#I don't know how satin works but this was for me mostly so who cares

[eobardthawneallen]

Did you know that the Cat King offered Edwin a 3rd option in the lat. Spanish dub? it was to win a card game against him, however it was equally impossible/joking

(dub voice of the Cat king was no one less than the guy who dubs Yugi and Atem in ygo)

[ID: Drawing of the Cat King from The dead boy detectives series wearing a duel disk ready to duel, his other hand is extended forward in a challenging way. there is also a chibi Edwin blushed in a reaction square with a "?" in a speech bubble.

clothes are for the cat king an open light green robe whose ends defy gravity, the borders have a satin looking green, same color as the pants, a furry brown chal, the border of the underwear can be seen and reads "Loverboy".

Edwin is wearing a white dress shirt, brown bow tie and brown lounge jacket

background is an obscure green with a neon red crown framed with two cyan neon circles. the crown is right above the King's head.

END ID]

[antianakin]

Do you think you’d like Mandos if they were more like Vikings? I think I heard from somewhere that’s what they were based off of. If they were anything like the TV show Vikings I would be behind them 100%. Imagine if they made Boba more like Ragnar instead of the Feloni version.

I can't quite tell if you're asking me if I'd like Mandalorians if they were written to be more like actual real life vikings or if they were writing more like the way the characters are written in the fictional TV show Vikings, but my answer is going to be similar either way. I don't know enough about either regular viking culture or the way the show Vikings chose to depict them to really be able to answer either way.

The thing I think you're remembering is that I believe it's been said that Lucas chose to bring in Mandalorians as a concept into TCW but changed them up to be more like "pacifist Vikings" (which is why they look the way they do in TCW) because he found that an intriguing concept despite how little it had to do with the way Mandalorians had been depicted in Legends up until then. And that concept mostly seems to come across as like "a group of people who were known for being very violent and doing a lot of pillaging and raiding and fighting in their past but it got to the point where they were so violent that they nearly destroyed themselves and their new leader has enforced a pacifist lifestyle in an effort to keep them from going completely extinct." I don't know that it necessarily took a lot from actual viking culture or traditions beyond that.

The reason I dislike the Mandos is more about the way they're written and the way fans tend to interpret them (especially in relation to the Jedi) than anything else. There's also the issue of like... the contradictions between Legends Mandos, Lucas's Mandos, and Disney/Favroni canon Mandos. People have tried REALLY REALLY HARD to fit in Legends Mando stuff with Lucas's canon Mandos, which leads to this idea that while Lucas shows Mandos as like... very black and white with Death Watch being the more traditional violent version and Satine being the modern pacifist version, there is actually some sort-of in-between that can exist. This is where you get the "True Mandalorians" and characters like Jaster and Jango and even newer characters like Din and, to some degree, Bo-Katan. There's this idea that you can be a violent person who works in something like bounty hunting and still be a good honorable person. Din is someone who does not CARE who he kills so long as he gets paid to do it when we first meet him (his whole catchphrase is "I can bring you in warm or I can bring you in cold" which tells his marks that he doesn't care if he has to kill them to get the job done), he's even initially fine with child trafficking being a part of his job description and BARELY ends up turning around to rescue Grogu after he's already been paid. And while I understand that this can make for some interesting character work and that a lot of people really enjoy the more morally ambiguous nature of this kind of character, these flaws and nastier choices often get brushed under the rug by their fans to try to portray them as better people than they are.

And of course, this often also ends up leading people to represent these characters, these "True Mandos" as the epitome of what a person should be. That these are people who truly understand honor and love and family, often as a direct contrast to the Jedi specifically. Even though these are people who hunt and kill others FOR A LIVING and are still choosing their leaders based on who can fight well enough to acquire one specific weapon. This is still a culture based primarily around violence, towards each other and towards the rest of the world. This doesn't mean these characters cant' be INTERESTING or ENJOYABLE, but too many people sit there and act like Mandos, especially "True" Mandos, are some sort-of mystical better than everyone else beings instead of the IMMENSELY flawed people that they are who would honestly be much better off if they were more like the Jedi.

This is one of the reasons I initially liked Sabine so much in Rebels, because we see how she has to learn a LOT of Jedi lessons about patience and mercy and sacrifice from Kanan that she's able to then apply to her Mandalorian heritage so that she can recognize which parts of their traditions are worth holding on to (the armor that's been passed down for generations and holds a lot of spiritual meaning regarding connections to their ancestors) and which are not (killing your enemies instead of showing mercy, being forced to be a leader just because she happens to be wielding this one specific weapon even though she's not ready or interested in the position). Notice that the things worth keeping about her culture are the things that are specifically NOT VIOLENT IN NATURE.

I think people also regularly overestimate how important and competent Mandos even are, True, New, or otherwise. We ROUTINELY see Mandos get their asses handed to them, by Jedi, by the Empire, by Rebels. There seems to be this pervasive idea that Mandos could change the course of the galaxy, that Mandos are the BEST fighters in the galaxy and if only they were around to help, they would be able to beat everyone else, and it just. Isn't true. They're good at BEING VIOLENT, sure, but this doesn't actually equate to being a better fighter than anyone else. They're so good at being violent that they keep just... exterminating their own people out of sheer stupidity to the point that they're not a real threat to ANYBODY. They destroy their own planet to the point that it's practically uninhabitable, they refuse to have a civil discussion with a group that is clearly outgunning them and then act surprised when this ends up with all of them fucking dead, they make themselves neutral in a galactic civil war and then act surprised when that means trade dries up, they lead two Sith lords and FOUR crime organizations onto their planet and then act surprised when they end up ousted out of their own leadership and instead accidentally end up with a Sith lord as a leader because he beheaded the Mando guy. Mandos IN GENERAL are just reckless, irresponsible, arrogant assholes, no matter which flavor they come in. They can't even help THEMSELVES let alone the rest of the galaxy.

And to some degree, I think that's part of the point of the Mandos in Lucas's canon, that they're just... total flops most of the time. They're an intentional foil to the Jedi in that they are a culture that RELIES on violence as a cornerstone of their behavior and worldview and never see peace as an option whereas the Jedi relies on peace always being an option and violence is just a last resort as a recognition that many other people don't share their desire for peace. The whole point of Mandos in Lucas's canon and even in Rebels to some degree is that their way of life is BAD and not one that SHOULD be preserved the way that it is. If the Mandos don't figure out how to change, they ARE going to just die out, not because anyone sees them as a threat and wants them eliminated, but because their own arrogance and stupidity is just inevitably going to cause their own end. The Mandos are a CAUTIONARY TALE more than anything else.

I'm going to go out on a limb and say that that isn't true about the vikings in the Vikings show. You're clearly rooting for them, so I have to assume that you don't view these characters and the culture they're representing as a cautionary tale about what NOT to do or be like. And that's fine, that show is clearly doing something very different with its story and the themes and messages it's sending than Lucas was doing with Star Wars. And I think shows like The Mandalorian are trying to do something similar by making their sort-of violently morally ambiguous character and his culture something you root for rather than a cautionary tale. Which... fine, in the vacuum of the story we had within the first two seasons of the show, that worked out okay. But as it's expanded outward into the greater Star Wars saga, this has become more and more of an issue because the Mandos AREN'T characters you root for in regular Star Wars. They just aren't, especially the variety that Din and Bo-Katan tend to represent. They're usually villains or antagonists for the more genuinely heroic characters, there to either be an obstacle or to represent the consequence of selfish choices. But Filoni and Favreau are SO insistent on making the Mandos the heroes AND on making them like the Legends Mandos they grew up on that these messages are getting flattened and lost entirely.

So I guess my answer to this question is that no, I don't necessarily think that the Mandos would be more enjoyable if they were more like the vikings, either the real ones or the fictional ones, because they just straight up aren't the heroes of this story and their entire culture as per Lucas's canon, the one based around violence as a first answer to everything, is intended to be a cautionary tale rather than something we root for. I think that the Mando culture as we know it isn't something that can be glorified and romanticized and still feel like it remains within the themes of Star Wars.

[sinkingaboutyou]

Dear Halsey ✮⋆˙

I've been part of many fandoms ── started out with the Spice Girls. Couldn't go anywhere without my big ass shoes and space buns. Couldn't shut up about them ever. I wanted to be Ginger Spice so fucking bad I told everyone they should call me Geri "from now on" and turns out, "from now on" went on for years.

I then moved on to the Backstreet Boys, then Leonardo Dicaprio, Charmed, Britney Spears, anything Moulin Rouge. I wanted to be Rose and save Jack from the icy cold water ── wanted to be Satine and escape Paris with my poet lover ── wanted to hunt demons with the Winchester brothers ── wanted to be a Slytherin ── wanted to help Frodo destroy the ring -and make out with Legolas, I admit ── truth be told, I can't even think of a period in my life where I wasn't a fan or viscerally obsessing over something.

And somewhere along the way, right between my 1D and KPOP era, there you were ── and I never felt the same connection with an artist prior to this. I never looked at you as an idol or some mystic, unattainable creature. You came into my life precisely when I needed it and showed me it was okay to be myself and to own it. Badlands became the soundtrack of my life, I cut my hair short, dyed it a crazy color and felt more alive than ever. Still, I wasn't obsessing over you. I loved to watch videos and listen to your music but my relationship with you was never one you typically expect from a fan to their idol.

You make me happy. You make me feel like I can be anything, anyone and just roll with it without a care in the world. Your words heal me. Your voice soothes me and I have nothing but a genuine love and admiration for the human behind these words, the person behind the glitters and fantastic shows.

I was ✮⋆˙ so lucky ✮⋆˙ to see you in Paris on Februrary 2020. My first and only Halsey show, right before the world turned to shit and locked us all down. Camped all day just to see you front row, not only because I'm pocked sized and can't expect to see shit if I'm not literally standing front row, but because I felt like I needed to see you from up close. To see the human. The person I admire, not only a silhouette from afar.

That night was the most memorable, fantastic night of my entire life. I couldn't help but feel the intimacy, the closeness, the efforts you put to make every person in the crowd matter even for a second. It literally blew my mind. I don't think I ever properly recovered.

Today, I'm sad. I'm sad to see how poorly you're being treated by so-called fans. I was already upset months ago while witnessing people's behavior ── how they gave you shit for being silent, for the lack of music release, for promoting your make up brand instead of being on stage ── I was never one to interact or take part in any sort of hatred debate because I know I can vomit words to the speed of light and waste too much energy on people who aren't worth it. But still ── it was hard to digest, hard to read, hard to step back and take a deep breath so I wouldn't snap at people treating you like nothing but the King's Fool whose purpose is to entertain the crowd only.

Of course, knowing what you were going through during all of this only adds bitterness to this situation ── I wish people would see the human first. I wish people would realize you were always there for us, how you handwrote actual letters to some fans (god knows I would die for that) ── how you literally bled out on stage just so you wouldn't cancel a show when any mundane person would take days off work to deal with such a traumatic experience. I wish they would realize you never treated this, treated US as a job. You're one of the only artists out there who remains genuine and always speaks their truth ── even the ones that hurt so fucking bad ── and still, it never seems to be enough to these people.

I'm sad you regret coming back, because I was genuinely the happiest to see you active and excited to release some music again. But mostly, I was happy to have my favorite person back.

I want nothing more but for you to be happy and I hope you know, for every 10 disrespectful, ungrateful meanies, there's at least one person who loves you a hundred times more than they ever will.

If this letter ever finds you, just know this one thing ──

Je t'aime et je suis en vie grâce à toi ♡

[0shewrites0]

LITG S5 MC TAG

Thanks for the tag @lasswithumor 🤍

tagging anyone who hasn’t done it yet

full name: Sophia Jensen

nicknames(s): family & friends - Soph or Sosa. Suresh - love &/ hadavata (singhalese, meaning: heart)

hometown: Liverpool, UK (moved back there after the breakup with Suresh)

age: 25

occupation: IT manager

sexuality: straight

any languages: englisch, danish (her family is danish + her surname hints at it)

any hidden talents: speed reading (like, super speed reading)

personality type: ENTP

ideal outfit(s): casual but classy - sometimes wears dark jeans with a blouse and blazer, on other days she opts for grey pencil skirts, cute satin tops and black leather jackets when she's at work. loves loves loves high heels at work, but in her free time trainers are her favourite. at the weekend or when she goes out, she opts for tight, simple and again casual but classy dresses (mostly long or midi) that show off her fit body, but nothing over the top. in a club, you can sometimes find her in leather skirts and cropped tops. she likes to wear dark red lipstick and matching nail polish and has a few intricate/minimalist tattoos, but doesn't wear too much jewellery. she is the kind of woman who attracts all the attention in a room not by her beauty or looks, but by her radiant personality, and she knows it and uses it.

how did she meet suresh? one evening in a bar. it had been a long, hard day at work and she needed to clear her head a bit. he happened to be sitting right next to her and they eventually started talking about God and the world and found out how much they had in common. that they were both workaholics and so dedicated to their work that other relationships suffered. they met a few more times this way until he finally asked her out. what she liked most about him was the intangible authority he exuded because she had always found it difficult to find a man who was not intimidated by her (and how much money she made). he was so sure of himself, and she found that really attractive. that he was smoking hot was another matter entirely 😏

my mc & face claim:

current mood in the villa:

latest beach hut confession: "Honestly, at this point I'm thinking, 'Fuck it'. I'm not one for drama or jealousy, and Suresh knows that. He knows that if he keeps trying to make me jealous by acting out around this new girl, he'll push me further away. But who knows - maybe that's exactly what he wants? *shrugs* I've never been able to read him, and that's not going to change, and I don't know if I even care. The second I walked in here and saw him, I knew I'd give him another chance if he really tried, but if I get dumped tonight, that's how it's going to be. I don't believe in fate or anything, but I'm bored to death.

[What about Alfie?]

*chuckles* You know you're in the wrong place when work is more interesting than what should be a break from work."

[seasonofthewicth]

nobody does it like you do - act 6

The final part!! I hope this is a satisfying conclusion! Thank you so much to everyone who has reblogged/commented/shared - it has meant so much. Special thank you again to @morganofthewildfire I'd still be working away at this fic if it wasn't for you, I don't know I ever would have finished it off. Your comments and analysis helped me so much and made this fic better than I could have alone, I'm so grateful.

13k - masterlist - ao3

--

There are five weeks between the eventful wrap party and her first day shooting the Netflix miniseries in Antica. Five weeks for Aelin to sort her shit.

It’s ambitious, and probably unattainable, but she needs a goal.

She needs something to draw her mind away from Rifthold and the director she knows is no longer there.

She gives herself a week of self pity. A week of lying around her sparsely decorated and impersonal Orynth apartment dwelling and pointedly ignoring the headlines she knows have been released. Elide let her know only one picture was captured of her with tears in her eyes leaving the party. Only one and gods bless Elide she shut it down.

Aelin lies on her uncomfortable couch in well-worn pyjamas with unwashed hair and runs through the photos on her phone of her and Fenrys, her and Manon, and the group of them together on set doing whatever shit they used to do.

She spends more time than she should like that. She sits there until her coffee table is overflowing with takeaway wrappers and Aedion and Elide have stopped texting more than once a day. She’s awful for ignoring them but she’s still mortified.

She hasn’t been able to look Aedion in the eyes since he dropped her back at her apartment after their long flight home from Rifthold. He didn’t say much. After he managed to again get her out of the party with minimal press she had cried, curled up between Aedion and Lysandra in their bed, and he didn’t offer judgement or instruction.

He just held her, whispering words she can’t remember but appreciates anyway. Now she hasn’t replied to any of his texts.

She hasn’t texted Fenrys or Manon either. She doesn’t know what to say.

She knows Fenrys jumped immediately into another movie, an action movie she knows he’s been chomping at the bit to get training for, and Manon into the second series of her show that she’s probably too famous for now.

They’re busy. They’ll understand. At least that’s what she tells herself.

The worst thing she does in that week is pour over the photos she has of Rowan. She didn’t realise she had so many but her camera roll is full of silver and green.

There are photos of just him, looking like Rowan, tall and handsome and understatedly happy, smiling covert little smiles at Aelin behind the camera. He was used to her instructing him to pose by the end of filming, she loved snapping away as he did anything. Eating, sleeping, smiling, everything - if it was Rowan she wanted it captured.

Now every photo is a knife to the chest.

The ones of the two of them together are worse, they twist the knife, pain splicing through her until she can hardly breathe. There are pictures of their cheeks pressed together, eyes shining, some serious, some silly. In all of them Aelin can clearly see her own happiness.

She can’t stop looking at them even as tears swell in her eyes and her throat gets tight.

For one week.

Until it’s been seven days since her flight landed back in Orynth and she gets up off her couch and deletes them. She almost doesn’t, her thumb hovers over the button for a good minute before she presses down but then it’s done and they’re gone. She showers and changes her clothes, she throws away all the rubbish on her coffee table and makes a plan.

Filming the movie with all of them it was easy to feel better than she did before, surrounded by new and exciting things, new people who didn’t know her before or treat her differently because of it. It was easy to lose herself in who she was there and with them.

Now though, she’s back to real life and real life lasts for an uneventful three weeks.

She tries what she can, she reads, she runs, she bakes, she teaches herself how to knit. None of it is satisfying and it's hard to make it stick. It’s all boring and never quite captures her attention the way she hopes. Never captures her attention enough to tear it away from Rowan and Rifthold.

A week before she flies out to Antica it changes.

She stumbles upon the change, completely accidentally, and she doesn’t realise what she’s needed until it's right in front of her.

Her usual run route is obstructed by construction and so she takes a left where she usually takes a right, heading down into the west side of the city, the side she doesn’t often frequent.

She used to. She used to spend hours strolling the streets letting the warmth of the sun and Sam’s hand in hers settle into her skin as they observed the numerous bakeries and small boutiques. Thankfully the scenery appears to have changed since.

The chill breeze of the September Orynth air teases the loose strands of hair tickling her face as she comes to a stop outside the sleek shop front. The wooden panels are painted a dark, glossy black and the windows are polished so brightly they reflect what’s left of the sunlight.

Music of Mistward the sign reads in curved, white lettering.

She can see her reflection in the shop window, her cheeks flushed, hair unruly, her running gear nowhere near to what would be appropriate attire for the shop dripping in class but she can’t turn away.

A bell tinkles as she pushes through the door, her headphones gripped tight in her fist as the gentle jazz playing over the sound system greets her. She doesn’t like jazz, it’s not her thing, but along with the musk of wood in the air it’s soothing in welcoming her in.

She passes walls of guitars and violins until she reaches the instrument that caught her eye. It’s sleek, black lid propped open revealing the elegant strings, pulled tight in neat lines. The sharp contrast of the keys against each other, bright against the deep black of the case. Her fingers ghost over them, dying to press down.

She hasn’t played since those days in Rowan’s Doranelle home. She’s wanted to, longed to feel the cool keys under her fingertips and the flood of the music pouring out of her, but the cheap keyboard in her Orynth apartment wouldn’t do Rowan’s beautiful instrument justice.

Aelin would rather not play at all than attempt a cheap imitation of what she felt there.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A voice sounds behind her, low and raspy but cheerful all the same.

She turns, taking in the older man, his grey hair cut short and his classic shirt and slacks pressed crisp. She glances back to the piano before facing him fully.

“Stunning,” she breathes.

The man steps forwards and offers her his hand. She slips her hand into his and he pumps firmly as he introduces himself.

“Emrys,” he says. “Welcome to Music of Mistward.”

“Aelin,” she says, surprised to hear her voice thick.

“Great to meet you, Aelin,” Emrys says with an ancient smile. He nods towards the piano. “Do you play?”

“No,” she says and Emrys’ smile flickers. “Yes, I mean I used to. I want to,” is what she settles on.

He nods, satisfied, before taking a step closer to the piano. He runs a hand over the top, almost reverently and smiles to himself.

“Antique,” he starts, “almost one hundred years old but well loved. I acquired it recently - here we deal mostly in antique instruments, it’s a passion for both myself and my husband. The previous owner only sold it to me when she inherited it and didn’t know how to play, she wanted it to find a good home.”

He shares a smile with her as if she’s in on the joke but her breathing still hasn’t settled.

“Satin Ebony finish,” Emrys continues, “eighty-eight keys, all original but preserved to the highest quality. Accompanying bench, cut with refreshed velvet. I don’t know in all my years I’ve seen such a fine instrument as old as this.”

Aelin glances back to the piano, it’s big, it won’t fit in her apartment in Orynth but she doesn’t care. She can… adjust. She hasn’t felt a pull like this in a while, she doesn’t want to deny it when she does.

“How much?” she almost demands from the man in front of her.

He appraises her and she knows what he sees. Her bedraggled state and the tension through her shoulders doesn’t give the impression of someone with this much cash to throw around. She abruptly ignores that the way she probably can afford this is because of Rowan’s movie.

When he doesn’t speak she repeats herself, more firmly. “How much?”

“Our price includes delivery and tuning on arrival.” He seems apprehensive of telling her the truth. Aelin waits.

When he finally reveals the figure Aelin blinks. And then she extends her hand. “I’ll take it.”

To his credit Emrys just nods, shaking her hand. “You don’t want to at least play it first?”

Aelin feels the smirk she hasn’t worn in a while creep onto her face. “Is there a risk you’re pulling a fast one on me?”

Emrys returns her smile, a playful glint in his eye. “Not a chance, Aelin. Please follow me to the register where I can take your details.”

Aelin almost stumbles. Almost, but then recovers.

“Any chance I can pay a deposit and then let you know where you’ll be delivering sometime soon?”

Emrys winks knowingly. “Absolutely.”

She follows him to the counter, signs away part of a disgustingly large total of money but leaves with a sense of satisfaction. It’s an accomplishment, a step for purely selfish reasons.

The first thing she does when she leaves the shop is call Elide.

