palms, harshly enough she thought they might draw blood. She released a humorless laugh. “I’ve never done this for you.”

“I know.” Wolffe scanned her face. “You’re gonna have to explain the problem, Ennari. ‘Cause I’m not following.”

Forcing her fists to unclench, Kazi closed her eyes. Sucked in a breath. Opened her eyes and levelled Wolffe with an impassive look. “I’m overreacting. I’m sorry—”

“Explain it to me.”

“It doesn’t matter. I overreacted.”

Wolffe sighed. “I deserve to know—”

“Don’t make me breakfast, Wolffe. I don’t want you interfering in my life.” 

His tongue ran along his teeth, and Kazi didn’t sway beneath his annoyance. Good, she thought. Let him be annoyed with her—let him realize how difficult she was to be with. It was better for him to recognize her imperfections and to abandon her now. She wasn’t sure she would be strong enough to bear the inevitable—

“You’re pushing me away.” Shaking his head, Wolffe stared at her, aggravated. Incredulous. “You’re trying to push me away, Ennari.”

Kazi opened her mouth but the usual—snapped defenses, drawled irritations, insouciant responses—failed her. Instead, honesty demanded an audience, and she couldn’t bite it back fast enough.  

“I feel guilty because I’ve never made breakfast for you.” Wincing at the weakness in the admittance, she shrugged, steeling herself. Let him know how heartless she was; let him peer inside, just a peek, and see the rottenness. “I didn’t even think about doing it.”

“It’s just breakfast,” Wolffe growled. Bracing his hands against the bar, on opposite sides of her body, caging her in. “I wanted to make it. So I did.”

Familiar fears caressed her mind, and their touches were so lovely she wanted to cave to their invitation. An urge to run quickened her heartbeat.

However, there was a softer touch, that patient glow, its golden warmth keeping the rottenness at bay. A chance, it seemed to whisper. One chance, please.

“You don’t get to have a problem with this,” Wolffe said firmly.

Challenge, overt and arrogant, smoothed his tone. Indignant, she quirked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Mismatched eyes remained on hers; Wolffe pressed even closer, his chest firm against hers. “You heard me.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”

“You don’t get to have a problem with this,” he snarled softly. Muscles flexed along his forearms. “I did this because I wanted to. Get over it.”

“I don’t need you to make me breakfast—”   

“Daria said these are best served warm.” He cocked his head to the side. “You wanna keep arguing? Or can we eat?”

For a pent breath, Kazi surveyed Wolffe, debated the merits in continuing. But the seriousness hardening his countenance, the contemplative flit of his eyes across her face, told her enough—he had multiple strategies prepared and he wouldn’t back down until he was satisfied with the outcome.

Sighing, Kazi shifted her attention to the stack of sea-cakes. Stellaburst sauce, bubbling and creamy, drizzled the cakes’ sides, pooling on the plates. As if a dragon had heated the sauce with its fire. 

“I hope you prepared them right,” she said, a finger grazing the curve of his thumb. A gentle brush. “They can poison you, if not cooked properly.”

Straightening, Wolffe eyed the cakes. “I followed the recipe—”

“Kidding.” A tired smile warmed her cheeks, and the corner of his mouth lifted in response. Grazing his hand once more, letting her eyes drift across his face before settling on his, Kazi murmured, “I’m sorry. I just…” She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You haven’t,” he murmured back, his thumb brushing her finger. 

With the truth laid bare, Kazi stepped to the stove, his arm falling away, and grabbed one of the plates. An unopened jar of nutow powder—Wolffe had thought through every detail—awaited use. She powdered the sea-cakes until they resembled Ceaia’s snow-dusted mountains in the summer. 

Seated at the kitchen bar, fork in hand, Kazi sectioned a piece. She took a small bite.

The tartness of the berry popped in her mouth. She chewed, the bitterness of the seaweed flour fading to the nutow’s sweet flavor. 

Memories returned.

