#the only rule to oppression is that it will be used to keep everyone in line

[hazel2468]

Something that I need people to understand, especially on this hellsite. Is that oppression does not depend on who you actually are.

It depends on how the world sees you.

If the world sees you as X identity. They will treat you as X identity, whether you are or not. If the world sees that you are not X identity, but they can use the oppression of X identity as a cudgel to make you act the way they want you to? They will use it.

Oppression is NOT dependent on who you actually are. It depends on how the world sees you. It depends on how people see you and what they decide to put on you because of that.

Oh. And when someone experiences a form of oppression that is NOT based in the reality of who they are? It's still that kind of oppression. It's not "misdirected"- it is still that kind of oppression being leveraged to maintain the current social climate.

[fictionadventurer]

I usually think of Gale as "playing by the Capitol's rules" and Peeta as "refusing to play the game", but it's not quite as simple as that. Gale and Peeta are both extremely skilled in different parts of the Game.

Gale is good at the violence part of the Capitol's game. He subverts society's rules by living as a semi-outlaw, illegally poaching to save his family, getting more and more active in fighting against oppression. Yet his violent outlook warps who he is at his core, because it warps his vision of the world into a game of "us versus them" that is actually the bedrock of the worldview that led to their oppressive society in the first place.

Peeta is good at the media spectacle at the heart of the Hunger Games. He can manipulate an entire nation with a story and a smile--a dangerous level of power. But though he's good at putting on the mask, he does so as a way to protect who he is at his core, and to stay loyal to his beliefs. He's able to subvert the system of lies into a tool for presenting the truth in ways that change people's hearts and minds.

Of the two of them, Peeta's probably the more dangerous. He could be the next President Snow if he wanted to be--manipulating the truth to warp hearts and minds and shape society in a way that best serves him. Yet Peeta doesn't play the game for personal gain. He doesn't use his skills to benefit himself. He's always acting out of love for Katniss, and eventually, for the good of all Panem, wanting to save everyone from the lies they're living under, instead of punishing some of them for their role in oppression. Gale works to save others, but only his people--everyone else "deserves" destruction, or is acceptable collateral damage. While Peeta could play the game and keep himself, Gale played the game in a way that warped even his good intentions to bad ends.

You wouldn't think that the honest hometown boy would wind up being less moral than the cunning media manipulator. Yet that's how it plays out, which suggests that it's not just playing the game that matters, but who the players are and how they choose to play.

[kiapet2]

Alright, it’s less than a week since the Owl House finale aired and as expected I’ve already seen two direct comparisons to Steven Universe’s ending and several more vague-blogs, because one of this site’s hobbies is using other queer shows to put down Steven Universe. So let’s do this, then. Let’s compare the endings of Owl House and Steven Universe, and what each is ultimately trying to say.

Steven Universe and the Owl House are both shows that deal heavily with the clash of individualism and self-expression vs. socially-mandated conformity, and both shows’ final villains ultimately embody this conflict. One major difference, however, is that Owl House approaches this from the perspective of legal/societal structures, while Steven Universe approaches it from the perspective of family structures.

Steven Universe has always been about family--and particularly the ways traumas and biases are passed down through a family--and it has always heavily used the language of metaphor to discuss these topics. The Diamonds are the ultimate extension of this theme, something a lot of bad-faith (or just bad) takes on the ending miss; they interpret the diamonds in their literal capacity as dictators, rather than the way Steven Universe always portrays them, which is as matriarchs, i.e. the heads of a family who dictate and control all the family’s other members. This metaphor becomes more and more blatant until it outright becomes text, with the Diamonds turning out to be Steven’s literal family members, with whom his part of the family is estranged because of their previous controlling behavior.

In accordance with this theme, we ultimately find out that the Diamonds’ toxic ideology, with its rigid standards of perfection, are not only something they enforce on the gems below them, but also on themselves. They are suffering from the system in their own ways, unable to live up to the standards they themselves created. And who among us hasn’t known someone like that? A parent or grandparent who grew up under a cruel, oppressive worldview, and instead of rebelling against it internalized it--who turned around and said “I dealt with this, and so can you”? And so the ending of Steven Universe is the Diamonds realizing exactly how toxic the rigid ideology they’ve spent their lives perpetuating really is, and confronting the fact that their adherence to this ideology is what destroyed their relationship with Pink, and that the only way they’re going to have a relationship with Steven is if they’re willing to commit to changing both themselves, and the family structure they’ve enforced for so long.

Emperor Belos, in contrast, is not suffering from the structures he created, because his rules were never meant to apply to him. He sees the witches (and demons, and so-on) as lesser beings, evil beings, who exist to be controlled, and ultimately, exterminated. And every element of the society he built--the schools, the government, the police force, the religion--he intentionally constructed to keep these lesser beings under his control. The real-world allegory isn’t hard to see, here. And because what Belos represents in the story is, in fact, a fascist leader, the story shows that he can’t be reasoned with in any way that matters, and instead he is ultimately ground into paste beneath the boots of the people he sought to destroy. Different themes, different endings.

Now the usual argument that comes up here is as follows: but the Steven Universe ending isn’t as realistic! Not everyone is going to change, not everyone is going to be able to be reasoned with. Not every older, conservative family member is eventually going to accept you for who you are. And while that is true, ultimately SU isn’t meant to be realistic; it’s meant to be a power fantasy. Rebecca Sugar has come out and said before that they wrote a world in which there was good in everyone, because that’s the way she wishes the world could be. That’s the world they want to be able to believe in. And I am never going to begrudge a person, much less a queer person, for finding healing in writing that kind of world.

But you know what else is unrealistic? What else is ultimately just a fantasy? Grinding your government’s fascist leader into paste under your boot, then taking over and remaking society into something that accepts everyone. Sadly, Trump is not likely to get his ass beat any time soon. And more generally, punching fascists, while ideologically sound, is something most people are not going to get to do, due to real-world consequences such as “getting beat up by the fascist’s angry friends” and “being arrested for assault”. And even if you did depose one leader, our very society is set up in a way that perpetuates all manner of injustices, and systemic change is a complex and lengthy process that almost certainly won’t be completed in our lifetimes. But it’s fun to imagine we could, isn’t it?

Both endings are power fantasies. Both show the way they want the world to be, rather than the way it is. They are very different power fantasies, which fill very different--and at times conflicting--needs. And in situations like that, internet culture really likes to pick one to be the right fantasy, the right way to look at the world. 

But the truth is, both fantasies are needed! Some people need stories about your queerphobic relatives finally realizing the error of their ways and taking the necessary steps to accept and reconcile with you. And some people need stories where you get to grind fascist bastards beneath the heel of your boot. It’s okay if you prefer one type of fantasy over the other! But in the end, both are valuable, and both are important. 

And isn’t it wonderful, for us to have such a diversity of great queer stories? That we can explore both of these deep, conflicting needs? Let’s appreciate each of these fantastic works for what it was meant to be, rather than trying to pit them against each other or make them conform to a single, “best” way to tell a story.

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍.

DAY FOUR OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: artificial intelligence au + "here, you are. you tiny thing."

pairing: ai-enhanced!miguel o’hara x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, sci-fi, enemies to lovers

summary: there are codeborns and codebreakers. In this world ruled by ai and the people who want to keep it that way, codebreakers fight for freedom while the feared codeborns (ai-enchanced humans) do everything to keep the so-called 'peace'. You are one of the codebreakers, hunted by one of the most menacing codeborn yet, miguel o'hara.

word count: 3k

warnings: hunter/prey, chase kink, size kink, power imbalance, fear kink, dancing on the line of dubcon due to the power imbalance, but reader very much wants miguel, hate sex, piv, possessive!miguel, biting (it has a slight aphrodisiac effect because why not), some blood, dystopian, bondage with mechanical arms, double penetration thanks to said mechanical arms, dirty talk, degradation kink if you squint,

a/n: i don't know with this is, it kinda sorta happened and, honestly, i don't hate it.

In a city perpetually cloaked in gray, oppression is an unrelenting weight. Surveillance cameras leer from every corner, tracking your steps and every muttered word.

This city used to thrive, alive with energy. Now, it's stifled by a regime that rules with an iron fist. Holographic banners hang in the air, projecting sanitized slogans that mask the truth. Rain splashes onto pixelated cobblestones, the wet ground echoing the neon lights into your eyes. 

Heart pounding, you dart through the alleyways, every step echoing. You hear them chasing you, the CodeBorns, they were the AI-enhanced sentinels of this world. Their purpose; bring order to the intricate dark web of the city. You scoff as you run, what a load of bullshit. The sentinels are nothing more than mindless robots that have a barely working human heart—and brain—for that matter. 

Very fittingly, you’re part of a group called CodeBreakers, a group of dedicated people trying to dismantle the regime and censorship. You just recently hacked into the cinema, which might seem not like a big deal, but you just had to save those poor people from watching the same damn thing over and over again. 

Making people watch something else that wasn’t handpicked by the goverment might’ve not been a big deal, but breaking into the system certainly was, and something not everyone could do. 

“Shit,” you hiss, accidentally tripping over a loose cobblestone. “Shit shit shit—” 

The worst thing about the CodeBorns is the fact that they can do a lot that regular folk like you can’t. For example, they’re all ridiculously fast, they can see in the dark, they can hear exceptionally well, they have superhuman strength—

You hear a wall shattering behind you and heavy steps grow closer, you’re relieved when you realize it’s only one set of steps, but as you realize who those steps probably belong to, your chest caves. 

Fucking, Miguel O’Hara. 

You hear the familiar creak of mechanical limbs and the familiar sound of your name falling from his lips. Another thing about the AI-enhanced sentinels, they have body upgrades they can take off whenever they want to. 

“You can’t unrun me!” he roars. “You know you can’t!”

He’s right, you can’t run a beast of a man like him. 

You need to be smarter. 

Ducking into another alleyway, you thank whatever god is left in this world overrun by technology for the web of light the neon signs provide. You quickly spot a string of utility boxes, It’s dangerous, but you manage to squeeze yourself between them and the hard stone wall. Heat radiates from the boxes. If Miguel doesn’t lose track of you soon, the damn thing might heat up enough to burn you. 

The clatter of mechanical limbs echoes closer.

And then you see him. 

The neon light reflects off his holographic suit, its dynamic red details reminiscent of flickering pixels. He's a towering figure. Spider-like limbs protrude from his back, their gleaming metal glistening with the moisture of the rain-soaked air. They move slightly as if looking around, trying to sense her. With panic, you hold your breath, the small hairs on the back of your neck standing with attention. 

His brow is slightly furrowed, something you recognize he does when he’s either angry or annoyed—or both.  His lips, however, curve into a faint, almost menacing smile, revealing a glimmer of satisfaction in this pursuit.

The alleyway seems to shrink around you as his steps grow nearer. Your pulse quickens, synchronized with the flickering lights around you. This isn’t your first run-in with Miguel, and you doubt it will be the last. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. The fear you feel poisons you, making your stomach churn and your mouth taste of death. He’s captured you before but never actually handed you in. 

Arousal rears its head among the fear, coating you in a sheer sweat. You can’t help it. It’s a Pavlovian response at this point, you see him and your body starts leaking like a damn faucet. Miguel had captured you twice, and in both of them, you ended up with his cock deep between your legs. 

You just never know with him. He never contacted you outside of this, never acted in a way that would indicate that something had happened between you two. 

All he gave you is this, the chase, the fear, the wondering if this might be the time he throws you in a needlessly futuristic cell—

"Here, you are. You tiny thing."

Shit. 

It’s comical really; the way you look up with wide eyes as his red ones peer down at you. His smirk is non-existent, yet you can still feel his satisfaction in finding you. Your chest heaves painfully, you can move, struck with uncharacteristic fear. He might not be an animal you get the sense that he smells the horror sticking to your skin. 

You’re about to make a run for it when the mechanical arm’s sinewy grace coils around your ankles. Miguel pulls you out of your hiding place. All the blood rushes to your face as you hang upside down. 

“Dammit, Miguel!” you hiss. “Put me down!” 

He raises a sole brow elegantly, his eyes moving up and down your body, his gaze almost predatory. “Rather bold for a criminal,” he answers, voice nonchalant. The limbs tighten around your ankles, just a shy away from being painful. The arm draws you nearer, your breath mingling with his in the dewy air. “I’m starting to think you enjoy getting caught.” 

“Does it look like I have a death wish?” you ask. His lips twitch and you quickly add. “You know what, never mind, don’t answer that.” 

“What if it was one of the others who found you first? Were you going to spread your legs for them too? ” he snarls. “Is that how you’ve been getting away from hacking our systems for this long?” 

This time when the limb squeezes harder around your flesh and bone, you scream. The sound is drowned by the constant buzz of the world. “I should just take you in,” he murmurs. “Be less trouble.” 

Due to the blood gathering in your skull, you might be imagining things but you swear you saw a hint of actual worry instead of anger in those crimson eyes. But that shouldn’t be possible. Codeborns didn’t feel; sure they felt anger, but they were programmed sentinels made not to care about anyone who went into their criminal system. 

“Careful, your emotion is showing.” 

Maybe you do have a death wish, after all. 

“Bitch.” 

His sudden anger chokes the air from out of your lungs. You’re suffocated. The limb around you suddenly scorching hot, his eyes redder than normal, bright enough to match the neon raining from above. He bares his teeth at you, sharp and venomous, when he wants them to be. Miguel leans further into your personal space, his scowl deep—you begin to shake all over, your heart begging for your body to move away but you can’t. All you fear and think is fear. 

Arousal sneaks between the sinews of emotions. You taste it on your tongue, the scent of it searing as you take quick, sharp breaths. 

Miguel’s nose brushes the tender skin right under your ear, the sound of his inhale deafening “Afraid?” he rolls his tongue, his voice nothing but gravel. Before you can answer, a chuckle halts your tongue. His breath dans over your damp skin, goosebumps rising across your skin. “Or aroused? Or perhaps both?” 

You say nothing and it’s not for a lack of trying. You’re stunned into it, your tongue feeling limp and big in your mouth. The sharp edges of his teeth nip at your upside-down cheek, and despite yourself, a whimper escapes. 

“No seas tímida ahora. Where’s all that bite from before? Cat got your tongue?” you joly at the sudden feel of his warm tongue, your nipples hardening under the fabric of your shirt. “Beg for it.” again, a darkness curls around each and every word. 

This situation shouldn’t be getting you this hot and bothered. The want between your legs pulses so bad that it hurts. 

“P—Please, Miguel,” you say barely above a whisper. “I. . . I want it.” 

“Want what?” 

Fucking asshole. “Your cock. I want. . . you to fuck me.” 

His smile does nothing to quell the fear, “Good girl,” he rasps, the words echoing in your ear. 

The rest happens in a blur. 

Suddenly you’re not hovering upside down anymore, instead, you’re shoved up against the hard, cold surface of a wall, your pants being lowered for you. Now it’s your wrists that are bound and pinned above your head, your legs spread from the ankles thanks to the mechanical arms. Miguel’s large presence looms right behind you, his clothed cock flush between the crevice of your ass. 

“Let’s see how wet you are,” he coos, ripping your panties into two. You make a strangled sound of disapproval, but all he does is click his tongue. “Be grateful I didn’t shred your pants.” 

Grateful is the last thing you’re feeling as two fingers spread your folds, the middle one dipping between. Your body speaks for itself. Swiping his fingers up and down, he gatherers your slick around the digit and traces your entrance, pushing in. Your body jumps at the beach, pleasure licking the base of your spine. “So responsive,” he murmurs and you hear the familiar glitching sound of his suit. 

Then you feel the heft of his cock laying right above the curve of your ass, both his hands cradling your asscheeks. The limb around your wrists coils tighter. 

Miguel parts your cheeks, getting a better look. Your cheeks burn in response. The cool air hits your other hole and you hate the way your body clenches at the cold. His thumb traces the rim and a loud exhale of air rips from your lungs. Your legs start to shake, slick dripping down the insides of the tender flesh. 

“Gonna fuck this pretty asshole one day soon,” Miguel gloats. Experimentally,  he pushes his thumb forward, nearly knuckle deep until you start squirming. You’re dripping for him, your asshole fluttering around the digit. The mild pain only makes your pulse race. “Unfortunately for you, I can’t today.” 

