#i AM judging you and i feel zero sympathy for anything coming your way

[swagging-back-to]

not sorry. i extend very little sympathy and patience towards tras who are underage, and the only ones who do get said sympathy are TIFs. but again. it's MICROSCOPIC levels of sympathy.

[heimdallsram]

━━━━ masterlist. soundtrack. archive of our own. taglist.

title: perennial

pairing: heimdall x female! goddess! reader

"You were a goddess of oaths and vows. It was only fitting that Odin would bind you to his service in only the most ironic way that he knew how: marriage."

this fanfiction contains the following: domestic violence, blood, gore, choking, violent sexual content, bad BDSM etiquette, non-consensual somnophilia, blood drinking, unhealthy relationships, and much more content that may be sensitive to some readers. reader discretion is advised.

*for inquiries about the taglist, please dm me and i will add you to it.

 The cold of Midgard faded to a near comfortable warmth as Sindri and Atreus led you through the circular pathways of Yggdrasil. It was almost as if you had sat at a distance to a hearth that encompassed all sides of a room and you had the thought to unclasp your coat, but the vivid reminder of Heimdall’s earlier visit made you reconsider that decision promptly. It was not insufferable and you could actually tolerate the heat in the dress you wore, but you would be much more comfortable in just the dress, you knew.

 “So this is how you were so quick in your travels,” you marveled quietly. Lyndworms scuttled to and fro amongst the limbs, gnawing at the pale wood or at each other. Occasionally you would hear a loud screech and they would scatter, only later to reemerge and resume their play. “This is quite convenient. Moreso than a flock of ravens, to be sure. It’s nauseating.”

 Atreus was ahead of you by a few strides, quite happy to take the lead while you and Sindri lagged behind. “Isn’t it? We’ve traveled this way for so long that I couldn’t imagine any other way! Father—er—well, we do have to find the gateways first, and make sure they’re out of Odin’s range first.”

 “An inconvenience,” Sindri lamented,”but not impossible. Odin believes himself too smart to consider other alternatives.”

 You clenched your fingers tightly to your stomach. “Indeed. Where do we go from here?”

 “My home, of course! I built it in the tree to keep out of Odin’s way, but also because I can be here and there to help out Atreus or go to different shops. The one in Vanaheim, however, has been compromised, I am sad to say, my lady.”

 “Oh.” Your frown could not be hidden in time. It was a pity, yes; your childhood home was overrun by Einherjar these days. Odin had seen to that and told you as much. You didn’t think you could stomach returning there, however, not any time soon. It would bring back happier memories and you would only return depressed and even more dreadful of your future to come. “I see. I cannot say I am not sad to hear that.”

 “Hey, Lady Var?” Atreus piped up. You zeroed in on his form, closer than it had been before so he could speak to you properly. His eyes were curious and you found yourself happy to see it. It was rare children found anything other than worry or concern to line their minds with these days. “Can I ask you a question?”

 “You already have, but yes, Atreus. Ask anything you like.” Perhaps not anything, you would have to lie to  him at some point in time. “What do you wish to know?”

 Sindri was quick on the uptake. “Maybe nothing about Asgard, huh? Don’t want to bring up any bad feelings… You were crying when you arrived here, my lady.”

 You watched his grimace with a smile. “I was. But it is fine now. I do agree, however, that we should avoid talk of Asgard. I find myself tired of it.”

 “Right…” The boy nodded. “So you can see the oaths of anyone, right?”

 “Yes. I can see any agreement, deal, oath, or promise they have made at any point in their lives as long as they still keep them.” You paused, then inclined your head just so. “I also, at times, may be called to judge them if those vows are broken.”

 At your side, Sindri halted. You turned to look at him questioningly, but you gut swooped at the look on his face. He was looking at you with so much pity, so much sympathy, it made your stomach hurt. “You’re still doing that?”

 “Doing what?”

 You smiled tightly. “To judge those who break their vows, I must first determine whether they are fit to die or live.”

 “She kills them. Anyone who makes a promise that she observes, and later breaks, she is duty bound to decide their fate.” Sindri trudged ahead of both you and Atreus. He wasn’t looking at you, not really, as he passed, and you knew he was feeling guilty on your behalf. Much like Sif had, except hers was that she had not intervened in time; Sindri’s was pure shame that you had to take lives like you were. “It isn’t like you do it out of hatred, my lady. But it doesn’t make it any less wrong.”

 “I know.” You did not jog to keep up with the two, but you did have to quicken your pace. The leaves of Yggdrasil rustled around you gently on a non-present breeze. “It’s nothing I do not tell myself every night.”

 You waited for Atreus to ask more of his questions. They never came. He was silent, eyes darting between yourself and Sindri curiously, and his mouth would open and close as if he was trying to work up something to say and came painfully short. As you were looking at him, trying to discern how he felt about your abilities and job, you noticed a sprig of mistletoe around his neck, shaped into an arrow and looped around a leather cord.

 The words came out of your mouth unbidden. “You killed Baldur.”

 You had been one of the few who had been first to know of his death, but you had not been aware of who had killed him. They kept things like that from you and most others, with only select family members of Odin owning up to the knowledge. While it was obvious that Baldur would not return after some time had passed, none of the small folk within Asgard knew just how he had met his death, or the terms and conditions of the invulnerability he possessed. You did.

 “I didn’t… But yeah. It happened.” His eyes were wide now, looking at you in slight apprehension. “We didn’t want to, but Freya—“

 Raising a hand high, you indicated for him to stop speaking. Then, gently, you patted his shoulder, but it was  stiff movement. You weren’t used to comforting others at all. “I understand, Atreus. The depths of Baldur’s longing to feel are what earned him his death. It is not your fault that he could not see it until he was on his death bed. Queen Freya was mistaken to use such a spell on him, but she was a mother under Odin’s rule. She felt she had no other choice but to protect him.”

 The walk to Sindri’s home was filled with silence, this time more suffocating than the previous. Speaking of such heavy topics had not been the best idea, in hindsight, but the boy had looked so nervous, so pitiful, that you had to reassure him that all was well. He walked with such a burden on his shoulders that you wondered if he would be able to take all that was to come for him in the future; he held a greatness within him, if only he knew how to use it.

 “Here we are!” Sindri’s mood had lifted by the time you stepped through the white, shining door of light. “Welcome to my home, my lady.”

 It was of a craft you had never seen before. Odin’s hall was certainly grand, but it was austere and minimalist in build. This was ornate, beautifully and lovingly designed, with gold and glass windows that allowed a glimpse within. This felt like a home, not a palace, and you smiled at the thought.

  “It is beautiful, Sindri.” You were unsurprised when Atreus sped ahead of you, shoving open the doors excitedly. You could just barely make out the agitated grumble inside, belonging to that of the more grumpy half of the Huldra brothers. “I daresay I could not imagine anything better.”

 “You’ll like it more once you’re inside. Come, my lady, but… please leave your boots at the door.” His eyes were leery as he stared at the mud soaked material covering your feet. “I just cleaned.”

 You had half a mind to remind him that Atreus had waltzed in without concern, but perhaps that was something that had to be trained out of him. You stepped out of your boots as ordered and left them by the door, waiting patiently for Sindri to beckon you inside. It would be rude for you to enter and act as if you were familiar with the abode. You were not Thor, entering where you were not bidden.

  “—and she was crying, but she seemed happy to see Sindri—!”

 Atreus was busily catching Brok up to speed, it seemed, as the other blacksmith deemed you clean enough to enter his home. You stepped through the door cautiously, Sindri at your side, and watched as the boy waved his hands towards you in reference to something he was saying, but Brok had evidently stopped listening the moment his gaze drifted towards you.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he chortled, slapping the wooden table in front of him so hard that it rattled. He was quick to scoot out from behind it and to you, bypassing Atreus entirely. “If it ain’t the fuckin’ goddess of vows ‘erself! If I wasn’t so glad to see ye I’d give ye an earful for bouncin’ off to Asgard like that!”

 Your laugh was lighter than it had been in years. “I missed you, too, Brok. It has been… a very long time, indeed. Though, the last I heard, you and Sindri had parted ways. Am I to assume the past is the past?”

 “Indeed!” Sindri agreed heartily. “It was all thanks to Atreus, really.”

 Over Brok’s head, you met Atreus’ gaze with a thankful smile. “It seems I have a lot to thank you for, Atreus.”

 “Oh, no!” He waved his hands in a gesture of ‘no’. It was amusing the way he edged away towards a room, keen on giving you space. “It was nothing! Uh, I’ll give you all some space, okay?”

 You waited until the door was firmly shut to laugh at him. “He’s a funny kid, no?”

 “Don’t worry ‘bout Atreus, my lady.” Brok shook his head and headed back to the work table. He propped open a chest and withdrew a box carved from pale wood, something similar to the wood of Yggdrasil but not quite the same. “Had this waitin’ for a few centuries for ye. It ain’t my best but it’ll do its job, eh?”

 Approaching the table, you took the box carefully into your hands. It was smooth and polished and you chuckled at the chicken scratch handwriting on the top that had your name depicted in runes. But you could feel the runic power emnating from inside, and when you opened it, you were surprised to see not a weapon or anything of the like, but a bracelet. You laid the box down and took the bracelet out of its velvet confines, peering at it with raised eyebrows.

  “That there is elven steel,” Sindri provided helpfully. He pointed out the runes etched more delicately into the side, explaining,”We imbued it with protection runes from the realms. It was hard to get the different essences, especially since Brok is banned from Alfheim, but we managed to get them all and put them into this bracelet. If you trigger the failsafe inside it, it will produce enough power to create an explosion and teleport you here. Brok figured if you were going to Asgard, you would need a way out, but… you left before he could give it to you,” he finished sourly.

 You could feel the blood rushing to your cheeks and clasped the bracelet around your wrist as a distraction. “I apologize for that. Odin was not… well. Patient, I suppose. I was lucky he did not snatch me up when he was in disguise. But I will put it to good use, I promise. Thank you both.”

 “Speakin’ of, what the hel’re you doin’ in Midgard anyways? I thought the bastard kept you penned up in Asgard like a prized pig these days.”

 At the reminder of why you were there, the smile slowly faded from your lips. Sindri, surprisingly, touched the top of your fur covered shoulder and patted it lightly. Your fingers tightened over the bracelet and popped threateningly.    “That bad, huh?” Brok stared at you with a frown on his face. “Ain’t seen you go ashen like that since you were a kid.”

  You stared at the fire in the forge contemplatively. Twisting the bracelet around your arm, you tried to think of a way to break it to them gently—but you were coming up blank. Taking a deep breath and praying this was the right decision, you unpinned the clasp of your coat and let it flop open unceremoniously. Sindri, from his position at your side, couldn’t see the ring of bruises around your throat, but Brok’s strangled choke indicated enough for him to turn you around himself.

 “Who did this?” was his quiet whisper as you rapidly pulled the clasp back together.

 “Heimdall.” You tightened your arms and curled them around your chest defensively. “I am to be married to him this evening. He… did not take it well when Odin escalated his plans to have us marry. I didn’t think—well, I didn’t think, did I? This wasn’t a possibility, I had reassured myself, but my disrespect was too much for him.”

 “Fuck.” Brok rubbed his face tiredly. “You really put yer foot in it, didn’t ye?”

 You closed your eyes. “More than you know.”

 After a moment, you explained the situation—your lying to Odin about your abilities, the judgements, the incident with Heimdall, Sif’s sympathy, all of it—to the two while you had the nerve and the chance. You couldn’t talk to anyone in Asgard about any of this, but Brok and Sindri listened to you as you spoke. They moved you to the table, offered you food and drink as you struggled through the process of speaking of your trauma, and when you had finally finished talking and eating, they were silent, considering.

  “I’m a fool,” you sighed. “I thought I was smarter than him and look where it got me.”

 Sindri opened his mouth and, brows furrowing, said,”If you’re married, that will be a vow you can’t break. Right?”

 “Yes.” The bottle of wine sitting at the end of the table was suddenly looking all to enticing. “Only death can break it, and even then, the magic lingers. Knowing Odin, he’ll make the vows something permanent. Debilitating. I have no use to him unless I have no choice but to obey.”

 “And Heimdall… Urgh. You won’t be able to escape, either.” Sindri shuddered at the thought. “But with the bracelet—“

 “I cannot leave Asgard unless Odin loosens the restrictions himself.” Another lie, but it was for their best interest. If they knew you could bypass Odin’s wards, you would be in more trouble—they would want your help, your aid, and you could not give it. You were not strong enough to be of any help to their cause, but… you knew others who could be. “I am here on borrowed time. But, I will use the bracelet if I am in danger, this I swear.” The bond shone into existence, bright and gold. “And if I die… then you have to promise to keep the next incarnation safe. She cannot fall into Odin’s hands once more.”

 “Of course,” Brok answered. “Anythin’ for ya, my lady.”

 “Are you in that much danger?” Sindri wordlessly slid the bottle of wine you had been eyeing to you. You poured yourself a generous amount into the mug they had given you. “That you could potentially… die?”

 “It is the way of things, yes.” You took a deep swallow. “As you both know, Var goddesses do not usually marry. Even more rarely do they have children. Odin expects both. I do not know the consequences of having such a vow linked to my soul; I can’t be partial to it. But he will demand it, I know this much. And… my predecessors have all died painfully young.”

 None had lived past their fifth century, and you were rapidly reaching that milestone.

  “You won’t,” Atreus piped in firmly. He had slid into the chair beside you without you noticing, and you jumped in your seat. Perhaps you should put the wine down. “We won’t let you. There has to be some way to break those vows.”

 A niggling thought made its way into your mind. You had snipped parts of a vow before; would a marriage vow be so much of a stretch? Your buzzed mind was questioning it, and you weren’t sure, but you could attempt it. “There may be a way. I’m not… sober enough to think out the logistics at the moment, though. And, unfortunately, I need to retrieve that scroll and return to Asgard soon.”

 “We won’t see you again after it’s done.” It was not a question.

  “Likely not.” Your smile was thin and contrite. “I can send messages, but they will be few and between. It is all I can do, but I will try my best to stay in contact without Odin knowing.”

 Seeing your visit, and conversation, was at an end, Sindri stood from his chair. “I will escort you out, my lady.”

 Nodding, you got to your feet and bid Brok farewell with a crouched, awkwardly positioned hug, and a pat on Atreus’ shoulder. You stumbled out the door, the booze not faring so well on your system, and you had to get Sindri to support you to the door and into Yggdrasil. However, something was pressing at your immediate thoughts, and disappointment flooded your body.

  “You brought Brok back from the dead.”

 “Yes.”

 “He has no soul?”

 “I… could not go where it needed to be found.”

 “I see.”

 “You’re disappointed in me.”

 “I understand why you did it,” you replied tiredly. “But Sindri… he should know.”

 “I know. One day. But not today.”

 He parted ways with you at the door to Midgard. He was solemn as you gave him a hug and gave him your well wishes, but your smile was squashed by the idea of going back to Asgard just to see Heimdall’s arrogant face when you returned. The wedding would just be the icing on that metaphorical cake.

 But you could not avoid it, could you?

 “Huginn,” you called, and it was not Huginn who answered your call, but Munin. And with him, standing loosely by the door to the Bifrost, was Odin, looking not at all as if he should not be present. He was dressed warmly, and wore another face, but you could tell it was him. His expressions seemed to always follow him even in disguise. “Odin.”

 When he gripped your arm tightly, you did not make a sound.

  “I will consider this a final kindness to you,” he said softly, oh so dangerously. The hairs on the back of your neck rose in warning. “But no more. Do I make myself clear?”

 Your throat ached, suddenly, as you answered. “Yes, All-Father.”

 “Good.”

| next.

taglist: @versiesleeps

[mochegato]

Calling Dibs

This day was going to be boring, Jason knew that before he agreed to the trip in the first place.  ‘Agreed’ is a generous term.  ‘Relented’ might be a better term. Regardless, he was in Paris for the next week.  He was looking forward to the Louvre and seeing Notre Dame, but he was expected to spend time with his family for a large part of the trip and end with a branch opening party, because those are always so much fun.

He had barely plopped onto the hotel couch when something went flying past the building, crashing into the building down the street in a cacophony of shattered glass and warped metal.  “Holy shit!” Jason yelled, jumping up and running to the window to assess the situation.  The family looked to each other to see if anyone had a better grasp of the situation. Everyone shared the same confounded expression, before running out on the balcony to check out the situation.  

Bruce sighed.  This was most definitely not part of the plans.  This was supposed to be a relaxing week with the family looking at art for Damian, going up in the Eiffel Tower (and preventing him from jumping off) for Duke, sampling French foods and checking out French fashion for Steph, exploring the catacombs for Tim, attending the ballet for Cass, visiting Notre Dame for Jason, and time together as a family for Dick, with just a side of meetings for him.  Superheroing was not one of the scheduled activities.

Bruce opened his mouth to state a plan, but before the words made it past his lips, blurs of red and black swung past them toward the creature that had destroyed the building.  It took more than a few minutes for him to finally close his mouth in a resolute line as they watched the two heroes fight.  Jason’s mouth stayed open in awe as he watched the red figure expertly dodge and strike the creature.  It stayed open until the creature backhanded the red hero into a wall of the building across the street.  

The group flinched in sympathy at the sight, all too familiar with the feeling of getting smashed into a building.  She fell to the ground in a crouch.  Instead of fear, she looked back up with a glare. She jumped away and landed next to her partner in black and seemed to have a conversation before separating. The black hero distracted the creature while she swung further away.  It almost seemed like she had run away until they saw her charge at the creature from the side, hitting circles that decorated its body, shattering them like mirrors as she went.  With each hit the creature seemed to deflate more, until she hit the last one, a black butterfly emerging from it.  

She captured it in her yoyo and released it almost instantly as a white butterfly.  She called something out and threw her yoyo up into the air.  As soon as she did, a pinkish red wave rushed across the city and suddenly all the damage they had watched with their own eyes, was reset to its previous condition.  

They stared, mouths agape again, trying to take in everything they saw.  Finally the silence was broken by Jason.  “I call dibs!”

“What!” Dick exclaimed.  “You can’t just call dibs on someone.”

“I just did,” Jason scoffed.  “I call dibs on the red badass.  You can have the cat one.  Follow B’s footsteps, protégé.”

“You don’t even know if she’s straight.  What if she’s into girls?” Stephanie objected. “Maybe they both are.”

Jason stared at her for a second before his eyes narrowed.  “Fine. But if she’s anything other than a lesbian or ace, I have dibs.  And the cat one is up for grabs.”

“Oh, I’ll grab,” Steph smirked.

“Fine, whatever,” Dick groused, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away.  “Wasn’t looking for romance this trip anyway.”

“Your libido is not the priority right now. Father, did you bring us here for this?” Damian demanded.

Bruce kept his eyes on the spot where the creature had been a few seconds earlier before turning into a distraught woman. “No, I had no idea.  But now that we know, let’s investigate.  We’ll find out as much as we can from outside sources and try to meet up with the heroes when we can.  If they have a regular patrol, we can try to meet them somewhere. If they don’t, we might have to try to show up discretely at the next attack.”  He observed the people below already returning to their normal jobs. “It doesn’t seem like this is too out of the ordinary for everyone, so I don’t think we’ll have to wait long.”

He wasn’t wrong.  In fact, they only had to wait until the next night for another akuma to strike.  As soon as the akuma was dealt with, they caught up with the Parisian heroes, though in hindsight, they perhaps should have announced their presence a bit more clearly, judging by the way Red Hood was hanging upside down off the side of the building they were on.

“Sorry again,” Ladybug grimaced as she helped pull him back onto the roof.

“No, we shouldn’t have snuck up on you,” Red Hood assured her.  “I was just struck too speechless by you to give you a better warning.”

Ladybug blinked at him a few times before turning to the rest of the group and motioning toward Red Hood helplessly. Chat gave her an amused smile. “She tends to have that effect even on the best of us.”

“As Red Hood said, we should have announced our presence more plainly.  We likely would have reacted the same if you had snuck up on one of us,” Batman said, taking a step forward.

“We just wouldn’t have looked as kick ass doing it,” Red Hood added, leaning toward Ladybug.

Ladybug raised an eyebrow at him, but allowed him to move closer to her.  “Well, you certainly didn’t look ‘kick ass’ falling like that,” she smirked at him.

“I’ll work on how I look when falling, then.  I have a feeling I’m going to be falling a lot for you.”

Ladybug narrowed her eyes at him and puckered her lips in an unsuccessful effort to keep them from quirking up.  Red Hood’s chest puffed up almost imperceptibly at the sight.  Ladybug’s eyes darted over to Batman and back to him.  “First, I don’t think you came all the way to Paris just to hit on me.  I believe we have other things to talk about. Second, if you’re going to hit on someone, take off the helmet.  It’s rude. I can’t read your expressions at all. It puts me at a disadvantage.”

Red Hood quirked his head to the side. “Can’t take the helmet off. Secret identity, you know?  B would kill me.  If he didn’t the squirt there,” he motioned toward Robin, “would try. But trust me, if you saw my face, you’d swoon.  And I assure you, I would have come all the way to Paris if I’d known you were here waiting.”

“But we didn’t know you were here,” Batman cut in harshly.  He placed a hand on Red Hood’s shoulder and pulled him back with the others.  “We were unaware there was a supervillain in Paris. We’d like to offer assistance, ours and the Justice League’s, but first we should introduce ourselves.  I’m Batman.  That’s Spoiler, Black Bat, Signal, Robin, Red Robin, Nightwing,” he motioned to each of them in turn as he said their name.  “And you’ve met Red Hood.”

Ladybug and Chat nodded to each of them as Batman said their names.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.  I’m Ladybug. This is my partner Chat Noir.”

“Sorry, we didn’t bring our full team.  We would have if we’d known there was going to be a party,” Chat smiled disarmingly.

“We’ll be sure to let you know next time,” Spoiler grinned back at him.

“Can we sit down with you sometime to discuss the situation?” Red Robin interrupted whatever Chat was about to respond with. “It doesn’t have to be tonight, but we weren’t planning on staying in town too much longer.  Not that we haven’t been enjoying our time here.  And we’ve definitely enjoyed watching you work. You have got some really good moves.”

“Oi,” Jason interrupted, smacking him in the shoulder.  “I called dibs.”

“Dibs?” Ladybug quirked her head to the side and scrunched up her nose in such an adorable way Jason let out an almost inaudible choke.  Quiet enough that only Red Robin, letting out an almost as silent scoff, and Chat Noir, with his enhanced hearing, heard him.  Chat zeroed in on him with a knowing smirk.  He rested his arm on his baton and got into a comfortable position leaning against it, waiting for the entertainment.  “What is ‘dibs’?” Ladybug continued, oblivious to the dynamic between the three.