Her father dancing in the kitchen, singing offkey while he prepared the sea-cake batter. 

She and Daria accidentally spilling half the batter on the floor, their parents laughing at their bashful grins. 

Mornings as a family sitting on their deck, overlooking the ocean beyond. 

Kazi swallowed her bite and twisted in her seat. Wolffe was chewing a large piece, his brows furrowed, his features contemplative. He bit down once more, glanced in her direction, and then pressed a napkin to his mouth. He spat out his piece.

Her mouth fell open. “Why would you do that?”

“That’s disgusting.” He took a long sip from his steaming caf, swishing it around in his mouth. “Fucking awful.”

Quietly laughing, Kazi popped another piece into her mouth. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“No kidding.” Guzzling his caf, Wolffe slid the rest of his sea-cakes in her direction. 

“There’s leftover quiche in the freezer,” she offered. 

A ghost of a smirk curved his mouth and he gripped her jaw, gently, carefully, angling her head back for him. He kissed her, his hand caressing her neck, his thumb tracing her jawline. And then he pulled away, retrieving the quiche.

As pale sunlight dappled the kitchen and they both finished their breakfast, Kazi rested her cheek against Wolffe’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to his bicep. To the nape of his neck. 

“Thank you,” she said, hoping he could hear the sincerity in her voice. “You…mean a lot to me.”

Wolffe rested his hand on her thigh and squeezed.

Late evening sunshine, streams of weak gold flitting through the gray clouds, enveloped the sunroom. A cool front had moved in. Tolerable enough Kazi had opened the windows to enjoy the breeze and its scent of rain and soil while she knitted a maroon sweater.

Outside, Daria and Cody sat on the wraparound porch, the former embroidering new curtains for Neyti’s room while the latter concentrated on a painting: cascading waterfalls, domed buildings, lanterns in the night sky. 

Beyond the porch, in the ferny clearing, Fox and Nova oversaw a sparring match. Two of the three clones Cody and Nova retrieved on their mission two days ago participated. One of them, according to Wolffe, had worked under Fox throughout the War—a man named Hound. The unruliness of his hair and the vivid bite mark on his jaw belied his kind personality. He’d offered Kazi tips on her attempts at wood carving, last night. 

Apparently, Hound was the reason Fox started carving. (Fox took up the hobby after one of Hound’s mastiffs passed. Hound had showed her the carving: The figurine fit inside her palm, its markings coarse and primitive. Still better than her attempts, though.)

Hound’s sparring partner, Matches, was a demolitions expert, and an expert at crude jokes. Many of which he shared last night at dinner. Wolffe’s silent glares to shut the fuck up went unnoticed, and it required Hound’s intervention before Matches quieted. 

The damage was done, though. Neyti spent the rest of dinner wide-eyed. 

Kazi searched the grounds for the third clone, Court. His lacking presence was unsurprising. Dinner passed without him speaking, he merely observed them, and he also disregarded the invite to watch a holofilm. Kazi respected his reticence. 

However, when she started for bed, she found him bent over the bookcase, surveying the dragons. He must have heard her approach because his eyes slid in her direction. They were empty. Similar to Wolffe’s when she first met him. Unlike Wolffe, though, his eyes were cold. Lifeless.

A chill slithered down her spine but Kazi shook it off, schooling her features, as the back door swung open. Neyti bounced into the room. Her grin was bright, energetic. 

“How are your seeds?” Kazi asked, brushing a strand of hair from Neyti’s forehead. Her grin widened and Neyti gave her a thumbs up.

“They’ve sprouted.” Shutting the back door, Wolffe nodded at Neyti. “Give it another month and they’ll be adolescents.”

Neyti clapped her hands, twirling in a circle, her blue dress floating. Wiping a smudge of dirt from her chin, Kazi shared an amused look with Wolffe.

“Why don’t you go wash your hands,” Kazi said. Neyti shucked off the pink gloves Nova had bought her, handing them to Wolffe. “I’ll get you a snack, once you clean up.”