You hear his smile in his voice. The smugness that is laced into his every sentence. Your breath hitches when he pulls out, a moment later the warmth of his finger is replaced with something cold and metal. 

You tense as you hear the machine whirring, the hardness of it is replaced with something rounder and softer. “M—Miguel. . . ?” 

His lips touch your ear, “Shhh, don’t worry about it, princesa, just a little something to keep you satisfied while I fuck your pretty little cunt.” 

The arm merely moves over your hole, a feather-like touch that warms your skin. When it gently prods at you, you arch your back instinctively, your ass moving up into the air. 

Miguel only chuckles, the sound dark and low, a faint slap is delivered to your ass. You yelp but he doesn’t say another word. 

He’s big. 

You have no idea if it’s just lucky genetics or due to the ai-enhancement but whatever it is; he’s well-endowed. 

He makes you feel every tantalizing inch as he pushes himself further into your cunt, your walls throbbing while adjusting to his width. Your jaw drops, mouth gaping. He presses deeper and deeper, every centimeter of your cunt claimed by him. Your knees buckle and for the first time, you’re grateful for the robotic tendrils holding you up. He growls into your neck, those same venomous fangs skimming the tenderness of your neck. You feel the sharp bite of his nails digging further into your hip. 

Towards the base, his cock thickens and your eyes roll back as he shoves the last of it deep inside you. Your breasts feel heavy, tingling with pleasure despite being untouched.

Miguel doesn’t wait, he pulls back his hips and snaps them forward. Your stomach clenches with a delightful shiver. While slamming into you, the arm that holds your wrists together starts to pull you back until your back forms the perfect art, a mild discomfort steaming at the base of your spine. The way he’s angling you above his cock coaxes sweet, load moans from you. If possible, he’s even deeper now, hitting that devastating spot you can’t seem to reach when you’re on your own. 

“You like being my little plaything?” he groans, kissing the sweaty skin between your neck and shoulder. You moan again when the rounded tip of the mechanical limb starts pushing into the tight ring. A fresh pulse of wetness soaks you and trickles down his length, leaving your body trembling. “Fuck,” thrust. “So,” thrust. “goddamn,”  thrust. “wet—” 

You attempt to say his name but all you manage is the pathetic repeat of the letter “m”. His lips curl cruelly and the tip of the arm forces itself deeper, fucking you with shallow thrusts. “Pathetic,” he spits. “You’re so fucked out that you can’t even say my name? You can’t help drooling around my cock, can’t you? This is why I think you enjoy getting caught, you tiny thing,” the hard edge of his voice softens as he drags his nose down your neck. “So pathetic.” 

When he nips at your neck for the nth time tonight, you bare yourself to him by tilting your head. You want it. Want him. You need to feel him tear into your flesh, you want to feel the sting of his bite for weeks. 

His movements slow on both ends. “It’ll hurt,” he warns. 

“I don’t care,” you choke out. “P-Please— I–I can’t—” 

You really can’t talk. Your cunt squeezes around him, begging for the hard pound of his hips. Miguel doesn’t make you say it twice. He sinks his teeth into the same pace he kissed not a moment ago, the pain is instant, the trickle of warm blood making you squeamish. He doesn’t suck, only bites, not that you ever thought he would be sucking your blood. You imagine it’s just something he enjoys doing, like a primal need. You feel the soft webs of psychedelic venom seep into your veins. Your body grows limp, your lids growing heavy, he resumes his thrust and the pleasure you feel is tenfold. 

“Oh god,” you gasp, slack-jawed. “Oh my fucking god—Miguel—” 

He pulls out his teeth, kissing the marks he made that were shiny with blood, “I know, I know,” he grinds his hips, the pleasure shooting up your spine like electricity. “The effects won’t last long.” 

His words go through one ear and out the other. However. Your body singing with pleasure and nothing else, the word around you fading into reds and pinks. 

Miguel snapped his hips hard into you, meanwhile, the limb resumed its thrusts, stretching you further with every stroke. Some part of you is reminding you that Miguel, as of right now, can see every part of you, your most intimate parts completely bare. But the soothing venom lurking in your veins whispers words of encouragement. You focus on being stretched further, your hips move in need to meet his thrusts, but having nothing to brace yourself against, you surrender and allow him to take you apart wholly. 

His grunts became louder, Miguel pushed deeper and deeper, both cocks thrusting into you at the same time. Spit dribbles from the corners of your lips. Your mind empties with slack-jawed bliss as both lengths repeatedly strike your sensitive spots, pounding you with pleasure. 

You let out a loud gasp when the limb pulls out of you suddenly and you’re left empty, Miguel’s arms wrap around you, hands sliding under your shirt to cup the heavy weight of your breasts. He presses flush against you, striking your ass, he fucks into you with short, deep thrusts. 

His fingers pinch at your hard nipples, slightly turning them, “Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “Gonna fuck myself deep inside of you so no one will dare touch you.” 

The possessive tone, the brutal pace of his thrusts, the large hands on your tits—all of it pushes you down the edge, your body going rigid before relaxing entirely. You gush around him, wet sounds echoing in the narrow alleyway as he fucks you through it, not slowing down in the slightest. 

However, you do feel the hold around your wrists recoiling along with the ones holding your ankles apart. Miguel holds you close as you fall loosely like a ragdoll, animalistic sounds are grunted into your ear, another burst of arousal awakening on your tongue. 

The tip of his tongue dances along the bite marks when he spills into you, his cock deep, just like he promised. 

There’s so much, you feel the heat of it spreading inside of you, some of it spilling around from where his cock stretches you wide. His hips twitch, his arms forcing down the grind of your hips. You let out a whimper, your head falling over his shoulder. 

The two of you remain like that until his cock begins to soften inside of you, Miguel slowly pulls out and lowers you to the ground so you can sit. He finds your pants and throws it towards your lap. 

Sadly for you, your brain registers none of that. The dumb muscle only starts working again when he stands tall in front of you, that same menacing stance returning. 

“Don’t let me catch you again,” he says, voice stern. He looks down at you as he stuffs his cock back in his pants. “If I do, I’ll have to lock you up. This was your last warning.” 

And with that, he leaves. 

A bitter laughter bubbles in your throat as the back of your head hits the hard surface of the wall. Rain begins to drizzle, the first tiny drops landing on your cheeks and sliding down to your neck. 

Among all the people you could’ve fallen for, why did it have to be him?

[beskarandblasters]

Apotheosis Part One: The Capture

Sith!Din Djarin x Rebel Spy!Reader

Apotheosis; the elevation of someone to divine status; deification.

Apotheosis Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Series summary: Din Djarin is a force-sensitive bounty hunter, working for the remnants of the Empire. He's on the hunt for you, an ex-rebel spy who has key information; the location where Luke Skywalker is building his Jedi training academy. But when you're captured, you're not going to give up the location easily. Din will have to utilize “alternative methods” to turn you over to the dark side.

Series warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent, dark!Din, switches between Din and Reader’s point of view, eventual smut, Star Wars lore (not super heavy), (more warnings will be added as story continues)

Author’s note: Welcome to the first installment of this silly little trilogy! I hope you all come to like this different take on Din! ❤️‍🔥 Thank you to @jupiter-soups, @kajashe, and @pedgito for beta reading this for me!

Summary: Din Djarin is sent by Moff Gideon to capture you and Grogu.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: just an introduction of our two main characters, the reader gets captured at the end, reader does not know Din’s name yet, canon typical violence, force sensitive!Din, no use of y/n

You

Life used to be good. Back in the day when you had your friends in the Rebellion, you felt like you had a sense of community; a sense of belonging. But when the Empire was destroyed the need for the Rebellion dissipated. So, you chose to live out your days on the planet Corvus, in the village of Calodan. It’s a stark difference from your old life. Gone were the days of being a rebel spy, acting as an imperial officer while the Empire was constructing the second Death Star. You were someone important, reporting back to the Rebellion with information that was vital to the Rebellion.

And for what? To toss you aside as soon as they stopped needing you? Surely for someone as vital as you were to the Rebellion, they would’ve made sure you were well taken care of, living a relatively comfortable life. But the reality is quite the opposite. 

Calodan is rough to say the least, living under Magistrate Morgan Elsbeth’s oppressive rule. She’s walking proof that there are still fledgling pockets of the Empire scattered across the galaxy. This time of peace will surely come to an end. And when that time comes… Wouldn’t the Rebellion call upon one of their most trusted spies?

Maker, that’s awful. You’re wishing for unrest in the galaxy just so you can live an exciting life again. The reality is, you’re wishing for more than just some thrill. You’re wishing for stability, friends, food in your stomach, a sense of community, and belonging. That’s what you’re after. 

And it’s all so far out of reach. 

-

You’re walking back from the market, your small bag of the little food you could afford slung on your shoulder. You’re always on edge here, even in your own home. It’s only right when Calodan isn’t necessarily the safest place to live. Morgan Elsbeth and her guards have people chained up in electrical cages in the village center on a whim, regardless if they did anything wrong or not. Kriff, if someone looks at a guard the wrong way, it’s straight to the cages. This causes everyone to move through the streets quickly, keeping their heads low and avoiding eye contact with others. It’s for their own safety but you can’t deny it’s also made the village lonely and secluded. You’re not living here; you’re merely surviving, just barely. This isn’t the life you pictured for yourself. 

Lost in your own thoughts again you barely notice the presence behind you. Just as you turn your head to look, the figure is gone. All you saw was the edge of a dark cloak, turning a corner and heading down an alley. You don’t linger. You know better. You’ve been able to stay out of trouble ever since you moved here. And you’re certainly not going to start now. 

Power walking and extending your strides, you head home, holding your breath and keeping your head low. Once you get home you lock the door behind you and finally breathe. You slump down into a chair at your kitchen table and set your bag of food on the tabletop. That could’ve been nothing. It could’ve been your imagination. Or someone else trying to mind their own business. After all, you weren’t attacked, the person didn’t say anything to you. They were behind you and then gone an instant. You’re just being paranoid again. 

That is until you’re emptying your bag and you notice a small piece of paper folded up and resting at the bottom. With shaky hands you grab it and before you unfold it you try to think about what it could say. It can’t be credits that someone is after, you don’t have any. You don’t entangle yourself with the wrong crowd here. You keep to yourself, only leaving your house when it's necessary. But the idea that someone is watching you, taking note of your routines, what route you walk home every day, knowing when to plant the piece of paper in your bag without being noticed… That scares you. It makes you feel like the walls of your house are about to close in on you. It makes you feel like someone is lurking in the shadows, ready to strike when you’re not looking. If they know where you live, they will wait inside your home and strike. They could-

Breathe. Unfold the kriffing paper. 

So, you do. And you’re… somewhat relieved? 

The note reads; 

Come to the edge of the forest at the north side of Calodan at nightfall… alone. 

At the bottom of the piece of paper is a hand-drawn symbol of the Rebellion. 

Maybe you’re getting that action you wished for. But you’re still hesitant. Anyone could write this note and pretend they’re associated with the Rebellion. 

It is tempting, though. You have a blaster hidden deep in your closet. It hasn’t been used since you moved here. Tonight seems like the perfect night to dig it out. 

You’re kneeling on the floor, rummaging through your closet. In the back, there’s a wooden box, containing your blaster and other things from your time in the rebellion. You feel it with your hand and slide it towards you, lifting the lid and being flooded with memories. Inside the box is your old imperial disguise, a pin in the shape of the Rebellion symbol, your grappling line, and your blaster. You take the blaster in your hands and rub your thumb under the cool, black metal.

You can do this, you tell yourself. 

Rising from the floor, you tuck the blaster and grappling line in the waistband of your pants and set off into the night. The wall on the north side of the village is the least guarded at night. The person who left the note must’ve known that. 

You’re swift on your feet, moving quietly and keeping your head in a constant swivel, on the lookout for any witnesses. But everyone is home like they should be. It’s past curfew. If you were to be caught you’d be subjected to the electric cages. 

You can do this, you remind yourself. 

You reach the north wall and aim your grappling line at the top of the wallet, retracting the line and pulling yourself to the top. Your landing is a little shaky but you still got it. It feels like old times again. You reattach the grappling line to the other side of the wall and slowly lower yourself on the ground. You made it. You did it. 

But there’s still this strange person to meet, a stranger who for some reason knows who you are, knows your past. Taking a deep breath, you walk towards the forest, anxiety brewing in your stomach about just who this person could be. The forest is misty and it’s hard to see. You replace the grappling line in your waistband and draw your blaster, on high already for any attackers or one of Morgan Elsbeth’s guards who somehow noticed you leaving the village. 

“You made it,” a woman’s voice calls from your right. 

You turn and look who it is. You can make out a figure standing in the fog, wearing a dark gray cloak. Her hood is on her head but you can make out blue and white head tails peeking out. 

“Do I know you?” you ask. 

“No, but I know of you.”

“Oh?”

She removes her head and you're certain it’s Ahsoka Tano. You’ve never met her but you’ve heard stories during your time in the Rebellion. She was never associated with it, laying low and in hiding. So why would she leave a Rebellion symbol on the piece of paper?

“Ahsoka Tano?”

“Seems like you know of me, too.”

“Why are you here? And why did you leave me that note with the symbol?”

“I knew it would get your attention; get you to trust the anonymous sender. It worked, didn’t it?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I need a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“For Luke Skywalker.”

Kriff, Luke Skywalker? The Luke Skywalker?! You haven’t seen him in forever. You gotta play it cool, though. You can’t seem too eager. 

“What does he want?”

“He doesn’t know about it yet but… I need you to watch over someone very important to him.”

“Well, how can it be important if he doesn’t know about it?”

“He’s building a Jedi academy on Ossus and I rescued a force-sensitive child from the Empire-“

“The Empire is still around?”

“There’s always remnants; sympathizers left in the galaxy.”

“Right.”

“I need you to watch over him until I can take him to Luke. I have to make some repairs on my ship before I can go and it’ll take me some time.”

“That’s all you need me for?”

“I needed someone I could trust. Leia said you’d be the perfect person here.”

Leia. Maybe you need to do this. 

“When will you be taking him?”

“Two rotations from now. So you’ll do it?”

“Fine. If it’s to help Luke then why not?”

She smiles and moves her cloak to reveal a pouch hanging over her shoulder, hitting her at her hip. Inside the pouch is a small creature, pastel green with large black eyes. He looks to be of the same species as Yoda, whom you've never met. But you’ve heard stories of him. 

“This is Grogu,” she says, taking off the pouch and walking forward to hand it to you. You take it in your hands and wear it on your shoulder, looking down at Grogu who’s peering up at you with questioning eyes. 

“She’s a friend, Grogu,” she reassures him. 

“How old is he?” you ask.

“About fifty. But for his species that’s still pretty much a baby.”

“So… How do I take care of him?”

“Don’t let him out of your sight. He can find things to get into if you’re not looking. Just make sure he’s fed and he should be pretty good for you.”

“Okay… Am I meeting you back here when you’re going to take him?”

“Mhm. Meet me back here in two rotations, same time.”

“Alright…”

“May the force be with you,” she says, turning and walking deeper into the forest, her cape billowing in the wind. 

You sigh and look down at Grogu. He doesn’t say a word but you don’t expect him to, instead, he cocks his head to the side, looking up at you with a blank expression on his face. 

“Alright, kid. You’re going to have to be quiet on the way back to my house. Got it?”

He babbles a strange noise that you can only assume is a noise of acknowledgment before you set off back toward the village. You grapple up and over the stone wall as you did when you left, landing softly on your feet and retracting the line. The coast seems to be clear. And just like before you’re light on your sweet, moving like the wind. Once you’re home, you let Grogu out of his pouch and onto your bed. All you know about him is that he’s young and force sensitive so he’s going to need a watchful eye at all times. This is going to be the longest two rotations of your life. 

Din

Moff Gideon recruited Din to join his cause several cycles ago, but it wasn’t willingly. He knew Din was special back then. Force-sensitive Mandalorians are hard to come by. But it took some “convincing” to turn him over if you could call it that. Most people would call it torture. 

“Please bring me Din Djarin,” Gideon says to one of his officers. 

