#handing her a zarr to complete the look

[scintillating-galaxias]

[nokaru]

Frogs Do Fly and Gods Do Bleed

Hello beloveds, if you're bored why don't you read this snippet of completely random cringe hmm? I know you want to ;)

(random notes/wannabe ff? Just to let you know I'm not a fanfic writer, I only fancy myself a school literature connoisseur and with said stories being only in czech I will not even bother trying to understand English commas cheers)

✨Obi's headcanon backstory✨

Starring

Child 'why are we still here? Just to suffer' Obi

And LOT of OCs

Including

Child 'same bullshit, different day' Nokaru

Little brother 'I won't hesitate bitch' Haru

Sister 'I'm a nun cause not even the Gods can help me' Fiona

Big brother 'damage control' Tom

And some more! :D

....

Obi was different than other 8 year olds, he had to be. To survive. To be able to make it out there for so long on his own. He was strong, cunning and independent. He was better. But beside edgy internal monologs about life and death, he fitted into the same category as other 8 year olds. Dumb. That's what his mother said. Obi still sometimes thinks about her. He used to be sad about her.. "situation", but now he just laughs. She was the dumb one. At least that's what auntie Anna-Marie from the Bloody Mary brothel says. And Obi is convinced she's right.

....

Sister Fiona, the apathetic nun who for some reason was appointed as another one of the caretakers, said the great goddess Somni doesn't find the kids lives interesting enough to hate them. That so called cold hard truth caused Obi to release a snicker. Seeing Obi's reaction made his baby brother, still only 6 years old, snicker as well. Aniki lightly bonked both of their heads with a sigh. Nokaru stayed silent. Obi wonder if she believed the words of Sister Fiona.

....

Obi pondered about the great goddess some more.

Maybe she hated him like he hated green beans... Maybe she hated him the same way he hated his mother.. And maybe she hated Obi the same way his mother did.

....

"You can ignore 70% of the nihilistic bullshit Sister Fiona says.... With all due respect." Obi added the last part after short pause out of actual respect of Sister Fiona. He was also convinced she could hear everything so he tried to patch up his little slip up.

"Nihilistic?" Nokaru turned her head to the side in a questioning manner. How cute. Obi coughed.

"Ehm.. Well it's like... " Obi didn't have an answer for Nokaru's question because he himself didn't know what the word meant. He just recited the same phrase he heard Tsu-sensei say a while ago to his older brother.

Nokaru noticed Obi's skittishness and decided she will just ask Sister Fiona what it means later herself.

"Anyway!" with a little huff Nokaru swiftly pulled herself up from the fallen tree trunk she was sitting on, making sure not to slip on the tree moss, she sled closer to Obi who was sitting at the end of the trunk.

"I heard Mr. Zarr is returning today. Let's go ask Mrs. Rita when exactly he will be back."

Nokaru tried to sound more excited than she actually was.. It's not like she wasn't happy The Boss will be back, of course not! She was pumped and wanted to ask all about his adventures in Tanbarun. She just wanted to change the topic fast to make Obi feel less uncomfortable. And it worked. Obi pulled the biggest smile she had ever seen on him. Good. Obi's usual relaxed demeanor changed into ecstatic one. In an instant he jumped up, grabbed Nokaru's hand and with a boyish smirk sprinted towards the main house.

....

"GUYS THERE'S A FROG HERE!" yelled little Haru excitedly from the rocky side of the pond where the gang has been camping out for a while now.

"Where?!" star eyed Nokaru run up to Haru's crouched down figure in full speed, almost tripping over the bigger rocks in her path.

"Awww Haru where did it go?"

"Wha- huh no... It just flew away!" Haru gasped with whiny tone, looking all around. No frog to be found.

"It.. flew.. away?" raising an eyebrow Obi walked over to join the hunt for the lost frog.

The older kids, only including Tom Aniki and Hana, were trying to fish in peace still standing on the other side of the pond. Tom just shook his head.

"Maybe it did fly away.. " defeated sigh followed soon after Tom mumble the claim to himself. He just doesn't want anyone fighting again and burst Haru's bubble. That being said it was hard not to start playful fight with both Obi and Haru present.

"Frogs don't fly, stupid." scoffed Obi.

"Well this one just did!" whined Haru defensively.

"STOP LYING!"

"IT DID FLY AWAY!"

In the middle of this childish and petty bickering, stood Nokaru, like a stick figure you would draw with dull crayon.

"You guys..." the more reasonable child tried to laugh it off with an awkward giggle. Her attempts went unnoticed. The bickering continued.

"IT DID! IT DID FLY AWAY! CAUSE FROGS CAN DO ANYTHING AND YOU ARE JUST A MEANIE!" yelling on top of his little lungs Haru pumped his fists in almost cute threatening manner. Obi just laughed at his little brother.

"I'm a meanie? Really, that's all you got?"

"Dickhead."

"Oh, okay."

---------

What tf is this? Who knows Lmao I just wrote random things that came into my mind when I was bit tipsy, tried to explain some dynamics ig I still feel they are not really the way I want them to but oh well

Some more notes:

Goddess Somni is just reference to Atlas of Clouds and Moon Knight (protector of travelers of the night) basically. I wanted to give the underground tm some depth so I gave them this Lmao. They are evil but they have their own God they respect.

Actually I have no clue why I picked Sister Fiona to be there when she's kinda irrelevant in the overall OC story (I just like the trope of idgaf nuns)

Obi was adopted into his older brother's family and so was his little brother

his big bro's word is holy to Obi, with Haru... welp he's ready to throw hands

Nokaru took a passive role in these notes for some reason??? Idk

[onlythegentle-survive]

invisible string - oneshot

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader Rating: T Warnings: Shared dreams, the tiniest bit of spice, yearning, loneliness, confusion, misinterpretation.  Word count: 5,705 words Summary:  After sharing life-like dreams with someone named Din Djarin, you are surprised to discover that he is your soulmate. At the same time, however, a mysterious Mandalorian bounty hunter crosses your path and captures your attention.

Taglist: @dindjarindiaries​​  @goldafterglow​​​ @frannyzooey​​​ @absurdthirst​​​ @catfishingmorales​​​ @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa​​​ @hopelikethesun​​​ @forever-rogue​​​ @f0rever15elf​​​ @thewaythisis​​​ @marvel-and-mischief​​​ @seasonschange-butpeopledont​​​ @lose-eels​​​ @ezrasarm​​​ @din-damn-djarin​​​ @opheliaelysia​​​ @pajamasecrets​​​ @mandohatesdroids​​​ @poenariuniverse​​​ @fioccodineveautunnale​​​​ @fleetwoodmactshirts​​​​ @auty-ren​​​​ @profkenobi​​​​ @storiesofthefandomlovers​​​​ @ithinkwehitametaphor​​​​ @yespolkadotkitty​​​​ @cinewhore​​​​ @wille-zarr​​​​ @tangledlove27​​

 masterlist (main) || masterlist (din djarin)

The dream came to you for the first time last night.

It would always be the same - or be very similar - as you would soon realize. It wasn’t much, but so vivid was it that you were sure that it was real until you awoke. Even then, you still thought that there was a fragment - however big or small - of reality. It didn’t even seem like a dream. More like a vision. All it was was a man, standing before you, with love in his eyes.

His name was Din Djarin. He hadn’t told you his name. Not yet. But you knew it all the same. A man tortured by past wrongdoings, haunted by the trauma of his past. It seemed that you were one of a select few that saw his face. How he kept his face hidden was a mystery to you. His hands, rough and coarse from his lifestyle - another mystery to you still - skimmed your bare arms with reverence and a softness few people knew he possessed.

As his nose nudged against yours as your lips met his, you knew that this is what home felt like. “Ner kar’ta,” the man said quietly against your lips, millimetres apart from his. My heart.

And then you woke.

* * *

Din Djarin didn’t dream much. When he did, it was regrets and memories of his past combined with things he worried about now. His time with Ran, Qin, and Xi’an. Almost dying for the kid, not once but twice. His parents sacrificing themselves for him. Not once had he ever dreamt of anything other than those.

Until last night. A dream so real it was life-like. She was beautiful. Sad, but full of hope. She looked at him like he had personally hung the moon for her. He was helmetless and armourless before her. That didn’t seem to matter. She was someone to him. Someone he loved. He had never seen this woman before. And yet he knew her like he knew his very being.

He leaned forward to kiss her suddenly. Her lips were soft against his. Responsive. Like they had done this a million times before. He knew her name. Knew that he loved her. Would love her for the rest of time. With her pressed against him, needing to have him close, the Mandalorian knew that this is what home was like. He spoke then. Low and husky against her lips. “Ner kar’ta.”

Before she could respond, the dream faded and she was gone and he was awake.

He looked to the pram where the kid still slept. It was early, Mando figured, but he’d be landing on Jakku soon enough.

* * *

If you were being completely honest with yourself, you absolutely hated living on Jakku. It was hot and miserable and nothing happened here in the two cycles you had lived here. Somehow, on a planet sprawling with people, you had never been so lonely. You hoped that your days at the Niima outpost were numbered.

As you cleaned the scrap metal that had been brought in today by the scavengers, your mind wandered to the dream that you’d had that morning. You’d had vivid dreams before, sure, but never ones that were quite so life like as this one. You weren’t sure whether to be unnerved by the realness of it. The dream wasn’t disturbing or threatening in anyway. No, if anything, it was peaceful. Reassuring, even. You didn’t know if your mystery man - Din Djarin, your memory supplied for you - even existed. You hoped that he did, and that he was happy, even in his inner anguish.

As you set down the freshly polished remnant from a TIE fighter, a man dressed head to toe in armour, complete with a helmet, stepped up to your work station, leaning up against the counter that divided you from him. A Mandalorian. You’d heard stories of their kind from your father many eons ago when you were just a little girl. Something that you couldn’t name itched inside you. A familiarity, perhaps? A familiarity to what? you asked yourself, this is the first Mandalorian you have ever come across.

“Excuse me,” said the Mandalorian through a modulated voice. There was something familiar about his voice, you realized. What though, you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Sounded similar to the Stormtroopers that had run rampant on every known Rebel-sympathizing planet, you figured as you looked up at him.

Something told you that you should be intimidated, even afraid, by him. You didn’t listen. You weren’t intimidated by him. There was no rhyme nor reason to it, but you felt … at ease.

The Mandalorian cleared his throat through the modulator, breaking you from your reverie. Shaking your head slightly to clear your thoughts, you said, “Can I help you with something?”

Now it was his turn to gaze at you for a long moment. Everyone around you faded into nothingness as you met his blank stare. If it had been anyone else, you were sure that you would be unnerved. But for some reason, one that you could not identify, you were unbothered by it. Yes, you did feel as though he was staring into your very soul, but it didn’t feel threatening. If anything, he was curious by you, just as you were curious by him. Finally, he spoke. “I was hoping for some bounty work. There seems to be no cantina here, and I am running low on credits.”

You frowned sympathetically up at him. “Unfortunately, not a lot happens here that I’m made aware of. Your best option is to talk to Unkar Plutt over there. He knows everything that happens on this planet. Granted, I would also say that he’s involved with pretty much every seedy thing that happens here, but that’s what you get in Jakku.” The Mandalorian’s helmet tilted slightly at your words.

“Forgive me for assuming, but you don’t seem the type to be involved in seedy, backdoor deals,” the Mandalorian said drily.

“You’re not assuming. I’m not. I just live here until I can make enough credits myself to move on from this hell of a planet,” you replied. This intrigued the Mandalorian. He was about to ask you more, when your associate brought you more scrap metal to be cleaned. Your smile was thin, with an undercurrent of undeniable exhaustion. “I wish you luck. One of us has to make enough credits, and I don’t think it will be me.”

The Mandalorian pushed off from your counter. “Thank you for your help. I wish you luck in your own journey.

As he walked towards Unkar Plutt, you called after him. “Until our paths cross again.”

Where in the Maker’s name had that come from

* * *

The next time you dreamt of Din Djarin came when you had been living on Corellia for six months. You had finally left Jakku, not long after encountering that Mandalorian bounty hunter, and had found yourself on Corellia after stowing away on a freighter ship bound for the planet. It was still lonely, but it was not as hellish as Jakku had been.

In this dream, you were lying in the warm embrace of Din Djarin. His hold on you was gentle, soothing. A callused hand stroked your bare shoulder as you rested your head on his chest. You sighed dreamily. “I love you,” you said, your voice muffled against his warm chest. A simple silver ring rested on your finger, identifying you as his wife. You smiled up at him, getting lost in his warm brown eyes, looking at you with an intensity that never failed to take your breath away. His soft smile was the last thing you saw before you woke.

You sighed in frustration. The galaxy had decided to play tricks on you, it seemed. You still didn’t know anyone named Din Djarin. Part of you had hoped that you would meet him in your relocation, but so far, no luck. If these dreams were to be taken with any value, this Din Djarin - if he existed - was meant to be your husband. Soulmate, perhaps? you thought idly. Never one to take dreams with any meaning, you couldn’t help but put some stock into these ones that you’ve been having. Much like the previous one, it felt too real to be taken for granted.

How lonely were you?

You glanced at the chronometer on your night table. Kriff, you hadn’t even slept for four hours. There was no way you were going to be able to fall back to sleep after that.

* * *

The Mandalorian had known it was her the second he’d laid eyes upon her in Jakku. It had to be her. She looked and sounded too similar to the woman in his … dream to not be her.

She seemed, at least in some capacity, to recognize him without realizing it. Most people, when they saw him, gave him looks of fear - or at the very least, apprehension. She hadn’t even so much as blinked in fear at him. He didn’t know what to make of the situation. Although his helmet and his armour had prevented her from seeing who he was really was, she had still managed to worm her way right into his very soul upon that first meeting. Granted, she had already managed to do that in the dream, and that was before he had met her.

He understood, now, why her eyes had such a sadness. That was no way for anyone to live. He had wanted to ask her to join him on the Razor Crest as she had pointed him in the direction of Unkar Plutt, who had given him a bounty - a man that owed him money and parts. It was a meagre bounty, but the credits were able to buy him and the kid some much needed food.

After that day, she had haunted his dreams that night, though in a different capacity. Not as vivid or life-like. When he woke the following morning, he decided to place her out of his mind. It was likely just a coincidence, he tried telling himself. Nothing more than déjà vu.

