#because i needed to put 6 miles between me and the corners that refuse to line up on the first try or i was gonna set the whole thing onfire

[clownboy-yeehonk]

[ferberus-skull]

list of breeds from most chaotic to least chaotic

UPDATED FOR OBELISKS! I’ve also updated the ranking for Ridgebacks! 

1. Spiral

Spirals are the MOST chaotic. it’s very rare to find a Spiral without chaotic energy. Spirals have both chaotic energy in the sense of being chaotic, pulling pranks, being impulsive, etc, as well as literally having chaotic ENERGY. they are ridiculously energetic

2. Veilspun

Veilspun, being a Shadow breed, are very chaotic. In ways, they could almost beat Spirals with their chaotic energy. Veilspun are a LOT like fae (not the breed. I mean like faeries hjfkl). extremely mischievous, often even manipulative, Veilspun are not a breed you want to mess with, don’t let their tiny size fool you. their chaotic shenanigans are often a lot more than just shenanigans. Veilspun can and WILL commit arson and you CANNOT stop them

3. Nocturne

Nocturnes are natural tricksters, so obviously, they’re pretty chaotic. they can be pretty energetic, but most of their chaotic energy goes into pranking and being impulsive. they’ll also copy other dragon’s chaotic energy, so putting a Spiral and a Nocturne in the same room is a VERY bad idea

4. Skydancer

Skydancers are surprisingly very chaotic! though it is possible to find one without chaotic energy. Skydancers tend to be either quiet or chaotic, there’s not much of an in between. they’re similar to Spirals in the sense that they have a lot of energy! the only reason they’re below Nocturnes is because it is possible for a Skydancer to be less chaotic, where Nocturnes are naturally tricksters and it’s rare for them to not have chaotic energy

5. Mirror

Mirrors have a good bit of chaotic energy! they have a bit of both sides, though they don’t always tend to be pranksters. for Mirrors, their chaotic energy typically is portrayed through physical energy and also being CURSED. Mirrors are the dragons that would send a really cursed meme through the group chat at 2AM. Mirrors will also just scream for no reason

6. Wildclaw

Wildclaws are pretty similar to Mirrors in their chaotic energy. they’re less cursed, but will definitely scream in the middle of the night for no reason. they will also fight Mirrors in a battle of cursed images. they’re typically less cursed, but if a Mirror is cursed, a Wildclaw feels the need to be more cursed than them. neither will stop so some dragon will have to attempt to stop them before everyone has to bleach their brains

7. Ridgeback

Ridgebacks are like Coatls, but they’re more likely to encourage chaotic dragons in their shenanigans. they probably won’t join in. so your boy totally forgot about Ridgebacks “borrowing” tendencies. Ridgebacks are absolutely the most likely to rob an entire bank and promise to return it all later. they never do. they’re also probably one of the LOUDEST breeds, you can hear a Ridgeback from 10 miles away. so yeah, chaotic thieving bastards

8. Bogsneak

Bogsneaks are more of the cryptid kinda chaotic than anything else, but they’re still chaotic. just... cryptid chaotic, if that makes sense. kinda ominous mothman energy. they’ll just stare at you while they commit arson

9. Fae

you wouldn’t think it by looking at them, but Fae can be surprisingly chaotic. they don’t always outwardly appear to be, but they will quickly bounce off of another dragon’s chaotic energy (this is mostly because the Arcanist is 100% chaotic neutral and you cannot tell me otherwise)

10. Obelisk

Obelisks aren’t naturally chaotic, but they are extremely enthusiastic helpers. so if they’re in a chaotic clan, they themselves will also be chaotic. due to being so enthusiastic to help their clan and/or friends, they will jump right in to assist with chaotic shenanigans. and sometimes they even put in more effort than their friends, which can turn a shenanigan into a disaster. if their clan is not at all chaotic, they most likely won’t be either. but if they move from a relaxed clan to a chaotic clan, they will quickly adjust and jump in on chaotic shenanigans

11. Coatl

Coatls aren’t inherently chaotic, but they do tend to enjoy the company of chaotic dragons as they find their shenanigans fun. on occasion, a Coatl will join in on chaotic shenanigans 

12. Tundra

what’s a chaos? they’re not against chaos, they just really don’t know what that is or how to do it. they’ll just give you a thumbs up even though they have no idea what you’re doing or why. they’ll probably cry over any cursed chaos though

13. Banescale

doesn’t really understand the concept of chaos. doesn’t understand why you’re doing that, but hey, if you’re having fun, they aren’t gonna say anything. they’ll just give you a weird look. some can have some chaotic energy though, but mostly just through being very loud and not thinking about what they’re saying

14. Pearlcatcher

they scream when other dragons are chaotic. “JERRY, NO, THAT’S ILLEGAL!”. they do not condone chaos, they try to get everything under control but they just end up sitting in the corner crying. they don’t know what they’re doing

15. Imperial

not chaotic. don’t try to resolve anything, they just stare blankly. they know there’s no point trying to control they chaos so they’re just “yup. this happens. I’m just gonna go on with my day, I don’t even care”

16. Snapper

also not chaotic. tries to parent chaotic dragons like “no, that’s dangerous, we aren’t going to do that.” they tend to be more successful than Pearlcatchers because Pearlcatchers do Not know how to control chaos and they just panic. Snappers are chill and will give the dragon the facts as to why their chaotic shenanigan is a Bad Idea

17. Guardian

similar to Snappers, but are more overprotective about it, especially if their charge is the chaotic dragon. they refuse to let their charge be chaotic because if they get hurt, the Guardian will feel like it’s their fault for not stopping them. they will fuss over chaotic dragons and give them the parent talk like “NO, YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DO THAT, GO TO YOUR ROOM”

18. Gaoler

the complete opposite of chaotic. successfully can manage chaos because they’re scary and most dragons don’t want to mess with them. the only dragons they can’t control are Spirals because it is impossible to make a Spiral not chaotic. they’ll have difficulties with Mirror-Wildclaw cursed wars as well, but are normally able to succeed after a bit

[nbrook29]

Sobbe, 6: Teary kiss🥺

Another anon:  1!!

As always, apologies for the long post. Until someone shares the secret with me on how to make the read more thingy work, this is how it’s going to be :(

Again, I don’t know how to write plotless prompts, hence -->

based on But do you REALLY want the K?

Teary kiss + passionate kiss

***

Robbe lets out another shaky breath trying to gain control over his emotions. 

There are people running back and forth next to them, yelling at their kids and dragging heavy suitcases on the tiled floor, rushing to get to their gate on time and yet it feels like the two of them are the only ones existing, foreheads resting against each other, hands reassuringly stroking bony hips and arms looped behind necks holding on for dear life.

They’ve been standing like this for a while, Sander swaying them a little as if to soothe the pain, both of them refusing to let go, not yet, not until that final call is announced. 

It all still feels so surreal.

He knew it was coming, obviously, but he naively thought that he managed to prepare himself for this. 

But now, when he’s faced with the cold interior of the airport at the early hour, gate number 5 looming over just around the corner, reality finally sinks in.

Five months apart.

He’s not sure how his heart is supposed to survive it.

When Sander burst into his bedroom that fateful Wednesday evening, elation in his eyes, talking a mile a minute about his project winning a scholarship, Robbe pulled him on his bed next to himself, placing congratulatory kisses all over his laughing face, calling him “His Artist” a bit teasingly but also with clear adoration easily detectable in his voice.

Once they calmed down a bit and rearranged their bodies to lie facing each other, the wide smile on Sander’s face started to slip, his hand reaching to touch Robbe’s cheek, thumb stroking under his eye as he opened and closed his mouth several times before uttering words that made Robbe’s smile slip as well.

Columbia University, New York City, five months

And then, he added in a small voice, “I don’t know what to do, Robbe.”

The selfish part of him instantly screamed at him to convince Sander, to beg him to stay, to not leave him. Not for five fucking months.

Robbe only needed five seconds to kill that thought and tell it to shut the fuck up.

His boyfriend lied there, next to him, licking his lips nervously, looking so lost and searching for an answer in his eyes, and Robbe could see he was moments away from declaring that nope, no way, he wasn’t going anywhere. 

And that was absolutely unacceptable.

Instead of saying anything, he closed the distance between them and captured his mouth in a searing kiss, hoping it conveyed that he was one hundred percent on board with the plan.

When they broke apart, he shot him a beaming smile. “I can’t wait for you to send me photos of New York street art.”

Sander looked at him with wonder in his eyes, a little unsure if he actually meant it.

“Will you really wait for me for that long?”

“You know I’ll wait for you forever.”

It’s ironic that it was Robbe who spent the last two months reassuring Sander about the trip, squashing any doubt related to their relationship that arose, convincing him that he’s going to be okay left behind. That they are going to be okay.

It’s not that big of a deal, right? Robbe was about to start college anyway, so many exciting times were coming his way. Of course he’s going to wait. He’s going to enjoy his college experience at a film school and Sander is going to conquer New York City, living his best american life, video chatting with him everyday to tell him what he’s been up to. Then, he’s going to come back and they’re finally going to rent a place together. A perfect plan.

So yeah, it’s ironic. It’s ironic because it’s actually Robbe who is a mess now.

The thought of separation hurts so badly but Sander getting a chance to go to New York to study visual arts at fucking Columbia and rejecting the offer for Robbe and their relationship has been out of the question from the start. Robbe would never forgive himself for taking that away from him.

It’s the center of the art world. He needs to go there. If he had decided not to, Robbe would have packed him and pushed him through the plane entrance himself.

“You’re breaking my heart, baby,” Sander whispers in a shaky voice as his fingers catch a runaway tear on Robbe’s cheek. 

Robbe can see that Sander is trying to be strong for both of them, as always taking care of him and his needs first and Robbe loves him so much for that that his heart is almost bursting.

But he also doesn’t want Sander to feel guilty or torn over this even for a second. This is supposed to be an adventure of a lifetime. He can’t take this away from him.

“I’m gonna be okay, don’t worry about me.” He shoots him a smile that he hopes looks convincing.

“I hate the thought of leaving you. Not being able to kiss you,” Sander connects their lips as if for emphasis, and the kiss tastes of salt, making Robbe realize that he’s not the only one getting overwhelmed.

Their bubble is brutally burst when the final call to board for Sander’s flight is announced over the speaker. 

Robbe can feel his entire body getting filled with desperation all at once at the loud voice but before he can do anything Sander pulls him even closer and kisses him, burying his fingers in his curls. The kiss is bruising from the start, frantic as Sander sweeps his tongue in deeper and Robbe makes sure he gives as good as he gets, kissing him thoroughly, hands clinging to the lapels of his leather jacket.

It doesn’t matter that they already had their main goodbye last night. That they spent all those hours lost in each other, learning each other’s body anew, alternating between sweet and loving, and fast and passionate but not any less loving. It doesn’t matter that their bodies will be marked with mouth-shaped bruises and light scratches for days. It doesn’t matter that Robbe can still feel him. 

It doesn’t matter because it wasn’t enough. It will never be enough.

It’s a good thing no one pays them any attention, everyone too busy with their own goodbyes and patting their chest all the time to make sure they have their passport, because the voice in the back of Robbe’s head tells him it’s probably not the most appropriate place for this kind of kissing.

It’s almost impossible for them to stop, to break apart but they don’t have a choice as the line to the gate keeps shortening.

“I’ll try to come home for Christmas, I promise,” Sander whispers into his mouth in between the kisses. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

“You know, I left you my beige sweater so you don’t miss me too much.” Robbe’s laugh sounds teary, his body already mourning the loss of contact when Sander puts some distance between them, bending to grab his carry-on bag before letting out a miserable sigh.

“I have to go.”

The fingers of their right hands are still entwined though, neither of them strong enough to break the touch for good. It reminds Robbe of that cloudy afternoon in front of Sander’s school where the boy graciously granted him a second chance for which he still has been grateful every day.

In the end, Sander is the one to let go first but he only does it to then cup his cheeks with both hands and place the sweetest kiss on his lips Robbe has ever gotten.

Then it’s really time to go.

Robbe forces himself to keep the smile on throughout the entire process of boarding, twisting his fingers to keep the emotions at bay. Sander barely pays any attention to the flight attendant in front of him as he hands in his passport absentmindedly, his eyes flying over Robbe’s face as if he’s trying to memorize every single detail from afar, in case he somehow missed something during all those times before.

Once he’s all clear and the woman starts checking on the last passenger, Robbe knows it’s time.

So he watches, gnawing on his bottom lip with hot tears threatening to spill any second now. He watches as the love of his life hovers a bit longer next to the gate, blowing him that last kiss, mouthing “I love you, Robin” with glassy eyes of his own before turning around and disappearing in the long jet bridge.

It is only then that Robbe allows himself to break down completely.

***

Shoutout to @painfully-oblivious @dagcutie and @gele-gordijnen for helping me with figuring out Sander’s major when my brain decided to do me dirty <3

[miraculousluvbug]

WINGLESS | Ch. 6

***New to Wingless? Start at Chapter 1!

CH. SUMMARY: After learning Hawk Moth's identity, Lila inserts herself into Gabriel's inner circle so she can destroy Ladybug-- er, get Ladybug's earrings. Ha-ha-ha. Ha.

Lila toed the cement beneath her as she restlessly awaited the assistant’s arrival. Gabriel had used an earpiece to communicate to her, Lila assumed. But the waiting was painfully awkward. Neither party made any attempt to fill the silence. The absurdity of the situation sat on their chests like an overweight feline unwilling to move.

As the sun dipped out of golden hour, the mansion shrouded the garden in shadow. Lila squinted her eyes to try and make out the details of Adrien’s mother’s statue, but the effort was fruitless. Wouldn’t a billionaire have, like, lamps or something? Maybe he didn’t have lamps because he hardly left the walls of his office.

Lila’s lips twitched into a smirk, but she quickly smothered it.

There was a sudden scuffling of shoes against the garden stones from behind Lila. She observed wordlessly from the corner of her eye as the looming and brooding Gabriel Agreste flew to the assistant’s side at an inhuman speed and held his arms out to support her silently, his fingers never quite making contact with the body he seemed desperate to protect.

Huh. A weakness. Hawk Moth had a weakness.

Lila filed that tidbit away should she need it for later.

“You were quite cryptic over the phone, sir,” the assistant started.

“I suppose I was, Nathalie. What needed to be said was . . . not phone appropriate.”

“Sir?”

Knowing Gabriel was Hawk Moth seemed to have tipped a domino in Lila’s brain. It was like there was a blanket over her eyes and it had been ripped away. On several occasions, a blue-skinned bird lady aided and abetted Hawk Moth. Lila had wondered who would possibly be close enough to the villain to be looped into his plans.

The connection was easy to make.

Lila folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head to the side, looking Nathalie up and down. When she had finagled her way into the Agreste mansion with a despicable limited edition Ladybug figurine, discovering the identities of Paris’s most wanted duo was not only low on her list of possibilities; it was nowhere near the friggin’ list.

But Dio was it the single most delectable turn of events.

“Let me guess. You were Mayura.”

Nathalie, who had been wholly oblivious to Lila’s presence, sucked in a breath, head spinning to meet the eyes of Adrien’s conniving classmate. Nathalie opened her mouth, probably to protest Lila’s statement, but the words died on her tongue. The only sounds came from the crickets chirping into the encroaching night air.

“She knows,” Gabriel explained.

“She . . . she knows?” Nathalie repeated.

Gabriel nodded. Nathalie’s gaze fell to the grass sprouting in between the garden stones. As the trio stood, the occasional butterfly fluttered around Gabriel like they knew they were kindred.

“You don’t need to be worried about . . . What’s the phrase?” Lila rested a finger on her chin. “Ah, right. Me spilling the fagioli. I don’t know the French word.”

“Beans,” Nathalie supplied.

“You know Italian?” he asked. Then softly to himself, “My Emilie knew Italian.”

Nathalie ducked her head at Gabriel’s attention before straightening her posture and jutting out her chin. If Lila hadn’t seen the woman shuffle over to this spot as if she were going to faint any moment, she might have never known there was anything amiss.

“So you . . . what? Want to be an ally?”

“Multilingual and smart,” Lila teased.

Something dark flickered in Nathalie’s eyes. Much darker than Lila would have ever given her credit for. “You’d do better to watch your tone with me, Mademoiselle Rossi.” She spat Lila’s name like one might an unforeseen chunk of raw garlic.

Ah, so this was how Nathalie wanted to play this. Lila’s fingers tingled in anticipation. She was a flexible actress, best known for her improv skills and dedication to her roles. If a performance was what the assistant wanted, then Lila was eager to put on a show.

“Why, Mademoiselle Nathalie--” Lila started, turning her back on the pair.

“Sancoeur.”

Lila rolled her eyes but proceeded to pump her tone full of sickeningly sweet syrup. “Right. Mademoiselle Sancoeur, it would be my pleasure to get the Ladybug Miraculous for Monsieur Agreste.”

“And Chat Noir’s.”

Lila plastered a fake smile on her face and turned on her heel. “Hm?”

Nathalie arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You loathe Ladybug, don’t you, Mademoiselle Rossi?”

“That’s no secret.”

“You want more than to take her Miraculous.”

It wasn’t a question. Lila held eye contact with Nathalie, unflinching. Eventually, she spoke. “I want to humiliate her. Like she humiliated me,” Lila growled. I want to destroy her.

The assistant chose not to expand on this statement, but Lila could tell she sensed a much more sinister motivation. She must have been weighing the pros and cons, her mind running a mile a minute to predict what including Lila might entail. Lila had to agree: she was a wildcard. Her loyalties teetered like a see-saw, ever-changing to suit her needs. She knew this. And Nathalie knew this.

Lila’s eyes bore into Nathalie’s, challenging her to refuse.

“I admit,” Nathalie began after a beat of consideration, removing her tablet from the crook of her arm, “you might make a valuable asset.”

Gabriel, who had been quietly observing the interaction between his assistant and the girl, folded his arms behind his back. “Yes, even now, while I’m untransformed, your contempt for the bug is palpable.”

“She’s a cockroach,” Lila sneered, her lips upturned in a grimace and her hand clenched tightly into a fist.

Lila’s enthusiasm amused Gabriel greatly. His shoulders shook as he chuckled, but the sound was hollow. “That is something we agree on. No matter how many times I pursue her, she manages to outsmart me.”

Lila bit her tongue. She wanted to say It’s easy to outsmart a man whose password is “password,” but she didn’t. She honestly deserved an award for that caliber of commitment.

“While you are very clever, you’ve been playing an elementary partita, Monsieur Agreste.”

Gabriel’s eyes hesitantly shifted to Nathalie.

“Game, match, etcetera,” she clarified. Ironically, a meager little ladybird flitted to Gabriel’s shoulders then. He scrunched his nose at it.

“And though it’s been a rousing game of tag--” Lila paused purposefully as Gabriel, without breaking eye contact, lifted a palm and allowed the dotted beetle to crawl onto his fingers before proceeding to wordlessly pass it to Nathalie. Lila cleared her throat. “I’m here to up the stakes.”

With her mouth set into a thin line, Nathalie bent over and shook her finger until the thing lost its grip and fell to the concrete. In the process, her shirt rode up to reveal a compelling pale scar the length of a thumb running up her side. Lila arched an eyebrow. Nathalie hastily covered it.

“What exactly are you implying, Mademoiselle Rossi?”

Gabriel peered at Lila over the bridge of his nose, daring her to challenge his legacy as Hawk Moth.

But Lila was not an expert manipulator for nothing. She knew how to read people, and, more importantly, she knew how to please them.

She knew how to play them.

“You’re a proper gentleman, Monsieur.”

Flattery. She would begin with flattery.