Chat’s smirk grew.  “Dibs, M’lady, is when you claim first rights to do something.”

Ladybug stared at him for a few seconds as she put together what he was implying.  Her head whipped around to Red Hood.  Her face was furrowed in an offended scowl.  She pointed to herself.  “Am I the thing you’re going to do first?”

Jason jerked back at the suggestion as Chat Noir and the rest of his family, sans Batman and Robin, started laughing.  “No! No, no, no.  No. Not… No.”  He waved his arms desperately.  “Not that.  I…”  He took a breath and glared at his family to get them to shut up, expecting them to know he was glaring harshly under his helmet.  “I just get to be the first to try to impress you.”

Ladybug rolled her eyes.  “You want to impress me?  Do something impressive.  And I don’t date as a superhero, so you’re going to have to impress civilian me. Good luck with that.”

Chat gave Red Hood a patronizing grin.  “You’re going to need it,” he singsonged.  He looked back and forth between Ladybug and Red Hood a few times, his eyes sparkling with mischief.  He swung his baton over his shoulders and rested his arms over it.  “But then again, she is the embodiment of luck so, maybe she just gave it to you.”

Ladybug’s head whipped back to him and she narrowed her eyes at him in warning.  He smiled innocently back at her as if he hadn’t just been meddling in her love life… again.  He needed to meddle in his own instead.  Although, with the way Spoiler kept eying him, maybe it was already taken care of. “Anyway,” she said loudly, bringing the focus back to the topic at hand.  “Tonight isn’t good.  We both have early mornings tomorrow.  But tomorrow night should work.  How about meeting here tomorrow at 22h?”

“Okay, now that that is settled, I have a very important question,” Spoiler spoke up.  Signal groaned next to her, preparing for whatever her question was going to be.  “Where is the best place to get some French treats?” Batman let out a deep sigh. “What!  I came to France to eat amazing French food and shop French fashion. They live here.  They should know the good places to go.”

Chat straightened up immediately and sent Ladybug a feral grin.  “You don’t say…”

“Chat,” Ladybug hissed warningly.

“They’re just asking for advice,” he answered in his most exaggeratedly innocent voice he could muster.  “You wouldn’t want to deprive them of the best food in Paris. Would you, M’lady?”  The devilish grin in his eyes was a complete contrast to the innocent voice.  He turned back to the bats, the picture of politeness.  “The absolute best place to get pastries in Paris is Tom and Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie on Rue Gotlib.  It’s amazing.  I recommend trying… everything.  And it just so happens their daughter is one of the most amazing designers in… anywhere.”

Spoiler grinned at him.  “A man after my own heart.  Thanks, Kitty Cat.  I’ll take that under advisement.  And do you also frequent there?”  

Chat blushed slightly and looked away quickly, but not before Ladybug saw the reaction and smirked at him.  “Yes, he does,” she assured Spoiler.  “He frequently frequents there.”

“And what about you?” Red Hood interjected, leaning toward Ladybug again, much to Batman’s chagrin.

“Are you kidding?  She’s the reason I found it in the first place.  I swear she’s there daily,” Chat grinned.

“Ooh, Kitty Cat, you sure know the way to a girl’s heart,” Spoiler purred at him.  Chat’s cheeks burned red, but didn’t look away from her this time.

Ladybug pursed her lips in annoyance at his romantic interference but quickly smoothed out at the sight of his blush.  A smile was back on her face when she turned back to the Bats, eyes lingering a bit longer on Red Hood before moving to Batman. “Anyway, we will see you again tomorrow. But Chat, maybe you should get an idea of what Spoiler likes so you can bring treats for her to the meeting tomorrow.  I have to go though.”  She waved at the bats before turning to Chat with a wink.  “Have a good night.”

Red Hood stepped forward before she jumped away. “You don’t want to know what I like for tomorrow?” he asked huskily.

She looked up at him with a sultry smirk.  “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea of what you like.  Sweet dreams.”

Red Hood watched her jump away.  “Oh they will be,” he whispered to himself.

<><><><><> 

Marinette had been apprehensive all morning.  Every time the bell above the door rung, she braced for the bats.  She let out a relieved breath as a man walked in by himself.  She wasn’t positive, but she was pretty sure the group would come in together.  She wasn’t sure why she knew that, but somehow she was confident of it.  The man blinked a few times at her before smiling charmingly at her.

And damn if that smile couldn’t melt ice.  She let out another breath, this one to calm her cheeks.  She smiled at him, warmer than her regular customer service smile.  “Can I help you, monsieur?”

“Do you, by any chance, have a bowl or something I can put some water in?” he asked awkwardly in barely accented French.  The cocked head and curious look Marinette gave him prompted him to continue.  “I wanted to… there’s this stray dog outside and he looks like he needs some water.”

American, she noted… with dimensions roughly matching Red Hood’s.  And oh God, those muscles weren’t just the suit.  Well fuck.  Guess she did give him some luck after all.  “Of course he’s fucking Adonis hot,” she muttered under her breath, but apparently not quietly enough.  He smirked at her and chuckled.

Marinette’s eyes snapped up to him and she blushed furiously at having gotten caught.  She took a deep breath and smiled back at him.  “Blonde with a dark stripe down his back?”  He nodded at her, a surprised look on his face.  “That’s Éclair.  He’s a local stray.  An absolute sweetheart.  Here, let me get the bowl I usually use for him.”  She rushed to the back and came back with a filled dog bowl and some pancetta. “Can you give him this too, please?  I usually do, but I’ve been stuck inside most of the morning.”

He gave her another ice meltingly brilliant smile and nodded in thanks.

She tensed at the next man who walked in, not really knowing why she was apprehensive.  Red Hood was already there.  She gave him her customer service smile even as her eyes darted out the window to watch Red Hood feeding Éclair.  She could imagine the hearty laugh he let out when Éclair leaped up to lick his face.  She smiled at the sight.  

“Excuse me,” the man stepped into her line of sight.

She immediately turned to focus on him, regretfully tearing her eyes away from Red Hood and Éclair.  “Yes, monsieur.  Sorry about that.  How can I help you?”

The man looked her up and down and leaned toward her. “I was looking for something sweet. Maybe you could help me.”

She cringed internally, but gave him a strained smile as she leaned away.  “Of course, sir.  We have a lot of sweet treats.  Maybe you can look over the petit fours, éclairs, macarons, and tartlets.  Let me know if you have any questions.”

“I have a question already,” the man gave her a leering smile.  “Are any of the treats as sweet as you?”

She gave him a flat look and took a step back. She almost missed the door chime ringing.  “I assure you, monsieur, you would find me far from sweet. Let me know when you’re ready to order.” She turned away and started wiping the counter instead.

Red Hood took the opportunity to step up to her and pass the bowl back to her.  “Thank you. He looked very happy after the treats.”

Marinette blinked at him a few times and looked down at the bowl unmoving for a few seconds before the reason clicked for her. “Right,” she answered, louder than she meant to, as she took the bowl.  “Can I get you anything?”

“What do you recommend?” he asked as he moved to block the other man’s line of sight to her.

She smiled appreciatively at him.  Maybe he was impressive after all.  “You looking for something sweet or savory?  We have great bread, but if you’re looking for a treat, I would recommend an assortment of eclairs.  It just seems apropos.  Honestly, I think it’s all good, but I’m a bit biased.” She leaned in as if confiding a secret and winked at him.  

He chuckled and nodded.  “That is definitely something to consider.”  He side eyed the other man in the store.  “I’ll take a look around I think.  Figure out what it is I want.”

Marinette nodded and gave him an understanding smile. She turned to the other man.  “Have you decided, monsieur?”

The man made a show of looking around.  “Are you on the menu?  Because I definitely know what I’m interested in,” the man answered, leering at her again.

Marinette gave the man a flat look.  It was not the first time she’d heard the line.  She didn’t get it as much as waitresses, but still, it was a tired line… from a married man… that she had already turned down. “No, sir.  I’m not on the menu,” she answered curtly, “because we are not a brothel, which are illegal in Paris, I might add.  However, a quick internet search will direct you to the areas of the city where you can find that kind of menu items.  If you would like one of the pastries, please let me know which ones you would like, otherwise, please leave.”

“I’m not good enough for you, but you’ll flirt with him,” he motioned toward civilian Red Hood.

“First, I get to choose who I’m interested in and that isn’t you.  Second, he,” she motioned toward civilian Red Hood, “called dibs on flirting with me.  Now either order or leave.”

The man huffed and left, trying to slam the door on the way out.  The door closed with a gentle thud.  Marinette rolled her eyes.  “Sorry about that, monsieur.  Are you ready to order?”  She sent him an apologetic smile.

Jason stared at her for a few beats trying to figure out if her previous words meant anything.  She could have just said that because the guy was an asshole.  It could be a coincidence.  And her partner could have sent him here purely because they had really good food.  “Oh, um… what do you recommend I take?” he asked again absentmindedly, his mind still on how likely it was that it was all a coincidence.

Marinette smiled innocently at him.  “Me out.”

Jason looked at her wide eyed.  “What?”

“You asked what I recommended you take.  I recommend you take me out,” she shrugged nonchalantly, but the grin was devilish.

Jason opened his mouth and closed it again. “Any other day, beautiful.  Any other day I’d say yes, but I’m kind of working on someone else and I’m a one woman man.”

Marinette looked at him for a few seconds, a brilliant smile beaming at his response.  

“Thanks for helping out, Sweetie,” her mom called coming from the back room.  “I think we have it covered now.  Oh,” she looked up at Jason, then at Marinette’s smile, and back to Jason. She smirked at the two.  “I think you should be able to take off now, get to your real job.”

Marinette nodded and took her apron off, stowing it under the counter.  “Thanks, Maman.” She leaned up and kissed her cheek before making her way around the counter. Jason turned to her as she walked out, watching her as she moved.  She paused a few feet in front of him.  “I have to admit, you impressed me after all.”  

She smiled sweetly at him before moving to the door.  She turned back at the last second, twirling to face him.  “But you flirted much better with the helmet.”  She winked at him and disappeared through the door.

Her mom chuckled before clearing her throat. “Anything I can help you with, dear?”

Jason turned to her blankly, still processing what Marinette had said, after a second he smiled and rushed to the door.  “No, thank you ma’am.  I have some dibs to collect on.”

Tags:

@jasonette-july-event @maribatserver

[dracusfyre]

Missed this when you first posted it, so, belated but: #12 from the 50 kisses list? any pairing is fine

The prompt from the prompt list was “ Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss,” and I went with winteriron (surprise!). Setting is CA:TFA meets Iron Man Noir. :D  (Also on AO3) As a warning the set up took 3k words, which probably explains why I am constitutionally incapable of writing PWPs.

----

Bucky watched Steve leave with the lady in red – Agent Carter, Steve had called her – and felt the sour taste of jealousy on his tongue. Turning away, he downed the rest of his glass of cheap rotgut whiskey and gestured for the bartender to give him another. He hated that Carter hadn’t given him so much as a glance, and he hated that Steve had followed her without question, leaving him alone here at the bar, and he hated himself for caring about either; he should be happy for his friend, shouldn’t he, be happy that he was big and strong, America’s golden boy, a lady’s man, able to jump tall buildings in a single bound. A hero. “From zero to hero,” all the newspapers were saying. Meanwhile Bucky was what? Steve’s buddy, his pal, his childhood friend. Not Sergeant Barnes, a rank he’d earned through being the best goddamn sharpshooter in boot camp and being the most well-respected corporal in his unit when their last sergeant got blown to hell. Meanwhile Steve’s a captain, since presumably “Private America” or “Lieutenant America” didn’t have the same ring to it.

“Fuck,” Bucky said, grinding his palms into his eyes. This was what he was talking about. When had he become so bitter? He felt full of broken edges inside, jagged and vicious; maybe they’d pumped him full of poison there on that table, and that’s why Bucky felt like vitriol would come spilling out of him at any moment. He wished there was someone to fight right now, wished for the roar of artillery to drown out these thoughts and a bayonet in his hands so he could have some place for these feelings to go instead of building up inside him like a head of steam. His hands fell away from his eyes and he picked up the whiskey again, draining half of the glass in one go and hissing at the burn.

“Hope you’re drinking the cheap stuff if you’re going to chug it,” a voice said from beside him. Bucky jerked, because he hadn’t even noticed that someone had sat down and that’s a good way to get killed, isn’t it? Even here in jolly old London, jolly old safe London, home of Agent Carter, far from the guns and bombs and needles and lasers-

“Hey,” the voice said again, “are you with me?”

Bucky pulled his gaze from his whiskey and dragged it to the man next to him. The man was watching him with bright blue eyes that were sharp but not unkind; he had a hard time meeting those eyes, so he looked back down at the bar instead. “Whaddaya want?” Bucky asked gruffly.

“Good question,” the man said thoughtfully. Out of the corner of his eye Bucky saw him scratch his chin. “World peace comes to mind right now,” he said, and Bucky rolled his eyes. “A good old American hamburger is on the list,” boy could Bucky sympathize with that, “but for right now, I was mostly really curious why you look like your dog died when everyone else is just celebrating the fact that they’re alive.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” Bucky said, still staring at the bar. The truth was tumbling out of his mouth and Bucky couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to. It was fucked up, he knew that, but Bucky had used up all of his ability to pretend everything was ok on Steve. “I guess I don’t have anything to celebrate.” He punctuated that with another swallow of whiskey and wished he’d start getting drunk already.

“You leave someone on the battlefield?” the man asked after a moment, and the understanding in his voice – not the cloying sympathy he’d heard from others, nothing so soft as an I’m sorry but rather a me too, it’s fucking awful isn’t it – made Bucky’s throat feel thick.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Me.”

The man was quiet for a few moments, long enough that Bucky was sure that the man would just get up leave, and that was good, that was fine, Bucky didn’t want company, he just wanted to be left here to drown himself in peace. It’s not like he was lonely, there were dozens of people in this bar, right? He didn’t need Steve, he didn’t need Dum-Dum or Gabe or any of them, and he certainly didn’t need this random fucking stranger-

“Hey, what do you call a soldier who can read and write?”

Bucky stared at him blankly. “What?” he asked as the man just looked at him expectantly.

“What do you call a soldier who can read and write?” the man repeated.

Bucky blinked at him, but apparently the man was serious. “I don’t know, what?”

“Sir, yes sir!” The man said.  “Where does General Marshall keep his armies?”

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky asked, but the man just shrugged. “Ok, where?”

“In his sleevies. What’s long and hard and full of seamen?” the man asked next.

“God,” Bucky groaned with a disbelieving laugh, less because the terrible jokes were funny and more because of the self-satisfied look on the man’s face when he said them.  “Why the hell are you telling me these terrible jokes? I just came from the front lines, haven’t I suffered enough?”

“Because you’re a soldier,” the man said with a grin, reaching out to flick the rank on Bucky’s collar. “If I told you good jokes, I’d have to explain them.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky said, but he couldn’t help the grin cracking his face.

“That’s more like it,” the man said. “Here, let me buy you a drink. A real drink,” he added, grimacing at the smell of the cheap whiskey in Bucky’s glass.

“Who are you?” Bucky asked after the bartender poured them both something top shelf, at least, as top shelf as it got during war time. “Because if you’re about to tell me you’re with the USO, you might want to rethink your career.”

“How dare you,” the man said cheerfully. “Made you laugh, didn’t I?”

“At you, maybe.”

“I’m Tony,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Bucky,” he said, shaking it. Bucky got a good look at the man this time, realizing just now that he tall and leanly built, dressed less like a man who had gone out for a night on the town and more like someone who had just taken a break from working with his hands and planned to go back to it soon. A mechanic, maybe, or a builder, judging from the nicks and callouses on his hands.

“So are you in London on leave?” Tony asked, sipping on his drink, turning in his seat so he was facing Bucky. “Or are you on your way home?”

Wasn’t that the question? He should be going home, if he had an ounce of brains. “Leave,” Bucky said. He glanced at where the Dum-dum and the others were all still drinking together on the far side of the bar. “And I’ll probably be heading out pretty soon, I guess.” Steve was sure ready to get back into the fight, and why wouldn’t he be? He’d never been one to back down from a fight, even if Bucky had been the one to get the bruised knuckles and bloody noses. He wondered if Steve would be so excited the first time he saw what a German howitzer could do to a human body.

“You got plans before you go?”

Bucky shrugged. “Get drunk and pour myself into bed sometime before morning reveille, I suppose. Why?”

“Well,” Tony said slowly, looking down at his glass and fidgeting with it. “I know you’re wearing a uniform, but I was wondering if you might be active duty.”

Bucky went hot, then cold, with fear at the question, and glanced around to see if anyone had heard. “Are you crazy?” he hissed.

“Aren’t we all? There’s a war on out there, and I’d rather get busy living before I get busy dying,” Tony said. “If you aren’t interested, just say so.”

Bucky studied Tony consideringly. “How did you know I wouldn’t punch you in the face just for asking?”

Tony snorted. “I saw how you looked at your friend as he walked out with that beautiful dame. If you’re going to pretend to be something you’re not – or rather, pretend to not be something that you are – you’re going to need a better poker face.”

Bucky took a sip of his drink and turned the offer over in his head, suddenly aware that he hadn’t had anyone touch him, really touch him, in months. His eyes caught on Tony’s hands again and he couldn’t help imagining how they might feel on him. “What did you have in mind?” he said in a low voice.

“I didn’t think I’d get this far, honestly,” Tony said with a rueful smile. “I was out here on a wing and a prayer. But, uh, I got a room at a hotel?”

Bucky looked down at his uniform. Disheveled though it was, it was distinctive and recognizable. “You can’t smuggle me into a hotel, Tony.”

“Right. I have a workshop,” Tony ventured. “It’s not much, but it’s not far.”

“Okay.” Bucky nodded, rubbing his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants. “Let’s, um…”

“Finish our drinks first?” Tony suggested.

“Sure.” Bucky took a swallow of his drink, now drinking for courage rather than to forget. “Do you do this a lot?”

“No, not with, uh,” Tony gestured at Bucky and Bucky nodded with understanding.  “But…” Tony took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Once I’m done with the – this project I’m working on, I’m going back to France. Southern France. So I came out for a drink because my workshop was too quiet, then I saw you, and I thought, he doesn’t seem like he should be alone right now, and when I talked to you, I realized that I don’t want to be alone right now, so…yeah.”

“Oh.” Bucky looked at Tony with new eyes, and saw the tiredness around the eyes, the slightly grim cast to his mouth. If Tony was working in southern France, he was probably with the Resistance, and if there was a more shit job than infantry that was definitely one of them. “Carpe diem, eh?” he asked, and tapped his glass against Tony’s.

“I want to carpe something, alright,” Tony said with a smirk.

“You Americans only want one thing,” Bucky complained, lifting his nose in the air and turning his face away. “You should be ashamed.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that, doll,” Tony crooned. “I just want to show you a good time, I promise.” Tony risked a hand on Bucky’s leg, just above the knee, and squeezed, fingers rubbing along the inner seam of Bucky’s pants before he withdrew. Bucky almost choked on his whiskey as he inhaled sharply at the touch, heat suddenly thrumming in his veins. There was a glint in Tony’s eye as if he knew exactly the effect he’d had and was looking forward to doing more of it.

Then his face changed as he glanced up and leaned away from Bucky. “You gentlemen doing alright?” The bartender asked, and they both nodded.

“I’ll go ahead and pay my tab,” Tony said, and passed over way too much money for their bill. “Keep the change,” he said, and the bartender disappeared again.

But the reminder that they weren’t actually alone had been like cold water to the face, and suddenly Bucky was ready to leave. “You wanna get out of here?” he asked. He looked at how much alcohol was left and drank it all, coughing a little at the burn.

“Sure,” Tony said, taking one last swallow of his own before pushing it aside. Bucky stood and hesitated, remembering that the others were sitting by the front door and he’d have to pass them to get out of the bar. Tony touched his arm and jerked his head towards the back of the bar. Night had fallen while they were inside, and it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust; citywide blackout conditions meant that they only had the moonlight to see by, which was a week or so away from being full. “This way,” Tony said, and the hand on his arm slid down until Tony was curling his fingers around Bucky's palm.

The simple touch of another hand in his own made the words get stuck in Bucky’s throat, so he just held on, gripping maybe a little too tightly while Tony led him through the narrow streets and back alleys of London town. Tony stopped as their narrow alley emptied out into a larger street, moonlight gilding the pavement silver. He backed them up a bit, then herded Bucky into a dark corner away from the busier street.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky whispered, wondering if Tony had seen something on the street, like police or other Army officers or something. Instead, Tony just crowded him against the wall, arms coming up to bracket Bucky’s shoulders.

“Can I kiss you?” Tony whispered.

Bucky nodded, then realized it was probably too dark for Tony to see him, so instead he fisted his hands into Tony’s shirt and pulled him closer, sliding his hands up Tony’s chest to frame his face so he could slant his mouth across Tony’s. Tony made a soft hum, deep in his throat, and leaned in until Bucky could feel him from chest to knee. The stone wall was cold against his back, but Tony was so warm, so solid; Bucky suddenly wanted that weight on top of him, pressing him into a mattress. Tony’s mouth was hungry, and Bucky reveled in it; he could taste whiskey on Tony’s tongue and chased it with his own. Tony’s hands were fumbling at his jacket, then at his shirt underneath, trying to find skin. Bucky let go of Tony long enough to help him, trying to pull his shirt out from where he had tucked it into his pants because suddenly he wanted Tony’s hands on him more than he’d wanted anything, ever; this was glorious, it was heady, it was exactly the forgetting that he had been wanting. Then Tony was finally touching him, hands almost hot, the roughness of his callouses as he stroked along Bucky’s ribs making him feel like a plucked string. Relief swelled in him as fire crawled in his veins, making him feel lighter and more alive than he had in months. Tony slipped a thigh between Bucky’s legs and Bucky almost sobbed at the pressure against his aching hardness, especially when he realized that Tony was hard too.

He didn’t realize he was crying until Tony pulled away and Bucky could taste salt on his lips. “Bucky?” Tony said softly. “Are you ok?”