He almost believed it, too. Almost. Until this morning. When he realized she was his soulmate.

In the dream, she was resting her head against his bare chest. His arm was wrapped around her shoulder. His other hand was twined with hers. She wore his mother’s wedding ring on her finger, he noted. The gaze he gave her as she whispered her love for him was nothing short of reverential. Her eyes had no trace of the sadness that had permeated her very being both in the previous dream and when he had met her.

When he woke, he had no time to ponder the dream. The child was awake and hungry, and Din needed to drop out of hyperspace to land on Corellia. His most recent bounty had led him here.

As he slipped into the pilot’s seat, Mando pressed a button on the console. After a second of static, a familiar sounding voice crackled through the radio. “This is Coronet Tower. We are tracking you. Head for bay two-six. Over.” It was her.

“Copy that. Two-six, over.” Din managed to keep his voice steady as he spoke. He spared a glance to the kid, who was sitting in his pram, sleeping.

Din had never believed in soulmates. He thought them a fairy story similar to that of the Jedi. The Jedi ended up being real, he reminded himself. Din thought he would be one of the many people (most people didn’t have a soulmate) that didn’t have a soulmate. But no other explanation made as much sense as that one. As he landed the Crest in the hangar, he wondered if she had realized it yet. He wouldn’t push her if she hadn’t - he would let her come to him.

* * *

You were surprised to see the Mandalorian again as he stepped down off the ramp of his ship. After his stop on Jakku, you had assumed that would be the first and last time your paths would cross.

“We meet again. That is, if you’re the same Mandalorian I saw on Jakku seven months ago?” you said, keeping your voice light.

“Glad to see you got off that hell-hole of a planet,” was the Mandalorian’s stoic response. How he longed to tell you. His gaze stayed on yours for a moment. You didn’t break it, as you took in the bounty hunter. His armour was dinged in places it hadn’t been before, and you noticed the signet of what looked to be a mudhorn on his left shoulder pauldron this time around. You found that like last time, you weren’t timid around this man, although the others in the hangar appeared to be on their guard, eyeing him with caution.

A wrench fell from someone’s toolbox, breaking the moment. Clearing your throat, you turned your gaze to the Mandalorian’s ship. “Your ship’s in rough shape,” you said giving it a once-over.

“It’s seen worse, but the engine’s shot. Again,” explained the Mandalorian. Just then, a small creature made his way down the ramp, confused and lost. It was a child. The Mandalorian crouched down in front of it. “You’re up, adi’ka. Did you have a good rest?” he asked, his voice gentle. You stifled a smile. The two were clearly connected one way or another.

He turned back to you. You quickly made yourself look back up at the ship. “My apologies, mesh’la. I thought my foundling would sleep longer, and I can’t exactly take him with me on my bounty. It’s not safe for him… people are looking for him,” the Mandalorian explained. You didn’t know what mesh’la meant.

“It’s fine, Mandalorian. I don’t mind keeping an eye on this little one while you … do what it is you need to do,” you said, looking down at the small green creature, who cooed up at you with a little smile on his face. The Mandalorian stiffened for a split second. “I don’t think I introduced myself the last time we met,” you said. You gave him your name.

I know, Din thought to himself as he took your outstretched hand in his gloved one. A small spark of energy ran up both your arms as your hands touched. You flinched for a second, but didn’t drop his hand, giving it a firm shake.

“It must be the static electricity,” the Mandalorian supplied, still not letting go of your hand.

“What do I call you? Is there something you want me to call you?” you asked, extracting your hand from his. Part of you was all right to keep his hand in yours for the rest of the day.

“Di - Mando is fine,” he replied, hoping that he covered himself quickly enough so that you wouldn’t notice.

“Well, Mando. I will watch your little one and Rogan over here will get started on your ship’s engine,” you smiled up at the Mandalorian as you stooped to pick up the child.

* * *

As you cared for the child in the office (you didn’t know if he wanted you on his ship), your mind wandered to the child’s caretaker.

Who was he? Like before, he seemed so familiar. Like you had met him before in a half-forgotten dream. Was it déjà vu? It was more than knowing him for that brief moment on Jakku. Even that was bizarre, there was no denying.

Mando seemed to know who you were. The way he looked at you for long moments, or the way he held your hand in his as you shook it upon introducing yourself. Why had he stiffened when you called him Mandalorian? You didn’t understand what was going on.

Even though you didn’t understand what was going on, the Mandalorian felt like a kindred spirit in some way. You couldn’t explain it in any other way. You had only met one other time, but it felt like he knew you like no one else did. You knew you were lonely. Loneliness was your oldest friend. It had been ever since the Moff Tarkin had ordered the execution of your parents twelve years ago, leaving you by yourself. Nowhere had felt like home since you were orphaned. Mando seemed to see that in your eyes. Your loneliness and your pain. You were sure that if you could see into his eyes, you would see the same ghostly, haunted look that your eyes had.

As the kid began to grow sleepy again, your mind strayed to the dream you had this morning. While it was not the first type of dream that you’d had, it certainly was the most memorable. You still didn’t know if Din Djarin was a real person; you wanted to search for him. See if he was having the same dreams that you were having. Or if this was just something your subconscious had cooked up to mess with your mind. You didn’t know what to think. You just wanted to find this Din Djarin, if he was even real.

He was your soulmate, you realized suddenly.

You had been familiar with the notion of soulmates since you were young. The concept was nothing new. It was said that soulmates could share dreams with each other. Not necessarily visions, rather suggestions, of what their lives could be like together. Until this moment, you’d always assumed that you didn’t have one. Not everyone had a soulmate.

You didn’t know what to do with this information. You would have to let the Mandalorian down gently, he seemed to have an interest in you. An interest that you reciprocated.

* * *

The Mandalorian returned later that afternoon, his bounty cuffed. You were about to come out of the office when his gaze met yours. Even though the helmet had no facial features, you could tell what he wanted to say. Stay there. You nodded discreetly as he shoved the bounty up the ramp. Five minutes later, he stalked down the ramp again. Part of you wondered if that was a Mando thing or if the boots he wore made him walk like that.

You met him at the end of the ramp, the still sleeping child nestled in your arms. “Was he okay for you?” asked Mando, his expressionless gaze turning to look at the sleeping bundle. You nodded.

“He’s very sweet.” It was true. The child had been an absolute delight. He had warmed up to you right away. Like his caretaker, he seemed to know you on an inherent level. You eased the sleeping child into Mando’s arms. He had the child’s pram at the ready next to him. Easing him into the pram with gentle ease, Mando turned to look at you.

“Thank you for taking care of him today. Is my ship …?” he trailed off.

“Rogan fixed it up just fine. You should really look into getting a new engine altogether if you can, but that should hold you until it’s absolutely necessary. Don’t be getting into any fights with it,” you said, taking a look at the notes Rogan had scribbled for you before he left for the night. When you told him the cost, he did a double take.

“It was twice that two cycles ago on Tattooine,” he said. You shrugged. Corellia was known for its mechanics. Shops like this one were a dime a dozen.

“Thank you,” Mando repeated, pulling some credits from the pouch on his belt and slipping them into your hand. It was more than triple what you had quoted. You frowned. “Consider it a tip for minding the kid for me today,” said Mando, noticing your look of protestation. Your skin flushed warm, a flustered smile making its way to your lips.

“I shouldn’t accept, but I have to make my way off this rust bucket of a planet somehow,” you said. “Thank you.”

Mando simply nodded. “Until our paths cross again,” he said as he started to make his way back up the ramp. At the door, he hesitated for a moment. It looked like he was about to turn around to say something else to you. Then, at the last moment, he carried on, the ramp closing behind him.

* * *

“Who are you?” you whispered, tears in your eyes as you looked up at Din Djarin. Your third time dreaming about him, and you were able to control the dream somewhat.

“You know who I am,” said Din, his lips grazing your jaw.

“Do I?” you asked. “I don’t think I do. Not in my waking life, anyway.”

“You do, cyare. I promise that you do.” Din pulled you closer to him, kissing the spot just beneath your ear that he knew you loved. You moaned softly as your hand twined in his fluffy soft hair. The other just below his rib.

“Din. When will I find out?” you asked vaguely as his lips roamed your cheek and jaw and neck.

“Soon. The next time you meet me, you will know who I am before the end. I promise you this,” he said.

Suddenly the hand at his rib was wet. You pulled it back, it was covered with blood. His blood.

You woke screaming, tears streaming down your face, your hand stained red. A tiny spill from the vision. Your heart was beating frantically in your chest as you let out a sobbing scream. Your soulmate was hurt.

Usually, it was difficult for you to go back to sleep after one of those visions. This time, you knew it would be futile to even try. Even if you did manage to get back to sleep, you knew you had to get up in an hour for work.

It had been five months since your last vision. In that time, you had left Corellia, and were now on Coruscant.

And you had thought Jakku was lonely.

You had found employment at an inn. Although Din Djarin was on your mind, so was the Mandalorian. You hoped he was doing well.

* * *

Din woke from the most recent of his visions just as the Crest was dropping out of hypserspace to land on Coruscant.

In the dream, he could feel her loneliness, her confusion, as though it was his own. It brought tears to his own eyes, which he still felt as he woke up. He promised that when he found her next you would find out it was him.

He also felt the knife wound just below his ribs. Din hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He knew that he should have stayed awake. The piece of ripped tunic he had wound around the knife wound was drenched. If he had the kid with him, he may have asked him for some help, but he was with Cara at the moment, laying low, while he went to collect a bounty. Most populous planets were dangerous enough for the kid, Coruscant would be like handwrapping the kid and delivering him to Moff Gideon himself. He needed to be patched up, but the closest medcentre was miles away. He scanned a screen on the console. There was an inn not too far away. He would go there. Someone there would know what to do.

As he landed in the hangar and forced himself to walk, Din thought of you. The loneliness was back. He wasn’t sure it had ever left. You had looked lonely as ever on Corellia. He longed to tell her of his own loneliness, his own pain. Din knew, even though she did not know him like he knew her, that she would understand. She wouldn’t judge him if he were to tell her of the things he’s done and experienced. What he did to survive.

Halfway there, his vision started to fade in and out. Not too far away, he could see a woman, walking in the same direction as him, likely on her way to the inn as well. He called out to her, maybe she could help. As she turned and walked towards him, he saw who it was.

Of course. It was her.

“Hello, cyare,” he said gruffly, collapsing onto the paved ground, her look of shock the last thing he saw before fainting.

* * *

“Mando! Mando! Can you hear me?” you said loudly as the Mandalorian groaned.

“Sorry, sweet girl,” he said, “I need your help.”

Relief surged through you. “I can see that,” you said, electing to ignore how he called you sweet girl for now. “What happened?”

“Got stabbed. I need your help patching it up,” he said. You paused for a moment.

“I’m sorry, you want me to what?” Disbelief coloured your voice as you attempted to help him up.

“If you don’t mind,” Mando added, almost sheepishly.

“Of course I can help you. But I need to do it somewhere … more private.”

As you helped him to his ship, your insides twist with the knowledge that you’ll have to tell him that you have a soulmate and can’t keep up this … whatever it is with him. You hate to let him down, but it’s better than letting him live in false hope.

It was dark in the ship, all the lights turned off. Mando switched the headlight at the top of his helmet on for you to see.

“I need you to take your chest plate off,” you said as you eased him onto the floor of the ship. As Mando obeyed your request, your eyes landed on a medkit.

“There should be … kriff … ahh … a cauterizer in there,” Mando struggled to say, trying not to irritate the knife wound further.

You shot the Mandalorian a wary look as you picked up the instrument. It was above your knowledge, but if he wanted you to use the cauterizer, you would use the cauterizer.

“Will it hurt?” you asked, switching it on.

“Profoundly. But it’s easier than a needle and thread. As soon as you’re done with the cauterizer, use the bacta wipes that’s in there, too. To … oh, kriff … to prevent infection.” His voice sounded strained through the modulator.

“Is it … I need to cut open your tunic,” you said. Mando just nodded.

The tunic cut, you started. Whatever you were doing seemed to be working. A faint glow and a sparking sound emitted from the small instrument, drowning out Mando’s grunts of pain slightly. It wasn’t a long wound, but it was deep. You hoped this worked. The light from the headlamp and the cauterizer the only things helping you see.

“Almost done, Mando. Almost done,” you said as a hand reached out to grab your leg. You let him squeeze through the pain as hard as he needed to. A sheen of sweat formed on your forehead as you reached the end of the knife wound. Dropping the cauterizer as though it had bitten you, you unwrapped the bacta wipes and rubbed the antibiotic across the red welted patch of skin. He hissed at the contact. “Done,” you said, tossing the two dried bacta wipes aside. You could deal with those later.

Mando exhaled. “Thank you, cyare. I mean it. Thank you.” He squeezed your leg in appreciation.

“You’re welcome. Just don’t … don’t die on me, all right? You’re important to me.” The words slipped out unbidden.

“You’re important to me, too, cyare,” Mando said before you had a chance to retract your words.

“Mando … there’s something I need to ask you.” It was now or never.

“What is it, cyare?” said Mando.

“Do you … This is going to sound ridiculous … do you believe in soulmates? I’ve been having …”

“Dreams? Life-like dreams?” Mando interrupted. Your brow furrowed in puzzlement. He couldn’t be … could he?

The headlamp switched off suddenly. A hissing sound filled the air before something made a clunking sound on the ground.

“Exactly. And, well … I never thought that I had one, but then I started having dreams. More like visions, really. And … well, I think I have one. But I don’t know who it is. Someone named Din Djarin.”

“Ner kar’ta,” Mando said. You blinked. His voice was unmodulated, his breath tickling your face.

You knew that voice, you thought. Before you could ask another question, his lips had pressed against yours. You gasped against his lips as he kissed you. You kissed him back, his lips achingly familiar and reverent against yours.

Breaking the kiss, you leaned your forehead against his as he kissed the skin above your lips.

“Who are you?” you whispered against his lips, just loud enough that he could hear you. “What’s your name?”

You knew the answer before he spoke. “Din Djarin.”

* * *

Laying in bed, you stroked the child’s forehead gently as he slept next to you. You would bring him to his pram later, just as soon as his father came back. For right now, you were comfortable. Breakfast was made. It could be re-heated.