With one hand, she twirled one of her pigtails. Men and boys alike often found intelligent girls not only intimidating but emasculating. She wasn’t sure if Gabriel would take too kindly to a sixteen year old picking at all the holes in his plans, holding a magnifying glass to his inadequacies.

But she always loved creating fire with glass as a child.

She particularly enjoyed setting unsuspecting ants aflame.

“Getting your hands dirty is beneath you. There’s no doubt your plans are always cunning.”

She nearly gagged at the sound of those words leaving her throat as she slowly approached the designer and his assistant, calculating each step before taking it. No, she really didn’t believe his plans were cunning. It seemed like he akumatized anyone, chucking strategy to the wind. Imbecille.

“Your akumas, they’re always dressed so well--” it took a colossal amount of willpower for Lila not to look away then, a classic sign of lying “--and their powers are always a genius play on words--” double gag “--but unless you’re willing to play in the mud . . .”

Crunch.

The young vixen made a spectacle of rotating her toes back and forth as she squashed the ladybug the duo had so gingerly set on the stone. She relished in the sensation of a dainty beetle beneath her boot, imagining in vivid detail that it was the heroine’s skull instead.

When she lifted her foot, the two adults barely spared a glance at the result. Lila smirked.

“I’m willing to make a mess, sir,” Lila asserted, peering up at Gabriel through her bangs. She twirled and danced on the balls of her feet. “I would be a brilliant addition! I’ve wanted to wipe that smile off Ladybug’s face since I met her.”

For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, Gabriel’s lips tilted into a smile. He looked . . . almost proud. Lila lapped it up like a woman lost in the desert being given a bottle cap of water.

“Your family is from Italy, Lila?”

Lila tilted her head, confused by the abrupt detour in conversation. “. . . Yes.”

“How would you feel about an impromptu family visit?”

Nathalie’s eyes widened. She whipped her head around to stare down her boss so fast she was nearly overcome by dizziness. “You can’t really want--”

Gabriel held up a hand, instantly silencing his assistant. She searched his eyes for any remnants of humanity. Was there any left? Did it slip through her fingers on her watch? Gabriel couldn’t possibly want-- They were children, for God’s sakes!

But like an avalanche, his mask crumbled, and swept away with it was any morsel of decency.

“I do want, Nathalie. I’ve grown bored of this back-and-forth business with those two meddling infants. They hold onto those Miraculous so firmly, as if they could possibly know, possibly fathom--”

He didn’t finish his statement, closing his eyes and rolling his neck. Lila delighted in Gabriel’s sudden slip of conduct as his shoulders hunched all the way to his ears and he grinded his teeth. She hadn’t pictured him to be capable of such an erupting volcano of emotion. She often wondered if he was capable of emotion at all.

“Hand me the tablet, Nathalie.”

Nathalie gripped the tablet until her fingers turned white, but the resolve she saw in Gabriel loosened her own. Grudgingly, she passed him the device.

“There are some items I’d like you to procure for me, items that I surmise you’ll be quite pleased to have in your arsenal.”

Whatever these items were, they seemed to have Nathalie on the edge of her seat.

It was suddenly imperative that Lila find out what could have ruffled Mayura’s pretty feathers.

“Sir, you won’t be disappointed.”

Gabriel eyed Lila a moment before affirming, “I don’t believe I will.”

The final remnants of the golden hour neglected the garden, blanketing its visitors in a foreboding shadow like it was them and then it was the rest of the world. Perhaps this is why they missed the piercing green eyes surveying the trio scrupulously from a neighboring building.

So jealousy was a green-eyed monster.

No one mentioned it also wore black leather.

-----

I hope you're enjoying my little fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it! 🥰 There's still so much to uncover in this story so buckle up. Follow me for updates and check out my Instagram where I post art!

(6/?) Previous | Next

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Seen ✓ - 3

Pairing: Sam x Reader Warnings: cursing, a bit of self depreciation Word Count: 2.2k Series Summary: On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam. Beta: None

Part 1  -  Part 2 Masterlist

Chapter 3: for the love of god, explain this

Sam Winchester lies awake at three in the morning, under foreign, scratchy sheets, stubbornly not tearing his eyes from the cracked, ugly wallpaper on the ceiling. A lot of things are happening and his brain is going about a million miles an hour, spinning endlessly, Castiel, Dean returning from hell, the stress of the hunting life, the current case and… Y/n. Wonderful, smart, talented, funny Y/n.

It’s been a while since someone has made him excited. He keeps bumping into her in his mind, keeps finding thoughts of her lying around, eager to distract him. He catches himself wanting to text her about every stupid thing that happens in his day, much like she sometimes does. She’s been the only thing that makes his heart a little lighter, and it’s such a strange feeling, someone’s presence being this uplifting.

He was suspicious of her at first. A strange woman (at least she claims to be one, he forgets he’s never actually… seen her) asking about him, his profession, and then about… ghosts? A bit random, too specific, Sam recognizes he got defensive. But the way she spoke afterwards… he doesn’t know.  His instinct tells him to trust her.

Amidst his thoughts, he doesn’t remember picking up his phone, but it’s just one of those nights, he needs someone to talk to- or rather, wants Y/n specifically. A thought he chooses not to dwell on.

are you awake? I can’t sleep.

I actually am. Lucky you.

Sam smiles. Lucky me, he thinks.

isn’t it like 4 am for you?

Tell me about it. No luck sleeping either.

happen to you a lot?

Yeah.

I happen to have anxiety induced insomnia.

Working at a bar also helps fuck up your sleeping schedule as well.

You?

i’m sorry :/

i don’t get much sleep either. something always keeps me up.

Yeah, I get that.

Where in the Great Unites States of America are you today?

hahah it’s Oregon today.

it’s the ugliest motel room i’ve ever been in.

Ooh

Do I ask about your case or is it confidential?

it’s confidential but i’ll tell you that i am investigating a bunch of strange murders.

You’re investigating serial killers?? That’s so fucking dope.

something like that yeah.

how was your day?

Oh, you know. The usual.

College assignments, a shift at the bar. I went out with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while.

I need to clean my house desperately.

I also nearly burned my kitchen down trying to cook lunch. Emmy and I ended up eating some lazy-ass spaghetti, because pasta is the only thing I can cook, apparently.

hahahah what were you making?

You’re gonna laugh if I tell you.

well now you must.

Ugh, do I?

come onnn

It was eggs, okay? I was just trying to make eggs.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAH

I TOLD YOU YOU’D LAUGH AT ME

HOW DID YOU BURN EGGS?!

LISTEN, OKAY

I NEVER SAID I WAS A GOOD COOK

HAHAHAHAH

Sam laughs over his phone, as silently as he can, so as to not wake Dean up. He turns on his other side and realizes his cheeks hurt from smiling, and it’s a feeling he’s missed.

Yeah, yeah, laugh, culinary genius. Not all of us can be perfect.

i never said i was a culinary genius

but at least i don’t go near stoves if i don’t have to.

Well, it’s not like I can afford every-day takeout (or like that shit is healthy, even if I could) and someone has to cook for my sister while she’s in school

you have siblings?

and yeah you’re right i didn’t think like that sorry.

It’s okay.

And yeah, my sister, Emily.” Emmy”

oooh i thought emmy was your friend.

Nono, it’s my sister. She’s 17.

can i ask you a personal question?

Shoot

why do you have to take care of her? are your guys’ parents not around?

you don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable with that.

Well, it’s a bit complicated.

My parents’ marriage kind of fell apart when I was around 10. They tried to fix things by adopting a kid- Emily. For a while that worked.

When I was 16 my mom took off and dad took care of us for 2 years almost. He really dedicated himself to us.

He worked his antique shop and supported us. For two years, I didn’t see him spend a penny on himself.

But I ended up having to take care of Em when he passed. I was freshly 18, so I could take care of her as a guardian.

shit i’m so sorry.

It’s okay, honestly.

I mean, it didn’t use to be, and it was hell for a while.

But we made it.

i admire your positivity.

I try :)

i also love that you put smiley faces in your text messages.

Shouldn’t have said that, now I’ll always think about it before I do it

hahah

Sam bites his lip. What the hell is happening? They’re… flirting. Sorta. And it’s nice- better than nice. Fuck.

What about you?

you mean what’s my relationship with my parents?

Well, when you put it like that it sounds stupid. It wasn’t what I was asking either.

What I meant was, how’s your life right now. How’s the family business. You can pick which you wanna answer.

i don’t mind either honestly.

as for my parents my mom died when I was 6 months old. my dad passed away about a year and a half ago.

Jesus, I’m so sorry Sam

I don’t know what to say. It can’t have been easy. Losing a parent never is.

it wasn’t but as you said we’re trying to sort of find our footing with Dean. we’ve had our ups and downs.

Yeah I understand that.

Do you wanna talk about it?

right now not really. I mean there’s not much to say about it.

i kinda wanna forget about it. thanks though.

Alright.

So how’s the family business?

Does it feel good to be paid to be Sherlock Holmes?

crap. but we’re doing our best.

for the record i don’t get paid nearly enough for the shit i have to do.

Hahaha, hang in there.

Dean still refuses to come get his phone?

yeah. he says you can keep it.

Tell him to take care of his devices from now on, this one was battered beyond recognition.

duly noted.

The conversation continued until well after the sun rose. Sam had officially accepted this night to be sleepless, and Y/n was good company. Somehow she took his mind off of everything that was bugging him, made him, if momentarily, forget about it, and he truly loved that about her. The back and forth tended to flow easily between them, and he couldn’t get enough of the chemistry he had with this practical stranger.

Sleepless or not, this night was a good one, after she entered the picture.

-

The glow on her skin is blue-ish and soft, combatting the one from the fairy lights above them. Laptop absolutely not low in volume, couch dipping under two bodies, slumped together, legs leaning against one another, soft flannel pants and droopy eyes. Emily’s hair is out of its usual half-up hairstyle, exploding with volume and bright, firey color, flowing onto the back of the couch.

Jon Snow is yelling on the screen, and Y/n is completely ignoring him, constantly checking her inactive phone and the way the screen doesn’t light up with Sam’s name. Every time she feels disappointed, she tries to quell the relentless thoughts of the possibility of him being completely over her.

Damn it.

“Do you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend I’m not aware of or something?” Emily mutters dryly, half-hearted but gentle teasing. Y/n sputters.

“Huh?”

“’Cause you keep checking your phone, and as far as I know you don’t have any friends.”

“HEY,” deeply offended, Y/n places her hand over her heart, glaring at her sister. “Excuse you!” she exclaims, “Connor? Ashley? Lydia?”

“Yeah, a neighbor and two college students that you haven’t talked to in like, what, two weeks? What a social butterfly.”

“Okay first off,” Y/n ignores the screaming and fighting on the screen and shifts to look at her sister. “Stop tracking my socializing.” Em scoffs.

“C’mon, bear, spill.” Bottom lip pouted. She pauses the episode, turning to face her older sister. “Who are they and when can I meet them?” A devilish smile, teasing like only a younger sister can, curling the right corner of her lip.

“He’s not my boyf-“

“AHA! So there is someone! I knew it!”

“I’ve known him for like- what, three weeks? Nothing is going on! I barely know the guy!” Y/n fiddles with her hair and huffs, holding back a smile.

“Where’d you meet him? Is he hot? What’s he like?!” Poking her sister’s thigh continuously, she grins wide, excited. “C’mon, you’re like, no fun.”

“The thing is… I didn’t. Meet him, I mean.” Eyebrows furrow.

“Uh…” Emily purses her lips. “I’m … not following.”

It takes all of five minutes for Y/n to explain to her sister all about her crazy adventure, the lost phone, the brother, Sam. The girls munch on leftover garlic spaghetti, talking about the stranger on the other side of Y/n’s screen.

“He’s just… different? I don’t know- I just, I’m intrigued I guess. He’s mysterious and hilarious. The type of guy we’d hang out with. Why pass it up?”

“Just hang out?” Emily wiggles her eyebrows. Y/n shoves her.

“It’s really not like that.”

“I don’t know, Y/n, he doesn’t necessarily sound just friendly to me.” Y/n won’t lie and say she hasn’t thought about it. She’s a romantic after all, and what a wonderful, movie-like love story would it be for them to fall in love and march into the sunset?

But she recognizes this is the romantic side of her picking up speed on a subject that definitely isn’t for her to decide alone. There’s a second participant in all of this, and he needs to do more than half the work by liking her. She knows it’s no easy feat. A bitter dab of paint dissolves in her chest, because why would he like her? She’s nothing quite special. She’s just a bartender, a college student, a boring, normal girl, painfully mundane, painfully boring. He’s brilliant, kind and sweet, a private investigator, he travels all the time, he’s the most interesting guy she’s ever met for crying out loud. Why would he ever give her a chance?

“I doubt it, Em,” is what Y/n decides to say, because there’s no way she can explain exactly what she’s thinking.

“No, no, you’re doing that thing again.” A hum in question falls from the older Andrews’ lips. “The thing where you put yourself down for bullshit reasons. He’d be lucky to have you.” Y/n wants to roll her eyes. “Hey,” a snap of Emily’s fingers in front of Y/n’s face to catch her attention. “I will literally slap you. You’re smart, funny, kind. He’d be fucking lucky to have you, and if you don’t believe it, I’m gonna beat some sense into you. Stop putting my sister down.”  Y/n doesn’t have anything good to say to that, so instead she lets out a huffed breath of a laugh and sits back on the couch.

“Now,” Emily leans over her own crossed legs and grabs her phone from the rickety coffee table. “Did you Google him?”

“Why the heck would I Google him?”

“It’s the 21st century, Y/n, gosh. Are you at all familiar with internet stalking?” Y/n watched pebbled coffee brown eyes get illuminated by the phone screen, freckles nowhere near as bright as they can be, because she hasn’t gone out into the sunlight today. Emily is gorgeous. Y/n is sometimes jealous, but also genuinely admires her younger sister. “What’s his name?”

“Sam Winchester.”

There’s typing, and then silence.

“Y/n…” And the warning tone on the younger one’s voice completely throws her off.

“What? What is it?” A phone screen is thrust in her face.

Mail fraud, credit card fraud, grave desecration, armed robbery, kidnapping, three counts of first-degree murder, and breaking and entering, she reads. Winchester brothers Sam and Dean, disappeared, considered dead.

“What the fuck,” she mutters under her breath, completely horrified at the chance that this is real and the universe isn’t playing some comic joke on her, creating another pair of Winchester brothers called Sam and Dean who, instead of chasing murderers, are the murderers.

She scrolls lower and sure enough, there they are. Mug shots, but more specifically, the guy from the dating app, smouldering cheekily into the camera –a real blue steel-, holding a police station name on a black plaque, sitting at close to six feet and two. Then the younger one, less joyful and sassy, more serious and puppy-eyed. Sam. Close to what was described to her, it’s all there. Pointy nose, sharp jawline, curly brown hair with a growing, swoopy fringe, pulled behind his ears. It’s him. There’s no way, the coincidences are too many.

“Bear…” Emily stares at Y/n’s shocked face, gaze empty and out of it. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

Immediately, Y/n grabs her phone.

Sam

His reply is instantaneous.

hey y/n

i was just thinking about you

what’s up?

Please for the love of God.

Explain this.

She sends him the mugshot, photographed from the screen of her sister’s phone.

shit.

-

Part 4

A/N: Tell me what you thought? How the hell does he even explain this?

I realized I haven’t been tagging my forever taglist like a MORON, so just, sorry, I’ll start now. 

Forevers:   @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester​ @deanssweetheart23​ @nostalgic-uncertainty​ @mogaruke​ @superseejay721517​ @lady-hawkguy​ @thosefeelsarereal​ @superwholockmarauder​  @justiceiswater​ @petra-arkanian-1497​ @heyitscam99​ @danijimenezv​ @aj-reuth  @unicornblood4ever @mystriee​ @sadist-fangirl23 @asguardiansoftheavengers​ @superrandomnatural​ @altosaxplayer098 @winter-moons @hunterswearingplaid​ @novaddictx​ @choosemyname​  @live-like-a-girl​ @thisismysecrethappyplace​ @bowtomytenderaddiction​  @elara98azalea​ @lemondropirwin​ @emmagolden4118​ @glitchcypher @calaofnoldor​ @paradoxical-sleep​ @narynechan @canwenotdothis​ @suicidepanda07​ 

Sam Taglist

@kymberlytorres​ @theboykingsamwinchester​ @depressed-moose-78 @andi-mendes-barnes​ @captainmarvelcorps​ @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away​ @nellachain​

 Seen Taglist  @shutupiminlooove​ @sammysgirl1997​ @kymberlytorres​ @bambi95-blog​ @demonic-meatball​ @thekarliwinchester​ @littlekay15​ @li-m-ii​  @thinspo-isuppose​ @carryonmywaywarddemigodwitch @ellen-reincarnated1967 @moonlitskinwalker​ @marichromatic​ @illuminatus42​ @lazy-author​ @mirandaaustin93​ @hauntedsiriel​ @pilaxia​ @devilgirlsarah​ @nobodys-baby-now​ @captiveties​ @calamitychaos @midiocris @wordswillscream​ @burningforsam​ @aiofheavenandhell​

[mordoriscalling]

The Colour-Magic Theory (7/?)

Intro, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

@genkitaco

***

Bitter consequences can bring sweetness amid turmoil.

At Ciri’s request, Jaskier has dropped his glamour completely just this once. It took the girl only a week of travelling together to convince him, which is a remarkable feat. Geralt never even dared to suggest it in the first place, knowing it was a lot to ask.

Now Jaskier stands before them in his true fae form. Only the hair on his head remains unchanged – everything else about him is different. His facial features are sharper, so are his teeth. Jaskier’s ears are much bigger, elongated and pointed, while his fingernails resemble talons. The fae’s eyes are such a vibrant cornflower blue that they sparkle. His skin, in an olive tone, is also radiant; so much so that it appears as though sunlight was touching it. Jaskier is wearing only his boots and trousers (having foregone putting on any upper garment), and all over his hairless chest and arms, there are delicate veins of tiny speckles in all shades of brown and green. Freckles dust Jaskier’s face, too, light blue and beige in colour.

There are also some parts of Jaskier that haven’t been changed by the glamour – there were actually completely veiled by it until now. Small, sharp-pointed antlers are seated on the top of his head and on his back, there are massive, feathered wings. The feathers are dark brown at the root, just like Jaskier’s hair, but gradually turn beige and then blue at the tip; there’s also a blue-green shine to them.

Everything about the bard screams inhuman, and he exudes fae magic so much that Geralt’s medallion vibrates only because of Jaskier’s proximity. The witcher isn’t alarmed, however. He and Cirilla both admire the magnificent creature before them, unmoving in their awe. Geralt’s eyes roam all over the fae’s form, and the searing gold of his gaze reminds Jaskier of the sun itself. He longs to let himself bask and bloom in the warmth like a flower, or to fly towards it. Jaskier is a fae of the skies after all; his wings can carry him far. (But not far enough. The sun is out of his reach).

“Jaskier, you’re beautiful,” Ciri breaths out as she steps closer towards the bard, her voice full of wonder.

Jaskier smiles softly. “So are you,” he answers, then boops her on the nose.

Ciri giggles and hugs him. Jaskier wraps his arms around her, then his great wings envelop them both, only the fae’s face remaining visible. Geralt hears Jaskier make a deep coo, to which Ciri responds with a chirpy purr.

Jaskier’s gaze drifts up to rest on the witcher and the look in his eyes hardens. The cornflower blue gains a threatening glint but the bright gold doesn’t back down. Geralt wants answers but none are in sight since the bard refuses to talk to him. They continue glaring at each other but then Cirilla wriggles out of Jaskier’s embrace and the tension is broken.

