#and losing his mind considering his future his career and the ‘’real job’’ offers he’s got

[bright-and-burning]

🐑💗 #summer vacation #strangers to lovers #insomnia #bittersweet ending

🐑 send me a fake set of fic tags, and i’ll try to come up with a summary for it!

There’s music playing down the beach. Oscar doesn’t usually make it this far, has always turned back earlier in the desperate hope of falling asleep before the glaring red lines of his clock display 4:00. He’s kind of annoyed, honestly. Can’t even have a crisis in peace, he thinks, immediately irritated at his own dramatics. Oscar keeps walking. It’s not often his walks are interrupted by anything other than drunk teenagers, though that’s probably still the case here. Hey kids, got any career advice? Oscar snorts, shaking himself out of his thoughts, and stops.

The source of the music is clear. A beachside bar, full of flashing lights and not much else. There’s a man wiping down tables, warbling along enthusiastically to a song Oscar doesn’t recognize. Something too sad for the tiki bar themed plastic surrounding him.

Oscar raps his knuckles on the railing marking the edge of the bar. “Still open, or?”

The man startles, turning to look at Oscar. He runs a hand through his hair, somehow getting glitter in his wilting curls.

Oscar stifles a laugh.

“Can’t serve alcohol at this hour, but you can sit for a bit,” he says, clearly eyeing the bags under Oscar’s eyes. He goes back to his table, scrubbing at a sticky spot. “Not really the usual crowd, are you?”

[braceletofteeth]

Hi! I was wondering, what do you think would've happened to Jongwoo, if Moonjo's previous work hadn't been a failure?

Hi!!

Well, considering the end of Jongwoo's success story, I'd say he'd still find the online ad about the goshiwon, but this time, when he got to the top of the hill, he'd be received with closed doors and police tapes (or ashes). Nothing to be seen there anymore. He'd have to carry his broken suitcase and broke ass somewhere else.

If he didn't find another suitable place for his budget, he'd have to take a loan with someone (Jieun or Jaeho, and I can't tell which option he'd find more embarrassing). But the good news is, no matter the place he ended up in, it couldn't be as bad as Eden, right? Probably still too disgusting and cramped for his taste, but most people would just try to stay out of his way instead of intentionally provoking him.

At work, although Byeongmin and Jaeho would still get on his nerves, I think he could have endured longer, since he had no other choice (no other job offer or source of income). At home, he'd keep trying to write his book; he wouldn't feel as inspired as he was because of Eden, but he had a good rhythm, so he'd probably finish it eventually (no guarantee it would be published, though; his writing career could possibly go nowhere and there is a very real possibility he'd stay under Jaeho's wing for a long time).

... That's the optmistic prospect.

As you might have noticed, Jongwoo's (mental) instability was beyond Eden and Moonjo's influence. He's got poor anger management, PTSD, and on top of that, he's impulsive, paranoid, and prone to hallucinations. His dissociative disorder might not even be a new development, as far as we know.

Eden was full of a-holes, but so was the rest of the city. Remember how Jongwoo got himself involved in a fight he had nothing to do with, on his first night? That's Jongwoo without Moonjo. The guy who felt vidicated and enjoyed applying punishment with his own hands in the army? That's also Yoon Jongwoo.

When Jongwoo loses control, he can't think properly about the consequences of his actions. He absolutely does not need another to get himself in trouble. In fact, without Moonjo around to prevent it, he'd probably get charged with assault or get seriously injured all on his own at least once.

And that's still being optmistic.

In short, Jongwoo's mind is a mix of some very volatile ingredients. It's difficult to keep them under control, and even more when you can't or won't recognize you need help. His future in Seoul had always been unpredictable... but from the moment he arrived, in the state he was in, the odds were never on his favor.

[quicksilversquared]

Superhero Salary

It all started with a joke. It ended with Ladybug and Chat Noir finally getting some of the compensation that they deserved.

After all, fame isn't going to pay the bills.

links in the reblog

It all started with a (mostly) joking comment from Chat Noir, blurted out in a moment of frustration.

"I hate it when that happens," he had grumbled after Ladybug knocked him free from the akuma's control. "Stupid, stupid mind-control akumas. Tell Hawkmoth that if he's going to insist on akumas like that, he's gonna have to pay for my therapy after this is all over!" he hollered after the akuma, who was clearly hopping mad about no longer having a superhero under his control. "A superhero salary doesn't exactly pay enough for it!"

He had been kidding, at least mostly. Kidding or not, though, the complaint was out there.

The moment had been picked up by the Ladyblog, of course, just as part of the bigger fight. But it wasn't long before it absolutely exploded over the internet.

Sure, maybe in comic books it was implied that superheroes always worked for free. But was that really fair? After all, Ladybug and Chat Noir were providing a service to the city. They were taking the time out of their normal lives to save Paris and put things back to rights, and they were doing it often. They had to come out whenever Hawkmoth sent out an akuma, not just when they had a spare bit of time that they could use to fight crime. Just like policemen and firefighters, they were putting themselves in danger by fighting on the front line. And if they were in jobs, or were in school- well, having to duck out regularly had to be affecting them, and not in a positive way.

If they had jobs, they could very well be on the edge of losing them because of all of the times they went missing. Even if they were self-employed- well, then they would still be losing out on some serious work time and having to work late into the night instead. And if they were in school...

Then they would be in danger of falling behind and need help to keep on top of their schoolwork. Tutors and online courses both cost money.

And on top of all of that, there was superhero merchandise being made using their colors and images, clothes and dolls and souvenirs and toys. Surely they should be getting a cut of the profit from that.

With only a few exceptions, Paris was soon in agreement: their superheroes needed to be earning a salary.

Marinette wasn't quite certain what to think of it all.

"Tikki, what do I say if the mayor decides to give us a salary?" she implored, slumping back in her chair. "I mean, even if it would be possible to safely get the money, I just don't know."

Part of her wanted to do the noble thing and say no to a salary. After all, she was Ladybug because she wanted to help! Plus, would public perception of them change if they were technically city employees? The mayor might think that he had the power to call them up on command, which would really stink.

But- well, Marinette was a teenager, and no sane teenager would turn down money, particularly when it was money for work that she had done. Even though she wasn't exactly struggling- she got an allowance, plus money from babysitting Manon and of course commission money, and besides she was a teenager and not an adult with a million living expenses- having more money in her account for fabric or design classes or her future career wasn't a bad thing.

"Well, Plagg and I could certainly set things up so that all of the money you get would be funneled through us and our magic," Tikki told her. "And we would be careful about not matching up the amounts or making them regular! There's ways that we can do it without attracting attention."

Marinette nodded. That was one question answered, but the other?

"As for if you should take the money..." Tikki considered that. "I mean, there's a lot to consider. But I'd like to point out that you don't know how long you'll be fighting Hawkmoth, or if there'll be any other threats after he's gone to deal with. That could interfere with you having a regular job. And if the akuma attacks keep disrupting your school day and you need to hire a tutor to help you keep up but you don't want your parents knowing, having the extra money could help. Or if you decide to sign up for an online school so that you can look up lessons that you missed in class, you could pay for that! But people might have strong opinions about superheroes taking money, too."

"That's a lot of positives and only one negative," Marinette pointed out. "I mean, it could be annoying to listen to people judging, but unless they're in the majority..."

Either way, it was going to be disheartening to hear people judging her for taking the money. But as long as they weren't in her face or spreading lies about her and Chat Noir now not being motivated to take down Hawkmoth because that would mean an end to the money or something ridiculous like that, she could probably ignore it. Maybe she could make some donations with the money she was getting to dispel those rumors.

Honestly, she'd probably do that anyway. There were so many organizations and people in need in Paris, and if Marinette was earning money then of course she would want to support them.

Of course, that all depended on if the officials even offered the salary in the first place, which was honestly looking really likely. It looked like public opinion was strongly in their favor, and the mayor was seriously easily waived by public opinion most of the time. And anything to do with the superheroes- well, it was publicity gold.

And in the end, it only took a week of deliberations- entirely about how much Ladybug and Chat Noir should be making, and puzzling out how much of the profit from sales of their merchandise they should be getting on top of their salary- before the announcement went out that the superheroes would be offered payment. A day after that, Ladybug and Chat Noir accepted their salary and gave the city's head payroll officer the information their kwamis had given them for the kwami bank accounts, so that they could get their paychecks without risking their secret identities.

"I didn't expect things to blow up like this when I said that, about not earning enough for therapy," Chat Noir admitted after they had left. He had seemed put-together and confident when they were in the office- which Ladybug had appreciated, because the sums that were being discussed were absolutely intimidating and having Chat Noir being so confident next to her helped her not get flustered. "I mean, yeah, down the road, I wouldn't be surprised if I get nightmares about fighting all the time and need to get help with that, but- well, I don't think I'd be able to, not unless I sign up as Chat Noir instead of my civilian self. And I don't know if I would necessarily want to do that, in case too much civilian stuff comes out."

Ladybug winced. Yeah, that was a real concern. And- well, she didn't ever admit it to anyone other than Tikki, but she sometimes had nightmares about the fights, too. And Chat Noir was right- a therapist could probably help.

But the identity concerns...

It was more than likely that some personal information would come out if they were talking to any sort of therapist, and that was dangerous. Maybe the chance of their therapists stumbling on their identities was low, but she still couldn't risk it.

Maybe they could go out of Paris to find someone, using the Horse to jump. Then their therapist would be even less likely to make the connection between Ladybug and Marinette, and with the distance from Paris, having the superheroes in their office might be less exciting than it would be for someone who saw the superheroes on a daily basis. But even that wouldn't really be a possibility until Hawkmoth was gone, when they actually got some semblance of free time back.

"I can't deny that the money could be helpful, though," Chat Noir added after a moment. "I mean, depending on how long the conflict drags on, or if we need anything that Tikki and Plagg can't provide to help us, or- well, when I get old enough to move out of my father's place, I want to. There's way too many people who think that they can just barge into my room without warning and poke around, and- well, it's not safe."

Ladybug glanced over at her partner again. He looked like he was her age- in fact, they had shared enough information inadvertently that she was positive that they were probably a year apart at most- which meant that he was facing years of people disregarding his privacy and potentially discovering his secret. "That's ages away, though."

"I know. I can't do much about it right now, though, besides just paying attention to where I'm detransforming." Chat Noir sighed. "I guess the money can't really help with that, not right now."

"Yeah. And that's not great." Ladybug tapped a rhythm against her leg, trying to come up with a solution and finding none. She just didn't have enough information about the situation to find places where they could do something. "I mean, the most I can come up with is a camera that you could connect to and move around to see if anyone is in there before going back in. And you could see if anyone is coming around and poking around that you don't know about. But- well, the problem is that cameras can be hard to hide, and if your father finds out and decides to review footage..."

"It could backfire on me, really fast." Chat Noir glanced around, then back at her. "Yeah, I know. I guess- well, for now, I won't change anything. Maybe something will come up in the future."

"Yeah, I'm not going to be changing much either, I think. But it's nice to have that money there in case I need it." It made her feel a little weird, honestly- after over a year of volunteer superheroing, accepting money for that was just strange- but maybe eventually, it would sink in that she was doing a job and deserved pay for it.

Chat Noir nodded. "Just in case. And, well- if we don't use it, it'll be a good start for my retirement account!"

Ladybug laughed at that, the awkwardness and concerns that she had had earlier flying away in an instant. "Teenagers with retirement accounts. Who would have thought?"

"Well, you can never be too prepared, right?"

Ladybug giggled again, imaging the looks on her parents' places if she sat down for dinner and started asking questions about retirement accounts and for their advice in setting one up. Maybe it wouldn't be completely out of left field- after all, unlike most of her classmates, Marinette did earn money with commissions, and enough that she would not be spending it all- but it was also a strange thing for a teenager to ask about.

Well. At least it wasn't a bad problem to have.

  A week later, Ladybug and Chat Noir officially received their first paychecks, with back payments pending. And by that time, the two of them had figured out where those payments were going.

Most of the money, of course, would be held in the kwami bank accounts until it could be trickled into their civilian bank accounts. How much, exactly, could be deposited without being noticed was still being decided- Ladybug could definitely get away with more than Chat Noir, though she figured that varying amounts and not at regular intervals would stick out less than regular payments. They were still trying to figure out how they might get retirement accounts going- even as much as they joked, it wasn't exactly a bad idea.

And then part of the money would go to charity. It was just a nice thing to do, after all, and since they had spare money- well, it would just be a good idea to help out a little bit more. They didn't want to make too big of a deal out of their donations, since it was very possible that people would judge where they were donating, how much they were donating, how often they were making their donations, and how their donations did or didn't change over time. There would no doubt be people petitioning the superheroes to support their favorite charities, which- well, maybe it would be a good way to learn about new causes, but it sounded like more stress than it would be worth. Besides, Ladybug and Chat Noir were private citizens behind the mask, and they deserved to have some privacy about their finances.

All they needed to tell the public was that they were donating anonymously and wouldn't be disclosing the places or amounts for those reasons. It was a simple answer, and should satisfy most of the population. There would no doubt be a few naysayers- there almost always were a few people who just had to be difficult- but it was a reasonable answer.

Thankfully, the person who had interviewed Ladybug and Chat Noir about what they were going to do with their first paychecks- a kind man from a mid-sized newspaper, who had earned the spot of first interview entirely because he hadn't been pushy about asking- had thought that their reasoning was plenty sound. They were hardly going to be millionaires, and so expecting them to donate large amounts on a regular (and frequent) basis was completely ridiculous. Keeping things private- well, that meant that people who were out of touch wouldn't be moaning about donations that they were perceiving as too small.

Just because Ladybug and Chat Noir were famous didn't mean that they were rich.

Marinette hummed quietly to herself as she skimmed the article that the reporter they had talked to had written. While the interview itself had taken place several days prior, the article had just been released that morning to coincide with both their first payment and the start of the month. It was very nicely written, and framed their reasoning in an even more clear and articulate light than they had managed themselves. She didn't doubt that it would get noticed soon, and then the speculation about whether or not Ladybug and Chat Noir would donate some of their earnings would be put to rest for once and for all-

"Wait, Ladybug and Chat Noir aren't donating any of their salary? That's so unlike them!"

-or maybe not.

"I was surprised too, they just completely brushed me off when I suggested that they donate part of their salaries," Lila told her audience as they swept into the room as a- well, as a flock, really, that was the only way to describe it. "It's what I would do if I was a superhero, of course, so I thought that they would feel the same! It's such a let-down, I really thought that they were better than that..."

"I would say that maybe it's because they've donated so much of their time to the city already, but I know I heard something at some point about backpayments to cover their time from the start," Alya commented, her eyebrows furrowed. "So that's not really donated time anymore, is it?"

"Maybe they have bills to pay," Rose piped up, clearly ever-hopeful. "And they need to get caught up with that first, of course. That would make sense!"

Of course, Lila was shaking her head as she headed up to her seat, with the rest of the group following not far behind to keep listening. "They're too young for bills. I met up with them again this morning and was trying to talk some sense into them because really, they could just do small donations, even a little bit helps- I would know, I've seen how far money can stretch and help in a charity! But even now that they have the money in their hands, they just want to keep it."

There were murmurs of disappointment all around the group gathered around Lila at that. Even though donations clearly weren't mandatory- well, they thought that the superheroes should be better role models than that! If they didn't have bills to pay, surely...

"And it's not like they're not getting enough to have both spending money and do a little charity," Lila said, shaking her head sadly. "Plenty of spending money, even! And I pointed that out, but they got really upset with me. I'd hate for our friendship to be destroyed over this really, but it's just- I feel like I don't know them at all now!"

Frankly, Marinette had heard enough. She wasn't going to let her reputation as Ladybug- or Chat Noir's reputation- get slandered by Lila's nonsense.

"Funny thing," Marinette commented in the most deadpan, disinterested voice that she could muster, not even taking her eyes off of her tablet as she talked. "You say that you met up with the superheroes this morning and they weren't interested in doing donations, and yet there's an article in La Trib this morning about an interview they did with the superheroes days ago that say otherwise. It says that donating was in their plan from the start."

The group in the back of the room went quiet.

"Marinette is correct," Markov commented after a moment, breaking the silence. "The article was posted one hour ago, though the paper copy presumably went out earlier. The superheroes stated that they have been looking at charities since they first heard that they might be getting money for their superhero work, as they wish to continue to help Paris. Their donations will be anonymous and private to protect their privacy and to prevent unwanted commentary on their choices."

Marinette glanced back. All eyes were slowly turning from Markov to Lila.

"There is also a video of the interview linked on the online version of the article," Markov added. "And the metadata confirms that it was filmed several days ago."

Several of the eyes pointed towards Lila were getting narrowed and suspicious.

"Oh, that- that's lovely!" Lila exclaimed, somewhat belatedly pressing her hand over her heart. "Maybe they were just trying to wind me up to tease me, then! And I misread the situation and took them seriously. Or they were trying to give me a pleasant surprise! It happens, sometimes- I'm not always great at catching sarcasm-"

This time, not everyone looked entirely convinced.

Smiling to herself, Marinette looked back at her tablet, closing out of the article and opening up their reading for Literature so that she could review it- or, well, finish reading it, because an akuma had interrupted her the previous night and it had been too late to pick it up again once the fight was over. If she hurried, she might be able to finish it before Ms. Bustier called for a start to class, and then she wouldn't get in trouble again for not doing her homework.

Honestly, if Lila's track record was anything to go by, she would probably wriggle her way out of the lie by the afternoon and the whole incident would be forgotten. But maybe this time would end up different- after all, Marinette had never seen that doubt before- and Lila's tower of lies would finally come toppling down. It was long overdue, really, but Marinette wasn't going to hold her breath.

If it happened...well, if their superhero salary was like a surprise cake, then a Lila downfall would be the cherry on top.

[nuktuckity]

Shady Shin x fem! reader

author's note: wrote this based off of that one specific episode of legend of korra and reading about his personality on his wikia. thought it would be fun considering there's no fics for him.

warning: none. just me simping and writing wholesome fluff at 2am.

wc: 1,064

song: hide —juice WRLD

The first time he offered you the job, you didn’t take it.

At the time you were a struggling pro bender trying to make ends meet. You were determined in mind, though naïve in heart. You never thought your career would hit rock bottom. Although your team wasn’t the greatest at the time, you were slowly but surely climbing the ranks. No stack of yuan nor a multitude of shiny satomobiles could convince you otherwise. You weren’t sold on the idea of exchanging your future for a life of crime…even at the expense of your childhood best friend.

“I’ll pass,” You told him with a shake of your head and a smile gracing your lips.

You were well aware of the Triple Threat Triad and what they were all about: acquiring money, claiming parts of Republic City as their own, and wreaking havoc while doing it. It didn’t help that Shady Shin was involved. The once goofy and carefree boy who had a positive outlook on life had become the shell of a hardened man you no longer recognized. The two of you grew apart when your parents found out his family was involved with organized crime. It was only recently that the two of you reconnected by mere chance.

“Fair enough.” Closing the box with a ‘snap’, Shady Shin sauntered back to his glistening satomobile, popping the door open with ease. He slid into the driver’s seat, tossing the box of yuan in the back like discarded trash. “When you want to work with a real team—a winning team— you let me know.”

“Not likely,” You said with a bit of ice in your tone, taking offense to that. You adjusted the bag around your shoulders while making your way down the sidewalk. You didn’t spare another glance in his direction except when his satomobile passed you in a cloud of smoke.

****

Months later, you found yourself on that same corner of the street. Though this time you weren’t going for a leisurely walk, but instead looking for your next big break. The Rhino Lions—the name hadn’t been your idea—had little to no chance of showing what they were made of. Night after night, your team was succumbing to the harsh reality of losing more than winning. Tensions rose, and the pressure got too great for the three of you. Eventually, the team disbanded, leaving you with untethered friendships and little to no income.

You struggled to find a new team to join or a quick way to make money, for you had trained your entire life to be a pro bender for the Rhino Lions. It was all you knew. It didn’t help that you were living on your own, forced to rely on yourself to make ends meet. With a frustrated sigh, you turned the corner. Just as you continued on your walk, you heard a voice call your name and the approaching hum of a satomobile.

“Y/N, wait.”

You kept walking, shoving your hands into the pocket of your jacket as you looked straight ahead. The sound of a door closing and feet jogging in your direction made you quicken your speed. But it didn’t take long for him to reach your side. He slowed down to a walk, mimicking your posture as he shoved his hands away in his pockets. With each step, he sauntered forward as if he were skating on ice.

“So…how about those Rhino Lions?” he said, a smirk lacing his features.

Offended by his comment, you shoved him in the arm. He chuckled, raising his hands in defense. You caught the glare of his silver watch glistening in the sunlight.

“Still a touchy subject, I see.” Shady Shin shrugged. “I guess that means you can take me up on my offer, Y/N.” He slipped his hand back into his pocket and pulled out a stack of yuan, waving it in the air.

“I’m not interested in organized crime, Shady Shin. You know that.”

“I’m not talking about that offer.” He came to a halt, shoving the currency away. Although he seemed relatively carefree, you couldn’t help but notice how he nervously tapped his foot against the cement.

You lifted a brow and eventually came to a stop.

“I was thinking of Kwong’s,” he said, after clearing his throat a couple of times, though maintaining a confident and charming smile on his lips. He shrugged, kicking a pebble that was nearby. “Take it or leave it, Y/N.”

You lifted a brow, shocked by this proposal. Although it hadn’t been the first time he asked to sit down with you for dinner to catch up, you still found yourself flustered by the question.

“Kwong’s…that’s pretty expensive,” You noted quietly.

“It’ll be my treat,” he said too quickly.

You mulled it over, rubbing your chin as if you were in deep thought.

“What’s the catch?” You asked.

“Catch?” He put a hand over his chest as if he were offended by the question. His hand briefly covered up the gold chain that hung around his neck. “There’s no catch.”

You studied him a moment before looking down the street that was starting empty. The sun was rising. You knew that long after the sun had gone down he’d be off preparing for another turf war.

“We haven’t had time to catch up, anyway. So, what do you say? For old time’s sake?” He jammed his thumb towards his fiery red satomobile, waiting to be taken for a ride.

It didn’t take you long to be convinced. After months of worrying about your next move, you believed you deserved a night to temporarily forget about your financial troubles and catch up with an old friend.

“Yeah,” You said, a small smile rising to your lips. “Yeah, okay.”

Shady Shin smirked and strolled suavely back to his automobile. You followed a few steps behind. He opened the door for you and you got in. You ran your hands over the side of it in wonder.

You had never been in a satomobile before.

Climbing into the driver’s seat not long after, Shady Shin made the vehicle roar to life. He hummed and eventually jolted forward.

With the same confident smirk lacing his lips, he turned to you and said, “Hold on,” before stepping on the gas. The two of you propelled forward in a flurry of dust and smoke.

[twilitty]

Moonlit ch.1

This is the first chapter in my new fic Moonlit, it will be posted on Tumblr, ao3, and ffnet. New chapters uploaded every week and a half. Message/comment to be added to my tag list.

3k words

big thank you to my beta reader @effervescentlyirrevocable who has given me the absolute best criticism and helped make this chapter so beautiful :)

Bella moves to Forks Washington, her first week is uneventful. This fic has aged up characters, making them all at entry-college level ages.

Chapter One

My senses are sharper in Forks than they were in Phoenix, I’ve only been here a handful of days yet everything seemed brighter, louder, more alive than my past home. There was something here for me, something that made me feel more alert than I have in years.

The sound of heavy rain slowly pulls me out of my restless sleep, an elbow is thrown across my eyes in an attempt to keep the real world at bay. It’s always raining, the mist layering the ground never abandons its post, and the chilly air seemingly lasts indefinitely. The rainy town of Forks Washington sooner resembles my personal hell than it does a sleepy old town. The forest that borders the town at each cardinal point is layered in green moss, damp dirt, and an endless supply of fresh animal tracks. I’d moved to Forks only a week ago, the sum of which was spent unpacking dreadfully thin clothing and acquainting myself with the few stores and public access areas the town has to offer.