It had been a cycle and a half since you had found out that your soulmate had been right under your nose this entire time. You had married him three weeks later. Both of you didn’t want to wait too long; you had waited this long. You knew you loved each other. That you were soulmates. An invisible string tied you to him forever.

The ramp of the ship descended. A minute later, you could hear Din in the room where he kept his quarries. The tell-tale hissing sound of the carbonite told you that he would be along soon.

“You’re home,” you said by way of greeting as your husband stepped into the sleeping compartment. The child stirred from sleep for a moment, just long enough to see his buir returned safely. He smiled sleepily up at Din as he carried the baby to his pram. Stroking his large ear gently, Din eased him into the pram. The child’s eyes were shut again before the pram lid doors shut.

“Hi, sweet girl,” Din said, kissing you on the lips.

“Hi. Missed you,” you said as Din eased you up, wrapping his arm around you. The two of you stood there for a moment. You stroked his side, your wedding ring catching your eye. It was the same one as the one in your shared dreams. Din’s mother’s.

“You’ve got that look in your eye, riduur,” said Din, a knowing look crossing his face as you led him to the kitchen. “What’s on your mind?”  

“Just thinking about how the galaxy brought us together. Do you think the Maker was banging his head against the wall at us?” You knew that Din had known before you had.

“I don’t know, cyare. But I’m glad that the galaxy brought us together,” said Din, turning you to face him. He brought your hand to his lips.

As you sit and share breakfast with him, telling stories of what you and the child did in his two-day absence, realization washes over you. It’s not the first time you’ve realized this, nor will it be the last. The realization of happiness. Of peace. The loneliness the two of you felt for many cycles a thing of distant memory. You smile at Din as he takes a bite of food, a knowing look in both of your eyes.

It was such a pretty thing, you thought, that the galaxy had decided to tie the two of you together like this.

[dindjarindiaries]

Mandoctober - October 20: Beskar

summary: When Din gets his beskar crafted, he expects to be haunted by the horrors of his past—but instead he’s comforted by the replaying of his life thus far with you.

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x gn!reader

warnings: references to childhood trauma, fluff (obviously with me)

rating: T

word count: 1.399k

mandoctober masterlist

october 20: beskar

“Will you be okay on your own?”

Your voice is soft as ever as you cup the side of his helmet like it’s his cheek. Somehow, you never fail to warm his heart—even in the cold tunnels of the covert. “Yes.” Din pauses, looking over at the Mandalorians behind you before he continues lowly. “Will you?”

You laugh, gesturing to Paz notably as you smile at Din. “Ni ven muun’baji par gar—tug’yc.” I’ll kick ass for you—again. Din chuckles, pressing his helmet to your forehead. Your hands close over his, the bar of beskar sitting between you. “I love you.”

Din beams beneath the helmet. “I love you, too. Ni ven yaimpa.” I’ll return.

You nod, stepping away to let him go. As Din leaves the room, he hears your bold voice speak to Paz and the others. “So, who wants to spar first? Can’t promise I’ll go easy.”

Din smiles to himself. Ner verd’ika. My dear warrior.

Walking into the Armorer’s workshop is much less daunting with you on his mind. You’ve sat with him here a few times now, ever since he made you his riduur and you could come into the covert. You wanted to comfort him while his armor was being forged—but now, you’ve strengthened him. He can sit at the table alone now, placing the beskar on top of it.

The Armorer makes her way over, sitting across from him and giving him a nod in greeting. He returns it. “Din Djarin,” she says his name—and Din can catch the fondness in her voice. “Where is your riduur?”

Din begins to smile to himself again. Of course you’re held in high regard by the head of his tribe. His chest swells with pride on your behalf. “Sparring,” Din answers, failing to hide the warmth in his tone.

The Armorer nods again. “And how are they?”

“Well. Very well.”

“Good.” She pauses, reaching forward to take the beskar in her gloved hand. “How would you like me to craft this?” Din tells her what he’s thinking, watching her nod in understanding. “And the excess is for—.”

“—the foundlings,” Din finishes.

“As it should always be.” The Armorer rises, bringing the beskar with her as she starts to work. Din’s gloved fingers begin to grip his knees in an anxious manner. He’s expecting the flashbacks of the terrors of his childhood, the suffering of his people and parents.

Instead, with the first treatment of the beskar, Din sees you.

The beskar begins to be warmed in a way that’s not much different from the way you’ve always made him feel. The day he’d met you, when you stood at the bar of the cantina where his quarry was and you broke someone’s nose for disrespecting him and his culture, Din had never felt so safe before. He felt—he still feels—so warm, thanks to you.

Din watches the beskar give way to the heat and melt. He thinks about how you did that to not just the beskar of his armor, but also that of his heart. Your patience with him and generosity and fierce loyalty made him feel so warm and safe that Din began to give way to you as if it was natural. Your kind eyes earned his story. Your heart on your sleeve earned his name. Your sweet yet firm assurances earned his heart. Din never let the beskar grow cold again after that.

The Armorer begins to mix and mold the beskar and Din thinks of how he shaped himself to you. Everything you were, he wanted to be, too: strong, confident, fiercely loving. He found himself trying to emulate your ways, more than willing to let you teach him how to be the person he’s been trying to be ever since his life was led astray. You’ve helped him to grow, and Din wouldn’t rather be imprinted by anyone else.

When the mold is set, the Armorer begins to strike—causing the beskar to spark. With each spark, Din remembers a moment where you recreated the same scene within him. The first time your hand touched his, the simple brush of your fingers causing his heart to flutter within his chest. When you hid your face in his neck that first night you spent laying beside each other. When your lips brushed over the skin of his chest, kissing each mark left behind by his years of fighting. When you kissed him for the first time, making him feel more complete than he ever had before. The sparks he’s seeing can’t even match the ones he knows he felt in all those instances.

The beskar has now taken its shape, and the Armorer begins to add the finishing touches as Din thinks about all the things he loves the most about you. Along with everything he’s already thought over, he can never get the image of your bright smile out of his mind. Even in his darkest times, he’s seen you glow so bright with that smile, easily becoming his quickest remedy. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to make you smile like that—and he hopes you know it.

The Armorer walks back over to Din, handing him the finished product. His gloved fingers close around it as he continuously smiles underneath his helmet. “You seem much calmer today,” she observes, tilting her helmet at him.

Din looks down at the object in his hand. “I’ve… gotten some help.”

The Armorer nods in understanding. “Then, it’s time you let them know.”

Din nods to agree, rising with a respectful bow before he heads back to the sparring room. When he steps inside, he sees you sitting tiredly as two other Mandalorians face off, your gaze lighting up as soon as Din walks in. You stand up and hurry over to him, letting him take you just outside of the room as you shine that brilliant and beautiful smile up at him.

“How’d it go?” you ask, your voice soft. “What’d you get crafted?”

“Well,” Din answers first, swallowing hard as he looks at his closed fist. “It’s… It’s for you.” He opens his hand, letting you see the beskar creation that sits there: a Mythosaur necklace, one to match his own.

“Din…” you trail off, your voice tight with emotion as you gingerly pick up the necklace. When your gaze looks up at him, Din can see nothing but pure affection in it, causing his heart to flutter. You shake your head, at a loss for the moment. “I can’t put into words how much this means to me.”

Din gently takes the necklace from your hands, gesturing for you to turn around as he puts it on for you. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

When he fixes it in place, you turn back around, beaming at him as your hand grips the Mythosaur charm. “I know.” You rest your forehead against his helmet. “And I for you.”

You look around the tunnel for a moment, confusing Din before he realizes what you’re aiming to do. Quickly, you lift his helmet from his head, pressing your lips to his in a way that makes him forget all about where you’re standing. He’d be content to keep pulling you closer and never breathe in anything except you—but you have to keep the kiss quick, wanting to make sure no one sees as you add another one on his nose and then put his helmet back in place.

“Thank you for trusting me, Din,” you say sincerely, resting your head upon his cuirass and he keeps you close.

“Thank you for freeing me of my armor, cyar’ika,” Din remarks, smiling to himself as he wishes he could kiss you again.

“Verd ori'shya beskar'gam.” A warrior is more than his armor.

Din can’t even find a proper response to that, instead settling for resting his helmet against his head as he pulls you closer—forever grateful for the way your love has forged him the strongest of armor that no other material could match, even beskar.

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[the-lady-of-stars]

Wishing you were somehow here again -  Pt. 2

Commander Wolffe x Jedi ! Reader

Summary: The time has come... execute order 66

Warnings: Character death!! Injury/fighting/violence. Angst... and lots of it. I would say I’m sorry but I’m really just out here living my best life writing some lovely heartbreak 💞💖💘 

A/N: I listened to across the stars the entire time I wrote this for that extra angsty vibe  😇 hope u enjoy bb. If you haven’t read part 1 I recommend giving it a read before this! : ) Also dw I am not leaving it at this, there will be a Part 3. I’m not that mean ☺️ 

Tags: @wille-zarr @chaotic-noceur

Cato Neimoidia. What a beautiful city to fly over. 

You, Master Plo and the rest of the 104th Batallion had been assigned to the planet in hopes of besieging a Trade Federation stronghold. 

You peered out the windows of your starfighter at the rocky arches of the surrounding environment, enjoying the brief moment of peace and beauty this war had offered you. In front of you flew your master, Plo Koon, behind you Commander Wolffe, your beloved, then the rest of the pack trailed behind. 

You ran a finger over the makeshift grass ring that adorned your left hand, your heart skipping a beat at the mere thought of the previous week’s events. Your husband, in spirit at least. You planned to have a real wedding in the future, perhaps on Naboo if you could manage to pull a few strings with Skywalker. His marriage to the Senator had been no secret to you, so surely Anakin would not mind helping you with yours. 

You could picture it now, a marble balcony overlooking the waterfalls of Naboo, the burning orange sun gleaming from them as you kissed each other like no one was watching. Your master would be there to officiate it- he knew about you and his Commander, of course. You never had been able to hide anything from him. Master Plo had always been somewhat of a father figure to you ever since he took you as his Padawan when you were little, so of course he quickly noticed the bond forming between you and Wolffe. Much as Qui-Gon had turned a blind eye to Obi-Wan and Satine, your master had said nothing about the subject except that he wanted you to be happy, and if Wolffe provided you with such happiness then he was more than willing to protect your little secret, although you briefly remember Wolffe mentioning something about receiving an ‘if-you-ever-break-her-heart-you’re-dead’ speech from him, but you decided not to inquire further. The rest of the pack would be there of course. They were family, and without them to watch it would be no wedding at all. 

Being in a starfighter, you had no means of communicating with Wolffe except over the comm channel which also included the rest of the battalion, and you weren't in the mood to put up with Boost’s usual quips. You could, however, radiate love in his direction through the force, so that’s what you did. 

Wolffe’s chest pounded as he felt your force signature surround him like a ghostly embrace. It brought a heat to his cheeks, hands gripping the controls tighter. Any nerves from the mission dissipated and he was left feeling warm and whole. He thought to himself then that he did not ever want to feel any other way. Blissful. He was no Jedi, didn’t have a lick of force-sensitivity, but he could damn well try to return the sentiment. He found himself furrowing his brows and squinting slightly, while with all his might he mustered up his favourite memories of you, trying his best to radiate the way you made him feel. He hoped you could feel it. 

You could. A soft, breathy chuckle burst from your lips at his efforts, at how truly sweet your tough Commander was on the inside. There were few things you could be sure of in life, but the dream of really marrying him was one of them. One day, hopefully soon, you would see him stood o- what was wrong? The adoration Wolffe was radiating suddenly cut off as though someone had flicked a switch, nothing but neutrality emanating from him now. Opening yourself up to more force signatures you felt the same emotion from the rest of the boys behind you. Something was wrong, and your master clearly sensed it too as the only real emotion you could sense was his confusion. 

“Men, is something the matter?” Plo spoke over the comm channel. 

There was a momentary pause, then Wolffe was the next to speak.

“General Plo Koon, General Y/N Y/L/N, you are both subject to execution under Order 66 due to crimes against the Republic.”

Before either you or your master could say a word your ships burst into flames, your own men firing right at you. The engine was destroyed- there was nothing you could do but wail Wolffe’s name in one last desperate plea as your ship began to plummet down towards the rocky terrain of Cato Neimoidia. Smoke. Heat. Burning. Sharp. Pain. Then nothing. The world went black as your starfighter made contact with the ground. The last thing you saw before your eyes closed was the sight of your master laying dead on the ground nearby.

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

Your ears rang, a sharp tone muffling the sound of shouting voices. Clones. A pang of fear shot straight to your heart as you remembered how they had attempted to kill you, and how they had succeeded with your dear master. You flinched up instinctively, wanting to run but collapsing the second you so much as moved due to the piercing pain that struck your entire body. You whimpered, tears pricking at your eyes, hearing the clones get closer. 

It seemed that the crash had thrown you from your starfighter and into an alcove in the rocks, which gave you the slightest bit of shelter. As the ringing in your ears subsided a little you heard a pair of footsteps drawing closer to your position. You dug your fingers into the ground, desperately trying to get to your feet so you could defend yourself but with no luck. There was a small cave entrance a few metres away which could offer you a hiding place, but you weren’t fast enough. A boot planted onto your back, pinning you down and earning a yelp.

You craned your head back, trying to see who had a hold of you through the tears which had welled up. 

Wolffe. But he looked nothing like the Wolffe you knew. Your Wolffe never so much as glanced at you without tenderness, but now? A snarl had replaced his smile, eyes glaring down at you like a predator.

“Wolffe-” you choked out, which resulted in him pressing his foot down further.

“Jedi,” he practically growled. “You are to be executed for your crimes against the Republic.”

Before he could make another move, you mustered all the strength you could find and pushed him away from you and into the cave entrance nearby with the force, enough to keep him subdued for a minute or so. Still riding the spike of energy, you pulled yourself to your feet, making your way over to the miniature medical droid which was kept in each starfighter, which had clearly fallen from the crash with you. You brought it to you with the force, pressing the on button once it was in your hands. The droid buzzed to life, whirring around you in circles, clearly in distress at your state. 

“Not me,” your voice was coarse. “Give the Commander a full head scan. I’m looking for something. A chip, possibly?” You nodded your head in the direction of Wolffe slumped over in the cave entrance, the droid zooming over to him immediately. 