They make camp for the night. Jaskier chatters with Ciri all the while, although he doesn’t reply when she asks why he seems angry with Geralt. Geralt offers no words on the matter too; he finds himself unable to admit to what he has done. Cirilla pouts and whines, as she tends to do when she doesn’t get her way, but the witcher and the bard don’t relent.

In the evening, Jaskier croons a lullaby to put Ciri to a restful sleep. Due to the glamour being gone, his fae powers aren’t restricted by anything, which makes his soft singing even more sweet and charming than it usually is. Cirilla dozes off very quickly but the fae keeps crooning, and Geralt starts getting affected by it too. He feels himself drift to sleep but doesn’t fight it – it’s like gently easing into calm, quiet and warmth. Suddenly everything he has been missing is there.

Then, Jaskier stops and the world turns cold. Geralt sits up abruptly, comprehension striking him like a lightning.

“Jaskier,” the witcher says. Jaskier’s sparkling eyes lay upon him and before he can think better of it, Geralt blurts out, “it’s you.” He swallows hard. “The blessing of my life, it’s you.”

Jaskier breaks the eye contact, a wry smile twisting his lips. “And yet you run to Yennefer every time,” he murmurs, his tone so bitter that Geralt can almost taste it on his tongue.

The witcher frowns, confused. “Jaskier, what? It’s not–”

“Spare me, Geralt,” the fae cuts in, waving his hand. He sighs, averting Geralt’s gaze, and goes on, “I’ve forgiven you long ago. And yet, I can’t forget.”

“Let me fix it,” Geralt replies, his voice balancing on the edge of pleading. Jaskier doesn’t react. “Please,” the witcher insists, inching his body closer to the unmoving, unmoved creature. “I want us to be like before. We used to be...”

Happy. The words linger between them, better left unsaid. The air grows thick with the bitter sting of memories – the moments of peace and laughter long gone.

Jaskier slowly looks up at the witcher, his features weary and rueful. “There’s no coming back, Geralt,” he says.

The truth rings out in the silence and Geralt can only fight for breath. His chest constricts, a voiceless scream filling lungs and burning his throat until his eyes begin to prickle. The witcher opens his mouth but no words come out. He can only stare at the beautiful fae he has hurt, self-loathing coiling in his gut.  

“There’s no running away either,” Jaskier adds, pointing at sleeping Ciri with his chin. “I think she’s bound to both you and me.” The fae gets up to sit by the girl’s side and starts caressing her cheek. “My bud-ling,” he says tenderly.  

Geralt understands the sentiment. A small smile lights up his face as he watches Jaskier and Ciri. The moment is quiet and soft. Everything is basked in the gentle light of the bonfire that makes Jaskier appear even more otherwordly. The witcher commits the sight to memory.

Soon after, Jaskier gets ready to put on his glamour again.  As he’s about to leave the campsite, Geralt says, “Just know that I’m sorry.” Jaskier stops in his tracks but doesn’t turn around. Geralt goes on, “I was cruel. You deserve so much better than... me.”

Geralt can’t decide whether he actually hears the whisper of, “Yet it’s only you that I’ve ever truly wanted” or his mind and the wind trick him.

When they go to sleep, they lay down on Ciri’s sides. As the girl sleeps between them, a feeling of wholeness settles deep into their bones, enveloping them like a warm cocoon. They hold Cirilla throughout the night, feeling like they’ve done something right.

*

Jaskier reaches for his travel pack, currently swung over Geralt’s shoulder, but the witcher moves away before he can take it.

“I’ve got it,” Geralt grunts and starts walking ahead, leading Roach by the reins.

Ciri jogs up to Geralt’s side but Jaskier stands in place for a moment more. The witcher has been kind to him in all those small yet grand ways – carrying his travel pack, making sure he eats first after Ciri, letting him ride Roach, and more – and the bard finds it hard not to let the gestures warm his heart too much. His heart is almost fully withered, after all; it would catch fire easily. He can’t allow wishful thinking to spark a disaster.

After Jaskier joins the witcher and the princess, he says, “We’re getting close.”

Ciri nods enthusiastically. “I could feel her,” she gushes, “she’s powerful!”

“That she is,” Jaskier agrees because there’s no way to deny it. The sorceress is almost pure Chaos, which, together with the other reason, is why the bard has always found her company hard to bear. Her magic clashes with his Order.

Trees talk to each other and their roots run deep. They know about what’s been happening miles away, and so do birds. When Jaskier, due to Ciri’s relentless insistence, kept asking them about a “lilac woman”, one day they finally answered that they had heard of a woman smelling of lilac and gooseberries. And so, two weeks ago, Ciri made them change their course, claiming that she needed the woman to join them. They had been travelling for a month at that point, and autumn was just around the corner, but there was no arguing with the princess, no matter how much Geralt and Jaskier dreaded meeting Yennefer again.

Jaskier started showing Ciri how to connect with the thrum of life, which allows to experience what plants and animals do in one’s mind eye. They would sit on the ground together, searching for any traces of Ciri’s “lilac woman”, and they soon discovered that nature’s Order was disturbed far away, both by a mighty Chaos-wielding person and a large group of soldiers who kept starting fires. They’ve been following the disturbance ever since despite the danger.

Now it won’t be long until they catch up with her. Geralt and Jaskier try savouring the last moments of calm before the storm. Although nothing between them is sorted, they both find peace in caring for Ciri. The three of them (and Roach) have settled into a rhythm over the past month. The daily travelling routine involves, among other things, Geralt teaching Cirilla self-defence and her learning fae magic from Jaskier. The lessons help the witcher and the bard to get to know the princess better, and vice versa. The girl took to Jaskier quickly, since she had met him before, but has grown close to Geralt too. She’s started seeking out Geralt’s attention and affection on her own. The girl even hugs him from time to time, much to the witcher’s astonishment. Jaskier laughs at the frankly adorable look on Geralt’s face every time it happens.

The evening on the day before they find Yennefer, after Ciri falls asleep, Jaskier addresses Geralt, which is something he still rarely does.

“Tell you what,” the bard says apropos of nothing, “in the end, I just find it annoying.” “What do you find annoying?” the witcher inquires. “It ‘s always us who want something from her,” Jaskier replies, “not the other way around.” Geralt huffs a laugh and answers, “Believe me, in this, she needs us more than we need her.”

Geralt says it with so much fondness betraying his deep affection and understanding of Yennefer that only one fibre in Jaskier’s heart stays beating. What else remained alive before now withers.

TBC

Part 8

[pax-2735]

@jonsadungeonsanddrabbles

Jonsa Kink Week, day 6

Restraint | Wantonness

Dangerous

Jon Snow and Alayne Stone are strangers when they meet in a nightclub. Their chemistry is immediate, the pull between them undeniable, and they share a passionate night together.

That same week, at the behest of the Martells, the five most powerful crime families in Westeros meet in a council, to try and mend the feud between Starks and Targaryens that threatens to plunge the entire continent into a deadly war.

And in the midst of it, Jon Targaryen and Sansa Stark meet again.

***

Jon plucks a glass of champagne from a passing waiter as he carefully makes his way towards her. She stands to the sidelines of the room, her eyes trained forward to carefully watch over the crowd. Scanning for threats as he should be doing, if his mind wasn’t too consumed with thoughts of red hair and shinning blue eyes and legs that go on for miles.

She doesn’t move when he comes to stand to her left, nothing in her posture acknowledging his presence, but he knows she’s aware of him. He lets his eyes gaze forward as he takes a sip of his champagne.

“What a surprise, meeting you again.”

“You must be mistaken. I’m sure we’ve never met.” Her voice is cold and she still refuses to look at him, and Jon smirks. Her red lipstick leaves an imprint of her lips at the rim of the glass as she takes a sip and he feels his body grow tight, visions of those same lips wrapped around his cock as she fell to her knees inside a dimly lit bedroom, ready and aching to take him in her mouth swimming in his brain. He groans and he can almost swear he sees her trying to contain a smirk.

“Are you sure? I could swear I’ve seen you before.” He moves casually, his body invading her personal space as he tilts his head closer and lets his voice grow huskier. “I have this image of you pushing me against a wall, moaning so prettily when I licked your cunt.” He inhales deeply, her perfume invading his senses, and he almost, almost, lets his tongue dart out to lick against that spot behind her ear he has learned makes her shudder. “Are you sure it wasn’t you riding me, screaming my name when you came around my cock?”

He moves backward slightly to look at her. She’s still looking forward but her eyes are half lidded now, her breathing shallower. It’s dark in this corner of the room but Jon can still see her soft skin growing pink as his words wash over her, her blush spreading over her collarbone to disappear behind her dress.

He steps back reluctantly as a group of men walks by them on their way to the balconies, tries to put some semblance of distance between them. The pull is still there, the fire that ignited between them that night nowhere near extinct as he feels the desire coiling through his blood. No, one night was not enough.

But she’s a fucking Stark now and this has the potential to blow up in his face in a fuck up of epic proportions. This shit, this girl, is dangerous.

The small distance between them now seems to be all she needs to pull back her collected mask and she takes a long sip of champagne before she slowly turns to look at him with a cocked eyebrow.

“You are mistaken. It was Jon Snow and Alayne Stone that did those things. Jon Targaryen and Sansa Stark have never met before.”

He cocks his head to the side with a taunting look, his tongue poking out to lick his lips as he looks her over. “What if Jon Targaryen thinks differently?”

“Then he should remember that that kind of thinking is likely to get him killed.”

He smiles as he tilts his head forward, so close he can feel the sweetness of her breath as it passes through her lips. “You worried I’ll be killed baby?” he asks nonchalantly.

She smirks, something dangerous and predatorial, her eyes fliting between his eyes and his lips, and Jon feels his blood rush south.

“If it gets me killed as well in the process, then yes. I am.” She nods her head at him, a faint taunt making her eyes glimmer under the dim light of the chandeliers. “Enjoy your evening Mr. Targaryen.”

Jon watches as she moves away from him, hips swaying beneath the silk of her dress, which he’s certain still bear the imprint of his fingers.

“You really need to stop staring at her.”

He almost startles at her voice, his head tipping to the side to acknowledge her even as his eyes stay riveted on the mass of red curls making her way across the room. “Dany.” He takes a long pull of his drink before answering. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She hums, her hand tugging slightly at his jacket sleeve and Jon relents, finally letting his eyes rest on her. She looks stunning as she always does, but the warmth of her smile is belittled by the hardness in her violet eyes.

“She’s beautiful, I’ll give you that.” She looks in Sansa’s direction and nods her head approvingly before looking back at him, and the steel is back in her voice. “But I’d tone it down if I were you. You know what would happen if her father caught you looking at her like that. Or yours, for that matter.”

Jon looks around the room cautiously and, sure enough, Rhaegar is looking at him, a frown marring his features as he slowly shakes his head. Jon looks back at his aunt with his usual aloofness. “I was just enjoying the view.”

“Yes…” she answers, her eyes piercing him and he knows she’s not fooled. “Just make sure you don’t enjoy it too much. This whole situation is volatile enough as it is, we don’t need any more fuel added to the fire because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”  

She leaves him then, in a flurry of satin skirts and floral perfume, and Jon huffs irritably as he brings his glass up to his lips only to realize it’s empty. He looks around and nods brusquely at the waiter to bring him another before his eyes catch a flash of auburn hair in the stairs leading up to the restrooms. He hesitates only for a second, the strength of his father’s glare still piercing the back of his skull.

This shit, this girl, is dangerous.

But since when had Jon ever shied away from danger?

[franniexxfabray]

Gin and Tonic;

WHO: Frannie Fabray & Alina Montgomery @alinamontgomery WHEN: thursday night 5/6 WHAT: bar in orlando  Warnings; bad flirting

Two things happened at once that caught Frannie off guard, neither of which she did a very good job of shaking. She was out with LJ, a drink, some catching up. LJ was safe to be a bit more of herself around, they knew her the best and although Frannie still refuse to come clean about she and Sebastian's arrangement it was easy to relax around them. Too easy perhaps, she had lost track of what number drink she was on and didn't bother to worry about it. At the far end of the bar she reached for a drink the bartender had called out and set down and her hand came into contact with someone else's just as a waft of a familiar perfume filled her senses. Frannie's brow furrowed, trying to process both as she looked up half expecting her last week's companion to be standing right there next to her. It wasn't April, it was a woman Frannie didn't recognize at all but the perfume was unmistakable and the moment had her frozen with her hand over the strangers, staring. She blinked, realized and pulled her hand away so quickly it was miraculous she didn't swipe the glass over as she went. "Oh! Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!"

Alina had picked up drink after drink after drink and she wasn't sure if she wanted to stop anytime soon. She deserved some time at an actual bar with actual people after that karaoke night - and her own company was too distracted with something else. Not that she minded it, it gave her freedom to walk around, check the crowd and smile at strangers. When the drink she had in hand was done, she walked up to the bar to order another one - still not thinking about a bottle of water. And that's when it happened. At first she thought someone was trying to get her attention, so she immediately looked to the side, but the other woman just stood there looking at her. Alina couldn't help but laugh, turning her body to face her and showing her both of her hands. "It's fine, you can hold both if you'd like," she said, followed by a wink. And then she added with a smile. "I mean it, it's completely fine."

If Frannie's cheeks were red before they were even more so after the offered hand and though the alcohol in her system kept her eye's from widening she was still struggling with being glued to the spot. There was also the fact that on top of the sweet smell of the perfume bringing up a few tied memories, the woman's smile was entirely disarming. Frannie could barely find her next words. "I'm so sorry it seems we ordered the same drink and then... and then I just thought you were someone else for a moment." She managed, only stammering a little. Despite herself and because of the woman's friendly response she let out a nervous laugh, mostly at herself. "Please..." She gestured at the glass. "I can-- I'll wait."

"Well, here's to hoping it was someone great," she said, winking at the woman and going for the glass. She took a sip from it and then placed it in front of the nervous woman. "We can share, no problem," with a shrug, Alina crossed her legs so she could lean forward just enough. Just to make it obvious that she did it. "Besides, it gives me an excuse to buy you another one when this one is done. How does that sound?" She couldn't help but think that this night had finally gotten a little interesting. Despite her nervousness, the woman in front of her was beautiful. And she seemed the type that would make tonight a little more fun. Going out and scening with people from the Academy was great, but this was much more Alina's type of night.

Frannie was enamored, it was difficult for her to look away and when she did it was only to follow the drink to being set down before her. She looked back up at the stranger, judging for whether she were joking or messing with her, it didn't seem she was. Frannie glanced up to where she'd last seen LJ and gave a scan of her immediate surroundings on habit, cautious. What she usually would have said was something along insisting she could wait, that surely the bartender was working on another but, tipsier than she aught to be, none of that came to Frannie's mind. She reached for the drink and took a much more modest sip around the small grin on her lips. When Frannie swiveled in the bar chair her knee brushed against the woman's and she felt her whole body jerk in response, nearly losing her grip on the gin and tonic. Before she could embarrass herself any further and with a bashful lilt to her eyes, she placed it down in front of her sudden company. Mirroring the offer, and moving further into their shared space to do so.

Alina just couldn't help her smile when the woman sipped from the drink, keeping her body facing hers and watching with that same big smile on her lips as she moved to place the drink in front of her again. "Good girl," it was a long shot her tipsy intuition was taking, and not that it would usually be wrong or right, but incentives rarely hurt. Alina was torn between finishing the drink and dragging this for longer or pulling her closer - they were already sharing space, weren't they? Deciding on both, Alina took a sip from the glass and placed a hand on the woman's thigh as she set the glass down in front of her. "You know," she started, watching for the reaction she would get now that they were touching again - or better, now that Alina was touching her. "That's some great gin and tonic," just some random words while the waited, fingers slightly tapping against the woman's thigh.

At the sound of those two particular words together Frannie's eyes dropped closed as it washed over her. She'd gone from indulging so deeply the previous week to dodging titles from submissive parties on this trip left and right and she was drunk enough to let those words settle in her and warm her. By the time her eyes were open again she was already smiling, pink cheeks be damned. Frannie felt bold under the praise, she allowed the woman's touch to come to her thigh and she held her gaze as she spoke but as the bartender approached with that other drink she felt herself automatically shrinking away. Something in the back of her mind reminding her to be careful, even when she was drinking. "You're telling me." She said, pushing a hand through her hair simply to give her body something to do. It was getting hotter in there, Frannie was sure of it. "I'd have to agree...Miss."

Being right always felt like a victory to Alina and the smile she got after the praise she gave the woman felt like victory number one of that night. Moving her hand higher, she was moving closer when the bartender approached them and she noticed the her posture changing again. Alina leaned back, squeezing the woman's thigh as she spoke. She sipped from the new drink, shaking her head then. "It might sound cheesy, but it certainly doesn't taste as good as that one," she eyed the drink they had been sharing, allowing herself to laugh softly at her own bad pick up line. "So, gin and tonic good girl," Alina started again now that they were... alone. Not the correct word, but still. "I think we should totes have some fun tonight. You and me," she leaned forward, smiling, and just like that she was a bit too close again. "What do you say? You sound like my type of fun."

Frannie couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, either the way she was being called that or the squeeze to her thigh but goosebumps quickly rose along her skin and when the offer was proposed she nearly choked. A flash of possibilities suddenly made their way through Frannie's thoughts and as she went to go put the glass back down she missed the bar entirely, spilling the drink in discussion across both their laps. She gasped and reacted trying to reach for it and right it. "Oh gosh!" She found herself saying and hurriedly gathered tiny square cocktail napkins from the corner of the bar to help soak up the mess. "I am not usually this clumsy," she promised, unsure if it were actually the truth. "I'm so sorry, I can't believe I just did that."

For a whole second, Alina just sat there trying to understand what had just happened. And then she was laughing softly, shaking her head at the other woman as she noticed she was trying to clean up the mess. She thought about letting her know that if she wanted to undress Alina this bad, all she needed to do was ask - but she felt like a comment like that might just break her. "It's okay, I have more of this back home," she pointed at her dress. "But we might need something more than cocktail napkins to dry these off," Alina said with a chuckle, leaning back. She thought about it for a second, and shrugged. "C'mon, let's dry you off," she hopped off her stall, a kind smile on her lips. "Take it for real this time," offering the woman one of her hands to hold, Alina made sure to give her a wink too.

In truth, Frannie was still recovering from the my type of fun comment. Her heart rate had sped up and at that point after making such a mess she knew her fluster had to be evident. She forced herself to take a deep breath and was immediately soothed by the woman's nice words. She wasn't angry, or bothered at all it seemed. Butterflies erupted in Frannie's stomach at the wink and she took another deep breath as an attempt to steady herself. The offered hand didn't sound like a question and Frannie barely hesitated to follow through, grasping her companies hand within her own. "You as well." She asserted, frowning at the wet spot on the pretty dress and momentarily getting distracted with her eyes hovering over the hemline. "Please," Frannie began, unsure where she was going until she refocused on the woman's eyes. "you'll allow me to help you too, right Miss?" Her voice had dropped midway, her grip momentarily tightening and her thoughts a mile a minute. Internally cursing herself for being truly incapable of properly flirting.

Alina was definitely not about to let some random drink on her dress ruin her night, at least not when she could easily buy a new one with a text message. She would rather have her attention on the woman in front of her that seemed to calm down enough at her words, making Alina smile again. She was about to lead them towards the bathroom when she heard her voice, making her spot and turn around to listen. Bars and their lack of... everything that allows conversation. Alina's smile went from a smile to a smirk and to a smile again as she heard the woman speaking, waiting until she could tell she was done. Leaning closer, she moved enough to be able to whisper in her ear. "I'm sure you can do more than just help me with this dress, right?" Alina leaned back as if she hadn't said anything, tightening the grip on her hand back and tugging just enough so the other woman would follow her.