And to his dismay Bucky felt a sob burst out of him, all of the anger and bitterness and joy and loss and fear overflowing like a levee had broken. He felt arms wrapping around him and he buried his face in Tony’s neck and cried into his rough linen shirt. Tony didn’t say anything, didn’t try to comfort him or tell him well-meaning lies like it’ll be ok and you’ll be alright, he just held him close until the sobs trailed away into a stuffy nose and a headache.

Bucky finally straightened, feeling his face burning in the dark. “Christ, I’m so-“ Bucky started, but Tony stopped him with a kiss.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Tony said, digging into his pocket and handing Bucky a handkerchief. Tony’s hands came up to cradle Bucky’s elbows and he rested his head against Bucky’s forehead. “All of that has to go somewhere or it will eat you up inside. I’m glad that I could be here for you when you needed it.”

Bucky grimaced but he had to admit he felt better, like a flood had washed him clean inside. Except, of course, for the embarrassment of having cried on someone he was just about to get off with.  “Do you still wanna…?”

“Do you?” Tony asked. They were still cradled in the soft darkness of the night, and Tony’s breath was a puff of warmth on Bucky’s lips; he could smell the whiskey on his breath and the faint threat of Tony’s cologne and what might be grease. There was the faintest murmur of conversation from pedestrians on the big street nearby, but it felt like they were in their own little world here, and Bucky wanted nothing more than to be able to disappear into that as long as possible. So he nodded, knowing that Tony could feel it. “Then I do, too.”

The next morning came all too soon; Bucky sighed with resignation when he saw the clock and realized he’d have to leave now to sneak back to his barracks before morning formation.

“Do you want me to walk with you?” Tony offered, propping himself up on one elbow to look at Bucky’s face. They had ended up on a cot that Tony kept in his workshop, which was better than the floor but meant that they had pretty much had to be on top of one another all night in order to fit.

“No, if I get caught then it’s just breaking curfew, getting caught with someone else would just raise more questions.” Bucky kissed Tony’s forehead, the only place he could reach, then started to slide out from under him and get dressed.

“By the way,” Tony said, rolling over onto his back to watch Bucky pull his clothes on, “my full name is Tony Stark.”

“You mean, like the character from the book?” Bucky said skeptically. “Come on. You don’t gotta give me a fake name, here.”

“It’s not fake,” Tony protested. “I am the character from the book.”

“You mean he was named after you?”

“No that’s –“ Tony sat up with a huff, looking outraged. “The books are about me.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky said as he tucked his shirt into his pants. “That stuff can’t possibly be true, with Atlantis and magic masks and hidden temples and shit.”

“It is. If we had more time I’d show you,” Tony insisted. “And it’s not magic, just science we haven’t figured out yet.”

Bucky thought about blue beams of light that made people disappear as if they’d never existed, and a man who could rip his face off to show just a bloody skull underneath. “I guess,” he conceded. “So you’re a celebrity, eh? Wait until I tell absolutely nobody that I slept with a celebrity,” he said wryly, then did a double take as a thought occurred to him. “Wait, they sent you, a celebrity, into Vichy France?”

Tony winced. “That’s why I don’t tell people my real name,” he said. “It’s not like people can recognize me from the cheesy cover art of those books. I was just telling you so that…you know, in case, after the war – if there is an after – maybe you could look me up.”

“Oh.” Bucky sat down on the edge of the cot and cupped Tony’s cheek in one hand, running a thumb over his cheekbone. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

[starfirette]

Every Which Way: Chapter One

The Way Off Aniri

➡️a/n: a new series! Woohoo! Shoutout to  https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/ for inspiring the names of the people and planet. There is possible false information regarding Mandalorian culture, so don’t bitch to me about it. I know I said posting was at 8 but I am too anxious. @interwebseriesfan24​ is my lovely beta so go follow her and maybe even read her fluffy AF star wars fanfics!!! For more info on the OCs included, visit my OC page. 

➡️masterlist 

➡️Din Djarren x Reader/The Mandalorian x Reader | attempted execution | attempted murder | arranged marriage | love triangle kinda | slow burn romance | mild smut | angst to fluff | strangers to lovers | word count: 7,566! 

➡️ JOIN THE TAGLIST

NEXT CHAPTER AVAILABLE NOW!! >> ! << 

Aniri is a planet where a monarchy reigns supreme. 

The Anirian King has submitted a request to the guild, which suggested that he wants a man dead for making threats against the court; Karga just had suggested his best fighter take the job, just as non-explicitly as the king had been. 

And Din has never been one to reject a job; especially if the pay seemed unreal.

To eliminate one man, the court was offering half a million credits and ten pounds of ruthenium. 

Happy and boasting, Karga contacted the Anirian council and relayed that his best hunter would be taking the case. 

The Mandalorian was given a tracking fob as well as a quick run down of Aniri. 

In Karga’s own words, Aniri is not nearly as fluffy and dreamy as the public galaxy might think. These perceptions were coined by Anirian councils to distract suspectors from their supposed sympathies to the Empire as well as their cruel, unjust government. Karga had heard rumors that the current princess, Emelea, had been going on a rampage simply because her parents would not stop her. 

With great consideration, Din reviewd these rumors. While he set a course to Aniri he told himself that he’d never actually been to the planet. Karga was not the only person to have said such things about the planet, but there were several offending accounts claiming Aniri is a wonderful place to live. People live their lives, no matter how a planet fairs. As far as Din knows, the planet was globally unified a century ago.While he’d never actually been to Aniri, he knew better than to listen to silly rumors, especially when every person has a different account. 

Arrival to Aniri did not give Din any trouble. The atmosphere enterance gave the Crest zero problems. 

Din touched down in a grassy plain about half a mile from the main palace, which was surrounded by large steel gates. On the landing plot were a large number of court members and palace guardians. 

With a short greeting, Din followed the guardians into the palace, where the royal family waited to greet him. 

The King is Josiahn Weslyn. He is shorter than Din, and pasty white, with thinning hair washed pure of color. His wife, also his first cousin, is Melvanne Weslyn, a taller woman, but with the same thin hair colored a muddy brown. Both she and her husband have no eyelashes and beady eyes. 

Their children are equally unattractive. 

The triplets are Melv, Riz, and Emelea. Melv and Riz are boys, tall as their mother but with darker eyes that are wreathed with heavy grey bags. Their heads share the same waves of suffocated amber that rolls down their necks. The strangest of the bunch is without a doubt Emelea; she is the tallest of her family. Her sunken black eyes stare deeply into Din’s helmet. It seemed certain to Din that she could see past his helmet. 

His bones felt exposed to the princess, who did not blink as she stared. The wind tousled her dirty blonde hair before she finally sank into a deep curtsy, in sync with her two brothers.

Din greeted them with a cool nod of his head. “I am here to complete your task,” he said. The modulator of his helmet maximized his aversion to the strange bowing of the children. 

Josiahn paid Din’s near invisible discomfort no mind as he gestured for his guardians to part and allow Din to come forward. 

“Our Mandalorian savior,” Josiahn proclaimed, clapping his hands together.

“Our Mandalorian savior,” his family echoed.

“Please come with us.” 

One by one the court members turn on their heels to return inside the palace. Their hems swished an inch above their heels, waving around a golden emblem wrapped around the ankles of their customary pants. As for the palace, it is quiet and cold. Din’s boots scuff against the concrete floors. The walls are devoid of decor. Every window has a set of large shutters to keep the sun out. 

The only light comes from torches lit along the grey walls. 

Bristled servants scatter in the shadows like swamp mice. They do not dare to murmur gossip. Not one of them stops to stare at the Mandalorian armor with awe, but it isn’t out of courtesy—it’s as if they’re too scared to be noticed.

Most maids wear dull scraps of potato sack-like material. Even that, though, isn’t what Din finds strange. Every maid bears thick makeup like paint. The lines and patterns which adorn their face have no pattern, and no meaning whatsoever. The glimpses of color he sees are the ugliest shades of yellow or green. 

The makeup can’t be a popular trend. 

Din recalls the warnings given by Greef Karga. 

Journeying down the palace made Din feel smaller and smaller as the ceilings gradually became higher and higher. When Din was a mere speck of metal among the stone fortress, he was given a seat in Josiahn’s study. The children remained standing near Din’s given chair. Emelea’s hands rested on the shoulders of his armor, making Din feel suffocated. He resisted the urge to shake her away to not disrespect the family. Both of her brothers stand watch beside their sister.

The king and queen sat on a bench behind their desk. Din had never seen such a set up before. He’s seen many governors and monarchs and they never did business beside their partner. But Melvanne seemed perfectly used to this arrangement. Her left hand rested on the table, while her husband mirrored this with his right hand. They reached for their own pens but in perfect synchronization. On a piece of parchment they began to write. Joshian wrote the first half of the contract while Mevanne wrote the second. Their pens met perfectly in the middle, leaving not even a blot of ink. They slide the contract to Din, silently gesturing to him to read it. 

With a surge of shock Din found that they’re handwriting is perfectly identical. It looked as if one person had written it out. Aside from that the contract is curiously short. 

The chosen Mandalorian will return the peasant man Kais Korren to the palace dead or he forfeits the bounty of 500,000 credits and ten pounds of ruthenium. The chosen Mandalorian will not be given more or less. The chosen Mandalorian will be the chosen hero of Aniri. 

“Do you agree to the terms?” The king asked. 

Din hesitated to agree. These terms are not Guild regulated, but if they contacted Greef Karga, then surely they know the actual rules. This contract must be for their own personal relief. 

“Agreed,” he finally said. The tracking fob was slid across the desk by the King, and as Din looked at the slow blinking light with an unseen grimace. He couldn’t imagine what sort of threats a man could be making to warrant drastic measures. A tracking fob, half a million credits, and not to mention pounds of ruthenium. If the Armorer does not see the ruthenium fit for armor plating he will simply sell it and donate half the earnings to the foundinlings of Mandalore. Although it’s no secret Din, himself, is broke. His jobs barely carry the amount of fuel for his ship, let alone upkeep. What money he gets he sends half away to care for the foundlings. That is his Way, the Way, that he has devoted himself to. And it does not bother him. He isn’t easily bothered.

But this planet—this planet bothers him to his core. 

The fob leads Din to the village about five miles from the kingdom capital. 

It’s a quiet village, serene with its grassy farms and tall trees. Unlike any other village Din has been to the people are quiet. Among the markets there is only necessary chatter. Bystanders that come and go don’t speak, and they certainly don’t look at Din.

Most people have similar reactions upon seeing a Mandalorian. Some children point and jump with glee. Mostly, however, people avoid him but point him out with admiration or shock.

This village is different. Because he stands out, people fear him, as if they fear anything out of the ordinary. Villagers begin to squirm when they sense Din coming closer, but they try their best to ignore him. Din has done similarly as a child, when he thought there were beasts in the darkness of his bedroom. He would force himself to not look, thinking anything there would just leave him alone if he didn’t make eye contact. 

 Fob in hand, Din moves through the village. There are no distractions, no obstacles.

It did seem too easy. 

The fob frantically beeps each step he takes north. Villagers part with no hesitation as Din treks on, his palms sweaty beneath the leather and sun. 

At a small house, the fob burst into a panicked blip, the red light flashing bright under Din’s thumb. Kais Korren is here. 

The passage to the house is a lame excuse for a garden, with dead soil withered weeds.

Between being a Mandalorian as well as a bounty hunter, there is no room for pleasantries like knocking. The door creaked open and Din allowed himself to go in. 

The house is just as plain as the palace. The only life of it darted past Din in a blur, screaming for his father. 

A family of three, soon to be four judging from the mother’s belly, gathered tight in a corner. 

They looked truly tired. The rags of their own clothes seemed almost too heavy for them to be wearing. Din said nothing as he displayed only the tracking fob. With slow movements he set the fob down and simply asked for them to bring Kais Korren forward. The family’s compliance did make everything easier. 

Kais himself was a tall man, but thin. His graying hair in thick tendrils was tied back at the base of his neck. His eyes, sullen, silently thanked the family for opening their home to him. Kais did not fight Din as Din cuffed him and led him out of the house, going out beyond the village to a field where no one would bother them. 

Kais Korren’s body was identified by the king himself in a steely room that could only be described as a morgue. The involvement of the king baffled Din more and more. Most high ranking men and women have people to do such bidding; the “dirty work.”

But King Josiahn wanted to see the corpse himself. 

With a nod to the morgue director, the body was rolled away, and Josiahn turned on his heels to look up at Din.

“Our Mandalorian savior,” he said, clapping his hands. He sounded strangely happy, and yet there was not any emotion in his eyes; not even a sadistic smile weighed over his non-existent lips. “I’m honored to be in the presence of the best bounty hunter in our parsec. You have truly proved your worth. Your rewards are awaited in the dining hall. We humbly invite you to our celebration as our dinner guest. We are aware of and respect your culture. While you will be our guest of honor at the feast, a meal basket will be packed along with your money and ruthenium. Would you please join us? My daughter has become fond of you and insists she would love to have a Mandalorian at her party.” 

Emelea has not been near Din for longer than half of an hour. Recalling her strange face did not settle well with Din’s stomach. 

But to keep amiable ties with the Anirians, Din accepted the offer. He thanked Josiahn for the respect of his Creed, as not many do. Even within the Guild he is bullied relentlessly about his secretive nature; he’s been called hideous despite being unseen. He’s been called a prude despite his long hours spent in his bed wishing he had a woman with him instead of his calloused hand. Admittedly he would have declined if Josiahn hadn’t mentioned his respect for the Mandalorian creed. 

The Way is Din’s life. He wouldn’t have it differently. 

Din was escorted and announced officially into the vast throne room. Grandiose tables line the room and in the center is a wide circle of red paint. 

As Din became announced those who sat at every table rose to their feet and broke into a thundering applause. Each crack of their palms struck Din’s chest as he felt suffocated. He felt watched. He felt weak, and small, despite the armor that weighed on his tired muscles. 

Each step taken over the concrete floor jolted in Din’s chest, egging on the headache that sliced into Din’s eyes. The very center table had a chair set out and decorated with wreaths of plain flowers. Emelea made herself seen in an instant, taking Din by the hands and leading him to his chair. 

Over the rumbling applause Din could hear Emelea speak. “I’ll feel much safer knowing you’ve gotten rid of that man for us!” 

She had a light in her eyes Din could only describe as weird. She is weird, plain and simple. Her colorless hair is tied in a large knot on the top of her head, and dark makeup is brushed over her eyelids. She coerced him into the chair while Josiahn chastised her. 

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Josiahn snapped. Emelea immediately pulled away from Din. She had to be at least twenty years old. It churned Din’s stomach that Josiahn had spoken to her like she was a child, and it made it all the more disturbing that she simply giggled and apologized bashfully. She sat by her mother when Josiahn bid for her to scurry off. 

“I apologize for my daughter,” Josiahn murmured near Din’s ear. Clearly Din is not the only one who has noticed Emelea’s strange behavior.

Emelea had turned into an entirely new person in the hours Din had been gone. Before, she’d been silent and vaguely terrifying. And now she could not stop staring at him from her mother’s side, like a schoolgirl in love. 

As the applause faded out, Josiahn brought forward a couple of his court members who were to present Din with a number of presents. 

The basket of dry meat and fruit had been neatly tied up in muslin napkins. 

Small girls dressed like fruitcake offered ribbons and tiaras made from flowers. 

Din could not bear to reject any of the gifts, especially from the children. He was given more small things than he knew what to do with. Eventually the hall of people that seemed to adore him for simply murdering a man began to wear the Mandalorian’s patience thin. 

“Sir,” Din finally said to Josiahn. “I’m flattered by the lengths you and your people have gone to, but a simple thank you would have sufficed.”

Josiahn offered a small nod. His bug-like eyes drooped to avoid what would have been Din’s stare.  “I am afraid we have kept you longer than you would have liked.”

He waved his hand to a guardian who is quick to come to Josiahn’s chair. “Would you do the Mandalorian a great favor and bring his food and reward to his ship.”

The guardian nodded, a lack of vocal confirmation filling the air as he strode away. 

“Guess who’s back!” Emelea sang, suddenly flitting before Din’s chair. She pranced around, swaying the loose hems of her pants around her feet. “Strange thing to be given. Ruthenium, I mean. You could do with something better,” she adds with a curling grin. “I want to thank you again,” she then said, blinking for the first time Din had seen all day. 

“It’s nothing to thank me for,” Din said flatly, the monotone modulator clearly keeping Emelea in check. She wavers on her toes like she wants to do more, to say more, but she doesn’t when she becomes reprimanded by her father. The two stared at one another, not in a way a parent and his child should. It was a challenge. A challenge that Josiahn lost as he looked away first. 

“Well, Mandalorian, did you have fun with us today?” Sheer delight gleamed her buggish eyes. Something about Emelea is very wrong. How would Din have enjoyed his day here? He murdered a man and then got paid for it, so it’s not something to be excited about. Although she might have been trying to make him feel guilty. 

Just something about Emelea is off. The entire family is off. 

There is a sudden clamor at the front of the hall as the doors are pushed open to reveal an entire gallery of court guardians. They march in, carrying with them a figure draped in loose rags and crude face paint. From the distance Din sees the guardians throw the young woman into the center of the red circle he had seen before.

Emelea turned on her feet to look at the growing stream of madness. All of the court has now scrambled to their feet. They flock to the rim of the red circle. Some mock  while others whisper and point.

Din struggles to understand. 

He takes to his feet and walks into the madness. 

In the red circle of paint is you. You aren’t much different from the other servants Din has seen. You wear the same crude looking face paint and rags. 

Josiahn’s voice could not raise loud enough to silence the crowd that rages like an angry mob. Feebly, Josiahn demands, “What is going on?” 

A court guardian responds: “Defection.”

Josiahn had nothing to say to this. Emelea overtakes her father’s spot. Her voice booms throughout the room, silencing the mob in a split second. 

“Execution,” she said, “is the price of defection.”

Her eyes lock down on her father. “Isn’t that so?” She asked her father, mockingly.

Din couldn’t tell what had snapped in Emelea. She doesn’t look like the giggliest girl who had been fawning over Din just ten minutes ago. She’s wildly livid. As calm as she tries to be, Din can see she is practically foaming at the mouth.

Emelea turned to Din. “You must do it,” she says quietly. “My father will pay you handsomely. Though it is nothing to lose a servant girl.” Emelea spat the lowly title as she sneered in your direction. 

Din’s heart fell down to his stomach. He could see the raw fear that festered in your eyes as you trembled on your knees. 

“Emelea,”a voice booms. 

Riz pushes through the crowd. A split second of relief. Din hoped Riz would calm Emelea down. 

The two siblings held a silent conversation, staring at one another. 

Emelea broke it off with a nod. 

Riz drew out a long sword, brandishing it for the crowd to see. 

Din dove into the red circle, standing before you with a hand resting on his blaster. 

“This is our way!” Riz cried. He shows the sword off to every person in the crowd. His eyes, wild and wide, zeroed onto you. “She would defy the way of Aniri.” He pointed to you with the tip of the blade. 

Josiahn did nothing. He said nothing, but Din could see the resignation in his eyes. “Why should she be killed?” Din demanded when Josiahn failed to speak up. “What has she been accused of?”

“She tried to leave the palace, sir, and without her makeup.” 

What the fuck? Din thinks. 

Emelea fumed at the words. “A Mandalorian would not understand the laws of this planet. She’s bound to this palace, bound to be my faithful servant.”

Din raised his chin. “She can be easily bound to another, couldn’t she? I agreed to help you with a man who threatened your court,” Din said to Josiahn, ”but a young servant girl leaving the palace without wearing makeup is hardly a cause for her death.”

Riz shook his head. “She is bound only to the royal family.” Riz gripped his sword, knuckles pale. “Well, father?” 

Josiahn swallowed. He leveled his eyes with the Mandalorian’s helmet and, in a soft breath, he granted the servant to him. 

Riz grunted. In a single swish of his arm, the blade slashed through the king. 

Din couldn’t hold back the gasp of shock as Josiahn crumpled face first to the floor. The outcry was fast and sharp for anyone that regarded Riz as a villain. 

Riz’s sword dripped with the blood of his slain father. “Mandalorian, considering you are new here, allow me to explain. Long ago, before Aniri became civilized, the battling clans would brawl within this red arena. The one to slay their opponent would earn the right to rule for four full years. It’s an ancient law, but one that has never been dissolved. And as I have already disposed of my mother, I see no reason why I should not be regarded, now, as the king, with Emelea as queen. Emelea had slain Melv the moment you left the palace to bring Kais to us. And while she had hoped you would stay to serve her in any way she pervertedly pleased, I can see that you have chosen this disloyal whore over me.”

Din’s heart pounded in his ears. Karga was right. The rumors about the court, especially Emelea, are true; and they are much worse than anyone has heard. The palace ran like a cult and Emelea, a crazy, ruthless nut, is now in charge. 

As Emelea sauntered forward like a villain, Din drew his blaster and shot.

A wound blossomed on Emelea’s shoulder and she sank to her knees with a loud cry of pain. 

Riz, now the only family Emelea has left, runs towards Din with his brandished sword. There’s no hesitation on Din’s side; he brandishes his forearm, shooting licks of fire from his wrist, emitting shrieks from the onlookers. Riz became enveloped in flame, and he rolled on the stone floor frantically to save himself. It hadn’t worked, and his body burned on as Riz laid dead. 

Emelea shrieked. Her screams are like a beast’s as she scrambled to her feet, clutching her shoulder. “Kill them!” she screamed. She pulled at her hair and shrieked and cried. 

The court guardians that remained at the scene stuttered in response. Half of them visibly questioned where their loyalties now lie. The other half remained too stunned to pounce immediately. Din struggled to pull you up as you stared in horror, your tears now dry by the heat of the dead prince’s corpse. 

Running back to the Crest would have been easier if you were faster. You tripped and stumbled. Din doubts you have ever gotten decent exercise. You’re struggling to breathe before you’ve even escaped the palace. 

Din can see in your eyes how tempted you are to just give up; to stay put and let Emelea do away with you in whatever cruel way she would. Before you could open your mouth to say the words, Din scooped you up into his arms. You latched your arms around his neck, struggling to stay secure as he took into a sprint. You’ve never felt wind over your face this way before. You’ve always watched ships and speed bikes come and go, but the luxury to ride them was reserved only for court members. 

Your strange savior ran fast; in a whirl of strange and stranger courses you’d been whisked away by him, a man of metal that ran fast as a speed bike. 

He took you to places you’d never seen before in a matter of a minute and you don’t even know his name. 

Beyond the palace gates where he set you down and took on the court guardians that attempted to stop him. You’d never before seen the front gates, or the vast columns of trees. Awestruck, you stumbled out of the doors and into the grass. 

