#prosthetics Palm Springs

[talesofadragon]

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬

Synopsis: Receiving wind that Hydra has successfully managed to awaken another wave of winter soldiers, Captain America appoints his two best avengers, Bucky Barnes and Y/N Y/L/N, for the job. But aside from Bucky’s trepidation at reliving his worst memories, there’s something else rooting him in his place–the fear of inflicting harm on the woman he loves the most. Between her encouraging words and his violent past, what will happen when Y/N is forced to encounter her boyfriend’s alter ego?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader

Warnings: Angst | Fluff

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬  Masterlist | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄. Ironically, considering his service as a soldier during World War II in the 107th Infantry Regiment. One might assume his story followed the typical trajectory of a veteran—a man who had served and preserved, giving his all until he had nothing left to lose nor gain. 

Bucky faced wars in waves, losing his sense of direction as he battled the currents. Maybe the placidity he yearned for was because of the instabilities and perplexities he'd witnessed, though the peace he needed went far beyond that. From the moment he was reborn into this world, all he ever wanted was to find solace within the hurricane that had upended his life. 

Bucky sought peace, yes. Peace within the chaos of his fractured realities.

The sky lit up, a white veil enveloping the night's somber hues. Its brilliance lingered for a fleeting moment before the darkness regained its dominion. Sometimes, Bucky wondered if the storms were a remedy or a curse. When the sky, such as tonight, wailed and bled, and when the clouds tore themselves up to bits and pieces, was the chaos some twisted form of peace? Or was it his fractured mind pitifully attempting to shroud the truths with another veiled deception?

Rain dropped down in fervor, droplets finding themselves on Bucky’s skin. A part of him told him to move away and give the sky some space to grieve. Another rebutted that he should stay to remind the heavens that they’re not alone.

He raised his head, feeling the water droplets on his face, allowing them to delicately trace his features. The storm was ravenous, tumultuous, mutinous—everything a winter turbulence should be, everything the winter soldier in him was.

And yet, the damned poets he’d read about weren’t too far off in their exuberant analogies, comparing a winter storm to a peaceful spring. As polarizing as it was, there was a certain peace to its violence—a peace that Bucky could experience extrospectively but never conversely.

“James,” he heard behind him. This voice, perhaps, was the nearest semblance of personal tranquility he could reach. It permeated his skin, nestled in every nucleus, exuding an air of calmness and hope. He cherished it when she called him by his name. It was her personal term of endearment. To the world, he was several things: Sergeant Barnes, Bucky, and The Winter Soldier. But to Y/N, his precious Y/N, he was James. And he loved her even more for the simple yet profound reminder.

“I’m scared,” he admitted in a shy whisper, playing with his fingers. Truths came easy with her, despite how he grappled with them in his solitary battles. “Going there… going there will trigger a lot of bad memories. It might even trigger him, too.”

Y/N stepped closer, placing her palm on his left arm. His metal arm. She didn’t miss the way Bucky shut his eyes, which is why her thumb traced invisible shapes on the prosthetic. “You don’t have to go there, baby. You don’t have to do anything if your heart’s not in it.”

“But you’ll be there. I can’t…. I won’t for the life of me let you wander around in that monstrous prison world without me. Especially with all those people there.” Bucky’s lower lip trembled as he spoke. His blue eyes harbored a thousand emotions. Peace, fortitude, courage… they all fought waves of anguish and despair. But love, concern, and fear all remained afloat. 

“James,” Y/N whispered delicately, framing his cheeks with her gentle hands. Bucky nuzzled in her open palms, his lips brushing against her skin. His eyes captured her in an everlasting glance, filled with so much devotion. “I don’t want you to relive your worst nightmare because of me. Yes, you are our primary knowledge hub when it comes to Hydra, but you’re also a part of our family. We would never want to harm you. I would never want to harm you or cause you despair.”

“You could never,” Bucky answered, his hands falling from the railing and finding their place on her hips. He suddenly became aware that she was wearing no more than his Henley and a pair of pajama bottoms in the middle of this storm. So, he pulled her closer and buried her face in his chest.

“I can go with Steve, maybe even Nat. You don’t have to do this. You–”

“It’s not the memories I fear most, angel.”

“Then what is it?” Y/N asked, raising her head to meet his eyes without stepping out of his embrace. “Is it those soldiers they have created?”

Bucky stared at the falling rain, realizing that the two of them had drifted away from the sliding door’s overhang, which shielded Y/N. He tried to step back, but she must’ve falsely interpreted it as his attempt at fleeing because she tightened her hold on him. 

He brushed a strand of her damp hair behind her ear, his thumbs tracing her pink cheek. “What if he comes back?”

“Say his name aloud,” Y/N encouraged. “It’s okay, baby.”

He gulped, closing his eyes for a moment. “The Winter Soldier.” Heaven knew he didn’t want to, and maybe that’s why this whole storm had assaulted New York this evening.

Y/N, on the other hand, didn’t seem to think the same. Calmly, she lifted herself on her toes to kiss his beard, nestling her head in the junction between his neck and shoulder. “The Winter Soldier is what you make him out to be.”

“He’s a murderer,” Bucky spat, his hold on Y/N tightening as if the simple mention of the Soldat would breathe him back to life. 

Y/N shook her head. “He’s you.”

“He’s not me, Y/N!” Bucky pried himself away, giving her an indignant look. “He’s a homicidal menace that will not hesitate to rip you apart without a second thought!”

Y/N tried to step closer, but Bucky flinched. He involuntarily retreated back, his cerulean eyes rimmed with despair and hurt. Y/N shook her head, locking her eyes with his. “The Winter Soldier is James Buchanan Barnes. A man that has never stopped fighting, not even for a second. He may be bruised, erratic, and damaged. But he’s not a monster. Not in my story.”

“Y/N,” Bucky all but growled, keeping as much distance between himself and the girl. “You have no idea how twisted these words sound. You won’t even have a chance to take them back or change your mind when he all but attacks you and rips your heart out of your chest like some goddamn fucking prize without even taking his eyes off yours!”

“My heart is his for the taking.” Bucky’s mind spiraled out of control. “As much as it is yours. He and you are one. What I feel for you, I feel for him.”

“Don’t, Y/N.” 

Ignoring his comment, Y/N took his hands in hers before he had the chance to run away. “If you cannot see your true worth through your own eyes, James, then see it through my own. Every part of you is worthy. You and The Winter Soldier are heroes in your unique ways, each fighting different battles to find a missing piece of yourself. So, if you’re so afraid that being there will trigger the worst parts of you, then I will whisper to you both all the truth you need to hear until you find your way back to me. Back home.”

“You’re my home,” Bucky whispered, caressing her cheek. He dipped his head, his nose caressing Y/N’s. A second passed, and he allowed himself to bask in her warmth, losing himself in the ardency of her love. His lips delicately traced her berry-flavored ones, claiming them against his own. “I love you,” he almost cried, fearing he might lose her. His mouth wrapped around her lower lip, sucking it fervently and inhaling in all the devotion he held toward his girl. “You're my sanctuary, my peace. And I don’t want my own violent dispositions to threaten the home that I’ve built with you.”

“James,” Y/N mumbled breathlessly, tears on the edge of her lashes. She pressed one more fervent kiss against his lips, resting her hand on his heart to remind him once more that he could feel. That he was human. “I love you in all your nuances and dispositions. No matter who you are or who you think you ought to be, you'll always be my home."

Bucky smiled endearingly, taking Y/N’s hand in his. He kissed her knuckles, one by one, before planting his lips on her wrist. With a final glance at her eyes, Bucky led her inside their shared bedroom, relishing in the feeling of her between his arms. 

He closed his eyes with the images of her in his mind, forgetting all about Hydra and The Winter Soldier. It was tomorrow’s nightmare, but Y/N was tonight’s dream, and that’s all that mattered.

BUCKY IS BACK!!

I have so many ideas for this man, and we're starting with this short little series. If you're a fan of hurt/comfort and The Winter Soldier coming out to play, welcome to this maze of truths!!

All-Works Taglist: @xxrougefangxx

Bucky Barnes Taglist: @ye0nvibezzn

: ̗̀➛ Read Chapter 2 - CHAOS - here!!

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

hiii i just wanted to say i really like how each of the protags in your fics have different personalities!!! adds a lot of flavour and depth i think to how hiccup interacts with each version of reader in different contexts :)

 The Jealous One pt 6

Pairing: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Fem!Reader

Words: 1,964

You’re caught off guard in the woods. Hiccup might have a thing for rejection… Or you. He’s really not sure. 

Tags: fem!reader, silly, ambiguous timeline, Snotlout Jorgenson, Ruffnut and Tuffnut Thorston, Jealous!Hiccup, Post RoB/DoB, Pre-RTTE

<Previous - Next>

You wanted to kick as you braced your foot against a rock, pulling your cup up to your face again, shoulders pressing painfully into the bark of a tree, curved so that the center of your shoulder blades felt as if they were being dug into by two very thick thumbs.

You wanted to say that you were getting good at keeping it all stuffed inside -your emotions, as it were, not necessarily your lunch- but if you’d been good at that, you wouldn’t be here dealing with this with a large, leaking barrel of stolen mead. Day drinking.

Though you hadn’t participated, soon after you’d left your table, a fight in the hall had broken out and taken a lot out of you, having devolved into a full-on brawl that the majority of the Riders hadn’t been too pressed to join in on.

By the end, you were sure most of the busy folk, the ones who hadn’t been knocked out, had left, most of the Riders had either fallen asleep or had drunken themselves into a stupor and the more studious ones, being Astrid and Fishlegs, had already long made of in the night either to chase off another poor Viking with a sharpened axe and clenched muscles or to hide and cower until the night had been done.

For you, the distraction had made it much easier to make off with a barrel of mead, and you’d dragged it, half bent over, into the woods, arms straining at the heavy weight.

And just in time, too. It was usually after the first fight that the mead-ladies and cup-bearers always began to charge coin for each pint.

Your arms were so sore. But it was worth it.

You weren’t too far off from the bridge separating you from Berks main village, you and your tapped barrel hiding somewhere off in the trees just after the foliage began to grow thicker, so even now, from a distance, you could hear the stormy rocking of the ocean against Berk’s sturdy shores.

You shook off a light buzz as the sound of crunching leaves grew louder, louder than what was appropriate between the mingling of tiny forest creatures, in which case you meant the Terrors scrabbling through the trees as there weren’t so many woodland creatures close to Berk’s main village.

You rested the bottom of your mug on one of your knees, your legs spread apart so that you could lean forwards whenever you wanted to fill your jug, thinking slowly and taking the time to try and listen harder.

You wanted to groan, then. Many different vikings on Berk with prosthetics, peg legs and the like but what you’d figured for sure was an approach came packaged with the slight spring of metal against metal, which you knew could only belong to one Viking.

You debated trying to hide the evidence of your night spent out alone in the cold dangers of the woods but decided against it, instead pushing yourself up, palms against cold bark, the divets between strips pressing imprints into your palm.

You didn’t give yourself much time to loiters, legs placed slightly farther apart than what was comfortable as you stumbled, dropping your mug against wood roots and grass and upturned dirt with a clatter just as a familiar face made its way past the treeline.

You resisted the urge to grumble, nearly stumbling over a shallow tree root as you brushed past him, your shoulder checking his in your distraction.