Aelin meets her new therapist two days before she flies out to Antica.

She hasn’t called her old one in months and thinks that’s probably a sign. And she’s all about changes at the moment.

She isn’t shooting in Antica for too long, only a couple of months until she’s back in Orynth and then back to Rifthhold for press. Her stomach drops everytime the thought wanders into her head.

She’s excited to be back in Rifthold, but the company is daunting.

Fenrys and Manon will easily be pissed at her disappearance. She knows Manon will play aloof but she also knows she’ll be upset, Fenrys too. Aelin didn’t mean to hurt them, didn’t mean to drop off the face of the Earth, and she knows she’s let them down but Fenrys and Manon remind her of Rowan. She couldn’t trust the conversation not to eventually steer towards him and Aelin isn’t ready for that.

Their break-up feels weirdly anticlimactic. After everything they built to, Aelin just dipped.

She knows it seems that way to Rowan at least. She hasn’t texted him, or rang him or anything since the party. She’s wanted to, wanted more than anything to hear his voice as she cried, but it’s not fair to him to drag it out and she knows that. She knew when she drew the line she had to stay on her side of it, no matter how much it hurt.

She had cried until her head pounded and her throat was raw. She cried until her eyes itched with no tears left to fall, until all that came out of her was hoarse screeches as she ached to hear him call her Fireheart one last time.

But no one needs to know that, she had kept it as hidden as she could.

She definitely didn’t need any more paparazzi pictures of her with red-rimmed eyes looking downtrodden. She couldn’t bear the thought of Rowan, or worse her mother, seeing them.

She knows Fenrys and Manon; Aedion, Lysandra and Elide would see through her flimsy excuses and so it was easier to stay quiet.

She’s not thinking about facing them yet. She supposes that will be something that likely comes up with this new therapist, but so far on her own, she’s choosing avoidance.

She gets Maeve’s number from Dorian, and she comes highly recommended by a number of Dorian’s other high profile clients. She’s well-versed in non-disclosure agreements, secret sessions and back street exits; she feels like the perfect fit for Aelin.

Unofficially, Dorian lets her know Maeve takes no shit, and that’s also just what Aelin needs.

They agree to online sessions while she’s in Antica, but Maeve recommended an initial meeting and Aelin is open to all of her suggestions.

Their first hour is not directly her most life changing but it’s a start.

“Welcome, Aelin,” Maeve says, sweeping an arm out towards the firm-looking, orange couch in the centre of the room.

Aelin takes a seat, mutters her thanks and glances around the room.

The room should feel cold with the exposed brick and minimalistic decor, the only furniture being the couch Aelin perches on, the almost regal armchair Maeve reclines in and a lamp, but it doesn’t and she gets comfortable tucking her feet beneath her thighs and leaning against the arm.

“So,” Maeve begins, surveying her in the way only a true professional can. “Let’s get started.”

Aelin feels bare beneath her gaze, and like everything about Maeve and her practise it should be unnerving but she just blinks against the scrutiny.

“Why are you here today? You could start with sharing why you have made this appointment.”

And isn’t that the million gold-mark question?

Aelin takes a deep breath through her nose and raises her chin.

“I don’t want to move backwards,” she admits. “Or maybe I just want to know I’ve actually moved forwards.”

Maeve’s expression stays calm, but Aelin knows she’d be smirking if she could. She’s well aware of how therapy works but even so, speaking her thoughts aloud can help to verify them in her own mind.

Aelin hopes so at least.

Their hour is over quickly and Aelin is resolved that Maeve is a good fit, reassured in Dorian’s claim that the woman takes no shit. Her all-knowing assessment of Aelin should have been unsettling but the frank dissection is what she needs.

Online therapy, especially fitting it around shooting might be a challenge but it’s for the best. As much as she values her independence and standing on her own two feet, Aelin is big enough to admit that facing her mother again may require some professional guidance. Seeing Rowan too, but again, she’s not thinking about that yet.

Antica is hot and Aelin is sweaty within seconds of stepping out of the air-conditioned luxury of the airport. That feeling lasts the entire time she’s there, disrupting the otherwise enjoyable time she has shooting the series.

Her new co-stars are fine, they invite her out with them and make her smile but she can’t help as though a part of her is always comparing them to who and what she left in Rifthold. Aelin tries her best to enjoy her time there with them, she hosts dinner parties and invites them to a game of Aedion’s but nothing quite hits the same as her time spent on The Crescent City.

She rationalises it to Maeve, that The Crescent City was a big turning point in her life and that it has nothing to do with Rowan, Fenrys or Manon, but she’s not sure she even believes it herself.

She spends the rest of her time in Antica trying to convince herself, and Maeve, that she’s moving past it. That she’s moving forwards or else she’ll move backwards. She’s not sure how much of it is futile.

The Crescent City is done, whether she likes it or not, and she can’t deny it changed her in ways she didn’t expect. It’s a hard pill to swallow that maybe it changed her beyond return to how she was before. She also can’t quite figure out whether she thinks that’s a bad thing or not.

They have a dinner for the core cast and crew, including Rowan, once they’re all back in Rifthold for the beginning of the press cycle. They have one night to reacquaint before they’re shoved into the whirlwind that is interviews, photoshoots and promotion.

She’s seen the trailer already and it’s just as she expected but more. It’s dark and dreary with flashes of brightness from herself and Fenrys and she’d want to watch it if she chanced a viewing as a member of the public.

What is surreal, is to see herself in a polished version of the film they were creating. Or at least a part of it.

She said each of the lines, rehearsed them over and over until they fell off her tongue without thought, but she still doesn’t recognise the girl in the trailer. A droplet of pride slips down her chest at the realisation that it’s not Aelin in the trailer but Feyre. She knows she’s good, has known it all along, but the realisation and reaffirmation is ecstasy better than any drug.

She hovers outside the restaurant, watching through the window, needing a couple more seconds before she submits herself to the assault of them all again. She still hasn’t replied to either Fenrys or Manon and the thought presses on her like lead but it’s too late to change that now.

If she’s honest she’s concerning herself with Fenrys and Manon in the hopes of distracting herself from the fact that she’s seconds away from Rowan. Seconds away from him in the flesh, his solid body in front of her that she had learned almost as well as her own.

Her palms are clammy and she wipes them against the fabric of her trousers. The upcoming interviews and photoshoots will all be styled for her and so she’s relishing in her last moments for a while of truly dressing like Aelin.

She takes a step towards the restaurant door, the tip of her trainer bumping the wood when a voice sounds behind her.

“Well, hello there, Stranger.”

Aelin braces herself, hand paused outstretched where it had been reaching for the door.

She turns, biting her lip as she faces Fenrys. He looks the same as he did, skin still golden, eyes still dancing with mischief, but his golden curls are trimmed shorter than the last time she saw him. His expression is carefully blank.

“I- Hi… um,” she stumbles over the words. “I’ve missed you.”

Fenrys breaks almost immediately. “Oh thank the fucking gods.”

He surges forwards and wraps her into a tight hug. Aelin clings to him, fighting the tears in her eyes as she buries her face in his chest. She’s gone far too long without this, without him, and it’s all her own fault.

“Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” Fenrys asks. “Oh wait, no you don’t. I’m assuming your phone broke, or was stolen or something since you never replied to any of my texts letting you know.”

Aelin knows her cheeks are stained pink. “I’m sorry,” she admits.

“I know.” His voice softens, losing the teasing edge as he presses a gentle kiss to her cheek.

He pauses before he speaks again, his eyes running over her face. “You could have texted me anytime, you know. Manon too. I know you might forget or try to convince yourself otherwise, but we are your friends. You could have called us about literally anything.”

Aelin feels like she could cry. She’s not sure that she isn’t.

“It doesn’t have to be about anything serious, especially not related to the movie,” or Rowan he doesn’t say but Aelin hears it. “We just wanted to hear your stupid voice.”

Aelin pouts. “My voice isn’t stupid.”

She pokes her tongue out as he rolls his eyes, easily falling back into the dynamic they had shaped a few months ago.

“Not what I meant,” he says before pausing, taking her in as she stands in front of him. “You can’t lose us that easily, you know. We’re like rats or fleas or something. Hard to get rid of.”

“Nice,” she comments, but her chest is tight at his words.

He smiles at her before adding, “and you had fucking better text me back.”

Aelin laughs through the sniffles he’s kindly ignoring. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and finds his contact. Hi she sends and feels his phone buzz against her.

“Much better,” he says and releases her from his arms. “Now, are you ready for a night of the finest dining all on the studio credit card?”

Aelin laughs again. “Lead the way.”

He shoots her a wink and waltzes ahead to hold the door open for her.

Fenrys’ presence shouldn’t reassure her the way it does, especially after the way she has treated him but she clings to him anyway. He’s her buffer for now, a crutch for tonight and tonight only. Once tonight is over and tomorrow begins she and Rowan can be professional, they managed it for months during filming and this should be no different.

Rowan still looks the way he did the night she broke his heart.

His silver hair falls elegantly over his forehead as he bends his head to talk to Manon, the pair of them are engrossed in a conversation as she and Fenrys walk over, not spotting them yet. She loves his hair, loves the thick silver waves and the way they feel between her fingers. She loves the way any attempt he makes to arrange the thick strands is never quite able to tame the beast. She loves the shirt he has on, with the sleeves rolled up exposing inches of tanned skin and dark ink, the same worn green cotton she wore numerous times around his living room all those months ago. She can still remember the feel of it against her bare skin.

His smile is the same, his green eyes crinkling as his lips barely part as he does his best to hold it back.

His smile is the same until he spots her.

He catches sight of her when she reaches the table and his smile drops, the shutters closing over his expression so fast she wouldn’t know he knew how to smile had she not just seen it.

It tears her chest in two and any attempt at a smile on her part is futile. It’s all she can do to make it to her seat without stumbling and she’s sure she misses any other greetings she gets as she slumps onto the chair opposite Manon. She absently notes Fenrys dropping in at her side.

She can’t look away from Rowan, her eyes scanning to try and find anything that distinguishes him from the man she loved all those months ago. She finds nothing. He’s still Rowan and Aelin still… fuck.

He recovers before she does, ever the collected courtier, clearing his throat and nodding.

“Aelin,” he says and she adores the sound of her name on his tongue.

“Hi Rowan,” she manages and hears how weak she sounds. Rowan hears it too. She can tell from the purse of his lips and the tension in the hand he rests along the back of Manon’s chair.

Aelin allows her eyes to drift to Manon and she finally catches the thunderous expression the younger girl wears.

“Hi,” she whispers and Manon blinks.

“Hi?” Manon repeats incredulously.

Aelin is fucked.

“Five months and I get a hi?”

It’s loud and a few heads turn their way. It’s simultaneously mortifying and everything Aelin deserves.

“I’m sorry,” she says plainly.

She could lie, make up some useless excuses but in the end there’s nothing else but the truth and if Manon wants her to grovel she will, she’s just not sure this is the time or place.

Fenrys shares her thoughts. “Later, Manon,” he says, gently.

Rowan’s eyes stay firmly glued to the tablecloth as Manon frowns, seemingly unwilling to let it go.

After a few seconds, seconds Aelin spends waiting for the ground to open up and swallow her, Manon nods. She nods and turns to Fenrys, demanding to know what he’s ordering. And just like that Aelin has a moment to catch her breath.

She knew this dinner wouldn’t be easy, knew she’d be walking into the lion's den of her own making, but she hadn’t expected it to be as hard. Hadn’t expected seeing Rowan to feel like a slap, hadn’t expected Manon’s hurt to scrape across her skin leaving her raw.

She tries not to think she deserves it, Maeve would only raise a brow as if to say we’ve been over this. The thought is sobering, and she manages to lift her head.

It is what it is, what’s done is done and she can only apologise and move forwards.

As much as she tries to resist, Aelin finds herself watching Rowan throughout the night. It’s scary how familiar he feels, he should feel like a stranger, but he feels like she knows him too well. He laughs when she expects, rolls his eyes when she predicts. He orders what she thought he would and he sips away at an orange juice the way he did the first dinner they all had together.

Aelin already feels so different than she did the last time she was in Rifthold and he seems unchanged.

She observes for most of the night, feeling drained despite her minimal contributions to the conversations. She speaks when spoken to and actively avoids speaking when Rowan does, she definitely doesn’t respond to anything he says even though she wants to at least twice and wants to laugh a couple more.

She makes it through and clings to Fenrys again as they all leave, linking her arm through his as they leave the restaurant. He knows what she’s doing but graciously guides her out of the building. Once on the pavement outside the restaurant he pauses and turns to her.

“What hotel are you staying in while you’re here?”

The rest of the group are milling about, calling taxis and bidding their farewells. Aelin doesn’t know how she’s getting back yet, she’s assuming she’ll split a ride with someone.

“Um, the Glass Castle, I think,” she says, desperately trying to recall the name of the hotel she dumped her bags in a few hours earlier.

“Boo,” Fenrys laughs, pointing his thumb down. “They’ve got me in the Torre Cesme. Think I’m ages away from you.”

Aelin laughs, disappointed but ready to order her own taxi back when a voice she didn’t expect sounds.

“I’ve just ordered a cab to the Glass Castle, I’m staying there too. You can jump in if you want.”

Rowan.

She shoots Fenrys a panicked look but his expression is pure glee.

“That would be great thanks, Boss,” Fenrys says, shrugging his arm out of hers and nudging her towards Rowan.

“No problem, Boyo.” Rowan offers Fenrys a dark grin at the nickname and the sight of it stills her. It’s new, he used to roll his eyes whenever Fenrys would drop it into conversation, but now Rowan’s playing along. And the grin, the curl of the lips and the narrowing of the eyes, it’s sexy as fuck.

It’s only taken one night and she’s back in the danger zone. She doesn’t want to be, hell, she wants him to take her back to his hotel room and peel off her clothes but this is Rowan. She’s spent the last few months trying to get over him, falling into bed with him the first night she sees him again would not likely be defined as progress.

He’s also not likely to want that after what she did.

“You don’t have to,” she says. The first direct thing she’s said to him since their greeting.

“I know.” A slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “But we’re going to the same place, it wouldn’t seem logical to take different cars.”

Logic. That’s all it is.

“Right.” She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so awkward with him, not even at the start. “Thank you,” she says, following him to the car.

Fenrys shoots her a grin as he slips into his own taxi. Traitor.

Rowan holds the door open for her and slips in behind her. She tries not to think anything of the fact he could have easily taken the front seat.

The ride is silent apart from the easy chit chat he makes with the driver, another thing she’s not sure she noticed him do before, and she stares out the window as the city passes by. The streets of Rifthold are not her home but she feels a brightness as she glances down the curving roads, spotting groups of people milling about enjoying the night.

She knows the first call she made to Elide in weeks was the right call. Elide is the only person she’d trust with her bank account and access to real estate listings. The link to the flat her friend had sent over has stayed open in her browser since she got it.

It’s modern with classic twists, situated in a recently renovated old warehouse with miles of exposed brick and rustic wooden panelling. She loves the master bedroom the most, with its adjoining en suite with a huge bathtub she can picture herself soaking in. She has a viewing booked in two days but doubts she’ll even need it.

It’s not long before the taxi pulls up outside the hotel and she follows Rowan through the glass doors. He presses the button for the lifts and Aelin shifts in the awkward silence.

Awkward is not something she’s used to with Rowan. Or it wasn’t before.

The doors slide open and again she follows him inside.

He pauses with a hand hovering over the buttons for the floors. “Which floor?”

“Nine.”

Aelin hates these one word exchanges compared to the hours they used to share talking about everything and nothing. She can’t believe this is the man she was so vulnerable with.

His short huff of laughter drags her gaze to his face.

“What?”

“Makes sense,” is what he says, shaking his head and pressing only the button for the ninth floor.

The ride takes seconds, a minute at most, filled with the silence between them.

When the doors open to the ninth floor she steps out, determined not to follow him again, and she feels him follow her. Even now she’s so aware of his powerful body and the way he moves it. She shouldn’t be so attracted to the power emanating from him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the sureness of his steps. She wants him, doesn’t think she ever stopped, except now he’s the forbidden fruit. Forbidden only by her own actions.

She reaches her door, room 905, but pauses with her key tucked in her hand.

“Thanks for letting me share your cab,” she says, finding herself desperate not to say goodbye yet. “I can transfer you for half.”

That finally, finally, cracks a whisper of a smile but she’s not sure she enjoys his laughter if it’s at her. “Don’t worry about it.”

That should be the end of it, she should open her door and shut it behind her, they have a few weeks ahead of them that will be hard enough without any complications.

She left him and he seems gracious enough to have mostly moved past it.

“It was good to see you, Aelin,” he says, seemingly unwilling to let the night end as well. She doesn’t let the seed of hope sprout because what would be the point?

Nevertheless, Aelin smiles, leaning back against her door.

Rowan continues, “even if I wasn’t sure how the night was going to go.”

Her attention is spiked. “What do you mean?”

She can’t lie, a part of her expects him to back down at the edge to her voice. He doesn’t.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to pretend nothing ever happened between us.”

She blinks, giving herself a second to process.

Maybe this isn’t the same Rowan from all those months ago. That night he let her walk away from him, gods know she needed it, but a dark little part of her had wanted him to fight her harder. Fight harder for her. When he hadn’t she’d taken it as her sign.

She knows the expectation was toxic, if he had fought her it would have only pissed her off, but she wishes she’d had someone to tell her it was the wrong choice. It would have helped to hear in the moment, rather than be faced with Rowan months down the line that she wants and can’t have.

The Rowan in front of her, the third Rowan she’s known, stares her down. His eyes peel away each of the layers she’s worked with Maeve for months to don in a second.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

It’s honest and maybe she’s not the same Aelin as a few months ago either.

That’s what she had asked for that night in the cool air, to move past them with as little commotion as possible, stirring up as little attention as they could. She hadn’t wanted to let them eclipse the movie and yet that ended up being exactly what she had accomplished.

Now though, Aelin knows better.

Rowan nods as his eyes dart across her face. He seems to step closer without realising. Aelin notes the motion, still so aware of him and his proximity to her.

His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. “I was so angry at you for leaving.”

Aelin loses her breath at his confession.

Eventually she manages, “was?”

He looks away from her, glancing down the dark hallway, his jaw tight. When she’s with him she forgets about the world around them, there’s probably-definitely-CCTV in this hallway but he’s here and she can’t let him go yet.

His fists curl and uncurl as he takes a deep breath.

“Was,” he says shortly. “I was so angry at you, the way you did what you did was shit.”

Aelin swallows. He’s not wrong.

“I know.”

“But now I don’t know.” She lifts her eyes to his, swimming in the openness she doesn’t deserve. And fuck that. That is such bullshit. She meets his stare, returning all that he isn’t saying. “I spent a long time thinking about it, thinking about you, and it took me a while but now I get it.”

That hurts more than she expects. She didn’t expect him to be all over her the minute they reunited but his understanding was always a kicker.

“I know why you did it,” he continues. “And that took most of the wind out of my sails.”

Aelin frowns. He can’t possibly know why.

“I don’t think you do.” He tilts his head, an invitation for her to expand. “Or you’d know that nothing has changed.”

“Hasn’t it?”

His question throws her. Completely.

She tilts her head up to look at him, closer to her than he’s been all night, pushing her to keep being honest with him.

She’s dazed being this close to him again after so long, the green of his eyes stronger than she remembers. Or maybe her brain had assured her the memory of him couldn’t have been real.

“I don’t know,” she admits, unable to fight the way her body leans into him.

His teeth graze his lower lip and she follows the motion.

He’s silent for a beat too long and her skin is thrumming under his attention. She doesn’t know how she’s gone this long without him, she doesn’t know how she thought she’d survive never having him again.

“Let me know when you figure it out,” he says finally, drawing back and a rush of cool air fills the space he had taken. “Goodnight Aelin.”

He turns and she watches his back down the hallway. He slips easily into a room a few doors down and she’s left watching the path he’d taken, feeling the weight of his eyes on her lips.

Her head thuds against the door as she screws her eyes shut. She wants to scream, wants to chase him down the hall, wants to fly back to Orynth where she was safe.

She doesn’t do any of those things.

She tucks herself into her hotel room and readies herself for the whirlwind that’s about to hit. These next few weeks are going to be hard, not just dealing with the Rowan situation, but she can’t fight the excitement she feels.

Fuck. She’s back in Rifthold, back where she loves, doing what she was born to do.

This is big. She can feel it.

The Crescent City is not her first project, and so she’s been a part of press cycles before, she knows how they go. What she doesn’t know is how a press cycle for something like this works.

The only word she can find is insanity.

There are somehow earlier mornings than they had while shooting and often longer days. She gets poked and prodded in hair and make-up for hours before they spend all day sat in a hotel room filming repetitive interviews for various magazines.

She and Fenrys are genuinely friends and yet they still have to put on a show in front of the cameras. She plays up her laughter when he cracks a joke and he makes sure to never look away from her for longer than two seconds when she speaks or a producer behind the camera makes a comment.

She loves Fenrys but it’s exhausting. Her only blessing is that for most of her engagements she’s with Fenrys and Manon with Rowan conducting his own interviews separately as she had hoped.

Sometimes though, given their relatively similar ages and general level of chemistry, they get grouped together.

The four of them are filming a video for Buzzfeed, filling in a quiz to find out which character from The Crescent City they’re most like. She’s unsurprised to discover her result is Rhysand and it’s fun even if her heart does pound every time she has to act like she’s unfazed and friendly with Rowan.

There’s a moment, just a moment, where she almost breaks from her friendly and unbothered interview persona. It’s her turn to read the question, what item could you not survive without on a desert island?

It’s Rowan that speaks. “Her shampoo,” he says, “it’s jasmine.”