My father, Charlie, has had little to do with this process apart from moral support and the occasional bag of fast food that he’s picked up while on shift. Charlie is the town's police chief, a job that both seems ill-needed and also unbearably boring. How much crime can be committed in a town of fewer than ten thousand citizens? Other than the odd tag on a school building or bush party, what does his shift consist of? I have yet to bring my insulting opinions on his career to his attention, and likely will never do so. He’s a good man with a heart of gold and a passion for the judicial system, which is ever-present in his TV browsing as he cruises through endless episodes of Law & Order.

I’m not a big TV person, even back home in Phoenix, I preferred reading to the television. Perhaps this was related to my mother’s endless stack of yoga DVD’s that seemed to consume our viewing; her in a downward dog position gossiping about her latest advancements at her newest club membership, me sitting on the couch finishing a craft for her so she won’t be late submitting it. My favourite of her crafts was embroidery, one month I embroidered nearly two hundred dandelions on a pair of jeans for her. She gave them to the club administrator as an apology before she quit.

Regardless, at night when the TV is blaring the intro theme to a cop show, I am curled in bed with a book under my nose and headphones in my ears. Blocking out the rain is a full-time chore.

This morning is a particularly eventful morning, not because of any specific events, but rather the events that will be set into motion because of this morning. Today is the first day of my online college courses. I’m currently enrolled in an undeclared major. My hope is that the three courses I’m taking this spring term will help me decide on what I want to do in the future.

Charlie had given me a new laptop upon my arrival in Forks, a current model with modest upgrades to “enhance my academic experience”. Or at least that’s what the box boasted. I am not entirely convinced that a larger memory will miraculously cure me of my educational despise. High school was tortuous, I had few friends and fewer interests outside of my mother’s hobbies. I had no extra-curricular activities that were not synonymous with financial responsibilities. The monthly budget book was mine to care for, as was the constant, intrusive phone calls of the bank when my mother got too engaged in a store. She’s a gullible woman if nothing else. If a store clerk tells her a blouse suits her figure, she’ll purchase ten colours in the article along with two in a size lower just in case she finally loses the ten pounds she’s been trying to shed.

My eyes have barely opened, the down of my forearm just a fraction away from my pupil when Charlie pounds against my door. You’d imagine I was fostering a fugitive in here with the noise he’s making, but this is just the way my father is, loud noises and soft voices. I wonder, idly, if perhaps he has minor hearing loss from spending so much time around guns.

“I’m up!” I call out, my voice is thin and calloused with morning sleep. I clear my throat as the knocking cuts off, “Good morning, Dad.” Charlie doesn’t like me calling him Charlie.

“Morning, Bells,” he calls back through the door, quiet enough to not be taken as aggressive yet loud enough to sound authoritative. He is a father, my father, at heart. He pauses, and it’s as if I can hear the mental gears shifting in his mind. He hasn’t had to be a father since I was a baby, after that Renee was the parent. Charlie was the summer distraction. “Don’t be late for school.” I grunt a response, reaching for the alarm clock on my nightstand and groaning at the early hour of the morning. Barely eight, class doesn’t officially start until noon. I guess there’s nothing wrong with logging in early, although I’d much rather catch up on the sleep I’ve lost to the thunderous storms we’ve been experiencing recently.

As if he could sense my intentions, Charlie knocks against my door again. “Bella, I mean it. You didn’t come here to slack off, now.” No, I think nastily, I came here for peace and quiet.

Between unpacking my belongings and touring the town, I’ve developed a routine in my new living situation. Charlie is fond of my company, enjoying having a woman in the house outside of his ex-wife, my mother and ex-roommate. Although, his fondness of my presence does not directly translate to time spent together. He makes me breakfast, occasionally placing it in the oven to keep warm, and then immediately heads off to his family that is the Forks police station. We meet again for lunch, depending on our individual plans for the day, and then reunite again just in time for dinner. Food really is the great American pastime.

I dress in jeans and a light blue sweater that smells mysteriously of mildew although it’s a recent purchase and has yet to be worn outdoors. I suppose the rain permeates every available space, closed windows be damned. My socks are tall and I have to roll my jeans up at the bottoms to accommodate for the thick, high fabric of them. It’s a trick Charlie taught me for wearing rain boots, the higher the socks the less likely they are to run down to your toes as you walk. Immediately after that trick was taught I went to the nearest hiking store and purchased a pair of rain boots. My first pair of rain boots at nineteen years of age. Unfathomable yet ironic considering my lineage marks back to the wettest town in the continental US. My ancestors roll in their graves every time I step outdoors and forget a jacket or umbrella, I’m sure of it.

Charlie is waiting for me downstairs, both a surprise and unwelcome presence. I had a battered copy of Dorian Gray under my arm, I was expecting philosophy and moral ambiguity, not idle conversation. Before the chief notices my book, I slide it over the back of the couch and enter the kitchen with a polite smile. There’s bacon frying on the stovetop, the police chief is dressed in uniform already, but has a stained white apron tied around his neck. “Dad?”

“Oh,” he turns around and gives me a tight smile, “Excited for your big day?” You’d imagine it’s my first day of preschool with the amount of enthusiasm he’s trying to keep hidden from me, not my first day of online school. I don’t say anything to dampen his mood, I’m glad he’s excited about something. His life is repetitive, if my existence here proves to be no more useful than just disrupting his schedule, it will still be a success.

“Yeah, I guess.” He turns back to the bacon and shifts it around quickly, the grease snapping up at him. If it burns him he doesn’t show it, just maintains the stiff-backed posture of a respectable police officer cooking his daughter breakfast. “I’ve gotta ask, what’s up with the apron?” I stifle a giggle behind a bite of the toast that’s sitting in the middle of the small table. He shakes his head in faux annoyance.

Charlie takes the pan off the hot element, sliding the bacon onto two plates and pouring the grease into an open can. The second trick he taught me since arriving here: never pour grease down the drain.

“I’m in uniform, it would be disrespectful to the badge to stain it.” He slides a plate of bacon in front of me, sitting down in his designated seat across the table. “Besides,” he takes a sip of coffee from his to-go mug. “Can you imagine walking into a police station smelling of fried pig?”

Breakfast ends quickly. We each eat a piece of toast, Charlie stuffing a second piece into a plastic bag “for later” and heading out the door. I still have half a plate of bacon in front of me after he leaves, the maple glaze filling the small kitchen with its smell.

After my Mom and Charlie got married, Renee redecorated much of the house. Her lace curtains still hang in the master bedroom window, constantly drawn closed. The rest of the house has been minorly updated with age, the TV got bigger, the couch more comfortable, new bed linens and even newer rocking chairs on the porch. I had asked Charlie if they were Moms when I first came up to the house a week ago.

They were rocking gently in the wind, the wood seemed to be polished as it shined in what little light filtered through the depressive clouds. They were sitting side by side, matching pillows on them both, a coffee table in the middle with a stack of coasters. It was an old person's porch, where husband and wife would sit all grey and wrinkled, waving at the neighbourhood kids as the bus dropped them off from school. I could almost picture Charlie and Renee sitting there, her knitting a scarf and him content to just watch her and the scenery.

He informed me that they were relatively new, a purchase from a shop down on the Reservation. We haven’t spoken about them since, but I wonder if perhaps he wishes he had someone to sit out there with him.

I spend the morning before class doing odd chores around the house. It’s nice living at Charlie’s, nicer than I had expected it to be. I’m not a fan of the weather or the fact that I currently have no social life, but it’s nice to just sit. I throw my laundry in the wash and manage to get the kitchen cleaned up with just enough time left over to sit on the couch and read a chapter of my book before class.

School has never been my strong suit. That’s not to say I get poor marks or intentionally skip classes, I just never found it as fulfilling as my peers seemed to. I never woke up and looked forward to the social or academic aspect of high school. Perhaps this contributed to me postponing my college experience and only starting it now when I should already be a year into my program.

When I log into my schools online database and click on my first class, Social Psychology 1001, I’m immediately transported to a screen filled with windows and the faces of my classmates. “Hello, class!” The professor's voice calls out over my computer. Perhaps online school won’t be my strong suit either.

Class ends and the next one starts, and I get through all three classes and an hour's worth of homework by the time Charlie pops in for dinner.

“Hey, Bells,” He calls as he opens the front door. I can hear him from where I sit in the kitchen, hanging his gun belt up by the front door and kicking his boots off into a heap on the floor. I imagine Mom back in Phoenix, walking into the house with arms full of bags and tossing her flip flops onto her pile of shoes beside the coatrack she used for purses. Some things won’t ever change.

“How was work?” I ask. He pauses to poke his head into the kitchen, moustache moving as he chews on his lip. I can’t remember when Charlie initially grew out his moustache, just that one summer I arrived and thought could he look more like a cop?

“Good, good, just some meetings. New family moving into town, all foster kids around your age.” He takes pause, staring off into some middle ground in the hallway as if deep in thought. His eyebrows furrow, “Don’t want any trouble makers coming in, but the father seems nice. Respectable.”

“That’s nice,” I contribute conversationally. Charlie and I rarely have material conversations, always just idle talk of the weather or what's for dinner. I’m not entirely sure how to approach this topic, which clearly seems to be occupying his mind.

“Yeah, he’s a doctor.” He grins at this, toothy and a little crooked to the right side. A pang of embarrassment settles in my chest before he speaks, as if knowing where this will turn. “Perfect for you, considering how often your clumsiness-” I wave a hand over my face, grimacing at his words. “Don’t speak it into existence,” I mutter with a half-hearted plea underlying my words. He chuckles, disappearing up the stairs.

I hear the shower turn on after a few minutes of him fumbling around, presumably trying to get undressed. I’m sure once he’s showered and in sweatpants it’ll be twenty questions about my day of school. I’m not sure I have the heart to break the truth to him: it absolutely sucked.

The material was interesting enough, psychology has always been close to my heart. I loved the idea of people being more than their actions and thoughts, that there was something making them say that or something making them act that way. Perhaps this was yet another symptom of having Renee for a mother.

I sit at the kitchen table for a moment longer, my computer is closed in front of me and my pencil case- dreadfully unnecessary with school being online-sits closed and untouched. I haven’t made any friends in my classes, not that I had expected to. Twelve years of public school and no friend group to show for it, just a few texts every couple of weeks. Why would I have believed college, and an online college at that, would be any better?

Having enough with my thoughts, I get up from the table and pack my things into my bag. I’ve completed enough work for today, the rest of the evening I’ll spend either with Charlie or in my room. I’d rather not be nose deep in pdf textbooks and youtube videos constituting as follow-up lectures, I’ve had enough of that today. As if sensing the immediacy of my departure from the kitchen, the shower cuts off and I hear the bathroom door squeak open. For a man who, until recently, lived alone with too much free time, you’d imagine he’d have taken better care of the house. Nearly every door, except my own, creaks open and closed. I made sure to oil my hinges nearly immediately after moving in, I didn’t want Charlie to wake up every time I sneak downstairs for a comfort snack or warm glass of milk to help me sleep. He’s lived alone for nearly twenty years, he doesn’t need his sleep schedule disrupted now.

“The game is on in-” Charlie pauses as if double-checking the times mentally, “- an hour and a half. Are you interested?” He’s calling from up the stairs. I wonder if he truly wants me to watch the game with him, whatever sport it may be, or if he’s only being polite.

“Uh, I was just going to organize my room right now and then maybe make something for dinner,” I say in response. The floors don’t make a noise and I know he’s heard me, but he doesn’t respond. A lump forms in my throat, perhaps he really did want to watch with me.

“That’s fine, but if you want we can order in?” The lump passes and I convince myself that there is no reason to avoid the TV. It’s not like I’ll be a disruption, if I get bored I can read on the couch. I’ve only watched TV with Charlie on a few occasions since my move here, and each time I strategically saved my questions for the commercial breaks.

“Sure! That works.” The floorboards creak and I hear him retreat into his room, the door closing with a pitiful squeak.

We eat pizza on the couch, a large meat-lover for the carnivorous father and a small vegetarian with extra mushrooms for the daughter who cares about her cardiovascular health. We eat slowly, occasionally Charlie will make a face at the television or mumble something under his breath, but other than that we’re quiet. The sport turns out to be baseball and I recall a few of the basic rules from the tragic gym classes of my past. It’s not disastrous in any way, and surprisingly I don’t get bored. There is something relaxing about the repetitive nature of the game.

After the game ends we box up the remaining slices and put them in the fridge to be eaten tomorrow, say good night, and go our separate ways at the top of the stairs.

taglist:

@musingsofvenus @maybesandohnos

[starlightsearches]

The Runaway — Chapter 2

It was supposed to be like any other bounty. Just another job. But when Din Djarin meets a runaway trying to escape a tragic past and a bleak future, everything changes.

Masterlist

Din Djarin x f!reader (no y/n)

Series Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence, mentions of abuse.

AN: No additional warnings for this chapter! Let me know what you think 💖

"No," the word rips from him, automatic, unstoppable and a sick buzzing fills Din’s ears. He wouldn't do this. Couldn't do this. He wasn't going to kill you.

"Why not?" You're surprised, somehow, disappointed that he's resistant to the thought of ending your life. Din isn't a fool, he knows that he is uncommonly accustomed to violence compared to most. His made a career in bloodshed, but it's different for you—violence has become a part of you, like that scar. It's shaped your world. You don't recognize the toll it would take on him. The price that should be paid when one person hurts another.

"I'm not going to kill you." Once again, Din is finding himself feeling woefully unprepared. He’s finally adjusted to life with the child—almost feeling normal again after everything that had happened. He took this job to get back to it, as Cara had suggested, a wish that seems futile now. There was no returning to the closed-off, black and white life he had before. His world had already been blown wide open, and there was no going back.

“I know that I’m asking . . . a lot,” you say, leaning in closer, “but there’s no way out of this for me. Not alive. If you take me back to my father, I’m dead. If you take me to some other planet, I’ll be hunted again, and then I’ll end up dead. If that's all that there is left for me, I want it to be on my terms.” You see all of him, he thinks, as you place your hand against the breast plate, begging. The pressure of your fingers is distributed by the beskar, masking the familiarity that this kind of contact should bring, but Din still flinches. It’s too hot aboard the ship, too hot for all the layers Din wears. He can’t remember the last time he felt this uncomfortable in his armor—can’t remember the last time he wished for some other title, for something else besides the helmet and the Clan.

“I won’t do it.” Din stands from the pilot’s seat, crossing his arms over his chest. He looms over you, hoping you can see that he means it—his mind has been made. Before you can react, he’s released the cuffs, pulling them from your wrists and reattaching them to his belt. You turn to watch him as he walks towards the exit hatch, any question you could ask dying on your lips. The air turns solid with possibility, both of you watching each other, neither sure what you might say, what journey could begin from this small act.

“We have food,” Din finally speaks, cursing internally—it sounds stupid and hollow after the conversation you've just had, but he presses on. “Would you like to eat?”

————————————————————

You sit on the cot below deck, eyes flitting around every part of the cargo area as you pick at the food he's found for you—some hard cheeses, a few dried fruits. Din stands against the wall, watching you in the low light. Sunlight streams in through the open hatch, along with a soft, warm breeze, but neither make it too far into the ship, as if stopped by some invisible force, keeping the atmosphere dim and private.

Din takes his eyes off of you for just a moment, glancing without turning his head towards the child's cradle in the corner. He's still asleep, as he had been when Din first came down the ladder to check on him, instructing you to wait at the top for just a moment, to make sure that everything was in order, that there'd be no surprises. He didn't think that you'd try to hurt him, or run, or, gods forbid, hurt yourself, but he can't be too careful. You've made it clear you have nothing to lose.

When he looks back to you, Din finds that your eyes are already on him, and he tenses minutely under the full force of your gaze, his face growing hotter, and for a moment he wonders if you'll notice the red in his cheeks—before he remembers.

"Tell me about your father," he says, hoping to distract himself from his momentary lapse, and you startle, unaware that you had been engaged in an impromptu staring contest. It does make Din feel better—at least he's not the only one who feels caught of guard.

"My father is Iven Avishar. He owns half of the Nothiri system. And the first time he tried to kill me, I was eleven years old." You sit down the plate, crossing your arms over your chest and looking up at Din with a challenge in your eyes.

"You're an Avishar?" Din knew your father by name only, heard it after traveling once or twice to the Nothiri system for a stray bounty—an occasional bail dodger who didn't know any better. The Nothiri system isn't an easy place to live; it's not an easy place to hide.

"I don't claim his name," your voice is harsh, almost a shout before you catch yourself, dropping your gaze and your volume, "sharing blood is bad enough." Just speaking your father's name has diminished you—made you cold. Your collar shifts, the tip of your scar peaking out at the edge, and Din feels a shiver crawl up his spine just looking at it.

"What happened the last time?" he asks, lifting his eyes back to yours, but he's still breathing hard. It's an attempt to distract himself, to get the facts, but everything comes back to this: to the scar, to this act of violence and threat of death that's shaped it—you can't get away from it. And now he can't either.

"Uh, it was a few years ago, I don't really remember how many. He accused me of stealing from him, pulled a blade—he was always so angry when he drank. I was tired of living in fear-" you pause, running a contemplative hand over your lip, and then more quietly, "-I still am."

"What did he accuse you of stealing?" Din presses on with his questioning, choosing to ignore the last comment. He needed to treat this, protecting you, as just another job. And that meant sticking to the facts; no room for feeling, no room to notice the softness of the gesture, the tenderness with which you handle yourself despite the brutality of your world.

"Oh, you know. Credits. Jewelry. Anything I could get my hands on. I'm not sure how he noticed, the man has more money than the Maker." You stand and stretch, shaking the tension out of your limbs before examining the interior of the ship a little more closely. Din tracks your movement with his eyes as you circle the small space, giving him a wide berth, "although I guess it was worth it in the end."

You look at him expectantly, but Din doesn't react this time; he’s already learning to steel himself against your gaze. "So you did take it, then? Everything he accused you of stealing?"

"That and more. I was always going to run; I needed funds."

"How much did you get?" Din relaxes minutely—these are easier questions. Safer ones. And he sees that you're relaxed too, now that the conversation has moved past your father. The tension is gone from your shoulders; your voice has lost its edge—almost melodic now.

"Couple million, total, I think. Once I sold the jewelry. All New Republic credits—couldn't afford to be refused." Din felt his eyebrows raise in response. You had said you were surprised your father had noticed, but Din couldn't understand how someone wouldn't notice a loss like that. Then again, given the cavalier way you pair the words million and credits, maybe Avishar really did have more money than the Maker.

This is good news. If you have credits, Din could get the fuel he needed, restock on supplies. And, maybe after a real meal, you'd be more inclined to consider Din's offer. There had to be some planet where you could be safe. "Where's the rest, then?"

"The rest?" Confusion mars your brow, and his expression mirrors your own, not that you could tell. It's funny, he thinks distractedly, how expressive his face is, even after all these years of going unseen. He ignores this thought, after a moment, answering your question by finishing his own, "of the money?"

"Oh, it's gone-" you're so casual again, but Din blanches, "-all of it."

Din is breathing so hard he can hear it both inside and out of the mask. "You spent," he begins with words that should be a question but certainly don't sound like one, "millions of credits that fast?"

"Hey, being on the run is expensive! Travel. Supplies. Bribes." You purse your lips, like making your next admission is particularly painful—if only to your pride, ". . . and I wasn't exactly frugal." You cross your arms over your chest defensively, and Din finds himself mirroring you once again, trying to find the words to explain the utter incomprehensibility of someone spending that much money in that little time.

"No shit." Din watches as you move through a whole cycle of emotions—every one of them plain on your face. For a moment he thinks you might be angry with him, but your expression changes at the last second; it looks like you're trying to hold in a laugh.

"Enough about me," you say, finally, your sly cough not quite quick enough to cover up the tail-end of a giggle before you’re serious again. "I'm assuming you have a plan, since you rejected mine so quickly."

Din stays quiet. He's still thinking about that shadow of a laugh and what it means. Watching your expressions, reading your body language, it's like being in a city full road signs all written in a language he can't read. He decides to move on, but he files the interaction away for later. "Have you ever thought about killing him?"

You laugh again, but it's different this time—just a short, humorless sound. "Everyday of my life. But it can't be done."

"I could do it." Even as he says it, there's a trickle of regret that seeps into the back of his mind—Din doesn't like to make promises he's not sure he can keep. But the number of alternatives is slowly dwindling, and he doesn't want you to think that your plan is still on the table.

Your eyes are incredulous, and you take a few steps closer to him, your voice like knives. "People like you have tried before. I've tried it before, back when I still believed in happy endings and fairy tales. It won't work."

Din feels accused, almost, like you've caught him in the middle of some disobedient act, but he holds your gaze. You're in his space again, like you were in the cockpit, and it's making it hard for him to think. In some far off corner of his brain, Din absently notices that he's stopped breathing, but he can't be bothered with that now; the majority of his attention is focused on your eyes. There's still a heat behind your gaze—a smouldering intensity and he can't look away from it. Looking in your eyes, he wants to act. He wants to help.

Din swallows; his throat is thick and he doesn't want you to hear it in his voice when he speaks. The words still come out quieter than he intended, "let me try, at least," he clears his throat again, before he continues, "I know some people who might be able to help." Din holds your eye contact, waiting, only breathing when he sees the tension drop from your shoulders.

You sigh, long and deep, "I couldn't pay you."

"I know." It doesn't matter. It's better than the alternative.

You're looking at him so closely, so minutely—searching for the slightest hint that he could be lying to you. He stays where he is, keeps his eyes on you, but he's humming with anticipation as he waits for your verdict. The silence stretches on, and Din feels a faint burn spread through his arms and legs, the strain of keeping still for so long making itself known.

"Well, then," your face stays blank, and Din is left disappointed, just the slightest purse of your lips is all you give him, and it's not enough to interpret. "I guess we have a deal."

You stretch out your hand, waiting for him to shake. Din moves to meet you in the middle, but he hesitates just before he makes contact—remembering the earlier touches and they way they felt, remembering that he’s supposed to keep things professional—before brushing away the reluctance. Your hand rests in his with a pleasant weight and warmth, your skin soft as it moves against the leather of his glove. You shake once, but you don't break the contact just yet, your lips parting and Din feels his hand flex unconsciously in anticipation of your words, but he never gets the chance to hear them, because the next thing out of your mouth is a scream.

"What is that thing?" You stumble backwards a few steps, pointing over Din’s shoulder and he looks, rolling his eyes before pulling the child off from where he clings to Din’s armor, and tucking him under his arm. When had he woken up? And how had he got out of the crib without Din noticing?

“He’s my son,” Din says, and your shock turns to confusion, your brows knitting together. Din decides to clarify, staring down at the child in his arms, "he's a foundling in my care.” 

Your eyes soften now when he looks back at you, lips parting gently and you take in a soft gasp, turning your eyes to the child. The baby coos when you catch his eye, offering you a little wave, flexing his tiny fingers as if he’s trying to pull you closer. You’re a little hesitant, when you take your first steps, looking back to Din for permission, and he gives you a little nod in assurance. You’re incredibly gentle when you stroke a finger along one of the child’s ears, and the ship fills with the sound of the child’s gleeful giggle.

"Where did you find him?" You’ve definitely warmed up to the child, and so quickly, smiling up at Din, and he swallows loudly before taking in a shuddering breath. He’d never seen a smile change someone’s face like that. It surprises him. 

"He was a bounty. The people who wanted him—they were going to hurt him,” Din explains.

"And you saved him.” Din doesn’t argue with that assessment, but he’s never really seen it that way. The child and Din, they had saved each other. 