Frannie's knees went weak before the woman even made it close to her ear, its was something about the look in her eye that told Frannie everything she needed to know before she even heard it. Still, her breath hitched and though she could barely find it in her to not sit back down at the bar in order to catch her breath she found herself nodding. Not just that, she gave a final glace around the bar over her shoulder and allowed herself to be lead away, knowing exactly what was about to happen. She didn't think she would be back to the random bar hook up so quickly but the opportunity was suddenly there and with a small reprieve from campus and more than a couple drinks in her system Frannie felt bold enough to not say no. The desire was certainly there and she didn't need to speak to agree, she only need follow along.

Alina was happy to see the woman following along, happy that her invitation was accepted, happy that tonight was just getting more and more fun. She couldn't help but notice that she seemed nervous about their whole interaction, but at the same time she was bold enough to follow along. To let Alina lead her somewhere. She weaved through the crowd easily, quickly finding the bathroom and letting them both inside, making sure to lock the door once they were both in. Wasting time wasn't something Alina was known for, but teasing was. She pressed her back against the door and pulled the other woman closer by the hand, her smile turned into a soft smirk as she did so. "Why don't you tell me what you want?" it was a suggestion, not a question. And Alina made sure her tone showed that.

The door was locked and they were in the bathroom under the pretense of drying off but that had clearly been quickly forgotten by both of them. By the time Frannie was being pulled closer she hadn't a thought in her mind. The privacy afforded her more freedom than sitting at the bar could have and she suddenly was fighting with herself on whether she wanted to kneel or kiss the woman. She so badly wanted both. "What I want is..." Frannie paused, squeezed the hand still in hers as if to gather the courage for it, pressed her lips together for a moment and said, "to do whatever it is you want me to, Miss." The words coming breathlessly and with a sigh of relief that just saying them eased in her.

Alina had to fight the urge to clap and show too much excitement at the woman's answer. She knew it, she just knew it she was her type of fun. And she would be repeating that a lot that night. The door was locked and she hoped no one would bother them for now, or whoever knocked would have the decency to know what was going on. Watching the woman relaxing in front of her, Alina's mind was filling up with ideas and she was almost sad they'd probably never see each other again. So, she didn't waste any time at all. Smirking, and letting go of the woman's hand, Alina wrapped her arms around her neck and pulled her down for a kiss.

[spnirwin]

Bisbee

Request: By blue-lion1: Can I request a story where Dean is friends with a shy and sensitive woman? She's seen ghosts since childhood and fears them. She's paranoid and some tell her she's just mentally ill. But she knows she saw and heard things and those people are wrong. Something she likes about Dean is his bravery. She keeps feeling like something is coming, and she doesn't want to be alone in the dark and has trouble sleeping. He sleeps in the same room to comfort her, she's grateful. Eventually, a ghost appears and he saves her.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 1,802 Warnings: Teasing, mentions of bullying A/N: As always, requests are open!

—

Dean Winchester calling...The words flashed across the screen of your phone in a blazing glory as you scrambled to answer.

You had known him since high school. The day he crashed into Bisbee High would be one you remembered for the rest of your life. You were crammed in the corner of an alcove off of the senior hallway, sketchbook and pencil open in your lap. The whispers were following him down the hall, but he couldn’t have seemed to care less. In his brown leather jacket, dirty jeans, and logger boots, it was obvious why he was being discussed. As a small city shoved in the mountains of southeast Arizona, Bisbee wasn’t exactly a thriving tourist destination. Newcomers were few and far between, especially ones with teenagers.

He walked behind the principal, Mr. Giltner, without making eye contact with anyone. You watched him, fascinated, focusing on the whispers of your classmates as he passed. From them you learned his name was Dean Winchester and that he, his younger brother, and their father were here due to his father’s interest in the old copper mines. As you were processing that information he turned his head, locking his green eyes onto yours. With the small smile he gave you, your life was never the same again.

As it turns out, his father was interested in more than the copper mines. Specifically, he was interested in what was left in them. You turned out to be a great aid to the Winchester family, thanks to the one thing that made no one else want to associate with you. 

It started when you were young, maybe four years old. You had seen the little boy standing in the corner of your bedroom one night, trying to speak to you. Petrified, you about woke the entire neighborhood. Your parents, of course, saw nothing and told you to go back to sleep. They thought it was a classic case of the monster under the bed and attributed it to a nightmare. But for you, that night was the beginning of the never-ending cycle that became the rest of your youth. Every few months, a new one would appear in front of you, trying desperately to tell you something. You lived in a constant state of paranoia and fear, but you eventually learned to stop screaming. Years of therapy and ridicule taught you that silence was your biggest ally. By the time you were ten you had learned that no one was ever going to believe you, and the only way to survive was to stop talking about it. Despite not speaking a word about it in seven years, your classmates still teasingly referred to you as “schizo ghost girl,” and refused to treat you like a normal human being. In their eyes you were a certified freak, the girl that cried ghost. 

To Dean though, you were the key. He pulled you through a whirlwind of validation and usefulness, with you eventually helping him and his father, John, get rid of the wailing woman in the mines. On the day he exited Bisbee, Arizona, he left you with his phone number and a promise to always call back. 

This is a promise he was currently fulfilling, though you were so frantic you could barely answer. When you did manage to slide your finger across the screen of your phone and put it up to your ear, no words came out.

“Y/n?” Dean’s concerned voice crackled through the speaker. As soon as it reached your ears your breath whooshed out of you in a rush, the tears quick to follow.

“Dean, it's awful. He’s huge, burns all over his face, bloodshot eyes. He has this giant knife and all he does is scream at me…”

“Whoa, hang on, slow down,” Dean cut you off, trying to understand your ramblings. “Is this another ghost? How many times has he appeared?”

You took a deep breath before replying, “yes. I just saw him for the second time, but it was only an hour between sightings. I called you right after the first appearance. Dean, please. He’s horrific.” You knew you were pleading, but you desperately needed his help. This was the first one to shake you in a while, and it shook you deeply.

“Okay, hang tight,” Dean’s voice sighed through the phone. He shouted something away from the speaker, presumably to Sam. “You’re still in Tucson right?” he asked, and you heard rustling in the background.

“Y-yes,” you stammered. “I’m sorry Dean, I thought I was able to handle these on my own now but I just…” you trailed off, overwhelmed with a feeling of inadequacy.

Almost as if he could sense your feelings through the phone, Dean’s voice softened as he said, “hey, it’s okay. We’ll be there in about six hours. Just hang in there, okay? We’ll figure this out.”

—

Those six hours passed agonizingly slowly. You were sitting on your bed in your apartment, knees touching your chest, when the knock on the door came. It startled you so much you let out a little yelp. You heard a muffled call of your name come through the odor, and you rushed across the apartment to open it.

What you saw on the other side brought you the biggest sense of relief you had felt in months. Dean and his brother Sam were standing in front of you, the latter of which was holding a duffle bag that you knew was stocked full of shotguns with salt-stuffed shells.

Dean immediately stepped forward and pulled you into a tight hug. You felt instant relief and zoned out while, with you still wrapped in his arms, he gave Sam further instructions. He pulled away as the door closed softly behind Sam.

“Have you slept at all? It’s 1 AM and no offense, but you look like shit.”

You smiled at him softly and shook your head. “I can’t. Any time I close my eyes, all I see is his horrible face.”

“Okay, tell me a little more about him and then we’re getting you in bed,” Dean said, rubbing a hand down his face. He was exhausted too, having just come off of a hunt and then driving to you, but he would never tell you that.

Thirty minutes later the two of you were settling into your bed together, with Sam set up a couple miles away in a motel with his computer and a stack of books on local lore. You crawled under the covers, immediately snuggling up to Dean. He welcomed you with open arms, pulling you tight into his side where he knew you would feel safer. He kissed the top of your head and you sighed contentedly, already starting to drift off. There had always been something between you and Dean, but there was never any time to explore it. The connection formed nine years ago back in high school but something always ended up stepping between you, forcing you apart.

He drifted in and out all night, watching you sleep on peacefully, undisturbed by the unnamed ghost harassing you. At 6 AM you were both jolted forcefully out of your sleep by Dean’s phone ringing. Sam had found something.

—

You rushed to the abandoned factory to meet Sam, because it seemed that no ghost could haunt anywhere that wasn’t considered creepy. On the way there Sam had explained that the ghost haunting you was a worker killed in a fire at the factory 31 years ago. He was trying to hack his way through a wall with a knife to escape the flames, but eventually succumbed to them despite his efforts.

“If I’m right, I bet we’ll find the knife in there among the rubble,” Sam said as you entered the building, armed with shotguns and rock salt.

You all moved slowly through the burnt remains of the factory, attempting to locate the knife among the soot covering the floor. Suddenly you froze, a horrible feeling creeping over you. You turned around slowly to face Dean who was standing behind you, your face quickly leeching of all color. Seeing the look on your face Dean spun quickly, firing off a shot before even stopping. He turned back to face you again, yelling “duck!” as he fired off another shot above your head.

“Sam,” he yelled, “you better hurry up and find that knife! This guy means business!”

“I’m trying!” Sam shouted back. “There’s too much soot here, I can’t see anything!”

You scrambled over to help Sam, brushing your hands through the soot and debris on the floor. “I found it!” you screamed, lifting it up off the ground. “Sam, start the furnace!”

As Sam ran across the room to the furnace, the ghost got the jump on Dean, picking him up and throwing him into a wall across the room. You jumped up and started running to him, but he frantically shook his head and pointed.

“The knife!” he yelled. “Get the knife to Sam!”

You turned and looked back to where you left the knife on the floor before looking up and seeing the ghost charge at you from across the room. You dove for the knife, shouting at Sam to get out of the way. He stepped back from the furnace as you stood and threw the knife across the room as hard as you could. It hit its mark as it clanged against the back of the furnace, and you heard the ghost give out one last ghastly scream as it went up in flames.

—

You were once again tangled up in Dean’s arms, feeling his breath sigh through his chest when he said the last thing you ever expected him to say.

“Come with us,” he said, pulling back just far enough to see your face. “You were a total badass back there. You could hold your own, especially if you let me train you a little.”

You were speechless, unsure of how to respond. His statement was a compliment, but you were unsure if you could actually survive the kind of life Dean lived on a daily basis.

Sensing your hesitation, Dean tilted your chin back up so you looked at him. “I can’t leave you behind again,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I can’t drive away from you and know that you’ll try to struggle with another ghost on your own. I want to be there for you, and I want you to be here with me. Wherever the road takes us.”

He spoke with so much conviction, there was no hope for you to resist. You smiled up at him, nodding your head slowly. A smile broke out over his face as you said, “okay. Let me go pack.”

—

[newstfionline]

Tuesday, April 13, 2021

Biden’s Infrastructure Push Spurs a Flurry of Lobbying in Congress (NYT) Members of Congress have begun a frenzy of lobbying to ensure that their pet projects and policy priorities are included in President Biden’s $2 trillion infrastructure and jobs plan, eager to shape what could be one of the most substantial public works investments in a generation. Officials across the country are dusting off lists of construction projects and social programs, hoping to secure their piece of a plan aimed at addressing what the administration estimates is at least $1 trillion worth of backlogged infrastructure improvements, as well as economic and racial inequities that have existed for decades. “My phone is blowing up,” Pete Buttigieg, the transportation secretary, said in an interview. Nearly every lawmaker “can point to a road or a bridge or an airport” in his or her district that is in dire need of repair.

Truck seized over ‘munitions of war,’ 5 forgotten bullets (AP) Gerardo Serrano ticked off the border crossing agents by taking some photos on his phone. So they took his pickup truck and held onto it for more than two years. Only after Serrano filed a federal lawsuit did he get back his Ford F-250. Now he wants the Supreme Court to step in and require a prompt court hearing as a matter of constitutional fairness whenever federal officials take someone’s property under civil forfeiture law. The justices could consider his case when they meet privately on Friday. It’s a corner of the larger forfeiture issue, when federal, state or local officials take someone’s property, without ever having to prove that it has been used for illicit purposes. Since 2000, governments have acquired at least $68.8 billion in forfeited property, according to the Institute for Justice, a libertarian public interest law firm that represents Serrano and tracks seizures. The group says the number “drastically underestimates forfeiture’s true scope” because not all states provide data. Serrano’s troubles stemmed from some pictures he took along the way of a long trip from his home in Tyner, Kentucky, to visit relatives, including a dying aunt, in Zaragosa, Mexico. The photo-taking attracted the attention of U.S. Customs and Border Protection agents in Eagle Pass, Texas. When Serrano refused to hand over the password to his phone, the agents went through the 2014 silver pickup truck in great detail. They justified its seizure by saying they found “munitions of war” inside—five forgotten bullets, though no gun. Told to park the truck, he said, he complained a bit before one agent reached into the pickup, opened the door, unfastened Serrano’s seat belt and yanked him out of the vehicle. “I got rights, I got constitutional rights and he snaps back at me, ‘You don’t have no rights here. I’m sick and tired of hearing about your rights.’ That took me aback,” Serrano said.

Should the U.S. boycott the 2022 Winter Olympics in China? (Washington Post) As if there aren’t enough sources of Sino-U.S. friction already, an emerging new irritant may soon outpace the rest: the growing calls for a boycott of Beijing’s 2022 Winter Olympics. The games are still 10 months away. But it’s not too early for the event to turn into a flash point. Critics of China’s ruling Communist Party—including a coalition of more than 180 human rights organizations—argue that the regime’s record of human rights abuses and geopolitical malfeasance ought to deprive it of the right to burnish its image with a spectacle like the Olympics. “Beijing won the right to host the 2022 Olympics in 2015, the same year it cracked down on lawyers and activists across China,” Chinese human rights lawyer Teng Biao wrote earlier this year. “Since then, it has detained journalists; harassed and attacked activists and dissidents even outside China’s borders; shut down nongovernmental organizations; demolished Christian churches, Tibetan temples and Muslim mosques; persecuted, sometimes to death, believers in Falun Gong; and sharply increased its control of media, the Internet, universities and publishers.” An Olympic boycott has become a popular cause among Republicans. Major sporting events—and especially international spectacles like the Olympics—always bear a political dimension.

‘Huge’ explosion rocks St. Vincent as volcano keeps erupting (AP) La Soufriere volcano fired an enormous amount of ash and hot gas early Monday in the biggest explosive eruption yet since volcanic activity began on the eastern Caribbean island of St. Vincent late last week, with officials worried about the lives of those who have refused to evacuate. Experts called it a “huge explosion” that generated pyroclastic flows down the volcano’s south and southwest flanks. “It’s destroying everything in its path,” Erouscilla Joseph, director of the University of the West Indies’ Seismic Research Center, told The Associated Press. “Anybody who would have not heeded the evacuation, they need to get out immediately.” The ongoing volcanic activity has threatened water and food supplies, with the government forced to drill for fresh water and distribute it via trucks. “We cannot put tarpaulin over a river,” said Garth Saunders, minister of the island’s water and sewer authority, referring to the impossibility of trying to protect current water sources from ongoing falling ash.

Colombia’s cartels target Europe (The Guardian) At 5 am on a chilly Tuesday morning last month, 1,600 police officers and balaclava-wearing special forces, bristling with arms and battering rams, were ordered into action around the Belgian port city of Antwerp. More than 200 addresses were raided in what was the largest police operation ever conducted in the country and potentially one of the most significant moves yet against the increasingly powerful narco-gangs of western Europe. An incredible 27 tonnes of cocaine have been seized on Antwerp’s quays, in container ships and safe houses, with an estimated value of €1.4bn (£1.2bn), and many arrests have been made. It has been hailed as a mighty blow against what Belgian federal prosecutor Frédéric Van Leeuw calls “a world where morality has totally disappeared”, but Operation Sky has also highlighted a chilling development. Europe has eclipsed the US as the Colombian cartels’ favoured market, because of higher prices and much lower risks posed by European governments in terms of interdiction, extradition and seizure of assets. Jeremy McDermott, a former British army officer who is now executive director of the thinktank InSight Crime, said a kilogram of cocaine in the US is worth up to $28,000 wholesale but that rises to $40,000 on average in Europe, and nearly $80,000 in some parts of Europe. “It is more money for less risk. I see a deliberate decision by some of the top-level Colombian traffickers, based on sources who sat in a series of meetings in 2005-6, where the business decisions were made,” McDermott said. “It is a business no-brainer.”

Conservative Ex-Banker Headed to Victory in Presidential Election in Ecuador (NYT) Guillermo Lasso, a 66-year-old conservative former banker, was set to win Ecuador’s presidential election and beat out Andrés Arauz, a 36-year-old leftist handpicked by former President Rafael Correa. With more than 94 percent of the votes counted after 10 p.m., Mr. Lasso had 52 percent compared with Mr. Arauz’s 47.32 percent, according to the Electoral Council official counting system in Ecuador. Mr. Arauz conceded defeat. The vote signaled a desire, at least among some, to shift right following years in which Mr. Correa has held sway over the country.

England reopens with pints pulled, shopping sprees and hair cuts (Reuters) People queued up outside retailers across England on Monday to release their pent-up shopping fever and some grabbed a midnight pint or even an early haircut as England’s shops, pubs, gyms and hairdressers reopened after three months of lockdown. After imposing the most onerous restrictions in Britain’s peacetime history, Prime Minister Boris Johnson said the reopening was a “major step” towards freedom but urged people to behave responsibly as the coronavirus was still a threat. Getting people spending again is crucial for Britain’s recovery after official data showed that 2020 was the worst year for its economy in more than three centuries with a 9.8% decline in gross domestic product.

Tropical Cyclone Seroja flattens Australian town (Washington Post) A tropical cyclone battered Australia’s west coast Sunday night and into Monday, destroying homes and leaving thousands without electricity. Severe wind gusts of up to 105 miles per hour tore houses apart and sent debris flying all over Kalbarri, a coastal tourist town of 1,350 people in Western Australia. Authorities estimated some 70 percent of the town’s buildings were damaged. Drone footage from the scene showed dozens of homes with their roofs ripped off. Power lines were down and roads were littered with shards of metal and other debris. Cyclone Seroja made landfall as a category three storm at about 8 p.m. local time on Sunday between the towns of Kalbarri and Gregory. Cyclones of such intensity rarely travel this far south in Australia, and towns outside the cyclone belt are not usually built to withstand the devastating conditions.

Muslims navigate restrictions in the second pandemic Ramadan (AP) For Ramadan this year, Magdy Hafez has been longing to reclaim a cherished ritual: performing the nighttime group prayers called taraweeh at the mosque once again. Last year, the coronavirus upended the 68-year-old Egyptian’s routine of going to the mosque to perform those prayers, traditional during Islam’s holiest month. The pandemic had disrupted Islamic worship the world over, including in Egypt where mosques were closed to worshippers last Ramadan. Ramadan, which begins this week, comes as much of the world has been hit by an intense new coronavirus wave. For many Muslims navigating restrictions, that means hopes of a better Ramadan than last year have been dashed with the surge in infection rates though regulations vary in different countries. A time for fasting, worship and charity, Ramadan is also when people typically congregate for prayers, gather around festive meals to break their daylong fast, throng cafes and exchange visits. Once again, some countries are imposing new restrictions.

Iran blames Israel for sabotage at Natanz nuclear site (AP) Iran on Monday blamed Israel for a sabotage attack on its underground Natanz nuclear facility that damaged the centrifuges it uses to enrich uranium there, warning that it would take revenge for the assault. The comments by Foreign Ministry spokesman Saeed Khatibzadeh represent the first official accusation leveled against Israel for the incident Sunday that cut power across the facility. Israel has not directly claimed responsibility for the attack. However, suspicion fell immediately on it as Israeli media widely reported that a devastating cyberattack orchestrated by Israel caused the blackout. If Israel was responsible, it would further heighten tensions between the two nations, already engaged in a shadow conflict across the wider Middle East. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, who met Sunday with U.S. Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin, has vowed to do everything in his power to stop the nuclear deal. According to US intelligence officials, it could take more than nine months to resume enrichment in the nuclear facility.