Din tugged you along once more, urging you to go a little farther. His ship was close. You could see it, and it was unlike any other ship you’d seen before. 

“Go!” Din demanded. You ran as fast as you could. You felt light, free, scared and giddy, all at once, even as gunfire rings out behind you. 

Your rags of clothing fumbled your escape. You tripped over yourself again. 

And that was it, you realized. That was the last of your freedom. 

A court guardian lifted you into his arms, prepared to drag you back to Emelea.

You had only seen the ship once, and it hadn’t been enough. 

Across the field Din struggled to fight off his own number of guardians. You writhed in your captor’s arms, calling out for help in a hoarse voice. 

Din’s helmet raised to attention. He could see you struggling. All of his strength surged as he used the remainder of his fuel to spray fire in the air. The guardians flanked back, watching in horror as their fellow fighters burned alive.

Din ran to you, like no one ever had before, and you were unsure if you should feel glad or scared as he tumbled to the ground with your almost captor. Once more in Din's arms, you were being flung onto the ramp of his ship. 

“Get in!” Din shouted as he shot at oncoming guardians. You clambered up the ramp, cutting your hands over the ragged edges. Din comes behind you to hurry things along. You sink into Din’s arms as he drags you inside. He firmly sets you down, only saying, “Stay there” before he rushes to the cockpit. 

His adrenaline spiked hands shuddered as he fires up the engines of the Crest. The rumble of his ship is literal music to his ears. Din did not bother to gauge anything else as he forced the ship into a full exertion of motion. The Razor Crest lurched as it lifted off the ground at an alarming speed. 

You strained to find balance as the entire world fell from under you. 

Colliding with every panel as the ship lurched out of the atmosphere sent you into a sobered state of pain. 

As the hum of the engine gets louder, you feel yourself becoming more and more frightened. 

Your unknown fate, which lies in this stranger’s hands, topples through space as the ship whirls and spins, leaving you to do nothing but brace yourself in a corner. Your vision blurred with every moment that passed. The rampant heart that beat in your chest threatened to burst free and fly through space all on its own. 

Some kind of siren went off as the walls of the ship shook. Distantly, you know the ship is being shot at. Breathing is becoming a struggle. 

Your memory skips out on everything since that moment in the hall. The vague voice of your hopeful-savior is clear in your mind, but your surroundings have been washed down to plain palates of color. The blazing prince, a muddled yellow and brown splashed with the fiery licks of orange; his sister who screamed as she bled now remains faceless in your mind. 

You crawled over the floor as it rumbled. You feel like debris in a tornado as you struggle for cover. The racking of metal pierces straight through you as you feel the looming threat of explosion closing in on you. A flat whistle is rising in your ears. There is no balance point for anything, not anymore. Were the rumors true? Does gravity not exist beyond the atmosphere of Aniri? Would the walls of the ship be stripped apart, leaving you victim to space winds, black holes, and freezing, endless darkness? The idea frightens you into a frenzy of hysterics.

You tumble across the panels. You go head first into a wall. It knocks the vision out of you. It’s difficult to tell how much time passes.

Sitting blind and gripping the sharp grooves of the ship, you brace your body back to fight the ship’s desperation to throw you around. Your neck twinges with pain of strained muscles. 

You narrowly dodge debris that rolls around the ship. 

Using the walls as your guide, you search for safety. 

Inside of a strange vault, filled to the brim with weapons, you lock yourself inside. Your breath is uneven, so ragged it hurts. Pinned up against guns and other strange arsenal isn’t helping the feeling of impending doom, but at least here you’re safe. 

You stay hidden until your legs hurt. 

You can feel the paint dripping down your face in thick streams of sweat. 

The ship ceased to rumble a while ago, but the nauseating pain in your stomach is still set firm like stone. 

You know once you emerge from the weapon locker you’ll be apprehended by your strange savior. 

You know what he is—a bounty hunter. He killed that wanted man on Aniri. He killed them just for money. He surely wouldn’t save you out of the kindness of his heart. He knew running off with you would cause a stir. They’d followed you off planet. 

You know what Emelea and Riz are like. Melv was kind, but weak. He had been the sickly triplets of the bunch. Kind he may have been but he was easily overpowered by siblings. 

They followed you off the planet. You, a servant. You are their property. They’re going to war over a stolen girl, and given Emelea’s absolute insanity, you can only guess how it will end for you. 

Even if Emelea doesn’t make further attempts, you are still in the hands of a stranger. A bounty hunter; a killer. He could use you for anything he wanted. Leverage to get ransom from Aniri, sell you to the Empire to be a slave, or he could keep you for himself. You’d be dead or worse either way. 

You gripped tight on a blaster before carefully opening the door. 

The ship rumbles in easy silence. No fire or smoke leaks. Just silence.

Did...did he outrun them? 

You stepped out. The metal under your bare feet is unlike anything you’ve felt. Servants were not permitted shoes because they had nowhere to go but around the palace. You’re used to smooth concrete. 

Your slippery palms grip the blaster with sloppy form. You’re unfamiliar with weaponry and rely mostly on what you’ve seen to defend yourself. Aim, pull trigger. 

In such a close range you could surely kill him, but piloting the ship wouldn’t be as easy. 

You tiptoe around, heart hammering in your chest. The metal floors creak behind you. 

You whirl around with a sharp gasp, pressing the gun into the metal armor of the man who saved you. 

You tried to shoot but his hand wrapped around your wrist, bending you in such a way that the gun fell from your fingers into his hand. You started to struggle. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” the Mandalorian says sharply. He sheaths the blaster in a holster on his hip and then holds you firmly by the shoulders. “Calm down,” he says. 

The modulator of his helmet highlights the details of his voice. Surprisingly deep but sharp, you find. 

You can't help but continue to struggle in his hold. He only has you by your forearms but he's incredibly strong. Or at least stronger than you. 

"Calm down," he repeats again. "I am not going to hurt you."

You are desperately hoping that's true. Palpitating, your heart disagrees and screams at you to fight and run.

The prospect would fail you no matter what. You're weak in general, more so now after the chaos you've gone through. Above feeling scared, you are dreadfully tired. 

The Mandalorian man cautiously leads you to a lumpy mattress pushed against the wall of a smaller room. "Sit," he says, a gloved hand gesturing to his bed. 

Your heart thunders away as you do. You grip the skirt of your rags and sit obediently, staring at your hands. 

Tears dripped down your face, tumbling off your chin. 

"What are you going to do to me?" Those are the first words you've said in a while. The crackling of your voice makes you cringe; your number one weakness is your vulnerability and right now you're the most vulnerable person in the galaxy. 

"You need rest," The Mandalorian says quietly. He digs around a little closet. He hands you a folded white shirt and towel. You're beyond puzzled at the gifts and behind tears you manage to send him a questioning glance. 

"Wouldn't you like to freshen up?" He sounds puzzled. You debate the idea. Hesitantly, you nod. 

"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeats. This time it sounds gentle.

Genuine.

"You can wear this for tonight," he continues. He places the shirt and towel in your arms. You had never been given something for you. Not this way. 

"Would you like to shower?" The Mandalorian then asks you.

You look up through your dirty bangs, unsure what he means. 

"Bathe," Din corrects himself. 

You nod. As unsure as you are you begin to give into the looming feeling of safety. 

Ushering you into the refresher in silence is beyond awkward. 

Din gives a quick rundown on how the shower works. When water came from the showerhead your eyebrows lifted to your hairline. 

"Curiouser and curiouser," you murmured to yourself. You run the top of your hand under the stream to test it out. To your disbelief the water is warm. 

You look to the Mandalorian, shock written all over your face.

Din tries not to chuckle at your expression. He can see that you're rather pretty even under the sweat, dirt, and paint. 

"I'll leave you alone. Take as much time as you need."

Din shuts the door after himself, leaving you in the steamy refresher. You hang your things on the hook. You're beyond excited to wear something other than your itchy rags.

You discard the rags to the floor and step eagerly into the water. 

It's amazing. 

You look at your feet, watching the dirt and paint whirl down the drain to never be seen again. 

While "showering" might be new, you at least know how to wash yourself. 

You use a bar of soap to lather bubbles in your hands. Scrubbing away the vomit-green foundation is beyond satisfying. 

You wash your hair, taking your grand time. The bubbles gather in your hair like a fluffy cloud. It's hard to remember there is a world outside of the shower where you massage your scalp for a decent ten minutes. 

By the time the water has ran cold, you have exhausted the possibility of washing any untouched body part. You feel butter soft, hair silky smooth. 

You pat yourself dry with the towel your savior had given you. 

It's then that you struggle to not burst into tears. The sight of your crumpled uniform overwhelms you. You huddle into the corner, gripping onto the soft linen the man had given you. 

Dabbing tears away with your inner wrist, you tell yourself to stay calm. 

You slip on the shirt.

He is bigger and taller than you, so the shirt covers all of you to your mid thighs. 

You look at your reflection in the foggy mirror. 

You don't recognize the girl that looks back at you. No loose rags cover her curves and no thick paint masks the face she is so unfamiliar with. 

You can see all the pigment in your skin. Your eyes are slightly red, but filled with hope. You detangle your hair with your fingers before you gather enough courage to go out. 

You slip into the cold air with your old uniform and towel bunched in your arms.

You scan up and down the narrow hall. You wish you knew your savior's name. 

"Hello?"

The answer is footsteps that lead away from the cockpit. 

He still wears his heavy armor, helmet included. 

"How do you feel?" He asks after a tense moment of silence.

"Clean," you say sheepishly.

You’re still slightly concerned with your well being. You look up to his helmet, taking a conscious shuffle back. "I should thank you properly," you murmur. 

"There's no need for it," the Mandalorian says quickly. His tight voice is incredibly nerve wracking. 

"What are you going to do to me?" You finally asked the one question that's been on your mind. 

He tilted his head back. You imagine he's surprised from the way his body seemed to stutter. 

"Nothing you're thinking, I can say that," he declared. "Technically you...you are mine now. The Anirians will be looking for you. They made that clear. It's safe to assume you have no family off planet?" 

You must have looked surprised because he quickly tries to apologize for overstepping a boundary. 

"I have no family," you say. "None at all. I was born into the servant ranks."

"I see." He visibly thought about what to do. Even though his face remains unseen you can tell he's debating all of his options. "If you're tired, you can sleep. If you're hungry, help yourself. Do as you'd like around here, at least until tomorrow."

You don't know how he keeps track of time here. The question isn’t nearly as  pressing as what’s happening tomorrow. 

You clenched your stomach when you asked what happened tomorrow. You prepared for the very worst answer. 

“I’m taking you somewhere safe.” His response didn’t make much sense. He turned on his feet to head back to the cockpit, but you reached after him. Your touch must have startled him as he flinched. You recoiled. “I-I want to ask why you did it.”

He doesn’t answer your question. 

“I’ll be here if you need me.” 

You retreated to the little bed. It’s lumpy, but soft. You sink right into it, timidly covering yourself with the thin blanket. 

You rest your head against the pillow.

This must be his bed. 

This must be what he smells like; metal tang mingling with his soap and just him. It’s difficult to describe since it’s not really a thing. It’s just him. 

Sleeping could have just been blinking. Your eyelashes tickled your eyelids as you opened them, seeing the world only as a pillow. You had cuddled it during the night, and you can’t say it was bad, since it smelled nice and was a real pillow.

You roll over to your back, feeling the start of a headache instantly form behind your eyes. 

On the small bedside table are new clothes. Well, you find it’s actually just a new linen shirt and an oversized leather jacket. You are a bit surprised to see that. After all, your savior doesn’t seem like the leather jacket type. 

But it’s very soft, so you figure it’s old. 

You shrug into the clothes, grateful he didn’t simply wash your rags and have you wear them again.

Although it is a peculiar outfit as far as outfits go. The brown leather jacket does a good job of keeping you warm and your hands at least reach the outside of the sleeves. But the shirt is sort of short. Oversized, but short. 

At least shorter than what you’re used to. On closer examination you’d say you have at least two inches between your kneecaps and the hem of your shirt-dress. You just zip up the jacket to avoid any mishaps. Strangely enough it makes a cute-ish outfit. 

Then again you’ve never actually had any other outfit before. You’d probably think anything would be cute. 

You come to the conclusion that you’re stalling going out to meet your savior. You’d slept peacefully and gotten new clothes, so you’re kind of expecting the entire thing to be revealed as a trick. 

You open the door with the thought that you could always run back to the weapon locker and grab a pistol. Your hope for a silent start to your first day is smashed when you run into him less than a full minute of being on your feet. 

You awkwardly stared into his visor, stuttering a quiet “Good morning.”

He didn’t exactly reply the way any other person would. 

“How are you feeling?”

The crisp edge to his voice cuts your ears. He’s awfully fear inducing. 

“I feel alright,” you mumble. “Thank you for the clothes.”

He nodded, not making a sound that could be mistaken for a “you’re welcome”. Instead he straightens his helmet, the T of his visor looking somewhere behind you. He says, “I have set a course to Nevarro.”

You nodded right back. “I would guess that’s a planet,” you say, trying your best to sound serious. Who could take you seriously, though? Makeupless, tired, with less than combed hair, and you don’t know anything about the galaxy you live in. 

“It’s going to be where we live. For now. At least until I can find somewhere safe for you.” His words took your breath away. It’s mind blowing to imagine how many planets are out there. Which planet will you live on? What would you do? Just live, breathe, all without being in the service of anyone else? 

You bobbed your head softly, a quiet yes on your lips, but excitement gathering in your chest. 

“I’m going to have to thank you again,” you murmur, sweeping your bangs out of your eyes. “I’ve never been shown such kindness from a stranger. I am Y/n.”

The soldier bowed his helmet in response. “You don’t have to thank me, Y/n.”

You half expected him to tell you his name in response. You should have known better, however, considering his entire identity depends on mystery. Before he could leave, you asked him, “What should I call you?” 

A slight falter in his footsteps makes you regret the question. He visibly thought as he tilted his visor down. Is he staring at you? His feet? The way the leather jacket hangs off your limbs? 

“You can call me Mando, if you want,” he finally suggested, his words sounding so broken apart that you wonder if he is physically malfunctioning beneath the helmet. You decided to just stick with Mando rather than force him to socialize and talk more than he already has been. 

The day passed by uneventfully, but still blurringly fast. You have nothing to do, but that is a thousand times better as opposed to your usual schedule of cleaning around the Anirian palace from dawn to dusk. You never had the luxury to feel bored before today. You passed the time by cleaning up around the ship while Mando remained ever stoic in the pilot chair. 

You grew used to his ever looming presence. You have an idea of him in mind that you can’t be too sure of. He watches you constantly, occasionally handing bowls of soup to you without a word. He thanked you before bed for taking the time to clean but insisted you don’t do it again. You’d taken that with a grain of salt in the wound. For a brief moment you felt embarrassed; you must not seem like a real person to him. Just the poor Aniri girl programmed to clean and stay silent. 

Mando must have seen this thought in your eyes because he stopped you from going to bed to say a few words.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice always cuts through your chest, right to your heart. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I want to say that you shouldn’t feel obligated to take care of anything.”

You tilt your head up, peeking at his helmet through your bangs. “I don’t know how else I can thank you,” you sheepishly admit. “Cleaning is my only real talent.”

He didn’t laugh at the half-joke, instead he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. The tang of his armor you could taste on your tongue, and you can just imagine how it would twine with the smell of him.

“If you’re hungry then I’ll bring you food, to the bedroom.”

“Wouldn’t you want to eat with company?” You asked. 

His long pause is deafening. “It’s alright,” he finally says, voice lowered to a soft lull. “Y/n,” he said. Your heart pounds when he says it. “I’m going to take care of you.”

You nodded. “I know,” you mutter. “I really, really wish I could thank you enough.”

“You can thank me by getting rest. We’ll be at Nevarro in twelve or so hours.”

You retreated to the door to your little bedroom, before turning back to look at Mando one more time. “Where do you sleep?” You asked. 

“The bedroom,” he replied. “But it’s yours tonight, once more.”

You don’t argue as Mando turns away, returning to the cockpit where he would no doubt be the rest of the night. 

You shrugged out of the leather, draping it across the small night stand where a glass of fresh, cold water greeted you. 

You have never been cared for. 

You have never been given anything so luxurious in your entire life.

Mando had now given you his bed for two nights in a row, and you would have felt guilty if you weren’t struck by your sudden change of lifestyle. You crawled onto the mattress and sunk your face into the pillow, breathing in the smell of him.

Just him. 

>> next chapter! 

[raendown]

For the @madatobigiftexchange. Even though my giftee dropped out ages ago I had already finished this lol so I might as well share it. 

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 1568 Rated: T+ Summary: Explosions, experiments, and exasperation. Just a regular afternoon for them.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Once More With Feeling

When the desk rattled underneath him and the very walls of his home office shook Madara could only think that at least he hadn’t been doing anything terribly important because that had either been an earthquake or an explosion and either way he probably wasn’t going to be doing anymore paperwork for at least a few hours. He felt almost preternaturally calm as he set his brush down and stood up, absently righting a framed photo as he passed it on his way down the hall. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone no matter what madness lay outside waiting for him. Rather than head out the front door towards the village center his first instinct was to head out the back exit where he knew his husband had been locked away in the laboratory at the back of their property for several hours.

Or at least there used to be a laboratory at the back of their property. Madara's left eye twitched as he took in the source of the ground-shaking explosion that had rocked through his afternoon plans. Where once there had been a mokuton-reinforced building with double thick walls and shatter resistant glass in the windows there now stood a smoking crater filled with shattered wood and debris of various unknown origins. Surrounding the wreckage there rose a twenty foot barrier Mito herself had lain around the perimeter of so many dangerous experiments for an occasion just such as this one.

And in the center of that barrier stood Tobirama, perfectly alive despite the blackened state of his face and the small flame burning just over his left ear. Considering the decimated state of his lab he must have had enough time to throw up some sort of protection against the blast else he would have been scattered across the lawn in just as many pieces but judging from the remains of his shirt it must not have done quite as much protecting as he had hoped.

Madara told himself to breathe deeply as he approached the scene of the crime and stopped just at the edge of the barrier, folding his arms across his chest. He waited patiently for the shock to pass and when Tobirama finally turned to look at him he had less than zero sympathy for the guilty expression on that beloved face.

“Had a small oopsie, did we?” he growled. Tobirama offered a smile.

“Just a small hiccup. I almost had it, though. One more trial and I think I’ll be able to–”

“Really? Are you sure? Just one more trial. Or perhaps I should say just one more explosion in my backyard. I was working, you public menace!” Madara took a moment to snap his head to one side and glare down the neighbors staring over their back fence. He kept his eyes narrowed in that direction until all the faces disappeared again, presumably to spread the word that everything was fine. This time.

Tobirama rolled his eyes and shook a layer of soot off both hands so he could make the signs to dispel Mito’s protective barrier. Without it the smoke billowed outwards in massive puffs like a dragon belching smoke rings. Some of it swirled in admittedly beautiful patterns as Tobirama moved through it, picking his way along the wreckage until he was standing on untouched grass and looking back over the mess he’d made with a critical eye. Madara sighed despondently. He didn’t even need to ask to know exactly what thoughts were running through his husband’s mind.

“Do you think Anija has time to raise another building tonight?” Tobirama asked. “Because I really was very close to a solution. If I could just get things set up again I know exactly what to change in the new design. Fireworks sealed in to a diversionary exploding tag, just think of the lives it could save! It’ll work. It has to work!”

“Why did I marry you?” Madara threw up his hands and turned away.

“Hey!”

“You’re a heart-attack waiting to happen! One of these days I’m going to come home and you’re going to have jutsu’d your own head off. And then I’ll have to feed you through your neck or something because kami knows you, of all people, would find a way to live without your head. How else are you going to keep bothering me?”

It was possible he might be getting a tad over-dramatic again but Madara consoled himself that he was nowhere near Hashirama levels of drama which meant he was still well within the boundaries of a reasonable reaction. Surely there was no one alive who wouldn’t be at least somewhat upset by the idea of their spouse blowing themselves up for the fourth time in a twelve month period. There was really only so much one heart could take. What on earth had possessed him to fall in love with such a madman?

Other than the fine ass and the incredible sex and that damnably attractive genius brain.

He made it halfway back across the lawn before something very small yet very noticeable bounced off the back of his head and he stopped in his tracks, deadly frown already in place by the time he turned around to see Tobirama oh so innocently turned away from him, still looking at the wreckage of his lab.

“Did you just throw a rock at me?” he asked quietly. Tobirama didn’t even deign to turn around.

“That would be childish.”

“Yes, because you’re never childish,” Madara snarled, sarcasm heavy in every syllable.

Finally Tobirama turned around to scoff lightly. “Never. But if I happen to have your attention would you possibly consider helpin–”

“No I would not consider helping you recreate the seals before Hashirama has a chance to raise the building again.” He lifted both eyebrows with no surprise when Tobirama immediately began to pout, clearly somehow under the misguided impression that he should be allowed to seek out more dangerous activities just after having stood in the very epicenter of an explosion.

“Are you or are you not, as my husband, supposed to support me in my passions?”

“I think I’m more partial to the duty of keeping you alive,” Madara drawled.

“How boring.”

When he scowled Tobirama simply rolled his eyes and leaned in to kiss him, always an effective distraction from whatever had irritated him. Madara did his best to hold on to his very understandable grumpiness but it only took two more soft pecks for his expression to soften as he shuffled a little closer for a better kiss. Hands slowly buried themselves in his hair, pulling lightly on his scalp, and Madara groaned in to the sensation. Both of them had been so busy lately. With Tobirama locked away in his lab for hours at a time and Madara constantly bringing papers home from the office they hadn’t had a proper amount of time for this sort of thing in at least a few weeks.

A low whine escaped in protest of Tobirama pulling away, soothed momentarily when he was granted one more swift kiss. His husband was smiling when Madara opened his eyes and the sight of him was so welcome, so distracting, that he made the fatal mistake of not paying much attention to the words coming out of that pretty mouth.

“One small little experiment can’t be too bad can it?” he asked in a low rumble. “What harm could it really do to just help me draw a few symbols on paper? They’re only symbols.”

“Mm only symbols.” Entirely distracted, Madara repeated the end of the last sentence in an agreeable manner without giving much thought to what he was saying, anything to bring those lips back to his own. He didn’t even notice when a dangerous smirk spread out across Tobirama’s face in response.

“You wouldn’t mind, would you? All of my paper just went up in smoke but I did need a test subject anyway.”

