#she has a prosthetic eye if that isn’t clear!

[magic-worms]

quick mabel to relax:] featuring one of my headcanons

[baxndaid]

sal fisher x mean!reader?

reader is a bit of a bitch to be completely honest. that’s what sal loves the most about them 🤭🤭🤭 (perchance some smut with it xoxo)

sal fisher

x reader 🍤☁️🦢

— super bitchy reader

a/n ; i love bullying sal <33

- being a massive bitch to sally isn’t something that he was supposed to like, but he does, and it freaks everyone out

- he used to be snarky and insult you back but after a few days he completely stopped and just let you have your way with him without much of a fight

- you love to make fun of him, he’s just so pathetic, your favorite activity is tugging on his pigtails while sitting behind him in class and then quickly looking away like nothing happened

- you and your friends snicker but little did you know, the blush under sally’s prosthetic mask intensified as he found himself liking it a little too much

- his best friend, recently step brother larry, obviously noticed sally’s jittery behaviour and at first he thought it was because he was scared of you, but thanks to some detective work with ashley it was clear that he just liked you

- they tried their absolute best to talk him out of it,

“dude, did you hit your head? you like her? she’s a massive piece of shit!”

“right! she torments you every day! are you sure you’re feeling okay sally?”

sally didn’t exactly deny what larry and ashley told him, instead opting to just silently nodding whilst drowning out their voices and day dreaming. yes, you were awful and rough with him, but he loved it

- larry would try and guide sal away from you whenever he saw you in the hallways, but after a long while, he gave up and let sally be drawn to you like a moth to a flame, he didn’t like it, but he couldn’t stop sally from doing what he wanted

- and so, your torment continued without sally’s friends in the way

————

The halls were completely empty as the bells rang and class has commenced. Sally, despite his not so best efforts, found himself stuck between your arms and his back facing the lockers behind him. He didn’t bother to move or run away,

“Hey dumbass, what’s up with you? You look more repulsive than usual,” You asked, leaning in slightly. He looks around nervously, his glass eye lagging behind his real one as he stutters.

“Huh? What’d you say? Speak up!”

He flinched, his blush hardening under his prosthetic face and reaching his ears. He looked up at you, a little nervously but a hint of excitement present in his blue eye.

“Jesus…” You caress his red ear, “You into this or something?”

He looked at you and swiftly looked back at the floor again, you followed and looked down.

“…Fucking perv.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Lonely Souls Club 8

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as stalking, loneliness, noncon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Two lost souls cross, but not all those are lost, want to be found.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: told you i had the itch.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Bucky 

He lifts her with one arm. His real arm. She fits it perfectly. He carries her to the bed, feeling her rattle with barely restrained sobs. He lays her down and she yelps, her hand brushing his chest as she reaches to her hip. 

“I’m sorry, I hurt you,” he hovers over her, his heart pumping hotly. 

“No, no,” she groans and writhes in agony, “no, it’s... me. It always... hurts.” 

He frowns. He feels that pain. They may have fixed him but there’s still pain. He can take a punch, even from a train on a track, but he still feels all of it. Most of all, he feels what’s missing. The part of him that isn’t there. 

“Can I get you anything?” He asks. “Do you need to eat? Water?” 

“Please, just leave me,” she begs and hugs a pillow, “please, I don’t want you to see me like this.” 

“Doll,” the word slips from his lips, it tastes like sugar, but he can’t help but choke. He inhales and lets it out slowly, “I can’t leave you alone. It’s my job to help those in need. You need me.” 

She looks at him and it’s like he’s been hit right in the gut. She’s beautiful. Her face is streaked with tears, her hair unkempt, and her eyes gleam with pain, but to him, she’s immaculate. 

“Why?” She asks. “How... how did you find me?” 

He’s struck again. He falters just a little bit. He thinks of telling her the truth. Of telling her everything. He can’t. If he does, she’ll be afraid. He couldn’t take that. He couldn’t handle her looking at him like everyone else does. 

“Sometimes we just find who we’re meant to,” he says and believes it. 

She sniffles and squeezes the pillow tighter. She rests her cheek against the top and stares off at the wall. He knows even talking is too much for her right now. 

He goes to the door and picks up his arm. He looks down at the black and gold vibranium as he pulls shut the inner door, the outer one is broken. He lays his prosthetic on the corner of the bed, out of her way, and pauses to feel the thin mattress. He puts pressure on it and the frame creaks. Not good enough. 

He stands straight and goes into the kitchen. The counter is cleared. He opens the cupboard and sees it all. She calls his name but he ignores her. Why was she so upset? It’s more than just her hip. He pulls out the box of macaroni. Inside, the packet of cheese is divided into three separate baggies, the noodles too. 

He squints and puts it back. He takes out the oats and the rice. It’s all the same. It’s all portioned down but not nearly enough to sate. She’s rationing. He sets the boxes back and grabs the sugar dish. It’s empty. The box of green tea has only three packets left. Tea is an appetite suppressant; she’s gone through it so fast, he can guess why. 

His heart drops. He ate more than this in the 30s. A mayo sandwich was much more appetizing than a quarter packets of quick oats. He looks around and nears the fridge. 

“Bucky, please, don’t,” she calls to him. He stops. There’s a piece of paper under the magnet. 

‘After review, your government allowance has been recalculated...’ 

He swipes the paper from under the magnet and reads it. They took more than a quarter of her usual stipend. How could they do that? He saw her shopping cart, he’s seen how she eats, how she lives. Why would they do this to her? 

He wants to tear it up but he knows that won’t change anything. She continues to groan on the fold out bed, the frame squeaking with her sobs. He peers over at the bathroom door. He doesn’t need to look inside at the grimy shower barely big enough for her. 

None of this is good enough for her. She’s all alone here. And now they’re trying to starve her out. That’s what they do. If you’re not useful, they abandon you. 

Fuck that. 

He marches around the couch and searches around. He grabs an empty tote hanging by the door and goes to the little plastic drawers. He reaches inside and stuffs as much into the bag as he can. She babbles his name. She sits up, watching him. 

“What are you doing?” 

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He’s so fucking angry, he might scream and he doesn’t want to frighten her. He strides across the basement apartment and into the bathroom. He grabs her toothbrush, her brush, whatever he can. He opens the cabinet and finds the pill bottles. Two tablets. The rest are empty. 

He comes back out and takes his arm off the worn mattress. He snaps it in place and throws a blanket over her. She whimpers as she gapes at him. He hooks the bag over his shoulder and scoops her up, keeping the blanket snug around her. 

“Wait, Bucky, what’s happening?” She whines. 

“You can’t stay here,” he says as he feels around until he finds the top of her cane. He grips it and turns it in his grip, angling it with him as he moves around the couch. 

“No, what—where are you taking me?” 

“You deserve better.” 

“Please, Bucky,” she murmurs, “I...” 

“I don’t judge you, doll,” he goes to the door and works around her to open it, “I judge those bastards.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I lost my god—my arm for those people. I went to war. I went through hell,” he growls as he stomps out, stopping short as he sees the motorcycle parked outside. Shit. She can’t ride that. “But they gave me a new arm, they gave me a new life, but what did they do for you?” 

She gulps and he hears her heart pick up. She’s embarrassed. She shouldn’t be. 

“I told you, I help those who need me,” he takes her down the alleyway. “It’s okay to need people.” 

He comes out to pavement and looks up and down the street. He’ll get a cab. That’s the easiest way. He’d walk but she needs to lay down. She needs a hot bath and a proper bed. She’s suffered enough. 

Reader 

Bucky waves the cane from under you and finally hails a cab. He approaches with you in his arms and you keep your head down. You feel like everyone’s staring. That’s what they do when he’s around. 

He gets you in the back seat and rearranges you with the bag and your cane. There’s a tick in his jaw that worries you. You’ve seen that in men before. You’re distracted from the reminder as your hip pangs again. 

You shakily buckle your seat belt as the driver shifts into gear and joins the slow stream of New York traffic. Bucky sits slightly forward, the seat belt straining on his chest, watching through the windshield impatiently. His fingertips tap together as his lips move noiselessly. 

“Bucky,” you say his name. 

He looks over at you and the tension drains from his jaw, “hey, doll, sorry I... I’m just thinking. You need something?” 

“Where are we going?” You ask again. 

He tilts his head, his brows lowering, “home.” 

“Your place?” You ask as you shift and rub your hip. 

He nods, “yeah, my place.” 

“Oh.” 

“Oh?” He echoes. 

“Why?” 

He looks away and his cheeks tug down, “I saw the letter. The food. You... you can’t live like that.” 

“But--” 

“I told you,” he grits. “No more arguing. You need to relax. If you keep tensing up, you’re only gonna make it worse.” 

He’s right. You sniff and try to ease your muscles. The slow crawl of traffic has you jerking with the driver’s brakes. Bucky warns him to take it easy. 

When at last you reach your destination, he pays and tips the driver. He gets you to the edge of the seat, taking the bag and cane too. You wave him off and grab the cane. He lets you have it and you stand. You stumble and grab onto him with your other hand to get up on the curb. 

Your gait is stunted, more than usual as each step sends a ripple through your hip. You look up at the walk-up and stop at the bottom of the steep stairs. You stare at them, defeated. 

“I’ll get you up,” he says. 

You hang your head, “it’s just gonna be one thing after another. Can’t do this, can’t do that... take me home.” 

He ignores you and wraps his arm around your back. He urges you onward, supporting most of your weight as you climb. You get to the top and he punches in a code on a keypad beneath the door handle. It opens and he angles you inside. 

It’s a nice place. A townhouse. The kind you could never afford. The walls have that vintage brick look and the floors are real hardwood. The front room is plaster painted in sky blue and the trim matches the floors. It’s all so much nicer than your life. You feel even less welcome. 

“Come on, I’ll take you upstairs,” he says as he finishes unlacing his boots. You have only your socks on. 

“Upstairs?” You repeat. 

“Bathtub is up there,” he says. He stands and puts his arms out, “can I?” 

You look away and nod. You can’t do any more stairs. He lifts you carefully and you rest the can over you. He carries you up the stairs and down the hall. You weigh nothing in his arms.

“The room next to this, that’s mine. I’ll change the bedding, put your bag in there.” 

“What?” 

“Yeah, I—I don’t sleep in there. I don’t really sleep at all,” he takes you into the bathroom and sits you carefully on the toilet seat. “It’s not too far. If you need anything, say my name.” He stands up and puts his hands on my hips, “you don’t even gotta yell. I can hear through the walls.” 

You look up at him. How could you forget how special he is. He has that serum in him.  

“Okay.” 

He looks over at the tub and chews his lip, “you... you good?” 

“I can manage,” you realise he’s asking if you need help. 

“Well, when you get out, don’t hesitate to call for help.” 

“I’ll be alright.” 

“You know,” he begins abruptly, even before you finish the last syllable, “I don’t think any of what you think I do. You’re not weak. You remind me of the strongest person I know, you might’ve heard of him,” he scoffs, “Steve Rogers. Not Cap, Steven Grant Rogers. Skinny kid I grew up with in Brooklyn. Weighed as much as a piece of hay. He didn’t need the serum. He was strong. Like you.” 

You want to laugh. You put your head down and sigh, “that’s nice--” 

“I’m not lying to you. I wouldn’t lie to you,” he says.  

You feel more tears tingling. You rub your cheek and glance over at the tub. The thought of a bath and is intoxicating. Just a little relief. 

“Thank you, Bucky,” you say, “you really didn’t have to do all this.” 

“I did,” he insists, “someone shoulda done it sooner but the world ain’t what it used to be. Neighbours aren’t your neighbours.” 

“It’s not... It’s my problem--” 

“It’s not a problem,” he says. “I’ll bring in a fresh towel before you hop in.” 

[pinkgvts]

Ch. 1 - The First Encounter

Boothill x Faye (oc) | 3k words | ao3

Faye's first time meeting with a rather unique client.

The golden evening sun hangs low enough in the sky that it filters beautifully through the high windows of the repair shop, painting the walls in a warm glowing light. It’s peaceful in the shop as it’s less than two hours before closing and there are currently no clients present. A comfortable silence has fallen over the two mechanics who run the shop. Besides the soft hum of music that plays over Faye’s sound system, all that can be heard is the tinkering of skilled hands and the sweeping bristles of a broom.

Sebastian, the sole proprietor of Seb’s Augment and Repair Shop, was an older man - about fifty-one years old - with short silvered hair, and a full, well-kept beard. He wore thick framed glasses that sat comfortably on his broad nose as he busied himself with his typical work, usually consisting of repairs or adjustments to prosthetic limbs. He had many decades of experience in this field under his belt and was well regarded in the community, known for being a very gentle and kind-hearted man.

