#I WAS going to maybe cause a tiny little fire in the building

[officialdump]

literally me rn

those shades really sucked the life out of the e&e games award ceremony

[boldlyvoid]

Christmas Cookies

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

Summary: Spencer's neighbour gives him a plate of whatever she makes her family for dinner most nights. When he comes home to see smoke bellowing out of her kitchen window, the last thing on his mind is some burnt parchment paper under her Christmas cookies.

Warnings: mutual pining, divorced reader, mom reader, food mentions, cooking, flirting

word count: 2.2k

When he got back from prison, his apartment didn’t feel like home anymore.

It felt tainted… it felt wrong to be there where so many terrible memories took place. He’s been through so much in these 4 green walls and now he can’t stomach being there anymore. 

He spends some time at JJ’s, in her spare room. He sleeps on Penelope’s couch and in the guest house at Daves but he hates feeling like a burden. So, during his mandatory month off, he packs everything up, terminates his lease and rents a new apartment in a tiny complex closer to work. And on the first night, he was there, unboxing everything, he smelled something… something delicious. 

He didn’t pack any food cause he didn’t really have any in the cupboards when he was packing and he hasn’t had time to go to the grocery store yet. So the smell makes his stomach growl, so he follows the smell. Thinking that his neighbour must’ve just got a delivery because it smelled so powerful. 

He knocks on the door, a little nervous but too hungry to care. And a little kid answers the door, probably no older than Jack. “Hi?” 

“Andrew!” A woman yells from inside the house and comes rushing to the door with a dishtowel in her hands. “How many times have I told you not to answer the door?” 

“She’s right,” Spencer agrees with her. “Sorry, I just moved in next door and I wanted to know what that smell is? It smells amazing?” 

“Oh,” the woman softens. “I’m making Carne Asada tacos for dinner…” 

“Oh, oh, I thought maybe you ordered something in 'cause the smell is so strong out here it’s just amazing… and you make it yourself?” 

She nods, a beautiful smile on her face, “I do… actually, we have a lot here, would you like some?” 

“Oh, no, I can’t impose,” he instantly feels bad. 

“I insist! Just wait here, and I’ll put some in a Tupperware and you can bring the dish back when you’re done?” She agrees 

“Okay,” he agrees. 

And that’s how it starts. 

Every few days she brings him over some dinner, he tries a plethora of new dishes and baked goods and it goes on for months. Everyone has noticed the change in him, the tummy he’s gotten from eating home-cooked meals and the smile on his face when he heads out right at 5 to catch the 5:15 train home. 

It’s snowing as he walks from the train station to their apartment building. He can see her kitchen window is open and steam is barrelling out… she’s cooking up a storm today and their building's fire alarm is so sensitive. 

But there’s too much steam, it almost looks like smoke. So he rushes inside, double-timing the steps and almost colliding with her door as he knocks on it. Her son, Andrew, opens it with a smile. “hey— are you okay?” 

“Are you? Is your mom?” He worries. “It looked like there was a fire in the kitchen from the street?” 

He shrugs and lets Spencer in and he rushes right to the kitchen. He knows where it is because the layouts of their apartments are exactly the same. And when he gets there, she’s covered in flower and fanning a tray of cookies where the parchment had caught fire in the oven. “Spencer?” She asks as she sees him. “What are you—

“There was smoke coming from the window as I walked up to the building,” he explains, hand on his chest as he finally catches his breath. “I was scared you had a fire.” 

“Well, I kinda did,” she grits her teeth and panic smiles. “This is the last time I get the cheap parchment paper from the dollar store.” 

“Yeah that doesn’t sound smart…” he agrees, searching the countertops for the packaging. He picks up the box of parchment paper and reads the back. “It’s only good up to 250 degrees, your cookies are at 375 so yes, they’re going to burn… I have some real expensive parchment that came with a gift basket when I moved in, do you want it?” 

“You’d be okay with giving it to me?” She swoons a bit. 

He nods, “Yeah, it’s not like I can bake.” 

“Do you want some cookies? I can make you any that you want?” She offers in return. 

“Whatever you’re making now, I’d love to taste test?” 

“You’ve got a deal.” 

He rushes back to his place, puts his things away and checks his hair in the mirror before grabbing the parchment paper and heads back over. He was told before he left that he didn’t need to knock, so he doesn’t. It feels weird, but he walks right in and hands her the parchment and she hands him a naked gingerbread cookie. 

“Sorry, he’s not decorated yet… You don’t have any allergies, right?” She asks. “I can’t believe I’ve been feeding you for months and never asked that.” 

He laughs, “I’m just slightly lactose intolerant, it’s nothing serious.” 

“Oh, good,” she’s so relieved. 

He takes a bite of the cookie and almost melts, “oh my god?” 

“You like it?” 

“Like it?” He exaggerates. “It’s one of the best cookies I’ve ever had in my life! Holy cow…” 

“thank you,” she swoons again. “You can have some to take home?” 

“Thank you… but why are you making so many?” 

“Drew has a holiday party at school and needs enough for 36 kids,” she explains. “I’m also going to make some specifically for his teacher as her gift for the year.” 

“I loved giving my teachers gifts when I could.” 

“Do you want to help?” She offers, pointing at their kitchen table where there are some deconstructed boxes waiting to be assembled. “You could put those together for me?” 

“I’d love to!” He finishes his cookie and takes a seat, still facing her so he can watch her work around the kitchen. He thinks she’s magnificent, he’d never want to miss a smile or a yawn or a nose scrunch or anything… she’s so pretty. He loves to look at her. 

He has a ph.d in engineering so putting together gift boxes isn’t the hardest thing in the world, it’s making sure they still look pretty when he’s done what he’s worried about. He tapes them into place and concentrates so hard he doesn’t even notice that she’s made another batch of cookies while he’s been nose-deep in cardboard, even with the wonderful smell wafting around. 

“What are you making now?” 

“Chai sugar cookies,” she smiles. “This artist I like posted a recipe and I’ve wanted to try them… so, why not? If I don’t like them I can give them away.” 

“Smart,” he agrees. “They smell amazing though, I’m sure they’ll be delicious too.” 

“They have to cool for a bit,” she shares, taking out a thing of cling film and wrapping it up to go in the fridge. “They’ll be in there for 30 minutes.” 

“Have you guys had dinner yet?” Spencer asks because it’s almost 6 and she’s made nothing but cookies. 

“It was going to be left overnight… but I don’t have that much here,” she teases. “We might just get a pizza.” 

“I’ll get it,” Spencer offers. “You’ve fed me so much, let me repay the favour?” 

“Are you sure?” She worries, “Are you okay for it?” 

He laughs, “Yeah… yeah I’m good.” 

“I just thought you’re in the same little shitty apartments as us…” 

“I work for one of the most important units in the FBI,” he smirks, not wanting to brag but… “Believe me, I’ve got this.” 

“Did I hear pizza?” Drew asks from the doorway. 

“You did,” Spencer teases. “You wanna come with me to pick it up?” 

“Can I?” He begs his mom. 

She nods, “Yeah, just, don’t let him convince you he needs more than just pizza.” 

Spencer can’t make any promises. 

He has to grab his coat and his wallet from his apartment before they go. Drew gets all dressed up for the snow and then the two of them head out down the street. “So, how’s things?” Spencer asks, trying to make conversation. 

“Good… I’m excited for Christmas.” 

“Me too,” he agrees. “What did you ask Santa for?” 

“I don’t believe in Santa anymore,” Drew laughs, “I’m 13.” 

“Oh… okay, then what did you ask your mom for?” 

“Not much, just the renewal for my Playstation game pass and some new headphones,” he explains. “I’ve got everything else I need, really.” 

“That’s really mature of you,” Spencer compliments. “I know kids your age would ask for everything under the sun if they knew their mom would do anything for them.” 

“She does so much for me, and now that we’re alone I don’t want to put too much pressure on her,” he shares. “I miss my dad but, I think she’s happier now that she left him.” 

“Do you see him often?” 

He shakes his head, “he’s in California with his other family… he was cheating on my mom.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he had no idea. They don’t really talk so how would he know? 

“It’s okay,” he shrugs it off. “You ever been married?” 

He shakes his head. “No, I’ve only had like 3 girlfriends in my whole life.” 

“Seriously? I had 3 last year,” Drew teases. 

“Of course you did,” Spencer just shakes his head. “Well, I was so weird growing up, I’m still weird now.” 

“Well, my mom likes you,” he bumps his shoulder against Spencer’s. “So you’re doing something right.” 

“She does?” He can’t believe it. 

“Duh?” He teases. “She makes sure she looks pretty before bringing you dinner every night that you’re home.” 

He blushes, “oh… I thought she just always looked pretty.”

“So you like her too?” Drew lights right up. “You should ask her out!” 

“And you’d be okay with that?” 

He nods enthusiastically, “I can even go eat in my room tonight so the two of you can just talk and hang out? Please, it would be the best Christmas gift I could give her to get her a boyfriend who’s actually nice and likes her.” 

“Yeah… yeah I can be that for her.” 

—

When they come back with two pizza boxes, dips and garlic knots, she just crosses her arms and sighs, “Drew…” 

“What? He offered!” He whines. 

“I did,” Spencer smiles. “It’s no big deal, now you’ll have more leftovers.” 

She just smiles, “Okay, well, come in and get a plate let’s get to eating.” 

Drew does just what he said he would, he finds a way to ditch them and head to his room and then Spencer is alone with the most beautiful woman ever. They talk about random things like living in the city and Christmas plans and how Drew is doing in school… but he just wants to ask her out. He stares at her lips and he wants to kiss her and learn all about her and then she notices. 

“What?” She asks, hiding her mouth. “Is there something—

“No… you’re just beautiful,” he swoons. Giving in completely. 

She smiles and her hand drops, “really?” 

He nods, “Really, really… would you want to go on a date sometime? I’m sure Drew can handle a few hours alone while we hang out and if not, my friend has a kid around his age he can meet?” 

“You have friends with a 13-year-old?” She’s so shocked. 

“Well, he’s 12 but yeah,” he nods. “He’s my godson.” 

“I would love to spend some more alone time with you… wherever you want to take me,” she adds, realizing that sounded a lot dirtier than she planned. “I mean—

“i get you,” Spencer teases, trying not to laugh. “My work has a Christmas party coming up if you want to come with me and share some of your burnt cookies?” 

She laughs this time, “Yeah, when I meet your friends they are getting fresh cookies.” 

“Okay, good,” he smiles. “Maybe we can go out before then too? I’d love to take you out to dinner… though nothing will be as good as what you can make.” 

“Then why don’t I make you my favourite meal and we can eat at your apartment?” She suggests. 

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” he agrees. “I’ll make sure it’s nice and romantic.” 

“The way you look at me is romantic enough,” she teases. 

“From the first time I saw you I knew I wanted more than just your cooking,” he assures. “I think you’re so kind and so pretty, I can’t believe I get to talk to you let alone the privilege of taking you out— even if it’s just across the hall.” 

“I don’t typically share food… but you were too cute to starve,” she teases again. 

“And now look at me!” He points down at his stomach. “I barely fit in my suit pants." 

“You look healthy… and scrumptious, might I add.” 

His brow goes up, “really? Well, thank you for helping me get here.” 

“I knew you’d be more handsome with some meat on your bones… you’re so good-looking it's honestly crazy that you’re into me,” she whispers, not wanting Drew to hear their flirting. “I like you so much, Spencer.” 

“The feeling is mutual.” 

“I’m free tomorrow if you are?” 

“and every day after that,” he assures that this thing between them is real and not just some random infatuation that will die off in a week. 

He wants her for as long as she’ll have him. 

General Taglist 

@ncsls0515 @stevesmunsons @reidsbookclub @sweetyyhippyy @manuosorioh @mrs-dr-reid @k-k0129 @squishyturtle @katsukis1wife @buckleyhans @mrs-ssa-hotch @ssavanessa22

[rin-and-jade]

Guys, did you know that alters still and will form/split from little T's and Micro T's? Well now you do!

Whenever you are living your life, doing your day, with no recurrence of childhood trauma for a good while.. but you still seem to have new peeps? Yet you don't know why?? Fret not as i tell you some, although not an extensive list of reasons such as;

The Lil' T, things that aren't as severe as the Big OG Trauma but still enough to waver you:

Financial issues

Relationship conflicts (hostility, or inconsistent emotional support)

Having debilitating/chronic health issues (be it physical or mental)

Neglect, victim of harrasment/bullying, invalidation and etc (in mild forms, clarification on below)

The Micro T, that are capable to annoy you like a fly, though you still have a limit to these type of T's:

Working a job with high demands, or a stressful environment

Chasing a deadline (and not just this once)

Bad triggers

Involved in arguments often (aha, i know you still think about it)

Now you're asking, "what should i do then, Jade?" and because you need some prompts (tips), here you go:

Relaxation techniques: when you feel like you're going to explode (or something lit up the fuse recently) then its logical to blow the fire out before it can actually explode. Things like having a warm shower, taking care of yourself, or some time off to wind down for a moment will help.