“Where…” Hiccup asked, stopping slowly behind you, now shivering himself, the head of his hair wild and on end, “Where are you going?”

You were slightly drowsy, the hands on your arms working overtime in an effort to scrub away the cold. The wind did a great deal to help, brushing through your skirts as you made your way down towards flat ground.

“...To bed,” You mumbled, eyes nearly closed, buzzing with your sudden need to sleep and the weightful urge to drop, all the muscles in your lid looser than they’d be if you had any control over your own body.

You blinked sourly into the canopy of pine above you, the light glaring brightly through the spindly leaves against trees.

You didn’t keep time, not particularly concerned as early early morning turned to brighter still early morning. 

You sighed, more a breath than a chirr, blinking groggily, turning in half as Hiccup moved to catch up with you, at a steady pace yet not fast enough to be called anything but a strong walk.

You stood on a small, flat rock, poking out of the ground like a tiny boat in the middle of a storming, wide ocean of grass, trees and shrubs, mimicking still, titanic waves all around you.

A Terror called out in the distance and a wind rushed past, nearly causing you to slip.

“Wait-”

You jerked as you felt the feel of hands grabbing onto either side of your upper arms, craning your neck awkwardly to face the one who held you aloft as your tilt neared the diagonal.

You grunted lightly, shaking him off with slow movement, burdened by many things and turned to face him.

The way he stood was easy, compared to you who was subtly off kilter, swaying with the breezes.

“I… I was a poor sport,” Hiccup said finally, voice thick with tension, reaching out for you in tone and hand; you felt a gentle tug on your tunic sleeve, the brush of a callous against the soft skin on the inside of your wrist.

He didn’t need to explain any more.

He was eager to apologize.

“Right,” You said, as your stomach dropped again, the beginnings of guilt prickling its way up the lining of your stomach like the sharp sprout of a plant bursting through thin soil.

He seemed much more awake than you, but the faded bags under his eyes implied he might not have slept as much as he’d… Liked to have implied, most likely.

A while ago, you would have forgiven him instantaneously. Now, you realized you didn’t feel that pull, the need to wait and languish. You still stewed, but it wasn’t with that simmering loneliness fueled desperation lying underneath a wave of discomfort.

It was a bit of a relief.

“I shouldn’t have...”

That wasn’t. It was awful.

You wondered how many times you could reject him before it became unreasonable.

You didn’t know what you wanted to say, but you knew he got it all wrong. You hoped he felt regret, though.

“You said things just fine,” You grumbled, shaking him off and letting your arms loosen, “I don’t care.”

He hadn’t been so insecure about his cousin since you were younger teens. You didn’t like him enough at the moment to try and find out why.

“And I’ve been thinking-” Hiccup continued anyways, grumbling slightly, “and I really- maybe I deserve it.”

“Right,” You said shortly, though not short enough to really imply that you’d been holding a grudge, still intent on leaving, feet shifting. The two of you were on the same step, practically standing toe-to-toe. 

Of course you still held a grudge. Or, maybe grudge wasn’t the right word. Grudges were for things that were old, that had been long since made up for and pushed under the rug, then brought out and dusted off and looked over at night when secrets were best kept.

You’d had half a mind to let it pass. Not because you wanted to be the better person- no, because ‘letting it go’ didn’t always mean being the better person, not when you were still so upset, anger lying like a poised snake in your stomach, but because you wanted him to squirm.

To think about it just as much as you’d had to.

In this instance, however, you didn’t particularly think that holding to your anguish made you a worse person. It made you a wronged person, for sure.

You remembered how you woke up early to see him, to be the one to say ‘hi’ first. How he’d greet you, then how he wasn’t there. And again and again and again you checked, your heart soaring each time, only to be left sorely disappointed.

 It was silly. And selfish. And something only someone a few years younger could do- keep their hopes up so innocently high and without any real expectation only to be disappointed each and every time by a result that through pattern they must have known to be sure. 

You grumbled, shaking him off and turning to leave anyway. “Fine. Save your apologies.”

“-No, you’re right.” Hiccup folded quickly, “I-What?”

Of course, it would be just like him not to see your worth. 

“...You haven’t paid this much attention to me since we were kids.” Seriously, why? You said sternly, pushing past the slogging fog clouding your mind.

“What?” Hiccup paused.

“Of course,” You scoffed, stepping your way off the rock and kicking your way past a large pile of leaves.

As you stalked- or, stumbled, more like- out the treeline and up to the wooden planking lining the wide floor of the huge bridge leading back to Berk, dark boots dirty and scuffling loudly against the wood, Hiccup watched you.

Hiccup watched you and he paused with mounting horror as his eyes followed you, whose long gray skirt was falling down to your ankles.

At this point, you’d refused two of his apologies, both times with a gloomy, stormy expression on your face, shoulders hunched and miserable.

You had asked him why.

And, well, there was a reason why. 

He was a bad friend.

Deep envy, spiked as thorns in chest twisted as a friend of his became the friend of another, attention that had been allotted for him lost like spare coin. As what he knew to be a feeling or certainty became pangs of hurt when you became someone he couldn’t any longer recognize, fast speech becoming a slow, morbid, familiar prose becoming, dare he say it, ribbing.

Even now, he wanted to keep it up leave still, to escape off into the sky with the other riders in an effort to keep running away in part from a feeling he couldn’t name, a thing that grew and writhed as he realized that he’d mistaken the value of one friend for a group of a few others when he really should have made an effort to have kept all of his sheep in line.

It was a feeling that was familiar but that he hadn’t paid much mind to, even as he’d grown more distant from you, even as his eyes began to linger and as his heart pounded and eyes widened. 

It had become unavoidable now, especially after you’d fallen over him, looking wonderful and fine and shining with the sun pressing into your back and glinting around your head like a crown made for you by the very Gods.

It was a feeling he hadn’t felt since… He was a teen, when he had been very much into... -But, it was slightly different; a little bit of want-to-see mixed with a heaping pile of desire-to-impress mixed with something a little bit more like ‘I-know-you,’ which, in hindsight, had always been there, at least for a while though it was a slight weaker now and had not always paired so brightly with the previous two.

And all of it was twinged by something else, wrapped up in a twisting, bitter, covetous cage, locked and keyed by a budding, intense resentment for his cousin.

Even in your drunken state you were so, so pretty. And now you were mad at him. 

He had to wonder how he always got himself into these situations.

[froggy-anon]

Luci "Eclipse" Medici-Vega - intro

Basics:

Name: mw2 and b4: Luciana Vega, after mw2: Lucifer Medici-Vega Callsign: Shadow 0-6, Shadow Alfa, Eclipse Birth: spring of 2000 Sexuality/gender: bisexulal, nonbinary afab/ transmasc (later) Pronouns: they/them, they/him (later) Rank: Shadow Company Cyber Defense Division member, DOD operative Status: Alive, WIA Nature: Gifted human Affiliations:CIA, DPA, Task Force 141, Shadow Company, Konni Group (formerly), KorTec, Armistice- Allegiance Eyes colour: Amber green, physiological anisocoria Hair colour: Butterscotch a2 Nationality: Russian, Lithuanian, American Ethnicity: Baltic, Slavic Height: 1,7m Marks: anisocoria, scar on the palm of their left hand, 5 stab scars on their neck, 2 scars on their face, various self-harm scars on their body, prosthetic pinky and ring fingers of their left hand (post mw3) Languages: American English, Lithuanian, Italian Preferred weapons: push dagger, throwing spikes, SAKIN MG38, P890, Renetti Timeline: Beyond Two Souls AU! Modern Warfare Reboot Timeline Likes: their girlfriend, animals, science fiction books, ice skating, John Price, their step-brother, colour purple, living in a cottage, indie rock and alternative music, Soap’s pranks, Shadow 3-1, out-of-country missions, playing piano Dislikes: people speaking too loud, cishet men, TERFs, being told what to do, black ink pens, high-pitched noises (she has tinnitus), Velikan, meeting new people, crowded spaces, falling asleep, microfiber cloth Relatives: srg. Noelle Graves Vega (partner), Ethan Medici (adoptive father), [...]

Background: UNDER CONSTRUCTION

Personality: UNDER CONSTRUCTION

Trivia:

They're my self-insert basically so they're similar to my other on Ether from The Boys AU whose intro and art I'm working on. Also I made a whole model for them and posed them in blender lol Their first appearance in the timeline is in mw2 Their faceclaim is Kristen Stewart :3 Their powers are heavily influenced by game Beyond Two Souls Their surname "Vega" is their girlfriend's favourite star.

[baronofhousespider]

Porrtia stands in the doorway of the Ether Tank, anxiously watching as little white flakes fall from the sky. One flutters down onto her helmet and she jerks away; but when nothing comes of it, she pauses.

Slowly her hand extends from under the canopy, letting a few snow flakes land on her palm. They sting, but it’s a good, cold sting. Oddly refreshing.

A hand lands on the vandal’s shoulder, and though she knew he was behind her, she still jumped slightly.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Spider’s voice was oddly wistful, his own hand extending to allow flakes to gather on the back of his hand. “That’s one thing Earth has over Riis. Never had anything..quiet so entrancing as snow.”

“Is that what this is?” Porrtia’s four eyes blink, watching as the snow builds up slowly on the Baron’s armored wrist. “I’ve heard the word before, but I didn’t have a visual to put it with. Is it true Europa is covered in this stuff? Eido told me about it.”

Spider chuckles, pulling his hand away, brushing the thin layer of snow from his arm. “It is. Europa is also extremely dangerous because of it. Misraaks and his kin only barely survived it. And how Eramis’ house continue to survive on that ice ball, I have no idea.”

A hiss of pistons and springs breaks the contemplation as the Baron begins to walk back to his throne. Grumbling, his hand strikes the knee joint of the left prosthetic, huffing and puffing as it finally gives, allowing him to continue walking. “Damn things. I suppose I’ll need something better for the cold, eh? That was the good thing about the Tangled Shore. Might have been crap in other regards, but at least it never got too cold for these old bones.”

Glancing back at the vandal still in the doorway, he can’t help but smile, just a little. “Well? Go on. Get going before it all melts. And don’t even think about trying to bring a snowball back in here-“

[ottpopfic]

Bonzais

A group of nomadic dryads that have bonsied their trees in the sidecar of their motorcycles. They all drive cruisers

All ride different colored motorcycles with matching helmets, all wear matching green (so dark almost black) leather jackets with their logo (weeping willow bonsai with the name) on the back, left arm and left breast pocket. All have a sidecar with their tree in them (larger garden size of bonsais, around Omono), and two saddlebags each (except for Sekjo because medic) in the same leather as jackets. They are all missing different limbs because of being bonsaied, they never grew fully in the dryad form, so they all wear prosthetics. Katie is one of the people they go to for repairs on their prosthetics, it's a big honor to work with them. The prosthetics are part plant part enchanted metals

They get to pull a Durarara because of there biker get up and interact with other biker gangs and fundraisers, well respected in the community. They winter in Palms Springs sometimes now that Meg is rooted there, but mostly do South American in the cold months then head north when it gets warmer. They fight like classic Calvery with spears made from the same wood as their trees, they can pull them out of themselves.