There’s a split second where she doesn’t speak, where all she can do is stare at Rowan, stunned that he remembered and thought to mention it now.

In that split second she’s transported back to memories of them together in the shower at her rented apartment, kissing lazily under the spray after spending hours between her sheets. She remembers dumping the shampoo into her hand and then onto his head, massaging his thick locks and surrounding them in the scent of jasmine.

She remembers how he kissed her neck as she did, trailing his hands over her silky curves, slick with the soap, with his kisses building in heat until her hands dropped to his shoulders. He’d lavished kisses down her chest until he’d jerked back, shampoo in his eyes and she’d laughed until he was safe and pressed his lips again to hers, continuing where he’d left off.

She’s shocked he’d bring this up when there’s a camera on the two of them and she can only imagine the comments it will spark. She’s not sure she cares if it keeps Rowan’s eyes on her.

“It’s luxurious for a reason,” she says when she recovers, tossing her thick locks over her shoulder. “Well worth it.”

She doesn’t miss the flicker in his own mask at her comment.

That kind of interaction will no doubt ignite the sparks she’d only ever wanted to avoid.

As the press cycle goes on and on, and they get closer and closer to the premiere it only becomes harder for her conviction to hold.

She tests her own argument, the clear line she drew in the sand, when she manages to keep it professional with Rowan and she’s not sure where that leaves her. She had thought they would overshadow everything about the project and now she’s not sure.

She said nothing had changed and he had challenged her.

She’s still not sure who’s in the right.

Everything is simultaneously completely new and exactly the same. Rowan is still gorgeous, still charming in his own reserved way, still almost reverent when he talks about his craft throughout interviews. He still talks with his hands and Aelin still can’t draw her eyes away from their motions, she still craves the touch of them on her skin. He’s still seven years older than her and the director of her big break.

Yet there are differences.

They’re still often on the same page, offering similar answers and backing each other up but now he never backs down from a challenge. Now he doesn’t hold back those comments she knows he was always dying to let slip. She should be annoyed, everytime he drops a line that pushes her to expand a little part of her wants to roll her eyes.

She doesn’t though. Her blood heats and her skin prickles. She loves this with him. Loves the dance they play, the teasing, verbal games that shouldn’t start her off but do. She loves the smirk he wears when they end up down that path, and she knows she wears it’s mirror image.

She always ends up squirming in her seat and it should be wrong but it isn’t. The cameras can’t see below their chests and the flush in her cheeks could easily be from the warmth of the day.

She’s beginning to wonder if she’s powerless against Rowan Whitethorn. If she’s powerless against the green of his eyes or the curl of his accent. The slant of his brows or the points of his teeth when he smiles.

She doesn’t know that it’s just one thing. It’s all of the things, it’s all of him, and more so than ever she’s completely fucked.

But they aren’t talking outside of the interviews and photoshoots, and the knowledge of which hotel room is his itches her toes every night. It would be so easy to sneak down the hall, to knock on the door and slot her lips to his when he opened.

It’s only a couple of nights before the premiere when the temptation becomes too much. She’s been around Rowan all day, surrounded by the smell of his aftershave, the notes of pine and freshness and Rowan and it’s too much. She strides down the hallway, resolved in her decision and closes her fingers over the button for the lift.

She needs to be elsewhere or she’ll make some bad decisions.

She’s come so far, survived months without him, she can’t cave due to proximity.

The hotel bar is deserted when she walks in and makes a beeline to the bartender. Yeah, maybe after her wobble at the wrap party a bar isn’t the best decision she could make but her options are limited. Trying to sleep with Rowan is, after all, probably the worst of both options.

“Just a sparkling water please,” she says to the barman who nods and returns a moment later.

“Put it on my tab.” A voice from the end of the bar.

A laugh bubbles out of her chest as she closes her fingers around her glass. Of course he’s here. She should have spotted Rowan the minute she walked in and it’s cruel that the reason she didn’t was that her thoughts were too wrapped up in him.

“Be careful what you sign up for,” she says as she walks over, her steps measured as she comes to a stop before him. Her hips swing of their own accord and his eyes dart up and down the length of her. “I can put a number of these away.”

The smile he gives her is surprisingly unguarded. It seems he’s done holding himself back too. Aelin loves it.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, nodding at the stool next to him. She obliges as he speaks again. “It’s hard to switch off sometimes.”

He’s always on the same page as she is. Aelin shrugs, taking a sip of the drink he bought her.

They’re quiet for a moment, both unsure of how to break the silence between them when one of the last things they knew was the taste of each other’s lips.

“I keep thinking I’ll get used to it, that one day this will just be my job, but I never do,” Aelin says eventually, tracing a fingertip through the condensation gathered on her glass.

Rowan nods, smiling softly down at the bar and taking a sip of his own drink. An orange juice as usual.

“It’s hard to sleep at the end of days like today,” he says. “It’s why I’m in here.”

The bar is dark at the late hour, and quiet with no one else in there but them and the bartender. There’s something about the late hour, the darkness and the stillness surrounding them a break from the recent rush, that feels a little bit too close. She feels a little too exposed under the weight of his gaze but she rolls her shoulders back and leans an elbow on the bar as she turns towards him.

“I thought you’d be used to all of this by now,” she says and he cocks his head.

“Why?” His question is coy, begging her to expand.

“This is not your first rodeo and all of that,” she says with a smile.

Rowan laughs softly, the sound curving around her like an embrace.

“It can still be overwhelming after your first big movie,” he says gently, but with an edge to his voice that she needs to immediately get rid of.

“I don’t doubt that,” is what she whispers and his brow seems to soften, sensing her lack of malice.

She hates the way they’re in the position where he assumes the worst of her. She has to make that change.

“I don’t think if I get to do this for the rest of my life that it would ever feel normal.”

“No,” Rowan agrees, “I don’t think it could.”

“So then we need this film to do well.” Aelin shifts on the stool, finding herself leaning closer to him without conscious thought. He doesn’t retreat. He stands his ground until they’re only inches apart. “Lest we find ourselves fading into obscurity.”

“I doubt you ever could,” he says with a laugh and it’s the best thing she’s ever heard.

As he looks at her, his expression soft in the dim light, his smile holds something special for her and her chest lifts that she managed it. That he was willing to give that to her.

“My agent sent over the initial critic reviews earlier,” he says and her stomach plummets.

“And?” she demands, her voice wobbling slightly. Her confidence from a minute ago vanished.

This is the moment where she could sink, the moment this could all be over.

“And they’re good,” he almost whispers.

“Good,” she repeats and it’s not a question but he nods.

She wants to throw herself at him at the news, a couple of months ago she wouldn’t have even hesitated, but now she sits clenching her fists and trying not to smile too wide. It feels like a waste. She’ll never get this feeling again.

She turns to him and he’s smiling so she does what she’s wanted to for months. Aelin leans forwards and wraps an arm over his shoulders, pressing her chest to his.

His arms slip up slowly over her shoulders at first, unsure but gaining confidence as he tightens his grip around her, drawing her further into his chest. Aelin laughs a little, throwing her other arm around him and resting her face against his shoulder.

It’s not enough, it never could be with him, but it will do. She’s just happy he didn’t push her away.

Eventually, after a length of time that feels far too short, she pulls back to see him gazing down at her with an expression she can’t name. His brows are drawn in with his lips gently parted. He’s happy but apprehensive, open but distant. Aelin will take what she can and the distance between them has always been too far.

She wants nothing more than to close it, to draw herself into him and he into her, but she can’t. They’re here for one thing and one thing only and she refuses after what they’ve been through to mess it up again.

She knows he can read her own expression but she doesn’t care. She’ll hide from everyone and anyone but she’s realising she could never hide from him.

She wants Rowan, will probably want him for the rest of her life, but she made the call and he’s wrong, things haven’t changed.

Apart from all of the things that have.

The day of the premiere Aelin feels sick.

Her stomach twists and she tosses and turns all night and the dark circles under her eyes are brutal as a result. Her make-up artist tuts but diligently packs concealer on until Aelin looks well rested. Or as close as she can.

She’s trying not to think of the stretch of carpet she’ll have to walk tonight, a smile plastered across her face as she poses for the hundreds of cameras. Their premiere is one of the biggest of the season and, along with Fenrys, she’s the star.

She’ll have nowhere to hide.

Aelin sits in front of her mirror, her hair and make-up are done but she’s yet to get dressed. She takes herself in, making sure to note every strand of hair to every line of her lips, feeling as though she needs to remember this moment. The moment before it all explodes.

They’ve been building to this for almost a year now and this is as close to a culmination as she’ll get.

Her dress is something fierce. Endless, flowing velvet in the darkest shade of black. Long sleeves and a fitted bodice with an almost indecent dip in the back. The dress would be modest without that cut out, she can’t wear any underwear it dips so low.

It would be a simple dress, some might even dare to say boring, if it weren’t for the back. The majority of the fabric that remains is covered in gold embroidery taking the form of a dragon, coiled to strike. Aelin adored the dress the moment her stylist revealed it to her. She didn’t consider any of the other dresses, didn’t even acknowledge them as options.

The dress is what she needs, something strong, something to help her hold her head up high. She can walk the red carpet and stare down every single person who doubted her and know that they were wrong.

Aelin doesn’t need their approval. She doesn’t need the reassurance of faceless commenters, she doesn’t need the support of the magazines and the newspapers. She doesn’t need her mother’s approval. On anything.

Aelin is confident and self-assured and she can walk the red carpet knowing that.

Her sessions with Maeve have helped to reassure her stance, but she’s realising day by day she’s known it all along. It’s just taken a little bit of digging to uncover it.

She slips into her dress and it slides on like a second skin. She takes in her appearance, the arch of her brow and the red smirk of her lips makes her look intriguing, like a confident young woman.

Aelin was born to be an actress but she’s proud to say the sight in the mirror is real.

She poses for a few photos before she’s led out of her room and into the car, waiting to take her to the theatre.

She spends the ride in silence, barely listening to the jabbering of the aide in the car with her, and she focuses her thoughts on the calm before the storm. She takes deep breaths and centres herself the way Maeve has taught, she knows this could so easily be overwhelming but she’s determined to enjoy it.

The car stills and she can hear the noise of the crowd outside. She takes a final deep breath and allows her lips to spread into a smile. This one is genuine, nothing forced about it, and she pauses for one last beat.

This is big and Aelin is ready.

The car door opens and the sound hits her like a wave, slamming down onto her and it's so loud she can hardly think.

This is it. This is the moment she has dreamed of.

The nights where this image was all she could cling to to make it through could never have compared to how it feels standing here now, screams of her own name wrapping around her and urging her on.

Her steps are slow and purposeful as she glides down the path forged for her, the red carpet beneath her stilettos is plush and bright. She pauses where she’s instructed, rolling her shoulders back and smirking at the cameras with a hand on her hip.

She knows she looks incredible and the shouts of the photographers do nothing to change her mind. They are here for her, they’re all here for what she has accomplished, along with Fenrys, Manon, Chaol and Rowan and everyone else involved.

There are so many forces upon her, the flashing of the lights, the screams and shouts calling her name or Fenrys’, the magnitude of what this is could knock down a lesser individual but all it does is raise Aelin up.

She’s been through worse than this and survived, she’ll stare down the lense of all of these cameras, of everyone who has ever spoken her name and she won’t cower, she won’t just survive. She’ll thrive.

A warm hand lands on her waist and somehow the flashes of the cameras explode.

“Hey, golden girl.” Fenrys’ words are almost hard to hear even though his lips brush her ear. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Aelin wraps her arm around his back and grins, “I thought I’d at least show my face.”

He returns her smile and together they pose for the cameras, their shoulders back and smiles confident. She’s not sure this could be better.

Until she turns slightly to her left and gets flashes of silver where she and Fenrys are gold.

Rowan and Manon, posing for their own pictures mere metres away. He looks spectacular, the deep black of his tuxedo doing nothing but bringing out the depth of his tan and the shine of his silver hair.

He’s smiling his public smile and it’s gorgeous even though it’s not her favourite of his smiles, she loves the private ones he used to save just for her, and her own smile falters at the sight.

She’s here with Fenrys and it’s not wrong but it doesn’t feel right. The arm around her waist shouldn’t belong to Fenrys.

She should be where Manon is, smiling up at Rowan while they marvel at what they’ve accomplished. She knows her smile has dropped and she fumbles for anything to plaster onto her expression other than the longing she feels for Rowan.

As if she’d called his name he turns to her, green colliding with blue, and she knows he feels the same.

And that hurts far more than all of the months they spent apart.

All the months she spent hurting, trying to deny what she always knew, trying to pretend that they were anything other than a force of nature. They had been an eclipse, threatening to over take all of this but she was wrong. Rowan was wrong too.

It doesn’t matter whether everything or nothing has changed because she wasn’t right in the first place.

She should have known better than to think that whatever flimsy decision she made could halt what they were, what they should be.

She can only hope he forgives her. She can only hope he feels the same.

But the thing about this new Rowan is that she can’t read him the way she used to read her Rowan, she can’t tell if the way he steels himself and turns away from her is a dismissal or if the look they shared had been just as painful for him as it had been for her.

“A masterpiece.” - Rifthold Reporter

“Fenrys Moonbeam shines alongside Aelin Ashryver in The Crescent City. See our full review here.” - Wyrd Stone

“Latest Rowan Whitethorn flick smashes Box Office records.” - Valg Weekly

“Unapologetic, daring and thought provoking. Award nominations expected to follow for The Crescent City.” - Terrasen Tribune

Her phone has not stopped buzzing for the past four days.

Dorian texts every waking hour with the updates he gets, the numbers coming in and all her latest offers. It’s surreal. She knew they were good but she’s not sure she ever really expected this. Aedion texts her a picture every time he sees or hears her name, it should be terrifying the frequency with which he texts her but she has to fight back her smile each time he does.

She managed to find an hour the night before to call Lysandra and the majority of their call had consisted of Aelin repeatedly asking what the fuck was happening while Lysandra cackled down the phone.

She’d even got a text from Lorcan. It was alright, he’d written. Followed by, I hope I die before ever having to watch you make out with someone like that again.

She’d sent three middle finger emojis and a kissy face in response.

Now is probably not the best time to move to a different country but she’d signed her name on the papers two days before the premiere and Rifthold is calling, irrespective of the fact she’s only been back in Orynth for two days.

Most of her stuff headed out yesterday with the moving company leaving Aelin with two suitcases to fly back to Rifthold with tomorrow.

There’s one last place she needs to go before she heads back to finally get a good night's sleep before her flight tomorrow. She’s never set foot in this graveyard before, she’s never had the courage to dare before, but she’s emboldened. By the success of the movie, by her progress in the past year, by her sessions with Maeve. This has felt like a natural step.

The shining, black headstone is understated and classy and completely to his taste.

Sam Cortland. Beloved son and brother, taken far too soon.

Aelin waits with her head bowed, allowing all of her emotions to rush through her veins. She doesn’t fight them, it would be pointless to try, and she embraces the tears that gather. Eventually she steps forwards, placing the smooth, small stone on the crest of the headstone.

She rests her hand on the cool stone for a moment before sinking down and crossing her legs beneath her as she leans against it.

“I’ve missed you,” she says aloud, “I can almost hear you telling me to stop being such a sappy shit. I can’t help it, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

She pauses, letting the wind drift through the field sweeping her words away.

There’s no one else here but her and Sam, no one else she’d want to hear her confession.

“I wonder what you would have made of all this. I think you’d tell me to enjoy it all, to not miss a moment, and I’m not. I’m just choosing the ones I want to savour. And this is one of them, Sam. I wish you’d been there with me, you would have loved it, the cameras, the lights, everything.

“I have to keep pinching myself to know it’s real, I did it, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come and see you.”

She sighs, letting her head tip back to rest against the stone. She didn’t prepare anything to say, didn’t realise she’d even want to speak to the open air but here she is.

“I’m not the same Aelin as the girl you knew anymore,” she says after a few moments of silence. “I didn’t think I would have the capacity to love again after you but I did, and I feel terribly guilty that I do. I have to remind myself that this is what you would have wanted, you would have wanted me to be happy.”

The silence in the field is more than an answer enough. So typically Sam to give her an answer without so much as speaking a word.

“I was happy,” she says, trailing a fingertip along the words etched into the stone. “I will be again.”

A faint haze of sunlight drifts through the Orynth autumn clouds, a whisper compared to the chorus of brightness she misses in Rifthold, and she stands, brushing off the dirt from her jeans. She touches the stone one last time before turning and heading out of the graveyard.

Her visit was years overdue but her chest didn’t crack open the way she had expected, the tears hadn’t been relentless the way she had expected. She’ll visit him again the next time she’s back in Orynth, probably visiting Elide and Lorcan for Yulemass, and she’ll visit again and again for as long as she lives.

But for now, she has a plane to catch.

Months later and two days before the Oscars, when they’re all back in town for the ceremony held in her new home city of Rifthold, Fenrys throws another party.

She’s managed, this time, to stay in touch with Fenrys and Manon, having made up with the younger girl before the press cycle had finished. Aelin knows her upset was real but partly suspects the animosity was a front. She even finds herself participating in the group chat with the three of them and Rowan. She’s only texted him one to one once to wish him a happy birthday and they had caught up briefly but not texted since.

She’s missed him in a different way to the last time she missed him. This time missing him doesn’t feel necessary, it feels wrong not to text him, wrong to be away from him and she’s itching to see him again.

It’s no one's birthday this time but they’re all together again to celebrate, no matter the results they’ll see in two days. Aelin is very carefully measuring her excitement about her own nomination for best actress. Fenrys is up for best actor, Rowan best director and the movie best picture.

She’d almost dropped her phone in the toilet when she found out from Dorian a few weeks ago.

The party is small but still in full swing by the time she arrives. Big names from the industry, all in town for the ceremony, are scattered all around Fenrys’ Rifthold apartment. He’d bought a place here not long after Aelin and she’s secretly relieved she’s not the only one so moved by their experience.

She waves to a few people she knows and tries to stay calm when she spots Sartaq Khagan in the corner chatting away to a small group of people. Holy shit Fenrys has some famous friends.

Aelin finds herself a glass, tops her orange juice off with a splash of lemonade and begins her rounds. So many more people want to talk to her after the movie dropped.

Her mother had been one of them, and Aelin’s thumb had hovered over the accept button for a moment before decidedly pressing decline. She had blocked her mother’s number a moment later, and then she had made some calls closing the bank account her mother kept topped up and arranging for every penny she’d ever received from Evalin Ashryver to be paid back.

It had hurt, emotionally and financially, especially in the month she’d moved to Rifthold, but it had been worth it. To never let Evalin pass any judgement over her life again was a relief worth any cost. Aelin’s hoping there’s a possibility she could end up with a reward.

She doesn’t know how long she spends talking to big name after big name and it’s a realisation that drops onto her that she fits in here. Aelin Ashryver is a big name. No matter the outcome of the ceremony she has prospects, already a number of projects lined up and she’s loving every minute of it.

She drains her cup for the third time tonight and heads back into the kitchen. She’s barely seen Fenrys all night, and she doesn’t even know if Manon is here.

She frowns into the fridge, there was definitely a full bottle of orange juice in here the last time she topped herself up. She shuts the fridge and spins around.

“Looking for this?”

She should have known.

Rowan looks predictably gorgeous in the dim kitchen lighting. All tanned skin and silver smiles. He’s dressed in her favourite look of his too, worn denim jeans and a soft cotton shirt.

It’s the softness in his gaze that really takes her though, it seems the animosity from the last time they saw each other has faded if not disappeared. Her chest squeezes at the thought. She has no idea what could have triggered it but she will take it.

“Nope,” she says, stepping over to where he stands with an arm braced against the counter at his side, the other holding out a bottle of orange juice. “I was hoping Fenrys would have some chocolate in there but I guess this will have to do.”

She takes the bottle from him, her fingertips brushing his and she feels her cheeks heat at the innocent brush.

His smile is genuine and she knows what he’s remembering because she’s thinking of it too. The first time she visited his house during filming and their moment in the kitchen. They’ve been through cycles, she supposes, but hopefully now for the better.

“I’m sure we can find you some somewhere in here,” he says as she fills her cup, pulling open the cupboard next to his head.

Aelin smirks. “I’m going to leave the rummaging through Fenrys’ cupboards to you. You could find anything in there.”

Rowan winces, closing the door before returning her smile. This is friendly and the hope that’s been planted in her chest begins to sprout.

“Yeah, maybe not,” he says with a conspiratorial smile. “We wouldn’t want to risk it.”

Aelin pauses for a moment, taking in the glory of him in front of her. He’s still Rowan, he’s still tall and deliciously broad. His silver hair is slightly more grown out and there are a couple more lines around his eyes but she doesn’t care, in fact it’s charming. He’s still and always will be stunning. She takes a sip of her drink before she takes one of her biggest risks so far.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, not daring to look away from his face.

He bites his lip, his tongue darting out to soothe the skin before he speaks. “I’ve missed you too.”

The smile that spreads across her face is all too telling but he’s smiling too so she doesn’t think it matters. He definitely feels the same and she’d be annoyed at the months she spent worrying but the relief is too sweet.

“Good,” is what she says, far too happy they’re here to bother with pretending she’s anything other than ecstatic. “Congrats on your nomination.”

His eyes dart to the floor and then back up at her, he’s too modest about his own skill and Aelin adores it. “Thank you,” he says softly, “you too.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I couldn’t have done it without you. All of you.”

“Me neither,” Rowan says.

He’s close to her now, closer than he has been to her for months and her skin cries out for contact. She almost can’t believe she’s here now, talking to Rowan without any animosity, days before the Oscars that she’s nominated in.

The smile that takes over her face is completely of its own accord. She’s floating and it seems Rowan is too if the beat they share, exchanging incredulous smiles, is anything to go by.

“It’s crazy, right?”