Regulating feelings: antsy? mad? upset? or "dshsdfhgjfds"? Instead of shoving the feelings away, please let yourself feel it, acknowledge that you are currently feeling and understand why it happened, what's the cause, talk it out to someone to feel better but yelling inside or writing in the private server also works.

Outlets: If you feel like writing down isn't enough/helpful, then maybe doing art, crushing some empty cans, or going to your trusty support group will do just fine.

Therapy: got money but not people? Do yourself a favor and try it, you'll learn lots of coping mechanisms, plus you'll have support and someone to talk to so thats a big win.

Mindset: Having an accepting and self-supporting thoughts are way better than devaluing and adding extra blames and faults as it perpetuates the cycle of stress and pressure, so why not go easy on yourself from now on?

I know you might think that its not severe enough, its not bad enough, but from now one you have to think differently, no matter how big or small, it is still stress, and when stress builds up all those things happen. (to top it off with other issues such as bad internal communication and brain fog) And it make sense because the severe ones are enough to form new peeps, same goes for the tiny ones but are consistent, okay?

I personally struggle with this LOTS even if traumas from the past aren't happening again yet i still have subsystems and all, and after a good while of practicing, it now barely happens. Hope this is also helpful for you guys since the previous post about dissociation was a hit!!! Click here to see it

Edit: it came to my attention that i forgot to clarify that yes, harassment, bullying and etc as it’s own severe form and can be classified as the OG Trauma, though there are minor forms especially in bullying where it’s extents from calling names and other stuffs that aren’t as harmful in a physical form.

- j

[playboifenty]

╰┈➤*.⋆🎬 ❝ 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅?

🩷 • 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐢𝐲𝐚𝐳 x 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 headcanons!

SPOTIFY • YOUTUBE MUSIC • TAGLIST • INFO

📃. 〄 . ᗢ . ?

🎧 ⋆ NOW PLAYING: WHAT YOU HEARD ━ SONDER. 🎶

―🌟TAGS ! fluff, angst, toxicity, hurt/comfort ish. 🎞 SUMMARY: ❛ fuck yo mind up, waste time. ❜ high hopes, unrealistic dreams, empty promises, and bottles of expensive ass champagne is the foundation of the relationship between the two. ⋆ ★ w/c: 1.1k . . . . . ☢ content warnings: a lilllll teeny tiny bit (a lot a bit) of toxicity... (its brent idk what you expected), comfort if you squint n bend your morals a bit, suggestive-ish themes, brent is a lil sassy cause why tf not, use of the n word, and ermm..lmk if i missed anything else!! ― 🔖 one , two .

ʚ 𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫 ! 👁️‍🗨️

omg, omg, omg, hiii!!!! this is like..my first fic on tumblr and my first piece of writing in a whileee, but i wanted to write something cause i kinda sorta have nothing on my account 😭. and this fic lowkey has like a toxic relationship in mind for their relationship but its not overly toxic. (i understand the whole media for impressionable audiences thing but just scroll past it if you not fw it, relaxxx.) so this is just a lil sumn for and to get the hang of things, so let me know if you like it!! feedback is definitely appreciated, but not harsh feedback cause im lowkey sensitive 🥲. i also do not condone, romanticize, or encourage toxic, abusive, or unhealthy relationships!! this is purely just a work of fiction. enjoy!

© don't steal my shit gang. kinda proofread, will be edited.

It started off with a few stolen glances and a sudden gift disguised as a piece of chocolate cake arriving at your table… 

“Courtesy of the table across from you.”  

And it’s been history ever since. 

“I know you seen me looking at you, you know how to grab a nigga’s attention fasho.”

“Mhm, you know you playing wit’ fire right?”

“Fire aint nothing forreal if you know how to handle it.” 

He was always finding some way to make you fold and he knew exactly what he was doing too. Stringing you on with quick but sensual kisses, “I gotchu, jus’ be patient.” licking his lips whenever the energy of his heated stares was matched by you, his hands rhythmically rubbing up and down your thighs, his eyes always being locked on you whenever you spoke. . .There was no way in hell you were going to make it out unscathed. 

Quick and flirty banter is definitely a pillar in you guy’s relationship, feeling comfortable enough to go back and forth with each other.

“Don’t miss me too much! i’ll see you soon, baby.”

“Dont miss you too much? I’ll be missing you the whole week, ma.” 

He loved buying you bracelets and necklaces with his or your name engraved on them, cute lil’ bags he be seeing you eyeing whenever you walk through Chanel, giving you personalized free VIP access to his shows, shit...sending drivers to pick you up and bring you to said shows. And he always made sure you ate and did whatever you needed to do.

“You eat? Nah fuck that, you hungry?” 

“...Maybe.”

“...Don’t play with me, y/n.”

Brent is definitely a sweet-heart in the beginning, well...in his own little way. He’s a romantic but not hopeless. He knew how to show you he cared while also not overplaying his part and things would definitely need time to build up into an actual relationship too. You weren’t stupid, you knew that even though you knew him on a deeper level than all the fame and even as far as to say you knew him as Christopher, he’s still gonna Brent Faiyaz at the end of the day. There were still going to be precautions, external problems, internal problems, and then internal problems egged on by the external ones; loving him was going to be anything but easy. But your connection started to change in different ways too, the relationship would start off with lots of excitement and rose-tinted lenses until feelings started growing and shit got serious; you was thinking it was going to give Jackie Brown and a dash of search & rescue baby...but in reality, it's giving what you heard and session 32 😭. (coughs in this nigga has avoidant attachment issues) 

As soon as he realized what you two had going on was developing into something deeper, he started getting distant. Missing calls, ignoring texts, even coming up with half-assed excuses for missed dates and blowing you off. 

“My bad, I had a lot of shit going on.” 

“I was in the studio, you know how it be, y/n.”

 “I got too caught up in London, that shit was crazy.” 

“You think i could call you back though?” 

And soon the arguments came and you two started staying mad at each other for days on end, not even bothering to try and smooth things over like in the beginning of the relationship. It was hard and it gave you a lot of anxiety. You wouldn't say that you felt unsafe perse, but you definitely didn't feel comfortable. “You mean to tell me that you can't answer the fucking phone for three seconds, Chris??” You shouted, frustration built up in your voice and it was obvious that you were fed the fuck up. It didn't help that the man sitting in front of you was quick to roll his eyes and smack his teeth, but what definitely didn't help was his smart-ass mouth. “Ain't nobody tell you to hit my jack and start losing yo shit, y/n. That's the shit that be blowing me.” 

“I don’t hear from you for days and you expect me to not get worried? You’re mad at me for giving a fuck about you??”

“Whatever, man.”

The whole thing would just progressively get worse as you two went back and forth. you saying petty shit while he just dismissed your feelings until he decided that he would just tell you shit you wanted to hear so the situation would be deaded.

 “I’m sorry, y/n...” he’d say soothingly in your ear, massaging your hips in circular motions as you’d lay your head on top of his chest, close to where his heart beats. “You know I be missing you like crazy. you can't stay mad at me for too long, baby.” and he was right. This routine repeated and repeated itself over and over again until he stopped ‘comforting’ you and just seemingly stopped caring altogether. 

“Nah bro, you tweakin’.” 

“Okay, y/n. stop calling my phone then, problem solved.”

“And you swear you don’t see how your point doesn’t make sense?”

“You got it, y/n.”

With time, you two just broke away from each other, but never ended things officially. It went from short brief phone calls to text messages and eventually, those stopped too. A hole was left in your chest and you couldn’t help but feel as if you wasted your time, continuously punishing yourself because you gave out a part of yourself you won't get back ━ but you couldn’t help but miss him. You’d find yourself compensating for his absence, making two plates of everything, migrating to his unspoken side of the bed, never taking the flowers he got you out of the vase you put them in; even though they long withered away. “I can't believe this nigga got me out here wasting food, groceries are expensive...Eggs are almost four fucking dollars! I can't do this shit, I need to get a grip and be fucking forreal.” 

But let's not pretend he didn’t find himself trying to make sense of your absence, too. 

⋆ ⤏ FINAL WORDS ! 📢 honestly this doesn't feel like it's 1k+ words but it is 😭. i'm so tired chile and i start school in 4 hours. i'm actually content with how this came out, fw it!!

PART TWO COMING SOON.

📸 TAGS !

[blxckchxrrybxby]

6 Months In Advance

summary: In the midst of sorting out a scheduling mishap, your daughter wanders away from you and makes her way up to HR.

pairing: Wilhemina Venable x Reader + Reader’s Daughter

warning(s): idek; mentions doctor? Scoliosis?

a/n: dude, I didn't revise this at all. Just brain vomit.

Six months.

That’s how far in advance you had planned for this appointment.

It was written in your planner, saved as a reminder on your phone, and circled in red ink on the calendar hanging in your cubicle. Yet, with barely an hour to spare, you found yourself in the main lobby of Kineros Robotics instead; demanding to speak with the men you worked for. The same men who were responsible for fucking up your work schedule and threatening to fire you on the spot if you didn’t come in.

You frowned, pacing as you checked the time anxiously. They couldn’t possibly fire you for a mistake on their behalf. You were more than 99% positive that you had taken this day off as soon as you were given the job. Hell, you had even mentioned it to them before an offer letter was—well—offered!

“Mommy?” Your daughter whispered, interrupting your thoughts with curiosity twinkling in her eyes. She took in the large building that seemed never-ending.

“Yes, sweet pea?” You replied gently (certain to make sure the stress you emitted wouldn’t be absorbed by your own innocent offspring).

“Where are we?” Her doe eyes were far too busy scanning the environment to pay any attention to you—causing you to let out a chuckle.

“At my job. I just need to talk to some friends really quick then we’ll be on our way.”

She nodded, accepting your words, and stared in astonishment at how different the world inside this building looked to her. It was nothing like the world in your cramped apartment. That world was far too small to compare, but her favorite stuffed animals resided there—so it was home. The building was nothing like the one where you dropped her off at to learn her ABC’s either. It was full of big people and not enough kids. Peering at the environment, her heart sunk at the sudden revelation—this place didn’t even have toys!

Despite how impressive this adult world was, it would never impress her more than recess.  

“Uh…why are you here? And why aren’t you two at the doctor’s?” Your coworker (and only friend) asked after spotting you. Their shoes tapped faintly against the floor as they walked closer; holding their arms out to retrieve the bundled-up 5-year-old perched on your hip.

You looked at them with stress evident on your face, “Jeff and Mutt messed up the timesheet.”

They gasped, now holding the child securely against their own hip, “You’re joking.”

“If I were joking, I wouldn’t be standing right here, now would I?” You scoffed at the reality of your situation as your friend shook their head.

“The nerve of those two. On today of all days!”

You nodded, rubbing at your face. Before being granted the chance to respond, the receptionist informed you that Jeff and Mutt were ready to speak with you.

“Thanks, Marcy.” You replied politely and went to grab your daughter before your friend swatted your hand away. Your eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“You’re stressing enough. Just go talk to them. I’ll keep Willow safe and show her around since she seems so… intrigued.”

You both looked at your daughter, who was still eyeing every little detail of the building and chuckled.

“Fine. I’ll come to find you guys when I’m done.” You quickly leaned in and pressed a kiss to Willow’s cheek before scurrying to go see Jeff and Mutt.

Watching you disappear into the elevator, Willow was carried away from the main lobby. As time passed, she met many unfamiliar faces. Most of which slid peppermints into her small hands when y/f/n wasn’t looking, in the hopes of befriending the tiny human. After seeing most of the people on the first floor, Willow grew curious about what other adventures the building held.

Perhaps the top floors weren’t meant for children. Maybe goblins stomped all around guarding their treasures. Or maybe they were full of queens and kings, and the workers were the peasants! As her imagination grew wilder, Willow found herself itching to explore. Squirming in the uncomfortable office chair, she pouted at y/f/n.

“What’s wrong?” They asked, noticing how much your daughter was fidgeting.

“I have to potty.” Willow whined, coming up with the perfect excuse.

They blinked, “Oh, um. Okay... do you remember where the bathroom is at?”

Willow nodded and slid off the chair.

“When you’re done, come right back. I’ll be here waiting, okay?”