Faye, the twenty-two year old mechanic who had been an apprentice to Sebastian for four years, had completed her orders for the day and was keeping herself occupied by cleaning the shop. She wore a faded brown apron over her dusty rose colored work shirt and baggy beige trousers that were tucked into her black leather boots. Long, black, fingerless gloves protect her palms as she sweeps. Her long, dark, greyish-purple hair was pulled back into a ponytail that left out her bangs. A stark streak of light grey hair hung over her left eye, but it didn’t obstruct her sight. It had been dead and unseeing since birth. Her right eye, however, remained in full view ‒ downturned in nature with thick, dark eyelashes cradling a beautifully deep and soothing blue iris.

She was a bit of a prodigy in Sebastian’s eyes. They met when Faye was around eighteen, nearly a high school graduate. Seb had been looking for an apprentice whom he trusted to inherit his business and he believed that Faye was his perfect candidate when he saw her handiwork being sported by the local strays. A black cat whose front legs had been made of metal. Or a large, mixed breed dog that would have been crippled for life if Faye hadn’t augmented its spine and hips. Her heart was pure and she had a clear talent for augmentative prosthetics, so Seb sought her out to offer his mentorship.

Suddenly, the silence that blanketed the shop is broken by the chime of the bell at the front door. Both Faye and Seb look to the door from their respective spots to see who had walked in. It appears to be a tall and slim man with long white hair that is blackened at the tips, wearing all black and a cowboy hat. Faye is the closest to the door when he enters, so she can hear the jingle of his spurs as he walks toward the front desk. 

“All yours, Faye,” Seb would call out from his workbench, turning his gaze back to the project before him.

“Welcome sir, how can I help you today?” Faye puts her broom to the side before dusting her hands off on her work apron, making her way toward the front with a friendly smile on her face. Though the smile was admittedly a bit forced as she was feeling a bit dispirited lately. 

“I heard this shop is somewhat of a safe haven for folks like me. That correct?” He spoke in a deep southern drawl that had a sort of robotic distortion to it, catching Faye off guard.

Upon hearing that question, she looked more closely at the man, confused by what he meant by ‘folks like me’. She looks him over, from head to toe, and realizes quickly that he’s almost entirely made of metal. Her only seeing eye blows wide with shock, and then it hits her. This is the man whose face is plastered all over the IPC’s wanted posters. However, the shock that’s painted all over her face isn’t due to the fact that the man before her is technically a wanted criminal, but entirely because of his body.

This is Faye’s first time seeing someone with more than half a body made of metal, and despite it being a bit worse for wear, it has her completely enthralled. Her expression shifts from shock to pure, unfiltered fascination. So absorbed in her open admiration of his body, she completely forgets to answer the poor man’s question.

“Uh…Am I mistaken?” He would chime in once more, breaking Faye out of her trance.

“Oh! My apologies. What you’ve heard is correct. We’ll gladly take you as a client, so long as you have the funds to pay us,” Faye nods, face slightly flushed from embarrassment. 

“Perfect. As ya can probably see, I’m in need of some repairs,” he’d gesture to large gashes in the metal of his abdomen, blue fluid along his sides that have since dried.

“Of course! You’ll be in my hands today, if that’s alright?” her head tilted slightly, with a small, sheepish smile on her lips.

“Don’t matter to me who does it, I just need it done,” his shoulders raise into a shrug as he chuckles lightly. He dons his signature sharp toothed grin.

“Well, follow me right this way-...err,” Faye squints in contemplation, trying to remember if he had given her a name.

“Boothill.”

“Ah, right this way, Mr. Boothill,” she’d gesture for him to follow her toward the back of the shop. “You can call me Faye, by the way!”

“Pleasure to meet you, Faye,” to which she’d hum in response. He’d follow close behind her as she began to guide him back, walking past Sebastian’s work area and onward to a different section of the shop. When they reach Faye’s workstation, she turns to face him as her hands reach back to tighten her already dirtied apron.

“Alrighty, please take off any and all articles of clothing. You can place them on this chair for now, and when you’re ready, go ahead and take a seat on this table,” she requests bluntly. Gesturing to a chair that’s off to the side as she moves toward her workbench to gather the items she’ll need to run a diagnostic. A large silver topped table stands in the center of her work area, surrounded by adjustable lamps of varying sizes.

One would think that Boothill would have already become accustomed to being asked a question like this, but his eyes widened and his cheeks became a rosy pink as the words left Faye’s mouth. Perhaps it could have been partially due to the fact that she was an attractive, young woman, and he was still just a man. Whatever the reason, he was far too flustered for a man of his circumstances.

The lack of any sound coming from the man behind her causes Faye to turn to look at her client in confusion. When she sees him standing there like he’s a lost child, she’ll giggle softly to herself. It wouldn’t have been the first time something of this nature has happened to her.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Boothill. I promise I’ll be nothing but professional during the procedure. No funny business whatsoever,” she’d reassure. “I can turn around again if that’d help?”

Boothill would swallow thickly before speaking, still blushing as he reached for the hat that sat atop his head.

“No point in doing’ that, you’ll be seein’ it all anyway, doll.” Faye would let the term of endearment blow right past her, but if she wasn’t paying attention, she might have missed the slight pout in his voice. How cute. Such a tough looking man is flustered by something like this. Surely he would have been in a situation like this before, and yet he’s still acting all bashful. Not to mention, his current attire isn’t exactly the most modest with how little it’s actually covering. Almost the entirety of his torso is exposed by his ultra-cropped leather jacket.

“You are right about that,” she’d confirm, nodding and chuckling lightly.

Then she drags a rolling stool over to the operating table, diagnostic tablet in hand. She adjusts the cushion’s height before taking a seat, facing the table as she boots up the tablet. The rustling of fabric and jingling of metal pins sounds beside her as Boothill has finally begun taking off his clothes. The first to go is his hat, then his leather jacket, red bandana, pistol and holster, and lastly, his pants.

After everything is removed and neatly placed on the chair that Faye gestured to earlier, Boothill takes his place on the table as he was instructed to. Faye looks up at him from her seat before standing to be at eye level with him.

“Okidoki, just sit still while I run a quick diagnostic,” she wiggles the tablet in her hand before pointing it at him so that it can scan his mechanical body. She moves the tablet around his body so as to not miss even a single inch of him, circling him once until she’s stood in front of him again. The tablet will buffer as it compiles his scans and identifies all anomalies that need attention. While it takes its time loading, Faye places the tablet down on the table beside Boothill’s thigh to free both of her hands. 

She pulls her gloves out of her back pocket where they usually hang before tossing them down onto the table as well. Boothill is trying his best to not look at her, still feeling slightly awkward, and fixes his gaze on the tablet that buffers beside him. However, nothing can distract him from what comes next. Faye leans in close as her bare fingers begin to run along the gashes at his side. He has to fight to keep himself from jumping at the contact. Curious, he peers at her through his peripheral vision, not wanting to turn his head and draw her attention. She’s intensely focused on what she’s examining and doesn’t even notice that her client's jaw is clenched and his artificial breathing has stalled. 

Boothill remains as stiff as a block of concrete the entire time that Faye spends thoroughly inspecting his external damages. It probably only lasted a few minutes, but to him it felt as though it had lasted for at least an hour. His jaw only unclenches when she stands up straight, no longer inches from his body. The tablet beside him, as if in time with Faye, chirps cutely to signal that it has finished computing all the components needed for repairs.

“Alright, Mr. Boothill. Mind if I open you up?” she’d ask as she glances at the tablet, hands now busy with pulling her gloves over her fingers.

“Go ahead,” his voice comes out a bit wearily, but Faye doesn’t pay it much mind. Figuring that he must be tired from whatever business he was caught in that caused him to wind up in his current state. She also doesn’t care to ask as it really is none of her business, but she assumes he just got a bit unlucky with the IPC.

Gloved hands search through the front pocket of her apron and come out holding a screwdriver. She sits on her heightened stool before leaning in once more to begin unscrewing Boothill’s chest and abdominal plating. Placing each one to the side neatly until his cybernetic innards are on full display for Faye to marvel at. She can’t hide her excitement as her observatory gaze dances around his wires.

“Incredible,” she says mostly to herself, but she’s so close to Boothill now that it’s impossible for him to miss. “Your original mechanic is brilliant, this wirework is so neat and orderly. So efficient as well! There isn’t a single unnecessary component.” Faye is openly gawking at this point.

Boothill chuckles, disrupting her train of thought.

“I wouldn’t’ve known any better if you didn’t point it out.”

“Well, regardless, you did a good job of picking them, they really knew their stuff!” Faye would smile up at him, leaning back on her stool, tablet back in her hands. “Anyways, your interior looks relatively undamaged, so this shouldn’t take too long. You can lie down while I work to make things more comfortable for you. I’ll also plug you in for a recharge while we’re at it.”

“Whatever you say, doll,” he says, finally getting used to being in her presence. Faye stands, shoving her tablet into one of her apron’s pockets before collecting the metal plating that she’d left on the table; clearing the way for Boothill to lie down and placing them on her workbench instead. When the table is cleared, Boothill swings his legs up and over onto the table, centering himself before lowering his body down into a lying position. 

Faye purses her lips slightly at the second use of ‘doll,’ but doesn’t let it bother her too much. Chalking it up to him just speaking like any cowboy would. Them and their sweet talking habits. Refocusing, she leans down to look under the table, assessing whether Boothill’s recharging port will line up with a removable window at the center of the table. Seeing that it looks to be lined up well enough, she presses a button on a control panel nearby to open the small hatch, and then another to raise the proper charging cable up and into the opening. The rim around the cable is magnetic, so once it’s within a close enough proximity to its respective port it will automatically snap into place with a satisfying thunk. Once that’s taken care of, she scurries off to collect the list of materials needed for the repair.

When she returns, she brings with her a cart full of appropriately trimmed and rounded metal sheets. Before she sits back down on her stool, she adjusts one of the many lamps to illuminate Boothill’s torso. With everything set up, Faye gets straight to work.

Almost two whole hours have passed when Faye finally sits up to stretch her back. The repairs are finished and a final routine inspection indicates that her client is now in pristine condition. The amber glow of sunlight that had bled in through the shop windows earlier was now completely gone.

“Phew. Alright, Mr. Boothill, you’re all set! Let me unplug you, and you can go get dressed.” 

“Yes ma’am,” he’d say obediently, a bit of a joking edge to his tone. Faye squints at him as if to judge him, but the gentle smirk on her lips betrays her.

As she’s coming out of her stretch, she’ll press the buttons that remove the charging cable and close the table’s center hatch. As those processes happen, she glances at the digital clock that sat on her workbench just a few feet away. 6:30 pm. Sebastian had already left the shop, having stepped in briefly about half an hour ago to tell her goodbye. Sighing, she stood from her stool and removed her gloves, throwing them down onto her workbench.

Boothill was awake the whole time that Faye operated on him, just watching idly as she seemed to enter some kind of flow state. It was admirable how deeply engrossed and intrigued she was in her work; her extreme attentiveness to the care she provided made Boothill’s heart ache with gratitude. When he felt the charging cable remove itself from his port, he sat up and looked down at his fully repaired abdomen. As good as new.

Hopping off the table, he moved toward his belongings to get dressed again. At the same time, Faye removes her apron, hanging it on a hook near her bench. She turns toward Boothill, making her way toward him as she snaps open the buttons of her work shirt, seeking the cool, conditioned air of the shop.

“I’ll be up front when you’re ready, but take your time,” she spoke calmly, walking past him and toward the front.

“You got it,” he’d respond, halfway through pulling his pants over his legs. All awkwardness that he felt earlier seemed to have vanished during the time that she worked on him. Though he does chuckle to himself at how nonchalant she is about having a completely nude cyborg right in front of her. Upon reflection, maybe it’s not that surprising considering there isn’t really anything but a flat sheet of metal where his most intimate parts would have been if he were still of flesh and bone.

He dresses quickly, slotting his hat back into its rightful place atop his head as he makes his way toward the front to find Faye.

When he finds her, she’s leaning over the front desk, resting on her elbows and facing the door. Her dusty rose work shirt is folded and placed beside her, leaving her in a cropped top not too dissimilar to the one that he wears. The sudden sight of her exposed skin forces Boothill to gulp involuntarily. He’ll try to hide his reaction as best as he can, but when he rounds the corner of the desk and sees the cut out that exposes her chest, he can’t hold back the blush that creeps back onto his cheeks. Willing himself to look at anything else but her, he moves to stand directly across from her.

“You feeling okay, cowboy?” she’d inquire upon seeing his reddened face, pushing off of her elbows to stand tall in front of him.

Boothill nearly chokes as he clears his throat before speaking.

“Never better. How much do I owe you for your troubles?” He’s trying his best to change the subject quickly.

Faye lets her gaze linger on his face a second longer, a brow raised slightly in a questioning manner, before she pulls up his tab on a digital terminal.

“You can pay using this secured code or with physical currency if that’s easier,” she points to a barcode at the bottom of the screen of the payment device.

Boothill pulls out his phone to scan the code. He fiddles with it for a bit before returning it to one of his pockets. The terminal dings, indicating that it has received the payment in full.

