#fics are . uncertain

[beannoss]

Twilight headcanon

Inspired by this super lovely art by @roucaelum-art 😍! (brief mood spoiler: roucaelum's art is so soft and so sweet! This hc has a touch of the bittersweet 🫶)

After Strix, when the Forgers are well established, no secrets between them, Twilight starts journaling. Obviously this is a security risk, so he creates an elaborate cipher. He tests it on Franky. He tests it on the cipher-breakers at WISE. He even feeds some to the SSS. None break it. Satisfied, he starts to journal. Twilight's journaling time is something he starts to jealously protect; given how much it means to him and helps him process things, Yor starts to protect it jealously, too.

Later in life, when he and Yor have been together for decades, he teaches the cipher to her in case she wants to read and/or share his journals after he dies. It takes time, of course, but not as much as someone might otherwise think, knowing Yor and looking in from the outside. This is in large part because Twilight creates the cipher with Yor in mind. Rarely one to do something for a single purpose when multiple are available, creating it with the intention that Yor can easily learn it also works to confound others in his profession. You see, he’d never met anyone who thinks the way Yor does, and certainly it's far outside espionage or intelligence norms, a way in which no one in those professions would expect a cipher to operate. This revelation he saves for his final journal, and Yor only learns it had been intended specifically for her after his death.

To that point, Twilight does (peacefully) predecease Yor, but she finds she can’t share his journals with the outside world, not yet. They're too precious, too close, touch her too deeply, to share outside the family.

She teaches Anya the cipher, so their daughter can read and share his journals after Yor passes away.

Anya does: she reads her Papa’s journals. Spends a few months, a couple of years, keeping them between herself and her parents' memories. Twilight’s accounts, unsurprisingly, have incredible detail about Yor and Yor’s life and Yor’s opinions and Yor’s views and Yor’s daily life and the way Yor moved through the world. There’s an incredible amount of detail about Anya too: Twilight hadn’t started journaling until years after Strix ended, nearly a decade after he adopted Anya. But, of course, his memory was impeccable, and once he started writing, he never stopped.

Anya reads about herself, about her mother, about their loved ones and their enemies. She reads his words about politics and the news and Twilight's opinions on literature, film, various cuisines. The bakery down the street and the neighbour with the lush roses. Spycraft, war, and international relations. Parenthood, partnership, friendship. Every other idiosyncratic thing he chose to write about. All of it written in her father’s matter-of-fact style from his matter-of-fact perspective, which was always more full of love than he would admit or accept.

She grieves anew, softly, and in her own time.

One day, when she's ready, Anya goes to her father’s favourite archive. She asks to speak with the archivist team. She asks if they would like the journals of the greatest spy in Westalis history: had they ever come across the name Twilight in their research?

She teaches them how to decipher his code (it is, of course, the most complex and creative cipher the lead archivist has ever seen. Anya thinks of her mother, and smiles). It takes them time to go through everything; it takes them time to verify it. But of course, they do. Because Twilight was thorough and he was precise and and he was an excellent planner, prescient more often than not. He ensured there were enough careful points of reference that diligent researchers would be able to confirm his identity and the veracity of what he wrote. And he would only trust the most diligent of researchers.

It's a small archive; the launch of the display of Twilight's journals is similarly small. Anya thinks he would prefer that. The idea of hoards of people reading his words all at once, even if he had intended their being made public, might be enough to revive his stomach aches from beyond the grave.

Anya attends the opening with her loved ones, and later, at home, she shares her own memories of her Papa, and her Mama, and the times they saved the world.

[drarry-reccage]

before a fall by @eleadore (65k, E)

tags: slow burn, eighth year, everyone is allergic to apologies and that's how we like it

The stubborn chill of winter finally gives way to spring. The days get longer, packed to the brim with activity, but everything becomes indistinct next to Draco Malfoy, blurry and not quite there while he stands in stark relief, the long, long line of his neck and his proud back. The fragile curve of his skull. Harry likes to cradle it when they kiss, take the impact of the hard stone against his knuckles when he shoves Draco up against the wall.  "Stop that," Draco says, while Harry's palming the fine hair at the back of his head, kneading at the divot where it meets his neck. His eyes are closed, but Harry likes to look at him. "Stop doing that."  "What?"  "Holding me," Draco says nonsensically, and jerks his head back to prove his point. Harry keeps his crushed hand just there, between his head and the wall, and Draco's eyes snap open. Then narrow. "Stop it, Potter."  Another jerk. Harry's knuckles are going to bruise.  Draco bites when Harry kisses him and then, quite abruptly, softens and moulds into him like a lover, hands under his shirt and tracing over the sensitive skin of his back, scratching just so, gentle. After, when they've ended up on the floor catching their breath, he will reach over to take Harry's hand and examine the bruises, curious. He'll press on them and when Harry winces, look rather pleased.  He remains capricious, even in this—especially in this. The more Harry learns of him the less he knows. 

(rec by @garagepaperback)

[hakusins]

saturday night dance

[thieves-never-say-die]

Oh god are you watching the finale

I JUST FINISHED IT AND NOW IM CRYING

I had seen spoilers so I knew (vaguely) how it ended but that DIDNT PREPARE ME FOR HOW MUCH ID CRY!

FUCK

God. The way Neal was saying goodbye to everyone? June and Mozzie and Peter and El? Setting things up perfectly? The way Mozzie started spouting conspiracy theories because he couldn’t believe it? The way Peter broke down in the hallway after? THE FACT THAT BABY BURKE IS NAMED NEAL!

I am in DIRE need of fix it fics. Please.

Or any theories/headcanons/SOMETHING. Like did Mozzie know? I don’t think so, not at the beginning, but he’s got to by the end right because where else would Neal get the money to start over in Paris from? How hard do you think Mozzie punched Neal for not telling him beforehand? Does Peter tell El or Mozzie what he finds? I doubt he goes chasing after Neal considering he’s got a baby at home. It’s gotta be enough knowing that Neal is alive. But also like WHAT THE FUCK NEAL HOW CAN YOU DO THAT

[snakebites-and-ink]

Whumper-Turned-Caretaker CYOA 8

CW for the series | Masterlist

You chose to address the "sir" thing.*

You decide you’re going to reassess the titles requirement.

You’re already having a serious talk with Whumpee, and the focus is on changes in their circumstance. It’s probably a good idea to deal with their titles use now. May as well, while you’re at this.

You consider. You rather like being addressed by a title, of course, or you wouldn’t have made that a rule for them. But it would probably be best for their recovery to ditch that rule, at least at some point. A healthy, free person would probably feel comfortable calling you whatever they felt like. Maybe it can wait though; would it be better to keep the focus on more pressing issues? It could cause them to stress over what the “right” way to address you is.

