#i love having access to my parents' liquor

[honeypothowell]

I am very fucking drunk despite my lack of typos (thank you autocorrect) and Dan's voice is the voice in my head and idk why and it's really fucking me up

[vyorei]

I found a post about Palestine and olive trees about a week ago, this reminded me of it so I'm gonna post the text below.

This was posted on Facebook by Dima Seelawi on the 29th of October 2018, it just happened to find its way to my newsfeed:

"When I was young, I never really understood my parents insistence to only use olive oil imported from Palestine. It took a long time and a great distance in a process that was neither cheap nor convenient. The oil came in old beat-up containers that did not look appealing to me at all. In my head, if they wanted to support distant family back home, they could just send them money and save us and them a big hassle. We could just use the nice looking olive oil containers from the nearby store. Yet, this was never an option in our household. The only olive oil we used at home was from Palestine.

As I grew up and started a student part-time job, I worked with olive oil a little. I knew all about olive oil imported from Spain, Italy, and other countries. I knew which ones were better and more expensive. I also learned to tell, based on the pungent taste, which ones were extra virgin. I was tempted to use my employee discount to bring home one of the fancy bottles and use at our kitchen. I could not get myself to do it, and I did not exactly know why. I felt like it would be disrespectful to my parents even if it didn’t make sense to me. It did not feel right. It was not an option.

After living in Palestine for a year during the olive picking season, something changed. The olive picking season in Palestine is holy.

Palestinians relate to the weather based on how it would benefit or harm the olives. There is well-known unspoken rule about treating olive trees with respect. There is a day off from work just to pick olives. On public transportation, it is not unusual to hear someone on the phone telling their friend to stop by for their share of this year’s olive oil stored in what used to be a Coca-Cola or a liquor bottle. A driver will stop in the middle of the way to give his brother- in- law a jar of olives that are so close to one another that they start to crush showing their insides.

In Nablus, the owner of the Nabulsi soap factory takes pride in how picky he is about getting his olive oil. He insists on filling a cup to let me smell how authentic it is and smirks as he sees my diasporic facial expressions transform in appreciation of its strong smell running through all of my brain cells.

I started noticing how olive oil is an essential part of so many dishes. “Palestinians drink more olive oil than water” I would jokingly say and they would laugh in agreement. Olive oil is truly an everyday ritual.

They fantasize about its color when it’s fresh and remind me that it starts to change as it reacts with oxygen over time. They dip their bread into olive oil, just like that and without any additions, and enjoy it more than the sweetest of all foods. I can guarantee that every lunch invitation (عزومة) I received during the olive-picking season was a chance for my hosts to share their olive oil using Msakhan (a traditional Palestinian dish).

I now have a deeper understanding of the psychology behind the burning of olive trees by Israeli settlers and why farmers moan at the scene as if they lost a loved one.

Wherever you are, if it’s accessible to you, make sure your olive oil is Palestinian. Your ancestors would want that."

And this picture was attached:

Link to the article in the header image:

[nichestartrekkie0-0]

What are Aenar birthdays like? Do they celebrate them at all? If so, how? (Also, this is my new temp backup blog because I lost my phone with access to my main one (: )

(oh cool- welcome back from exile haha sorry abt ur phone my brother)

And EEEEEE I love this question! YES and I have many many non-canon fluffy things! more below the cut!

Thank you for the ask!

Alright so there's stages with birthdays- like ours on Earth! When you're a kid it's more of a social/fun thing and as you age it's more social and less toy/gift centered.

In general: Birthdays are...complex. Like some indigenous tribes here on Earth, the Aenar don't have set 'milestones' for ages; eg. crawling, talking, etc. The child will learn and grow in their own time and in their own way. 'Normal' and 'average' are myths.

However, birthdays are meaningful because it means you're older, wiser, and have survived the tundra/ice caves for another year! Kid birthdays: Super focused on both the child and family; it's an honor for the kid, sure, but also for the people who created said kid. (specifically who birthed said kid- but that can sometimes be tricky with surrogates and whatnot) Gifts are common, and food is common, but the 'birthday parties' we think of for children are not. On the actual day, it's strictly family time only. Birthday parties (like the ones we think of with cake, balloons, and chaos) are usually held a day or two after.

Teen birthdays: less gifts, more centered around the teen's purpose. If a teen has figured out their purpose in life (eg. Hemmer's is fixing things) then their gifts will center around that thing. (eg. a toolset)

Adult birthdays: This is when the shift from formal to casual takes place. Given the adult has a partner, it shifts from the parents to their partner to plan the day. Single Aenar rely on friends/platonic partners/family to plan the day. Sometimes casual drinking or a casual get-together is in order.

Adults with children: depends on the Aenar but some Aenar partners will let their kids help plan the day/help with decorations. Other Aenar partners will plan a nice 'break' or a more quiet day for their partner.

Elder Aenar: back to formal...only, it's the whole damn city that shows up to the gig. Especially if you're super old/have a far reach. The whole goal of Aenar lives/purposes/life goals is to help each other. Fixing things (eg. Hemmer) protecting things, and other such life purposes are not only for the individual but for the whole community. And thus, when an Aenar gets old, the more and more the community shows up for them- as they have shown up for the community. (Eg. old patients of a retired doctor will gladly show up at a birthday party for them to show their appreciation!)

Common themes/decorations: certain types of music/incense are only played/used for birthdays or special occasions. So, when a child is having a birthday they'll usually be awoken by the smell of incense/a special song that they'll recognize. This actually continues into adulthood- and if the person's partner is cool-- it'll continue until they're quite old.

Food: Naturally, they break out the good stuff. Top-shelf liquor, best-cut meat, and pricey dishes are the bread-and-butter of these get-togethers. After all, what's a more special occasion than celebrating the continuation of life itself?

Anywho, thanks for the ask! I enjoy when y'all ask super cool questions! (which is always lol)

[heavenly-garden]

I recently learned something.

Those who have been oppressed often oppress others. Not always is the case but more often than not it seems to happen. There are those who want to be oppressed so they can claim victimhood and say they've been oppressed too so they can fit in with even more oppressed groups. When oppressed upon harshly and over long term it causes hatred, bigotry, racism etc. People who don't realize they went from being oppressed to the oppressor means they can still claim oppression and cruelty while also being oppressive and cruel to others. It's a nasty cycle way too many people perpetuate. I was oppressed by a cruel step father for 12 years, he was a pedophile and he forced horrible things upon me against my will and as time went on I developed serious anger problems. I was angry at everything and everyone from the system, to men, to the police, to my community I also hated myself. I hated so deeply that I needed anger management because I was concerned I'd become a liability to the safety and wellbeing of others, myself included. I never thought about how my oppression was causing me to oppress others, I never took into account that I had been a part of a cycle of violence and hate. However, after my step father was gone for good I finally had time to begin healing, taking years of therapy, going to anger management, keeping drugs qnd liquor at bay so I didn't begin addictive habits which were all around me as soon as I stepped outside my door I had accessed to everything from ocean, weed, meth, heroine, pills, free liquor. I lived surrounded by a couple of native reserves where my friends did drugs and drank just to pass the time. Boredom, fear, anger, oppression, these things lead towards a very dark path if you don't become aware of how it effects us. The oppressed feel helpless so they begin to oppress in order to feel powerful over others, and the cycle goes on and on. I witnessed it on reserves where my friends lived and they were miserable and bored most of the time, sneaking their parents liquor and drugs with ease. The accessibility of drugs and liquor is far too easy for minors. People learn disrespect and distrust because of begin oppressed. My step dads mother oppressed him, she had bipolar and borderline personality disorder, she refused medication for a long time because she was in denial and he didn't know he had inherited her mental health issues until many years after and it was far too late by then the damage had been done. His mental illness had nothing to do with him being a pedo though that was all on him but his outbursts of rage, verbal, mental and physical abuse had taken its toll on me and my mom. In anycase I realized I don't want to be an oppressor. I don't want to feel this hate qnd contempt for everyone. No one did anything to me but in my mind once long ago I blamed everyone else but didn't take into account my own oppressive thoughts. I did not wish to be like that so it took over 10 years of work on myself to overcome toxic habits and intrusive thoughts. Don't get me wrong I still get intrusive thoughts but now I stop to analyze those thoughts and question them. No longer a slave to my mind, I seek to only coexist as best I can with the world no, no more buzzing in my head to go out and cause trouble I'm freeeee. I take time for myself when I need it and I've learned to enjoy being on my own instead of feeling alone and unhappy when I'm by myself, I'm finally at peace and became my own best friend, I went from hating myself to loving myself (not in a narcissistic way though) but i've learned to accept I can't control everything, I can't control what others do, I can't control what others think or feel about me, I can't control society. I had to learn to let go and accept it is what it is, time to move on. All praise be to God for helping me through the darkest days of my life. I used to hate so deeply man...it felt like it was becoming a part of my DNA lol. Anyway that's all I had to say, thank you for reading. Have a good day. 💖

[voidsumbrella]

re: last post:

part of the reason i didn't get in trouble as a kid was because, through no fault of my own, i was boring as shit! my family is super chill about alcohol so there was zero like. "oooh it's taboo and i'm super cool for breaking the rules!!!" appeal to sneaking out and getting drunk. we literally make wine and i've been allowed to have small glasses of liquor since i was like 13. cigarettes didn't hold much of an appeal at the time and would be a hassle to get. my best friends thought alcohol tasted too bad to bother with and were too health conscious to want to mess with other drugs, so that was out. i didn't like my peers enough to have access to harder drugs or attend any sort of parties. i don't live anywhere that i could fuck off to get in trouble, it's a half hour walk with no sidewalks to the closest town, which contains nothing exciting to this day and none of my friends, and by the time i could drive i was too Mentally Ill™ to seek out new illicit experiences. whatever shit i did online was fine as long as it stayed online and didn't make me a huge shithead irl.

and even if i had gotten into shit i wouldn't have gotten in trouble for it with my parents. they would have sat me down and had a conversation where we talked about what i did, why it was wrong, why they were disappointed or worse, worried about me for doing it, which would have resulted in me bursting into tears and apologizing because there is no bigger crime in my family then causing your loved ones worry or pain. then i would have never done it again or at least been upfront about what i was doing with them. they would never even consider hitting or spanking me, and if there was any in the moment arguing or yelling it lasted less then ten minutes until we both walked away and calmed down, then would return to have the aforementioned Conversation.

i dunno, like i said, my parents are chill and the social dynamic in my family is chill, and i fully take us as an example for why people who claim you have to scream at/hit/punish your kids for them to turn out decent are full of shit lol.

[cumbiazevran]

I remembered by some some of divine grace, but today is Arviraven’s birthday!! happy birth to the he/they with rosewood eyes, gothic romance lover, best baker in Skyhold, life crisis giver with his insight, and incidental political schemer!! have some fun facts

God knows how I’m calculating his age, but I think they should be like 39 this year

One of his mom’s (Sitasahlin) is Dalish, the other (Mireva) is a runaway city elf from the southern coast of Antiva, who ended up taking refuge with the Lavellan

He’s a Taurus Sun, Scorpio Moon, and Sagittarius Rising

Utility belt wearer, they need their tools and trinkets? 

His favourites are gardening, veil research, gothic romance stories, the colour brick red and that one red of the leaves in autumn, tomato soup, chamomile and mint tea. A good silk and cashmere blend shawl. Oh, and marigolds, aside from Roses. Drinks of choice are cider, malt ale and flower liquors.

He can play the flute, speaks Elven (dialect, modern and ancient), Common, Antivan some conversational Qunlat, and rolls the best elfroot joints

His least favourites are sewing (he’s terrible at it), piss brown-yellow as a colour (why would you make jaundice an aesthetic? when was your last check up?), and being cold. He likes the cold, the problem is being cold, like when he discovered stone halls cold like Skyhold’s are a very different type of cold than Forest cold. Also, in general, being taken advantage of and when they’re not being listened to

His tarot card is Judgement

Forgoing DA:I mechanics so I can stay true to him, he’s closer to a Nurse - Physicist combination of mage. Their main area of research is the Veil. Had they had the time and lab access to do it, he would’ve developed the equivalent of the Strings Theory for the Veil

He still formalises his research, who do you take him and the elves for

His hobby is gardening and loves cultivating roses because they grow wild and messy, and refuse to be killed

In my worldbuilding (honorary mention to @atypicalacademic​ because we develop most of our worldbuilding together, if not all) the Dalish have different naming customs which derive from Elvhenan’s Imperial days. The Lavellan, having originated in the annexed province of the Tirashan, their naming custom is Clan Name (formerly House name) + Given Name + Secondary Clan/House name + Patronymic/Matronymic/Filiation name, so he would be “Lavellan Arviraven Tirashan Sitasahlin’den” - Sitasahlin is his Lavellan mother, so she gets to claim the matronymic as a way of identifying where they come from.

The other three naming customs are the North-Western (Elvhenan’s territory in the Anderfels with Public Name +  Greater House/Clan name + Personal name + Secondary House/Replaced with place of birth or a parental allusion sometimes but mostly disappeared with the modern Dalish), the Arlathan Imperial (Personal/First Name + Middle Name + Filiation name (a combo of both your parents name and the suffix ‘len) + Family name); and the Dalish Modern which Name + Clan (aka Arviraven of Lavellan, so in elven it would be Arviraven vhenas’Lavellan, sometimes abbreviated to vhen’Lavellan or v’Lavellan)

The Lavellan also kept the Tirashan ancient custom of Nickname vs. Name only the Nickname is something everyone can call you and only people of your clan, or people you’re close to call you by your given name, which is why most people call him River

If I could do whatever I wanted with skill trees, this would be Riri’s

More under the cut so this doesn’t look massive in everyone’s dashboards

Arviraven has a younger brother called Vieradhalen Lavellan, “Viera” for most people. His brother is perhaps the most important person in the world to him

His favourite way to annoy him was casual blackmail (they do this to each other still). Also, despite Viera is a Reaver and a Knight, River knows how to tackle him which is terrifying bc Viera’s a powerhouse

It’s bc he knows physics lmao

If I had to pick a DND class for him he’s somewhere between a Monk and a Sorcerer, but he’d also make a great Cleric. Viera would be a Paladin

River can use his staff both as a staff and as a melee quarterstaff

However, his greatest weapon is his capacity to make friends or allies wherever he goes, which is honestly terrifying to me because I don’t think I had ever had an OC which is this emotionally stable and mentally not that unwell. River is genuinely well adjusted which I don’t know what to do with

Bisexual and poly as fuck, he’s Merrill’s teenage/early young adulthood ex

Man’s** very perceptive, he pieced Solas was an ancient elf quicker than anyone realised, its that he just never talked about it. They didn’t think fucker was Fen’Harel but that’s on the moments that keep them humble

His inquisition besties are Cassandra (my favourite hc about their friendship is that not only they would’ve gotten together if they both realised that was an option, and that they constantly give her identity and belief crisis even if they don’t get anywhere. It keeps her humble) and Josie because they bond over the diplomacy first, scaring people shitless second and they both care about everyone being settled and taken care of

Dorian and him are physics boyfriends. Aside from it being an emotionally jarring experience, in terms of academic investigation, the two of them being blasted into the dark timeline by Alexius in In Your Heart Shall Burn was an absolute field trip (positive)

He also gets along with Vivienne really well even if it makes her uncomfortable that they can tell how fear driven she can be. They give her grace so it works. Its something similar with Varric, because he sees too much for him to be comfortable, and they’re too resolute to fictionalise

Bull thinks he’s insane in a way he does not understand but respects to an insane degree. It’s mutual. Also, Arviraven holds their alcohol like someone thrice their size and is terrible with most animals bc he spent all his skill points in plans, biological tissue and physics, which means they always walk straight into the dragons which is always a perk for Bull

Sera’s a bit of a raw spot because despite how much grace River has, they’re so notoriously communitarian and “little people” driven. Their normal mood is a warm, welcoming, cheeky cheer that makes them get along, until Sera remembers all those things about River which does not, and perhaps will not ever, make sense to her. Their cookie baking sessions have monthly breaks

Cullen and them do NOT get along personally, just professionally, and its because River puts his entire worldview into question, without any of the things River’s relationship with Cassandra have to soften that blow. Also Viera’s he’s co-general of the forces bc he’s a First Knight of Elgar’nan which means the Dalish and other elves which have come to aid their own answer to Viera, not to Cullen, and while Viera is a softie and a cry baby at heart, he looks like he could kill you and he can also kill you, so its River’s change-driven force making the way and his shorter, RBF having, petty as fuck, reaver brother guarding his back

Cullen respects him more than what River respects Cullen, he thinks the man needs to retire to keep some bees and calm the fuck down, not lead anything

River, however, does not like Cole which has nothing to do on whether he should be more or this and that, but on the no being with that little understanding of the physical world should be out there wielding knives. First we learn the tools to handle ourselves, then we choose a style of combat

His positives are that they’re gregarious, committed, kind, cooperative, protective, dutiful, fair minded, principled, patient, wise, nurturing, hopeful, observant, charming and generous. His negatives or hardships are that they’re more distrustful and temperamental than his usual demeanour suggests; can be obtusely headstrong, it’s hard for River to relax when he has something on his mind. His openness to help people can play against him, sometimes. Can be sacrificial

To them, two wrongs will never make a right, and again forgoing game mechanics, his biggest take on the “it can be or this people, because it’s either this way or chaos” is some of the biggest bullshit he had ever heard, and he knew the shems were unwell but this is more dire than he thought. Let them get this right: so they created a socio-historical system that they dominate, and that is completely unsustainable and refuse to help anyone about it? So if they’re in a sinking boat, they don’t build a better boat for next time, they just think “well, we fucked up we’re all sinking sorry not sorry”? Do they hear themselves. This is nonsense, they want XYZ information, and they’re investigating solutions so HELP him Mythal. You people being wrong and making him conform to their mistakes is a them problem, not River’s

Which made him an incidental political schemer and he never course corrected, because why would he. His people recognise him as something akin to Thedas’ Keeper, the Chantry is a negative externality for them at this point, give him like, five to fifteen years if something else doesn’t kill him first, which is likely, but moving on

Never mistake his serenity, gentleness and generosity for passivity. The flame inside him is imperishable, a Scholar without passion and a Keeper without drive are oxymorons

Which means the moment he learns Solas ruined their life, and their people’s lives, and literally everyone’s lives because he was displeased about being born an Ancient Elvhen Kardashian and had mommy and daddy issues the size of the Fade, who refuses to learn, is ontologically incapable of being honest because he’s the God of Lies and what is truthful will always be against his nature and thought he was some hick to be brought into enlightenment, River becomes so angry that you could’ve created Thedas’ first nuclear reactor powered with that anger alone

He never forgot and he will literally never forgive

That said his prosthetic in a bio-alchemical finery work. It’s made of a hardened dragonbone exterior, an iron wood middle layer and a fade touched alloy combination that allows it to connect to his tendon and nerves. However, that also means he needs to use mana to make it functional

Insanest thing he’s done in the name of the scientific method and his newfound circumstances is training his resistance to holy blasts after experiencing the first one in his life, which left him vomiting and useless for several hours. Cassandra was the only person who is equally insane that would holy blast him into oblivion as he made his research notes

It worked tho

[terasutetrad-ruikamishiro]

// angst under cut. tw for substance abuse (alcohol). weed and sh mentioned but only briefly.

