#I wish I was old enough to experience that rush… not like I’d ever steal I respected authority too highly but like the vibes just seemed

[delicateimage]

I remember with the faintest memory possible (I could’ve been like… 3 omg) being in a blockbuster and getting an ice age board game and I used to chew on the saber tooth tiger piece so much omg… we used the ‘Redbox’ thing that was basically just the like vending machine version of blockbuster but it could never amount to the irl experience of blockbuster methinks, like I’d pay to be able to experience getting stale bagged popcorn and raisinets while renting a Barbie movie. Also omg are you ok I hope everything is well with your ex now bc that sounds like such an awful situation of being unable to control what you say about someone you’re conflicted on personally like hopefully you didn’t damage the relationship, would it help to take a small alcohol break/drinking less even if it’s just a bit while you sort the situation out? Maybe being able to see how you’re able to handle things while sober and in a focused state of mind would aid in being less dependent on drinking, but if it wouldn’t don’t listen to me AT ALLLL and please find guidance in someone who has had experience with liquid substance abuse before and quit, or if you’re ever to the point where you feel like you need something like AA or a call line please don’t hesitate!

Yaoi is like kinda the best thing ever

[dameronology]

the one with the intergalactic babysitter (mando x reader)

summary: you’re a little lost in life - you moved to coruscant to become a writer, but working two jobs to make ends meet has made you dismayed. one babysitting gig with a mandalorian and his weird green kid might change everything.

this is my first mando piece!! it might be the first part of a series or it might be a stand alone - if you want to see more, i’m definitely down to see what else my brain spews up 

enjoy, 

- val xx 

Coruscant was a very fucking expensive place to live. 

It was understandable, seeing as it was the political and cultural hub of the galaxy - the kind of place that Frank Sinatra might write songs about titled Coruscant, Coruscant - but maker, it felt like they were charging you simply to exist in the city. Perhaps if you’d had a career, or a solid job that didn’t require chasing around after rude patrons and yelling at middle-aged women for severely under tipping. Being a waitress simply wasn’t enough to make ends meet. You’d originally moved to the capital to make it as a writer - a statement you would come to learn would age like milk on a hot July day. 

So, you turned to babysitting too; you already spent your day dealing with sticky-handed children and tuning out their incessant screaming. The extra credits wouldn’t hurt and it was something to do that didn’t involve sitting within the four walls of your tiny, concrete apartment. 

The first few weeks were a bit sow, usually tending to the spoilt of children of rich, inner city politicians. They were easy jobs; the kids were easily entertained by a holomovie and their parents usually left enough money to order take away food for them. You simply had to sit and watch them; making sure they didn’t choke and that they were in bed on time. Simple. 

One slow Monday - the kind were the hours dragged and there was a sort of grey cloud of gloom hanging over the skyscrapers - you got a call. Initially, it was supposed to be your night off to work on your debut novel. The first thing on your to-do list was to come up with an idea for said novel but as it usually went with writers, you found it easier to find excuses than to get on with the thing you claimed was your livelihood. 

‘Hello?’ You were halfway through the door of your apartment, your commslink in one hand as you tossed your apron onto the kitchen counter. 

‘Is this...Y/N?’

‘Maybe.’ You thinned your eyes. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘A potential client.’ It sounded as though the caller was covering their mouth. ‘Are your services exclusive to human children?’

‘Not at all. I had a Twi’lek kid last week.’ You replied. ‘What kinda kid are we talking?’

‘I’m not entirely sure.’

‘You don’t know what species your own kid is?’

‘He’s adopted?’ The voice came back, a little unsure. ‘Look, it’s a long story but I’ve had an emergency at work and I need someone to keep an eye on him for a few hours. I’ll pay double.’

That was how you ended up rushing out again, plans for the night completely disregarded in lieu of money . Admittedly, you were a little unsure because a) the address he had given you was in an air hangar and b) you were half-expecting to turn up and find that the child was a demon. But the guy was paying double and you needed to make rent - and you were like eighty percent sure he probably wasn’t going to kill you. 

When you got to Air Hangar 64 - a jet parking spot right in the middle of downtown Coruscant - you almost turned around, thinking you’d got the wrong address. A man in Mandalorian armour (one hell of a man, it should be added) was standing outside of a jet, a bundle of robes in his arms. He was tapping his foot on the ground, the bright lights of the city around you illuminating against the beskar of his suit. 

‘Y/N?’ You hadn’t even noticed that he’d spotted you, given the whole face apparatus situation. The voice, however, matched the one from the phone. 

‘Right. Hi.’ You cautiously approached him. ‘I didn’t catch your name on the phone.’

‘Mando.’ He replied. 

‘Mando the Mandalorian?’ You quirked a brow at him. ‘Or is it short for Mandalorian?’

‘Up to you.’ His words were blunt.

 It was then that you noticed the bundle in his arms was actually moving, a tiny and clawed green hand reaching up. It wriggled slightly and you tried - you really tried - to hide the look of horror on your face. 

‘That's the thing I’m babysitting?’

‘He’s the thing you're babysitting.’ Mando replied. ‘His face is much better than his hands.’

He handed you the bundle - and you noted that the shiny guy had been right. The little face staring back at you, with its wide eyes, brown eyes and hilariously oversized ears, was certainly much cuter than a human baby. He wrapped his tiny hand around your finger, letting out a tiny giggle. 

‘Is that why you wear the helmet?’ You asked. ‘Cos you’re green and wrinkly too?’

You couldn’t see the Mandalorian’s face, but you could tell from the way that he tilted his head to the side that he wasn’t amused by your statement. Tough crowd. 

‘I’ll only be gone a few hours.’ He said. ‘I appreciate you doing this.’

‘And I appreciate you paying double.’ You shot back. 

‘There’s food for him on the ship - some freeze dried frogs and some bantha milk.’

‘I’m sorry, did you just say freeze dried frogs and-’

‘- I’d appreciate it if you stayed out the hull of the ship.’ Mando continued, ignoring your question. ‘Just stick to the cockpit.’

‘Right.’ You forced a smile, inwardly reminding yourself of the double payment. ‘And do you have a rough ETA?’

‘Sometime between now and tomorrow morning.’

‘No need to be precise, I suppose.’ You muttered under your breath. ‘Well, have fun doing whatever is that you do...Mando.’

He didn’t mean to come across as icy and rude. It was just that he rarely ever interacted with anybody else - the Child was hardly chatty and he usually knocked his cargo out before they could get a word in. Still, the Mandalorian smiled slightly to himself at the use of his name. He wouldn’t usually trust a single soul in the galaxy to be alone with his kid on his ship, but he didn’t have much choice. You didn’t seem like the sort of person who would steal it - in fact, he got the impression you probably couldn’t fly it at all. 

Just like that, you were alone with the weird, Kermit-looking child. The first hour was slow; painfully so, in fact. All you could do was sit in the pilot’s chair, spinning around aimlessly in circles as the kid napped. The pile of dead, freeze-dried frogs stacked atop the dashboard was a little unnerving, but not any less unnerving than the six-foot-tall, armour-clad man to whom they belonged. 

By the third hour, you were beginning to wish the kid was still asleep. You quickly learnt that he enjoyed waddling about and pressing random buttons; he was particularly drawn to the bright red one next to your seat. You were no expert, but you’d seen enough holocartoons growing up to know what an ejector seat was. 

‘Oh no, let’s leave the blaster alone.’ You jumped out your chair, quickly picking up the Child. You held him up in the air, eyes meeting for a moment - then he burst into tears. ‘Hey, it’s okay! It’s better to play with safe things, like this mildly disturbing freeze dried-’

- The kid ripped his food from your hand before you could finish the sentence, shoving the creature into his slobbery mouth with an ostentatiousness that was impressive and disturbing in equal measures. 

Watching him guzzle down the bantha milk was a similar experience; half of it ended up down his robes, the other half splattering to the floor. It could have been worse.  He could have spilled it all over the controls or down the seat. Heck, he could have poured it over your head. 

By the time the Mandalorian came back, both you and the Child were passed out. So much so, in fact, that you didn’t hear him enter the ship. You were snoring quietly in the pilot’s seat, leg stretched out to the other chair. The little green rat was snoozing on your chest, one of your hands resting over his back. There was blue milk all down your shirt and a frog’s leg stuck to the windscreen. 

He gently leant forward to pick his kid up, placing him back in his floating crib. You began to stir when you felt the warmth move from your chest, your brain mentally registering the sudden absence of the creature. 

‘Hey, Mando the Mandalorian.’ You sat up, rubbing your eyes. As you did, the frog that had been plastered to the windscreen fell, bouncing off of his helmet. Your hand flew to your mouth, trying to stifle the laugh that was about to come out. ‘I am so sorry about the mess-’

‘- don’t be.’ He cut you off, sticking out his gloved hand to help you up. ‘He’s a messy kid.’

You weren’t sure how you could tell, but something about him seemed much more docile than your previous, brief encounter. His tone was a little warmer - or was it more tired? It was hard to tell with the helmet. 

Your best guess was that whatever work-related task he’d run out to had really taken it out of him. His shoulders were a little slumped, words tinged with exasperation. Coming home to find his ship covered in frogs and blue milk was probably only salt in the wound. 

‘I’ll clean it up.’ You offered. 

‘No, it’s fine.’ Mando shook his head, releasing his grip on your hand. 

‘You’re tired.’ You said. ‘I mean...I think you’re tired. It’s hard to tell with that metal thing covering your face but I’m getting some exhausted dad vibes from you and I did make the mess after all.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain.’ You rubbed your eyes. ‘We spent most of the time you were out napping so I’m well-rested anyways.’

After pointing you in the direction of a tiny closet towards the back of the cock-pit, you gathered what appeared to be an ages-old mop and a bottle of unidentified cleaning liquid. Cleaning up spilled and splattered food was simply part of your day job and it didn’t take you long to reassemble the place. You mopped the floor, prying the occasional frog leg or arm from the ship’s windscreen and controls. 

Mando watched as you did, eyes following you as you darted around. You couldn’t see him staring at you but you could certainly feel it. Glancing up from the floor, you paused your cleaning to hold his gaze, letting the mop fall against the wall. 

‘So, what do you do?’ You asked. 

Helmet tilt.

‘I mean, for like a job.’ You continued. ‘You live on a ship and you have a weird kid - he’s lovely, don’t get me wrong - but he’s fucking weird. Doesn’t he have a mum or something? Or another dad?’ 

‘I’m a bounty hunter.’ Mando replied. ‘And no.’

Did you always talk this much? Or was it just his wordless responses that made it feel like you were having a conversation with yourself? You could have sworn that most conversations didn’t take this much effort. 

‘Bounty hunter, huh?’ You raised your eyebrow. ‘I don’t suppose that finding an individual in these Coruscanti crowds is very easy - sorry. I also don’t suppose that you want my running commentary-’

‘- no, I like it.’ His words took you by surprise. ‘I don’t come across many chatty people.’

There was something about you that he liked - you were bright, sparky. The complete opposite of every antisocial criminal and cantina-dweller that he’d ever come across. He was tired beyond words but your voice was soothing. 

‘Yeah, the kid isn’t much of a conversationalist.’ You replied. ‘Where did you find him?’

‘He had a bounty on his head.’ Mando replied. ‘The people that wanted him were bad.’

‘So you ran away with him?’ You dropped the mop, taking a seat in the chair beside him. ‘And just called him your own?’

‘Not at first, but there are a lot of people after him.’

‘Oh yeah. I’m sure that tiny green thing is the galaxy’s most wanted criminal.’ You scoffed. 

‘What do you do?’ His helmet tilted again, this time out of curiosity. He got the vibe that you probably weren’t a full-time babysitter. You’d looked after his kid well enough but you didn’t seem like the sort of person who would voluntarily spend all their time with children. You swore too much for that. 

‘I’m trying to be a writer.’ You explained. 

That made sense, Mando thought, you certainly had plenty to say. 

‘Trying?’

‘Let’s just say that there isn’t a whole lot of writing happening.’ You replied. ‘You know, life gets in the way. I babysit and waitress to make ends meet but that leaves little time for getting shit done. I’m hopeful, though.’

Mando was almost bewildered by you at that point: you were the opposite of him in every way. You spoke about anything & everything, you’d anchored yourself to this city and you were trying to achieve a dream - an uncertain dream. He was the one that travelled the galaxy but somehow, you seemed to be more free. You had the sort of energy and optimism that felt like a stranger to him. Your presence alone against the cold, metal walls of his ship felt like a warm hug. 

‘Is it lack of inspiration?’ He asked. 

‘Maybe.’ You replied. ‘I thought Coruscant would help with that but it’s actually pretty fucking sad here. I can’t travel though, not when I’m working two jobs just so I can afford to live, let alone go on kriffing vacation.’

‘Right.’ He nodded. ‘I’m heading out tomorrow morning.’

You furrowed your brow. ‘Yeah. Where to?’

‘I have no idea.’ He replied. ‘But I need someone to watch the kid and you need to travel.’

‘Sure.’ You snorted. ‘I’ll just...I’ll just up and leave my whole life here behind to drop everything and travel the galaxy with a random man and his weird frog baby whilst I search for inspiration and - oh.’

‘What?’

‘That sounds like one hell of a story.’

[grantyort]

Prelude V: Space Mission

April 11th 2018

Sean: Alright, you can open your eyes now! We’re here!

Daniel: The Oregon Museum of Science and Industry? We drove an hour for this?!

Sean: Oh quit complainin’! Brody got us early access. Besides, you haven’t even seen the inside yet!

Daniel: I thought you were taking me to Aweso-land. I need to grab the new Powerbear merch before it sells out.

Sean: Don’t you have enough toys already?

Daniel: You can never have enough.

Sean: (sigh) Dude, have some self-control! You’re bleeding Claire and Stephen dry!

Daniel: You’re just jealous cuz they like me better.

Sean: (rolling eyes) Yeah… you got me.

[A man approaches them at the entrance to the museum]

Docent: Hello, are you Sean Diaz?

Sean: That’s right. And that’s my brother Daniel. We’re here for the tour.

Docent: Roland Chambers at your service. Mr. Holloway has arranged a private showing of the new Human Innovations Exhibit here at the OSMI.

Daniel: Ah yes jolly good, ol’ chap.

Sean: Ignore him.

Roland: For the next two hours you and your brother will have unfettered access to the new wing of the museum. Explore at your leisure. I hope it will be an enriching experience for you both.

Sean: His mind could use some enriching.

[Daniel punches Sean in the arm, Sean feigns injury, then smiles.]

Roland: I’ll be taking my leave now. Good day.

Daniel: Toodle-loo to you! (to Sean) That guy was so cool. I wish I had a butler!

[Sean pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long, exasperated sigh]

Sean: Alright enano, you ready for the best birthday ever?

Daniel: Yeah, yeah. Let’s just get this over with.

[The brothers enter the museum and begin to explore. Daniel’s attention is immediately drawn to the futuristic sports car on display]

Daniel: Hey Sean, check this out!

Sean: Man, what I wouldn’t give for a car like that.

Daniel: Maybe you’ll get one on your birthday.

Sean: Yeah right. Maybe if Claire and Stephen won the lottery.

Daniel: What about Mom?

Sean: (scoff) I’ll be lucky if get a card from her this year.

[They poke around the rest of the exhibit. Daniel begins to take pictures with his phone]

Sean: What are you doing, enano?

Daniel: Just taking some pics for Chris. He loves this kind of stuff.

Sean: We should bring him back a souvenir.

Daniel: Yeah totally! Remind me when we get to the gift shop section!

Sean: You do realize that’s not part of the exhibit, right?

[Sean and Daniel come across a modern statue in a display case. Daniel examines the contours and the statue and stares quizzically]

Daniel: Hey Sean. Why don’t statues ever have clothes on?

Sean: I guess people didn’t really care back then.

Daniel: So everybody would just walk around naked?

Sean: Yeah, it’s a... liberated lifestyle or something. Brody talked about it in his article.

Daniel: That’s so weird, but kinda cool. Maybe we should try it. I don’t think grandma and grandpa would mind.

Sean: Dude are you kidding?! Claire freaks out if you show up to breakfast without pants!

Daniel: Yeah, I guess you’re right. Oh well.

[After wandering off from Sean who is busy reading the inscription underneath a steam engine, Daniel returns wearing a Roman style war helmet]

Daniel: I’m Julius Caesar! Ruler of Rome and inventor of the Caesar Salad!

Sean: Dude! Put that back before you break it.

Daniel: Ugh you’re no fun! Here put this one on!

Sean: No.

Daniel: Please Sean? It’s my birthday!

Sean: Oh okay, but that’s the last time you get to use that today.

[Sean reluctantly dons the helmet.]

[The brothers approach the center of the exhibit and see the centerpiece: A giant space capsule. Daniel rushes over to read the inscription.]

Daniel: Wow it says here that Franklin Chang-Diaz was one of the first Mexican-Americans to ever go to space!

Sean: I don’t believe it. You actually learned something.

Daniel: Shut up. Anyway, think he’s related to us?

Sean: Sure. Technically, all Diazes are related.

Daniel: Awesome possum! Oooh look at all the lights! I bet astronauts went to the moon in this thing!

Sean: It’s probably just a replica. (He touches the outside of the hull and focuses) Yep. Made in Taiwan.

Daniel: You’re such a buzzkill.

Sean: Why don’t you go have a look inside?

Daniel: But it’s roped off.

Sean: Since when do you care about rules? Just do it!

Daniel: What if someone catches us?

Sean: There’s no one else here. I won’t tell if you won’t.

[Daniel nods and vaults over the rope. Sean follows]

Daniel: Aw man it’s tight in here. Watch your head, Sean!

Sean: (hitting his head) Argh fuck!

Daniel: So much for cosmic awareness.

Sean: That’s not what- never mind, just sit down.

[Daniel switches his Centurion helmet for an astronaut helmet]

Daniel: Oooh What’s this thing do?

Sean: I think it’s one of those prerecorded tours. Why don’t you plug it in and find out?

(Daniel puts in his earbuds, he hears the sound of a rocket propulsion system)

Daniel: Okay! You be mission control!

Daniel: (mimicking static) Diagnostics check complete. Houston are we a go, over?

Sean: Uh yeah sure. Everything looks good here. We launch in T – 5 seconds. Why don’t you count us down? Over!

Daniel: Five, four, three, two, one! Blast off!

Sean: (saluting) Godspeed, Captain Diaz.

[After the ignition sequence ends, the brothers emerge from the capsule. Daniel has a big smile on his face]

Daniel: That...was... AWESOME!

Sean: You might not have been the first Diaz in space, but you’re definitely the youngest.

[They explore the rest of the exhibit, finally exiting through the gift shop]

Sean: (annoyed) Of course, they have to have a gift shop at the exit.

Daniel: Are you kidding? This is the best part!

[Daniel begins rummaging through the various toys and souvenirs with glee. Sean motions apologetically at the clerk.]

Daniel: Think Chris will like this one?

Sean: (shrugs) You know him better than I do.

Daniel: (looking at toy dinosaur) I think he’ll like this one better. Mar-T-Rex needs a friend.

Sean: (looking at a tacky keychain) Five bucks for this piece of junk? No thanks!

Daniel: (holding a shirt with print an elaborate rocket schematic) Wow! Look at this!

Sean: It reminds me of your old one. I think might be time for an upgrade.

Daniel: Really?

Sean: Yep. It is your birthday after all.

Daniel: Wow, 100% cotton and It’s only $12.99.

Sean: (sarcastically) What a steal.

Daniel: (whispering) Psst Sean. You distract her while I put this in my bag.

Sean: (under breath) Dude!

Daniel: Relax, I was just kidding!

Sean: Good. We don’t need a return to your klepto-phase.

[The cashier looks over absentmindedly then goes back to her phone]

[Sean approaches the counter, goods in hand]

Cashier: (monotonously) Do you have a museum membership?

Sean: Uh… no sorry.

Cashier: That comes out to $21.35. Will that be all for today sir?

Sean: Yeah thanks.

Cashier: (monotonously) We hope you enjoyed the tour. Please come back soon.

[Outside the museum]

Sean: So birthday boy, how’d I do?

Daniel: Well I did spend my last birthday with a bunch of religious nutjobs so… compared to that I’d say, a solid 9.

Sean: Well the day is still young, enano! Let’s see if we can’t get that up to a perfect ten!

[weightlessau]

fuck(,) periods [ateez; yunho]

2.1 k words

summary: Yunho’s daughter hates you. Who knew her period could help you out with that?

woman!reader, single dad!yunho

"Dad, is that you?" A voice weak greets you as soon as you as soon as you two step foot into the hallway.

"Yes, sweetheart," Yunho answers back, dropping the keys into the bowl next to the door, "I'm here with [y/n]."

Immediately a groan sounds from the direction of her room once Yunho informs her of your presence.

You don't know why, but ever since Yunho introduced you to his daughter, she didn't like you. Every time you come over, she tries to avoid you at all costs. Not that that's the thing that hurts you, it's rather the fact that she always seemed to throw in some negative comments in about you when you're there or even when you're not. You have the feeling she really doesn't want you to date her father. Of course, you try to understand. She's a teenager, struggling to find her identity and her mother didn't want to raise her. Not the best combination. Yunho is everything she has and lately he has been going out on a lot of dates with you. Yunho still tries to stop her comments and appeal you to his daughter as if you're a product, even though it's not effective at all. He can't do much against the apple of his eye.

"Hey, don't be so rude Yuna," he warns her, but is met with a scoff.

A sound from his pocket stops him from approaching her room. Yunho pulls his phone out of his front pocket. While he scans his notifications you already make your way to the kitchen to grab a glass of water for yourself. You've been here often enough for you to be comfortable doing that. Yunho trails behind you, phone still in hand, after he's read the message.

"Why can't you just tell me that instead of texting me?" Yunho opens the door to Yuna's room. He leans his body against the frame and crosses his arms over his chest while he looks down at his daughter, curled up in her bed, clutching her stomach.

"Because I don't want her to know." That's your cue to move to the living room, leaving the conversation to your boyfriend. Before you can move away though, Yunho calls you back.

"Babe, can you come here for a second, please?" You make your way to Yuna's room, standing at a bit of a distance from Yunho. Touching and hugging Yunho infront of his daughter, that hates you, is still very awkward. "Is it alright with you if you could help Yuna while I run to the store? I need to get something and I don't want to leave her here alone with a stomach ache."

You don't even need to hear why she has a stomach ache, you can already guess what it probably is what Yunho needs to get after receiving a text from his teenage daughter.

"Are you on your period?" you guess, looking at Yuna. You want to maybe build a bond that way. Normalizing talking about periods in front of you could be a start.

The only answer you get from her is a glare and her back now facing you. Instead Yunho answers, slightly pissed because of Yuna's attitude, "yeah. We don't have any pads left, she's on the last one and needs new ones. Can you please stay in case something happens?"

"It's alright," you smile at your boyfriend. You never stayed at his home without him there; even worse with his daughter there. "I think I may have some pads in my purse, though. No need for you to run to the store," you tell him and make your way to your purse, that you left next to the entrance.

You find two and hand them to Yunho so he can give them to Yuna, knowing she doesn't want anything from you.

"Thanks, babe." A retching sound comes from Yuna. For a split second you're worried that she might throw up, but then you hear her say "disgusting" with her back still facing you.

Before you two can react to that, she let's out a groan of pain and stretches her legs and thrashing around.

Maybe forgetting about your presence for a bit, overwhelmed with pain, she whimpers out, "dad." She sounds close to tears.

"Oh, sweetheart," Yunho rushes over to her bedside. He brushes her hair back with a pained expression, as if he can feel her pain with her. "I'll go get you some pads. I'll be back in no time. Trust [y/n] today, she'll look after you."

He turns to you and you look at him with an equally pained expression on. You experience extreme pain during your period as well, leaving you unable to walk, as well. You can painfully relate to Yuna, literally.

"Yes, don't worry. I'll get you a heating pad right now," you tell Yuna and make your way to the kitchen to boil some water for the heating pad and some camomile tea.

As you're pouring the water in a mug and the pad you found in a cabinet, you hear the door close. Now you're alone with Yuna, the person that makes it very clear she doesn't like you.

You knock on the door frame if her room.

"Here," you put the heating pad on her shirt softly and set the tea on the bedside table, "these might help," you whisper.

Without looking at you, she clutches the heating pad on her lower stomach and curls herself back into a tight ball only to whimper and thrash around again, trying to get a comfortable position.

"Try stretching out your legs. That always helps me," you suggest in a hushed voice. You don't even know why you're whispering, but still continue. Maybe it's the atmosphere?

"Drink the tea. It'll soothe the pain."

She takes sits up and takes the tea while mumbling out a nearly inaudible "thanks."

You just smile at her.

"Can you also please get me a bag to throw up into? I feel like I'm going to throw up any second now," Yuna asks you and you immediately get up. You were already feeling awkward just sitting there while she sips her tea. At least you have something to do now.

"The bags are in the first drawer under the oven."

When you go into the room again, she is drinking her last sip out of the cup, setting it aside again. You put the bag on the floor next to her bed and go to pick up the cup to have something to do again.

Yuna surprises you, though. Just as you're reaching towards the cup, she grabs your hand and asks you, "can you maybe pet my stomach? Dad always does that when my stomach hurts." How can you say no to those pleading eyes and that pout that looks so much like her father's?

The hand that is holding yours, leads your hand to her stomach.

Suddenly, without any prompting, Yuna starts speaking again, "I'm sorry."

And even though you know why she's probably apologizing, you still ask, "what for?"

"For everything," she sighs, "for being so rude to you, for making you feel bad, for trying to tell dad to break up with you."

You just continue massaging her stomach with softly, listening quietly.

"I don't really hate you," she admits, making your eyebrows shoot up slightly.

Noticing that reaction, she continues, "yeah. I don't know. I guess I'm jealous of you?" She ends the unsure statement, sounding like a question.

"What?" you're confused, "why?"

"I don't know," she repeats, "I guess because you got so much attention from dad and he had less time for me?"

"Oh, baby," the nickname slips out before you can stop it, "I could never replace you. The love your father has for you is so strong, I'd never even try to get in between that. He always talks about you during our dates, you know?"

Wide eyes look up at you, "really?"

"Yes, really," you chuckle, "he absolutely adores you, no doubt."

"I mean, I know he loves me, but I guess I just felt like he doesn't have time for me anymore," she pouts again and looks away, ashamed.

"You don't have to be ashamed, baby. Thank you for telling me. That's a very valid reason to be sad and I'm sorry if it seems like I'm trying to steal your dad."

"No, I shouldn't be this dramatic and jealous about it, I know. I'm too old for this. I really want dad to be happy, but I just got caught up in my own selfish feelings. I hurt him and I hurt you, too. I'm so sorry, [y/n]," her voice shakes, tears already in her eyes.

"It's alright now, Yuna. You apologized and that's all I can ask for and I'm sure that your dad isn't mad about it either. Just tell him what you just told me," you embrace her now sitting figure in a tight hug, stroking her back, "communication is key, Yuna. Once you tell your dad, you both will find a perfect middle ground. I'm alright with spending a little less time with him if that means you'll like me more," you let out a laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

Before she can anything back to you, you startle apart, "oh, look at my girls getting along," Yunho laughs, "what happened?" He makes his way to Yuna's bed where you two are sitting side by side.