Again, Willow nodded before darting off. After passing the bathroom and sneaking past Marcy, Willow made her way onto the elevator. She grinned, pulling out a peppermint and shoving it into her mouth, before slamming her hand against one of the highest numbers. Willow giggled, enjoying the feeling of the elevator moving. It felt like she was on a rollercoaster, and it made her tummy feel funny. Maybe this place was better than recess!

Hearing a ding, the elevator doors opened, and out stepped Willow; instantly bumping into a pair of long legs. With a small, “oof!” her hands managed to grasp onto some fabric. A hesitant hand pressed against her back to keep her balance. Out of curiosity, Willow glanced to the side to see a cane, then glanced up as a woman dressed in purple stared down in slight shock.

“And who are you?”

Willow blinked, gently letting go of the stranger’s skirt, and adjusting her lavender glasses. Tilting her head, she observed as much of the woman as she could. Since the woman wore purple, Willow figured she must be the queen. Purple was for royalty, after all. However, Willow wasn’t naïve. Not all queens are good, she reminded herself.

“I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

Wilhemina arched an eyebrow, smoothing down her skirt, “Neither should I. Yet here we are.” Huffing to herself, she looked around at her trembling assistant and the empty floor before shaking her head. “Follow me.”

As the queen, and trembling girl of whom Willow assumed to be her servant, began to walk away, Willow remained still; unsure of if she should follow the stranger. Noticing the only footsteps that could be heard were her own, Wilhemina halted and glanced back at the frozen child.

“Are you hard of hearing?”

Willow gnawed at her lip nervously and asked innocently, “…are you taking me to the dungeon?”

“Dun- Excuse me?” Wilhemina asked, more confused than she already was.

“You’re the queen, right?”

Wilhemina’s shock wore off and she chuckled, recognizing how wild the child’s imagination was. “Well, that’s one way to put it. Unfortunately, I don’t get paid enough to own a dungeon…yet. Now, come along before I abandon you in this hallway.” Scurrying after them, Willow grinned happily.

-

Standing in the stranger’s office, Willow looked up at the tall woman as she entered the room. “Do you have candy?”

Venable walked past the child and sat in her chair, “Even if I did, would your parents let you have it this early in the morning?”

Willow shrugged, “I only have one mommy.”

Venable took note of this; Mentally scanning through the employees in her head to guess whom this child could belong to. “Well, would your mother let you?”

Willow paused in thought, “No?”

“Alright then.”

-

As time passed, Wilhemina allowed Willow to get settled until her mother showed up to retrieve her. Alerts were sent out to inform the staff of a misplaced entity with two missing front teeth, now in her possession. Now, all Wilhemina had to do was wait for the culprit to show up at her office door. However, this was taking longer than Venable thought it would and the minor was oddly quiet. Especially considering she didn’t have any objects to keep children tame.

The anxiety of not knowing what the child was doing caused Venable to peer over her purple laptop and observe the little germ sitting on her lovely lavender couch (a fine touch and new addition to her workspace). She wasn’t used to the unpredictability of children. However, to her surprise, the little girl was already staring at her with a crossword book open on her petite lap. Venable furrowed her eyebrows as the curly-haired child adjusted her purple glasses back onto the bridge of her small nose. This little stunt warmed her heart to no end, yet she’d never admit it.

“Can I help you with something?” Venable asked, finally breaking the awkward silence.

The little girl shrugged and continued to stare.

Lowering her glasses, she sighed. “I’m assuming your mother has yet to teach you that staring is rude.”

“I wouldn’t stare if you were not pretty.” Willow stated plainly.

Venable tensed and cleared her throat. “You know nothing about what society sees as pretty.”

Willow frowned, “I don’t know who so-so-“

“Society.”

“-socility-“

“Try again. So-cie-ty.” Venable stated, slowing down her enunciation.

“-socie…um.” Willow tried.

“Take your time.”

“…s-society?”

“Correct.” Venable held back a smile. Willow didn’t. She was proud of her accomplishment. A new word she could tell her friends about.

“I don’t know who…society is, but I think you’re pretty.”

“Well.” Venable began, choosing to keep her insecurities to herself. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“Mommy says you don’t have to always say thank you when people tell you nice things.”

“That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?” Venable questioned, becoming more invested in the conversation than she would like to admit.

“No.” Willow stated bluntly.

“No?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Venable arched an eyebrow, trying to piece together who the child’s mother could be.

“Ms. Benavle?”

Venable internally cringed from the mispronunciation. “Yes, child?”

Willow shifted, turning her body towards the awaiting woman, “What does society mean?”

-

Minutes continued to pass as Venable watched over the child. At first, she assumed the little brat was a prodigy, highlighting words at lightning speed in the crossword book. Then, after watching the page become consumed in purple highlighter, her assumptions were tossed out of the window. The child merely enjoyed coloring.

A slight knock caught her attention, breaking her out of the trance she was in. Perhaps it was the child’s mother.

“Come in,” Wilhemina called out, watching in disappointment as her intern opened the door.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Venable. Um, I just had a f-few more questions about the t-time off requests you wanted me to finish-“

Now standing from her desk and approaching the intern as if she were prey, Venable sneered.

“I understand that you are mediocre at best and the tasks assigned to you may be tedious—however—I can assure you that it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to complete them. Now, as you can see, I am with child.” Her hand barely outstretched to point towards Willow, “Go be stupid somewhere else. Preferably on the first floor.”

As the intern scurried out of the office, Willow grimaced and crossed her arms at the tall lady. Venable glanced in her direction and arched an eyebrow, “What?”

“You shouldn’t say bad words.”

With a scoff, Wilhemina retreated back to her desk, “Last I checked, I didn’t.”

“Yuhuh, you just did.”

As her ungloved fingers rubbed at the throbbing temple, she hoped to rid herself of the headache that resided in her head and on the couch across from her.

“And what word was it, exactly?”

Willow blinked; eyes widening in surprise. “You’re letting me say it? Mommy said I shouldn’t say it.”

This caused Venable to snort in amusement. After catching her reaction, she cleared her throat. How odd. “How else will I know what I’ve said unless you tell me?”

Looking around, in case it was a trap, Willow swiftly ran up to Venable, stood on her tippy toes to reach her ear, and whispered, “…stupid.”

Wilhemina closed her eyes for a moment, trying to comprehend how she managed to end up in a situation such as this.

-

As the clock neared Venable’s first break and the child remained in her ownership, she sighed.

“Tell me something, little one.”

Venable’s sudden conversation caught Willow’s attention, causing her to perk up in curiosity.

“Why exactly are you here?”

Willow shrugged and looked down at her hands, “I don’t know. I was going to see the doctor, but mommy came here.”

Wilhemina hummed to herself, trying to piece together why the child had been roaming the building unattended. “An appointment, you say?” She looked through her emails, feeling a hint of deja vu. Something about this was vaguely familiar.

“Yes. I get a new brace today!” This caused Venable to arch an eyebrow, “Hopefully it’s purple like this one! Want to see?” Venable remained silent as the child began to unzip her bubble coat. As she shimmied it off of her petite shoulders, the back brace came into view, launching Venable into a state of paralyzation. “See? It’s very pretty.”

She knew this felt familiar. This was Willow. As HR, Venable was well aware of the subordinates and their beneficiaries. She was also aware of any time off requests submitted. Within the past year, Kineros had onboarded so many new faces that she ignored or denied at least 70% of the time off requests within the first week. It was either you work or you find another place to pay your bills. However, some of the accruing requests must have slipped through her fingers. Something she rarely ever fell victim to. Especially after reading something as detailed as Willow’s mother’s.

“Hello? Ms. Benavle?”

Wilhemina blinked; hearing Willow capture her attention once more. She quickly searched through her files and found the denied time-off request. The only issue was, she didn’t remember denying it. Clicking on the document, it slowly brought up the pdf, showing that it had been stamped with her credentials; meaning she didn’t formally sign it.

Her intern did.

“Shit!” She groaned.

Willow gasped, “Bad word!”

Ignoring her and standing from the chair, Venable quickly made her way toward the door. “Follow me.”

Willow quickly grabbed her coat and followed along, “Where are we going?”

Walking with intention as her cane collided firmly with the floor, Wilhemina pressed the elevator button, “To find your mother.”

-

As the elevator opened to the ground floor and Venable stood with a cane in one hand and Willow’s hand in the other, they both descended into the lobby. You and your friend scurried around, panicking at the fact that there was a lost five-year-old in the building. “How in the hell did you lose her?!”

“She’s sneaky!” your friend retorted.

“She’s five!” you fumed.

Venable arched an eyebrow and held Willow close, before clearing her throat.

 Your friend gasped, seeing Willow with Venable, as did you.

“Oh God, Willow! Baby, where were you??” You worried, as she ran over to you and gave you a hug. Rubbing her back, you sighed in relief.

“With me.” Venable interrupted, “May I have a word with you, y/n?”

You nodded, picking Willow up in your arms, and walked away with Venable.

“I am beyond sorry for everything that’s happened. I swear, this will never happen again, Ms. Venable.”

“Why not?” Venable inquired.

You paused, unsure of how to continue—so she did. “This, no matter how unusual it was, was entirely my fault.” You remained silent and equally dumbfounded. “I extend an apology to both you and Willow. It seems my stupid-“ Willow glared causing Venable to clear her throat, “My incompetent intern did not know better and denied your request. I remembered it. Not that it matters, as it’s potentially too late. However, I understand how difficult it is to get an appointment for these kinds of things. If you would like… I have a doctor who would be more than ecstatic to treat Willow as soon as possible.”

You remained silent. At a complete loss for words.

“As fond as I am of silence, I believe a conversation must include two willing parties.”

Willow nudged you, helping you come back to your senses as Venable awaited a response. “I… I’d love that. However, I’d prefer it now… Um, they informed me that since I’m refusing to work today, this is grounds for termination.”

“Nonsense,” Venable stated, completely unphased. “I will have a word with those two imbeciles, and you needn’t worry about a thing.”

You nodded with a slight blush adorning your cheeks as Willow squirmed from your arms and made her way over to Venable, hugging her legs, “I’ll miss you Ms. Benavle.”

With a chuckle, Wilhemina caressed the child’s head. “I will miss you as well, Willow.” Sliding a piece of peppermint out of her pocket, she handed it to Willow with the whisper of a smile adorning her lips. “Come back and visit whenever.”

[brassharrier]

Getting My Mercs Started

As always, more pics below the wall of text! Quick little side note, these are the guys I used for writing my coffee basing tutorial. :3

Since we're most likely getting Battletech: Mercenaries shipped this year I decided to get a jump on my main faction. One thing to note is that I'm one SRM carrier short, but I decided to just wait for the Force Pack instead of printing one. I'll proxy until then. My colors for these guys started as a need to figure out how mercs with a cause would paint their hardware. I think they would go with heavily utilitarian colors that can be quickly painted so more time can be dedicated to meaningful hardware upkeep. Maybe a few mismatched panels because it's what they had on hand and paint won't help the armor deflect incoming fire.

I love the 3rd Canopian Fusiliers and wanted to create some sort of company comprised of individuals who still believed in he Magistracy. Originally, its members were from the 3rd who were committed to keeping their group together even though it was forced to disband in 2588. I present the Cackling Harriers. I haven't settled on an emblem yet, but I know it'll have a hyena at the very least.

I still need to sit down and really flesh things out. At the very core of the merc company will be a tight social structure that reflects their tactical heritage putting communications and wit above brute force and material superiority. The Cackling Harriers will also never take a job that would directly or intentionally harm non-combatants. I'm toying with them having agents keeping an ear open for the Magestrix or other officials speaking openly of problematic incursions or enemy build-up outside their territory. I'm still conflicted if the Magistracy of Canopus would just happen to leave unguarded hardware and supplies lying around on a minimally inhabited planet after said issue was resolved. Long story short, I'm working on it.

Bonus Round! Here's a few details I'm super happy with. It's just some triangle and hazard stripes, but it was my first time every doing freehand this tiny. Some of you may recognize the red triangle inspiration right out of the gate. If you do, you're a nerd. I mean, I am too, but so are you.

[turtle-steverogers]

Okay so I've have this idea ever since I watched Endgame and I can't figure out how to make it work pothole wise but I have to share with you.

So you know the part where Tony and Steve go back in time to the 1970s? Ever since I watched that I was like "What if something goes wrong and they accidentally end up in Steve's childhood instead??" I know you like A+ parenting from Joseph Rogers and I can't stop thinking about Steve and Tony's tumbling on top of a scene between little Steve and angry Joe Rogers.

Just imagine, first they're simply standing in front of like, a run-down building and they're both kind of confused of why they're there but then they see this little tiny kid playing with marbles or something next to the street. And Tony is busy processing the fact that they're in the wrong year and that the kid looks like Steve and that he looks so small and thin.