(tws only apply after a significant bit of writing, and the point where each becomes relevant is marked, so stay for a while if you like. before that it's all just bpd/loneliness shit.)

For a millionth time, Rui finds himself headed straight for his room after work.

He notes dully how he's begun to think of his practice with wondershow more and more as "work", less than practice or just theatre.

This isn't the first time he'd hit a rut like this, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. It'll pass, he reminds himself.

It doesn't do much for him.

Rui generally does his best to stay positive, outwardly, at least. As the director and also one of the oldest members, he's the backbone of his theatre troupe- and he needs them just as much, if not more than they need him- so, it's important that he remains optimistic, and does his part to hold their group together, especially now that they're freelance. It's important he makes sure they don't have a repeat of the mishap they had while they were first forming- an incident he shivers upon thinking about.

It's harder to support his lone self, though.

Nothing he tries to convince himself of, to reassure or soothe himself, ever really makes it through when he's alone between these four walls again.

And all he wants to think about, all he can think about, is these newfound attachments and crushes he's caught himself developing.

It was nice at first. Love is a nice feeling, but it's all downhill from there. At least for him. Maybe only for him. Maybe he's cursed.

He hates to be so negative right off the bat, but it's a pattern he's noticed, and he doesn't know if he can handle being hurt again.

He's gotten attached, so he's fucked, is the short of it. He's going to get too comfortable, too expressive, too passionate, and he's going to become overwhelming. annoying.

After a while, he'll become too much.

He'll be left again, he'll be alone again.

The thought of it makes his chest ache.

tw (weed)

.

.

.

Rui is far too familiar with this painful feeling, contusing in his chest and gathering in the back of his throat like bile. It is a feeling that has been present and made itself more and more known since he was old enough to be lonely, and he has never known how to resolve it.

He does know how to dull it, though, how to silence it, if only for a moment.

He stares at his desk drawer.

He decides smoking isn't worth the pain, so he opens the drawer and opts to swallow a few edibles instead, and proceeds to lie back down.

...

He resents having to use things like this to cope as opposed to fun. He's not an addict - he knows what addiction feels like - but he's certainly on the way to becoming one if he starts drugging himself out of feelings.

The thought makes him feel guilty. His chest throbs.

[...Those are going to take at least an hour to hit. I need something now.]

...

...

He has an idea.

tw (alcohol, sh mnt)

.

.

.

Walking quietly to the kitchen, Rui grabs a stepstool for easier access to the small cabinet beside the fridge. Normally he wouldn't need it, but he's trying to be quiet.

[this is where they keep it, I believe...]

Rui opens the cabinet, and he's faced with a number of wine bottles.

[...score.]

[ah, but wait...]

[These are all expensive wines that my parents drink on special occasions, like their anniversary...maybe I shouldn't.]

[Damnit, dad, you suck already, couldn't you at least be an alcoholic too?]

He shakes off the angry thought.

[...is there anything else in here...?]

He carefully moves the bottles out of the way.

[Hmm...? What's this...]

He drags another bottle out from the back of the cabinet.

[...This is hard liquor. My parents don't drink this, how...]

[...oh, right, dad's sister. She gives everybody cheap alcohol for their birthdays and whatnot...]

[...oh my goodness, how much of that is back here?]

He looks closer.

[three, four, five...it doesn't surprise me they've gone and tossed some of it, but...well, they won't miss one bottle, will they?]

[...]

[...Matter of fact, they probably won't even notice...]

Rui turns the bottle over in his hands, and, letting impulse drive him in opposition to reason, he uncaps it right there and takes a swig.

He holds back a retch.

[Oh, my god, it's repulsive...!]

[...]

[maybe I shouldn't...there has to be something else.]

[I could cut.]

The thought's sudden intrusion and prominence catches him off guard, and how utterly tempting it is. Almost by muscle memory, he turns to the silverware drawer.

[no, no, no. this is why you wanted this in the first place, remember?]

[Indulge in something that's not an addiction.]

He chokes down another swallow of the alcohol. He must have been frozen in shock at the strong urge to hurt himself, because he can already feel what he can only assume is a buzz to take place.

Taking advantage of his large sweater, he screws the cap back on the bottle, shoves it down his shirt, and replaces everything to head back up to his room- not before also deciding to smuggle an irresponsible amount of junk food up there too.

At least he'd probably have the best sleep of his life tonight.

[steamishot]

early december

traveling has been aggressive recently. it was montreal mid-november and then LA late november. i finally used mywealthydiary’s template and inputted the last 6 months of expenses for the both of us. i only included our joint expenses (no personal shopping/clothing items) and it was about 345 lines of data. typing all the data out, i realize how easy it is to click a button to pay for things. paying for a food delivery service that cost $20-30 (a meal for two) seems justifiable. but not when it’s almost every day lol. 

this week, i have felt at my wit’s end with matt. he has been generally anxious and OCD driven since the start of this year. i was able to overlook it because he really did have very difficult things to go through. and then again during the transition to attendinghood. now it seems like things at work are evening out and to be fair, he is improving/not AS anxious and working more on his physical health. so far, he has lost about 20lbs and isn’t emotionally eating much. 

during LA and some parts in montreal, i have called him out for not being present or always in his head/worrying about something. this is part of the bad habits that were carried over from residency. he has become so prone to worrying at work that he can’t turn off the worrying outside of work and attaches it to harmless things. being that i’m around him all the time, i’m getting resentful that his negative/worrying mood dampens my mood when i’m trying to have a good time on vacation. i understood it during residency because the time off was so limited, and even during the transition period, but now i’m getting pretty impatient. 

i learned that he’s very emotionally muted post-training. a lot of what he goes through in life nowadays, no matter how good or how bad is usually just “alright”. his coping mechanisms during residency were working harder and doing deals/buying food deliveries. now i realize that ubereats was the equivalent to alcohol or video games during his training for self-medication. it’s just a whole process of unlearning and healing. of course, i had to google this and found an article that spoke to me:

“In medicine, I can work 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and still have more to do.  This false comfort and escape can be likened to an alcoholic with access to a 24-hour liquor store.  Always there, welcoming me.  Always masking the pain or fear. And, for me, giving me a feeling of redemption and value because what I do, what we do, is worthy, important, noble work. What I did not realize until I was nearly 40, is that I cannot selectively mute my feelings.  

My joy, humor, love, kindness, and compassion were also reduced, numbed.  My emotional bandwidth was so narrow that I could no longer experience any intense feelings.  There were no highs or lows.  In fact, love and joy felt just as scary and unmanageable as fear and grief.  My friends and family were the collateral damage of this coping mechanism.“

anyway, i have basically told him that i need him to get therapy asap as this is a serious issue and i am reconsidering this relationship. i think he will go next week if there are available appointments. 

LA summary

my niece is getting more and more adorable, i can actually play with her now

i miss my family. i also see that my bro and SIL are very stagnant and coddled lol. i feel a little upset that my parents are more hardworking than them/take care of them but can’t fault this dynamic if both parties enjoy it. the moment i come home, my parents and uncle ask me to do tasks. and i’m like, uhh could my bro or SIL not have done this for you? they’re here every week

this time around, i was actually craving homecooked foods (since we do so much food delivery here). i only ate out a couple of times. 

matt’s mom is making amends with me. apparently she noticed that i don’t go over to their house as often anymore and is putting the pieces together. she was actively trying to be nicer this time around. the MIL/DIL relationship is definitely complicated.

went on a 7 mile hike with matt’s dad - he bought us new HOKA hiking shoes. i returned the ones i bought for myself lol

had “dinner” at my bro’s house. i thought it was going to be a casual dinner with our immediate family, matt, and my SIL’s uncle and mom as they were visiting from out of town. turns out, there were 3 other relatives who showed up, and then my SIL invited her friend’s family of 4 over, one who would be matchmade with her uncle. it just became one loud party 

last time i was in LA, i was in on my aunt/uncle’s family drama. this time, my dad got mad at me and complained to me about my grandma/uncle

saw S for coffee/brunch!

used classpass to bring my mom and me to a fancy hair salon in arts district to get moisture treatments. it was the first time that either of us had our hair did by a white person

gave my dad some love too - bought him some new brooks shoes because he said his knees hurt. convinced him to do a TSA precheck appointment. purchased (well he paid for) a new iphone 13 and i got an apple silicone case for him on sale. i learned quality cases make a difference

i’m not sure what the perfect distance would be from my family. at their age, it seems both set of our parents have the time to want to hang out quite frequently. i can definitely imagine my parents inviting us over to dinner every week (or multiple times a week) if we lived in the city. it would break my heart to decline their invitations lol. now i’m thinking that maybe 1-2 hour drive from LA would be ideal for that sense of independence and ability to work on ourselves, as well as close access to family.

[j-amespotter]

★ the last great american dynasty - s. b.

“i had a marvelous time ruining everything.” 

Pairing: Sirius Black x Muggle-born!Reader 

x. x. x.

Summary: A one-shot diving into Sirius’s complicated relationship with Grimmauld Place and where the Muggle-born he falls for fits in.

Genre/Warnings: angst, emotional abuse, alcohol, language, mentions of death & war 

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: so.. this is more of a character study on sirius & his dynamic with his family – i know this song is meant to be about a woman but it also screams sirius to me. i’m a sucker for romance so it’s a reader-insert. fun fact, i was almost done writing this when i realized i wanted it to be a wolfstar fic, but i was too lazy to change it, so just putting that out as a concept lol. let me know what you think & if you’d like me to tag you in future works!! 

masterlist

When Sirius first showed signs of his rebellious nature, Walburga wasn’t worried. After all, many children were incapable of sitting still in large gatherings, mouthing off to their parents, or incessantly teasing their younger siblings. “He will be kept in good company. He will learn,” Walburga would say to her husband. He often exasperated her, but there was no denying her immense pride. Despite his antics, even at a young age, Sirius displayed impressive magical ability and had a commanding presence – excellent qualities for the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. 

She worried only a little when he preferred to spend time with Andromeda, who was clearly becoming disillusioned with their family values, and Alphard, who Walburga believed was beginning to get a little too soft. Still, the Blacks were not raving lunatics. They were traditionalists, committed to upholding the high standards of Wizarding society. Sirius would not defy them, not when the weight of their bloodline rested on his shoulders, not when Regulus would never be able to stomach such responsibility.

On his first night at Hogwarts, Sirius didn't write home. It wasn’t until the morning after that Narcissa delivered the dreadful news to her mother. Walburga’s sister-in-law relished discussing this most recent embarrassment, as the family’s attention was now off her daughter’s courtship of a mudblood. Young Sirius, their direct heir, was sorted into the House of Muggle-lovers and blood traitors, into the House of Godric Gryffindor.

Blown apart by this development, Walburga turned to her younger son. She had no intention of repeating her mistakes and resolved to train him for the responsibility that should have belonged to her eldest. That way, if she was unable to correct Sirius’s behavior, she had back-up. Her legacy was secure. 

During every subsequent holiday, she noticed that the damage was getting more-and-more irreversible. Sirius unabashedly consorted with infamous blood traitors and pathetic half-bloods. He seemed to dread seeing his family as much as she dreaded seeing how much of him she had lost. She tried; no one could say she didn’t. But she was too stern with him. He had inherited his flexibility, or lack thereof, from her. She pushed him too far away. Soon, he stopped returning home for Christmas. When he was sixteen, she spat at him as he closed the door to Number 12 Grimmauld Place one last time, without sparing her a final glance. 

He never expected he would have to return. Offering up the property to the Order seemed like a good idea at the time – he hardly put any thought into it. That was how he made most of his decisions. His track record certainly proved so. When Remus didn’t have anywhere to stay, and neither did the newly-reformed Order of the Phoenix, Sirius knew that his family estate in London was not just their most ideal option, but also the only one they had. 

He managed to enter undetected in his Animagus form with Remus. He had to hand it to fate – there were no extra security measures to keep him out. It was as if she anticipated his arrival. Swallowing, he absorbed his surroundings. Despite the eerie silence and decomposing furniture, it looked like an image straight from his memory. Sirius suddenly felt sixteen again. 

What he did not expect to see, however, was a currently-sleeping life-sized portrait of Walburga Black in the hallway. Though now in his human form, Sirius growled inadvertently. She knew. She always knew that he would come back. She wanted to be there when he did. Unbelievable, he thought to himself. 

Aware of Remus’s wary gaze on him, Sirius walked forward and began pulling on the frame. “Get off, you hag! Remus, help me get this off!” 

Remus went to join his old friend in what seemed like a fruitless mission in his mind but came to an abrupt halt when the portrait, disturbed by her son’s grunts, awoke in a flash of fury. “Filth! Scum! Abomination of my flesh! You are no son of mine,” portrait-Walburga hissed. 

“Shut up, just shut up!” He had not heard her voice since he was near a Dementor, reliving the worst of his teenage years. The visual made it much, much worse. 

“Permanent Sticking Charm, it seems…” Remus said to appease his friend, pulling the withering velvet curtains over its towering frame with all his strength.

“This is torture,” sighed Sirius. “Maybe we can find another place.” 

Remus refused to meet his eye. “For now, it is all we have, Sirius. If it was going to be a problem, you should not have offered it to Professor Dumbledore.” 

Sirius frowned. “It’s all I’m able to do this time around. It’s not like I can go around trailing Death Eaters and infiltrating the Ministry with everyone else.”

“Hopefully, it’s only temporary,” assured Remus, though he was equally as uncertain about Sirius’s fate as a fugitive. “Try not to let this place get into your head, okay?” 

Sirius Black was never good at keeping promises. He had three-and-a-half decades of evidence to back that up. In the weeks following, the Order settled in, consisting of many highly competent Aurors, half-a-dozen Weasleys, and an ex-Death Eater he could do without seeing. Sirius found himself never too far from alcohol, itching for more access. He longed to see Harry and to get away from his wretched house-elf, along with the constant, stinging reminder of his mother's existence. 

But there was something else inside of him, something he couldn’t describe. It was an emotion that was egging him on. He felt it inside of him every time Kreacher muttered complaints about wandering red-headed blood traitor brats. It swirled in his stomach when his mother shouted scathing insults at the clumsy half-blood and filthy half-breed that took temporary refuge in the former pure-blood paradise. 

Then she came. 

She was new. She worked at the Ministry; many of his houseguests were incredibly fond of her. He recognized the innocence in her eyes. It was the same innocence that he had when he first joined the Order seventeen years earlier. It was the same innocence that differentiated every new member from every returning one – they had yet to see tragedy in its fullest form. 

“Hello,” she greeted. She seemed strangely unperturbed by the fact that she was in the presence of an alleged mass murderer. “I’m (Y/N). I’ve been told this is your house. Thank you for playing host.”

“My pleasure,” responded Sirius. Involuntarily, he reached for her hand and kissed it. Suddenly, he became painfully aware of his hollowing cheeks, untamed hair, and liquor-infused breath.

She flushed slightly at the gesture. Black family habits die hard. Just because he chose to refrain from practicing them did not mean he had forgotten, nor did it mean that he wasn’t any good at them. 

Walburga Black’s portrait watched her son fall in love with her. Sirius watched her watch him. There was no telling how she would react. Regulus was dead – it was up to him to preserve their family’s name and purity.

(Y/N) was witty and flirty and incredibly intelligent. He found himself feeling a decade younger as he enjoyed their banter and her overall easiness. Before long, she kissed him in his dimly-lit pantry, and he was too selfish to stop her. They would kiss in every corner of the house, hardly caring that anyone was watching, ignoring the ghosts living within the walls. For Sirius, (Y/N) was his greatest act of defiance. She was born to non-magic parents. As narrated by a disgruntled Kreacher to his now-helpless mistress, she was nothing but a “filthy mudblood.” 

One night, weeks after the children departed for Hogwarts and the house was, as on most days, empty, he caught her staring at the Black family tapestry. Without making a sound, he inched behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Hello, beautiful,” he whispered, pressing a kiss on her shoulder. “Sickle for your thoughts?” 

She leaned into him. As the days went on, she would tire easily. Still, she found happiness in Sirius as he did with her, and they both were old enough to know to reach for it in any capacity they got. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. Let’s get to bed.” 

“As much as I’m a fan of that idea,” he started with a smirk, “you look upset. Is it work? Fudge?” 

“No, nothing like that.” Her fingers traced his blasted name on the wall. She looked thoughtful. “I’ve just… noticed something about you.” 

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” 

“The way you look at your mother.” 

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s no secret that I hate her. I hope that’s not off-putting. You’ve seen what she’s like – it was worse when she was alive. I promise I’m a gentleman in general circumstances… for the most part,” he added cheekily. 

She smiled tightly. “No, I get it. It must be terrible for you, being back here.” 

“It is,” he affirmed. “I’ve got you, though. You make me happier than anything, love.” 

“That’s the thing,” she uttered as if it pained her. Sirius could stare at her fiery expression for days on end. To be on the receiving end was strange. “I can’t help but think that you’re only in love with me to spite her. Like your feelings aren’t love, they’re just a culmination of your hatred for her.” 

It took Sirius an eternity to process what she just said. Realizing that he was not going to say anything, she continued. “Believe me, I know you hate it here. But at the same time, you look so… satisfied. You’re hosting a bunch of blood traitors, half-bloods, and a werewolf in this place that was once the pinnacle of blood purity. You’re providing a haven against the bloody Dark Lord. And worst of all, you’re with a mudblood.” 

“Don’t call yourself that,” interrupted Sirius harshly. 

“It’s the truth. If you weren’t in this position, would we even be together?” 