"Did you gossip about me?" he narrows his eyes at his smiling daughter, "I bet you did."

"Maybe," you shrug.

"I guess you'll never know, huh?" Yuna goes along with your act.

bonus

That's the story of how you became a mother figure to Yuna. Even though she kept apologizing to you and Yunho for making your relationship harder and felt embarrassed whenever you two talked, she came around and couldn't imagine not having you with her anymore. One thing you'd do is tease Yunho about gossiping behind his back. He only let it go, because that's how you were bonding and he knew that gossiping about one person together can bring you closer than anything else. You never told him that you weren't really gossiping, loving that it kept him on his toes.

Thankfully, after years of your relationship with Yunho, he sat her down and popped the big question.

"Are you alright with me asking [y/n] to marry me?" Yunho nervously fiddled with his fingers.

Yuna, now much older than the jealous teenager she was before, decides to have some fun with her father.

"Dad," she starts seriously, "I don't think you should ask her that." Her expression only shows sadness and maybe even some anger to Yunho.

"Wh-why?" he stutters out, shocked. He was under the impression that his girls both got along better than he could even wish for.

"It's just, I don't really like her," Yuna tells him, using the same excuse she used all those years ago.

Yunho now seems close to tears. Will he have to choose between his daughter and the love of his life?  Thankfully Yuna quickly noticed her father's expression and let out a loud laugh.

"Man! Dad, you should've seen yourself!" Yuna clutches her sides. "Wh-why?" she imitates Yunho's stutter and expression, before laughing even louder than before.

Not giving Yunho the chance to collect himself, you wander into the living room. Greeted by a perplex Yunho and his cackling daughter, you let out a laugh, too. You can't resist laughing at Yuma's laugh.

"What are you laughing so hard about?"

"Nothing!" Yunho nearly shouts out before Yuna can say anything.

"Yeah," Yuna wipes at her eyes, "nothing."

Shaking your head, you just let it go, knowing how stubborn Yuna can be when you want to know something.

Said girl turns to her father again, "dad, why wouldn't I be okay with that?"

"With what?" you try again. Curiosity getting the best of you.

This time Yuna beats her father to it. "With getting my pads myself. I'm old enough to buy them, dad. I'm not embarrassed about that anymore. My period is nothing to be ashamed of."

Biting into the bait she presents to you, you quit back, "tell that to your younger self, begging for Yunho to buy them for you. Need I remind you of how we made up, baby?"

"Maybe I did that on purpose," she huffs jokingly and crosses her arms over her chest, "you'll never know my true intentions behind that."

"Yeah? Sure and what about," you start before Yunho just completely zones out on you two bantering back and forth.

He can only think about how he was lucky enough to meet you and how lucky he is that his precious daughter came around in the end, loving you just as much as she loves him. He really is lucky.

[suitofvibraniumarmor]

** Writing Challenge **

I know, I know, my next one isn’t quite wrapped up yet, buttttt this idea came to me when my cousin and I were taking a walk down a ridiculous part of Memory Lane and I got excited. I’m guessing this has been done before at some point -- that’s not stopping me from presenting to you: 

I love fluff. And I wanna see more of it! 

Below the cut you will find some prompts that, in the context of Twilight, are absolutely cringe-worthy. My challenge to you is to take that prompt and make it something we can love. 

Disclaimer: I’m not Twilight-shaming ANYONE. I literally sat and watched all of Eclipse and now want to watch both Breaking Dawns. It’s more about sentiment, and the occasional girly giggle for me, but ... yeah. No judgement here, friends. 

Guidelines, prompts, and tags are below the cut! (Yes, I copied and tweaked from my last writing challenge. I’m being efficient, thank you! :P )

Please read all of the information carefully!

Rules, Guidelines, Important Dates:

Sign-Ups start when this post is live and will go through to December 30, 2020. I will accept two people for each prompt, one prompt per author.

Please send your sign-ups to my ask box so they’re easier to keep track of. I will answer them privately so I’m not flooding anyone’s dash!

In your ask, please include your preferred prompt and a backup option, as well as your pairing (so I don’t take the same pairing for the same prompt). Also, please let me know if you’ll be posting from a URL other than one you’re asking from.

To be included in the challenge masterlist, please post your fic (or the first part, if it’s a series) by Decemeber 31, 2020.

Please include an author’s note tagging me and mentioning the challenge in your fic post; include #BetterThanTwilightWC in the first five tags. If the tag doesn’t work, you may DM the link to me, also. If you decide to write a series, please tag me in the masterlist.

Please give me up to 48 hours to read your fic before checking if I have seen it. If I have not liked it after 48 hours, please DO check. (You know, since we’re all aware of how unreliable tumblr is. And how unreliable my mind can be. Yikes.)

The challenge masterlist will be posted between January 1 and January 4, 2020.

There are no word count limits, but please use the Keep Reading feature if your story goes beyond 500 words. Additionally, if your fic goes beyond 5000 words, please consider splitting it into multiple parts. This is not a requirement, only something to think about.

Yes, this is a FLUFF challenge, so you MUST have fluff as your main genre. You’re more than welcome to include other genres, but you MUST have a happy and/or hopeful ending.

You’re welcome to think outside of the box! Just because I’m talking Twilight and love stories, doesn’t mean there has to be romance! Give me  amazing friendships or strong family bonds or self-love. Or romance! Whatever you’d like. 

You're welcome to change pronouns in the prompt as necessary! Heck, I tweaked a few of ‘em so they’re not Twilight-specific.

For personal reasons, I do not read and will not accept into the challenge (which means I will not reblog or add to the masterlist) stories that include: non-con/dub-con, underage sex, adult-child romantic/sexual relationships, spouse-bashing, child abuse – I could go on, but I think you get the idea. If you’re not sure about something, I’m always happy to answer questions!

Bring on the ships, OC’s, reader pairings – I’m trying to be more open-minded as of late, but I can’t promise that I will read everything. Again, for personal reasons. But I will reblog everything! 

Characters and RPFs from Marvel/MCU are both welcome. 

If you need an extension or need to drop out, please know that I am extremely flexible when it comes to that deadline/due date. In the words of Captain Barbosa, “It’s really more of a guideline.” Just shoot me an ask or a message and we’ll work something out, no worries! 

Prompts: 

1. “I have always loved you, and I will always love you.”  2. “The clouds I can handle. But I can’t fight with an eclipse.”  3. “I know what you are.”  4. “You held out your hand and I took it without stopping to make sense of what I was doing.” 5. “You have a connection with her that I’ll never understand.” 6. “I’m glad she has you.” 7. “It will be like I never existed. I promise.” 8. “I knew who I wanted to be. I wanted to help people. Brings me happiness.” 9. “That will take a while to get used to.” “We have a while.” 10. “What if I’m not the hero? What if I’m the bad guy?” 11. “I’d rather hear your theories.” 12. (sarcastically) “Super. That makes me really happy.” 13. “You’re like my own personal brand of heroin.” 14. “Maybe I shouldn’t be dating such an old man. It’s gross. I should be thoroughly repulsed.” 15. “It’s an extraordinary thing to meet someone who you can bare your soul to and they’ll accept you for what you are.” 16. “I’ve been waiting for what seems like a very long time to get beyond what I am.” 17. “I feel like I can finally begin.” 18. “He’s totally gorgeous, obviously. But apparently nobody here is good enough for him.” 19. “He did say I couldn’t step inside the door. I came in through the window.” 20. “I know things. Like how to hunt somebody to the ends of the earth. And I know how to use a gun.” 21. “Now I’m afraid.” “Good.” 22. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m only afraid of losing you.” 23.  “About three things I was absolutely positive ...” 24. “You’re so stubborn.” 25. “Do you know how worried I’ve been?” 26. “I can’t even think about someone hurting you.” 27. “The only thing that can hurt me is you, and I don’t have anything else to be afraid of.” 28. “Don’t antagonize her. She’s the strongest one in the house.” 29. “All right. That’s enough experimenting for one day.” 30. “It never made sense for you to love me.” 31. “I wish there had been someone to vote no for me.” 32. “It’s just a little baby.” 33. “How strongly are you opposed to grand theft auto?” 34. “I’m not missing another fight!” 35. “No one can hide like me.” 36. “If I asked you to stay in the car, would you?” 37. “I have one condition, if you want me to do it myself.” 38. “I had an adrenaline rush. It’s very common. You can Google it.” 39. “How did you get in here?” “The window.” 40. “I love a happy ending. They are so rare.” 41. “You should put your seatbelt on.” 42. “Can you talk about something else? Distract me so I won’t turn around.” 43. “I can’t live in a world where you don’t exist.” 44. “After all the thousand times I’ve told you I love you, how could you let one word break your faith in me?” 45. “Maybe that’s why they kicked me out.” 46. “All of my best nights have happened since I met you.” 47. “You know everybody’s staring?” “Not that guy ... no, he just looked.” 48. “She wishes she was that awesome.” 49. “Does he visit often?” “Yeah, all the time.” 50. “Lie ... Lie better.” 51. “I’m Switzerland.” 52. “That should have been our first kiss.” 53. “Would you like to hear my story? It doesn’t have a happy ending -- but which of ours does?” 54. “Another party?” “It’ll be fun.” “Yeah. That’s what you said last time.” 55. “You are the only one who has ever touched my heart. I will always be yours.” 56. “The way he watches you. It’s like he’s willing to leap in front of you and take a bullet or something.” 57. “Kill me! Not him!” 58. “Stay.” “Give me one good reason.” 59. “Yeah, it’s and off day when I don’t get somebody telling me how edible I smell.” 60. “Damn it! You’ll be the death of me, I swear you will.” 61. “If I could dream at all, it would be about you. And I’m not afraid of it.” 62. “Do I dazzle you?” 63. “I’m tired of trying to stay away from you.” 64. “Bring on the shackles, I’m your prisoner.” 65. “You are my life now.” 66. “And then we continued blissfully into this small, perfect piece of our forever.” 67. “Nobody’s ever loved someone as much as I love you.” 68. “I don’t know what happened.” “You love him.” 69. “All of sudden it’s not gravity holding you to the planet, it’s her. Nothing else matters. You would do anything, be anything for her.” 70. “You really love her?” 71. “I don’t see the whole point of the rest of the world without her.” 72. “Then I found a promising site ... I waited impatiently for it to load, quickly clicked closed each ad that flashed across the screen. Finally, the screen finished -- simple, white background with black text; academic-looking. Two quotes greeted me on the homepage:” 73. “I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him.” 74. “I’ll be fighting for her, too, and I’ll be fighting twice as hard as you will.” 75. “It’s always been him.” 76. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you.” 77. “They’re coming for her.” “They’re not gonna touch her.” 78. “Doesn’t he own a shirt?” 79. “You know, if it weren’t for the fact that we’re enemies and that you’re also trying to steal away the reason for my existence, I might actually like you.” 80. “You have disappeared. Like everything else.” 81. “The absence of him is everywhere I look.” 82. “I don’t have the strength to stay away from you anymore.” 83. “Your number was up the first time I met you.” 84. “We all like to drive fast.” 85. “It’s too easy to be myself with you.” 86. “I’ve never given much thought to how I’d die, but dying in the place of someone I love seems like a good way to go.” 87. “Don’t tempt me too far. My patience isn’t that perfect.” 88. “His tone questions my sanity, but it only made me more suspicious. It was like a perfect delivered line by a skilled actor.” 89. “What’s he mad about?” 90. “No measure of time with you will ever be enough.” 91. “I promise to love you forever, every single day of forever.” 92. “We’re gonna be great friends!” 93. “If I had my way, I would spend the majority of my time kissing him.” 94. “Until your heart stops beating.” 95. “I touched the cool miracle of his ski, and I was home.” 96. “Forbidden to remember, terrified to forget; it was a hard line to walk.” 97. “This isn’t the time to make hard and fast decisions. This is the time to make mistakes.” 98. “Leave it to you ... you have to start hanging out with the first weirdos you can find.” 99. “I love him much more than I should, and yet still nowhere near enough.” 100. “I refuse to be affected by territorial disputes.”

Tags for possible interest/signal boosting (if you’re so inclined): 

 @captain-s-rogers​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked​​​​​​​​​ @hurricanerin​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @horsesandbandsforlife​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @im-not-an-armrest-im-short​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @captain-rogers-beard​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @shynara51​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @sea040561​​​​​​​​​​​​​  @pinknerdpanda​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @xtina2191​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @jackryanplz​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @beakami​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @heartsaved​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @fullprunerebelstatesman​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @blackwidowismyhomegirl​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @the-murder-strut-murdered-me​​​​​​​​​​​​​  @shield-agent78​​​​​​​​​​​​​  @jennmurawski13​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @okay-maybe-i-like-marvel-too​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[loopy777]

Do you think the avatar fandom has an interest in shipping that exceeds what is normally found in other fandoms? I’ve heard this said before, but I never really noticed. Primarily because I never really posted in threads dedicated to shipping. Be that as it may, it seems a little hard to believe since shipping is a big part of internet culture. I was never part of the Harry Potter fandom while the series was ongoing, but I’d imagine that it was pretty crazy too.

Well, I’m coming at this from a weird perspective, because the fandoms I was part of before Avatar were Star Wars and Transformers. Sure, you could look in those two fandoms now and find shippers a’plenty, but back when I joined them, they each had their Main Fandom that was dominated by dudes, and then the walled-off female-dominated ‘playgrounds’ to which the shipping was limited because that was too gross or gay for the Mainstream. I was only vaguely aware that there were some Transformers fangirls out somewhere on the internet who thought Megatron and Starscream had some real sexual tension going, and I heard rumors of people who actually didn’t think the romance between Anakin and Padme was eye-rolling and even made fanart and wrote stories celebrating it!

Obviously, that’s shifted a bit.

So Avatar was my first experience with a fandom that was both female-dominated in the mainstream and had a strong shipping component. I was actually quite surprised at how fervent and prolific the shipping discussion was, because it seemed obvious that the AtLA cartoon was only interested in incorporating romance in small, cliched doses. (This was before most of Book Fire had aired, keep in mind.) There was non-shipping discussion, of course, but most of that was centered on Speculating On The Next Episode, my least favorite fandom activity ever. If I wanted to discuss characters and themes, I seemingly had to at least wet my feet in the shipping discussions.

Avatar was also my first experience with Ship Wars. I heard rumblings that the Harry Potter fandom had a similar flavor going on, but my experience with that franchise is still limited to seeing the first movie and listening to the music that John Williams composed for the series. (Boarding school fantasies never really did much for me. Boarding school sounds pretty horrific, actually. It’s school you can’t go home from. Yikes!) With Avatar, I could see firsthand the fans arguing about whether Katara slightly shifting her head while talking to Aang indicated that she’s destined to marry him or signified that she’s imagining Zuko naked in that moment. It was so bizarre, especially once I was immersed enough to see the show itself starting to engage with this segment of the fandom. I look back at those days and I’m not sure whether to smile with fondness or curse them, because now Disney makes blockbuster movies entirely dedicated to addressing complaints from illiterate fans on Reddit, and I wonder if it all started with someone deciding it would be fun to tease the shippers.

(More likely, though, it started with some television writer joining a message board to yell at someone who posted that the latest season was “stupid LOL.”)

However, I wanted to engage with Avatar fandom, and shipping is, when you really break it down, all about character, so it was easy enough to dive into. It was especially easy to figure out the fanfic component. Nobody reads genfic, even if it’s a cool story about two great characters engaging in banter and then stealing a train, but a certain segment of the fandom will knock over the furniture in a rush to read a Maiko/BlueMai fic about Mai and a Masked Zuko engaging in old-fashioned romantically-charged banter and then stealing a train (especially if there’s a great kiss at the end). So shipping became a fun way to write the stories I want with the characters I like, so long as I also take time to satisfy the shippers; I quickly came to enjoy the unfamiliar challenge of selling the reader on why these characters should kiss at the end, and I’ve become rather critical of token romantic subplots in professional fiction because so much of it is bad and it’s so easy to make it good!

And I haven’t really expanded my fandom horizons since then, to be honest. I’ve poked into some other fandoms and peeked at others, but it’s hard to gauge how much shipping plays into things compared to Avatar. What I think makes Avatar stand out on the shipping scene, though, is how bad the Ship Wars got. And I think that’s largely a matter of the timing. Along with Harry Potter and Twilight, I recall Avatar being one of the first online fandoms to achieve notice outside the fandom for the degree of vitriol and bad behavior centering around the Ship Wars, with the Canon!Zutarians standing out for the degree to which they seemed disengaged from the actual work they were supposedly fans of. Nowadays, that type of thing is an old tune, and the same kind of bad behavior is now more associated with more-woke-than-thou fights.

I mean, look at the first Star Wars neo-fandom. It tore itself apart and ruined the very movie it was a fandom for, but shipping was only part of that. We have a second neo-fandom now, and Disney has wisely decided that the only characters who get to kiss are frog aliens.

(Happily, the Transformers fandom has seemed to very neatly divide itself into the ‘No shipping ever’ fans and the ‘Why can’t everything be like that Gay Robots In Space comic book?’ fans. And never the twain shall meet. I wish more stuff would be like that comic book, myself.)

But at the time? Some people online only heard of Avatar by way of people fighting over which boy the Blue Girl should get with. It was one of, like, three things I knew about Avatar when I first checked it out. (The others were that the star is a funny-looking kid with an arrow on his head and the main antagonist looks like he’s going to join the good guys until a sudden twist at the end of a season finale.) So I can see where Avatar has a reputation for Shipping.

Or, at least, that’s my perspective.

[carewyncromwell]

((Previously on “Quest for the Quidditch Cup”...))

[The morning of the Quidditch Final was very wet. Gray storm clouds had covered the ceiling of the Great Hall, with transparent raindrops dissipating before they reached the ground. It left Carewyn feeling a distinct sense of foreboding -- one only magnified when Ben met her at the double doors and walked her over to the Gryffindor table where he’d been sitting with Charlie and Jae.

Jae had pinched a copy of Rita Skeeter’s article about the upcoming match. Carewyn at first dreaded reading what horrible way Skeeter had managed to twist what had gone down with Skye and Rath, but when she actually read the headline, she felt her anxiety give way to aggravation.

“FROM CURSEBREAKER TO CHASER -- The Ultimate Underdog Story for the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup!”

That’s right. The story, it turned out, wasn’t about Skye or the Slytherin team at all -- Rita Skeeter had instead made it all about Carewyn and her supposedly “defying all odds” to fill the shoes of the “hot-blooded and impulsive heir to the Parkin Quidditch legacy.”

Although Carewyn was sort of glad that at least this meant that Skye’s misguided belief that Rath had attacked her on purpose hadn’t made the front page, she still couldn’t help but be really steamed about the article. She’d flat-out said that she didn’t want to give Skeeter an interview and that the reporter should talk to the rest of the team instead. But Skeeter apparently had gotten what she’d wanted anyway by asking the rest of the team a lot of questions about Carewyn and whether or not they believed someone “with virtually no experience playing in a serious match” could stand up against the five-time winners of the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup. The whole article made it sound like Carewyn truly was the only person who could win Slytherin house eternal glory -- a sentiment that not only was flat-out untrue, but that also made the pressure on her shoulders feel that much heavier. Charlie had tried to cheer Carewyn up by pointing out that the Slytherin team’s comments about her had sounded positive and that she did deserve some gratitude for taking the Chaser spot at the last minute...but even he seemed to agree it was rather cold to ignore how much work everyone else had put in.

“Your team Captain’s graduating this year too, isn’t he?” he said with a deep frown. “Any decent reporter would’ve mentioned that, after saying this was Skye’s last game at school.”

The article was like a meddlesome fly at the back of Carewyn’s mind the entire time as she headed to the Quidditch tent that afternoon, keeping her eye on the gray-tinted clouds.]

At least it’s stopped raining. And really, clouds can sometimes be better than sunshine -- less chance of getting blinded when you look up...

[Fortunately when she arrived, the rest of the Slytherin team greeted her pleasantly.]

Night: “Carewyn!”

Quinn: “Hey, Carewyn!”

[Carewyn gave the two Beaters her best winning smile.]

“Hi.”

[She took out her robes from her locker and started to change next to her fellow red-haired Chaser, Cara, who was sitting on the bench and putting on her cleats. Carewyn couldn’t help but notice the scrunched-up copy of the Daily Prophet she’d put her boot on top of.

Cara, ever the discerning sort, noticed where Carewyn’s gaze was and smiled wryly.]

Cara: “I hope you’re not letting what that Skeeter woman said get to you.”

[Carewyn blinked.]

“What?”

Quinn: “That rubbish about ‘the Quidditch Cup Final resting squarely on your shoulders.’”

Night: “Yeah -- I mean, that old bat’s always been a huge drama queen. From what I gather, the only reason she’s yet to cover the Cursed Vaults is because she’d been too busy writing articles like Millicent Bagnold supposedly wearing khakis to an international press conference...”

[Carewyn’s mouth dropped open in a mixture of disbelief and utter bewilderment. The Keeper, Ashok Peri, closed his locker with a clatter, looking over his shoulder with a huge smirk.]

Ashok: “If anything, I’d say most of the pressure lies on Kaylisa. She’ll be the one trying to catch the Snitch.”

Kaylisa: “But Quinn and Night’ll be the ones protecting me from Rath -- that’s quite a bit of pressure...”

Cara: “I reckon it’s like what Orion said last night...it’ll be about working as a team, right?”

[Carewyn nodded in agreement. Hearing the team downplay Skeeter’s article so thoroughly made her feel a lot better.]

“Right. We’ll all have our part to play.”

???: “Even me?”

[Skye had entered the tent. She was no longer holding her left side but was still walking a bit precariously.

Carewyn immediately felt herself tensing up again. Had she read the article?]

Kaylisa: “Skye! You made it!”

[Skye tried to smile brightly, but she seemed a bit tense too.]

Skye: “Just because I can’t play doesn’t mean I can’t wish my team luck, right? I already said I planned on cheering you on...”

[Her eyes landed on Carewyn, and the two stared each other down for a moment. Skye’s gaze was standoffish, like a dog with its ears back baring for a fight.]

Yup, she read it.

[Carewyn’s eyes narrowed.]

“...Skye, I didn’t know Rita Skeeter changed the article.”

[Skye raised an eyebrow.]

“She asked me for an interview and I said no, so I thought she’d go back to focusing on you. I told her to talk to the team, not me.”

Skye: “(lowly) It looks like she followed your advice.”

[Night rushed to Carewyn’s defense, coming up to stand beside her.]

Night: “Skye, we didn’t know Skeeter had been planning to write about you. If we’d known, you know we would’ve said something.”

[Cara and Kaylisa nodded too.]

“(firmly) I told Skeeter flat-out that I’m just your substitute. I didn’t want any attention for this. This wasn’t even supposed to be my match: it was supposed to be yours.”

I don’t want praise for chasing someone else’s dream.

“I just want Slytherin to win. That’s all.”

[Amazingly Skye’s face had cleared of the tenseness and insecurity it’d shown long before Carewyn finished. She smiled, her eyes touched with an almost ironic dryness.]

Skye: “You really are a hero, Carewyn. You steal the spotlight so well that Skeeter woman can’t help but ignore me, even at my worst...and yet you’re still too decent of a person to let it go to your head.”

[The rest of the team relaxed. Carewyn gave a faintly uncomfortable smile, her eyes still drawn to the grass to the left of Skye’s foot.]

“(mutters) ...Why would a story crowing about how I’m the only one who can win us the Quidditch Cup go to my head?”

Who needs that sort of pressure?

Skye: “(smirking slightly) I might’ve liked it. Sometimes I wonder how we were lucky enough to grab you instead of Gryffindor, Carewyn.”

“(snorts dryly) Because I don’t just barrel in without thinking.”

[Skye laughed loudly, only to immediately regret it when pain shot through her newly mended ribcage.]

Skye: “Ow ow...fffffudge, that hurts...”

[She hissed in pain.

Carewyn gave her a faintly pitying look as she pulled on her set of spare green Quidditch robes. She’d had to adjust the fit when she first practiced in them, since they’d originally been sized for Skye’s height and weight, not hers.

At that moment Murphy wheeled into the tent. His face lit up at the sight of Skye and Carewyn.]

Murphy: “Hey, Skye! Ready for the Final, Carewyn?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

My insides feel like snakes, but well, that’s normal, isn’t it?

[Murphy looked at Night and Quinn.]

Murphy: “Are you both ready too? We’ll be counting on you out there today -- remember, if you’re over Rath’s shoulder when she tries to attack Kaylisa, we’ve got a 97.2% chance of countering the Ravenclaws’ winning strategy...”

Quinn: “Don’t worry, McNully -- we’ve got this.”

[She exchanged a look with Night and the two Beaters both smirked.]

Cara: “(with a determined smile) Hey, Carewyn...once we’re 70 points up, let’s make sure one of us stays near the center field, just in case Kaylisa sees the Snitch and we need to signal Night or Quinn.”

[Carewyn nodded in agreement, her own face much more serious.]

“Good idea.”

Murphy: “That could also give you time to stall Rath, if it’s taking Night or Quinn a while to get there.”

???: “I agree.”

[Orion entered the tent, already fully dressed in his uniform and holding his Cleansweep. He inclined his head in a single nod to his fellow Chasers, Carewyn and Cara.]

Orion: “We will need to pull out all the steps for this strategy to succeed.”

[He raised his gaze to the others.]

Orion: “Gather around the blackboard, team. It’s time for our moment of vivification.”

[The Slytherins in the tent all shuffled over to the far corner where the blackboard was set up.

Once everyone had assembled, Orion lifted the tent flap that had blown forward, shifting it aside to reveal what it had been hiding -- four Magical Creatures, lined up in a row.]

[A memory fluttered over Carewyn’s mind -- herself, in third year, heading out to the Quidditch Pitch in the hopes of scoring a tryout with the elusive Slytherin Quidditch Captain...

“Fire Crab, Flobberworm, Kneazle, Niffler...”

Orion smiled broadly seeing how Carewyn’s eyes had widened.]

Orion: “I see you remember these creatures too, Carewyn. When each of you first joined our team, I asked you to memorize these four creatures -- to take lessons from each of them, before every practice and match. Today these creatures embody the same traits we’ll need to secure our victory. We’ll need the patience of a Flobberworm resting in the earth...and yet we must be as tenacious as a Niffler in pursuit of gold. We must depend on one another with the loyalty of a Kneazle...and yet we must each burn with the fire of a Fire Crab. Patience -- tenacity -- loyalty -- and fire. They are all traits I have seen in every one of you, whether you’ve been here with me since the beginning...”

[He glanced at Skye out the side of his eye.]

Orion: “...Or you’ve returned to be with me here at the end.”

[His dark eyes landed on Carewyn, softening significantly, before he addressed his team again.]