*it was a tie, but I went with this one because I was planning on following this next part with the other option anyways

Taglist:

@kabie-whump, @whumpanthems, @whumpsoda, @3-2-whump, @generic-whumperz, 

@taterswhump, @alivenova, @whumped-by-glitter, @expressionless-fr, @whumpycries, 

@whumpsday, @moons-cozy-corner, @echo-goes-aaa, @whumplr-reader, @starfields08000, 

@whump-blog, @ivymyers, @currentlyinthesprial, @lumpofsand, @coffin-hopping, 

@sunglasses-in-the-bentley

[proserpinasacra]

@ghoulcybingo

I could sparkle up your eye

Rating: E

“Please, sir! My father’s the mayor, he got taken by bandits and I need that mining claim to get him back. If you help me find him, he’ll do whatever you want!”

“And what if, little miss, what I want ain’t somethin’ yer daddy can give me?” Ostensibly, he was referring to his vengeance, but the blocking of the scene, with him looming over her and her chin in his hand and his lasso trapping her waist and arms made it clear what he was actually referring to. Cooper laid the menace on thick, dropping a heated gaze along the line of her body and trailing languorously back on up.

Her eyes, wide as saucers on a usual occasion, were huge and fixed on him. She didn’t look back down at the script. She seemed to toy around with a few different words; he imagined the gears turning in her head and he could see the way her lips twitched before she let out a nervous laugh. “Gosh, Coop. I can’t believe this’ll pass the censors.”

(PA lucy helps disgraced leading man cooper howard read lines. ghoulcy bingo prompt: pre war hollywood backlot)

[viperwhispered]

If you're still thinking of making a playlist, feel free to add "Be Mine" by Ofenbach and "Kick up Your Heels" by Jessica Mauboy ft.Pitbull.

Context: During the early 20th century, alcohol was prohibited in the United States. This lead to uncontrolled secret distribution of alcohol and secret bars everywhere (fun fact: it was alcohol dealing that made Al Capone so powerful). The most iconic of these bars were speakeasies: secret illegal clubs that sold good alcohol while playing jazz (fun fact: these bars went a long way to pushing gender and racial equality by having everyone being able to dance & drink together).

Which brings me to this scenario: Jamil sneaking out of weekends to dance the night away and enjoy precious moments of freedom without Kalim. During these escapades, he meets the reader and the two get closer of months of several encounters. At some point they meet outside of the bar, but they pretend to be aquaintances at most. They get so into each other that they start subtly flirting even outside the bar.

Eventually we get to the moment that ecompases the songs (Be Mine is Jamil's perspective and Kick up Your Heels is the reader's). After weeks of subtle flirting, the two are finally tipsy enough to flirt more openly. Jamil goes in first and the reader playfully flirts back. They dance the night away and end up leaving together back to reader's apartment (don't worry Jamil has the weekend off and Najma owes him so she'll cover for him).

Cue adorable morning after with kisses, cuddles, Jamil making breakfeat, and the reader wearing his clothes.

(Boy if the music video for the Ofenbach song doesn’t look like it was made for total wish fulfillment for the artists, lol. Song's a total banger, tho (after listening to it a lot while working on this).)

I’m also gonna add Shut Up and Dance by Walk The Moon to the list because the vibes totally fit (and I’ve definitely thought of it in regards to Jamil before).

I do love the idea of reader meeting Jamil in an environment where he can be more free. Just, how different of an experience is it, when the dance floor is your first impression of him, rather than the Jamil at NRC or the Asim estate? When he’s actually letting go, being himself and just having a good time.

Plus like, presumably in the Scalding Sands Jamil’s job is not so 24/7 anyway, since there’s other servants around too to look after Kalim. So yay for actual free time.

And because I totally vibe with this & have thought of something similar before, I wanted to turn this into a bit of fic.

Post-NRC, Jamil x reader, written with a fem reader in mind, nsfw

The club, 22:30

You surveyed the club, your eyes insisting on looking for one person in particular, but to no avail.

No matter. Whether or not your favorite dance partner - or your acquaintance, or your crush, or whatever the hell he was to you - would turn up tonight, you could still have fun.

So, when a good song came on, you slid to the dancefloor, determined to dance the night away one way or another. You still had the whole night ahead of you, after all.

Not that you would have minded the company.

The club, 23:12

While you were queueing up for a drink, Jamil was the one who found you.

“I was wondering if you’d turn up,” you said with a grin, leaning closer to be heard over the music.

“And miss you? No way.”

You laughed and shook your head. It really was unfortunate how attractive that cocky grin was on Jamil.

“Wouldn’t have been the first night I’ve had to make do without you,” you said lightly.

“Well, tonight I can be all yours,” Jamil replied, his hand ghosting at the small of your back.

You grinned - you had to admit, you quite liked the sound of that.

The club, 23:27

Over the past few months there had been times when you caught Jamil looking at you as if he was evaluating you, measuring you. Yet, whenever he actually got close to you, that was all gone, replaced by pleasantries and barely concealed playfulness.

Today, however, there was a particular determination to him, one that had him shamelessly inching closer to you as you were talking over your drinks - as much as one could have a meaningful conversation talking over the thudding music.

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” you said, looking at Jamil from under your lashes while you sipped your drink.

“Well… I’ve been thinking that I wouldn’t mind sharing more than a dance with you,” Jamil said, his own drink nearly forgotten in his hands.

“Oh? What are you thinking?” you asked, stirring the remains of your drink with your straw, trying to affect a casual air despite your curiosity.

Jamil got close enough that you thought you could feel his breath on your skin.

“That I want to get to know you much better,” Jamil replied, an unmistakable sultry undercurrent to his tone. His hand had found its way to your arm, tracing light patterns on your skin.

Your eyes widened, a surprised laugh bubbling to your lips. My, what had gotten Jamil so bold tonight?

“Oh, and here I was just looking forward to some dancing,” you said with a playful grin.

Jamil might have gotten your heart to flutter, an unmistakable heat rising to your cheeks, but that didn’t mean you’d be that easily charmed.

“Just be prepared that once I get hold of you, I might not let go,” he said, lightly squeezing your arm.

“Dance with me, and then we’ll see,” you said with an amused shake of your head.

“Let’s start the show, then.”

With a laugh you grabbed Jamil’s hand, dragging him to the dancefloor, the beating of your heart rivaling the thud of the music.

There was such confidence to him, like Jamil had already ensured he’d get what he wanted and was just biding his time.

And you had to admit, you kinda liked it.

The club, 23:51

The song was one of your favorites and you couldn’t help singing along, moving your body to the beat. People were trickling in, but there was still space for both you and Jamil to let loose.

It was its own kind of delight, seeing how well you two could synchronize your movements. Stepping back and forth, circling each other, claiming a part of the dance floor all to yourselves. You grinned, watching the way Jamil leaned to the side, shrugging his shoulder, and you copied the move to the other direction, adding your own flourish with the snap of your hips.

After a few repeats there was a stutter in the music and you leaned forward, Jamil coming in to meet you, chest to chest. You lingered there for the briefest moment, your eye meeting, noses nearly brushing, before you pulled back and threw your hands up in the air for the chorus. You sang out the lyrics, let your body move as it wished, full-heartedly just enjoying yourself - and your company.