So he doesn't realize that Steve tenses up when they hear a shout from the building. And they look up to see a burly man come out looking mad and maybe a little bit drunk and little Steve scrambled to pick up his marbles but Joe grab him first and is yelling at him with his fingers in a vice grip around his arm.

And Tony looks at Steve and Steve is pale as a sheet and doing that thing where you revert back to how you were in that time because you haven't processed any of the feelings you had then, and Tony figures out what's going on in a horrifying abrupt flash of realization.

(And then maybe Tony steps into confront the dad, despite knowing it's going to influence the timeline. I don't know about that though because it will just cause more problems for little Steve once they leave so maybe he tries and then big Steve is like no don't! And then they have to talk about it.)

Like I said I can't figure out how to write this scene because it doesn't make any sense for both of them to somehow land in the 1920s and also how on Earth are they going to get to the '70s if they run out of Pym particles etc but I don't care because I want to see it so bad.

Oh god, logistics be damned, because i’m just picturing the scene

-

“Ah, shit--”

“What the hell?”

It happens so fast that Steve loses his footing, crashing backwards and nearly bringing both him and Tony down as he’s yanked bodily into an alleyway. He stumbles, straightens, blinking hard against the blood rushing from his head before Tony’s grip on his arm tightens hard enough that Steve winces. 

“We’re in the wrong place,” Tony says.

“What?” Steve is certain he must have heard him wrong. He must have, because the city is loud around them and cars are whirring by in what has to be afternoon traffic, children yelling down the street, some kid hawking papers and kicking up a flock of pigeons as he shouts, “Paper! Getcha paper! Family dies in horrific car accident, went straight offa the Bridge! Two cents!”

And it’s a lie. Steve knows it’s a lie, because he used to lie to sell papers for the entire two years he hawked them back in ‘25, because his dad was blowing all their money on whiskey and gin and they needed to eat. 

“Oh god.” He turns, head on a slow swivel, looking around. 

He knows this alleyway. He knows this street, the buildings, tall and laden with clotheslines, running from fire escape to fire escape like veins bleeding life into the city. 

They’re in the wrong place. They’re in the wrong time. 

He looks at Tony, who looks just as stricken as he looks back. 

“We messed up,” Tony says. “Big time. Except we totally didn’t mess up, because I am positively certain that we put in the right date and time and this isn’t New Jersey, this definitely isn’t New Jersey.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve agrees, and he looks at the street. Dares to look, because he knows if he angles himself just right, he’ll see his old building. The one he lived in with his ma and dad, then just his ma, then eventually Bucky and--

He squeezes his eyes shut. He needs to think. About the mission, about the Pym Particles that were evidently wasted when someone or something sent them to the wrong place and time. Not about the familiar smell of the city street. Dust and motor oil and the faint scent of boiled corn. Not about ghosts that are drifting around him. Not about the fact that if he cranes his neck just so…

“We need to-- I don’t know what we need to do, but we need to do something. Fuck, what year is it even? We’re-- where are we? I don’t even know where we--”

“Brooklyn,” Steve says, opening his eyes. He can’t quite breathe, the reality of the situation settling in. Tugging at his ribcage. He’s going to vomit, he thinks. Maybe. “I don’t know when, but we’re in Brooklyn. Sometime around my time.”

“Okay, so this is definitely targeted, because that is way too specific to be a random mistaken coincidence,” Tony rambles, tapping frantically on his Time-Space GPS. 

It’s no use. Steve knows it’s no use, because they’re out of Pym Particles. Collectively. And there’s no way of letting the others know about their predicament. 

They’re stuck. They’re well and truly stuck. 

Steve should feel more panicked, he knows that, but he’s stuck, incapable of moving. Of feeling anything other than abject horror as he finally gives into the urge to shift his gaze, lean slightly to the side, and look around toward his old building.

Kneeling on the front steps is a little boy, knobbly knees folded on the ground as he leans over, rolling some marbles around on the ground with great focus. His blond hair is dirty, falling in front of his eyes, which he reaches up to push out of the way, and Steve recognizes his clothes-- the brown, wool shorts he liked to wear and a ratty gray button up pulled out of the waistband. He’s barefoot, because it’s warm out, and it never mattered if he was wearing shoes or not when it was warm out. In fact, it made his leg braces easier to wear, which are fastened around his legs at an uncomfortable angle.

“1924,” he says.

Tony stops his rambling, and Steve realizes he's been talking to him. 

“What?”

“It’s 1924.”

Tony frowns, looking at him. “How do you know?” He follows Steve’s gaze, then freezes next to him. “Oh my god, that’s not-- is that--”

“Yeah,” Steve says, feeling like he might pass out as he watches his little self shift around, tugging at the straps of his leg braces, trying to stop them from digging into his calves so hard. His fingers flex at his side, and he can almost still feel the dull ache in his knees. “That’s me. Fuck. Oh my god.”

And he remembers this. Remembers the way the marbles felt in his hand, remembers being sad because Bucky had been out of town with his family that week, so he had no one to play with. Remembers what’s about to happen next--

“Fuck, there you are, boy!” 

Steve can just make out the words over the throng of the city, knows people are looking, but it’s not out of the ordinary for the time, so no one is stopping. No one in the city ever stops. Not for business that isn’t theirs. 

“Oh my god,” Tony says next to him, and Steve’s eyes are glued on the scene as a man comes barreling out of the building, burly and tall and looming, going straight for the little boy on the steps. The stuff of Steve’s nightmares, all wild eyed and sweaty. He’d been real mean that week. Work had laid him off when he failed to show up for the millionth time, too drunk to know up from down, and Steve and his marbles had paid the price. “Is that-- who’s that?”

Steve swallows, tastes biles, makes his throat work.

“My dad.”

There’s a pause. They’re both still watching as his dad yanks on his little self’s arm. The marbles slip out of his grip. He starts crying as a few tumble down the drain, and he tries to yank himself away, tries to go after them, but he’s too little. 

“I thought he died in the war.”

Steve sways. He doesn’t know how he’s still standing. All the blood has rushed away from his head, pooling in his stomach, making it churn. He hasn’t thought about his dad in years. Hasn’t let himself.

“Yeah,” he says. “He might as well have.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

His dad is dragging him up the steps, slapping him hard across the face when he starts to wail.

“That fucker,” Tony spits next to him, taking a few steps forward, and he sounds angrier than Steve has heard in a while. It startles him, and he reaches out, grabs Tony’s bicep.

“Tony, wait-- what are you--”

“Shit, I can’t just let him--”

They tussle for a moment as Steve manages to drag Tony back. He can’t let him go out there, can’t let him mess up the timeline.

“You’re gonna fuck this up worse for us if you go out there,” Steve says, backing them both further into the alleyway. 

He doesn’t need to look to know he’s gone deadweight, crying on his way up the steps, his dad wrestling with him to stand up, quit crying, quit being a goddamn sissy.

Tony’s expression is stricken, eyes wide and tight and Steve kicks himself, remembering that Howard had not been kind either. At least from what he’s gathered. He has never considered him and Tony to be much the same in any sense, but maybe they share more pain than he thought. 

“Besides, if you go out there and try to help, he’s only going to-- he’s gonna--” Steve stops talking, mouth too dry. 

He remembers the time George Barnes had tried to intervene after Bucky had told him that Steve’s dad hit him sometimes. The beating he’d gotten that night for messing with his dad’s reputation had been debilitating. He’d had to miss school for two days, and Bucky had cried when he saw him next, apologizing for getting him hurt.

Steve had hugged him, and they’d been okay. But no one had ever tried to intervene again.

Tony studies his face, and Steve can’t look him in the eye. Abruptly, he lets go of Tony’s arm, lungs compressing. He never wanted anyone to know, and it feels like his entire soul is on display, all old pains and exposed skin. Hand-shaped bruises and cigarette burns on the ghost of himself.

He’s told himself it’s fine. War had been worse, watching his home get ravaged by aliens had been worse. But he’s learning that there is no worse. No quantifying pain. Not when it raised him.

“Okay,” Tony says, his tone quiet. Understanding. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Steve shifts, looks down at the ground. 

“It’s fine,” he says, then clears his throat. He needs to focus. They need to focus. “We need to figure out how to get the fuck out of here.”

Tony shakes himself, even though he still looks deeply disturbed. 

“Right,” he says, looking down at the Time-Space GPS. “Okay, right, okay.”

Steve turns, casting one last glance to the stoop of the rundown building. It’s empty now, and he closes his eyes, letting the tears well. He’s scared, he realizes. As scared as he was in that moment, confused why his dad hates him and sad that he lost his marbles. He wants to cry for that little boy. He wants to pull him into a hug and tell him that he’s not dirty or bad. That the pain will wane, then wax again. 

That he will survive, and keep going, just like he always does. 

-

They find the glitch in the system, the diversion sent from some future version of evil to throw them off the scent of the Pym Particles. It’s easy enough to maneuver their way through Camp Lehigh and get more, once they make it there, then the world ends again and Steve watches his friends nearly die and his shield breaks.

It’s hell. Concentrated, fast moving hell.

And then the world is still again.

He’s tired, he thinks as he sits on Tony’s dock. The rest of the team are inside, celebrating another win. Celebrating him passing a new shield off to Sam-- one Tony had graciously crafted him once they made it back home. 

He’d slipped away some time after toasts were being made, waving Bucky away when he tried to follow. He needs to be alone, just for a bit. He needs to breathe, to watch the water ripple beneath his feet and listen to dragonflies buzz over the water.

It isn’t often that he’s taken the time to slow down. To breathe, and appreciate the world as it is, whole and teeming with life. He thinks maybe now that he’s retired, he ought to do that more.

Maybe he’ll take up hiking. Or something. Maybe Bucky will join him, always being one for adventure himself. Rolling up his jeans to wade out into the waters of Coney Island, just so he can feel the sand between his toes, Becca on his back, kicking the water and splashing Steve, who’d been following close behind. 

“Spangles, I thought I’d find you out here, looking all morose and contemplative.”

Steve looks over to see Tony approaching him, limping, his arm still in a sling. It had been a near catastrophic feat, using his own gauntlet to snap Thanos out of existence, but he’d done it and made it out alive.

“Yup, that’s me, morose and contemplative Steve.” He shifts over, letting Tony sit. 

It feels final in a way. Like they’re finally past whatever barrier kept them at odds for so many years. It seems that this time, the world ending had finally cemented their trust in each other. 

“Saw you slip away from the party,” Tony says. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just needed some quiet,” Steve says. They’re sitting close enough that Steve can hear Tony’s heartbeat with his enhanced hearing. It’s a comfort. “How’s your arm?”

“Oh, you know, a little achy, a little crisp. I still haven’t been able to truly wash it, aside from sponge baths, so it’s definitely a little ripe, too, but it’s getting there.”

Steve snorts, long since used to Tony’s chronic oversharing.

“Well, I’m glad it doesn’t hurt too bad?”

“Not too bad, no,” Tony says. It’s quiet for a moment, and they watch a gray heron land on a log. Steve takes a mental picture of it to draw later. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Was your dad like that a lot?”

Steve sighs. He’s been wondering when this would come up. They didn’t talk about it after the fact-- there hadn’t been any time-- but the space between them has felt thick with the unsaid, even with everything going on.

“Yeah.”

“Shit.” He hears the shake in Tony’s voice, and looks at him. “How old were you when we were there?”

“Six,” Steve says. “It was three days before my birthday.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. “Did anyone know?”

“Bucky did, but no one else. He died when I was nine, and I told everyone after that that he’d died in the war. It messed him up good.” 

“Damn,” Tony says. “Look, I know we’ve had our moments. Like, really tough moments, but I care about you, yeah? I give a damn, even if I’m still learning the correct ways to show that.” He shakes his head, licks his lips. Steve watches him, holding his breath. “Just… I’m here for you, okay? I know what it’s like having a shitty dad, and mine never-- never hurt me like that, but he messed me up plenty good in other ways. So if you ever, I don’t know, want to talk about it, or just need someone who you don’t have to explain yourself to, I’m here.”

It’s the most vulnerable they’ve voluntarily been around each other, and Steve reaches out, placing his hand over Tony’s on the pier. The one that isn’t injured. His skin is warm. They’re both here, broken parts of a whole. With an exhale, Steve feels like they’ve finished a chapter, ready to start a new one, on the same page.

“Thank you, Tony. I’m here, too.”