“Why did you stop kissing me?” Madara whined.

He admired the smile Tobirama gifted him in response, stupidly not reading in to the intent behind such a vicious expression. All that mattered to him was that his husband was kind enough to bend down and kiss him again in that way that promised all sorts of filthy things to come. He asked no questions as he was led back across the grass and in to their home. He thought no more of the smoking crater in their backyard. He didn’t even notice anything amiss when Tobirama snagged a bottle of ink from a side table in the kitchen as they made their way through, much too interested in what the other hand was doing underneath his shirt.

It wasn’t until perhaps ten minutes later that the village was rocked with a secondary explosion, this one in the familiar form of Madara's voice screaming at the top of his lungs.

“FUCKING SEALS! I AM NOT A GOD DAMNED LAB RAT, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? WHAT DO THESE EVEN DO? I SWEAR TO FUCK YOU MANIAC-”

Down the street with both hands over his ears, Izuna sighed and glared mournfully down at the tea that would surely go cold long before his brother’s voice gave out. What on earth kept those two idiots together was beyond him. How, by the grace of all the mercies that be, was this his life?

[shyeehaw]

RDR - Awkward s/o

Request: Can you write some headcanons with Sean, Arthur, Kieran, Lenny, Javier, John, Charles and Dutch (hope that's not too much lol) having an awkward s/o?

Sean

Before meeting him, you thought no one would ever get you.

You were used to sympathy giggles, but Sean? He actually finds you funny!

And if you start laughing at inappropriate times, guess who will join you?

Also, sometimes you will just panic and start to giggle. Without any reason to.

“Y/N, when was the last time you made a donation to the box?”, Ms. Grimshaw asks.

And then you giggle, trying to hide it only makes it worse.

So Sean will save you, with his smoothness.

“Ms. Grimshaw! I was forgetting to give me share, but yer reminder is always on time! Let me tell ya how I got this and-“

There was this unspoken rule that everyone seemed to know about, but you.

It’s like at birth they got a book called “things not to do” and memorized it... You? You didn’t even know there was a book until it was too late.

Sean was not bothered by how you always seemed to have a quirky subject to talk about.

Or if your compliments sounded way weirder than they intended to.

“You have nice hands.”, you said once, admiring how slim and long were his fingers, but not actually explaining what made you think of that.

Karen snorted and even Uncle was puzzled by your weird ways.

But not Sean, he just gave you the biggest smile, happy to have anything complimented.

“Thanks! so do you, Y/N.”

You two make a pretty funny duo, you may say something awkward and Sean will turn into a joke.

And once he starts oversharing, telling the story of his life and mentioning his “da”, you do too!

Happy to have someone that will actually listen this time.

Arthur

“What a handsome man...”, you thought once you laid eyes on him.

That same night, around the fire, Arthur came to talk to you.

“It’s nice to meet you! I’m Y/N”, you said offering your hand for a handshake.

“I know... I was here last week remember?”, he said, laughing a bit.

“Oh! Yes! Right! I was only joking...”, you said, convincing a total amount of 0 (zero!) people.

But Arthur did not gave up on you, not on that occasion or in the many others that you were probably astonishing him with your oddness.

People may call you awkward, but to Arthur the things you do are unique.

And he loves your uniqueness.

It’s intriguing to him how differently you react than others.

He is a worried boyfriend, always protecting you from people’s mean reactions.

Won’t admit anyone making fun of you. And honestly? People will take one look at his frown and know better.

He will try to save the conversation when you ask him to help with your eyes.

In fact, you two now share a whole dialogue just with glances, it’s pretty handy.

You asked him to stop you before you can embarrass yourself.

But his soft spot for you makes it so hard to do so.

Kieran

It all started by observing Kieran, like a lion does to it’s prey.

You would watch him trying to bond with others and, usually, being unable to say the right things...

Ss you watched him do that, only one thought crossed your mind. “Yup! That’s me! I gotta talk to him!”

You would sit beside him and attempt to start a conversation.

“Hi, I’ve noticed you are uncomfortable around them...”, you said, looking for any response.

Getting none but a bug-eyed expression, you added: “I am too!”

Ever since you two started being a thing, it was much easier to say things without the fear of being judged.

Kieran even got a little bit more confident.

Together, you two make a pretty awkward couple, but at least you are not alone anymore.

Lenny

Lenny almost makes you forget about your social ineptitude.

You feel so insecure about it that you rarely try to interact with others and when you do...

You always end up saying the wrong things.

But Lenny doesn’t mind, he finds it cute even.

He will give you a confidence boost by saying that if people don’t get you is their loss

When you get stuck on your thoughts, brooding over why did you say such weird things, Lenny will gently bring you back to the present.

“They’ll probably forget about it, Y/N. It was not that bad.”

He has this magical way of always being able to comfort you.

Most of all, Lenny accepts you from who you are

Javier

You never know when people expect you to hug them or not.

So after a long trip, when Javier arrived at camp and waved, you got up and went for a big hug.

It’s safe to say he was not expecting it, given that you two only talked a few times.

When someone waves at you, it’s not expected to greet them back?

“I had no idea they were a thing.”, you heard Tilly whispering to Mary-Beth.

Oh no. What have you done?

But it was such a spontaneous hug, Javier didn’t mind. He was actually glad to be greeted like that.

You have no idea how, but it seemed that he actually liked you.

He said the first thing he noticed about you was your... odd fashion sense.

Javier admires you for your originality, you have no shame on being your weird self. He loves that.

Somehow, he asked you in a date. A fishing trip as an excuse to get out of camp. Just the two of you.

That means a lot of time alone, and much time to embarrassing things to happen.

Like falling in the water. Good thing you know how to laugh at yourself.

Well, it was not a date exactly, you found it out later. When you filled the silence with a kiss and he had a surprised look on his face.

“You are wild Y/N, I love that about you.”

He will shower you with compliments.

And how is one supposed to answer to that?

“Your smile, mi amor, és hermoso”

“I... uh. Thanks? I like to smile, so I’m glad you... like it?”

Ugh, way to ruin the mood.

But he founds it adorable, in fact, your guess is that he does that on purpose, just to see you all worked up about it.

His compliments are genuine, so after the initial awkwardness of receiving it, you feel pretty good about it.

John

John has that tough way of his, but deep down he is so head over heels about you. That tiny detail doesn’t bother him.

It seems like every time he’s around, embarrassing things are prone to happen.

That might be because you are nervous when John is watching you, which only leads to disastrous comments by you.

You thought it would be a good idea to tell him a joke, and oh god, he was so invested in it.

Halfway through you realized you didn’t know how it ended. No big deal, right? You just make up a new ending.

You could tell that his smile was forced, but you appreciated the effort.

“Look, Y/N, I ain’t gonna lie, you are very odd.”, he said, causing you to abandon all hope, “But I like you. Very much.”

It was the most sincere declaration, there was no walking around the fact that you were a bit of a social disaster.

Being in a relationship with John, took him time to get used to your weird conversation topics.

Like the time you helped Pearson chop vegetables, and he thanked you.

You were about to say “no problem” but it got mixed with “you’re welcome”.

It came out as “your problem”, you could swear you saw John shaking his head from where he was standing.

He loves you still, even when you say things that get him embarrassed on your behalf.

Charles

There are no awkward silences with Charles.

You know he appreciates not having small talks, so you don’t feel compelled to fill the silence with nonsense.

It’s much easier when the other person is not expecting to talk all the time. 

Charles is so calm and nice with you it almost makes you act like that as well. Almost. 

There’s no changing you from your clumsiness.

When you two were hunting together, Charles saved you from falling flat on your face after you tripped into a root. It could have been romantic if you hadn’t ruined the moment by commenting on how that always happened to you.

“No, not the part of being saved! That never happened before! I mean, why can’t I just walk without tripping on things? I’m sorry, I’m being a chatterbox, right? I’ve seen you talking to Uncle and I know you don't-“

“Y/N, it’s fine. I’m just glad you are alright.”

“I am... thanks to you.”, you said, measuring your words for once.

Charles has this thing which makes him like the role of protector. So a clumsy s/o is a perfect fit. 

He is not bothered at all by your peculiar interactions with others. 

Charles doesn’t feel the need to connect with the others. So if you find it embarrassing, he probably doesn’t think much of it, assuring you it’s fine.

You don’t mind getting teased, but you do hope people think twice before doing it in front of him.

He likes you for you, and awkwardness won’t change that.

Dutch

He is the closest thing you get of a “boss”.

So, of course, he makes you nervous!

When asked to come to his tent and listen about a job, you are unable to concentrate.

You have to remind yourself to maintain eye contact, or else you might seem rude.

“Get that, Y/N? It’s an easy in and out situation. No hostages.”

You nod, trying to recall a word he said before that.

“I’m terribly sorry Dutch. But I was trying to look you in the eye, and I focused so much in that... I didn’t heard a word you said.”

He appears surprised at first, probably no one dared to be this upfront with him before.

“Well, you do have nice eyes, Y/N”

INSTANT BLUSH!

You two orbit around each other, sharing glances that leave your legs feeling like butter.

You can’t describe how embarrassed you were when Dutch went to give you a hug and you offered a handshake.

He just laughed it off and asked what it would be.

It was such a simple gesture and yet made you feel much better.

He is a charmer, so he never fails to give you compliments.

“You look good today”

“Nice! Thanks!”

Let’s just establish that compliments make your awkwardness go through the roof. Like, what are you supposed to do?

Dating you is thrilling. At any time you can say something weird.

He admires how you don’t seem to have a filter, you just say whatever it feels right.

And honesty is a very important topic for Dutch.

Setting up a whole mood and taking you to Saint Denis on a date, Dutch professes his love for you.

It was too unexpected, a wave of feelings got ahold of you.

“I think I love you too”, was the only thing that you were able to say.

“You think?”, he said, raising his brow, “Then I’ll have to make you sure of it.”

It’s no secret that he loves to dance, his phonograph it’s the second thing he cherishes the most.

And you hate that damned thing because you have two left feet.

Your moves lack grace, and you can feel everyone looking at your poor excuse of a dance.

But it’s so worth it, to slowly sway along him.

He loves to dance with you, even if it means bruised feet the day after.

[justanoutlawfic]

Taking Back My Life: Chapt. 4

Story Summary: Hook stayed in the Underworld and Emma refused to find a way to move on. When Regina saves her from the Wish Realm and she runs into that Hook, she brings him home. With the help of her family, she slowly realizes that this isn’t the man she fell for…and maybe that’s a good thing. Slowly, Emma learns how to let go of her toxic relationship and focus on herself.

Chapter Summary: Emma gets a wake up call that she so desperately needs.

Hey, so I warned this before but this really, really has a lot of calling H00k out on his shit. So...if you’re a fan of H00k 1.0 or C$...I would not read.

Also on AO3

Emma woke up the next morning and headed downstairs. The old Killian had always said he wanted a woman to make him breakfast in the morning. She wasn’t much of a cook, but she figured she could try, for him. She always did.

 A nagging voice told her that she hadn’t had to try with anyone else. Walsh never expected anything. He teased her for her pop tarts and Frosted Flakes, but it was all in good fun. With Neal, they were two kids on the run, with zero access to a kitchen.

 Killian was different. This was what a wife or girlfriend did…wasn’t it? Sure, her father made her mother breakfast most mornings, but they were different. At least that’s what Killian had said.

 Anyway, this wasn’t her Hook. He wasn’t her boyfriend, the man she had gone to hell for. He had no feelings for her, but maybe in time…she could feel whole again.

 The house had no food, so she used her magic to whip something up, then waited…and waited. An hour passed and Killian didn’t come downstairs. She thought she woke up late, was everything okay with him? Heading up to the master bedroom, she found it empty. Temporarily, she panicked. Killian didn’t know the town or it’s modern convivences. He had called her bug a “yellow carriage” when they got to it the night before. Where would he…

 Thoughts trailing off, she realized that her parents had brought up the Jolly the night before. Her home was right near the beach, all of the dots added up.

 On foot, she headed to the salty shores and walked aboard the ship for the first time since she was the Dark One, since they were the Dark Ones. Wearing a dress that he loved, but she hated, the dinner she served. He knew something was up and had called things off that night. He couldn’t love her with all the secrets and the walls.

 Oh, how she missed her walls sometimes. They kept her safe from letting in the wrong people. After she let Killian though, they came tumbling down.

 She reached the bottom deck and found Killian there, lounging on his bunk, reading.

 “Was my bed that uncomfortable?” She asked, causing him to look up.

“I’m sorry, I just…had to check on the Jolly. I gave mine to Smee when I became a father.” He sat the book down and stood up. “Truly, I think it might be better for me to stay here.”

“Oh.” Emma frowned. “But at my house…”

“Emma, I don’t want to hurt you. Clearly, you have been through so much. I…read your Hook’s journal and got the gist, along with what you already told me.” He gave her a sympathetic look. “I swore after Alice I’d only treat a woman how I wanted her to be treated.”

Emma felt uncomfortable. He was speaking to her like he was her father. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not your Killian. We shared the same life, but at some point, our paths diverged. I became a father, I gave up my pirate ways outside one moment of weakness and it quite literally still plagues my heart.”

“My Killian was a good man.”

“Oh, Emma.” He sighed. “I have no doubt that he told you that or showed you a side of him that portrayed that, but from what I’ve heard from you alone and read-this man never changed. He kept up his vengeance and until he died, he was still planning on killing the Crocodile.”

“That can’t be true.” Killian had vowed to he that he had given up that goal. The past was in the past. Rumple had changed, Killian had changed.

“It’s all right here.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a black leather journal. “His last entry was the night he died, right after he put the marks on your family. The both of us did a lot more than you realize, Emma. I don’t think he was the man that you thought,”

 Emma didn’t take the journal, so he put it in her hands.

 “And I can tell you, I am not the man that wrote that journal. Yes, we share the same memories, but I don’t view them the same as he did. I am not the man you loved or the one you went to hell for…and I’m glad I can say that.”

 His eyes were filled with sympathy and it made her want to smack him. How dare he judge Killian? How dare he act like he knew him or that she was one of his victims?

 Without another word, she stormed up the steps of the ship and got the hell out of there. She was so tempted to chuck the journal in the ocean or the nearest trash can, forget it existed.

 But a part of her told her to sit down on the bench she once taunted Regina from and read.

 So, that’s exactly what she did. She read every page and little by little, it was like a spell breaking.

 It started with what he had done to Bae then Ursula, two children he had ruined. It talked of his plans to kill Rumple, dated far before he became the Dark One, but after he vowed to her he had stopped his quest for vengeance. Apparently, he tried to trick Belle into giving him the dagger, but that never worked of course. When his immortality briefly vanished, he was filled with glee because it would be easier.

 Perhaps worse was what was tucked into the back. They were pages from Henry’s book. They talked of Robert, David’s father, going to Pleasure Island to save James. George’s guards had nearly killed him, but Killian had stopped them. According to the journal, that’s where the book stopped but he knew the truth and couldn’t have David poking around for it.

 He had killed Robert. Upon realizing the connection the family he was so desperate to be a part of, he hid the evidence.

 Emma will never love me if she knew. I would never be a part of her life, there’s no way she’d pick me over her own father.

 With trembling hands, the leather journal fell from her fingertips.

 The Killian a few feet away had been right. He was not the man she had fallen in love with.

 But neither was the man who had written this journal.

[ellenembee]

The Revelation of All Things - 58. In which the truth is disappointing as usual

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Evana braced her hands against her knees as a newly regained memory seared through her consciousness. The Nightmare had stolen the memories, and part of her wished she could just let it keep them.

She was a sham after all and the mark nothing but an accident - a result of her bumbling interference in a ritual Corypheus had begun, using the Divine as a sacrifice and the Grey Wardens as his stooges. She'd walked in and distracted Corypheus long enough for the Divine to knock the orb from his hand. Then, like an idiot, she'd picked up the elven orb. It had seared her with the mark that Corypheus had planned for himself. The rest, as they say, was history.

And she was nothing but an accident.

But the Divine had led them to those fragments of her first trip to the Fade hoping they would allow Evana to better understand her enemies, so she gritted her teeth and bore the shame. Unfortunately, as she relived the experience, everyone around her got to see inside her head as well. They all knew she was an accident, too.

So that's pleasant.

To think, she'd almost come to believe in this shemlen Maker. As they moved forward, she found her hand reaching again and again to press against the coin under her armor. Creators take her... if she was this upset, how would Cullen feel to know his lover was a charlatan? And what must Cassandra think? The Seeker was terribly quiet, even as Varric and Hawke bantered back and forth about the nature of the thing presenting itself to them as the Divine.

They pressed on, fighting through waves of demons as the form of the Divine cleared as much of their path as possible. As they fought through another pit of demons and wraiths, the fear demon began speaking to them, taunting them. She cringed every time it spoke, only half paying attention to the spells she let fly from her fingers - all of them muscle memory with zero strategy - as she waited for her turn to be shamed by the demon's acerbic tongue.

She had so many fears to choose from... though perhaps her biggest had already been revealed. She was a fraud.

"Dirth ma, harellan," the demon's voice echoed around them. "Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din."

For a moment, Evana's heart stopped at the elven words, but as she struggled to translate what the demon said, Solas spit out a disgusted, "Banal nadas."

Although the demon's words had apparently been for Solas and not her, they left her uneasy - especially the part where it called Solas a trickster. The Nightmare, however, had already moved on. Cassandra was next, and again, by extension, Evana.

"Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, and all that your faith has been for naught."

One of Cassandra's beautiful noises of disgust echoed through the Fade. "Die in the Void, demon."

Evana looked over to find Cassandra giving her an encouraging smile, and she gave the Seeker a bemused smile in return. How did Cassandra do it? Evana's own faith had been nascent, barely there at all. But perhaps Cassandra's faith was rooted in something else? If they... when they made it out of here, Evana determined to ask Cassandra about it. If anyone could help make sense of all this, it was the Seeker.

Evana's head whipped toward Varric as the demon struck at her friend with the one thing that could hurt him most. His jaw set in determined indifference as the deep, creeping voice echoed off the rock walls around them.

"Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric. You found the red lyrium. You brought her here..."

"Just keep talking, smiley," the dwarf spat out through clenched teeth.

Finally, Evana came across a final set of memories. As she collected them, the flash of running to the rift, of the Divine running close behind her, and then the Divine being ripped from her hand... No, not being ripped away as much as letting go so that Evana could escape. Evana shook off the memory and hesitantly approached what she now knew had to be a spirit.

"It was you. They thought it was Andraste sending me from the Fade, but it was the Divine behind me. And then you... she died."

The spirit hesitated a short time before responding with a simple, "Yes."

Stroud's voice was low and hesitant. "So this creature is simply a spirit."

Hawke, who hadn't quite gotten over the seeing the Grey Wardens holding the Divine up as a sacrifice for Corypheus, rolled her eyes at Stroud. "I think we all knew that was the case, Warden."

The spirit's face took on a sad countenance. "I'm sorry if I disappoint you."

Then they watched as the spirit shook off the physical form of the Divine and morphed into a glowing gold light. Evana buried her disappointment. It didn't matter.

"The only thing that's important right now is getting out of the Fade. Whatever you are, you've helped us so far."

Hawke was still miffed. "What we do know is that the mortal Divine perished at the temple thanks to the Grey Wardens."

Evana sighed as Stroud shot back. "As I said, the Grey Wardens responsible for that crime were under the control of Corypheus. We can discuss this further once we return to Adamant."

"Assuming that the Wardens and their demon army didn't destroy the Inquisition while we were gone."

"How dare you judge us? You tore Kirkwall apart and started the mage rebellion!"

Hawke suddenly took two steps forward and almost shouted in Stroud's face. "To protect innocent mages, not madmen drunk on blood magic! Even without the influence of Corypheus, the Wardens go too far. They need to be checked."

Evana, still caught up in Hawke's jab about the Inquisition being destroyed while they were away, barely caught Solas' affirmation of Hawke's words.

"Agreed. The Wardens may once have served a greater good, but they are far too dangerous now."

Cassandra nodded, and Evana was forced to try to pay attention. Apparently, everyone was giving their opinions now... here... as they stood in the Fade...

"The Wardens are a risk. Send them away before they cause even more trouble."

Varric shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. There are a few good ones, but an awful lot of the Wardens I've known went crazy."

Evana finally had enough. The idea of all their soldiers... of Cullen... dead or dying somewhere in Adamant... It was too much. She sent evil stares at her companions and then pushed both Hawke and Stroud away from each other.

"By the will of the Creators! Will all of you please shut up!" She backed away and pointed up to the rift. "We can argue after we've escaped from the giant fear demon. Ok?"

They all had the decency to look chagrined, but it didn't last long. The screeches of the fear demon's minions reached their ears in the next moment, and Hawke's face turned from sheepish to "aww shit" in two seconds flat. Evana looked at Varric.

"Well, now I know where you got it from."

Varric gave her a grim chuckle as he pulled Bianca from her holster. The spirit, still using the Divine's voice, was their Captain Obvious of the moment.

"The Nightmare has found us."

Hawke and Stroud looked at each other, and an understanding seemed to pass between them.

"Form up!" Stroud shouted as her moved to Evana's side.

Hawke appeared at her other side. "I'm with you."

Evana raised a brow at them each in turn. "That's more like it."

They made short work of the "fearlings" as Solas called them. They looked like giant spiders to her, sending chills all through her, but she'd learned earlier that the other saw different things when they looked at the little demons. Cassandra saw moving piles of crawling maggots, for one.

"Come," Solas said as he placed his staff on his back. "Real or not, the Divine is the key to escaping the Fade."

They moved on, but it wasn't long before the Nightmare came after Stroud. "Warden Stroud, how must it feel to devote your whole life to the Wardens, only to watch them fall? Or worse, to know that you were responsible for their destruction? When the next Blight comes, will they curse your name?"

Stroud's response dripped with quiet with rage. "With the Maker's blessing, we will end this wretched beast."

And just like that, the voice turned on Hawke. "Do you think it mattered, Hawke? Do you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a god? Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about. Or wait... is it Varric you most care about? It matters not. He will die, too, and you will have the pleasure of watching."

Evana looked to the Champion, sympathy in her eyes, but Hawke, mouth set in a grim line, kept her eyes ahead. After a moment of tense silence, she shook her head.

"That's going to grow tiresome quickly."

Evana's eyes sought out Varric, who in turn had his gaze fixed on Hawke. The look on his face - more vulnerable and devastated than anything she'd seen from him - tore at her heart.

