#haven't done much image description before

[ladydragonkiller]

Transcript for easier copying/accessibility!

(first image):

A tweet from Bandcamp United, reading as follows: "Bandcamp United is calling on supporters to e-mail leadership asking them to cease union busting. We've got a sample script for y'all, and a link in bio for more options on how to help!

(second image):

Instructions:

We're calling on our supporters to email Bandcamp's leadership and call for no more union busting. We expect leadership may filter out certain words, so feel free to get creative. We encourage you to keep it positive and remind Ethan that our union will be good for Bandcamp. When you're done, grab a screenshot of your email and tag us on social media @BandcampUnited.

(third image):

Example Email:

To: ethan@bandcamp.com

Dear Ethan,

I am writing to ask that Bandcamp and Epic leadership uphold worker's right to form an inclusive union and stop all union-busting. Bandcamp has been a lifeline for artists and labels in the past couple of years, and I am disappointed to see a platform dedicated to fairness infringe on worker's rights to form a union. All workers deserve a seat at the table when deciding their working conditions.

Another union shout out — Bandcamp workers are organizing with Tech Workers Union Local 1010 and need your support! Email ethan@bandcamp.com with your support for the workers and their right to organize, and follow Bandcamp United on twitter to keep up with their campaign for equity in the workplace.

[hypermoyashi]

[Image Description: A guest ao3 user with a redacted name over a comment reading, "Nobody is going to lose their shit over someone being a demisexual. Lmao nobody gives a shit about it. Some people really wanna be oppressed huh"

A reply from the fic writer below reads, "You know, I’d be less disappointed in you and this comment if I didn’t have a giant beginning author’s note explaining that this whole fic was based on my real-life experiences as a non-binary demi person. So I hate to break it to you, but I have had people freak out on me when I tried to come out as demi to them.

There’s a term my girlfriend used—the “oppression olympics.” It’s where some queer people make oppression and who faces the worst of it some sort of competition, and ace people have been perpetually excluded from and minimized from the community because we’re “not oppressed enough.” This is something I had to unlearn when I was going through my journey, because I always saw myself as a less legitimate member of it growing up because my friends suffered more. I had friends whose mothers would cry at the sight of them in a skirt. I had friends who were made to sleep on their porches. And me? Well, I looked straight. I looked cis. I didn’t date. I didn’t know who I was. So if someone who’s faced more hardship because of their identity tells me that my identity is harmful to them, was I going to believe them? As a young, questioning queer person, I did. This was ten years ago. The community from back then isn’t the same community it is today.

The thing of it is, is that your identity shouldn’t be defined by how oppressed you are. Being oppressed doesn’t somehow make you more or less legitimate. Being queer isn’t about that. We’re more than our oppression.

Sharing this wasn’t about going “oh I’m so oppressed, give me attention.” It was just about sharing my experiences online through my writing. There are ace people who have experienced far worse than me, and while my heart goes out to them, it doesn’t make my experience any less valid. We all go through different journeys, and we experience different things. Being able to share these journeys with one another is a part of what makes creating so rewarding.

So yes, Mx. Redacted Username, I am disappointed in you. I think it’s sad that, as a member of the LGBTQIA+ community judging on your username, you would come on here to actively discourage ace people from sharing their experiences. I wonder if you would do the same to a trans, non-binary, lesbian, or gay person talking about experiences related to those identities. I’m afraid you might be doing an acephobia here, Mx. Redacted Username, by actively discouraging ace people from sharing their experiences.

So I hope you take a moment to sit down and re-examine your internal bias and why you would bother to come online and tell ace people to shut up. But at the end of that day? We’re all members of the LGBTQIA+ community. I think we should make efforts to make it a more welcoming and inclusive community, and when people share their experiences? Well, I think we should listen and not dismiss people."]

So. My point in sharing this on Tumblr is that it's important to recognize that acephobic attitudes are still alive and well, even in fandom communities, and it's important to stop and examine your internal bias every now and then.

And most importantly? If you're about to leave a comment on a fic where a writer has shared their own personal experience, and you're going to tell them in any way, shape, or form that they should shut up? Maybe don't leave that comment and take a step back.

[peridots-pixiwolf]

sketches from @mipexch 's whiteboard a couple days ago!!

also feat. a very small reference to @onlineviolence :]

[thetravelingmaster]

Reasons Why you Should Check Out ROM

(readonlymind.com)

I've done a similar posts before for this site when I first joined up ROM as an author, but I feel like it deserves a little boost and some visibility out here as one of the many sites where one can enjoy erotic mind control literature. And also, because I'm a little selfish! I figure that if more people know about it, there's going to be more erotic stories to read.

Back when I joined, thanks to @arihi 's post on the matter during the 2018 tumblrapocalypse, I believe that there were barely 150 authors that published on the site, but as of today, that number has risen to 446. The list keeps growing and so does the variety of stories available.

Much like mcstories.com, the site is very easy to navigate and search through, even if you aren't 'logged in' as an author or reader. It offers us simple ways to search out and find the stories or authors we most want to read about. They've done an awesome job with the tag system so that regardless of which story you are reading, you can click on a tag to see what other stories that have the same theme.

It's a lot like a porn site actually, but for mind control themes.

And speaking of the tags...

The search function is rather advanced. Not only can you click a specific tag to see which stories have them, but you can also use the 'advanced search' to combine them and refine your search. You can add as many as you want to really find out if a specific theme is available. In fact you can also exclude tags to make sure you only get the stories you truly want.

Of course, when you do find a story you like, the author name will be a link to their page, which will list their stories as well as an introduction about themselves if they chose to add one. Since the site is all about open discussion, they accept self promotion so you can expect to find contact information on authors you like or even a link to other sites they post on.

Another very useful thing you'll find on their page, which I haven't seen on any other MC site before, is the 'story suggestion' link. There, you'll find all the stories the author recommends.

I've found that it's a great way to discover other authors because if you enjoy someone's writing, there's also a good chance you'll enjoy reading the stories they've enjoyed and recommended. Plus, if the author is so inclined, they can do more than just list off a bunch of stories, but also add a comment as to why they enjoyed it. I personally try to always add a little something to entice those that end up on my list.

Another feature I truly enjoy as an author is the fact that you can always go back an edit your stories because you always have full control of what is posted. Honestly, if I had discovered this before I opened up my own website, there would have been no need for me to do it. Although, I might have been a little disappointed about the fact I couldn't add the lovely images that inspire me so much... hehehe

But regardless, as an author that has many stories with many chapters, I've quickly discovered how easy it is to organize my stories because I can add a new chapter to an existing story, which is great because the reader doesn't have to look for previous chapters. Plus, you can add titles and even small descriptions to each, which will show up in the story index. In addition, you always get a word count for each chapter (or full story in the story list) so you know how long it should take you to get through it.

Speaking of readers, the site offers a little more than just a well organized and searchable site.

Well... If you register that is!

You don't have to post anything though, so registering is simply like creating an account. What you get for registering are a few fun bonuses like the ability to 'snap' a story you liked. Which is basically the equivalent of a 'like' here on tumblr. As an author, it's always a great inspiration to add chapters when I notice that one of my stories becomes popular and I know readers want more. It's also a great indicator for readers, as you well know!

Another bonus you get by registering is being able to comment on each chapter. I love the comments section because it not only gives me the ability to get feedback, but it also allows registered people to tag each other and reply to comments. As an added bonus, once you register, you get access to a notification page and if someone's replied or tagged you, you'll be notified there.

Speaking of notifications...

As an author, I get a bunch of notifications every time a user 'snaps' one of my stories, leaves a comment or recommends it to others. But as a reader, I can also 'follow' specific authors and be notified when ever they publish a new story or add a chapter to an existing one. But hey, that could be bothersome too so you ALSO have the option of just following ONE specific story so you are sure to know when the latest chapter drops. I'll admit, I use this option a lot!

Another option you may notice in the above image is the 'Read Later' option. I've used that as both a place to list off stories I like to read multiple times, as well as the obvious happenstance where I find a good one I want to read, but don't have the time.

As you ALSO may have notice, there are well known authors publishing their stories there too. @scifiscribbler, @jukeboxemcsa, @darthkyra, @ellaenchanting, @hypnoticharlequin and @skaetlett, to name a few you might know from tumblr.

If you can't get enough of reading MC stories, then this site will definitely help to feed your cravings. It's still relatively new and small when compared to others, but so far, it's proven its potential for growth.

The more the merrier

TM

[homelanderbutbig]

A Big Little Baby In Your Lap (G/T Homelander x Reader)

1575 words. Pure fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

Homelander is sulking because he wants head scratches but your couch is too small for him.

You and Homelander have been dating for a few months, relishing in the moments you are able to spend together following him around as his 'personal assistant'. But this meager quality time wasn't enough for him, and next thing you knew you were getting your own private office. Not so much because you needed one, but so the two of you could spend more time alone, away from the spying eyes at Vought.

Your office is nothing special, but it's spacious enough for a desk to work from, and for a couch that Homelander was adamant on you having. Although one would assume that it's for meetings with your 'boss', it's really just so he can cuddle with you whenever he wants. But currently you only have a regular human-sized couch; Ashley had to order a custom one built for his size, which is taking time to complete.

One day while you are typing away on your laptop, your door flies open as Homelander storms into your office. He makes sure to lock the door behind him before he starts pacing angrily in front of your desk.

"I work with the most incompetent bunch of fuckwits imaginable," he snarls, gesturing wildly at nobody in particular. He has been working himself up into a state, and he needs to tell someone about it. "It's like they don't even think of how their fuck-ups effect me. My ratings. MY image."

Realizing you aren't going to be getting any more work done at the moment, you sigh and close your laptop. You keep your eyes on him as you stand up out of your chair, walking over to lean on the front of your desk. It's not really worth interrupting him when he's in the middle of a rant, even if you have no idea who he's talking about. You'd rather let him get it all out of his system.

During his tirade he happens to look over at your couch. Homelander finally stops his pacing as he lets out an aggravated breath, nearly sounding like a growl. He came into your office so you could snuggle with him and soothe his worries, expecting that Ashley would've gotten off her ass to ensure the new couch would have been built by now. Instead, he is again let down by everyone he puts an ounce of faith in.

"A-and they still haven't finished the fucking couch?!" he scoffs, all of this disappointment is starting to be too much for him to handle. His eyes twitch uncontrollably even when he squeezes them shut, while his breathing becoming more ragged. "I-I'm going to kill Ashley. I-I-I'm going to f-fucking KILL her."

"Hey, hey, hey," you say, coming closer to him to press your hands onto his thighs. His stuttering is a dead giveaway that he is overwhelmed, and it's your cue to step in. "It's okay honey," you console him, putting more pressure on his legs to redirect his focus back onto you. "Give me your hands."

Not wanting to lose control of himself in front of you, Homelander does his best to rein in his temper like you taught him with deep breaths through his nose. He brings his hands down for you to hold, feeling himself relax slightly once your precious fingers entwine with his own.

"Why don't you come lie down with me?" you ask, guiding him to walk over to the couch with you. Although he very easily could, he does nothing to fight against your gentle directions. "It looks like you need a break right now."

"I won't… I won't fit," he grumbles, staring down but avoiding eye contact with you.

"We'll make it work. Trust me," you reassure him, letting go of his hands to take your place at the end of the couch. He watches uneasily as you pat the cushion next to you, encouraging him to lie down.

Tensing his jaw, Homelander swallows hard from his building anxiety. Hesitantly, he steps over to the couch and tries to position himself so he can rest his head on your lap. However, he can't get comfortable on this tiny piece of furniture. His shoulders are scrunched up because they are too wide for the cushion, leaving him awkwardly holding his arms up to his chest. His legs are too long so his knees are bent overtop of the armrest, letting his feet touch the floor.

"Th-this isn't working!" he grumbles frustratedly, stumbling through his words. He can feel himself getting riled up again; nothing ever works out right for him. "I-I…I-I'm too big."

"Shhhh, shhhhh," you hush as you start petting Homelander's hair, which is surprisingly soft despite the product he uses. "Everything's alright sweetheart."

He calms almost instantly from your delicate contact, but you can sense he is still holding onto some stress, like there is something else that he is after. Something he's trying to be discreet about, but unfortunately for him, you can read him like a book.

"I think a certain supe is hoping for something," you sing playfully, using your index finger to follow along the contour of his ear. Chills run down his spine from your tantalizing touch; even though he hates how easily you can figure him out, he wouldn't trade this unspoken connection with you for anything in the world.

You chuckle when Homelander fixes his gaze on you, failing to hide the anticipation bleeding through his body language. His eyes are glued wide open, his lips are trembling… he is wringing his hands together and bouncing one of his legs off the ground.

"I don't knooow…" you tease, using your index finger to lightly scratch behind his ear. He whines at your bewitching tactility, quickly losing what little composure he was holding onto.

"Ple… p-please," he begs, looking like he is about to cry as he rubs his head pathetically into your chest. You know you shouldn't be so cruel to him when he's this vulnerable with you, but sometimes you can't help yourself. He's just so cute when he's like this, a big little baby in your lap.

Gracefully, you use your nails to glide along Homelander's undercut, redirecting ever so often to scratch the sweet spots on his scalp that you know he loves. He quickly unravels from your touch, whimpering and moaning at your god-given expertise. He closes his eyes while your intimate caresses take over all of his senses, becoming his sole reason for existing.

"Mmmmm…" he purrs, leaning his head further into your upper body. You can feel yourself vibrating from the low rumblings coming from him. Every little noise he makes resonates straight through to your core, enhanced even moreso by him burying his face as close into you as possible.

Homelander finally repositions his arms from his chest, letting one drop audibly to the ground while the other lifts up to grip the back of the couch. At first he tries to keep his strength in check, but you seem keen on making him fall apart at the seams with each drag of your fingers. Slowly but surely, you hear the all too familiar sound of the couch's wooden frame splitting under his hand as he becomes consumed by your affection. He's lucky that you're getting a new couch anyways, otherwise he'd be getting quite a scolding for wrecking your office furniture.

As much as you'd like to do this for him longer, you notice on your wall clock how much time has passed since he first barged into your office. He has an interview scheduled in a half an hour, and as his personal assistant, you need him to be ready and on-time.

Gingerly, you stop your scratches to give Homelander a light tap on his temples. He slowly opens his eyes to look up at you, entirely glazed over from how docile you've made him.

"See? I told you we'd make it work," you remark, planting a kiss on his forehead.

With a faint hum of acknowledgement, he gives you a soft smile in thanks before nuzzling his head back into you. All he really wants now is to rest, listening to your heart rhythmically beating a steadfast melody just for his ears.

"But we both have to get going soon, sweetie," you comment, rolling your eyes. You tap his head again to indicate you haven't quite made your point yet. "We have to be on the set of the Cameron Coleman Hour in thirty minutes."

That jolts Homelander out of his contentment pretty fast. You can see how upset he is to hear that your cuddle session has come to an end, but he isn't one to neglect his schedule. Instead, he decides to conclude your 'meeting' by returning the love you've given him.

Before you can react, he envelops you in his arms and stands back up to his full height. You laugh as he peppers your face with kisses; your nose, cheeks, ears, forehead… he makes sure no part is left unloved. He concludes his appreciation with a heartfelt kiss on your lips, taking in your warmth just as you melt into his. You always make him feel so loved, and he can never put into words how happy it makes him to see you have the same reaction… like you really understand him.