“Of course,” said Sirius. To answer this question, he didn’t even have to think. “I love you because you’re you. You’re beautiful and smart and make me laugh until my stomach hurts. You’re so good with Harry and you can put anyone in their place. You make me feel new again… God, that’s fucking sappy, but it’s true. I indeed hate this place and I hate her but… but if I let her dictate my choices, even when she’s bloody dead, then she’s won. I don’t want her to win. If I was only with you for your blood status, then I would be no different from my mother.” 

She stared up at him, her eyes betraying a wave of emotions. She reached up to kiss him, tangling her fingers in his hair. “Thank you for saying all of that. Just hold on for a little while, alright? Soon, we’ll be out of here. We can have our own house – you, me, and Harry.” 

He smiled at her sadly. It seemed too unreachable of a goal to him at the moment. “By the beach?” “Wherever you’d like,” she answered, leading him to his bedroom, his only sanctuary in the horrible house. 

As they made their way towards the stairs, Sirius glanced at the tapestry over his shoulder, at the seven generations of Blacks behind him. He gently squeezed (Y/N)’s hand. For the first time in his entire life, he felt the weight of carrying his name lift off him. He’d done his part to corrupt his bloodline. It was time for Sirius to focus on himself in a way that the shadows of his past never allowed him to, even in his schoolboy days with James. Being a Black was a part of who he was, and even a disowned Black deserved his long-overdue happiness.

Tagging: @strawberriesonsummer​

[prettyboybarzal]

Dancing With Our Hands Tied (7)

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Phone sex, daddy kink, masturbation

A/N: Let me know what y’all thank! :) ILY

Previous Chapter // Masterlist

You were on a date.

And Pierre was all the way across the country, in a hotel bed, next to Josh Anderson.

He wouldn’t have even known you were getting wined and dined by his next door neighbor if Josh hadn’t opened your Snapchat while he was sitting right beside him. Charlie was sitting across the table from you, smiling like a nerd over his filet mignon. 

The scoff that came out of Pierre’s mouth as a reaction piqued Josh’s attention.

“Oh, we’re fighting again?”

“We never stopped,” he grumbled, standing from the bed.

“No? You’ve been sort of civil lately.”

“That’s because I haven’t been around her, so I haven’t had to deal with her attitude.”

“Smile.” Pierre turned on a dime and flipped off Josh’s camera as soon as the flash lit up the room. Josh smiled down at the photo and murmured, “YN will love that picture.”

---

It was Josh’s damn Snapchat that did you in.

It was Pierre’s long middle finger and his unamused expression, the sweats that hung low on his hips that did nothing to hide the bulge hidden beneath the waistband. You were glad that you opened it after Charlie ran to the bathroom because you were 100% sure that you were blushing.

It’d only been a week since you last saw Pierre, but the time apart had you feeling needy. You’d never admit it out loud, but you needed him. 

You needed Pierre. 

“I was thinking,” Charlie spoke as he arrived back at the table. You stood, gathering your phone and your purse as his hand slid along your lower back. “Let’s grab a bottle of wine from the liquor store down the block and then finish it off at my place.”

“Um,” you hesitated, lifting your phone to check the time. It wasn’t even late, but you didn’t want to go home with him. “Charlie, I think I should get home.

“We can totally go back to your place.”

“No! I mean, I need to be alone,” you corrected. He looked at you, dumbfounded. “I’m just feeling super bloated and exhausted.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No! No, come on, you know that,” you urged, fake smile on your lips as you slid your hand in his to lead him out to the car. “Dinner was amazing and this restaurant is beautiful. I wish I was feeling better, I really do. I’ll make it up to you.”

---

Pierre knew he was in trouble when your name flashed across his phone screen just before he went to bed. He sat up against the headboard and picked up immediately, desperate to know how your date went.

“Hi, Luc,” you spoke as soon as he accepted the call. He felt a chill run down his spine at the sound of your voice, at the name falling from your lips. “I miss you,” you whispered like it was a secret. He smiled at your words, feeling his heart skip a beat, and then you moaned, “My pussy misses you.” 

And just like that, all his qualms about you being out with Charlie disappeared, if only temporarily.

He sucked in a deep breath and dropped his head back against the headboard, a groan ripping through his chest as he spoke, “YN, don’t do this to me right now.”

“Why not, baby?”

“You’re not being fair.”

“Would you rather I touch myself without you on the phone?”

“Fuck no!” he exclaimed. “No, no, that would--fuck--that would be torture.” 

“Then, talk to me.”

He loved the sound of your voice, low and sultry. You could read him the phone book and he’d probably still get off. 

“Are you touching yourself?” he asked, voice deepening to meet your level. You hummed affirmatively, a bit whiny as your fingers slid along your folds. “Good girl.” His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats. “What are you wearing, angel?”

“Do you want to see?”

“Of course I do.”

You smiled happily to yourself, pulling your fingers from your folds to kneel on the bed and take a photo in the mirror you’d set up in front. The first was posed with your knees apart on the bed, hand on your breast, and the next, you slipped those fingers into your lace panties and inserted them into your cunt. Pierre could hear you moan and sat up impatiently.

“Don’t tease me.”

“Patience.”

You scrambled back up to the pillows and sent him the photos, listening in for the reaction you desperately needed. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking sexy. I wish I could fuck you right now,” he spoke. You whimpered, fingers massaging your folds. “That mirror doesn’t belong there,” he pointed out. “You moved it?”

“Yes, daddy,” you responded, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth. Pierre cursed beneath his breath at the name, fingers curling around the base of his cock. “Wanted to watch when I fuck myself to your voice.”

“Fuuuuck,” he sighed. “I want you naked.”

You slipped your thong down your legs and unclasped your bra to toss it on the floor. He rid himself of his sweats as well

“And then what?”

“Spread your legs for me.”

“Are you touching yourself, too?” you asked, voice soft and sweet in contrast to the filth that was coming from both your mouths. Pierre chuckled.

“‘Course I am,” he spoke. “I’ve been touching myself since you sent me those photos.”

“You’re cheating!”

“Am not,” he responded with another laugh. “I’m waiting for you, just a little impatiently.” And then he heard a loud moan fall from your lips. “What are you doing, baby? Talk to me.”

“I’m catching up to you,” you answered breathlessly. You had a finger in your cunt, curling to hit your g-spot slowly. Each time, another whimper graced his ears. “Do you know why I really put this mirror here?”

“Hmm?”

“Because I can’t stop thinking about the night you fucked me in the bar bathroom,” you moaned, adding a second finger to your pussy. His breath faltered on the other end of the call. “I think about the way you watched me come undone in the mirror, the look in your eyes, every time I touch myself.”

“You’re so fucking sexy when you cum,” he whispered. “It’s like a dream. I love the way your pussy throbs around me, the way you sigh my name and close your eyes and arch your back.” He paused. “Circle your clit with your thumb, baby, the way I do.”

As soon as you added the pressure to your clit, you sucked in a breath, legs bending at the knee to grant you better access and a clearer view of what you were doing.

“I wish you were watching me right now, knowing you can’t touch me.”

“C’mon, YN, you know that you can’t stop me from touching you.”

“But I sort of am right now,” you reminded him. A loud moan ripped through your chest, somewhat performative to get a rise out of him. “Maybe I don’t need you after all.”

“You need me enough to call me after going out to dinner with Charlie,” he grunted. “Isn’t that right? You couldn’t go home with him because you were too busy thinking about me? Thinking about the way I make you feel?” 

Without even really working for it, you got the energy you wanted out of him. Pierre’s jealousy always did it for you and you could feel the subtle shake of your legs as he asked you, “Did you buy that set for him? You wanted him to take that off tonight?”

“No, I only want you to touch me. Only want you to undress me. Only want you to fuck me.”

“Fuck,” he grunted, head thrown back against his headboard. His hand was moving quicker now and he was finding it hard to speak through the moans that threatened to fill the air. “Tell me what you want me to do to you when I get home, angel. Whatever you want.”

“I want you to fuck me against every surface in our apartments,” you told him, picking up the pace of your fingers to match the sound of his hand on his member. “I want you to fuck me against the walls and the windows, and I want you to fuck me in the bathroom mirror like the slut I am for you, like the night at the bar.”

“You gonna scream my name? Make sure Charlie knows who fucks you this good?”

“Yes, Pierre, yes, yes,” you moaned, fingers hitting the right spot as he speaks to you. Every circle of your clit had you convulsing. “I-I’m so close.”

“Hold on a few more seconds,” he requested. “You’re gonna cum with me, okay, baby?”

You released a string of moans and whimpers in place of words as you continued coaxing your orgasm, and you listened to Pierre’s praises and quickened breath as he got close to his own high. 

“Give it to me, daddy, please, fuck!”

Your back arched off the bed, fingers working furiously on your cunt as he breathed in your ear, whispering praises, “So good for me. You wanna cum?” You whimpered, nodding as if he could see it. “Go ahead, baby, cum.”

You finally found your release, shouting his name into the speaker as your legs shook and your body squirmed. Your pussy fluttered as you fucked yourself through the orgasm, catching sight of yourself in the mirror to see what Pierre said he loved to see and you listened to him come undone, the sweet sound of your name on his tongue.

---

The morning after dinner with Charlie and phone sex with Pierre, you felt hungover. You weren’t even drunk the night before, but you still woke up in discomfort with a mix of guilt and anxiety and a dash of regret. So, after pulling yourself from bed, you opened the blinds in hopes that the vitamin D would do you some good.

Saturdays, in your opinion, always felt like your most productive day of the week. And, since last Saturday was commandeered by your parents and Pierre, you were dedicating this one completely to yourself. Your breakfast was slamming, your speakers were playing some feel good tunes, and you were going to spend the day tidying up and spend the night watching Netflix.

But all your self-indulgent plans came to a screeching halt when your phone started ringing and Sadie’s name flashed across the screen.

You didn’t speak to Sadie after Pierre spent your birthday with your parents because you knew she’d blow it out of proportion. She managed to do so through text, typing in all caps to let you know that mom told her Pierre was shirtless in your kitchen.

“I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to get you on the phone,” she barked as you as soon as you accepted the call. Her voice rang through the speaker, shattering the comfortable silence you’d once had. “You’re avoiding me.”

“I am not.”

“Yeah, you are,” she argued. “And I know why.”

“Oh, yeah? Why?”

“You’re in love with him.”

You dropped a plate in the sink, suds splashing up into your face as you scrambled to turn the faucet off and dry your hands. You were going to get into it with her.

“I’m not in love with you him! Where would you even get that idea? He was shirtless in my kitchen because we slept together the night before and I was in the process of kicking him out.”

“Mom swore there was no way you were just sleeping together,” she grunted. “What does that make him? Your enemy with benefits?”

“That makes him a booty call.”

“He spent the day with mom and dad,” she pointed out. “That’s more than just a booty call.”

“He did it to taunt me. Have you forgotten the whole basis of our drama?”

“And did it work?” she asked. “Did he taunt you? Or did you enjoy his presence?”

“Sadie, it’s just sex,” you sighed, exhausted by her line of questioning. “We hardly even know each other. We’ve never even had a real conversation without hurling insults at each other and we’ve never voluntarily seen each other without the promise of sex.” You paused. “Besides, I went out to dinner with Charlie last night.”

“Oh, fuck, you’re still entertaining him?” she asked. You hummed affirmatively, preparing for her onslaught of words about how mismatched the two of you really are. “I don’t get it. Can you explain it to me like I’m five?”

“You wouldn’t understand, Sadie,” you sighed. “I know he might be a little boring sometimes, but he’s a nice guy with a stable job and a stable life. And he always goes the extra mile when he’s trying to impress me. Last night, he took me out to this expensive restaurant I’ve been dying to go to.”

“And you had fun on your little date?” she asked, condescending tone to her voice. You rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, it was good.”

“Did he make you laugh?”

“Yes.”

“He paid?”

“Of course.”

“And you went home with him after?” she finally asked. You didn’t want to tell her that you left him to call Pierre. That would be the final nail in your coffin. So, your answer was a long pause. “You had this man take you to dinner and you didn’t even put out after?” She scoffed. “And you say you like him!”

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

“Why?” she pried. “Because he isn’t Pierre Luc Dubois?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Would you stop saying his name like that?”

“I think you’re in denial,” Sadie declared. “And I know that you’re going to be like ‘what does my little sister even know about love?’ To that I answer, almost nothing. But, I do know quite a lot about you. You don’t want boring, YN. You haven’t been boring a day in your life, so why would you settle for someone who doesn’t drive you absolutely crazy, you know?”

“The type of crazy Pierre makes me isn’t a cute crazy. It’s a should-be-admitted type of crazy.”

“More like a ‘I’ll kiss you to shut you up’ kind of crazy.”

You couldn’t argue that.

“Whatever, Sadie, I don’t know what else to say,” you goaned. “Can we change the subject now?”

She agreed to let it go, though you knew it wouldn’t be long until she was bugging you about him again, and conversation to whatever was going on in Sadie’s life. But, as much as you’d wanted to change the subject, suddenly not even a different conversation could get your mind off Pierre.

---

When Pierre got back to Ohio, he was itching to get to your apartment and make all the things you said over the phone come true, but you weren’t even answering his texts. It’s not like you texted all that much to begin with, but when you didn’t ask him to come over after his flight landed, he knew something was up. Now, he had four unanswered texts in your messages from the past two days and he was yearning for your attention. 

Needless to say, he was off, and the entire team could tell.

Especially Josh. He noticed almost as soon as he saw Pierre, but he waited until practice was over to begin prying.

“Where’s your head at?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“You look like your head is somewhere else.”

“It is.”

His answer was simple as he left for the showers, and Josh wasn’t straggling far behind, determined to get the answers he was searching for. After showering, they headed out to their cars and said goodbye, but Josh watched Pierre pull out of the lot and turn in the opposite direction of his apartment. So, he made the decision to tail him.

Imagine his surprise when Pierre traveled deeper into the city towards your apartment. He followed him the whole way, stopping at the corner of your block to avoid being seen while Pierre parked. And then, with his jaw practically on the floor, Josh watched him jog right into your building.

 ---

“What’s your problem?” Pierre barked the second you opened the door. His tone of voice was harsh, not soft like it’d been in recent weeks, and it immediately threw you off. “Are you on your period or something? Because it’s alright if you are. I’d be down for period sex.”

You slammed the door in his face.

He was joking. Well, he was trying to joke, like an idiot, and obviously not succeeding. So, he took a step back to gather his thoughts and tried again.

“That was an awful joke. Let me start over,” he spoke as soon as you opened the door again. You cocked your hip against the doorframe with your arms crossed over your chest. “Did I do something wrong? Is that why you’re not talking to me?”

“No, other than your usual annoying shit, you’ve been fine.”

“So, what’s going on? Why haven’t you been answering my texts?”

You rolled your neck with a groan and answered, “It’s just been a crazy week, Pierre,” you paused, glaring at him. “And, yes, I’m also on my period, not that it concerns you.”

“I hate when you call me Pierre,” he grunted and although you rolled your eyes, those words stirred something inside of you. “Can I come in?”

To his surprise, you stepped aside without contest and continued into the apartment leaving him to kick his shoes off and drop his jacket on the hook at the door. He found you curled up beneath a chunky blanket with the remainders of some fast food meal on the coffee table. He dropped onto the other end, kicked his socked feet up on the table, and smiled at you.

“Seriously, why are you here?” you asked. “I’m not having period sex with you.”

“I said that was a joke.”

“Okay, then why are you here if not for sex?” you asked, face twisted in frustration. 

His face mirrored yours as he responded, “Is it such a crime to just want to see you?”

“Yes,” you answered simply.

“Does it have to be?”

Although the question was loud enough for you to hear, it was soft enough to ignore if you felt it necessary. So, you ignored it, because you didn’t do this. You didn’t just hang out to see each other. He huffed as you began sifting through the collection of romantic comedies on Netflix. 

“I’m watching a movie, so either you stay and watch, or you leave.”

Pierre grabbed a pillow and dropped it onto the middle cushion of the couch before laying back, his feet elevated over the arm at the end of the couch. You followed his direction, dropping a pillow in front of his and throwing your feet over the other arm so that you’d be lying head-to-head. Before laying down, you gave him a blanket and wrapped another around your own body.

The movie began and the opening credits rolled, but you couldn’t focus.

How could you when Pierre was in your apartment and not tearing your clothes off? How could you focus when you’d so easily enabled the domestic scene laid out in front of you?

His hand hung limply off the edge of the couch and just looking at it made you feel all types of things. You could practically feel his skin on your skin and your mind began to wander, daydreaming about what it might be like to lace your fingers with his. And, before you could stop yourself, you were placing your palm against his palm to do just that.

[gabriel4sam]

Not love at first sight (But love at the sixty-third life defying idiocy), a CodyWan story

Written for @swbigbang, with the help of @kitcatkim in the role of the patient beta and @outernorth for artist (art just there)

Because all the other members of their small outpost were not in shape (read, hungover), Cody and Obi-Wan go on a small, simple, totally not possibilities of explosions supply run.

Cody comes back with a headache the size of Coruscant, a new hate of insectoids life. And a brand new significant other, in the shape of his exasperating General

 It’s not a hangover, it’s a hecatomb. Whatever Boil had put in his new still was a terrible, terrible idea. The entire Separatist Council could do pointes in tutus on the flight deck and the vode would neither see it, nor care about it.

Cody and Obi-Wan were the only ones not drinking the day before, them and the communication officers on duty. The communication officers because they were working, and Cody and Obi-Wan, well, because they like the occasion for the men to feel free, and they can’t with their superior officers in their company.

That doesn’t mean the men are supposed to feel free enough to incapacitate the whole bunch of idiots they are apparently in charge off.

“Latrine duties, the first time we do planet fall. The whole of them.” Cody grumbles, assessing the damage with a cold, clinical eye.

“How does that even work? Does every man have latrine duties for his own latrines? Do you make them install as many latrines as they are? ” Obi-Wan remarks. He’s the usual calm and composed Jedi Master Cody knows on the outside, but the Commander is pretty sure he’s laughing on the inside. Cody had met Quinlan Vos, ok? And he poured enough hard liquor in the man to obtain confidences. Confidences which horrified him, Obi-Wan had even less survival instincts than Cody thought, but confidences he can’t un-hear. He will know forever!

Or at least, he will know until a luckier droid kills him. Cody is not an optimist about clones living long, happy, fulfilling lives. He has eyes after all and a functioning brain.