“That all?” He keeps his eyes locked diligently on her face.

“Yup! Looks like you’re good to go now,” Faye nods at him, smiling genuinely. “Oh! And please send your original mechanic my regards. I’ll be thinking about their beautiful work for years to come.” 

It wouldn’t even dawn on her that what she just said could have been interpreted as a flirt, but Boothill just shakes his head as laughter rumbles in his chest. He wonders if she’s doing this to him on purpose.

“Sure thing, sweetie,” he’d adjust his hat to sit a little lower on his brow, effectively hiding the pink hue of his cheeks, then turning to make his way to the door. “Thanks for everything, you’re a real gem.”

“Of course! Now you take care of yourself out there, cowboy!” A gentle giggle leaves her lips before she says her final send off. “But you’re always welcome here if you need some more fixin’.” 

He can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. When he reaches the door, he tips his hat to her, and walks out with his cape and long hair flowing behind him. The chime of the door bell announcing his departure, just as it had for his arrival.

[satans-kneecap]

The Hunger Games Books

• Katniss is described as having dark hair, gray eyes, and olive skin (although her mother and sister are pale, blue-eyed, and blonde)

• Peeta is taller than Katniss??? (which isn’t better, Josh Hutcherson is a 5’5 king which really added to Peeta’s Movie Character)

• Haymitch is from the Seam, so he didn’t have blond hair or blue eyes

• Madge exists (and the mockingjay pin is hers that she gives to Katniss)

• Katniss gets blasted deaf in her left ear (although they quickly fix it in the Capitol)

• Peeta gets cut in the leg, and then the mutts maul it, which is the reason why he gets it amputated and gets the prosthetic leg

• Prim has a goat (I think her name was Lady?) as well as Buttercup the cat, which Katniss tells a story about after Peeta asked her to tell him a story

• Katniss attacks Peeta after he confesses about the crush during the interview, and she causes his hands to bleed

• Cato begs Clove to stay with him as she died (fuck Cato x Glimmer)

• The mutts were designed to look like the tributes (ex: one with blond fur and green eyes for Glimmer)

• Peeta has two fucking older brothers and they both watched him get picked for the Hunger Games like “damn bro that shit sucks” which is in complete contrast to Katniss and Prim

• Katniss waits the WHOLE NIGHT before mercy-killing Cato, she just let him be eaten alive for a couple hours

• We get to read about Haymitch’s Quarter Quell!!!!

• Katniss sees Finnick doing mouth-to-mouth on Peeta after his heart stops and basically thinks “Damn, Finnick, even for you this is wild”

• Her & Finnick trying to scare Peeta when he wakes up when they were all on the beach

• Katniss was ready to kill Peeta with a syringe to protect him after she got lifted out of the arena (she picks it up in the movie but it’s not really clear what her actual intentions were)

• Katniss’ prep team being chained on the wall of a room (I’m pretty sure it was in District 13 or something) just completely fucking naked???

• She fucking sucked at everything Plutarch asked her to do for the propos

To be fair, I still like the movies, but these are just some of the many differences

[floofyroro]

A Blooming Ruse

Pairing: Crosshair/f!reader

Words: 7533 

Tags/warnings: fake dating, forced proximity, island life on Pabu, gardener!reader, gardener!crosshair, grandparent OCs, Pabuan OCs, narcissism (reader's relative), slight NSFW (making out)

Summary: When Crosshair surprises you with an enticing proposition, your world turns upside down. Despite the uncharted waters, you accept. If it means avoiding your grandmother's incessant meddling, you'll do anything.

A/N: My entry for Pabu's Festival of Love celebration by @tbb-appreciation-week. I've had this drafted since last Spring so I'm happy to dust it off for this lovely event.

Read on AO3

If a higher being exists, Crosshair wouldn’t know.

Having witnessed firsthand the horrors of war and carrying out the Empire’s will on top of that, he errs on the side of agnostic. He does know, however, that something, whether it be the Force or the Maker or whatever, has it out for him because he’s a magnet for awkward, anxiety-inducing social situations. 

Right now, he wishes he could leave the vicinity and sleep for ten rotations straight.

As it is, the universe has other plans for him.

“Well?”

The older lady continues to peer down at him as she stands across the plot of tomatoes. Her expression reads as expectant, mingled with curiosity and… Something else.

Crosshair has never been good with civilians. He once preferred his solidarity up in the rafters, keeping a close eye on every movement, every variation through a narrow scope. Hunter was primarily responsible with handling the civvies if the mission ever required it anyway.

But lately the need for high ground is no longer pressing nor relevant. He hasn’t had a reason to dust off Firepuncher in months. It currently sits in its case, untouched in the corner of his bedroom. 

So now, he rolls the toothpick to a corner of his mouth before sighing through the nose. The afternoon sun beats down on his back as he swiftly plucks one last weed from the vegetable bed. Crosshair attempts to remain cordial when he responds:

“No. I’m not… seeing anyone at the moment.”

It feels asinine, this conversation with Eira. He’s aware she has an affinity for digging into other people’s business but he’s never been on the receiving end of it before. He’d seen it with you, her granddaughter, but he’d never thought twice that her penchant for gossip would soon be directed towards him.

It must be his lucky day.

As he slips off his gardening gloves, Eira’s eyes dip down once to his mechanical prosthetic before locking back onto his gaze. 

“Are all of your brothers single?”

Crosshair wants to inhale the toothpick into his mouth and swallow it. He wonders what would happen if he did. 

Would he choke? 

“No,” he replies, grabbing his gloves and weeding tool before coming to a stand. They’re shoved into his belted caddy as he surveys the freshly turned dirt mounding around the staked plants before him. It took most of the afternoon to weed every bed, which is something he surprisingly doesn’t mind, given how meditative the task is itself when he’s alone. 

He had felt your absence this afternoon, unused to not having someone who’d delegate other projects onto him. This prompted Crosshair to imagine a smaller frame, acting as a constant shadow who would point out which plots needed to be watered, which stalks were ready for harvest, or which insects were considered pests or allies. 

A weird development for him but whatever.

When Eira clears her throat, he realizes he’s gone silent again. He mulls over his words as he reaches a hand to massage his right forearm.

“My brother Tech has Phee.” 

“Ah,” she says with a nod, understanding plain in her features. He figured she’d be familiar with Phee. Daily life on Pabu isn’t exactly conducive to privacy, as everyone seems to know everyone, and if they don’t, they’ll make a point to invite the newcomers over in attempts to dig their dirty little paws into other people’s business.

The Batch would know. When they had permanently become residents, it seemed like the island wouldn’t stop celebrating with picnics and evening barbecues. This is apparently paramount to the inhabitants, a tradition that’s grown over the last few months whenever new residents settle in. 

Which is often. The intentions are always kind, of course, despite how uncomfortable it makes Crosshair feel. At this point, he thinks he’s met the entire population but can only recall a handful of names, if at that.

“A good man. He must have his priorities straight.” 

The toothpick swivels as he chews on it.

Are Tech’s priorities straight because he’s with Phee? Or is it merely because he is pursuing someone romantically which then makes him superior in Eira’s eyes? 

Her wrinkled hands are no longer resting on her hips, a positive sign that Crosshair has come to know as appeasement.

She shifts from one leg to the other and says, “I know a young lady who lives just down the street. She’s the carpenter’s daughter. Maker, what was her name? Mildred? Millie? I can’t recall but she’s sprightly girl who always smiles when we cross paths—”

He tunes her out. Crosshair doesn’t know if he’s interested in… whatever it is that Eira’s so adamant about all the time. 

He’s heard her rant to you on many occasions about potential… partners? Boyfriends? He isn’t exactly sure. It’s not his business to begin with, but he’s often within earshot when Eira drills you about your previous dates. 

It was fine. But I don’t want any commitments right now, is what you tell her time and time again.

Presently, Crosshair lets Eira continue her stream of consciousness as she toddles behind him on the dirt path leading into the old equipment shed. The air is humid, an aspect of island life for which Crosshair feels nothing but apathy.

Sweating means he’s outside. Being outside means he’s not inside, isolating himself in his room from his siblings. Can’t have that happening anymore.

His kelpcotton shirt clings to his torso as he unbuckles his caddy and deposits it onto his designated shelf space. His hands rearrange the tools into a neat and orderly pile and then dusts off his gloves before discarding them on top of everything else.

“—so what do you think?” 

His prosthetic hand halts midair as he reaches to take off his bucket hat. 

Kriff. What was she saying? 

Fragments of her monologue float around in his head but it isn’t much. Something about dinner and a girl…

Messy, short curls fall across his forehead as he removes his hat. He runs a hand through them out of habit, making a mental note to ask Omega for a trim when he returns home. The hat, courtesy of you when you realized he didn’t own any sort of sun protection, is plopped on top of his other work essentials. It’s a worn article, something he uses daily, but part of Crosshair secretly relishes in the fact that it used to smell nice. 

Maybe he should take it home and wash it.

When he looks over, Eira’s features are twisted into an expression reminiscent of Wrecker’s shit-eating grin after winning a game of sabacc.

“Uh,” he says, because he’s unable to muster anything coherent at the moment. He curses the Kaminoans for the umpteenth time, wondering why, out of all of the genetically engineered qualities within him, words fail him more often than not lately. 

This could also be due to the fact that he’s attempting to cut back on the snark for Omega’s sake. Less snark equals more awkward silences.

“Perfect! I’ll ask her tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll say yes, she’s a sharp one—”

A flare of panic flickers in his chest. How did this old woman interpret his lack of response as an affirmative? It’s a bit of a reach, even for her. He tries to come up with an excuse but every reply would garner an earful from Omega, if she were to hear him.

How should he handle this?

He lets himself imagine for a moment that he did say ‘yes’ to Eira. 

A faceless woman appears in his mind. She’s sitting at a table, the surroundings similar to his preferred caf shop in the upper levels of the island. Having never been on a date before, he isn’t certain how he would feel. More likely than not, he assumes he would feel scrutinized, as if this lady is trying to gauge whether he’s worthy of her time and attention. 

But that’s not what gives him pause. 

No, it’s the fact that as he tries to imagine this woman and give her more prominent characteristics, she starts resembling…

Hmm.

He chews harder on the toothpick.

On second thought, Crosshair decides he doesn't like the idea of going on a date with a stranger.

Before he’s able to muster a polite ‘no,’ the old woman cuts him off with a surprised croak.

“Ah, there she is!”

Eira is already out of the shed and waddling over to the gate entrance when Crosshair hears your voice before he sees you. Some of the tension coiling in his chest starts to unwind. 

You’re beaming, hauling a basket of overflowing floral bouquets as you swing the garden center gates open and approach, excitement palpable with each of your steps. The color of the day is green, judging by your bandana. The small fabric somehow manages to tame the wild locks of hair that he’s only ever seen pulled back by whatever weaving techniques you’ve mastered.

Crosshair doesn’t consider himself overly perceptive to such benign things like appearance but that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t noticed your apparent collection of colorful head scarves and hats. They suit you, in a way. Maybe they’re endearing because it reminds him of Hunter and Omega. 

“Shep said yes to featuring our flowers!”

Eira grabs the basket from you and places it down before wrapping you into a fierce hug. “I had no doubt that he would, dear. That was a brilliant idea,” she coos, loosening her hold to pat the sides of your arms, “you suggesting we offer our blooms for the Festival of Love event.”

Your bright eyes turn shy, the corners of your mouth pulling into a small grin as you peer away from your grandmother to Crosshair, who stands outside the shed with his hands in his pockets. 

He doesn’t recall your eyes ever dulling. If anything, they seem to sparkle whenever your attention is on him.

Not that he’s noticed, of course. 

“Well, I can’t take all of the credit. Crosshair is sick of tending to the dahlias. And can we blame him? Those tubers are rather cumbersome as you well know.”

Crosshair sighs once for dramatic effect, the corners of his mouth betraying his mirth. “One can only pick so many snails off the stocks, Eira. Not to mention the staking… and the constant watering.”

You shoot your grandmother a grin. “To translate; he’s ready to lay the blooms to rest.” 

Eira rolls her eyes, feigning exasperation. “Yes, well, those tubers are older than the both of you combined. I’d rather pass a painful and slow death than let them go to waste.”

She softens marginally. “I suppose you’ll both have your work cut out for you, arranging all of those bouquets together. The Festival is in less than a week so time is of the essence! But for now, I think we ought to call it a day. Crosshair,” she suddenly interjects his name like it’s almost a curse, “don’t you forget to grab a bucket or two of those bloomberries. We’re overflowing in the storage room as it is and we shouldn’t let them waste.”

Crosshair mutters something along the lines of ‘no need to tell me twice,’ and nods to both you and your grandmother before heading back to the Center to bring what he’ll suspect will make Omega’s day. No doubt will her eyes grow big when she sees the fruit. He’s sure it’ll be another puzzle for Wrecker to solve in the kitchen as they figure out ways to preserve the fruit or make the most use out of baking with it.