Din clears his throat, uncomfortable with the way the conversation has turned. He needs to get back on track. "We'll set off for Nevarro," he says, tucking the child back into the crib, "and I still want more information about your father." 

"There'll be plenty of time for that,” you say, moving around behind Din,“but first, we have to go get my stuff." Din looks up, thinking back to the rest of your conversation. You had never mentioned anything about stuff. He turns back, jogging to catch up, you’re already half-way out the door, stepping into the circle of sunshine just inside the door. It only takes a few steps before he’s caught up with you, and he reaches out for you without thinking, grabbing your shoulder and turning to you to face him again. 

"Stuff?" You look up at him sheepishly before pulling gently out of his grasp again, walking back towards the door. 

"We'll be quick, I promise. And it looks like the kid would like to go for a walk,” you’re pointing again, and Din follows the direction of your finger. Sure enough, the child is waddling along towards the door, waiting for the two of you to follow. Din rolls his head back, sucking in a deep breath. Little use in fighting now, and the child could certainly use some fresh air. He looks back at you, giving you a soft nod in defeat, and you smile again. His frustration ebbs a little.

You step out into the sunshine together, walking down the same path he had taken to get you to the Razor Crest, but there’s a spring in your step now, and the smile stays on your face. The child got a bit of a head start, but you catch up with him easily before slowing down, meandering down the dirt path between the endless fields of swaying meadows. 

The silence is comfortable, as you walk, but Din still feels on edge, checking over his shoulder and resting a hand on his blaster, just in case. "Hey,” you interrupt his concentration, pulling his attention back to you before you continue, “what's your name?"

"Mando.” It’s an easy enough question and he lets his attention wander again,  assuming his previous stance and searching the surrounding area with his eyes, until you pull his attention again with a soft laugh.

“What’s funny?” Din realizes too late that he probably sounds harsher than necessary—he’s not used to modulating his tone, and he’s certainly not used to having anyone laugh at him. You’re a little chastened by his question, flattening your mouth out of its smile.

"Nothing, it’s just,” you begin, looking at Din out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge whether or not he’s really upset with you, “that’s what people call you, right? But it's not really your name . . ." You linger there, abandoning the rest of the words you might have planned to say. There’s a prickling sensation hanging around Din’s lungs as he watches you drop your chin to your chest, suddenly incredibly interested in the ground. Your next words are so quiet, Din hardly hears you over the rustling of the grass in the dry breeze, "you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"Din," He’s speaking again without thinking, and you look up at him in surprise, your eyes growing wider. There’s more silence, a significant pause and Din has to fill it, repeating himself stupidly, “my name is Din.”

Both of your attentions are turned when the child coos again, his small hand resting against your leg, and you bend down to take him in your arms, holding him against your side easily before you look back at Din with another reluctant smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Din."

[shannaraisles]

Detective Serena Langford

(profile created by @possumsunshine​)

QUICK READ OF YOUR DETECTIVE:

Name: Serena Langford Pronouns: She/Her Sexuality: Heterosexual Love interest: Mason Best friend: Nate Main skill: Combat Secondary skill: People/psychology Main personality trait: Friendly Secondary personality trait: Genuine Why did they join the Wayhaven PD?: Rebellious youth Relationship with Rebecca: Not close, not hostile Relationship with Bobby: Ex-boyfriend, trying not to think about it Verda or Tina?: Tina Murphy bite?: Neck Murphy’s fate?: Escaped Rescue LI or Rescue Sanja?: Sanja

GENERAL:

Full Name: Serena Rose Langford Nickname: N/A (until Mason starts calling her "sweetheart") Birthday: 29th February Age: 29 Pronouns: She/Her Sexuality: Heterosexual Hair: Chestnut brown, natural loose curls to mid-back, worn down Eyes: Hazel brown, 20/20 vision Height: 5'4" Piercings: Two in each earlobe, right side of nose Tattoos: A small pair of purple and pink Sweetheart candy hearts on her left side (side boob), with the words Fuck and Off inside them Clothing Style: Girly, bright; tends toward pretty dresses, cardigans or jackets, and combat boots with pockets Apartment Style: Cosy and warm, lots of soft things and comfortable furniture, warm colours on the wall, photographs and old artwork, and lots of books

STATS:

Personality: Charming | Intimidating Impulsive | Cautious Sarcastic | Genuine (a bit of both) Friendly | Stoic Easygoing | Stubborn Traits: Heart | Mind Optimist | Pessimist Team Player | Independent Main Skill: Combat Second Skill: People/psychology Professional Outlook: By the Book | Bend the Rules (a bit of both)

KEY DECISIONS:

Reason for joining the Wayhaven PD: Without much in the way of parental supervision or discipline growing up, Serena was an angry child and teenager, fairly quick to fall in with the "wrong" crowd, committing acts of petty vandalism and minor violence. She cleaned up her act when she went to college, but then he happened, and she dropped back into bad habits. Thanks to the memory of her father (and unknown to her, her mother's influence), she was offered jail time or community service assisting the police in Wayhaven. She took the community service, met Tina, cleaned up her act, and never left since. Murphy bite:  Wrist | Neck | None Murphy’s Fate: Captured | Escaped Rescued: Love Interest | Sanja

ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP:

Love Interest: Mason Why them?: Honestly? Because he showed an interest and enjoyment in getting under her skin, to begin with. She's always been drawn to the "bad boy", but has been burned a few times, so her reactions are not enthusiastic. The fact that he starts losing some of his sharper edges while not giving up on teasing her just appeals to something in her. And she kind of understands the prickly outsides - she used to do it herself, and she knows how lonely that gets. Bold, shy, or mixed?: She is shy as all hell when he starts flirting, and it doesn't really improve. Serena's been burned, and has made herself touch-starved through trying to avoid another burning, but Mason slides right past all those barriers without even trying. What were their first impressions of each other?: Serena thought he was gorgeous, an absolute jerk, and wanted to know why; Mason thought she was pretty but too weak to handle the world, and part of him wanted to protect her from it. What do they find attractive about each other, mentally or physically?: Obviously they both share a very physical attraction! Serena is absolutely enchanted by Mason's eyes; he's fascinated by the way her body curves as she moves. Mentally, it's almost a case of opposites attract on the surface - Mason loves her softness and the quiet she carries around with her, but also finds her ability to throw herself competently into combat incredibly hot; Serena is intrigued by the softer glimpses she gets of his personality every now and then, and she actually enjoys his often crass sense of humor. What do they do to spend time together?: In the beginning, their time together consisted of him just being present while she went about her daily life, but slowly he started to incorporate his own activities into hers. They don't really set time aside for each other so much as mesh their day-to-day until it feels wrong not to know exactly where the other is at all times. What are their love languages?: They're both quality time/physical touch people How do they handle being apart from one another?: They're usually okay about it, but the longer it goes, the more irritable Mason gets, and the more edgy Serena gets. If the reason for being apart is a mission, Mason will be a growly nightmare for anyone else he's with while he waits; Serena is a quiet worrier Do they argue? How do they handle arguments and disagreements? How do they make up?: They do argue, usually over Mason's inability to people anyone he doesn't have a connection with and Serena's inability not to people with anyone she meets. Arguments are fiery flare ups - no shouting, but tense words (and a lot of looming on Mason's part); disagreements are calmer, more irritable than angry, and usually quickly settled. Making up after an argument involves intimacy and pillow talk. What does their future look like?: Serena genuinely doesn't know. She's almost afraid to think about the future, not wanting to have to acknowledge that she might have to say goodbye at some point. Mason, on the other hand, just assumes that she will always be there, and sees no need to bring it up in conversation. Anything else you’d like to share: Even after becoming official, he still loves teasing her, just because she always reacts with the same shy flutter he got from her the first time. It's even better when they're not alone.

BEST FRIEND RELATIONSHIP:

Best friend: Nate Why them?: He feels like a safe haven for her, someone she can be quiet with, who won't judge her for having moods and is happy to just hang out in silence. Nate is her confidante; everything she tells him is absolutely sacred and secret, and he will only use what he knows to nudge Mason if he's absolutely certain the problem is with him, not both of them. What were their first impressions of each other?: Serena's first thought was "tall". Nate thought she was adorable, at first. What do they do to spend time together?: Perhaps unsurprisingly, they spend a lot of time in the same room, reading different books, in comfortable silence. They also will visit museums and watch documentaries, and Serena loves picking his brain about the history he's lived and how it differs from what's taught and studied. She also got him into geo-caching, thanks to one day at a loss for how to spend time with both Nate and Mason without one or the other getting bored and weird. Anything else you’d like to share: Nate is the only person Mason will allow to play with Serena's hair. Anyone else touches it, he will start a fight, physical or otherwise.

OTHER RELATIONSHIPS:

Relationship with Rebecca: Awkward, but not hostile. Serena gets that her mother's job is the reason they never really spent time together, but she does still resent her for putting her career ahead of her daughter. They have a professional working relationship, but Serena has been burned too often to try for anything closer, no matter what Rebecca wants. Relationship with Rook: She never had one. She has no memories of her father, and Rebecca never talked about him. The closest thing she had to a father was the grumpy old man next door who let her smoke on his porch when she was twelve. Relationship with Bobby: Ex-boyfriend. Serena's first real love, she threw herself into it, shared everything with him ... and then he used what he knew to sell copies of his college paper. These days, she does her best to avoid him as much as possible,and when she can't, she tries to let him do all the talking so she won't give away how angry she still is with him for his behaviour when they were young. Relationship with Verda: Close and friendly, probably the closest to a true family dynamic she has before Unit Bravo enter her life. Hates keeping the secret from him, but knows him well enough to know that he would not take knowing it very well at all. Relationship with Tina: Roommates at college who never really grew out of each other, definitely more like sisters than friends. The only reason they don't live together is because Serena has issues with opening her home to random friend groups, and Tina definitely doesn't. They joined WPD at the same time, for different reasons, and most people attribute Serena's change in attitude to her friendship with Tina. Relationship with the Mayor: She cannot stand the man, but does her best to be professional and polite with him. Relationship with Capt. Sung: Professional, but uncomfortable. He is her superior and she obeys, but she knows he only gave her the job because he wanted to not have to be in the station daily. Relationship with Haley: Went to school together - not the closest of friends, not enemies, just were in the same friend group for a while. Haley was one of the few who did not back off from Serena when she went off the rails. Relationship with Elidor: Serena absolutely loves Elidor, especially those fantastic hugs he gives out! Relationship with Tapeesa: She thinks she's sweet, and will go out of her way to sneak her chocolate when she can. Not a friend, but not indifferent, either. Relationship with Unit Alpha: They're fun every now and then, but she doesn't like the way they tease Bravo. UB are her boys, she's got their backs no matter what. Relationship with the Maa-alused: More fascination than anything, but also considered to be a friendly ally by Falk and his kin. Serena's not sure quite what she thinks of them, and is a little afraid of their capabilities. Do they have any other important relationships, past or present? (Relatives, friends, etc.?): The most important relationship - her cat, Zeus. So named because, before she got him neutered, he'd fathered most of the kittens in the neighbourhood.

PERSONAL BIO:

Describe their personality: Friendly, warm, but doesn't take shit lying down. She can be relied upon to think of others as individuals, rather than part of a collective. Life does, on occasion, suck, but she's determined to suck back. Strengths: Kind, friendly, will break your nose if you push her Weaknesses: Keeps a lot to herself, insecure, shy at times Where in the world is their Wayhaven?: Scottish Highlands, south and a little east of Aberdeen What is their personal history?: Looked after by various neighbours after Rook's death when she was two, Serena didn't really see much of her mother at all during her formative or teenaged years. She was a good student in primary and middle, but started to go off the rails in secondary school, hanging with the "wrong" crowd, and being repeatedly picked up for drug possession, vandalism, and theft. Attended two years of university (age 18-20), where she met Tina and made fast friends with her. However, also dated Bobby and the break up was the catalyst for her dropping out and going home. Tina also dropped out around the same time. At a loss, and with no parental approval or disapproval, Serena went back to the old crowd, but this time was picked up during an attempt to jack a car. Because of her previous arrests, she was on the verge of getting jail time, but for the intervention of Rebecca, which resulted in Serena being put into community service with the police force of Wayhaven. She thrived in the role, and when her community service was over, both she and Tina joined the little police force together. Fast forward eight years, and the old detective retired, leaving a gap in the hierarchy. Serena suspects she was promoted purely because of who her father was and who her mother is, and resents both of them for it. If they weren’t a detective, what would their dream job be?: If there was a way to get paid for being curled up in a comfy chair, reading, that would be it.

RANDOM FACTS:

Zodiac sign: Pisces Hobbies: Reading, combat training, hiking Likes: Comforting patterns and soft textures, a good physical fight, hugs Dislikes: Being underestimated, getting drunk, the neighbours using all the hot water in the building before she showers Drink of choice: Coffee Starbucks order: Caramel macchiato Favorite food: Haley's maple pecan pastries Favorite color: Red/grey Favorite music: Classical piano Favorite genre (and favorite movie/book/etc): Action or romance. Favourite action film is Demolition Man; favourite romance book is Sense & Sensibility. Favorite season: Autumn

[vcg73]

FREE KURT: Mercedes Style

For the “Free Kurt” story collection organized by @elledelajoie  Work also posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655086

She stood at the top of the ornate winding staircase at Dalton Academy, flanked by Rachel Berry and Santana Lopez, grinning like a little girl at a parade as she watched Kurt wind through the enormous crowd of friends that Blaine had gathered together to witness the culmination of their love story. A perfect circle moment back to the day they had first met on this very staircase. 

Mercedes sighed wistfully. She couldn’t imagine Sam or Shane ever doing something this big and romantic to woo her.  Kurt was so lucky.

Music swelled around them from the huge choir of voices filling the lobby. Students from McKinley, Dalton, Haverbrook, and even a few from Carmel, blending into a heavenly host of perfect harmony as they serenaded the happy couple. Dancing and smiling, many singers reaching out to touch Kurt in passing, as if the contact would confer a percentage of his good fortune on them.

As Kurt slowly climbed the steps, Blaine approached, unmissable by anyone in the eye-popping, bright yellow suit he had chosen. He was finishing the final verse of his chosen song as he opened a small box and held it out expectantly. Mercedes caught her breath as he began the proposal that he had prepared. Wouldn’t any girl, real or honorary, swoon at such a show, overcome by the opulence and romance of it all?

Moving to the landing where she could have a better view of her best friend’s face, Mercedes smile faltered. For Kurt did not exactly appear to be overwhelmed with joy. He seemed overwhelmed all right, but not in the good way. He looked like he had walked into a party, opened a door, and found himself trapped inside a horror movie.  His face was frozen in a stiff lipped smile that looked more panicked than proud.

She watched his eyes quickly dart around the room, glancing from face to face as if searching for something, before settling back on Blaine. And now that she really looked at them both, didn’t Blaine’s smile seem a little too smug? As if he had no doubt at all that he had come up with something too impressive to turn down. 

But Kurt didn’t look at all like she would have expected on such an occasion. He wasn’t clasping his hands and bouncing on his toes in a giddy display of excitement. His eyes were not squinching up in that cute crinkly way they did when he was delighted. He wasn’t tearing up with emotion the way he did at beautiful romantic scenes in movies. And he was not looking at Blaine the way one would expect a person to look at their Prince Charming when he popped the big question. As if no one in world existed except for the two of them, crowd be damned. 

On the contrary. Mercedes had last seen this look on his face the night her brother - an aspiring gourmet - had proudly presented Kurt with a plate of creamed beef and Brussels sprouts seasoned with candied bacon. Like he was trying his best to look impressed and appreciative so as not to hurt the other person’s feelings, when actually he was trying not to vomit.

Glancing through the crowd, Mercedes looked for support. Did anyone else see what she was seeing? 

Rachel was starry-eyed with delight, practically cooing at every word Blaine spoke. Santana was smiling almost proudly. Kurt’s dad was beaming happily enough. Carole and Finn were . . .  strangely absent from the party. Kurt’s friends were . . . well, all of his closest friends were up here, out of his line of sight. Most of the rest seemed to be Blaine’s friends, or mutual friends from their shared high school life. The crowd below did not include a single friend from New York. Hadn’t Kurt said he’d joined a show choir out there? And what about that Vogue lady he was always gushing about? She had certainly sounded like the kind of person who would love to be part of an event like this. Surely if Blaine had invited everyone they knew in Ohio, he would have thought to ask people from Kurt’s new life too. He would want this to be special and memorable for both of them.

Wouldn’t he?

Mercedes frowned as she suddenly remembered the guy in New York. A new boyfriend that Kurt had posted about on his Facebook page. Someone he had seemed to be really into just a week or two ago, and who had evidently been just as much into him. Why did she not know when or how the two of them had broken up? Had Kurt been cheated on again, and come back to Blaine as a rebound? It would be like him not to advertise if that were the case. Especially with how few people had supported him the last time. When Blaine had cheated.

A cold feeling passed through Mercedes, dispelling the last of her previous romantic haze.

Had Kurt and his new beau simply drifted apart and Kurt had turned back to the familiarity of his old life, to someone familiar? Whatever the reason, it couldn’t have happened more than ten days ago.  

Guilt suffused her as she realized that she had been paying so little attention to her supposed ‘best friend’ over the months since he had moved away that she wasn’t even sure of the NYADA guy’s name. Alex? Andrew? Definitely something with an ‘A’.  Well, whatever his name was, wasn’t it a bit soon to be back with his ex after breaking up with the guy? Never mind getting engaged.

She looked at Rachel Berry again, recalling the disastrous near marriage of Rachel and Finn. Too much, too soon, too young, too impulsive. They had taken a few steps down the runway of life and fallen on their faces.

Was Kurt any more ready for such a big step?  He was a lot more mature than Finn, sure - Where the hell was Finn? The boy should be here for his brother’s big day! - but he was still barely 19 years old, and still in his first year of college. And Blaine was younger even than that. 

Kurt was the one who had always had glittering dreams of moving to the big city, going to college and earning a B.A. and possibly an eventual Master’s Degree in Performing Arts, followed by a brilliant career on stage and screen. He was the boy who had outlined his steps for achieving those dreams in painstaking (one might say obsessive) detail, using graphs, charts, white boards, sketches, spreadsheets, and anything else he could think of. She had always teased him about being as OCD as Miss Pillsbury, but secretly she had admired his drive and determination, his surety that he was good enough and worthy enough to one day achieve all of his dreams. 

Somehow all of that had started to fade when he became Blaine’s boyfriend and Rachel’s bestie.  

Mercedes had learned to like Rachel well enough over the years, but the girl did have a way of taking over other people’s plans and replacing them with her own, hammering away at them until they started to believe that they had wanted whatever she wanted all along. Had Kurt been so affected by living with Rachel that he had lost sight of his self esteem and personal plans for the future? Had Blaine only reinforced that? Sometimes those two were so much alike that Mercedes was tempted to sneak a DNA sample and find out if they were twins who had been separated at birth!

One of the things that had first drawn her to Kurt  was his flat-out refusal to let the people who were out to push him down and squash his ambition win. His native courage and endless passion, daring to dream of a bright future no matter what anyone said, had lit a fire under her own. He had been there for her every time she needed a friend. And when he had mis-stepped or taken the wrong road in their journey together, he had always been quick to apologize and genuine in making amends for any hurt he had caused her.

And how had she repaid that giving spirit? By repeatedly trying to push him down the path that she wanted to follow, dismissing his own concerns as trivial because she knew what was best. 

She had insisted that Kurt take his grieving heart to her church when his father was sick, that he follow her path to comfort, never once thinking that he might not be receiving any comfort himself. It was her own mother who, afterward, had pointed out that Kurt might have been too afraid of losing his best friend to say no. Mama had scolded her thoroughly for being so concerned with Kurt’s soul that she had never considered his mental and physical needs, never asked if Kurt wanted to stay over, or offered to have the Jones’s look after him while his only family was unavailable, or even just sat him down and let him talk, cry, or share the solace of an unbending embrace to keep him together when his world was falling apart. 

Instead she had forced him to walk her path and then patted herself on the back for a job well done and walked away. 

The following year, she had all but stopped talking to Kurt when he went away for those six months at Dalton. A coffee date or meal out with other friends once every couple of months did not begin to compare with their former joined-at-the-hip habits. She had actually resented him on some level for making his escape and leaving her behind. And it still made her burn with shame that she had never even noticed he was being bullied that badly in the first place. 

When Kurt came back to McKinley, things had been good for a while. More like the old days. But she had not liked his new friendship with Rachel, or having his boyfriend around all the time once Blaine transferred, feeling as if she had been replaced. When she had decided to form the Trouble Tones, Kurt had not given her grief or displayed any resentment over not being invited to go with her. He was the only guy in New Directions to get even less solo attention than she did, but she had lumped him in with all the others and turned her back. Where had her best friend loyalty, honorary girl solidarity to Kurt been then?

All of these thoughts flashed through Mercedes’ brain while Blaine spoke the last few words of his proposal. 

It hit her like lightning as Kurt drew in a deep breath to reply. Kurt had told her, Santana, and Rachel that he believed this moment was going to happen before he went home. Not ‘back to school’ or ‘back to New York’. Home. Ohio was not home to him any longer, and Blaine - the same Blaine who had wasted almost no time in casually cheating on Kurt once he left town and then somehow got the entire glee club to sympathize with him over doing so, blaming Kurt for his own betrayal  - was trying to drag Kurt back into the past by disguising it as a bright and shiny future full of love and devotion. Blaine would not stand by his promises, he would not remain faithful and loving, he would never sacrifice anything he wanted, and he would never stop expecting to be taken care of by a partner as he had been by his parents.

Blaine, like Rachel, was an immature child who would always want and expect to get their own way. Mercedes liked the guy, he was very easy to get along with, but she knew in her heart that he could not be the mature, devoted, loving, and equal partner that Kurt deserved. 

And deep down, Kurt knew it too.

That was why he looked so miserable. He did not want this. He had told them as much during their sleepover, but they had dismissed his concern as being dramatic. Kurt had been looking for a way out, for permission to do what his heart was telling him was right. He needed to be told that it was not an unforgivable sin to let people down for the sake his own happiness. He wanted to know it was okay to let his old relationship die and be buried in the past where it belonged. 

That was Kurt’s greatest flaw, and Mercedes recognized it because she shared it. Kurt was instinctively afraid to offend, afraid that those he cared about would not support or stand with him if he bucked their expectations, and in spite of a brave face, not secure enough in his own self worth to risk driving away loved ones. He was afraid to say ‘No’.

And no one else had even noticed. God, maybe he was right to be afraid!  Not being good enough was a fear that Mercedes had struggled with all her life, but unlike Kurt she had both of her parents, two siblings, and a lot of friends from different areas of life to fall back on when self doubt got the better of her. Who did Kurt have?

“You’ve got me, baby.”

She had not intended to speak the words, but they rang out loud and clear in the sudden silence between Blaine’s proposal and Kurt’s pending reply.

Everyone looked up at her, confused. Blaine was shocked and annoyed, probably justifiable given her interruption of his big moment. Kurt was startled but . . . hopeful.

It was the hope in those big baby blues that solidified Mercedes’ courage. Kurt Hummel was her best friend and it was time she showed him that she still had his back.

Walking down the steps, her heart pounded at the sheer audacity of what she was doing. “If this was a wedding, someone would be asking if there was any objection,” she said, smiling winsomely then dropping it when nobody else joined in the joke. Okay then. Serious it was. She took a deep breath. “Well, this isn’t a wedding, but I know that I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t speak my mind and tell you, Kurt, that I hope you do the right thing and say no.”

Gasps of mingled horror and salacious interest came from all over the room. 

“I should have said that when you asked me yesterday what I thought about your suspicion that Blaine intended to propose before you went back to New York. I let myself get caught up in the romance of it all, but that wasn’t right. Because this isn’t some fairy tale of soul-mates and happy-ever-after. This is your life and your happiness, and those things matter. You matter.”