Cody glares at Obi-Wan, just in case. He has learnt, in the two years since he took his position with his General, that Jedi react pretty well to glaring. Not that it stops them from doing stupid stuff, but at least, they feel guilty about it.

If they like the glaring party only. Commander Ponds had a lot of things to narrate about Mace Windu and the horrible, horrible conglomerate mogul.

Obi-Wan takes his most innocent air, something Cody stopped believing two days in their acquaintance, when his newly minted General had destroyed a whole block of warehouses on an unnamed moon and made a grown Hutt call for its parent. It had been a bad month for Obi-Wan. No need to judge. When innocents are in danger, the cost of the repairs is less a problem and more a number for the politicians to handle. And yes, Obi-Wan knows the money used could certainly be used in other useful ways, but no amount of credits could ever buy a life, in the eyes of a Jedi. But that day, when Cody, after a few, very stressful hours of radio-silence, had finally gotten back his General, slightly charred, the hostages, hungry and thirsty and exhausted but all of them in one piece, and a terrified Hutt, in the middle of a devastated battleground, he had understood better the warning of Alpha-17. There, Cody had sworn in petto to never underestimate his Jedi, despite the irreproachable manners, the swishing hair and the smile of a holo-star.

Together, they take the time to check every soldier, to make sure nobody was busy drowning in their own fluid because they were too hangover/still drunk, to roll over. Everybody is alive, and the communication officers are getting ready to do a double shift, and ready to nib their vode about it later.

“It’s a good thing we’re on down time,” Obi-Wan remarks, “I must confess, despite the talents of your brothers, I’m not quite sure we could withstand an attack from Grievous and his various cronies right now.”

“We would get our asses handed to us, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

Obi-Wan cautiously touches  one of the abandoned drink containers, with more care than he gives to explosives.

“What did he put in this thing?” he asks, fascinated.

“You’re not testing it!” Cody immediately retorts, because he knows his Jedi, “not in the name of science, curiosity or whatever.”

Obi-Wan touches the container a second time.

Cody could swear the thing moves in return, like it wants to be pet. Obi-Wan hums, his face interested and he leans a little more in the direction of the container. If the thing starts growing whatever strange means of locomotion is on its mind, Cody is using his blaster, no matter the General’s opinion. That’s how bad holo-dramas start, with an unknown thing unleashed on an unsuspecting ship/outpost/space station. He refuses to star in one of those plot-lacking dramas his brother Wolffe pretends he doesn’t love.

The thing doesn’t move anymore and Obi-Wan loses interest and goes back to helping troopers into their quarters and their bunks.

Cody helps, but that doesn’t mean he’s not plotting terrible retributions. He knows the last few weeks have been pretty hard, the hardest in a long time, that’s one of the reasons Obi-Wan and himself made themselves scarce last night. 

Now, they have a week just waiting for the Negotiator to come pick them up. One week for the men to rest and to heal and perhaps to train lightly…but that’s no reason for the sort of screw-up Cody is seeing right now. Boil and his still should be transferred from the 501th and put into whatever part of the army that handles studies about biological warfare. Biological warfare that the Republic officially doesn’t indulge in, studying it only as a way to protect its worlds against it. But Cody isn’t convinced. He has a lot of questions he will never ask about parts of the army which are not led by Jedi, and that the Jedi are trying, with no success, to have access too. Obi-Wan has promoted him so much that the Commander now has access to documents he’s pretty sure nobody thought a clone ever would. He’s staying silent for now. If the Jedi need help with that, if they fail, the vode will try, but Cody is keeping this ammunition in reserve. He can only fire it once, because when natural-borns who aren’t Jedi realize exactly how much power Obi-Wan and the Jedi council has given him and some of the other commanders, they will try to strip them of it, he just knows it.

At the end, everybody is moaning in their bunks, or manning communication, and Cody and Obi-Wan raid the nice rations, the ones with the green seals, no less food of unkown origins than the rest of it, but certainly the tastiest. They sit down at the entry of the outpost, sharing a canteen of water between them. They don’t talk, most of the time they don’t need to.

Cody isn’t really hungry but it’s easier to trick Obi-Wan into eating something when those who surround him do too. The warmth of the sun, the sounds of nature, the nice, and so rare, oh so rare, knowledge that they have a little free time instead of having to run to put out another fire. All of this is making Obi-Wan soften, like a carving of stone suddenly becoming pliable.

“Commander?” Cody’s holocom disturbs them, and Cody startles, suddenly realizing he was lost in the light playing into the copper of Obi-Wan’s hair.

“It’s nothing, really nothing probably,” the shiny in charge of this particular console explains to them, “ one of the new models of probes  should have been back twenty minutes ago. I tried to raise it per the procedure, but it isn’t answering.”

“We’re supposed to be alone on this world,” Obi-Wan remarks, a line forming between his brows.

“They are still working the kicks out of this model,” the shiny admits, “that’s why we used them specifically on this planet where they are in no danger. We’re supposed to go back with all of them, for study, to hammer out the last problems.”

The line between the General’s brows is growing deeper.

“I will make a report to the Council about the danger it could pose to you, to send any vode on the field with materials not totally ready, and the Jedi Order will issue a formal protest.” His shoulders are tense. No matter the number of tries, the Jedi are blocked at every corner in the Senate in their efforts to better the life of the clones, even in the small things and it’s a terrible possibility that this time will be the same.

“You know what? We should go check ourselves,” Cody decides, because he wants to erase that line, that tension. “Since Boil poisoned the men, we could do it. A little trek in fresh air before breathing the recycled air in the Negotiator again.”

“Oh Cody, I can do it myself,” Obi-Wan offers immediately, “you don’t have a lot of free time-“

“Funny, I would have sworn you didn’t know the concept…”

“I am perfectly capable of knowing when my body needs down time.”

“That’s not what Master Erin said.”

And that’s how they leave the base.

It’s almost noon, birds or other small things Cody can’t honestly identify are chirping, the air is crisp and fresh, and the sky is only slightly purple, with no risk of rain. No matter how many worlds he sees, Cody is still out of countenance on worlds where the combination of gases in the atmospheres and stars emitting other waves than the Kamino sun combine to give entire landscapes strange colours. Most of the time, he’s wearing his helmet which filters the strangeness of it, and it’s only at the end of the battle, when he takes it off, that he realizes everything is weirdly green-tainted.

Also, he’s pretty sure Arc Trooper Fives was lying when he told him once he visited a world on a body guarding mission with his own Jedi were everything was glittering. He’s not putting any money on it, because Skywalker and his men were guarding the Naboo Senator. From what Cody observes, when Naboo people enter the scene, glitter just happens. He also thinks Fives is much better being Rex’s problem than his own.

Most of their supplies have already been packed for retrieval, so Cody and Obi-Wan only took one hover bike out, and for now Obi-Wan is piloting, Cody behind, and the Commander is beginning to think he made a tactical error. The plastoid of his armour is supposed to stop him from feeling Obi-Wan’s warmth, but Cody could swear he can still feel it. For all that the Jedi can seem aloof and strange, nothing makes him remember his General is flesh and blood than encircling a linen-warped waist with his arms.

 The world passes around them, the colours of the trees, the playful course of the clouds in the sky, the peaceful scenery of a wild world, with its inherent qualities and defaults. Cody likes those worlds better, untouched by sentient life. Growing up in the sterility of Kamino, there is something intoxicating in nature running its course, forests giving way to meadows, biotopes decided by climates and geology, and not by a careful hand arranging them for the maximal profits in their exploitation.

Cody understands about the need for fresh territory, with the growth of population, but certainly, certainly the most carefully hidden part of him insists quite vehemently, there must be another solution than the desolation of grey and pollution that is Coruscant. Something else than seeing the poorest people of the Republic living in deplorable conditions, never seeing the fresh green of a new leaf, as the richest ones can sample the delights of nature in carefully constructed reserves?

More and more, Cody is curious about the Agricorps, and their works to restore degraded biotopes, but he had the vague impression, when he asked questions about it to his General, that it’s a difficult subject for him.

Probably, Obi-Wan wanted to go into the Agricorps and they didn’t want him to, for whatever reasons. Cody thinks it’s more glorious to restore nature and to help feed a community than to go to war, like Obi-Wan is doing right now, or to negotiate treaties, which he vaguely thinks is Obi-Wan’s job in time of peace.

Cody’s thoughts drift gently as the journey continues, going from nature’s beauty to the exact shade of Obi-Wan’s hair when he has been under a natural sun for more than a few hours. The way the copper of it becomes richer and richer…. After a little less than two hours, they switch pilots, and Cody does his best to keep his thoughts on track. It would be stupid to crash just because he’s distracted by a flight of birds taking off with the noise of the bikes, no matter how graceful they are. He concentrates on piloting, and not on the presence of Obi-Wan behind him, his arms around Cody, and not in the colours of the forest around them, and the bucolic impression of their little expedition.

The last known position of their wayward probe put it next to a small lake, four hours away on hover bike, at the base of the mountainous regions. If this part of the world was in winter season, the most logical reason for their missing probe would be a mudslide.  Cody told in his reports time and time again that the probes should fly higher, that the field itself is much less friendlier than believed in the labs, but apparently nobody listens to him.

It’s the end of spring on this part of the planet, the probe was probably eaten by a giant fish, or something equally undignified.

They unseat on a single beach, the last known location. No more probe there than dignity and decency in the Senate. Nothing. No blackened hull of the thing if it had exploded under mysterious circumstances, best known as shoddy work in the conception. Not even a trace they could track back.

Cody turns on himself, surveying the landscape. Vegetation, mountains, peaceful lapping of water on the beach, more mountains with their snowy capes, a lot of weird looking trees. For a vacation, it would be peaceful. For missing military equipment, it’s sadly lacking.

“By incredible luck, you wouldn’t sense our missing flying friend in the Force?” Cody asks, because that would simplify things. That would simplify things, so of course the answer is no. As Obi-Wan struggles with putting together the scanner, Cody gathers pieces of driftwood, intending to start a fire. If they have to circle on foot, on uneven ground, to find the probes, nothing says they can’t do it after another meal next to a warm fire. In the harsh reality of war, Cody has learnt to wisely enjoy the few moments of peace, and he would very much like to teach that skill to his General. Obi-Wan is supposed to have decades of experience in him, but apparently he’s not aware that every sentient has their limits.

Cody is less than twenty meters from the Jedi and the hoverbike, facing Obi-Wan, his arms already full of a nice load when he sees Obi-Wan let go of the scanner, which tumbles on the stones, and turns to him, a hand already at his waist, reaching for his lightsaber.

“Cod-“ Obi-Wan yells, but the sound doesn’t reach Cody, as the stones give way under him, shifting in a dip of grey sand and Cody is gulped down like Master Yoda gobbles a small fish.

For a second, he can’t breathe, there is sand everywhere around him, on his skin, in his mouth, infiltrating his armour by the neck, and the wood in his arms squeeze against his ribs. He feels he’s gonna get crushed alive and he struggles with all his strength. Death has always been the end but he wanted to leave in combat. He can feel unconsciousness threatening and just before it would take him, he’s spit up violently and he rolls over with the momentum, the driftwood, the sand, and a few bits of the armour which didn’t survive the experience.

He can see someone lean over him, no more than a silhouette, because it’s so dark, he can feel the sand under his head, and also the head wound and the blood seeping out of it, and he takes a long breath, and it burns, all the way to his lungs, and then he knows no more.

For a long time, Cody floats. He dreams. Or he hallucinates.

He’s on Kamino again and he learns the world is without mercy for him and his brothers.

He’s training and he can feel Alpha-17’s eyes on him, pensive.

He’s very young and he doesn’t understand where the last of his batche went.

He’s older and he’s meeting his first Jedi, General Tii, and she always has a nice word for every clone, but her eyes are terribly sad every step she takes on Kamino.

He’s meeting Rex and their friendship soars instantly.

He’s seeing brothers dying and he’s seeing rescues and the world is a never ending war, but Cody refuses to let that be the only thing his brothers will know. He watches and he checks and he learns and he places his brothers the best he can, and he’s evaluating Jedi and people, and planets and his mind never stops.

Cody wakes up. General Plo Koon is leaning over him and Cody lets relief seize him, until he realizes something is wrong. No eye covers, no breathing masks, and as much as Cody can see in the very low light, the thick leathery hide acting as skin is much lighter than Plo Koon’s. A Kel Dor, but not the Jedi Master that the Wolffe’s pack would follow to the end of the galaxy and beyond.

After a few seconds of his brain going round in circles, it finally stops at a very important point: Kel Dor and humans don’t breathe the same atmosphere, and this Kel Dor is without breathing apparels. Cody goes to put a hand on his mouth in instinctual movement, like he could stop himself from suffocating, but the other lays a hand on Cody’s forearm, his entire body language non-threatening, and says something he can’t understand. That’s when Cody realizes something translucent is surrounding his head, like a bubble inflating and deflating with every breath he takes. He pokes it, very carefully. It’s flexible, slightly sticky and it smells earthy, a little like those mushrooms his General insisted he try once, when he took him to his friend Dex dinner.

Cody takes a careful breath. He doesn’t die in terrible suffering, so he takes another one. The air entering his lungs still seems appropriate for his species. He tries to sit up, moving very slowly to make the stranger understand he’s not attacking, and the Kel Dor helps him.

Seated, he can better observe the place around him. He has been placed on a pallet of light fur, in some sort of carved place, the walls decorated, not in paint, but in carving, and his armour is against one of the walls, carefully stacked. Cody wants to touch his head, where he was hurt, but once again the Kel Dor stops him before he touches the bubble. The only light comes from a small clay bowl full of sizzling oil, where a wick has been adapted. It doesn’t give enough light to help Cody see more than the small room and a crude overture in the stone, leading to more darkness. He can’t even study perfectly the features of the Kel Dor, more than to be sure it’s definitely not Master Koon.

The Kel Dor says something again and Cody makes a frustrated noise.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak your language.” The other doesn’t seem to understand that, so Cody tries Mando’a, with the same result. 

He tries the Galactic Sign Language, no results. 

He knows a few signs of the Alderaan Sign Language, the one from their Southern Hemisphere. Queen Organa taught him a few lessons once during a lockdown in the Royal Palace when he was guarding her, between grumbling about clones’s rights and what her husband better do about it in the Senate, and Cody learns fast. The Kel Dor still doesn’t react in any useful way.

“A common language would be pretty useful to know if I’m your guest or your prisoner,” Cody jokes. Sarcasm now. He’s spending too much time with his General.

He shifts, trying to see if he will be stopped from standing, but the other only helps him, carefully arranging on Cody’s torso the ending of the bubble. Now that Cody studies it more attentively, he’s sure the stuff is organic. It’s like they forced his head and the superior part of his torso into some sort of ring of weird looking mushrooms, the mycelium of one of them extended around his head. If this is producing oxygen for him, he really doesn’t want to disturb it.

The world tilts when he stands up but the Kel Dor pushes a shoulder under Cody’s arm and they go out. When Cody passes his armour, he fetches his blaster, and the other doesn’t stop him. Either he doesn’t understand it’s a weapon, or he doesn’t think Cody will attack him. Her? Them? Are Kel Dol gendered beings?

Exiting the small room, Cody can’t see. Everything is dark around them. He can hear movements and the air around him has the quality of an enormous space. A cave, he would think, but the little lamp his new friend has in his claws is not enough.

“Of course,” Cody remarks, “your eyes are much much better. You don’t need a bank of lamps.” He almost jumps when someone joins them and if his head wasn’t still ringing, he probably would have attacked, but it’s only another Kel Dor, smaller, with a skin more brown. They ask something to the first one, but again, there is no sense for Cody.

He’s guided to a stone bench and the little lamp is pushed into his hands. Kel Dor are going in and out of the little circle and Cody tries to evaluate how many of them there are, but he’s, to his great shame, not good enough to distinguish between the Kel Dor easily. He can isolate one or two who have more evident features for a human, like one missing an arm, but the rest of them, all dressed in a very similar way with some furs identical to those Cody woke up on, and the alien features. Cody feels anger against himself. He judges natural borns for not making an effort to distinguish between the vode, despite their efforts to gain their own identity by tattoos or dyes, and he shouldn’t be victim of the same bias.

Finally, someone sits next to him. Cody studies their face, trying to commit them to memory.

 People don’t seem unfriendly. He’s pretty sure the one he woke up with is some sort of local healer, and that it is this one who came back to him several times. Children even come to him, chattering in their language in a way which makes him think of the younger ones on Kamino, before some of their batches started to disappear and they started to understand what their fate in the world would be. A particularly daring little one climbs onto his lap and Cody looks around, ready to see the parent arrive and take its offspring from the strange being. But this community seems so peaceful nobody sees a problem with the child on the stranger's lap.

The little one shows him his treasure, a cube deeply carved with symbols Cody can’t decipher. Of course. In a world without sun, carving must be a medium and painting, or writing, must be inexistent.

“It’s a very nice cube,” he says to the little one, whose gender he can’t decipher. If Kel Dor have gender. He’s pretty sure he heard once that the biggest number of genders registered for a sentient species was eight, and the smaller zero, but he has no idea for this species.

The child seems pretty happy with the answer, even if they can’t understand it any more than Cody can understand their own opinion, expressed in an uninterrupted flow.

Around him, he can vaguely perceive people going about their day. How calm. How reposing. Nevertheless, peaceful or not, Cody can’t breathe the same atmosphere as them, and the strange organic concoction they put on his head to help will soon find its limits. He’s getting thirsty, for once, and he can’t drink without taking the thing off, which he can't. And that’s not even thinking about his General, who must be trying to reach him by any means the Force gives him.

If he knows Cody is alive.

No, no, he must know.

And even if the Force, whose exact limitations Cody is quite unsure of, even if the Force can’t tell Obi-Wan Cody is alive, Obi-Wan is not exactly a man to just go back to the outpost and declare him dead. He will search and search and search, and bring Cody back alive to his vode, or his body for his brothers to honour.

Cody knows: it had been a terrible row between the Jedi on one part and the Kaminoan and the Senate on another, this refusal to abandon dead clones bodies to the elements.

And, to the surprise of the Senate who was in the habits to bully the Jedi for centuries, the Jedi hadn’t budged. But Cody had seen what it had cost them: the Senate had made them pay, in late important reports who the Jedi needed for the war efforts, on refusal of important supplies, suddenly labelled unessential…

So, Obi-Wan is searching for him at the moment, and Cody needs to go to him. The ringing in his head, present since he woke up, has slightly diminished, and he has walked with more grievous wounds.