Their motorcycles are part plant now, they run on solar power, but the dryads trees are separate entities from the bikes. The bikes are alive but not sentient. Because the bikes are part plant and also magic they drive on the medians of highways, through farmland and front years, and through national parks. The group has an enchanted map to help plot their routes

The Bonzais are named for the style there tree is in

Shakan (slanting) Ginseng ficus - second in command. Bronze/brown bike. Lettie and her are the closest, great ass. Missing her whole right leg (above the knee) and her pinky, ring and middle fingers on her left hand

Bunjin (literati) Japanese Red Maple - leader, super sick red bike. Missing both arms right below the shoulder. A very formal person

Sekjo (over rock) juniper - medic. Blue bike. missing left arm below elbow and right hand. Very chill person, loves taking care of people. Thinks humans are ‘cute’

Neagari (exposed root) purple azalea - purple bike. Katie is closest with her of the group. missing left foot above the ankle right arm below the elbow. A gossip and a tease

Han Kengai (semi-cascade) elm - yellow bike. missing all fingers but thumb right hand left leg above hip. Will go by ‘Han’ for short, long hair, married to Chokkan

Moyogi (informal upright) black pine - black bike. Has a crush on Lettie, pretty quiet but in that hard kinda way. right leg above knee, left leg below knee, pinky finger left hand

Chokkan (formal upright) white oak - orange bike. oldest. pinky and ring finger right hand, right leg below knee. Has seen shit, the fist ever successfully bonsaied dryad

Hokidachi (broom) crab apple - pink bike. Bubbly and excitable. Youngest. left foot above ankle, right thumb, left arm below elbow

[deadbeatbirdmom]

I guess I'm trying to (probably over-) articulate a difference between fighters evenly matched enough reflex-wise to tag each other (especially when one's weapon has more reach) vs. say, Neon Katt whiffing every single direct strike Yang threw at her (hell, Neo was caught by a leg once). I mean, not like Adam didn't eat hits even while explicitly trying to make Yang recharge Wilt. Incidentally, between the scuffing Yang's arm took and Ironwood having that much trouble wrestling Watts, I kinda doubt even combat-rated prosthetics provide any massive edge if aura's still in play. Maybe the lack of nerve endings helps a bit, but I don't think that arm would've stopped a blast or slice if she'd run outta juice. As for Raven…I could see Adam breaking one (1) dust blade, having a good smirk about that, then getting said expression wiped clean off by a taser-palm to the back of his head.

The thing is we didn't see Yang's Aura break in Volume 3, even after her arm is cut off, and she was using her Semblance at the time she hurled herself at Adam. It's not as clear as in Volume 6 when her hair ignites, but it's definitely glowing like it does when using Burn in the Poser animated Volumes.

Which means she still had Aura at the time, it didn't break before she found Blake in the ruins of the cafeteria.

That must mean Adam's Moonslice can cut through Aura, so I personally don't think Yang's prosthetic stopping the blast in Volume 6 had anything to do with her Aura.

In the event that Adam faced Raven, I think you're right that he might be able to break one of Omen's Dust blades, but at that point he'd find out the hard way that she's the Spring Maiden.

[metataxy]

Mira Bridger meets Darth Maul, Drabble 1

Maul and his apprentice (an eight year old Seventh Sister) crash down on Lothal and is forced to cut off his prosthetics to escape the wreckage of his ship.  The locals see his lightsaber, assume he’s a jedi, and take him to a rebel safehouse, where he’s immediately put under the care of Mira Bridger :)

A month passed, and it became summer.  At this longitude, and with their proximity to the ocean, the seasons changed gently, and the fogs of spring gave way to the warmth of summer.  Jogan-vines sprouted and sprawled across Sumar’s fields, choking out the indigenous grasses.  Beyond the fences though, Maul heard the sound of the prairie sea, the endless shift of high grass in the wind, the scream of the pards mating after dark.

He forgot his injury one night and tried to swing himself out of bed to pursue them and crashed down on the floor.  His eight-year-old apprentice, Metany, turned on the light switch with the kind of deft Force manipulation he hadn’t meant to prioritize in her studies.  He heard Mira exclaim, waking up from her sleep, but it was Ephraim Bridger who came, barging in without knocking.

“Is everything alright?”

Maul’s nose was bleeding.  Metany, clad in one of Mira’s cast-off tunics for bed, was already slipping past Ephraim, presumably to gather rags and water from the kitchen.  

“Fine,” Maul grunted, pinching his nose.  He hadn’t broken it this time.  

“You’re bleeding.”

“Yes.”

Ephraim Bridger appeared nonplussed at this answer.  “Let me help you back into bed.”

Maul set his hands on the mattress, and hoisted himself up, and onto his stomach, then rolled over.  “It is unnecessary, Ephraim, but your offer is appreciated,” he intoned gravely, like the Jedi Master he was not.

Ephraim stood there, a small frown between his eyes, and Maul wished he could just <i>shove</i> the man out of the door.  But as Maul could have predicted, Mira Bridger’s husband was another weak Sensitive.  Where Mira’s talent seemed to manifest through her self-confidence (she was utterly impervious to suggestion, force-guided or otherwise), her quieter husband had their son’s gift of empathy.  And where Ezra, as a baby with limited shields and no sense of self-preservation, connected with everyone indiscriminately, Ephraim Bridger was more cautious.  

The first time Ephraim met Maul, he’d stiffened in surprise.  Not because of his appearance.  The power was out that evening, the generators having been a casualty of some rodents looking for nesting material.  Meta had been helping Mira find the emergency lamps in the attic.  Ephraim had let himself in, had stepped too quietly to the common room where the Sith Lord sat on one of the cushions, holding his son. Maul had felt the tendrils of his power like the brush of an ants’ feelers on his palm, had felt it shrink back.

Then Metany and Mira had rushed up, lit lamps in hand, and Mira had gaily introduced them.  Ephraim had been polite but withdrawn, and he’d watched Maul carefully with his son.  

He watched Maul no less carefully now as Metany stepped around him, rags and a bowl of hot water in hand.  His apprentice turned back to Ephraim.  “I can take care of Master Tal,” she rasped, voice still healing from the crash.

“Alright then,” Ephraim acquiesced, smiling at her, his disquiet undiminished.  “Let us know if you need anything.”

He’d left them then, and Maul had let his apprentice tend to his minor cuts and wounds, inured to letting her do so.

He’d been more helpless for much longer on Lotho Minor, but those memories were blurred and indistinct, like a fever dream.  He hadn’t felt helpless.  Even mad, with no more sentience than an animal, he’d been the most powerful creature on that landfill of a planet.  

He hated to be helpless.  Hated to be tended to by a child.  Hated how counterproductive these months of nursemaiding her own Master must be, in the long run, for Metany’s formation as a Sith.  He had thousands on thousands of credits in accounts in a dozen star systems, and no way to access them since the Empire had seized control of finances in this backwater planet.  He had a dozen minor cartel lords who’d come if he called, and every one of them would put a bullet in his head the moment they saw he’d lost his legs.  He would have compelled Mirada Sumar to find him a surgeon or a way offworld, except she and Mira Bridger were already trying to do that voluntarily.

For the first time, there was absolutely nothing he could do, no purpose to which he could apply his anger.  He couldn’t remember reading any Sith teachings that applied to his current circumstances, probably because any Sith in his condition was killed by their underlings before they could write about it.  

So he laid there, and let Metany bandage him with her small, sure hands, and said nothing when she darted in and kissed her lips to his brow, just below his horns.  She turned off the lights and shimmied under her blankets, and she was trying to go to sleep, but her mind sought out his, like a hand in the dark.

He released his anger and let them both sleep.

------------------------

Notes:

(1) This is a continuation of Uncharted , which is up on AO3

(2) We never really see the Star Wars characters dealing with longterm disability.  Given the way the Dathomiri see masculinity, and how the Sith idealize conventional concepts of strength and independence, I wonder how Maul would adapt to losing his mobility and having to rely more heavily on those around him.  

[alcammedical]

Check out Alcam Medical Orthotics and Prosthetics in Palm Springs, CA. Alcam specializes in many types of upper extremity prosthesis including the following:

• Passive Cosmetic Prosthesis

• Body Powered Prosthesis

• Myoelectric Prosthesis

• Hybrid Prosthesis

[realisticjojoxreader]

For writing requests: Hugging the Crusaders!!!!!!!! 😳🥺👉🏻👈🏻

this was very fun to write lol these guys suck

stardust crusaders x reader (?), part 3 obviously, 1.4k

JOSEPH:

You ask for a hug and he obliges instantly, starved for affection since his grandson will barely speak to him. His arms are warm around you, stronger than they should be at his age, and he holds you tight, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. It feels like you’re the center of his universe.

Taking a deep breath, you wrinkle your nose. What is that smell...? Is that his aftershave? It’s like dust, almost, mixed with wet paper. Where on earth did he get something like that? Why does he use it? It stinks.

The hug is so comfortable, though, and you feel so loved, that you can ignore the weird old man smell. His shirt is scratchy against your skin.

After a long moment, he releases you, hands brushing gently through your hair. Then, something snags, tugging on your hair. Hard. Like, really hard. It actually really fucking hurts. You recoil instinctively, which just pulls your hair even harder, making your scalp burn.

“Oh no!!” screams Joseph, so loudly that you flinch, which just tugs your hair yet again, and you yelp. “Oh shit!! My prosthetic hand is caught in your hair!!”

“Why aren’t you wearing your glove?!”

He hisses apologetically. “I, uh, took it off when I went to the loo.” Oh my god, ew. What the fuck, dude? For a long moment, he stands there trying to undo what he's done, wiggling his fingers in your hair completely ineffectually. “I don’t think we can untangle this ourselves," he says eventually, taking the L. "Let’s go get my grandson.” He turns toward where the others are all standing and takes a slow but confident step forward.

Then Joseph, graceful as ever, trips over absolutely nothing and falls like a sack of bricks. You thoughtlessly brace yourself with your Stand to make sure he doesn’t drag you down, too, forgetting that his hand is very much still stuck in your hair. He falls and takes a hand-sized chunk of your hair with him, leaving you partially bald and sobbing from the pain.

You collapse to the ground, screaming, and the others rush over, finally noticing that something’s happening over here.

“Oops,” says Joseph, holding up a fistful of your hair.

“Nice haircut, idiot,” says Jotaro, looking at you with a tiny smile on his face, like today is Christmas and your partial baldness is his gift from Santa. God, fuck the entire Joestar bloodline. You hope DIO kills them all. They'd absolutely have it coming, though you'd miss Holly.

The only reason you don't abandon them is a promise from Joseph that he'll cover all your expenses until you're back home.

ABDUL:

You ask for a hug and he squints, for second, as if unsure you meant it. When you smile encouragingly, he smiles back and steps forward to wrap you up in his arms.

The hug is warm, like sheets that have just been pulled from the dryer, complete with the clean smell of fresh linen. You’re not sure how he smells so good, seeing as you’ve been traveling in the desert for days, now, and everyone else stinks to high heaven, but you won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

His jewelry rattles as bit as he starts to sway, still holding you tight. You’ve never felt so safe before, especially not since the group made it to Egypt, closing in on DIO in Cairo. As long as you stay in Abdul’s arms, nothing bad can happen.

He pulls back a bit to look you in the eyes. His expression is so hopelessly kind that you have to look away, overwhelmed with it. “Look at me,” he says, voice soft as anything, and you oblige. He says half of your name before his face contorts, as if he’s in pain.