After his interview with Cameron Coleman, Homelander makes sure Ashley gets that new couch in your office the next day.

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hello! Small question, how would one go on to portray panicked rambles? I have a character who is afraid of the dark who has to escape with his friend through a dark cave, but as I was trying to write his panicked pleadings, they came across as flat and rational due to how the dialoge is written. I tried to make it feel rushed by conjoing some of the words together, but it looked a bit odd to me. Do you have any tips?

Writing a Panicked Ramble

Some things to keep in mind:

1 - Make sure there's context for the panic. Whether you lay the foundation for that panic ahead of time, or have to build to it in the moment, it's important that the reader has context for why this character is panicked. Otherwise, something like, "This is fine, I'm okay, there's nothing lurking in the shadows..." just falls flat. Why is this person panicking about being in the dark cave? Are they afraid of what may be in the cave? Are they afraid due to a past bad experience in a cave--or maybe just in darkness? Do they have some underlying fears that are being triggered? Again, you can lay these out ahead of time or use dialogue and thought to explore them in the moment.

2 - Use thought, emotion, and physical cues to add dimension. Dialogue on its own, even with context, doesn't go as far as dialogue that is bolstered by the character's thoughts, feelings, and physical sensations and body language. "This is fine, I'm okay, there's nothing lurking in the shadows..." he chanted to himself as images of hungry cave bears and rabid bats played through his mind. Every shifting shadow or far off noise sent cold fear slithering down his spine. His teeth chattered when he finally managed, "Are we almost out?" See how much more expressive that was?

3 - Make sure the environment/situation fits the reaction. Sometimes a character's reaction falls flat because we don't do a good enough job illustrating the things they're supposed to be reacting to. For example, if you haven't done a good job describing this dark cave and the things that are triggering the character's fears, their panic isn't going to feel warranted. You can do the work of describing the environment or situation as they get into it, or if necessary, as it's being experienced. And, if the character's reaction is supposed to feel unwarranted... for example, maybe they're panicking as though they're in a dark, scary cave, but they're not, then you can use other characters, dialogue, and description to offset what the character thinks they're experiencing versus what they're actually experiencing.

Happy writing!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[maniculum]

Bestiaryposting Results: Gerzlaem

I'm currently out of state visiting family, so this post might be a bit brief. Anyway, we've got us a new critter. If you don't know what that's about, you can find out at https://maniculum.tumblr.com/bestiaryposting.

You can find the description of the critter in question here:

The one we're doing next is here if you want to join in:

And this week's art is below the cut.

@silverhart-makes-art (link to post here) gives us these Definitely Mammals that are rather difficult to classify. I always enjoy this effect of "it doesn't really look like anything, but it looks like it would fit in as a reasonable animal design." There's substantial additional information about these critters in the linked post.

@coolest-capybara (link to post here) has drawn something delightfully bizarre, and I really enjoy both the design and style here. Again you may find additional information in the linked post.

@citrvsdrake (link to post here) was inspired by the description of the Gerzlaem pulling food back out of its stomach -- apparently this is a frog behavior, so we have the very frog-like feline you see before you. That is an unsettling face to have staring at you, but it is a clever decision I think.

@cheapsweets (link to post here) has decided to draw all three types of Gerzlaem even though the entry only actually describes two of them -- they propose that the third type is just intermediate between the other two. I also need to acknowledge the "scorpion" in the back there; excellent. For a detailed explanation of this image, please see the linked post.

@pomrania (link to post here) has doodled various elements of the entry for us here, and seems to have settled on a canine interpretation. I'm... fascinated by what's going on with that ape there. Some of these are very expressive too. More about all of these in the linked post.

@wendievergreen (link to post here) posits that the three different types of Gerzlaem are the same animal in different seasons, and has drawn this goat/cougar creature in various stages of wooliness. I think this is a good idea, and the art style is pleasant. You can get more information from the linked post, though an explanation for the song lyrics is not included.

@strixcattus (link to post here) has drawn us some dog-like critters which I can't type too much about because I saw their post right after I posted this one and now I'm hurriedly editing. As usual, there's a naturalist-style description in the linked post that I recommend checking out. Good dog-things here all around.

Now, to the Aberdeen Bestiary...

...actually we don't have a picture for this one. And it's not a missing or damaged page this time -- there isn't an illustration for this one in the Ashmole Bestiary either. It's the first entry in the bestiary, and I guess the fancy initials used up too much of the illumination budget:

Of course, this is a long entry, so they could have put the illustration on the next page, but I don't want to backseat-scribe here. Here's the one from MS Bodley 764, though, so we can see what it looks like:

Yep, that's a lion all right.

The lion is typically the first entry because it has that "king of beasts" reputation -- bestiary authors and others in the intellectual tradition of the time took the idea of some sort of animal hierarchy seriously and made sure the lion got pride of place. I think it's a Great Chain of Being thing, but honestly I just haven't done enough research on that whole concept to speak on it in an informed manner.

A lot of the rest of the entry is allegory, but some of it seems to just be nonsense of its own tradition. I suppose the lion's tail does look something like a brush, so I can see the steps there, but most of it I could not explain. This includes what exactly this thing is supposed to be:

We learn of small beasts called leontophones, lion-killers.

No idea. If you know, tell me please.

[bomberqueen17]

we don't need no stinkin plan

my family is not big on like. planning for stuff.

we used to be. some parts of us still are. but communication is not our forte.

wittering about holiday plans and an upcoming Sudden Road Trip.

so this year thanksgiving was supposed to be us all together at Farmsister's. at the last minute, my oldest sister, the one with all the kids, had to cancel, because her middle child had a horrible case of walking pneumonia, and nobody was mad at her for this and we all regretted it but like yeah keep that shit home and let that baby rest! (He is fifteen. But yes he is baby and needed to rest. Don't worry he's okay now. It's just that what with Covid and everyone's immune systems destroyed, some truly wild exotic diseases are now sweeping through schools, and middle schoolers are now having to deal with the kinds of weird shit you used to only find in nursing homes. It's sort of grim. But he's okay.)

Anyway. I asked, as soon as the plans were cancelled, if we could instead perhaps all convene down at Older Sister's in Maryland at some point between Thanksgiving and Christmas. She put me off, as the logistics were too complicated, and I said perhaps we'd revisit a concept for early January or something? We could talk later, she had in-laws descending for Christmas and was overwhelmed in advance. Understandable. No problem.

Yesterday my middle-little sister texted me. "Hey Mom was so bummed about missing Thanksgiving with the grandkids, I texted Older Sister and came up with a plan for us to go down just for the weekend right before Christmas. But do you want to take my car and drive Mom down instead?"

This was a baffling question. Let's compare the routes here. Me driving to Maryland: I haven't put in the actual start and stop points, just the nearest big cities, but it's over 350 miles, in the six-hour range, but that's doable for a weekend trip. Not the nicest driving and a bit fraught in current weather conditions but doable. We've done it before. It wasn't super fun but it was okay. I do the 300-mile cross-NY jaunt constantly so this isn't that much more, it's just So Much PA and like. That's its own hell but survivable. (The cross-NY jaunt is a very easy 300 miles because there's not any appreciable terrain and 270 miles of it is one highway. So I know this is much more arduous driving, but it's not beyond what I can do in a day.)

[image: a google maps screenshot, zoomed out, showing a route beginning in buffalo and ending in baltimore, with a tag showing an estimated six hours nine minutes for 362 miles.]

But if I just "swing by" to pick up Mom, this is now the route:

[image description: a zoomed-out google maps screenshot now showing a route of more than 600 miles, 9 and a half hours, swooping straight east 300 miles from Buffalo to Albany, and then swooping down through New Jersey to Baltimore. Yes this is also general data, my mother does not actually live in Albany but rather somewhat near it. Don't put your mom's address on the internet guys.] That is NOT doable in a weekend or even in a single day of driving EITHER direction. Yes the 300 mile cross-NY jaunt is an easy day's drive but it very much is a day's drive.

"Why would you ask me this," I said to M-L, who immediately confessed that she had forgotten New York did quite so much New Yorking between us. The train is out of the question because both Mom and half a hog, frozen, in several large cardboard boxes, have to traverse the journey from Albany to Baltimore, and M-L can't take any time off work so it really does just have to be the weekend, and her whole thought process was that I could take more time off than that. Not two whole extra travel days worth of time though!!! and I am committed in Buffalo for Christmas, so this is not open-ended.

But anyway. M-L agreed she'd drive Mom down, but said Dude and I should come too, and I texted older sister directly to ask her if it was really on that M-L was inviting me to her house, and she was like yes actually i did say that to her, LOL. So anyway.

I had just decided that I wasn't going to actually get any fucking christmassing done, myself, so. Fine! Let's do a 700-mile road trip instead. Whatever! Maybe I should get my oil changed first.

(Do we take the one-year-old Subaru Forester with all weather tires, or do we take the gracefully-aging Mazda 3 that just got its winter tires on. Hmmmmmm... Honestly this is nice, neither of our cars is actual shit. A middle-aged pause ensues, while I contemplate how nice that is. Started from the bottom now we here. The mazda just had an oil change... the Subaru just ticked over its first 10k miles... last time we did this drive we hit lake effect at Batavia and the entire last 50 miles of the drive home sucked out loud but we'd been lucky up til then. it's survivable. we didn't die in iceland so we can do this probably. it's just so much pennsylvania.)

Anyway. I gotta do some Christmas baking I guess. And like. Get my shit together.

[shmreduplication]

unsurprisingly, whatever hack hit Lydia's youtube channel also fucked the queued posts :(

fortunately i have v good friends who make delicious food for thanksgiving and are up-to-date on hacks that affect projects that I'm working on and send me a link to a dropbox account with all the vids saved to it, and that has a link to dailymotion which should work with tumblr's video embed code so the posts should be fine once I replace all the urls

here are the blogs if you want to follow now, nothing is going to be posted there at least until 2025 but you can go ahead and follow now. realtime lbd (just going to be the vids), realtime lbd socmed (will have the tweets and tumblr posts)

so here's the updated to-do list:

keep screenshotting tweets and hope they don't delete the accounts before I'm done

group the tweets by day

schedule like 400 posts that are just the tweets from each day. Probably less because I don't think there are tweets from literally every day but I haven't gotten to Lydia yet

Update all the Lydia vids with the dailymotion links

pick profile and header pics for both blogs

make and schedule some posts advertising that this is going to be a thing and put them in the LBD and P&P tags

maybe some countdown posts too? idk

message Hank Green to see if he'll post about it because obviously there's audience overlap

add image descriptions to all the tweets

think about the fact that everyone is making a self portrait of all times with everything they do so that these two blogs are going to be a self portrait of me even tho i'm literally reposting other people's work and if someone else posted the same vids and tweets then they'd pick different ones and it would come out differently

(optional) watch the Colin Firth version and the very pink 2003 modern AU version because I just got those on dvd

(optional) rewatch the Keira Knightly version

(optional) watch Nothing Much To Do, a vlog version of Much Ado About Nothing, which I only found out about recently

???

profit

sit back and enjoy march 2025-2027 as the queues for both blogs run and I don't have to do anything else because they're fully set up

[ayoungpascallover]

Sweet Belle

Joel Miller x OFC!Belle

Summary. Tommy trusts his brother Joel to keep the new girl in town safe.

Warnings. Explicit content, smut, big age gap, vague description of oc. Mild violence, insinuations of SA and harassment, angst, fluff.

Masterlist

A/N. I tried to keep the character as neutral as possible but it's assumed she's got an stereotypical hegemonic image and the female gender it's specified. Please dni if this or any of the warnings triggers you or makes you uncomfortable.

Minors dni +18

Joel remembers the first time he saw her in Jackson, helping out in the greenhouse and wearing overalls two sizes too big for her with only a thin worn-out tank top underneath with her long shiny hair falling over her face. He stared, obviously, like everyone else did; but she smiled back only at him. Ellie gave him shit about it for hours until his patience ran out and he had to send her over to trade a new jacket he'd found on his last patrol. "Jesus christ, kiddo. Just take this, it didn't fit. Go see if you find something you like." Joel had gotten rid of Ellie for a couple of hours before having her back with a new pair of converse and the same snarky comments about the younger woman from the greenhouse. And as much as he tried to ignore Ellie and the fact that the gorgeous new girl in town smiled only at him. Eventually she crawled her way to the back of Joel's mind; she was by far one of the most beautiful woman Joel had come across, even before the outbreak, so he understood the fuss around her. But he also understood in what position it put her to look like that, he had seen too many young girls sold around like objects back in Boston, Joel sometimes thought maybe it a blessing Sarah had died before she could see the hell that it was for women the first years after the break. That was why he put those thoughts aside, she was a young woman alone in a new place, Joel would never take advantage of it.

"You've seen miss universe 'round town?" Tommy asked him one night. Joel was drinking a glass of whisky as he watched his little brother fix a pair of shoes for Maria.

"The new girl...?" He wondered, his curiosity perking up at the mention of her.

"Some of the kids call her Belle. Y'know, like from the movie Beauty and..."

"Sarah was obsessed with that movie, 'course I know. It suits her" He smiled softly at the fond memory of his daughter and because it really did suit.

"You think?"

"I mean she's hard to miss. We haven't been introduced though."

"I should probably get you two to meet"

"Leave it alone, Tommy. The girl's too young and you said it yourself, she's the beauty then am I supposed to be the fucking beast?"

"I know that, after what happened with Lauren. I'm done playing fucking cupid for you. You're impossible"

"Then what the hell do I have to do with the girl?"

"She's your new roommate."

"What?!"

"Yeah, she's been drawing lots of attention you know. There's good folk in here, but you never know..."

"I don't see what's got to do with me"

"Look, Joel. She's a very pretty girl and we thought it would be better if she wasn't alone. You've seen the way some guys stare at her, you've got a free room in your house and Ellie likes her"

"She's a stranger"

"You are the only one I trust. Maria and I, we anwser for her, just see if it works, give it a month and if doesn't work we find her a place. Hopefully there'll be a new sensation in town by that time"

"Tommy..."

"C'mon, Joel. What if it was Ellie? The poor girl had no one when she got here, she's just afraid and the fucking men are desperate assholes. Please..." Joel couldn't keep his eyes from tearing, because Ellie had been there. She had been the girl who was alone; he would not let it happen again.

"Two weeks, if she gets on my goddamm nerves I'm kicking her out"

Then of course, it wasn't only two weeks, nor a month. As the weeks went by, neither of them could go back to when they weren't together, on the same house, on the same space, on the same bed. She was soft-spoken, gentle with those who knew her well enough, she was smart and kind and easygoing, just as she was funny, she had a witty sense of humour and sometimes a dumb silly one like Ellie's. She had a killer smile and bright eyes with long lashes adorning them, when she kissed him, her lashes would tickle his cheeks. He was too drunk on her; taken by her laugh, her voice, her moans... Taken even by the tiny and not so tiny scars spreaded across her body that seemed to have nice shapes, Joel liked to trace them all and connect them in different patterns. Sometimes she'd fall fast asleep as soon as Joel started touching her, however somedays it would take a little more to get her to sleep. On rough days like that morning, she was restless, mortified even just thinking about closing her eyes, like if whatever was tormenting her would inevitably reach her in her sleep. On days like that, Joel was a step ahead of that, taking control over her to get her out of her head. It was like a sacred ritual, he would shower with her, help her rub oils and lotions on her body, he would dressed her and untangle her hair carefully. Sometimes he would convince her to eat or to sleep, depending on the situation, but most times Joel would spend the rest of the night making her feel as safe as he could; hugging her, singing to her, sometimes fucking her the way she asked him to. Whatever would make her feel loved.