[angelmichelangelo]

I WANNA TALK BUT I DONT WANNA SPOIL FOR ANYONE !!! THIS IS UR WARNING SONIC SPOILERS LOOK AWAY ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️ ok literally one of the biggest takeaways from this movie that has been on my brain since seeing it is the dynamic between shadow and maria. i LOVE the time and scenes they dedicated to building that foundation for shadows storyline, and the montage of shadow and maria living on the ark actually killed me. like HES A BABY!!! which btw is evident when the general yells out that's THEY are just kids before open fire starts.... ugh i get so maternal over movie sonic & shadow specifically like those are my sons!!! leave them alone!!! OH and when maria teaches him how to dance omfg i got so emotional like he's so little and looks at maria so dearly it was genuinely the dynamic we deserved to see on screen I ADORE IT. i need to go see it again cause i still haven't fully absorbed it but like that was definitely my favourite part of the entire thing

i’m gonna tag this as spoilers also! more spoilers under the cut as well just in case so just mind yourself friends, i don’t wanna ruin the experience for anyone !! :)

OMG I KNOWWW :(( it’s so so telling when filmmakers have an actual passion for what they’re creating because it shines through so much.. like they know exactly what we wanted and gave it to us without it feeling like pure fan service, like it was really well balanced between the two.

i was worried that it was going to feel rushed in places because trying to establish a deep backstory in just 2 hours is hard but how it was done was just really good. those flashbacks just had my heart so darn much :( </3

the scene also where sonic and shadow just. talk. such a beautiful and really impactful moment. like THIS!! this is what we wanted.

but holy shit yes i sat up when they established that shadow was just a kid when the ark stuff was going down like such a blink and you miss it moment but :(( he was a baby!!!! A BABY!!!! im so unwell. he was a kid and he was just as scared :( and he lost everything..

the bit with tom:( OH i was so convinced he was toast 💀 even before shadow kill-punched him i was looking like…. is tom… gonna survive this one chat?? lmao

i would only say my REALLY TEENY TINY LITTLE BABY SIZED criticism was that i could have done with more knuckles and tails. maybe because they’re my favourites but even then it’s not like they weren’t in it a bunch. i just love when they’re The Most Brothers ever which we did get but im just greedy i guess lmao (maybe i would love a tails spin off series/movie…. @ paramount 👀)

it was just so much fun start to finish!! i so wanna see it again! im just SO excited for the next one!!

[magalidragon]

I’m not proud! I want “hey” with a raspy voice. 😂

Sorry this took longer than I thought but naturally I got really into the actual plot when it should just be a Drabble, lol.

I hope you like it! It's set in a random universe not in any other current fic AUs.

“Hey.”

It’s said in a raspy voice, a simple word. “Hey.” Yet it causes her toes to curl, the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end, and her palms to sweat. 

She swallows, glancing up over the top of her glasses. “Hey,” she replies, fumbling a little with the books and study guides, as he takes a seat across from her. He’s still in scrubs, his dark curls pulled back, and he’s tired, but manages a smile as he takes out his books. She shoves a packet of papers at him. “These are for you, I made you a copy.”

“Thanks.” The rasp is still there. He sometimes sounds like he smokes ten packs of cigarettes a day, but she knows it's just from fatigue and maybe the vape he sneaks when he thinks no one is looking. Then sheepishly admits to and says "I know I'm a doctor, but it's a bad habit."

She feels like a teenager around him, not a serious resident, preparing to take her boards. The sooner they were over, the sooner she could get back to focusing on her patients and <i>not</i> her study partner or the overwhelming threat of not getting board certified in her specialty of choice. Things like <i>crushes</i> were for children.

Also apparently her.

He looks up when the barista calls his name and gets back to his feet, rather wearily, trudging over to the bar, where he smiles politely. The barista looks like she's about to faint. He's absolutely clueless.

She's never met a man so oblivious to the effect he had on anyone around him, men, women, children, nothing. He just seems to go through life like a raspy-voiced, super sexy, slightly rumpled and incredibly kind saint. She has to wonder what lies beneath his perfect exterior. No one could be that perfect. There has to be a dark side. She's always wondered.

Her best friend insists he must have a secret family or he's a criminal on the run.  Maybe he's gay, Missy had suggested, but then Dany remembers how a patient dumped a water cup on her shirt and his gaze had lingered just a second longer when she'd walked off to deal with the soaking white t-shirt she'd been wearing.  Not gay, just extremely clueless.

They are the oldest in their residency class so they bonded a little over that. Fire and ice, their boss Olenna Tyrell had said on the first day. The tiny silver-haired pixie and the hard-as-steel dark-haired wolf. They've been working together for almost five years now; she in pediatric emergency medicine and he, in trauma medicine. They ended up bonding when he moved down to spend more time in the emergency room. Now, it's been months of prepping for the test that arrives in less than a week. 

They'd be traveling together, she thinks, biting hard on the end of her pen, which is already chewed up. Saving money on that. The boards are taking place at a hotel in White Harbor.  It's a five hour drive from Winterfell, Queen Alysanne's Memorial Hospital, where he's lived his entire life and she moved up from Dragonstone for her residency. 

She thinks it may kill her. 

Tension has been building for…well the first couple years she was lucky to have someone who just wasn’t out to stab her and betray her, residency was brutal like that. Then he became a friend and she feared ruining their friendship. 

Now?

Now the crush consumes her, and each time he says “hey” with that raspy Northern accent she wants to jump his bones and give him mouth-to-mouth.  Also to see if his arse is really as shapely as it appears even in scrubs, which should be criminal. No one should look good in scrubs.  Yet he does.  It’s so unfair.

He sits back down with his coffee, a massive cup that she knows is filled to the brim with steaming black tar, which is how he prefers it. He takes a long chug; coming off shift, no wonder he’s in need of the boost. “Alright,” he says, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.  He exhales hard. He flips to the part of their study materials they’d left off at and tugs his flashcards towards him. “Quiz me.”

<i>Fuck me</i>.

Her mind is horrific. She closes her eyes hard. “I can’t concentrate,” she mutters.

“It’s almost over Dany,” he says kindly, clueless to her angst. He pats her hand, his fingers lingering over her slightly upturned wrist, where she has three tiny dragons tattooed. “We’ll be real, official doctors once we pass these things.”

They sort of are “real official doctors” with medical degrees and white coats, but once they pass the boards, that’s when they get their license in their chosen field. It’s when they official end residency and become real life long coat doctors. Except she can’t <i>think.</i> She removes her hand from his and slams her books closed, taking a deep breath, her cheeks flaming, her brain fighting against this highly unnatural urge she has to just <i>say it</i>. 

“Jon, I have something to tell you.”

He looks up, concerned, his dark brows furrowing. “Are you alright? Are you sick?”

“I just…I can’t concentrate on the boards on…on anything because…” She closes her eyes hard, and stutters out, fast and nervous: “Because I like you and it’s kind of killing me and I really just want to kiss you and I think once I kiss you, it will all go away and we can go back to being friends, forget everything, and then take these boards, and…and go back to normal.”

Normal, being whatever the seven hells it was between them once kissing was out of the way. 

Once the <i>crush</i> went away.

He blinked at her, his lips parting slightly. She watched his gray irises widen around his pupils, before the pupil began to dilate.  <i>Attraction</i>, her doctor brain began to tell her, going through the body’s biological response to sexual stimuli. Or maybe he was having a stroke. 

Maybe she was having a stroke.

“A kiss?” he echoed. He waved his finger between them, swallowing hard. “You think…if we kiss…you can…you can end a crush you have on me and…and…then things…can go back to…normal?”

He’s piecing out the words, trying to fit it all together. She nods quickly. “Yes,” she blurts. 

“Oh.”

They’re silent, and then he ducks his head.  <i>Oh gods</i>. She’s truly ruined this.  “Or,” she says, hurrying, and gathering her things, embarrassed, her face flaming hot, her palms sweating, and heart sinking. “We pretend that nothing ever happened and I go home and I jump off my roof and…”

Suddenly his hands are around her cheeks, scratchy palms on her soft skin, and his lips are over hers, and then she’s falling into him, and grabbing the front of his scrub shirt, before her fingers dive to his curls, pulling at them lightly. He’s gentle and mindful they’re in the middle of a bloody coffee shop, but she feels his tongue lightly brushing over her lower lip and she opens slightly to allow him to tease at hers, before they’re both pulling back, staring wide-eyed at each other. 

And bloody hell. 

The crush has now exploded into full on fucking love, she’s sure of it. 

“Jon,” she breathes, holding onto his wrists.  

He smiles, shy, and mumbles, “I’ve wanted to do that since the first day of residency, Dany.”

Now it’s her turn to be dumbfounded.  “Oh.”

He nods and separates completely, hands dropping to their books. She does the same.  

“Wanna’ get out of here?” they both blurt out at the same time.  

“Yes,” they both reply. 

Several hours later, as she stirs in his arms, waking from a lovely nap after finally discovering what truly lay under those scrubs– absolute perfection, of course– she hears a slight rasp in her ear.

“Hey.”

And she’s smiling, nuzzling closer, whispering, contentedly: “Hey.”

[sweetearthandnorthernsky]

44 for dealers choice?

44. Torture/Interrogation. part 1 of morinel's fun times in dol guldur that started as an au but i have no idea where its going now. It goes with/is very adjacent to this one, though it takes place before it. Warnings for uh, torture, obviously, although it isn't too graphic (I think). And also 'Sauron Gorothul Being an Asshole' (no this is not the one the poll was made about)

You wake in the dark. 

Your head screams at you, and you reach to steady yourself as you sit up from the hard, packed dirt beneath you. 

Your hand brushes rough stone –

The malice rolling off the bricks burn and you wince, pulling back. You cannot see your hand very well in the darkness that feels like a heavy blanket, but by the way your hand throbs, there must be a lingering mark. 

The cell is tiny.

Your clothes, slightly ripped and slightly singed, brush the walls. The motion causes faint heat-blisters on your shoulders and ankles every time you breathe.

You have to sit very, very carefully in the center to keep yourself from touching more of the cursed stone – and they are cursed, and you recognize the foul residue of he that cursed it far to well – than necessary, though by the very design it is impossible to completely avoid touching the walls.

You were foolish. 

You were incredibly foolish, stumbling headfirst into what you knew would lead to such a folly if you made the slightest mistake, which you did.

Your rune-stones are gone, your sword is gone, even the small blade you keep hidden in your gauntlet is gone. 

Your boots are gone too, though you cannot fathom why.

There is no door to your cell, just another long line of brick. There is a faint light that falls through a tiny, tiny opening dozens of feet above you.

It reminds you of being trapped in a well, though your cell is not circular.

You don't know how much time passes. The light that peaks through the ceiling remains the same at all hours. You do not sleep.

Sorcerers flood the cell, one of the walls swings open. The engineering of the door almost impresses you.

Almost.

Your eyesight swims in the fumes that the open door lets in, and you cannot count them very well, but you would guess that there are maybe eight.

You try to speak, only to find that you cannot.

They yank you to your feet with that same burning touch, and you wince. They bind your eyes, bind your hands and even bind your ankles.

The jagged gravel is rough beneath your feet, and you stumble more than once.

You feel strangely powerless without your runes, and your hands twitch at your side as you walk.

The sorcerers don't like this.

They reward you with a burning hand on your shoulder and you bite your cheek to keep from crying out.

You marvel at your captors and their strength that they can wound you with just a touch. They are sorcerers, and yes, that makes them powerful, but you are a child of the Eldar, and a grandchild to the Spirit of Fire himself. 

You cannot fathom where they get their power.

(A lie -- you do not want to fathom where they get their power. Deep down you already know.)

You are shoved through a doorway and a wall of heat washes over you. Your fingers twitch as a voice speaks a language that is both familiar and not. Your blindfold is ripped from your eyes and you stumble, trying to orient yourself.

When you take in the sight before you, there is nothing for you to do but laugh. It echoes strangely in the space, bouncing off the bare metal walls and the workstations before fading into silence. 

The irony is not lost on you. 

“How original,” you manage, looking at Gorothul. “A forge? A little… heavy handed on the symbolism, do you not think?” 

You continue, because you have never known when to stop.

“Tell me, Sorcerer, when was the last time your master touched a forge? Do you think he still remembers how? Why else would he elect to build a forge here of all places? Tell me, what has he made? It would surely be a shame if he did not remember how.”

Gorothul crosses his arms as a scowl flickers across his face but it disappears as quickly as the storms on the Helevorn would. “We are not here to play games,” he says succinctly. He takes a step closer to you. 

“We are here to discuss what you know of this assault, and surely, you must know much.”

Your hands are still bound, and you aren’t sure what the sorcerers did to the rope that binds your wrists, but it seems to bite deeper into your skin the longer it stays on. 

“What makes you say that?” You ask, trying to stall. You don’t know how much information Gorothul already has, and you are loath to give him more.

His face turns into a mask of steel as he scowls. 