The Nightmare continued, apparently addressing them all as they continued to fight through another round of fearlings. "Do you think you can fight me? I am your every fear come to life! I am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself. The demon army you fear? I command it. They are bound all through me!"

The form of the Divine gave a breathy laugh as she hovered just ahead of them "Ah, so if we banish you, we banish the demons? Thank you, every fear come to life."

The Nightmare roared in frustration, and Evana let out a hysterical little laugh. She held her nervousness and fear and anger all bound together inside. She could no longer separate one emotion from another. The entire ordeal wore her thin in ways she'd never experienced before, and she followed the glowing golden form of the Divine... or spirit... with a near mechanical step. The Fade seemed to go on forever. Her steps took her nowhere. At every turn, terrors and shades and wraiths hunted them. She tried to tell herself it was no different from any other day in the field, but in truth, it simply felt like a never-ending rift. One from which she feared she'd never escape.

They fought not one, but two Pride demons at once. Then the Divine led them to an open area, but they were ambushed. Evana felt her strength waning as a third Pride demon descended on them. It was, of course, the perfect time for the Nightmare to strike its blow against her. The thing she feared most...

"Dearest Inquisitor, you think all those people will still revere you - love you - once they know? You think he will still love you? You are nothing but an upstart. You are, in fact, nothing at all. Nothing but an accident. He will throw you away, reject you. Just like Hanir. Just like your clan."

Cassandra let out a perfectly timed noise of disgust. "Of course, he will still love her. He has been in love with her for ages. If you think this would change anything, you know nothing of our Commander."

Evana blushed at Cassandra's very specific rebuttal shouted loudly at the greenish-hued sky. The curious revelation that Cullen had been in love with her "for ages" held her attention, though. What did that mean? How did Cassandra know? Evana found herself fighting harder against the demons if only to give herself a chance to ask what Cassandra meant. The fight was over soon enough, but the Divine spirit urged them on. Evana added her questions to the list of things to talk about with Cassandra when they escaped from the Fade.

Then, the strangest thing happened. The Nightmare spoke aloud to someone - but it was no one in their party.

"My little seer, where have you gone? I can still feel the echo of your delicious fear in the air. I will find you soon enough. There is nowhere for you to hide."

They all stared at each other in confusion. In front of them, the spirit paused, as if listening.

"It is faint as a stone's ripple in an angry ocean, but another presence lingers here." After another moment of silence, it floated forward at a quicker pace. "We must hurry."

They ran forward, eager to be done with the Fade. Rounding a corner, the rift finally came into view.

"The rift!" Hawke called to no one in particular. "We're almost there!"

Varric sighed. "Great one, Hawke. Why not just dare the Old Gods to try and stop you?"

Unfortunately, they emerged into a clearing to find that the Nightmare stood between them and the rift. Of course, it would be in the form of a giant spider. And by giant, she meant monstrous.

"That thing is the size of a mountain," Cassandra commented matter-of-factly as her neck strained to see up to the top of the multi-legged, multi-eyed creature.

Hawke laughed, a harsh sound edged with malic. "Or at least a very large hill. Come on, Seeker. Don't tell me you're not up for a challenge? I can't wait to sink my sword into that thing."

Eager to have it over with, Evana began moving forward. However, the glowing spirit pushed her back and floated forward instead. Her golden shape pulsed as she neared the demon, and the voice of the Divine drifted back to them even as the spirit moved forward.

"If you would, please tell Leliana, 'I am sorry. I failed you, too.'"

And with that, the spirit's glow intensified until they could no longer watch. An explosion pushed them all backwards, though none of them lost their footing, and the Nightmare let out a chilling shriek. The demon fell back, weakened, and Evana didn't even look back at her companions. She charged forward knowing full well they would be behind her.

The demon backed away, curling in on itself and disappearing into the mists. However, it was nice enough to leave behind an aspect of itself to block their path to the rift. The sight of the open rift beyond gave Evana a much-needed second wind. She could almost see Cullen beyond it... almost hear him call out to her.

Evana organized her team for a long fight as the aspect of the demon hopped from one location to another and struck at them with dizzying speed and force. The voice of the Nightmare sent out occasional taunts and jabs, but the disembodied voice had lost its hold on her. It had already revealed her deepest insecurities to her companions. She had nothing left to lose.

It took time - a gradual wearing down of the powerful demon - but finally, the demon fell under their collective power. They all stood around, panting and gaping at each other for a moment, before Evana gathered her wits.

"To the rift! NOW!"

It took her a moment to get her own exhausted body moving toward the rift, but Hawke and Stroud reached out to assist. The three of them were further from the rift than Solas, Cassandra and Varric. Relief coursed through her as she watched them run on toward it and disappear into the realm of the living. Soon she would be through as well.

A small part of her dreaded what she might find on the other side, but even still, Evana nearly cried when the nightmare demon crashed down between them and that glowing green rip in the Veil. She never thought she'd be so angry to be separated from a rift in her life.

"We need to clear a path," Stroud shouted.

Hawke nodded and turned to them both. "Go, then. I'll cover you!"

But Stroud shook head head. "No. You were right. The Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must-"

Hawke cut him off. "A Warden must help them rebuild! That's your job!" She turned to the Nightmare, her voice gritty and low. "Corypheus is mine."

Evana looked between the two of them with dawning comprehension. "What? No! We either die here together or we emerge from that rift victorious! I will leave no one behind!"

Both heroes shook their heads, and Hawke put a hand on Evana's shoulder even as the Nightmare demon took a menacing step toward them. "No. If we all take on that demon, we all die. Who will stand against Corypheus if you are not there to lead? Who will close the rifts? You at the very least must survive. And then we'll need a strong Warden to rebuild. That's Stroud. I need to make up for my silly mistake of thinking I could kill a darkspawn magister. He got out of that prison in part because of my negligence. I must be allowed to remedy that."

Stroud was already shaking his head. "I am but one of many strong Wardens. Hawke, your own sister could easily lead and rebuild the Wardens here in Orlais. And sacrificing yourself in this way - it does nothing to strike at Corypheus himself. You have more work to do." Stroud turned to Evana, a resigned and yet determined look on his face. "Please, Inquisitor... I have known for many weeks what this encounter would bring. My death in this place was foretold. Just promise me that you will spread the word of how the Wardens were redeemed in the end."

Despite her initial confusion at his words, Evana's tears came on hard and fast as her exhaustion overtook her. She threw her arms around the Warden's neck and whispered hoarsely in his ear.

"Go then. May your Maker guide you, or if he does not, let Falon'din guide you to rest. If you somehow survive, there are many rifts still open. Find one, and come back to us!"

Stroud awkwardly embraced her in return then backed away to bow to her. "Inquisitor. It has been an honor."

With one last look at Hawke, Stroud rushed forward. "For the Wardens!"

While the Nightmare focused on the Warden slashing at it from below, Hawke and Evana ran forward to the rift. With a final look back, she dove through. A steely resolve flowed through her as she raised her hand to the rift and watched Stroud hack and dodge the Nightmare as long as the rift remained open.

Then, as the rift grew ever smaller, Evana noted with surprise that the Nightmare seemed to turn its attention away from Stroud. The screech of anger it emitted was the last thing she heard before she closed her hand into a fist and pulled at the connection. The rift snapped shut with a final, thunderous explosion of light.

The demons in the courtyard fell as the rift magic tore through them, and a cheer rose up through the troops gathered around. A great number of Inquisition soldiers lingered among the Warden warriors, her first indication that all had not fallen apart during her absence. She sent up a quick prayer of thanks and began scanning the crowd for a certain lion-hearted Commander.

Relief rolled through when their eyes locked across the courtyard. He immediately fell to one knee, breathing heavily and leaning on his sword. Concern replaced a measure of her relief at the strange look on his face, but just as she took a step toward him, a tired smile cut through his pained expression. He looked at her like a thirsty man looks at an oasis in the distance.

She tried to smile in return, but the memory of Stroud's sacrifice wouldn't allow it. At least she didn't have to face Varric with the news of a fallen Hawke. Thank the gods for small favors amid this absolute shit show.

The Champion approached her now, gesturing to the Warden mages being released from their bonds on the other side of the courtyard. "She was right. Without the Nightmare to control them, the mages are free, and Corypheus loses his demon army. Though, as far as they're all concerned, the Inquisitor broke the spell with the blessing of the Maker."

Evana sighed and shook her head. Damned lies.

"Once they understand what really happened..."

Hawke was already shaking her head. "They'll be terrified. I for one am tired of giving fear demons anything to feed on. Let them have their story."

Cullen approached her now and hovered close by. She could tell he wanted to touch her, to make sure she was really alive and well before him, but he hesitated with all the people around them. After all she'd been through, however, it was too much to stand on ceremony. She needed to touch him just as much as he did her. She stepped forward, reached out, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Commander. A report for me?"

His hand immediately came up to enclose her forearm in a death-grip, his eyes boring into hers. He nodded and tried to catch his breath, though she couldn't tell whether it was more from all the fighting or from an emotional response.

"Yes, Inquisitor," he finally said. "The archdemon flew off as soon as you disappeared, but we've captured the Magister Erimond alive - I thought you'd want to deal with him yourself. As for the Wardens... those who weren't corrupted did help us fight the demons... eventually."

They dropped their hands from each other as a Warden warrior joined them. The armored man bowed before her.

"We stand ready to help make up for Clarel's... tragic mistake. But where is Stroud?"

Evana and Hawke shared a tortured look, and Evana fought back the tears as she raised her voice so all in the main hall could hear her broken words. "Warden Stroud died striking a blow against a servant of the Blight. We will honor his sacrifice and remember how he exemplified the ideals of the Grey Wardens even as Corypheus and his servant tried to destroy you all from within."

The tears flowed freely down her cheeks now, and she felt Cullen's strong hand briefly take hers and squeeze before he stepped back. She took a deep breath and faced the Warden now in front of her. A flare of righteous anger joined her grief just looking at him.

"Now, to atone for your fatal mistake, you will stay here in Orlais and do whatever you can to help destroy Corypheus. Stroud died for the ideals of the Wardens. In war, victory. And we are still at war. Do you believe the Wardens can still help?"

The armored Warden tilted his head. "I do, Your Worship."

Evana nodded. "You are still vulnerable to Corypheus, and possibly the Venatori, but there are plenty of demons that need killing."

Her sensitive elven ears twitched as she heard Solas let out an exasperated sigh and Cassandra grumble a response about giving them yet another chance. Both were clearly displeased, but at this point, she didn't care. This was about ensuring a force remained in Orlais that could fight off a Blight. It was also about honoring a man who died for the sins of his order - sins he himself did not commit.

Evana looked to Hawke again. The Champion clearly felt the same way, but she drew herself up and rolled her shoulders back.

"While they do all the stabby stabbing of the demons, I'll inform the Wardens at their headquarters in Weisshaupt of all that's happened. Best they're not caught off guard." Hawke then made a funny little bow. "Good luck with your Inquisition, lady Herald. Try not to start an exalted march on anything, will you? I'll let you know when I've returned from Weisshaupt. Please don't hesitate to give me any other means to fight Corypheus. I need to finish this." As she began to back away, she saluted Evana, then stopped suddenly. "Oh, and take care of Varric for me. He'll get himself into trouble without me here to look after him."

Evana laughed half-heartedly at Varric's indignant harrumph coming from somewhere in the back of the courtyard. Hawke changed directions instantly and followed the noise. Evana knew the two friends would likely have a long talk before Hawke truly left for Weisshaupt.

She then turned to find Cullen, but he'd moved away from her during her interactions with the Warden warrior and Hawke. He was now speaking with Captain Rylen and a few lieutenants. She almost walked over to them, but Cassandra approached her instead. Evana took a breath and braced herself for a lecture. Instead, the Seeker merely wrapped an arm around her waist and helped her off the dias.

"Come, Inquisitor. You need a healer and rest."

Evana pulled away and shook her head. "No one else is going to get any rest tonight. Why should I?"

"Because you are injured, and your body is going to give out on you soon if you do not see a healer. Look here."

Evana was about to protest again until she followed the Seeker's finger to an apparent hole in the side of her armor. The white armor in that area was conspicuously covered in blood. Her blood. It could be mistaken for a demon's blood except for the fact that it was still flowing... out of her. Where had that come from, anyway? She still didn't feel...

"Ooooohhh... ooooo... why did you do that? I couldn't feel anything until you pointed it out!"

"Which means your body is already in shock. We must get to you a healer. Come now, please."

"Where is Solas? He can-"

"Solas disappeared right after you recruited the Grey Wardens. I didn't have an opportunity to stop him and explain. We'll have to go down to the healer tents outside the fortress unless we can find someone along the way."

Evana let the Seeker put an arm around her waist once again. She saw Cullen turn now and give her a concerned look, but he was still on the opposite side of the injury. He'd not seen it, yet, and really, she was fine. No need to worry him. She gritted her teeth through the sudden and intense pain and then smiled at him, waving him off. He nodded, looking at her for a moment longer before turning back to the soldiers hovering around him and waiting for instruction.

The further they backtracked through the fortress, however, the more apparent it became that this had been an absolute blood bath on both sides. She was sure some of the dead had already been removed, but even the remaining bodies and pools of blood lining the stone battlements galled her. Evana felt the bile rising in her throat as she considered each of these men and women had families, loved ones...

She suddenly broke away from the Seeker to vomit into a stack of hay near a battlement. Every heave caused unbelievable, shooting pain as the torn muscles in her side contracted and tore further. She was crying uncontrollably by the time the heaves subsided, and the sobs made things even worse. Cassandra actually looked quite worried now.

"Inquisitor! There is no time! I must carry you."

Without waiting for approval, Cassandra lifted Evana into her arms as if she were a child. In fact, Evana felt like one as the Seeker hurried through the crowds of people sorting through the bodies trying to find survivors. If she hadn't been so sleepy, she might have felt embarrassed by the whole thing.

Luckily, they didn't have to go all the way to the healer tents to find a healer. The Iron Bull paced through the entry area near the gates and triaged injuries as people came through. The most seriously injured remained at the gates with the most experienced healers, while the rest were sent to the tents over the hills. As soon as he spotted Cassandra, he began roaring out orders.

"You! Clear a spot there. Healers! To the Inquisitor. Now!"

The healers surrounded Evana almost before Cassandra put her down, but she was no longer in a position to care. Darkness encroached on the corners of her vision as the mages started their work, and before they'd even pulled off her armor, the darkness claimed her.

 **

 Evana woke to bright light and a warm hand rubbing circles into her clammy palm. She felt groggy and weak, but the pain in her side had subsided. Her mouth tasted of sour bile and felt like cotton. Cracking an eye open, she tried to adjust her eyes to the brightness of the small tent.

"Cullen? Where am I?"

"No such luck, darling. Your lover is out organizing people and such. You know, commanding. The thing he's oh-so-good at besides looking pretty. I'm afraid it's only me, your favorite smart-ass Tevinter mage. And you're in your own tent resting up. Have been for days now."

Astonished, Evana tried to sit up. "Days?"

Dorian pushed her back down on the bedroll. He was sitting beside her on the ground, smirking.

"Steady on! I didn't expect you to take me so seriously. It's only been a few hours since you popped out of that rift like a painting come to life. Just relax. Here, have some water."

Evana drank the water down, swishing it around to get rid of the sour taste in her mouth, and handed the skin back to him. "More, please."

Dorian smirked at her. "Well, at least you haven't forgotten your manners with all that Fade walking."

She groaned and threw her arm over her eyes as she heard him refill the skin from a pitcher in the corner. "Don't remind me. It was... It was awful, Dorian."

The hand returned and gave hers a squeeze before placing the skin in her grasp. She brought the skin to her lips as Dorian consoled her... sort of.

"There, there. Don't think about it right now. Focus on healing. And whatever you do, don't get Solas started. I made that mistake before I found out you were injured." Dorian let out an overzealous sigh, but his voice perked up instantly as he continued on. "Thank you, by the way. Your not-really-but-could-have-been-life-threatening injury gave me the perfect excuse to leave him mid-sentence in order to tend to you. I've never been so glad to be called to a person's sick bed before."

Evana rolled her arm off her eyes and let it land on the bedroll above her head. She graced him with an eye-roll and a wry smile.

"You are so selfless, Dorian. Whatever would I do without you?"

"That is a question I can't answer, my dear. I have no idea what it's like to be without me... though I imagine it's quite dreadful."

She gave a weak chuckle, and Dorian smiled briefly before his face turned serious. "But you should know, your Commander has been by the tent at least ten times in the last four hours just to check in on you. I'm not sure if you're aware, but he's really quite smitten with you. If you're not truly interested, please do let him down easy and then send him my way? I felt quite overwhelmed with all his heroics and find myself falling in love. Why, his stamina alone... I'm sure he hasn't slept at all since the assault, but he's still out there making things happen."

Evana sighed and shook her head sadly. "Poor Bull. He never stood a chance, did he?"

Dorian scoffed. "Against the Commander? Not likely. Although the take-charge attitude Bull exhibited with the healers... and when he started triaging those injuries with such force and grace, muscles rippling as he moved around... that was quite exhilarating to watch." Dorian paused for a moment, tapping his chin with an inexplicably well-manicured finger. "On second thought, I take it back. You can keep your Commander."

"I certainly appreciate that, Dorian."

Cullen's deep voice was followed by his overwhelming presence in the tent. Evana rolled her arm back over her eyes to keep the sudden and unexpected tears from showing.

"Well, that's my cue to be elsewhere, I suppose."

Dorian's hand patted hers twice before leaving it cold. The shuffling stopped for a moment, and she heard Cullen's hushed voice utter a heartfelt thanks to Dorian. The mage, of course, brushed it off. But she knew Dorian was actually quite pleased with the thanks - and she was sure Cullen knew that as well.

Sucking in a tremulous breath, Evana tried to pull herself together, unsure of why she was even crying at all. Perhaps just exhaustion, both mental and physical, was to blame. She gritted her teeth, bit her lip and managed to hold back the tears as she heard him sit on the floor beside her. But just as she thought she'd composed herself, a bare, calloused hand slipped into hers, and his tentative voice split the relative silence of the tent.

"My love?"

That did her in. The tears flowed again, but this time, she was thankful the sobs didn't hurt nearly as much. Cullen's hand gripped hers as he whispered encouraging things to her, and she knew instinctively that he would have gathered her into his lap if he hadn't been afraid of aggravating her injury.

Screw that.

She lifted her arm from her face and reached out to him. Instead of pulling her to him, however, she found herself suddenly surrounded by him as he joined her on the bedroll. He didn't hover over her, but she turned her face into his chest, thankful that he wasn't wearing his armor. His solid presence grounded her, and she gradually quieted.

"I would offer you a handkerchief," he murmured, "but I don't seem to have one with me."

She sniffed rather ungracefully and turned to pull at some of the used cloth strips in the corner. It was her blood on them after all. After even more ungracefully - and rather painfully - blowing her nose, Evana turned to her good side and faced him. Her hand immediately went to his scruffy face and traced the dark circles under his eyes with her thumb.

"Are you alright, my love?" he asked hesitantly.

Evana nodded and then asked a question of her own. "Is it true? Have you not slept?"

He gave her a wry smile as he gingerly rested a hand low on her hip. "Too much to do. Although Rylen has already organized sleep schedules for the troops so we can continue to work day and night. He ordered me to get a couple hours of rest a few minutes ago, cheeky captain that he is, but I wanted to see if you were awake. And here you are."

He paused and turned his head to kiss her palm. When he looked back at her, his eyes were serious.

"Why did you not tell me you were injured?"

"I honestly didn't know," she explained. "Cassandra had to point it out to me. It must have happened sometime during that last battle with the..."

Her voice trailed off as everything hit her all over again, and she had to hold back tears that threatened to overtake her once more. Her mark was an accident. She was a fake. And Stroud had likely died so she could continue being a fake. Herald of Andraste? More like a bumbling idiot who needed to be saved by the Divine. Why had the Divine not let her die in the Fade instead? Surely that would have been better?

But the simple fact was, the Divine couldn't close rifts. Whether Evana had been destined for it or not, she alone bore the mark, and now she would bear this cruel turn of fate as well. She would likely die in the end, anyway.

"Evana?"

She shook her head, attempting to dislodge the painful memories. "I... don't know where to begin. And maybe it's just better if I write it all down in a report... Besides, aren't you supposed to be sleeping right now?"

Cullen scooted closer to her on the bed roll. "I would rather stay here with you."

She hummed her approval, but her tone was teasing. "What will your troops say?''

He turned his serious eyes on her again. "I have wasted far too much time worrying about appearances. I don't think it would be wise to flaunt our relationship, but behind closed doors - or tent flaps as the case may be - I will not be influenced by anything other than what the woman I love wants from me."

Her heart thrilled to hear him say the words aloud again, but his voice and face reflected such a mixture of pain and tenderness that she could only stare at him in concern for a few moments before replying slowly, "Are... are you alright, 'ma lath?"

His gaze dropped to the bandages clearly visible under her tunic. Dorian had retrieved a clean one for her from somewhere so she was no longer completely covered in blood, but her breeches still reeked of her own blood as well as the gore of what felt like a thousand demons. When he looked back up, he only met her gaze a few moments before his eyes dropped closed, but she'd seen the unshed tears glistening in them.

"You disappeared. For a time, we didn't know..." His voice broke and descended into a ragged whisper. "I thought... I thought I'd... lost you."

His hand moved away from her hip to cover his face, even as her own hand remained gently cupped around his cheek. A few hot tears slid past his fingers to the bedroll below before he sucked in a deep breath and wiped down his face with his hand. It took a moment more before he removed his hand completely, and even then, he couldn't seem to meet her gaze. Sliding her hand around his neck, she tugged him toward her and pressed her lips lightly against his.

"And yet I'm still here," she whispered against his mouth.

The reminder of their first kiss on the battlements had the desired effect. He chuckled weakly and pressed a kiss of his own to her chapped lips.

"So you are."

She gingerly scooted back from him and patted the bedroll. "Lie on your back."

Finally meeting her eyes, he gave her a confused look but turned to lay back on the bedroll anyway. She then proceeded to gingerly remove her soiled pants.

"Um... what are you...?"

Evana smothered her laughter when she looked over to find him staring at her with wide eyes. She left off shimmying and patted his cheek.

"Just getting comfortable, 'ma lath. Don't get any ideas. The healers wouldn't like it."

He half rolled his eyes at her, but the flush of red across his cheeks gave him away even as he sat up to help her scoot the rest of the way out of the ruined pants. When he laid back down, she pressed herself against his side, stretched an arm out across his chest and rested her head in the crook of his arm.