Orion: “Let me take this time to thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. Even with how much we have won and how much we have lost, the fire in your hearts has never faltered. You’ve never lost sight of our prize. You’ve trained with patience, rather than seeking a shorter road. And above all else...you have been a loyal family to each other...and to me.”

[Some of the team looked like they wanted to cry. Skye already had bowed her head to hide the tears streaming down her face.]

Oh, Orion...the end really is coming up so soon, isn’t it? Your final match...your final chance, to achieve your dream of winning the Cup...

[Memories of Bill’s farewell party the previous year rippled over Carewyn’s mind. She felt a choking feeling forming in the back of her throat, but she fought it back fiercely, even as her eyes likewise drifted down to the ground rather than up at Orion.

Orion amazingly wasn’t crying. Instead his dark eyes shone with such overwhelming pride and softness, it made him look almost paternal.]

Orion: “It...has been an honour...one I will never forget.”

[Even though he’d held in his tears, however, Carewyn could hear his emotion shaking at the back of his soft voice. He was deeply touched by his team’s tears, even though he wasn’t crying himself.]

Orion: “(with more volume and determination) Now then...let us face our opponents with all of our fire! Let us work patiently and unified, as one whole! And let us, no matter what, not let anything stand in the way of our goal today!”

[The entire Slytherin team all burst into cheers, even as tears flooded their eyes and streaked down their faces. Soon Night, Cara, Ashok, and Kaylisa had all divebombed Orion and enveloped him in a huge group hug. Carewyn stood back, bringing a hand up to swipe at the corner of her eye as she tried to compose herself. When she raised her head, she noticed Skye wiping her own face clean of tears with both hands.

As the team dispersed, Skye approached Orion properly.]

[Carewyn looked at Orion, her red lips spread in a smile.]

“(very softly) It was wonderful, Orion.”

[Skye glanced at the four creatures with a raised eyebrow.]

Skye: “...How did you get those things over here, anyway?”

[Orion’s dark eyes twinkled mischievously.]

Orion: “Some mysteries are not meant to be solved -- ”

???: “Mr. Amari!”

[Madame Hooch had arrived-- and judging by how she looked at the flobberworm, Niffler, Kneazle, and Fire Crab, she had not approved of them being brought into the Quidditch tent.

Orion stiffened only ever-so-slightly upon being caught. Within seconds, his mouth spread into a rather large, sugarcoated kind of smile, like a cat trying to play innocent after knocking over an expensive vase.]

Orion: “These creatures are part of our team’s moment of vivification, Madame Hooch. They’ll be returned to Hagrid shortly.”

[Hooch fixed Orion with a rather beady, hawk-like look.]

Hooch: “See that they are, quickly. Neither they nor you should be here. Mr. McNully, you’re needed in the commentary box -- and Miss Parkin, I’d say you should go find a seat in the stands, before you miss anything.”

[Murphy shrugged his shoulders amusedly, and he shot Carewyn, Night, and Quinn a huge grin before wheeling himself out. Skye hesitated, glancing around at all of her teammates, Carewyn, and then finally Orion, before heading out of the tent.]

Hooch: “As for you all -- Mr. Amari, Miss O’Donnell, Miss Cromwell -- Miss Rhea, Miss Mercurenius -- Mr. Peri -- Miss Fortescue...”

((OOC: Next up...the long-anticipated Quidditch Final: Slytherin VS Ravenclaw!

Other Slytherin MC teammates referenced -- Cara O’Donnell @unfortunate-arrow, Night Rhea @nightrhea-hphm​, and Sabrina “Quinn” Mercurenius @danceworshipper! If I can do anything to tweak how your characters are written, just let me know! xoxo

I was very close to having the article reveal at the pre-match party like in the game, but...well, I knew I’d have to rewrite the whole scene anyway, so it felt like it’d be better to just get a move on and get to the match quicker. The fall-out needed to be addressed, of course, but it didn’t seem logical to split material that could fit into one roleplaying post into two, particularly since in this version of events, Skye isn’t so starry-eyed about Rita Skeeter writing an article all about her and so Carewyn has no reason to feel sorry about how things turned out. Honestly all Carewyn feels is the urge to “accidentally” knock a Bludger in Rita’s direction with her broom during the match, but she’s enough of a paragon to resist that urge. No matter how much Rita would deserve it. *SNORT*))

[sgtrolandhills]

Is Pat All? || Jared & Roland

TIMING: After the events at Pat’s Place PARTIES: @themidnightfarmer & @sgtrolandhills SUMMARY: Roland meets Jared to ask questions about what happened at Pat’s.  CONTENT: Food poisoning tw, mass poisoning tw

The hospital had been kind to Jared. He hadn’t been in there for himself very often, but he’d been in repeatedly visiting other people. His last long stay was when Nell had been in from her stay at the ring. They’d not been on speaking terms so he’d hung around mostly with the nurses on the floor, bringing them coffee and lunch in exchange for affirmations that she was doing okay even if they couldn’t give anything more than that. So there he sat waiting for more questions, whatever they’d meant by that. A pudding cup in hand despite being a short stay patient and a cup of coffee to his left, perks of being in with the nurses. Jared looked up when the curtain pulled back and he put his phone down to give the man his full attention. “Oh hey, how the tables turn. I’m afraid I’m keeping the pudding this time.” 

Going through and interviewing all the witnesses at Pat’s had been a tedious process thus far, but Roland was determined to get to the bottom of this. He was not about to let yet another major incident become a cold case. Not on his watch. Not when they got a tip ahead of time. He’d made his way down the hall to visit the next patient. It brought a slight flip to his stomach to see the young man who’d been kind enough to bring him pudding was one of the victims. Thankfully, he seemed to be okay, but Roland supposed they’d have to put off their trip to the bar. “I wouldn’t dream of stealing a patient’s pudding,” he joked. It was good to see Jared could make light of the situation. “Think we’ll have to reschedule our drinking night though.” He took the seat besides Jared and said, “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about what happened at Pat’s.” 

“Reschedule? No way, what's a little bit of cyanide in the afternoon.” Jared was kidding obviously, but he’d found a little levity was doing wonders for the mood of the hospital staff dealing with all this. It also helped him cope himself with the reality of what had happened as well. The idea that so many had been poisoned so easily was pretty terrifying, and Jared was honestly trying not to think about the personal danger he’d been in. But still the nymph nodded with a small smile given for the other. “I don’t know how much I could tell you, but ask away.” 

“Very funny, Jared. There’ll be plenty of cyanide free weekends to enjoy a drink during,” Roland responded with a slightly playful air in his tone. He tried to lighten the overall mood. A mass poisoning was bleak and not something most would want to dwell on. It didn’t erase his responsibility to find whoever was behind this. He rubbed the back of his neck before he dived right into the questions. “Did you happen to have any drinks from the bar? We’re thinking that may be the common link.” 

“One weekend soon alright, I’ll definitely need some sort of day out after this.” He was trying to keep the levity, but it was getting a little harder the more time he had to dwell on the events of the re-opening. Jared felt his smile dim a little and he crossed his legs on the hospital bed. “No drinks from the bar, but I did have a glass of water that was pre-poured and taken around by a waiter? Do you think it was in the water too?”

“Absolutely,” Roland agreed. The younger man was earnest and friendly which were traits he respected. It was never easy to transition to the darker parts of conversation, but it was necessary. Whoever hurt Jared and the others at Pat needed to serve their time behind bars, likely until they rotted away in their prison cell. He shoved the anger down and sympathetically offered, “I know it’s not easy to recount this stuff. It sounds likely it may have been. Do you recall if the waiter was grabbing the water from bottles or from the bar perhaps?” There was still a roaring suspicion that the bartender who ran off had something to do with this. 

The nymph had been ignoring his thoughts of the whole incident, both to try and make the hospital staff's job a little easier as they were likely dealing with a lot of very emotional people, but also just to keep himself together. So his memory of the experience as he was urged to try and sort out the details was a little messy in his head. Jared chewed on his thumbnail idly before he answered. “It seemed odd to be bringing around just cups of water on a tray. I think maybe he came from behind the bar, but I didn’t see any bottles I don’t think. Then again I was sort of busy talking to this fisher guy about stuff, it’s a bit of a blur?” I didn’t see anyone else take a glass from the tray though I don't think. It was full when I took mine and everyone else was at the bar.”

Roland nodded along as Jared recounted the ordeal at Pat’s. While water going around on trays at such a large event wasn’t entirely suspect, he knew it had to be the water. Everyone had eaten the food, but not everyone had ended up with some altered form of cyanide in their systems. “Noted, that’s something for us to check into surveillance wise,” he explained. These experiences were often traumatizing for victims, so he never liked to rush his way through questioning. After a moment, he asked, “How did you hear about the re-opening event?” 

“Got a flier at the market. And I loved Pat's place, coming back after mi- after I was on holiday for a while over winter to the news it had been completely done in was pretty terrible. I’d have gone to Pat’s funeral, he was a stand up guy.” Jared was going on a tangent but he couldn’t seem to stop his mind whirring. “I really hope the place isn’t over for this, Pat would never do something like this. Pats place is too home-y for poison you know? The food wasn’t the same though I guess, now I think about it…” Jared looked at Roland and chewed his thumb nail again. “Did you ever go to Pats from before?”

If the flier was found at the market, it didn’t seem as if Jared was specifically targeted in that case. He remembered Luce mentioned her sisters specifically received invites. It was odd to Roland that some people would be exclusively invited but not others. He’d look more into that aspect of things later. He couldn’t pin whether this was intended to target certain individuals or just some sicko who wanted to hurt a bunch of people. If the latter was the case, it would have made more sense to poison the food. He nodded along and said, “I know some people were specifically. We’re trying to figure out if there was any rhyme or reason to who was poisoned.” Jared really was a good kid. Roland couldn’t imagine Pat’s recovering from this sort of catastrophe. “I guess we’ll see what comes of Pat’s. I had never been before it closed. I’m still fairly new to town. Only been here a few months. Did you recognize any of the staff from the previous Pat’s?” 

The nymph wasn’t sure what was worse. The thought that some people had been targeted specifically and then others were taken as collateral, or the idea that perhaps it had only been done at random to spread the most panic. Jared nodded forlornly at Roland and heaved a sigh to clear his mind. “You missed out bud, Pats maybe wasn’t the highest quality food, but the whole place was filled with those good people and strong coffee.” He shook his head and lifted his hospital coffee from the bedside table to sip. “A lot of the staff died when Pats got hit, the only waitress I know that survived didn’t go back to the place. Got a job somewhere else in town after she got outta hospital last I heard. Sorry I’m not giving you very much. I think she was approached to come back for the reopening if you want her number?”

This Pat fellow probably would have been sad to see what came of his restaurant. Roland was almost glad he wasn’t around to see it. It was apparent that Jared was upset over what happened at Pat’s. Who wouldn’t be? He did his best to keep his tone gentle and clasped his hands together in his lap. “It sounds like quite the place. I wish I could have seen it in full swing before all of this.” He remained quiet for a moment as he thought the situation over. He’d asked all the standard questions and Jared answered to the best of his ability. “Hm, it does seem this wouldn’t be at all connected to the old ownership or staff then. I would like to have her number. See if she knows anything further about the new management that could be of use.” He took a brief pause before asking his final question. “Did you happen to notice anything off about the event before you and others began falling ill?” 

“It was really great before all this mess for real. No other place like it. Worked as a dishwasher there one summer even.” When Roland said he’d like to take Mandys number he lifted his cellphone from the table and scrolled through. “It’s not weird to give a girls number out if it’s the cops calling right?” Jared joked lamely as he placed the device on the table and spun it around so that Roland could read off the number. “The whole thing seemed so normal. The fliers were everywhere so tons of people showed up. The place felt like I imagine any reopening could feel like. The first people to start to get sick didn’t really get noticed by anyone I don’t think. Everyone was too caught up in themselves. But once people started actually falling to the floor that’s when it was obvious things weren’t going good.” Jared grimaced at Roland and shrugged a little. “Probably not the best person to have to question. I tend to get single minded around cheap food, especially a buffet like that.”

It was quite a shame that Pat’s legacy was ruined by the new ownership who Roland had a hunch may have been responsible for this. There was nothing solid to go off of yet, but he’d keep digging until he found answers. It seemed like he was digging more holes than he could keep track of these days, but it didn’t make him any less determined. He forced out a chuckle at Jared’s joke. He’d been through a lot, the least Rol could do was acknowledge his humor. “Don’t worry, I don’t think I’ll be creeping Mandy out.” This was strictly related to a case. It was highly unethical to act inappropriately with witnesses or anyone in custody. He listened along as Jared explained the event and from his perspective, it all seemed normal until it wasn’t. He could understand being more focused on the atmosphere, food, and socializing. It wasn’t like he could have possibly anticipated what was coming. “I see,” he started before putting the cap back on his pen, “I appreciate you taking the time to fill me on what you witnessed. I know you loved the place and this whole thing must have been difficult for you. I can assure you I won’t be giving up on this case until you, Pat’s, and everyone else affected is brought to justice.” He put his pen and notepad back in his back pocket and extended his hand out, “I’ll talk to you again soon, Jared. Think we’ll both need that rain check sooner rather than later.” With a wave, he left to go talk to his next witness. He could only hope they turned up something more.

[kyberphilosopher]

Chapter Sixteen

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

The lake being frozen saves me a lot of time. I cross it without worrying of it crumpling under my steps, putting more trust in it than anything else since the last time I’ve been here. The last time I was here… I almost died. I should’ve died. If not for the tundra-esque waters underneath me, I would’ve. In fact, I’m surprised I didn’t drown anyways. Probably would’ve saved me a lot of trouble if I had.

When I look up, I can see the mountain I jumped from. From this angle, I can’t see my old cabin, but I’m certain it’s still up there. I’m excited in my own way to see it again, even though I find it impossible not to imagine a Clone with his gun trained on me waiting. Because, despite the bad memories, I will always love this place. I will always love the system I consider my home. It offered me sanctuary when nothing and no one else would, and for that I’ll be eternally grateful, even if it did try to kill me. I suppose this is what love is- I suppose this is what devotion means. Complete loyalty, no matter the distance or the experience. So, I guess, in my own way, I do love something. I love Ilum. I missed Ilum. I want to stay with Ilum.

There! The cabin! Not twenty feet from where I stand. Just as wooden and strong as ever! And there, not ten feet from me, is the spot where the trooper with the yellow striped helmet shot at me. One of his shots grazed my arm, leaving me with a scar, but I was okay. I can almost still see him there now, just as I do in some of my nightmares, but he isn’t there. Just my cabin, and the stillness of the wind.

I push the door forward, listening to the creak I used to hear so often. I can see the dust in the air, feel the still tension, and smell the silence. It doesn’t feel as warm as it once did, but that must be because of how long it’s been. Three years. Nothing has changed.

The table is still knocked over, my fruit and cheese is just as moldy as when I left it. My bed is just as ruffled up from when I threw the covers off. My old hunting jacket is still crumpled up in the corner, spearheads surrounding it collecting dust.

It feels warmer than I remember. I’m taller now. I could probably reach up and touch the ceiling if I really wanted. Tentatively, I put my left foot forward. It scuffs against the ground, causing me to almost trip. Immediately after, I know I shouldn’t be here.

I’m not welcome anymore. I’ve outgrown the cabin somehow. It may look the same, but it doesn’t feel the same. There is nothing more I can do for it, and nothing more it can do for me. Maker, the thought alone makes me want to shrivel up into a ball and cry.

How could this have happened? How can I feel so unwelcomed in my own home? This shouldn’t be possible. I should be relaxing on the bed right now, a content smile on my face as the air takes me back into its arms. But there is nothing. The air inside shoos me away with malice, begging me to stop stretching it. This was… not what I was expecting.

I turn to the left quickly, my breath falling anxiously from my lips.

On the floor in front of me is a short, wrinkled, green… thing. A male, with long ears protruding off his head and white tufts spurting from it. He dawns cream colored robes that bring out his old, but wise, green eyes. I’ve never encountered his race before. He reminds me very much of a shriveled bean, slowly dehydrating in light of the hottest suns.

Immediately, I take a step back. My heel rolls on the floor and my ankle gives a great twist. I don’t react to it at all. Instead, my left hand dives to my hips, reaching for my lightsabers. They aren’t there.

“Missing something, are you?” the green thing smiles.

I furrow my eyebrows, taking a quick and defensive step forward.

“Make a new one, should you?” then he chuckles. I take another step forward, ready to pick the thing up and crush it against the wall and demand to know what it’s done, but he’s disappeared. Almost as if he hadn’t even been here to begin with.

Make a new one? A new lightsaber?

Yes, my cabin says. Go on. We could use this time away.

It’s not like I have anything to lose from a new lightsaber. And I did say I missed my green and red blades.

I storm out of my cabin then with a hot face. There was nothing better for me to do.

I start my climb to the temple. I already passed the main entrance, but there’s another, lesser known, side entrance that uses the path by my hut. Years ago, I recall attempting to enter the temple through that entrance, but there was a giant ice door in my way. Luckily, there was an abandoned lightsaber I could snag, but I never did find the trick with the door. I never bothered to watch any of the youngling groups for fear of discovery. Now, it seems I have to. Even if I find another abandoned lightsaber, I won’t steal it this time.

I climb the mountain for a while with ease, my body remembering all those primal, survival instincts. Then I slip into a little tunnel to my right and hike upward, eventually making my way back outside and to the side of the mountain. It’s not dark yet, meaning I’ve been making good time.

I wonder what Adamus is doing right now. Probably defending needing me to his little… sausage council. Man, those guys really did not want me with them. I don’t blame them. Lucky for them, they won’t have to worry about it anymore. I have no intention of going back. I won’t see Adamus again, nor Aheka. Admittedly, I feel a little guilty about leaving Aheka. She was trying her best to be kind, and it felt sincere.

There’s a story I heard once on Coruscant, about a bog frog and a scorpion. The scorpion asked the frog for help crossing a river, and the frog accepted. Once it was finished, the scorpion stung and ate the frog. I guess that makes me a scorpion, and Aheka the innocent frog. Unfortunately, I can’t bring myself to eat or kill her, but I can abandon her. I can abandon anyone. I don’t need them.

Then, I’m thinking about Adamus gripping my arm in the middle of his meeting and leering close enough for me to stare deep into his pale eyes, and I have deny needing them all over again.        

I find the entrance in the form of a giant hole in the side of the next mountain. I can see the giant ice door I need to get to below, and the large ice crystal above. I drop down to the level below with ease, cracking the snow under my feet. I can see my breath come out in puffs and feel the iciness of my fingers. It’s much colder down here- more stale. Everything feels old and sacred and on the verge of trapping me.

The question now is: what to do? Last time I was here, I couldn’t figure out the trick with the door. I suspect I have to melt it using the crystal above somehow, but it may just be faster to break it myself with the force or lightning.

No, no. Then the crystal would break and hurt me, and I’d have no other way to get into the temple. I shouldn’t disturb the atmosphere more than I have to.  

The hole I leaped through… there’s sunlight seeping through it.

Tentatively, I raise my left hand to the air and towards the crystal. The air around me becomes tighter, more connected to it. I can feel the weight of it, the sharpness of the ice. Slowly, then all of a sudden- it lurches in front of the light with a crack! and I watch beams of yellow and white race across the room and meet the ice door.

Then, the door is melting away. It turns to ice and rushes down steps, chilling my feet through my boots and soaking my ankles.

I can see the darkness waiting for me, the whispers calling me inside. I can feel my crystal begging me to step forward, to enter. It tugs me and manipulates me. It wants me. It’s just as tantalizing as the Dark Side. And so, for the first time in my life, I step forward into the Jedi temple, looking for a new lifeline.

The caves are colder than I would prefer. My breath comes out in puffs of white mist, and my reflection dances across the walls of ice. The whole inside of this temple is built like a maze or a cave, forcing me to rely on nothing but instincts. I have no light but my conscience, no sense of direction but the turning in my stomach. Beads of sweat form on my forehead, despite my arms crossing to keep myself warm. How many younglings have died in these caves, I wonder, searching for their own kyber crystal? If I find my own, is it because the force wishes me to live, even after all I have done? No, if future Sith found their crystal here and the force did not stop them, then everything about this universe is deeply flawed.

I come to a fork in front of me. The path ahead is divided into three new roads.

The one on the left is quiet, with only the faint whistling of wind escaping. It feels lonely, abandoned, desolate.

The one on the right is warm, tropical, and deceiving. It feels like a party made to cover up something sinister and overly hot.

The one in the middle is nothing. It’s boring, and gray and unable to give me anything good or bad.

I take the left path. I am left-handed, I enjoy the silence, and I often feel abandoned. It was made for me.

Every so often, I hear whispers from the past. They echo through the cave walls and into my head, bouncing around softly. They feel intense, sad, distant.

“I don’t believe in chance, Commander.”

"Feel, don’t think. Use your instincts.”

“Don’t let this be the end of the Jedi.”

The whispers become darker.

“Anakin!”

“You were my brother!”

“I know him. Your vision is flawed.”

“Anakin, please!”

“Don’t underestimate my power.”

There is silence after the last whisper. Menacing, it lingers in the air. It chills me to the bone, sending vibrations down my spine like I’ve never felt.

What… what really happened that day? I only saw Order Sixty-Six from my view, but what else was there? Why do I feel so much pain?

A pang hits me in my stomach as something glinting catches my eye. A… dead end? No… I felt my crystal here. I know I should’ve gone this way! I jog towards it, disappointment settling in as I realize that of course it’s not that easy. Sure enough, there’s a thick sheet of ice blocking me from going any further.

… I can see something shining on the other side of wall. I can hear it. I can… I can feel it. It’s my crystal.

I’m not in the cave anymore all of a sudden. I’m alone and in the dark- this time literally. The air feels humid and warm in contrast to the cool cave I was previously in. I can hear the echo of my breathing throughout the area, which appears to be unending. I feel my braid hit my back as I whirl around, searching for an exit in the abyss.      

“Keres?”

I twirl around, and there she is.

“You’re really out of it today, aren’t you?” Talik coos. Her long eyelashes flutter against her cheeks as she blinks. The light hitting her face makes her full lips shine perfectly. At this, I realize I’m not in the black void anymore. I’m back on our ship, right in the leather seats by our game table.

 “I’m just tired,” says a familiar voice from behind me. I turn around again, but this time I see myself. I realize I’m watching the scene play out from a distance, and I step closer with furrowed eyebrows. I know better than to question what the Force brings to me at this point.

I am younger. My shirt is loose and longed sleeved, effectively covering my skinny arms. My braid looks neater than it does now. The makeup under my eyes is cleaner, but also smudged as if I’ve been crying. I am similar, but different to as I am now.

Talik leans forward in her seat with a smirk. She puts her elbows on the table and crosses her arms. “Could’ve sworn I heard you making noises last night. You sure nothing was keeping you up?” She bites her lip and wiggles her eyebrows. I watch my own face go blank with apathy, but I can see the wheels of my mind turn as I try to understand her meaning.

“Not like that,” I finally say. “Must’ve been Kip.”

“Ew. Or Mur.”

I roll my eyes and look away casually. “Please, stop talking.”

Talik throws her head back and lets out a musical laugh. “If you insist.”

The air is quiet for a moment. Old Keres looks down to her lap and fumbles with her fingers (all ten of them), picking at her nails as she thinks. Talik watches me with scrutinizing eyes. She’s analyzing me.

And then the memory all comes back at once. I couldn’t place it at first. Now I can. And my brain feels cloudy as I try not to collapse in on myself with cringe.

“I have something for you,” Talik finally says. I pick my head up with attention, and she digs into her belt pocket and puts a small pouch on the table. “Glitteryll,” she smiles. “Two pounds of it.”

I look at the small pouch with something like lust. I can see my own pupils dilating in and out. My mouth falls open slightly, revealing my top row of teeth about to bite into my lower lip.

“Where’d you get all that, anyway?” I ask.

The Twi’Lek rolls her eyes. “You know what your problem is, Vagor? You’re paranoid. Always. All the time! It never stops!”

A snuff of air leaves my nose with a quick smile in an attempt to relax myself. “I think you’re just jealous I ask better questions than you do.”

“Ha. You wish,” she says with narrow eyes. “But for real. Look at this.”

“It’s impressive,” I shrug, eyeing the pouch with desire again. “But do you really think Mur would appreciate it?”

Talik rolls her eyes. “Paranoia. Again with the paranoia.”

My old self watches her. My eyes flicker between Talik’s. I can’t remember what I was thinking exactly, but I remember thinking very hard. I can see it in my face from the little details no one but me would notice.

“I guess,” I finally mutter. “I think I’m gonna take it easy today. I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.”

I go to exit the booth. In my real body, my hands ball into fists as I watch myself. I already know what happens next. I remember it. I didn’t like it.

Talik swipes the pouch back into her hands and under the table. “You’re always at that desk, Vagor. Will you be working?”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Probably, I guess. I can get around to that holster you asked for.”

My hands tighten into smaller balls.

“Well then you’ll need your energy,” Talik smiles. “Here. Wait right here.”

She didn’t give me a chance to respond. Talik sweeps her curvy body out of the booth and into the space we use as a kitchen. My old self watches her go, easing myself back into my seat slowly. I should’ve just gotten up anyway. That’s what makes this whole future my fault.

Talik clicks a button on our caf machine. I could’ve sworn I’d told her I’m not all a fan of the stuff, but I’d just figured she’d forgotten. Instead, my present body keeps my eyes glued to her, as the old me twiddles my thumbs in waiting.

I watch the Twi’Lek remove the pouch from her hands, open it, and set it on the counter. She fills a tall cup with the caf and sits it on the counter. Her slender fingers reach into the bag and pull out a pinch of shimmering dust. She lets it fall into the cup and swirls it around. Then she takes another pinch of the stuff and repeats. Talik does it a third time for good measure. Finally she brings the cup over to the table, steaming and the color of chocolate, setting it down in front of me.

“For you,” Talik smiles sweetly.

I remember having a bad feeling. It’s my fault.

I already know what happens next. I don’t need to see it,  though I do anyway. Because what I see now isn’t up to me. Because I know that I can’t be in control of everything.

Still, once it is done, I am somewhat on the verge of tears. It is enough to make me wonder if I am weak. If I deserved what had happened after I accepted the drink. But mostly I think I cry of frustration towards myself. Because even now, after I watched it all, I still make myself believe that Talik didn’t mean any of it.  

“Not your fault, it was,” calls a familiar voice from behind me.

Lowering my gaze under the weight of my shame, I turn. I’m no longer looking at the ship, but instead at a large, circular room. The wall is made of windows, revealing an orange sky behind a detailed city. I can see the ship traffic outside, whizzing and whirring as if anyone had anything important to do. The room is lined with dark red chairs. Only one of them is filled.

“Known, how could you?” says the little green one. His eyes narrow and widen as he speaks, as if he were desperately trying to get his point across.

My lips quiver as I search around the room quickly. I can feel the tears welling up again, blurring my vision somewhat. It feels like there’s no more air in the world.

“I should have been smarter,” I finally break. My head falls again. I can’t stop myself from sniffling like a child, but I can obscure his vision from seeing it at least.