“I thought–” He raises his hand, and the ropes around your wrists burn and you stumble back involuntarily. “–I said no games.”

“I was asking a question,” you say, blowing a loose strand of hair out of your face, breathing heavily. “What makes you think I am privy to the details you wish to hear?”

He takes a step forward, menacingly, the sorcerers that surround you fall back. He is taller than you, which is strange for a mortal man.  “Because, daughter of Caranthir,” he hisses, “One cousin of yours leads this foolish assault, and the other orchestrated it.”

You laugh again, though even to your ears it borders the edge of manic – the mention of your father’s name has given you an idea. 

He raises a hand and you feel like you’ve been slapped with an iron bar. Warmth trickles down your cheek, and you are certain you hear a tooth crack. This only encourages your laughter. 

“What makes you think they trust me?” You manage once your laughter has calmed some. That is not, entirely, true. But, for the sake of this moment, you are more than happy to play along. 

“They are my half-cousins.” You emphasize the ‘half’ so well that you are certain your grandfather must be proud, though you never met him. “They are of the line of Fingolfin and Finarfin. Elven memories are long, and old wounds leave scars. They would never trust me with the information you want until the breaking of the world, if then.”

Gorothul is not pleased with the answer, and the ropes burn hotter. 

“I see you insist on doing this the hard way.”

His eyes flash dangerously.

“Very well.”

He barks an order to the sorcerers and you are unbound, though you have no time to do anything before you are rebound to a wooden structure that looks almost like a bellows, save that there is no actual bellow inside the frame.

The world around you goes flickering in and out of focus, like you are adjusting a lens to examine a gem – startlingly close, then distant, and almost abstract. 

The bite of the wood against the skin of your wrists. The crackle of fire in your ears.  The throbbing of your cheek where Gorothul had struck you using his sorcery. The crack of leather against stone.

It will do you no good to be present for this.

You breathe and focus outward, into the distance.

Your mind is far away as the blows begin to fall.

You are in the courtyard of Caras Gelebren, in the days of its youth, before that charlatan ever appeared. You sit on the edge of a fountain, embroidery in your lap as the wind tugs your hair.

You draw breath as steadily as you can, focusing on the texture of the fabric beneath your fingers, and the steadiness of each stitch and the soothing choice of choosing each color -- blue, red, yellow, green, soft blue, purple -- and not the sting.

The Sorcerers move deliberately slow, leaving time between strikes for the quick stinging pain to be swallowed by the slow, agonizingly burning one, leaving time to wonder if they were done, time to hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there would be no following blow.

There is some cruel art twisted into the whip, because every strike feels like fire and darkness and you try to keep sewing, but the stitches blink out.

As the pain grows, you throw yourself further back.

Gone is the noontide of Caras Gelebren, and the fire on the air is the burning plains of the Bragollach, as you and your mother -- and recently father -- join your two youngest uncles at Amon Ereb.

The sky outside is dark, and you are scared most of the time but in your father's study, where it is warm and cozy and almost like home, you feel safe.

You are sprawled out on a rug in front of his desk, and your fingers tremble as you turn the page of your book. Upon the crown of Túna the city of the Elves was built, the white walls and terraces of Tirion; and the highest of the towers of that city was the Tower of Ingwë, Mindon Eldaliéva, whose silver lamp shone far out into the mists of the sea. In Tirion upon Túna the Vanyar and the Noldor dwelt long in fellowship.

You swallow the taste of ash as the strikes are drawn apart, though each time they connect, they are harder.

But the Noldor were beloved of Aulë, and he and his people came often among them. Great became their knowledge and their skill; yet even greater was their thirst for more knowledge, and in many things they soon surpassed their teachers.

The strikes slow.

You are on the banks of the Helevorn, the lake breeze ruffling your hair as you sit, your knees drawn to your chest. You are very young again, and the plains around you have not burned and the waters have not been defiled.

The pain grows louder now.

Your father's two middle brothers are visiting Thargelion, and they bring wonderful stories with them, and to your great delight, the older of the two had no qualms carrying you around on his shoulders for hours on end, or bringing you across the plains and teaching you to shoot or even hunt small game.

(Though, your mother is the one to have qualms about that at your age, since you barely came to your uncle's hip).

The pain burns across your shoulders.

A small mechanical bird is pressed into your hand. Your other uncle tells you to press the very small button on the top of its head, and to your delight, it whistles a short tune. You instantly adore the thing, and throw your arms around your uncle who casts your parents a smile and your parents exchange glances, though you didn't know why at the time.

The pain becomes a blaring noise that makes it harder and harder to think of anything else. You cannot control your breathing, you hear it, you feel it catching in your throat, uneven gasps and gulps--

Memory flares and skips, now coming in flashes like thunder over the distant hills.

“Hold the hammer like this," your cousin says, adjusting your grip. The heat of the forge startles you, making you lose your form, and you are barely up to his shoulder -- a visit before the Bragollach.

The haunted look on your father's face after the battle where you lost everything as you wander with your family among the woodlands.

“Look at how well this turned out!" Your cousin's voice is proud, as he hands you the small, slightly misshapen star you had chosen to make for your father for his begetting day. He assures you that for a first project, it was very good, and you could only get better.

Tumbling down a hill of grass as barking echoes in your ears as laughter bubbles up in your throat.

The frigid cold of the day that your uncle gave you back the necklace you made for your father since your father no longer could.

Your father, bent over a gash in your arm, carefully cleaning the rocky debris from the wound -- you'd taken a nasty fall off your gelding. When the gash is clean, he begins stitching the raw edges with careful tiny knots. He speaks to you, and his voice is soothing and gentle as you grip your mother's hand so tightly, your knuckles go white.

Ash falls from the sky as Beleriand sinks beneath your feet.

Gorothul -- you recognize the voice -- is counting the blows. You do not know the language, but the number sequence is unmistakable.

You cannot cast yourself out again, you are in too much pain but you decide the numbers will do as well as anything else and start counting.

X+1. X+2. X+3. X+4. X+5.

You let yourself be carried by the sequence, like a current of a river drifting you out to sea as the numbers turn into a graph in your mind.

X+15. X+20. X+25

The lines waver.

X+55.

The points bleed.

X+70--

You can no longer see your father's face.

[crmsnmth]

This Is A Safe Place

I thought I'd found a spot to belong a place where even the outcast has a place But I couldn't have been more wrong there was just as much judgment on everyone's face And I leave with my head down It's hard to see the light when you keep staring at the ground

And yet I'd still keep on trying to try. to fit in with the farthest cast away Living on edges, waiting for the next scene to die and the next one coming to stay. That little building you rented went against all of your views I'm started to wonder why I'm here and if this worth my youth..

That circle A isn't just empty words. You actually need to follow up on your promises. You can't talk revolution without verbs. It's all about how much merch you can fit in the boxes. And I'm falling fast to the ground. Call me when your spine is found.

I'm seeing this whole scene is overrated Nothing we do is going to ever have an effect Call me a fake, a poser, jaded And you want me gone before the virus can infect I have no problem leaving hypocrites I'm done giving my life to this

I'm through reading pamphlets with common graphics and watching so-called songwriters play guitar There has be something here that I can make stick I'm always so close, but never get the cigar Look, I can do this forever and a day So maybe you should just walk away

I would've died for names that we shout and at least I stood for something when you just stood there I can see what you think this is about You're just hear for the party where you pretend to care and somehow it's ended up working for you Cause we do nothing now, claiming there's nothing to do

The whole country is on fire with anger and rage But we're not part of this, so you claim Another day, another word, another page They die for us, but we won't do the same I didn't think there was room for this in anarchy and maybe the problem isn't the and it's me

But I watch this royal court of anarchy Claiming peace and acceptance, a so-called safe place I thought we could bond over our common enemy But I'm learning this a cool kids club under a different name I just wanted to be part of something bigger then myself But I'm not damned yet, and I can wait to live in hell

Anarchy is not about you're pretend record label or the tiny building you've deemed your head Anarchy is not about your goddamned pot luck table or how many big words that you've said Anarchy is the freedom to live like you care Anarchy is the freedom and making things fair Anarchy is the freedom to be one with who you are Anarchy is the freedom in being your own star

I never stopped believing in anarchy I stopped believing in anarchists.

[burnwater13]

Grogu

Sometimes people were straight forward. They said exactly what they meant and you could trust their words. Then there were the times that people said things that seemed straight forward but you’d find out, typically at the worst possible moment, that they weren’t really saying what they meant. It was aggravating. Annoying even. Grogu wondered if Gor Koresh had felt that way. 

After all his dad had actually said, “I promise you will not die by my hand.” A Mandalorian’s promise was as good as beskar. Or was it? 

Grogu was pretty sure that this promise really meant something like, ‘I promise I won’t do anything to you because these critters over here have that covered and I’m not going to stop them or interfere in any way because you got yourself into this mess, now you can try to get yourself out of this mess.’ Or words to that effect. 

Grogu didn’t actually blame his dad for that at all. Gor Koresh had tried to have the Mandalorian killed so he could steal his beskar armor and presumably get a lot of credits for it. It certainly wasn’t going to fit the shorter person. And Mandalorian armor wasn’t easy to modify. You had to bring it to a Mandalorian armorer and good luck finding one of them. 

Grogu supposed that maybe the Mandalorian was trying to teach the greedy mob boss a lesson of some sort. The only lesson he was taking from the words and events that transpired was don’t cross a Mandalorian. They’d be happy to give you the same chance at success that you thought you were giving them. 

Now that was the real rub to it all. Din Djarin was an honorable person. But it wasn’t that sort of honor that caused him to take risks that made no sense. He wasn’t going to go off and do something silly like face down a whole bunch of battle droids just because he made a promise. But he was going to hold you to your own standards. In many ways that was worse. Especially if you were a mob boss or a certain Imp Warlord. If you wanted to play stupid games with him you could be assured that you were very likely to win stupid prizes. 

Grogu could understand why Mandalorians in general might behave like that. They were warriors at heart, but they still liked peace and quiet when they could get it. If they just fought non-stop they’d never have time to polish their armor or eat their rations in tiny little bites. So they followed the standards of the people who fought them. For the most part. 

Grogu wondered if that’s why the Jedi had such a problem with the Mandalorians over the years. If someone grabbed you using the Force and prevented you from firing your weapon at all, how could you let their weaknesses stop their success? Unless you tired them out and then what? He was sure that the Creed had something to say about hurting enemies who weren’t actually a threat to you. 

So it just became a vicious cycle. Fight until your opponent is exhausted. Then they do the same thing to you and it goes back and forth until what? Someone gets lucky? That was probably true. 

Of course that was all predicated on the Mandalorians wearing their beskar and the Jedi having their lightsabers. If those things changed it would get awful pretty quickly. It had been awful as far as Grogu knew. The Mandalorians had a civil war and then the Imps decided to ratchet it up and destroy the planet and well, now, the few Mandalorians who were left wondering the galaxy had to put up with people like Gor Koresh. Uff. 

Grogu wondered what kind of Mandalorian he would end up being. He saw the advantage of having the beskar armor, but that would just mark him as a target to everyone who was greedy and knew the value of the beskar. Or he could follow the path of the Jedi and get robes and build a light saber and find himself fighting people because that’s what Jedi did when words didn’t work. 

Grogu was pretty sure that words were not going to be his best bet because he really didn’t like Gal Basic and he didn’t know any Huttese or Jawaese, or even Jawa Trade Talk. Maybe he could just use the Force to calm everyone the heck down? That had worked, more or less with the mud horn. 

At least he had sometime before he had to work any of that out. They were headed to Tatooine and Grogu liked visiting that planet. The people he met were mostly friendly and at least he’d get something good to eat. No matter who your enemies were you needed to keep your priorities in order. He was sure the Mandalorian had told him that. Grogu promises.

[aurora-carries-the-sky]

CONNECTIONS WITH OTHERS.

19. How do they behave within a group? What role(s) do they take? Does this differ if they know and trust the group, versus finding themselves in a group of strangers? Why?

Boring answer: she takes whatever role is needed. If the group has a competent leader, she doesn't feel any need to disrupt that. She'll slot in as support. If the group does need someone to make decisions, she'll do that too.

I think this is mostly the same whether she knows the group or not.

20. What kind of individual relationships do they have with others, and how do they behave in them? How are they different between intimate relationships like friends, family, and lovers versus more impersonal relationships?

She's more willing to be weak and vulnerable with close relationships. To people age hardly knows, she'd prefer to seem competent and strong. Even if she makes mistakes in front of them (and she does!) she would prefer it come across more as a lesson: I screwed up, but I got things back on track again. So it's fine.