While Neyti bounded for the staircase, Kazi stood, appraising Wolffe. He was pocketing Neyti’s gloves, his white shirt clinging to his skin. Damp with sweat. Sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“I’m helping Daria replace some stakes in her garden later tonight,” she said, approaching him. He slid his hands into his pockets, waiting. “Are you fine delaying our walk?”

A small smirk tugged on his mouth. “I should be asking you that question.” She frowned and his smirk widened. He played with a piece of her hair. “I’m replacing the stakes.”

Kazi shook her head. “Daria and I planned this—”  

“And she agreed to me replacing you.” Wolffe chuckled at her affronted scowl. “We have things to discuss.”

“What do you have to discuss with my sister?”

“That’s classified.” 

The smugness in his tone grated on her, and she scoffed. “That’s bullshit. My sister wouldn’t ditch me for you. Sorry.”

“It looks like you two have some catching up to do.” He glanced at his wrist-chrono. “I’ve got to shower.” A swift kiss to her cheek and then his lips were warming her ear, soft and tickling. His tone was low as he murmured, “Just so you’re aware: You can join me”—a hand skimmed her lower back; her head angled slightly, just enough for him—“whenever you want.”

Heat lingered in her cheeks, behind her ear, as she watched Wolffe stride away. Watched the bookcase lock him in the basement. Knew, if it were nighttime and they had the privacy of an empty house, she would have followed him. 

Instead, she moved into the living area and looked upwards, to Neyti’s open door.

What was that kid doing?

Shaking her head, Kazi made her way upstairs, planning to check on Neyti. But, on the top step, she paused. Her bedroom door was open. More like cracked open. Still, it was unusual. She always closed her door whenever she left.

Wariness pricked the back of her neck and she peeked into her bedroom. 

Her curtains were tied back; her windows were open; her quilt was smoothed and pillows fluffed. It appeared undisturbed. 

Her gaze shifted to her desk where her datapad rested. The device was dark, blank, exactly as she had left it that morning after analyzing the men’s gathered intel for the network. 

Except, on closer inspection, it wasn’t exactly as she had left it. She always lined the ‘pad’s side along the wall and the bottom to the desk’s edge. 

The ‘pad had moved. Someone unfamiliar with its placement wouldn’t have noticed it. But its slight upward position, not even a centimeter from being flushed with the bottom of her desk, told her it had moved.

Tugging on a braid, she retreated from her bedroom and closed her door. Outside Neyti’s room, she knocked on the doorjamb.

“Hey, you ready for your sna—” The words faltered, and Kazi straightened, blinking at the book in Neyti’s hands. The little girl waved at her. “Is that…my adventure book?”

Neyti nodded. She flipped a page of the book.

“Did you take that from my room?” Another nod and Kazi chuckled her incredulity, perching on the edge of Neyti’s bed. Looked like she had her culprit. “You know, it’s not nice to break into other people’s rooms.”

Confusion wrinkled Neyti’s face.

“It’s also not nice to take someone’s personal belongings.” She bopped Neyti on the nose, and the little girl tucked her head in her shoulder, her smile sheepish. “If you wanted to look at it, you could’ve asked.”

Blushing, Neyti returned her attention to the book. Kazi considered joining her, looking through the old pictures, telling Neyti stories.

But the thought of reliving her memories—seeing Ceaia, seeing her parents, seeing her and Daria as younglings when everything was right in the galaxy—was too…daunting. Or maybe she was a coward. 

Wiping her hands down her thighs, Kazi took in Neyti’s room. Paintings Wolffe and Cody had hung on her walls. A bioluminescent rock and a black bird carving guarding her nightstand. A forest green dragon, its spiked tail curled, resting on her pillow.  

A tap on her arm brought her back to the adventure book. Neyti gestured to a page. 

Pressing her hands between her thighs, Kazi forced herself to look. 

Dark, faded photos grinned at her. 