Abductions and Torture Rattle Uganda (NYT) Armed men in white minivans without license plates picked up people off the streets or from their homes. Those snatched were taken to prisons, police stations and military barracks where they say they were hooded, drugged and beaten—some left to stand in cellars filled with water up to their chests. The fear is still so palpable in the capital, Kampala, that many others have gone into hiding or left the country. Three months after Uganda’s president, Yoweri Museveni, won a sixth five-year term in office in the most fiercely contested election in years, his government appears to be intent on breaking the back of the political opposition. His principal challenger, Bobi Wine, a magnetic musician-turned-lawmaker who galvanized youthful crowds of supporters, is now largely confined to his house in Kampala. Mr. Wine’s party said on Friday that 623 members, supporters and elected officials have been seized from the streets and arrested in recent weeks, many of them tortured.

Prince Philip’s mourners in the South Pacific (Foreign Policy) The death of Prince Philip, the husband of Britain’s Queen Elizabeth II, triggered mourning rituals across the country over the weekend. The mourning is not only reserved for the United Kingdom—on one of Vanuatu’s islands, Tanna, hundreds of members of a local tribe have long venerated Prince Philip as akin to a god, and are preparing to mourn his passing. Although it’s unclear how the Prince Philip Movement began, it is believed to have taken root in the 1970s—given life by the royal couple’s visit in 1974. Key to the movement is the belief that Prince Philip is one with the tribe, and fulfilled a prophecy of a tribesman who had found a powerful wife overseas and “would return some day, either in person or in spiritual form,” Kirk Huffman, an anthropologist, told the BBC.

[ghostmartyr]

how a life can move from the darkness [9/?]

| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 |

Summary: Two drug addicts (Eren and Historia) meet in group and decide to be roommates to make their  living situation slightly less weird. From there we do the slow burn  found family dance mixed in with the struggles and agonies of recovery. Heavy on friendship feels, especially EMA. Eventual yumikuri.

One of Eren’s mother’s many complaints about his childhood was how he wouldn’t go to his parents for nightmares. Even when he was small enough that they’d make him wet the bed. He hadn’t wanted them to know he had them, in case they said something about not fighting so much, or not watching movies they told him not to watch, or not reading those books his dad kept in his office. He didn’t want to hear about how he wasn’t grown up enough.

When he woke up in the middle of the night, heart racing from teeth and blood he wasn’t supposed to know about, and his mom and dad were out, he’d find Zeke.

Still awake, waiting on the couch for him with baseball reruns on the TV. Zeke had never said he told him so, or called him too young for anything. He would wrap Eren in a blanket too tight to move in, dump him on the other side of the couch, and tell him to go back to sleep.

Not as quiet or as gentle as hot chocolate with Frieda.

Historia actively avoided private conversations with Frieda.

They didn’t even have a TV.

They did have a couch. When Eren rushed home after work, Historia was taking up all of it, fast asleep, shoes tossed under Benjamin, and a series of very large numbers written all over both her bared arms. She’d slept all the way through dinner.

Eren would have asked Armin or Mikasa about what he was supposed to do, but he’d never listened to anything they tried to say when they thought he needed help. They always found the right things on accident, later.

He’d also scared them earlier when he told them he loved them.

He needed to say it more. He didn’t want it to be some big, heavy thing like everything else they had between them now.

Without them, and without prodding Frieda into a concern Historia didn’t need, all Eren had to go on was the feeling that he was the one staying up with a blanket ready.

Figuratively. He wasn’t at Reiner’s level of dedication, but he woke up in the middle of the night too often to force himself to stay awake when he could sleep. He kept his bedroom door cracked, but didn’t fight drifting off, reading through the articles on snowflake eels Armin had linked him and letting them ease his eyes shut.

He didn’t know how much later it was when the door opened all the way and Historia thumped down on his carpet, rousing him from using his phone as a pillow.

There were a few dizzying seconds of him blinking his eyes and trying to figure out if they were blinking or he was imagining they were. The only thought making it through the fuzz in his head was how the deterioration of personal boundaries after dark had to be genetic, and that went away when he started to wake up properly.

He looked down at the Historia-shaped shadow curled next to his bed and hoped he didn’t fall back asleep before she decided it was time to start sharing. Along with hoping she wasn’t the type of happy couple person who believed in sharing details. He’d spent all of high school overhearing too much of Sasha and Connie gleefully narrating their classmates like they were all in a nature documentary on mating. Once was enough, and Ymir was already Ymir.

The blurs of the dark were almost sharp by the time Historia said anything.

“I tried to kill myself.”

Any illusions of Eren accidentally falling back to sleep jumped out of his skin with his heart rate. “Just now?”

“What?” The Historia shadow turned abruptly to look at his way, blurs of hair growing her for a few blink cycles. “No. No still—only once. That—with the heroin. That time.”

“Right,” Eren said, too disoriented to will the moment of panic to shut up without thinking of orange bottles. At least it was too dark for him to need to look put together. Maybe there was something to having these talks at night. “What about it?”

Historia’s jeans creaked as her shadow shrunk on itself. No other noise came from the circular blob for several minutes.

Zeke had used a TV for this for a lot of reasons, Eren thought, full of 3am clarity.

He was almost back asleep despite himself when Historia spoke up again.

“Ymir lives a mile away.”

She said it so quietly that it sounded like the notes on snowflake eels. Food, habitat, personality. Things you needed to keep in mind if you were going to try raising one. Eren didn’t catch the death lurking in the words until he felt his bed frame shake.

“I almost never saw her again.”

Eren pulled himself out from under his covers and grabbed one of the blankets resting next to Historia’s head. Cotton turning into rocket science in the night, it took him full seconds to get the blanket draped over Historia. Her hands grabbed the edges and tugged it tight.

“You did see her again,” Eren said, “You’re going to see her lots. Probably every day if you ask.” The still shadow blob of his friend didn’t give him any hints of how much that truth helped. He tried a different one in case. “You’re alive.”

He could hear Historia tugging the threads on his blanket. “Am I?”

Eren didn’t give whatever argument she was going to try time to make room. “Yeah.”

She sighed at him, proving his point.

More silence followed, but Eren was awake now, and he could wait it out. It was easier once she stopped trying to take his blanket apart. He didn’t have much personal attachment, but Mikasa had learned to sew by patching up the holes her cats had left in it.

Historia unfurled enough to bump her head against his mattress.

“When I saw her again…” Historia said, “I think that’s what it feels like to be alive. I don’t think what I’ve been doing counts.” Her arms dug in under the blanket. “And now she’s a mile away and it’s too far. I want her here. I want—” her head dropped to her knees.

More quiet.

Ambulance sirens sounded somewhere off in the distance.

“I miss heroin,” she said.

Eren snorted. “Yeah.”

“I think I miss her more.”

She didn’t add to that. She didn’t really need to. Five minutes with both of them screamed it.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Eren ventured. “We’re supposed to care about people more.” That was how most of the people he knew stayed sober. Including the two of them. “She won’t kill you, and she’s not going anywhere this time. Everyone she cares about is already here.”

Historia seemed to struggle saying the next words out loud. “Eren, I need her.”

Eren shrugged. “I need Armin and Mikasa.” Plus more people than he’d ever thought he could care about, her included. Trying not to need them was where everything went wrong. Even before the pills, when he was just an angry brat who didn’t know how lucky he was.

Historia shook her head, blurred hands raking through her hair. “Not—not the way—they’re your friends, Eren. They’re yours, not your—” she cut herself off. A miasma of irritation billowed off her like fog, filling the sudden silence.

“I don’t even know if she loved me back.”

The sheets on Eren’s bed were back to his star ones Armin and Mikasa had doubled up to buy him when the holes in his shark ones ripped their way off his mattress. They’d gone back on a week ago, after over a year of refusing to look at them. His mom had made him take them home with him.

Every piece of him tied back to them in some way, and the only thing about them he could ever hate was how painfully obvious they made it that they loved him.

“She’s not heroin,” Historia said softly. “She’s not. She’s—she’s too many things for that. I can’t—I don’t want to turn her into another fix.”

Eren propped his elbows on his star-covered knees. “You said it wasn’t the same thing,” he said. “Whatever you two had.”

“It wasn’t,” she said flatly. “I was still a person then.”

Not yelling at Historia never took the same effort as not yelling at Mikasa, but if he ever changed his mind and started thinking shaking some sense into her had a chance of working, there were moments where he’d leap at it. “You’re a person now.”

“No, I’m not!”

Her arm collided with the side of his mattress. Anger, something Eren finally understood, was in every hitch of her breath. Her fist stayed pinned to his bed frame like it was held there by magnets.

“I’m not what I was, and I’m not anything else either,” she said, the stilted words scraping like sandpaper. “I can’t just fall back into her life and have everything be okay because she’s everything. I can’t give her this.” Her hand swam its way back to her, digging into her forehead.

Eren wondered if this was where the tears started, and if that would help any of him figure out what his role was supposed to be here besides support. He listened to the angry breathing, waiting.

The sobs didn’t come.

Laughter, fragile and startled, fell out instead.

“I want it.”

Eren threw a dart and hoped it landed on something. “…Ymir?”

“No—I mean, yes, but—” Historia kept laughing, hands fully in her hair. “Better. I want better.”

She said it in the same half-furious, grasping tone Eren had declared right and wrong in on seven different playgrounds. The one that said something good existed in the world, and everything was wrong because the good wasn’t theirs yet. Frustration and impotence waiting for an Armin to shine it up and point it in the right direction.

She said it like someone who wasn’t waiting around to die.

Months of weight lifted off Eren’s chest. His arms sagged on his knees, and for one Armin moment, he understood how easy it really had been for all of them to grab forgiveness instead of punishing him the way he deserved. How thrilled they must have been to have a chance to forgive him at all.

“That’s one way to get out of telling her you like her,” he said.

A corner of blanket smacked him in the face, and he tossed it back at Historia easily. She didn’t wrap it around herself again. Aided by a few more minutes awake, he could see her hand slowly tracing her arm.

“Did she write her number on your track marks?” Eren asked, peering closer.

“…Yes.”

Ymir could stand being less Ymir for five seconds of her life every once in a while. “Romantic.”

Historia’s tone turned soft. Dissolving into the gentleness Mikasa sometimes had for him and Armin. “Yeah.”

Or maybe Ymir being Ymir worked for Historia.

That was horrifying, and Eren’s cheeks hurt thinking about it. He reached out and poked Historia’s head, ignoring her limp attempts to bat him away. “You’re going to have to hurry up on better if you don’t want her to beat you to the punch.”

“I will not,” Historia said irritably. “She’s awful at talking.”

“She never shuts up.”

Historia was smiling, with enough shadows in her face to pretend the annoyance went with it. “That’s how she hides it. She keeps everything important to herself, and no one ever notices because they’re too frustrated or embarrassed to find out how she feels. Ymir’s too shy to wait quietly and risk someone seeing her.” Historia took back her piece of blanket. With a level of fondness Eren wasn’t sure he needed to hear, she said, “It’s unfair.”

When Hannah and Franz had first taught him that some people could speak in hearts, he had never thought his ears could enjoy hearing them out of anyone. He rested his head on his pillow and slid his phone back to its charger on the nightstand. “Sounds like her.”

“She’s an idiot,” Historia said, without a spot of judgment.

Eren pulled his covers up around his shoulders. “Yours, though.”

“Not yet.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“Sure.”

His mattress creaked. Eren, eyes closed, found the decorative pillow Frieda had insisted he keep on his bed. He waved it out in the air around Historia’s spot on the floor for a second before it left his fingers. He didn’t know what she did with it. The moment after it disappeared, so did he, drifting off to sleep with a smile on his face.

----

Armin would call it a multiple choice question, how mornings with Reiner went. There were the normal mornings where Eren had to keep their pace in check or worry about carrying him home, the becoming normal mornings where the bikes came out, the weird mornings where Reiner talked him into something like trying an unheated pool for laps, and the rare, apocalyptic ones where there was no Reiner.

Today was a no Reiner day.

Ymir was standing outside the house inhaling a thermos. Steam rose from the lid and a patched beanie was covering most of her head. Without bothering to say hello or make eye contact, she spoke up. “Why do you do this to yourself.”

Eren slowed his jog to a stop in front of her on the sidewalk. “I get paid.”

“Not enough.” Ymir downed the rest of her drink and tossed the thermos on top of Bertolt’s neatly trimmed hedges. “I’ve seen what this costs. You need someone else to start managing your finances.”

Before leaving the apartment, Eren had asked if the new state of Historia’s thing with Ymir meant he had to start being nicer. Historia hadn’t bothered looking up from saying good morning to Benjamin to tell him that that was exactly the wrong way to make friends with Ymir.

Making friends with Ymir had never once been something Eren wanted to care about. He still didn’t. He could feel himself caring anyway.

He asked the stupid question to get it out of the way. “We’re waiting for Reiner?”

“Nope,” Ymir said with a pop. “I booted Reiner off the island for the day. Just you and me, alone at last.”

“Stop trying to make this weird.”

“What do you take me for, Eren?” She waggled her eyebrows. “I’m saving that when we’re both all hot and sweaty.”

Eren rolled his eyes and decided to touch his toes until Ymir grew up. It was easier than looking at her. She was back to smiling, and he was embarrassed noticing how different it was from her usual smirk. He’d never thought of Ymir as someone like him and Reiner. She was the babysitter of her group. The Frieda, only without any of the shadows and fear holding her back.

Historia had talked about making that mistake. Thinking Ymir never needed anyone.

Historia would miss that someone had needed her.

Ymir would turn out to be a sap. All those romance novels had to come from somewhere.

The back of Eren’s head received a rough poke.

“Time’s wasting,” Ymir said. “Bert’s making waffles, and if you think I’m missing that to have a touching heart to heart jog, that hair of yours is starting to smother your brain.”

Eren swatted her hand away and didn’t rise to the bait, even if he did stand up. “How fast do you want to go?”

Ymir was bending backwards nonchalantly. She mirrored him and pulled her leg up to her chest, smirking that smirk that was too happy to properly deserve the word. “Tell you what, let’s make it easy on you. Your job is to keep up.”

----

One of Eren’s friends from high school had never really tried being his friend. They smashed into each other and then there was just too much debris left over to keep acting like they weren’t a part of the same circle.

Eren’s lungs were choking in his chest, his heart felt fit to explode, and his legs were burning.

Competitions with Jean usually wound up with punches and threats to finish things up in the parking lot after class. Bumps and bruises and the debate advisor screaming at them to please keep in mind the rules of engagement, and proper debate did not require a change in volume, boys.

Next to him, Ymir was trying and failing to stand up straight, both of them quietly dying in Reiner’s driveway.

No one had told him she was fast. Did she write her books on a treadmill? Their race back to the house had almost ended with a crash finish from both of them.

“So,” Ymir said, still gasping, “I promised you weird.”

“That was enough weird for one day,” Eren said, regretting the full sentence the second he started it. He clutched at his knees and willed his blood to stop beating into his head like a club.

Ymir was leaning against the side of the house heavily enough to leave sweat behind on the paint job. “That? What, you never had a proper workout before?” She reached out and tussled Eren’s hair. Pulling away nearly made him fall over.

Another minute of heavy breathing, and she grabbed at him again.

“This is going to make both of us uncomfortable, so we might as well get it over with now,” she said.

Eren didn’t have the time or energy to dread. He was left with nothing but his own spinning head and Ymir’s lanky, soaked frame dragging him into her arms.

“Uh.”

It was not a comfortable hug. Eren had his fair share to compare it to. He was tired, they were both boiling in the weak morning sun, and his clothes were damp enough without adding another person’s sweat. Ymir was also bony in a way that made her shoulders jab his.

“Thanks,” Ymir said, softly enough that Eren could only hear because of how close they were. “I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.”

Eren awkwardly tried patting at her back. “You’re welcome?” He thought about how much lighter they both made each other and put in another stab. “She—she didn’t think so either.”

He was rewarded with another hair ruffle that caught on a painful tangle. Ymir shoved him gently and he stumbled closer to stable ground. “I know,” she said. “Add it to the list of what that thank you counts for.”

Track marks and shivers panged in Eren’s mind. Ymir’s deliberate handwriting covering up all the memories on Historia’s arms. His heart, slowing down from the sprinting and confusion, wound up for another round.

“She would have made it,” he said. The alternative was as unthinkable as it was unspeakable. “She’s strong.”

Ymir chuckled, and Eren recognized the shimmer in her eyes. “Come on, Eren, you should know this.” She seized him by the shoulders and started walking him up the porch, giving his hair another tug. “Strong people are the ones who dig themselves so deep no one else can get them out.”

Before Eren could puzzle out if that was an actual compliment, she slapped the back of his head and strolled into the house, loudly asking Bertolt where her waffle was.

----

“No roommate today?”

Eren dragged himself away from watching Zeke throw pitches into the backstop. Armin and Mikasa were in the outfield, Armin dazzling with excitement over the gopher that had stuck around after practice ended. Eren was picking up empty bags of sunflower seeds the team before them had left behind.

Stalling.

Yelena, elbow on the roof of the dugout, seemed to take that as an invitation to talk.

“She had an appointment,” Eren said. Trying for supportive and completely opaque.

Their last meeting, Historia had tried talking. That would have been fine and great for her, but what she’d said was, “I got addicted to heroin trying to kill myself, and I need to not feel that way anymore.”

Petra had called her back after and given her a rolodex full of names. She’d asked Historia, in her most concerned tone of voice, to call at least one.

Eren didn’t know how many Historia had called to get an appointment as fast as she did, but the cost of brute forcing therapy for the week was missing out on one of Zeke’s practices, and he was supposed to be the good sponsor and approve of that instead of telling her how badly his experience with therapy went. She’d heard it all before anyway. The only positive thing he used to be able to say about group was that it was an improvement over the damn shrink, so he’d said it. Weekly.

“That’s a shame,” Yelena said. “The quartet look suits you.”

Eren shrugged instead of agreeing. Off in the distance, Mikasa was smiling at Armin like there was no place in the world she’d rather be. Eren wasn’t listed on the team. He would have skipped Zeke’s invitation entirely if it hadn’t meant dodging them, too.

Even if it was weird only having Mikasa and Armin around, and there was everything wrong with thinking that. He didn’t know which of his friends to blame for the voice in his head that said it might be less weird if he went over and admired the gopher in the outfield with them instead of shadowing Zeke. It sounded like all of them.

Several of the steps before twelve also reminded him weird was the wrong word.

Scary came closer, and if he weren’t so tired of being pissed, that would have him right next to Zeke, trying to crack a hole into the wooden parts of the backstop. Maybe that was the right move for taking a step forward with his brother, but it wouldn’t do anything to fix him.

Eren crumpled up the bags in his hands and swung up and out of the dugout, brushing shoulders with Yelena on his way to a trash can.

She followed him. “Is there a story behind why all of you are staying so late?” Yelena asked with an innocence too earnest to feel real. “If it’s team spirit, I’d be happy to join in, but it seems to be a bit more personal.”

“We’re having dinner with my mom later,” Eren chanted. He left out who ‘we’ included. He was working on it.

“That’s nice to hear,” Yelena said. “Zeke’s always had nice things to say about her. Is Historia meeting up with you all there?”

Eren stopped. He turned around to meet Yelena’s benign smile. “Zeke talks about my mom?”

“Sure,” she said. “Not as much as he talks about his beloved little brother, but she comes up. Don’t worry,” she added, like the look on Eren’s face came anywhere close to worry, “it’s nothing but good things.”