He bows at the command and leaves the cockpit, setting off down the hallway. Gideon has a task for Din, a special one this time. For a while now, Din’s been working as a bounty hunter for Gideon’s small remnant of the Empire. He’ll go after anyone Gideon tells him to, and he normally doesn’t ask questions. But this time, Din needs to know the full scope of who he’s going after. That someone… being you. And also the child. The Empire knows Luke is out there somewhere, building a Jedi Academy. They plan to stop Luke in his tracks and capture any force-sensitive students he may already have, turning them over to the Dark Side as soldiers for the Empire. 

The cockpit doors open once again. It’s the same officer as before but this time Din is behind him, stance strong and ready to take on a new mission.

“I have a task for you, Din Djarin,” Moff Gideon says. 

“To where?”

“Corvus, more specifically the village Calodan. One of our own, Morgan Elsbeth is the Magistrate. I’ve just received word from her that an ex-Rebel Spy has crossed paths with Ahsoka Tano and has taken the child into her care until they leave for the Jedi Academy. I need to go there to capture the spy and the child. If you talk with Morgan Elsbeth she’ll tell you when to strike.”

“I understand,” Din says with a tip of his helmet and nothing more. 

He turns and leaves the cockpit, thinking about his new mission and how he’s going to capture you. If he can, he’d like to sneak up on you when you’re sleeping or walking down a dark alley. You’re an ex-spy. He’ll have to be smart about how he goes about this. But once he captures you and tries to get you to talk? That’s when the fun begins. 

-

He leaves the docking bay in his ship, a Razor Crest, punching in the coordinates for Corvus and setting a course. On the way he thinks about how he’ll get you. Sure you’re an ex-spy, but that doesn’t mean anything to him. He’s never missed a bounty and he’s certainly not going to start now. Moff Gideon is confident in him, too. He is sending Din with no backup after all. This is all routine for Din, nothing to lose sleep over. 

Din is a force to be reckoned with… literally. There are not many force-sensitive Mandalorians out there. He could’ve chosen to be a Jedi, to follow the Light Side of the force. But the Dark Side was calling to him in a voice louder than the Light Side could ever appeal to him. He’s never felt so much raw power before, tapping into abilities he never knew he was capable of.

But for a fleeting moment when he thinks about the other Mandalorians, the covert he left behind, he feels bad about what he did. The feeling doesn’t last long though. Instead, he feels sorry for them, sorry that they’re weak. If they’re so weak, then maybe… they don’t deserve to live at all. 

He grips the gear shift on the Razor Crest a little tighter and makes the jump to lightspeed, hyper-fixated on you and your demise. 

You

It’s been two rotations since Ahsoka delivered Grogu to you. You’re due to deliver him back to her tonight and honestly… you couldn’t be more relieved. He’s adorable but he’s also a handful, getting into things when you’re not looking, moving things with his mind, hiding on you, the list of mischief he gets into goes on and on. When you were wishing for more action and excitement in your life, babysitting was not what you pictured. 

Part of you wants to ask Ahsoka if you can go with her but the other part of you is embarrassed, worrying that you’ll look desperate seeking out any chance of an adventure. 

Alas, all you can do right now is wait until tonight. 

Din

Din parks the Crest in the forest before heading to the front gate of Calodan. The guards at the watch tower take notice of him and let him in. They knew he was coming. One of them meets Din down below and escorts him to Morgan Elsbeth. She’s waiting for him on her pathway to her house, surrounded by water and her garden; a beautiful place to discuss something so grim. Her front gates open and Din walks towards her on the path. Her lips curl into a smile when she sees him. 

“Welcome,” she says.

“I was sent by Moff Gideon,” he says, standing with his hands hooked on his belt. 

“I’ve been expecting you.”

“You say there’s a spy in possession of the child… How are you so sure?”

“I always have at least one of my men patrolling the forest surrounding Calodan. One of them overheard them talking. She’s meeting Ahsoka Tano tonight at the forest on the north side of the village.”

“When?”

“At dusk tonight.”

“Understood. I will capture them then,” he says, turning and walking to leave. 

“So confident,” she says in a somewhat hushed tone so he wouldn’t hear. 

But he does, stopping in his tracks and turning to look at her one last time. 

“I never miss.”

And with that he’s gone, walking back out of the village and into the misty forest. For now, all he can do is wait for you and Ahsoka to meet up and ambush your little meeting. 

You

The sun has finally set. You’re placing your blaster and your grappling line in the waistband of your pants again, the same as you did two nights ago. Grogu behaves on your way out of the village, staying quiet as you weave in and out of the dark alleys and hop the wall with the grappling line.

Stepping into the forest you’re on high alert, anxious to hand him off to Ahsoka already. You swear you hear a twig snap somewhere. You turn to look in the direction of the noise to see… nothing. It’s just your imagination. You’re being paranoid. 

Pull yourself together. You were a spy for many years in the Rebellion. And now you’re jumping at the snap of a twig?

A figure appears in the mist. You can’t make out who it is, blinking a few times. 

“Ahsoka?”

But then a lightsaber is drawn, illuminating the figure and the mist surrounding them. It’s not Ahsoka. It’s… a Mandalorian? He’s wearing pure Beskar armor, vibrant and silver in color, with a black cape billowing in the mist. His stance is strong and menacing, making you feel small and inferior. And the lightsaber he’s wielding is one like you’ve never seen before. It’s black and its blade is one of a traditional sword. It sounds different, too, emitting a higher-pitched sound than that of a normal lightsaber. 

Without thinking you draw your blaster, aiming at the Mandalorian and moving Grogu so he’s behind your back. And then, the Mandalorian begins charging at you, running at you with full speed. You shoot at him but it’s no use. Every blast is defected by him. You scramble thinking about what to do next. But Ahsoka’s voice interrupts your thoughts. 

“Over here! Throw him to me!” she shouts. 

She’s on your right, hands outstretched and ready to catch him. You slide the pouch off your shoulder and toss him over to her. There’s no way he’s going to make it but Ashoka catches him, using the force to carefully pull him towards her. 

But before she can take him into her arms the Mandalorian stops and does the same. And now you can’t believe your eyes. He’s pulling Grogu towards him with all of his might. But Ahsoka’s strong, not letting go of him that easily. It’s like a game of tug of war between them with Grogu stuck in the air. If they do this any longer it’ll hurt him. Without thinking you aim your blaster at the Mandalorian, somewhere his Beskar isn’t protecting him, and shoot at the side of his thigh. The Mandalorian yells in pain and lets go of Grogu, sending him flying into Ahsoka’s arms. She takes him and runs, light on her feet as she runs through the trees. The Mandalorian will go after her next if you don’t stop him now. You keep shooting at him now that his attention is on you. But same as before, he deflects every single blast. 

Your next instinct is to run, either after Ahsoka or back towards the walls of Calodan, somewhere, anywhere just away from him. You take off running as fast as you can, into the forest and narrowly missing rocks and tree roots. You don't dare look over your shoulder to see if he’s chasing after you. 

All of a sudden you feel something around your legs, closing in on you. You look down to see a fiber cord whip, not too dissimilar from your own grappling line, encircling your legs. Within an instant you’re down on the ground, head slammed against a rock. You try to wiggle free but it’s no use, the cord is tightening around you rapidly. The last thing you see is the Mandalorian standing above you, piercing into your soul with the stone-cold glare of his visor before the world around you fades to black. 

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[mychoombatheroomba]

Too Slow

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 1

He knew STRATCOM training would be brutal. He knew that they were teaching you all to face down hell itself. Turns out, Leon isn't the only one who's already been there.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

Next Chapter

Chapter Index

Disclaimer: This series is super, super long! Like, 40+ chapters long, just a fair warning!

Whenever Major Krauser smiled, everyone knew that someone was going to be in a world of hurt. That rule had become very plain very quickly in training for the US Strategic Command. Things were bloody and bruising enough as it was, but whenever someone mouthed off, or failed . . . hell, even when they succeeded, the Major would put on that toothy grin and then the gloves would really come off. 

Leon always managed to find himself on the opposite end of that smile, one way or another. Always wound up finishing the day with a little more black and blue on him than everyone else. 

It was making him angry. Angry enough that today, when the knife of the man Leon was fighting clattered to the ground and Krauser just smiled, Leon very much considered just getting a head start and rushing the Major then and there. Might as well, if it would save him some time and effort. 

“Well, well, rookie,” Krauser grinned, and Leon’s opponent took the opportunity to scoop the knife up from the dirt and get the hell out of dodge. Then, it was just Leon in the metaphorical ring. Leon and the heat of the midday sun beating down on him, just as oppressive as Krauser’s damn smile. “Not half bad. But we all knew Kennedy was going to get the hang of this quick, didn’t we?” 

The rest of the trainees almost snickered. They knew what was coming. Better Leon than them. 

“What do you say we give him a real challenge?” 

Leon braced himself. Angled himself towards Krauser, adjusted his grip on his knife. Even if the weapons weren’t edged he knew this was about to hurt, so he took a steadying breath. 

Then, Krauser turned his back to Leon and walked away. 

Was this a test? Should Leon attack him while his back was turned? Or was that just going to make whatever ass-kicking that was coming his way worse? He balanced on the balls of his feet, unsure of what to do-

Another pair of boots against the dirt caught his attention, and where Major Krauser had stood, someone else now took his place. 

You took his place. 

Leon had seen you before. All of his fellow trainees had. He and the rest would watch your unit running drills sometimes, like first-year students staring wide-eyed at the seniors. You’d been here longer than he had. Trained with Krauser for longer. It showed in the way you moved, but mostly in your eyes. 

For a moment, Leon was reminded of Raccoon City. Of that over-strong and over-dressed monstrosity that had stalked him that night. No hesitation, no fear.

You, like that thing, looked at Leon like he was a job to complete quickly. 

And you advanced on him just as quickly, even as Leon realized you didn’t have a knife on you. “Sir-” he almost got to voice his concern before it was stripped from him, just as you aimed to strip the knife from his hand. 

You almost did it, too. It was a quick move, just like Krauser taught him. Control the arm, the blade, then pry. Quick and efficient.

Leon was quick, too. He twisted free of your grip and shoved you away - a stupid misstep, he knew and the rest of the unit watching the fight knew it too. They all jeered at the move, and Leon bristled. Keep your opponent close, he could practically hear the Major’s voice. You aren’t using a fucking sword! You can’t hit them from that far away! 

But Leon preferred distance. Distance was safe. Distance meant that whatever horror was coming his way wouldn’t get the chance to rip a chunk out of him. To sink its teeth into his flesh. To turn him-

He glanced over to see if Krauser was watching. To see if he would comment on the mistake. 

Instead, his C.O. just watched, never losing that grin.

“Eyes on me!” You growled, and Leon listened. He locked all his focus on you, losing his concern for you being unarmed as he sized you up, ignoring the rogue strands of hair in his eyes. He could see what this was. Krauser was using this as a lesson for both you and him. One person armed with a blade, the other with more experience. 

The odds should have been against you, but for experience. Still, even with the advanced training you had over him, you remained just out of Leon’s reach. Watching. Waiting, just as he was.

“We gonna dance all day, or are we gonna do this?” Leon huffed, but you didn’t entertain him with an answer, or even a move. You just remained where you were, your guard up and your jaw tight. 

“Not much of a dancer either, I guess.” 

He lunged, slashing at your stomach, right to left. You barely avoided it, exhaling sharply as the training knife cut the air an inch from your belly. He felt the touch of your hand, barely registering it as he went on pressing another attack. This one at your shoulder.

You moved your opposite hand, blocking and moving all at once, leaving no air for him to breathe in between. Control the arm, the blade- 

Your fingers worked quickly, but the kick you delivered to the back of his knee helped. Leon’s stance buckled, his eyes going wide as a yelp escaped him as he stopped himself from falling. His hold slipped as you pried his grip free, and then there was a knife at his throat and a pair of cold eyes looking down at him. Your focus didn’t waver. Not one inch. 

A moment passed as he looked up at you, his ears and cheeks growing hotter as frustration burned at him. Then, a little whoosh of air as you drew the knife away from him, let it spin effortlessly around your fingers until the handle was facing him. “Again.”

And again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over as Leon felt his energy waning. The other cadets must have hated him for taking so long. Or, maybe, they were thankful it was him taking your hits and not them. If you were pulling those hits, it sure as hell didn’t feel like it. Fists, feet and the dull blade of his own knife had met his skin hard over and over again, until Leon was sure that he would be a painting of his own failures in a few hours. You had the courtesy to avoid using that force on his face and neck, at least. He landed a few non-lethal hits and did his best to analyze what worked. How he got through your defenses. The trouble was, you did the same, and you did it a lot faster than he did. It could only have been a few minutes, but the cycle of defeat after defeat made it seem longer. Agonizingly, infuriatingly, longer. 

All the while, Krauser remained silent on the sidelines, watching. It was more unnerving than anything else, but Leon didn’t pay him much mind. No, he was in this until the end, now, and so help him, he was going to win. 

He bared his teeth as he stabbed forward, trying to keep himself focused. Measured. He’d faced worse than this. Everything in Raccoon City had been worse. You were just another person, like him. 

One who made mistakes, just like he did. 

Mistakes that, if he was honest with himself, he couldn’t quite pinpoint in the moment. All he knew was that he felt his knife connect hard with your side, scraping across your ribs, and he felt more vindicated than he had since he’d been recruited by STRATCOM. He even heard some of his fellow cadets give him a cheer for the blow. He smiled - really smiled - for the first time in what felt like months, happy just to have gotten one win in. 

Then he looked up at you and that smile died. The cold focus you’d been holding on to for the whole match had just been torn to shreds by the anger he now found himself staring at. 

Leon knew then that if he didn’t move fast, he was completely and utterly fucked. 

The moment it took for him to realize that was all the time you needed. 

As he tried to back away, your hands shifted, moving from the failed redirect you’d tried to set up and a hand came to cage the knife and his arm against your side. He tried to pull away, to escape, but you were faster, your hold true. His arm moved at your direction, up and over your head, pulling him forward. 

Right into the kick you pushed into his gut, one that landed hard enough to make him almost lose his lunch, his vision blurring as the air escaped from his lungs with a pathetic sound. He was vaguely aware that he wasn’t holding the knife anymore. 

Then pain exploded from his face, and he only realized you’d backhanded him as he fell, seeing the controlled follow-through out of the corner of his eye. 

Skin scraped against the dirt as Leon just barely caught himself, his head still reeling from it all. He blinked, scrambling to get up as he saw red. He’d taken hits like that before, that wasn’t the problem. The problem, far as he was concerned, was the fact that you’d done it in a sparring match. A test of equals. The problem was that Krauser had set him up for failure, pitting Leon against you. The problem was that he was in this fucking spec ops training in the first place. The problem was that he’d been made to choose between his freedom and that of a child, and now-

Your weight against his back forced him down but made his anger rush to the surface. He thrashed, trying to get you off of him. Trying to apply what knowledge Krauser had instilled in him. Instead, he cried out in pain as your hand found his hair, pulling his head up by it while you pinned the rest of him to the ground. Cold steel slid in across his throat, the chill burning him as surely as his anger did. 

“Hold!” Krauser. Finally. 

Leon saw the Major step forward just as you released your hold on him. For a moment, he thought you might push his head into the dirt for good measure. Wouldn’t put it past you. He counted himself lucky when the knife moved away from him and your weight shifted. 

Then, your hand was in front of him, open. An offer for help. 

It was petty, Leon knew it, but he snarled up at you and slapped your hand away. He didn’t see the frown that crossed your face after. Didn’t care to.

“Pretty sad showing, rookie,” Krauser observed, circling where Leon was now pushing himself up from the ground. Leon thought he knew the tirade that was coming next, but today was a day for surprises. “And you-” he turned his gaze towards where you stood at attention, and Leon paused when he saw the expression you wore now. Eyes downcast, mouth curved into a frown. “What do you think is my problem with what I just saw you do?” 

You swallowed, that hardened focus slipping. “I shouldn’t have hit him like that, sir.” 

Krauser shook his head, considering your words. Then there was a flash of steel as he drew his own knife, moving towards you faster than you could avoid. You raised Leon’s knife, still held in your hand, but it wasn’t enough to stop Krauser from resting the flat of his blade over your ribs. Right where Leon had managed to land his hit. You flinched, your eyes flaring in a panic before settling again. 

“My problem, Sergeant, is that you were too slow.” 

Your jaw tightened, and you nodded. “I’ll do better next time, sir.�� You sounded so small. How could you sound so small when only a moment ago you’d pinned Leon to the earth? When you’d seemed so unstoppable? 