“Abdul? Are you—” you get cut off when Abdul sneezes, right on your face, right into your open mouth. “FUCK!” God, it was so wet, you're going to fucking lose it. You can’t help but punch him in the shoulder.

Because he’s a nice person, Abdul is horrified by what he’s just done to you and also graciously ignores you hitting him. “I’m so sorry!”

It was an accident, so you really can’t get too mad, but you’re still upset. That was so fucking gross.

Something smells weird, now, too. Like smoke.

“Hey, noroma,” says Jotaro, calling you the little nickname he has for you—you don't know what it means, but you're the only one he calls that, which you kind of love. It means you're special to him. Him and the others are finally back from the gas station convenience store, arms full of snacks and water. Jotaro looks bored as ever when he tells you, “Your jacket’s on fire.”

Ah. That explains the smoke smell.

Ultimately, your jacket is ruined and you have minor burns on your wrists. You ask the Crusaders to drop you off at the Cairo airport, because you can’t keep fucking doing this, not after what Joseph did to your hair yesterday.

But then Polnareff makes some revolting-ass puppy dog eyes at you, imploring you to stay, and for some reason, you cave. Anything to get him to stop making that awful face.

POLNAREFF:

You ask for a hug and he grins at you, big and stupid and pleased as punch. That's the expression he makes any time anyone is ever nice to him.

His hug is a little awkward, like he's not used to having someone so close to him. It'd make you feel bad for him if he didn't stink to high heaven. You kind of expected that—he's French, after all—so you're able to ignore it, for the most part. It's not like the others smell like a bag of roses, either, except Abdul, because he rules. (Destroyed jacket and burns that still smart something awful notwithstanding.) It's been a long journey.

After not very long at all, Polnareff starts to get antsy, almost vibrating in your arms. What is he, five years old? Can't he relax long enough for a single hug?

Then he starts giggling, which puts you on edge instantly. Nothing good can come out of him when he's snickering like that.

Before you can pull away, though, you find out why he's giggling.

He's still cackling when he presses his wet, sweat-soaked palms against the bare skin of your arms. You violently recoil and, with more anger than you felt even when Joseph partially balded you, you punch Polnareff right in his stupid fucking nose.

Blood erupts from his face like a geyser. Before you can even laugh at him, something hits you with the force of a moving train. It feels… naked?

Oh. It's Star Platinum. Great. Great! That's just what you needed today, to get your ass beat by Jotaro and his mostly-naked guy of a stand.

Maybe DIO's taking applications.

You almost walk off yet again, but Joseph reminds you of his promise and promises that you're allowed to sit in the front of every car from now on. He also stops Jotaro from kicking the shit out of you, so you stick around, though you suspect you'll regret it.

KAKYOIN:

You ask for a hug and he looks at you like you have two heads. “Me?” he asks incredulously, looking around as if searching for the person you were really talking to. The others are all in the restaurant's restroom right now.

“Yes, you. Who else?” There’s literally no one else around.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t really do hugs. Could you go ask Jotaro or something?”

JOTARO:

Instead of asking for a hug—you know he'll just say no—you ambush him with one, waiting for him to turn the corner and walk right into your open arms. This wouldn't normally work, but you made sure to spring your trap when he was in a heated (though still playful) argument with Polnareff about whale sharks.

Just as you planned, he notices you far too late to stop you, and you grin wide as you wrap your arms around him. He feels solid and warm. You never want to let go.

Jotaro doesn't give you much of a choice.

"Ew," he says before summoning Star Platinum, who grabs you by the scruff of the neck like a naughty kitten. "This is why I call you noroma. Fucking dipshit." And with that, Star Platinum flings you bodily into the dirty ass canal running along the side of the road.

DIO is, in fact, taking applications. You get rejected.

[magicalmanhattanproject]

All the notes I would have on my Docm77 design sheet if I could draw

-Etho made the plate that covers the left half of his skull, which never developed properly

-Eyes don’t work identically. Redstone eye sees in color while creeper eye sees only in green scale (though his vision is 99% color bc brains compensate like that). Reaction times are just barely faster to stimuli coming to the creeper eye.

-redstone eye always glows at least a little bit, but can be turned up to flashlight levels of brightness if needed

-redstone eye also functions as a HUD for schematics, comm, etc.

-Has mostly creeper and human DNA with a teeny tiny bit of goat. The horns were added so the left horn could be used to hide extra redstone that didn’t quite fit in the original head design so he has just enough goat DNA to prevent his body from rejecting the transplant

-Can hiss like a creeper and communicate with creepers, but they don’t listen to him bc he is bad at diplomacy :(

-metal plating on his left neck/shoulder contains tiny potion vials so he can inject a second or two worth of potion right into his bloodstream at any time. ie giving himself a second of slow falling right before he hits the ground. he doesn’t use it on hermitcraft, but he can use it if he plans on not playing fair

-Right arm was made entirely by himself without outside help

-Doesn’t have full mobility in the palm so it technically still counts as a nerf

-does have a Swiss army knife in the forearm bc it isn’t actually a nerf

-strength is roughly equal in both arms, but he is Stronk

-created right handed, has become ambidextrous from making a functioning prosthetic from scratch with only his left arm

-unlike most creeper hybrids, not a centaur :(

-has gunpowder in his blood which needs to be periodically removed before it builds up

-if it’s not built up, he can do small detonations without hurting himself, but his self made detonations are smaller than many other creeper hybrids can handle

-he is quite clearly a very early prototype if you know what you’re looking for

-blood can be anywhere from normal human color to almost silver depending on how long it’s been since he had the gunpowder removed

-like his cc, has 4 doctorates. unlike his cc, they are emergency medicine, neurosurgery, redstone engineering, and astronomy

-he maintains his licenses for emergency medicine and neurosurgery even if he hasn’t practiced in a while

-losing limbs permanently is very very rare in Minecraft bc respawn usually heals injuries, so doc practically invented the field of prosthetics 

-about 90% of Minecraft prosthetics are based on his research in some way

-the spikes on his main trident are spring loaded and retractable so that they don’t cause problems in melee combat 

-can walk completely silently when he wants to. accidentally sneaks up on people all the time

-tatters his own lab coats for that mad scientist aesthetic 

-dad bod :)

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #4: Storm-Salt

Prompt: baleful || Master Post || On AO3

It’s time for that good ol’ FFXIV Write tradition of raising Synnove’s blood pressure with INCANDESCENT RAGE. :D

--

Mhaslona Fhilfhiswyn had just sat down at her desk and removed her prosthetic leg with a relieved grimace (a shame, the Naldiq & Vymelli craftspeople did fine work, but the weight of this new one was too much, and perhaps it was time to browbeat them into letting go of their pride and partnering with the Ironworks to explore some new alloys or building materials) when a chill went down her spine. She sat up slowly, placing her hands palm down on her desk, fingers splayed, eyes darting about. A glance out the window showed the same sunny weather of a late spring day it had been half a bell ago when she’d taken the long climb up the southwest tower to her office from the main hall of Mealvaan’s Gate.

What in the Seven swiving Hells?

That chill transformed, suddenly, into a pressure on her chest, for one wild, awful moment, Mhaslona thought she was about to have a heart attack, until the scent of ambergris and dead kelp and storming sea unfurled in her nose and coated the back of her tongue. Not a heart attack, then, but an emotional resonance so powerful it was warping the nearby ambient aether into a sympathetic harmony.

This was a rage so deep, so all-encompassing, it was wonder it could be contained in a mortal shell. Just who was so damned angry?

The storm-salt taste was intensifying, and Mhaslona shook her head with a sigh. She was about to find out, wasn’t she?

Three knocks came at her door: BANG. BANG. BANG. Every shelf rattled, and so did her teeth.

“Enter!” she called out.

The door slammed into the wall with the force by which it was thrown open, and Synnove strode inside, a near living avatar of the Fury—or perhaps the Destroyer, with how the aether around her seemed to spark and crackle. Galette hung from her shoulder, chittering non-stop in a poor attempt to calm her person down, and Tyr slunk in behind her, tails lashing. Even Synnove’s hair seemed to be bristling, her knee-length braid whipping in such a way that it was clear the force of her rage was disturbing what little wind aether was about, too.

Mhaslona rubbed her nose. “What’s got you in a tiff, girlie?” she said. “I’ve got so much salt and ambergris in my nose I’ll be lucky to taste dinner tonight.”

Without a word, her (favorite) former student stopped right in front of her desk, and dropped an open journal onto her desk. The Sea Wolf obliging leaned forward.

On the Aetherodynamic Properties of Infusing Gemstones with Living Aether, by Bahram Zarir.

Mhaslona rocked back in her chair, eyes wide. She looked up at Synnove.

The Highlander’s green eyes were definitely glowing, and her wordless snarl shook the room. Galette sighed, and dropped down from Synnove’s shoulder, giving up in favor of flopping dramatically across Mhaslona’s desk. Tyr propped his chin on the desktop and sighed, his heavy breath ruffling his older sister’s ears.

Hesitantly, the Sea Wolf reached out and grasped the left-hand side of the journal, almost closing it so that she could check the names and date of it.

The Journal of Theoretical and Applied Arcanima College of Mathematics – Department of Arcanima The University of Radz-at-Han Second Year 7UE Volume 65, Issue 1

She laid the journal out flat again.

Synnove had published her master’s thesis only a few moons before Dalamud fell. And this was not the reaction of a woman to a mere rebuttal article.

Mhaslona did not bother to read the article in full, merely skimming it, but she didn’t need to. And she didn’t need to get her copy of the Guild journal in which Synnove’s thesis was published to compare and contrast. She had been Synnove’s advisor; she knew these words on this page. Words that weren’t quoted, or attributed.

She aged another ten damn years when she flipped to the end of the article to check the full bibliography, and did not see her student’s name among the credits.

With a heavy sigh, she closed the journal and sat back in her chair, meeting Synnove’s gaze again. The other woman spat out something deeply unflattering in Ala Mhigan about Zarir’s maternal line—Mhaslona’s grasp of Ala Mhigan was just enough to know that was the kind of insult which began blood feuds—and snarled again. Aether sparked, little levinbolts shivering along the green-and-brown strands of Synnove’s hair, and the salt-smell in Mhaslona’s nose was so strong she wanted to gag.

Mhaslona vaguely recalled the name of this little shit; he had studied at the Guild some years ago, working on both applied mathematics and theoretical aetherophysics. Smarmy and self-important, and lazy; he had done the bare minimum to pass the Guild’s requirements for one of their degrees. But something like this brought all the work he had done into sharp focus and a serious questioning of what had been actual original work.

But more than indignation and horror, Mhaslona was furious. Synnove had worked her arse off the whole of her masterwork year, researching and perfecting her equations, agonizing over the placement of every symbol. And she was just a few sennights shy of actually beginning to put her theories and beautiful mathematics to the test, with a shipment of rubies purchased with her carefully hoarded grant money. The amount of work and tears her student had put into this project over the past three years was enormous, and this little Hannish quisby wanted to step in on that?

She pushed back her chair, looking for her cane, and allowed herself a soft smile at the sight of Tyr holding it out to her, tails wagging. She gave him a pat on the head—her student’s topaz boy was a good lad—and accepted her cane, leaning on it as she pushed herself upright. She could hobble faster on this polished piece of driftwood than on that blasted new prosthetic.

“All right,” Mhaslona said, “let’s go raise hell.”

[yeenybeanies]

how about number 40 with the Bad Batch?

send prompts!