Mercedes was not sure what she had said to cause such a reaction, but Kurt suddenly jerked like he’d just awakened from a dream. He looked down at his dad, who had taken a couple of steps forward. She had spoken quickly, afraid that she would be interrupted but now, instead of looking annoyed, Burt Hummel looked ashamed of himself. His round cheeks had flushed red and he was looking at his son with apologetic eyes.

Following up this curious advantage, Mercedes continued. “Back in high school, you two were everybody’s romantic dream. Getting with Blaine was kind of your big win after all the bad things you’d been through. I thought getting married to him would be a reward for holding out and staying strong, even after he broke your heart. But that’s really stupid.”

She held out her hand, smiling when Kurt accepted it without thought. 

“This ain’t high school anymore. You’ve moved forward and started a new life with a great job, a lot of nice sounding friends, and living in the city of your dreams. You’re only on Book One, Appendix Seven of the ‘Hummel Guidebook to a Happy and Successful Life’ and I know how you feel about people who skip to the end before reading the whole thing.”

Everyone else looked even more baffled by the latter comment, but Kurt actually laughed, dashing away a sheen of tears that had sprung to his eyes with his free hand.

“You’re not even in your twenties yet, baby,” she said softly, pleading with her eyes for him to listen and understand. “This was your first relationship, and it hasn’t even been a very smooth one. Do you really want to marry someone you’ve barely even started dating again? When none of your old problems ever got worked out? How do you know he won’t lie to you again, or cheat on you again? Kurt, you deserve better than that. You once told me after a guy broke my heart that I had to be strong for myself, to respect and love myself enough to make the hard choices, because you wanted me to be happy.”

With an audible sniffle, Kurt dashed away more tears and nodded. “You deserve that.”

“And so do you. I want that for you. I want you to have a great life and get moving on the future of your dreams. I want you and I to meet up for tea and pastries in some fancy New York patisserie when we’re 80, to look back on our free and fabulous twenties, and laugh at what brave foolish kids we were. I want you to find a real, true, grown up kind of love when the time is right. Some great guy who will enjoy all the good times with you, but never let you down during the hard ones. Can you honestly say that you’re gonna find that with Blaine?”

At the sound of his name, Blaine seemed to snap out of the trance of shock he had fallen into and he moved up a step, turning his flushed face and angry eyes toward Kurt. “You aren’t going to listen to this, are you? This isn’t any of her business, and we ...”

“It is her business,” Kurt interrupted, shoulders straightening as his formerly wilted posture firmed. His voice sounded stronger and more certain than Mercedes had heard it in months. “Because she’s right. I jumped back into this relationship because I was afraid of not being good enough for anyone. Not worth taking a real chance on with somebody new. I’m sorry, Blaine, that my own issues caused me to lead you on and make you think I wanted this. I don’t. On the way over here my dad said I looked like I was going to my own funeral. That isn’t how anyone is supposed to feel when they know they have a proposal coming.”

He took the ring box from Blaine’s hand and snapped it shut, putting it back in his palm and pushing both away from him. He leaned down and hugged the flummoxed teenager with sincere warmth.

“Thank you for such a beautiful proposal, Blaine, but my answer is no. I won’t marry you. I hope we can go back to being friends one day, but I’ll understand if that’s not possible.”

Blaine was gaping like a landed fish, unable to argue with the unusual degree of certainty in Kurt’s eyes and voice. “You’re really dumping me?” he said in a small voice. “Right here in front of everyone?”

Seeing Kurt’s face flush, Mercedes cut in again. “It’s the risk you take when you invite everyone you know to see you propose.” Her eyes narrowed. “Everyone except most of your would-be groom’s family. Did you even ask Finn and his mom?”

That question sparked a reaction in Burt Hummel, who looked startled, as if he had not even realized until she asked the question that he was the only family member present. He looked at Kurt again, and this time he spoke up. 

“She’s right, about everything she said. I feel like finding my favorite socket wrench and whacking myself upside the head to see if it’ll jump start my stupid brain. You asked me what I said when Blaine asked for my permission to do this and I refused to tell you. I shouldn’t have done that, Kurt, and I’m sorry. I said no. That I thought the two of you were too young and had too much ahead of you to make a life changing decision like that. I said that if you were really right for each other, then your relationship would only get stronger with time.” He glared at Blaine. “Though it sounds to me now like it was pretty much built on sand to begin with.”

Mercedes advanced on the startled Blaine. “And what about Kurt’s friends in New York? Did you try to contact any of them? Or did you only want people who would be on your side, to pressure him into saying yes?” 

Poking a finger into the lapel of that garish mustard yellow suit she sailed on. 

“You do that a lot from what I’ve heard. Go behind Kurt’s back to try and get other people to guilt him into doing whatever you want, without a thought as to whether or not it would hurt him. Well, honey, that ends right now. You got your answer, so now it’s time for you to move on. And you can just take me off your Facebook friends list when you leave here too. I’ve chosen my side.” Smiling at Kurt, she held out her elbow. “Come on, baby. Let me hop a ride out to the airport with you and your dad, and he can drop me off home on the way back. I didn’t bring my car.”

Looping his elbow through hers, Kurt held his head high as he was escorted down the wide staircase. He smiled and held out his free arm to his proudly watching father, who straightened his weather baseball cap and accepted the gesture. 

“I feel like we oughtta be singing ‘We’re Off to See the Wizard,” Burt quipped as the three marched past the throng of shocked, and surprisingly admiring in many cases, guests and toward the huge double entry doors of Dalton Academy.

Kurt laughed a little, “I guess that makes me the Tin Man, because I’ve been afraid to trust my heart for a long time.”

"And I’m the Scarecrow,” Burt snorted. “Definitely no brains here.”

“Does that mean I’m Dorothy?” Mercedes asked, grinning at the light banter as they made it outside and over to Burt’s truck.

Kurt let go of their arms, then turned to give his friend a long heartfelt hug. “No,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “You’re the Wizard. You showed me that I’ve had what I needed all along. Thank you, Mercedes. For keeping me from making the biggest mistake of my life.”

She hugged him back tightly. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak up sooner. You and I both have a problem with going along to get along and we really need to work on that. I’ve just been thinking that it’s time to let go of the past and fully embrace the unknown future, even when it’s a little scary.” She stepped out of the embrace but continued to hold his hand, squeezing it for emphasis as she added, “But at the same time, maybe we need to get back to the fierce divas we both were at 16. I liked those two, and I miss ‘em.”

He nodded. “Me too. That me never would have thought so little of himself that he’d almost agree to marry someone that didn’t respect him.”

“No,” she said, “And he would have flat-out died at the thought of spending his life with someone who dressed like a walking condiment bar.”

Finally, Kurt laughed outright and his father joined in, nodding ruefully. 

“I love you, Mercedes.”

“I love you too, Kurt. Now, let’s get going and you can tell me what happened with that other guy you were so excited about. Aaron?”

“Adam,” he said. He looked rather guilty. “He said he didn’t want to be my rebound but that he wanted us to be a couple. I told him I needed more time before I started anything serious with a new guy. He said he understood. He backed off and I think I panicked. I thought that meant he was okay with cooling things off and maybe I didn’t really mean anything to him after all.”

At this admission, Burt groaned and dragged a hand over his face. “And that’s why you let your heart melt when Blaine came panting back up and started humping your leg.”

“Dad!”

Burt raised an eyebrow. “I call it like I see it, kid. And the last ten minutes have opened my eyes to a lot of things. Like, you’ve been put down and pushed out so many times that you don’t even know what a good relationship is supposed to look like anymore. When you get back to New York, I want you to go online and find a good therapist. A real one this time, not some hack school counselor who tries to push their own romantic failures off on you.”

“You know about that?”

“You told Finn. He’s got a big heart and a bigger mouth. And he doesn’t approve of the way Blaine treats you. That should have occurred to me when I didn’t see him in there. I’m real sorry for that, son. You weren’t the only person trying to recapture their past, it seems.” Burt sighed. “Anyway, about that therapist. Find someone you can be comfortable talking about all the crap you’ve been through and let them get your head on straight. I wouldn’t start dating anyone else seriously until you’ve had a few sessions of that. And don’t worry about the money. I put your mom’s life insurance payout in a Trust for you and it’ll mature when you hit your next birthday. I’ll pay for it until then. Just send me the details and I’ll set up a direct deposit for you.”

Kurt looked stunned. “Dad, that’s . . . are you sure?”

The fact that he did not argue that he didn’t need such a thing told his father all he needed to know. “I’m sure. Consider it my apology for being such a myopic ass these last couple of years.”

“You weren’t...”

“I was,” Burt said bluntly. “Take the offer.”

Mercedes gave her friend’s arm a squeeze. “It’s a good idea, but I also want you to know that you can talk to me anytime you want, about anything. This time I promise I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

“Ditto,” he replied, clearly a little overwhelmed by the sudden turnaround his life had just taken. Checking his watch, Kurt said, “We’d better get going. That detour took up most of my pre-flight check in time and I don’t want to miss the plane.”

Burt just nodded, pulling out his keys and heading for the driver’s seat. He had said what he needed to and looked a little relieved to get back to business.

Mercedes climbed into the back seat and was a little surprised, though pleased, when Kurt joined her instead of taking the seat next to his father. “We can catch up a little more,” he said, buckling himself in. “I want to hear more about what’s going on in Los Angeles.”

As she began filling the silence with a dramatic play by play of life as an aspiring recording artist, Mercedes could see the tension leeching out of Kurt. He looked relaxed for the first time since he’d come back to Ohio, his mind at ease, and she felt proud that she had been instrumental in bringing about that expression of peace. She hadn’t been a very good friend of late, but it filled her own heart with healing joy to know that it was not too late.

They were right where they needed to be.

THE END

[tatooines-ghosts]

HAPPY 2020s ENDING Y’ALL!!!

Enjoy a little blog-exclusive Shades AU that I affectionately refer to as the No Jedi Allowed AU, feat. everybody’s favorite prequel-era Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Sometime this last summer, while trying to work past writer’s block, I toyed with a little AU idea for funsies, I made a post about it, said I wasn’t going to do anything else with it, and left it at that. Until a month or two ago when, still in the throes of writer’s block, I took that little AU idea and figured “fuck it, I’m not working on the next chapter, but at least it’s writing SOMETHING Shades related” and made a real thing out of it.

This is Part 1. Future parts will come out at some point in the future, I’m thinking about making these a holiday special or something haven’t decided yet. (And really it’s only blog-exclusive because I cannot make a series on AO3 and remain anonymous so...)

Enough rambling. Please read, I hope you all enjoy this look at how things might have gone a little differently if a couple Jedi didn’t end up going all the way out to Tatooine to stick their noses into Hutt business.

Please assume content warnings given on AO3 may apply to this story as well. Also, beware spoilers if you are not fully caught up on the main story.

No Jedi Allowed AU - Part 1

Jango Fett heaved a long sigh as the door closed behind him. He had just finished up a long job for Jabba, one that should have been quick but ended up requiring well over a week of stake outs and reconnaissance, but in the end he got his man, as he always did. Jabba had at least expressed his gratitude suitably, in money and amenities. He had given Jango one of the better guest suites and was probably going to send up one of his better girls for a night of entertainment.

Jango began shedding his armor, considering what he would do with the slave girl. He really didn't have the energy to draw anything out. He hoped it wasn't going to be a new girl, explaining how things work was more effort than he cared to expend. Really he just wanted a shower and to sleep, but he wasn't about to leave his stuff unattended with a stranger on the way.

There was a light rap on the door.

"Enter."

The slave entered pushing a dinner cart. Jango breathed a sigh of relief. "Skywalker, nice to see you again."

She flashed him a small smile. "Been a while, hasn't it, Jango?" She paused just over the threshold and let the door lock behind her. "The usual tonight?"

"Sure." He finished removing his armor and set it aside carefully aside. "Get yourself ready, I'm hitting the shower first."

He stepped into the 'fresher, leaving Skywalker alone. Ten minutes later, he was stepping back out, with the provided robe draped around him. His clothes were a little rank, and the quick rinse he gave them in the shower wasn't enough to really clean them. They'd get a proper wash when he got home.

Skywalker had set up dinner, laying out the food and drink from the cart on the little dining table for him. She was perched at the holotable, flipping through the selection of games. There weren’t many games, as most visitors to a Hutt pleasure den were usually otherwise occupied in their rooms, or wanted to watch porn.

"How's dejarik sound? I'm not feeling anything particularly strenuous tonight."

"Fine." Jango sat down in the free seat. He grabbed the complimentary bottle of liquor and poured himself a healthy glass. He offered Skywalker a drink, but she declined. She did pick at the fruit he offered to share. There was always more food than he could eat, and he knew the slaves didn’t get fed nearly as well as guests.

She made the first move on the dejarik board. "How's Boba?"

They fell into comfortable conversation about Boba, about Skywalker's sister, about the recently finished racing season – Jango congratulated Skywalker on another victorious season. They played a few lackluster games of dejarik. That was a bit unusual, Skywalker was a worthy opponent, and she didn’t usually lose more than once or twice.

He beat her soundly for the fourth time in a row, the board resent, his turn to make the first move, but instead he checked the time. "I think I'm going to turn in. It's late enough."

"Yeah," she agreed distractedly. She fiddled with the edge of the gauzy white shawl wrapped around her. She looked pale, uneasy.

Jango gave her another critical, searching look. Her behavior was odd enough, was she supposed to be spying on him? Bribe him, coerce him, assassinate him? He knew Jabba wasn’t opposed to taking out a troublesome being with some poison served by a pretty face, but Jango hadn’t done anything to offend his second-best employer recently. The Hutt had no reason to want him dead, or otherwise intimidated.

Maybe Skywalker was just having an off day, or dealing with some other problem. He wasn’t going to ask. Wasn’t his business.

Her outfit tonight was white and copper, paper-thin linen wrapped in layers to be made suitably opaque, with copper metal accents to draw the eye and match the heavy collar around her neck. It was one of her softer, looser costumes. Aside from looking pale and anxious, Skywalker looked pretty good, a little softer, better fed. Jabba kept his slaves starved and stick thin, save for a few exceptions for the fetishists. This was a change, but not a poor one. Maybe Skywalker was being treated better after another successful racing season.

He turned off the holotable and stood up to stretch. The bed was looking very comfortable, and he wanted to get out of here early tomorrow morning.

Skywalker didn't move. "Jango, I need your help."

He fell still. This was a first, she had never asked for his help before. He'd taught her a few tricks to defend herself against handsy patrons who hadn't paid for the privilege to touch her. Maybe someone was a little more aggressive than she could handle. But Jabba had enforcers on staff whose job it was to take care of people like that. There wasn't anything else he could do for her. She had nothing to ask him to smuggle of planet, and there probably wasn't anything she knew of that he could bring to her. Which meant she was about to ask him to do something very stupid and probably impossible.

"What is it?"

She turned her wide blue eyes to him, her lower lip was caught between her teeth, and she worried it as she considered her next words. He could read her indecision clear in her face. His heart sank. If she was so afraid to even say the words, it couldn't be anything good.

"I need you to free me and my sister."

Jango actually laughed, a single, dry bark. "You're joking." She wasn't. "You want me to steal you from the Hutts? Never gonna happen. Jabba would kill us both for just considering it."

She didn't seem particularly disappointed with his rejection. She implored, "Please, Jango, you're our only hope for freedom."

"No. No way." Even if he wanted to, Jango wouldn't risk earning Jabba's ire, no matter how much he liked Skywalker.

Yes, he felt sorry for Skywalker and her little sister. Being born slaves was unfortunate, but it was their rotten luck that they ended up being owned by Jabba the Hutt. If anyone touched Jabba's property, or thought they could steal from him, they were dead already. Jango had been hired several times to bring in a bounty on someone who had done exactly that. He was not going to put himself on Jabba's shit list.

"I'm pregnant!" she blurted out. "Please, Jango, I can't let my baby be born a slave too." She shifted her arms, removing the shawl from around her waist, and there was the unmistakable roundness to her belly. "I don't even know if Jabba will let me keep my baby."

Jango sighed heavily. "He let you keep your sister."

"Because I didn't give birth to her, because he needed leverage over me after my mom died." She drew a shaking breath; he could see tears gathering in her frightened eyes. "He hasn't even made up his mind on whether he'll let me have the baby. Any day now he could take them from me if it stops me from being able to serve. He'll cut the baby out of me, he'll kill them. And if I do get to have them, then what? He'll steal them from my arms, or just use them like he uses Shila. Please, Jango, I can't go on like this. I want my baby to live. I want to raise them. I want Shila to grow up and know what freedom is."

Jango didn't move, didn't speak, his eyes stayed on Skywalker. His brain was already picking at the idea; it wouldn't be too difficult to – no! He was not about to ruin his career and risk his life for a pregnant slave girl, it's not like the baby was his. What stake did he have at all in Skywalker's future? None! If he tried helping her and they got caught, Boba would be left fatherless. The boy might never know what became of his father. But Anakin... she was the victim of her circumstances. Her little sister and her unborn baby were innocent of the whole matter. They were just slaves.

It wasn't like Jango was opposed to slavery, it was a lucrative evil for the dark corners of the galaxy, and it kept him paid, fed, and employed. He was a mercenary; he wasn't a saint, or even really a good person. Killing was never personal, it was for the job, but he still had a code of honor. And abandoning Skywalker after she asked for his help, after she had exposed herself to be in such a vulnerable position… that was breaking his code.

Would he be able to live with himself if he left her here to her fate? If Jabba stole her child, would he ever be able to look her in the eye again? And Boba... was this the kind of example he wanted to set for his son? Disregarding the lives of children and babies because he didn’t want to risk his own neck. Shameful. Dishonorable. No true Mandalorian would sacrifice a child’s life for their own comfort.

"Ossik," Jango hissed under his breath, dropping back into his seat. "Okay. Fine. I'll get you out of here."

X

Freeing Skywalker and her little sister was easier than Jango suspected it would have been. Granted it was easy for him to go where he needed in the palace, and nobody looked at him twice. He met Shila Skywalker, the little ad'ika he had heard so much about from her older sister. It was clear they were family, they shared the same face, but where Anakin was fair haired and blue-eyed, Shila was dark haired and brown-eyed. Reportedly she looked like their mother, Shmi, but Jango had never met the woman. Shila was young, only three years old, and she was quiet and shy, and frightened of Jango; a fact that was not helped at all when Jango had to cut the slave chip out of the child's stomach. It was just beneath the skin, and he didn't have to cut deep, so he was able to be very quick about it, but it still had to be done without pain killers.

It hadn’t been pleasant or fun for any involved. Skywalker had to hold the child down, keeping her hand pressed over Shila’s mouth to muffle the screams. But Jango had been the one with the knife. It would probably be some time before the child trusted him.

She flinched away from him with a whimper, hiding her face in her sister’s shoulder when he offered his hand after it and apologized. “Sorry, ad’ika, but you were very brave.”

The elder Skywalker, on the other hand, hardly made a sound when Jango carved out her chip from her shoulder.

With the girls freshly unchipped, Jango smuggled them unseen into his ship and stowed them in a hidden compartment in his cargo hold. It was specially lined to block life signs from most scanners, and certainly anything Jabba had his hands on out here. He left at dawn, nobody looked twice as he had made several comments before about leaving early, and he had never made a habit of staying very long in Jabba's palace in the first place.

Only when he was safely in hyperspace and clear from any Hutt influence did he release his cargo from the hold. Shila had been soothed to sleep by her sister, but Anakin was fully alert and terrified.

"Thank you for doing this," she said gratefully. "Jango, I don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you. You saved our lives."

"Don't thank me yet. Just because I got you out of there doesn't mean you're safe. Jabba's not going to like losing you."

"I know." Her hand moved behind Shila, rested against her belly. "But you've given us a chance."

A few hours later there was a small explosion at Jabba's palace. Nobody was injured, and the damage was minimal, but it threw everyone and everything into hysterics. In the chaos, it took time for someone to take count of the slaves, and then they noticed two very valuable slaves were missing. Search parties uncovered the hastily buried tracker chips, coated in dried blood and sand. Jabba's wrath was terrible and he turned the planet of Tatooine upside down looking for Anakin Skywalker.

X

Jango landed Slave I on the storm tossed landing pad, rain drummed against the hull. It was midday, though the rainclouds were so thick it might as well have been midnight. He dropped from the cockpit down to the passenger hold, where Skywalker sat with her sister.

Anakin, he supposed he should get used to calling her by her first name. They were aliit now. Whether she knew it or not, when Anakin had thrown her lot in with him to gain her freedom, Jango had brought her into his tiny clan. There really was no way to get around it. Releasing the Skywalkers into the galaxy to fend for themselves was as good as putting a blaster bolt in the back of their skulls. Jabba would have them back and dead, or worse, by week’s end. There was safety, at least, in a clan, security under the Fett name; even if the clan had doubled it in size overnight.

Shila was sleeping soundly, curled in her sister's arms and lap, but Anakin was alert and worried.

"What's that noise? An attack?"

The rain was so familiar to Jango, he tuned it out automatically. "What? No, that's the rain. Water falling from the sky," he had to clarify. He realized rain probably wasn't a word that ever got thrown around on Tatooine.

Anakin glowered at him. "I know what rain is. My mother told me." Her cheeks went pink. "I just didn't realize it made much noise."

Jango gave her some credit. "It is coming down rather hard out there. Come on. We'll get you inside and into more suitable clothes."

Kamino was cold, and the cloner's kept their facility chilly. Anakin's service costume was not going to cut it. He opened the cargo ramp, a blast of cold, wet air swept in.

He heard a gasp and a yelp behind him, Shila had woken up. Anakin tried to comfort the child in Huttese, but Jango could see her own eyes were wide with fear. This much rain and water had to be a shock. But Jango was hungry, tired, and ready to change into something more comfortable. He didn't want to stand here until the desert natives got used to rain.

"Come on," he said again, taking Anakin by the arm and pulling her forward. They walked quickly from ship to facility door, Jango keeping his grip firm so Anakin didn't slip and fall on the wet walkway, her shoes were less suitable for the slick metal than her clothes were for the climate. By the time they stepped inside, Anakin was shivering. Whether from the cold and wet, or everything else, he wasn't sure but thirty seconds in the downpour had turned her costume downright indecent. The flowy white linen had turned translucent and plastered against her body. It made the curve of her belly even more obvious.

It was a good thing Skywalker was so distracted looking around at everything else to not notice him staring and frowning at her. Well, more accurately, staring at her abdomen. A seed of doubt quickly settled and bloomed in his mind – not the first to grow since he agreed to free the Skywalkers, and he squashed it like the others. Having a baby around soon was going to make things interesting.

He sighed softly and shook his head. That little bastard was going to cause him a lot of trouble, he knew it already. After all, it had been the baby that tipped him over to helping the Skywalkers in the first place and inevitably put him on Jabba’s shit list.

How long would it be until Jabba put a bounty on his head? He couldn't possibly be so lucky as to escape without suspicion.

Jango stepped off down the hall, wondering whether the Skywalkers should be seen by a doctor first or if he should just take them home. When the ad'ika began to complain of the cold and the wet, he bypassed the corridor turn that would lead to the medical wing.

Their apartment had that mild, unlived in scent when he stepped in. Boba would have been left with his Kaminoan caretakers while Jango had been gone for a few weeks.

"Come on. We'll get you dried and change clothes before getting you to a doctor."

"Doctor?"

Jango stepped into the 'fresher and dug out some clean towels. He buried his derisive snort in the linen closet. "I doubt Jabba wasted any expenses on having you checked out, didn't he?"

"No, he didn't." Anakin folded her hands over her belly. "I thought for the longest time it might be dead inside me, but I've started to feel them move."