Eren balled the sunflower seed bags up and slammed them into the trash. “Excuse me,” he said—because they were talking about his mother and his mother had tried to teach him manners long after the first argument about how rude people didn’t deserve them—leaving Yelena behind for the pitcher’s mound.

Zeke didn’t change his rhythm on Eren’s way over, but he could see Armin and Mikasa both tense up out of the corner of his eye. The gopher popped back underground.

“Eren,” Zeke said, when Eren was ten feet away, “do you need something?”

It was the fourth step. Being completely, ruthlessly honest about everything wrong with you as a person so maybe something had a shot in hell at fixing it all. Eren’s hands unclenched. The open air against his palms made them feel empty. His head felt almost as empty, since the million conversations he and Zeke just didn’t have stayed crammed down his throat.

Still. “Mom wanted you to come over for dinner,” he said.

Zeke’s fastball smacked against the crude smiley face someone had doodled on the backstop. One of its eyes had a crack through it. “How kind of her. Will you be leaving with your friends, or should we all go over together?”

“Whatever works for you,” Eren said. Zeke kept throwing. There was an entire basket left by his feet. Eren wanted to kick it over.

“I’ll be done here soon.”

“We can wait on you.”

THWAK

“Wonderful.”

If the gopher hadn’t already gone down its hole, Eren stomping over to Mikasa and Armin would have gotten rid of it fast. For their sake, he ignored the look they shared while he was still out of earshot. And Armin’s deep breath before his smile.

Mikasa favored more direct approaches. “Will Zeke be joining us?”

“Yeah.”

A flurry of cloud drifted by the setting sun, and the next look Armin tried to share with Mikasa didn’t happen. She kept her eyes on Eren. Watching him, like she always did, but the reflection of irritation and futility felt more like a conversation than what he’d just managed with Zeke.

Eren was too many steps away from her to walk up and hug her without it being weird. Asking for a hug would also be weird. She’d probably worry instead of finding it nice.

Armin tried to inject some positivity. “How about Historia? Is she still busy?”

Pulling away from Mikasa’s magnetic presence, Eren shrugged. “Probably,” he said. He’d texted during batting practice and asked, but he hadn’t gotten anything back. Maybe because she didn’t need to be told not to answer her phone during an appointment. Maybe because she could sense Eren trying to probe her mood and she was already stuck paying someone to do that and once was enough for a day.

The Petra in his head could take the blame for some of that. He’d never liked being around people after shrink sessions. He’d hated being alone after them.

Eren’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he snapped it out.

               Sorry, we just ordered.

Eren blinked.

He hadn’t had a fun day. The shadow of his mom, and being alone with Armin and Mikasa, and all of the things wrong with feeling wrong about that, had put him in a bad mood and Zeke had made it worse without lifting a finger.

A glimmer of something going right peered out of his screen.

               […]                […]                Ymir says hi.

“She’s definitely busy,” Eren said.

“Oh.” Armin sounded disappointed. “That’s…”

Eren slung an arm across Armin’s back. “It’s good,” he said, meeting Mikasa’s eyes again. Winning back that soft smile she’d had when it was just her and Armin and the gopher. “Really good.”

----

Most of Eren’s formative memories included Armin. That was what happened when you met someone that cool when you were a kid. Every memory with them mattered, because they mattered. He had life-changing moments around tying shoes because Armin was there with him.

Armin had asked, when Zeke was dangling his arms over the fence that separated the playground from the pickup zone, waiting for the teacher to decide that their grandparents really were Eren’s too, what it was like having a big brother.

“He’s like an extra stair,” Eren had answered, very wisely. “He reaches all the high stuff and helps me up so I can, too.”

“I wonder how tall we’ll be when we grow up?” Armin had asked, eyes full of sparkles and future.

Eren had known the answer to that. After declaring to his dad that he’d be as tall as a mountain when he was his age, instead of choosing to stop like he had, his dad had picked him up, placed him atop his shoulders, and said a lot of what his mom called doctor words. It all meant that if he ate right and listened to his parents, he’d probably be as tall as they were. Jeans mattered. That was why Eren was sure to never wear them.

But before all those words, his dad had smiled up at Eren, and said the important ones: “We can both be taller whenever we want. All I need is you. And all you need,” he flicked Eren on the nose, “is me.”

In the playground with Armin, Eren had declared, “As tall as we can make ourselves!” and scooped Armin on top of his head so they could be kings of the playground.

He hadn’t been able to lift Armin.

Armin’s shoe kicked him in the lip.

Their teacher had called Eren over then, and his grandparents had seen the blood dripping down his shirt and panicked. Zeke had politely asked the teacher for a tissue and picked Eren up.

Eren had pointed at Zeke and shouted back to Armin, spitting blood down on the sidewalk. “He’s very tall!”

Petra had told him once, and the group a few times, that sometimes it helped to have a solid picture of what you were aiming for. You didn’t have to fly blind into your relationships and circumstances. You could think of what you wanted and ask for it, or make it happen.

When Eren thought of what he wanted out of his brother, all that came to mind was Armin. Armin’s voice asking, ‘what’s it like?’ and none of the answers working anymore. He didn’t know what to do with a Zeke. He had Petra’s outline and a huge hole where whatever he and Zeke could be wasn’t.

From that standpoint, getting Zeke to come along to dinner wasn’t a bad achievement. His mom had mentioned it, Eren had asked, and now Zeke was sitting in the dining room, politely complimenting the stew while Mikasa staidly avoided eye contact and Armin reached over every few mouthfuls to loosen Eren’s grip on his fork.

For the third week in a row.

Eren was starting to think Historia was scheduling her appointments the way she was on purpose, just to get out of adding one more pensive face to the table.

“This is delicious, Carla,” Zeke said, folding his napkin and gently collecting his silverware on his plate. “Thank you again for the splendid meal.”

Eren’s mom, who had a bounce in her step and a light in her eyes whenever Eren showed up with the dinner crew in tow, spared an amused look for her son before smiling at her stepson. “You say that every time, Zeke.”

Zeke’s glasses flashed in the light, giving his smile an emptiness that matched the tiny hole in Eren’s gut week after week. “And every time it is warranted.”

The scraping noise irritating Eren’s ears was coming from his plate, and it stopped the moment after Armin’s hand came back to his and released his fork to its original spot on the tablecloth with a blunted clatter.

His mom shot him another look, but kept speaking to Zeke. “You’ll have to keep coming by, then. It’s so nice to have my work appreciated for once.”

Mikasa stiffened in her chair in time with Eren, and both of them objected together, even if Eren’s voice thundered over Mikasa’s. “We appreciate you.”

“It’s also lovely to see how contagious that attitude is,” she continued, barely pausing at all to squeeze Mikasa’s arm. “Thank you, Zeke. I’ve seen more of your brother in these past few weeks than I did when he moved back in.”

Zeke and Eren’s mother were the only people around the table who didn’t flinch. Sitting next to Armin felt more like sitting next to a bonfire with snapping teeth, and Eren didn’t know if he wanted to hug him or punch himself.

That was the main problem with these dinners. He couldn’t do either.

Mikasa would say the main problem was Zeke.

Finding that soothing wasn’t the way out of all this. Probably. Even if some part of his soul uncurled, imagining what it would be like for Mikasa to rage as hard as he did and choose to share it with him.

Zeke, as diplomatic as Armin was when he was trying to get whoever was between him and Eren to kindly not pay attention to how one Mikasa was all that was keeping a very bloody brawl from continuing—smiled, glasses catching the light again. “Eren’s been working hard on spending time with all his family lately,” he said. “His effort isn’t something I can claim credit for.”

Eren’s fork was grinding into the tablecloth this time, and Armin’s hand was as warm as the understanding in his eyes that Eren still hated wanting as much as he did. Eren had to be the one working hard to spend time with Zeke, because Zeke got a text about how his day was going and assumed Eren was bad step away from rehab again. All Zeke could claim credit for was—

Being there. Whenever Eren asked.

Always.

“Would you like some help clearing the table, Carla?”

Eren wanted to punch him.

“Zeke, please, you’re a guest,” his mom said, while he and Mikasa jumped to their feet and almost broke Armin’s plate when they both grabbed for it at the same time. His knife took a dive for the floor, but Eren caught it.

When he straightened, shuffling his and Armin’s plate together and waging a silent staring contest with Mikasa to see if she’d hand him hers, Zeke took up his own and Eren’s mom’s, smiling distantly. “It’s my pleasure,” he said.

Mikasa handed Eren her plate sullenly before Zeke could make it out of the room first. Eren muttered  his thanks and marched into the kitchen with his brother. Who didn’t ask for Eren’s pile. They walked in together. They reached the sink. They dropped off the plates and silverware. All without needing conversation. Because Eren’s grandparents and Eren’s mom hadn’t raised animals, and they could figure out putting plates away without talking.

Wordless communication was a sign of closeness.

They walked back to the dining room.

Eren plopped in his seat, eyebrows burning from the effort of holding back his mood.

His mom was watching him, smiling wordlessly.

He tried to iron out his scowl. For her.

She tapped her forehead, only lined with age, and shook her head at him as Zeke eased back into his seat next to her. Next to Eren, Armin was there, patient and resigned to the inevitable explosion that Eren was not going to let happen.

Mikasa caught his glaring eyes and understood.

She’d been taller than him most of their lives, even if she wasn’t anymore.

Eren took a wrench to the screws in his scowl and breathed. No cheap shortcuts. No orange bottles or baggies he should have thrown away. A few weeks of bad dinners that made his mom smile wasn’t asking much.

Zeke sat calmly in his chair.

Eren needed a tennis ball.

----

Waking up earlier than anyone in the apartment wasn’t something Eren thought of as mattering. Historia stayed up too late and he sometimes wondered if he was supposed to help her with that, and he thought Benjamin judged him for being up first and not bringing him over any food, but he never thought about it as a real part of his life.

Waking up because something clattered in the kitchen was alarming and weird.

More weird because the sun was already out, so it couldn’t be Frieda.

Eren woke up with his eyes open and face smushed into the stars on his pillow, not having any idea where he was. He didn’t move. He wasn’t sure his eyes were following instructions well enough to blink. His pillow was soft. The light lining his bed from the crack in the curtains wasn’t. He had a hand dangling off his bed.

Another clang hit from outside his drowsy haze.

Pots and pans.

And voices.

Eren fumbled for his phone, digging it out from under his hip and swiping away the incomplete text he’d fallen asleep trying to send Armin. The clock blared at him. He’d slept in. It was his day off, he’d slept in, he’d failed at roping Armin into a movie, and there were people banging around the kitchen with more noise than anyone who had a key created.

They didn’t know anyone who came over without a written invitation.

Eren took a stumbling lurch out of his bed and room, the full morning light sparkling into the apartment and jabbing him directly in the eyes to go with the even louder clattering his door had protected him from.

A sing-song greeting slipped through the rest of the cacophony.

“Good morning, sleepy head.”

They knew one person who came over without a written invitation.

Eren stood in the threshold of the hallway. Ymir sat on the counter, sitting next to a waffle iron and licking a beater. The rest of the entire kitchen was strewn around her, in disarray except for three empty plates. Shopping bags cluttered the usually spotless floor. Historia, nowhere closer to helpful than he was, had her elbow perched on one of the remaining edges of the counter. She was watching Ymir with bland confusion and a spark of something Eren couldn’t name. The batter from the beater in her hand dripped down her wrist.

Across from them both, the sink was full of more dishes than he’d thought they’d owned. A mixing bowl with a cereal bowl lumped in it was sliding slowly against the side, jangling several forks.

More awake every bizarre second, Eren stared blankly at Ymir. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s the first thing she said, too,” Ymir said. She twirled her beater in Historia’s general direction. “You two could use a manners class.”

Without really looking away from Ymir, who as far as Eren could see was doing nothing outside of lapping up batter on top of their counter, Historia drifted out of whatever daze she seemed to be in. “She making us breakfast,” she told Eren.

Her elbow nudged the nearest plate. Two black slats had been thrown on top of it. They’d probably looked closer to something edible before Ymir ever touched them.

“She burned the toast.”

Ymir scoffed. “Your toaster has more settings than the sun,” she said, brandishing her beater at it. She turned back to Historia, comment at the ready—and Historia was smiling at her. Ymir stopped. Like she was back to falling off a wall, only Eren didn’t have to save her. The conversation paused, Ymir’s tongue stuck to the beater before she swallowed around it and continued with a soft rasp. “Did you just go out and buy the first, most expensive one you saw?”

“…Yes.”

Ymir was trying, badly, to hide that soft, not-Ymir smile that fit her face too well. Eren started considering grabbing a bowl of cereal and heading back to his room. A beep disrupted the thought. Ymir hopped to the floor and dropped her beater to a battered plate, popping open the waffle iron.

“A toaster that could fit a whole gingerbread house, and no TV,” she drawled, delivering a perfectly cooked waffle to one of the plates and slathering more batter onto the iron. “You guys really have your priorities set around here.”

“The TV light’s bad for Benjamin,” Historia said before Eren could. Ymir rolled her eyes and shoved the waffled plate into Historia’s hands on her way to pull the syrup off the stove.

There was syrup on the stove.

Eren slowly reached for a stool and eased onto it. Breakfast and Ymir. Bertolt and Reiner were missing, but they were missing when he came home from family dinners to Historia and Ymir fast asleep on the couch. No one expected him to talk then.

No one expected him to talk now. The third plate next to the waffle iron was the only real sign that anyone had thought he’d be in the room with the two of them. Eren’s elbows joined the small space Historia had carved out for hers. He didn’t join her in staring at Ymir. Historia covered that enough for everyone he knew and had never met.

“What are you doing to it?”

“Buttering it?”

“You aren’t going to be able to taste anything but butter. I could have grabbed a stick and shoved it in your mouth instead of going to all this trouble.”

“Ymir, that’s too much syrup.”

“It’s the right amount of syrup for—are you putting more butter on it?”

Historia jabbed the part of her waffle that was still visibly waffle with her fork, slicing the piece off and defiantly popping it into her mouth. Ymir tossed her potholder over the remains of the stick of butter. Most of it untouched. She still slumped back on the counter with the look of someone reading off a death row inmate’s crimes. Bertolt left that out when he made waffles.

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Ymir said. Pretending not to be staring at her. She was like one of Mikasa’s cats, only noisier. “What about you, Eren, do you start every day trying to poison yourself?”

As removed from having an opinion on the state of the waffle Historia was chewing as he’d been for the entire conversation, Eren shrugged. “I think Historia knows how to feed herself,” he said.

“You would, wouldn’t you, but then you get to displays like this, and—”

Historia, with a speed people who made it their business to be around Ymir picked up one way or another, popped her fork into Ymir’s mouth, the skewered piece of waffle making immediate contact with her tongue. Syrup stuck to her lower lip, and Ymir’s eyes fluttered shut, taking the offered bite with no resistance. The glowering pride on her face lasted until Historia flicked away the syrup with her finger, melting her faster than the butter.

Eren watched his empty plate instead of looking back at Benjamin. Armin said people anthropomorphized their pets too much. A fish could not relate to this.

With a groan that didn’t read as exasperated as any of them were going to pretend, the fork was released to its owner. “Compliments to the chef,” Ymir said, scrubbing her battered hand over her mouth.

“The chef burned toast,” Historia said. She found the remaining free inches of counter space and sat down next to Ymir.

“Toast isn’t cooking,” Ymir said, grabbing up another fork and bypassing Historia’s halfhearted deflections to rip off more of the buttered waffle. “It’s a bargain with an electrical socket, and yours didn’t pay up.”

Reiner wasn’t here to mouth ‘ignore her’ over Bertolt’s shoulder, so Eren spoke up. “I thought you were blaming the toaster.”

“I can blame you too if you’re feeling left out.”

“I wasn’t awake.”

“Yeah, your commitment to helping has never been clearer.” Ymir stole more waffle. Shared. Historia, with a small shake of her head when Eren caught her eye, had twirled the plate around so they were eating from opposite sides.

The iron beeped, and Eren slid his waffle—which was staying his—onto his plate and dealt with his own syrup. Ymir had used Bertolt’s recipe. It tasted like his tongue was going to melt into sugar and made him want five more. Reiner passed out after three. Splitting one was probably for the best for someone Historia’s size.

He didn’t think being helpful was what Ymir was going for. She was squishing Historia most of the way off the counter and then catching her with a snipe about being more careful in the kitchen.

He still had his phone. The only thing he knew about his day off besides Ymir turning it into hers was that it was sunny out.

No one was paying attention to him anyway, so having his phone out and texting someone at what counted for the breakfast table wasn’t bad manners. He found Mikasa’s contact listing and hit send.

want to climb today?

The relief when she texted back in under a minute wasn’t anything to be proud over. Or anything he deserved, but he was supposed to be practicing remembering that without wanting to rip his throat out. Relief fit.

               Of course. Where?

you pick. anywhere’s good

“And where,” Ymir said when he got up with his plate, like any of her attention was on him, “do you think you’re going?”

“Grabbing my stuff to go rock climbing with Mikasa.”

“The cat girl?”

Eren looked at Historia, who remembered Colt had a cockatiel better than that he had a brother. “Sure,” he said.

“Because spending time with her is so much better than time with us,” Ymir said, picking off a piece of Historia’s second waffle and licking away a dribble of syrup. Her elbow caught one of the bowls that had gone into the cooking, and a cascade of clatters dipped further into the sink. “Didn’t think you were the type to ditch your friends for a girl, Eren.”

Historia had worked her way into being fused to Ymir’s hip. Their feet periodically bumped together and bounced apart too carefully to be an accident. Eren said, because Ymir being Historia’s whatever only meant he had to put up with some of her, “I don’t see you cooking breakfast for Reiner.”

Ymir smirked at him. “That’s what Bertolt’s for.”

Eren rolled his eyes. “I’m going climbing.”

The chorused, “Have fun,” when he stepped out of the apartment on his day off, bag stuffed with extra water Mikasa didn’t need because she knew how to function, only felt sincere from one of them. That was fine. He had somewhere to go when they didn’t ask him to stay.

[next]

[phantom-le6]

Episode Reviews - Star Trek: The Next Generation Season 4 (6 of 6)

To round of my look into season 4 of Star Trek: The Next Generation, here are my reviews of that season’s last two episodes.

Episode 25: In Theory

Plot (as adapted from Wikipedia):

Lt. Commander Data and Lt. Jenna D'Sora are in the torpedo room configuring several probes with which the Enterprise will explore a nearby nebula. D'Sora explains that her ex who she just split up with has asked her to dinner, prompting Data to remind her why they broke up as part of a standing agreement between the pair of them. Later they play together in a chamber concert along with Keiko O'Brien. D'Sora complains of her abilities as a musician, but Data insists that he could not hear anything wrong.

 Later, on the bridge, Data is reviewing the information from the probes sent into the nebula. He theorises that life might have evolved differently in the nebula because of the volume of dark matter detected. Captain Picard orders the ship to the nearest planet within the nebula. Data and Jenna configure further probes, when she kisses him on the cheek and then on the lips, before leaving the room. Data seeks the opinion of his friends, specifically Picard, Guinan, Geordi La Forge, Commander Riker, Counsellor Troi and Lt. Worf. Data decides to pursue the relationship and goes to Jenna's cabin with a bunch of flowers, where he informs her that he created a romantic subroutine for the relationship.

 Meanwhile, the Enterprise is approaching an M-class planet within the nebula. Picard enters his ready room and finds his belongings scattered on the floor. He calls in Worf, who cannot explain their displacement. Jenna arrives at Data's cabin where he is painting. She tells him to continue, but is then annoyed when he does so, causing him some confusion. The ship arrives at the coordinates for the planet but finds nothing there. Then it suddenly appears as the ship's computer warns of a depressurization in the observation lounge. The crew investigate and find all the furniture piled in one corner of the room.