When you finally made it over to the cave the droid repeatedly made a beeping sound over one particular part of Wolffe’s head. 

“What’d you find?” 

The droid pulled up a hologram, a red circle highlighting a small piece of organic matter. 

“This appears to be some kind of tumour, which is not normally found in human brains,” it announced.

Your eyes widened, all the breath leaving your body. Fives had been right all along. There really was a chip hidden in the clones. 

“Remove it.” 

“But- General- I don’t think this is the place to-”

“Now!” you spoke sternly, trying to keep your voice down so the other clones wouldn’t find you. They’d notice sooner or later that their Commander was missing, but you had until them to remove that chip. 

“Very well, General. You may want to look away for this.”

A anaesthesia shot was pricked into Wolffe’s neck before the droid protruded an arm with a red laser attached to the end, beginning to cut a hole into his head. You winced, closing your eyes and holding on to Wolffe’s hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

 “You’ll be okay, my love,” you spoke under your breath to him, rubbing soothing circles on Wolffe’s palm. “I’ve got you.”

The whirring stopped. You opened your eyes again to see what was going on when the droid announced, “The procedure has been completed and the chip has been successfully removed. The Commander will awaken momentarily.”

“Thank you, you can shut down now,” you told the droid, shuffling closer to Wolffe so he knew you were there when he woke up. 

About thirty seconds later, Wolffe began to stir. With a groan he reached a hand up to his head, thumbing over the gauze the incision had been covered by. 

“Ahh, where am I?” 

“Wolffe? Wolffe, my love, look at me. Look at me, please.”

With a grimace he turned his head to look at you, blinking a few times before his eyes widened like saucers. 

“Cyare! What happened to you? Are you okay? Who did this to you?” he panicked, getting to his knees so he could rake his eyes over you better. 

“Oh, Wolffe...” he was back. Your Wolffe was back. You couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, throwing yourself into his arms and sobbing wildly. 

“Oh shhh, shhh easy Cyare. I’ve got you now, you’re safe my sweet girl,” he cooed, rubbing his hands soothingly over your upper arms. “What happened?”

Wolffe paused, looking over at your burning starfighter, at his brothers slightly behind it stood around the body of General Plo. General Plo. Order 66. Oh. He launched himself away from you, breathing frantically. 

“It was me. I’m what happened. I- I did this. Order 66. I killed General Plo and I nearly killed you- oh stars...” Wolffe looked down at his shaking hands, thinking about what he had done with them. 

“Wolffe, look at me. Hey. Look,” you got closer to him, taking his hands in yours to ground him. Still trembling he brought his eyes to yours, tears streaming down his cheeks. “That was not you, my love. That was Sidious. He was controlling you and all the other clones through the chips in your brain. They were planted there for that very reason. I do not blame you, nobody blames you. This was not your fault at all.” 

Wolffe broke down into a flurry of “I’m sorry” and “forgive me” but you just pulled him into your chest, holding him tight, pressing kisses to his temple and his cheeks to reassure him. 

“Wolffe, my love, we don’t have much time. Your brothers are still looking for me to check if I’m dead and I’m sure they’ve noticed you’re missing by now. They’ll find us. I removed your chip but they’re still under control of Sidious. We have to leave.”

“No,” Wolffe choked sternly.

“No? What do you mean no?”

“You don’t have a ship any more, and if you ran now they’d see you and kill you on sight. I need to go back, to tell them I found your body and disposed of it. Then you run when we leave. Run and never come back, you hear me?”

Wolffe spoke through tears, clasping your shoulders tightly to make sure you heard every word. 

“No, no, Wolffe you can’t do that. I’m not going anywhere without you. I’m not leaving you to Sidious. I love you.”

“Y/N, please. My sweet girl. Oh, look at you. I wanted to marry you so bad. More than anything. But now I realise what I want more than anything is to keep you alive, even if that means I can’t be yours any more. I love you, Y/N. I love you so much,” he moved his hands up to cup your cheeks, wiping your tears away with his thumbs. “Don’t you go coming back to find me now, you hear me? Run and never come back. Make a life for yourself. You do that for me, hmm? Promise me,” he wept, wet eyes looking straight into yours.

“Okay. Okay I promise,” you felt your heart tearing in two. 

“That’s a good girl. My good girl,” he spoke softly.

“Wolffe-” you whimpered. 

“I know, I know, love. Everything will be alright.”

Wolffe sighed, heart visibly breaking. His glassy eyes observed your face as though it would be the last time he would ever see it. And it would. 

Unable to find any other words to say, Wolffe leaned down and kissed you one last time, tears mingling on your cheeks. His lips pressed hard against yours, clinging on to the moment as long as you both could. When he finally pulled away you chased after him, not ready to let go. 

“I have to go, cyare. Back to my brothers. I’ll be alright, don’t you worry about me, hmm? You stay safe now, I mean it. I love you Y/N.”

“I love you too.”

Wolffe stood, absorbing the sight of you. How this was the last time he’d ever see his girl. With one final sigh he tore his eyes from you and tipped his helmet back on, exiting the cave and leaving everything he ever loved behind. 

The war left its scars on everyone, but Wolffe knew these ones would never heal.

[joonkorre]

its crazy late but

@drarrymicrofic prompt: blanket fort

(there’s no plot. none. just dudes being guys, guys being pals)

(caution: not very micro, more like a one shot. a whole lot of anecdotes. i’m writing this under a blanket with snow beating at my window, so of course this has to be very soft and warm. you have been warned)

“Hello?” Harry says into the dark. He’s just gotten home and instead of seeing the familiar orange hue of their beetle-shaped lamp (a gift from Luna, of course), there’s a single sliver of moonlight slipping through the curtains. Nothing else seems to exist in the living room but the echo of Harry’s greeting. Tangerine and sage drift into his nose, followed by the bitter tang of smoke. The scent of Draco’s favorite candle, newly extinguished.

Draco just left. Discovered a breakthrough in his research and fled to the Ministry lab, maybe.

Harry sighs. Unlaces his boots and hangs up his coat absentmindedly only for it to crumple onto the floor. Another sigh. He bends and retrieves it, deciding instead to throw it in the laundry bin. Might as well; he’s been trudging around in Dayhound mucus for hours and neither his dragonhide boots nor coat were spared. 

Walking into the kitchen, Harry grabs a glass from the drying rack and pours himself water from the pitcher in the fridge. It’s ridiculous how a simple act like this can drain his energy so, but it does. Curse breaking isn’t a walk in the park; even walking hurts, considering the amount of magic he expends on shite like a 500-year-old wailing locket on a day to day basis. Exposure to different kinds of magic - dark, Old Magick, elemental, countlessly and endlessly more- for 8 hours straight more often than not result in a fierce ringing in his temples and pinpricks on his skin.

After years of doing it, he can scarcely tolerate one Portkey trip from wherever he’s assigned to back to the main headquarter before getting uncontrollable shivers. Another 30 minutes on the metro, then a 10-minute walk home. In addition, Harry has to sleep for at least 8 hours every night to replenish his energy. Morning comes, he wakes up, Apparates to the headquarter, and the cycle continues.

Why does he even stick with curse breaking at this point? Right, a wry grin graces Harry’s lips, Draco thinks the uniform is hot. Oh, and can’t forget the job benefits, insurance, whole nine yards.

With the glass now rinsed and settled once more on the drying rack, Harry drags his feet to the bedroom. The clock - an antique Draco stole from his cheating ex - hits 7:18 PM, but getting ready to go to sleep sure sounds like a decent idea. Harry palms the back of his aching neck and winces. He’d go shower, scrub the dirt and tension off his limbs, and maybe heat up the leftovers from two days-

“There you are. I was wondering how much longer drinking water could take.”

Harry looks up from his slippered feet to see Draco. Or, more specifically, Draco’s silhouette. Behind some kind of white cloth. A white cloth that’s conveniently placed where the focus of the bedroom should’ve been. 

The relief at seeing his husband evaporates.

“What,” Harry says, “where’s our bed.”

Draco’s silhouette crawls to the opening of the cloth… tent-shaped thing. Pewter grey eyes peer at him behind strands of near-platinum blonde, its icy color soothed by the orange tint of… ah, so he’s brought the bug lamp in here. Neat.

“I,” Draco answers. Pauses. “Might have brought it somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else.”

“Yes.”

Harry shakes his head. An exasperated chuckle escapes his lips.

“Is ‘somewhere else’ the recycling center?”

“Why,” Draco flops down on the floor, appearing tired of holding himself up on his elbows for more than 10 seconds. It’s peculiar to see, the gesture a bit ungraceful for someone like him. Harry is helplessly in love amused. “Do my ears deceive me? Am I being confronted, cornered, accosted for being a good husband? Were the 5 minutes it took to Shrink and Levitate the wretched old thing away from our safe haven worth your condescension, dear lover?”

“I guess I did say I hate-”

“Correct!”

“-the headboard. Nothing but the headboard. Yesterday. While I’m half asleep. Baby.”

“Oh, pish posh, I hate it too! In fact, I’m doing us both a favor disposing of the entire thing altogether.”

“God, however can I thank you? I mean, you did rid us of our bed where we sleep on.”

“You can thank me by taking off those horrid gears faster and come here,” with that, Draco crawls back to where he was sitting before.

“You love these gears,” Harry says, hanging his harnesses and tool belt in the closet and walking into the bathroom for a quick shower, “you love them against your ba-”

“Put a lock on that filthy mouth, Potter, what will the Daily Prophet think?” Draco’s yell almost drowns out the shower spray. Harry laughs, his stomach hurting for the right reason at last.

When he re-enters the bedroom, Draco is leaning out from the tent thing.

“Come, get in, get in,” he beckons with a hasty wave.

Harry points to his wet hair with the hand holding his towel. Draco clicks his tongue and waves his hand more aggressively.

His husband’s level of theatrics is directly proportional to how slow Harry is at doing what he says, so he nods, fondness overflowing, and obeys.

“What’s all this?” He crouches and crawls in, eyeing the collection of pillows and quilts surrounding Draco and what would be Harry’s seat. It seems that he had also lugged in the chairs from their dining room to provide some structural support for the tent.

“A blanket fort, lover,” Draco says, his gaze tender. Harry’s finger tips tingle with every touch of cotton, linen, silk, as he gets situated. It’s been years and years and years and years, and Harry can never get used to, can never take for granted, the weight of his husband’s undivided attention.

“Huh,” he says, sitting down with an ‘oof’, “isn’t this for kids?”

“A blanket fort is a blanket fort,” Draco takes the towel from Harry’s arm and puts the throw pillow Ron knitted in his lap. He hits a button on the laptop in front of them, and Harry’s favorite jazz collection plays. He blinks. He thought Draco would play his questionable atmospheric-white-noise-POV-you’re-having-tea-in-a-gothic-vampire-library playlist, the weirdo.

Velvety smooth sax flows through the air. Harry exhales, easy and content, and lets Draco tilt his head. He towels Harry’s hair, massaging unhurried circles on his scalp and varying the degree of pressure. In no time, his head lolls forward, eyes closed, chin a breath away from his well-worn shirt. A slender, pale hand cups his cheek and holds his head up and steady. Meanwhile, the hand’s owner leans out of the blanket fort to get something.

“Ow.” A grunt. Harry smiles; most likely a cramp from all the leaning.

Then, his husband reseats himself, this time with a smell. A mouth-watering, delicious smell, tickling the back of Harry’s nose. He opens his eyes to see Draco lifting off the lid of a ceramic bowl perched on a tray, steam floating out and fogging Harry’s glasses. It’s purple yam soup, topped with chopped up shrimp and ground beef.

“Your usual order from the Viet place nearby whenever Pepper-up isn’t sufficient,” Draco murmurs, placing a spoon in Harry’s hand, his words warm against Harry’s temple. Huh, he didn’t think Draco would notice. “You said today you’d deal with those disgusting booby traps you showed me, thus I reckoned I should put the yams on our counter into good use.”

Harry stares at the soup, stunned. Draco must have taken his expression as something else.

“Oh, right,” he says, “I heated it up on the stove, but you were taking atrociously long so I casted a Heating charm. Let me take it off, okay?”

Draco flicks his hawthorn wand, a hand squeezing Harry’s shoulder as if he could see the prickling running up Harry’s nape.

He turns to look at his husband. When Harry’s career was starting to take its toll on his magical core, Draco didn’t hesitate to dive headfirst into Muggle living. Easier said than done, and it took months for him to stop frowning at the “absolutely bizarre, Potter, bizarre” appliances, but he got there in the end. Despite his constant bitching about everything, Draco not once raised a word about the drastic switch, effortlessly guiding Narcissa to gossip about the Albescu clan’s abhorrent matriarch when she asks about how he’s faring.

“Gosh, I,” Harry says. Mumbles, really, into Draco’s collarbone, filling his brain with the woodsy aroma of potion making that no amount of expensive body products can mask, “that’s lovely, baby, thank you.”

“Eat,” Draco says, rubbing his chin on the top of Harry still-damp hair and messaging his tense neck. Harry knows he’s breathing him in too. “Or I’ll have to heat it up in the kitchen again, and forgive me but I’d rather stay here for the next 12 hours, at least.”

“Lazy arse.”

Draco laughs, a momentary rumble of his chest, then moves forward to click something on the laptop. Harry’s on his fifth spoonful of pure comfort when the jazz music stops, and on the blank wall opposite from their blanket fort is the title card of a movie. Strange, Harry didn’t even notice the mini projector. He squints.

“Why is there Korean subtitles?”

“Lover,” Draco tosses a napkin at Harry’s crossed legs, “what is watching movies online without the occasional bout of piracy?”

“Pira- piracy,” Harry chokes, the hot soup stinging his palate, “we have a Netflix subscription.”

“You can’t find shite like this on Netflix.”

“Of course we can. Baby, we don’t know anyone who’s good at computer stuff and can deal with the viruses.”

“There’s no virus here, I checked.”

“How,” Harry stresses, “and again, piracy.”

“Sometimes,” Draco says, lowering the speaker volume, “not doing crimes… is worse.”

“What the fuck,” the main character, a square-faced woman with a python around her neck, has a monologue in a completely different language. “What the fuck? Is that Italian?”

“Yes, but I’m French.”

“And?”

“And they’re both Romance languages. I can understand certain words and translate it for you.”