Sure, there was a part of you curious to find out just what Jamil could offer. But you’d come out here to have fun, and have fun you would.

Whatever would come later, would come later.

The club, 01:25

You were sweaty, your feet sore, your hair undoubtedly a mess at this point. Yet, you couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop relishing your time with Jamil.

Jamil’s hands were on your hips, following your movements, his chest flush to your back.

You had to admit, you loved the feeling of his body against yours, the way you swayed together. 

You also delighted in teasing him like this, feeling the hardness of his arousal when you ground your ass on him.

“I want you to be mine,” Jamil mouthed the lyrics of the song, his breath hot by your ear.

He brushed his lips by your skin, something akin to a kiss, and you could feel the warmth of it shoot straight to your core.

Idly, you wondered if Jamil would be able to hear your soft groan over the music as you leaned back, your hand fumbling in his hair to pull him even closer. That seemed to be all the encouragement he needed, his mouth now more insistent on the corner of your jaw.

At this point, it was getting harder and harder to remember all the other people around you, your decency slipping from your hands.

Oh, you had a good enough idea of how Jamil’s body fit against you, how it felt under your hands.

But it was not enough.

You wanted to see Jamil, every bit that was hidden under those clothes, wanted to pull his hair loose - or just pull it in general. Wanted to see how he’d look beneath you, above you, between your legs…

Just the thought of Jamil unraveling with you had warmth pooling in the pit of your stomach.

And the thought of his touch on you, unobstructed…

He really was such a temptation, one that you might not even want to resist at this point.

Your apartment, 01:44

You were not prepared for the hungry way Jamil devoured your lips, how firmly his hands pulled you flush against him.

Or the way he groaned into your mouth, the sound shooting straight to your core.

Oh, you needed more of that. Much more of that.

Your hands shot up, gripping onto him tightly, just as unwilling to let him go. You sought out that hair tie that had been taunting you all evening, your tongue sloppily meeting Jamil’s as you pressed yourself as close to him as you possibly could.

There were so many places you wanted to touch, so many spots you wanted to unveil, your hands racing all over Jamil in a desperate attempt to fulfill all your desires at once.

Jamil’s lips were so wonderfully kiss-swollen, his hair hanging loose and his shirt halfway off him. If you hadn’t been so eager for more, you would’ve stopped to admire the sight and commit it to memory.

Instead, your greedy hands slipped under his top, relishing in the skin to skin contact while Jamil was busy with getting you to a similar state of undress, his eyes burning as his lips descended upon you again, stealing your breath away.

Your apartment, 2:20

You rolled your hips, slowly, your palms resting on Jamil’s chest. He did indeed look absolutely ravishing beneath you, his tongue slightly sticking out through his parted lips, his gorgeous hair spilled over your pillows. Jamil’s hands on your ass were helping you move, urging you to take his cock even deeper.

You’d yield to him soon enough, but first you wanted to savor this. The hungry look Jamil bestowed upon you, the needy way his hands kept on mapping your body, the way his hips bucked beneath you.

At this point, simply calling Jamil your favorite dance partner certainly didn’t do him justice.

No, you’d love to have so much more of him, wanted to find out just how far you two could go.

You leaned down, your lips meeting once again. You braced your arms against the bed as you began to move in earnest. Your efforts were rewarded by Jamil’s needy groan, the way his grip tightened on you. He seemed to be just as drunk on you as you were on him, and just that fact was enough to make your head spin.

Your apartment, 9:40

It was a slow realization, remembering that you had company over, only to find the other side of your bed empty. However, as your senses slowly roused, you soon caught the sounds and smells coming from the kitchen.

Of course he had to be perfect enough to even cook for you, you mused with some amusement.

With a stretch you willed yourself to leave the comfort of your bed, freshening yourself up quickly before padding your way to the kitchen.

You kind of hoped you’d been the one to wake up first. At least you could’ve cleared some of the mess.

It was such a domestic sight, Jamil busying himself at your stove, and you unexpectedly felt your throat tighten with the impact of it.

“I’m amazed you found something to work with,” you said, your words somewhere between apologetic and joking.

“It’s not how I’d keep my own kitchen, but it’s workable,” Jamil said matter-of-factly.

You couldn’t help a snort. What a way to sugarcoat your messy counters and sparse cupboards.

“Well. I’m glad it didn’t drive you off, at least,” you said with dry amusement.

You walked past Jamil to the sink, letting your fingers trace along his back and upper arm as you passed him by, conscious of not bothering his work.

Jamil, however, grabbed you by the waist and pulled you close, making you yelp in surprise.

“Good morning,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

All you could do was melt against him.

Bonus scene which didn’t really seem to fit the flow but I had to do something with these lyrics, too. A flashback to another night, maybe?

Jamil certainly knew how to move. Yet, there was still something carefully controlled about him.

You’d seen him, sometimes, when the night was late, how he really could let go and get swept up in the music.

Then again, you supposed you still hadn’t quite warmed up yourself, hadn’t forgotten about the way his eyes were on you.

Would another drink be a terrible idea?

Still, seeing the way Jamil was looking around, checking the crowds, made you frown. You tugged on his hand, turning his attention back on you.

"Oh, don't you dare look back. Just keep your eyes on me."

“You’re holding back, yourself,” Jamil said with a knowing look.

“Shut up and dance with me,” you said, smiling even as you rolled your eyes. 

Ngl, I’ve not done much song fics and it was fun weaving in bits of the lyrics and vibes in here - even if I chose to be a silly goose and use 3 songs at once.

Tag list: @colliope @crystallizsch @diodellet @jamilsimpno69 @jamilvapologist

@perilous-pasta @twstgo

Do let me know if you'd like to be tagged for my future works!

[the-random-phan]

DP x TMA

Danny arrives to lend a helping hand! Life must be tough when you're hiding in your ex's apartment because of murder charges and being mildly tormented by some circus clowns.

Danny might be a bit too calm in this situation ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Set some time between MAG 81 and 87

[foxgonyoom]

Fic title: I Hope You're Sad Now

Oooooooh, this is a good one. Let me think...

Perhaps a fic where someone was hurt by another, and wants them to understand what it was like. For example, maybe a fic where Nezha wants his father to understand how it felt to him when Li Jing burned down his temple.

He doesn't necessarily want revenge, he knows murder for the sake of murder solves nothing, and similarly, that pain for the sake of pain leads nowhere. He just wants empathy, understanding. He doesn't want Li Jing's pain, but for Li Jing to understand what it was like to be treated that way by your own father. By someone you cared about. By someone you had sacrificed yourself for. Rooted for. Even if he was under pressure. Even if it was out of stress or fear.

He just wants Li Jing to get it. To feel bad. To feel regret for the way he treated his son, even if he had his reasons. He just wants his father to recognize the hurt, to feel guilty for ever causing it, to acknowledge those feelings. Maybe then, he can finally feel justified in having them.