"Shall we sleep? Cheeky Rylen's orders."

She felt the vibration of his laughter run through her entire body. "As you say, Inquisitor. I am but your humble servant. Although, it will be quite warm soon. You may want to reconsider."

"Will it bother you?"

"That is highly unlikely. I'm struggling to stay awake as it is."

"Then sleep, vhenan."

He raised his head to kiss her forehead and then laid back. One of his hands rested lightly against her lower back and the other covered her own hand where it lay on his chest.

Content for the first time in weeks, Evana's eyes dropped closed as she listened to his breathing fall into the even rhythm of sleep. Then, moments later, she followed him into blessed oblivion.

[drunklander]

Drunj!Der Yells About Outlander

Thoughts on Ep. 312

Ok so I *really* like half of this episode, and then I really don’t give a single fuck about the other half. But! It manages to jump around enough that the parts I don’t give a fuck about never reach the point where I’m annoyed that I’m still watching them. Which like, is the best case scenario for an episode dealing with a storyline I’m not partial to?

The squad is finally actively trying to find Young Ian, you know, the actual main goal of the back half of the season! But it also feels a bit like they threw all of the plot confetti they needed to into it in order to set up the finale after spending so long on side-quests. There are some great scenes but there is also some batshit insanity. This was the first time in a while that I didn’t check to see how much time was left in the episode. So that’s a bonus.

I personally give zero fucks about the prophecy stuff, but since that’s a massive part of the end of the book, and the show has always stuck maybe a little too closely to the source material, it’s not like I was surprised that a lot of the episode was dedicated to that. And since this episode yet again feels like something completely different from the previous ones, most of my feelings and reactions to it are yet again based on it as a standalone thing and not as part of the season as a whole. (I’m finding more and more as the season goes on that while I have really enjoyed some individual episodes or scenes, if I look at the season as a whole, I’m left feeling sad about missed potential and what might have been if they had made different choices along the way.) So yeah, personally I was like 50/50 really enjoying the episode vs. rolling my eyes at its complete ridiculousness. Which, compared to how I’ve felt about other eps, is pretty solid.

I love that Young Ian keeps fighting on the Bruja and doesn’t give in to the fear he must be feeling. Like if he’s going down, he’s going down swinging and I really do like that wee goober.

Of course Geillis takes literal blood baths. Fucking of course she does.

This whole part is absurd. But like I guess that’s the point? Geillis is fucking nuts. (It does make me roll my eyes a bit that they keep being like “we don’t do gratuitous nudity” while literally having a lady walk around naked and then doing long shots of her showering. Not complaining, just observing.)

DON’T EAT THE CAKE, YOUNG IAN! THIS LADY LITERALLY JUST TOOK A BATH IN ACTUAL BLOOD! SHE’S CLEARLY FUCKING INSANE! DON’T EAT THE THINGS!

NOOO, NOT THE TEA! LOOK AT YOUR REACTION TO THE TEA! THERE IS CLEARLY SOMETHING WRONG WITH THE TEA! STOP DRINKING THE TEA!

Ok, let’s just remember Young Ian’s reaction to being drugged without his knowledge and sharing things he doesn’t want to share. He’s clearly not ok with it. Just keep that in mind for a second...

Geillis is so fucking creepy. Like Lotte Verbeek is so fucking good at pretending to be the creepiest motherfucker ever.

Aaand then the show decided that it was a good idea to have yet another child get raped. This is, what, the third time? Mary, Fergus and now Young Ian? There is no plot-relevant reason to keep this in the show. But they did. Because of course they did. If a girl gets roofied and sleeps with a guy, we call it rape. Because you can’t consent when you’ve been drugged. They’re *literally* called date rape drugs. So here we have a kid getting basically roofied and then it’s implied Geillis sleeps with him. It doesn’t matter if he seems into it. Saying what happens to Young Ian isn’t rape, in my opinion, is the same as saying a girl who gets roofied and taken advantage of wasn’t raped. This, to me, is a rape and I’m *rull* pissed and disappointed, but not at all surprised, that the show decided to include it. (Yes, I know it’s in the book. It was one of the things that I was hoping they’d cut. But given this show’s track record, that was clearly a naive hope to have.)

< / rant >

Ok Claire has that whole trunk of clothes on the ship. Why is she still wearing the same outfit? Seriously, I get that the production is like weirdly attached to that blue dress, but at some point the woman should be allowed to change her clothes. Especially since last week she was like bleeding all over her sleeve and she’s basically been wearing the same outfit for months. Like no fresh dress to go ashore in? Really? I mean, who cares. It’s not anything to like actually get worked up about, it’s just silly to me.

Although, good riddance to the bumroll. I like the outfit much better without it, tbh.

Claire immediately closing the parasol when it’s pointed out that it makes her seem respectable makes me smile. Especially after drunkenly asserting that she *was indeed* respectable last week.

The episode does a decent job of setting up Geillis, though. With the Rose Hall “RH” brand on the enslaved woman Claire sees and the mention of Mrs. Abernathy from a rando in the crowd.

The whole slave market sequence makes me angry and uncomfortable and that’s exactly how I’m supposed to be feeling. It’s clear that’s how Claire feels too. Plus an added dose of helplessness because there’s literally nothing she can do.

And I’m not at all surprised it’s seeing a man being sexually assaulted that makes her snap. With all of the times Claire herself has been assaulted and knowing what Jamie went through at Wentworth, it makes perfect sense for her to manage to hold it together despite her strong feelings, but then to lose it when she sees a man being dehumanized even further in that particular way.

Um, why the fuck did Jamie use Claire’s name instead of his own on the paperwork for Temeraire? She clearly had such a visceral reaction to the situation and he was like well you wanted me to fix it, so I bought a human...in *your* name. It’s really not a big deal. I think it just bugs me a little due to residual Jamie-annoyance from the episodes where I wanted to punch him in the face.

I *am* here for Jamie being immediately on board from the start with needing to get Temeraire somewhere he can live safely. As someone who has been a prisoner in one form or another for so much of his life, it would be out of character for Jamie to respond in any other way.

I like that Jamie and Claire make it clear to Temeraire that his freedom doesn’t hinge on his cooperation in helping them find Young Ian. They tell him he’ll be free as soon as possible regardless, and I’m very glad they make that explicit. Because again, it’d be out of character for them to do anything else. This is, however, kind of becoming a generic white guilt/white savior story. Like they can’t solve slavery but look at how they’re helping this one guy. But honestly, considering there’s like no time in the episode to devote to this particular storyline, this is about as unproblematic as it could get.

Aaand on to the prophecy stuff. It’s all well acted and stuff, I just have no interest whatsoever in this part of the plot.

Although Geillis’ sassy “bitch please” fan flick when Archibald says something is pretty great.

The whole time at the party I was like scared Claire’s hair was going to fall over to the side. Like you can do it, hair, defy the laws of physics! Don’t fall down! I believe in you!

Marsali calling Jamie a dandy is my everything. I really like Marsali, you guys.

Yi Tien Cho’s shade at Frenchmen is also my everything. Yi Tien Cho in general in this episode (and this season) is my everything.

Seriously, his face at Jamie telling him he’s there to be a distraction. Like aw *hell* no. I feel you, dude. It’s fucked up.

Ok the “Ye look as ‘twas yesterday.” line about Claire looking like she did at Versailles is a bit of on-the-nose meta commentary about how they don’t look like they’ve aged that works because it’s a super sweet thing to say regardless of how she actually looks. But Mr. Campbell’s line about “What chance that we end up on the same island, eh?” is up there with The Replacements’ lines last week about Claire randomly showing up in the weirdest places. Like we get it, there are a fuckton of convenient coincidences in the show. No need to point them all out.

The sadness and sympathy on Claire’s face as she sees all of the enslaved men around the room is perfect, as is Jamie’s picking up on it and asking when it will end. But his being in tune with just how much seeing enslaved people affects her again makes me wonder why he put her name on the certificate of sale. (Whatevs, it’s really fine. I don’t like hate Jamie for it.)

Ok so Jamie only calls Yi Tien Cho by his name when he’s making YTC play the part of the Exotic Other. Claire calls him by his name all the time because it’s his name. I do judge Jamie a little for this. When Jamie decided to rename Claudel to Fergus, it was a tad presumptuous, but Fergus embraced it and was on board. Mr. Willoughby was never a name that Yi Tien Cho embraced so calling him that seems a tad disrespectful, regardless whatever Scottish word his actual name sounds like.

Also, Claire’s face when the girl calls him Mr. Cho made me wonder if it was ever made clear what YTC’s family name vs. personal name is. Isn’t it custom for family names to be said first? So he’d actually be Mr. Yi? Is that what Claire’s face is in reaction to, or just the girl being absurd and racist about meeting YTC? Serious question, I can’t recall if this was ever addressed in the book...

Regardless, Yi Tien Cho has more patience and tolerance for bullshit than my privileged white ass could ever hope to have.

Giving him a storyline with Margaret is also infinitely better than the foot fetish bullshit from the book. But again, no brownie points for fixing the obvious problems, show.

Oh man, the look between Jamie and Claire. All the love and lust, and sadness and regret about losing so much time, and thinking of what might have been and what is still to come now that they’re together again. Just all the fucking feels. Their faces are good at emoting, guys.

Still a bit salty that Claire never got to really make Jamie see what the separation was like for her and that Jamie was so easily let off the hook for his behavior and that we had to headcanon most of their reconciliation but I’m tired of being salty, sooo whatever. *pours one out for what could have been*

Lord John’s happy puppy face when he sees Jamie is adorable.

I need Lord John and Chris Traeger to be best friends and like go on happy, optimistic adventures together.

“I thought she’d died too, but she returned to me.” “My god. But how”? “It’s a long story. I’ll send you the BluRay in a couple months. It’ll catch you right up.”

I know the party wigs are intentionally bad because they’re supposed to be wigs of the time period as opposed to the dead animal that’s been living on Jamie’s head all season, but Geillis’ wig is a special kind of ridiculous. (Also why is she randomly blonde now? Like whatever, who cares, but it’s a random change to make. Unless it was literally because the actress didn’t feel like dying her hair or something, haha.) (ETA -- It’s probs how they chose to show she’d aged. I’m an idiot.)

The scene with Jamie, Claire and LJG in the side room is perfect and awkward and I want to give them all a hug. Like look at all of their faces. LJG is like omg I heart you. I am full of feels about how I heart you. And Jamie is like omg thanks for raising my kid. I am full of feels about my kid. *writes and deletes a broken record rant about how it would have been nice to see him show this much emotion even fucking once about his other kid* And Claire’s like pulling double duty on the feels like oh man it’s so sad that Jamie doesn’t get to raise his son but it’s great he has someone to talk to about him and maybe just a bit of jealousy over Jamie getting to be part of Willie’s life for a bit but not Bree’s, and then also like yooo this dude is in love with my husband. I am so full of feels about how this dude is like pining over my husband. You’d better stay in your lane, dude.

TL;DR: Their faces. They’re good at emoting.

This episode does kind of cross over into the gay-guy-in-love-with-his-straight-best-friend trope area a bit. Part of why I liked show!LJG so much in episodes 303 and 304 was because while it was clear he liked Jamie, that wasn’t his primary feature. In this episode, it is. And while I’m here for Claire to notice that he cares for Jamie in a way that’s more than just buddies, it’s a tad too heavy handed with the heart eyes for me. Especially when he keeps telling a romanticized version of the sapphire story.

Like, it sucks to the max that Lord John can’t live honestly, but it seems that a guy who has been given shitty posts because of the rumors about him would be more subtle? The gay-guy-pining trope isn’t that interesting to me and part of why I don’t like book!LJG as much as most people. I know I’m probs in the minority here... I *am* still enjoying show!LJG much more than book!LJG though, and (to me) the genuine friendship between him and Jamie plays better here than in the book too. Like when they’re sitting at the table just catching up. I’m so here for their bromance, just not the pining.

I do love that Jamie calls Young Ian “our nephew” in the scene though, instead of “his nephew.”

If Yi Tien Cho and Margaret don’t run away together in the finale, I’m going to be sad. They win the prize for most surprising ship of the season. But I am On. Board. They each just want to be seen for who they are. Not just as an Other.

Love the convo between Claire and Lord John. And that it seems like he knows (or at least assumes) she knows about him and what he feels for Jamie because he knows Jamie tells her pretty much everything.

I also love Claire’s emphatic “I have.” to Lord John when he notes how she has returned. She’s Jamie’s wife and she is the only person who he loves in the way John wishes Jamie would love him. Like, she finally has Jamie back and she’ll get territorial with anyone who might presume to have a claim on him in a romantic sense. I honestly think that Claire being like this isn’t due to Lord John being a dude so much as just that he’s a human who has feelings for Jamie and at this point, regardless of the person’s gender, she’d start peeing circles around Jamie if *anyone* tried to make a move on her dude. Especially after 20 years with a guy she didn’t love. She did the opposite of pee circles around Frank. She let him do whoever whatever he wanted. He wasn’t worth fighting for. Jamie is. So I am *here* for Claire being a bit possessive. It’s the first time in a long time she’s had someone in her life worth staking a claim on.

I liked the convo with Claire and Geillis until like halfway through when I was like oh shit, wait, CLAIRE, GIRL, REMEMBER THAT SHE’S FUCKING CRAZY AND HAS STRAIGHT UP MURDERED THREE OF HER HUSBANDS AND RAPES BOYS AND KILLS THEM FOR HER BATHS AND HAS YOUNG IAN! RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!

“Why are men such fools?” You’re batshit crazy, Geillis, but you raise a good question.

Of course Geillis went to her own execution. I’d be disappointed in her if she hadn’t.

Ok but Geillis knows how Dougal really died, right? And she’s going to like bring it up with Jamie and Claire next week as something she’s butthurt about, right? It’s come up twice in the episode and I can’t tell if that’s because it’s going to be a thing or if she’s just talking...

Aaand now we get to the pure ridiculousness that I kind of just don’t pay attention to because I can’t even with this storyline.

Also, you’re really just going to grab at the governor’s crotch, Geillis? This lady has more red flags than a Chinese airport.

I get it’s a story that involves time travel, but apparently I draw the line at prophecies.

“A 200 year old baby? Do ye think I’m an idiot.” Geillis, who do you know that could maybe have traveled 200 years between getting knocked up and having a baby? Think about it for a hot second. The riddle is obvious af for us, the audience, but like even for Geillis it shouldn’t take that much to get to the answer. Sure she doesn’t know at the moment that Claire was pregnant and DeLorean’ed her way Back to the Future, had a baby, and then came back again, but she knows Claire’s a time traveler. They literally *just* talked about it. Whatevs. I’m guessing she’ll find the pictures of Bree next week like in the book and put it together so Claire has to murder her to stop her from going to kill Bree with the bloody machete from the promo clips and then she’ll be the skeleton in Joe’s office who was beheaded with a dull blade, which I still don’t think was important enough to include but whatevs, some folks love it and that’s fine too.

How convenient that the escaped slaves live near Rose Hall. But I am so here for Temeraire being like nope, not later, I’m going to be free now, here, goodbye.

For as problematic as the pictures have been for me this season, I do love that Jamie’s first thought when about to be arrested is protecting the pictures of Bree and Willie.

I do not love that we end on another cliffhanger.

*starts singing One Week More to self to the tune of Les Mis*

[funkymbtifiction]

Do you think over-sharing is an Fe thing? I'm an INFJ and I know the stereotype of being closed off, and clearly that's just a stereotype, and isn't Fe sort of the opposite anyway? I do need time to observe people and get who they are, like an essence so I know how they will react to stuff before I open up, but when I do am prone to bouts of over-sharing.

It can be.

There seems to be different aspects / elements of Fe – a) sharing in an attempt to establish a bond between people, b) sharing to externalize one’s emotions and reach a consensus on their meaning, and c) wanting ‘total honesty’ in a relationship and sharing in an effort to be accepted fully by the other person. Fe likes to be ‘supported’ and ‘understood.’

Being closed off is not necessarily healthy for any type – because it leads to lack of communication, which creates drama and conflict in relationships.

The question here is not who over-shares and who doesn’t, but what qualifies as over-sharing and what doesn’t, and why you feel after the fact that you over-shared – is it their reaction, or you feel vulnerable and fear this knowledge they now possess can be turned against you? If the latter, you can learn to stop yourself from over-sharing personal things with people you do not yet trust (who have not proven themselves trustworthy). If it is the former (their reaction), you can use mistakes as a future guide (sharing this made them uncomfortable, so I should probably not share anything similar in the future).

Over-sharing can be cognitive related (for the above reasons); it can also be social awkwardness related, by simply not knowing what is and what is not appropriate to share in a mixed group or on a first date – or even having no idea of what things society or your family members see as ‘private.’ (Probably not the best idea to over-share to your best friend that your uncle just went through bankruptcy, if your best friend’s dad works in your uncle’s social circle!) Society over-shares too much, in my opinion – I really don’t need to know such and such a person has testicular cancer.

I used to know this girl who was far too frank about everything online – she had a social media account that was friend’s locked but posted too much personal stuff there – including all the details of her sexual encounters with her boyfriend – as in blow by blow descriptions. That certainly qualifies as over-sharing, because it was none of my (or any of her other friends’) business and she likely had not asked him for permission to talk about these things with other people / post an online diary for others to read. This was a case not of Fe-sharing, but of no one ever telling her what is and what isn’t a good idea to share in public.

(Unfortunately, in the cyber world we all live in, now you have be continually conscious that anything you say could come back to bite you in the ass 20 years from now; that your ex could forward all your e-mails to your group of ‘friends’; that those intimate pictures could wind up anywhere;  and that you are not ‘safe’ sharing with people you do not know / whose only name is a username. Sharing is way safer in real life than online… but over-sharing is so much easier via texts, chats, or e-mails due to the ‘forced closeness’ of internet relationships. A good rule of thumb is: if I couldn’t say it to their face, don’t write it in an e-mail.)

A few things to consider, when deciding whether or not to share something:

Will this potentially change how the other person feels or thinks about me in a negative way?

Can this information harm me if it gets beyond my circle of friends?

Will it diminish their respect for me?

Will it make them uncomfortable, since there’s nothing they can say?

Am I sharing this in an effort to force a ‘bond’ sooner than it might form otherwise?

Am I sharing this in a desperate attempt to salvage a relationship that I feel is drifting apart and am afraid to let go?

Do I trust this person never to share this with anyone else?

Will I feel embarrassed later for having shared this with someone?

If the answer is yes, think twice.

Words have power. You cannot take words back once you give them away. They now belong to other people.

Here’s a few good reasons to share:

I am not ashamed of this and it might help the other person in some way.

This will not change how they see me in any negative way.

This will not bring an awkward silence to the table or make them avoid me.

This is not an attempt to ‘save’ a relationship, it’s due to a trust bond.

I know this will never go beyond this room, even if we’re not friends in 5 years.

This is a story that needs to be told.

This is not super personal.

I will not feel regret having shared it.

Here’s speculation on why the types might over-share.

EXFJ: to elicit sympathy or forge bonds (and instead, cause others to have a diminished level of respect for them)

IXFJ: in an attempt to maintain / hold onto current / existing relationships because they desperately want friends / significant others (and not realize how ‘desperate’ it can come across)

EXTP: due to a desire for sympathy or affirmation or to impress others, while being semi-oblivious to ‘social consequences’ (how others may judge their behavior / actions / rationalizations / motives)

IXTP: due to not knowing appropriate social boundaries and limits

EXTJ: ‘as a matter of fact’ because they have zero comprehension of how the other person is responding to this information (negatively)

IXTJ: due to obliviousness as to what is ‘appropriate’ in a mixed group / without even thinking about it

EXFP: because they see no need for self-censorship, since that’s not being ‘authentic’ (they do it out of rebellion / social defiance)

IXFP: to flout the conventions of a society / group / mentality they hate

- ENFP Mod

[brywrites]

Flight Risk II

Author’s Note: I’ve always wondered about the pilots who fly the BAU jet, and what their relationship with the team would be like. And out of that question, came this. Part 2 of a short series. Part II: In which a profiler says something he shouldn’t have and a pilot seeks the refuge of the sky.

( Series Masterlist ) ( Previous  |  Next )

He sees her a handful of times after that. Almost always brief meetings, a few minutes to talk before she’s running off to prep the plane or he’s being called away to a meeting. They pass each other in hangars, and she always gives him that same bright smile. He arrives, she leaves, they never can seem to catch each other for very long. Still, Reid always enjoys getting to see her, and she’s happy to listen to him ramble on about whatever he’s reading that day. He discovers small things about her each time. She has a cat named Amelia. Her favorite color is whatever shade the sky is that day. She loves Antonie de Saint-Exupery best. No matter the hour, she always seems to have a smile for him, and that’s something he appreciates.

“War and Peace?” she asks, nodding at the antique tome of a book in his hands. “In Russian? That’s impressive.”

“Have you read it?”

To his disappointment, she shakes her head. “I considered it once, after being stranded in an airport in Moscow for a three-hour layover. But they only sold copies in Russian, and I never learned to speak it. I recognize the cover though.”

She’s far more well-traveled than him. It occurs to him that for all his knowledge of the world, he has seen very little of it. Only once has he traveled out of the country, and only for a case, and only to Canada. He has a passport, but has no use for it. Books about places he’ll never visit, language skills he places he’s never been. On the other hand, Y/N has been all over the world. She knows a few handy phrases in various languages, but speaks only French well enough to get by on. Cities and continents have passed beneath her, and in strange places she has made herself many homes. To travel like that takes a courage he finds himself admiring.

They’re beginning to be friends. Reid begins to wonder about her, and about Arthur, while they’re away on cases. Where do the pilots stay when they’re traveling? How do they pass the time? Do they like their jobs?

Since it’s her he mostly thinks of, it’s her he asks.

“Sometimes we stay in same hotel, when it’s a small town,” she tells him. “But Arthur usually finds it’s best for us to stay out of the way. We’re never far though. We find local places to eat, see movies, play card games. Arthur keeps in touch with his mother and his boyfriend. I usually wander around a bit, check out the bookstores. We stay busy.”

Busy as his own schedule is, Reid continues to go to the plane early when they have a flight, in the hopes that he’ll get to see her. There’s something in her smile that makes him forget whatever horrors they’re headed off to face, and she makes him feel hopeful. He’s not sure why, but when he’s talking to her, he feels like a plane at takeoff, something lifted, something lighter.

More and more often, he finds himself thinking of these two pilots as the eighth and ninth members of their team, something he never did before.