No, he can’t.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Keep eating,” Draco settles amid the pillows, long hair settled on his satin-clad chest, white against emerald. Harry sneers at him - an unfortunate habit he’s gotten from Draco - and turns to watch the movie.

True to his words, Draco translates every dialogue and mimics the characters’ voices with zeal, contradicting his stoic expression and somber, interlaced hands, looking like a cranky judge having to deal with reckless teenagers on their anti-authority phase. Harry can tell that he doesn’t understand a thing, and soon enough he’s woven a story about how the thriller-mystery they’re watching is actually a vicious custody battle over a duck. For each of Harry’s occasional snicker at the absurdity Draco has thought up is a playful kick at his ribs.

Minutes pass. With Harry’s bowl now emptied, he puts it on a chair and goes to wash up. 

The moment he sits back down, Draco’s big toe pokes at his spine. Getting the memo, Harry grins and reclines on the pillows. His left side is flushed against Draco’s right, the kinks in his neck eased off from the angle. They, as per usual, gradually get closer to one another, and at some point, Draco lays his head on Harry’s chest and ear on his beating heart. It’s calming to him, Draco had said when Harry asked, on the third night of their honeymoon. With the war long behind them, there was nothing to fear. Only the constellations existed as their witnesses.

“You died, Harry,” he had whispered, full and tipsy. “It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen, despite all the shite I made you go through.

“You were so far away in Hagrid’s arms, I couldn’t see your face,” the night had been blinding, but his eyes had found Draco’s anyway. “It felt like my heart died with you.”

Harry had kissed his forehead and hugged him close. His heart had always been there for Draco to take.

“What’s up with the blanket fort?”

He has a lapful of Draco, a lungful of peach and cedar scented shampoo, and the sleepy timbre of his husband’s voice against his chest. The Italian movie is the last thing on Harry’s mind. 

“I wasn’t aware of its existence growing up,” Draco says. “Having anything other than an immaculate bed when one wasn’t sleeping was uncouth, see, so you could imagine my surprise when Teddy demanded to play in something as messy as a fort so often.”

Harry doesn’t need to imagine it; he had witnessed it himself. Draco, freshly released from a two-year sentence in Azkaban, mellowed and tentative, yet determined to reconnect with his mother’s sister and his nephew. Harry had been wary too, standing in the corner of Teddy’s bedroom, staring at the fuzz of blonde on Draco’s shorn head and his weak gait. Teddy, the darling boy with his clumsy hold on Draco’s thigh, afraid that the haggard man would trip without help, had led him to his play area.

“Fort, fort,” the boy had screamed in Draco’s ear, but he hadn’t flinched. He had nodded and gone along with Teddy’s babbled directions, then sat back on his heels and fixed a wide-eyed stare at the monstrosity Teddy had called a fort (his designing skills were, unsurprisingly, underdeveloped at the mere age of two). 

Swiveling his head, he had gawked at Harry, who had still been standing in the corner with his arms crossed, confusion and hysteria in the arch of his aristocratic brows.

It had been the first time he had looked at Harry in the eye for years. In seconds, it was 6th Year all over again, with him watching Draco pushing his food around with a fork from across the room, unable to look away. Obsession, a voice unlike Hermione’s helpfully defined, had slithered up and under his skin. It had remained there for years, stubborn and ardent, an emotion he had tried to leave behind time and time again. He’d never succeeded.

It’s Draco, after all.

“He never let anyone but him enter the fort, remember? Back when he’s still making us build it for him?” Draco’s fingers tap a random rhythm on Harry’s stomach. Harry tightens his arm around him, shifts a bit. “So many forts and I still didn’t know what it’s like to be in one.”

Somebody downs a shot in the movie. Harry doesn’t quite register it. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a proper one either until now. Didn’t have enough space in the cupboard. Plus, the hanging around the beds at Hogwarts felt pretty cozy by themselves.”

Draco hums. “Mhmm, I say. Another ‘first’ for us.”

Harry glances at the crown of his head. The man doesn’t sound surprised; Harry wagers that he already knows and decided to make one for the both of them today.

They continue to watch the movie in silence, whites and blues and purples flooding his sight, until Draco yawns and Harry blinks his eyes shut for far too long.

“Baby.”

“Hmm?”

“Sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Where, then? We have no bed.”

“I still maintain that I made the right choice”

“Jesus Christ, you’re so rash for an academic.”

“Well, in my professional opinion, sleeping in a blanket fort every blue moon does wonders for one’s quality of sleep,” Draco gets up on his elbow to smirk at Harry, “we can look at other beds tomorrow, can’t we? Now hush. Rest.”

“Ha,” Harry says, at least 5 more words to follow up on that just on the tip of his tongue. But then Draco runs a gentle hand through Harry’s hair, taking his time with it, the remaining hints of Harry’s migraine from work fading with every curl of hair carefully unknotted. He mumbles this and that, silly, insignificant things, engrossed in his task, and Harry listens carefully as his eyelids lower.

Draco takes off his gold-rimmed glasses (so sweet and soft Harry can barely feel it), cleans them and puts them on a chair. Through half-lidded eyes, Harry watches him cover them both with a quilt and return to Harry’s chest, curling up like a cat. Draco’s arm is around his midriff, peach and cedar pervading his senses anew, and Harry forgets whatever he was going to say.

Cold ankles pressed against bare calves, Harry is already deep asleep when the credits roll.

[ezrasarm]

Hello! I was re-reading Rapture (again!! I love it!!) And I finally decided to ask for something from you just for me. I'd absolutely love Ezra to take me into a beautiful field at sunset and maybe read some of his favourite books to me in THAT voice hnngh. Whether it gets smutty is up to you. Bonus points if Cee thinks we're gross :-)

I’ll Be You, Be Me

Pairing: Ezra x Reader

Word count: 1.1K

Request: Above + Fictional Kiss Prompt 12: a hoarse whisper “kiss me”

Warnings: 10 ply super soft fluff, Ezra’s voice deserves a warning of its own

A/N: Oh my god! Again? You’re too sweet and I love hearing from you! I know this took me a while to get around to. I’ve been so busy these past couple weeks and I’ve had a few other projects on the go that have been taking up the rest of my time… hopefully you’ll get to hear more on that in the not too distant future but for now please enjoy this little somethin’ somethin’ just for you (and I hope you’ll forgive me for merging both your requests but I saw an opportunity and took it 🤷‍♀️😂). Also, anything in italics was NOT written by me. It’s a quote by Jean-Paul Sartre (the original source of which I spent hours searching for to no avail ☹️) but I thought it fit just right so here it is.

His voice, rich and deep, was almost as warm and soothing as the sunlight itself. Now low in the sky, the sun’s caress was still balmy enough to make your muscles feel heavy with comfortable lethargy. Only offset by an occasional silk-like breeze, the rolling hills of tall grass seemed to dance in the soft golden rays as you felt yourself sink into Ezra’s chest, which thrummed against your back with every melodious note he spoke.

“You stand there, you look at them, you touch them, you are warm, you are full of light,” Content in his embrace, the way the words spilled off his tongue wrapped around you, held you close to him, almost as steadily as the strong arm enveloping your waist. Completely transfixed. It compelled you to cling to every utterance that passed his lips.

“and you are not myself. It’s intolerable.” He crooned through his embellished drawl. He had a talent for reading aloud. For making the words dance off the page and form elaborate vignettes in your head. For turning prose to poetry and poetry to song with skillfully measured pauses and inflections.

“I cannot understand why we are still two people. I should like to become you, and still remain myself.” He went on. This, you were sure, was bliss, as you felt his face nuzzle into the nape of your neck, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing soft circles along the skin exposed just under the hem of your shirt.

You had convinced yourself this wasn’t possible. That any chance of a partner, a lasting relationship, some semblance of a family, simply wasn’t in the cards for you. Yet here you were, so tangled in the remaining limbs of the man you loved that you could hardly tell where he ended and you began anymore.

Though the circumstances that led to your introduction may not have been ideal you had both grown to joke that had it not been for the loss of his arm you two would have never met. It was that, after all, which caused his radical change in career path. That led him to the agricultural planet of Urun and that caused him to take up employment on the sprawling ranch you had recently come to acquire. Turns out raising cattle and growing grain required far less fine motor skills than the tedious retrieval of aurelac he had busied himself with before. And with that, he traded in his career for a new kind of harvest.

“Are you still listening, my lark?” Ezra murmured against the shell of your ear when the page didn’t turn the moment he ran out of words to read. His breath tingling across your skin made the hair on the back of your neck stand to attention and caused a welcome shiver to run down your spine. You hadn’t even realized your gaze softening to darkness as your eyelids drooped heavily into your line of vision but here you were being pulled from a state somewhere between waking and sleep.

“Mhmm,” You hummed in return but the quiet yawn that fought its way past your lips did nothing to convince him.

“I hadn’t realized I was boring you,” he huffed through mock offence, an amused smile tugging at his lips that caused an abrupt burst of laughter to bubble from deep in your belly.

“You could never.” You assured him, your fingers coming to lace in the hand which he had splayed across your stomach as you turned to get a better look at him. “It was just...” your words failed you as you attempted to define the unbelievable sense of calm, safety, love and comfort that had become so palpable you could hardly bring yourself to move for fear of breaking it.

“I know.” He said the words with the same tenderness as one would say ‘I love you’. As though in that moment he could read every thought that passed through your mind. His eyes darted back and forth between your own as he studied the way the golden light outlined your features with a kind of fondness you'd had yet to see from him until now. The kind of fondness that came out the other end of disbelief. That sunk in as he realized this was his life now. That this, as dreamlike as it was, wasn’t going to slip through his fingers any time soon.

“Kiss me.” The words were hardly audible as you noticed the way his gaze dropped down to your lips. You weren’t quite sure when but his hand had found the junction where your jaw met your neck and his thumb brushed across the swell of your bottom lip before coming to trace the edge of your jaw admiringly. His nose nudged against your own in a playful gesture that made your mouth tug upwards at the corners. Then his lips were pressed against yours. It was soft. Gentle, yet forceful and all consuming as your lips glided nimbly over one another. Your fingertips had abstractedly come to press into soft flesh just above his hip while your other hand played with the strands of overgrown hair at the nape of his neck. You’d gotten so caught up in the pure euphoria of the moment that you could have easily missed the sound of the book slamming shut behind you, but it was enough to make you jump apart.

“Ugh, You guys are adorable.” Cee spoke from where she herself had had her headphones on, face buried in the notebook that she had been scribbling in furiously. She was so quiet you’d completely forgotten she was there. “It makes me want to puke.” She groaned before clamouring to her feet. You didn’t miss the ever so slightly skewed smirk that toyed on her face as she turned to trudge off in the direction of the house.

“We should probably start thinking about putting dinner together.” You went to excuse yourself, motioning to extract yourself and follow Cee back up the hill but his arm had gripped around your waist again. It was firmer this time as he tugged you back into him, shaking his head as he nuzzled his face into your shoulder and peppered it with a few fleeting kisses.

“Just a moment longer.” He hummed, and who were you to deny him that?

Masterlist

Taglist: @agirllovespasta @chaoticspaceidiot  @engineeredfiction  @pedropascalito  @dreamgirl-67  @wickedfrsgrl  @hillarymurray4 @din-damn-djarin @yespolkadotkitty @wille-zarr @chaotic-noceur @oloreaa @this-cat-is-dea @marydjarin @roxypeanut @opheliaelysia

[questionsonislam]

What are the fundamental or human rights in Islam that had been granted by God?

It should be first looked at the pre-Islamic era to fully understand the human rights that Islam had granted on humans.

1. All of the cultures, nations, and countries during the pre-Islamic era were monarchies. They were ruled by kings, crowns, or emperors. They held absolute authority over their people; hanged, exiled whomever they wanted, and they were responsible to no one.

2. People were divided into various castes. Close relatives of the ruler were considered nobles. They were privileged. The vast majority of people were excluded from the rights of those nobles, they were treated contemptuously. There were great gaps between the classes.

3. Slavery was in use with the utmost savagery. Human dignity was trampled.

4. People were subject to discriminative treatments according to their race, and the color of their skin. Line of descent implied a certain excellence of origin. People were divided up and separated on the basis of their families; abilities, knowledge, morality, virtues did not mean anything.

5. There were no fundamental rights and freedoms. Fundamental rights and freedoms such as freedom of religion and conscience, right of property, latitude of thought were no in use. People had unprecedented tortures because of their beliefs and thoughts.

6. The essential principle of law was trampled. Equality before the law was the last thing that could come to the minds. There was no such a thing as fair and impartial trial. Rights in law were not absolute, personal wishes and interests did for law. Different castes members who committed the same crime were imposed different penalties.

While the world was in such a situation, the religion Islam came and implemented the greatest development of the history of the human kind. If it is examined fairly, long before the declaration of the human rights in Western Cultures, it will be seen that the ultimate humane objectives were ascertained both in the holy Quran and in the Sunnah of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh). In fact, the Prophet Muhammads farewell sermon during the farewell pilgrimage has distinctive principles on the basis of Human rights.

This sermon, in the year 632, was given to more than a hundred thousand Muslims. That is to say, one thousand one hundred and seven years before the declaration of the rights of man and of the citizen in 1789 in France, which is considered the first written text about human rights. Islams new principles about human rights has great impact on the development of Wests human rights struggle.

Humans have distinctive value from other creations. This value increases with believing in God and obeying His rules. By this way, human becomes the most dignified guest of the universe.

Valuableness, because of being a human encircles everyone. Woman or man, young or old, white or black, weak or strong, poor or rich, whichever the religion or race he or she belongs to, this shadow of clemency encircles them all.

Islam, by this way, prevented people from shedding blood unlawfully, protected peoples chastities, properties, and protected them from being exposed to such assaults like breaking into their houses, and moral pressure. Human dignity and honor and the right to have their dignity and honor respected and protected by Islam in the literal sense than ever before.