40. “ i didn’t know they were actually afraid of me… ” yes this is the story that i designed this lil dude for :’>

star wars | the bad batch & a tiny alien ( oc )

1,703 words

very light blood warning

thanks for sending!

Oh, they are afraid. They’re terrified! Why the hell wouldn’t they be afraid of not just one giant being, but four? One of whom is significantly more giant than the other three! 

“ Of course it’s afraid, ”  one of the giants says, echoing their thoughts.  “ You can’t just grab at it, Wrecker. ”  That giant gestures to them, making them raise all four of their arms defensively. His voice is surprisingly soft, clashing with the scary-looking tattoos on his face.

They want to climb, run, crawl––do anything. They just want to get away. But they’re cornered, with four giants staring down at them.

“ I just wanted to see what it was, ”  the biggest one protests.  “ Look at ‘em! They’re so small, and they’ve got lots of arms! “  

“ All very fascinating, ”  another of the four speaks up,  “ but it’s still not wise to try to pick up creatures we know nothing about. It could be dangerous. ”  He flips his glasses down and leans in. The little being turns their defensive posture towards him, arms raised, tail lashing.

“ How dangerous could it be? It barely reaches my ankle, ”  the last giant says skeptically. He isn’t crowding quite as much as the other three, but his presence is still plenty unnerving.

The spectacled man takes a step closer.  “ Well, for starters, see that cybernetic arm it has? ”  All eyes fall to the little one’s lower left arm.  “ There’s a blade on the ulnar side that appears quite sharp. ” 

Now feeling even more self conscious, the little being tries to tuck their prosthetic arm out of view. They keep their three organic arms raised defensively, and flare their crests up, trying to make up for their diminutive size.

“ It understands us, ”  the tattooed man says, his eyes narrowing.

“ Fascinating. ”  says the spectacled one.  “ You can understand us? Do you speak? “  

“ Ooh! Ooh! Let me talk to it! ”  The big one shouts, making the little being flinch and flatten their ears back––all six of them. As if the volume wasn’t offensive enough, though, the big man shoves his way to the front of the crowd, trying to get closer. This, understandably, scares the kriff outta the little one. They shriek in fear. Knowing full well there is no escape in front of them, they instead whip around, take quick stock of the corner they’re backed into, and start climbing the wall. They’re fast, much to the astonishment of the giants. There’s commotion behind them, but they don’t look back. They can’t. They feel like their hearts are going to burst from their chest.

“ Crosshair, don’t––! ” 

The little one doesn’t have time to cringe at the shouting; a blaster bolt sears the wall just a few inches above them, its impact rattling them, concussing them, dislodging them. Their grip fails. They fall. Everything goes black.

Did . . . did they just die? 

Does death feel stuffy and cramped? 

Voices, though muffled, ring around them.

“ ––can’t just shoot it! ”

“ What? Tech said it might be dangerous. ”  

“ It’s just scared. ”

“ Is it dead? ” 

This is not death. The little being squirms, feeling their way around the tight space. The walls are covered in fabric, and feel squishy. They’re warm to the touch.

“ No, it’s still moving. ” 

A horrible thought slams into the little one’s mind. With a soft click, the blade in their arm flicks out, and they slash at the soft roof of their confinement. The walls flinch and bevel away, but don’t open up. The little one slashes again. A sharp grunt sounds around them.

“ Ow––kriff––! ”  Very suddenly, the roof of their containment lifts, leaving the little one momentarily blinded. They cover their head with their top two arms, while their lower too remain defensive.  “ Hey. ”  The voice––that soft voice of the tattooed man, now not so soft––shakes them to their core.  “ Enough with the cutting. ”

Once their eyes adjust, the little one realizes that, to their terror, they’d guessed correctly: they’re in a giant hand. The gloved fingers curl behind them like an oncoming wave, threatening to crash over them at any moment. Without thinking, they spring to their feet and jump––

––and abruptly stop mid-air, upside down. The little one chitters in alarm and looks down––er, up?––to see their tail caught between a giant forefinger and thumb. It doesn’t hurt at all, what with it being prehensile, but it still scares them plenty.

“ You got a death wish, tiny? ”  The man asks. He lifts them to his eye level and stares them down, making them feel even smaller than they already are.  “ Relax. I’m not going to hurt you. ”  He glances back at the other three, all of whom are staring at him and his detainee.  “ Heh. If anything, I’m the one that’s least likely to hurt you. ” 

“ Hey! ”  the big one and the spectacled one say in unison.

The tattooed man shakes his head and turns his attention down to his free hand. The little one follows his gaze. Across his palm, there are two slashes in the fabric and the skin beneath. The cuts are shallow, but they still seep blood. They feel another jolt of panic. Is he mad? Is he going to retaliate? He just said he wouldn’t hurt them! They start to shake. The tip of their tail instinctively curls around his fingers.

“ I know you can understand us, ”  he says, letting his cut hand fall. The little one watches it for a moment, then looks back up at him, confused. So he’s . . . not mad?  “ My name’s Hunter. Back there, the big one’s Wrecker, the one with the glasses is Tech, and the one that almost shot you is Crosshair. ” 

The little one looks between all four faces, their gaze lingering a bit longer on the one called Crosshair. He stares right back at them, cold, remorseless. It makes them curl in on themself a bit more.

“ Normally, we don’t take too kindly to stowaways, ”  Hunter continues, drawing their attention back to him,  “ but I can’t imagine you take up too much space and resources. You can ride with us until we hit the next outpost. We won’t toss you out of the airlock like we would anyone else. ” 

Well. That’s both alarming and relieving to hear.

“ However––– ”  Dank farrik.  “ There are some ground rules, okay? ”  He stares at them expectantly. Slowly they nod. The corner of Hunter’s lip quirks up, a ghost of a smirk.  “ We don’t need you getting squashed underfoot. Certainly not with Wrecker stomping around. ”  The big man makes a noise of protest, but Hunter ignores him.  “ So try to stay off of the floor. You’ve already shown that you’re a good climber. Stick to walls and tabletops. Or have one of us carry you. ”  

Though the idea of being carried makes them uneasy, the little one nods again. Hunter looks satisfied. He steps nearer to a table and lowers them down to it, his fingers releasing their tail. Once they’re on their feet, they pull it closer to themself and stare back up at him.

“ Is . . . is that it? ”  They ask meekly.

None of the men had taken their eyes off of them, but, upon hearing their voice, all four focus in even more. Tech flips his goggles up, brows raised.

“ It does speak . . . ”  he muses.

“ Yeah, that’s it, ”  Hunter says with a shrug.  “ Other than the obvious  ‘ don’t sabotage my ship, ’  and  ‘ don’t hurt my men. ’  But I figured I didn’t need to say that. ” 

The little one blinks and glances between the four faces again. Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Crosshair . . .. They all look similar, like they’re related.

“ Tech can set you up a place to sleep. He’s also probably the best one to talk to about anything else you’d need. ”  Said man straightens and steps up next to Hunter. The little one shifts uneasily, but doesn’t scramble back, despite every instinct telling them to do so.

“ Yes––you should tell me anything important right now, ”  Tech says.  “ What sort of atmospheric composition is best for you? What are your dietary needs? You’re carbon-based, correct? Does your arm require any external power sources? ”  

Uh . . ..  The little one stares up at him blankly. Their fins flatten against their neck, showing their unease.  Hunter glances between them and Tech, one brow raised.

“ Maybe start with easier questions, ”  he suggests.

“ Carbon-based––yes, ”  the little one answers, much to the surprise of both Hunter and Tech.  “ Er . . . there is less oxygen here than I am used to, but I can acclimate. And I eat . . . anything I can catch. ”  They pause, again feeling a little self-conscious about their prosthesis. They ignore the final question and tuck their arm behind their back.

“ You’re carnivorous? ”  Tech asks. The little one doesn’t care for how he’s ogling. They try to ignore it. 

“ Yes, ”  they affirm with a nod.  “ Ckaatrans––my kind––we hunt. ”  

“ Fascinating . . .. ” 

A loud groan sounds behind the two clones, making the little one jump. All eyes turn to the big man––Wrecker.  “ All this nonsense talk is so boring. C’mon, let me show the li’l guy around the ship! ”  His booming voice shakes the little one down to the bones. They press their ears down as hard as they can, trying to protect their sensitive hearing from the offending noise.

“ Wrecker . . . ”  Hunter starts, warning in his tone.  “ We’ve already established that you scare it. You’re gonna have to give it some space while it get used to you. ” 

Eugh. How patronizing. True, but patronizing. The little one grimaces. And they keep calling them an it.

“ Tawl, ”  they say, raising their voice in the barest show of indignation.  “ I am––er, my name is Tawl. ”  

There’s a snort further back. Crosshairs shakes his head.  “ Not a very fitting name, tiny. ” 

Tawl’s fins bristle for a moment, but they force them to settle. They can already tell that they’re going to have to get used to comments on their size while they’re stuck here.

“ And I’m not an  ‘ it. ’  ” 

“ Then tell us more, ”  Tech says. He pulls up a chair and sits himself down in front of Tawl, fingers laced in front of him. The proximity makes them nervous, has them taking a couple of steps backwards.

This is going to be a long journey to the next outpost, they can already tell.

[lilsocksiswriting]

Stuck in A Cabin in a Snowstorm, What Did You Think Was Going To Happen?

Fandom: Haikyuu

Paring: Bokuto X Fem!reader

Summary: You accuse Bokuto of hiding heating packs in his  sweats while stuck in a cabin during snowstorm.

Warnings: NSFW, no beta, minors DNI

Tags: College AU,  Hand job, Fingering, pussy eating, Light overstimulation, 

Word Count:  3283

I promise this whole blog won't be just Bokuto. I just really like that himbo

This was ridiculous, but you keep telling yourself that things could be worse. You could be stuck out in the snowstorm instead of inside in front of a cozy fire. But who leaves their cabin unlocked? What cabin didn’t have electricity in this day and age? And more importantly, why do you have to be stranded in a cabin with him.

You set it in front of the fireplace and it's decent fire. Whoever owned the cabin had a large stockpile of wood kept nice and dry under a thick tarp outside. Between the fire and Bokuto setting behind you not one part of your body was cold, yet you couldn’t settle down. Mainly in part that you hated that Bokuto was right about sharing body heat.

“They said that rescue would be here first thing in the morning right?”, you ask Bokuto for the third time. The cabin wasn’t quite out in the middle of nowhere so you two had cell service, but your phone had died and Bukoto’s was at 10% now which meant he had to conserve that battery power until rescue got here. 

You feel his chest expand then deflate as he lets out a sigh, “Yes Y/N they’ll be here bright and early. Just not soon enough.”

“Rude," you pout, " I'm great company."

“No, rude is asking me the same question five times now.

“Excuse me," you try setting up a little straighter, "it's only been three.”

“Three too many.”, the athlete scoffs.

“You’re insufferable,” you shift around more adding, “and uncomfy.”

You hear him swallow thickly then say in a strained voice like you were testing his patience, “You know I really wish you wouldn't do that.”

You don’t stop shifting as you complain, “Well I really wish I wasn’t stuck in this cabin setting on an itchy bearskin rug with you.”

You suddenly freeze when you feel something poking your lower back. No way. No fucking way. You scamper away from Bokuto and turn your body to face him. Sure enough between his open Legs was a bulge in the crotch of his gray sweats he wore under his snowsuit.