Jango handed her two towels. "How far along are you?"

"Almost six months."

Anakin bent to wrap Shila in the fluffy towel so she didn't see Jango frown at her. He was no expert, but he was almost certain most women were bigger by the time they were five or six months pregnant. Sure, she looked pregnant, but only barely.

"You sure about that?"

Anakin stilled, but nodded, her voice was low and confident. "Yes. I know exactly when it happened."

Jango wasn't going to press the issue. The Kaminoans could figure out the nitty gritty biological details. He moved to the bedrooms, "I'll find you some dry clothes. Won't fit all that well, but they'll be warmer and more suitable than that costume." He pulled a shirt and a pair of pants with a soft, drawstring waistband from his closet. The Kaminoans would have no trouble fabricating something more suitable for Anakin and Shila to wear, but this would do short-term. The little girl's clothes were the basic pants and tunic of Tatooine, but Anakin's costume would be entirely unsuitable for Kamino's climate, not to mention just daily life.

Jango grabbed a shirt from Boba’s room for Shila. It was big enough to be a dress on the child, and the sleeves fell past her hands, but it was workable with a few adjustments. Anakin's clothes were just as ill-fitting, but she didn't complain. She just had to pull the drawstring tight to keep her pants secure around her waist.

"It's only temporary," Jango assured her as she tugged at the oversized shirt. "We'll get you some better fitting clothes ‘fabbed once the Kaminoans get their measurements."

"It's fine," Anakin said quietly, fingering the shirt fabric, it was probably sturdier than anything she'd worn in a long time. Jango's clothes were made for warmth and wear. "This will do."

Jango took them back from the apartment and into the cloning complex, through the cold white hallways to the medical facility. It wasn't empty, it never was. With how many clones the Kaminoans spat out, the medical facilities were always busy; someone was always hurt or sick or injured, or having their genetic aberrations evaluated for viability. But the entrance from Jango's side of the facility kept him separated from the main body. He had mentioned the cloners to Anakin before, but he wasn't sure how much she had picked up on though. It had been a passing conversation as he taught her how to play sabbac. He felt like explaining it in whole might be a bit much for the newly-freed slave.

His side of the medical facility was a little clinic set aside from the main body of the medical wing. It was just one room; the medical bed dominated one side, while cabinets of medication and supplies lined the other walls. There were two doors, one they came through and another that went into the larger facility.

Jango flipped a switch on the panel by the facility door, it would summon a doctor. It must have been a slow day because a Kaminoan stepped into the room a few moments later, one of the doctors. Her big eyes scanned over Anakin and Shila before turning to Jango.

"What can I do for you today, Jango?"

"Doctor Wey Luma, this is Anakin and Shila Skywalker, new additions to my aliit. They both had subdermal chips removed that need patching up, and health checks, and Anakin's pregnant."

Kaminoans weren't nearly as expressive as humans, but Jango could see the excitement in Wey Luma's face. The doctors working with the clones were human specialists, but it wasn't like they came across any pregnant ones in this facility. She would probably become a scientific celebrity just on the fact that she got knocked up. He hoped Anakin wouldn't mind the scientists pawing at her. Probably not, she had enough practice with drunk Hutt patrons, and the Kaminoans wouldn't want to fuck her.

He turned to the Skywalkers, "Wey Luma will take care of you. I need to make some arrangements for your stay here."

"Okay." Anakin nodded and set her sister on the bed at the doctor's encouragement. Jango left the room and pulled up his comm.

He made a call to Taun We to arrange for a bigger apartment, they would need more space with Anakin, Shila, and a baby on the way. Plus supplies and clothing for the new additions.

And it was time to get Boba back from his caretakers and introduce his son to his new aliit. By the time he stepped back into the exam room, Anakin was perched on the medical bed, and Wey Luma was practically buzzing with excitement.

"Such hybridizations are almost unheard of," the doctor trilled. "You could provide us with priceless data."

Anakin looked nervous. She chewed on her lower lip while her hands rested over her little belly. "Would that mean you'll make sure the baby is healthy?"

The Kaminoan paused, confused. Jango stepped in quickly. "They'll take care of you and the baby regardless of whether you agree to let them study you."

"Oh, yes, of course," Wey Luma insisted quickly. "We would not withhold medical treatment. But… you would just do us an enormous favor if we were able to study you and your child."

"What's so special about it anyway?" Jango asked before Anakin had to agree to anything.

"He's half-pantoran. Humans and pantorans typically do not mix genetically."

Jango grunted in understanding. He understood only the most basics of genetics, and he imagined Anakin understood even less. "She'll think about it."

There was nothing else they needed from the doctor, so Jango took them back home.

Taun We was waiting with Boba and a small crate of supplies, the new clothes. Kaminoans were nothing if not efficient; the clothing fabricators must have gotten Anakin's measurements from the medical scans.

There wasn’t time for more than the quickest introductions, as their apartment had to be packed up and everything moved into bigger quarters. A squad of droids expedited the process, and after only a couple hours, they were fully moved into a new apartment.

Taun We and the droids left the newly expanded Fett clan alone to get properly acquainted.

“Boba,” Jango put a hand on his son’s shoulder, pushing him forward ever so slightly. “This is Anakin and her sister Shila Skywalker.”

Boba’s dark eyes traced over the Skywalkers. Confusion curled in his head, father had never brought home anyone before, much less a woman and child. He’d met a few of his father’s more trustworthy associates before, but Anakin didn’t look like a bounty hunter or well… much of anything. What was it about them that had prompted such a sudden uprooting? Why were they now living together?

He’d heard Jango and Anakin muttering about a baby earlier during the move. Was that why? Was she his father’s… girlfriend? Was Shila his half-sister? A natural born Fett heir?

Jango’s grip tightened on Boba’s shoulder and he quickly remembered his manners. “Hello.” He nodded quickly to Anakin and Shila, and then turned to his father for further explanation.

“Anakin and Shila are alit now. I expect you to treat them as such.”

Aliit? Them? That word meant something in Mando’a, Jango wouldn’t throw it around casually. But he knew his father’s adopted clan lines, he knew the branches and offshoots, and distant relations belonging to the family that had taken his father in as a boy. Skywalker was not one of those family names.

“Where did they come from?”

“Tatooine.”

That illuminated very little for Boba, but he could hear the mildly dismissive tone in his father’s words. Now was not the time for more questions.

Jango pushed Boba forward a little more. “Anakin and I need to talk. Can you keep Shila entertained?”

“Oh, okay.” Boba craned his neck a little to peek behind Anakin’s legs, where Shila was hiding. “Shila?” The child buried her face in the back of Anakin’s thighs.

Anakin smiled slightly and scooped her hand behind the child’s head and pushed her forward towards Boba. She said in gentle Huttese, “Go on, Shila, go with Boba.”

Shila stumbled forward, gripping tightly to Anakin’s sleeve. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and Boba didn’t miss the way she flinched away from Jango.

“Introduce yourself.” Anakin prompted.

Shila stuttered out in Huttese a quiet little, “H-hello.”

Boba looked back to his father once again, asking silently if Shila only spoke Huttese. His father nodded curtly, yes.

No worry there, Boba was near fluent in Huttese, so he smiled at the little girl and said back to her, “Hello Shila, I’m Boba.”

Her eyes lit up when she finally understood his words. Boba offered his hand and the child took it. He led her off down the hallway to her new bedroom, right across the hall from Boba’s.

“Let’s see what kind of toys we can find.”

Boba thought he was getting a little too old for toys, but the move had unearthed a lot of old stuff he had nearly forgotten about. He pulled the box down and set it on the floor for Shila to explore while he moved to the open door and tried to listen to whatever his father and Anakin were discussing, but they were speaking too quietly for him to overhear. Jango was clattering around the kitchen, preparing their evening meal, but also making enough noise to purposefully discourage eavesdropping.

Annoyed and disappointed, Boba turned back to Shila. She had tipped most of the boxes contents out onto the floor and had promptly ignored all of them for the plush Aiwha that was almost as big as she was. It must have been a gift or something, though Boba had never particularly cared for the stuffed animal; or many plus toys in general. Shila seemed to like it, though, so he held no qualms bestowing it upon her. Shila was so delighted and excited over the gift, she even dragged it out to the kitchen when they were called for dinner to show Anakin what Boba had given her.

Shila was all set to sit the Aiwha at the table with them for dinner, but Anakin had her put it back in her room. Jango wouldn’t have cared either way – it wouldn’t have been the first time a toddler would have insisted that a favorite toy had to be a dinner guest – but Anakin was still trying to figure out her place in this whole affair, so he wasn’t about to step in a parent her baby sister. Not yet at least.

Shila was still very much frightened of him, even without his armor and the knife, it would be some times before she warmed up to him. Probably when the pain and scar from her tracker faded. Having everyone around her able to speak the same language helped, but Jango knew the child couldn’t only know Huttese for forever. Galactic Basic was a must, as was Mando’a, and Kaminoan would be useful too. He had no doubt Shila would pick up new languages quickly, children that young learned fast. Anakin on the other hand needed to start Mando’a lessons as quickly as possible, picking up the language would be harder for her, but it was something she had to know.

Nobody in his aliit would not be fluent in Mando'a.

"You keep using that word," Anakin observed over dinner. "'A-leet' what does it mean?"

"Aliit means family, of the same clan."

She frowned at him, her brow furrowing in suspicion. "But we're not-"

"You are newly freed slaves. You have no clan or family. You're foundlings and I have taken you in, so now you are part of my aliit. The galaxy is safer for you this way, you have protection."

Anakin stared at him, caught between gratitude and suspicion. “Does this mean we will have to change our names?”

For practical reasons, it would be safer for Anakin and Shila to adopt new surnames; it reduced the chance people would recognize her by name. But he understood the importance and attachment beings could have to family names. If he told her she had to change, she would probably do so without complaint, but that might make her resent the name, resent him and this gift of freedom he was giving her. Then again, this wasn’t something he felt was within his power to decide for her. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Anakin nodded slowly, considering something else. “Does that mean we’re trapped here?”

Trapped wasn’t the word that Jango would have chosen, but he knew where she was coming from. What was the point of being free if you had nowhere to go except back to slavery? With no home, no family, no resources, or friends to turn to Kamino could feel like a trap.

“For now,” he said reassuringly, “You are safe here, and hidden. Kamino is not widely known to the galaxy, nor will the Hutts think to search for you here. And there’s no chance of anyone seeing you and turning you back over to him. If you find staying here to be truly interminable, I can make other arrangements for you, but it will take time.”

Most of the suspicion left Anakin, though Jango could still read a little unease in her. Freedom would take time to adjust to, and it had been less than a day. Her eyes skimmed over him and to the dark, rain-lashed windows that made up a wall of their living area. She managed an uneasy smile and said lightly, “Well, it is very different from Tatooine.”

[arcticdementor]

Media Twitter does not hate Substack because it’s pretending to be a platform when it’s a publisher; they don’t hate it because it’s filled with anti-woke white guys; they don’t hate it because of harassment or any such thing. I don’t think they really hate it at all. Substack is a small and ultimately not-very-relevant outpost in a vastly larger industry; they may not like it but it’s not important enough for them to hate it. What do they hate? They hate where their industry is and they hate where they are within their industry. But that’s a big problem that they don’t feel like they can solve. If you feel you can’t get mad at the industry that’s impoverishing you, it’s much easier to get mad at the people who you feel are unjustly succeeding in that industry. Trying to cancel Glenn Greenwald (again) because he criticizes the media harshly? Trying to tarnish Substack’s reputation so that cool, paid-up writer types leave it and the bad types like me get kicked off? That they can maybe do. Confronting their industry’s future with open eyes? Too scary, especially for people who were raised to see success as their birthright and have suddenly found that their degrees and their witheringly dry one-liners do not help them when the rent comes due.

…

Life in the “content” industry already sucks. A small handful of people make bank while the vast majority hustle relentlessly just to hold on to the meager pay they already receive. There are staff writers at big-name publications who produce thousands of words every week and who make less than $40,000 a year for their trouble. There are permanent employees of highly prestigious newspapers and magazines who don’t receive health insurance. Venues close all the time. Mourning another huge round of layoffs is a regular bonding experience for people in the industry. Writers have to constantly job hop just to try and grind out an extra $1,500 a year, making their whole lives permanent job interviews where they can’t risk offending their potential bosses and peers. Many of them dream of selling that book to save themselves financially, not seeming to understand that book advances have fallen 40% in 10 years - median figure now $6,080 - and that the odds of actually making back even that meager advance are slim, meaning most authors are making less than minimum wage from their books when you do the math. They have to tweet constantly for the good of their careers, or so they believe, which amounts to hundreds of hours of unpaid work a year. Their publications increasingly strong arm them into churning out pathetic pop-culture ephemera like listicles about the outfits on Wandavision. They live in fear of being the one to lose out when the next layoffs come and the game of media musical chairs spins up once again. They have to pretend to like ghouls like Ezra Klein and Jonah Peretti and make believe that there’s such a thing as “the Daily Beast reputation for excellence.”

I have always felt bad for them, despite our differences, because of these conditions. And they have a right to be angry. But they don’t have much in the way of self-awareness about where their anger really lies. A newsletter company hosting Bari Weiss is why you can’t pay your student loans? You sure?

They’ll tell you about the terrible conditions in their industry themselves, when they’re feeling honest. So what are they really mad about? That I’m making a really-just-decent guaranteed wage for just one year? Or that this decent wage is the kind of money many of them dream of making despite the fact that, in their minds, they’ve done everything right and played by all the rules? Is their anger really about a half-dozen guys whose writing you have to actively seek out to see? (If you click the button and put in your email address, you’ll get these newsletters. If you don’t, you won’t. So if you’re a media type who hates my writing, consider just… not clicking that button.) Or do they need someplace to put the rage and resentment that grows inside them as they realize, no, it’s not getting better, this is all I get?

It’s true that I have, in a very limited way, achieved the new American dream: getting a little bit of VC cash. I’m sorry. But it’s much much less than one half of what Felix Salmon was making in 2017 and again, it’s only for one year.

You think the writers complaining in that piece I linked to at the top wanted to be here, at this place in their career, after all those years of hustling? You think decades into their media career, the writers who decamped to Substack said to themselves “you know, I’d really like to be in my 40s and having to hope that enough people will pitch in $5 a month so I can pay my mortgage”? No. But the industry didn’t give them what they felt they deserved either. So they displace and project. They can hate Jesse Singal, but Jesse Singal isn’t where this burning anger is coming from. Neither am I. They’re so angry because they bought into a notoriously savage industry at the nadir of its labor conditions and were surprised to find that they’re drifting into middle age without anything resembling financial security. I feel for them as I feel for all people living economically precarious lives, but getting rid of Substack or any of its writers will not do anything to fix their industry or their jobs. They wanted more and they got less and it hurts. This isn’t what they dreamed. That’s what this is really about.

…

My own deal here is not mysterious. It’s just based on a fact that the blue checks on Twitter have never wanted to accept. I got offered money to write here for the same reason I got offered to write for The New York Times and Harper’s and The Washington Post and The LA Times, the same reason I’ve gotten a half-dozen invitations to pitch since I started here a few weeks ago, the same reason a literary agent sought me out and asked me to write a book, the same reason I sold that book for a decent advance: because I pull traffic. Though I am a social outcast from professional opinion writing, I have a better freelance publishing history than many, many of my critics who are paid-up, obedient members of the media social scene. Why? Because the editors who hired me thought I was a great guy? No. Because I pull traffic. I always have. That’s why you’re reading this on Substack right now.

…

A really important lesson to learn, in life, is this: your enemies are more honest about you than your friends ever will be. I’ve been telling the blue checks for over a decade that their industry was existentially fucked, that the all-advertising model was broken, that Google and Facebook would inevitably hoover up all the profit, that there are too many affluent kids fresh out of college just looking for a foothold in New York who’ll work for next to nothing and in doing so driving down the wages of everyone else, that their mockery of early subscription programs like Times Select was creating a disastrous industry expectation that asking your readers directly for money was embarrassing. Trump is gone and the news business is cratering. Michael Tracey didn’t make that happen. None of this anger will heal what’s wrong. If you get all of the people you don’t like fired from Substack tomorrow, what will change? How will your life improve? Greenwald will spend more time with his hottie husband and his beloved kids and his 6,000 dogs in his beautiful home in Rio. Glenn will be fine. How do we do the real work of getting you job security and a decent wage?

…

But how do things get better in that way? Only through real self-criticism (which Twitter makes impossible) and by asking hard questions. Questions like one that has not been credibly confronted a single time in this entire media meltdown: why are so many people subscribing to Substacks? What is the traditional media not providing that they’re seeking elsewhere? Why have half a million people signed up as paying subscribers of various Substack newsletters, if the establishment media is providing the diversity of viewpoints that is an absolute market requirement in a country with a vast diversity of opinions? You can try to make an adult determination about that question, to better understand what media is missing, or you can read this and write some shitty joke tweet while your industry burns to the ground around you. It’s your call.

Substack might fold tomorrow, but someone would else sell independent media; there’s a market. Substack might kick me and the rest of the unclean off of their platforms tomorrow, but other critics of social justice politics would pop up here; there’s a market. Establishment media’s takeover by this strange brand of academic identity politics might grow even more powerful, if that’s even possible, but dissenters will find a place to sell alternative opinion; there’s a market. What there might not be much of a market for anymore is, well, you - college educated, urban, upwardly striving if not economically improving, woke, ironic, and selling that wokeness and that irony as your only product. Because you flooded the market. Everyone in your entire industry is selling the exact same thing, tired sarcastic jokes and bleating righteousness about injustices they don’t suffer under themselves, and it’s not good in basic economic terms if you’re selling the same thing as everyone else. You add that on to structural problems within your business model and your utter subservience to a Silicon Valley that increasingly hates you, well…. I get why you’re mad. And I get that you don’t like me. But I’m not what you’re mad about. Not really.

In the span of a decade or so, essentially all professional media not explicitly branded as conservative has been taken over by a school of politics that emerged from humanities departments at elite universities and began colonizing the college educated through social media. Those politics are obscure, they are confusing, they are socially and culturally extreme, they are expressed in a bizarre vocabulary, they are deeply alienating to many, and they are very unpopular by any definition. The vast majority of the country is not woke, including the vast majority of women and people of color. How could it possibly be healthy for the entire media industry to be captured by any single niche political movement, let alone one that nobody likes? Why does no one in media seem willing to have an honest, uncomfortable conversation about the near-total takeover of their industry by a fringe ideology?

And the bizarre assumption of almost everyone in media seems to have been that they could adopt this brand of extreme niche politics, in mass, as an industry, and treat those politics as a crusade that trumps every other journalistic value, with no professional or economic consequences. They seem to have thought that Americans were just going to swallow it; they seem to have thought they could paint most of the country as vicious bigots and that their audiences would just come along for the ride. They haven’t. In fact Republicans are making great hay of the collapse of the media into pure unapologetic advocacy journalism. Some people are turning to alternative media to find options that are neither reactionary ideologues or self-righteous woke yelling. Can you blame them? Substack didn’t create this dynamic, and neither did I. The exact same media people who are so angry about Substack did, when they abandoned any pretense to serving the entire country and decided that their only job was to advance a political cause that most ordinary people, of any gender or race, find alienating and wrong. So maybe try and look at where your problems actually come from. They’re not going away.

Now steel yourselves, media people, take a shot of something strong, look yourself in the eye in the mirror, summon you most honest self, and tell me: am I wrong?

[leotssukinaga]

It’s a Great Big World (She’s Just Another Girl)

Oikawa x Fem!Reader

Summary:  Support comes in many forms, he knows that, but being told by his friends that he'll move on doesn't help when he's not ready to. Promising someone something they don't want isn't the way to fix things. This isn't even something that can be fixed. Not by them, at least. Song: Just Another Girl- The Killers Word Count: 2479 A/N: Angst is my favourite to write, I’m sorry. Warnings: Alcohol consumption.

Sitting in the locker room, the dam he'd built starts to break again, and he tries his best to keep it in place, to stay stable. He's here to play volleyball. He needs to get you out of his mind. "Oikawa?" That's his name. Isn't it? It doesn't feel right. He doesn't feel a connection to it, not anymore. He doesn't feel a connection to much these days. Not when you're not here. "Oikawa!" "What?!" "The games about to start." Oh, right. He's a volleyball player. Hadn't he just thought about that? How did he forget? You'd always supported his career, he still has pictures of you in his jacket, holding a sign with his name. He wonders if you think about him. If you see a match on TV and wonder how he's doing, if you search his name sometimes to catch up on his progress. If you still care, like you used to when you belonged to him, when you didn't have someone else's ring on your finger. "Are you sure you're okay to play?" "I'll be fine." He doesn't mean it, doesn't believe it, and when he steps on the court his usual persona doesn't come to him. It's like you took Oikawa with you, left him as lonely, broken Tōru. He can barely register the game. When he serves the ball he doesn't feel it hit his hand, the yells of the crowd don't reach his ears. The next thing he processes is that he's staring at the ceiling, and he's not sure why. A face comes into his field of vision, filled with concern, words he can't hear spilling from his mouth. Does his knee hurt? He must have fallen on it. Why doesn't he care? Is he really that broken? 

"It's like you weren't even present in the game. What's going on with you?" Iwaizumi's glare burns into the side of his head as he stares upwards. Tōru hadn't even realised he was in the country. Perhaps he'd come to see him play, flown all this way, and he'd disappointed his friend- just like he'd disappointed you. So many times he'd disappointed you. That's why you left, right? "Oikawa." Iwa doesn't sound angry, Oikawa knows his angry voice, but the concern laced into his voice is worse than anger. "I miss her, Iwa." "You miss-...who?" "Y/N." "Still? ""What do you mean still?" "Its been 2 years. This isn't healthy, Tōru." It's been a long time since he heard his given name from his best friends mouth. "It's time to move on." "What, like she did?" "Are you mad at her for that?" "No! No, I'm not I just... All I do is think about her and she's out there planning a wedding that isn't ours." "You'll find someone. Someone you're meant to marry." "Did that really just come out of your mouth?" "I'm trying to help you, dumbass." He doesn't say anything else. Talking about it hurts too much. It's the only thing that does hurt anymore. He never thought he'd miss other types of pain. 

Next time he's in Japan, he can't help but drive past your house. It's stupid, he knows it is, but he finds himself on your street before he knows it. Your bicycle isn't in the driveway and neither is his car, and the fact that you're not home brings him no comfort. Maybe you're working, you always loved your job. He can so easily recall the glint in your eyes as you talked about it, the extra hours you dedicated to it until you were so exhausted you ended up crying in his arms, desperate for rest that you wouldn't allow yourself. He wonders if you still do that, if you cover other people's shifts until you've gone 15 days without a day off and you can barely stand, if you still have a whole cabinet in that house dedicated to coffee. He doesn't know how long he's sat here, mind wandering. He desperately wants to know if you're still the girl he knew two years ago. The girl he did nothing but let down; the girl he stood up time after time, who he never told he loved enough, who he was never really there for. He drove you away, he knows that. He's probably better alone, he can't ruin things if it's just him. He wishes he could handle being by himself. He knows he can't. A car horn sounds behind him, and he realises where he is. Maybe he's not in the right mindset to be driving. He makes his way home regardless, somehow without zoning out again. 

The house feels empty, as it has for the past 2 years. Sometimes he still expects you to be there, reading on the couch or sleeping hunched over the desk in the study. Things lack colour now, and that isn't a metaphor. Your purple and yellow blanket no longer lives on the armchair in the corner, none of the painted photo frames you'd put on the walls remained. Everything about you had been bright, and without you it was like he'd been plunged into an endless night. How could he move on, knowing he'd never see the sunlight again?