To people she's close to she's far more willing to admit she feels extremely uncertain and she's not sure she should have all this power when she also has all this uncertainty. She feels like it'd just be so easy to mess everything up and that someone more confident and clever really ought to have her exaltation.

21. What kind of relationships do they tend to intentionally seek out versus actually cultivate? What kind of social contact do they prefer, and why?

Oh man. I don't know…

She wants to meet like minded people who want to do big things to change the world in big ways. She wants to seek out fun, larger than life personalities who live their lives to the fullest.

The world isn't full of those and that's a good thing. How obnoxious would that be! She cultivates all kinds of relationships. She's inspired by people who can do the things she can't and maybe gets a little starstruck by them.

Um. She loves hanging out with people, running around doing things, and exploring the world. She also feels at peace just sitting next to a fire with people and quietly staring out into nature.

She finds sitting around in government buildings or places with very strict social rules stifling and extremely uncomfortable.

22. How do people respond to them, and why might these responses differ?

Ha! I imagine some people are charmed by her easy laughter, grand gestures, and warm sincerity. And I imagine some people find her to be a big, obnoxious oaf. There's probably truth in both perspectives.

23. How do they respond to difficult social moments? What makes them consider a social situation difficult?

Uh. It depends on the social moment?

In difficult moments that she can't fix:

She's most likely to get visibly frustrated. Clenched jaw. Clenched fists. Heavy sighs. Low, clearly displeased voice. She doesn't love not being able to control or fix things. If she feels powerless in a moment she feels pissed off- like an angry wolverine trapped in a tiny cage.

If the difficult moment is something affecting someone else, their grief or their anger, she's extremely compassionate. It does not make her uncomfortable to be around someone else's pain. She will try to be what they need in the moment: If they want to be cheered up, she'll try to whisk them away to do something fun. If they just want to sit with their sorrow, she'll quietly sit with them so they don't have to be alone.

24. How do they present themselves socially? What distinguishes their “persona” from their “true self”, and what causes that difference?

She presents herself as open, genuine, fun, and willing to go and try anything. She also presents herself as fairly self-assured. Suuure, maybe she doesn't have a plan, but things will work out so there's no need for anyone to worry.

Her true self is always worried!

The difference is that she can't convince people to help her make things better if they notice she's freaking out. She reminds herself that she's carrying a part of Sky with her and when her own confidence wavers she draws on his memory to fortify it again. At least while other people are watching.

25. What do they need and want out of relationships, and how do they go about getting it?

The downside of answering every question is that some of them are so similar to others that I run out of things to say…

I don't think she has a clue what she needs or wants out of relationships.

But judging on past relationships, she needs someone who will let her be broken and weak in some moments but then will encourage her to be strong in others. She needs someone who sees what she projects on the outside and what she's going through inside and insists that it's stupid to pretend one of those is realer than the other. They're both real. They're both her. And that doesn't negate that she's a badass.

She doesn't go about getting it! I don't think it even occurs to her to try that. She meets people everywhere she goes and, I think, makes friends rather quickly. But she doesn't usually hang around for long. She's always on the move.

26. How do they view and feel about relationships, and how might this manifest in how they handle them, if it does?

She, uh, thinks relationships are great? Friendships are great. Families are great. Lovers are great.

She doesn't think about falling in love or settling down in any way. I think if presented with the option: "Hey, I really like you. What if you stay here and we try to make something work?" she'd very quickly and awkwardly be like, "Oh, uh, ha! Uh. No… no thanks. But, um! Thanks for asking? Yeah. Well. Ahem. Ok. Bye then!"

She has too much she wants to accomplish and too many places she wants to go to really spend any time thinking of a future with someone else.

But one night stands? Flings with familiar faces when she returns to locations she visited in the past? Yes, absolutely. Of course. As long as everyone involved knows that's what it is, why not? It's fun. And people deserve fun, godsdammit.

[zeromeiro]

Spottera 1

The world was fast asleep. It was very, very early in the morning, way before sunrise. The clock on the wall of the isolated mountain laboratory clicked over to 4:15 AM. It was January 1959, and outside, the Himalayas were covered in a blanket of snow. However, inside, things were beginning to take a troubling turn.

Most of the people there - scientists, doctors, researchers and the like - were cozily tucked in their beds, lost in peaceful dreams. Only the blinking lights, a few guards, and the humming machines of the monitoring system were awake to witness what was happening.

Perhaps someone had quietly slipped in and stirred up some trouble, or maybe it was just an unfortunate accident. For whatever reason, a small fire broke out in a storage room. It quickly chewed through cables and wires, releasing foul fumes as it mingled with various chemicals stored there. The smoke crawled through the vents, slithering into a small, cold room.

Inside, a young boy lay sleeping on a thin mat, all by himself. He was a wild child, having never experienced anything beyond the confines of that room. He didn’t have a name - just a number. His white hair was all tangled, and the thin, loose gray gown he wore hardly kept him warm in the humid coldness of his cell. The smoke stirred him awake and he sat up straight, his tiny, bony body tense with alarm. He coughed and sputtered, blinking through the stinging haze. He had never smelled smoke before, but he knew, somehow, it meant danger. As he glanced toward the door, he saw a flicker of light and heard an unfamiliar sound—a loud, angry alarm ringing through the air.

Startled, the boy sprang up from his sleeping mat. ‘What’s that? Smells weird. Loud!’ The cold, damp concrete floor felt rough against his bare feet. There was nothing in the room except for the boy - no furniture, no decorations, not even a window - just a heavy metal door with a small, barred slot near the top. And that door? It was always locked.

He hesitantly approached the door. He stretched his thin, pale arm up towards the slot, but it was just out of reach. Pressing his face against the cool metal, he strained to hear what was happening outside. Voices were raised in a blur of shouting, accompanied by the sounds of footsteps pounding and objects clanging. Something was very wrong. He couldn't understand the words, but the sounds filled him with unease. ‘Danger.’

The smoke thickened, its acrid scent making his stomach churn with dread. He had to escape! Memories surged back to when people outside would sometimes toss him live rats and other small creatures to eat. They always fought to escape this room, their little bodies biting and scratching, but their efforts were in vain. They couldn't leave the cell, and he always had his fill. The rats couldn't get away. ‘But I'm not a rat.’

With renewed determination, he backed away from the door, then charged at it with every ounce of strength he could muster, shoulder aimed at the hinges. The door rattled and shook.  Loud bangs, like thunder, echoed through the building. He hit the door again and again. Finally, with a loud screech of metal, the door burst open. ‘I did it!’ 

The hallway was a swirling mess of smoke and flames.  Metal was glowing red, and people were screaming.  He stumbled upon a man sprawled on the ground, his body contorted in an unnatural way. ‘No time,’ The boy stepped over the body, ignoring the gurgling gasps it was making. ‘Keep going.’

He lunged forward, heat searing his skin, a blast of hot air shot pain through his arm, causing him to recoil. He ducked under a fallen beam, sparks flying onto him. Coughing through the smoke that stung his eyes, he stumbled over a lifeless body but quickly regained his balance.

‘Gotta…keep…moving…’

The floor was slick, a grotesque mix of familiar dampness and viscera, and he navigated through the chaos, his bare feet gliding unsteadily on the wet surface. The world around him blurred; he could hardly see where he was heading, reaching out to feel his way along the wall, his hands enduring the burns and blisters as he clawed his way through the nightmare closing in around him.

Then he saw it – a window, broken and jagged, with cold, fresh air blowing through it.

‘Out!’

He scrambled towards the window, his heart pounding. He climbed over the broken glass and tumbled out onto the snow.

For the first time in his life, the boy was outside. It was cold and white, and the air was crisp and clean. He took a deep breath, feeling the cold air fill his lungs. His eyes, red and burning from the smoke, gazed up at the morning sky, his mouth gaping in awe. His body relaxed as the icy snow melted underneath him. It was beautiful.

He looked back at the burning building, its orange glow illuminating the darkness of the early morning.

‘Can’t stay here.’

He turned and started walking away from the place that was the only home he ever knew. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he couldn't stay there. Not if he was going to be free. Not if he was going to survive. The night air was cold and sharp, and his bare feet crunched through the snow. Behind him, the building exploded and collapsed, sending up a massive plume of ash and debris. The boy stumbled, but kept moving. The cold, the pain, the fatigue - none of it registered in his mind.

All that mattered was staying alive. The boy grabbed a shard of glass from the shattered window and continued forward.

[thatguywiththefaceog]

Horntober 2024-Prostitution

Avatar- Aang/Katara/Toph

Aang and his bending master find a rather interesting prostitute

Had to go full AU to make the premise work; but I had fun with it

Warning the following story contains minors in sexual situations. If this makes you uncomfortable or are under 18 please do not read. This story is rated E for explicit and is for adults only. This story is a complete work of fiction.

NSFW under the cut

Toph Befong hated her life. She hated her parents and how at best they treated her as a helpless blind girl. At worst they ignored her. So she left. At the tender age of 13, there weren't too many job opportunities for a girl that young. At least legally. So she did the only thing she could… that’s right she became a bounty hunter!

Her lessons from the badger moles made her an earthbending master. So catching up losers and handing them over to the client was easy. One day she took a job from a Fire Nation admiral named Zhao. Some banished prince had something that he wanted. She snuck up on them while they were in a port of a fire nation colony. Her feet saw the whole ship. Her whole body tensed at what she ‘saw’. Deep in the ship sat an iceberg which contained a young boy about Toph's age, maybe a little younger, holding a staff and a freaking air bison. She remembered her old stuffy lessons from her old life. The air nomads. Thought to have been all killed to stop the Avatar cycle. How long had this boy been in there? A century. This boy wasn't just the Last Airbender, he was the Avatar. The weight of importance hit Toph like a runaway boulder. She gave him to Admiral Zhao. No, this…this was destiny shit.

Leaping onto the deck, she summoned several rocks from the ocean floor. Each one about the size of her fists. Hiding them into her shirt, she made her way down to the iceberg. With all of her might she smashed the rocks into the ice. Again and again, the rocks leaving larger cracks each time they hit. Soon to the blind girl's surprise, she felt the boy's eyes open. And though the girl could see them, they glowed. Toph felt…something crack the iceberg like an egg. The boy fell out and Toph ran to catch him.

“Hey ah, kid. You alright?”

The monk opened his eyes. “You wanna go penguin sledding with me?”

It was difficult to explain what was happening to Aang, that was what he said his name was. Toph was right, he was the avatar and he was frozen for a hundred years. After escaping the ship Aang insisted on visiting the southern air temple, which did not go well. But it did charge Aang to master the elements and defeat the Fire Nation.

The two had found themselves on the streets of Omashu. The two were walking in the lower end of the city. Dark and old buildings lined the streets, each filled with thieves and whores.

“Look, we'll get supplies here and then take Appa to the north pole so I can find a water bending master.”

“You just want to jump to water bending cause you suck at earth bending.” Twinkle Toes here could barely move a freaking rock.

“Toph look”, the monk said. “The order is water, earth, fire, and air. I mastered air, so now I need to master water. Simple as that.”

“Yeah, and you get to skip the hard stuff.”

“Hey kid, wanna be a man?” On one of the street corners was a young woman. Water tribe if Aang had to guess. Dark skin, with brown skin done in a braid and some loops. Her eyes were the prettiest shade of blue Aang had ever seen. She seemed older than Aang and Toph, but not by much. Even if she didn't position Aang, her rope showing off her cleavage and legs would have marked her as a prostitute.

Toph slapped Aang on his back. “Hell yeah he does!”

“Toph!” Aang blushed. And being bald, his blushes showed a lot. Toph had already fucked twinkle toes before. It was fun taking his tiny twelve-year-old cock in her hand and pumping him until he came all over her hand. It's been a thrill stripping naked and letting Aang take her while the ride Appa. Toph could feel Aang's heartbeat (and erection). Let's see what Twinkle Toes does with her.

“How much for with the both of us?”

“At the same time? …About 15 percent more.”

Toph took her hand. “Deal.”

Aang gulped. “Well lead the way ah…”

“Katara,” The girl said. “I got a place. Follow me.”

The three made their way through the city. They came to a shabby looking inn. Katara ushered them into the place. She led them to a surprisingly nice room.

Toph gasped. “Bed!” She jumped on to the large bed in the center of the room. If it's one thing she misses from her old life, it's a nice bed.

“So how are we doing this?” Katara asked her clients.

Toph started stripping. “Just get naked. I'll lead. You too Twinkle Toes.

The water tribe girl shrugged and disrobed. Her body was very different from Toph's Aang couldn't help but notice.Her breasts were of modest size yet still perky, not flat like Toph who might be confused for a boy at a quick glance. As a contrast to Toph and Aang's pink, her nipples were brown. And dark curly hair covered her private parts while neither Aang or Toph had grown anything down there yet.