A shot of her on the railing, feet dangling over frothing waves.

A shot of the endless, irascible blackness of the ocean. 

A shot of the stars taken from the middle of the sea. 

Scripted words crammed the remaining surface. Her mother’s comments of each photo.

Neyti was tracing the stars, a clear photo preserving Ceaia’s night sky, seemingly searching for something.

“Are you…looking for constellations?” Kazi asked. Neyti perked up, and she smiled, scanning the image. “All right: Let’s start with Goch.” 

Shifting the book onto her thigh, she pointed to a star so bright it appeared white.

“On Ceaia, it’s dangerous to sail at night,” Kazi said. “Storms form randomly, and they’re brutal. It takes a special skillset, and courage, to brave the ocean without sunlight. But our people learned a trick long ago.”

Curiosity twinkled in Neyti’s eyes.

“Goch was the first dragon to befriend our people,” Kazi said. “She lived three hundred years, and when she died, her spirit joined her ancestors.” She tapped the star. “This is her nose and this trail of stars”—her finger curled along the photo—“is her spine, ending with the tip of her tail. Goch’s nose always points to true north, while her tail ends in the west. Whenever you’re lost at sea, all you have to do is find Goch’s constellation and reorient yourself.”

Kazi waited as Neyti followed her path. Her tiny finger fluttered from bright star to bright star, and once she traced Goch’s constellation three times, she nodded her satisfaction. 

“We have other constellations that help orient sailors,” Kazi explained, shuffling through the pages until she found a different photo. “The Old Dragon represents the path south toward the islands. That’s for religious pilgrimage. Panto flies in the east sky. The tips of her wings lead to the eastern continent’s capital—where you lived.” She flipped another page. “Other constellations memorialize popular myths. The Dancing Dragons are my favorite.”

Nose scrunching, Neyti frowned.

“You’ve never heard about the Dancing Dragons?” Kazi asked.

The little girl shook her head.

So Kazi told Neyti the love story of the two dragons. How the female grew so lonely she stopped flying. How the male invited her to dance but she refused. How, one night, the female took a risk and joined the male and they flew together for years until they both passed.

“They were reunited afterwards,” Kazi finished. “And they continue their dance each night.” Smiling, she nudged Neyti’s arm. “Some people think they guide our souls to the afterlife. That’s why we write our loved ones letters when they pass—to formally ask the dragons for safe passage.”

Reverently, Neyti traced the dragons’ outlines. Gray eyes, as stormy as the skies outside yet as clear as a cloudless day, met hers. 

“I want to fly to the stars.”

Soft, and quiet, the words were like a breeze, whispering through a daisy-freckled meadow. 

Kazi stared at Neyti. 

Outside, the amassing clouds seemed to pause, holding their breath. 

“I want to fly,” Neyti repeated. Innocent determination set her jaw. “Please.”

“You want to fly?” Kazi said hoarsely. A single nod answered and she scratched the back of her head, nonplussed. “I don’t have a ship.”

Hours later, Kazi found herself in the men’s ship. 

Power low to avoid Imperial detection, the ship drifted between Eluca and its largest moon—Selene. Beyond the front viewports, a vast expanse of black, impenetrable and vacuous, extended. Similar to moonless nights at sea, and yet this abyss of silence disquieted her.

Standing in the tight hallway separating the cockpit from the rest of the ship, Kazi watched Neyti. The little girl sat in the pilot’s seat, listening to Wolffe and Fox explain the basic functions of each button on the control panel. Tiny hands scoured the panels and gears. A grin dimpled her face.

Behind Kazi, Cody was showing Daria the shoddy sleeping area. Her sister’s indignation resulted in an amused Cody leaning against the wall, his half-smile fond.

“If you had told me your sheets were this thin,” Daria scolded, wrinkling her nose at the blanket on one of the beds, “I would have made all of you new ones.” 

“First Nova,” Cody murmured, exasperated, “and now you.”

“It’s no wonder you like my bed so much.”