The question is now: how to mime exit to the Kel Dor, how to ask for a guide? Because if he has to feel around the cave until he finds an exit, he will, but that would be so much easier.

“Hoping there is an exit into your cave, little one,” he says to the child, who is falling asleep on his lap, “because if I have to drill through the roof to the exterior of the planet, it’s gonna cause breathing problems for your city.”

An adult approaches them, a long plaid in their hands, and they mime Cody putting it around his shoulders. Instead, Cody wraps the little one in it and puts the resulting bundle into the adult’s arms.

“I don’t suppose you could send me to the nearest exit?” He asks, and of course, the Kel Dor doesn’t have an answer.

He takes the little lamp and leaves to explore. He can’t see well more than two meters from the circle of light, and even with it, his eyes are struggling.

Soon, he’s stopped by a wall, which he follows until he finds a low door, with only a curtain. He risks an eye, feeling quite voyeuristic, but he only sees something resembling a storage space, big amphoras against a wall.

He continues to follow the wall, finds another one, loses himself in what is a succession of low houses. Above him, the roof of the cavern is still invisible and he can’t see the walls. He finds another little place with stone benches.

Or is it the same?

No, even underground, Cody is sure of his sense of direction. It’s another one place, and the city is bigger than he thought possible. He’s also walking way too slowly, because of the problem of light and his still ringing head.

“Kriff,” he whispers, sitting down on one of the benches.

“Obi-Wan, please find me,” he whispers before scolding himself. He’s no melodrama maiden, he is perfectly capable of finding the surface again by himself.

A burly Kel Dor approaches him, mushrooms in his claws and says something.

“I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Cody tries to explain. The other sits next to him and gesticulates to the mushrooms helping, he thinks, him to breath, and when Cody doesn’t do anything, he starts placing the ones he brought against the first ones. They seem to merge in a frankly disgusting scene which is probably mushrooms porn.

“Does that mean you need to change them regularly for me to breathe?” Cody asks, despite knowing he won’t receive an answer he can understand.

 To add another problem to the long list Cody is already shouldering on, the cave floor starts to tremble and people start yelling.

People are yelling, and despite the language barrier, Cody can understand the panic with no problems.

The soil beneath his feet grumbles again. There is a sound like a rockslide, and more yells, and terror is the taste at the back of Cody’s throat, because he still can’t kriffin see.

Finally, the trembling is so terrible he’s thrown on his knees and the sound reaches a crescendo as a great light emerges from the rock soil, three hundred meters from where Cody is kneeling. It’s some sort of giant worm, with a maw higher than Cody. It roars and glows even brighter, the bioluminescence of its chitin almost dazzling for Cody himself.

 All around Cody, Kel Dor are yelling and struggling on their feet with great difficulties, as the rock soil is still trembling. The beast roars again and it sounds like a thousand ships taking off at the same time in the confined environment. As Cody is helping a Kel Dor to their feet, the pandemonium reaches an even higher spike as another worm emerges, further than the first, and the quake of the rock sends them flat on their bellies.

Cody really regrets letting Boil distribute his production yesterday, what he wouldn’t give for ten men and a rotary canon right now! Even for Hardcase, who he’s really happy is most of the time Rex’s problem, and his tastes for explosives.

He hoists himself more or less vertical, swearing all he can at the same time. He helps the Kel Dor to their feet again and then assesses the situation.

The lights of the worms let him have a good gaze for the first time at the enormous cavern they are in and the low buildings in it. Behind them he can even see big overtures, probably an entire network of caverns. An entire city in the dark, deep in the soil, protected from the outside world and its atmosphere which the Kel Dor can’t breathe, and from the Republic scanners which never knew they were there.

Protected from the sun, too.

And now that the light has come to them in the form of predators, they are defenceless. Cody can see people trying to flee, with a hand on their eyes, and with no success. By the time Cody has succeeded in approaching the scene of the disaster, at least three Kel Dor have been swallowed.

One of the worms, the closest, roars again and Cody doesn’t lose time: the maw, unprotected by the chitin covering the body, seems like a perfect target.

He raises his blaster and fires.

Another roar, even more deafening, as blood splatters all around in a gorish scene. A good part of the mandible has exploded, but the beast isn’t dead. It strikes, trying to gobble Cody like it did the poor Kel Dor. The difference is that the Commander can see in the light, on the contrary of the first victims. He evades just in time to escape certain death.

He rolls over and raises his blaster a second time, but the angle is worse than the first time, and the shot dampens itself on the chitin with no more effect than darkening it, and enraging the worm even more. 

Again, it tries to kill Cody and the man dances out of range, blessing the hours of training the Jedi gave all of them. It had been the first thing the Jedi had done, because they thought the training the vode had received on Kamino didn’t focus enough on the art of dodging.

Cody never told them it was because the trainers and the Kaminoans thought the vode easily expandable and more useful for a suicide strike. He suspects the Jedi knew, if the way they act around the Kaminoans is proof.

Dodging, advancing, retreating, taking a shot every time he sees an overture, Cody fights, more a reflex than anything, to protect the Kel Dor. He wouldn’t refuse a little help; with spears even if they don’t have other weapons, but the cavern inhabitants are useless. They are not even running away from the worms, full of the terror of death, and the light, which have come in their city.

Nevertheless, the issue of the fight was never a real question. Even hurt and far away from his usual fighting grounds, Cody was bred a warrior and he had honed the skills given to him by his genetic donor all his life. The worm, a female, is in the habit of only fighting other female worms during the mating season for access to the best breeding ponds and to gobble Kel Dor and every animal it could. It never had to fight a sentient being, especially one with a blaster.

The blaster’ shots finally damage the roof of its mouth enough and one of them burns its path to the brain. The beast dies immediately, but the nervous system needs time to receive that message. For a moment, Cody fears the convulsions of the enormous body will cause the entire caves system to collapse on their heads.

When the movements finally stop, he vaults himself over a rock slide, caused by the events, and approaches carefully. The worm is still partially obscured by the rock he emerges from, but Cody can see a good twenty meters of it. He’s bringing back a chitin part to the GAR, because he wants ships protected like that!

A sudden movement to his left makes him turn, but too late. His zoological fascination has caused Cody to make a horrible, rookie mistake, the sort of mistake which makes a rookie never have an occasion to become something other than a rookie.

For a moment, he had forgotten there was a second worm.

He brandishes his weapon, but it’s too late. Only his reflexes save him from being cut in two, but a razor sharp incisor scraps against his armour, parting it like butter and only missing the skin by half a centimetre. The worm has no interest in the Kel Dor, no matter how easy prey they are. It just wants to kill the stubborn little creature who just killed its mother. His blaster clatters on the rock, too kriffin far away. Cody rolls on himself, tries for it, but he already knows it’s too late, when the sound of a lightsaber being ignited announces the arrival of the cavalry, just in time.

Obi-Wan Kenobi arrives on the scene like an armed deux ex machina. He’s wearing Cody’s helmet in order to breath in the cavern and death is burning light-blue in his hand. Rare are the materials which can resist the power of a lightsaber, and Obi-Wan doesn’t take chances with Cody’s life, no matter how he is repelled by the taking of a life, even an animal one. The head of the worm falls on the other side of the body as Obi-Wan is still airborne from one of those improbable jumps Force Sensitive do. The second his feet touch the rock; he’s rushing to Cody, trying to assess his health.

Across the galaxy, Anakin suddenly sits down in the marital bed, sending Padmé, who was asleep across his torso, tumbling into the sheets by the violence of his movements. The vision of a chitinous torso opening, full of meaty juice, dances before his eyes.

“Ani?” The young Senator asks, once he has succeeded in making her put down the blaster she retrieved from even the Force doesn’t know where. Padmé doesn’t do peaceful when she’s woken up abruptly, something he learned quickly in their marriage. Convincing the handmaiden that every noise inside their bedroom wasn’t a murder attempt and that they shouldn’t rush in, weapons drawn, was another interesting adjustment to the married life.

“I just.….I’m not sure…” He tries to grip what woke him up, but it already has disappeared. “I think I’m hungry,” he admits, “sorry to have interrupted your sleep.”

“The droids can make you something,” she suggests, burrowing into the nest of pillows, less prone to sudden shifting.

“Do you think we have insects?” He asks.

****************************

“Cody! Cody, are you alright?”

“Obi-Wan, General, are you hurt?” Cody and Obi-Wan ask at the same time, hands searching, patting the other bodies in gestures less destined to triage of wounds and more to the simple animal need for contact.

“The air of the cavern isn’t breathable for us,” Obi-Wan says, after a few seconds and Cody nods: “I deduced that, but the thing on my head….it’s helping.”

“How did you deduce such a- Oh, um, hello.”

Around them, the Kel Dor have begun to assemble, all of them an arm on their face, trying to protect their eyes.

“Your lightsaber, turn it off,” Cody says and, making something purr in the Commander’s chest, Obi-Wan immediately obeys, no question, no hesitation.

The Kel Dors guide them away from the scene of the carnage. Cody sees a few of them with stone machetes and axes, already working on taking apart the pale flesh of the worms, working from the wounds Cody and Obi-Wan made, as the chitin is too hard on other places of the big bodies.

Cody watches for a few seconds. One of a Kel Dor yanks open the cranial cavity. Cody turns to the other side very quickly, because butchering enormous worms is apparently more than his battle-hardened stomach can take. Nothing should make the noise an axe makes against flesh.

Cody finds his little lamp again. It’s not even extinguished, the events haven’t probably lasted more than ten minutes. The universe is a hard place, thinks Cody, where he could get eaten by any abomination with too much teeth in less time than an oil lamp runs its course.

They sit next to each other on the closest bench and in the halo of the lamp, Cody inspects his General better. He’s covered in stone dust and whatever else disgusting stuff is on his tunic: he probably crawled his way there.

The adrenaline is still burning through Cody, and joy too, as he turns to his General. On the whole, he misses the days life was simpler on Kamino, with no worms for example, but on Kamino, he never heard the sound of a lightsaber and knew, with a certainty so burning it could have well resonated in the Force, that he was saved. There is comfort, in the hard world he’s living in, in the certainty that his General will tear apart entire solar systems to rescue any clones. That all Jedi would. For a clone, raised to be interchangeable, this strong-willed refusal to leave even one of them behind is a balm to the soul.

“You found me,” he says, and he tries to infuse that with professionalism, and fails miserably.

“I will always find you,” Obi-Wan promises. It’s strange to talk to him like that, with Cody’s helmet on his head. Cody hadn’t realized he relied so much on the Jedi’s face to understand him.

“Yes, sir, but for a moment, I confess I thought you would more, avenge me or something.”

Obi-Wan touches his shoulder.

“I’m sorry to have been so long,” he says, “the system of caves proved itself tricky, and the Force insisted I couldn’t just blow up my way inside.”

“That would let the atmosphere on the outside enter,” Cody theorized, “and I think, our hosts….”

Like they have been summoned, two Kel Dor approach them. They are dressed as simply as all the others Cody has seen, but on the bust of the smaller one, there is some sort of ceremonial pectoral and it has a very big difference with everything Cody has seen since stepping into the cave. It’s in metal.

“Obi-Wan”, Cody whispers, “look at that.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t speak the language more than Cody. He can recognize it’s not the actual principal language of Kel Dor, which he has heard before, but no more than that. Nevertheless, it’s less a problem for a Jedi. He can feel in the Force other’s intentions, enough to understand easily that the people here don’t want to harm them, which Cody had deduced himself hours ago, and that they want to bring them to see something.

Cody is very happy to leave the dead bodies of the worms behind them.

And to  General Skywalker eats insects! Bless the Force that Skywalker is Rex’s Jedi.

One cave. Another. Another one.

“How many are there? How big are these caves?'' Cody asks. He’s tired, hungry, thirsty, and more or less ready to go back to camp, thank you very much.

They find a ship, or more, the skeleton of a ship, in the last part of the caves system, the deepest one. It’s less a cave, and more the memory of a crash. The ship has been cannibalized, years after years, of everything useful, to the latest scrap of metal, except for the framework.

“It was probably made with a metal too dense for the meagre set of tools they have,” Obi-Wan theorizes.

“I can’t recognize the type of  ship that is, the form itself is so strange,” Cody remarks, watching it with the eye of a man trained to recognize enemy and ally ships in a nano second in the middle of battle. Obi-Wan is touching the metal with his bare skin, with great reverence.

He always loved old things, his Jedi.

The happiest Cody had seen him was for a protection mission in a dusty archive, on a faraway world. General Skywalker was with them, and the young Ahsoka too, and the intel had been faulty. There had been no attack, Obi-Wan had had his Padawan and GrandPadawan close and safe, and spent his days making amorous noises at poetry treaties centuries old.

“It’s incredibly old. Probably before the foundation of the Republic."

"But that’s….that’s old as kriff."

"During the first time of space travel, ships weren’t as reliable. They probably are the descendants of a crew of explorers. After the crash, staying inside the caves was the only long-term possibility for them, if they hadn’t the means to produce enough respiratory apparatuses. It was the only way to survive for them.  Nevertheless, it stopped anyone from finding them. And little by little, they regressed technically and lost the way to contact the outside."

"Do you really think they would have travelled from their world without a way to breath on other planets?"

"Perhaps it was stocked in a part of the ship lost during the crash. Perhaps it was so long ago, it was long before the Kel Dor knew very few worlds have an atmosphere breathable for them…Every species has the tendency to think the world at large tailored for them.”

They don’t leave immediately. Obi-Wan is of the opinion that Cody is too tired to use the path he himself used to find him. And he’s probably right. Cody’s head is throbbing where he hurt it during his fall, but he doesn’t see how he could get better here, where he can’t eat or drink.

What follows is a game of mime between Obi-Wan and the Kel Dors which Cody won’t forget, ever, no matter how much Obi-Wan asks, and he regrets he doesn’t have a holocamera.

After a time, and an unforgettable time it was, Obi-Wan and he find themselves stashed in a little room, so low they can’t stand. It’s more a bed stuffed inside some sort of structure made in the same weird-looking, weird-smelling mushrooms. Cody takes off the bubble around his head and Obi-Wan takes off Cody’s helmet.

The red head has the worst case of helmet’s hair Cody has seen, ever and Cody can’t stop an unprofessional laugh around his first mouthful of fresh water.

“I don't Not a head made for helmets, do I?” the Jedi smiles, as he tore in two a strange looking loaf of bread.

They fall on the food, famished, and tease each other at the same time. There is water and what Cody thinks is some root vegetables, and flatbread, and some meat he isn’t touching with a ten foot pool, just in case it's giant worm.  

“If you swear to wear armour instead of linen in battle, I swear to the Force I will never mock your hair,” Cody smiles in return, and Obi-Wan makes a face, like he did already wear good, solid protection instead of tunic and leggings and whatever he calls the multiple layers of his Jedi’s clothes.

“I thought….for a moment, I thought…” Obi-Wan stops. It’s rare to see him lost for words, he of the Silver tongue, the Negotiator.

“I’m not dead,” Cody reiterates, because there is no need to beat around the bush. Even risking their lives every day the Force makes, nobody likes the kick of adrenaline when one of your men is missing. It never becomes normal. It never should.

“And yet, for a second I thought you were. When I saw the earth opening under your feet and gobbling you. And when I arrived during your battle, the Force trumpeting in my heart about the mortal danger you were running to.”

“The Kel Dor were pretty useless against those things. Couldn’t let them get eaten like that. Not when they rescued me and helped me.”

“I know. I know. And I would have done exactly the same thing.”

Obi-Wan sits on the bed, less gracefully than he usually does. From where he’s leaning against the mushroom wall, Cody stares. He can see the lines around his mouth, and after his late-night conversation with Master Quinlan Vos, he knows they aren’t from laughing. He can see the lines at the edges of the eyes, discreet for now, a little more present every day. He can see the first traces of grey on the temples, simply a trace of silver in the red mane…. He’s, almost, sure there was no grey at the beginning of the war, he has seen the holos of Obi-Wan against Prime, against Jango, all those years ago, on Kamino.

Obi-Wan is burning too bright, burning himself.

And Obi-Wan isn’t the only one not getting younger. The accelerated aging isn’t exactly good for Cody’s health, starting with his knees.

One day, he won’t be quick enough for the next giant, bioluminescent man-gobbling worm. Or Obi-Wan will be too tired against Grievous. Since they met, an assignment Commander- General decided by Alpha-17 himself, their life has been full of Separatist assassins, murderous fauna, Sith assassins, murderous geology, Separatist assassins pretending to be Sith assassins, and Sith assassins pretending to be Separatists assassins, brain-washed murderous Senators, murderous flora, murderous black holes, and one time a murderous sentient ship.

The whole galaxy is conspiring to kill clones and Jedi, for what Cody can see.

If his math is right, he survived today the sixty-third attempt on his life from Fate since he left Kamino. Obi-Wan was there for most of them, and Cody was around for the latest attempts on Obi-Wan’s life.

And one day, it will stop.

Cody opens his mouth before he can talk himself out of it. Life is short and he’s a soldier slave, he doesn’t have the luxury to wait for another time.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says, and Obi-Wan looks like he has been whacked on the skull with a heavy object. It’s not exactly his best face, mouth round in surprise, and Cody only feels affection. Then Obi-Wan’s lips curve into a smile like a sun, blinding, warm, and the Jedi touches the side of Cody’s face.

The Jedi touches the side of Cody’s face.

He doesn’t speak. Not yet. His head against Cody, his breath sharing Cody’s own air, they close their eyes, and Cody experiences the strange idea that he’s detaching himself from his brothers.

For the first time, there is something in his hands, or well, in his heart, that he doesn’t want to share with Wolffe or Boil, or even Rex, who has become his closest brother.

He doesn’t want to hide Obi-Wan from them, but he wants….

He hasn’t the words. Not yet.

But, with Obi-Wan at his side, he hopes he will learn them.

And he hopes his brothers too can find something, or someone, so precious they need to share the joy of knowing it, but also to keep it to themselves, like he wants to keep to himself the smile of Obi-Wan when Cody tells “I love you”, or the small freckles at the side of his mouth, visible only so, so, so close.

The first “I love you” Cody hears from Obi-Wan is whispered against his lips.

The first kiss tastes of the bread offered by the Kel Dor, of the cave’s dust and it’s perfect.

They’re still in the same situation, two exhausted men, in a cave full of toxic gases, only protected from them by some unknown mushrooms exuding oxygen, and Cody feels like he could take over the entire Republic. He sleeps curved around Obi-Wan, like two parts of the same whole, touching as much as they can, and if the headache from his head wound brings Cody to the surface a few times during their nap, he feels rejuvenated after it.