The tart-sweetness of the fruit coats his tongue as he pops one between his lips. The cobblestones that lead him home are brimming with other islanders, the top of the hour prime time for early evening commutes back to their families. After tomorrow, it’ll be a market day for the Center. He technically has the day off, but he’ll probably show up to the greenhouse and find you among cut flowers and messy foliage as you attempt to meet the demands of Shep’s requests for the Festival. 

After that, he supposes he could help Tech out in the workshop by being his brother’s lackey for the latest technological pursuit for the sake of the island. It’s not like Crosshair has anything else planned—

It dawns on him suddenly; he forgot to tell Eira ‘no’ about the carpenter’s daughter.

Kriff.

He peers up at the cloudless sky and sighs.

Shoving Crosshair into the supply closet was not on the afternoon agenda.

While it may not be your best idea, you’re running on a volatile mix of adrenaline and horror, all because you saw your grandmother hobbling towards the gardens with a familiar short man in tow. 

Bronson. 

Thirty-five and divorced with two kids, he runs the fish shop by the docks. While everyone regards him as the happy-go-lucky fisherman, you get the heebie jeebies whenever you look at his bearded face. He normally sports a jacket that reeks of alcohol as well. It’s a low blow to your pride for Eira to even suggest him as a potential romantic partner.

The first time she’d mentioned him, you had no qualms in giving her an earful. However, your efforts proved fruitless. Trying to reason with her is like trying to convince an Imperial officer that they’re a terrorist. She usually proceeds to scold you and in Bronson’s case, she retorted that ‘it’s bad luck to judge others by their past and appearance.’

“I don’t give a tooka’s ass about bad luck, especially considering how his wife left him because he prioritizes fishing above everything else.”

“Stability, granddaughter. What he offers is stability.” 

You’d been furious at her insinuation. It’s not like you haven’t fought tooth and nail to get the Garden Center running at full efficiency. Writing grant proposals, dedicating your weekends to the farmers markets, having to be your own hiring manager on top of it all. Stability is your middle name, for crying out loud.

But It’s grown to be a lot of responsibility. It’s nearly time to consolidate your workload, having recently added more hands to the team and buying new harvest droids. All of this is in the name of streamlining the process so that you can separate all of the work from your personal life. 

Which, coincidentally, hardly exists. You can blame your poor work-life balance on your grandma. She’s proving to grow trickier as the years pass.

Bronson still hasn’t spotted you yet. You drop the watering hose into the garden bed, discard your gloves, all of which prompts Crosshair to pause his pruning of the plume shrubs. 

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t hear him. You stare ahead and map out all possible exits, trying to figure out how you could escape without being seen or causing a scene. They’re nearly to the gate, and you think that if you can sneak off to the—

“Hey,” Crosshair’s tone is firmer now. Suddenly, the flight kicks in. 

You’ve never run into the Garden Center like your life depended on it before but there’s a first for everything. Heart pounding, you survey the main room and debate hiding behind the old leather couch. Unreliable, considering Grandma will probably give Bronson a full-fledged Center tour, which should only be for employees or volunteers. 

Not that she cares.

The door behind slings open and the rational part of you knows it has to be Crosshair but you still startle and make for the first logical solution to your predicament; hiding in the supply closet. 

“What,” he says from behind you, “are you doing?” 

You swing open the closet and quickly shoot a furtive glance through the entrance windows to see that the emerging figures are still far away enough for you to pull this off.

Crosshair follows your line of sight, his eyebrows furrowing as he stares. Not a moment later, his scrutiny relaxes.

“Another one of Eira’s ploys?”

“Yeah,” you say, unable to explain just how embarrassed and frustrated you truly feel. You run a hand across the back of your neck, slick skin coating your palm with sweat. Your chest tightens and it’s enough to encourage you to pull the door closed, yearning for privacy.

Except that Crosshair wraps a hand around the frame of it and pries it back open.

“Cross—”

“Do I need to talk to him?”

HIs words are abrupt. He peers back over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes. The lines of his tattoo shifts as his expression darkens.

“I said,” he directs his gaze back to you, “do I need to talk to him? Or do I tell your grandma that you’re feeling ill—”

The prospect of Crosshair speaking on your behalf sounds downright mortifying. You should be able to confront her yourself. In a perfect world, you’d have the gall to do it. But alas, here you are, fleeing like a coward. 

“No! Noo, no, no, just—”

Your hands act on their own accord, reaching out to grasp Crosshair by the neckline of his shirt and pulling hard. He releases a surprised grunt before stumbling into the cramped space next to you. As you reach for the doorknob behind him, he’s pushed against the shelving in order to make room for your efforts.

The door slams closed with a forceful tug and then it’s pitch black. 

Which is Makersent, because you’re practically embracing Crosshair in this position.

“Hit the light,” he says, his voice betraying no indication of what he’s feeling.

You pull back before his words register but then you have to press into him once again to find purchase for the switch—

“For Force sake,” he mutters and okay, his mouth is right next to your ear. Has he always sounded like that? He’s unmoving against you but you can feel, based off the way his torso presses against your chest, just how built he actually is—

He turns abruptly in an attempt to give you more leeway but it proves to be the wrong move. Your balance is thrown off kilter and with no sight to aid you in regaining any semblance of equilibrium, you’re about to faceplant because… why not? 

Let’s add to your piling mortification.

An arm snakes around your midsection, catching you mid-plummet, and you think you hear him grunt as he rights your balance with surprising precision.

(You shouldn’t kid yourself. This man has been precise since day one. You’ve seen the way he stakes the tomatoes.) 

A cold metal palm presses against the skin of your exposed lower back, your shirt evidently deciding to ride up without your consent. It’s his mechanical hand, holding you up. You have to remind yourself to breathe. 

Which is another mistake because a waft of tilled earth, sweat, and something distinctly minty hits your nose, reminding you of the herb beds situated at the front of the center. You risk another deep inhale, daring to inch closer. The light still isn’t on and you will yourself to relax, despite being hyper aware of the close proximity and of every point of contact where you both touch.

Each of your breaths brushes against his own. Which, you aren’t complaining since his scent is a welcome reprieve against the damp smell that is signature to this old closet.

At this point, maybe confronting Bronson would be less daunting than whatever this is. Sharing close quarters with your favorite employee (you’d never admit as much to him) isn’t exactly ideal.

But then that slippery, bearded smile flashes once in your mind and that’s enough to tell you otherwise.

You also really don’t want to see Crosshair’s expression right now. 

“That bad, huh?”

Maybe it’s just because his face must be inches away from yours but his voice seems to reverberate through you, trailing all the way to your toes. You’re struck with the odd thought that despite how gravelly it sounds, it’s… nice.

“Yeah,” you croak, a bead of sweat trailing down the back of your neck. “She’s relentless. I’m… starting to get sick of it.”

You feel a huff of air across your face. 

“I don’t blame you.”

Definitely mint. He must’ve eaten a few leaves from the herb garden. Now that you think about it, he’s almost always chewing on something.

After a moment, he releases his hold on you and a silence blankets you both. The air feels stuffy against your exposed skin, mingling with the humidity of outside. This building could really use a functional cooling system. Soon enough, that’ll change; you’d spent the last week pouring over crude plans and trying to figure which upgrade to take first. Grandma certainly made her two credits clear on what she would do, but not without making you feel guilty.

“Update that sign first. You should consider changing the Center name to honor your grandpa.”

“I think aesthetics are the last thing on my mind, grandma. I’d rather focus on functionality first.”

She didn’t take it well. You apologized over coffee the next morning. You’re trying to take the reins on this and view it as your passion project but to no avail. Though you’ve yet to establish that boundary, it can wait, given what other things are currently taking precedence. 

“I’m… about to pry.”

He takes a deep breath.

“With this… ‘seeing people’ thing,” he says and you wonder if he’s gesturing because you hear his arms drop to his sides, “have you told her to just… stop?”

You pick at your nails. 

Telling Eira ‘no’ is like driving a boat headfirst into a summer thunderstorm. You’ve dropped hints here and there. You had mentioned many times that you aren’t looking to commit to anyone. Dating isn’t a priority right now, especially with the promise of what’s to come for the island gardens. But Eira, stubborn as she is, dismisses each attempt you’ve made, waving a hand in your face or clicking with her tongue before saying that you’re well into your twenties and that it’s time to consider your options. 

“Which are limited,” she always reminds you. One of the many quirks of living on a small island is that she’s right; there aren’t many eligible bachelors to choose from, so in her eyes, ‘one should pick soon before it’s too late.’

“I have,” you finally tell Crosshair, keeping your head down. “She’s not very good at listening.” 

Another huff. He probably detects the euphemism. 

Oddly enough, you feel yourself getting defensive on her behalf because despite how troublesome she is, she’s still family. At the end of the day, her opinion holds weight. Probably more weight than it should, to be honest.

Regardless, this translates as a bite in your tone when you ask, “Why?” 

He stills. Now that you think about it, this is probably the first time he’s ever inquired about your personal life. In the past, he’s taken your rambling in stride but it’s all usually work-related. He never pries and instead listens intently or offers advice when prompted. It’s the exact opposite of how Eira functions. 

That’s probably why you’ve inadvertently started to gravitate towards him. 

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth as you wait for him to answer. It’s not like you asked for his advice this time. But then again, Crosshair doesn’t talk unless it’s warranted, usually opting to stay quiet as you assign new projects to him or rant to him about the dangers of felucian stag-beetles infesting the crops. 

A humorous part of you thinks that maybe this is his round-about way of trying to make you feel better.

“I—”

He’s interrupted by the sound of the Center entrance swinging open with a light chime of a bell.

Your fidgeting hands drop to clenched fists.

“—she must’ve ran home for a midday meal. Sorry ‘bout that, Bronson.”

“It’s no problem. I see her at the marketstands on occasion so perhaps I’ll chat with her next time she’s around. You said she’s interested?”

You blanch. 

You said she’s interested?

A flicker of heat floods your cheeks at the prospect of Grandma lying. It shouldn’t come as a surprise; you’ve witnessed her half-truths before but had opted to brush them off, not giving them too much stock. This, however, stings more than you care to admit. 

Your eyes start to smart as you conjure a scenario where Bronson makes a move. You could give him the cold shoulder. Make up a lie that you’re already seeing someone. The latter thought makes you pause because he’d ask who it is and you can’t really make up a person in a tight-knit community.

Maybe you could even scream in his face. That would get your point across, right? But then everyone would witness it and if there’s anything you’ve learned about living on Pabu over the last four years, it’s that the island's affinity for gossip spreads like wildfire. 

No thanks. You send a silent prayer to the universe that Bronson forgets. Or finds someone else to focus his sleazy energy on.

Actually, no, you wouldn’t wish his advances upon anyone.

Eira’s giving him a tour around the facility, veering from the breakroom to the greenroom where the new seedlings are sowed. Another door clicks closed.

“You’re trembling,” comes that familiar drawl. 

Large palms jar you out of your thoughts, resting on the sides of your shoulders. His fingers wrap gently around your exposed skin and it causes your spine to straighten. One palm is cold, while the other is warm. You’ve wondered about his prosthetic before. On occasion, you’ll catch him massaging the muscle of his forearm attached to the mechanical workings. 

Eira’s voice echoes through the building again, though it’s more distant as you release your breath.

“I don’t know how to tell her off. How to make her stop.” You don’t appreciate how feeble your voice sounds. 

“She and Grandpa… are my only family. The war was tough on us all. I just don’t want to lose anyone else.”  

His thumbs begin to brush in an up and down motion. It’s oddly… gentle of him. Your shoulders gradually sink down with each second that passes, his touch easing away the tension.

Crosshair considers for a moment before asking, “What if… you already had someone?” 

You squint up at Crosshair but the darkness serves to be disappointing. You suddenly yearn for bright, clinical lights to shine directly onto him so you could see exactly which emotion is present across that profile of his. 

“Uh,” you clear your throat, “You’re gonna need to, uh, spell that one out for me. I’m not following.” 

His thumbs still. 

What if you already had someone?

You turn the words over and over in your mind, trying to parse his meaning until his touch leaves you.

“We pretend,” he says, as if this proposition is as easy as commenting on the weather. 

We?

A million questions swirl in your head as you gauge the possibilities; pretending to what, exactly? 

Be a couple? You and him? 

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t considered Crosshair before. He and his brothers stick out like sore thumbs whenever they’re in public and that’s primarily due to the fact that they’re extremely popular with everyone, including introverted Crosshair. You could chalk it up to their efforts to keep Pabu safe, or their military training, or something else. But the reality is that they’re not only talented individuals, but they’re also all very attractive. 

What would pretending with Crosshair even entail? Holding hands while you walk alongside the garden beds? A kiss on the cheek in front of Grandma to appease her desires?