Even though most days she would be the one to do that for him.

They had gone together outside, the patrol seemed to be going well, easy. They were in a group of four with Tommy and and a kid who had just turned eighteen, they were showing him a route, the safety houses and where to hide the guns and provisions; it was fine, she looked happy to be outside Jackson for a change. Until those fucking raiders thought it was a good idea to take her from him, it -she- slipped from Joel's hands in a blink. But then just as fast as he lost her, he got her back to him.

By dinnertime the four of them were riding back into town, both Joel and his girl cover in blood. Tommy and the kid were both as pale as a ghost but intact, harmles; Joel had done it all. "Just take her home, get cleaned up. You did what you had to." Tommy grabbed the saddles of their horses and covered her with his own Jacket, avoiding the prying eyes on them. Joel nodded at his brother and guided the younger girl back to his home, their home.

"What the fuck happened?!" Ellie jumped out of her skin at the sight of them, getting up from her sit and putting down the guitar to open the door with shaky hands.

"I'm okay, Ellie. It's okay, the blood isn't ours" Joel heard her say, of course the first thing she said after almost dying was to comfort someone else. Because she was just that kind.

"I'll help her get clean. You think you could get her something to eat?" Joel asked Ellie with a trembling voice, once you were inside your bedroom waiting for the bath to fill up.

"Of course, you okay?" Ellie scanned him, her worried expression betraying the fake confidence in her voice.

"I think so, I'm sorry we scared you. I got scared too"

"It's fine, I'll bring something to eat and give you guys some space. I was going to Dina's if that's okay"

"Thank you, kiddo"

The bath happened with no more commotion, quietly they both calmed down, the hot water helping them release the tension they were holding. "Can you brush my hair?" She asked once he was done rubbing the body lotion all over her body, despite being a twenty year old lotion, the vainilla scent lingered nicely on her skin. Joel put her on one of his shirts, it was old and it smelt like him, but it was warm and comfortable enough to get her to sleep.

"Of course, sweet girl" He whispered, taking the brush in his huge hand. "You have to eat something, though"

"I'm exhausted. I can't eat"

"I'll let you sleep then"

"Take a nap with me, I need you close."

"Whatever you need, honey"

The next morning when Joel woke she was still soundly asleep, the cold autumn weather making her look cozy under the warm duvet, and her messy hair covering her face filled his chest with pure emotion. Her soft snores putting his mind at ease, she was alive and safe next to him. Joel could feel her warmth, her heartbeat, her breathing; he could feel her.

"Wake up, Belle." He whispered softly, tucking a few strands of rebel hair behind her ear. "C'mon my sweet girl. I need you to eat something"

"I was having a dream. A really good one" her croaked voice made him smile wider, she kept her eyes closed but her body was moving now, her arms looking for him and wrapping around his broad shoulders to get him closer.

"Yeah? Was I in it?" Joel taunted playfully as his fingers caressed the soft skin of her stomach.

"Mhm, between my legs. You were licking me clean, I'm so horny now" Her voice was breathless and Joel dared to move the duvet to peak at her almost naked body. Her perky nipples showing through the old shirt's fabric and the soaked panties grabbing his attention instantly.

"You want me to eat your pussy, my sweet Belle?" His cock pulsed at the thought of tasting her, she had never let him. Their relationship still too new to let herself be so exposed, it was one of the many things he had yet to show her. And even though Joel never pressured her, fuck, he was dying to have a taste.

"Please, Joel" she mewled desperately into his neck. How could he say no?

He kissed her face first, light little kisses pressed all over her. Then Joel moved unhurriedly to take off her shirt and down her body to pull off the panties he had dressed her on the night before, he kissed her on the stomach, and then a little lower, and then lower, until he was kissing her clit, softly and sweet. Barely brushing his lips against her, Joel kissed her cunt again, taking time to give attention to every part of it. Enjoying the soft cries falling from her lips. Satisfied with how wet she was, Joel dragged his raspy tongue between her folds making her jump in surprise and pleasure, soon enough he was sucking and open mouth kissing all of her.

Her legs were open wide, resting on his shoulders and her breathing was heavy and unsteady. He stuck his tongue inside her, and licked upward, his calloused fingers finding her clit to press sloppy circles on it, until she was sobbing for him. Belle was a patient girl, always trusting Joel to coax her into her orgasms, but suddenly she felt greedy, her whole body burning for more of him. She looked for her own release pressing her pussy down onto his tongue, into his face and grinding desperately. Joel took his hand away from her core and reached up to grab her breasts to pull her down harder into his mouth, his perfect nose bumping sinfully down her clit overstimulating her enough to not miss his fingers.

"Joel, I'm so close. I need your cock" He obliged, rushing to freeing his hardness from his tight boxers and pushing her legs open wide to slid into her. She was fully awake now, staring at him with teary eyes full of lust and pure adoration. As he entered her slowly, they both cried out without looking away from eachothers eyes, Joel and her being both on the edge, held one another tightly, moaning and crying for eachother.

It felt as if they were out of their bodies, everything was unexisting, unreal. It was just Joel and Belle. Fuck the rest. It was perfect like that. Soon enough, after only a few thrust, she came hard. Her muscles contracting painfully and her body twitching and trembling under him, a few tears slipping down her flushed cheeks. Joel was sure his back was a sight to see, all scratched from her high.

"Need to- need to pull out" Joel whimpered, not being able to recognise his own broken voice. Her pulsing core only pushing him closer.

"Cum on my pussy" She whined as he pulled away from her. Joel got on his knees close enough to grab her small softer hand and guide her to his twitching cock. Splitting her legs further, she grabbed his member, her own hand covered by his and moving it up and down at his own rhythm.

"Fucking hell, you're so fucking filthy. My pretty Belle, all mine. Those bastards wish they were me... Fuckfuckfuck" Joel was rambling, making her stroke faster and harder as the first drops of precum slipped between their fingers.

"I'm all yours, only yours"

Her words were enough to break him. A loud grunt filling the room as the white thick liquid splutter all over her puffy cunt. Giving Joel a soft squeeze, she let go of him when he winced in overstimulation. Once she got her hand away, Joel dropped his body next to her, immediately wrapping her in a tight hug.

"Are you okay? You need anything?" He asked, gently. His face buried in her neck and only coming out to steal kisses every few seconds.

"I'm perfectly happy, you make me so happy" she giggled making him chuckle with her and smile with his full teeth. "I only need you for now, let's just stay here for a little longer. Can we?"

"Whatever you want, my sweet Belle."

She was his, and for as long as he could. Joel would keep her safe.

[magdaclaire]

starshine, a poem about my girlfriend @legalespeon

to cait: you're my favorite. to everyone else: hope you enjoy.

transcript under the cut or in the alt text image descriptions.

signed,

m a morton

i told her once that meeting her was like turning the lights on

and i don't know if there's any better way to describe it 

how else can i say that it feels like she reached into me and pulled every good thing about me back into the light

reminded me that there's more to this house than the shadows and the gloom

the creaking staircases and drafty windows

that she spilled color back into the world

or maybe she just reminded me to look for it

she opened the front door and the handle didn't even stick

didn't even catch on the swollen door frame

storm damaged in more ways than one

nobody's ever done it like her

people have shouldered through the door and they've climbed through windows

they've left the first time they were denied entry, 

mistaken the hesitance for occupancy,

it didn't even hesitate for her 

like the door was made for her to walk through.

meeting her was flicking on a gas stove

tick, tick, tick, catch,

the potential was always there,

stored energy waiting to be sparked into a flame,

i've cooked more in the months since i met her than i had in the previous two years.

every day, we do the connections together

that new york times game, something i would have never gotten into without her

i only like doing wordle with her

i get bored otherwise,

too caught up in my head to even stay focused on a game you only get six tries to get right

so why do i feel so perfectionist about it anyway

but that's not the point.

the point is that things are more fun when i can hear the sound of her laugh

i've always hated looking at menus but it's fun when she's telling me all the things she wants to try

when she's looking at restaurants in my hometown and curious about the brussel sprout salad

(which, of course, i order)

we looked through the attraction pages of three zoos together

we've contemplated dates in my hometown

the place she used to live

the place she's moved to now

the city where i stay when i'm with my brother

every place i am, i want her to be

i wanna see my comfortable places through her bright eyes

see how my girl sheds starlight, pixie dust from her fingertips

her delighted laughter, her open excitement,

i want to take her to every nook and cranny of childhood i have left in this world

let her know the creature consigned to this body

how it has come to heel beneath her gaze

how deeply and embarrassingly and ardently she's been needed for longer than i've known her.

she worries she doesn't help me as much as i help her

as if that worry in itself isn't more care than any partner has ever treated me with

like there isn't care in every look she regards me with

as if i haven't slept better since meeting her than i have in years.

and it can be said,

hey man you met her in the same time as getting on some new meds, maybe correlation isn't causation?

the new antidepressant is called auvelity and it started working before i ever knew her name

gave me energy again and the ability to cry and i started cooking again

day by day wasn't a slog for the first time in years and i hadn't felt that good since high school

(as fucking terrible as high school was).

the whole world still dim like milky twilight, damp with humidity

the frogs and the crickets so loud (or maybe the walls so thin) that you can hear them standing in the center of the house.

the lights didn't turn on without her.

she wraps joy around me like a borrowed coat, sits me down in the living room and tells me about the future,

and for the first time, i can picture one with me in it

for the longest time that idea was so vague to me

the abstraction from self it took to imagine survival past day by day by unforgiving day

with her, i can imagine turning 25

26, 31, 45 

if she's there, i want to be there too

and that's a lot to put on someone's shoulders

and i cannot be one more burden in her Atlas sky hands.

she'd tell me that i am not burdening her but stepping shoulder to shoulder with her, bearing the weight together

or she would tell me that i'm one of the reasons that all this tension is worth carrying

or she'd tell me that she's tired,

that she'd like to let go of the world and lay down with me,

and i would grab her hand and smile,

say fuck the world, come home with me

and in this imagining within an imagining

i picture how carefully she would set down the sky,

like placing a child back onto their feet

and how this is how she does everything,

with so much care it makes your chest ache

makes your eyes hurt

starlight girl supernova bright in my mind's eye,

my heartbeat catching on the lines of her smile.

sometimes, she and i sit looking at each other through cameras and phones and hundreds of miles

and i feel closer to her than any lover to ever touch my skin

there was an ocean between us and still that was true

four hours time difference we still found a way

i don't know what to do with a partner that actually thinks i'm worth the effort.

pushed out to sea by every moment i'm not with her,

pulled back in by the tide of her breathing,

my starlight girl moon in the sky,

and i the wrong kind of cosmonaut but enamored anyway,

there's not a way i can imagine this where i don't want to follow where she goes.

she's got one of those gaming computers with lights where lights truly do not have to be

it's colorful and whimsical and i'm sure that there's functional purpose

i want to build her the world with my own two hands but i imagine a computer like that might be easier

circuits and wires and logic and programming and ducks, from what i hear

i've never been for going about things the easy way anyway.

that's the scariest thing sometimes,

how easy things are with her

i'm used to loving folks like pulling teeth from my own mouth

service comes easy to me, gifts i can make,

but expressing love aloud has never been easier than when i'm pushing it past her lips

pouring love into her with lip and teeth and tongue

whisper her my love affair fire with smoke passed between our mouths

she breathes me in and i am taken in,

perfect and peaceful.

i'll never stop wondering why

she chose me but i'll choose her back every day if she'll let me

my sunshine, my north star

everything i need.

once, i told her that talking to her helps,

but I think I'll miss her til I have her in my hands, and every time she's not after that too

she says to me you say the most romantic shit sometimes,

asks me if she's supposed to  be normal about it,

as if making her feel that way isn't the goal of my every sentence;

letting her know how special she is through words alone is impossible

but sometimes I get close.

sometimes i think she can feel just how badly I need her,

split seconds of oh, you love me flash of recognition on her face

as if loving her wasn't what I was made for,

as if the sound of her laugh isn't music to me,

as if I don't hang off her every story time run-on sentence,

her unique ability to circumnavigate her point so much that it's like she's telling ten stories at once,

I love that about her.

I love the way she needs me to know every single detail and every single reason and how she knows him and how they know them,

how she invites me into the house of her soul just as easily as the door opened to her,

I love how much she trusts me.

I love trusting her just as much.

my good morning texts to her always start the same way

good morning, starshine! the sun says hello!

a bastardization misremembrance of something my mother quoted to me as a child that tastes like home on my tongue,

the home I provide to her will always live more on love than anything else,

and as well as I can, I won't let her be lonely in the home we share.

I was a lonely kid, in a way

in the textbook for the psychology class I took the semester before I met her

there was a small definition of what autism is, which began with

autism is a disorder characterized by extreme aloneness,

the goal here to be able to communicate exactly how much people like me live in our heads more than our homes,

open door and song birds singing,

and i don't think i've ever looked into a two way mirror and saw myself so profoundly as in that simple sentence,

that deep well of loneliness bubbling within me so suddenly.

i've never liked learning new things in public

it takes me time to adjust to information, to incorporate things

i can play a good game when it comes to the gambit of conversation

adapt as quickly as i can and keep quiet while things slide into place in my mind

i've never met someone more understanding of the oddities in me than she is

never been able to ask for the space she gives me naturally

slow but not far

an arms length intimacy that we close the distance of when we're both ready,

i wonder if she loves figuring me out as much as i love the vice versa,

standing in that push and pull of learning every single thing about her,

letting the ocean tide bite at my ankles just for the pleasure of standing in the sea spray,

i've always loved the water but never like this.

my love for her ocean vast and trench deep,

i have no idea how to end a poem about her

i'll spend the rest of my life with her

and i still don't think i'll ever be able to properly form the words,

tell her exactly how much she means,

how much i need her.

so instead, i'll prop the door open

write her poem after poem after poem of hello i love you,

good morning, i love you

how did you sleep, i love you

did you get something to eat, i love you

drink some more water, i love you

let me take care of you, i love you,

and i will take her hand and i will give her the keys, say

this house is yours now

i know you'll treat it well.

[silverlining317]

At tea time, everybody agrees

For the #severalsunlitdaylights & @corneliaavenue-ao3 challenge. Day 10:Midnights.

''Miss Weasley, please go ahead''- The High Inquisitor pointed to the seat in front of her.

She had heard from Fred and George, embroidery by embroidery, a detailed image of Professor Umbridge's office, and yet the descriptions did not honor the strangeness of being under the gaze of dozens of cats.

Ginny adjusted her robes and tried to remember the manners classes her mother and Aunt Muriel had insisted she attend as a child. Umbridge nodded, approving of the mimicry she was striving for. Chin forward, shoulders back, ankles crossed. The inquisitor maintained the carved smile. Challenging her to be the brave one to break that silence.

Tic Tac. The clock reverberating on the walls, Umbridge waited a few seconds before looking down and sliding a pink porcelain cup to its end.

"Sugar?" Umbridge asked and with a small wave of her wand, dropped three pink cubes into the cup. Ginny stoped chewing the gum in her mouth and reached over to took a small sip.

"Don't be shy," Umbridge smiled encouraging her to take another sip.