“No,” he responds firmly. “No, no, no! Never the fault of the victim, it is. Only that of the perpetrator.”

“So I’m a victim then,” I wipe my nose with the cuff of my sleeve. Being a victim is the very last thing I wanted to be. “Who are you?” I snap suddenly.

The little green things mouth curves into a thin line. A smile. And for some reason, the smile puts me at ease. The creature is old and wise. If he smiles at me, it’s because he is certain things will go alright. If he smiles at me, it’s because he’s certain that the Force will carry my body safely to the shore, no matter how high the waves climb. And who am I to question the thing I believe to bind everything together?

“Right,” I mutter as I roll my puffy eyes. “Jedi.”

“Something clever about you, I knew there was.”

“You don’t need to be force sensitive to see that,” I explain. I can feel my nose drain, and I want to wipe it again.

The Jedi creakily extends his hand to me. His three claws gesture out to me, then to a chair on his right. I eye them suspiciously. They are the thrones of my enemy. I wouldn’t touch them unless it was to ruin it.

Though, now that I see them, I see how plush they are. They remind me of velvet. I haven’t touched velvet many times in my life. True to my nature, the longer I see the furniture, the more curious I become. Finally, I edge myself closer to the thing before I settle into it slowly.

It’s soft. I was right about the velvet. Still, I don’t feel comfortable enough to sink into it all the way. I keep myself poised and upright, and ready to stand at a moments notice.

“Against the Jedi Order what have you?” the old thing croaks.

My index finger twitches reflexively at the question, like a spasm. I don’t think about it too much, but then I miss my ring finger. I can’t seem to forget about it.

I breathe out through my nose slowly. I haven’t told anyone about my reasoning behind my opinion on the Jedi for as long as I’ve been alive. For so long, these opinions have just been bouncing around inside my own head. Am I ready to speak them into the air?

“You’re just not as good as you say you are,” I swallow bitterly. In reality, I want to scream out ‘you left me to die!’, but that doesn’t fit my constant need to be cool as a cucumber. “This whole thing is just ridiculous you know. Why would you even wear robes for a job like this? That doesn’t make any sense. You’ll trip on your own feet. Is that what you want?”

A touch of humor to hide my emotions. A defense mechanism.

“What about your big, fancy temples, huh? Why do I have to walk up so many stairs to meditate? I can just meditate in my own house.”

“Your name, I did not catch.”

“And what’s with all your kriffing diversity? We get it! You’re tolerant. Except when someone has a different world view than you. Then they’re evil and under speculation, right?”

The green thing frowns slightly, but I keep going.

I stand, heated from my tangent. “That’s your whole point, isn’t it? To stand against evil? Have you ever considered that there wouldn’t even be evil without whatever you call good? Everything depends on perspective. Nothing fancy and made up like your moralistic code. Which, by the way, is completely backwards. You really think no one in your order would fall in love?” My hands are practically waving around in the air now as I speak to emphasize my version of enthusiasm.  “Waste of time and energy.”

The green one looks at me kindly, for some reason. He doesn’t seem angry. Nor appalled. He is comfortable.

“Master Plo Koon’s chair, you sit in,” he croaks.

I raise an eyebrow at this. The fingers of my left hand run against the velvet, feeling all the pieces of fiber. “Master? As in-”

“Jedi Master,” the thing nods with a small smile. “A good master for you, Master Plo would have been.”

For a split second, I see someone like Jarvers being crushed under the weight of flames in a cockpit. Then he is gone.

But I can’t accept this. The Jedi want me now? After abandoning me? After failing to give me a proper chance? I’ve already shown I can survive on my own. I don’t have anything more to prove to this group of laser sword monks. And I won’t let them control me more than they already have. No one gets to control me but myself. Not even Talik.

My head shakes side to side slightly. I look the Jedi straight in his bright, emerald orbs, and I tell him the truth: “I’d never let anyone be my master. I…” don’t say it, Keres. Don’t say it.

“I don’t want to be good,” I admit. “But I know I’m not evil. I tell myself I am a lot, but I’m not. It’s just perception- view. The truth is I’m in the middle. Whatever you wanna call it- centrism, ambiguity, I don’t care. But if nobody else is going to do it, then I’ll be balanced. Just me. I don’t mind being alone.”

The green thing leans forward in his chair. A hand with three claws reaches out to me. I can see his nails are like thorns that are easy to scratch yourself on. “Master Yoda, I am. Your name?”

I blink once.

The Jedi is not phased by my confession of moral grayness. He is calm and collected. His wise eyes do not deceive me, and I see that he is honest.

I lean forward in the Jedi’s seat as well. My right hand extends to meet the green. “Keres,” I mutter. “Keres Vagor.”

The moment my hand touches his, he’s gone. The room is gone. The planet is gone. Everything is gone. I am standing in the void again. Just when I think I’m alone, two voices whisper nightmares from over both left and right sides of my shoulders.

“You’re a good girl, Keres.”

"Good soldiers follow orders.”

My eyes snap open immediately. There are black and yellow spots dancing across my vision, but other than that, I’m back in the ice caves. The back of my neck is flat against the snowy ground.

Slowly, reality sinks in weight in my right hand. I lift it up and peel back my four fingers. Inside, a small, sharp, faintly glowing rock reveals itself. My crystal.

I leave the temple with a limp, clutching my stomach. The hand is holding the crystal so tight it might be breaking the skin. I’m too exhausted to register it. When I come back to the circular room I initially entered in, I can see the sunlight streaming through still. It must still be the same day, meaning it didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would.

When I reach the cabin, I feel as if I’m going to throw up. I do- twice. Luckily, there’s a bucket of cheese I was never going to eat anyways that I empty the contents of my stomach into. Then I wipe my sweaty palms and get ready to forge a saber.  

The design I come up with for my lightsaber is one I like. Simple, sleek, not overly extravagant.

It is made of onyx. The body has a pattern of silver and black horizontal stripes, and the emitter is tall and slanted. The pommels, when detached from each other, has a small, silver loop for me to clip onto my belt.  

With a slow exhale, I place my thumbs over one of the switches. I hold the lightsaber directly in front of me, trying to slow my heartbeat. It’s not easy, and I fail.

I’m about to find out what color my lightsaber is.

I push the switch down. The blade extends to life, tall and searing. It comes out in a shade of golden yellow, matching the one that the Clone marked his helmet with that day. It is not blue, nor red. Nor green, or purple. It is yellow. Amber.

My lightsaber, is yellow.

[princess-of-luxure]

Masquerade [1]

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You moved to the capital city, Altadellys, in search of job opportunities. You had anticipated several significant changes in your life, but nothing could have prepared you for almost getting robbed in an alley, only to be saved by a mysterious masked vigilante. Their mysterious appearance throws your life into chaos, and you soon find yourself swept up in the high-stakes underground operations of a group of... supervillains?!

You didn't ask for any of this, but there's just as much excitement amongst the potentially lethal drama. As secrets hundreds of years olds begin to unfold before you, can you be the missing link in solving a dangerous mystery, or will you bring everything to ruin?

Fandom: Reigning Passions (Visual Novel) Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Relationships: Gen (so far) Characters: Lyris (Reigning Passions), Main Character (Reigning Passions), Amara (Reigning Passions), Piama (Reigning Passions), Hazel (Reigning Passions) Content Warnings: Attempted Robbery, Knives

Welcome to Masquerade! This is a reader-interactive story putting the characters of Reigning Passions into the setting of Villainous Nights. There will be choices for you guys, as the audience, to vote on, which can influence the direction of the story's plot (including the potential deaths of characters!) and also can influence who gets together with who. It's assumed that everyone is poly so don't worry if MC doesn't get together with your favourite LI - you've still got a shot! Plus, any characters with compatible sexualities can get together if you nudge them in that direction, so if you're a fan of, say, Amara and Xenia? Depending on the choices made, they can totally get together.

This is cross-posted on my AO3, which you can find here! You can cast your vote in the comment section there, or send me an ask/DM me here on tumblr! You can also vote in the replies of the appropriate tumblr post for each chapter.

Chapter below the read more.

Altadellys, you were finding, was bigger than you had ever imagined. Prior to moving to the capital city of Lysende, you had lived in a small town so remote it didn’t even have a name. Everybody knew everybody in your little community, but looking around the big city, you only saw the faces of strangers, not a single one sparing you a glance as they rushed to where they were going.

It was also far warmer in Altadellys than in your hometown, you noted as you shucked off your coat and tied it around your waist. The climate where you’d come from was so frigid that it was practically winter year-round, and you were eager to learn what a true spring or fall felt like, let alone a true summer.

“Alright, all you’ve gotta do is make it to Hazel’s place, and then she’ll walk you to your apartment,” you muttered to yourself, fishing around blindly in your bag. “She said it’s near Central Park, which shouldn’t be too hard to find, just follow the map.” Your fingers closed around the object you were looking for, and you pulled out your phone, attitude bright and chipper. “You’ve got this!”

These turned out to be famous last words, as you went to turn on your phone and found that the battery had died on the car ride here. “Shit,” you muttered, because, well, it was an appropriate word for the situation. Chewing your lip, you tossed your phone back into your bag and glanced around. To a local, you were sure finding Central Park would be no problem, but you weren’t a local.

Wait, a local! That’s it! Approaching a man in his late twenties walking a dog, you gave your friendliest smile. “Excuse me, could you—”

“Get lost, lady,” the man growled, and you flinched, drawing back. No one in your hometown behaved so aggressively, their voices dripping with venom as they bared their teeth in a snarl.

Swallowing your fear, you clutched onto the strap of your bag, trying to appear more confident than you felt. Maybe you had just gotten off on the wrong foot. “Sorry to disturb you, I just wanted to ask—”

“Didn’t you hear me?” The man jabbed a finger at you, and you stumbled back a few paces, squeaking. “I said, get. Lost.”

You hid your burning cheeks and frightened expression in the curtain of your hair, mumbling out apology after apology. After several minutes of this, you realized the man had left and was nowhere to be seen, so you lifted your head and took another look around. Every intersection was plastered with signs, but none of them seemed to point towards Central Park, and given your last interaction, the idea of asking a local suddenly seemed a lot less viable.

You fiddled with your hair as you took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. Rather than being a beautiful new wonder, Altadellys now just seemed like a living nightmare. “It’s okay, you’ve got this,” you mumbled, your half-assed attempt at a pep talk doing little to restore your confidence. “It’s a big park in the middle of the city. If you just keep walking, you’re sure to find it eventually.”

After what felt like an hour of walking with no change in scenery, your faith in that assumption was beginning to waver. You wrestled with your steadily increasing anxiety as you stopped at the corner of an intersection. Warmth and mouth-watering scents seeped out from underneath the door of the cafe you were stood by, and your stomach rumbled as you found yourself wishing you were inside. God, what I wouldn’t give to be sharing a cup of coffee with Hazel right now.

“Hey there little girl, are you lost?” You nearly jumped out of your skin as you whirled to face the person who had spoken. Most of their face was obscured by their black hoodie, but you could still make out the leer that painted itself across their features.

You swallowed, taking a step back. The stranger took a step forward, and as you continued to try and put space between the two of you, you became hyper aware that they were backing you into a dark alley, out of sight from the rest of the world. “U-Um, no, not lost at all! Just… enjoying the scenery!” Why did my phone have to die now?!

“The scenery, huh?” You were pressed up against a wall now, the stranger’s hand pinning you up against the stone. You could hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, your breathing verging on hyperventilation as you stared up at your assailant with wide eyes. “It would be a shame if that was cut short.”

Those last words were a whisper, as cold and smooth as the metal blade now pressed against your throat. You couldn’t even squeak, fear stealing the sound from your lungs. You began praying to every deity you could think of, even ones you weren’t even sure were actually from real pantheons, anything to get out of this mess.

“Robbing pretty girls in dark alleys?” A new voice made your heart jump—whether it was in relief or further fear, you didn’t know. It evidently startled your attacker just as much, the surprised flinch of their hand just barely nicking your skin. A single bead of blood welled to the surface, but you didn’t have time to process it before your assailant was being pulled away from you. You remained frozen in place, too shaken to fully comprehend what was unfolding before you.

When you finally came out of your shock, the first thing that occurred to you was holy hell was your savior attractive. His face was partially obscured by a blue-green mask, trimmed with gold and decorated with what were, as far as you could tell, real peacock feathers, but you could still see the steely glint in his mismatched eyes. One was purple, the other gold, and you would’ve probably wondered how in the world he got lucky enough to end up with that genetic combination if you weren’t so busy taking in the rest of him. He was certainly a striking figure, with long golden-brown and green hair, a simple but somehow still shockingly elegant suit to match his mask, and fingerless gloves revealing blue and pink nails (toxic masculinity who?).

All of this paled in comparison to the wings that emerged from the slit on the back of his suit. The shining green plumage made him look like some kind of majestic angel, or bird. Actually, considering the look of his mask, you were pretty sure he was going for the latter.

Your savior said something to the would-be robber that you didn’t quite catch, still feeling in a somewhat faraway daze. Whatever it was, it sent them running, the masked vigilante folding his arms and watching them go with a look of utmost contempt. When they disappeared from sight, he turned to you, approaching with slow, gentle footsteps, the concerned look in his eyes at odds with the easy smile that curled his lips.

“That was a pretty nasty experience. I wouldn’t want to be in your position,” he commented, his tone casual as though he was discussing the weather, and not the fact he’d probably just saved your life. His expression shifted as he came to pause in front of you, gaze flickering to your neck. “Are you okay?”

Numbly, you placed two fingers to where you’d been cut. They came away wet with blood, but even so, you could tell that the injury was shallow—you’d gotten incredibly lucky. “I’ll—I’ll be fine. It’s not serious.” Your voice quavered, barely able to force the words out.

Your savior didn’t seem entirely convinced. “May I see anyway?” he requested, and moving on autopilot, you tilted your head to show him the cut. He stepped closer, fingers brushing against your throat as he inspected your injury, and you tried to ignore how the simple contact sent shivers down your spine. After a moment that lasted both eternity and no time at all, he drew back, humming in satisfaction. “You’re right. It’s not that bad, you’ll survive.” Apparently content with your health, you saw a teasing gleam enter his gaze. “I’d do more, but my power isn’t exactly to do with healing.” He fluttered his wings once to prove his point, and that’s when the reality of the situation came crashing down onto you.

“Your power. You have powers.” The words came out in a breathless rush, and you were completely helpless to stop them. You clapped your hands to your mouth, but too late; you felt the heat rising to your cheeks already. Leave it to you to make an absolute fool of yourself in front of an attractive guy.

He didn’t seem to mind though, evidently amused as he folded his arms, shifting his weight to one leg. “Well, I sure hope so. If I didn’t, my entire life would be a lie.” With the danger gone, he bantered with you in the way one might banter with a best friend, nevermind that you’d never seen him before.

You had enough grace to not try to continue that thread of conversation. “What’s your name?” you blurted out, and as your question processed, you felt your blush darken. You know what? No more talking without permission from my brain, mouth.

Your savior chuckled, pulling you out of your flustered thoughts. “My name is a secret I’m going to take to my grave,” he replied, and yeah, fair. What else were you expecting? “However…” He leaned forward to whisper in your ear, close enough that you could feel his breath tickle your neck. “You may call me Peacock.”

In a single breath, he had drawn back, leaving you struggling to collect your scattered thoughts and calm your racing heartbeat. First things first. His alias was Peacock—unsurprisingly so, given his general aesthetic and the prideful smirk that curled his lips. He was evidently playing things up for the drama, and you couldn’t honestly say you minded.

“I’m…” You took a deep breath to try and scrape together at least some of your composure. Once you felt like you weren’t about to faint from the situation, you finally offered Peacock your name.

He repeated your name back to you, humming in curiosity as you nodded. “A lovely name indeed,” he complimented, and you felt your cheeks burn. So much for composure, but then again, he probably said that to all the girls he rescued. Seeing the intensity of his gaze, though, you weren’t so sure.

You almost missed when he started speaking again, too wrapped up in your flustered thoughts. “...you going, little lady?”

You were going to have to ask the pretty peacock vigilante to repeat himself. God, today just wasn’t your day, wasn’t it? “Sorry, could you repeat that?” you mumbled, burying your face in your hair and doing anything not to look Peacock in the eye. Even if he had very beautiful eyes. Goddammit, you were too bi for this.

Peacock laughed, the sound just as charming as everything else about him. Fuck. “I know I’m handsome, but you shouldn’t let yourself get distracted,” he reprimanded lightly, a teasing smile quirking his lips, and yup, you were going to die. You may as well just go dig a hole and lay down in it. “I asked where you were going.”

Okay, focus. If you manage to screw this up you may as well move back to your town because your pride will be completely gone. “Central Park,” you replied, finally lifting your face from your curtain of hair and clutching the strap of your bag. “I’m supposed to meet my friend at her place, but my phone died, but her house is near there so I thought if I just found my way there…”

You trailed off as you saw Peacock already shaking his head. “Altadellys is a big city,” he explained. “Bigger than you think. I could direct you to Central Park, but you’d still get lost trying to find your way to your friend’s place, and I can’t always be around to save you.” He paused, but before you had time to begin to panic, he was already asking another question. “Do you know where you’re staying?”

“Yes!” You turned your eyes to the sky, eyebrows creasing as you tried to remember the name of the building. “Spring Apartments.”

You’re sure you didn’t imagine the shock that briefly flickered across what you can see of Peacock’s expression, the way he was caught off guard if only for a moment. “Spring Apartments? You’re sure?”

You cocked your head to the side, uncertain as to what about your place of residence would elicit this kind of reaction. “Yes? Is there a problem with that?”

If Peacock’s gaze on you had been intense before, it didn’t come close to comparing to now. You had to fight the urge to hide yourself away from his scrutiny, unable to help but feel like he was committing every detail of your visage to memory. “Not at all.” His easy smile was back as quickly as it had vanished, leaving you feeling out of the loop. “I can take you there.”

“That would be nice, thank you—” You paused, blinking owlishly as his words fully processed. “Wait. Take me there?”

“Let’s just say that helping you will help me as well,” Peacock replied cryptically, as if that clarified things at all. Still, it was hard to be frustrated at his vagueness as long as that unbearably attractive smile remained. “Of course, that’s only if you’re okay with it.”

“I’m okay with it, but how—ah!” Your words dissolved into a yelp as you found yourself unexpectedly scooped into Peacock’s arms. His almost ethereal nature belied how strong he truly was, you realized as he held you securely against his chest, hoping desperately that he couldn’t hear the thudding of your heart. That really would be the icing on your embarrassed cake; the final nail in your flustered coffin.

“Sorry,” Peacock apologized, and this close to him, you could feel the rise and fall of his chest, his warm breath tickling your neck with each exhale. “I’ve never been one to walk in the front door.”

You didn’t have time to even begin to process that before Peacock took to the air. You let out a decidedly undignified shriek, burying your face against his suit and clinging to him like your life depended on it (which it technically did, but you were trying not to think about that).

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” Peacock murmured, and between his soft voice and assured grip, you realized he wasn’t saying that just to comfort you. You really were safe in his arms, even as buildings and people blurred past beneath you. It was a surreal feeling, to be truthful, but one that once you got used to it, you couldn’t honestly say you minded.

It was over all too quickly, Peacock placing you down on the roof of the apartment building within minutes. “This is where I leave you,” he explained, flashing you another one of those damned smiles. “I trust you can handle things from here?”

“Well, unless the apartment building is as difficult to navigate as the rest of Altadellys, I should be fine,” you replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Pride swelled within your chest as Peacock laughed at your joke.

“You’re quite the witty one, aren’t you? I like that,” he complimented, winking, and by some miracle you didn’t fall over then and there. “Keep me in mind? Who knows, maybe we’ll meet again.” He leaned forward slightly, and you stared up at him. Wow, his eyes are even more enchanting up close…

Your name fell from his lips, and this time you nearly did fall over. For a second, you wondered if he was going to kiss you, but instead he took a step back, leaving your heart thudding and your chest filled with a strange sense of disappointment.

There was silence for a brief second, before you took a deep breath. “Thank you for saving me,” you murmured, figuring you at least owed him that.

Peacock paused, tilting his head as he regarded you, a smile curling across his lips. It was different to the others, somehow—more real. “The pleasure was all mine, my lady,” he replied, giving a mock bow before walking to the edge of the roof. Before you could get another word in, he spread his wings and jumped, disappearing before you had a chance to call after him.

It took a minute to recover from the excitement you had just experienced, but you made your way inside from the roof stairwell, finding your apartment with blessed ease. I deserve this much mercy after the day I’ve had, you mused as you knocked on the door.

The door opened quickly, revealing a small and delicate-looking woman. Her most striking feature was the floral tattoos that swirled across her whole body, though the gorgeous flowers pinned in her white, yellow-tipped hair came a close second. Her white and pale yellow dress was deceptively simple, the flowers stitched into the opaque overskirt being the most complicated detail of the design.

“Hey.” You introduced yourself, putting on your friendliest smile. “Is this your apartment? If so, I’m your new roommate.”

“That’s today?” The woman huffed slightly, glancing around. “Damn it, Lyris…” She muttered a bit more to herself, leaving you feeling more and more confused, before she finally addressed you. “Oh, but where are my manners? I’m Piama.”

She extended a hand for you to shake, and you reached down to take it. “Nice to meet you, Piama,” you offered, uncertain what to make of your new roommate.

Piama cast an appraising eye over you. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

You blushed, not exactly embarrassed but still shy about being so easily placed by a beautiful woman. “Yeah. My hometown’s pretty far away.”

“That much speaks for itself.” Piama pressed her lips together, resting her chin on her hand as she considered you. “Your clothes are so last season, we’re going to have to do something about that.”

You had no idea how to respond to that. Initially, her words came off as rude, but the context implied she was only trying to help. “Um.”

Before you had a chance to come up with a more intelligent response, there was a melodic chime from Piama’s pocket. Pulling out a phone that looked more expensive that all your past phones put together, Piama scanned what was presumably a text before letting out a huff. “About time!” she complained as her fingers flashed across the screen. “I was supposed to go out with Lyris an hour ago! I called him four times and texted him like, fifty, and he just got back to me!” Putting her phone back away, she rolled her eyes. “This has been happening more and more lately. I’m starting to think he’s gotten a partner and hasn’t told me about it.”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help a small laugh. “Well, don’t let me keep you. I can settle in by myself.”

Piama let out a relieved sigh. “Thank God. Lyris and I have been planning this for weeks, and I would die if I waited a second longer.” She paused, looking like a realization had just struck her. “Not that I’m trying to get rid of you, of course. You seem like a lovely girl, it just seems impossible to spend any quality time with him lately.”

You waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it, no offense taken.”

Piama flashed you a small smile, wishing you a quick goodbye before sweeping past you. You wasted no time entering the apartment, quickly finding an outlet to plug your phone into. With that done, you fixed yourself a cup of coffee before flopping on the couch, sighing deeply as you finally began to process the day’s events.

You’d arrived in Altadellys, only to find your phone was dead. Asking a local for directions had proven useless, and soon after that, you had gotten yourself hopelessly lost. You’d nearly been robbed in an alley, only to be saved by an attractive masked vigilante calling himself Peacock. He’d taken you to your new residence and then disappeared. You’d found your apartment and met your roommate, an extremely pretty woman named Piama, and had a brief conversation with her before she’d had to leave. Now, you were here, relaxing in your new home while waiting for your phone to charge.

A distinctive chime alerted you to the fact your phone was now alive again. Carefully grabbing it, you switched it on, seeing that you had five unread texts from Hazel. You wasted no time in unlocking your phone and swiping over to your messenger, finding that the first of the texts was from around two hours ago.

Hazel: Hey did you make it to the city safely?

The next message was about half an hour later, around about when your phone had died.

Hazel: Freckles?

Hazel: You’re starting to worry me

The next two messages were from around half an hour ago, and you can tell Hazel’s increasing worry from the fact they were typed with perfect grammar.

Hazel: Okay, this is totally weird for you.

Hazel: If you don’t message me within the next hour, I’m calling the police.

Guilt and affection mingled in your gut. Guilt that you’d made her worry so much, and affection over the fact that she cared that much for you. Placing your mug down, you quickly typed out a reply.

You: I’m fine Hazey dw

You: My phone died on the way here

Hazel’s response was immediate, and you wondered if she’d been waiting for your message for the past half hour or so.

Hazel: Holy hell don’t scare me like that Freckles

Hazel: Ppl are saying crime rates in Altadellys are higher than they’ve ever been

Hazel: I was worried you’d gotten murdered or smthin

You couldn’t fight back a chuckle, smiling as you responded.

You: Not dead yet, amazingly

You: I’m at my apartment now but getting here was a nightmare

You hesitated as you went to type your next message. You definitely wanted to tell Hazel about your encounter with the mysterious Peacock, but would she believe you? ...of course she would, she was your best friend! She’d definitely heard far weirder stories from you.

You: Hey I’ve got a kinda crazy story to tell you

Hazel: [eyes emoji] [eyes emoji] [eyes emoji] 

Hazel: You know crazy’s my middle name hmu

You: It might be too much to put in a text

Hazel: Np we can meet up in person

Hazel: I’ve been dying to see u again anyway it’s been way too long

You: Agreed

You: Text me your address and I’ll be there ASAP

Plugging the address Hazel sent you into your GPS app, you discovered that her place was only a ten-minute walk away. That was a small miracle; you didn’t feel like tangling with a taxi right now. Draining the rest of your coffee, you got up to place your cup into the sink and write a note for Piama explaining where you were going. Once your phone had charged enough to the point where it wouldn’t die again while you were out, you grabbed your bag and made your way out of the building.

Finding Hazel’s house proved to be blessedly simple now that you had directions, and soon you found yourself standing in front of it. It was modest only in comparison to the other houses along the street, one story with a moderate backyard rather than two stories at least with sprawling acres of land.

“Looks like just the kind of place Hazel would love,” you mused to yourself as you moved to ring the doorbell. As you waited, you noticed that the door also had a knocker in the shape of a lioness’ maw. Interesting—had it been there before Hazel moved in? You couldn’t imagine why she’d have both a doorbell and a knocker.

The door opened shortly, a wide grin breaking across Hazel’s face. “Freckles! It’s so good to see you again!” She wasted no time pulling you into a giant bear hug that nearly crushed your bones.

“Good to see you too, Hazey,” you gasped, hugging her back as best you could. “Uh, you’re kinda crushing me.”

“Whoops.” Hazel quickly let go of you, though she didn’t move back far. “Sorry. Kinda forget my own strength sometimes.”

You smiled, but before you could respond, a new figure appearing over Hazel’s shoulder stole your attention. Blonde hair spilled over her shoulders in waves, her golden eyes shining with a gentle warmth. She wore a simple red and white tunic that looked like it could have dated back to medieval times (and here you thought your fashion was out of date). “Hazel, who’s this?”

“Oh, this is my best friend from my hometown!” Hazel quickly introduced you to the unknown woman and—holy mother of God she was ripped. Lean muscles rippled beneath her clothes, and you were so distracted staring you nearly didn’t catch Hazel adding, “And this is Amara; she recently moved in with me.”