3 weeks after what would've been your 4 year anniversary, Oikawa finds himself at the house of a lady who claims to be a fortune teller. He doesn't know if he believes in it, he thinks he probably doesn't, but- well, desperate measures and all that. After all, who's to say it's not real? He believes in aliens, maybe he can find it in himself to believe in this too. Although, even aliens have lost some of their appeal. Too many memories tied to you for that. He almost wishes he could erase you from his mind, reclaim the things he shared with you as his own, but he doubts that would dull the emptiness in his heart. When she tells him he'll move on, that there's happiness and love in his future, that the pain she senses in him (she says this as if she figured it out, but it's not that much of an epiphany considering he told her about it when he first sat across from her) will ease- well, he really tries to believe her. The truth is, he's not sure he wants to move on. It's not like he can't let you go, he'd just rather have you back. The whole ordeal leaves him a little disoriented, if he's being honest, and suddenly he finds himself at home again with almost no memory of leaving her house.

Time seems to move differently these days, but there's no consistency to that change. Some days he gets in the shower and finds himself at the table 3 days later, food he doesn't even remember cooking sat in front of him. Other days he lies in bed for weeks on end, but when he looks at the clock only 5 minutes have passed. He's not sure what changed- perhaps it was him. Maybe he's losing his grip on reality. Then again, he doesn't know if he ever had one in the first place, and that's probably why he's so lost without you. You were the only stability he ever really had. It's hard to believe that the world moves on, that you moved on. All those trips you planned, the dreams you shared with him, the late night talks and the existential crises and the way you'd sometimes crack an egg on the back of his head while you were baking just to laugh when you watched him go red- those moments weren't his anymore. They were never really his at all, just something you let him be a part of. His access to your life had been cut off so suddenly, and quite frankly he feels he'd rather have lost access to his own. 

When he gets an invitation to the wedding of one of his team members, he tries to quell the pang of guilt as he stashes it in a drawer and tries not to cry. He probably won't go. Is it rude to miss the happiest moment of someone's life because he's heartbroken? It's probably ruder to have a mental breakdown at someone elses wedding, and he's not sure he can handle such a painful reminder of something he never got to do with you. He wonders why they're getting married so fast, and then realises that it's not really that fast at all. Time is actually moving for the rest of the world, it's just Tōru who's stuck in the past. Sometimes he wakes up to a cold bed and wonders why you're not there, searching for you until it hits him that you left and he falls apart all over again. But when he looks back on your relationship and finds nothing but his flaws- he can't bring himself to blame you for not sticking around. 

Your biggest point of contention could have been so easily fixed. The countless arguments, the nights you spent on the couch, the anger and betrayal in your voice when you would ask him about it- whether he told the truth or not. Your brother was a kid, is a kid, and honestly what kind of 24 year old fights with his girlfriends 16 year old brother? He wants to cry when he thinks about it. He pops up sometimes in your social media posts (and Tōru knows he shouldn't check them but he can't help himself- he needs proof you're still out there, that you didn't leave the world like you left him), in family vacations and wedding planning posts and a particularly tear jerking message to him when he got into the University he wanted, and if Tōru could apologise for the relationship he'd had with him, if he could give him all the love and luck in the world and be the older brother you'd begged him to try and be- well, maybe things wouldn't be so bad right now. Your fiancé- the word brings bile rising to his throat like a sickly tidal wave- seems to get on with him well, and that just drills even more holes in his already hollow heart. 

"You know, you could get any girl you wanted." Mattsun offers, not so helpfully, when it's been nearly 3 years and he's still heartbroken. The engagement ring he'd bought you just before the breakup- the one he never gave to you- is stashed in the drawer next to his bed. Theyknow it’s still there. "Yeah, dude, you'll find someone else. There's like a million people in the world-" “Try 7 billion." "Listen- nobody said I was smart," Makki points at him like he's debating something when he says this, and it's fairly obvious that he's more than a little drunk. They've all had their fair share, run up a tab that would make a sailor faint, but Oikawa couldn't feel more sober if he tried. "But I'm trying to help you here. My poi- my point is- well. Why are you so hung up on her? She's just- she's another girl, you know? Plenty of fish and all that. Unless fish aren't your thing." "Why would fish be his thing?" "I don't know man, I'm hammered." "We all are. But you know, he's right! She clearly wasn't the one for you- you just gotta find the one who is." "I don't- have either of you considered that she was the one for me, but I wasn't the one for her? You think after nearly three goddamn years of missing her I haven't tried? I can't move on. She's all there ever was for me and she's- she probably doesn't even think about me." The two men in front of him share a glance before Mattsun stands up. "Come on. You gotta get home, get some rest." With one of their arms hooked around each of his, the two of them help him home. 

When they enter his house- for the first time in a long while- they make no effort to hide their shock. "Jesus Christ dude." Makki whispers. "When was the last time you cleaned?" "I don't know." He admits, but he's too numb to be ashamed. It's not like it's dirty, per se. He throws his trash away, and does his dishes and laundry, but he doesn't put books back, his furniture has been rearranged 4 times this week alone and- "Are you sleeping in the living room?" "I- I can't sleep in the bed anymore. It's too cold without her." He thinks the sympathy on their faces makes him feel worse than when they were telling him to get over you. When they finally leave, he sits on his pile of blankets and pillows, their words running through his mind. 

If you were just another girl, he'd have moved on by now. He'd be able to sleep for more than an hour at a time, he wouldn't wake up crying after dreaming of you. He wouldn't feel the weight of exhaustion seeping into his bones with every step he took. Nights wouldn't be restless and painful, spent wishing he could turn back time until he got it right. 

If you were just another girl the world would look the way it used to. Colours would still be bright, sunsets would bring him joy, he'd still go U.F.O watching at 3am. The moon wouldn't be distorted by his tears when he sat in the yard and stared at it- for hours or for seconds he was never sure. He'd still live in the world, rather than simply observing it's changes like a lost ghost. He's not dead- at least, he's pretty sure he isn't- but nothing he touches seems to move the way it used to, none of his emotions seem like they belong to him anymore. 

If you were just another girl, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be sat in front of the TV, wondering why he can't hear it. If the sound is off, he can't bring himself to care enough to change that. Sometimes real people talk to him and he wonders why they're muted. Sometimes he wakes up halfway through the day- already going about his life but with no memory of anything before that moment. Sometimes it feels like he's watching himself through the TV he wastes so much time in front of. He wonders if he's depressed. He forgets what he was thinking about before he can come to a conclusion.

It's a great big world, and you're just another girl, but to Oikawa Tōru you're the only one in it worth anything. And it seems like you're the only one in it who wants nothing to do with him. He's stopped trying to get used to that. 

taglist: @tremendousglitterthing​ @svtbitch​ @the-fandom-ness​

[inevitably-johnlocked]

d’you have any fics w sherlock n mycroft being sweet/protective brothers?

Hey Nonny!!

YES, AND I have enough to do a Part 2 list for you of the list I was gonna rec to you, so HERE YOU GO!! :D

Feel free to add more, guys!

BIG BROTHER MYCROFT Pt 2

See Also: 

Big-Brother Mycroft Pt 1

Matchmaker Mycroft

Kintsugi by distantstarlight (E, 14,772 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Regret / Remorse, Loneliness, Separation, Drug Use, Healing, Protective John, Sad Sherlock, Dev. Rel., Complicated Relationships, Love, Angst With Happy Ending, Sherlock is Called Freak, John’s Penance, Voyeurism, Doctor/Caretaker John, Guilty John, Detox, Fingering, Love Confessions, Cuddling, Slight Non-Con Turns Enthusiastic Consent, Virgin Sherlock) – Sherlock Holmes becomes estranged from the man he had once considered his best friend after John lets him down horribly in public. It seems that the world’s only consulting detective will be on his own once again…or will he?

The Winter Garden by Callie4180 (T, 31,213 w., 13 Ch. || Post-S4, Retirement, Christmas, Slow Burn, Grown-Up Rosie, Parenthood, Rosie’s Cat, Angst with Happy Ending, Holidays, Beekeeping, Magical Realism, Sherlock POV, Sherlock’s Violin, Future Fic, Sussex, Honey, Magical Healing Honey, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Scar, First Kiss, Touching) – As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he’s given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost…magical.

The Whore of Babylon Was a Perfectly Nice Girl by out_there (E, 32,897 w., 1 Ch. || Past Drug Use, Blowjobs, Toplock, Mentions of Switching, Rough Sex, Background Cases, Sherlock’s Past, Sherlock’s Sexual History, Experienced Sherlock, Past One Night Stands, Fingering, Cuddling, Possessive Sherlock, Paris Holiday, Bed Sharing, Naked Lie-Ins, Bathing Together, Confessions, Worried Sherlock, Laying in Bed All Day, Meddling Mycroft, Naked Lazy Day) – Sherlock walks into a room and takes all the space right out of it. He does the same inside John’s head. !!Mycroft discourages the relationship

carrying up his morning tea by darcylindbergh (E, 34,504 w., 5 Ch. || Post S3, Minor Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Wakes/Funerals, Estranged John, Pining Sherlock, Depression/Insecurity, Slow Burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Chronic Pain/Injury, Reconciliation, Awkwardness, Loneliness, Scars, Angst With Happy Ending) – His fingers tremble as he dials and he can’t force them steady. Familiar number, even though he hasn’t used it in two years. He isn’t even sure he should be calling it now, but she’d asked. She’d made him promise.

Anchor Point by trickybonmot (E, 49,856 w., 80 Ch. || Truman Show AU || Psychological Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Dark Characters / Fic, Alternating First/Third Person, Protective John, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Tender Moments, Love Confessions, Hand/Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Jealous John, First Kiss/Time, Literal Big Brother is Watching) – The world tunes in nightly for Sherlock, the ultimate in reality TV: Sherlock Holmes, a real person with a legendary name, unknowingly lives out his life in a staged setting contrived by his brother. Things get complicated when a retired army doctor joins the show to play the part of Sherlock’s closest friend. This fic borrows its concept from the 1998 film, the Truman Show. However, you don’t need to have any knowledge of the movie to enjoy this story.

Points by lifeonmars (E, 53,791 w., 42 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || HLV Rewrite / Canon Divergence, Married Life, Pregnancy / Baby Watson, Drinking to Cope, Boxing / Fisticuffs, Clueless John, Angst, Minor Medical Drama, Tattoos, Christmas, First Kiss/Time, Eventual Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Doctor John, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Case Fic, Drugging, Blow/Hand Job, Emotional Love Making, Parenthood, Passage of Time) – What if His Last Vow never happened? This fic picks up a few months after John and Mary’s wedding, in an alternate universe where Magnussen doesn’t exist, but Mary is still pregnant. Life continues – just in a different direction. And slowly, Sherlock and John find their way to each other.

The Thing Is by TSylvestris (E, 56,743 w., 21 Ch. || Case Fic, Dev. Rel., Anal/Oral, Blow Jobs, Meddling Mycroft, Drama, Romance, Humour, Casual Encounters, Pining Idiots, Possessive Sherlock, Orgasm Delay, Rough / Alley Sex, Public Sex, John Whump, Drugged John, Emotional Love Making, Awkward Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Switchlock, BAMF John) – The problem with living with Sherlock, John thought, was that you never, never, ever knew the significance of anything. Like your flatmate’s nose buried in your hair. Whilst you’re in bed. Part 1 of Nitroglycerine

Impossible to Feign by achray (M, 49,204 w., 12 Ch. || TRF Rewrite / Reverse Reichenbach, Suicidal Ideations / Discussions, Drug Use/Abuse, Mutual Pining, Friends With Benefits, John Accepts his Sexuality, Anxious Sherlock, Meddling Mycroft, Depression, Hallucinations, Secret Agent John, BAMF John, Reunion, Make-Up Sex, Ambiguous Ending) – Sherlock leant forward, his long fingers curving round to grip John’s.“I won’t let him win,” he said, eyes hard. “I will do whatever it takes to get you out.”

The Bang and the Clatter by earlgreytea68 (M, 137,049 w., 37 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Baseball AU || Slow Burn / Dev. Rel., Possessive/Obsessive Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Body Appreciation, Depression, Closeted Sexuality, Family, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Ogling Each Other, Anxious Sherlock, Panic Attack, Drunkenness, Talk of Forever, Big Feelings™, Mycroft is Meddling and an Asshole) – Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it’s a baseball AU. Part 1 of Baseball

Proving A Point by elldotsee & J_Baillier (E, 186,270 w., 28 Ch. || Me Before You Fusion || Medical Realism, Insecure John, Depression, Romance, Angst, POV John, Sherlock Whump, Serious Illness, Doctor John, Injury Recovery, Assisted Suicide, Sherlock’s Violin, Awkward Sexual Situations, Alcoholism, Drugs, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, Body Image, Friends to Lovers, Hurt / Comfort, Pain, Big Brother Mycroft, Intimacy, Anxiety, PTSD, Family Issues, Psychological Trauma, John Whump, Case Fics, Loneliness, Pain) – Invalided home from Afghanistan, running out of funds and convinced that his surgical career is over, John Watson accepts a mysterious job offer to provide care and companionship for a disabled person. Little does he know how much hangs in the balance of his performance as he settles into his new life at Musgrave Court.

Free Falling by twistedthicket1 (M, 203,574 w., 38 Ch. || Guardian Angel John, Fluff and Angst, Humour, Kidlock / Teenlock, Mystrade & Johnlock, Passage of Time, Possessive John, Drug Use / Overdose, Victor Trevor, Additional Tags to be Added) – All Guardian angels are born with a Chosen human. When this child is born, the angel comes into being to protect and care for them during their life on Earth. For John Watson, all he cares about in the world revolves around his Chosen, Sherlock Holmes. Watching him grow up though, the angel soon learns that God must have had a sense of humour the day he decided to make Sherlock, as trouble seems to follow him like a magnet wherever he goes. John can’t decide what’s worse, the idea of losing his Chosen one, or the fact that he may be breaking the most taboo law of heaven as he disguises himself as a human to better protect and befriend the beloved detective he’s always watched from afar. He was meant to care for him. But what happens when caring evolves into something more? What happens when an emotion an angel is supposed to be incapable of possessing comes to life suddenly and viciously inside John’s chest?

[askaceattorney]

Dear Inferno,

Essay?  You just said the magic word.

Trucy’s a bit of a lengthy character to unpack, but I’ll see what I can pull out of my hat.

Trucy Wright, CEO, magic extraordinaire, and maiden of mystery, formerly Trucy Gramarye, the 8-year-old prodigy magician.  She’s the kind of character who never forgets to smile (that’s part of her creed, in fact), and always has a magic trick up her sleeve.  Or her magic panties, in this case.

This optimism and charm of hers do a lot to make her likable, both as the second non-Maya assistant in the series and as a side character who provides some comedy relief for the agency when morale is low.

But interestingly enough, this isn’t the sort of character she’s introduced as.

Trucy’s first “magic act” is to appear out of nowhere as Apollo is trying to contemplate how his boss suddenly became a murder suspect.  Rather than offering a smile and an encouraging message, she decides to play the role of a mysterious fortuneteller.

If I didn’t know who was saying this, I might think it was a Toad from Super Mario Bros. 3.

So far, all she is to Apollo (and us) is a mysterious messenger trying to help her father...until he realizes just who her father is.

This presents a new mystery for Apollo (and for us): How did a young magician wind up in the custody of an ex-lawyer?  And on top of that, why was a locket with her picture in the possession of a shady drifter...and why did Phoenix feel the need to take it from his dead body?

Unfortunately, Phoenix is just as cryptic as Trucy in her debut game, but it’s far from the end of Apollo’s interaction with them.

After two months of coping with the loss of his first position as an attorney and considering Phoenix’s offer to work at the legendary Wright & Co. Law Offices, Apollo finally shows up there to discover that it not only went through a name chance, but now has it’s own CEO -- the same mysterious girl he ran into before!

Before he knows it, he’s being interviewed for the Wright Talent Agency by a magician whose energetic and professional attitude completely contradicts her father’s calm, laid-back personality.  It isn’t until his misunderstanding is cleared up that she finally introduces herself:

It’s here that we also hear Trucy’s theme, “Child of Magic,” for the first time, which does a great job of conveying the sort of delightful, peppy aura Trucy creates just by being herself.  Speaking of which, Apollo gets to “enjoy” a bunch more of her optimism as she explains her and Phoenix’s current situation.  According to her, the former law office was converted into an agency for acquiring talented individuals.

She also describes what might be her most important role in Phoenix’s life, whether she knows it or not.

And so she did.  She may not have actually cooked for him (or maybe she did, we don’t know), but she did provide Phoenix, a well-respected lawyer who’d just been cheated out of his badge, with exactly what he needed at the time: a reason to keep going.  It’s hard to imagine what his life would’ve been like without her making her entrance into it, so to speak, but because of her, he was compelled to pull himself together, find a job, and begin to move on from one of the darkest moments of his life.  In short, Trucy became a light in his darkness.  Pretty impressive for an 8-year-old, huh?

We’ll get to that in due time, though.  The next thing we learn about Trucy comes from her Daddy, and once again, it’s pretty vague.

What could this “talent” of hers be?  Besides being a talented magician and motivator, that is?  We don’t find that out until after she’s spent some time as Apollo’s investigating assistant.

Thus she officially becomes Apollo’s “Maya,” a role she fills remarkably well, being just as cute, perky, annoying, and naive as Maya ever was.

Every good lawyer needs one of those, after all.

Then, when Apollo finally gets his first *cough* normal case, we get to see what Trucy’s capable of in the courtroom.  ...Well, after a quick diversion.

Has Professor Layton gone rogue and joined the mafia?  Nope, it’s just one of Trucy’s best tricks -- the Amazing Mr. Hat!

Not even going to ask how that works.

After this hilarious sideshow, Trucy reveals what her special “talent” is, and how it can help Apollo.

For the first time in the series, we have a courtroom mechanic that doesn’t involve pressing someone, presenting evidence, or asking the right questions -- instead we get to use a brand-new technique to slow time down and spot witnesses’ nervous habits when they tell lies, and our young magician friend is just the one to introduce it to us (much like Pearl introduced the Psyche-Lock mechanic to Phoenix).

She apparently knows about Apollo’s “perceive” ability from Phoenix, but how does she happen to have the same gift herself?  That remains a mystery until we learn about her past, which doesn’t happen until near the end of the game.

Thankfully, we aren’t playing the game here, so we can just skip ahead to that part.

During the third case, Trucy’s real father, Zak Gramarye, is given a brief mention, but all we learn about him is that he’s a magician who once belonged to Troupe Gramarye.  Who is he today, though?

It turns out his identity is none other than Shadi Smith, the card-playing drifter who was murdered by Kristoph (and the one partly responsible for Phoenix’s disbarment).  We could get into his *ah-HEM* wonderful fathering technique, but the important thing here is what we learn from him about Trucy and Apollo’s gift.

Whatever this strange ability is, it’s apparently hereditary, passed down from Trucy’s mother.  Also, as Phoenix deduces, Apollo shares this ability because, shocker of shockers, the two of them share the same mother, Thalassa Gramarye.

Who’d have thunk it?  Not even Phoenix, even though he’s a good thunker.

Speaking of Phoenix, let’s go back to his first meeting with young Trucy.

When she first entered his life, she was a famous magician’s daughter whose first “performance” was to help him escape a Guilty verdict.  She of course didn’t know at the time how long it would be before she saw him again, or the lawyer she was talking to would soon be replacing him.  It’s here, by the way, that we learn we she gets her charming grin from.

And then...tragedy.

With her father missing and no living relatives to take care of her, Trucy’s future looks even bleaker than Phoenix’s (which is saying a lot).  Thankfully, he offers to let her stay with him until her father comes back, and does his best to help her feel comfortable.  Luckily for both of them, her father already gave her some advice.

Then comes the big switcheroo.  As mentioned before, Trucy provided Phoenix with a reason to keep going after losing his job, but when we see how it actually took place, it becomes clear that she took it a step further than that -- she practically led him forward by the hand.

This makes me wonder something: could her vigorous encouragement have reminded Phoenix of another young woman who came into his life just after a tragedy occurred?

Maybe it’s just speculation, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Maya had crossed his mind.  He even told Trucy she could call him “Nick” if she wanted to.  If nothing else, that provided some serious heartfelt nostalgia.

One other thing I loved about AJ: AA is how it showed Trucy’s more fragile side near the end.  Things worked out pretty well for her after the ordeal with her father, but that doesn’t mean she felt no emotion about it.

We’ll never know how much of her sadness is due to her father’s death and how much is due to his sudden disappearance, but at least we’re given a chance to see her being less magical and more human.

And finally, let us fast-forward past Trucy’s adoption, her accidental reunion with her half-brother, and her antics in the courtroom to the final (and in my opinion, the best) big moment for her: The Magical Turnabout.  Here we get to see, through the magic of animation and voice-overs, how expertly Trucy performs and how confidently she speaks for the first time.

But just when things seem to be going better than ever for her and the new Troupe Gramarye...

What a way to go, huh?

Thankfully, that situation was an imaginary one (and she came out on top, as always), but then a real disaster occurs.

She’s lucky enough to have Apollo and Athena there to help her, but she’s left to wonder if Mr. Reus’s death was due to a fatal accident on her part.  If so, it would be a devastating blow to her magic career, besides destroying Troupe Gramarye’s reputation after it had just made a recovery.  Luckily, there’s one person who doesn’t believe she could make such a mistake, and who can see through her fake smile.

Then we get one more glimpse of Trucy’s human side, but for a completely different reason: Apollo’s faith in her performing ability, even as she struggles to believe in herself.

Unlike her previous crying scene, this one is more bittersweet than sad.  Having faith in your friends might be a cliche, but it’s moments like this when you see just how much it matters.

Things go from bad to worse when she suddenly finds herself in the Accused of Murder Club while her Daddy’s out of the country, but like always, the truth comes out in the end.  But here’s what I love most about this case: Trucy herself gets to play a role in proving her innocence, simply by doing what she does best: performing magic!

Besides giving her defense team new evidence to work with, her trick completely turns the room around.  Even Apollo couldn’t detect the sword switch with his kinetic vision.  Not bad for an impromptu performance, huh?

And if that wasn’t beautiful enough, the judge himself asks Trucy a favor before announcing a verdict:

Looks like she’s officially earned the title, hasn’t she?

So with all this in mind, what’s the best way to describe Trucy?  She’s a great magician, a strong motivator, a bringer of joy and encouragement to those around her, a comedy relief when one is needed, and...  Oh yeah, I forgot -- it turns out she’s also a bit of a sadist.

Sort of a weird character quirk for Capcom to give her, in my opinion, but not too hard to believe, I guess.

But most importantly, she’s a true entertainer, much like her old Daddy, and someone who knows how to smile even in the darkest of times and who has an eye (two, in fact) for the truth, much like her new Daddy.  You could say she represents the best of both worlds.

You’re still a jerk, though, Zak.

-The Co-Mod

[ddaenghoney]

chapter seventeen

masterlist link in blog description.

As a successful songwriter, you want nothing more than the acknowledgment that the chart-topping musical pieces are your own creations. But contracts, relationships, and the difficulty of facing the stakes involved head on, keep your mouth shut until pressure builds too much.

Pairing(s): Park Jimin x Y/N, Min Yoongi x Y/N

disclaimer: any characters depicted do not represent the actual personality of the respected idol in real life.

Series warning(s)/genre(s): Chapter-based written fic, Slow-burn relationship(s), Fake-dating, Unrequited love, Songwriter/producer!oc, idol!Jimin, idol/songwriter/producer!Yoongi, friends with benefits, drama, romance, smut, angst, fluff (updated as needed)

Chapter warning(s): quite a bit of unsettling/paranoia themes around the middle of the chapter (again in regards to stalking from fans). Also, some making out that alludes to more after it ! 

Word count: 5481

if you enjoy please, please let me know!