Ginny nodded. She had never tasted something like that. It felt strangely like home. The aroma of a conversation at the end of the school semester, at the kitchen table, laughing with her mother as she told her about…everything. Ginny drained her cup with a big slurp, suddenly forgetting about manners. After all, she was in what could be described as her home, having tea with an almost maternal figure. That was. Suddenly everything was crystal clear. Umbridge was a second mother to her who could tell her everything without fear or shame.

-''Precisely''- she smiled as if reading her thoughts- ''I want you to tell me everything.''

-'' I haven't done a single potions essay in my life. I copied all of Percy's old work'' - Ginny said

-'' My dear, we are not here to judge your lack of education '' - Umbridge gave a pause- ''Why don't we talk about your summer instead''

-''My summer?''- Ginny chewing her gum once again- ''Is it because I lied to Michael? I told him that Errol had crashed and lost his birthday present but I didn't buy him anything because I had no money. ''

-''Michael?'' - said the inquisitor starting to sound impatient- ''No, I don't care about that Michael of yours. Why dont we talk about Harry instead?. Did you spend the holidays together? Anywhere in particular? With someone in particular? Someone like Dumbledore perhaps''

-"Harry, that's the problem, isn't it?" Ginny said, raising the cup again and going for another drop of that elixir. "Everybody wants to talk about Harry, nobody wants to talk about Michael. Which is a shame. He likes me for who I am, isn't strange? Also delicate, but mostly strange. Because until now I have only felt like a monster ….

-'' Were or were not your relatives and Harry involved in a secret organization against the ministry? Are they now? That's how your dear father ended in St. Mungo, perhaps?''- Umbridge pressed.

-"Harry," Ginny said, looking at the cat behind the woman in pink. "He's a real problem, right?"

-'' He is. He is the problem. It's always him'' - The liquid went down her throat gently making it easier to articulate that forbidden phrase- ''Yes, we spent the holidays together. We usually do. Because of Ron, obviously. Just teenagers in a house, not talking that much. Actually, we argued this Christmas. I don't even remember why, but it was his fault. The prophet says it, so it must be right: he is the problem. Everybody agrees. Sometimes I think… I promised never to say it.''

"More tea." Umbridge refilled the cup and Ginny nodded, closing her eyes again to feel the fumes.

-'' Sometimes I think they're right. That he is the problem. Every time he leaves me on the side of one of his adventures and pretends that it is for my own good. The typical phrase that he camouflages. It's so annoying, to hear the covert narcissism he disguises as altruism. I swear sometimes he sounds like some kind of minister's office''

"Ahem," Umbridge coughed but Ginny straightened up, her fingers clenched around her mug.

-'' What adventures do they leave you out of? From some secret group? Of some resistance movement?''

-'' Or maybe the problem is me. Always rooting for the anti-hero''- said Ginny.

-'' Miss Weasley, answer. Is Mr.Potter organizing a secret group among students to overthrow the prime minister?''

Ginny could only laugh

-'' Sorry professor- Ginny said chewing the gum once again- No, he is not. But the other day I had this weird dream I didn't dare to tell anyone until now. I was at detention, in this very same room, only that instead of cats there were parrots and they were saying strange things like blood, quill, tea…''

-'' High Inquisitor, sorry to interrupt but Professor McGonagall is on her way''- Flich enter- ''She demands to know why one of her students was absent from class ...''

-'' Go away''-Umbridge stood up making the cup and sugar jars disappear- ''Quickly run to class and never mention about what we talk. That's what friends are for, right?''

Ginny nodded and grab her things finally breathing again.

Backpack in hand and excruciating pain in the head, Ginny somehow found her way back to the Great Hall for dinner.

-''You guys have to improve that anti-Veritaserum gum'' - Ginny sat next to Fred- ''My head is going to explode.''

"But did it work?" George asked.

-'' Yes, but only because I told him the truth that five years ago we all agreed that Harry is the problem.''

-'' Hi to you too''- Harry said coldly seating next to her.

-'' I mean just because you fix the problems you create that doesnt mean you….and…because… and for the record you cause a lot of trouble''

-'' You know George I think the gum also affects the ability to form coherent sentences''- said Fred causing a big laugh that start to die when she start the retale of Umbridge tea invitation. Minus some details of course…

[ccapdis]

One Piece manga spoilers

Every romance stands up a chance //thoughts//

At this point, so close to chapter 1100 (omg), I think there are, clearly, things that can be extracted from the global image that the story and its characters give away.

In the case of Sanji's character, anyone who has kept up with the manga can easily tell that, for whatever the reason is, his role is significantly linked to Nami, and it revolves specially around her.

When it comes to Nami, Sanji is a dog with a bone. She's always his first thought, his first option when it comes to women and romance. He refuses to give up on her, and all his advances will go (mainly) to her.

"Rejection" from Nami doesn't com from despise or exhaustion. It comes with distance.

In fact, to this day, advances and attempts from the sort, when they are not made on Nami but on other women, are still softly declined or ignored.

Still, partially because of the lack of self-confidence, I doubt he genuinely believes that there's really a chance for him.

But partially, too, because none of them takes him seriously. And that comes with the joke: Sanji is the only character interested in women and romance in the crew. Probably the one who has more chances to end up paired EOS. Still, he doesn't get any woman.

It is no surprise that women can't take him seriously, as most of the time he's simping and longing for women/romance, and he barely ever tries to flirt expecting to succeed (as opposed to his initial character description he is no ladykiller (lol), in fact, it really surprises me that cover 1089 has him asking Nami almost directly to go on a date with him, something he has never done before with her or any other woman).

So to understand Sanji's issue with women as a recurrent joke on the manga (not getting any of them as much as he wishes he would), you have to appreciate as well the fact that he, actually, gets them when he is not trying so hard, when he is basically himself, the kind, pure and selfless version of him.

In summary, having Nami in the 1089 cover decline Sanji's invitation is in character and makes sense for both characters. It has no greater meaning. If we ever see something from Nami's part, it is going to go unnoticed to Sanji when he is not trying at all.

But back to the present and regarding chapter 1089, it is worth noticing too that at the end of the chapter Sanji is approaching Nami with his "hearty-eyes" despite Bonney being there too.

Since the Egghead arc began, Sanji's role has almost exclusively orbited around Nami and Oda has worked, from the beginning, to build a common thread between him and Nami, since the first scene of the Mugiwaras facing the Seraphim has Sanji fighting back the S-shark to save Nami and that was, too, the last scene we saw of him, repeating the first scene. I deduce that Oda has bothered to do so surely because it serves a purpose we haven't seen yet.

Last but not least, Oda loves making recurrent jokes and gags with Sanji; be it his bounty posters, and eventually Duval, him meeting for the first time a real mermaid, Kokoro, Hiyori and Hacock being all lovey-dovey with Zoro and Luffy respectively, and finally when the latest bounties came out and he was replaced by Jinbe in the third position with the highest bounty of the crew (implying too his legitimate position in the Monster Trio).

But we all know that Sanji is in the Monster Trio, and that eventually he's going to get back the third highest bounty. And as much as the gag of him with women can go on, eventually things are going to fall into place and Sanji will get his happy ending EOS.

[blueberrybladelemonade]

Masquerade

Evil Y/N x Evil Peppino

Was writing a different fic and then I scrolled through @pervertedindividual 's evil Peppino comics and @angelofpizza 's drawings and randomly got inspired, in a way, and made this instead x)

Summary: Peppino has done some unsavory crimes. What he doesn't know is your just as evil, if not more so, than he is and he has trouble processing it. 

Contains: Mentions of murder, Death, Dark theme, Description of murders, Kinda crazy mutual possessive love, Y/N might be more evil than Peppino, The Birds (well A bird) attack, Swearing is caring, somewhat crackish in a part or two (trust me you'll know where)

"Do you wanna hide a body?" You sing to yourself, a cleaver glinting in the light as swings downward. "It doesn't have to be in one piece!" A sickening crunch fills your ears followed by a heavy thud. 

"Whoo boy, I'm gonna need more bleach"!

You slump into the chair with a sigh as the pressure is taken off your feet. As you relaxed, the tingling in your arms grew into a throbbing pain. That was going to feel great in the morning. You think before staring at the stone counter, watching as thick red lines down onto the tile floor. You grimace, knowing you still haven't even gotten to the cleaning part of the job. 

From another room you heard a faint chime. It was almost too far away -that if you moved- you might've missed it. 

Was it that late already? The chiming grew more frantic and loud. You grumble, reluctantly getting to your feet as you make your way out of the garage and into your home. 

I guess I should eat something while I'm at it. 

* * * * * 

Peppino wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. In one final motion he slams the dumpster shut. That had taken much longer than he anticipated. Oh well, the deed was done, he wiped his hands on his pant legs as he stepped out of the alleyway. 

Now to just head back into the restaurant, wash off quickly, and go find you. Peppino checked the clock as he strode into the backroom. Good. You would be headed this way soon as you walked home.  

With a final glance over Peppino nodded to himself, determining he looked presentable enough. He frowned as a few stains finally caught his attention. Cazzo! That could be a problem. 

Peppino had already spent too much time in here, he needed to hurry. He darted out of the bathroom and into the office to grab your gift. If anything, Peppino could just tell you he spilled some sauce. You would believe him, you had no reason not to. Anxiety crept into his thoughts as he stepped down the dirt road away from the pizzeria. 

What if you found out it was blood? He could imagine your sweet face twisting into disgust and horror. You running away from him as the image of your dear friend became tarnished forever. 

He swallowed thickly. No. He could say he was cutting sausage or some kind of meat. Peppino became almost too engrossed in this train of thought that he almost didn't notice you were heading right towards him. 

A short yelp had you jumping back as Peppino whipped around, eyes wide. "Hey, are you ok Pino?" You tilt your head as he gave you a short laugh in response. 

"Oh signorina! I didn't realize you were there!" Peppino replied, regaining his composure. "But that's not-a important right now". 

You blink as a blur of colors are pushed close to your face. You realize it's a bouquet. 

"For you".

"Oh Peppino, you shouldn't have!" You smile brightly as you take the flowers, pressing them flowers into your. Peppino returned your smile, watching as a happy sigh escaped your lips. You inhaled deeply, relishing the sweet scent. 

It was a good thing you didn't go into any alleyways, he wouldn't want you to faint if you had seen the blood trail, or worse, the corpse of that filth that flirted with you the other day. Just the thought alone made him clench his jaw. 

Although, if you did, Peppino would be there to comfort you and tell you to keep close to him. He'd tell you that he would protect you. He'd make sure no one would hurt you. That much was true, Peppino would never let his sweet and innocent Y/N be met with an ill fate. Or suffer the affections of another. 

You were his after all. Even if you didn't know it. Yet. One day you'd be his in more than just his fantasies. 

Peppino buried his face into your neck as you threw your arms around him in a hug. Oh what he'd do to keep you close like this for longer, or when ever he wanted. He let out a small sigh, hiding his disappointment as you pulled away. Peppino clasped his hands behind his back, fighting the desire to yank you back into his arms. To bury his face into your neck and inhale your intoxicating scent. 

As you said goodbye and continued on your way home, Peppino's eyes lingered on the horizon. You were just a small dark blob from here but Peppino couldn't tear his gaze from you. Even after you were no longer visible he remained rooted in place. 

* * * * * 

"Hey Peppino, she's out there. Again." Gustavo gestured over to the window. Peppino's eyes followed to where Gustavo's finger was pointing. Across the street a figure was sitting in their car with something pressed to their face. 

"Merda. That-a crazy signorina". Peppino grumbled to himself as decided to go outside this time. That would catch you off guard. You had been doing this for months now, sometimes up to four times a week. Didn't you have your own job to be at? The door swings open as he steps outside, the gentle breeze pleasantly cool compared to the kitchen. 

"Good morning, ragazza matta!" He yells across the street. You drop your binoculars into your lap, head jerking away as heat rises to your face. Shit. He seen you. Ok, play it cool Y/N. Pretend you haven't been watching him for an hour. You were looking at something else! Of course you were. 

Your eyes focus in the opposite direction from where Peppino was. Eyes locked onto a lamppost with sudden fascination. Damn that sure was a tall one wasn't it? And was it made of metal? Wow, look at that glow fro-

"Whatcha doin' signorina"? You jump at the all too familiar voice, tentatively turning your head to the voice. Peppino was leaning an arm into your open window and smirking down at you. 

"O-oh you know. Just hanging out." You drawl, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. Peppino's eyes glimmer with something predatory, as if he had caught some helpless prey. 

"You 'hang out-a' here a lot". Peppino replies nonchalantly, watching as you shrink into the seat. 

Shit. How long had Peppino known you were doing this?

"If you want-a gawk at me, come inside to get-a better view." he teases, hitching a thumb behind himself at the pizzeria. Peppino winks at you, "I'll even give you a free slice while I'm at it".

"O-oh." You fell silent, feeling beads of sweat form onto the back of your neck. Peppino opened the car door and held out his hand to you. As you take his hand your heart flutters. His hand fit perfectly with yours, like it was meant to. You idly brush your thumb along his hand, feeling the roughness against your softer palm. Peppino helped you to your feet but quirked an eyebrow at feeling your grip tighten instead of letting go. 

"Y/N?" Peppino raises his hand, yours still holding onto his.

"Oh! Sorry!" You drop your hand to your side and give what you hoped was an apologetic look. One day. One day you'd be able to enjoy having his hand in yours for as long as you wanted. 

* * * * * 

You spent the remainder of your day sitting in the pizzeria. Every so often Peppino would return to your booth and talk, sometimes offering more food or to refill your drink. When he'd return back behind the counter, you'd watch Peppino work alongside Gustavo as they'd fill orders and cook. You were content to simply admire him, appreciating Peppino at every angle when he wasn't looking. 

Outside the sky had transformed into yellow and pink hues as evening began to settle in. You stood to stretch your legs again, deciding to stay here for a while longer before going home. Overall, you had no complaints as you simply enjoyed being in the general proximity as Peppino. 

...

That was until they walked in. Currently you were shoving down that feeling again. You idly felt in your pocket for the familiar shape, fingers slightly curled into the fabric as you drew in a shaky breath. 

You narrowed your eyes, lips forming a thin line. Who the fuck is she? You glower, anger increasing with every movement the woman made. 

Peppino's eyes darted to the side, at you, before returning his attention to the woman across the table. In that moment Peppino decided he would ignore you for the moment, amused at your reaction.

When he first glanced over at you, he was taken aback, barely recognizing you with that enraged expression. Why did you look like that? As the woman began talking again it dawned on Peppino that your eyes were set on her. 

Peppino smiled back at this woman, not even caring to remember her name, just that her very existence was pissing you off. He grinned as she leaned closer to him. What she said was a compliment -he thinks- about how handsome he looked. What Peppino was actually grinning at was how you were now clenching at your pant leg, your eyes locked onto this woman. 

Now this was interesting. Peppino decided to play along a little longer and continue talking to your newfound enemy. Your reaction was cute with how jealous you were.

Peppino knew you had feelings for him. A part of him wanted to confess to you how he felt the same. However, Peppino knew his crimes and dealings would send you running in the opposite direction. Even if he wanted to have you for himself, he couldn't. At least not right now. He needed to be patient and wait until he could taper off his crimes. It was that or Peppino would have to come up with dozens of methods to keep you in the dark about his misdeeds. Neither were ideal but it was for the best. For now. 

He's mine. You continued to seethe inwardly. Who the fuck do you think you are? Walking in here like you own the place.