Cody chuckled. “That among other things.”

Rolling her eyes, Kazi cleared her throat, loudly, and then gazed out the viewport. Eluca, a dark green mass surrounded by writhing electric clouds, glowed like a kyber crystal, the dark vacuum of space its cave of hidden wonders. 

Space once fascinated Kazi. The myths of dragons soaring between planets awed her younger self, studies of burning supernovas and starving black holes piqued her interest; the galaxy seemed a wilderness to be discovered, the next step for a little girl who considered herself an ocean explorer. 

The escape from Ceaia changed her opinion.

A tight-spaced cargo pit.

Unfamiliar people crammed against her.

Impenetrable darkness.

A haunting stench—human waste, rotting corpses.

No food. No water. No ‘freshers.

She was pressed against a wall, Neyti crying in her lap, Daria trembling at her side. For a long time, she thought they might suffocate to death. 

Gritting her teeth, Kazi reassessed her surroundings. Metal walls loomed above and around, and they seemed…closer. The walls opposite pressed inwards. Against her.

A drop of sweat chilled her spine.

Her hands started to tremble.

Maybe she should’ve stayed behind with Nova. 

Focusing on the electric storm—flickers of purple lightning winked at her—Kazi rested her forehead against the small viewport, ignoring the erratic beat of her heart. The viewport cooled some of the uncomfortable heat burning beneath her skin—

A hand landed on her shoulder. She recoiled.

Wolffe peered into her face: narrowed eyes, bunched brows. Straightening, Kazi folded her arms across her stomach, smiling.

“When all you know is living on a planet,” she said, gesturing to the small ‘port, “it’s easy to forget we live in a galaxy with billions of other beings. There’s a lot out there.”

A thoughtful noise hummed in the back of his throat as Wolffe studied her. “You don’t like it.”

“I do—”

“You don’t.” Resting a forearm against the wall, he leaned into it. A casual, effortless stance. “I don’t like it either.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Really?”

With a casual shrug, he looked out the ‘port. “Lots of my men thought space provided a new opportunity. For me: Space meant war and more deaths. We were always vulnerable up here.” His voice pitched low, and his gaze grew distant. “When I’d swim, I’d pretend I was elsewhere. That I was someone else… I convinced myself I was more than just a number. And that there was something else out there for me.”

An image of little Wolffe, swimming amid a raging sea while dreaming a life for his future self, made her heart cave. They could have been friends, little Wolffe and little Kazi. Both wanting things they never thought they could have.

Kazi reached a hand to his jaw, her thumb grazing his cheekbone. His eyelids lowered, thick, dark lashes framing his eyes. 

“You’re more than just a number,” she said softly. “I hope you know that.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

A knuckle skimmed her cheek, and she turned into his palm. 

“You can’t control the ocean,” Wolffe said after a moment.

“No.” Dropping her hand to her side, Kazi sighed. “But I can control certain things.”

“Is that why you reacted this morning?” Tentatively, he tugged on the end of a braid, pocketing the tie. He started to unweave the strands, and she didn’t bother to stop him. “Did you feel out of control?”

Discomfort hunched her shoulders, and she massaged the left plane of her chest. The character analysis he’d built on her the last few months proved his adeptness. Impressive, really, considering how well she’d hid herself from others for years.

“You surprised me,” Kazi said quietly. His fingers were deft, careful as he worked on loosening her braid, and while he was distracted, she ran a finger along his forearm, his tattoos tiny paths for her to follow. “I’m so used to doing everything on my own. And then you making me breakfast—it made me feel…incompetent.”

A thoughtful noise rumbled in the back of his throat. Moving to her opposite braid, Wolffe pocketed its tie, and slowly undid its plait. Once he finished, he pushed her hair over her shoulder, the waves cascading down her spine.

“I want to feel needed.” The statement was quiet, gruff and low, and so fucking random it caught Kazi off guard.

She frowned. “What?”