The principle rights and freedoms that Islam brought are:

1- Any discrimination based on any ground such as race and color has abated by Islam. All men are descendants of Hazrath Adam. No one can choose his race or the color of his skin. It all happens with Gods decision. Discriminating people based on race, skin color and seeing some superior to others is wrong and harmful according to both Islam and Humane reasons. God, in the Quran states, O humankind! Surely We have created you from a single (pair of) male and female, and made you into tribes and families so that you may know one another (and so build mutuality and co-operative relationships, not so that you may take pride in your differences of race or social rank, and breed enmities). (Al-Hujurat Surah, 49:13) as it is clearly seen from the verse, being different should not be simulated as a means of superiority but for building mutuality and co-operative relationships. The following hadith sheds light on the matter. Abu Zarr Ghifari, when, once in a rage called Bilal O son of a Negress, the Prophet did not tolerate this much of intemperance on his part, admonished him and said, "You still smack of the evil traits of Jahiliyah, (that you tried to disgrace him by lowering the dignity of his mother on the basis of color)". Abu Zarr regretted and asked forgiveness from Bilal.

2- Islam has abated the claims of superiority based on descent

3- Islam has given the right to control the administrators to the public. It aimed at abating arbitrary managements, and unjust, unlawful acts of the administrators. Abu Bakr, when he was elected as the first Caliph, did not claim any privileges. In fact, clearly refuted any special status in the opening words (after the pre-amble) of his inauguration sermon, I was assigned to rule you, and I am not the best amongst you. He also went on asking that people would obey him as long as he does his duty properly and that if he does not then he commands not obedience from the people. One day, Omar was giving a sermon in the Mosque and he told the crowd that he was elected as their leader but he was not the best among them. He said that he would try to rule according to the teachings of God and His prophet, but that if he made a mistake, they should correct him. One person rose from the crowd and told Omar that if he deviated from the book, they would correct him with the edge of the sword. He became delighted with the answer.

4- Freedom of thoughts and conscience are the second most important rights of humans after having right to live. Not avowing this right of individuals means decreasing his rank to that of animals. It advocates both freedom of thought and freedom of conscience. With the principle of there is no compulsion in Religion, it does not allow coercing anybody into the Islam.

5- Islam has given great importance to the institution of slavery. And, thus, has given legal status to it. Before Islam, slavery was in use with the utmost savagery. There was no reason to anticipate that slavery would be abated completely, which was widespread in every corner of the world. For this reason, Islam did not abrogated slavery completely but improved it in the most civilized and humane way. On the other hand, made possible the transition from slavery to freedom. Thus, developed such efficient systems to abate slavery completely.

6- Freedom of having property: As well as all the other feelings, God gave us the feeling of ownership and it is a part of our human nature. The Holy Quran states its meaning clear. Islam let individuals to have possessions and laid the groundwork for having possessions lawfully. The right of individual property that Islam acknowledges cannot be intervened without the permission of the owner.

7- Equality before the law: All people are equal before the law (regardless of their ethnicity, belief etc.) as equal as the teeth of a comb. The rule of law is an essential principle in Islam. A state leader or a commoner are both equal before the law. Even if the felon is a state leader he receives punishment. Sultan Mehmed II the conqueror with a Greek architect, Hazrath Ali with a Jew, Salaaddin Ayyubi with an Armenian, all came before the judge. A woman from Banu Makhzum Clan committed theft during Prophet Muhammad's conquest of Mecca, and she was brought to him. the clan of Banu Mahkzum attempted to intercede for her. They sent Usama to God's Messenger (pbuh). Usama, was the son Zayd, and , like Zayd, very dear to him. Unable to resist the insistent pressure from the Banu Makhzum, Usama pleaded with the Prophet for the woman to be excused. Prophet's face turned red with anger and he rebuked the intercessor. And he gave this historic sermon: 'O people! Know of a certainty that the Almighty ruined many of the peoples before you because they did not observe justice. When an influential person among them who had powerful backing committed a crime, they ignored it, but if the same crime was committed by a weak one, they applied the necessary punishment. I swear by God, that if my daughter Fatima steals, I will not hesitate to cut off her hand.' (Bukhari 8:6800; Muslim 3:4187 and 4188) Abu Bakr

8- In Islam, there is no unlawful punishment. No one is responsible for another persons crime. This principle is stated in the Quran as follows, Say: "Am I, then, to seek after someone other than God as Lord when He is the Lord of everything?" Every soul earns only to its own account; and no soul, as bearer of burden, bears and is made to bear the burden of another. Then, to your Lord is the return of all of you, and He will then make you understand (the truth) concerning all that on which you have differed. (Al-Anam Surah, 6:164)

9- Impartiality and independence of the courts principle: Judicial authority in Islam is impartial and independent. Courts are the judicial authority in Islamic countries. Like commoners, the ruler of the states came before the court and punished if seen guilty of a crime.

10- Domiciliar inviolability and privacy of the individual: In Islam, no one or no authority has right to intervene the privacy of the individual. No one has right to enter any ones private property. Inquiring private lives of individuals are strictly impermissible.

11- Freedom of Travel: In Islam, it is stated that traveling is an act both exemplary and healthful, so always prompted.

12- Right to live; protection of the life, property, and chastity: This matter has put forward in the farewell sermon of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) in the most perfect sense. O people: your lives and your property, until the very day you meet your Lord, are as inviolable to each other as the inviolability of this day you are now in, and the month you are now in. Have I given the message? -- O God, be my witness. So let whoever has been given something for safekeeping give it back to him who gave him it.

13- Social Insurance: The Religion Islam provided for the needy in view of the facts such as elderness, sickness, calamities, disasters, and accidents; secured their futures by institutions like Zakat (Almsgiving), and social foundations.

14- Freedom to Work, Wage Equality and Justice: In Islam, working and making an effort for livelihood are valued and encouraged; begging, not working are always seen as In fact, working for the livelihood of ones family is regarded as a prayer with the condition of fulfilling the obligatory prayers. The verse, depicts the importance of working that Islam gives. In addition, Prophet Muhammad has instructed people to pay the wages of their workers before their sweat dry out .Workers, on the other hand, should be honest and sincere in their work for the best of the income.

15- Protecting the Children: In Islam, from the very moment of birth, it is given help to the parents for raising the child, and is granted an allowance from the treasury. Today, in most of the wealthy countries, child support enforcement services help the needy families.

16- Basic Education is free and obligatory. The hadith, To seek knowledge is obligatory unto every Muslim both man and woman, makes Basic Education necessary. Besides, religious, moral, and literary education, professional education should be given, too.

[richincolor]

I’ll admit it, sometimes I’m shallow, and I’ve definitely been known to judge a book by it’s cover. So here are five books coming out this summer that have caught my eye–first for their gorgeous covers, and immediately thereafter for their summaries. Are any of these going on your TBR pile?

Learning to Breathe by Lynn Mather Simon Schuster Books for Young Readers

Sixteen-year-old Indy struggles to conceal her pregnancy while searching for a place to belong in this stunning debut novel that’s perfect for fans of Amber Smith and Sara Zarr.

Indira Ferguson has done her best to live by her Grammy’s rules—to study hard in school, be respectful, and to never let a boy take advantage of her. But it hasn’t always been easy, especially while living in her mother’s shadow.

When Indy is sent to live with distant relatives in Nassau, trouble follows her. Now she must hide an unwanted pregnancy from her aunt, who would rather throw Indy out onto the street than see the truth.

Completely broke with only a hand-me-down pregnancy book as a resource, Indy desperately looks for a safe space to call home. After stumbling upon a yoga retreat, she wonders if perhaps she’s found the place. But Indy is about to discover that home is much bigger than just four walls and a roof—it’s about the people she chooses to share it with.

A Thousand Beginnings and Endings edited by Ellen Oh & Elsie Chapman Greenwillow Books

Star-crossed lovers, meddling immortals, feigned identities, battles of wits, and dire warnings. These are the stuff of fairy tale, myth, and folklore that have drawn us in for centuries.

Fifteen bestselling and acclaimed authors re-imagine the folklore and mythology of East and South Asia in short stories that are by turns enchanting, heartbreaking, romantic, and passionate.

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[snezandsickheadcanons]

so uhhhhhhhhh even if no one else in these parts is into jojo’s bi//zarre adventu//re i thought i might as well share this fic i wrote for it and posted on ao3 awhile back. basically all you need to know is kira is a salaryman with social anxiety and is also a serial killer with a fetish for women’s severed hands. so yeah. also his power (or Stand) is a cat/man shaped thing called killer quee//n. jojo is weird

Normality in Unwellness

Yoshikage Kira prided himself on his immune system. He made sure to pack his diet full of all the nutrients he needed to stay healthy, and never did anything to cause him extra stress or exhaustion. Every year he made sure to get his flu shot on time. He was a perfect pillar of health.

However, even a man such as himself was not immune to the common cold.

Yesterday he felt the beginnings of a scratchy throat and stuffy nose. However, the seasons were changing, and he assumed it could be from the weather. When he got home from work he gargled some salt water and had his beloved help make him some hot tea. That seemed to do the trick, and he went to bed without a care.

But when he woke up today, it was a different story. His head throbbed, and even though his nose was completely stuffed up, when he sat up it ran uncontrollably. Grabbing a tissue from his nightstand, he blew his nose and sighed. This was just excellent. An annoying microscopic pest dared to interfere with his perfect quiet life.

As much as he wished to go back to sleep, he didn’t feel feverish, and he had responsibilities to attend to. Though he’d make sure to drink an extra glass of orange juice at breakfast this morning.

Kira went about his morning as usual, or as usual as possible at least. He kept being interrupted by a tickle in his throat or nose, increasing his agitation. He took his beloved from the fridge and rubbed her soft fingers against his face. “Yes, I’m a little under the weather. I hope you’ll keep me company today… Yes, that’s very sweet of you. I’ll be sure to take it easy. Don’t worry about me,” he said.

He got ready to leave, remembering to take an extra packet of tissues from the cabinet, along with a medical mask. It was the polite thing to do. Plus, a few other people in his office had fallen ill and were wearing them, so he wouldn’t stand out. Giving the hand one last kiss, he put it inside his jacket pocket.

Upon arriving at work a few people said good morning to him as he made his way to his desk. He replied in turn, making just enough small talk to be polite yet not overly friendly. And thus Kira’s work day began.

It wasn’t long before his typing stopped, however. Turning away from his keyboard he squinted his eyes for a moment before catching two sneezes in his elbow, despite already wearing a mask. He sniffed, gave a couple coughs, then turned back to his work.

Yet it happened again, and again. Additionally, with each sneeze Kira’s nose seemed to run more. He had to sniff continuously just to prevent it from dripping down his face. And the sound was driving him crazy. How pathetic was that? Yoshikage Kira being driven mad by his own sniffling.

At last, just when he could take no more, it was lunchtime. Sighing in relief, he arose from his desk and quickly made his way to the men’s bathroom. Once the door behind him was shut he lowered the mask from his face and took a breath of free air. His next breath caught in his chest, and he began to cough. As he kept coughing into his arm he leaned against the sink, free hand clutching the countertop. By the time he was done there were tears in his eyes. Sniffing again, he turned to face the mirror.

To his dismay, he was starting to look sick as well. His complexion had paled significantly since this morning, and dark circles were forming under his eyes. His nostrils were chapped pink and wet, and all the coughing and sneezing had made some of his normally slicked-back hair come loose. Kira was glad he chose to wear a mask today, if not for others than for himself. The dazed look on his face as he was forced to breathe through his mouth was very unattractive.

With another sigh, he drew a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose. One wasn’t enough, however, and he went to grab a second one when he had an idea. Glancing at the bathroom door, he withdrew his beloved and placed the tissue in her fingers. He held the hand-grasped tissue against his face and blew. “Ah, how domestic,” he whispered. “You’re such a caring girlfriend. I’m glad I have you to take care of me.”

Temporarily satisfied, he put the hand back and his pocket, washed his hands, put the mask back up, and left the bathroom. It was still lunchtime, and it would probably be good to eat something. However, he didn’t seem to have much of an appetite. It would be a waste to go to St. Gentleman and not be able to smell one of their delicious sandwiches. He decided to settle on cup noodles and mineral water from the vending machine, just for today.

The workday resumed, and Kira did his best to not let the growing distractions bother him. In addition to all of the interruptions from this morning, the room seemed to be getting colder. Or was it hotter? He couldn’t tell. That was odd. And despite how many times he rubbed his eyes, his computer screen was still fuzzy. His pounding headache from this morning hadn’t gone away, and it seemed to be getting worse. As he tried again to focus on the words in front of him, he wiped some sweat from his brow. Wait, sweat? Why was he sweating? Though he supposed it could be from how cold it was in here. Wait. That was wrong.

He pushed through the suffering, knowing that soon the workday would be over and he could go home and sleep. He was so close, when his boss approached his desk.

“Have you finished that—” His boss cut himself off, taken aback. “Kira-kun, you look terrible! Why don’t you go home a little early? I’ll call a taxi for you.”

Kira felt his face reddening more than must have already been from his fever flush. How humiliating. In front of all his coworkers. Declining would make him stand out even more, so he reluctantly agreed.

To make things even worse, as soon as he got into the cab he began hacking up a lung. The driver gave him a look in the rear view mirror. Trying not to make eye contact, once the fit subsided Kira leaned against the cool window.

The next thing he knew someone was shaking his arm. “Mister. Hey, Mister.”

Kira opened his eyes and saw they were parked in front of his house. He’d fallen asleep just in that short drive. How awful. A horrible end to a horrible day.

Though now at last he was free. As soon as he was in the safety of his own home he ran a hand through his hair and doubled over coughing. Once he was finished, he made quick work of getting a glass of water, taking some medicine, changing into pajamas, and getting into bed.

It had been a long time since he’d had a cold, and even longer since he’d had a fever. He placed his beloved on his forehead, the lifeless fingers getting tangled in his sweaty bangs. He moaned at the cool touch of her skin on his. It might shorten their relationship by a bit, but he swore he could fall asleep just like that.

Suddenly he felt another hand on his face. Opening his eyes he found Killer Queen’s large yellow ones staring back at him. He hadn’t even noticed he’d brought it out, yet here it was petting him. Its hand wasn’t quite a solid object, not quite hot nor cold, soft nor firm, but despite that it somehow still felt nice.

He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, but he tossed and turned with chills and fever sweats. Every cough and sneeze stung his throat until his voice was so weak he couldn’t even groan. Once his arm got tired of reaching to the nightstand for a tissue he simply pulled the box over to him and hugged it against his chest.

Kira laid like that for god knows how long, before at last falling into a restless sleep. The dreams were all too real, but he didn’t remember a single one once the sound of his alarm drilled holes in his brain.