He's Mine. 

The word repeated in your head as a mantra as you continue watching the scene unfold from your own booth. 

Jealousy. Hate. The two things you always heard that made someone ugly, you were exuding it. The emotions bubbling up and blanketing you in a dark aura. 

She had ordered a salad and garlic knots which had long been finished by now. Originally you paid her no mind, much like every other customer that came in. 

What snapped your attention to her was when you heard a tinkling laugher and locked onto Peppino, sitting at the same table across from her. He initially was just going to take the cleared dishes to the kitchen but the woman had struck up a conversation, urging him to stay. 

* * * * * 

"Hi!" You call out waving at the woman as you approach. She whips around at your voice, giving you a dubious look. 

"Do you mind if I walk with you? I hate being on the street at night like this, it makes me nervous." You rub the back of your neck. "Sorry to be a bother".

"Oh! Sure!" She nods and smiles at you, making room for you to walk beside her on the sidewalk. "I started to think the same thing, I'm not usually out this late. A bit of company makes me feel safer, too". 

Meaningless conversation droned on and on as the woman talked with you. About what? You didn't care, what she was saying barely even registered as the gears in your head turned. A shrill cry pierced your ears as something flapped overheard and away from you. Just another block. One more. You were so close. Your heart began thudding loudly, drowning out the background noise as your destination grew closer. 

In that moment you slowed until the woman was walking in front of you. You clamp your hand over her mouth before yanking her against your chest and ducking into the alley. At an instant she begins to flail wildly, you wince as she steps on your foot and the vibrations against your hand only increase as her panic fully sets in. 

Despite her best but futile effort your grip doesn't loosen. With your other arm you snake it around her waist before leaning your full weight forward, dropping both of you to the ground. You sputter as her elbow jabs you in the stomach and a shrill scream causes you to grit your teeth, scrambling to clamp your hand over her mouth again. "If you don't stop struggling I'm going to kill you instead." You hiss into her ear. 

A vicious smirk flashed across your face as your free hand withdrew from your pocket. Peppino was yours. And you weren't going to have anyone take him from you. 

..

Peppino watched curiously when you left the pizzeria, shortly after that woman did. From a distance he followed as you skulked down the street. He quirked an eyebrow as you approached the woman, throwing up a friendly facade, starkly contrasting to your demeanor in the pizzeria. Peppino chose not to interfere as you dragged her into an alleyway. When you stepped out and the woman didn't, Peppino knew, without even having to check, to know what you had done. 

Though that seemed wrong. You were too innocent to do something like that. Right? Had that woman really worked you up into a frenzy that you-

Peppino stepped into the alleyway anyways, curious to see how you did it. What he seen had left him speechless and frozen. Multiple slashes were all at key points. You were quick and efficient, only being in this alley for a few minutes. This obviously hadn't been the first time you had killed. 

All for merely flirting with him. 

You both were the same, in a way, he realized.

* * * * * 

"So..." You trail off voice barely above a whisper as you lean closer to him. "Ever use that to slit someone's throat?" 

He sputtered. "Wha? Why-a would you ask that? Dio mios, this is-a for cutting pizza"! 

"Come on, really?" You shoot him an incredulous stare, "You think I'm that naive?" You ask, giving an indignant huff. 

When you stepped out of that alleyway that night, you knew someone had been following you. At first you didn't know who, making you rush to finish the job. As you darted across the street you watched from the cover of the shadows and foliage. You let out a small gasp, covering your mouth as you make a face at the coppery odor. 

You wondered how Peppino would react to you next time you approached him. Would he pretend he hadn't almost witnessed a murder? It would seem so. 

You knew he had killed before, too. To what extent you weren't sure, but him playing dumb was endearing.

"That's a pretty nifty device though," you nod your head towards the pizza cutter he had instead of a hand. "You basically have a weapon on you at all times. For me I have my own methods and how to dispose of the bodies after. I prefer to take a niiiice boating expedition out to sea. Or, did you know that a few pigs can completely eliminate the evidence within a day?" You flash him a wicked grin, your teeth gleaming in the light.

Had Peppino not followed you that day, you would've baffled him. He would've thought you were alluding to knowing he killed people before and were threatening to have him arrested. Now though, he realized you weren't nearly as good natured as he always assumed.

"It's a much better method than hiding a body in a dumpster". Peppino's eyes widened, his mouth open to protest but no words came out. You knew? 

You drop the subject and chuckle at his expression. Instead you pop the remains of crust into your mouth before leaning back into the booth, smiling at him. 

Desire peppered Peppino's thoughts as he watched you practically skip out the door. Maybe he wouldn't have to wait to confess. Although, if you felt the same, why wouldn't you do it? As he stared back to where you had been seated Peppino's thoughts wandered to your words earlier. 

Were you more deranged than he was? He was anxious about protecting you from himself. What if...he needed to be protected from you? If he pissed you off, would you also kill him? Anxiety didn't rear it's head as often as it used to. Usually Peppino buried that feeling down and replaced it with rage anymore. As he began to sweat he noticed his hand was trembling when he rubbed the back of his neck. 

* * * * * 

"I'm so stupid!" You groan, flopping onto the bed. "Masterful gambit Y/N! Ooooh! You know I kill people! I know you kill people! Let's talk about how we kill people"! You fling your arms upwards in exasperation before pressing a pillow into your face, letting out a muffled scream.

You toss the pillow to the floor and glare up at the ceiling, taking your rant internally. Should you even go back to the pizzeria? No? Maybe you should leave Peppino alone for a bit. He's probably still shocked at his new discovery about you. Give him time, it'll be ok. Right?

You bolt upright as something roughly taps at your window. Seeing nothing there, you begin to settle back down before the sound repeats. It was getting late, you agree, seemingly to no one as you walk over to the window. You undid the latch and pushed it open before stumbling backwards as a black blur sped past you, thudding onto your pillows.

You fold your arms across you chest as brown eyes blink back at you. "And where have you been all day, mister?" You ask the raven. 

"Gwah!" He replies back at you before hopping the edge of the bed. 

"Oh, is that so?" You nod at the reply, extending a hand to rub at the bird's neck. A croak bubbles in his throat and he flaps off towards your dresser, perching on the edge.

"Is my sweet baby boy Blackberry hungry?" You croon. The raven dubbed Blackberry pecked at a bell laying beside him before lifting it with his beak. You smiled slightly as he rapidly bobbed his head, the bell ringing loud and erratic. 

"You sure are! Come on buddy." You call over your shoulder, crossing the threshold from your room. The bell clanging as it drops to the floor with your raven squawking after you. 

You fix Blackberry his meal and pour a glass of water for yourself, bringing both to the table. He clicked at you happily as you pushed the bowl to him. His head instantly ducking into it to swallow down a piece of meat. You watch the massive bird for a time until your thoughts returned to Peppino.

"I think I fucked up." You say, resting your head into your arms as you lean into the table. "I think I should give Peppino some space.  Maybe I should only try to greet him in public for a while? That way it'll put him at ease that I won't kill him. At least until the shock wears off".

"GwaaaaAAAaah!" Blackberry replies, rolling a berry towards you. You ignore him, flicking it back. 

"But..." You trail off to stare vacantly at the wall. Past memories floated to the surface. The times you would go on late night walks together, just enjoying each other's company in peace. When you'd stop by the pizzeria and how Peppino would have you favorite pizza freshly made and waiting for you. Even if you tried to pay he'd refuse to take your money. Though that didn't stop you from throwing a generous amount into the tip jar when he wasn't looking. 

You frown at how he acted earlier today. How he had a slight tremble to his voice and movements as he spoke with you. "What if it never does? What if I'm too fucked up even for him"?

You flinch as Blackberry snaps his beak an inch from your face. "Well I'm just thinking about the worst case here!" You argue, moving your head away as he snaps at you again. 

In response you cup the birds face in your hands, thumbs stroking at his cheeks. "Fine." You murmur. "I'll stop assuming the worst and give Peppino time".

"Tok tok." Blackberry clicks back at you, closing his eyes as you continued petting him for another minute. 

As you move your hands away back under your chin Blackberry hops over to his bowl, fishing for some other treat.

"Thanks for telling me someone was following me that day". You were thankful the fact it was Peppino and not anyone else. That was too close and almost too sloppy for your liking. Had it not been Peppino that watched you go into the alley the whole situation could've gotten much more messy. 

You yawn but are interrupted with a gagging fit, the raven shoving a piece of egg into your open mouth. Bits of shell and yolk fly across the table as you sputter and spit, grabbing for your drink and chug it. With a final cough you draw in a steady breath and glare at your assailant.

"WHY"!? 

* * * * *

In his peripheral Peppino caught a glimpse of a familiar shape in the shadows. 

Peppino ducked his head lower to Gustavo's ear. "I-a fear no man, but that-a woman...she scares me." Peppino murmured to him. Your eyes followed after Peppino as the pair walked away from the corridor. Gustavo replied back with something but he too was speaking softly and too far away to discern any of the words. 

Weeks had passed since the last time he seen you at his pizzeria. It was as if you disappeared out of existence. After that day,  Peppino had started requesting Gus to follow him home. It helped to offset the knot in the pit of his stomach when ever shadows darted off the walls or when he would pass an unlit alley. 

Sometimes you'd meet Peppino when he was in the street, as if suddenly popping into reality again just to haunt him. Peppino always made sure to remain in public view from now on when you were around, in case you tried anything. The time before last you looked hurt when he flinched at a hand movement that was a little too quick. 

Then the last time Peppino had bumped into you, you threw your arms around him, hugging him tightly. You whispered in his ear that you missed him. When you did that, it reminded Peppino of the memories he had with you. 

How you'd both talk for hours after he closed for the day. Other times where you'd both watch horror movies and he'd laugh to himself as you'd always link your arm with his in fear (So he thought. At the time anyways). Anything on the screen was nothing compared to what he could do, but he'd sooth you by tracing gentle circles against your skin. 

The soft laughter that hung in the air as you laughed at Peppino's jokes, even if they were bad, or just sarcastic remarks. He missed the sweets you baked for him and how brightly you smiled at his compliments. 

Why had he suddenly taken to avoiding you? You killed one person, at least one, that flirted with him. Hell, even he did that for you, but you weren't afraid of him. How long had you known he had been doing that anyways? Why was he so unsettled by you, now? He was bigger and stronger than you were. 

Was that the reason? Someone smaller than he was that was just as -if not more- dangerous than him, was off-putting?

Peppino waved Gustavo off, thanking him for accompanying him, again, tonight. Peppino locked the door behind himself as he made his way to the shower before going to sleep. 

Thoughts of you flooded his memories as he shifted constantly in bed. He didn't want to let you go. What if that day was the last day he'd ever see you? The last thing he did was keep his arms to his sides for far too long before he finally wrapped them around you, replying he missed you too. It couldn't end like that. He didn't want it to. 

* * * * * 

The wind carried a chill tonight as Peppino walked home alone. Unfortunately Gustavo had to go home early, leaving Peppino with only the sound of his own footsteps and rustling leaves. Despite his resolve to find and speak with you, unease still nagged at him. 

You need to get over it. Peppino reminded himself, again, that you weren't going to kill him. Even if you were sick in the head like he was, that didn't mean you were incapable of feeling. He knew you cared about him.

Peppino jumped at feeling someone tap his shoulder. He took several staggering steps back upon realizing it was you. Suddenly appearing out of nowhere again. A frown plays on your lips and you furrow your brow at his actions. 

You shake the negative thoughts away. After today he wouldn't look at you with fear anymore. 

You hoped. 

"Oh, hey there handsome, wanna go behind the back alley?" You force a smile, knife settled behind your back. 

Peppino froze, mind racing at the various implications this could mean. Did he trust you? He thought he did. Even if he didn't, would he be able to overpower you, if you tried anything? He looked downward at the poorly concealed weapon you held. The thought sent a chill up his spine and made his heart race. Had you shown up tonight to take your anger out on him for avoiding you? 

Peppino nodded weakly at you, you responded with a small but genuine smile. You gesture with your head towards the alley across the street. 

He followed you as if in a trance, weaving through cross sections and corridors until a large dark sheet formed a wall before you both. With the flash of the knife Peppino flinched, the sound of fabric tearing broke the silence and the massive curtain fluttered to the ground. 

As Peppino focused on what was there, he realized he was at the entrance to a small fenced in courtyard. Complete with high hedges and a iron wrought fence that climbing halfway up them. In the center of the room was a table with a pair of plates, glasses, and utensils. The centerpiece was a simple candle decoration, the glow from it and the moon providing the only light to the area. In front of the entryway in dark letters were the words "Will you be mine"? the word 'mine' being bolder than the others. 

You turn to Peppino, the knife clattering to the ground as you took a step towards him. "I would never hurt my sweet 'Pino." You placed both hands on either side of his waist. "You know that, right"? Peppino's expression softened as he brought his hand up to your cheek. He looked behind you back at the words on the ground but said nothing. 

"Well, come on." You pull away and tug at his arm. "I made dinner". 

As Peppino sat down, you lifted the cover from the large bowl in the center. Fragrant herbs and sauce filled the air as you dipped a pair of tongs into it, heaping a mess of pasta onto your plate before holding it out towards Peppino. He takes it and exchanges his empty one into your hand. 

You still weren't done serving food though. A shallow plate was pushed towards him along with a chunk of bread. A thick liquid was poured to one side before you followed the same routine for your own plate. 

Peppino tore off a tiny bit of bread and dipped it into the liquid. His eyes widened at the taste. This was the olive oil mixture you made together, months ago. The recipe he taught you was one Peppino made himself when he was much younger. 

You leant down, shuffled around in a bag Peppino hadn't noticed, and brought up a bottle of red wine. You smiled at him as you filled each glass. 

While there had usually been chatter between you two previously, there was none now. Only the sound of forks scraping against plates and the occasional tink of your glass. You watched as Peppino ate slower than normal. 

He had no idea what to make of any of this. Well, the question on the ground gave Peppino a big enough hint for the meaning of this dinner. Was this a date? Could he even consider this a date? 

You nod down at the drink Peppino left untouched. "What? Do you expect to find strychnine in your red wine"? He winced as you guessed correctly. Well, aside from that choice of poison. That was oddly specif-

"There's not actually strychnine in it." You reply flatly, not bothering to look up as you twirl the pasta with your fork. 

You cover your mouth with your napkin, masking your sigh. This was a mistake wasn't it? A lump forms in your throat and take a moment to clear it before you speak again. When you finally do, you look up at Peppino sadly. "I'm sorry for dragging you here. I just thought...it would make up for these last few months I haven't been around to see you". 

You set the napkin down next to the plate. 

"I got a job in the next town over for the next few months and thought that I would like it. But I..." you fall silent and swallow against the uncomfortable feeling. "I miss you".

Peppino remains speechless, watching as tears threaten to spill over as you turn away. You get to your feet and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. 

"I should've left you alone after that but I don't want to. I still don't." You choke. Peppino's hand shot out and caught your wrist before you could walk away. Your gaze mets his, bewildered, as he stands up to yank you against his chest. 

"Then don't". Peppino whispers, wrapping both arms around you tightly. "Be mine. Be all mine". You bury your head into his neck as tears soak his skin and into his shirt as he said this. You cling to Peppino as if he would disappear at any moment. 

"I'll-a be yours." He presses a kiss to your temple. "You don't have to kill anyone for it to stay-a that way".