“I want to feel needed.” Wolffe tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, his gaze settling on hers, determined. Unflappable. “I want to make you breakfast. I want to do things for you. Without you biting my head off. Or trying to push me away.”

“I didn’t bite your head off,” she muttered. The disbelief in his scoff was overt, and she pursed her lips. “You interrupted my routine and I wasn’t prepared.”

“That’s not it, Ennari,” Wolffe murmured. Challenge, similar to this morning, hardened his tone as he regarded her, only a few centimeters separating their faces. “You’re afraid of something. I don’t know of what. But one of these days I’m going to figure it out.”

The promise in his words was brutal, an unapologetic warning. Based on his dogged concentration—based on his meticulous need to understand the inner workings of each problem he encountered—Kazi didn’t doubt his dedication to his task. Or his single-minded determination. However—

“I’m not a problem to be fixed,” she snapped. Wolffe blinked his surprise, and she lifted her chin, glaring. “I’m a person, not a—a droid that’s malfunctioning.” It was important he understood this. That he knew what he was getting into.

“I know,” Wolffe said hastily. And even though he retained his casual stance, still leaned into his arm, tension stiffened his posture, ticked in his jaw. “But, Kazi,” he murmured her name lowly, exasperatedly, “you are afraid of something. And I wanna know what it is. Doesn’t mean I think there’s something wrong with you.”

For a prolonged moment, Kazi let her eyes wander across his face, confirmed the sincerity in the slight bow of his head, and then she swallowed, relaxing. The tension within Wolffe faded, too. 

“All right. Let’s summarize.” Pushing off the wall, he tapped the underside of her chin. “I’m not going to stop doing things for you. And you’re gonna be good with it.”

Hesitantly, she nodded her acquiescence. 

A giggle drew their attention to the cockpit. Neyti pointed to a button and glanced at Fox, expectant. Fox nodded his approval and the little girl adjusted in her seat, studying the dashboard as Fox listed another knob. 

“You might have to take her flying,” Kazi said.

Wolffe smiled smally. “We can do that.”

Her own smile blossomed in response, and she gestured toward the cockpit. “Go sit with them so I can take a photo.” Wolffe coughed, and she blinked innocently. “It’s for Neyti.”

“For Neyti?”

“Yes.”

Smirking, he knocked his elbow against hers. “You want a photo of me, Ennari, all you have to do is ask. But I get one in return.”

She considered him. “It depends on the type of photo.”

A rough chuckle fell from his mouth, the raspy sound grazing her spine. “I have a few ideas.” At her quiet laugh, he lowered his mouth to her ear, murmuring, “Seems like you’re keeping me around.”

The tease in his tone, the lightness in his eyes, made her smile. “I think I will.” 

Masterlist | A Muse (previous chapter) | A Muse (next chapter)

A/N: This is your friendly reminder to pay attention to the date and month of each chapter. There will be major time jumps between certain chapter groupings.

Star Wars Months:

Elona Kelona Selona Telona  Nelona Helona Melona Yelona  Relona Welona

[glittersumn]

They bury you alive.

[palossssssand]

Hey there! Are there any other beasts in slug city or is it just the orchid and electric ones?

there are other beasts !! Smooks has one, it's made of paint! Best seen in this image

Delta and Oster and Co. have them too, Delta's is a round-ish beast with many leg and eyes surrounding its entire body with waterfall-like tears. Oster and Co's is one with multiple heads, each representing one of the "main" alters. I would like to heavily rework these both design-wise and concept-wise. Here's old art of them!

[lurafita]

Add on to Magnus having no sense of direction

The group has been shrunk down to "Honey I shrunk the kids" size. Since his cat eyes have the ability to see better in the dark (another headcanon), Magnus goes into the open paper bag lying on the floor to see if it has anything useful in it. After a while. Alec: "Magnus, you okay in there?" Magnus: "Yes Darling, but I'm afraid that there is nothing in here of use to us." Alec: "Okay, then come back?" Magnus: ".... I'm trying."