She’s been asking herself the question for so long it seems only natural it slips out to him.

He laughs softly, and the rough sound curls straight to her core.

“Definitely,” he agrees, his voice low. “I don’t think last time felt like this.”

Aelin slaps a gentle hand to his chest and ignores the thrill that shoots through her at the eventual contact. “I get it, this is not your first nomination.”

Rowan rolls his eyes and she didn’t know how much she missed this, playing with him. She adores his reaction every time, the begrudging amusement he only lets shine through to make her smile.

“Some of us have never been nominated before, this is all completely new.” Aelin takes a sip of her drink. “I had to give up my social media accounts to Elide, it got so crazy.”

Something flickers over Rowan’s face at her comment. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes darting across his face trying to decipher the expression. “She’s always had access and I still do so I can post if I want to but it just became a lot. It stopped being fun when I would see what people were saying, whether it was good or bad I don’t want to see it anymore.”

Rowan nods before his eyes lock onto hers, the intensity in his expression shreds her control.

“And you said nothing had changed?”

Aelin gets it now.

She shifts her weight, leaning as close to him as she can without sliding herself completely into the circle of his arms. “I was wrong. Lots of things have changed,” she says, her voice quiet but strong. “And lots of things are now right that weren’t before.”

She doesn’t mean to skirt around the truth, hiding in veiled words and double meanings, but as always, Rowan sees her. He sees her meaning and he smiles. It’s the most beautiful smile Aelin has ever seen him wear.

“I’ve been looking for you two.”

Fenrys bursts into the kitchen, startling Aelin back from Rowan. She hides her guilty smile in her drink and notices Rowan doing the same. Fenrys just grins, clearly enjoying whatever he thinks he’s seeing.

“You’re missing out, we’re playing kings in the living room if you want to join?”

Rowan glances at her before he turns back to Fenrys. “I think we’re good, thanks.”

Fenrys’ smile turns smug and Aelin resists the temptation to flip him off. She’s in too good of a mood to be annoyed at him.

“Okay, see you later, lovebirds,” Fenrys says, already on his way back out of the door.

Aelin pretends she isn’t blushing as she turns back to Rowan, his green eyes shining.

“This might sound crazy,” he says with an alluring tilt to his lips, “but do you want to get out of here?”

She’s reached a point she truly never thought she would.

She’s an Oscar-nominated lead actress in a box-office-record-breaking movie.

She’s happy, healthy and out from underneath the thumb of Evalin Ashryver.

The part that’s most uplifting, the part that has her unable to wipe the smile off her face as she strolls down the streets of Rifthold, is the arm she has tucked through Rowan’s.

They’ve been walking for a little while, enjoying the cool night air and the ease with which they managed to sneak out of Fenrys’ party. Her heels are killing her and Rowan very graciously offers her an arm to lean on and each time she takes a step in time with him she smiles.

“I never thought I’d like doing television,” he says.

She didn’t know he’d taken on a miniseries, similar to the one she’d done after filming, but she’s loving the recap she’s getting of the months they’ve been apart. The chill of the air is more than fought off by the warmth of Rowan by her side. The streets are mercifully empty and she can bask in the knowledge that it’s just the two of them out here, that they’re insignificant, that anyone who sees them will immediately dismiss them.

“I always thought I’d stick to movies, singular stories but I enjoyed it. I guess change can be good.”

Aelin laughs softly and squeezes his arm. He looks down to her, a question written in the slant of his brow.

“Change can definitely be good,” she says as she takes in the sights of the skyscrapers surrounding them. “I would know that I suppose.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I bought a flat recently.”

“You did?”

He’s so graciously giving her the floor to say what she needs to say and she holds his arm even tighter.

“It’s right here in Rifthold.” Aelin avoids his gaze, lest he think it’s a speedy invitation and that that’s all this is. “I bought it just after we were back here for press, I realised that I adore Rifthold and being here. I missed it when I wasn’t here and I don’t feel there’s anything holding me in Orynth anymore.”

Rowan laughs softly, his feet scuffing the floor.

“What?” she demands.

“I swear I’m not following you,” he says and she feels a smile creep onto her face. “I bought a loft here too.”

Aelin gasps. “But your house was gorgeous!”

Rowan’s smile twists as he looks away from her. “I didn’t say I sold the house.”

Aelin cackles as she squeezes his arm, the sound joyous and bright as it echoes around them. “I knew being Mr Big-Name-Director has its perks.”

“It does,” he agrees with a smirk.

Aelin wants to kiss that smirk. Wants to pull him down and twist her fingers through his hair as his own tangle along her skin.

Instead she says, “I copied you somewhat too.”

He only raises a brow.

“I bought a piano like the one in your house. It was too big for my old flat in Orynth and so I knew what I had to do.”

“That’s good,” he says as his arm drops out of hers. She almost pouts until he instead tangles their fingers together. Her smile says it all, reflected back in his own. “You play beautifully.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks are glowing. “You’ll have to come over and I’ll play for you sometime, neighbour.”

“I’d love to.”

Aelin slows, using the hand tangled with his to pull him to a stop too. Her free hand trails a gentle path up his chest before coming to rest at his collar, her fingertips tracing the golden skin peeking out from his shirt. His free hand finds her waist.

They’re close, closer than they have been in such a long time when he speaks.

“I don’t know what you think has or hasn’t changed.” His hand leaves hers to cup her cheek. “But I still feel the way I used to about you.”

Her heart takes off, pounding within her chest.

“I do too, Rowan.” Some of the easiest words she’s ever said to him. There’s something about the way the streetlights shine through the silver tips of his hair and the way his calloused fingers feel between hers that she’s feeling brave. “I loved you then and I love you now.”

His eyes flicker across her face as his smile dawns, taking over his face as he smiles so brightly. This is all she’s ever wanted, to have a Rowan like this, with pure, unfiltered happiness in his eyes as he looks at her.

“You love me?”

“I do. To whatever end.”

His lips are barely a whisper from hers and she only acknowledges the thought that they’re in public for long enough to realise she doesn’t care.

“And I love you.”

His words are simple, but sweet. They wash over her and settle into her skin as his lips land on hers. He kisses her with what she can only describe as love. His lips pour devotion onto her and his hands light a fire inside her as he tastes her tongue.

They kiss for longer than she can keep a track of, wrapped up together illuminated only by the street lighting. She’s missed this, missed him, and she can’t help but feel right when his hands are on her. She can’t help but feel right as she stretches onto her toes to throw herself into his kiss.

This was never wrong, this was one of the first things she knew was right.

She loves him and he loves her and nothing and nobody else matters.

She doesn’t win the Oscar, and neither does Rowan. Fenrys does and she screams herself hoarse cheering him on as he makes his way to the stage.

The moment that takes the cake is when The Crescent City takes best picture. She takes to the stage with some of her best friends to recognise what they achieved together and maybe she is a soppy shit but she definitely cries. Fenrys laughs at her and Manon grins but Rowan just throws his arm around her shoulders and it's worth it.

Afterwards, she logs into her Instagram account for the first time in a long time. She posts a picture of Rowan looking absolutely delicious with his tux unbuttoned and his bow tie hanging untied around his neck with a greasy burger in one hand and hers in his other.

Posting him is a statement but she doesn’t care. In fact, she wants the world to know. She wants the world to know that nobody does it like he does. Nobody does it like they do.

[i-lionheart]

Here for You | Loki x Reader fluff

"There are moments that the words don't reach. There's a grace too powerful to name. We push away what we can never understand; we push away the unimaginable." -Hamilton, "It's Quiet Uptown"

After an emotional night, Loki's partner leaves her Avengers Tower apartment, showing up in need of comfort at Loki's door.

before you read: loki x reader, 1.5k words, reader is afab nonbinary, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, partial nudity (non-sexual), cuddling/spooning, discussion of gender dysphoria, period mention, body dysphoria, discussion of depression, suicidal thoughts, and self harm.

tw: gender dysphoria, period mention, partial nudity (non-sexual), depression mention, suicidal thoughts, self harm mention. @ me if there's anything I forgot.

You padded down the hallway, clutching the stuffed animal and baby blanket that had protected you from your demons since you were a child. Since your apartments were right next to each other, it was only a short distance to Loki's door; when you reached it, you knocked quickly and stood there, anxiously chewing your the inside of your cheek as you waited.

You heard his heavy footsteps crossing the apartment. Though his voice was muffled by the door separating the two of you, the annoyance was unmistakable. "Thor, I told you, I'm-"

He opened the door. His words cut off abruptly as he realized that it wasn't, in fact, his older brother bothering him in the middle of the night. His heart and facial expression melted as he looked you up and down, taking in your disheveled appearance. You stared back at him nervously, unable to verbally express what you needed from him now that he was actually standing in front of you.

Luckily, you didn't have to.

In a heartbeat, Loki had crossed the threshold of his apartment, pulling you into a tight embrace. He pressed your head to his chest and you melted into him, the tears that had escaped you all night finally beginning to flow. "It's all right, darling," he murmured. "It's all right. I'm here now. It's all right."

The two of you stood there for a moment that felt like an eternity, your entire world reduced to the feeling of being in each others' arms, Loki caressing you and whispering soft reassurances. Once the waterfall of your tears had slowed to a mere trickle, Loki said, "All right. You're coming inside." He bent down and hooked one arm under your knees, lifting you into his arms as easily as if you were a child. You squeaked in surprise and buried your head in his chest, eliciting a small chuckle from the trickster god as he carried you into his apartment and eased the door shut behind you. He didn't put you down until the two of you were in his bedroom, when he pulled back the soft covers of his king-size bed and set you gently on the gold satin sheets. He climbed in beside you and pulled the covers up around you both, once again pulling you to his chest.

"You don't have to tell me what's going on," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "But if you want to talk about it, I'm here to listen."

"It's my stupid period," you grumbled into his chest.

"What?" he said. "I thought you haven't had one for months now - didn't Strange get that sorted?"

"Yeah, but the hormones are still a fucking roller coaster."

"You mortals and your pesky bodies," he muttered into your hair. You couldn't help but giggle, despite your sadness. "What is it doing to you this time, darling?'

"Gender," you grumbled. "I'm fine with my body. I like my body. Or at least, most of the time I do, and then my hormones go insane and I hate it."

"Wishing you were a shapeshifter again, hmm?" Loki said. You nodded. "If I could give up my powers to you I'd do it in a heartbeat, dearest." You chuckled, in spite of yourself. "Thanks, babe."

"No problem," he replied. The two of you lay in comfortable silence for a moment, glad to just be in each other's presence. He caressed you gently - your hair, your arms, your back - then paused in confusion when he felt a seam under your shirt. He had never known you to wear a bra under your pajamas, especially given how much you hated to wear them during the day.

"Darling?" he asked, cautiously.

"Hmm?"

"Are you binding right now?"

"Yeah, but it's fine, I-"

"No, it's not," he cut you off sternly. "You know you're not supposed to. It's unsafe."

"Since when do you care about safety?"

"Since you tried to sleep in a binder. Sit up. It's coming off."

"Loki, really-"

"Now. You could do with some skin to skin anyways." His tone left no room for argument. Grudgingly, you pushed yourself into a sitting position, as did he.

"Arms up," he commanded. You rolled your eyes and did as he said, feeling like a toddler who needed their parents' help to get dressed. He lifted your shirt and gently pulled it over your head, then gathered it into a ball and tossed it on his floor. He removed your binder equally gently, careful not let the elastic snap or pinch, and tossed it on the floor on top of your shirt.

"Satisfied?" you said sarcastically.

"Not quite yet." He grasped the collar of the black t-shirt he was wearing and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, adding it to the pile of clothing on his floor.

Though you had seen it a thousand times, you took in the sight of his chest, drinking in every inch of his skin. He caught your eye as you stared at him, and grinned. You blushed. "See something you like, pet?" he teased.

"Oh, shut up," you retorted as the two of you laid back down, snuggling into him again. He was right - the feeling of his skin, his strong arms wrapped around you, was incredibly soothing.

"I needed this," you murmured.

"I know."

A pause.

"I hate this body so much, sometimes. Like, I'm mostly okay with it, even proud of it, and then..."

You trailed off. He stroked your hair, whispering into it. "Take your time, love, it's all right."

You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts, and continued shakily. "It's just... sometimes, I look in the mirror, and I look at my face, and I feel so happy - my reflection matches who I am, I look like myself - and then I see my body and I remember and I just..." You swallowed thickly, fighting back tears. "I just want to die, sometimes. I wish I didn't have to exist and face every day in a body that's not mine, I want to hurt it, scar it, make it bleed. Anything to show that it doesn't belong to me, to make it pay. I hate it. And I know I shouldn't hurt myself, I know I gave that up a long time ago, but that urge never leaves. I hate it, I hate it so much. I know it's not right, but that voice never goes away, it just gets quiet enough to ignore until the next time something triggers it and I have to fight it again. It never stops, Loki. Never." Your tears were flowing freely now. You took a shuddering breath. "I'm just so, so tired of always fighting. I want peace. But I don't think I'll ever have it."

"Oh, pet." he said softly. "How long were you feeling like this before you came to get me?"

"Hours," you admitted, feeling small.

"Oh, darling," he said. You heard the pain in his voice, and knew that what he really meant was I'm sorry.

"It's going to be okay," he said, voice ever so tender, tracing wandering patterns on your skin. "I know it's hard, but you are strong. You are a fighter, and you will make it through this. I promise you. And I will do everything I can to help."

"Really?"

"Really, dearest. You never have to face this alone again. I'm right by your side. In fact, this settles it. You're moving in with me. Tomorrow."

"What?" You pulled away from him, startled, and looked up to see dead seriousness on his face.

"What about it, pet? You practically live here already."

"Loki, the others can barely accept the fact that we're together. We can't move in together. Tony will have a heart attack."

Loki grinned wickedly. "Good."

You slapped his arm playfully, scolding him. "No, it's not good. If Tony had a heart attack, the arc reactor would probably flatten half of Manhattan." He chuckled appreciatively. "Why's it so pressing for me to move in, anyway? Most days you hardly spend a second without me."

He paused, giving you a long, searching look. "Isn't it obvious?

"No." You looked away, avoiding the discomfort of his scrutiny.

"Look at me." You didn't move. He reached out and cupped your face in his large hand, lifting your chin. "Look at me, dearest," he repeated, softer this time. You tore your eyes away from the empty space you had fixed them on and looked at him, afraid of what you'd see. He looked back at you tenderly, eyes full of compassion and the thing you had been most afraid of seeing.

Love. His eyes were full of love.

"You spent an unnecessarily long time tonight fighting this alone, because I wasn't with you. I wasn't there to help you when you needed me." He stroked your cheek with his thumb, voice tight with emotion. "I cannot let that happen again."

"Loki," you breathed. "You care that much?"

"Oh, darling, of course I do," he said. "Of course I do. And I promise that you will never have to face these thoughts alone again."

if you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging so this work can find other people who might enjoy it!

[musicallisto]

Hi, congrats on 800 followers! Can I please get a Six of Crows ship? I’m have short brown hair (I dyed red last week) and green eyes. I don't mind if im shipped with a girl or a boy. I like reading (no romantic novels), music and photography. I'm Aquarius. I’m very curious. I'm a little shy and even cold at first. I’m not good with feelings, I mostly keep them to myself if I can, but I care deeply for my loved ones and would do anything to help them, even if I'm not very good at giving advice. ☆

hi! here’s your vanilla milkshake, I hope you like it! I ship you with jesper fahey!

You don’t imagine the extent of my joy to be able to add a gif of an actual real person for Jesper... however shall I survive until Aprid 23rd?

For the longest time, you thought the world started and ended at your corner of Fjerda, in your frozen estate by the True Sea.

You were descented from minor Fjerdan nobility, and your father, jaded by Court Life and its political intrigues - and, unofficially, penniless after giving his all for the sempiternal wars on Ravka -, had decided to leave the capital and retire to his family’s estate by the sea a few years after you were born.

All you had ever known were the large, marbled corridors you’d spend entire afternoons wandering, daydreaming about adventures in the confines of the country - or living the lavish life of a true Fjerdan princess, in an outrageously enormous bed of satin sheets...

The house was spacious and beautiful, with a marvelous view over the sea, gently carrying its boats to and fro before you - and you’d stay there on the balcony in your flowy white dress, admiring the ocean until you couldn’t fight the chills of the night creeping up your spine anymore; but as tranquil and languid as your existence was, it was also terribly lonely.

All you longed for was a sibling, a friend, a partner in crime, someone you could explore the world and go on quests with...

... until a lighting bolt tore the silence, one night.

You couldn’t sleep, so you had gone on a walk by the shore as you often did - your father was never worried about it, since you knew the rocks and their cracks like the back of your hand, and would know the way back home even with your eyes closed.

But you were so absorbed by the distant twinkling of stars that you didn’t notice the shadows creeping up behind you until it was too late.

Screams in a language you can’t understand; an arm around your neck in a chokehold, another slipping under your knees; you thrash around, slice all you can, bite and claw at all you can grasp...

Your abductors know better than to let Fjerdan nobility get away from their grasp. They don’t know exactly who you are - but they’ve guessed from the distinguished aspect of your house that there’s a fine sum to gain from whoever will be willing to pay for you - your father for a ransom, or anyone else, in Kerch, who’ll make good use of your services.

Those brothels in Ketterdam pay good money for young girls, they hear - even more so for a Fjerdan pearl.

When they throw you on an overloaded carriage like a potato sack, you’re still yelling at the top of your lungs, pleading for your father, for one of your maids, for anyone to help you.

But no one hears.

You shed all the tears you have in the first night, tossed around in a dark chariot, off to somewhere unknown. Your father hasn’t prepared you for this - nothing, not even your books nor your fantastical imaginary adventures...

But you don’t intend on being sold off that easily. So you devise a plan to get away.

The first opportunity to break free presents itself when your kidnappers force you to board a ship; but they manage to catch you before you’ve run very far.

But second time’s the charm; with nothing better to do during the voyage than to bide your time and gnaw at your bonds, you’re able to slip from your captor’s watch, and blindly run through the harbor - just to get as far as possible from the stench of this floating carcass.

The first thing that strikes you is the odor. You’ve known the sea forever - it’s clear and bright as ice, and smells of fresh mornings and cold salt; never of this green rot that festers everywhere in these streets... and all those chimneys, all those people, who stare you down as you run down these grimy streets, barefoot in your off-white dress...

You understand that you’re farther from home than you’ve ever been, and it’s not a thrilling adventure, it’s terrifying and overwhelming, and you want nothing more than to burst into tears.

But you don’t, because a pair of strangers flag you down in a language you don’t understand.

A tall and lanky dark-skinned boy, wearing vibrant fabric and a self-assured grin; and possibly the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen in your life, all bright eyes and genuine frown.

Paralyzed, you open your mouth, once, twice, incapable of making the slightest sound; until the girl notices your visible discomfort, and, eyeing your pale eyes, asks in the slightest of Ravkan accents;

“Are you Fjerdan?”

You nod with all your soul. You’re ready to cling onto them both for dear life.

“What happened to you?”

Your voice fails you - you can’t explain it - you haven’t even comprehended it all. You were curled up in front of the fireplace just the night before...

“Do you have anywhere to go?”

You shake your head with despair, trying to blink back the tears.

“Come with us. We know someone who’ll help you.”

You don’t mull it over very long. Maybe it’s your sheltered uprbinging that has made you naive; maybe it’s the curiously comforting warmth you see in the Ravkan girl’s eyes; but you simply have no better option, and you can’t understand a word of Kerch, or wherever it is that this barbarian folk speak.

Although your two saviors start arguing, probably about whether or not they can reasonably take you in, your tear-stained cheeks and desperate vulnerability are enough to convince them - so you follow them.

Into the lair of the Dregs, of whom you’ve never heard - and of Kaz Brekker, who you know very well.

After all, he’s the infamous gangster who invaded your homeland, broke into the Ice Court, and stole the Shu boy - or so you saw your father read in the papers. To know that you are under the same roof as that lowlife would be enough to give your father a heart attack...

You’re half convinced that he’ll throw you back to the streets, but Nina and, surprisingly, Jesper as well, plead in your favor with a greatly convincing fervor. You learn that it’s probably because Kaz has much greater worries on his mind - the criminal group is planning on retrieving one of their own from the clutches of a treacherous business partner, or so you’ve gathered.

Either way, you’re more than happy that the terrifying and redoubtable Kaz Brekker is leaving you alone, and that you can enjoy Jesper’s company.

You two become unexpectedly good friends overtime. He comes to visit you at the Crow Club, where you’re staying, almost every day. Yet communication is not your strong suit, especially in a language you don’t understand at all, and you don’t fancy yourself a particularly enthralling girl to be around.

Not when one has lived the life of a criminal, a sharpshooter, a wanderer, a playboy... well, all those things that Jesper prises himself on being, and all those words he’s taught you in Kerch.

(That and the curse words, of course, that you’re a bit intimidated to use at first, until they slip out of your mouth one evening when you drop your plate at dinner with the Dregs, and the entire canteen falls dead silent.)

“Did she just say ‘fuck’?”

“I think she just said fuck.”

“See, Matthias, she wasn’t immediately struck by lighting by Djel’s hand. You won’t die if you say it.”

Speaking of Matthias, he’s also a good friend of yours - it’s comforting and refreshing to have a familiar face around, one of Fjerdan roots and mores.

Although the rest of the group says you’re not that Fjerdan.

“You’re one of the feisty ones, at least.”

“I’m not ‘feisty’. Shut up, Jesper.”

“Ah, I see you’ve been working on the vocabulary I taught you!”

Matthias and you both have a lot of soul-searching and unlearning to do about the outside world - you were raised in particularly bigoted environments, you somewhat less than him. The hatred for the Grisha he’s been taught by the Drüskelle is fear in your case; you’ve been brought up on bedtime stories of bloodthirsty Grisha who devour unruly kids, and war and devastation caused by their unstability and blasphemous magic.