Callout to myself: too bi to function. You tried to push down the thoughts of how attractive Amara was to extend a hand for her to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Amara.”

Amara accepted your proffered handshake, her grip deceptively light. “You as well. Hazel has spoken highly of you.”

You felt your cheeks turn red as Hazel laughed. “‘Course I have! Gotta make sure everyone knows how amazing my best friend is.”

“Hazel!” you exclaimed, trying desperately to cover your darkening blush. First Peacock, then Piama, and now Amara. Were you the protagonist of a romance visual novel or something? If you met one more attractive person you were going to die—which was a problem because Altadellys seemed to be full of them.

“Hey, you never know, Amara might find you just as amazing.” Hazel winked conspiratorially and yup, this was how you died. There was no way Amara wouldn’t notice the obvious wingwomaning—

“Well, I wouldn’t know, but any friend of Hazel’s is a friend of mine.” —or not. Was Amara seriously oblivious to your evident fluster and Hazel’s teasing? Whatever, you would take what you could get. Your poor bi heart still hadn’t recovered from your earlier encounter with Peacock, anyway.

You took a deep breath, praying your voice wouldn’t wobble. “Likewise,” you agreed, shifting your weight awkwardly and flicking your gaze to Hazel. “Also uh, Hazey? Can I come inside or am I going to be standing on your front porch for this entire conversation?”

“Is something wrong with my porch?” Hazel teased. Amara’s brow creased with concern and she quickly added, “I’m joking, Amara, don’t worry. We’ve teased each like this since we were kids.” She stepped back from the door and disappeared into the corridor, calling behind her, “I’m gonna make drinks. You two get to know each other!”

Amara offered you a polite smile. “I apologize for this. Hazel is a dear friend of mine, but I remain bemused by her antics.”

She really was oblivious to Hazel’s wingwomaning. You weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth though, chuckling nervously. “Yeah, she’s always been something of an enigma, but you know how best friends are.”

Amara didn’t respond, and you began to worry you’d said something wrong by the completely blank look on her face. “Amara?”

Amara shook herself, her expression taking on the polite, friendly smile again. It didn’t reach her eyes, and you couldn’t help but feel you’d touched on a sensitive subject, though you had no idea what it was. “My apologies, I was lost in thought. Allow me to show you to the living room.”

As you followed Amara, you couldn’t help but note she carried herself with the posture of a soldier, complete with the famous Murder Walk™ that tumblr loved to talk about. That sent alarm bells ringing in your head and your heart panging with concern—what had happened to her to cause her to always be on her guard?

You knew better than to ask, settling into the cushions of one of the simple white couches in the living room. Amara sat across from you, studying you with a curious expression. “You are not from Altadellys?”

Somehow, the question made you feel less self-conscious than when Piama had commented on it earlier. “Yeah, I’m from Hazel’s hometown. What about you?”

“I’m not from Altadellys either,” Amara replied, confirming a growing suspicion. “I moved here many years ago.”

“Didn’t exactly embrace the lifestyle?” you guessed, gesturing to her clothes and praying your inquiry wouldn’t be considered rude.

To your relief, a genuine smile lit up Amara’s features, a soft glimmer in her eyes. “Not exactly,” she agreed. “I have never been able to immerse myself in the glitz and glam of the city, though I have nothing against those who do.”

“My roommate’s the complete opposite of you,” you mused, trying to latch onto this thread of conversation. “She’s stunningly beautiful, but in a way I feel like I’ll never compare to, you know?”

Amara considered you thoughtfully. “Sometimes simpler is better,” she remarked. “If it is of any comfort to you, I think you look wonderful just the way you are.”

You were saved from spontaneous combustion by Hazel reappearing, carefully holding three mugs full of hot, steaming liquid. If it were anyone else, you might’ve been worried about her spilling or dropping them, but you had complete faith in Hazel. “Coffee for me and Freckles, and tea for Amara!” she hummed, placing down two of the mugs before flopping onto the couch next to you.

“Thank you, Hazel,” Amara responded politely, carefully picking up her drink, blowing on it gently before taking a sip. You echoed the sentiment, retrieving your coffee and nursing it as your thoughts wandered in the direction of gay again.

“So Freckles,” Hazel interrupted, and you nearly spilled your drink as you were jolted out of your thoughts. “You said you had a crazy story to tell?”

“Oh! Yeah, I did, but…” Your gaze flickered hesitantly to Amara.

She caught the look and smiled, gesturing for you to continue. “I assure you, I have heard many extraordinary stories in my time. I promise I will not judge.”

Amara was so open and kind that you found yourself believing her without a second thought. You nodded and took a deep breath. “So like I said in my texts, my phone died getting here. I thought I’d just go to Central Park and find this place from here, but I uh…” You rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly, averting your eyes. “I kinda got lost.”

“Understandably so,” Amara said, and you glanced over at her, surprised at her input. “Altadellys is a city of enormous proportions. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, things could’ve gone seriously wrong,” Hazel agreed, concern painted across her features. “Seems like you hear about more and more robberies and people going missing everyday.”

You figured that was as good of a leadup to the ‘crazy’ part of your story as you were going to get. “I’m alright, but it was a close call. Someone tried to rob me in an alley.” You tilted your head to expose the faint scar on your neck.

“What?!” Hazel gasped. “Did you see what they looked like, Freckles? I’ll give them a piece of my mind for daring to lay a hand on you—”

“You should calm down, Hazel,” Amara interrupted gently, but you could see the concern and fury shining behind her golden eyes. “How did you get away?”

“I was saved by a masked guy with wings. He called himself Peacock,” you explained, scanning the pair’s faces for reactions. Hazel’s eyes were wide, her surprise evident, whereas Amara remained more composed, shock passing over her expression for only a moment before she closed her eyes, presumably lost in thought.

“Peacock, you’re sure?” Hazel checked, before shaking her head. “Who am I kidding, you said he had wings, that can’t be anyone else.”

“Yes?” You couldn’t help but feel surprise of your own at Hazel’s reaction. If she recognized his name—and knew about his powers—then just who was Peacock? “Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation,” Hazel replied. The look of awe on her face almost felt surreal. “After Fox disappeared, he took over as Altadellys’s protector of the night!” She struck a pose, then paused. “Okay, so I’m pretty sure he’s more active during the day, but details.” She chuckled to herself. “Seriously though, you’re super lucky, Freckles. Getting saved by Peacock is almost every girl’s dream at the moment.”

You picked up on the phrasing, unable to help quirking your lips at the subtle quip. “But not you?”

“Nah, I’m too much of a lesbian for that.” Hazel grinned, obviously amused by her own joke, before leaning in. “But what about you? Is he as dreamy as they say?” She waggled her eyebrows.

You knew she was only teasing you, but you couldn’t stop the heat that flooded your cheeks as you thought back to your interaction with the masked vigilante. Visions of those beautiful eyes and that breathtaking smile filled your mind. “Um…”

You were hardly subtle. Hazel caught on immediately, and she burst out laughing. “Oh my God! Freckles, you have a crush!”

“I do not!” you immediately defended yourself, already knowing it fell on deaf ears. “He’s as attractive as they say, okay? But that doesn’t mean I like him!”

Hazel wiped a couple tears from her eyes. “Sure, sure, you keep telling yourself that, Freckles. But man, you had one hell of a first day in Altadellys, didn’t ya?”

You really couldn’t disagree with that, though you were just glad Hazel seemed to have dropped the teasing about your non-existent crush on Peacock. Absently, your gaze slid over to Amara, who had yet to rejoin the conversation. You found her staring off at a black-and-white photo hanging on the wall—looking closely, you were pretty sure it was of her, along with a man you’d never seen before. A family member or best friend? I’d consider that it could be her boyfriend, but I get the idea she’s not into guys. But why is it in black and white?

“Freckles? Were you listening?” You jumped, embarrassed at having been caught zoning out. 

I’m really off my game today. “Uh, not really,” you admitted sheepishly. “Mind repeating that?”

Hazel rolled her eyes affectionately. “I asked how the job search was going.” Her tone was filled with the fond exasperation only a best friend could capture.

“Oh, that.” You sighed, wishing you had better news on that front. “Not well, honestly. None of the places I’ve applied to have even called me in for an interview.”

Hazel winced sympathetically. “Yikes, that sucks. I’d offer to help ya, Freckles, but I don’t think my line of work is exactly for you.” She gave a meaningful look at your less-than-impressive physique and you laughed.

“Probably not, but thanks anyway.” You ran your fingers through your hair, thinking. “It’s a problem, though. Rent isn’t cheap here—I’ll get kicked out pretty fast if I don’t find a job soon.”

Hazel gave a thoughtful hum. “Well, why don’t you apply for an internship at Optimus? Seems like your kind of place.”

“Optimus? Are you sure?” Amara’s sudden interruption startled you, and you glanced over at her. Her expression was completely closed off, betraying nothing about how she felt. You had to fight the urge to swallow, somehow feeling like you’d just stepped into a social minefield.

“I don’t really know anything about Optimus,” you confessed hesitantly. “Should I?”

“They’re the world’s foremost authority on powers,” Amara explained, still completely neutral. “They help connect people with places that need their powers the most.”

“They donate to a bunch of charities too, and help with a bunch of other stuff,” Hazel added. “It’s like, the dream job for everyone living in Altadellys, and the pay’s incredible.”

You exhaled softly, considering your options. Hazel was right—it did sound like a dream job. You’d been interested in powers since you were little, always wishing you’d been one of the lucky ones, but nobody with powers had been born in your hometown for generations. “That does sound amazing Hazey, but there’s no way I’m qualified for that sort of thing.”

“If it’s just an internship, I have a friend who may be able to help.” You gave Amara a curious look. “I can let him know. He’s a private man, but he’s reliable.”

You were burning with questions you wanted to ask about Amara’s friend, but given that she still had that blank look on her face, completely devoid of any emotion at all, you didn’t want to push your luck and risk her rescinding the offer. “I guess it’s worth a shot. Thanks, Amara.”

She nodded in acknowledgment, but gave no other response. Suddenly, Hazel gasped, bolting to her feet. “Oh shoot, I totally forgot! I was supposed to meet with a client like, ten minutes ago!” She turned to you apologetically. “Sorry Freckles, I gotta run. If you want, though, we can meet up in like an hour or so? There’s a cafe right around the block, Sweet Enchantments, it’s the best cafe this side of Altadellys.”

You chuckled, unable to pass up the prospect of hanging out with Hazel again after all these years. “Sure thing Hazey, sounds great.”

“Awesome, catch you later!” Hazel darted from the room. Amara stood as well, brushing off her clothes.

“I’m afraid I have places to be as well,” she apologized, and even though it didn’t compare to earlier, you were relieved to see a hint of genuine regret in her eyes. “Before I leave, however, perhaps we should exchange phone numbers.”

“Oh!” You were going to get a pretty woman’s phone number. Yeah, this was a first. “That’s probably a good idea, yeah.”

Amara didn’t stick around long after giving you her number, and you headed back to your apartment, feeling awkward hanging around Hazel’s house while neither of its occupants were home. To your surprise, you found Piama perched on the couch, deeply engrossed in some kind of nature documentary and sipping at a cup of tea.

“Hi Piama,” you greeted, gaining her attention. “Weren’t you hanging out with Lyris?”

Piama waved a dismissive hand. “We just went out to a nearby cafe,” she explained, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was the same one Hazel had mentioned. “Besides, he needs to get his stuff out of your room.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Piama sighed, as though the reason Lyris’s stuff was apparently in your room was of great disdain to her. “He’s been half-living here for years,” she replied, turning her attention back to the TV. “He would have moved in, but he has a cat, and if his fur ball wasn’t the most annoying creature on that planet, I might’ve considered putting up with my allergies for him, but as it is, ‘Madame Whiskers’ has it out for me. Of course, I’m not going to ask my best friend to give up his cat for me, so now he lives on the floor above me while dumping half his stuff here.”

“Piama, who are you talking to? Is your roommate home?” a very familiar voice called from the hallway. You couldn’t quite place it until he stepped into the living room, and your jaw dropped as realization dawned on you. You wasted no time in appraising his physical appearance; his hair, his build, his general aesthetic, even his nails—everything matched up to Peacock. Even so, you might’ve chalked it up to a coincidence if not for his eyes. His damned eyes. His damned, beautiful eyes. Deep purple and breathtaking gold; even if your mind didn’t recognize them, your heart would’ve.

Peacock—Lyris?—was staring at you just as openly, and you could see the recognition and shock blooming across his expression as well. If Piama replied, you didn’t hear it, too swept up in the feeling of holy shit I’m meeting Peacock as a civilian and he’s my roommate’s best friend.

Your phone chimed, shattering the moment. You coughed to cover the awkwardness, quickly pulling it out and glancing down at the texts you’d just received.

Hazel: Client cancelled [rolling eyes emoji]

Hazel: U still wanna hang out at the cafe tho?

Oh, was all you could think as your fingers hovered over the keyboard, having literally no idea how to reply. Glancing up didn’t help, as you saw Lyris staring at you with the same shocked expression he’d had moments ago, Piama looking between the two of you in confusion.

Oh shit.

CHAPTER CHOICE

You're in a bit of a tricky spot here. You did say you were going to hang out with Hazel, but if you do that, the situation with Lyris is going to get... awkward. To say the least. Do you: A) Commit to going to the cafe with Hazel B) Stay to try and diffuse the situation with Lyris and Piama, and hopefully get some answers

[tinypurpleparrot]

Thank you so much to @incorrect-daedric-quotes for their follower raffle! Follow them! A rare moment when Starfall and Kaidan aren’t making each other tear their own hair out. I’d provided a short scene as a reference.

*

The papers, textbooks, and journals stacked up on Violet’s desk until anyone entering the Archmage’s study couldn’t see if she was really in there. The room itself hummed softly with magical energies powering the various devices and artifacts, enough that all of the background noise was cutting through all of her thoughts like a knife. She wished that some of the magicka pouring from the font downstairs could make its way up to her. Well, it could, but that would require that she stop her studies and focus on funneling it up. She was so close. She couldn’t stop now. That damned humming orb in the main hall was going to melt her mind soon if she didn’t figure it out what it actually did. And then that worthless Psijic Order would be back to take it away, and the past few months would be for nothing. Sleepless nights, keeping the damned nosy Thalmor and Synod out of the college despite the Eye shining like a lighthouse beacon visible from Masser, and sending expensive letters rushed by horseback courier in secrecy. This had better be worth it.

She was pressing the charcoal so hard to the paper that when Kaidan knocked on the door, the stylus snapped and smudged black dust across the paper. She made a tiny gasp and stared at her ruined work.

“Starfall? Just making sure you’re not dead.” He was tall enough to see the petite mage behind the stacks from across the room, but the top of her head disappeared with a thunk to the table.

All he got in response was a small whimper.

“You’re not going to find what you’re looking for by just grasping at your reflection in the water. You’re tired and you’re making mistakes. Go to bed. The moons are setting.”

“What are you doing up, then? Go away.” She grumbled.

“I’m awake because I’m always awake before dawn. Hunter, remember? Just because we haven’t been on the move in a few weeks, I have to find something to do around here. Please rest. It’s not going to do anyone any good if you’ve died of exhaustion.”

“They’re going to take it away from me…” She sighed.

“Suppose you do figure it out. Do you think you’re going to get to keep it, anyway?” Kaidan walked up to the desk and looked over the stacks of paper. They made her look even smaller.

“At least I’d have a better idea how to proceed than these other fools who are just going to lock it up in the basement and neglect it for another five thousand years so some other poor bastard can get caught up in this all over again.”

“How is any of that your problem?”

“Because if I could find who left this mess for me, I’d burn them inside out, heal them, then do it again. I don’t want to be that person to someone else.”

“That would be Ysgramor, and he’s dead, so go to bed.”

“If you’re not going to help me, then go away.” Her voice faded and rasped, this time from disuse.

He refused, coming around the table and picking up a book. He was able to follow some of the talk going around, but not the technical details. “Imperial Report on Saarthal. You’re going with the theory that the elves were after the Eye?”

Violet rubbed her face and mumbled into her hands. “It’s the only thing I have to go on.”

Kaidan sat on the desk beside her, cracking the book open at her bookmark and started reading. “And so I have no conclusive results to report at this time. I can say with certainty that the initial attack on Saarthal seems to have been very focused, and does not appear to correlate to any locations that have been established as points of defense or importance. While the eminent scholar Sentius has yet to examine my findings, or indeed show any interest in them, my inclination is to suggest that not only did the elves know the apparent layout of the city, but that their assault was based on a specific directive and perhaps a singular goal.”

“That’s the thing. I’m having a hard time believing that I was the only one ever able to reach that chamber in all this time, especially when that awful thing is radiating enough energy even when it’s closed that someone completely devoid of magic should be able to sense it. The damn thing was literally drawing the elves towards it even though it had been buried for even longer than when the Merethic Nords had discovered it. And honestly, it had to be what drove them to settle in this godsforsaken wasteland in the first place. Hmm… Read something else. Your voice is helping.” She had pulled out another piece of paper and was already writing again.

Kaidan milled her words around in his head. If magic felt like a general sense of unease and the urge to vent energy like a jittery rabbit, then yes, he could sense it droning away downstairs. One, it felt horrible and no wonder she (and mages in general) was a damn mess. Two, he didn’t like that its power was seeping into him. It meant that Starfall might get curious and start experimenting on him to see if he could finally do something with magic. Ancano had told him that he was ‘cut off’ from Aetherius, and he was just fine with that. He got up and went to see what other books she’d inherited with her new job.

The library in the Archmage’s study was almost as large as the one on the other side of the building; it seemed to be a little more varied, as well. The previous archmages’ personal books were peppered in with what were probably forbidden magical tomes. A particular book caught his eye, making him leer back in Starfall’s general direction and bring the book back to her desk. He took his place beside her and started reading again.

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore.

There is society where none intrudes, by the deep Sea, and music in its roar.

I love not Man the less, but Nature more, from these our interviews, which I steal from all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel what I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

…I was not expecting this to be in a mage’s study. Reminds me of more peaceful days.” He chuckled.

Kaidan looked down at Starfall, grinning and expecting her to be annoyed or bored by his prattling; instead, she had her head down on the desk and was already half asleep.

“Did you really only need me to read you a bedtime story for me to get you to go to bed? …How old are you, again?”

Her voice was muffled by her sleeves. “Please keep reading.”

“I’ll read more if you go to bed, then.”

The Archmage finally relented. As she got up, she whispered in his ear. “Your voice is really nice. And I’m sorry I dragged you out here.”

He stared at her, frowning. “I chose to follow you here. Now go on, so I can follow you to bed and make sure you stay there.”

She hugged him tight and nearly fell asleep on him then and there. He sighed and helped her the rest of the way.

[ivedonestranger]

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Teen Titans (Animated Series) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dick Grayson/Raven Characters: Raven (DCU), Robin (DCU), Victor Stone, Garfield Logan, Koriand'r (DCU) Additional Tags: Action/Adventure, Magic, robrae - Freeform, Angst, Humor Series: Part 2 of Candy Series Summary:

Who would have thought a choice could lead to so much pain?

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

Even after a week of healing and constant ministrations from her boyfriend, Rachel's face still showed a bit of the purple from the assault at the music hall. The swelling had shrunk to the point that it was only noticeable if you had stopped to study her face.

Rachel had spent that week, when she was able to move, decorating the dance studio for Halloween as Chet had always threw a big party for the students and opened the doors for the trick or treaters who would be coming down the street.

Ever since the phone call to the Justice League, the young woman tried to put the thoughts of Doctor Light out of her mind. The life that she knew him in was dead and gone. She had to focus on her new life with Chet and being normal. Though it still bothered her.

"Miss Adams!"

Rachel turned to see a young teenage girl running in her direction. Though only fifteen, Daphne Saunders was tall and could have quickly passed as seventeen or eighteen. She wore a big grin that was never far from her face, and she promptly spun in place, showing Rachel her clothes. She was wearing a blue shirt and skirt while holding two wooden rods under her arms.

"Whatcha think of my costume?"

"Who are you supposed to be?" Rachel laughed, getting off the step ladder and leaving the last part of the word 'Halloween' dangling in front of the door.

"I'm you! When you kicked those guy's ass! You know you're famous!"

Unfortunately, one of the kids had uploaded the video of her fight to a video sharing platform. Chet told her she had gone viral, of course, after he got over the shock of seeing the video.

"I didn't know you could fight like that!" he had exclaimed after admonishing himself for not being there.

Even Captain Eagle, the Traverse City superhero stopped by, and she insisted that she wanted no more publicity. The kind man had promised to keep everything to a minimum. He did to her relief.

"I did what I had to do, Daphne."

"Can you teach me to fight like that?"

She did not have a chance to answer as the first bunch of kids burst through the door, laughing and screaming at the decorations and candy. There were so many colorful costumes of so many designs. Rachel felt a strong arm wrap around her shoulder, and she turned to see Chet dressed up in a red denim shirt, overalls, and a fake axe on his shoulder.

"When are you going to get your costume on?" he asked.

Rachel raised an eyebrow and looked him over.

"What are you supposed to be?"

"Paul Bunyan."

"I don't think Paul Bunyan is supposed to be so scrawny." Rachel cracked.

He laughed and leaned in for a kiss. She only had a moment before a child groaned, and she quickly broke away.

"It's Halloween. No kissing, Miss Adams," the nine-year-old scolded.

Chet hurried them off towards the punch bowl as the families came in and greeted each other. Rachel swallowed the urge to run. She had promised to be more social in her new life, even though the anxiety of so many people was overwhelming at times. Knowing Chet was nearby helped.

Rachel was about to move towards the punch table herself when a bunch of children rushed passed her, and one little girl hid behind her peering around her legs. Rachel looked down with a smile, but it froze on her face. She recognized Emily, one of the dance students, but she was wearing a black unitard and a blue cape and hood over her shoulder. Rachel could see the little red, plastic gem stuck to her forehead.

"Come on, Raven! We need to beat the HIVE!"

The cold chills shot up her spine as the little girl darted to her brother and his friends. They stood there dressed in cheap Halloween costumes, but she recognized who they were.

"You can't beat the Teen Titans, HIVE!" George, dressed as Robin, shouted.

Trying not to allow her legs to shake, Rachel decided to move towards a seat as five other children dressed in the costumes of the HIVE stepped out. One girl with the cheap pink wig and black dressed pointed at the faux Robin with a laugh.

"You can't stop the mistress of bad luck, Bird brain. HIVE! Attack pattern Alpha!"

And then the candy started flying. Multi-colored plastic balls, darts, and foam flew at the two teams as they mocked battle, but it did not last long as the parents quickly broke them up.

'By Azar, that...that was too much.'

No matter what she did, there was no way to escape the past, was there? The little girl looked like Jinx and even sounded like Jinx. Rachel's breath caught in her throat. How did the girl know about the attack command? It was not like their battles were recorded.

As the girl came over, Rachel smiled weakly.

"Hey! I love your costume."

"Thank you!"

"Where did you learn that phrase, by the way?" Was the question nonchalant enough?

"Oh! The lady in the back who is filling the punch bowls. She taught it to me!"

It was like an ice dagger being shoved through her heart as the little girl skipped away with her mom. Rachel could not move, could not breathe, could not turn her head to look. She and Chet were the only ones working here today, and they did not get help. There was not supposed to be any woman filling punch bowls.

'No, no, no, no, no, NO! FUCK NO!'

Rachel looked at the door. If she started running now, it would take time for them to figure out where she was going. Maybe she could get out of the city and disappear again. Chet moved towards the door to let in more kids as a pang of worry and guilt coursed through her.

She would have to leave him at her mercy. Looking towards the backroom door, Rachel stood shakily and began to make her way to the door. She scooped up the baseball bat they kept in the corner. If she was quick enough, Rachel might get her before she knew it.

Rachel pushed the flimsy door open to the back room and paused as her eyes adjusted to the dark. The white folding tables with the extra punch making materials and bags of half drained candy piled around, but she did not see anybody. She took another step in when she caught the scent to her right. Blueberries.

The hand was like an iron grip on her wrist, and she let the bat go out of surprise. Rachel felt spun around, and the hot, familiar, smooth lips planted on her own. Rachel inhaled the delicious scent of the perfume and the scent of Jinx. It was so familiar yet so invasive. The woman released her, and Rachel stumbled back, trying to put distance between the two.

It was Jinx. There was no way of mistaking those pink eyes that looked at her like a predator cornering her prey. She wore a dark hoodie that covered her hair and jeans instead of her trademark dress and leggings.

"No, oh god, no," Rachel choked out, her eyes wide with terror.

"Hello, Raven," Jinx cooed softly.

Rachel's eyes went to the bat, and Jinx followed. A frown crossed Jinx's face.

"Rae, I'm not here to hurt you," Jinx said cautiously. "I'd thought you'd realize we're past that."

"I...I don't know what to think right now. And don't call me Raven. She died three years ago."

"She looks alive...and delicious to me."

Jinx took another step forward, and Rachel stepped back. The frown on the pinkette's face deepened.

"Raven...er...Rachel. I'm not here to give you away or drag you back."

"Why are you here?" the girl asked, trying not to lose her voice.

"Well, I was hoping to steal you for myself," Jinx joked. "But I see you've shacked up with someone. He's cute. Nice butt."

"Leave him alone!" Rachel squeaked.

Jinx stepped back and sat slowly into one of the folding chairs.

"This isn't how I expected this to go," Jinx murmured perplexed.

"Did you think I was going to run away with you or something?"

"No, but I didn't think you'd treat me like the enemy. Not after all that shit with Nocturnus."

Raven slowly lowered her own trembling body into a chair, and the two women stared across at each other.

"I...I had an accident," Rachel started.

"I know, Ibraham told me a bit of it," Jinx shrugged. "I didn't expect you to take off running, though. I'd have taken you in."

"I...had to go." Rachel's eyes dropped towards the floor.

"Ah. Well, I guess I can understand the need to flee. I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing if I were in your situation."

Silence reigned again as only the din of the children, muffled by the walls, filled the room.

"Why are you here?" Rachel asked again, this time more steady with her voice.

"Well, two reasons. I wanted to see if I could recruit you as a HIVE specialist."

"What?" Rachel asked with a raised eyebrow.

"You might not have your magic anymore, but you still have all that knowledge and experience. I wanted to see if I could recruit you as a freelance specialist. Our teams send you data at times, and you give them your expert opinion. Pays pretty solid, and you don't have to be in the field."

"Me? Work for the HIVE?"

"It's better money than a cupcake cafe or whatever the hell you call it."

The HIVE. The lure of the supernatural, the world of the heroes and villains. She had stayed out of it for so long, but the siren song was calling to her.

"I don't know. I...I wanted all of that to die with the demon side of me."

"Um ...sorry to break it to you, gal, but your demon side didn't die."

Rachel's eyes grew wide. "What?"

"Yeah, bird brain trained her up and domesticated your demon half. She's now Raquelle of Skath, and she fights with the Titans."

So, she was replaced. Rachel's heart dropped a bit more. Robin did find a way to replace her. She could not even imagine how furious he would have been and how satisfying it was to replace Rachel completely.