Maybe then, the past can truly be put to rest.

Maybe then, he could finally move on.

Frankly, he still isn't sure.

[professorscrooge]

Sleeping Soldiers AU Draft - circa August '23

Feel amidst continuing to necro-post on this AU, I should probably actually post the draft of my attempt at turning this into a fic, bit more than a year ago. Ran out of steam, as I tend to, and it's a bit rough (also don't know if tumblr has a character limit, but fair warning, this is ~3k). Diverged from where ideas on this ended up going.

References to the original inspiration(s) can be found on posts here and here, and I will emphasise credit @phoenixyfriend, @epicmusic42 and @graylinesspam whose work I have been butting in on (and I think this may rip off some of their wordings). Leans largely into bits and pieces of the Legends timeline, but only through vague references as that's a whole monolith of a thing to try and understand. --

 Coruscant is a city of metal and glass; the planet that once was is buried beneath eons of sharp edges growing out ever further. As the centre of the Galactic Republic, it is demanded to be continuously modern (at least on the surface), with a slick and shining outer coating. Its noises are of technology; the heavy thrum of electricity is the heartbeat of the city, speeders and aircraft fill the air with their droning, and there are an abundance of holoscreens to display the inauguration of the new Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. 

 The Jedi Temple is perhaps the one exception: its tranquillity is unmatched on Coruscant, and its construction is old and solid. All the same, when the silence within the Temple was broken by noise, its nature was unnerving in its irregularity; not the shattering of glass or creaking of metal, not the whine of engines, not an explosion or a turbolaser or any such thing, it is a noise unheard on Coruscant for Millenia.

 It is a grinding, of stone upon stone, echoing up from its very deepest recesses.

–

Circa 500 BBY

 The Jedi Temple is an ancient relic of bygone times; old enough, that the only records that might say how old are held within its own walls (or rather, were, given the unfortunate number of sackings and assaults in its history had frequently damaged the famous archives). Its grand size is a symbol of strength against the dark, but also something of an impracticality in certain times. Its lower reaches are vast, stretching all the way down to the forgotten mountains of Coruscant; a surface where sunlight hasn’t shined in millennia. Construction kept reaching upwards for the longest time, keeping up with the rising levels of the city-planet as its foundations became buried under smog and filth, forgotten.

 In the wake of wars’ end, many lower levels were sealed away; who needed such vast halls, impromptu barracks and storage, when the Jedi no longer served as military leaders? There was no need to house so many people as to require them, and it was more effort to clean and maintain them than necessary for a monk order of a few thousand. After all, this was a Golden Age, with the Sith defeated, and a time of the High Republic.

 Age lent itself to secrets, and with time, many of those secrets were lost with their keepers.

--

 The newly minted Chancellor paused only briefly in taking his oath of office. Most present simply chalked it up to the weight of the vows involved being taken seriously. In truth, the hidden Darth Sidious that lurked under the unassuming garb of Sheev Palpatine had shivered at a tremor in the Force; local and distinctly, searingly Light in its origin, piercing the veil of darkness he and his master had woven over the planet for but a moment. Quickly, he steeled himself and resumed his words; it would not do to falter or drop his mask at this stage. And after all, what could stop The Great Plan now? Sidious had a thousand years of his Order’s planning behind his back. It wasn’t like the Jedi could think on such a grand scale.

–

Circa 1000 BBY

 The history of the Jedi Temple site may as well be a timeline of the Republic itself. With the ever-recurrent war that was fought over its location, and how often Coruscant changed hands, it wasn’t just built upon, but rebuilt, several times. The Grand Ziggurat of the High Republic era was built over the ashes and ruins of the Temple before it, reaching to the sky not far from where the newly built Senate District would form the seat of the Galaxy. A symbol of strength to a unified Galaxy that had defeated the evil of the Sith, once and for all.

--

 The Jedi Council scrambled to action, of course (in as dignified manner as they could). Even with their senses long-blinded by the veil that consistently hampered their sight, there was no missing the stirring beneath their feet. 

 “Awoken, something has,” Master Yoda was heard to declare.

–

Circa 3653 BBY

 The Soldiers�� Hall, as it came to be known, was a real anomaly. It was unearthed in the wake of the Treaty of Coruscant, and the Great Sacking of the Jedi Temple. The respite granted by the armistice with Sith Forces withdrawing from the world was a balm to the Coruscanti people, yes, but the Jedi had returned to a Temple filled with death and desecration. Their holiest relics had been plundered, and the numbers of dead were horrific; a toll only growing as they uncovered the deadly traps spiteful Sith had left behind to further ruin them. It was a painful experience for the survivors, not helped by the lack of justice and repercussions the treaty afforded them.

 With their returned forces in peacetime, however, it was decided to fully survey the Temple to account for all possible traps. The survey unearthed many lower chambers forgotten for centuries, which would soon be repurposed as bunkers for military assets. Naturally, the opportunity was also taken to strengthen ancient foundations with modern materials, which came with looking over the foundations of the ancient Temple grounds atop a mountain of Coruscant, and the Dark Shrine hidden there. It was known to the High Council alone that the old Temple had been built atop a Dark Vergence in the Force in an attempt to cleanse it, and a handful of masters yet survived to share that information to a select few. What surprised them more was the discovery of older ruins beneath the Shrine, built into the mountain itself, and seemingly dating to before the Alsakan conflicts, perhaps even the Jedi Order itself (though few dare voice this thought). The shift from precision, machine-poured duracrete that has been in use for millennia, to the more rough, hand-hewn stone is a sight that excites the archaeologically inclined allowed to see it. 

 Most of the tunnels are collapsed, but slowly, over several years of uneasy peace, a path is unearthed to a large atrium, central beneath the Dark Side Nexus. The discovery is shocking to those who uncover it; they’d gone from archiving very faded murals (amidst admonishment that such pre-Jedi religious teachings are not worth great regard), to cracking the door open to a great chamber filled with an army of statues. A thousand men – clearly soldiers – each expertly carved with incredible detail, each set of armour uniquely battle scarred and hand painted, each posed differently, and every single one perfectly preserved in defiance of their ancient surroundings. The warriors sat, or lay, or kneeled, in great concentric circles, facing inwards to a central figure, the only one not wearing armour; a Togruta woman, dressed simply, and with lightsabers resting at her hips. Where the soldiers were wrought from a pale white stone, she was crafted in warm terracotta in a relaxed pose, face bowed in conference with the Force. It was almost as if she were made of flesh.

 Despite the gathering of Masters who quickly investigated the room, none could quite manage to lay a hand upon her. The sense of foreboding was just too strong. Every gaze in the room was pointed towards her; an even thousand visors of solid stone, focused on this one woman, every one so lifelike as to be uncanny. In-fact, sometimes, in the corner of the Jedi’s eyes, it was almost like they moved; a chest rising and falling with breath, tiny fluctuations in the Force that evaded the senses, or flickers of dreams. Almost as if they were waiting for something.