It’s even more of a shock to you when you learn Jesper is a Grisha.

Unbeknownst to you, you’ve started to fall a little for him - how could you not? He’s funny, charming, sarcastic and witty; always has the best stories to tell, and despite it all, sincerely cares for you amidst the chaos of their heist and revenge plans.

But to learn he was the kind of monster - no, the kind of creature - no, the kind of person, you force yourself to correct mentally - that you had been taught to fear for your entire life...

“I’m so sorry. You should never have been there.”

He’s pacing back and forth in your room after a shootout has gone awry and you were caught in the crossifre; it’s the first time he’s ever had to use his Durast powers to get you of the mess - and normally he wouldn’t have, because it’s a secret he wishes he could carry to the grave, but the fear of losing you was too strong...

“Thank god that I was there, though. What would you do without me?”

He’s fidgety and restless, nervously playing with his pistols, and his nervous laugh is all but genuine; and you’re huddled up on your bed, staring him down with wide eyes.

“Jesper, you...”

“Yeah, maybe not the best moment.”

“Jesper...”

“It’s like they have a knack for knowing exactly where we’re gonna be and when...”

“Jesper!”

He abruptly turns to look at you, and his eyes widen. He’s starting to understand, almost, but refuses to believe it. Your voice is a murmur, and you can hardly hold his gaze.

“Jesper, are you... going to hurt me?”

His words die in his throat. He remembers where you’re from... the garbage that they must have filled your ears and head with from the day you were born... how feverish Matthias was with Nina... he looks at his hands, and his Materialki magic rumbles like a dark curse.

“Y/N, you’re scared of me?”

The sheer hurt in his voice breaks your heart. Even though you’re trembling, you let him step closer to you, slowly. It’s Jesper in front of you, not some ungodly monster from legends... Jesper, your Jesper...

“I’m... I’m sorry...”

He cups your face in his hands, warm and just a bit moist, and stares into your eyes with a vulnerability you have never seen in him.

“I’d never do anything to hurt you, Y/N, I swear on my life. All I want is you to be safe...”

Safe from me, if that’s what you wish, he thinks for a split second, but you don’t give him time to doubt; you’ve captured his lips in a frenzied kiss, and hold on for dear life onto his lean shoulders.

Fjerda and its blind hatred is very far from you, now. You're locked in Jesper's embrace, and you won't have to hear their lies anymore.

You know you have nothing to fear from him; not now, and not ever.

800 follower sleepover CLOSED!

[magalidragon]

So this is in response to a prompt ask I got awhile back from @freesoulladyaic— they requested beauty underneath and I am not sure exactly what but I think there was a mixup for which prompt list and number was requested so I went with the one I thought made most sense I hope you don’t mind and so sorry it has been so long! Enjoy!

Prompt: “I prefer you naked but that dress looks really good on you too.”

"Fuck!"

"Language."

Jon looked up from where he'd stabbed his thumb with a pin, a series of them stuck between his lips.  He made a face at his wife, who was on the other side of the room, working on another dress form.  He lifted up the yards of shades of red soft organza and tulle, which he'd been alternating in a macrame styling on the bodice of the gown.  He'd been pinning them to the waist, already marked on the form.  It was giving it a very ethereal look, but with the deep colors, indicative of the Targaryen crest, the overlay looked equal parts ash and fire.

He finished off the bodice, taking the remaining pins from his mouth, and turned the form, frowning at the back, where he wanted to make the two straps criss-crossing from shoulder to waist thicker, both in black.  The red was just the detailing.  He pursed his lips, contemplating how best to achieve this, and felt eyes on him.  He lifted his, meeting Dany's gaze across the studio.  He smirked.  "What?"

"You're so focused, so intense."  She licked her lips, arching her brow teasingly. She purred, "You know what that does to me."

"Keep it in your pants, we've got dresses to finish."

"Hmm, the auteur himself, Jon Snow, working on his creation."  She sauntered over, in her long black housecoat, which she wore when working, her feet bare on the hardwood and jeans rolled at the cuffs.  Her hair was bound up in a scarf, kept from her eyes while she worked.  It was a decidedly unsexy look, measuring tape over her shoulder, pincushion strapped to her wrist and her pockets heavy with thread and a little set of scissors tucked into a brace on her other wrist, like she was some sort of sewing superhero.

He smirked up at her, the stool he was on swiveling over to her.  "Well I promised the client that I would have my best men on it."  He puffed his chest.  "And that happens to be me."

"Funny, I thought I was the client."

"You are, what do you think so far?"  He chewed his bottom lip, studying her face as she perused the fabric draped and pinned to the form.  He pretended like her opinion meant nothing to him, but in reality it was the only one that mattered.  If there was even a hint of dislike, he'd destroy the entire thing and start again.  It worked both ways.

She trailed a finger along the macrame detailing, the straps across the back, and lifted up the tulle strewn along the floor.  On the table he had sketches of the design, fabric samples pinned to a board on an easel, and at least one of the leather leggings he'd been sewing to go underneath.  While she studied everything, he got up, too nervous to watch her, and went into the adjoining office, picking up his vape.

Clamping his lips around it, he puffed, holding it in his mouth like a 'binkie' as Dany teased him, and picked up some sales reports, flicking through the assessments from their CFO.  They'd poached Willas Tyrell from his grandmother, mostly because he was bored with the steadiness of the established company and wanted something new.  He was brilliant, had taken their sales higher than even Jon had imagined-- and that was pretty far.

Dragonwolf had become the most sought after couture house in Westeros, while he transitioned L.Stark into an upscale ready-to-wear line, headed by Sansa.  Dany still maintained her CEO position over Dracarys, but Missandei had taken over as creative director.  It afforded him more time, he'd discovered, to do the things he really enjoyed doing.

Hanging out with Ghost, coming up with new creations, and Dany, not necessarily in that order.

He sucked down the fake smoke from the vape, tricking his brain it was actually a real cigarette, the action habitual and relaxing his nerves.  He sank into his chair, glancing at the photo of his mother he kept on the edge of the desk, smiling briefly at the image of her laughing, arms around him as he was wrapped up in fabric from playing in her studio.  His gaze darted to the image right beside it, of Dany in the same pose, hugging him after she had wrapped him up in fabric too.  It was in the same place, the same location he'd just come from, their private studio in the old townhome in Winterfell.

The vape still between his lips, he moved to the window, cranking it open and blowing smoke into the nighttime air, glancing towards the castle up on the hill.  The dresses were for the annual Winter's Eve Gala event, something of a who's who in the zoo of the Westerosi peerage and entertainment industry.  It was a chance for the Starks to show off the castle, everyone to arrive dripping in icy couture and jewels, and pretend like they gave a shit about the lesser people among them. There would be a famous silent auction, fundraising for the Lyanna Stark Memorial Fund-- which was incredibly important to his heart-- along with an award that would honor someone who had contributed significantly to Lyanna's chosen cause-- orphaned children.

But the thing people seemed to care most about was what everyone would be wearing.

He was making Dany's dress and she was making a dress for a new young actress as well as the young cousin of her friend Ser Jorah Mormont.  Lyanna Mormont was a Lady, technically, but you wouldn't know it.  She was a pistol.  This would be her first big event after her first movie had hit the scene, garnering her immediate raves and attention.  It was a big deal for her to be getting a chance to wear a Dracarys creation, especially handmade by Dany herself, but it was the least Dany said she could do for the young girl who made her smile and laugh every single time she encountered her.

Jon finished his vape, returning to the studio, and found Dany back to work on Lyanna's dress.  There were no notes left for him, so he continued to work, both of them silent.  He kept at it, accepting her kiss and murmured "don't stay up too late" with a distracted nod, remaining at his station into the night.  He pinned and draped and sewed, every stitch even, like his mother taught him.

Around two in the morning, his eyes burned, but he leaned back in his chair, feet up on his desk, and Ghost under his legs, fast asleep.  He was working on the leggings, finding hand-sewing leather to actually be a relaxing task.  It was soft in his hands, buttery almost, and he likened it to his mother, watching her work on making her own riding clothes.  He took a deep breath, slowly releasing it, and pulled on thread, slipping it in and out, until his eyes drooped further and further, until he was fast asleep.

--

The suit he'd chosen to wear was one of Dany's. The irony of L.Stark by Jon Snow, award winning and bestselling couture men's designer wearing a suit from anyone but his own line, especially Dracarys.  It was something he never would have thought possible two years ago when they were at the height of their hatred for each other.  Nay, he corrected himself, it wasn't hating, it was unresolved tension, best resolved by the explosion most everyone witnessed at the MET gala.

He adjusted his tie in the mirror, smoothing the velvet brocade over his chest, eyeing Ghost, who looked like he wanted to run up to him.  He pointed his finger, warning.  "No way. This is black velvet.  I'll never get your fur out."

Ghost wagged his tail, thankfully staying put on the bed.

Indeed, it was an incredibly comfortable and finely detailed suit, black silk tie with matching black velvet brocade along it-- if you got close enough you could see it was wolves and dragons running and tangling throughout, swirls of flames and snow following them.  That was a hallmark of Dany-- her ability to tell stories with her designs and the intricacies of her attention to detail.

He left their room, knowing she was elsewhere in the suite at Winterfell, where they'd deigned to stay that evening to prepare for the event.  He thought it a little silly; they would have to pretend to "leave" just to "arrive" at the same location and walk up the icy blue carpet with photographers.

Price they paid, he supposed, for business.

He left the suite, taking his time down the set of stone stairs spiraling down from their sitting and bedroom areas, into a receiving hall.  Davos was already waiting, their constant taskmaster, and he had Satin floating about somewhere.  "Where's Arya?" he asked.

"I believe she said and I quote 'fuck this shit, I'm not going.'"

He snorted, fixing his cufflinks.  "Sounds about right."

Davos checked his watch.  "I'll go check on the car."

"Stupid Davos, this is stupid."

"It's just a whip around the block."  Davos nodded, signing, resigned.  "Although aye, it is stupid."

"What's stupid?"

Jon heard Dany's voice before he saw her, and turned, looking up the stairs to where she was at the top, waiting for him.  He gaped, mute, and jaw dropping the moment his eyes rested on her form.  It took his brain a second to catch up with his body, which was already responding in kind, and another second for his voice to return.

He choked, watching her smirk at him, knowing exactly how she appeared and what she was doing.  Especially with the slow descent she took, every step tiny, allowing the full effect of her appearance to settle.  He could not believe it.

It was one thing to see a dress on paper, another in progress, and even the final version on the form or on a model down the runway.

It was another when it was on the person who inspired it, who it was meant for, from the first sketch to the final stitch.

Dany floated down the stairs, the dress whispering around her, the crimson and black rippling through the soft tulle.  It gave her a fairy-like appearance, but it was the black macrame, the black strappy heels on her feet, and her black fingernails, leather leggings, and crimson lips that warned eveyrone she was no simpering little thing.  She would burn you alive.

The skirt floated about her and she had topped it off with the see-through tulle gloves he'd made at the last minute.  Her silver tresses were spun in a complicated braided style, mountains of them criss-crossing and tangling in a crown about her head.

Someone asked her once why she always wore her hair in such intricate braids-- it had become her trademark.  "When I was growing up I learned a lot about the Dothraki tradition of a braid for a victory," she explained.  She had smirked.  "I grew up with the Dothraki.  They were my family.  I have never been defeated.  The braids show that."

Jon couldn't believe how gorgeous she was.

Or how lucky he happened to be.

He unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, found his voice.  "You know, I prefer you naked but that dress looks really good on you too."

Dany beamed, her smile beatific.  She offered her elbow to him, to take and lead her away to their car, but instead he lifted her hand delicately, even though that had was stronger than anyone would have thought at first look.  Eyes on hers, unblinking, he dragged his fingertips up the tulle, delighting in her breathy hiss.

He dipped under the top of the glove, above her elbow, and began to peel it down, agonizingly slow.  Her pupils dilated and mouth fell, her tongue darting out to nervously wet her lips.  He plucked at fingers, removing the glove.  With her skin bared, he stroked her forearm and then lifted her knuckles to his lips, brushing over them.

"Jon," she gasped, brows arching.  "We're going to be late."

"Do you think I care?"

"It took forever to get into this dress and look like this."

He spun her into his arms, tossing the glove down, and nosed at her neck, whispering along her racing pulse.  "I made the dress, I'll be careful."

"Not a word in your vocabulary."

He didn't acknowledge that, because he was kissing her.  After a moment, he lifted her under her knees, hurrying her back towards the stairs, to her delighted giggles.

Occupational hazard, he thought, later when they were late, racing down the carpet instead of allowing photos taken.  He made her the dresses, even though honestly, she looked good in anything.  Or nothing, as the case may be.

"Dany, who are you wearing?" someone called out.

Dany shouted back.  "Who do you think?"

He laughed, racing after her and not even bothering to answer the same question directed at him.

[miss-kittys-magical-library]

Dress You Up In My Love (Darren Treacy x Jeanie Turner)

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: angst, smut, language, cross dressing kink

A/N: Darren needs just one night to hide after pulling a hit on Dublin's biggest drug lord. He turns to secondary family where he finds out something surprising about himself and unfinished business from his cousin's wedding. (Takes place in series two between episodes 5 and 6. There ARE spoilers for series two of Love/Hate.)

A frantic knocking sprung Jeanie out of sleep that she didn't remember falling into. She hurriedly pulled on the hotel bathrobe and shouted at the door she was coming. A glance at the clock told her it was 8pm. Still plenty of time for him to come by.

Jeanie opened the door and gasped. “Dazz?! What's going on?”

“Is Gordo here?” The man shifted from foot to foot outside the doorway. He had a motorcycle helmet in his hands and a wild look behind bright green eyes.

“No. He's been up at Trinity in that fucking lab all day. I've not seen him.”

“I need a place t’crash for a few days,” he half-begged, half informed Jeanie as he pushed past into the suite. “Crikey this is posh. If I knew Gordo was gonna grow up t’have this kinda cash, I wouldn't have poked fun at the specs n shite.”

“Darren is there something I can help you with? As we've not seen you in four years?” Jeanie crossed her arms over her chest.

“I.. Did something. Just need a place t’lay low. Figured my cousin was th’last place anyone would look.” There was a shrug in his voice.

“Why not Rosie?”

Darren started to shed his jacket then ran a hand through his shaggy hair, “Best not involve her either. Not exactly talking these days.” He held his jacket out to Jeanie.

“Fuck off with that!” she swatted the jacket away.

“Oi! Just hold it while I take off the rest.”

“Rest of what? Your clothes? Hi Darren. Haven't seen you since the wedding. You've grown up. Sorry about Robbie and your mum. Thank you, Jeanie. How have you been? How's Scotland? Just lovely. Don't see Gordon for days and he's had TWO affairs.”

“Fair point, darlin,” Darren stepped out of his boots and unzipped his sweatshirt. “The Treacy side ain't exactly one t’write home about. Are we, yeah? ‘Cept Mary.”

Jeanie took the leather jacket and pinched her nose. Eyes closed. Something sticky about it made her recoil. Eyes popped open. She held her hand up; it was speckled brownish red.

“Dazz is this blood?!”

“Best you don't know. Can I shower?”

“I don't know, can- JESUS DARREN PUT SOME FUCKING CLOTHES ON” Jeanie covered her eyes.

“I'M IN UNDERWEAR!” he shouted back, laughter in his voice. “Alright, Ginge. Haven't ye ever seen a grown man in his underwear? You just need to get rid of those anyway ye can. Please?”

“Well you certainly aren't 16 anymore.”

“I was 18 when ye’s got married. Don’t ye remember?” his eyebrow arched suggestively.

“I would say I tried to forget, but when I'm stuck alone at night, or in a hotel for days at a time, I don't feel bad. It really was foreshadowing for the rest of our marriage.”

“Gordo’s cousin trying t’shag his new wife th’night he got married? Almost got that tossover. Pride myself on that.”

“I was hammered and you have very hypnotic eyes. Like Kaa in the Jungle Book”

Darren frowned, his brows knit together in confusion. His lower lip turned out as he struggled to comprehend that as compliment or insult.

Jeanie couldn't help but stare now. A proper look. Darren's body hadn’t changed much since she last saw him. Still thin, muscles a bit more defined. Scars littered his chest and stomach as he exhaled deeply. It was labored.

“Are those from a gunshot?” Jeanie looked minorly distressed.

Darren absently ran his fingers over the old wounds. “Aye. Working on one lung and I'm a bit barmy now.” Like it was no big deal.

Jeanie sighed heavily, but stopped to gather up his clothes. “I'll take a walk, and ditch these. Against my better judgment. Clean clothes are in our bags. You're about his size I suppose.” She rummaged around in the closet by the front door for a garment bag.

“You're a fucking beauty!” Darren snatched his cousin’s wife up in his arms. He pecked her cheek awkwardly.

“Towels are in the bathroom,” Jeanie grappled with what just happened. “I'll be back in half an hour. I hope whatever you did is fucking worth it. Dazz.”

“Trust me, love. No ones gonna miss him.”

------

Jeanie sloshed out of the canal bed glad she packed her Wellingtons for the unpredictable Irish weather. Grateful too for the stones she found along the water side. She had put the hotel pub news bulletin out of her mind warning of a gangland hit on a local known drug lord. One that showed up to her wedding on the arm of Darren and Gordon’s aunt.

“I hope Darren shot you right in the fucking face, and you knew it was him.” Jeanie muttered as she watched the clothes sink after she pushed the bag under the surface.

Maybe it was hypocritical she was relieved JohnBoy was dead. Dazz wasn't the only one who tried to fuck her that night, but he was the only one she welcomed. Maybe, Jeanie owed Darren a bit of physical gratitude.

-----

Jeanie shut the door behind herself and popped her boots off in the closet. She changed quickly in the bathroom.

“You hungry or anything? I hope you found clothes that-”

Jeanie stopped in her tracks when she came around the wall that divided the suite foyer from the bedroom. Darren with his back to the full length mirror, was twisted so that he could look at himself. He seemed to be staring at his own ass.

“What are you doing?!” Jeanie was surprised, but amused more than anything.

“Oh! What kinda fookin underwear does Gordo have?” Darren's cheeks were just a hint of pink as he caught Jeanie’s eye. “T’ere’s no place for my cock when I piss, but they feel nice? Like t’ere comfortably snug?” He caressed his ass for emphasis.

“Well, those are mine. Not Gordon’s boxer briefs. So that answers the cock question. And they look snug because you have.” Jeanie's eyes strayed down over the bulge that had grown inside the boy shorts. “Well you must REALLY like them.”

Darren's eyes were wide, but he didn't seem embarrassed. Not really. His gaze followed Jeanie's downwards to his erection. “Yeah looks t’at way, doesn't it. I promise ye, I've never done t’is before.”

“Who cares if you have. Women wear boxers all the time. Back home, when I was in uh, what's it here? 1st through 4th year, all we wore was boxers as regular shorts. If you like them, Dazz, you could try some more?”

Jeanie had sat down on the bed. One knee crossed over the other with her hands clasped together. She bit her lip while her heart drummed loud in her ears. A pleasurable discomfort as she began to throb at the sight of Darren in her panties. The anticipation of him getting into a sexier pair. Letting her feel them. It had been so long.

“I mean, I'm not going anywhere t’ night. I’m not dressing in full drag though,” he insisted.

Jeanie stood and rifled through the suitcase. “I didn't think you wanted to. My regular clothes wouldn't fit you anyways.” She bit her fingernail and debated between a deep purple and cobalt blue. “I'm built like an hourglass and you,” she laid her choices on the white duvet, “are built like a baby giraffe.”

Darren rolled his eyes but joined Jeanie at the bedside. He gravitated towards the purple ones. Mostly lace with a bit of satin, they would look absolutely obscene on him. In the best possible way.

“Ye were wearing these t’at night,” Darren was full of nostalgia.

“I didn't know your side of the family could be sentimental besides Mare,” Jeanie giggled. She couldn't help it. “I definitely married the wrong cousin. Sometimes, I wish I could legally kill him,” there was an uneasy humor in her voice.

“I mean, I would do it for ye.” Darren didn't even hesitate.

“Um..” Jeanie's face matched her hair.

Darren burst into laughter, “Ease up, darlin’. I'm fuckin with ye.”

Jeanie wasn't certain about that but she played along. His smile both unnerved her and turned her on. The way he studied her and then the panties with a curiosity and delight.

“Why don't you put those on, and I put on the bra. Then.. we can make a full set.” There was innuendo in Jeanie's suggestion.

“We can't.”

“We CAN. The right sentiment is whether or not we SHOULD.”

“Should I really put these on?”

“Would you really kill someone you care about?” It was a strange reciprocation.

“If I cared about Gordo, I would not have tried t’fuck his wife the night he got married.”

Jeanie licked her lips, flames curled around her ears and cheeks. “Put them on. Anything I can do to make you more comfortable? Liquor?” She reached inside her shirt and produced a small bag that she swung back and forth, “Cocaine from your jeans?”

Darren reached for it but she was quicker. Stuffing it back in her bra, she swatted his hand away. “How about you.. don't do stimulating narcotics with a PTSD chaser?”

“It keeps me awake so I don't have nightmares. Just go so I can put t’ese on!”

Jeanie planted herself on the bed after taking her shirt off. She leaned back on her elbows, legs crossed. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Fine! But close your eyes, so we can both be surprised. Wait, why’d ye take your shirt off?”

“Won't this make you more comfortable?” She pushed her chest forward a bit.

Darren’s eyes darted down to Jeanie's tits where they lingered longer than she expected. “Alright, sweetheart.”

Jeanie could listen to him talk for hours. Still she squeezed her eyes shut with a dramatic flare. “Go on then. I can't bloody wait.”