After, the Kel Dor help them find the surface and Cody and Obi-Wan leave their new friends, hand in hand, quite happy to find back the sun and the sky, the fresh air of a late morning…and almost all their men crawling around their area, trying desperately to find them.

Obi-Wan keeps Cody’s hand in his and a few brothers less intimidated than others by Cody’s glare, embarrassed and proud at the same time, even bumped their big brother’s shoulders as a sign of congratulation. Obi-Wan immediately goes red, like he’s a teen on his first crush, and not a seasoned Jedi Master whose touch can bring life or death. 

Cody finds it adorable. 

*******************

It’s the middle of the night shift on the Negotiator, but Cody is still working on a different time zone, so he lets Obi-Wan sleep peacefully in their shared bunk. Their shared bunk! A notion that still makes him giddy like a shiny at their first kiss, even a month after getting together. They are taking things pretty slow, or in the wrong order, Cody isn’t sure, they sleep in the same bunk every night, but haven’t got very far in term of sex, and this perfect, because this is them, and not some sort of artificial list of relationship’s milestone. And Cody already knows, deep in his soul, that he will never love a man like he loves this one, even if Obi-Wan is killed tomorrow, and he’s sure it’s the same for Obi-Wan. 

The Negotiator is in route to join with the Steadfast, so General Koth is on board after a conjoined mission where Obi-Wan and him gave Cody new grey hairs. He finds him easily in the mess, demolishing a healthy serving. The stamps outside the rations are a different colour than the ones Cody and his brothers eat.

“Can I join you?” Cody asks.

“Of course,” Eeth Koth immediately answers and the chair on the other side of the table moves on its own, offering itself for the Commander. Cody arches a brow.

“Don’t tell Obi-Wan,” the General jokes, “or I will endure a lesson for frivolous use of the Force.”

Cody sits and they stay silent for a moment, the General apparently happy to let him come to his questions in peace, continuing to eat his meal. Despite being tailored for a different species’ nutritional needs, it looks exactly as unappetizing as most rations Cody is used too. 

“General Ke-“

“You can call him Obi-Wan in front of me,” Eeth Koth interrupts. “There is no need to be ashamed of what binds you.” He grimaces. “Force knows we will all need all the comfort we can get before everything is set and done in this war.”

“Obi-Wan and I, we had a bit of an adventure, last month.”

“From what I heard, you have a lot of them.”

“Yes but….it was…it was the first time I was around civilians. Normal people, I mean.”

“Not Jedi and not clones, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Putting apart the fact that you are normal people, and that we are too, that it is a slippery slope to consider us different, because then the rights…”

“I know you’re fighting for us in the Senate. I know. That isn’t the question…I just mean. They were civilians. Even more civilian than usual. I have only met natural borns who are Jedi and Senators and politicians or some sort of official. This was different. And I realized how little we know about the world outside the GAR. And how little we know about societies, and species who aren’t us. They raised us for war only…” Cody was almost trembling with it. Eeth Koth put a comforting hand on his wrist and Cody continued:

“Obi-Wan, I don’t want Obi-Wan to become my teacher. It’s not his role. But if we want to have a chance outside the war, us, the vode, we need to learn about the outside world. I wanted to ask you if there was something…a way…”

Eeth Koth had totally abandoned his meal and Cody could feel the weight of his gaze, the same gaze as Obi-Wan, transcending their species.

“Let me call a few people,” the Jedi said.

**********

Years later, Cody thinks a lot about that moment. Eeth Koth joined the Force during the war and Cody has to remember this moment for the two of them, this simple moment around a table, this moment which became one of the tipping point of his life. Not the too numerous almost-death, not the many battles, not even his first kiss with his dear Obi-Wan. This moment, in Cody’s mind, is the one which changed his fate. 

Eeth Koth died not even two months after that, one among a lot of Jedi who gave their life, alongside the vode, for a chance for the galaxy and its people. Not that people are particularly thankful about it: the discovery of the Sith engineering the two sides of the conflict rocked the easy confidence of the Republic in the solidity of its system.

Democracy is never forever, if people don’t work for it.

No, democracy is only saved for now, and never will it be saved forever and ever. But that shock to the system is treated by the most intelligent of the bunch like a chance to seize. All across the reunited Republic people are working hard, entering politics, creating organizations to teach the population, to hold those in power accountable…. 

It’s a sad thing so many vode, jedi and civilians had to die and suffer for that. It’s even sadder to think it didn’t almost happen. The Republic almost burned, the Sith almost won, the beloved former Padawan of Obi-Wan Kenobi almost helped murder Mace Windu, Master of the Order...Mace Windu isn’t exactly the type to hold a grunge, but Obi-Wan still needed months after that to stay in his presence, the guilt that should have eaten Anakin transfered. 

Honestly, if Obi-Wan forgave Anakin much too quickly, and Windu too, the vod needed a much longer time. Skywalker had almost helped the man who had engineered them as slave soldiers, the man who would have wiped out their free will, the poor part of it they still had. The vod had needed a long time to forgive, and would never forget, but Cody still has the desagreable impression Rex’s anger is a most important consequence in Skywalker’s mind that the almost death of the democratic system and the almost rise of a dictatorship. 

Sometimes, late in the night, Obi-Wan stays awake, something lost in his eyes than mediation never totally makes disappear, and Cody is sure that day figures in a good part in his dark thoughts. 

Obi-Wan, and Cody too, think about what could have been. If Cody hadn’t been there that day, in the Temple, who would have been in charge of keeping an eye on Skywalker in the Council Room? No one, that who. Because Skywalker was a Council member, if a very fresh one, and there wasn’t on hand a Jedi Master with enough years to take a look at a Council Member and decide he needed baby-sitting. All those Masters were deployed, or in beds in the halls of healing. But Cody, Cody was there, and since he and his General had become an item, he had taken sometimes to act, despite what his logical brain told him, not like a soldier Anakin could order around, but like an exasperated step-father. Exasperated and concerned, as the war advanced and Anakin seemed less and less attached to his morals. 

 Who would have followed him to the Senate when Skywalker had refused to wait anymore, and tackled him at the last minute? Who would have stopped Anakin Skywalker from doing something as tremendously stupid as to save a Sith pitted against Mace Windu?

And all of that had been possible because Jocasta Nu had taken the first excuse she could to keep Cody on Coruscant that month. A well-known linguist was visiting for a series of talks, and she thought he could be a good professor for Cody, and more importantly that well-know linguist had enough political power to obtain permission for a clone following his courses.

And the Republic had lived, because Cody loved linguistics, or more because he had loved the little he understood of it at the time.

But Cody refuses to let the horrors of those years of war, and his terrible first years on Kamino, define him. He prefers to think, again and again, to that moment with Eeth Koth.

Cody didn’t know exactly what he wanted. His accelerated childhood, raised for war and war only, hadn’t given him the words for it. He just knew that for his brothers and he to have a chance after the war, they needed more. Or even more terrible horrors would certainly befall them. Soldiers without wars aren’t useful anymore, and tools with no use are only fated to be dismantled for parts.

Following Eeth Koth’s call, Jocasta Nu and her assistants had descended on the GAR with determination, great efficiency and anger that they hadn’t thought about that themselves. By dint of foraging the Jedi Archives, and every friendly archives of the galaxy, for legal precedent to help the Vode, they had forgotten all answers weren’t found between the terabytes of a datapad.

Master Nu is seated right next to Obi-Wan in the public and trying very hard to pretend her eyes aren’t misty, as Cody receives his diploma, earning himself the title of Doctor in linguistics, for his work with the forgotten Kel Dor city, right next to the first Kel Dor of said city to have made the jump to Coruscant.

Cody isn’t the first clone to finish his thesis. Not surprising:  he left the GAR years later than some of them, refusing to leave before his lover, who had been pressed into service as long as the Senate could justify it, and even longer. With Anakin leaving the Jedi Order, Obi-Wan was certainly the most famous member of it for the public, and it was as if the Senate tried to make him pay the Jedi’s refusal to abandon the vode. But Cody was the first clone Jocasta Nu talked with, when she arrived to try to help the vode not in pleading that they shouldn’t be slave soldiers, but in demonstrating they were so much more.

Cody wasn’t the first clone to leave the GAR officially, that honour went to Rex who followed Ashoka to Orto Plutonia, the first clone to be officially accepted as a member of the Jedi Corps. For what Cody understands, his life consists of almost losing his toes ten times a month, hunting with the Taz and flirting desperately with every passing skirts, as Ahsoka flirts desperately with her own Senator and supervises Republic-Taz contacts. Obi-Wan and Cody went once during permission, and Cody swore to himself that the next time Rex and Ahsoka wanted to see them, it could be on a tropical atoll.

Cody wasn’t the first clone to find a job outside of the Jedi orbit. That honour went to Fives and Tup, who left together and chose the most pacifist world they could. “We were almost separated once, never again. I’m not touching a weapon again in my life” Fives had said to Cody that day, watching Tup, busy hugging Rex, with something ferociously possessive in his eyes. Now, they have a nursery of succulent plants on a small island, in the south hemisphere of Alderaan, and Cody still isn’t sure if they are the best friends in the world, or one of those pairs who took brothers in a quite different sense, and frankly, he doesn’t care. There is a small potted thing they sent as a gift on Cody’s desk, with red undertones and white flowers once a year, but the former Commander has a black thumb, and only Obi-Wan’s careful nursing in the Force saved the poor thing already thrice.

Cody wasn’t the first clone to enter academia, that honour went to Waxer, who now teaches mathematics on Mandalore and is busy reintroducing Fett’s genes into the population with a long string of ex-partners, who still like him very much and with who he raises an army of children, at least three of them bearing a name honouring Waxer.

Cody wasn’t the first clone to marry, that honour went to Jesse and Cody isn’t touching that choice of spouse with a ten-foot pool.

Cody wasn’t the first in a lot of things. But it’s ok. He doesn’t have to lead his brothers anymore. He doesn’t have to bear responsibilities for death and help who didn’t come, and for the horrors that were their life.

The vode are free and Cody can only be a brother like any other.

He can be only Obi-Wan’s husband, even if Obi-Wan jokes that now, it’s more him that will be only the husband of Doctor Cody Kenobi, his arm candy in gatherings.

[moonlightchess]

a brief interlude in which a young mortician finally meets his patron saint.

(Diaphanous).

Around five years old, when he first started hearing them. Soft, muted weeping echoing lightly through the cavernous halls just beyond his bedroom door, and by ten he was accustomed to sliding out of bed, yawning, padding to his doorway to step out into the endlessly shadowed maw veining through the upstairs of his family’s home. The moaning creak of the floorboards was easily avoidable if you knew where to slide your feet, which by then he did, and he’d whisper into the dark: “You’re okay. It’s all over now, but stay as long as you need to. You’ll be getting along when you’re ready.” And even then, there was something profoundly tender and melancholy wrapping itself around little Theodore like an aura, to which the ghosts usually responded favorably. On occasion, they’d even slip into his bedroom after he climbed back into bed, gently tugging his duvet over him in thanks.

Sixteen, and Pere introduced him to the family business in the most definitive sense yet, bringing him down into the embalming room. There, he was shown how to drain the bodies, to sew their gums securely closed, to carefully apply powders and lotions to suggest sleep despite death. Pere helped him to remove the heart and lungs of a corpse in the preparation process of the old fashion, despite it having fallen out of favor in more recent years. Bellefontaine, Louisiana, lingered a decade or two behind much of the nation, in every way from embalming practices to racial sensitivity, both topics having already been addressed with young Theodore. “A person is a person, deserving of respect and love and dignity regardless of their skin, wealth, or any other such thing that the ignorant might think defines them,” Theodore senior had informed his small son firmly, long ago, meeting his midnight-blue eyes that were so solemn and sympathetic even then. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Pere.” Theodore had not understood, not entirely, back then. But at sixteen, hunched over the dead body of a local bait shop owner whose wife made the softest, sweetest beignets he’d ever tasted, clarity rose sharp and bitter. “Monsieur Dumonde,” had escaped him before he could swallow the words in the interest of professionalism. “I knew him. Used to buy worms from him when the boys wanted to go fishing, but it’s been so long. I didn’t know he was sick.”

“Everyone dies, ti-Theodore,” and he’d been in love with the way his name rolled from his father’s tongue in a thicker cajun accent than his own - tee-tay-oh-doure, Theodore junior. It was enormously soothing, even now as he considered shaving Monsieur Dumonde’s thick mustache away for his funeral - but in the end, he placed the straight razor back onto his father’s table of sharp tools, aware that his decision had been a test. “No. We leave the mustache, he always had one when he was alive. He used to tug on it and laugh at our homemade fishing poles whenever we went into his shop. His mustache was a part of him, and it’s important that we send him to the next with as much of the man he was intact as we can.” He’d been a little nervous, meeting the dusk-colored eyes that he’d inherited from his beloved father, holding his breath.

“Good boy,” and he’d exhaled. “There are many who would have shaved him, cut his hair, put on some strange new clothes he never would have chosen himself. But you, my sweet and quiet boy, you understand.”

Mere had been a dancer, once. Ballet had been her life, her identity, until a careless would-be principal prince had stumbled into her leap - during a rehearsal no less, she’d been denied even the dignity of a grand disaster to end her career in the middle of a soaringly tragic performance - and her ankle had snapped, had never healed properly. She limped a touch even then, bringing sweet tea out to their wraparound porch thick with creeping ivy and heavy flowers bursting open at random, studding the lush green like jewels in a necklace, where her teenage son sat cross-legged on a battered loveseat long since dragged out to face the elements of the swampland. Together, they would count the darting fireflies, tiny pinpricks of golden light waging a valiant war against the encroaching southern dark. “I was beautiful once,” she’d said to him. “They all used to come watch me dance, in the city.”

“You’re still beautiful, Mere.”

She’d only sighed, slipping a hand into the pocket of her pea-green silk skirt to retrieve a shot bottle of bourbon, hoarded from the liquor store in town, and poured it into her tea.

They were both gone now, six, seven years proper. He’d prepared their bodies, and in death all of his mother’s pain and longing had been exposed to him with the first incision into her cold and rigid flesh for the draining, sixty-two years of ballet and resentment filling up the glass reservoir of the tubing’s end, dark red. She’d always done up her soft, honey-colored hair into elaborate braids, draped over one shoulder or both or trailing down her back or even wound up into a twisted crown if she was in a happier mood than usual. Theodore had sat beside her, holding her stiff milky hand with his own and with the other, scrolling through youtube tutorials on how to create the perfect fishtail braid until he was confident.

Pere had gone five years after, the light in him having drained out as clear and real as every fluid in his wife’s body had eventually found its way into the belly of their aspirator in the basement. Pneumonia had taken his mother - she’d always had a poor and fragile immune system - but his father had been just shy of seventy and to this day, at thirty-two years old, Theodore had never been offered a satisfying cause of death for him. “Just his time, sug,” a nurse in powder blue scrubs had tried, patting his hand soothingly and because this was the south, “I’ll be praying for y’all - well, just you I suppose. Oh lord, you’re the only Bissonette left now, ain’tcha?”

He was. They’d left the entire mortuary to him, and with it all the responsibilities of being the local mortician and funeral director at such a tender age, and his head had at first swum dizzily with all the pressure and expectations. Theodore senior and his wife Lisette had been fixtures of their country community, familiar and comforting, always there whenever someone had passed on to arrange flowers and platters of cold cuts, to deliver gentle words to cushion the grief. They’d been known, trusted, but Theodore junior, well. Ti-Theodore Bissonette, so young to be running the whole house himself, and the folk of Bellefontaine just weren’t sure. Until the death of little Suzette Marchande.

Hit by a car, she’d been, some hideous beast driving drunk through the winding access road circling their little cajun town and pointed out toward Nola proper. He was in prison now, but Suzette remained dead, and in his huge, capable hands Theodore had poured every bit of his father’s knowledge and sensitivity into that girl. He’d dressed her in yellow, one of her own dresses supplied by her mother, but he’d also remembered that she’d loved frogs. She’d catch them in the swamp and hold them in both hands, laughing at their croaky sounds, but then she’d carefully deposit them onto some leaf somewhere. “They got big ones, in the jungle. The Amazon,” he remembered her saying when the Bissonettes had run into she and her parents in town once, years ago. “Big as cars, they are. I’m gonna go there someday and study ‘em.”

So he’d bought sparkly little green frog clips for her hair online, pinning it back from her freckled face. Her favorite stuffed froggie, named Monsieur Ourauron, Mister Ribbitt, had been lost in the crash, but he’d found one in the Amazon - or at least on amazon - that looked largely the same. When her parents had seen her during the open-casket service, they’d wept and clutched his hands, thanking him in a babbling blend of French, English and grief. That day had declared the end of one life and the beginning of another, as little Suzette had been delivered unto whatever waited after, but thirty-year-old ti-tay-oh-doure had been manifest and confirmed.

There was something to be said for how tall he was. He would have thought some would find it intimidating, difficult to relate to considering that he was six-seven or perhaps a touch over, impossibly long limbs and a hawkish nose, soft mouth borne of his Mere and his father’s nearly indigo eyes the color of a sky five minutes before the moonrise. His was soft, floppy, peanut-brown hair and a quiet timbre resonating in his voice that was immediately associated with the unthreatening sense of calm authority that his father had once carried around easy as an old sweater. Theodore would take care of everything, Bellefontaine knew. They’d be left free to grieve their lost, because he was here with his huge hands and endless legs and fleeting smile.

He lived alone, now. There had been flings, lovers, Audrey from Nola with her autumn-brown skin and fox-gold eyes, elegant and sure, but she hadn’t stayed long. “This place is charming, but you can’t actually expect to stay here all your life, can you?” she’d told him once, after the sex, the two of them naked and wrapped around each other in his sprawling bed with a gentle breeze from outside floating through his open window. She didn’t understand, and neither did the men, not even sweet Peter with his auburn curls and dimples.

“You’re all alone out here, doesn’t it get boring? Lonely? My god, you live in a mortuary.” His shiver had been all that Theodore had needed to kiss him tenderly and send him on his way. His father had been extraordinarily lucky to find Mere, he knew - so few understood, the nature of a curator of death. The ancient contract they’d signed, the tradition they’d inherited. It was sacred but horrifying to most, because everyone wanted the convenience of their holy order at the end of all things, but no one actually wanted to have to think about dying. About the fact that literally all of them, rich or poor, pious or skeptical, afraid or unafraid, was going to die. The repulsion, he understood, was instinctive, and he’d only made his lovers breakfast in the morning and never called any of them back.