Headlines of multiple news sites, trending hashtags, and seemingly hundreds of threads in online forums center around the topic that goes viral the day after. With SoundWave wasting no time to act subtly, choosing to take a blunt rebuttal of the independent release of music, they announce a separation of SUGA from the label. Without offering much other than the central reasoning in the official statement attributing a lack of loyalty, and openly rebellious attitude in the way of involving his personal relationships into his music without consent of the company, Yoongi’s public reputation takes a giant strike.

The primary attitude of his fanbase is startled confusion, as is similarly the feelings of pop culture commenters, who all agree that this action made by SoundCloud seems incredibly rash considering how high of status the title SUGA has in the music industry. A threshold of rumors contaminate social websites, all trying to gauge underlying motivations for the company’s decision to completely drop Min Yoongi from the label, feeling like there has to be more words each side could make but holds back.

With slowly passing weeks of conversation stirring faster from the sensationalized wonder that accumulates in the silence of both involved parties, fandoms grow impatient. A future tour scheduled to begin early next year is obviously squashed, and the subtle hints of new music thrown far from any burner of focus. Worry holds a multitude of loyal fans who are eager for clarification from their favorite idol, but no answers are clearly given. Blurry images of Yoongi to and from SoundWave only serve to prove that there are talks going on, especially when sightings of him and Taehyung begin growing consistent as well as thought to be moving vans relocating assumed sound equipment.

Naturally, frustration builds. Latching in tight grips onto every instance your name or image appears on the internet, angry shouts question your involvement with this entire ordeal. Confused as people are, they have little doubt that you deserve the bulk of blame for this dissent between Yoongi and SoundWave. After all, everything had always seemed steady in growth for SUGA’s career before your public involvement with him.

You realize this isn’t true. So much of the situation still lingers in the darkness, far from cameras and microphones to state the severity of everything that led the sequence of events to this point. You know that this whole problem isn’t entirely your fault, but it feels like it. Words cling to your psyche every time you try to peruse even the filtered social media feed of those you follow on instagram, but the comments still remain and grow on every one of your own posts, making you delete the app after only three days into the chaotic situation.

Apologies become common, though usually squashed within your reply to whenever Yoongi tells you them. Worry brims in his eyes just as well as his chest every time he notices anything off in your expressions that relate to all of the responses online. You’re quick to state that this isn’t his fault either, and not to worry about the silence he’s forced to keep while legal affairs are being handled. You’ve already settled yourself with the high chance that he won’t ever be able to make a statement that gives out the picture, just like you won’t ever be able to without losing every royalty you have.

While the online response does burn on your nerves, you can calm yourself by remembering it will eventually blow over to a new topic. It could take a lot of time, but eventually you’ll be able to not be the villain in every assumed narration of Yoongi being fired from SoundWave. Instead, concern wraps around any thoughts you have towards a new job.

With your work history visibly clean of any ink on your resume, you don’t have much to say to combat the fact. And as such you simply use your degree as well as projects from when you were a college student to talk yourself up. But you aren’t naive-- you realize that the gap of time from you receiving your diploma to the current date unease potential employers.

At this point, you’re no longer surprised. The man sitting across from you sits tapping his pen on papers in front of him. They’re spread in a controlled mess on a folder you brought. His eyes scan the words over, but because of the minute hand on the clock behind him reaching a new number, you’re inclined to believe the silence so far isn’t favorable.

Answering the initial questions isn’t usually difficult. In fact, you believe you win over a few uncertain glances in the way you speak with experience, but any opinion gained usually diminishes at the skinny portfolio you present. Every time you’ve passed it, you also feel underwhelmed by the humble sight of it, garnering none of the weight you should have the thin wings filled with. All of that is within your mind.

All of the tension in your mind fills more and more, contemplating what there is to take away from your meager showings of visible experience. This tension comes to a throbbing disappointment when the majority of those who have looked at the portfolio mention Yoongi’s name under their breath.

A large part of you becomes increasingly defensive from these tiny comments. Controlling your mouth from blurting questions in reply to their intentions is a difficult task, especially when the issues have been consistent. Multiple misinterpretations veil over the actual situation underneath the media’s depictions and what your residual contractual obligations to SoundWave will let you fix.

The man’s eyebrows furrow, his head tilting as something he sees perplexes him. You don’t openly react, simply sitting in the chair, legs not particularly tensely poised on the floor and your back only erect enough to be formal. Posture forgot a few interviews ago in favor of knowing glances at the employers body languages when reading through. This subtle confused realization on his face is familiar, but you smile politely as he gets up stating he needs to step out for a moment. As though he’s the first one to go ask questions about you to other people.

Walking into the lobby from the small meeting room, you do little more than sigh, reaching to rub your shoulder as you contemplate your next action. The man’s voice when he came back to the room and stated you’ll get contact in the future if they’d like to explore job opportunities was entirely monotone, and you can’t even be offended by the fact at this point.

Still, reality weighs on your shoulders, growing uncomfortably nagging, and at quickening paces when televisions like the one hanging on the opposite wall post pop news stations with Yoongi’s pictures and titles of dissention between himself and SoundWave.

“Oh,” A voice from the side disrupts the settling glare in your eyes. Softening your expression to one of surprise you turn your head as a figure comes to you. A smile on her face that seems disingenuous, but fitting when matched with the consistent brand name on each article of clothing apparent. “It was Y/N, right?”

In the medley of companies you set out to try landing jobs at, you didn’t take into consideration their current idols. More interested in just getting a place to continue working. But as Seulgi approached you from the way of the elevators, there’s a piece inside of you somewhat glad you’re likely to be rejected from this one. “Yeah.”

“What a coincidence to run into you here.” She says as she places her phone in her handbag. “Looking for work? Heard that you’ve taken a chance at the music production world.”

For the sake of pleasantry, you don’t irritably sigh from having to deal with this immediately following an unsatisfying industry. Instead just shrug your shoulder, “Something like that.”

“Guess it hasn’t been going well,” You’re unable to stop your eyebrows from narrowing at her, but Seulgi is unhindered from your evidently growing annoyance. “It’s a hard thing getting through scandals, especially when you don’t have anything to show for yourself.”

“Such a hard thing that you didn’t mind shoving your boyfriend into it.” You roll your eyes, head shaking as you start to walk away.

“Well, actually,” She catches up to your pace, overlapping you to cut off your trec to the front doors. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Hoseok could use a hand, right? If you want to try to get some work, why not ask him? Independent work is good to help build a resume-- though, I guess Hoseok’s reputation and Yoongi’s current one don’t make companies feel comfortable-”

“What are you trying for here?” Your tone causes a falter of expression in Seulgi’s face, shifting it into a muted shock. Her smile replaces itself with pursing lips, then eventually the picturesque way she poses her shoulders also deflates. Appearing much less superficial, though now openly tired with frustration from the little act she tried to play with you.

“What? I can’t try and do a nice thing for my ex?”

“Ex that you threw under the bus.” Unhesitant. You cross your arms. “Why in the world would I think you’re not trying to gain something right now too?”

“You’re just like Yoongi--I get the relationship now.” She sighs, playing with her hair as her eyes trail off to nowhere. “Well, the relationship you ended up getting yourself after all.”

Your arms tense over your front, quietly startled that she seems aware of the false beginning with your relationship with Yoongi, and even acknowledging that it’s currently real. Part of you wants to question how she’s found out the tidbit of information, though it’s not a top concern of yours. The small fact that she has methods to get information throughout the industry is odd, but you doubt it needs to be a worrisome issue.

“Anyways, I was just offering a suggestion. Three songs aren’t going to cut it to get top companies like this one to let you in.” As if you needed her to say that when the past week has only been proof of that. Seulgi adjusts the hoodie she wears so that it no longer falls off a shoulder, and her eyes appear introspective for the moment of silence before speaking again. “You’re not going to get anywhere without stepping on a few people along the way. You can’t play along with all the rules and expect to succeed.”

If her tone remained snarky, you would have shot a comment in return, as the instant thought in your brain relates Seulgi’s words to her actions against Hoseok in the past. However, the simplistic way she spoke was calm, almost bordering into a somber timbre hidden beneath the surface. At that moment you feel like you see something inside of that shadow, but you don’t have the liberty of pondering it.

“Seulgi, I thought you were using the big dance studio right now.” A voice enters into the conversation, making Seulgi’s head turn back towards the entrance. Looking beyond her, you see a face you again would have expected if you took any consideration to the companies you were skipping through for interviews. “Oh,” Jeongguk’s eyes widen, catching sight of you, a smile forming as he speaks on in happy surprise, “Y/N! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“Hi, Jeongguk.” You give a little smile and nod as a greeting.

“Yeah, I’m late.” Seulgi speaks up while she takes a step to begin a smooth leave, eyeing Jeongguk then you in curiosity of how there’s a mutual connection. But her final words have nothing to do with questions. “Sorry about that whole thing at my party, by the way. Taking your date and all. Just getting a conversation Yoongi owed me.”

Her vague insinuation makes your eyes narrow, following her figure as she casually goes. Already knowing the content of the conversation she had with Yoongi, you’re left to assume that she speaks in a way to ingrain seeds of uncertainty or jealousy under your skin, but all the needless comment does is further you from any positive opinions of Seulgi.

“Something about that seemed hostile.” Jeongguk states as the two of you watch Seulgi disappear down a hall. Instead of screaming out intelligibly from the frustration of your day so far, you just exhale a long sigh, turning your head back towards Jeongguk. His mouth curls into a slightly uneasy smile, not sure of what he just stumbled in on, “Everything okay?”

“I can’t wait to go home and sleep, to be honest with you.” You admit, trying to get humor into your voice, but you’re sure your expression betrays any chance of a joking ambiance as Jeongguk slowly nods bouncing his long locks of soft, warm-toned pink. “Your band is going to be performing at the river festival this weekend, right? Saw online.”

“Yeah, we have a set in the late evening. You going?” His demeanor is wholly casual, pronounced further in the relaxation of his shoulders and lazily situated hands in the pockets of his big hoodie.

“I would, but now’s not really the best time for me to be doing much out.” You smile as your eyebrows furrow a bit. For a moment you consider the fact that he may not know anything, as you recall him not being one to peruse comment sections of social media sites. But as Jeongguk’s lips cast into a frown, he recalls the news your words refer to,

“Oh, right; I heard about that all.” He bites his lip, while removing a hand from the confines of his pocket to push back hair from his face. “Actually, I’ve been out of the country with my group for almost six months now, and, it’s not really my place to ask, but have you been okay since,” He pauses, quickly taking a scan around the area like others may be listening in. “Well, you know.”

You nod your head, understanding that he means to inquire about your state of mind since breaking things off from Jimin at the beginning of the year. “For awhile I really wasn’t,” You admit, but find yourself able to smile as you continue on with full assurance, “But I’m more than okay now. My career may be sort of crazy, but I have people that care about me, so I’m fairing a lot better than I would’ve ever thought.”

“That’s good.” Jeongguk smiles, and parts of you are sure that perhaps he’s even the smallest bit sad that there isn’t hesitation in your voice because his friendship with Jimin would likely root for the fact. But he’s not unfair in that regard, always having been a supportive, close friend of Jimin, but not to the extent of harboring ill sentiment about things like this. “If you’re looking for song writing work just let me know; my band liked the three tracks you and Yoongi released, and I always thought it’d be cool to work with you on lyrics anyways.”

“What?” You blurt in surprise, eyes widening from the easygoing proposition, “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk grins in return, wondering silently if the offer is odd because of your reaction. “I mean, why not, right?”

“Even if I’m not an employee here?” You question, still in disbelief at how simply he’d asked for even bits of collaborative work in the future. Where you have been learning to anticipate a lot of hesitation, and even flat out refusal from all of your interviews so far, Jeongguk breaks the cycle out of nowhere. Perhaps you should not be as excited from the simple prospect as you are, but you’re unable to stop yourself from the little success making you vibrant with joy.

“You don’t need to be an employee of any company, Y/N, your skills already speak for themselves to me.”

When you step outside of the building, Jeongguk’s words remain at the forefront of your mind. You type a location on the map digitally showing on your phone screen, unconsciously setting up a call for a taxi, but you think only of the small piece of hope given to you from the offer. The more you consider it, you believe there exists a deeper lesson from that small interaction. It’s like he said to you; the company isn’t as important as your own skills.

You bite your lip, thinking of any contacts made throughout the years. Frankly, not many people beyond SoundWave met you because of your job, but there were still some small acquaintances you’ve gained. Some friends as well, though fewer than you could count with your fingers perhaps. It’s unlikely many would jump at the opportunity to work with you in light of the current news, but perhaps there’s something to consider down that avenue.

Your spine tightens slightly, and suddenly you feel overly aware of the area around you. You lift your eyes from your phone screen to across the street beyond cars going along to wherever. People walk normally as the beginnings of evening traffic occur as they would any day of the business week. With a small shake of your head, you ignore the suspicion in your nerves, letting yourself check notifications on your phone instead as the taxi descends towards you from a few blocks away.

Alerting Yoongi that you’re going to head to his apartment to help him move around items delivered from the company, you eventually press the lock on your phone screen and turn your attention down the road to see if you can spot your taxi’s license. In the same direction is the stairwell into a subway station with its constant flood of people in and out that never remain in the area longer than it takes them to walk. But perched with their elbows on railings overlooking the descent into the subway is a small group of three similar in age to the ones assumed to follow you to Namjoon’s cafe.

Your eyes linger on their figures for a noticeable amount of time, and you don’t believe them to care that they’ve been spotted. You bite your inner cheek, and look back to the taxi app for the time of arrival. Your stomach knots, but you try not to focus on it, because of this occurrence being more regular in the past couple of weeks. If you kept your mouth shut and thoughts from roaming frantically, it would be over just as soon as you stepped into the taxi.

A bump on your shoulder startles you, shaking your heart around in the ribcage, as your throat assumes the worst by trapping air. A businessperson continues along, however, simply going up the road as they chatter away on their phone, completely unaware of the tiny collision. You swallow the air back down, squeezing your phone tightly as it vibrates a tiny series of beats to signify the taxi is soon to arrive.

As you look on at the back of the random person, you notice more eyes in your direction. These ones from a college-age duo, you think. But they’re clearly focused on you, walking on the sidewalk in your direction. Your leg muscle tightens, becoming highly alert of the phone’s they have clutched close to their chests with the camera lenses evident.

The abrupt stop of brakes in front of you brings you back to your current position as does a quick honk from a car bothered by the stop of your taxi as it drives around. Without hesitation you enter inside, stating an affirmative as the driver asks if you were the one with the given destination on his GPS. You can’t contain the sigh of relief flooding out of your lungs as he merges into the flow of traffic and away from the individuals whose walk stopped to stare at the leave of the taxi.

You have high doubts that if the people were truly fans that they would berate you or angrily yell, but nonetheless you didn’t want the onslaught of questions they more likely had prepared to be said in civil voices. You already had the displeasure of weaning along a forceful and awkward conversation on a subway train days earlier. Leading you to start avoiding that means of transportation entirely now.

Arriving at Yoongi’s front door, your finger presses to ring the bell. Listening to the muted sound on the inside you feel your shoulders jumping ever so slightly at the sound, but you shake your head to rid away the sensitivity. Really no one had been belligerent towards you, you were overthinking any of the things that could have happened. Another twitch in your shoulders induces with the knob twisting and with it the door opens to reveal Hoseok whose face eventually slips into a pout,

“Wow, don’t look so disappointed.” He teases you as you roll your eyes and walk inside. “You should be thanking me since I did most of the heavy lifting before you got here.”

“Thanks,” You smile at him in an overly polite manner that causes Hoseok to scoff and shake his head in amusement. “I’m sure you were more than willing to since Yoongi offered to get you a fancy dinner as payment-”

“Wait, don’t tell him that; I was going to avoid it.” You turn towards the way of the bedrooms as Yoongi walks into the living area from it, hair tousled from moving furniture and a loose t-shirt hanging off his shoulders comfortably. You watch him grin as Hoseok shouts an irritated rebuttle about Yoongi’s deflection of payment for helping. As Yoongi comes to a stop a mere couple of feet from you his eyes look towards you and before you know it the teeth peeking from his joke drift away while his brows furrowed with concern, “Angel, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head, trying to disburse the worry in your shoulders that you apparently had not been successful to not think about. Wordlessly Yoongi steps closer, initiating a hug that you finish by clinging your arms around his torso.

Hoseok frowns in confusion since you had seemed fine when he opened the door, but glancing up at Yoongi whose eyes are just as unsure of the problem Hoseok decides it’s probably the result of some kind of build up. “‘m going to get that last box unpacked.”

“Thanks.” Yoongi says as his hands rub trails on your back, waiting for Hoseok to leave the room before speaking up again, “Baby, do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I’m just overthinking something.” You mumble against the cotton soaked in the familiar scent of laundry detergent. With a small sigh you adjust yourself to look up towards Yoongi whose attentive gaze meets yours. Gently he presses a small kiss against your forehead, settling his hands on your sides to give a little comforting squeeze.

“Was it more people following you around?”

“Yeah,” You hide your face against his chest again as you put the problem in the air. “It really, really wasn’t anything much. I just want a hug. It’s been a long day because of the whole job interview session parade I went on too.”

“I can do hugs,” Yoongi nods before perching his chin atop your head. The moment lingers on, granting a warming comfort as you remain encapsulated in Yoongi’s arms. But he can’t help a final, quiet question that is likely the reason for the rate of his heartbeat in your ear. “Did anyone do anything to you, angel?”

“No.” You squeeze your arms around him. “I doubt any of them really would. They probably just want to get information. It’s just uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, it is.” Yoongi’s chest fills from the breath of an inhale as he thinks of all the other instances since news of him being let go from SoundWave released. “I’m sorry, angel, once all the paperwork is done, I’ll try and figure out something to say to the press about everything.”

“It’s okay, Yoon.” You pull away to press a pecking kiss against his lips. He notes your expression to be considerably calmer than minutes earlier. “Really, it’s okay. It’s not your fault anyways. But besides that all, I do have some good news.”

“Oh, yeah?” He keeps his hands on your waist while your arms drop from their gentle encapture of his frame. Your quick nod matching the beginnings of a smile on your lips give Yoongi more cheerfulness as well, “Tell me then, sweetie.”

“I saw Jeongguk earlier and he said he’d be willing to work on songwriting together sometime.” You explain, allowing the excitement you felt then to take over the bulk of your tone. Inquisitively Yoongi’s head tilts,

“Jeon Jeongguk? Where did you see him at?”

“His company after I got interviewed--oh, right, I don’t think I’ve mentioned to you I know him.” You ramble along earning a chuckle from Yoongi as he nods to that fact as well. “Well, I met him through Jimin a couple of years ago, but he’s really nice. It was just an innocent offer on his part.”

“Yeah, I believe that-- he’s really easygoing.” Yoongi nods, turning his head to the hallway as yours looks in the same direction at the sound of Hoseok cursing as he hops on one foot into view while his other foot stays clenched between his two hands.

“I hit my toe on the corner of the door into the room-” He says with a wincing voice, “Didn’t mean to interrupt the emotional fest-- it just really hurt, and I think I should be owed more than just a fancy dinner because of it-”

“If it keeps you from suing me.” Yoongi shakes his head and refrains from laughter like the kind leaving your mouth as you listen to their conversation. Yoongi goes back to resting his head on yours, this time pressing his cheek on top of your scalp when you hug him once more. “But I’m picking the place to eat at.”

“That doesn’t even make sense if it’s supposed to be a payment to me.” Hoseok scoffs as he dramatically hobbles to the couch where he collapses himself onto it. “Y/N, if you asked your best friend to help you move your heavy equipment and this same friend stubs his toe doing it-- and this best friend and you are also getting into a partnership, would you just give him a dinner as payment?”

“Partnership?” You repeat as your eyes narrow, honing in on the one word that slipped into Hoseok’s monologue. “And no I’d buy my friend at least a house.”

“See!”

“A house,” Yoongi murmurs through pouting lips as Hoseok claps his hands to your method of penance. “He already has a nicer apartment than mine-”

“Wait, what did you mean about a partnership, Hoseok?” You ask, poking Yoongi’s stomach to get him to quiet from the tickling sensation. Hoseok actively twiddles his thumbs instead of a verbal. He glances towards Yoongi who responds to his antics with a sigh as he tugs himself off the comfort of hugging you.

“He and I were thinking we’d start our own label.”

“What!” Your eyes grow wide glancing towards Hoseok then back to Yoongi. “Your own music label? Like an idol company too?”

“Well, yeah.” Yoongi says without a lot of conviction as he shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know how many people would actually want to become an idol through us, but at least for Hoseok and I it would be a good way to keep doing music. And on our own terms.”

You stand looking at him awestruck, not at all anticipating the two of them to come to this type of business plan for the future. Frankly, you weren’t sure at all what Yoongi intended to do without SoundWave, but you would have sooner assumed he would simply relocate to another company. The requests for him to do so would no doubt flock after a month or two of the current news becoming history.

“Hey,” Hoseok gets up from the couch, phone in hand as the two of you look over to him. “I’m meeting a friend in a while, so I’ll get out of here. Don’t forget that you owe me a really fancy meal-”

“I get it, I won’t.” Yoongi rolls his eyes as he follows Hoseok towards the front door to see him off. You simply watch, still in a stupor from their casual way of telling you that their idea is to create their own fucking company. You wave at Hoseok as he shouts out a goodbye to you and walks out the door. Yoongi turns towards you as it shuts with an electronic click, finding you still baffled by the news. He rubs the back of his neck as he returns towards you. “We sound crazy?”

“No,” You shake your head and let it tilt as your imagination takes over to see an outcome where the two of them operate a successful idol company. With their production skills and overall talent with music, it didn’t seem far fetched that they at least make a small company that runs well. “I think you both should do it.”

Yoongi smiles gently at the hopeful gleam in your eyes. His hand falls from toying with the small hairs on the back of his neck to find itself entangling your own appendage with a delicate hold. “You’re free to do anything you want, angel, but I was thinking--and Hoseok agreed-- that you could join us and be a producer if we make a company.”

“Me?” Your voice barely mumbles the response, eyes struck wide in surprise at his offer.

“You don’t have to at all--I really understand if you don’t want to take the risk of it instead of finding a place that’s already settled, but,” Yoongi bites his lip, fiddling with your hand as he holds it. He finds your eyes as he sweetly smiles “It can be an option for you.”

With the two happy surprises of the day swimming in your chest, you stand in a stunned quiet as you take them in. For Yoongi and Hoseok, despite their respective scandals, you don’t have any doubt that they could definitely make something out of this idea for themselves. Especially happy about Yoongi being able to do as he wants for himself if they start a company. He’d be completely in control of his representation in the way that he hasn’t had ever since his debut.

And his offer gives the same freedom for yourself to create songs like you’d always wanted as well.

“Of course, I’m sure there’s a lot we have to do to get everything going, so really don’t feel bad about saying no-”

Interrupting his sentence by pressing your lips onto his chattering mouth, You let your arms wrap around his neck, silently grateful for Yoongi's hands steadying the two of you by finding a firm grip on your hips. “I say yes.”

Anticipation and excitement ricochets throughout your chest, exuding outwardly in your smile that you find Yoongi quickly returning with a growing grin. Running his hips in lips trails along your sides, he keeps silent in favor of kissing you again, practically bruising your lips with his own. Your hands mesh into soft locks of black hair, keeping Yoongi held in place as the kiss deepens into an oxygen depriving attachment.

Allowing time for air only when your mouth gasps as Yoongi’s hands find your backside and with a squeeze pulls your waist against his own, your eyes open along with his as you both take in quick sips of air, momentarily frozen from continuing action. Yoongi’s jaw clenches shut as you very obviously allow your hips to grind friction. He watches the beginnings of a smirk take over your expression, and stops the teasing attitude to dip his lips down to your neck.