"I see."

"That reminds me of the second thing."

"What?"

"The Titans know you're in Traverse City. They'll be here tomorrow."

The fear returned, the desire to run as far as possible. Rachel breathing began to come in short gasps as she stared at the ceiling, trying to think of what to do. She felt the soft hand on her knee and the presence in front of her. The girl's head shot down to see Jinx kneeling in front of her with a smile.

"Shhh, it'll be okay. I see you've been blessed with a full range of emotions now."

"They're shitty to have," Rachel choked out between the tears. The pinkette gently wiped them away.

"I'm here, sweetie, everything is going to be okay."

That was too much. Rachel burst into tears and threw her arms around the pinkette and sobbed into her shoulder.

"Listen, you come with me. I've got a safe house in Traverse city that's not on any of the goody-two-shoes' radar. You can lay low until they give up and leave. They're only here to investigate Doctor Light. Once he's defeated, they won't have any excuse to remain. Then we can talk about where to go from there."

Rachel pulled gently away as Jinx reluctantly let her go. The crying girl tried to rub the tears away.

"I can't leave Chet," Rachel said. "He's been the kindest man to me, and I can't just run away."

There was a small spark of iron in Jinx's eyes, but it faded.

"Well, we can find a use for the boy toy. How much does he know?"

"Nothing. All he knows is I was some runaway he found and rescued on the streets."

"Men are so easy to win over," Jinx chuckled. "Well, the big thing is to stay out of the reach of your ex-boyfriend."

"How...how is Robin?"

"He goes by Nightwing now," Jinx grunted, helping Rachel back to her chair.

"And it did not go so well. After he lost track of you in Los Angeles, he spent the next year and a half terrorizing any town he thought you were in. I have never seen such an enraged individual."

Jinx pulled back her collar to show a thin scar behind under hear ear gracing the side of that lovely neck.

"I had a run-in with him. Dude knows how to inflict pain."

Rachel's hand went instinctively to her mouth with eyes wide.

"Shhhh," Jinx said with a smile. "He was in a dark place. I survived, and the bat gave him a sound thrashing. He's made it up to me since then."

"Made it up to you?"

Jinx's eyes twinkled. "He might be a decent torturer, but I know how to humiliate. We're even now."

Jinx stood and looked towards the door.

"Your boyfriend is going to notice you're missing and come looking for you. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to carry on with my life," Rachel said. "I'm going to pretend this encounter never happened."

A pang of hurt caressed Jinx's eyes, but Rachel gave a half-smile.

"but I might be able to advise someone once in a while. Chet and I are thinking of refurbishing the dance studio, and we'll need money. Don't earn much on our paychecks."

Jinx grinned.

"Deal. You keep your head down, and I'll make it my mission to keep the Titans away from you."

"Thanks, but why are you doing this?"

Rachel studied Jinx's eyes but saw the message written there. The loving look was all Rachel needed to know the motivation of protecting her and keeping Robin away.

"I may not be able to have you," Jinx whispered huskily. "but at least you're in my life again, and I only have to share with one other person."

With that, the pinkette disappeared out the back door and into the ally.

------

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AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19022185/chapters/53121730

FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13299019/8/Raven-s-Wish

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Unravel, Chapter 5/20

Work Summary: Antisepticeye has a plan to destroy Darkiplier, steal his power, and take over everything - and he might just succeed. What starts with Yandereplier going missing evolves into a messy web of betrayal and grief, of blood and tears, of old wounds and new faces. However this ends, Ego Inc. will never be the same again. Chapter Summary: Time stretches on as the egos look for Yandere. Dr. Iplier waits for his boy to come home. Warnings: Lil bit of needles at the end ;)

Read on AO3

Enjoy!

~

Time passes. The younger egos worry. The main egos search.

The Googles key into every security camera in the city, Silver Shepherd triples the scope of his patrols. The Host locks himself in his library for hours, combing through the time stream with his narration until his throat is sore and his cheeks are slicked with blood. Bim reaches out to his many human contacts, as does Ed Edgar. King even orders his squirrels to explore where humans can’t, to keep an eye out. Dark and Wilford hunt down and question other figments, grilling them for information. The whole time, Dr. Iplier keeps the clinic closed to all but the egos, ready to treat Yandere whenever he’s found.

But he isn’t found.

Days drag on into two whole weeks of relentless searching, and every avenue turns up empty. Not a trace of Yandere is found on any patrol, on any camera, in any building or tunnel or cave. No human contact has seen Yandere, and neither has any other figment. Dark and Wilford continue to search for the more elusive ones, but there’s many they manage to find and interrogate, many hideouts they manage to search through. Each one leads to a dead end, no matter how much they threaten.

They start with the oldest egos, the Septics, just in case they know something they don’t (and because Wilford is still hung up on Anti).

“Come to think of it, we haven’t seen much of Anti lately,” Jackie admits, scratching his neck nervously. “It could be nothing, but it could also mean that he’s planning something. We haven’t found anything at his hideout, but…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. But either way, I can’t tell you anything about Yandere. None of us have seen him either, sorry.”

They most recently found and questioned one of the youngest egos, Professor Beauregard, holed up in her laboratory on the outskirts of the city.

“I’m a mad scientist, not an evil one! There’s a difference!” she insists. “Even if I wanted to kidnap one of you for experiments, it wouldn’t be Yandere. He’s unusual, of course, we all are, but he’s fundamentally humanoid. I’d be more interested in one of the androids, or even…” She looks back and forth, from Wilford with his pink-tinged magic to Dark with his crackling aura. “…Any chance you boys could come back once this blows over? Just a few tests, nothing invasive.”

Between her and the Septics, there’s more and more nothing. Dead end after dead end after dead end.

Without human patients to take care of, Dr. Iplier spends most of the time worrying about Yandere.

He knows his boy is tough; he’s seen firsthand how strong he is, inside and out. If a human had taken Yandere, he would’ve freed himself and returned to Ego Inc. within a day or two, Dr. Iplier is sure of that. But they all knew from the beginning that it wasn’t a human, and that’s the root of Dr. Iplier’s worries. The outside figments are wildcards. Yandere hasn’t even seen most of them, but they all know about him. He must have met his match, and now he’s trapped, stuck, imprisoned somewhere no one can find. Dr. Iplier doesn’t want to think about what might be happening to him, but he can’t help it: He has nothing else to do while he waits for news. He fears Yandere being brought to the clinic traumatized, beaten, starved, or already dead, bloody, in pieces.

One night after Yandere’s been missing for several days, Dr. Iplier dreams of wandering somewhere dark and unfamiliar, following Yandere’s cries for help, then his screams of agony, before finding his broken corpse on the ground, still warm. It sends him burrowing into The Host’s arms in tears.

“Where is he?” he sobs helplessly. “Where’s my son? Where’s my baby?”

“I wish I knew, my love,” Host murmurs, holding him close, kissing away his tears. “I wish I knew.”

He has the nightmare again a couple nights later, and again, and again.

Dr. Iplier misses Yandere, he misses him constantly. He feels like a hole’s been cut out of his chest every time he thinks of Yandere. Even happy memories of his son bring tears to his eyes. His hands shake, desperate to hold Yandere again. He feels cold, longing for Yandere’s warmth. Even with Host at his side whenever possible, Dr. Iplier feels lonely without Yandere. He’d settle for just hearing his voice, seeing a photo, something to prove that his boy is still real.

He’s not the only one grieving, though, he knows that much. Yancy is all out of sorts, fidgety and sour and prone to rage in his fear. Dr. Iplier stays out of his way, but ends up having to bandage his torn knuckles after he punches a hole through his bedroom wall in his grief. He hides his face in Lio’s shoulder the whole time, ashamed to be seen in tears. Lio soothes him as Dr. Iplier silently bandages Yancy’s knuckles, and the pair leave quickly once Dr. Iplier’s done.

Chrome is angry, too. Dr. Iplier doesn’t see him at all, but he hears from Plus partway through the two weeks that Chrome ran out his battery searching through security footage for Yandere, ignoring Google’s order to charge. The moment he’d woken up, still charging, he’d left the charging station and went back to work until Google forced him away. He punched a few holes into the wall, too, and didn’t even want to be repaired, claiming it would waste time. Dr. Iplier wonders if Chrome feels guilty about it, for not going to Yandere’s room until he was already gone. Dr. Iplier doesn’t blame him for what happened, but he knows enough about Chrome and his relationship with Yandere to guess at his feelings.

But no one in Ego Inc. seems angrier than Wilford and Dark. Dr. Iplier could forget what shade of brown Wilford’s eyes are; they’ve been neon pink since that first group meeting. He could forget how Dark looks when his aura is calm; it’s been snapping and cracking nonstop for days now. He treats them for the injuries they sometimes collect from going after outside figments, and neither one ever says a word. It’s highly unusual for Wilford, who normally complains about every little stitch, but it’s odd for Dark, too, who always has something to say, for better or worse, about Dr. Iplier’s care. Dr. Iplier finds the pair of them hard to trust, but he doesn’t doubt their love for Yandere. He knows they miss him and worry about him, too, even if they never say so. Dr. Iplier, at least, has Host to turn to for reassurance and comfort. He’s not afraid to show his sadness. But Dark and Wilford are the leaders. They’re responsible for keeping things calm, keeping everyone searching. They have no choice but to stifle their true feelings around the others. Dr. Iplier doesn’t envy either of them.

Even the egos who aren’t close to Yandere, the ones who’ve barely spoken to him, the ones who are normally scared of him, are all worried about him. The entire building trudges along under a dark pall of sadness. They keep searching, they keep looking, they keep finding nothing. Yandere stays gone.

Two weeks after Yandere goes missing, Dr. Iplier is sitting in his clinic once again, alone. Host is back to his visions, digging through the time stream again, searching for any hint of Yandere’s presence in the future. He’ll be stumbling into the clinic at the end of the day, Dr. Iplier knows, but until then, he has nothing but his thoughts for company. He ran out of things to do in the clinic days ago; the place is spotless and fully stocked now. He sighs, thinking of nothing.

Then, the hair on the back of his neck stands up.

He stands from the chair he’s sitting in, instantly on alert. Something’s not right in the room, that much he can tell. He looks around, but sees nothing. He wanders off to the empty patient rooms, peeking in, looking for…he doesn’t know what. Something. He still has goosebumps, but he still doesn’t know why. The rooms are pristine, as ordinary as ever.

The shuttering clack of a closing cabinet sounds from the examination area.

Dr. Iplier rushes back. When he arrives at the cabinets above the counter a few moments later, they’re closed like normal. He opens them, looking inside. Everything seems ordinary, until he notices that the once-neat pile of disposable syringes is disturbed, needles spread all around. There’s also the knocked-over, empty box, one that should be holding a bottle or jar. He takes it, reads the label.

It’s a sedative.

He suddenly realizes he can hear static. How long has that been going on?

Before Dr. Iplier can even turn around, a needle stabs into his neck. He has no time to scream; he can only gasp as the sedative yanks him down into oblivion.

[until-we-fall-in-love]

(remember me, love,) when i’m reborn: chapter four

-Read Chapter Three-

(remember me, love,) when i’m reborn Masterlist

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Natasha Romanov x Reader if you squint

Summary: You're thrown back into the field as Sparrow as the hunt for Captain America continues. Maria Hill reveals a secret and you devise a plan.

Warnings: Violence, mentions of violence, Bucky’s torture and abuse

If you are under 18 you should not be reading this!

A/N: hello!! first of all, i’d just like to thank everyone who has expressed their interest and excitement for this story, it means so much to me!! i’d also like to thank everyone liking and reblogging and leaving comments!! i apologize for the somewhat long wait for this chapter, i had a little trouble with it as it’s pretty eventful! thank you again for reading and being supportive! please let me know what you think of this chapter :)

Read on Ao3

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

2013

Pierce has given you the day off; October 12th, 2013. 

Two years ago, on October 12th, 2011, your sister had died in action on a mission in Ukraine. Her body had been recovered; Pierce had told you it was so you could bury her properly, but you knew it was for HYDRA, so no one else could replicate the serum in her blood. Regardless, you were thankful to have her back in any capacity, despite the bitterness that you had to swallow down each time you looked at Pierce.

Sometimes you couldn’t even look at him.

You’d buried her body alone, in a lonely grave, solitary and lost among all the others in a cemetery in Washington D.C. on a foggy, hazy autumn day. There had been no ceremony, no funeral, just you and the newly unearthed ground, the smell of petrichor thick and damp, and a small crane that had gently set her in. No priest, no religion, no God to pray to.

You’d sunk to you knees beside the hole in the ground; you wished you’d known what her favorite flowers had been, if she’d liked them at all, wished the pale lilies you tossed atop the casket meant anything more than tradition; only an even number of flowers. Sticks atop it to confuse the spirits, vague Russian traditions you know but have never practiced until now. 

HYDRA had never given her the chance to be anything but a weapon. You knew her better than anyone, she was so intricately woven with you, tethered by blood and tendon and something human and miraculous. Tied to you by experience and memory. 

And yet, you couldn’t name her favorite color. Or if she preferred the rain to the sun. 

Did she have any one else the way you had Bucky? 

Was there anyone else you could’ve grieved with? 

You hadn’t known then and any way of knowing, was buried deeply in the ground two years ago. 

You stare at her grave now, her name etched prettily onto simple stone. Her real name, the one that you only spoke in stifling darkness, in the depths of HYDRA, when you were alone and together. 

In your hands is a simple, black case. You’ve come to bury it behind her gravestone for hiding. 

It burns your fingertips with the knowledge of its contents; a brilliant answer to all the contempt and vitriol hatred eating away at you since her death. 

The solution, the salvation, the way you’ll destroy all of Pierce’s hard work. The way you’ll at least stun and traumatize HYDRA enough for you to leave with Bucky and never look back.

Finally free. 

You inhale, find your sister’s grave once more and wish nothing more than to be able to take her with you. 

But now she rests here. Without you. You without her. Tears burn your eyes momentarily and you can almost hear her voice;

“Tears for me?” She’d tousle your hair, push your head to the side. Always roughly loving. “I don’t need your tears.” But she’d give you the barest hint of a smile, all that she could ever give you.

You swallow, reach for your shovel you’d brought, too, and begin your work. You are overly careful beside her grave, as if you’ll disturb her in some way. The ground is soft and yields beneath the spade of it, easy, you sift through the dirt until there is a deep enough hole. 

And then you place the black case reverently inside where it will go undisturbed until Project Insight is nearly complete. 

You bury it like seeds, pat the earth and beg it to keep your secrets safe, and hope for flowers to bloom.

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

2015, Present Day

You have not put on the snug, darkly maroon catsuit in years. It grips you still, hugs the length of your body and forces your shoulders back. You haven’t been in the field for as long; traded pistols for fountain-tip pens and tactical gear for prim skirts and heels. It fits still, though, it’s still yours. The glock at your waist, the knife strapped to your thigh are all still familiar; old friends that you fall into step with despite the time that’s passed. 

You glance upwards at Rumlow’s strike team, impassively watching as they strap weapon after weapon to their bodies. Pierce has demanded you all go out and search for Natasha and Steve; he’s given the order to kill on sight, if they aren’t already dead.

They’d sent a missile straight into the old bunker that Natasha and Steve had been in. You’d ran to the bathroom and dry heaved the moment Pierce had announced in all his smug calmness that it’d been a direct hit. Your mind had swam, images of Steve and Natasha, pulled apart; human and flesh and blood. Mortal, despite it all. Dead, despite it all. Pierce had ordered a search for them, though, which meant there was hope. 

There had to be. 

You take a breath through your nose now, suck in air, forcing yourself into an eerie calm. You tilt your chin up, sizing up the rest of the team, Rumlow. You’re faster, stronger, superior to them. You only have to find Natasha and Steve first, stall, hide them, lie for them. 

Your jaw ticks, fingers curling into your palms. 

Rumlow picks his head up to survey you, eyes too probing, sweeping over your body in a way that makes you bristle. The knife strapped to you becomes suddenly appealing, tempting to use. 

“Well, well, well,” He hums appreciatively, “I should’ve known Pierce’s personal assistant wasn’t only a pretty face.” 

You draw in a breath, offer a smile of secrets, coy and small, eyes hooded as you gaze back. Perhaps you can hold his attention, distract him a little. Any time for Natasha and Steve is good time. 

“It’s been awhile but,” You bite your lip, lashes fluttering up to him, “I’m excited to get back into the field.” 

He smiles, rolls his shoulders back, preening with the attention you’ve flattered him with, that broad gun across his chest puffing out like some absurdly arrogant bird. 

“I hope my men can keep up with you,” He says, but his eyes keep straying to your body, so the comment feels disingenuous; a line he uses to butter you up to him. Falsehood, with his wretched smile and prying eyes. 

He doesn’t see all of you. He never will. 

You pretend to glow beneath his praise, part your lips to respond when someone barks out a quick, “Rumlow!” And his attention of you is severed, head swiveling like that of a dog whose heard it’s name, too eager, over obedient. 

They call him over, and he gives you a parting glance, telling you smoothly, “Duty calls,” And wanders over to press forward with commands of the mission at hand. You try to keep an eye roll from overcoming your features, but you do finally let your face fall, shoulders tensing. 

You stalk off, boarding one of the helicarriers that will bring you directly to the sight, trying to keep your heart in your chest, refusing to think of anything but Natasha and Steve making it out alive and well. 

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

Nimble and quick, you ease your way through the rubble of the site, heart sinking with the sight that surrounds you. A piece of you, insidious and vile, hisses that there’s no way they survived this. But the greater, more feral and desperate part of you growls back that they have to have survived. You cannot imagine anything else, cannot even summon the emotions of grief, caught somewhere in disbelief. Maybe disillusion. 

Regardless, you press onward, searching with keen eyes for any sign of where they could’ve taken cover, found shelter and survived. You look for crevices, places where they could’ve hidden. You use all your senses, enhanced and pulsing from the serum in your veins; even smell, trying to pick out the tart cherry of Natasha and the linen clean of Steve’s scents. The tang of blood, even, burned flesh or, or--

You catch a movement far in the distance, scramble quick, darting and disappearing from any other HYDRA agents sifting through the destruction they’ve created. You catch the flash of blond, a slip of red, red hair and then you spot them. Steve, stumbling out into the open, with Natasha lolled against his chest, out cold. Your heart drops but you rush over, climbing and darting over stones of cement and beams of steal from the ruined building. You hear the distant whir of a helicarrier, push yourself faster, harder, until you collide with Steve and Natasha with a surprising amount of strength, forcing him down with all your weight. You push him into hiding nearly beneath a large slab of cement, watching as the planes with their burning, spotlights sweep over you, noticing nothing. 

Steve looks up at you from his knees, Natasha still in his arms, cradled there. 

“Are you okay?” You hiss, dropping to your knees in front of him. 

He stares at you a moment as if he can’t quite believe you’re real, blue eyes searching and wide and--

“Yeah, yes, I’m okay.” He gets out, voice strained, his breathing still ragged. 

Your eyes dart down to Natasha, hand suddenly hovering, as if you might reach out and touch her, brush a strand of her hair from her face. “Is she?” You press. 

“Yes,” Steve assures, “Just unconscious.” His eyes dart over you, falling to the catsuit, eyebrows inching upwards, “What are you--”

You shake your head to silence him, you don’t have the time, can feel the precious seconds that slip from you. “HYDRA is after you now. Kill order. You need to--” 

“SHIELD fired the bogey, though.” Steve interjects suddenly, confused, eyes swimming and desperate as he searches for answers in your own eyes. You can’t give them. 

Natasha stirs in his arms, but doesn’t wake. 

In the distance, you hear footsteps, undetectable to anyone without enhanced hearing, faint against the gravel. 

“Someone’s coming.” You both say at the same time and Steve’s face crumples in confusion. 

“How did you hear that?” He snaps at you, baring teeth and hunching closer; secrets unraveling beneath his very eyes and he can’t keep up, already drowning in everything else, swallowed deep by the rough waves of mystery that have given him no reprieve. His blue eyes burn and simmer hot, azule and frantic. His brows are pulled together, not just in anger but anguish and distress. 

On his knees, he looks like a faithless man, digging for the answers that cruel gods won’t give him. 

“Listen to me,” You snap back in a low hiss, little viper that you are, suddenly lunging, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket rough and scratching, reaching over Natasha to shake him. To force him into hearing you.

He’s taken back, blinking hard.

“Remember when I asked if you had someone outside of SHIELD you could trust?” You press, digging harder into his chest. 

“Yes.”  

“Go to them. Tell no one else.” You order, “Keep your feet off the dirt; stay on debris and cement so they can’t track you.” You continue, knowing what they’ll look for, knowing Steve isn’t a spy, but a soldier. He isn’t used to being hunted; feral, hungry hounds to a fox with bloodied feet. “Now go!” You snap, shoving at his chest. 

Steve stands, shaky, rising through ash. 

“Sam Wilson. He works at the VA.” Steve tells you then, unprompted, “Find us if you can.” 

A lifeline, an outstretched hand, is what he offers you. 

You swallow, keenly aware that you don’t deserve his trust after all of the secrets that you have kept from him, all of the darkness that you were born from and shrouded in. 

But you nod, “I will.” You promise, truthful and bare in front of him for once, standing as Sparrow in the ruins of a HYDRA building, on top of the secrets you plan to burn. 

He takes a final look at you, before turning and going, hoisting Natasha closer, footsteps careful and seeking cement. 

You wait, watch his figure leave, watch as he keeps low and near cover and darkness. He’s learning, transforming in front of your very eyes, as all men do when faced with the decimation of their faith.  

And when he’s out of reach, you roll your shoulders back, pretend to discover a footprint in the dirt. 

“Rumlow!” You shout and he turns, hound that he is, head cocked. He comes to you, heels beside you. Fetch, you think cruelly, and throw the stick in the other direction.

He looks down at the footprint, lets out a slow breath. He then brings his walkie to his mouth and it crackles to life;

“Bring in the Asset.” 

The blood in your veins turns glacier ice and black water. 

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

Sam Wilson, like Steve, is golden-hearted and full of a burning sort of hope in the good of people. In doing the right thing. He welcomes you into his house as if he has known you for years, offers you food and water as if you are kin. 

You decline him but the sentiment settles deep inside of you. 

His smile is open, like the sun parting from the clouds, the first warmth after winter when the air is sweet with spring. He tries to lighten the mood; you think in a better situation, you would really adore Sam. But, as it stands, anxiety and pressure have built to a buzzing, awful cacophony inside of you. It festers and you force it down, keep it in. 

You only hope to see that better situation some day.

Natasha is showering, washing away the dirt and the grime of the explosion. Sam is in the kitchen. Steve is in a spare bedroom, sitting at the edge of the bed, head in his dirtied hands. In this moment of stillness, you can see the stress that has settled upon him, heavy and unbearable; Atlas and his broad shoulders, now so weary and tired. 

You approach quietly and he only notices when you stand directly in front of him, your boots at the edge of his vision. He lifts his eyes to you, finds your face, and holds your gaze with a raw honesty that you almost try to hide from. You force yourself to hold his eyes, even if you can feel your heart collapse inward slowly, weakening and softening for the man beneath you. 

He lets out a slow breath, easing his bent back straight, rolling his shoulders back. He still looks up at you. 

“This is a new look for you,” He manages to say, voice soft and rough, a touch of resentment in the undertones, perhaps. Your heart squeezes painfully inside of your chest. 

Don’t hate me, you plead. 

You tilt your head, worry your bottom lip, and let out a slowly gathered breath before admitting, “It’s actually very old.” 

“Is it?” Steve says too lightly, a hint of bitterness, his eyes flashing, “I suppose I would never know, would I?” 

“Steve,” You warn, breaking his gaze, turning your face from his scrutiny. You shift to cross your arms across your chest, close yourself off and hide from him but he reaches out, snags your wrist with a roughness you aren’t prepared for. He forces you open with his strength. 

Your eyes cut back to him, simmering, meeting his fiery blue; like the too-hot, too-bright part of a flame.

“Why have you always forced me away?” He hisses, squeezing, pulling you closer. 

“Let go,” You bite back, giving a half-hearted tug of your wrist. 

“No,” He snaps back, teeth bared and a little vicious, “Answer me.”

“Because I had to!” 

Your breathing comes in quick now, labored and making your heart clench hard. 

And now you tug again at your wrist, leaning into the enhanced strength you have not used in years, and break free of him with a force he didn’t know you possessed. 

“For your safety! For my safety! For--” 

For Bucky’s safety. 

The words get caught in your throat, lodged deep and you almost choke, gut wrenching horribly and for a sick flash, you believe you might throw up. All of those secrets will have poisoned you, you think, made you ill and toxic and nuclear. 

Your face crumples, eyes guttering, suddenly filling with bitter, frustrated tears that you have held down for far too long. As if they’ve been unearthed from the depths of your soul, suddenly springing forth, they fall down your cheeks, cutting tracks down that drip onto your chin and onto your chest. 

Immediately, Steve softens; he wanted in, desperately wanted to split you open and see what laid beneath and here, here he’s finally gotten it. You want to be angry with him, but you also know you’ve lied through your teeth, hidden yourself when all he has ever wanted was to unfurl you, soften the edges, take care of you. 

He has only ever tried to give you peace. 

 His hands reach for your waist, grasp around you and pull you forward, into his lap. You fall easily, down, down into broad, warm arms that are safe and secure. 

“Let it out,” He murmurs, crushing you to his chest, tucking you close and bundling you in his arms. He cradles you, your hands squabbling in his shirt, on his shoulders. Your face presses to his neck, legs dangling over his thighs as you finally break beneath all of the pressure. 

“I wanted to tell you--” You cry, your knuckles tightening on him, “So badly.” You get out, half choking. “But it’s me versus an empire and I can’t--” 

“I would’ve helped you,” Steve insists, “We could’ve helped you.” 

But he doesn’t understand and he won’t until he sees the full, brutal picture of it all. Until he understands where you were unmade and what brought you here, to this very moment. He won’t understand until he knows about your sister, about the way in which you met Bucky, all that you’d lost or never had. All those that had tried to sink their hands into you, mold you, make you, control you. It had been all you’d known for so long, until your world had been rocked, shaken so thoroughly by the death of your sister and the emergence of your new life with Pierce. By the way in which Bucky had settled himself into your heart as if he’d belonged there all along. 

The way Steve had slipped into your heart, as gently as the falling snow had been the night you’d met him. 

You shake your head, jerky movement, damp cheek pressed to the skin of his neck. “You don’t understand,” You tremble, voice shaking, “There’s so much more, Steve.”

“Then tell me,” He insists, as he always has, squeezing you, hand cradling your skull, fingers tangling in your hair. “Tell me, sweetheart, please.” 

You pull away from him slightly, look into his face, so deeply concerned and vulnerable. Your fingers touch his cheek, trace the line of his face as you look up at him hopelessly. “I don’t have time now.” You whisper, tears still slipping from your eyes. “After all of this,” Your fingers drifts to the line of his jaw, “I’ll tell you everything. I promise.” 