Despite the absurdity of the situation, your gut isn’t lurching. It’s… a solid idea, one that could grant you a momentary break from Eira’s nagging so that you can allocate more time with the Center expansion. Knowing Crosshair, he wouldn’t nag. You’re certain there would be no expectations from him.

But It would have to be temporary. That’s the only stipulation; it can’t last forever, because first of all, you don’t want to put Crosshair through that and second of all…

Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. 

To make matters simpler, Crosshair is easy on the eyes. That’s not something you’ve entertained for long because again, you have other things to worry about. But you’ve watched him haul overgrown squash to the market plaza with no signs of physical strain. He once fended off a garden viper, sparing you a slightly amused smirk after seeing how it made you jump out of your own skin. 

That was the first time he made your face flush.

His gruff demeanor aside, you trust that he means well because he’s never led you astray before, his work ethic proof enough since he always shows up day after day and carries out each task without complaint. Never once has he indicated that he minds working alongside you.

That particular thought alone makes your stomach flip.

Presently, you don’t see him shift from one foot to the other as much as feel him do so. 

“We pretend,” you echo. In the distant background, Bronson releases a dry laugh and it causes you to tense up.

“Yes,” he whispers, keeping his voice low. “It would… help us both catch a break. From Eira.”

It dawns on you then. A familiar blonde flashes in your mind. 

“What about Millie?” 

“Who?”

This isn’t lining up. Grandma said Crosshair agreed to a date with Millie—

Ah.

“You actually didn’t agree to meet with her, did you? The carpenter’s daughter?”

Irritation taints his sigh. “No, I never did. Eira mistook my silence as confirmation.”

By the Maker.

Hot emotion washes over you again because this time, someone else is suffering at the brunt of her agenda. “I’m sorry,” you say, not realizing how loud your voice is growing, “but Grandma needs to get a kriffing grip—”

A hand clamps over your mouth. You startle against the firmness of his skin against your lips, pressing a gasp into his palm when he leans in and murmurs, “Quiet.”

His hand isn’t bruising. It slots over your mouth, bringing a waft of dirt to your nose. The stillness of your body contrasts against the turmoil rolling in your mind like night and day. As you're held against Crosshair, that telltale honeyed-voice hits your ears, loud and too close for comfort. You must’ve been too focused on what Crosshair proposed to notice that they’d left the greenroom.

“—that was probably a moon-yo nearby. You’ve heard that they can parrot human words back occasionally, right? Odd little creatures but bright nonetheless. I’ll walk you out to the door, Bronson, I appreciate you coming—”

The bell chimes as the door closes with thud and the relief is overwhelming enough that you momentarily forget the hand cupping your lips. You sigh, unthinking as you practically slink against Crosshair’s palm, the exhale from your nose trickling against his skin. He withdraws his touch and suddenly the embarrassment of his actions to quiet you is now at the forefront of your mind.

If you felt weird earlier, it’s incomparable to how you feel now. ‘We pretend ‘ is an internal echo that will inevitably nestle its way into your head for the next foreseeable future and you aren’t sure what to make of it. He’s made his own motivations clear for proposing the idea but it still strikes you as odd. The anomaly that is Crosshair and his reserved nature around you doesn’t quite fit this proposition.

And yet, a quiet part of you is growing fond of the idea. 

“Okay,” you break the silence, gripping tightly for the remaining stores of courage that are somehow responsible for what you’re about to say, “I think we should give it a shot. Let’s… Pretend. I’ll do anything at this point to get her off my ass.” 

You try to keep your tone light. This isn’t a terribly serious matter anyway, right? It’s good to keep in mind that Crosshair has been a soldier all of his life and you can only imagine how many covert missions he’s carried out so it would make sense that he would handle this in a similar manner. 

Yes, because you’re so infamous for being stealthy. Said no one ever.

Your own faults aside, you pray that you can pull this off. 

“Fine by me,” he finally says. Silence lapses between you both again. You take a moment to listen outwards. The Center is seemingly empty with the lack of toddling old ladies and  middle-aged men. The constant hum from the energy generator is the only noise. Now would be the opportune time to leave before Grandma returns, but…

It suddenly feels daunting, leaving this closet. You’d be stepping out into reality again, but this time with a fake boyfriend in tow. 

You’re wondering if he feels as uncomfortable as you are when he adds, “Just… Don’t take anything I say personally, alright?”

Before you’re able to discern his meaning, the bell rings again and you let out an inaudible curse. 

Her gait is uneven and purposeful. As each of her steps draws closer, so does your mounting anxiety. She knows, you worry. She knows about the lie already and she’s about to draw the proverbial curtain away to expose you and strip away any shred of dignity that remains.

Crosshair hisses your name, the sound foreign against your ears. Despite how gentle his hand is, the cold metal stings against your hot cheek, your head jerking away before he firmly slides up his durasteel hand across your skin to cradle the side of your head. 

“You’ll have to follow me,” he says, the words too fast for you to process.

“Follow you?” Your mouth is suddenly dry, the words sticking like cotton.

“My lead,” he stresses.

Before you’re able to divine his meaning, his other hand wraps around your waist to pull your body against him. 

Time slows as his mouth slots against yours. 

It’s nonsensical, the way your lips part in surprise. Your heart is hammering loud enough to drown out everything else. All you feel is him; his looming figure that seems to wrap around you with ease, his legs tangling with your own, his hand on your face, his mouth against yours. A chill runs down your spine when his grip tightens but then his lips, warm and surprisingly supple, begin to move.

He tastes like mint leaves, you think deliriously. What’s more is how you respond in a split second of impulsivity, meeting his movements with brushes of your own, pressing firmly against him. A low sound reverberates from his chest, making your skin bloom with gooseflesh as you reach to wrap your arms around his shoulders, coming up to your toes. He meets you halfway, lowering himself to ease your efforts. A fog settles over you, your fingers tangling into the mess of curls at the nape of his neck. It prompts him to do the same, except instead of only grasping at your hair, he gently tugs, inadvertently coaxing your mouth open to moan.

His tongue brushes across your lower lip once and when you tilt your head back more to grant him better access, Crosshair seizes the opportunity; his soft, hot muscle licks and twists, but he welcomes your own advances against him with unpracticed, eager effort. You feel as though you’ve dissolved completely into a puddle, your belly simmering with dizzying want.

But it’s fleeting, as all good things are, because the door slams open.

The sound alone makes your eyes fly open as you straighten in Crosshair’s embrace, breaking the kiss. If you weren’t so close to his face, you would’ve completely missed his startled expression. Despite the onslaught of blinding light, he gently continues to hold you, and to your surprise, he closes his eyes and bends down to rest his forehead against yours.

“We’re a bit busy here,” he says, his words lacking any real bite with how his chest heaves lightly. He lifts away from you and casts a glare towards Eira. You risk a glance, uncertain as to what you’ll find, but judging by the hanging mouth and wide eyes… 

She’s beside herself.

“Clearly,” Eira finally says, the word nearly as airy as you are. She clears her throat, her movements awkward as she coughs once into a closed fist. “Well. I was right then.”

You scrunch your nose slightly in confusion. “You knew?”

If she notices the patchiness in your voice, Eira doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she crosses her arms and purses those thin lips with a hum. “Saved you the embarrassment, I did. Could’ve walked straight up to the door and gave Bronson a run for his money.”

Uh huh, sure. More like you saved yourself from the embarrassment, you thought sourly. You detect her behavior for what it is, an out for her mistake, but you nod despite yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, closing her eyes as she says, “Whatever you two were doing is between you and the Maker. My question is,” she shoots a disapproving look at Crosshair, who meets her with a cool, indifferent stare, “why didn’t you act on this sooner, mister?”

Curious, you raise your gaze back to Crosshair and the gravity of what you just exchanged with him presses against you with unprecedented force. The nerves reemerge, making your palms clammy as you steal a glance at his lips. You… kissed him. 

To be fair, he kissed you. But you’d reciprocated, almost eager as you explored this new dynamic with him. How will this change things between you both? What happens when you call the ruse off? Most likely he’d want to find work somewhere else, which makes perfect sense.

But it doesn’t explain the pang in your sternum at the thought of him leaving. It’s only because he’s valuable to the Center; his dedication to show up early and leave late has you worrying more often than not, but he claims to have nothing better to do and enjoys the hands-on labor. There’s a handful of other volunteers who show up occasionally but they’re not nearly as driven as Crosshair is.

Regardless, you decide then and there that you don’t want things to change between you both when this all ends. You’d hate to lose him. 

“Who says I didn’t?”

He still has an arm loosely wrapped around your back, but his touch trails down until finding the curve of your waist. His hand stills, resting casually against your hip as if it’s the easiest decision he’s ever made.

Eira coughs again. “Well then.” She continues to stare, her eyes flickering between you both in some sort of silent contemplation. It’s alarming then, when she breaks into a wide grin.

“It all worked out in the end, didn’t it? Maybe I should’ve brought Bronson sooner. All you two needed was a small push—”

“Grandma,” you interrupt, not hiding the exasperation in your voice because of course she would try to take credit for this. Of all the conclusions, she thought Bronson was the catalyst for you ending up in a supply closet with Crosshair.

…Technically she’s not wrong. 

She raises her hands in mock defense, bowing her head slightly. “Alright, alright. Enough from me. Believe it or not, I’ve had enough excitement for one day so I think I’ll head home.” 

You take a deep, steadying breath, nodding encouragingly despite how dizzy you still feel. “Yeah, that’s… That’s a good idea.”

Eira stares at you for a moment longer, almost calculatingly before her eyes dip down to the Crosshair’s hand on your waist. She turns, muttering something about ‘under the Center roof too’ and makes her way towards the entryway to grab her bag and leave.

It’s agonizing to wait. Every second spent within the confines of the closet with Crosshair proves to be a test of patience, but Eira seems to be in no rush, slowly shifting through her bag for her shawl. Once it’s wrapped around her hunched shoulders, she reaches for the door handle but then pauses.

“You best be walking her home every night. You hear?”

It’s cold when Crosshair finally lets go of you. He shifts from one foot to the other, bringing a hand to rub across his five o’clock shadow. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, his voice tired but confident. 

She leaves without another word. You feel as though you can finally breathe, like the sky has cleared and the wind has died. But then… 

It’s just you and Crosshair again.

The moment stretches. Uncertainty prods at you, a fickle thing that makes you sheepishly tuck a strand of hair behind one ear before peering up at the former soldier.

His gaze is downward with brows drawn into contemplation, as if his boots are the most interesting spectacle to behold. You quietly study him amidst the thickening tension, noticing for the first time that his exposed arms are speckled with patches of dirt. Along the expanse of his arms, you spy veins that cord around the lean muscle of his forearms, trailing all the way up to the lower half of his biceps until fabric meets flesh. 

Crosshair is normally pragmatic with his clothing; variety doesn’t seem to be a priority with how he cycles between the same set of tops and pants every week. The normal jacket he sports is absent, you realize for the first time. He must’ve shed it outside before following you. You figure it’s his military background that’s kept him routine and content with simple clothing, a factor still very much prevalent despite being retired. 

When your eyes slink from his shoulders to his neck, you catch a subtle change in your peripherals, causing you to meet his gaze.

Half of his mouth is upturned into a small smirk. He remains silent, however, and reaches a hand behind to slink something out of his back trouser pocket.

A small box is procured. With practised movements, it’s already lodged back into his pants before you realize that he’s placed a toothpick into his mouth.

Your mind seems to short circuit when you realize that his lips have reddened ever so slightly.

You aren’t sure how to breach the obvious bantha in the room. Do you talk about what just happened? Is that… fine? It might make him uncomfortable. Maybe this is part of the ‘pretending’ agreement; there’s no use in discussing what happened because what’s done is done and reminding him of what he had to endure to save your ass would surely leave a sour taste in his mouth.

Unless he liked it just as much as you did. The thought seems far-fetched; it’s unlikely that he’s interested in pursuing a romantic partner, given how much he works and how he spends any of his free time with his own brothers and sister.

“So, um… Back to it, then?” 

It’s definitely not your best work, you’ll admit. But being out in the gardens seems far less suffocating than whatever this is. In fact, you’re certain one of the beds is overflowing with water because you forgot to turn the spigot off during your frenzy to evade the confrontation from earlier. 

It makes sense then that you don’t wait for his response and make for the door. 

He clears throat. “Was that… fine?”

You halt, halfway across the breakroom. He must be asking if he had accidentally crossed a line already.

The thought is oddly considerate and makes your cheeks warm. Part of yourself thinks that it was a solid strategic move on his part. It certainly did the job of convincing Eira. And deep down, you didn’t mind the spontaneity of it all.

It was more than fine. But instead of saying as much, you flounder. “Uh, yeah!” Your voice is a bit more high-pitched than you’d like so you cough once and play it off. “I mean, yeah, that was fine.”

It’s mortifying, feeling this vulnerable in front of him. You need fresh air now.