 Data visits Jenna, but she seems unhappy and he is acting erratically in order to find an appropriate response to make her happy. It becomes evident to the crew that the nebula is causing distortions in space; Picard orders the ship into warp to leave the nebula as quickly as possible but this speeds up the distortions. Whilst investigating them, Lieutenant Van Mayter is killed when a distortion embeds her into the deck. Data discovers that dark matter is causing the distortions. The ship can detect the pockets at short range, but not in enough time to move out of the way. Worf proposes using a shuttle to lead the Enterprise out, and Picard insists on piloting it alone.

 Picard pilots the shuttle through the field of distortion pockets; he is initially successful, but the shuttle is damaged near the perimeter of the nebula. Chief Miles O'Brien transports the Captain back to the ship before the shuttle is destroyed. However, the Enterprise is now near enough to the edge of the nebula to no longer need the shuttle to scout ahead, and they quickly depart. Afterwards, Jenna reveals to Data in his quarters that she broke up with her boyfriend because he was emotionally unavailable and then pursued Date because he was the same. Data realises that she is breaking up with him and explains that he will delete the subroutine. Jenna departs and Data is seemingly unperturbed, although his cat, Spot, jumps into his lap as if to comfort him.

Review:

This episode was Patrick Stewart’s directorial debut on the show, following on the heels of fellow cast member Jonathan Frakes taking a shot at directing during the previous season.  Like Frakes, Stewart was handed a Data episode to do, and in some respects it’s a good episode.  In others, it’s less brilliant, specifically having a techno-babble B-plot thrown in because TNG was very much enslaved to the idea that the character always had to have an enemy or an anomaly putting them at risk, regardless of whatever else might be going on.  This plot doesn’t inter-connect with the A-plot except for both things happening in the same episode, and it includes Picard playing shuttle pilot when he’s not really the TNG character of note by way of piloting skills.  In fact, TNG and DS9 never really had a definitive helm officer in the way that the original series had Sulu and Voyager had Tom Paris, which when you have to do an episode with this kind of B-plot is a bit of a must.

 However, the meat of the episode is Data making forays into the world of romantic relationships, and to some degree I appreciate how some of his behaviours in this area are quite autistic.  His asking around the majority of the main cast and Guinan for advice, his inability to pick up relationship skills ‘on the fly’, and his emulation of stereotypical romantic interactions rather than just being himself are all things I can see someone on the spectrum doing.  Hell, I’ve done them all in my own unique way, and I can’t help but cringe a little reflecting on that.

 However, Data is only able to go so far both with his relationship and with his representation of the autistic mindset in this scenario because he lacks emotion.  I understand that this was meant to be the point; according to Memory Alpha, a lot of original series fan mail for Spock was from women who felt they could reach the character’s suppressed emotional core.  This episode was born of a fascination with this aspect of fandom, only it was written to see if a romantic relationship could work with a being who was hard-wired not to feel any emotion, to really explore the ‘ghost in the machine’ concept through Data.

 This, for me, is where the episode’s main plot really loses efficacy, because by definition a romantic relationship requires emotion, and as such Data was never going to succeed.  Frankly, I’d rather have seen them hold this plot off until the films when Data is finally given license to have emotions.  It would have been great to see Data have a romantic relationship then, because it would have been a more complete, well-rounded exploration of his status as an autism metaphor within the world of Trek.  As it is, characters like Voyager’s Doctor and Seven of Nine end up serving better in this capacity.

 It’s also disappointing to see that, not unlike some of my own early experiences in romance, Data isn’t being approached out of a genuine romantic interest on the part of Jenna.  To her, he’s basically a re-bound fling; she’s struggling with being single again, keeps having to be reminded why this is so, and tries to make something happen with Data to ‘fill the void’.  It’s not unlike how some girls used to pretend to go out with me to test, and mock, my gullibility, and for me it’s right up there with people who go out with someone just to avoid being single (done that), or to get something else like a roof over their head or cash.  To my mind, no one should ever do anything like this; if you want a romantic relationship with someone, it should be real romance or nothing.

 If you want a fling, a rebound or anything similar, then you seek out something more casual like friends-with-benefits, and you say that’s what you want up-front.  Leading people on is never ok, and it seems to me it only happens because of neurotypical selfishness and unwillingness to talk about you want before anything happens. The model of discussion-first-action-second is something that already exists within certain forms of sex play, and it’s probably going to gain wider and wider use over time for consent in general, and it’s exactly the kind of thing that would not only make all relationships more autism-friendly, but it would also vastly reduce the potential for being misled.

 What would have improved this episode, aside from Data actually having emotions, would have been to see the female guest character seek him out just from general attraction with no recent ex being mentioned, and perhaps having the B-Plot put the A-Plot characters in danger more directly.  That would have helped the B-Plot gain some additional worth and would have created a dramatic scene that would have more conclusively answered the ‘ghost in the machine’ question around Data.  As it is, it’s a middling episode and a poor showing for something Data-centric; I give it 5 out of 10.

Episode 26: Redemption (Part 1)

Plot (as adapted from Wikipedia):

Captain Picard and the Enterprise are asked to attend the installation of Gowron as the Leader of the Klingon High Council, as it is Picard’s final duty as the Arbiter of Succession. Gowron intercepts the Enterprise en route and informs Picard that the House of Duras will challenge Gowron's position, which may lead to a Klingon civil war. Picard states he cannot intervene beyond his role as arbiter, and asks Worf to escort Gowron to the transporter room. There, Worf informs Gowron of the truth about his discommendation; Gowron thanks Worf for killing Duras, but explains that he cannot clear Worf’s name because he needs the support of the council, many of whom are loyal to Duras. Worf then requests a leave of absence from Picard to visit his brother, Kurn, who controls a small fleet of Birds of Prey, and to urges him to back Gowron. Worf plans to use this support as leverage so that once installed as the Leader, Gowron can reinstate their family name.

 Interrupting the ceremony, the Duras sisters present their deceased brother's illegitimate son, Toral, who has the lineage to challenge Gowron. Picard is called on to determine Toral's candidacy. Relying on Klingon law, Picard comes to the conclusion that Toral is too inexperienced to be Leader, and secures Gowron's candidacy. This, however, prompts a majority of the council members to abandon Gowron. Gowron returns to his ship to meet with Worf, who offers his brother's fleet's support in exchange for the return of his family name to honor. Gowron initially refuses, but they are attacked by two ships loyal to the House of Duras. Worf and the arrival of Kurn's fleet dispatch the attackers. Picard completes the rite and installs Gowron as Leader; Gowron restores Worf's family honor.

Gowron and the Enterprise crew learn that the Duras sisters are assembling a fleet to incite a civil war. As the Federation cannot get involved in internal affairs of the Klingon Empire, Worf resigns his commission from Starfleet to assist Gowron and Kurn. As the Enterprise evacuates the area before fighting begins, Toral and the Duras sisters consider Picard a coward, but their Romulan ally, a woman bearing an uncanny resemblance to the late Tasha Yar, emerges from the shadows and warns them that Picard may return.

Review:

Apparently, this episode was originally planned as the season 3 cliff-hanger finale, but had to be delayed because those working on the show who wanted this episode really had to fight for it.  Apparently, Gene Roddenberry didn’t want to do any kind of war stories, even if that war was internal to the Klingons and not something the Federation got involved in.  Granted, I don’t think this episode could be as good as it is without everything leading up to it, and part of that groundwork lays here in the fourth season as well as the third and second.  Nevertheless, it seems that once again Roddenberry was taking his idealism one step too far, and I’m guessing him having to step back from production of the show due to increasingly ill health around this time was the only reason we got this episode.

 Being only one part of a larger story, of course, the episode loses out a little for not being quite as self-contained as it otherwise would be as a one-part episode.  However, it delivers a lot for part 1 of a two-part narrative; we finally see Worf get his discommendation lifted and Gowron take command of the Klingon Empire, only to then see Worf resign his commission when Picard won’t wade into the civil war, even though we all know by now Picard should realise it’s not even remotely an all-Klingon affair.  Picard and Worf are well aware that the Duras family are thick as thieves with the Romulans, and they’ve had the recent events of ‘The Mind’s Eye’ to illustrate to them that dividing the Federation and Klingon Empire is high on their agenda.  Surely Picard should have been able to put 2 and 2 together in this part and sided with Gowron outright, rather than appearing to cling to the Prime Directive.

 This is where TNG, and Trek as a whole, falls down a little; it can’t seem to come up with a consistent approach to the Prime Directive.  Some episodes it gets broken, others it gets adhered to, and at times you’ll get a non-adherence for a situation that in a later or earlier episode saw the rule being upheld. Back in season 1, Picard was willing to dare the wrath of the Edo’s ‘god’ to save Wesley Crusher from execution, but in this episode, Picard won’t act to save Worf when Gowron’s ship gets fired upon. Both times someone from the Enterprise was in danger, so surely Picard should take the same actions, but he doesn’t. I can’t tell if this meant to be a follow-on from ‘The Drumhead’ and they stupidly cut out some exposition where Picard says ‘we have to be extra careful now to avoid another Satie-style witch-hunt’, or if it’s just a lack of attention to continuity.

 For me, this episode really relies on Worf and Gowron to carry it, as Picard’s so-called ‘tightrope walking’ just makes him look decidedly unheroic and not a little ruthless.  Honestly, this episode would have benefited from a more Kirk-ian/Sisko-esque style of captain.  Overall, I give it 7 out of 10.

[artificialqueens]

(treat me nice) never let me go [branjie] 10/15 - pinkgrapefruit

chapter 10. i can’t be the only one who’s lonely tonight.

previous chapters 1. 2. 3.4.5.6.7.8.9.

A/N - another short one for y'all but I hope you’re not too comfy with weekly updates because the next chapter is a big un and I’m maybe 300 words in. thanks to frey for betaing <3

*

They’re laying in bed together, Vanessa’s head on Brooke’s chest - the only thing between them a piece of silk nightshirt.

Vanessa inhales the smell of Brooke’s perfume and exhales a deep sigh. “First guy I loved was a total nothing. But the second was worse,” she admits freely. Brooke doesn’t dare interrupt, because it feels like it would be an intrusion. “My mama called me a lambon magnet.If there was a bicho or a lambon in a mile radius, I’d come home with them.” Brooke raises an eyebrow at what she can only assume to be Puerto Rican curse words, they sound almost musical when Vanessa says them. “So that’s how I ended up here. I followed bicho number three.” She sighs, runs the hand that isn’t trapped between herself and Brooke through her hair, letting it all fall onto her shoulders.

“Oh,” Brooke responds, amused, but unsure as to whether or not she’s being insulted.

“So here I was: no money, no friends, no lambon.”

Brooke chuckles again, “And you chose this as your profession?” She jibes, glad Vanessa knows it’s friendly now and not cruel.

“I worked a couple of fast food places, parked cars for people, though they weren’t fans cause I’m,” she gestures to herself, “untrustworthy. But I couldn’t make rent, and I didn’t want to run back to Florida with my tail between my legs. Then I met Silks.” Brooke can hear the smile in her voice, feels the way her fingers tap on her stomach in happiness.

“Yeah?” Brooke asks under her breath, urging her to continue.

“She was a hooker, and she made it sound so great, Brooke. So one day I did it. I cried the whole time. But then I got my regulars, and you know?” She pauses, gathers herself like tape in a VHS.  “You don’t plan this. It ain’t a childhood dream.” Brooke knows a lot about things that aren’t childhood dreams. When she was a little girl she wanted to be a prima ballerina - dance the stages of Montreal and New York and London instead of sitting in their boardrooms, bored.

“You could be so much more,” Brooke tells her softly, nose in her caramel hair, fingers tracing patterns onto her exposed shoulder. Vanessa makes a noise between a sigh and a snuffle as her cold nose touches Brooke’s collarbone.

“People put you down enough and you start to believe it,” she mumbles into the pale skin. It’s a heavy sentiment, but she’s not wrong and it shatters Brooke’s heart like a CD thrown on a road. It radiates through her and she looks down at the woman in her arms.

“I think you are very very bright,” she muses, her fingers still. “I think you are very bright and so very special.”

“The bad stuff is easier to believe, Brooke. You ever notice that?”

*

Brooke wakes up early and slips out of bed with ease. She stands at the bathroom door, toothbrush sticking out of her mouth at a lopsided angle, one spindle of foam falling out at the corner. Vanessa’s very easy to watch - she’s transfixing, her skin soft, body lean. The way the covers are draped around her makes Brooke want to crawl back into bed, but she has business to attend to, so she retreats into the bathroom to get ready. She leaves a note and the AmEx card on the bedside table as is tradition and leaves the suite without a noise, her emerald pantsuit crisp and her demeanour sharp.

Her ride to work is relatively painless, and she gets through her meetings quickly and efficiently, barely stopping for a coffee and a cigarette at eleven. The offices are as dark and foreboding as they look from the outside, and it’s times like this she misses the Toronto headquarters - her plush chair in seafoam green, maple meeting tables in light, and airy boardrooms instead of these charcoal tombs. Her makeshift desk has an Ikea chair and a flat pack desk and she’s not a fan of either.

She stubs out her cigarette on the wall outside, dropping the stub into a plant pot that is already littered with lawyers hopes and dreams, before heading back into the lobby. Once she reaches the desk she leans on it to chat to the receptionist. She has time to kill and the woman seems nice enough - engaging as they discuss baseball (a sport Brooke has very little interest in) and the existence of Gastropubs (places Brooke thinks are too pretentious to enjoy a meal).

“Can you send the tickets through to the hotel?” She asks as she moves to leave, watching as the receptionist nods dutifully. She almost escapes, but Ru calls her with a tone that says she cannot refuse, and she turns on her five-inch heels to glower at him.

“I have somewhere to be,” she asserts calmly in answer to his unasked question.

“But-” he tries to cut in, but she holds up her hand.

“Cain will still be here when I get back,” she reminds sternly, refusing to give in to him today. “I am going on a date.” She lets herself smile at that, giving him a true indication of how she feels.

“With the hooker?” he asks and Brooke whips her head to face him directly. She takes three measured paces until she is close enough to smell his aldehydic cologne.

“I would be very careful if I were you,” she forces out through gritted teeth. “I am not lenient on those who go against me, and I will not be lenient with you if you continue to go against Vanessa, do you understand?”

She hears him gulp and the sound of his defeat is almost good enough to flatten the anger that has been growing in her since the races - almost. “I need a response, Ru.” She says again, firm.

“I understand,” he replies, shoulders rolled back and nose high. They part, and she resists the urge to turn back and rip him a new one, because she is still so angry.

She sits in her car and lets her leg bounce furiously until she can inhale for seven - until her breath stretches evenly, fluidly. Smiling to herself, she drives back to the hotel, back to Vanessa.

[sweetsusurrations]

The torcher began...

My dream started on the plane. We were going to China for a few weeks. It was just me and Ryann. I’m not sure where or why we were going, exactly. It was foggy out the day we arrived. The sky was plastered with gray and you couldn’t see more than 50 feet in front of you because of the fog. We drove next to a river that seemed to go on for miles. We were driving for hours. It was already dark out by the time we saw a car pulled into a small parking lot and decided to pull up next to this car in order to scope it out. I’m not sure why we decided to do this. There was a man leaning against the car. I didn’t notice him at first. He said he had gotten into an accident and needed our help. I felt weird about it, but we decided to stay and wait with him for help to come. While sitting and talking to him for a while, I noticed his car was in perfect condition. Didn’t he say he crashed his car? How did I not notice this before? I decided to ignore my suspicions. After a while, the police showed up, and we left as he didn’t need our company or assistance anymore. We drove for a few more hours before arriving at our hotel. I don’t remember what it looked like on the outside, but I have a very vivid memory of the inside. As soon as we walked in, we saw a man sitting in his underwear on a bed in a room that looked like a prison cell. He was watching the news on a tiny, old tv set. The entire room was made out of cold, gray stone. The walls looked like they were chiseled with a kitchen knife. There were so many uneven, sharp ridges all over the walls that were so sharp they could cut you. To our left was a small gaping hole in the wall. It was just big enough for one person to crawl in. I leaned down to look inside of it. It was a long tunnel that was lit by the same iridescent lights as the room we were in. I saw feet walking past on the other side. I looked up at Ryann who was already looking at me like we were in a horror movie and needed to get out. As I stood back up, the man in his underwear noticed us. I thought he would be embarrassed about being seen in his underwear, but he seemed to not even notice or care. He jumped out of his twin bed and came to greet us, speed walking towards us. “Hello! You must be our new guests?” He shook our hands, a little too hard for my liking. “Uh, yes, our reservation should be under-“ “Jasmine?!” He blurted out. He seemed overly excited to see us. “Yes, tha- that’s it.” I laughed uncomfortably. “Well, I’ll send your bags to your beds.” He snatched our bags out of our hands and put them next to his bed. “You will see your beds have your names on them just through there.” He pointed to the hole in the wall. I was shocked. “Y- you want us to crawl through there?!” Ryann proclaimed loudly. He seemed to be offended by our confusion. “Well, how else do you expect to get to your beds then?!” We looked around for a door or an entrance way. There was nothing but the prison cell and the hole in the wall. Despite being confused and scared, we decided to crawl through. It was so uncomfortable. There were sharp edges sticking out all over the walls around us. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic. I was already halfway through the tunnel when I realized that I would have to crawl through it again in order to leave. When we got to the other side, we entered a huge room the size of a concert hall. There were people sitting on cots and mattresses all over the place. This room was also completely made out of uneven stone with blinding iridescent lighting. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at us. After a few seconds of silent staring, everyone immediately went back to what they were doing, all at once, as if someone pressed play on a remote. We walked to our beds which were just dusty mattresses on the floor. I’m not sure why we stayed, honestly. *** The next day was warm and sunny. I decided to go skateboarding (which is not something I can do in real life). I took my large tote bag with me which had my journal and a bong in it. I’m not sure why I brought a bong to go skateboarding. I rode through the city. I passed wet markets and train stations. I wanted to see as much as I could. I stumbled upon some steps that seemed to go on forever. I walked up them to see people sitting on a terrace at the top. People were drinking tea and talking. I skateboarded past them and found a spot hidden away from everyone that overlooked the city. I sat and wrote in my journal for a while. This was the most peaceful part of my dream. After I was done writing, I grabbed my things and made my way for the other side of the terrace. I skateboarded for a few minutes until all of a sudden, I was falling. I hit my head really hard and cracked my back. It felt like I was falling forever before I finally reaching the ground. I was laying there with my eyes closed for a few minutes before opening them to see that I had just fallen down a long flight of stairs. My head was throbbing, and I reached up to touch the sore spot. I pulled my arm back and looked at my hand. I saw blood. I looked to my left. Right in front of me was a giant dragon made out of marble. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I saw another one across from it. I slowly got up to get a better look. As I got on my feet, I felt a sharp pain in my lower back. I reached back to feel a huge, bleeding gash. I ignored the pain. I walked past the dragon to see a huge building made out of the same dark marble in between the two matching fire breathers. There was no obvious entrance as the entire front of the building was guarded with huge columns that intertwined with one another. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. I decided to walk inside. All I remember upon entering was seeing a confusing row of hallways that all seemed to be connected. I don’t remember how but I ended up getting lost. I began to hear the sounds of people screaming. I heard a woman yell, “Please, stop!” accompanied by the sound of a very loud machine and moaning in the background. I stumbled into the hallway where the noises were coming from. This hallway was aligned with a row of doors on each side. The hallway would’ve been pitch black if it weren’t for the light coming from each door being slightly cracked open. I knew this was where the screams were coming from, and I somehow knew these people were being torchered. I heard screams coming from many people. Each of them in a different room. I, rightfully, felt a pit drop in my stomach and decided it was time to leave. I turned around and began to walk quickly. Eventually I started running. It was painful because of my back and head injuries. I felt like I was going to black out. I was so out of it that I didn’t even notice someone in front of me and I ran into them. I ran into this person so hard that we both fell backwards and landed on our backs. I moaned in pain. I sat up and this woman was already quickly gathering her things that fell on the ground. She looked very distraught. She was wearing dark red corduroy pants and a white blazer that contrasted her long black hair. She was mumbling something to herself that I couldn’t understand. She didn’t say one word to me before grabbing my arm and dragging me across the hallway. I wanted to scream but I knew no one here would help me. She dragged me into an office with a huge window overlooking the city. I assumed she was in charge of this facility. I’m not sure if that was true. I’m not even sure what she said to me. I was so distraught about the situation I was in that my mind went blank. I only remember her giving me some type of warning and telling me to leave immediately. She also said that she noticed my bong in my bag and demanded I gave it to her and that I wasn’t allowed to leave with it. I refused and immediately grabbed my bag so she couldn’t touch it. She looked at me as if I had just threatened her life. She is probably never refused of her demands. Despite my disobedience, she let me leave and walked me to an entrance that wasn’t the same as the one I entered. She didn’t say a word to me before letting me go. As I walked through the entrance way to leave, I noticed a man, with his back facing me, leaning against a column of the building. He was playing with a small red ball, tossing it in the air. He immediately turned to look at me as soon as I noticed him. He was wearing a bright red robe and his hair was tied in a long braid that fell down his right shoulder. He looked like he was anywhere from 50 years old to 70 years old yet still very healthy and fit. He smiled at me. “How was your visit, boy?” his voice was soft and weak. “It was nice.” I smiled back at him. I decided to ignore him calling me a boy. I just wanted to get out as fast as possible. “Have a nice day, sir.” *** What happened next, I can’t really explain. I was speed walking away from the huge marble building with the matching dragons and started heading for the market I saw around the corner. It all happened so fast. I had just entered the market when I heard humming coming from behind me. Before I could even process it, there were men and women forming a circle around me. They were all wearing the same robe as the man who greeted me at the entrance. There were maybe 6 or 8 of them. Somehow, I knew what this meant. They were trying to catch me to take me back to that facility. Adrenaline took over and I ran straight through them towards a busier part of the market. They were too fast. The moment I looked back to see how far behind me they were, I saw the man who first greeted me at the entrance. This old man was running ahead of all of them. He caught up to me so quickly. He stretched out his arm and forced it onto my lower back, which then caused my body to bend in half, backwards. I blacked out. *** The next thing I remember, I sitting on a bed in a small room. It looked like a toddler’s room. There were toys everywhere and the bed in the corner was so tiny I could barely fit in it. There was one small window next to the bed.  A man and a woman not much older than me were standing at the door describing the room to me and all of the rules of the facility. I can’t remember what they said, I was too distraught. I heard screams in the background. I knew where I was. I looked down at the bed I was sitting on and noticed the sheets were tangled. I grabbed them and attempted to untangle the sheets when I realized there was pee in the them. I immediately threw them on the bed and started to gag. The woman told me that these were the sheets of the last person who had this room. She said that they peed themselves every night due to a reaction of the treatment they were being given. They’re dead now, I assumed. There was a small TV in the room as well. The woman handed me a tape. She said that I should watch it whenever I’ve given up hope. They played the tape on the TV and left me in the room alone. Playing on the tape was all of my friends hanging out together, laughing, and drinking. I began to cry. Hours later, while I found myself staring at the TV static. A group of men barged into my room and grabbed me by my limbs and pulled me out of the room. I knew what was about to happen. I woke up before the torcher began...