It took all his strength just to force his eyes open. His bedroom swam before him. Attempting to sit up only led to seeing stars. Pressing his palm against his forehead, Kira could feel the burning heat sweltering around him. And someone seemed to have misplaced a taiko drum in his skull.

With a few tries, he was able to stand. Eventually he was able to stumble close enough to the bathroom for Killer Queen to reach the medicine cabinet. It grabbed a thermometer and floated on back to Kira, dropping it in his hands before disappearing. Collapsing back into bed, Kira had his beloved hold the thermometer for him as he placed it in his mouth.

39.2

With a grimace and an exhausted sneeze, Kira grabbed the phone on his nightstand. Regardless of how embarrassing it would be to call in sick, there was no way he could make it to work like this.

Once that was done, he laid back down and pulled the covers up. It did little to stop the chills, but the soft sheets felt good. With the severed hand tucked in his arms like a stuffed animal, and Killer Queen holding him from behind, he fell back to sleep.

Yoshikage Kira rarely got sick. However, the occasional illness was just another part of a quiet life.

[tessatechaitea]

Man of Steel #1

Imagine trying to get fans rabidly excited about a new Superman event and the only adjective you can come up with is "weekly."

Rogol Zaar is a combination of Lobo, Battalion, and Perry White.

The part of the story we all still know because I'm assuming it's the same is that Superman escaped the death of Krypton. That means Rogol Zarr is probably about to learn that a baby survived and he's going to blow his frontal lobe. He's going to have such a murder boner going to complete his act of genocide that Superman is going to be all, "Whoa, dude. I think you have the wrong idea about me and my sexy body," when they finally meet. In the opening scene in Metropolis, Superman makes friends with Killer Moth and Firefly. Then when he deals with a fire in a high rise, he imparts some of his mother's wisdom on the reader: "Fire is fire." So I guess in Bendis's retelling of the Superman myth, Ma Kent was a simple woman. At the scene of the fire, Superman meets a female firefighter with whom he flirts. He's all, "You should call Clark Kent and tell him all about this tomorrow. Don't call Lois though! Lois can't find out Clark is talking to you and probably having lunch with you maybe?" Then he flies off and female firefighter Melody Moore causes more water damage to the smoldering building. You understood that was a filthy joke, right?! I'm beginning to see why people like Bendis. He has characters talk a lot. Talking a lot is always good. It's much better than characters shouting shallow one liners at one another in an attempt to fool the reader into thinking the writer knows what they're doing. In this brief post-fire scene, we see that Superman is kind and thoughtful and not averse to stepping out on Lois Lane. Most of the issue is Superman and Clark Kent going about their day to day business. It's really all I ask of a comic book! Especially when those things are filled with conversations that build characters rather than first person omniscient narration boxes which tell the reader exactly what's going on and leave no room for ambiguity. Like if this were written by Scott Lobdell, Superman would have thought, upon meeting the firefighter, "She really wants to lick my butthole! But I would never let her because I love Lois Lane so much!" But without the narration boxes, the reader simply gets knowing looks and crooked little smiles and I think I might have noticed a slightly larger bulge in Superman's red underwear. Bendis allows me to jump to the awful conclusions I want to jump to rather than reining me in and telling me exactly what's going on so I can't have any dirty fun. Filling in the negative spaces of Superman's life is the story of Rogol Zaar and how he wanted to destroy Krypton but the Council of Eternal Elders tells him he can't. He probably still will but that's for another issue. By the end of this issue, Lois says something that's actually funny and then Superman, Lois, and Jon all disappear in a fade to white. That's supposed to keep you excited for the next weekly installment of this weekly Superman event. So week! Rating: I so wanted to shit all over Bendis's writing the way Bendis shit all over DiDio's desk but instead I wound up enjoying this story. I sincerely appreciate when Superman is written as a kind person with a subtle sense of humor and a raging hard on for redheads. Hopefully Issue #2 will suck so I can let loose this shit that I now have to hold in! Quick! Somebody get me an Ann Nocenti comic book so I can relieve myself! P.S. For more terribly vulgar comic book reviews, subscribe to the E!TACT Newsletter!. It's terrific!

[krissysbookshelf]

Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek of: Gem & Dixie by Sara Zarr!

Gem has never known an adult she can rely on, the one constant in her life has been her sister, Dixie. Gem grew up taking care of her sister when no one else could. Even as Gem and Dixie have grown apart, they've always had each other. When their dad returns home for the first time in years, Gem finds herself with an unexpected opportunity: three days with Dixie—on their own in Seattle and beyond. But this short trip soon becomes something more, as Gem discovers that that to save herself, she may have to sever the one bond she's tried so hard to keep.  

LEARN MORE

  WHERE ARE we going? Dixie would ask.

The forest, I’d say. Or, Space.

She never questioned me.

We need to pack survival rations, I’d tell her.

What’s that?

Food and water and gum and stuff.

She’d help me make butter-and-jelly sandwiches on soft, white bread. If we had chocolate chips, we’d sprinkle those in, too, and mash the bread down hard so they wouldn’t fall out. I’d lift her to the kitchen sink so she could fill a bottle with water, and I’d roll up a beach towel; then we’d put it all into the picnic basket that was really just a paper grocery bag on which I’d drawn a basket weave pattern with a green marker—badly, crookedly.

We would put on our jackets and shoes, and I’d make her close her eyes and I’d lead her around the apartment and spin her in circles and then say:

We’re here. Open your eyes.

I knew, and she knew, we weren’t in space or the forest or Narnia or anywhere other than our shitty apartment. Still, when she opened her eyes, they’d go big and bright. She was good at make-believe. My favorite thing was how she always skipped into whatever fantasy place we’d gone to. As soon as her eyes were open, she’d start skipping all around the living room and up and down the hall.

We’re in space, I might say. You can’t skip in space.

I can.

Okay, but you can only skip really slow in space because there’s no gravity.

Mid-skip she’d switch to slow motion and try to make her arms and legs more floaty. Then she’d get tired of it and get hot in her jacket and say it was time to go home.

No, we’re not going home. We’re never going home. I don’t remember when I started saying that part.

She’d stop squirming. What about Mom? And Daddy?

We’ll leave a note.

Then we’d spread the beach towel on the living room floor and if I forgot to bring crayons or markers to space I’d run into our room and get them, and we’d draw a good-bye note, our stick figures flying up to the moon and holding hands as we waved good-bye forever to our parents. Dixie liked to draw stars behind our heads like halos.

She used to play along. She used to believe everything I told her, and do anything I said.

She used to need me to take care of her, and I liked doing it. I liked doing it because, then, I thought I was the one who could. Even though nobody was taking care of me.

1.

NINE QUARTERS.

They were the last of what had been left in the jar of laundry money that Dixie and I kept in our room, the jar that had never quite lost the smell of pickle relish. I counted and recounted the quarters in my pocket with my fingertips as the lunch line moved forward, as I’d counted and recounted them through English, physiology, and government. I counted because things in my life had a way of disappearing on me, and I’d learned not to trust what I thought was there.

What was there wasn’t enough—three quarters short of the cost of lunch—but I stayed in the line anyway as it moved me toward the food. Lunch roulette. Luca, the cafeteria worker on the register, might find seventy-five cents for me in his pocket. Or someone else in line might cover it, out of impatience or pity, which were just as good as kindness on a day that hungry. I hadn’t eaten more than a candy bar since the potluck in my fourth-period Spanish class the day before.

Denny Miller and Adam Johnson—freshmen—stood right in front of me in the line; Tremaine Alvarado and Katy Plant, juniors like me, stood behind. Tremaine was on my PE volleyball team. She’d stare through me on the court, or jostle me while we rotated to the serve, without saying sorry or excuse me or anything else that showed she thought of me as an actual person with a name. Katy Plant thought it was funny to call me “Jim” and got other people to do it, too. I don’t know what’s worse—people acting like you don’t have a name, or them saying it wrong on purpose. The point is I wouldn’t be asking Katy or Tremaine for a handout.

Not that I wanted to ask anyone for a handout. But being hungry—I mean really hungry—had a way of erasing a lot of the embarrassment. And Denny and Adam were easy, being the kind of undersized freshmen who still looked more like seventh graders.

“Denny,” I said.

Both Denny and Adam turned around. I could see them wondering how I knew his name. I knew it because they were both listed on a program from the last band concert, and it was posted in one of the display cases outside the counseling office, under a picture of the band. I spent a lot of time there. I knew not only their names, but that Adam played clarinet and Denny played trumpet and had a solo in “Stars and Stripes Forever.” They both had floppy hair and bad skin. Adam was taller, which helped me tell them apart.

“Can I borrow seventy-five cents?” I asked quietly.

“Me?” Denny pointed to himself.

“Either of you.”

The line moved and the smell of ravioli and garlic bread got stronger. My stomach seemed to fold in on itself.

“I use a lunch card,” Denny said.

“Yeah,” Adam said. “Me too.”

They turned their backs to me. Just because their parents loaded up cafeteria cards with money didn’t mean they didn’t also have some cash. I checked on Katy and Tremaine behind me; Katy was busy showing Tremaine something on her phone. I leaned closer to Denny. “But maybe you have some change or something?”

He drew back and shook his head. I wondered whether I’d tell Mr. Bergstrom about this in our appointment later and if I did, how I would describe it in a way that made me not look too bad.

I tried Adam. “Do you know Dixie True?”

That got his attention. “Um, yeah.”

“She’s in our social studies class,” Denny added, facing me again. “And English.”

“That’s my sister.” Maybe if they knew that, I would seem more interesting than weird.

They exchanged a glance.

“Really?” Denny’s voice cracked on the end of the word. Adam laughed through his nose.

“Ask her next time you see her.”

They wouldn’t, not boys like this, zit-faced and probably still playing with action figures in secret. They might sneak looks at Dixie but they wouldn’t dare say a word to her.

Denny pulled a wrinkled dollar bill from his pocket. “You can pay me back tomorrow, though, right?”

“I’ll look for you,” I promised, taking the money.

A couple of minutes later I had my tray of ravioli and garlic bread, a sad iceberg salad with two croutons, and a carton of milk. When I got to Luca at the register, he shook his head. “I saw that.”

I handed him the bill plus eight of the quarters. He shifted on his stool, the sleeves of his green school jacket swishing against his sides while he rang me up. “If you don’t have money,” he said, “you should get your parents to fill out the form online so you can get free lunch. How many times I gotta tell you?”

I stared at the peeling yellow school logo over his heart. Half of a lion’s mane, a third of its face. “Okay.”

“‘Okay,’” he said, imitating me. “You say ‘okay,’ then you’ll be back here hustling quarters in line tomorrow, these poor little freshmen.” He wasn’t talking loud but not quiet, either, and I imagined Katy hearing every word.

“Those are my sister’s friends,” I said, and decided that’s what I’d tell Mr. Bergstrom if it came up. “I’m going to pay him back.”

 “You always had money in the fall. What happened?”

 “I saved from my job last summer. That’s all gone.”

Since January.

His hands hovered around the register drawer for a second. Then he said, “Here’s your change.”

“But—” I was sure I’d given him three dollars exactly.

“Here’s your change, Gem,” he said again, putting four quarters in my palm.

“Thank you.”

He waved me away, and I took my ravioli to a quiet corner to eat.

“Is that supposed to be me?”

Mr. Bergstrom had gotten a new whiteboard. He’d drawn a stick figure, falling. I knew it was falling from the way the stick arms and stick legs pointed slightly upward, like gravity was pulling on its stick middle.

“I’m not a great artist but, yes, it’s meant to represent you. Here . . .” Bergstrom added some strands of hair that flew up, then capped his dry-erase marker and sat back down. “Is it at least close? Is this how you feel?”

“I don’t know.” In the way that she was alone, maybe, but even falling she looked more free than I felt. I got up and held my hand out for the marker. I drew a box around the falling girl. That didn’t look right, either. “This is dumb.” I picked up the eraser and wiped it all away.

“Maybe.” He smiled. He had a good smile and a good face, and a way of looking right at me without making me feel like I was being studied in some lab. He was way better than old Mr. Skaarsgard, the school psychologist he’d replaced at the beginning of the school year. Skaarsgard would always furrow his white eyebrows at me and make me feel like nothing I said made sense. Maybe it didn’t, but at least Mr. Bergstrom tried.

Normally I saw him a couple of times a week, not always on the same days, sometimes after school and sometimes during it, depending what was going on. I know it was a lot. Some kids at school could go a whole semester, even all of high school, without seeing him once. But right at the beginning of freshman year I sort of had this incident in pre-algebra, and my teacher referred me and then I was on the permanent rotation, first with Skaarsgard, now Bergstrom.

“What’s the box?” he asked. “That’s what it was, right?”

I shrugged.

“You feel . . .” He trailed off and I knew I was supposed to complete the sentence.

“I mean, you can’t put me on there with nothing else,” I said, pointing at the blank whiteboard. “You have to draw Dixie and my mom, and our apartment and school.”

“Earlier, you said you felt alone.”

“I do.” My hands curled up on my knees, my nails pressed into my palms. This office was always hot and small. I shook my head, not knowing how to explain feeling alone but also trapped in the middle of people and places that didn’t let me move or breathe.

Mr. Bergstrom had plain brown eyes, a little bit small for his face, but I could almost always see sympathy in them, like now. “It’s okay, Gem,” he said. “I know it’s hard to put into words.”

I opened my hands and took a breath.

“Do you want to update me on things with your mom?” he asked.

“They’re fine.”

“Fine? Last time we talked you seemed pretty worried about her. And Dixie.”

Sometimes, at our appointments, I’d tell him a lot, and it felt good in the moment, finally saying the things I’d had stuck in my head all that week. But then I’d be in bed those nights, and a smothering kind of panic would settle on me that I’d said too much. Like I’d given away something I needed and couldn’t get back.

“You said not to worry, so I stopped.”

“Well. I think I said it wasn’t your job to worry about your mom, it’s her job to worry about you. But I know it’s not that simple. Especially with Dixie.” He smiled again. “And I know you didn’t just stop worrying, Gem.”

I looked at the clock. “I have to go to detention. My bus was late this morning.”

He nodded. “Okay.” He wheeled his chair back. “We’re not scheduled again until next week, but come say hi anytime.” That’s how he always ended our meetings. Come say hi anytime. I liked knowing I could.