You were dismissed without fanfare, and you did not say a word in protest. When you passed Leon, you spared him the briefest of glances as you slapped the knife flat against his chest. Shame was what you wore, now, poorly hidden and almost all-consuming, it seemed. Leon didn’t get long to analyze it before you were gone, his own anger now culled back by concern. Misplaced concern. 

He shouldn’t give a damn, not after the treatment you gave him. You had thoroughly beaten him in almost every way. One failure was enough to upset you so much . . .

Krauser went on with his instruction and Leon turned his attention back to the Major, trying to ignore the spreading pain across his cheek and the spreading curiosity in his head.

“Don’t worry, rookie,” Krauser chuckled, gesturing to Leon’s face. “Bruises are the best teachers.”

Next Chapter

Chapter Index

A/N: Here I go, posting a chapter by chapter of a 40+ chapter fic to make myself feel like I'm doing something instead of procrastinating writing the next chapter, yeehaw!

[prezaki]

Bucchigiri?! and 'being Honki' - a Show about Identity and Human Connection

With Hiroko Utsumi's newest work as a director now completed, I want to take a moment to discuss the thematic through-lines of Bucchigiri?! and explain why I think that the story was very coherent even if it first seemed erratic.

At the heart of the series is the concept of the Honki Person(TM) - and that's where the confusion starts. Leaving the word 'Honki' in Japanese for the subs suggests a lore-heavy emphasis on some kind of supernatural mechanic in-story. It caused many viewers expected a well-defined shounen-typical power system - but that isn't what Honki is nor what it was ever meant to be.

"Honki" is the Japanese word 本気, which means Seriousness, Earnestness (or doing something 'in earnest, for real' if used as an adverb). 'Honki People' literally just means 'Earnest People'

And thus "Honki" is doing double duty as a red herring Lore Concept and a regular word - an intentional ambiguity that is inevitably lost by translation.

In the show, the characters do initially think of the 'Honki Person' as a literal thing to become (a supernaturally powerful master martial artist) rather than as a state of being in which one is earnest - but the thing is that the narrative proves them wrong.

But before we get to that, we need to dig a little bit deeper into what a Honki Person is thought to be in-universe:

"Historically", those thought of as Honki were fighters who participated in conflicts 300 years ago - a bit after the end of the Sengoku Period, the continuously warring states that had defined Japan for two centuries. With the advent of the rigidly structured Edo Period, honorable fighters with no clear systemic alliance were no longer needed and the aspiring Honki People(TM) were mercilessly gunned down. This feels out of left field for an anime like Bucchigiri?! to focus on, so I propose a second more allegorical layer to impose over the literal pseudo-historical read.

Even beyond the historical fact that gun imports changed warfare, the usage of guns here is deliberate to represent something. Guns are associated with authorities, and contrasted against the Honki People(TM) shunning weapons and fighting only with their own bodies.

To be Honki(TM) means to be true to yourself and secure in your own identity - this is something that is a hindrance to a social system that relies on rules and groupthink to sustain itself. Supporting this assumption, the theme of 'death' by weapon/authority is mirrored in the show several times:

On the one hand, we have the NG Boys, a gang set apart from the other gangs in the story by their even more rigid hierarchical structure and their willingness to use weaponry. They all follow one leader, have one uniform look, and appear basically brainwashed into blind obedience.

The association of weapons=structure and authority is made pretty clearly through that alone, but is also enhanced by all the members of the NG Boys living under constant threat of being fed to the real authorities of society: the police. Fear keeps everyone in line.

And further, the idea of society as an oppressive force (especially to the lower class) is put into direct focus through Mitsukuni and Matakara. Poverty is brought up briefly before through Senya (our main Honki Person(TM) was a nameless orphan after all) and brought back with the Asamine brothers:

Mitsukuni wishes to escape his social status in order to offer a better life to his brother - and he's forcibly held down by the oppressive system around him.

The cop that causes Mitsukuni to go to jail is equivalent to the guns that shot Senya and Ichiya.

(Utsumi has explored this underlying socially critical current before. Not for nothing, her previous series SK8 opens with the memorable bridge of the title song reading: "before society can kill us".)

But Bucchigiri?! isn't about overthrowing the system. It's about the individual. Understanding the context about authority just helps setting the real theme into focus.

And that theme is to hold on steadfast to who you are and allow yourself to connect with others, even in various kinds of adversity.

After this long, long preamble, let's get to the actual main characters!!

Matakara and Arajin are people who are ruled by fear and who spend 11 episodes running from others and themselves in two very different ways.

Arajin is pretty hated as a protagonist, which amuses me a little, because nobody hates Arajin more than Arajin hates Arajin.

His past cowardice in failing to protect Matakara has clearly shown him that he is a pathetic person and he's spent his whole life since then trying to avoid being reminded of this. He avoids Matakara, the strongest reminder of his failure, but further than that he avoids connection with anybody that he could see as a peer.

Arajin is solely focused on finding love and romance because he feels inherently inferior to every person he would be invited to contrast himself against. He avoids other guys because he hates himself. He shuns connection and pursues only people (girls) he views as different enough to not invite any comparison.

Matakara meanwhile has major abandonment issues - he's lost his parents, Arajin, and his brother. Everyone important to him keeps vanishing from his life and in order to keep himself from feeling powerless about this he decides to blame himself.

If it's his own fault that people leave him (because he's weak) then there is something in his power that he can do in order to avoid being hurt again (becoming stronger). In order to maintain this state of motivational self-hatred, he puts others on a pedestal.

Matakara needs Arajin to be strong, powerful, honest and admirable... because that is the image he holds himself up by. In Mitsukuni and Arajin, Matakara creates god-like icons to chase after. And by doing so, he also shuns genuine connection.

Being confronted with Arajin as a flawed person gives Matakara a breakdown because it makes it harder to run from his own loneliness by focusing on chasing after Arajin.

Arajin is always running, but Matakara is always chasing... because he can't stand to look behind and face his monster.

In a lot of ways, Arajin and Matakara can't connect because they care about each other. Arajin can't stand what he allowed to happen to Matakara because he cared about Matakara. Matakara clings to Arajin because he loves him.

This theme of love hindering connection is again mirrored in two other characters - Senya and Ichiya, of course.

Ichiya, unwilling to confront his own terminal illness head-on, wishes to avoid it by goading Senya into killing him. By doing this, he can run from his own weakness and put Senya on a pedestal instead.

Meanwhile Senya is attached to their connection as-is and wishes to maintain this master-disciple dynamic forever - going so far as to deny his own strength in order to avoid acknowledging their changing dynamic.

Both of them are denying something about themselves.

It is their self-denial that makes their communication and thus connection break down.

Ichiya can't make Senya go Honki(TM) (which should have definitely been translated as an adverb here, e.g. 'failing to make him get serious') because he is also not HONEST with him or himself.

In the finale, Senya finally admits his motivations (his illness, his perceived weakness) and he is rewarded with the honest fight he'd been craving. They both stopped running.

This theme becomes even clearer through the two leads, of course, but even earlier than that it exists in Mahoro.

Mahoro's scene in episode 6 is the thematic linchpin that carried the whole show on its shoulders. Through Mahoro, everyone in the cast gets their first glimpse at true unrelenting Honki(tm) - and it is something totally unrelated to fighting prowess.

Mahoro is physically powerless against Akutaro, but she won't run. She has a heart that won't run away, the key quality of the Honki Person(TM), because she has an unshakable sense of self-identity.

It would be easy to dismiss her cutesy design as a contrivance to give Arajin a conventional-looking love interest despite going to Delinquent Academy - but it also says something about HER. Mahoro marches to the beat of her own drum. She does not care that she does not fit in, she does not mind being alone - she'll stick right to her own aesthetic and priorities.

So it's easy for her to call out Akutaro - and in doing so, call out the whole cast along with him:

You're empty. You are nothing but a shell, shaped by how you relate to those around you. You have nothing to offer.

And how are you supposed to connect with anybody, when you don't even know who you are?

(Notably, Mahoro is also a character who refuses to compromise on her self even for love - she knows she does not appeal to Marito, but she's not changing herself to be more his type. Her Honki does not budge, even for him.)

And lest you think I am exaggerating by connecting the theme of identity and emptiness back to all of the cast instead of just Akutaro: it does come back with Matakara.

Matakara can't believe anybody would know him and care for him, because he doesn't know himself.

For Matakara, facing himself means acknowledging his fear of abandonment rather than externalizing it as a hallucination of a literal monster.

But facing yourself doesn't just mean facing your demons, it also means facing your own positive qualities. And that is Arajin's story.

Even as Arajin turned into a scummy, evasive and selfish guy, there is a part of him that has a throughline to who he always was. He's someone who can get invested in others with reckless abandon.

Whether as a child with Matakara, or in the present with Mahoro... Arajin wants to connect.

Bucchigiri?! is a show full of innuendo and sexual gags. Merging with a genie gets equated to sex, fighting gets equated to sex... and of course this is for laughs, but it's also thematic.

Because all these things are about connection. About facing someone else with your whole self.

On a literal level, yes, Arajin absolutely wants to get laid. This is his sincere desire, and good for him.

But at the same time, his battle cry of 'I want to lose my virginity!' is him crying out for a real connection, even at a time when he shunned the idea thereof.

In the end, being a Honki Person(TM) has nothing to do with fighting. Fighting is the way a lot of the rough and tumble guys on the show like to connect, but it is not the only way to do so and not the only way to be Honki(TM).

Arajin never learns to love brawling - he did it out of circumstance and necessity, but it's not his hobby. He does not need to discover some hidden love of fighting, because this show fundamentally isn't about how 'fighting is inherently good' or anything.

It's a show about how even when you hate yourself and think you're as low as it can get, acknowledging your own self in full is the first step to finding a real bond with somebody else.

It just also happens to feature a bunch of delinquents who love to punch a lot.

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us In A Week - Chapter 10

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 6.5k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12 A/N: a lot of yall are gonna be mad at me, but let me cook real quick. Trust 🙏🏾

Past (xi) - You

[21 & 22] - DISTRICT ELEVEN

You tighten your coat around you, burrowing into the warmth as you walk. 

To the left of you, dairy cows moo distantly, some grazing the open land while others stay tucked away in their barns. To the right of you, you pass empty victor houses. Once upon a time, District Eleven used to produce an immense number of victors. Certainly not as many as One or Two, but a strong contender right next to Four. It makes sense. Compared to what the citizens here have to face day to day, the arena is a welcome change. And tributes from Eleven develop a skill set that’s meant for survival at a very young age—one step away from being careers in your own right.

Eleven has always been incredibly rebellious. But after the Uprising a few decades back, which the citizens refer to as the First Movement, Eleven lost any good standing with the Capitol. In its place came droves of Peacekeepers and more oppressive rules than there were people. With them came the inability to train children, malnourishment, and conformity. They make sure to teach all about it in school, making sure students know just how far their district fell. Once a powerhouse worthy of rubbing shoulders with the best of them stands one of the most ‘primitive’ and militarized districts in the nation.

The remaining houses are left without any upkeep and are abandoned to fall apart.

As a victor, you're afforded some leniency by the Peacekeepers, but not much. Just enough that they won't find it suspicious that you’re carrying a blanket-covered wicker basket. Regardless, you keep it close to your side and it knocks into your calf with each step. 

Winter is the worst time in Eleven, though it doesn’t last long. It doesn’t snow often, since it’s so far south, but the ice is just as bad—if not worse. Not many people can survive the subzero temperatures, let alone crops. So, though it seems impossible, what little rations they give the people are shortened even further. The only plus is that it isn’t harvest season—there are so many crops to collect that children are pulled out of school for weeks at a time to help.

You remember what it feels like to be hungry. To be forced into the orchards to harvest pears, apricots, and Mandarin oranges—some of the only crops that can weather the cold, small hands stiff and your stomach numb with pain as you endured the freezing winds. You had friends when you were younger, other children that worked alongside you. Very few of them survived through the winter.

They give victors more food and money than they have any right to. So once a month you pack up food that you, Chaff, and Seeder have gathered and journey to the poorest part of the district. You don’t take it all at once, that’s far too risky. You spread out the trips over several days at different times so the Peacekeepers on the clock don’t notice a pattern.

It’s not an easy walk by any means. You reside in the wealthy part of Eleven and you use wealthy in the loosest sense of the word. The mayor’s family, doctors, Peacekeepers, landowners, and victors. Your destination is almost on the complete opposite side of the district from the Victor Village. Far away so the rich don’t have to see the harsh reality that the citizens live in.

It’s never been explicitly said that you can’t give out food, but it’s certainly implied. You try not to think about what they’ll do to you if you’re caught.

You wave at the few people you pass and avert your eyes as you walk past the whipping post. There’s only one. The Peacekeepers line up anyone who’s committed an offense and thrash them one by one. Most of the time, the people are innocent. Everyone has to watch, no one can intervene. It’s stationed beside the deck they conduct the hangings on. People avoid the area if they can.

You pass open farmland and empty cotton fields. The further you walk, the more run down the buildings become. Until the houses aren’t much more than shacks guarded only by the hulking trees surrounding them. You relax. The Peacekeepers don’t patrol here. They’re certainly supposed to, but even they can’t stomach the squalor. 

The kids spot you first, they always do. Little heads popping up from behind trees and shouting your arrival. 

“She’s here!”

You laugh as they surround you, jumping up and down and shooting rapid-fire questions your way. You know that more would greet you if they could, but they likely can’t move. Huddled up in their homes and crippled by hunger or the cold, but probably both. The commotion draws adults toward you. An older woman with graying curly hair and sunspots on dark brown skin steps out of the gaunt-looking crowd. Elm, she's the de facto leader here. 

A man, Maple, takes the basket from you with a smile and walks into one of the buildings in the far back to stash the food away. You pull more wrapped food out of the hidden pockets on the inside of your coat and hand them off.

You have a system in place. You’ve been doing these deliveries for a long time. You trust them to distribute the goods to those who need them the most. Everyone here looks out for each other. Even if the kids aren’t theirs, an adult won’t let them go hungry if they can help it. It truly takes a village. You would know. After all, you used to live here.

The Shacktowns mainly exist because there are too many people in the district, having reached overpopulation decades ago. Living here is preferable to having to pay for food, clothing, and a house that’s seen its fair share of price gouging. From what you’ve seen, the clothing in the Shacks is somehow worse than what Districts Ten or Twelve get to wear. It’s all ill-suited for the temperamental cold. So in exchange for working in the fields and forests under horrible conditions, the people get free housing and food. Clearly, both benefits are incredibly lacking.

It’s all the illusion of choice anyway. Only three percent of the population works outside of the fields, that’s including the Peacekeepers. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who doesn’t work on a farm, a grove, an orchard, or a plantation.

Elm pulls you into a hug once your hands are free and you lean into her warm embrace. She’s been as old as the dirt on the ground for as long as you’ve known her, but it feels like she’s rapidly declined every time you see her. She’s well and truly sick and she has been for a long time now. No one knows what it is or what effects it’ll have on her. Medicine isn’t readily available here. And you don’t think something that simple can help her anyway. Sadly, she isn’t the only one. You just hope this information doesn’t get out.

If anyone orbiting the elite circles found out just how many people were sick here, they wouldn’t send them to the Capitol to get help. They’d see it as a waste of resources. They’d let them suffer and die or have them put down if they’re feeling benevolent. Again, Eleven is heavily populated. The lives here have very little value outside their abilities to work. If they can’t do that, what purpose do they serve? 

What use is a horse with a broken leg?

She pulls away, hands on your shoulders as she looks you over. “You look good, healthy.”

“I can’t say the same for you.” You raise a brow at her hunched frame. She’s a tall woman with the endurance of a mule. She’s a decade younger than Mags, but she doesn’t look like it. But, as you’ve learned after touring the districts, manual labor ages people. 

“And you,” you lean back as she wags her finger in your face, “inherited that mouth from your daddy. It’s gonna get you in trouble one day.”

‘’You’re getting worse.” You note, ignoring her attempt at diversion. The kids disperse, running back to the forest they were playing in. You know they won’t go far enough to reach the thirty-foot-tall fence, but you still worry. The gate is guarded to the teeth with trigger-happy Peacekeepers who won’t hesitate to shoot on sight.