He starts to notice them in small ways. In a restocked bar when they’re leaving a particularly tough case. In new bags of coffee sitting out on the little counter, or extra blankets set out when it’s late at night. He realizes that no matter how early or late it is when they decide to return back to Quantico, the pilots are there and ask no questions. How many 3 AM flights have they flown? There’s a new appreciation for the two of them, for the care they take of the team, and of the jet – of Geff, as she calls it.

And for a while, it’s good. Until a new case comes, and everything is as far from good as it could possibly be. Four days are packed with stress, frustration, questions that have no answers and efforts that always come up short. The unsub is one step ahead of them the entire way, and when they finally catch him, it’s too late. The child he’s been keeping is already dead, and judging by the pairs of children’s shoes in the closet, the number of victims is far higher than they originally estimated. It’s devastating for all of them.

By the time they’re heading home, Reid is exhausted and hurting. All he wants is to go home and lie down and sleep until this week is just a hazy memory in the back of his mind. He’s the first person to climb into the plane, grateful to see the stairs down and the door open when he arrives. As he’s scanning the jet for a place to nap, a head suddenly pops out from behind the cockpit door.

“Hey, Doctor! It’s good to see you.” Y/N is smiling. “I had a question about that Bradbury book you recommended to me.”

“Not now,” he mutters. What would normally be a welcome conversation is now a nuisance.

“Sorry, what?”

“Just leave me alone right now,” he snaps. The small amount of sleep he’s gotten, combined with the guilt at having failed a family has severely decreased his ability to make proper conversation. There’s just no energy left for it, and he feels guilty, but he’s too tired to properly decline.  

Her smile falls. “Is something wrong? Is there anything I can do?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” He turns around and decides on the couch, throwing his bag down and adding, “You’re just a pilot.”

The cockpit door closes behind him.

Arthur looks at her, eyebrows raised. “That was fast.” She sighs and climbs into her seat beside him in the cockpit. “You usually take every chance you get to talk to him.”

“Well apparently he doesn’t want to talk to me,” she says. Y/N shrugs out of her blazer and drapes it over the back of her seat. Out the window, she can see the other agents climbing into the plane. She’s seen them all before, but never really talked to them. They’re familiar faces she’s responsible for flying around the country, people whose lives intersect with hers but don’t come together. With Reid though, it’s different. Or at least she thought it was. All those little conversations, his kindness, his jokes. She’s begun to think of him as a good friend, but maybe that feeling is one-sided.

“Y/L/N, these agents – you can’t get close to them. I told you that.” Arthur is reprimanding her, but his voice carries just a hint of sympathy. “They don’t let people in. And with this work…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. She knows it’s dangerous to care about them. Their job puts them directly in harm’s way. As pilots, it’s their duty to bring the team to that harm. Emotional connections will eventually end in disaster.  Us and them. Pilots and profilers. Ships passing in the night in the same sky.

She throws her headset on and focuses on the controls, the sound of the ATIS weather broadcast in her ears. “Winds 215 at 10. Visibility 8 miles. Some clouds at 10,000 feet.”

There’s a knock at the door, and it slides open ever so slightly. “Captain Dobson? We’re all here,” says a deep voice. It must be Hotchner.

“Thank you,” Arthur replies. The door slides shut, and the captain radios to ground control. “Denver ground, niner-two-two Foxtrot Bravo ready to taxi IFR, with tango.

Through the static comes, “Foxtrot Bravo, follow United one-three-three onto taxiway uniform, then golf to six.”

She inhales, and with an exhale pushes aside all concerns about a particular profiler. It’s true that she’s been thinking of him more often, that she gets excited whenever she sees him walk into the hangar. There’s just something about Reid that makes sense to her. It’s familiar and comfortable. At the same time, she must acknowledge she finds herself worrying about the team the closer she gets to him. Sitting in a hotel with a book in hand and unable to read a word when an amber alert update flashes on her phone and she wonders if that’s the case they’re working on. Hoping nothing happens to him, to any of them.

They guide the plane down the taxiway and hold at the runway G6. “Ladies and gentleman, this your captain,” says Dobson. The echo of his voice can be heard just barely through the door. “Welcome back aboard. We’re currently third in line for take-off and should be in the air soon. As always, we ask you to fasten your seatbelts and secure all loose items. Please turn of all electronic devices, including laptops and cellphones. Once we reach cruising altitude, you’re free to turn them on again.”

One by one, the planes ahead of them take off. “Denver tower, niner-two-two Foxtrot Bravo ready for takeoff IFR, runway six,” she tells the distant voice through her headset.

“Foxtrot Bravo, winds two three zero at ten. Cleared for takeoff runway six.” As they’ve done so many times, Y/N reaches down to advance the throttle, and they begin to pick up speed down the runway, watching as the knots increase until they’ve hit refusal speed – the point at which they’re going too fast to abort the takeoff. They’re going and going, right down the center line, asphalt beneath them, then Arthur pulls back and the yolk and her heart lifts –

and then they’re in the air. It’s a magical feeling, no matter how many times she does it, the second the wheels lift off the ground and suddenly there’s nothing but sky before them. And in that minute, it doesn’t matter that Spencer Reid is somewhere behind them in the cabin, angry about something she can’t understand. It doesn’t matter that she’s “just a pilot.” Because she loves this. This brief feeling of soaring, of rising into the unknown.

When the plane touches down hours later, her spirits will sink once more, as she wonders why he seems to believe whatever he’s feeling is beyond her comprehension.  

[kingjaffejoffer]

Sometimes its your turn to lose

I would prefer that nobody reblog this.

But this is the internet and I can’t stop yall from doing anything. So whatever. 

Something I’ve said on this blog a dozen times is the fact that I don’t believe in karma. To me, its something silly that people say to make themselves feel better when they take an L. If someone keys your car or busts out your windows and you don’t catch them... you mention karma because it gives you a little bit of power in hopes that the universe is gonna make the culprit pay. 

I don’t believe in karma because niggas like George Zimmerman and Darren Wilson are still walking down the street enjoying their lives, free as a bird even though they murdered Black people in cold blood. I don’t believe in karma because America has been committing atrocities all over the globe for 200 years and nothing has happened in retaliation, 9/11 aside (which is a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things). 

I don’t believe in karma because billions of people on earth can’t read and don’t have access to clean water and shelter. Where’s the justice for them?

That was a longwinded intro to the fact that I just took a massive L. Most people would say karma.... but I think it was just my turn to get got. 

I’ve a terrible boyfriend to most of the women in my life. 

I’m very sweet, charming, attentive, affectionate, and caring. I’ve done all the things women loved. 

Except for the fact that I always cheated. 

We can get into the reasons I cheated another time. That’s a whole 3 chapter post within itself. 

The point is. I cheated a lot, with impunity. I eventually reached the point where I didn’t want to live like that anymore. I matured to a place where I didn’t want to be a liar. I didn’t want to cause anyone any pain. I didn’t want to live a double life anymore. I didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore. 

So I decided that I was going to be single for the rest of my life. And last year, I finally got my wish. I was SINGLE and unapologetically a massive whore. 

It was fucking fantastic. I was single, and every woman I met, I’d let them know that I was fucking with other women and I had no intentions of ever getting into a relationship with them. I let women know from jump street what the deal was and things worked out great. You’d be surprised at what women are down with if you’re just honest and upfront from the start. 

I had a clean std test and was juggling a handful of women at a time, living the good life. 

And then....... I met her. 

She slid in my DMs on Tumblr. She wasn’t thirsty. She didn’t come into my messages with overtly sexual comments and pictures. She just introduced herself, “Hey, how are you doing?”

The conversation between us was effortless. The chemistry was flawless. We went from talking in the Tumblr messages every day. To texting. To snapchatting. 

We’d have conversations that lasted all day. and they were dope and wide ranging. 

If God came down from the heavens above and told me to design the perfect woman I wanted. The final result wouldn’t have been too different from this girl who just dropped in my lap out of nowhere on Tumblr.  We have EVERYTHING in common. 

California native

Her character and values as a woman were beyond what I could ask for. 

She’s extremely well versed in sports. She can hold substantive and meaningful conversations about the specific NBA players. 

We watched MMA and boxing together every Saturday

We both love California gangbang rap. We’d be in the car together listening to YG both lip synching the words. 

She’s well read, knocking out a book every week. 

She’s woke as FUCK. Unapologetically black.

Dark skin, natural hair.

Our views on religion were the same.

She’s college educated. 

She’s fucking beautiful. Thick in all the right places. 

She’s generous. Considerate. health conscious. 

She’s just as freaky as i am. One minute her and I are talking about environmental health and child rearing..... and 3 minutes later she’s on Snapchat taking a long piss for me so I can watch. Telling me she can’t wait until Friday so we can hang out and make love like we did every weekend. 

She came from a really good family. A two parent household. 

It didn’t take long before I was in love with her. 

I spent years wanting to be single. Wanting to be an unapologetic whore. Wanting to have a harem of women that I could call any time to do whatever I wanted.

I had all of that. And I fucking fell in love with this girl. 

And I threw it all away...... one by one. I went to my harem of women, breaking the bad news to them. Telling them that I had a girlfriend and we couldn’t have sex anymore. 

They didn’t react well. The drama that I had to endure just to get rid of all these women is enough to write a 5 chapter post on. That’s another story for another day. The point is..... I went through great lengths to make sure that I didn’t cheat this time. 

I stopped having sex with every woman on the side. I was 100% committed to this new perfect amazing woman that dropped out of the sky and into my life. 

The first time we had sex was explosive. I’ll never forget it.

We’d have long conversations about monogamy and our views on marriage, which were perfectly in sync. Neither one of us believed in marriage. We were receptive to the concept of open relationships, as long as the proper communication and guidelines were put in place beforehand. 

We’d talk about moving in together and having kids one day. I’d ask her all the questions that I felt were important. Did she believe in vaccinating kids? What kind of names did she consider? Did she plan to breast feed? What kind of schools did she like? What would we teach our kid at home?

We talked about all that shit. 

One day, a huge dent was put in the perfect fairytale relationship I had with this woman. 

I found out she was an alcoholic. I found out some other stuff too. She had been hiding it from me since the day she met me. She didn’t want me to judge her. 

I was initially bummed out. But I was so deeply and madly in love with this woman that I was like..... fuck it... no sweat. I’m going to get through this with her. 

We eventually got her enrolled in therapy sessions. As long as she was making progress toward getting better thats all I could ask for. She promised to keep her drinking under control from that day forward. That’s all I needed. 

I felt uncomfortable every time she had a glass of wine, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. Eventually we’d wean her off alcohol completely. I’ve never been in a relationship with a substance abuser/addict before, so excuse my naivite and ignorance. 

She was absolutely worth the extra work. I’ve never in my life met a woman as amazing as she is.

By the way I’ve set this story up. It’s completely obvious the way its going to end right?

Yep.

She got me. 

She played me. 

All these years of me being in control. All these years of me being the liar and the cheater and the one with 85958 women on the side. All these years of me being the one who broke hearts.

It was my turn. She played the shit out of me. 

One night she got black out drunk and I found out all kinds of stuff. I saw all the conversations of her talking to random niggas from the internet. I saw the evidence of her bussing her pussy open for niggas on snapchat. I saw the text messages of her telling niggas that she wants him and another man to both run a train on her at the same time.

That part didn’t hurt me. I’m not a jealous dude. I know that my girlfriend will find other men attractive. I know that my girlfriend will find other men sexually desirable. I know that she’s not going to go the rest of her life without wanting to fuck another man.

To keep it a buck fitty, if she would have just let me know about that from the start it wouldn’t have been a thing. 

So that part didn’t really hurt me. 

The text messages that she sent her female friends are the ones that hurt me. 

I read texts where she was telling her girlfriends that “he’s leaving tomorrow but I wish he would just leave right now”. 

I saw the texts where she told her girlfriends she could never live in a house with me because she wanted her freedom.

I saw all these text messages where the things that were a complete 180 opposite of what she would tell me.

That really hurt me. 

I have no idea why she would just lie like that for no reason. But I’m sure all of the women I’ve lied to in the past couldnt figure out why I lied to them either. 

Some people would call this karma.

But I think sometimes its just your turn to lose. Sometimes its your turn to get got. its the law of averages. The more times you roll the dice the greater chances of you getting snake eyes. 

Sometimes its your turn to take that L. 

It’s my turn right now. 

Ya boy is SICK right now. My stomach is in knots. When I swallow it feels like a lump is in my throat. My appetite is gone. I called my boss and told him I wouldn’t be at work tomorrow. I’m just going to lay int the dark and hurt. 

She got me man. 

I feel zero embarrassment publishing this on the internet, where it will surely be met with laughing emojis and all that other shit. 

None of what anyone can say will feel worse than what I’m already feeling right now. 

She got me....  I had it coming. I deserve it. 

Remember at the end of Menace II Society when Caine was like “I knew it would happen but i didnt think it would happen like this”

I didn’t publish this because i’m looking for sympathy. I dont want anyone’s pity. I really don’t care to hear anyone’s opinion at all. Don’t feel the need to send me any words of encouragement. 

Writing makes me feel better. 

it is what it is. 

I’ll be ok. 

I don’t hate her... I’m not even mad at her. Not one bit. I’ll always love her. She’s not a bad person. She’s just incapable of having a relationship right now. I know exactly what she’s going through because I used to be her. 

I gotta charge this one to the game.

[frazzledsoul]

The 24 Most Infuriating Things on Gilmore Girls Ever Because That BuzzFeed List Is All Wrong and I Am The Sole Authority On These Matters

(okay, I know I went on a long tangent on this first entry here the other day but be patient, we will soon discuss all the ways in which Luke was a jerk soon)

1. That moment when Lorelai is upset over her and Luke’s stalled engagement and his evasiveness concerning her role in his kid’s life but instead of a) sitting down and discussing this with him like a sane, rational human being or b) taking some time to think about what she wants and approaching the subject with him like you know, an adult or something Lorelai decides the absolute best course of action is throw an epic temper tantrum in the middle of the street and demand that he elope with her right then or else, responsibilities and common sense be damned. When Luke doesn’t respond exactly the way that she wants and has the temerity to argue for sanity and logic, she runs off and has sex with her ex-boyfriend almost immediately to ensure that he’ll give up for good.

Real adults don’t play those kind of manipulative head games to get the relationship outcome they want, and they don’t use other people to push away their partners. The Lorelai Gilmore I knew and loved for six years would not hurt the people around her like this.

I’ve dealt with the carnage with this type of situation in my RL way too many times. My life is basically a much more white trash version of Gilmore Girls. I have zero sympathy for Lorelai in how she chose to handle this situation and I will never, ever forgive ASP for this.

(okay, enough about that, let’s beat up on Luke for a bit)

2. The fact that for the first two months after he finds out about April Luke basically doesn’t do anything to try to live up to his responsibilities. I mean, COME ON. I judge him way more over this than any of the Lorelai stuff.

3. Luke doesn’t let Lorelai near his kid for months and months even though everyone else is allowed to spend time with her, and when she finally confronts him on it, he still doesn’t want to let her around April because he thinks April will like her more than him?! I cut Rosenthal (who wrote the birthday party episode) a lot of slack for S7, but seriously with that excuse?

4. Luke doesn’t tell Lorelai about his sekrit kid for two months, and makes the decision to be involved in her life without including her in any of it while she’s planning their wedding. And then she finds out accidentally?!? Dude, WTF.

5. Luke’s inability to explain his relationship to Rory to April when they all meet up at Jess’s book launch is inexcusable to me. For the most part, all of this drama doesn’t really affect Rory, but this was just awful.

6. I hate that Lorelai voluntarily shows up to comfort Christopher with a bottle of tequila to comfort him and stays all night and it doesn’t even occur to her that Luke might have a problem with this very, very inappropriate behavior until afterwards. There were very serious boundary issues there.

7. I hate everything in Lane’s wedding episode. I shouldn’t hate it, but I do. It’s a vehicle to sell Christopher as the savior on his white horse while Lorelai is miserable over Luke and I hate every freaking second of it.

8. I kind of hate that Lorelai and Luke have this big blow-up at the end of season 2 and that Lorelai is completely awful to him for having to care about someone else besides her and Rory and then expects a simple apology is going to fix things after her complete freak-out leads to him sending Jess back for a few weeks. This was his big experiment in parenthood and he felt like he failed and she doesn’t really seem to care about her part in how things ended. 

9. I can’t stand that whole period in the first third of season 7 where Lorelai absurdly decides that because Luke was such a big part of her Stars Hollow life and she doesn’t have him anymore, she doesn’t know what any of her values are and she’s going to go embrace her parents’ world for a while and um - excuse me? Lorelai spent her entire life running away from her parents. She built a life around doing the exact opposite of what they valued long before she met Luke. And I know she felt like she had to give Luke space, but that was no reason to throw out her entire value system. Christopher is tied up in this, too, and Lorelai becomes this person who can pretend they are happy Yale parents, that she wants cotillions and whirlwind trips to Paris to be the things that are important to her. I mean, I kind of get the point, but it’s so drastic and out of character.

10. Lorelai marrying Christopher. I get why it happened. I get why it happened a lot more than most other fans do, I think. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

11. Every clingy, embarrassing thing Lorelai does to try to hold onto Christopher after he finds the character reference for Luke. I mean, I understand that they are married and that Lorelai sacrificed a lot to get to that point because it was her main priority, and she feels like she has to cling to this, and a lot of that has little to do with Christopher in the first place. But, seriously, ugh. Especially the part where Christopher tells her he and Luke got into a fistfight again and Lorelai tells him she should have been more sensitive? Um, sorrrrrrreeeeee? I hate that she says that her feelings for Luke are just going to go away, and that she considers cutting him completely out of her life to placate Christopher. I hate that she claims that she tried to do everything she could to make it work with Luke (she didn’t. She gave up, and tried to force him to pass a test that he was incapable of). It doesn’t even have much to do with either Christopher or Luke, but I hate how submissive and desperate she is to hold onto a relationship that she knows isn’t worth it.

12. Lorelai taking her rage out on Sherry’s towels at her baby shower. I just want to shake her and tell her that Sherry isn’t the other woman: she is. That situation was absolutely not Sherry’s fault. And you know what, Lorelai? If you can’t handle the situation after all of this time you shouldn’t have gone to the dang party.

13. The fact that Lorelai slept with Christopher with the full knowledge that he already had a girlfriend, and then proceeds to tell oh, everyone she knows about their new relationship even though she knows (from their final conversation, even before the news about Sherry’s pregnancy is revealed) that he could still go back to her and nothing is settled.

14. Rory’s really, really messed up attitude about the half-sister she claims he doesn’t have. Look, Rory, I know you are disappointed that your dad could be there for this kid and not you, but you were 17 when it happened, so maybe you should get over it and accept that your half-sister is a kid who had no control over the circumstances in which she was conceived, just like you were.

15. I hate that Emily, Richard, and Christopher conspired together to destroy Lorelai’s relationship with Luke, and that they were successful, at least for a couple of weeks.

16. I hate that Rory is spoiled and hypersensitive that she steals a yacht to make up for the fact that she got a bad performance review. I really hate that she decides to chuck her entire life plan to be aimless and when Lorelai asks her why, she pouts that Lorelai doesn’t understand because she never went to college. Yes, because was busy struggling to raise you two out of dire poverty so that you could have chances like this, Rory. I know that Lorelai is being equally stubborn here, but Rory’s attitude is so entitled.

17. I hate that when Lorelai goes to her parents for help in keeping Rory in school, and they basically betray her and decide to proceed with their own plan for Rory, taking the situation completely out of Lorelai’s hands.

18. I hate that Logan reverted back to his old life in the revival after becoming such a great guy in season 7 and Rory embarks on a semi-adulterous relationship with him and they can never discuss their relationship or tell us why things have to be this way. I’m ranking this so low because I think maybe I could understand if it was explained, but it never is.

19. That moment when Dean shows his latent serial killer potential by tearing into Rory for having dinner with Jess and Paris instead of making plans with him. I could have kind of understood this if she was alone with Jess, but she wasn’t. She was with Paris and Jess invited himself over. They were chaperoned. The way Dean screams at Rory in front of Paris for something so innocent is just scary.

20. Also equally scary? The fact that both Lorelai and Rory go into hysterics when Rory loses the bracelet that Dean gave her while on the picnic with Jess. It occurred to me at the time that I watched it that Lorelai has so little experience with serious relationships that she has no idea how scary it is to freak over upsetting Dean like this. I think we kind of see that reflected in her behavior when her own love triangle rears its ugly head.

21. I probably should have this ranked higher, but I hate how awful Jess is to Luke when he comes back to town for the first time, and tells how much he resents Luke ever doing anything to try to help him, reducing him to a drunken mess in Lorelai’s living room. The show never really acknowledged it, but I think the whole massive parenting failure with Jess was why Luke was so weird about April when she came around.

22. Jess’s breakup with Rory was atrocious, from his trying to get her to have sex with him at the party (for the record, I do not believe that Jess is a sexual predator, but that was still way beyond appropriate) to picking a fight with Dean to yelling at Luke for trying to get him to take some responsibility for his life to completely leaving town without telling her goodbye.

23. I should probably rank this higher, but Zach destroying Hep Alien’s musical future in the middle of season 6 and the fact that it basically never gets put back together. I think Zach redeemed himself for all of this but he and Lane got distracted with domesticity and we never really saw things get back together on that front. I know, ASP would have never had Lane get pregnant, blah blah blah, but she set up the situation where Zach messes up and Lane gets married off very young in the first place (not to mention Lane wanting to hold onto her virginity, kind of ensuring that plot outcome) so in a lot of ways it’s just a repeat of the L/L storyline: we can’t expect her to repair something she went to a lot of trouble to destroy. (And in retrospect, I wonder if all of this happened just to set up the situation with Lorelai and Christopher in the wedding episode: it’s awful to think that ASP let Lane’s future melt down just to prioritize this side character, but I wouldn’t be surprised, either).

24. Rory’s entitled behavior in the revival really got to me, especially that period where she pretends she doesn’t have any money and then shortly afterwards she’s discussing renting an apartment in Queens even though she doesn’t have a job (in other words, she’s full of crap). I also hate that she tries to sell Lorelai on the memoir by pitching her own life story back to her as if Lorelai didn’t live it herself. I’m not saying Lorelai’s reaction was entirely reasonable but at Rory’s age she surely realizes that a lot of the childhood memories she thought were cute probably weren’t for the teenage mother trying to keep them both safe and hold it together.