Some of the ghosts never left, as it was, and there were mornings in which he’d make his way into the kitchen to find his black tea already steaming, his chair already pulled away from the table. Some of them had found their peace here with him, and so he’d leave his cello out on occasion so that they could pluck the strings or plink a few keys on his mother’s old baby grand in the living room. He was happy too, his natural introversion leaving him largely content in his solitary life. There were those who sought comfort in his touch after the funerals of their loved ones, holding onto his hands a beat too long as he bade them goodbye, meeting his eyes meaningfully, but he always released them to the hazy swamp air outside. They were hurting, vulnerable, and he was a gentleman.

It rained the night the stranger arrived, or stormed rather - Theodore’s lights had been flickering throughout the manor all night. He’d collected candles and charged his phone, but his power had soldiered on even as the thunder crashed and jagged needles of lightning slashed open the churning charcoal sky outside. He’d yanked open the heavy oak door in response to some insistent knocking, only to find a man roughly his age standing there on the porch. He was oddly untouched by the rain despite no car present behind him, moon-pale, spilled-ink hair thick and soft over limpid, silver-mirror eyes, colorless as a deep-sea creature’s, slicing through the dark.

“Saints alive, are you lost? Are you all right?” The man, he didn’t know personally, but a truth and clarity rolled from him like steam off the swamp, and he felt enormously familiar somehow.

“I wouldn’t say lost, no. May I come in?” His voice, soft and polite, still clear and steady over the storm.

“Yes, forgive me. Please.” He stepped aside, watching him enter, translucent eyes sweeping over the yawning, shadowed maw of the grand old manor’s entryway. “Who are you? I’m sorry, but I’m not taking in any bodies until morning.”

“I understand. Terribly sorry to intrude upon your evening like this, but you and I, we have a matter to discuss.” His accent was not local, nor was it unfamiliar. It felt like a forgotten dream, abruptly remembered, an old song once loved playing on the radio years later.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize you, Sir. Have you been to one of my funerals?”

“Sweet Theodore, I have been to all of them.”

“I don’t understand.”

The stranger clasped his hands behind his back, idle as a museum patron, gazing thoughtfully up to the enormous and heavily framed oil paintings of Bissonettes past lining the walls of the entryway. “It’s my fault for allowing myself to become so fond of you, but you’ve never really understood just how rare a person you are, have you Theodore? I shouldn’t have come here, but I had no choice. I couldn’t let you leave here tonight, that tree would have rendered your car to a smoking wreck and your body to worse. And you, sweet Theodore, you deserve so much better. After all the respect and care and compassion you have shown so unfailingly to myself and my vocation over the years - I’ve come to love you, and you deserve a soft and quiet end. So much sweeter than the one planned for you, I had to make sure you didn’t die in that crash. I had to come here, on this night. For all your kindness, tonight I will be kind to you.”

Drunk, perhaps. Some sauced-up tourist stumbling through the bayou after a bar crawl, but - this far from the city proper? “I’m afraid that you’re still losing me, will you please tell me who you are?”

He turned then, colorless gaze meeting Theodore’s, an echo of sorrow in his faint smile.

“You know who I am.”

In the end, it was true. He supposed at least a part of him had known from the moment he’d opened the door.

“I do. I didn’t think I’d meet you this young in life, but I’m pleased to find you a gentleman, Sir. I can only hope that in the time you’ve allowed me, I’ve done you proud.”

“You and your whole dear family. You don’t know how much I owe you, all of you. You would have lingered, in pain, on life support, for months. It was unbearable, unacceptable. Not you, not my Theodore who has served me so gently and so diligently for so much of your life.”

“I suppose it’s time, then.” He was not afraid. Death, he knew. He’d existed out here in a kind of stasis for years, honoring his patron saint, the man standing before him in a soft black sweater and reaching out to slip an arm through his.

“It is. But I think the storm is winding to a close, and the mists are always so lovely. Why don’t we go see.”

Nodding, Theodore allowed himself to be led to the door, turning briefly to look back just one last time into his beautiful old house, his shrine to a softer death than most knew existed. He’d always done his best, to make the transition as easy as possible for those on their way to some other place, and now it was time to go.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not for you, no.” The stranger opened the door then, and Theodore couldn’t be sure that the new world laid before him looked the same to both of them, but he smiled at what he saw.

“You were right. It’s beautiful.”

The house and the ghosts left wandering its halls signed in unison with the departure of their beloved Theodore, but the rain had slowed and the moon had risen and they were patient enough to wait a while. Someone would come, someone as warm and bright as him, someone who would take care of them as tenderly as he had, some new Theodore born. In the end, after all, nothing ever really died, and daylight was coming on soon, sure as a promise.

[badmoonyellow]

HP HEADCANON: PARIS UNIVERSITY

𝓵𝓮𝓼 𝓯𝓪𝓬𝓾𝓵𝓽𝓮𝓼 ✯ 𝓊𝓃𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈

(click here for contents)

There are five different facultés (abr. fac) in Paris, each one called by a number and the name of a famous wizard/witch or a district in Paris. Each fac has its specificities and various pathways that should please most of the young students trying to find what they want to do with their life after they graduate

Paris I — Babel: Modern languages, dead languages, magical languages, magicology, magical literature, theoretical studies of magical and non-magical art

Paris II — Ruggieri: Astrology, astronomy, divination, theology, psychology, philosophy and sociology

Paris III — Nicolas et Pernelle Flamel: Alchemy, occult sciences, arithmancy and mathematics, magical and non-magical medicine, biology

Paris IV — Cluny: Botanics, care of magical creatures, potions, magical geology and crystal healing, elementary magic

Paris V — Kardec: Necromancy, spiritism, divination, transfiguration, illusionism and oneiric magic, hypnosis and psychology

French students either use the number or the name of the uni to refer to it, never both. Ex: “I did my masters at Paris IV”, “I was a teacher at Cluny for two years” or “Flamel has the best course for arithmancy”

Paris universities are known for being selective but welcome students from every social class: there are no tuition fees except for social security which is calculated on the income of the student or their household if they still live with their parents. The more you earn, the more you pay but it is capped to 20 galleons per student (roughly 450€). If you’re doing a joint honour degree in two different fac, you won’t have to pay twice.

Be careful with this because French bureaucracy is kind of a mess, especially when it comes to uni life. Most people working for the administration have a precise timetable they like to stick to and won’t be kind to you if you raise your voice, even if you’ve been waiting for 2h at their door because the only free time you had is during their lunch break. But sometimes, the right owl sent to the right person will be enough, so don’t hesitate to communicate!

Depending on which fac you’re attending, you’ll probably meet a lot of different people but since we’re French (a.k.a. judgmental), each fac has a typical profile of students:

Students from Babel are considered clever and cultivated but most people think they just don’t really know what they want to do with their life yet. They enjoy uni life in Paris and spend time hanging out with a great deal of foreign students from every part of the world, learning and researching for academic purpose. They create more or less harmful spells and like to talk in latin or ancient greek on a daily basis. They make inside jokes about politics and are the first ones to go on strike any time they don’t agree with the government’s decisions. Very diplomatic and charismatic but also kinda conceited since Babel was the first actual French magical faculté in the Sorbonne (this title is also claimed by the Perrault Institute). They love to debate about any topic of the wizarding world and for the most part, they know a lot about the non-magical world too since they study languages spoken by muggles as well.

Students from Ruggieri are more discreet and contemplative. They are passionate and having your astral chart drawn up by one of them feels like becoming an open book, even though knowing about astrology doesn’t always mean being intuitive. They aren’t known for being empathetic though, and they have a tendency to despise divination techniques that aren’t based on what’s written in the stars (students from Kardec can tell). They love mythology, mind games and poetry. They often go to the countryside beyond Paris’ suburbs to escape light pollution and if you’re lucky, they might invite you to their next nocturnal picnic in Seine-et-Marne.

Students from Flamel are hard-working and competitive since medicine studies (and other courses taught in this university) follow the numerus clausus method. You have more chances to see a Flamel student at the BAM (Bibliothèque Académique de Magie, en. Academic Library for Magic) than attending any of the cool parties young French witches and wizards organise throughout the year. Actually, since the BAM is physically part of Paris I, this has created a long-time resentment among students who all claim priority to access the Library. Flamel students are ambitious and passionate by their field but suffer from a great deal of pressure since failing one exam can be  eliminatory. They also have the worst writing ever.

Students from Cluny are seen as the weird hippies of the academic wizarding world. Always down for going on a trip or testing new things. Their shared interest in elementary magic makes them very welcoming and warm since they tend to focus on how a group is stronger than an individual and how you can always seek for help in others (“others” sometimes meaning plants, animals or rocks). They are very genuine and you won’t know for sure if they are really down-to-earth or if they constantly keep their head in the clouds. They love going outdoors and escape the city from time to time but they can also spend hours (days) underground cultivating fungi. Laugh now if you want to, but they get the best kind of psychedelics and liquors for your next party and they won’t bring any if you make fun of them. Also, they throw their own parties in cool speakeasies all over the Mines. Keep your ears open if you want to get the password!

Students from Kardec are actually the real anarchists of the academic landscape, even though Babel tries to steal their far-left thunder. Non-conformists, skeptical and teasing, they love throwing some unpopular opinion in a debate and watch how it takes. You’ll see them at protests and art events since they hang out a lot with students from the ENSBAMO and the Académie de Musique. They generally have no filter whatsoever and are also trying to figure out what they want to do with their life but even though they seem a bit puzzling at times, they’re really sweet. They might know their way around the Mines better than students from Cluny and believe me when I tell you this: they throw the best Halloween party every year — apparently being located in a cemetery helps a lot.

Of course, these are reputations, not distinctive character traits and every student is different from the other so don’t worry: you’ll fit right in wherever you want to go!

[stardancerluv]

When You Take Care of Each Other

Part 3c

Summary: Alot of intimacy between Roman and Reader

Warning: sex, cock warming, dom!Roman, Daddy!kink

You stopped right in front of him. You could feel as his eyes as they moved over you. Your heart picked up speed, it was making you breathless. Letting go of the doorframe he closed the short distance. The scent of his cologne and him mixed, he was intoxicating. You yearned to kiss a trail of kisses up his throat.

“I’m still hungry for you.” He reached out and you felt as his fingertips gently grazed your cheek. Tilting your head into them you let yourself melt into his touch. “I am sad about something.”

You treaded lightly. “Oh, what was that?” Gently, you dragged his hand to your mouth and you pressed a firm kiss to his palm. You met his turbulent eyes as you did so. It was his dominant hand, he had just been doing something to defend your honor, it turned you on. It further caused a soft beat of arousal to blossom deep inside of you.

“I never found out whether you kept your word and wore no panties under your dress.” Despite his tone being subdued, it had an edge. You felt that edge. You knew it came from the part of him that lingered from his bad day.

“Have I ever lied to you?” You asked gently.

“No.”

“If after bringing me to that darkened corner, and if you had let this hand,” He let you guide his hand from your mouth to your throat between your breasts, moving further down you brought his hand to your soft torso and stopped just above the apex between you legs. “drift under my dress you would have felt that I didn’t wear any.”

His hand moved, he grabbed you. It caused a moan to pour from you. “I should have.” He squeezed. “Would you have liked that?”

“Yes. I like it when you touch what’s yours to have.” Your voice shook, he was stealing your ability think strait.

“It belongs to me.” He rubbed you gently, pulling soft sounds from you. You reached out to him, grasping his upper arms. He had made your knees weak. “You belong to me.” His lips just barely missed yours, as he spoke.

“Yes, I do. You take care me,” You watched his eyes grow as you moved as demurely as possibly against his fingers. “You protect me and tonight, you showed a pair of goons what happens when they mess with me.” Your voice shook and cracked as he rubbed you firmed arousing you further.

“Mmm,” he made a sound from deep within him. “Do you like this?”

“You are rubbing me here in your office? Where you tell the rest of Gotham to fuck off?” You smiled. “I do.” Saying it made you wetter. You loved the fact that you belonged to him.

His smirk grew. “You have been quite the good girl in here haven’t you?”

You nodded, your mind wandered to other times; when he first took you on his desk or he had a conference call with two rivals and you sucked at him. That had been particularly fun. “I like being good for daddy.”

He pulled his fingers back. You couldn’t stop yourself from making a sound, a soft pout forming on your lips. You already missed his touch when you felt its absence.

“I got you good and ready but I need more.” He sighed.

Reaching, you gently undid the knot of the belt of his coat. “What can I do to make you feel better?” You looked at him from under your lashes.

His free hand grabbed your mouth, a soft whimper came you. You saw that his eyes were burned, he was still angry. “Yes daddy?” You managed to say.

His eyes burned as he looked at you, wished there was something you could do to make him feel good. Though you were not sure where to start.

“Come with me.” He grabbed your hand.

You held it back your worry as he brought you to very open sitting area of the penthouse. It was there sometimes, you would watch the news or movies with Roman, when he had a night off. It had a large sofa, and huge over stuff chairs that matched along with another private bar.

“Make daddy a drink.”

You smiled brightly. He let go of your hand

“You can make yourself one too, but you can’t have it till I say so.”

“Alright, daddy.”

Despite the limited lightning on. Mostly, moonlight and shadows filling the room, you felt very exposed. Anyone who would by accident take the elevator to the penthouse would see you completely naked. The walls had window of differently colored squares. Luckily, you were high enough that no one could peer in.

******

Perhaps it was the mix of his day, maybe it was the compromise he made by not cutting that fuckers hand off but he was still furious. The arousal you caused in him mixed with his anger. Slipping out of his coat, he took one of his knives and put it on one of the end tables.

With a contented sigh, he sat in the middle of the sofa. Glancing over, he caught the lovely curve of your body. His stomach tightened.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, baby.” You came over with his drink. He welcomed you onto his lap.

He wrapped in arm around your back, as he took his drink with his other free hand. “What if Zsasz comes up here to tell you something?”

“He is going to see me fucking you.” He took a sip from his drink, yours always tasted better. He watched your eyes grow. “Actually, I turned the elevator’s access to the penthouse off.”

You relaxed. “Thank you, daddy.” You said sweetly.

He smiled, his hand went to your hip and he squeezed. “You may be mine, but you are not a vessel to me nor will I ever treat you like one.”

You moved a little, and his smile grew larger, as he felt your hand sneak under his suit jacket while he felt your lips as you begun kissing his throat.

“Y/N.” Your name was more a sound then your name. “Y/N, look at me.” His voice had more of an edge but felt it was needed.

You pulled back, he could see the hurt. It actually broke through his anger. Which actually took a moment to register, this he wasn’t used to. You were the only one who had ever been able to rid his anger or bad days without making them worse.

Well, unless you were both having bad day and well sometimes he mused, those darker times could be alot of fun.

He took another sip and attempted to chose his words carefully. Another thing, he wasn’t used to.

“Growing up, I was a fucking object for my parents.” He rolled his eyes. “I was supposed to become best friends with Bruce. So they could get into such and such country club.” He said in a mimicking voice. He took another sip of his drink.

“When I was younger I continued that behavior. Other girls I saw I would have let Victor walk in on. Well, to be honest they never made it past the club. No one came up here.” He gave you a smile, looking into your eyes which he couldn’t read. “You’re the only one I trusted and wanted up here.”

“Oh Roman.” You wrapped your arms around him. You just held him, feeing your soft body and he enjoyed it.

A soft sound came from him when he felt your tongue, your kisses. “Let me make you feel good now.” Your breath was warm as you whispered that.

He stretched out his arms and let you. “Please, baby.” He whispered back as he watched and let do as you wished.

Your fingers easily opened and untucked his shirt from his slacks. He felt as you gently rocked against his growing hard on. “But don’t tease.” He met your eyes.

“Alright, not tonight.”

He smirked, damn you were just too good.

Your fingers made quick work of his belt and the zipper of his pants. He loved the intake of breath you always made you freed him from his pants. It always made him harder.

You scooted away for a moment, smiling he let you removed his pants. Straddling him once more, you looked at you and held you closer.

Your already wet warmth trembled against him, as he kissed you. He groaned as you continued to rub lushly over him. “Take me inside of you baby.”

You nodded but first you reached for his glass, he held it just out of reach, “I have an idea.”

“Oh?”

“First, I want to be nice and deep inside of you.”

You closed your eyes and made a soft sound. “Mm I want you to be as well.” You were breathless. You sat up and soon, with a moaned you lowered yourself onto him.

“Now don’t move.” You looked confused. “Be a good girl and don’t move.”

But you moved a little.

He smacked one of your ass cheeks which he realized felt really good.

“Daddy!” You yelped.

“I told you not to move.” He gently but firmly reminded you.

“Ok.”

“Good girls don’t move when daddy’s cock in them.” How quickly you sat a little straighter was not only endearing but was incredibly sexy. It also felt amazing. “Good girl.” He smiled.

Looking at you, he slowly finished his drink. “This was really good. Thank you.”

He noticed, when he spoke you would tighten and loosen around him. “You feel so good.” He added, before he took out the little sword that held the three olives, placed the glass down.

He grazed it against your lips.

“Would you like one of daddy’s olives?”

You nodded.

“Now just one.”

He swallowed as he watched you pull one to your mouth by your lips. Your breasts were so soft, and you were as tight as little flower buds; and just as sweet to look at. He gently grazed one bud, then the other one you wiggled on top of him but it felt so good, he wasn’t going to stop you.

He made a soft endearing sound. “Feel good baby?”

When the cool liquor trailed a path down your body, he didn’t stop you from wiggling then either.

“Yes.” You only wiggled a little. “I will never think of those olives the same way.” He did it again as you spoke I’m enjoying the sounds it caused.

Making sure you were watching, he ate them and tossed the sword. Bowing his head he licked at one of your luscious pink buds. He made a soft sound as he felt your fingers in his hair. He lingered a little longer as he heard you moaning more. He finally went on to the other little bud. When be pulled back he met your eyes. “That is the only kind of shot I want. You’re soft warm body and some liquor.”

“Please.” You whimpered.

He smoothed his hands up your thighs till he held your hips. “Ride daddy baby.” He move enough, so you had some room.

Together you moved, your moans mingled and became one. Sloppy, hungry kisses finally were exchanged. He continued to you hold and he moved with you. Damn, it felt so good. Your fingers moved through his hair, even tugging a little which only made everything feel better.