“Bullshit.”, is your response to the sight. 

Meeting his gaze Bukoto’s glaring at you, but that wasn’t new and neither is his annoyed  tone, “What did you just say?”

You try to act like you aren’t phased by the deep tone, “I-there’s no way you're that big. What are you hiding in there?” your eyes narrow, ”Heating packs?”

“What?" he's confused for a split second, "No! I told you to stop squirming!”

“I didn’t do that,”  you deny what you had done and repeat, “And there’s no way in hell you're that big.”

“Well I am.”, he tells you in a matter-of-fact voice.

“No, you’re not. Were you trying to impress that girl in our gen Ed English class? The one that’s always making eyes at you?”

“No- wait she likes me?”

You roll your eyes, “Yes, but not the point. What do you have in your pants Bokuto.”

“My Dick.”

“Bull. Shit.”

“I’m not lying!”, he groans though his head back and gives you a nice view of the way his Adam's apple bobs for a moment.

You cross your arms setting up a little straighter, voice becoming more serious, "Then show me.”

There was a long pause. It takes a moment for what you were demanding him to do to register in Bokuto’s head, “I’m not showing my dick Y/N.”

“Because it's fake. I mean look at it,” you point an accusing finger at the bulge, “How are you still hard.”

Bokuto suddenly becomes bashful looking off to the side. The dim light from the fire is all the lighting you need to see the red inching up his neck, “Seeing you angry it's... kinda hot ok.”

“That,” you scoff, “ is a blatant lie.” Though a small part of wishes that it wasn’t, “Just admit that you're lying about having a big dick. It makes you look worse when you’re still trying to lie about it”

“Fuck! Fine,” Bokuto Throws up his hands then slams back down on the rug with a dull thud and pushes himself off the ground, “You wanna see it so bad.”, he says in a voice that’s low, threatening, and hot.

Time seemed to slow down as he steps towards your spot on the rug.  Bokuto pulls down the waistband of his sweats and his erection springs out right in your face. The mushroom tip already flushed and red and drooling a slimy bead of clear pre-cum. A thick vein runs along the underside of a thicker shaft, all of which sat above a heavy set of balls. And yes, the carpet did match the drapes like the girls in your gen ed English class wondered a little too loudly.

You sit there staring at the monster of a cock Bokuto really does have with your mouth hanging open. Bokuto has half a mind to shove it down your throat if you're just going to sit like that. It's like you were waiting for him too.

Your jaw snaps shut, mouth pressing in a thin line. You didn't want it to be true.  It would just further make Bokuto out to be as perfect as everyone thought he was.

"A Prosthetic," you come to a possible conclusion, "You're wearing a fake one."

You clip your glare up just in time to see the man fisting his salt and pepper hair then running his hands down his face, "Are you fucking serious Y/N? My dick's right in your face and You think it's fake?”

"Yea. I do."

"Why?

You shrug, not wanting to admit the childish reason why "I just do."

"Ok,” Bokuto breaths coming to his own conclusion, "then touch it."

In your shock you choke out, "Wh-what.

Your expression puts a smirk on his face. He puts his hands and his hips and bounces on the heels of his socked feet making his heavy cock bounce as well.

"Go on,” he challenges, “If you're so sure that my dick’s fake then see for yourself."

Your eyes flick from Bokuto's smug look to his weeping cock.

"Well?", he prompts impatiently.

You not being able to say no to a challenge, especially ones from the likes of the star athlete, reach your hand up. You swallow thickly when your hand wraps around the thick base which it can barely do. The erection was warm, weighty and firm in your hand. You can feel it pulse under your palm. All things pointing to the penis in your hand being very real. When you give it a sharp tug everything stays intact. You begin to stroke his shaft slowly, trying to find any indication of it being fake.

Bokuto trembles under your touch letting out a shaky breath. Under it, You hear him say, “Holy Fuck Y/N.”

Looking back up Bokuto is looking down at you as you jerk him off in shallow strokes. His eyes are dark and clouded, his lips are parted slightly, and his breath comes out in shakey huffs. A quiet moan slips past your lips as Bokuto needly bucks his hips into your fist. Even though Bokuto is standing over you, you feel like you have all the power over him, and you love it.

But Bokuto doesn't. Don't get him wrong, he could just cum from feeling and seeing your hand wrapped around his dick. It was that devilish smirk that spreads across your face as you jerk him off faster knowing he has no power over your hand that makes him feel weak.

 He tries to play it cool, "S-So, real enough for you?"

"Not quite. I need to finish my inspection before I decide that.", you say slyly and it fills Bokuto with both dread and arousal. Just what were you planning on doing to him?

“Then by all means inspect away.” 

The more that you stroke his cock the more Bokuto was coming to undone. By now you had already come to terms with Bokuto's penis being real. But admitting that was the last thing on your mind. You sit on your knees a little straighter, open your mouth, and look up at Bokuto not waiting for his permission.

"Fuck Y/N if you do that. If you put in my month -I’m going to cum.", Bokuto frantically informs you, his voice cracking and desperate to feel your hot mouth.

 You keep looking up at the athlete's face as you lay the head flat on your tongue close to your lips around it. You want to take more, see if you could make it past your gag reflex, but Bokuto wasn't kidding. His hands clench at his hoodie as his jaw goes slack and his mouth hangs open letting out one lang shaky moan.  His cum fills your mouth quickly and seeps down you though causing you to swallow or gag.

As he's calming down from his short high Bokuto smirks. Now it was your turn to be bashful and look away as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Real enough for you?”

"I don't know. Tastes a little too sweet."

"Because I eat a lot of fruit."

"Excuses, excuses.", you retort.

Bokuto rolls his eyes. He's not done arguing with you. He'll never get tired of getting riled up, but right now he wants other things from you, “Yea yea, now lay down.”

“Oh are you going to make sure my pussy is real now?”, you tease but you’re already laying down on your elbows and spreading your legs so Bokuto can make himself comfortable between them.

Bokuto laughs resting his head against your clothes thigh looking up at you with darken eyes, ”Oh I'm very sure that it’s real and I'm very sure I can ruin it.”

“Ha,”  you put on a confident front but your eyes are  already clouding over with lust, ”I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh you will”,  Bokuto says, not about to let you have the last word.

Bokuto gets to stripping you of everything below your waist. Once he has your bar and the lips of your pussy spread out with his thumbs his mouth latches onto the sensitive pearl between them in a messy kiss. The sudden sucking and feeling of his tongue flat against your clit causes you to take a sharp inhale of breath and kick out a leg. Bokuto makes a ‘hmp’ sound and throws the leg over his shoulder.

 He pushes a finger into your slick heat then soon after another. It only takes the two to stretch you, but he doesn’t stop until he has four fingers  fucking your sloppy cunt.  All that time practicing those razor-sharp cross shots made his fingers calloused. They drag along your wall and press against a particle's soft bundle of nerves in ways that have you seeing stars. 

But just as your walls start to flutter around them Bokuto pulls his fingers and mouth away before you cum. You don’t even care about the pitiful wine that comes out of you because of how unfair Bokuto was being. He can hover over you and smirk like he won something all he wants. It wasn't fair that you got him to cum and he wasn't going to do the same for you.

“Aww, what’s wrong Y/N”, he pants, and it doesn't take a genius to know that he's stroking himself.

“Ass,“ you exhale, ”Do you leave all the women you sleep with this  unsatisfied?”

“Never, I’d just rather make you cum on my dick.”

On instinct you want to retort with a small dick joke, but you can’t when you have already been proven wrong on that. And being honest with yourself didn't sound half bad. His fingers were thick and rough in all the right ways and his tongue was so warm and wet, but his dick was a whole different story. Bokuto looks like he could rearrange your guts and why the hell not? You were on the pill anyway.

“You know how to use that thing?”

He gives you a blank look, ”I've had this thing for 22 years.”

 “So has a lot of other mediocre dudes.”

“You really like to get under my skin, don’t you Y/N.”,  he growls, his blank look turning into a dangerous smirk

 You smirk right back reaching your arms up and looping them around Bokuto’s neck. You do the same with your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together, ‘And I can do it all night, but I want you to put your money where your mouth is and show me rather or not you know how to use that monster cock of yours.”

“Oh so you're admitting it’s real now?”, He says lining up his penis with your soaking hole.

The comeback you have dies in your throat and you left your mouth gaping as he pushes in. Shit, shit, shit he was so fucking big. You can feel every inch being pushed inside you, stretching you in ways his fingers could never.

Bokuto stiffed his jaw forcing himself to go slow. Too fast and he would hurt, but too slow and he can enjoy how your face contorts between pleasure and pain. He lets a shaky huff of air when he finally bottoms out in you fitting nicely against your cervix. You both stare at each other panting, pupils blown.  Bokuto thinks you look so beautiful like this;  breathless, skin flushed pink, and eyes full of want for only him. It's a look he could get used to.

“Why the hell are you panting?” You ask slightly annoyed, “You aren’t the one being split in half here.”

“Y/N, it is taking everything I have not to move for you. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You take that as both an insult and Bokuto just wanting to make sure you feel nothing but Pleasure. "Well, I’m not some fragile little thing. So move.”

Bokuto pulls back his hips until only an inch of his cock is left inside you, "You’re going to regret bossing me around like that.”  then slams into you.

It was like you here being stretched all over again. But as Bokuto continues to hump into you the burning pain soon fades. Bokuto's thick cock keeps filling you up over and over with each thrust. His dick dragging along that bundle of nerves from before and kissing your cervix makes wither in delight. Seeing you come undone so quickly further fuels his ego.

"You know for someone who acts like they hate me you sure do seem to love my fat cock."

All you can form are moans as Bokuto continues to fuck you at a growing pace. You are faintly aware of the grunts he makes from above and the wet slaps that echo through the tint cabin. But for the most part, all you can think about is the way he fucking your soaking pussy is bring you closer and closer to a huge orgasm you're not sure your body can handle.

“M’gonna- fuuuuuck Bo-,” your walls suddenly clench around him and refused to let go,” Cummin~  of god! ahhhh~” 

Bokuto follows you soon after you. His thrusts became more erratic as he fucks you through your orgasm and reaches his own. In one more powerful thrust Bokuto moans your name against your skin coating your convulsing walls with his cum.

"So was that real enough for you?", Bokuto can't help but ask as he and you catch your breath.

All it takes is a little push from Bokuto to fall over and let you roll on top of him. Before Bokuto's duck can go soft you start to softly rock your hips. Bokuto gasps and throws his head back. His big hands grip your waist but do nothing stop you. You wait until the athlete looks back up at you to strip off the rest of your clothes. His face was downright adorable. You've barely even done anything and you can already see he was getting overstimulated. His mouth was open, panting like a dog, jaw trembling, and eyes blurring.

"Aww what's wrong Bo?" you mock him as he did with you earlier. You quickly rid yourself of your sweatshirt and reach around unclasp your bra, "Is the star ace already out of stamina? Can he not handle a real pussy?"

"I'm still sensitive-" he's cut off by his own winey moan as you start to bounce on his hardening cock, "oh, fuck, fuck, Y/N  you look so fucking good on top of me."

"Yea?"  you smile as Bokuto continues to stare at your tits as they bounce along with you.

"You can look and touch you, oaf," You chuckle, taking Bokuto's hands off your hips and placing them on your breasts.