Katara sat between the blind girl and the tattooed boy. Toph brought her in for a kiss. Aang's cocked throbbed as he watched the two make out. Katara grabbed his hand and guided it to her breasts. They were soft but firm. He kissed her, her mouth opening up, inviting his tongue. Katara leaned back against Toph and Aang slipped between her legs and slip his cock into her sex. Katara moaned as the twelve-year-old rutted into her. While he fucked her, Toph played with her breasts. To her surprise she came first, her vaginial walls squeezing his cock. He came hard, flooding her young womb with his even younger seed. Katara was half surprised that he was already producing semen. The boy slumped down.

“My turn,” the blind girl told her. She ordered Katara on her back; then Toph eagerly placed her ass on the water tribe girl's face. Katara had done with song and dance before and started licking her naked folds. Toph's dirty feet wiggled as Katara’s tongue worked her pussy. Aang had grown hard again and was jacking off to the sight. Toph came, gleefully spaying her juices in the whore's face.

Katara stood up and waved her hands. Toph's cum flew off her face. Both Aang and Toph stood up. “You’re a waterbender!” Aang shouted.

She bended the water in a basin next to the bed and bent it onto a ball and threw it at Aang. He jumped using his air bending to give him some extra feet. Quickly moving his arms he blasted her with a gust of wind. When the girl got up she was smiling.

“You’re the avatar! I knew it! I've seen those tattoos in books before!” She circled his naked body. “How are you still young?”

“I was frozen in an iceberg.”

“Wow,” She quietly said.

“This is Toph. She freed me and been teaching me earthbending. But I still need a waterbending master. So we’re on our way to the north pole.”

Katara politely looked at her former customer. “You know which way to go?”

“Yeah.” The nude girl spat. “North.”

“I could help. My grangran had this old map. The best way to the Northern Water Tribe. I could take you there.”

“Why?” Toph didn't trust this hooker.

“I'm a waterbender, but I'm not very good. I need a master. Plus I want to help stop the Fire Nation, anyway I can.”

“Katara, we'll be honored to have you join us. Right Toph?”

She shrugged. “Eh.”

[the-haunted-walkman]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Ichoriel

𝔸𝕝𝕓𝕦𝕞 - My Oc ! Definitely not from Minecraft

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↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

"I am waking up now",Ichoriel told himself, his wide smile on his face. Big eyes blinking in the half lit room like a kid opening his eyes on his birthday to a surprise he'd already overheard the secret of. Like the feeling of delight in a good surprise, one already known.

His boney hands pressed into the easily giving mattress under him, the blanket he slept on top of shuffling against his coarse wings' skin and the thin layer of ash that covered everything; it sifted to the side with the movements.

He was awake now, or, that's what he told himself.

Because Proper People wake up, because Proper People had been asleep. And Ichoriel was nothing if not a Proper People type of person, the thought making his thin boney tail swish a little with happiness, the star shaped barbs on the end cutting through the air.

Ichorial stretched, his gangly limbs above his head and arching back a bit in a curve, always messy ivory hair sticking out everywhere like a sleepy angels halo and brushing his soft cold skin. His bones popped satisfyingly, like a gentle pinch under his slightly gray and purple skin. His spine deep in him resounded like a dozen tiny church bells echoing through the empty ceiling that was his hollow chest, his ribs clacking together a bit where they rested over his tunic like birds waking up in the rafters and taking off in a cacophony, and his wings and tail straight out like weathervanes and lighting poles. Ichoriel gave a laugh that didn't sound like clicks or chattering at all, Proper People laughed like hearty wind instruments rapidly played. Ichorial was a Proper People type of person, not an old church building, and so the thought made him laugh, just like the wood wind laughs he knew.

Ichorial smiled as he stood up on long legs covered in a tan tunic he had found.

Because Proper People stand up, Proper People stand and walk and sit and run, Proper People dream of floating and flying cause they cannot, and as a Proper People type person, neither can Ichoriel.

"I am going outside!" Ichorial said happily, voice chipper and not at all chirpy. Bugs chirp, Proper People do not. Snagging his long almost cloak-like scarf off its fire darkened hook by the door that creaked under its own, fragile and charred straining, Ichoriel's tail swished a bit out of the way so that the sharp almost barb like hooks at the boney end don't hook on the fabric like a fishing lure and tear it. The tattered holes at the end of Ichoriel's cloak tell of what happens in those situations.

It is a foggy evening, the dampness sticking to the air like a sweet sap on bread. Ichorial purrs- HUMS at the thought, remembering the sweet sticky treat he'd have on a good morning way back when.

The memory is foggy tho, like curling smoke, all the ones from before everything smelled like burnt wood and charred fibers are that way.

Ichorial still smiled, that was a good smell, tho. That smelled like home!

Ichorial walked down his steps, as proper people do, and started his 'morning' stroll through town. It is quiet, save for the friendly greeting chirps of bugs, the great rumbling croaks of the frogs and toads, and the cautious shifting of an animal testing the perimeters of the forestry town. Ichorials' steps treaded a little , , ,lighter, maybe just above the ground, so as to not scare off the wildlife. It had been awhile since they ventured into these parts, at least the larger creatures, that is, the fuzzy skittish ones and the big rude behemoths. They smelt very well, Ichorial thought, and for some reason, they did not like the smell of Home the same way Ichoriel did.

A shame really.

Home was so nice! Always calm and peaceful, lively and excited when Ichorial wanted it to be. Ichorial's home was really whatever he wanted it to be.

Change came easily when you were the only factor, Ichoriel thought to himself with an easy smile as he strode on the oaths between the stunted jutting poles that had long ago stopped smoking or holding up anything.

The ash on the ground had shifted and changed, Ichorial liked to think that the shifting of the wind is why he never could track his footsteps. Because proper people leave footprints, proper people walk on the ground. So of course the occasional weak forest breeze, that would disturb the familiar scent of ash with its earthy wetness, changing Ichoriel little world without his permission, would sift over his footprints and cover them back up before dying down to the regular charred scent. Ichoriel nodded once to himself, assuredly with an easy smile, bright eyes taking in the sight of a yellow frog atop the charred storage chest in a nearby house's shell, smiling at his guest.

Ichorial took his 'walk' through the town at a leisurely pace, slowly winding through the small charred rib cages of old houses. Sometimes he'd guess at what an old blackened lump of wood used to do, or what a melted glob of metal had kept closed. He distantly recognized the same thing he always did, they all had been made mostly of wood.

Wood likes to be bright, to shine and be bright in the way that goirges itself ferociously and loudly and hungrily, eating up everything in its path. Wood really liked that kind of light. What a silly thing to make a home from, Ichorial thought, to make it out of something so hungry to be eaten. Ichoriels' home was not like that, it was cold and hard stone. Maybe a bit burnt along the outside, but Ichoriel thought that it would be hard not to be. It had been in the center after all, an important building if the tall tower was anything to judge by, tho Ichoriel had nothing to compare it to. It was the only one standing after all. Stone was reliable like that.

It was his favorite house in his entire Home, Ichorial's house was. Not to say he hadn't tried the others, he definitely has, Ichoriel was a very fair person. Not all Proper People are, but all ought to, Ichoriel thought with a decided nod, and so he tried all of the houses before he settled on which one would be his home inside of his Home.

Ichoriel had come to the conclusion he just liked stone things better in most cases. The stone home was his favorite, and the stone paths, the stone well and the stone support beams.

Stone stayed the same, not as starved to eat and be eaten by brightness, like wood. No, stone may reflect brightness occasionally, but it had its fill of Brightness' hunger.

Ichorial could relate to that. Brightness and Ichoriel did not get along, the tender spots on his wings, his back and his arms reminded him of that old grudge. Ichoriel thought that the brightness was too hungry, and it got greedy when it came to what it could feast and gorge its burning center with, what it could feed on, often taking what was not its. A bandit of sorts.

Ichoriel hadn't met a bandit in his Home, but he had a pretty good idea of them, and what they did. In fact, he knew quite a lot about bandits and what they did, details and tricks and necessary capabilities.

Ichoriel told himself he must just be very clever to notice these things. Ichoriel was not like the brightness, he was no bandit, and he did not take what was not his. Not very difficult though, as everything in Home was his. In fact he'd be more hard pressed to find someone else to take things from!

Not that Ichoriel planned to leave. No, Ichoriel was content to stay here, amongst the charred exposed ribs of Home that always smelt like what was left of the Brightness' hunger. Ichoriel thinks his home is like him, in a lot of ways. His exposed ribs click as he walks a bit, a familiar soundtrack to his movements.

Proper People make sounds as they move, don't they? Ichoriel wonders absentmindedly, his tail flickering back and forth behind him.

Nevermind that tho, Ichoriel was coming to the edge of his little town, and this is where his trail ended. Two stoney structures stood on either side of the opening, like kids guarding a clubhouse. Ichoriel smiled and strode up to either, waving in a friendly way at the two stone structures.

"It is a good morning, Hedge and Wedge! The rain walks with me, all foggy on the ground as it is !" Ichoriel greets the two stone guardians cheerily, big eyes bright like stars. Neither answer, though that was to be expected, Ichoriel smiled anyway. Ichoriel flitted up, as best he could on his boney half webbed wings, to sit lightly on top of Hedges head, crossing his twiggy legs and his tail curling up into his lap. It swished there, never staying still.

Hedge and Wedge are made of stone, Ichoriel thinks as he sits quietly, tail unfurling after a moment to swish behind him, reaching to the ground below. It is good they are made of stone, Hedge and Wedge that is, Ichoriel also bemused, because Ichoriel likes having friends, even if they are quiet, and stone stays. And since Ichoriel's friends are stone, they will stay as Ichoriel's silent cold friends.

Ichoriel's tail catches on something on the ground as it swishes. Ichoriel blinks, and does not let out a curious chirp as he curls it up to check what was stuck in its star shaped barbs. The star shaped barbs caught things rather easily.

What had caught on his tail was bright and it was red. Red on his sharp barbed tail that he held in his fist, familiar. Like a dagger.

And it made Ichoriel freeze cold and still. Like his favorite stones.

It was sharp, and red, like a dagger in his hand.

Sharp and red in his hands. Sharp and red. Sharp and red. Sharp and red. Sharp and red, sharp and red and sharp and red and sharp-

It was a poppy flower. The perky happy flowers that surrounded the base of either of the paths' silent stone guardians in a delicate carpet of color and forgotten please for remembrance. Ichorial plucked it off of his tail, and let it flutter to the ground, torn up and lying among its still growing kin. Ichoriel's tail hung behind him like a strip of cloth torn and dangling from a dress. It did not move. It was clean and not red and not in his hand. Proper People keep themselves tidy.

They do not have red on their hands or anything in their hands. So Ichoriel will not have red on his hands, Ichoriel is a Proper People type of, , ,person after all.

Ichoriel carefully climbs off the head of his stone friend Hedge. It's a difficult descent due to the sharp and square stones edges but Ichoriel manages, Proper People have to climb after all, they can't just flit up and down off of things. Proper People don't have wings after all.

Ichoriel doesn't look as he steps through the red red flowers. Instead he looks up. The canopy of trees around him has a hole in it, charred and long dead branches around its perimeter like a gothic picture frame one could buy at a Hollow-Day Fest celebration in the fall.

The stars shine above Ichoriel making him smile.

Ichoriel liked stars.

They were like the Brightness, but they did not burn. At least, not in that hungry consuming way that the Brightness did. No, stars were like stones. They hardly would change where they hung in the air, where cold and did not hunger with that harsh appetite of the Brightness, they shine cold and unmoving, only fading when the Brightness returned cruelly. Ichoriel liked stars.

Ichoriel thinks that he used to like the Brightness. Before everything smelt like Home and before he was here. Ichoriel used to burn like the Brightness did, hungry and fast and chasing whatever would fuel him, hissing popping raucous and bright, setting other things alight with little Brightness' too, to serve a purpose in satisfying his hunger or to let others burn like him.

Ichoriel thinks he got too greedy though. Greedy as is the nature of that Brightness. He got too close to something he wanted, too close to the Brightness, and it taught him a truth colder and more still and silent than Ichoriel could hardly believe it capable of. The Brightness' voracious consumption is only fun when you are the one consuming. Being consumed that is something else, something cold and silent and dark and everything that is NOT the Brightness.

Ichoriel likes the stars and the stones and the smell of Home. Home smelt like what happens when The Brightness leaves, and the stones are cold and unmoving, and the stars shine to keep away the Not Brightness and yet are not The Brightness.

Ichoriel likes Home, and he doesn't wish to change it.

No matter what the embers in his chest say in its flickering way of speach.