 The Council ordered the chamber sealed; what markings upon the soldiers that could be identified were Mandalorian in origin, so clearly this was some work of those great adversaries and their common allies, the Sith. That those forces combined had so recently sacked their home likely aided this decision. Knowledge and warnings were recorded within the Council’s private library only, and would be lost some centuries hence by the passing of those who saw the sight and another sacking of the upper Temple.

 Beneath them all, the feared warriors continued to sleep.

--

 The sounds of shattering stone echoed within the long-forgotten chamber, even as dust filled the air from the broken remains. This noise was swiftly drowned out by a thousand throats all drawing breath at once.

–

Circa 5000 BBY

 Recapturing Coruscant was not the final victory of what came to be called the Great Hyperspace Wars, but it was perhaps the most important, given that all that followed became much easier with forces scattering. However, there was an interesting discovery made upon their landing; an empty Shrine, where once the Sacred Spire peak of Mount Satorl had stood.

 The destruction of the Sacred Spire had been one of the opening gambits of the conflict, so this was expected. The Jedi amongst the Republic Forces were most dismayed that the legendary Vergence in the Force that had rested there had been twisted into a Dark nexus, but this too had been rumoured by spies and propaganda. No, what was surprising was the lack of occupants, particularly Sith acolytes. This was a powerful nexus in the Dark Side, and a clear site of investment to build the new Shrine, but there was nobody present; just the signs of conflict that predated Republic arrival to the planet.

 Eventual interrogation of Sith Forces revealed rumours of a ‘curse’ upon the site; no force had managed to occupy the site for long, somehow always turning up dead. Construction of the Shrine had taken several years, and a great many slow attempts, always stymied by poor fortune.

 The Jedi took this as a sign that the Force itself resisted the corruptive attempts for as long as possible, and when granted a boon for their aid in the war, chose to claim the land for themselves. There, they built a new Temple, in the hope that the presence of many Jedi may once again cleanse this place that had long been sacred to a great many religious and Force-sensitive sects throughout the Galaxy. The Jedi Order would build their new headquarters at the heart of the Republic and therefore claim the site instead of any other religion having access.

 Of course, throughout construction, there was plenty of investigation of the ruins being built over (padawans got bored hanging around and waiting, naturally, and the Galaxy’s archaeologists were most invested in seeing how this location had suffered under Sith rule). Of particular note is a surviving chamber of the old Sacred Spire that is unearthed; a grand chamber filled with statues. Sadly, no records from prior to the Sith occupation persist, but a great many experts descend on the room to catalogue what they can of the astoundingly beautiful find that is far more interesting than dusty old clay vessels. The General’s Legion, they are quickly dubbed, given the militaristic bent.

 They bring in first art experts, then body language experts, even a scholar on Mandalorian culture once some symbols are defined. Most of the markings they find mean nothing, however; while Mandalorian symbols are identified a few dozen times, including Jaig Eyes on one of the more prominent soldiers directly facing The General, there’s no real commonality with any clan, or any real consistency. Many more besides are marked with nonsense; a loose word or number in some language, even some unrecognised languages that cause head scratching. The holstered blasters cause them to bring in antique weapons dealers to unsuccessfully identify them, causing yet more headaches at the clear mass-manufacturing on display, since most the soldiers bear the same weapons, but they are entirely unfamiliar. Artists are baffled at how perfectly detailed and well-preserved the figures are; the level of work on display would have taken hundreds of artists thousands of hours, but the style implies a singular sculptor. The historians flail wildly at whether these soldiers throw all the old theories about the Taung originating Mandalorian culture into doubt.

 The only experts who could agree upon something were those who attempted to psychoanalyse the figures; the way the men were arranged was with deference for the General, and those closest to her were the officers with the most decoration and adornment (and battle scars), while those nearest the edge were the lowest ranks. Originally, they thought the much smaller central figure was being threatened by the soldiers, but she sat in such a relaxed pose of confidence it seemed more clearly a commander’s position.

 Still, as time goes on, their observations are recorded and stored in the new Jedi library, and a towering new Temple is built over the ruins. Gradually, this fills with masters, knights and younglings looking forward to a new era of peace and prosperity. The past is not forgotten, but it is not the focus of an Order trying to rebuild after centuries of conflict. And so, the statues sit in their atrium, still and silent. Masters study them for decades, photos and essays are included in the new archives; they are a fascination, a mysterious piece of history.

 But, time passes, and slowly the fascination fades. The wider galaxy captures attention, the Regions are expanding in a new era of colonisation and there is great need for Jedi aid. Only those particularly intrigued by art and archaeology look through the old archives. The statues become more of a ghost story.

 Padawans sometimes gossip about them over latemeal. They dare each other to sneak down to the lower levels, and walk between the rows upon rows of sleeping soldiers. The truly brave (or reckless) of the classes make the journey, past the point where the air lifts reach, down long staircases and through the dusty thick air. Lightsabers raised high over their heads, they tiptoe between the first few rows, twisting wildly at jumping shadows cast over the room. Some stare petrified into the visors of the men, convinced that if you peer close enough, you can see eyes peering back at you. 

 Very, very few brave padawans make it all the way to The General – one or two per generation – but those that do, swear they hear her breathing.

 Over the years, those children grow into knights, into masters and grandmasters, and then they pass into the Force. Still, the tradition survives, for a time, until one day, when the new Temple has become old and known many Councils, the chamber passes from memory, and is lost for many centuries to come.

 But still, the soldiers look to their General for orders.

--

 The first breath is the hardest.

 Going out, the air feels abrasive and dust-filled, and her throat is drier than a desert. Then, she must try and breath in, and it’s an effort to fill lungs that have sat still for so very, very long. She coughs once, and then struggles through it, going through the motions a few times as she slowly registers her montrals ringing from the similar sounds about her.

 Finally, she looks up, eyes open and awake.

 “Orders, sir?” Rex asks.

 “Form up.”

–

Circa ??? BBY

 The Mountains were a safe place. A sacred place, to many. So when war came to Coruscant, it was to the mountains people fled.

The One-Thousand-And-One, a group of warriors who spoke no language anyone understood, but under whose strength, Coruscant stood against Alsakan [– Tion instead?]. They could never leave the Mountain, though.

—

And that’s all I managed to write out, couldn’t quite figure a) what I wanted their arrival period to be like/what they did there, and b) how I wanted the present-time to work out (likely marching on the Senate building and demanding Sidious’ surrender). Ended up with some Jedi-negative things in there that I'm not entirely sure where they came from (probably something emerging from my frustrations with Christianisation on mythology). May have been a bit uncharitable.

Much as I kinda like the framing of current day swapping back and forth with older and older eras, I don't think I'm coming back to this version - I think I prefer the more recent ideas related to the chamber's unveiling in more modern eras, and drama resulting therefrom.