“Yeah,” you say again, waving a hand at him, “don’t worry about it. I’d say we did our future selves a favor. Now there won’t be any more meddling on grandma’s part. So… this is a win. I think.”

He starts to approach with his usual purposeful steps, which makes you turn towards the door. His long legs make it easy to catch up and before you even have a hand on the handle, the door swings open.

Crosshair is… holding it open for you. 

You mutter your thanks, hoping the warmth in your cheeks isn’t as blatant to him as it feels to you. You duck under his arm and step back into the thrush of the outdoor beds. The fresh air clears your head as you trod to the watering system near the shed.

It’ll be a long afternoon, you think. A droid is activated with its tell-tale beeps and whirring, indicating that Crosshair has turned on a harvesting droid.

But at least he won’t have to go on a date with the carpenter’s daughter anymore.

I'm not entirely happy with this :') But I might write more parts in the future if I get around to it. I have 8 chapters outlined so far. If I decide to follow through with a longfic, I'll be needing a beta reader. Please reach out if this would interest you!

Masterlist

[kitcatttt]

List of most aggressive Void Touched survivors to least! (Minus Viend, Commando, and Seeker) I’m so obsessed with this au man 😭

N/A - REX, MUL-T, and Chef. I hc that inorganic matter can’t be corrupted in the same way as organic matter, in the sense that it can’t be controlled. It just shuts the robots down. And REX’s plant can’t move without the robot so-

9 - Engineer. He’s actually helpful and non-hostile. He built Commando a prosthetic to use after Bandit bit his arm off, although it does have some corruption in it so it has to be used sparingly. He also doesn’t move outside his workshop, as he’s tethered to his turrets now and carrying them out is really inconvenient. He would’ve stayed in his workshop anyways though, because building/tinkering with shit keeps him calm. He’s also one of the only ones that you can have a conversation with without them trying to scare or threaten you.

8 - Artificer. With how long she used to spend with Viend, she’s somewhat used to how the corruption feels, aura and pressure wise. Basically, when she got corrupted it wasn’t a hugely different feeling than what she was used to, and thus she wasn’t made that aggressive. She’ll talk to Commando and Seeker sometimes but gets agitated if she isn’t with Viend for a while. She also gets agitated if Commando or Seeker are near it. Mostly because they used to not like it and didn’t treat it the best, so she doesn’t trust them to have changed. They have though dw.

7 - Railgunner. Like Artificer she’s used to how the corruption feels, but she also enjoys the Void. So once she got corrupted, she started hanging out there 24/7. Constantly on edge but doesn’t blindly attack. She will attack if you even speak of trying to get her out the Void though. Mostly attacks Seeker, but she has and will attack Commando.

6 - Bandit. First to get corrupted 💔 Irritable but has self control, and is (mostly) calm around Captain and Commando. Just- ignore that he bit his arm off. He’s still loving towards Commando, he just really enjoys fucking with him. To Bandit, he was just “playing around” when he bit Commando. Will intervene if anyone other than him or Captain tries to/does hurt Commando.

5 - Captain. Like Bandit, just grumpier. Hisses when upset, so 80% of the time he’ll be hissing. Hates everyone on the ship that isn't Bandit or Commando, though from how he acts towards them you'd think he hates them too- He’s loving in private though. Really REALLY hateful towards Viend though, which causes a lot of issues with him and Artificer fighting.

4 - Loader. Do. Not. Go. Near. Her. She will grab you. Depending on her mood, she’ll either crush you to death, or talk your ears off. She’s also a fucking tank, so Commando and Seeker have a specific tranquilizer for her. Has killed Engineer before while annoyed because she knew he wouldn’t fight back. She also purposefully moves important stuff to make Commando and Seeker’s lives harder.

3 - Huntress. Perpetually annoyed, Commando and Seeker tend to stay out of her way unless they need her to do something. She’ll come to them if she needs something, and she normally gets pissed when bothered. THE BEEF WITH MERCENARY RAGES ON!!!!!!!!!!!! They fight CONSTANTLY, but there’s rarely a clear cut winner. Commando and Seeker say she won when she asks though. For their safety.

2 - Mercenary. Don’t make eye contact. Ever. It is a death sentence. He has several eyes too so that makes it much harder. Looking at him is also pretty bad, but it isn’t guaranteed death. He sees himself as better than everyone on the ship, so he believes no one has the right to look at him like equals. If Commando or Seeker ever need to talk to him, they HAVE to kneel. They fucking hate it, but he won’t listen otherwise, and he’ll most likely stab them.

1 - Acrid. They keep it locked up for a reason. Don’t engage.

[dragonmasterhiccup]

She shook her head. “No, it’s really not that bad— you guys need to see Gothi first…” She let out a yawn as she stepped away from Hiccup so that he could get his prosthetic back on. Why was she so tired all of the sudden? Only an hour ago, she basically felt fine.

Danny climbed onto Morpho first, being in the front and leaning back against Astrid.

“They’re gonna be so happy when you guys come back.”

———

It was a struggle to stay awake on the flight back, but even without Danny guiding him, Morpho knew how to take them home.

Squinting her eyes as she remained leaned back on Astrid, she groggily said, “Is that it…?” It was, in fact, it. ‘It’ being Berk, which was up ahead clear as day.

Once they’d landed— right in front of Gothi’s hut— Danny clumsily slid off of her dragon, almost tripping in the process.

“Gothi…?” She mumbled, knocking on the door. “Gothi, I found them, but they uh, they need to see you.” In reality, they all needed to see her.

Hearing Danny’s voice, the elder hastily made her way over to the door, swinging it open and looking up at them wide eyed. People were starting to think that they were already dead, so to see them here was a tremendous relief.

Not wasting a second, she ushered them inside, but Danny protested, turning around and attempting to head down the steps. “I’ll be back, I just gotta go tell Zephyr n’ Nuffink that I found you, okay?” But Gothi wasn’t having it.

Gently but firmly, she grabbed her forearm, tugging her inside. Danny didn’t even really fight it, she seemed too drowsy to.

Sitting her down on the edge of the bed, Gothi instantly started checking the Chief and Chieftess over for injuries.

‘You two are currently very dehydrated, as well as in need of nutrition.’ Looking back over at Danny, who was now staring blankly at the wall, Gothi wrote. ‘She’s probably entering shock, just from looking at her. I’ll check her over as well, but again, just from looking at her, I can see that the majority of the blood on her isn’t hers. Do you two have injuries that I need to check? Danny too, is there anything she’s got that I don’t know about? We need to be quick though; the people are getting hasty, they’re starting to fight with each other, so you two need to be out there as soon as possible.’

The couple exchanged a look, seeing how drowsy Danny suddenly seemed.

"...right. Well, we should get going..."

Astrid wrapped her arms around Danny's waist as the teen leaned back on her, shooting Hiccup a look. "Yeah, we'll be glad to be back."

----------

Astrid held onto Danny and Morpho as they flew, Hiccup's arms reaching around the two of them as well.

They were all exhausted, but the chief and Chieftess were too worried about Danny to rest.

"Yeah," Hiccup confirmed. "We're almost home."

Sliding off the Deadly Nadder, Astrid helped Hiccup stay upright while they both reached to steady Danny.

Once inside, Hiccup was firm, "Danny, you need to get looked at, too. Get in here, now."

They did as Gothi asked, allowing the healer to check them over.

"No," Hiccup shook his head. "We're fine. Just a little shaky. Danny, however...she has a nasty cut on her arm, but otherwise, we aren't sure if she sustained any other injuries..."

His eyes widened at the news of the people fighting. "What?! Okay, uh..." Glancing at Danny, he decided, "Astrid and I will make our way to the Great Hall. Let the people see we're back, get some food and water...then we'll have mom meet us outside of here with the kids..." He'd missed them terribly. "Is that alright with you, Gothi?"

[eleanorjane0690]

Solidarity In Sonder

Excerpt from Chapter 23

Autumn '76 - Peeta

“ I couldn't possibly say, but that doesn't mean you can’t speak upon your worries.  Especially if you’d like my informed opinion.”  

“What?” I huff, relinquishing my hold on Buttercup and closing my eyes while running a hand up my forehead.  Although, as I knot it into my hair, his suggestive statement clicks into place.  

“Ah, I see.” I exclaim, as my eyes ping open “So, I’m guessing, with it being the first daydream you’ve had in a very long time, it was out of the ordinary.  Therefore, something recent must have inspired it.”

Clearing his throat with a weird cough of agreement, after audibly sipping from some unknown beverage, Doc apologises “Sorry Peeta, I have a very dis- agreeable tickle in the back of my throat.”

Shaking my head at his shitty acting skills, aware this very phone call is being recorded, playing along, I smirk “Recently…erm…my art has been inspired by some unusual stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Scars.”

“Scars?” he repeats.  

“Yeah, previously unseen ones.  Ones inflicted in childhood.”

“Previously unseen?” 

“Well it’s not often you see someone's bare ass on full display.” I snigger.  

Waking late into Sunday morning, having slept soundly for the first time in months, sprawled butt naked on my belly across the bed, my depressing lack of morning glory didn't even register as I felt Katniss’ delicate finger tracing along my childhood scars.  The scars, that regardless of the full body polishes I’ve undergone, cannot be erased.  

Shooting my eyes open, highly aware of just how ugly and unappealing the long lines of raised scar tissue are on my ass cheeks, embarrassed, I yanked the throw over my bare body and buried my head into the pillows.   

“Peeta what are they?” she quietly asked.

“Switch scars.” I mumbled, as a quiver that made me sound like the scared child I’d been when I was made to grin and bear receiving them crept into my voice “From my mothers whippings.”

“That’s how you knew!” she exclaimed, welling tears clear to hear in her own tremulous tone “That day in the Square, that’s how you knew, isn’t it?”  

Conscious of the fact she was referring to Gale’s whipping, but unable to look her in the eye, I silently reached out behind me, took hold of her hand, and gently caressed it to let her know not only was she correct but that it was okay to be upset.  Because regardless of how much I appreciate her not talking about him, for my benefit I assume, I know how much that day broke her heart.

“Indeed, it's not often that you do.” Doc professionally replies, trying to mask his titter.  

Sniffling, she excused herself, and on hearing the door go, I quickly got up and threw some clothes on.  

Walking out onto the porch, her half-drank cup of coffee was sitting by the swing but she was nowhere to be seen.  Irrationally, as the Covey’s tale of Lucy Gray began to repeat within my mind, I began to panic.  Running barefoot into the mud, slipping slightly due to the feckless prosthetic, with each repetition rising in distress, I repeatedly hollered her name.  Bolting out of the outhouse bathroom, face blotchy from tears, she flew across the landscape and into my arms.        

“Thank the stars,” I heaved, burying myself into the fall of her hair “I thought…I thought you’d gone.” 

“Gone,” she repeated, brows furrowing as she pulled back to look me in the eye “gone where?"

“I…I don't know…just gone.” I lied, cowardly circumventing how between whippings, Gale, and Lucy, my mind had made some abhorrent connections.  How I feared despite our date, upon being reminded of him, she’d fled to be with Gale.  

“Not without you,” she soothed, rising on tip toe to cup my cheek “I don’t ever want to be anywhere but with you.”  

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56641270/chapters/147201754

[multi-lefaiye]

oh yeah last night i started a google doc with notes for jackrabbit and other characters he's close with,,, here are some physical descriptions under the cut :3

elle rose: Elle is a lean, brown-skinned woman of average height, with curly black hair that she keeps tied back in a ponytail. She has a square chin and a smattering of freckles across her face, and bright hazel eyes. Years of working on the farm have given Elle strong arms and calloused hands. She has a distinctive scar on her left shoulder, shaped like a crescent moon.

jackrabbit: Jackrabbit is a tall, lightly tanned man with strong, muscular arms and a soft, fat midsection decorated with knots of gnarled scar tissue. He has green eyes with monolids, and long black hair he typically ties back with a gold ribbon. His right arm and leg are both missing, from the elbow and knee down respectively, and he uses a pair of specially-designed magicka-mechanical gold prosthetic limbs. Most notably, however, are his catlike features--Jackrabbit’s body is covered in scattered patches of black and white fur, his ears are long and furry like a cat’s, and he has a long, furred tail trailing behind him.

leon blackguard: Leon is a tall, leanly muscular woman with tan, sun-kissed skin and a shock of short, spiky white hair. She has eerie yellow eyes that shine even in darkness, and uncannily sharp teeth. Her body is littered with tattoos and scar tissue, most notably a series of bullet scars across her back and left shoulder (leading to lifelong chronic pain and weaker grip in her left hand) and spiraling black tattoos along her arms. Though she isn’t one for makeup, Leon does occasionally wear face paint on her hunts, a smear of bloody red across her eyes.

howl quicksilver: Howl is a pale, round-faced man with short-cropped blond hair, wide blue eyes, and freckles across the bridge of his nose. He has a cheerful, friendly air about him, with prominent dimples when he smiles and a single piercing in his right ear. Howl is fat, with a round belly and soft arms, as well as thick thighs. Despite his mostly plain appearance, in certain lights, his eyes shine lavender rather than blue, and some have sworn they’ve seen a fork in his tongue.

van novak: Van is a small, lean person with pale, bronze-tinted skin, vibrant green eyes, and fluffy red hair. They have a deep red tattoo spiraling across their bony shoulders, partially hidden by a massive burn scar on the left side of their torso. Like many tinkerers, Van's hands are often dirty, their fingers smudged black with oil, and overall they tend not to put much effort into their appearance. Van often has a frown on their face and is not particularly expressive, but on the rare occasions they smile, the clear gap between their front teeth becomes visible.