You let out a low moan when he gives them an experimental squeeze. Your hands slip back down and under Bokuto's hoodie where they come to rest against his chest. Bokuto doesn't even seem to register you putting your weight on him so that you can ride him faster. He can definitely feel the change in tempo.

You really start to feel the burn in your thighs but you refuse to give up riding Bokuto as hard as you can. He looks like he was about to cum and so were you. 

"So much," he moans,"you going milk me dry."

"That is the pint," you pant, " But  I can't sto-"

"No! please. I'm so close to cumming again and you feel so good bouncing on my cock. Shit, and your tits feel so good too.”

You dig your nails into Bokuto’s chest. He bucks his hips into which seem to be all that was needed to send you into your third orgasm. Feeling his seed releasing inside your messy heat has you creaming on his cock. Your third orgasm racks through your body. You fall forward and bury your face in the soft fabric of Bokuto’s hoodie inhaling his scent as your body continues to tremble. 

You stay like that for a bit, at least until the world stops feeling so light and Bokuto’s seed has begun to leak from your plugged cunt. He's flipping you two around and smiling down at you and you're confused fucked out face.

“What? You thought the starting ace would be tired after a few rounds? I can go all night Baby.”

You  smile back meeting his challenge, ”Bet you can?”

rounds of sex later you and Bokuto bask in the warm glow of the fire. Both of you are too tired to care if recuse finds you like this naked with Bokuto's dried cum between your thighs.

Bokuto's rubbing  a hand up and down your spine when he asks you, "So why do you hate me?"

your eyes were closed listing the heat beat but you were still awake enough to hear him and felt that since he spent so much time ruining all other men for you he deserved to know, "You're a great person, but you just kinda seem entitled. Like you assume everyone will like you. You don't earn it."

"That's all? You don't like me because I haven’t earned it from you?"

you nod.

"Oh! Then that's an easy fix. I just have to earn your friendship, then your love."

"One step at a time."

"And step one is asking you to go out for coffee when we make it back.”, you can hear the beaming smile in his voice.

And you can disagree with the offer,” Coffee doesn't sound bad.

[glimmerglanger]

You asked for this, friend: In the oof!au, Obes is gonna need a new lightsaber isn't he? Or at least will need to heal Anakin's. You have any ideas how that goes?