There was some shuffling around as Jeanie sat without peeking. Her heart raced in anticipation as she realized Darren had tossed what he was wearing at her feet.

A few minutes went by, and she lost patience, “Can I look? You've gotta have them on by now.”

“Fine, but don't laugh! I can't seem to get my junk in these.”

Jeanie opened her eyes and her mouth, “Fuck me, Dazz. Those are..” She stood up and made her way over to him from behind as he faced the mirror. Completely unable to stop herself. “You look delicious.” A word no one has ever used to describe either of them.

Jeanie’s hands on Darren's thin hips. They ran back and down over the sheer and lace over his ass. There was a playful squeeze before changing direction and flattening her hands on his. Downwards and into the indentation of his abs. Then she stopped to trace her fingertips over the angry red scars. Jeanie ran her fingers over them as if she wanted to memorize them.

Darren’s stomach convulsed a bit under her touch. “Jaysus,” he muttered under his breath. Eyes shut as Jeanie watched him in the mirror.

“Let me take care of you. Just one night,” she kissed between his shoulder blades. “You certainly deserve it after what you did today.”

“What did I do t’day?” Darren challenged Jeanie with his question. His hands covered hers, but not to push her away. To guide them down further over his erection.

Jeanie playfully squeezed again. The man in front of her let out a sound between a gasp and a moan when she began to rub the satin barely containing his cock. Her open palm gained friction as she worked faster. Where a man might find a woman's clit between her legs under the fabric, Jeanie moved her palm over Darren's balls.

“Eradicated part of Dublin’s largest pest population,” each word punctuated by her hand moving faster. Jerking him off without ever touching more than the underwear.

“I hope..” Darren's breath hitched and grew heavy. “Someone else..” his hips started to twist. “Ro-”

“I don't think we should talk about her right now, do you?” Jeanie cut him off. She finally let herself reach inside of the panties to properly take his cock in her grip.

Her thumb played with the head, slick with precum. Fingers wrapped around the shaft and stroked the length down and back up. She wasn't used to doing it from this angle but found it even sexier. The power she felt surge being the one in control. How wet she was inside her OWN panties.

Darren's head hung back as he lost himself in the ecstasy of what his cousin’s wife was doing. He didn't care that she was married. To a man who neglected her, ignored her.

Nidge. Tommy. His own sister. His cousin. They fucked around all the time. He and Rosie, that almost got her killed and they weren't even shagging. He knew he'd be livid if he caught her cheating. not violent mind you, but pissed. Just like if Siobhan or Trish did it. Or even Gordon. Everyone was a hypocrite.

Yet here was Darren. His cousin’s wife wanking him off while he wore her knickers. And he didn't give a fuck for once. His dick hadn’t been this hard in ages. That day he and Rosie had sex felt so long ago. They didn't do it much if at all since then.

Maybe this wasn't right, but Darren couldn't care anymore. He stood three feet above a malicious drug lord reduced to a cowering pussy and killed him. It was the same feeling as Jeanie's fingers as they twisted and kneaded his cock. Euphoric.

“If we don't take this to the bed. only one of us is gonna get a happy ending.”

Darren turned quickly. Faster than Jeanie could focus on. Their mouths finally crashed together as he gripped a handful of her. He shoved his tongue in her mouth and hands in her the pockets of the jeans she still wore. He dug his fingers into the thick of her ass as they stumbled back towards the bed.

Jeanie's hands labored in an effort to unbutton and unzip her pants around Darren's body as it thrust into her. She didn't want to stop the war their tongues waged as she struggled to tug the denim over her hips, but there was air as her husband’s cousin intervened. They laughed as he yanked them down to the floor and he went with them.

Darren looked up at Jeanie, who now sat on the edge of the bed, as he knelt on the floor by her feet. He helped each ankle as she lifted them out and literally kissed the tops of her feet as she drew them up on the comforter.

“That was romantic,” her voice thick and barely above a whisper. No hint of her usual sarcasm or humor, only some embarrassment. Her cheeks were pink.

“I've wanted t’fuck ye since we met. And I want ye to remember this for a long time.”

Darren stood up and hooked his fingers in the elastic of the underwear of hers that he was wearing. Jeanie covered his hands and leaned forward to kiss his stomach and his scars. Using her tongue this time to trace over them like she had her fingers.

“Leave them on? I'll never forget it if you let me fuck you wearing those.” Her fingers tangled up in the lace. Tips of her nails just brushed his cock through it.

Darren smiled in a way Jeanie wasn't sure he was capable of doing anymore. Right now, in this moment as his eyes changed from darkness to almost emerald, she knew he let himself forget. That's all she wanted. One night for both of them to forget.

“Can't say I've ever had sex like t’is,” excitement in his voice. “I'm right curious t’see how ye manage.”

“You lay down, and I'll play it by ear. This is definitely a new one for me too.”

They switched places. Darren laid down on the bed, head on the pillows. Jeanie unhooked her bra and slipped out of her own panties. She stood naked and exposed in the lamplight. Her heart raced when she realized he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. They traveled over her breasts and stomach and further still as she crawled on the bed beside Darren and straddled him.

“Fuck me,” it was a response. And a suggestion he made simultaneously. His hands spread out over her back and caught up in her long red hair.

Jeanie raised a bit up on her knees to situate herself. She lowered her body so that the outline of Darren's cock beneath the satin and lace was between the folds of her naked sex. Her hands anchored on his chest as she started to ride him.

“Jaysus your so fucking wet already,” Darren breathed and ran his hands up and down Jeanie's body. Over her shoulders and to her ass where they settled on her hips.

“It's you in my bloody knickers,” her voice wavered as she started to rock harder back and forth.

It was like a pleasurable rug burn on her cunt, as Jeanie closed her eyes and twisted her hips just a bit. She rode the length of Darren’s hardened cock completely from bottom to top and kept gaining speed each time. His strong hands buried in her waist helped her pump over and over. Then he angled himself underneath her so that the tip could hit her clit just right as she moved down.

Jeanie rode harder and faster. The satin and her cunt on fire as Darren's cock started its familiar twitch. She clawed at him without caring if someone else saw the marks on his chest. That explosion was building deep in her walls as they throbbed and ached for him to be entirely inside of her.

Instead Darren slid a thumb into her cunt. It replaced his cock as Jeanie started to lose control. Circled and fucked as she fucking him.

She clutched his wrist, “Harder. Rub my clit harder. Like that.”

He obliged all too eagerly. Especially when moments later she cried out unexpectedly. Her body rolled into an orgasm. He never let up with his thumb or his own hips as they bucked up into Jeanie as she came.

“Let me fuck you properly,” Darren begged as her cunt constricted around his hand. His thumb, the knickers and Jeanie's body slicker than before they started.

Then Darren's mobile rang. Darren's mobile was always ringing.

Tag list: @joz-stankovich @robertsheehanownsmyass @badsext @slutforrobbiebro @badsext @sean-falco

[kiatheinsomniac]

Chapter III: Rooftop Talks

Part one: here Part two: here

Every student was gathered in the hall. (Y/n) looked around oddly, taking a mental headcount. There were only twenty-five students. That was one class.

They had just met the principal, Crawford Starrick who was standing on a podium and had just announced that they were allowed to have their first day to themselves in order to familiarise themselves with the building and the grounds. Perfectly timed, he asked if anyone had any questions. A few hands went up, along with (Y/n)’s.

“So, do we get to go out on the weekends at all?” Asked a boy who looked strikingly similar to Evie. (Y/n) concluded that this must be her twin, Jacob.

“If you’re willing to make the walk.” The principal replied. (Y/n)’s brows shot up, recalling how long the drive had been through the woods; she couldn’t imagine walking that distance. She was called on next.

“Is this everyone? I mean, it’s only one class unless we’re being split into two smaller classes.” She pointed out her observation.

“Each student here is handpicked for success.” The reactions to this were a mix of straightening backs with pride and scoffing, “We want you all to achieve your very best and thought a singular class would better achieve that.” He explained. (Y/n) nodded her head but something about it felt odd. Just one class? Then again, it could be down to the school being new and having to prove its worth before it could accept more students. “Kassandra.” He called on the Greek who had her hand up.

“So what aren’t we allowed to do?” She questioned, not wanting to get into an argument with staff over something she didn’t know.

“Break curfew, start fights, truant, steal, fail to hand in assigned tasks on time, disobey staff, have mobile phones.” The Greek smiled sweetly.

“Ok.” Was her simple answer. (Y/n) squinted her eyes at her slightly. She seemed far too happy with that answer. Why was she smiling so much? Why did her eyes light up?

With no more questions left, they were dismissed to familiarise themselves with the grounds. (Y/n) made her way over to Kassandra, curious. The Greek grabbed her hand and went running down the hall. A few other students watched this, curious before looking to their peers and shrugging, running after them.

When Kassandra finally stopped, they were standing at the top of a staircase by a set of old rusty doors. (Y/n) turned around to see that they had company. Claudia, Aveline and two other boys who (Y/n) didn’t know were all behind Kassandra and herself.

There was a loud creak and snap. Kassandra had kicked the door open, breaking the worn-down lock inside while keeping the doors intact. There was glass on the outside of the metal framing but it was so overgrown with moss that it was difficult to see what was outside. Was this some sort of balcony?

As soon as the doors were opened, it was revealed to be the roof. They all walked out onto it, chattering among themselves while (Y/n) made her way to the edge of the far wall. She could see the lake that gave Vermere Lake Grammar School its name. It was off in the distance, past the extravagant gardens and field with a few layers of trees blocking it from the view if you were on the ground. It appeared to be a clearing in the middle of the sea of green trees and had a stream trickling into it.

(Y/n) took the opportunity to look around the area from a higher viewpoint which she stood on. Trees and trees and trees covered the hills around the school. The colour was quickly becoming sickening to look at everywhere she turned.

Her (e/c) orbs flickered to the gardens and the sports field. She prayed that she wouldn't have to participate in any form of physical education. She had always been far more academic than athletic and saw it as a waste of time - she could be studying something far more useful in her opinion. The gardens were wonderful and defined by tidy gravel paths. The hedges and trees were trimmed to perfection and the colourful pop of the flowerbeds were a nice change from the constant, droning green. There were statues scattered in a grid among the gardens and a large fountain stood proudly in the epicentre of it all. The water was running, putting on a repetitive show, sunlight reflecting off the water and making it sparkle, while statues of cherub angels and mermaids were in the centre. It was a very flamboyant school, indeed.

She shuffled a little closer to the edge before a pair of hands carefully held her sides in a tight, yet cautious grip, causing her to jolt slightly with surprise.

“Careful, don’t fall.” A male voice spoke from behind her. She turned around to see that it was a boy with long brown hair which he swept back into a ponytail, tied with red satin. His skin was softly sunkissed and he had rich brown eyes with golden tones glimmering amongst them. He wore a deep blue high-necked jumper which defined his torso and was tucked into a pair of black trousers which were accompanied by a black Louis Vuitton belt and black suede boots. She took a step from the edge, which inevitably brought her body closer to his, before making her way past him.

She flashed a shy smile, blushing a little at how he'd held her hips, "Thank you." She managed out before making her way over to Claudia and Aveline seeing as she knew them the best. She thought over leaving so abruptly like that. Perhaps he wanted to get to know the other students here too - after all, most people here didn't know one another. She found herself feeling odd and liking how touchy some of the other students were - the way Kassandra had grabbed her hand, the way Arno had grabbed her sides, etcetera. She never got much affection from her parents and never had any friends to give her any either. She quite liked the contact. It was comforting.

What unnerved her though, was the realisation that she was so touch-starved that she was enjoying this from people that she hardly knew. It was quite a shocking sudden realisation, really; something that she didn't want to admit to so she pushed the thought away. She would be getting to know them all soon enough anyway, right? Well, aside from Cesare and Lucrezia. She didn't plan on associating herself with those two.

She hadn't even been here for a whole day and she was already finding out things about herself that she had failed to notice in the past. It only made her lap up all these new changes even more, finally free of that old routine which she was constantly restrained by back at her home.

(Y/n) watched as a blonde male student went running for the lake, followed by an olive-skinned boy who resembled Kassandra a lot.

"Oh, I think they're going to jump in." She pointed out as she gestured her hand towards the two students that were sprinting across the sports field and making a beeline for the lake.

"Of course he is." The Greek girl sighed, a smile on her lips as she watched one of the two boys in particular. "The taller one's my little brother, Alexios; but, a lot of his friends call him Deimos." She paused for a while, her smile lingering as she witnessed her brother and the blonde student strip off as many layers as they could (while staying decent) before plunging off the small pier and into the cold water, "I never liked his friends back home, they were terrible for him. If he's mean to you: don't take it to heart." She rested a hand on (Y/n)'s shoulder to express her sincerity, "Those friends of his made him an asshole but I'm hoping that he will change now that he's not around them anymore. Mater hopes so too."

"Are you here for a change too?" The ebony-haired female prompted, wanting to get her own story across int he process.

"Because I tried to defend him from his friends, I ended up making a lot of enemies back at home." Shrugged, "I've always been one to punch first and ask questions later." (Y/n)'s eyes roved over Kassandra's arms to see how muscular she was. She definitely seemed like she would win a fight. "I suppose I'm looking to try and change myself in that aspect - learn to negotiate. But I know it won't happen overnight." She laughed at herself.

"I mostly accepted the application here because I wanted a change and I don't really have anyone at home." (Y/n) expressed, "I'd wake up and go to my school where I never had any friends, study all break and lunch, go home to paint or read for half an hour, study until dinner then get in the shower and go to sleep." She explained, "I was always home alone a lot because my parents work all the time. I've never been close to them. . . They didn't even drop me off at the airport. . . The family driver was the only one with me. . ." She spoke nonchalantly but Kassandra looked liked like she was on the verge of heartbreak.

For the Greek girl, her family was one of the most important things in her life, her source of happiness. It made her sad to know that her classmate didn't have anyone at all in the world.

"Well, you have friends now." She beamed, throwing an arm around her shoulder, "A lot of people here seem to like you already." Her gaze went back to her brother and the other student who were still swimming in the cold water and her lips tugged into a frown, "He's going to get sick if he stays in there too long. . . I should go get him." And with that, she left and (Y/n) made her way over to Claudia who was standing under a large greenhouse which was on the roof, gesticulating a lot with her hands while Aveline, the boy in blue from earlier, and the other guy were all paying attention to her.

". . . Just imagine it!" She spoke expressively, "Some lights, some chairs, pillows and blankets! If we clean up the glass and the floor and maybe add a few little flowerpots and trinkets on the shelves! This could be an awesome hangout! And, judging by the doors on the way up here, no one comes up here, so we can keep it as a thing between people we like."

"That's quite a cool idea, actually," Aveline spoke from where she was standing inside the rather large greenhouse, a frown tugged at her full lips, "But it would be nicer with some music."

"I bought my guitar with me." The boy that (Y/n) had yet to meet raised his hand in contribution. He had an Italian accent which made (Y/n)'s eyes flicker between him and Claudia, making note of their similarities. She concluded that this was Ezio, Claudia's brother. He, like Arno, suited long brown hair which was tied back - but he had shorter parts that fell loose and framed his angular face neatly. He wore a white hoodie with dark red joggers and white trainers. She wondered why he was dressed so casually until she realised that he and his sister must have had to wake up early to catch the plane and he would have wanted to be comfortable for the journey.

"I'm going to miss my music - I really hate this 'no phones' rule." The one who (Y/n) had briefly spoken to earlier piped up, "I mean, in a controlled environment like a boarding school, they're not exactly going to get in the way of us learning." He shrugged as he leaned against the glass, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Good point." (Y/n) agreed. Ezio turned his eyes to her, not having noticed her before. The Italian raised one of his brows in amusement, a flirtatious and teasing smile tugging at his scarred lips.

"You're quiet." He pointed out.

"Oh, leave her alone, stronzo. She's not one of your easy girls back home and I don't want you sleeping with my friends." Claudia snapped at her older brother, placing her hands on her hips to try and show her authority. Her older brother smiled at this while (Y/n)'s (e/c) eyes widened.

"Whoa, that escalated quickly." She held up her hands, shocked at how the conversation had gone from him teasing her about being quiet to Claudia telling him to not try it on with her.

"Oh, believe me, it would have escalated either way." The female Auditore rolled her chestnut eyes, "I'm sure that as soon as he said that, he would have mentioned something about getting you to moan loudly." She shot an accusing gaze at her brother who tossed his head around, considering his answer with a playful smile.

"Guilty." He confessed, his eyes going back to (Y/n) who felt quite singled out. The other boy clicked his tongue.

"Talking dirty to a girl as soon as you meet her isn't going to get her in your bed." He corrected.

"It isn't?" Ezio shot back, "Oh please, master seducer Arno, share your knowledgable ways with me?"

"Alright, we're leaving." Aveline rolled her eyes, amusement playing on her lips as Claudia followed her and she took (Y/n) by the arm to lead her away as well, "We don't want any part of your guy talk."

"Is your brother always like that?" (Y/n) asked Claudia.

"Yes." Was her blunt reply, "But don't misinterpret him; he respects women a lot even though he sleeps with all the pretty ones he sees. When my ex cheated on me, he broke his nose and when his ex got a new boyfriend, he made sure that he'd be good to her with a heavy threat."

"That's. . . violent but also incredibly sweet?" (Y/n) laughed while she glanced over her shoulder to where Arno and Ezio were having an in-depth discussion about the best way to seduce a woman. She rolled her eyes before following Aveline back downstairs, hoping that she wasn't still the topic of their conversation.

She decided that she wanted to explore the school building.

[junie-bugg]

Prospects and Propriety - Chapter Two

Summary: Everlark Jane Austen AU

Katniss Everdeen and her younger sister Prim are the adopted daughters of Mr. Haymitch Abernathy, a wealthy man with no biological heirs. By the rules of Panem society, an older sibling must be married before the younger can wed. In a time when women have no means of making their own living, marriage is the only way for Katniss to save her sister from destitution and set her up for a happy marriage of her own. Katniss sets her sights on Mr. Gale Hawthorne, a wealthy man who just moved to Whitley and who seems to have his eye on her. But what of the poor baker’s boy who once took a beating to save her life?

Read here on Tumblr or on my AO3 account: izzacrosswriting

Warning: I do plan on this series getting a lil smutty. There will be graphic depictions of violence, sex, and possibly death. I’m still working everything out:)

Nature ambiance(s):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UZ9uyQI3pF0&t=1694s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUjUhZ1Yy7Y

Music:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQbx-OkfN-M

(If you want to listen to this song on Spotify it's called Symphony No.5 in C Sharp Minor: 4. Adagietto (Sehr Iangsam))

Word Count: 3125

Chapter Two

Prim and I have the next day off of lessons. We’ve been homeschooled ever since we came to live with Haymitch, but the weekends are saved purely for whatever we see fit to fill them with. For me, that’s mostly hunting and being out in the woods, unless the weather is bad, and sometimes not even then. 

If I decide to stay at home I usually lounge around with a book and see what Prim is up to. It’s mostly knitting, dress-up, or playing with the ugly cat Haymitch let her keep a few years back. Prim named him Buttercup, claiming that his matted, ruddy coat matched the bright yellow of the flowers she so adored. I had wanted to drown the thing in a bucket when we caught him stealing scraps from the kitchen, but Haymitch had laughed, even picked the thing up by the scruff of his neck and shook him around. 

“Look at this little guy, sweetheart. He’s a survivor. We can’t kill him!” He had placed the dirty, mewling kitten into Prim’s arms and the thing had hissed at me. I was worried he’d give Prim some kind of disease but he never did. I don’t feel gratitude towards him though. Only suspicion. It could still happen. 

When I want to be alone I go to my greenhouse. Really it’s Prim’s and my greenhouse, but ever since she found maggots in the compost pile nearly two years ago, she hasn’t stepped foot in there.  The greenhouse is small, maybe a third the size of my bedroom, but it’s peaceful. Especially when it storms and I can hear every hollow beat of the raindrops on its glass roof. It’s situated on the edge of the grounds by the tree line that morphs into the large forested hill behind Victor Greene, Haymitch’s estate. Over the years I’ve planted herbs and flowers and medicinal plants I’ve found on my journeys into the woods. The plants do well here in the rows of dark soil I’ve fortified with compost and fertilizer. The whole place smells of earthy rot and there’s something about how sunlight scatters lazily through the frosted windows that calms me. There’s a nook on the far side of the greenhouse, past all the plants, where I’ve scattered some quilts and pillows on a wide triangular window ledge. It’s a perfect place to read or sleep. Or sing. 

This is the only place where I let myself sing. I don’t even do it in the woods, always afraid someone else taking a stroll will hear me or that I’ll scare away game. Ever since Prim and I were placed under Haymitch’s care, really ever since our dad died, I refuse to sing in front of others. Maybe it’s because I’m shy and I don’t like people listening to my voice swelling and breaking on the high notes. Or maybe I’m lying to myself and I don’t sing in front of others because it’s too painful to remember a time when my life was filled with music. Mountain aires and lullabies and love songs, all sung by my father. I guess I don’t like breaking apart when there’s an audience. But when I’m alone I can shatter beneath the notes for a time, before I’m needed back up at the house. 

Today, however, instead of knitting or playing hide and seek in the gardens, Prim has informed me she wants to walk to the village. “You need new ribbons for the ball!” She squeaks as I button up her light pink dress from behind. We have servants available who help us dress or bathe or brush our hair but I always like helping Prim myself. She looks like a tiny little princess with her frilly dress and her curls pulled back with a pearl white ribbon. In contrast, I look plain in a forest green frock and my light brown shawl. 

“I told you, Prim. I’m not going.” I struggle with the last button. Prim has been going through a growth spurt and soon she’ll be too big for this dress. I feel sad, watching my little sister growing up so fast. 