"You too." You reply, albeit muffled, and press a kiss into his collarbone. "I'm so fucked up". 

"Yes-a you are. You're the most-a fucked up signorina I ever met." Peppino pat you on the back and took your chin in his hand, tilting your head up to look at him. 

"Do you mean that"?

Peppino nodded, "Even more than-a me. You scare me when-a you get angry. It's exciting".

Silence takes over once more but it's a comforting stillness. You relaxed into Peppino's arms, staying like this as long as you both needed and wanted. Every so often either of you pressed small kisses against the other. 

"If anyone upsets or hurts you, I'll kill them".

"I know, Y/N." Peppino caressed your face. He would've told you the same but words weren't needed. You knew and so did he. Peppino's lips were on yours in that moment, hand pressed to the back of your head as he deepened the kiss. 

You pressed into his body as much as you could, hands against his hips as you pulled him close. A whine bubbled in your throat, wishing you could be closer still. 

A shrill sound caused Peppino to abruptly break the kiss as he jerked his head upwards. His eyes darted to the direction he heard it had come from, quirking an eyebrow as you seemed more annoyed than startled. 

"The fuck-a is that?" Peppino squints up at a dark mass settled on the tree. 

With a huff you pull a small item from your pocket, giving it a few clicks. At an instant the mass swooped down and you lurched forward as a large bird slammed into your back. Peppino winced as he attempted to help you steady yourself. As he did so his eyes fixed onto the face of the bird that was peering over your shoulder at him.  

"This is Blackberry." You point to the raven, not that you needed to, as it snapped it's beak in the air. "He was supposed to stay in the tree". You reach behind your back to shoo him off, watching as Blackberry hopped to the ground. 

Peppino stifled a laugh as the bird snatched a piece of bread from the table. "You're always full-a surprises signorina".

His eyes darkened as he fixed his attention back onto you. "But, anyways..." his arm snaked around your waist, "Would you like to continue where we left off? Somewhere more...private?" He smirks as you're already melting into his touch. His forehead presses against yours, you shudder as his breath ghosts your lips. "We can belong to each other. I'll be yours and you'll be mine. How does that sound"?

You close your eyes and nod, feeling yourself hoisted into Peppino's arms as he scoops you up. You wrap your arms around his neck, listening to his breathing while he carries you back to his home. He would be sure to relish in the prized catch that was you, and he knew you felt the same.

(My brain came up with this at 4am lmao, so in my delirious state you got a dash of crack to this :] 💜 )

Also obvious disclaimer: don't kill people

[weird-writes]

Spare Change (The Mandalorian, E)

Title: Spare Change (10k)

Series: Part four of Creed, a non-linear series about Din Djarin and his favorite... distraction. 

Description: When bad dreams wake you the night before your wedding, you find only two things will make you feel better: a certain helmet - and your future husband.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

They'd won in the end, as you'd known they would. The big one had held you down while the tall woman wearing armor tightened the restraints around your wrists and ankles. Then your thighs and waist and - horrifyingly intimate, close enough that your breath fogged the beskar of her helmet - your neck. Once the last buckle flipped shut you nearly passed out, immobility so much worse than the comparatively straightforward act of being kidnapped.

You threw up again, this time without the encouragement of a boot to the gut. With your neck strapped to the chair you couldn't lean over, and had to suffer the indignity of gloved fingers sweeping through your mouth to check your airway after you were done heaving.

The yellow helmet said, as if you weren't even in the room: "Be careful. We need her alive."

Warnings: torture, trauma, revenge, slightly more than canon-typical violence, PTSD, sexual content implied, canon what canon, no betas we die like men

Tropes: battle couple, angst, hurt/comfort sorta, "want me to kill him for you?", happy endings, the helmet comes off but not like you think, is dark fluff a genre option?

Author's note: GUESS WHO'S BACK LIKE A HEART ATTACK

***

You haven’t had a night like this in so long you've forgotten what it’s like. The images aren't as vivid as they once were but the panic is the same, the adrenaline spiking through your bloodstream still enough to hurl you back to consciousness without warning. There's only the dream - a blur of yellow, the snap of your head going back, the smashed porcelain feeling of teeth coming loose - and then awake: warm blood replaced with sweat, your clenched fists wound tight as magcuffs in the sheets.

It takes a few seconds before you can untangle yourself without screaming.

It's late. Din and the kiddo must still be asleep. In the bad old days, you'd make noise. Sometimes you woke yourself; sometimes Din's light touch pulled you out instead. But that was a long time ago now. You haven't needed him to guard you from your dreams in years, hadn't even had that particular dream at all in what... ten months? Twelve? 

Last time it had been no more than a few quick flashes. Half-formed faces, the taste of sand - then gone, drowned in mundanity as your sleeping mind sorted through the events of an unremarkable day. 

This time was bad. This time details you'd thought were gone had found you, slicing into the soft meat of your memory with the precision of a surgeon reopening an old wound. Hands holding you upright. A damp cloth moving across your cracked lips. Bacta knitting you back together under the padding of the restraints, cool compared to the warm desert night. Tell us where he is, and none of this has to happen again. You heard him-- you don't owe him anything. Your throat, dry and swollen, barely able to swallow water. So you spat it instead, tinged with blood and mucous, right into the face that was telling you such tempting lies.  

Then the one constant, the moment that replayed every night for months after your captivity ended: the helmet. Beskar, though Maker knows where they'd gotten it. Scored and dented by heavy combat, yellow paint peeling and flaking to show the metal underneath, dangling carelessly from the hand of the woman who'd plied you with questions and later with pain. Even if you hadn't known already, the state of her armor would have been enough to tell you that this little collection of nobodies was far outside of tribe and clan - if they'd ever had them in the first place. You didn’t believe a word they said, because what good was the word of a Mandalorian who was no Mandalorian at all?

That was right before she'd raised the helmet, fingers hooked casually inside the visor, and smashed it across your jaw.

The dream ends there, the impact of the helmet jolting you awake. But you don't need to be asleep to remember what came next. After the blow, an instant of reflexive amazement: somewhere out there in the universe, someone in charge had made a mistake. Nothing could hurt this much. Then hot on the heels of astonishment had come something much worse. Realization. It could hurt this much, you'd feel every bit of it and would go on feeling it even after they decided to stop.

You had just opened your mouth to scream when she hit you again, with the visor this time, and your teeth snapped shut so hard you were sure you'd bitten off your tongue.

You'd blacked out after that, the force of brain meeting skull erasing you from existence for a while. Ironic that right before you'd lost consciousness is when the dream always spits you out. No rescue, no resolution, just the slam of beskar into tender flesh and bone and then reality. Launched back into the present with all the kindness of a missile strike.

Even without the blankets tangled around you, your bunk feels too small, too much like - but there's nothing good at the end of that thought, so you breathe out hard through your nose, pull the curtains back, and listen. Silence except for the comforting hum of the ship's usual routines, recycled air sighing past your feet as you dangle them off the edge of your bed and drop lightly to the floor.

Standing up helps a little, but only a little. You must have been quiet, though, because Din hadn't come to find you. For the past few weeks he's taken to sleeping with the sliding door to his own bunk wide open. He called it a gesture of trust. You called it tempting fate, or at least you had the first time he'd leaned his visor against your forehead as he did every night and then crawled into his rack. 

You followed his cue, moving to fold out your bed from its niche. You'd been just about to climb in when you'd heard the shuffling click of Din's helmet unlatching, loud in the soft hum of hyperspace.

"Hey," you'd called softly, making sure to keep your eyes on the bulkhead. "Did you forget to close the door?"

"I didn't forget," Din answered back, equally soft, and then in his typical Mandalorian way said nothing else, leaving you to work out the implications.

You hesitated. "Din, is that... wise?"

When Din responded, his voice seemed almost strange without the modulator - too warm, too human, more like one of the embarrassingly tender daydreams you used to have about him than the real thing. You'd heard his unfiltered voice before on rare occasions: through a wall; when you stuck your head into the 'fresher to ask a question with the door of the sonic firmly closed. Never like this, though, never so close.

So when he said, "I trust you," as simply as he would state that water is wet or planets orbit their suns, you had to clamp your hands down on the edge of your bunk to keep from...  from what? Shouting at him that he's being stupid, maybe. Anything that would push against the weight of the thing he's just handed you with as nonchalantly as he would caf or Grogu's favorite toy. When Din decides, he decides, and then he stares down the galaxy until it bends to his will. 

You already know he won't spend another second worrying that you could end his entire way of life with an accidental turn of your head.

That, of course, is why you're marrying him.

But it doesn't mean you're not nervous about it.

And maybe that's what's brought ancient monsters out of the deep. How many brides before you haven't been able to sleep the night before their wedding? If you even are a bride - Din has been somewhat vague on exactly how the Children of the Watch solemnize their bonds, saying only that the process is simple and requires no special preparation. His reassurance only goes so far, and something in your chest has been cinching tighter as the numbing routines of long spaceflight bring you closer to Mandalore. No wonder you're not sleeping well, your jangling nerves drawing out the old familiar enemy. You may have forgotten the dream, but it clearly hasn't forgotten you.

It would be a bad omen, if you believed in bad omens. You don't. You've never really believed in anything you can't see or hear or smell or touch - except for love, and probably not even that before a certain bounty hunter.

Which is why you grimace at the smell of your sweat-damp shirt but make for the galley instead of your chest of fresh clothes. You haven't needed it in months, not since the last time you had this particular dream. It had been in the cabinet full of spare parts but things on the ship don't tend to stay in one place, not with the womp rat around, and you're almost sure you saw it somewhere in the galley when you were looking for pirjanad.

Easing the cabinet doors open quietly enough not to wake your companions is hard enough, but easing them closed again when you don't find what you're looking for is harder. The last one bangs just a little as the cheap polymer latches and you pause, listening closely for blankets rustling or the telltale coo that means Grogu is awake for good. You let go of your held breath only when all you can hear is the soft hiss of the vents. Your solitude is safe for a while longer.

It's while you're frozen, head cocked towards the corner that you know contains the Child's cradle even if you can't see it, that you spot it. A flash of yellow, shoved behind the plasma heater and the kettle and the battered tin pot that you should really replace, since Din never will. You shove the cooking implements aside, still trying to stay quiet.

Somehow you’d forgotten that it takes both hands to lift it, the beskar nearly as heavy as its contents. You cradle it in your cupped palms like an offering bowl.

It's absurd to compare the helmet in your dream to the real thing. In the dream, it's enormous, weighty with despair, the hand that holds it all-powerful. But awake, in the dim light from the sensors that are the galley's only illumination, it's nothing at all. Still heavy - but awkward, a thing meant to be worn, not wielded. The paint has flaked away even more, leaving only ragged patches of yellow behind. Din keeps your spare change in it, small denomination credits as well as the bits and pieces of local currency that aren't worth the rates to exchange but might still be useful. The metal rattling around inside has done nothing to keep the padding intact... but it's been years. You're probably all a little worse for wear.

Years. At times when you look back it’s almost impossible to believe you're still here. Impossible to imagine the bloody, gutting details of all you’ve been through fading into something as mundane as this: Din, breathing soft and even in the darkness of his rack, sleeping as soundly as he would the night before a battle; you, awake, alight with nerves and memory, unable to contemplate tomorrow and so thinking only of yesterday. The painfully ordinary helmet in your hands, a reminder of one of the worst - and best - days of your life.

You carry the helmet out into the cargo bay, settling on the floor with your back against a crate, and contemplate the visor between your crossed knees.

***

They'd thought you were your fucking sister. Again. Just like the last bounty hunter had, months ago - and just like him, it didn't end well, although at least Mando had restrained himself to only breaking your heart and no other important bits. This lot jumped you six on one and kept knocking you down until you went limp enough to drag. They hadn't thought to check your fingerprints or your retina or the scattering of burn scars across your palms, unique evidence of a lifetime of mucking with sharp wires and small explosives. They shoved your whole head in front of a facial recognition scanner instead, then made smug, self-satisfied noises when it confirmed what they thought they already knew.

Considering the amount of inconvenience she was still managing to put you through, sister was maybe too generous. Clone would be more accurate, although you'd never liked the word. But it was true that even if they had sequenced your genetic material instead of relying on your bone structure, the information that flashed across the screen would have been the same. Your father had been a little too curious about military technology, a little too adoring of the Old Republic, and possessed of a little - okay, a lot - too much money with nothing else to spend it on. And there you were, one half of his pet project, more than fifteen years out from under the family name and still paying the price. Eating sand as your newest captors hauled you through the back alleys of Mos Eisley.

The blood dripping into your eyes kept you from seeing much. After a while, the hands that had been pulling you by the ankles finally dropped, and you heard the sound of a heavy metal door banging open. Then the grip on you returned. Your smeared vision went from glimpses of desert sky to darkness, the smell of rust, the sense of a cavernous space above you. A warehouse?

As soon as you were sure you wouldn't faint you'd be on your feet, making for Pelli Motto's hangar and the relative safety of the docks, which had to be nearby. Clearly the Guild had finally reassigned your bounty: the tall figure who'd taken you down first was wearing armor that looked suspiciously Mandalorian. Considering the terms of your puck, they probably wouldn't kill you if you tried to escape, and if you got to Pelli's she'd hide you and you could stow away on a ship outbound after repairs. You'd done it before. It had been a while since you'd last disappeared, but you had the knack.

If you hadn't just been thrown repeatedly into an alley wall, you would have realized the implications of that warehouse. Bounty hunters would turn you over for the reward, not take you to an empty building in a decrepit part of town. And even if the warehouse had escaped you, the chair wouldn't have. Heavy steel bolts held it to the floor, and it had the same padded straps that a medtech might use until the sedation spike hit. There was only one use for a chair like that, and it wasn't one that bounty hunters would ever require.

Of course, you'd figured out the chair just fine when they'd levered you upright long enough to try and sit you in it. At the first touch of metal your body worked out what your brain hadn't and reacted accordingly. There had been a bad moment where you thought you might lose control of your bladder, but you'd lost control of the rest of you instead: kicking and biting everything in reach, smashing your forehead into the nose of the man who leaned over you so hard that you both reeled back in an explosion of mutual stars. By the time they got you under control you weren't the only one dripping blood, and a sample from the right place on any of them would have yielded both your DNA.

They'd won in the end, as you'd known they would. The big one had held you down while the tall woman wearing armor tightened the restraints around your wrists and ankles. Then your thighs and waist and - horrifyingly intimate, close enough that your breath fogged the beskar of her helmet - your neck. Once the last buckle flipped shut you nearly passed out, immobility so much worse than the comparatively straightforward act of being kidnapped.

You threw up again, this time without the encouragement of a boot to the gut. With your neck strapped to the chair you couldn't lean over, and had to suffer the indignity of gloved fingers sweeping through your mouth to check your airway after you were done heaving.

The yellow helmet said, as if you weren't even in the room: "Be careful. We need her alive."

***

It's the nightmare that upset you, or at least that's what you tell yourself. But it's not a convincing lie, even to you. You know it's not just the nightmare; it's the nightmare and the uncharted territory of tomorrow. The stress of the - the phase change, from one thing to another. No matter how much you reassure yourself that you and your Mandalorian have been together for years and that's the same as married, it's not true. It's the thought of Din without his helmet for the first time and every time after that. It's the idea of his face - will you love it? Of course you'll love it. Will you hate it? You could never hate it. Oh Maker, what if you hate it - standing in for the promise of a shared future and all the uncertainty that entails.