There his trails tiny molten kisses along the skin, searching until your fingertips curl against his scalp and a small whimper casts out of your mouth. Attaching to the spot, his mouth blisters in a garden meant to flourish red and purple by next sunrise, and his hands continue to press into your ass riding up the fabric of your skirt as a moan escapes your lips, “Yoongi-”

“Do you want me to stop, angel?” He asks with a rough timbre the contrasts the soft ministrations he trails from the love bite to reach your mouth once more. Kissing the outline of your jaw, he hums against the skin waiting for your reply which comes as your hands remove from his hair to cup his face and bring his lips back to yours,

“Not at all.”

if you enjoy please, please let me know via ask, comment, rb with tags– however ! i’d just really appreciate feedback 🥺 i hope you enjoy the series, i’m working really hard on it! : )

also yes ik this chapter cuts off right before the smut lsjkdfkfdghg it’s also not going to be continued into the next chapter sO lkjdsffgdsfjkfg if it’s something you’d like to read as a blurb on its own lmk while commenting on this chapter hehe shameless incentive and i’ll try to write it as an additive piece to the story!

tag list (send an ask to be added): @jaiuneamesolitaiire​ @tsvkino-usagi​@xionysus​​ @baebyjoonie​ @honeyoongles​ @betysotelo18​

[shrutiigmguru]

Tips to switch careers in Python?

How to switch careers in Python?

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Python career opportunities

Number of Python Jobs

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Since you recognize the entryways Python can open up for you and what are the distinctive professional openings in Python, it totally depends upon you which of them one will you're taking.

Also check top 10 trending technologies in 2021.

[littlewerewolfsmutoven-blog]

Malpractice

Explicit | 4,542 words | hypnotism/non-con | archive of our own

Summary: Derek Hale is a defense attorney with a shady reputation and mind control abilities. Stiles Stilinski is a prosecutor at the same courthouse and ends up under the control of Derek for lewd purposes.

The courthouse was where law and fairness was supposed to join together in holy matrimony. Unfortunately, that’s not the way things worked in Beacon Hills. Well….it worked sometimes, just not whenever the infamous criminal defense attorney, Derek Hale, was working over a courtroom. That’s just the way things worked….not that anybody was quite powerful enough to call out the shady workings behind Derek’s work.

See, Derek didn’t always know that he could push thoughts into the heads of people around him. A telepath, a master of hypnotic induction, a thought-pusher, and mind controller…they were all essentially the same thing. But the point of the matter is that Derek found out he could control people’s minds early on in his academic career—accidentally pushing his professors into giving him passing grades, pushing cashiers to casually forget to ask him to pay for what he bought, pushing strangers into giving up their valuables…etcetera.

Derek was powerful. Over the years, he had mastered his power, using it for things that some would consider to be reckless and downright disgraceful. And yet, Derek enjoyed having the world around him in the palm of his hand. It helped him get through the days. It helped him get through law school. It helped make him wealthy. It helped make him bigger than anything and anyone in the world.

As far as the Beacon Hills Courthouse was concerned, Derek Hale held the notorious reputation for never losing a single case in his entire history of practicing law. Of course, nobody knew that he was a mind-controller. And before anybody could even dare to draw up that kind of conclusion, Derek was ready and willing to scramble up somebody’s mind—erase memories and replace them with something else.

It was easy.

But for those that remained lucky enough to not fall directly into Derek’s immoral path of lobotomizing random strangers, Derek was known around the courthouse as a talented defense attorney with a knack for the law. He was known to be slick, cunning, sharp, well pieced together, and a force to be reckoned with. Nobody wanted to challenge him.

Now, Stiles Stilinski was a bright-eyed prosecutor, with a good score of court successes under his belt. He was incredibly skilled when it came to maneuvering himself around the courtroom—dancing his way through cross-examinations and winning over jury pools like he could do it in his sleep. He was a natural talent—a real attorney, with real skill, who believed in doing the right thing, fighting for justice, for peace, for liberty, the whole shebang.

And yes…Stiles had heard all the horror stories about the big bad wolf, Mister Derek Hale, the defense attorney from Hell. And no…Stiles wasn’t intimidated. He had come across tons of tricky combatants in his days as a prosecutor. He wasn’t going to let the spotless track record of some random attorney scare him away from doing his job.

But like so many others before his time, Stiles was completely unaware that Derek Hale wasn’t some normal, run of the mill, casual defense attorney. He was much more than that. He was a real…real threat. A supernatural entity with immense power…and no, some happy-go-lucky prosecutor with a promising future wasn’t anywhere close to a challenge for Derek.

Derek was going to have some fun.

+

The preliminary trial was about to begin. Stiles settled into his corner of the room, patiently waiting behind his podium, eyeballing the surrounding court guests, officials, and the judge—all of which were waiting for Derek’s arrival. Stiles couldn’t actually believe that the big, scary defense attorney with a perfect track record was nowhere to be found. But in Stiles’ mind, he considered it a good sign of being able to knock Derek down a peg.

And with only a few minutes left on the clock before the case would be called before the judge for review, Stiles just shook his head in disbelief. Tardiness was an insult to the law, an insult to the court, and an unforgivable insult to the presiding judge. He couldn’t wait to see how Derek was going to explain his unprofessional performance to the judge.

“I apologize.” Derek called out, sauntering into the courtroom to stand at his podium. “Forgive my tardiness, your honor. The traffic was a living nightmare.”

“The traffic was a living nightmare? Of course, it was.” The judged spoke slowly. “We can all understand the trouble. All is forgiven, Mr. Hale.”

Stiles eyed the “celebrity attorney” in bewilderment. What? He just blamed traffic for his tardiness and the judge let it fly without any sort of warning? Sure, Derek was as charming and as physically attractive as he had heard around the rumor mill. He was tall, dark, broody, and smooth—obviously light on his feet, confidently smug, and clearly beloved by the biased ass judge who didn’t even care that Derek strode into the courtroom late.

Unbelievable.

Derek settled behind his podium and rattled noisily through a stack of papers, to which nobody dared to shush him or comment on the amount of noise that he was making. Before he had even walked into the courtroom, he had infiltrated everybody minds—everybody except for the newest toy of the bunch—Mr. Stiles‘do-gooder’ Stilinski. Everybody else was tucked away in an inescapable haze of low brain function for the time being.

The gavel banged down atop the judge’s desk, capturing the room’s foggy attention. Derek watched as Stiles opened up with his introductory statement, carefully analyzing the man. There was so much enthusiasm and fire inside Stiles. Derek shadowed himself into Stiles’ mind for just a moment, taking a peek around.

“Your honor, this court joins together to discuss the case of Mr. Hale’s client—Jackson Whittemore—a man who has been charged with committing heinous crimes.” Stiles began passionately. “On January 28th, 2016, Mr. Whittemore drove to the grocery store what was located at the corner of his current home address, and as our witness’ testimony will explain—”

“—that we can’t take anything the prosecution’s witness says as being trustworthy, your honor.” Derek interrupts, leaving Stiles to quickly fumble over his words into silence. “I’ve brought the court Mr. Stilinski’s witness’ medical records, which you will find to be quite interesting, as they show that multiple psychiatrists have noted this witness is a compulsive liar.”

Derek held up a blank piece of paper, showing it to the surrounding courtroom audience, before walking it up to the judge’s bench. Clearly, it was a blank piece of paper, but it didn’t matter, because Derek quickly pierced into the judge’s mind to make him see medical records. In fact, he made everybody in the room see the medical records…except, for Stiles.

“Your honor—” Stiles exclaimed, slightly confused as to what kind of game Derek was playing.

“The evidence brought forth by the defense is damning, Mr. Stilinski.” The judge revealed. “And considering the fact that you have only brought us this one untrustworthy witness, there is no other choice but to motion forward for a trial.”

The judge banged the gavel down atop the wooden bench, setting forth a date for the official trial, before dismissing the room. Stiles remained behind his podium, utterly dumbfounded as he watched the entire room clear out. He was lost for words. What kind of foul joke was at play? That was just a plain, completely blank piece of paper. He felt as though he was losing his mind.

Though….not quite.

Stiles shook some clarity into his foggy brain and quickly cleaned up his podium, packing up his suitcase and grabbing his thermos of morning coffee before racing out of the empty room to interrogate Derek. He was determined to figure out what the hell was happening. The last thing that he was about to do was lay down and let Derek get away with whatever brand of malpractice he was playing around with.

“Could I borrow a moment of your time, Mr. Hale?” Stiles shouted smugly, running up to stand directly behind Derek’s imposing form.

Derek smirked to himself before even bothering to turn around. Now, it was time for him to have some fun with the fresh-faced prosecutor, who had no idea what the fuck was going on in the world around him. And after peaking into Stiles’ inner thoughts, his memories, his desires, his aspirations—Derek saw it all. He was able to tell that Stiles had never had a mind-reader poking around inside of his delicate, intelligent brain before….but he was practically destined to like it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Stilinski.” Derek offered, turning around to face Stiles.

“Yeah, sure.” Stiles scoffed. “Do you mind telling me what kind of shit you’re trying to get away with here? Passing off a blank piece of paper as medical records to help your case? Getting the judge to play along with your blatant malpractice? I’ll have your fucking ass out of his city and rotting in some dank prison cell.”

“You’ve spilled your coffee.” Derek stated calmly. “You should be polite and apologize, and then clean up the mess that you’ve spilled all over my shoes, don’t you think?”

A feeling of fuzziness quickly clouded Stiles’ mind, momentarily freezing him in his train of thought. He stopped talking, staring deeply into the bright green of Derek’s eyes, whilst his brain twisted and bent to the gentle push of a demand from Derek’s hypnotic power. And then suddenly, Stiles’ hand unclasped its grip on his thermos of coffee, causing it to fall. It clattered loudly against the hallway’s marble flooring, splattering hot liquid across the sleek surface and onto Derek’s shoes.

“Jesus…Christ.” Stiles mumbled foggily, instantaneously hit with a wave of apologetic concern. He set down his briefcase and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a clean handkerchief, before kneeling down before Derek’s coffee-splattered shoes. “I apologize, Mr. Hale. I don’t know what happened. I can be so clumsy sometimes.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too much about it, Mr. Stilinski.” Derek cooed, watching Stiles work himself into a sweat as he furiously buffed and shined the dirty leather shoes. “You like being a bit submissive and you’re quite talented with your hands.” He spoke, implanting new characteristics into Stiles’ thoughts for later.

“I do.” Stiles mumbled. “I am.”

“My shoes look as good as new…now, what was it that you were saying again when you confronted me?” Derek questioned sarcastically. “Oh, you were praising my vigor, my confidence, and my enthusiasm during the preliminary.”

“Oh yeah. That was it.” Stiles agreed, standing up. He tucked his soiled handkerchief back into his pocket. “Your talent in the court is unlike anything that I’ve ever seen, Mr. Hale. I appreciated being able to bask in the shine of your brightness. And the way that you got my witness thrown out? It was absolutely genius on your part.”

Derek chuckled to himself, studying the blank look masked over Stiles’ hazel eyes and the look of controlled contentment across the young prosecutor’s face. He reached out towards Stiles’ face and pressed the pad of his thumb against the corner of the other man’s lips, wiping away the bead of drool that had accumulated there. It wasn’t too noticeable, but it was just a tiny effect of Derek’s influence.

“You seem like an enthusiastic young attorney.” Derek noted, thumbing across the plush stretch of Stiles’ bowed lips. The boy didn’t even appear to notice. “I would be delighted to watch you work through a mock-trial of what you’ll present during the real thing…in private, perhaps?”

“Anything…” Stiles responded loosely.

“Music to my ears.” Derek noted.

Derek took a moment to do some flip work inside of Stiles’ mind, blanketing most of what had just transpired—restoring Stiles back to his fired up personality. Although, Derek made sure not to erase anything, just hide things. Stiles would go on with the rest of his day like normal, thinking that he had stormed out of the courtroom and successfully ripped Derek a new one for the stunt he pulled with the piece of paper.

“—so fucking think about that, you insufferable asswipe!” Stiles sneered, snapping back to his original train of thought, before Derek mashed around with his mind.

+

A couple days later, Derek showed up on Stiles’ doorstep during the afternoon—completely unannounced. He knocked politely, waited, and smiled wickedly when Stiles actually opened up the door with a sour scowl spread across his face. Derek didn’t expect anything less, however. He was prepared.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Stiles interrogated. “And can you hurry up with whatever dumb explanation you’re about to give me? I’m supposed to be down at the courthouse in thirty minutes to meet with a client.”

“You were going to give me a performance—a mock trial.” Derek explained, watching as Stiles face dropped blank as the implanted memories came forward inside of Stiles’ mind.

“Oh, yeah.” Stiles acknowledged, gesturing for Derek to step inside. “Come inside, Derek.”

Derek stepped inside Stiles’ house, taking in the relaxed interior design of the comfortable bachelor pad. As he walked around the house and took in the sight of each room, Stiles followed behind like an expectant zombie—as if waiting for another thought and demand to be queued up inside of his thought processes. But really, Derek was just trying to find the perfect place to fool around.

Upon entering the dining room, Derek smirked to himself, glancing down to the sturdy wood of the large dining room table. There was more than enough space to do some things. Trouble was right around the corner, but so was pleasure and so was entertainment.  And seeing as how Stiles had thirty full minutes of nothing to do before having to get down to the courthouse, there was time.

Derek walked up to the side of the wooden table and looked down upon the set table decorations, pausing for a moment, and then deciding that Stiles would clean up the mess later anyways. He slammed down one of his arms onto the table and slid it across the surface—pushing off all of the decorative placements, silverware sets, plates, and the large vase of fresh flowers that had been centered in the middle of the table.

Despite the loud crash and the new mess that was piled up on the hardwood floors, Stiles didn’t react. He just stood expectantly at the entryway to the dining room—all dressed up in his expensive, professional suit and tie, which was of course used to make a good impression on clients and fellow acquaintances at the courthouse.

Derek hopped up onto the table and sat down comfortably. He scanned Stiles’ body up and down and then decided to actually get into the action. Derek clapped his hands, pulling Stiles’ undivided attention, and then told him that he was in the courtroom, before the judge and jury, making his case against the defendant.  

Stiles immediately jumped into action, straightening his posture and dipping into his calmer, sterner voice. He passionately began to plead his case against the defendant, actually arguing and making valid points to an invisible judge and jury, as he paced back and forth across the dining room—completely unaware that he was under the hypnotic spell of a rival attorney.

“Mr. Whittemore walked into that grocery store with the intent to harm others.” Stiles argued seriously, blankly staring past where Derek sat patiently and at a judge that wasn’t there. “Nobody would bring a gun into a grocery store, a place where families and innocent civilians are shopping, if they didn’t plan on doing something horrendous. This is an incredibly simple case, it’s cut and dry, there’s—”

“Good, keep going—” Derek interjected, watching as Stiles continued with his spiel, yet remained receptive to Derek’s commands. “—but come take my dick out of my pants and suck me off….just remember, you’re still making your case.”

Stiles continued to speak about the case, talking sternly to an imaginary jury about how there’s nothing accidental about shooting an innocent civilian in a grocery store, whilst following Derek’s exact command. He dropped to his knees, settling himself in-between Derek’s spread thighs, and unpacked the man’s thick cock—not missing a beat in his imaginary case.

“You have talented hands, remember?” Derek pushed, watching the way that Stiles wrapped his hands around Derek’s unfathomable thickness, doing his best to stroke the beast of a cock for all that it was worth.

“The proof is here in black and white, it’s everything that you need to make a decision—” Stiles enunciated mindlessly, unable and unwilling to break away from where he continued to softly stroke his hands up and down Derek’s throbbing cock.

“Take my cock into your mouth…” Derek ordered. “…don’t let the jury sway away from the point you’re trying to make.”

Stiles surged downward, eagerly swallowing down a large portion of Derek’s cock with relative ease. He found a rhythm quickly, bobbing up and down, and letting the immoral defense attorney thrust deep into his sensitive throat. The sounds of gags and choked coughs filled the space, whilst Stiles continued on his boring courtroom preaching every time that he pulled off of Derek’s length for a breath of fresh air.

Derek watched in amused silence. There was something so funny and ridiculously hot about how Stiles would gag and choke and pull up for air, mouth red and stretched and wet with spit and pre-cum, only to immediately breathlessly talk about morals, about the law, about justice, and putting away a dangerous threat to society. And Stiles didn’t even quit—he just kept going, running his mouth, fucking his mouth, even though his voice started to run hoarse and ragged.

Eventually, the whole courtroom soundbites from Stiles got old and boring and obnoxious, so Derek cut it off. He let the boy suck in cock in regular silence, taking in the not-so-innocent sounds of lewd slurps and coughs. Stiles made some pretty noises when he was all fucked out of control. The polished prosecutor was sloppy and desperate when a big cock got waved in front of his face.

Derek delighted in his power—instructing Stiles to do all kinds of things. He ordered Stiles to take his cock to the hilt and repeat the action again and again, laughing hysterically as he watched Stiles try to successfully do as he was told. Stiles managed for a while, taking Derek to the hilt. And Derek liked it. He watched as Stiles’ face turned bright red and splotchy with tears, with bulging veins on his face, and a deep bruised bulge in his throat whenever he had the cock in his mouth.

But then Stiles passed out and Derek rolled his eyes, lounging back atop the table until Stiles found his way back to consciousness. And to his surprise, as soon as Stiles woke up, he immediately went straight back to deepthroating Derek’s dick—slow and steady, yet perfectly executed. In fact, it seemed as though the boy was actually learning and adjusting and developing some kind of extra stamina and tolerance to the whole thing.

“Get sloppy.” Derek instructed, watching the thought infiltrate Stiles’ mind.

Derek pulled his phone out of his pocket and started to browse the internet for something more entertaining. He started to pay little attention to the change in Stiles’ blowjob performance style following the new order. Stiles was making all kinds of loud, lewd sounds, which were sure to upset the neighbors. But Stiles really did get sloppy—his strokes got wilder, he spat down on Derek’s thick cock, sucked passionately at Derek’s balls, and moaned like a straight up whore.

And then Derek realized that Stiles was about to be late for his appointment across town at the courthouse. Derek alerted Stiles to the news, watching panic spread across the boy’s messy face, even whilst he continued to work his mouth on and around Derek’s throbbing cock. But eventually, Derek instructed Stiles to freeze in place and stick out his tongue—before Derek finally unloaded across Stiles’ face.

Before Derek let Stiles go about the rest of his day, he once again reworked pieces of Stiles’ memory—making him actively ignore the memories of getting down on his knees to serve Derek like some common cocksucker. But Derek also instructed Stiles to leave the house and head down to the courthouse with the fresh load of cum splattered messily across his face and that he could only leave his car to walk inside the building once he cleaned his face up by scooping the spent load into his mouth and swallowing.

+

A few months later, the actual trial commenced.

“I hope you’re not expecting to pull any kind of shady ass ‘blank-paper’ tricks this time around.” Stiles snickered, stepping over to the prosecutor’s table, whilst glaring down Derek. “This is a new judge, buddy. He’s not on your payroll.”

Derek shrugged as if in agreement with Stiles’ words, unbothered by the nonthreatening nonsense that spewed from his mouth. He sure wasn’t talking all that shit when he was choking himself breathless on a fat cock. It almost made Derek laugh…but it was all good. The trial was only beginning.

The trial went on strong for the first fifty minutes and a simple recess with nothing out of the sorts. Derek didn’t push any thoughts or sway any of the revelations. He let things play out normally. But when it was time for Stiles to jump into his closing statements for the jury, Derek let loose with the outlandish “fun and games”, putting into motion something that he had thought up only a few minutes prior.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury and of this great court,” Stiles boldly started. “We’re heard the facts, we’ve seen the evidence, we’ve heard from the defendant himself regarding what went down on that cold January night—”

“Keep going on with the trial, think nothing out of ordinary about what you see.” Derek interjected, interrupting Stiles’ speech. “Now, Stiles—show the court the tight little ass of yours.”

Stiles continued to speak to the jury and the judge as he continued to deliver his closing statements, although this time, they weren’t invisible and none of this was happening in his dining room. And whilst Stiles, the jury, the judge, and the court audience continued on as if nothing was out of the norm, Stiles also started to follow Derek’s secondary direction.

He continued to speak, completely unconcerned. As far as Stiles could comprehend, everything was normal. But Stiles rounded the prosecutor’s table and unbuckled his belt, dropping his pants and boxers down to his ankles—kicking them off and out of the way. He bent over the solid wooden edge of the table and stuck his ass out to the judge, continuing to address the jury as he reached back with his hands and spread the plump globes of his ass open to reveal his tight entrance.

“Get on top of your prosecutor’s table and sit, lay back, spread your legs, and finger yourself.” Derek instructed calmly, still pretending to listen attentively to the tired, repetitive law bullshit that Stiles continued on about.

But Stiles followed in direction and hopped up onto the table and did as he was told. He started to finger himself, slowly at first, but faster when Derek demanded it so. All the while, he pled for the jury to keep their own families in mind and think about how awful they’d feel if somebody let the murderer of one of their loved ones walk free—mixed up with the occasional, involuntary moan that Stiles let slip when his fingers prodded against his prostate.

Derek rid himself of his own pants and unbuttoned his shirt, leaving the suit coat, leather shoes, and socks on his body. He walked across the room to where Stiles was unable to stop fingering himself atop the table and ordered everybody to continue on with the proceedings. All the while, Derek climbed up onto the prosecutor’s desk and laid himself out, instructing Stiles to climb on top of him and passionately begin to fuck himself on his cock for the audience.

“You’re going to be loud—unapologetically loud. You’re going to fuck yourself on my cock like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.”  Derek whispered into Stiles’ ear.

Stiles did as he was told.  

He rode the hell out of Derek like it was the last he was going to be able to do before keeling over dead. Stiles took every inch of Derek’s thick cock with hungry enthusiasm, desperate to fill his guts with the monstrous length and girth of the same hellish defense attorney that everybody had warned him about. Of course, that logic wasn’t accessible inside of Stiles’ mind. His mind was clouded and twisted and bent into something made of only pure lust and submissive desire.

Meanwhile, the standard court proceedings went on around Derek and his fucktoy as if nothing was out of sorts. Which, was basically the case, considering the fact that Derek had infiltrated the minds of everybody in the room, willing them all into believe that it was totally normal to watch the case’s prosecutor get railed by the defense attorney. None of them would honestly remember it anyways.

The jury was released to their chamber to cast their decision of ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’, whilst Stiles and Derek continued to perform uninterrupted for the rest of the court. Without anything to do but wait for the jury to reconvene, the entire court just watched with blank, emotionless expressions as Derek fucked up into Stiles’ ass.

Stiles bounced around, but eventually become unresponsive to Derek’s further demands. It was fatigue. Stiles’ mind had become so overloaded and cluttered with hidden-away memories and instructed demands, that his brain just stopped being able to function under Derek’s immediate control. Fortunately for Derek, Stiles’ mind was locked on the last command that he had been given—which had been to ride him and ride him and keep going until everything was done and over.

Stiles did as he was told—screaming and moaning out into the empty void, surrounded by his peers, strangers, his superiors, and jurors. And as the jurors returned to their box with the final verdict to the case that Stiles had wanted so badly to win, Derek and Stiles found their orgasms together in one collective shout of ecstasy.  

“Not guilty.” One of the jurors announced.

Stiles breathed heavily, sloppily pulling himself off of Derek’s cock—feeling the flood of hot cum rush out of his abused hole and sputter messily against the back of his thighs and legs. He chuckled to himself, stumbling forward to stand in the middle of the courtroom —before the judge, the jurors, and the defense attorney—utterly delirious, swaying around with an unbalanced stance.

“I won.” Stiles remarked breathlessly…and then collapsed down to the carpeted ground in a pool of Derek’s cum, half-naked and covered in a perverted mess…for a much needed nap.