“I heard Mrs. Winthrop and Ms. Trinket talking and they said you had to go,” She’s grinning so hard I can see the slight gap between her two front teeth. “Because Mr. Hawthorne is going to be there.” 

Ah, yes. My supposed husband-to-be. So even Prim has heard about Ms. Trinkets’ ridiculous arrangements. A man with that much money has his pick of the litter when it comes to choosing brides. I’m not ugly, but I’m no exquisite beauty either. Not like some of the girls I see around Whitley. I have no fortune of my own, really no status either besides being Haymitch’s ward and that will go up in smoke the second he dies. Most likely Mr. Hawthorne will look right through me and move on. But the news that I’m being forced to attend the public ball worries me. The whole village will be there. Including him. The baker’s boy. 

Maybe some new ribbons aren’t such a bad idea. 

We turn down an offer for the carriage and instead walk along the main road into Whitley. My boots have barely brushed the cobblestone sidewalks when Prim is dragging me into the seamstresses’ shop. The dressmaker, Cinna Ludgate, and the tailor, I think her name is Portia Peever, both turn to welcome us. Prim tells Mr. Ludgate about my need for new ribbons and in a flash he pulls down the display from the ceiling, winking at me as he walks back to the counter. 

There are so many to choose from. Streams of all colors flutter between my outstretched fingertips like butterfly’s wings. I see ribbons of frilly lace, satin, velvet, and even silk. My eyes land on a simple, white cloth ribbon with a delicate embroidered lavender pattern. I hold it up for Prim’s inspection and she declares I have to buy two in case I manage to get one dirty before the ball. 

I’ve just handed Mrs. Peever the money for the ribbons when the bell over the door rings. In walks Ms. Delly Cartright, one of Prim’s closest friends, and her older sister, Ms. Marianne Cartright. Their father is the village shoemaker, so they’re well known and well-liked by almost everybody. Delly is Prim’s age which gives them plenty to talk about. Prim grabs a hold of Delly and begins showing her the latest shipment of buttons Mr. Ludgate has displayed. 

Marianne is one year younger than me but we’ve never exchanged more than simple pleasantries. I dread small talk but from my personal experience, a trip into town wouldn’t be deemed official without at least one awkward encounter. 

“Are you coming to the ball, Ms. Everdeen? You missed the last one,” Marianne asks. She’s absolutely gorgeous, with big, blue doe eyes and a pouty mouth. Her nose is small and her figure slender. She is what they call a “country belle” in Town. I know at least five love songs written about girls like her. I expect in a few years Prim will grow to be one herself. 

“The dancing was splendid. I do hope you’re coming next week,” She continues.

I hold up my ribbons in response. “My tutor Ms. Trinket won’t let me miss it.” I force my mouth into a smile. 

“Oh,” Marianne’s eyes have settled on my ribbons. They’re probably a tad dull for her taste seeing as there were velvets and silks to choose from, but I like the simple flower design. The white cloth paired with the purple and green thread looks pretty. “Well, as my darling mother always says: simple never goes out of style.” She smiles up at me but the warmth doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “My sister and I are here for my dress fitting. I can’t wait to show everyone what Mr. Ludgate made me for the ball. It’s a custom piece!” She practically squeals. I nod and bid her goodbye, waving Prim over so we can leave. I breathe a sigh of relief as we exit the shop. I hate girl talk. 

With our main objective for coming to Whitley carried out, my feet automatically turn towards home, but Prim has other ideas. “Can we look at the cakes, Katniss?” She begs. She’s like a little puppy. I can’t refuse, though I grow more anxious with every step closer to the bakery we get. 

I know what this is. A look at the cakes in the window leads to Prim asking to go inside. It’s happened before and I’ve been lucky enough to avoid him. He works alongside his parents and two older brothers anyway. What are the chances that he’ll be manning the counter and not the ovens in the back? 

Prim pulls me through the bakery doors and runs to press her face against the display case. I hear a call of “I’ll be right there!” from the back, followed by a grunt and the shuffling of boxes. I join Prim and am just starting to admire the selection of pastries when I hear a quiet gasp and look up. 

It's him. The baker’s youngest son. I don't know him by name but I remember him. Of course, I remember him. I can almost feel the icy sheets of rain and the hollow numbness of hunger from that horrible day as I meet his gaze. 

Our father had died three months earlier. He had been a poor wheat farmer but the income from the harvest was enough to support a small household. My mother traded plants and home remedies to supplement what our empty pockets couldn’t buy. One winter, my father had been kicked in the head by his horse. My mother did everything she could but even as young as I was, I knew he had died before he hit the ground. After that my mother stopped eating. She just sat in bed and stared at the walls while her children turned to skin and bone. I did everything to try and rouse her but it was no use. With our father dead so too was her will to live. 

At eleven I became the sole provider of the family. I ventured into town alone to sell that damn horse, some old jewelry, and even dresses of my mother’s from her merchant days, but the money ran out quickly and there was more to buy than food. Our hearth sat cold, unused, and wanting of wood, and we resorted to rubbing ourselves raw to keep warm. We stopped attending school in the village, afraid that a teacher would see how hollow we were becoming and would whisk us away to the orphanage. I had seen orphans in the schoolyard, their faces empty and their shoulders slumped in defeat. I would never let that happen to Prim. 

We had eaten nothing but dried mint leaves in water for three days before I decided to try selling some of Prim’s old baby clothes in town. The clothes were threadbare and faded so nobody had wanted them. My arms were shaking so violently from cold and malnourishment that I ended up dropping them in a puddle. I decided to leave them there, afraid that if I bent over I wouldn’t be able to get back up. 

I found myself stumbling around behind a row of brick buildings. The rain had started and I was soaked to the bone. The smell of baking bread carried over the frigid air and I realized I was behind the bakery. The back door was open and I stood, trancelike, basking in the warm glow of the ovens before a thought floated through my foggy head. Maybe they had food scraps in their trash. A crust of bread or rotting vegetables, something only my family was desperate enough to eat. I lifted the tops off of the bins and my hopes died when I saw that their insides were heartbreakingly bare. 

Suddenly, I heard a woman screeching. It was the baker’s wife. She spat remarks about how she was sick of people going through her trash bins and if I didn’t leave she would call law enforcement. As I dropped the lids and backed away I saw a boy peeking out from behind his mother’s skirts. I recognized him from school but we had never talked. 

With my final hope gone I slumped against a scrubby little apple tree in their yard. My knees buckled and I slipped down into the mud. I would rather die than go home empty-handed to Prim’s gaunt face and my mother’s sickly, unblinking eyes. 

I heard a commotion from the bakery and then the ring of metal on flesh. 

“Feed it to the pigs you worthless creature! No one decent will buy burnt bread!” The witch screeched. There was the boy again, come out the back door clutching two blackened loaves. A bright red mark shone on his cheek and my heart twisted when I realized his mother must have hit him. He looked between me and the pigpen, and then glanced back towards the door. His mother must have gone up to front to serve a customer because then I heard him sloshing his way through puddles to get to me. 

“Take them!” He urged, pressing the loaves into my skeletal hands. “Take them! Go!” As quickly as he came he was gone, back into the kitchens. I watched him disappear. As he closed the door only then did I realize what he had done for me. 

Two loaves of bread! And they weren’t even that burned, really only the crusts had been damaged. I quickly pressed them to the skin under my shirt and hurried home. The searing heat from the loaves roused something within me. I couldn’t die. Not when I had Prim to take care of.

I dropped the loaves on the table and stopped my sister from savagely tearing a chunk off for herself. I sat her down, forced our mother to join us, and then began scraping off the blackened bits. That night we feasted on two slices of bread each, afraid so much food might make us sick. The loaves were hearty, filled with nuts and bits of cranberry. I had never tasted anything so good in my entire life. 

 As I predicted, it was a teacher that found out about our situation. Upon our absence at school, she had come looking for us and found Prim and I living in squalor with a mother that was too sick to care. I thought that was it, that we were to be sent to the orphanage now and our mother taken away to an institution. But a man by the name of Haymitch Abernathy, wealthy and lacking a family of his own, intervened. He had heard of our misfortunes from hushed gossip around the village and had petitioned to adopt us. Our mother was eventually sent to an institution by the sea and we’ve lived with Haymitch, fed and clothed and taken care of, ever since. 

The baker’s boy saved our lives that day. Surely I would have given up and died under that apple tree if it wasn’t for the kindness he showed me. I owe him everything. And because of that, I will never be able to pay him back. 

I take him in now. He's taller than he was before. Much taller. His chubby child’s build has been replaced with an imposing stature that takes up almost the entire doorway. I guess a lifetime of hefting bakery pans and kneading dough has left him broad-shouldered and muscular. 

“Katniss,” he says. I can tell he’s surprised to see me. His voice is deep and I note that his blonde hair curls with sweat. There’s a streak of flour on his cheek and an apron tied around his waist.

“It’s Ms. Everdeen,” I correct him. It’s out before I can stop myself and as soon as I say it I want to bite my own tongue off. How pretentious I must sound. It's only after Prim has begun ordering a sugar-dusted fruit tart from the case that I realize with a start that the baker's boy knows my name. 

His face is flushed and pink when he turns his eyes to me. 

“I'll take four of those cookies,” I get out. “The orange lilies.” My voice sounds weaker than normal. I hate this. I feel fragile under this boy’s gaze. And that's when I realize: he must be waiting for his thank you. For the bread that he burned and took a beating for. But I can't do it, either because Prim is with me and it would confuse her and probably embarrass the boy, or because it's been five years and the time for ‘thank you’ is over. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he doesn't remember. He probably only knows my name because it was a source of gossip around town when Haymitch adopted Prim and I. He must remember me from then. 

He gives me a timid smile, deftly wraps the cookies in parchment paper, ties them securely with a piece of fringed twine, and hands the package to me. I suddenly feel the need to fill the silence so I blurt: “They’re beautiful. The cookies.” 

He manages to turn a shade pinker. “Thank you, I do most of the frosting around here. I made those this morning.” As I hand him the money for the treats, I assume that's it. That was the end of our conversation. But my tongue is moving again. 

“They look just like the lilies in the woods. I see them on my morning walks.” 

“Yes, exactly,” He grins and reveals a charming set of dimples. “I’ve seen them when I go to the woods to paint.” 

I don't know what else to say and Prim has started tugging on my hand. She’s probably anxious to get home so we can enjoy our treats with tea, so I give him one last look and utter one last thank you before heading back out into the crowded square. 

“Do you know him?” Prim asks as we begin walking towards home. 

“No,” I say, a little relieved to be leaving. I can't catch my breath and my heart is racing like it does when something frightens me. “I don't even know his name.”

“Well, I've never seen you be that talkative with a stranger.” She beams. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Winthrop!” 

Is that what he is to me? A stranger? I shake the thought from my head.

He knew my name. The very least I can do is learn his. 

[antianakin]

Working with the Republic is a GOOD thing because it grants them the ability to help people that couldn't be done if they were independent. The Republic is an institution that is actually constantly showcased in Lucas Canon as a GOOD thing. Look at actual canon and tell me what other good options you even see for governments. Within Lucas canon, the options are the Republic, crime organizations like the Hutts, the Separatists (who are run by a Sith and the Corporate Alliance and constantly commit atrocities against innocent people), and the neutral planets who end up getting completely cut off from trade as a result. So pray tell, what is the alternative for the Jedi to aligning themselves with the best option out there for helping the people of the galaxy? How was this somehow the BAD option.

And I should've said this in my last reblog, but you can't use Legends bullshit to make your arguments, sorry. Legends isn't canon and just doesn't count. Legends often gets to go off and do its own thing, regardless of what the original themes and stories about the Jedi were intended to be, so it's pretty easy to find Jedi critical and anti Jedi stories if you choose to stray from high canon. I don't deny that. But those stories aren't the REAL story, they aren't the story Lucas had intended to tell, so bringing them up is just kind-of pointless and meaningless.

With that out of the way, there's a thousand different metas about Galidraan and why the Jedi aren't actually at fault for that at all (or why Jango and the Mandos, who shot FIRST in that interaction and escalated it to something violent rather than attempting to be calm and rational about anything, are equally to blame for what happened), but as I haven't personally read it myself and am relying mostly on other people's metas and the screenshots of the panels I've seen, I'm not going to discuss it much. However, it is Legends, and therefore bullshit.

I don't even know who Kalee is, so I'm going to assume it's Legends, and therefore bullshit.

The Jedi ARE investigating the clones all throughout the war. In fact, the Jedi are the FIRST people to investigate the clones. I'm not sure what you think Obi-Wan, a Jedi Knight, literally going to Kamino and reporting on what he found, is supposed to be other than investigating. The Jedi are the ONLY PEOPLE we ever see investigating the clones at any point in high canon, too. There's no indication the Senators are doing anything to investigate them, no indication the Separatists give a shit, no indication that Satine or the other neutral planets give a shit. The ONLY PEOPLE WHO CARE ENOUGH TO INVESTIGATE AT ALL are the Jedi. It seems in MASSIVELY bad faith to claim that the ONLY people to investigate this at all and who have been forced into fighting a galactic civil war immediately after discovering the clones in the first place are at fault for not finding answers SOON ENOUGH. Just because we don't see them find any sort of clue until season six of TCW doesn't mean they weren't investigating prior to that either, it literally does just mean this is the first lead they've been able to find at all and they IMMEDIATELY follow up on it by sending people to speak to Palpatine and sending a team to speak to the Pykes. There's no indication that this is the first time they've looked for clues, just the first time they've found one, so I'm not accepting this as a flaw, either. What horrible monsters, they took two years to find a clue in a case that's been cold for over a decade and who no one is helping them with while they're actively fighting a galactic civil war. Obviously this is an indicator of them being terrible people who don't care about the clones.

The Jedi don't know Dooku is a Sith. The canonicity of this depends on whether you count TCW as high canon or not (some people ONLY count the films, others count the films and TCW, so it's a little up to debate, but I tend to be willing to count TCW as high canon), but the whole arc where they go and investigate Sifo Dyas on the Pyke planet is very clear that the Jedi DON'T know Dooku is a Sith until this mission where they are able to connect him to the name Darth Tyrannus and Dooku basically confirms that he's a Sith verbally. Prior to this, they obviously are aware Dooku is fallen, that he's now dark, but there is in fact a difference between a dark/fallen Force user and a Sith. Just like there is a difference between Force users who are light and a Jedi. Not every good Force user is a Jedi, and not every bad Force user is a Sith. Also, I don't know what good you think that telling anybody that Dooku was a Sith would do to change anything. The people of the Republic already believe him to be evil just for being a Separatist, and the people in the Separatist government show themselves to be willfully blind to anything negative about Dooku at all. Mina Bonteri's TEENAGE SON tries to tell them that Dooku assassinated his mother and they refuse to believe him. Padme tries to convince Mina that Dooku is bad news and Mina refuses to hear her, despite the fact that they're friends and seem to respect each other. So the people who need to hear that Dooku is bad aren't actually going to listen and the people who WILL listen already know Dooku is bad, so knowing he's a Sith changes nothing.

None of these are mistakes the Jedi actually made or they are from low enough canon that they don't count anyway (and one of them is questionable as a mistake the Jedi made to begin with).

The Jedi did everything right and lost anyway, trying to argue anything else is missing the point of the story.

I never, ever say the Jedi were flawed, and here's why.

It's not because I don't think people can BE flawed, or that I don't think GOOD people can be flawed, of course they can. Even people who are genuinely doing good things and making good choices and trying their best to be selfless and kind and compassionate can make mistakes and have a bad day.

But there's really only two reasons I see anybody bring up "the Jedi were flawed."

The first is from Jedi fans who are trying to stave off the Stanakins and the anti Jedi crowd by adding that in as a disclaimer. "OF COURSE the Jedi are flawed, but it doesn't mean they aren't good people!" It's a meaningless statement because the side saying it doesn't even really believe it to be true and the side they're saying it TO thinks the Jedi being flawed means they all deserved to die. This is the kind of statement that leads to people deciding that individual Jedi are okay but their culture needs to be completely reformed in order to allow people like Anakin to just do whatever they want whenever they want and then they can all live.

The second is from people who DON'T really like the Jedi much and will insist that "the Jedi are flawed" is part of the whole point of the narrative of Star Wars, especially the prequels. This is the kind of statement that leads to people like Leslye Headland INSISTING that George Lucas intended for the story of the Jedi to be one of failure and criticism and casting the Jedi as "the evil institution" in her interpretation of Star Wars. This is what leads to stories like the Ahsoka show insisting that the Jedi were elitist bastards whose arrogance led to their own genocide. These people usually try to claim they like the Jedi, but they'll still cast the Jedi as the bad guys in the story instead of, say, Anakin. These are the people who genuinely have no idea what attachment is and don't care to learn. These people believe that, at best, the Jedi THOUGHT they were doing good, but that they had completely lost their way and were truly not that much better than the Sith anymore and their destruction was necessary to create balance in the galaxy.

I have no desire to appease people who don't like my interpretation of Star Wars, and I don't think that "the Jedi were flawed" was ever the point of Lucas's story and I genuinely think it takes a lot AWAY from his story to say that it does. So while I am perfectly happy to admit that people in general, even overall GOOD and kind and selfless people, are always flawed and can make mistakes, I will never, ever say that the Jedi were flawed. The Jedi lost, yes, but not due to their own flaws. They lost because of EVERYONE ELSE'S flaws, so what does it MATTER if the Jedi were flawed or not? If you truly believe the Jedi were good people who did everything right and simply lost due to other people's selfish choices, then what does it add to the story to insist the Jedi were flawed? How does it change anything, for the better or otherwise? The Jedi were right IS the point of the story, so insisting they were flawed actually takes away from that by distracting from how the Jedi were RIGHT, and it's people choosing not to listen to them or trust them or act like them that brings about the downfall of an entire galaxy.

The Jedi weren't flawed. The Jedi were RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING and that is the hill I will die on.

[elusive---ivory]

The Woman In Velvet pt. 5

Aaaaa, this is a lot one. This one is just all fluffy and fun.

WARNINGS: None, just fluff

PAIRING: Arthur x Oc.

Masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Three little girls were in the dining room, setting the table for their dinner.

"Ha, Seriously Sandy? You still don't have a date for Friday?" The girl with dimples giggled.

The girl with black hair shook her head and shrugged. "Looks like I won't be joining you for your triple date."

The girl without dimples gave her a shocked look and gasped. "Sandy! Don't be such a debbie downer. I'll set you up with someone."

The girl with dimples scoffed. "Really? Because, the last time you played matchmaker, you set up Dollar Dave with his sister."

The two sisters bickered until a large man appeared in the entrance of the dining room.

"Girls." The man spoke. His voice was raspy. He had a thick, black, cigar hanging out of his mouth. He looked over at the girl with black hair. The man took a seat at the newly set table.

"Deliah, Destiny, if your cousin doesn't wish to attend your ridiculous triple date, then don't force her."

The girl with black hair turned away from the man and muttered a small "Thank you" under her breath. She sat next to him, but scooted away a few inches. The two other girls rolled their eyes and sat down with them.

"Besides, I think Sandy and I would have lots of fun without the two of you, ain't that right, doll?" His eyes were glued on the girl next to him. She gulped hard. She stared hard at her cousins.

They both stared back with menacing looks. Neither of them bothered to help.

Sandy woke up to a dreaded alarm clock going off.

'Funny,' she thought. Her alarm didn't work at all. She had planned on getting a new one, but it was her same alarm clock. As she opened her eyes a little bit, she took in her surroundings. She was in her bed, and in her usual nightie. What was different about today?

"Oh fuck." She said, aloud. Sandy looked around. She threw the bed sheets off her body and quickly ran into her living room.

Arthur was standing there in the kitchen, shirtless. Sandy approached him carefully, still not fully understanding what was going on. The early morning sun was slowly creeping outside the window. The small apartment was dark, beside the light of in the kitchen.

"Hey." Sandy said, quietly.

Arthur looked around him, slightly startled. He didn't expect her to be up yet.

Arthur smiled at her gently. "Good morning."

Sandy looked down, bashfully. "Yeah, what are you doing up?" She stepped into the florescent lighting of the kitchen.

Arthur shrugged. "I couldn't sleep."

"Really? Did you fix my clock?" Sandy smiled, giggling slightly.

"Yeah, you talk in your sleep. You kept mumbling about the alarm, so I fixed it." Arthur answered, sheepishly.

"Also, we were on the couch when," Sandy cleared her throat, "we, ya know."

Arthur smiled. "You also sleepwalk."

Sandy giggled and gently punched his shoulder. "You got all of that from just spending the night with me. Color me impressed, Detective."

Arthur flinched at her sudden roughhousing, but chuckled at her joke. "Yeah, you know. I do stand up comedy."

Sandy raised her eyebrow. "Really?" She said, brewing her coffee.

Arthur nodded, shyly. "Yeah. Tomorrow night will be my very first gig."

"Huh." Sandy stirred her coffee. "Save me a seat in the front." She winked, booping his nose.

Sandy walked out of the kitchen. Arthur's eyes followed her dreamily.

Sandy finally got into her routine according, putting on a seemingly different work uniform. Instead of matted and ripped purple violet blouse, it was a red and black velvet with a black satin skirt. It wasn't at all comfortable, but she had to make do. She put on black heels matching the overall theme of the outfit. When she was done, she found her cheap frame glasses, and gently placed them on her face.

Sandy walked back into the kitchen to give Arthur a small peck on his cheek.

"I'm heading out. Here's the spare key, just incase you want to lounge around here for today." Sandy placed a small key in his hand. "Try not to burn down the apartment." She giggled stepping out of the door.

Arthur's eyes never left her figure once. She looked so elegant when she walked. His hand gently touched the cheek where she kissed him. It left him breathless.