[flordivina]

𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽. — ♫ — @rntr-testinggrounds

It has happened too quickly, before she could even control herself & think; as the sudden amount of emotions would swirl on her mind & around her heart, like a caring hand tracing the wounds left in the dark from her memories—

Seraphine had been slightly tired today; going back & forth from Piltover to Zaun was not an easy endeavor when rushing to make up the best of her time while her Dad was too busy with commissions & repairing to stop her from venturing. He was, after all, also doing his part & offering to aid for free any implement that had been damaged during the attack & the rebellions. From filters to breathing masks to prosthetic arms & legs to wheelchairs for anyone regardless of what side of the bridge they came from…

Of course, there were always those who were rightfully afraid to cross into the City of Progress even when some advancement in political relations had been tried during the months following. So Seraphine would go at her own accord & fix those things that could be needed with the independent groups of volunteers; & she had just left another round of her errands when suddenly she heard it…

A gentle & sweet sound; familiarity caressing her ears as nostalgia would give space to wonder…

The musicbox ever so fondly memorized, a hum she had known by heart cause little her loved to hum it as her best friend would practice her dancing & she would await for her classes to end. The first Soul melody she had caught, even before she knew that’s what it was. An actual symphony…

But that couldn’t be possible right? She was probably imagining things, & maybe the hex-crystal droplets inside her headphones were messing around with another zaunite’s melody instead of tampering it; maybe she was mistaken & it was the returning memory of her bedridden friend through the window, perhaps it was overlapping after seeing so many teenagers & childrens suffering still…

There was no way that the melody she was following, growing louder & fonder with every step, would be hers… right?

She was probably dead by now; right? But she never knew if she had died, she had hoped for her to return; despite her family pushing the idea such thing wasn’t plausible. She was probably dead… —probably…

Before she knows consciously; it’s like her heart burst in the symphony. Every note follows just as she remembers, clear & unique; moving her to the point of tears filling her eyes; & in the caught instant, she’s back to be 13 years old, rushing to meet her best friend with a hug as soon as the door would open. For a moment, time had not passed, for a moment she forgets. It’s for a moment that her eyes don’t notice the mechanical porcelain-doll like shape; it’s for a moment she doesn’t notice how there’s no human skin, it’s for a moment she wishes she could just feel trapped in the idea…

It’s funny how her Soul’s melody isn’t disturbed by the mechanical voice; only her remembrance & dream…

“Oh—… oh, I’m… I’m sorry, I got too emotional for a moment…” She would quickly apologize as the embrace would ease, reluctantly before stepping back. Turquoise gaze meeting with the features that now formed her face; it was like looking to a pretty doll, one of those from the artisan markets they would pass on their way to school. She would always point at the ballerinas to Orianna, telling her one day she would gift one to her when they graduated from the Conservatory & she was Piltover’s most famous dancer.

But how; & why—

“I… didn’t mean to startle you. I—… You reminded me of someone for a moment; a very good old friend. I had not seen her in several years &… funnily enough I don’t even know if she’s still among the cities.”

She didn’t have the heart to say ‘dead’ ; she was reluctant to that; even more so now. Everything alive could produce a melody, Seraphine had noticed with time. Humans, Vastayans, Animals, even the plants had their own gentle manner to express one if she touched them properly. Nothing that was fully mechanical or devoid of a Soul, could produce the symphonies her heart attuned to.

Every corpse was always silence ; like that morning she had left for good

“Oh, yeah, I had not presenting myself even. My name is Seraphine.” Her smile would be kind even as her tears had teared up a little bit; as if she could still hear herself greeting the blonde girl sitting at the desk next to hers the first day of school...

“What’s yours?”

[steelbluehome]

USA Today

'A Different Man' review: Sebastian Stan stuns in darkly funny take on identity

Brian Truitt

October 2, 2024

Sebastian Stan’s face literally falls off in the new dark comedy “A Different Man,” with the aim of questioning who we all are underneath.

Writer/director Aaron Schimberg’s fabulously thought-provoking and searingly funny flick (★★★½ out of four; rated R; in select theaters now, nationwide Friday) digs into themes of identity, empathy, self-awareness and beauty with amusing eccentricity and a pair of revelatory performances. Marvel superhero Stan is stellar as a disfigured man with neurofibromatosis given a miracle “cure” that makes his life hell, and Adam Pearson, a British actor living with the rare disorder in real life, proves a refreshing and movie-stealing delight.

Edward (Stan) is a New York actor who does cheesy corporate inclusivity training videos, where employees learn to treat everyone with respect. It doesn’t happen in his real life: He’s mocked, laughed at or just roundly dismissed because of his facial tumors.

The only person who isn’t a jerk to Edward is his flirty next-door neighbor, aspiring playwright Ingrid (Renate Reinsve), and they strike up an awkward friendship where she sort of digs him and he doesn’t have a clue what to do.

Edward’s condition has worsened to the point where he can’t see out of one eye. He takes his doctor’s advice to sign up for an experimental drug and is given a mask of his original face to wear for a sense of normalcy once the medication begins to work. Oh, it does work, exceedingly well – the body-horror sequence where the tumors come off his face is particularly gnarly – and he's left looking pretty handsome, ready to be a new man, and Ingrid overhears him telling people that Edward is “dead.”

As years pass, he becomes a star real estate agent now calling himself Guy who reeks of confidence. But while the artifice has changed, internally he’s still an insecure mess. That comes out when he discovers that Ingrid has written a play about Edward's life.

Guy wears his mask to the auditions and gets the part, partly because Ingrid feels a connection with him. But he also meets Oswald (Pearson), who looks exactly like he used to but the new guy is beloved as the gregarious, effusive life of every party. Oswald wants to be his friend yet the tense situation veers dicey when Guy becomes jealous, winds up losing his role to Oswald and grows violently unhinged.

Thanks to prosthetics designer Mike Marino – nominated for an Oscar for “Coming 2 America” (and likely getting another nod for this) – Stan is unrecognizable and plays Edward as aloof and shy, tapping back into all that once his macho facade crumbles as Guy.

In the better of his two transformative roles this awards season (though quite good as Donald Trump in "The Apprentice"), Stan is wonderfully off-kilter in "Different Man" and it’s great to see his dour personality contrasted with the lovable Pearson's. A veteran of English TV and the Scarlett Johansson film “Under the Skin,” the newcomer pops with innate charisma and friendliness as it becomes clear Oswald is the guy Edward wanted and thought he would be, not this other Guy.

While the ending loses steam as “Different Man” gets in its own bizarre head, the film maintains a certain heady, psychological trippiness. Having Edward and Oswald be almost mirror images of one another adds a mind-bending slant to an already deep tale that tackles a society that often mistreats someone considered “other” and holds the makeover in high regard.

With strangely thoughtful panache and a helping of absurdity, Schimberg makes us rethink how we look at people and ourselves alike – and who’s to blame when we don’t like the view.

[direwombat]

tagged by various people over the past week or so, including: @socially-awkward-skeleton, @vampireninjabunnies-blog, @nightwingshero, and @inafieldofdaisies, (and i think that's everyone, but if i missed anyone i'm sorry!) to share some wip stuff

tagging: @detectivelokis, @baldurrs, @fourlittleseedlings, @adelaidedrubman, @purplehairsecretlair, @sstewyhosseini, @confidentandgood, @strafethesesinners, @strangefable, @madparadoxum, @voidika, @trench-rot, @josephslittledeputy, @kittiofdoom, @sukoshimikan, @deputyash, @gaeadene, @g0dspeeed, @harmonyowl, @poetikat anyone else with something to share today (but no pressure as always <3)

here are some really roughly drafted bits from augustine's pov in chapter 2/interlude i.

“Shaw, report.”

Ben groans, and he rakes a hand through his hair and drags it down his face -- something Augustine has noticed he does whenever he feels frustrated or overwhelmed. With a shake of his head, he pulls his radio from his belt. But before he responds, he points to one of the men holding Augustine up. “You. Go get a stretcher.”

“But --” 

“That’s an order,” Ben growls.

The man falls silent, shrinking back as he peels Augustine’s arm from around his shoulders and carefully leans him against the other masked man who helped carry him back to the station. Pain lances through Augustine’s leg and he grits his teeth  as his weight shifts. The man scurries off and disappears inside the main building. 

Ben hisses out a quiet fuck before lifting a finger to the remaining man, motioning for him to wait while he answers his radio. “Ranger’s station is secure,” he says. “No casualties. We’re clear to start receiving shipments.”

“Good work. Stay vigilant. The rogue deputy still hasn't been apprehended.”

Ben’s eyes flick over to Augustine and he bites at his lower lip. Dark brows knit together as a shadow falls over his face, but through the haze of pain clouding his vision, Augustine can’t quite tell what that shadow is. Just that he’s deep in thought. 

Then, Ben’s shoulders slump. “About that, sir…” he breathes deeply and grimaces. “I do have an injured civilian.”

“I fail to see the connection,” the voice on the radio says flatly, and before Ben can respond, it continues, “Kill them. Now isn’t the time for converts.”

“It’s the deputy’s brother, sir.”

“What?”

“I have the deputy’s younger  brother. He’s injured.”

The voice on the radio is quiet for a long time. “Bring him to me.” A beat. “How badly is he injured?”

Ben looks at Augustine’s leg and winces. “I’ve seen worse.” He rubs at his left thigh, the leg Augustine knows is a prosthetic below the knee. “But he does have a bone protruding from his shin.”

“Get him here before he passes out from pain. I want to talk to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

He holds his radio in front of him for a moment, waiting for a response. When there isn’t one, he clips it back to his belt. 

Not long after, the man covered in blood returns with a stretcher tucked under his arm. 

“Get him in a truck,” Ben orders. “ I’m taking him to St. Francis. Brother Jacob wants to talk to him.”

....

“Ben?” [Augustine] rasps. Jesus Christ he’s thirsty. “Ben, what’s going on?”

“Just try to relax, Gus,” he says. He turns the key in the truck’s ignition and pulls out of the ranger’s station. “I’m gonna get you to a doctor. Get that leg taken care of and you’ll be just fine, okay?”

“I’m not --” he sucks in a sharp breath as his leg is jostled by the truck bouncing on the dirt road. “I’m not a vet.” 

“They’re the closest doctors, buddy,” Ben says. “Besides, that doesn’t matter anymore. You’re one of us, now.” 

Augustine’s not entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean. But any anxiety over that is immediately replaced by the sickening realization that he needs to let his sister know that he’s hurt. “I need to call Syb,” he says, suddenly panicking. Shit, she’s gonna be so mad. “She needs to know what’s happened.”

“Easy, easy. We’ll call your sister for you,” Ben reassures him. “We’ll make sure you get to see her, okay? Here --” He reaches behind him, into the backseat where Augustine lay. “Give me your phone. I’ll call her when we get there.” 

Hazily, Augustine nods. Yeah. Syb’s met Ben a few times. She knows him. 

Everything’ll be fine. 

He gingerly fishes his phone from his pocket and pushes it into Ben’s palm. “Lockscreen’s 0967,” he says -- his mama’s birthday. Darkness is starting to creep in at the edges of his vision. 

Ben’s hand retracts with the phone and Augustine assumes he tucks it in a pocket or lets it rest on the passenger seat. “Stay with me, bud,” he says. “Gotta keep conscious. Someone real important wants to speak with you.”

But his eyelids are so heavy and he feels so cold. “Whozit?” he slurs. 

“Someone who’s gonna give you your purpose,” Ben responds.

Augustine hums sleepily. Even in his semi-conscious state he finds the answer bizarrely cryptic coming from a man he knows to be brutally direct. But that encroaching darkness blankets his vision before he can ask any more questions.

He falls into it, and his pain disappears.

[rainbow-nerdss]

Crushed Flowers

Written for @augustwritingchallenge day 9: Cleaning Crew Stucky, 1.2k AO3 link

Two weeks ago, Steve woke up in a changed world.

Today, he stands in the middle of a destroyed street, rubble and wreckage all around. The rest of the team — if that word even makes sense for the group he’d fought alongside — are long gone, back to their homes, or secret bunkers, or wherever else Fury had pulled them from.

Steve… he couldn’t leave.

He couldn’t go home — his home didn’t exist anymore.