HE SURE IS. I actually think it’s one of the things he gets around to earlier (so, chronologically he starts working on it before the arm is completed, but finished after). SO:

~~~~~~~~~~

So many things were broken.

Obi-Wan felt the cracks, the aching hurts through the Force; it was a constant kind of pressure, always there. He felt it from his men - even from Rex and Ahsoka, who were not, technically, his, but - and himself and…

And even the lightsaber that he kept in his quarters.

He did not know what Anakin had done to his lightsaber. Perhaps there’d been some grand plan in store for it. Perhaps Anakin had planned to use it to cut off his legs. Or to kill him, when Anakin ran out of ways to amuse himself with Obi-Wan’s body.

Whatever his intentions had been, they could no longer come to fruition. It was gone, along with everything else once placed upon the surface of Mustafar. 

But Anakin’s lightsaber had come with them, had escaped off of the planet and stayed in Obi-Wan’s care. And it radiated agony, out into the Force. It took days - weeks - for Obi-Wan to identify that bit of agony; there was so much else to work through, first.

When he did, he froze for a long moment, staring at the metal cylinder. It was large, larger than he could comfortably hold. Anakin had not been rebuilt to scale, by whatever butchers had tended him. The saber was dark and grim and Obi-Wan did not like to look at it because Anakin had--

Made it the instrument of some much pain and suffering.

Enough so that the agony radiated out of it, still.

Obi-Wan curled his fingers up to his palms. He considered simply putting the thing in an airlock and spacing it, but… He understood the basic process used by the Sith to torture kyber crystals into compliance. He could not, he found, bring himself to abandon yet another wound caused by Anakin. He drew in a sharp breath and, carefully, went about dismantling the device.

It was easy to fall into the habit of breaking down a lightsaber. He had done it so many times in his life. Each lightsaber was different but each was the same, as well. He twisted and tugged and gently placed the pieces as he went, just as though he were repairing his own.

Except his crystal had never been so dull. There was no visible red glow to it, not the way he had half-expected. It simply looked shadowed. It had no shine. And it radiated agony out into the Force, a sense of corruption and wrongness.

“Sh,” Obi-Wan said, plucking the tiny crystal up and placing it in his palm. It barely weighed anything and felt terribly cold against his skin. He curled his fingers around it and cradled it to his chest, curling over, murmuring, “sh, sh.”

#

There were methods to heal a kyber crystal. Obi-Wan had heard of them, once upon a time, ever so long ago. He barely recalled them. He’d been a padawan, when he learned the lore and the rituals, and had not thought them something he needed to commit to memory.

After all, he’d assumed, the library would always be there to review the process.

He was still digging through his memories when someone knocked at his door. He did not have to stretch out his senses through the Force to know that it was Cody. After all, he’d been alone for nearly an hour.

That was, to date, close to a record for them.

Obi-Wan shook that thought away. Healing, he knew, took time. He stood, keeping the crystal tucked against his palm, and went to the door, and nodded, though he was not really hungry, when Cody asked if he wanted to go to the mess.

The crystal burned cold against his palm through the meal.

#

Obi-Wan grew familiar with the cuts and edges of the crystal. He studied it and kept it close and wondered, exactly, how he was supposed to heal it. He meditated upon it, keeping the crystal close, and found it easy to sink down into its presence in the Force.

Something lashed out at him when he did, something sharp edged that slid along his mind. He got the feeling, settled deep in the Force, that it was a strike not meant to cause harm. A warning, instead. 

He exhaled, centering himself and refocusing on the crystal and when it struck at him again, he accepted the pain. Sometimes, he knew, healing required pain. A broken bone could not be set without hurt.

And he knew quite well how to handle pain.

#

The pain radiating out of the crystal did not ease all at once. It faded over time, in bits and snatches, until one morning Obi-Wan woke up and felt no hurt blazing out of it. He uncurled his fingers slowly, and found the crystal clear.

He smiled and curled his fingers closed again, relieved, at least, to have succeeded in fixing something.

He meant, really, to leave things there. The Order had fallen, the Temple had burned, he was...not the warrior he once was. What use did he have, really, for a lightsaber? But that did not stop him from reaching for his belt, more and more often, especially once his prosthetic was completed.

It would always be his first instinct, in a fight, to reach for a lightsaber, to stand as a shield in front of his men. A blaster could kill a man, or at least hurt someone badly enough that they would not rise again.

A lightsaber could deflect a killing blow, could stop a fight before it started.

And so he sighed, eventually, and pulled out the rest of the pieces of Anakin’s lightsaber, frowning over them. They were the wrong size to serve his purposes, but the basic components would work, if he managed to collect enough of what he needed. 

He wondered how difficult it would be to arrange a trip to a market. Or perhaps two.

#

In the end, he made his purchases here and there, while they were going about other business. He thought he’d done a fairly good job keeping his work to himself, at least until Tektek stopped by his side in the mess one day and placed a small spring beside his hand. Obi-Wan had been unable to find one anywhere and looked up, startled.

“It wasn’t hard to make,” Tektek said, gaze cutting to the side, voice quiet. 

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, reaching his new hand out and gently lifting the spring. “I didn’t - you didn’t have to--”

“I wanted to,” Tektek said, and Obi-Wan could not help but noting that their conversation was suddenly drawing a lot of attention. Crys, a table away, had frozen and was staring at them, wide-eyed, as Tektek cleared his throat and said, “Some of us - we have some other parts. If you’d want them.”

Obi-Wan blinked, rapidly, trying to clear away the burn in his eyes. He said, carefully clearing his throat, “I’d - of course I’d want them.”

And by the time he left the mess he had all the pieces he yet needed, held carefully in his hands. He said, softly, to Cody, who walked beside him the entire way, “I didn’t mean to put everyone to any trouble.” 

And Cody hesitated, for just a step, before he slid into motion again and said, “You didn’t.”

Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose. “I--”

“We want - we - it’s good, to help you,” Cody cut in, touching his arm, so softly that Obi-Wan only barely felt it. He came to a stop and purposefully leaned into the touch, hearing Cody’s breath catch a little.

They did nothing but look at one another for a moment, and then Obi-Wan nodded. He said, soft, “I have everything I need now.”

“So you can make one?” Cody asked, and Obi-Wan hesitated another moment before inclining his head, just a little. “Good,” Cody said, and Obi-Wan wished he could agree so whole-heartedly, so easily.

#

In the end, Obi-Wan found reasons to put off the construction, but a brutal fight and then another convinced him he could not wait any longer. He was a steady hand with a blaster. He could fight more than well with nothing but his body.

But…

A lightsaber helped. There was no way to deny it. And so he went back to his quarters, relieved when Cody followed him in and sat down at the table to clean his blaster. Obi-Wan laid out all the pieces and...made himself breathe as he constructed them. 

It did not take long to complete the work. He closed his eyes and felt each piece in the Force, moving them together without touching them. He tested the balance of the completed saber, sliding the Force over each piece of it, feeling the thrum of the crystal inside.

He stretched out his hand and took it from the air, and it fitted perfectly against his palm and his fingers. He opened his eyes and exhaled, and Cody, who had been sitting quietly across the room asked, “Well, are you going to turn it on?”

Obi-Wan stared down at the saber in his grip, heart twisting unpleasantly in his chest. He knew, very well, that a kyber crystal reflected the person it attuned to, and that he had gently replaced Anakin’s impression on the crystal. He’d spent time with it, carried it with him, it would--

It would know him, when he turned the saber on. It would reflect him. Changes and damage and--

He shut his eyes, looking to the side, fingers clenching tight. “Perhaps later,” he rasped out, throat unpleasantly tight, too able to imagine what the blade might tell him about the parts of himself he didn’t want to see, about what Anakin had done to him, really, not on the outside, but inside--

“Sh,” Cody murmured, quiet, and closer. “It’s -- Obi-Wan.” He reached out, carefully, and gripped Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Obi-Wan blinked, could not help but lean into the touch, the comfort Cody was projecting down at him. He looked up, and found Cody watching him. And Cody said, quietly, “Try it now, please.”

Obi-Wan hesitated another moment, but, in truth, putting it off further wouldn’t solve anything. He swallowed and nodded, tried to center himself in the Force and activated the lightsaber and--

He did not intend to sob at the flash of blue light, but the sound escaped his throat, anyway. And Cody was there, curling an arm around his back, murmuring soothing words against his hair as Obi-Wan slumped into him, relief and disbelief and wild joy all swirling within him.

[roguelioness]

Eidolon

She hunts.

Neria does not know the Fade as well as the prey she seeks, yet she strides through its mists, sure-footed like the mountain goats. Her eyes dart around, searching, seeking even the faintest of threads that will lead her to him.

Cole steps out of a particularly dense patch of fog, his hat slung low on his forehead, one hand stretched out towards her. “This way,” he says in that low, soft way of his.

She takes his hand, and lets him guide her. The mist is cold, and though she’s dreaming, it slaps and stings at her skin in warning, and she knows she intrudes on his dreams. Her heart hammers wildly, her body held as taut as a fist, and she keeps waiting for him to step out of the shadows, to confront her, to wordlessly stare at her for several heartbeats before sending her back - or worse, before whispering those two words she hates.

Wake up.

The echo of his voice, of those words, swirl around her. She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth against the instinct that tells her to turn around and flee.

She will not. She will not!

The mist suddenly gives way, depositing her at the mouth of a dark cave. She looks around for Cole, but finds the lad nowhere to be seen. “Go,” he whispers in her ear. “I will keep watch.”

Keep watch? she wonders, even as she stumbles towards the opening. For what? She presses a palm to the walls, using it as a guide to make her way cautiously through the uneven floor, the faint hiss of her leather boots in this dreamscape far too loud for her liking.

Neria doesn’t know how long she walks for, but her patience is rewarded when she sees rays of golden light spilling onto the floor. Around her, the walls have been painted gold - a gold so bright she has to squint against the opulence of it all. But that is not what takes her breath away, or has her shuddering unconsciously with fear. It is the red splashed against it, a red so deep it reminds her of tainted crystal, a color that is clearly not meant to be present - and yet, it is. It has been used to draw images of demons and darkspawn and the wall in front of her has a large fresco of an entire city, all in red and outlined in pitch black - and at the heart of it all, looming down at her with six irregular eyes and a blood-filled snarl is-

A single ray of light floods the room, illuminating a lone figure standing, his hand pressed to the wall.

She inhales sharply.

The Dread Wolf turns.

He wears no fur, dressed instead in beautifully supple leather, inlaid with hammered metal and in a style unfamiliar to her. A high collar stops short of skimming his jaw. His face is familiar and strange and beloved, and Neria presses a fist to her mouth to keep herself from crying.

His face is set, but his eyes look so tired, and so sad.

For several moments, they stare at each other. She’s certain he can hear the rapid beats of her heart - it practically echoes in the closed space. Dust motes, illuminated by torchlight, drift through the space between them.

His stillness has her moving. She takes a step towards him, 

“You should not be here,” his voice is carefully blank.

She tries to smile, but it is a poor imitation of one. “Where should I be, ma lath?”

His face crumples for a split second at the endearment before the mask falls into place once more. “This is no longer your story, vhenan. Do not follow me. It is far too dangerous.”

Neria takes another step towards him, but before she can take a third, a barrier springs up between them. She does not flinch at it; she knows he will not hurt her. She presses the tips of her fingers to the magic there. It feels so much like the Anchor she closes her eyes and exhales, before looking up at Solas again. “No,” she says simply.

His eyes flash. “Do not be so foolish!” he hisses. She can see the panic in his eyes. “This is no longer your fight!”

“That may be so,” she agrees, raising her left arm. Her prosthetic is there, sturdy silverite with its veins of bright lyrium blue. She presses the palm of it to the barrier, willing the magic to dispel. To her pleasure, it does, and she takes the step that was previously denied to her. “But you know me better than to believe I would be content to remain hidden away, Solas.” She lets her eyes roam across the murals, gathering what information she can. A figure on the left, in red, looks like Knight Commander Meredith. The one on the right resembles Corypheus. 

The corners of his lips turn upwards the slightest bit in a rueful sort of grimaced smile. “I do.”

Her attention is drawn to the larger figures in black. She thinks they look like demons, but she’s never seen anything like it before. The sight of them sends a swathe of ice running down her spine, raising gooseflesh in its wake. They look forbidding, ominous, malevolent in ways even Corypheus was not.

And they are merely drawings. What would happen if they were real?

Solas follows her gaze. Neria doesn’t see the way his eyes widen in alarm, or the way his brows knit together in worry. She’s trying to identify the city in the mural when he’s suddenly in front of her, blocking her view. “No,” he says more firmly, more urgently. “This is not your fight, Neria. This is not your concern. Please, vhenan, stay away.” Then, before she can even think to argue, his hand is pressed to her cheek, thumb so softly, so gently stroking her skin. “I must insist you wake up.”

Her eyes fly open. The bedroll offers little protection against the hardness of the ground. She can feel stones and twigs poking into her back. Her brain feels so sluggish, yet it rapidly swirls with the images she’s seen, a hurricane of red and black and gold with Solas in the eye. She breathes in and out, letting her breath even out to a calmer pace, before she gets up and swings her feet onto the dirt.

Solas is wrong. It might not be her fight, but he will always be her concern.

[drivingsideways]

Seunwoo + Seunghyo sick

Hi anon! Thank you for this ask, and sorry it's taken me a while to write!

This one is, in my head, set in my Where Your Treasure Is 'verse, but you don't need to read that to make sense of this. The premise here is that Seon-woo and Seung-hyo are in a romantic relationship and have been living together for a while, and they also run a company together.

"You better take something for that," says Seon-woo at breakfast.

"For what?" Seung-hyo croaks at The Korean Herald, which has decided, on this fine spring morning to lead with an editorial on wealth redistribution that looks like it's been written by a twenty-year old who gets her news on Instagram. Pulling their advertising for the next six months seems overkill, but surely something should be--

"For the flu you've been having for the last two days," says Seon-woo, wheeling his chair around the table toward the kitchen counter. As he passes Seung-hyo, he reaches out to place an inquiring palm against his forehead. Seung-hyo jerks away.

--ah, he has it, yes, wasn't there an interview scheduled today with the Seoul Business News--

"Hmm," says Seon-woo, "Nothing some paracetamol and rest won't cure. Take it."

He moves away, and the coffee-maker whirs loudly.

"Is there something wrong with it?" he asks, "I'll call the company. Didn't they promise noiseless?"

"They did not."

He turns in his chair to look at his partner.

"I'm the one who ordered it."

"I'm the one who read the manual and set it up. This is the noise it makes every day. You're just extra sensitive today because-"

He turns back to his eggs and toast, and the horrifying state of the world.

The problem with living with a medical professional was that they always thought they knew everything about everything. Alright, maybe that wasn't a problem with medical professionals in general. Seung-hyo is willing to acknowledge that the problem, in this case, might be more localized, viz, the man across the table who's judgmentally sipping his coffee , while a bowl of oats congeals into goop in front of him. Why he doesn't wait to finish his coffee before pouring out the cereal, Seung-hyo has never understood. And he's tried, oh, he's tried, to get him to view this logically, but Seon-woo will insist on eating the cold slop every day.

"Did you get a chance to review the Australian distributorship deal?" he asks, swallowing a bite of toast. The bread feels scratchy going down his throat. Had Madam Ji switched to a different bakery?

"Yes, I've made some notes and sent out an email," Seon-woo replies. "I'm quite sure we can do better. I've asked Kim bujang to look into it."

"Oh," he says, picking up his phone, "I didn't see it…when did you send it out?"

He'd been working late last night, how had he missed—

"After you fell asleep at the desk," Seon-woo says, coolly.

He has a vague memory of Seon-woo waking him up, and shutting his laptop for him last night. This was why he hated medication, which he had taken, he wasn't entirely irrational, despite what Seon-woo liked to imply.

It just interfered.

"Well," he says, taking two large gulps of his own coffee, "I better get going, I have a day."

"I bet," Seon-woo mutters, and then gives him a sweet smile when he gives him a look. "Have a good one, hyung."

His expression says that he thinks the probability of that is negative. Seung-hyo's never met anyone as petty as the love of his life, and that's a fact. Well, maybe Ye Jin-woo, which just went to show you—

"I will, thank you," he says, "Shall we have lunch together?"

Seon-woo nods, and this time the smile is genuine, and alright, he didn't care that the love of his life was a petty fuck, he especially didn't care that his head felt a bit like a block of wood, life was good, and he was going to have a good day.

"Bad cold?" asks the make-up professional at the TV studio, her voice sympathetic. "I'll get you some warm water with salt to gargle with, it'll clear up your throat before you go on air."

"Thank you," he says, "That's very kind, but unnecessary."

She pauses.

"It's really no trouble Gu daepyo-nim."

"No," he says, "Thank you. Again. But no."

At lunch, Seon-woo says, calmly, "I'm sure the ten people watching KBN at 11.22 am this morning would have been convinced by your argument, if they'd been able to hear it. Why did they cut you off so quick?"

"A glitch in the sound system," he says, "The sound engineer was profoundly apologetic. I didn't think it was worth making a fuss about."

"Uh-huh," says Seon-woo. "You mean the fact that he forgot to mute your mike properly, so we could hear you hacking up a lung off screen? I think he should be fired."

"Where's your sense of proportion?" Seung-hyo asks. The hot chicken broth feels good going down his throat, warming his chest.

"Left it in our McMansion this morning," Seon-woo says, and sets his chopsticks down.

"Hyung," he says, "Take the rest of the day off."

"I can't," he replies, "There's too much to do."

"Rescheduling a few meetings is not the end of the world."

"It's discourteous to the people who are giving me their time," Seung-hyo replies, "Besides, I'm fine. The soup was delicious. Thank you for ordering it."

Seon-woo waves a hand, "You can thank Kyung-ah-ssi on your way out."

"I'll buy her flowers," Seung-hyo says, because there's no way he's going to face her without even that much of a defense.

Seon-woo says, evenly, "You'll be sure to pick them up yourself, won't you? I mean, there's absolutely no reason why you shouldn't be in a pollen factory- excuse me- a flower shop today."

"You're not as funny as you think you are," Seung-hyo says, rising from the table. "Dinner at 7?"

"Sure," says Seon-woo, "You'll be making crab soup, I hope?"

"Don't push your luck," Seung-hyo says, with dignity and calm, and runs away.

He comes to groggily, in his bed, with no memory of how he got there. The lights are dimmed, and he's sweaty under the quilt. There's movement beside the bed, and when he opens his eyes, bleary, Seon-woo is placing a food tray on the bedside table.

"What time is it?" he asks.

"Past 9," Seon-woo says, quietly. "Ready for some food?"

He sighs, turning on his side to face him.

Seon-woo's expression is fond, even though there's a trace of exasperation beneath.

"I'm feeling better," he announces.

"Astounding," Seon-woo murmurs, taking the lid off a steaming bowl. "Considering you weren't, at any point, sick."

Petty, petty.

"I bet that's rice porridge," he says craning his neck. "Ugh."

"Special from eomeonim," Seon-woo confirms. "She's put me on a deadline to feed you this tonight. So chop-chop."

He pushes himself up, resting against the pillows, as Seon-woo arranges the tray for him.

It does taste good- like childhood, and home, he acknowledges, as he swallows the first mouthful.

Seon-woo is taking off his prosthetics, heaving a sigh of relief. Despite all the advances they've made in the material technology, wearing it for several hours at a stretch and the kind of life Seon-woo led, did make it a bother. At home, Seon-woo often preferred to get around in the wheelchair like he'd done for most of his life. Sometimes, when Seung-hyo thinks of how much pain Seon-woo has borne, he can barely comprehend it. Compared to that—

But that's a thought he'll keep to himself, he's not a fool.

"You're such an idiot about these things," Seon-woo says, as he maneuvers himself across the bed. He raises a hand to brush away the sweaty hair sticking to Seung-hyo's forehead. "You realize being ill isn't a character flaw, right?"

Seung-hyo puts his spoon down.

"So you're a psych now too?" he cribs, picking up his spoon again.

"Don't need to be," Seon-woo says, yawning, and turning away. "You're not that complicated, hyung."

God, the man was so annoying.

It really was a disaster that Seung-hyo was crazy about him.

"Sleep well," he says aloud, as Seon-woo settles down, "See you in the morning."