By the time I got home, it was twilight. Detention had made me miss my bus connection, so I’d walked, the chill and damp of Seattle a force I pressed against with every step. It was March, and things would get better and lighter soon, just not yet. Having to walk meant I missed my afternoon cigarette, too, on my bench in my park. The smoking time, which no one but me knew about, was when I didn’t feel the cage or the box or whatever it was. It made space for me and my thoughts. Without it I felt like part of me was left behind, trying to catch up.

The security gate at the front of our apartment building stood ajar despite the signs all over the entryway reminding residents in capital letters to MAKE SURE the gate stayed LOCKED SECURELY because there had been CRIMINAL INCIDENTS. The dark corridor between the gate and our stairwell always scared me, especially when the gate was left open.

I pulled it closed behind me, then checked the lock. Then I checked the lock again and told myself I could stop checking. But halfway down the corridor I went back to check it again. Then, grasping the pepper spray on my key chain, I went up the three flights of stairs—past all the handwriten notes old Mrs. Wu left everywhere about noise, garbage, pets, smoking—and into our apartment.

Dixie was home. She had the TV on and a sandwich in one hand, her phone in the other, homework all over the floor where she sat. She’d changed clothes since I’d seen her at school that morning—from jeans and a hoodie to shorts over tights and a green V-neck T-shirt that showed a lot. I had on baggy jeans and a plain blue sweater that would have hidden everything if there’d been anything to hide. As usual, she looked like the older sister.

She looked up. “I heard you stole money from some freshman today.”

Dixie had ways of knowing nearly everything that happened to me at school.

“Borrowed money,” I clarified.

“Why’d you have to tell them I was your sister?”

“You are my sister.”

“Thanks for embarrassing me.”

“You’re welcome.”

In our bedroom I put my backpack on my pillow with the straps toward the wall. My keys went on top of the cardboard box on its side that I used as a sort of nightstand. My shoes went inside the box, laces hanging out. I hung my jacket on the closet doorknob and put on the thick socks I always wore around our apartment. Whenever Dixie saw me doing this stuff, or checking the gate lock more than twice, she’d tease me and say I had OCD. But Mr. Bergstrom asked me a bunch of questions about it and said I didn’t fit the diagnosis, that it was more like I had a few rituals that helped me feel in control, and they didn’t interfere with my life, and it wasn’t the same thing. “Plus, from what you’ve told me about where you live,” he’d said, “checking the gate lock sounds like plain common sense.”

I confirmed one more thing—that my stash of cigarettes was still under the bed—then went back to the living room. The onion smell of Dixie’s sandwich made me salivate.

“Did you get that from Napoleon?” I asked.

She chewed and stared at me like, Obviously. Napoleon was the older guy who worked at the deli down the block and had a crush on Dixie—like a hundred other guys.

“Can I have some?” The ravioli from lunch seemed forever ago.

“No,” she said, but held it out anyway. I sat on the floor next to her and took a bite. Then another. Roast beef. Avocado. Cheddar cheese. Thin-sliced red onion and a hard sourdough roll. It was perfect, as if all of Napoleon’s craving for Dixie had been slathered onto that sandwich. I swallowed huge pieces of it, half chewed and sharp with mustard.

Dixie watched me eat. “You can finish that if you’ll go down and get the laundry from the dryer.”

“You did laundry? With what money?”

“Money I had.”

“I’m not going down there at night,” I said.

“It’s not night.”

She tried to take the sandwich away from me; I held it out of her reach. “It’s dark, though.”

“I washed some of your clothes, too, Gem. Do you want them to get stolen?” She lunged again for the sandwich.

“O-kay,” I said. I finished it and went the five steps to the kitchenette to throw away the white paper it had been wrapped in.

“Did you see your shrink today?”

“He’s not a shrink. He’s just a school psychologist.” I opened the fridge. There were a few stale corn tortillas, an opened bag of green beans, ketchup, and a white plastic butter dish with maybe a teaspoon of butter left, crumbs stuck all over it. Same as that morning.

“You should get him to send you to a real shrink. Say you need Adderall. You could sell it at school and then you’d have some money.” I’d heard that Dixie helped some seniors sell their prescriptions at school. I didn’t want to know. “I can tell you what symptoms to have,” she said.

“No thanks.”

I imagined going down to the laundry room. The lights could have burned out again. Sometimes there were noises that might be a zipper clanging against the dryer door, or might be rats or a creepy neighbor.

“Let’s go get the laundry together,” I said to Dixie.

She looked up from her homework. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“‘What?’” she repeated, in a bad imitation of my voice. “I already took my shoes off.”

“So did I. Put them back on.”

I went to the bedroom to get mine. When I came out, Dixie stood by the door forcing her flip-flops over her tights.

“You’re going to fall down the stairs and die,” I said as she shuffle-walked to me.

She shrugged.

I knelt to tie my laces. “Where’s Mom?”

“Out.”

“I know. Out where?”

“Work, I guess?”

I straightened up and we faced each other.

“Do you think Napoleon would give me a sandwich?”

She laughed. “Well, you might have to flash your boobs.”

“Is that what you do?”

“No! I’m joking, Gem, obviously. Do you really—” She shook her head. “You never get my jokes.”

It didn’t matter. I knew exactly why Dixie got sandwiches and why I wouldn’t.

Dixie is pretty. No one in our family is beautiful the way movie stars are beautiful, but she’s the type of girl who gets second, third, fourth looks—as many looks as people can get away with before she stares them down. She’s soft in the sense of being curvy, and hard in the sense of not taking any shit. She’s cute—her hair, her clothes, the faces she makes when she’s surprised or mad or thinks something is funny. And intimidating. She exudes a sexuality, but in a way where it’s like it’s for her, not for anyone else. It started in junior high, and by the time she got to high school, people couldn’t spend five minutes with Dixie before they wanted to give her things, feed her, touch her, get her to smile, be her friend, be her boyfriend. She got sandwiches, she got her cell phone bill paid, she got attention when she wanted and deflected it when she didn’t.

Whereas I still hadn’t figured out how to make and keep a friend.

I stared, she stared back. For her it was a game. She thought I was trying to get her to look away first. But really it was me trying to see who I was through Dixie’s eyes, me wondering if she evaluated me and my face and clothes and body, the ways I made it through the world, like I evaluated hers.

Did she look for herself in me, the way I looked for myself in her?

Finally she broke, and laughed. “You’re such a weirdo, Gem,” she said. “You probably scared that freshman with your creepy eyes.”

I didn’t want her to see I couldn’t take a joke, so I bugged my eyes at her to make them even creepier.

“Ew,” she said with an exaggerated shudder. “Let’s go downstairs before the rats come out.”

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[rhiannonkthomas]

April Book Love

A few book recommendations from the things I read last month!

One of Us is Lying by Karen M. McManus doesn't come out until May 30th, but I was lucky enough to get an advanced copy of it from the publishers, and it is a fantastic book. It's billed as "The Breakfast Club meets Pretty Little Liars," and that feels like a pretty apt description. A princess, a brain, a jock, and a criminal all end up in detention with the outcast, Simon, the mind behind their school's infamous gossip site. By the end of detention, Simon is dead. Someone in the room must have been involved in his murder. And all of them have secrets that they might have killed to keep.

I genuinely could not put this book down. After something of a reading slump, I devoured it almost in one sitting. It has some dark themes, and some great character psychology, but it's also incredibly readable, and, dare I say it, fun. I got deeply invested in trying to solve the mystery. I grew to care a lot about the characters. I wanted to see what would happen in the future, and know what had happened in the past.

And, when the answer came, I was delighted to find that I'd figured out some of what had happened, but not all of it. The clues were there, and it's definitely possibly to piece them together, but it's a book that makes you feel clever as you read it and solve it, without failing to offer some surprises too.

Honestly, I loved this one. I really, really recommend it!

Gem & Dixie by Sara Zarr is another advanced copy I was lucky enough to get my hands on, although I'm a bit behind with talking about it, because it came out April 4th. I love Sara Zarr's powerful and painfully real contemporary novels, so I was really eager to pick this one up.

Gem & Dixie is a novel about two sisters, 17-year-old Gem and 14-year-old Dixie, who live with their neglectful mother and haven't seen their father in years. Gem has dedicated her life to protecting her sister, but Dixie resents her for her protection. Gem feels like the unwanted one, the burden, and when a chance appears to run away and leave them all behind for good, she has to figure out if she can abandon her sister, if it means saving herself.

In the end, Gem & Dixie wasn't my favorite book by Sara Zarr. It's very emotional, and very painful to read, but it didn't quite pull me in as much as some of her previous novels. Still, if you're looking for something raw and realistic, you can't go wrong with Zarr's books, Gem & Dixie included.

The Upside of Unrequited by Becky Albertalli is just about the most adorable book ever. It's a slice of life contemporary novel, a group of friends over the summer, struggling with growing up. Twins Molly and Cassie have always been inseparable, but when Cassie gets a girlfriend, Molly begins to feel left out. What happens when she and her sister grow up and grow apart? How will she cope with being left behind?

Then answer, Cassie insists, is that Molly needs to stop having meaningless unrequited crushes on boys and actually get a boyfriend. Someone like Cassie's girlfriend's friend Will, for example, a hipster redhead who seems to like Molly. If Molly and Cassie can date best friends, maybe things won't have to change. But then Molly starts developing feelings for completely the wrong guy, her nerdy coworker Reid. He loves Ren Faire and wears Game of Thrones t-shirts, and he definitely doesn't fit in with Cassie's cool new crowd. But maybe Molly doesn't care?

Everything about The Upside of Unrequited just feels so real. The emotions resonate, the dialogue sounds like actual conversation, and the way these characters love and hurt each other is so flawed and relatable. I absolutely devoured this book, and I loved every minute.

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas was the focus of a lot of conversation in March, but it only came out in the UK a few weeks ago, so I'm a little bit behind. The Hate U Give is a novel inspired by the Black Lives Matter movement, about a girl who is the only witness to her friend's murder by police. It's a powerful novel, and a challenging one, at least for this white girl from the north of England. The fact is that African American characters and communities are not frequently represented in mainstream fiction that makes it across the pond, so it was a much bigger leap in perspective for me than I had anticipated -- not in sympathising with the characters, who are all vibrant and flawed and wonderfully portrayed, but in understanding the dialect and slang.

This is an important book, and a painful book, but it's also immensely readable and full of heart. Everyone should read it.

As for books for May, I have a copy of A Court of Wings and Ruin arriving today that I'm admittedly super wary about. I used to loooove Sarah J Maas's books, but Empire of Storms was a hot mess, so... we'll see. I'm hoping it'll be good, but I won't be surprised if it's full of all kinds of misogyny and homophobia in the guise of humor and romance. I've not read any reviews, so we'll see.

I've got a few more advanced copies I need to dive into -- The Whole Thing Together by Ann Brashares, Girl Out of Water by Laura Silverman, The Art of Not Breathing by Sarah Alexander -- and after finishing rereading A Room With a View, I think I'm going to try The Awakening by Kate Chopin. It's definitely a book that a feminist English major should have read before, don't you think?

[richincolor]

New Releases

If you’re looking for something to read this summer, there’s plenty out there. Check out these upcoming new releases, out tomorrow (6/26)!

A Thousand Beginnings and Endings edited by Ellen Oh & Elsie Chapman

Star-crossed lovers, meddling immortals, feigned identities, battles of wits, and dire warnings. These are the stuff of fairy tale, myth, and folklore that have drawn us in for centuries. Fifteen bestselling and acclaimed authors re-imagine the folklore and mythology of East and South Asia in short stories that are by turns enchanting, heartbreaking, romantic, and passionate.

Compiled by We Need Diverse Books’s Ellen Oh and Elsie Chapman, the authors included in this exquisite collection are: Renee Ahdieh, Sona Charaipotra, Preeti Chhibber, Roshani Chokshi, Aliette de Bodard, Melissa de la Cruz, Julie Kagawa, Rahul Kanakia, Lori M. Lee, E. C. Myers, Cindy Pon, Aisha Saeed, Shveta Thakrar, and Alyssa Wong.

A mountain loses her heart. Two sisters transform into birds to escape captivity. A young man learns the true meaning of sacrifice. A young woman takes up her mother’s mantle and leads the dead to their final resting place. From fantasy to science fiction to contemporary, from romance to tales of revenge, these stories will beguile readers from start to finish. For fans of Neil Gaiman’s Unnatural Creatures and Ameriie’s New York Times–bestselling Because You Love to Hate Me. [Image and summary via Goodreads]

Learning to Breathe by Lynn Mather

Sixteen-year-old Indy struggles to conceal her pregnancy while searching for a place to belong in this stunning debut novel that’s perfect for fans of Amber Smith and Sara Zarr. Indira Ferguson has done her best to live by her Grammy’s rules—to study hard in school, be respectful, and to never let a boy take advantage of her. But it hasn’t always been easy, especially while living in her mother’s shadow.

When Indy is sent to live with distant relatives in Nassau, trouble follows her. Now she must hide an unwanted pregnancy from her aunt, who would rather throw Indy out onto the street than see the truth. Completely broke with only a hand-me-down pregnancy book as a resource, Indy desperately looks for a safe space to call home. After stumbling upon a yoga retreat, she wonders if perhaps she’s found the place. But Indy is about to discover that home is much bigger than just four walls and a roof—it’s about the people she chooses to share it with. [Image and summary via Goodreads]

Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1) by Rebecca Roanhorse

While most of the world has drowned beneath the sudden rising waters of a climate apocalypse, Dinétah (formerly the Navajo reservation) has been reborn. The gods and heroes of legend walk the land, but so do monsters.

Maggie Hoskie is a Dinétah monster hunter, a supernaturally gifted killer. When a small town needs help finding a missing girl, Maggie is their last—and best—hope. But what Maggie uncovers about the monster is much larger and more terrifying than anything she could imagine. Maggie reluctantly enlists the aid of Kai Arviso, an unconventional medicine man, and together they travel to the rez to unravel clues from ancient legends, trade favors with tricksters, and battle dark witchcraft in a patchwork world of deteriorating technology. As Maggie discovers the truth behind the disappearances, she will have to confront her past—if she wants to survive. Welcome to the Sixth World. [Image and summary via Goodreads]