[rotteneldritchhorror]

OBX ships need more fun ship names so I'm gonna do it myself

John B x Sarah : Birdprincess / Jarah

John B x JJ : Seabird / JJohn B

John B x Kiara : Freebird / Jiara B???

John B x Pope : Birdbrain / Jope B?

John B x Cleo : Birdblade / Cleohn B??? Jleo B?

JJ x Sarah : Seaprincess / JJarah

JJ x Kiara : Gunfree / Seafree / Jiara

JJ x Pope : Seabrain / JJPope

JJ x Cleo : Seablade / JJleo

Kiara x Sarah : Freeprincess / Kiarah

Kiara x Pope : Freebrain / Kiepope

Kiara x Cleo : Freeblade / Cliara

Sarah x Pope : Brainprincess / Sarope

Sarah x Cleo : Princessblade / Clerah

Pope x Cleo : Brainblade / Cleope

Rafe x Barry : Trailerclub / Barrafe / Rarry

Rafe x Sofia : Pelicanclub? / Rafia

Barry x Sofia : Trailertender? / Barria

[happystarzarchive]

hey if i shared my furified twomp designs would you guys kill me with knives and hammers and grenades

[coldpintglass]

have you seen the barbershop scene in the new overlap on tour? roy’s parental voice and the “go on then gary” sent me running to your age regression fic, which I never thought would happen with that trope but you spun it perfectly. huge kudos ❤️

!!!

Anon, this is the sweetest thing someone’s slapped in my inbox in a while, thank you ever so much??? I haven’t actually but I’ll go have a look because any potential inspo for more AgeRe FIC is grateful received.

I’m just relieved I got it right in a way that makes people want to read it again, honestly I’m sending you a virtual hug anon, thank you and boy am I glad Roy Keane has yet again proved he’s a big fucking softy ahahah

(Fic here if anyone fancies a read!)

[chubsonthemoon]

Binderary week 3!!! These are three wonderful fics by dear friend @aboxthecolourofheartache! Box's writing is so so lovely--she can articulate the big, sweeping things in the everyday and ordinary, as well as accurately portray that wild mix of humor and grief you feel in the aftermath of tragedy. Literally some of my favorite writing ever!

Some process and design chatter, under the cut <3

From top to bottom!:

I'm caught inside every open eye: This is THE fic that made me officially adopt Daniel and fully accept him into my heart! Desire's POV is SUCH a delight--I've never wanted to both laugh and cry so hard in just under 2k words. Green and red/gold irises on the title page as color coding for the two disaster siblings! And the scrapbook paper cover was from a fun paper pack that was all neon and disco-y, which I thought was fitting :3 Also really fond of the title page font, which is called Retrolight! It gave me such groovy vibes~

The Politeness of Princes: WHERE DO I BEGIN with this fic??? I read it before I read the comics, got my heart broken, then re-read it after I had finished the comics and got my heart broken all over again in a fun new way T_T This fic also has one of my favorite tags ever, which is "in which gluten free peach cobbler is a metaphor for vital personal relationships"--and lemme tell you that gluten free peach cobbler IS a metaphor for vital personal relationships (reader, I cried so hard). Anyway, all of this to say: peaches! :3

The last scene also takes place at a potluck/cookout during the summer, so I wanted to give the cover a picnic vibe. I layered two pieces of scrapbook paper--one with the wooden table pattern, and one with the picnic tablecloth pattern over that. I also left a little strip unglued (see below) on the picnic pattern to give it some more TextureTM and as a kind of "edge" of the table (yanno that little flappy bit that always tickles your thighs when you sit at a picnic table? That vibe!)

Then for some fun touches I printed the leaves on vellum (my original intent was to make the leaves transparent for a dappled sunlight kinda feel, which...kinda worked? It's hard to see in the photos but you can kinda see through to the wood layer baha), then I went to town with my watercolors to make the grease/coffee stains on the tablecloth and the shadows under the leaves. (Actually might have gone a little too much to town LOL it kinda looks like I actually got grease on it XD). And then for the finishing touches, I added a layer of glossy paper mod podge to the tablecloth (which is acid-free and archival hell yeah!) to really give it that shiny vinyl/polyester feel and look (although it's kinda hard to see in the photos ajslkfdsj).

Uncertain Results: AHHHH this fic!!!! An absolutely bangin' convo between Hob and Dream with so much said and so much more unsaid--Box's take on their relationship is so fresh and hits all of my buttons. It takes place on the shore of the Dreaming under the stars, hence the cover! The title page graphic is one part of a larger graphic that shows the progression of a star winking in and out of existence, frame by frame:

Which, uh. Well let's just say it reminded me of an Event that happens at the end of the Sandman, an event which is heavily alluded to in the fic T_T This fic, unsurprisingly, also broke my heart! I love it so much.

And that's all from me for today! Thank you SO much, Box friend, for letting me bind your work! It was such a pleasure, and I'm so happy I get to put your writing on my shelf now to read whenever I want ehe :3 (and here's to hoping these books are at least somewhat passable, archival-wise ^^")

<333!!!

[scoopertrouper]

Was thinking about Barb’s funeral, the Hollands greeting Nancy and assuming she’s still with Steve + her surprise when Steve shows up.

no idea what it is about your prompts (if that was, indeed, what this even was lol), but damn.

every time i think - that's it! i'm going to write Steve and Nancy together now - i get a query like this, that digs deep inside my brain and won't let go until it's out. and then i saw this screenshot (because truthfully i had to do some googling to refresh my memory, it's been a minute since i did a full s2 rewatch) and it was game over.

this is maybe a little messy and not EXACTLY what you asked for, but I do hope, even so, that it seems true - true to the characters, and true to who they are at this particular moment in time (which, yes, is a warning for some fairly mild J&N content, if you can't hang with that at all).

it's all about the liminal spaces, man.

*~*~*

Nancy’s coat is too warm.

That’s the first thought that comes to her, staring at a coffin that will, within the hour, sit buried beneath the ground. 

Barb’s face smiles distantly at her through an altogether too-cheerful wreath of roses, next to the empty coffin as hollow as the hole it’s soon to be lowered into, and all Nancy thinks is – “I should’ve worn a different coat.” 

It’s true that it’s unseasonably warm for an early December day. But even so, the smart black blazer she’s chosen should, in theory, be perfectly appropriate for the weather. 

And yet Nancy is stifling – barricaded in by a gravesite to her front, and Jonathan to her left, and Barb’s perpetually smiling, two-dimensional face to her right. Warmth is creeping up her neck, and under her armpits, and between the shallow valley of her breasts, and she longs to rip off all her layers, to take off running until the breeze cools the sweat she can’t stop from trickling down her back.

This should be comforting, right? This is what she’s longed for – a resolution for Barb, for her parents. Acknowledgment that she’s not just missing, with all the implications that can come with that. She’s dead, and someone (something) has been held responsible for it, and now they finally get to say their last goodbyes. 