[opilia]

to date me you have to rip me open.

[dyinggirldied]

Crackship of the day: countess Rosalia x Lilian 'Lily' York

[kooki914]

your answer to the ask about the Mayor Knight theory got me wondering what your thoughts are on the Seven Days, Seven Knights theory (if you haven't heard this theory before, which is very understandable, the premise is basically that "Knight" is less of a name and more of a title and as such there are multiple "Knights" and with chapter 3 Kris is one of them)

This one is really interesting because there's an argument to be made both for and against it based on in-game evidence.

The arguments FOR this, (from my cursory glance because I haven't heard of this theory before), is that "Knight" is a title rather than a strict role, unlike Ralsei, Kris and Susie's roles in the prophecy are. No-one can be a Prince From The Dark like Ralsei, but ANYONE can open a fountain and be a Knight. This is supported by Kris literally opening a fountain in their house, and it would also explain why the Knight's identity is so enigmatic - once we find out who all 7 Knights are, it won't matter nearly as much as their actions would, like a sort of collective cry for help that speaks to a larger problem rather than a single culprit.

On the OTHER hand, the arguments AGAINST this is dialogue from people who talk about the Knight. Jevil most notably never implies there's more than one, referring to "the shadow of the Knight's hand" and how its moving forward, implying that future fountains and events are caused by the actions of the Knight that opened the first fountain. This is corroborated by King and Queen to an extent, King who is loyal to no lightners except the singular Knight (which wouldn't make sense if any lightner is capable of becoming the Knight), and Queen who wants to "make a new one" hinting that it's a somewhat novel concept to try and recreate the actions of the Knight (like there's only one Knight and its her personal quest to make a different person act like them).

It's not impossible to imagine there's a separate Knight for each opened fountain, but I think that's partly because none of us have ANY information about the Knight. The most we know is that they're probably a lightner and have a hand that can stretch forward. That's an extremely low bar, and the enigmatic-ness of their actions sort of compounds that instinct to look for an answer. Like, currently, the Knight is no-one, so it's very easy to say the Knight is Everyone. Not a bad thing, but also not a theory I'd put my bets on in the long run (we'll see if I have to put my clown wig and nose on when the full game comes out, though)

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

ford is the ocean, stan is the sky

and this isn’t metaphoric. if canon stan looked into this other his eyes, he’d be looking into the eye of a hurricane. if canon ford held his other self’s hands, there would be tendrils of seaweed and kelp wrapped around his fingers

they’ve been a lot of other things too

ford ended up on the moon, once. his presence spread a corroded infection across its surface, and his unfounded shame at this- after all, it wasn’t his choice to be pulled up there, led to him becoming stardust and scattering across the universe. bursting nebulae, new galaxies, black holes…

he is spread very very very thin, and he knows it

stan has been many things, he has been blood and smoke and hot deserts and broken teeth. he has been night and mourning and loss. he has been right by the ocean’s side, on the other side of the world, and just barely missed its outstretched hands as it was dragged up past him, to a place he cannot go

he is back at its side now, and it’s more than just them now

now, two little sailors sleep comfortably on the waves and read the stars, and the stans are more than happy to help. ford puts on shows and changes the current to push them wherever they like. stan clears the skies and consistently creates green flashes for them

the sailors are aware of the stan twins, that’s why they came out there in the first place. no one else believes them, of course, but they’ve learned a lot from these invisible entities that send them messages and show them kindness and occasionally traverse their dreams, turning the nightmares into sweet journeys across windy seas

the more time the niblings spend out here, the more they change. colors are brighter around mabel and she never runs out of yarn and she is one with the birds (aside from the select few sent by the seas or the skies to visit her). dipper is a masterful navigator, and anything that’s broken is always fixed by the time he gets to it, and the deer surround him like family

ford is the ocean, and much more

stan is the sky, and much more

mabel and dipper are everything, and more than even that