The gloomy office building seemed to be even more dull and dreary than usual. Sandy sighed sitting there in her small cubicle.

"Hey, did you hear about those subway killings?"

Sandy overheard two coworkers talking. Often times when she eavesdropped she would mostly hear some stupid gossip like she fucked or he fucked her etc, but this seemed serious.

"Yeah, I did. I hear they were employees of ours."

This caught Sandy's attention. 'Employees?' She thought. She continued listening intently.

"Wayne Enterprises?"

"Yeah, I hear one of them was Dennis Cullen."

Sandy's eyes widened. 'Dennis is dead?' Half of her celebrated the death of that bastard, but it just seemed wrong. She snapped out of her thoughts when a coworker knocked on Sandy's cubicle.

"Sandy, the boss wants you."

She took a long sigh. She got out of her chair and walked down to the boss's office.

"Needed me, Mr. Don?" Sandy asked, being as polite as she could be.

A large man looked up at Sandy from his paperwork.

"Yes, please take a seat." Mr. Don gestured to the two chairs in front of him.

"Why were you not here yesterday?" His voice sounded frustrated.

"Well, sir, I was really sick, yesterday and-"

Mr. Don cut her off with a glare.

"Look, I'm too bent on excuses. Now, as you may know, Dennis, your associate, has recently passed away. It's a shame, I know, but he had lots of clients. Since he's gone, you have to take after his clients." Mr. Don looked back down at his paperwork.

Sandy stood there dumbfounded.

"Wait. Shouldn't the person getting his position get his clients?" Sandy crossed her arms.

Mr. Don looked at her begrudgingly. "Well, yes, but there's still so many clients he had. Most are pretty upset by the current circumstances. Could you please do these few clients?" Mr. Don held a sudden desperation in his gruff voice.

Sandy gave a defeated sigh. "Alright. I'll see what I can do about the clients."

Dennis would always brag about his clients and how high maintenance they were. How he was so lucky to always have meetings with the one and only, Thomas Wayne. His position was completely up for grabs.

Sandy didn't want Dennis's stupid position. Not like she could ever get get it. She was a woman working 45 hours a week, yet being paid so little.

'Why the fuck did people get so angry over some dudes getting killed on a subway?' Sandy growled in her thoughts, as she walked out of the office building.

All day clients were yelling and screaming about how they furious they were for not getting their fucking products. It gave her such a headache.

Her heels tapped the wet pavement. The lights of bars and restaurants colored the numerous puddles on the ground.

As she was walking down the street, she felt a pair of eyes on her.

Crack.

She turned around. Her eyes monitored the alleyway next to her. She strutted ahead, continuing her path, while being on high alert.

Crack.

She heard it again. She started walking fast. As she did so, Sandy glanced behind her. It was a silhouette of a man walking fast. Her heart stopped. She kept walking faster, until she was gently jogging in her heels. She was almost to the subway.

The man had finally caught up to her, and gently tapped her shoulder.

Sandy froze. She turned around to face her stalker.

Arthur smiled gently, taking off the yellow hood of his hoodie.

She sighed in relief. "Oh, thank god. Arthur, it's just you." Sandy smiled at her supposed stalker. "I thought you were the subway killer."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah, so I've heard."

"How could you not? It's everywhere. Who cares about some assholes dying?" Sandy tapped around her coat. "Damn it." She hissed under her breath.

"Hey, Art." Sandy said, getting his attention.

Arthur tilted his head. "Hmm?"

"Do you think I can bum a cig?" Sandy asked, desperately.

"Uh, yeah sure." Arthur handed her a fresh cigarette.

Sandy lit the cancer stick, inhaling the dangerous smoke, then exhaling it out of her lungs.

"Thanks, Artie." Sandy smiled. "Say, you never told me why you were out here following me anyway?" She said, with the cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

Arthur looked down, almost like a guilty puppy.

"I, uh, was worried." Arthur said, twiddling his thumbs.

Sandy smirked. "Worried? Aww, Artie. You don't need to worry about me, sweets." Sandy pressed a small kiss on his cheek.

Arthur started fidgeting with the bottom of his hoodie. "Uhh, well, of course, I do, Sandy. It's dangerous."

Sandy giggled. "Ok, I guess you can walk me back to my apartment." She put out the cigarette, and linked arms with Arthur.

The subway was deserted. The florescent lights flickered on and off as the loud railings of the subway train moved by.

Sandy was seated by Arthur's side, leaning on him a bit. For Sandy, Arthur was like a breath of fresh air. He was so comforting and sweet. He listened to Sandy's problems, no matter how stupid they were to her.

"So, you're a party clown?" Sandy said, holding Arthur's hand in hers.

"Yeah, at least I was. I'm focusing more on my comedy career. I've got lots of jokes." Arthur put emphasis on the word lots.

"You said that this morning. Let me hear some of your jokes." Sandy said, interested.

Arthur eyes lit up.

"Oh? Let me get my joke book." Arthur reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn down journal. Arthur gently handed the journal to Sandy.

Sandy flipped through a few pages of the journal.

"Well, what do you think?" Arthur asked, impatient. He looked pretty anxious.

Sandy laughed a little.

"How come poor people are so confused? They don't make sense." Sandy read, still laughing. "That's a stupid joke."

Arthur frowned. "Oh."

Sandy immediately corrected herself. "No, no, no. It's great, Arthur. You're gonna be great. I know it."

Arthur's frowned disappeared, and turned into a smirk. "You think so?"

"I know so, babe." Sandy kissed his nose.

"Could I look through your book more?"

Arthur nodded.

Sandy looked through each page, but there's one page that caught her eye. It had a polaroid picture of her with twisted writings all over the page.

Mrz. Sandy Fleck

Mrz. Sandera Fleck

MY dEaR, Sandy

Sandy's eyes read the page over and over again. Arthur began to look anxious.

The subway came to a stop.

"This is our stop." Sandy handed his journal back to him. "And, by the way, it's spelled S-A-N-D-R-A." She said, stepping out of the subway doors. Arthur followed behind her.

[levs-mindspace]

Chapter two!!!

Paranoia available on Wattpad now!!

That night has been stuck in my head ever since. I slept the night in the store straight into the opening of the next day after I was too scared to go home.

Yes, this story was strange to someone from the outside, but for a witch in New York? It was a death sentence. Think of this: Teen Found dead with Crosses covering her body after she posts runes reading ad online. Even: 19y/o crucified while burnt with own sage in central park.

Living as a witch lately has been more dangerous than ever. These people never knew what was coming since they were some of the first victims, but there have been over 10 killings in the past six months from what the police think is the same man. They have close to no leads to who it is, but I would pay actual money to say it was the man that came here last night.

Who knows maybe he even is a witch come to exterminate the rest of us and his bad tarot skills were just him playing dumb. He sure as hell knew what card to pull out to make me paranoid about him, that's for sure. After some thinking, I left a complaint with the police about a man in my shop. Hopefully, they can find this guy before he finds me again.

I slowly made my way out of the back of the store and into the actual shop portion. I sell everything from deity sculptures, to blank notebooks, to runes and more. If you need anything spiritual, you will find it at The Inner Light.

When I approach the door to turn on the open sign, I notice someone out front. Actually, they are leaned across the bench, almost waiting it seems. After last night, I wasn't taking any chances with strange visitors. I took one of the heavy glass wands off the shelf and armed myself with it before I checked who it was. I slowly reach the handle and open the door... just to find Sarah, my employee, laying outside, presumably waiting for the shop to open so her shift will start.

As quick as I can, I wake her up, bring her in from the cold, wrap her in a blanket, and sit her down in the back. She is in no shape to work right this minute. Especially since it was my anxiety over this man that caused me to oversleep here and forget to open anyways.

"So," Sarah started off with," you haven't been late opening in months, what caused you to now?" I recanted everything of the last night's events to her in extreme detail, yet I left out which card it was and just told her I forgot to check.

As if just to prove my earlier point Sarah muttered, while trying to warm herself even more with the blanket, "It would be kinda scary if he actually pulled the death card out wouldn't it?" So I felt the need to correct her.

"No actually, most of the time the death card actually stands for breaking off old habits and relationships. It's mostly good, but of course, it depends on the circumstances, like always,"

"Oh. well whatever he pulled, I don't even care if its the seven of hearts..."

"Sarah that's not a tarot card"

" I DON'T CARE, whatever he pulled, you deserve a day off from what that man put you through. You go home and I can handle the store today, look!" she said while pulling off her blanket, "I'm not even cold anymore."

Sarah was a nice girl and all, but was she truly capable of handling the store? I mean I live just upstairs anyway. I practically am home.

"I don't know, what if he comes back?" I questioned. if he came back, especially with a knife again, she would be defenseless. She is only new to our coven as well, she knows close to no defensive spells.

"I may not be as magically inclined as you, but I'm a big 6'1 woman, I think I can handle a little man," she joked and laughed. "Seriously though, I'll be fine."

"I'm really trusting you with this one, and thank you," I told her. It will be a relief at least. Hopefully, that relief will overtake my anxiety.

Eh, hope is overrated anyway.

-

After packing up from the shop, I decided to do a little 'window shopping.' There are multiple mystic shops in New York, but I've always dreamed of being the one that people would go to first. Right now people only come to me for my fortune telling, not the shop itself. So everyone and a while I go to some different shops, posing as a customer, and see what they have that I don't. It's close to always effective.

I decided that my first shop of the day would be Lucky Lucy's. She specializes in crystals, which I do not. I love studying them and have a few of my own, just I don't sell as much of them.

As I walk in, the strong smell of sage hits my nose right away. I thought I burned strong stuff, I was wrong, so wrong.

The walls were lined with every crystal imaginable: Amethyst, citrine, bismuth. Heck, she even had refrigerated gallium at one point, and that's not even a rock.

I had to say, it was impressive. But no matter how good it was, I wouldn't be able to take any tips from it since I don't sell crystals, so I bought some obsidian for my personal collection and left.

I began walking down the street when I had the sinking feeling I was being followed. Luckily from being a woman in New York, I had previous experience with this feeling so I pulled out my safe button. Basically, if I lift my finger off the button it notifies police and ambulances.

I tried to take a longer route, hoping to lead whoever was following me off track. Yet the feeling stayed with me.

I couldn't sense this person's aura though, which threw me off, was I imagining that there was someone?

CRASH

I jumped so hard I slammed my head into the side of the brick wall next to me.

After I fell, I believe I blacked out for a second, because I felt a small tongue licking my face when I came to. It turns out I was being followed by a small black cat. This would explain why I couldn't sense an aura as well; I was never good at telling Animals.

I know it is stereotypical for a witch to find a black cat, but I feel connected to it somehow. Maybe I finally got myself a familiar? But who knows. It's random chance to actually get a familiar that wasn't passed down through your family. Ever since the Satin Puikus Ragana scandals, familiars have been in hiding, maybe it's far time for them to come out.

The puikus Ragana is the highest form of witch possible, but you only become one after you are chosen by the gods. It's said that they have to bathe in the moon, which causes them to shimmer blue in their hair and eyes. After they bathe, they become immortal and fit to raise a coven. In the '70s though, the gods chose a man who was crazed, Satin Browning. He led up a coven that tried to overtake communities and killed all that did not join him. It was a mess within the witch community. Satin disguised himself as a familiar to gain entry into the covens. He listened to learn their secrets and then killed them. Afterward, most people abandoned or cursed their familiars.

This cat though, I assume is just a stray. Anyways, it deserves a good home, it looks starving. Its ribs are almost popping out of its skin at this point. I pick it up and surprisingly, it lets me. It meows at me softly and purrs the entire way back to my shop. Maybe if I keep her in there, her owner will find her? It's a shot in the dark but if it works?

As I approach my shop, she jumps out of my arms, and for a second I thought she was gone forever. Gone to see her owner somewhere. But she sat at the door waiting for me, Almost as if she knew that's where I was already going.

Maybe I have a familiar after all...

[the-firebird69]

The Matrix Resurrections – Official Trailer 1

And I'm sure Neo is in a different level of matrix then Corky's people are

Zues Hera

What does that mean

Cork

It means that they transplant your brains in mass and that you don't have much information so they don't try and seek it too strongly and that because you're a different category level of Satanist that they probably separate you entirely into a different bunker and it's because of what information you'd be after and the fact that they might not want to double you up with them because the data is so valuable to them by comparison in other words there seeking the program that you wrote and they're seeking where it is and where all the items are that he made because of much control the worl

Zues Hera

So you're telling me as they put me in some kind of barrio like they usually put me but in The matrix so not only do I get the barrio here but if they grab us we go in the barrio down there

Cork

That's true corky and I want to say something that might be reality and it might not be in the silicon valley area they have a place that's like a barrio compared to the valley but really it's more like LA to San Fran because outside of silicon valley it's more like him showdown in la is more like the barrio so you can think of Australia because I don't know Australia and sit down and try and think where is that kind of relationship get the high tech the highest tech on the countering and all the stuff because you and yours who are being abused by man could possibly be the cure by finding yourselves and I believe would be separate so the security is not as stiff and the illusions not as strong and the cover is not as strong

Zues Hera

Whoa this is unique you may have found an entrance and the reason we'd be separate is that the data doesn't jumbled and we understand that

Cork

These are things I need to know what he's smart about is the computer and Max and the organization and those two are as well this might work out and since there's tons of clones of me and they're not in the same facility but they're possibly on Titan and that might be a place to look and not send Mac himself and seem to the movie doing it

Neo

They called Neo Leo because his name is near Earth object in other words he has a cybernetic brain and his body is controlling while in a high-tech facility and they bounced the signal around but truthfully Cork and others they can't bounce it around more than bare minimum for speed those are beating out into space it's my guess and then they beep it over and then they beat it down to where he is and that's it other than that there's still a real way to do it and why would they do that they want to blame him and my invisible clan. And they say the songs and so forth corky copies it was kind of ridiculous it's just one guy and all this countering stuff and all these ships and all this code breakers and all this sensing it's like one guy and several computer programs they're kind of nuts. So the hunt begins and this is real and it's extremely important because if you're working something with your remote control if you don't care what happens to the person doing it like nights in White satin

Zues Hera

They considered me to be a hero because I am not doing it didn't create the stuff and I am having you expose it supposedly I say is he didn't make it for them they took it and he's in a lot of trouble she's trying to expose them it's like talking to a wall I think we had a break through this morning because of Corky's joke and his sometimes Amenable person that personality

Or friendly

Just stin

Sometimes you stink Mr A but today we see why this is amazing I'm starting to get all sorts of assistance. They heard what you did and how you did it and it was those chemicals and we need to find out where they are and how they're getting them there and what ships and so forth will have a beat on it cuz it means we're really not controlling anything.

Corky

When I say is you should ask billions because they probably have a general idea where it's coming from and how big that area is and how big of a problem could be in other words sir not going to house your people who they turned into robots on the field that we have them running them but the worst nightmare is for your leaders who mac captures I'm stick in the machine just like your neo it has you run around and then occasionally turns you off and ruins your stuff but mostly follows you because you are sitting signals all the time and you're unconscious on the island in a dream state you're ruining your stuff I told him there and you don't have control over you and you don't understand they're following you around easily because your brain is cybernetic

Zues Hera

Forget the concept but now we understand something it's fear that you want to use and we should use it because that's gosh darn scary someone is taking our bodies put us in the stream state and has this walking around moving our lives fighting people staying out of trouble and eating three meals a day or more and going and doing regular things we do and not even knowing it that was really somewhere else is a nightmare it's like an out-of-body experience so I was trying to figure out something we can tell people about it that using RC and I think we're going to have to because that's a nightmare and the way to explain it it's a nightmare we'll start to realize we're not doing that people and he is and you might be doing to a lot of people they were starting to realize something if you got like 80% of the people here and he just turn switch and it all turn off or worse y'all become agent Smith just like you see in the video after Neo

He looks at me and says oh that's why you're a pain I can be surround by you and you'd really be back control by Max every one of you

So I say this that's a pretty dipping deep and Rich nightmare because we might take you to Australia and after the last few minutes we wouldn't have control over ourselves it would be right there and deliver you from us he's trying it the whole time caa when we were in office

I'm boged out I'm going home I'm sick

Cork

[agentfrostbite]

A. Ahsoka Tano, hands down. Our family has always been fans of Star Wars, but she was the first character that I remember looking at and going, "I like her!" and she's gotten so much more epic as the years have gone by.

B. Even tho Ahsoka technically counts, I'm gonna say Master Plo Koon, because Space Dad. Nuff said.

C. Am I picking just one? Cause if I only get to pick one, I choose Anakin/Padme. I know most people don't like them, but I played WAYYY too many love stories with the action figures, and they're really cute in the Clone Wars.

D. Um...that's a tough one. I don't know that I can choose a "best" trilogy. I loved them all because they all had a huge part in how I saw and experienced Star Wars as a whole.

E. The Clone Wars (2008), hands down, no contenders. It fleshed out the characters so much, and it was done so well. The show was treated like a movie, and each episode was created with care. It LITERALLY was my childhood.

F. I don't actually know enough Sith to make a determination on that. Sidious is the most fun to hate on, I guess?

G. EVERY CLONE EVER. The one you see in the background who gets four lines? We're giving him a name ad a personality. The poor guy who was around for a episode or two before getting whacked? Well, what if he...didn't? All the poor boys who get hated on (Fox, my poor manipulated child)? They're mine now, pry them from my cold, dead hands.

H. No-one that comes to mind, but I'm sure that'll change.

I. Rex. Sorry not sorry, but after Season Seven (😭😭😭) definitely, totally, and completely Rex.

J. SHEEV-WHO-SHOULD-HAVE-BEEN-SHIVED PALPATINE AKA DARTH MAGGOT FACE AKA BATHROBE CORPSE NIGHTMARE

K. Snoke. He could've been just a (lot) better. Actually, the whole Last Jedi reads like the second draft of a novel - after the grammatical corrections but before the plot hole fixing. It could've been a lot better and I'm kinda disappointed. Force Awakens and Rise of Skywalker were a fair bit better, as the beginning where anything can happen and "We know where we wanna go now," respectively.

L. Rose Tico who GOT THE SHORT END OF THE STICK AND SHOULD HAVE BEEN TREATED BETTER, THEY DID MY GIRL SO DIRTY AND I AM BITTER

M. Canonically, I don't have major problems with any of the couples (that I can remember) but I do NOT ship Rexsoka. I just don't. They're disaster siblings, and either way you slice it, one of them is older than the other, and if it were later in life (like 37 and 43) I'd be a little less against it, cause hey, you're mature (hopefully) adults and can make your own decisions. For 14 and 22, wirh an accelerated growth rate, it just...doesn't work for me.

N. Rose Tico, Commander Fox, Riyo Chuchi, Satine Kryze (to an extent), the Padawan group from Season Five, Gregor, Ketsu, Numa, shall I go on?

O. R2 - are you kidding me? The snappiest, sassiest, most kick-A droid in the whole SERIES! Picks fights wherever he goes, and he either wins or drags his buddies in to finish the fight. Has survived a LONG horror movie. SHOULDA GOTTEN MEDALS.

P. Anakin and Obi-Wan, THE dynamic duo. They work in sync so well, they're the picture of sass, and up until Anakin went COMPLETELY OFF THE KRIFFING RAILS, they were unbeatable.

Q. Commander Fox and Riyo Chuchi. I'm always a sucker for Sunshine and Soldier, and Fox responding to being treated like a human - and Riyo being mad that the clones aren't treated like humans - makes for GREAT angst/feels stories. Also, Fox being straight up salty and Riyo being just as savage to people talking them down is my JAM!

R. Please don't make me choose, I don't want do, they're all sad, my poor heart cannot handle reliving it (Fives is the saddest on-screen, but JESSE AND THE BOYS KILLED MY SPIRIT)

S. I cannot think of a BEST moment that overrides the others, and I sat for a while trying to.

T. Uh...the Mandalorians, probably. Is this mostly because of the clone-Mando hybrid culture? Maaaaaaaybeeeeeee....

U. Felucia's really pretty at night. I'm always a sucker for biolumiescient stuff.

V. The Mortis arc because it has 1) Feels moments 2) Creepy AND Pretty places and 3) the inevitable march of the fate we all know is coming but keep hoping won't.

W. Do character arcs count? Because Kanan and Rex going from tentative alies to friends willing to risk their lives for each other is the BEST

X. Sorry movies, but the shows are my favorite! It's by a very slim margin, but while the movies got me into the fandom, the shows are what's kept me here.

Y. I do actually like the sequel trilogy. It's got...problems...with plot, but I liked the story overall. It just needs the touch of someone who loves the fandom and not the money it brings in.

Z. I think my favorite friendship is probably Anakin and Rex. They trust each other, and they're always there to back each other up (even if sometimes they need to be reminded to). Plus, they're all in for the chaos tactics and it's SO FUN to watch!

I don't know if I was only supposed to do a handful, but here they all are. Thanks for the prompt!!

Star Wars Ask!

A:  Favorite character?

B.  Favorite Jedi?

C.  A Couple You Ship?

D.  Best Trilogy?

E.  Best Show?

F.  Favorite Sith?

G.  A Character You Never Cared For But Love Now?

H.  A Character You Used To Love But Don’t Care For Now?

I.   Best Clone?

J.  A Character You Hate?

K.  Overrated Character?

L.  Underrated Character?

M.  A Couple You Don’t Ship?

N.  An Underused Character?

O.  Favorite Droid?

P.   Best Duo?

Q.  Any Rare pairs? 

R.  Saddest Death?

S.  Best Moment?

T.  Favorite Species? 

U. Favorite Planet? 

V. Favorite Clone Wars Arc?

W. Favorite Rebels Arc?

X. Movies or Shows?

Y. Do You Like The Sequels? 

Z. Best Friendship?