But what has this whole year been for Nancy, if not one long, drawn-out goodbye? A goodbye to Barb, to her innocence, to the ability to even walk down the driveway at night without jumping at the smallest sounds. 

A goodbye to…no. Nancy shakes herself. She’s not going there. Not today, at least.

“Nancy?” Jonathan nudges her, concern plain on his face (plain to her, anyway, and she’s grateful she’s gotten to know him well enough to read that). “I know the Rotary Club’s wreath is pretty ugly, but setting it on fire with your eyes isn’t gonna make it better.” 

It’s exactly the kind of dumb-serious joke she needs to jolt her from the death stare she’s been leveling at the casket for the past five minutes, and it’s doubly effective because it’s Jonathan, whose quips usually masquerade as wry commentary on the disarray of his life. (Nancy’s new place in it notwithstanding, of course. She thinks.)

But it’s also jarring, knocking her even more off-axis because, well, telling stupid jokes to snap Nancy out of it when she’d get too far inside her own head was usually how – 

No. 

Not. Thinking. About. It.

Because Nancy’s not thinking about…it, she slips her hand into his. It’s chapped, but warm, and it fits better against hers with every passing day. Even if sometimes she’s startled to find the fingers are too long and the palm too narrow. 

She gives him her best attempt at a smile.

“Sorry. This is…a lot harder than I thought it would be,” she admits. Then, because it feels right, she squeezes his hand. “Thanks for coming with me today.”

Jonathan opens his mouth to speak, but before she can find out what he plans to say, a familiar voice cuts in.

“Nancy?” It’s Barb’s mom. “Oh, honey, I’m so glad you made it.”

Just the sight of her – red-rimmed eyes, clearly in between bouts of crying – makes Nancy’s throat ache.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she replies, returning the surprisingly fierce hug Mrs. Holland offers. She resists the overwhelming impulse to squeeze her own eyes shut. 

Nancy had been prepared to give up far more than she’d ultimately had to to ensure this day would come – but everything she’d been ready to sacrifice would still have paled in comparison to the totality of this woman’s loss.

“It’s not the way I’d hoped our search would end,” Mrs. Holland sniffs, dabbing at her eye with a well-used tissue, “but at least this way, we get to say goodbye.”

She doesn’t look particularly grateful – in fact, she looks gutted, like she’s been turned inside out and scraped down to the last ragged, exposed nerve. 

For one wild moment, Nancy wonders if it would have been better for them to spend the rest of their lives wondering. Living with the hope that Barb was still out there somewhere, and might find her way home to them. 

Wonders if the closure she’d been trying to secure for them had actually been a selfish disservice. Not everyone, after all, is as desperate for the truth – as willing to compromise everything to get it – as Nancy. She’s realizing that, now.

But it’s too late to wonder. What’s done is done, and at least now they have something to visit when they miss her.

Mrs. Holland seems to have drawn herself back together, and Nancy’s prepared for her to move on, to steel her spine and greet the next group of sympathizers, but instead she’s casting her eyes around.

“Where’s Steve, honey? I’d love to say hi to him before the ceremony starts, he was always so sweet to come with you to see us.”

Jonathan stiffens beside her, and for a full five seconds Nancy freezes – no thoughts, no breathing, heart displaced into her throat. 

Even through the haze of her own grief, it doesn’t take Mrs. Holland long to clock Jonathan, standing closer to Nancy than most good friends would, or to recognize the tension apparent in both their postures. Nancy doesn’t let go of his hand, but it’s a very near thing.

She doesn’t know what excuse she’s going to stammer out to break the stilted silence – doesn’t even know what, exactly, she’s trying to excuse – when she’s saved by the best, worst interruption.

“Hey, Mrs. Holland. Sorry I’m a little late, I got held up at the doctor’s office.”

He appears over Mrs. Holland’s shoulder like a shadow – a shadow with at least half-a-head’s height on her. He cuts a darker figure than Nancy is used to, dressed for the occasion as he is in somber charcoals and blacks. 

(With an uncomfortable start, she realizes she recognizes the sweater he’s wearing. She’s the one who’d picked it for him, an impulse buy on a lazy Saturday afternoon at the Bloomington Gap. It looks as good on him in person now as she’d imagined it would then.)

The plain delight on Mrs. Holland’s face goes a long way toward easing the worst of the awkwardness. Steve accepts her hug and congenial pat on the cheek with a surprised smile, and it’s clear that he’s touched by how touched Barb’s mom is.

“Thank you for coming, Steve. It means the world to see people showing up for our Barb.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, Mrs. Holland,” he says, echoing Nancy’s sentiments with full sincerity. 

Nancy is overwhelmed by a shame that rakes claw marks up the inside of her throat, because hadn’t she just been prepared to explain away his absence based on the assumption that he would?

This, for whatever reason, wasn’t an eventuality she’d prepared herself for, even considering he’d diligently showed up to every dinner with (somewhat) minimal complaint, had made polite conversation through the most painful pauses, and had somehow managed to win over Barb’s parents to the extent that her mother was asking after him at their daughter’s funeral.

(If Barb could only see them now.)

Through all of this, he doesn’t look at Nancy once, and that absence lands about as gently as a haymaker to her solar plexus. 

“Well.” Mrs. Holland clears her throat, appearing seconds away from dissolving again. “Don’t be strangers. We’d love to have you both –” she catches herself, eyes darting between them, and then Jonathan, and then back, “– we’d love to have you over sometime for dinner again soon.”

With a brief parting squeeze of Nancy’s shoulder, she moves on to Karen and Ted, and Nancy lets out a tight breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

Finally, with no other distractions at hand, Steve acknowledges them, proffering a brief nod he doesn’t wait to see returned before he’s crossing to Jonathan’s left, settling a careful handful of paces away from them. 

It stings, and Nancy considers saying something – what does she have a right to say, really? – but there’s no time, because the service is already starting.

It’s excruciating.

It’s barely 30 minutes long, and Nancy feels every single second of them. Almost immediately, Mrs. Holland loses the composure she’d managed to cling to through talking to Nancy, Steve, and Nancy’s parents, and now she’s sobbing into her husband’s shoulder, heaving sounds that echo painfully across the cemetery.

Steve is standing several feet away, still as a stone, but she feels his presence so acutely that he might as well be as close to her as Jonathan currently is. 

She wishes he hadn’t come at all. Wishes he could make it easy for her to turn the page away from the Steve-and-Nancy chapter of her life – wishes she could write him off as an obvious mistake that dragged on way too long before crashing to its inevitable conclusion.

Instead, he keeps stubbornly defying her expectations. Letting her go with Jonathan with unbearable grace. Keeping her brother and his friends safe (even after he’d already been beaten to shit). Showing up for Barb’s funeral when he’d known she’d be here and had every reason not to come.

It’s maddening, because – look, she doesn’t regret her choice, okay? Jonathan is just – he’s a better fit. He’s been there for her, been with her, and he gets her. He gets that sometimes you can’t create understanding by explaining.