“I’m fine, honey. Don’t worry about me.” She waves off your concern and you frown, stuffing your hands into your pocket when a breeze comes through.

“My offer still stands, Elm. There’s plenty of room in the house. Me and Mama would love to have you.” She practically raised your dad, and she even made the broom your parents jumped over at their wedding. Hell, when you were born, she was the first person to hold you after your parents. She’s family and it kills you to leave her out here.

She shakes her head and you know this argument is going to end the way it always does. “You know that’s not fair. They need me out here.” She pats your cheek and finishes with no room for argument. She’s stubborn so going in circles about this will get you nowhere. You shift your jaw, agitated.

“And while we’re talking, I think you should skip next month’s delivery,” your jaw drops. “Let me explain before you start assuming. You know we appreciate everything you do for us, but you need to lay low for a while. You’re pushing your luck coming out here as often as you do, and if you get caught, you won’t be any help to anyone .” She states, making a convincing argument and effectively cutting off your protest before you even start. 

You sigh. Seeder and your mom have been telling you the same thing.

“Please? Do it for an old woman’s peace of mind.” She pleads, squeezing your shoulders.

“We can’t afford to just stop coming out here entirely, but I guess it doesn’t always have to be me.” Chaff had offered to start delivering in your place, or to at least switch off who makes the trip each month.

You’re barely able to make ends meet for the people here, and this is only one Shacktown of hundreds.

“Just start looking out for yourself more, alright?” She asks and you agree with a scowl, you refuse to call it a pout though Finnick definitely would.

You don’t stay for long. You need to get back before it starts getting dark out.

On your way back, you stop by the bakery like you always do. It’s a good halfway point between your two destinations—you’ll have something to show for your trip as well as an alibi, just in case you get stopped. 

You order two loaves of seeded rolls, another loaf of sourdough, and a blueberry muffin for your mom. Sage, the worker behind the counter, wraps the baked goods and pauses. “It’s dangerous, what you’re doing.” He murmurs under his breath, so quiet that you wouldn’t have been able to hear him if you two weren’t the only ones here. He hands you your stuff, waving off the tip you attempt to give him. “But it’s good. I don’t think I’d be brave enough to take that kind of chance.” 

“It’s brave enough that you offer me food to give to them.” You say and mean it. What you do is only a secret to the people who aren't supposed to know. It's not just you, Seeder, and Chaff who contribute. Sometimes people give you food, and clothes, to donate—among other things. Sage has spent many nights making extra bread and pastries just so there’ll be enough left over for you to deliver to Shacktown.

Most jobs In Panem are passed down through families. Such as Caesar Flickerman, who took his profession from his father, Julius Flickerman. And Julius inherited it from his father before him, all the way back to Lucky Flickerman. 

Old Mr. and Mrs. Pitsone never had any kids of their own so the mayor allowed them to adopt one of the many orphans running around the fields to train in the art of baking. They picked Sage. 

He’s a meek boy despite his height, skittish and paranoid, but very kind. With light hair and even lighter skin that’s rare to see in Eleven, it’s no wonder he stood out amongst the other kids. He and his parents live above the bakery in a small home, though luxurious by Eleven’s standards. 

You used to have a crush on each other when you were much, much younger. A kiss on the cheek here and there as you worked beside each other. Nothing special, but the most childish you were allowed to be. You were so envious when they took him out of the fields, you all were. He wasn’t one of you anymore, he got to work on the inside. Nobody wanted to be around him, so he was ostracized. You, angry and young, wished it was you. But now, you only wished it had happened sooner. You wished you had kept in touch.

He rings you up and you gather it all in your basket before he stops you. 

“Oh, wait here for a second.” He goes through a door behind him that you know leads to storage. You lean forward and hide a handful of coins on the little shelf under the front counter where you’re sure he won’t find them until it’s time to close. You hear rummaging and boxes moving before he comes out with a wrapped parcel tied with string. “I saved a few chocolate croissants for you. We usually run out of those in the morning, but I know you like them.” He gives you a closed-mouth smile. Small, but real.

You try to picture a world where the two of you ended up together, running the bakery until you’re old and gray—maybe if you hadn’t been reaped. But you can’t imagine a universe where you aren’t in love with Finnick Odair. 

“Thank you, Sage.” The bell above the door jingles as you walk out.

“Be careful!” He calls from behind you.

Walking back is always hard, having to leave them all behind to suffer while you’re allowed to go back to your stupidly big house. With its giant pillars and long, stretching brick walkway framed by old willow trees that curve into each other and make an arched tunnel. And it’s in the middle of this tunnel that you see Peacekeepers guarding either side of your front door.

Your heart stops and then starts again at a runner’s pace.

Did they…find out? You were so careful, how did they—

One of them spots you lingering a few feet away and waves you closer. You walk forward, closing the distance. And then you take hesitant steps up the old stairs, tensing up in preparation for rough hands dragging you to the whipping posts. Instead, one just opens the front door for you. That’s worse. That means your punishment is on the inside . You’d rather take your chances with the whips. 

They shut the door behind you, but don’t follow you. You place the basket of goods on a nearby hallway table and walk into the living room to see your mom sitting on the couch by herself, flanked by three guards, safe.

“There you are, baby.” She tries to smile at you, a play at normality, but it creaks and shakes like a house in a tornado. “We have a very special guest. He’s waiting for you in your study.” She nods to the double doors further down the hall with even more Peacekeepers. You know who’s on the other side before the doors even open and you really would have picked the whipping post over this.

Coriolanus Snow sits in your office. Your office inside your home that’s almost seven hours from the Capitol. Snow traveling that distance? That's nothing to scoff at. 

He sits with his back to you and turns when the doors shut behind you. You feel like you’re a guest in your own home.

Seeing him sitting behind your big mahogany desk is akin to seeing a fox in a chicken coop. It’s dangerous— foreboding. Nothing good can come from it. And for him to be so comfortable in the spot where you write your letters to Finnick makes your skin crawl. It’s wrong. He shouldn’t be here, in the one place that's truly yours.

“President Snow.” You say in greeting. You wrack your brain for any mentions of him coming to visit you and come up empty. Maybe there was a letter you missed, but you doubt it.  

It’s dusk, the setting sun shines through the windows behind him—bathing him in golden lighting that would have made anyone else look angelic. 

“You’re back,” he props his elbows up on your desk, steepling his fingers together. “Your mother said you were off to the bakery. You were gone for an awfully long time. Is it far?” Nothing on Snow’s face gives away his true intentions. If he knows about your little escapade, he’s doing a very good job of hiding it.

“Yes, it’s almost a day's walk,” You reply truthfully. When he does nothing more than hum in return, you’re quick to fill the silence. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“Oh, it’s no fault of your own, my dear. I’m sure if you knew I was coming, you’d have postponed your little trip, yes?” You nod like a bobblehead and he leans back, most likely confident that he has your full attention. Again, you can’t tell if he knows about the donations. If he does, he clearly doesn’t care enough to mention it. Surely, he didn’t come all this way just to sleep with you. But what else could he be here for?  

“Your mother was a fantastic host in your absence.” He lifts his teacup in mock cheers to you and you clasp your hands together behind your back, nails digging into thin skin.

“I’ll…be sure to pass along the message.” You smile, pressing your nails deeper into your skin. Had they been any sharper, you would’ve drawn blood. It’s quiet as you silently observe each other. The only sound in the room is the tick of the grandfather clock and a few birds outside the window, happily ignorant of the cyclone forming inside.

He finally breaks and speaks, though break probably isn’t the right word for it. Rather, he allows you to breathe by saying something, “Do you know why I’m here?”

Under the weight of his unrelenting stare, you eventually shake your head no and it feels like admitting defeat. Like you’re not smart enough to catch on to his train of thought and you both know it.

“Of course, you don’t.” He tsks, disappointed. You lower your gaze, embarrassed. He stands and takes poised, measured steps to where your feet are rooted to the floor. He towers over you, literally and figuratively. 

“I am here,” he circles you like a vulture, “to remind you of your standing. Hear me when I say this as there will be no room for misconceptions. You are incredibly privileged.”

You think you do a very good job of refraining from gawking at him like he’s grown a second head even though that’s definitely the reaction he deserves. What privilege could he possibly be talking about? You, who grew up in the poorest part of the most oppressed district. You, who’s been whored out for the safety of the people you love since you were sixteen. You, who’s lucky to see the man you love more than once a month. 

You’re privileged?

"Now, I've allowed you a certain amount of freedom that not many are rewarded. Namely, your relationship with Mr. Odair," he nods to your desk where your letters from Finnick are hidden. Perhaps, not as hidden as you thought. "I’m sure you know communication between the districts is forbidden. You get away with it because I allow it. Because you are obedient, because you don't ask questions when given a task, because you have a value that many like to indulge in." Snow rubs his gloved thumb against your bottom lip. You know better than to flinch away. 

"But you are not irreplaceable." He drops his hand and turns towards the room. Your lungs are cool with the breath you’re finally able to take. You should be used to his presence, and you usually are, but only when you can prepare yourself. He’s completely blindsided you. 

You nod clumsily. “I know.” Really, you do. You knew Snow knew about you and Finnick, but not to what extent. You also wondered how long it would take until the both of you got pushback. You just—weren’t expecting it to happen like this.

He toys with the few picture frames you have set up on your shelf. He glances over the picture of your parents on their wedding day and a framed photo you took of Finnick in the Capitol, beaming a big grin at the person behind the camera—you. Instead, he goes for the magazine you have propped up. The first cover you and Finnick were on together. Life in the Spotlight as Told by Panem's Hottest Victors.

“Do you? It appears to me you believe yourself invincible. I assure you, you are not.” He turns to you, magazine in hand, and taps Finnick’s face on the cover. You bite your tongue so hard you taste blood. “And neither are the people you care about.”

Your throat is dry, tongue fitting uncomfortably in your mouth. You swallow and it goes down rough.

“I don’t think that at all, President Snow. I apologize if my actions came across that way. If there’s anything I can do to remedy that…?” You trail off rather pathetically.

He chuckles and cracks the first smile you’ve seen since he’s been here and it’s almost worse than his scowl. "Always so eager to please. This is not a reprimand, just a reminder. You toe the line, but as long as you do not cross it, we shouldn’t have any problems." The heels of his sensible shoes click against the wooden floor as he comes to stand before you again. "So long as you keep up your streak of good behavior, you’ll be permitted to carry on the way you have.”

“Yes, sir. I…I understand.”  

He hums and goes to walk past, but stops.

"Ah, I almost forgot," he pulls an envelope from a pocket on his waistcoat and you know who it's from by the color alone, the color of sand. "You have mail." He smiles again, sharp and cruel in its kindness. It's still sealed, held between his middle and pointer finger, but you're certain he knows what the letter says already. You take it hesitantly along with the magazine.

He walks out without any farewell. The doors shut behind you. You hear shuffling and steps, but you only untense once you hear the front door open and shut. You wait there for what has to be at least thirty minutes before you even think about opening the letter.

My Star,

At the time that I’m writing this letter, it’s been two months since I’ve last seen you. I think this is the longest we’ve been apart in the past seven years. Only two months and it’s felt like a century. It’s been agonizing. It makes me wonder how I was able to survive without you for sixteen years.

I got the picture you sent me. I worry I’ll wear it thin with how often I touch it. In the absence of having you near me, I trace the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the slant of your eyes. I carry you everywhere I go.

My hands should be in yours, fingers laced together. Instead, I use them to write to you now.

I hope I can see you soon. Dreaming of you can only tide me over for so long. 

-With all the love in the world and beyond,

Finnick O.

You lean back and slide down the door. You groan, knocking your head against the wood. You never thought Snow would go as far as to threaten Finnick’s life. Especially with all the popularity he’s cultivated. It doesn’t make any sense.

You lift the letter to your face, tracing his signature. You glance at the magazine. You were both so young here, couldn’t have been more than sixteen and seventeen. Your youth is encapsulated forever on a teen gossip magazine.

You rest your forehead against his, the glossy cover cool on your skin. Your body is still trying to disperse the rush of adrenaline Snow brought with him.

“You and me.” You sigh. You’re going to need all the strength you can get. For him though, it’s all worth it.

Past (xi) - Finnick

[21 & 22] - DISTRICT FOUR

Ocean water burns his eyes as he swims to shore, his muscles strain and burn as he pushes against the current. The hot sand sticks to his wet feet as he walks up the beach and he waves to a few surfers that call out to him. It’s getting colder and everyone wants to get in the water while they still can.

Finnick has always believed that good things come to those who wait. And he prides himself on being a pretty patient man. But, and there’s always a but, that patience is as good as dust when it comes to you.

It’s been four months, going on five, since he’s last seen you.

He’s been seeing you less and less over the last two years and at this point, he’d be lucky to catch a whiff of your perfume. He doesn’t get it. It’s not like he’s lost any standing in the Capitol, and based on your letters, you’re still in high demand. 

It’s not like either of you can request to come to the Capitol at the same time.

He drags himself up the stairs to the Victor Village, wood creaking under his weight. When he gets to the top, he turns left instead of right—actually heading back to his beach house for once instead of Mags’s. After taking a shower, he plans on going into town with Annie. She hadn’t asked him to and she’s been doing pretty well, becoming more lucid. Yet, there’s no telling what’ll trigger her—whether it be some kind of commotion that sounds too much like a canon or someone’s outfit that too closely resembles what she wore in the arena. He’d rather be safe than sorry.

Plus, he’s expecting a very important letter any day now.

When he finally gets to the sand road in front of the village, he hears the horn of a ship in the distance. He glances behind him and spots the biggest fishing boat in the district. The Cod Be Ever in Your Favor . He scoffs. That thing’s been around longer than he has and it’s a rite of passage for everyone to go out to sea on her at least once. 

His father was a deckhand and he adored the job like it was his lover. He was rarely ever home—something Finnick was very grateful for. He never inherited that passion for the high seas and he had to learn the hard way that he’s much more adept in the water than above it. He’s crossing his fingers that the old relic capsizes one day. He’s not hoping anyone gets hurt or anything, but he will be celebrating the day that hunk of junk gets turned into scrap metal.

“On your right!” Finnick jumps to the left as a man on a bike zips past him.

Cars aren't driven down here. It’s too close to the ocean and the cars manufactured in Six aren’t built to handle the terrain. But they’re substituted by the electrical bikes fashioned specifically for the coastal towns of Four.

Palm trees sway in the stiff wind before a line of three-story buildings. He has no immediate neighbors, the beach houses on either side of his lay empty and desolate. Tributes from Four aren’t that rare compared to lower districts—the latest victor being Annie. But, with being a wealthier district, comes access to more substances. Morphling overdoses are the leading cause of death for victors in districts one through six. Followed closely by alcohol poisoning and, well, the Capitol itself. Just in the past five years, the population dropped from seven to three.

He remembers them. 

Emilia Killroy, found washed up and bloated on the shore. Rían Hugh, struck by a car further into the city after stumbling into the street. He was so drunk, he wouldn’t have felt it. 

Lottie MacHale and her son, Lukas. Lukas left the games mentally and physically disfigured. His game was a disaster that led to the untimely death of the previous Gamemaker and the implementation of Seneca Crane. A winter tundra that froze two-thirds of the tributes. The frostbite took the entirety of Lukas’s left leg and all the fingers on his right hand. He was found by his mother with a needle in his arm sans a pulse. Truly, it was a wonder he lasted as long as he did. 

It didn't take long for Lottie to follow him. Drowned in her vomit after drowning in her liquor, but everyone always said she died of a broken heart. 

He remembers them all. 

He slams the door shut behind him, eager to take a shower. His swim trunks are laden with water, getting dragged down his hips from the weight. Saltwater drips between his wet feet on the hardwood floor and weighs down his hair. He slicks it back so he can see where he’s going as he walks past the living room. 

He pauses, taking a few steps back to see…President Snow sitting on his couch? Finnick leans to the side to glance down the hallway and yep, Peacekeepers are milling around his back door. He bets as soon as he came in a few sprang out from wherever they were hiding to guard the front door behind him.

“President Snow. This is a surprise.” And far from a pleasant one. Finnick smiles, mask slipping into place, but Snow has unbalanced him. “What’s this all about?” It can’t be anything good. He can’t say he’s ever heard of Snow making a house call.