After a while it isn't even the nightmare and tomorrow anymore, it's everything: your family and your past; your close calls; your narrow escapes; decades worth of bumps and bruises to your soul. You get down to the business of crying as quietly as you can, tears rolling down your cheeks and dripping into the assorted coins inside the helmet. You're not even sure you're sad. Not exactly. You only know that something huge and tender inside you is trying to get out and it seems to require quite a lot of lubrication to do so.

Eventually you stop sobbing with every inhale. The small details of a ship at rest begin to return: green status panel. Red emergency shutoff. You try to straighten up but clearly whatever's inside your chest isn't the only thing that's now well-lubricated because the helmet, slick with old grease and fresh tears, slips out of your grasp. You lunge for it but miss. It clunks to the floor, the noise as loud as a bomb going off in the silence. 

Din finds you, of course, about five kriffing seconds later. He's far too much the bounty hunter to ever sleep so heavily an unexpected noise won't bring him out of his rack in record time. For a childish moment you hope if you hold still he'll just go away; you could really live without your immediate-future husband seeing you clutching a stupid helmet with snot all over your face. But he can't help finding you despite the dark any more than he can help being a light sleeper.

His own helmet must mean he sees every detail of your expression. He doesn't ask questions, just sinks to the floor beside you and hauls you into the protective circle of his arms. "We don't have to," he says soothingly, burying his visor in your unbound hair and letting it rest against your skull. "We don't. We can go to Batuu instead - pick some fights, lose some credits at the tables. You love spending my money."

A guess. A good guess, and an offer more generous than you deserve. You're crying again, which is absurd, but tonight your tears have their own agenda. In fact, you're crying so much that you can't even tell him he's wrong, that you do want to get married tomorrow. All you can do is shake your head in denial.

"No? Mos Eisley then," jokes Din. That only makes you cry harder. His grip on you tightens. When he speaks again, his voice is pained, uncertain. "Mesh'la? Tell me what's wrong." He's upset too and trying to hide it. He thinks you don't want this, that you've changed your mind after all, but you know he'll never admit it.

"Not you," you finally hiccup. "I was sleeping-- the dream--"

"Oh." You feel most of the tension leave Din. He sounds relieved even through the modulator, which you find forgivable under the circumstances.

"It was bad," you confess. "The worst in a long time."

The helmet behind you makes a sympathetic noise. The helmet in front of you is still staring, the inverted T of the upside-down visor empty and silent.

"Din," you say abruptly. "You've been-- at night. Without the helmet. Does it count if I can't see?" You really don't know. He's never taken the helmet off in your presence before, not even with you blindfolded or in total darkness. His Creed doesn't work like that. To a Mandalorian, to do something halfway is to do it completely, in spirit if not in fact. And the spirit is what matters. "Can you take it off now, if I promise not to look?"

He doesn't wait for a promise, doesn't even hesitate. His arms leave you as he reaches upward. There's a hiss and a click and then the silver helmet is in your hands, as heavy as the yellow one in your dreams. This time the weight is comforting.

"Does it help?" His voice feels like you're still dreaming: rough with sleep, low and velvet and only inches from your ear. You shiver. You could get used to this.

"Yes," you say contentedly, leaning back into him. You put the silver helmet on your lap and let your fingers wander over it: the smooth transparisteel, the curves of the cheek guards. Your mouth twitches as you trail up to the ridge of metal running over the crest. You have fond memories of that ridge.

More than anything else about him, the helmet is Din to you. When you think of his face, you think of the helmet. It will be strange to learn a new face, another Din - but you realize with a warm flip of your stomach that you're looking forward to it.

You give the helmet one last caress then hand it back back awkwardly, careful not to look over your shoulder. You wait for the rustle of adjustment and the buzz of the modulator as Din puts it back on, but neither comes. There's a quiet thump, as if he's set it down beside him, and then his hands return to find yours. His voice, still unfiltered: "Better?"

"Better. You know I want tomorrow, right?" It comes out a little flat, but if you cry any more you'll dehydrate like freeze-dried rations.

Din doesn't answer. He picks up one of your hands instead and pulls it over your shoulder and kisses it. The first press of his lips to your skin feels - ordinary. Just a brief, dry pressure, breath warm compared to the cool cargo bay, the soft strands of his mustache tickling your palm. It's clearly meant to be comforting, not seductive.

You think you might lose your mind. You have to close your eyes hard to keep from looking. Fuck getting married, you could die right now. You can't die right now, you have to make it at least through tomorrow so he can do it again. So he can do more. No, don't think about that, not when you can't do anything about it -

With you tangled together like this, you're sure he feels your reaction. You can certainly feel his broad chest quake as he laughs at you. "Mesh'la? Is something wrong?"

"Shut up," you say, not meaning it, and Din laughs again, a quiet puff of air in the dark. You cast around for a lifeline to preserve your dignity and come up with a complaint: "I don't know anything about Mandalorian marriage. Is a wedding public or secret? Do you wear any sign of being pledged to each other?"

"Public but only within the tribe. And you won the right to wear my clan signet a long time ago, so that won't change. Why, do you want a promise ring? We already have each other's tracking beacons."

"How romantic." But that's your Mando, practical as ever. "I thought for sure there'd be something else, something... intense. A tattoo or something."

"A tattoo? What would that do?"

It seems obvious to you. "You know. A sign of 'til death do us part' or whatever. Your people are always so committed. It seems... very Mandalorian."

Din sounds confused. "A tattoo would be inappropriate. Tattoos are meant to be permanent."

Have you fundamentally misunderstood the nature of this arrangement? "And marriage isn't?"

"It's a hope, not a requirement," Din says, as if he's explaining something you should already know. This, too, must be part of his religion. "Mandalorians don't believe in an unbreakable marriage bond. There's no honor in something you can never walk away from. The Way is in the choice to stay together, made over and over, and in the struggle to keep each other, always tested. Every day made new."

Your heart stops for a moment. You sometimes forget he can be like this: your sensible, hard-headed Mandalorian. Din isn't a sweet-talker, and he doesn't waste time wooing you with words unless it's in bed. He doesn't need to. He knows he has you, as surely as you know you have him. But sometimes you forget what drew you to him in the first place - his hard-fought skill, his well-earned pride, his sense of honor. His Creed. He believes, simple as that. 

And now he believes in you, too.

There's so much you've never done together. Never bathed together. Never eaten the same meal at the same time. Never slept next to one another except out of exhaustion or in forced proximity. You know the exact trigger pressure of the IB-94 blaster he prefers. You know that when he's feeling philosophical he likes to coax you into the cockpit with him, one arm around your waist as he pulls you into his lap to quietly contemplate the stars. You know the shame he still carries from the time, years ago, when he considered Grogu a bounty and not his son. You even know about the stash of cheap adventure holonovels he keeps in his crate for when he thinks you're not looking. You would know him in the pitch black of deep space from the warmth of his body and the raised constellations of his scars.

You've never seen his face.

Tomorrow will change everything and nothing at all.

***

Your captors weren't so stupid that they thought they could keep you restrained indefinitely. They pulled the straps off you every few hours, as though they were acting on advice from the same clinician who donated the horrible chair. The smallest one kept a blaster trained on you from a few paces away as one of the others hauled you upright and made you stumble outside into the alley to stretch your tingling limbs and relieve yourself. The first time you crouched against the wall for as long as you dared, hoping that a stray passerby might spot you. The second time you fell over, unable to feel your feet. The third time you didn't even pretend anymore, just stood dripping blood into the sand until they forced you back inside. Some of the fear you'd felt at first had faded, replaced by buzzing numbness. You'd spent all your endorphins enduring the first twenty minutes and now static was the only thing left.

By then the yellow helmet had made it very clear what it would take for them to let you go, and it wasn't a bounty payment or even a ransom sourced from your father's dwindling estate - not that you would have been able to access it anyway. No, you were just a little fish in their net, and she promised the instant you proved yourself useful they'd throw you back into the murky waters of Mos Eisley. They had a bigger catch in mind.

They wanted Mando.

And they wanted you to tell them where to find him.

You could have argued the point from several angles. You weren't who they thought you were, for one. You weren't sure where Mando was for another, considering he hadn't seen fit to tell you his travel plans before he said he was done with you and then dumped you in this Maker-forsaken town. Presumably he'd turn in the bounty you'd caught together, but after that he could be headed anywhere in the galaxy. You had no idea if they'd believe you, but that was the truth. You could have at least tried to convince them.

You didn't.

At first, before the helmet and everything else that led to you leaking bodily fluids in an empty warehouse, you told yourself it was because you were taking the high ground. He might not want you anymore but Mando had still believed you weren't your sister, taken you in when you needed protection and a place to lay low. He'd often been strange and silent, aloof and hard to read, but he'd never been impatient or rude - at least, not until the very end, not until you'd pushed the matter further than he was willing to go. And regardless of how he felt about his own behavior, he'd never taken advantage of you. You had been a willing participant and in his own way he'd treated you generously, in and out of bed. You weren't in the habit of rewarding kindness with betrayal.

That excuse held up for a surprisingly long time, right up until the first tooth dropped out of your swollen mouth and clinked against the metal of the chair.

After that, it was sheer spite, and you couldn't even decide who you hated more: the tacky, embarrassing excuse for Mandalorians in front of you or the stoic, picture-perfect Mandalorian who left you to be snatched up like an ash-rabbit the first place. You weren't stupid - you'd never been a soldier but you'd certainly been around them plenty, back when the New Republic had dragooned your talents into the service of a cause you didn't even believe in. You'd gotten drunk with plenty of former Rebels and you knew that no one, no matter their motivations, holds out forever under torture. But you were going to make them kriffing work for it.

The medic was their mistake and your salvation. When they'd pulled you out of the chair this time you'd collapsed, your abused legs unable to take your weight. They'd been standing over you bickering about who would carry you outside when a pair of boots you didn't recognize came into your field of view.

"You idiots," was the first thing the new voice said: another woman, you thought, low and clear and confident. "How long has she been like this? You're going to kill her from dehydration, if hemorrhage doesn't get her first." A steady beeping noise came from somewhere nearby. The newcomer was using a handheld medisensor. "Yeah, thought so - look. Dehydration, bruised kidneys, cranial swelling, broken jaw and skull fracture, bleeding into the abdominal cavity. If you're planning to use her as bait you'd better do it quick."

"Kriff," groaned one of the ones you did know by now - the big one who was always the first to unbuckle your restraints and the first to put them back on. He sounded more inconvenienced than regretful. "We tried to give her water but she won't drink it. Spit it right back at us. Keva lost her temper."

The woman you thought was a medic gave an unsympathetic snort. "She's gonna lose her hostage, too, if she doesn't let me help. Let me talk to her."

The sound of boots moving away from you, the squeal of the big iron door opening and closing. Only one of them left to guard you, which would have been the perfect opportunity to grab for a blaster and get far away, if only you could move more than a few pathetic inches at a time.

You'd just geared up to at least try when the door banged open again. You spent a precious bit of energy rolling your eyes instead - fuck's sake, had none of these people ever run a covert operation before? Or were they just so sure no one would come looking for you? Maybe that was it. They'd been following you; they'd witnessed your very public repudiation. They knew they didn't need to worry about a rescue. You were on your own, just like Mando had said.

The thought made you want to lay your head against the stone, close your eyes, and wait for whichever of your fatal injuries would be the first to cross the finish line.

"He's not going to come back for her on his own," came Yellow Helmet's voice, unmodulated. She must have taken the helmet off again. She seemed to spend more time holding it than wearing it, which irritated you an absurd amount considering the circumstances. "If we want to use her, we're going to have to get the word around and wait for him to come to us. It could take weeks."

"She doesn't have weeks unless you get her to a real medbay." The medic again. "Whoever kicked her in the gut about eight times and broke her skull made sure of that."

Silence. You concentrated on keeping your head up and your breathing as even as you could. Whatever was coming next, you wanted to see it before it got you.

"Fine," Yellow Helmet gritted out at last. She sounded annoyed. "We can spare one. That means after this we go easy on her. There's plenty that will make her talk without killing her."

"Lucky her," said the other woman with just a touch of sarcasm, then: "Hold still." This last was directed at you. As if you could do anything else.

You were still digesting the implications of make her talk without killing her when there was a thunk and a rustle from above you. A heavy canvas bag dropped to the floor just in front of your face, marked with the universal sigil for medical supplies. A moment later you felt a heavy sting on the back of your neck. You yelped and tried to roll over but succeeded only in bucking helplessly, too weak to fling yourself against the intrusion. Your heart was hammering in your ribcage - what was that? What exactly were they planning to do?

"That should tide her over." The medic sounded satisfied.

"It had better," Yellow Helmet said. "I'll be damned if she's getting another. We were lucky to get as many as we did."

What had they just given you? A stimpack would explain your heart rate, but stimpacks were for combat soldiers, designed to get them up and fighting again on the assumption that real medical attention would be available once the shooting stopped. And you'd had stims and this didn't feel like that. It didn't feel like a sedative either; no warm haze reached out to pull you oblivion. Instead, a strange sensation prickled across your scalp. It was a little like cool water over a sunburn or the pump of cold air from a ventilation shaft. You found you were suddenly more alert, could feel parts of yourself that you hadn't realized had gone numb. You thought that in another few minutes you might be able to stand, and walk, and talk, and do all the normal things a person does that had been stripped from you in your purely animal pain.

You were considering putting this hypothesis to the test by rolling over when something else happened. Somewhere in your abdomen, a feeling like a balloon popping but in reverse -  slowly and then all at once. You blinked and swallowed. You hadn't even been able to tell how unfocused your vision had become; now it was like watching one of those hyperrealistic holovids, colors flooding in so brightly everything seemed oversaturated. It wasn't that you didn't still hurt: you could feel the bruises on your jaw, the cut on your scalp throbbing. And it wasn't that you weren't exhausted because you still wanted to fall asleep right there on the floor.

It was just that, suddenly, it seemed possible you might live.

"Get her up," commanded Yellow Helmet. Hands shoved themselves under your armpits to hoist you to your feet. The big one's touch was familiar at this point, and you found it almost comforting. This time when your feet touched the floor you were able to stand.

"You two, take her out. Deng, keep that blaster handy - we don't know how she'll react."

Good, you thought, with a giggle. She'll react real good. You weren't sure if you'd said it out loud.

"Come on," said the big one coaxingly. "Atta girl. Let's get you outside and you can have a nice walkabout."

Your mouth was too gummed with dried blood to come back with something smart, and you really did want to move even if it was just to see if you could. You concentrated instead on putting one foot in front of the other.

By the time you reached the alley, you found you could not just walk but maybe even run if you had to. Whatever they gave you was humming along your nerves and everything was sharp and clear, from the rustle of your garments as you stretched to the sound of Yellow Helmet and the others arguing about something in a language you didn't know.

Your newfound awareness was what saved you both. You saw the glimpse of silver in the loading dock across the street, tucked deep behind another half-shattered door. Your chemically-enhanced synapses stopped you from reacting almost before you realized what you were looking at. Your two guards were watching you closely. You deliberately let your gaze drift back down to the ground, trying to to look vague and unthreatening. It must have worked because neither of your captors seemed to notice anything amiss.

After a few long seconds your eyes wandered back over to the loading dock, but whatever you'd seen in the shadows was gone.