Steve’s eyes flicker over your face, searching and seeking for something in your expression. When he finds whatever he is looking for in the depth of your eyes, his face softens, “Okay.” He agrees softly, pressing his forehead to yours, “Okay.” 

“Just,” You swallow, choke back another quiet sob, body tensing as you swallow it down and hold it back, “Just don’t hate me, when you find out.” And you shut your eyes to his gaze, another gush of warm tears cutting down your cheeks. 

His fingers flex in your hair, tightening a fraction, “I could never,” He says so quietly that you fear you have misheard him, the warm, soft press of his lips suddenly at the corner of your mouth. “I could never hate you.” He murmurs and you haven’t opened your eyes to him, to the gentleness and care you will no doubt find in his face if you do. But his lips pass over yours, reverent, and you should push him away but you’re boneless, pliant in his arms as his lips slant over yours. 

It’s a delicate kiss, but open-mouthed and yielding. You shouldn’t, but you allow yourself a moment to be kissed by him. To kiss him back and feel the slight brush of his tongue to yours, the pass of his lips against you. You shouldn’t, but you arch up, press closer, kiss back. A broken, desperate noise comes from Steve, his hands still cradling you, holding you close. 

Faintly, you hear the shower turn off, the sudden quietness that fills and swallows up the room. It’s all you need to find the strength to pull away from him, to suddenly twist and squirm away, shifting to stand back up onto shaking legs. You turn away from him, from the bathroom door, and there is a question on his lips before he hears the creak of the door. 

You wipe your tears, swipe at your lips, and when you turn back around to face Natasha and Steve, your mask is solidly back in place. 

Steve marvels at you a moment, at the jarring transition. Moments ago you were in his arms, tear stained and fragmented. Now you are seemingly whole again, but your eyes are still red-rimmed, lips kiss stung but your face is neutral and impassive. 

Natasha is changed, toweling off her damp hair. She flicks her eyes over you, over the catsuit, “I haven’t seen you like this in awhile.” Her head tilts slightly, “Little Vorobey.” She half purrs, forcing you to squirm under her gaze. 

Steve’s eyes shift between you two, before settling onto you curiously. He asks, “What does it mean?”

“It was what they called her.” Natasha says before you can answer, “And they called her sister the Stervyatnik.” 

Your eyes burn into Natasha, unused to speaking so openly about such a removed and distant part of your life, feeling suddenly exposed. She seems unaffected by your gaze. 

You swallow, “It means Sparrow,” You tell Steve quietly, “And my sister was Vulture.” 

“You have a sister?” Steve asks, gently probing, the beginnings to a long, long conversation. 

Your head pulses with a dull ache. 

“Had.” You say quietly, “I had a sister.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

You shake your head, shrugging his sympathy off and rolling your shoulders back. You tuck the memory of your sister back, deep into the burrows of your mind. Lock her tight to your chest. Perhaps another day you will tell Steve all about her but now is not the time.

“I need to be leaving soon.” You announce, eyes flickering between the pair, “I’m glad you’re both okay.” You say with earnest, suddenly reaching out and snagging Natasha by the arm.

“You’re getting soft,” Natasha says with a curl of her lips, cat-like and sly, and you surprise her by pulling her into a hug.

She is still and unmoving for a moment, before tightening her arms around you, too, tucking her face into the crook of your neck and exhaling. 

And it reminds you of another time, another flicker of your life, being tangled limbs and lipstick stains with her against satin sheets in foreign countries. Or bloodied hands and pistols against hips, knives tucked on the inside of smooth thighs. You’d both been so cold then, so distant and strange and hard. Sleepwalking girls, puppets on strings, digging fingers into each other’s skin in an attempt to find something they couldn’t control of you both.  

“One of us has to, Tasha.” You mumble and you can feel her smile against your neck, despite her seemingly neutral expression when you both pull away from one another. 

You let out a slow breath, just as Steve stands, and you move to him, too. You rise up onto your toes, hand balancing on his chest, and press your lips to his cheek. His eyes soften, dip into a half-lidded position. 

You glance up to him, a breath caught between the two of you, a flood of unsaid words that hides, trapped, and pressurized behind a dam. For now, you hold it there, for now you push against the tide. For a heartbeat, you fear he may kiss you again, so you step away. 

“Jasper Sitwell is having a meeting with Secretary Stern later today, around three in the afternoon.” You inform both of them, and they cock their heads, narrow their eyes, but take the intel silently and gratefully. They aren’t quite sure why you’ve said it yet, but you trust them to figure it out. 

“Stay safe. I’ll see you as soon as I can again.” You promise. 

“You, too.” Steve murmurs, taking a longing, last glance at you, as if he’s committing you to memory, before he retreats into the bathroom now. He leaves you and Natasha to each other and the quietness of the room. 

The moment you hear the water of the sink, you find Natasha’s light eyes, a renewed urgency to you as you hiss, “They’re sending him after you all.” 

She doesn’t pretend to play dumb. You watch as she straightens, seizes into tenseness, face suddenly paling. She knows you mean the Winter Soldier. She swallows, opens her mouth, but then closes it. 

“I’m going to try and force Pierce to take you all captive; he won’t execute Captain America with the public watching. The moment they give him the command, I’m going to call in news sources to broadcast it. Just stay alive.” Then you inhale shakily, “And, try-- try not to kill him, either.” 

Natasha’s eyes dart to you, scrutinizing. Your eyes turn pleading and you can’t find it in yourself to care; not when it comes to Bucky and his life. You’d beg, right down on your hands and knees, if it was what she wanted. When she doesn’t respond, you press, “Please, Natasha,” Voice wavering, “For me?” 

She finally softens slightly, her own stuttering exhale, “I don’t think I could if I tried.” 

Faintly, you recall their own shared, distant history. You aren’t sure if she means physically, or emotionally and you don’t care. It’s enough. 

You nod, a slight dip of your chin, “Thank you.” You whisper and turn to leave. 

When you catch Sam in the kitchen, he turns to you. “It was good to meet you,” You tell him despite it all; another piece of you is infinitely grateful for the largeness of his heart and loyalty. You wish you could express this to him, thank him for keeping two of the most important people in your life safe, without faltering, without question. You marvel at the quickness to which you now want to include him in that circle, too. Perhaps in time. 

And he gives you the warmest smile, as if you are an old friend, “You, too.” He leans against the kitchen counter smoothly, eyes glittering in the morning light, “I just wish it was under different circumstances.”

You nod, “Well,” And you find his eyes with your own shimmering eyes, “Hopefully I’ll meet you again under better times.” 

“I hope so, too.” He tells you sincerely before you duck out his front door and into the peach and pink of dawn. The chill of morning clears your head, touches your newly dried cheeks, and for a moment, you feel the freshness after a thorough crying, the newness of your heart. 

You set your jaw. You have to find Maria Hill.

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

Thankfully, she’s been trying to find you, too, and the moment you step into SHIELD headquarters again, she is snagging you with a pinching grip to your elbow. She falls into step beside you casually, as if there is still a rouse and there is, in some way. 

Not everyone is aware it is HYDRA in control. But you are certain she knows now. 

“Come with me,” She tells you, quietly, out of the corner of her mouth. Before then saying casually and more loudly, “I need clarification on some of the papers Pierce sent over.” 

You nod and follow her lead. When she’s certain eyes are not on you, when you’re blended in with others, in the blind spot of cameras, she leads you out to a parking garage and you follow her into her own sleek, black, stealth vehicle without another word. 

You don’t ask where she is taking you until the city bleeds out and you are surrounded by towering trees and forest life. 

“A secure facility with only those we can trust.” She responds simply and again, you are struck by this we. You eye her, but keep quiet for the rest of your journey, certain she will only beginning speaking of plans and schemes once safely inside. 

Once there, she leads you in and deep into the belly of this grand place, down into darkness, past absurd amounts of security and locks that you aren’t even sure are at the SHIELD headquarters. 

But what the final door finally reveals is a ghost, lying prone in a hospital bed. 

Nick Fury stares back at you. 

You are almost surprised. 

More shockingly, though, your lips curl into a wide smile, and you find you’ve never been happier to see him than now. Leave it to Nick, you think wryly, to cheat death, get out of the grips of Pierce and stow away. 

His lips lift up into the slightest of smiles, too. “Thank you for the warning.” He says genuinely. 

You bow your head slightly, a little marveled and humbled by him, “Of course.” You tell him, suddenly wish it’d been him who’d found you, the way he’d found Natasha. It could’ve been him who’d taken you and given you a purpose of security and the protection of people. But instead, you received the other side of the coin. The fates had not been so kind. 

But you’re trying to change that now, you assure yourself, pushing and fighting against whatever destiny had been originally given to you.

“We need your help.” Fury says then, trying to ease himself up slightly, but he’s too battered, too broken to move that far. Maria goes to his side, but he waves her off. “What are your plans? Since I know you have them.” 

You blink, unused to someone being aware of your capabilities in such a way. You have always been hidden behind Pierce and an unassuming smile, behind all of your secrets. But Fury looks straight through you now, with his single, burning eye. 

“Pierce has sent the Winter Soldier after Steve and by default, Natasha, and now Sam Wilson, I’m afraid.” You respond, “The moment the order is given, I am going to call in news sources in hopes of gaining mass public attention. Pierce will not give a kill order to Captain America while the country watches.” You let out a breath, “I hope for their arrest. I’ve already warned Natasha of this.” 

“From there?” Maria presses, scrutinizing you. 

“Eventually, free them, before they are killed.” 

“We want them here.” Fury responds, “So we can form a plan to stop Project Insight. You have a plan for that?” 

You suck your teeth for a moment, a pause, “I do.” 

Fury’s brows hitch up, expecting, awaiting. 

“When the helicarriers were being built, I studied their mechanics to find a way to destroy it. As you know, they have a targeting chip that they will use to pin and lock onto targets. I crafted three, separate targeting chips that would instead target the helicarriers themselves, destroying them, once I swapped them out before they took to the skies.” 

Maria’s lips fall open slightly, perhaps in awe. 

Fury’s eye crinkles, almost in amusement, or pride, or the barest hint of wonder. 

“Where are these chips?” He asks.

“Buried behind my sister’s gravestone since 2013.” 

 And this time Fury’s face splits into a grin and he whistles lowly. “You’ve been at this since 2013?” 

“2011, actually. The moment the files of Project Insight were placed in front of me.” You answer honestly, freely, feeling lighter, as if you are letting go of baggage. Slowly, you are shaking off secrets, like brushing snow away as spring begins to warm the earth. Change is around the bend, so close you can almost taste it. 

“Can you get Rogers, Romanoff, and Wilson here?” Fury then presses, “So we can get them to swap out the targeting chips?” 

You wrack your brain for a plan that would allow that without Pierce’s suspicion, while also keeping Bucky safe. “I don’t--”

“Can you get me a uniform that one of the STRIKE teams will use when they arrest them?” Maria suddenly speaks up, turning to look at you. 

You tilt your head, as if you can see her own plan forming and shaping in her mind. It’s clever, a little risky, but it might just work--

“I can do that.” You assure her, forcing yourself to be able to. You don’t know how yet, but you’ll make sure she does if it will guarantee their safety. 

“Then I’ll take care of the rest.” She returns, holding your eyes, simple and straightforward, honest for you to see her intentions. 

You think you like Maria Hill. 

“Give us the location of the targeting chips, and we’ll take care of those, too, while you keep Pierce distracted and unaware.” Fury then says, “How soon can you rendezvous with us again?” 

“I’m not sure.” You answer truthfully, “With the sudden move in the date of the launch of these helicarriers, Pierce will want me by his side.” You tilt your chin up, “But I will go with whatever plans end up enfolding, so long as the people I care about are safe and the helicarriers end up destroyed.”  

Fury’s eye pins you for a moment, studying you, assessing you once more. “You know we’re really trusting you with this.” He says slowly.

“With all due respect, Director Fury, but I’m also really trusting you, too.” You respond and watch as his face shifts slightly, easing, accepting your answer. 

And with that, you tell him the location of your sister’s grave; a place only you have known since she was buried. 

You allow them to unearth all that you have concealed for the last several years and hope it sets you free, in some way. 

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

Another secret unravels the same way a stitch can when pulled correctly. 

Steve knows that Bucky is the Winter Soldier. 

You’d been with Pierce when the fight had taken place, carefully having tipped the news broadcasters to the fight until the circled with helicopters and too-bold photographers, forcing Pierce’s hand. 

“Take them alive if there’s people watching.” He’d growled at Rumlow, dragging an irritated hand through his hair, “We’ll deal with them in private.” 

And Rumlow had scampered off to finish this fight, to take them into custody.

You’d gotten Maria Hill the uniform she’d requested, viciously hoped that she pulled off her own plan of smuggling them out. The moment they had Steve, Natasha, and Sam in handcuffs, Pierce was ordering you to come with him. 

“You know the Asset better than I do.” Pierce begins as you follow after him, knowing he is leading you to where they hold Bucky. “Are you concerned at all with his connection to Rogers and the use of his name?” 

You’re almost taken back; perhaps by the acknowledgement that you know Bucky better, or perhaps for his concern that his brainwashing has not fully sank into Bucky. In fact, you worry deeply about this; you have since the moment Rumlow had called him in. You knew it was inevitable, in some ways, but now you worry for Bucky’s safety in the hands of men like Pierce. 

“I’ve never experienced any severe lapse in him that his trigger words have not taken care of.” You lie, precious pearled truth hidden behind your teeth like a treasure. 

Pierce grunts in responds, descending down with you, into the pits of this jail, of this hell that makes you ill to walk into. Rumlow catches up and trails behind you, giving you a half smirk upon seeing you. You force back a frown. 

You keep pace with Pierce’s brisk walk, even in your heels that you’d changed into, back to the pretty assistant with a pale blue blouse. 

You’re both greeted with a man at the door, “Sir, h-he’s unstable. Erratic.” He tries to get out and immediately, your heart drops fast and hard. You try to keep your breathing even. Pierce bulls through the door though, not even glancing at the man. 

You swallow as you see all the guns pointed at Bucky, where he sits, lifeless and bleary, bare and with his arm gleaming beneath the lights that are too harsh on him. 

You suddenly wish to shield him, stand in front of him and growl at the others to get away. But you force yourself to still, to try to remain neutral as Pierce lifts his hands and signals for them to all put their guns down. He stands in front of him. 

“Mission report.” Pierce commands. Bucky doesn’t even flinch and you wish he’d just comply, just comply and spare himself. “Mission report now.” Pierce barks, his nerves fraying. 

Bucky stares, lifeless and lost, with watery eyes. 

Please, you silently beg him, please speak. 

Pierce inches closer, studying Bucky’s face too closely and you want to shove him away, tear into him, bristling at the way Pierce looks at him. 

The slap is sudden and jarring and you gasp as if he’s struck you. Bucky’s head whips to the side and without thinking, you stutter a step forward, as if you’d go to him and you want to-- you want to. 

You think about killing Pierce, think about taking the knife strapped to your thigh and slitting the vulnerable artery of his neck. Then cupping Bucky’s stung cheek with bloodied hands, promising freedom from this wretched place and these monsters. 

“There was a man on the bridge,” Bucky finally speaks and you have to keep your face from crumpling at the sound of his voice, so lost and foreign and gravely. “Who was he?”

You could cry because you know already, he has made a severe mistake by revealing the truth of his surfacing. You wish he would play dumb, spew a mission report but his poor, helpless brain is so fucking scrambled and you’re not sure if you’ve made it worse or better over the years by trying to get him to remember--

 “You met him earlier this week on another assignment.” Pierce responds. 

Bucky shifts, his eyes suddenly darting out, finding you, pinning you like a butterfly to a board. “I knew him.” He tells you and you force a breath in and out slowly because you think yes, you do know him. And I know him. You loved him once and I love him now--

Your chest cleaves with the look in Pierce’s eyes, the way he glances to you, then back to Bucky before slowly taking a seat in front of him, so they are eye level. Bucky bows slightly, shoulders collapsing inwards as he looks away. 

“Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century, and I need you to do it one more time.” Pierce presses, assuring him of his goodness, tricking him because you think Bucky was probably too good, as golden as Steve, so they had to tell him he was doing something valiant and good. 

You feel like you’re going to be sick, stomach suddenly jolting horribly.

“Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning we’re going to give it a push. But if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine. And HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.” Pierce tells him, unnervingly calm. 

Bucky’s face shifts, brows pulling together and he looks so fucking hopeless, adrift and trying to hold onto anything tangible and constant. So he looks at you when he says;

“But I knew him.”

It is your undoing. 

The simple, clear ache, the knife in the chest. And you’re an open, frayed nerve, heart spasming painfully and head swimming with the recent reminders of your dead, dead sister and the pain of the serum they’d forced in you and every time you’ve watched them torture and strip Bucky bare and raw. The broken look in Steve’s eyes when he’d realized nothing was what it seemed, and Natasha’s split mask revealing her own turmoil before she’d hugged you too tightly over Nick Fury’s battered body. 

You are a series of anguished moments, seeped in darkness and dismal, nothing outlooks that had forced your sister into a ghost. Forced you into submission. Forced Bucky into a weapon. 

“Prep him.”

Pierce’s voice cuts through the room and you whip your head to him. He doesn’t even glance at you. 

You swallow down your scream. 

“He’s been out of cryo freeze for too long.” A man shakily warns. 

“Then wipe him and start over.” Pierce says and your face goes slack, mouth parting before you can stop it. 

It is not the first time you have seen this but for some reason, it feels like the worst with the way Bucky’s face crumples, eyes seeking you as if you could stop it. As if you could help him. You want to turn away, but know that he needs you now more than ever so you give him your eyes. 

Be strong, you plead to him and his gaze hold yours until they can’t any more. 

They force him back in the chair, slipping the mouth guard in and he is too obedient. The cuffs lock around his arms to hold him down and he seizes up, chest suddenly heaving because he knows what’s coming and you know what’s coming. 

Rumlow is watching with a morbid curiosity and you think of clawing his eyes out with bare hands, fingernails digging deep until he cries--

The machine whirs to life and you watch in horror as it stutters to settle around his head, heating up into an electric current. Bucky exhales a whimper, just before it clamps down tight onto him and he jolts as the sound of sizzling and sparking zips around the room. 

He screams. And screams. And screams. 

You watch because you have to. Pierce leaves and you don’t follow. Rumlow leaves and you don’t follow. You wait until it is just you and the scientists that have tortured him for too long and Bucky is slack and blank faced in the chair. 

“Leave,” You snap at them and when they don’t move fast enough, you grip the knife from your thigh holster and fling it across the room, letting it slice against the cheek of one and he startles, yelping. “Now.” You snarl and they stare in awe for a moment and you wish you could’ve sunken it into his skull. They scamper out quickly, until you are left with Bucky and the cold metal of the room.

You go to him and release his cuffs, his body suddenly slumping forward so you catch him, easing him so that his head lays against your chest, cradle him there beside your heart. 

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, so no one but him can hear but you don’t even think he can hear you, either. “I’m sorry.” You whimper, carding your hands through his hair and keeping him tight to you. “This is the last time,” You cry, tears dripping down onto the crown of his head. “I promise,” You sob, rocking him slow and soft. “I promise.” 

You wail, howling quietly into the cavernous jaws of metal that surround you. For you and your losses. For him and his. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care who sees you as you take care of him as if he is the only thing precious in this world. 

Because by tomorrow morning, you will disappear with him; far, far from wretched monsters who have done this to him. 

“We’re so close,” You tell him, lifting his face to yours but there is nothing there, blue eyes dim and pale and gone. He is a shell. Your lip wobbles, tears spilling down your cheeks and dripping onto his. 

“It’s almost the end.” You murmur brokenly, fingers digging into the skin of his jaw desperately. 

“It’s almost the end.” You vow, begging for that hopeful ending, those better circumstances that you have fought so awfully for since October 12th, 2011. 

[loveisnotsofar]

the story of our love

This is the most important story to ever be written here.

This is the story that defines all of the other stories to come. Without this story, nothing else would be understood, but it’s a long one. So strap in, and enjoy the ride because these are some of my happiest memories.

the beginning

We first met on a warm afternoon in early September. There are two versions of our meeting: the one I remember and our official meeting. The one I remember is quite short, but it is still quite sweet as well. We were waiting for the elevator and he was being his charming, inviting self by conversing with me and another girl about building a slightly-illegal air conditioner in his dorm room because the heat was still so brutal. He was adorable. By the end of the ride, we were still making small talk and realized we lived on the same floor. I told him that I hoped to see him around again, and he responded with the same. Turns out, two days later I was chatting with and befriending some girls in our lobby who just happened to be his friends as well! I couldn’t believe my luck, considering I never thought I’d talk that cute boy from the elevator ever again.

We all became very good friends very quickly, but he and I were the closest out of everyone. He would invite me to his room to watch him play video games (because I play The Sims and Stardew Valley, and even those are stretching my talents at gaming), we would get lunch and dinner together, and we were generally the first ones to contact the other about anything. We basically became glued at the hip, with him becoming comfortable enough with me to fall asleep on me and share very intimate details about his life with me. He was engrossing. He was intelligent, dexterous, witty, beautiful, and physically friendly. His hugs were (and still are) the most incredible things. He just...made me really happy. He made me happy in a way I hadn’t ever felt before. He inspired me and motivated me and made butterflies fly all around in his stomach. I didn’t realize it during the month or so that we were only friends, but I was helplessly falling in love with him.

As mentioned, after about a month of us being friendly and becoming closer, something began to shift. It was slow, not unlike a tide coming into shore. We were just always together. Eating, gaming, studying, talking, it was almost always me and him, then everyone else. Eventually, it just became too much for us. One night, we met up with a couple of our friends for a few hours, eventually returning to one of their dorms to continue our fun. However, one of them made some teasing remark about the two of us looking so much like a couple, and he just snapped. He told me it was because all of his feelings were still so confusing and having others acknowledge it made it worse. He and our friend fought, he tossed a shoe in her general direction, then bolted. He ran to our dorm floor, climbing the stairs to the eighth and top floor. That had become his private place, the area where he could calm himself when he became overwhelmed or excessively angry. I never visited him there. I offered, of course, whenever he was upset, but he always refused. After he ran, I still asked him. ‘Are you okay? Do you want me to come see you?’ I messaged him, and he didn’t reply immediately. I didn’t expect him to.

Then, he said the one thing I never could have anticipated.

Once the notification lit up my phone screen, I opened it and waited for it to say either ‘No, I need time alone.’ or ‘Yes, please come.’ But, no. Instead, he poured his heart out in three incredible paragraphs that I wish I could remember every last word of. The parts I remember most are obviously when he said he was attracted to me. So much so that it scared him a bit, as he’d never felt like this before. He was terrified of these feelings, mainly because of his horrible experiences with his last girlfriends, one of whom was a firm asexual. I also labelled myself as asexual, and I had done so since I was fourteen years old. I had never really had any sexual desire before, nor any romantic desire. But I was trying to open myself up to people more, because I didn’t want to alone forever. I didn’t want to be lonely simply because I never let anybody in. Anyways, I was panicking. I liken it to having a bomb dropped into my hands and panic enveloping my entire being. This was because once he said it, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I was confronted with this decision; I could either acknowledge my feelings for him or I could push them away. And in that moment, even though my heart was pounding against my chest, I told him that I needed to see him and talk to him in person. I told him I would not do this over text. He accepted, and with barely a goodbye to our friends, I ran to him. I paused once I reached the door to the staircase, gathering my breath and my thoughts. I was so nervous. I didn’t feel attractive or prepared at all. I was in some silly hoodie and sweatpants. I was tired. I didn’t know what I was going to say or do. But I wasn’t ready to let go of this boy, he already meant too much to me. So, I opened the door and walked up those stairs. It was one of the longest walks of my life. Once I saw him, I breathed deeply and approached him. I didn’t say anything. He was still coming down from his angry outburst, so I just sat with him for nearly twenty minutes, gingerly rubbing his shoulder and just giving him time. Then, he started out talk.

This was a very difficult conversation to have, for both of us. For him, he told me details about his life he had alluded to before, but never fully divulged to me. He told me about his first girlfriend, who was such a repulsed asexual that they barely held hands, never kissed, and most definitely were never intimate. Because I had told him that I was asexual as well, he was afraid of being with me. Intimacy was necessary for him in a relationship. He wanted that closeness and that love to be felt physically. It would be a deal-breaker, and I understood that. I explained that while I was asexual (or so I believed), I wasn’t afraid or disgusted by closeness. Given that we had cuddled and held each other for weeks before this and were so comfortable with each other, I was already different from his ex-girlfriend. I told him that I didn’t know where this would go. I couldn’t tell him with one-hundred-percent confidence that I would be able to go all the way with him, but the thought didn’t terrify me. I told him that I feel safe with him, and that with time I hoped I would be able to trust him to go further. He accepted that, and after discussing our feelings about each other for another couple of minutes, we decided to just try. We didn’t label it. We just wanted to let whatever this was evolve naturally, and not rush into anything.

After we decided that, then he went and changed my life.

I said something along the lines of ‘If we’re not ready, it’s okay. But this might be good for us. Who knows?’ He agreed, then just looked at me. He had this intense, beautiful look to his face. I still melt whenever he looks at me with that...desire. He looked at me, and he said Well, are you ready for this? And he kissed me. It was my first kiss, and it was magical. It was just past midnight, and rain was pattering on the rooftops just above us. The moonlight was our only light, and we came together like fire and kerosene. He pulled me close, and I gripped his face, my fingers skimming through his hair and his breath hot against my damp lips. We would pull away for mere seconds before coming back together again, eventually finding our way to the floor at the top of the staircase, me on my back, and him stretched out atop me. He was kissing me until my mind melted, and all I could think of was him and more. I was falling in love with his touch. After what felt like an eternity, we pulled apart, breathless and flushed. I had never felt such a need for someone, and in that moment I was certain that I would be able to make love to this man. Perhaps I was still glowing from his confession and this fresh relationship, but I just felt something so special with him. We managed to get ourselves up and put together, and once we saw that it was nearly one-thirty in the morning on a school night, we knew we had to get to bed.

We descended the stairs, stealing kisses every few moments. Though, before we separated to our individual dorms (he did live just feet from me, after all), he really wanted to see our friend again and apologize. So, we dashed over and had a nice, emotional conversation with her, and we hoped she wouldn’t notice the shift in us. We didn’t want to tell anyone until we were certain that this would work, at least for more than a few days. Finally, we returned to our respective dorms, settled into bed, and sent each other our usual goodnight messages, just with more emotion and more heart emoticons.

I fell asleep smiling.

When I awoke the following morning and met up with him, it just felt so...good. It felt like should have always been like this. We finally found the right person, and all it took was time. The wait was so worth it, as I got him and he got me.

And that’s that. That’s how we became a couple. There are so many more stories to tell, but those will be added with time.

- k.

[hollenka99]

Lost and Found

Summary: Jameson spends time with his kids, creates one of his most famous shorts and a jazz singer threatens to kill the Jolly Gentleman.