“I apologize for barging in on you like this, Mr. Odair, but this is an urgent matter.” He crosses his ankle over his knee and Finnick hedges into the room. Cautiously, feeling like a wary animal walking into a trap.

Briefly, he’s reminded of something you told him. You had mentioned off-handedly that you’ve eaten frogs in Eleven. He couldn’t wrap his mind around how you’d get it into the hot water while it was alive and you said you have to trick it. You put the frog in the water while it’s still cool and then slowly you raise the heat without it noticing. Eventually, the water is boiling and the frog is trapped. 

“And what matter is that?” Snow stares at him thoughtfully for a moment and in Finnick’s experience, that’s never good. He hums before speaking and Finnick imagines steam rising around him as Snow cranks the heat up.

“Are you aware of what purpose keeping the districts isolated from each other serves?”

“No, Sir, I don’t.” He lies, but he’s sure Snow will give him his own twisted, convoluted reason. Finnick is well aware that Snow enforces this rule because it keeps the citizens ignorant. Ensuring they only really know about their district means there can be no real unionizing. 

“Panem as a nation runs on a very delicate balance of hope. Too little and the people become despondent. Too much and the people begin to think—the people begin to rebel . For the citizens to see two victors from drastically different districts have such an intimate relationship, that complicates things.”

“...You think we’ll spark a rebellion? Just by being together?”

Snow releases a raspy breath that might have been a laugh once upon a time and the water is getting hotter. “I think it will lead to people envisioning a future where such things are allowed. I know you will cause a rebellion. You see,” he sighs, “the civilians are as subdued as they will ever be. But this will have them questioning their circumstances. It will take them out of the ‘us vs. them’ mentality they have against each other. It will make them wonder just how much they have in common and that leads to them seeing each other as people. It doesn’t help that you are both such influential figures. They will rebel, from One to Twelve, and they will all share the same fate as Thirteen.” 

“Is this…because she’s from Eleven?” He knows, thanks to you, that the people of Eleven are particularly defiant in the face of the Capitol’s oppressive ruling and always have been. Understandably so considering no one feels it more severely than they do. He holds back a scoff. To think he thought Four was rebellious. At most, Four has the privilege of throwing temper tantrums knowing they’ll face no real repercussions. Eleven, on the other hand, riots knowing they’ll be punished grievously.

Snow, again, takes a moment to watch him. “Her being from that particular district does make a rebellion far more likely, yes.” He pulls a forest-green envelope from a pocket inside his blazer. The exact letter he’s been waiting for. He doesn’t acknowledge it, so neither does Finnick.

“Of course, you can continue as you have and I’ll take it upon myself to handle it. Though, I doubt you’ll like the solution I come up with. She's one of my most popular female victors. And I can admit, I've grown rather fond of her." Snow chuckles and Finnick feels sick. He looks down at the envelope clutched in Snow's hand and pictures your arm in its place. He doesn't want to think about what happened behind closed doors to make Snow grow so fond of you. "It would be hard to replace her," Snow nods along to himself, "but not impossible." The room is quiet for a moment before Finnick asks, "What are you saying?" After working so closely with Snow for so long, you learn his language of non-speaking. You hear the silent threats in between the carefully crafted rebuttals. You feel the weight of his deliberate silence. So, Finnick knows exactly what Snow's saying. Snow knows this too, which is why he says, "Don't act daft, Mr. Odair. It doesn't suit you." He's twenty-two years old—a grown man, but, suddenly, he’s fourteen again—sitting in that chair, backed against a wall as Snow forces him to sign his soul away. He’s still that scared kid. He’s never outgrown him, because he never got the chance to grow up. Not if Snow had any say in the matter.

“As I said, this can only end in pain. It’s up to you to decide who will end up bloody. The lives of thousands over the life of one. Surely, you understand that.” He doesn’t. Finnick doesn’t understand it at all. It doesn’t matter what the other option is, he’s picking you every time without fail. He can’t imagine doing otherwise, he doesn’t want to.

“Unless you can think of something else, I don’t see any other way for us to proceed past this.” Snow moves his hand in a sweeping motion, the closest thing to a shrug that he’ll do. Finnick doesn’t understand why he came to him . He clearly favors you, so why threaten your life?

“Why me? Why are you making me choose? Wh-why,” he looks down to the floor, to the space between his feet, “Why not her?” If there was a choice on who would survive between you and him, he wants it to be you. Is that selfish? To wish you were the one given the choice instead of him. It feels unimaginable to live in a world without you, so is that cruel to expect you to do the same? 

To love is to be human. To be human is to be flawed. And there’s no one more flawed than Finnick Odair.

“You’ve been around longer.” He shrugs as if it’s all so simple. “It only seems fair.” Fair. When the hell did he start caring about what’s fair? He didn’t even think that word was in Snow’s vocabulary, and, honestly, it still might not be because he isn’t using it right. There is nothing fair about this situation.

Snow uncrosses his legs and leans forward, a glint in his ghastly eyes. He looks worse every time he sees him and Finnick wishes he could get any satisfaction from it but he just feels as sick as Snow looks.

“It doesn’t,” Finnick shakes his head, “It doesn’t have to come to that. I’ll…I’ll handle it. I–I’ll end it.” The words are out of his mouth before he can even comprehend them, mouth moving faster than his brain and by the time it catches up, it’s too late to snatch the words out of the air. They float between them and they are terrifying .

Snow nods at the idea and…and he realizes it’s over. It’s all over. It was over as soon as Finnick sat down across from him, maybe even before that.��

“See that you do. I trust you’ll take care of this issue without my stepping in.” As Snow stands, he holds the envelope up to his nose and takes a long, obnoxious sniff. "Hmm, it even smells like her." His smile is nauseating, Finnick’s stomach turns at the sight of it. “Spritz of perfume? A nice touch.” His steps are unhurried, taking his time to approach Finnick’s tense form.

“And Finnick?” He pulls away before Finnick can take it from him, playing with him even now. “Go easy on the poor girl. I imagine she’ll be quite torn up over this.” The water is boiling. The water is boiling and it’s too late to get out.

Finnick says nothing, but it seems like Snow isn’t expecting him to. He hands him the letter and walks to the door without a backward glance.

Two Peacekeepers follow him out, the door shutting behind them softly, and that nags at him. How dare they ruin his life and leave like—like this was just a social call? As if this isn’t crumbling his foundations, the same foundations that support the home he’s built with you.

Snow handed him a box of matches and told him to burn that home to the ground.

He looks at the envelope, wet with his fingerprints, and Finnick…

Finnick rushes to the bathroom to vomit.

-

A/N: why'd y'all let me cook 😕😕😕 come yell at me in my inbox!!! damn y'all were Peeta and Katniss b4 Peeta and Katniss 🤭🤭 and sage is such a peeta variant, all these Peeta variants falling in love with you uh, an actual lil author's note moment: when watching Catching Fire, I noticed the people in District Eleven dress like black people did in the 1950s and 60s while incorporating elements from the Antebellum South. Since most of the people that live there are black and indigenous and Eleven is the most oppressed district, it makes sense. It’s interesting what the clothing the people in different districts wear says about the culture there and what kind of culture Suzanne Collins based that district on. The Shacktowns are the District Eleven equivalent to the Seam in District Twelve, but even Katniss was surprised by how badly the people lived. She basically said it made twelve look like a paradise in comparison. When I mention the rich elites in Eleven, imagine them being around the same financial standing as Katniss was before she was reaped. So…not much.

[hms-no-fun]

so, (SPOILERS FOR FIONNA AND CAKE but its relevant to the question but im gonna put a bunch of line breaks just in case lol)

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so fionna and cake ended with fionna basically being like, you know, youre RIGHT god, if magic came back my wish would simply be twisted and it would suck, there will be no rule breaking miracles! I will now work as a struggling minimum wage employee in seattle and Be Happy about it. i sure am glad the threat of losing everyone i know and love set me straight!! sorry to send u this really random thing the ending just felt like such a slap in the face and i wanted to ask someone who knows that exact Seattle Struggle. this is absolutely me appealing to the Writing Gods to back me up that the ending wasnt very good lmao but if i have a direct line to the craftsgoat i simply must use it for something stupid at least once

FULL SERIES SPOILERS FOR FIONNA & CAKE AFTER THE BREAK!!!

i really disagree with your read on the ending. it didn't feel like "just struggle with seattle minimum wage forever and be happy about it" at all to me! the whole instigating incident was that fionna wanted to transform reality into something that she personally thought would be better, without taking into account the fact that other people exist and have internal lives just as complex as hers. she comes back to her original world to find marshall and gary holding hands, explains to them the magical adventure she's been on and the fact that their world is about to transform into something unrecognizably magical, and they receive this with abject horror! fionna doesn't know whether simon becoming ice king again will erase marhsall & gary's burgeoning relationship, which makes her realize that in her quest to escape the boring, oppressive reality of working odd jobs to make ends meet, she's only ever focused that energy on how to make things better for her.

i really want to dig into this because it's a key theme of the show. there is a destructive selfishness innate to the "heroes" of this universe, who feel entitled to the joyous empowerment of being able to defeat anyone and everyone they see in open combat. cake has a whole musical number about this! simon's arc in the last two episodes was betty grabbing him and shaking him until he finally asked himself, how would my life have been different if i'd just once let the woman i loved steer the ship for a while? and then of course we see the lich in a reality where he succeeded in eradicating all life, only to find himself desiccated and without purpose, begging the god of chaos for an answer it cannot give. brian david gilbert's ice prince seems perfectly put together and successful, until the reveal that he's outsourced his madness to someone who didn't accept the terms of the crown's curse. this didn't solve the fundamental problem, it just inverted the roles of its expression by making princess bubblegum into the mad candy queen. nothing about the status quo has changed, simon has simply given himself a more dignified role in it.

this is a story about what happens when people in struggle behave as though they are the protagonist of reality. when fionna says "this is the world i want to fight for" she's not fighting for the right to get another shitty minimum wage job. i think you've really missed something by accepting that conclusion when cake the cat is right there saying that her magical self IS the version of herself she wants to live as. being a normal house cat for her was, arguably, a form of body dysmorphia, and the show lets her keep that magic at the end! the thing is, their world IS changed by the events of the show! the status quo is altered!

like, what do we actually see everyone DOING when the credits approach? we see this entire disconnected community banding together to rebuild the city together, and we see a huge crowd of protesters outside marshall's mom's place demanding that she lower rents. we see people connecting with other people, including three outcasts from other universes escaping to this more boring one for their own safety. i loved this ending honestly, because it felt to me like an attempted refutation of the very idea that you can magically transform reality into something better overnight. if fionna'd gotten her original wish and made her world into, like, candy world, then... what? let's say they play it as like, at last people are freed from the shackles of capitalism and everyone just gets to be weird funky critters going on adventures or whatever. what would that, as art, actually say? what would that mean to us in the real world? if we're going into this cartoon looking for some kind of revolutionary energy (which IS present in the text, much to its credit), what actionable or symbolically resonant message are we supposed to take from a story that resolves its problems with magic? at that point, it ceases to be relevant as anything more than pure fantasy, because it has abandoned any connection to the material reality WE are trapped in.

i don't want to magically transform the world overnight. this whole show goes out of its way to explore how trying to transform the world overnight, in a world where such a thing is possible, is a really fucking bad idea for a whole host of reasons. regardless, such things aren't possible in our world. so going into the finale, my worry was that they WOULD turn fionna's world into another candy world and just say, ah, the revolution is when you think the right things so hard that the material plane bends to your will.

that's neoliberal thinking. that's like the essence of the failed leftist project of the "end of history" era from the 90s onwards, when marxism was systematically rooted out of academic cultural analysis and replaced with the delusion that if you can just get people thinking the right things, you can affect change in the world. well here we are, it's 2023 and all that magical thinking has got us is a world on fire and a civilization of human beings so thoroughly disempowered that they would literally rather pretend to be a tortured anime protagonist than exist in this boring, shitty, violent reality. you can't think your way out of oppression. raising labor consciousness is, at best, step one. you want to know why unions are winning big right now when they've been completely useless in this country for decades? it's because they've stopped giving a shit about optics they can't control and remembered that the boss's value does not exist without labor. you do not necessarily need marxism for this, marxism is simply the most accurate articulation of the fact that workers who make the things a capitalist sells can kneecap the capitalist by refusing to make the things they want to sell. change doesn't happen with the publishing of a book or whatever, it happens when enough people in real life press their material demands hard enough that someone in charge is left no choice but to listen.

so for me, fionna & cake ending the way it did was a huge relief, because it wasn't espousing magical thinking. the solution to fionna's ennui and economic anxiety was not to just get another job and be happy to live in the world as it was-- it was to create a sense of shared community and struggle, uniting the not-seattleites in their survival of a near-apocalypse and using it as a jumping off point for fundamentally transforming the state of that world as it exists. fionna had to realize that her problems are everyone's problems, and that making her life personally better at the expense of everyone else's agency is just an act of kicking the can of responsibility down the road indefinitely. no one who gets their wish in this show is happy to have gotten it, or avoids punishing others who didn't ask to be involved.

the "canonization" of fionna & cake felt like a reaction to the idea that we in our world are permanently isolated from the fictional realities we create where change seems to come so easy, and the powerlessness that can engender. instead this show is saying, okay, let's say we are in continuity with these fantastical realities. what do we actually DO with that? how do we make this world more fun, more interesting, more fulfilling for everyone to live in? the answer is the same as it's always been, and no other answer would ever feel satisfying: you do it by organizing the workers against the current arrangement of the state with the explicit goal of transforming it for the better.

what does simon do at the end when he gives fionna her world to her? he says that no one person should have that responsibility, that it's been in one person's hands for too long. so he gives it to her in the form of a dandelion, whose blown seeds merge with and become part of everyone trying to survive the scarab's attack. the idea here is that while no single person ever possesses the power to transform the world on their own, the world itself belongs to all of us, and it is within our power to transform it together. those who hoard power want us to believe that this is not the case precisely because the basis of their power is fraudulent and maintained through the violence of the state.

as someone who does live in seattle for better and worse, as much as i do wish i could make literally anything better right the fuck now by whatever means necessary... the fact is i can't. and it does no one any good to labor under the assumption that i or any other individual has that kind of absolute transformative power. the solutions are all right there, and they are simple, materialist propositions whose only difficulty lies in how successfully we've been propagandized to think that the individual is God, or at least speaks on His behalf. there's no thinking our way out of this pickle, and no one's gonna do the hard work for us.

as to the question of how you actually get people in real life to get together and do all that hard work... well, personally i think it's unfair to ask a 10 episode cartoon show to give you any kind of actionable advice on that front. i might even go so far as to say that such an expectation is an expression of the very same magical thinking which the show tries to push back against! in any case i liked it quite a lot and i hope this rambling answer encourages you to revisit the show and reconsider some of your takeaways

[starberrywander]

If men aren't the ones holding up the patriarchy then pray tell, who is? Oppression isn't some non corporeal force, it is created and regularly enforced by the oppressive class. It is the culmination of what a class of individuals think and do that create oppression. I think you should read even just the wikipedia article for Feminism and Patriarchy.

The answer is everyone who isn't actively fighting it. Not just men. Have you really never encountered women who enforce patriarchal gender roles on their families? What about all these female GOP politicians who regularly fight against women's rights?

You are correct, oppression isn't some non-corporeal force. But its not just the actions of individuals either. It is a system and a culture. It is maintained not just by those who actively defend it but also by those who act within it complacently. It's not some cult where people have to be forced to take action to maintain it, the patriarchy is a culture that we are all raised in. It implants itself in the minds of all people who exist within it through social rules and people, all people, will act on and pass on that culture if they do not actively fight to identify and remove it from themselves.

The patriarchy is often passive; meaning it doesn't have to be actively enforced by the conscious will of individuals to have effects on us. It is woven into our environments so deeply that everyone is conditioned to act on it and pass it on, even if we are not consciously aware that is what we're doing. Just like any other cultural element, the people who live within it tend to take it for granted as facts of reality. Ever heard of implicit bias? That is how systems like these maintain themselves.