***

"All right," said Yellow Helmet from startlingly close behind you. It was your fifth time being let out of the chair to pee and this time, thanks to whatever they'd given you, you'd actually passed something resembling normal urine instead of blood. You knew it was the fifth time because you were keeping track. Other prisoners might scratch the days on the walls of their prison; you, in a somewhat less dignified arrangement, kept count via your bladder and hoped every piss wouldn't be your last.

Yellow Helmet was talking to your minder. "Here's the plan. We're getting off this sand-sucking rock as fast as possible, and we're taking her with us. Deng stays behind to put the word out. If Djarin is here, he'll hear we've got his little pet and come looking. Him and his fucking honor, Mandalorians are so predictable--"

The first shot was so unexpected you didn't understand what was happening. All you registered was an ear-splitting crack and a roar from one of your guards before the smaller one, the one who had been assigned to hold a blaster to your head, staggered back and collapsed against the wall as if he had decided to sit down on the job. It wasn't until you saw the dark bloom across his tunic that you realized he wasn't suddenly drunk or insane: he was dead.

Someone was screaming, but it wasn't you. The noise almost masked the whining pop of return fire as you whipped your head towards the alley entrance, despite the protest from your injured jaw, and saw -

A mountain of silver advancing through the narrow passageway, pulse rifle notched against one shoulder and coolly steadied by a familiar, orange-gloved hand.

Your other kidnappers were scrambling across the open ground, finding cover behind ruined walls, ducking behind doors already hanging crazily off their hinges. Two more blaster bolts whistled by your head and you flinched, watching them ricochet off the Mandalorian's beskar chestplate as if they were children's toys.

The pulse rifle fired again, punching straight through one of the doors. The energy field might have lost momentum going through the metal, but it didn't matter. You saw shrapnel finish the gruesome job as the body of the big man - the one you'd almost managed to feel fond of - reeled backward, the flesh of his face and throat no more than shreds of yellow and scarlet. 

More screaming. It might have been you this time. You couldn't tell.

Another shot. This close, the sound was incredible to your heightened hearing, so loud it made your eardrums ring like gongs. You were glad to be temporarily deaf; you didn't want to hear what noises the woman across from you was making as she clutched her hands to the river of blood gushing from her side. You'd never been so relieved to see someone in your life and at the same time you were terrified, desperate to run, hide, anything to avoid the eerily calm attention of the man who was coming down the street towards you like a landslide.

The Mandalorian tossed the pulse rifle into the sand and drew the blaster holstered on his hip. A lucky shot from someone - Yellow Helmet, maybe - grazed his arm at the elbow, burning through the duraweave, but he hardly seemed to notice. Your quaking body crammed you into the wall as he went past, making yourself as small of a target as possible. He didn't look at you, didn't seem to see anything past the helmet besides the three mercenaries still returning fire from the end of the alley.

Something in your flailing brain tugged at your attention despite the panic. Three. Three, including Yellow Helmet, still cowering behind their poor excuses for cover. Three more down, one still cursing and two dead.

Where was --

You were up and moving before you even realized it, launching yourself through the door of the warehouse like a badly aimed slugthrower. You collided with someone just inside, kneecap popping ominously as you both hit the floor and rolled with a clatter of metal. You pulled yourself halfway to standing despite the pain, desperately scanning for what you knew had to be there - slamming a shin into the concrete as you lunged -

The medic's blaster was in your hands and her face, which you hadn't been able to see before now, was like a dream below the red dot of the targeting system. She was kneeling too, arrested in the middle of rising after you'd knocked her down. She had a plain face, broad and open, and could have passed unnoticed in any marketplace on Tattooine. Your finger twitched, finding the trigger.

"Don't," said the medic. "Please don't."

"You would have killed me," you said. It was the first time you'd spoken to one of your captors and the words felt strange in your mouth.

"I saved you," the medic said. "They would have let you die." Her voice was perfectly steady.

"You were going to shoot him," you said. Your brain had done the calculation without any conscious input from you, as it had several times in the past few days. Three in the sand of the alley. Three still fighting. One missing: the latecomer, the medic. The smart one, who had stayed in the darkness of the warehouse and waited for the Mandalorian to walk past. She would have taken her shot at his back, aiming for the unarmored arteries in the leg and groin. It's what you would have done too.

"He's killing us," she replied.

"Good," you snarled, so savagely you didn't recognize yourself. "He should."

"It's not personal." She was still talking, the way you would talk to a wild animal: calm, soothing, a gentle stream to let it know you're only human. "Strictly business. It was never about you. We didn't even want your bounty, we just wanted the Mandalor--"

It wasn't that you were an especially good shot. She was just so close you couldn't miss. The blaster bolt took her square in the sternum and she went over backward with the hollow thunk of skull meeting stone. You half staggered, half crawled a few steps, staring at the dead face, the empty eyes. You wanted to say something clever like, Yeah, well, so do I, but you just gaped like an idiot instead, chest heaving as the weapon dangled from one slack hand.

There was a tremendous clang from outside, followed by the scream of metal on metal. You turned to see the warehouse door flung fully open by a silver figure half-dragging, half-supporting a woman in yellow armor -

You pulled the trigger entirely by instinct. Luckily your aim was just as good as last time and the bolt hit the yellow breastplate dead center, ricocheted to ping off the Mandalorian’s silver helmet, and vanished into the ceiling in a cloud of dust.

"Hey, watch it," came the familiar, modulated voice.

Relief hit you harder than any alley wall, pulling the adrenaline out from under you like a rug. You sat down hard on the concrete. Your hands were shaking so badly you dropped the blaster.

You didn't pick it back up. No need, not anymore. You found to your surprise that you couldn't raise your head, couldn't meet the dark glass of the visor. You felt-- you didn't know what you felt. Furious that he was the reason you were here, and grateful to be rescued, and embarrassed to need it... and somehow deeply, obscurely ashamed.

Another clang as the Mandalorian dropped his armored prize like dead weight to kneel beside you. "Mesh--," he started, and then stopped, then started again. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

There was no good way to answer that question, so you just pointed at the yellow figure on the floor.

"Yeah," said Mando, sounding more certain. "This one was giving the orders. I saw the cha-- I saw some of the things she did. I thought..." He paused for a moment, as though considering what to say next. "I thought you might like... right of first refusal."

Right of first refusal. What a Mandalorian way to put it. I thought murder might make you feel better. Some part of you wanted to take him up on it but you had already killed today, had already broken your vow, and for a better reason than revenge. You shook your head.

"In that case," said Mando easily, and reached for his holster. You stopped him with a hand on the arm, though it took you another few seconds to find words. When you did, your voice was so cracked your still-ringing ears could barely hear it.

"No," you said. "Enough killing for one day. Leave her on the steps of the New Republic office and let them handle it."

You'd only ever given him orders once before, and never like this.

Mando shrugged. He had an uneven way of moving his shoulders that surprised you into remembering it. It had only been a few days and you were already losing details, the things that made the Mandalorian himself despite his usual silence.

You'd spent so long watching, studying, hoping and you'd just... forgotten.

Something black and awful, worse than the first touch of the chair's straps, opened up in your stomach at the thought. It drove you upright, beyond ready to be done with this place, these people.

"Get her up," you croaked. "You go in front, I don't want to see her. We'll drop her off." You seriously doubted your ability to walk that far, but you would try. You couldn't not try. "And then-- and then take me home."

There was no question of what you meant by home. The Mandalorian didn't protest, didn't argue or even apologize. He just nodded and picked up his captive and went out of the warehouse door in front of you as you commanded, into the blinding sunshine.

***

Din holds you until your breathing evens, silent and patient in a way you've never learned to be with yourself. Your own tolerance gives out long before you run out of tears, and this time you're more exasperated than upset. It makes you careless. "Why I am still crying?" you whisper fiercely to Din, shaking the last of the saltwater from your lashes and trying to sit taller in his grasp. "That was years ago. It's just a stupid fucking helmet."

There's a sound like a sigh behind you, and too late you remember Din's feelings about his own stupid fucking helmet. Kriff. Does it matter? It's not like the yellow helmet came from a real Mandalorian. But maybe it had, once, and you're dishonoring their memory or something by saying it. Kriff. If you try to fix it now you'll just sound stupid and insincere. Not for the first time, you wish you knew more about the Children of the Watch and their customs.

"Mesh'la," Din says from behind you, and the word is slow and heavy in a way that makes your stomach drop. It was a thoughtless thing to say out loud, sure, but you didn't think you'd fucked up that badly.

"About the helmet," he continues, and you're almost sure he's going to say something like, If you feel that way about it, are you sure about tomorrow?

But what comes out instead is, "Do you want me to... take it off?"

"What?" you respond, bewildered. "It's already off. And I haven't looked."

"I know," says Din. "I mean... do you want me to take it off and.. leave it off." It doesn't sound like a question. "So you can look."

"What?" you say again. Then: "What?"

"I will, you know." His unfiltered voice is calm and serious, in contrast to your suddenly sweaty palms. "Turn around right now if you want. You can."

Your mouth is hanging open. You shut it with a click, swallowing hard. "I'm not... I'm not... I don't want to-- Din, why?"

Another sigh. "It would be worse if... I want you to know you don't have to marry me to see my face."

"That's not why I'm marrying you," you say, confused. The implication stings. "That's... Din, you would -- the covert -- the clan --"

"I know," he says again. "I lost them once. The covert, the clan, being a Mandalorian -- I lost everything. And I'd do it again, for the same reason."

For the same reason. Your heart flips in your throat. You know what he means. Last time, for his son... this time, for you.

You could see his face. You could see him. You wouldn't have to do Maker-knows-what tomorrow in front of everyone, endure blank stares from unfamiliar visors. You wouldn't have to tiptoe around his beliefs. You could keep going as you have been, partners and lovers and friends, but sharing the same bunk, the same food. You know he wouldn't offer unless he meant it. 

You could have Din to yourself. You wouldn't have to share him with the demands of his Creed ever again. 

He would be yours, and yours alone.

You’re suddenly glad you’re already sitting down.

You have no idea what to do next, so you stall. "I already said yes, though. We're six hours out from Mandalore. Wouldn't this... change that?"

Stupid question. Of course it would, in every possible way.

"Yes." Din is still unperturbed. "It would."

"Why?" It's surreal to be having this conversation without looking at him, without even the set of his shoulders to tell you how he really feels. Maybe if you understand, you'll know what to do. "Why now? Why like this?"

The arms around you drop away, letting cold air seep under your flimsy sleep shirt. Din takes a long pensive moment before he answers. "I've broken the Creed before, and returning to it almost killed me. I survived. I could survive again, if I had to. The Way says, Keep your oaths. Return loyalty with loyalty. But above all else, guard your honor. Asking you to marry me with conditions -- letting you think the choice was marriage or never really -- it would be worse. It would be worse than..." 

He trails off. You know what he means. Marriage with conditions. He would never really know if you had pledged yourself only to finally see his face. You hadn't, of course... or at least you didn’t think you had. But he would never be sure. And, you realize with a deep ripple of shame, neither would you.

The yellow helmet is still in front of you. The visor seems very dark, the faded paint bright in the dim light, but it no longer has the power to frighten you outside of your dreams. Instead, it's become a fetish, a talisman of your own power. Of what you are capable of enduring, and what your endurance meant to the man behind you. Just like Din’s helmet is a talisman, a tangible symbol of his care: every blaster bolt meant for you his armor has taken instead, every drop of blood spilled to keep you safe.

You'd almost pleaded with him to leave it when he pulled the helmet off your captor's head before tipping her unceremoniously onto the steps of the New Republic Security building. It had taken months for you to be able to look it straight on. On the way back to the ship, you'd kept your face resolutely turned away, walking on Din’s opposite side. Insofar as you could walk; by the time you'd finally made it up the gangway, he had been half-carrying you.

You don’t need to recall what happened next, the memory burned into you as indelibly as a brand. The way you pleaded touch me, please touch me to Din, half out of your mind with whatever drug they'd given you and the need to know he was there for real, not just another means of escape for a mind petrified by terror. The way you choked on a scream when he turned you to face him, the lines of his own helmet echoing across your broken face like another slap from unyielding steel. The way he touched you when he bandaged you, first too soft and then not soft at all.

His quiet words, more confession than request. Stay with me, and let me prove my honor to you.

And just like that, you know what to do. It's not a decision, because there was never any decision to make. You just... know, the same way you know every curve and plane of the helmet before you. You stand up, careful to keep your eyes ahead of you on the empty bay, and reach behind you. Din’s hand closes over yours, warm and callused with a thousand acts in your name. You take a step forward, pulling him to his feet. You still don't look, but you can feel the span of his broad shoulders behind you anyway, his breath in your hair.

"Put your helmet on, Din Djarin," you say softly. "And go back to sleep. I can wait until tomorrow."

***

[series masterlist]

[fate-touched]

[image description: album art for "Sword and Stone" by Fate-Touched: a digital painting of Flint and Silver's swords stuck in the sand on the training hill.]

One year ago today— August 29, 2022— I released my first EP. I called the project "Sword and Stone," because I wrote one song with that title and fully believed it would just be that song, just that single. And then, of course, I wrote three other songs. I couldn't help myself. Each on its own tells a story; the four in aggregate tell a more complicated one, a multiplicative enriching. In some ways they tell a story other people told first. In other ways they fill gaps in a story nobody has written yet.

I wrote them in the bathtub and in public pools. It seems apt, in retrospect, that I should write songs about a boat while suspended in water. They're not about a boat. They're about something that was about a boat. They do not mention a boat. The boat is implied. They're about legacy, about choice, about consequence. They're about sun and tragedy. They're about some pirates. They're about me in the same way that everything I make is a little bit about weather (these songs are about weather)— everything I make is a little bit about me. They're about me primarily just in that I made them, and therefore they're about how I would make them. The pirates, though. They're mostly about the pirates.

"Sword and Stone" was a summer-long labor with more love and frustration and endless nights than I can convey. I recorded them in my living room using free software and a microphone gifted to me by a friend's father. More than once I had to stop recording because it was 6 am and the street noise was getting too loud with all the people driving to work or the gym or wherever people drive at 6 am. I don't know. I don't drive. This project consumed me for months; any solitude I could steal was funneled entirely into it.

It was the hardest thing I've ever done. It was the greatest thing I've ever done. Of the innumerable creative pursuits throughout my life, this was the one I am proudest of. I hit a note in "Madi's Lament" I have never been able to recreate since. "Daylight" is the first song I ever played for my parents. This EP introduced me to people who have since become precious. This EP opened the world to me. This EP made the dream real.

I released another two-song EP earlier this year. I've been working on a full-length album for a while, now. I don't know yet when it'll be complete. That will introduce its own adventure. But "Sword and Stone" will always have come first. I wrote uncountable songs before them, to be clear; I'd been writing songs for years. But the ones that breathe in the world, the ones attributed to Fate-Touched? These four came first. "Follow the Silver" and "Sword and Stone" and "Daylight" and "Madi's Lament" came first.

Give them a listen, if you haven't before. Give them a listen if you haven't in a while. Give them a listen just to humor me. You don't have to know much about the pirates. It might help, but I hope you'll find them compelling regardless. You can find them [here] on Tumblr, or [here] on Soundcloud, or [here] on Bandcamp.

I still can't believe it's been a year. An entire year. In some ways my life looks exactly the same. In other ways my life is completely different, and it's "Sword and Stone" that changed it.

I love you all. In the places where the daylight doesn't reach, there is joy, there is discovery. You and I are never going home.