He looked around him, and he didn’t see victory. He saw crushed cars, destroyed buildings, so much damage to infrastructure and people’s homes, their livelihoods, torn apart as some sort of collateral damage.

He changed out of his uniform into civilian clothes, and joined the first responders, the sanitation crews, and the civilians all working together on the real hero work — picking up the pieces after tragedy.

When Steve was a kid, a building in his neighborhood had burned down. Whole families had been left homeless, and many had serious burn injuries they couldn’t afford to have treated in Hospital. 

Steve had followed his mom out, watched her help those she could, saw the way the community rallied to help their own. 

That’s what a hero did, he thought.

He starts shifting rubble, careful not to move anything too heavy, that might tip off anyone to who he was. Soon enough, there’s enough of a path cleared to allow heavy crews to get to the buildings, and he turns his attention to the line of shopfronts. One catches his eye, a little flower shop with crushed stems and petals scattered across the sidewalk, in between crushed glass from the shattered windows, sparkling in the early morning sunlight. 

Steve makes his way over and finds the owner — or, someone he assumes to be the owner — sitting inside. 

“Need a hand?” Steve asks, then cringes, when he sees the man’s prosthetic arm. “Sorry, I—”

The man snorts, then looks up at him. “It’s fine.”

Steve steps over a broken display and looks around. It looks like one of the fights passed directly through the store, wrecking everything in its path. 

“Shit, this is—”

“I know,” the man sighs. He stands up, and Steve sees a name on his apron. Bucky. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Steve’s chest clenches. Not only is his name like something from home, he’s got the strongest Brooklyn accent Steve’s heard since he went to basic training. 

Steve picks up a pile of shattered wood and nods towards the street, where there were crews collecting anything broken beyond repair. “This feels like the first step.”

Bucky nods, then wipes his eyes with his hand. “Guess so.”

Together, they gather up all of the debris from inside, and stack it out in the street, to be collected by the city. The register still works, though it’s been dented pretty badly, and he’ll need to get a whole new counter to put it on, but the place already looks better, empty as it is.

“Coffee?” Bucky asks. “I don’t think the back room got hit too hard, there might even be a mug back there.”

Steve’s beginning to feel the tiredness catch up with him, so he follows Bucky back. The back room was hit, but it seemed like they got it at an angle, so there’s a mostly untouched corner, with one mug intact. Another has a large chip, but it’ll still hold liquid. And the coffee machine, blessedly, is untouched.

“This place was meant to be my fresh start,” Bucky says, quietly, when they’re both sitting on the floor with steaming mugs of black coffee. “When I got back.”

“Army?” Steve asks, and he isn’t surprised when Bucky nods. “Me, too.”

“I was only open for three months. I was… I was starting to adjust, and now—” Bucky indicates the destruction around him.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, quiet enough that he doesn’t even know whether Bucky will hear. 

“Not your fault,” Bucky dismisses it. 

Steve opens his mouth to argue, to come clean, tell Bucky who he is — he might not have destroyed this particular store, but he hadn’t exactly been paying attention to which buildings got hit as he ran from giant fucking space robots.

“It isn’t your fault, Steve,” Bucky repeated. “You didn’t summon those fucking things, and who knows if i’d even be alive to complain if you guys hadn’t been there to stop them.”

Steve sighs. “You—”

“Yeah, I recognise you. Saw you in enough history textbooks as a kid to recognise you when you walked in my door.”

“I’m in textbooks?” Steve asks, incredulous.

Bucky looks at him, then starts laughing. It doesn’t take long before Steve starts laughing right along with him. It’s not funny, but after the hell they’ve both been through, they need it. They laugh until their stomach hurts, and then Steve pulls himself to his feet.

“So, what’s next?” he asks. 

Bucky looks around what’s left of his business and shrugs. “Not much more we can do today, is there? Why don’t we see who else needs a hand?”

They share a look, and Steve feels something unclench in his chest, a tightness he hadn’t even known was there. “Sounds like a plan,” he agrees. They walk out the front door into the chaos of the street.

Steve stoops down, finding a single, miraculously unharmed stem of bluebells.

“Hey, Bucky?” he calls. Bucky turns around, and Steve hands him the stem.

A mile spreads across Bucky’s face. 

“You know, bluebells only grow for a couple of weeks, naturally. They die off early in the spring, but they always come back the next year.” Bucky tucks the flowers into the pocket of his apron and gives a last look at the business he’d worked so hard to build. 

Steve looked around him, at the wreckage, yes, but also the hundreds of people working to set things to rights. 

“The city’ll come back, too,” he says. “We just need to offer it a little help getting started.”

Bucky hums in agreement, then sets off towards a group of people gathered down the street. “I’ve got power, if anyone needs it!” Steve hears him shout. “Door’s open, just walk in!”

Steve heaves a heavy breath, and jumps into action as people start rushing towards him, pointing them to the sockets behind the register. 

He and Bucky work side by side until they can’t anymore, eyes meeting across whatever work they take on, and by the time Steve has to go — hunger and tiredness finally getting the better of him — he finds himself following Bucky to his old neighborhood in Brooklyn instead of going back to the fancy apartment SHIELD appointed him in Manhattan.

It feels like home. 

Bucky feels like home. Steve sleeps on his couch, and when he wakes, late in the night, he finds Bucky curled up beside him.

A quiet nudge, a bleary eyed frown, and then Bucky moves, tucking himself into Steve’s side. Steve smiles, drifting back to sleep.

Maybe, just maybe, this new world doesn’t have to be completely awful. Maybe it’s not all secret organizations and Starks and threats to the safety of the planet — maybe Steve gets to go home after all — by a certain definition of home, at least.

[celinamarniss]

We Can’t Keep Meeting Like This, chapter three, part five. Part one. Part two. Part Three. Part four.

Peli’s droids scrambled over and began to clear away the debris surrounding the ship, organizing them by a system that Din couldn’t follow. One of the droids—the boxy, two-legged one—sidled up to Luke, and he leaned down to pat its chassis as affectionately as though it were a pet. His astromech trundled over, its head swiveling from side to side as it took in the scene. 

“Let’s take a look at what we’ve got,” Luke said to the astomech. It made a rude sound. 

Luke laughed and braced himself against one of the few remaining panels. “I think she’s beautiful,” he said, practically draping himself over the side of the ship in order to wedge his good hand down into an open panel. “Just needs a little love.” 

Peli leaned up against the hull next to him to watch, Grogu in her arms. “You won’t be disappointed. I know my ships, and this one’s got good bones.” 

“Yeah, looks like it still has a little juice, I think—unh—” 

Luke grunted as something sparked under his fingers. He jerked back, shaking his hand, muttering something guttural under his breath. Din didn’t catch the words, but they sounded Huttese. From the expression on Mara’s face—surprised and impressed in spite of herself—Din guessed that whatever Luke had said was vulgar. Extremely vulgar. 

Peli, on the other hand, knew exactly what Luke had said. She gasped and smacked his arm. Luke yelped. 

“Not in front of the baby!” she hissed. 

“The baby’s fine!” Luke retorted. 

“Yeah, well, if he repeats any of that, you better believe I’ll have a few choice things to say to whoever taught him.” 

“He’s fine,” Luke repeated, stepping out of her reach. He turned his hand over, checking for burns. 

“Are you alright?” Din asked. 

“He’s alright.” Mara snorted. “You damage both hands, farmboy, and you’re walking home.” 

Luke shot her a look sour as curdled milk. 

The arm wasn’t in a cast or bandaged. Luke didn’t act like he was in pain, and he wasn’t careful when moved. Din couldn’t help but wonder—“what happened to your arm?” 

Luke sighed as pulled his arm loose from the sling and held up his right hand. Though it looked just like his left, it was unnaturally stiff, as if the hand had been frozen in place. The thin line of a scar wrapped around his arm. 

“That’s a nice prosthetic,” Peli said. “But I don’t think I have anything hospital-grade in my shop that you can use to fix it. I can talk to a guy for you, though.” 

Luke looked pained. “I don’t want to take it to a local technician. It isn’t hard to fix, I just can’t do it one-handed and Mara won’t help me.”

Mara snorted. “I told him if he stuck his hand in the open vent of a damaged ion cannon—again—he was fixing the damage all by himself.” 

Din stared at him. “You stuck your hand in the vent of an ion cannon?” 

“Three times,” Mara said. 

“I was trying—” Luke cut himself off with a frustrated grunt. “Look, it just fried the memory chip. I’ve got a backup, I just need to replace it.” 

“I’ll fix it,” Din said. 

Luke looked surprised. “I wasn’t saying that to convince you—” 

“I don’t mind. If it’s just a chip replacement, I can do it.” 

“I appreciate the offer, but you don’t have to do this, Mando.” 

“It’s Djarin. Din Djarin. I want to do it.” 

Luke beamed. “Mine’s Luke Skywalker, but you know that already.” 

Something about the name seemed vaguely familiar, now that he heard it out loud, but the reason didn’t come to mind. 

Mara offered Din an ironic smile. “As it says on the bounty: Mara Jade.” She caught Luke’s eye and tilted her head toward their ship. “I’ll get Peli’s money—” 

“—and I’ll get the memory chip.” Luke said. “We’ll be right back.” 

He let the prosthetic hang at his side, his working hand going up to rest in the small of Mara’s back as they strolled back toward their shuttle. Mara raised a hand to shade her face from the sun. 

“Nice looking couple,” Peli said. “Bet they’re fun.” 

She cast him a sidelong look. “I guess you’re about to find out how much fun.” The innuendo was thicker than a Berchestian layer cake. 

“They’re married,” Din hissed. “To each other!” 

“Some marriages have room for three, if you know what I mean,” Peli said, wiggling her non-existent eyebrows. “I’d tell you to use protection, but I guess you’ve got that covered.” She smacked him on the arm. “Hah!” 

There was a clattering sound on the other side of the ship. Peli turned, Grogu on her hip.  “What are you doing over there?” she shouted at her droids, throwing her free arm up in the air. “What did I tell you about dragging that motivator around? What did I tell you?! Do I gotta do everything myself around here…”

[missbananarose]

In Goncharov (1973), Sofia Ambrosini’s backstory is that she was an orphan and raised by nuns. Her prosthetic leg is a result of Italian economic riots after World War Two. Why was her family not around, and why were nuns her guardians? The answer has to do with World War Two. Sofia was born into a French Jewish family and given to Italian nuns for protection from the Nazis.

Named after a town in Italy, the Assisi Network was an Italian secret organization that kept Jewish people safe. 26 monasteries and convents were used as hiding places. The Nazis took power after 1943, once Mussolini was arrested. Just after the power shift, Sofia’s family sent her to live with the Poor Clares in the Monastero di San Quirico in Assisi. The Poor Clares were an order of nuns that cared for women and children. Secret grottos under the convent served as hiding places for refugees. Sofia became very good at staying quiet and being stealthy. On June 16, 1944, Assisi was liberated. The Germans in Italy surrendered to the Allies on May 2 1945. By September 1945, Sofia felt safe enough to travel back to Naples. Her family had moved there from France in 1930. When she arrived, her family was missing. She returned to Assisi and the Poor Clare nuns. As an adult, by the time of the film, she has begun to live in Naples again. She still keeps an eye out for her family, and has possibly found Mario, her long-lost brother.

Sofia was Romani-coded in the novella. It’s probable that the Assisi Network would have been similarly helpful. I believe that she was Jewish-coded in the 1973 film.

During one scene, Sofia lights a candelabra with three candles and two peacock motifs on a Friday evening. The candelabra looks like this photo. This isn’t her introduction scene, but it is in the first half of the film. Sofia sits in the kitchen of her house, in front on the table. She lights the candles at 4:26 pm, as shown on the small clock beside the candelabra. She waves a hand over her eyes. These shots depict Sofia lighting candles for Shabbat, the weekly day of rest in Judaism. It starts Friday evening and ends Saturday evening. Shabbat candles have to be lit about 20 minutes before sunset. Generally, two candles are lit, but more are possible. Sofia lights the middle candle first, the shamansh, or “helper” in Hebrew. She uses the shamansh to light the left and right candles afterwards. Sofia has her dinner. Later on, red light from the sunset is shown over the white candles. The red and white colors foreshadow the red blood over Katya’s white dress later on. The end of the day is also part of the passage of time. It’s not explicitly stated that it is Shabbat, but it is clear that it is Friday. Sofia knows what the candles mean.

The two peacocks on the candelabra relate to the theme of pairs within the film. Goncharov and Katya are meant to be a couple, but form their own separate relationships. Andrey and Goncharov are caught up in their romantic tension. Katya and Sofia have a friendship that starts to become romantic.

Sofia could maintain some Jewish customs, but not all of them. She could light Shabbat candles, but not keep strict kosher. If she’s Jewish, the fruit stand scene maintains religious themes with apples and figs. Genesis is part of the Torah (for Judaism) and the Old Testament (for Christianity).