There is not some active conspiracy among men to uphold and wield the patriarchy. Its not something they, or anyone else who hasn't challenged it in themselves, are consciously thinking about and controlling. It's just a culture that people are raised to think is the natural order of things. Yes, the oppressive class (in this case men) enforce oppression, but a very significant portion of that is done without any intention to oppress. It is, again, what people have been taught by the patriarchy is the natural order. Acting like all men, by virtue of being men, are in on some scheme to oppress women is disingenuous. Some may be (Andrew Tate, for example) but your average garden variety dude is not on some mission to maintain superiority.

Think what you want about me, but I can observe the world with my own two eyes and ears and see that most men are not out to get women. More often than not their harmful behaviors are done without any knowledge or understanding of the damage they can have (Obviously I'm not referring to things like abuse and rape, before you jump to extreme conclusions.). And they are never going to gain that understanding and start pulling the weeds of patriarchy from their minds if we do not allow them to process and discuss the way patriarchy plays out in their own lives.

So yeah, you're right. Men do uphold the patriarchy. It's not just men, but they do have the largest impact. But what I feel you get wrong is this framing that they always do so consciously, that it is an active thing that they are choosing and therefore must answer for. Most of the time it is implicit bias. And the only places those biases are challenged are feminist ones. Or at least ones with feminist influence. If we keep excluding them that fact will never change and they will never stop upholding the patriarchy. They do not hold it up because they're male, they hold it up because that's all they've been taught to do. They have been raised by a culture designed to perpetuate these ideas and pass them from generation to generation.

Idk why it's not obvious to more people, but maleness is not the cause of patriarchy. The ideology of patriarchy is. And ideology can be passed on by anyone, to anyone. If we just ignore this crucial source, nothing is going to change. We are going to fight a constant uphill battle if we just assume that men are changeably in favor of this ideology and give up on rooting it out. We need to root it out. That is probably the most important step we can take toward dismantling the patriarchy right now. And the most effective way to do that is to actually discuss the patriarchy with men and allow them to express and process their perspective and experience without being driven away for their thoughts. No, this doesn't mean just tolerate prejudice silently. What it does mean is to listen, consider, empathize, and start pulling the weeds of prejudice out by challenging biased statements in a way that doesn't make them go on the defensive.

Seriously, how do you propose we end the patriarchy? What's the plan here? Because to me the most obvious course of action is to free men and women alike from the captivity of this harmful ideology until there is no one left to uphold it. And we do that by assessing all effects of the patriarchy and discussing them, including the ways they effect men. In what way would it ever be bad to better understand the patriarchy? Because that's what happens when you allow men's experiences to be discussed.

Maybe you don't see it this way, but when I think of Feminism the goal is to free all of humanity from the grips of patriarchy, not to free women from men. The problem is the culture and ideology of patriarchy, not men for wielding it. Or at very least, that's the problem we should be focusing on if we want to make any progress. I don't see how we could ever stop men from perpetuating the patriarchy if we don't make them stop believing its lies and assumptions.

[aurora-daily]

AURORA talks ‘What Happened To The Heart?’: “Apathy is the biggest enemy to progress”

AURORA in the interview for NME by Andrew Trendell (March 29th, 2024)

NME: Hello AURORA. Why did you start on this journey of trying to understand the symbolism of the heart?

AURORA: “The world has grown so accustomed to being apathetic. The truth has never been easier to share, but it’s also never been easier to manipulate either. AI was created without our consent; nobody asked us the people if we were ready to have something that big being thrown upon us. Now, so many things are going to change, which I don’t think we can yet grasp.

“Another true form of power is to manipulate people, to embarrass people, to lie; there’s so much that you can do with it that’s dangerous. People are so used to becoming overflooded by misinformation and information, and sadly we’re looking to our influencers and celebrities to tell us what we’re supposed to know about political things instead of reading about it or listening to true experts on the matter.

“Of course, I’m very vocal about things so I do think it’s important as a ‘person with a voice’ or whatever to show people what you stand for, but to be the only arrow for people to show them what they mean – that’s dangerous, as hell!”

Ah, that’s grim…

“I have a lot of hope, but I’m really concerned that everyone’s necks are fucked, everyone is hurting, everyone is tired and depressed. It’s fashionable to joke about nihilism and suicide. We have really lost touch with something that we used to have, and it was really beautiful.”

The last time we spoke was just before the release of ‘The Gods We Can Touch’, fresh after COVID when there was an air of optimism and change afoot after the activism brought on by George Floyd’s murder and a lot of talk about how we relate to each other and the planet. You said: “It’s always a good thing when the oppressed aren’t the only ones fighting and the privileged are starting to fight as well. That’s a sign of true progress”. How you feel about that progress now?

“We aren’t meant to look at a genocide [in Gaza] happening for four months on our phones before we go to work. Because of the overflow of information, our attention span is our biggest weakness. We know how to care about something for a little bit, then we kind of lose touch with it again. Our ability to be persistent with the progress that we feel like we deserve is also weak, which is understandable. I’m not blaming us for that. It’s a very natural reaction to where we are at a species now, but we’re still being forced to become apathetic.

“Apathy is the biggest enemy to progress. But I feel that in shadows and what is not on the news, there are so many good things happening. The world is literally on fire – whether global warming, injustice, slavery in Congo, or a war that nobody can stop. The people that can, won’t, because war is also business. But amongst all of that, a lot of good things are happening too. People are proving that we’re tired of peace in that we want more than that: we want real change and liberation and real progress.

“What was peace for me and you here in London was not peace for other people out there. I’m kind of tired of peace and speeches of peace, because we deserve more than that.”

In asking ‘What Happened To The Heart?’, did you find any answers?

“I kind of did. At one point the album gets very ugly, it gets very harsh, it gets very uncomfortable – before it breaks apart. Then at the end of the album there is insight and truth that you need to go and mend all of the rules that you didn’t acknowledge for all these years.

“That’s what needs to happen. Something needs to break apart a bit. Who knows where the world is heading? The least we can do is just keep being in touch with each other and ourselves.”

But it’s not as easy as that, right?

“We’re stuck in pain and many of us don’t have the energy or the courage to begin doing the small things that can make us feel so much better on a daily basis.

“Imagine what it is to be a human today: you’re on your phone, disconnected, being lied to, being manipulated, then you see what’s wrong with the world – or you think you see it but you don’t know how to do anything about it, so you escape into something else. Imagine living in that world where everyone is supposed to feed you, help you, talk the truth to you, is just constantly bringing you into a system so that they can make money.

The world’s on fire so let’s make some money?

“Yes, it is a bit like that! People are getting so tired of celebrities and politicians. People are getting tired of rich people celebrating themselves while the world is burning. You see people getting tired of it, compared to 50 years ago when it was all the rage and all a hoot!”

There’s been some discussion about whether people want reality or escapism in their music. You’re proving that you can do both.

“You can do both and you should do both, because art is both. It’s all about balance.”

You said that you made it a mission to only write for this record in “unsafe” spaces that made you feel quite alien. Where did take that you? Did it make you feel more or less certain about your ideas? 

“Previously, I have gone to a place, locked the doors, turned the lights down low and made an album. This time I wanted to try different rooms and temperatures to write the songs because I needed to access a lot of different AURORAs on this album. It gave me access to a lot of parts of me that I haven’t really faced before; even parts that scared me a little – very personal parts. I’ve been exploring my own darkness more, so it is maybe my most personal album, even though it’s about something so big.”

Did that lead to some new sounds? 

“It’s a very human album and there are a lot of things being played. It has a lot of different moods and every song belongs to a different part of the process for me. The album is very different from the three singles, but I like to release songs that confuse people. The fans really like the complexity. I treat the fans like kings and I would never underestimate them with my music. I know they’re going to feel very satisfied with songs that are so multi-dimensional.”

Do you feel like an outlier for that?

“There’s a lack of that. People expect music now to be very instant and free. That’s why there’s all this shit music going around on TikTok. There are also a lot of cool new acts on TikTok. I like that they can promote themselves.

“Anyway, I’ve been exploring a lot of different things. There are new sounds I’ve never heard before. I’ve been experimenting a lot and had so much fun. I nearly shat myself every day! Not that I have an issue with that.”

It’s a good sign of a good time

“I had such a good time. I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s extremely playful, and I’ve been working with people I admire.”

Including Chemical Brothers’ Tom Rowlands…

“Always, my mate Tom from Chemical Brothers. We have a lot of fun. We feel like two little aliens walking around, and we have the same hunger for something exceptional. I’m really grateful. I texted him one evening just saying, ‘Tom – puke vomit all over my song please’. And he did, for like four hours.”

Did you get lost in his garden again? 

“I’m trying to not do that again. The one time I got lost in his garden it was his daughter’s birthday, and this time it was his birthday. I just love bothering him and his poor family on their birthdays – I never leave them alone. I gave him a cookie wrapped in a napkin that I found on the ground.”

I’m sure he’s OK. 

“Is he though? Has anyone heard from him?”

The album also sees you work with Ane Brun, Matias Tellez (Girl In Red, Maisie Peters), Chris Greatti (Yungblud, Blink-182, Pussy Riot), Dave Hamelin (Beyonce, King Princess and Zara Larsson) and Magnus Skylstad. Greatti is somewhat of a maximalist – what did he bring to the table?

“That! I tend to go into very dark landscapes. I like when my songs sound like a landscape, but I needed a few songs on this album to sound like a different part of the process I’m trying to deal with.

“Most of the people I work with come with a little strategy, and it’s based on me meeting them in a bar then saying, ‘Let’s go to the studio now!’ With Chris, it was because I liked his hair. He had a mullet and a glam-rock thing going on. I didn’t know who he had worked with before, but he seemed really interesting. We laughed a lot and we just played. Sometimes it’s about the art, sometimes it’s just about playing, and sometimes it’s about both. We’re really good friends now.”

So if Tom Rowlands brought out the raver in you, Chris Greatti brought out the glam rocker, what did Dave Hamelin bring out in you? 

“I remember I lost my voice when I went into the studio with him. It’s not often I work with new people, but sometimes it’s nice to be surprised by the unknown. Not The Unknown from that horrible Willy Wonka Experience…”

Oh you saw that? Are you not gutted to have missed it while you were in the UK? 

“I was gutted. I would have loved to have seen The Unknown up-close like that. Why the fuck was he there? It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Well, there’s your next music video

“Don’t out my ideas! But to be thrown into the unknown, I wanted to cancel as I’d lost my voice my manager told me to go [into the studio with Hamelin]. I was there for four hours, I said, ‘Can you make it sound like hell?’ He made it sound terrible like I wanted, I just screamed because I couldn’t sing and it was really satisfying. After four hours I said goodbye. It was a really fast, beautiful, ugly thing – but it was just what I needed.”

Speaking of that primal urge, you play some drums and percussion on this record too right? 

“I love being in touch with rhythms. I love a very big diversity in the beats in my music. A long time ago I realised that a lot of deaf people or people with hearing disabilities liked my music, so I make sure to always have a lot of vast variation in the bass regions so that it can be felt.”

How is the new album going to change the live show? 

“One of my favourite shows from my childhood – and adulthood – was Avatar: The Last Airbender (not the movie, we don’t talk about that). I always felt like I was either air or water, and I feel like people are scared to change. They’re scared of me changing, they’re scared of the world changing, and themselves. That’s the most beautiful ability we have; it’s so freeing. Jesus Christ! It will change. I want more air, I want to create more space. I want every song to have huge balls.”

You’re playing Royal Albert Hall on your 2024 tour. That has plenty of space for balls.

“Yes, Royal Albert’s balls! I’m excited for every show, and just excited in general.”

And Glastonbury? 

“Heck yes! In the name of mathematics, I will conquer Glastonbury. I feel like I have to redeem myself there. Every time I go there, I’ve always had a holiday for like a month. Boy, do I know how to take time off! I always arrive all shrivelled like a raisin. This time I’m going to come back fresh and sweet like a plum. I love Glastonbury because it’s so iconic. Make sure that if you’re going to use drugs that you know what’s in them. Test your drugs, but most importantly: don’t do drugs. It’s a fucking stupid thing to do.”

Any amazing advice to end on?

“Don’t do drugs, but don’t be a don’t-er. Do be a doer.”

[silvermoon424]

There's a weird, weird, weird criticism of PMMM that revolves around the girls being pitted against each other and how Madoka's wish in the finale somehow is a statement on the "model woman."

Like... I get that pop culture too often has girls going at each other in a vibe that amounts to, "girls, amirite?" but Madoka Magica felt like it treated any of the sort with nuance and an in-universe reason.

If they knew how much the Incubators were screwing them over and the info Kyubey often withholds, they'd team up and fight the power hands down.

Would Kyoko and Sakura not put aside their differences if all we know of Kyubey now was known by them while the former was still stable enough? Would Mami not have tried to gun down Kyubey along with Homura if she learned the truth (preferable not after having to kill Sayaka as a witch)?

I know, that's such a dumb criticism. It's explicitly shown in the series that, unlike most magical girl series where everyone is best friends, the girls don't get the chance to do that because the very nature of the magical girl system in PMMM makes them compete for limited resources.

They're not catty girls fighting over shoes and boys, they're literally fighting for their survival and unfortunately making friends can get in the way of that. I think it's actually a really good critique on systems that divide us like capitalism and white supremacy; we could all be friends and help each other, but there are oppressive systems and structures in place that make us compete with each other.

Moreover, the effect this competitiveness has on the magical girls is shown in great detail with Mami (especially in The Different Story manga). She's desperate, lonely, and depressed because she doesn't have anyone to confide in.

It's no wonder that, when resources aren't as much of an issue, magical girls tend to band together. We see this in Magia Record, where lone magical girls are the rare exception and not the rule thanks to the purification barrier. In fact, a few events showcase non-Kamihama magical girls trying to infiltrate and stir up discord among the Kamihama magical girls only to fail because they're all on good terms with each other, if not straight-up friends and teammates. In Madoka's new universe, magical girls also fight together on teams because they're not competing over limited Grief Seeds.

So yeah, the lack of teamwork in the main series basically boils down to "oppressive systems inherently work to divide the people to keep them from banding together and unlocking their full potential." Man, I really need to write an analysis on the socialist implications of PMMM lol

[awakenedsalamander]

So I’ve been wanting to write about this for a long time (my friends can probably attest to the fact I will talk about it unprompted) but I can’t find it way to do so concisely. Here’s my best try.

Is Mage: The Ascension (in its presentation of the Technocracy in specific) anti-science?

I don’t think so, not anymore. But I want to explain why. By the way, I have to imagine that this won’t be all that accessible if you don’t have much knowledge of Mage, but you’re free to stick around if you want to.

So, here’s the thing— the Technocratic Union is pretty much a stand-in for the advancement of the scientific method, “the Enlightenment,” all that. The whole point in the first edition of Ascension is that the Union is science, the science that dispelled notions of magic, and that this is a Bad Thing. They are oppressive, heartless, and cold. The villains, plain and simple.

In later editions, this gets softened, partly due to the notion of “Science is a conspiracy the elite uses to rule the world and keep you down” becoming less fun and more toxic as it gained more sincere believers, and partly because fans really liked the Technocracy.

I think the common read is that Ascension then took the direction of the Technocracy being anti-villains— the Union has noble goals, and many of its members are sincerely brave and compassionate, but ultimately it is too extreme, too callous. It has to be stopped.

This is, to be fair, an improvement over “science is evil,” but “science is too dangerous,” is still not great. And for a long time, this was my view on Mage: The Ascension. Fun ideas, maybe, but the core conflict of the game was just too reckless a portrayal of what seemed to me like a mirror of real-world conspiracist ideology.

And to some extent, I still think that. Especially in the early editions, this is a very fair critique. That said, the game still spoke to me as I looked into it, and for the longest time I wasn’t quite sure why. A piece of it was my own opening up to the notion of our subjective viewpoints affecting our reality— something that deserves its own rambling essay— but a related part of it was me realizing that there was something about the Technocracy that rung true to me, despite my misgivings. And I think I figured it out.

See, the Technocracy isn’t a stand-in for the scientific method, but for scientism.

If you’ve not heard the term, “scientism” is a controversial (we’ll get into why a bit later) pejorative term for the belief/perspective that science, as a body, composes essentially all useful and/or reliable knowledge about the world.