Gets that – that anger entwined with despair that she can’t control, this huge, black feeling inside that festers and grows until it demands an outlet, requires a purpose or a target so that it doesn’t turn inward and hit self-destruct. 

She doesn’t have to describe that to Jonathan – not in words – and it’s a relief, because she wouldn’t even know where to begin. 

So no, what she’s experiencing isn’t regret – at least, it doesn’t usually feel like it. But sometimes it might get close, on the odd occasion she sees him around school, tossing his perfect hair and flashing his surprisingly kind smile. All good looks and casual charm, with that little bit of Steve Harrington je ne sais quoi that Nancy has always admired and resented in equal measure (especially when it has girls twirling their hair at him in study hall, from the seat that used to be Nancy’s).

Or on the evenings when she can see his Beemer through the living room picture window, passenger side doors flinging open so that Dustin – usually only Dustin, but sometimes Dustin plus Lucas, or Max, or even Mike – can spill out into the street, chattering a mile a minute, shouting back at the driver’s side even as they make their way to the front door.

Especially during times like those, she can’t help but wonder – if he’d been like this while they were still dating, would that have changed things? Or was he always like this, and she was too wrapped up in herself and her guilt to notice?

She doesn’t like the way it makes her feel, to think about that, so she usually pushes it out of her mind. 

Nancy has spent far too long feeling far too terrible about things that are far outside of her control, and she’s just – she’s tired. Exhausted. Because she did what she set out to do: she got Barb’s parents the answers they needed to move on. 

Even if it doesn’t feel as good, as victorious, as final as she thought it would – it’s done. And now, it’s time for her to move on. From everything. Including Steve Harrington.

(Hopefully.)

She spends much of the remainder of the service in a fuzzy, numb fugue, barely aware of more than the anchor of Jonathan’s hand and the sound of Mrs. Holland crying, which has quieted to small snuffles that are somehow worse than the sobbing. 

It’s terrible – she’s been waiting for this moment, this closure, for more than a year – but now, she can’t wait for it to end. Needs it to end so that she can shove the dull hurt into the overstuffed closet in her mind, right next to her anger and whatever it is she still feels when she looks at Steve. So that she can lock it up and walk away from it for good.

She’s been waiting for this for more than a year, but the next ten minutes feel even harder to get through than that. 

But finally, the end comes. The reverend says a final prayer, the casket is lowered into the open grave, and Barb Holland is put to rest, in spirit if not in body. 

Nancy doesn’t think she’s been crying, but when she lifts her face and feels the breeze against the damp-tight skin of her cheeks, she realizes she must’ve been. She was warm before, but now she’s cold, and she wipes the tear tracks from her face with her sleeve. 

The Hollands are still standing in a tight clutch over the gravesite, showing no signs of moving anytime soon, but Nancy doesn’t know if she can stay another minute. 

(She doesn’t think she’s needed for this part, anyway.)

“Nancy?” Jonathan murmurs at her, asking without asking if she’s ready to leave, taking her small nod as tacit assent. 

As they’re turning to go, she accidentally locks eyes with Steve, who’s turning in the same direction, and she barely stops herself from flinching back.

There’s a barely-there line of bruising still visible on the right side of his forehead, and all at once, she remembers that he’d said he was late because he’d been held up at the doctor’s. 

Her first impulse is to ask – are you okay? Nothing about the way Billy Hargrove had brutalized his face was within the bounds of a normal high school fight, and it makes her sick that that shithead is still swaggering around school like he owns it, hitting up parties and leaving a trail of swooning rejects in his wake.

But are you okay? is the kind of privileged information she doesn’t have a right to anymore – and the question is too broad for her to be brave enough to want to know how he’d answer. So she bites her tongue against asking, swallows it down and instead says – 

“Thanks for coming today.” It’s barely a whisper, and he and Jonathan are both visibly surprised. “You didn’t have to.”

Steve’s mouth flattens.

“Of course I did,” he responds immediately. “Jesus, Nancy, I’m not that big of a –” He fumbles his words and looks covertly around, clearly rethinking whatever he was about to say based on the surroundings and circumstances. “I was just – I was never not gonna come, okay?”

He mumbles it, staring at the ground with his hands stuffed in his pockets, and Nancy feels that sense of shame clawing up her throat again. Sometimes, she forgets. Sometimes, she gets so caught up in the fact that Barb died because Nancy left her that she forgets – it was his pool.

She doesn’t know what to say; somehow, she doesn’t think I’m sorry is gonna cut it for this or anything else that’s happened over the last couple of months, and she’s not even completely sure what she’d be apologizing for in the first place. But she tries. 

“No, Steve, I didn’t mean it like –” He cuts in before she can even form half of a coherent sentence, rocking back on his feet.

“It’s fine, no big,” he exhales in a rush. “Anyway, I gotta go get Dustin before he blows, like, a year’s allowance trying to beat Max’s Centipede score. So. Uh, see you both around school, I guess.”

She thinks both she and Jonathan make some vague noises of agreement, but he’s already escaping down the hill to his car in fast, long steps. 

Out of the blue, she realizes that he must’ve shortened his stride for her when they were together. There’s no way she’d have been able to keep up, otherwise. 

(Funny, considering it always felt like he was the one who needed to catch up to her.)

If this had happened just two months ago, Nancy thinks, she would’ve been standing next to him during the service. Holding on to him, and matching (trying to match) his steps. Sliding into the front passenger seat of his car like she belonged there. Maybe he would’ve driven away with just one hand, keeping hers in the other – or maybe he would’ve given her a soft, lingering kiss to try to chase the day’s troubles away. 

It wouldn’t have worked, but she would’ve liked the feeling anyway. 

That was then, though. Now, she’s following Jonathan to his little clunker that starts as often as it doesn’t. And he can’t hold her hand, because he needs both to manage the wonky steering. 

But he’ll distract her by asking which tape she wants to listen to on the way back to his place, and when they get there he’ll hold her in silence until she feels like talking. And that – that works, too.

It’s not perfect. It won’t make the itching under her skin go away, and it won’t quell the constant urge she has to do and solve and act. But in its own way, it’ll feel as nice as soft kisses over the dashboard, and isn’t that enough? 

Nothing is perfect, which is a truth that sometimes it feels like Nancy is taking the most painful path possible toward learning. Life is, as it turns out, a series of compromises. Maybe the Hollands won’t ever learn how their daughter truly died, but then again, maybe the almost-truth is good enough. It serves the same purpose, regardless.

Nancy has made her choices. They’re not perfect, not even close, but they’re her own, and she’s happy with them. 

Happy enough.

[nostalgia-tblr]

...actually it's kind of effed up that the early MCU cared so little about women that Loki has no bio mother (and nobody ever even asks the question). yes, yes, i see the daddy issues, i am very invested in how this specific male character has daddy issues (lying, btw), but like. they literally just forgot mothers exist???