After, you came hard against you arching in your glowing moan that filled the entire penthouse, he held you as he finally came hard himself after continuing to move in and out of you.

Gently, he held you as you melted soft against him. He gently ran his fingers up and down your back. You still fell into a gentle sleep with him in you. Holding you, he let himself fall asleep too.

Leading into a Sunday, when he woke sometime later dawn was coming the sky was that particular shade of blue that fills the sky before the sun arrives. It made him chuckle softly. They had slept quite a while like a statue of lovers, who never wanted to part.

You gently stirred.

“Baby,” He whispered, let’s sleep more comfortably in bed. “Yes?”

You gently moved off of him and after shedding his shirts, leaving them there he scooped you up.

****

Still half asleep you curled up to him as he pulled the blankets up. Right now, that exactly what he wanted. Somewhere, in the recesses of his shadowy mind, he hoped it would it was enough to keep the nightmares away.

@spn-obsessed-dean @vintagemichelle91 @xxxeatyourh3artoutxxx @ewanfuckingmcgregor @zodiyack @angel98624 @frenchgirlinlondon @nebulastarr @emyliabernstein @thepeachreads @itsknife2meetu @omghappilyuniquebouquetlove @nomnomnomnamja @poe-kadot26 @babydoll97 @hazel-nuss @vcat55 @feelthemadnessinside @brookisbi @peachthatdrinkslemonade @johallzy @foreverhockeytrash @frostypenguinoz @starwarsslytherin @proffesionalclown @chogisss @shantellorraine @xxinvisiblexx @mxdx8 @blondekel77 @saphic-susperia @drarrylov3r @i-cant-hear-you16 @deadlymistress24 @yesqueenofthelight @lemairepstuff @generallj

[pigtownchronicles]

Chapter 1.4 - The Crow’s Nest

Dennis was left behind, as he’d expected he would be. If you’d pinned him down on it, he would have even admitted that he wanted to be abandoned, that it would confirm for him that this was somewhere he didn’t belong, and where he didn’t want to be. He sighed--Barry had promised him one drink, but he could already tell that he’d have to drag him out of here in a couple of hours. He could be such a child.

He started looking for somewhere that he could wait, preferably somewhere quiet and away from the noise of the dance floor, but most of the nooks he found were largely taken up by guys in various states of making out or full blown sex. One thing was for sure, when he was out of here, he’d be dropping an anonymous tip to the liquor control board and the health department, because none of this was acceptable to him, and everyone here should be ashamed of themselves.

Dennis had grown up the son of two doctors, with well entrenched class interests that neither had done much to examine. Dennis’ homosexuality had been a minor wrench in their family, but quickly smoothed over. An anecdote, real or not, that Barry had heard many times at many dinner parties, was that his parents would have been more scandalized by him not going to medical school, than the fact he was gay. His parents’ orthodoxy hadn’t entirely rubbed off on him, but he’d imagined that the sort of debauchery all around him now was beneath gay men, as a culture. They could get married now! They were on TV all the time. This sort of thing just wasn’t necessary, or at the very least, could be kept more discrete. He found a set of stairs leading up. They weren’t cordoned off, but no one seemed to be on the upper level that he could see. On the stairs, someone had spray painted the words “Crow’s Nest” along with an arrow pointing up. A bit curious, he climbed them and found himself on a set of narrow walkways suspended over the warehouse floor. Entirely unsafe, and most certainly another violation of some sort. He’d always kind of enjoyed being a snitch.

The view gave him a good view of the place. There was the dance floor where he was sure Barry and Samuel were still satisfying some of their baser urges. He looked around for where the hell knew where that shady fucker and the meathead had gone, but soon lost interest. He polished off the beer, and set the can off in a little cubby on the wall, and leaned over the railing by the entrance to the bar, deciding to just spend his time looking at the flow of guys coming in, as something to do.

It was after about twenty minutes, when he was contemplating going down and beginning the process of extricating Barry from the place so they could go home, that he saw a trio of younger guys enter the bar. Obviously underage--not surprising, since the bouncer didn’t seem interested in checking ID. They were looking around nervously, tittering a bit and huddling together, before they headed for the bar to get a drink. As they passed under a light, though, Barry realized that he recognized one of them--Kyle Hendricks, a son of one of their neighbors, who they paid to watch their cat, Misty, while they were on vacation.

And so, the snitch in Dennis was torn. On one hand, he loved the idea of getting someone in trouble. On the other hand, Kyle was a good kid, and he’d always taken good care of their home and Misty for them. Besides that, there was the issue of Kyle’s father. It didn’t surprise Dennis to see Kyle here--Barry and him both had sussed out the teenager’s preference rather quickly after their initial introduction. What had concerned them both, though, was the cold treatment they’d gotten from Kyle’s father ever since they’d moved in. He seemed like a garden variety homophobe. He could tolerate Dennis and Barry in his neighborhood, because at least they were respectable, but Dennis didn’t think he would be as accommodating with his own son somehow. There was also the matter of what had happened last summer, but Dennis avoided thinking about that in the moment. What was there to tell anyway? He’d offered to pay Kyle in exchange for helping with cleaning out the garage. Sure, there had been some flirting, maybe. Just some play, really. But then Kyle had kissed him, and Dennis had kissed him back, nothing more, but he was thinking about it now, he knew better than to think about it. Best to bury things like that deep down, and never tell a soul. It was safer that way.

The three young men moved deeper into the bar, and other two kids started making out, while Kyle kept drinking--classic third wheel, then. Maybe he’d come along just to keep them company. Maybe he didn’t even want to be here. The two disappeared into the dance floor not long after that, leaving Kyle alone--and Dennis felt a certain camaraderie, having been abandoned in these sorts of places often, including tonight. If he went down, he could offer him an escape hatch at least. He’d probably be thankful for it. There was no way a good kid like him wanted to be somewhere like this. Kyle finished his beer, and Dennis thought he’d probably just be a good wall flower and stay put, but he didn’t. He was looking around at the other men around, then pushed off from the table, and headed towards...well, Dennis found his theory full of holes already.

Kyle slid closer to the object of interest, a leather clad bear smoking a cigar (indoor smoking, another violation) who was easily twice his age, if not more than that. Older than Dennis, surely. The man looked Kyle over and gave him a nod, the two of them started chatting, and it wasn’t long before the man slid an arm around him and pulled Kyle closer. Dennis wracked his head, trying to remember exactly how old Kyle was. He knew Kyle was eighteen (though he’d been seventeen the summer before, but Dennis definitely wasn’t thinking about that). He was too young to know what he was getting into, what this place was, who that man was and what he was into. Finally feeling a solid moral ground, he headed down to the main floor, and pushed towards the dance floor.

The club had been only moderately packed when they’d entered, and now was beginning to feel crushing. Dennis hadn’t been this close to so many men in a very long time, but rather than exciting, it was just frustrating him. By the time he’d reached the tables around the dance floor, he saw the bear and Kyle had moved from heavy petting to kissing. Dennis walked over, grabbed Kyle by the shoulder and hauled him away from the older man. “Kyle Hendricks, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

Kyle’s eyes went wide in the dark, and he tried to bolt, but Dennis kept a firm grip on his upper arm.

The bear got up, “Hey man, what’s the deal, this your boy or something?”

“He’s my neighbor, and he’s underage.”

The bear laughed, “Come on man, this is Pigtown--everyone who’s here belongs here, don’t you know that? The kid came onto me, anyway. I was gonna be gentle.”

Dennis gave the bear a glare, and pulled Kyle further away from him. Kyle was a scrawny kid, with long hair that tended to fall over his eyes, something he liked to hide behind. “If you bolt, I swear to God, I will tell your dad what you were doing tonight, and where you were doing it.”

Kyle’s eyes went from startled, to legitimate terror at the threat. “Mr. Case, you--he’d fucking kill me, come on, I just...my friends wanted to come out, and I...I didn’t really want to, I...”

“Yeah yeah, you just wanted to get all up in some leather bear’s grill, huh? I am going to firmly suggest that you are probably too young to know what you actually want.”

“I’m...I’m eighteen, it’s legal.”

“There’s a distinction between legal and right. Now, Barry and I are going to take you home, and if I catch wind of you doing anything like this again, I will have to make an issue of it with your father, do you understand?” He stood Kyle next to an empty table. “Now, I have to find Barry, and then we’re leaving. You do not take your hand off this table, do you understand me?”

Kyle nodded, and watched as Dennis slipped into the throng of bodies on the dance floor, looking for his husband, surprisingly satisfied to have both the moral high ground, and an indisputable reason to leave this place. Kyle heaved a sigh, trying to get his heart to stop pounding in his ears, and looked back over at the bear a few yards away. The leather bear was looking back at him, with a rather pitiful look, and that just made Kyle angrier. He hated pity. His friends pitied him, for his asshole family. He pitied himself, because he was scrawny. He’d been the one to suggest this place, anyway, not that Dennis needed to know that. He looked down at his hand, still on the table where Dennis had put it. He could let go--he knew that. He could go back over to that bear, he...he could say fuck it. Who cares if his Dad knew, anyway? He’d figure it out. But he didn’t pull his hand away--he just waited, feeling like the child he mostly was still, and hating himself for it. 

The bear just shrugged, and took another drag on his cigar. The boy would have to grow up sometime, after all. Besides, he was pretty sure he’d be seeing more of him soon enough.

***

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[isnt-it-pretty]

A The Queen’s Gambit inspired Sylvix fic I’ve had sitting in my drafts forever. Figured I may as well post the WIP!

TW for substance abuse, and generally everything terrible from both FE3H and from The Queen’s Gambit.

The room is silent. Hundreds of people wait with baited breath as two of the world's leading chess players fight across a wooden board. The pieces are lacquered - hand carved. Only the best for the players in Enbarr.

Sylvain studies the board, picking out his response to his opponents play several steps ahead. It's already the second day - five long hours the night previous left them both exhausted. Sylvain barely remembered to eat before crashing for 13 hours.

His opponent lifts a piece, his rook, and moves it forward. It's a clever strategy, but it won't be enough. The man across from him knows it too - he's twice Sylvain's age, but desperately trying to keep up.

They see it at the same time. A single move, and it'll be finished. There won't be a way for his opponent to come back from it. If he moves his bishop, it'll all be over. His opponent will resign, and Sylvain will be the youngest world champion at 22 years old.

It's his turn, he stares at the piece, his brain ticking into overdrive. It would be so easy, just to move to pieces. But then what? What else does Sylvain have but chess? He has no friends, has a family only in name. The media hates him, a stark contrast to being the Darling of the chess world at seven years old.

One move. And he'll win. He'll prove Miklan wrong, prove the media — his former friends, wrong.

He should have drank more before coming.

His hand is reaching for his king before he even realizes it - the words leaving his lip of their own accord. It feels right.

"I resign."

He knocks over his king, the hall is silent in shock.

Sylvain gets up, doesn't even bother shaking his opponents hand, and walks out.

...

He stops by his room with a single mindedness. His phone is going crazy, but Sylvain hasn't checked to see who is trying to reach him.

Everybody, probably.

His mother must be having an aneurysm, the media must be going insane.

He opens the door to his room and tosses the phone on the bed. His wallet too, but not before emptying out his cash as a tip for hotel staff. $500 total.

It's barely anything compared to his sizable room service charges - which is probably the cost of his room twice over. It's all paid for, he never leaves debt at a hotel.

There's an untouched bottle of whiskey on top of his mini bar. Expensive in beautiful glass. He hasn't touched it, preferring cheap straight liquor. Just because he can afford expensive drinks doesn't mean he bothers with it. He stops noticing the taste soon enough anyway.

He doesn't bother getting changed as he grabs the whiskey and heads out of the room. Somebody will come bother him if he stays there, and he doesn't want to be disturbed. Doesn't want to think.

Sylvain just threw the biggest match of his life, yet he can't bring himself to care.

The roof access is unlocked, which really should be a case for concern. Anybody with a key card could enter the stairwell and climb to the roof of the hotel - 5 stars and twelve floors. He can see all of Enbarr from up here. The twinkling of its lights remain unperturbed despite his actions. 

There's a railing about a foot from the edge. Sylvain ducks under it easily, and sits with his legs dangling downward. Nobody will be able to see him from the ground. Just a spec in the darkness looming above their heads.

He uncorks the glass crystal stopper and drinks.

...

Glenn loved chess. He was pretty good at it, too. It was something he and their father used to do together. Felix would sit on his dad’s lap and try to reach for the pieces. By the time he was six, most of the set had baby sized teeth marks engorged into them

Felix never had the patience for it, personally. He never wanted to study moves or games, never wanted to sit quietly and practice it. He preferred to run around, rolling in the dirt and mud with his friends.

It didn’t stop Felix from being enthralled every time he watched his other brother play.

There was a finesse to it. A certain wisdom that Felix could never quite grasp as Glenn carefully moved the pieces. He was better than their father by ten, and was competing in chess competitions by eleven.

Felix went to every one of his games.

Even now, so many years later, Felix can remember the magic of that first game. He was seven, following behind his dad like a little duckling, his hand grasped tightly in Glenn’s. There were plastic tables with chess sets on them lining the hall of the old community centre, but Glenn didn’t care. He was ecstatic to be there. The joy didn’t fade, even after Glenn lost the second to last game.

A year later they were watching TV. There was a chess special on.

That was the first time he saw Sylvain Gautier. 

Ten years old, the boy was already the darling of the chess world. His smiling was dazzling. The interviewer was asking generic questions, what was it like competing against adults, does he see chess in his future, etc etc. The answers came so naturally Felix thought the boy may have been magic.

After that interview, Glenn found every source he could about the boy. He replayed all of Sylvain’s games, tried to puzzle through the choices that were made, and why. Tried to figure out if there was a specific style to his play, something that could be used to trip him up.

In the end, there was nothing.

Two years later, Felix accompanied Glenn to a small competition in Fhirdiahd. Dimitri and Ingrid went along, if only to provide support. Both Ingrid and Dimitri were shaping up to be pretty good chess players themselves, but even working together they still couldn’t hold a candle to Glenn.

The competition was held in a high school gym. Rodrigue dropped them off and said he’d pick them up after.

It was a shock to everybody when Sylvain Gautier showed up to play.

Felix remembered seeing him walk up to the people running check in. Remembered seeing two college age students choke. Sylvain didn’t even smile at them. Didn’t even remove his sunglasses. 

He just said his name like everybody in the building didn’t know who he was, picked up a sheet to track his moves, and went into the gym. 

Even years later, it was probably the most surreal experience of Felix’s life.

Glenn won every game, ascended through the ranks just like Felix knew he would, until he was sitting across from a celebrity of the chess world. 

Sylvain was twelve at the time, but even that seemed so much older to Felix, who was small even for a ten year old.

Glenn smiled and held out his hand. Sylvain shook it, and they played.

As expected, Glenn lost. Dramatically, in fact, but Glenn didn’t mind. He was fifteen, was planning on what to do when he graduated high school in a few years. He enjoyed chess, but he simply didn’t have to love or dedication to play professionally, or the natural born talent. Their dad always said that the best chess players had a mix of both.

Sylvain flashed Glenn a smile, a little different from the one Felix had seen on TV interviews and magazine covers. Suddenly, it hit him. Sylvain had seemed bored in every game he played, but not Glenn’s.

"You're pretty good," he told Glenn when it was all over. 21 moves total - it was savage. “Did you study Loog’s games?” 

Glenn lit up. “I did! I, um, studied your games a lot too. I figured it may be a good counter to your strategy.” He looked over the board, over his dramatic loss. “Guess that didn’t pan out.”

Sylvain just shrugged. “You’re not the first to try it, don’t worry about it.” He checked his phone, typed something, and slipped it back into a pocket with a sigh. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go. Good to meet you Glenn...”

“Fraldarius,” Glenn answered, a little flustered. Felix knew he’d never hear the end of this day.

“Fraldarius,” Sylvain said. He shot Felix a smile too, before heading out of the building.

In the end, Glenn got the prize money - apparently Sylvain insisted. Said Glenn likely would have won, if he hadn't shown up.

Felix was only ten, but he found himself following everything Sylvain did after that.

...

The first time Sylvain played chess, he was five years old. Small and prone to illness, he wasn’t allowed to go outside like other kids his age. Instead Sylvain was kept indoors, where it was safe and controlled. He spent several days a month ill in bed, wrapped in soft blankets as nannies brought him juice and borth. His childhood was marked by books and quiet toys, things he could do without bothering people, or over exerting himself.

One day his tutor, an older gentleman named Mr. Hanneman, took out the chess board in some lesson or another. He said it would be a good way to pass the time. It was quiet, thought provoking, and could be played from a sickbed, as Sylvain so often found himself.

Miklan, seven years older and already pissed at the world, barely paid attention to the rules, but Sylvain was enthralled. The chess pieces were beautiful, they all had rules about how they could move and act - just like him. 

He took up the game with a single minded focus, wanting to know everything about it. He got Mr. Hanneman to bring him books and help him read them. Days which before had passed in a boring feverish haze were instead spent reading chess books, or replaying famous games.

By the time he was six, Sylvain was playing eleven board simultaneous games and winning all of them. He started competing soon afterward.

His parents were thrilled. It was the only time they'd ever bothered paying attention to him. Whenever he won, they’d make time to go out for dinner, or watch a movie with him. His mother read him stories at night. It felt good. So he kept playing, kept hoping they would keep gracing him with small smiles at his wins. Kept chasing the feeling of affection.

Other people, he came to find out, were just like chess pieces too.

In chess, one can estimate an outcome to a specific move. Can anticipate a reaction, and have a response already prepared. People are much the same.

He learned to read situations and people, how to act a specific way to get the outcome he thought would be most desirable. It didn’t always go his way, but like chess, it often did. He learned to smile; dazzle crowds and interviewers. His poor health was a well kept secret.

By eight years old, Sylvain Jose Gautier was a renowned name within the chess world. A prodigy. A future Grandmaster. He was on the cover of almost every chess magazine at least once, and was invited for photo ops with professionals. 

Miklan hated it of course. He tried to play chess, desperately wanting what Sylvain had, but he was never very good. He got even more angry, and when angry, he lashed out. Sylvain was an easy target. 

Sylvain never told his parents, but he knew that they were already aware. There was simply nothing that could be done without impacting the family. So he dealt with it, learned how to sleep to not aggravate bruises, learned to make himself silent, a shadow in his home.

It wasn’t hard, his parents did always like a puppet for a child.