Notably, those who critique scientism rarely hold the view that scientific knowledge is bad or even inaccurate, just that it is an incomplete model of reality. This is not an anti-science position, but a skepticism towards the trust people place in its ability to solve every mystery. Vaccines, for example, are great! No one can reasonably dispute the benefits and efficacy of vaccination. When it comes to medicine, the scientific method has done incalculable good— the lives saved by vaccination alone are countless.

To be against scientism, then, is not to argue that medical science is a failure, or overrated— but to point out that there is more to life than being healthy. Everyone should be glad we have learned so much about treating illness and alleviating suffering. But what of having a sense of purpose? What about love and compassion and justice? What about satisfaction, having gone through a life worth living?

Again, none of that is to say that science or the scientific community is the problem. But if you take the Technocracy as an example of scientism gone to an extreme, one in which things like kindness and equity must be left behind in favor of only the virtue of material knowledge, I think Mage: The Ascension starts to really work.

(I originally intended to write a MUCH longer piece including references to the military-industrial complex, the rise of automation and AI, as well as the increasingly algorithmic nature of culture but this is so long already. And yet I worry I said essentially nothing. C’est la vie.)

[randominji]

𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝟏: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓

: I see the key worked... very well then, I expect you to tred lightly little one. This may only be the opening page, but with enough care to details, it could hint to anything and everything for the storyline.

[Additional information regarding scheduling will be down below]

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: None... (maybe spelling mistakes)

Page unlocked! Click -> here <- to be taken to "your family" character profile page!

Everyone in your small spread of a community knew about the tale of the forest. You've been told of its wits and games, how the shadows always lie. It was the most essential life lesson your parents had to teach you as a child, even before teaching you how to feed yourself.

Never trust the forest.

It was always the number one rule, and therefore, it was always on your mind. This sick game of oppressed "what ifs-" had led to your twisted insights on the woodland, causing a connection of curiosity to stem from deep within.

It fascinated you. How could something so pure and raw as nature be so cruel and dangerous to the wonders that cohabitate with it? How could mother nature simply allow herself to corrupt the good creatures she's tried so hard to bring up?

Capitalism blossoms in every aspect of this earth, a hierarchy of social imbalance based on stereotypical assumptions and power. They always neglect the very aspects that keep them afloat, like nature and its natural decomposers.

You guess that's why imbalance strives on the blood of the incompetent, and you refuse to turn a blind eye to that. Not now, not ever.

"Y/n, where's Maxwell?"

The same impending call of your mother rings out, her voice cutting a clean slate above what was your arguing sister and brother.

"What?!" You respond, sitting up at the mention of Maxwell, your beloved companion and best friend.

"Maxwell? Have you seen him?"

"Uhhh…" You take a second to respond, eyes realigning with the foot of your bed. "Not recently! No?"

Placing the chisel and canvas of your constructed wooden statue down, you raise yourself from your bed with a curious gaze. Where was Maxwell?

The normally occupant spot by the foot of your bed was acquainted with the mangled of a deer's metatarsal bone and a patch of thin black and white hairs. His wool blanket, knitted by your mother, was in a mess, slumped to one half of your worn out mattress and the normally chewed on wood of your bedpost had no fresh saliva on its brutally mauled exterior.

"Maxwell!" You call, only to receive no tip off on his whereabouts. Inching yourself out of bed, you feel a certain dun fill your ears at the sudden sound of what could only be Maxwell's untrimmed nails scattering on the wooden floor.

Shuffling to the only wooden flooring within your shack of a house, you find your best friend, and dog, sitting and staring at the front door.

"What's up bud?" You pause to observe him, not a single bone in his body ached to move, not even his constantly wagging tail. "Do you need to go to the toilet?" You ask, moving to rest your hand on the rusted metal hook you use as a handle.

But still. No response.

"Max?" You mumble, eyes dragging from the tips of his gone pointed ears to the sudden twitch of his moistened snout.

"I'll let you out, but only for a minute. Make your business fast, alright boy?" You give the flat of his head a quick pat before opening the door.

It was apparent that with patience, came eagerness too- as Maxwell had immediately scurried out of the door, wasting no time in looking back as you only watched his silhouette fade into the void of darkness beyond your residence.

A deep feeling of something uneasy settled into your stomach almost instantly. You had already known you had just made the wrong choice.

"Y/n? Did you find him?!"

"Ahh…" you breathe out, eyes frantically dotting around, your vision trying to pry into the small crooks of the shadows as they obscure all light.

Your eyes remain trained on the darkness as the small of scraggy footsteps invade your ears. "Y/n?" It was your mother, you could tell by the rasp of her normally dried throat. Water wasn't all that easy to obtain for your household.

“Yeah…” You pause momentarily “Hey mom, I'll be right back… I'm just getting some fresh air” and with your final words, you had slipped past the poor excuse of a front door and into the chill of the pitched night.

These surroundings felt foreign at night. The friendly wave the grass usually gave you during your walks with Maxwell was now wagging its finger at you, taunting you with the curl of their bladed tips. Even the trees seemed like giant legs, planted firm and impenetrable within the soil like a knife to a gut. The grass was still wet from yesterday's downpour anyway- a certain moisture hung in the air around you, almost suffocating you with the earthy scent.

The thud of your front door hitting your weathered door frame had you jump a small distance forward, your shoes seeming to soak the small droplets of rain that had yet to evaporate from the ground. A small huff bypasses your lips as you begin to move- your steps seemingly careless as you wonder towards the last location you had seen Maxwell- the tree line that boarded the Rimwell Forest and what layed beyond it.

In all honesty, no one from your village had made much of an effort to barricade a defence between your location of eternal residence and the eerie forest beyond. No walls, no warnings, no fences, no nothing. There were as many precautions as there were punishments.

You were only ever to be told to never enter the forest, and if you had entered, you were to be forgotten about till your return- if you ever return.

No one cares about some inconvenient disappearance, especially when the missing person is someone of your social ranking within Croydon. You were merely the daughter of a manual labourer and a forgotten mistress. No one could care less about who you were, especially with your dad suffocating in his ever-building debt.

You've seen the way the poorer families thrash around in a cheap mess, their voices ringing out amongst the whole town due to its small size. Desperate knocks on everyone's front doors would go ignored constantly from the moment they realise this was another missing person case. Parents, wives, husbands, and even close friends to the missing person would demand an investigation, possibly even a board meeting in the small gazebo your poor excuse of a neighbourhood had. They were always a mess, but the responses were always worse.

“They did this to themself”

“They're not of our priority”

“Did they contribute to our society?”

“Are they of any significance to me?”

It always seemed as if the self-proclaimed president of Croydon was too preoccupied with developing what he'd want to administer as “The perfect village.” As he saw it, if they weren't of much importance, they were a lost cause. Someone could always fill the missing gaps, someone less or more able, because at the end of the day, one missing person wasn't much of a problem.

When it came to those of a higher stance in the village, however, it was a whole new story.

Though, thinking this back over… maybe rushing out after your dog wasn't the best idea. You recognise him to resemble a child in a blacksmiths- take your eyes off of him for one moment, and he's gone- but more often than not, he always returns. Maybe you should've had some patience before having left only a few seconds after him. Who knows? Maybe he's already back home?

With a defeated sigh, you look around. Your eyes had completely adjusted to the unusually dark shadows the canopy provided by this point, allowing you to see some finer details in the area. Above you laid a shelter of extended limbs, leaves folded over one another in a shambled pattern. The thick tendrils of tree roots protrude from the ground and arch their backs, a faint rustling sound from your left, then to your right echoed around in this earthy labyrinth.

It was safe to say your hair was standing on end with how eerie everything had gotten. Your senses kicked themselves into overdrive as you examined everywhere you stepped. Every mushroom and ivory bush was consciously noted until something oddly peculiar happened…

“Wasn't that-” You mumbled, your voice lowers into a whisper as you blink at the base of a tree. It stood tall and proud like nothing you've ever seen before- except you have.

That very same carving in the tree- one that almost resembled a rabbit- you could've sworn you saw that a few minutes ago. Had you been walking in circles, perhaps? Or are you just losing your mind?

The cold touch of an old man's finger runs down your spine, a painful shiver following pursuit. Your hand almost darts to the location of the chill as it deteriorates almost as quickly as it had appeared. Your shoulders tense defensively, and your breath hitches within the dry and tightened of your windpipes.

You already knew you weren't alone anymore. Your sixth sense had kicked in. It felt suffocating as you tried to remain as calm and vigilant as possible.

If the rumours about this forest were true, then you sure as hell weren't going down without getting as far away as possible first. Doing a U-turn and running back the way you came from would at least put you somewhere closer to home if you were to die. That way, maybe your family could find you, and maybe find some closure-

What?

You tense again at the sound of a frail twig snapping, a vision of what could be lurking around had you gulping once again. Though, there was something about this sound that made it far more distinct, far more disturbing.

It was as if it was right behind you.

Update schedule: I will try my best to update every Saturday. However, due to events in my life, not every update will be guaranteed. Additionally, on some weeks, there will be a dual post if you're lucky :)

Posts for the first few chapters will be at an irregular schedule as I'd like to have as many people caught up in this before the real adventure begins :^

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by David Bernstein

It's kind of horrifying that the loudest voices bemoaning Palestinian civilian suffering in Gaza will harshly criticize everyone and anyone–Israel, the US, the EU, the UN Security Council, American Jews, you name it–except for Hamas (and its allies like Iran), and the one thing they won't do is suggest Hamas surrender, even though that would immediately end the war, and also end Gazans being ruled by an oppressive medieval theocracy that steals aid money to build weapons and villas for its leaders.

In short, no matter how much they purport to care for Palestinians, their biggest priority is that Israel not emerge victorious over Hamas. I won't go so far as to claim that they don't care about the Palestinians. I will claim, strongly, that they hate Israel much more.

A perfectly good (but hardly the only) example is Karen Attiah, who has a sufficiently influential position as world opinion editor at the Washington Post that someone like her deciding that hey, maybe Hamas should just surrender and release the hostages could help move the needle, given that Hamas is counting on world opinion to stop Israel's offensive and keep it in power. Even if Hamas is beyond world opinion, its patrons and allies in Turkey, Qatar, and even Iran are not.

And the folks I'm referring to won't even suggest that they want Hamas to surrender for rhetorical purposes. Like, "Of course my preference would be for Hamas to surrender and release the hostages, but if that can't happen, and it looks like it can't, to end the civilian suffering Israel should cease fire." Nope, they won't even suggest that they would *prefer* Hamas to surrender. How twisted does your mind have to be to think Hamas is the relative good guy here? And that you won't even pretend you think otherwise just to help persuade, because you can't bring yourself to even do that?

[trigunwritings]

helo ur works have been a delight to read so far and may i please request a stampede wolfwood x wife reader??? 👀👀👀 reader is a sniper and they got separated during a massive shoot out. wolfwood is looking for her while traveling with the gang and when wolfwood reunites with his wifey- everyones just shook cuz ‘ur married???’ lmao please thank you so muchhhshs!! 🤩🤩

(bonus if wolfwood is handsy or obsessed with his wife pls ahshd 😍)

In the oppressive midday heat, there weren’t all that many people milling about the main roadway of the town. It was a small place, without a plant of its own but stuck between two larger cities that were each a day or two’s worth of a drive either direction.

So in other words, the only place to charge up a vehicle after it goes dry and residents fully prepared to jack up the price twofold or more.

Wolfwood wasn’t unfamiliar with the strict rules of the landscape; without a way to produce their own goods, the main source of income for a town like this seemed to be in travelers passing through and staying long enough to empty a few bottles then spend an extra day recovering from a hangover. A fair business strategy, all things considered.

But the man wasn’t interested in vices like that at the moment. Despite the appearance of loafing around next to the old man’s truck, Wolfwood was in fact on guard duty. He was to make sure none of the locals got any stupid ideas while the others found a place they could charge it up and grab a few extra supplies for the next stretch of desert. It was sweltering even under the shade casted by the vehicle, but it was still better than roaming around the town all day—Wolfwood was still absolutely exhausted from having to help push the damn thing the last couple miles.

He had earned a chance to sit down and do fuck all.

Besides, his appearance did well enough to keep even the most curious of teenaged boys a fair distance away. Who would in their right mind think to antagonize a man dressed in all-black, wearing sunglasses, and carrying around a giant cross?

In fact, the man felt so comfortable in his natural source of deterrence that he was almost tempted to close his eyes and take a nap. That is, until—

A flicker of motion in his vision. It caught his attention, but it took his brain a few seconds to catch up with exactly what he saw. Could it—? No, he must have been seeing things. He stared at the doors of the saloon across the street, watching them rock back and forth from the motion of someone stepping inside just a moment before. Someone familiar.

-

The bar is relatively quiet, which isn’t uncommon for that time of day. Most folk came in shortly after sundown when the air cooled off and the wind felt lighter, but you’d gotten used to the peace of helping to clean everything up for another night of drunken travelers—much like when you had first wandered into the town, but the mechanic still doesn’t have the parts for your bike and you don’t have money for the parts. Didn’t help that the caravans coming through never had room to take on another body.

So there you are, stuck in the literal middle of the eastern patch, having to clean tables and keep drunk men from fighting one another inside the saloon to make enough money to try and get out of town.

It’s been over a month since the shootout. Though the memory is a bit hazy around the edges, you can still feel the rapid thump of your heart and the sounds of shrieking bullets flying past your head. The last time you had seen—

“Hey there-“

A man’s voice was the first to set off your instincts, the second being his hand pressing down upon your shoulder. Without meaning to you whirl around and immediately thrust out your arms at the same moment that you’re kicking his legs out from beneath him—the man crumples like paper as you fall on top of him in such a way that he’s pinned to the ground and unable to get up.

Keep the wrists apart, knees against the hips and they can’t pivot back up-

“Nicholas?!”

It’s like you’ve seen a ghost.

“Hello to you too babe,” he wheezes, and in that same breath you’re scrambling off of his body and trying to help him back onto his feet. “Lose you for a few weeks and that’s the kinda greeting I get?”

Though his humor makes you smile, you huff indignantly, “What do you expect me to do when someone sneaks up behind me?”

A moment passes, letting the two of you glance over your bodies in something of a habit. He hasn’t lost any limbs it seemed, nor gotten any major injuries since last seeing him—none that he hadn’t already healed with those vials of his. But before you can say out loud how grateful you are that he’s okay, the man—your husband—quickly wraps his arms around you in a hug so tight that it’s almost hard to breathe.

“So happy you’re safe,” he murmurs, lips near your ear and fingertips curling into the fabric of your shirt. “Thought I’d lost you. Couldn’t figure out what direction you went, didn’t see any tracks and thought…”

The words trail off. You return his hug, arms clinging to him in a desperate and grateful moment of relief.

“I’m okay,” the words are murmured into his shoulder. “Was chased for a bit before I finally got a good line of sight, and by the time I was able to walk back you were already gone.”

Wolfwood releases you only so that his hands can reach up and cup your face against his palms. Thumbs brush idly over your cheeks, and even behind the dark lenses of his glasses, you know that he’s looking at you in a way only noticed from sneaky glances and during the intense pleasure of lovemaking. Looking at you with so much love that it almost hurts.

“We’re together again,” he says, then presses his lips to yours in a kiss so quick and desperate that it steals the breath from your lungs. For a moment you think that he’s going to press on further, hands settling needily over your hips and his body crowding yours backwards until a table edge hits the back of your knees.

And then there’s a new voice—outside and distant, but the sound of it makes Nicholas go still all of a sudden.

“Ah fuck, I forgot about the damn truck.”

“The truck?” you ask curiously, raising a brow as he pulls himself away from you reluctantly.

“Long story, but let me come introduce you to the group I’m movin’ around with.”

Hand-in-hand, the two of you step out of the saloon’s swinging doors to see a truck parked across the sandy street, three people stepping around it as if searching for something in confusion. One is an older man, the second a young woman and the third a man with the brightest red jacket you’ve ever seen. He is the first one to turn his attention towards both of you, bright eyes blinking behind golden glasses.

“There he is! Yo, Wolfwood, weren’t you supposed to be with the truck?”

“Something unexpected came up,” he says, gesturing with his free hand towards you. “Want you all to meet my wife.”

The blonde stares at him, and then at you, his expression getting more and more tense in a way you couldn’t describe. Was it disgust? No—maybe confusion? His eyes look between you and Nicholas again, then towards the building behind you.

“What in the world were you doing in the saloon to get married in half an hour?”