Warnings: Reference to blackface, 

September 10, 1923 Dear Mother,

Already, Anthony is in middle school. He has begun attending Joseph Le Conte Middle School. They only began admitting students last year. Therefore, his class is only the second to join the school at sixth grade. I asked him what he thought of this but he seems to be nonchalant to a degree.

In your last letter, you spoke of your hands. I am empathetic. I understand not wanting time to leave you behind. For you, it is the inability to sew because of your osteoarthritis. For me, it's the inability to speak properly due to my vocal cord paresis. I am willing to bet genuine dollars that they will discover a way to incorporate sound into the pictures and make the shift within a decade. I have half-heartedly made peace with my limitations. I fear it's long due that you do the same with yours.

Don't make any dolls for any of your younger granddaughters, not if it is guaranteed to be at your expense. If you're dead set on sending such a gift, ask Mabel to help you with crafting it. Please don't abuse yourself. That is the last thing any of us wishes for.

Yours, Jameson

December 4, 1923 Dear Jameson,

I recall you saying Floyd was a 'ghastly name'. I am guessing you never said that to Clifford. I doubt you ever will now. Especially with his birthday and Christmas almost upon us.

Yours, Mabel

December 18, 1923 Dear Mabel,

Please do not bring that up. When he announced the name to us, I held my tongue. Why Floyd? Of all the names he could have chosen to bestow upon his son, why is God's name did he pick Floyd? Not only that, what on earth possessed him to prefer Floyd to Lloyd? Lloyd is a perfectly good name, it is practically the same and I am sure it is more popular too. Who even calls their child Floyd anymore? By my guess, this time next century, Floyd will grow so unpopular in favour of Lloyd that it will be a rare occurrence to meet one.

Still, he is our nephew. I do struggle to imagine how he went from Louise to Floyd. Louise is such a pretty name for a girl. When Siobhan was pregnant with Sophia, it was one of the names we considered. If in two months we have another daughter, we may opt for Grace, Victoria or Eleanora, now that Louise is off the table. Should you also have a daughter next month, I'd ask you not to steal those names. This business is already tricky enough without reducing our options.

If Floyd wishes to change his name once he comes of age, I won't blame the boy.

Yours, Jameson

Harriet Victoria Jackson Female February 8, 1924 Los Angeles Siobhan O'Hara Jameson Jackson

February 9, 1924 Dear Mother,

We have finally been blessed with the second daughter we had been hoping for. Therefore, six grandchildren is all you're getting out of me. At least there won't be any more debates between myself and Siobhan.

We've given her the name Harriet Victoria. She was born late last night which, yes, means her birthday is February 8th. I was aware it was a possibility but I convinced myself the chances were unrealistically smaller. I don't seem to have much luck when it comes to when my daughters are born, do I? If they're not being born far too early, they're born on what should have been their uncle's 44th birthday.

Her name is deliberate. We both like Harriet and Victoria but couldn't decide between them, among other contenders. We almost picked Eleanora. However, once she was actually born, Harriet Victoria seemed to be the perfect combination. It is fitting for her birthday.

Yours, Jameson

April 29, 1924 Pearl,

Do you mind fixing the stitches on Sophia's new doll? Mother barely managed to get the thing to stay intact. With her osteoarthritis, I'm surprised she got as far as she did.

I don't want to rush you but I would prefer if it was done quickly. I spun a tale about the doll needing the night to get used to America. Sophia believes the toy is going to explore our sitting room as she sleeps.

I am sorry for asking this of you at such short notice. You know how I hate to be a burden. With your expertise, there is no doubt you will do a fine job.

You have my eternal thanks, Jameson

May 1, 1924 Dear Mother,

On Sophia's behalf, I'd like to thank you for the doll you made for her birthday. She adores and refuses to part with it. You certainly succeeded in making her happy.

She may love it unconditionally but it makes me uneasy. I know it must have caused a great deal of pain to make it. Your hands aren't the same as they were when I was six years old. You were even struggling when I was preparing to get married. That was 14 years ago. You should stop pushing your hands past their limits. It must hurt you to do basic tasks such as cooking. Why would you deliberately put yourself through it for your granddaughter's sake? You could have gotten Mabel to do the stitching for you. Sophia would not treasure the doll any less.

Hoping you are caring for yourself, Jameson

July 13, 1924 Jameson,

Would you be able to visit Saint John this summer? I feel this may be your last chance to bid farewell to the house we grew up in.

The truth is I am debating whether I should sell it. I know, it is a major development that possibly seems to have come from nowhere. In actuality, this has been on my mind for a while. Edward keeps me in better comfort than our parents did. This isn't about increasing our prospects. I'd never be that selfish. The issue is our mother. She can't stay there forever. Half the time, I'm visiting her to help with the chores she cannot do any longer.

She is stubborn though. I'm afraid that is a trait you've gotten from her. It isn't like you were the only one she passed that irritating habit to. We all have first-hand experience with that. I am coaxing her with unlimited access to my children. I'd like to believe that aspect is causing her resolve to slowly wane. Nevertheless, she wishes to stay in the home she's lived in since the 70s. No reminder of Granny living with us sways her either. She only replies with the fact her own mother lived the entirety of her widowhood without requiring to move to her child's house. What Mother neglects to acknowledge is that Grandma's husband was a headmaster while she ended up marrying a labourer. The difference in salaries is considerable. By this point, I can only assume the largest factor is vanity. God forbid she has to end up like her mother-in-law.

I spoken to Edith. She has supported my argument. Infuriatingly, Mother doesn't see her viewpoint as entirely valid anymore. Since announcing her impending marriage, Mother hasn't been quite as warm towards Edith. She states the only connection they share is Edith's daughters. Expressing my opinions is futile.

Still, my offer stands. Visit the house before anything is finalised. After all, she cannot remain in that house alone. I will have to sell that house despite not wanting to part with it either. The three of you in California can easily pay the bills for her with your routine sending of money to Canada. As much as I wish finances were the issue, therefore making my plans unnecessary, it is instead her health. Unless some madman attempts to replace her hands with a younger version, there is no other option for her other than to partially relinquish her independence.

Wishing you well, Mabel

July 30, 1924 Mabel,

The three of us have been discussing this matter between us. We agree with you. However, we think there is a better solution. One of us could buy the house from you. That way, Mother will live with you and be under your care but none of us will have to bid farewell to such an important part of our lives.

Tell us when it would best suit you for us to arrive in Saint John for any negotiations necessary.

Yours, Clifford, Jameson and Pearl

November 6, 1924 Dear all,

I came across a compilation of Wilfred Owen's poetry recently. I decided to buy the book. It is fitting for this time of year.

'Dolce et Decorum Est' struck a nerve with me. I was angered by the message but not in disagreement. In fact, I could hardly read past the second stanza. I was fine with the imagery of soldiers marching across the trenches wearily. However, it is difficult to read a description of a man 'drowning' from gas when your own brother suffered a similar fate. I don't know whether the type of gas mentioned in the poem is the same Harvey inhaled but the vivid image is harrowing to picture nonetheless. Yet, I persevered and reached the end. The last two rhyming couplets forced me to sit in my chair simply to absorb them fully. A Latin phrase is used, translating into 'It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country'. Never was there a saying so incorrect.

I enquired about Owen himself, only to learn the poor bastard met his end a week before the war met its own. A year younger than Pearl too. I'm glad his loved ones strived to publish his poems. People should read them and have a better understanding of what those men truly experienced. There was that ridiculous propaganda poster several years ago that I always hated. It was the one with two children asking their father what he did during the war, implying he did not enlist and was therefore less of a man. If any of my six were to question me, I'd tell them I tried to bring some laughter to such tragic times. That is an admirable feat to attempt.

I'll leave you with the lines that moved me.

My friend, you would not tell in such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Yours, Jameson

January 9, 1925 Dear all,

Yesterday, we returned home from our holiday visit to Ireland. It's been too long since I set foot in the country. Siobhan has taken the children to see their grandfather and uncle occasionally. Unfortunately, there never ceases to be something or other preventing me from taking my leave to join them. Until now, that is.

The chorea has begun to set in, leaving his handling of utensils clumsy. Throughout our stay, Michael was as irritable and impulsive as Henry or Theodore can be in their worst moments. He is in the intermediate stage, their father tells me. He has also relayed to me how my brother-in-law's dependence on him is increasing, some examples of which I have witnessed first-hand. Having never met an individual with the condition, I must say it was quite the shock. Siobhan warned me about he may behave. I still wasn't prepared. Neither, it seems, was Siobhan. Though, that is to be expected. After all, Michael is her brother.

Siobhan pulled me to one side last night, shortly after we sent the children to their own beds. She asked if I was willing to let her return to Limerick once the time comes for her father to require assistance. I understand it's expected for her to 'obey' me as her husband but the notion I would deny her request is preposterous. This Christmas wasn't some experiment to sway my views. Her brother is chronically ill and, however much we wish it wasn't the case, he is most certainly going to die from his illness. How could I refuse to allow her to help a dying man, especially when he is family?

I will say this, I am dreading her leaving. Although it may be years away right now, she will have to leave. I am going to miss her dearly when she does. Not only that, when she finally returns to us, there's no doubt the experience will change her. I am unequipped to provide her with adequate comfort.

Yours, Jameson

May 14, 1925 Dear Mother,

I seem to be in a creative slump. All I ever seem to do is adapt previous works or allow my writings be based on historical events. Everyone appears to be interested in creating another story inspired by cowboys and the wild west. The local landscape allows for that. I don't particularly care for the genre.

Anthony is at that awkward age where I can no longer use him as a child nor can I pass him off as a young man yet. He's enquiring if there are any roles he can fill. I despise having to constantly turn him down. The boy wants to follow in my footsteps professionally. I have the power to help with that, provide him with an advantage most won't have. It frustrates me when I am unable to do so.

If you have any plot ideas to send me, especially ones that involve a thirteen year old boy, I'd be much obliged.

Yours, Jameson

August 16, 1925 Dear all,

We spent a few days to see the Redwoods in North California. I've been wanting to come face to face with them for a while. They are larger than I'd expected, this coming from someone who had already braced himself for a massive tree. To some's disappointment, they are impossible to climb due to their width and lack of low-lying branches.

It's good that we've shown them nature. They're being raised in a city, same as their parents, and not exposed to woods or rivers. Sophia thrives in this environment. Henry usually sticks by her so he has a better chance of coming across wild animals. Theodore tags along as well, likely to be part of their group. I usually asked Anthony to keep an eye on them whenever we were preoccupied with Harriet or the dogs. We didn't bring Lyra with us, unfortunately. At her age, she wouldn't have enjoyed all the stress of travelling.

I recall promising to stay by Sophia's side should she ever need the company when she was born. Instead, I'm giving her things to keep her busy because she broke her leg while exploring near our campsite. She's trying her hand at whittling which she has taken to thus far. Additionally, Theodore stole a potato from his dinner plate a few days ago. It's since had pins stuck in it and a smiling face drawn on one side. He has been named George. I will have to dispose of George when he stops looking so fresh.

Yours, Jameson

October 6, 1925 Dear all,

After asking around, I have found an outlet that will suit both Sophia and Henry. It's an organisation founded roughly 15 years ago by a British couple. It encourages children to develop into upstanding citizens through earning badges and camping. The Americans adopted it not long after. Canada must have introduced the organisation earlier than the US, considering it's part of the Empire.

Girl Scouts begin at age 5 with Brownies, which I understand to be mythical creatures. When she is 10, Sophia will move on to become an Intermediate and thereafter a Senior after her 14th birthday. Likewise, Cubs are the first stage of Boy Scouts until the boy turns 11 whereupon he will be promoted to a Scout.

The two of them look smart in their uniforms, don't you think? The photographs were taken as soon as they returned home from their first meetings. They're demonstrating their variants of the salute. Girl Scouts have their three fingers to the side while Boy Scouts are more militaristic by having their hand next to their head.

They enjoyed their first meetings so hopefully, this is a sign their enrollments were a successful move.

Yours, Jameson

November 10, 1925 Dear all,

Has 'Carving For Beginners' reached you at the Imperial yet? I am hoping to learn of your reactions as soon as possible.

This short heavily involves the children. For instance, the pumpkins at the front? Those are all carved by Oliver and Sophia. Henry scooped along with Theodore. For some reason, Sophia specifically wants credit for the wide one. The accompanying music? Siobhan's own composition. Anthony is the one who hands me the knife halfway through.

Can you guess who was responsible for clean up? That's correct, myself and Siobhan. I will give Anthony credit where it is due. We were all meant to take part in the disposal of waste materials. While the others wandered off after becoming bored, he stayed behind to finish the job. We couldn't finish fast enough. My love for preparing pumpkins with the children just about surpasses my hatred for the smell. The Gentleman doesn't exaggerate on that.

Some of the title cards were inspired by things that happened while the five of them were preparing the pumpkins. Ollie struggled to get the lid off his pen and begrudgingly accepted my help. The pumpkin screams after the Jolly Gentleman makes the first cut because Theodore held one in front of his face before roaring like he was some pumpkin monster.

I wrote this short for them, almost as if the Jolly Gentleman was instructing them on the practise. I cannot express how much fun I've had whilst making it. I should make another short involving them behind the scenes before sound is introduced to film. I'll likely wait a couple years so Harriet may be old enough to be included.

Still detecting the faint smell of pumpkin somewhere, Jameson

February 24, 1926 Dear Mother,

Recently, I've been reflecting on the events of February 1897. A lot happened. I became afflicted with something we had never come across previously. There was a race for Father and Harvey to get their wages. I played soccer with Clifford before he sent me to bed because my heart was beating unnaturally fast. Harvey sprinted whilst carrying me because he was a faster runner than Father and I woke delirious that morning. Then, after all that, we celebrated your birthday while I was recovering from the operation.

This is somewhat of a tangent but do you recall me saying I was stuck for ideas? I have one but I'd be extremely surprised if you approved of it. It involves a boy named James and his twin sister Olivia, eternally nine and two years of age. Their names are non-negotiable. If they are grounds enough for you to think less of me then I'm sorry to hear that. But this censorship outstayed its welcome years ago.

I want to honour her. I think you forget I came close to losing a daughter myself. I respect that isn't the same but I'm certainly closer to understanding than Mabel, Clifford or Pearl. The story won't be published in your lifetime either, if at all. This project is for my benefit.

I apologize for being blunt but I am not prepared to stay silent on the matter any longer. I promise it will be tasteful.

Yours, Jameson

April 30, 1926 Dear all,

Would you say I am an irresponsible father for bestowing my daughter a penny knife for her eighth birthday? Fear not, I haven't thrown caution to the wind.

There are some conditions Sophia must adhere to if she wishes to make full use of her present. She cannot use it without one of us supervising nor can she have it on her person when she isn't working with it. It will be securely stored away during those times, somewhere her brothers and Harriet are unable to access it either.

In the very least, this will save our kitchen knives from being used to artistically mutilate sticks. Working with wood seems to be her calling at the moment. She will whittle and craft wooden figures whether we approve or not. We may as well give her the tools so she may move past this phase to seek safer pursuits.

Henry questioned if he was receiving a similar present in September. Certainly not.

Yours, Jameson

August 2, 1926 Dear Mother,

Well, we've returned to the place it all began. The journey was a little chaotic with a party of eight travelling the width of the country. If anything, our time in New York has made me realise it's been a while since I relied solely on a bicycle for transport.

Ollie sounds like he has set himself high standards for his future. When he overheard his mother and I discussing the city while planning the trip, he became interested in learning more about Julliard. Now he's seen the building, he's motivated to attend. I've advised him to slow down a notch. He's still in elementary school. If anyone should be considering their education past their eighteenth birthday, it should be Anthony. Even so, he still has a few more days of being thirteen and won't begin high school until next month.

The time for college is not yet upon any of them. Should Oliver wish to apply to Julliard in several years and be accepted, I will be exceptionally proud of him. Even more so if he finds success thereafter. Moving to America at the age of 18 was risky, even with my brother by my side. I can't imagine moving to the other side of the country alone at that age. Still, if we were able to make things work in our favour, I can't see why Ollie can't.

And how could we visit New York without checking in on our favourite statue? When I retold the story of our joint trip to the Statue of Liberty and the revelation I had during it, the reactions were mixed. I don't mind. The only person whose approval of the story I need is Siobhan's.

Yours, Jameson

September 19, 1926 Dear all,

Today marks 20 years since Cliff and I first settled in New York. That city changed our lives in more ways than one. Despite all the grief we got from Edison's lot and their schemes, I look back on New York fondly. I'm glad I went there this summer. Due to all this reminiscing, I managed to dig out all my old records. Let me tell you, it was quite the trip down Memory Lane. I was almost 20 years old again.

'Streets of New York' was the first ever song I heard Siobhan sing, you know. Later, once we'd gotten to know each other, she confessed to me the song made her uncomfortable. Given its contents, I am not entirely surprised. That song earned her a lot of unwelcome attention. I can only imagine how many men asked her which street they could associate her with. In fact, she admitted to me earlier she was wary of me when I first approached her.

'Arrah Wanna', now that is a song. Oh, I remember how 'Mrs Barney, heap much Carney from Killarney's Isle' used to be my favourite sentence, even more so when Siobhan said it. Whenever I visited her apartment, she'd sing it in the thickest brogue she could muster in an effort to make me laugh. In response, I'd try impress her by playing 'Frog Legs Rag'. That tune's not an easy one. Good for a dance though. 'The Entertainer' as well. I think we played those two together on various occasions.

All of these songs mean a lot to me. However, none of the above could claim the title of my favourite of the era. That undoubtedly goes to 'The Galloping Major'. I cannot count the amount of times Cliff would play while I acted the part of the Major himself.

One time, likely at some point during 1907, the two of us spent an evening drinking. We may have recounted the Major's misadventures a little too enthusiastically. Our landlord paid us a visit after hearing complaints from our neighbours. How could we be too loud? Gramophones possess just two volume settings: On and Off. They've only devised a way to change that recently. Nevertheless, as soon as we rid ourselves of him, Clifford sang 'Nobody' and 'Moving Day' as loudly as his voice allowed him. I must have attacked the keys to match him.

On reflection, I'm surprised we weren't evicted for being highly disruptive under the influence. Not to mention Cliff was barely of age to drink so I certainly wasn't. The man could have landed me in dire trouble if he so wished. It's a good thing he was ignorant enough to believe I went about my day lacking sandwiches to picnics. I would have been fine in California. College freshmen could drink alcohol before the prohibition.

I noticed Anthony's face blanked when he truly listened to the lyrics. Yes, I'm afraid the song he associates with me giving him piggy-back rides when he was small isn't quite as innocent as he recalls. On the other end of the spectrum, Theodore probably has a year or so before he becomes too big for me to carry him as well.

Yours, Jameson

November 1, 1926 Dear all,

I've just read about Houdini in the papers. On my birthday, no less. What an odd coincidence. Although, the method of death appears to elude the reporters. I'm sure those who deal with this sort of thing need time to come to their conclusions. The man only died yesterday. Not everything is so obvious. I do, however, like to entertain the idea it'll remain as much of a mystery as his methods were in life. It seems fitting.

When I saw him, he'd recently retired his handcuff act due to an increase in imitators. Was it 1908 or '09? I can't recall. Definitely before we left New York. I took Siobhan with me to see him. The atmosphere that day was so good I almost wish I could revisit it. All these posters, promising you that 'Failure Means a Drowning Death' got us riled up for a great show. During his Milk Can routine, he'd invite an audience member or two on stage to hold their breath with him. Neither of us were lucky enough to be involved that way. I will say, the curtains were a bit of a cop-out on his part. His shows must have been more exciting when you could watch him escape.

He retired the Milk Can too. I always did plan to see his act once more. I would have liked to witness him escaping from that Water Tank of his for myself. Work, family and life in general prevented me from doing so. That's how it is sometimes.

Regardless, I hope his family will be allowed to grieve in private. I suspect Hardeen will carry on performing without his brother. He always came across as the plus one to me. I'm sure I remember seeing posters referring to him as 'Brother of Houdini'. Hardeen was the one who opened the curtains during acts. He made worthy contributions himself. Perhaps this unfortunate turn of events will allow the public to see that for themselves.

Yours, Jameson

December 30, 1926 Dear all,

Christmas in our household has been another success. Theodore, especially, has found himself quite happy with his lot. We bought him Winnie The Pooh by A. A. Milne. It tells some tales of a bear having fun with his friends, who know him as 'Pooh', in the woods they live in. I bet he would have dragged his two favourite siblings to go find sticks to throw into a stream, had we not stopped him. The next time we are in Saint John, I will make sure I bring the three of them to play this stick game on Reversing Falls Bridge.

Sophia has requested if she may have some felt and stuffing for a 'special project'. I'm looking forward to seeing what she creates for him. You'd be proud of how much her skill with a needle is improving. Not only that, I'm certain Theodore will enjoy the handmade gift too.

Nevertheless, I hope you had a good Christmas and we all wish you a pleasant 1927.

Yours, Jameson

April 14, 1927 Dear Mother,

A young woman arrived in Los Angeles with her brother several days ago. They waited for us outside the studios when we were heading to work. They are in California because she has applied to the school of medicine in Stanford. They claim they wished to see the state properly before she moves to Stanford later this year. Their journey must have been long seeing as Stanford is hours away by train and the duo hail from New York City.

Clara doesn't look anything like Clifford but there is something about her that strikes me as odd. I cannot explain it. When she smiles, I am immediately reminded of Father. It is nearly identical. If you saw it, I am sure you would make the same connection. While she doesn't appear to have inherited more of her looks from either parent, Daniel very much has gotten his appearance from his mother, at least from how I remember her.

Daniel, from what Cliff has relayed to me, is interested in pursuing studies in business once he is his sister's age. He shares that quality with his father, it seems. Back when we were living in New York and founding what was then Jackson Brothers Productions, I may have been the one overseeing things from the ground but Cliff has always been the one truly adopting the leadership role. I sincerely hope his boy succeeds in any business endeavours he sets his mind to.

The biggest mystery to me is how the two of them are 18 and 15 respectively. I was aware Clara is a year older than Alice and Daniel has a year on Anthony. That knowledge doesn't translate to actually seeing them before me as young adults. It is incomprehensible to me that the young children I once knew are practically adults now. At 14, Anthony is fast maturing to the point of becoming a man. I had been under the assumption that he would be the first Jackson to attend college. Yet, here he is, presumably demoted to the position of third. He appears to be slightly disappointed to have lost his bragging rights. I've reminded him all is not lost, he can still truthfully say he was one of the first in our family to receive a degree. Even so, he has no clue what exactly he wishes to study when the time comes.

Clifford has advised them to visit Canada if they ever found the opportunity. If they are willing to reach out to their father, they may be willing to extend that to his family. For now, they have returned to the east so they may celebrate Easter with their mother.

He has also refused to cease speaking about the few days he was able to spend with them. My ears are half spoken off from his ecstasy. I won't complain. He has regained a vigour he lost so long ago I'd forgotten he had ever possessed it in the first place. I have enjoyed acquainting myself with his eldest children. Some of my children briefly met their cousins as well. Henry has been enthusiastic about the discovery of Clara pursuing a career in medicine. He already plans to write to her on the subject.

Yours, Jameson

June 1, 1927 Dear all,

I am set to become a father for the seventh time shortly before Christmas. I know, we had planned for Harriet to be our youngest. It's always the way, isn't it?

We are hoping for another girl, purely because Siobhan would prefer the boy-girl ratio to even out. I wouldn't mind either but another daughter sounds appealing. Whichever sex the child is, I won't get to see their earliest years.

Michael's condition is worsening. I suspect he has a handful of years left. As such, Siobhan will move back to Limerick to help her father care for him. She plans to leave in January. I know she would go earlier, were she not pregnant. There is no way she would leave the baby with me. An infant needs its mother. As such, you won't be able to meet them until after she returns.

Nevertheless, I don't wish to dwell on the negative. The birth is months away. I will have to make the most of the short weeks with this new addition before I have to bid them and Siobhan farewell for an indefinite period.

Yours, Jameson

September 8, 1927 Dear Mother,

Theodore has entered kindergarten but instead of being excited, he is feeling down because Oliver has now begun his time at Joseph Le Conte. I don't understand why he is so upset by this. It is not as if school is the only place he could see his brother. Theodore acts as if he does not have Sophia and Henry at Selma Avenue also. They're in 4th and 2nd grade respectively. If this has anything to do with having a brother at the top of the elementary hierarchy, what can I say? He will do fine with those two looking out for him.

If anything, he should strive to avoid finding himself in as much trouble as they do. The two of them got a caning across their hands in the summer after an incident with a sparrow caused them to skip a class. While I sympathise with them, discipline is there for a reason. Better a ruler now than an actual cane later. I could tell them a story or two about the times I've returned to my desk for an uncomfortable remainder of the day. Knowing the trouble Cliff got himself into, he can probably beat me tenfold in regards to anecdotes.

What's worse than all that is the fact we are still very much missing Lyra. Holly and Woodrow may be able to fit on our laps but that doesn't compare to the way Lyra would curl up besides the children when they played on the floor. It broke my heart to have her put down. Siobhan loved her slightly more than I did. After all, Lyra was meant to be her dog and she spent more time with Lyra than I did.  She was always a sweetheart and so gentle towards the children, even when they were young and not so gentle towards her. Holly and Woodrow also appear to be missing her. Still, she was thirteen and I could see old age was bothering her. Human and canine alike are sticking by each other's side to comfort ourselves with the other's company.

Yours, Jameson

October 18, 1927 Dear all,

The future of the pictures has finally come.

Despite everything, I'm not bitter enough to ask you don't give the Warner brothers your money. Truth be told, 'The Jazz Singer' isn't terrible. Although, I still retain the opinion that blackface looks ridiculous. Actors need to improve their make up or find a genuine black person who wants to act. I haven't come across one yet. The majority of them sing instead. They write great music too.

It doesn't matter. I'm going to try not be impressed we now have the technology to have dialogue and singing all synchronised to the visuals. It's over, what more is there for me to say on the matter? I'm on borrowed time professionally. My Gentleman is going to be left to gather dust.

It's ironic, isn't it? My youngest child will grow up not watching silent pictures when their father was a big name of the era. I almost want to laugh at that.

Failing to be optimistic, Jameson

Eleanora Margaret Jackson Female December 11, 1927 Los Angeles Siobhan O'Hara Jameson Jackson

December 31, 1927 Dear all,

How was your Christmas?

Mine was spent making the most of my time with my third daughter. We've named her Eleanora, although she'll be known as Nora. She is going to be 3 weeks old tomorrow.

I have little over a week left with Nora. Every time one of my children was born, I enjoyed having them in my arms. I loved wondering what kind of individual they would become. Doing so with Nora causes a faint, unexplainable dread to rise in me. Many of her firsts will be on Irish soil, far away from me. Who is to say she won't return and be literate.

I know I have six other children, all of whom are dependent on me to varying degrees. I just can't stop hating the feeling of missing out. Like the rest of them, I want to be as much of a part of Nora's life as I am able. I suppose I should think of Siobhan. Lord knows how much she will miss. I lose one but she won't be able to see six. I really should stop these foolishly selfish thoughts.

Wishing you a happy new year, Jameson