[beautifulletdownfics]

harry is fine and nina is fine too: part iii

Nina's late.

She's late and thanks to the puddle she managed to plonk through when crossing the road, she also has wet shoes and socks. The rain trickles a path down the back of her neck as she tripple checks crossing the street, little smatterings making their way onto her face as her umbrella fights off the latest gust of wind.

Leaving her class this afternoon, something in her had thought it would be nice to walk home instead of jumping on the subway like she usually would. She missed the fresh, crisp air of Blackpool and some part of her liked the painful chill that sunk through her. There was something nostalgic about the cold and the wet, and she was missing England with a newfound force since seeing Rodger and Adriana the day before.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Nina calls down the hallway at the front door, “New Yorker’s don’t know how to walk when it's raining. Have you started without me?"

"Just put the meat in, don't stress," Jane was leaning up against the kitchen bench waiting for Nina to appear from the entranceway, "We said seven anyway."

The clock on the wall read 6:45pm.

Nina frowns, "I'm on dinner, I left on time, but you people lose your shit in this weather."

"We're not used to it," Jane defends lightly, "Wine?"

"Please," Nina nods, pulls off her coat and scarf and hangs them over a dining chair, "Is Sarah in yet?" she watches Jane shake her head, "I'll be right back."

Their apartment is tiny, and it's probably too small for the three of them who share it. But it works somehow. Jane and Sarah had been housemates for years before Nina moved into the tiny study, or "third bedroom". It felt nice to move into an established home unit, the three girls did their Friday night dinners once a month and Sunday brunches, and they kept up with each other's lives. It helps ease Nina's homesickness.

It doesn't matter to Nina that her room isn't much bigger than the size of her bed, with only room to shuffle around one side of it to the tiny standing wardrobe in the corner, also touching the bed. She spends most of her days out, and she has found herself suddenly comforted by small spaces. Nina hides in this tiny room on weekend afternoons. She feels as though her world is incredibly small, instead of feeling the chronic and overwhelming sprawling expanse of thousands upon thousands of miles between where she is and where she is from.

"How was work?” Nina asks Jane when she returns to the kitchen, pulling potatoes from a tub under the sink and making sure none of them rolls off the bench before going on the hunt for other vegetables suitable for roasting.

"Fine," Jane replies, "My boss went home at lunch, so we all took off early as well. Did you have a good time with your friends last night?”

Nina’s heart swelled and sunk at the same time if that was possible, “It was so lovely to see them. Saying goodbye sucked.”

Jane looks at her sadly, taking a seat at their small dining table so Nina could monopolise the use of the whole kitchen space. Nina pretends she doesn’t notice the look. She’s tried hard all day not to dwell too much on what it might mean that I was so painful to say goodbye to Rodger. She’s doing her best not to think of everyone else she’s missing too.

"Oh, this one's nice," Nina comments, taking her first sip of wine. "I didn't realise how ready for a weekend I was. I heard earlier the rain is supposed to clear up overnight and tomorrow should be nice and—“

“—I'm home and I brought cake!"

Sarah barrels down the hallway, bags hanging off her arm, her collapsed umbrella raised above her head like a weapon of war. Nina rushes across to save the cake box shoved under Sarah’s arm, the familiar stamp of the bakery Sarah is a pastry chef at stamped over the top.

“It might be a touch soggy,” Sarah says quickly, accidentally hitting the hanging light with her umbrella and scaring herself, “But we can put it in the oven and fix that.”

Nina and Jane laugh at their housemate, she’s dripping wet and yet, red-faced and happy. Nina feels a lightness in her chest that had been wound too tight all day.

Maybe it was the wine.

Two more bottles appear from Sarah’s handbag, “I called both of you, did we need wine?”

Jane claps her hands together, “No but ooh goodie. Does anyone have anything in the morning?”

Nina’s laughing, and it feels good, but there’s something just a whisper from her heart, and it’s bringing tears to her eyes. Laughing with Rodger last night had felt the same, as though she was watching something she knew would disappear again very soon and there was no way to prolong it.

“Wine is probably a terrible idea for me right now,” She confesses, chopping away at the vegetables and trying to keep her voice light.

“Nina’s homesick,” Jane explains to Sarah easily.

Sarah’s dumped everything on the floor by the kitchen door and is tugging at the outer layers of her clothing, there’s a momentary pause as she recalls Nina’s friend’s from home having been in town, “How was last night?”

“Lovely,” Nina responds, “So lovely. They looked tan and happy from their honeymoon.”

“I bet they’ve missed you,” Sarah says in the dangerously disarming way that Nina can never quite match up to the raucous, loud woman she usually is. It’s a small nudge to getting further into Nina’s head.

When she first moved in, Nina had told herself that New York was a fresh start and these two new women in her life wouldn’t be getting Sad Nina. Moving in with Sarah and Jane was an opportunity to make a life in New York that wasn’t tied up in Harry. Nina didn’t want them to know what had happened to her relationship, she couldn’t dwell on it. She refused.

But before she moved in the girls had obviously Googled her to find what they would have thought would just be a Facebook page. They had just wanted to check Nina Lawrence actually existed and was a real human, but they fell upon far more than they had bargained for.

It had been an awkward few first weeks living with them. Mainly because there was no juicy break-up story. Nina had nothing bad to say about Harry.

Not a thing.

++

He lands in New York and heads straight to the apartment.

It is a minefield of Nina,. He brought it when they were together. Harry sold his place in Los Angeles— because she hated it there and would never travel with him if that was the destination—and instead, he got this apartment in New York.

She always loved this city, and the time they spent together in this apartment was always fun and romantic and settling. Hearing that Nina had moved here had been shocking, but it wasn’t a surprise she had picked New York.

Where Harry’s house in London is old and homey—with nooks and crannies, ornate finishes and a pleasant, comforting undercurrent of quintessential Englishness—the flat in New York is modern and sleek, with an open plan concept that makes Harry feel artistic and languid.

The first thing Harry does when he arrives is open three windows and take the cover off the baby grand piano Nina was furious at him for buying at the time.

He props open the cover and then sits at the bench, lifting the lid off the keys. The smell of the internal wood wafts over him slowly, and Harry tinkers with a few notes before making himself more comfortable in the seat and finding a familiar melody to play through.

He owes her his ability to play the piano so well now. Nina taught Harry herself, and now everything from his posture to the way he no longer watches his hands is wrapped up in her gentle voice, patiently correcting him while holding up his chin with delicate fingers.

Harry watches the pins inside the instrument flick in and out as he plays, striking the corresponding keys, and finally, he has the first hint of doubt hit him about being in New York.

What is he doing? If she needed or wanted him in her life she would have reached out, Nina knew she could call him for anything. Didn’t she? She had to know that.

The thing is though that Harry needs her. He’s tired of missing her. He needs to hear her voice—see her—because he misses her so much that he’s forgotten what not missing Nina feels like. What was it like to just come home and know she would be there? He wants to go back to being able to get through a writing session without having a panic attack.

In eight months of separation, Harry’s not managed to record a single song to completion. He barely makes it through singing through the demo versions. All of it is about her, and it’s like his brain can’t comprehend or sit with the knowledge that Harry and Nina are done, and he’s only ever going to be writing old memories, not making new ones with her.

Hearing from Rodger had scared him. Harry’s worried that Nina isn’t happy. Whatever Rodger saw that led to him calling Harry must have been significant.

Harry’s fingers stop on the piano keys suddenly. He has to call her. Rodger sent through a text after their phone call with Nina’s new phone number. The number Harry has saved wasn’t even right anymore.

The new one is a US number, and Harry’s hands shake, but he knows he has to do it.

He hits call and immediately wants to scream. He’s on his feet and repeating ‘fuck’ under his breath when someone—Nina—picks up.

“Hello, Nina speaking.”

Fuck.

“Nina … It’s Harry.”

“Harry?” Her voice breaks in such a subtle way he nearly misses it, he drops his chin to his chest and shuts his eyes.

“Yeah. Hi.”

Nina doesn’t say anything.

“I’m in New York, and I’d really like to see you.”

++

Nina’s glad she only had one glass of wine at dinner.

Sarah and Jane have both stopped speaking and are watching Nina with her phone to her ear, not saying anything. They heard her say her ex-boyfriend's name over the conversation about who was going to win The Bachelor.

“Nina?”

“Nina?” Jane repeats what Harry just said in her ear.

Harry.

Nina stands and walks to her room. She shuts her eyes against the closed door and tries to swallow her heart back down to its place.

He repeats her name again and then waits a moment, “Are you there?”

“Yep … You’ve got shows?” Nina hadn’t seen anything about him playing in New York, but then she’s never been brave enough to have a Google news alert for him. She’s scared of what she might see.

Harry coughs, “No. I’m here to see you. If you’ll let me.”

“Let you?”

The notion was almost as ridiculous as the idea Harry might have flown to New York purely to see her.

“You can say you don’t want to,” He sounds hurt, and Nina hates herself for it.

She shakes her head and sits on her bed, “Sorry, I … When will work for you? I’m free most of tomorrow—”

—Tonight. Can I see you now?”

Nina’s petrified. She has no idea how this is happening, how it went from being a Friday where she did all her Friday things and then came home and made Friday night dinner with her housemates, and now she’s on the phone to Harry, and he wants to see her.

She’s dizzy from adrenaline and Nina’s sure the instant she sees him she won’t be able to hold off the tears. Even hearing his voice sets her missing him on fire and fills her with longing.

“I can come to meet you if that’s easier …”

“It’s late,” He says gently, “I’ll come to you. Send me your address?”

[paganinpurple]

A Feline’s Family - MariChat May 2019

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AO3

Chapters (If there’s no link, it’s not written yet)

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10

11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18  19  20

21  22  23  24  25  26  27  28  29  30  31

Day 12 – Post-Reveal

“Adrien?” she gasped, her hand slipping from his hair to brush against his cheek instead.

“Um, hi,” he breathed, frightened to raise his voice too loud in case he broke whatever enchantment they seemed to be under.

“But that means…” she trailed off, her soft, surprised look fading away quickly to be replaced by a hard, infuriated frown.

“How much will it cost me to stop you from running out right now and murdering my father?” he asked.

“Far more than the allowance mama and papa give you,” she said with a glare.

***

It was jarring how much things remained unchanged at home. Yes, home. Because that was exactly how he had been thinking of Marinette’s house for a while now.

They had confidently agreed that neither one of them was ready for her parents to know the opposite sides of their masks yet; the last he seemed to have seen of confident Marinette in a few days now, in fact.

“Okay, there’s no way the two of you ganging up on me is fair,” Tom complained as he pounded his thumbs against the controller in his hands with a pout.

“There’s no fair in video-games, Papa,” Marinette told him, briefly removing one hand from the controller to offer Chat a fist bump before returning immediately, refusing her father even a second of mercy, and definitely not thinking about how Chat had tried to hold on after she had pulled away.

***

Adrien wrinkled his nose at her words. “I still don’t need an allowance, you know.”

“Sure, you don’t. You just flutter your eyelashes and waitresses just give you your lunch for free,” she countered, remembering now how Adrien had emptied his pockets to come up with enough change for a sandwich the other day. She had just assumed he had left his wallet at home.

“They might, you don’t know,” he blushed, “Ladies love a black kitty. I seem to remember someone telling me that black kittens are their favourite.”

He winked at her.

***

“Hmm, not cool, son. I thought we were friends,” Tom said after his third defeat of the night.

“Sorry, Tom,” Chat replied with a grin, “But if the princess requests aid, I must deliver.”

Marinette prayed her dad didn’t sit forward in his seat, because if he did, he would certainly see how warm her face had gotten. She stood up as she caught sight of him beginning to move from the corner of her eye, under the pretence of fetching herself a drink, and stumbled when she felt a clawed hand on her shoulder unexpectedly.

“Hey, I was thinking we could watch a movie tonight,” Chat said, oblivious to her flushed face - or at least doing well at pretending he didn’t see it.

“S-Sure,” she answered, keeping her eyes trained strategically on the apple juice she was pouring and absolutely refusing to focus on him or her dad, “Anything in particular?”

“Well, there’s a Lucy Liu marathon on tonight. Fancy it?”

“Urgh. I hate her.” She pulled a face and rolled her eyes.

“What?” he asked, turning to look at Tom in disbelief, who only laughed in response, “Why?”

“She can pull off freckles when I can’t. It’s not fair.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, leaning in extremely close without warning, until his nose was almost touching her own, “Your freckles are absolutely breath-taking.”

***

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yup! Sure! Yeah! Just…suddenly replaying everything that I ever said or did around Chat and realising I did it around you - Adrien!”

“Uh, okay? Is…that bad?”

“OhmyGod!” she squeaked, ignoring his question, “Everything Chat’s ever said was coming from you!”

***

“Well then,” Tom said with a hidden chuckle amongst the words, “Some of us have to be up early tomorrow, so I guess I’ll leave you kids to it.”

“’Night, Papa,” Marinette murmured from her place at the kitchen counter, intent to keep her face hidden until well after the colour had faded from her cheeks.

“Maybe skip the Lucy Liu tonight, son,” he told Chat as he walked through the door, “Just stick with a rom-com or something instead.” Marinette pretended not to see the wink he sent Chat before closing the door completely.

They both stood there in silence for several minutes; Marinette intently studying her glass while Chat watched the door, his black ears flicking as he seemed to pick up on minuscule noises her own ears couldn’t hear.

“I think he just got into bed,” he said suddenly, “What are the chances he’ll get up again, or should I wait until he falls asleep too?”

“He’s down for now,” she answered, finally trusting her traitorous blood vessels enough to turn and face him again, “It’s safe.”

Adrien let out a huge sigh as he detransformed, as if the act of staying in uniform took its toll on him, as well as Plagg. The kwami himself phased into the fridge briefly before the door flung wide and he emerged with a huge wedge of cheese

“I am going to eat this on your bed, and you can’t stop me,” he told his chosen.

Smiling, Adrien waved the back of his hand at him as a dismissal. “Just don’t get crumbs in the sheets,” he said, “or I’ll make sure we’re mysteriously out of any unprocessed dairy next time.”

Deciding to disappear with a grump, Plagg went off in search of Tikki in the loudest way possible, the room full of tuts and huffs until he finally made his way through the open trapdoor.

***

“You were there when I asked you to protect me from Evillustrator!”

“Well, yeah. Obviously. But-”

“Argh! You jumped off a building when your bodyguard was akumatized!”

“Well, to be fair, you told me to.”

“I don’t know if my heart can take much more of these realisations, Adrien!”

***

“Are you okay?” Adrien asked her, and Marinette’s head snapped up, brain fog dissipating enough for her to realise he had been speaking to her, while she stared blankly.

“Sorry,” she said, her lips wearing a soft smile as she suddenly found the strength to make herself relax.

This was Adrien. This was Chat. This was her roommate. Her partner. Her friend. This boy meant the world to her, regardless of which side of the mask he was on.

“I was miles away,” she said with a gentle shake of her head. “Are we putting on this movie or what?”

***

“Maybe I shouldn’t have shown you who I am. You don’t seem to be taking it very well.”

“What! Me? Noooo!” Marinette said, a little louder than was strictly safe if she didn’t want to alert her parents. Drawing on all her courage reserves she took a long, deep breath, turning to look at Adrien when she had done.

“I’m just adjusting to the idea that the boy who has been fighting akumas with me and sharing my room, is also a boy I…go to school with.”

“But, does that matter? I thought you liked me. We’re friends at school, aren’t we?”

Marinette pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and let out a deep sigh.

“Yes, I l-like you,” she said, proud of herself for only stuttering once, considering the potential double meaning behind her words.

She glanced up to see how he had reacted. Despite her admittance, his face was pained. Hopeful, certainly, but he was preparing to be disappointed and emotionally injured just in case she devastated him.

“And don’t you like Chat?” he asked in a choked tone.

Marinette swallowed roughly, her throat feeling drier than it had twenty minutes ago.

“Yes, kitty,” she said, a sudden realisation flowing over her, “I like Chat too.”

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